By Swapnil Mindhe

In England, Katherine mentioned she wanted to learn piano. They were visiting her parents for Christmas and in that quiet village out of London, Katherine reminisced about how she had tried to learn as a child. 

“Mum got me into it.  She used to play in the afternoons before dad came home. I thought when I started, I would sound like her. I hated it when I didn’t.”

Their lazy afternoons were filled like this. As they traipsed through the surrounding hills and tight horse trails that ran between houses, she would turn her gaze over to him in that way he adored and reveal a nook or cranny about herself. Even bundled in jacket, scarf, and beanie, her light green eyes came clear against the washed-out winter light as she spoke. 

“I’m sure you’ll pull it off, he replied taking her hand and cupping it for warmth. “Plus, you’ll have me around this time to help.”

Franco flew to Iraq and Katherine stayed in England. The day he landed in the Kurdish capital of Erbil, the US gave the order to kill the high ranking Iranian general, Qasem Soleimani. As the city waited for the inevitable Iranian counter-attack, Franco took shelter in cafes, reading through the books Katherine’s parents had given him. 

In the evenings, he would amble around the spacious but empty NGO guesthouse, waiting till he could call her. Katherine had started piano classes and often spoke about how demanding the hand movements were. One night they stayed up late and Franco finally told her how bitterly he missed her. 

“I know,” she replied through the grainy image on screen. “That’s the terrible thing about every time we do meet. We have to deal with the leaving again.”

The sound of the piano came through the thin wood door of the bathroom. Shower running, Franco ignored his own body wash and reached for Katherine’s. Prying open the cap, he drew in the smell, then slowly spread it over him. The piano notes continued as heat and steam filled the tiled interior. Franco knew he should shower quickly, the train was leaving in two hours. But he did not care. The piping hot water and collecting steam held him now. He stood still and let it wash over him. 

“Katherine has improved a lot,” he thought to himself.

Winter and summer passed in Iraq and all the while Katherine practised. On their evening calls, she told Franco about the different pieces she was trying to learn. Her teacher had praised her fast progress but pushed her relentlessly. 

“It’s like every time I get reasonably confident, he throws the next level on me! I love how challenging it is but I would love to slow down a bit.”

When Katherine got the new job and left for Berlin, Franco was happy to hear she had a piano at the school she was teaching at. The hovering cleaners bothered her, but she took to the new routine well. The evenings were soon filled with excited talk about the life they would establish once Franco arrived.

When Franco finally heard Katherine play again, he was shocked by how good she was. Somehow all that off-hand talk of practise exercises had materialized into her coaxing those beautiful sounds in a basement of a German international school. Her fingers seemed imbued with something he had not been there to witness. Their delicate ends suddenly able to finesse sharp melodies from countless possible notes. 

When she finished, he told her he was not able to get the job in Germany. He was going back to the Middle East, this time Yemen. Somehow, even further away. When they broke up a few days later, he asked if she would use the piano as a way to get through it. 

“Yes, it’s a good distraction,” she replied, her voice already distant. “I’m thinking to buy my own to make it easier. It will probably have to be electronic but at least that means I don’t have to do any tuning.” 

Franco turned the shower off with a sigh and stepped onto the mat to dry himself. He knew he was late. Roughly running the towel through his hair, he remembered how surprised he was when Katherine mentioned she was moving to Italy. He knew she wanted to stay in Germany and figured that option had failed somehow. In Berlin they had agreed to stay friends so he suggested they meet in Italy. It seemed a good as place as any to see if they really could be so. 

Katherine was in Genoa, the port city of 20th century fame. Franco spent the first night with her in a piazza. The night was warm and neither wanted the conversation to be interrupted by restaurant staff. Franco bought a six-pack of beers and in an isolated corner they talked. 

Katherine mentioned those who came after him and Franco did the same. It had been lightly trodden territory until it was not. When they had broken up, the thought of either with another was like a press on open wound. As they talked that evening, both still felt the discomfort but the healed skin remained intact. They realized it had taken over a year for that to be the case. 

