Short Beasts

I circle the round tweed pillow three times, cream and brown shades, with a thin pumpkin line woven through for spiciness. This one’s my favorite, especially since She left it in the bay window. From here I look out onto the front porch, small yard, and quickly dipping sun. There’re a few more pillows in my little wooden nook with its glass frame: the uppity mustard velvet one, the girly, maroon one, shaped like an envelope but with a silky bow at the tip where the flap ends, and a pair of chocolate square toss pillows of ill-repute.

The husband’ll never dust back here, or anywhere. He’ll never move my pillows; he needs to be studying. And Mistress was just here checking on him and the house, so She won’t be back for a couple of weeks. I sigh contentedly.

Like every afternoon, I pull gently at the rust-colored button at the center of my pillow to ensure it hasn’t loosened before I lay my belly across the cozy warmth of the tweed. Perhaps I was English in a past life, a Cheshire. Maybe my home was an ivy-covered stone rectory, in a soporific village on the moors. Perhaps I licked clotted cream between naps in the library and cod and chips in the kitchen, before the Viscount returned with the hounds and all hell broke loose. I let out a tiny purr, savoring my delicious daydream. I’ve really got to get out more.

From my snug October cubby, I can see all the comings and goings circa 119 Haddon Street, what few there are. The pet-less elderly white couple, bundled for the North Pole, head out on the left for the second and last walk of the day. On the right, the young Japanese family pulls into the driveway and the boy hops out to stare at the newest ghouls and Jack-o’lanterns on display. The middle-aged black woman across the street retrieves mail while her tabby stands suspicious by the sidelights of the front door. I need to chat up that sassy feline. Things could get interesting, even if my lady-killer days are behind me.

The front door creaks open, a whoosh of chill air fluffs my fur. They’re back already? There goes my peace and quiet, and solitary basking in the sunset.

The gig’s up, they know I’m awake. I yawn a colossal, back-arching, front paw-stretching kind of yawn.

Oh no- they move towards me.

He scratches under my chin. “Hey there, Mags ol’ boy! How’s Magwitch doing?”

I’ve been called cantankerous but a little rub on the underside always melts that away.

A shadow, she’s right behind him. She leans down and peers into my slitted eyes, “Hi there, kitty.”

I unconsciously flinch into cat pose. What- the interloper forgot my name? Even her voice is annoying. She’s mousy. For the first time I understand how this word is not complimentary, not reminiscent of fresh, wild-caught, organic fare sourced from grassy fields. But something unremarkable, and unappetizing, as this one is. Every day this week, these two have been studying together, alone, for first semester law exams. Wonder how freshly applied lipstick and perfume help that cause?

He’s different around this one. Shifty shoulders, eyes darting. He can’t fool me.

They bustle and make an obscene amount of noise as they explore and clutter things in the fridge and crash plates.

From the kitchen, “I only have Sambuca.” His voice is thick, self-conscious.

The giggle in response makes my short hairs stand tall in recoil. This is getting worse by the minute.

“Should I brew coffee to go with it?”

“Let’s have it straight.”

Careful, little coquette- your lust is showing.

He joins in her laughter, trying to brush aside his guilt.

They bring fragrant morsels of charcuterie back into the sitting room, into my space. Don’t know whose injustice is worse, that of my dear Mistress, or mine.

They nosh, they chatter. Like thirsty cowboys, they slug the Italian aperitif. She folds legs in cable-knit tights underneath, so the short skirt no longer conceals her derriere.

Plates rattle onto the coffee table. I lift my head at the ruckus- not a crumb of the Derby cheddar left for me. They smash together, sucking each other’s tongues. They slip sideways onto cushions.

Great Heavens- they’re not going to? I would give my southpaw for their heads to be in textbooks right now.

She climbs on top of him. Clothes fly off.

I see what I have to do.

Like Sandburg’s fog, I slink onto the high back of the couch. My ears flatten, my back arches, my tail swishes side to side. With the reserve of a giant panda, I deliver delicate crimson gashes across her naked back, and launch off the far end of the couch. Before you can say tiddlywinks, I land on my favorite tweed to delight in my handiwork.

An ungodly scream. She jumps enraged.

“Magwitch!” He’s up too.

She grabs her clothes and runs to the powder room. A minute later, creative profanities sail at me through the dusky stillness of the sitting room. The mousy classmate, with all her perfumy effects, slams out the front door of 119 Haddon Street, where she does not belong.

---

Kavitha Reddy Goyal was born in India and raised in Ireland and the northeastern U.S. She recently transitioned from a 30-year career in medicine and the biopharmaceutical industry, and is enjoying working on a novel. Her short stories have been or will be published in Story Quilt, Empyrean Literary, and Schuylkill Valley Journal. She’s a wife and mother of two adult daughters, lives in Philadelphia, and loves to explore nature and the humanities in her free time.

The city bus smelled like urine again. Shanice moved away from the disheveled man behind her and buried her nose under the Indian-print scarf she’d purchased at a thrift store. Its bright colors helped conceal the permanent blood stains on her tattered jacket, a hand-me-down from her brother. Her mother had given her money for a new one, but wearing the old jacket made her feel closer to him, so the teen spent it on the scarf and stylish jeans instead.

When the driver announced Shady Hills, she brushed her dark, coiled curls from her face, pushed her shoulders back and stood. She liked that people might think she belonged there. “A nice neighborhood,” she’d heard it called, where trees canopied the streets and stately homes showcased long driveways and lush lawns. A place where toys and bikes were abandoned on sidewalks while families gathered for meals behind expansive windows without bars.

