By Foster Trecost

An empty café, that’s what he hoped to find, but he’d settle for mostly empty if it was quiet because that’s what he really wanted, a quiet café, and it seemed he’d found one, at least that’s how it looked from the street, but a steady hum coming from a fluorescent light crashed his ears like car horns and before the door could close, he backed out to look for another.

His search nearly ended when he came to a second offering but decided against going in. He just knew, you know, and shifted a few blocks over only to pass again on something equally unsuitable. It had a troublesome vibe, nothing he could name, but something. Unsure where to go, he circled back to the first, asked for a coffee, and carried it to a tiny table. 

The hum continued hum and kept his thoughts cornered in the present, a line he didn’t mind since recent regrets were fewer than those from his youth. Then something changed, not the hum but the way it settled over him, clearing a path to memories he’d forgotten or maybe just stopped thinking about, which is kind of the same thing but not really. He landed in the moment he pinched wings off insects to watch them scurry in circles, unsure where to go. He couldn’t comprehend why the hum would summon such a cruel memory, unaware it wasn’t random, but hints of similarity began to seep in. He left the café, left an untouched cup sitting on the tiny table, and reemerged in the early morning lack of light. A brief pause let the likeness fully form and when it did, he again scurred in circles, unsure where to go. And wondered who pinched off his wings but even more than that, he wondered why anyone would do such a thing.  

                                                                    *   *   *

Foster Trecost writes stories that are mostly made up. They tend to follow his attention span: sometimes short, sometimes very short. Recent work appears in Club Plum, Flash Boulevard, and Roi Fainéant. He lives near New Orleans with his wife and dog.

A Memoir by Sheila Wilensky

Deep in December the teacher and her husband ventured to Twillingate, Newfoundland. A remote island where tall Rocky cliffs jutted this way and that, high above the frigid North Atlantic. Where one thousand humans lived out quiet lives. Where “culture” played out at the Pig & Whistle bar, hidden in the woods, far from family life and the one island elementary school.

The teacher and her husband had headed North, taking three days to get from their Maine island home to their winter vacation venue. 

“I love all islands,” she announced to no one in particular. 

As destiny would have it, Newfoundland — which joined Canada in 1949 and the twentieth century much later — perched on the bottom of her favorite island list.

“It looks like we’re landing on the moon,” the teacher grumbled as they disembarked from the ferry following their wild night crossing the Cabot Strait from Cape Breton Island, Nova Scotia. 

Knocked off the couch repeatedly by the rocking and rolling ship, she hit the floor multiple times, which interrupted her dreams. She was not happy. 

Could this ship possibly sink? Might she freeze to death on this godforsaken island?

“This place is all rock,” she told her husband as they watched snow gusts bursting across their truck’s windshield. “This isn’t my kind of place.”

Her husband loved the people, with their traditional fishing life. They would stay with old friends he hadn’t seen in years.

It was no surprise that the Pig & Whistle existed mostly for the pleasure of men downing a pint or two. Or three. If they needed to pee the surrounding woods served as their bathroom.

As soon as they arrived at his friends’ home, the wife showed off their newly installed modern bathroom.

“What a pretty vase of (fake) lilacs!” sitting on the toilet top, the teacher exclaimed 

What could she say, how strange it was that the new plumbing wasn’t hooked up yet?

She really had to pee. 

The three others, nestled by the warmth of the woodstove chatting and laughing, may not have heard the teacher stand and say, “I’m going to the outhouse.”

The house door slammed shut behind her. The wind outside yelped in her ears like a pack of wolves. 

With her brown-spotted rabbit fur hat atop her head, she gingerly opened the outhouse door, which also slammed shut behind her. 

One outhouse hole awaited her. As quickly as possible the teacher unzipped her heavy purple down parka, dropping it on the old wooden outhouse floor. The teacher rushed to unfasten her snow pants. Pulled down her long silk underwear Christmas gift her husband gave her from L.L. Bean. 

Getting ready for the trip of a lifetime?

Finally, being able to relieve herself felt glorious. Layer by layer, she hiked her clothing back up again. Turning to leave she tried the outhouse door. The rusty lock wouldn’t budge. 

Oh no! This wasn’t supposed to happen! Hell, we’re on vacation.

