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view, my son and husband making faces, and they wonder why I never frame it or place it on my desk at work—why they’ve been replaced by sea stars and a lone flamingo at the zoo.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 …

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 …

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 …

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 …

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 …

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 …

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, …

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 …

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 …

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 …

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 …

The sugar glider took a few halting steps in the box, trampling a typed note. The few people Ronald knew wouldn’t leave an animal on his doorstep. Perplexed, he picked up the sheet of paper. “He was too much work for us. The exotics shelter was full. We know you’re a trustworthy person.” Though the note was unsigned, this moment seemed to bulge with fate. Ronald had never had a pet before, much less a sort he’d only seen in pictures — never thought he could justify one, the work, the expense, mostly the downright self-indulgence of demanding something love him. But now the responsibility had been given him, and he would care for the wide-eyed little creature wholly. He cupped tender hands around the sugar glider. It lifted too easily. Ronald turned over the hollow animal. There was a battery compartment. He dropped the lifeless thing. Two teenagers giggled. Ronald glimpsed too late the camera of their mobile phone lowering, and the youths darted down the street, laughing at their prank. So quickly had …

Homage to “Gas” by Edward Hopper Today we should think of what a dented orange gasoline can would look like somewhere on a road in New England. It is sometime in the 1940s and it is Halloween and there is a blue and white gas pump at the filling station where the can sits next to a yellow wooden rest room. It is Halloween night on a country road and the office window is open and there are soft waves of big band music coming out of the large brown radio next to the red cash register. We should recognize the thundering paper as cavernous empty old shopping bags. Five children have already cried Trick or Treat! The manager smilingly dumps heavy clusters of candy into each child’s bag, echoing the kettle drum from the jazz orchestra while his helper augments the effect by giving the empty gasoline can several rhythmic taps. The brightly lit office is a gigantic geometrical owl and the children follow their father’s flashlight as it slices up the breezy black …

It happens in a flash, a blip on the screen of life. The first day the numbness wraps itself around your chest, compressing until the last gasp of air escapes from your lungs. Rational reasoning does not quell the loneliness, and your memory tumbles backward to deter the coming of tomorrow, to protect against the present, to preserve the past, so the truth does not consume you, never to listen to the words of encouragement, endearment, or the flippant teasing of your weaknesses which brought a smile on a sullen day. You attempt sleep, but the sadness evaded for the moment slams you in the face with its cold, hard fist and you cry out, even with the knowledge that this time comes for everyone. Celebrate the life, you tell yourself, a life filled with hardships but outweighed by the joy of being surrounded by love. The light of a brand-new day welcomes you, reminding you the invitation does not extend to everyone. You struggle through the kind but meaningless words of those who knew …

As I walk down the alley, torn tights under my umbrella, I ponder how I look to passersby on the street. Split-second decisions are the best decisions. I suppose, even if only best in the moment. But each moment is all we have. The street juts out from the crumbling alley. Streetcars pass alongside me like ghost ships through heavy fog. The same fog fills my brain. I try to clear it, lay a hand on something concrete, something simple and true. Something logical. I need truth, one truth. But there are too many. Addiction. Those afflicted with what they once began and now regret. Billowy drug addicts. Philandering men and women out in the nightclubs, when it’s dark enough to hide themselves between streetlights. Those who are so burdened with a mind of strong idealism they can’t let go of what they hoped was real. Yes, I was addicted. A memory, unwanted. From the party. “Do you drink a lot?” I hesitate before I answer. “These days, yes.” “You shouldn’t drink. It’s not good …

This would be a good time to wake up, I think, realising that Síofra’s blue Fiesta has vanished from where she had parked it less than two hours before. But I’m sure I saw it less than five minutes ago when I carried the harpist instrument to her van. I’d felt obliged to help after she’d woven a sublime backdrop to the reading which had brought us to Dublin in the first place. Thanks to Síofra, the poet had addressed our writers’ group a few weeks before and had then invited us to the Dublin launch of her new collection. We are a motley collection, mostly female, ranging from two girls in their twenties to a pair of spritely eighty-something-year-old sisters. I am one of only three males in the group, but the other two are rarely seen and, even then, only as a couple. Our present incarnation has been running for about eighteen months, but some of our members had been writing long before Síofra’s arrival in our midst. I’m not the only one …

It was my turn to count the money. Usually between one and two million on any given day. Jane: don’t mess it up. I never do. The ten key calculator was like an extension of my arm. I had a little wooden desk inside the vault, which felt closed in. Bags of money on the floor, coins, bills, everything. It all had to be verified. It took most of the day. Jane: has to be done by four so I can get home to the kids! We got an hour lunch and I took every minute. The taco spot was only a short drive and my friend Jenny worked there, but I didn’t like to talk to her wile she was working and I was in my dress up clothes for the bank. It felt odd. Like I was making fun of her or something. Her car was there, and she usually worked at the counter, so I went through the drive through and sat in the parking lot eating in my car and I …

A single man on a leash, bound, naked, flinging around. His eyes are broken, his soul is red. BOUND FOR CULIACÁN. GUILTY OF TREASON Roiling gates and a tiled plaza. Jeering women with heavy breasts and dyed skirts. Boys sell bananas. Fry bread oils. One dog yaps at another. The man sheds a tear as he is lead through the procession. A seamed face, now pelted with day old fruit. Up the steps, to a flowering gibbet. He writhes, he wiggles, he’s gone. A hundred cries fill the air. Hats and humorismo to celebrate damnation. “Do you think he was guilty?” one man says to another. “No. I think he believed in something”. Christopher C Tennant is a Denver, Colorado native who mainly writes poetry, short stories, and literary or experimental works. He has previously published in Academy of the Heart and Mind, Atlas Obscura, and Scribes*MICRO*Fiction, among many other places.

