A Memoir By Anne Dougherty 

I know the second I hear his scream of distress that I will be saying goodbye. Terror fills my bones as I run across the living room and into our dining room. By the far wall, next to our table is Spencer, my sweet cat. The gray, polydactyl shorthair with a white tux and paws and half of a white-colored mustache below his nose is on the ground, conscious but collapsed. I see the fear in his eyes. 

I pick him up, praying with everything I have that this isn’t his end. Placing him on his feet, his hind end collapses again. 

He is paralyzed. 

I move him into the open space in our living room. With futility, I attempt to place him on all fours. He falls, another yowl of sorrow, of excruciating pain, leaving his mouth. 

“Shit, we need to go. Now! Put Ruby in her kennel!” I grab Spencer’s carrier, thankful that it lives under the side table only a few feet away and place him inside. Usually, this is a struggle. Tonight, it’s not. 

My husband, Jonathan, is confused; not moving fast enough for me. “Put Ruby away. We need to go! Now! We have to get to my job. This is an emergency!” I’ve been working as an overnight vet tech at this local emergency hospital for over three years now. This is my first time needing to use our emergency services. 

I dart into our bedroom to change out of my pajamas. I’d already gotten ready for bed, having come home late this evening. Not even stopping to make sure my daytime clothes are on properly, I run back into the living room and shove my feet into shoes. 

Jonathan places his wallet and keys in his pocket. Ruby, our dog, is now secured comfortably. Jonathan picks up Spencer’s carrier as I fetch my purse. Running out to my car, I start it up as Jonathan finishes locking our door. 

Once on our way,  I ask him to call my job and let them know we’re coming. Holding back tears, I drive as fast as I safely can without breaking too many laws to get there. My biggest fear has come to fruition. As the phone rings and rings, I drive. Jonathan asks what is going on. 

My voice wobbles, beginning to crack. Pulling together all of my strength, I explain, “I’m pretty sure he has a saddle thrombus.” 

The technical term: aortic thromboembolism. A blood clot formed and is now blocking the blood flow to Spencer’s hind limbs. 

“How do you treat that?” Jonathan asks the most obvious, and heartbreaking, question. 

Tears involuntarily cascade down my cheeks as I reply, “You don’t.” My heart splinters; I continue, “You euthanize so they stop suffering. You can try to treat it, but it rarely works. And they just suffer.” I pause, sniffling as my nose begins to run. “It’s so painful.” Spencer’s cry accents my words. 

The scream of the dying. 

Finally, someone answers our call. Jonathan briefly explains we will be there soon and why. I barely stifle my sobs while they speak. 

The fifteen minute ride that feels like a lifetime ends as I pull into a spot by the employee entrance door. I grab my badge, as Jonathan gets the carrier. Running onto the treatment room floor, I call for help from coworkers who are mostly new to me. I work the other end of the week and we’ve had a lot of new faces recently. 

Tears fall freely as those I know run over. Someone places a baby scale on the counter to weigh Spencer. Another pages for a doctor. I hold Spencer as he yowls while open mouth breathing. My supervisor, Morgan, swiftly places an IV catheter in Spencer’s front leg as the newest emergency doctor appears at our side, beginning her exam. 

She pauses, and I remember. “He has a heart murmur.” It was on my list this month to get him an appointment to be evaluated by our cardiologist. Guilt wracks my body. Could I have prevented this if I was a better owner? 

My doctor orders lasix and methadone injections as others run to fill her demands. Spencer is in congestive heart failure, his strawberry-sized heart muffled as he drowns in his own fluid. Despite his never showing us any signs. 

Looking at me now, she begins her spiel about saddle thrombus cats and their options. With Jonathan by my side, a hand on my back for support, I stop her.  

Every fiber of my being wants there to be a different answer. An actual choice here. 

But there isn’t one. 

Not without more suffering. I held on too long when I lost my previous cat to cancer. I’ve regretted it every second since. I promised to never let Spencer suffer when I adopted him. 

I honor my promise, despite how deeply it tears my soul apart. It’s the right decision. 

The only one. 

I hate this.

“We’re going to euthanize,” I force the hardest words I’ve ever said in my life out before my doctor can finish. “Please, do it as quickly as possible. I don’t want him to suffer.” Unsure of how much she even understands through my distress, she nods and asks for euthasol. He is sedated in the meantime. 

Holding Spencer in my hands, I pet his silky fur and whisper to him how much I love him as the final injection is given. When it’s over, I turn to my husband, the man who stood by my side, and sob as he holds me tightly. He strokes my head lovingly as I shed my tears into his shoulder. Right in the middle of the treatment room, with coworkers milling around us, helping other patients.

“Would you like to spend some time with him?” Morgan asks. 

“No, I’m okay,” I state as I turn to caress Spencer one last time. If I say yes, I’ll never leave. There will never be long enough to say goodbye. What’s left of my heart aches. 

