By Maxine Flam

The parking lot was empty. Seriously? I thought. They were supposed to be open until 6 p.m. Did they sell out of Christmas trees, so they packed up and left?  I just drove by this lot this morning and they were there. The sign is up. I’ll pull in and check it out. Oscar and Sons’ Christmas Tree Lot – sold out. 

That’s what I get for waiting until Christmas Eve to buy a tree. I don’t understand why the family can’t just put up a fake tree like the neighbors do. It saves money in the long run. “Oh, no, I want a real tree. I want to smell the scent of pine,” my wife says. Well, with the costs of trees going up every year. I’m surprised he sold out.  So now, what am I going to do?  

I sat there for a long while. I was the only vehicle in the lot. Then another pulled in, and then another. I got out of my truck and said to one guy, “You know of a lot selling trees around here?”

He shrugged his shoulders and didn’t say anything. The third guy said there was a church on Riverside Drive and Colfax Avenue that had some yesterday. “Great,” I said. I thanked him and the three of us got in our respective vehicles and proceeded to the church’s parking lot. Way in the corner near the lighted manger was the tree lot. They didn’t have many but they did have trees. The profits from the sale of the trees went to charity so I actually didn’t feel bad buying one. I picked a six-foot evergreen, opened the tailgate of my truck, and took it home.

When I got there, the kids were asleep and the wife half-expected I was going to disappoint her. She was excited to see the tree. She got the tree stand out with a pan of water and put the tree in it. We decorated it until after 1 a.m. when we put the presents under it. When the kids went to bed, there was nothing in the corner but when they woke up Christmas Day, they found a beautiful tree and an assortment of presents. This Christmas Eve made a believer out of me. Next Christmas, I’m going back to the same church lot, only earlier, to buy a live tree. 

*   *   *

Maxine refuses to allow her physical and mental disability to slow her down. She attends classes at the local junior college. Maxine earned two A.A. degrees, one in Natural Science and one in Liberal Arts. Maxine has been published in the Los Angeles Daily News several times, the Epoch Times once, Nail Polish Stories once, Bright Flash Literary Review once, DarkWinterLit four times, CafeLit eleven times, OtherwiseEngagedLit, twice, Maudlinhouse once, Literary CocktailMagazine once, TheHeartlandReview once, and Metaworker once.

By David Henson

One day the sun is so hot it evaporates our memories. They churn and mix in the clouds as we wander wondering what, who and when. After a few days, the memories rain to earth in random fragments. They flood city streets, gushing into storm sewers and out to rivers and seas to be devoured by fish. They soak the ground of fields, gardens and orchards, rising up stems, stalks and trunks. 

When we eat, every bite releases a memory.

A man plucks a beefeater from his tomato plant. There’s a burst of flavor, and a woman is running barefoot through a meadow. The memory is so vivid, he feels the dew and warm sunlight. But whose recollection is it?  

A woman crunches into an apple. “I don’t think this is mine,” she says to a familiar-looking man. “A little boy pedaling a red tricycle and shouting vrroom. Is it yours?”

Another woman fights back tears after a taste of trout recalls an old man whispering to his failing black Lab. 

Eventually everyone has a morsel of everyone’s memories. Empathy glimmers among strangers. We laugh with borrowed joy, weep with shared sorrow. The lines between self and other blur like a watercolor where ocean meets sky. 

We admire the beauty and lose the memory of edges. 

*   *   *

David Henson and his wife have lived in Brussels and Hong Kong and now reside in Illinois. His work has been nominated for four Pushcart Prizes, Best of the Net and two Best Small Fictions and has appeared in various journals including Bright Flash Literary Review, Ghost Parachute, Moonpark Review, Maudlin House, Gastropoda and Literally Stories. His website is http://writings217.wordpress.com. His Twitter is @annalou8. 

 By Mitchell Waldman

Harry was standing near the front door of OK Mart with his little orange vest on and the large print name tag, waiting for the first customer of the day to come in so he could chirp, hopefully in a more cheerful voice (“That’s what you need to do, okay, Harry, just show a little more enthusiasm, that’s all we’re asking,” said his manager Kit Wilson). “Welcome to OK Mart!” 

Well, enthusiasm was not exactly what he was feeling these days.

He’d gotten the job the week before, at the suggestion of his wife, Lucille. Specifically after a fight in which she’d said she was sick of him sitting in his chair all day long watching TV, doing basically nothing. 

