There’s something about small islands: a bounded space, every corner familiar, memory-laden. I understand the attraction because I left and then returned. Like a lot of islanders, I joined the mercantile marine, but a bad fall left me lame in the right leg. So I came home to work as the harbour master. And now, in my sixties, I’m damn pleased I did.
Continue reading “The Disappearance by Michael Bloor”
They’re talking about me. I can’t hear the exact words, but I know it. Their eyes carefully shoot glances from time to time while their mouths move fast with worry and sympathy. I need someone to tell the doctor tomorrow that I don’t like this new medication. It makes my thoughts dizzy and my legs slower.
Continue reading “It Was Best Like This by Margarida Chagas”
Mr. Overalls comes into Old Da’s room at Henrytown Home for the Elderly and Infirm at night—not each night—but often—and pisses in the radiator. This is particularly problematic in winter. She tells Nurse Bee that she hears the hiss, which, she says, makes her queasy and uneasy, and she says she worries that if she can get used to the smell, she might be able to get used to anything, and she says she fears what it is she may have already gotten used to.
Continue reading “A Long Time Between Yesterday and Tomorrow by J Bradley Minnick”
Neighbor, how we can talk of bone-on-bone arthritis woes, our children, and the Highlander’s muscles over the fence in less than ten minutes! Listen, I have a gift for you for watching over my house whenever I’m on a trip. It’s a bright blue pottery cup with hand-painted fuchsia flowers, suns, and lime green leaves swirling around it. It looks unusual here, but it isn’t in Mexico. Stores are crammed with that lovely pottery and delicate glassware splashed with chunky abstract designs straight from the impulsive mind of the painter.
Continue reading “Blue Heat by Susan DeFelice”
She walked her dog, the same places, the same time at night and also first thing in the morning.
Those who knew her spoke, but the youngsters all had their heads down reading whatever pish was on their phones.
Garibaldi was a boxer and he wasn’t the brightest, but he made her laugh.
“Hi Ella, how’s it going?”
Continue reading “A Sign of the Times by Hugh Cron”
What most disturbed Ben Sykes about his present situation was how it had crept up on him: Ben had lost his home, his wife, and he had thrown away his job. He wasn’t able to say which one thing brought him to this—the world was certainly a more complex and complicated place than placing blame on one thing. If it wasn’t for his ex-mother-in-law, Mrs. Edna Ferbish, allowing Ben to stay with her, well.
Continue reading “A Pebble at Dawn by J Bradley Minnick”
He sat on the couch with his arms crossed around his middle like he was hiding something precious from some malevolent authority.
“I think I might have gone,” he said.
In a moment the water stopped to a drip in the kitchen sink.
“I’m coming,” she said.
She went to him compressed by the years. Shrunken like wool in the dryer. Her shoulders pushed down from holding all the clouds above the world.
She helped him to the bathroom.
Continue reading “Wig Shop by Jon Fotch”
For the fortieth memorial picnic, Egon Frankl had prepared ditalini with tomatoes smothered in oil. The food shimmered beneath an airless Viennese sun as he waited for his brother, who adored the dish. Not once did Egon sneak a bite. He’d long ago learned to go without so others might eat. Whilst his brother was normally late – Egon’s disappeared wife, Hilde, the person to whom the afternoon was supposedly devoted, once said being late was Ignaz’s chief characteristic – that day Ignaz excelled himself by failing to make any appearance whatsoever. Egon occupied himself by admiring the tattered life for which the city park was home. He ardently wished for his brother’s Copernicus moment, when it would dawn on Ignaz that the universe did not revolve about him. Younger brothers – even one aged eighty-two – seem duty bound, it seems, to disappoint.
Continue reading “Climbing by Antony Osgood”
Del Río— Rachel’s new board and care home. ’S where I was this morning till eleven, with Caron, the Russian, although “Caron” sounds Greek to me. Whatever, he’s gonna handle the move. Me, I’m driving home and thinking of Miles Archer and tuned to NPR when—
Continue reading “Rachel, Remarque, and The Maltese Falcon by Vince Barry”
Moments linger, trapped in thought. Two things right, then one thing not:
I’m a ghost.
Ghosts live in the memories of those that they touched.
It doesn’t hurt to die.
