By Luke Iandoli

The shoe and the log had met by chance: a random current had tangled the shoe in the log’s naked branches. The log had not been pleased: although smaller, this shoe was one of those objects which had stomped so callously over the roots and undergrowth of the log and its forest friends. This stomping always foreshadowed the arrival of the chainsaws, and although this particular shoe had done nothing wrong, the log could not help but associate it with the shiny metal-things that had filled the forest with raucous destruction. 

The shoe’s forlorn blubbering, however, had softened the log, and the feeling of the shoe caught in its branches, was not unlike a bird’s nest. 

“I heard that all discarded things will be reunited,” said the shoe, “do you think that means I’ll see my partner again?”

“I’m not sure. All I know is that we have to follow this path.” 

“Where’s this path leading?”

“Where we’re supposed to be heading.”

The shoe relaxed. A shoe without its partner is forever lost, but if they were heading where they were supposed to be heading, it stood to reason that its partner would be heading there too. 

Further down the river, they met an aluminum wrapper. At one point, there had been a jolly penguin on its body. The penguin had been worn away, leaving an uncanny spectre.

 “Hey hey hey—are you all heading down the river?” said the wrapper. The log hesitated. He did not trust tinfoil. When the chainsaws had rested, they had feasted on the contents of these very wrappers; as the chainsaws revved up, a boutique of crinkled tinfoil would clutter the trampled undergrowth.

“Yes! Would you like to join?” said the shoe.

“Please! I’m worried I’ll lose my way.” The wrapper caught a branch. “When did you get washed out?” 

“A couple days ago, I think. There used to be a foot in me, but the foot one day left me and my partner outside! I don’t think it knew about the rain, because before I knew it, a river had formed about me and carried me away.”

“We’re always being left about,” said the wrapper, “One day you’re in a nice air conditioned shop and the next you’re melting on the side of the road. And then you’re just litter. Litter! As if it was our fault we were created. They create you, tear you apart, and then throw you out without a second thought. If I hadn’t been picked up by this last storm, I wouldn’t have any graphics left! It’s not all bad.” The shoe and the wrapper laughed. Even the log chuckled. 

“You may not believe me, but the same happens to trees,” he said, “they’ll cut you down, ship you away from your tree friends, and then, as soon as you get a little water in you, they’ll reject you and throw you off. Waterlogged, they’ll say.”

“My foot took good care of me and my partner,” said the shoe.

“If it took such good care of you,” said the wrapper, “why are you here?” The shoe had not thought of this paradox. Why was it here? It had suffered the daily penetration of smelly-feet and even once a fungus that itched an awful lot. His service had been commendable, and still it was discarded, albeit accidentally. But, did the foot really not have the foresight to think it wouldn’t rain?

“I don’t know,” said the shoe, “but I’m here, and there’s no changing that.” 

“I’m sure we’ll find answers to these questions when we get there. They wouldn’t leave us in the dark, would they?”

“Only that it’s filled with objects like us.” The shoe and wrapper speculated on the paradise that awaited them: they would be restored to their original shape; they would be reunited with their old friends, those they had been born alongside; there would be air conditioning and light. 

“Is there a place for things like me?” said the log.

“I think you have a different paradise, right? I’ve only heard rumors about things like us.”

“What’s the difference?” 

“Everything! You’re born, we’re created.”

“But we’re both discarded…” 

“Yes, but you die and we dissolve.” 

“What’s death?”

“When you don’t exist anymore.”

“Then what’s dissolution?”
“When you don’t exist anymore.”

“Then what’s the difference?”

“Theology,” said the wrapper. 

They had to abandon their talk of theology, as the river suddenly opened up, and grew wider, spilling out into what seemed like infinite water. This water was different from the focused channel they had been traveling; it leaped and pushed in conflicting directions. The log could no longer steer, and the motley bunch struggled to hold together. A moving crest of water pulled the wrapper off the branch. The shoe and the log watched as it was pulled further and further away. 

“Do you think we can still make it there?” the shoe asked. The log was stirred by a nagging sense of familiarity. Like all living things, when encountered by its origin point, the log was overwhelmed by a sense of belonging. It knew this was where it had started. It knew this had been the destination all along. The pummel of the swell rubbed out the knots and holes, smoothing over the aberrations that made him the log; now he was a log, and a log on his final voyage. He knew what death was, and it did not strike him as a tragedy, just a changing of forms. 

“I think this is where we’ve all been heading,” he said. 

 The shoe sighed, confident that it would soon be dry and with its friend. The shoe took on more water. Submersion was not sudden, but gradual, with the shoe slowly taking on more water. When the shoe finally sank, it was not nervous. It could now wait for paradise where all lost things belonged. 

*   *   *

Luke Iandoli is a writer and scholar from California. He has no life and just surfs, reads and writes. He just got a job at the aquarium, so he’s pretty stoked about that. If you subscribe to his substack (Goblinsayz) he will read your tarot.

By Alizé Bland

Tracee had witnessed a murder. Her own. 

She saw it through someone else’s eyes. 

Blood streaked the wall beside the staircase with its chipped white paint. Tracee lay motionless beside the sagging couch. She felt their chest rise and fall. Their bloody fists throbbed. Blue fabric brushed the edge of her vision. 

