By Andrea Damic 

my hands covered in colors / green for the grass / blue for the sky / red for the tulips swinging in the wind / the purple I inadvertently created on my tiny palms, when red and blue touched, was fashioned into butterflies fluttering around the red hot tulips / butterflies don’t like tulips, my older sister exclaimed looking at my artwork / she was of course right / she was a bit of a know-it-all / and a teenager / the worst combination / I was nine going on…much older / dreaming up my own world / our art teacher showed us some famous collages during an art class in school / she asked us to create our own / I cut and cut and cut / I cut countless pieces in all shapes and sizes / and a beautiful abstract artwork blossomed in front of me, beaming back / my craftsmanship / my own Picasso / I was told he was very famous, and dead, which was unfortunate as I had questions / my sister disliked Abstract / why wouldn’t my butterflies like tulips, I asked her / why wouldn’t they like my bright hot red tulips / I continued my monologue, stubborn and argumentative / she rolled her eyes and left me be / the next morning in school they told us our teacher died / pneumonia / it was a middle of the summer / I remember her being fragile like the butterflies embroidered on her bag / I remember them trembling in mid-air as if planning a take-off / it was a closed casket / we knew she was there, underneath the heavy oak cover, alone in the darkness / we avoided each other’s eyes afraid of what we might see / we were stuck in a beleaguered spot without an exit / the procession was long / my thoughts drifting away / I was at my grandma’s funeral / she was also in a closed casket / I was a couple of years younger / I couldn’t comprehend Grandma being trapped inside / I thought they made it up to scare me, to make me behave / I was a restless child / staying motionless went against my nature / I was once told I’d taken after her—she was an artist too / I remember that day vividly / being so very quiet—a teddy-bear quiet / I didn’t cry, afraid to make a sound / my Mum’s touch brought me back to this new reality / to yet another casket / six feet under / my classmates and I walked single file throwing down white roses / one by one they fell with a thud / I was the last one in line / I opened up my school bag and before anyone could stop me, I scattered my butterflies into the hole / a silent gasp bouncing around as they twirled in mid-air, waltzing gently in the morning breeze before peacefully settling atop the dark oak / there was something soothing about them / when I finally looked up, I saw a faint smile in her son’s eyes / he remembered her butterflies as well

*   *   *

 Andrea Damic (Sydney, Australia) wears many hats, as her daughter frequently reminds her. She’s an artist, writer and contributing editor for Pictura Journal, currently working on her first hybrid chapbook. She’s also an accountant with a master’s degree in Economics. Her literary art has been recently published or is forthcoming in Bending Genres, Does It Have Pockets, JMWW, Roi Fainéant Press. She has also recently won the SmokeLong Quarterly’s Trainwreck Micro Competition (Sep 2025). In her imaginary free time, you can find her fiddling with her website https://damicandrea.wordpress.com/.

By Darren Condron

One day, like any other, a great lump of a man went down the town as he usually does, to see his friend, to sit with her as always. But she was not there. He waited. She did not arrive.

They had spent many days together on that bench, talking, laughing, judging, sitting in silence.

Sylvia never said much. A soft laugh, a quiet “hmm,” a simple nod of the head. Perhaps that was why they got on so well. Big Lump was a large, heavy man, known to be contrary and quick to snap. People kept their distance.

But Sylvia was a newcomer, quiet and peaceful, sometimes called harmless. She never argued. She only sat and listened and so their friendship grew. She was slight, always in a long coat, always with a gentle smile.

Every day, her presence was the highlight of his day. Rain or shine, if she was there, he was glad.

The townspeople noticed a change in Big Lump when they started sitting together. He still ignored them, as usual, but there was something softer about him now. One woman said she saw him offer Sylvia a chip and she accepted.

A week before, the butcher across the street had seen him pass by, gripping his old wooden walking-stick in one hand and something else in the other. The butcher, ever nosy, had leaned out of his door. It was a rose, thorns intact, rough and jagged, picked from a garden, perhaps a Valentine’s gift. Sylvia smiled and took it.

*

Big Lump sat on the bench. Waiting.

People came and went. The butcher stood in his doorway, smoking. A woman with a pram passed, caught his eye and then looked away.

Sylvia did not come to sit that day. He waited and waited.

A tap on his shoulder. He turned. It was the butcher.

“Big Lu—” the man began, then paused. The name had been used mockingly by the townspeople.

“Eric,” he said, using the name he’d nearly forgotten.