“Can you make his paw print here?” I ask, concerned for its quality. It needs to be perfect. Morgan nods before we head to the comfort room to wait for the euthanasia paperwork. I didn’t need to even think when asked what to do with his remains: private cremation. I’ll place his ashes on the desk next to my bed when he comes home. 

Jonathan wraps his arm around me while we wait in the soothing room. “This room really is comforting,” I whisper to him with a soft chuckle. After filling out paperwork, we solemnly walk to my car. Quiet sniffles from me are the only sound. 

As we get in the car, Jonathan offers to buy me a Wawa hot chocolate for the ride home. My comfort drink. I decline; my stomach turns. 

I look at the clock as he shifts into drive. It’s only been 30 minutes since Spencer first cried out. As we head home alone, I say a silent prayer to never skip the line in any emergency room ever again. 

Once was more than enough. 

                                                                   *   *   *

Anne Dougherty resides in the suburbs of Philadelphia, PA with her husband, Jonathan, their dog, Ruby Tuesday, and her cat, Theodore. She’s worked in the veterinary field for over a decade. When not working, she can be found biking, reading, or writing. Her creative nonfiction work was published in Oddballs Magazine (2023).

By Meg O’Connor

When the ten-year-old boy in the baseball cap came to, he opened his eyes and stared up at a flaming sky. He blinked hard, but the clouds above still hissed and smoked, letting off curling ribbons of fire that danced around the night’s stars. Groggy—and fighting the world’s worst stomachache— the boy groaned. An hour before, he’d been playing with Georgie in their tree fort outside Reno. Now, the sky was on fire.

Still lying on his back, he noticed he was rocking and heard water lapping against wood near his head. As he gingerly turned his neck to the side, he realized he was lying in a large, open rowboat. A wave splashed up and over the side, and black water—black like his dad’s coffee—spilled over the edge and snaked its way towards his arm. He glanced towards his feet and realized the putrid water and the flaming sky were the least of his problems. A short sword protruded from his chest, lodged at an angle in his ribs.

He choked on his own saliva—at least what was left of it. His hands flew up to grab the ruby-studded hilt of the sword lodged in his chest, but he might as well have flailed around for black bats in the night. His hands went straight through handle. I’m hallucinating, thought the boy, as the flaming sky cast spider-web shadows across his cheeks.

He struggled to a sitting position, and pain like a branding iron seared his chest. He yelled and reached for the sword again, but once again, his hands passed through the specter of a hilt.

An old man with a gaunt face he hadn’t noticed before turned to look back at him. The man with a let go of the oars he’d been rowing with, but they remained suspended in mid-air and propelled themselves. The boat continued down the river by a force of its own. The man’s cheekbones were taut against his gray skin, skeletal—yet not a corpse—and lifelike—yet not human. The boy turned around to get his bearings and to look at anything other than that face.

His boat was the first in a long line of hundreds of others, spanning as far as he could see behind down an endless river. The people on the other boats held torches and lanterns and candlesticks that showed glimpses of their faces between fire flashes from the sky. They all had the same haggard appearance. No one had hair. The stagnant air smelled of rotting flesh.

The boy spun back around to face the old man, wincing. The rowboat hit a rapid and careened downward, and the boy pitched forward with it, catching himself on the bewitched oars. “Please tell me, where are we?” the boy asked.

“The River Styx. I’m your boat driver, Charon.” His bulging eyes scanned the boy’s body, and he pursed his lips. “Theseus will be wanting his sword back. You’d best get on that, Eli. We’ll be arriving soon.”

Eli was too dumbfounded to ask where they’d be arriving and why. All he could think to say was, “But the sword isn’t real!” As if in response, the muscles around his ribs seized, and he cried out in agony.

Charon raised his eyebrows. “Don’t let Theseus hear you say that. Go on, now. His ship is somewhere back there.” Charon glanced over Eli’s shoulder at the endless line of boats following behind them.

Eli trembled as he stepped to the edge of the boat. He swallowed hard as he glanced at his own reflection in the black water below, dancing with flames mirrored off the sky. In his reflection, Eli saw the gleam of the rubies in the hilt of the sword in his stomach. He shook his head. None of this is real.

He dove into the water and began to swim against the current, enveloped in thick liquid that burned his skin. He wasn’t strong enough to swim upriver through the ooze, but he managed to hold position. And as he treaded water feverishly, the parade of boats made their way past, one at a time. The gaunt, gray faces began to sing a song in raw, unpolished voices just barely in unison. It was an old gothic song his mother had sung sometimes to scare and tease him. Light and tinkly, like a merry-go-round tune. Don’t ever laugh as a Hearse goes by, for you may be the next to die.

Eli swam harder, wishing the boats would pass, wishing the singing would stop. When he opened his eyes, a grand ship towered over him, and a man peered down over the gunnel. “Oy, Eli,” he called. “I’ll be needing my sword for this upcoming minotaur situation.”

Eli’s brow wrinkled, but at this point, there was no sense in asking about the damn minotaur situation. He swam to the rope ladder running down the side of the boat and climbed up to the deck. He stood facing a man in velvet robes, an empty sheath at his hip.

