ISSUE 26 August 2022
Editor: Francine Witte
@francinewitte
Editor: Francine Witte
@francinewitte
Patricia Q. Bidar John Brantingham Celesté Cosme Gary Fincke David Galef Candace Hartsuyker Kevin Howley Nathan Leslie Edie Meade Lynn Mundell Mickey Revenaugh Brad Rose Robert Scotellaro Zvi A. Sesling Todd Clay Stuart Brianna Summers Matthew Wallenstein
View the August FLASH Launch Reading here:
Patricia Q. Bidar
To The Woman Pacing in Circles in Front of the Elementary School,
Her Fresh-Groomed Dog Trotting Alongside
The morning is as crisp as your pure-breed’s summer cut. My eyes smart from the sun blasting
the line of rear-view mirrors. The children have long been ushered inside the elementary school
on my block, trailing vinyl lunch pails and juice boxes and colorful pandemic masks. The working
moms in their smart shoes have zoomed off. The stay-at-homes have vanished for errands, or a
neighborhood walk in their clots of three or four before heading home to piled hampers, meat
and freezers to defrost.
You pace your terse circles. I approach with Owen, my hyper-social mutt. These days I work at
home beside my husband. Our child is grown.
At first, I think you are on a call. But you are talking yourself down. That’s when I know you
could be me, twenty years back. Having left my son to his teacher and his class, and the teeming
lunchtime and the impossible stretch of green field. Before that, when he was a toddler, I’d have
nightmares of him crying alone on that expanse.
I would have been rushed, late for work. I worked two jobs back then. My husband and I tag-
teamed. We never did let our son walk the short distance alone. By the time he was eight, he
hated us for that.
You, pacing woman, take deep and shaking breaths. My instinct is to give you privacy. Owen
has another idea. He’s straining at his leash. Once we are about six feet away from you, he plants
himself on the sidewalk and waits.
Your purebred remains focused on her pacing owner, you. You do not stop to regard my magical
dog, with his eyes that despondent people sink into. His eyes, like an invitation to comfort.
I worried ceaselessly about my son, and it still all came to a terrifying head when he was 18. No,
not because it got better after that. It got worse before we lost him for good. Oh, but now is not
the time to tell you those stories. I will tell you another one, a more uplifting one.
When our son was just a toddler, we visited a new park across town. And he vanished from my
sight, for not more than a couple of minutes, but of course I was worried. The park was beside
the veterans building. Beside the building was a sort of alcove where the dumpsters were. We’d
passed that alcove entering the park and my son saw a rat atop the dumpster. And after that, I
pushed him on the swings, and he climbed the stairs to the slide and all of that.
And I got distracted, looking back at the dumpster and thinking about the rat. And I lost him.
Only for a couple of minutes. I ran to my son and scooped him up, held him tight.
A woman was sitting on one of the park benches. She clucked, saying, “Ah, you never stop
worrying about them.” And I asked, “Oh…how old is yours? And she’d said, 30, which seemed
hilarious to me back then.
I poured myself into in work by day, sleepless worry at night. I’m talking about the teen years
now. I was always pacing, racing my thoughts lacing, knotting, choking. Ducking out of work to
take him to the doctor, to the therapist. Throwing groceries into a cart. What would I have done
back then, confronted by a deep-eyed mutt and a curly-haired crone in purple scarves? Would I
have noticed? Or would I do as you are doing now, continue pacing as if alone in pre-grieving. I
know what it’s like to be saddened by things before they have happened.
Owen matches your pace, stops when you do. Goes again. I want to stop you right there. Cup
your elbows in my palms, exchange four air kisses, French-style. I’d clench my jaw a little, so
you could feel my strength. And then I would say, “Man, who did I think I was, thinking
torturing myself would keep my child bound to me and safe?”
Scruffy Owen hasn’t taken his eyes from you. He’ll wait as long as it takes for you to see him,
and notice. And pet you a few times before meeting his gaze. Will you accept? He will lean. And
then shift so he’s sitting atop your feet. He will wait all day, until you look.
Patricia Q. Bidar is a California native, raised in the Port of Los Angeles Area. Her writing appears in Wigleaf, SmokeLong Quarterly, The Pinch, Pithead Chapel, and Atticus Review, among other wonderful places. Her work has been nominated for Best Small Fictions, Best of the Net, Best Microfiction, and the Pushcart Prize. Her story, “Over There,” will appear in Flash Fiction America anthology (W.W. Norton, March 2023). Connect with her on Twitter (@patriciabidar) or on her website (https://patriciaqbidar.com).
Her Fresh-Groomed Dog Trotting Alongside
The morning is as crisp as your pure-breed’s summer cut. My eyes smart from the sun blasting
the line of rear-view mirrors. The children have long been ushered inside the elementary school
on my block, trailing vinyl lunch pails and juice boxes and colorful pandemic masks. The working
moms in their smart shoes have zoomed off. The stay-at-homes have vanished for errands, or a
neighborhood walk in their clots of three or four before heading home to piled hampers, meat
and freezers to defrost.
You pace your terse circles. I approach with Owen, my hyper-social mutt. These days I work at
home beside my husband. Our child is grown.
At first, I think you are on a call. But you are talking yourself down. That’s when I know you
could be me, twenty years back. Having left my son to his teacher and his class, and the teeming
lunchtime and the impossible stretch of green field. Before that, when he was a toddler, I’d have
nightmares of him crying alone on that expanse.
I would have been rushed, late for work. I worked two jobs back then. My husband and I tag-
teamed. We never did let our son walk the short distance alone. By the time he was eight, he
hated us for that.
You, pacing woman, take deep and shaking breaths. My instinct is to give you privacy. Owen
has another idea. He’s straining at his leash. Once we are about six feet away from you, he plants
himself on the sidewalk and waits.
Your purebred remains focused on her pacing owner, you. You do not stop to regard my magical
dog, with his eyes that despondent people sink into. His eyes, like an invitation to comfort.
I worried ceaselessly about my son, and it still all came to a terrifying head when he was 18. No,
not because it got better after that. It got worse before we lost him for good. Oh, but now is not
the time to tell you those stories. I will tell you another one, a more uplifting one.
When our son was just a toddler, we visited a new park across town. And he vanished from my
sight, for not more than a couple of minutes, but of course I was worried. The park was beside
the veterans building. Beside the building was a sort of alcove where the dumpsters were. We’d
passed that alcove entering the park and my son saw a rat atop the dumpster. And after that, I
pushed him on the swings, and he climbed the stairs to the slide and all of that.
And I got distracted, looking back at the dumpster and thinking about the rat. And I lost him.
Only for a couple of minutes. I ran to my son and scooped him up, held him tight.
A woman was sitting on one of the park benches. She clucked, saying, “Ah, you never stop
worrying about them.” And I asked, “Oh…how old is yours? And she’d said, 30, which seemed
hilarious to me back then.
I poured myself into in work by day, sleepless worry at night. I’m talking about the teen years
now. I was always pacing, racing my thoughts lacing, knotting, choking. Ducking out of work to
take him to the doctor, to the therapist. Throwing groceries into a cart. What would I have done
back then, confronted by a deep-eyed mutt and a curly-haired crone in purple scarves? Would I
have noticed? Or would I do as you are doing now, continue pacing as if alone in pre-grieving. I
know what it’s like to be saddened by things before they have happened.
Owen matches your pace, stops when you do. Goes again. I want to stop you right there. Cup
your elbows in my palms, exchange four air kisses, French-style. I’d clench my jaw a little, so
you could feel my strength. And then I would say, “Man, who did I think I was, thinking
torturing myself would keep my child bound to me and safe?”
Scruffy Owen hasn’t taken his eyes from you. He’ll wait as long as it takes for you to see him,
and notice. And pet you a few times before meeting his gaze. Will you accept? He will lean. And
then shift so he’s sitting atop your feet. He will wait all day, until you look.
Patricia Q. Bidar is a California native, raised in the Port of Los Angeles Area. Her writing appears in Wigleaf, SmokeLong Quarterly, The Pinch, Pithead Chapel, and Atticus Review, among other wonderful places. Her work has been nominated for Best Small Fictions, Best of the Net, Best Microfiction, and the Pushcart Prize. Her story, “Over There,” will appear in Flash Fiction America anthology (W.W. Norton, March 2023). Connect with her on Twitter (@patriciabidar) or on her website (https://patriciaqbidar.com).
John Brantingham Jamestown, NY
Shadow Toads, 1945
The toads are keeping Clyde awake this night as he thinks of his brother, who is in the
tank corps, who is now in Europe fighting Hitler. They speak to him like a Greek chorus giving
him ill omens in a language he will never understand, reminding him that his brother is facing
the entire Nazi army, talking to him about the way men burn to death in the confined little space
of a tank.
The toads drive Clyde out of bed, and he is living in his brother’s house now, taking care
of his sister-in-law and nephew as best as he can. He comes downstairs to get a drink of water
but finds that he’s not thirsty. The clock says that it’s only 11pm, a long time until morning.
In the old days, he would have gone into Henry’s room and watched him sleep. Somehow
that always gave him peace because the child would sleep hard, and it was hard to be hopeless
watching him. He’s stopped doing that since they’ve replaced Henry’s crib with a bed. A little
boy needs privacy in the way an infant doesn’t.
So instead he takes the evening paper off the kitchen table and goes into the living room
where he turns on a light, only to find Henry sitting on the couch in the dark. “Hey Henry,” he
says, sitting down next to his nephew. “What are you doing up?”
“It’s too noisy to sleep,” he says in that little boy whine.
It’s a little quieter in the living room. His bedroom echoed too much. It magnified
the toads’ horrible singing. Here it’s better. He feels like he can breathe a little. “They’re kind of
awful, aren’t they?”
Henry turns to him, a question on his face. “The toads. They’re bad, right?”
Henry nods, pushes himself over on the couch so he is pressed up against Clyde. “I hate
them.”
“I thought you liked to play with them.”
“I hate them tonight.”
“I do too.”
“Do you want to go see them?” Henry’s face asks a question again. “Do you want to go
outside?”
There is complicated movement in Henry’s face now, and Clyde watches, understanding
that the child never thought that going outside after bedtime was a possible action that a person
might take. His body stiffens, and he nods quickly.