“Where’s Sylvia?” Big Lump grunted.

The butcher hesitated, eyes downcast. “Eric,” he said softly, “Sylvia, she is gone.”

The words did not land.

“Where were you the last few days?” the butcher asked. “We thought you’d vanished. Sylvia missed you terribly.”

Big Lump looked up. “Sick,” he muttered. “I was sick.”

The butcher sat beside him now.

“Eric,” he said again, more quietly, “do you understand?”

A jolt of the shoulders. “Sylvia,” Big Lump demanded. “Where is she?”

The butcher exhaled, rubbing his hands together. “Right,” he murmured. “You didn’t know, then.” He sighed, as if weighing whether to say more, or to say anything at all.

*

Weeks passed, Big Lump was unseen for a long time. Some said they had seen him buying bread in another town. Others said he had died of a broken heart, like swans do. None of it was true. He was at home.                                                                                            

Looking out at the town would not have been the same without his good friend, his only friend.

Spring came, as did the early misty mornings. The town was waking up, some heading to work, some walking dogs, others grabbing coffee. Through the clearing fog, a figure sat at the top of the town, looking out like a watch-guard.

That morning Big Lump had left his home for the first time in weeks. He made his way through the town and took his seat.

That day, he was the talk of the town.

Big Lump was back!

The butcher, opening up that morning, looked around with a cigarette in his mouth, nearly smoked to the butt

He took the keys from the shutters, tossed away his cigarette, and walked over.
Big Lump barely acknowledged him as he did. 

He took a seat beside him, leaving a space between them. Big Lump pulled a frowning look, his expression wordlessly questioning the moment. The butcher said nothing. He simply sat, and watched as the town stirred awake, heads turned from moving cars and walkers glanced in passing. They sat in silence, all that was heard was the town’s murmur.

*

On days when the butcher could not sit with him, someone else usually sat, in silence, the woman with the pram. Sometimes the postman, if only for a minute.

In time, Big Lump returned mostly-to-himself, laughing at those drifting through the town, judging, sometimes mocking. Those who sat beside him listened to his low, mumbled words. 

People rarely spoke of Big Lump now. They spoke of Eric.

                                                                 *   *   *

Darren Condron is a Multimedia Graduate at Dublin City University, with a background in fine art and art history. Passionate about storytelling across film, literary fiction, and emerging media. His writing has appeared in The College View and online literary journals.

By Louis Kummerer

His name is Antonio, but Krista calls him Tone. She assures me, over the phone, that I’ll like him.

But so far, I don’t like him. He’s smug, arrogant, dripping with the kind of unwarranted self-confidence that only the young can pull off.

The bar is his choice: Frosted-glass front doors with large brass handles; hip-hop music thumping from hidden speakers; bartenders in white shirts and black bow ties—an upscale establishment frequented by twenty-somethings who flaunt their early success as if it were an immutable harbinger of how their lives will turn out.

Without asking what I want, Tone orders for both of us: Glenlivet at $18 a glass. He pays for the drinks with his American Express Platinum Card,and I suspect he does so not because he wants to ingratiate himself with me, but because he wants to make sure I understand that this is the level he lives at, which is different from the level that I live at.

Ordinarily, this would be awkward—me, my daughter’s boyfriend, meeting for the first time, struggling to ignite a conversation. But Tone doesn’t strike me as the type of person who’s given to awkwardness. He seems quite comfortable as he yammers on, completely absorbed in his own self-importance, totally oblivious to my role in the conversation, which consists mostly of me nodding my head and smiling.

He calls me “Sir” in the condescending way that police officers use the term when they pull you over for a traffic violation. “Sir, can I see your license and registration?” “Sir, step out of the vehicle, please.” “Sir, may I have your daughter’s hand in marriage?”

Krista flies in to town to discuss the wedding details with me. She doesn’t bring Tone along. 

“Just the two of us,” she says at lunch. “Just like the good old days.”

I’m not sure what she means by the good old days. Sixth grade, the year that Jennifer divorced me and ran off to Seattle, leaving me to raise Krista alone? The uncomfortable crutch I became as Krista struggled through the emotional jungle of adolescence—her first period, her first kiss, her first boyfriend, her first heartbreak? The difficult conversations about puberty, about sex, about friends, about boys, the kinds of conversations that should only occur between a girl and her mother? Those good old days?

“Just so you know,” Krista says, “Mom will be at the wedding.”