Retirement had been a hard transition for him and, more so, it seemed, for Lucille, having him around the house all day, sitting on his goddamned ass, as she put it, while she did all the work. He’d tried to help out more around the house, but she told him, “You need to do something beside this, just sitting here all day. Go out there and do something with yourself. Like volunteer or something.”

So, he had done something. Though not volunteer. There was an ad in the paper that Lucille had pointed out, helping feed some guys at lunch at a local homeless shelter, but he’d imagined himself standing at the place doling out some sort of unknown soupy food product into bowls. He’d imagined a greasy haired guy with a grizzled chin standing with his bowl, snarling at him as he started to ladle out some slop to him, saying Where’s the meat? I need more meat! It made Harry, always with the active imagination, a little nervous. He’d shut his eyes and shook his head a little at the thought. Maybe he wasn’t ready for that kind of experience just yet. 

So, he’d gotten the greeter job at OK Mart. 

It wasn’t like he missed his old job at the accounting firm. He didn’t miss the ledgers, the rows of debits and credits, and the complaining customers who came in with their taxes never having the correct documentation or receipts or records, then blaming him when he couldn’t prepare their taxes quick enough. He wasn’t a freaking magician. A little effort on their part, that was all he’d ever asked of them. And, one time he’d actually said, overly frustrated, “Just go to TurboTax and make the shit up. That’s what a lot of people do.” The boss hadn’t been happy with that one.

So now, here he was, a week and a half in, standing, waiting for that first customer, fingering his overly large name tag which read, Hi, I’m HARRY!, thinking how ironic it was. What had his parents been thinking with his name? Had they thought ahead? What if he’d wound up (like, indeed, he had) with the inability to grow a decent beard and with barely a hair on the top of his 67-year-old head? Had they even considered that? No, parents don’t think about the things they do to their kids at the moment, for the rest of their lives.

On the first day the store manager, Mr. Wilson (why did he, Harry, feel more like an older, but hairless, version of Dennis the Menace than 67-year old Harry?),  had explained the job: basically greeting customers, making them feel welcome, occasionally handing out sales flyers, but also keeping an eye out for funny business, that was important, too, let the security guys know if he saw something funny. Funny? he’d asked. Yeah, Wilson had said. Like suspicious looking. Okay, Harry’d said, not giving it a second thought.

The front door opened and it was Mrs. Chalmers, always one of the first, a shopaholic no doubt, who lived two doors down from him and Louise on Cherry Street.

“Well, good morning, Mrs. Chalmers,” he said, trying to hand her a flyer as she walked by with her basket. 

“Hmm? Oh, hi Harry, how’re ya?” she said, not waiting for his answer, her beady eyes already focused on the aisle in the store where her treasure lay, her brain obviously locked on the next thing she wanted, she needed to buy to add to her already packed horde of a house.

The day went on like that, Harry standing there, greeting customer after customer, back hurting, legs starting to tighten, feet throbbing while he chirped, “Welcome to OK Mart,” his enthusiasm gradually waning over the hours, getting tired of the questions like “Where do you keep your mops? “Where’s the bathroom?”  “Do you take American Express?” “How much do your apples run per pound?,” all questions he smiled at and nodded silently, oblivious, the boss shaking his head, the security guy, a tall fellow named Nate Jones today, standing beside Harry suppressing a laugh, patting Harry on the back from time to time like he was just some old fool, and then, hands on his hips, telling Harry about the Knicks game the night before, sports stories about his heroes (Harry was not much of a sports guy, to tell the truth), going on like that.

At lunch Harry took his break at the diner across the street, Margie’s. Had a tuna sandwich and cup of Joe, black, the way he always took it, not big on the sugar on account of his diabetes, although sometimes he cheated a little. After a half hour, he trudged back to work, afraid the caffeine wouldn’t give him the kick he needed to keep him going for the rest of the day (or at least until four when his shift ended). 

He stood there, saying his “Welcome to…”s, chatting with some of the employees – mostly younger people who Harry’d started to get to know, who’d come by to say hey, like Marv with his crazy curly mustache from the deli, and Kate with the blue hair and glasses from the bakery, but they wouldn’t stay long or Mr. Wilson would get down on them and hustle them back to work.  

Harry was stifling a yawn when a beep beep came over the speaker and a muffled voice said “Code 99, Code 99”, that being the shoplifter code, after which a large man with a torn T-shirt, red beard, and tattoos on his arms and neck came running out right in front of Harry with a large green backpack in his hands and Jones right behind him, giving chase, until Jones, right before the electric doors, fell, twisting something or other and was writhing on the floor, unable to get up, looking back at Harry, saying “Dawg, don’t let that guy get away!” 