Clyde lifts him and walks into the backyard, which backs up onto a little copse of trees.
In that copse runs a stream and Clyde thinks of the toads out there along the banks calling to
each other. There is no echo at all here. The toads’ voices aren’t quieter, but they’re somehow
more right. The fireflies are out and Henry points at one, tracking it with his finger without
saying anything.
“It’s better out here, isn’t it?” Clyde asks. There is no complicated question in the boy’s
face now. Everything out here is real, and the shadow thoughts of his brother’s possible death
have erased themselves. Here, there are bugs and toads and the cloud just now covering the
moon. Here, there is wind in the trees and grasses. Here, his mind quiets itself, and Clyde feels
hope. “Don’t you think it's better?” Clyde asks.
Henry says, “Yes.” And Clyde can feel the boy’s body relaxing, heading he thinks toward sleep.
John Brantingham was Sequoia and Kings Canyon National Parks’ first poet laureate. His work has been featured
in hundreds of magazines, Writers Almanac and The Best Small Fictions 2016. He has nineteen books of poetry and fiction
including Life: Orange to Pear (Bamboo Dart Press). He is the founder and editor of The Journal of Radical Wonder.
He lives in Jamestown, NY.
The toads are keeping Clyde awake this night as he thinks of his brother, who is in the
tank corps, who is now in Europe fighting Hitler. They speak to him like a Greek chorus giving
him ill omens in a language he will never understand, reminding him that his brother is facing
the entire Nazi army, talking to him about the way men burn to death in the confined little space
of a tank.
The toads drive Clyde out of bed, and he is living in his brother’s house now, taking care
of his sister-in-law and nephew as best as he can. He comes downstairs to get a drink of water
but finds that he’s not thirsty. The clock says that it’s only 11pm, a long time until morning.
In the old days, he would have gone into Henry’s room and watched him sleep. Somehow
that always gave him peace because the child would sleep hard, and it was hard to be hopeless
watching him. He’s stopped doing that since they’ve replaced Henry’s crib with a bed. A little
boy needs privacy in the way an infant doesn’t.
So instead he takes the evening paper off the kitchen table and goes into the living room
where he turns on a light, only to find Henry sitting on the couch in the dark. “Hey Henry,” he
says, sitting down next to his nephew. “What are you doing up?”
“It’s too noisy to sleep,” he says in that little boy whine.
It’s a little quieter in the living room. His bedroom echoed too much. It magnified
the toads’ horrible singing. Here it’s better. He feels like he can breathe a little. “They’re kind of
awful, aren’t they?”
Henry turns to him, a question on his face. “The toads. They’re bad, right?”
Henry nods, pushes himself over on the couch so he is pressed up against Clyde. “I hate
them.”
“I thought you liked to play with them.”
“I hate them tonight.”
“I do too.”
“Do you want to go see them?” Henry’s face asks a question again. “Do you want to go
outside?”
There is complicated movement in Henry’s face now, and Clyde watches, understanding
that the child never thought that going outside after bedtime was a possible action that a person
might take. His body stiffens, and he nods quickly.
Clyde lifts him and walks into the backyard, which backs up onto a little copse of trees.
In that copse runs a stream and Clyde thinks of the toads out there along the banks calling to
each other. There is no echo at all here. The toads’ voices aren’t quieter, but they’re somehow
more right. The fireflies are out and Henry points at one, tracking it with his finger without
saying anything.
“It’s better out here, isn’t it?” Clyde asks. There is no complicated question in the boy’s
face now. Everything out here is real, and the shadow thoughts of his brother’s possible death
have erased themselves. Here, there are bugs and toads and the cloud just now covering the
moon. Here, there is wind in the trees and grasses. Here, his mind quiets itself, and Clyde feels
hope. “Don’t you think it's better?” Clyde asks.
Henry says, “Yes.” And Clyde can feel the boy’s body relaxing, heading he thinks toward sleep.
John Brantingham was Sequoia and Kings Canyon National Parks’ first poet laureate. His work has been featured
in hundreds of magazines, Writers Almanac and The Best Small Fictions 2016. He has nineteen books of poetry and fiction
including Life: Orange to Pear (Bamboo Dart Press). He is the founder and editor of The Journal of Radical Wonder.
He lives in Jamestown, NY.
Celesté Cosme Burlington, NJ
On the Trail of You
They press the fugitive’s filthy shirt to the animal’s nose until the dog begins to bellow,
signaling he has entered the chase. Gripping tightly to the leash, the handler is prepared to follow
the bloodhound wherever the scent may lead. This man trusts the dog implicitly, remembering all
the times people said the trail had gone cold but his tracker found the quarry. The early dew enhances the scent of the trail.
***
In the mornings, we would share our dreams over coffee while we sat together on the
porch. You were able to fly in most of your dreams; I was often lost or trapped in mine. Without
fail, you’d comment on the windchime hanging from the awning, the one you bought that one
time we went on vacation. You said it would be like bringing the island home with us. Many of
the strings are now so worn that they’ve lost their metal tubes, and it no longer sounds like music
when the wind blows.
***
The hound has been hunting for hours, and the followers are growing anxious. A storm is
coming. The handler remains confident, knowing his dog can sleuth out the footpath even in rain.
It’s the wind everyone should be nervous about. The gusts spread the scent and the bloodhound
makes a few wrong turns; he looks to his leash-holder, wondering if the man knows where to go
next. The pair, along with everyone else desperately following at their heels, walk in large circles
until the bloodhound abruptly picks up his head and runs off in the right direction.
***
On our refrigerator is the photo you took that time we got lost in the city. Instead of using
our cellphones as a guide, you convinced me to trust you as the navigator. How hard could it be
to get to a restaurant half a mile away? Ninety minutes later, we asked one of the street vendors
to help us. Much to your dismay and my growing frustration, the guy told us the restaurant
closed last year. (That place was your pick, remember?) You laughed louder than I’d heard in a
while and begged the guy to take a photo with us. You and he share a sincere grin while my
expression conveys complete exasperation. How many times did I try to take the picture down or
bury it behind a bill, only to come face to face with it again when refilling my glass with ice?
Yesterday, I pressed my ear to it, hoping to catch echoes.
***
The hunt has gone on for days. Many of the team have lost all hope of finding the
runaway, but the handler knows his hound is stubborn and willful. The animal’s biology allows
him to dismiss all other odors until his intended is found. The man and his tracker continue on
their course.
***
Our bed remains divided into Your Side and My Side. Your tower of pillows rests largely
untouched—a monument to where you once laid your body near mine. When we were first
dating, you held me as long as I’d let you, which was just until you fell asleep and I felt your
warm breath on my neck. I’d nudge you away, unable to truly sleep with your heavy arm across
my body. I’ve added another blanket to make up for the loss of your warmth.
***
In the middle of night, going on the tenth day of the pursuit, the bloodhound finally
catches up to the fugitive. The arrest is quickly made, the handler is heartily thanked, and the dog
is affectionately nuzzled. The animal’s desire to find his prey is quelled and he can let go of the
smell that took him so far.
***
People say that it will get easier every day, but I can still feel you here with me though
you’ve been gone for months. What must I do to be rid of the grief? Take down the pictures from
the walls? Part with the letters in the drawer? Cast aside your sweaters in the closet? I’m afraid
your tracks in my life cannot be covered and that I’ll never be rid of your scent.
Celesté Cosme teaches high school English in New Jersey. She received her MFA from Rosemont
College. She is the CNF editor at Philadelphia Stories. Her work appears or is forthcoming in Pangyrus,
South Florida Poetry Journal, (Mac)ro(Mic), and Scapegoat Review. You can follow her on Twitter
@celestemaria or read her works on celestecosme.com
They press the fugitive’s filthy shirt to the animal’s nose until the dog begins to bellow,
signaling he has entered the chase. Gripping tightly to the leash, the handler is prepared to follow
the bloodhound wherever the scent may lead. This man trusts the dog implicitly, remembering all
the times people said the trail had gone cold but his tracker found the quarry. The early dew enhances the scent of the trail.
***
In the mornings, we would share our dreams over coffee while we sat together on the
porch. You were able to fly in most of your dreams; I was often lost or trapped in mine. Without
fail, you’d comment on the windchime hanging from the awning, the one you bought that one
time we went on vacation. You said it would be like bringing the island home with us. Many of
the strings are now so worn that they’ve lost their metal tubes, and it no longer sounds like music
when the wind blows.
***
The hound has been hunting for hours, and the followers are growing anxious. A storm is
coming. The handler remains confident, knowing his dog can sleuth out the footpath even in rain.
It’s the wind everyone should be nervous about. The gusts spread the scent and the bloodhound
makes a few wrong turns; he looks to his leash-holder, wondering if the man knows where to go
next. The pair, along with everyone else desperately following at their heels, walk in large circles
until the bloodhound abruptly picks up his head and runs off in the right direction.
***
On our refrigerator is the photo you took that time we got lost in the city. Instead of using
our cellphones as a guide, you convinced me to trust you as the navigator. How hard could it be
to get to a restaurant half a mile away? Ninety minutes later, we asked one of the street vendors
to help us. Much to your dismay and my growing frustration, the guy told us the restaurant
closed last year. (That place was your pick, remember?) You laughed louder than I’d heard in a
while and begged the guy to take a photo with us. You and he share a sincere grin while my
expression conveys complete exasperation. How many times did I try to take the picture down or
bury it behind a bill, only to come face to face with it again when refilling my glass with ice?
Yesterday, I pressed my ear to it, hoping to catch echoes.
***
The hunt has gone on for days. Many of the team have lost all hope of finding the
runaway, but the handler knows his hound is stubborn and willful. The animal’s biology allows
him to dismiss all other odors until his intended is found. The man and his tracker continue on
their course.
***
Our bed remains divided into Your Side and My Side. Your tower of pillows rests largely
untouched—a monument to where you once laid your body near mine. When we were first
dating, you held me as long as I’d let you, which was just until you fell asleep and I felt your
warm breath on my neck. I’d nudge you away, unable to truly sleep with your heavy arm across
my body. I’ve added another blanket to make up for the loss of your warmth.
***
In the middle of night, going on the tenth day of the pursuit, the bloodhound finally
catches up to the fugitive. The arrest is quickly made, the handler is heartily thanked, and the dog
is affectionately nuzzled. The animal’s desire to find his prey is quelled and he can let go of the
smell that took him so far.
