The incandescent lights beam silvery glows in every direction, while the sunlight pierces through windows and bounces from stainless steel machines to clean white walls. You smell the scent of detergent clashing with lavender dryer sheets, rose petal fabric softener and hear the trickling waterfall of coins from the change machine. It’s Saturday. Appliances purr loudly announcing that they’re brimming to capacity. You see the usuals walk in. Andrew gives you his typical head nod while leaving no strand of his clean, tapered mane out of place. You surmise he’s single, working in an office, by the way he hangs up his dress shirts in rows like color-coded file folders. You can’t help but notice Helen, reticent to make eye contact. You know she works or lives nearby as she traipses to and from a neighboring building and hurriedly so. You revere her appearance, always perfectly polished with subtle makeup and beautifully coiffed curls. Mrs. Johnson came by, her round frame moving with short quick steps. She loved when you complemented her on her new …

When winter break came around, Noah and Jeffrey flew back to find their childhood home completely torn up. Boxes of kibble were scattered around the rooms, family photos were flipped over and strategic shits from Pernille, the pug, were everywhere. Jeffrey trudged through the mess while Noah checked the carpet, wondering how much it was going to cost to repair. The biggest change was Mama Z’s half-finished project of turning their old bedroom into her new office. Financial documents intermingled with signed sports star posters; a cherrywood desk was pressed against the old steel bunkbed. Their first warning of these changes was the verbal flurry they received on the drive back from the airport. The passenger seat had been off limits and empty for years, so Mama Z glanced over her shoulder at her now-grown boys squished in the backseat and tried to compress all the parenting she’d missed into rapid-fire life updates: “Never start a business, this ad campaign is going to be a total nightmare,” she said. “But at least the dog treats …

I will never be strong enough to hate you and your barbed wire arms swathed around my body. You sink splintered shards of sorrow into my asthenic flesh. It would take a love you’ve never had to will the sorry I’ve starved for past your chapped sangria lips. You won’t let me forgive you. I remember our first spring when stars floated around my eyes like lilies as you took my face between your hands and taught me that love was something to borrow. Love was slipping off shirts when you’d ask. Love was staying when you grabbed and threw me against the bathroom door. I’m a bullet casing without a gun to fire back. Your lies like mosquito stings I force myself to forget, tucking that shred of truth in the limbo of space that I wish I could keep between you and I. As we waltz in and out of the lie of forever, I wonder if I have ever been my own. Jia J. Johnson is a high school senior enrolled in …

Hosea came to his truth in March. He was the elder, his legs almost useless, and the farmland hives were dying. “I must be given.” As soon as he spoke, everyone roused from a kind of walking sleep. The community began to feed Hosea a diet of honey and water, bathing him gently and telling him old family stories. The farm’s remaining hives were raided and every last comb taken. The old man ate less and less as the days passed. Most of the gathered honey was stockpiled. The community lived in an old restaurant on the edge of the farm, over the hill from the hives. The members slept in the booths, in the stock room, in the kitchen. After Hosea could no longer walk, a broken freezer in the back was pulled open and cleaned. It was laid down and filled with hot lavender-scented water, then scrubbed again and again. Hosea began to smell of honey. He wept honey and that is what his bowels gave up. He’d been made clean. On the …

The plane began its languid departure down the runway, the whirring of engines abrading his ears. He looked out the window towards the clear path, an empty runaway unencumbered by thunder, rain, or even clouds. “Looks like smooth sailing,” he thought casually to himself. The steady movement was almost hypnotizing in its monotony. Without thinking he pulled out the photo, the last one that he decided to keep, from the back pocket of his wallet and looked—no, glared—at it. He felt fire in his temple, his brows furrowing. The urge to rip it to shreds was as strong and hot as the tears he refrained from shedding. I saw you there, like a whirling firefly against a pitch-black sky. You were dancing above the lilies that hung daintily along the pond as we watched the fireworks shooting from a festival far off in the distance. You floated there like you barely belonged to this earth. I thought that’s what I was searching for; I thought you (and I?) were destined for great things. The routine voice of the pilot thrust him out …

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 …

Dread comes in as my daddy slinks out the door. He sits at the table with me and my mom eating up all the long labored over resentments that have been stewing all day. With his belly full he settles in daddy’s beige and orange flowery lounge rocking chair. He lights up a fat cigar and knocks it on the side of the ashtray stand, ashes floating to the shag carpet. He turns on the tension pole floor lamps like he’ll be reading the TV Guide, but my mom yelling at me and pacing the livingroom-hall-diningroom-kitchen is a better show. He turns her tongue into a rasp and it grates and grates and he laughs and laughs, and in my mind I am going someplace else. I am in my mom’s closet with her pretty skirts and dresses swaying above me and I am playing Barbie. We are dancing to Queen because we are the champions and I’m gonna make Ken do what we want. Ken’s gonna stay home on a Saturday night and dress …