Harry looked behind him, thinking the security guy was talking to someone else, but Harry was the only one there, until Jones yelled “Harry!” then writhed on the floor some more, moaning in pain.

A new spark, a shot of adrenaline, ran through Harry’s body, energizing him, making him feel 27 (well maybe more like 47) again, and he threw his daily special flyers down on the floor, and ran out the door, past the big guy lying there, looking around the parking lot, until he saw the red bearded man in the torn T-shirt running. Harry took off after him, got to him fast, faster than he’d run in years, remembering when he’d run track back in those prehistoric days of high school, then stood right beside the guy as he was opening the door of his rusty old black Chevy truck. And Harry stood there, looking at the guy who, unblinking, staring right back at Harry, backpack still in his hands, and then growled, his mad eyes blazing at Harry like a rabid Rottweiler, saying “Don’t make me hurt you, Old Man,” the glint of something silver in his left hand.

And that’s when Harry’s heroic balloon deflated, his heart pounding and, for that instant, he was aware of himself  gasping for breath, remembered that he was a 67-year-old guy, and he stood there, helpless, telling himself, What am I doing?, watched the guy toss his backpack into the truck, climb in, slam the door, and burn rubber out of the spot, leaving Harry standing there, watching the blue smoke come out of the rusty heap’s muffler.

The next afternoon, Harry was back in his chair sipping a beer (having given his immediate notice to Wilson after the incident), watching another episode of The King of Queens, laughing at the father, Arthur, as he worked on his rubber band collection, thinking about retirement, how great it was to be free from all the bosses and cares of the workplace. Just sipping a beer, thinking, It’s time to stop, time to relax, and let younger people do the work that needed to be done. But also thinking, maybe he would check into that homeless center job. Not today, but maybe tomorrow. Who knew, maybe it wouldn’t be that bad.

                                                                    *   *   *

Mitchell Waldman’s fiction, poetry, and essays have appeared in numerous publications, including The MacGuffin, Fictive Dream, Corvus Review, The Waterhouse Review, The Houston Literary Review, The Faircloth Review, Epiphany, The Battered Suitcase, and many other magazines and anthologies. He is also the author of the novel, A Face in the Moon, and the story collections Brothers, Fathers, and Other Strangers, and Petty Offenses and Crimes of the Heart. Mitchell also serves as Fiction Editor for Blue Lake Review. (For more info, see his website at http://mitchwaldman.homestead.com).

 

A Memoir by Mary Callahan

Where do memories live? Mine live in my stomach, my nose, my skin; lashed across my face with masking tape. I can still feel the sticky sweat and the rash it left behind; can still smell that beige-colored packing material masking my words, my dignity. I was forced to work through the day as if nothing was wrong while overlapping layers of tape covered half my face and, mummy-like, peeled in the heat. I even put it back on when the tape, soaked with sweat, failed, lest I be forced to apply new tape to the already red, swollen, pimply wound that was my mouth. Now I was quiet.

                                                                        *   *   *

Mary Callahan, a Jersey girl now living in New England, still misses New Jersey pizza and diners, but not New Jersey traffic. She was recently awarded an Individual Artist Grant from the Massachusetts Cultural Council for her memoir-in-progress, and has taught writing at Rhode Island College and the Naval Academy Preparatory School. Her creative nonfiction has been published in Newport Review, Gravel, and Foliate Oak.

By Kathryn Kulpa

I’m clear. So clear you can see down to my painted blue heart. 

I don’t wave, not for you. For anyone. I’m calm as a cantaloupe, cool as a grocery store’s produce aisle, where purple eggplants bask like sunbathers. I’m the sea without seasickness, without sharks, without the tang of salt, the thirst of boards under a saline sun. Clean as chlorine. No shipwrecks here, no pirate flags, no severed limbs taking a dive to Davy Jones’s locker. 

Still, something falls. Only a child’s toy, a metallic box he’s named and called his pet, spiraling to the bottom, gleaming silver under the sun, it’s easy to see that box, easy to find the bottom, no seagrass, no churning silt, no undertow, nothing to make you think I’m deadly until the splash splits my silence, the crack of skull on cement, the trail of blood curling through water like squid’s ink, the boy drifting in slow circles, sinking down. 

There should be a fierce lightning storm. There should be lashing winds and crashing waves—I wish I had those to offer—but there’s only quiet now. Only stillness. 