For two weeks, she’d begged God to tell her she was wrong. To prove she wasn’t losing her mind. Every morning she woke hoping the details would fade.
They never did.
Blood on the wall. 

The sagging couch.
A toy fire truck.
Blue fabric.
“No one cares to listen to you. No one is going to believe you.” Her husband’s words echoed louder each day. 

The month was almost over.
Tracee had to leave.
But first, she had to get Nathan out. 

Tracee’s phone buzzed against the nightstand. Mom.
She let it ring.
Missed Call. 

Missed Call.
Missed Call.
She didn’t reach for it.
Later, when she finally answered, her mother’s voice was already tight with frustration.
“It was a dream, Tracee. If you keep talking like this, then I’m going to have to 3-0-2 you.” “Mom, you would really do that?”
“He said that you—”
“I don’t give a damn what he said. You know me. Why would I lie?”
“Why don’t you just do what he says? If you do that, then he won’t—”
“Won’t what?”
Her mother fell silent.
“Hurt me?” 

She wanted to grab Nathan and run. But what if her mother was right? Nathan deserved a father. 

She knew what it felt like to grow up without one. Everybody wanted to know what she was going to do. Her aunt.
Her cousins. 

Her mother.
If she told one of them, he would know by dinner.
Her family couldn’t hold water.
Sometimes she thought they liked her trapped. It kept attention off their own messes. 

Nathan and her husband came home grinning. 

“We missed you today.”
Her husband carried shopping bags into the house. 

Matching blue sweatsuits. Matching blue sneakers. Nathan held up a toy firetruck. “Look what Dad got me!” Tracee’s stomach dropped. Blue fabric. 

A toy firetruck.
The tan line on his finger. 

Twisted Daydream 

The parking violation.
The perfume on his work shirt. The life insurance policy mail. 

While he showered, Tracee slid birth certificates beneath folded sweaters in a suitcase. Blue fabric.
A toy firetruck.
The life insurance policy. 

The dream hadn’t been warning her about a stranger. “Don’t go.”
Tracee froze.
The shower still ran. 

Tomorrow.
She and Nathan would be gone.
She packed Nathan’s lunches and checked the suitcase one last time. 

“Meowww.”
For weeks, Tracee had been telling the cats she was leaving.
She filled the automatic feeder, cleaned the litter boxes, and changed the fountain filter. 

Twisted Daydream 

The cats watched from the couch, tails wrapped around their paws, as she carried suitcases down the stairs. 

She slipped off her wedding ring and set it beside the life insurance policy mail. “I’ll come back for you when I can.” 

The cats leapt from the couch and meowed after her. As if they knew.
Tracee didn’t look back.
She withdrew cash. 

Then she disappeared into shelters, buses, borrowed rooms, and weeks that became months. 

A year later, Tracee parked across from Nathan’s school. Then she saw him. 

Nathan laughed beneath a rainbow parachute, the fabric rising and falling above him like a sky she could not reach. 

Blue fabric.
For a moment, she watched him smile. For a moment, she almost called his name. Then she turned away.
She hoped he hadn’t forgotten her. 

          *   *   *

Alizé Bland is from Philadelphia, PA. When she is not writing, she can be found drawing in nature, practicing yoga, or taking pictures of her cats, Swiss Cheese and Salem.

By Lindsey Danis

Fork two Russet potatoes all over. Put them on a plate, stick it in the microwave. Choose the ‘potato’ setting. 

#

Because I was a picky child who refused to eat egg yolks, my father carefully separated my eggs. The yolks went in the trash. The whites went on a plate, into the microwave.

The microwaved eggs came out lacy at the edges and slimy in the center. I ate the edges and pushed the slippery raw middle around my plate. I hated those eggs like I hated the watery blue skim milk that accompanied every meal at my father’s house. 

Why couldn’t they fry my eggs in a skillet the way I liked them, the way my mother did? 

#

Meanwhile, slice both ends off a white onion. Peel the onion skin; this will make you cry. Wipe the onion tears with the crook of your elbow. Cut the onion in half, then in half moons, then slice the half moons into thin strips.

#

My father ran the Boston Marathon for several years. One year, before the divorce, my mother and I cheered from the sidelines. 

I wanted to give my father water. I stood there, cup in hand, heart blazing with pride. My father—my father!—was capable of greatness.  

One day, I would be like him. I would run the Boston Marathon. 

I was an overweight kid who self-soothed with food: Klondike bars, Dove bars, Kraft mac, Cadbury eggs.

After church, required at his house, we went to Stars on the Harbor for brunch. I ordered an egg white omelet with peppers and onions, no cheese. Those were a low-cholesterol, low-fat diet culture staple, like the Snackwell’s cookies my stepmother kept in the pantry, or the Quaker rice cakes I slathered with natural peanut butter. 

I hated my brunch order for calling attention to my body, almost as much as I hated the layer of abdominal fat that exercise never shed. 

#

My father moved out when I was six. I have only a few memories of us together at my house. One day—it must’ve been a weekend, he was in jeans and a soft tee—he sat on the back porch with a can of Cheez Balls. He beckoned me to sit with him. We sat side by side, sharing the Cheez Balls, not saying much. 

