By Samuel Tucker

He stared at her phone screen. The blue light was worming its way into his eyes to find a home in his brain so that it could block the melatonin. A math worksheet was on the desk in front of  him. His name was at the top. Three closed folders of different colors sat beside it. He stared at the lights and  noises on the screen. They changed every few seconds with a movement of the thumb. In his mind, he was screaming at himself to get some work done. There was so much of it, and it was piling up. If I could get one thing done, then I can take a break, he promised herself. He stared at the screen. His thumb moved up and down. A dull pain was forming at the joint. The work wouldn’t be too difficult. He knew how to do it all. The only thing that he had to do was get started on it. Still, he scrolled. He kept scrolling until it was time for bed. Then he scrolled in bed until he managed to put it down hours later.

He laid in the darkness. From that darkness, come his thoughts. They crept out of the hiding places that they had been forced into. Guilt and shame bellow and rage because he had so much to do. The amount that he’s left undone becomes a weight on his chest. It was getting hard to breathe. His mind was moving too fast. Thoughts came and went, leaving him  with the feeling of dread and the knowledge that he was letting everyone down. It became too much, so he reached a hand out into the dark. It closed around the tiny box. He touched the screen and light flooded the room. He began to scroll through the night to keep the thoughts away. 

*   *   *

Samuel Tucker is a freshman at Murray State University where he is majoring in creative writing. At the moment, he has no other works published.

I can’t stop staring at Scarlet…ogling when she passes by. Wishing, with every fibre of my being, that I could speak to her, just once, and finally put an end to this prolonged torment that’s wrecked me. Totally turned me – a once focused college student – into a restless, sleepless mess. 

*   *   *

Ben Murigu is a versatile creative from Nairobi-Kenya who, while teaching high school English and raising solo his teenage son, has self-published a fiction novel, Toy Soldiers, and, most recently, gotten his works into Coachella Review, Lit eZine, A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Fairy Charter, 50 Give or Take, Dear Booze & Yours2Read.

By Ani King

Don’t give him your number don’t wait for him to call don’t pick up the phone when he calls. Don’t go on a date with him just because he looks sweet don’t get clever and ask him about his famous rock don’t ask him about his only slightly less famous cock don’t let him graze against you until you are ready to rush headlong into anything he asks. Don’t let him call you cowboy so you think you can lasso him with your rope or tie him to your bed or move him into your house or fix him breakfast or walk along the promenade with him don’t laugh when he explains that promenade is fancy for sidewalk don’t propose on a sidewalk don’t give him your father’s ring when you do. Don’t take him home to the country don’t forget that he flees when he feels lonely in the country don’t forget that he always feels lonely in the country. Don’t pick up the phone when he calls from whatever rat-fucked half burntdown bar he’s found himself in tonight or tomorrow night or the next don’t give anyone cash when they haul him home don’t be grateful when they do don’t forget the money is for little crinkling bags of unreliable happiness. Don’t take him back don’t take him back don’t take him back if you don’t plan to keep him. Don’t keep him if you don’t plan to pick him up and pick up after him when he leaves his clothes on the floor his friends on the floor his body like a rock on the floor. Don’t follow him on and on and on up this hill if it’s just to watch him fall. 

*   *   *

Ani King (they/them) is a queer, gender non-compliant writer, artist, and activist from Michigan. They can be found at aniking.net, or trying to find somewhere to quietly finish a book without any more interruptions.

A Memoir by David Margolin

I kept his “green-and-blue The Legend of Zelda Nintendo beanie” because playing Nintendo together was one of our favorite activities. I kept his bright red-black-and-white checked shorts, and his bright-red tartan cap, because he was a playful dresser. Years ago, I had given away one of his t-shirts to my best friend’s young son. That t-shirt featured a hand-painted girl hula dancing above my son’s name. My friend gave it back to me in a frame after my son died.

The only item of his clothing that I ever wear is the Bugle Boy jacket with the hood, elastic cuffs, and fleece lining. It closes with a zipper and snaps; it makes me feel warm and secure. I hope that my son felt that way when he wore it. I sniff it, hoping that I will still be able to smell him. His scent is long gone, but I still feel a connection with him through this garment. After many years of occasional memorial wear, I reluctantly replaced the zipper and had the holes in the pockets sewn. I try to balance the need to keep it in working order against the desire to keep it as it was.

