Creative Non-fiction by Tracie Adams

I will lift you from embryonic waters, my heart a purring engine against your buttery skin. I will kiss your rosebud lips, feed you from my own body. You will wrap tiny fingers around my thumb, blink up at me with eyes ancient as starlight, and I will whisper fragile promises, sheathed in hope as delicate as your crocheted blanket.

You will grow long curls down your back. I will gather them into ponytails with ribbons and bows, buy you that kitty sweatshirt that slips from one rounded shoulder, wait in folding chairs at dance recitals, clap until my palms sting. I will pinch your soft belly and say it is perfect, nothing to worry about. While you dance and skip, I will cut calories, jog around a track, count the pulses of my racing heart—each beat a measure of what it is losing, the muscle thinning, starving for what it is denied. You will watch as I shrink my flesh and frame, carving myself smaller and smaller as you grow.

You will disappear little by little: untouched lunches, hollow cheeks, silence where laughter used to live. You will stop eating, stop smiling, stop telling me about your day. I will stand in the doorway of your room and my world will tilt, that trembling seam where wonder fades into dread, and I will understand with a clarity that will split me open. You will turn your back, crank the volume on your earbuds, canceling noise, canceling me.

I will wish I’d shown you a better way to live inside a body. You will wear long sleeves to hide scars, your lips will tremble, your eyes will dim. This time I will not look for past generations to blame. I will not look away in despair as the chambers of my heart strain against guilt and grief. I will listen when you speak and when you cannot. I will sit beside you in the dark. I will learn to feed us both back toward the light. I will hold you and I will not let go.

                                                             *   *   *

Tracie Adams, author of two essay collections, Our Lives in Pieces (2025 IAN book of the Year Finalist) and Not Finished Yet (2025 BookLife Prize Finalist). Her work, nominated for the Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net, and Best Microfiction, is featured in over 100 literary magazines. Read more at http://www.tracieadamswrites.com and follow her on Twitter @1funnyfarmAdams.

By Jayashree Sitaraman

She woke up to a perfect day. As soon as she woke up, she felt refreshed since she had slept straight for 7 hours without being interrupted by bouts of acidic burps or bursts of muscle spasms or plain boring insomnia or some other nuisances that are all too common once you hit the magic number of 40. She looked out the window to see the first rays of sun hitting the trees and the birds chirping merrily. She did a little dance and was about to break into a song when she realized that she had not brushed yet. After her morning routine, which surprisingly involved no wardrobe malfunction or what-I-should wear dilemma, she threaded her way to her little one’s bedroom. In spite of the wonderful morning she had had so far, she was filled with panic as she approached the door. She was worried how to cajole her sleepy son to part with his bed, which he would cling on to like the lifesaving log on a stormy sea, in the hope of snatching some more zzzz’s, before being dragged to the bathroom. Surprise—he was up already and sitting on the bed with a smile on his face. Well, it turned out that he had a dream where he was in a house made of cookies and he was eating a cookie from the cookie wall of a cookie house. If only he would dream the same dream every day before waking up! On her way back, she checked in the little one’s bathroom, also shared by her teenage son and you guessed it-surprise again-the towels were neatly hung and and a new tissue roll was back in its place and the bathroom looked like bathroom and not like a war zone. She couldn’t believe her luck and it was like today was a day of miracles.

On her way to the car, she was greeted by the usually grumpy neighbor who not only greeted her but also stopped to ask about her wonderful garden. Luckily, she had a few minutes to spare thanks to her son’s cookie dream. Once she and her little one were in the car and hit the road, she realized that the lights were green, and no one was cutting her in the traffic. She thought it was like the people were turning into collective sainthood. Since the probability of that happening was low, she thought maybe she was becoming a saint and these were the miracles that heralded her sainthood.

It was a crazy weird day—not the usual pulling hair out/screaming on top of her lungs kind but the reverse. She even got some compliments about her looks which made her make a mental note to check in the mirror later to see if there was a halo around her head or some kind of radiant light emitting out of her body. For, she couldn’t understand why things were going smoothly or why she heard back from her long lost friend, whom she had tried to contact through various means like email/phone/texting except sending message through pigeons. She zipped through her day at work and was eager to get home to see if her good luck continued. She couldn’t help wonder that even the pizza she had last night did not upset her stomach or the evening sunshine didn’t make her head throb with a migraine. This definitely was one of the best days ever in her life.