***
People say that it will get easier every day, but I can still feel you here with me though
you’ve been gone for months. What must I do to be rid of the grief? Take down the pictures from
the walls? Part with the letters in the drawer? Cast aside your sweaters in the closet? I’m afraid
your tracks in my life cannot be covered and that I’ll never be rid of your scent.
Celesté Cosme teaches high school English in New Jersey. She received her MFA from Rosemont
College. She is the CNF editor at Philadelphia Stories. Her work appears or is forthcoming in Pangyrus,
South Florida Poetry Journal, (Mac)ro(Mic), and Scapegoat Review. You can follow her on Twitter
@celestemaria or read her works on celestecosme.com
Gary Fincke Sellinsgove, PA
The Theory of Dog Shit
After I moved to Waverly during seventh grade, old man Krause was one of those guys
my new best friend Charlie West and I hated. Because he came outside to curse at us
when a foul ball from our makeshift field across the street rolled into his yard. Especially
because he hid, once, behind his shrubbery and leapt out to pounce on a still-rolling
softball, refusing to return it.
The next afternoon, Charlie West explained the theory of dog shit, how a burning bag
full would draw old man Krause to his front porch to stamp out the fire while we watched
happily from a safely distant shadow. “Cool,” I said. It seemed like such a great idea
that the next weekend, I watched Charlie scoop a week’s worth of his golden retriever’s
dog turds into a paper sack, then stood beside him in the April darkness while he lit the
bag and rang old man Krause’s bell.
Holding our breath because we were so close, we crouched on the street side of the
same thick shrubbery Krause had used earlier in the week. But when Krause flung
open the door, he didn’t stomp on the fire. He just yelled, “I know what this is and I know
who you are. I know your fathers, too.”
Old man Krause didn’t get his shoes covered in warm dog shit, but I smiled. He couldn’t
possibly know my father because my mother and I and my sister had moved to Waverly
without him. Charlie grinned, too, because he knew that Steve Torok and Matt Kupchak
were the two boys our age who lived on old man Krause’s street, not a quarter mile
away like he and I did, coming to that vacant lot just for softball. They’d be surprised
when the phone rang in their houses, old man Krause accusing them of minor crime.
“They’ll get grounded,” Charlie said as we walked to our houses. “They’ll be sitting in
their rooms next Saturday while we burn more bags of shit.”
And we did, testing the theory of dog shit on half a dozen enemy houses. Not once did a
woman or a child answer the door. Only men, all of them someone we imagined we
would hate just as much as old man Krause because their children bothered us
somehow. Like the father of a boy who’d made fun of me when I’d moved to Waverly.
Like the father of the boy who called us homos because we were always together. Like
the father of a girl who, at the Valentine’s Day semi- formal, told Charlie to “get lost” even
before he asked her to dance. Like, at last, a house where we didn’t know anybody
because neither of us wanted to waste our last turd-filled bag and we were sure we’d
hate at least one person who lived there.
But though half of the men cursed into the darkness, launching great obscenities of
anger; and two walked to the edge of their lawns to peer into the darkness; and one
frightened us into sprinting away by charging directly toward where we were hiding, not
once did the man who answered the door step on the bag of shit. As if every man had
already tested the theory of dog shit and found it flawed. As if that idea failed serious,
prolonged examination. It was a myth, not science, not something any boy could
replicate just by wishing it so.
Gary Fincke's latest collection is Nothing Falls from Nowhere (Stephen F. Austin, 2021).
His flash stories are up recently at Craft, Wigleaf, Atticus Review, Pithead Chapel, Flash Boulevard,
and Best Small Fictions 2020. He is co-editor of the annual anthology series Best Microfiction.
After I moved to Waverly during seventh grade, old man Krause was one of those guys
my new best friend Charlie West and I hated. Because he came outside to curse at us
when a foul ball from our makeshift field across the street rolled into his yard. Especially
because he hid, once, behind his shrubbery and leapt out to pounce on a still-rolling
softball, refusing to return it.
The next afternoon, Charlie West explained the theory of dog shit, how a burning bag
full would draw old man Krause to his front porch to stamp out the fire while we watched
happily from a safely distant shadow. “Cool,” I said. It seemed like such a great idea
that the next weekend, I watched Charlie scoop a week’s worth of his golden retriever’s
dog turds into a paper sack, then stood beside him in the April darkness while he lit the
bag and rang old man Krause’s bell.
Holding our breath because we were so close, we crouched on the street side of the
same thick shrubbery Krause had used earlier in the week. But when Krause flung
open the door, he didn’t stomp on the fire. He just yelled, “I know what this is and I know
who you are. I know your fathers, too.”
Old man Krause didn’t get his shoes covered in warm dog shit, but I smiled. He couldn’t
possibly know my father because my mother and I and my sister had moved to Waverly
without him. Charlie grinned, too, because he knew that Steve Torok and Matt Kupchak
were the two boys our age who lived on old man Krause’s street, not a quarter mile
away like he and I did, coming to that vacant lot just for softball. They’d be surprised
when the phone rang in their houses, old man Krause accusing them of minor crime.
“They’ll get grounded,” Charlie said as we walked to our houses. “They’ll be sitting in
their rooms next Saturday while we burn more bags of shit.”
And we did, testing the theory of dog shit on half a dozen enemy houses. Not once did a
woman or a child answer the door. Only men, all of them someone we imagined we
would hate just as much as old man Krause because their children bothered us
somehow. Like the father of a boy who’d made fun of me when I’d moved to Waverly.
Like the father of the boy who called us homos because we were always together. Like
the father of a girl who, at the Valentine’s Day semi- formal, told Charlie to “get lost” even
before he asked her to dance. Like, at last, a house where we didn’t know anybody
because neither of us wanted to waste our last turd-filled bag and we were sure we’d
hate at least one person who lived there.
But though half of the men cursed into the darkness, launching great obscenities of
anger; and two walked to the edge of their lawns to peer into the darkness; and one
frightened us into sprinting away by charging directly toward where we were hiding, not
once did the man who answered the door step on the bag of shit. As if every man had
already tested the theory of dog shit and found it flawed. As if that idea failed serious,
prolonged examination. It was a myth, not science, not something any boy could
replicate just by wishing it so.
Gary Fincke's latest collection is Nothing Falls from Nowhere (Stephen F. Austin, 2021).
His flash stories are up recently at Craft, Wigleaf, Atticus Review, Pithead Chapel, Flash Boulevard,
and Best Small Fictions 2020. He is co-editor of the annual anthology series Best Microfiction.
David Galef Montclair, NJ
15 More Minutes of Fame in NYC
After seven years of marriage, we should be resigned to who we are, but here’s our latest:
In public places, one of us pretends the other is famous. So we’ll walk separately into Think
Coffee, and I’ll gawk at her. “Wow, you’re in that Netflix series, aren’t you—the one with the
triple identities!” Or we’ll hit Hudson Yards, and outside Athleta she’ll gape at me. “God, you
look just like your Insta picture! So damn young. Hard to believe you’re the third richest guy in
America.” Maybe we’re just waiting for the light at Hudson and 14th, and I can’t believe who’s
standing next to me. “Don’t mean to be rude, but what was it like for a woman to save ten GI’s
in Lashkar Gah?” Whoever’s recognized stays cool, but the other keeps at it. Our voices grow
loud as sirens. Need I say what a turn-on it is? To answer your question: Sure, we’ve gotten
physical. Great if we get some bystander involvement, too, and a crowd’ll believe anything. Last
time someone called the cops, but the police were super nice about it, and after we explained
everything, they still wanted my autograph.
DIY in the 1950s
He says I try to fix the wrong things, like dinner or our son’s untied shoelaces,
says I should focus on social injustice or the Cold War.
I say dinner’s something I can fix this evening, society takes longer.
Come to that, I say, whyncha fix up the house? Paint’s so peeled, looks like onion skin.
I spend all day at work, he says. If I didn’t, we’d all be in a fix.
I say fine, but money ain’t gonna fix our problems, not with the fix we’re in.
Anyways, I say, din’t you tell me you’re having trouble at the company?
Yeah, he says. Don’t know much about the new boss, young guy, but the fix is on.
Kind of tight-ass, he adds, you know what I mean? Laughs. Maybe I should fix him up
with my sister. That’d fix him but good.
I give him a playful slap and tell him, I’ll fix you, mister.
He says, that might fix me right up. Lay it on.
I slide my arm around his neck, pull him in, breathe in his ear, and murmur, Sure, I was
just fixing to do that.
David Galef has published short fiction in the collections Laugh Track and My Date with
Neanderthal Woman (Dzanc Short Story Collection Prize), long fiction in the novels Flesh,
Turning Japanese, and How to Cope with Suburban Stress (Kirkus Best Books of 2006), and
a lot in between. His latest is Brevity: A Flash Fiction Handbook, from Columbia University Press.
Day job: professor of English and creative writing program director at Montclair State University.
He’s also the editor in chief at Vestal Review.
After seven years of marriage, we should be resigned to who we are, but here’s our latest:
In public places, one of us pretends the other is famous. So we’ll walk separately into Think
Coffee, and I’ll gawk at her. “Wow, you’re in that Netflix series, aren’t you—the one with the
triple identities!” Or we’ll hit Hudson Yards, and outside Athleta she’ll gape at me. “God, you
look just like your Insta picture! So damn young. Hard to believe you’re the third richest guy in
America.” Maybe we’re just waiting for the light at Hudson and 14th, and I can’t believe who’s
standing next to me. “Don’t mean to be rude, but what was it like for a woman to save ten GI’s
in Lashkar Gah?” Whoever’s recognized stays cool, but the other keeps at it. Our voices grow
loud as sirens. Need I say what a turn-on it is? To answer your question: Sure, we’ve gotten
physical. Great if we get some bystander involvement, too, and a crowd’ll believe anything. Last
time someone called the cops, but the police were super nice about it, and after we explained
everything, they still wanted my autograph.
DIY in the 1950s
He says I try to fix the wrong things, like dinner or our son’s untied shoelaces,
says I should focus on social injustice or the Cold War.
I say dinner’s something I can fix this evening, society takes longer.
Come to that, I say, whyncha fix up the house? Paint’s so peeled, looks like onion skin.
