By Stephen Mirabito

The doctor checked his chart. This was the third boy this week with the same symptoms: constipation, hoarse voice, and soreness in his muscles. The doctor looped a mask around his ears and winked at the nurse. 

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” he said. “You know, just a coincidence.” 

She didn’t respond. She opened the door and motioned him inside. 

He bent over to step through the doorway. The doctor was a hulk of a man – 6’3” 250 lbs with a slickly-shaven head. Being a pediatrician, he had to work hard to soften his first impression, to come off as a helping friend. The kid sat on the edge of a reclining bed, his legs splayed over the wax paper covering. 

“I heard someone wasn’t feeling well.” The doctor had a huge smile hidden behind his polka-dot mask. 

The kid adjusted uncomfortably. He looked to his mom for help, almost grimacing in pain. 

The mom tried to encourage him, but he wouldn’t budge. 

After a bit of awkwardness, she finally broke the silence. “I got very worried. Every morning for the past week, he says he’s sore ‘over and over.’” She motioned with her hands. 

The doctor was already fishing through the drawer for a medical needle. 

“It says here that he’s having trouble in the bathroom?” the doctor asked. 

“Yes. That too.” 

He found the needle he was looking for. It was sealed in plastic. He undid the wrapping around the instrument, careful not to touch any part of it except the base. 

“It says he’s not vaccinated either?” 

The doctor tried his best not to add any inflection to his voice. He didn’t want to initiate any kind of political debate during what should have been an ordinary doctor’s visit. 

“Correct.” A terse response. The mother was clearly holding back. 

The doctor asked the boy about his favorite cartoon and that finally got him talking. 

“Well . . .” He began cautiously. “I watch a lot of Spongebob.”

“That was my favorite show growing up.”

The boy looked to his mother in excitement. She feigned a smile, then winced.  

The doctor had sunk half the needle into the kid’s left foot, but the kid hadn’t even stuttered.

“Mom – what’s wrong?” 

“Hey bud. I need your help, okay?” The doctor redirected his attention. 

The kid slowly nodded his head. 

The doctor took the needle and poked the kid softly and this time further up his leg. 

“I need you to tell me when this starts to hurt.” The doctor’s tone was much more solemn. 

The boy blinked back, clearly confused. 

The doctor was at the fatty part of the kid’s calf – nothing. 

Next to his knee – still nothing.  

“Is he. . . is he walking? Did he walk here by himself?”  

The mother just glanced away, unable to respond. 

The doctor poked the child’s thigh. 

“Ouch!” 

The doctor exhaled. 

He wrote a few notes in silence on his pad. 

“We need to get him to St. Anthony’s as soon as we can.” 

The mother nodded. 

“I’ll call for an escort. Julie is our specialist. She will be here soon and she’ll take you through everything. You’ll be in good hands.” 

The doctor hung up the chart at the front entrance. He pressed a panel next to the light switch. A green bulb illuminated in the hallway. 

“You will be just fine. The both of you.” 

The mother offered a meek thank you, but the doctor was already leaving the waiting room. Men in hazmat suits soon shuffled inside and began questioning the mother and her son. They forced them into masks and gloves. The doctor was down the hall when he heard the mother – the two were being separated at that point. 

The nurse found him getting coffee a few minutes later. 

“So?” she asked. 

“All but confirmed.” 

“Jesus. It’s so simple to prevent.” 

“I have no idea.” 

“It puts our lives in danger too, you know? We shouldn’t even help them if they won’t help themselves.” 

“That wouldn’t make us very good doctors, would it?” 

The nurse scoffed. “I knew this was gonna happen months ago. They’re finding strains of it in fecal samples. Reception has a bet on whether we’ll hit twenty new cases by the end of the week.” 

“Really.” 

“We’re probably all carriers at this point – whether vaccinated or not.” 

“. . .” 

“You could exhibit symptoms at any point. There’s still a chance.” 

“It’s part of the job, I guess.” 

“If I see you get wheeled in here I’m assigning you to another floor.” 

She smiled, but he didn’t react at all so she left. 

The doctor sipped his coffee absent-mindedly. He thought about his house, his yard, and how much he could actually get done if he ditched work, went home, and got to it right then. It was only half past noon. Maybe he’d order a pizza, too. 

He sat down and undid his shoe. He took off his right sock and held his pale foot to the cool air. In his coat pocket, he found the medical needle that he was definitely supposed to have left in the waiting room for the decontamination team.

He held the needle inches from his big toe. He thought long about stabbing himself, to test his foot.

He laughed. What good would it do anyway? He had work to finish. The trouble it would cause – it wasn’t worth it. 

He laced up his shoe and dumped the remaining coffee down the sink. Could he feel the sock on his foot? Could he feel the pressure of the shoe as he pulled the laces taut? He was too distracted to really notice either way. 

