By Corrina Malek 

It’s what you’d call a first-world problem: Too much stuff in the fridge. The kind of packed fridge where you can’t find anything, without taking out the bottle of OJ, a gallon of milk, and a to-go restaurant box. And it’s only when you’ve removed the mystery leftover containers that you come across an old, very old bunch of kale—the kind of package that mushes underneath your fingers, distributing brownish kale juice throughout the bag. And you have to look hard too, to even identify it as kale, because the leaves are no longer entirely green, there’s now yellowing bits and what looks like dirt. The smell of rotting flowers hits you. You don’t have to eye it much longer before it finds its way into the trash. 

You carefully open the tub of sour cream–just enough to take a peak. The green fuzzy science experiment inside is all you have to see before it, too, is discarded. You scold yourself for leaving your fridge in such a condition. You’re usually such a neat-nik, so tidy. But you’ve been distracted, you’ve been busy, your mind has been occupied with only important things. Things that took priority over the contents of this fridge. 

But now the fridge is bursting, it seems, and you’ve no place to put the new bag of Mexican blend cheese that you bought today. You open the deli drawer and discard the package of ham that feels slick, even through the plastic bag. It’s there you discover another bag of Mexican cheese that while opened, is still 3⁄4 full. You sigh. It’s OK, it’s just extra cheese. You toss another bag of lunch meat into the garbage without even inspecting it. Surely, it was old. You don’t recall the last time you purchased any lunch meat, but after a few moments though, you suddenly remember. You stand still in front of the fridge for a moment and it’s only the ding of the door being left open too long that brings you back to the present moment. 

Now that you’ve started your clean out, you can’t stop. You discard hardened bread and green grapes that have white dots. You find leftover containers that you stack on the counter and an opened can of Dr. Pepper that you turn upside down in the sink. You’re finally making space, being able to identify what is left, what is still good. 

And then, there it is. 

You see the rim of the translucent plastic cup top and you don’t have to move aside the jug of lemonade to be able to recognize what it is: A bottle of breastmilk. Your throat feels tight and thick as your eyes zero in on the bottle sitting in the back of the top shelf of the fridge. You want to hold it, cradle it, comfort it. You reach for it and have this primal, desperate urge to feed, to provide sustenance. The longing is excruciating. You hold the bottle to your chest and feel the ache of your breasts against it. Before you can dwell on it a moment longer, you pour the precious liquid down the drain. 

While there’s likely more to purge, you stop. Your fridge is quite empty now. 

*   *   *

Corrina Malek’s short stories have been featured in the Ohio Writers’ Association anthologies House of Secrets and Should This Book Be Banned? She has over 25 years of educational publishing experience. When she’s not writing or thinking about writing, she spends time with family and rescuing dogs in central Ohio.

By Lise Halpern

One rainy day Casey and Mason were just looking to escape a sudden squall when they found the little shop in an alley off the square. The door said Welcome, and a bell chimed hello as they entered, stamping their feet on the mat to shake off the raindrops. Soft jazz played through the shop’s speakers. Pale-yellow light warmed the shelves of raku ceramics and set the glass cases of earrings and necklaces sparkling. 

The woman at the counter, encased in a hand-knit scarf of soft purples, nodded and smiled as Casey and Mason strolled through the store, their jackets slowly drying. Mason bent to examine the crackle on a vase. Casey held a necklace, admiring the graceful silver swirl of the pendant.

 They walked together into the backroom of the store which held handcrafted furniture doused by pink-toned spotlights that highlighted their curves. “Hey Case, these are Thomas Moser.” Mason opened a desk drawer, then slid it silently back into place. “Look, they have those end tables I like. You almost never see them in a store. Online it’s a two-year wait to get an order filled.”

“They’re beautiful.” Casey ran her fingers over the smooth wood. The table was balanced and solid despite impossibly thin, spidery legs. She showed Mason the price tag with a handwritten number way out of their price range. It did not dampen his enthusiasm.

“Our anniversary is coming up next month—let’s buy these as our gifts to each other.” Mason looked at her with bright, hopeful eyes, and before she knew it, they were each carrying a bubble-wrapped table through the still drippy streets.  At home the tables took a place of pride on either side of their living room couch, protected by coasters and groomed with furniture oil. 