In that fragment of porch sitting, we are connected. 

In other memories, I am a burden, an inconvenience asking for eggs the way I like them. 

Often, he asks me to give things up—my favorite chair, the dresser where I store my clothes—so he might take them away with him, so he can keep the furniture set intact for his new family.

“You can’t have this, I’m using it,” I say. 

He must not want it bad enough; he doesn’t offer to buy me another dresser.

Another day, he asks me to find his Boy Scout knife, so he can give it to my brother. 

I scour the house and find a knife sheathed in leather, “Bill” etched on the blade. I keep this for decades, along with a pair of his old painting jeans I turn into cutoffs. 

When I offer the knife, grown and no longer needing a talisman, he says it isn’t his.

#

Sauté the onions in butter over medium-low heat. They should soften but not brown. 

When the microwave beeps, touch the potatoes. They are done when the flesh gives beneath the rough brown skin, when your fingers scald, when steam billows from the fork holes. Stick the potatoes back in if they are not finished; microwave 1-2 minutes at a time until they pass the test. 

#

Every week, he sent child support in a small envelope printed with my mother’s name in neat, all-caps handwriting. 

Sometimes he would buy me things: video games, a Snickers bar to split after a grocery run. Sometimes he would say, “Ask your mother.” 

In the car, shuttling me to my home, he would grill me on what she spent his child support checks on. 

I sat, mute, cheeks burning with shame. 

There was a right answer, and I didn’t know it. 

#

Transfer the potatoes to a cutting board. Let them stand until you can bear to touch them. 

Cube the potatoes by cutting them in half, then in half again, then in squares, leaving the skin on for nutrients. 

#

When my father accuses me of only remembering the bad, I think of the Cheez Balls. 

#

Add the potatoes to the skillet of onions. Cook on medium-low. 

If the potatoes stick, add a tablespoon of butter. Stir less often than you think they need; this is the secret. 

Season. 

Serve warm. 

#

Ace nicknamed them Lu’s Dad’s Potatoes after I made them for Christmas brunch. I seasoned them with paprika and oregano; my father used salt and pepper, sparingly. 

I spent decades learning his preferences so that I might be less of a disappointment.

Good grades were praised, bad ones were punished. Empty plates were ideal, whether I liked what was served or not. 

I hated the taste of cream cheese but loathed margarine more. Because they did not keep butter in the house, I scraped the thinnest layer of cream cheese on my toasted bagel and choked it down. 

I thought this was nothing until I found myself working in kitchens. 

There, food was veneration and love language. Our purpose was to honor ingredients grown with care and picked at full flush of ripeness, to nourish strangers, to make something so delicious that it momentarily stunned the eater into silence. 

Despite the punishing schedule and not enough money, cooking nourished my soul. It made me, the giver, feel cared for and held in ways I have struggled to find since. 

What I had wanted was so simple. The simplest thing. Why could he not give it to me? 

*   *   *

Lindsey Danis is a queer, gender expansive writer whose work has appeared in Longreads, Catapult, Kitchen Table Quarterly, and Barzakh, among other places. Lindsey is the author of On Queer Homesteading and (Out) On the Road: The Radical Joy of Queer Travel.

By Steph Coelho

You’re not old, or haggard, or washed up. Your crooked smile is youthful, even if it squishes out the crinkles around your eyes. Gravity will start to compress the bones in your spine, eventually, but for now, your feet still reach the pedals, and your brain still knows what it knows, like the names of all the buttons in the cockpit. 

Menopause has your uterus in a chokehold, hormones unpredictable, haughty. The taut-skinned Gen Alpha girls are on the ground, eyes glued to live feeds. But you have the clouds at your fingertips, eyes tracking the sorbet-colored horizon.

It won’t be long before you reach Halifax and touchdown to kiss the grass-lined asphalt. A quick peck to say: Hello again, I’m not here for long, so don’t wait up. 

You flew this route with your instructor yesterday. Today, you’re seeing everything for the first time: the glittering bay, tiny moving cars like flesh-filled jewelry boxes, pom-pom conifers that remind you of crafting. The plastic container of pipe cleaners and glue gun sticks is still in the closet. Destined to be dug up someday, evidence of the lengths mothers went to be enough. 

Headset tight on your head, hands at the controls, you glimpse the area where you’ve been instructed to land. The butterflies in your mouth spread their wings and sing: We have just emerged from our chrysalis. They taste like beautiful cotton candy. You smile as you make the descent, curled lips plucking at your creased skin.

*   *   *

Steph Coelho lives in the Greater Montreal area. Her fiction and poetry often explore themes of existential dread, the horrors of the everyday, and body politics. Her work has appeared in the Tidewater Press 2025 Anthology, Emerge, and McGill’s The Veg literary magazine. You can find her online on Instagram @stephcoelhowrites. She also publishes the weekly creative writing substack Prompted (https://prompted.substack.com/) 

 

By David Larsen

    Andrew Hickman took one last snapshot of the riding stables his family had operated for more than forty-five years. His cellphone rattled in his trembling hands. People wanted more than an hour rental of a halfway decent horse. A romp through the creosote and ocotillo dotted hills couldn’t compare with all of the hoopla at the fancy schmancy riding academy eight miles down the road on State Highway 1129, halfway between Ft. Stockton and Dos Pesos. These days a sturdy horse wasn’t enough. They wanted more. They wanted pizazz. They wanted ritz. They wanted glamour.

