By Deborah Douglas Wilbrink

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where will you cut it?”

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

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

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

*   *   *

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

By Constanza Baeza Valdenegro

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*   *   *

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

By Kate Niestrom

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

“How’d it go?” Trek finally asked. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                                                                     *   *   *

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

By Christopher J. Houston

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

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

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

“Multi-drug overdose.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

“She’s seizing,” said the nurse.

“Get someone in here. Now!”

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

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

I could do nothing but lie there, utterly terrified. 

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

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

“Now,” said the doctor. “We wait.”

*

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

“Poor prognosis,” announced the doctor.

My heart sank.

“What do we do now?” 

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

And that’s what I did. I waited.

*

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

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

What? No!

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

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

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

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

*

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

“All prepped?” said the doctor.

“Just about.” 

“Good. Let’s get this over with.”

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

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

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

“But shouldn’t we make sure?”

“It’s nothing. Forget about it.”

“But…”

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

The nurse sighed. “If you say so.”

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

This can’t be happening! 

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

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

But deep down, I knew that I would.

Somebody! Please. Say something!

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

I want to live. 

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

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

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

*   *   *

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

By Madelaine Zadik

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*   *   *

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

By Chris Cochran

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

*   *   *

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

By Mathieu Parsy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*    *   *

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

By Patrick Siniscalchi

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*   *   *

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

By Melissa Moschitto

It is early, she is tired and also over-heated, sweating under a knee-length wool coat. She carries with her a beat up manila folder filled with nearly identical packets of very important information from multiple schools. She does not, however, carry her travel mug of coffee, which is still on the kitchen counter at home. There are no other parents waiting in the hallway, which compounds her feelings of distress and disorientation. 

The Mother tries to explain to the woman at the front desk how she’d attempted to pre- register, but the form on the website refused to go through — it just kept re-directing her back, back, back to the homepage, an endless gaslighting loop. This is evidence, she thinks, of the public school system’s groaning bureaucracy. She pictures all of the teachers and staff and children at the school, crammed inside of an enormous wooden wheel, straining to push it forward, grinding forward in time, laboring to keep Education alive. 

Digging through her purse for her photo ID only produces wadded up tissues and wrappers from three different kinds of snack bars. 

“You’re not on the list,” says the front desk woman, who looks up at her without raising her head. 

Her folder drops to the floor and papers scatter across the hallway. Maybe she’s actually supposed to be at a different school tour. This alarms her. “What day is it?” she asks from a crawling position on the floor. 

“Your name has to be on the list,” is the reply. 

Is it possible that her daughter will not get into school because her mother couldn’t fill out a simple registration form? Is parental ineptitude considered in the lottery process? Parents can select up to a dozen potential schools on their application. Experts — parents of current kindergarteners — have emphasized that you must fill out all twelve slots or you might end up assigned someplace you didn’t choose, like that school seven blocks south with permanent scaffolding and no outdoor yard. Choice is important. Twelve little schools, all in a row, she hums to herself. 

Papers collected, the Mother stands, shifting back and forth like a see-saw at the front desk. She begins to wonder how she will manage to get her child to school on time every morning. Her child may fail kindergarten based on tardiness alone. Sweating in the wool coat and knock-off Burberry plaid scarf, she starts to slip it off, but sees a line of dried spit up running down the front of her rayon top. She quickly closes her coat. 

She is now ten minutes late for the tour.

“You’re ten minutes late for the tour,” the front desk woman says, a jarring echo. 

“I can catch up!” she offers too forcefully. 

Finally, front desk woman agrees that she is indeed someone’s mother, and sends her to catch up with the on-time parents-of-almost-five-year-olds. 

Each door along the hallway contains a narrow stripe of a window, offering a tantalizing split-second glimpse of classroom as she passes. When she arrives at her destination, she sees the teacher perfectly framed in the glass: round and soft, welcoming, a dark curly bob. Small children are bouncing around the Teacher like frenetic atoms orbiting a maternal nucleus: bubbly, precocious, oblivious. The Mother enters the room and without taking her eyes off of her atoms, the Teacher directs her to sit in a chair. Eager to comply, the Mother collapses into its squatness. There are no other parents here, only an assistant who wheels in a roll-y cart laden with trays of food. 

“Let’s have breakfast!” the Teacher sings. 

One by one, the children are presented with styrofoam bowls of warm oatmeal. The air smells of brown sugar. With a twinkle of excitement, the Teacher serves the Mother. 

The Mother hesitates. She feels she should decline the bowl of food, but also, she is hungry, having forgone breakfast in order to race to the school, only to be late for what may be her daughter’s future. She looks around, so alone. 

“Eat up!” The teacher commands.

The Mother obediently spoons oatmeal into her mouth. It is warm and creamy.

How good it feels to eat!

She exhales deeply. Her shoulders relax. Forgetting about the dried spit up and the wet 

underarms, she removes her bulky coat. The teacher rings a little bell and suddenly all the children swirl around. They jump and wiggle their way to the rug. She can smell their shampooed heads. She wants to nuzzle them. 

“We’re going to name the days of the week,” the Teacher announces, looking at her. 

The children sing a song about Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday, which the Mother remembers from her own school days. She begins to sing along, at first timidly and then with more confidence. Singing makes her take deeper breaths. Her chest expands and her cheeks flush with pleasure. 

How fun it is to sing! 

