By Sean Ryan

He rolled his bucket and mop to the last section of floor he would ever clean at the school. He picked up the mop from the bucket of water and slid it along the black-and-white checkered linoleum flooring. He was tired, but he kept moving the mop back and forth. He was hunched over with a frown on his face. “Thirty-two years,” he said. “And I’m fired and I was given no reason why.” He put the mop back into the bucket and rolled it up a few feet. He was dressed in a gray one-piece coverall outfit. He had a brown mustache and he wore black shoes with thick non-slip soles. Blue metal lockers lined the hallway where he was doing his final cleaning job. He’d worked at the school for longer than anyone else, including any teacher, had been there. He felt like the oldest tree in a forest of young saplings. All his experience and now he was out. He may have been getting old, but he still did a great job. The floors of that high school were the cleanest in the state. 

It was one in the morning and he was the only one on the premises. He took out a pack of cigarettes and left the mop behind to go out and have a smoke. “I’ll finish you later,” he said to the floor. He walked with his distinctive limp to the doors and went outside. It was a cold night in February. It had been raining all day. The smell of rain was still out there, but no water was falling from the sky: the sky had cleared. He looked up at the stars. He took his cigarette pack and opened it. He fumbled with one and took it out. He stuck it into his mouth—taking it all in. He put the pack in his pocket and came out with a plastic lighter. He lit up. The first inhalation was always the best. He let out a sigh. 

A car pulled up and parked in the lot. It was a candy-apple red Corvette. A teacher, one he knew personally, got out. Mr. Smith, the chemistry teacher, walked up to him. “I heard it was your last day.” He had a pink box in his hands. He opened it. There were a couple of chocolate cupcakes with brown frosting. “Take one.”

The janitor dropped his cigarette to the ground and stubbed it out with his foot. “Thank you,” he said as he reached into the box and took a cupcake out. 

“I’m glad I got here in time. I couldn’t bear the thought of you leaving without a proper send-off.”

The janitor had a tear in his eye that he wiped away. “I appreciate it.”

“You’ve been here longer than I have.” Mr. Smith took the other cupcake out and walked over to the nearby metal trash can and threw the box away. “Cheers,” he said as he peeled the paper from the cupcake. 

The janitor said, “I think I have enough with my social security that I’ll have a comfortable retirement. I don’t need much, but I loved working here.”

“I understand.” Mr. Smith put his hand out and took the cupcake wrapper from his friend. He balled up his and the one that came from the janitor and put them in the trashcan. “Do you like getting high?”

“Sometimes.”

“I have a joint in my car I was hoping to smoke with you. I know you love Jimmy Hendrix. I have a CD in my car that we can listen to and sit and smoke. What do you say?”

“Sure.” The two men walked over to the Corvette. They both got in and closed their doors. Mr. Smith started the car and Purple Haze came through the speakers. He pushed a button to set it to repeat. He took a joint from under his seat and handed it to the janitor. He put it in his mouth and lit it. He took a few inhalations and handed it over to Mr. Smith. The music coming from the speakers took the janitor back to his own high school days. He said, “I’m glad I was fired.”

Mr. Smith took an inhalation, handed the joint to the janitor, and exhaled. “That’s the spirit.”

“I mean,” he said as he took a drag. “I’ve been doing this longer than Methuselah. I’m done.”

“There comes a time for everything. All good things must end.” A cop car came into the parking lot and a large cop got out and walked over to the Corvette. 

“What are you two doing here?”

Mr. Smith said, “We were just saying goodbye. I’m a teacher here and he was the janitor for over thirty years.”

“You are smoking marijuana in a school parking lot?”

Mr. Smith turned the music off. “It was my idea. I’ll take the blame.”

“I don’t want any trouble. Just wrap it up, all right.”

“Thank you,” said Mr. Smith. The cop went back to his car and left. 