*   *   *

Kathryn Kulpa has stories in Best Small Fictions, Centaur, Fictive Dream, Ghost Parachute, and Monkeybicycle. Her chapbook For Every Tower, a Princess is published by Porkbelly Press, and A Map of Lost Places is forthcoming from Gold Line Press. She would stay up all night reading if you let her.

By Bill Tope

When I was very young–actually all my life until I was 50, when he died–I would observe my dad sitting alone, on the front steps, with his elbows on his knees. He would be smoking a cigarette or drinking coffee, and staring blankly into space. I often wondered, what was he thinking? I never asked.

Was he thinking of his long-ago service in the Army, watching fellow members of his platoon being shot? Recovering from his wounds stateside and his eventual discharge?

Was he watching in his memory as his eldest son stood convicted of a crime for which Dad had no money to provide him an attorney? Visiting him in the state prison once–that was enough for one lifetime, he’d said.

Or was he seeing his daughter, torn, disheveled and humiliated, following her violent rape, which ultimately led to her taking her own life? Of his feelings of impotence at the criminality of a society which would sentence his son to two years imprisonment for stealing drugs to which he was hopelessly addicted, yet turn a blind eye to his daughter’s rapist? 

Or was he pondering the night he stole out of the house with a shotgun, in the early morning, before sun up, and killed the bastard who had taken his only daughter? They never proved a thing. Was he thinking of the endless, ongoing investigation? Did he have regrets?

Maybe Dad was thinking of the breast cancer that took his wife when she was only 50, leaving him with two teenaged children to finish raising on his own. Was he thinking of the cold, lonely bed he lay in night after night? To the sounds of the evening, eerily amplified by his solitude?

And much later, did Dad try to recall happier times, as he lay in his sterile room in the hospice, dying of lung cancer and suffering the onset of dementia? Could he feel mind slipping away into the shadows of forgetfulness? Could he lose touch with reality swiftly enough?

Now I sit here, 20 years later, on the front steps of the home once owned by my parents, who raised three sons and a daughter, and where I raised my own family. Dementia, the doctors told me, is often inheritable. And I wonder vaguely now, as I’ve already forgotten how many beers I’ve drunk tonight, and whether or not I’ve eaten, am I recounting my father’s experiences, or my own?

*   *   *

Bill Tope is a prose writer who has been published in a score of magazines. He lives in the American Midwest with his mean little cat Baby.

By Denise Diehl

Michael opened the door and stared, ‘Wow, the view is spectacular!’ He gazed around, pleased with his choice of accommodation.

Veronica followed quickly on his heels, pushed past her husband, and scowled as she took in the tiny room, old sagging couches and lino floors. The place was a typical 1950’s batch-style cabin. ‘This place is a dump! You should have left the bookings to me. I would have gotten us something better.’ She harrumphed with her hands on her hips and cast a tight-lipped frown at him. 

He winced under her disapproving stare and spread his hands. ‘Oh well, it’s clean and tidy and only for two nights. V, come on, let’s enjoy our time here.’

Veronica moved over to the big bay window and took in the sweeping view of the little seaside town’s harbour with the lookout hill in the distance and the busy fish and chippie shop down on the old ramshackle of a wharf in the foreground. The car park below was emptying of cars, and a steady stream of tourists armed with brown cardboard boxes were returning from the popular takeaway. 

‘It’s a piece of Southland history, this place, it’s the genuine thing, and they say the blue cod is amazing down here.’ Michael moved to stand by his wife at the window. He turned toward her and noticed her angry face and pouty lips, but she was still gorgeous to look at. He loved her petite figure, lush brown hair tied up elegantly, finely chiselled face and delicate hands. He sighed.

Veronica pointed angrily at Michael. ‘Like I said in the car, you know I love shops. There’s nothing here, just a beach and old cottages. It’ll be boring and—’

‘Well, there’s quite a bit of wildlife around like seals, penguins, and then there’s—’

‘You’re kidding, right? Not in my high heels.’

‘Well, remember the doctor said rest is what’s needed. A change in scenery and fresh air will do you good. Read some magazines, relax and have a quiet weekend.’ Michael cooed as he leaned in to sneak a kiss. 

‘I relax when I’m browsing clothes stores, dammit!’ She pushed him away.

Michael observed the scene below. The cabin sat high off the road at the front of the camping ground. It was a primo spot. ‘Let’s get down to that fish shop everyone raves about, aye?’

‘No, thank you. After you unpack, I’ll have wine and lunch at that nearby tavern. I’m not eating out of a newspaper in some greasy, grubby joint that smells of fish.’

