Short Beasts

Papa makes peppers and onions. He lets them get brown and slimy before he puts me in. The oil boils me up before I can feel it—not that I can feel it—I can’t feel where I begin and where the peppers and onions end.

Papa pulls a wet sniff in through his nostrils like jumbo jet engines with black hairs bushing out. I smell so good, Papa says, I smell so good there in the pan. Papa breaks me up with the wooden paddle. He uses it to swat the fat flies away from my good smell. I leak my juices into the peppers and onions, and everything in the pan is wet.

When they took me away, did the wet creep down Papa’s nostrils like jumbo jet engines, and get caught in the black hairs that bush out? Did the wet roll down his spidery red-veined cheeks?

After they took Brother last week, I heard Papa in the house, tearing in two. It did not rain that night. Just a cold damp. I laid in the barn with the straw warming underneath me.

I could have guessed that Papa spilled a pan of boiling oil onto the bushy black hair of his toes again, but I knew. I was all alone out in the pen. No more Brother to help me warm up the damp straw.

Papa douses the peppers, onions, and I in white table salt from a shaker shaped like a green John Deere tractor. The fat flies scurry around on the cabinets, wet with steam, above the stovetop. I am boiling away. Can Papa see me in the steam? Can he feel me when he breathes in my good smell?

The rain came three days after they took Brother. Papa was wet when he fell into the barn door. He did not see me at first. I watched him from the dark corner of the pen, but I could smell him all the way back there. His breath smelled like Brother.

Was he thinking about how hungry he would be with Brother still in his belly? Did he already know that I would be next? Had he already made the call?

It was not long before Papa saw me hiding. He drifted over, hands gripping the metal fencing, wet rolling down his face. I tried not to breathe too deeply but I could feel the whites of my eyes bulging out. I could not hold my breaths in.

Papa put his bulging hand like a meat mallet on my ribs next to where my heart was thumping. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Papa said, the wet coming faster. I’m sorry, Papa whispered. I’m so sorry. Every S was a hiss. No other letters made it through.

I could not ask where Brother had gone. I took deep breaths and waited for Papa to tell me. Every time he spoke, it was a hiss, and more wet would come out. Papa kept trying and trying, and kneading his meat mallet hands in my sides, until he finally pushed himself away into the fence. He made his falling way out of the barn. I stayed there in the dark while the rain scraped against the walls.

There is not much of me left. It is time for me to leave Papa’s pan. He scrapes the sides with the wooden paddle, and ushers the peppers, onions, and I onto a curved plate. Spidery cracks like the ones in Papa’s red cheeks run through the center. He moves us around to cover them up, then brings the plate with him to the couch and sets us on his lap.

Papa sighs like he is going to tear in two and stares down at the plate. I know he can feel me now. He can see me in the peppers and onions. Still he grips his fork and shoves it into the pile. Wet comes out of his bushy jet engine nostrils. The wet comes closer and closer as I move towards Papa’s mouth.

Papa’s lips peel back and I can see that his tongue is yellow. The betweens of his teeth are browned like he has been eating mud. There is so much pink and red and brown and yellow in Papa’s mouth; his mouth is a painting. Papa’s eyelids sink closed and he takes another breath as he slides the fork between his teeth.

The peppers and onions settle with me on Papa’s wide yellow tongue. He seals his lips closed, and it becomes dark. Dark like the cold damp of a rainless night. Dark like the barn without Brother. Dark like the back corner of the pen.

Papa gnashes his muddied teeth together, and moves me around with his wide yellow tongue. He mixes the peppers, onions, and I with his spit. Then he swallows us down.

---

Madison Ellingsworth likes walking in Portland, Maine. She has recently been published in Fractured Lit, Apple Valley Review, and Gargoyle Magazine, among others. Links to Madison’s published works can be found at madisonellingsworth.com.

The early morning silence in the gas station is unbearable. It makes even the low hum of the fridge against the back wall feel like a jackhammer on my ears. My eyes glaze over cans of coffee in black and white and every imaginable shade of brown, searching for something to get me through the next ten hours. An unsweetened black cold brew should do the trick. I open the frosty glass door and reach toward the back of the fridge to get the coldest one. Only then do I catch a glimpse of something bright pink screaming for my attention behind the cans.

Curious, I push them aside and pull out a bubblegum-colored milk carton. On the front is a drawing of a smiling cat with a milk mustache. It’s a carton of Miyabi Strawberry Milk. I can’t remember the last time I saw one of these at a store. Not since I was a kid, I think. Has it really been that long? I turn the carton over, looking for the expiration date. There isn’t one. Then I notice the picture printed on the side, under the word “MISSING.”

My eyes are still half-shut, but I recognize my old denim jacket covered in pins and my aviators with the blue lenses. I remember laughing with my friends from school on the curb outside the arcade while one of them snapped the photo. Didn’t I leave this in my room at my parents’ house? Why is it on here? I haven’t gone missing. I go to work every day and then I go home. It’s been that way for years now. When did I disappear?

Behind me, the cashier clears his throat. I check my watch. Ten minutes have already passed. With a sigh, I shove the milk carton back in the fridge, taking a coffee and shutting the door. I need to get to work.

---

Alyson Floyd is an artist, writer and director from Houston. She is currently studying graphic design and writing her first novel.

It’s our first holiday together and you’re all excited because we’re about to take off, but you have no idea that I’m holding on to the armrests like I’m holding on to the earth, stuck in a cycle of intrusive thoughts, too afraid to move my body in case I move in the wrong way and trigger a catastrophe.

As the plane begins to move, I turn to you and feel a sudden sense of dread rise in the pit of my stomach; the kind of dread I imagine a parent would feel for their child when sensing they were in danger, a dread which my therapist tells me is born out of a love stronger than the love I have for myself.

Before it’s too late, I want to capture the feeling of being here with you, existing in the world at the same time. I want to tell you how much I love you, but when you hold my hand in yours and say, don’t worry, everything is going to be okay, there’s a part of me that wants to believe you, there’s a part of me that wants to be unburdened by my need to look back in the direction of home, repeating the image I have in my mind of our lives as they were before we left.

---

Billie J Daniel is a new writer based in London, from a working-class background. He graduated from Central Saint Martins with a degree in Fine Art and currently works as a teaching assistant. In his time away from writing, he likes to go birding with his partner, play board games with his friends, and analyse his favourite sport, boxing. His work explores ideas of love, connection, anxiety, and trauma. See more at his site.

