By Amy Marquez, Claudia Monpere, and Kim Steutermann Rogers

There was something in the wind that night, how it sent a chill through the cottage and made the branches outside rattle like bones. Even the resident Western screech-owl who roosted in a giant knot of the oak that survived the fire was silent.

Survivors. That’s what they were: oak, owl, woman. Although at eighteen, Twila didn’t feel like a woman. Getting out of bed, she wrapped herself in the pinwheel quilt her mother had made and went into the night, needing only the wind, the smell of pines, and the owl’s yellow gaze in the Wolf Moon’s glint. Twila’s eyes were slits sunk in puffy lids. She was all cried out, frantic about Ben.

Ben. That’s what she’d always called him. Not uncle, not daddy–although he was the one who’d raised her. Under the watchful eye of the owl, Twila walked toward the charred ruins of the old family house, sitting when she reached her favorite chunk of chimney. She’d been a toddler when the fire took her mother. Took her father, too, but in a different way. She could barely remember Gib as a young dad, how he and her mother and Twila sailed leaf boats on the stream. Made elf houses out of pinecones, sticks and rocks. That father vanished with the fire, alcohol his only comfort.  Ben took her in then and shut out Gib. Ben would be furious if he knew she and Gib had been talking. Sharing afternoons among the oaks sketching in their journals,Twila’s favorite subject the stocky owl with tiny ear tufts atop a squarish head so diligent in raising her three owlets covered in white fluffy down. Two years sober, Gib asked her to call him dad. Of course, she couldn’t. But she was thrilled about his invitation for a trip to the cloud forests of Peru where they would study the rare long-whiskered owlet, even smaller than her Western screech-owl.

Sitting among these ruins, Twila’s mind kaleidoscoped. Colors and patterns warring with each other. What did she owe each man? Gib, who wept in her arms, asking forgiveness. Ben, who steadily loved and raised her and whose eyes looked like hollow planets when he’d finally opened them after the stroke.

But the next day, at the hospital, Twila read something in Ben’s eyes. Love, yes. The love she’d always found in him. But, fear, too. The hospital bed seemed enormous, a white expanse of too crisp linen surrounding Ben’s shrunken frame. The stroke had hijacked his voice and the movement of every limb. Twila could hardly reconcile the figure in the bed with the CPA whose clients adored him.

She held his hand, breath catching in her throat as she stared into his eyes, certain of what he was thinking. Not like this. I won’t live like this. But then a nurse entered and took her aside. Twila learned that yesterday Ben had responded to questions with blinks, and this morning he moved two fingers on his left hand. None of that happened now, with her.

Guilt surged in her. Ben hated his brother. Blamed him for the fire, her mother’s death, the family’s implosion. Ben thought his brother was reckless, too carefree. That Gib didn’t take fatherhood seriously. Then, when tragedy struck, Ben was proven right, Gib too weak to resist the bottle’s escape.

Twila remembered the court battles when Ben finally got custody of her. But, when Gib reached out, she let him in. A tiny bit at first, but now here he was planning a trip with her and encouraging a career as a wildlife artist. He said her color palette was second only to the esteemed John James Audubon. No, he’d told her, she didn’t need to major in biology, pair that with a master’s degree from the best ornithology school in the country, and a subsequent professorship, as Ben counseled.

Ben no longer spoke his brother’s name, but Twila heard the we in his childhood stories, saw how the little boy in photos had grinned at the big brother behind the camera, knew that the man she’d never been taught to call father deserved a chance to say goodbye. Twila whispered in his ear, “I know how to reach him.” If she expected a response in a clenching of her fingers or even the faintest of muscle twitches in his hand, she felt nothing.

Later, she sat at her kitchen table, her cup of tea cold, staring at her phone. How to tell Gib about Ben’s stroke? Gib was still angry with his brother for refusing to let him back into their lives. Hours later, she found herself under the waning gibbous moon, seated on a burnt, fallen timber, and she made the call.

“I need you,” Twila said and, then, couldn’t choke out another word.

He listened. Not silently–he’d learned to make soothing noises that reassured her he was not afraid of her tears–but not rushing her to speak either.

“It’s Ben,” she said, explaining. She picked at the burned wood which still blackened her fingers. Just then the owl, who’d been quietly perched in the oak, swooped only a few feet from her face and she felt the rush of its wings as a warning. She knew the warning’s significance, as surely as she knew every step along the path, but if there was any question, her phone vibrated. It was the hospital.

“I’ll have to call you back,” she said.

“I can meet you there in ten minutes. “

She heard what he didn’t say: you won’t be alone. But she also knew what it would cost him to go to the place where he’d sat, night after night, in the burn unit waiting for her mother to recover. The place where he’d given up hope and let grief engulf him.

Twila grabbed the truck keys, hoping Ben’s ’74 F150 that needed a new fuel pump started.

“You sure?” Twila asked.

“It’s time,” Gib said.

The doctor who called said things had changed. It would be best if she could come in person. “Decisions need to be made.”

Twila was shocked by the Ben she found in the hospital bed, still gaunt, still feeble–but sitting up. She’d been bracing for the worst. He’d need months of rehab, near round-the-clock care to start, and he might never walk again. But he’d be able to go home soon.

Home. What would that even mean? Who would take care of him? How?

Gib texted from the lobby. He stood awkwardly, hands together, not sitting in any of the empty chairs that surrounded him. Twila felt time rewind, pull her back into being that three-year-old floating leaf boats with her father. That five-year-old trying not to cry in court. She hadn’t known she was crying again until he wiped her cheek with a thumb and pulled her into an embrace.

When they broke away from each other, Twila gave him the stunning news: Ben was improving quickly, dramatically. He’d be sent to rehab and then home. He’d need care.

“To continue living next to those burnt ruins?” Gib said, his words heavy with meaning. Regret? Guilt? Sadness? “It doesn’t have to be you, Twila. You do know you don’t owe him your whole life?”

Her mind blazed. She wanted to be owl, trees, ashes, anyone but herself. But that forest lived inside her, the strength she’d learned growing up with Ben among pines and oaks. Even those damaged by fires still put forth green buds each spring. And the owls who camouflaged in those oak trees during the day hunted at night with a clarity to see what others couldn’t.

