Tiny Furies by E. Ce Miller

Read by Martine Richards (1h 15min into podcast, here)

It all started with the bento box. Sort of.

Bree's mother—the one still bragging about the farmhouse sink she'd installed in the kitchen of her mid-century Craftsman cottage, even though most of us had already stopped by at some point to compliment it—saw some account on Pinterest, and the next thing we knew, the entire first grade came tumbling home one afternoon demanding sunflower butter on sprouted wheat bread cut into hearts and stars. They wanted a rainbow of bell peppers in one compartment and something called tempeh in another. Their eyes beseeched us as they spoke reverently of a spoonful of plant-based yogurt dusted with Ceylon cinnamon for dessert.

And we looked down at them—not directly into their imploring eyes, but at their dishevelled, end-of-day hairlines instead, hair we would later press our noses into as we bid them off to sleep—and tried to keep our chests from imploding.

Never mind that for years, every last one of them had refused to eat anything that wasn't laden with high-fructose corn syrup, monosodium glutamate, and red dye 40; that every night, we failed to hide our anger as we shoved the evening's dinner—broccoli, carrots, a concession of reptile-shaped chicken nuggets—down the garbage disposal, tried not to consider what else we might have done with all that time and grocery money, fighting the urge to slide our forearms into the disposal as well, before flipping the switch to high, if only to have somewhere to direct our tiny furies.

"But Bree!" they pleaded. "Bree's mama…!"

Relentless.

We were already removing the crust from jelly sandwiches cut into exact triangles. We kept track of everyone's allergies to eggs and dairy and berries and bees. We vaulted into a deathmatch every year on the second Tuesday of February when summertime care registration opened, and the website crashed—every. damn. time.—forcing us to dig through our phones to search for the number to be put on hold to be put on a waitlist for a spot that would never open and our paychecks would barely manage to cover even if it did.

We were answering the emails from Mrs. Robbins, the school guidance counselor, who was mandated to reach out whenever Trevor said the word "gun" in the cafeteria, or Alexandra revealed her bum in the girls' bathroom.  

We were furiously scrubbing the grass stains out of polo shirts while thinking of age-appropriate ways to explain consent. We were tying and untying and retying sneakers shoved onto opposite feet while assessing age-appropriate ways to explain bodily autonomy. We were staining our fingertips red, picking the "too squishy" strawberries out of the fruit salad (except for those whose kids were allergic to strawberries) while pondering age-appropriate ways to explain the upcoming active shooter drill.

We were wondering if planetary environmental collapse would hold off long enough for us to see the fruits of our labors.

We wondered if we wanted it to.

As we stared into the blue-light abyss of our palms each night, munching the stale crusts of jelly sandwiches, we deliberated whether we were helicopters, bulldozers, snowplows, or tigers. We worried every single problem could be distilled down to the fact that we hadn't been marsupials all those years earlier. We thought we might have been free range if not for that one neighbor who would definitely call the cops.

We scrolled past pastel squares of text where phrases like invisible labor and institutional patriarchy let us know all the feelings we had were the result of some unseen ubiquity it was our responsibility to dismantle even though we also had three lunches, six snacks, twelve pick-ups and drop-offs, and twenty-five spirit week outfits to coordinate in the morning. Despite our efforts, we paused momentarily on an ad for a bento box, ensuring every ad we'd see for the next year and a half would be for a bento box.

We tried not to think about the depositions we used to write, campaigns we used to organize, students we used to teach, art we used to make, or books we used to read; tried not to tally the hours TikTok gurus insisted we could stretch if only we exchanged our personal data for a homemade video series explaining the quantum physics of manifesting.

We swore we DIDN'T KNOW that was a pyramid scheme, Barbara. Gosh.

When we finally closed our eyes, it was not while thinking about the sleep we used to get or the sex we used to have. We definitely didn't wonder about that one night with Cheryl from second-year Calculus and whether or not our lives might have been different or easier if—. We didn't read the studies on the division of household labor suggesting they wouldn't be.

We definitely woke up to an email informing us that the three-pack of bento boxes would arrive on Tuesday.

Sure, maybe it shouldn't have bothered us so much, Bree's mother and her Japanese-inspired, social media momfluenced lunches. Maybe we were just projecting. Maybe we really should have "counted our blessings" like Mary's mother's tea towels advised. There was just something about each day being the same as before as before as before—everything so urgent and banal at once. We started to go a little mad from it all. We were what Hippocrates referred to as hysterical. The type they might have burned along the river Seine. Victorian physicians would've prescribed us pelvic massages, and we would have consented. It had been two presidential administrations since we'd last gotten a full night's rest.

So, in a way, it started with Bree's mother and the bento box. But, depending on how you looked at it, maybe the bento box was the last straw, too.

*

All we'd planned on doing was messing with that damn farmhouse sink. A little light vandalism. Tanya's mother said her husband kept a lockpick set in the garage—we knew better than to ask questions—and Brynn's mother suggested a dash of white vinegar and bleach left to sit overnight might strip that sink of its shine and Ol' Lady Bento Box of her good ideas. So, when Bree's mother just happened to mention that the entire family would be taking a trip to Pigeon Forge over the long weekend, it seemed like maybe the universe was sending us a sign?

I guess we got a little frenzied. The vinegar and bleach fumes had an unhinging effect. Plus, we were giddy at being out together after dark on a weeknight, delirious that, if only for a few minutes, for the first time in years, we had more to anticipate than someone's midnight incontinence.

What is it called when a cult commits ritual suicide? Crowd psychology.

We didn't even know Daniel's mother still smoked pot until we heard her lighter crackle. "A doobie for nerves?" she offered before erupting into silent giggles.

How could we have possibly anticipated that when we tossed the last couple centimeters of that joint into the sink, it would land in the café curtains instead? We didn't know natural fibers colored with plant dye were basically kindling strung across a tension rod. (Truth be told, aubergine didn't complement Bree’s mother's cabinet finishes anyway.)

None of us had ever seen such a tiny flame climb a wall so fast. Like lightning striking just between our feet.

If anyone had asked us later—which they didn't—we would have said of course we hadn't meant to burn that woman's house down. And we certainly did not intend for Bree's pet hamsters, Tofu and Butternut Squash the Third, to roast alive inside. Tearing silently through our neighbors' unlit backyards, sirens screaming in the distance, we’d pressed the backs of our hands against our mouths, inhaled our cackles, felt our feet treading just above the ground. Like we were having the time of our lives.

(c) E. Ce Miller, 2024

1. E. Ce Miller  is a writer from the American Midwest living in South Korea, where she's working on collections of speculative short fiction & essay. Her words have appeared or are forthcoming in Bustle, Hollywood Weekly, Midwestern Gothic, & elsewhere. She has never burnt anyone’s house down.  

 

 

Martine Richards is a British/Canadian actress & award-winning voice actor based in West Sussex. She has featured in TV dramas for the BBC & Channel 4; is proud to be in the cast of a multi-award-winning Stonewall UK campaign; & has been working on two feature films, coming soon. She’s also a member of Yes She Cannes, a female empowerment group promoting women working in film.