My first night in Morocco could have been different. Sitting in my riad, alone, I am staring at a fresh soup made from some vegetable I have never heard of. I smile, thinking about the woman I met on the plane. While my eyes are still reflecting those bright colors we don’t have back home, and my ears still echoing with prayers of this alien language, I hope that my stomach does not get upset by the tap water I drank, despite my mother’s multiple warnings. I try the soup, making some noise while eating it, as I remember that’s how it’s done here, and I don’t want to disappoint the locals. Or am I thinking about Japan? In between my slurps I hear a sound, a rhythmical tick tick, like water hitting a metallic surface. I look around, searching for the source of the noise but then I am distracted by the waiter who brings some delicious fried bread, which I garnish with low-quality packaged cheese. Shukriya, I say, although I will learn only later that is what they say in Pakistan, not Morocco. Tick tick. Here comes the sound again, and my mind goes back to Madeleine. I know her name because I dropped my bookmark while reading a collection of short stories by Borges on the plane. She picked it up and tapped on my shoulder to inquire if it was mine. Pretending I was in shock, I said it was and thank you very much. Tick tick. The waiter is back with a goat tagine that smells like it is still alive. Tick tick. She asked, “what book are you reading?”, and that led into an hour-long conversation in which I learnt her name and her phone number. Tick tick. I ask for a glass of wine, but they do not serve alcohol here. Tick tick. I check my phone but there is no message from her. Tick tick. I finally see that the noise is coming from one of the big ceiling lamps, fanoos as they call them here. A bird is trapped inside and it is trying, unsuccessfully, to escape. The bulb is on, so I wonder how the poor thing is not frying. Tick tick. The waiter finds me staring upwards with my mouth open. I gesture at the bird. He smiles, and leaves me. Tick tick. I look at my phone again. No reply from Madeleine. Tick tick. The light is suddenly off, and I am relieved. In the dark, the bird and I share the saudagic feeling of being trapped in a cage of solitude. I am just lucky mine is a bit bigger than his. Tick. Tick.

---

Davide Risso grew up in Italy, but his itchy feet led him to live in Ireland, Germany, the United States, and travel around the globe. Scientist by training, writer by passion, rock climber by vocation, his fiction has appeared in Flash Fiction Magazine, RumbleFish Press, Literary Yard, and Cranked Anvil among others. Check his site for more.

The yoga studio I go to has a small paved garden at the back.

Pinned to a window overlooking the garden, there’s a notice that says they are creating an urban wilderness. The best way to nurture a flourishing ecosystem, it says, is to stand back and let nature take its course.

So far the urban wilderness is an empty birdhouse, a patch of nettles and what looks like a rotting Christmas tree.

I joke that I’ve had the same philosophy with my garden for years. My instructor does not find this funny. She shakes her head like I’ve misunderstood something important, like she’s disappointed, like there’s no point even trying to explain something profound to someone like me.

I feel her disapproval for months. She whispers gentle encouragements to everyone in the class but me. She praises someone’s Flying Pidgeon that is clearly nowhere near as good as mine. She walks past my mat with heavy feet, correcting my posture by prodding my shoulders a bit too hard. Sometimes I have problems with online bookings that I suspect are not really a computer glitch at all.


Once, in front of all my classmates, she reminds me to please put my blocks away neatly this time. The shame is unbearable.

Still, I stay committed to Yoga II on Wednesdays. I thank her for another great session, subtly alluding to the fact I am her most devoted student.

Just when I think I cannot endure this punishment for much longer, she tells us that this will be her last class at the studio. She is going to India and does not know when she will be back. I say that sounds lovely but I am devastated.

At the end of the session, she plays a gong to signal the end of our time together. The undulating beautiful sound shakes me to my core.

I open my eyes and turn to my instructor. She nods slowly and smiles, seeing in my wide eyes a moment of true wonder.

It’s then that I know myself.

I am an empty birdhouse. I am a patch of nettles. I am a rotting Christmas tree.

---

Robin Forrester is copywriter and procrastinator based in London. He spends his time writing poems and short fiction when he should probably be working. He lives with his equally sleep-deprived partner and two young daughters.

My very first memory – I was three or four.

My mother’s girandole earrings (I later learned it was pronounced “jeer-an-dou-lee”), with three green stones dangling at the bottom, the centerpiece slightly lower than the other two. Not Swarovski, but Jablonex, mass-produced behind the Iron Curtain in the neighboring Czech Republic. All year round, Mom kept them locked in a box wrapped in a handkerchief smelling of “Pani Walewska,” a fragrance sold in ultramarine bottles for 5 zloty (also the price of a Shane Nuss chocolate on the black market). She wore them only for New Year’s Eve parties. Dressed in a brocade gown trimmed with lace, with Mary Quant makeup applied to the eyelids but with her nails bitten to the quick, she let me hold them for a few moments before vanishing with a puff of an oh-so-delicate scent like a Communist-era Cinderella. No pumpkin carriage with horse-mice was waiting for her, but an Ikarus bus provided by the steelworks where she worked.

The second – the age of unreason. I was six.

My first dog (I’m on number ten now), a pinscher and terrier mix with crooked legs and a stumpy tail that I, eager to stand out, named Frog. I cried for an entire week when she died at fifteen.

Still figuring out the number, but definitely around the time I was ten—the age of defiance.

Winters with sledding, ice skating, frozen rivers, and my dad’s warnings.

“The ice will break; you’ll fall in and drown like poor Erika,” he roared.

Erika was a fifteen-year-old with special needs who lived in a tiny flat above the delicatessen, which sold Spanish oranges at Christmas, otherwise unavailable at any other time of the year.

Of course, I ignored his advice; the ice broke; I fell in but survived and never told Dad.

Through six to ten and even beyond.

Summers brought excursions to a town on the Warta River with its storks (monogamous creatures), the perfume of newly cut grass (no aroma can match!), lime trees (casting shadows in the burning heat), and acacia honey on rye (caviar cannot compete).

For two weeks, we pitched a tent behind a vast manor house where Ludwik, my maternal great-great-grandfather, a passionate drinker and adventurer, had squandered away his money betting on slow horses and fast women. Mom whispered through clenched teeth that education was as good as wealth and that I either study or marry a rich man without a gambling problem.

We took a 12-hour train ride to the Hel Peninsula in August, lugging cardboard suitcases with no wheels. Despite its scary name, it was heaven on earth. I lay belly up like a beached whale, face to the sun, from morning to sunset, with no sunscreen save a thick layer of Nivea cream on my shoulders. I can still hear the echoes of a vendor selling freeeeeeshshshhhsh bluuuuueberryyyy piiiiiieeee and smooooked eeeeeeelllll!

But in particular, I recall the treasure hunt for tiny pieces of prehistoric resin immortalized by the cold waters of the Baltic in caramel-colored amber. I kept them in velvet sachets for the remainder of the year to bring back summer warmth on chilly winter mornings.

Next on the list, regardless of the number – early adolescence.

The amusement park that visited our town twice a year. A tandem of tired ponies tugged along a kitsch carousel and a cotton candy cart. It was where my first boyfriend (an eighth grader with pimples and crooked teeth) shot a magenta flower with crepe petals and a wooden stem for me. At twelve, I valued it more than the most exquisite orchids I received later in life. Including the fake diamond ring, my first husband gave me instead of a real one. Cheap bastard!

