Yellow Mama Archives II

Lauren Scharhag

Acuff, Gale
Ahern, Edward
Allen, R. A.
Alleyne, Chris
Andes, Tom
Arnold, Sandra
Aronoff, Mikki
Ayers, Tony
Baber, Bill
Baird, Meg
Baker, J. D.
Balaz, Joe
Barker, Adelaide
Barker, Tom
Barnett, Brian
Barry, Tina
Bartlett, Daniel C.
Bates, Greta T.
Bayly, Karen
Beckman, Paul
Bellani, Arnaav
Berriozabal, Luis Cuauhtemoc
Beveridge, Robert
Blakey, James
Booth, Brenton
Bracken, Michael
Burke, Wayne F.
Burnwell, Otto
Campbell, J. J.
Cancel, Charlie
Capshaw, Ron
Carr, Steve
Carrabis, Joseph
Cartwright, Steve
Centorbi, David Calogero
Cherches, Peter
Christensen, Jan
Clifton, Gary
Cody, Bethany
Costello, Bruce
Coverly, Harris
Crist, Kenneth James
Cumming, Scott
Davie, Andrew
Davis, Michael D.
Degani, Gay
De Neve, M. A.
Dillon, John J.
Dinsmoor, Robert
Dominguez, Diana
Dorman, Roy
Doughty, Brandon
Doyle, John
Dunham, T. Fox
Ebel, Pamela
Fagan, Brian Peter
Fillion, Tom
Flynn, James
Fortier, M. L.
Fowler, Michael
Galef, David
Garnet, George
Garrett, Jack
Glass, Donald
Graysol, Jacob
Grech, Amy
Greenberg, KJ Hannah
Grey, John
Hagerty, David
Hardin, Scott
Held, Shari
Hicks, Darryl
Hivner, Christopher
Hoerner, Keith
Hohmann, Kurt
Holt, M. J.
Holtzman, Bernard
Holtzman, Bernice
Holtzman, Rebecca
Hopson, Kevin
Hubbs, Damon
Irwin, Daniel S.
Jabaut, Mark
Jermin, Wayne
Jeschonek, Robert
Johns. Roger
Kanner, Mike
Karl, Frank S.
Kempe, Lucinda
Kennedy, Cecilia
Keshigian, Michael
Kirchner, Craig
Kitcher, William
Kompany, James
Kondek, Charlie
Koperwas, Tom
Kreuiter, Victor
Larsen, Ted R.
Le Due, Richard
Leotta, Joan
Lester, Louella
Lubaczewski, Paul
Lucas, Gregory E.
Luer, Ken
Lukas, Anthony
Lyon, Hillary
Mannone, John C.
Margel, Abe
Martinez, Richard
McConnell, Logan
McQuiston, Rick
Middleton, Bradford
Milam, Chris
Miller, Dawn L. C.
Mladinic, Peter
Mobili, Juan
Mullins, Ian
Myers, Beverle Graves
Myers, Jen
Newell, Ben
Nielsen, Ayaz Daryl
Nielsen, Judith
Onken, Bernard
Owen, Deidre J.
Park, Jon
Parker, Becky
Pettus, Robert
Plath, Rob
Potter, John R. C.
Price, Liberty
Proctor, M. E.
Prusky, Steve
Radcliffe, Paul
Reddick, Niles M.
Reedman, Maree
Reutter, G. Emil
Riekki, Ron
Robson, Merrilee
Rockwood, KM
Rollins, Janna
Rose, Brad
Rosmus, Cindy
Ross, Gary Earl
Rowland, C. A.
Saier, Monique
Sarkar, Partha
Scharhag, Lauren
Schauber, Karen
Schildgen, Bob
Schmitt, Di
Sesling, Zvi E.
Short, John
Simpson, Henry
Slota, Richelle Lee
Smith, Elena E.
Snell, Cheryl
Snethen, Daniel G.
Stanley, Barbara
Steven, Michael
Stoler, Cathi
Stoll, Don
Surkiewicz, Joe
Swartz, Justin
Taylor, J. M.
Taylor, Richard Allen
Temples. Phillip
Tobin, Tim
Traverso Jr., Dionisio "Don"
Turner, Lamont A.
Tustin, John
Tyrer, DJ
Varghese, Davis
Verlaine, Rp
Viola, Saira
Waldman, Dr. Mel
Al Wassif, Amirah
Weibezahl, Robert
Weil, Lester L.
Weisfeld, Victoria
Weld, Charles
White, Robb
Wilhide, Zachary
Williams, E. E.
Williams, K. A.
Wilsky, Jim
Wiseman-Rose, Sophia
Woods, Jonathan
Young, Mark
Zackel, Fred
Zelvin, Elizabeth
Zeigler, Martin
Zimmerman, Thomas
Zumpe, Lee Clark

The Wasp and the Fig

by Lauren Scharhag


The patient, Mia, was already in her pajamas when Karim went to her room with sensors, tape and adhesive. Snapping on a pair of rubber gloves, he explained, “I have to attach all these sensors to you. During the sleep study, we record your brain waves, the oxygen level in your blood, breathing, heart rate, and eye and leg movements. Okay?”

Mia nodded. Karim had her sit in the chair as he set to work. Attaching the sensors could take upwards of fifteen minutes. The ones on the head always took the longest, as they had to be glued to the scalp. Karim didn’t mind. He always chatted with the patients to help put them at ease. “Do you go to school?”

“I went for a semester then had to quit. The sleep problems got too bad.”

“What will you study?”

“I’m not sure yet.” Then, she asked him the question all Americans asked, “Where’re you from?”


She laughed. “So you talk like an Egyptian?”

He gave her a puzzled smile. “Arabic.”

