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I never learned how to ride a bicycle. My little sister did; during her Jesus phase Tess earned a rusty third-hander from the Presbyterians because she’d memorized fifty Bible verses. It was the sort of bike you could leave out and not care if it got stolen. Forever on foot, I excelled at heartstopping bolts across busy streets, hopping fences and creating shortcuts; I also developed a mailman’s awareness of Dogs.
Continue reading “Mannish by Leila Allison”
My mother lives in the next town over, but she’s dead. My dead father lives with her.
Their house is small, and silent because it’s empty. The dead are quiet for the most part, although sometimes there is a sound like weeping in the bedroom and once the bathroom door slammed so hard it cracked and then there was a hole in it big enough to put your foot through, but it’s the just the wind, murmurs my mother, the same wind that skirls along her teeth, hissing through the dark cavern of her yawning jaw, a wind that bobbles my father’s empty skull and makes it nod along in agreement.
Continue reading “Where the Dead Live by Jennifer Maloney”
In the low light of early evening, Micki Gehl strolled along the path that ran from her house to the first of her three chicken coops, tossing scratch feed to her hens. Chickens were the love of her life. Their attention provided all the affection she needed and their eggs, along with the apples from her orchard, provided all the income she needed. An extensive garden supplied most of her food. She smiled a bit to herself; she truly enjoyed her life.
Continue reading “Good for the Garden by T.G. Roettiger”
“Why, oh, why Negro niece, do you sit there on the steps and cry?”
“Oh, woe is upon me and ruthlessly rides me because my father, your brother, my mother’s husband, has died. And our weeping is without end.”
“Ah, but your father was 80 and 10. It was about time for the old Negro’s story to end.”
“True, true, but he will be gone, his voice and presence will be missed, his words will be longed for, and his absence will leave a great emptiness.”
Continue reading “Immortality By Frederick K Foote”
Toys
During my decade at Goodwill I had many jobs. I recall one fondly: Toy evaluation. It involved going through the massive amount of donated toys and separating the trash from the saleable.
Continue reading “518: Toys and If I’ve Hit Girls in Leotards Once I’ve Done it a Million Times”
Carmine stands silently beneath a mammoth black and white, chrome-framed photograph of a no-nosed beauty with a blunt cut in the back room of his salon. A pie slice of a building gilded in white wrought iron swirls, Mr. Carmine’s Beauty Palace stands between a pastel-colored dog grooming shop and a dimly lit deli/bookie-joint/pizzeria on a street corner in downtown Yonkers, New York. With yards of crushed velvet, flowing script lettering hand-painted on the double plate-glass doors and layers of gold leaf Mr. Carmine, himself, resides over the first, overstuffed, red velour chair. He sports an expensive, loose fitting khaki jumpsuit, and a pair of Italian, olive-green, eel skin loafers as he begins the day. Hazy sunshine filters through the mauve miniblinds as disconnected images fill his mind: business, past lovers, today. He sighs. He hears his first customer enter the shop.
Continue reading “Beyond the Bridges A Story by Susan Jennifer Polese”
Ed liked to blame the couch, though there was more to it, but that part didn’t help.
What Kaitlyn did, she went out and spent four thousand dollars on it, and then when they delivered the thing it didn’t fit in the elevator. Ed watched them try removing the little ceiling panel, which he didn’t even know came off, but even so they couldn’t angle it in.
Continue reading “Adverse Possession by Ted Gross”
Frank likes motorbikes and works nights. He’s in bed when I get up for school in the mornings, but I know he’s made it home because there’s a grimy ring around the sink and rust-coloured wee in the toilet. His sandwich box, with a crumpled crisp packet and eggy clingfilm inside, is always by the kettle for Mum to clean out.
Continue reading “Life’s A Tin Of Peaches by Leanne Simmons”
The minister, at her desk between afternoon meetings, took up the next set of documents requiring her attention. Her usual practice, following that of all government ministers, was to read firstly the summary prepared by her civil servants. Only occasionally and in dire need, would she then read the full report. This did not signify any lack of diligence on her part. Indeed, the work of the Scottish Government would’ve shuddered to a halt if ministers had insisted on reading every document that crossed their desks from first page to last. But on this occasion, she read the summary and immediately then read the full report, re-reading some passages and asterisking two or three sentences. Uncharacteristically, she was then ten minutes late for her next meeting.
Continue reading “Crossing the Bridge with Thomas Tallis by Mick Bloor”
Without thinking, she started smoking the day he left, nearly thirty years ago. It was just something to do when he walked away. She constantly sat at the window, hoping, peering, and smoking. One cigarette lit from the other, with the smoke dragged deep into her lungs. Everyone said that was a bad thing to do, but she still smoked, and most of them had passed away. She kept her hand outside to let the smoke drift into the clouds and considered it a signal, a beacon he could follow home. The ash burned close and scarred her fingers, so little pain remained. The pain was all in her heart.
Continue reading “Patience by Ed N. White”
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