And the one that tops them all—the queen, king, pharaoh, and emperor of all numbers.

Strangely, my children, because I never wanted to be a mother. I lacked the nurturing instinct that we’re meant to be born with. But here they are, at the very top of the list.

Each one is different, one-of-a-kind, and loved from the first heartbeat. I reveled in every millimeter of their growth and celebrated their achievements. But I also treasure the times when I was eager to swap them for a pet parrot. I honor the arduous but extraordinary path of single parenthood far from my homeland, in distant South America.

The memories flow fast now.
• Superb.
• Great.
• Memorable.
• Middling.
• Ordinary.
• Forgettable.

But where are the terrible ones? For some reason, they are gone. Perhaps because I believe life must be lived and commemorated as it comes, with subtle pleasures and intense pain.

I am reminded of the song “Honrar la vida” by Eladia Blázquez, an Argentine singer-songwriter. The song has been covered by many artists across Latin America, becoming a timeless classic that celebrates the beauty and complexity of life.

---

J.B. Polk: Polish by birth, a citizen of the world by choice. First story short-listed for the Irish Independent/Hennessy Awards, Ireland, 1996. Since she went back to writing in 2020, more than 150 of her stories, flash fiction and non-fiction, have been accepted for publication.

“I know you know a lot of musicians,” he says out of nowhere as we’re hugging goodbye. “But I want to sing at your funeral.”



He’s strangely insistent and repeats himself twice.



Oh, good god, I think. Because while I’m quite ill, my death isn’t imminent, he hasn’t sung professionally in decades, and he’s getting worse—now he’ll even make my last hurrah about himself. 



I want an alternate reality, a better one, where he’s just the kind guy who’s my close friend and not somehow this stranger, as well. 

But his moods keep pivoting faster than a cheetah on Dexedrine and his fits of grandiosity are ballooning like a Macy’s parade float gone rogue.



Later that night he sends a 15 paragraph email comparing himself to Bob Dylan.



I reply, “I love you, but you need some fucking help.” 


I sleep for a little while and wake up at 3:00am exhausted.



I know he’ll ignore me again.



In the morning I wake to a 20 paragraph email in which he’s now both Placido Domingo and the Pope.



I don’t respond—there’s no point anymore. I’m done.



I cry a little as I get dressed for work.

---

Litsa Dremousis is the author of Altitude Sickness (Future Tense Books). Seattle Metropolitan Magazine named it one of the all-time “20 Books Every Seattleite Must Read”. Her essay “After the Fire” was selected as one of the “Most Notable Essays 2011” by Best American Essays, and The Seattle Weekly named her one of “50 Women Who Rock Seattle”. She recently left the Washington Post, where she’d been an essayist who wrote extensively about Myalgic Encephalomyelitis. Her work has appeared in Esquire, Hobart, McSweeney’s, NY Mag, The Rumpus, et al.





Sending you a prayer all the way from a memory of lovers on a beach in the middle of the Pacific waiting for the sun to fall, waiting for sea levels to rise.

There is a bar in Kihei on that same Pacific island where we eat fried food with the burnouts and alcoholics. Drink a cocktail. Have some fun.

Sending you a prayer from my backyard in Albany, CA. How is the weather in Amsterdam? How late does it stay light outside in the summer? Where have all the people gone? Do you go to Bruges the way that I want to go to Bruges? Does Colin Farrel’s ghost wander the streets?

I pray for you while I walk the canals with the boats’ low grumbling across the water. The very small wakes they leave rippling behind them. The tall Dutch men, the blonde Dutch women. They drink icy riesling by the bottle. Oh how I’d love a glass of icy riesling from the bottle with you in a boat while we gently motor in the black water of the canals.

Instead, I get as high as I can tethered to the dog sniffing for chicken bones, discarded trash (she thinks we are still in Oakland). But there are no chicken bones or trash in the streets because this is Amsterdam and the Dutch are a clean and orderly people. Public transportation works. The city operates at a high level.

There is a bridge over the Amstel that I walk across to get to Sarphatipark. It is wide and black at night with slivers of light flashing like chrome across its surface. Street lamps, homes. My girlfriend is still working. I am the dog. I am tethered to the dog. Tonight she looks for kebabs. De Pijp sometimes is a smorgasbord for dogs. And tonight my spirit takes a step outside of my body and I see myself and the dog from behind and I see that I am not here.

---

Joel Tomfohr’s writing has appeared in Joyland, Vol. 1 Brooklyn, X-R-A-Y, BULL, Hobart, and others. He teaches ESL to immigrant newcomers from all over the world at Fremont High School in Oakaland, CA.

Your father died an hour before you were born.

There was a lot of screaming that day. Your mother, air hissing through her clenched teeth and hands grasping at empty air, pushing while surrounded by white walls and the bitter smell of antiseptic. Garbled words of a foreign language grabbed her by the cheeks and shook her. There was no familiarity in this cold hospital. No family waiting outside for her. Only two nurses and a supervising doctor clad in white who watched through deep set eyes as she struggled. She was only twenty, and the stack of her two decades seemed pitiful in the grand scheme of things.

Four miles away, your father’s car sped through a red light. It was promptly t-boned by a semi and flipped twice in a blinding arc of light and screeching metal that momentarily lit up the night. Stained pieces of baby blankets, a stuffed bunny, and his body were among the things scraped off the cold concrete.

Later, your mother told you his death registered as a drop in her stomach. Perhaps it was a vague premonition, or a stray kick from you. Her next breath weighed cold and wrong in her lungs. At that moment, she knew your father wouldn’t make it in time to see you.

Of course, you don’t remember any of this. At that time, you were a screaming sack of skin barely conscious enough to register its own existence.

In the rare moments when she let something slip about your birth, you accepted the information hungrily, forever searching for the pieces to a puzzle you’ve been trying to solve your whole life. Where did it go wrong, you wondered. When was the moment your mother decided loving you had become a chore?

You grew up the way a weed did, rooting into cracks and sprouting when everything around it willed it to die. Home was a derelict building squeezed between the corner store and an abandoned apartment.

You spent your days in the darkness of your room, hunched over to avoid hitting your head against the low, sloped ceiling. The slivers of light that leaked through the shuttered window lit the hardwood floor orange, dimming when a car raced past.

There was a constant heaviness in the air, almost a presence of itself, and it seeped deeper under your skin as the years went by. It was the dead stare of your mother in the early days, when all she seemed to do was lay in her bed and stare at the ceiling fan no matter how much you called out. It was a harsh hand that smacked your cheek with bruising force when you talked for too long. It was running to the corner store at 11 PM, begging please, just one more time, and dashing back with a handful of lotion for your mother’s eczema.

At night, when the quiet itched and pulled at your skin, you closed your eyes and held your breath for as long as you could–until your head felt light and you couldn’t tell whether the mattress was below you or above. Your chest jumped up and down in a facsimile of a breath, reaching desperately for air through your pursed lips.