One cold and stormy evening Mason was in a gruesome mood. The snow had canceled their plans to watch his college football team at a bar with his old frat buddies. Casey had not wanted to go. She hated hanging out with some of those guys; at close to thirty they still acted like teenagers drinking beer without fear of curfews.  Mason had worn her down, but in the end the snow had been on Casey’s side. Alone, Mason watched his team lose, ripping through beers and yelling at the TV. 

She was in the kitchen when she heard the crash. Walking into the living room, she saw Mason sprawled on the floor screaming, “Fuck, fuck, fuck” into the carpet. Underneath his right shoulder lay a toppled end table, one of its spindly legs broken at the knee. Farther away, a beer can dribbled a puddle onto the floor and what had been a ceramic table lamp lay in sharp-edged pieces around a dented shade and shattered bulb. The TV post-game analysis babbled on in the background.

Casey ran to Mason’s side and supported his left shoulder as he slowly rose to his knees, stood, and hobbled to the couch. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he grumbled. Casey pursed her lips, rolled her eyes, and held her tongue. She picked up the beer from the floor and took it to the kitchen, returning with an ice pack and a roll of paper towels. The broken end table eventually made its way to the basement, where it sat waiting for someone to repair it.

One bright sunny morning Casey entered the office of Mason’s lawyer, her own lawyer by her side. The lobby had beige walls, beige carpeting, and neutral tweed upholstered chairs surrounding a glass-topped coffee table, all designed to be professional and calming. 

In the conference room they sat across from each other at a long, shiny, dark wood table. There weren’t many issues left to resolve; the money was all settled, the retirement accounts split, and there was no alimony to argue over. Mason had already moved out of their house, taking his clothing and personal stuff along with the guest bedroom furniture, the dining room table, and the sofa and chairs from the family room. Casey was staying in the house until it was sold. There were just the odds and ends to settle: the paintings, the dishes, the books, some remaining furniture. The lawyers had a list.

“I want the Thomas Moser table from the living room,” Mason demanded.

“Mason, we bought two of those tables,” Casey replied. “You can have the one you broke in your drunken stupor.  I’m keeping the one in the living room.” She stared him down from across the table.

Mason started to respond, venom rising in his eyes. But his lawyer touched his arm and put an end to it. “OK. I think that’s it. We’ll write this up for the court to approve.” 

On the last day of their marriage, Mason picked up his settlement items from the house. The next week the realtor put a “For Sale” sign in the yard.

It was a clear and quiet night when Casey spent her last hours in the house. She sat in the living room, surrounded by boxes and watching the last of the firewood burn in the fireplace. She contemplated the little end table. She stood, placed it on its side, and brought her foot down on its slender legs. She fed the first smooth, polished leg into the fire and watched flames lick the pale wood. It blazed bright, then turned nubby and black on its way to ash.

*   *   *

After decades of writing creative non-fiction in the form of strategic business plans and advertising copy Lise Halpern has turned her thousand word a day writing habit to more literary pursuits. Her writing has appeared in After Dinner Conversation and CaféLit Magazine. She resides with two crazy border collies in a river town in bucolic Bucks County, Pennsylvania. http://www.lisehalpern.com

By Deborah Douglas Wilbrink

She twisted the ring and twisted it again. It wouldn’t budge. A simple band of white gold, edged in rose gold, with tiny knobs of platinum for texture, one of his trademarks. Neal had made it when they decided to keep the baby and marry, and she had not taken it off since the wedding, two months ago. The ring was a symbol of the “love and cherish” vow they stumbled through, making it up on the spot in front of Neal’s friend Jake, whose preacher license, she realized too late, came from a mail-in coupon. At least they were married. She was already showing the baby bump at their wedding, something her grandmother didn’t appreciate.

She used oil, then soap, trying to rotate the ring like a screw top, to the left, to spin it off her finger. There was no wiggle room at all. As her torso swelled with their baby, so had her fingers and feet.

When Neal got home from the jeweler’s gallery, she waited until he filled his glass with ice and scotch before saying, “I can’t take your ring off anymore. It’s getting too tight. Can you cut it off?”

He played with the ring and her finger, first with soap, then with kitchen oil. “I told you I tried the grease this afternoon,” she gasped as he pulled. 