It wasn’t a crime just to look; she had no malice. But her dark skin didn’t fit the neighborhood profile, and when Shanice strolled the forbidden streets, the good citizens stared. More than once a patrol car had pulled up beside her, a cop asking where the fourteen-year-old was headed. “Just passing through, conducting research for my civics class,” she’d once said. He hadn’t appreciated it. Being a smartass to the cops can get you thrown in jail. Her brother had warned her about that.

Shanice recounted his experience in an essay she’d written on racial injustice, which had impressed her teacher, Ms. Mitchell. “You show great promise,” she said, and asked if Shanice planned to attend college. The teen laughed. No one in her family had ever gone to college. But her teacher insisted they meet to discuss the application process.

Her mother would not approve. She mistrusted the educational system that had excluded her as a young girl. She made sure Shanice knew her place. Find a job after high school and contribute to the household. The plan had no room for dreams.

But Ms. Mitchell was the first teacher who not only looked like Shanice but seemed to understand her, so she listened. “It’s possible to honor your roots, and still want more from life,” the teacher explained.

Yet Shanice felt conflicted. “My momma says I shouldn’t be thinking about big houses and fancy cars.” Shanice poked her finger at the teacher, rapper style. “She told me: ‘Girl, you ain’t never gonna be drivin’ no Tesla.’”

“Your mamma needs you, and I respect that,” Ms. Mitchell said. “But don’t you think you could help her more if you had a high-paying job?”

“I guess,” Shanice shrugged.

“Well, you’re not going to get one without a college degree.” The next day, Ms. Mitchell introduced the early writings of James Baldwin and played a podcast of Josie Duffy Rice to Shanice’s class. A spark of hope ignited.

At their next meeting, Ms. Mitchell handed Shanice a journal with a vibrant peacock blue cover, her favorite color. The teacher suggested she create a vision of where she wanted to be in ten years and explained the power of positive affirmations as a form of self-empowerment. “What you believe, you can achieve,” Ms. Mitchell said. “Put it in writing.”

Shanice knew this new-age thinking wouldn’t jive with her mother’s conservative beliefs. She hid the journal in the bottom of her backpack, writing in it at school or late at night when everyone was asleep. In it, she described herself in a designer suit, standing before a jury speaking on behalf of her client, someone like her older brother, whose voice had been silenced. The system had failed him, and she vowed to make it right.

Ms. Mitchell explained that Shanice’s visits to Shady Hills and imagining herself living there had been a way of manifesting her dreams. “It’s called the ‘law of attraction,’” Ms. Mitchell said. Although Shanice found it difficult to grasp exactly what that meant, she knew dreaming would be the easy part. Getting what she wanted was going to be a long, arduous journey.

So, when the patrol car approached today, she knew the drill. Smile. Be polite. “Heading to the bus stop” would be the best response.

For now.

---

Jennifer J. Meyer is an award-winning journalist with a career spanning three decades at The Orange County Register. She is currently a contributing columnist for the Southern California News Group. Jennifer’s flash fiction has appeared in 101words. Her nonfiction stories have appeared in the Rotarian, Parenting and other popular magazines. Jennifer is a self-proclaimed true-crime junkie and is currently writing a mystery novel. She earned a Bachelor of Science from Elmhurst College in Elmhurst Illinois and a Master of Science from Loyola University of Chicago.

“I’m beside myself today,” I tell my reflection in the fountain directly below my balcony on the second floor. The water ripples and the bronze sheen of pennies pixelates my two faces. I tear open the bottom of the plastic bag holding all my dimes, nickels, and pennies and dump them in so I can watch all my fragile likenesses shatter and sink under the rubble. I walk away. I am one again.

---

Ryan Borsellino is a full-time copywriter who lives near Toronto with his partner and their dog. He holds a Bachelor of Arts in English and Creative Writing, along with a diploma in Screenwriting.

The old man leans on me, and I think he loves me. I can tell from the way his hand encircles my wooden handle, which is worn smooth from his years of rubbing at it. He has replaced the rubber tip at my end more than a few times, and it always feels good when he does so. The new one fits so snugly, and afterward he and I feel more secure, no slippage, as he walks across the kitchen linoleum.

He laughs when he uses me to swordfight with his grandchildren. They wield some distant cousin of mine that they found in the yard, and I admit it hurts a little when we collide. It’s worth it, though, to see his pleasure.

Before she died, he would let her borrow me sometimes, when she was unsteady on her feet and needed the support. Her body was lighter than his, and I liked the way she leaned on me while she tapped her way into the bathroom at night.

So I don’t know how he could have forgotten me, could have left me here. The restaurant is busy, but they haven’t yet bussed the table, and no one has noticed that I’ve fallen beneath it and am lying on my side on the floor, which is wet and dotted with food scraps—the old man has become a messier and messier eater. There was a handrail along the restaurant wall, and the old man must have held it on his way out, must have had his hand on something else—but how could that be, how could he have mistaken that for me? Does he not love me the way I love him?

I think I even heard his car start a few minutes ago. Surely when he gets home, when he gets out of the car and tries to walk inside alone, he will notice, will see that I am gone. In the meantime, I suppose I’ll just lie here, under the table, hoping that whoever sits here next doesn’t accidentally step on my neck.

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Victor McConnell grew up in a small town in Texas and graduated from Dartmouth’s creative writing program. His work has been nominated for Best of the Net, multiple Pushcarts, and has appeared in journals such as the Los Angeles Review, North American Review’s Short Story, Louisville Review, New Ohio Review, Mid-Atlantic Review, New Millennium, and others. His first poetry chapbook, If You Can Hear This, is available from Bottlecap Press. His first full-length book, a collection of short stories titled When Even the Bones Have Thinned, is forthcoming with Hidden River Press. He lives in Golden, Colorado. See his website, and follow the author here.