Krista tells people that Jennifer and I have reconciled, but what she really means is that she and Jennifer have reconciled. After abandoning Krista during the difficult years, Jennifer has returned to play the supportive mother. Now that the game is won and the trophies are being handed out, she’s back in Krista’s life, and she’s staying with Krista to help plan the wedding.

Jennifer called me a month ago and asked me to send all the photos I had of Krista growing up because she wanted to use them to create a montage for Krista’s wedding. That’s the only contact I’ve had with Jennifer since the divorce. Which, to me, doesn’t feel like a reconciliation.

At the church on the morning of the wedding, the usher seats me next to Jennifer in the front row. She is talking to a couple behind her when I slide into the pew. She briefly interrupts her conversation and turns to kiss me on the cheek, a kiss so light and fleeting that it’s almost as if a fly had landed on my face momentarily and then quickly buzzed away.

“Nice to see you again,” she says with a pasted-on smile. Then she quickly turns back to her conversation with the people behind her.

I walk into the reception hall alone after the wedding. Some of the photos that Jennifer asked me to send are prominently displayed on a large board at the entrance. I stop to look at them: a smiling Krista at her 13th birthday party, gathered with her friends around a cake that I bought at a grocery store bakery; Krista with her girl scout leader, a tall, lanky woman whose name I can’t remember; Krista standing alone with the Grand Canyon in the background; the mother of one of Krista’s friends helping Krista apply makeup before her Junior Prom. I notice that I’m not in any of the pictures on the board, and my first impulse is to assume that Jennifer deliberately excluded me. But I realize that a more likely explanation is that I was always behind the camera, recording Krista’s life, but not really in it.

At the reception dinner, I’m not seated at the wedding table on Krista’s side because that would put me next to Jennifer, which everyone agreed could be problematic. Instead, I’m on the far side of Tone and his parents, an ostensibly unbalanced arrangement that leaves me oddly misplaced, like a dangling participle linked to the wrong subject.

When the father-daughter dance is announced, I slink onto the dance floor, painfully aware that I am not a good dancer. As we begin dancing, Krista senses my stiffness.

“Relax, Dad,” she whispers in my ear, “We’ll get through this.”

Dancing with her now, the most important man in her life for the last time, I realize that what she said pretty much defines her years alone with me. I was the backup player, a substitute just trying to get us through.

When Krista and Tone are about to leave, we guests are each given a small box containing a live butterfly. On cue, we release our butterflies as the newlyweds get into their limousine. Krista doesn’t make eye contact with me as she waves goodbye to the crowd and closes the limousine door. Through the vehicle’s tinted glass windows, I can barely discern the outline of her face.

The limousine pulls away and I find myself alone, stranded amidst a swarm of brightly colored butterflies that flutter around me now like old memories.

*   *   *

Louis Kummerer is an American writer and a lifelong fan of short stories. His work has been published in New Delta Review, The Brussels Review, Bristol Noir, 10×10 Flash, Grey Sparrow, Yellow Mama, Punk Noir, Micromance, CaféLit, Bright Flash Literary Review, Flash Fiction Magazine, The Chamber Magazine, Friday Flash Fiction, and 101 Words. He currently lives in Phoenix, Arizona where he works as a contract technical writer. A collection of his stories can be found at louk247-fiction.com.

By Héctor Hernández

He was an hour outside the city limits when he remembered the boxes in the attic. Everything else—furniture, household items, boxes of memories—had been packed into one big moving van that morning and was already headed toward Salem, Oregon, to the new, smaller house less than two miles from his sister and her husband. He hadn’t wanted to sell his home, but everyone said it was best to distance himself from the tragedy. “Besides,” they said, “what would you do all by yourself in twenty-seven-hundred-square-feet of empty space?”

Did those forgotten boxes hold cherished books, precious photo albums, or just unwanted Christmas decorations? He couldn’t remember. He let out a great sigh. He would have to go back.

An hour later, he exited the freeway and turned right onto the familiar, wide boulevard. He drove along sun-dappled streets. They were lined with thickly branched, leafy trees. When he and his wife had first moved into the new neighborhood nearly twenty-five years ago, those trees had been only thin saplings, their trunks no bigger around than the circle formed by pinching together your thumb and forefinger. Now they were sturdy giants, their branches extending outward to provide shade along the ample sidewalks and quiet streets.

