What She Had Instead of Virtue
by Herbert L. Zarov
Rebecca’s first impulse had been to tell no one. But the doctor—or whatever he was—said someone had to be with her for the procedure. In case anything went wrong, he said. Ruth had been her childhood friend, had stood beneath the Chuppah as her maid of honor when she’d married Berman, and had been her confidant, always listening, never judging, as her casual flirtation with Patrick had turned into a consuming passion.
“Have you told Patrick?” Ruth asked when Rebecca had finished her story.
“Tell him what?” Rebecca said. “That I’m pregnant and the kid might be his? Might not be. I’ll let him know when I know. If I ever do know?”
“If you were Queen,” Ruth asked—it was a game they’d played since grade school-- “What would you do?”
“I’d decree that the baby is Patrick’s,” Rebecca said. “I’d order a Church wedding. To make Patrick happy. But there’d be a Chuppah and a klezmer band, and when my father finished sitting shiva, he’d forgive me.”
Through the windows of Ruth’s apartment, Rebecca could see, in the gas lit twilight, construction cranes looming above the rising spires of the new Tribune Tower. She remembered the first time she’d told Ruth about Patrick, a lifetime ago at this same table, about the casual flirtation on the trolley and the walk that followed, the gorgeous stranger telling her that she was different, that she was witty, that he needed to see her again.
“This doctor,” Ruth said now. “Do you trust him?”
“Of course not,” Rebecca said. “I’m scared. You hear stories. Girls who can never have kids after. Who bleed out on the table. Or get infections. And die.”
“You don’t have to do this,” Ruth said.
“Just tell me you’ll be there.”
**** **** ****
The office was on the third floor above the L tracks. The doctor was tall and cadaverously thin with stooped shoulders and a sallow complexion. He introduced himself as Dr. Grayson. She told him she was Mrs. Miller.
“Don’t often come across married gals in this business,” Grayson said.
“My husband and I aren’t ready to start a family.”
“You got identification?”
“I don’t.”
“I like to know who I’m dealing with.”
“My name’s Rebecca Miller. I’m not a cop.”
“Your husband with you, Becky?”
She bristled at the “Becky,” the presumption of it.
“He couldn’t get off work. My girlfriend’s waiting downstairs.”
“The room’s the first door on your right,” Grayson said. “You can undress and get comfortable. I’ll knock before I come in.”
She lay trembling in the dank, fetid air. The single sheet beneath the coarse wool blanket was gray and speckled with dark stains. There was a terrible smell. Something had died, she thought. Maybe a rat decaying in the wall.
She pictured Grayson standing over her, holding a tool shaped like a coat hanger, stabbing pains, blood spurting.
“How’re we doing, Becky?” Grayson asked, as he padded into the room.
He removed the blanket, asked her to take off her panties. She imagined Patrick seeing her like this, her knees up, her feet stirruped. It was hard to believe he’d ever desire her again.
“What exactly are you going to do?” Rebecca asked.
“What you came here for me to do. It hurts some. Nothing you can’t stand. You’ll bleed for a few days. Just don’t lift anything heavy until it stops. And try not to have sex for a while. Do you think you can do that Becky?”
Rebecca’s fear morphed suddenly into fury. She was the wife of a respectable businessman, she thought, who could buy and sell this smarmy creep. The baby might well be her husband’s. And even if it wasn’t, Patrick was not some casual stranger she’d picked up in a bar.
After, she rode in the taxi, Ruth beside her, staring numbly at the bleak tenements.
“You did the right thing,” Ruth said. “You followed your heart.”
“My heart had nothing to do with it,” Rebecca said.
**** **** ****
In the olive-green hospital room, she lay alone with her baby nestled in her arms, the nurse off to retrieve Berman from the waiting room. She’d told herself that all babies looked alike, pink and swollen and prune faced. She’d not been prepared for the shock that first moment, when she’d fingered the wisps of raven hair and gazed into her daughter’s eyes, eerily and unmistakably, Patrick’s eyes.
The last awful night in Patrick’s apartment, she’d told him she was pregnant. She’d done the math she’d lied. The baby was Berman’s. She couldn’t be both a mother and his mistress. Is that all you think you are? he’d asked, his voice breaking. My mistress? He’d withdrawn into silence, turning away as she reached to touch him for the last time.
Now, she heard the slap-slap of footsteps approaching down the corridor, and then Berman was beside the bed, and she felt the bristles of his mustache brushing her cheek and heard the familiar timbre of his voice.
“I’m so happy,” he said, touching her hair as he gazed at her daughter.
“I know,” Rebecca said, lifting Sarah, his mother’s name, and offering her to him.
Later, they sat together quietly, listening to Sarah’s even breathing. Rebecca looked out the window, the gas lamps winking in the darkness, Patrick out there somewhere. She imagined for a moment returning to him with their daughter, telling him that the baby was his, that they belonged together. She knew it was nonsense. Lovely nonsense. But nonsense, nonetheless.
Berman sat beside the bed, Sarah nestled against his shoulder. Rebecca saw his happiness, a flickering flame she could snuff in a whispered word. But he had nothing to fear, she thought. She’d become a wily liar, practiced in the arts of deceit. She would say what needed to be said, do what needed to be done to protect her daughter. It would be, she told herself, what she’d have instead of virtue.
Herb Zarov taught American Literature at various colleges in the 1970s and went on after a mid-career adjustment to practice law for more than four decades at a large international firm. Since his retirement in 2018, he has devoted himself to writing fiction. His stories have appeared in the international online journal JewishFiction.net, The Great Lakes Review and Scribble, and his work has been short listed in three national contests. He enjoys talking with readers and writers and can be reached at Herbertzarov@gmail.com.
Unmoored
by Pete Prokesch
After Max died, the aluminum boat sprung a leak. Not big enough to pose any real danger. But water sloshed around our feet as Fred and I floated down the river and cast lines between overhanging trees. I thought it’d be a good idea for Fred and me to fish together once a week in Max’s honor. Fred hooked a bass that rocked the boat and the water seeped into my shoes and soaked my socks.
“I fucking hate him,” Fred said, as he worked the hook out of the bass’s mouth. Red blood and mucus dribbled down the shiny green scales as he tossed it back into the river.
“He didn’t do it on purpose,” I said. I swatted a mosquito and missed. “He was sick.” I wasn’t sure I believed it.
I studied Fred’s fish in the water. It floated towards the surface—shocked, limp, and sideways. Then it swished its tail and disappeared into the mirk below. Fred lay his rod down and crushed an Adderall onto the boat bench with the bottom of his beer bottle. I tapped my cigarette and the ash fell into the steel blue water.
*
It had been five years since the three of us stole the boat. Old man Johnson found it tied to his dock by the river and dragged it into his backyard. He fixed it to a team of kayaks with galvanized chains.
“That will teach you kids to respect property,” he said to us behind the tinted glass of his black Mercedes.
That night Max brought his dad’s angle grinder with a diamond blade and the three of us followed the river road to Old Man Johnson’s. Fred stayed in the truck—he was baseball captain and had a game the next day. Max and I crept into the backyard—soft footsteps over crinkled leaves. In the dark we felt for the cold metal hull amongst the plastic kayaks. Then Max’s grinder screamed through the galvy chains—orange sparks danced in the night.
By the time we heard Old Man Johnson’s yells we had dragged the boat down the road towards Fred’s truck. But a skunk scurried away under the lamplight where Fred was parked moments before. The old man’s swears grew louder so we dragged the boat through the tall grass towards the river while thorns made a mess of our ankles.
After we reached the water Max and I hopped into the boat and paddled softly with our hands while Old Man Johnson’s swears turned to mumbles and distant snorts. Every log looked like a gator and the bull frogs’ croaks sent shivers up our spines.
“Forget Fred,” Max said. The ember of his cigarette was a torch in the night. “Three’s a crowd on this boat anyway.”
*
Fred rolled up a dollar bill and held it to his nose and descended upon the blue powder. I yanked my treble hook off a log and it sling-shotted over my head and into an adjacent tree. I grabbed the motor to regain balance but the boat seesawed back and forth. A wave swept over Fred’s blue lines and rinsed the bench clean.
“You idiot,” Fred said. “That was my last one.”
He swore and sulked over a cigarette before he picked up his rod and laid a beautiful cast into the setting sun. Then his line plummeted under the weight of a running fish. His reel clicked shut as the rod bent into a rainbow over the water.
“The net! The net!” he yelled. I felt for it behind the cooler in the back of the boat. I bit my lip as a loose hook pierced my skin.
Fred gripped the rod as the reel whined and groaned under the weight. I squinted my eyes at the approaching fish. The pickerel didn’t dance as much as thrust and thrash through the water. The hook impaled its beak-like nose leaving a trail of blood behind it.