She saw a different man upstairs than Gib. She saw a father.

“I know,” she said. She moved toward the elevator and paused. “Thank you for coming so quickly. And drive home safe.”

                                                                   * * *

 

Amy Marques has been known to call books friends and is on a first name basis with many fictional characters. She has been nominated for multiple awards and has visual art, poetry, and prose published in journals such as Streetcake Magazine, South Florida Poetry Journal, Fictive Dream, Bright Flash Literary Review, Ghost Parachute, Chicago Quarterly Review, and Gone Lawn. She is the editor and visual artist for the Duets anthology and has an erasure poetry book coming out in 2024 with Full Mood Publishing. More at https://amybookwhisperer.wordpress.com.

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Claudia Monpere lives in the San Francisco Bay Area and is regularly visited by wild turkeys. Her flash appears or is forthcoming in Split Lip, Craft,SmokeLong Quarterly, Pithead Chapel, The Forge, Atlas and Alice, Milk Candy Review, and elsewhere. Her short stories and poems appear in such journals as The Kenyon Review, The Cincinnati Review, River Teeth, Prairie Schooner, New Ohio Review, and Hunger Mountain. She received the 2023 SmokeLong Workshop Prize and has been nominated multiple times for a Pushcart, Best of the Net, and Best Small Fictions.

*

Kim Steutermann Rogers lives in Hawaii where she shadows scientists into rain forests, volcanic craters, and wetlands, but most days, she sits on her bum and attempts to churn out words appropriate to the science and place and people of it all—and tells herself she should exercise more. Kim’s science journalism has published in National Geographic, Audubon, and Smithsonian; and her prose, recently, in Five South, Fictive Dream, Lost Balloon, and Reckon Review. She was awarded residencies at Storyknife Writers Retreat in 2016 and 2021 and at Dorland Mountain Arts in 2022 and 2023.

 

 

By Olha Svyripa

I lie down on a park bench and count my rapid breaths – one, two, three, … I force longer exhales, force longer inhales, my lungs feel like collapsing. I can’t breathe.

I close my eyes and listen to my heart pounding – one, two, three, … It’s like a wounded animal inside my rib cage, rushing back and forth, bleeding, dying. I lie still. 

“I feel like it is my fault,” somebody talks right into my ear. 

Broken pieces of thoughts march through my head, up to my skull, through my tangled hair, and down to the broken glass on the asphalt. I watch two huge dogs fight over a pink squeaky bone-shaped toy. 

Something bad is going to happen. I can feel it.

“What you said?” 

I watch the blue sky of an early spring crumble. It’s debris falling onto the city. Black holes left behind.

“It’s like I’m sending those missiles over to you.” 

“Right!” I shout out sarcastically. “Wait, what?”

“I’m fine when the missiles are headed down from the North, you know. But then sometimes they would change direction, and go your way, to the West. And I always feel like it’s my fault.”

Oh, you trying to be funny. Wind sweeps through the brand-new green leaves – one, two, three…

“Right! I’ve always wondered why you don’t just catch them with a sweep-net!” 

Our hollow laughter is coughed out into the cold air of an early spring. I watch a flock of ravens hurled into the crumbling sky by a gust of wind. I lose your words somewhere in the cracks of my mind. 

Something bad is going to happen. I can feel it in the fresh green leaves. In my pounding heart. In my broken thoughts.

I close my eyes and count the springs of war – one, two, three…

 

                                                                                  *   *   *

Olha Svyripa started writing two years ago, drawing directly from her war experiences in Ukraine. So far, she’s got seven pieces in Atticus Review about the war’s first day and a flash, “Day 542,” in Another Chicago Magazine, which is part of her “Days of War” series, sharing snapshots of life during the war.

By Dave Donelson

I dressed in my clown suit for the funeral. Complete with red-rubber-ball nose, yellow floor-mop hair, and white polka dot suit with blue pom-pom buttons, I walk down the aisle of the sacristy looking for a seat among the black-clad mourners who stare at me open-mouthed and speechless. Not often you see a clown at a funeral. 

But why not? When you cut us, do we not bleed? When you slap us, do we not cry? Even if our fans are but six years old and just learning to read—Dick and Jane, see Spot run—do they not wake up one morning suddenly rotting on the inside, then die mercifully fast in the mind of time but horribly slowly in the reality of the world? They do and we do and none of that changes just because my big shoes make obscene flapping noises as I stride with dignity down the center aisle, looking in vain for an empty seat or at least a friendly face willing to scrunch over to make room for one more.

Getting here wasn’t easy, although it wasn’t nearly as hard for me as it was for little Benjamin. He screamed through nights and days of red-hot coals in his stomach sac and scalding bile that boiled up like lava through his esophagus, acid-etching his tongue and sizzling out his nostrils. Little six-year-old Benjamin’s belly swelled and then shriveled, his tiny penis blackened, his skinny legs contorted into pretzel cramps. Sunken, his eyes searched his desperate parents’ faces for a clue as to when God would turn the final page in his plan book and let little Benjamin die. My trip, starting at my apartment in Brooklyn and ending at the church in New Rochelle, was easy by comparison.

I must admit, though, that traveling in full clown regalia presents certain daunting discomforts. The sunny children on my street come running whenever my white-painted face comes out the door of my building. Today, they laugh and dance seeking favors and tricks, ignorant of the solemnity of my journey. “Gimmee! Gimmee!” they cry, until I do the flower-bloom trick and toss a scant handful of candy into the air to distract them long enough for me to disappear down the stairs into the subway. They are so easily pleased and willingly fooled. The people in the subway station near my home are clown-friendly, too, used to seeing my wide lips and pom-pom buttons, but the riders passing through from stops deeper in Brooklyn aren’t my friends. Most of them avert their eyes and hide behind their phone screens or stare into vacant space six inches in front of their nose and hear only the beat-beat throbbing through their head phones. A few look daggers at me. They’re getting ready to repel my shtick, to rebuff a plea for spare change they know I am going to start soon. But I disappoint them, today at least, and sit demurely trying to keep my over-sized shoes out of people’s way. I busy myself re-arranging the loaded handkerchief so the flower-bloom trick will be ready for the funeral. Little Benjamin never tired of that gag, and neither do I.