Neal sighed and said gently, “Baby, you’re just going to have to bear it. That ring will be no good at all if it’s cut. It’s a casting, not a weld. We’re not going to ruin that ring, right?”

Swallowing her anger, she felt it pushed down past her womb and coming back up, lodging in her gut. She tasted bile and turned away. He didn’t notice—he was getting more ice, more Scotch.

Another month, and her finger began to ooze pus from under the ring. “That’s not a problem,” her husband told her. “It will heal after you have the baby.”

Another month, and to her horror, the ring began to rot, a tiny hole appearing out of sight, palm side. Was it the ring that was rotting, or her rotting flesh that was damaging the gold?

“It’s just a few more weeks,” said Neal, looking at it. “Baby, you can hold out that long. You’re my strong girl.”

“Can’t you smell it, Neal? It’s rotten! I could lose my finger.”

“That is not gonna happen. It will heal right back up after you have the baby and lose that weight. You don’t ruin a one-of-a-kind masterpiece with a metal saw.”

His authority exuded with the smell of scotch as he leaned over, smiling, for an assured kiss. The smell of Glenlivet on a good day and Johnny Red on a bad day was constant. Liquor cost. The playpen was a godsend, found on the side of their street. The baby bed was one her great-aunt had used fifty years ago to corral visiting babies. Even the diapers were from a thrift store, washed and bleached. But there was always just enough money for Neal’s bottles.

A few weeks and even her husband’s breath couldn’t conceal the smell of her finger. It was changing color, all the way down to the nail, and bits of flesh were peeling through the tiny hole. And then, there was greater pain and labor was upon her at last.

At the hospital, the nurse looked hard at her finger, but focused on the long delivery, sixteen hours of natural birth. A final burst and joy filled the room, the baby was here, healthy, nursing.

“Why is that ring still on your finger?” asked the doctor.

She murmured, pretending that it was important to show her love and wear the ring, no matter what.

“It’s coming off now,” said the doctor, “and so is the finger. You’ve got gangrene and we’ve got to stop the spread. Otherwise, you could lose your hand, your arm, your life.” Neal gave her a hard look.

“Where will you cut it?”

“I think we can save the hand. We’ll take the finger off right at the joint.”

“Cut it off, but we want the ring intact,” she heard herself say.

She inhaled the bitter anesthetic. The last thing she felt before she went under was Neal’s reassuring squeeze of her hand.

*   *   *

Deborah Douglas Wilbrink is a retired ghostwriter of elders’ memoirs. an emerging writer in other genres. Her work is forthcoming in Dead Mule, Asymptote, Etched Onyx, and The Syncopation Journal. She is recipient of a Spring 2025 Writers Residency at Can Serrat, Spain, where she is writing more stories about feminism and love. https://GuitarsAndMemoirs.com. @debwilbrink

By Constanza Baeza Valdenegro

I got a wild card, a special invitation to a tennis event, which will be held in my country. I don’t think they are particularly happy with me being among the players. Last time I was at the federation’s building the president got angry after I told him he does nothing to improve national tennis. I must admit I wasn’t very nice when I said those things and I really thought I’d have to find another federation to represent. I sent him an e-mail with my most sincere apologies (I swear they were sincere) and he accepted them. So, I’ve been invited to this tournament after more than one year of injuries and depressing thoughts. I suppose that my coach has something to do with the invitation. I imagine him using his best linguistic resources to melt the supervisors’ hearts with the story of my sad days without tennis. 

I’ve always loved the incongruence between the word wild and tennis life. Wildness is not allowed in our sport. Every time I get some breeze of craziness, my old coach, that stubborn and moody guy who knows me since I was seven, brings me down to Earth with the strength of a strict father. To be ‘wild’ in tennis is something you must avoid. Everything in tennis obeys a rigorous schedule. From an early age I learned to say no to things that people of my age could enjoy without feeling guilty. My sybarite impulses were tamed by rigid diets, and pizzas, chocolate and unhealthy things were not often in front of my eyes, although I must admit that when I started winning small tournaments, I used to buy lots of chocolate boxes that I would need in case of a sad defeat. Once I got drunk after a very tough loss, and my coach punished me with even tougher training seasons. It’s the only time I’ve ever been drunk. 

