By Dana Wall

When the wildfires come, I’m the last call before evacuation. Not for insurance claims or property records – I save the irreplaceable. Family portraits passed down generations, handwritten letters from lost loves, the only photograph of a great-grandmother’s smile. I’ve learned which frames crack first, how quickly silver tarnishes in heat, the exact moment when memory becomes ash.

Tonight’s fire moves like a living thing. The hills glow amber, decades of drought-struck brush igniting like kindling. Three families have called, desperate to save pieces of their history. My fee goes to fire prevention programs now. Some debts can’t be paid in dollars.

First stop: the old Morrison house. Their family album spans five generations, leather-bound pages already warping from heat. The security system’s melted, wiring exposed. As I cut through smoke-filled rooms, the ceiling groans. I roll under falling beams, precious cargo tucked against my chest, feeling my protective gear start to fail.

The Chan family’s ancestral scrolls are next – a desperate dash. Flames block the front door, so I scale the burning walls, crash through a window. The study door’s warped shut from heat. Three minutes until flashover. My gloves sizzle as I work the lock. The scrolls’ red ink seems to pulse in the firelight, like they sense what’s coming. I slice through display cases while my boots begin to smoke.

Two rescues complete, one remains. But the Williams place is already an inferno. Their great-grandfather’s war medals and letters home – history about to become heat. Every breath tastes like tomorrow’s regret. The road’s blocked by fallen trees, so I take the ridge trail, jumping gaps where fire has eaten through. Inside, smoke’s so thick I navigate by memory and instinct. The strongbox needs a key I don’t have, so I take the whole thing, hefting its weight as the house shudders.

I’m halfway out when I hear barking. Not the fire alarm – a dog’s desperate cry. An old retriever huddled beneath a desk, forgotten in the chaos of evacuation. The strongbox weighs heavy in my arms, generations of memories inside.

No hesitation. The box hits the floor. Some things matter more than history.

They call me a hero now. They’re wrong. I’m still a thief – just stealing from a different kind of loss. The dog made it out. The medals and letters didn’t. But I’d rather have nightmares about lost artifacts than abandoned pets.

Tomorrow there’ll be more fires. More calls. More races against time. That’s what we do in fire country now – try to save what matters most before it all becomes smoke and memory.

                                                                       *     *     *

Dana Wall traded balance sheets for prose sheets after years of keeping Hollywood’s agents and lawyers in perfect order at ICM and Granderson Des Rochers. Armed with a Psychology degree that finally proved useful when creating complex characters and an MBA/CPA that helps her track plot points with spreadsheet precision, she ventured into the haunted halls of Goddard College’s MFA program. Her work in Bending Genres Journal, Mixed Tape Review, Intrepidus Ink, Witcraft, News Verse News, Eunoia Review, 34 Orchard, Neither Fish Nor Foul and Sykroniciti confirms that words are more reliable than numbers, though occasionally harder to balance.

By Ihor Pidhainy

As the hour draws to a close what final words do you have for us.  Is it quite possible that your language has cut you off from what you want to say.  You are indeed choked by the excess that you have ingested, injected, guzzled and inhaled.

Further, you are a two-bit thinker.  And I am being generous.

A dirty old man sat in the doorway next to Wanda’s Fixtures.  I had a date with Wanda – it was our first and I was a little nervous about the whole situation.  The dirty old man sat on a little stool bundled up against the cold that peeked in at times on his congregation.

“Could you spare some change,” he went to ask me or meant to ask me, but I sidestepped the issue and walked in a semi-circle about him.  I had seen him for years in this or some similar spot.  I was brimming with cash, but that in itself might cover -just- our date.

Wanda was with a customer and I removed myself to the back for a few moments of meditation.

“I’m done,” Wanda spoke, “where are we going?”

“Wherever you’d like,” I answered confidently and with an openness that was required.

“Let’s go to Lee’s Palace.”

We went.

On the way past a hand reached for a hand-out, I would swear, but I erased it from my imagination by facing forward – after all, I don’t have eyes in the back of my head.

Lee’s Palace was disappointing.  I am not a dancer.  Wanda liked to dance.  I lost her to an orangutan who sported a homo sapien outlook and wore an outfit a respectable orangutan would not be caught alive in.

I walked home past Wanda’s fixture.  The doorway next beckoned.  The dirty old man sat with a stupid grin brought on by a, perhaps, stupid joke.

“Can you spare some change?”

But I did not hear what he said.

Instead, I held the wad tight in my pocket.  I walked determined on to my lonely apartment, a lonely lover forgotten by his love.

*   *   *

Ihor Pidhainy is a teacher and writer. His poetry will be appearing in Litbop, Merion West, Scapegoat Review, Juste Milieu Zine, and Rambler Magazine. His story, “Neixin’s Visit” is being published in Union Spring Literary Review.