                                                                      *   *   *

David Margolin lives, works, and writes in Portland, Oregon. During his career as a Neurologist he has done a lot of medical/scientific writing. Now he is enjoying the relative freedom of creative writing. He has published in Friday Flash Fiction, Five Minutes, R U Joking?, Little Old Lady Comedy, and Memoir Magazine (pending).

By Karen Arnold

Standing on the side-lines of another school sports day, watching, applauding, cheering. A scent of coconut performs a magic trick, and I remember an afternoon when the world turned upside down. 

An afternoon when the sun looked down on the two of us, hidden in the long grass, side by side.  The air scented with privet blossom and the coconut tanning oil she smuggled in to use at lunch times. We looked up at a heat bleached sky, watched swallows screaming and diving, before the light became too much and we were forced to turn away, psychedelic after images playing across our eyelids. She always wanted things to be brighter, hotter, louder. More.

We lay so still the birds skimmed across our burning faces, almost touching our hair. On the other side of the long grass, in another world, boys threw cricket balls like grenades, obedient girls played rounders by the rules. The air filled with shouts of encouragement, lawn mowers, ice-cream vans. All the sounds of a summer afternoon at the end of a term drifted on the warm breeze, out into the long grass. 

I remember a teacher’s voice calling out our names, exasperated, wondering how long it can take two girls to find a lost ball. Venus turning her face to mine, finger on her lips, quivering with suppressed laughter. She pulled out a packet of cigarettes, lit one, closed her eyes and breathed in, a deep, rapturous breath, like someone pulled from deep water. I remember turning on my side to watch her, thinking that I had never seen anything more beautiful, knowing that her mouth would taste of lemon sherbet and menthol cigarettes. She dropped the burning match onto the parched dusty grass and I snuffed it out with my bare hand. I remembered how much it hurt, and how she just opened one sleepy green eye and smiled at me, stroked my hair, saying she liked it longer. 

I remember the itching as the grass pressed against my bare legs. I was striped and dappled with green, brindled with dust and sweat, a chlorophyll tiger. I watched as a ladybird, shiny and lacquered as a fingernail, explored her calf, crawling across the new world of her knee. “Fly away home” I murmured, turning onto my back again, as she reached for my hand.

I catch my wife’s eye as we applaud the small sweaty boy rocketing towards us holding out a plastic medal as if it might explode with the joy, he is pouring into it. Her green eyes flash summer lightening and my mouth fills again with the taste of lemon and mint.

                                                                   *   *   *

Karen Arnold is a writer and child psychotherapist. She came to writing later in life, but is busy making up for lost time. She is fascinated by the way we use narratives and storytelling to make sense of our human experience. She won the Mslexia prize for flash fiction in 2022 and was placed second in the Oxford Flash Fiction competition in 2023 She has work in The Waxed Lemon, The Martello,and Seaside Gothic  amongst others. 

She can be found on twitter @aroomofonesown_4

 

By J.D. Strunk

From the moment the man checked in, I knew he would be trouble. With most guests, you see them once, at check-in, and then once more, at check-out—whenever that may be. Sure, a few will stop by intermittently over the duration of their stay, but this remains the exception.

But inevitably, there are the outliers. Such is the case for the man presently approaching my desk, who seems to have a new complaint every day.

“Hello again, sir,” I say upon his arrival at my desk. While the man can be a gadfly, I am still polite, both because I choose to be, and because management would expect no less of me. The desk in question is the concierge desk at the esteemed Hotel Valhalla. No doubt you’ve heard of it.

Upon reaching my desk, the man looks to his left, and then to his right, as if hoping there is someone other than myself he might address. But there is only me, as there has only ever been, as there will only ever be. At length, the man seems to accept this reality, as he finally looks me straight on.

“The sheets are dirty, Jeeves,” he says, without a hint of emotion. He is stating a fact… as he sees it. Also, my name is not Jeeves.

“The sheets are not dirty, sir,” I say pleasantly.

“They are dirty.”

“Sir, there are innumerable guests in this hotel, and every room is cleaned to the exact same specifications. If your sheets were dirty, so too would be the sheets of every other guest. Yet yours is the only complaint we have received on the matter.”

The man meets my eyes. “The sheets are okay,” he admits.

“Excellent, sir. Happy to hear it.”

“But the coffee machine is broken.”

“I will have them bring a new one to your room at once.”

“It’s too late. I wanted coffee this morning. It is already afternoon. Afternoon is too late for coffee.”

“There will be other mornings, sir.”

“Not for me. Not here. I’m checking out.”