So I got this wild card for a small tournament after a long time of recovery. I’m thirty-one, so every time I get injured, I feel huge anxiety, thinking that it could be the end of my not very successful career. This one was tough and scary: a knee injury. I thought I wouldn’t be on a court ever again. Sleepless nights, anguish, thoughts about retiring were the usual ingredients of my recovery. When I started practicing and noticed that I still needed some time, I preferred to go slowly, but my anxiety was still there. 

It has been crazy. This is the longest period I’ve ever spent at home since I started playing tennis. Fourteen months. How can I make up my mind about this new reality? Even speaking my first language had brought some alienation. I used to go around the world, speaking English, and now I feel strange with my own language. My body feared its new freedom. I could stay in bed until 11 a.m., but I never felt relaxed. My body and my mind knew their past life. 

I’ve cried in front of a few people: my coach, my parents, my partner. I’ve never cried in front of my daughter, with the typical and very selfish reason that we parents need to avoid tears so that we can show our strength to our kids. It doesn’t work. She can feel my pain. She is very sensitive to adult sadness and never get fooled by my smile.

Sometimes I get that anxiety of wanting to be on the court again, but then I look at my daughter and feel guilty. These hours of intense sadness and nostalgia for courts should be joyful. When she was born, I spent only two weeks with her. Then, brokenhearted, I had to fly away, leaving this baby with her perplexed mother. What kind of father am I? She was just two weeks old, and I was already leaving her! I was so disappointed with my ambitious horizons. Now she enjoys my presence, unaware that I shouldn’t be home. Finally, to be with her is more important than my entire career. 

I’ll be playing on Tuesday. It has been a long time, and I feel like a junior player, with the same nervousness. I’ll try to do my best as always. That day I will be the boy who played his first event, more than twenty years ago. And just like the boy I used to be, I love what I do.  

*   *   *

Constanza Baeza Valdenegro was born in 1985. She lives in the Chilean countryside. She likes languages, tennis, stationery, pastel colors and knowledge.

By Kate Niestrom

Schwinn pumped her brakes as she arrived at Century High. Her wheel bumped over the rim of the bike rack outside, spokes rattling as her frame leaned into the familiar 10-speed next to her. The pair were quiet as their teens filed into the school, leaving them behind. 

“How’d it go?” Trek finally asked. 

Schwinn sighed. “Maggie passed her driver’s test. Diane’s going to let her take the Volvo to school next semester.”

Trek’s bell rang in alarm. “Oh, Schwinn…” 

“People with cars still ride their bikes all the time, right? I’m sure we’ll still get to see each other.” 

Trek looked around at the empty rack where their friends once parked alongside them. 

“Or,” Schwinn said, “I’ll end up in the back of the garage, turning into a pile of rust like every other bike that once belonged to a teenager.” 

“Stop,” Trek said, nudging Schwinn’s handle. “That doesn’t happen to every bike.” 

Schwinn tilted towards Trek. “I’ll miss these days with you more than rides with Maggie.” 

Trek popped a spoke out of his wheel and started fiddling with his lock. 

“What are you doing?” Schwinn asked. The lock sprang free and Trek began making quick work of Schwinn’s. 

“I won’t let you end up in the garage.” 

The bikes circled the rack where they had spent years with their wheels intertwined. Maggie sat at her desk inside, blinking as she watched her Schwinn bicycle roll down the street alongside her classmate’s Trek, heading for the horizon. 

                                                                     *   *   *

Kate Niestrom (she/her) is a writer of speculative and contemporary fiction and a regional marketing manager. Her fiction has been published in Adelaide Literary Magazine and her non-fiction essays have been published on Thought Catalog. She lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota.

By Christopher J. Houston

I did not know where I was or how I got there. It was pitch black. Had I gone blind? It took me several moments to realize that my eyes were shut. I tried as hard as I could, but I could not pry them open. Nor could I move or speak. But I could hear something: the buzzing of voices, perhaps? I focused on that sound.

“She’s hypothermic,” a woman said. “And her pulse is weak.” 

“What did the toxicology tests indicate?” a man replied.

“Multi-drug overdose.”

Mom must have discovered me unconscious in my room, had me rushed to the hospital. Words could not express how happy I was to be alive.

“She’s unresponsive,” said the man. “Let’s put her on a ventilator.”

Again, I attempted to speak. Again, nothing happened. I was frustrated and afraid.

