By Kip Knott

The newspaper says you died three days ago. The newspaper says there will be no funeral. The newspaper says not to send flowers. The newspaper says nothing about me. The newspaper says nothing about the child we lost. The newspaper says nothing about our bittersweet life together. The newspaper says there are no survivors.

                                                                 *    *    *

Kip Knott is a writer, poet, photographer, and part-time art dealer living in Ohio. His writing has been included in Best Microfiction 2024 and The Wigleaf Top 50. His new book of stories, Family Haunts, is available from Louisiana Literature Press.

Creative Nonfiction by Saturn

A few months ago, I was in one of those precarious on-the-edge-of-a-knife situations with my best friend where you’re not entirely sure where you stand or where to go. I felt wronged by things that didn’t happen because I tend to turn emotion into memory, and she felt wronged by aspects of my personality that at the time, I wasn’t sure how to change.

My best friend was lovely. Like the sun given form and body and being. And she made me feel like one of those planets, warmed and comforted in a way that I had never felt before. I won’t say that I was, or am, in love with her, but that’s the best way to describe it. I wanted to spend every moment with her and perhaps that is unhealthy or unwanted, but I hadn’t known that at the time and she acted and felt the same, so I didn’t think to change.

We were, and are, planning to go to different colleges on either side of the country (her West coast, me East) and so I knew that yes, I would eventually have to give her up, or else substitute our weekly coffees with Facetimes or Skypes, but I thought that I would get the four years of high school with her and the summer before we both left, for the two of us.

I feel that I must point out that we’ve never kissed. Neither of us are the type to kiss our friends “just to see” and we never spoke of it. I am not sure if she ever thought of it, but I’ve had many crushes and many loves throughout our friendship and so if she had, she probably never seriously considered it.

I’ve written eleven poems for her. More than any of my romantic loves; more than I’ve written for anyone else combined, I’m sure. I tend to write about arbitrary things rather than people, but she was the one I felt comfortable writing about and to. She’s never seen or read any of them and perhaps that’s where I went wrong. Maybe showing her the way in which I loved her would have helped.

I also feel the need to point out that while I do miss her and our friendship, having time apart has opened my eyes and stripped me of my rose-colored glasses. We were not healthy, and while I wish that we were, wishing does not turn back time or heal wounds.

 So let me set the scene of the ending of a love. We were both sophomores, and while we aren’t anymore, it oftentimes feels like we still are. It was a few weeks before our final exams and perhaps the stress and weight of taking college classes early got to the both of us, but we had both been volatile to one another. This had happened before and so I assumed that it would pass, and we would apologize or otherwise pretend it had never happened. But I guess after enough bitter remarks and questioning everything that the other said from both sides wears on a person.

I am a jealous person. I know this now, and I’d like to think that I knew it then; I am deeply possessive of the people around me. “Me and mine” as I like to say. It’s safe to say that I considered her one of my many loves, and with that comes my jealousy. I’d be upset when she hung out with other people, especially when it happened to be activities we said we’d do together. Showing other people ‘our’ coffee shop, going to a movie we had talked about with someone else, etcetera. You get the picture – this is one of the many things that tore us apart. Ripped the seams where our lives had lined up. I was too jealous; she didn’t, or couldn’t, care enough.

While she was light given form; an angel upon this earth that I was lucky enough to briefly touch, she was not without her own faults. All angels fall after all. She had to fall to end up here. She was not able to provide me with the support I needed: at the time, I had thought that no one could. It’s been a year however and I can easily and truthfully say that this is incorrect. I have new me and mine, and they provide me with a sort of love and light I had never thought possible.

I have highs and lows. The highs, brief and bright, create a light that guides my feet on the path of my life–stars maybe. The contrary–those lows–I lash out. I rot and suffer and spread that suffering to those around me. During those lows, I need someone to reach out; I’ve been told that it’s easy to see when I need that. I stop replying, I’m asleep more often than not, my grades start to slip. That’s what depression does. That’s what depression is. It is numb and cold, the dark side of the moon.

She didn’t know how to do that; or more likely, didn’t want to. She has always had an issue with following through, and with me it was no different. Plans, schoolwork, savings, and then love. Two years of friendship wasn’t enough to convince her to stay. We both had issues. The difference, unfortunately, is that I was able to communicate my needs– she wasn’t. Miscommunication, or no communication at all, leads to ripped seams and broken hearts. She let her anger with me consume her; I was none the wiser that she was at all upset.

