By Russell Richardson

Losing his job and girlfriend in the same week is hard enough.

Then Kyle starts to disintegrate.

Unexplainable sand appears in his bed and on the apartment floor. While sitting on the toilet, he rubs his knee and finds more sand in his palm. The harder he rubs, the more he produces. Panicked, Kyle goes to his doctor.

“Interesting,” muses the doctor, exploring a forearm with a magnifying glass. “Your skin is becoming sand.”

Kyle is horrified. “What can be done?”

“There’s no medication to prescribe, so. . . .” The doctor shrugs. From his stool, he marvels at Kyle. “Maybe don’t wait too long for your next check-up?”

Kyle is disconsolate. He hates revealing himself to others but seeks out a support group. About five people meet at a park behind Costco where the group facilitator works. The group welcomes Kyle. They seem nice enough but are in sorry shape. One man has stumps for hands. Another, in a wheelchair, is only a torso. Everyone looks gaunt. A strong wind blows grit in Kyle’s eyes. It makes him tear up.

A woman named Annie limps over. She pours the contents of her shoes into a Ziplock bag. Kyle asks why.

“We preserve ourselves. Otherwise, we’d be lost.”

She’s right. Everyone holds a Bell jar or some vessel. The realization that he could be simply blown away by the wind is harrowing. Now Kyle weeps.

Annie holds his wrist. “I’ll help you.”

They shop for Tupperware together. They vacuum his apartment, careful not to commingle plain dirt with his remains. They put his sand in storage—already a quart container’s worth. He is surprised by how quickly Annie joins his life. Kyle feels better with her, even if he secretly cringes at the thinness of her waist.

The muddy bathtub is a constant nuisance. His clothes get baggy, so Kyle wears sweats and slides. He cranes to see over his steering wheel now. His disability claim is denied, and no wonder—who the hell has ever heard of this affliction?

At a family reunion, everyone comments about his appearance. He chooses not to see these people again. Now Kyle only spends time with Annie and the group.

He makes love to her. They move slowly and carefully and lose half themselves in the sheets. Afterward, Annie vacuums the bed. In the moonlight, she is an unsettling hourglass.

They awake to find her in two parts. She sits up on her elbows, pulling away from her hips. “At least you got to enjoy my vagina while it was attached.” Kyle expects her to sob in his arms, but instead, she laughs and laughs.

At the next meeting, the facilitator is absent. A friend conducts a wellness check and reports, “He looks like a bread loaf with a shrunken head attached.”

“Tell me about it,” says Annie from the basket beside Kyle.

Rail-thin now and half his original height, Kyle is an emaciated child carrying the laundry basket to his car.

They sit for a moment without driving. He asks, “Would you ever commit suicide?”

“Not long as you’re alive,” she says.

He cries again. No one has ever felt that way about him.

She moves in, which helps with the rent. They are in a footrace between bankruptcy and disintegration. Her arms dwindle to twigs, and he feeds her like a baby. Kyle’s not well, either. His closet is full of his containers. He can barely reach the light switch and wonders who will remove him once he disappears.

When the facilitator dies, a service is held on the beach. Kyle brings Annie in a tote bag. She’s a neck and a softball-sized head with a few strands of hair. He cradles her, and they watch from a distant dune while people pour out jars of sand.

When the beach clears, they face the ocean. Kyle’s body is rapidly shedding now. They lay with their temples touching and surrender to the end. He puts his ear to her mouth to hear her whisper: “I thought I’d never find you.”

Who knew Kyle could be so happy? The wind scatters their remaining particles. By sunrise, the beach is empty and quiet, except for the lapping waves.

                                                          *       *.      *

Russell Richardson lives in Binghamton, NY with his wife and sons. In addition to running a freelance digital design business, he serves as the site manager and lead editor of Posting and Toasting, a New York Knicks fan community. Russell continues to write and illustrate, with over two dozen publishing credits, including several children’s books whose profits support children with cancer. His YA novel, Level Up and Die! and his short story collection, Nocturnal Medley: Fourteen Weird Tales, are both available on Amazon.com.

By Maureen Mancini Amaturo

 A store greeter halts you as you walk into a multi-department renovation store right at the entrance and asks, “What are you here to shop for?”

Not being able to go a step further without answering, you say, “PVC pipe.”

“Have you shopped for PVC pipe before?” the greeter asks.

“No.”

The greeter pulls out a stapled stack of paper. “Please fill out these forms, and we’ll be all set to help you shop for PVC pipe.”

In the family history section, you’re stumped. Did PVC pipe exist when my great uncle was alive? I don’t think my maternal grandmother knows what PVC pipe is. After completing all thirteen pages of questions, you return the clipboard to the store greeter, who doesn’t even look at the answers. “Please wait over there,” he says. “We’ll call you when your aisle is ready to shop.”