     The tack room was shabby. Now that he was no longer the proprietor of the business he could see it. The stables were an eyesore, no doubt about it. His residence was in shambles. Even he had to admit it. And the grounds, the dusty spot alongside the highway that could easily be overlooked if you weren’t watching out for it, did smell and look a mess, but what could anyone expect after four decades of horses tromping the sixteen acres, peeing, shitting, peeing some more? And the flies. Oh God, the flies. He wasn’t going to miss the damned flies.

     Andrew could move into town—Dos Pesos, not Ft. Stockton, for crying out loud—and he would, but his bunk behind the stables was all he’d ever known. He’d never slept anywhere else, other than the four years in the crowded dorm at Sul Ross, where he studied agriculture, to what 

end he hadn’t a clue. Yet, when he sold out to the West World Equestrian Center everything was gone, lock, stock and barrel. Andrew now had a little money in the bank, not that much…certainly not enough. He’d actually have to find employment somewhere. Doing what? he wondered. I’m thirty-six years old. I don’t know nothin’ but tendin’ horses and shovelin’ shit.

     The sheriff’s tan squad car pulled onto the property, kicked up a flurry of dust then settled. Kyle Reed struggled to yank himself out of the vehicle. Andrew smiled. The Contreras County sheriff had put on ample girth over the years.

     “Andy,” said the sheriff, “I thought I’d come out and see how you’re gettin’ along.” He kicked at a stone near the worn-smooth hitching rail Andrew leaned against. “This has gotta be hard on you.”

     “It ain’t so hard, Sheriff.” Andrew grimaced. It wasn’t hard. But then again, it was.

     “That woman who bought you out was worried you might do somethin’ foolish.”

     “Like what?”

     The sheriff chuckled. “I ain’t sure. Maybe she thought you’d do something out of spite.” He winked. “She’s a different sort than we’re used to around here. She’s from up near Ft. Worth. They do things different up there.”

     “Her place is across the line, in Pecos County. She’s got no business havin’ you come around here to check up on me. Let her worry about her goddamned equestrian center and leave me alone.”

     “That’s true,” said the sheriff. He looked Andrew in the eye. “She’s in Pecos County, all right, and you’re in Contreras County. I guess you bein’ in my county makes it my business.” He grinned. “Andy, hell, I’ve known you and your family forever. I just don’t want to see you doin’ somethin’ you’ll regret later.”

     “I ain’t gonna do nothin’ except close this place down and move on.” He sighed. “As you can see the horses are gone, she took everything worth any value. The blankets. The saddles. What’s she got to stew about?”

     “Just doin’ my job, Andy.”

     “I know you are, Sheriff.” Andrew wiped the sweat from his forehead with his straw Stetson. “It just irks me that folks won’t just let me be. Everything I’ve done is on the up and up.”

     “I wouldn’t expect anything else.”

     “Sheriff, do you ever feel like the whole world’s against you?”

     “All the time.”

     “What do you do?”

      The sheriff cocked his head. “What can I do? I just keep pushin’ on.” Again, he chuckled. “Bein’ the sheriff in a West Texas county that’s about to shrivel up and blow away ain’t the most desirable job in the world.”

     “I’d bet it’s not.”

     “You bet your life it ain’t. But most folks are decent enough. Even the ones that give me the most trouble.”

     Andrew watched a school bus pass by on the highway. “School kids used to come out here to learn to ride,” he said. “Now they’ll go to that woman’s place. It won’t be the same. Me and my parents cared about ‘em. She’s just in it for the bucks. My pa and ma really liked those kids…and the horses.”

     “How’re Mavis and Walter doin’?” 

     Andrew shrugged. “They like Odessa good enough. They miss Dos Pesos, but this business could no longer support the three of us.”

    “I s’pose not.”

     “That woman’s gonna serve up barbeque at her place. Can you imagine that? You can ride, then eat some goddamned charred brisket. I’ve heard tell she hires a band from San Angelo to play on Friday nights.” Andrew took a deep breath. “Sheriff, I can’t compete with that.”

     The Sheriff shook his head. He blinked. “I don’t know what to tell you, Andy. What are your plans?”

     Andrew nodded. “I ain’t sure. I’ve rented a place from Mr. Gonzalez in town.” He squinted. “I’m gonna be your neighbor, Sheriff.”

     “Then what?”

     “I thought about teachin’. I went to college, you know.”

      The sheriff spit. “That might do the trick. You’ve been teachin’ people how to sit a horse your whole life.” He paused. “Have you talked to anyone at the school?”

     “Not yet. I’ve got enough money to see me through for a while.” Andrew watched a hawk circle overhead. Then another hawk, then another. “That woman’s teachin’ folks to ride English style if they want it. Can you imagine that?”

     “I ain’t got a clue what that is.”

     “It’s ridin’ with a frilly saddle. It’s more high society than a western saddle.” Andrew glared at the empty highway. “Now, who the hell would want somethin’ like that?”

