Eight minutes left. You wake. You don’t remember anything. The teary-eyed woman squeezing your hand says the Sun just died. Mere minutes until cosmic dark coldly cloaks everything you can’t recall. Six minutes. She says you were comatose. She says she’s your wife. But, despite a twinkle of familiarity, she seems a beautiful stranger. Four minutes. Your heart swells, a Red Giant. With the same woman you don’t know, you fall in love again. Two minutes. You imagine the marriage you’d like to remember for a few moments more. And connected to her you are a constellation. Eight minutes was enough time. Alex Rafala is an actor-turned-writer based in NYC. His debut short film, “Farewell Old Stringy” (Writer/Director), lauded for its full heart and exemplary performances, screened as an Official Selection at film festivals nationwide, most notably the 2014 Virginia Film Festival. His short horror screenplay “Harvest” placed as a Second Rounder in the 2020 Austin Film Festival Screenplay Competition, a Second Rounder in the 2020 ScreenCraft Film Fund, and a Quarterfinalist in the 2020 …

She rushed through the door and strode toward the only open seat at the bar, the stool next to mine. Just like the boss said she would. She was in her mid-twenties. Short hair accenting her oval face. Audrey Hepburn cheekbones. Anya Taylor-Joy eyes. Tiny mole left of her lips. No obvious piercings or tattoos. A kind aura. Some days I hate my job. She waved the bartender over, ordered a cheeseburger and fries with a double Scotch on the rocks. She showed him her ID before he asked, told him she was in a hurry, promised a fat tip for fast service. She tapped her phone to check the time and sighed in exasperation. “What’s the rush?” I asked. “Like it matters to you.” It did matter to me, but I couldn’t tell her why. Couldn’t tell her I’d been thinking about bucking the system. So I said, “This isn’t the kind of place most people run in and out of.” “Yeah, well I’m not most people. Fast-food chains are evil. I like local …

In the stream I could see his heart flowing, touching a multitude of other hearts that went numb either by colliding or by choosing to stay so. Sameer cared too much for the skies that went wild with rage sometimes, shackling the scudding clouds, sending spears of lightning aiming to fracture the earth. He listened to the ache of the aging Banyan too. He said “When I die I want to be close to a water body. I want the susurration of the stream to keep me alive, which I know is a way of claiming a part of something that is moving and yet holding breath, the air in the breath, and the life in the breath.” I didn’t quite understand him but I knew someday I would. In a world that’s divided between good and bad, I want to keep faith, hold my tongue from moving too much, and reclaim my thoughts that go astray. The day was nearing. I counted every little blade of grass as if that were a testimony to …

Joe brings us sandwiches of cured ham on Portuguese bread. He takes us for a cruise at lunch hour in his mom’s green Grand Am. He tells us he just likes the way the losers watch him as he slows down by smoker’s corner—two hot chicks in the front seat eating blue plums he snuck fresh outta the fridge just a half hour before picking us up. Joe’s twenty and has dark hair across his forearms. I’ve studied it carefully as he places his veiny hand on your thigh as he drives the car. Hair like that means business. Hair like that is up front and coarse for a reason. Joe is all there. He’d bring you flowers if you just mentioned it one day. You don’t care about Joe because you’re not thinking of going away. I don’t care for Joe either because—because. I just like Joe ‘cause he’s so New York. He says sheer hose with strap heels are what’s missing from this town and I agree. He appreciates my acid mouth, says …

Nurses come and go like ghosts, checking vitals, updating charts. The sheets and walls are white. My brother lies in bed in a white gown. His skin is onion white, a shade darker than the paste-white bracelet on his wrist. The bracelet reads: Alex Parks, 12/10/65. My sister sits with him, reading Jeremiah 29:11: “For I know the plans I have for you, declares the LORD, plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” “Cam,” I say, “We need to go.” “A few more minutes,” she says. If Alex wakes, Camille will praise the almighty, call the ordeal part of God’s master plan, and Alex will tell her it was he who opened his eyes and besides, if God is responsible for waking him then God’s responsible for hurting him and that’s a pretty shitty thing, isn’t it? And what about all the other poor souls in St. Vincent Medical Center on a Tuesday night in Toledo? The glasses, the mischievous grin, are gone. He’s never …

The fishers watch her, but they’d never admit that, even if they were caught in the act. It’s too extraordinary for a girl to fish for a living; it’s uncomely and bad luck to fish with a woman so near, especially an unwed girl of twenty. To men diminished and brittle from long days and sore bones, her presence is a nuisance, so her abundant catches and exquisitely hand-crafted lures are hastily dismissed. Hints of witchcraft flit across their lips in whispers; suspicious good fortune and uncanny knowing of where and when to fish, especially by a girl-fisher, must have other-worldly explanations. It’s a good thing men are brave; otherwise, they’d be frightened by the wild, free, careless, fearless, cunning creature they saw in Magda. “Nobody’s gonna help you out here,” one said. “When ya gonna settle down and become a proper wife?” asked another. “If anybody’d have her,” said a third, thinking she was out of earshot. But Magda noticed and heard and felt every admonition, scolding, sideways glance, and furrowed brow. Any dangers …

There’s a dead pigeon in the gutter. It makes me sadder than it should. It’s not the death that’s most upsetting, or even the gutter of it all. It’s the mere fact of the pigeon, if you want to know the truth. “Watch your step,” I say to Marky, tugging his little forearm like I could swing his whole body up and over the curb. His sneaker grazes a smear of viscera, but he misses the bulk of the bird. “Oh,” Marky says. Squints. Shudders. They’re seemingly infinite, pigeons. One goes down, a swarm flocks in to fill the gap. Gray, blue-gray, purple-grayish-gray, evoking soot and ash, the remnants of things you clean out of a flue. My father used to forget to do that, every time he made a fire. “Goddamn flue!” he’d shout, pigeon-colored smoke choking the room. “It makes my elbows tingle,” says Marky. “What?” “Dead things.” We trot south, skirting slow walkers to make the light. My eyes keep dragging to Marky’s left shoe. The laces aren’t untied, not fully, it’s …