By Craig Loomis

He ripped his favorite shirt today.  He didn’t mean to but for some reason the once reliable buttons refused to unbutton kindly and when he gave them what he thought was nothing more than a mild tug, it ripped from collar to sleeve.  When he held it up to the window, the light, seeing if it were as bad as it sounded, he saw that it was.  Thinking that was that, he grimaced and tossed it in the garbage container, but then, as he started to step away, heading back to the closet in search of a substitute-favorite shirt—at least for the time being—he suddenly changed his mind and returned to the garbage container, lifting the broken shirt up by his fingertips.  He didn’t know what he had in mind, except that it was still his favorite shirt, mangled or not.  Although fixing it was out of the question, he couldn’t help but smooth it flat on the bed to see. . . to see, . . just to see.  

Ever since he could remember it had been his favorite long-sleeved blue-green shirt that had never once needed ironing, that fit him just right around the shoulders, that could go for days, even weeks, without a washing. Still, favorite or not, she had been relentless: “You still wearing that old thing? You’ve got dozens of shirts that are just as good, if not better.  Just last Christmas I bought you that bright red cotton special that you’ve worn, what? once?  How about that?  And what’s so wrong with what your Aunt Sally bought you on Father’s Day?  A crisp white short-sleeved that you could button up all the way…” and so on.

Meanwhile, he left his favorite shirt just like that on the bed, ragged and torn, wondering if anyone would really care, let alone notice, if he wore it just like that; after all, who cares about someone else’s shirt? Who?  

Half-heartedly, he stepped to the closet and flipped through the many other shirts hanging up: some kind of collarless, zebra-like affair, a short-sleeved beachy orange, something all black (he had never worn black, ever).  His half-hearted attempt over, he returned to the bed, bending down to get a closer look-see, thinking, in some sort of fantastically way that if he looked long and hard enough he’d find a solution, a magical fix.  But it wasn’t long before it all went the other direction: the closer he looked, squinted, turned his head this way and that, the more terrible the tear. “No way,” he whispered.  That’s when he moved it from the bed to the laundry room downstairs, thinking, he needed just a little more time to consider.

In the end, and two days later, he turned to the 18-year-old who was, like always, on her way out the door, asking, “By the way, didn’t happen to see a blue shirt that I left in the laundry room, did you?  It was just there the other day.”

She hesitated, one hand on the doorknob, looking up at the ceiling to remember, “Oh yeah.  I sure did.  All torn and ratty, right?  That blue one you’re always wearing?”

She waited for him to nod, at the very least, but he didn’t.

Hand still on the doorknob, the door now open. “The cat did it again,” she continued.

“Again?”

“She did it again, missed the litter box.  Second or third time this week.  I thought she’d grown out of that?”

He waited, rubbing his hands together. “And?”

“And, I needed to clean up her mess and so there was that old torn shirt of yours.  Mess cleaned.”

He wanted to say more, ask more but by then she was out the door.  For the rest of the day and part of the night he was angry, but then, by the next day, once his anger had become weaker, lacking any meaningful direction, he gave it up and eventually returned to his closet. After much looking and relooking, he eventually found a worn, gray shirt with its pocket stitching coming undone. It was nothing like his long-sleeved favorite but there was something about it that reminded him of his college days, and he tried it on and walked around the bedroom.  He looked in the mirror, sat on the bed, went to the window.  Back to the mirror. Nodding.  Turning this way and that.  And so began the making of a new favorite shirt—at least for the time being. 

*   *   *

For twenty years (2004-2024) Craig Loomis taught English (literature and writing) at the American University of Kuwait in Kuwait City.  He has had his short fiction published in such literary journals as The Iowa Review, The Colorado Review, The Prague Revue, The Prairie Schooner, Fiction International, Critical Pass Review, Mid-American Review, The Owen Wister Review, Cumberland River Review, Consequence Magazine, SAND, and others.

A Memoir by Beth Ruggiero Bell

The best and worst job I ever had was cutting my Italian grandfather’s toenails when he could no longer do it himself.

Nonno called me to his house one day and said he had a deal for me. He kept it simple: “You cut,” he said, pointing to his feet. “I pay.” I had never seen his bare feet before. I felt strangely honored.