When she came home, it was eerily quiet and she couldn’t hear any arguments between her husband and teenage son or bickerings and name callings between the two boys. They were either at work or lost in any of the electronic gadgets that seem to be ubiquitous. She made dinner and was pleasantly surprised to see her older boy take out the trash can after being reminded only about three times instead of the 30 times she had to tell him usually. She felt like she had more time since she didn’t waste time looking for the little one’s favorite blue pencil in all the nooks and crannies or trying to convince him that homework done with any other pencil is still homework. Or trying to act as the peacekeeping force between the two boys who were arguing about which one of them was meaner. It was like they had made thorough research of each other’s character with all the statistics, including standard error of the times the other one had been mean.  After dinner, she checked some emails and was about to say goodnight to the kids when the alarm went off. She was confused why anyone would set the alarm at night when she realized that it was morning and she had been dreaming all this time. It was then it struck her that she was thinking about the disastrous day she had when she went to bed last night-the problems at work, with the kids, her health, traffic and all the other things that can go wrong in one’s life. It was as if her subconscious mind had choreographed a sequence of all the nice things she wished for, in her dream. She woke up with a sigh, happy nevertheless that she had a perfect day at least in her dream.

                                                                  *   *   *

Jayashree Sitaraman is a scientist and a passionate writer. She enjoys writing about nature, travel and life in general. Her work has appeared in the anthology Poet In Verse, (available on amazon) The Voices Project, The Voice of Eve, The Beacon newspaper (print and online) and her poem has won second prize in the DearReader contest 2025.

 By Alice Baburek

The heavy metal doors locked into place.  A loud clang echoed against the dingy prison walls.  Immediately, the lights grew dim.  This prison held no more than two hundred inmates at one time—every bed in use.  He plopped down upon the thin, worn-out mattress, ignoring the impulse to scream.  Sometimes confinement within the grey five-by-eight cell could drive a person insane.  Under the flattened pillow lay hope: a worn calendar full of slash marks, one for each day served.  Five more and then freedom.  His hands shook as he held the validation of his release. He closed his weary eyes.  A quick prayer emanated from his dry, cracked lips.  He knew he had done wrong.  Punishment was the consequence.  Forgiveness had to be earned.

Gary Foley shoved the tattered sheets back into the safe spot.  What would he do when his time came to be released?  How would he survive?  Returning to his hometown would be difficult.  He asked himself a thousand times, and always gave the same answer.  Before his untimely involvement in a bank robbery gone awry, he had a decent job as a hair stylist.  

In fact, good behavior and skilled hands earned him the privilege of working in the prison barbershop.  He had no right to complain.  His stay at Bottom Rock—a minimum security prison—could have been much worse. 

“Counting the days?” sounded a timid voice.   “Anxious about starting over in the place where your downfall began?  It won’t be easy, Gary…especially in a place like Reeds Point where your neighbors…well, they sometimes don’t forget.”

Gary glanced up from his bed.  The man barely stood five feet four in flat shoes.  A long white coat hung to his knees.  His arms crossed.   A bright smile gleamed in the dim light.  The prison house physician remained unmoved by Gary’s rough exterior—six-foot build, shadowed square jaw, thick neck, wide shoulders, and muscular arms filled with tattoos. Knowing full well of Gary’s façade.

“Dr. J, what brings you to my neighborhood?” The physician chuckled.

“Why, Gary, you know as well as I, any prisoner eligible for parole must have a full examination before leaving.  We don’t want any bad publicity, now do we?”  

“Dr. J, I only have positive things to say.  After years of contemplating my wrongdoings, I know it was sheer stupidity that put me behind bars.”  Dr. J nodded. 

“You’ve come to terms with yourself; it’s a good sign, Gary.”  Just then, a tall guard approached the cell.

“Stand up, Foley.  Step back and turn around.  You know the drill.”  Gary hauled himself up and did as he was told.  The handcuffs tightened on his scarred wrists.  Minutes later, Gary was sitting on a metal chair inside the prison infirmary.  Dr. J checked his vitals. 