The man turned into the secluded, little cul-de-sac where his house sat and parked in the street out of habit. He always left the driveway for his wife and daughter to park. He turned off the engine and waited. That persistent knot in his chest was flaring up again. He hadn’t told his doctor about it. If it was a heart attack, so be it. He was ready to leave this earth. But after a few deep breaths, the knot disappeared. He knew that was only temporary. He wasn’t fooled. It would be back. It always came back. 

Before exiting his truck, he took in one final, deep breath, filling his lungs to aching capacity, deliberately provoking that pain in his chest, daring it to show itself. But like a crafty fox, it refused to take the bait, so he exited his truck and made his way up the porch. He unlocked the front door, swung it open, and stood on the threshold. He watched as the ghosts of a thousand memories sprang to life: the countless birthday parties for his daughter, Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners, Family Friday with pizza and a movie (just the three of them), his daughter’s slumber parties, her graduation parties—first from high school, then from college. There were no ghosts of her engagement party, though, or her mother’s 60th birthday celebration—nor would there ever be.

He swallowed back a rising lump in his throat before stepping inside the hollowed-out space. As he turned to close the door, he heard the brisk clack, clack, clack of clawed feet on hard wood floor. His first thought was Greta’s ghost, his daughter’s bull terrier. There really had been no other choice except to end her suffering after cancer advanced to the point where food received nothing more than a sniff or two of mild interest and she refused to leave her cage, preferring to spend all day just lying on her mattress, staring at empty space. But it wasn’t Greta’s ghost—far from it. It was the neighbor’s very real pit bull and Greta’s nemesis: Marley.

Before Marley came on the scene, Greta had been top dog—at least in her own backyard. But with Marley’s arrival, Greta instinctively felt challenged. She greeted her new neighbor in a most uncivil manner, charging the fence that separated them with a blatant display of aggression, barking furiously while racing back and forth along the wooden barrier, her back hairs raised like a bristle brush. Perplexed by this most ungracious welcome, Marley could only stare quizzically at his batty neighbor.

“How ya doing, Buddy.”

Marley offered a wide, child-like grin. He wagged his tail furiously when the man reached down to scratch behind his massive head. His short, black fur; broad, muscular torso; and metal-spiked collar were fearsome to behold, but really, Marley was as friendly and social as a Golden Retriever.

The Houdiniesque canine often escaped from his backyard. The first time had caused chaos in the quiet little cul-de-sac with its tidy yards, well-maintained homes, and two cars in every driveway. Police were flooded with calls of a vicious pit bull threatening man, woman, and child. But after several escapes, neighbors eventually came to accept that Marley posed no real threat. They would still yank their kids from the street—you could never be too careful—but they stopped straining the 911 system.

A funny thing, though, the man was certain Marley never entered anyone else’s home, only his. And that, Marley started doing only recently, after the double tragedy—a traffic accident the man still couldn’t understand. It was as if Marley knew the man was missing something, and Marley was there to replace it.

“Well, Marley, I have to go up into the attic to get some boxes. You can hang out with me if you want to.” Marley stretched his childish grin even wider—and sat. “Or you can sit here and wait. Your choice, Buddy.” Marley chose to wait. But when the man began climbing the stairs, Marley rose and fell in behind him.

Inside the master bedroom, the attic ladder was pulled down, and the boxes retrieved. They contained nothing more than broken and mildewed camping gear. They were carried outside to the truck, placed in the bed, and would be transported nine hundred miles and then dumped.

The man cast his gaze up to the sky. It was a mean, wet grey. A light rain would arrive soon from the north. Temperatures were cold enough that the local mountains would be tickled with a feather’s dusting of snow this winter day in “sunny” Southern California.

Marley was more skin than fur. He wasn’t built for such frigid temperatures. The man worried for his four-legged friend. His neighbor, Marley’s owner, was at work and he didn’t have his number. They weren’t close neighbors, enough for a “good morning” or “how’s it going,” but that was as personal as it got.

What to do . . . ?

The hard, double knot of grief in the man’s chest began to stir once again. It had been boxed for too long and wanted out. It seized this opportunity as the moment of escape and tore at the man’s emotional vulnerability without mercy, scrambling out of the tiny space in which it had been forced to hide.

The man, taken by surprise, stumbled along on legs that grew weak with every step. When he could go no farther, he dropped to one knee and threw out a hand to brace himself, finding purchase against the side of his truck. Grief clawed its way up his throat. When it emerged, the man let loose a horrific howl. He cursed the heavens, the world, the living, and even the recently dead. His grief knew no bounds. He sobbed uncontrollably. Marley whined as the man’s tears flowed and the heavens cried with him—the first spatters of cold rain had begun to fall.