The teacher was in trouble. Stress tingled at the top of her head. Fear hit her like a hammer.

Recalling that the heater inside the house sounded like a car engine, she imagined her husband and his friends sharing funny fishing stories. Downing one more beer. 

How long would it take for her to turn into an ice sculpture? Why had she agreed to come to this horrendous place? Would anyone miss her?

She had never been so cold. Her rabbit hat and the wool scarf wrapped around her neck wouldn’t save her. Icy pellets were whipping through a hole in the ceiling. 

 I’m a goner, she figured. Convinced that no one would hear her, she yelled louder and louder, Help, help!

Boom. Boom. Boom. The teacher heard her heart pounding. Would this be her end?

This wasn’t a silly Newfoundland joke about who caught the bigger fish. No. I’m sure no one will walk by to hear me in the middle of nowhere.

The doomed teacher foresaw the Bar Harbor Times headline back home. “Maine teacher freezes to death in Newfoundland outhouse.” And she couldn’t help but laugh.

At least she no longer had to pee. 

*   *   *

Sheila Wilensky weaves a lifetime of book-loving experience as the former owner of OZ Children’s Bookstore in Southwest Harbor, Maine (1982-1997), and as a writer/editor/journalist and high school/college social science teacher. Escaping winter in Tucson from 2002 to 2021, Sheila served as associate editor of the Arizona Jewish Post for a decade, where she won a First Place for Excellence in Feature Writing Simon Rockower Award from the American Jewish Press Association. She currently lives in Minneapolis near her magnificent two grandchildren. Sheila is a freelance writer/editor who occasionally blogs at Tucsonwritereditor.com.

By Jeff Kennedy

The only sound in the house is gentle snoring, drifting from the back bedroom where Shirley dozes fitfully in the heat. Martin moves silently through each room, tending to her plants.

He moves the spider plant to the other side of his desk. Shirley knows the spider plant shouldn’t be in direct sunlight, but she loves having it in the window. Martin snaps dead flowers and leaves from the African violet and waters the Christmas cactus. He doesn’t touch the philodendron. Martin doesn’t care for the philodendron.

Shirley rolls over and whispers, “Martin… the philodendron. Please don’t forget the philodendron.”

She hears a sigh.

A green plastic watering can rises from the side table, glides across the room, and stops over the philodendron, tipping to splash water into the pot, and then returns to its usual place.

A breeze stirs Shirley’s hair as she drifts back to sleep.

*   *   *

Jeff Kennedy is a lifelong author and playwright. He is a member of the Dramatists Guild of America.

By Brad Barkley

She asks for a cigarette during a fire alarm. You want to be clever by noting the irony, but your brain is too panicked and occupied with its own alarms—her face, her hair, the way she looks at you. She tucks her hands inside her coat sleeves. She seems smart, but shy about it. You don’t know her. You give her one, light it, say clumsy things. Trucks roll up, lights flashing. People meander while you sit on the concrete steps, their voices a mixture of sound floating up into the autumn air. Safe now, a firefighter finally announces, only a drill. All dressed up for nothing, she says. You smile. You wish you’d thought of it. 

Later, you’ll think about this moment, just a diversion, a pause in the work day, a fire in the break room that never started but could have. The microwave maybe, a spoon left in a cup of noodles, or a glint of foil that overheats and then sparks, ignites, and soon a whole building is burned away, and the next one too, an entire block left smoldering in ruins. But that never happened. The only spark falls from her cigarette dropped on the sidewalk.  Just a drill this time. A shrug, more clumsy words. You look at each other. She thanks you for the cigarette, tells you she needs to quit.

A singularity started the universe, but not every moment expands. Not every spark ignites. This one will, but in ways you can’t know as you sit on those concrete steps, as you smoke and talk and shuffle back inside the building. You watch her until the elevator doors close. Time grows—over cigarettes and quitting, over years, over letters and silence. Over coffee and games of Boggle. Over fights and advice. Over affairs of the heart and a steak dinner, just one. You marry the wrong person, and then she does too. She’s somewhere in Florida, emailing photos. Your hair is graying some, as is hers. You imagine a kiss that never happened but might have. Or should have, you will tell yourself, more clumsy words, more silent alarms. 