“Seems you’re fine.” The doctor stepped back.   There was a long, awkward silence.  “Gary, the outside world, including Reeds Point, has changed quite a bit since your incarceration.  Word of advice:  You need to soften a bit.” 

“What do you mean, doc?” His forehead scrunched.

“I mean, the rough and tough get nowhere.  Look to your feminine side.” Dr. J gave a half smile. Gary’s face flushed.  He knew all too well about femininity.  The fact that he was gay had been deeply submerged for his entire life, especially while a prisoner of Bottom Rock.  

“Take, for instance, that tattoo you have on your arm.  Long, sharp thorns surround one of the most beautiful flowers in the world, the rose.  A lot like you, Gary.” 

Gary’s jaw clenched.  “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Dr. J. Maybe you should stick to medicine.  Are we done?”  He abruptly stood up. Seconds later, the guard rushed in.

“We’re finished. Please take Mr. Foley back to his cell.”  Gary turned around and placed his hands behind his back.  The cuffs fit snugly.

“Good luck, Gary, and remember my advice.” 

Gary did not bother to turn around.  His movements were slow and mechanical.   Once alone inside his world of solitude, his eyes welled up.  How could Dr. J have known about his true sexuality?  Or did he?  Gary quickly dismissed the doctor’s wild suspicions.  He hid his secret before and would do it again.        

*

The next five days were routine inside the prison. The day of release, Gary gathered his few personal items and placed them in the small plastic bag.  His jeans and white t-shirt felt tight.  His body mass swelled during his prison term.  Two guards escorted him outside the prison gates.  An old college friend waited in a new silver Chevy Impala.  Gary looked one last time at the Bottom Rock Prison.

“Come on, buddy!” called the man from inside the car.  “Family and friends are waiting at our old hangout in town.”  Gary took a deep breath.  His heart raced with a strange new fear: fear of the unknown.  Fear of going home.  He slowly slipped into the cushioned leather seat.  Relaxing music seeped from hidden speakers.               

“Will, I appreciate…”  The man cut him off.

“You’d do the same for me.” Within minutes, they were driving down a two-lane highway heading for Reeds Point. 

Gary rolled down the window. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath—freedom.

“You can stay at my place until you get your feet back on the ground. Have you thought about what you might like to do…you know…work-related?”  Will tapped the steering wheel.  He looked young, with his short brown hair, blue polo shirt, and khaki shorts, unlike Gary, whose face bore deep ridges that deepened with each passing year behind bars.

Gary hesitated.  “I’d like to get back into doing hair…in a professional salon.” Gary shifted in the seat.  “There was a salon in the center of town.”  

“It’s still there and always busy. If I remember correctly, you were pretty good with a pair of scissors.”  Suddenly, Will’s lips twisted.  “Look, we’ve been friends a long time.  So, I’ll just come right out and say it.  You’re going to have to tone it down a notch…lose the thug look.  Lindsay Atkins owns the place, and she doesn’t put up with…with…” Will’s voice trailed into silence.

Gary exhaled.  He could do this.  He had to have faith in himself. Suddenly, the doctor’s words echoed inside his mind.  Dr. J was right. Without a doubt, he was just like a rose.  

*   *   *

Alice Baburek is an avid reader, determined writer and animal lover. She lives with her wife and four canine companions. Retired, she challenges herself to become an unforgettable emerging voice.

A Memoir by Heather Emmanuel

You know there won’t be anyone to walk you down the aisle, so you never let yourself picture it. The guest count will be uneven; your family is considerably less tolerant of all this. The wrong person—a well-meaning plus one who has never been to a non-denominational wedding—will ask, where are your parents? Every detail is paid from your own pocket. A meal costs more than you make in an hour unless it’s time and a half. Figures flash above potential guests’ heads. Expenses make you resentful. Registries are now inconsiderate. You can’t get married first because her sister has been waiting nearly a decade for her proposal. And you can’t perpetuate that stereotype. Why not have a long engagement? You need to be married. Parental rights don’t exist for you until you say I do. Is it still a stereotype? You’ll wear a dress, and she’ll wear a suit. Of course. Isn’t that—? Venues call themselves inclusive. You are called nontraditional. Would they have made an exception a decade ago? You cannot ask this. You flick through the brochure, past posed photographs of couples who look nothing like you. The spreadsheet has too many names, too many guesses. When the word first leaves your lips—elope—you watch relief bloom across faces before they can hide it. Oh, good. And you know you’ve solved something for them. The word modern scratches your teeth. Maybe it’s for the best. Sensible equals tolerable. Another question will come, eventually: why didn’t you have a real wedding? Do you give them the real reason? What makes a wedding real if not for two scrawled signatures and recognition for what you already know to be true? Why didn’t we have a real wedding? We did. Oh, we did. You just weren’t invited.