*

The man was on the 99, approaching Tulare. He would make a stop there. He had planned on taking the 5 freeway to Sacramento, spending the night, and heading out to Salem the following morning, but that was before. The 99 offered more places to stop and take breaks, more places for his new best friend to run and stretch his legs.

*    *    *

Héctor Hernández received a bachelor’s degree in civil engineering. He is now retired and writes when inspiration demands his attention. His short stories have appeared in Flash Fiction Magazine, After Dinner Conversation, Bright Flash Literary Review, CafeLit, and Literally Stories.

By Sophia Krich-Brinton

5 seconds: pain like burning, she’s blue

5 minutes: she nurses, the sensation like fingernails in my veins

5 hours: my body aches, I can’t sleep, she should be with me, is she scared

5 days: everything hurts, I’m so tired, the NICU incubators all look the same

5 months: pumping at work, I crave her weight in my arms, dread the sleepless night

5 years: she wears new green sneakers as she locks her bike up at school. Her joy is like lightning, like butterflies, like a free-falling mountain stream. In the distance, two kids hold wood chips like guns.

I smile and hide my terror.

*   *   *

Sophia Krich-Brinton (she/they) lives in Colorado with her partner, kids, and cats. They write weird stories at dawn when the world sleeps and the cats try to sit on her keyboard. Her work has appeared or is upcoming in HAD, Ghost Light Lit, and Moss Puppy Magazine. When not writing, she boxes, plays the banjo, and goes backpacking. Find them at sophiakbrinton.com or on Twitter/Instagram at @sophiakb_writes

A Memoir by C. Cimmone

Grief is a strange thing. It’s something you sit with, alone. It keeps you up at night, sifting through the darkness when the rest of the town is silent and sleeping. Grief hovers between you and the ceiling fan. Grief follows you down the hall and out your backdoor. Grief laughs when you look up at the night sky. It knows you are searching. Grief knows it owes you nothing. 

Grief does not owe apologies or explanations. Grief does not choose sides or favorites. It plays best on its own and cares not if it is criticized, condemned, or cursed. Grief lives on forever, long after you’re gone. Grief is not placed in a casket, unless it is nestled in the chest of the neatly-dressed deceased. 

The problem with grief is not that it is persistent and constant. Grief is not a threat, as it only exists once death has played Her part. Death operates unconditionally. Death can be captured. Death can be released. Death can be rationalized, medically proven, and clinically induced. Death and grief are autonomous and are not interchangeable, partners, or friends. Grief is superior to death because it outlives flowers, caskets, and memories. One may grieve long after the sound of someone’s voice has escaped their mind. It could be argued that grief outlives love. 

When I attempt to outrun grief, it finds me, reminds me, shakes me violently like a screaming child. It puts images in my mind of towering fire and scorched earth. Grief is violent and burns from within. Grief makes your skin crawl, your voice weak. Grief reminds you of the end. It reminds you of loss, of being lost, of searching.

Today I sit in the evening sun watching my son play baseball in a clover painted field. He is smiling and full of life. The coach is catching stray baseballs with a worn-out mitt. The oak trees are waving in the thick summer air as the boys yell at each other across bases. They are growing and learning. My son is happy. 

Yet somewhere out in the distance, off behind the rusty backstop and past the point where the clover stops blooming, I see a thin, bearded man. I see him grinning at me, almost taunting me for not winking back at him. And for a moment, I think I see someone I loved for so long, but I realize, with the new crack of sunlight, it is not the man I loved at all…it is grief.

*    *    *

C. Cimmone is an editor and poet from Texas who fantasizes about waking up in Vermont. Her most recent book of poetry, Wasted Days, is available from Anxiety Press.

Creative Non-fiction by Lisa Brodsky

The text felt heavier than its few words should allow.

Kate: Please call me when you can. 

Then the follow-up.

Kate: I have a question to ask you, and I’d rather not put it in a text. 

It snagged my thoughts and wouldn’t let go. What could she possibly want to ask?
Something about our weekend trip up north, I assumed. But what required a phone call, not a message? What needed to pass through the air between voices?

I called as soon as I could.
“What’s up? Is everything okay?” I asked, my tone a shade too sharp.

“I just wanted to ask if it’s okay if Jon comes with us this weekend.” Her words were quiet, edged with hesitation, as though the request might tip something fragile.

“Of course,” I said, without pause.

