Mrrrrrrrr. The lawnmower was a hot bee droning back and forth across the grass. The unrelenting sunshine had pushed the grass up higher than usual. Watching the rows upon rows be shorn down gave Miranda the same feeling she used to get from watching viral videos of disembodied hands slicing mounds of kinetic sand: Dull satisfaction. The young man — either Dan or Don or Doug, something like that — pushing the mower across her lawn chomped fervently on a large piece of pink chewing gum. He blinked up toward the house but, of course, couldn’t see her staring out at him from the picture window.
It was the smell of the grass she missed the most, but she could remember it if she really tried. It was a damp smell. One of life. Of living. It’s hard to smell without a nose. It had been just long enough that she could laugh at the ridiculousness of the statement. But without a throat, the laugh was silent. She was and she wasn’t.
The remembering of smells and laughter made Miranda curious. It had been days, maybe weeks, (months?) since she examined her body. She glided up the stairs into the bathroom. Her body used to be slumped against the bathroom wall like she’d fallen asleep on a gently rocking subway car. Now, her body looked like a black-yellow-orange bloated person-shaped bag. She watched a documentary once about a body farm used by the FBI to help them identify stages of human decay, so she knew the how and why behind the dark fluids that pooled around her. It still didn’t make it easier to accept. She returned back downstairs dismayed. She was glad she couldn’t smell anymore.
——
In that moment across the country, an old high school friend opens his laptop. He checks the news. 104 dead in Kabul. Wild fires in California. A truck in London driven into a group of tourists, 4 dead, 15 severely injured. He shudders internally and pulls his bathrobe instinctively around him, as if it could shield him from the horror in the world. Searching for lighter fare, he opens one of his social media accounts. An inspirational quote has cycled to the top of his feed. It reads: “The secret to being happy is accepting where you are in life and making the most of everyday”. He exhales a sign of relief. It was posted by Miranda.
——
Miranda floated down to her kitchen, as she’d done a thousand times before. She wasn’t hungry anymore, like she’d been in real life. She wished she could have felt like that while she was still alive. Her mother was always quick to intercept Miranda on the way to the fridge. Her mother had become thin and willowy after Miranda’s father left them for a size 0. She warned Miranda constantly that she’d inherited her father’s slow metabolism. That sugar will make you sick and and probably kill you. She died herself of malnutrition complicated by a smattering of other ailments. Miranda wondered if she was out there, somewhere, floating around.
She approached her laptop. It sat on the kitchen table, open, webcam set up on a tripod beside. It almost begged to be of use like a sentient furnishing in Beauty and the Beast. But it was dead. With no fingers to plug it in or turn it on or even worm over the trackpad, it remained a useless brick. Miranda kicked herself for the thousandth time for pre-scheduling her social media posts all the way to Christmas.
Shhhhttt. Flop. She rushed to the door. A new piece of mail had plopped on top of the small pile collecting in front of it. It was a letter from the Humane Society for the previous owner of the house. A reminder to donate. All Miranda’s bills were digitalized, so she never got any mail. Out the beveled door window, she watched the post woman waddle away with her laden bag. Miranda didn’t know her name. She didn’t even know her face.
——
In the Hague, a frazzled university student gnaws on his iPad stylus. He logs onto his online tutoring site. In his inbox, an old message reads: “Great work this week, Yorick. Looking forward to diving deeper into passive construction next week. Best, Miranda” He clicks on her profile. A photo that artfully combines approachability and professionalism. Under her name, orange letters announce, “Last online: 5 weeks ago”. He has an important exam coming up. He hastily clicks “Find a Tutor”.
—-
She drifted into the hallway. She was greeted by the smiling faces of the people she used to consider her best friends. Sandy, married in Florida with three kids. Expecting a fourth, according to a saccharine video uploaded to Facebook for all the world to see. In it, her three children, ages 7, 5 and 2, ask their father to look in the oven. When he discovers the bun inside, they break down into fits of giggles. Tears of joys are shed by the adults. Six months ago, Sandy sent an email apologizing for being so out of touch. She had promised then to come visit soon.
Hatty lived in Argentina with her life partner. Jane was climbing the corporate ladder in New York. Ella, who lived just a few towns away, just simply cut everyone out years ago like they never were. In terms of family, Miranda assumed she had a gaggle of half-siblings as far as her father could toss his seed, but she had never met any of them. Her father. Hank. He had stopped reaching out after Miranda made it very clear at 18 that she never wanted to speak to him again. He had never been one to respect her wishes, but for some reason that one stuck. He would be the last person to wonder if she was dead or alive.
——
In a downtown bar, Theo waits for his Tinder date Thea to come back from the bathroom. It’s been going surprisingly well so far, considering his success with the app. He had just been on the verge of deleting it permanently when she flickered across his screen. She super-liked him, which meant something. A super like was special. It was more than a swipe. As he stares at the fake succulent in a tiny pot on the table, he marvels at how similar the names “Theo and Thea” looked, but how different they sounded. Just one letter off. Imagine how it’ll look on their wedding invitations. He’s getting ahead of himself. He reminds himself what happened last time with Miranda: Things were going so well — just like this — then she just ghosted. When Thea returns from the bathroom, all smiles, Theo lies and says he has to go.