So, I suppose my poetry will sit dusty in their docs and my memories will continue to be a little too sharp for me to ever share outside of this essay. I see her in the hallways and in the common spaces, but I don’t think I’ll ever talk to her again. We hurt each other too much; we are both too stubborn to ever apologize. She will fly West, and I will stay where I am: stagnant and wingless.

                                                                   *   *   *

Saturn is a queer and trans writer. Their work explores themes of identity, loss, and belonging, often drawing from  personal experiences. With a passion for essays, poetry, and fiction, they seek to connect with readers through raw and honest storytelling. Though still early in their writing journey, Saturn is eager to share their voice and perspective with the world. Their work has been featured in local literary journals, and they are currently pursuing further opportunities to expand their craft.

‘

By Nisha Shirali

The old woman at the school playground smiles at my toddler son, Elijah, as she hobbles down the track on her walker. She speaks in a foreign language and points with delight toward his sandcastle.  

She’s rewarded with a giggle from my son, who doesn’t understand her words but feels the affection. Elijah’s health is in a perpetual state of uncertainty, and it’s the first moment of lightness we’ve had all week. I feel my heart relax in the woman’s presence.

When she hobbles away, Elijah follows her and tugs at her knee-length cream dress. He opens his hand to show off a treasure, probably part of his extensive rock collection. She takes the rock and leaves him with a broad smile on his cherubic face.

I feel the urge to know more about her. The moment is slipping away from me. I ignore decorum and jog up to her. 

“I’m Kira. What’s your name?” I ask.

“Isabelle,” she says.

Our broken language conversation reveals she lives nearby and has three sons and four grandchildren.

“Do you see them often?” I ask.

“Sometimes,” she says, blue eyes turning glassy.

A few seconds of silence pass. Elijah busies himself with playing with the edges of her dress, which she doesn’t seem to mind.

“I don’t have any family around,” I blurt. “It’s just the two of us.”

“Oh, sweetheart. I love you,” she says. Her eyes are kind, and she reminds me of my late grandmother.

It might be the language barrier that causes her to say these intimate words with such ease, but I cling to them like a shipwreck survivor.

She begins to plod away, and I’m struck with fear that I may never see her again. My son tugs on my shirt, eyes wide and eyebrows knotted together—he shares my trepidation.

I catch up to her again. Her eyes wrinkle at the corners and her mouth upturns.

“Hello, dear.”

“Can I… have your number?” I ask, like a nervous teenager in high school.

We exchange numbers, and my heart is full as I leave the playground.

That night, Elijah has a seizure, and I rush him to the hospital. I’m overwhelmed by the new medications added to my existing list and the myriad of tests required for a diagnosis.

When we return home, loneliness creeps over me along with the dark. Elijah’s dad and I separated two years ago, and I haven’t let anyone back into my life since. 

After putting my son to bed, I fill a glass with red wine and pad into the living room to watch a movie I’ve watched many times before.

My phone rings and I pick up without looking. A honeyed, delicate voice comes through.

“Hello?”

Hope swells in my chest.

“Is this Isabelle?” I ask.

“It is and who’s this? I saw your number on my phone but couldn’t remember whom it belonged to.”

“Kira? Elijah’s mom? We met at the playground.” I’m desperate for her to remember us. Everyone else forgets.

“Ah, yes, I remember,” she says. My shoulders slump with relief. “Are you coming to the playground again today?”

“Not today. Maybe tomorrow?”

“Alright, dear. I love you.”

                                                                   *   *   *

Nisha Shirali is a writer, policy analyst and mom of three boys based in Ontario. Her work has appeared in Brilliant Flash Fiction, Litbreak Magazine and Flash Fiction Magazine. She can be found at www.nishashirali.com.

By Mary Anne Griffiths

She walks around the makeup department looking as if she knows what she’s doing, smearing a foundation or lipstick sample on the top of her hand, moving it around under the lights to appear as if she is considering this shade or that.  There are so many options, products, none of which she understands.

“Can I help you?”

The store clerk seemed to come out of nowhere.  Who knows how long she stood there watching, suspicion building.  What if she thinks I’m shoplifting?

Umm, no.  Thank you.”  She places a mascara wand back on its display hook.  