“Well, I thought I’d ask, just in case it felt… strange for you.”

“No worries. I’ll make room for him in the back. Safer that way, and he can be buckled in.”

“Thanks,” she murmured. “We’ll need to stop somewhere along the way… maybe a beach?”

When I picked her up, she moved slowly, guiding Jon to the rear seat with a care that felt ceremonial. Her hands lingered in each adjustment, tucking, securing, as though she were protecting something from more than just the bumps in the road.

From the first mile north, I felt his presence behind me—quiet, steady, watchful. Every so often, I glanced in the mirror, expecting to see his face, but each time, he was just out of view.

As we drove north, the sky darkened in slow degrees. Pine branches swayed like they were whispering to themselves. Jon was quiet, but I could feel him, like a low vibration in the chest, like the way you can tell someone is standing behind you without hearing them.

Kate’s eyes stayed on the scenery, as though she could memorize every mile. When the lake finally appeared, steel blue under a restless wind, her face brightened. “Here,” she said, her voice almost breaking. “This looks perfect.”

The three of us walked together to the water’s edge. The shore was scattered with smooth stones, the air carrying the smell of cold metal and rain. 

Kate stopped a few feet from the water’s edge, the wind tugging at her sleeves, the hem of her jacket snapping lightly against her legs. The lake was restless—small, cold waves working themselves onto the sand and retreating again, like they were deciding whether to take or to give. She sat close to him, head bent, her lips moving in words I couldn’t quite catch. For a moment, her voice seemed to lift and answer itself, as though another tongue had joined the conversation. 

She lowered herself beside him, knees folding into the damp sand, one hand resting on what she’d carried all this way. Her head tilted toward him as if to catch his voice. From where I stood, it looked like they were speaking in a language made only for the two of them—a rhythm of pauses, murmurs, and silences shaped by the wind.

The air around them seemed heavier than where I stood, as if the shoreline itself was leaning in to listen. The gulls had gone quiet, their calls replaced by the hiss of water folding over itself. My eyes kept catching small movements—her hair lifting, her fingers caressing what she held in her hands, the faint shift in her shoulders as if someone unseen had touched her.

At one point, she reached down and traced something in the sand with her fingertip, an outline I couldn’t quite make out before the wind swept it away. Her breath caught, and I saw her tilt her face toward the horizon as though asking for permission.

A tear gathered at her chin, fell to the sand, darkening it like a tiny spill of ink. She opened what she’d been carrying, carefully, reverently, and let the wind lift its contents toward the waves.

The lake took him gently, the ashes vanishing into its endless surface, his presence folding into water and air. Kate’s shoulders eased, but the space behind me, even on the drive home, felt full—as if Jon still traveled with us, no longer needing the seatbelt.

*   *   *

Lisa Brodsky holds a Master of Public Health and is completing her MFA in Creative Writing at Hamline University. She was a two-time winner of the Patsy Lea Core Awards for poetry. She has numerous published poems in several literary journals, including Otherwise Engaged, 2022, The Talking Stick, and The MockingOwl Roost. Her creative nonfiction stories include “Legacies” in The Tower 2023, “A Bushel and a Peck” in Memoirist, and “Tales from a Broken Crypt” in Otherwise Engaged, 2024.

 By Joe Del Castillo

Sue dumped the paper dishes, cups, and food scraps into the trash can. “I’d say we threw a pretty good party.”     

“I think so too,” Pete replied. “Especially considering it’s our first time hosting 40 people.” He collected the plastic chairs, four at a time, and stacked them in a corner beneath the back window. “We had great luck. We got a soft breeze, enough to clear out the bugs, and the harvest moon provided the perfect accent to the evening.”

Sue laughed. “Are you taking credit for the harvest moon being early this year?”

“I’d like to, but no one would believe me.” Pete placed the bottles and cans into the recycle bins. “You know, we did blow the budget for September. We’ll need to cut back in October to balance things out.”

Sue raised her hand. “Don’t bring that up again. We anticipated overspending when we decided to do an open house.”

Together, they folded several tables and carried them into the garage.

“What about those chairs?” she asked.

A short distance from the back fence, two chairs bordered a fire pit, now a pile of smoky ashes. Pete uncapped a bottle of beer. “I think we should reward ourselves with a nightcap.” 

He turned off the yard lights. Sue poured herself some white wine. They took their seats and faced the rear of their house. Taking a sip, she became quiet. “Pete, what you said about great luck. Are we lucky?”

“How do you mean?”