Not much escapes me, which is quite something when you take into account I’ve been blind since birth.

You want an example? Okay. Take my brother’s throat clearing when his wife walks into the room. He’s probably having an affair. And before I hear a sniffle, I know Jenny’s coming down with something. Kafka said the world freely offers itself to you to be unmasked—if, I’ll add—you know where to look. That’s a joke, by the way. Same thing when I say: ‘See here, Jenny,’ or ‘I’ll keep an eye out for that, Jenny.’ Jenny’s my roommate.

She’d been staying with Ersy, her best friend from Starno High, while scouting for a place after a break-up. She initially worried about living with a blind guy, though I heard her whisper to Ersy after that first visit that she could walk around naked and I’d never know. But of course I would. It’s subtle, but I hear what people are wearing.

Pretty quickly, we had our routines. Mornings, I made coffee while she read something to me. Today, my first cup poured, Jenny came in and sat at the kitchen table. I heard her yank a tissue from the box and blow her nose, then the thud of a book on the Formica surface.

“It’s either my allergies or I picked up a bug somewhere.”

I carried my cup in the direction of her voice, pulling out a chair and sitting close, but not too close. Close enough to feel tiny droplets of oily spray dot my hand before smelling the tang of her peeling an orange.

“This book I’m reading,” she started. There was a slight moist sound of her sucking juice off a finger or two. “It’s about disasters where people survive. Hear of Juliane Koepcke? She fell from the sky into the jungle when the plane she was on broke apart in mid-air. Unbelievable.”

“Anything about the Hindenburg disaster?” I asked. “The blimp that blew up in Jersey?”

“Totally, and there’s a picture. I’ll describe it to you.” I heard the papery friction of her fingers as she shuffled pages back and forth to find the image. “Here it is,” she said, splitting the spine open with a muffled crack. The warmth of her breath filled the space between us as she turned towards me and started her description.

“Imagine an ear of corn, and it’s pointing up. That’s the shape. What? Stop laughing! Now imagine big, like the difference between your thumb and—” she trailed off and I heard the smile. “Now I get it. Twisting my words, are you?”

“They say a spark started the fire on the Hindenburg,” I offered, inching my chair closer until I sensed Jenny’s thigh next to mine.

“Yeah, sparks can cause all sorts of fires,” she softly replied. I didn’t see her shift her weight or pucker her lips. But I swear I saw her kiss my forehead a moment before I felt it.

---

Lisa Schmidt writes fiction, non-fiction and poetry. She’s a member of the Quebec Writer’s Federation and the Montreal Writer’s Collective. Her work has appeared in Literary Hatchett, Room and Prairie Fire. She splits her time between Montreal and Toronto.

The Giant wore a T-shirt that said, Clarion Clothing, Est. 1980. I already felt somewhat small before speaking to the Giant but mustered up my courage and opened my mouth. After all, I’d climbed to the top of the hill beside the playground and now had a treasured one-on-one audience with him. The Giant glared at me, a wordless warning that whatever I had to say better be significant. I pointed at his shirt. “You’d think that they would know the exact year,” I said. The Giant furrowed his brow; I had successfully confused him—I felt proud.

“What do you mean?” he said.

“You know,” I said, “It is only 1993. 1980 is recent enough that you’d think they wouldn’t have to estimate it, that they’d know for certain.”

The creases in the Giant’s face turned from confusion to mirth, to ridicule. He bellowed forth a laugh that shook the very ground upon which I stood. His voice seemed to echo within the great cavern of his mouth, and I could feel the bass notes in my bones. “It means Established,” he said.

And with that, I tumbled down the hill, growing smaller and smaller, rolling faster and faster, finally stopping at the bottom, a heap of limbs tangled up in shame.

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Victor McConnell grew up in a small town in Texas and graduated from Dartmouth’s creative writing program. His work has been nominated for Best of the Net, multiple Pushcarts, and has appeared in journals such as the Los Angeles Review, North American Review’s Short Story, Louisville Review, New Ohio Review, Mid-Atlantic Review, New Millennium, and others. His first poetry chapbook, If You Can Hear This, is available from Bottlecap Press. His first full-length book, a collection of short stories titled When Even the Bones Have Thinned, is forthcoming with Hidden River Press. He lives in Golden, Colorado. See his website, and follow the author here.

“I picked an outside table. The coffee is good here and the street is quiet. Please sit down. I’ve something important to tell you, so don’t start scrolling on that cell phone you’ve hidden in your lap.

“You needn’t turn away. I caught that smile. I’ll keep it short.

“He’s returned. I saw him yesterday. It’s now beyond doubt that the boating accident where his body was never recovered was a ruse, a ploy, an escape. I’ve always suspected it, in spite of what you wanted me to believe.

“You’re shaking your head. I know. This isn’t the first time I’ve seen him, but the others were years ago and fleeting. This time I’m absolutely sure it’s him.

“There’s the smile again. Don’t mock me. I followed him long enough to be certain. His looks have changed with age, of course, but I recognized that cocky gait, the odd tilt of his head, the way his hands move when he walks, and that sweatshirt with the tattered neckline he loved wearing at the lake. He still has it. He hurried away to avoid me. But I know where we can find him. It’s not far from here.

“Sit back down, please. Just hear me out. We can go there now. If you’re with me, he can’t deny the two of us. We can tell him all is forgiven; that we can all be together again.

“No? Why not?

“How can you say that? That’s not true. It’s simply not true. If you believe that, you don’t know him like I do.

“What? It’s you who’s blind. I’ve kept my eyes open. I’ve been watching and waiting. And now he’s appeared.

“Fine. If that’s how you feel, I’ll go by myself. But you’re wrong. You’ll see. I’m leaving now.