——
Miranda tried to remember Theo’s face. It was hard because they’d only seen each other a handful of times. One of those was also in a darkened movie theatre, so her memory was an eyebrow here, a nostril there, stubble, full lips, kind eyes. Most of all she wished she could explain to him that her sudden exit had nothing to do with him. He didn’t even know her address, so he wouldn’t come looking. She cried silent, nothing tears.
Through the window, she watched the neighbour let her bichon frise out into the backyard. Their last name was Milton, at least that’s what it said on a kitschy sign on their lawn — “The Miltons” — but Miranda didn’t know her first name. She looked weary, as if she’d been gently beaten all morning. She yawned an aggressive yawn she would probably never allow her kids to witness. She looked over to Miranda’s house bored as she waited for the dog to finish its business. Miranda waved to her for the first time ever. She didn’t see. Couldn’t see.
Back upstairs, her flesh was black and papery. How long now had it been since she last checked? Her calculations were interrupted by Dan or Don or Doug, the bumblebee mower boy, who had started up his machine. She peered over the frosted sticker that covered the lower half of the window. He worked hastily this time, rushing through the job, looking irritated. She glided downstairs to the front door for a better look. When he was finished Dan or Don or Doug stomped up to the front door. Instinctively, Miranda backed away, out of sight, which was unnecessary. He looked right through her as he hammered the doorbell. BINGBONG. BINGBONGBINGBONG. The bell was like a bomb going off, shattering weeks of silence into a thousand invisible shards. She moved as close to the glass as she could, staring intently into his irritated face. BINGBONG. His finger driving itself into the button.
“Hey, Lady!”
He waited.
“Ms. Kawalsky!”
He waited more.
“This is the last time I’m cutting your grass for free.”
She listened.
“You only paid me up til the end of August.”
August.
“It’s almost October.”
October.
“I’m not going to cut it anymore, Ms. Kawalsky. Not until you pay me what you owe!”
Silence. He stepped across the porch to the living room window, peering in with both hands shading his young face. All he saw was a pristine, minimalistic living room staring back. Not Miranda’s aching non-corporeal form.
——
She once saw on HGTV that grass grows two to six inches a week, depending on the weather. She wondered how long it would have to get til someone figured it all out. Someone was bound to notice soon, right?
Yvonne is a theatre artist from Saskatoon and currently based in Toronto. She is a graduate from the University of Saskatchewan (B.F.A Acting). Her recent credits include Monday Night (Highway 55 Production/Live 5), Overhear (Nutrien Fringe Saskatoon), Pride & Prejudice (Persephone Theatre), The Shorts Cuts festival (Hardly Art Theatre), The Woodcutter and the Lion (Sum Theatre) and Les Liaisons Dangereuses (Theatre Naught/ Live Five). Yvonne has also been involved with Greystone Theatre in the productions of Cabaret, The Golden Age, Les Belle Soeurs and Coram Boy. She is thrilled to be part of this production.
Blythe holds her BFA from the University of Alberta, but calls Toronto home, where she is an actor, award-winning voice artist and producer. She is a co-founder of Gangway! Theatre Co. with playwright KT Bryski, and together they focus on Canadian, female-based stories. Their show Six Stories, Told At Night debuted at the Toronto Fringe this past year and was short-listed for Best of Fringe. She is currently co-producing the new musical Pregnancy Pact with The Edge Productions, which opens in Toronto this spring! Find her on twitter: @HaynesBlythe or check out Gangway!’s website for more details 
Chantel is an actor born and raised in Toronto. Select theatre credits include: playing Louise in tears of a bullet in the 2018 Toronto Fringe, Agnes in Orphaned Egret’s production of She Kills Monsters, and Tracey in Bob Del Rio’s Professionally Ethnic at Summerworks 2017. Now Magazine named Professionally Ethnic one of the outstanding ensembles of the season. She has also appeared in Kazik Radwanski’s feature film Tower, Chris Power’s Bloodslinger and Kyisha Williams and Lindsey Addawoo’s short, Queen of Hearts which premiered at the 2018 Inside Out film festival.
Myrthin is an actor, writer, and producer based in Toronto, Ontario. She is a founding member of Loose Leaf Theatre Company, with whom she helped create Me With You a critically acclaimed play about mental illness. Previous theatre credits include: better than this (Moose and Moa), Noises Off (Soulpepper Theatre), Me With You (Loose Leaf Theatre), The Hunt for Red Wille, Moonshine (Toronto Irish Players). Selected television and film credits include: Star Trek Discovery, Diggstown, Cavendish, Mr. D, Killjoys, Designated Survivor, and Reign.
Duaa is a third year Performance Production major at the Ryerson Theatre School, and is thrilled to be joining the team of An Atlas, A Nectktie, & Other Concerns. When not found working in the dark abyss of the backstage, Duaa can be found supporting local Toronto theatre, petting every cat and dog she can find, or avidly yelling at the TV over a hockey game. Recent works include: Stage Manager, Body Parts, Alumnae Theatre’s New Ideas Festival (2019), Technical Director, The Penelopiad, Ryerson Theatre School (2018); Stage Manager, The Ties That Bind and Gag, Toronto Fringe Festival (2018); Assistant Lighting Designer, Springworks, Ryerson Theatre School (2018).
Lauren is a Toronto-based award-winning screenwriter, playwright and comedian. She has a passion for absurdity and human connection that is prevalent in her work. Lauren received the 
Lauren Greenwood 