     “Like you said, some dude who doesn’t know squat about this part of the world.” The sheriff again kicked at the stone. “Folks up there in Pecos County have got more money than they have a right to. Some of ‘em at least.” 

     “Sheriff, I’m comin’ on middle age. I’ve got no wife. I’ve got a pittance from the sale of this place. Hickman’s Stables is all I’ve known.”

     “Like you say, it’s the pits, but a young fella like you will come out all right. You’ve been to college. You’re plenty bright.” The sheriff spit. “You’ll find something.”

     Andrew watched the sheriff fishtail out of the parking area. For an old geezer the fella had spunk. His own truck was loaded down with what little he thought he’d need in town. It’s been hard, he muttered to himself, but it’s been good. Two miles down State Highway 1129 he could see the black smoke curling up in the rear mirror of his Ford F-250. It struck him odd that horse manure and old pine could go up so readily.

                                                                      *   *   *

David Larsen is a writer and musician who lives in El Paso, Texas, two miles from the border with Mexico. His stories have appeared in numerous literary journals and magazines. He has recorded eleven albums for El Viejo Records. 

     

     

     

     

      

A Memoir by A. L. Smith

Silent and still in my arms, I can feel you. The hospital bracelet circles your ankle with a name you will never answer to. Your body is limp, your skin pallid. My heart beats wildly; yours is still. They say I can hold you as long as I want. No one will take you from me. I gaze into your face: so small. You never opened your eyes. I wonder what color they were. My body shakes, my mind is filled with endless buzzing. Someone is screaming.

My Beloved. The hospital room is bleak. There is no joy here, no laughter, no congratulations. But you are here, in my arms. They are starting to ache. For such a little one, you are heavy. But I keep holding you. Daddy is here, too. You look like him. He tells me I am the one screaming. Everyone wants me to stop. How can I stop when I never knew I started? I must be going mad.

My Beloved. Now I know why I am screaming. I am shattered without you. Clutching you, I beg you to awaken. Open your eyes. Move. Anything. My arms grow numb with fatigue as my vision blurs with tears. Of course I am crying. What else can I do? I pull you closer, kiss your head. You have dark hair, just like Daddy. Don’t worry, little one, I will never let you go.

My Beloved. They took you from me. Everything went numb. My arms are eerily empty. Who am I without you? A body torn apart. Empty of a future. A childless mother.

*   *   *

A. L. Smith is a writer based in Washington state, publishing across creative nonfiction, poetry, horror, and speculative fiction. Her work has appeared in Blood+Honey, Harrow House Journal, Nocturne Ash, Static in Our Stars, and in the horror anthology The Fear Driver 2 from Dragon Soul Press. She writes primarily at the intersection of personal narrative and the uncanny, with a focus on short literary forms.

By Kimberly Hallman

As I leaned down to pull the last of the socks out of the laundry basket, I sniffed, trying to keep my nose from dripping on the clean laundry. Sighing, I dropped the socks onto the bed and grabbed a tissue from the night stand. Even though it was already June, my allergies refused to wane. 

Maybe it was for the best. It was easy to blame my red eyes and sniffling on the high pollen count. That made it easier to hide the fact that I was crying more often these days. I was grateful for the explanation, but I had no idea what I would do once summer arrived in all of its hot, sweaty glory, and I could no longer blame the pollen. 

It wouldn’t have been so bad if I could just pinpoint the reason for my foul mood. Every little thing sent me into a spiral of tears, or worse, the nearly irrepressible urge to punch something. It was like never-ending PMS, something I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. 

As I paired off the socks and put them in the drawer, I examined my life – the same now as it had been for the past five years. I was still working from home, a change I made in preparation for the family we never started. Every morning, Dave and I got up at 6:00. He rushed out the door, sometimes remembering to kiss me before he left. I rolled out of bed, woke up my body with a half hour of yoga, showered, dressed, grabbed breakfast, and sat down at my desk for eight hours of monotony. Then, I cooked dinner, which ate in front of the T.V. 

It wasn’t the life I imagined.

We got married young and fast because we were so sure of ourselves and each other. I could remember how it felt back then – on our own for the first time, learning how to be adults together. Everything was new and different and exciting.

Now, I was on the sidelines, watching my friends get married and have children, left wondering what happened to that excitement in my life.

I’d never stopped loving him. But I found myself wondering where my life was going and how he was making it better. 

We weren’t trying anymore. No more big romantic gestures; even the little things had stopped. Not all at once, but little by little, Dave stopped opening doors for me. He stopped doing little chores around the house. He stopped grabbing me from behind, wrapping me in his big bear hugs. 

Honestly, I stopped, too. I stopped sneaking little notes into his pockets. I rarely bought him his favorite candy when I went shopping anymore. I often went to bed without saying “I love you.” 

I dropped the last of the socks and started crying. Big, heaving sobs that threatened to suffocate me. 

Was my marriage over? Did I let it fade away without even noticing? 

As I coasted through the rest of that day, my mind was a whirlpool of swirling thoughts. Is it my fault? What could I have done differently? Is it too late? What if he leaves me? 

Five o’clock rolled around, and I could barely breathe as I waited to hear Dave’s car pull in the driveway. I didn’t know what I’d say, but I knew I had to say something.