It wasn’t an easy job. His toenails were tough and mean like him, and I had to spend my first paycheck on a pair of professional clippers from our local Sally Beauty Supply. Even then, shards of toenail would fling through the air, occasionally hitting me in the face or getting caught in my hair.

He paid me $20 a session. I was a hard-up college kid at the time, so I accepted it. But truthfully, I would have done it for free. Before then, when I thought of him, I mostly recalled how he would explode at my Nonna at family meals, his fists banging on the table, spilling our drinks and rattling our silverware and nerves. Now when I think of him, I remember how delicate his ankle felt resting across my knee and the surprising softness of his heels. 

“You do good job,” he told me once.

About two years into our partnership, he fell and broke his ankle. The injury turned into gangrene, and the doctor had to amputate his leg from the knee down.

“Good news,” Nonno told me the first time I saw him after the surgery. “One less foot to cut.” And he reduced my pay to ten bucks.

*   *   *

Beth Ruggiero Bell is a veteran English teacher and married mother of two boys who aims to write candidly and vulnerably about the complexities of modern parenting and relationships. Her personal essays and flash nonfiction have been published most recently in Newsweek US, Newsweek Japan, and The New York Times (Tiny Love Stories).

By Don Tassone

The old woman slowly stepped over to a desk in her bedroom.  She sat down and closed her eyes.  

About a minute later, she opened her eyes, pulled several sheets of paper and a pen out of the top drawer and began writing a letter — to her 20-year-old self.

My Dearest Young Katherine,

What a life you will have. I’ve lived it now for 65 years longer than you have, and I thought I’d share a few thoughts and maybe a little advice based on what I’ve learned and what I’m still learning.

First, your life will be filled with both joys and sorrows. The sorrows will shape you the most. They will hollow you out. They’ll allow you to hold all the more joy and to feel every moment of joy more deeply.

Second, your life will be filled with love, but that love will not always be easy. You will be betrayed by some of those closest to you, those you love the most.  But their betrayal will not be out of any ill will towards you. It will come from their flaws, their moments of weakness. We are all flawed. You too will hurt those you love, but you will never stop loving them. Please know every sin can be redeemed, and you can be the redeemer.

Third, you will eventually find yourself but not for many years because you will be looking with your eyes and not your heart.  Looking around is important because, by seeing how others live, you can better know how you want to live. But you are not others. You have a voice inside yourself that is unlike anyone else’s. That voice is true. Listen to it.  Trust it.

You will live a long life.  Enjoy every moment. Remember what Mom used to say: “Every day is a good day.”

I love you so very much,

Katherine

The woman folded the letter in thirds, opened her top desk drawer and pulled out an envelope.  She slipped the letter into the envelope, which she placed over her heart.

She closed her eyes and smiled, a serene smile, and a few tears ran down her cheeks.  She wiped them away with her fingertips, drew a deep breath and opened her eyes.  She placed the envelope on the desktop, picked up her pen and wrote “Katherine” on it.

Then she got up and slowly made her way to her kitchen, where she made herself a cup of camomile tea.

*   *   *

Don Tassone is the author of two novels, one novella, 11 short story collections and one children’s book.  He lives in Loveland, Ohio.

 

By Pablo Libedinsky

It wasn’t my fault that the woman approached me at the airport saying that she recognized me after forty years, that we had been an item in college for a few months and that it was a pity I didn’t remember her because, as she said, we had been very close, really, really close; so after I recalled a few things, we talked for almost an hour; then before boarding her plane for Australia she hugged me tight and gave me a long kiss which made me feel so good that I held on to her a few seconds longer than I should have so when we got on our plane to France my wife wouldn’t stop scolding me saying that I ruined her vacation though she was ruining mine and when we came back she threw me out of the house and I’ve been back to the airport every day to see if the woman returned, but she never came, so she probably stayed in Australia or maybe she’s flying around the world kissing old flames, destroying marriages.

*   *   *

Pablo Libedinsky is a retired computer programmer living in San Francisco, California. He wrote a few stories when he was 12 years old and then stopped, later returning to writing as an adult.