Going down the subway stairs in my floppy clown shoes was tricky but not hard; going up the stairs from the subway at Grand Central station was very difficult, though, so I rode the escalator with my protruding feet sideways on the stair. That ride was brief, as was the walk through the sky-topped terminal and the mercifully short train ride to New Rochelle. It was after rush hour and I rode against the tide, too, so there were few other passengers to distract me from my meditation with pesky questions about how long it takes to put on my makeup and isn’t it hot in that polka dot suit? Gee, do you make any money doing that? I bet the tips are good, though, huh? 

Who do these people think they are? Do they expect me to show them my tax return just because my face is painted wide-eyed and permanently surprised? Why can’t they suspend their worship of prosperity for a short while and enjoy the show?

I walk the few blocks from the New Rochelle train station to the old church with its even-older graveyard full of pilgrim mothers and historical soldiers and rows and rows of dead babies tucked beneath the well-kept grass and crumbling markers. The crowd mills quietly around the church door, murmuring, murmuring among themselves. Stiff-backed policemen in shiny-button coats cluster near the door, pasty-faced and blank-eyed from fighting back tears; little Benjamin was one of their favorites. 

Purple police veins pop and eyes rage when they see the tall sunflower on my hat bobbing its way through the people on the sidewalk who look nervously from me to the cops, silently pleading for intervention and a quiet execution. “Show some respect, for God’s sake. This is a funeral!” the murmurs grow louder until someone says, “Shhhh! The family’s in there” and a little girl pipes up with “That’s the birthday clown!” She is wrong, but the crowd lets me pass. I turn at the door and toss a handful of candy in gratitude to the little girl.

I stand and blink my giant eyes, adjusting them to the dark and rustling church. An organ chord moans; a mourner sniffs unseen. My gloved fingers close around the rubber squeeze bulb of my honk-honk horn, but I resist, deciding instead to wait for just the right moment. An usher guides me into the aisle so the people behind can get in. My shoes flop-flop on my way down the aisle. All the pews in back are packed and the people in the middle ones close ranks as I approach. 

The pew right behind little Benjamin’s parents is completely vacant, no one willing to sit that close to such sorrow lest it be infectious, so I slide into it with a swish of my polka dot suit across the polished oak. I carefully maneuver my big floppy shoes under the pew before me, but the bulbous toes inadvertently nudge the ankles of poor little Benjamin’s black-veiled mother. She turns to see who had so rudely intruded on her grief and gasps at the sight of my white clown face perpetually grinning behind her. Her stolid husband gasps, too, and starts to rise, but the minister steps to the pulpit just then, so the husband sits back down and pats his wife’s clutching hand. As the minister drones on above their weeping, they soon forget the clown sitting behind them. 

Little Benjamin doesn’t, though, I am sure. Even in his tiny box, he giggles knowing I am about to dazzle him with razzle and honk-honk the horn to call forth the flower-bloom trick he so loves. I endure the scorn and stares of the funeral crowd in hopes the memory of his singing laugh will echo in their hearts forever as it does in mine.

                                                 *   *   *

Dave Donelson is a freelance writer and artist whose work has appeared in dozens of publications as diverse as American Atheist, the Christian Science Monitor, Plum Creek Review, Inkwell, and Stoneboat Journal. The author of 16 books of fiction, non-fiction, poetry, and memoir, Dave was honored in 2023 by the NYS Council on the Arts for his collection of graphic poetry, Visions of a Certain Age. An overview of his work can be found at http://www.davedonelson.com.

 

By Stefanie Lee

There is a lump in my throat and I cannot swallow it. Something has died, and in its absence, growth takes the shape of a gaping wound. Since heartbreak sat on my chest like an undomesticated beast, smoking as indignantly as a snuffed candle, I vowed I would learn how to build a cage. Steel bars, welding, trigonometry: I would design armor instead of spectating idly to my ribcage’s cracking. Far removed from love, disconnected from love, heartbreak was a means to an end. End of summer in the aftermath, I seize my life, my intelligence, with firm hands, exert pressure until it is bereft of breath, devoid of outward influence, and then—only then—do I make it my own. My own. Mine, alone.

“A penny for your thoughts?” A voice slices through the stillness, but I dismiss it as the wayward synapses of my brain. Neuronal connections gone haywire, a slight hallucination. 

Outside the solemn office of the dean, I sit in a hallway that seems to breathe with the weight of years gone by. Important documents crinkle over my lap, pages covered in tiny ridges and valleys—college application, a letter, my own name written in blue ink at the top. Massachusetts Institute of Technology, awesome and serious. Pending moving day. A future, unknown. Yellow paint adheres in shedding clusters to the walls, flaky like pastry. First: interview. 

The musty air tugs my chin up like a tender finger, and I imagine all the women who have sat in this position before me, this chair that I morph into—doubtful, thoughts bubbling over as hot water that boils like brains, yet equally confident. Woolf, claiming a room as her possession, or Dickinson in her fiery-heart rage against structure, or Stein saying that you attract what you need, like a lover. But here, I am not the lover. Scrutinized, judged, I could not yet speak for myself. The invisible breeze, drafty from particles that we could not directly criticize, has a mind of its own.

Screech of a chair sliding against the floor tears me from my disjointed thoughts. A man in a navy suit takes a seat beside me. His socks are embroidered with tiny, sparkly stars. Reflecting the hallway’s dim light is a plain face, devoid of emotion, but his eyes are captivating. Emerald green.

“A penny for your thoughts?” he asks, his voice holding a hint of playfulness, but also a peculiar gentlemanly depth. Tousled chestnut hair forms a bird’s nest atop his head. He looks down at my hand—the coin is firmly pressed under my palm, out of sight.

Taken aback by the question, I shift in my seat. His eyes mirror the room around us, yet there is a hollow quality that sends a chill down my spine. His proximity is disconcerting—looming like a deadline. I instinctively lean my body away.

Evidently unfazed, he continues to study the penny in my hand. 