Universes expand as they will, and there is no rewind button. All this thought of universes makes you laugh at yourself. This is not cosmology. Shiny things, tiny sparks. The loop of time. It’s just a girl, just moments, just a cigarette. 

Just concrete steps and a fire drill.

Just a lifetime, just two hearts, just distance.

Just love. 

                                                                *    *    *

Brad Barkley is the author of the novels Money, Love and Alison’s Automotive Repair Manual, two collections of short stories, and three YA novels with Penguin. His fiction has appeared in Southern Review, the Oxford American, Glimmer Train, and 30+ others. He’s won numerous awards, including a Fellowship from the National Endowment for the Arts. His new novel, The Reel Life of Zara Kegg is forthcoming from Regal House. 

 

By Joseph Kenyon 

Maybe you haven’t felt enough pain? 

Maybe. But this hike is Aberdeen’s idea. She chose the hill and the trail. Not a mapped-out, sneakers-without-socks path where the roots have been dug up or tamped down. This path starts at a narrow wedge of an entrance and immediately slants between two thorny shrubs that prevent me from seeing where it goes. When I pull the car to the side of the road and ask why here? she doesn’t even bother to give me a look. She just swings her disdain at me with her pack as she exits the car. But she doesn’t close the door until after she makes her withering statement, the one she promptly blunts with a question mark. 

Maybe you haven’t felt enough pain? 

She is a mountain, this niece of mine. She’s solid and bountiful and giving and unpredictable. When she rages, she uproots routines and buries people. She changes landscapes. She’s been an explosive force ever since the nurse wiped what was left of the womb from her newborn skin. Now, two years into her teendom, she creates avalanches with more frequency. Her father — my brother — puts it like this: she’s such a soul-filling, delightful pain in the ass. 

Maybe you haven’t felt enough pain. 

That’s the way you say it, Aberdeen (who is crashing her way between the barbed shrubs guarding the trail). A question mark is curvy and gapped. It doesn’t have the fisted closure of a period. It leaves everyone too much room to maneuver, too much room to squirm out from under. Like me. With my feet squarely on the road. Here they go. Coming for you. 

The bush on the right tears my hand on the way in. At first, I don’t think the cut’s too bad, having only a momentary awareness of the skin ripping. I’ve worked with knives and sharp tools all my life without cutting myself any deeper than what a Band-Aid could repair. But when my hand begins to burn and go numb, I look. Blood runs from the gash like Grade-A syrup, pouring around the vein that protrudes from the skin much more prominently than it used to. The burning/numbing activates a voice in my brain, the one I call Mr. Sure-Brains, who tells me this isn’t the kind of pain Aberdeen meant. 

Hand out-thrust, elevated, and wrapped in a bandanna, I walk the trail which could only have been charted by a drunken snake. I keep on because Aberdeen can be rough but she’s not reckless. Destructive but not malicious. A pain in the ass, but she fills my soul. I go quietly because I’m sure she’s listening, and she’s not on the trail. 

I spot her about thirty yards to the left through hardwoods and thick undergrowth. A standard-sized teen girl wouldn’t be seen, but Aberdeen’s Sasquatch body, ungainly even when inert, stands out. I move closer and stop, squatting down so she won’t spot me if she turns. She’s staring at a totem pole, an authentic one by the looks of the thing, facing a carved but kindred face whose eyes speak of being and not being, of confidence and mystery, intensity and indifference. 

Aberdeen tries to curate all that with her pose. She’s not succeeding. Look at her. The emotions flow around that pole like heat waves rising off the summer pavement, revealing Aberdeen to that ancient pole in a way she can’t reveal herself to anyone else, except through inexplicable rising anger and violent tantrums. Here, her emotions say, is where she feels open. Where she feels safe. Where she trusts. 

Where she brought her aunt, Mr. Sure-Brains pipes up. 

In response, my internal chessboard tilts, sending the pieces of what I know about my niece scattering and tumbling. Maybe you haven’t felt enough pain? Seen in the light of Mr. Sure-Brains’ comment, that question mark sounds like a challenge. A subtle one, very non-Aberdeen-like. Given my standard appearance, which is not that of a Sasquatch-shaped girl, and given that I’m the one hiding behind a clump of sassafras saplings, maybe she was simultaneously asking and answering her own question correctly. I fear I’m not up to the task of staunching the gash Aberdeen is revealing to me. After all, in the best of times, Aberdeen deflects adult advice as if she does it for a living. What can I possibly say to her now? 