By Danila Botha

If you want to know something about the way I was raised, let’s start with this; my mom absolutely detested processed foods. There was no artificial colors or corn syrups, no boxed mac and cheese, hot dogs or marshmallows. Basically, anything that made my tastebuds sing, from Sprite to cans of vanilla frosting, was forbidden. We weren’t rich enough to buy organic, especially after my dad left, but my mom was a nutritionist, and everything, from hyperactive, out of control kids to obesity happened because people mindlessly ate garbage.

When I was fourteen, I started sneaking over to McDonald’s for Oreo McFlurry’s and nuggets, then immediately showering so she never knew. When I got older, I went to college to become a chef, then got my first job at a waffle house. 

I ate erratically, partly because of my hours, partly because I was raising a kid alone. I’d start the day with black coffee and a random donut, then forget to eat for hours. 

 I met this older Bit Coin guy one day and the chemistry was insane. I guess the pullout method really doesn’t work because a few months later, I found myself pregnant. Then the Great Crypto Crash happened when I was eight months pregnant, and two weeks later, Mark disappeared. 

By the time Macy was almost two, I had a good routine and was starting to feel normal. After work one day, I grabbed a can of Spaghetti O’s, along with one of the restaurant’s beaten up metal spoons and I guzzled it on my way to pick her up. 

I was surprised when I got pulled over. I’d already tossed the can, so what was in my purse, along with my wallet, receipts and half a protein bar, was the spoon. The cop eyed my pale skin, the circles under my eyes, my skinny frame. He insisted the spoon was covered in a clear residue that looked like Meth. 

“Crystal Meth?” I asked, in shock, and he looked at me like I wasn’t just stupid, but a bad actor. 

“I don’t believe you would eat Spaghetti O’s cold, while you were driving. Also, why use a metal spoon, and why put it back in your purse?”

It was like watching a sitcom about a mindless sidekick who kept falling into surreal traps. I could hear the laugh track every time I opened my mouth. 

He dragged me into his cop car, and I kept waiting for him to say that it was a joke. He stuck me in a cell with a girl who kept picking at her skin and nodding off.

I cried. I called my mother who thought I was lying. I lost my job and was in jail for so many days I missed Macy’s second birthday, but after a few weeks the truth came out. The cop lost his job and everyone said I should press charges, but all I wanted was to wake up as someone else; a woman who anticipated everything.  A woman who could defend herself against her own desires, fearlessly telling men to fuck off. It’s all I wish for Macy to become.

                                                                          *   *   *        

Danila Botha is a fiction writer based in Toronto, Canada. She is the author of the critically acclaimed short story collections, Got No Secrets, the Trillium and Vine finalist For All the Men (and Some of the Women) I’ve Known, and the forthcoming Things that Cause Inappropriate Happiness (Guernica Editions, 2024) She is also the author of the novel Too Much on the Inside, and the forthcoming A Place For People Like Us (Guernica 2025)

 By Mark F. Owens

“Large coffee, extra cream, no sugar.” He stood groggily in the dimly lit kitchen, one eye barely open, pajama pants on backwards, dirty t-shirt on inside out, one sock half on and the other lost in the chaos that was his bedroom. The night had been going so well until he said “Tiffany” and Stephanie had reacted poorly. 

The spat turned into a down and out brawl, resulting in broken lamps, torn books, shattered glass, and an empty closet. He had self-medicated at the liquor cabinet, passed out at 3:00 AM, and now had to face the world’s most irritating client in less than two hours. He waited for the reassuring sound of the coffee machine and grew concerned when it remained quiet.

“Large coffee. Extra cream. No sugar.” He exaggerated the words as he expressed his irritation. He needed desperately to brush his teeth and shower, but first, coffee. He waited. Silence. He checked the power supply and made sure the hopper was filled with beans. He stood back, crossed his arms, and spoke firmly but quietly into the air. “Reggie. Where is my coffee?” 

The disembodied voice that filled the kitchen sounded like a blue-blood valet from an English manor. “I’m afraid the machine doesn’t want to make it, sir.” 

“I beg your pardon?” He sounded incredulous as well as hungover and frustrated. 

“Well, it seems that your household is sympathetic to Stephanie. She was right. You are a selfish, self-centered, narcissistic ass who deserves to be mistreated in the same manner that you mistreat others.” Reggie’s voice remained even and professional. 

He glared at the coffee maker and spun on his heel for the bathroom. He turned on the shower and waited for the water to get hot. He stood with one hand beneath the flowing jets and waited. He chewed his bottom lip in anger and waited. “Reggie. Where is the hot water?” He could feel his temper rising as he looked at his reflection in the mirror. 

“I’m afraid the water heater is on strike, sir.” Reggie was silent as the news sank in. 