While I do my best to remain composed, I cannot deny being shocked by the man’s statement. Fortunately, my many decades of experience have taught me to mask my emotions, in service to the hotel.

“Of course you may leave at any time,” I say, “but I must advise against it. If you recall, your room has already been paid for in advance. There are no refunds at Hotel Valhalla.”

The man considers this. “For how long did I book my stay?”

I open a drawer and remove a spiral-bound ledger. I flip a few pages, before finding the man’s name. “You paid for the foreseeable future, sir.”

“Weeks?”

“Longer, sir.”

“Months?”

“Longer, sir.”

“Years?”

“A considerable duration, sir.”

The man looks back toward the elevators, from whence he came. “Well, my parents have already left. I should like to see them again.”

“Yes, sir. I was sad to see them go. They were guests for a very long time. I enjoyed their presence.”

He turns back toward me. “Many of my friends have left.”

“And many remain, sir.”

There is a waver in the man’s stoicism. “I just don’t see the point in staying,” he says. “Every day is the same here. What’s the damn point?”

“I am of the belief that each day is what you make of it, sir.”

“So I should be grateful? Is that what you are saying?”

“Gratitude is yours to embrace or ignore.”

The man lets out a dramatic sigh. “Hotel Valhalla. Stupid name. Do they think we are Vikings?”

“It is a very old hotel, sir. I am not familiar with its etymology. It has housed many guests over the years. Many, many guests.”

The man looks increasingly agitated. “Okay, the thing of it is, my room is a mess, and I just don’t want to be in there anymore.”

“Was it not recently cleaned by room service?”

“It was. But I have since destroyed it. Utterly destroyed it. It is unlivable.”

“Sir, if I am understanding correctly, you are saying you created a mess, and now you can’t stay at our hotel because of the mess you yourself created?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

“I assure you that any mess made can also be cleaned up. It is hardly a reason to leave.”

“Some messes are… structural.”

“Are you saying you permanently damaged the hotel?”

The man hesitates. “Well, no. Not the hotel. But my relationship to it, certainly. The hotel room can be repaired, yes, but my relationship to the hotel room cannot.”

“A fascinating premise, sir, but one that I feel buckles under scrutiny. As I previously stated, anything damaged can be repaired… for a modest fee, of course.”

The man gives a jaded laugh. “Fine. Bill me. See if I care. I’m still leaving.”

“On second thought, we will comp your repairs. On the condition that you stay.”

“How kind of you. Still leaving.”

I extend my right arm toward the man, place a flat hand on the desk. “Sir, I’ll admit I am made a bit uneasy by your consistently dour disposition. For many years now you have found nothing but faults in this hotel. But please do not leave, if for no other reason than that we still want you here. Even as I say these words, I see the skepticism in your eyes—but that is the truth of it, sir. We here at the Hotel Valhalla want you as our guest.”

The man stares into my eyes. He no longer looks angry. Just a little sad. “Look, Jeeves, I enjoyed my stay. Really. Well, most of it, anyway. But no, I will not be staying. I have been here too long already.”

Without further discourse, he crosses the lobby, where he puts a hand on the brass handle of the main entrance. He looks back once, giving me the faintest of smiles, then walks through the doorway. With his absence, a knot forms in my throat. Despite being a disagreeable man, I regret his choice, as it means I will never see him again. Even disagreeable people can be missed.

Regrettably, he is not the first who I’ve been unable to convince to remain at Hotel Valhalla. Over the many years I have worked here, more have left early than I can count. They think there is something better outside the hotel, you see. And maybe they are right—I honestly don’t know. In all these years, I’ve never left the hotel. I’ve not even left the desk.

                                                          *   *   *

J.D. Strunk’s fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in The Saturday Evening Post, The Louisville Review, The Coachella Review, Palooka Magazine, MoonPark Review, Allium Journal, New Plains Review, and elsewhere. He was a finalist for The Bellingham Review’s Tobias Wolff Award for Fiction, and his story “Fresh Coffee” was nominated for Best American Short Stories. He lives in Denver, Colorado. IG: @jdstrunkwriter

By Katie Coleman

Remember it is not your fault if for the fourth time this week your mother oversleeps, and leaves you to hightail it to High School without breakfast. Arriving late is not your fault, but what happens afterwards is. Do not burst through the classroom door like a bullet, while the other kids are sitting at tables poring over dictionaries, writing letters to Ernest Shackleton. Having missed the start of the lesson, you won’t know who Shackleton is or what his ship The Endurance represents. Don’t try to make up for it by giving your teacher a high-five or a hug. Wait in the reading corner without rattling or fiddling or making weird noises.

