By David Sydney

“Next.”

Mel looked around. No one else was in the unattractive, sparsely-decorated room except the clerk who motioned for him. He rose from the molded plastic seat. The place reminded him of a coin-operated laundromat without the washers and dryers.

“Come on up, Mel.”

Mel Gromley couldn’t believe he was actually in the REINCARNATION BUREAU. Had he even given reincarnation a thought?

“So, what’ll it be?”

The clerk acted as though Mel understood,  or should. 

“Be?”

“Yeah. What’d you want to be, Mel?”

Was it the clam chowder? Did the soup have something to do with Mel ending up at the BUREAU?

Was red clam chowder Mel’s Last Supper? It was the last thing he could remember. 

The clerk grimaced, explaining that everyone knows that white chowder is better than red: everyone, that is, except for people who live in Rhode Island or Manhattan, where they serve red chowder for some reason.

But it wasn’t the chowder, the clerk explained. It was a truck – an 18-wheeler – that flattened Mel as he left the restaurant.

It happens: a person, forgetting where he parked his car, looks one way, a truck driver looks the other, and that’s it…

Why such a vehicle was in the parking lot of SAM’S SEAFOOD SHANTY just at the moment Mel exited was anyone’s guess.

“I have a choice?”

“It’s reincarnation. Of course you have a choice.”

“All right… I’d like to be a pro football player, a wide receiver. No… Make that a soccer player.”

It wasn’t a bad idea, because soccer is the sport of the future.

Also, Mel had been a poor runner. And when it came to kicking, he’d kicked only carpet remnants and floor tiles.

Now he could be somebody. 

Where had his life gone? Was working in his Uncle Leo’s tile and floor covering showroom all there was?

“It’s not that kind of choice.”

The clerk added several lines of exasperation to his face.

“You can be either a floor tile or…”

The clerk tried to squeeze every inch of drama out of Mel’s reincarnation. Make that, melodrama.

“Or, a carpet remnant.”

Like many people, Mel never realized that reincarnation is mainly into inanimate objects, usually found around the home or workplace.

He thought of his Uncle Leo. And of his cousins, Louie and Fred.

They’d be at the showroom now.

No, under the circumstances, they’d be at Mel’s funeral with their ill-fitting suits.

Leo would take a cigar from his mouth,  scratching his head, wondering: should he now have Louie or Frank sell the carpet remnants, which had been his nephew Mel’s job?

As the clerk drummed his fingers Irritatedly on the bureau’s plywood desktop, Mel had to consider: was he to be a floor tile or remnant?

Floor tiles can last for 50 years, not necessarily the kind Leo sold, but high quality tiles.

With carpet remnants it’s a different matter. Theirs is a lifespan of six months to perhaps a few years.

If he were a cheap carpet remnant, would he be back at the REINCARNATION BUREAU in six months or less?

Mel thought of the years working at LEO’S FLOOR COVERING: the incessant commands from his Uncle, the haggling customers, his snickering cousins, and that last Birthday gift from Leo of an inexpensive, imitation-brass table lamp which couldn’t be sold even at a marked-down price.

There was something to be said for reincarnation. All in all, it was better to be a carpet remnant than to sell one.

*   *   *

David Sydney is a physician. He has had pieces in Little Old Lady Comedy, 101 Words, Microfiction Monday, 50 Give or Take, Friday Flash Fiction, Grey Sparrow Journal, Bright Flash Literary Review, Disturb the Universe, Pocket Fiction, R U Joking, Every Writer Magazine, Literary Revelations Journal, Sip Cup, Mad Swirl, and Rue Scribe. 

By Gordan Struić

He hadn’t touched his guitar in days.

It waited for him by the couch, three strings tuned, three forgotten. When he finally picked it up, it felt heavier than he remembered. Dust had settled into the curve of the wood. It smelled of lemon oil and something old — something he couldn’t name.

He played two chords.

Then one finger missed.

Then another.

And then came the sound.

The kind that makes your bones feel misaligned. Not because of volume, but because it’s a sound your body was never meant to hear.

A string caught somewhere between G and pain.

He once told Barbara that guitars remember things — the way fingers press into frets, the way you breathe out before a verse.