I spend all day at work, he says. If I didn’t, we’d all be in a fix.
I say fine, but money ain’t gonna fix our problems, not with the fix we’re in.
Anyways, I say, din’t you tell me you’re having trouble at the company?
Yeah, he says. Don’t know much about the new boss, young guy, but the fix is on.
Kind of tight-ass, he adds, you know what I mean? Laughs. Maybe I should fix him up
with my sister. That’d fix him but good.
I give him a playful slap and tell him, I’ll fix you, mister.
He says, that might fix me right up. Lay it on.
I slide my arm around his neck, pull him in, breathe in his ear, and murmur, Sure, I was
just fixing to do that.
David Galef has published short fiction in the collections Laugh Track and My Date with
Neanderthal Woman (Dzanc Short Story Collection Prize), long fiction in the novels Flesh,
Turning Japanese, and How to Cope with Suburban Stress (Kirkus Best Books of 2006), and
a lot in between. His latest is Brevity: A Flash Fiction Handbook, from Columbia University Press.
Day job: professor of English and creative writing program director at Montclair State University.
He’s also the editor in chief at Vestal Review.
Candace Hartsuyker
When The Opera Star Sings
The retired opera star does not sit in a dressing room with women pressed around her,
sweeping rouge and powder on her cheekbones, vermilion lipstick giving her lips the illusion of
a cupid’s bow. Her neck is not weighed down by strings of pearls; her head does not pound from
a wig, coarse curls brushing the tips of her shoulders. She does not have to stand statue-still
while the costume designer, measuring tape in hand, tucks in a piece of fabric, making last
minute alterations before the dress rehearsal officially begins.
The audience does not sit squashed together in velvet backed chairs, fidgeting, rifling
through programs or sitting primly, hands folded, waiting for the lights to dim and the curtains to
part. There is no set design to marvel at: no trellises or towers, balconies or windows, no
Corinthian columns. On stage, women resplendent as butterflies in colorful dresses do not float
around each other with mincing steps. No one in a balcony seat takes their opera glasses out of a
plush lined pouch, craning their necks to get a better view.
She does not perform in Carmen, Tosca, La Traviatta or La Boheme. There is no
antagonist in her life: not herself, not a flesh and blood lover, not a stage paramour. She no
longer has to be dissatisfied with life, to fall in love with a man she had been forbidden to see.
She does not have die clasped in her lover’s arm or worse, watch him die while she looks on. She
does not have to wake up each day and remind herself that with this gift she has been given
should not be squandered. She does not have to tell herself that death is the only song she knows.
There is no reason for her to keep practicing, to still sing, yet she does.
When the opera star sings, her mouth in a trembling O, her eyes glistening with tears,
arms outstretched, there is no one to clap, to cry bravo mademoiselle, bravo. Yet every day as
dawn begins to blush the sky, she sings louder and louder, anticipating the audience’s unending
applause. If she looks closely, she can see it: long-stemmed flowers thrown from their hands, her
stage a sea of rose petals, a carpet of pale pink, scarlet and gold.
Candace Hartsuyker has an M.F.A in Creative Writing from McNeese State University.
She has been published in Fiction Southeast, Cheap Pop, Okay Donkey and elsewhere.
The retired opera star does not sit in a dressing room with women pressed around her,
sweeping rouge and powder on her cheekbones, vermilion lipstick giving her lips the illusion of
a cupid’s bow. Her neck is not weighed down by strings of pearls; her head does not pound from
a wig, coarse curls brushing the tips of her shoulders. She does not have to stand statue-still
while the costume designer, measuring tape in hand, tucks in a piece of fabric, making last
minute alterations before the dress rehearsal officially begins.
The audience does not sit squashed together in velvet backed chairs, fidgeting, rifling
through programs or sitting primly, hands folded, waiting for the lights to dim and the curtains to
part. There is no set design to marvel at: no trellises or towers, balconies or windows, no
Corinthian columns. On stage, women resplendent as butterflies in colorful dresses do not float
around each other with mincing steps. No one in a balcony seat takes their opera glasses out of a
plush lined pouch, craning their necks to get a better view.
She does not perform in Carmen, Tosca, La Traviatta or La Boheme. There is no
antagonist in her life: not herself, not a flesh and blood lover, not a stage paramour. She no
longer has to be dissatisfied with life, to fall in love with a man she had been forbidden to see.
She does not have die clasped in her lover’s arm or worse, watch him die while she looks on. She
does not have to wake up each day and remind herself that with this gift she has been given
should not be squandered. She does not have to tell herself that death is the only song she knows.
There is no reason for her to keep practicing, to still sing, yet she does.
When the opera star sings, her mouth in a trembling O, her eyes glistening with tears,
arms outstretched, there is no one to clap, to cry bravo mademoiselle, bravo. Yet every day as
dawn begins to blush the sky, she sings louder and louder, anticipating the audience’s unending
applause. If she looks closely, she can see it: long-stemmed flowers thrown from their hands, her
stage a sea of rose petals, a carpet of pale pink, scarlet and gold.
Candace Hartsuyker has an M.F.A in Creative Writing from McNeese State University.
She has been published in Fiction Southeast, Cheap Pop, Okay Donkey and elsewhere.
Kevin Howley
Father and Son
Apprehension
Father and son sit in stony silence. As the battered F-150 cuts through the early mountain fog,
Jessie considers his father’s eyes in the rearview mirror. Ronnie meets the boy’s gaze with the
back of his swollen hand. Lighting up his last smoke, Ronnie mutters something about there’s
sure to be another call from the school nurse. Jessie wipes the teary snot on his sleeve, then turns
to search his assailant’s eyes as never before. There, in those remorseless orbs bloodshot with
foreboding and despair, the young boy takes full measure of the violent ways of his father’s world.
Harbinger
The teacher grips Jessie’s shoulder and ushers the boy out of the classroom. Walking down the
hallway, several paces behind the therapist, he brushes a hand along cold marble walls. Jessie
climbs into his seat, picks up his crayons, and begins his work: another house ablaze with
angular figures all red, orange, and black. The F-150 pulls up as the therapist escorts Jessie to the
curb, her reassuring farewell stifled by the diesel engine’s infernal rumbling. Ronnie takes a slug
of whiskey and puts the half-empty bottle inside the glove compartment, atop the semi-automatic
pistol.
Descent
Jessie grabs the keys and stuffs Ronnie’s last thirty-seven dollars into his pocket. In the
basement, he finds two boxes of ammo on a shelf alongside his grandfather’s hunting knives, a
five-gallon can of kerosene, and a pair of rusty lanterns. On his way down the mountain, half a
dozen police cruisers scream past the F-150 heading into town. When they break down the door,
sheriff’s deputies snort at the comical look of disbelief on Ronnie’s inert face. Jessie pulls into
the school parking lot, tucks the pistol in his waistband, and waits for the first-period bell.
Kevin Howley is a writer and educator based in Bloomington, IN.
Apprehension
Father and son sit in stony silence. As the battered F-150 cuts through the early mountain fog,
Jessie considers his father’s eyes in the rearview mirror. Ronnie meets the boy’s gaze with the
back of his swollen hand. Lighting up his last smoke, Ronnie mutters something about there’s
sure to be another call from the school nurse. Jessie wipes the teary snot on his sleeve, then turns
to search his assailant’s eyes as never before. There, in those remorseless orbs bloodshot with
foreboding and despair, the young boy takes full measure of the violent ways of his father’s world.
Harbinger
The teacher grips Jessie’s shoulder and ushers the boy out of the classroom. Walking down the
hallway, several paces behind the therapist, he brushes a hand along cold marble walls. Jessie
climbs into his seat, picks up his crayons, and begins his work: another house ablaze with
angular figures all red, orange, and black. The F-150 pulls up as the therapist escorts Jessie to the
curb, her reassuring farewell stifled by the diesel engine’s infernal rumbling. Ronnie takes a slug
of whiskey and puts the half-empty bottle inside the glove compartment, atop the semi-automatic
pistol.
Descent
Jessie grabs the keys and stuffs Ronnie’s last thirty-seven dollars into his pocket. In the
basement, he finds two boxes of ammo on a shelf alongside his grandfather’s hunting knives, a
five-gallon can of kerosene, and a pair of rusty lanterns. On his way down the mountain, half a
dozen police cruisers scream past the F-150 heading into town. When they break down the door,
sheriff’s deputies snort at the comical look of disbelief on Ronnie’s inert face. Jessie pulls into
the school parking lot, tucks the pistol in his waistband, and waits for the first-period bell.
Kevin Howley is a writer and educator based in Bloomington, IN.
Nathan Leslie
Cheese Fries
Wayne sits on the far side tonight, not one to perch on the same stool over and
over. Something depressing about that. Something overly stagnant about that. Also,
Wayne is a Monday, Wednesday, Friday guy.
The bar is O’Neil’s, a classic Irish pub with Guinness on draft and fish and chips
on the menu. The owner—he is from Ireland. This is not some Johnny-Come-Lately hot
spot. His wife, also from Ireland. The bar is worn and dinked and in places there are
divots and worn spots and the bartenders cannot slide a draft down ten feet, lest the
glass tumble over from hitting a canyon in the wood. The music is pure 70’s and 80’s―
the Cars, Boston, Led Zeppelin, even Huey Lewis. Wayne has to shout over it to
converse, but that makes it right.
Wayne goes to O’Neil’s to find a wife. For years, this is his plan. However, for
years, it is mostly men sitting at the bar, grumbling about work or last night’s hockey
game or the wife and kids and the latest house project. Wayne feels younger because
he is unencumbered, but older because when he returns home, beer buzz and fried
food in his gut, there is no one to greet him. No one to give him a hug, to ask him about
his day. It is a mattress on the floor and a freebie couch and an overly expensive
television that keeps him company―the blue glow humming him to sleep more often
than not. Waking with a crick in his neck. Poor slumping posture. Poor sleeping habits.
Where are all the available women? Not there―not at a sweaty pub in a strip
mall. Occasionally a group will sit at a table after work, but that’s a rarity—and the group
intimidates him. Hank and Gary egg him on. C’mon, what are you waiting for? You only
live once. When you are dead you will regret this moment. Look, the blonde with the
necklace and the mauve power suit. She looks important—and also what a face! What a
beautiful mug. But usually Wayne cowers and mumbles not my type. I prefer a blah blah
blah. The next week it’s I prefer a blah blah blah. He has an excuse at the ready—lonely
because…alone because…
It’s safer this way, Wayne knows. Deep down he knows.
