Inside Saint Anthony’s Basilica in Padua, he turned to his wife and whispered that he had a “confession to make,” darting three steps toward a dark, vacant box.
“You got me,” she whispered back. She still liked his jokes, even after six years together, three as digital nomads. Pointing to her fitness tracker watch, she reminded him that they each had Zoom meetings starting in thirty minutes.
Continue reading “Confessions of a Digital Nomad by Dan Shiffman”
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A small dark-haired boy was walking in the fog like a phantom. Lenny Coins thought about his father. How could his father do such a thing—things? But the balloons. What about those?
At the bus stop, Tom waited for Lenny and offered him a Marlboro cigarette. Like he did every morning.
“I’m only eleven. I don’t smoke, Tom.” This was in the eighties when the Marlboro Man rode the range, instead of a hospital bed. Smoking was cool, and serial killers were coming on strong.
Continue reading “The Stringer by Christopher Ananias”
The ol’ boy downstairs humps his walker a few inches b’fore ever’ step he takes down the driveway. Had a stroke his wife tol’ me but she says he’s stubborn as a cocklebur and won’t let nobody else git his mail.
In the summer of 1997, when most men of his age were discovering the quiet dignity of cholesterol, Gopal Banerjee decided to make a perfume that would outlive death itself. Not metaphorically, he meant it quite literally. “Eternity,” he called it, though Calvin Klein had already used the name. Gopal didn’t mind; he believed trademarks were for those who lacked vision.
Continue reading “The Scent of Eternity by Susmita Mukherjee”
Andy put down the phone on his sister, though she was still sobbing intermittently. They’d already been talking for half an hour; he realised that there was no more comfort he could offer, til he saw her tomorrow at the undertakers. And he needed a break to process her news of their father’s death. So, booted and rain-proofed, he headed out the door for a familiar walk beside the river.
Continue reading “Beside the Dying Ash Tree by Michael Bloor”
Harry Pembroke, 67, a retired PE teacher came to London from Gobowen. It took him five hours to reach the capital; he had missed one of his connections. He felt really clever though when he arrived to his destination. He had paid for his tickets three months ago, used his National Railcard, and was able to save quite a lot of money with his advance booking: instead of £317 one way which he would have paid had he bought the tickets right before his trip at the station he had only paid £143 return. These numbers kept him warm and happy when he walked out of the train terminal into the cold November drizzle.
Continue reading “Happy Point by Sergey Bolmat”
Sometime last year I became a recipient of “The Word of the Day.” I didn’t sign up for it, but I must have accidentally hit a link. Still, I’m glad to have it.
Continue reading “Week 575- Hey Man, are You Scripturient?”
She’s in the middle of the street – a blur, a twirl, of color, this woman with a boombox. She’s not safe behind barricades or idling in a car as the rest of us are. She wears no coat, no makeup, shielded only by her floral dress.
Continue reading “The Dancing Woman by Bradley J. Collins”
“Did you see the Facebook postings I sent you?”
“Yes, she looks a handful! There are some wonderful pictures.”
“What about the Instagram pictures or all the memes?”
Continue reading “Chloe by Hugh Cron (Adult Content)”
Sounds burrow in, fill Walsh’s craving mind. The bus door opens, like a hospital emergency room. He lunges on board, his orange sash of the Buddhist colours close to his cheek, hiding the scratches and whiskers on his face. The bus driver doesn’t even flinch, hits the accelerator. “Their Union tells them don’t get involved,” Walsh thinks.
“This will be my healing ride. Over the bridge to the other side.”
Continue reading “The Orange Sash by Harrison Kim”
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