                                                                 *   *   *

Heather Emmanuel is a Black British writer of contemporary lesbian literary fiction and prose poetry. Her work is forthcoming in The Adroit Journal, The Offing, SWWIM, Maudlin House and Gone Lawn. You can find her at heather-emmanuel.com or at @heather.emmanuel8

By Foster Trecost

He fished a tissue from a hidden pocket and dabbed his forehead, then called the cops. When they arrived, he displayed his blood like a court-ordered indictment. He demanded her arrest, and she in turn demanded his. The police looked at each other, then at the therapist, who looked like he needed a therapist. No one got arrested, but feeling compelled to take official action, they wrote her a warning: Don’t throw binoculars at people.

And they weren’t pocket-sized binoculars, bearing little resemblance to those used for birdwatching in the backyard. These were military-grade, better suited for a battlefield. They struck him just above the eye. Gashed him good. A scar-leaving laceration.

 Before the therapist, there was a hypnotist who spoke like a palm reader and charged like a surgeon. She didn’t throw anything, but when they went to an intimacy clinic, she threw slights and slurs one after the other. If he was going to call the cops, that’s when he should’ve done it. Instead, they booked time with a therapist who, in pursuit of clinical remedy, put binoculars in her hands. A weapon, as it turned out.

She said it wasn’t working, that she couldn’t see anything. The shrink, always quick with a comment, said it’s because she was looking at the wall. From across the room, she read that he had been awarded degrees from three universities, and was certified in just about everything. Framed papers told the story. But that’s not where she was supposed to be looking. She was supposed to look at her husband, the binoculars pulling her close, but still a safe distance away. So she looked at him. Or what was left of him. All she saw was someone who needed to pluck his eyebrows. 

Then she saw something else.

A woman crouched in a corner, tears smeared across her cheeks. A hand offered itself. She hesitated, then took it and was pulled to her feet. For a moment, she stood. Steady, almost safe. Seconds later, the same hand struck again, and she fell back to the floor.

That’s what she saw.

When the binoculars left her fingers, she knew they were on a good path. They tracked toward him with baffling precision. He watched from behind a disbelieving smirk, like there was no way she’d flung a pair of military-grade binoculars at his head. She could barely believe it herself.

Once the police decided she posed only an acceptable danger to society, they let her leave. She meandered through the city, mostly adrift but with a hint of intent she couldn’t place, though she knew it was there. A café called to her, but not loudly enough. A tavern beckoned with a different voice, but she kept walking.

 Then she came upon it and knew without knowing it had been her destination all along. She walked in with restored assurance and made her way to the counter. She smoothed a sheet of paper onto the worktop and asked, “Can you frame this?”

He looked at the paper, then at her. “It’s what we do. Just choose a frame.”

“You choose it. The frame doesn’t matter.”

He complied with a slim black border unlikely to detract from what it outlined. She waited while he worked and smiled when he was done, then smiled again because she had smiled.

Framed papers tell the story. Her warning hangs on the living room wall. She passes it every day, but doesn’t always look at it. She doesn’t need to. She knows it’s there.

*   *   *

Foster Trecost writes stories that are mostly made up. They tend to follow his attention span: sometimes short, sometimes very short. Recent work appears in Literally Stories, Fabula Argentea, and Halfway Down the Stairs. He lives near New Orleans with his wife and dog.

By Jay D. Falcetti

After a particularly torrential night, a little boy woke up and witnessed how the storm had changed his yard by covering it with mud, clay, stones, and branches. It didn’t take too long before he decided to make himself a little brother. 

Using the hard clay, silt, and mud, he formed a small body. Using branches for the arms, and two shiny stones for the eyes, the boy stood back and admired his work. 

As the boy took a few steps back, a stranger’s shadow enveloped him and his mud-made brother. 