“That was a close one,” said the janitor. He got out of the car and walked back towards the high school. He lit another cigarette and watched Mr. Smith pull out of the parking lot and speed down the street. A few seconds later, the Corvette smashed into a light pole. The front of Mr. Smith’s car was crumpled and smoke was coming out of it. The janitor ran over to the vehicle and it burst into flames. He pulled Mr. Smith, unconscious, out of the wreck.

The ambulance, fire department and cops came to the scene. The news cameras showed up and interviewed the janitor. “What’s your name?” said the reporter. 

“I’m John Cox. I can tell you everything.” Mr. Smith was loaded into an ambulance and taken away. He was okay, thanks to his friend. 

John Cox was on the news that morning and it made his first day of retirement something special. 

*   *   *

Sean Ryan has been published a handful of times and hopes to continue getting some form or recognition for his work as long as he lives. He has lived with a mental health diagnosis for about twenty years. He started writing as a way to stay busy and learn a useful trade. He loves language learning: German, French and Spanish. He lives in San Diego, CA.

By Wyley Fröhlich Jungerman

I looked at the color green today, but something was different. All I could see was yellow and blue, the two colors blended, not merged; a mixture, not a compound. It reassured me that I was right. An irreplaceable piece had separated from the whole, and now the rest was falling apart like the seam of a coat. My mom and dad’s genes were unwinding inside me, corpus callosotomy of my chromosomes, hemispherectomy to this cobbled-togetherness I called Self.

Finally, I thought with satisfaction. I’ve become bits and pieces again.

                                                             *.   *   *

Wyley Fröhlich Jungerman is pursuing a BA in English at Texas State University. Born and raised in the Austin area, Jungerman draws inspiration from the vibrant culture of his city and the connections that shape his life. His work has appeared in 101 Words, The Solitude Diaries, JAKE: the Anti-Literary Magazine and others. His work is forthcoming in IHRAM Publishes and Ink in Thirds.

By Bill Diamond

While shopping at the supermarket for the holiday, Will tried to make a suggestion, “Perhaps we should get …”

“Shhh, quiet.” Kay cut him off and held her palm face out. She used the commanding tone that controlled her middle school classroom. Kay didn’t even look at her husband. Rather, she focused on the salads she was preparing to order from the deli counter.  

The dismissive gesture and tone made Will bristle. He knew it was her knee-jerk habit from teaching. But, they’d discussed it. Will had made clear the practice was disrespectful and inappropriate with a partner. Ingrained habits are hard to break.

It was one of many buried bombs in the volatile minefield their marriage had become. In recent years, they’d had frequent fights. Instead of resolving issues, the volcanic pair had retreated to their corners and suppressed the most explosive divisions. This hid serious relationship issues like sticks of dynamite just below the surface. Not unusual for any couple in an imperfect human relationship.

In most cases, they gingerly navigated through. But, it was a wearing march. Holiday events were meant to be special binding moments. For the couple, they had become chores.

Now, in the crowded supermarket, her offhand comment was a spark that lit a short fuse.

Through gritted teeth, Will said, “I’m going.” Quietly, and with unexpected pent-up venom, he added, “If you want a ride, come now, or take a taxi.” He left their near full shopping basket.

The steely ultimatum broke through Kay’s shopping stupor as much as her desultory gesture had his.

The small spark ignited all the raw dynamite and the explosion irreparably shredded their union. 

*.  *   *

Bill Diamond is a curious traveler and writer from Colorado where the Rocky Mountains are an inspiration and distraction. He writes for catharsis and to try and figure it all out.

A Memoir by jody padumachitta goch

I traded in my girly car // father won it in a poker game // he knew a thing or two about cards // squat all about Tomboy daughters // I ended up with a car I would never have bought.