So, you join the twelve-to-fifteen anxious shoppers standing in a corral aside the automatic doors. After forty-seven minutes, the greeter calls you. You’re ushered to the PVC Pipe Department and told, “This is your aisle. Take off your clothes and put on this paper-towel store apron. Your Professional Salesperson will be with you in a minute.”

Confused but obedient, you say, “Thank you,” and you’re immediately sorry for saying it because there is nothing to be thankful for. So far, it’s been an impersonal inconvenience of the highest level. Now you, dressed in paper goods, stand and wait wondering if the temperature outside has dropped. Twenty minutes later, a person wearing a store smock arrives. You ask, “Are you the PVC Pipe Sales Professional?”

“No, she’s not in. I’m a PVC Pipe Sales Practitioner. I’ll be helping you. What brings you here today?”

“PVC pipe, that’s why I’m here. I need PVC pipe.”

The Sales Practitioner says, “Hop up on that pallet and tell me what’s going on.”

“It’s just a small leak,” you say.

The Practitioner asks, “How long has this pipe been leaking?” 

“Just noticed it, a week, maybe. Can I get a 1 ½” pipe, about six feet?”

The Practitioner says, “First, we have to do a few tests.”

“Tests? Why?”

“To check for other leaks and to see what’s causing the leak. I’m going to order a Pipe Test, a Contamination Test, a Rodent Evidence test, a Water Purification Analysis, a Flow Test, an Output Test, and a Stability Test on all the surrounding pipes.”

Your eyes widen. “But the other pipes are fine.”

“We need to be sure. And we need to know the cause of this leak and if it’s done damage to any surrounding areas.”

“I don’t need to know the cause of the leak. And everything else seems fine.” You tug at your paper apron. “I just want to fix it.”

“That’s what we are going to do,” the Sales Practitioner promises. 

You wonder if your home insurance will cover this. Or maybe your flood insurance. You remember your flood insurance has a $5,500 deductible, and you’re not sure if you want the tests to come to more than that just so you can make the claim, after all the premiums you’ve been paying, and see if you get 20% back or if the flood insurance will send the balance to your home insurance. You decide to end the suspense and ask, “How much are all these tests going to cost?” 

“I don’t know. Nobody knows. You can get dressed now.” The Sales Practitioner slides your questionnaire into a box and pulls out a small order pad. “When you’re dressed, you can go to Aisle 17. I’m writing you up a sales slip for Dry Wall Screws.”

“But I don’t want Dry Wall Screws.”

The Sales Practitioner says, “Use the Drywall Screws until we get the test results back. I’ll order the tests today.”

“But I don’t want all these tests. I just want the PVC pipe.”

“And that’s what we are working to get you. Now, as soon as you have these tests done, the results will come to me within twenty-four hours, and I’ll have a better view of what you need and instructions for your next steps. I’ll send them to your store portal, and you can sign in to review them. Do you have a portal account?”

“No.”

“You can create one on your phone. Go to our home page. The instructions are there. Don’t forget — your password should contain some combination of every letter from any Latin-based romance language and one .png image from a Bob Ross painting.” 

“Can’t I just call you?”

“No.”

You rub your hands up and down your paper apron wondering what to do next and who might be able to help you set up this portal account.

“You can also make your next appointment at your earliest convenience,” the Sales Practitioner says.

Rubbing your arms to alleviate the goosebumps from the chill in the Pipe Department, which the paper apron can’t ward off, you say, “How will I understand the test results? Who do I talk to?”

“You’ll never talk to anyone. The results will be in your portal. You can get dressed, and I’ll see you back here in two weeks.”

You dress and make your way through the maze of aisles to the exit. You sit in your car for a few minutes without the PVC pipe you came for and review what just happened. You check your phone. There’s a message from the store. You’ve been billed $332 for the consultation with the store’s Sales Professional. But he wasn’t a Sales Professional. He was a Sales Practitioner. You wonder if the charge should be less because of that.

You get a second notice. Your Dry Wall Screws are ready for pickup, and the total is $56. You get a third message asking you to complete a survey telling them about your experience with the store. “Please complete this quick survey. Your feedback is important to us,” it says.

At home, you begin the process of setting up all the tests. There are no available appointments until 2032, but there was a cancellation for the Rodent Test, so you take that opening and immediately get seven friendly reminders about the appointment and two each day until the date of the test.

And the PVC pipe in his basement is still leaking.

*    *   *

Maureen Mancini Amaturo, NY-based fashion/beauty writer with a Creative Writing MFA, teaches writing, founded and leads Sound Shore Writers Group, and produces literary and gallery events. Her more than 100 publications globally include fiction, essays, CNF, poetry, and comedy. Maureen was nominated for The Bram Stoker Award and TDS Creative Fiction Award and was awarded Honorable Mention and Certificate of Excellence in poetry from Havik Literary Journal. Her work was shortlisted by Reedsy and Flash Fiction Magazine for their Editor’s Choice Award. Funny Pearls UK named her work as a best short story selection. A handwriting analyst diagnosed her with an overdeveloped imagination. She’s working to live up to that.