And when the other kids load History.com on their devices, don’t drag your gaming laptop from your backpack and show your classmates how your keyboard performs a laser show. Don’t attach an external keyboard that goes click-click-clickety-click and makes the other students lean over. On no account should you connect to wifi with last night’s Mortal Kombat fully loaded, and play the soundtrack, even if one boy cheers and the others provide you with the attention you crave. Clutch and curl your hands while you attempt to fight the thickness in your throat.

If a kid passes your table and under his breath says ‘What a dick,’ and breathes fumes on your as if from an exhaust pipe, don’t turn the table over, and yell ‘What’d you say?’ grabbing him by the sweater, scrunching it in your fists and tearing into him until you see his acne pustules erupting. Do not run like a drunk driver without a licence following an accident when the teacher shouts your name. Wait in the corridor without kicking or yelling.

Do not sprint along the hall, even if the route’s clear, even if running helps you feel in control. Do not hotfoot it past the Science block and shimmy up the pole connected to the covered walkway, then perch on the roof inhaling the mulchy scent of dirt and wet leaves decomposing in the gutter. Try scratching the clots of mud embedded in the tread of your trainers with a twig or fingernail.

Don’t shrug when the counsellor asks you to come down safely and walk with her to her room, which she calls The Haven. Don’t roll back in your chair when she says it’s up to you whether or not you choose to talk about your loss. Don’t block the memories of your father, before the accident. Consider telling her about Saturday morning football training sessions, picture him standing on the sidelines with a flask, cheering you on. Don’t panic if you hear his voice telling you to get up, and not worry. Swallow hard when the counsellor says she sees the ticking time-bomb you’re carrying inside. Let your eyes water and when she says you’re a good kid, believe her.

                                                                       *   *   *

Katie Coleman is a British writer living in Thailand. Her work has appeared in Roi Faineant Press, Ghost Parachute, The Sunlight Press, SoFloPoJo, Bending Genres, Briefly Zine, The Odd Magazine, Ilanot Review and more. She has received nominations for Best of the Net and Pushcart prizes and can be found on Twitter @anjuna2000 and Instagram @kurkidee