Maybe it doesn’t matter. 

I unwrap my wounded hand. More blood is dry than oozing, already beginning the process of scabbing over to cover the injury. It’s injury that’s loud. The things that cover over, the coagulative burying, do their work quietly. Permanently. 

What I say better not matter because the act of standing and stepping through the underbrush empties my brain. I shimmy toward Aberdeen until I’m one pace behind and to her right, her shoulder level with my chin. I lean in and whisper the first thing that comes into my head. 

That turns out to be a quote from Agnes Martin. Ever hopeful — and because I, too, have been a pain in the ass of this family for a lot longer than Aberdeen — I hear my voice land hard on the period at the end of the sentence. 

I wait for the pain. Hers or mine or both. 

                                                              *   *   *

Joseph Kenyon is the author of one novel, All the Living and the Dead, as well as short stories and poetry. When not writing, he teaches the craft at the Community College of Philadelphia and spends time observing the way words and light shift moment to moment, in and around us.

By Cynthia Pitman

The boy went missing. Only three years old and lost in the Appalachian Mountains. His mother told the rangers she only looked away for a minute, just a minute, to take a photo of the view from the trail in the right light for her painting. When she looked up, he was gone. She called for him. And called. And became more and more frantic. The search teams came out – rangers, police, hikers, strangers, dogs, helicopters –, and they all scoured the hills. She was instructed to stay at the spot where he disappeared. The sounds overwhelmed her: the shouting of his name by the searchers, the flapping of the helicopters, the barking of the dogs. When night set in, spotlights shone down from the helicopters onto the dark, vast forest below. On the third day they found a single red sneaker, unlaced. This find gave them hope, but nothing came of it. By day five the mother could no longer stand it; she picked up her canvas and began to paint. For days more the helicopters swept over endless miles of peaks and valleys. At night, their spotlights beamed down and disappeared into the dark. They searched the mountains until the steep ground finally drove them back. After eight days the search slowly tapered off. By ten days, they were all gone – all except his mother. She pitched a tent and stayed, returning only for fresh canvases.
 

The boy is a legend now. The young hikers coming up the hill don’t know if the story is true or not, but anyone serious about hiking the trail respects the superstitions of the Appalachian Mountains. When they encounter the boy’s mother, she is intent on her painting. Her hair is gray and pulled back behind her ears as her brush sweeps over the canvas. No one speaks. The hikers  just leave her tokens for good luck – food, water, flashlight batteries, blankets – , hoping these gestures will protect them from being swallowed by the hills themselves. She pays them no mind. Then the hikers make their way up the trail, and the old woman continues, painting meticulous landscapes of the scene before her, including every stick, every branch, every fallen leaf, every piece of bark on every tree, only to discard each finished painting and begin again. What no one knows is that she always hopes the next brushstroke will reveal her boy’s face.

*   *   *

Cynthia Pitman has been published in Vita Brevis anthologies Pain and Renewal, Brought to Sight & Swept Away, Nothing Divine Dies, What is All This Sweet Work?, in journals Amethyst Review, The Ekphrastic Review, Third Wednesday (One Sentence Poem finalist), Saw Palm: Florida Literature and Art (Pushcart Prize fiction nominee), Red Fez (Story of the Week) and others, including three books of poetry: The White Room, Blood Orange, and Breathe.

By Leonie Gregory

Along the northeast coast of Australia, cyclones weave their frequent, mysterious paths. Yet, the residents of Palm Paradise, a coastal town that lived up to its charming name, don’t let the rain dampen their spirits. They stick to their routine, stockpiling essentials like beer, tinned food, toilet paper, and pet supplies, while sandbagging their homes and tucking their cars safely away in garages.

This year, the cyclone’s early arrival saw it start as a powerful Category 4, only to weaken to a Category 2 before hitting land further down the coast and then veering southeast. Locals like Kim and Ellie sighed in relief and settled in to relax until the rainy season passes.