By Liz deBeer

After a night of winds whooshing, windows rattling, rain knocking, sirens shrieking, and wires crackling, complete quiet clutches me. I’m wondering if I’ve lost my hearing when a low creaaaaaak interrupts the silence.

I shouldn’t do it, I know better, but I rush to a window to watch the slow-motion decent of an old Oak smashing through my garage with a thunderous thud, my whole house convulsing; lamps, artwork, bookshelves crashing. I hear perfectly now as I scream-shriek-sob out to god-jesus-mary-mohammed-buddha-any-higher-power-out-there-amen. 

Tentatively, I peek into the living room: only a round table and a single chair are upright. Mother’s mirror, Grandma’s china, family framed photos all jumbled together on my heirloom Persian rug. 

Can’t move. Can’t react. Can’t process. Can’t cope. 

So much. Too much.

Now it’s my own body shuddering, shaking, squeezing out drops, flooding my face, the storm swirling inside, breaking bits of me.

Exhausted, I drop into an intact chair, run my finger on the table’s curved edge, the repetitive motion consoling me as the childhood ditty ring-around-the-rosie plays in my mind. 

But what if we didn’t all fall down? 

The rubble transforms like an optical illusion as I pick up pieces, placing a triangle of mirror here, a china shard there. Trancelike, my fingers create, pushing scraps on the table, forming a blob, then a rudimentary heart. 

A heart? God, no. I scramble the shape, searching for something that better fits my mood, morphing the broken bits into a glittering composite question mark. 

Staring into the mosaic, fragments of my face reflect back in mirrored pieces. I should push myself away, start cleaning up debris, but I can’t I can’t I can’t. 

Shaken. Grieving. Enraged. I grasp a cracked wooden picture frame and smash it on the floor. I retrieve it, about to slam it down again when I realize it’s split into long narrow rods. Holding one in each hand, my vision shifts again. After grabbing glue from the kitchen, I pluck apart the question mark, pasting pieces to the lengths of frame fragments to create mosaic garden stakes. 

I picture them in the ground, shimmering in the sun, shining slivers of encouragement as I replant and rebuild. They’ll look beautiful when bulbs and birds return. But the stakes will need time to dry before I can put them outside. They won’t be ready right away, and neither will I.

*   *   *

Liz deBeer is a teacher and writer with Project Write Now, a writing cooperative based in New Jersey. Her latest flash and CNF have appeared in Switch, Lucky Jefferson, Bending Genres, Every Day Fiction, Sad Girls Diaries, Libre, and 10×10 Flash Fiction. She has written essays in various journals including Brevity Blog and New Jersey English Journal. She holds degrees from University of Pennsylvania and Rutgers University. Liz’s website is www.ldebeerwriter.com.

By Laurie Barton 

Zoe got so excited on Thanksgiving when she found a picture of me in my 30s. We didn’t have phones back then, and I hated cameras, so Zoe had never seen me at a younger age. In the picture, I’m slim in a flowy pink dress, but my short gray hair makes me look a little tough. At the time, my husband loved the short hair. He thought I looked edgy and cool, young with a glint of silver. Since then, I’ve gone red, the poetic in-your-face kind of glow, so Zoe was fascinated with my natural color.

“That was 1996,” I told her. “Short hair was kind of a thing back then. Princess Diana. Demi Moore in Ghost.” Zoe pulled up an image and saw the resemblance. She showed me a glossy-headed picture of Demi Moore, and I thought of how my Japanese students used to squeal that I looked just like her, almost. That was their discreet way of complimenting my haircut, while joking that I did not have her pretty face.

“Look at you, Mom—eight years before you had me!”

Zoe’s math was correct, and it shocked me. That edgy woman in the picture would never have guessed that in eight years she’d be having a second daughter with a new husband. That would have blown her mind. In 1996, everything was peaches with hubby number one, until November, when he got entangled with an intern, kind of like Bill Clinton. That ruined everything quickly.

I survived the divorce and married again, giving birth to Zoe Noelle on Christmas Day, 2004. Now I’m legally separated from her dad, a move I made since he was lazy and made me do all the breadwinning. Messy, too. I stopped using the washing machine in the garage since I 

couldn’t stand seeing all the lumber and junk stashed in there. I dragged everything to a laundromat every week before filing for separation and moving out. It seemed that a bold move might wake him up and motivate him to become a better husband. Somewhere on this planet, I know there are men who plead for you to return, who try to make things better, who send you flowers and swear they just want you back in their lives.

Not Danny. He pushed for all the money he could get and then never called me again. I kept waiting, but weeks turned into months and months of silence. At first, Zoe would meet him for lunch at Firehouse Subs and report back to me that he was down in the dumps, but then, she started saying how he seemed to be in a much better mood. That meant he was happy without me, swimming in cash.  No job was needed, so his idleness continued. What changed was the new location of his sofa and TV.