It had white interior // a trunk that barely fit my hiking gear // never fit me // when father refused to sign the papers for twenty acres on Pender Island // my dream of a haven to write in died // I took that girly car and traded it in for a brown Ford mini pick up // I figure my father wasn’t about to have a throwback to the bush come out of his tender care //  I could’a done it on my own  // but the Bank Manger owed father a favour // I called that hunk of tin truck Brown Dog // with the trade in and the money I’d saved for the island property I bought clear // even had me a bit of money left over // funds earmarked college books // when Brown Dog showed up in the driveway I got grounded.

Some part of me couldn’t do it no more // some part of me needed gone // still grounded I left for San Francisco two weeks later //planning to camp in the back of Brown Dog // never quite made it to the big city not to live // I hit the bars once in a while if I got lonely // I don’t get lonely easy, so hey // what Brown Dog did was find a ranch that needed a wrangler // I signed on for five bucks a day // a room above the tack storage // a bigger fuck you than living on an island close to home back in Canada.

I drank cheap beer // ate suspect steaks that came from cows with no brands // I had a ball // worked harder than my saddle string // Brown Dog took me up to Petaluma for new boots // out to the beach at Point Reyes // drinking Bud with my butt on the tailgate // when Reagan got in I got nervous //  headed back north // thinking maybe I should finish college // Brown Dog had other ideas // he was a restless sort and took me across Canada to work horses in Ontario // up north to fish //  hang out beside rivers whose names I never could pronounce // the engine sputtered // kept getting new oil //the odd purple gas in exchange for a spot of work //I kept that truck for a long time // probably past its use by date // when I finally sold him // I cried like I’d shot my dog.

There are things in this world that anchored me to living // helped me stay above the turf // there were times in that truck I drove on // instead of jumping // when I drove across bridges shaking to stop // but couldn’t abandon Brown Dog to the side of the road // I don’t think my parents ever knew how much they owed their daughter’s life to that pick up // sometimes I’m not sure it would have mattered // father knew he broke something in me when that island passed me by // he just never expected me to have enough left to buy my freedom or a truck. 

*   *   *

jody padumachitta goch is a sixty-five year old, non-binary, neuro-diverse, slightly dyslexic Canadian. None of these things get in the way of drinking coffee and wondering how they ended up living in Europe. Their jeans and shirt pockets are full of stories. It’s hell on the wash machine. They enjoy lighting the wood stove and rescuing words from the lint catcher. Jody has work published in Wild Word, Rise Up Review, Com Lit, 50 Word Stories, Does It Have Pockets, NPR Poetically Yours, Co-Op Poetry and a short story in Strasbourg Short Stories 2021.

By Tom Koperwas

The Epsilon had been damaged by exotic matter while traversing the Cargyle Wormhole to the frontier world of Big Hope—so much so that the pilot, historian Theodore Jawlensky, was still engaged in last-minute emergency repairs when the skiff entered the planet’s outer atmosphere. Two thousand feet above the surface, the little spacecraft was in trouble, trailing flames and black smoke. Coming down fast, Jawlensky managed to level the craft enough to make a pancake landing in a large depression filled with sand. Frantically jumping out of the burning ship, clutching his emergency survival kit, he ran across the soft, shifting surface to a safe distance, where he stopped to watch the tall plume of smoke rising from the boat that had transported him so far for so long.  

The young man cast his intelligent eyes about, fixing them on a small knoll at the far end of the depression. Straightening his long black cloak, he began to stride toward it, reflecting on how far he’d ventured off the main star routes of The Beaten Trek, those well-traveled space lanes used for commerce and colonial development. Only a few meager reports existed of the daring colonists who’d gone down the Cargyle Wormhole all those years ago to Big Hope, the legendary world of plenty. Jawlensky had taken the journey to learn of their fate and record the facts for posterity. 

But what had become of the lush paradisiacal planet he’d read about, which had promised so much prosperity and security? All about him, the land was parched and arid, with no evidence of human habitation. 