“You’re nervous, aren’t you?” he observes, empty stare piercing through me. A short, abrupt laugh bubbles from his lips. “The unknown can be a frightening thing. But it’s also where great opportunities lie.”

The huntress within me rises, silent and cold. Watchful. Ready. Without courage, you are powerless, she tells me. 

“A penny for your thoughts?” he repeats, this time with more emphasis on each word.

The princess within me questions: How many trials are to be put before me? I have a tender heart, you know, and that is the most important thing, after all. 

“A penny for your thoughts?”

The warrior within me does not answer. She is sharpening her sword. She has already won, within her mind, knowing she has no other choice. Intellect is worth more than emeralds, she insists.

“A penny for your thoughts?” 

I had attained a state of inward distance in which it became difficult to remember yesterday—or to believe that the self who lives in me, day after day, truly belongs to me. What else can I give, besides my body, my desires, my willpower, everything? Spare change in the form of intellect, that is the answer. Asking the uncomfortable question at the wrong time, in the wrong classroom, when I realize that I am not wanted, and I assert myself anyway. Well, I give all of me. I peel back the paint, strip the floorboards. I speak up louder than a thunderclap. 

There is a lump in my throat and I spit it out. 

Before, my usual emotions, my regularly irregular habits, my conversations with others, my adaptations to the world’s social order—before, they appeared as if read somewhere, akin to lifeless pages of biography or details from a novel, in a paragraph mid-chapter, overlooked as wandering thoughts took the helm. The narrative slackened until it slithered on the ground like a snapped tightrope. Now, I am offering myself up to this hungry world, because I know that I am worthy.

Feeling a jolt of confidence, I hold the penny up in front of the man between two fingers. 

And then it happens—the coin drops from my hand into his palm, closed tightly around it. As he sits back in his chair, a deep sigh escapes him and it almost seems like he is absorbing all of the emotions that had been attached to the penny through its journey—anxiety, fear, doubt, warmth, and toil. All at once, it is. I will defend my peace, my life, my future. 

“Thank you for your thoughts,” the man says with a smile, his cheeks seeming to glisten in the dim light. His eyes are no longer empty, but filled with a radiating kindness. 

I had never quite understood the kinesthetics of my heart, how it triggers bullets at the tips of my fingers and curls them into fists. I learn to watch myself from a distance and swallow the guilt. Here is a hand that writes mathematical proofs, knowing nothing about kneading bread. Here is due north, the child I am not yet having, polar star being the diploma that will eventually adorn the walls of my home like a family portrait. And when I dive into the space between my doubt, I build myself a throne, sitting alight with the sun crowning my hair. 

“But wait,” I protest, bewildered. “Isn’t the expression supposed to be the other way around? You give me a penny in exchange for my thoughts?”

“Sometimes, letting go of something physical can help ease the burden of what we carry inside,” the mysterious man murmurs. “Untether us from the darkness of our own mind. Of our thoughts, if you will.” He winks. And in a flash, he is gone.

Realizing that I am now inside the dean’s office, sitting before an imposing mahogany desk, a wave of confusion washes over me. The dean stands before me, adjusting his glasses.

“I’m sorry, miss…?” he trails off.

“Dorothy,” I reply automatically, sticking out my hand for him to shake. 

“We ask that you make a deposit for administrative fees prior to your Master’s interview,” the dean explains patiently.

Feeling even more perplexed, I turn to look out into the hallway—but it is empty. There is no sign of the man with stars on his socks or echoing voice. I blink rapidly, trying to clear my mind.

“I could have sworn there was someone familiar waiting with me earlier,” I say hesitantly.

The dean shakes his head. “I didn’t see anyone. You know, you’re not in Kansas anymore, Dorothy,” he quips with a small smile. 

Taking a deep breath, I force a smile as I reach into my pocket to pull out a coin. Without hesitation, I place it on the dean’s desk, watching as it glints under the harsh fluorescent lights. The dean arches an eyebrow at the unexpected gesture, but says nothing as he takes the coin and slides it into a drawer. I pay the fee with a few crumpled bills.

The last month of my girlhood will be warm. The air will be thick and the sun will turn my body freckled and darkened. This body that is no longer a child’s. This heart deflated but not broken. This mind that couldn’t possibly be kept from the stars and sky by any screen or window, so I will leave it all open, front door ajar. Cicadas pitch and wail in unison, though exceedingly far away from my current urban location, and the trees whisper in a language I have been hearing all my life but still strain to draw meaning from. All around me, there are countless quiet messages that I had been missing. That is the true shame.

As the interview begins, I find myself surprisingly at ease. The questions flow smoothly, my responses coming naturally. After what feels like both an eternity and a mere moment, the interview concludes. I exit, and the hallway is still dimly lit, but now it holds a sense of possibility rather than trepidation. A coin glimmers knowingly on the linoleum beneath my feet. 

                                            *   *   *

Stefanie Lee is an ambitious young writer from Montréal, Canada. Living with a rare physical disability called Nemaline Myopathy, she is a motivated student who will be studying Software Engineering as of Fall 2024. When she is not writing or studying, she can be found editing her photography or solving crossword puzzles.

By Gavin Boyter

I was wrong, Suzannah. 

I was wrong when I said Bitcoin would top $70,000. I was wrong when Doggyspa.com seemed like a great investment. I was wrong when I thought my first marriage would last a lifetime and when I remained certain my second could be saved. I was wrong to try primal scream therapy. I was wrong about kombucha (it isn’t a pretentious waste of time). I was wrong about The Killers (I thought they were a questionable Duran Duran rip off with one album in them at best). I was wrong about sending Alex to boarding school (a terrible move). I was wrong about his Asperger’s (it didn’t just “clear up”).

I was wrong about Skype versus Zoom (remember Skype?) I was wrong about ivermectin. I was wrong about Julia’s whooping cough (it wasn’t whooping cough). I was wrong about Bosnia and Herzegovina as a holiday destination (a surprisingly beautiful and fascinating country). I was wrong about cross country running (it’s not for me). I was wrong about every tie I ever bought (Emily, second wife, told me). 

I was wrong about Lexus RZ getting 300 miles on a single charge. I was wrong about there being a service station on this B-road with an electrical charge point. 