Jed, the bartender, gives him hell one night for failing to approach the woman in
jeans and a blue sweatshirt. She is sitting alone at the bar—no group to ward him off.
No ring on her finger. Pleasant ethical face, and right up his narrow description, or so he
said a week ago. Pleasant, laughs a ton. But he won’t. He watches the game instead,
vanishes into the men’s room, orders another basket of cheese fries. Takes a picture of
them and posts it online for no discernible reason. Falls asleep that night in front of a
rerun of Family Ties. Been so many years since he’s watched it. Must be something
there for him, something to unearth in the blue light, his head propped up on two musty
pillows again.
Nathan Leslie won the 2019 Washington Writers' Publishing House prize for fiction for his
collection of short stories, Hurry Up and Relax. He is also the series editor for Best Small Fictions.
Two of Nathan’s new short story collections will be published this fall and in the spring of 2023.
Nathan’s nine previous books of fiction include Three Men, Root and Shoot, Sibs, and The Tall Tale
of Tommy Twice. He is also the author of a collection of poems, Night Sweat.
Wayne sits on the far side tonight, not one to perch on the same stool over and
over. Something depressing about that. Something overly stagnant about that. Also,
Wayne is a Monday, Wednesday, Friday guy.
The bar is O’Neil’s, a classic Irish pub with Guinness on draft and fish and chips
on the menu. The owner—he is from Ireland. This is not some Johnny-Come-Lately hot
spot. His wife, also from Ireland. The bar is worn and dinked and in places there are
divots and worn spots and the bartenders cannot slide a draft down ten feet, lest the
glass tumble over from hitting a canyon in the wood. The music is pure 70’s and 80’s―
the Cars, Boston, Led Zeppelin, even Huey Lewis. Wayne has to shout over it to
converse, but that makes it right.
Wayne goes to O’Neil’s to find a wife. For years, this is his plan. However, for
years, it is mostly men sitting at the bar, grumbling about work or last night’s hockey
game or the wife and kids and the latest house project. Wayne feels younger because
he is unencumbered, but older because when he returns home, beer buzz and fried
food in his gut, there is no one to greet him. No one to give him a hug, to ask him about
his day. It is a mattress on the floor and a freebie couch and an overly expensive
television that keeps him company―the blue glow humming him to sleep more often
than not. Waking with a crick in his neck. Poor slumping posture. Poor sleeping habits.
Where are all the available women? Not there―not at a sweaty pub in a strip
mall. Occasionally a group will sit at a table after work, but that’s a rarity—and the group
intimidates him. Hank and Gary egg him on. C’mon, what are you waiting for? You only
live once. When you are dead you will regret this moment. Look, the blonde with the
necklace and the mauve power suit. She looks important—and also what a face! What a
beautiful mug. But usually Wayne cowers and mumbles not my type. I prefer a blah blah
blah. The next week it’s I prefer a blah blah blah. He has an excuse at the ready—lonely
because…alone because…
It’s safer this way, Wayne knows. Deep down he knows.
Jed, the bartender, gives him hell one night for failing to approach the woman in
jeans and a blue sweatshirt. She is sitting alone at the bar—no group to ward him off.
No ring on her finger. Pleasant ethical face, and right up his narrow description, or so he
said a week ago. Pleasant, laughs a ton. But he won’t. He watches the game instead,
vanishes into the men’s room, orders another basket of cheese fries. Takes a picture of
them and posts it online for no discernible reason. Falls asleep that night in front of a
rerun of Family Ties. Been so many years since he’s watched it. Must be something
there for him, something to unearth in the blue light, his head propped up on two musty
pillows again.
Nathan Leslie won the 2019 Washington Writers' Publishing House prize for fiction for his
collection of short stories, Hurry Up and Relax. He is also the series editor for Best Small Fictions.
Two of Nathan’s new short story collections will be published this fall and in the spring of 2023.
Nathan’s nine previous books of fiction include Three Men, Root and Shoot, Sibs, and The Tall Tale
of Tommy Twice. He is also the author of a collection of poems, Night Sweat.
Edie Meade Huntington, VW
On the Pier
The angler catches an amberjack as large as our children. He holds it up to fish-eyed
phone lenses, gripping it by gills still gasping away a life. A moment of triumph in this old man’s
day. He is battened down with compression socks, billowing red windbreaker tucked into belted
shorts, a hat with earflaps for a day colder than this one has become. I think: where is his wife?
What grief dressed him so in the dark? “Men like that make me sad,” I tell my husband.
“Oh, he’s all right,” he snaps. “He’s doing what he loves.” I remind myself to leave the
feelings of men alone, stop blaming imaginary and possibly dead wives for their behavior. We
are hot and the pier is long.
The angler drops the amberjack onto the planks and the crowd flanges in, sucking air. A
beaded blood curtain unrolls over its shark-pale flesh. From what injury? No one asks. The kids
are grave, curious, angling between the legs of strangers to steal a look at the pooling blood. We
stroll on, the old man abandoned in dwindling eddies of wonder.
At the end of the pier I wipe bait debris away from an empty bench and sit the children
down for their snacks: strawberries bigger than their fists, limp peanut butter sandwiches.
Globules of grape jelly escape between the ribs of bread crust. All around us, men reenact the
angler’s catch like it was their own. “Did you get a load of that fish? Good eating.” “Did you see
how big?” “I saw him reel it in.” Backs arch to battle ghost amberjacks with ghost poles. How
big, I think. Men marvel at how big but never how old a creature must be. I frown, no appetite.
My husband takes my hand without understanding why. “Thanks for taking care of us,”
he says, nodding at the lunch cooler. He owns no fishing gear and for that I am grateful.
Someday he will be old, maybe a widower, and I do hope he does what he loves, I do – even if it
involves a hat with earflaps on a hot day. We smile at one another about very different things. Or
perhaps not.
Replenished, the children run ahead of us back down the pier, their sandaled feet
pounding directly through the amberjack’s gore. The angler is already gone.
Edie Meade is a writer, artist, and mother of four in Huntington, West Virginia. Recent and
forthcoming work can be found in Atlas & Alice; Feral; Still: The Journal; New Flash Fiction Review,
and elsewhere. Say hi on Twitter @ediemeade or https://ediemeade.com/
On the Pier
The angler catches an amberjack as large as our children. He holds it up to fish-eyed
phone lenses, gripping it by gills still gasping away a life. A moment of triumph in this old man’s
day. He is battened down with compression socks, billowing red windbreaker tucked into belted
shorts, a hat with earflaps for a day colder than this one has become. I think: where is his wife?
What grief dressed him so in the dark? “Men like that make me sad,” I tell my husband.
“Oh, he’s all right,” he snaps. “He’s doing what he loves.” I remind myself to leave the
feelings of men alone, stop blaming imaginary and possibly dead wives for their behavior. We
are hot and the pier is long.
The angler drops the amberjack onto the planks and the crowd flanges in, sucking air. A
beaded blood curtain unrolls over its shark-pale flesh. From what injury? No one asks. The kids
are grave, curious, angling between the legs of strangers to steal a look at the pooling blood. We
stroll on, the old man abandoned in dwindling eddies of wonder.
At the end of the pier I wipe bait debris away from an empty bench and sit the children
down for their snacks: strawberries bigger than their fists, limp peanut butter sandwiches.
Globules of grape jelly escape between the ribs of bread crust. All around us, men reenact the
angler’s catch like it was their own. “Did you get a load of that fish? Good eating.” “Did you see
how big?” “I saw him reel it in.” Backs arch to battle ghost amberjacks with ghost poles. How
big, I think. Men marvel at how big but never how old a creature must be. I frown, no appetite.
My husband takes my hand without understanding why. “Thanks for taking care of us,”
he says, nodding at the lunch cooler. He owns no fishing gear and for that I am grateful.
Someday he will be old, maybe a widower, and I do hope he does what he loves, I do – even if it
involves a hat with earflaps on a hot day. We smile at one another about very different things. Or
perhaps not.
Replenished, the children run ahead of us back down the pier, their sandaled feet
pounding directly through the amberjack’s gore. The angler is already gone.
Edie Meade is a writer, artist, and mother of four in Huntington, West Virginia. Recent and
forthcoming work can be found in Atlas & Alice; Feral; Still: The Journal; New Flash Fiction Review,
and elsewhere. Say hi on Twitter @ediemeade or https://ediemeade.com/
Lynn Mundell
My mother’s sighs
whipped my braids around my head, accelerated our airplane over the Pacific, capsizing fishing
boats, beaching migrating whales, raising mountainous waves that buried the bronze surfers
minding their own business in pastel-colored Speedos before my mother’s Category Five sighs
collected in her belly, building, building, forced up into her chest, her throat, her cheeks,
hurling us home, where they flattened the hi-lo shag carpeting, then off to the parent-teacher
conference to lift Mrs. Poma’s eyebrows, then whistling down DMV, bakery, library, bank
queues before blowing through years of dog feedings, family reunions, perm appointments,
dishwasher unloadings, school band performances, deep, dissatisfied, disgruntled, across time
immemorial, until my sons out late forget their housekeys, the package is returned damaged,
the neck shrivels like an old celery stalk, the plane ride is interminable, and the sighs grow and
escape, only I am the sigher, and my mother’s long gusts of disenchantment are just one more
reason among so many for my own.
Lynn Mundell is co-editor of 100 Word Story and author of the flash fiction chapbook
Let Our Bodies Be Returned to Us (Yemassee).
whipped my braids around my head, accelerated our airplane over the Pacific, capsizing fishing
boats, beaching migrating whales, raising mountainous waves that buried the bronze surfers
minding their own business in pastel-colored Speedos before my mother’s Category Five sighs
collected in her belly, building, building, forced up into her chest, her throat, her cheeks,
hurling us home, where they flattened the hi-lo shag carpeting, then off to the parent-teacher
conference to lift Mrs. Poma’s eyebrows, then whistling down DMV, bakery, library, bank
queues before blowing through years of dog feedings, family reunions, perm appointments,
dishwasher unloadings, school band performances, deep, dissatisfied, disgruntled, across time
immemorial, until my sons out late forget their housekeys, the package is returned damaged,
the neck shrivels like an old celery stalk, the plane ride is interminable, and the sighs grow and
escape, only I am the sigher, and my mother’s long gusts of disenchantment are just one more
reason among so many for my own.