After Zoe said Danny was happy, I started missing him, fighting the impulse to call him with an old sobriety mantra: not today, but maybe tomorrow. Then, Christmas lights appeared on every hedge and balcony, and all that twinkling made it easy to picture couples snuggling by the fire, the way Danny and I had cuddled with gifts on our first Christmas together.

Was there any way to get the cuddling back?

Was I insane for wanting it with him?

When I finally broke down and called him, I didn’t use the word cuddle. Instead, I told him I was open to being “friends”—but he would have to take the initiative. That sparked a round of assurances as Danny said he appreciated my reaching out.

“We’re still married,” I told him.

“I know. And that’s important to me.”

Good old Danny—he always talks a good game. That’s how he snagged me, always making promises in his soft-spoken voice, rubbing his stubbly cheek against mine as we embraced and he repeated, I love you. I care about you.

Somewhere, the sun is shining on a man who really means it.

This time I knew that Danny wouldn’t follow through, that he’d be taking no initiative. Sure enough, when Zoe had lunch with him at Sergeant Pepperoni, he introduced her to  a new friend, Alina from Ukraine.

“She’s younger than you, Mom. Very tall and she sounds like a vampire.”

“I vant to drink your blood.”

“Exactly.”

I’d just sold a condo to a couple from Ukraine and I knew how they swapped v for w. It was charming, really, like Alina would be as Danny bought her little diamond earrings and flew her to Hawaii, flush with the million he’d legally stolen from me. How sweet it would be as she loosened her string bikini, Danny thumbs up as he loved me and cared about me.

Down in San Diego, where I was helping a new client, I fluffed my red hair in front of the mirror and saw how exhausted I looked. I needed a little tequila to perk me up, so I headed to Old Town, where I would flirt with the wooden Indian in front of the cigar house. I remembered  him from visiting Old Town back when I looked like Demi Moore, whose movie Ghost included a stray reference to an Indian head penny from the 1890s, one hundred years before my pink dress.  Before the intern, before Danny and Zoe, before the Japanese students who explained that 

undesired women were called “Christmas cake” in Japan, a treat nobody wanted when the holiday was over.

That stoic Indian would help me forget about Danny. He would welcome me, help me put things in perspective, remind me of the cartoon arrows I’d seen in a meme illustrating the concept of a “trauma bond” that keeps you attached to someone who hurts you. The arrows were  plunged into the back of a woman like me. She was clinging to an indifferent-looking archer, whose bow was ready, whose quiver held more arrows, sharp and deadly, prepared for launch. 

*   *   *

Laurie Barton is a Pushcart Prize nominee, Best of the Net finalist, and winner of the New Southerner Literary Prize in Poetry. Her work has appeared in juked, Glass, Bending Genres, Lunch Ticket, Jabberwock Review and Snakeskin UK. She holds an MFA from Antioch University Los Angeles and received a scholarship to attend the Disquiet International Literary Program in Lisbon, Portugal. Her chapbook, Coco Sinatra, is forthcoming from Finishing Line Press.

By Stephen Mirabito

The doctor checked his chart. This was the third boy this week with the same symptoms: constipation, hoarse voice, and soreness in his muscles. The doctor looped a mask around his ears and winked at the nurse. 

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” he said. “You know, just a coincidence.” 

She didn’t respond. She opened the door and motioned him inside. 

He bent over to step through the doorway. The doctor was a hulk of a man – 6’3” 250 lbs with a slickly-shaven head. Being a pediatrician, he had to work hard to soften his first impression, to come off as a helping friend. The kid sat on the edge of a reclining bed, his legs splayed over the wax paper covering. 

“I heard someone wasn’t feeling well.” The doctor had a huge smile hidden behind his polka-dot mask. 

The kid adjusted uncomfortably. He looked to his mom for help, almost grimacing in pain. 

The mom tried to encourage him, but he wouldn’t budge. 

After a bit of awkwardness, she finally broke the silence. “I got very worried. Every morning for the past week, he says he’s sore ‘over and over.’” She motioned with her hands. 

The doctor was already fishing through the drawer for a medical needle. 

“It says here that he’s having trouble in the bathroom?” the doctor asked. 

“Yes. That too.” 

He found the needle he was looking for. It was sealed in plastic. He undid the wrapping around the instrument, careful not to touch any part of it except the base. 

“It says he’s not vaccinated either?” 

The doctor tried his best not to add any inflection to his voice. He didn’t want to initiate any kind of political debate during what should have been an ordinary doctor’s visit. 

“Correct.” A terse response. The mother was clearly holding back. 

The doctor asked the boy about his favorite cartoon and that finally got him talking. 

“Well . . .” He began cautiously. “I watch a lot of Spongebob.”

“That was my favorite show growing up.”

The boy looked to his mother in excitement. She feigned a smile, then winced.  