She laughed and said that was projection.

“You remember things,” she told him. “That poor guitar’s just trying not to fall apart.”

She smelled like rosemary and ironed linen.

Barbara left on a Wednesday. No slammed door. No scream.

Just a bag packed while he was tuning the low E string.

When he noticed she was gone, he kept tuning.

Then made tea he didn’t drink. Just held the cup until it cooled.

He didn’t write that day.

Or the next.

Only listened — to the hum inside the wood.

Anna came after.

She never asked about Barbara. She didn’t have to.

She played the piano. Quietly.

He fell in love with the way her left hand moved.

She had a chipped pinkie nail and hummed when she was nervous.

When Anna left, she didn’t pack a bag.

She just stopped showing up.

He checked his phone for three days

Before realizing he was waiting for silence.

The guitar didn’t complain.

It never does.

But it always remembers.

He once read that if you put a frog in boiling water, it jumps out.

But if you heat the water slowly, it stays.

Until it’s cooked.

He wasn’t sure if he was the frog.

Or the pot.

Or the rising heat.

Or maybe the one turning the dial.

He tried writing a new song.

The words wouldn’t come.

Only the shape of words. Echoes.

The smell of Barbara’s shampoo.

The way Anna used to hum Clair de Lune without realizing.

His own name, said aloud, sounded like someone else.

The tuning pegs wouldn’t move.

He twisted harder.

One string snapped.

He stared at it for a while.

Then laughed.

Not the funny kind —

The kind you make when the last part of you snaps,

And even you’re surprised there was still something left to break.

He picked up the broken string, cut his finger,

And pressed the drop of blood onto the soundboard.

“Now you remember me,” he whispered.

The guitar said nothing.

Of course it didn’t.

It never does.

Not until he plays.

And he couldn’t.

Not that night.

He thought about the frog again.

Maybe it never felt the heat.

Maybe it just mistook it

For love.

*   *   *

Gordan Struić is a Croatian poet and writer whose work explores memory, silence, and the fragile spaces between people. His writing has appeared or is forthcoming in Beyond Words, 34th Parallel, Voidspace, Stone Poetry Quarterly, Prosetrics Magazine, and others.

By John Christenson

Mighty glad to see you, friend. Sorry you lost your way. How do I know that? Because lost is the only kind of customer I get here at Reba’s anymore. If you want to know what obscurity tastes like, you’ve come to the right place. But I have to tell you, not that you asked, it wasn’t always like this. Time was when folks drove for miles on the Mother Road to dine on my legendary fried chicken and listen to Reba’s golden pipes every Saturday night. There were three Ford pickups and a Hudson coupe for every pothole you hit in the parking lot.

Oh, the taste? Reba’s coffee, always from the bottom of the pot, made sometime after the Dust Bowl but before the first nuclear test-ban treaty, back when Reba’s was the hottest nightclub west of Oklahoma City. When that sludge burns your throat and peels away your esophageal lining, you’ll understand how the sun, the rain, and the years have stripped the paint from Reba’s sign, still dangling by one hook. Sorry you had to duck under it to reach that splintered excuse for a door. The aftertaste you can’t get rid of is the dust on the dance floor that hasn’t seen a coat of wax in twenty-five years. I’d understand if you decided that even death might not taste as bitter as obscurity.

Now, I know what you’re going to ask. Same thing everyone who used to walk through that door asked: where’s Reba? Not dead, not demented, not even divorced. I should know since I’m her husband. We had many happy years, but when the interstate bypassed us and the crowds blew away like so many dried weeds, Reba tumbled down the road after them. I stayed because I’d somehow taken root in this hard caliche that can’t grow anything. Anything except obscurity, that is.

You want to hear what happened to her? That’s a story that needs telling, if for no other reason than to brush off the few crumbs of truth still clinging to it. I’ll pour you a drink. See if you can find a barstool that don’t wobble. No? Fine, we’ll park ourselves at a table, over by the dance floor.