Lynn Mundell is co-editor of 100 Word Story and author of the flash fiction chapbook
Let Our Bodies Be Returned to Us (Yemassee).
Mickey Revenaugh Brooklyn, NY
Upside Down House
We were going to drive straight from Jacksonville all the way to the last Key, Frankie and me ―
rented vintage convertible, top down, six pack at his feet and me behind the wheel, dizzy with
mileage and No Doz. Punk road trippers, too cool to be tourists. The hurricane warnings started
somewhere around Sunrise and we changed the radio station, but before long we hit a detour
manned by Florida State Troopers, directing us inland. We planned to drive west for a bit and
then double back southeast, back to the chopped up Atlantic coast, back into the storm. But
then we saw the billboard: Don’t miss the world’s only Upside Down House, five miles ahead.
We looked at each other. “Fucking close enough,” Frankie said. So we gunned our oxblood
Studebaker and did not look back at the black clouds massing behind us.
Mickey Revenaugh is a fiction and non-fiction writer whose work has appeared in Vice, Cagibi, Cleaver,
Chautauqua, and Catapult, among others. She was a semi-finalist for the American Short Fiction Prize and a
finalist for the Diana Woods Memorial Award in Creative Nonfiction and the Penelope Niven Award at the Center
for Women Writers. She holds an MFA from Bennington College, a BA in American Studies from Yale University
and an MBA from NYU. Ms. Revenaugh lives and works in Brooklyn, New York.
We were going to drive straight from Jacksonville all the way to the last Key, Frankie and me ―
rented vintage convertible, top down, six pack at his feet and me behind the wheel, dizzy with
mileage and No Doz. Punk road trippers, too cool to be tourists. The hurricane warnings started
somewhere around Sunrise and we changed the radio station, but before long we hit a detour
manned by Florida State Troopers, directing us inland. We planned to drive west for a bit and
then double back southeast, back to the chopped up Atlantic coast, back into the storm. But
then we saw the billboard: Don’t miss the world’s only Upside Down House, five miles ahead.
We looked at each other. “Fucking close enough,” Frankie said. So we gunned our oxblood
Studebaker and did not look back at the black clouds massing behind us.
Mickey Revenaugh is a fiction and non-fiction writer whose work has appeared in Vice, Cagibi, Cleaver,
Chautauqua, and Catapult, among others. She was a semi-finalist for the American Short Fiction Prize and a
finalist for the Diana Woods Memorial Award in Creative Nonfiction and the Penelope Niven Award at the Center
for Women Writers. She holds an MFA from Bennington College, a BA in American Studies from Yale University
and an MBA from NYU. Ms. Revenaugh lives and works in Brooklyn, New York.
Brad Rose Boston, MA
My Blue Period
I’m a nano-influencer. Big things come in tall packages. Nevertheless, I don’t want too much of a
good thing now that fire season lasts all year round. In fact, I’ve cancelled my swimming lessons
and started playing miniature golf, big time. Still, I wish the ions would stop being so negative;
I’m very suggestible. Loretta said whenever someone asks, How are you. Miles? it’s simply a
greeting, it’s not a question about my health. She thinks she’s so smart. I took out my own
appendix. In 15 minutes. That was back in my blue period, right before I staunched the bleeding.
As I’ve demonstrated many times, achieving your goals is never impossible, especially if you’ve
got a positive attitude and well-stropped scalpel. Admittedly, some people can’t see the forest for
the leaves, but once in a while, it’s pleasant to get a jumpstart on déjà vu, even if means there’s
no going back. Like they say, tomorrow is another day. I’ll be sure to mention that in my
clemency letter to the governor.
I’m Afraid It Couldn’t Be Helped
Sometimes, I’m bees. A whole swarm, I swear. This time of year, the triangles are beautiful,
aren’t they, thanks to their razor-sharp angles and their three main points. Now, despite the
artificial hypnotism, I’m able to go faster and faster. It’s about time, because today is
everybody’s birthday, although I can’t be certain whose side they’re on. Have you ever seen so
many bad drivers? Who programs the ants, anyway? Of course, there is never enough music to
go around. Otherwise, it’s just like regular office hours. In fact, what a pleasant surprise. I was
just thinking about someone like you. Even when the darkness hangs like blood in the air and the
bitter minutes clench their rabid teeth, there are two ends to every tunnel. I’d like to apologize
about the hostages. And for setting the fire. But.
Don’t Think So Much
I have several thousand thoughts a day. Naturally, I don’t always see eye-to-eye with myself, so
I’m not sure whether I’ve become my best go-to or my worst stand-by. Lately, I’ve felt like a
hope-filled apocalypse, although every time I begin to feel sorry for myself, I remember that Van
Gogh painted so many self-portraits because he couldn’t afford to hire a model. Oh, Montmartre!
Yesterday, as I was organizing my even and odd thoughts, the news reported that the number of
dead is relatively low, although I was under the impression that death is quite popular. Whenever
people say I think too much, I can’t help but think, Thank goodness for the Dewey Decimal
system. Of course, the population of the dead is constantly growing. Some things you can always
count on. What would be the optimal number of thoughts, anyway?
The Verdict
I would have started my ego-trip sooner, but I was short-staffed. Like uncle Sigmond used to say,
a cigar is just an engorged cigarette. Now, he’s doing time in a minimum-security prison for
defamation of character. Isn’t that a lovely garden of nostrums, although they look rather
colorless for this time of year. A dose of bromide would bring out their best. Naturally, it’s better
to live, than to let live. This week I didn’t win the lottery. Not even once. Mable says All’s fair in
love and war, but I want to get the ball rolling in a business-like manner, so let’s cut to the chase
and cut out all this mumbo jumbo. Is that your natural hair? It looks so mid-century modern. The
tail fins are the perfect denouement, especially if you like Venuvian food. In fact, some might say
they’re genre-bending, but life is nasty, brutish, and short, even when you’re living on a whole
other platitude. Because the algorithms already know what I’m going to say, tomorrow, I’m
going to re- rehearse my spontaneity. Of course, it won’t be the first time, so it’ll be back to
square one, just until I get the hang of it. Until then, heads will roll— at least until the verdict is
in. Don’t worry. I’ll save you a seat.
Winter Apple Tree
Today, I’m in the vicinity of my atoms. It’s not as bad as it looks. Every man is an island.
Luckily, I’ve got my snorkel with me. On the other hand, every monologue takes two. It takes
one to know one. Bring me a gurney, please, just to be on the safe side. These wounds are more
beautiful than they look, far better than the real thing. My robot stunt double says that after the
factory recall, he started to dream of blood. Now, my bed sleeps like a winter apple tree, silent,
white, and soft. It’s lonely on the farm. You learn something every day.
Brad Rose was born and raised in Los Angeles, and lives in Boston. He is the author of three collections
of poetry and flash fiction, Pink X-Ray, de/tonations, and Momentary Turbulence. Two new books of
prose poems, WordinEdgeWise and No. Wait. I Can Explain., are forthcoming, in 2022. His website
is: www.bradrosepoetry.com Selected readings are available at http://bradrosepoetry.com/audio-readings/
I’m a nano-influencer. Big things come in tall packages. Nevertheless, I don’t want too much of a
good thing now that fire season lasts all year round. In fact, I’ve cancelled my swimming lessons
and started playing miniature golf, big time. Still, I wish the ions would stop being so negative;
I’m very suggestible. Loretta said whenever someone asks, How are you. Miles? it’s simply a
greeting, it’s not a question about my health. She thinks she’s so smart. I took out my own
appendix. In 15 minutes. That was back in my blue period, right before I staunched the bleeding.
As I’ve demonstrated many times, achieving your goals is never impossible, especially if you’ve
got a positive attitude and well-stropped scalpel. Admittedly, some people can’t see the forest for
the leaves, but once in a while, it’s pleasant to get a jumpstart on déjà vu, even if means there’s
no going back. Like they say, tomorrow is another day. I’ll be sure to mention that in my
clemency letter to the governor.
I’m Afraid It Couldn’t Be Helped
Sometimes, I’m bees. A whole swarm, I swear. This time of year, the triangles are beautiful,
aren’t they, thanks to their razor-sharp angles and their three main points. Now, despite the
artificial hypnotism, I’m able to go faster and faster. It’s about time, because today is
everybody’s birthday, although I can’t be certain whose side they’re on. Have you ever seen so
many bad drivers? Who programs the ants, anyway? Of course, there is never enough music to
go around. Otherwise, it’s just like regular office hours. In fact, what a pleasant surprise. I was
just thinking about someone like you. Even when the darkness hangs like blood in the air and the
bitter minutes clench their rabid teeth, there are two ends to every tunnel. I’d like to apologize
about the hostages. And for setting the fire. But.
Don’t Think So Much
I have several thousand thoughts a day. Naturally, I don’t always see eye-to-eye with myself, so
I’m not sure whether I’ve become my best go-to or my worst stand-by. Lately, I’ve felt like a
hope-filled apocalypse, although every time I begin to feel sorry for myself, I remember that Van
Gogh painted so many self-portraits because he couldn’t afford to hire a model. Oh, Montmartre!
Yesterday, as I was organizing my even and odd thoughts, the news reported that the number of
dead is relatively low, although I was under the impression that death is quite popular. Whenever
people say I think too much, I can’t help but think, Thank goodness for the Dewey Decimal
system. Of course, the population of the dead is constantly growing. Some things you can always
count on. What would be the optimal number of thoughts, anyway?
The Verdict
I would have started my ego-trip sooner, but I was short-staffed. Like uncle Sigmond used to say,
a cigar is just an engorged cigarette. Now, he’s doing time in a minimum-security prison for
defamation of character. Isn’t that a lovely garden of nostrums, although they look rather
colorless for this time of year. A dose of bromide would bring out their best. Naturally, it’s better
to live, than to let live. This week I didn’t win the lottery. Not even once. Mable says All’s fair in
love and war, but I want to get the ball rolling in a business-like manner, so let’s cut to the chase
and cut out all this mumbo jumbo. Is that your natural hair? It looks so mid-century modern. The
tail fins are the perfect denouement, especially if you like Venuvian food. In fact, some might say
they’re genre-bending, but life is nasty, brutish, and short, even when you’re living on a whole
other platitude. Because the algorithms already know what I’m going to say, tomorrow, I’m
going to re- rehearse my spontaneity. Of course, it won’t be the first time, so it’ll be back to
square one, just until I get the hang of it. Until then, heads will roll— at least until the verdict is
in. Don’t worry. I’ll save you a seat.
