Hard to judge the judge’s reaction to the trial’s testimony. He guards his opinions behind smoked quartz shades. No one present knows whether the defendant will win freedom or be condemned to hard labor, mining gems for use in making… sunglasses.
That’s the point, the uncertainty. Tension that serves justice.
Todd Mercer writes fiction and poetry in Grand Rapids, Michigan, and he loves this life.
The story of the week for November 21 to 25 is…
Eyes by Susan Gale Wickes
and
Brown, Black, White by Yogita Khandge
In my brown country, I am ridiculed for being black.
In the country of white, all my countrymen are called brown.
We apply creams to make our skin fair, and the white ones tan their skin brown.
God told me he was tired of us, so he now paints skies.
Yogita Khandge wrote this story.
Logs for sale, the sign said, so he stole a few and burned them on his open fire. Went back for more the following week, then the next and next again.
She watched him drive away the fourth time and smiled, confident the hidden gunpowder would end his brazen thieving.
Ben Westerham is in the midst of letting slip the chains of paid employment so he can spend ever more time writing, reading, gardening and uncovering fascinating nuggets about his criminal ancestors.
It was 1947 when Minerva first got lost in a pair of pale blue eyes.
Over the years, those eyes met hers across the breakfast table, watched her mend socks, and comforted her during childbirth with their slow, steady gaze.
Now, forever closed, she could still feel them.
Watching.
Waiting.
Susan Gale Wickes wrote this story.
I’d reach for the dishcloth, squared in black and white, and you’d don the Marigolds. Together, we’d wash and rinse and dry the cares from the world. Till finally, the chequered flag was raised and placed back on its hook.
I miss that: the dailiness, the dalliance in our lives.
Thomas Malloch wrote this story.
Woken in the middle of the night, her sweet dream chopped off abruptly, she slowly lifted her head and turned around to shift the quilt.
Knowing what would come next, she stretched and looked into his eyes, with their plea for love, for attention, and for Mariners Choice cat food.
Rosanne Ehrlich has been writing ever since her 9th grade English teacher accused her of plagiarism.
Uphill road home, took my breath away.
Those were the days when all we cared about were comics and candy. Silent woods, our neighbors, at this end of the Universe.
Uphill road, takes my breath away.
My walking stick, companion and confidante, my witness, holds my hand, takes me home.
Dr. Vaishnavi Pusapati wrote this story.
I have transitioned. My job hasn’t.
My sniffling mother bakes the corpse cake; I, exhausted, shape it into coffins. Mom bags the doily-shrouded caskets without bidding me goodbye. Mourners never speak to murderers.
Alone—freed—I eat my sins. Mostly the one of walking and talking long after I’m gone.
Samir Sirk Morató is a scientist, artist, and heap of flesh. Some of their work can be found in Catapult, The Dark Sire, and Rune Bear Weekly. They are on Twitter and Instagram at @spicycloaca.
“Cooking’s an art; your baking’s just science,” she says, dismissively. “I create through improvisation, substitution, by occasionally stirring or seasoning to taste.”
“You decide as you go along. My work is precise and demanding. One misstep and the whole thing is lost.”
“Soup?” she offers.
“With some bread,” I insist.
James Menges is a writer and photographer. He is a member of the Dramatists Guild of America.