I was wrong about Nokia. I was wrong about Vienna’s architecture (surprisingly dull). I was wrong about Kathy teasing me mercilessly in primary school (apparently that could be a sign of affection). 

I was wrong about jazz (I enjoy Dave Brubeck, Ella Fitzgerald and Miles Davis). I was wrong about isolation tanks (they are terrifying). I was wrong about promoting my CFO to CEO. I was wrong about the hostile takeover. I was wrong about the IPO of my first company. I was wrong about sub-prime mortgages (but so was everyone else). I was wrong about marital counselling (it might have worked, but I realised my error too late, and papers had been served). 

I was wrong about sunset times in late January in Assynt. I was wrong about the lack of 4G (forget about 5G) north of Inverness. I was wrong to wear these shoes. I was wrong to refuse a hat or scarf or gloves.

I was wrong about Alex’s wedding. I was wrong about his husband. I was wrong about their first dance, and how it would make me feel (I cried). I was wrong to trust the Daily Mail and wrong to become an early adopter of Twitter, before my thoughts on gay marriage and the ordination of female priests had… matured. I was wrong about Piers Morgan. I was wrong to vote for Boris (again, not alone in that one). 

I was wrong not to install a home gym instead of a home cinema (Bergman prints won’t save me now). I was wrong not to keep up the cross country, even if I hated it. I was wrong to enter this plantation, and wrong to follow the forestry trail (it led nowhere). I was wrong not to buy that satellite phone. I was wrong not to get a hybrid and carry a spare can of petrol. I was wrong not to invest in some paper maps. I was wrong to forget that the Highlands are not the Cotswolds.

I was wrong about Julia’s ragged cough and wrong to opt for home remedies. I was wrong about getting a second opinion (we should have got several). I was wrong about cancer in juveniles. I was wrong about experimental treatments (they made her short life a misery). I was wrong about suing my GP (a complete waste of everyone’s time). I was wrong about the Make a Wish Foundation. I was wrong about palliative care. I was wrong about grief and how long it lasts (it doesn’t end, it just becomes a background ache of disappointment and injustice). I was wrong about money getting you to the front of the queue. I was wrong about the NHS (their nurses are angels). I was wrong to think a marriage can withstand anything. I was wrong about the burial plot, and about the evening sun streaming between the churchyard willows.

I was wrong to insist on a registry wedding (my second marriage, Emily’s first). I was wrong about the bridesmaid’s dresses (they didn’t look like raspberry meringues). I was wrong about Robbie Williams’ “Angels” for a first dance. I was wrong about dance lessons (we got a round of applause). I was wrong about the cruise (they suck). I was wrong to work 70-hour weeks for thirty-eight years. 

I was wrong about the symptoms of a heart attack. I was wrong not to call 999. I was wrong about keeping up with my physiotherapy.

I was wrong about cushions, napkins, curtains, socks, scarves in short textiles of all colours, designs and purposes, according to my beloved Suzannah. I was wrong about The Frog Chorus (Alex’s favourite). I was wrong not to clap when he played it on two kazoos simultaneously. I was wrong about theoretical physics as a career. I was wrong about his writing. I was wrong not to attend the Science Book Awards. I was wrong to let another fight with Emily keep me at home watching the dullest Snooker Master’s final in decades. 

I was wrong about getting reception at higher altitudes. I was wrong to think I could see the car from here. I was wrong about how far the mercury drops after dark. 

I was wrong about my priorities. I was wrong about the unrelenting stain of shame. I was wrong about trying to blackmail Emily into staying.

I was wrong not to add ‘track-a-buddy’ to Suzannah’s phone so that she could trace me. I was wrong about moonlight when the clouds obscure the sky. I was wrong to risk this route. I was wrong to wear this thin jacket and these skimpy trousers. I was wrong not to leave an emergency contact at check-in. I was wrong to take this pointless trip alone. 

Susanna, bless her, was right.

                                                              *   *   *

Gavin is a Scottish writer and filmmaker living in Margate, Kent. He has published two travel memoirs about running ludicrously long distances, Downhill from Here and Running the Orient. The latter book charts his 2300 mile run from Paris to Istanbul, following the 1883 route of the Orient Express. Gavin’s stories have been published in Constellations, Blueing the Blade, DIAGRAM, Riptide, The Closed Eye Open, Bright Flash Literary Review, La Piccioletta Barca and Freshwater Review. He is also the writer-director of the 2015 independent film Sparks and Embers. In 2023, he published his debut novel Elena in Exile.

 

 

 By Kirk Boys   

I thought we had a perfectly good one, but my wife said we needed to make a change.  So Saturday we shopped for a new blender.  

 “That blender is 30 years old.  I threw it out,” my wife mentioned one Saturday morning over coffee.  

 “Didn’t it still work?” I asked. 

“Like I said, it was ancient,” she rolled her eyes, a sign discussion was over.

“Let’s go to target and get a new one,” she suggested.  

“We can make a day of it,” I offered.  

We agreed we had a plan.  “Nothing fancy,” my wife said.  Chop, grind and puree- that’s it.” 

A nice young woman in a red vest pointed us in the right direction.  “Appliances are across from grocery, aisle 38 I think.”  

We strolled past the shampoo and shavers, greeting cards and laundry soap, bedding and found blenders next to toasters in small appliances.  I could have stopped and looked for a birthday card or smelled some deodorants, but first things first.  A blender. 

“This Oster blender is only $29.99 and it comes in black,” my wife picked one out quickly, lickety-split my mom would have said.  Wish they had it in grey, but this will do.” She shimmied it out from the display and gently placed it in our huge, red, plastic cart.  “Take a look,” she motioned me over from the assortment of spatulas. 

It was all happening too fast.  I took my time and studied the box.  Oster Supreme, was in bold letters.  It looked identical to our old one, but it was black.  Our old blender was yellow, same color as a sunflower to be more specific.  I liked our old yellow one just fine, but it wasn’t my decision, like I said.  I lifted the Oster Supreme into our huge, shopping cart.  It looked lonely in there.  