Back in the ’30’s, almost half a century ago, we started the café with my stake from roughnecking in the Oklahoma oilfields. There was so much misery, sorrow and regret over vanished cropland, bank accounts, and dreams, you could take all the joy and happiness left on Route 66 and fit it inside these four walls with plenty of room to spare. But however bad times got, folks still hauled themselves here every Saturday night. I’d be in the back frying chicken while Reba belted out the old standards. Her voice and fiery red hair lit up the place, pushing back the darkness. Before long there was Texas swing dancing, beer swilling, and genuine laughter. That was her magic. Hard to imagine anyone thumbing her nose at the Depression and the Dust Bowl, but she managed.

After Reba took off into the sunset to go “toe-to-toe with obscurity” as she put it, time rolled by until the roadmap in my head leading from Reba’s to the wide world curled in on itself, going nowhere. Or ending up back here, the last stop on the way to nowhere. At first, that was fine with me. Route 66 changed people, made them abandon who they were like all those broke-down Model A trucks that used to litter the side of the road and turned them into something brand shiny new. Didn’t want any part of that.

Got a steady stream of postcards from Reba at first, about how she entertained the troops in some war or ’nother and finally had her own variety show, singing and dancing on the TV. Thought about getting a set so I could see what had become of her, but Reba’s was so dug in by then that even television signals got lost on their way here. The stream of cards turned into a trickle, with smudged postmarks so I couldn’t rightly tell where they were from. When a year went by without a card, I knew my last connection with Reba was gone. 

What’s that you say? The storm of all storms is coming? Yes sir, it is getting mighty dark. Let’s head outside and take a look. Mind the sign. You got to help me; I can’t hardly stand up in this wind. Have to say, that storm don’t look natural, coming from the east where storms never come from this time of year. Look at it, turning everything a burned-up orange like the light itself is dying. It’s coming at us like one of those Dust Bowl monsters that darkened the sky for days and erased the farmland. But I’m afraid this storm is made of equal parts old, brittle hopes and stillborn dreams. Is this the storm to end all storms? I think for me it is. It’s a storm of my own making, the one that’s been building ever since Reba kissed me goodbye for the last time.

Sorry, you were talking, and I wasn’t listening. You have to excuse me; my mind doesn’t travel in straight lines anymore. Thanks for the offer of a lift, but you go right ahead, friend. There’s nothing on the other side for me. My time for traveling any sort of road has come and gone, and all that’s left is the only kind of ending possible when you’ve sacrificed that deep, hard part of yourself for a life of obscurity. If you see her, tell Reba I bless her and hope she’s well, on whatever road she’s traveling now.  

*   *   *

John Christenson lives in Boulder, Colorado with his wife who paints watercolors and a cat who is fond of penguins. He has been published in a variety of literary magazines and anthologies. A piece entitled “A Tree Grows in the Mancave” was nominated for the Pushcart Prize.

By Kip Knott

The newspaper says you died three days ago. The newspaper says there will be no funeral. The newspaper says not to send flowers. The newspaper says nothing about me. The newspaper says nothing about the child we lost. The newspaper says nothing about our bittersweet life together. The newspaper says there are no survivors.

                                                                 *    *    *

Kip Knott is a writer, poet, photographer, and part-time art dealer living in Ohio. His writing has been included in Best Microfiction 2024 and The Wigleaf Top 50. His new book of stories, Family Haunts, is available from Louisiana Literature Press.

Creative Nonfiction by Saturn

A few months ago, I was in one of those precarious on-the-edge-of-a-knife situations with my best friend where you’re not entirely sure where you stand or where to go. I felt wronged by things that didn’t happen because I tend to turn emotion into memory, and she felt wronged by aspects of my personality that at the time, I wasn’t sure how to change.

My best friend was lovely. Like the sun given form and body and being. And she made me feel like one of those planets, warmed and comforted in a way that I had never felt before. I won’t say that I was, or am, in love with her, but that’s the best way to describe it. I wanted to spend every moment with her and perhaps that is unhealthy or unwanted, but I hadn’t known that at the time and she acted and felt the same, so I didn’t think to change.

We were, and are, planning to go to different colleges on either side of the country (her West coast, me East) and so I knew that yes, I would eventually have to give her up, or else substitute our weekly coffees with Facetimes or Skypes, but I thought that I would get the four years of high school with her and the summer before we both left, for the two of us.