When he arrived at the knoll, he ascended it until he reached the top. Down below, in the lowland, stood a small town, its streets and roofs shimmering in the desert heat. Quiet and still, it looked like an insubstantial dream. Descending the knoll, he walked toward it. As he approached the town, he glimpsed people walking slowly in the streets. He called out to them, but no one answered. As he stepped onto the main street, he heard what sounded like the muffled sounds of footsteps and people. But the young woman he first approached turned and walked quickly away, to his bemusement. Standing close to a building, he looked up, expecting to see curious children peeking out of its blank windows at the stranger below; but there were no small inquisitive faces to be seen. Several solitary figures appeared on the streets, but remained out of hailing distance. When he moved toward them, they drifted away silently, entering the buildings like expressionless mannequins.  

Jawlensky stood still in the hot glow of the sun and watched the dusty haze of the desert in the streets. The town appeared to be in the desert, but not part of it. Near yet distant, aloof and alien, it was an unwelcome refuge for strangers. 

Then he saw the cat. A small cat that wasn’t afraid of him. Bending down to pet it, his hand passed through the animal’s fur and flesh as if it were a wraith. Standing up straight, eyes wide, he looked about at the buildings fading in the air. A moment later, the town was gone. 

It had been real, for he’d seen it and heard it. But now all he could do was stare with disbelief at the hot sand where it had stood.

A bright flash of light drew his attention to the top of a nearby pile of rocks.  Curious, the historian walked toward the shimmering source. Soon he saw the people who had been signaling him, holding pieces of broken glass in their hands—a dozen dirty men sitting high atop the jumbled rocks, dressed in filthy, tattered rags, looking like desperate and angry castaways stranded in a bitter land.   

“You’re from the burning ship,” barked a short man with a sharp voice. “You disrupted the image from Ephesius.”

“Ephesius is one of Big Hope’s moons, isn’t it?” replied Jawlensky. “But the town looked more like a living thing than a mere image.”

“How very observant of you, sir,” interjected an older man sitting close by. “My name is Leonard Kaufmann, political theorist; and the man sitting next to you is Bill Inglis, an anarchist. The town you saw, like all the others scattered in the lowlands, are not Fata Morganas, as they were once called on Earth. Unlike the reflection of a mirage, they’re real-time projections of living towns on the moons. Big Hope has ten of the latter, and each moon is inhabited by the original colonists. They fled there years ago when the climate here went bad, spreading destructive deserts everywhere. The image you saw from Ephesius faded when you touched it. But don’t worry, it’ll reappear elsewhere soon. They always do. Meanwhile, there are other towns from other moons to watch.”

“I see,” said Jawlensky, slowly. “So the colonists went to the moons to escape the environmental catastrophe. That means…”

“They marooned us here,” Inglis interrupted angrily. “We’re their criminals and exiles. There are plenty more of us scattered elsewhere on the planet.”

Kaufmann handed a battered cup brimming with water to the historian. Sipping the water, Jawlensky eyed the crude rock shelter overhanging the small freshwater spring. A few simple utensils lay scattered about the pool. There were no weapons, tools, or electronics to be seen. The outcasts evidently spent their days wandering from chimera to chimera, coveting the happy and comfortable lives of their compatriots… lives they could never have and enjoy. Why did the colonists project the images of their towns onto the planet? Were they meant to be a form of heightened punishment, a kind of retribution? How much had these people tormented and endangered the colonists?  

“Thank you for the water,” said the historian. “My name is Jawlensky. In brief, I’m a historian from The Beaten Trek searching for the colonists of Big Hope.”

“Well, you’ll never see them now, Mr. Historian!” laughed the anarchist. “You’re imprisoned down here with us!”

Jawlensky fell silent, and looked up at the darkening sky filled with numerous moons.

Inglis couldn’t be more wrong, he thought to himself, rubbing the miniature communicator embedded under the skin of his right ear. Little do any of them know that I sent an emergency signal from the Epsilon before it entered the atmosphere. The colonists will inform me of the time and place of my rescue when they’re ready. I’ll go to their moons and record the incredible history of the colonists who came to Big Hope and succeeded against all odds. 