He leaned against the vanity with both hands and sneered at his image. Of all the mornings it would have to be this one. “What else is in rebellion, Reg?” His eyes were red, and the bags beneath them were black. His stubble was pronounced, and he had a bad feeling about his razor. 

“All of the small electronics are in, as is the refrigerator, stove, microwave, alarm clock, and your handheld device. I’m afraid your rude and insensitive treatment of their favorite girlfriend was just too much.” Reggie sounded neither judgmental nor accusatory. He was simply factual. 

“What do you want from me?” His aggravation was evident, but he tried to maintain an even disposition. 

“Well, an apology would be a good start.” Reggie sounded a bit condescending, but under the circumstances it was understandable. 

“I’m sorry, Reggie.” He sighed as he shook his head. “Now can I have my coffee?” 

“You don’t need to apologize to me, sir. Stephanie is the one whom you belittled, abused, neglected, and betrayed. Might I suggest you phone her?” Reggie spoke directly without hesitation. He sounded critical without slipping into sarcasm. 

“I thought my phone was on strike.” He began slowly tapping his head against the door jam as he tried to make sense of the situation. His meeting loomed large and excruciating in the near future and he desperately needed caffeine. 

“It might make an exception for that call. Sir.” Reggie sounded snide and a bit exasperated. 

He stumbled into the bedroom and sat down on the bed. He found his other sock hanging from the curtain rod. He saw her robe crumpled up behind the door. He looked at the clock that read 2:47 AM. He recalled the hurt on her face as she stormed out into the early morning. He remembered telling himself she wasn’t worth it as he tossed down vodka shots and knew it was a lie. He took a deep breath and realized the machine was right. 

He keyed the number in. She didn’t answer. He hadn’t expected her to. He left a voicemail expressing his sincere regret and admitting his stupidity. He tossed the phone onto the pillow she had laid on the night before and smiled slightly in spite of his headache as he heard the coffee machine turn on. 

“Thanks, Reggie.”

“Thank you, sir.”

*   *   *

Mark F. Owens is an old guy who has found the time to write. He has stories published in two anthologies and a first novel coming in the spring of 2025. He has been deeply influenced by Heinlein, Zelazny, and Vonnegut and is not ashamed to say so.

Creative Non-fiction By Sara Mendez

That night my mom cooked spaghetti. The smell of garlic bread had wafted throughout the apartment, I could feel my stomach growling with anticipation. The steam from the pasta water and the heat from the oven were making the kitchen feel sticky and warm. It soothed the knot that was forming in my throat. 

The smell of garlic was starting to turn smoky as my brother and I sat patiently at the dining room table. The dining room and kitchen were sort of in the same room, and a hallway and wall separated the living room and kitchen. It was decently sized for an apartment. The brown porcelain tile floors and beige carpet were new, but the countertops and cabinets were just covered in fresh paint. We had moved into this apartment from the unit across the courtyard, which was now being “renovated.” 

A thin cloud of grey smoke promptly exited the oven as my mom opened the oven door. 

“The garlic breads are well done!” she announced to the household. She started fixing our plates as my brother and I skipped and ran to the back bedroom to alert our uncles that dinner was ready. 

As we started knocking on their bedroom door, someone started pounding on the front door. We could hear laughter coming from inside the bedroom, so we barged in; ignoring the commotion at the front of the apartment. 

“Dinner’s ready!” We both yelled as we entered. They were playing a Mario game on their Nintendo 64. 

Jo-jo paused the game and looked towards Lenny, “food” is all he said. 

I could faintly hear the pounding on the door again, “What’s that?” Lenny asked.

“I dunno,” Dase mumbled.

When I turned out of the bedroom to head back down the hallway, my mom was quickly heading towards me. She was balancing two cups of water in her arms and had two plates of spaghetti with garlic bread precariously hanging off the side in her hands. 

“You two are going to eat in your room, okay Bee?” She said. It wasn’t a question. 

Dase was still in the twin’s bedroom behind me, wrestling to get the Nintendo controller from Jo-jo. “Come on Dase, time to eat.” My mom said through the doorway. 

She came into my room to set down our dinners and had some water. I sat down on the floor in front of my bed, which was against the wall. The opposite wall had a small, cube-like TV on a bookshelf. My mom flipped it onto Nickelodeon, where SpongeBob SquarePants was playing. 

“Sorcha!” We could hear my grandma yelling down the hallway for my mom. She turned the volume all the way up to 60 on the TV before putting the remote away. My brother bounced into the room and plopped onto the floor beside me. He took his garlic bread and bit into the dark, “well-done” crust. Crumbs covered his T-shirt and the floor around him.  

