By Michael De Rosa

One Friday morning, as I walked in Manhattan’s Upper Eastside along Madison Avenue to my subway entrance at 72nd St. As I had countless times, always too distracted to pay attention to passing stores, I found myself drawn to a store. As a card-carrying member of the International Society of Refrigerator Magnet Collectors, surprise did not do justice to my reaction when I saw its sign — “Magnets”—made from thousands of refrigerator magnets glued together. I had no choice. I went in, almost trembling with excitement. Who wouldn’t?

Inside, the tall, skinny clerk, face hidden by shadows, nodded as I entered. The walls, a higgly piggly arrangement of tacky magnets, seemed to go on forever. I stopped to look at the same magnet I had bought in Ouagadougou. When I glanced back, others replaced it from West Africa. Were they moving? Further ahead, a Neon sign I had not noticed before flashed “Bespoke Magnets” in crimson red.

Walking toward the Neon sign, I noticed a light sweet smell in the air. Now on the walls, I saw the unique magnets I had dreamed of bringing back from my travels, each an original artwork to be proudly displayed on a lucky fridge: the letters of Tanzania, a mosaic made from different shades of Tanzanite, tiny pearls or shells adorned those from Islands in the South Pacific; Hawaii’s was a small quilt stitched together from Aloha shirts.

I fell in love with a magnet from Hokkaido, Japan. In relief, a Steller’s sea eagle soared over a turbulent blue, foam-flecked sea. Individual feathers delicately carved, its bright yellow bill and talons glowing in the dim light. I had to have it, but it stuck to the wall, and I could not pull it off. I called the clerk over, his aquiline nose peering out from what looked like a hood. He effortlessly took it off and placed it in my hands. We walked to the counter. I was nearly in a trance as I paid hundreds of dollars for a 2×3 magnet. As I turned to leave with my treasure, he told me, “I have several other collections of interest.” I knew he was trying to upsell me, and hooked; I followed his lead.

We stopped at an alcove separated from the main showroom with a black beaded curtain, making it almost invisible to the casual visitor. Pressing a switch, “Ancient Places” glowed in dim purple light. Parting the long strings of beads, he went in, and I followed. Inside, a dazzling display of magnets from places whose ruins I had walked through, read about, and wondered how it would feel to be there in their glory days. I recognized the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World, their labels in scripts I could not read: hieroglyphs for the Great Pyramid of Giza, cuneiform for the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, and Greek letters spelled out those from Ancient Greece. Puzzled. Whose refrigerators were they made to grace? In his unplaceable accent, before I could ask my question, he said, “Don’t get too close,” in a warning tone. I didn’t heed his advice.

Spotting a magnet of the Mayan City of Tikal, whose ruins in Guatemala I had visited, the central plaza was in miniature in all its glory. What I had seen before was now transformed into a riot of color. I got closer for a better look, but I was too close. As I peered at the magnet, it became a small window through which I could see tiny figures moving. I felt a wave of vertigo; a gentle tug brought me back into the showroom. Was it possible that what I thought of as magnets were portals into ancient worlds? He saw my pupils dilate with my thoughts of trying to find out, detoured me again, telling me they were experimental, not yet ready for sale. He led me farther into the store than possible for the NYC store size. As we walked, the only sounds were our footsteps, and the perfume in the air got stronger.

This section was even darker than the rest of the store. Finally, we came to another sign: “THE COSMOS.” He pressed a panel with his boney palm, and what looked like an airlock opened. A slight breeze, scented by a familiar sweet smell, wafted out. I turned with a questioning look, and he said, “Ethyl formate, the smell of raspberries and interstellar space.” He led me in. Before he closed us in, he warned me again as the airlock clicked shut, “Don’t get too close,” and added cryptically, “Beware of gravity.” Gravity?

Inside, there were no walls. Instead, magnets, or what I took to be magnets, floated, spotlighted against the gloom — almost as if they were dancing in the presence of magnetic fields. I could make out the glowing astral bodies they celebrated even from a distance. In one corner were our eight planets, each in its magnet orbiting a giant sun magnet. Was it my imagination, or was Pluto trying to rejoin his larger siblings — completing my childhood Solar System? Others featured constellations. As I watched stars morph into the shapes, we imagine them to be, Virgo, my zodiac sign, turned into a portrait painted by a Renaissance Master. More exciting, others were of spiral galaxies, globular clusters, planetary nebulas, and the Magellanic Clouds.