Ellie, who had been dealing with a power outage all day, looked out the window as she stirred soup on the gas cooker. Heavy rain blocked her view. As a precaution, she kept her two moggies indoors, and they were hiding upstairs, sleeping off the storm. Even Ripper, the golden retriever who usually loved showing off his glossy coat and playing fetch, was unenthused about staying out today.

The phone chimed: another evacuation alert. These warnings had been popping up for the last 24 hours, but no one in Palm Paradise seemed to care. The cyclone had passed, and neighbours showed no signs of abandoning their homes. The sea was rough, rain lashed down, and the Barron River threatened to overflow; the usual drill. Even if the bridge got flooded and coastal areas were cut off, everyone assumed it would be temporary. After all, wasn’t that always the case?

Ripper’s frantic barking spun Ellie around. Water was bubbling under the front door. Ellie gasped and rushed over, but stopped just before yanking it open. The foamy water seemed ready to burst in. Meanwhile, Ripper had leapt onto the stairs, barking his head off.

Kim dashed in from the garage. Water was everywhere, and it was too late to drive away. Within minutes, water was up to their knees in the kitchen and living room. Kim grabbed the groceries and, leaping over the steps, dragged them upstairs. Ellie scooped the last goldfish from the tank as dirty, cold water reached the kitchen counter. The two-metre fridge toppled, and soon chairs, rugs, and shoes floated around them. Ellie’s phone slipped from her grasp, sinking into the murky water.

From the upper floor, Kim and Ellie gazed through the rain-streaked window as their street vanished beneath the rising water. A formidable, murky torrent had seemingly materialised out of nowhere, expanding its reach with relentless force. Pushing its way toward the ocean and defying the street’s curves, it swept everything in its path. Cars and fridges floated by, submerged boats spun in the current, and debris, fence pieces, logs, planks, and uprooted trees were carried along.

As the water claimed the entire ground floor and crept up the stairs, people and animals retreated to the attic. Kim spoke with neighbours and friends on the phone. The family next door, with their two kids, a mom pushing a stroller, three dogs, two cats, and a rooster with five hens, had also taken shelter in the attic. The entire community in Palm Paradise was in shock.

“Can you believe those weather guys? They totally botched it again!”

“Fair dinkum! My mum’s been here for 80 years, and she’s never seen a flood like this!”

“Where’s all this water even coming from?”

“They must help us! If they can’t get to us by boat, they should send in choppers!”

“The airport’s shut down!”

“I heard the bridge is underwater.”

“We’re all stuffed!”

“We saw snakes in the water! They could swim into our houses!”

“Snakes? Our daughter spotted a croc! Stay away from the water!”

“Oh my God, I saw an ute getting swept away with people and a kid on the roof. They were screaming like mad…”

“I heard that a ute got stuck in some trees, and people had to climb up. But is that tree even gonna hold?”

The phones died, severing their connection to the outside world. As darkness approached, Ellie lit a few candles. The roar of the torrent and the hammering rain created a deafening, suffocating cacophony. Water was everywhere, the sole constant, making it feel as though the air itself was turning to water.

Anyone hardly slept at night. Dawn brought no relief. Kim and Ellie spent the next day listening to the water’s relentless sound, unsure of what else to do. The cats napped, Ripper whined softly, and the goldfish in the pot lingered near the surface, gulping for air. The water climbed higher, swallowing fences, homes, and gardens in its muddy, churning path. Something cracked in their house. Would the walls hold? The roof held strong, and the attic remained almost dry. But swarms of mosquitoes invaded.

At first, Ellie lamented, “The furniture’s gone! Our house is gone! When will someone come to help us?” She felt frustrated, but unable to cry. Kim spoke softly yet firmly, “One day, the rain will end, the rescuers will arrive, and everyone will be okay. Just lie down and take a break.”

Days dragged on. Each as bleak and interminable as the nights. The world outside had transformed into a vast, roaring ocean with low houses completely submerged and only rooftops of taller ones visible above the water. What had become of the people? A haunting question. Kim kept his thoughts to himself, and Ellie didn’t push him for answers.

She felt a deep sadness as Kim’s boredom and despondency grew with each passing day. He suggested diving into the flooded garage to retrieve more beer, but Ellie vehemently protested, refusing to let him risk his life. Kim would often climb onto the rooftop, staring into the watery haze, flashing a torch until its power faded. He’d return, soaked and enraged.