“Now!” Fred yelled and I positioned the net behind the thrashing tail. The fish swam back into its prison and I lifted it out of the water. It squirmed in the mesh net and the mucus on its scales gleamed in the setting sun.
“A picture! A picture!” Fred yelled. He held the fish up by the line as it writhed and shook. The hook was set deep behind its eyes. I reached for my phone and snapped a pic.
“Do you want the pliers?” I asked as I tucked my phone back into my pocket.
“What for?” Fred said. With a swift tug he ripped the hook out of the fish’s face—leaving a mess of blood and flesh and quivering fins. Then he tossed it back in the river. It floated dead on the surface and a cloud of minnows converged upon it.
“What the fuck was that for?” I said.
I killed the motor’s soft hum and dropped the anchor with a violent splash that rocked the boat.
“It’s a fucking fish,” Fred said. He chugged the last of the beer and threw the bottle into the water. It floated past the feasting minnows.
I stared at the dead fish then glared at Fred. But he collapsed at the bow with his face into his hands. He let out a moan and sobbed.
“I don’t understand,” he said. The water was up around his ankles now. The leak was worse. He looked up at me with red desperate eyes. “How could he do this to me?”
In the parking lot I waited until the roar from Fred’s F-150 faded down the road. Then I eased the empty boat back it into the river. I heard a bullfrog croak as the sun set and the boat drifted away. That night after Old Man Johnson’s Max and I fell asleep on that boat. We awoke at dawn—just the two of us—chewed by mosquitos and warmed by the rising sun.
Pete Prokesch is a writer and lives in Watertown, Massachusetts. His fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in Four Way Review, BlazeVOX Journal, The Bookends Review, and Hare’s Paw Literary Journal, among others. He also reads for Epiphany. You can reach him about his writing at PDProkesch@gmail.com.
When They Were Gone
by Billie Hinton
She was the mother of two under-three-year-olds, a stay-at-home mom, child psychotherapist, knowledgeable about object constancy, attachment, separation, child development milestones. Every afternoon when she was the one needing a nap, her two non-napping night owls insisted on daily read-aloud time, fighting sleep, begging for one more chapter from the book-in-progress, poking her with tiny but sharp fingers when she nodded off mid-sentence.
Did they never get tired? They seemed to refuel from the air itself. She made sure they understood the game, explained how it worked, asked if they wanted to play hide and seek.
Yes! They shrieked in one loud cry, two young voices ringing with joy. Hide and seek replaced afternoon reading time, a new daily routine.
They always wanted her to be IT - which worked best anyway, because she could count for a very long time. They would call out, are you ready to come find us yet? And she would answer, no, I’m not finished counting.
It can take a good long time to get to 100.
This desperate need for a few minutes of alone time, minutes where no one needed her or wanted her, and all was silent, were for her a potent fuel that saved her as a mom. If she got this time, she could hold on to her developmentally-appropriate parenting skills, by threads, but she could hang on.
She felt guilty some days, stretching out the count to unbelievably long spans of time, while they waited, so breathless and quiet, in places she already knew they were, and she would eventually stretch the game even longer by looking in every ridiculous place there was in the house, where she knew they were not, padding her quiet time, her refueling, thinking that in some bizarre way she was stealing the fuel from them, children still young enough to need that from their mother.
But it’s true, you have to take care of yourself first. Her mother said this, and friends, and while she wasn’t sure it was true in every situation, she accepted it as such.
Another afternoon arrived, her body felt like a sack of something heavy, her eyelids drooped in fatigue, and all she wanted was to curl up on the bed and sleep for an hour, maybe two. By now the children knew what to do. Hide and seek, they cried, while she sat on the sofa and closed her eyes to start the count. We’re ready, they called after she got to 100, but she said I’m still counting! And kept on to 200, and they said Now, mom? And she said not quite yet. Soon, though. And went to 300.
It was quiet in the house, so quiet she could hear the clock ticking in the other room. She thought maybe a miracle had happened, they’d fallen asleep waiting for her to find them. So on this day, instead of dragging it out, she went to the place she knew they’d gone, straight away: the bedroom closet with all the clothing that made a thick curtain behind which they were invisible. She opened the door and waited for the telltale giggle, but the room, the house even, remained as quiet as it had been.
She looked behind the clothing for good measure, but they weren’t there. Haha, she thought, they’re getting more clever at finding good places, and she went to the easy ones quickly, just to be sure, then started room by room, bathrooms, bedrooms, laundry room, the rooms on the periphery of the house, then the obvious places, the dining room and living room. They were nowhere to be found.
The rule of the game was that they could not go outside the house, but she checked the yard anyway. The goldfish pond, the vegetable garden, the garden shed, the secret space behind the shed. The sand pit and tree house. She wiped the sweat from her forehead, expecting them to run out the back door happy to tell her they’d won the game, but birds chirped and the sound of nothing surrounded her.
She went inside and rechecked the house, inch by inch, again and then another time. Her breath becoming shallow, all the lethargy drained away. Bending over to look beneath beds, under furniture, in the kitchen cupboards, the washer and dryer, bending over so many times she felt like a bird pecking frantically, looking for a grain of food that was no longer there.
Billie Hinton lives on a small farm with words, horses and donkeys, cats, Corgis, bees, native plants, and a Golden Retriever who believes in love.
The Box
by Art Foster
“What’s this?” Mark asked, knowing full well it was the latest purchase from her antiquing weekend trip with the girls. She was always picking up odd and end things that ended up collecting dust on the overfilled shelves of their brownstone. Neglected remnants of lost weekends.
It was a simple unassuming wooden box with a hinged lid, just big enough to hold a deck of playing cards, nothing special. It looked like a C- woodshop project that was pieced together out of cheap pine but stained to look like a hardwood, maybe mahogany, maybe cherry, it was hard to tell.
“I thought it was cute,’” she said. “Inside, there’s a card that says, Take Me Home. Please. I couldn’t help myself.” Mark opened the little box and looked inside.
“Is this your idea of a joke?” He said. “Because it isn’t funny.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The card inside doesn’t say ‘Take Me Home,’ it says, She Spent the weekend with Robert.” He said, slamming the small lid shut. “Are you serious, is this how you decided to tell me?”
“Let me see that,” she said, reaching out for the box. Mark tossed it to her and crossed his arms tightly across his chest. “What the hell,” she softly uttered as she read the single word on the card. Run.
Art Foster is a U.S. Marine (ret), writer, student, sailor, and a veteran of three wars. He was born in Savannah, Georgia, has lived and traveled around the world, and currently resides in Southern Louisiana with his wife and two dogs. He is currently pursuing an MLA in Creative Writing and Literature from Harvard University Extension School. He can be reached at arthur.l.foster@outlook.com.
Even God Gets a Day Off
by Mickie Kennedy
Something the man tells Claire, the waitress, when he comes in having missed the previous day. No need to ask, she readies a cup of coffee and a handful of creamers, lets the cook know to prepare Joe's order. She asks if it looks like rain today.
How the hell should I know? Do I look like a weatherman? They laugh.
Joe is the weatherman for the local CBS affiliate 20 miles up the road and finishes his early morning shift at 11am. He likes it here because they'll fix him pancakes and eggs when everyone else is serving lunch. There's usually no one there at 11:30, the lunch crowd beginning at noon. Mostly, he remembers this is where he took his son Charlie, how he'd watch him sometimes eat two breakfasts as if he'd never eaten before. The waitress then was the owner's wife, who passed a few years back. Cancer. Same as Charlie.
How's Bill? Joe asks. Bill, the owner, is Claire's dad. She forces a smile and says he's fine. She doesn't share that he no longer recognizes her, gets scared when she enters his room at the home. She doesn't share that they want to move him to the Alzheimer's floor, which she's resisting because it's nearly double the cost. They say he needs extra attention, more nurses per patient. There's not enough money in the bank or equity in the house to keep him there long. She doesn't share that she's ready to pack up her old Pontiac and just drive away to someplace new without the old pains and obligations.
Even this job, she does it because she feels she has no choice. The decisions that weigh her down have no easy answers. She sets a plate in front of Joe and says Enjoy, which he does.
Mickie Kennedy is a gay American writer who resides in Baltimore County, Maryland with his family and two feuding cats. He enjoys British science fiction and the idea of long hikes in nature. A prior Washington Review poetry award winner, his work has appeared in The Bangalore Review, Hole in the Head Review, Midway Journal, Plainsongs, Portland Review, Rattle, and Wisconsin Review. He earned an MFA from George Mason University.
A hard landing
by Robert Miner
After a quick flip of the wrist, corn flour floated for a moment before falling to the prep table, the way small talk in the pizza kitchen would begin a brief test flight before a hard landing as orders poured in. We were mostly young except one of us whose sense of confidence and purpose made him the center of the kitchen. He worked quickly but without being rushed and always seemed to know what everyone else was doing. “The pizza for order 21 is going to the oven. You might want to send the salads.” Whenever we talked about girls or going to college in the fall or something stupid someone said while drinking too many beers the night before, he would stay quiet and clean a little harder.