Across from us, in aisle 41 a guy in a black track suit was looking over at us, eves-dropping on our blender talk.  There was a table of avocados piled up in a pyramid of sorts. Fresh from Mexico: a sign read.  It made me think Inca’s ate avocados.  The track suit guy was staring at us still.  I decided to ignore him.  I didn’t want any trouble, not when we were having so much fun in small Appliances.

As I mentioned, we were going to make a day of it and here we were, Oster Supreme in our cart, ready to head to check out.  There had to be something else we could buy, something else we could replace with a newer model.  It wouldn’t do, to head to checkout after 10 minutes.  It was only 11:00am.  That left us a lot of daylight to burn before we could reasonably go for lunch.

“Now what?” I glanced back at the avocados.  “Maybe we should buy some avocados and make guacamole with the new blender?  How does that sound, Honey?

“No. I don’t feel like guacamole.  You should know that Honey.  We’d have to buy chips and salsa and that’s a whole thing,” she said eyeing a lineup of toasters.

 “Do we need a toaster?” I walked over to look at the toasters too.  “No, not really,” she said running her fingers across the bread holes.  “It doesn’t hurt to look.”  I agreed, it never hurts to look unless you happen to be a creepy guy in a black track suit.  It’s a great time killer too, looking that is.  

Target is a busy place on a Saturday.  People buying groceries and T-shirts, diapers and lawn chairs.  There were a couple moms with kids in strollers.  I saw a woman in an cruise past in a electric wheelchair.  Following behind was her husband.  He was pushing a pink stroller with two teacup Chihuahuas.  They were wearing those Irish cable-knit sweaters. They were pretty cute.  I felt bad for that husband though.

I looked at my phone hoping there was a message, an email, anything to slow things down.  It was only 11:11 am.  we needed to kill at least 49 minutes more before we could break for lunch.

“That’s all we need,” my wife said.

It seemed a strange thing to say since we didn’t really need a new blender, but who was I to argue. 

“I’d like to get a magazine,” my wife stated but more like a question.  “I’d like to buy the magazine, ‘Real Simple’.” She was firm, decisive.  

“You mean like our Blender?”  I said.  “Real simple,” but I don’t think she heard me.  She was looking for the red vest Target girl again to find out where magazines resided.  

“I’d like to buy the grandkids some toys,” I said.  I sounded decisive too, I think.  

 “No way, those grandkids are spoiled as it is.  No toys.  No way.”  She was right of course.  Our grandkids are pretty spoiled.  

“I heard their other grandmother has a bunch of toys for them to play with at her house,” I said.  There is nothing more powerful than a grandmother’s love for her grandchildren or her desire to be their favorite.  My wife has her triggers.  

“Who told you that?” She perked up.  

 “Little Kenny,” I answer.  “He said his sister got a Barbie car and several Barbie dolls. Poke ‘man cards for Randy, oh and a remote-control Jeep for him.

 “Let’s look at toys,” I suggested.  

It’s very possible my 5-year-old grandson, Kenny, is adept at the art of manipulation.  You could even speculate it is his super power.  I think that’s what people are talking about these days when they claim their kids are gifted.  Kenny, Kiki, as we call him, knows how to work his grandparents for candy and toys.  He’s a great kid, but refuses to go poop.  It’s a thing too I finding out.

By the time we scour the shelves for toys and toasters, buy the magazine and check out the price of stuff we’ve already bought to make sure we got a good deal, it’s lunch time.

 “How do you feel about Panera’s?” my wife asks.  It’s 11:50am, well within a reasonable Saturday lunch time.  

 “Sounds perfect,” I say, so we go to Panera’s for lunch.  I have a half turkey sandwich and a cup of soup.  My wife has a bowl of chicken noodle.  We’re done at 12:45.

We take the blender home and we ignore the assembly instructions and start randomly connecting its various parts.  “How does this thing lock to the base?” My wife is struggling with the new blender.  

“Let me try,” I struggled too.  

“This blender is a piece of crap,” she said as she grabbed the box.

I agree.  “I can only think of a couple things a blender is good for anyway: Marguerite’s and guacamole and one of those is already off the table.   

“Did Kenny really say that, you know, about the toys?” My wife asked again.  I can see she’s frazzled.  Frazzled is not one of the things on our Saturday agenda.

“That’s what he said, Barbie car, Poke’ man cards, and a remote-control Jeep.  Bottom line, lots of toys at other Grandma’s house.”

We could have gone back to Target, gotten serious about the toy competition, but we didn’t.  We showed a surprising amount of restraint.  We got our blender and that was that.

All-in-all I guess we had a pretty good day, my wife and I.  We got along, we agreed on a blender and then we agreed it was a piece of junk.  The Oster blender is back in the box it came in.  We decide to watch some TV.  My wife ordered a Hamilton Beach blender from Amazon.  It’s the same one we threw away only it’s silver.  I figure it’s good for 30 years, give or take.

                                                                  *   *   *

Kirk Boys is a writer living outside Seattle. He holds a certificate in Literary Fiction from the University of Washington. His fiction and essays have been featured in numerous publications including most recently Portland Magazine, Litro Magazine and Bristol Noir.

By Meg Healy

KEEP THIS COUPON, it declared, stuck to my sneaker’s sole by the gum I’d failed to scrape off yesterday. I obeyed and pocketed it. The little red ticket popped out as I jogged, the wind took hold, and I gave chase. Brakes squealed as my peripheral vision registered the approaching truck. Reflexes took hold, and I rolled into the gutter as the driver screamed “Look where you’re going!” A flurry of wind ruffled my hair, and my ticket appeared again at my feet. I left it for someone else to claim this time, struggling to my feet and hobbling home on a sprained ankle. 

                                                                          *   *   *

Meg Healy lives in Albuquerque, NM, with her family.

 

By Evelyn Arvey

“This will pinch,” the dentist said, his face looming over me. Dr. Robinson didn’t look much older than I was, and I was only fifteen. “The shots will feel like little tweaks. Are you ready, Evelyn?”