Maybe everyone would be fine. Maybe he could finish his yard and finally mow the lawn.  

                                                          *   *   *

Stephen Mirabito is an English teacher working in Littleton, Colorado. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Every Day Fiction, Constellations Magazine, and Peatsmoke Journal. He is currently a candidate of the University of Denver’s UCOL Professional Creative Writing program.  

By Sarah Daly

Ever since Baby had appeared on her doorstep, via an act of divine magic, she had been consumed by Baby. The hours, filled with innumerable tasks, passed so quickly. Indeed, she hardly had time to eat a full meal or shower, since she had to be near Baby, at all times, or Baby would fuss and squeal and reach its chubby little hands upwards, as if siphoning the world’s love. 

Baby never grew, Baby was always Baby. Frozen as if by magic, Baby touched everyone who came into its life. Baby had roamed the world, passed from person to person. Baby had felt many hands: small, large, warm, cold, smooth, scratchy. And Baby was really real with a beating heart, and lungs, and pinkish cheeks, and crystal blue eyes, and tufts of inky black hair. Baby had no sex, no gender. Baby was Baby, smooth and pink and always clean. 

On their daily walks, other women would often pause and look at the child, strapped carefully in the stroller. Their eyes were greedy, longing, and Mother quickly pushed Baby forward, so Baby was not stolen. But Baby enchanted them anyway; Baby’s gaze was grasping, insatiable. 

Every night, Mother sings to Baby until her voice is hoarse, every nursery rhyme that comes in her mind. She rocks and holds Baby, unaware whether it is day or night; Baby is completely dependent on her, and she has a sense of rightness, of security, a sense of completeness when she is with Baby. She can think of nothing else, of doing nothing else but to be with Baby! She would hollow out her insides, for Baby. 

And Baby wants her, all of her. Baby sometimes gums her fingers, even drawing a little blood, somehow (she could not find Baby’s teeth, but could feel them sometimes). She would shiver at Baby’s firm grasp of her, and knew she should pull away, even admonish Baby, but she could not! She could not! And after all, she yearns to feed Baby from her own body, instead of canned milk.  So, if he desires a little of her blood, then she relinquishes it, gladly. She would turn herself inside-out for Baby.  

Baby is a miracle. A miracle she conjured from the landscape of her dreams. In her solitary bed, she had imagined cradling a child’s softness in her own arms, every night, for months. And then, one day, on her door-step, tucked into a tiny woven basket, was Baby. To her, even Baby’s babblings made perfect sense. She could divine Baby’s language as a maternal instinct blossomed within her, replacing baser, coarser desires. She feels purified by Baby, somehow.  

One afternoon, she pushes Baby in the park, smiling in contentment. It’s a lovely day, a magical day, to be a Mother. Autumn is just beginning; the foliage turning to vivid shades of orange, and yellow, and red. She will gather some leaves and twigs, to make a wreath with Baby, when they return home.  

When they reach the playground, she carefully parks the stroller and walks back a little ways to retrieve the raddle Baby had thrown on the ground. As she bends over, she suddenly feels a premonition, a nervous tingling of danger. She quickly straightens and turns around, only to witness a woman in a dark, flowing gown, scooping Baby from the stroller. Paralyzed for only an instant, she darts after the woman, shouting frantically as if in a nightmare; yet the woman races towards the woods at the edge of the park, oblivious to the shouts, the pleas to stop.  

Mother runs and runs, her legs gaining speed until she finally overtakes the woman, tackling her bodily to the ground. Baby wails beneath their combined weights. Mother is frantic, grabbing Baby, checking for bruises, pressing Baby tightly to her breast. But the woman recovers, knocks her down, wrenches Baby from her, and begins to run once again. Mother stands, stumbles, and tries to follow, yet the woman runs faster and faster. Soon, the woman is gone, deep into the woods. Mother collapses on the ground, clawing desperately at the empty grass as she loses consciousness, descending into a dark, nameless slumber. 

Hours later, Baby is crawling towards her. Her mouth opens in recognition, and her arms reach forward yearning to hold, to touch Baby. Yet Baby crawls faster than she can and soon fills her vision completely. Now, only inches away, she notices that Baby’s face is distorted into a malevolent, cunning expression as little white fangs protrude from pink lips. The fangs are probing, aiming for her heart. Baby, she cries, pleads, it cannot be Baby, it cannot be. Yet her denials are useless as Baby’s teeth pierce the tender skin on her breast and drain the blood from her body. 

                                                                     *      *     *

Sarah Daly is an American writer whose fiction, poetry, and drama have appeared in forty-seven literary journals including The Inflectionist Review (nominated for Best Spiritual Literature Awards, Orison Books),  Anti-Heroin Chic, The Sandy River Review, Across the Margins, and Tipton Poetry Journal.