Eli gestured helplessly at the sword in his stomach. “Sir, I’d like to return your sword. I really would. But how am I supposed to pull out a sword that isn’t real?”

The man let out a deep belly laugh. “Oh, Eli. Why do you think something has to be corporeal to be real?”

They stared at each other as the ship drifted down the River Styx. Slowly, knowingly, Eli reached for the sword one more time. And this time, his hands wrapped around cold metal.

He pulled. He screamed. He fell.

A moment later, Eli was aware of a soft bed beneath him. The stench of rotting flesh was replaced by the smell of antiseptic. There was a steady, rhythmic beeping of a heart monitor near his head.

He couldn’t move and he couldn’t speak, but he heard his mother’s voice gasp with sudden hope. “Steve—I think his eyelids just fluttered!”

* * *

Meg O’Connor is an emerging writer and professional scientist living outside New Orleans, Louisiana. She writes freelance travel articles for the popular travel blog “Travel Lemming.” In addition, her short fiction and creative nonfiction have appeared in Anastamos Journal, The Horror Tree, and is forthcoming in Penumbric Magazine.

By Matej Purg

I keep my foot on the gas. I’m flying. The rubber barely touches the asphalt. I’m on a cloud above everyone else. I whizz past Kias, Toyotas, Beamers. Radiohead is on. I’m playing hooky from work. I white-knuckle the steering wheel as I zip in and out of lanes. The coke dealer said fifteen minutes. That was eight minutes ago. I’m out of cigarettes but there’s no time for a pit stop at the 7-Eleven ahead, not in this kind of traffic. I don’t want to let the guy down or, even worse, cut me off. I have to be at the corner seven minutes from now. I’m a professional, slacks, shirt, recent haircut, black Audi. I’m headed to a business transaction. We’re business partners, the guy and I. I’m the client. He’s my supplier. As long as I’m punctual, reliable, and hand him a stack of bills every couple days he’ll never think of me as a junkie. No way.

I grunt at the 7-Eleven I’m passing and dig my finger through the ashtray. Maybe there’s a cigarette butt with some meat left on the bone in there. I need to smoke. It calms me down. I pluck something from the ashes, something twisted, gray, discarded, ugly, something I shouldn’t be smoking. I should quit smoking altogether. I should empty the ashtray. I should clean the car. This is a nice car. I made it ugly. I should call the guy and cancel. Thanks but no thanks. I should drive to the daycare and pick up my boy and take him to the playground. Babies love sand boxes and swings and rattles that make irritating noises. They love everything. They just love. My son loves. He loves me. I wish I could love him too. 

I blow the ashes from the filter. I straighten the stumped-out butt. It looks smokable. I place it between my lips. I pat my pockets for a lighter. The UPS truck in front of me comes to a stop. I pop out of my lane. I don’t see the motorcycle in my blind spot. I miss it by a hair. It wobbles, skids, the rider buckles. It doesn’t look like he’ll make it but then he does. I could have killed him, I guess. I roll down the window, my hand lashes out, middle finger erect.

The light up ahead turns yellow. I put pedal to the metal. Where’s the fucking lighter? I open the middle console, dig my hand into the pile of trash in there. The light turns red. A mom pushes her stroller into the intersection. She doesn’t see me. She doesn’t expect me. How could she? Her light is green. I hit the brakes, close my eyes. Screeching tires. Screaming. Cigarette butt drops from lips. Ashy aftertaste. Silence.

Fuck.

My. 

Life.

Their lives were in my hands. My life was in my hands. My baby’s life was in my hands. I clench the steering wheel. When I open my eyes my knuckles are white. So is the mother’s face; frozen in silent panic, a mask you’d wear for Halloween. The baby is chewing on a fake plastic watering can. It looks happy. They are alive. I glance at my watch. I got four minutes. They are in my way. I’m gonna be late. I can’t be late. Junkies are late. I am not a junkie. 

I slam my fist on the horn. It startles the mom and her face unfreezes. She howls, kicks my bumper, calls me names.

How.

Dare.

She.

                                                                          *  *  *

Matej Purg is a writer living in Los Angeles.

By Marianna Faynshteyn

The Director never again wore the red blouse she wore the day she fired the Account Manager. She put it on thinking about what that woman leading the assertiveness workshop said: “Red is a confrontational color, you should wear it for the right setting, like asking for a raise.” Well, firing someone felt like the kind of occasion for a confrontational color. But when The Director walked out the door, she started to doubt the choice, thinking that maybe she should have gone for something, something less. But oh well, she was already late, and red looked good on her, maybe even better than any other color. And anyways doubt always creeps in as soon as you leave your house, especially at the exact moment the lock of the door clicks behind you.