As I approached, trying to stay safe, I saw some objects remembered from my college astro class: The Crab Nebula, Andromeda’s Spiral galaxy, and one that looked like the Milky Way but as seen from outside our galaxy. Then out of the corner of my eye, I saw an orange-yellow ring as hypnotic as the Eye of Sauron — a Black Hole. I found myself walking faster and faster, almost running toward the Black Hole.

My last memory is of the clerk leaping to try and stop me.

I awoke sprawled face down, with carpet pile tickling my nose. Light filtering from the storefront window told me it was early morning. As I tried to get up, a strong skeletal hand reached out to help and led me to a waiting chair. Had the clerk been waiting for me? He handed me a mug of hot tea. I gulped down the sweet brew as its warmth suffused my body. I slowly came back to consciousness. Touching my face, I found I had a stubble. I had not shaved in a couple of days. Puzzled, but once the clerk saw I could stand and walk, he handed me a small bag with my eagle magnet. And without a word, he escorted me out of the store.

I slowly walked home, shaved, and showered. When I looked at my alarm clock, it was two days since I had gone to work. I rapidly changed my clothes and went to the store as quickly as possible. It was gone, nowhere to be found and in where I thought it had been, a Halloween pop-up store. I retraced my steps on the opposite side of the street to ensure I was not confused about where the shop was.

Over a year has passed, and on Fridays, I walk back and forth from my house to the subway station on alternate sides of the street just in case. Sometimes I un-focus my eyes, hoping the magnet store will pop out of the confusion. And now, I pay attention wherever I walk, just in case.

The eagle soars over a turbulent sea on the magnet stuck to my refrigerator. Proof that what happened was not a dream. On mornings when I have raspberries with my granola, sometimes, there is a glint in the eye of the eagle as I pass by.

*    *    *

Michael De Rosa is a writer from Wallingford, PA, who recently retired as a professor (emeritus) of chemistry at Penn State Brandywine. Interests are travel, photography, and birding. The writer has published poetry in Ariel Chart, Trouvaille Review, and Academy of the Heart and Mind, and a memoir in Ariel Chart: International Literary Journal.

A Memoir by Rebecca Suzuki

My sister was allergic to formula as an infant, and her marshmallow skin would break out with itchy red bumps. The dermatologist didn’t want to medicate her unless he really had to, so told my mother to try natural remedies first. “Dip her in the ocean at dusk,” he instructed her. “The warm salt water will help her skin heal.” And beginning that day, every day at dusk the four of us would walk to the beach together. My mother slowly pushing the stroller with my sister in it, me holding my father’s hand, the sun slowly melting into the sky with its pinks and purples. Once we arrived at the quiet beach, my mother carefully scooped my sister out of the stroller, undressed her, and handed her to my father, who held her gently at his chest. He walked slowly toward the water, the rhythmic waves calling them inside. He felt the sand turning into a soft pad, then the water lapping at his feet, ankles. He waded until the warm water was up to his thighs and cupped his daughter’s warm, peachy head with one hand and the rest of her small body with the other. He looked into her face, her eyes searching and searching the sky. Trying to take in the world. He slowly lowered her into the ocean, and she kicked and flailed her arms, responding to the new sensations she felt all over her body. He chuckled and watched, making sure to not let the water get on her face, hoping that the ocean would heal her as the doctor promised. My mother and I sat together on a blanket facing the water. I sat on top of her lap, feeling the heat emanating from her skin, her breaths moving strands of my hair back and forth. Her arms were wrapped around me and her chin rested gently on top of my head. As the orange sun dipped lower, the pinks and purples became more prominent, like someone dripped paint into the clouds. I watched my father’s measured tender movements in the water. The ocean was endless, and so was he. When he came back to us with my sister, my mother wrapped her in a fresh, fluffy towel and her eyelids drooped over like honey. We walked home slowly, the last glow of the sun stroking our back.

                                                                 *    *    *

Rebecca Suzuki is the author of When My Mother Is Most Beautiful, winner of the Loose Translation Prize and published by Hanging Loose Press. She writes creative nonfiction in a mixture of forms and languages, and her work has been published in River Teeth, Identity Theory, KGB Bar Lit, and more. She is also a translator from Japanese to English and a faculty lecturer of English at Queens College, CUNY. She is currently working on a hybrid memoir that attempts to weave together complicated family histories, the disappearance of her father, her immigration to New York City from a seaside town in Japan at nine years old with her mother and sister, and how all of that has shaped them, 24 years later. She lives in Queens, NY with her cat.