“I’m not sure. People like to say that luck favors the prepared. But beyond good planning for tonight—I mean—we’ve been fortunate—a good neighborhood, good friends, two terrific kids.”

“I know,” he said. “I suppose we have no control over that.”

“Who knows what will happen when they become teens.”

“They’ll be fine,” Pete commented. “Don’t start worrying about what will be.”

“Speaking of luck, look at Stella, our babysitter. What a great role model. She’s so mature for a 19-year-old, and our kids love her. I’d be happy if they turned out like her.”

Pete nodded. “It sure helps that she lives next door—no having to drive a sitter home. But I am surprised that Stella showed up tonight since we didn’t need her. Everyone here was our age or older.”

“Lower your voice,” Sue whispered. “Her windows are open.” The homes on their block were close, only their single-car driveways separated them. “I know why Stella came over. She saw Ginny Carson was here, and wanted to chat with her.”

“Why?”

“Stella’s confided in me that she’s crazy about Ginny’s son, Adam.”

Pete laughed. “So she wants to get to him by schmoozing with the mom?”

“Don’t make fun. She’s really stuck on him.”

“Is Adam interested?”

“I think so. He gets quiet when he’s near her. And he gazes at her when she turns away.” 

Pete looked up at the moon. “You could say he gets moony. He’s a nice kid. Maybe they’ll get lucky like us.”     

“I hope so. I’d hate to see her get hurt.”

“Sue, I thought the Aspens were avoiding each other.” 

“I noticed that they stayed apart all evening, too. Janie Bablee is positive that the two of them are having issues, but she doesn’t know why.” 

“Janie will probably create a story .”

“Stop it. But what happens if they split up?” Sue drank more wine. “How do you handle friendships with both?”

“Forget it. I’m sure they just had a bad day.”

“I hope you’re right,” she said. “Otherwise, everything went smoothly. Even Mr. Janus looked like he had a good time.”

“Sue, you lower your voice. His window is open too. He could hear us.”

“It’s past midnight. His lights are out. He’s got to be asleep.”

“Anyway, I’m glad he came over,” Pete observed. “I think it’s the first time he’s socialized with the neighbors since his wife passed.”

“That’s understandable. It must be tough for him. You know, until he mentioned it tonight, I never knew he and his wife hosted parties like this back in their day.”

“Really?” Pete stared at the dying sparks in the pit. “I’d like to think that, in some small way, we made him feel good doing this get-together, that he could be part of it.” 

He got up and took another beer out of the cooler, but before sitting, he said, “I know you don’t want to keep hearing me on this, but we’ll need to cut back in October to balance the money spent tonight.” 

“Not so loud.” With her wine glass, she motioned to the neighbors’ houses. “Pete, it was worth it. Years from now, we’ll recall this evening fondly and never think about what it cost.”

He sat back down across from her, the fire pit between them. He followed the fading smoke trail as it billowed straight up and dissipated.

She followed his gaze. “It’s such a beautiful moon.” 

“Well, here we are. How about I put on the Neil Young song, “Harvest Moon”? And we dance to it? It’s the perfect time.”

He took his phone, tapped the connection, and played the song softly on the nearby speaker. They rose and danced slowly on the grass, circling the chairs and fire pit.

“Think anyone can see us?” she asked.

“Nah. All our lights are out. There’s just the moon.”

But two people did watch. 

Mr. Janus, in the house on the right, and his room dark, gently pulled back the curtain from his second-floor window. From the house on the left, Stella, also in her bedroom and with the lights off, parted her drapes just enough to observe the dancing couple.

She yearned that one day she and Adam could be like Pete and Sue. While in the other house, the widower bent his head down and, with his hands, covered his eyes.

*   *   *

The writer lives on Long Island, New York and is a member of the Long Island Writers Guild. He has been published in New Pop Lit, Home Planet News and October Hill. He thanks you for your consideration.

 ___

By Catarina Delgado

We’ve been here for a while, inches away from each other, pretending the sun is nothing but a dream. Your hand rests on my waist as our breathing floats in the air, touching the walls with the same softness as the moment we shared the previous night. We’ve been loving in silence, feeling the unimaginable, accepting the eternal nature of an emotion and the fleeting moment of closeness. Shy sunlight enters the room, through the small window in the corner, painting a section of the floor in gold. I imagine the warmth of the sun on my skin, the same feeling your breathing gives me. I never asked for this calmness, but you kindly let me feel it. My hand touches your hair but you remain quiet, overwhelmed by a simple dream. We have always appreciated our small moments of connection as if our lives depend on the balance between affection and attention. 