The second day, they toured the city and visited an exhibition at Palazzo Ducale. Moving from room to room, they occasionally brushed against each other and were reminded about the countless weekends where they had done exactly the same. Franco insisted on trying the local wines after and they moved through bottles and restaurants, finishing at a local wine bar.

Katherine was seeing someone. So was Franco. They discussed them and finally broached the topic of whether they could still be something if they had continued living together. In their heads the idea had been pushed away on multiple occasions. But sitting across each other on the second floor of that bar with an ice bucket and a half-full red wine between them, they re-considered what they had both extensively considered. 

“Either way it wouldn’t work. You’re still in Yemen,” Katherine said finally. 

“And you’re here,” Franco countered. 

They finished the bottle and went home. Franco was sleeping in Katherine’s spare room. As he was getting undressed, she called his name. 

“What is it?”

She was a room and corridor away but he could still hear the hesitation in her voice. 

“I’m just feeling lonely,” she said.

Franco knew what she wanted. He understood so much about her, her insecurities, her fears, her passions. He knew the conversation that evening had opened a door they both had tried to shut. Whether it stayed open was up to them. 

“Do you want me to sleep over there?” 

“Yes,” she replied. 

Katherine finished playing as Franco left the bathroom. He heard the piano lid thud and it occurred to him that he could not relate at all with her playing now. It had become something of its own, something defined by its clear separation from him. 

Franco put his jacket on and picked up his things. It was time for him to leave. Katherine had woken up before him and by the time he ambled into the kitchen she had made it clear there was no need to talk about last night. Then she had checked the time and said he should get showered if he was going to make the train. 

He agreed but watched her walk over to the piano first. She lifted the lid and glanced over when she noticed him. He did not say anything so she turned back to the gloss white keys, arranged the sheet music in front, and started playing.

*   *   *

Swapnil Mindhe was raised and educated in Australia and currently works as a humanitarian worker who has responded to several major humanitarian crises. He currently writes and lives in Australia. 

By Caroline J. Trussell

Get a good job after school, move to a big city. Work from 9-5 and sometimes even later. Say yes ma’am and yes sir. Take the coffee orders. Come home late and always be available via email. Go the bar down the street that serves the $3 drinks, try to forget your day. Verbal abuse is expected in the industry, just smile and twist your personality to fit the people who are paying you. Eat a whole box of Cheez Its to numb the pain, lie in bed staring at the popcorn ceiling wondering what you were really taught besides how to endure pain. 

Let your roommate yell at you for missing out on a night of drinking when you were sick over the toilet from a digestive issue. Cry alone in your bed because you don’t want others to see the toll they take on you, how you may not be the person they believe you to be. 

Have a heart attack or at least what feels like one, wait, maybe you overdosed on the medication your doctor prescribed you. Did you take two or three pills today? Three is far too many. Call your father, who is a nurse, and let him tell you there is no such thing as ODing on that type of medication. 

Now you’re in the hospital and you’re wearing long sleeves and they’re asking you all sorts of questions and all you can think is you want to leave, you want to leave, you want to leave. But not just the hospital. The job, the city, the situation. But you’ll be seen as a failure because you’re supposed to get a good job after school and support yourself. You’re not supposed to have a two-hour panic attack because you’re told it’s just a stomach bug. You’re not supposed to move back in with your parents who helped you move 12 hours up the country. 

You’re supposed to get a good job after school. Not only that, but you’re also supposed to be happy and thankful no matter what. So, you take the pills they prescribe you because you’re tired of waking up every two hours from heart palpitations. You try the meditation and daily devotionals, the walks on the beach. You try smelling lavender and going to therapy. You sit in many waiting rooms, both virtual and in-person. 