The doctor had sunk half the needle into the kid’s left foot, but the kid hadn’t even stuttered.

“Mom – what’s wrong?” 

“Hey bud. I need your help, okay?” The doctor redirected his attention. 

The kid slowly nodded his head. 

The doctor took the needle and poked the kid softly and this time further up his leg. 

“I need you to tell me when this starts to hurt.” The doctor’s tone was much more solemn. 

The boy blinked back, clearly confused. 

The doctor was at the fatty part of the kid’s calf – nothing. 

Next to his knee – still nothing.  

“Is he. . . is he walking? Did he walk here by himself?”  

The mother just glanced away, unable to respond. 

The doctor poked the child’s thigh. 

“Ouch!” 

The doctor exhaled. 

He wrote a few notes in silence on his pad. 

“We need to get him to St. Anthony’s as soon as we can.” 

The mother nodded. 

“I’ll call for an escort. Julie is our specialist. She will be here soon and she’ll take you through everything. You’ll be in good hands.” 

The doctor hung up the chart at the front entrance. He pressed a panel next to the light switch. A green bulb illuminated in the hallway. 

“You will be just fine. The both of you.” 

The mother offered a meek thank you, but the doctor was already leaving the waiting room. Men in hazmat suits soon shuffled inside and began questioning the mother and her son. They forced them into masks and gloves. The doctor was down the hall when he heard the mother – the two were being separated at that point. 

The nurse found him getting coffee a few minutes later. 

“So?” she asked. 

“All but confirmed.” 

“Jesus. It’s so simple to prevent.” 

“I have no idea.” 

“It puts our lives in danger too, you know? We shouldn’t even help them if they won’t help themselves.” 

“That wouldn’t make us very good doctors, would it?” 

The nurse scoffed. “I knew this was gonna happen months ago. They’re finding strains of it in fecal samples. Reception has a bet on whether we’ll hit twenty new cases by the end of the week.” 

“Really.” 

“We’re probably all carriers at this point – whether vaccinated or not.” 

“. . .” 

“You could exhibit symptoms at any point. There’s still a chance.” 

“It’s part of the job, I guess.” 

“If I see you get wheeled in here I’m assigning you to another floor.” 

She smiled, but he didn’t react at all so she left. 

The doctor sipped his coffee absent-mindedly. He thought about his house, his yard, and how much he could actually get done if he ditched work, went home, and got to it right then. It was only half past noon. Maybe he’d order a pizza, too. 

He sat down and undid his shoe. He took off his right sock and held his pale foot to the cool air. In his coat pocket, he found the medical needle that he was definitely supposed to have left in the waiting room for the decontamination team.

He held the needle inches from his big toe. He thought long about stabbing himself, to test his foot.

He laughed. What good would it do anyway? He had work to finish. The trouble it would cause – it wasn’t worth it. 

He laced up his shoe and dumped the remaining coffee down the sink. Could he feel the sock on his foot? Could he feel the pressure of the shoe as he pulled the laces taut? He was too distracted to really notice either way. 

Maybe everyone would be fine. Maybe he could finish his yard and finally mow the lawn.  

                                                          *   *   *

Stephen Mirabito is an English teacher working in Littleton, Colorado. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Every Day Fiction, Constellations Magazine, and Peatsmoke Journal. He is currently a candidate of the University of Denver’s UCOL Professional Creative Writing program.  

By Sarah Daly

Ever since Baby had appeared on her doorstep, via an act of divine magic, she had been consumed by Baby. The hours, filled with innumerable tasks, passed so quickly. Indeed, she hardly had time to eat a full meal or shower, since she had to be near Baby, at all times, or Baby would fuss and squeal and reach its chubby little hands upwards, as if siphoning the world’s love. 

Baby never grew, Baby was always Baby. Frozen as if by magic, Baby touched everyone who came into its life. Baby had roamed the world, passed from person to person. Baby had felt many hands: small, large, warm, cold, smooth, scratchy. And Baby was really real with a beating heart, and lungs, and pinkish cheeks, and crystal blue eyes, and tufts of inky black hair. Baby had no sex, no gender. Baby was Baby, smooth and pink and always clean. 

On their daily walks, other women would often pause and look at the child, strapped carefully in the stroller. Their eyes were greedy, longing, and Mother quickly pushed Baby forward, so Baby was not stolen. But Baby enchanted them anyway; Baby’s gaze was grasping, insatiable. 

Every night, Mother sings to Baby until her voice is hoarse, every nursery rhyme that comes in her mind. She rocks and holds Baby, unaware whether it is day or night; Baby is completely dependent on her, and she has a sense of rightness, of security, a sense of completeness when she is with Baby. She can think of nothing else, of doing nothing else but to be with Baby! She would hollow out her insides, for Baby. 