By Héctor Hernández

My wife and I had worked out a morning routine over the years of our marriage—a ballet of sorts where she spun one way to open the refrigerator door while I spun the other way to open the utensils drawer. That synchronized, fluidity of movement had polished itself over time to the point where words were unnecessary while we moved through our morning activities in the kitchen before we each headed our separate ways to work.

So I was surprised by that little shove of hers. It had been deliberate. I was certain of that.

Although shocked by her aggression, I said nothing, choosing instead to continue as if it hadn’t happened.

In our thirty-six years of marriage there’d never been any aggressive physical contact between us. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. Those first years had involved some pretty aggressive behavior, all of it concentrated on sex, though.I had been surprised back then as well. My four prior experiences in the art of love making hadn’t prepared me for the rough movements that my wife had surprised me with. But that had been a gratifying surprise, a pleasurable one. This new surprise had been nothing of the sort.

As I stood there, hoping for some kind of explanation—knowing deep down none would come—an odd rhythm tapped away in my head.

For years our marriage had sounded as regular as a clock: tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock. But now there was a noticeable difference. I could hear it. A definite tock, tick, tock, tick, tock, tick. How long had that been going on? Did it just now start, or had it been that way for some time, and I just hadn’t noticed before?

With no apology materializing, I finished my business in the kitchen, kissed my wife goodbye—receiving a cheek for that purpose when she turned her head and mumbled a response that could have been “bye” or “why?” I wasn’t sure—and hurried off to work.

In my office, I performed tasks poorly—if I performed them at all. I just couldn’t concentrate. What had I done to merit not only a shove but also a sullen response from my wife that morning? I hadn’t forgotten our anniversary—that was months away. I hadn’t forgotten her birthday—also months away. What important date could have slipped past me? Try as I might, I couldn’t think of one.

It was three o’clock. Time for my afternoon break.

I had a routine. For my morning break, I’d walk to the local market half a block away and buy a banana—always a banana. I’d stroll back, walking on the opposite side of the street, window gazing like a tourist into the shops that lined the route, eating my snack.

In the afternoon, I’d walk in the opposite direction of my morning break, arrive at the local donut shop, buy a chocolate donut—always chocolate—and turn back. My morning and afternoon routines were as fixed as the laws of physics. I was a man of routine. A predictable man. “A man without spontaneity,” my wife often complained. “A reliable man,” I would always counter.

As I made my way to the donut shop, I thought back through each day of the past week, trying to recall any exchanges I’d had with my wife. Had she voiced any concerns that I failed to take seriously? Nothing came to mind.

At the donut shop, they were out of chocolate donuts. In all the years I’d been a customer, they’d never run out of chocolate donuts. The woman behind the counter suggested a glazed donut, but I had always had a chocolate donut and left deeply disappointed.

As I walked back to the office, I turned my attention once again to solving the mystery of that little shove from my wife that morning.

When had we argued last? There had been nothing this week, but what about the week before? Nothing, still. Maybe I’d accidentally fanned to flames the embers of some long-forgotten argument by some innocent remark I’d made. My wife was like a pit bull when it came to arguments, never letting go of one after she’d latched on to it. She’d occasionally shake the poor thing back to life as the mood struck her.

If there had been no arguments these past two weeks, then I would have to go back even further. And that’s when it hit me. There hadn’t been any argument, not that week or the week before or the week before that or the week before that one. I realized not only had there been no arguments between us these last several weeks, there had been no conversations.

I was stunned. But it was true. There hadn’t been any conversations between my wife and me in weeks, maybe months. Certainly there’d been words exchanged between us, but “good morning,” “good night,” “hi,” and “bye” weren’t really conversations.

We had each slid into our own separate, well-grooved routines that left no opportunity for real engagement between us.

My phone buzzed. I didn’t recognize the number but answered anyway.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Emerson? Hi. How are you? This is Sandra Savage. Your wife suggested I call you on your afternoon break.” In spite of the friendly voice, a sense of dread bubbled up from the pit of my stomach. “I understand from her that you usually take your breaks away from your office. Is this a good time for you to talk?” Silence. “Mr. Emerson?”

“Just tell me what you have to tell me,” I said.

“All right.” An abrupt change in tone, the veneer of cordiality stripped from her voice and tossed. “I’ve been retained by your wife to initiate divorce proceedings.”