The Account Manager had started nine months ago, but two months in, it felt like he had always been there, making jokes with the receptionists and exchanging recipes with the HR ladies on the floor like he was everyone’s cousin. With The Director too, he was familiar. The two of them were surprised at how many common interests they had—both bad swimmers with childhood traumas and a love of old Italian movies. He would make the clicking noise with his mouth the way Marcello Mastroianni did in Divorce Italian Style when he walked by her desk, and she would smile until she blushed. No one suspected anything was up, and nothing was, at least not in a way that would cause a scandal. But every day they could, for a time, they went to lunch together. And every day, for a time, they emailed each other videos and articles. And sometimes he sent her songs that felt romantic but she brushed it off because a lot of songs are romantic and just because you’re listening to a man croon “I’m on Fire,” over and over again doesn’t mean the man who sent you the song–just the song, with no caption, no text, no nothing–is trying to send you a message. She listened to that song ten times in one day partly because she forgot how much she loved it, and partly because when she closed her eyes and mouthed the words, she felt like she was the one writing it. 

The Account Manager was late to the Christmas party, so late that The Director sighed to herself and eyed her coat, preparing to make her exit. Then he walked in, and she was so relieved and excited that she didn’t realize how drunk he was. He hugged every person that stood between them, lingering with every woman, and sometimes letting his hands travel too far down their backs. They hadn’t really talked in weeks, no emails or lunches either. She started thinking about the troubling things she had started to hear about The Account Manager. How he would show up unprepared to meetings and make commitments but not follow through. He said the right things when they called him out on it, “I’ll do everything I can to get back on track.” Except he didn’t, he only got worse.

The Account Manager was about to start apologizing again, must have been the third round already. His legs keep shifting back and forth, right leg on the left knee, then quickly both feet on the floor, then feet scooped up under him as he bent his body forward to say something.

The Director looked at him with focused eyes, eyes that said she will not let him set the pace, she was not going to be rushed. And it’s not because that night, at the Christmas party, when he finally got to her, he wrapped his drunken arms around her, in front of everyone, and planted a firm kiss on her neck—in front of everyone. Or because, right after that, in front of everyone, he lifted his head, made the clicking noise with his mouth like Marcello Mastroianni, lowered his hands to her ass and said, “looking good, boss.” Her face that night became as red as the blouse she is wearing this day, the day she will fire The Account Manager. 

“Your job performance,” The Director said, looking down onto her notes, “has needed substantial improvement–”

“Yes, I kno–”

“I’d appreciate that you’d let me finish. I won’t lie to you, this won’t be the most pleasant conversation, but if you take a moment to let me finish and a moment to process, I think it can be a very useful one. Ok?” She needed to be the boss, not impersonate one. 

“I know, I know. You’re right, this whole conversation—I completely understand where it’s coming from. I’ve talked with my therapist about my self-destructiveness and how it’s coming through in my work.”

“Well, that sounds very healthy,” The Director said. She couldn’t stop herself from changing her posture when he said “therapist,” weakening her shoulders and her eyebrows to show she still cared about The Account Manager. 

“Only started a week ago—ten years too late really,” he laughed. “But starting is something right? Isn’t that what people say?” He laughed again.

One, two, three, four, five seconds went by before The Director responded. 

“Yes, starting therapy is definitely something positive,” she smiled blankly, showing him nothing of herself.  “I’m glad you’re finding support outside of work and I hope it’ll be helpful to you—”

“Yes, I think so! I think I can really start implementing the improvements Eric and Marta have suggested. I have this habit of messing things up, especially when it’s starting to really take shape and feel good—you know?” 

“I think this could be a useful conversation for your therapist,” The Director said, her eyes direct, her posture unmoved. 

The Account Manager nodded, averted his eyes, and pointed his chin towards the floor. 

He reminded her of a pitiful dog, the kind that would whine alongside the dinner table, until he would realize, finally, finally, that he would not receive a handful of something and go quiet.

“From what I understand, Eric and Marta have talked with you a few times about your performance. It’s surprising to me that you’ve made it past your probation,” The Director said. She looked at him, noticing his eyes watering as he continued to look away, and she willed herself not to blink, to push through the pain that emanated off of him and looked to plant itself onto her. Her hands shook as she held them together underneath the table, away from his view. She wanted to bite her lip, she wanted to scratch behind her ear, find some sort of relief, but she knew she wouldn’t, maybe for a long time.

                                                         *   *  *

Marianna Faynshteyn was born in Ukraine and moved to New York as a young child. While she had originally worked in journalism, she transitioned into Digital Advertising and now works in Product Management. For the last nine years, she has lived in Amsterdam.

By Louella Lester

When he enters a taller building he prefers stairs to escalators. No concerns about errant shoelace mishaps. Jerks. Tumbles. Shooting out the bottom like a spit watermelon seed. But he prefers escalators to elevators. No worries about about frayed cables. Jolts. Shudders. Getting stuck in there with all those people.

                                                                            *   *   *

Louella Lester is a writer/photographer in Winnipeg, Canada. Her writing has appeared in SoFloPoJo, The Ekphrastic Review, Cult. Magazine, Flash Flood, New Flash Fiction Review, Blink Ink, MacQueen’s Quinterly, The Dribble Drabble Review, Molecule, The Odd Magazine, Litro, Cleaver, and a variety of other journals/anthologies. Her Flash-CNF book, Glass Bricks, is published by At Bay Press. 