You try this medication at this dosage because you haven’t tried that one yet. You picture getting hit by a bus and it’s the only thing your mind can think about for 24 hours straight. You call the doctor, and she puts you on another. You’re frozen in place, life is happening around you, but your mind is no longer in your body. You put 15 other pills on your tongue—ants crawl up and down your arms and legs, you feel absolutely nothing, you feel absolutely everything. Most of all, you feel dread. 

You’re supposed to be happy and thankful no matter what, but nothing takes away the dread.

You get diagnosed with ABCDXYZ and you nod and say thank you. You work on exposing yourself to things that scare you so that you can be thankful and happy and take care of yourself. 

You take the pills but this time, after five years, they don’t make you feel dread or numb. You take the pills, and you can take care of yourself and your parents. You take the pills, and you pursue your passion. You take the pills, and you realize you don’t have to be happy and thankful all the time, only sometimes. You realize the pills aren’t you, but just a way to help stifle the dread. 

You are happy and thankful but not at the cost of your own sanity. 

*   *   *

Caroline J Trussell is a queer, neurodivergent writer who, in addition to flash fiction, writes horror and fantasy stories. She is a former journalist with work in Folio Weekly and Her Campus. The first book in her YA sci-fi fantasy duology, ENHANCED, recently published with Fire & Ice YA Books in August. 

By Alexa Wilkerson

Gut it. Attach yourself to nothing. Prove yourself as an ascended being with no earthly passions. The tug of loss in your chest means nothing. Ignore it. These chambers pump more than blood. They need your gift of life.

Unzip yourself like a helicase, separating your strands of existence. Spill everything on the floor and get a mop. Your stomach sits at your feet like a beached jellyfish. Sprinkle some flour and pick up the doughy mass with ease. Alternate between sweeping and mopping until you and the room are properly field dressed.

Peel your forehead from the windowpane and spray the oil smudge that blurs the outside world. Feel shame for the messes humans leave behind. Your own shame rubs your pericardium raw. You needlessly spray more chemicals on the glass.

Dust softens the beam of natural light, like being underwater. When did you last come up for air? No point in it now. That’s your reptilian brain speaking, hung up on survival and primal feelings. The real remedy is in your rag and your copy of Keeping House for Your Loved Ones. Half the title is stained with merlot.

Tell someone you’re doing it, for accountability. Say into the phone, “I’m moving on like you told me to.” Your mother’s voice strains with age and pride in her own wisdom. “That’s good. See? I told you it will get better.” The words hang in your gut like an anchor where your stomach used to be. You recall the last time you saw her, counting the liver spots on her fingers.

Sit on the floor in the empty room. A woodpecker knocks on the windowsill, relentless. His head is the color of poppies. You search through your discarded guts for something to hold your impatience. Your intestines will do. Now, get back to it. Study the grime on the baseboards. Your next task. A broom slaps the outside of the window, jolting you to attention.

You rush outside and come face-to-face with your neighbor. His head is turned to the sky. Ask him what he’s doing to your newly clean windows. He regards you with blame in his eyes. “All day, all I hear is that stupid bird.” He works from home, he says. He needs quiet, he says.

Lower your brow. There’s a quote from Keeping House for Your Loved Ones that comes to you: “Host often. I swear, it just works. Host well and host often (see Chapter 10: Recipes for Gatherings). It’s a trick we do to ourselves to keep up with the cleaning. Extend your soul to the outside world and you will always feel fulfilled, and a home is the soul as much as it is the body. Not even speaking of tapping into our fear of judgement to put electric paddles to that pesky motivation…”

Enough. Summon your best HOA president impression. That’s it. Speak the law. It’s your property. It’s your right to protect it. You’ll call the authorities. Wave your arms like a lunatic. You’ve earned it. You both return to the inside of your homes with grumbles under your breath. A few minutes later, the woodpecker returns. You think he came when he smelled the spilled guts; worms and grub can’t be too far behind, deep within the bones of the house. He knocks, and knocks. Listen! Something in this home is living. His head is the color of warm capillaries.