I still held the phone to my ear, but I didn’t really hear what more Sandra Savage had to say. I was thinking the local market had its own little bakery. They were certain to have chocolate donuts there.

*        *        *

Héctor Hernández received a bachelor’s degree in civil engineering. He lives in California and worked nearly twenty-seven years for the County of Los Angeles, primarily administering construction contracts. He is now retired. His short stories have appeared or are forthcoming in Flash Fiction Magazine, After Dinner Conversation, and CaféLit.

By Lynn Kozlowski

Five old widows gather for their monthly potluck. Dishes from Lebanon, Italy, and local delicacies fill the table. They chat about current projects and are planning for the near weeks. For one of them a stray reminiscence surfaces: “Bob and I used to go to this old-fashioned motel. Separate wood cottages. We cooked out next to the river. Quiet spot. Easy time.” She savors the recollection of lost times beside the dark river in the evening but soon returns to the room. Matters and tasks are here and before them—the shared food, the company, and things still to do.

*   *   *

Lynn Kozlowski’s writing has appeared in such places as 50-Word Stories, Every Day Fiction, Friday Flash Fiction, The Dribble Drabble Review, The Quarterly, The Malahat Review, Five Minutes, and failbetter.com. He has a volume of short pieces, Historical Markers (Ravenna Press) https://ravennapress.com/books/historical-markers/  He divides his time between New York State, USA, and Ontario, Canada.

By Sean Ryan

He rolled his bucket and mop to the last section of floor he would ever clean at the school. He picked up the mop from the bucket of water and slid it along the black-and-white checkered linoleum flooring. He was tired, but he kept moving the mop back and forth. He was hunched over with a frown on his face. “Thirty-two years,” he said. “And I’m fired and I was given no reason why.” He put the mop back into the bucket and rolled it up a few feet. He was dressed in a gray one-piece coverall outfit. He had a brown mustache and he wore black shoes with thick non-slip soles. Blue metal lockers lined the hallway where he was doing his final cleaning job. He’d worked at the school for longer than anyone else, including any teacher, had been there. He felt like the oldest tree in a forest of young saplings. All his experience and now he was out. He may have been getting old, but he still did a great job. The floors of that high school were the cleanest in the state. 

It was one in the morning and he was the only one on the premises. He took out a pack of cigarettes and left the mop behind to go out and have a smoke. “I’ll finish you later,” he said to the floor. He walked with his distinctive limp to the doors and went outside. It was a cold night in February. It had been raining all day. The smell of rain was still out there, but no water was falling from the sky: the sky had cleared. He looked up at the stars. He took his cigarette pack and opened it. He fumbled with one and took it out. He stuck it into his mouth—taking it all in. He put the pack in his pocket and came out with a plastic lighter. He lit up. The first inhalation was always the best. He let out a sigh. 

A car pulled up and parked in the lot. It was a candy-apple red Corvette. A teacher, one he knew personally, got out. Mr. Smith, the chemistry teacher, walked up to him. “I heard it was your last day.” He had a pink box in his hands. He opened it. There were a couple of chocolate cupcakes with brown frosting. “Take one.”

The janitor dropped his cigarette to the ground and stubbed it out with his foot. “Thank you,” he said as he reached into the box and took a cupcake out. 

“I’m glad I got here in time. I couldn’t bear the thought of you leaving without a proper send-off.”

The janitor had a tear in his eye that he wiped away. “I appreciate it.”

“You’ve been here longer than I have.” Mr. Smith took the other cupcake out and walked over to the nearby metal trash can and threw the box away. “Cheers,” he said as he peeled the paper from the cupcake. 

The janitor said, “I think I have enough with my social security that I’ll have a comfortable retirement. I don’t need much, but I loved working here.”

“I understand.” Mr. Smith put his hand out and took the cupcake wrapper from his friend. He balled up his and the one that came from the janitor and put them in the trashcan. “Do you like getting high?”

“Sometimes.”

“I have a joint in my car I was hoping to smoke with you. I know you love Jimmy Hendrix. I have a CD in my car that we can listen to and sit and smoke. What do you say?”

“Sure.” The two men walked over to the Corvette. They both got in and closed their doors. Mr. Smith started the car and Purple Haze came through the speakers. He pushed a button to set it to repeat. He took a joint from under his seat and handed it to the janitor. He put it in his mouth and lit it. He took a few inhalations and handed it over to Mr. Smith. The music coming from the speakers took the janitor back to his own high school days. He said, “I’m glad I was fired.”