The men of the rocks would remain here forever, sweltering in the sun, pining for those worlds of pleasure far beyond their reach.  

                                                            *   *   *

Thomas Koperwas is a retired teacher living in Windsor, Ontario, Canada who writes short stories of horror, crime, fantasy, and science fiction. His story Vacation won a Freedom Fiction Journal Top Crime Editor’s Choice Award 2024. His work has appeared, or is forthcoming in: Anotherealm; Jakob’s Horror Box; Literally Stories; The Literary Hatchet; Literary Veganism; Bombfire; Pulp Modern Flash; Savage Planets; Dark Fire Fiction; The Sirens Call; Yellow Mama Webzine; 96^th of October; Underside Stories; Danse Macabre; A Thin Slice Of Anxiety; Androids and Dragons; Chewers & Masticadores Canada; The Piker Press; Stupefying Stories Showcase; Metastellar; etc.,

By Tom Hedt

“Sometimes I shake myself and wonder why she even bothers me, but if heartaches were commercials, we’d all be on TV.”   -John Prine

I’ve always envied smokers. Those martyrs in their closed coven. Gathered in secret circles, whispering stories, bumming a light. Conspiratorial. I was never accepted. But with Barbara, it was different. 

We met at the boarding house on 2^nd & T, near old town in Eureka. We’d sit in the back at the old picnic table and talk, where she’d tell me stories of life perseverance. “I’ve been homeless in a lot of places. I was homeless in Salt Lake City, then I moved to LA to be with my daughter,” she stares into space, “that didn’t work out, so I ended up on a bus coming up here. I was homeless for a while, but the people at the Mission helped, and I got into this place. The people here are good here, it’s working out.”

Vic would walk by and say hi, but he wouldn’t linger. He and his wife Dana were on-site managers. They were Jehovah Witness; their ministry was to give people a safe place to live. I would stop by and visit when I paid my rent. His rifle and bayonet were mounted on the wall, over pictures of him in Vietnam. His stories were different. He told stories of the front lines, where he used those tools to accomplish the ends of our uncertain empire. At some point I told them I was getting rid of my old car, a Ford Taurus. They needed one, but didn’t have the money. I signed it over. knowing they’d pay when they could.

The place we shared was a two-story Victorian, blue with white trim. The cockroaches were incessant. I would find them on the dishes in the morning and lounging across the floor when I got home from work. The shared bathroom at the end of the hall was bad. A corroded faucet, stained sink, vinyl shower stall sealed with duct tape, and a toilet that always made you hesitate. I mentioned this to Vic. He gave me encouragement, and a can of Raid. 

Sitting outside with Barbara was gentle. Wisps of cigarette smoke, American Spirit smoked to the butt. Her threadbare blue dress. Her sandpaper voice. Silver hair pulled back, framing silver skin. The last time we talked, she was agitated. I asked what was going on, “I heard from my daughter; she might be coming up.” I said that sounded nice. She shook her head with a knowing smile, “no, it never turns out good.” 

                                                                                    *

I moved into my own place that summer. It was fall when Vic and Dana came to visit. They were leaving town and saying goodbyes. We stood next to the old Taurus, weathered gold with rusted chrome. I didn’t ask about the money; I knew they couldn’t pay. I did ask about Barbara. Vic looked at me with blank eyes. Dana spoke up “I’ve cleaned a lot of apartments, but this was the worst. I had to leave to keep from throwing up.”

Vic leaned toward me, “They had to come and take her away.”

“What happened, where did she go?”

 “I don’t know, probably some shelter. They pulled up in a black car and went up to her room. She walked out, and they drove off. That’s about it.” He walked to the back of the car. “You know, she was getting a bit paranoid. I guess she decided that someone was trying to gas her. She stopped using the shower, she brought a little tub into the room and washed herself there. It was terrible, filled with putrid water, overflowing on the floor. She stapled plastic bags everywhere; all the walls were covered. The smell was so bad, I can’t describe it. When we took down the plastic….the roaches…everywhere.” 