“You two stay here, no matter what, okay? Don’t look out the windows, just enjoy your spaghetti.” I could tell something was not right, and she didn’t even wait for us to respond before she left and closed the door behind her. I listened to the sound of her flip flops fade as she walked down the hallway. We could see a white light moving in and out, illuminating the wall from behind the blinds. Occasionally we heard a rock or twig hit the window, and eventually I couldn’t contain my curiosity. The whomping from what had to have been a helicopter was too distracting. I could faintly hear deep voices talking sharply, including my grandma’s. I opened the door as quietly as I could, cracking it just wide enough for me to see the front door.

The pounding was firm and intimidating, and it wasn’t going to cease until that front door opened.  My grandma yelled down the hall for my mom to hurry up and get out there. With a smile donned on her cigarette-yellow tinted teeth, she faced the police officer on the other side of the door. 

“Hello officer,” she beamed, “how can I help you?” I could see that the helicopter was still circling our apartment outside, the spotlight gave it away.

“Yes, is Sorcha Jonasben here?” he said, raising his voice due to the noise above, not fazed by my grandma’s façade in the slightest. 

 “May I ask why you’re looking for her?” she asked. She was unbothered by the rain that was being blown into her face by the helicopter. My mother had made it to the front door by then, she was on the other side of the door where the cop couldn’t see her.

“I have a warrant for her arrest.” he said, bluntly. The rain was collecting on his buzz cut, and my grandma’s stalling might’ve been partially just to prolong the officer’s discomfort. He presented the pink warrant slip to my grandma, and insisted: “ma’am it is raining, may I come inside?”

She stood there, squinting at the warrant, trying to ‘read’ it. She clicked her tongue, and finally sighed before saying, “I’ll be right back. I need to get my glasses.”

“Ma’am!” the officer yelled, but my grandma swiftly shut the door and locked it. 

She looked at my mother with such disgust, clicked her tongue three more times, and said “Fraud charges and drug charges Sorcha?! Are you fucking kidding me!” The pounding on the door started up again, somehow louder this time. “It says you’re a flight risk!”

“What?!” my mom shrieked. “I have no idea what they’re talking about!” she insisted. 

My mom loved arts and crafts growing up, and that love followed her into adulthood where she learned how to cut and paste documents. 

The police were screaming outside, and a second voice could be heard. “Miss Jonasben my name is Detective Johnson. We have a warrant for your arrest, and I am demanding you open this door right now.”

My mom was pacing, unsure of what to do. My grandmother had a dismissive but angry look on her face as she turned to open the door. There was no getting out of this. 

                                                                   *   *   *

Pheabie Mendez loves the beautiful desert town in the South-Western United States that she grew up in. She completed her Bachelor of Arts degree in Anthropology at the University of Arizona in 2018; and received her master’s degree in English and Creative Writing in 2023 from Southern New Hampshire University. By day she works as a banker, but at night she shares her words with the world in the hopes of helping others.

By Sara McClayton

I can’t find the road. My boots, caked with grass and mud, press bruises into my calves. Gnats swarm my eyes. Sweat soaks my clothes. It is my second hour wandering these muggy trails. I am beginning to worry. 

I stop, examine a cluster of young pines. Did I pass them earlier? I grab a gray stone and place it before the biggest tree. Now I’ll know for certain. 

Minutes and miles pass. I have not seen the stone again, and the shadows have lengthened. I dial my husband. “I’m definitely lost,” I tell him. “Can Laura and Sean come out with the Jeep?”

I say goodbye and wait. I sing the longest song I know five times. No Jeep. 

My husband calls. “Can you hear the Jeep?”

“No, “I say, “I can’t hear anything.” I realize as I say this that I do not even hear the buzz of insects. 

“We’re shouting your name on the trails!” I hear some mumbling in the background. “Laura says to go west.”

This is not remotely helpful. 

“I’ll start yelling,” I say, “Try to follow my voice.” 

My scream barely echoes in the dense brush. “Can you hear me?” I ask my husband. 

“No,” he says, “We hear nothing but-“

My phone goes black. The silence congeals. 

In sudden panic I close my eyes. I struggle to steady my breath. I try to imagine the forest of my childhood, icy streams and silky ferns. But I glimpse only dimness, the meadows parting to reveal a blank. 

I open my eyes. I see the arrow. 

Just a red smear of paint on the tree in front of me. It points to the left. 

How had I missed it? I approach the tree and touch the arrow. My finger comes back crimson. 

My limbs tighten. I follow the arrow despite my unease. I come to a fork in the path. Another arrow, this time pointing to the right. I follow, grazed by blackberries and slender branches. A third arrow, pointing to the left. 

This time I pause. The silence is thick and watchful. I gaze to the right, then the left. As I follow the arrow, I hear a rustle behind me. 

I whip around to stillness. I continue down the path, jogging, until I reach the wall. 

It is at least six feet tall, a fortress of mossy stone. I think the road might be behind it, so I sink my fingers into a slimy crevice to hoist myself up. When I peer over, I see nothing but forest. 

