Release the dictionary eaten whole, the bird swallowing a fish, in case it chokes you. Escape the mind fog. Unburden your broken back.
Let the old words butterfly your face, your hands, colour you gold, purple, red and blue.
Let them undo your reinvention: unearth the person you’ve always been.
Alison Woodhouse writes short and long fiction, has work forthcoming in Ellipsis 3 and Leicester Writes Anthology, has been short- and long-listed in various competitions, and has won Adhoc and matter magazine competitions.
We lock eyes at the supermarket exit: White kid; nineteen, maybe twenty; camo and boots in this heat.
I look for the AR-15 but all he carries is a box of Twinkies.
Someone yells, “Hey!” but the kid is fast, already on his moped. Gone, Twinkies crushed between his knees.
Susan Rukeyser loves America but has concerns. She wrote a novel, Not On Fire, Only Dying (Twisted Road Publications, 2015). Find more at her website, susanrukeyser.com
Donna’s ninety-year-old mother spotted the Christmas tree in her daughter’s living room. It was hard to miss.
She frowned, warning, “This is how it starts.”
Last March Donna married an Italian, a Catholic to boot. Donna is Jewish but very quickly acquired a taste for cannoli and tiramisu.
Mother was right.
Recently retired, Marian Brooks has begun to write some short fiction. She lives in Pennsylvania with her husband. Her work has appeared in Thick Jam, Curly Red Stories, Short Humour and others.
Editor’s note: This story came in prior to Christmas, and it was entirely my fault that it wasn’t posted closer to the holidays! I think it’s still worth reading though, don’t you? :)