Dana came around the car and gave me a wooden painting of a pelican, “here, we’ve had this for a long time, I touched it up for you.” 

Vic opened the trunk of the Taurus. He pulled out a shotgun with a really short barrel. He handed it to me, “here ya go.”

He got in the car, rolled down the window and said, “Ok. Goodbye.” 

I stood in the street next to the golden Taurus, holding my pelican, and my sawed off shotgun. All I could say was “is this legal?”

He shrugged, “I don’t know,” and drove away.

*   *   *

Tom Hedt’s work has been published widely in journals, including: The Sijo International Journal of Poetry and Song, Cirque, Cathexis Northwest, The Tule Review, The Lilly Poetry Review, and elsewhere. His poetry compilation, Artifacts and Assorted Memorabilia, was published in September of 2020 by Cold River Press. He currently serves as the Associate Poetry Editor for Bending Genres. He lives in Eureka, California.

By Sofia Bagdade

He wished he didn’t peep through the blinds. Now, he scrubbed his eyes with soap-worn fingers. All night, he dreamt of floating still in Atlantic depths. His vision obscured, limbs limp, only the cold shock feel of a near wail. Then, the haunting, melodic chords swept his body sideways, notes that rang of sunken ships and lonely voyages, bubbled streams in the grips of drowning. 

His mother used to flick on the blue nightlight until a glow washed the room and play whale songs on a thin cassette. “We all sing of longing,” she ran an index finger down the vein of his forehead until sleep and song became one. 

He woke up gasping, needing control, jerked the faucet desperately until the water moved only when he told it to. No swirling depths, no algae frozen arms, just this thin artificial stream, origin at his fingertips. 

The sloped gray beach cabin stood tall before his perceptible memories began—the familiar sliver of sky and sea, how the sand picked up in tunneled gusts by their doorway. The low moan of the ferry shuttling day visitors to the island that felt more like his than a destination. By the end of August, all the sunburnt and beer-drunk caravans retreated to places of permanence, homes untouched by the moody reach of the sea. He enjoyed this emptying out. The shore grew more open to roam in the absence of intrusive umbrellas. 

His corner bedroom had the best view of the beach, an expanse of blonde flat coiling to waves. This morning though, when the early light sliced his bedsheets, the familiar yellow distance now tainted with gray. His throat still full of subconscious salt, he crept untrustingly to the slits. There, thirty feet of elegance and blue speckles, a long body pale to land, a swath so great his eyes could barely register it as once alive. 

All of those dreams under sea crests and here on his very shore a great humpback, at least the 18th doomed on the East Coast this summer. He’d never seen a whale before, coloring his imagination with woeful songs and underwater images, and yet here, on his very shore. She seemed a swirl of peaceful and disturbed, unmoored and laid to rest in a desert unknown to her body. 

He imagined the sensationalized headlines, the town swarmed with camera straps and reporters with balloons for microphones. The media might name the whale “Bess” or “Marie.” There would be vigils and climate denials, there would be frenzies to control the unforgivable—a whale stranded, a bald example of our aloneness. 

He couldn’t tear himself away from the blinds, where it was just him and her outline. He tried to remember a prayer for salvation or a poem that spoke of loss, but all he could hear in his inner ear were the distant rumbles of her song. Bowing down, he held silence in his spine and paused just above the white stereo beneath the windowsill. The machine glittered with dust and misuse. As if to apologize or revere an ancient God, long dead, swept away totems in drowned temples, he hit play. 

The music sputtered out like exhaust does an old pipe. He cracked the window, and before the nets and descending dots of hurried limbs in the distance, he played her song.

                                                                    *   *   *

Sofia Bagdade is a poet from New York City. Her work appears in One Art, The Shore, Red Weather, and The Basilisk Tree. She finds joy in smooth ink, orange light, and French Bulldogs. 