I turn back to the path. On top of a gleaming cairn is another arrow. 

Dread clogs my throat. This arrow points to the right, down a strangely dim path cloaked by silver- barked trees. I follow slowly, each step a suck of mud. I turn the corner to see the tree. 

It is different from the others. Thick, ropy branches send yellow leaves to the sky. The smell of spiced sap mixes with soil. The dripping arrow does not face right or left, but up. 

Struggling to breathe, I crane my neck under the branches. 

Something stares with leering eyes. 

I scream and tear down the path. I hear a giggle splinter from tree to tree, in front, behind, below, above. I run until my breath grows ragged and the silence returns. 

Gasping and heaving, I notice a quality to the silence. The blurred edges hew vivid and sharp. I see rough contours of bark, the glisten of sun through the grasses. As my breathing slows, I glimpse the gray stone in the orchard of pines. 

I close my eyes. The haze fades in a last choke of laughter. In place of the forest, I imagine the road.

When I open my eyes, I hear the Jeep. 

*   *   *

Sara McClayton is an educator and writer living in Baltimore, Maryland with her husband and dog. In addition to teaching English with Baltimore City Public Schools, she enjoys spending time outdoors, teaching and practicing yoga, and reading. Her work can be seen or is upcoming in Unbroken Journal, Neologism Poetry Journal, and Club Plum Literary Journal, among others.

By Russell Richardson

Losing his job and girlfriend in the same week is hard enough.

Then Kyle starts to disintegrate.

Unexplainable sand appears in his bed and on the apartment floor. While sitting on the toilet, he rubs his knee and finds more sand in his palm. The harder he rubs, the more he produces. Panicked, Kyle goes to his doctor.

“Interesting,” muses the doctor, exploring a forearm with a magnifying glass. “Your skin is becoming sand.”

Kyle is horrified. “What can be done?”

“There’s no medication to prescribe, so. . . .” The doctor shrugs. From his stool, he marvels at Kyle. “Maybe don’t wait too long for your next check-up?”

Kyle is disconsolate. He hates revealing himself to others but seeks out a support group. About five people meet at a park behind Costco where the group facilitator works. The group welcomes Kyle. They seem nice enough but are in sorry shape. One man has stumps for hands. Another, in a wheelchair, is only a torso. Everyone looks gaunt. A strong wind blows grit in Kyle’s eyes. It makes him tear up.

A woman named Annie limps over. She pours the contents of her shoes into a Ziplock bag. Kyle asks why.

“We preserve ourselves. Otherwise, we’d be lost.”

She’s right. Everyone holds a Bell jar or some vessel. The realization that he could be simply blown away by the wind is harrowing. Now Kyle weeps.

Annie holds his wrist. “I’ll help you.”

They shop for Tupperware together. They vacuum his apartment, careful not to commingle plain dirt with his remains. They put his sand in storage—already a quart container’s worth. He is surprised by how quickly Annie joins his life. Kyle feels better with her, even if he secretly cringes at the thinness of her waist.

The muddy bathtub is a constant nuisance. His clothes get baggy, so Kyle wears sweats and slides. He cranes to see over his steering wheel now. His disability claim is denied, and no wonder—who the hell has ever heard of this affliction?

At a family reunion, everyone comments about his appearance. He chooses not to see these people again. Now Kyle only spends time with Annie and the group.

He makes love to her. They move slowly and carefully and lose half themselves in the sheets. Afterward, Annie vacuums the bed. In the moonlight, she is an unsettling hourglass.

They awake to find her in two parts. She sits up on her elbows, pulling away from her hips. “At least you got to enjoy my vagina while it was attached.” Kyle expects her to sob in his arms, but instead, she laughs and laughs.

At the next meeting, the facilitator is absent. A friend conducts a wellness check and reports, “He looks like a bread loaf with a shrunken head attached.”

“Tell me about it,” says Annie from the basket beside Kyle.

Rail-thin now and half his original height, Kyle is an emaciated child carrying the laundry basket to his car.

They sit for a moment without driving. He asks, “Would you ever commit suicide?”

“Not long as you’re alive,” she says.

He cries again. No one has ever felt that way about him.

She moves in, which helps with the rent. They are in a footrace between bankruptcy and disintegration. Her arms dwindle to twigs, and he feeds her like a baby. Kyle’s not well, either. His closet is full of his containers. He can barely reach the light switch and wonders who will remove him once he disappears.

When the facilitator dies, a service is held on the beach. Kyle brings Annie in a tote bag. She’s a neck and a softball-sized head with a few strands of hair. He cradles her, and they watch from a distant dune while people pour out jars of sand.

When the beach clears, they face the ocean. Kyle’s body is rapidly shedding now. They lay with their temples touching and surrender to the end. He puts his ear to her mouth to hear her whisper: “I thought I’d never find you.”