I stared at the door until he walked through it. He startled when he saw me. “Hi,” he said with an awkward smile. He took in my expression, my fidgeting hands, my red eyes, and his smile turned into a concerned frown. “What’s wrong?”

I wanted to stay calm and collected, to explain my concerns thoughtfully and logically. But all that went out the window the second he spoke. I burst into fresh sobs and threw my arms around his middle.

“What’s wrong, honey?” he repeated. “Did something happen?”

It took far longer than I care to admit to calm down enough to talk to him. Dave led me to the couch and sat down next to me, holding me and rubbing my back as I sobbed. Finally, I could breathe deeply enough to speak through my tears, and I told him everything. I told him my fears. I described the things he no longer did for me and the things I no longer did for him. I told him how much it hurt, how lonely I felt.

As the last of it spilled out of me, I realized how terrified I was. Dave was my best friend, the one person in my life who really knew me, and stayed by my side anyway. I wasn’t happy, but I loved him. Did I just ruin my own life? 

Dave looked at me long and hard. I sat uncomfortably under his silent gaze until he finally said, “You’re right. I guess we got too comfortable. I’m not sure I would have noticed if you hadn’t said anything, but it’s true. Neither of us really tries anymore, do we?”

There was a beat as I waited for him to continue, not trusting my voice to reply. 

“So, what do you want to do about it?”

His question surprised me. I expected him to be the first to make a decision. I’m not sure why, because he’d always sought my opinion before making any big decisions. I suppose it just all seemed so final that it never occurred to me that he might ask me what I thought.

He took my silence as an indication that I had an answer but was reluctant to say so for fear of hurting him.

“Are you asking for a divorce?”

Dave wouldn’t look at me, and I was terrified that he was hiding a hopeful expression. After all, if I wanted a divorce, he didn’t have to be the bad guy and ask for one himself.

But I couldn’t do it. I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t let him off the hook so easily. If he wanted to leave me, I’d make him admit it and give me an explanation. 

“Do you think we should get a divorce?” I asked.

“God, no!” He finally looked up at me, and his eyes were filled with a dread I had never seen in him before. 

“Look.” He took my hands and held them between us. “You’re right. Things have changed between us. And I’m not sure if it’s your fault or mine. Probably both. But I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t notice. I’m sorry I dropped the ball. I’m sorry I hurt you.

“But I don’t think we’re done. I’m not ready to give up. I love you, and I don’t want to let you go without a fight. Please, say you’ll fight with me.”

And just like that, I wasn’t the only one crying anymore, and I realized that Dave’s tears meant that the thought of our marriage ending scared him as much as it did me, and that comforted me. It wasn’t over. There was still a chance.

“Yes, I’ll fight for us,” I said through my tears. “Of course, I’ll fight for us.” ‘’

*      *      *

Kimberly Hallman lives with her husband in suburban Pennsylvania. Hallman writes both short and long-form fiction in a variety of genres, but her favorites are science fiction and fantasy. Her work has been featured in Flash Fiction Magazine’s 101 Words. When she is not writing, Hallman can usually be found reading or crocheting.

By Quinn Theobald

A dented flatscreen Vizio TV had been discarded on the curb in front of my apartment. I knew it was a Vizio because on the third day of it squatting there I checked the back panel where a V sticker was slapped. It was ugly in its sleekness. It was the first thing I saw when I parked on the street coming home from work. I had a clear view of it from my kitchenette window, a black rectangle in the yard, a void soaking up your attention.

It interrupted the landscape. That was the thing. You looked along the yard in front of the apartments and saw grass, grass, plants, VIZIO TV. It would have been nice for whomever was getting rid of it to think ahead and drop it off on garbage night. But then I realized it had been a week and garbage day had come and gone and for some reason they left it, a black square cut out of our yard. Enough was enough, and I went to knock on the Getts’ door, bright red heads of roses leaned against their kitchen window. Mrs. Getts answered, but when I pointed out the blasted thing she said it wasn’t theirs.

I considered taking a hammer to it, but then little pieces of TV would scatter between our blades of grass forever, never biodegrading. I did move it to the other side of the telephone pole one day, stomping down from my apartment and stomping back up. But standing at my sink again, even with it out of view, knowing it was there was enough to draw my attention. TVs were so artificial, a sheen black surface, colorless, soulless. I had never noticed this in the TV on my own wall, but now it was obvious. TVs were the antithesis of nature.

The next day coming home I stopped to lean on the hood of my car and stare. There it sat. Dented. Grotesque. How was it that such a small thing could distort the world around it? I read a study once that walking among green plants raised one’s mood. A follow-up study ought to investigate how easily a piece of human debris could shatter that effect.

That’s when it hit me. The lawn was an illusion. I had taken it as a sacred square of green, but there was the Vizio leaning against a telephone pole. A telephone pole in the yard! I stared at it hard. Somehow the telephone pole had become invisible to me. My eyes slid right off it. But it was there.

Also the sky. This open blue above me was criss-crossed by puffy white jet trails. Two planes headed in opposite directions. And that was just what I could see! The air was full of pollutant particles, ash and microplastics and who-knew-what-else.