By Daniel Crépault

The jarring ringtone cut through Winston’s sleep, sending a jolt of adrenaline coursing through him that was as unwelcome as stepping on a Lego block in bare feet. Half asleep as he was, Bonnie’s nasally voice grated on his ears as his sister-in-law delivered the news. “Your brother is dead.”

There was a long pause as Winston, shaking away slumber, forced his leaden tongue to formulate some response. “I didn’t even know he was sick,” he said finally, sounding like some Vaudevillian hack. He coughed loudly into the phone, not from any genuine need, but solely to break the silence that followed.

Unfazed, Bonnie continued, sharing the grim story that by then she’d practically memorized. She described the doctor’s prognosis, James’ worsening condition, and how the illness ate away his strength until he couldn’t even get out of bed. Winston listened to the slurred words, saw the glowing clock across the room that read 12:07 AM, and thought he could almost smell the Manhattans through the phone. He opened his messages app and scrolled through recent texts with his brother, searching through what seemed like an endless sea of GIFs for some mention of his brother’s illness. Finding none, his face flushed hot. “Why wasn’t I told?” he asked, struggling to keep his voice controlled.

“James didn’t want anyone to know. He didn’t want anyone to see him like that, especially toward the end.”

“I’m his brother! He damn well could have picked up the bloody phone!” There was a pounding in his ears now. His heart was racing. Bonnie was blubbering incoherently.

“Oh God, Bonnie. I’m sorry,” he mumbled into the phone. “I didn’t mean to shout.”

“I tried…” she said through sobs, before reverting to that muttered, incomprehensible tongue known only to drunks. He tried his best to soothe her, telling her things a grieving widow might want to hear—that it wasn’t her fault, that she needed to be strong for the kids, and that he would come up to see her very soon. Then he ended the call and sat on the floor.

Winston’s stomach roiled and a metallic taste filled his mouth. He closed his eyes tightly, willing himself not to retch, and focused on taking deep breaths the way his therapist had taught him. The moment soon passed, leaving him drenched in sweat but calm. He sat up, leaned against the foot of the bed, and stayed motionless for what seemed like a long time, listening to the passing cars outside his house and watching as their headlights flashed along the wall.

He tilted his head and looked out the window at the night sky visible just above the housetops, hoping to see stars, but saw only the sickly orange glow of city lights. When they were kids, they’d spent hours in the backyard with their father’s telescope peering up at the moon. They’d even consulted a battered old atlas to learn the names of lunar regions. The Sea of Serenity had always been his brother’s favourite. Winston’s chest tightened at the memory, and he wondered if there was any serenity wherever his brother was now.

His thoughts wandered back to Bonnie. Over the years, their mutual dislike had evolved into thinly veiled hostility that sometimes bubbled to the surface as they traded sarcastic barbs across the dinnertable at holidays. James had confronted them about it once, but neither had been able to articulate the origin of the dislike, both blaming personality differences or irreconcilable political opinions. But Winston could see the undeniable truth now. It had always been about James. They’d both loved him, more than most and saw the other as a threat. And now they’d both lost him. His stomach tightened again as he remembered shouting at her over the phone, promising himself to call her first thing in the morning when she sobered up.

Placing his head in his hands, he saw his phone glowing faintly in the dimness around his feet. He picked it up and glanced at the conversation and the profile picture showing his brother, still healthy and giving that boyish grin of his. Winston’s thumbs tapped slowly as he wrote a final message to end the conversation. His thumb hovered over the Send button, then hurriedly erased it and tossed the phone onto the bed. The cars were passing less frequently now, and the shadows were creeping away down the walls, chased away by the amber sunrise blooming over the freeway.

*   *   *
Daniel Crépault is a criminologist, addiction treatment provider, and emerging short fiction writer. He lives in Ottawa, Canada with his wife and two beautiful children.

By Vivian Clausing

Becky pulled on her tights and laced up her running shoes. Outside, the sky was still black, the horizon a pale yellow. Zeke nosed her toward the door. 

“Whoa. Stay.” 

 Zeke turned and flashed blue eyes at her, his tongue pink against grey fur, waiting. Her best friend. She wouldn’t be a runner if Zeke hadn’t dragged her out every morning. Wouldn’t have lost ten pounds so far. Wouldn’t have quit smoking. Or had the courage to post her profile on Hinge. 

“Okay buddy. Let’s go!” 

They ran along the park fence which  encircled the baseball field, Zeke just ahead. Becky did not see the muddy puddle looming at the edge of first base. Squish! Her right shoe disappeared. Wetness crept over her foot.

“I didn’t expect that!” she breathed, coming to a stop. “Ewwww!” 

Zeke turned and jumped joyfully into the puddle. Cold muddy water hit her in the face. He jumped again and brown splatters flew onto her legs.

