I saw a little man riding a child’s bicycle in Berwyn, Illinois, outside Chicago, on the sidewalk, along Roosevelt Road. He was carrying a guitar; this was the first thing that caught my attention. The guitar was strapped over his back. But it was also slung down partly across the side of his body so he could cuddle it with one arm while he steered the bike with the other and pedaled the small pedals with his small legs.
Continue reading “The Old Guitarist by Dale W Barrigar”
We all worried. Ever since he came back from Glasgow, Uncle Neil seemed different, jauntier. And it wasn’t just the new hat. He strutted around the village, singing in an uneven baritone. Whistling. To be honest, we thought he’d bagged someone and felt sorry for Auntie Sandy. But it wasn’t that.
Continue reading “Birds by Sarah Macallister”
Red Hook Brooklyn 10am. I wake up and look out my 11th floor window.
Oh my God. The sky. I’m blasted. I’m overwhelmed. By blue. But not just any blue. Royal Blue. Stunning Royal Blue from horizon to horizon. It’s usually a dirty, featureless gray
Continue reading “A Nice Day by Gene Bray”
Felicia sat down on the boulder at the edge of the mountain. She thought about a thing or two, then thought about God.
Continue reading “Felicia by Paul Crehan”
He settled the last of the old Amazon boxes in the bed of the pickup, an intractable, unstrung guitar neck poking out from the middle, with the faded moon looming eerie in the midday sky like the cover of some science fiction paperback. He threw a blue tarp over the mess, then took his time stitching a length of twine through the grommets, around the cleats, a clever hitch knot at the end, even opening the driver’s side door before finally, finally turning to me standing in the hot pea gravel, glass of ice tea melting in my hand, before saying, “Well, that’s it.”
Continue reading “What’s Left by Todd Dodson”
I am sitting in a windowless room in Africa’s Congo Basin wishing I had taken French instead of Latin in high school. My mom forced me to take Latin, saying it would help me become a doctor. What a load of crap! Or as they say in Latin “Quid onus crap!” Also, I am not a doctor but a middling middle-aged ecologist who is at this very moment sweating through my t-shirt, sharing a room not much bigger than gas station bathroom with one Congolese priest and one Spanish priest. They are not praying but discussing bribery. I know this because I did end up taking four semesters of Spanish in college, and heard the Spanish priest say “Quanto dinero?” The Congolese priest whispered back to him in French with something that sounded like “Quanto dinero?” But it is definitely French. I know this because his earnest whispers are as soft as crushed velvet, the syllables gently rolling over each other. No other language but French does this.
Continue reading “The Yellowing Yellow Room by Colby Loucks”
Madeline tells her virtual assistant to play the invitation again. Did she really hear the antiquated phrase, in-person? Pandora says, “repeating anniversary party details from George and Lydia” and yep, there’s cousin George’s avatar, declaring he’s 40 years married in 2040 (!) and guests can attend the celebration by holographic teleportation or in-person.
Continue reading “AI Husband by Claire Massey”
When the shock of the diagnosis wore off, I figured if I was going down the tubes anyway I might as well take some people with me. So I made a list.
On top of the list was Ray, who beat me up good in junior high school.
Continue reading “Ray by Ted Gross”
It was the second day of our trip to Madrid. We were in a restaurant not far from Plaza Mayor with the massive stone walls whispering the secrets they knew, trying to eavesdrop on ours. We had almost finished the bottle of Cava, I was a little dizzy from the alcohol and too high on you, my friend. You watched me with those magnet eyes of yours, a wicked smile played on your lips, and I was asking myself if you’re even real.
Continue reading “We Were Everything and Nothing by Lydia Baham”
On that day, as on most days, the 8:22 was right on time. Book in hand, I boarded a nearly empty car and secured a seat facing west, so as to avoid the blistering fire of a Colorado sunrise. The city burned amber and rose as the doors dinged closed and the train lurched forward. I gazed out the window as we glided out of downtown, past campus, and under 6th Avenue. At Broadway we met I-25, which we would parallel for the remainder of the journey south.
Continue reading “Missed Connections by J.D. Strunk”
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