Even behind the roses in the Getts’ window I could see the flash of their television playing. I heard the exhausted chugging of the water and AC systems. Beneath that, faintly, leaf blowers rattled away. The very road I stood on was an asphalt wasteland, a no-man’s-zone for worms and the entire ecology. Chrome cars piled around me, hunks of metal bolted together with more metal, containers for oozing black poison that would be belched out into the air. The Vizio hadn’t transformed the yard, it was just another piece of refuse dropped on top of the junkyard I made my life in.

But that didn’t mean I had to let it win.

The next day leaving work I stopped at the Home Depot. I picked up a potted Philodendron plant, the green leaves speckled with white. At home I got out of my car and crossed to the curb. Mrs. Getts was carrying groceries up to her apartment. I placed the Philodendron down, reverently, beside the dented Vizio. Ah what the hell, it hardly changed the place. But at least there was green growing beside the black box. Nature intertwined with the mechanical underbelly of civilization. Not just one or the other.

“I like your plant,” Mrs. Getts said to me as she reached her porch.

“I like your roses,” I returned. She looked up at her kitchen window.

She said kindly, “The old ones were so hard to keep care of, but the plastics look just as nice, don’t they?”

And she went into the concrete trappings of her house.

*        *        *

Quinn Theobald is a California-based writer and software developer. They won the Fall 2025 Letter Review Prize for short fiction and their short film Becca Comes to Visit screened at festivals internationally. In between pursuing writing and performative art, they find time to dance West Coast Swing and run DnD games.

 

 

By Marisa Gray Atha

Izzy startled at the noise, wrapping the towel tighter around herself. She’d hooked the “Do Not Disturb” sign on the doorknob outside her hotel room so hadn’t expected housekeeping to enter. But the wood-on-metal clank sounded like it had come from inside. Preparing herself to scream, fight, or both, she held the towel snuggly around her body and slowly opened the bathroom door. A shadowed motion caught her eye—just the ceiling fan blades reflecting on the tile floor. She stepped into the room, peering around the corner and rising onto her tiptoes to see over the couch. She considered flinging open the double-paneled closet doors but decided against the voice of paranoia. She only had an hour before Harold was due to return. Izzy shrugged off her prey instinct and returned to the bathroom, letting the towel fall to the floor as she quickly stepped into her underwear.

Fully clothed in a white linen button-up top and her favorite tailored Bermuda shorts, she applied another coat of mascara to darken her naturally blonde lashes, careful to avoid the cheekbone she’d already coated with extra foundation. Plucking jewelry from the delicate, filigree-rimmed bowl on the countertop, she slipped on several gold bangles, her pearl earrings, and the five-carat radiant-cut diamond ring Harold had given her four years previously.

After running a comb through her damp hair, she returned to the living room and walked to Harold’s workspace—his briefcase, laptop, converters and charging cables at the ready. No matter that their holiday on the island would only span a week; Harold was perpetually tethered to his business. Izzy pulled open the top drawer of the hotel desk to find a pad of stationery and a pen. She wrote: “Gone to the lounge for a refreshment. Be back by 5.” She scrawled her initial then turned back to the room, surveying the space.

What else could she bring without raising suspicion?

Nothing, she decided. Just her handbag and its usual contents. Slipping the room key into her purse, she walked past the suitcase full of her belongings, the carry-on bag with her laptop, sunhat, beach reads, and sunglasses, and the closet where she’d unpacked and hung an array of cocktail dresses, and formal ensembles for the dressier group dinners Harold had scheduled. In her vanity kit were thousands of dollars’ worth of precious gems and jewels—the money would be helpful, but she couldn’t afford the questions that would arise if she allowed herself the indulgence. No, this needed to be clean. She’d leave the room wearing only her everyday jewelry and clothing, carrying just her handbag. Nothing more.

Izzy pulled open the heavy hotel room door and stepped into the hallway, letting the door fall shut behind her with a heavy thud. As she strode towards the elevator, her stomach knotted—what if she ran into Harold on her way?

She paced from side to side on the fleur-de-lis decorated carpet, waiting for the elevator to ding its arrival. When the doors opened to reveal an empty car, Izzy blew out the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. One step at a time, Iz, she told herself, riding from the penthouse to the lobby level.

Noise of chatting guests, bustling employees, and rolling luggage carts met her ears when the elevator doors parted at the bottom floor. Izzy stepped through the throng, making her way to the lounge. Not too quickly, she reminded herself.

Harold would be finishing his post-golf beer at the clubhouse. She had enough time. And she knew the floor plan well—she’d studied in advance of the trip.

Izzy walked to the hotel lounge and took a seat at the bar, ordering a gin fizz from the bartender. She made sure to sign the bill to her room and remained in her barstool long enough for the bartender to move on to the new group of guests a few stools down. She left the half-emptied drink on its napkin, as if waiting for her return, and excused herself to the ladies’ room across the lounge.

As she’d hoped, the last stall on the right was empty. She locked the door behind her, then reached into the storage compartment she’d accessed the day before. From inside, she pulled a hotel maintenance staff shirt, which she slipped over her own, and a billed hat, which she fitted onto her head, tucking her blond hair up inside. She shoved her Louis Vuitton handbag into the duffel of tools, wires, and other equipment. She couldn’t help the shoes, but she hoped no one would notice her pedicured feet and the delicate sandals she wore.