Onion could have lifted his foot and pressed the brake. But this was the fifth jaywalker he had seen on the highway that month, and so far, the discomfort of shifting from gas to brake had brought him neither good nor bad. He could have kept doing the same thing, but what would that change? Wasn’t he alive in the first place because God had decided things couldn’t stay the same forever? Didn’t his mom assign him a name by randomly picking a word from the dictionary after growing tired of the generic names she had given his siblings? Onion felt that familiar feeling wash over him once more as if passed down from his creators—his mother and God. It was an innate feeling beyond reason, a primal force that preceded all else. That force, heavier than gravity itself, anchored his foot on the pedal. *** Now he was bored, staring at the struggling body of the jaywalker on the ground, thinking about the hours of paperwork ahead—something he wouldn’t have to do if people …

She was 5’2, maybe 100 pounds. I started taking note a year ago, dark hair to her shoulders, ruddy sun browned face and hands. Dressed in neutral tans, greys – shirt, slacks that looked well-worn, more part of the persona than the outfit. She would be walking near the boardwalk, but just as often five miles inland on the Boulevard. Away from the beach no one walks except the homeless, certainly not for miles, and never in the summer sun. She may have been homeless, but no belongings, her gait seemed determined but not rushed. Power-walker outings are a small part of the day. They dress for the workout, careful to hydrate. I envisioned her legs to be hard as steel, her ventures seemed perpetual. I spotted her daily. As it became ritual to be on the lookout, the frequent occurrences increased. She walked all the time – for a living, or on a mission. A mythic trek, perhaps her monastery burned down – if stopped, or accosted, perhaps martial arts. Taoism emphasizes action without …

Holding a candle on the beach, she looked at the circle of lights the others had placed. The thought of the burial came to her. She heard someone crying, maybe her mother. As soon as it came, the crying disappeared into the soft steps of people passing behind her, some looking at her as they walked beside the ocean. She didn’t notice them. Wind moved her hair almost like a forgiveness but did nothing to the flames. The light of the candles warmed her face as she breathed in deeply, her back straight. As she exhaled, the flame wavered. She moved slowly, placing the candle in with the others, the sand falling toward the candle as though it were trying to stop its entry. Standing up she closed her eyes, her head bending toward her shoes. They were Converse, torn by the years. Opening her eyes, her posture began to bend into that of an old woman. She lifted her hood above her head. A cane appeared in her hand. Her hair became gray and …

My dear, When I die, I want to come back and haunt you for the days, weeks, months, even years that should have been ours. Maybe you’ll be really old by then, your skin hanging in life-stained, elephant folds. I hope so. I hope you will have lived a good, long life. I’ll remember you as you were, with all your hair and dark fur on your body; you were solid in flesh and in values. But I will still love you denuded of hair and body fur, less tethered to flesh and values, closer perhaps to what I am. I’ll perch on your lap with my arms around your neck and lean in close to kiss you. Will you remember then? You may have to feel your way back to the memory past my icy cold lips, past whatever mangling may have occurred on the way to my ghostly state. I’ll slide a cold hand under your shirt and lay my head on your shoulder and remind you. We’ll hang a white sheet over …

Now Live: This Week’s ‘Daily Steal Deals’ From no-reply@content.gnosmart.com To aoife@gyohmail.com Date 12 Dec 2019, 23:52 Is your life stuck in the bore of the case that holds your body? Does misery stick to you like a stubborn leech sipping off you? Tonight, the clouds cover the lights freshly harvested on a full moon night. The coldness places its cunning fingers, and pulls the threads of hair on your skin. But the bus you are riding has a perfect cushion to gear up for the night, and the heating pad you bought last month via a lightning deal must just be the cherry on top for a comfortable journey. The plug socket is right next to you, and as the gel inside retains warmth for two hours, you just need to plug and unplug for five minutes every second hour. That’s not much of a bother! But still you think your life has been so messy, no momentary warmth rekindles your desire in enduring that bleak life. You are 34, working as a cashier in …

I sat next to a girl on the bus, thin and blond. She was reading a paperback. “Where are you going?” I asked. She glanced at me. “What?” “I’m going to Albany,” I said. “What’s in Albany?” she said. I laughed. “Not much. My mother died. That’s why I’m going to Albany.” She went back to her book. “That’s why I’m going there,” I said. The bus was passing through countryside, a low ridge of wooded hills on one side, on the other a swampy field with scrub brush, a few bare trees. “I’m sorry about your mother,” she said, not looking up from the page. “It’s all right,” I said. “She was old. Her time had come.” “No one’s time has come,” she said. She looked at me. Clear, gray blue eyes, like I’d fallen through the sky on a winter’s day. “Who reaches the end?” she said. “What gets finished? There are moments. That’s about it.” “My name’s Chip,” I said. “Jim. James, really.” She turned on her side away from me. I …