They began hooking me up to the ventilator. I felt them place the plastic tube in my mouth, down into my windpipe. I tried once more to respond, to cry out, but again my body betrayed me. Suddenly I was exhausted. 

“The poison control specialist recommended we use activated charcoal.”

“OK, nurse,” said the man. “Get it prepped.”

I was placed on my side, another tube inserted into my mouth. From what I could gather, this time the goal was to feed the tube all the way down to my esophagus, but no matter how many times they tried, they could not quite seem to properly insert the tube. 

“Doctor,” the nurse intervened after a while. “It’s just not going to work. We don’t want to risk aspiration.”

“Fine,” said the doctor. I heard him slam the tubing down in frustration. 

I could fight it no longer. Since my eyes were already closed, I went back to sleep.

*

I was stirred awake by the sound of my monitor going off, but I still couldn’t open my eyes or speak, much less, control my limbs. Despite the lack of agency, however, my body was in motion, albeit involuntarily.

“She’s seizing,” said the nurse.

“Get someone in here. Now!”

The squeak of rubber soles shuffling across linoleum announced the helpers’ arrival. My arms and legs were pinned down, my head and neck stabilized. The convulsions went on for a few more moments, then stopped as suddenly as they began. The monitor went silent.

“Let’s get a CT scan,” said the doctor. 

I could do nothing but lie there, utterly terrified. 

“The results are normal,” he said, after a while.

“Strange,” said the nurse. “So, what now?”

“Now,” said the doctor. “We wait.”

*

More time passed. I had periodic seizers, but the scans were all normal. Eventually, they hooked me up to the EEG. It was a long time before I heard the results.

“Poor prognosis,” announced the doctor.

My heart sank.

“What do we do now?” 

“Nothing we can do. We’re in wait-and-see mode from here on out.”

And that’s what I did. I waited.

*

Later, Mom came to see me. I thought, at first, I was dreaming.

“What should I do?” she said, sobbing. I realized I was not simply imagining things when I felt her touch my hand. “They said they would give it a few days, but now the doctor’s saying that you have irreversible brain damage due to cardio-respiratory arrest. I don’t know what to think. They want me to give them permission to take you off life support.”

What? No!

“You look fine to me, like you’re only resting. I can’t lose you, too. Give me a sign. Please. Let me know you’re still in there.”

I tried to provide the sign she so desperately desired–a blinking of eyes, a twiddling of fingers–but nothing happened. All I heard was Mom’s reticent sobs. 

I wanted to scream. More than ever, I wanted to live. 

But the operation to remove my organs was scheduled for the next day.

*

I listened helplessly as I was treated like meat on a slab.

“All prepped?” said the doctor.

“Just about.” 

“Good. Let’s get this over with.”

I tried once more to open my eyes. I tried so hard it felt like the effort alone might kill me, but when even that level of exertion went unrewarded, almost as an afterthought, I used what little strength I had left to flip Death the bird. 

“Doctor,” gasped the nurse, a seed of hope taking root in my mind. “I think she moved her right middle finger.”

“Nonsense,” said the doctor. “An involuntary response.”

“But shouldn’t we make sure?”

“It’s nothing. Forget about it.”

“But…”

“No buts. Let’s just get this show on the road.”

The nurse sighed. “If you say so.”

I tried again to move, but this time I was either unsuccessful, or the nurse was now ignoring me.

This can’t be happening! 

It was the silence that I feared most, the uncertainty of it, the terrible inevitability. 

When they start cutting, I thought. Maybe I won’t feel the pain. 

But deep down, I knew that I would.

Somebody! Please. Say something!

Which organ would they take first: heart, liver, kidney? Would I still be conscious somehow? Maybe I had already died, and this was simply my special iteration of hell. I imagined the scalpel opening me up, blood gushing, eventually filling the room. Why wouldn’t anyone say anything?

I want to live. 

That was the thought pounding over and over in my mind like a drum. Like a heart–my heart–which would soon stop beating forever. 

I want to live. I want to live. I want to live!

And suddenly the room was flooded with a light so bright that it hurt my eyes.

*   *   *

Christopher J. Houston is a 49-year-old aspiring author. He grew up on U.S. Air Force bases across the world, and now lives in Tulsa, Oklahoma.