Izzy pushed open the bathroom door, and strode through the lounge with her head downcast, not daring a glimpse towards the drink waiting in front of her empty barstool. When she reached the hotel lobby, she bypassed the front desk and pushed open the Staff Only door flanking it, moving quickly through the break area, to the back exit that opened to the rear parking lot. She kept walking, down the winding lane, turning away from the greenery of the golf course, setting her eyes on the line ahead where the concrete met dirt.

She would walk several miles onward to the small bus stop she’d noticed on their private drive from the airport upon arriving. She’d catch the 4:15pm local bus and be across the island and boarding the ferry by the time Harold made his way to their room and found her note.

He’d wait for her, growing increasingly agitated. When it became clear they’d be late for the business dinner scheduled for that evening, he’d storm downstairs, dressed to the nines in his crisp suit, his tie clenched to tight perfection, hair slicked into submission. He’d survey the lounge, his brows lowering and pressing inward, his square jaw pulsating and fingers curling into fists. He’d interrogate the bartender who would affirm that a woman with blonde hair and light green eyes had indeed enjoyed a cocktail earlier, and who would scratch his head with uncertainty when asked when the woman left, and whether she’d been with anyone.

As Harold stormed across the hotel lobby and back up to the room to find it still undisturbed, he would pour a double, then pace, slurping the bitter astringent, cold ice clinking against his teeth. He would call the hotel desk, demanding his wife be found. He would drink another, then smash glass against ice against tile. The truth wouldn’t dawn on him until much later—too late.

Izzy would be smiling, the wind racing through her hair, her ring flung into the ocean below—a discoverable treasure for a future diver of the unfathomable deep—the real monster miles behind.

*   *   *

Marisa Gray Atha is a writer and voice teacher with degrees in English, Music, and Psychology. Author of Written on the Wall, find her work in the Journal of Singing, NATS Inter Nos, OM Yoga & Lifestyle Magazine, ANTAE Journal, Months to Years Literary Journal, Academy of the Heart and Mind, Sad Girl Diaries Literary Magazine, Down in the Dirt Lit Mag, Commuter Lit, and Speakeasy Cooperative. More at marisagrayatha.com.

By Arvilla Fee

My key turns the lock; I open my door and freeze. Something is different in my flat. Off. Only turning my head, feet still planted in the entryway, I look around at the one room that serves as my living room, kitchen, bed and bath. Nothing. The vase of orange dahlias still sits in the center of the table. The bed is still neatly made with the starry; cosmic quilt gifted to me by my grandmother; the recliner bare, save for my favorite mouse-brown sweater. 

Then it hits me—the smell. Cigarette smoke with undertones of sweat. Noah has found me! My insides turn to liquid, and I drop my keys on the hardwood floor. Pick them up again. Hold them between my fingers like tiny daggers. It’s not possible, is it? It’s been five months! Five months since my last bruise. My last broken finger. I’d started with a clean slate. Working for tips. Paying with cash. No paper trail. But that smell. It’s now crawling up my nose. Up my spine. Short circuiting my brain with memories of lying on a floor back in Queens, him standing above me, “I’m sorry, baby. I’m sorry. You know I love you.” 

Like hell he did. Like hell! I move slowly, careful to avoid the creaky boards. I know this flat—this little piece of heaven that is just mine. The only thing that’s ever been just mine. And I’ll be damned if I’m going to let it go. I peep around the bathroom door that’s open a crack—the shower curtain is still closed where I pulled it to this morning. But is that a shadow? One of those movie scenes where I rip back the curtain and a monster leaps on me like a rabid dog? 

A dog barks and I jump. It sounds like it’s in this room. Then a breeze flutters my silky blue curtains like butterfly wings. Oh, God! The window is open! Picking up the Swiffer mop in the corner, I use the handle to push open the shower curtain. Nothing. No one. And the window—did I leave it open? I’d been so hot after my shower. Maybe. Yes—I did. For the first time ever—I did! I peer over the sill and scan the second floor balconies below me. 

Someone with large brown eyes and a tousled head of black curls is staring up at me. “Oh, hey, June,” he says after blowing a perfect ring of smoke into the air. “How’s it going?”

I clutch the Swiffer handle for support, my heart in my throat. It’s only Devon. My goofy, pizza-delivery-guy-video-game-playing neighbor, Devon. Not Noah. Not Noah. 

“Hey, Devon,” I manage with a limp smile. “Good to see you.”

He lifts an empty solo cup in a mock toast. “Back at ya.” 

I close the window, put down the Swiffer, and crawl into my bed, hugging the star quilt to my chest—the flat once again smelling deliciously, raspberrily, of me. 

          *   *   *

Arvilla Fee lives in Dayton, Ohio with her husband, three of her six children, and two dogs. She teaches for Clark State College, is the lead poetry editor for October Hill Magazine, and has been published in over 130 magazines. Her four poetry books, The Human Side, This is Life, Mosaic: A Million Little Pieces, and The Stars Above Us are available on Amazon. Arvilla’s life advice: Never travel without snacks. Visit her website and her online magazine: https://soulpoetry7.com/