Winter Apple Tree
Today, I’m in the vicinity of my atoms. It’s not as bad as it looks. Every man is an island.
Luckily, I’ve got my snorkel with me. On the other hand, every monologue takes two. It takes
one to know one. Bring me a gurney, please, just to be on the safe side. These wounds are more
beautiful than they look, far better than the real thing. My robot stunt double says that after the
factory recall, he started to dream of blood. Now, my bed sleeps like a winter apple tree, silent,
white, and soft. It’s lonely on the farm. You learn something every day.
Brad Rose was born and raised in Los Angeles, and lives in Boston. He is the author of three collections
of poetry and flash fiction, Pink X-Ray, de/tonations, and Momentary Turbulence. Two new books of
prose poems, WordinEdgeWise and No. Wait. I Can Explain., are forthcoming, in 2022. His website
is: www.bradrosepoetry.com Selected readings are available at http://bradrosepoetry.com/audio-readings/
Robert Scotellaro San Francisco, CA
FOUR SIX SENTENCE STORIES
The Misfits
She didn’t wear makeup, was beautiful without it, said it was for clowns and dead people. We
were smoking cigarettes with our backs against the high red diner seats, back when they’d let
you. She was the freaky kid in school that didn’t fit in, and I was her only friend, and she was
the only one who’d listen to my poetry. Her kisses were wild, but she spoke softly, told me she
believed in alien abductions, that they took her uncle, but everyone knew her uncle crossed the
wrong people in a drug deal and was under a bunch of leaves somewhere in the woods. She
listened to my poetry and I listened to her thoughts on extraterrestrial thievery, and that seemed
to work for us. We laughed a lot and I didn’t mind the tattoo spider crawling out of her blouse,
or the shoeless footsie she was playing up my thigh, or the dirty looks the waitress was giving us,
clutching her pad and holding up her pencil like it was the friggin’ torch and she was the Statue of
Liberty—like she was all that.
She didn’t wear makeup, was beautiful without it, said it was for clowns and dead people. We
were smoking cigarettes with our backs against the high red diner seats, back when they’d let
you. She was the freaky kid in school that didn’t fit in, and I was her only friend, and she was
the only one who’d listen to my poetry. Her kisses were wild, but she spoke softly, told me she
believed in alien abductions, that they took her uncle, but everyone knew her uncle crossed the
wrong people in a drug deal and was under a bunch of leaves somewhere in the woods. She
listened to my poetry and I listened to her thoughts on extraterrestrial thievery, and that seemed
to work for us. We laughed a lot and I didn’t mind the tattoo spider crawling out of her blouse,
or the shoeless footsie she was playing up my thigh, or the dirty looks the waitress was giving us,
clutching her pad and holding up her pencil like it was the friggin’ torch and she was the Statue of
Liberty—like she was all that.
Count on It
I’m in a Fat Elvis band; the older Elvis, pot-bellied in those glittery jump suits. My girlfriend,
Riva, just broke up with me for a guy in a Skinny Johnny Cash band. She told me right before
she left: “You want something you can count on, get an abacus!” I guess it’s put a lot more
twang in my guitar, that breakup, ‘cause a cutie-pie from a Lit-Up Lady Gaga band and me have
been seeing each other plenty. She says she loves the way I curl my lip at that crazy-sexy angle
and the jump suits don’t hurt either. Sometimes, when its real quiet late at night, when she’s
asleep, I use the abacus just to hear the beads tap together.
I’m in a Fat Elvis band; the older Elvis, pot-bellied in those glittery jump suits. My girlfriend,
Riva, just broke up with me for a guy in a Skinny Johnny Cash band. She told me right before
she left: “You want something you can count on, get an abacus!” I guess it’s put a lot more
twang in my guitar, that breakup, ‘cause a cutie-pie from a Lit-Up Lady Gaga band and me have
been seeing each other plenty. She says she loves the way I curl my lip at that crazy-sexy angle
and the jump suits don’t hurt either. Sometimes, when its real quiet late at night, when she’s
asleep, I use the abacus just to hear the beads tap together.
Horney
When my wife wore the moose antlers to bed I knew she’d found out about Lilly. I wasn’t going
to risk an eye, so I kept my distance; mea culpas didn’t help. After a time she downsized to goat
horns and I stretched a tentative arm out. Then came the foam rubber devil horns, soft as cotton
candy and I really started to worry. It was that asshole from Accounts Pending I’d seen her lock
eyeballs with as if they were Crazy Glued. But I figured fair is fair and slid the rhinoceros horn
cap I had by my side of the bed, under it, swallowed that bitter pill and made my way over, with
safe passage, to all that warmth.
When my wife wore the moose antlers to bed I knew she’d found out about Lilly. I wasn’t going
to risk an eye, so I kept my distance; mea culpas didn’t help. After a time she downsized to goat
horns and I stretched a tentative arm out. Then came the foam rubber devil horns, soft as cotton
candy and I really started to worry. It was that asshole from Accounts Pending I’d seen her lock
eyeballs with as if they were Crazy Glued. But I figured fair is fair and slid the rhinoceros horn
cap I had by my side of the bed, under it, swallowed that bitter pill and made my way over, with
safe passage, to all that warmth.
The Proud Parents of Light
When I was young my mother took me to visit The Proud Parents of Light. There were candles
everywhere. “Look how beautiful the shadows are,” my mother said. A breeze came in an open
window and The Proud Parents of Light tapped their feet as if to music as the candles wavered
and the shadows danced. The candles were bright, the shadows dark, and they were inextricably
bound. Decades later I’d wonder if there was some metaphor/lesson my mother wished to
impart, but she was The Proud Parent of My Ignorance, she told me and felt there was no reason,
whatsoever, to rush things.
Robert Scotellaro's work has been included in W.W. Norton’s Flash Fiction International and Flash
Fiction America, Best Small Fictions 2016, 2017, and 2021, Best Microfiction 2020, and elsewhere.
He’s the author of eight chapbooks and six flash story collections. He has, with James Thomas, co-edited
New Micro: Exceptionally Short Fiction, published by W.W. Norton & Co. Robert lives in San Francisco.
Visit him at: www.robertscotellaro.com
When I was young my mother took me to visit The Proud Parents of Light. There were candles
everywhere. “Look how beautiful the shadows are,” my mother said. A breeze came in an open
window and The Proud Parents of Light tapped their feet as if to music as the candles wavered
and the shadows danced. The candles were bright, the shadows dark, and they were inextricably
bound. Decades later I’d wonder if there was some metaphor/lesson my mother wished to
impart, but she was The Proud Parent of My Ignorance, she told me and felt there was no reason,
whatsoever, to rush things.
Robert Scotellaro's work has been included in W.W. Norton’s Flash Fiction International and Flash
Fiction America, Best Small Fictions 2016, 2017, and 2021, Best Microfiction 2020, and elsewhere.
He’s the author of eight chapbooks and six flash story collections. He has, with James Thomas, co-edited
New Micro: Exceptionally Short Fiction, published by W.W. Norton & Co. Robert lives in San Francisco.
Visit him at: www.robertscotellaro.com
Zvi A. Sesling Chestnut Hill, MA
Road Story
Rick Roberts is a careful driver, never exceeds the speed limit, stays in the middle lane, passes on the left and always uses turn signals. So, this day on the Massachusetts Turnpike as he approaches Charlton heading west toward Albany there are two fifty-three-foot tractor trailers in front of him, one in the left lane where it is prohibited from driving and one in the right lane. Both trucks are going about ten miles under the speed limit of sixty-five. Rick is in a hurry to reach Albany so despite his better judgement he pushes the gas pedal down and tries to get ahead of them. As he starts to enter the space between the two, the truck on left signals right and the one on the right signals left. Frightened, Rick quickly calculates that he cannot get past the two trucks before he is crushed between them. His one choice is to slam on the brakes, which he does. The state police car traveling behind him crashes into the back of his car. Zvi A. Sesling, Poet Laureate of Brookline, MA. (2017-2020). has published numerous poems and flash fiction. He edits Muddy River Poetry Review. He authored four books of poetry, three poetry chapbooks and one book of flash fiction, The Secret Behind The Gate (Cervena Barva Press) which is forthcoming. He has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize five times and his books have been nominated for national and local awards. He lives in Chestnut Hill, MA with his wife Susan J. Dechter. |
Todd Clay Stuart
What We Remember Most About Christine
How on Homecoming night we freaked when we heard she shot her naked boyfriend execution
style in the dimly lit basement of her parents’ house, but later we found out it was with one of those
stupid t-shirt cannons.
How she fell out of dumbass Jake Connor’s convertible at the Starlight Drive-In and he accidentally
ran her over and broke both her legs, but wheelchair and all, they made her captain of the cheerleading
squad anyway.
How we autographed her casts and after they were cut off, she hung them in her school locker until
they stunk so bad the principal called 9-1-1 to report the smell of human remains.
How on senior picture day she colored her hair pill-bottle orange and showed up with crazy eyes from
getting hooked on Percocet for the pain in her legs.
How she had no clothes on under her graduation gown and flashed a beaver shot at fat, pimply Kenneth
Overton because he had been sweet to her and taught her how to play chess that week she missed school
after her dad was killed by a drunk driver.
How for years she was in and out of psych wards and told her harrowing story in a strangely beautiful
graphic novel tattooed over her entire body.
How she showed up uninvited to Jake’s wedding and, like it was nothing, sprang from her wheelchair
out onto the dance floor to lead us all in the Electric Slide.
How last winter we all hoped she’d get sober after she was shoveling snow from her driveway and she
thought her hand flew off, but it was only her glove.
How on the day she was cremated, we saw the prettiest plumes of smoke rise white as angels into a sky
that couldn’t be any bluer if it tried.