“Let go of my arm and don’t talk to me that way. I’m not a child. You’re making a scene. Let go or I’ll—

“Turn around. There he is. He’s coming toward us. Do you see him, just behind the woman with the blue purse?

“Yes, it’s him. He’s smiling at us. That’s his smile. Don’t you recognize it?”

---

Russell Fee is the author of the multi-award-winning Sheriff Matt Callahan mystery series. His short fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in such journals as The Galway Review, Killer Nashville Magazine, Literally Stories, Short Circuit, Spaceports & Spidersilk, Sci Phi Journal, Hemingway Shorts, Star 82 Review, Winamop, Bright Flash Literary Review, and Spank the Carp. To learn more about Russ and his writing, visit his website.

I was born on December 14, 1946, and raised in the bucolic village of Lansing, Iowa, which then and now has a population of around one thousand hardy souls. Before air conditioners and television, everyone stayed outdoors as much as possible during the summer months. We all knew those residing near us, and being considered a good neighbor was important. Lansing had no police officer (or traffic light for that matter), and no government social nets existed. But more vulnerable citizens were closely watched, and even those who had little shared their meager lot with others in acute need. Despite many being hardworking, highly motivated WWII veterans, everyone struggled financially, yet somehow managed to get by. However, there were rare exceptions to this latter situation, and I believe one such anomaly at least partially explains the core of my story.

When I completed seventh grade, my 11 schoolmates and I had been together since kindergarten. But at the beginning of eighth grade, a new student, Joyce T., joined our ranks. None of us knew her family situation or understood why they’d moved here. She was by far the largest member of our group, and although fleshy (we Lansing natives were all skinny as eels due to a plethora of activity and a paucity of food), she was stout, not fat, and appeared to be stronger than any of us. But Joyce, who was unattractive, shabbily dressed, unclean, and smelled funny, perpetually acted in a defiant, overbearing, and loud manner. Her being well behind the rest of us educationally annoyed our teacher, Ms. Jamesen. She was a very strict, older maiden lady who crept up behind inattentive students and whacked their knuckles with the flat of her ruler.

Boys soon began teasing and belittling Joyce, who immediately and fiercely fought back, as I suspect this was not the first time she’d encountered such behavior. My parents enrolled me in kindergarten when I was four, so until I exploded into puberty that year and became the center of our eighth-grade basketball team, I’d been the smallest in our group. No class leader, I never began Joyce’s torment, but piled on willingly. Despite being badly outnumbered, she tried to give as good as she got and never backed down. But strident, angry protests and counterattacks, while understandable, maybe even courageous, exacerbated her situation.

Joyce contended with an extremely homogenous and close-knit group. All but one of my six male classmates attended the same Presbyterian Church as my family. Each of our fathers had served, and their military experience may explain why my friends and I were raised with stringent discipline. “Children should be seen, not heard,” and “spare the rod and spoil the child” were considered literal truths. Severe physical punishment of youngsters, ranging from open-handed spankings to belt whippings to fist beatings, was common. So, in many respects, our behaviors were tightly regulated and constrained, and I wonder now how much this pervasive mindset shaped our emphatic negative response to Joyce’s variances.

Teachers were above reproach. There was no such thing as the students’ side of the story, and being ordered to bend over the teacher’s desk to be spanked by the principal with his hole-riddled paddle in front of the entire class was not uncommon. Although the thunderous blows stung like fire, we were far more anxious about messages detailing our offense, which had to be returned the following day bearing a parental signature.

Although Joyce was never threatened or abused physically (Note the principal’s paddle mentioned above), our verbal conflict with her crescendoed throughout the year. But during the final week of school, our class took an all-day field trip in which we rode a bus to Effigy Mounds National Monument, located twenty-four hilly miles south of Lansing. Situated atop a tall bluff overlooking the Mississippi River, the neatly tended grounds and gorgeous forested area are home to over two hundred Indian burial mounds shaped like bears, deer, bison, lynx, turtles, and panthers. Large, colorful signs detailed the contents of every grave and the significance of each item within. (Which I found fascinating.)

Soon after our bus departed, we realized Joyce had brought a huge bag of marshmallows. We later discovered that was all she had to eat, but to the rest of us, dining once again on peanut butter and Wonder bread, it seemed a glorious treat, as none of our families wasted money on soda or candy. And after months of abuse, the mood shifted. The girls, especially, found Joyce interesting, and she begrudgingly doled out a few of her sweet treats. By the end of our day, her largess made her the most popular person on the bus.

Joyce didn’t return the following year. Our high school’s consolidation with New Albin, Iowa, caused our class size to swell into the twenties, and, immersed in being a first-year high school student, I don’t remember giving her a passing thought.

However, while my physical memories have dimmed, her presence remains emotionally evocative. I can’t understand why we treated her so cruelly. While not angels, we were serious about our religious faith, knew right from wrong, and we were as behaviorally disciplined as a combat regiment. Nothing like this pervasive group viciousness had ever happened, nor did such behavior recur. Did Joyce’s refusal to conform threaten our heretofore unchallenged community ethos, and motivate us to act in defense of our foundational beliefs? She was far more developed physically than our slender female classmates, and maybe the insanity of burgeoning puberty exacerbated the conflict.

Years later, I realize her disparities were likely the result of extreme poverty unexperienced by us and a lack of parental guidance. Knowing that sixty-five years ago may have changed the dynamic, but at age thirteen, I had no such understanding, and now, besides the immutable past, I have only lingering regrets.

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Over a thirty-year nonfiction writing career, Dr. John A. Wilde has published six books and 240 articles, most of the latter appearing in international magazines with approximately 145,000 subscribers, all of which relate to his professional career. Although new to fiction, since January, 2025, Dr. Wilde has published thirteen stories in literary magazines and had two more accepted for later publication.