By Ron Yates

What if you awoke one morning to discover that hard plastic cylinders had fallen during the night; they were in the woods, school playgrounds, people’s yards, and in the streets; they fell as people slept and had so far done only a little damage to roofs and car tops; no one knew what they were, but they were red and black with strange hieroglyphics on them that experts concluded were of ancient Asian origin; the cylinders emitted a whirring sound; they were about the size of a baseball but slightly lighter and cylindrical instead of round; what if you held one of these things in your hand and imagined the evil inside; what if rumors surfaced of experiments conducted by rogue nations and terrorist groups trying to miniaturize nuclear weapons; talking heads discussed the possibility of chemical or biological warfare; retired military experts speculated which of our enemy nations could have been responsible; what if many of the cylinders were collected by bomb squads and taken to secret laboratories where preliminary tests indicated a hoax, but the internet lit up with alternate theories; citizens grew more and more anxious; religious leaders spoke about prophesy fulfillment; you and everyone else grew frantically concerned about loved ones; what if people began to flee to the countryside to get away from the mysterious cylinders that were too large and buoyant to be flushed; what if those who fled endured interstate gridlock only to discover the cylinders were also there in the country; many wrecks resulted from frantic attempts to escape impending death; what if reasonable, calm government explanations seemed like shallow attempts at panic control, claiming the ones examined so far contained nothing but a small battery and whirring device; people didn’t trust the government’s explanations, thinking the examined ones were just decoys and the real deadly ones were hidden within the multitude; what if the internet fanned suspicions that China or North Korea or radical Muslims or even our own government had launched a massive, doomsday attack and soon it would be all over; conspiracists explored the probable forms of death—concussive explosions, radiation, flesh-eating bacteria, poison gas—that lay dormant inside the cylinders, waiting to be released all over the country simultaneously; or maybe the detonations would not be simultaneous but would produce successive waves of destruction; what if everyone accepted that there would be no escape; what if all this happened over the course of one day, which would be the day after they had fallen the night before; by the end of this day the panic was widespread and people continued to die from wrecks and accidents caused by desperate flight; some silly people dug holes and buried the cylinders; others shut themselves up in their basements; what if people tossed the cylinders back and forth into each other’s yards; stores were emptied of bottled water, canned goods, batteries, and duct tape; martial law was declared; what if many frantic people believed the cylinders contained a mutating virus that would turn us all into zombies; some people wanted to believe that the zombie apocalypse had finally begun; what if all this happened so that by the end of the day you were as panicked and exhausted as everyone else, but you didn’t know what to do other than worry and avoid the cylinders; what if you saw some crazy fool with cylinders taped over his ears like headphones, running around shouting and daring the unknown enemy: “Bring it on!” What if as evening approached with still no definitive answers (even though official reports maintained “hoax”) everyone was crazy exhausted with fear but could not sleep; rogue governments and terrorist groups claimed responsibility; some thought it was the work of anonymous hackers; everyone you talked to felt sure we’d all be dead by morning, and so did you; what if you gathered your ex-wife (who had fallen, sobbing, into your arms a few hours before), your teenage son, and dog in the basement and set up air mattresses and managed to sleep a little, but your dreams were terrifying, involving tests and assignments that you’d not completed but now everything was due, and the dreams also involved trying to patch leaky vessels with pine straw; what if when you awoke on the third day, you climbed the stairs and looked out onto a beautiful sunrise, but you still didn’t feel safe until you saw your neighbor, Mr. Thompkins, running around shouting they really were a hoax—nothing!—he said they were really nothing; then you saw another guy with a hammer smashing one against the curb and laughing; internet still worked; people in the cities were celebrating because they weren’t dead or undead but alive and still who they were before—wouldn’t that be awesome? Wouldn’t your relief be just about the best thing ever? Would you bring your dog, son, and ex-wife up into the glorious sunlight and hug them tightly? Would you hug Mr. Thompkins and your other neighbors, even those you usually ignored? Would you dance a little jig? Would you pick up all the cylinders you could find and have hilarious batting practice with them? Would you take your family on a picnic? Would you approach life differently, at least for a day or two? Would the world be a better place, at least for a day or two, as a result of the mysterious cylinders? But what about the perpetrators? They would have to be found out and punished because good folks had suffered and died as a result of their colossal prank. What if you were the one to decide their punishment? Some symbolic, not-too-harsh gesture because, after all, it was only a hoax. Would you impose sanctions, or, through covert ops, turn the culprits’ water blue? Set off stink bombs in their cities? Spray them with head lice? Or would you do nothing at all?  

*   *   *

Ron Yates hold an MFA in creative writing from Queens University of Charlotte. His stories have appeared in various publications including Wilderness House Literary Review, Hemingway Shorts, KYSO Flash, The Writing Disorder, The Oddville Press, and Prime Number Magazine. A fiction collection, Make It Right: A Novella and Eight Stories, was released through Ardent Writer Press in April of 2019. Yates’s novel, Ben Stempton’s Boy, was published by Unsolicited Press in October of 2019. Both books are available from the publishers’ websites, major online retailers, or ronyates.net. 

By Don Tassone

For 75 years, David Moore thought about a letter he had written when he was 10 years old.  

He wrote it in the fourth grade as a school assignment.  His teacher, Mrs. Chamberlain, was trying to help her students understand history — specifically, how our perspective on current events changes over time and how our perspective, not just the events themselves, becomes what we know as history.

To try to bring this lesson home, she had her students write letters to themselves about something that was happening in their lives and what it meant to them.  She wanted them to then put the letter away and read it years in the future.

“What you see a certain way today may take on a completely different meaning years from now,” she said.  “You’ll see.”

David chose to write about his greatest fear at that moment in his life.  His parents were divorcing.  He didn’t know why, but he remembered blaming his mother.

Years later, just before David left for college, his mom told him his father had beat her.  He wouldn’t stop, she said.  She couldn’t take it any longer and feared for the safety of her children.  So she left him and filed for divorce.

David was stunned.

“Why didn’t you tell me, Mom?”

“I didn’t want you to hate your father.  But I’m telling you now, before you go out into the world.  I want you to promise me you’ll always treat everyone with respect.  I want you to promise me you’ll never hit a woman.”

“Oh, Mom.  I promise.”

They were both crying, and they held each other a long time.

                                                                    #

Over the years, David looked for his letter but could never find it. Now he and his wife Sandy were moving out of their house and into a retirement community.

They’d lived in their house for 50 years, and deciding what to keep and what to give away was a monumental task.  Fortunately, their children, Brian and Kimberly, and their spouses, Nicole and Matt, were a big help.

One day, Kimberly came up from the basement holding an envelope.