It was then, as your lungs threatened to burst, that you felt alive.

Years passed by like a slow trickle of molasses. You and your mother moved to a better neighborhood, but living in a white-picket suburban house didn’t seem to improve anything. Late night conversations about your father faded into heated arguments about college and familial duty. You didn’t hold your breath anymore because the sting of disappointment every time you inevitably came gasping for air got tiring.

(Some days, you wondered if it was possible to mourn a dead man that you never met.)

You aren’t sure when it started.

A hot breath in your ear, or a hand brushing through your hair. Seeing a shadow in the doorway when you were certain your mother was asleep. Piece by piece, your subconscious constructed your father from browning photos and your own appearance. Sound didn’t come until much later, because imagining a voice was a bit tricky, but you came to find that it didn’t matter how he spoke. Just that he did.

You’re doing good, he would say, mouth twitching in a non-smile from his spot just past your peripheral vision. Just a little longer.

He doesn’t talk to you that much nowadays. Just stands in the corner, staring into the back of your neck. You don’t turn as you clean shards of soju bottles off the floor, unflinching as glass digs into your calloused palms. Your mother is knocked out cold on the couch, surrounded by the stink of alcohol and something more bitter.

You know what he wants you to do. What she wants.

There’s a larger piece of glass on the floor that slots neatly into your palm, glinting a green-edged smile under the fluorescent lights. It’s funny, you muse, as you hold it up. This cycle of leaving.

In the bent glass, your grotesque reflection almost matches your mother’s.

Outside, the crows sing.

---

Jenna Hong is a student at the Orange County School of Arts where she spends her time studying creative writing and literature. Her work is forthcoming in Inkblot, an OCSA-led magazine, and she has been recognized by the Scholastic Arts and Writing Awards.

They sprint up the dusty stairs.

Nestle their bodies into a damp bed where he strokes the mole on her left hip as she kisses his YOLO tattoo.

Soothing familiarity.

After twenty-seven years they love each other just as much as they love their spouses, but not more.

Not yet.

---

Julia McNamara is a working-class writer and poet from the wilds of rural Cork in Southern Ireland. She received her MA in Creative Writing from the University of Limerick and is exceptionally skilled in the ancient Japanese art of Tsundoku.

Counting photos, I have three or four. First, a picture of sea stars, purple and glistening, then a field of flowers—both of which I’ve framed. Then, there’s the same family pose: just our heads, mine barely in view, my son and husband making faces, and they wonder why I never frame it or place it on my desk at work—why they’ve been replaced by sea stars and a lone flamingo at the zoo.

“Can we please try?” I beg, but the effort is just the same. Strangers have offered to take our pictures on vacation, but a stranger’s gaze will always be a stranger’s gaze: temporary generosity, the lighting off, a blurred line, my hair whipped into a frenzy, the stain I didn’t know was on my shirt.

But then, I’d heard that families were snapping photos on the ferry, timed just right with an orca pod, down the strait at around 8 a.m. on Sunday, so I booked a trip. Melvin, my husband, and Ross, my son, wander about, looking for tater tots or popcorn or both. The cabin fills with wayward coughs, and I’m regretting having done this. The price of the trip might cost us our health, but I wait, and hold my breath, while in between fits of coughs, a man tells his wife about a terrible creature—all scales and claws and the sharpest of teeth—and it lives here, in the strait, waiting to surface. And I wish he’d stop talking because it’s making him choke on phlegm, and I’m sure I’m breathing it in.

When the boat starts to round the bend, to where the strait comes into view, I find Melvin and Ross and push them onto the deck outside. There are a number of us, all lined up for photos, our backs against the rails, our camera phones pointed at our faces. We’re waiting for the first splash, the first orca breach, and I point my phone behind me, tilting my face just so, asking Melvin and Ross to really try this time.

I can hear the squeals and oohs and ahhs. The orcas are far off in the distance when I focus my camera, but in the foreground, I see something else. Something tall and scaly, with impossibly long arms and sharp nails, reaching just for Ross and Melvin, pulling them from the deck of the boat, just as I snap the picture.

But I’m still there, with them, in that final moment, and it’s far from perfect, but it’s the photo I frame and place on my desk to hold my family near once more.

---

Cecilia Kennedy is a writer who taught English and Spanish in Ohio for 20 years before moving to Washington state with her family. Since 2017, she has published stories in international literary magazines and anthologies. Her work has appeared in Bright Flash, Tiny Frights, Maudlin House, Tiny Molecules, Meadowlark Review, Vast Chasm Literary Magazine, Kandisha Press, Ghost Orchid Press, and others. Follow her on X @ckennedyhola or Insta: ceciliakennedy2349

1: “The heart can continue beating even when disconnected from the body.”
Our stepmother Angel’s scarlet fingernail hovers above the page as she reads to us. My sister and I, sleep-eyed and curious, watch her intently. Then, Angel snaps the book shut, gives a dramatic yawn, and drifts off to bed.

2: “Tomatoes contain lycopene, which is good for the heart.”
At the pizzeria, Dad orders a Neapolitan, makes a sad face with the tomato crescents, watches us eat. Later, we stop by the butchers for that nice jam. “Unbreak My Heart” comes on the radio and Betsy, the checkout lady with cinnamon curls, turns up the volume and winks at him. It’s the first time I’ve seen Dad smile since he and Angel separated.

3: “A man’s heart is bigger than a woman’s.”
I read this fact aloud to Angel as she cleans the bathroom.

“That’s clearly a lie,” she declares, rolling her eyes, says “you know the spider that lives behind our toilet? Well, your father’s heart is smaller than that spider’s tiniest eyelash.” She pauses, looking thoughtful. “You know Ash, when your Da left, he took my heart with him.”

“Spiders don’t have eyelashes,” I say, pulling my mouth to one side. She sighs, shaking her head.

4: “It’s possible to die of a broken heart.”
On the weekend, we weave daisy chains in the park and I whisper Angel’s secret to the dandelion puffs. Later at the butcher’s, Betsy hands Dad a plastic bag, leaning in close, her curls brushing his shoulder. Dad’s laugh is a windchime. I wonder if it’s the sound of his heart unbreaking. I try to imagine what Betsy would look like with a shaved head. Miles better, I decide.

5: “Most heart attacks happen on Mondays.”
On Tuesday evening, Dad visits. We race upstairs, stick our ears tight to the doorjamb. A scream—we tumble down the steps, fear dripping from our fingertips.

“Your father’s a comedian,” Angel says, smiling, tears like tiny crystal balls rolling down her cheeks. Dad winks, holding a beef heart wrapped in butcher paper. “Brought her heart back,” he jokes, giving Angel a playful nudge.

Later, I pull the book from under the pillow and in giant capital letters, add my most favorite fact of all: HEARTS ARE STRONGER TOGETHER. Me and my sister stick our fingers down our throats and make gagging noises before I slap a steaming cheese sticker next to the quote, sink back onto the bed, and grin like a fool.