We are all deathly quiet but mum, at least, has an excuse. She’s got the machines to make noise on her behalf – the beeps and the breathing – and the doctors are kind of her spokespersons. Dad says nothing, seems lost, and I hate him for it. Say something, you pussy! If he doesn’t say anything, I can’t; and if I can’t then neither can my brother. It’s like this back in the house. Everything’s quiet there; everything’s wrong; everything’s out of balance. Only dad’s voice is heard, that is when he does speak. We eat only his choice of food and what he decides he can cook, even if what he decides is beyond him; we watch only his choice of telly, at least until he falls asleep drunk in his chair. The night it happened, I remember hearing him through the bedroom wall, asking mum if she’s all right over and over before finally calling the ambulance and then, when it arrived, him trying to explain and just messing the whole thing up, mumbling, making mistakes and sounding a right moron. What a twat! Life’s not supposed to be like this. She looks grey and her breathing, just judging by the way her chest moves, is barely perceptible. Maybe the machines are lying to us, and maybe the doctors, too. Maybe even mum doesn’t want to tell us the truth. Where’s her consciousness right now? Put away somewhere, waiting to be reclaimed, like lost property? Is she waiting for something? For us to shed enough tears, express enough grief, say how much we love her, plead with her to come back? Is there a machine that measures all that and tells her when to wake up? Is she biding her time, deciding whether we’re all worth waking up for?

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Stuart Cavet was previously an international lawyer, living and working across Asia and the Middle East. He now lives and writes in London. His flash fiction and short stories have appeared in various journals, and his flash entry placed second in the 2022 QuietManDave competition. Check out his debut novel, Something Kind Of Strange, here. He is currently working on his second novel when not distracted by flash. Find him here.

“It’s third gin, third vermouth. You can’t do anything right!” she says with a smile more precious than diamonds, pushing me away from the kitchen island to perform her witchcraft with bitters and gin. I don’t protest, and quietly sink back into the couch. Proportions don’t matter to me. Nothing does. She’ll be gone in an hour and never return again. I’ve been living this life of a silent observer for the past three years. They come and go, telling me I can’t do anything right, asking where I keep the frying pan, or if there’s a takeaway nearby. It’s a beautiful prison I’ve locked myself in, and I pay a handsome amount in cash every month to a man named Miguello. She brings me the glass and sits beside me, looking for the remote. I just hope we’ll watch something longer than life. But we never do.

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Nick Struutinsky is an art history explorer, producer, and writer based in Serbia. When he’s not working on a new script, he publishes short stories on Medium. In his free time, Nick studies art history and archaeology, hoping to one day develop an animated series inspired by these mesmerizing subjects.

My older brother and I lived on opposite coasts and saw little of each other. Two weeks ago, I was visiting his home because I had heard that his health was failing. I wanted to see him before he passed. Initially, I was going to tease him about his discourse having been reduced to MAGA talking points. But as my travel date approached, a violent wrenching within my chest and stomach compelled me to focus solely on thanking him. He had let me live in his home while I was in college. Moreover, after I finished school, he and his wife took care of our mother while I was in San Francisco running my life into the ground.

To thank him sincerely, I had to weed out resentment over our political differences. I know I succeeded in conveying that gratitude even before I arrived at his death bed, because as soon as I referred to my years living under his roof, he said “I was always looking for ways to throw you out; it’s your sister-in-law who loves you.”

It’s still hard to think of my sister-in-law as my brother’s widow. But she became that as soon as my nephew, John, their eldest son, a physician, stopped trying to detect a pulse. He had been moving the pressure strap up and down the left arm, inflating the cuff, then pulling it loose. Finally, he tossed it aside and burst into tears.

Each of us had our own response to my brother’s ceasing to breathe. And each of us had our own reasons to believe that he was still aware of his surroundings, that he was listening with other-worldly acute attention or that his spirit was still in the room. We held hands as we encircled the bed. I can’t recall the order in which the children spoke or who said what. But things like this got said, “Go toward the light, Dad. Loved ones who’ve gone before are waiting for you. You’re headed for heaven; don’t turn back now and risk messing up again.” That last encouragement puzzled me because I was in the dark about any earlier mess.

A few more filial ejaculations, then my sister-in-law suggested we sing my brother’s favorite songs. Everyone knew “You Are My Sunshine.” But they looked toward me for the words to “Old Smokey.” Although a pale substitute for my brother, I called out the lyrics correctly until we reached the green willow tree. “I don’t remember the rest,” I said, “I’m sorry.” My sister-in-law came to the rescue as she often does, this time with the leaves they will wither. That knocked free in my memory the roots they will die, followed by the final admonition about being forsaken and never knowing why. Hoping to have pleased my brother, we applauded his arriving in heaven and avoiding a return to sin.

There are many things to applaud in my brother’s life: a distinguished career on the bench, a 70-year marriage, a large family—really a dynasty—that extended beyond successful children, to successful grandchildren and even to great grandchildren. From a healthy heart, these achievements elicit admiration. In mine, jealousy threatens to turn a brother’s passing into a story about me, a family tableau in which somehow I am the sad central figure.

Eventually, we had to call the funeral home to remove my brother’s body, ears and all. Through sobs, John, the physician, insisted we hold off for those who had been out of the house briefly on errands. They deserved the chance to come back and say or sing their own goodbyes. I was still wondering about the earlier mess that might have barred my brother’s entry into heaven. Exploring its entrails might give me the satisfaction of his having failed badly, even scandalously in at least one endeavor. Despite this itch to find out, respect restrained my curiosity, my blind rage. I never probed for details, and—Damn it!—so far at least, they have not come to light.