His stories have been published in Down in the Dirt, Let Me Tell You a Story, The Gorko Gazette, 10x10Flash, CommuterLit, and Academy of the Heart and Mind.

By Daniel Hagan

Allison begrudgingly settled into her barstool, convinced she would never follow Dr. Steinberg’s advice again. 

“Try going to the pub alone,” her therapist had suggested in their recent session. 

Then the worst part. “You never know what might happen when you open yourself to possibility.” Sometimes Allison couldn’t decide which fact was more baffling: that this woman held a PhD in clinical psychology, or that she paid $150 an hour, out of pocket, for her services. 

Maybe it didn’t matter much, because either way she found herself nursing an amber ale at O’Shea’s. The place wasn’t a fancy establishment, the words “CASH ONLY” sharpied atop a laminated food menu Allison halfheartedly perused. But it did offer a couple dusty television screens above the bar, where local men would congregate to watch the Celtics blow yet another lead. 

Frankly, none of them appeared worthy of the effort Allison had put forth tonight. She’d slipped into those jeans that made her ass look flattering. She’d straightened her hair into silky blonde strands. Hell, she’d even bothered with eye shadow. And for who? 

Two seats to her left, a guy with a mullet raced his buddy to see who could chug their pint faster. They tossed their lagers back, gulping until mullet dude slammed his glass down onto the wood. A victorious belch erupted from his gut. 

Whistles blared from the television speakers, announcing a Celtics defensive three-second violation. Allison had seen enough. 

She rifled through her purse, searching for a five to square away the beer tab, when she felt a presence approach from her right. A dark-haired young man pointed to an empty barstool. “Is this seat taken?”

Before she could answer, his eyes drifted to her torso. Great. Was this asshole really going to be so blatant in checking her out? Then she remembered what she was wearing: a Bill Russell jersey. Not a single inebriated soul had commented on it that evening. 

He spun away, ordering two Guinnesses from the bartender. Who did this guy think he was anyway? Buying her a drink after barely uttering a few words. If he’d bothered to ask, he would have learned that Allison wasn’t exactly a stout drinker. 

She couldn’t ignore such audacity; when he faced her again, he was going to receive an earful. Instead, he hoisted his pints and crossed over toward the booths. A man with disheveled tufts of gray hair waited there, fingers twitching with impatience. He practically snatched his beer from the younger guy’s grasp.  

Allison sat in silence. Being snubbed in favor of a thirsty retiree was a new low, even for her. She began rehearsing ways to tell Dr. Steinberg her license should be revoked. 

As she made her way to the exit, the gray-haired man burst into laughter. Allison may have ignored it, may have continued walking out into the foggy streets, had his gaze not been directed at her chest. First the son, now the old man? Enough was enough. She marched up to their booth, hands on her hips. 

“You got a problem, buddy?” 

The gray-haired man barely budged, taking a leisurely sip from his pint.  

“Actually,” he started. “I was hoping you could settle something for me and my nephew here.” He gestured across the booth. “Now I think this is bullshit of course, but he says there’s no way a lady as pretty as yourself knows who Bill Russell is.” 

Allison glanced down at her attire, then at the younger man. His cheeks burned bright red. “For the record,” he murmured, “that’s not quite what I said.” 

She tilted her head sideways. “…So you’re saying I’m not pretty?”

 “No!” His pupils widened. “You’re beautiful. Uh, I mean.” He looked like he was ready to melt. “I just haven’t seen a lot of Bill Russells in here before.”

The old man chuckled through his pint glass. “Nice save.”

“Well,” Allison shrugged. “It shouldn’t come as that big of a surprise. The guy was a Bay Area legend.” 

“True.” The younger man’s posture began to relax. “You have great taste.”

“You really do,” his uncle agreed. “Would you believe I saw a bloke in here last week sporting a Kyrie Irving jersey? Fuckin’ traitor.” 

Allison fought the subtle smile grazing her lips. 

“Don’t worry, you’re amongst friends here.” The old man raised his Guinness. “Come on. Join us for a drink.”

For a moment she froze. Such an invitation was flattering, sure, but which side of the booth should she sit on? 