And Baby wants her, all of her. Baby sometimes gums her fingers, even drawing a little blood, somehow (she could not find Baby’s teeth, but could feel them sometimes). She would shiver at Baby’s firm grasp of her, and knew she should pull away, even admonish Baby, but she could not! She could not! And after all, she yearns to feed Baby from her own body, instead of canned milk.  So, if he desires a little of her blood, then she relinquishes it, gladly. She would turn herself inside-out for Baby.  

Baby is a miracle. A miracle she conjured from the landscape of her dreams. In her solitary bed, she had imagined cradling a child’s softness in her own arms, every night, for months. And then, one day, on her door-step, tucked into a tiny woven basket, was Baby. To her, even Baby’s babblings made perfect sense. She could divine Baby’s language as a maternal instinct blossomed within her, replacing baser, coarser desires. She feels purified by Baby, somehow.  

One afternoon, she pushes Baby in the park, smiling in contentment. It’s a lovely day, a magical day, to be a Mother. Autumn is just beginning; the foliage turning to vivid shades of orange, and yellow, and red. She will gather some leaves and twigs, to make a wreath with Baby, when they return home.  

When they reach the playground, she carefully parks the stroller and walks back a little ways to retrieve the raddle Baby had thrown on the ground. As she bends over, she suddenly feels a premonition, a nervous tingling of danger. She quickly straightens and turns around, only to witness a woman in a dark, flowing gown, scooping Baby from the stroller. Paralyzed for only an instant, she darts after the woman, shouting frantically as if in a nightmare; yet the woman races towards the woods at the edge of the park, oblivious to the shouts, the pleas to stop.  

Mother runs and runs, her legs gaining speed until she finally overtakes the woman, tackling her bodily to the ground. Baby wails beneath their combined weights. Mother is frantic, grabbing Baby, checking for bruises, pressing Baby tightly to her breast. But the woman recovers, knocks her down, wrenches Baby from her, and begins to run once again. Mother stands, stumbles, and tries to follow, yet the woman runs faster and faster. Soon, the woman is gone, deep into the woods. Mother collapses on the ground, clawing desperately at the empty grass as she loses consciousness, descending into a dark, nameless slumber. 

Hours later, Baby is crawling towards her. Her mouth opens in recognition, and her arms reach forward yearning to hold, to touch Baby. Yet Baby crawls faster than she can and soon fills her vision completely. Now, only inches away, she notices that Baby’s face is distorted into a malevolent, cunning expression as little white fangs protrude from pink lips. The fangs are probing, aiming for her heart. Baby, she cries, pleads, it cannot be Baby, it cannot be. Yet her denials are useless as Baby’s teeth pierce the tender skin on her breast and drain the blood from her body. 

                                                                     *      *     *

Sarah Daly is an American writer whose fiction, poetry, and drama have appeared in forty-seven literary journals including The Inflectionist Review (nominated for Best Spiritual Literature Awards, Orison Books),  Anti-Heroin Chic, The Sandy River Review, Across the Margins, and Tipton Poetry Journal.

By Daniel Crépault

The jarring ringtone cut through Winston’s sleep, sending a jolt of adrenaline coursing through him that was as unwelcome as stepping on a Lego block in bare feet. Half asleep as he was, Bonnie’s nasally voice grated on his ears as his sister-in-law delivered the news. “Your brother is dead.”

There was a long pause as Winston, shaking away slumber, forced his leaden tongue to formulate some response. “I didn’t even know he was sick,” he said finally, sounding like some Vaudevillian hack. He coughed loudly into the phone, not from any genuine need, but solely to break the silence that followed.

Unfazed, Bonnie continued, sharing the grim story that by then she’d practically memorized. She described the doctor’s prognosis, James’ worsening condition, and how the illness ate away his strength until he couldn’t even get out of bed. Winston listened to the slurred words, saw the glowing clock across the room that read 12:07 AM, and thought he could almost smell the Manhattans through the phone. He opened his messages app and scrolled through recent texts with his brother, searching through what seemed like an endless sea of GIFs for some mention of his brother’s illness. Finding none, his face flushed hot. “Why wasn’t I told?” he asked, struggling to keep his voice controlled.

“James didn’t want anyone to know. He didn’t want anyone to see him like that, especially toward the end.”

“I’m his brother! He damn well could have picked up the bloody phone!” There was a pounding in his ears now. His heart was racing. Bonnie was blubbering incoherently.

“Oh God, Bonnie. I’m sorry,” he mumbled into the phone. “I didn’t mean to shout.”

“I tried…” she said through sobs, before reverting to that muttered, incomprehensible tongue known only to drunks. He tried his best to soothe her, telling her things a grieving widow might want to hear—that it wasn’t her fault, that she needed to be strong for the kids, and that he would come up to see her very soon. Then he ended the call and sat on the floor.

Winston’s stomach roiled and a metallic taste filled his mouth. He closed his eyes tightly, willing himself not to retch, and focused on taking deep breaths the way his therapist had taught him. The moment soon passed, leaving him drenched in sweat but calm. He sat up, leaned against the foot of the bed, and stayed motionless for what seemed like a long time, listening to the passing cars outside his house and watching as their headlights flashed along the wall.

