In the canoe, he always took the back to steer, so I was in the front. I couldn’t do anything right; he’d shout at me, Paddle harder! On the left! Left! Feather it!
When we switched to individual kayaks, our relationship improved immensely, moving together, each our own way.
Jackie Ascrizzi live in Montville, Maine, where she spends time observing beavers and cooking Indian food.
She’s going to burn him for the affair.
So she disguises herself and hides in the back corner of the swanky bar where her friend saw them together that one time. And then she takes pictures of them pawing at each other at the bar and tweets them. With tags.
A Pushcart Prize nominee, Jennifer Hambrick was a winner in the 2017 international Golden Haiku Competition (Washington, D.C.) and received the Merit Award in the 2017 Montenegrin International Haiku Competition (English). Her chapbook of free verse poems, Unscathed (NightBallet Press), was nominated for the Ohioana Book Award, and she has received many awards for her work, which has appeared in Santa Clara Review, Third Wednesday, Mad River Review, Muddy River Poetry Review, River River, Modern Haiku, World Haiku Review, The Heron’s Nest, Bones, Sonic Boom, Eucalypt, Haibun Today, the major Japanese newspaper The Asahi Shimbun (The Morning Sun), and in dozens of other journals and anthologies worldwide, in English and in translation. Jennifer Hambrick’s blog, Inner Voices, is at jenniferhambrick.com.
Death came to call, and I quivered on the threshold, until I realized he wasn’t menacing me, just lost and asking for directions, his hood askew, with Mrs. Death sitting in their van, tapping the wheel.
Relieved, I sent them away down an unpopulated road and eventually out of town.
Robbie Gamble identifies primarily as a poet. When not obsessing about image and line breaks, he works as a nurse practitioner caring for homeless people in Boston, Massachusetts.
Nor’easter outside
been going on and on about itself.
Ahab wants out.
Cracking the door,
he is blasted. Crouching,
ears flattened, he retreats.
Sitting Buddha-like now, licking his wounded pride,
he pauses to bring his puffy tail about, and lay it by his side.
Like a monk adjusting his robe.
Matthew lives in Maine.
My two great aunts, Laura and Judy, loved to sidle up to me at weddings, poke me in the ribs and shout, “Don’t worry, you’ll be next … someday.” Then they’d shuffle off, cackling crazily.
They stopped after I did the same thing to them at my Grandma Minnie’s funeral.
Craig W. Steele lives in the lake-effect snow belt of northwestern Pennsylvania where, by day, he’s a university biology professor. He enjoys writing both short fiction and poetry and dreams of becoming a widely-read unknown author.
It was her first blind date.
“Sit at the table near the window,” he’d said. “Wear yellow.”
Now, at the table near the window, she waited. Their eyes met briefly as he passed. She anticipated the cold rush of air, but the door never opened. She still felt the chill.
Susan Gale Wickes wrote this story. She rarely window shops and never wears yellow.
She’d hummed it at home, at the park, and on date night, too.
As wide as on their wedding day, her husband’s grin dwarfed her frustration of being unable to place the song.
Realisation came on her way to work: her last victim’s ringtone, in the trunk of her car.
When someone asks Tony to stop whistling, he promptly begins humming instead.
The story of the week for April 3 to 7 is…
Canned Laughter by Daniel DiFranco
A casually light introduction leading into a dark twist. Tried and true.
I ate a slice of airport pizza while I waited for my flight. My dad whistled up to me.
He’d died years ago.
“You’ve got time to finish. I’ll see you at the gate.”
He whistled off.
The pizza tasted like dust. The light felt thin.
“Okay, Dad,” I said.
Iain Young prefers a window seat.
He placed his hands on the ceramic bowl where last she had placed hers. He brought it to his lips and kissed the rim as she used to before slurping whatever tepid liquid remained, and then set it beside the urn in the china cabinet.
“Good morning.”
He smiled meekly.
Francisco Tutella teaches English literature, composition, and elementary Italian in northeast Pennsylvania. He is trying to learn Japanese and wants to teach English overseas. His work has appeared in 50-Word Stories and Wilkes magazine. He has an M.F.A. in Creative Writing from Wilkes University.