Mercifully, the old man began to stand. “I’ve got to take a leak,” he announced. “Here.” He slid his nephew a twenty. “Get this lovely lady whatever she’d like.” 

And with that, Allison found herself headed for the bar. Again. Mullet dude had moved on to tequila shots, wincing as he squeezed a lime between his teeth. 

Two stools remained open beneath the glow of the televisions. They took their seats, then let instinct handle their drink orders. “Another amber, please,” Allison requested from the bartender.

“And I’ll do another Guinness,” the nephew added. “Thanks Charlie.”

He nodded upward at the screen. “Well, would you look at that.” Allison hadn’t noticed how blue his eyes were earlier. There was something disarming about them, something kind. 

She peeked above to see what he was referring to. The Celtics were dribbling out the clock, having hung on long enough to end their losing streak. 

“I can’t believe they did it,” Allison stammered. “At the end of the third, it didn’t seem possible.”

Their beers arrived. The nephew handed over the amber ale, clinking his glass against hers. “To possibilities.” 

Shit. Dr. Steinberg was going to earn that $150 next week.  

*    *    *

Daniel Hagan is a writer and psychotherapist from the San Francisco Bay Area. His work has appeared in 101 Words, Bright Flash Literary Review, and Flash Fiction Magazine. When not at his keyboard, he enjoys tending to his fish tank, listening to Drug Church, and spoiling his rambunctious black kitten.

By Paul Moffett

I was only supposed to feed the cat.

Martin asked me to check in on his apartment over the weekend. Feed his cat, water his plants. Check for robbers under the bed, I guess.

Now, Martin makes good coffee. That’s the thing you have to know about Martin. And he won’t tell anyone how. He just smiles in a Martinesque way. Smug.

So probably I shouldn’t have done it. But I was there and he wasn’t. I snooped.

He had a brand of coffee beans I’d seen but never bought. Whole beans and a grinder. And he had a French press, not a drip machine or anything.

I made coffee.

It was good. Pretty good. Better than I normally make. But it wasn’t Martin’s coffee. I mean, literally it was Martin’s coffee. But it wasn’t. I left my coffee cup on the kitchen table while I took a short bathroom break. 

I was washing my hands when I heard the smash.

When I got back to the kitchen I saw what had happened. The cat had spotted its chance while I was gone, and jumped onto the table. It had pushed my still-half-full coffee mug onto the floor, because cats hate glassware for some reason. The mug had shattered, coffee was splattered up the tablecloth, and the floor was covered in broken glass, coffee, and cat footprints.

I knew the tablecloth would stain if I didn’t get it into the washing machine. Martin’s washing machine is in a little alcove right off of the kitchen. It’s one of those vertical washing-machine-dryer-stacked-on-top-of-each-other deals. There was stain remover sitting on top of the dryer, so I rubbed a little bit onto the spot, and threw the tablecloth in the washing machine, set on cold. Then I entertained myself by sweeping up glass and mopping up coffee.

But the washing machine must have been off-kilter. It sounded like a kid whose parents now regretted buying him a drum kit. I opened the machine and readjusted the tablecloth, but nothing I could do would make the banging stop so I just let it go on and tried to enjoy it. I made up a song to go with the beat.

Sweeping up glass. Mopping too!

Maybe you had to hear it with the beat.

I mopped up the spilled coffee. You have to deal with liquids first. Then I swept up the glass, put it in a garbage bag and carried it to the curb. The broken glass tore the bag a little, and it made a trail of coffee and grounds all the way out the door.

When I got back inside, the washing machine was doing more than banging. It was shaking wildly, and the shaking made the machine dance across the floor. The beat wasn’t that good. While I’d been outside the machine had moved across the room, and it was now flush against the oven. The detergent that Martin kept on top of the machine had fallen off and spilled all over the floor. And there was something else, that just looked like dirt. 

Yes. There had been a bag of literal dirt on top of the dryer, as well as five or six planters. Who on earth keeps dirt on a washing machine?

Gardeners, maybe.

The dirt had spilled off the machine and the floor was covered in a mix of dirt and powdered soap. The washing machine was at least two feet from the closet where it belonged, and there were new coffee footprints on the floor—both cat and human.