Wanting to draw him into our crew’s conversation, I prodded him one night. Are you married? “Yes.” Any kids? “Two boys - five and seven.” Is this a second job for you?” Right now, it’s my only job. I’m an air traffic controller – at least I was. When the union started to negotiate to get a little pay raise and maybe hiring a few more controllers to take the stress level down a little bit, Reagan busted the union – fired every union controller and replaced us with scabs.” That’s not right. “He doesn’t even have the authority to fire union federal employees, but I don’t know who’s going to stop him. The union is going to bring a lawsuit. I don’t know – maybe we can turn this around. I tell you - people are going to regret this when we have an airliner crash because some undertrained controller made a mistake.”
What does it take to train to be a controller? “Most of us came out of the military. I started as an air traffic controller in Vietnam.” Wow, Vietnam. When were you there? “71-72.” Vietnam must have been rough. But at least as a controller, you were at an airport – maybe that was a little better? “Well… listen … you don’t really get what being an air traffic controller was in Vietnam. I would go out on patrol looking to make contact with the enemy. When we got close enough to draw fire, I would call an air strike down on our own position and then run like hell.” Shit. I’m sorry. He shrugged. “I made it through. When I shipped back to the States, I trained to be a controller at an air base. After the Air Force, I came to the airport here and have been a civilian controller since. Well, at least until Reagan. He doesn’t care what it takes to do our jobs right or what we’ve done for our country before. He just locked us out and I’m here making pizzas not even bringing enough home to make ends meet.” I dropped my head. Not knowing what to say I restacked plates.
“Orders up – look alive.” Another flick of the wrist and corn flour floated again before landing on the table. The controller slapped the pizza dough down hard and began to roll it with precise, forceful strokes. “Heads up on the line - there’s a meatball sub in this order.”
Miner is a former political consultant who now works in government affairs on low-carbon energy policy. Recent publications include The Brazos River Review, The Earth Journal, and You Might Need to Hear This. He can be found on @robertminerpoetry on Instagram and @RobertMiner11 on Twitter.
Lucky #7
by Audrey Bresar
Moonlight casts an iridescent glow on the crystal prism perched on the sofa table. Tonight, we celebrate our 7th anniversary curled up under a blanket watching a movie and sipping on wine.
My heart pounds as the actress charges toward her co-star. “You cheating son of a bitch!” I mouth the words coming off the TV screen. I know this movie verbatim but still get goosebumps from the excitement of these last seconds. The line between right and wrong disappears. Whack! The sound of the rock smashing against his head like a golf club connecting with a ball is satisfying. I roll my wedding band around my finger, biting my bottom lip to hold back a smirk.
I watch him, searching his expression for a connection. He smiles and runs his hand along my leg draped over him. Buzz! The goosebumps reappear. My heart pauses for an instant and then resets to an unfamiliar tempo. I wonder what I would feel if I crossed that line. My skin tingles with that thought.
Leaning forward, he brushes his lips with mine. His breath is warm, and I feel moisture bead on my upper lip as he lingers above my mouth. My eyes tell him it’s okay to explore. His touch sends a thousand tiny charges of electricity running through me.
An intimate dance from long ago begins, and the unknown ahead sizzles with anticipation. His kisses are like this empty home void of passion but filled with duty. The choreography is clumsy and graceless. My lips stay still. Buzz! Buzz! I breathe out heavily and finally kiss him back. And as the forced hunger of the kiss strengthens, the line erases.
He doesn’t hear the credits rolling on the TV screen or the impatient buzzes from his cell phone. Buzz! Buzz! Buzz! It’s the same buzz that has kept him whispering and grinning all week. But I hear it all and am reminded of the text I found earlier that day.
Reaching behind the sofa, I wrap my hand around the cold prism that lies waiting there.
Audrey Bresar is a writer from Toronto, Canada. She holds a BA from the University of Toronto and her Editing Credentials from Simon Fraser University. Words, images, experiences, and people are the fabric of her soul. She is well-travelled, and her dream is to live abroad, capturing the essence of life through her words. You can find her on Twitter @ABresar or at audreybresar@gmail.com.
Small Game
by Christina Loraine
Waiting in a triage room bleeding from both arms, a chunk of deep fatty tissue hangs from the largest of my puncture wounds, protruding like a whack-a-mole in a dingy pizzeria arcade. Mine is just as greasy, only we’re waiting on an attending physician instead of a smack from a sticky vinyl mallet. Minutes ago she was hitting each of my bite wounds with a syringe squirt of rabies vaccine while giving the hunk of tissue a sideways glance and assurance of a quick return with sutures. Meantime, the exposed cells refuse to release my stare.
“But aren’t rabies shots administered to the stomach?”
I knew you were thinking that, everyone does. But no, they don’t do that anymore. The first dose is given as close to the wound as possible. Several intense bites across both arms mean several injections, plus an extra jab in the thigh, just for good measure.
A quick knock at the door and she’s here, the blur of a white jacket jilts my focus. She asks how I’m feeling as she pulls over a stainless steel table on wheels and neatly lays out her tools. I’m not sure what I say in reply, but it sounds like the prepackaged, “Oh, I’ve been better,” followed with a hollow laugh and a roll of the eyes.
“The worst part is over,” she says right on cue, as her smile coaxes a thread through the needle in a single pass. She’s leaning over me now, but I can’t look at her anymore. My arms were just stung by a million yellow jackets, injected with lava, flayed, and hung out to dry along the banks of Furnace Creek.
“Isn’t that located in Death Valley?”
Right, you are! And yes, I am formulating dramatic metaphors for my medical care in an attempt to ignore Nurse Ratchet. She’s narrating the repatriating of my arm’s deep state citizen in gory detail as my eyes search the ceiling for a reprieve.
A short knock reverberates from the door and the seamstress turns to greet my former Tai Chi instructor. She ushers him in and moves her instruments out of the way, apologizing for the mess.
He scoffs, “What mess?”
Is it an expected reply? Yes, only his laugh is anything but hollow. He leans over to tell me that we’re under a time crunch to finish a competitive cooking challenge and I should really get started on my protein before peeling any carrots. A collision of metallic clips screech overhead as he pulls the room divider back to reveal a kitchen outfitted with television production equipment. He whispers that he’s not here to win any prizes. The experience is what he wants to take home. Dropping his voice, he confides that he plans to sabotage himself, throwing the win to me.
What generosity!
I open the basket of mystery ingredients laid out to discover the protein pick is rabbit. Somehow, this one missed the butcher and went directly from the hunter’s trap to the packaging wrap. A mess of matted white hair and lifeless limbs, its entire body is presented on a rectangular foam tray. Its existence counted out in calories and suggested serving portions, all spelled out on the label stamped RABBIT, in an obnoxiously redundant way. Above the sticker, the rabbit’s mouth hangs slightly ajar. I trace its dry grin up the face, where one beady red eye protrudes from beneath the sheen of plastic, like a whack-a-mole taunting a pepperoni-filled ten-year-old. I can’t look away.
That glassy eye is asking me to make quick work of it; cut off a paw and throw it in the pan, smile for the camera, and thank the Tai Chi man.
“Whatever happened to that guy anyway?”
He took himself out of the running, remember? “It’s just another experience for him,” I tell the rabbit.
A sharp knock at the door startles me as a nurse shoves paperwork in my lap and nods toward the exit. I tell her that I’m not interested in any prizes; this show isn’t going to work for me. I turn to place the rabbit back inside the basket but instead notice my arms wrapped in white bandages and an extra roll of furry gauze in one hand.
“The prize is walking away with your life,” she says, right on script.
Christina Loraine is a writer and fine artist living outside Chicago, IL, with her teenage son and husband. Her work appears in THE 2018 RHYSLING ANTHOLOGY, and her novel in verse, INTERVIEWS FROM THE LAST DAYS, was published in 2019 by Atmosphere Press. In 2021 her play, Psychic Healing, won third place and was performed in a nationwide 10-minute play festival. Christina's fine art medium is primarily acrylic painting. It features animals and the occasional surrealism, but she also has a penchant for drawing miniature architecture under 1 inch in graphite. She has been known to wander the countryside with a backpack full of plein air painting gear, stopping to paint the scenery and soak in the sunlight. You can find her on Instagram @citrinesatellite and Facebook: Christina Loraine Art.
Okay. So. Now What?
by Julie Martis
Okay, stand with your feet hip-width apart. There’s no reason for slouching.
Open the cabinet. It’s not snooping if it’s for her own good. Blister pads and Immodium – so she’s partying to the extent that she’s lost control of her innards or she’s so scared she’s literally –
Your phone pings.