---

Julia McNamara is a working-class writer and poet from the wilds of rural Cork in Southern Ireland. She received her MA in Creative Writing from the University of Limerick and is exceptionally skilled in the ancient Japanese art of Tsundoku.

Raindrops fall like knives, hitting the roof. It’s been coming down in sheets for days now, while Mom sobs and Dad tells her she didn’t need the job, anyway. It was just making her tired. Puddles in the yard separate me and my sister from the lake, and Dad says the last thing Mom needs is a muddy floor, so we don’t play in the puddles or go outside—and Dad says the lake’s no place to catch the lightning, when he sees us wrapping aluminum foil around a cardboard paper towel rod.

We tell him we’ll be quiet. We’ll leave our shoes by the door, but he hands us sheets of paper, and we draw the rain for hours, coming down in slants, making boxes out of horizontal lines: Mom in the kitchen, Dad with us on the other side of the house in the living room, the lightning splitting the difference, making a box of us all.

The rain slows down to something like pellets, and Mom is singing now, and the kitchen smells like it used to—with cinnamon and apples, and she says it’s pie-baking season—no matter what. A strong wind whips past me and Dad and Mom as we sit down to eat the pie, and something like drops seep into our box on the plane—but we all take a slice and call to my sister up in her room—to come down and join us. And when she doesn’t, we don’t seek her out because we don’t want to miss out, either—until the wind slams the door shut, and we realize it’s been open this entire time—and the aluminum foil rod my sister and I made is gone. But oh, the sky! Fingers of lightning likely plucked my sister up by her hair and placed her face-down on the lake, where we found her in the morning—after we’d left the dishes in the sink.

---

Cecilia Kennedy is a writer who taught English and Spanish in Ohio for 20 years before moving to Washington state with her family. Since 2017, she has published stories in international literary magazines and anthologies. Her work has appeared in Bright Flash, Tiny Frights, Maudlin House, Tiny Molecules, Meadowlark Review, Vast Chasm Literary Magazine, Kandisha Press, Ghost Orchid Press, and others. Follow her on X @ckennedyhola or Insta: ceciliakennedy2349

My toes may have been hurting already when I stepped out of the taxi, but I do not remember. All my attention was away from my flower-patterned shoes. I was focused on the composure of my back, the regality of my neck, on faking a calm breathing so the porters at the Plaza did not notice my reverence, my choking anxiety, the deep canyon of ecstasy parting the chambers of my heart.

I pushed the revolving door with the talon of my hand wondering if, in a parallel curl of the infinite universe, Grace Kelly was doing the same. But I am sure that even in her most inelegant days, the laziest porter would have opened the lateral door for her and her halo of Chanel No 5. I stood stoically in the lobby, trying to guess the bar domains beyond the tall floral arrangement on the centered round table. I thanked my five-inch heels that allowed me to get a glance of the solemn stained-glass ceiling through hyacinths and oriental lilies without stretching my neck, while women with towering hairdos and men in grey suits performed their elegant parade toward the elevators or the reception counter.

I am sure my toes hurt, but how can I remember when my full attention was invested in keeping natural the cadence of my blue dress, on the syncopation of my tense calves on the chessboard tiles, and the torrent of blood breaking the dam of my chest as I discovered you at the end of the bar?

You were so irredeemably you at that moment, Henry, with your scotch in your left hand and your right fingers holding the invisible cigarette that you yearned for but was forbidden at the Plaza or any bar in New York. As you had warned me, the two older gentlemen were still there, laughing, having martini-infused fun at the prospect of so many millions and future afternoons of golf with you and the other partners once the deal was closed. I was petrified again because looking at you performing your best act has always cast on me the spell of Bluebeard. I become a statue of adoration against logic, will, or wisdom.

You raised your green eyes as if you knew I was standing there and extended your right arm in my direction. As my feet resumed their deliberate procession, I realized that you had not been holding an imaginary cigarette but a thread made of desire that you maneuvered slowly with expertise to bring me to your side. I started walking toward your small table as the two men admired me with the ancient regard of older kings who find themselves defeated in their own kingdoms by a younger knight that will eventually dethrone them.

I wasn’t ready to be invited to join the party or to accept the pink cocktail you ordered for me. The tickets I had bought for John Pizzarelli’s tribute to Gershwin at the Bemelmans Bar were crumpled between the foldable flats I had been able to stuff in my diminutive purse. My silenced plan had been to get drunk with you while listening to my favorite American composer, while the rabbits and giraffes drawn by the master witnessed our secret from the walls like the matrons of hidden fado restaurants had whispered about our affair in Lisbon.

“Gentlemen, you will have to forgive us, but I promised my foreign friend here to take her to a famous New York spot. Is kind of time, isn’t it, Andréia?”

I looked at the clock above the bar, we had only twenty minutes to be punctual, but they shrunk speedily into fifteen and twelve after so many handshakes, remarks, and a subtle magic pass of a corporate credit card.

I followed you in a daze of gin and frustration. I did not want to be late to a show that had cost me half the monthly salary of my grandmother at the Castelo. You held my waist and pulled my body to yours while we squeezed into the same section of the revolving door. You grabbed my hand so I could go down the stairs without falling.

“We don’t have time to find a taxi that can turn North in this mess. We need to run. Ready? It will be fun!”

I looked at you with incredulous eyes. I am not sure if I closed them during the seventeen and a half blocks we just ran, holding hands, passing awnings and poodles and puddles, piercing the eclectic smells of mulch and wet stones from the Park and the stale waters of hotdog carts. We turned East overlooking the French Embassy building where the day before I had bought five books under the fake constellations of a magical bookstore, where I elevated to the painted stars my monotonous wish about you, me, and both of us.

Later that night, the tips of my toes throbbing at the rhythm of your oblivious snoring, I tried to understand why I never stopped you so I could put on my flats before our demented race. Perhaps it was the price I would have to pay for all the fun of the evening. Because you know, Henry, even good people had to pay an obol to Charon if they wanted to have a peaceful afterlife. I paid with an open heart for your genuine smile, for your fingers around mine, and for your jokes about being surrounded by childish cartoons in a hotel where clandestine love stories are replicated every night. I paid with honor because we punctually crossed the door of the Carlyle Hotel with elegance and without breath. I would give those three toenails to the Charon of happiness again, one thousand times, seventeen blocks of running by your hand multiplied by all the notes that Gershwin ever wrote.