I went to the hallway closet to get a broom and a vacuum to clean up all the dirt. As I vacuumed it up, though, I noticed that the vacuum was getting less and less powerful. The bag must have been full. I opened the vacuum cleaner, pulled out the bag, and threw the whole thing into a new garbage bag, which was already half full of dirt and soap and broken plastic planters. I searched the closet for a replacement vacuum bag, but found nothing. I couldn’t clean up all this dirt and soap with just a broom, so I decided to go to the store and buy Martin some vacuum cleaner bags. No problem. It was the least I could do.

But I was so distracted by all this mess that I forgot to close the hallway door when I left. It’s supposed to be an airlock to keep the cat inside. Martin told me that. And sure enough, as I opened the front door on my triumphant return with vacuum bags the cat trotted smugly out of the apartment. It learned that smile from Martin.

I ran inside just long enough to grab a bag of treats and then I was out the door again, after the cat.

It was pointless. That thing was gone. I walked around Martin’s neighbourhood for more than an hour. I knocked on neighbours’ doors. There was no sign of the stupid animal. Eventually I gave up and I went back to Martin’s apartment.

I vacuumed up the dirt and soap, and started to push the washing machine back to where it lived. That’s when I noticed that the dirt hadn’t just spilled out into the kitchen; it had spilled into the washing machine alcove. To get the washing machine back I would have to clean up all the dirt behind its closet home.

Fine.

I squeezed myself into the closet, but I couldn’t see anything. I searched in Martin’s cupboards and closets for a flashlight, but all I could find were a few taper candles and matches. They would have to do.

I lit a candle and grabbed the vacuum to clean the dirt off the floor. I couldn’t turn around without banging the vacuum hose into the dryer duct or the wall, and I didn’t have anywhere to stand that wasn’t on top of dirt. There were a few soap pods back here, whether from today or lost from long ago I didn’t know, and I accidentally stepped on one, and now the dirt was mixed with liquid soap, which did not make anything cleaner.

I reached for the broom.

As I did, I knocked over the vacuum hose, which crashed into the foil dryer duct, tearing it. Dryer lint shot out of the duct and into the flame of the nearby candle. It ignited instantly.

Flying lint-balls sailed through the air. Some of the flaming lint settled in my hair. I screamed, slapped my own head, and jumped backward. My elbow went through the drywall. The flaming lint set off the fire alarm, which started blaring.

Sore, singed, and covered in dirt, plaster, soap, lint, and ash, I climbed out from behind the washing machine and ran to the smoke detector. Part of the flaming lint landed on the kitchen table, on a small pile of mail, which caught fire. It went out quickly, but the table was charred and smoking.

It was probably just flyers.

I took the broom handle and banged on the smoke detector until it stopped singing its song.

As I waited for the literal smoke to clear, I stepped outside and sat on Martin’s front step, and took stock. The floor was covered in dirty soapy footprints, the washing machine was in the middle of the kitchen, the air smelled of smoke, the table was burnt, the dryer duct was broken, there was a hole in the drywall, and one of Martin’s mugs was broken.

I sat on the step, trying to pinpoint where exactly I had gone wrong.

As I rested my head in my hands and breathed in the fresh cool air, I felt a soft warm something pushing against my arm. Martin’s cat crawled into my lap, curled up, and lay down. I stroked her soft grey fur, and she started purring.

I sent a text.

“Martin. Don’t worry about your apartment. Everything is going to be fine.”

                                                *    *    *

Paul Moffett is a writer and teacher whose fiction appears in Agnes & True, Flights from the Rock (Engen), and The Lowestoft Chronicle. His poetry appears in RiddleFence, and he was the winner of their poetry contest. He lives in St. John’s, NL with his wife, two children, and a beagle.

A Memoir by Macey Sidlasky

You didn’t ask us to have power of attorney, but we have it. You didn’t know, months ago, that we would sign off on forms that are now tacked to your charts, your files, a warning to all that cardiopulmonary resuscitation should not be attempted. I want to tell you, but I know you would not understand. 

I wonder what your death certificate will say: is it considered suicide when someone signs a DNR? 

