I’ve decided: I’m going to get to the bottom of it. My phone is pinned between my ear and my shoulder so I can continue to do my important things.

After fifteen minutes of smooth jazz, the sweat on my ear trickles down to my neck to my elbow to the tip of my index finger.

Thank you for calling. To get you to the right place, in a few words, describe what you are calling about.

“Human. Speak to a person.”
We’re sorry, that is not a valid option.

“Speak to a human. What are the options then?”

We’re sorry, that is not a valid option. Please provide a brief description of what you are calling about and we will get you to the right place.

“Okay, where do I start? I’ve been trying really hard to figure out how things work around here. I would like to speak to someone who will listen.”

Please limit your description to a few words or less.

What could be less than a few words? Just one word? “Escalate, please.” I shouldn’t have added the “please.”

Please listen carefully as our menu options have changed. Main Menu: Press (1) for Billing, (2) to make a Payment, (3) for Disputes. All operators are currently unavailable, current wait time is [44] minutes. If you would like a callback, please dial 0 now.

“Disputes.”

Are you still there? Please dial one of the menu options. If you would like to hear them again, press pound now.

“Fuck!” Now I’m smashing the pound key because this has worked before. “Oh, God.”

God is not available. We appreciate your continued patience as we route your call.

“What?” At least the call is going somewhere, but I’m beginning to forget why I called.

Please enter your Social Security Number, then your 5-digit Zip Code, then your Date of Birth.

May as well.

We’re sorry, we didn’t quite get that. Please press the pound key to decline complicity in the necessary evils of things all around.

That doesn’t sound like a bad deal at all, to be honest.

Thank you. At this time, no further action is required from you. Goodbye.

I toss my phone aside. It was never a phone at all. It is a stalk of celery. And there is no one on the other side. The stalk lands softly onto my bed, which is really just a bed of peonies. It sinks between the buds. Petals and leaves break its fall and it reaches the soil gently, leaving no crater. I step outside, and the roads and things I like have all gone away. I can see that below me there are spheres of different colors, some glowing orange or white, and one tiny tiny blue one.

*****

I reach out and take it between my thumb and my index finger. The blue drains into the canyons in my fingerprint.

I pinch the once-blue marble and it is just a muddy spot, then a brown streak on my plain white T.

All around me, I notice there are tiny tiny blue marbles, the same.

I pick a handful from the firmament and place them in my palm. I rub my hands together and the mud fills every crevice.

In one blue marble, your stalk of celery was the keys to your boss’s Porsche Macan, and the bed of peonies was a bear trap. Your foot was caught and you never got to see any marbles at all.

I spoke your name into Sihuhata’s right pair of ears, covering the other pair with my printless hands. I asked him to return you to me. With his fifth eye, he will find you. Then I will feed him coal and give him his own handful of blue marbles.

Everything has already happened. You called, looking, and I answered.

God is here and unavailable. Would you like me to take a message?

Please enter your Social Security Number.

Thank you for calling, because No One has called for a while.

Tell me, where are you?

*****

Five eyes and four ears could not find you.

My pocket is full of coals and blue marbles at the ready.

All this time, I had forgotten to breathe. No, I can’t. Inside me, there is only mud.

My lips are cold and my printless fingers are numb. I will sleep, then.

Are you still there?

Wake me when you arrive.

Mitchell Ny is a Cambodian-Taiwanese writer based in Southern California. His work appears in trampset, Maudlin House, Same Faces Collective, Bending Genres, and Blood+Honey. He was a finalist for American Literary Review’s 2026 Nonfiction Contest and shortlisted for Fractured Lit's 2026 Micro Prize. 

He writes to wring from the mess: the scrappy, the ugly, and the brazenly beautiful. 

All his stuff is at MitchellNy.com