On the radio recently, a doctor said, “COVID-19 is a wimp; it can’t live long in the air.”
But radio waves do; they pass right through like it’s not even there
and propagate like ocean waves,
heavy and salty with memories of sunlight
or wishes for things long since gone.
Matthew Eichenlaub spends his quarantine days contemplating a lake in Maine from his kitchen table, yet despite his good fortune, he longs for the good ole days. When he could linger in the long juice and soda aisle of Hannaford Supermarket, and read the many different cranberry juice labels.
Velu had an uncanny resemblance to his mahout dad. Even his voice was the same.
But he was a wastrel.
Until Dad died and the elephant refused food.
When Velu patted him and gently asked him to eat, the noble animal rose to oblige.
Velu’s status, too, rose with that.
V.R. Shankar is a retired engineer from India with a zest for creative writing.
My aunt called, said her brother was dead and I should help pay for his funeral since he jumped from his hotel window the week after we met. You likely said something to cause it, she said.
I figured out what, but I never told my aunt or sent money.
Paul’s new collection of Flash & Micro, “Kiss Kiss” from Truth Serum Press, will be out in March.
Sometimes when I fall asleep I see pictures moving across the back of my eyelids, strange pastel cartoons, usually, where a round-headed caricature of me is trying to escape from a cloud labelled “Future” or “Responsibility.”
My wife says that sometimes she can see the projector’s flickers behind my eyes.