“What do you have there?” the stranger asked. His face was shrouded within the folds of a large hood.

“My brother,” responded the boy, very matter-of-fact. 

“When the sun is at the highest point in the sky, grab onto your brother and give him three kisses on the head.” The stranger’s voice was a harsh wheeze. The boy imagined them as an elderly silver fir, the wind speaking through the branches.

Turning towards his mud creation, the boy opened his mouth to ask a question, but the stranger was gone. 

Tilting his head toward the sky, the boy saw the sun was nearly at the highest point. A rushing electric spark within the boy told him to do as he was asked. When the sun caused the trees around him to barely cast a shadow the boys closed his eyes, leaned forward and kissed the clay pressed lump he imagined was the head three times. 

The earthy smell stayed with him as he opened his eyes, finding his wide-eyed little brother staring right up at him. Delighted he squealed, jumping up and down, holding the brother he made so tightly.

Both boys played and played, until their sides were sore, and when the sun touched the mountains in the distance, it was time to go home.

Nervously, the boy led his little brother quietly into the house. Pausing, he didn’t hear his mom bustling about as she normally would be.

“Mama!” he shouted, “Mom?”

“Dinner’s ready!” His mother called, gasping when she saw the additional little boy. 

“I made him, mama.” The boy teetered proudly up and down on his feet. 

“Where is your family?” the mom asked little brother. But he couldn’t respond, the boy who made him was the only family he knew. 

“We’re his family.” The boy responded, leading him to the kitchen table. The mother hesitated, unsure of what to say. It was hard to miss the toothy smile across her son’s face. 

Dinner that evening was one of the best the boy and his mother had experienced in a long time. With hearts warm and bellies full, the boys shared a bed for the night.

The following morning, when the boy opened his eyes, his brother was no more than the dirt, clay, and rocks he’d used to build him with. Dissolving into tears, his mother rushed in. 

“He’s gone!” The little boy couldn’t control his sobs. “Bring him back.” The boy begged his mother. 

While the mother held her son, she whispered, “We can build, create, and love. And sometimes, when the sun comes up, we’re reminded that buildings and our creations fall. Your love will last. You will see him again someday.” The mother held her boy with her body and heart.

On the night of a thunderous storm, the boy now an old man, lay down for bed. When he closed his eyes, he did see his little brother once more.

*   *   *

Jay D. Falcetti (she/her) is a biracial Indigenous writer based in Washington, where she lives with her family. Her short stories have appeared in various print and online magazines. She writes fantasy, horror, science fiction, and literary fiction. Connect with her and discover her published work on Instagram @jdfalcetti. Jay D. Falcetti is a pen name.

By Wendy K. Mages 

Trudging familiar streets, cement sidewalks hard underfoot, cars whizz past. Glancing down, lilies of the valley surprise, beckon. Were these little jewels here when last you walked this way? As little ivory bells bloom among emerald leaves, hope blossoms. On an ordinary day, on an ordinary road, secret treasures abound.

                                                             *   *   *

Wendy K. Mages, a Mercy University Professor, is a Pushcart Prize nominee and an award-winning poet and author. She earned her doctorate in Human Development and Psychology at the Harvard Graduate School of Education and her master’s in Theatre at Northwestern University. As complement to her research, she performs at storytelling events and festivals in the US and abroad. To learn more about her and her work, and to find links to her published stories and poetry, please visit her Mercy University Faculty page https://www.mercy.edu/directory/wendy-mages and her website, Wendy Mages: Storyteller https://sites.google.com/view/wendy-mages-storyteller

By Laura Casey

I watch silently as the robin hits the window. It crashes against the glass with a sharp, dull thud. Someone else might call it a sign, an omen. I’ve had enough of those.

Instead, I sigh and walk into the kitchen. I flip the switch on the coffee pot and listen as it comes to life. The machine gurgles and sputters as dark brown liquid drips steadily into the carafe.

I reach up to grab a mug from the cabinet above my head, and that’s when I see it.

The blue-grey mug with a slight chip in the handle. A large letter ‘M’ painted on both sides.

The room tilts. My feet move backward without permission. For a moment, I watch from above, like some uninvited fly buzzing on the ceiling, as I collide with the countertop behind me.

“Shit.” I rub the back of my arm where it hit. That’s going to bruise.