My gaze settled on a rectangular window beyond Dr. Robinson’s left shoulder. It wasn’t a generous window, or a pleasing one, and it showed nothing but dismal, cloudy sky. Twelve white slats ran across it, which I knew because I had counted them to distract myself as three shots of Novocain seared into my upper gumline. I’d trudged a mile and a half through heavy Seattle grayness for this appointment, alone, miserable, weeping. The weather suited my mood.

“That’ll get numb real quick,” said Dr. Robinson, busying himself at my side. Only, the first three shots didn’t numb my tooth. Neither did the next three. “I don’t know what’s going on here,” Dr. Robinson muttered, refilling the syringe. “This will be another pinch.”

I was finding it hard to breathe, as if one of the big round weights from my brother’s weight-lifting set was resting on my chest. Maybe two of them.

“That okay?” asked Dr. Robinson.

“Uh,” I grunted, my mouth gaping and salivating. No, I wasn’t okay. I hurt. Only, it wasn’t in my mouth.

“So, let’s get this cavity taken care of, shall we?” 

I yelped as the drill bit into the tooth. My back arched. My arms spasmed.

Dr. Robinson jerked away, flustered. “Not numb yet? I waited extra time. It should be numb.”

I turned my head away as he went back to the Novocain vial, not wanting him to see my tears.

“Ready for more?” he asked. “I’m really sorry. I hate to do this to you. These next shots shouldn’t hurt as bad.” Dr. Robinson administered the injections, then sat at my side, waiting. “Numb yet? You’ve had nine shots now.”

I only wished I was numb. A tear dribbled out of my eye. Then another.

He frowned. “Evelyn? What’s wrong? Are you nervous?”

I shook my head. “It’s just a bad day for me. A really bad day.” I glanced at him and saw his worried blue eyes.

“Look,” he said. “We don’t have to do this.” He put down the tool he’d been about to use. “What happened? Can you tell me?”

I swiped at my eyes, trying to avoid the suction tube hanging over my lip and the teal-colored bib clipped under my chin. “My boyfriend.”

Was he really my boyfriend, I wondered? Ricky and I had grown close. I’d never known anyone as spontaneous as him, as fun to be around. We played wild games of ping pong in my basement, making up our own rules. We were prone to burst into song— “Another Brick in the Wall” was a favorite—and to reciting as many lines as we could remember from “Grease”. He called himself The Italian Stallion. He called me Elevator.

“Did you break up?” asked Dr. Robinson.

“No.”

“Did you have a fight?”

“No.” I waited until he took the suction tube out of my mouth. “No. He died.”

Dr. Robinson froze. “He…died?”

“Early this morning.”

“Oh, jeez,” he said as he hung the suction tube on a clip on the side table. He turned back to me. “I’m so sorry. That’s terrible.” He paused. “Why are you here?”

I shrugged. “I had an appointment. My mom said I should come.”

We fell silent. Ricky was gone. I’d never see him again. His frail, pale body had given up the fight. Graft Versus Host Disease, it was called. In 1979, it happened about half the time with bone marrow transplants, and the doctors at Fred Hutchinson Cancer Research Center had done everything they could. Ricky’s mother, Anne, had been with him. She told us that she held his hand and said it was okay for him to rest, to let himself sleep, to be at peace. That was at two o’clock in the morning. Ricky was gone by seven forty-six. That was only four hours ago.

“That’s traumatic. You shouldn’t have come,” Dr. Robinson said.

Ricky shouldn’t have died. That’s what shouldn’t have happened.

He had “Boy in the Bubble” disease, which an older brother had succumbed to a few years earlier. Doctors thought a bone marrow transplant might save Ricky, so he and Anne, and also a third older brother who would donate the marrow, had come from Sacramento, California, to stay with us in Seattle while Ricky prepared for and underwent the dangerous procedure. They were distant relatives by marriage, we hadn’t known them, but it didn’t take long for both Ricky and Ann to become a welcome part of our family. So, was the Italian Stallion my boyfriend? Before he was in the hospital, we held hands when no-one else was around. We even kissed once. Was he my boyfriend? We hadn’t really figured it out. We’d run out of time.

Dr. Robinson unclipped my bib. “Evelyn. I am so sorry. Did you know that stress hormones can break down anesthetic? That’s why we can’t get you numbed up. Why don’t you go on home? We’ll reschedule for later.”

I stood up, wavering on my feet.

“I probably shouldn’t do this,” my dentist said. He leaned in. Put his arms around me. Hugged me. After he let me go, he dabbed his cheeks, which were as wet as mine. “Sometimes, a person has to be human, you know? Even a dentist.” He stepped back, then said, in a voice so soft I barely heard: “I lost my baby son two months ago. You have to let yourself feel it. Go home. Be with family.”

And so I walked home through drizzling cold rain, still feeling raw, still feeling wretched. But the sensation of Dr. Robinson’s hug lingered around my shoulders, and I realized I’d found something in his unexpected kindness: I wasn’t alone.

                                                                  *   *   *

Evelyn Arvey is a writer and artist living in Seattle, WA. Her work has appeared in Kaleidoscope, Allegory, and Pedestal Magazines, among others. She is the editor of two compilations of writings of people with MS, and her novel, “The Architect of Grayland,” was recently released. Evelyn is a member of the Peoria Tribe of Indians of Oklahoma.

By Jeremy Decker

A week ago, my hamster, Fluffers, told me he was experiencing either a mid-life or an existential crisis. He wasn’t sure which.

“It depends on how long I have left to live,” he said. He was running on his wheel, huffing and puffing as he squeaked. Maybe trying to strengthen his heart. I don’t know. “How do I know if it’s a mid-life crisis if I don’t know when mid-life is?”

I looked it up for him. “Wikipedia says a hamster lives about two years.”

“Okay, that’s not bad,” he said. “How long have I been alive?”

“About two years.”

“Oh. I see.” He stopped running on the wheel and rocked pendulum-like at its base until it stopped. “Existential then,” he said.

After that, he got broody. He started to talk about regrets — never starting a family, never seeing France, never writing a book. I hated to see him like that. So I bought him a little RC motorcycle. He cruised it carefully around the kitchen table a few times before he let out the accelerator, then he had to bail before he crashed into the wall beneath the window. The front wheel left a little tread-mark indent in the sheetrock, and he stormed off in a frightened huff and complained I was trying to kill him. But it wasn’t me who was trying to kill him. It was time. I was just an easier target.