“I know, it was a joke. You know the song, ‘Walk Like an Egyptian’? Talk like an Egyptian? Never mind.” She sobered. “When did you come here?”

“When I was ten. You heard what happened in my country?”

“There was a revolution. The journalists used Twitter to report on it.”

“That’s right.”

“That must’ve been scary.”

“My father got us out before things got bad.”

Karim’s great uncle, Omar, had died in the 1952 Revolution. Karim’s father had no wish to watch history repeat itself, so they’d left. Karim had grown up hearing all about Great Uncle Omar, fiery, romantic, a diehard fan of Umm Kulthum. Karim’s grandfather still had Omar’s old record collection. His grandfather’s house, with the tile floor and the fig tree in the yard. His grandfather had told him about how fig trees need wasps for pollination, and how the wasps die inside the fruit. When you eat a fig, you are eating the absorbed bodies of a wasp and her male brood. His grandfather had said, "Sometimes, you're the wasp, and sometimes, you’re the fig."

Karim hadn’t entirely understood. Was it a lucky thing to be a fig? To have a wasp crawl inside you and die? Karim supposed sometimes, something sacrificed itself to nourish you, like a goat or a sheep. But sometimes, it seemed to him, that the wasp could represent a corrupting influence. If he'd raised such an opinion with his grandfather, his grandfather would've slapped him on the back and said not to overthink it. Just eat your figs. 

When Karim finished gluing the sensors to Mia’s head, he rolled up her sleeve to do the arm sensors and paused. She was covered in cuts. Some looked as if she’d been clawed; others looked as if she’d been cut with a blade.

Mia shifted uneasily. “I do it to myself. When I’m asleep.”

He nodded. “I’ve heard of that-- sleep-related scratching. Do you also sleepwalk?”

“Yes, it started about a year ago. At first, we thought it was just the stress of school, but now…”

He patted her arm. “Well, hopefully the doctors can figure out how to help you.”


Besides Mia, there were four other patients at the clinic that evening. When Karim was done getting them all ready for their studies, he went back to the monitoring station, with its bank of screens and an intercom system. It was a lonely job—being by himself, watching people sleep. But Karim had his schoolwork to occupy him. He was taking classes at the community college to become a physical therapist. Once everyone was asleep, he could hit the books.

Mia was the last one to turn off the lights. She read until 10:30, then switched off the bedside lamp with an air of trepidation. She tossed and turned as much as she could with the equipment strapped to her body. An hour went by, then two. Finally, she stilled.

Once or twice, Karim thought he heard something—the sound of the intercom clicking on and something that sounded like whispering, too fast and too low for him to hear, before clicking off again. Frowning, he looked up from his book.

Karim jumped. A figure had appeared on the monitor.

It was only Mia. He hadn’t seen her move, but somehow, there she was, gazing into the camera. He’d seen plenty of sleepwalkers. You had to watch them-- they could hurt themselves, especially in the unfamiliar surroundings. They could get tangled up in the wires and fall, they bump into things. But Mia was just standing there, her arms at her sides. Her eyes were open, yet her expression was not like that of a sleeper. It was focused and… malevolent. There was no other word for it.

She’s just sleepwalking, he told himself. Karim knew how to deal with sleepwalkers. You just guided them back to their bed, touching them as little as possible in case they lashed out. He went to her room, intending to do just that, but when he got there, she was already under the blankets.

He blinked. He had no idea how she’d gotten back into bed so quickly. It was like she’d never moved at all.

 The whispering came again. He could almost swear that it was in Arabic. Which was silly—he still couldn’t make out any words, but the cadence did not sound like English. And of course, there was no way that Midwestern Mia spoke Arabic.

And she was asleep. Deeply asleep.  

Shaking his head, he returned to the monitors. There, he saw that she had gotten up again—just as before, standing in the center of the room. As he watched, she raised her arms. Rips appeared in her nightclothes, slashing the skin underneath, the wounds like gaping mouths. Something black leaked out of them—not blood. It rose into the air like smoke. There was a strange feedback sound—strange, and yet familiar. Karim could hear a record turning somewhere on an old turntable. Then a haunting, unmistakable contralto singing, “I am a fluttering heart in a world of longings…

His Great Uncle Omar’s favorite song.

The blackness continued to rise. It coalesced into a humanoid figure floating above and before Mia, eclipsing her. It had buzzing insect wings and glowing red eyes-- what Grandfather would have called a jinn. And it was singing in Umm Kulthum’s voice, the voice of the old records from Karim’s childhood.

“Karim,” the creature said in a crooning falsetto, switching to English. “Karim, come with us. Your grandpa is waiting under the fig tree with Uncle Omar.”

Then it lunged, filling the monitor with darkness.

Karim stumbled backwards and fell flat on his back. He tried to crawl away, but the creature kept coming, oozing through the screen into his cramped workspace. Everything went black and red, the air filled with a diabolical, insect whine.


When he came to, he was still on the floor. His co-worker, Jamie, was crouched beside him. “Are you okay?”

“I think so.” Karim sat up and winced.

“Jesus, look at you. What happened?” Jamie nodded to Karim’s body—his clothes ripped in several places, the skin underneath bleeding. 

Mia was gone. She’d left a note on the bed, written in Arabic: Now, you are the fig.

Lauren Scharhag (she/her) is an associate editor for GLEAM: Journal of the Cadralor, and the author of thirteen books, including Our Miss Engel and The Order of the Four Sons series (with Coyote Kishpaugh). Her work has appeared in over 150 literary venues around the world. She is the recipient of multiple awards, including the Seamus Burns Creative Writing Prize and a fellowship from Rockhurst University for fiction. Her work has also been nominated for multiple Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prizes. She lives in Kansas City, MO. To learn more about her work, visit:

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