I recognized him as soon as he got off the Lake Merritt TRAB train. It was the same young brotha who always asks me for change as I waited at the Glen Park TRAB Station for the Blue Line train when I was on my way home from work. Lanky all over, even his eyes are long. Last time I saw him, he had on a green Polo shirt not long enough to cover the sag in his faded jeans. He seemed to be the same age as my students – sixteen or seventeen years old. He always had the same story: “Can you help me? I ran away from my group home so that I could see a friend. Now I’m trying to get back before curfew, but I don’t have enough money for the fare. Can you help me?” He didn’t smell unhoused or seem like he was on drugs, so I gave him the benefit of the doubt. The first time, I gave him two dollars. The second time, I gave him …

As Art was nodding off in the living room with his bugle on his belly, the doorbell rang. Can you answer the door, Art? said Helen, working at the thread spinning between her needles. Art set down his bugle, rubbed his eyes, and watched his wife’s long, graceful fingers. He couldn’t tell what she was crafting or thinking. Her fingers tugged, poked and plucked as though each was machinating with its own brain. Art dashed a few notes down on his music sheet, then opened the front door. Hello, he said. What is the meaning of this? ‘sup. Yup. Yo. (Nods) Hey! Art knew immediately that the Monosyllabists had come to visit. They nudged flaccidly through the door. Helen? Art called. Hel! Give them something to drink, Art! she called. The Monosyllabists were young and slouchy and sported threatening hair. Yet they smiled sometimes and made curious gestures, too. Were they merely skulking loafers? Low-brow flaneurs? They meandered into the kitchen in a loose swarm. Art asked if they would like anything to drink. Sure. …

Jenny I love my job. I love the endless shelves of multi-coloured books, the range of subjects. I love the smell of the pages when I walk into the library each morning. And I especially love helping our customers. The thought that the Council could include us in the cuts horrifies me. June, the librarian, now the only librarian, said we have to fight to keep the regulars. I’ve no idea how we are supposed to get the footfall up, though. As her junior, I have followed her advice. I give extra help and friendly support to everyone that enters. Most days, it is only the old men sitting in the newspaper section. But even those I try to befriend, by encouraging them to scour the bookshelves. I’m giving my closest attention to everyone. There is no problem being attentive to the elderly, young girls and older women, but it’s not so easy with the younger men. Yet for my job’s sake, I have made a great effort to overcome my discomfort. I know I …

The first time I met Adina Milford I thought all witches were old and all ghosts were dead people. I was wrong on both accounts. Adina appeared in homeroom halfway through eighth grade. A velvety snow had fallen that morning, making the town look as gentle as a postcard. Bundled children stuck their tongues out and hurled snowballs at each other on the way to school. They crammed their boots and coats inside slim lockers before the first bell. Adina hovered in the classroom doorway. She was squatty and wore her hair in a long braid swung over her right shoulder. Hal noticed her first. “DayDay, is that your Mom?” Hal asked me. Cody sneered and high-fived Hal who never let me forget my old stutter. When I told Hal to shove it, Mrs. Watkins overheard. “Darren Ross, would you like detention?” “No, ma’am,” I answered. She’d already made up her mind. That afternoon I spent forty minutes organizing cabinets until Watkins released me. Hal and Cody were waiting in the lot behind the school. …

JoJo and her mother Justine have a party every Thanksgiving Eve, so JoJo’s old high school softball friends can drop by. The entire party takes place in JoJo’s wheelchair-accessible bedroom. She sits by the huge flat-screen TV mounted on the wall by the bathroom door. Her long blonde ponytail hangs over the back of the wheelchair. Every few minutes, she reaches both hands under a thigh and lifts it from the seat, readjusting the leg. Then she lifts the other. In her junior year of high school, JoJo dove off the rocks at low tide, six blocks from her home, and broke her spine. She’s fifty-three. She’s lived at home with her mother, 91, all this time, on Cordova Street, while her siblings, all older, got married, had kids, bought houses—some nearby. Five years after JoJo’s accident, her mother’s house burned to the ground. A wiring problem. JoJo and Justine had been a few blocks away at JoJo’s sister’s house for a barbecue. They heard the sirens. No one we know, I hope, Justine said. …