Ben: Trying not to Google.
Anyway, when exactly did Mum become old? Did it descend upon her the first time she bought Elnett hairspray, or do you have to be old to buy it?
Empty the can like you’re suffocating a wasp.
Now that you think about it, Gran’s hair was like a bag of candyfloss. Maybe we all become –
Ping.
Ben: I’m Googling.
Not gonna lie, you’ve definitely inherited a few habits. Start at your nose and swirl outwards. Clang. Cotton pad in the bin. Slosh. The toner stings. Blot.
Stand and cry like you’re six years old and you just dropped a teddy at the claw machine.
You’re always hungover on Boxing Day and you always have a headache. It’s from too much red wine, and the lights as brash as chickenpox, and how Mum’s voice gets higher and higher as the day goes on like she’s trying to snap the string of a violin, the way they do in old cartoons.
Yesterday, Ben gave you a stocking filled with lip balms and strips of Tramadol. Mum wore a snowman jumper, with googly eyes that danced maniacally when she moved, making it seem like the snowman was having some kind of intermittent breakdown. Thank fuck for the Tram-a-lam-a-ding-dongs. He’s a good brother.
Growing up, you’d always play Christmas bingo.
You can reheat that, you know. Tick
You can take it back if you don’t like it. Tick.
The potatoes aren’t right this year. Tick
Due to some misplaced reverence for the festive period, Mum waited till the morning of the 26th to tell you what she’d found out on the afternoon of the 21st. She held onto it for five days. When she sat down she said she didn’t want Christmas to always be the day when you found out. You couldn’t speak but Ben said -
Ping.
Ben: Are you ever coming out, or do I need to send Search and Rescue?
Refocus. One, two, three, shoulders back. You need to breathe deeply.
You don’t know what stage four means. Well, you do know, roughly, but Mum didn’t say whether or not there was any treatment she could have or whether – actually, now that you think about it, they might be able just to gouge the whole thing out, like a twisted scoop of ice cream – plop, out it goes, you’re cancer free, you don’t know for sure because she hasn’t said -
Ping.
Ben: I need help. She’s turned on Call The Midwife Christmas Special.
Breathe. Shoulders. Unlock the door.
Living room. Sit down.
Okay. So. Now what?
Julie Martis is a Scottish writer and actor, with work appearing in Connecticut River Review, Bare Fiction, Griffel and others. She lives in Glasgow with her three degus and a jungle of houseplants. Say hello on socials @juliemartis.
A Real-Life Cowboy in the Middle of Birch Park
by Meg Spring
The man was a real-life, hay bale hoisting, spur wielding, bandana-handkerchief-on-the-collar cowboy. She could tell on account of the fact that his boots were absolutely caked in manure. She liked that, though. It was authentic. Charming, even. She couldn’t see to be sure, but, somehow, she knew in her heart that he had a revolver—a preventative measure, just in case he might need to scare off any stray coyotes—and a farmer’s tan hidden underneath his Carhart.
He said, “Howdy, ma’am,” and she was certain he was the kind of man whose two best friends were a sheepdog and a horse named Baby, or Lady, or Princess. Maybe all three, but Princess Baby Lady seemed like a bit much, even in her lovestruck state. She could picture him living alone in the same ranch house where he was born, taking afternoon naps in the hayloft, whispering sweet encouragements to dairy cows during milkings.
She knew farmers never really herded cattle anymore, what with all the fences and tractor trailers. Still, she would bet her favorite gold earrings that he’d camped out on the range at least once—just the man, his dog, and Princess Baby Lady, sharing a can of beans over an open fire. He had probably used his dog as a pillow, the brim of his hat pulled down over his eyes, surrounded by a bunch of Jersey steers. The mare must have functioned as an alarm clock, nipping his hat right off of his face when he slept in too late.
She asked him how he was doing this morning, and he said, “Mighty fine, ma’am.” He was respectful like that. He must have been the kind of man to always call a lady “ma’am,” especially his own mother. He had definitely never called her “Mom.” It would have always been “Mama” or “ma’am,” and he would have been the kind of boy who kissed her on the cheek every evening at bedtime, just before saying his prayers.
He sat down right next to her, even though there was an empty bench on the other side of the path. She wanted to hold his hand, wondered if the calluses would irritate her clammy palm. He brushed his thumb and forefinger down his mouth, smoothing out his handlebar mustache, and scuffed his dirty boot on the grass below. A chunk of cow patty fell off, leaving behind the faint stench of authenticity. Her eyelashes fluttered as she watched his lips move. She had never kissed a man with a mustache before, never kissed a man with a beard or a goatee, either. She was sure it must tickle, but that rugged, manly prickling would only enhance the experience. It must be like kissing John Wayne, she thought, if John Wayne hadn’t been clean-shaven in nearly all of his movies and, also, if he hadn’t been a racist homophobe in real life. She felt it in her chest; this cowboy’s kisses came prejudice free.
The man stared at her, his lovely head cocked to the left. She blinked at his barely crooked nose and realized that he must have been saying something the whole time his mustache had been moving. She asked him to repeat himself, and he smiled. He tilted his head to the other side, looked pointedly at Mr. Vinny and his popsicle cart, and asked, “May I treat you to an ice cream, miss?” Oh, God. Miss.
She didn’t want to appear overeager. She paused, marking her place in the paperback Louis L’Amour she had forgotten to read, ladylike and deliberate. “Yes, sir. I think you may.” He stood and offered his hand. She took it. Callused—just as she thought.
Meg Spring is a poet, a writer, and an English tutor from the Midwest. She loves people and animals, especially if they're willing to read a story with her. Her fiction has been published in Moon City Review. She can be found on Twitter @MegWritesOkay.
Hummingbird
by Rebecca L. Monroe
The hummingbird levitated, wings beating the air to hold her in place. The sun had just risen, warming her. She zoomed up to the top of a tree and landed, looking for anything bright.
A flash of pink caught her eye and she zipped down. It was a flower, open, inviting. She backed up, chirping, looking, making sure it was safe before approaching again.
The flower was huge, appealing. She moved toward it, hungry, and hit something stopping her short of the flower. She darted back, examining the flower. It was visible, no obstructions. She moved forward and once more was stopped. Frustrated, she changed her position, racing up and shifting to try different angles. She couldn’t reach it. The air was hard between her and the flower. She couldn’t penetrate it. Finally she darted to a branch to study the situation.
Another hummingbird flashed past, then back, then past; challenging her with his right to be there. He, too, wanted the flower. He too, was stopped by the barrier.
Rising, she chittered at the intruder angrily and dove at him, chasing him out of her area. Then she tried the flower once more, bumping against the invisible solidness only inches from the bloom. She tapped the barrier gently. While it was nothing she could see, there was no denying it was there. Sighing a hummingbird sigh, she went to find breakfast elsewhere.
From up in the tree he watched her leave. Not him. He would reach the flower. He flew high to get more momentum, diving hard.
She heard the thud but was busy at a new flower just around the corner of the house.
Rebecca lives in Montana in a log cabin by a river and has been writing for most of her life. She has over 100 published stories and a book of short stories, Reaching Beyond, published by Bellowing Ark Press. Along with writing, she loves to read, take long walks with Dodge, her yellow Labrador retriever, and volunteer at the local animal shelter.
2061
by Vanessa Kalil
The violin was out of tune.
Maria leaned the instrument against her abdomen and plucked the three remaining, intact strings, the fourth stuck out to the side in a crooked curl. How many times did she tell herself not to forget to bring the new string she’d bought for it ages ago?
She lifted the instrument back to her shoulder and adjusted the silk cloth she had placed on top of the chinrest. Settled, she gently ran the bow across the strings, letting the salty air around her murmur with quiet notes. She was just getting into a groove when she heard a cough behind her.
“Performing to the dead now, are we?”
A woman emerged from the ladder leading up to the widow’s walk from inside the abandoned house. She stood and looked around the rotting planks, the opened balcony covered in bird poop. Even the banisters were decorated with splatters of feces.
Maria glanced down at the corpse beside her feet and shrugged.
“She still counts. Look, she’s waving for more.”
The decayed female body laid on its side against the wooden boards. One of its hands stretched out through the banisters with the breeze strong enough to sway the limply hung wrist just slightly.
“How nice of her. Let’s hear it then.” Caterina gestured for Maria to continue playing, but Maria shook her head.
“I forgot the string again, I’m such an idiot.”
“You are.” Caterina grimaced as she tiptoed across the fecal-mattered-planks and stood beside Maria. She looked at the front-facing banister before them which overlooked the ocean. She frowned at how little of it was not coated in post-meal leftovers.
“Here.” Maria placed her violin and bow on top of its case, the only item on the balcony which was free of bird droppings, and took off her oversized green sweater. She laid it out on the banister. Caterina clasped her hands together and bowed to Maria.
