Dawn Tasaka Steffler ~ Three Stories

I’m a dec­o­ra­tive throw pil­low, I’m a pair of mem­o­ry foam house slippers

After Eric Scot Tryon

I work the after­noon shift at the TJ Maxx Homegoods. I eat yogurt for break­fast because my last bone den­si­ty test was not good. Also, I’m try­ing to eat more tofu because I read some­where that soy can help with hot flash­es. Every month, my hus­band opens up the water bill and com­plains about our son’s sus­pi­cious­ly long show­ers. I don’t mind cook­ing din­ner, it’s the com­ing up with what to cook that I hate. Some days, I stop at the lake park on my way home from work to feed the ducks. I like their lit­tle green heads and their quack­ing. Other days, I stop by the gro­cery store. Last year, our son decid­ed he’d rather work than fin­ish com­mu­ni­ty col­lege, and I’m okay with that. I saw some­thing fun­ny on a t‑shirt at work: “You lack a cer­tain Je Né Sais Quoi.” I almost bought it because I thought it was hip, but then I real­ized it was mean and put it back. I have a Tuna Ala King recipe that I make for meal trains because peo­ple say they like it. If I ever need to buy a gift, I get it at work with my employ­ee dis­count. I joined the gym because my doc­tor said I need to do more strength train­ing. I don’t real­ly know if this is what I expect­ed from life. Our son just got a job at an axe-throw­ing estab­lish­ment called “The Axe Hole.” I play Candy Crush on my phone in the wait­ing room while my hus­band gets a colonoscopy. I told him that for Mother’s Day, I want to go to one of those Sunday brunch places that have bot­tom­less mimosas. I read some­where that boy ducks have a penis like a corkscrew, which pre­vents the girl duck from run­ning away before he’s done. When I come home from work, my cat is usu­al­ly sleep­ing on my bed. I won­der if she ever licks any­thing oth­er than her but­t­hole. I bet she doesn’t because she’s spayed. I’m not spayed, though. I found cannabis gum­mies in my son’s room, so I tried one. I’m at the gro­cery store, unable to remem­ber what it was I need­ed. Yet, I know the words to every sin­gle Journey song. I’m a to-do list. I’m a hot flash. I’m a sky full of ducks.

~

Teeth

Work thinks I’m at the con­ven­tion cen­ter, but I can­not spend anoth­er sec­ond in that tech-bro-red-bull-kale-sal­ad place. So I walk. I come across a pawn shop hid­ing in plain sight. And at the bot­tom of an ancient chest, I find a pair of yel­low­ish den­tures. Blocky and inel­e­gant, yet the front teeth align pre­cise­ly; they’re def­i­nite­ly capa­ble of bit­ing some­thing in half. I could’ve used a good pair of chom­pers last night when I told that Salesforce guy, No. Don’t. Stop. I guess he heard things differently.

When I’m not sure I want to buy some­thing, I car­ry it around; I like to feel its vibe. And, the deep­er I wan­der into the dusky, wind­ing innards of the shop, the more I like the teeth. They feel reas­sur­ing in my hand, like their fil­a­ments are infil­trat­ing the skin of my palm, heat-seek­ing the myceli­um of my endometrio­sis, inter­twin­ing, mak­ing my fal­lop­i­an tubes shiv­er like flowers.

I decide: I need these den­tures. I wish I could try them on, though—

A sil­very antique mir­ror hangs askew on the wall in front of me. The egg­plant bruis­es on my neck are peek­ing out from my scarf, which I’ve loos­ened a bit; it’s warm in here. I fold the teeth in half, like I do with my diaphragm, and shove them into my mouth. They aren’t com­fort­able, but I like that they’re a sec­ond lay­er of teeth, like I’m a shark, or one of those sand­worms from Dune. I can’t close my lips, but I can smile.

~

Lost But Found

I’m at school when the rain turns into mis­siles. And explo­sions make us cov­er our ears with our hands. And Teacher motions for us to fol­low her. But I don’t fol­low. I slip out­side and crawl through the me-sized hole in the fence. Because when Mama took me to the ele­gant store with the tin­kly chan­de­liers and the esca­la­tors that bared their teeth at me, she said, If I get lost, don’t wan­der, or she can’t find me. Which I also took to mean: If I go home, I will find her.

Our apart­ment build­ing has turned into a dio­ra­ma. I can see Mama’s sun­flower wall­pa­per, and Papa’s sheet music is blow­ing down the street. I hide in Mr. Kravets’ store, watch­ing and wait­ing. More explo­sions shake the ground, and ceil­ing chunks fall in plumes of dust. At night, I hear men speak­ing a lan­guage I don’t understand.

The next after­noon, I’m so hun­gry I can’t stop think­ing about the McVities choco­late diges­tives in our cup­board. When night falls, I creep up the stair­well. I expect Sasha’s purr when I open the door, but instead the moon is in my liv­ing room. I do find the bis­cuits. Then I find Mama, on the floor, beneath glit­ter­ing glass. When I whis­per, Papa?, his baby grand piano blinks back tears.

The next morn­ing, a strange sound wakes me. In the sky. Papa? Practicing the Rachmaninoff con­cer­to he was to per­form at the con­cert hall. Where I’d wear the yel­low dress Mama bought at the ele­gant store, and we’d sit in red vel­vet seats. I run out of Mr. Kravets’ shop, yelling, Papa! Papa! But it isn’t a piano; it’s a heli­copter pre­tend­ing to be a piano. And men who aren’t Papa grab me and bring me here

where the sky weeps and every­one is my age. We sleep two to a bed, four to a bunk. Every day, peo­ple in uni­forms send us out­side even though it’s bliz­zard­ing. I walk the fence line, look­ing for me-sized holes. Today, I hear a soft click­ing, like Mama’s knit­ting nee­dles. I look up, and a cal­i­co-col­ored scarf dan­gles from a lamp post, the same way Sasha dan­gled from the cur­tains. Then, like Sasha, the scarf falls into my arms. It’s soft and warm. I hear Mama’s voice, Where have you been! Where is your coat? Put this around your neck— I do, and it purrs.

~

Dawn Tasaka Steffler is an Asian-American writer from Hawaii who lives in the San Francisco Bay Area. She was a Smokelong Quarterly Emerging Writer Fellow, Winner of the Bath Flash Fiction Award, Finalist in Fractured Lit’s Flash Fiction OPEN, and select­ed for Best Small Fictions and an Anthology of Rural Stories by Writers of Color 2025 (EastOver Press). Forthcoming work is in Flash the Court, Waxwing, and Cutleaf. Find her online at dawntasakasteffler.com and on BlueSky, Instagram, and Facebook.