---

Chuck Teixeira grew up amid the anthracite collieries of northeastern Pennsylvania. Early on, he received university degrees including an M.A. from the Writing Seminars at Johns Hopkins and a J.D. from Harvard Law School. Chuck practiced law for many years in San Francisco, California then taught English in Bogota, Colombia.

They warned me about the orchard.

They said the ground remembers. They said things grow from more than seed.

Still, I went.

I buried him deep beneath the old apple tree, where no one goes anymore since the frost came early three winters ago. He followed me there willingly. Laughing. As though pain were a kind of currency and he’d already made a profit from it.

One push. That was all.

It wasn’t premeditated. It was… instinct. Like swatting away a wasp halfway through the sting.

His head struck a root. He didn’t laugh after that.

I covered him with soil, my hands shaking, my heart beating like a drum from some darker hymn. I told myself it was justice, that no one would miss him.

But justice doesn’t keep you awake at night replaying the angle, the sound, the silence.

Now the apples taste sweeter.

Too sweet.

People talk about how the fruit has returned redder than ever — a miraculous harvest. I watch them bite into it, juice running down their chins, and wonder whether they can taste the lie.

Sometimes I see him when the wind bends the trees the right way. A glimpse between the branches. A crooked smile. I haven’t gone back there in weeks, but the smell follows me everywhere.

Earth. Rot. Memory.

I could go to the police. Tell them everything. They would dig. Unearth him curled inside the roots like a secret the orchard was never meant to keep.

But I won’t. Not yet.

Because every day that passes makes it harder to be the girl who did something, and easier to pretend I’m only the girl who saw something.

Still, the apples keep ripening.

And one day, I know the tree will give us something I can no longer hide.

When that happens, I’ll be waiting.

---

Isabel Fontes, born in Lisbon and living in London, is a writer, author of several published books, and former editor who spent years helping other writers shape their voices while trying not to lose her own. Her work has appeared in literary magazines and anthologies across several countries, receiving two Honourable Mentions and third place in the inaugural contest of The 300 Project by HollowPoint Press. These days, sharp observation and the small fractures of everyday life keep her occupied. She also shares custody of a cat named Charlie with an ex — still their most functional collaboration. Read more here and here.

The mulberries were black and bursting when I opened the door for the first time in seven weeks. Mornings brought the most temptation, when my stomach whined like the siren in the center of town on the day the hushworms fell.

There were twelve windows in the house, but I could only watch the berries ripen out of ten of them. Daddy’s room was off limits since the morning I heard his window screech open and his strangled yell. He had the best view of the mulberry tree. The branches nearly brushed the window. The berries were milky white and hard as stones then, but they must’ve looked tasty enough for him to try.

I snuck to his door and listened to his gurgling. The hushworm slurped across the floor inside and jiggled the door. I found a belt and tied the doorknob to the staircase railing, tight as I could pull. After a while, the jiggling stopped and Daddy started to stink.

The second-best view of the mulberry tree was by the living room window, where the berries hung over the overgrown yard. A strip of grass was lower than the rest. The handles of the push mower rose from the weeds. My brother’s grass-stained sneakers poked out, his shins all bone.

Down in the living room, I counted each berry on the tree til I lost count and had to start over. I rolled the last three pebbles of dry cat food over my tongue, letting the meaty juices run down my throat. I scraped the inside of the paper bag and sucked out the orange dust lodged under my long fingernails.

Three days later, I opened the front door. The cul-de-sac was silent, except for Mrs. Bobkin’s bones rattling in the hot breeze. She had been checking her mailbox when the hushworms fell. I waded through the weeds, waist high in parts, avoiding my brother’s legs.

I teetered on my tiptoes to reach the mulberries, snagging handfuls and shoving them into my mouth, nearly choking on my fist in my rush for their bittersweet crunch. Dark juice streamed down my neck.

Plop.

Something cold and gloopy landed on my shoulder.

I tore it off and chucked it into the weeds. Invisible, it rolled through the grass, pressing the blades flat, and came to a rest.

A pause.

It sprang back into the air. The grass popped back up. I stood stiff and listened.

Splat.

It hit the back of my head.

I clawed at the hushworm, but its feelers were already probing my ears, piercing my eardrums. It rolled over my forehead, frozen slime oozing over my eyes.

Everything went white.

Two more feelers shot up my nose and freezer-burned my sinuses. It pried my lips open, the coldness shooting up the roof of my mouth like an ice cream headache.

I gagged.

It burrowed down my throat, my neck bulging, and flopped into my stomach.

I was full.

---

Tif Robinette was raised in a fundamentalist sect in Appalachia, homeschooled along with her eight younger siblings. She now lives with her partner and critters in an off-grid tiny home she built in the mountains of northern California. She writes folk horror and American gothic novels, short stories, and screenplays. She is represented by Sam Edenborough at Greyhound Literary. Follow her here. Read more.

A month after our twenty-fifth anniversary, Jane looked at me across the breakfast table.

“Kevin,” she said, “I don’t know who I am anymore.” She blinked rapidly and fiddled with her faux pearl necklace. “I feel lost. I—I need something different.”

Recently, she’d told me she’d been trading late-night messages with Jerry, a man ten years her junior, whom she’d met on a dating site. Middle age had softened the contours of her petite figure, and she worried about her fading attractiveness.

“Jerry makes me feel alive again,” she said.

I stared at my buttered toast.

“I decided to move out at the end of the month,” she said, wringing her hands.

Jane’s words shocked and saddened me. We’d often talked about our love for each other. She would proudly show visitors photos of us smiling and hugging, one photo for each year we’d been together. I tried to dissuade her, but eventually resigned myself to the new reality.