By Maddison Scott

I give my mother’s handbag the reverence it deserves by wrapping the seatbelt around its girthy leather middle and letting it ride shotgun. Once home, I unlatch the bag’s brass clips and begin placing each item on the dining table with the trepidation of a snake handler. A pouch of cinnamon coated cashews. A post-it note scrawled with an upcoming hair appointment. A packet of tissues. A half-used Chanel No. 5 bottle. Two ancient lipsticks in the discontinued colors Berrylicious and Devilish Red. A handful of ibuprofen pills floating surreptitiously. A six month old grocery receipt. A half pack of cigarettes (she smoked?) Almond butter hand cream. A green pen. Her famously tattered copy of The Tenant of Wildfell Hall. One dead cellphone in a shimmery purple case that–when flipped open–reveals her drivers license, credit cards and $23 cash. An Eiffel Tower keychain attached to a car fob and her house keys. Three sets of cheap reading glasses (all with slightly bent frames.) And a laminated picture of us taken at a Chinese restaurant after my graduation. I pin the picture to my fridge and retrieve a sponge to wipe the blood off everything.

                                                                           

                                                                         *  *  *

Maddison Scott is a teacher, writer and procrastinator who lives in Melbourne, Australia. Her short stories have appeared in The Molotov Cocktail, Flash Fiction Magazine and are upcoming in two anthologies for Shacklebound Books. You can find her online at: maddisonscott.wordpress.com

 By Leah Mueller

Lulu’s house lay on the edge of nowhere. When the sun rose, it took hours to reach her windows. She was a night person, so she didn’t mind.

When evening came, Lulu opened her blinds and let the darkness in. Peeking through the slats, she rested with one hand on the ledge. Outside, birds sang. Peace overwhelmed her. Nobody ever visited. It was better that way.

Sometimes, Lulu laughed for no reason at all. She didn’t care whether anyone else got the joke. It was a myth that women needed a partner to be happy. People took up way too much space. 

Her last partner was a carpenter who kept asking to redo her house. When she told him to leave, he wanted to stick around and fix one of the door hinges. People always tried to do something she didn’t want.

One morning, Lulu heard a tentative knock. She took a step forward, then paused. “Who is it?  You’re way too early for a visit. Or too late. I can’t tell.”

“Girl Scout cookies.” The voice sounded young, timid. 

Lulu didn’t want to open the door, but she’d always been a sucker for Girl Scout cookies. Especially Thin Mints. Peanut Butter Patties weren’t bad either. 

“Hang on,” she said, fumbling for her robe. 

Lulu gave her sash a brisk tug and yanked the door open. Outside stood a young girl. Maybe ten years old, but who could tell? She wore a tattered Girl Scout uniform. Both knee socks had fallen to her ankles. One shoe had come untied. Despite her dishevelment, the girl’s expression was eager, like she expected something good to happen.

The visitor’s vulnerability stirred something deep inside Lulu. “Well, come in. Would you like some tea? I’ll put the kettle on.”

The girl paused at the threshold, unsure whether she should enter. Finally, her entrepreneurial spirit prevailed. “I only have Thin Mints. They’re my favorites. I accidentally dropped the rest in the garden. When I tried to find them, they were gone.”

The kettle emitted a piercing whistle. Lulu switched off the burner. She filled two mesh tea balls with chamomile and placed them into matching cups. After she poured in the boiling water, tiny yellow rivers swirled around the cups’ inner rims.

The girl sank into a chair and smiled. Such a polite child! Somehow, she seemed familiar. But where had she come from? The closest house was 100 miles away.

Suddenly, Lulu realized that she was gazing into her own face. Why hadn’t she noticed sooner? The visitor was Lulu herself, as a young girl. She had the same trembling lower lip, the same keen, inquisitive eyes. And, most importantly, the same inexhaustible love of Thin Mints. 

Lulu slid a teacup towards the girl. A cloud of steam rose into the air.

“Thin mints are perfect,” she said. “I’ll buy all of them. And take as many cookies as you want.”

                                                              *   *   *

Leah Mueller’s work appears in Rattle, NonBinary Review, Brilliant Flash Fiction, Citron Review, The Spectacle, New Flash Fiction Review, Atticus Review, Your Impossible Voice, etc. She has been nominated for Pushcart and Best of the Net. Leah’s flash piece, “Land of Eternal Thirst” appears in the 2022 edition of Best Small Fictions. Her two newest books are “The Failure of Photography” (Garden Party Press, 2023) and “Widow’s Fire” (Alien Buddha Press, 2023). Website: http://www.leahmueller.org.

 

A Memoir by Jen Schneider

I bought the leather riding boots on a whim. Filene’s Basement had a close-out that coincided with a visit to my newborn son’s pediatrician. I didn’t plan the purchase (or his many follow-ups). I also didn’t have extra money to spend. But somehow, the baby and I made a quick detour, and I grabbed the closest Size 10 box I could find, then quickly moved through check-out (his newborn feeding schedule primarily on demand). 