Michael winced and began to unpack, and left Veronica curled up on the bed to read her magazine. He hoped she’d mellow during the afternoon. It was a pleasant day, warm with the last of the summer rays and no wind. The sea sparked, and the sound of its gentle wash on the sand was hypnotic and calming. He breathed the raw salt smell and thought of kids playing on the beach, picnic food in an old wicker basket and screams of delight as children rushed into the waves. Exhilarating. 

They had no children. 

He snuck a quick look at his wife and pursed his lips. Their relationship had soured over the last twelve months. He had no idea why. At the end of last year, she had come into a lot of money from an inheritance, which may have started the animosity. Suddenly, she cessed to see him as her handsome, debonair man, provider and protector. He knew he was still good-looking, athletically fit and held a good-paying job. Perhaps she saw him as no longer a necessity that he had been when they married five years ago. He had never minded supporting her, as she made it very clear that she never intended to work. He was happy she was independent and even encouraged her to go about her routines and excursions freely. He gave her everything she wanted and more. He had been enamoured of her, but now … 

A darkness gripped his heart and he frowned.

 ‘Come on, V, a little walk before lunch will do you good, and I need to stretch my legs after all that driving.’ He paused as he weighed up his following words. The old Veronica he’d fallen in love with was a keen collector of semi-precious stones found on beaches—her only hobby that involved getting her hands dirty, besides finding small objet d’art of value in up-market second-hand shops. ‘They say there are agates on the beach below the Lookout hill.’ He pointed as he turned toward her. He held his breath and waited. His face became hot and flush and his heart hammered his ribcage till it hurt.

Veronica dropped her magazine and stared agape at him. ‘Really, Why didn’t you tell me that important information right at the beginning? Let’s get over there before someone else beats us to them!’ She sprang off the bed and had her shoes and coat on before he could say another word. 

He eyed her, disappearing out the front door, and quickly followed. He knew there would be no turning back from the course he had set. 

#

They followed the gravel path around the bay, past the takeaway on the wharf, which had quietened down now that it displayed an “all out of Blue Cod” sign, and headed to Lookout Hill. Veronica walked at a fast clip and kept telling Michael to get a move on. He eyed her and nodded acquiescence.

‘Try and not rush V. The doctor has warned you of your inner ear problem—it throws you off balance. Plus, you’ve got low blood pressure. We really should have had lunch first,’ he yelled as she raced ahead, and he tried to keep up. She was an unstoppable tigress on a hunt and did not tolerate lesser beings. 

Veronica snorted and quickened her pace.

Michael shook his head in tired exasperation and sighed as he struggled with his inner turmoil. ‘Slow down, V, and be careful. The ground is uneven and slippery. Don’t worry if someone else has got to those beautiful agates first. There will be more another day.’ He paused and thought about his words. Did he really want to embark on this path? Could he even stop what he knew would come? Michael felt strangely detached. Fate swept them along a path like desert brambles, and fate would decide the outcome. He was allowing his wife to throw caution aside in her greedy, all-consuming passion. He knew what the hill track was like. He’d spent many a summer here in his childhood years. Nothing had changed. He swallowed and felt his throat tightened. He grimaced as he watched her and suddenly felt a wave of urgency. No, no, he must save her from herself. Michael broke into a run.

Veronica laughed at him as she broke into a mad scramble. She flung open the gate to the Lookout Hill track and zoomed up the slope. She stopped near the cliff’s edge facing the sea, spun around angrily and screamed down at him as he knew she would. ‘There’s no beach below, only jagged rocks and nasty seals. You’ve put me wrong!’

In a flash of a movement a giant seagull appeared behind Veronica shoulder and screeched most terrifyingly.

‘Watch out, V! Behind you!’ Michael yelled in panic from the footpath at the bottom of the hill as Veronica simultaneously whirled in fright at the screech. Her arms flailed in the air as she lost her balance and tumbled over the cliff edge.

Michael raced to the gate and fumbled with the catch as another tourist drove into the car park below the lookout. He turned to the car, gesticulated crazily to the driver, and screamed, ‘My wife. I think she’s fallen off the cliff. Please help!’

The two men arrived at the cliff top and looked over the edge. The stranger turned his head and threw up.

Michael stared unseeing, his eyes burning with tears and his mind telling him

What a spectacular view!

*   *   *

Denise Diehl spent the last forty-plus years working in Laboratory Science. She retired with her husband to a small rural town in New Zealand to write her first novels and short stories—a fun and new adventure to match the latest decade of her life. She will have her first story published this December in an overseas magazine.