Mr. Smith took an inhalation, handed the joint to the janitor, and exhaled. “That’s the spirit.”

“I mean,” he said as he took a drag. “I’ve been doing this longer than Methuselah. I’m done.”

“There comes a time for everything. All good things must end.” A cop car came into the parking lot and a large cop got out and walked over to the Corvette. 

“What are you two doing here?”

Mr. Smith said, “We were just saying goodbye. I’m a teacher here and he was the janitor for over thirty years.”

“You are smoking marijuana in a school parking lot?”

Mr. Smith turned the music off. “It was my idea. I’ll take the blame.”

“I don’t want any trouble. Just wrap it up, all right.”

“Thank you,” said Mr. Smith. The cop went back to his car and left. 

“That was a close one,” said the janitor. He got out of the car and walked back towards the high school. He lit another cigarette and watched Mr. Smith pull out of the parking lot and speed down the street. A few seconds later, the Corvette smashed into a light pole. The front of Mr. Smith’s car was crumpled and smoke was coming out of it. The janitor ran over to the vehicle and it burst into flames. He pulled Mr. Smith, unconscious, out of the wreck.

The ambulance, fire department and cops came to the scene. The news cameras showed up and interviewed the janitor. “What’s your name?” said the reporter. 

“I’m John Cox. I can tell you everything.” Mr. Smith was loaded into an ambulance and taken away. He was okay, thanks to his friend. 

John Cox was on the news that morning and it made his first day of retirement something special. 

*   *   *

Sean Ryan has been published a handful of times and hopes to continue getting some form or recognition for his work as long as he lives. He has lived with a mental health diagnosis for about twenty years. He started writing as a way to stay busy and learn a useful trade. He loves language learning: German, French and Spanish. He lives in San Diego, CA.

By Wyley Fröhlich Jungerman

I looked at the color green today, but something was different. All I could see was yellow and blue, the two colors blended, not merged; a mixture, not a compound. It reassured me that I was right. An irreplaceable piece had separated from the whole, and now the rest was falling apart like the seam of a coat. My mom and dad’s genes were unwinding inside me, corpus callosotomy of my chromosomes, hemispherectomy to this cobbled-togetherness I called Self.

Finally, I thought with satisfaction. I’ve become bits and pieces again.

                                                             *.   *   *

Wyley Fröhlich Jungerman is pursuing a BA in English at Texas State University. Born and raised in the Austin area, Jungerman draws inspiration from the vibrant culture of his city and the connections that shape his life. His work has appeared in 101 Words, The Solitude Diaries, JAKE: the Anti-Literary Magazine and others. His work is forthcoming in IHRAM Publishes and Ink in Thirds.

By Bill Diamond

While shopping at the supermarket for the holiday, Will tried to make a suggestion, “Perhaps we should get …”

“Shhh, quiet.” Kay cut him off and held her palm face out. She used the commanding tone that controlled her middle school classroom. Kay didn’t even look at her husband. Rather, she focused on the salads she was preparing to order from the deli counter.  

The dismissive gesture and tone made Will bristle. He knew it was her knee-jerk habit from teaching. But, they’d discussed it. Will had made clear the practice was disrespectful and inappropriate with a partner. Ingrained habits are hard to break.

It was one of many buried bombs in the volatile minefield their marriage had become. In recent years, they’d had frequent fights. Instead of resolving issues, the volcanic pair had retreated to their corners and suppressed the most explosive divisions. This hid serious relationship issues like sticks of dynamite just below the surface. Not unusual for any couple in an imperfect human relationship.

In most cases, they gingerly navigated through. But, it was a wearing march. Holiday events were meant to be special binding moments. For the couple, they had become chores.

Now, in the crowded supermarket, her offhand comment was a spark that lit a short fuse.

Through gritted teeth, Will said, “I’m going.” Quietly, and with unexpected pent-up venom, he added, “If you want a ride, come now, or take a taxi.” He left their near full shopping basket.

The steely ultimatum broke through Kay’s shopping stupor as much as her desultory gesture had his.

The small spark ignited all the raw dynamite and the explosion irreparably shredded their union. 

*.  *   *

Bill Diamond is a curious traveler and writer from Colorado where the Rocky Mountains are an inspiration and distraction. He writes for catharsis and to try and figure it all out.