“I can help with color matching.  If you have any questions, I’m at the front.”  She cocks her thumb behind her brassy blonde head then returns to her seat behind the cash register.  She  begins filing her nails.

Why did she say that?  She’s watching me, that’s for sure.  She grabs a few things—bright pink lipstick, the cheapest bottle of foundation.  She decides to unhook the mascara and carry all of it to the register.  

“Hmmmm.  That’s an interesting shade of pink, eh?   That’ll be $39.76.”  While the items are being bagged, she inserts the debit card trying to remember her PIN.  Raw panic starts to seep in and she tries to disguise her trembling finger punching in the memorized number.  The clerk staples the receipt to the bag.  

She turns and rushes out of the store.  She can feel the clerk’s eyes boring into her back.  Everyone seems to be watching her.  On her way out, her shoulder catches another shopper who growls under their breath at her.  She finally reaches her car and slips into the driver’s seat.  She takes off the wig and undoes the overstuffed bra.

Breathe.  In and out.  Calmly.  It’s okay.

He starts the car and heads home.

*   *   *

Mary Anne Griffiths (she/her) is a poet and fiction writer living in Ingersoll, Ontario, Canada.  She shares space with a husband, a tortie and tuxie.

A memoir by Blaire Baron

The wise ones warned me not to search for my birth mother. But it was something I couldn’t control. I wanted this stranger to somehow see me and be the one to fix my pain.  She did. She saw me. Right before passing out on her tile floor. That fateful night ended with alcohol poisoning—not hers.

My lifelong wish of a perfect reunion did not come true. She kept on drinking. Every time I tried to give her another chance it got worse. So I gave up on my birth mother…sort of. 

For the next twenty years, I hopped on a merry go round of seeking my imaginary mother out in unavailable people (unavailable =  code for drunks). And then I hit the jackpot. The heavens opened! This hostage I found was mightier in his addictions then all his predecessors combined. When he saw me and hugged me and said, 

“You’re all that was missing. I’ll never drink again…” 

I made him the father of my children. Happy endings exist, even for me! We set out on a new sober life, both free from our addictions to people, places, things. We had a new freedom and a new hope and a new toaster and we knew that all the answers lied in each other. As long as we only followed the instruction manual called: Just Copy The Normal People. 

By copying the normal people we were able to pass in the world. Two babies, marriage, recipes, home repairs, Christmas, Halloween, parenting, taxes. While down this portal of “Normal” we ignored one thing: us. Normal was suffocating for people like us. We struggled for air. To survive Normal, we had to put on supplemental gear. Even spacesuits. Because Normal is truly like another planet. 

The distilled air of Normal bit our lungs. We hid our faces and hoped not to be discovered for the aliens we were. I subsisted on serial smiling while Normal snipped away at my sanity. Smiling is not sustainable. Misery made its way in and we felt like frauds. Something had to give. And it was me.

I snapped, but it was a walking snap, a functioning breakdown. I soldiered on, the real me gone. I dared not say it out loud, “I’m unhappy.” I was fighting to keep my unhappiness a secret. I didn’t know I had an option to get off the merry go round. I carried on in my walking breakdown, faking it until I made it, gulping caffeine and smiling through uncried tears. Genuine fights ended and a smoldering silence became the background noise in our Normal home.

December 12. Dawn. I stared at the ceiling with wide eyes and a feeling. While the children slept, snug under flannel, I wandered outside into fog. 

My feet curled over freezing stones as I crept behind the house toward the shed. Dumb All Over got loud all over. Light from under the door. He’s in that shed. One yank, one pull. So easy to enter hell. 

The demon looked over at me from inside his eyes. The twinkle was clear. “Game on. He’s mine.” 

So this is it. This is how it’s going to be. The future flashed. Our kids. The things we built. Trust. Heaven closed, happy endings not for me. Game over. I didn’t cure this malady. Space suits gone—never to survive the long haul of Planet Normal. 

I went to Alanon meetings for “my problem.” I only saw more Normal to copy, more adjustments to make. They told me his drinking was his business. It was another language. Another planet to try.

“You can be happy whether the alcoholic is drinking or not,” the virtuous promise, everyone nodding like bobble heads from the back of a car, with wise hindsight. Uh huh. And what language are you speaking? Did you just say I can be happy living with a madman? But I tried. I needed to succeed at this new game or perish. I tried this new way, called 

You Can Be Happy No Matter What.