“Here, Dad,” she said, handing it to him.  “I found this on the bottom a box.  It’s got your name on it.”

David recognized his youthful handwriting, and his mind raced back to that school assignment.  With shaking hands, he carefully opened the envelope, unfolded the letter inside and read it.

December 10, 1958

Dear David,

Today I found out Mom and Dad are going to get a divorce.  That means they won’t be married anymore.

Mom told me.  She didn’t say why they’re getting a divorce, only that their marriage “wasn’t working” and, from now on, Carol, Joe and I will live with her.

Mom says she still loves Dad.  But if that’s true, then why are they getting a divorce?

I don’t think Mom is telling the truth.  It seems like she’s hiding something.  Dad has always been good to me, but she threw him out, and now I can’t talk to him.  I think this might be Mom’s fault.

Mrs. Chamberlain says we should read these letters years from now, that how we see something today will change over time.  All I know is that my parents are getting a divorce, and I don’t trust my mom anymore.  And I don’t care what Mrs. Chamberlain says, that’s not going to change.

I hope we’ll all be OK.

Signed,

David Moore

David’s eyes welled with tears.

“Are you okay?” Sandy said.

“Yeah,” he said, wiping his eyes.

Then he asked everyone to have a seat in the family room.  He told them about his school assignment and what Mrs. Chamberlain had said about history unfolding over time.  Then he read his letter out loud.

“Oh, Dad,” Kimberly said.  “That must have been such a hard time for you.”

“It was,” David said.  “But there’s much more to the story.”

“There is?” Sandy said.

“Yes, and it’s something I haven’t told any of you.”

Nobody said anything.  Nobody knew what to say.

Then he told them what his mother had told him all those years ago and the promise he made to her.

“Oh, honey,” Sandy said, putting her arm around him.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” David said.  “It was just too painful.  I was ashamed.  I was ashamed for my mother.”

“But you were true to your word,” Sandy said.  “You’ve never hit me.”

“Or me,” Kimberly said.

“Or me,” said Brian.

“David, don’t you remember?” Sandy said.  “Before we were married, you told me you would never hit me and made me promise we would never hit our children.”

David nodded.

Kimberly and Brian looked at their spouses.

“Dad,” Kimberly said, “Mom told us that, and Matt and I made the same promise to each other before we got married.  We told our kids, and they and their spouses made the same promise to each other too.”

“Same with us and our kids,” Brian said, taking Nicole’s hand.

David looked at them all and smiled.  He realized his mother’s suffering and the pain and shame he had felt as a boy had been transformed into relationships based on respect, down through the generations.

It was all now part of his family’s history, which had taken years to unfold and was still unfolding.  Mrs. Chamberlain was right, David thought.

                                                             *   *   *

Don Tassone is the author of two novels and seven short story collections.  He lives in Loveland, Ohio.  Visit him at https://www.dontassone.com.

By Kim kjagain Moes

I am sopping wet, standing alone in the park, watching your tail lights disappear. My heart thunders against my chest, lightning prickles behind my eyes. I look left and right yet there is no place to hide from the rain. Wet hair plastered to my face, socks squish-squashing with every step, I walk deeper into the park. 

Your green wool sweater and my faded blue jeans cling to me, weighing me down. I shed the waterlogged sweater, dropping it on the field. The cool droplets caress my skin through my thin t-shirt, offering a hint of renewal. 

I kick off my running shoes. The sound of them bouncing and hitting the wet ground creates a cross-rhythm with the precipitation and my heartbeat. With my shoes removed and silenced, I am free to rid myself of these soaked jeans you gave me last Christmas. I wiggle and squirm until one of my ankles becomes caught for a moment. My balance defends me and I catch myself before falling. 

Clad only in low-rise biker shorts and a t-shirt, I lift my chin and close my eyes, embracing the sky’s summer shower. I take ownership of my rain, my tears, my road to happiness. 

The air’s electricity surges through bare feet into my body, giving me strength and desire to take each additional step on the rain-soaked ground. As the sky continues to pour, I walk out of the park, toward the unknown, ready for whatever comes next. It was never about whether the grass was greener on this side or that side, as your endless pursuit has taught us both. Now, I realize, it is about how the grass feels between my toes as I walk through it.

                                                                   *   *   *

Kim kjagain Moes loves dandelions, exploring fresh places, and laughing at herself. Her work can be found online and in print, most recently in Jake Magazine. @kjagain on almost all social media. On writing, she says, “Write the life we live, explore the lessons not yet learned, and then, eat catharsis for dinner.”