By Lois Anne DeLong  

It was a chilly fall evening, and once again the bus was late. June stomped her feet, thinking that it was too early in the year to feel that chill roll its way up from her feet to the center of her spine. June hated the approach of winter. Each year, she emerged from winter feeling like she had aged by more than just the four months or so it took the cold season to depart. Every year, she vowed to escape it. And, every year, due to money, or habit, or lack of imagination, she stayed put.

Giving up on the bus, June decided to walk. The beckoning windows of the apartment buildings along these familiar streets always seemed to radiate warmth and good cheer. Meanwhile, all that awaited her in the tiny studio she called home was the combined clutter of a failed marriage and endless unconsummated dreams. She longed for a tidy open living space like the ones she saw in these flats. At times, she would get so close to a building that her face was almost touching the window panes, like some poor urchin in a Dickensian Christmas tale seeing all the toys she would never own.

As she walked tonight, one of these living spaces particularly caught her attention. Every element in the room seemed perfectly balanced against everything else. Even the cat seemed to know its place in the overall scheme of the space. The walls matched the shade of the “quality” vanilla ice cream she and her siblings would get on special occasions, like birthdays and graduations. The azure blue door and wainscoting were a similar hue to the early spring sky over her childhood home on Long Island Sound once the last vestiges of winter had reluctantly faded away. The total effect was of a place where one could rest, no matter what ill winds were blowing in one’s life.

Without thinking, June pulled out her phone and fired off several shots. The reflection from the window glass created a halo effect and, if she looked close at the resulting photos, June could see her own reflected image nestled against the backdrop of those perfect Cutchogue sky blue walls. The image brought peace to her restless soul.

For weeks afterwards, June would re-visit the window, snapping even more photos that perfectly placed her within that exquisitely arranged room. It amazed her how nothing in the image ever seemed to change. Even the cat always stood guard in the same spot, never seeming to move a muscle.

As winter deepened and the first snow fell on the city, the understated lighting of the space burnished those delicious vanilla walls with an almost golden hue. June lingered longer and longer each time at the window, hoping to see a human face appear. Perhaps the kindly soul who lived there would invite her in for a cup of tea. She so longed to stretch out on that blue rug, to pet that faithful cat, and perhaps curl up on the blue couch she could just barely make out in the far corner of the space.

One day, she happened to reach the apartment building just as someone was departing. June looked curiously at the individual, wondering if indeed this could be the owner of the space that now so firmly owned her heart. He was a non-descript middle aged man, with thinning hair partly hidden under a wool cap. When he saw her, he held the door open and asked, “Are you coming in?” She nodded and smiled shyly as she entered a drab hallway, painted in an industrial shade of gray. “Thank you,” she barely whispered. “My pleasure,” he said, adding “I think you’re looking for 1B.” He echoed her smile and whispered, “It’s ready,” before heading off down the street.

Not exactly sure what she was doing, June walked down the corridor till she reached 1B. “This is crazy,” she thought to herself. “I’m about to knock on the door of an absolute stranger because another stranger let me in and told me to come here. What sort of hell might be behind the door to 1B?” She looked around the hallway. Nothing appeared out of place, but it was eerily quiet. There were no sounds of cooking, no television sets blasting the disasters of the day, no children’s laughter, or pleasure-filled moans of early evening love making. It was almost as if the whole building was holding its breath as she calmed herself outside the door to 1B.

She knocked on the door once, and as she did, it pushed open. June pivoted to leave, not wishing to find herself charged with an attempted theft. She called inside, “Hello, is anyone home?” But all June heard was the mewing of the cat, who came sauntering down the hallway as if to greet her. The cat sat for moment, mewing loudly, then turned as if inviting her to follow. June did just that, suddenly feeling like she was expected.

When she entered the room, a strange feeling of contentment settled over her. Yes, she was expected. Yes, a place had been prepared for her. She stretched out on the couch and whispered, “Good night” to the cat, which had resumed her watch in the corner. The picture was now complete.

                                                                   *   *   *

Lois Anne DeLong is a freelance writer living in Queens, New York, and she is an active member of Woodside Writers, a literary forum that meets weekly. Her stories have appeared in Dear Booze and in DarkWinter Literary Journal. DeLong spent many years as a technical writer and is the coauthor of half a dozen papers in the field of cybersecurity. She also taught composition and literature subjects as an adjunct instructor at a community college. In her free time, DeLong enjoys going to the theatre, singing show tunes in piano bars, and cheering her beloved NY Mets.