*   *   *

Alexa Wilkerson (she/her) is a queer writer and editor from Southern California. Her work can also be found in Flash Fiction Magazine. You can find her on BlueSky @alexawilkerson.bsky.social.

By Swetha Amit

The dead brown squirrel has been in my garden for two days. I should have placed her in a box and buried her, but it has been raining incessantly. Every time I open the door, a blast of icy air mixed with the smell of wet mud and rotting fruit hits me. Despite feeling guilty, I go straight back to the warmth of my couch. From the window, I watch rain create puddles that surround the dead squirrel. On the muddy ground, she lies on her stomach, her once bushy tail now slumped like a ragged cloth. There are no signs of blood. She probably got sick from the rainy weather in Palo Alto. No cure. Left to rot with the sickness eating her from the inside. 

It’s the same squirrel I saw scurrying along the edges of my fence, climbing up the branches of the trees, and darting across my lawn. She was a silent companion in my solitary life. Occasionally, she’d greet me with a tilt of her head. Her dark brown eyes would watch me until I turned to do my mundane chores. She had a black line running down her left eye, like a stained eyeliner. Sometimes, I’d see her chasing another squirrel up the branches of the trees. Maybe it was her baby or a mate; I couldn’t tell. It was a sight that brought a smile to my face. Sometimes, I’d see her munching on a fruit, oblivious to everything around her. I’d secretly take pictures of her with my phone. Sometimes I’d hear a thudding noise on my roof, like something running on it. I knew it had to be her. That noise assured me that she was around. That she hadn’t left a fifty-year-old woman living by herself, with two sons studying and working in Boston and New York, and a husband who succumbed to a terminal illness a year ago. 

Once, while making coffee, I saw her peeping in from the kitchen window. Was she trying to come inside? Was she hungry? Was she curious? I couldn’t tell. I left the window open with a bowl of water and nuts. She ate the nuts and drank some water. But she never came inside the house. Perhaps she was happy nesting among the branches. Maybe the large appliances, such as the refrigerator or microwave in my kitchen, frightened her. I watched how she skillfully made her way on the edges of the fence. I was afraid she’d fall, but she was quick and nimble like an Olympic gymnast. Back in my childhood, I was scared of handstands and cartwheels. They made me throw up. My mother ruefully pulled me out of the gymnastics class and enrolled me in tennis and guitar lessons instead. I played tennis through college until my tech career took over. Eventually, my age and bad knees caught up with me. 

The squirrel always seemed to be hustling like Bay Area traffic. But watching her relaxed me. Even her squeak had a rhythm. Every time she’d squeak, her tail curled inward as if it were an instrument. It was the first thing I heard in the mornings, and sometimes in the afternoons. It reminded me of my guitar in the attic—the guitar I strummed throughout my school years whenever I was home alone as an only child, while my parents were at work. I strummed the guitar when I wasn’t invited to a classmate’s birthday sleepover. I strummed the guitar after my first boyfriend cheated on me with my best friend in college.  Maybe I should find it and start playing all over again. 

The rain continues steadily. My roof makes a thud sound with the pitter-patter of the downpour. I lay awake at night, filled with an aching emptiness, knowing it isn’t the squirrel. The next day, the rain stops. I step outside with a cardboard box.  The dead squirrel floats in a puddle surrounded by scattered leaves and broken twigs.. I feel my stomach go hollow and cold. What if someone I knew left me to rot in the rain? Guilt enveloped me again. I wonder what happened to her companion. Did it abandon her, leaving her all alone in the dark gray weather? I gingerly pick her up and put her inside the cardboard box. Her eyes are closed. Her body and tail are stiff. 

I stroke her furry body for the first and last time. Then I wrap the cardboard box.