The box fit perfectly in the base of my baby’s pram. It didn’t matter that it was a balmy 80 degrees in the middle of June. I was preparing for the coming winter and, with a planned move back home at the end of summer, I was already missing Beantown and newly planted roots. 

Boston was a new-to-me city, but I had already sowed seeds that felt less seasonal and more like destiny. Friends didn’t understand why I was leaving so soon. Colleagues blamed the decision on the weather. That winter had been one of the worst (or best, depending on who’s speaking) in recent history. 

“One for the records,” the locals liked to say with their signature fast-paced speech. 

Icy crystals had fallen from the middle of October straight through April, with a few seen in early May. I recall flakes falling outside the hospital’s labor and delivery room window.

“It’s not always like this,” friends insisted as we pushed prams, our boots still on, down Boylston Street one Saturday in June. The Red Sox often in town. 

Three of my colleagues and I had given birth within a span of eight weeks. Jokes about the water in our downtown office building turned to promises about Boston’s other charms. My friends pitched everything from historic landmarks to games at Fenway to ongoing deals at Filene’s.

“Stay,” they said. “There’s no guarantee it won’t storm at home.”

“I wish we could,” I replied, then braced myself for what the upcoming season might bring.

The weather didn’t bother me. I didn’t know how to tell my colleagues-turned-friends that my baby would undergo medical procedures scheduled for a winter delivery. We needed to move closer to my family home and a doctor who specialized in cranial neurosurgery. 

As Fall brushed shoulders with Winter, my husband and I packed up what we had collected over the prior two years, boots included, and rented a Honda that took us and the baby first West on 1-90 then South on 1-84 and 1-95. As we drove on numbered highways, we carefully tracked our baby’s vital signs. 

Once at our destination, we unpacked what boxes we had and continued with pre-op preparations. We spent most of that early winter in the front room of a house with very little furniture. The four bed, two bath rental right off a main highway was close enough to feel like a city — not Boston, but not the middle of nowhere. 

Within walking (stroller-pushing) distance, we found hot chicken at a gas station and a 24/7 laundry. The clerk, dressed in a blue button-down with a red bowtie, always wore a smile, even as I stood at the dryer crying from exhaustion. My baby and the riding boots were constant companions.

A few weeks after unpacking, we traded a rental car for a Land Rover. No more pushing the pram to the Walgreens three miles down the highway only to turn back before trading currency for the day’s recommended intake because I feared the baby might stir prematurely. During fever spikes and worrisome lab reports, we’d spend hours in ERs and rooms with no doors waiting for blood ports. 

In a world when the Internet was still in its infancy, I was left with little other than a single printout to understand my infant’s upcoming surgery. As I struggled to gain my footing, I’d wear the boots, a reminder of the power of durability. Mostly, I learned that the rarer the condition, the less routine the journey.  

“Together, we’ll rally,” I remember whispering to myself as I’d pull off the boots come evening, but not truly believing.

Pre-op procedures went into overdrive right around Halloween. We rarely left the house, as the OR demanded a cold-free, clean bill of health status. When the doorbell rang, I (used to our situation) opened the door with my baby in my arms, his head wrapped with some sort of compression band I didn’t understand. 

“A mummy!” trick-or-treaters exclaimed.

Hearing only “Mommy,” I’d quickly check to make sure the baby was okay. 

In late November, came the surgery. After a marathon twelve-hours, new bandages were freshly applied. Discharge tracked by the hour. For weeks, passersby didn’t understand and thought we were playing some form of dress-up.

On my own to learn how to navigate life suddenly doctor-free, I turned to winter as a welcome hiding place – boots always on. 

“Take time to rest,” the doctors said, “be careful to avoid infection.” 

Under winter’s blanket, quilted of carols, cardinals and stuffed animals, we did.

Incredibly, the post-surgery routine was a period of calm and curiosity. As sutures quietly dissolved and scars healed, we would stand at the window and count the birds that would gather. A trio of mourning doves, warblers, and crows came to know our routine. They asked no questions. 

Our days were stitched of quiet wonderings. We’d watch the snow pile then pull at the weeping willow’s expansive hug. We’d drink warm liquids like milk and cider. I’d knit the baby skull caps in fabric that didn’t scratch scars. 

That winter was marked by heavy snow and simplicity like I hadn’t known prior. Friends from Boston wrote, “I told you so,” signed with a 😊 and hand-drawn snowflakes.

I know, I remember thinking — there’s no guarantee of limited precipitation. In my small house near a big city, I cried less, and we controlled what we could. 

His hair grew, as whispers of green grass poked through the winter’s glow. On walks neighbors would comment on his attire and his smile — bandages no longer the focus of the hour. The house with few furnishings had a sunroom with green carpeting. We’d sit as if we were picnicking and read picture books — Katy and the Big Snow, The Mitten, and Snow.