I feel that I must point out that we’ve never kissed. Neither of us are the type to kiss our friends “just to see” and we never spoke of it. I am not sure if she ever thought of it, but I’ve had many crushes and many loves throughout our friendship and so if she had, she probably never seriously considered it.

I’ve written eleven poems for her. More than any of my romantic loves; more than I’ve written for anyone else combined, I’m sure. I tend to write about arbitrary things rather than people, but she was the one I felt comfortable writing about and to. She’s never seen or read any of them and perhaps that’s where I went wrong. Maybe showing her the way in which I loved her would have helped.

I also feel the need to point out that while I do miss her and our friendship, having time apart has opened my eyes and stripped me of my rose-colored glasses. We were not healthy, and while I wish that we were, wishing does not turn back time or heal wounds.

 So let me set the scene of the ending of a love. We were both sophomores, and while we aren’t anymore, it oftentimes feels like we still are. It was a few weeks before our final exams and perhaps the stress and weight of taking college classes early got to the both of us, but we had both been volatile to one another. This had happened before and so I assumed that it would pass, and we would apologize or otherwise pretend it had never happened. But I guess after enough bitter remarks and questioning everything that the other said from both sides wears on a person.

I am a jealous person. I know this now, and I’d like to think that I knew it then; I am deeply possessive of the people around me. “Me and mine” as I like to say. It’s safe to say that I considered her one of my many loves, and with that comes my jealousy. I’d be upset when she hung out with other people, especially when it happened to be activities we said we’d do together. Showing other people ‘our’ coffee shop, going to a movie we had talked about with someone else, etcetera. You get the picture – this is one of the many things that tore us apart. Ripped the seams where our lives had lined up. I was too jealous; she didn’t, or couldn’t, care enough.

While she was light given form; an angel upon this earth that I was lucky enough to briefly touch, she was not without her own faults. All angels fall after all. She had to fall to end up here. She was not able to provide me with the support I needed: at the time, I had thought that no one could. It’s been a year however and I can easily and truthfully say that this is incorrect. I have new me and mine, and they provide me with a sort of love and light I had never thought possible.

I have highs and lows. The highs, brief and bright, create a light that guides my feet on the path of my life–stars maybe. The contrary–those lows–I lash out. I rot and suffer and spread that suffering to those around me. During those lows, I need someone to reach out; I’ve been told that it’s easy to see when I need that. I stop replying, I’m asleep more often than not, my grades start to slip. That’s what depression does. That’s what depression is. It is numb and cold, the dark side of the moon.

She didn’t know how to do that; or more likely, didn’t want to. She has always had an issue with following through, and with me it was no different. Plans, schoolwork, savings, and then love. Two years of friendship wasn’t enough to convince her to stay. We both had issues. The difference, unfortunately, is that I was able to communicate my needs– she wasn’t. Miscommunication, or no communication at all, leads to ripped seams and broken hearts. She let her anger with me consume her; I was none the wiser that she was at all upset.

So, I suppose my poetry will sit dusty in their docs and my memories will continue to be a little too sharp for me to ever share outside of this essay. I see her in the hallways and in the common spaces, but I don’t think I’ll ever talk to her again. We hurt each other too much; we are both too stubborn to ever apologize. She will fly West, and I will stay where I am: stagnant and wingless.

                                                                   *   *   *

Saturn is a queer and trans writer. Their work explores themes of identity, loss, and belonging, often drawing from  personal experiences. With a passion for essays, poetry, and fiction, they seek to connect with readers through raw and honest storytelling. Though still early in their writing journey, Saturn is eager to share their voice and perspective with the world. Their work has been featured in local literary journals, and they are currently pursuing further opportunities to expand their craft.

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By Nisha Shirali

The old woman at the school playground smiles at my toddler son, Elijah, as she hobbles down the track on her walker. She speaks in a foreign language and points with delight toward his sandcastle.  

She’s rewarded with a giggle from my son, who doesn’t understand her words but feels the affection. Elijah’s health is in a perpetual state of uncertainty, and it’s the first moment of lightness we’ve had all week. I feel my heart relax in the woman’s presence.