---

Fabiana Elisa Martínez was born in Buenos Aires and has a degree in Linguistics and World Literature. She is a linguist, a language teacher, and a writer. She authored the short story collections 12 Random Words and Conquered by Fog, the short story Stupidity, and Spanish 360 with Fabiana. Other stories of hers have been published in five continents in publications like Rigorous Magazine, Ponder Review, Rhodora Magazine (India), Writers and Readers Magazine (UK), Libretto Magazine (Nigeria), Automatic Pilot (Ireland), Lusitania (Buenos Aires), Egophobia Journal (Romania), Defunkt Magazine, the anthology Writers of Tomorrow, and the Manawaker Flash Fiction Podcast. Website: 12randomwords.com • Insta: @Fabielisam

She saw him almost every night. Not just him, of course, she watched all of the cast. She also had to keep an eye on the audience and blink her torch at people talking or on their phone. Sometimes she had to tell someone to stop singing along. That was the worst.

But she saw him, knew all his scenes, his lines, each turn, each smile. It was easy when the stage lights flooded his every movement and they were so big and exaggerated that even the people in the cheap seats could see them.

The first couple of times, she hadn’t seen him at all. It had been seamless but after a few more times, she knew what to look for – the little head nod he gave himself before he walked through the audience to make his grand entrance, the beginning of an exhale as the curtain fell on the first act, that last smile after the cast all bowed.

He was handsome as all leading men are but that wasn’t the reason her eyes found him when they should have been focused on the audience.

He just seemed so there, like a rush of sunlight in the dark theatre.

Being on stage would be her worst nightmare but for him it was clearly a dream come true. She could feel his elation even as he sang a mournful ballad to the leading lady.

She didn’t have a dream. She’d read an article about how finding a purpose in life was still part of a capitalist need to be productive. The article had then gone on to talk about a tribe who believed people were like flowers – placed on earth to grow and bloom and be beautiful for the short time they had.

She liked that.

She didn’t know what flower she was but she knew what flower he was. Definitely a sunflower, big and bright and happiest in the light.

His movements and voice never wavered. No slumping or lazy twirls. He was a professional after all but she wondered what he would do after the run ended or his contract was up for renewal. Would he renew it or do something different?

Perhaps something angsty and bombastic like Phantom? She could see him leading an ingénue into his candlelit lair as the guitar solo peaked.

She would have to see whichever production he did next. Work gave her discounted tickets – maybe she could splash out for the great seats. Maybe she would make a night of it – dress up, treat herself to dinner at that bistro round the corner from her flat and then slip into the velvet seat.

She’d get to focus on him then, no having to make sure the audience behaved.

Maybe she’d order ice cream at the interval.

Despite being terrified of setting foot on stage, she loved the theatre. Especially this one with its columns, plaster flowers and flourishes on the walls and ceilings. She loved the deep red carpet. This theatre was from a bygone era of glamour and indulgence and by working here, she could press her nose up against the glass every night except for Mondays.

Her left hand held the little torch and her right hand smoothed the front of her black and white uniform. She loved the ushers’ uniform, it went well with her goth sensibilities.

Most nights she pulled her dark hair into a severe french braid but this evening it hadn’t dried in time so she had clipped some of it back. It slipped like a heavy curtain down her back and she had to keep tucking a piece behind her ear because she’d lost a bobby pin somewhere between the middle of act one and the interval.

The performance was coming to an end now and her favourite bit was coming up.

She didn’t know exactly why she liked the bowing so much.

Perhaps it was seeing the happy relief on the actors’ faces, their exhales because they were out of breath and grateful there hadn’t been any noticeable slip ups.

They looked so pleased and she wondered if it was because of this feeling that they did this, that they loved it so much. Perhaps it was addictive, perhaps it was a need.

Whatever was going on in their lives, whatever person they became when the curtains closed, this moment, standing on stage, listening to the claps and the whoops – this was all theirs.

That accomplishment couldn’t be taken away. It was the truest moment in the whole thing.

She watched him take a bow and shake his head, smiling, as if he couldn’t believe it.

She smiled for him.

He would never see it but that was fine – perfect, even.

She hoped he knew the joy he brought people, the joy he brought her. Seeing him be so happy was the highlight of her day. It was vicarious and possibly tragic.

She didn’t think she was capable of feeling intense happiness – it wasn’t sad to her though because she also wasn’t capable of feeling intense despair.

She thought about that sometimes. If he felt this beatific high every night he performed, were his lows just as visceral and burning? She hoped not.

But she would never know. She had never spoken to him. There was nothing she could say.

She couldn’t tell him he was doing a great job because that felt redundant and words couldn’t describe how she felt seeing him on stage – well, no words that could comfortably fit into a quick exchange and did not make her sound like a creep.

So she was content to just watch him. Getting to see him do what he loved was enough, she didn’t need anything else.

---

Esha Khimji is a new writer living in Scotland. She graduated from the University of Glasgow with a degree in Economic and Social History. She currently works a 9-5 and writes to stay sane.

There is a cat in the doorway.

She stares at you. You stare back. Neither of you move.

#

She maintains eye contact with you and blinks slowly.

Cats are said to be majestic beasts. Royalty, even. Goddess Freya led a chariot of cats into battle. Ship-cats brought good luck to a voyage. Your moms talked about a cat who would sleep at the foot of people’s beds before they died. Intelligent, graceful, light on their feet, fierce hunters.

Just yesterday, you watched this cat walk into the leg of a dresser. Then again. Then a third time until she finally changed her trajectory a little to the left.

Whoever said royalty had to be smart?

#

Her tail flicks against the ground.

Throughout your whole life, tail wags meant friendship, but you learned fast that cat lingo is unnatural. Maybe she’s happy to see you and will let you pass. Or perhaps she’ll slap you in the face. Or hunt your long, fluffy tail. Her favorite game.

Through the silence you can practically hear the wind whistling through the space between her small, pointed ears.

#

Your moms named her Calliope, like the muse of epic poetry, mother to the tragic and foolish Orpheus. Like this small idiot could write poetry.

You decided Goblin is more fitting. You’ve seen firsthand how she shambles off like a creature of the night having seen light for the first time in centuries. You’ve heard the weird uncatlike noises, the quAEEEEee, like some demonic, nasally duck on cocaine. You’ve heard the thunk of her jumping (falling) off tables, chairs, beds, sofas.

You remember the dumb look on her tiny little face when she sniffed your butt. Her dumb, tiny, little jaw dropped, the little pink spots on her philtrum making her pig-like, her eyes almost completely green with mere lines for pupils. Like she’d been stunned or stoned, or maybe both. Your sophisticated friends never made faces like that. They showed proper etiquette. The appropriate snort, the correct tail wag, the respectful reciprocal butt sniff.

She is a goblin trapped in the small, patchy colored body of a gravity-philic cat.

#

You shift your weight on your feet. Your joints feel stiff. The buffoon doesn’t care. She’s now cleaning her face, taunting you.

Your prize is in sight. Your favorite bed. Your moms’ bed. It smells like comfort and family and home. Nap number four always takes place on this bed.

The couch behind you and your floor bed are available, but those are for naps one and six respectively. Your moms are not home to intervene, and based on their fading smell, they won’t be home for at least another two naps. By that point you’ll be starving, waiting for one of your favorite meals of the day (dinner, not to be mistaken for your other favorite meal of the day— breakfast).