I wore my leather riding boots as my baby dug his toes in the artificial grass and learned to crawl. Together, we’d watch the snow fall. As we read Puss in Boots and How to Build a Snowman, we learned how to re-build our post-surgery routines.

On leave from work to focus on post-op recovery, I had few non-baby-related distractions to claim. 

In the middle of winter, there was, suddenly, extended time.

No needles. No blood draws. 

No spinal taps. No release forms. 

Instead, we planted seeds in letters and dug our toes in the newly designated playroom’s thick green carpet.

As winter bloomed, “ER” slowly became nothing other than an opportunity to learn. 

E is for elephant, egg, and electric.

R is for regular, routine, and rabbit.

We’d practice letters and I’d think of my Boston-based comrades. 

As the days’ limited light turned, that world felt increasing far. 

F is for fun, funny, and future.

Recovery was a release amidst winter’s surprising warmth.

Few phone calls.

Mail delivered through slots in front doors. 

Six days a week, around noon, a voice boomed, “Hellooooo!”

My baby would laugh as winter blew.

The mailman, a friendly fella named Roger who wore leather boots of his own, would drop envelopes and flyers through a gold flap in the front door. As the weeks wore on, hospital bills folded like origami into smaller and smaller tallies and my baby’s laugh grew into its own.

“Mail!” and “Mama!” were his first words. 

As the scars healed and the storms quieted, we ventured back outside. I’d pull my leather boots up high and zipper my fleece as I wrapped his head in hand-knit styles. 

I’d push the stroller around icy patches, no longer worried if the baby woke from his nap early. The pharmacy-free supermarket across the street stocked everything we might need.

We’d count jars of pureed peaches and baby carrots, stack Cheerios in tiny plastic cups, and track the color of cars (not scars). 

We took walks simply to observe — Big Diggers, Little Dippers, people movers.

With life in slow motion, tensions, once as tight as origami penguins, began to unfold. As I relearned how to sleep, breathe, and even knit pom poms, my baby consumed solid food. I’d scratch in spiral notebooks and write haiku while the baby would stretch limbs and coo.

Together, we bloomed in winter’s arms. Always with my boots, together, my baby and I weathered winter’s ride and solidified new roots. As seasons go, Spring tends to be the focus for rebirth, but I’ll always think of Winter as a time of quiet gratitude and appreciation for life on Earth. A homecoming, for me, my family, and my leather boots.

                                                                            *   *   *                       

Jen Schneider is a community college educator who lives, works, and writes in small spaces in and around Philadelphia. She served as the 2022 Montgomery County (PA) Poet Laureate 

By David Lloyd

Miss Hughes had arranged us on three benches. She explained it was Show and Tell.

Joey volunteered to be first. He held up a jar of water with a screwed-on lid and a goldfish that circled around and around. Its belly looked about to burst. “They’re slimy,” Joey told us. “If you pick one up, it wiggles.”

“Can I touch it?” Jimmy asked.

“No,” Miss Hughes said.

Joey added these facts: “Goldfish eat brown powder. When they die, they float belly up. Then you flush them down the toilet.” 

The goldfish angled to the surface and gulped some air, then started circling again. Its eyes were tiny buttons stuck on its head.

“This is my fourth since my birthday,” Joey said. 

“Thank you,” Miss Hughes said. 

Joey sat down, setting the jar between his feet. 

Julia took a big shell from a shopping bag. She smoothed the pleats of her skirt. “It’s from New Jersey,” she said. “My sister found it. When you put the open part over your ear, you hear the ocean.”

Miss Hughes held the shell over an ear and closed her eyes. She smiled. “I hear waves on Nantucket in August,” she announced. She opened her eyes. “It’s a special memory. You might have one when you get older,” she told Julia. “Who would like to hear the ocean next?” She passed the shell to me. 

It felt cold on my ear. “It doesn’t work.” I said. 

“That’s because your ears are plugged,” Julia said.

“They are not.”

“Yes they are. Plugged with wax.”

“They are not.”

“That’s enough,” Miss Hughes said. “What a fascinating show and tell, Julia. Who’s next?”

Jeremiah said he brought a worm that lived in his backyard.

The girls groaned “Nooo!” but Miss Hughes said that nothing was wrong with worms. Worms help gardeners by putting air into soil.

Jeremiah pulled a wad of tissue from his front pocket. When he held it up, I saw that a reddish-brown blotch had seeped through. 

“They wiggle out of holes in the ground at night,” Jeremiah told us. “You stick a hook in them to fish. They bleed.” 

“Has that been in your pocket all day?” Jimmy asked.

When Jeremiah began unwrapping the worm, Miss Hughes made him stop. “Good enough,” she said.  “Put that away.” Jeremiah stuffed the tissue in his pocket.

Miss Hughes rubbed her forehead with a thumb and two fingers.  Then she called my name.  I stood, put my hands in my pockets and made fists.

“My Uncle Tony,” I told the class, “isn’t my uncle.”

Miss Hughes leaned forward. “Greg, do you have anything in your pockets to show us?” 

I took my hands out and looked at them.

“No.” 