How many days like this have passed? Time lost all meaning, but the rain finally began to ease, the wind no longer breaking trees. Even the wild red-brown torrent weakened, its roar quieting. Survivors crawled onto rooftops, shouting to each other, waving their arms in a mix of relief and desperation.

A log drifted up to Kim and Ellie’s rooftop, and Kim hatched a plan to float it to their neighbour’s empty rooftop to the right. Ellie voiced her concerns, but Kim silently mounted the log and pushed off. Ellie watched in horror as he made it to the neighbour’s rooftop, waved, and then vanished through a roof window. Kim didn’t return.

Ellie screamed and cried until she could barely make a sound. Staring at the water, she tried to summon the courage to jump in and swim, but fear paralysed her. The dark, murky water seemed alien and menacing. Bottomless, endless, and merciless. Soon, however, her fear faded away. Like the rest of the feelings, there were none left. No one was coming to save her; nothing would change.

The rain finally ceased, and the water’s turbulent flow slowed to a peaceful, languid pace, as if it had all the time in the world. One morning, Ellie woke to an unsettling silence. Light crept into the attic, and she peeked out the window. The sun was rising. Suddenly, the house shuddered and tilted, throwing Ellie off balance. Her mind racing, “This is it; the end.”

The house wobbled a bit, then finally broke free from the water and floated up. In a second or two, it began to drift away. Ellie scrambled onto the rooftop and secured herself at the ridge. Their house was on the move! It glided past the treetops and the rooftops poking out of the water, some metal, some with tiles and solar panels and wonky satellite dishes. Breathing was easy again with fresh and salty air. Ellie couldn’t take her eyes off the endless blue sea merging with the blue sky on the horizon. She saw nothing more breathtakingly perfect.

Ripper’s yapping broke the spell. Ellie looked around to see more houses drifting away, leaving the submerged town of Palm Paradise behind. The houses rocked gently on the waves, which lapped peacefully against their walls. Sunlight sparkled off the glass in their windows, creating a dazzling display. “A flotilla!” Ellie couldn’t hold back a smile. Life carried on, taking on a new meaning.

*   *  *

Leonie Gregory lives in Australia by the Coral Sea and has a passion for photography and writing about her experiences, as well as subjects she wants to explore further.

By Julie Brandon 

Eleanor sat on the park bench holding the sealed envelope in her hand. Even though she knew what was in it, she just couldn’t bring herself to open it. How could David allow Cecily to be so cruel? Surely, he knew that Eleanor wasn’t completely over him. Who was she kidding? She wasn’t over him at all. Eleanor shook her head. Thankfully, David would never know how many nights she stared at old photos of him. To be truthful, she was a little worried about her inability to move on. The cream-colored envelope in her hand was proof that he had. Eleanor’s mother kept trying to convince her to join a club, an online dating site, something that would get her out of the house and perhaps meet someone new. She wasn’t getting any younger, her mother would murmur. Every time she said it, Eleanor had to resist the urge to run to the mirror and look for gray hairs.

This was ridiculous. She gave herself a little shake. It’d been two years. Two years since he’d broken off their engagement saying he needed to figure out what he really wanted. Apparently, it was Cecily. Eleanor should have known something was in the wind when they’d met her at a party and David’s eyes lit up. He and Cecily had belonged to the chess club in college and were overjoyed to see each other again. David tried to teach Eleanor to play but she was helpless at it. No matter how hard she tried, she just couldn’t remember which piece moved where. Soon after the party, Cecily invited David to play a game at a local coffee shop. Eleanor was relieved. Finally, he’d stop bugging her to play. And he did. She never gave it a moment’s thought until the day he’d told her it was over. By then, it was too late. David and Cecily’s love of chess had blossomed into another kind of love and Eleanor was left behind. She remembered how it felt when she dropped her engagement ring into his outstretched hand. How he quickly closed his hand into a fist around it, as though she’d snatch it back. 