Mara must have left it behind. I’d thought for sure she’d taken everything. She’d been so methodical—each box taped, labeled, and stacked with deliberate care. The spare bed. The desk. The chair. They were all hers. The cardboard boxes had haunted the hallways for days. 

The mug had been part of a matching set we bought on our first date. Mine had an S for Sam. 

I had taken her to a tiny Italian place. After one too many glasses of wine, we wandered through HomeGoods. She’d plucked the mugs off a clearance shelf and held them up between us. 

“They’re so tacky,” she’d said. “We have to get them.”

 I knew at that moment that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her. 

The first year we were married, we ordered Chinese takeout and watched trashy reality TV that neither of us actually liked every Friday. She’d narrate over the dramatic music in a ridiculous announcer voice until I laughed so hard I couldn’t breathe. Sometimes she’d rest her head on my shoulder and close her eyes.

“Love you,” she always murmured before finally drifting off. 

The summer after we moved into this house, we spent nearly every night sitting on the front steps watching the neighborhood kids pedal around the cul-de-sac in uneven figure eights until the streetlights flickered on. We’d talk about nothing important: what color we wanted to paint the spare room, the annoying coworker she had to share a cubicle with, whether we were too young to feel this settled. 

On the drives to Dad’s in Columbus, she’d sing along to the radio. Always off-key and too loud, drumming her fingers against the dashboard like she was playing to a stadium of adoring fans.

I don’t remember when she stopped singing, or when we stopped watching the kids, or when she stopped saying “I love you” before falling asleep. 

One evening, she sat me down and quietly slid divorce papers across the kitchen table.

“Our lives are going in different directions,” she said. She sat up straight and tucked a piece of brown hair behind her ear. “This is the best decision for both of us.”

The words hung in the air, polite and final. The refrigerator hummed. My phone rang faintly somewhere in the other room. I froze, unsure how to react. I reached for the pen and signed my name anyway.

It’s strange, the things that stay with you. Not the last words or the final kiss, but the way she packed her hairbrush. How she paused at the vanity, lifted it from the place it had sat every day since we’d moved in, and turned it once in her hand before lowering it into a brown box on top of a pile of folded clothes.

The mug seems to glare at me from the cabinet. I take it in both hands. The ceramic is cool and familiar against my palms. I hurl it to the floor. It breaks with a flat, heavy crack. The pieces scatter across the tile. A faint cloud of dust rises from its shattered edges.

Outside, through the window, the bird is gone too. A muddy streak on the glass the only proof it was ever there at all.

                                                                   *   *   *

Laura Casey is an emerging writer from Chicago, Illinois. She recently graduated from DePaul University where she earned a Bachelor’s degree in English. When she is not writing, she can usually be found reading a good book and sipping an iced coffee. 

By Alan Kolok

Christie had a rule to never kayak solo, but today’s trip was different. She loaded the kayak herself, tying it down the way Scott taught had taught her. Readjusting the driver’s seat of Scott’s truck, she repositioned the mirrors and prepared for the long trip, which would take the balance of her day.

The truck drove rough, but as the miles peeled by, she got used to it. She stopped for gas and rummaged the glove compartment looking for Life Savers. There was a healthy stock on hand: peppermint, cherry, butterscotch. Her favorite flavors. 

Christie drove past the campground, reminiscing. The first few years they tent-camped, later they had a fifth wheel. The fifth wheel certainly made their lovemaking more comfortable. How many nights did they camp there, thirty, maybe more? 

At the boat launch, she backed the truck to water’s edge and eased the kayak onto the lake. She put his fishing pole in its holder, then opened the hatch to the ample bulkhead and stowed her cargo. 

Scott used to laugh at the way that she would enter a floating kayak. This morning, she performed the task flawlessly. 

Christie trimmed the kayak and set out for the far side of the lake, a 20-minute paddle. The first few strokes were stiff, reminding her just how long her absence from paddling had been. She tried to stretch her back, all the while avoiding a capsize. Muscle memory eventually took over and she fell into a rhythm. 

Her destination was a large bay filled with lily pads on the far side of the lake. Christie stopped paddling just outside of the bay, her t-shirt damp from sweat. If Scott had been there, he would have flashed his trademark smile and tapped his paddle blade on her kayak’s bow. Scott had been her rock, a source of encouragement that respected boundaries. Such a rare combination in a man. 