But I’m no zombie. One April 6th, we were sitting in the park. My son Liam had a birthday gift for Daddy in his lap, tied in a crooked red bow. Daddy taught him how to tie shoes and bows. He looks right, looks left, over and over. Daddy’s late but he’ll sit here and wait. Waited. Waited. Like me, he won’t let go. No one came. Will this be a lifelong stamp on his memory? Is it the last straw for him or will there be a hundred more straws? He’s too young to know the World of Last Straws. But it was mine. 

Nine months passed. I rose up and turned our lives into something new. A different house, into a different block. My children and I found joy in small things and big things. I stopped fixing what refused to be fixed. Daddy was somewhere not here, not dead and not alive. We grew accustomed to the peace…sort of. When the phone rang, we still jumped. The background noise was still the dread over our loved one. But we determined to be in the land of the living, yet without copying normal. We didn’t react to the sympathy of “intact” families. We were fine. We were us.

I dropped the kids at school and wandered in a typical Tuesday trance to Trader Joe’s. The security guard clocked my baggy clothes and messy hair and I perceived people staring as if my limp scared them. It was just residual pain from the pan I dropped on my toe last night. I was in the pasta aisle when my cell vibrated. It’s been days since “Daddy” called. 

“…I’m gonna find a bridge…tell the kids I love them, please tell them I’m so sorry, tell ‘em don’t be like me but don’t let ‘em forget me…pancakes on Saturdays…it’s gotta end, finding a bridge…”

Calls like this have come before but never about a bridge. Never about this. He might be really jumping…I dialed 911. 

“What’s the nature of your emergency?” 

“ 51-50. My husband, he’s threatening to jump off a bridge.” 

“Where is he now ma’am?” 

“I don’t know, can you call his number and trace it? 

“No. Where do you think he is ma’am?”

“I don’t know! Can you trace his phone?”

They can’t. I babbled to the dispatch operator, and I told her his name. Then it got strange. She said my name. 

The dispatch operator said my name. She said my name after I told her his name. Then she said her name and it got weirder. 

“It’s Janelle!”

“Janelle? Wait, Janelle? From the block?”

Janelle was his childhood friend. The oldest friend he had. She grew up two doors down on Longwood. Janelle had become a dispatch operator. 

Out of all the 911 calls in that moment in Los Angeles, Janelle answered this one.

“I’ll call him on my cell. I’ll keep him on the phone. I know how to talk to him.”

I stood in the ice cream section forever. I was just as frozen as those fruit popsicles. Finally, Janelle called. She got him to disclose his location and she sent a squad car and ambulance. Janelle knew the buttons in him I couldn’t reach. She knew his mother, his programming, his damage. She was there. She reminded him that his babies needed their dad, the way he needed his dad. She told him, hang on…and he did.

I drove to a hotel on Beverly across from Erewhon Market. I felt out of my body as I parked across the street. The old me would have raced over and centered myself in the middle of it. But I found myself leaning against the wall of Erewhon market, holding back. Not running over to the small hotel across the street. I never noticed that hotel before. 

The medics and cops arrived. I watched them go in and come out with him. I watched his body bend into the backseat, compliant. I didn’t cross the street. I got in my car and drove home and took a shower and fixed my hair and taped my sore toe. He didn’t even know I had been there.

It’s been a decade since the 911 call. I called Janelle recently and I told her I was glad she became a dispatch operator. The day she answered my call changed my life: I don’t drink poison from other people’s glasses. I don’t need to be all anyone ever needs. I broke that vow with myself that day. 

Truth be told, Janelle saved four lives that day. She saved my whole family.

Author postscript: After many more near death experiences, he is clean and sober today. We continue to live a wonderful abnormal life. And Janelle is in that life.

*   *   *

Blaire Baron is an award-winning director, playwright, and writer. Her play, Gentry of Essex was performed at Powerstories Playwrights Festival ’23. Her play, Milk Meetings won Outstanding Achievement in Playwriting at The Ophelia (NYC) and an encore run at Studio C, Los Angeles. Her play, Unspoken won Best of Fringe, Hollywood. Recipient of PBS Community Champion Award for her work with youth and Shakespeare. She is presently launching a playwriting program at American Shakespeare Center. And has directed youth in Kenya, Botswana and Guanajuato. Her other work is published in Amazine, Flash Fiction Magazine, Mental Health Anthology, and others.