A Memoir by jody padumachitta goch

I traded in my girly car // father won it in a poker game // he knew a thing or two about cards // squat all about Tomboy daughters // I ended up with a car I would never have bought.

It had white interior // a trunk that barely fit my hiking gear // never fit me // when father refused to sign the papers for twenty acres on Pender Island // my dream of a haven to write in died // I took that girly car and traded it in for a brown Ford mini pick up // I figure my father wasn’t about to have a throwback to the bush come out of his tender care //  I could’a done it on my own  // but the Bank Manger owed father a favour // I called that hunk of tin truck Brown Dog // with the trade in and the money I’d saved for the island property I bought clear // even had me a bit of money left over // funds earmarked college books // when Brown Dog showed up in the driveway I got grounded.

Some part of me couldn’t do it no more // some part of me needed gone // still grounded I left for San Francisco two weeks later //planning to camp in the back of Brown Dog // never quite made it to the big city not to live // I hit the bars once in a while if I got lonely // I don’t get lonely easy, so hey // what Brown Dog did was find a ranch that needed a wrangler // I signed on for five bucks a day // a room above the tack storage // a bigger fuck you than living on an island close to home back in Canada.

I drank cheap beer // ate suspect steaks that came from cows with no brands // I had a ball // worked harder than my saddle string // Brown Dog took me up to Petaluma for new boots // out to the beach at Point Reyes // drinking Bud with my butt on the tailgate // when Reagan got in I got nervous //  headed back north // thinking maybe I should finish college // Brown Dog had other ideas // he was a restless sort and took me across Canada to work horses in Ontario // up north to fish //  hang out beside rivers whose names I never could pronounce // the engine sputtered // kept getting new oil //the odd purple gas in exchange for a spot of work //I kept that truck for a long time // probably past its use by date // when I finally sold him // I cried like I’d shot my dog.

There are things in this world that anchored me to living // helped me stay above the turf // there were times in that truck I drove on // instead of jumping // when I drove across bridges shaking to stop // but couldn’t abandon Brown Dog to the side of the road // I don’t think my parents ever knew how much they owed their daughter’s life to that pick up // sometimes I’m not sure it would have mattered // father knew he broke something in me when that island passed me by // he just never expected me to have enough left to buy my freedom or a truck. 

*   *   *

jody padumachitta goch is a sixty-five year old, non-binary, neuro-diverse, slightly dyslexic Canadian. None of these things get in the way of drinking coffee and wondering how they ended up living in Europe. Their jeans and shirt pockets are full of stories. It’s hell on the wash machine. They enjoy lighting the wood stove and rescuing words from the lint catcher. Jody has work published in Wild Word, Rise Up Review, Com Lit, 50 Word Stories, Does It Have Pockets, NPR Poetically Yours, Co-Op Poetry and a short story in Strasbourg Short Stories 2021.

By Tom Koperwas

The Epsilon had been damaged by exotic matter while traversing the Cargyle Wormhole to the frontier world of Big Hope—so much so that the pilot, historian Theodore Jawlensky, was still engaged in last-minute emergency repairs when the skiff entered the planet’s outer atmosphere. Two thousand feet above the surface, the little spacecraft was in trouble, trailing flames and black smoke. Coming down fast, Jawlensky managed to level the craft enough to make a pancake landing in a large depression filled with sand. Frantically jumping out of the burning ship, clutching his emergency survival kit, he ran across the soft, shifting surface to a safe distance, where he stopped to watch the tall plume of smoke rising from the boat that had transported him so far for so long.  

The young man cast his intelligent eyes about, fixing them on a small knoll at the far end of the depression. Straightening his long black cloak, he began to stride toward it, reflecting on how far he’d ventured off the main star routes of The Beaten Trek, those well-traveled space lanes used for commerce and colonial development. Only a few meager reports existed of the daring colonists who’d gone down the Cargyle Wormhole all those years ago to Big Hope, the legendary world of plenty. Jawlensky had taken the journey to learn of their fate and record the facts for posterity. 

But what had become of the lush paradisiacal planet he’d read about, which had promised so much prosperity and security? All about him, the land was parched and arid, with no evidence of human habitation. 