It starts to rain again. At first, it is gentle and light. Then it turns into a heavy downpour. Each drop stings my face and blurs my eyes. The raindrops soon merge with the tears gushing down my face. My teeth chatter as an icy gust of wind blows. I grab my shovel and dig the wet, muddy ground, determined to give my furry pal a decent burial and to redeem my irresponsibility for letting her lie in a pool of murky water for so long. I manage to dig a hole. I place the box, close my eyes, and mutter a small prayer. Then I fill the hole with the wet mud. My hand hurts.  The rain continues to pummel me. 

I rush inside the house. Through the window, I see the world outside turning a misty gray. The rain is pounding on my roof. I go up to the attic and find my old guitar. I pick it up and start strumming. The notes are rusty at first. I strum harder until my fingers hurt, until I find the lost rhythm, until the sound drowns out the noise on the roof. When I stop playing, the rain has stopped. Outside, it’s getting dark. The spot where the dead squirrel lay is now filled with a puddle. I am glad she is in a better place in another world. I pick up my phone and look through her photos. I wonder why I never gave her a name. 

*   *   *

Swetha is an MFA Graduate from the University of San Francisco. The author of a memoir, A Turbulent Mind, and three chapbooks. Her words appear in Had, Bending Genres, Ghost Parachute, Gone Lawn, Cream City Review, and others. A member of the Writers Grotto, her stories have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net, and Best Small Fiction.

By Theodora Filis 

How swiftly time marches on. One moment, it’s September, and you’re consumed with anxieties over school supplies, hairdos gone awry, and the impossible quest to craft an outfit that screams, “I woke up like this,” when the mirror insists otherwise. Suddenly, it’s Christmas—consumerism’s grand parade—where you dash from store to store, frantically buying gifts for people you rarely see, wrapping them in paper doomed to a five-second demise, and wondering if last year’s lavender candle can make a repeat appearance. And just as quickly, it’s New Year’s Eve—a night of revelry and ambitious resolutions, those sparkling promises that fade almost as fast as the confetti drifting to the floor.

And so life continues, ticking away with the subtlety of a clock’s second hand—constantly moving, rarely acknowledged. Amid this swift passage, why not pause to ponder the cosmic jest: Why were we born? Was it to endure the dread of awkward school photos, face the annual tinsel trauma, or fail to keep a gym commitment beyond January 3rd? Perhaps we exist for loftier goals, like collecting expired coupons or mastering the delicate art of awkward weather small talk.

As we muster the courage to seek life’s grand purpose, the calendar flips again, sweeping us into the pageantry of obligations. We make plans—then cancel them. We set goals—then forget them. We join book clubs but only skim the blurbs. We buy planners that never see past March. We promise to meditate, then binge reality TV instead. Is happiness just learning to stumble through this endless parade? Or are profound insights hiding between “Best Wishes!” cards and inspirational coffee mugs?

Life, it seems, is a magnificent satire—the most exquisite cosmic joke. We fret, anticipate, dread, and despair, yet none of it halts the relentless ticking of the clock. We are all unwitting actors in this farce, clinging to daily routines as if they hold the answers to ancient questions: Why were we born? What’s next for us?

What’s the answer? Perhaps there isn’t one. Or maybe it’s refreshingly simple: keep moving, keep laughing, and remember—the punchline is just around the corner, waiting for you with a knowing wink and a resigned sigh. Life is the grandest satire—so savor the show.

                                                                       *   *   *

Theodora Filis writes with one eye on the cosmic joke and the other on everyday absurdities. Her work spans humor, memoir, and fiction, and has appeared in literary journals and anthologies around the world.

By D.E. Kern

I stared at the pulsing cursor on the document titled “Lesson Plan: Narrative Craft in Hemingway, Carver and O’Brien” and drummed the pen on my temple, convinced the best ideas are those beaten out of us, before writing, “Fiction achieves its highest purposes when every individual sentence is a complete plot in and of itself.” 

*   *   *

D.E. Kern is an author and educator from Bethlehem, PA. His work has appeared in Appalachian Review, Big Muddy, Denver Quarterly, Good River Review and Rio Grande Review among others. He teaches English at Arizona Western College.