*

During the following week, Jane packed items into cardboard boxes but didn’t seal them immediately. I noticed she packed my grandfather’s miniature, hand-crafted wooden angel, an heirloom I cherished.

While Jane was at the hairdresser, I searched her open boxes, my hands trembling, until I found the angel. Its cherrywood wings arched gently behind its tiny back. My grandfather, my favorite family member, had carved the angel for me during a winter in Nova Scotia. I also found and removed an antique sterling silver bell with intricate designs that Jane’s great-grandmother had owned. Jane had told me it reminded her of Christmas during her childhood.

I hid both the angel and the bell until Jane moved out.

Two weeks later, she called, her voice casual. “Kevin, I forgot to take the silver bell that belonged to my great-grandmother. You know how precious it is to me. Can I come over and pick it up?”

I furrowed my brow and scratched the back of my head. “I’ll give it to you if you return the angel my grandfather carved,” I said in a calm voice.

She cleared her throat. “I … I’ll look for it.”

Jane never asked for her heirloom again.

*

The silver bell and wooden angel rest side by side on my marble mantelpiece, silent witnesses to a faded love.

---

Clive Aaron Gill’s stories and poems have been widely published in literary magazines and anthologies. He has shared his tales and engaged audiences at writers’ workshops and at public and private events. Having lived and worked in Southern Africa, North America, and Europe, Clive’s diverse experiences infuse his storytelling with a rich global perspective. He holds a degree in Economics from the University of California, Los Angeles and lives in San Diego.
—

Chandler was anxious: deck-handing on an illegal crab boat seemed about as sensible as flavored electrical fencing. But he was broke. And he was man enough to admit that poaching crustaceans might pay better than the centaur romance novellas he’d been self-publishing. So he agreed to go crab nabbing – although he fretted about how rough his roughneck crew mates might be.

At five-a.m., he arrived dockside. On the phone, the captain had said, ‘Be early, Chandelier. Early birds don’t catch flukeworms.’ Chandler still didn’t know what that meant.

Seventy-some minutes later, he located his intended vessel: the Lilith. He was greeted by an old breadcrust, surnamed Bishop, who was barnacled everywhere by volcanic-looking moles. ‘Bish’ sported an eyepatch, which reminded Chandler of Polyphemus, in the Odyssey, which in turn reminded him how the nymph Calypso had sworn an oath, promising Odysseus could safely board her raft. The only oaths Chandler received were Bish’s encouragements to hurry up, which sounded like things Odysseus himself might’ve said, right after the witch Circe transformed his crew into hogs.

The Lilith departed at dawn, sneaking past the harbormaster, into a scoopable fog. She scudded alongside the jetty: a long arc of boulders that ramparted Blunt Point Harbor, and was also used as a latrine by the resident pelican colony, who swaggered atop it like some drunk and idle navy. They grunted at the Lilith as it passed, while Chandler cowered between stacks of crab traps, gagging from the guano-reek of those anvil-headed sea turkeys.
The Lilith rounded the jetty, and the fog vanished. The headland of Blunt Point was now visible, and on its peak was a prim little telemetry garden, tended by the Air Force, and the most impressive bloom in that entire array resembled a colossal golf ball. That great white orb leered down at Chandler.

‘Call me Ishmael.’

He hadn’t meant to say it aloud.

Bish’s laughing fit sounded like somebody was brooming a corrugated tin roof. When he recovered, he hacked a chowder-colored-something over the rail, then squared to Chandler.

‘All happy crab boats are alike.’ Bish permitted himself a smirk, or perhaps a transient facial palsy. ‘Each crabby crab boat—’

Chandler was gobsmacked by Bish’s adaptation of Anna Karenina, and surprised that Bish had read Tolstoy at all – or maybe his choice of words was just coincidence, in the same way that a zillion monkeys thwapping away on typewriters will eventually rewrite the glories of Shakespeare. Regardless, Chandler was curious about the Lilith’s prospects for happiness, so he eagerly waited for Bish to continue. But Bish’s attention had already migrated to cracking open a tin of chewing tobacco.

In the next minutes, the early-morning sunlight became strong and honeylike. Chandler rolled his face skyward, and it was anointed by an orbiting seagull.

Bish died laughing.

***

The captain said they’d put it to a vote. And at first, Chandler thought he’d vote against using Bish’s corpse for crab bait. But then he asked himself: What would Hemingway do?

---

Dane Rook is an author of fiction and nonfiction. He is based in Northern California, near Half Moon Bay, which is famous for its pumpkin festival (he has never attended it). Follow him here.

The waves crash at the shore, blurring the line between sand and water. The girl walks towards the sea, shoes in her hands. The sand feels damp underneath her feet. Her black, knee-length skirt flutters with the wind. The sun looks like a giant saffron ball on the horizon as it prepares to sink into the sea. The strands of the girl’s hair fly in every which way. She smoothens them, but when they stray-fly again, she ties them in a bun. Her naval peeks from behind the grey top, showing the tiny hoop-ring she wore on her pierced belly button.

Palm trees lining the shore sway. A small boy in a white t-shirt and tiny shorts, runs with small steps, laughing loudly. A woman in a blue saree hurries behind him.

The girl too was small once. Her father brought her to the shore every Sunday. She smiles, but the curve’s presence on her lips is brief. A sharp pain interrupts her ephemeral joy. She lifts her right foot to examine the heel. A broken half of a small conch shell has pierced it.

She winces and pulls the broken piece out.

“Don’t cry, it will be alright soon.” Dad’s voice echoes in her mind. He had lifted her up and carried her to the car on a similar occasion when she was young. The pain reminds her of him – the man who left the house in the middle of the night to live with another woman. Her heart feels as if it were in a washing machine dryer.