By Madelaine Zadik

Andrea was wandering through the crowds near Times Square, getting ready to kiss this miserable year good-bye. She threw herself forward into what hopefully would be better times ahead. She hated crowds but had surprised herself by agreeing to meet Amy and Petunia in this pickpocket heaven on New Year’s Eve. Her therapist had advised against it. Surveying the swarming bodies, she pondered how to maneuver. She was kicking herself for such stupidity. How was she ever going to find anyone in this mob scene? Then, out of the blue, a short woman wearing a bright red hat, appeared in front of her, looked into her eyes, and said, “Your grandfather asked me to give this to you.” 

With those words, she put an old wooden box into Andrea’s hands, and before Andrea could utter a word, the woman was gone, swallowed up by bodies congealing into one large mass in the cold air. Andrea tried to follow her, but there was no sign of the red hat. How could she have vanished so quickly?

Andrea was stunned. Her grandfather died when she was five, over 50 years ago. Who was this woman, and how could she possibly have found her here? Was the box meant for someone else? It was probably just a hoax or joke. Whatever its origins, she didn’t dare open the box in this crowd. If by some weird circumstance it really was from her grandfather, she certainly didn’t want to deal with whatever was inside right now. Fortunately, the box slid easily into her inside coat pocket, which she securely zippered shut. 

Now, where were Amy and Petunia? They had agreed to meet near the Godiva shop on Seventh Avenue, but Andrea had no idea where she was now or how to make her way there. Her head was spinning, or was it the crowd that was spinning around her? She felt unsure about mentioning the box to her friends. They were always so disbelieving. They might want her to open it right then and there, and Andrea was afraid she might succumb to their curiosity. Andrea pondered whether she wanted to be alone when she opened the box. Without knowing what was inside, how could she even make such a decision? All that would have to wait, but it was hard to put it out of her mind and focus on the task at hand: finding Amy and Petunia. 

She was quickly losing hope that she would locate them. Did she even want to anymore? This whole box thing was wigging her out. How could a stranger, this woman she had never met before who didn’t even look familiar, know who Andrea was? Andrea suddenly got the urge to get the hell out of this crazy place with all these insane people. She didn’t want to risk anyone else giving her anything or taking away the box. 

She couldn’t think about anything else but the box, and she needed to get herself to a safe place to open it. Her mind was playing games with her. She found herself wanting to believe that the box really was from her grandfather. Yet, how would she even know if the contents were from him? There was no one left who could verify anything, well except for Aunt Jo, but she hadn’t seen her since Andrea’s grandmother’s funeral, and that wasn’t a pleasant experience. Aunt Jo did call when Andrea’s mother died, but she really couldn’t forgive Jo for the pain she had inflicted on Andrea’s mother and grandmother. All these memories were now swirling around her when she hadn’t thought about any of that for a long long time, nor about her grandfather. This was just ridiculous. What could he possibly have given anyone to deliver to her, especially since his death was sudden and unexpected? Why hadn’t he given it his daughter Jo? She was a teenager when her father died. She probably needed it more than Andrea, who as a five-year-old had barely known her grandfather.

She got herself onto the subway, but wasn’t going to risk handling the box on the long train ride home. All the celebratory drunks didn’t make her feel safe, box or no box. Even without knowing its contents, or perhaps because of that, the box started taking on mythic powers. Her imagination was free to make up all kinds of stories and Andrea was getting fearful of what might be revealed to her. Perhaps she didn’t want to open the box at all. There was no winning with this situation. Why was she turning it into such a big deal? It was quite impossible that the box was from her grandfather. That woman couldn’t have been holding on to it for all these years, only to find Andrea in a crowd at Times Square. Perhaps she should just open the box now and put all this conjecture to rest.

Andrea wanted to believe the box was from her grandfather. She wanted to believe that it contained something important. She fantasized that her grandfather had thought about her and wanted to impart essential information, information that was only safe for her to know now, all these years later, after Andrea’s grandmother was gone, and after her mother and father were dead. Perhaps he could foresee her struggles and wanted to help her.

Andrea remembered sitting on her grandfather’s lap as a child, looking into his blue eyes. She could picture his smile, his soft hands, and his fully white hair. He was kind and gentle, especially in contrast to her brusque grandmother. Even though Andrea was so young when he died, she did have fond memories of him, especially since her mother loved telling stories of her adventurous and unconventional father. Andrea had missed out on getting to know that aspect of him. All she had left of him now were those old photos that her mother had so cherished.