He tilted his head and looked out the window at the night sky visible just above the housetops, hoping to see stars, but saw only the sickly orange glow of city lights. When they were kids, they’d spent hours in the backyard with their father’s telescope peering up at the moon. They’d even consulted a battered old atlas to learn the names of lunar regions. The Sea of Serenity had always been his brother’s favourite. Winston’s chest tightened at the memory, and he wondered if there was any serenity wherever his brother was now.

His thoughts wandered back to Bonnie. Over the years, their mutual dislike had evolved into thinly veiled hostility that sometimes bubbled to the surface as they traded sarcastic barbs across the dinnertable at holidays. James had confronted them about it once, but neither had been able to articulate the origin of the dislike, both blaming personality differences or irreconcilable political opinions. But Winston could see the undeniable truth now. It had always been about James. They’d both loved him, more than most and saw the other as a threat. And now they’d both lost him. His stomach tightened again as he remembered shouting at her over the phone, promising himself to call her first thing in the morning when she sobered up.

Placing his head in his hands, he saw his phone glowing faintly in the dimness around his feet. He picked it up and glanced at the conversation and the profile picture showing his brother, still healthy and giving that boyish grin of his. Winston’s thumbs tapped slowly as he wrote a final message to end the conversation. His thumb hovered over the Send button, then hurriedly erased it and tossed the phone onto the bed. The cars were passing less frequently now, and the shadows were creeping away down the walls, chased away by the amber sunrise blooming over the freeway.

*   *   *
Daniel Crépault is a criminologist, addiction treatment provider, and emerging short fiction writer. He lives in Ottawa, Canada with his wife and two beautiful children.

By Vivian Clausing

Becky pulled on her tights and laced up her running shoes. Outside, the sky was still black, the horizon a pale yellow. Zeke nosed her toward the door. 

“Whoa. Stay.” 

 Zeke turned and flashed blue eyes at her, his tongue pink against grey fur, waiting. Her best friend. She wouldn’t be a runner if Zeke hadn’t dragged her out every morning. Wouldn’t have lost ten pounds so far. Wouldn’t have quit smoking. Or had the courage to post her profile on Hinge. 

“Okay buddy. Let’s go!” 

They ran along the park fence which  encircled the baseball field, Zeke just ahead. Becky did not see the muddy puddle looming at the edge of first base. Squish! Her right shoe disappeared. Wetness crept over her foot.

“I didn’t expect that!” she breathed, coming to a stop. “Ewwww!” 

Zeke turned and jumped joyfully into the puddle. Cold muddy water hit her in the face. He jumped again and brown splatters flew onto her legs.

“Stop!” she admonished. “Come here!”

Zeke rolled on his back, barking.

“Want some help?” A handsome guy with a strong jawline and eyes as blue as Zeke’s jogged up. Becky’s heart skipped. His teeth were a perfect white line in the semi-darkness as he smiled.

“He’s such a goofball!” Becky was laughing now too.

“He’s beautiful.” 

“He’s better when he’s dry.”

‘Aren’t we all?” The guy’s eyes twinkled. Becky blushed. 

“I gotta go home. Obviously.” 

Zeke was at her side now, tail wagging. He swiveled his head between Becky and the stranger.

“I think he likes you.” Becky said, her fingers in Zeke’s fur. She wanted to ask for the guy’s name but that seemed too weird. Instead, she leaned into Zeke. 

“Should we go home Zeke?”

To her surprise, the guy smiled. 

“I was hoping you’d ask.”

*   *   *

Vivian Clausing has directed a program for women transitioning from incarceration, given seated chair massage to the homeless and advocated for youth and the adults who minister to them. She is now retired and happy to be writing almost every day. Her work has appeared in The Bloomin’ Onion and is forthcoming in 10 x 10 Flash Fiction.  A graduate of Stanford’s OWC writing program, she lives in the Bay Area with her husband and four cats.

By Justene Musin

I craved the attention. The idea of that sweet feeling. Like the buttercream icing on a cupcake. To have everyone perched in the palm of my hands for a short span of time. To be heard. 

Usually, I wanted anonymity. To fold into a crowd. Black and navy were the main shades of my wardrobe. They crafted a camouflage façade. 

But public speaking was my exception. 

I hadn’t done a presentation at work for about a year. My mouth was dry. I chewed a piece of peppermint gum to dispose of the tension. Pupils of mine danced back and forth as I read line by line of my speech. Folded it like origami into my blazer pocket. 

I discretely cast the gum away into the bin before I was to begin. 

The heavy patter of shoes crescendoed and after a few minutes dipped to pianissimo. Everyone was seated. Quiet chatter continued. It was time. My lungs swelled as I took a sizable breath. 