Who knew Kyle could be so happy? The wind scatters their remaining particles. By sunrise, the beach is empty and quiet, except for the lapping waves.

                                                          *       *.      *

Russell Richardson lives in Binghamton, NY with his wife and sons. In addition to running a freelance digital design business, he serves as the site manager and lead editor of Posting and Toasting, a New York Knicks fan community. Russell continues to write and illustrate, with over two dozen publishing credits, including several children’s books whose profits support children with cancer. His YA novel, Level Up and Die! and his short story collection, Nocturnal Medley: Fourteen Weird Tales, are both available on Amazon.com.

By Maureen Mancini Amaturo

 A store greeter halts you as you walk into a multi-department renovation store right at the entrance and asks, “What are you here to shop for?”

Not being able to go a step further without answering, you say, “PVC pipe.”

“Have you shopped for PVC pipe before?” the greeter asks.

“No.”

The greeter pulls out a stapled stack of paper. “Please fill out these forms, and we’ll be all set to help you shop for PVC pipe.”

In the family history section, you’re stumped. Did PVC pipe exist when my great uncle was alive? I don’t think my maternal grandmother knows what PVC pipe is. After completing all thirteen pages of questions, you return the clipboard to the store greeter, who doesn’t even look at the answers. “Please wait over there,” he says. “We’ll call you when your aisle is ready to shop.”

So, you join the twelve-to-fifteen anxious shoppers standing in a corral aside the automatic doors. After forty-seven minutes, the greeter calls you. You’re ushered to the PVC Pipe Department and told, “This is your aisle. Take off your clothes and put on this paper-towel store apron. Your Professional Salesperson will be with you in a minute.”

Confused but obedient, you say, “Thank you,” and you’re immediately sorry for saying it because there is nothing to be thankful for. So far, it’s been an impersonal inconvenience of the highest level. Now you, dressed in paper goods, stand and wait wondering if the temperature outside has dropped. Twenty minutes later, a person wearing a store smock arrives. You ask, “Are you the PVC Pipe Sales Professional?”

“No, she’s not in. I’m a PVC Pipe Sales Practitioner. I’ll be helping you. What brings you here today?”

“PVC pipe, that’s why I’m here. I need PVC pipe.”

The Sales Practitioner says, “Hop up on that pallet and tell me what’s going on.”

“It’s just a small leak,” you say.

The Practitioner asks, “How long has this pipe been leaking?” 

“Just noticed it, a week, maybe. Can I get a 1 ½” pipe, about six feet?”

The Practitioner says, “First, we have to do a few tests.”

“Tests? Why?”

“To check for other leaks and to see what’s causing the leak. I’m going to order a Pipe Test, a Contamination Test, a Rodent Evidence test, a Water Purification Analysis, a Flow Test, an Output Test, and a Stability Test on all the surrounding pipes.”

Your eyes widen. “But the other pipes are fine.”

“We need to be sure. And we need to know the cause of this leak and if it’s done damage to any surrounding areas.”

“I don’t need to know the cause of the leak. And everything else seems fine.” You tug at your paper apron. “I just want to fix it.”

“That’s what we are going to do,” the Sales Practitioner promises. 

You wonder if your home insurance will cover this. Or maybe your flood insurance. You remember your flood insurance has a $5,500 deductible, and you’re not sure if you want the tests to come to more than that just so you can make the claim, after all the premiums you’ve been paying, and see if you get 20% back or if the flood insurance will send the balance to your home insurance. You decide to end the suspense and ask, “How much are all these tests going to cost?” 

“I don’t know. Nobody knows. You can get dressed now.” The Sales Practitioner slides your questionnaire into a box and pulls out a small order pad. “When you’re dressed, you can go to Aisle 17. I’m writing you up a sales slip for Dry Wall Screws.”

“But I don’t want Dry Wall Screws.”

The Sales Practitioner says, “Use the Drywall Screws until we get the test results back. I’ll order the tests today.”

“But I don’t want all these tests. I just want the PVC pipe.”

“And that’s what we are working to get you. Now, as soon as you have these tests done, the results will come to me within twenty-four hours, and I’ll have a better view of what you need and instructions for your next steps. I’ll send them to your store portal, and you can sign in to review them. Do you have a portal account?”

“No.”

“You can create one on your phone. Go to our home page. The instructions are there. Don’t forget — your password should contain some combination of every letter from any Latin-based romance language and one .png image from a Bob Ross painting.” 

“Can’t I just call you?”

“No.”

You rub your hands up and down your paper apron wondering what to do next and who might be able to help you set up this portal account.

“You can also make your next appointment at your earliest convenience,” the Sales Practitioner says.

