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”
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”
I finished shaving. A $10 coffee shop gift card was in the car, and although I knew I should hit the weights and take my usual morning walk, I also felt like a lazy day was not a bad idea.
Janice nudged me aside on her way to the ensuite.
‘What’s up?’ she asked.
‘Dunno,’ I said while pawing through the underwear drawer for just the right pair—supportive but not too bossy.
Continue reading “The Margin of the River by Mitchell Toews”
His wife smiles as she looks over at him, slipping her hand over top of his. They sit in rented beach chairs not far from where their three small children are playing in the sand. Digging up ‘rivers’ for the sea to flow into and filter out of. Sand castles that are hastily built and quickly moved on from. Splashes in the cool surf washing far enough inland to get their ankles wet.
Continue reading “The Wave by D J Roosh”
As he was falling from the rooftop, Jimmy`s whole life flashed before his eyes. That is why it was even more upsetting. A gap year in Australia, a few good years at college, and a job until he finds something better. After his skull would have crushed against asphalt, his brain splashed all over the road, and his broken limbs would be packed in a plastic bag, would there be a grand procession? Or, perhaps, just his parents and two or three friends would mourn him for a month. Falling, Jimmy knew: the latter was the case. They would have to use vague language during his eulogy sprinkled with cliches, for there was not much to tell.
Continue reading “Jimmy, the Architect by Dan Shpyra”
The old woman would still be alive if she had just stayed inside.
Stefan clawed at his sweat-soaked blanket. She haunted him every night. Damned locals. It was their own fault. If they didn’t sabotage the supply lines, the soldiers wouldn’t need to requisition food from the villagers. Requisition. Steal. Stefan didn’t care. He was hungry. Her farm looked abandoned. The doors on the dilapidated barn came off the hinges with little more than a pull. Inside there were an emaciated cow, two goats and a few chickens. Pathetic. Stefan balked when Ivan ordered him to search the attic—he was sure to break his neck if the stairs collapsed. But orders were orders. One bag of wormy grain. Wasted effort.
Continue reading “Hunger by Shawn Eichman”
Eighty-nine-years-old and he hasn’t a clue. About fucking any of it.
*
“I’m sorry, my love. I’m so sorry.”
Continue reading “Frank by Jane Houghton”
It would be a lark to sit before a cartoonist at Seattle’s Pike Place Market, a joke because last night two of her oil paintings were hung in an art exhibition hall side by side with a pair of her husband’s oils. Would not a cartoon of her be the perfect ironic token to give him to commemorate their recognition? One local art critic dubbed them the “Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera” of Orange County, California. Granted, her husband had cultivated him and planted the phrase, but now it was out there.
Continue reading “The Cartoon by Cy Hill”
Other people’s dragons? Maybe you find your rooftop scorched and have to change your weekend plans. But when you say “MY dragon”, that’s a different story. My world was all fucked and I could no longer ignore it. Two choices: 1- Keep stumbling along, half-assing a mediocre existence, or 2 – Take control.
Continue reading “I Will Gift My Dragon by LC Gutierrez”
My wife, Mary, and I sit on the deck of The Boatyard, a Sarasota seafood restaurant. Since our retirement, we lunch here several times a month. Mary is eating a hamburger because she is allergic to seafood. I am devouring fish-and-chips, which I have smothered with malt vinegar.
Continue reading “Biff Malibu by James Hanna”
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