By Natalie Meyer

February 26th

Dear Celeste,

Every morning when I wake, I imagine you still beside me, the weight of your body pressing into the mattress and the chill breath of air from only having half the blankets. The bed is much too big for only me, and every time I hear a creak from down the hall or on the stairs, I still turn to look, on the chance you might be standing there, wrapped in your favorite cerulean sweater and gazing at me with that perfect smile of yours.

I still love you with everything I have. You are the sun that rises to brighten my skies, to rid the planet of all its dreary dawns. You are the river that flows through the forest sprouting in my mind, pumping life into my veins. How would I ever live without you if you were truly gone?

I’ve been calling your phone day after day. I’d like to imagine you just have poor reception wherever you are now, and that you’d pick up as soon as you heard the messages I left.

Forever yours,

Jay

* * *

March 3rd

Celeste,

I can’t understand why you’d leave me like this. The children we were supposed to have, the trip we planned to visit Cancún once you finally got that promotion at work. Am I just supposed to throw all that away?

You left me alone in this big house, with this big yard. We were going to split the chores, fifty-fifty. I wash the dishes, and you water the garden. I hang the laundry out to dry. You fold it. We can’t be a team if you’re gone.

Your father called this morning. He asked me to come by and have dinner with him and help him go through all your childhood things. Seems like I’m not the only one you abandoned here.

Was it the fight we had before your appointment? When you said you couldn’t stand to look me in the eye? Because I was right. You were being selfish. Anything can be called experimental the first few times it’s done, and your body was tearing itself apart as it were.

Sometimes, you’ve got to take the risk.

—Jay

* * *

March 7th

Dear Celeste,

Last night, we had a terrible rainstorm. The clouds stretched for miles, and the thunder shook the house until I was sure the paneling would come tumbling off the roof. You would’ve loved it, watched the water run down the glass and smile at me, make some comment about how the earth needed this. And you’d be right, and I’d kiss your forehead and tell you I love everything about you.

We could have that again, if only you’d come home.

We could go out to the garden, clip the hydrangeas and forget-me-nots, put them in that speckled navy vase you made in the pottery class you took in college. They could sit on the windowsill in the kitchen, above the sink beside the crystal bird you told me was a mountain bluebird. For now, I put your ring in that spot. Maybe it’ll charge the sapphire’s energy for whatever purpose it’s supposed to have.

I made you a fresh blueberry pie, too. It’s on the table now. It smells incredible, and we can share a slice or two.

But only once you’re home.

With all my heart,

Jay

* * *

March 15th

Dear Celeste,

I know it’s been a little while since I’ve written to you last, and for that I’m truly sorry. I haven’t been able to get out of bed recently, even to pick up my pen.

These gray skies just won’t let up, and I’m starting to think they’re going to last forever. They’ve been pressing down on me with such an immense weight, suffocating me until I can feel my vision going dark at the corners.

When I was little, I used to read under my covers at night. The blanket would always fall down over my face and block the book from my view, and I’d always end up casting it aside in a fit of sheer annoyance. And now the world has become that blanket, smothering me without a second thought. As much as I’ve been trying to finish my story, I fear that I am preparing to throw the world, that terrible thing, to the floor and stomp on it with all that I have left.

And I know that if I do, I will collapse where I stand and never rise again.

I’m sorry, my love. I wish I could be stronger.

Yours until the end,

Jay

* * *

March 18th

Dear Celeste,

Well. It’s Saturday now, and the clouds finally broke. When I went downstairs this morning, I found your ring sitting in a perfect beam of sunlight like it was basking in it. I picked it up and I think you were right. It felt heavier somehow, and I felt lighter, and I held it close, and I knew you were watching me and smiling. I think I might try to wear it. It doesn’t quite fit on any of my fingers, but I could get a chain and make it into a necklace. That way I can have it touching my heart.

I made myself coffee this morning. Without cream, without sugar. You know how I like it. But it tasted so sweet, especially poured into your favorite mug, the one that has that beautiful printed ocean scene. It tasted like everything was going to be OK, like everything was working itself out.

When I finished the coffee, I put on that Prussian blue blazer you bought me, back when I was looking for new jobs in the city, the one you said made my eyes really shine. It looked so nice. I’m not ready to go back to work just yet, but I think I’m getting there. Another week maybe, if it all keeps going this way.

I think this may be my last letter to you. You’ll always be in my heart and my mind, and I’ll still wake up at night, turning over to see a face that isn’t there, and never will be again. But I’ll be okay. It’s what you would’ve wanted, isn’t it?

Goodbye, my love. We’ll be together again, when it’s finally time. I’ll tell your dad you wish him well.