“Stop!” she admonished. “Come here!”

Zeke rolled on his back, barking.

“Want some help?” A handsome guy with a strong jawline and eyes as blue as Zeke’s jogged up. Becky’s heart skipped. His teeth were a perfect white line in the semi-darkness as he smiled.

“He’s such a goofball!” Becky was laughing now too.

“He’s beautiful.” 

“He’s better when he’s dry.”

‘Aren’t we all?” The guy’s eyes twinkled. Becky blushed. 

“I gotta go home. Obviously.” 

Zeke was at her side now, tail wagging. He swiveled his head between Becky and the stranger.

“I think he likes you.” Becky said, her fingers in Zeke’s fur. She wanted to ask for the guy’s name but that seemed too weird. Instead, she leaned into Zeke. 

“Should we go home Zeke?”

To her surprise, the guy smiled. 

“I was hoping you’d ask.”

*   *   *

Vivian Clausing has directed a program for women transitioning from incarceration, given seated chair massage to the homeless and advocated for youth and the adults who minister to them. She is now retired and happy to be writing almost every day. Her work has appeared in The Bloomin’ Onion and is forthcoming in 10 x 10 Flash Fiction.  A graduate of Stanford’s OWC writing program, she lives in the Bay Area with her husband and four cats.

By Justene Musin

I craved the attention. The idea of that sweet feeling. Like the buttercream icing on a cupcake. To have everyone perched in the palm of my hands for a short span of time. To be heard. 

Usually, I wanted anonymity. To fold into a crowd. Black and navy were the main shades of my wardrobe. They crafted a camouflage façade. 

But public speaking was my exception. 

I hadn’t done a presentation at work for about a year. My mouth was dry. I chewed a piece of peppermint gum to dispose of the tension. Pupils of mine danced back and forth as I read line by line of my speech. Folded it like origami into my blazer pocket. 

I discretely cast the gum away into the bin before I was to begin. 

The heavy patter of shoes crescendoed and after a few minutes dipped to pianissimo. Everyone was seated. Quiet chatter continued. It was time. My lungs swelled as I took a sizable breath. 

As I spoke, the words unfurled, practiced and perfected. I felt empowered, as I sensed the gaze of the audience upon me. Holding the energy of the room for a brief spell, a moment in time. Galvanized, I was the gatekeeper. The rivulet of words continued to sprint out of my mouth, in a marathon. Slow, I told myself. Breathe.  

The haze of faces blended together, like a foggy photo. I scanned across them, connecting with their eyes, but looking through them, like sun running through a window. 

The vessels of my heart were rapidly beating, but my demeanor was chill, the ultimate iceberg. 

Steering onwards to the end of my speech, I nearly tripped over a word but managed to keep my balance. Barely a drop spilt. 

Last words were shared, and applause and thank you’s followed. The next speaker took their place and began. 

As I listened, my nervous system was still in activation mode, yet to subside. The aftertaste was bitter. A salted caramel that was slightly burnt. An ephemeral feeling. Still lingering. Like a fan desperately waiting for an autograph. 

Later. Good job, nice one, colleagues said. I nodded, smiled and thanked them but the words had drifted into the distance, on a current of disconnection. 

Quickly, I fished out some mints from my desk drawer. Rattle. Click. Open. Click. Shut. Rattle as it shifted back amongst the random remnants. The mint slid on my tongue and dissolved. Better.  

My hands settled on my computer keyboard, like a pianist about to play. Pause.

In the search engine, I typed “Calming images” and selected one with a silhouette of Rangitoto Island surrounded by dawn light. 

I made it my desktop background. 

Headphones on. Their cozy cushioning compressed into my ears. I clicked play on a music track that was pre-paused mid-bridge. Let the lyrics sink in. I folded back into myself.  

                                                               *     *     *

Justene Musin’s writing has been published in Landfall, Quadrant, Colloquy, Snorkel, Ink In Thirds, 101 Words and Friday Flash Fiction. She also self-published a travel memoir, To Paris, Venice and Rome. Justene lives in Auckland, New Zealand.

By Amy Akiko

Our semidetached bricks have never felt the eroding pain of the ocean. Safely anchored on dry land. We yearn from different sides of the same car-lined pier, an unfair border painted down its centre, no 15-year-olds, (who want to be in love), may cross over, it warns, as if our parents have drawn it with their own hands. 

Escaping through bedroom windows, which feel like lifeboats, which have stared, like eyes, since we were knee-high, when you leapt from the boxy 90s Volvo, shoving your younger brother in the back, laughing as he tumbled to the shaved, yellow grass.  

The rushed crunch of our adolescent footsteps, undeterred by night’s chill, the earth spinning away from its star. Furling our purpled fingers around moonlit lapels. The blankets of our giggling breath warming our iced pipe bones, as our parents sleep, and we try to forget the strict lines and curves of their separating words. 