We signed it for you. Am I murdering my mother? 

Now I am at a Starbucks across the street from your hospital with a cake pop in one hand and a cold brew in the other. I cannot taste either as I chew and swallow, as I take out my phone and answer the questions from relatives and neighbors and friends. 

They ask why we have signed a DNR, and I ask how they know this, and they yell and scream and say we do not have the power, but technically we do. Back then, when you were mobile and able to see, you always said you had places to go to, people to meet, life to live. I think of what you would think of yourself now: the ticks of seizures radiating across screens, of curled hands and swollen legs that stay tucked under white hospital sheets. 

You don’t know what she would want, they tell me, and I feel it, then. The bonelessness of my body, of the weight of this decision. The Starbucks barista has a nice voice, a kind voice, and I try to listen to her as she says, “have a good day,” but family members scream at me, and eventually I just hang up. I sit there, silent. My phone buzzes. 

I wish it was you, telling me I have done the right thing. 

*     *     *

Macey Sidlasky graduated with her MFA from the University of South Florida in 2020. Since then, she has been hosting book club with high schoolers, which just means she teaches English to fifteen-year-olds and hopes they nerd out as much as she does over literary devices and character development. Her writing can be found in The Pinch, Red Rock Review, and elsewhere. 

By D.W. Davis

The chicken is amazing. Twice-fried, then bathed in a house sauce, not too hot, I can’t handle spice, but peppers soothed with butter and honey and maybe a touch of bourbon, though the cook—no chefs here—will never tell. You bite into it—the chicken, not the cook, a man named Julio with a scabrous disposition—and the skin snaps between your teeth, crackling, and the juices flow over your lips and tongue. You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand and then lick your hand, it’s that moist and that good. Is there a sting of heat, just a tickle, just a tease? Of course there is, there has to be, but it’s not too much, like a lone little cloud in a blue summer’s sky. You take another bite, and the sensations repeat themselves, and you wonder how something so extraordinary could be found in a dive like this, a hole inside a hole in a wall, where the roaches are big enough to count in the census and the pavement outside is lined with years’ old graffiti and used needles. You wouldn’t just pass by here, you would actively ignore it, your consciousness wouldn’t register the exterior, such is the likelihood of you ever stepping foot through that door, hearing the clang of the bell and the groan of rusty hinges. But if you did, if you ignored your instincts and your better nature, you would be hit with a smell so rich and fragrant it is almost overwhelming, and not always in a good way, but if you stepped up to the sticky counter and ordered the chicken, and you withstood the withering gaze of the stoned middle-aged woman behind the counter with track marks in her arm and grease stains on her apron, and you stayed long enough to get your chicken because you already paid for it, they take your money before you take their food—if you stayed through it all, you would be rewarded with a brief, succulent moment of pure nirvana, a rapturous conflagration of oil and heat and texture. Men and women, chefs, explorers, world travels, spend their lives without the pleasure of such an experience. It makes a man greedy and jealous and possessive, and I am glad you do not walk in here, I am glad I have this small treasure of joy all to myself. I lick my fingers and I think about how you are not here and I take another bite and I am, for this brief moment in time where the world ceases to exist and everything is weightless and effervescent—I am truly, and completely, satisfied.

*   *   *

D.W. Davis (he/him) is a native of rural Illinois. His work has appeared in various online and print journals. You can find him at Facebook.com/DanielDavis05, @dan_davis86 on Twitter, and @dwdavis.bsky.social.

A Memoir By Venessa Anderson

There is a certain peace that descends on the house once my grown children leave. 

“Visits.” That’s what my sons do now with the home they grew up in. They arrive with their girlfriends and stay for a week or two, riling up the dogs, relaxing with their feet on the furniture, and frequently raiding both the beer in the garage fridge and the snacks in the pantry. 

Food disappears at astonishing rates. A dozen eggs gone after one breakfast. Pounds of cold cuts and cheese last two lunches. I must buy Costco-sized bags of chips and fruit to make it through the week. 