 

By Micheal Degnan

The sunflower is on the corner by the library and reminds me of Stephen. All sunflowers do. Even Van Gogh’s. Even those that my niece stamps out on construction paper with sponges.

I first met Stephen my freshman year. He was a senior and had applied for school funding to start a zymurgy club. He used the money on a home-brew kit and several bags of grain. He tossed me a beer when I came in. “Welcome to the club,” he said.

I started to come by every week. Each time, I discovered something new, something that hadn’t reached the suburbs where I grew up. Prosciutto wrapped asparagus. W.B. Yeats. The Bhagavad Gita.

His apartment was filled with plants. Ficus trees and spider plants. Succulents and bonsai trees. “I retain information better if I read by plants,” he told me.

In the front of his apartment was a bed of fifty sunflowers. He had planted them the previous summer, once housing assignments were announced. They were over six feet tall and swayed in the breeze like a pendulum.

Every day, he would cut one flower and take it to class. On his way back to the apartment, he would give it to someone. “May your day bring you joy,” he would say.

Gradually, the stand of flowers receded, marking the passing of our days. 

That was twenty years ago. I haven’t spoken to Stephen since he graduated. I consider texting him a picture of the sunflower by the library, the plant nurturing the pursuit of knowledge.

But I hesitate. What is this paralysis — fear that he won’t respond? Or that he will? 

Instead, I go into the library, hoping to discover something new, like why time is a human construct or how perennials can return after being dormant for so long.

                                                                      *   *   *

Michael Degnan lives on an island in Maine. His work has appeared in Bright Flash Literary Review, Maudlin House, Every Day Fiction, Flash Fiction Magazine, and elsewhere.

 

A Memoir by Bill Vernon

When our landline rang, I rushed away from my just heated breakfast and lifted the receiver, avoiding a second ring that would’ve awakened my wife. Her depression was worsening again as Trump wreaked havoc starting his second term. She needed to sleep soundly to keep her equilibrium, and I needed her as balanced as possible to keep myself sane. 

My wife’s doldrums had started with Trump’s first term. She’d mailed letters opposing his election, postcards urging Democrats to vote, and distributed yard signs in town. She’d taken a bus to Trump’s inauguration in DC during the Women’s March. Then the pandemic hit. Then, after three years of isolating ourselves, we’d both caught Covid anyway. By now I had so much to worry about, I always woke up unenthused and troubled. 

Seeing “Digestive Specialists” on the display screen, I muttered, “Damn!” The clock on the wall read 8:03. It was still dark outside. I knew these specialists wanted me in for a colonoscopy—I’d been avoiding an appointment for months—but why call so early? Why not text or email? Doctors should be sensitive to patients. I intended to complain. 

Nearing my ear, the phone transmitted a flute-like, very feminine voice. 

It startled me. “I’m sorry. Could you repeat that?”

“Of course, sir.” The woman identified her employers, asked if I was William, pronounced my surname carefully, and after my yes asked for my “date of birth.” I gave it as numbers, which she repeated. Then she said that I was due for a procedure and my doctor invited me to make an appointment. “Invited?” There was surprising delicacy in that word choice.

Sometime during this short exchange, I’d sat back down on my chair facing my bowl of oatmeal and the dawn glow outside. This woman’s voice was like birdsong penetrating the kitchen windows. Her words were clipped, precise, with syllables rising and falling like poetic meter. Her tone was warm and friendly. Her accent was India Indian. 

“Sir, are you there?”

“Yes, I’m here.” Hoping to connect with her more personally, I said, “So you’re referring to doctors in that new office building south of Dayton by Costco.” 

“Sir, I do not know Costco or Dayton. Your doctor’s office is on Clyo Road.” She’d said Cleeoh before saying Clyo with a long I as everyone pronounced it.

