too old to drive,
that’s what my daughters told me
when they took away my keys
my dignity
my freedom
in a heartbeat
all my choices disappeared
boredom set in
as suddenly my world became
four walls
tv, radio, the cat
and me
just sitting,
existing in hushed silence…
waiting
Roberta Beach Jacobson, 73, is looking ahead.
myself at fifteen and twenty-two
sit down together in a half-imagined
coffee shop to compare notes.
she, my seven-years-ago self,
looks me up and down with curiosity,
quick insecurity-laden belligerence,
and speaks a challenge:
“you haven’t changed much.”
I say, warm and aching,
“oh, my love, believe me: I have.”
Maria Cargille wrote this story.
She barely reaches my waist in the first of our dance pictures—hair wild, giggling. Happy.
COVID paused our ritual.
One last chance this year.
***
I feel her behind me, standing 5’3”.
Solemnly she asks, “You mind if we skip it, Daddy?”
“No,” I say, careful not to turn around.
Adrian L Cook is a professor of drama, English, and humanities at Tarrant County College in Fort Worth, TX. He writes when he can—amongst all the grading and encouraging others to write. He is a proud husband and father whose daughter is now actually taller than he is.
At the end of an archipelago shaped like the devil’s tail, I sat in a bar counting toes on cats. They brought in today’s catch wrapped in yesterday’s news and shooed away the flies. Here land ended and the sea stretched beyond my vision. There was no further to go.
Colby Wrasse is a man who once thought he possibly understood the World, but now is certain he does not.
You hear your pulse. It used to be steady; now loud. You’ve snatched a dream. It doesn’t answer to the men playing cards outside your jailcell.
Between their curses and your next breath, you learn that liberty is in your blood.
Freedom is a heartbeat that ignores Aces and Kings.
J.S. O’Keefe’s work spans short stories, essays, and poems. They have been featured in a variety of publications, including AntipodeanSF, Roi Faineant, 101 Words, Everyday Fiction, Spillwords, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, 50WS, ScribesMicro, Dissident Voice, 50GT, Bewildering Stories, etc.
She watched the pot. And it did boil. The water bubbled slowly at first, then rapidly. Her face was so close that a drop of the hot liquid splashed in her eye, waking her up from denial. It was true. All true. She had to accept it. And move on.
Cecile lives in Northern California where she enjoys the best weather in the world.
I busy myself with dishes. With homework, solving tedious trigonometry equations. I listen to The Beatles croon. I read books with big words in them, words like ‘despondency’. When all else fails, I swim. The curls at the end of my damp hair betray me, whispering that they miss you.
Zoe M is a passionate cinephile and bibliophile. She spends most of her time writing, reading, or thinking about films.
Don’t feed the monsters under your bed.
And never confuse monsters with what they eat.
They’ll tempt you to think your wife is a monster who’s using your stepmother’s exact tone of voice.
Be wary, or you’ll feed her to them.
Is it already too late?
You have my number.
Charlie B. is an emergency room nurse in the Ozarks. He placates the monsters under his bed with peanut M&Ms. The crunching sounds help him fall asleep after a long shift.
She moved methodically, cautiously, taking slow steps as if giving him time to react. She came straight to where he stood, and when he didn’t turn away, she opened her arms and pulled him into a soft embrace. “I missed you,” she said and squeezed, her breath in his ear.
Bob Thurber is the author of six books. Regarded as a master of Flash and Micro Fiction, his work has appeared in Esquire and other magazines, been anthologized 60 times, received a long list of awards, and been utilized in schools and colleges throughout the world. He resides in Massachusetts. Visit his website at BobThurber.net.
Author’s Note: So, I ask, which character is the muse?
A Detroit casino’s sign beams above the garage where two children sleeping in a van are quietly freezing to death. Ann can see the sign, not the warning, from her kitchen three blocks away. She lowers the blinds and goes back to slicing the tender yellow flesh of a pineapple.
Lauren is an Assistant Professor of Mortuary Science. She enjoys writing poetry that leans into short fictional fragments.