If you were someone else, you could break the routine, sleep on the couch another time. But you’re not.

The routine must be maintained.

#

You take a step forward.

The beast stops cleaning mid-swipe to her face. Her marble eyes focus on you again, waiting for your next move.

You remember when you visited your grandpa’s forest. He and your moms sat out on the back porch, drinking something vile-smelling and laughing. You made eye contact with a lone deer in the woods. To you, it looked like a mutant hoofed dog, unnatural and bony and way too large. You let out a low rumble in your chest, testing a warning to the monster. Your muscles were tight with potential energy, waiting to burst into speed after it. It had been so much larger than you, and yet frightened of you.

Just like you and this tiny moron in front of you.

#

You take another step, and her speckled paw returns to the ground. Her tail flicks pick up speed. Other than these subtle changes, the rest of her body is as relaxed as before. You are not a threat to her. She rules every inch of this house.

Royalty. Stupid royalty.

Royalty has a throne, and this weirdo’s throne is the bare lap of whichever mom is on the toilet. Or observing them shower between the curtains. You know they also find it weird, but have grown accustomed to it. You know she’s just asserting her place in the family when she watches you from their lap.

You find yourself relaxing backwards.

#

There is a cat in the doorway.

She stares at you. You stare back. Today could be the day your routine changes.

---

K. A. Sweitzer is a queer fiction writer living in NYC with her partner, her smart, anxious dog, and her dumb, confident cat. When she’s not writing, she’s spouting bird facts at her critique group, playing ttrpgs, and trying to find the next best chocolate chip cookie in her neighborhood.

It’s amazing the amount of drivel that fills a TV screen after 1 a.m. Stephanie thought to herself as she pumped the channel button on her remote and watched a series of dismal choices roll by. This was no trivial matter. She had always had a problematic relationship with night time silences, and so finding the right distraction was essential. Several decades earlier, she could overcome the night through the strains of New York City’s last great progressive rock station. She spent so much time listening to one overnight DJ that the two of them used to exchange Christmas cards. Somewhere along the line though, the radio lost its magical nocturnal powers. The rock station went Top 40. The sports talk station that replaced it on her playlist was a constant reminder of the failings of the only sports team she really cared about. Eventually, she had abandoned the radio and returned to finding nocturnal solace the way she had when her anxieties were fewer and her life experience shorter— late night television.

Of course, tonight was different. On this rarest of nights, she was seeking a way to stay awake rather than to fall asleep. She had a task to fulfill and time was running out. An unmet challenge, evinced by a mostly empty page on her laptop, had been mocking her for the past four days. So far, all she had been able to produce was a total of six words. “What can one say about Will?” With only hours to go before she was scheduled to speak at his memorial service, she still had no idea how to answer her own question.

Once upon a time, the challenge would have been to tame the torrent of words she could say about Will. Over the course of about 15 years, he had played so many roles in her life, including three years as her lover. When they separated, for reasons she now refuses to recall, it wasn’t rancor that created a chasm. It was just the humdrum shifting of priorities that occur when people part.  For the past decade or so, their relationship consisted of vague exchanges on social media that were replete with promises to “get together one day.” Though Stephanie had gradually acknowledged that “one day” was never coming, it seems Will never made that deduction. The fact that he had requested she speak at any memorial that might be held after his passing confirmed that. Now she grieved mostly because, once Will was erased, any incarnation of “one day” had been erased as well. How could their priorities have gotten so out of sync?

Stephanie hit the television remote another time. She was seeking not just adrenaline, but also a way to stave off the toxic bile of regret rising within her. Yet, it seemed late night TVs ability to be a soothing voice in the darkness had also gone the way of the pet rock and Tab. As a teen, she could tune into the black and white films screened on “The Late Late Show,” a program that featured a signature opening graphic of lights going off within an apartment building. She smiled briefly in the knowledge that, just like in that graphic, hers might be the only light still on in the spare brick building where she lived.  It’s like she managed to take refuge in the fleeting image of that building. However, “The Late Late Show” had also left her and now she was truly alone in the dark.

Click. Would listening to NY1 discuss the Met Gala help her get this task done? Probably not. Before red carpet shows became television staples, she and Will did enjoy poking fun at some of the more outlandish fashion looks at awards shows, particularly those worn by celebrities whose fame we couldn’t fathom. But, as much as she loved Will’s acerbic wit at moments like those, this was not the side of him she wanted to share. 

Getting up to stretch her legs, Liz stopped to look out the window. The thickest part of the night was upon the city, a time when fears often melded with dreams, and the darkness could be warm and inviting to nocturnal creatures like herself…and Will. Before their shifting relationship navigated them into the same bed, they would often chat on the phone in the wee morning hours, usually about which rerun of the Mary Tyler Moore show was on that night, or what interesting observation Tom Snyder had just made on the “Tomorrow” show. Their standard closing words to each other at the end of these calls were “Turn off the set.” Those words acknowledged more than the powering down of a mechanical device. It mourned the sad temporary break of the connection between them, thus making the phrase resonate more than “I love you” ever could.

Now, remembering those words in Will’s warm baritone sparked the direction she had been seeking. With a final click on the remote, the set went blank. The silence of the night she usually worked so hard to avoid suddenly hummed with memories of Will and the ticking clock beat of the old “Late Late Show” theme song. “What can one say about Will?” might be too broad a question to answer, but she could share who Will was at 1 a.m. on a random morning. And it made her miss him just a little bit less.

---

Lois Anne DeLong is a freelance writer living in Queens, New York, and is an active member of Woodside Writers, a literary forum that meets weekly. Her stories have appeared in Dear Booze and DarkWinter Literary Journal. In her free time, DeLong enjoys going to the theatre, singing show tunes in piano bars, and suffering along with her beloved New York Mets.

Kristina removed the letter from her apron pocket and gingerly unfolded it. She had read its contents often enough that the paper was already starting to fray at the edges. If she closed her eyes, she could see the words in front of her. But, they were still like so many snowflakes melting on contact.

She shook her head as if to dislodge whatever was affecting her usually sharp perceptions. Her education to this point had been less than formal, but it had enabled her to sniff out the liminal spaces between what is said and what is meant. She had learned these lessons while eking out a living in this guesthouse, where the owner was happy to turn a blind eye to her age in exchange for untold hours of cheap labor. Till now, it was an exchange Kristina had been happy to make. Yet, she feared the heightened sense of what is not said that she learned within these walls had somewhat dulled her responses to plain words. Or, perhaps she was just too invested in the impact to her life the letter’s text could make possible to let herself comprehend its meaning. Too much was at stake, so she needed to find a more visceral way to connect with the significant sentiments on the page.

Tentatively, she placed a finger on the greeting. “Dear Kristina” meant this letter was for her, so she continued to trace words, like a sightless person reading braille.