He had called her after five long life-changing years. A random number flashed on her phone screen.

“Hey, kiddo.” She recognized the voice in a flash. “How are you?” he asked. Her mind drew a blank. What should she say? I am fine, or no, I am not fine, I miss you like hell. Should she ask why he left them or if he has children with the “other” woman? She touched her belly button. She had gotten it pierced the day he moved out, thinking about what would annoy him the most.

“It’s me, Dad,” he spoke after a brief pause.

Her eyes watered. She was infuriated; she wanted to fight with him, shout at him, throw the vase on the floor, but all she did was shed tears. She disconnected the call without speaking, ashamed at her own vulnerability.

Why did he call? What does he want from me now? She had flung the phone on the bed. But a few sips of water and a broken nail paint bottle later, she picked up the phone again and wondered if she should call back.

What if he is sick? What if this is our last chance to connect?

That weekend, clutching the phone tightly, trying not to think of her mother, she dialed Dad’s number, but disconnected it before the call went through.

“Why did Dad leave?” “Where is he now?” “Does he not love us anymore?” “Does he not love me anymore.” Every question she asked Mum swirled in her mind. She sat on her bed and rocked back and forth for a long time before deleting his number from the call logs. Her belly button bled profusely that night.

Dad never called again.

She has crossed the damp sand and has walked into the sea now. Water touches her feet. The cooling sensation runs through her feet and thence through her entire body. She blinks back the lurking tears and looks for the little boy. The mother-son duo were sitting in a corner now, sharing a cotton candy – pink, woolly, wispy.

Her eyes feel stingy – Dad bought her cotton candies.

She looks away from them and studies the sand. A bigger conch shell, broken into bits probably by the sudden collision with the ground, lay a few steps away. She walks out of the water and puts her left foot on it, applying all the pressure she could summon.

---

Nazia Kamali is a reader, writer, and dreamer, who fell in love with writing at a young age. Her novel, The Woman Who Disappeared, will be released by Readomania Publishers in July 2026. She was a finalist for the Speculative Literature Foundation’s A.C. Bose Grant 2021. Her novella Multicoloured Muffler was published in the Rize Novella Anthology by Running Wild Press. Her shorter works can be found in magazines such as The Tint, FemAsia, Caustic Frolic, Rigorous, Café Lit, Authors Publish Magazine, Juste Literary, and 50-Word Stories.

The wind swept through her pigtail, caressing her ears, drying her eyes. It was the teacher’s whistle in the air, little footprints in the mulch, semi-permanent chalk against brick in the places rain will never hit.

Forty minutes till math, Daisy.

The choices were insurmountable: lonely, shivering swings; chilly, hollow slides; towers in need of ruling. But her eyes sought the candy-red monkey bars. The property has the best view, she’d say if she were selling. She wasn’t.

She smiles and marches through the gate toward them. It wasn’t summer anymore. She wouldn’t sweat and she wouldn’t fall.

She’d flip and flip and flip, but she was getting ahead of herself.

Look at the gate, Daisy. Listen for the teacher’s whistle.

The monkey bars cool her hands painfully as the ghosts of calluses burn. Her palms have been smooth a long time now. Laptop keys don’t grip nearly as hard as markers and playground equipment do.

She hangs, knees bending, limbs locking, teeth grimacing.

Her trials, battles fought, mulch money lost and won, surround her. Echoes of triumphs and hurts and laughter.

It’s why her eyes creep beyond the gate, an instinctive, longing-heavy practice. The field is mighty, the parking lot mightier, but that wasn’t the lively, restless piece of freedom awaiting.

It is the road just beyond it.

The cars move fast. Blink, and they’ve disappeared. One white, one red, then one green. An infinite number of people, countless destinations. Unhindered by lunch times, car rider lines, and bathroom passes.

Drivers don’t have recesses.

Her arms strain, belt a too-tight band at her waist.

Gripping and regripping the lollipop bars, she swings her legs up in one big kick; her boots hit metal, pressing.
She hangs and watches the cars. The freedom road. One white, one red, then one green.

Oh, what bliss. To go anywhere, to do anything.

Daisy flips and feels the prickling sting of tension down her spine. A guilty reminder of a muscle she never felt before. Which is odd.

She does not fall. An ambulance doesn’t come. Her mom doesn’t come running. She doesn’t get to go home.

Freshly righted, with clothes sinking back down her limbs, her eyes find her view again. The freedom road. One white, one red, then one green.

Daisy lets her sore arms slide from the bars’ hold and picks up her keys from the mulch.

---

Molly Collins is a student at the University of Tennessee Knoxville interested in literary fiction, journalism, and screenwriting. Her work explores nostalgia and the emotional tensions between childhood and adulthood.

You will find it in his pocket when you gather up his jeans and socks from the bedroom floor to add to the load of laundry. At first you’ll toss it into the garbage without even looking at it, then consider perhaps it’s a receipt he needs to save and so you’ll double-check. You will smooth the small slip of white paper open to reveal a name—Alys—and a phone number. What will bother you most is the small heart drawn there at the end. And the fact that it’s his handwriting—you’d know it anywhere—not hers, whoever she is.

You will feel like you are standing at a crosswalk or a fork in the metaphorical road of your life. You’ll look both ways, but only quickly, the slip of paper burning hot on your palm. Then you’ll crumple it up and open your hand to let it fall, down into the trash, landing on top of the salmon skin from last night’s dinner – the putrid, oily thing that’s stinking up the whole house.

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Sarah Robinson is an introspective lover of words. A Canadian writer, her work blends insight from her social work career and family life with a deep interest in mindfulness, compassion, and everyday resilience. She writes to explore the interactions and moments that shape both our inner and outer worlds.