The clock on the opposite wall tells me it’s time to go home, but I don’t want to. It has been years since we met. Yet, I feel everything. I feel it all. 

I know you don’t.

The sky changes color. Your eyes meet mine. Curly hair falls on my face and you softly tuck it behind my ear. We smile. 

You look beautiful in the mornings, you say. 

I realize our youth is a memory and the present is a fleeting reality. Every single wrinkle begs to be acknowledged, but I refuse to give them importance. In my mind, you’re the same boy I met at University, skipping classes to write poems in a lonely café. You used to take every chance in life to write a verse in your little notebook, lost in thought, focusing on the way a word sounds and the meaning behind an abstract feeling. What we feel is a reflection of the past. It’s temporary. Still, I can’t help but imagine what could’ve been. 

You pull me closer, putting my pieces back together. 

I’ve always loved you, I say. 

You remain quiet. I know you don’t feel what I feel. I learned that many years ago. But I stay here for you. Always will. 

It’s okay, I add. Just let the words float above us. They will either find a place to rest or they’ll disappear completely. Either way, you’re safe. Let the words find their landing zone. It’s not up to you to decide the place. 

You pull me even closer than before. Our skin touches, and I hear the rain. I can feel you thinking, wondering, doubting. The rain accompanies our quiet conversation as if the world was less important than our existence. It’s okay if I never see you again.

What we had, as fleeting as it was, meant something to me. It meant something to you too, even if you can’t admit it. Your eyes fall to my lips. I let you kiss me. We pretend nothing’s wrong. If you need me, call me again. I’ll never pretend not to know you. 

I have to go, I say. 

You don’t stop me. 

I get up, get dressed, and leave. It will always be like this, a slight hum to the sky, a quiet understanding of our ephemeral nature. Cafés open. The smell of freshly baked bread and morning coffee flows through the streets of our known city. 

I remember your hand on my waist and your sleepy eyes; the sun entering the room and the line of gold on the floor; your deep voice disrupting the silent room. I realize every detail  matters. I’ll always remember you, even if you choose to forget me. That possibility loses significance as time moves on. I’ve always loved you in silence and let our bodies talk. I tell myself nothing is eternal, but I have a faint idea that our connection will survive time itself. 

The sun hits my eyes. This is the truth behind our story: a burn we like to revisit. It is the only warmth we know. 

*   *   *

Catarina Delgado is a writer from Setúbal, Portugal. Her work appears in Eufeme Literary Magazine, NOVA em folha journal, Pigeon Review, Impostor Literary Journal, Wildscape Literary Journal, Eunoia Review, and Bright Flash Literary.  You can find her on Instagram: @catarina_delgado0

 

By Joan Potter

My cousin – I’ll call her Betsy – sends an email saying she’d love to see me. It’s been two years; she lives an hour and a half away. But, she adds, “I’m afraid we will have to wait for a bit to invite you to our home.”

The we includes her husband, whom I’ll name Nick. They used to invite my sons and me for lunch every summer. On our last visit, it was announced that Nick had prepared the meal. It included a bowl of something, possibly chicken, in a bright orange sauce. While serving himself, my son Jonathan dropped a bit of sauce on the tablecloth. 

“There’s turmeric in that,” Nick observed. “It will never come out.” I guess it didn’t, which might account for the two-year silence.

In her email, Betsy suggests that they might be able to see me in early November or early December “depending how we all are.” It’s now the end of July. She and Nick have a busy schedule; she thoughtfully tells me every detail:

Last fall they took a boat and bike trip to Provence. In June they returned home from a sail and bike trip along the coast of Sweden and Denmark. They spent July on Fire Island with friends and family. Home for the month of August. (Maybe she shouldn’t have told me that, since we won’t be invited for lunch.) Back on Fire Island in September. Away for the month of October.

“Anyway,” she closes, “I hope you are doing well and your family too.”

 I have to come up with a reply. Possibly something like, “Might see you in December if I’m not snowbound.”

*   *    *

Joan Potter’s nonfiction has appeared in anthologies and literary journals, including The Bluebird Word, New Croton Review, The RavensPerch, Persimmon Tree, Airplane Reading, Bright Flash Literary Review, and others. She is the author or coauthor of several nonfiction books. The most recent is the collaborative memoir “Still Here Thinking of You: A Second Chance With Our Mothers.”