By Sam Moe

He grabs and his arms are unmovable and nothing you say matters, not don’t or stop or can we just eat the pasta on the stove, leave me alone, there is another man seated on the couch. He witnesses. He looks at his phone and does not comment. The third and fourth are in the bedroom and soon, so are you. Your neck is a red smudge. The room is navy but, in the past, it was well lit. Your therapist later tells you this is common. The sky hides itself behind a sheet of clouds. A lamb returns to its farmer hours after it has been slaughtered. Bright honey eyes and starving for the evening to go differently. Perhaps it’s a little tired of pretending there doesn’t lurk a scissor within its jaw and maybe a little bit of its heart thrums to the concept of revenge, besides, who understands hunger like the farmer, certainly not his siblings or friends who will hear these stories, but does anyone understand? They leave with memories of witnessing. They leave shadows in their wake, cracks in the wall in the shape of impact, snakeskin in the valley and a grieving bowl of shredded fur. That night, he looks away from you even though he knows. And the wind wraps the house in a foamy gauze. And the mice, small like blood cells, crawl to the forest. Cars are stripped of their paint. Someone called you a sample, like a hair follicle collected in a testing tube or the first few seconds of an opera. Upon returning home, your partner comments you are the way you used to be. Fracturing at the thought of being physical. You remind him of the last time you went to the farm. Oh, he says. Then the two of you lay in the dark and listen to plush snow tossing its feathers against the window.

*   *   *

Sam Moe is the author of six books of poetry. Her most recent collection, RED HALCYON, is forthcoming from Querencia Press in 2026. Her debut short story collection, I MIGHT TRUST YOU, is forthcoming from Experiments in Fiction in Spring 2025. She has attended the Sewanee Writers’ Conference and received fellowships from the Longleaf Writer’s conference and the Key West Literary Seminar. Sam has also received writing residencies from The Writers’ Colony at Dairy Hollow and Château d’Orquevau.

By Melissa Jornd

Frank stands inside the dispensary while a scruffy man with a ginger beard and pin-filled lanyard explains the different options, from oils and resin to drinks and cookies — “Cookies?” A memory flits through his brain, of Cindy and him in Argentina, stopping at corner cafes, feeding each other pan dulce before heading to the beach she found, Playa Escondida, bathing suits optional. He remembers gaping when she unclasped her top, smirking, sunlight glinting off her breasts.

Those perky breasts he loved, now traitors.

Focus.

 “Do you have alfajores?” He receives a blank stare.

“Uh…no.”

“How about macarons?” He thinks of their trip to France, climbing the Eiffel Tower, Cindy’s hand pressed against her chest, believing it was the exertion and European air causing her pains.

Ginger Beard looks at Frank for a moment. “Would cannabutter work? You could make your…things.”

Frank picks up two tubs of butter and a hemp lotion, still in slight disbelief. Twenty years ago, he stood in front of wide-eyed schoolchildren preaching the dangers of drugs. Now he’s purchasing them, in a desperate bid to minimize Cindy’s pain, even though he knows it won’t cure her. Caught too late, the doctors said sadly in the hallway, before signing off on her returning home for the time she has left.

At the register, he hands Ginger Beard a stack of twenties. 

“Have a nice day!” He chirps as Frank leaves. Frank tries to smile back, but isn’t sure he succeeds.

*

 The walkie-talkie crackles as Frank desperately stirs the dulce de leche. At least the shortbread was straightforward, although some are more burnt-brown than weed-green.

“Cindy wants to know if you’re burning the house down,” Nurse No-Nonsense asks.

“I’m baking,” he growls, sweating over the stove.

There’s no response, but Frank can sense Cindy’s amusement from the bedroom.

When No-Nonsense takes Cindy for her stroll, he rearranges the room with all their Argentina mementos, the alfajores on her nightstand between the pill bottles.

Cindy brightens when she returns. “What’s this?” she asks.

“Bienvenidos a Argentina,” he has a horrible Spanish accent, and Cindy gives a weak laugh. He explains the cookies, fusing past and present. There’s a sadness in her eyes as she eats one. 

“I’m sorry we couldn’t finish our adventures,” Cindy says in a faint voice. Frank wipes her tears, leaving his palm on her cheek.

