The story of the week for June 25 to 29 is…
Side Effects of Radiation Therapy by Bob Thurber
LUCAS KWONG: Portraiture
Late in life, she traded piano for painting. It was so refreshing. She’d only ever played keys when she’d had a husband to join onstage.
They’d joke about it when he appeared to her. She tried painting him in his present form, but she could never get the eyes right.
Lucas Kwong wrote this story.
ALISON McBAIN: Impact
Cupped in your hand
breath quivering
the choice is clear,
like glass marked
by a sparrow’s impact.
The heart thrums,
wild and free,
through your fingers.
You gently stroke
tawny feathers,
its neck unbroken,
and then release:
a body rises
through the sky
like dawn unfolding
morning glories.
No birds were harmed during the writing of this poem.
BARBARA MENDE: One Dog’s Life
I was told you can’t call dogs “pets” anymore. It connotes inferiority to the rest of the family. They should be “furry companions.”
I asked the owner of an adored Westie whether he considered Gus inferior. His response: “Haven’t saved for his college, and we don’t let him read books.”
Barbara Mende writes and does other paperwork in Cambridge, MA.
DIANE MALK: Our Last Sock Hop
We clung to each other in the dryer. Spinning socks became whirling dervishes in a passionate dance.
Unceremoniously thrown onto the hard surface. I was the only one left. Widowed now, and no one else can be my mate.
You’re gone.
I’ve resorted to cuddling up to a lint ball.
Making people laugh, especially while they’re swallowing big spoonfuls of soup, is one of Diane Malk’s goals. She is a writer from Colorado who shudders at the sight of snow every winter and is certain she lived in the tropics in a previous life. Diane has been published in Mad Swirl, Hackwriters, and Scarlet Leaf Review. She is working on her first book and always has a craft project in the works.
TOM HAZUKA: Red, Red, Red
We cheerleaders chanted to the helmeted heroes: “Kick ’em in the stomach, kick ’em in the head! We want blood, red, red, red!”
A year later my quarterback got shot through the helmet in Vietnam and I was chanting to LBJ, asking how many kids he had killed that day.
Tom Hazuka has published three novels and over sixty-five short stories in Chariton Review, Florida Review, Quarterly West, Puerto del Sol, etc. He has edited or co-edited seven anthologies, including Flash Fiction, Flash Fiction Funny, and Flash Nonfiction Funny. Tom teaches literature and fiction writing at Central Connecticut State University. See more at tomhazuka.com.
BOB THURBER: Side Effects of Radiation Therapy
Ellen’s cat got out. He finally figured out how to open the screen door. His name is Whiskers. He’s friendly for a cat. Always rubbing against people’s ankles. He’ll answer to his name. I haven’t told Ellen yet. We live on Longview. The traffic’s heavier since they widened the road.
Bob Thurber is the author of “Paperboy: A Dysfunctional Novel” and two collections of stories. A celebrated master of Flash and Micro Fiction, his work has appeared in 60 anthologies, received dozens of awards, and been used in schools and colleges throughout the world. He resides in Massachusetts where, despite severe vision loss, he continues to write every day. Visit his website at BobThurber.net.
EILEEN BRENNAN McINTYRE: Deja Vu
My dad’s thunder would pluck you out of a trance before you realized you’d entered one.
“What’s that crap you’re listening to!? Rock ‘n’ Roll? That’s not music; it’s shouting!”
Sixty years later, every nerve twitches when bombarded by the “music,” all words and volume.
I’m irrelevant. Just like Dad.
Eileen is a writer on good days, a crafter on others. She wishes the muse would sit on her shoulder more often.
TRACI MULLINS: The Longest Distance
“You have got to stop enabling him,” they told me. “He has to hit bottom.”
When he fell through, they said, “It wasn’t your fault.”
This must be what they mean by “The longest distance is between the head and the heart.”
A mother isn’t supposed to outlive her child.
Traci Mullins wrote this story.
RYAN ERNECOFF: Eyes Closed
Sunlight glistened off his forearms as he pierced the shovel through the dry ground. His face looked down, but his mind raced backward.
He opened the small box and peered in. The closed eyes of the only friend that truly understood him didn’t meet his gaze.
They never would again.
Ryan Ernecoff enjoys spending his downtime alone, typing on his computer.