I put my hands back in and cleared my throat like dad does before saying grace.  

“Uncle Tony and his friends play cards for money on Sunday nights.”

“But Greg.” Miss Hughes sounded annoyed.  “What did you bring?” 

“Uncle Tony.”

“Your uncle isn’t here.”

“I don’t want him to be.”  

I wanted to say that talking about Uncle Tony is better than seeing him.  Like talking about a goldfish is better than showing one in a jar.  Or hearing about a worm is better than a stained tissue.  

“The idea,” Miss Hughes said, smiling, “is to show something, and tell us about it. Did you forget?”  

A few kids giggled, and the loudest, I knew, was Julia.

“I didn’t forget,” I said, and sat down.  I was mad because I had rehearsed my Uncle Tony speech all the way to school.

“I‘m sure,” Miss Hughes said, “that your uncle is a nice person.”

Phil stood next.  His pants were streaked with dried mud, and ripped at one knee.  Kids said his parents didn’t know how to dress him because they lived on a broken-down farm.  He showed us a battered metal lunch box with a curved top.

“That’s … nice, Phil,” Miss Hughes said. “It looks vintage.”

Julie raised her hand. “What does ‘vintage’ mean?”

“It’s something your parents didn’t throw away.”

“In here,” Phil said, “is my pet frog.” He opened his lunch box. 

Julia made a face when Phil said “frog,” but I was interested. 

“I caught him by the pond. Frogs don’t give you warts,” Phil said. “I don’t have warts. Not on my hands anyways. They jump far.”

He set his frog on the floor.

“Jump!” Phil commanded. 

The frog didn’t. 

“Jump!” he commanded again, and jumped a little himself.

“Aren’t frogs supposed to be wet?” Jimmy asked. “That one’s totally dry.”

“Phil.” Miss Hughes stood. “I think ….”

“This morning he was jumping on my bed.”

Miss Hughes picked up the frog with a handkerchief from the sleeve of her sweater. She dropped it in Phil’s lunch pail and closed the lid. She folded her handkerchief so a green-brown smudge didn’t show, and set it in the trash basket.

“Thank you Phil,” she said. She looked like she was about to cry. “That’s all for ‘Show and Tell.’” 

“Hey” – it was Jimmy, who never bothered to raise a hand. “What about Grandpa’s watch? It’s mine since he passed from that blood cancer.”

“I’m sorry Jimmy, but ….” Miss Hughes turned to look out the window. I wondered if she was thinking about her special memory. But she had a sad look on her face.

Her eyes landed on me. 

“Greg – do you want to tell us about your uncle?”

I nodded but my feelings were still hurt.

“Is your uncle,” she paused, “still with us?” 

“Mom says he turns up like a bad penny,” I said.

“Then tell us about your uncle. Tell us about the nice things he does.”

I stood, put my hands in my front pockets again, made two fists, and told the class about how Uncle Tony likes to watch Bonanza with me on Sunday nights. That he eats White Tower cheeseburgers with mustard and ketchup mixed together. That once I found a full beer bottle under the backseat of his car. I told them Uncle Tony doesn’t have hair except over his ears. When he comes to our house he just walks in and yells “here I am!” Mom gives him a hug, and Dad shakes his hand.

Miss Hughes let me talk until I couldn’t think of anything else to say. So I said, “that’s all there is,” and took my seat on the bench.

                                                          *   *   *

David Lloyd is the author of eleven books, including three works of fiction: Boys: Stories and a Novella, Over the Line (a novel), and The Moving of the Water (stories). His stories have appeared in numerous magazines including Denver Quarterly and Virginia Quarterly Review. He directs the Creative Writing Program at Le Moyne College in Syracuse, New York. 

By Fred D. White

Mom executed Dad with scissors after he left us: snip, snip. Sometimes just his head, sometimes his torso as well, leaving only a slash of sinewy leg pressed against her sunscreen-gleaming thigh. Snip. Several of the snapshots leave only his ring-festooned hand clutching her bare shoulder on some beach when I must have been five or six, my memory of those days fading away. Here is one with them together in front of a church; but the snipped pic shows only Mom in a floral dress standing beside a pant leg and strip of blazer-covered arm. I’ve been trying, sixty or so years later, laden with Mom’s personal effects, including this shoebox filled with crinkled and mutilated photos, to recall Dad’s face. I can’t find it anywhere in this mishmash, Mom having been fiercely efficient in her guillotining. Snip. Snip. What compels me to conjure up his face after all these years? Is he even still alive? Only since Mom’s death a few months ago have I begun to bleed out memories of him, faded as they are. He was (is?) stocky, thick necked, with bulging biceps, wavy black hair. I cannot recall his face. It’s as if Mom has snipped it from my memory. But wait—I do recall his mouth, the way it twisted and curled during his many outbursts, exposing fearsome, saber-like teeth.

                                                                         *   *   *

Fred White’s fiction has appeared in Drunk Monkeys, Fictive Dream, The Nonconformist, and most recently in The Thieving Magpie. He lives in Folsom CA.