Love,

Jay

*.   *    *

Natalie Meyer is currently working towards her English B.A. and spends any free time writing, drawing, and editing for the literary magazine at her school. When she isn’t on campus, she can be found playing Dungeons & Dragons in her hometown outside of Philadelphia, PA. Some of her previous work has appeared in Howler Literary Magazine and Fine Print Literary Magazine.

A memoir by Gabby Parker

I was very much not looking forward to getting my learner’s permit on my 15th birthday. I never experienced that supposed universal thrill when my fourteen-year-old legs reached for the car’s pedals, driving illegal practice loops at 15 mph through my neighborhood. No matter how hard I tried, I never felt that anxious joy that was supposed to come with growing up, too busy being stuck in the anxious part. None of it was fun, but especially not driving. 

My uncle taught me to drive, as my dad’s chemotherapy and radiation treatments left him exhausted, and the risk of seizures from the brain tumor legally kept him from operating a vehicle, anyways. I practiced in my uncle’s red Toyota Corolla on the weekends, but drove with my mom in my dad’s Hyundai Sonata on weekday evenings. Through all the anxiety, I learned. I still clenched the steering wheel so tightly I would lose feeling in my pinky fingers, but I learned. 

Despite my fears and apprehensions, I went to the DMV after school on my fifteenth birthday. After missing four questions on my computerized test, I was rewarded with a black and white paper copy of my permit with the promise of a plastic one in the mail. The first thing I did after receiving it was happily take my familiar place in the passenger’s seat, allowing my mom to drive me home. I was in no hurry. 

I don’t remember when exactly, but sometime between my fifteenth and sixteenth birthdays, my dad had me sit with him at the dining room table. He asked me, if you could have anyone’s car, which would you pick? I thought the question was strange, but after thinking over the possibilities, landed on the conclusion that my uncle must have been getting rid of the old Corolla. It’s part of why I so confidently told him that was my favorite. 

He paused for a moment, looking sad. I couldn’t figure out how I had answered incorrectly. Well, what’s your second favorite? Now it was my turn to pause. Yours, I told him. 

In truth, his car probably was my favorite. I had been obsessed with it since I picked it out at the dealership with him as a kid, enamored with the sunroof and how the silly cloth top the previous owner had put on made everyone think it was a convertible. One night shortly after he bought it, when Dad was driving me home from dinner, he said watch this, rolled all the windows down, and opened the sunroof. My ears popped and he turned the radio all the way up and we sang classic rock songs so loud that we could hear our voices over the music and the wompwompwomp sound from the open windows, and I couldn’t imagine there was anything in the world cooler than that. I even got a trucker to blow his horn, and Dad high-fived me, and we laughed so hard we cried. 

Of course the Sonata was my favorite. 

But then he handed me the keys and said it’s yours now and it didn’t feel like my favorite anymore. Logically, I had known since my dad was diagnosed with Glioblastoma that there was no cure, that he was never getting better. Still, I was a kid, and some part of me hoped that maybe one day he’d drive me down the interstate again with all the windows down, that we would sing so loud that nothing else would matter. 

He handed me the keys and it was so real. He said it’s yours now but what he really meant was I’ll never drive again, and so how could the Sonata be my favorite? 

For years after he died, years after I moved away from my hometown, I held onto that Sonata. Even when I had to roll my windows down to open the driver’s side door from the outside, when that silly cloth top started peeling. I only got rid of it when my mom made me, when the windows stopped rolling down and I had to push the handle in place just right to open my door from the inside. She said it wasn’t safe to drive anymore. 

I have a Ford Escape now. In all logical ways, it’s a better car. Everything works, it’s bigger (small cars always scared me), it even has a backup camera. I can’t find it easily in parking lots though, because everyone has a white SUV, and it doesn’t have a ridiculous cloth top that makes it easy to spot. I haven’t rolled all the windows down to sing on the highway, yet, but maybe if I did I’d like it more. I don’t think so though. Because dad’s not with me, and I stopped listening to classic rock because none of the songs sound right when I’m the only one singing. 

I still hate driving. Mostly because I still hate being alone. When I have to, though, I play my music, different songs now, songs that are all mine. I sing loud enough that I can’t hear the rumble of the road, but I keep all the windows up. 

                                                                   *   *   *

Gabby Parker lives and writes by the beach in South Carolina. She teaches English at Coastal Carolina University, where she received her M.A. in Writing. Her work has been previously published in Sky Island Journal. When not engaging in some form of art, Gabby can be found spending time with family or asking to pet a stranger’s dog.