By Gwendaline Higgins

It burnt her—his blood on her fingers, the taste of his sweat on her lips. She ran on. She crawled and scrambled, rather, through the creaking darkness of the upstairs corridor. The knowledge was a new terror, a new shadow lurking for her along those walls.

She veered left onto the landing, swatted away the lick of the rosebush that grew through the stained-glass window. Brushed off her skin the curtains that always tried to wrap around her neck. 

The steps of the grand staircase grunted and growled at her bare feet as if they knew. Of course, they knew: the house always knew, just like him. At the bottom of the stairs, she braced herself.

But the hit she’d expected didn’t come. She pressed on, side-stepped the silk Persian rug and its ominous hisses. Prised off the bronze fire stoker that launched itself at her ankle. And then she was free.

She would be free. 

The grand door was just in front of her. A long looming of stern oakwood, and a wrought brass handle that promised a future. Open fields and thickly safe forests, the gaze of the sun, a passing of seasons… 

Her fingertips were reaching for her chest when the hit finally came—

And then, there she was, kneeling up on the chipped sandstone of the foyer. Her head felt woozy. The skin of her palms and knees rubbed raw. Pain coursed through her as loud as the thumping at her cheekbone. Was it his armchair or the coat rack? 

Both of them stood in the middle of the grand foyer, very still. The coat rack slightly askance, its naked branches immobile as trophy antlers. Next to it the armchair looked its usual saggy self, its old contented leather scratched and cracked, placid. Above, the chandelier smirked. It wouldn’t tell.

To hell with them all, she had the key. 

She took out the burnished key wedged heavily between her breasts. She’d cut it off his belt, the keyring screaming like bones being sawn alive. Now the key’s metal was warm as a body, not night-cold anymore. She steadied her knuckles around it, steadied the heaving in her breath. She slid the key into the disused lock. Through the stiffness of the key she felt it, the lock, pushing back. It pushed back in a lazy, sluggish sort of way, holding its ground. So she forced it in, wrenched it round—

The key clicked in.

She’d unlocked it! She pressed down on the handle, her heart wild as leaves in the wind. But the door stayed closed. Its long oakwood panel was not even looking any sterner, it was merely standing there, impassible. She pleaded with it—when, behind her—

A tick-tap of steps on tiles.

She let go of the brass handle, only a moment. The coat rack and his armchair were standing a bit closer. Not quite in the middle of the foyer anymore, though still pretending to be things. 

She beat at the door, frantic, wrenched at the handle, turned and spun the key, pleaded, begged it to please let her, to let her go, just this one time, to please, please, let her go… 

Behind and above her, the grand house started clinking and clattering awake. The things in every room sharpening together like knives.

The terror-shadow, again: they all knew. 

The will to beg drained away from her throat.

There was only her breath, and the sounds of the things.

The hope to live, still there, bunched up in her belly. And the oakwood stillness of the door; the cool heft of its brass handle in her hand.

*

It stayed with her, all these years.

Through all the years she had spent in hiding, through the thicknesses of all the forests that she had crossed. Through all the days of not-trusting anything made of wood or metal, of still-looking over her shoulder, through the days of dreading the nights and the nights of shuddering at shadows and murmurs, it stayed. 

How there had been no words left in her throat that night. How the brass handle had felt in her hand—smooth, cool, unyielding. The feel of death pooling underneath. The knowledge of it being ready for her. How the door had opened—relented? Slipped up? How she’d lurched through, her shoulders scraping the oakwood, her feet tottering and stumbling and her face in the sudden sun. The burning in her lungs. How she had run, and run. 

Yes, it was still there after all those years.

The hope to live bunched up like a fist in her belly.

The will to live well—like a rage, tearing through.

She would be free. 

She was free.