As Andrea’s imagination took over, she considered what treasure her grandfather might have left for her. It couldn’t be anything of great monetary value. Her grandparents hadn’t been wealthy. Perhaps her grandfather had had some kind of secret life, another wife, or other children that her mother and Aunt Jo didn’t know about. Andrea’s mother had portrayed him as quite the lady’s man. She was off in fantasyland again, but really, that was the only thing that made any sense. Would she want another aunt or uncle, or cousins? As a kid, she always complained about their small family, wishing for siblings.

By the time she got home, Andrea hadn’t eaten in hours but hardly noticed. She had totally exhausted herself emotionally. Amy and Petunia had called, but in her state, Andrea was oblivious to her phone. She knew she was teetering on the edge. She took two pills hoping to turn off her brain. 

Heading to bed, Andrea grabbed the scratched-up box. The brass hinges and latch were still functional. When she settled herself safely under the covers, Andrea cautiously lifted the lid. She peered inside to find black velvet cradling a yellowed envelope. Inside was a letter written by her mother to her grandfather, gushing about the joys of being a mother, how this love had changed her life. Included was a lock of hair preserved in plastic.

Her hands were shaking as she held the letter. It looked like her mother’s handwriting, but she couldn’t be sure. Why would her mother have written this when her father lived nearby? Why hadn’t it been given to her sooner? Her eyelids were getting too heavy for Andrea to keep her eyes open, much as wanted to finish reading the letter. She just managed to put everything back in the box and tuck it into her night table drawer before her head hit the pillow and she out cold. 

Suddenly, there was a loud pounding on her door. Andrea dragged herself out of bed to find Amy and Petunia glaring at her. It was already noon. “Where were you?” They were trying their best not to scream at her. “We waited for hours; texted you; called and called and called.” “I’m sorry,” was all Andrea could manage. “We were so worried.” Andrea did feel grateful to have such loving friends who cared about her so deeply. They had been through so much together. As her brain fog began lifting, Andrea’s memory kicked in. The story poured out with a force all its own. When her words came to an abrupt end, Amy and Petunia cried in unison, “Let’s see it!” 

They all headed into the bedroom. Dreams of her mother and grandfather filled Andrea’s head as she pulled open the drawer. There were pencils, stray coins, chapstick, and hand cream, but no box. Andrea gasped. Words refused to come out of her mouth, and she was afraid to look at her friends. Amy and Petunia exchanged knowing looks, and silence filled the room. 

*   *   *

Madelaine Zadik lives in the wooded hills of western Massachusetts. A former bookstore owner, botanic garden educator, and editor of Botanic Garden News, she now devotes herself to her personal writing She is currently at work on a memoir about her relationship with her Aunt Helga, whom she never knew except through letters Helga wrote from prison in Nazi Germany. Her work has been featured on New England Public Media; has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize; and has appeared in The Sun, Consequence, Mud Season Review, The Write Launch, Still Point Arts Quarterly, Zone 3, and elsewhere. Find her online at madelainezadik.com.

By Chris Cochran

An erratic breeze scatters napkins from a picnic table. They tumble toward you, wearing the blue sundress, like always. The boy with the yellow hair is here, too, watching ants march across the concrete patio under a magnifying glass. Is he our son? I never see his face. The grill master stands too close to you, but you don’t mind. You laugh, lean into him. The magnifying glass splinters. Behind its lens, the face of our son (?) fragments into kaleidoscopic shards, none of which resemble me. On the patio, tiny plumes of smoke rise from charred ants littering the concrete.

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Chris Cochran is a high school English teacher who writes first drafts on an old typewriter in a small nook beneath his basement steps. His work has appeared in The Dunes Review, The 2024 Northwind Treasury, and the Write Michigan 2023 Anthology. He lives in Michigan with his wife and son, where he spends most evenings drinking tea and falling asleep to comedy podcasts.

By Mathieu Parsy

The King Kong living in my basement stands just 6.3 inches tall, a plastic titan with multiple points of articulation. He stomps through cardboard skyscrapers, dangles miniature damsels, and swats at planes on strings. I snap photos, shifting the angle to make him loom larger, more monstrous. My miniature city—weeks, sometimes months, in the making—crumbles under his wrath, just as it should.