Cradling pieces of polished, jagged shore in our frozen palms, flinging it into the darkness, which sloshes before us, like a dangerous, unknown eternity. The further we throw, the closer our bodies feel, seeing how far away these nearby things can be propelled with such ease, at such speed, and here we are, still moored together, despite their, maybe when you’re 17 vagueness, which almost broke our hearts, as though we had forgotten that we were already loved. 

We only stop, briefly, when we notice her there. A middle-aged woman, camouflaged against the waves, in almost equal darkness. We watch her face begin to smile, as if she is remembering a different world. Eyes cracking into tall stacks of wood at their outer rims, the sunken, eye-lashed pits alighting with the matches of hope, of a burning desperation, and the memory of dry walls she wishes she could return to, but not alone, and the scent of Sundays, and her daughter’s 2nd birthday party when everyone was last together and cake was eaten without her eyes creating smaller, deeper oceans than the one that has tried to steal from her. 

“It’s not what you think,” she yells over, turning away from the violent water, which has given, but has taken nearly everything. “You don’t need to save me,” and we allow ourselves to believe her, letting the frothing mouth of waves swallow her down further. Their hungry bites against her meadowed dress, from another life. Against her raisin flesh, that was smooth when she last held the child she had birthed seven trips around the sun before. 

“I’m guiding her home,” she says, turning back towards her past, hoping there’s a chance it can be her future, even now. “One day, if I―” and her words are rolled away by the water’s clashing song. 

We pause, for a heartbeat, before plucking another pebble away from its mother stone, its brothers and its sisters, watching it drown, unable to contain our intertwined laughter, basking in each other’s condensed puffs, only seeing the face we’ve been forced to miss. 

We barely notice as the whole of her body turns to flames, above and beneath the waves, brighter than any sun; continuing to lob our stones, as she burns for a past life we’re so eager to toss away into the ocean. 

                                                                   *   *   *

Amy is an educator, artist and writer from South London. Her writing often focuses on the joy of love and the agony of love lost. Her short stories and poetry have appeared in East of the Web, The Tiger Moth Review, Cosmic Daffodil’s ebook ‘Natura’, Short Beasts, Litbreak, Isele Magazine and elsewhere.

By Amorak Huey

Twenty-some years since the drowning and we all still struggle to breathe. So when my brother tells me we’re running out of money and could lose the property, well, it just feels sort of inevitable.

*

Jimmy — Jimmy Jr. or JJ at first, Jim for a while, now James in a coat and tie — moved as soon as he could, toward drier land: college in South Bend, job in Kansas City, finally settling in Phoenix to raise a family as far from water as possible.

Sam stayed. Still runs the resort, but you can see the burden he carries in his sloped posture, hear it in his slow way of speaking. He’s the safest person you ever met: a whole existence quilted from seat belts and speed limits and guard rails and life preservers. 

Dad died when we were in our late teens or early twenties: heart attack, officially, but we knew the ending was inscribed into his body a decade earlier, that midsummer day in 1983. Quiet before, quieter after; broken.

Mom seems fine, if you don’t know her, loud and loony as ever, but there’s a hollowness to it. It was always an act, but the veneer is thinner: the desperation underneath slipping to the surface more easily, more often.

Me, I left, came back for two weeks after college, left again, back now for I guess as long as mom needs me. “She can’t do it on her own,” Sam said to me on the phone.

“But you’re right there,” I said.

“I can’t, Mare,” he said. “I just .. look, can you come home?”

So I gave notice at a job I mostly enjoyed, packed my North Florida apartment into a rusty Ford Taurus, and moved back to the lake in the woods in the middle of Michigan, the green house behind the camp store, the pink bedroom waiting for me like a museum of my childhood, as if the place knew all along I’d be back.

*

I say drowning, but really it was a disappearance.

My uncle Steve, my cousins Alyssa and Donnie. They were twins, Jimmy’s age, so six years old than me. Thirteen at the time. Thirteen forever. They lived in the red house next to our green one. My granddad built them both, along with the camp store and the dozen cabins clustered at the east end of the lake. 

Land rich, cash poor, we were. Are. The resort brings in money but is expensive to maintain. Steve and my dad came back from Vietnam, found wives, and ran the place together with their father until he died of lung cancer when I was maybe five, ran it on their own after that. 

*

I keep talking about how people died. But the story of a family is always also the story of death. It’s what families do: die off, one at time usually, sometimes in bunches.

Aunt MaryAnne — I’m named after her — died giving birth to the twins. My grandmother died before I was born, run into a ditch by a drunk in a pickup in the middle of the afternoon, on her way home from the Thrifty Acres in town. My mom’s parents died when I was pretty young: lung cancer and also lung cancer. They’d snow-birded to Florida by then, somewhere north of Tampa, so I didn’t know them well, Christmases and one chaotic family road trip to Disney. 