“I’m starving, you have nothing to eat!” one son says, rifling through the fruit bowl. “What even is this,” he asks, squeezing the blush-red fruit with its tough skin I had thought might taste good in a salad. “You and dad buy the weirdest stuff now that we’re out of the house.” My son sniffs the pomegranate and tosses it back into the bowl.

The energy in the house buzzes when the children-turned-adults return and everything is a bit brighter, a bit livelier. The family cookout attracts the cousin who managed to pull himself away from his summer internship for an afternoon of gossip and games. Grandparents who normally drone on about politics from their lounge chairs suddenly decide to join the kids in the pool and rejoice in how refreshing it is to swim. Makeshift garbage bags explode with paper plates and recyclables and the dogs pace the yard sniffing for errant hot dogs and half-eaten burgers.  

Time, however, does not linger, in the summer’s chaotic hum. Someone is eventually named the corn hole champion. The solar cover is pulled over the pool. Mosquitoes drive people into the house where the siren song of childhood beds loll revelers to sleep. 

It is not long before my sons pack up their suitcases and throw the rest of the snacks in their cars, inevitably leaving something important behind as they wave goodbye. 

And then, there is a quietness. 

The dogs sleep a little later.

I lounge in my pjs without a bra on.

My coffee is still warm in my cup.

I find the pomegranate in the bottom of the near-empty fruit bowl and begin to peel it at last.

Peace? Is that what this silence is? 

I hold an aril in my red-stained fingers. Squeezing it gently, I feel the tension of the skin protecting the seed and juice inside. The temptation is there to pop it — to experience the sweet mess that occurs when I press too hard. Instead, I place it gently in the bowl with the rest of the seeds I have scooped from the hard membranes of the fruit, and place it to the side for later. 

*   *   *

Venessa Anderson is a high school educator who enjoys writing both fiction and non-fiction. Her latest project on the Icelandic “Situation” is a historical fiction novel that chronicles the American occupation of Iceland during WWII and its effect on women. Venessa earned her MFA from Fairfield University and is a Connecticut Writing Project alumna. Her work will appear in the 2026 Connecticut Literary Anthology. When she is not writing or grading papers, you can find her in her garden, driving children to soccer practice, or dancing Zumba. She and her husband live in Trumbull, CT. She is at http://www.venessaanderson.com.

By Robert A. Bak

Bill looked out his front window, hoping to find some rain clouds, but it was another sweltering and sunny day in the high desert. The area had been breaking record highs for the last two weeks, with temperatures over 100 degrees daily and nights in the mid-to-high 80’s.

Bill was trying to find a place to walk around and cool off. A bright idea came to him: go to the local Costco store, walk around, and sample some of the free food given to the members. At least the air conditioning in his car was working well.

Driving to Costco, he noticed the fuel gauge was nearing a quarter tank full. The last time he had tried to get gas at Costco, he had waited in the queue for nearly twenty minutes. He was hoping this time would be shorter.

As he pulled into the numerous gas lines, he found an empty gas pump waiting for him. He did not have to think twice about heading to the open pump. As he approached the pump, the car in front of him was leaving, leaving him with two empty pumps. He drove to the front pump and was very pleased with himself.  

He got out and walked around to open the car’s gas door. They only charged $3.24 a gallon, which was a reasonable price. Before he knew it, the car’s tank was full, and he was leaving the pumps to drive and find a parking space. 

He entered Costco and went to the produce and milk aisles, which he knew would be nice and cool, and they were. The store was offering free food samples for its members, and he, of course, had to try some. He always thanked the person handling the items for that day. One of the ladies thanked Bill for thanking her. Most people would take the sample and walk away. 

Bill had a most enjoyable time cooling off for at least an hour, but then he went back to his hot car and headed home again. Bill thought of the people who had not gone to Costco to get gas and had to witness the long lines and wait times. Most members struggle to remember which side of the vehicle their fuel tank is on. And what were the chances of being able to drive up to an open fuel pump to get gas without waiting in line? What a day it was.

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Robert is a well-established writer who has published 20 short stories, essays, and short plays in the US and internationally over the past decade. He has been involved in the entertainment business for many years.  He began his career as a stage manager at Off-Off-Broadway in New York City, then worked on entertainment programs in Los Angeles and Albuquerque.