“I don’t deserve you.”
“True, you don’t.”
Caterina laughed and leaned her elbows onto the sweatered banister. She watched the ocean dance its tide as Maria squatted down to inspect the body. Maria immediately bit her lip and quickly brought up an arm to cover her nose.
“It’s definitely Francis.”
“Obviously,” Caterina said, not looking over.
Maria’s arm pressed against her nostrils as she rummaged through her pockets with her other hand. She pulled out a lipstick tube and started to poke at the grotesquely gaped mouth.
“Why couldn’t she have just waited?”
“Who knows,” Caterina said, turning to face the dead Francis, “it’s not our prob--is that my lipstick!?”
Maria glanced up with her hand holding the lipstick now poking through an empty eye socket.
“I’ll buy you a new one, don’t worry.” She gave Caterina two thumbs up. Caterina huffed and looked away dramatically, her chin pointed up to the moon. The lipstick shifted down to prodding around the poop-blotched clothing.
“We’ll have to report this if the jump is today.”
Caterina nodded. “I know.” She turned and leaned onto the banister again. “I wish they’d just get us already. It’s been so long.”
Maria, done with the remains, tossed the lipstick tube aside. Caterina glanced at it rolling across the chipped wood with a pout. Maria stood and brushed her palms against her skort.
“I hate thinking about time here. It’s far too slow.”
“‘You’ll have fun on Earth Planet 183. It’s an honor to study these kinds of civilizations.’ Blah, blah, blah, bullshit.” Caterina dropped her chin into her left palm.
Maria sighed. “It might be today.”
Caterina kept her eyes on the waves foaming around the shore just meters from the house they stood atop of, in their little crow’s nest.
“It might have been 1835, 1910, 1986. How many more lives do we have to live? What else can they want from this?”
Maria shook her head. “We’ll live as many as it takes. I will not be a Francis.”
The two women glanced down at the body, its clothes lightly rustling in the night breeze. The gun in its non-stretched out hand lying accordingly besides the hole in its head.
“No,” Caterina said quietly, “I don’t want to be a Francis either.”
Maria leaned against the banister, her forearms rested on her sweater.
“You have your Identifier?”
“Of course. You?”
“Of course.”
Caterina nodded. They let the salted air wrap around them, just their breaths adding to the ocean’s song from below. Maria shivered.
“Go on, put it back on.” Caterina straightened herself up, adjusting the collar of her brown, velvet jacket.
Maria tossed her sweater back on, then grabbed a small rectangular item from her left pocket.
“It should be almost time.”
Caterina pulled out an identical object from her own coat pocket. As if on cue, a static sound came out from both devices.
“B12.13, K14.21, G11.61, how are we tonight?” A metallic voice echoed from the rectangular devices around the balcony, and into the atmosphere.
Caterina turned her eyes to the sky.
* * * *
“I saw it, grandma! Halley’s Comet!”
The little girl swung her arms to the stars and pointed. The ocean brushed its foamy tendrils against an old woman’s bare feet. She smiled at the little girl.
“And I’ve seen it twice now, isn’t that crazy?”
The little girl laughed and danced in the water as the old woman smiled to the sky.
* * * *
Maria stood silently next to Francis’ body. Her hands dropped down to her sides. Caterina felt her eyes well up, still focused on where their ship had just flashed past Earth Planet 183 once again. The waves crashed quietly below.
“Play me something. I missed the initial performance.” Caterina wiped her eyes with her velvet sleeves, and gestured towards the instrument on its case on the feces-covered boards. Maria nodded. She pocketed her Identifier and knelt down to pick up her three-stringed violin and bow.
She placed her silk cloth on the chinrest and began to play.
Vanessa Kalil is an emerging writer constantly competing for her keyboard with her white and brown tabby. She resides in the American midwest after a childhood of moving through the American east coast and southern Brazil. She holds a BA in English and a minor in Film Studies from Boston College. She loves a good sweater and hot chocolate while she works on her creative writing and finding her voice in fiction, poetry, and television scripts. She can be reached at vanessakalil65@gmail.com.
The Prophecy
by Joanna Grisham
Lester Crosby had been struck by lightning twice. After the first time, when he was thirty-eight and working at the dam, a fortune-teller in Panama City Beach told him to expect to get struck every twenty years. It’s all part of the plan, she whispered, and when Lester was struck again at fifty-eight, he believed she was the real deal. He’d been anxiously waiting on the third jolt since his seventy-eighth birthday.
He hoped it would happen today, and part of him hoped it would take him out, if it didn’t make him famous. He preferred being famous, but he’d settle for death if it meant he didn’t have to move in with his daughter, Beth-Ann, who was headed over to take him to live with her unemployed boyfriend and blue-haired teenagers in a double-wide across town.
It had been an unusually dry April, and Lester sometimes worried the fortune teller was wrong about the three strikes. They could misread those crystal balls, couldn’t they? Still, he checked the weather forecast every morning because he wanted to be ready. This morning the goofy weatherman with the bad toupee on Channel 9 said there was a fifty-percent chance of thunderstorms, which was all Lester needed to hear. He pulled his white, plastic chair into the middle of the yard after breakfast and waited, as the clouds took shape in the distant hills.
Lester was somewhat of a local celebrity, and he liked being semi-popular, even if all it ever got him was a free beer on the anniversary of one of the lightning strikes. In middle school, kids made fun of his hand-me-down clothes and mama-cut-it hairdo. Sometimes, Lester wasn’t sure if anybody ever liked him in his whole life, but he knew they at least respected him now. You have to respect a guy who survives two lightning strikes.
Otherwise, Lester’s life had been far from extraordinary. He got married to the first girl he’d ever kissed, had two kids, one he loved and one he tolerated, and retired early so he could spend more time making lamps out of trash he scavenged from the city dump. His wife left him fifteen years ago and married a guy who tormented him in high school by shutting him up in his locker every other day. His son hadn’t spoken to him in ten years, and that was the kid he actually loved. His daughter worried the shit out of him calling every day, checking to make sure he ate lunch and kept sunscreen on his nose and took his blood pressure medicine.
Lester felt like he was in some kind of prison, though, technically, he was free to do whatever he liked. The problem was, he didn’t like to do much of anything anymore, except wait for storms. He stopped going to the domino hall on Wednesdays. He let the trash spill out into the kitchen floor. At her last visit, Beth-Ann pronounced him depressed and unfit to take care of himself and demanded he move in with her.
“Are they giving out psychology degrees down at the Walmart?” he yelled in response to her diagnosis, which made her cry and made him angrier.
Lester didn’t want to spend his final years rotting away in Beth-Ann’s trailer. With a third jolt on its way, he was a shoo-in for national recognition. He’d finally be something, someone special. Maybe he’d move out to Beverly Hills, do some reality TV. His spikey-haired granddaughter was confident he could become a meme or a GIF with the right social media marketing strategy. He didn’t know what the hell she was talking about, but he liked the idea of people staring at a little picture of him on their phones.
He was almost famous after the second lightning strike, which came two weeks after his fifty-eighth birthday. He was fishing off the wall at the lock, when he saw the sky darken and felt the hair on his arms stand up. He knew it was going to happen.
“It’s coming,” he said to no one and let out a loud woo-hoo. “It’s really coming!”
A reporter from one of the local TV stations came out to interview Lester. He was certain he was on his way to becoming a celebrity, but the same day he was struck, some crazy bastard in Smith County got arrested for hoarding three hundred cats in his house, and Lester’s pending fame was overshadowed. It’s hard to compete with cats.
“Third time’s a charm,” Lester said to Beth-Ann, when she slid out of her beat up minivan around noon.
She scrunched her face and shook her head. “Third time for what?”
Lester pointed at the clouds.
“Jesus, Daddy. You gotta death wish, you know?”
“I lived through two,” he said, looking away, not getting up. “This one will fulfill the prophecy.”
“Oh, are we calling that fortune teller a prophet now?” Beth-Ann sighed heavily. “You all packed inside? Bruce is on his way with the truck.”
“I’m fine right here.” Lester waved her off. “I don’t need to be baby-sat.”
“Daddy, please don’t make this harder than it has to be. I’m not the bad guy.”
Lester knew she was right about that part, but he couldn’t bring himself to stand up. He didn’t want it all to end with him in a borrowed room, with a strange yard outside, trees he didn’t know, birds he hadn’t heard.
“You know I’ll take good care of you, Daddy.”
Thunder rolled over the hills in the distance. Lester’s scalp tingled. The gray clouds moved over him quickly, and, then, the sky opened up. Beth-Ann ducked under the porch.
“Get your phone, Beth-Ann. Open that little camera.” His voice shook. “You’re my witness.”