*

They’d gone out fishing. Couldn’t be more normal. It’s what we did more often than not in the summers, up before sunrise and out exploring the edges of the lake. My dad or Uncle Steve, some combination of the kids. It was a special day when both the brothers would go. All of us kids wanted to go with them those days because they acted like boys again — the most we ever saw them laugh. 

That day was just Steve and the twins. No one up to see them off. Mid-day before it started feeling wrong. 

After lunch my dad took his boat out. I think all the time about what it must’ve been like for him, finding Steve’s boat, floating, empty: that moment of sudden aloneness. Did he call their names? How long did he circle that boat in hope? I know he dived in because I was there when he came back to call the county sheriff, his clothes still wet. 

Never found the bodies, though they looked for weeks. Lots of theories, each darker than the one before. A terrible accident, unless it wasn’t. Steve was a drinker but not when he was on the water. He was kind of hard on the kids but so were most of the dads we knew. That’s just how things were in this part of the world back then. Doesn’t mean anything sinister happened. Some things aren’t meant to make sense.

*

We’re standing on the pier when Sam tells me about the money. Sun setting behind the trees. It’s March, the snow mostly melted. 

“There’s still a chance,” he says. “A good summer, we got a shot. But either way it goes is fine with me, honestly.”

I’m surprised by this but probably shouldn’t be. He deserves to be untethered from this place. 

“Where would you go?”

“Grand Rapids, maybe? Lots of stuff I could do. Sell snowmobiles. Jane and the kids would be happier in a city anyway.”
I start to ask what he thinks about Mom, but don’t. She doesn’t really have friends around here anymore. It would be my problem, not Sam’s, that’s the deal we’ve made without talking about it. 

“Be weird, wouldn’t it?” he says, gazing out at the darkening lake. “Not to be here. None of us. After all this time.”

“I don’t know,” I say. “Yeah. I mean, yeah.”

But that’s the way it works, right? The way it has always worked. You’re here until you’re not. The water takes you or it lets you leave. 

                                                                      *   *   *

Amorak Huey is author of four books of poems including Dad Jokes from Late in the Patriarchy (Sundress, 2021). Co-founder with Han VanderHart of River River Books, Huey teaches at Bowling Green State University in Ohio. He is co-author with W. Todd Kaneko of the textbook Poetry: A Writer’s Guide and Anthology (Bloomsbury, 2024).

By Henry Shorney

Albert stands in the living room staring out the front window.

“There’s a large man out there doing something suspicious,” he says.

“What?” Ethel replies, looking up from her book.

“He’s grabbing something out of his truck, I hope it’s not a gun.”

“Why would it be a gun?”

“Big man, big truck, big gun… everyone’s got a gun… these days.”

“We don’t.”

“My point exactly, we’re out of the loop.” 

“Al, for God sakes, would you sit down?” 

Al walks over to his usual chair. It’s big, and red, and has a foot rest. He sits down. Ethel resumes her reading. Al looks at the fireplace across from him. He stares into its ashen void. 

“You hear that?” he says. 

Ethel looks up begrudgingly, “Hear what?”

“That clanking, I think the pipes are at it again.” 

Ethel ignores him, although she does hear the clanking. 

“You know, Randy was telling me just last week, had a water line burst, right behind the washing machine, flooded the whole basement, had to shut off the main and couldn’t take a shower for three days.” 

“I’m sure the pipes are fine. They’ve always sounded like that.”

“That’s what I’m concerned about, wear and tear.” 

Al returns his gaze to the fireplace, scratches the patchy beard on his chin, and cocks his head at the next series of clanks. He stands and walks out of the room. Ethel looks up only when he’s gone. She lets out a sigh, listening. She hears him turn on the kitchen faucet, then stomp back into the room. They listen, together, to the rushing water. 

“See,” Al says. “It stops when the water’s running, must be some sort of pressure buildup.” 

He leaves, turns off the kitchen faucet, and returns.

“I’m calling a plumber,” he says. 

“Don’t call a plumber, there’s nothing that needs to be fixed.” 

A clank resonates from within the house, then a gurgle. Ethel looks over at her husband, who’s hand is now hovering over the phone.

 “Don’t,” she says. 

Al sits back down in his chair. He looks at the watch on his left wrist. It has a gold face and a worn brown leather strap. He holds it up inches from his nose, squints, and slowly moves it farther away. He grabs his reading glasses off the small wooden table on his right side, puts them on, looks back at the watch. He taps the glass face with his fingernail, then holds it up to his ear. 

“Would you look at that, my watch stopped.” 

Ethel ignores him. 

“Honey, I know you want to read, but this is serious.” 