When she hobbles away, Elijah follows her and tugs at her knee-length cream dress. He opens his hand to show off a treasure, probably part of his extensive rock collection. She takes the rock and leaves him with a broad smile on his cherubic face.

I feel the urge to know more about her. The moment is slipping away from me. I ignore decorum and jog up to her. 

“I’m Kira. What’s your name?” I ask.

“Isabelle,” she says.

Our broken language conversation reveals she lives nearby and has three sons and four grandchildren.

“Do you see them often?” I ask.

“Sometimes,” she says, blue eyes turning glassy.

A few seconds of silence pass. Elijah busies himself with playing with the edges of her dress, which she doesn’t seem to mind.

“I don’t have any family around,” I blurt. “It’s just the two of us.”

“Oh, sweetheart. I love you,” she says. Her eyes are kind, and she reminds me of my late grandmother.

It might be the language barrier that causes her to say these intimate words with such ease, but I cling to them like a shipwreck survivor.

She begins to plod away, and I’m struck with fear that I may never see her again. My son tugs on my shirt, eyes wide and eyebrows knotted together—he shares my trepidation.

I catch up to her again. Her eyes wrinkle at the corners and her mouth upturns.

“Hello, dear.”

“Can I… have your number?” I ask, like a nervous teenager in high school.

We exchange numbers, and my heart is full as I leave the playground.

That night, Elijah has a seizure, and I rush him to the hospital. I’m overwhelmed by the new medications added to my existing list and the myriad of tests required for a diagnosis.

When we return home, loneliness creeps over me along with the dark. Elijah’s dad and I separated two years ago, and I haven’t let anyone back into my life since. 

After putting my son to bed, I fill a glass with red wine and pad into the living room to watch a movie I’ve watched many times before.

My phone rings and I pick up without looking. A honeyed, delicate voice comes through.

“Hello?”

Hope swells in my chest.

“Is this Isabelle?” I ask.

“It is and who’s this? I saw your number on my phone but couldn’t remember whom it belonged to.”

“Kira? Elijah’s mom? We met at the playground.” I’m desperate for her to remember us. Everyone else forgets.

“Ah, yes, I remember,” she says. My shoulders slump with relief. “Are you coming to the playground again today?”

“Not today. Maybe tomorrow?”

“Alright, dear. I love you.”

                                                                   *   *   *

Nisha Shirali is a writer, policy analyst and mom of three boys based in Ontario. Her work has appeared in Brilliant Flash Fiction, Litbreak Magazine and Flash Fiction Magazine. She can be found at www.nishashirali.com.

By Mary Anne Griffiths

She walks around the makeup department looking as if she knows what she’s doing, smearing a foundation or lipstick sample on the top of her hand, moving it around under the lights to appear as if she is considering this shade or that.  There are so many options, products, none of which she understands.

“Can I help you?”

The store clerk seemed to come out of nowhere.  Who knows how long she stood there watching, suspicion building.  What if she thinks I’m shoplifting?

Umm, no.  Thank you.”  She places a mascara wand back on its display hook.  

“I can help with color matching.  If you have any questions, I’m at the front.”  She cocks her thumb behind her brassy blonde head then returns to her seat behind the cash register.  She  begins filing her nails.

Why did she say that?  She’s watching me, that’s for sure.  She grabs a few things—bright pink lipstick, the cheapest bottle of foundation.  She decides to unhook the mascara and carry all of it to the register.  

“Hmmmm.  That’s an interesting shade of pink, eh?   That’ll be $39.76.”  While the items are being bagged, she inserts the debit card trying to remember her PIN.  Raw panic starts to seep in and she tries to disguise her trembling finger punching in the memorized number.  The clerk staples the receipt to the bag.  

She turns and rushes out of the store.  She can feel the clerk’s eyes boring into her back.  Everyone seems to be watching her.  On her way out, her shoulder catches another shopper who growls under their breath at her.  She finally reaches her car and slips into the driver’s seat.  She takes off the wig and undoes the overstuffed bra.

Breathe.  In and out.  Calmly.  It’s okay.

He starts the car and heads home.

*   *   *

Mary Anne Griffiths (she/her) is a poet and fiction writer living in Ingersoll, Ontario, Canada.  She shares space with a husband, a tortie and tuxie.