A spirit dances through a web of sunlight and shadows that streams in through the window. A cat, white as a jasmine flower, stares straight at him. He whispers his name into her ear, then fades into the light. What’s one more secret to a cat? Unimpressed, she grooms herself.
Janelle Seabock is a writer with a love for horror, fantasy, and animals of all kinds. She currently resides in Florida.
A much-published academic,
Prof. Dennis Wrong was quite a guy.
Filled with truly shrewd polemic,
his several books rank pretty high.
Now this would be all well and fine
but for one point adamantine:
It was for years good ol’ Den’s plight
to be called Wrong though always right.
Author’s Note: Dennis Wrong (1923-2018) was a widely acclaimed NYU sociologist.
George J. Searles teaches English and Latin at Mohawk Valley Community College and has also taught for Pratt and The New School. The editor of Glimpse, a poetry magazine, he has published many poems in other small quarterlies, along with three volumes of literary criticism from university presses and eight editions of a widely used communications textbook. He is a former Carnegie Foundation New York State “Professor of the Year.”
My grandmother called me by name today, but I’m not sure she knew it was me. I share my name with my mother. Margaret.
It doesn’t matter. I will be whoever she wants me to be.
Of course, my grandmother’s name is also Margaret.
Perhaps she was talking to herself.
Hall Jameson is a writer and fine art photographer who lives in Montana. Her work has recently appeared in “The Red Asylum”, “Redivider”, and “Eric’s Hysterics”. When she’s not writing or taking photographs, Hall enjoys playing the piano and cat wrangling.
When the smoke cleared, she felt… different, somehow. Her skin tingled, her biceps bulged, and when she squinted at her hand she saw right through it!
“Wow,” she thought. “I should choose a name for myself. Glory Girl? The Menacer? Peace Defender? Hot Commodity?”
She decided to stick with Melanie.
The first day of school was like a nightmare for Billington Washburn Crabcakes. He tried to make friends, but everyone wanted to know what his name was, and he knew that if he told them he’d be made fun of for always.
So he kept to himself and ate crayons.