“We’ll get it fixed tomorrow.” 

“This thing’s a family heirloom.” 

“It probably just needs a new battery.” 

“A new battery? I’m not even sure it has a battery, I’ve worn it for thirty years, not once has it needed a new battery.” 

“They’ll fix it.” 

He looks back down at the watch, taps the face, says beneath his breath, “Great watch, would be a shame–.”

“Albert! I’m losing my patience.”   

“Okay, okay, sorry.” 

Al puts his legs up on the footrest, adjusts his position. He looks into the fireplace, then the series of family photos on the mantle above it. He can’t make out the images, but he knows them well.

He looks over at his wife reading, one leg crossed over the other, glasses on the tip of her nose. He opens his mouth to speak, thinks better of it, and turns back to the fireplace. He takes his legs off the footrest, stands, and walks over to the window. 

The man’s truck is gone. He thinks this but doesn’t say it. The large man’s large truck is gone, he thinks. Then he walks out of the room. 

Ethel sets down her book, pushes her glasses up to her forehead, and rubs her eyes. She’s tired, tired enough that she could go to bed, but she won’t, at least for another few hours. It must only be around seven, she thinks.

“Honey,” Ethel hollers, “What time is it?” 

Al’s pounding footsteps crescendo, then stop at the doorway.

“What’s that?”

“What time is it?” 

He looks down at his watch. “Four fifteen.”

“Honey.”

“Yeah.”

“It’s broken, remember?”

“Oh, right.”

He goes back into the kitchen, checks the digital clock above the stove, and returns.

“Six forty-five,” he says.

Ethel sighs. Al looks around himself, takes a step towards the window, stops, then turns back to the kitchen. He scratches his chin. 

“What was I going to do?” he says. “I was going to do something.” 

“I don’t know, honey.” 

He mutters something to himself, then walks over to the window. 

“It’ll be dark soon,” he says. 

“Yes, it will, then we can go to bed.” 

He scans the street, searching for something out of the ordinary. It’s late autumn, and the trees are half bare. Brown and red leaves line the streets. One of the neighbors has raked them into small piles, where they sit, waiting to be bagged. 

“It’s strange…” Al says, tailing off. 

Ethel has given up on her reading. She watches her husband at the window, waiting for him to finish. “What is?” she says.

“What’s that?” Al says, turning to look at her. 

“You just said it’s strange, what’s strange?” 

“Oh, I don’t know.” 

He walks over to his chair, sits down, looks into the fireplace. 

“You hear that?” he says. 

“Yes, I hear it.” 

“Clanking, must be the pipes.” 

“Yes, honey, I know.” 

“We should really call a plumber.” 

“We’ll do that if we need to.” 

He looks over at the mantel, at the photos atop it. 

“What do you think Sarah’s up to?”

Ethel lets out a sigh. She considers reminding him, thinks better of it, and says, “probably just getting home from work.” 

“I think I’ll give her a call.”

“No– honey, you can’t do that?” 

“I can’t call my own daughter?” 

Ethel thinks about this. She looks into her husband’s innocent eyes.

“Her phone’s down, remember,” she says.  

“Oh, is that right?” 

“Yes, we can call her tomorrow.” 

“Okay, but you’ll have to remind me, you know I’m no good with these things.”

“I will.” 

Ethel looks into the fireplace, at the mantel above it. She rises from her chair, walks to the other side of the room, picks up one of the frames. It’s a photo of her, her husband, and their daughter Sarah. They were all so much younger then, she thinks, well, everyone but Sarah. 

She brings the photo to Al. She holds it out for him to see. He puts on his reading glasses.

“Look at us,” he says. “So full of life.”

“We were, yes, we were.”

“Where was that again?”

“Florida.”

“Florida, that’s right…”

He stares into the photo for a few long moments, recollecting. He smiles. 

“Remember she drifted out into the ocean on that little inflatable raft? So far that we couldn’t see her anymore. And we thought we’d lost her forever?” 

“Yes, I remember.” 

“Then ten minutes later she came skipping up the shore with no idea that we’d been worried sick.” 

“Yes, she was always in her own world.” 

“I wanted to scream at her.”

“I know you did.”

“But I didn’t, remember, I just stood there real stern and was like, ‘now where did you get off to missy?’” 

“Yes, I remember.”

“And then what was it she said again?” 

“She said that she went to the other side.”

“Yes, yes she did.”

*   *   *

Henry Shorney is a Denver based writer. He spends the bulk of his days tending to the grounds at Willis Case Golf Course, and his nights writing, reading, and watching movies. His work has previously appeared in the 2024 summer issue of the New Feathers Anthology. 

By Fiona H. Evans

Clouds black as ink stain the sky. Thunder roars and lightning cracks. Hairs rise on the back of your neck as the rain washes away your tears. You raise your umbrella and lean into the wind, hand to empty womb, but find no shelter from the storm of your grief.