*  *  *

Gwendaline Higgins is French-Australian and lives and writes in two languages. Her work was shortlisted for the Not Quite Write Flash Fiction Prize and appeared in the Literary Revelations poetry journal; she was a finalist of the francophone Young Writer’s Prize (‘Prix du Jeune Écrivain’).

By Sophie Berghouse

When it comes, it sneaks in like a storm. You walk across a parking lot, and suddenly, you feel the wind pick up a bit, the temperatures drop a degree or two, a cloud skims the sun. You look up, but everything looks normal. The sun is shining again, and you shrug it off, saying “it was probably nothing”. That’s when you notice the hair on your arm still standing. Hmmm, you note and continue. 

*

At first, you are confused. Did she always talk about herself this much? She always liked to dominate the conversation, so it doesn’t alarm you—not really. She’s had a lot of stress lately with her fear of getting fired, you figure. And then after she finishes telling you all about her summer, and her son, and her daughter, and her husband, she does ask how your family is doing. But there’s no time to share—you’ve rounded the corner together and are back home. I’ll invite her up for a coffee like usual, you think.

*

Then, as you pass the rows of cars in the parking lot, the temperature drops a little bit more violently. Is that just the air conditioning getting out? “Doesn’t matter if it rains. I’ll be inside by then,” you mutter to yourself. But then a bigger cloud covers the sun, the wind picks up, and you are certain now that you see some faint darkness on the horizon. It’s still so far off in the distance. It’ll probably pass by. 

*

“Wish I could, but no time this week. I have to grade essays. Sorry!” she says. And the darkness inside you starts to rumble. Essays? The first week of school for a grade-school teacher? It doesn’t sit well with you, but you figure she has some personal reasons and just doesn’t want to share them. She will figure it out, and it will pass. And then everything will be back to normal. Friends don’t have to share everything, you reason.

*

And as you approach the sliding doors of the store you are aiming for, the sky has turned deep purple and dark blue. The sun is overwhelmed by the darkness. The winds are whipping at your dress and your hair, trying to take those too. You pick up your pace, instinctively looking for safety. But it’s too late. The first drops fall, followed immediately by a torrent of water. The asphalt is now white from the splattered deluge. You stop running, there is nothing to salvage.

*

And then you see her. She’s not at home grading but having coffee with someone else. She hasn’t seen you yet—you instinctively want to turn in the other direction. You feel deeply foolish, you should have seen it coming. Your feelings are mixed with a dark jealousy. You knew, but you didn’t want to listen. But you don’t run away, you stand defiantly. 

“Hi Claudia,” you say with an accusing smirk as you walk up to her table.

“Oh. Lisa. Um, hi,” she mutters. Neither of you say anything more. You wait several seconds for an apology that doesn’t come. There is nothing to salvage here. 

You start walking without a word.   

*   *   *

Sophie Berghouse is finally getting in touch with her passion after being a disciple of her head for too long. She now preaches the Book of Life to anyone willing to listen. Her kids do not. This is why she sits hunched in front of her computer late at night asking into the void if “anyone?, anyone?” will take note.   

 

By Phebe Jewell

Prufrock checks his smartwatch before stepping into the crosswalk. Pulse and blood oxygen good. On track to meet his daily steps. He could sprint and easily beat the light with seconds to spare, make even better time than yesterday. But should he presume to play with the numbers set for him? His body is a host for monitors, measuring what to eat in the morning, how to move in the afternoon, when to sleep in the evening. 

Voices, laughter from the park across the way. Prufrock has never dared to step inside this park. He’s read about the muggings, seen pictures of scab-faced zombies, pants at their ankles, lost in an undertow of inertia. A place without monitors, without eyes taking note.

But this October evening, the honeyed light stirs old currents inside him. Yellow leaves against blue skies. Bare arms lit by lamplight. The promise of skin on skin. The laughter comes again, and music. Drums and mandolins. Voices calling, responding. Flutes and cymbals. 