Todd Clay Stuart is an American writer and poet from the Midwest. He studied creative writing at the University of Iowa. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in X-R-A-Y Literary Magazine, FRiGG, New Flash Fiction Review, Milk Candy Review, Cleaver Magazine, and elsewhere. He lives with his wife, daughter, and two loyal but increasingly untrustworthy pets. Find him on Twitter @toddclaystuart and at http://toddclaystuart.com.
How on Homecoming night we freaked when we heard she shot her naked boyfriend execution
style in the dimly lit basement of her parents’ house, but later we found out it was with one of those
stupid t-shirt cannons.
How she fell out of dumbass Jake Connor’s convertible at the Starlight Drive-In and he accidentally
ran her over and broke both her legs, but wheelchair and all, they made her captain of the cheerleading
squad anyway.
How we autographed her casts and after they were cut off, she hung them in her school locker until
they stunk so bad the principal called 9-1-1 to report the smell of human remains.
How on senior picture day she colored her hair pill-bottle orange and showed up with crazy eyes from
getting hooked on Percocet for the pain in her legs.
How she had no clothes on under her graduation gown and flashed a beaver shot at fat, pimply Kenneth
Overton because he had been sweet to her and taught her how to play chess that week she missed school
after her dad was killed by a drunk driver.
How for years she was in and out of psych wards and told her harrowing story in a strangely beautiful
graphic novel tattooed over her entire body.
How she showed up uninvited to Jake’s wedding and, like it was nothing, sprang from her wheelchair
out onto the dance floor to lead us all in the Electric Slide.
How last winter we all hoped she’d get sober after she was shoveling snow from her driveway and she
thought her hand flew off, but it was only her glove.
How on the day she was cremated, we saw the prettiest plumes of smoke rise white as angels into a sky
that couldn’t be any bluer if it tried.
Todd Clay Stuart is an American writer and poet from the Midwest. He studied creative writing at the University of Iowa. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in X-R-A-Y Literary Magazine, FRiGG, New Flash Fiction Review, Milk Candy Review, Cleaver Magazine, and elsewhere. He lives with his wife, daughter, and two loyal but increasingly untrustworthy pets. Find him on Twitter @toddclaystuart and at http://toddclaystuart.com.
Brianna Summers
The End of a Friendship
I remember walking down the sidewalk from the apartment building where we were
babysitting. I remember throwing my bag and the hair bows we made in the bed of the truck. I
remember opening the driver’s side door and seeing you swing into the passenger seat. Every
time, you grab the handle to propel yourself up and place your cheer bag between your feet. I
remember laughing and feeling giddy from the newfound freedom we received and straining
against the tether still holding us. I remember taking a while to get myself into the driver’s seat
and you heckling me to hurry up. I remember molding myself into the seat and you grabbing my
phone to blast Beyoncé, the first song on our playlist. I remember grabbing the steering wheel,
the cold chills down my back, and you snatching the last sip of my soda. I remember thinking
how awesome it was that I found a best friend and hoping that I was yours. I remember driving
out of the parking lot, then my memory going gray and fading to black when we hit the first
stoplight.
I imagine we are cool and calm when the semi clips the corner of the truck. I imagine I pretend
to be in control as I lose all control. I imagine we lock eyes with the understanding that nothing
will be the same again. I imagine the truck spinning and flipping front over end until we end in
the ditch. I imagine, when it’s over and we are hanging upside down in our cocoon we just
created, you call out my name. I know I don't answer. I imagine you crawling through the
window but turning around to grab your bag because I was with you the day you bought it. I
imagine you grabbing it for a keepsake to have as a physical scar, because you were saved from
them. I imagine you sitting on the side of the road with your back to the truck, waiting for help. I
imagine you not calling my name again because you’re marking this moment, agonizing over
what comes next. I imagine for the last time, you, sitting by yourself in the silence, waiting.
Brianna Summers is a recent graduate from the University of Missouri. She received a BA
in 21st century literature, creative writing, and an associates degree in Ancient Mediterranean Studies.
She enjoys reading more than writing but wants to improve both skills in a professional context.
I remember walking down the sidewalk from the apartment building where we were
babysitting. I remember throwing my bag and the hair bows we made in the bed of the truck. I
remember opening the driver’s side door and seeing you swing into the passenger seat. Every
time, you grab the handle to propel yourself up and place your cheer bag between your feet. I
remember laughing and feeling giddy from the newfound freedom we received and straining
against the tether still holding us. I remember taking a while to get myself into the driver’s seat
and you heckling me to hurry up. I remember molding myself into the seat and you grabbing my
phone to blast Beyoncé, the first song on our playlist. I remember grabbing the steering wheel,
the cold chills down my back, and you snatching the last sip of my soda. I remember thinking
how awesome it was that I found a best friend and hoping that I was yours. I remember driving
out of the parking lot, then my memory going gray and fading to black when we hit the first
stoplight.
I imagine we are cool and calm when the semi clips the corner of the truck. I imagine I pretend
to be in control as I lose all control. I imagine we lock eyes with the understanding that nothing
will be the same again. I imagine the truck spinning and flipping front over end until we end in
the ditch. I imagine, when it’s over and we are hanging upside down in our cocoon we just
created, you call out my name. I know I don't answer. I imagine you crawling through the
window but turning around to grab your bag because I was with you the day you bought it. I
imagine you grabbing it for a keepsake to have as a physical scar, because you were saved from
them. I imagine you sitting on the side of the road with your back to the truck, waiting for help. I
imagine you not calling my name again because you’re marking this moment, agonizing over
what comes next. I imagine for the last time, you, sitting by yourself in the silence, waiting.
Brianna Summers is a recent graduate from the University of Missouri. She received a BA
in 21st century literature, creative writing, and an associates degree in Ancient Mediterranean Studies.
She enjoys reading more than writing but wants to improve both skills in a professional context.
Matthew Wallenstein
New Englanders on the West Coast
Burger and I stood on a cliff over the Pacific. Across the way an amusement park scattered its
lights on the water in colorful sparks.
He told me he’d gotten drunk at his best friend’s wedding, beaten up the groom. The bride cried.
He ended up fighting half the wedding party.
Shortly after that happened he had moved out west. He started transporting, moving heavy
weight. One night he had been driving with a trunk full, enough to put him away for decades. He
saw lights in the rear view. He pulled over, prayed to the steering wheel and the crack in the wind
shield, prayed to that old catholic god, prayed to the road. They drove past, the lights hadn’t been
for him.
He had been living in a house that was a sort of distribution center. One night he stayed over a
ladies house. When he returned to his place the following evening the house had been raided by
the police. This was explained to him in Spanish by his neighbor. By sheer luck he hadn’t been
there. His name wasn’t attached to any lease, the house was owned by someone higher up the
chain. No sooner had the neighbor said what she said and he was gone. Burger laughed at this
and I did too.
He stopped for a minute. We listened to the water. We listened to people talk and
argue and clink bottles together. Cars drove past us.
Burger started in again, said he lived in his van for months after the raid. There were a lot of
stories after that of acid and hippies, of bikers and amphetamine, of bad choices and women, and
women who were bad choices.
We took the highway back. He sang country songs he’d written, with nothing but the air conditioner
backing him.
The car pulled up to my hotel. He said he and his friend lived right over there, right on that
street, down there, see the building? Burger still had a Maine accent when he told me about it.
His friend had died of drink. Burger was sober now, drink almost took him too. I can’t remember
which step he said he was on.
My hotel was across from two wrecked hotels (burned down, taped yellow with caution). I
went back into the my room and lay down. Cars drove by, a toilet flushed, pipes clanged, people
called to people in the street. Thai Town, all bar lights and longevous hustle. Neon lapped at my
window blinds.
Matthew Wallenstein is the recipient of the 2022 Writer Award from the Nassau Review. He is the
author of a weekly nonfiction column in the Pittsburgh Current. His short story collection Buckteeth
was published in March of 2020. He is the Author of the poetry collection Tiny Alms (Permanent Sleep
Press, 2017). His work has previously been published by the University of Chicago, Albany Poets Society,
the University of Maine Farmington, among others.
Burger and I stood on a cliff over the Pacific. Across the way an amusement park scattered its
lights on the water in colorful sparks.
He told me he’d gotten drunk at his best friend’s wedding, beaten up the groom. The bride cried.
He ended up fighting half the wedding party.
Shortly after that happened he had moved out west. He started transporting, moving heavy
weight. One night he had been driving with a trunk full, enough to put him away for decades. He
saw lights in the rear view. He pulled over, prayed to the steering wheel and the crack in the wind
shield, prayed to that old catholic god, prayed to the road. They drove past, the lights hadn’t been
for him.
He had been living in a house that was a sort of distribution center. One night he stayed over a
ladies house. When he returned to his place the following evening the house had been raided by
the police. This was explained to him in Spanish by his neighbor. By sheer luck he hadn’t been
there. His name wasn’t attached to any lease, the house was owned by someone higher up the
chain. No sooner had the neighbor said what she said and he was gone. Burger laughed at this
and I did too.
He stopped for a minute. We listened to the water. We listened to people talk and
argue and clink bottles together. Cars drove past us.
Burger started in again, said he lived in his van for months after the raid. There were a lot of
stories after that of acid and hippies, of bikers and amphetamine, of bad choices and women, and
women who were bad choices.
We took the highway back. He sang country songs he’d written, with nothing but the air conditioner
backing him.
The car pulled up to my hotel. He said he and his friend lived right over there, right on that
street, down there, see the building? Burger still had a Maine accent when he told me about it.
His friend had died of drink. Burger was sober now, drink almost took him too. I can’t remember
which step he said he was on.
My hotel was across from two wrecked hotels (burned down, taped yellow with caution). I
went back into the my room and lay down. Cars drove by, a toilet flushed, pipes clanged, people
called to people in the street. Thai Town, all bar lights and longevous hustle. Neon lapped at my
window blinds.
Matthew Wallenstein is the recipient of the 2022 Writer Award from the Nassau Review. He is the
author of a weekly nonfiction column in the Pittsburgh Current. His short story collection Buckteeth
was published in March of 2020. He is the Author of the poetry collection Tiny Alms (Permanent Sleep
Press, 2017). His work has previously been published by the University of Chicago, Albany Poets Society,
the University of Maine Farmington, among others.