“We are happy to welcome you to our freshman class,” it read. “Happy” and “Welcome.” These are words of greeting and good cheer, she thought to herself. So far, so good. “Freshman class?” She searched the internal dictionary she had painstakingly created by spending countless hours in the tiny library of her tiny town. After a few seconds of somewhat strained focus, the definition came to mind. “Freshman: a first-year student.” Or, she quietly acknowledged, a student at the beginning of her education.

Downstairs, she heard the kitchen crew cleaning up breakfast. She was due to change the bedding on the third floor and knew she shouldn’t be lingering. Yet, as the light through the window temporarily illuminated the darkened hallway, she felt the need to stay right where she was for just one more minute.

The snowflakes melted away with the morning sun. “Welcome,” she said out loud to no one. The beds could wait. She was expected elsewhere.

---

Lois Anne DeLong is a freelance writer living in Queens, New York, and is an active member of Woodside Writers, a literary forum that meets weekly. Her stories have appeared in Dear Booze and DarkWinter Literary Journal. In her free time, DeLong enjoys going to the theatre, singing show tunes in piano bars, and suffering along with her beloved New York Mets.

She patiently lies on a blanket of marble. Her shot mother’s face on a bodiless skin splayed out on the floor beside her.

Still as the other exhibits which adorn the room. Extensions of a two-legged ego.

Her motionless tail pretends:
I have forgotten who I am.

Her silent lips reassure:
You are my father. You are my master.

As a chunk of death is tossed her way the metal arm that holds her chain wriggles like blades of grass in the wind. An emerald paradise that for two tiny months had belonged to her. She knew it never would again. Self-emancipation always had a cost, and the world had so many guns, and so many people who were yearning to use them.

But she would rather die as a tiger, than as his plaything―and leaping above into a higher air, she makes a first and final kill.

---

Amy Akiko is an educator, artist and writer from South London. Her writing predominately gravitates towards the themes of nature, love and (all too often) heartache, and has appeared in East of the Web, Litbreak, The Tiger Moth Review, Cosmic Daffodil, Isele Magazine and elsewhere.

He watched the train come into the station, little flashes of blue electricity snapping on the overhead wires as it hissed to a stop. He waited for passengers to get off before he swung himself up the step and entered the car. It was early evening and he was tired, it had been a long day already. He shook his wet coat in the aisle before selecting a seat, then tucked it in the overhead slot and sat next to the window. He looked at the station lights, deep haloed orange, until they passed into the outskirts of town, under a bridge picking up speed and then the last houses gave way to fields and neat parcels of forest. Rain was streaking across the window, shivers of wet trails that pooled, then formed little rivers at the edge of the glass.

He stretched his legs before opening the newspaper and placing it on his lap. The paper he had no intention of reading, preferring instead to stare unfocused on the passing landscape, one he knew well.

A woman slid into the seat next to him. She was breathing hard and seemed anxious.

“You don’t mind, do you? There is a man back there and he has been bothering me. He frightened me.” The man turned to look behind him, but the woman grabbed his chin and and directed him to look at her.

“Don’t look back, please. Just pretend we are a couple. Lovers on the evening train.” She smiled, then looked out the window.

He couldn’t help but notice that the woman was quite beautiful, her long brown hair framed her face in such a way that it reminded him of a living portrait. He sat back and tried to relax but found himself folding and unfolding the newspaper on his lap.

“I’m Claire. I’m sorry to barge in on you. I know how nice it is to get two open seats.” She laughed and he saw her eyes brighten. She looked even more attractive when she smiled.

They talked for a while, a pleasant rambling conversation. He was surprised to hear himself telling her stories from his childhood. He rarely talked about anything personal. She closed her eyes, the steady rhythmic motion of the train seemed to make her drowsy. Her head moved to his shoulder and her arm fell to his leg. She smelled wonderful and he sat still, not wanting to disturb her rest. What he really wanted was to wrap her up in a hug, but he was not that sort of man.

The train slowed as they entered Banford station. The change of movement woke her and she reached across him, her hand pushing against his chest until she rose to a sitting position. She yawned and looked into his eyes before standing up.

“This is me. Again, thank you for helping. You are a true gentleman.” She kissed him quickly on his cheek and rose to leave. He watched her walk to the door then saw her standing on the platform. She waved to him and blew him a kiss, then turned and went into the station house. He turned his attention back to the paper on his lap. The last passengers wandered down the aisle to choose seats and the train lurched as it pulled out of the station. He rolled his wrist to check the time on his watch, but his watch was gone. Then he felt in his pockets for his cell phone and wallet. Everything was gone. He pictured the woman who sat beside him before reaching into his boot for his other phone.

“Mills here. Can you patch me through to the duty sergeant?” While he waited for his call to go through, he wondered how the woman would react when she opened the wallet and found the neat stack of cut paper bingo forms.

“Hey Gerald. She got off at Banford station. Five foot ten, long brown hair, attractive. She has my cell so you can trace that. Cheers. I’ll circle back.”

He leaned back and watched the streets flash by, car lights splintered by the rain.

---

Christopher Porter used to travel the world shooting films until M.S. robbed him of most of his mobility. He now lives next to the Atlantic ocean and writes stories. His first novel won the Arthur Engle award and he is almost finished editing his next. Learn more on his site.

B,

I’ve been thinking about this a lot. Do you remember that night on the retreat, where we stayed up late sitting out on the porch? The kids were all asleep. Do you remember how everything felt alright for a while?

The stars were out. It was the first time I had seen them since I moved to the city. We had only known each other for like three weeks.

I’ve been thinking about everything that came after. Making love in your room under the glow of your Christmas lights. How you cried and I held you until you stopped shaking. Our argument in the park, and how I apologized and how it wasn’t enough. How all around us were people enjoying themselves, skating and playing volleyball, happy.

But on that night, we were close. We were in it together. You put your chin on my shoulder and cried because the day had been so hard and we hadn’t had time to breathe. And you hugged me and it was like we were one for a moment, like there was barely anything separating us, just a thin wall, just our skin. And the night was just starting to get cool but it wasn’t cold. And we watched the flashlights going by on the path, so dim that we weren’t sure if they were real. They could have been kids sneaking out, or nightwatchmen, or ghosts. And we worried that someone would see us with my arm around you and we would have to hide.

So much has happened since then. And sometimes I feel this blackness inside me. Like the winter night is sapping all the heat from my body and making me shiver and shiver and be unable to stop. Has so much time really passed? Has the summer really ended? And it makes me wonder if the night will end.

I wrote a poem that I never finished, and the first line was “I know that I’m in love because I’m afraid.” And I thought then, love is stronger than fear. Love will overcome fear. It has to. And I kissed you as the cold was coming in.

---

Ed King is a writer based in Colorado. His stories can be found in the Colorado’s Emerging Writers series, Synchronized Chaos, and Cultured Vultures; his plays have been performed in China, and his storytelling has been featured on KUNC. He wants to write stories that broaden the possibilities for joy in life. He is sometimes successful.