I carved the Empire State Building out of styrofoam, wrapped it in paper, and painted it gray. My Brooklyn Bridge is made of twine and popsicle sticks. The streets, drawn carefully on plywood, curve through neighborhoods of cereal-box brownstones and bottle-cap manholes. A few buildings remain untouched, waiting their turn. The world doesn’t end all at once.

Upstairs, the real world is folding in—hospital visits, pill organizers, symptom charts. Dad forgets who I am. My best friend is shrinking beneath his blanket, fading under fluorescent light. I call. I visit. I pray, quietly, uselessly.

Down here, destruction is something I control and turn into art. I knock over buildings with my hands, rebuild them when I want. I crouch behind my camera, the lens drawing the scene tight. King Kong’s fury is frozen mid-roar, mid-rampage, when my shutter clicks. I recreate frames of the classic movie, sharpening shadows and deepening the chaos on my laptop screen.

In this city, the planes always come, machine guns spitting fire.

In this city, the beast always falls, forever misunderstood.

In this city, the damsel never escapes the gorilla’s grip, yet love always lingers in the wreckage.

I keep building, keep destroying, keep shooting. King Kong lives in my basement, and as long as he does, I am the god of something.

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Mathieu Parsy is a Canadian writer who grew up on the French Riviera. He now lives in Toronto and works in the travel industry. His writing has appeared in publications such as Bending Genres, Maudlin House, Does It Have Pockets, and elsewhere. Follow him on Instagram at @mathieu_parsy.

By Patrick Siniscalchi

This morning, while distracted by the sun painting the sky pink and orange above the mountains, my shadow ditched me. I caught him slinking off out of the corner of my eye. The ensuing chase was futile since his long legs at daybreak gave him a stride twice that of mine. My jaw slackened, witnessing my former constant companion—friends and relatives were never so loyal—desert me.

Sure, like most, he would disappear when I turned in for the evening, returning in the wee hours just before I woke. Following a night of carousing, he’d spend breakfast boasting of his wild exploits, his romantic conquests, leaving me bitter and jealous. Though I hadn’t told him outright, I often wished he’d never return.  

Now, shadowless, my familiar loneliness has spiraled into desolation.

Why did he leave? Was he offended by something I said or didn’t say? I never imagined he would behave as callously as the others. Like Suzi Wilson in eighth grade. Didn’t she know how hard I struggled to say I love you? That even though my throat constricted each time I tried to release those words, she had captivated my heart. I still recall how effortlessly she moved on to my best friend, who never seemed to remember my name.

Had my shadow tired of my severe introversion, similar to my first college roommate after our sophomore year in the dorm? At the last keg party of Spring semester, he said with sour beer breath inches from my face, “What’s wrong with you? You look miserable, you never speak, and you seem like you’re Velcroed to the goddamned wall!” During the third-year sign-up, he was adamant. “No fucking way, not again.” Later, whenever we attended the same party, his eyes skipped past me as if I was the uncoordinated kid and he was picking sides for a basketball game. 

Now, my shadow has abandoned me, but I am determined to win him back. In a moment of deep reflection, I suspect where to find him. On numerous occasions, he had mentioned how hot our neighbor Chloe was and how he’d “love to get all up in her shadow.” She usually walks her labradoodle after work. I had spotted him briefly mingling with her shadow when she and I passed each other, her eyes always avoiding mine. At five-thirty, Chloe and her dog stroll by my house, my shadow entangled with hers. I dash to them, point an accusatory finger, and say, “You must stay with me! You are nothing without me!”

Before I can step on my shadow’s feet to tether him, all five of them—Chloe, her dog, their shadows, and mine—begin to bolt. She fumbles with the mace on her keychain. After readying the pepper spray to blast me, she halts and stands her ground while the labradoodle barks and lunges. “Stay back!” Chloe yells. 

I glance at the sidewalk and see my shadow’s head shaking. In an exasperated voice, he says, “See, this is precisely why I can’t be with you anymore.”

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Patrick Siniscalchi is a former electrical engineer living in Asheville, North Carolina, with his wife and scruffy dog. His work has appeared in The Sunlight Press, Defenestration, Great Smokies Review, Witcraft, and Hedge Apple.