When my father died, I cleared his house. My mother was long dead; my sister lives half a world away. It was me or nobody. I took a few days off work, stayed in his empty home. In the silent evenings, alone, I missed my wife and kids, freshly aware of our mortality, the inexorable progression; child, parent, grandparent, finale. He never used a computer; he used a typewriter or wrote longhand. In old age, he bruised his feet kicking the world forward by writing letters to the local Council’s minor functionaries. A dustbin needed here, a bike path required there. He kept copies of his letters; he kept the replies; a mountain of paper. The papers went into 25 numbered boxes. I packed up his tools and some ornaments and shipped it all back home. Everything else was trashed. I cleared out his wardrobe and chest of drawers, stuffing his clothes into black plastic garbage bags. Under socks and underpants, I found a green leather journal held shut by elastic bands, a piece of …

I steered over to the public washroom, a freestanding hub of entrances and exits, to lean my bike against the cement-block wall. A bearded man standing under his ball cap gave me a dentist-approved smile. I micro-stepped toward him and said, “I forgot my lock.” He nodded. “I’ll keep an eye on your bike.” When I entered the building he stood beside my bike. Over a million bicycles not reported stolen get stolen annually. That’s a million owner-improved bikes, permanently disappeared. Some with custom-fitted saddles. Upgraded pedals and wheels. Hi-visibility rear-light for safety. Bottle cages and bell. Signature rock chip on the down tube, painted steady-handed blue. Lucky-Cat stem cap, a birthday present received last year. I exited the washroom. The bearded man twisted the brim of his ball cap over the back of his unsmiling neck. He straddled my bike, hunched forward and gripped the handlebars. I yelled and he yelled. “My bike!” On the pedals he stomped and angled my speeding bike between the public washroom and a timber-framed pond. His scum-water reflection …

Between bites of biryani and samosas, she divulged the edited version of her childhood. He nodded in agreement and sighed, his eyes deep, inky pools, in frames of jet lashes. Gazing into his right one she envisioned their baby daughter with his eyes, her red hair, and dimples, their Labrador and a terracotta brick house. In his left she saw heavy silence, raised voices, custody battles, siblings separated. “Fancy a drink?” he said as they zipped up jackets. “Not tonight, I’ve a deadline,” she said to his left eye, then hesitated. “Maybe next week?” she added to his right. “Okay,” he smiled, then something flashed across his face, as she glimpsed him frowning into her left eye. Ellen Townsend is an art teacher and writer. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Flash Fiction Magazine, Friday Flash Fiction, 50-Word Stories and Paragraph Planet. Her stories have been broadcast on BBC Radio.

You draw your shirt closed over your breasts, lining up the buttons until they kiss the soft spot beneath your chin, shoes abandoned at the doorstep. You are gifting me this truth: you have left willingly, and all that I am is tucked inside your skin. We rouse the same hour of dawn, with enough time to chase after you. We ready our rifle, the silver gleam of metal the color of your eyes. The rain softens the ground outside, and your tracks are easy to follow. We believe this to be your mishap. You have named us Älskling in every iteration of your hunt and come into our houses invited. Into the red-paint wooden one with the apple trees, the one with broken windows, the stable where we slept on the hay, the yellow cottage by the brook with nothing but a bronze kettle in the kitchen. You appear in the yard, or outside the window with a knock, or by the maypole in your summer dress, or in the rain with your hair …

Boyfriend writhes around on top of me and gazes hungrily into my eyes. He exclaims that he loves me and life is amazing and this feels so great. I do not respond. I am traveling back in time, returning to the church where I first saw Him. The height of summer, and yet I wear my small patent leather shoes and my woven white tights. I stand at the bottom of the basement stairwell, and my sweaty little hands rattle a doorknob. The metal is warm and the gold plating flakes onto my skin. Mother Mary looks down at me from the stained glass in the window, her eyes downcast. Sad Mother Mary. I hear heavy breathing, turn around, and He is behind me. With His strong and capable hands, He turns the knob. We go behind the door. I see flashes: His long brown hair; His critical expression; His slender torso. Movements that amaze and confuse me, illuminated by His glow. It comes from within. After a time incalculable, my hand grips the knob …

I called you Tsubomi when we first met, when spring was young, and the cherry blossoms still clenched their fists. Tsubomi—蕾, a bud, something waiting to bloom. You had a way of standing, arms folded behind your back, as if holding onto a secret. We sat on a stone bench, drinking amazake from paper cups, the warmth pressing against our palms. When you handed me my cup, your fingers trembled slightly, and I told myself it was from the wind. I called you Hana in the summer, when the cicadas screamed and the air smelled of wet pavement. Hana—花, flower, something in full bloom. We sat on your balcony, peeling the skin off peaches, the juice slipping down our wrists. You held my chin with two fingers and wiped a drop from my lip. The night was thick, our yukata clinging to the sweat on our backs. I told you, you are so beautiful when you laugh. You said, I laugh the same way every season. In autumn, I called you Kaze, when the persimmons …