Prufrock’s legs lead him to a corner of the park near the fountain. A group of people dance around a campfire, singing and laughing. One of the dancers, an old man with a long gray beard and ponytail held by a tie-dyed ribbon, gestures to Prufrock. “Join us,” he calls, opening his arms in embrace. Prufrock glances at his wrist. Pulse slightly elevated, systolic above normal, but diastolic holding steady. 

“Life is Struggle” the people chant. “Only death is not” responds the old dancer, shuffling his feet in a stiff two-step. “Life is Struggle,” comes the chorus again, the chanters raising their arms up to the sky, lowering them around each others’ shoulders. The old man calls “Only death is not,” his head lifted toward the dimming light. Afraid to move, Prufrock looks to his wrist. What will the monitor tell him?

Prufrock studies the dancers more closely. A hodge-podge of bodies, skin tones, hair textures, and ages. All glow with a light he wants to inhabit. The drummers change the beat, and the dancers shift, each following their own path inside the music. No one wears earbuds or holds cell phones to record the dance. They share this moment and let it go.

Inching closer to the dancers, Prufrock halts. Will he look the fool, swaying to drums in the park with strangers? The old man waves a second invitation, and Prufrock leans toward the autumn light, slipping his smartwatch into his pocket as he joins the circle, not sure where he will move next or who he will be when he steps out.

*   *   *

Phebe Jewell’s flash appears in numerous literary journals, including The Disappointed Housewife, Gooseberry Pie, Does It Have Pockets?, Ghost Parachute, JMWW Lit, and other wonderful publications. A teacher at Seattle Central College, she also volunteers for the Freedom Education Project Puget Sound, a nonprofit providing college courses for incarcerated women, trans-identified, and gender non-conforming people in Washington State. Read her at https://phebejewellwrites.com.

By Conner Issac

Tom and I played at the carnival for hours: Ring Toss, Balloon Darts, Water Gun Race. We ate cotton candy, turkey legs, and fried Twinkies. I hated that I had to order for us both, but Tom hadn’t been talking recently. He was so quiet that people didn’t notice he was there. Doing things for him was starting to give me this strange, heavy feeling. I did my best to ignore it.

When it got dark we went to the ferris wheel. The attendant tried to give us a cart with only one seat, but I argued until she gave us a two-seater. When we reached the apex of the ride, I rocked the cart back and forth with all of my might. I wanted to see if Tom would scream.

At 10:00 we started working our way toward the exit. Dad was waiting in the car.

But as we turned a corner, I saw a booth that hadn’t been there before. There were no lights and no one in line. At first I thought it was closed, but then I saw him on the other side of the old wood: a man in a black fold-up chair. His teeth were so white; I swear we wouldn’t have seen him if he hadn’t been smiling.

“Come here,” the man called. 

We did.

The man was a magician. He showed us all kinds of tricks. He guessed the number I was thinking of and made a plastic water bottle disappear right in front of our eyes. He pulled a stuffed rabbit out of his hat and touched it softly with his wand. When he set it on the ground it sprang to life and ran to me, curling into a ball against my feet.

“For my last trick,” the magician said, “I will grant you one wish.”

“Anything?” I asked. 

“Anything.”

I thought carefully about that feeling I had. It felt like a hole in my stomach, an uncomfortable squeezing in my chest. A half-buried arm pulling me down.

“Will you take my pain away?” I asked. “Will you make me feel better?”

“Give me your hands,” the magician said, nodding.

He told me to close my eyes, then whispered for a long time.

When the magician was done, a feeling of refreshment came over me. It was like I’d been wearing a heavy coat on a hot summer day, but I’d finally taken it off.

When I turned around, Tom was fading. It wasn’t like last time. There was no screaming. No blood. Just a soft, “I love you.”

And Tom was gone.

*   *   *

Connor Isaac is a writer and a fiction MFA/MA candidate at McNeese State University. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Voices, Creepy Podcast, NoSleep Podcast, Eunoia Review, and BarBar Magazine, among other venues. You can read more of his work at connorisaacwriting.com