                                                             *   *   *

Fiona H Evans is a recently retired mathematician and emerging writer.  She lives on Noongar Boodja in Western Australia, in a cottage near a river where dolphins swim. You can read more of her writing at fionahevans.com.

By Amanda LaMantia

Warren found himself back in human resources, for the third time in a month. A month! He sighed, crossed his arms and stared at the fading wallpaper that probably hadn’t been updated since the 1980s. He wished Peggy—he felt like they should be on a first name basis now— was given some funds to dress up her office a bit. He hated to admit it but it looked similar to the wallpaper in his dining room, which his wife refused to changed because it reminded her of all the christmases, thanksgivings and other events they had hosted when the kids were young. Now they had to share holidays with in-laws and friends and it was wonderful, but not the same. Speak of Ginny she would be upset to hear he was back here, she was constantly telling him to hold his tongue at the office, but there were just too many ways to find himself in hot water.

The first time he had been called down it was for sexual harassment. Sexual harassment! As if he had even considered sex to be on the table in the last twenty years! He knew what he looked like, an almost bald head with wispy grays, the way he peered through his small glasses frames whenever he worked at his computer, constantly enlarging the font and experimenting with different backgrounds to make it easier to read. A young intern had come to him asking for time off and he had quipped, “you’ll have to butter me up more if you want that!” Warren had walked off laughing and thought nothing of it but apparently she had filed with HR claiming he wanted her to put butter on him! Was that the new whipped cream these days? For a moment he let his mind drift but then he remembered he and Ginny were not the youthful beauties in his flash fantasy and these days butter was far too expensive. 

Fortunately Peggy had let him off mostly with a warning, but also a mandate to no longer speak with that intern. The intern was given a week off for emotional distress. 

Shortly after that incident he had complained to a friend that working with the interns was like trying to speak another language, which had earned him a quiet reprimand and a reference back to their sensitivity training from the Fall. He hated to admit that he hadn’t paid that much attention to the training, as he was nearly lulled to sleep by the dark background and narrow words on the presentation. But he was certain Peggy would remind him

“We are not to act in a way that prioritizes any language over another,” Peggy had told him.

“But it’s the same language,” he had responded in confusion, “what language could I possibly be insulting?” He wanted to explain he was insulting the interns not the language, but that didn’t seem to be the best option at the moment.

“It’s not about a specific language,” Peggy had said patiently, “you are associating negativity with the concept of another language.”

“Peggy, I am sorry, but it is as if you are speaking another language—another perfectly valued and useful language,” Warren replied with a sigh. Peggy returned the sigh and Warren went back to work after signing a commitment to review the training from the Fall. 

That night, over meatloaf and potatoes, Ginny explained to him that he had to be much more careful. His mind drifted as he looked into the dining room at the old wallpaper and simpler times. He barely heard Ginny as she went on and on about expectations around discrimination, harassment and professional speak among colleagues. Ginny was the type that would have taken notes during that Fall training and studied them. However, some understanding began to dawn and he hoped he’d be prepared if there were another incident.

A few short weeks later here he was again, this time for threatening language. Him! Ginny made fun of him because he took in stray animals and let lady bugs that got into the house back outside. He killed the spiders though, even his generosity had limits.

“Apparently sir, one of the interns asked you what you kept in the small box shaped like a cactus on your desk,” Peggy began, peering down at her notes.

Warren wracked his brain, he barely remembered the interaction, “Well I just keep mints in there,” he said puzzled, “can’t imagine anyone finding those threatening.”

“No sir,” Peggy said firmly, “you then told the intern that curiosity killed the cat, which he took to mean you intended to harm him.”

Warren laughed out loud, expecting that Peggy would too. She didn’t. He stopped and looked at her, “are you yanking my chain?”

“Sir,” she said gently, “it’s these kinds of phrases that are getting you in trouble. It’s a new generation, many people no longer understand what you are saying.”    

Warren kept a straight face but in his head he was smiling at he explanation. Two could play this game.

“Management has decided it is best that you move on,” she continued, “you have dedicated many years here, but the culture is changing and you seem unable to adapt. We can offer a nice severance package, but it is time to clean out your desk.”

“Well Miss. Peggy, is it?” Warren said as if he didn’t know perfectly well, “I do hope that severance package didn’t cost an arm and a leg because you will need all hands on deck in the courtroom.” He got up slowly, leaving on Peggy’s desk leaving his pre written intent to file a lawsuit for age discrimination. Walking out smiling, a new energy in his step, he thought about Ginny and decided maybe he would splurge on some butter after all.

                                                                 *   *   *

Amanda is from New England. She has a degree in English from Colby College and has loved reading and writing stories since she was a young girl.