“You are my adventure,” he replies.

She entwines her hand with his: one translucent and trembling, one calloused and olive.

To him, they’re still a perfect match.  

They lay on the bed, recounting their favorite Argentina memories. After about an hour, Cindy lifts her head.

“I’m feeling…better?” Cindy seems surprised; Frank is too. And he knows in that moment he’ll buy the entire dispensary to help her feel like herself for even one more day. They both look at the cookies in wonder.

“Where are we going tomorrow?” Cindy asks, snuggling into Frank.

“Wherever you want. I’ll bake you the world.”

                                                                  *   *   *

Melissa Jornd is a Midwest gal with mountain dreams, whose stories have appeared in Crepuscular Magazine, Witcraft, 101 Words and more. She has won the Gold Scribes Prize and placed in contests from NYCMidnight, Flash Fiction Magazine, and Writer’s Weekly. When she’s not pushing against contest deadlines, you’ll find her frolicking through nature, trying to master new hobbies in under an hour, or force-cuddling her two cats, Charlie and Minnie.

By Kelleigh Cram

I see you, yes you, sitting upside down in the right-hand corner of my shower ceiling. You appear large, quarter-sized, but that could just be the shadows stretching over the curtain playing tricks on me. 

Yes, I am afraid. You are too high for me to reach with a shoe and brushing you down with a broom would be too risky, the chance of you landing on my face or disappearing into a crack in the tub. 

So you will just remain here, like me.

Today, if you are wondering, was not a good day. I fancied a walk, just a quick trip around the neighborhood, but there were so many people out there, with their kids and dogs and the threat of causal conversation hovering over their lips as I passed. I couldn’t wait to get back here to wash away the experience. 

Well, this has been nice, talking with you. Please don’t roam the house while I sleep or invite your friends over for a slumber party. Do you have friends? Are they all spiders, like you, or are some of them reptilian? I can see it now, spiders swaying on swing sets of silk, frogs hopping on webbed trampolines. Yes, that would be quite a sight. What was that there, the twitch of your leg? You want to have a dance party. Very well, just make sure the others are gone and the house is clean before I wake. 

*

Day two, and you haven’t moved. Are you dead? I hope you are dead, so I won’t have to kill you later. But that would mean I have been talking to myself this whole time. 

Today I must run an errand, go into town to pay a bill. The drive I dread, all those cars with impatient drivers rushing and honking at me. And God-forbid their waiting room is full again. I wish I could just stay here, where it is safe and quiet. Where I can be alone, just me and you.

Hey, I have an idea. Why don’t you come with me? You can ride in the car, on the dash or the roof or floorboard, wherever you like. You could even come inside, perched on my shoulder like a parrot. I know, I know, someone could see you and speak to me, point out the spider on my shirt. But I think that would be okay, as long as you are with me. Yes, I will be okay. Please, will you come? I am getting out now, so climb down if you are going. 

No? That’s okay, my feelings aren’t hurt. You are probably dead anyway. 

*

Yesterday was hard. Impossible even, all by myself. You should have been there. A truck rode my bumper the whole way, its angry headlights shouting into my rearview mirror despite it being broad daylight. And don’t get me started on what happened once I got inside. The woman’s greeting, a chipper ‘how are you,’ to which I responded with a punctuating grunt, a period to declare the conversation over.

But she did it anyway, can you believe it? She asked about Mary.

Mary used to do these things, run errands and talk to people. Since she left, those responsibilities have fallen to me. She would have made me kill you, you know. 

Did you feel that? The water pressure just increased, only for a moment before going back to normal. Hold on, there it is again. 

It is her, shrieking. Shrieking with fear of you, shrieking the only way a ghost can, telling me to kill you and get you out of our home.

So sorry, but I must do as she asks. Maybe she is just waiting for you to be gone so she can return. Nothing personal, and don’t worry, it will be quick. Painless. Just be still, I will get the broom.

You moved. 

So you are alive, and you can hear me. You even understand me. 

Wait, I didn’t mean it. I won’t kill you. You can live here with free range of the house and everything in it. I will put on some music; do you like Jazz? No, you are a techno guy, something upbeat you can tap all those legs to. The kind for dancing with the heavy bass, what the kids play in their cars that makes the windows shake. I will dance with you, if you like. Mary made us take lessons for our wedding, and now I’m glad she did. Let me get the radio. Invite your friends. Snakes, pigs, even tigers for all I care. 