Still, I knew I had to keep his mind off of it somehow — off of death, I mean. So I bought him a little tablet and loaded up all kinds of apps for him: games, books, news, you name it. It even had Pacman and Donkey Kong and Space Invaders. But he just used it to watch videos of vet surgeries.

“You’re obsessed,” I told him. “You have to think of something else. How do you expect to live life if all you think about is death?”

“I already lived it. It’s already over. I missed it.”

“Okay then,” I said. I was getting desperate, so I asked him: “What could I buy you that would fix this for you? Name it. Anything.”

He stuffed a wad of pellets into his cheeks and with a muffled little squeak he said: “A girlfriend. I want babies.”

So I bought him this cute hamster named Tinkles. She was Syrian, the pet shop said. She had a white patch around her left eye and a brown patch between her shoulder blades. As far as hamsters go, she seemed pretty attractive. But they fought. A lot. A religious dispute, as far as I could tell. And she was young, almost half his age. But they still had babies. He named them all after himself. There was Fluffers Jr. and Fluffina and Fluffo and Fluffondra and so on. His girlfriend accused him of narcissism and they fought all night about it. Then, while he slept, she ate their babies. Then he woke up and killed her. It was all very daytime television.

Still, I felt guilty about the whole thing. Not that it was my fault. It was time doing these things to him, not me. But I guess if you’re a hamster, taking on an undefeated heavyweight champ like time can be a daunting prospect.  So I let him be mad at me.

I held a funeral for his Tinkles and the dead little half-pieces of hamster babies. Buried them in the backyard by the lawn flamingos in a shoebox and an Altoids tin, respectively.  But he didn’t show up. He just sat in his cage, snout buried in the corner in a pile of wood chips, butt sticking up in the air. I poked him and asked if he was okay.

“I’m considering suicide,” he said.

I had come prepared for just this conversation. I said: “Don’t do that. I’d miss you too much.”

He pulled his head up from the wood chips and glared at me. “You don’t even know my real name.”

I bit my lip. “Your name is Fluffers, isn’t it?”

He made an unintelligible squeal followed by several short tongue clicks and a stertorous squeak. “That’s my real name. You utter asshole.”

I didn’t like being called an asshole by a hamster. So I asked: “How would you even do it? Suicide, I mean? You don’t even have thumbs.”

“I’d just stop eating.”

“I could force feed you.”

“I’d bash my head against the wall, then.”

“I’d pad your cage.”

“I’ll smother myself in wood chips.”

“I’ll remove every last one.”

He was getting heated now. He stood with his paws on the side of his cage and shouted up at me. “Then I’ll rip out my own throat with my claws, and if you cut off my fingers, I’ll drown myself in a puddle of my own piss.”

“Jesus,” I said. 

He was determined. It seemed there was no way to stop him.

I barely slept that night. All I could think about was poor Fluffers. I watched the first rays of light shine on the glittering dust motes in front of my bedroom window. Each one, for a moment visible, then gone. I knew then what I had to do.

I got up, dressed, got in my car, and drove to the pet store. I bought a cat. His name is Araqiel. He’s a calico.

He’s sitting in the front seat of my car, soaking up the sun as it warms the brown leather. His eyes are lazy little green emeralds, and he blinks long and slow, almost asleep as he’s awake. 

“You’re going to solve two problems for me today,” I tell him.

But he doesn’t say anything, or ask what they are. He just stretches his back leg high into the air and licks himself once, twice, three times, and closes his eyes in the sun.

*   *  *

Jeremy Decker is a writer from Colorado. His work has appeared in The Metaworker, Old Red Kimono, The Road Not Taken: A Journal of Formal Verse, and various others. 

By Johnson Yazzie

Love is ancient. Love is origination. Love is powerful. Love is beautiful. Love is annoying.

A flame beamed out of the darkness. At first, it was boundless. It was careless. It zoomed around in the darkness of the universe in the direction of eternity.

On the way to eternity, it stopped when it met serenity. There it soaked in the concept of time. And then it never moved from the space.

This holy flame became a star that appeared beyond the realm of heaven. As it rested in the arms of time, the bright flame star faced the future and felt the pull of a mysterious gravity. The star’s flame cooled as it transformed into a sphere that came to life in the kingdom of eternity. From the depths of the sphere a feeling sparked that was the consciousness of a god.

And then, a choice sparked! The flame-star-sphere became empowered. She found her voice and proved to all heavenly authorities before, behind, below, and above that she was capable of surviving on her own. She knew her sphere contained the foundations of all life’s elements thanks to god consciousness.

Around her foundation the blue atmosphere continued to evolve out of its darkness.

She watched but didn’t surrender her powers. Her body hid them and protected them. The yellow color of her temperature lit the way into the white world. The defensive weapons she carried surfaced in the green of herbs and weeds, bushes and trees. In her atmosphere, she blazed lightening and roared thunder. Those sounds were her evolution language.

Sphere’s awareness kept evolving and expanding until the unexplainable happened. A flash of lightening burst out of a cloud and struck a tree for the first time. Before that happened, the evolution’s language said the tree was needed and could not be damaged.

A law of tradition formed around the burning tree. Not a single creature could go near it because it represented harm.

But one day, a determined woman overstepped this cultural boundary and touched the burned and still burning tree. She collected a piece of it and took it back to her home. She felt that she didn’t have a choice in the situation because her family mattered, and they needed fire. She believed fire was the answer to their survival.

Some people now believe that there are things in the world far better, more comforting, loving, and graceful than their mother’s love of fire.

A mother’s love is felt in the fire at home. This is where teaching of truth begins. Yes, this kind of true love can be annoying because it requires choice. But what can be done? Choice takes you back where your life—and all life—started.

It is in the eye.

                                                                      *   *   *

Born on the Navajo Nation in Pinon, Arizona, Johnson Yazzie’s interest in creation began in childhood and led to a lifelong career in fine art as a painter, bronze sculptor, and illustrator.  The Navajo word hózhó means balance, harmony, beauty.  It is the word by which he lives.