When he arrived at the knoll, he ascended it until he reached the top. Down below, in the lowland, stood a small town, its streets and roofs shimmering in the desert heat. Quiet and still, it looked like an insubstantial dream. Descending the knoll, he walked toward it. As he approached the town, he glimpsed people walking slowly in the streets. He called out to them, but no one answered. As he stepped onto the main street, he heard what sounded like the muffled sounds of footsteps and people. But the young woman he first approached turned and walked quickly away, to his bemusement. Standing close to a building, he looked up, expecting to see curious children peeking out of its blank windows at the stranger below; but there were no small inquisitive faces to be seen. Several solitary figures appeared on the streets, but remained out of hailing distance. When he moved toward them, they drifted away silently, entering the buildings like expressionless mannequins.  

Jawlensky stood still in the hot glow of the sun and watched the dusty haze of the desert in the streets. The town appeared to be in the desert, but not part of it. Near yet distant, aloof and alien, it was an unwelcome refuge for strangers. 

Then he saw the cat. A small cat that wasn’t afraid of him. Bending down to pet it, his hand passed through the animal’s fur and flesh as if it were a wraith. Standing up straight, eyes wide, he looked about at the buildings fading in the air. A moment later, the town was gone. 

It had been real, for he’d seen it and heard it. But now all he could do was stare with disbelief at the hot sand where it had stood.

A bright flash of light drew his attention to the top of a nearby pile of rocks.  Curious, the historian walked toward the shimmering source. Soon he saw the people who had been signaling him, holding pieces of broken glass in their hands—a dozen dirty men sitting high atop the jumbled rocks, dressed in filthy, tattered rags, looking like desperate and angry castaways stranded in a bitter land.   

“You’re from the burning ship,” barked a short man with a sharp voice. “You disrupted the image from Ephesius.”

“Ephesius is one of Big Hope’s moons, isn’t it?” replied Jawlensky. “But the town looked more like a living thing than a mere image.”

“How very observant of you, sir,” interjected an older man sitting close by. “My name is Leonard Kaufmann, political theorist; and the man sitting next to you is Bill Inglis, an anarchist. The town you saw, like all the others scattered in the lowlands, are not Fata Morganas, as they were once called on Earth. Unlike the reflection of a mirage, they’re real-time projections of living towns on the moons. Big Hope has ten of the latter, and each moon is inhabited by the original colonists. They fled there years ago when the climate here went bad, spreading destructive deserts everywhere. The image you saw from Ephesius faded when you touched it. But don’t worry, it’ll reappear elsewhere soon. They always do. Meanwhile, there are other towns from other moons to watch.”

“I see,” said Jawlensky, slowly. “So the colonists went to the moons to escape the environmental catastrophe. That means…”

“They marooned us here,” Inglis interrupted angrily. “We’re their criminals and exiles. There are plenty more of us scattered elsewhere on the planet.”

Kaufmann handed a battered cup brimming with water to the historian. Sipping the water, Jawlensky eyed the crude rock shelter overhanging the small freshwater spring. A few simple utensils lay scattered about the pool. There were no weapons, tools, or electronics to be seen. The outcasts evidently spent their days wandering from chimera to chimera, coveting the happy and comfortable lives of their compatriots… lives they could never have and enjoy. Why did the colonists project the images of their towns onto the planet? Were they meant to be a form of heightened punishment, a kind of retribution? How much had these people tormented and endangered the colonists?  

“Thank you for the water,” said the historian. “My name is Jawlensky. In brief, I’m a historian from The Beaten Trek searching for the colonists of Big Hope.”

“Well, you’ll never see them now, Mr. Historian!” laughed the anarchist. “You’re imprisoned down here with us!”

Jawlensky fell silent, and looked up at the darkening sky filled with numerous moons.

Inglis couldn’t be more wrong, he thought to himself, rubbing the miniature communicator embedded under the skin of his right ear. Little do any of them know that I sent an emergency signal from the Epsilon before it entered the atmosphere. The colonists will inform me of the time and place of my rescue when they’re ready. I’ll go to their moons and record the incredible history of the colonists who came to Big Hope and succeeded against all odds. 

The men of the rocks would remain here forever, sweltering in the sun, pining for those worlds of pleasure far beyond their reach.  