Eleanor has seen the engagement announcement on social media. She’d idly wondered if David had bought Cecily a new ring. Of course, he did. No woman wants to wear the cast-off ring from the cast-off fiancée. Eleanor sighed. She didn’t have to open the envelope. She could toss it in a park trash can and walk away. But she knew that wasn’t going to happen. Her mother was right. It was time to move on. Maybe not a dating site but she could take a class at the community college. Pottery or guitar. Anything but chess. Taking a deep breath, Eleanor opened the envelope and pulled out the engraved invitation. As wedding invitations go, it was lovely. She reached into her purse for a pen. She signed the RSVP card, inserted it into the stamped return envelope and sealed it. On her way out of the park, Eleanor spotted a blue mailbox. She dropped the envelope in and with a spring in her step, continued on her way. 

    *     *    *

Julie Brandon is a poet, playwright, lyricist, and storyteller. Her work has been published in Bewildering Stories, Corner Bar Magazine, Bright Flash Literary Review, Altered Reality, Fresh Words, Mini Plays Magazine, To Write of Love During War:Poems, Wicked Shadow Press: Dead Girl Walking anthology, Mask of Sanity: The Monster Within, Rio Grande Valley International Poetry Festival Anthology: Boundless, Kibbutz Gezer International Exhibit, Detangled Brains and others. Julie’s book of poetry, My Tears, Like Rain, was publish June 2024. Two of her short plays have been produced by Broken Arts Entertainment and Theatrical Shenanigans podcasts. She lives near Chicago, Illinois.

By Mathew Channer

Emilia stepped carefully over the garbage bags on the porch and went down the stairs onto the weedy lawn. She didn’t look at her brother—still digging, the hole as deep as his chest now—as she passed the remains of last year’s garden. At the end of the garden was the bench her husband had built for her so she could look out over the valley. She sank into its familiarity, imagining the non-existent depression her body had carved over the years.

Shunk. Shunk. Shunk. Pete’s shovel stabbed the unsuspecting earth. Emilia refused to look. It was easier to gaze south over endless fallow fields and fence posts, the glimmering strip of Route 50 an un-sutured wound stretching toward the state line. All the land stank of rot, the fields blotted with mud as winter slipped slowly into creeks and ditches and slithered away. 

Emilia picked at the bench, peeling up little strips of damp wood. They had painted it to match the summer grass, but snow and sun had flayed its skin, its demise aided these last few seasons by anxious fingers.

Shunk. Shunk. Shunk. Like a heartbeat. Emilia pushed her fingers into her ears, but her own heart took up the rhythm. Da-dunk. Da-dunk. Da-dunk.

Emilia groaned and ripped her hands away. Her brother’s boots clomped onto the porch, then back down the stairs with slow, measured steps. Two, three times more. His breath heavy with effort. Plastic rustled against his clothes. Emilia stared at the sky. Dark clouds hung over the land, muttering to each other between horizons. 

Shunk. Shunk. Sh-

‘Shut up!’ Emilia screamed. 

The shovel clattered. A waft of damp earth, and then her brother sat beside her. Dirt clung to his pants and boots and plaid jacket. They were her husband’s clothes. Pete’s shirt and jeans had already gone into the garbage bags.

Silence stretched like a chasm, then collapsed inward as Emilia’s brother sighed. His breath misted the air. 

‘Don’t suppose you’ve thought up a good explanation, yet?’

Emilia hated his pragmatism. Perfect pragmatic Pete. If she had eaten anything these last forty-eight hours, she would have vomited all over him just to make a point. 

Pete’s eyes wandered the sepia fields, Emilia’s sepia garden, her strained, sepia face. Blonde hair poked from beneath his blue woollen cap.

‘I guess this is why you haven’t called for a while,’ he said. ‘Seems a bit of an overreaction, don’t you think?’

‘What would you know?’ 

Pete frowned and returned his gaze south, his head slightly tilted as though listening to the muffled thunder. Emilia tore another splinter from the bench. 

‘I’m sorry.’ She sniffed.

Pete seemed not to have heard. He was watching a bus glide gently along Route 50.

‘I never wanted this, you know,’ Emilia said.

‘Of course not.’

‘I never wanted it.’

‘So I’ve heard.’

‘But I didn’t want anything else either. I was just wandering around, waiting for something to happen. What did it matter if it was Montana or Wyoming or South Dakota? Wheat or pigs or poultry?’ 

She pressed her shaking hands to her lips and peered over them like a rabbit peeking from its burrow. 