Just outside the bay, she balanced his paddle on her thighs, undid the latch and pulled out the half full Ziploc bag. Turning it upside down, she watched as Scott’s ashes blended into the water and disappeared. A few moments later the only remnant of the ceremony was a small oil slick on the water’s surface. 

She spoke a few soft words into the gentle wind.

Christie paddled deeper into the bay to complete the ceremony. As promised, she pulled his fishing pole from the holder, and on her fifth cast, watched as the lure disappeared underwater.  She set the hook.

Once played out, the fish surrendered itself to her.  It was a nice fish, a 2-pound largemouth bass. Grabbing the fish the way Scott had taught her, she pulled it onto her lap. Christie looked down at the exhausted animal, its scales reflecting a kaleidoscope of sunlight. 

Her last year had been gut-wrenching. A life lesson that no matter what you lose, you can always lose more. There had been far too many trips to the oncologist, too many difficult doctor consultations, too many conversations ending with, “we’re sorry, but there is nothing else that we can do.” 

She sat for a moment, fish on her lap, lost in a world of yesterdays. She wanted to take her flotation device off and roll the kayak. She wanted to join Scott, wherever he was, to feel what he felt, to see what he was seeing. 

Even if it was nothing at all. 

The fish bounced on her lap, pulling her back to the moment. She extracted the hook and lowered the animal back into the water.  It rolled onto its back. 

“No. No!”

She reached over the side of the kayak and grabbed the fish by the lower lip. 

“Not you,” she screamed at the motionless fish, “not now!”

She plowed the fish through the water in a figure eight motion, forcing water over its gills. 

“C’mon damn you, breathe.” 

She was leaning dangerously far over the side of the kayak, water splashing against her thighs. Christie watched as the animal slowly came back to life. Its gill operculum pulsed rhythmically, gradually at first, but gaining strength with every passing moment. 

The fish regained equilibrium and righted itself. A few moments later, she watched it descend into the murk of the algae-dense water. She sat in the kayak, staring at the spot the fish had occupied just moments before. 

Dipping a blade in the water, Christie redirected the kayak, shifted in her seat, and began to paddle for home.

*   *   *

Alan S. Kolok is a professional scientist and writer. He is the author of two books, Modern Poisons a nonfiction introduction to modern toxicology, and Twist, a science fiction novel. His short stories and flash fiction have appeared in 10 x 10 Flash, the After Brunch Journal, and The First Line among others. Alan lives with his wife and dog in the great north woods of Idaho.

By Bartholomew Lamb

Prompted by the pestering ding-dong sound of the doorbell, Moira reluctantly left her opulent silk-upholstered red sofa, where for the past hour she had been indulging her intellect in the late-night cable news over a bottle of Chianti. Moira shuffled her bare feet across the red Persian carpet to the foyer and further down across the white marble floor to the massive oak front door. She silently put her eye to the peephole and blinked in disbelief—her eye read “Surrender!” written in thick black letters on a silverish background.

To calm down her heart that was about to enter a gallop, she soundlessly stepped back from the door and took a quick sip of wine, half-full glass still in her hand. No, she was not scared. Her seven decades in this world had taught her that sometimes reality could be stranger than imagination, and other times, it’s the other way around, so there was no harm in being cautious. She intently listened for a few tense seconds, but no auditory clues came from behind the front door; just the usual rustle of maple leaves dancing to the whistle of the October wind.

The doorbell sounded again, urging her to give the peephole another try. This time, her eye read: “We come to take,” written over two lines in thick red letters that stood out from a glittering green background. The sign shifted up to reveal the third line. “We come to take you away,” Moira’s lips silently moved as she completed the message.

Her heart skipped a beat and then accelerated as if making up for the loss. She now heard a slashing sound coming from the bottom of the door.

“Who is it?” Moira asked, making her voice sound powerful, if not aggressive, to conceal her growing anguish. “What do you want?”

“Trick or treat!” a child’s voice behind the door answered.

“Yeah, trick-or-treat, trick-or-treat!” another child’s voice enthusiastically confirmed.

Oh my, Moira scolded herself, how could I forget about Halloween! Her heartbeat returned to its normal pace in an instant, and she opened the door with confidence, not giving it a second thought.