“Get over here, Daddy!” she yelled, but Lester wasn’t listening. He sat in his white chair, arms outstretched, mouth open in a gaping smile, as the rain hit his face and the sky lit up all around him.
Joanna Grisham (most folx call her Joey) grew up in Tennessee, where she spent a lot of time playing with imaginary friends. She holds an MFA in creative writing from Georgia College. She was named a finalist for the 2021-2022 Very Short Fiction Contest at the Tennessee Williams & New Orleans Literary Festival and a finalist for the 2021 Ember Chasm Review Flash Fiction Contest. Her work has appeared in Gleam, The Emerson Review, The Write Launch, Construction Literary Magazine, and other places, and her first chapbook of poems is forthcoming from Finishing Line Press. She lives in Tennessee with her wife and daughter and still spends a lot of time playing make-believe.
Wiggle Toes
by David Thow
“Sh,” Jenny whispered, “my parents are right upstairs.” We were necking in the rec room. “You’re being loud.”
“I am?”
“You sound like an orangutan.”
“I’ll fix that…Hey, why are you buttoning up your blouse?”
“Let’s talk.”
“I prefer this.”
“That’s life. Sit up.”
Jenny’s a spunky brunette bundle with an opinion about everything and the cutest, upturned nose in the world.
We sat facing the television. I yawned with outstretched arms and casually placed one around her shoulders.
“Park your hormones, cowboy.”
“Am I allowed to breathe?”
“If you must. I have a question. Why haven’t you asked me to the junior prom?”
I hadn’t thought twice about it. However, figured best not to lead with that.
I decided to have some fun. I pressed up against her. “Mon chéri,” I said in a lame accent, “will you be mon, how you say, prom squeeze? Is good? Oui?”
Did I ever misread the room. “Not when you ask like that, jerk. Do you even want to go with me?”
“Bien sûr!” She glared daggers.
“That’s not what I hear. Becky’s telling everybody she expects you to ask her.”
I scoffed. “She’ll say anything. Why do you think I broke up with her in the first place?”
“All I know is you still haven’t asked me.”
The moment called for a gesture. I got down on one knee, Bachelor-style, and took her by the hand. “Jennifer Bertha (she hates that name which is precisely the same reason I like saying it sometimes) Rosinsky, it would be my humble honor to accompany you to the Junior High School prom. And if agreeable, do you want the chicken or the fish?”
“You’re incorrigible.”
“How long have you been waiting to slip that into a sentence?”
“Stop teasing.” She pushed me over onto the carpet and hopped on top.
“Is that a yes?”
“It’s a minuscule maybe. Good thing you’re marginally handsome otherwise....”
She kissed me with soft little pecks. I pulled her closer. Our lips opened. I slid one hand under her blouse, the other cradled the small of her back.
Then, without forethought, I slowly began grinding against her thigh. She seemed game. We gyrated in unison. Pelvic thrusting was involved. It got pretty hot and heavy—not that I have any expertise in the hot or the heavy department. Before then, it was mainly French kissing and on a good day second base but nothing comparable to this situation.
An expansion of a sort ensued inside my jeans—it was not unpleasant but I felt it, like a deep tissue massage. Whatever was going on, it only spurred me onwards, and upwards. On the brink of no return, my toes wiggled frantically. And then the spasmodic release. Holy moly! Was definitely not prepared for that. I wouldn’t describe it as painful, but I can tell you one thing: it had more than enough oomph to make me cry out.
“Shush!” Jenny put her hand over my mouth. I panted for air. My heart was beating like gangbusters.
Once my vitals stabilized, I felt the uh-oh down there, you know, in my Fruit-of-the-Looms. Warm, like the wax that drips from a candle. I didn’t know yet, but in seconds it would cool off and congeal like a piece of chewed up and discarded bubble-gum. Yukky.
So there was that.
And then I thought, what if this gets out? One wrong word from Little Miss Upturned Nose and this’ll spread like a California wildfire. Teenagers live for this stuff. I’d be a laughingstock; forever known by some horrible nickname like preemie or wiggle toes.
Jenny rested her head onto my ribcage. I didn’t know what to say except, “I’m sorry.”
She gently stroked my chest. “Whatever happens between us, stays between us. Always.”
How do you spell relief?
Still, this hadn’t been my finest Churchillian hour. We only recently started dating. No way she tolerates an idiot who can’t control his…ahem… apparatus. I wanted to get up and clean off, but I didn’t want to move with my long-term fate hanging in the balance.
Jenny lifted her head. “Did you know I like orchids?” Nope. “The Cattleyas are my favorite.” The who? “I think they would make for a lovely corsage.”
I’m sure you’re right, I thought, as a wisp of a smile cut across my face.
David Thow was born in Winnipeg and educated at the University of Manitoba. He lives in Toronto, Ontario where he practices medicine. He can be contacted at david_thow2018@yahoo.com.
Bad Luck When the Bartender Doesn’t Drink
by Daniel O'Leary
When you say you’ve quit smoking, they smile and nod.
When you say you’re trying to drink less, they buy you a beer.
Maybe they think it’ll be the last slippery pint you’ll ever have. Doubtful.
All the same, bartending is lucrative so I don’t quit my job at Zebo’s when I drop the sauce. It’s easier when I’m dried out: I rouse them when they sleep in the booths, I point when they drop their wallets, I go deaf when they scream at their husbands.
Some days I’ll open at noon and stay till close without breaking a sweat. There were days (gone) when I’d open early to drink monkish in the quiet: not long ago, but the fresher days are sometimes harder to recall.
Today is effortless. Already the early afternoon when he walks in and orders three easy cocktails: ice, mixer, rum, lime. While he scratches at patches of dry skin on his chin he tells me he’s waiting for his boyfriend and his best friend. He tells me to mix one for myself.
“I’m not drinking.”
“It’s bad luck when the bartender drinks water.”
“For who?”
He lifts his eyebrows, carries the three drinks to a table in the corner then sits facing the window. I imagine him sulking, drinking the way a lizard in the zoo might – automatically, sadly. I wish him the worst cause he’s beaten me.
Bad luck? Bad luck for who? I drink my water near the taps hoping to catch their hoppy aroma, hoping to scam my brain. No luck.
Drifting into the storeroom, I grab a bottle: coffee liqueur. I twist, drink and swallow, drink and swallow, twist, and before the shame warms my face or the black booze hits my belly I’m back in the barroom praying he hasn’t spied me but he’s gone.
I stalk to the table and see him in the street – in the crosswalk – yelling at two men holding hands. He shouts, slams his phone against the asphalt then balls a fist but a bus honks and the two men holding hands leave without looking back.
He stoops to collect the pieces of his phone and I fight the urge to tap on the glass. I hope he walks back into Zebo’s so I can look at his reptilian eyes but he disappears down the street.
There’s the two unfinished drinks. I finish them. I ferry all three empties to the bar then locate my water and pour it into the sink. I fill the glass from one of the taps and the beer has the color and warmth of suntanned grain; the bubbles within are orderly and quick. I think this is the last drink I’ll have for a good long while but it’s ten hours to close so that’s doubtful.
Daniel O'Leary is a recent MFA graduate from the Creative Writing program at Antioch University, Los Angeles. He lives and writes in Santa Cruz, CA and spends an unsustainable amount of time penning and sending nonsensical postcards which can be found at SixInchNonsense.com.
Black Box
by Sean Ferrier-Watson
Nathan hit his brother in the head with a hammer, the blunt end sticking briefly before giving way with a jerk. His brother managed to turn and look at him before the hammer crashed down again, caving in his left temple just above the eye. He dropped to the floor with a thud.
Nothing to it.
Nathan had been thinking about this for weeks, turning the idea over in his mind like a shiny new coin. His brother always took Dad’s side, especially when it came to doling out punishment. Ned was always willing to pass the blame to his younger brother, often just setting Dad off to cover his tracks.
Nothing like seeing your little brother get beat to shit for some cigarettes.
He rifled through his brother’s pockets and found two Marlboro Lights. He pocketed one and lit the other, taking a slow drag before dropping it on the linoleum and smothering it with the heel of his sneaker. Nathan fingered the old bruise under his left eye, only slightly discolored now, a dull yellow. He remembered the excuses he told his teachers—boxing practice, wrestling practice, bad pitch. They knew, of course. It was just easier to accept the lie, less stress at the end of their day.
He deserved it.
He went for the box under Dad’s bed: the black one with the lock no bigger than his fingernail. Dad joked when drunk he kept the devil inside, but Nathan knew better. He found the key in a tiny matchbox in the toolshed months ago, hiding under an old coffee can under the corner shelf. He would often caress it in bed after Dad had really gone to town on him. He unlocked the box and removed the pistol.
Loaded. Dad will find the devil waiting for him tonight.