I nodded. “That’s where I meant. See Clyo ends just northeast of that building on Feedwire Road where Costco is.”

“Thank you, sir. I didn’t know that.” 

Well, of course, she wasn’t there. She was sitting in a bank of phones somewhere miles, possibly continents away where other English-speaking Indians answered and made calls. 

I said, “Before we go on I’d better tell you that I’d like to talk with a doctor before scheduling a colonoscopy,” omitting that I was afraid my prostate condition might impact a colonoscopy, a fact I deemed inappropriate for her.

“That is no problem, William. Your doctor also wishes to see you before your colonoscopy.” 

She’d used my formal first name, but I couldn’t address her similarly. Maybe she would identify herself if I kept up the name game. I said. “What is my doctor’s name? I’ve had different ones over the years and have forgotten who mine is right now.”

“One minute, please, William.” I heard pages turning, then “Rabish Gupta.”

“Will you spell that so I can write it down?”

“Certainly.” She pronounced each letter slowly. “R as in ripe, a as in alpha, b as in beta, i as in in,” and so on. 

I in turn repeated what she said for each letter, plus okay, continuing through the last name, then “Thank you.”

“That is my job, William. Now the date.”

I heard noisy movements as she apparently searched printed schedules. Several minutes later she said, “Oh, I see now that your doctor retired. You must pick another one.”

She read off three Indian names. 

I shrugged. “I don’t know any of them. Just pick one for me, please, one who’s expert and knows what he’s doing. That’s my main concern.”

“Of course they are all professionals, William. Is Anandi Ganguly all right?”

“Yes, if you think he’s good, then I’ll try him.”

“He is a she, sir.” She said this with a smile in her voice.

It created a vision. With short black hair and wide, dark eyes, wearing a blue and white sari, sitting at a wooden desk, she looked 20-something and was smiling. 

I smiled back, ignored my food again, and said, “I will write that down if you will spell her name.”

“Certainly, William. Are you ready?”

So we went letter by letter again, with me repeating and writing each letter, saying each letter’s clarifying guide word, ending each letter and word with “Got it.” 

Our back and forth was a call-and-response duet with a flowing rhythm like a waltz. We danced verbally with warm rapport into the actual scheduling of my visit to Anandi Ganguly’s office. I wrote date, time and doctor’s name on scrap-paper to take for re-transcribing the info onto my calendar and my wife’s calendar.

“Can I help you with anything else, William?”

“I can’t think of anything. Thank you for calling and helping me.”

“You’re welcome, William.”

I hesitated, then added, “I’ve enjoyed talking with you.”

“I enjoyed meeting you as well.” She ended the call.

I looked outside. Dawn was bright now. Daffodils were blooming.

My wife startled me, saying, “Who were you talking to?”

I glanced up. She was standing beside me. “I just made an appointment with my proctologist.” 

I’d forgotten to keep my voice down to let her sleep. 

The clock said 8:20. I’d spent 17 minutes on the phone and hadn’t touched my breakfast, which needed reheating. With memories of the lady’s voice singing to me, I imagined meeting her sometime, somehow, in the future.

***

Writing connects the dots for Bill Vernon. His novel OLD TOWN (Five Star Mysteries) concerns how early American attacks on indigenous inhabitants of southern Ohio affect Americans today. Recently published shorter things include nonfiction at Agape Review, Smoky Blue Literary & Arts, Still Points Arts Quarterly, and fiction at Synkroniciti Magazine, Northwest Indiana Literary Journal, and New Feathers Anthology.

Writing connects the dots for Bill Vernon. His novel OLD TOWN (Five Star Mysteries) concerns how early American attacks on indigenous inhabitants of southern Ohio affect Americans today. Recently published shorter things include nonfiction at Agape Review, Smoky Blue Literary & Arts, Still Points Arts Quarterly, and fiction at Synkroniciti Magazine, Northwest Indiana Literary Journal, and New Feathers Anthology.