In front of her, she now had two humanoid individuals from outer space and a honey bee in Robin Hood’s hat. Going by their sizes, she judged them to be no older than nine or eleven years old. The honey bee was a blond boy wearing a seemingly oversized, round wire eyeglasses, firmly sitting on his freckled nose. The two aliens had a stylishly greenish complexion—as all the known aliens have—and their noses were elongated into the shape of an extended elephant’s trunk that ended in chest pockets of their spacesuits, so that the intake ends of their noses were hidden from view.

These were not their noses that intrigued Moira, an eccentric artist by nature and a puppeteer by profession, but their two pairs of eyes that were elevated above their heads in sleeve-like chimneys similar to the eyes of a garden snail. The eyes were in a continual up-and-down motion, alternately unfolding and folding, so that when one of the pairs was active at any time, the other was momentarily hidden. Fast-dispersing small puffs of vapor were periodically released from a vent on the aliens’ backs, sending to the wind an aroma of vinegar mixed with orange, which completed the picture.

Their four-fingered alien hands held a bunch of strings, each tethering a colorful helium-filled balloon at its end. Other than the familiar sentiments of Surrender! and We come to take you away, already known to Moira, their other phrases included Boo!, Halloween, Be Afraid!, Love Maggots!, and similar ones. Moira laughed, disarmed by this unexpected picture.

“Boo,” she said, waving at them the empty wine glass in her hand. “I love your costumes, visitors. Where did you get them, may I ask?”

“Treat or trick,” said the honey-bee boy. He did not return her smile and ignored her question. The boy suggestively kept shaking a sack hanging across his chest while boldly looking into Moira’s eyes.

The rustle of plastic-wrapped candies tumbling in his bag made Moira realize that she had nothing sweet in her cupboard—absolutely nothing!—not even a stale sugar-powdered biscuit or a stone-hard and decades-old English toffee to give them. An apple might do, a thought crossed her mind.

“Let me see what I can find. Don’t go away,” Moira murmured to herself while turning around and shutting the door between her and the visitors.

Moira looked around the kitchen and the dining room. The only extra she found was a case of bottled Riesling, two bottles of Chianti, an open flask of Smirnoff, one Granny Smith apple, and two over-ripened bananas. On her way back, she stopped by the living room to refill her glass with the first drops of Chianti from a freshly opened bottle. Moira would have surely fallen asleep on the sofa had not an impatient doorbell nudge reminded her about the visitors still waiting ante portas.

She donned her gray cardigan and Alpaca slippers—the night became chilly, as they usually are past midnight in late October—and carried her offerings of one green apple and two brown-skin bananas to the front door. But now, when she opened the door, she saw four aliens instead of two as before, and more aliens were still coming from the space saucer parked by the curb in front of her house.

The honey-bee boy didn’t like her offerings. He didn’t say thank-you; he didn’t say anything. Instead, he angrily stuck out his tongue, long and meaty, in contempt of her. The aliens had expressionless faces—as all the known aliens usually have—and said nothing. They only hissed at Moira like a pack of extremely pissed-off cats, and the smell of their puffs, increasingly more acidic than citrusy, communicated to Moira their evil intentions. She sensed the danger and desperately tried to step back into the house, away from the green offensive. This is when things became ugly.

The following noon, Moira’s cleaning lady, Miss Sofia, found her lying at the threshold in the foyer amidst the shattered wine glass pieces scattered all over the floor. Later, while recuperating from the midnight experience in her bedroom upstairs, Moira clearly recalled being taken by the green people into their spaceship. What happened next, she couldn’t say with the same clarity. She remembered only in the disconnected flashes of memory that the aliens performed some really nasty vivisection on her, all without proper anesthetics. She recalled having her head opened and eyes removed.

“And they didn’t put it back together the right way it was before,” Moira lamented in her interview with a reporter who claimed to be from Weekly World News. “I have these nasty headaches now like you won’t believe. What other evidence do you need?!”

Her story appeared in print on the front page under the headline “Angry Aliens Don’t Eat Rotten Bananas.”

*   *   *

Bartholomew Lamb is the pen name of a Polish-American/Canadian mathematician and emerging writer who lives in Texas. More about the author can be found at BartholomewLamb.com.