Sean Ferrier-Watson has pieces published or forthcoming in Lovecraftiana, Borderlands, Better Than Starbucks, Hawk & Whippoorwill, Hellbound Books, and Illumen. He was recently a finalist in Crystal Lake Publishing’s Shallow Waters Contest. His book The Children’s Ghost Story in America was published by McFarland in 2017. Follow him at www.seanferrierwatson.com.
The Ones That Get Caught
by Krista Timeus Cerezo
Exactly thirty seconds before two o’clock, the assistant professor approaches her classroom armed with two heavy textbooks on the anatomy of the human brain and a stack of handwritten notes for her first lecture. Does anyone know the speed of thought? she will ask the class.
During a tour of the campus a few days earlier, her new faculty “mentor” advised her never to be too early for class. They smell weakness, he said, so don’t arrive before them. But obviously, don’t be late either.
Twenty seconds before two o’clock, three [male] students still cluster around the doorway. A blond one is leaning against the wall with his right foot up and his hands in his pockets.
“Can you put your foot down,” she says naturally. The wall is so white.
The student obeys and she scuttles past him through the doorway, her senses failing to note the smirk on his face and the bounce of his head as he wrinkles his nose in assessment. She pulls on the hem of the new, blue dress she bought for today, doubting now whether it is too short.
Four hundred feet per second, on average, her notes say. That means that you can generate a thought and act upon it in less than two hundred and fifty milliseconds.
“Nice ass,” he whispers, and though it’s almost inaudible, instinctively, she stops. Her head turns two degrees to the right, and she lengthens her spine, instantly focused like a doe in the tundra listening for changes in the rustle of the grass. Her whole weight rests on her right foot, the left one ready to lift with its tip barely balanced on the dusty grey carpet. He snickers and his friends mimic the noise.
Listen, the mentor had insisted, you gotta be the alpha male from the get-go, you understand? He pointed a finger at her and she nodded. She understood.
The alpha depends on the speed of thought. They rely on the fastest of signals to race through their body like messengers of war with urgent commands. Smell, run, pounce, now.
Now! You should set the three-inch heel of your boot back down, pivot around to face the student, tell him he doesn’t belong in this classroom right now. Student might give you an icy look, but you’ll make him yield under your steady glare, and in the end, he’ll throw his backpack over his shoulder and step back from the door with a shrug like “whatever”. A storm of whispers will follow you past the five neat rows of seated twenty-year-olds as you walk victoriously to the front, but you will start the lecture right away and force them into focus.
Alpha.
But he could lunge too. He could step out of the vigilant pack and throw up his arms with a protest of “hey Prof, it was just a compliment, no offense, you know,” all the while holding that charming smile, aiming it like a loaded gun. You’ll have to take another step and explain yourself. Explain that it’s inappropriate. Explain why. Your voice might shake and then they’ll say you overcorrected. Can’t even compliment a woman anymore. They’ll say you disrupted the class, call you a hard-ass, a dyke.
An omega bitch.
Thoughts can travel at a speed of four hundred feet per second. But through the five hundred thousand miles of wiring neatly packed into the gray folds of the average brain, some thoughts charge forward faster than others.
Her left toes lose contact with the ground and her weight begins to shift. Infinite things can still happen. Until she sets down her heel and keeps walking to her place, already regretful. How easily a moment slips away.
“Good afternoon,” she says in her most authoritative tone when she has reached the front of the room. She sets her books down on the desk facing the dumbstruck students. “We’ll start this course by reviewing the functions of the frontal cortex.”
While they settle, she locates him. He’s found a spot in the second row and is slouching in the chair, twirling a pencil between his fingers, and looking at her. It takes her three thousand five hundred milliseconds to realize she’s leaning towards him as if tethered by magnetic force.
She straightens her back. The tether snaps.
“Can anyone tell me the speed of thought?”
It’s exactly two o’clock and she knows exactly where she falls between alpha and omega.
Krista Timeus Cerezo is an emerging writer currently based in Barcelona, Spain. Her short fiction often explores the experiences of people trying to find a sense of home in strange, new places. Krista was born and raised in Guatemala and is a graduate of Davidson College, N.C. You can read more of her work at www.kristatimeuscerezo.com or connect on Instagram @kristatimeus.
The Last Move
by Erika B. Girard
I sat forward on the rickety metal chair and hesitated before my next move. Leaves rustled through the otherwise empty park as my grandfather peered at me around the meticulously-stacked Jenga blocks. I reached.
“Careful there, boy. That ain’t a good one.”
Pressing my lips together, I fingered the piece anyway.
Grandpop growled. “Son, don’t do this. I mean it.” His tone made me pause.
“Pop, it’s my turn. I can choose whatever I want.”
“You don’t know what you’re doing,” he said, eyeing the wooden wedge I still hovered over. I snatched it and pulled.
The tower remained standing.
“Lucky choice,” he scoffed as I carefully placed the block at the top. I rolled my eyes.
“I’ve played this before, Grandpop. It’s not about luck. See, if you—”
“I don’t want to see.”
“All right, suit yourself. It’s your turn.”
“I ain’t got much of a choice now, do I?” His expression was sour, directed at the slightly leaning tower. “You’ve won.”
I caved. “Here, Pop. Pull that one out,” I said, pointing. He fixed me with a suspicious gaze.
“Why?”
“Just try it. Trust me.”
He scrunched up his face but complied. Nothing fell. He exhaled and positioned the block atop our pillar, which was quickly growing unstable. I leaned forward.
“See? You trusted me.”
“That’s different,” he said, his voice rising.
I glanced around before answering, jaw clenched. “I’ve worked hard for this—I can’t give up now. I’m sorry.”
“No, you’re not!” he exploded. The table rocked but the tower somehow stood firm between us. “If you were sorry, you wouldn’t have taken the offer at all!”
Heat rose into my cheeks. I wasn’t sure if it was from shame or embarrassment. “I’m only moving temporarily so I can return with a steady job. I’ll write to you in the meantime.” While you’re stuck in a nursing home and I’m a world away, I mentally added.
“Don’t like writing,” he said. “Makes my arthritis flair up.”
“Have a nurse write for you, then.”
“Too personal.”
“So we’ll exchange stories when I’m back.” I shrugged. “Sound like a plan?”
“...But what if you don’t come back?”
I softened. “Trust me, Pop,” I said again. He eyed the game.
“You haven’t made your move yet.”
I smiled, knowing that it was his way of conceding. I slid out a wooden block. The whole tower swayed and then toppled in slow motion, blocks crashing to the table. Some, falling from too high a height, clattered to the ground.
Grandpop slumped back in his chair. “Jenga,” he whispered.
Erika B. Girard is currently pursuing her M.A. in English and Creative Writing with a concentration in Poetry through SNHU. She graduated from Saint Leo University in Florida in 2019 with her B.A. in English Literary Studies and a minor in Hospitality Management. Originally from Rhode Island, she derives creative inspiration from her family, friends, faith, and fascination with the human experience. Her work appears or is forthcoming in The Alembic, Iris Literary Journal, Sandhill Review, Wild Roof Journal, and more.
The Lottery Ticket
by Samantha Bradbury Koster
“What do you mean you lost the ticket?” Jerry asked, his voice cracking like a boy who was forty years younger. The married couple were in a rental black Lincoln on their way to the Lottery Headquarters in California.
“I don’t know, I lost it,” Carol fired back, “One minute it’s here and the next it’s not.” She said, while she conducted another pat down of her pockets and a dig through of her fake leather purse.
“You always do this,” Jerry said, “I should’ve known this would happen.” He hit his palm against the steering wheel. On the radio “Party in the USA” was halfway through.
“What do you mean I always do this?” Carol yelled, “You were the one who told me to hold onto the fucking ticket in the first place.” She rolled down her window and let the sea-soaked air brush her hair. The heat of California didn’t feel so bad this way.
Jerry paused for a moment before responding. He knew he needed to catch his breath. “I’m sorry, it’s just a lot of money,” Jerry said, finally. He reached over to his wife of thirty-one years to place his hands on hers. She pulled it away instantly as if playing a game of hot hands.
“You don’t think I know that?” Carol said, “In my head I’ve already bought a trip to Greece and booked a villa on the beach.” She looked out the passenger window again, this time to hide the annoying tears that had gathered in her eyes.
“43.6 million dollars,” Jerry said, “just gone.”
“What do you want to do?” Carol asked. Jerry was looking at the road ahead. It was winding around sharp curves with towering mountain ridges looming to one side, choppy blue waves and a cliff's edge to the other. He said nothing.
“Are you sure it’s not here?” Jerry asked, breaking through the silence that was enveloping them in frozen wishes and solutions to problems that have long hung over their heads.
“I’m sure.” Carol said. And again, there was silence between them.