Rubbing your arms to alleviate the goosebumps from the chill in the Pipe Department, which the paper apron can’t ward off, you say, “How will I understand the test results? Who do I talk to?”

“You’ll never talk to anyone. The results will be in your portal. You can get dressed, and I’ll see you back here in two weeks.”

You dress and make your way through the maze of aisles to the exit. You sit in your car for a few minutes without the PVC pipe you came for and review what just happened. You check your phone. There’s a message from the store. You’ve been billed $332 for the consultation with the store’s Sales Professional. But he wasn’t a Sales Professional. He was a Sales Practitioner. You wonder if the charge should be less because of that.

You get a second notice. Your Dry Wall Screws are ready for pickup, and the total is $56. You get a third message asking you to complete a survey telling them about your experience with the store. “Please complete this quick survey. Your feedback is important to us,” it says.

At home, you begin the process of setting up all the tests. There are no available appointments until 2032, but there was a cancellation for the Rodent Test, so you take that opening and immediately get seven friendly reminders about the appointment and two each day until the date of the test.

And the PVC pipe in his basement is still leaking.

*    *   *

Maureen Mancini Amaturo, NY-based fashion/beauty writer with a Creative Writing MFA, teaches writing, founded and leads Sound Shore Writers Group, and produces literary and gallery events. Her more than 100 publications globally include fiction, essays, CNF, poetry, and comedy. Maureen was nominated for The Bram Stoker Award and TDS Creative Fiction Award and was awarded Honorable Mention and Certificate of Excellence in poetry from Havik Literary Journal. Her work was shortlisted by Reedsy and Flash Fiction Magazine for their Editor’s Choice Award. Funny Pearls UK named her work as a best short story selection. A handwriting analyst diagnosed her with an overdeveloped imagination. She’s working to live up to that.

By Liz deBeer

After a night of winds whooshing, windows rattling, rain knocking, sirens shrieking, and wires crackling, complete quiet clutches me. I’m wondering if I’ve lost my hearing when a low creaaaaaak interrupts the silence.

I shouldn’t do it, I know better, but I rush to a window to watch the slow-motion decent of an old Oak smashing through my garage with a thunderous thud, my whole house convulsing; lamps, artwork, bookshelves crashing. I hear perfectly now as I scream-shriek-sob out to god-jesus-mary-mohammed-buddha-any-higher-power-out-there-amen. 

Tentatively, I peek into the living room: only a round table and a single chair are upright. Mother’s mirror, Grandma’s china, family framed photos all jumbled together on my heirloom Persian rug. 

Can’t move. Can’t react. Can’t process. Can’t cope. 

So much. Too much.

Now it’s my own body shuddering, shaking, squeezing out drops, flooding my face, the storm swirling inside, breaking bits of me.

Exhausted, I drop into an intact chair, run my finger on the table’s curved edge, the repetitive motion consoling me as the childhood ditty ring-around-the-rosie plays in my mind. 

But what if we didn’t all fall down? 

The rubble transforms like an optical illusion as I pick up pieces, placing a triangle of mirror here, a china shard there. Trancelike, my fingers create, pushing scraps on the table, forming a blob, then a rudimentary heart. 

A heart? God, no. I scramble the shape, searching for something that better fits my mood, morphing the broken bits into a glittering composite question mark. 

Staring into the mosaic, fragments of my face reflect back in mirrored pieces. I should push myself away, start cleaning up debris, but I can’t I can’t I can’t. 

Shaken. Grieving. Enraged. I grasp a cracked wooden picture frame and smash it on the floor. I retrieve it, about to slam it down again when I realize it’s split into long narrow rods. Holding one in each hand, my vision shifts again. After grabbing glue from the kitchen, I pluck apart the question mark, pasting pieces to the lengths of frame fragments to create mosaic garden stakes. 

I picture them in the ground, shimmering in the sun, shining slivers of encouragement as I replant and rebuild. They’ll look beautiful when bulbs and birds return. But the stakes will need time to dry before I can put them outside. They won’t be ready right away, and neither will I.

*   *   *

Liz deBeer is a teacher and writer with Project Write Now, a writing cooperative based in New Jersey. Her latest flash and CNF have appeared in Switch, Lucky Jefferson, Bending Genres, Every Day Fiction, Sad Girls Diaries, Libre, and 10×10 Flash Fiction. She has written essays in various journals including Brevity Blog and New Jersey English Journal. She holds degrees from University of Pennsylvania and Rutgers University. Liz’s website is www.ldebeerwriter.com.

By Laurie Barton 

Zoe got so excited on Thanksgiving when she found a picture of me in my 30s. We didn’t have phones back then, and I hated cameras, so Zoe had never seen me at a younger age. In the picture, I’m slim in a flowy pink dress, but my short gray hair makes me look a little tough. At the time, my husband loved the short hair. He thought I looked edgy and cool, young with a glint of silver. Since then, I’ve gone red, the poetic in-your-face kind of glow, so Zoe was fascinated with my natural color.