                                                            *   *   *

Thomas Koperwas is a retired teacher living in Windsor, Ontario, Canada who writes short stories of horror, crime, fantasy, and science fiction. His story Vacation won a Freedom Fiction Journal Top Crime Editor’s Choice Award 2024. His work has appeared, or is forthcoming in: Anotherealm; Jakob’s Horror Box; Literally Stories; The Literary Hatchet; Literary Veganism; Bombfire; Pulp Modern Flash; Savage Planets; Dark Fire Fiction; The Sirens Call; Yellow Mama Webzine; 96^th of October; Underside Stories; Danse Macabre; A Thin Slice Of Anxiety; Androids and Dragons; Chewers & Masticadores Canada; The Piker Press; Stupefying Stories Showcase; Metastellar; etc.,

By Tom Hedt

“Sometimes I shake myself and wonder why she even bothers me, but if heartaches were commercials, we’d all be on TV.”   -John Prine

I’ve always envied smokers. Those martyrs in their closed coven. Gathered in secret circles, whispering stories, bumming a light. Conspiratorial. I was never accepted. But with Barbara, it was different. 

We met at the boarding house on 2^nd & T, near old town in Eureka. We’d sit in the back at the old picnic table and talk, where she’d tell me stories of life perseverance. “I’ve been homeless in a lot of places. I was homeless in Salt Lake City, then I moved to LA to be with my daughter,” she stares into space, “that didn’t work out, so I ended up on a bus coming up here. I was homeless for a while, but the people at the Mission helped, and I got into this place. The people here are good here, it’s working out.”

Vic would walk by and say hi, but he wouldn’t linger. He and his wife Dana were on-site managers. They were Jehovah Witness; their ministry was to give people a safe place to live. I would stop by and visit when I paid my rent. His rifle and bayonet were mounted on the wall, over pictures of him in Vietnam. His stories were different. He told stories of the front lines, where he used those tools to accomplish the ends of our uncertain empire. At some point I told them I was getting rid of my old car, a Ford Taurus. They needed one, but didn’t have the money. I signed it over. knowing they’d pay when they could.

The place we shared was a two-story Victorian, blue with white trim. The cockroaches were incessant. I would find them on the dishes in the morning and lounging across the floor when I got home from work. The shared bathroom at the end of the hall was bad. A corroded faucet, stained sink, vinyl shower stall sealed with duct tape, and a toilet that always made you hesitate. I mentioned this to Vic. He gave me encouragement, and a can of Raid. 

Sitting outside with Barbara was gentle. Wisps of cigarette smoke, American Spirit smoked to the butt. Her threadbare blue dress. Her sandpaper voice. Silver hair pulled back, framing silver skin. The last time we talked, she was agitated. I asked what was going on, “I heard from my daughter; she might be coming up.” I said that sounded nice. She shook her head with a knowing smile, “no, it never turns out good.” 

                                                                                    *

I moved into my own place that summer. It was fall when Vic and Dana came to visit. They were leaving town and saying goodbyes. We stood next to the old Taurus, weathered gold with rusted chrome. I didn’t ask about the money; I knew they couldn’t pay. I did ask about Barbara. Vic looked at me with blank eyes. Dana spoke up “I’ve cleaned a lot of apartments, but this was the worst. I had to leave to keep from throwing up.”

Vic leaned toward me, “They had to come and take her away.”

“What happened, where did she go?”

 “I don’t know, probably some shelter. They pulled up in a black car and went up to her room. She walked out, and they drove off. That’s about it.” He walked to the back of the car. “You know, she was getting a bit paranoid. I guess she decided that someone was trying to gas her. She stopped using the shower, she brought a little tub into the room and washed herself there. It was terrible, filled with putrid water, overflowing on the floor. She stapled plastic bags everywhere; all the walls were covered. The smell was so bad, I can’t describe it. When we took down the plastic….the roaches…everywhere.” 

Dana came around the car and gave me a wooden painting of a pelican, “here, we’ve had this for a long time, I touched it up for you.” 

Vic opened the trunk of the Taurus. He pulled out a shotgun with a really short barrel. He handed it to me, “here ya go.”

He got in the car, rolled down the window and said, “Ok. Goodbye.” 

I stood in the street next to the golden Taurus, holding my pelican, and my sawed off shotgun. All I could say was “is this legal?”

He shrugged, “I don’t know,” and drove away.

*   *   *

Tom Hedt’s work has been published widely in journals, including: The Sijo International Journal of Poetry and Song, Cirque, Cathexis Northwest, The Tule Review, The Lilly Poetry Review, and elsewhere. His poetry compilation, Artifacts and Assorted Memorabilia, was published in September of 2020 by Cold River Press. He currently serves as the Associate Poetry Editor for Bending Genres. He lives in Eureka, California.