Jerry turned off the GPS, and canceled out of the pop-up message asking “Are you satisfied with this route?” and turned up the radio. They stayed on the winding road, looking out over the water, the mountains, and the landscape around them, silently agreeing to keep going until eventually a decision had to be made.
They came up on a large sign that read “Gas, Food, and Hotels Next Exit.” The car radio clock said 1:08pm. Almost as if on cue Jerry’s stomach growled audibly and Carol put her hand to hers. They decided.
The diner was classic with a large neon “OPEN” sign and an arrow pointing into the bright, pink building, framed by metal ribbed banisters. A classic truck stop diner, the kind that serves breakfast all day. Jerry was already thinking about ordering an eggs benny with hash browns, while Carol was hoping for a tuna melt on rye.
Inside the waitress behind the bar counter said, “pick anywhere you like, hun,” while wiping the counter down with a striped rag. “I’ll be with ya in a minute. Coffee?”, which they both responded in a nod.
Jerry and Carol slid into a window booth looking out onto their car and the road in which they came. The waitress placed a couple laminated menus in front of them with one hand and then two mugs she had been holding with the other. “I’ll be back in a minute but take your time,” the waitress said before walking back to the bar counter.
“What were you going to get?” Carol asked, looking over the large menu at her husband. She watched as he pulled his reading glasses from his front shirt pocket and then push them up his nose.
“An eggs benny, probably. You?” He responded, grazing over the options.
“That’s not what I meant.” Carol said, putting her menu down. “What were you going to get with the money? What did you want?”
“Well,” Jerry paused, “I think I would have bought myself a boat. I’ve always wanted one. Loved going out with my dad growing up,” he said, putting his menu down as well.
“Have we made any decisions?” the waitress asked, popping up at the end of their booth, little green notepad and pencil at the ready. They ordered and the waitress took their menus back, leaving them alone to their thoughts once again.
“Maybe we can get a little boat,” Carol said, “would be a nice thing to have during the summer when the grandbabies come to visit.”
“You think so?” Jerry said, raising his eyebrows in surprise, not quite believing what his wife just suggested. “And what about your trip? Not sure we can afford Greece but maybe we could travel somewhere.” Jerry said. He took a sip of his coffee, blocking the view of his wife briefly.
Jerry and Carol ate their lunch, both satisfied. Jerry with his eggs and benny, Carol with her tuna melt on rye. They left a good tip. Carol drew a smiley face on the receipt with a note that said “Thank you.”
Walking back out to the car, Jerry put his arm around Carol and pulled her in. “Same old, same old, right?” he said. “No fuss over something that won’t happen.”
“Right,” Carol said, leaning into Jerry. He kissed the top of her head. They released to walk to their separate car doors and Jerry smiled at Carol over the top of the car. Carol opened the passenger side door and couldn’t believe what she was seeing. There it was, hidden beneath her butt the whole time. “Jerry!” she gasped, “look!”
Samantha Bradbury Koster (she/her) is a 2020-22 MFA fiction candidate at the University of New Hampshire. She is a freelance writer, artist, floral designer, and an occasional farmhand. She is the author of the short story "The Heart of the Machine,” which received an Honorable Mention in the 2019 NYC Midnight Short Fiction competition, and was later published in Decameron Days. She is also the 2021 recipient of the Dick Shea Memorial Award for her short story "Seeking Advice," which was also a finalist in the 2022 Pinch Literary Awards and is forthcoming in The Pinch, Spring 2023. Samantha lives in the seacoast of New Hampshire with her husband Ben and their rescue dog Banjo. She can be contacted at sam.bradburykoster@gmail.com for inquiries and found on Twitter/Instagram at @sam_bradkost.
Surprise Party
by Kimberly Diaz
It’s one of those blah Sunday afternoons, when there’s nothing good on, and you’ve read all your best books three times already so you just sit on your ass and scroll through social media. One can only look for so long at pictures of everybody’s lunch and see the results of yet another quiz everyone’s taking, this time it’s Pick Your Birth Vegetable to See What Kind of Person You Are. I think, what the heck, it’s 4:00 o’clock, close enough. I wander into the kitchen for a drink. It’s not much of a wander, maybe twelve feet from the couch to the fridge, but I take the long way around the coffee table to get some much needed exercise.
I’m pouring myself some of the most reasonably priced rotgut available when I hear footsteps. They don’t sound like the guy across the hall’s flip-flops or the lady next door’s high heels. I start to put the bottle back in the fridge then think, no I’ll just leave it on the counter. I don’t need that much exercise.
I hear a light rap on the door and my name, Kimberly.
It’s my grandmother’s voice. I shudder and set the glass down. She died nearly two decades ago. As I slowly creep toward the door, and I do mean slowly, I glance at the Weird Talking Cats calendar hanging somewhat crookedly on the kitchen wall. It’s March 30th! Her birthday!
I stand close to the door, listening. My nostrils flare. Is that Jean Nate? It was her favorite scent. I remember her spraying it on after she’d rinse her mouth with hydrogen peroxide straight from the bottle to whiten her teeth and then lean toward the mirror to apply red lipstick, also rubbing some on her cheeks for blush.
Another more insistent rap.Kimberly, it’s me, Grandma Mary.
Definitely her voice. Sweet, but a little scratchy and shaky. Trembling, I unlock and open the door. There she is, just the way I remember her, from the time when she could still walk and keep both eyes open, when we spent hot Miami afternoons watching The Love Connection or The Price is Right while eating tuna sandwiches, or if we were treating ourselves, KFC.
Her hair is black and wavy, with just a little gray. She has the same eyeglasses, sturdy brown oval-shaped frames, not the most flattering but the thick lenses do the job. She’s wearing an old-fashioned floral dress, probably plucked from a thrift shop for fifty cents. The same sensible canvas flats on her feet. The only difference I can see is that there’s a white light shining all around her.
My eyes open wide. “Grandma Mary!”
I open the door wider, stepping backward. I’m still trying to process the fact that I’m seeing her in what appears to be the flesh. I gasp. “What are you doing here?”
She smiles, like always, wide and sincere. “I took the day off,” she says, chuckling, wiping her feet on the mat.
She steps carefully over the threshold. “You’ve got a cute little place here.”
I close the door behind her. “It’s a rental.”
It’s so hot out, she must be parched. “Come in and sit down. Are you thirsty?”
As she passes the kitchen she peers inside, and I wince. I know she sees the wine bottle.
“What are you drinking?” she says as she enters the living room and plops down on the couch.
I can’t lie to my favorite grandmother after she’s traveled all this way. South, I’m sure.
“I was going to have a glass of wine, but I think I’ll just have water. You want some?”
She’d never approved of drinking or smoking and I’d been a big fan of both, but it wasn’t her way to scold or nag. She’d just say what she thought was right and then I’d always feel bad about doing it, like I’d let her down.
She smooths out the folds of her skirt, “Let’s have some of that wine.”
She throws up her hands. “It’s my birthday, might as well celebrate.”
Hearing this shocks me almost as much as seeing her sitting on my sofa.
“That’s right! It is. Okay!”
I hurry into the kitchen, before she disappears I guess, and pour her a glass, grab both, then rush back to the living room where to my continued amazement she’s still sitting there.
I frown, handing her the wine. "Sorry, it’s not the best quality.”
She lifts her glass to mine. “It’s the company that counts.”
I nod, “To the most wonderful grandmother a girl could ever have. Happy Birthday, Grandma Mary.”
Then I have this feeling. One I hardly ever get anymore. Deep, deep emotion. It feels good and hurts at the same time. I swallow hard. It feels good to feel.
We clink our glasses and sip. It’s pretty bad. If I’d known my grandmother was coming down and wanted to party, I’d have splurged on the good stuff, whatever that is.
I watch her closely, on the lookout for any evaporation or anything.
After a while, I relax, sit next to her, hug her, tell her how much I love her and have missed her. She says I was her favorite grandchild--quite the compliment because she had so many.
I refill our glasses and we talk and laugh about the good old days. The time we went for a long walk then got lost on the way back home, the ice cream we’d bought on sale all melted and dripping through the paper bag. The morning I was in my car and saw her at the bus stop, offered her a ride to work and then ran out of gas. And those cheese puffs and apple turnovers we baked in the oven. Those were so good.
Pretty soon, I’m opening another bottle, pouring us another glass. Our third? Fourth?
“How long can you stay?” I ask.
She tilts her head and smiles. “I never left.”
Kimberly Diaz is a teacher and writer in the dystopian state of Florida. She's been a finalist in six writing contests and her work has
appeared in Entropy, Montana Mouthful, Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, Dorothy Parker's Ashes, and other lit mags and anthologies. She’s currently working on an essay collection and an autobiographical novel. She is on and off FB, rarely checks Instagram (@mskdiaz), and is afraid to make her still incomplete but scandalous website public. Still, if you are determined, she can be reached at kdwrites@yahoo.com.