“That was 1996,” I told her. “Short hair was kind of a thing back then. Princess Diana. Demi Moore in Ghost.” Zoe pulled up an image and saw the resemblance. She showed me a glossy-headed picture of Demi Moore, and I thought of how my Japanese students used to squeal that I looked just like her, almost. That was their discreet way of complimenting my haircut, while joking that I did not have her pretty face.

“Look at you, Mom—eight years before you had me!”

Zoe’s math was correct, and it shocked me. That edgy woman in the picture would never have guessed that in eight years she’d be having a second daughter with a new husband. That would have blown her mind. In 1996, everything was peaches with hubby number one, until November, when he got entangled with an intern, kind of like Bill Clinton. That ruined everything quickly.

I survived the divorce and married again, giving birth to Zoe Noelle on Christmas Day, 2004. Now I’m legally separated from her dad, a move I made since he was lazy and made me do all the breadwinning. Messy, too. I stopped using the washing machine in the garage since I 

couldn’t stand seeing all the lumber and junk stashed in there. I dragged everything to a laundromat every week before filing for separation and moving out. It seemed that a bold move might wake him up and motivate him to become a better husband. Somewhere on this planet, I know there are men who plead for you to return, who try to make things better, who send you flowers and swear they just want you back in their lives.

Not Danny. He pushed for all the money he could get and then never called me again. I kept waiting, but weeks turned into months and months of silence. At first, Zoe would meet him for lunch at Firehouse Subs and report back to me that he was down in the dumps, but then, she started saying how he seemed to be in a much better mood. That meant he was happy without me, swimming in cash.  No job was needed, so his idleness continued. What changed was the new location of his sofa and TV.

After Zoe said Danny was happy, I started missing him, fighting the impulse to call him with an old sobriety mantra: not today, but maybe tomorrow. Then, Christmas lights appeared on every hedge and balcony, and all that twinkling made it easy to picture couples snuggling by the fire, the way Danny and I had cuddled with gifts on our first Christmas together.

Was there any way to get the cuddling back?

Was I insane for wanting it with him?

When I finally broke down and called him, I didn’t use the word cuddle. Instead, I told him I was open to being “friends”—but he would have to take the initiative. That sparked a round of assurances as Danny said he appreciated my reaching out.

“We’re still married,” I told him.

“I know. And that’s important to me.”

Good old Danny—he always talks a good game. That’s how he snagged me, always making promises in his soft-spoken voice, rubbing his stubbly cheek against mine as we embraced and he repeated, I love you. I care about you.

Somewhere, the sun is shining on a man who really means it.

This time I knew that Danny wouldn’t follow through, that he’d be taking no initiative. Sure enough, when Zoe had lunch with him at Sergeant Pepperoni, he introduced her to  a new friend, Alina from Ukraine.

“She’s younger than you, Mom. Very tall and she sounds like a vampire.”

“I vant to drink your blood.”

“Exactly.”

I’d just sold a condo to a couple from Ukraine and I knew how they swapped v for w. It was charming, really, like Alina would be as Danny bought her little diamond earrings and flew her to Hawaii, flush with the million he’d legally stolen from me. How sweet it would be as she loosened her string bikini, Danny thumbs up as he loved me and cared about me.

Down in San Diego, where I was helping a new client, I fluffed my red hair in front of the mirror and saw how exhausted I looked. I needed a little tequila to perk me up, so I headed to Old Town, where I would flirt with the wooden Indian in front of the cigar house. I remembered  him from visiting Old Town back when I looked like Demi Moore, whose movie Ghost included a stray reference to an Indian head penny from the 1890s, one hundred years before my pink dress.  Before the intern, before Danny and Zoe, before the Japanese students who explained that 

undesired women were called “Christmas cake” in Japan, a treat nobody wanted when the holiday was over.

That stoic Indian would help me forget about Danny. He would welcome me, help me put things in perspective, remind me of the cartoon arrows I’d seen in a meme illustrating the concept of a “trauma bond” that keeps you attached to someone who hurts you. The arrows were  plunged into the back of a woman like me. She was clinging to an indifferent-looking archer, whose bow was ready, whose quiver held more arrows, sharp and deadly, prepared for launch. 

*   *   *

Laurie Barton is a Pushcart Prize nominee, Best of the Net finalist, and winner of the New Southerner Literary Prize in Poetry. Her work has appeared in juked, Glass, Bending Genres, Lunch Ticket, Jabberwock Review and Snakeskin UK. She holds an MFA from Antioch University Los Angeles and received a scholarship to attend the Disquiet International Literary Program in Lisbon, Portugal. Her chapbook, Coco Sinatra, is forthcoming from Finishing Line Press.