As I spoke, the words unfurled, practiced and perfected. I felt empowered, as I sensed the gaze of the audience upon me. Holding the energy of the room for a brief spell, a moment in time. Galvanized, I was the gatekeeper. The rivulet of words continued to sprint out of my mouth, in a marathon. Slow, I told myself. Breathe.  

The haze of faces blended together, like a foggy photo. I scanned across them, connecting with their eyes, but looking through them, like sun running through a window. 

The vessels of my heart were rapidly beating, but my demeanor was chill, the ultimate iceberg. 

Steering onwards to the end of my speech, I nearly tripped over a word but managed to keep my balance. Barely a drop spilt. 

Last words were shared, and applause and thank you’s followed. The next speaker took their place and began. 

As I listened, my nervous system was still in activation mode, yet to subside. The aftertaste was bitter. A salted caramel that was slightly burnt. An ephemeral feeling. Still lingering. Like a fan desperately waiting for an autograph. 

Later. Good job, nice one, colleagues said. I nodded, smiled and thanked them but the words had drifted into the distance, on a current of disconnection. 

Quickly, I fished out some mints from my desk drawer. Rattle. Click. Open. Click. Shut. Rattle as it shifted back amongst the random remnants. The mint slid on my tongue and dissolved. Better.  

My hands settled on my computer keyboard, like a pianist about to play. Pause.

In the search engine, I typed “Calming images” and selected one with a silhouette of Rangitoto Island surrounded by dawn light. 

I made it my desktop background. 

Headphones on. Their cozy cushioning compressed into my ears. I clicked play on a music track that was pre-paused mid-bridge. Let the lyrics sink in. I folded back into myself.  

                                                               *     *     *

Justene Musin’s writing has been published in Landfall, Quadrant, Colloquy, Snorkel, Ink In Thirds, 101 Words and Friday Flash Fiction. She also self-published a travel memoir, To Paris, Venice and Rome. Justene lives in Auckland, New Zealand.

By Amy Akiko

Our semidetached bricks have never felt the eroding pain of the ocean. Safely anchored on dry land. We yearn from different sides of the same car-lined pier, an unfair border painted down its centre, no 15-year-olds, (who want to be in love), may cross over, it warns, as if our parents have drawn it with their own hands. 

Escaping through bedroom windows, which feel like lifeboats, which have stared, like eyes, since we were knee-high, when you leapt from the boxy 90s Volvo, shoving your younger brother in the back, laughing as he tumbled to the shaved, yellow grass.  

The rushed crunch of our adolescent footsteps, undeterred by night’s chill, the earth spinning away from its star. Furling our purpled fingers around moonlit lapels. The blankets of our giggling breath warming our iced pipe bones, as our parents sleep, and we try to forget the strict lines and curves of their separating words. 

Cradling pieces of polished, jagged shore in our frozen palms, flinging it into the darkness, which sloshes before us, like a dangerous, unknown eternity. The further we throw, the closer our bodies feel, seeing how far away these nearby things can be propelled with such ease, at such speed, and here we are, still moored together, despite their, maybe when you’re 17 vagueness, which almost broke our hearts, as though we had forgotten that we were already loved. 

We only stop, briefly, when we notice her there. A middle-aged woman, camouflaged against the waves, in almost equal darkness. We watch her face begin to smile, as if she is remembering a different world. Eyes cracking into tall stacks of wood at their outer rims, the sunken, eye-lashed pits alighting with the matches of hope, of a burning desperation, and the memory of dry walls she wishes she could return to, but not alone, and the scent of Sundays, and her daughter’s 2nd birthday party when everyone was last together and cake was eaten without her eyes creating smaller, deeper oceans than the one that has tried to steal from her. 

“It’s not what you think,” she yells over, turning away from the violent water, which has given, but has taken nearly everything. “You don’t need to save me,” and we allow ourselves to believe her, letting the frothing mouth of waves swallow her down further. Their hungry bites against her meadowed dress, from another life. Against her raisin flesh, that was smooth when she last held the child she had birthed seven trips around the sun before. 

“I’m guiding her home,” she says, turning back towards her past, hoping there’s a chance it can be her future, even now. “One day, if I―” and her words are rolled away by the water’s clashing song. 

We pause, for a heartbeat, before plucking another pebble away from its mother stone, its brothers and its sisters, watching it drown, unable to contain our intertwined laughter, basking in each other’s condensed puffs, only seeing the face we’ve been forced to miss. 

We barely notice as the whole of her body turns to flames, above and beneath the waves, brighter than any sun; continuing to lob our stones, as she burns for a past life we’re so eager to toss away into the ocean. 

                                                                   *   *   *

Amy is an educator, artist and writer from South London. Her writing often focuses on the joy of love and the agony of love lost. Her short stories and poetry have appeared in East of the Web, The Tiger Moth Review, Cosmic Daffodil’s ebook ‘Natura’, Short Beasts, Litbreak, Isele Magazine and elsewhere.