Just then, the Teacher reveals an enormous box of art supplies. “Look!” the Teacher croons, spilling out crayons onto the table. The children scramble to take fistfuls, so the Mother takes a fistful too. Together they draw swirls on the paper. Filling space with color makes her happy. 

“I’ve always wanted a friend,” says the Teacher, holding up a book. The Teacher has a lovely lilting voice and easily changes her pitch and timbre to create all the different voices of the different characters in her book. 

How pleasurable it is to be read to! 

Just as a little toy bear is getting a shoulder strap stitched back on, the Assistant lays out rows of blue mats around the room. The Mother chooses the spot in the corner by the window with the sun streaming through and the hissing radiator. She bundles her coat into a pillow and lies down. Her body is still and calm. Her eyelids are heavy. Her breathing becomes slow and measured. 

How wonderful it is to sleep! 

*   *   *

Melissa Moschitto (she/her) is a fiction writer and playwright. She is the Founding Artistic Director of The Anthropologists, a theatre company dedicated to the creation of investigative theatre that inspires action. Melissa holds a BA in Theater and English Literature from the University of Massachusetts, Amherst and is currently pursuing an MFA in Creative Writing from Cedar Crest College. She is the author of two published plays: Artemisia’s Intent and Give Us Bread. The mother of two dramatic children, she resides with her family in Upper Manhattan on the ancestral land of the Lenape. 

By Robin Herzog

That’s Frisco walking around the  convenience store, and that’s Dream Girl on the other side of the desert valley, mirroring him perfectly. Frisco’s head is split wide open by the way, for the millionth time. He’s working, so he’s been smoking, dreaming, drifting. He sees pink clouds that want to lure him far away, he sees the moon beyond the world. He sees what he wants to see.

Frisco’s at the Cefco just a couple of miles south of where he grew up in Waco, or in Alto or in Limbo. Whichever you prefer, he could care less. Frisco’s young but he’s decomposing nonetheless and might even have crossed the Styx a while back without taking notice. He doesn’t work the day shift anymore. He’d have to put up with actual work if he did, greeting people, being nice. Like a crazy person. Nine to five is a lesser life, he thinks he’s better off. Customers rarely come by. What’s left is quiet time. The stars outside twinkle in the millions but Frisco’s used to it, he misses all of them as he gets behind the register. They don’t matter to him. He’s looking out the window searching for something else, humming a nuevo western under his breath. And as luck would have it, he finds it, and the disgusting peels of life blow a thousand miles away. It’s Dream Girl, she’s just standing there looking at him, at least he thinks she is. Is she? Her silhouette is a stick girl over at Texaco. He likes it. It’s almost not real. Frisco then does what he always does when they’re working parallel shifts, he flashes the store’s exterior lights. One, two, three, four, not thirty seconds later she responds by flashing her store lights. By then he’s all carnival hot dogs and confetti inside. Fireworks explode in his heart. After that the whole desert valley goes dark. Not in a literal sense, but in Frisco’s mind it does. There is a blanket over Texas, there’s only him and her close together in a starry-skied cocoon above the ground, fingertips touching. Acknowledgement, calm, joy and togetherness wrapped in possibilities beyond crude matter. All he’s ever wanted. It’s all there in the back of Frisco’s head. But it’s out of reach to him, locked away, he cannot see it, smell it nor speak of it. It’s too off course and too unlikely for him to comprehend. The blanket is pulled away. The cocoon shatters and the world returns. All that Frisco’s left with is a cloudy joy as he heads to the car wash. Although it’s not the same exact Frisco from a minute ago. On site he locks up the building in a stunning maneuver, work discipline suddenly in abundance. He doesn’t ponder upon it. He who knows who he is and what he does. He who knows what life is.

Frisco breathes the desert air that smells of cotton candy and watches the dancing moths that have turned into silver butterflies in the blueish lamp post light. But he will never ask himself why he stops to look at them while he is truly happy. Although in thirty minutes, on the drive home, he’ll be chasing his demons yet again as he still hasn’t approached Stick Girl after all their nights together. Frisco never gets the phrasing right so he has yet to walk over there. He looks across the valley again, but she’s out of sight, stacking bags of chips. Everything remains the same.

A little further south, still in viewing distance from Cefco, the Rio Minimale flows purple and honeylike and the moon is a big yellow saucepan. There have been a thousand nights like this one but there’s still something in the air. Smoking, quitting time and Shadow Girl, they’re what make it so, Frisco thinks, still in a good mood for a little while longer. They’re what it takes, he believes, as he walks back to the store to the sound of his footsteps and the chirping crickets. But it’s not the whole truth. Frisco doesn’t know it, but they wouldn’t mean all that much without the flashing of the store’s lights. He just did it one day. And then she did too. And now they just do it. Frisco doesn’t even know why. It’s not to say hi, they could wave, and it’s not to flirt, how could it be? It’s something else. It’s been on the tip of his tongue for an eternity, it feels like a promise, but is it? All he knows is that it’s important to him beyond reason. But if he knew why, he’d lose it forever.

*   *   *

Robin Herzog is a Swedish writer whose short stories belong to literary fiction. They are often set in the style of magical realism and his work has appeared in Clackamas Literary Review, The Quiet Reader and Roi Fainéant Press. Robin lives in Stockholm, Sweden, he has a BA degree in Journalism and is currently writing a short story collection. He aspires to take readers on journeys far from the everyday.

writer@robinherzog.com