‘You know, when he brought me here, I stood in this spot and looked over all this land, all mine now, and I promised myself I would never let myself get used to it. I wouldn’t stay a moment longer than it took to get comfortable. The old fool thought I was crying with joy and built me this bench. And what did I do? I sat on it.’

She saw a streak of blood on the back of Pete’s hand and tried to wipe it off with her sweater, but it was dry and stuck to the skin. She gave up and wrapped her arms around her chest. 

‘And now I’ve dragged you into all this. I’m so sorry, Pete. You were always so good. So level-headed. Think about your career. They’ll make you sergeant soon. You should take me in. I’ll tell them everything. I’ll tell them this was never my life.’ 

Pete didn’t reply. 

‘Did you hear me, Peter? I said this was never my life. Not really.’

It was late afternoon, the sun setting unseen beyond the clouds. The cold wind picked up the skeletons of long-dead leaves and carried them around the garden until they settled in some new place. 

Pete drew a deep, slow breath. 

‘Maybe this isn’t my life either,’ he said.

He got up and walked through the garden and began filling the hole. Emilia remained, peeling strips from the bench and dropping them between her feet. Among the piled splinters, the first tiny buds were unfolding, little bursts of green climbing daringly upward. Suddenly a robin broke into song, another answered it from across the garden. Emilia watched as the two birds met in mid-air, swooped around each other, and flew away south.  

She stood and went inside to pack a suitcase. 

*   *   *

Mathew Channer is a full-time writer from small town Western Australia. He is both creative writer and journalist and is widely published in Australia and North America. He is a staff editor at Flash Fiction Magazine. Recently his fiction has appeared in Andromeda Spaceways Magazine, Reedsy, Flash Fiction Magazine, and the 2022 Revolutionaries Anthology It Begins With Us. His debut speculative fiction novella, Last Train North, was released this year. He lives in Canada with his partner, Hayley, and his dog, Nymeria. You can read more of his work and stay up to date on new releases at http://www.mathewchanner.com.

By Shanti Chandrasekhar

Bricks, tiles, cabinets, appliances, she selects for the new home; sample after fabric sample, she turns over and nails the one for the sunroom sofa; a unique coffee table, she singles out; and the top-grade leather for the family-room sectional seating, yes, she chooses it all. Even the wall unit for the study that is his.

While in India, she scans the intricate weavings of each authentic Kashmiri silk-and-wool rug the men roll out.

“Madam?” They look at her, expectant, awaiting a nod from her.

A blend of aroma—cardamom, cinnamon, and clove—drifts into the small showroom. She turns around and faces a skinny teenaged boy holding a tray with a tiny ceramic mug of masala chai for her; the hot liquid, spicy and sugary at once, dribbles down her throat while the cashier makes a bill for the three rugs to be shipped to America.

Back in Virginia, she chooses the texture, the colors of the room-darkening pull-up-pull-down blinds and drapes to cover every window – all thirty-three of them.

Thirty-three windows. Yet she struggles to breathe.

Shapes and colors of her choice surround her, she sees nothing. Her feet tread on smooth tiles and plush carpet, she feels nothing. Nothing. Except the fear that grips her. Fear that leads to panic attacks every so often. Stop, stop, stop! Her voice is lost in the din of the tirade he hurls at her, relentless, night after night, year after year.

Yet, in an attempt to save what the piece of paper locked in a filing cabinet calls marriage, she seeks help; yes, she tries to change another person, but oh, how she fails.

For a fleeting relief from claustrophobia, she opens a window, inhales the chilly air, and breathes out. Her breath, her breath, her breath…warm and foggy, floating out into the dusk, out of the mansion, out of the house that’s never been her home.

Sunlight trickles into her nine-by-ten bedroom through the rental apartment’s stained-white vinyl blinds, awakening her. She’s alone. Yet she’s not. A presence, she senses. Ethereal. Peace surmounts the apprehension of the trials ahead. Peace. For now.

*  *  *

Shanti Chandrasekhar formerly held professional titles such as project manager, project engineer, and technical writer/editor, yet has always been a writer. Her work has appeared in Flash Fiction Magazine, 50-Word Stories, The Journal of Compressed Creative Arts, Braided Way, Literary Mama, The Washington Post, and elsewhere. She lives in Maryland.