Where are you?

We don’t have to party, if you aren’t up for it. You like to weave, and I can use Mary’s yarn and needle to make something of my own. I will make them in all colors, webs of red, green, and purple hung in every corner of the house. We can even tape flies in them, if it would make you feel more at home. I have some of those plug-in traps; easy meals on me, if you stay.

Don’t worry about Mary. She will come to like you, in time. You will be like the son we never had.

But only if you come back. Please don’t leave me here alone.

*   *   *

Kelleigh Cram resides in a small town near Savannah, Georgia. Her work has been featured or is upcoming in Ponder Review, DarkWinter, and Right Hand Pointing.

By Jim Harrington

Spring was Ella’s favorite time. The birds returned from their winter vacation, filling the air with music, while colorful foliage blossomed in barren trees. But this year was different. This year her wedding occupied every minute of free time. Sometimes more, depending on what crusade her mother was on to make everything perfect. Today was the caterer’s turn for last minute instructions.

“Hey, Mom,” Ella said, looking at her watch. “I’m going to the church to make sure everything’s set for tonight’s rehearsal.”

“Okay, Hon, I’ll be over shortly.”

“No hurry. Take your time.” Please.

Ella arrived early for her appointment with the minister. She smelled it first, then saw the smoke coming from behind the church.

She parked along the street, so as not to block the fire truck. Sirens announced their impending arrival. She raced down the driveway and saw someone in a dark hoodie and jeans run into the woods.

Ella followed not thinking about what might happen next.

Ahead she saw the person look back and trip on an exposed root. Ella reached the arsonist, pulled off the hoodie, and was surprised to see someone she thought she knew.

“Andrea?” Ella said to her Maid of Honor. “What are you doing?”

“Stopping your wedding. I hope.” Andrea tried to get up. Ella pushed her down, anger spreading through her limbs like an unattended wildfire.

“I…I thought we were friends. Why would you want to stop it?”

“Because I saw Tom first. I’m the one who introduced you two. Remember? I should be the one getting married.”

Ella sat for a long time, watching the branches waltz in the treetops. Finally, she opened the top buttons of her blouse, turned so her back faced Andrea, and exposed the belt lashes inflicted when Tom arrived home early last night and dinner wasn’t ready.

Pulling off her engagement ring and handing it to Andrea, Ella said “You can have him.” 

Ella walked back to her car with a purpose. She took a few deep breaths, allowing her body to release the tension that had built up over the past weeks. Her suitcase was in the trunk ready for the honeymoon trip. She’d heard Portland was nice this time of year.

                                                               *    *    *

Jim Harrington lives in Huntersville, NC, with his wife and two dogs. His stories have appeared in The Yard, Short-Story.me, Ariel Chart, Spank The Carp, Flash Fiction Magazine, and others. More of his works can be found at https://jpharrington.blogspot.com.

By Madeline Torbenson

I went down to the river to pray because that seemed the thing to do. Luna finds a half-submerged rabbit possum squirrel or something. I can’t smell it, so I figure it’s safe for her to chew on. The river sucks bones dry until they are just bones. The day is a stout careless blue, and I keep forgetting that I’m supposed to be praying. Luna is chewing, the water is chattering and bright with sun, and I keep losing my place. How must it feel to come too late to be best loved? Luna is twelve years old, and the cat is five. The cat never got a name. Meow cat stripey cat fat cat here kitty kitty we call him, and pick him up and feel his pink toes and pat his head. Then we put him down and go inside where we all live and Luna lives but the cat does not live. I remember I am supposed to be praying. What is there to do? I ask. In the school library I could check out Frog and Toad, The Velveteen Rabbit. I learned to bake raspberry thumbprint cookies. I rented Twilight, though I’ve already seen it. I bought paints on Amazon when I wanted to paint, I applied to jobs I was not qualified for. Now I am haunted by love that is not there. I am a cat with no name. How do I unhaunt myself? The river is taking too long to carry away this ghost. It chokes me to want quietly, inactively. Like a dog to its sick, like licking a wound, I choke. Luna keeps chewing. The river slides softly by.

*   *   *

Madeline Torbenson is a first-year medical student who lives by a river and enjoys hanging out with her dog.