Author: Editor (Page 34 of 62)

The Pink Rosette

15 July 2023 / Editor

Fiction by Sarah Das Gupta

Hi! I’m Susie. I have brittle bone disease. But I don’t want to bother you with all that medical stuff. It means my bones fracture easily. I’m ten and I’ve had nearly twenty breaks. I look a bit funny but I don’t bother too much now. I’ve had lots of stares and insults. They just bounce off – fly past me somewhere into space!

When I was eight, I went on a bus. Didn’t usually go on buses ‘cause they jolt you too much.

That day I was with my sister and my best friend, Jodie. A gang of boys got on. They made funny noises and shouted ‘monkey face’ and ’chimpanzee’. I broke one of my cheek bones when I was seven. Kids in school called me the same names sometimes. I didn’t care much.

But these boys started throwing coins. They were hard. I was scared of breaking something. The gang said my lips looked like a money box. I thought they might push coins into my mouth.

I meant to tell you; my teeth are a bit brittle. I’ve lost a few. Jodie said they were ‘stupid’ and ‘ignorant’. I just kept my head down. It was ok ‘cause the driver stopped the bus and sorted them out. I haven’t been on a bus again.

I’m not supposed to do sport, well only swimming. My walking’s not too good. My mum thinks I’m getting slower. I think it’s ‘cause I’m tired.

My best day so far was when Mum took me and Lizzy to a riding school. Lizzy’s my baby sister. I call her that but she’s much taller than me. The ponies were lovely. They ate more of my carrots than Lizzy’s. She said I had more in my pocket than her. She was just jealous. I knew the ponies liked me better!

I couldn’t sleep that night. It’s hard anyway. You see, I’m propped up in bed. My breathing’s bad at night. But that night was different. I knew it straightaway. I wanted a pony! I wanted one just for me. I could look after it. It might take me longer than Lizzy and her friends. But my pony wouldn’t mind. I’d get there in the end!

It took almost a year. I pestered Dad most! When we passed horses on the road. When I saw them on tele – in the Derby or the Queen’s Jubilee, I said, “You know what I want, Dad!” Once I just cried when I saw the perfect pony in a magazine.

I knew he’d give in eventually and he did! Someone he met had an old pony. It was too small for his son. No problem. I told you I’m small. When I saw Barbary, I had to have her! I loved her chestnut coat with flecks of white. Like those glass balls you shake, and snow starts falling. She knew I’d hidden some carrots. She followed me. She nuzzled very gently, pushing her nose into my pocket. Her muzzle was soft as velvet. I sat on her for a few minutes. For the first time I was taller than Lizzy, nearly taller than Dad. I didn’t have a saddle. I could feel her warm back touching me.

Most people don’t like touching me or being close. Mum says they don’t want to hurt me. I’m not sure. Barbary didn’t mind at all. I could put my face against hers. She seemed to like it!

Next, we had to buy a special saddle. It had a metal bar across the front. I could grab it if I felt a bit wobbly. The reins were thin. They were some sort of white material. I could manage them easily.

I learnt fast. Soon I could trot, turn, stop, start. Barbary was learning too. She began to listen to my voice. Of course, Mum had fits! She had nightmares of me falling off. Being trampled by Barbary. I knew I wouldn’t fall. She would look after me. Lizzy joked and said, “If you fall, Barbary will haul you up with her teeth! “

One day we cantered up the hill in the field. I’d never gone faster on my own than a slow walk, dragging my right foot behind me. Now the wind blew in my face. The hedge flew past! Lizzy said it wasn’t a proper canter. By then, I didn’t listen to her much. I knew it was a real canter!

June 14th would be the greatest day of my life. It would be my first Horse Show. Well, more of a small gymkhana really. The evening before, I washed Barbary’s mane and tail. Actually, I did the bottom of the tail. Mum did the rest. Mum thought she liked the full beauty treatment. I thought she liked the bucket of horse nuts better!

As I went to bed, all I wanted next day was to win one rosette. I dreamed of tying it on Barbary’s bridle. I didn’t expect a first, second or even a third. The white ones for a ‘good try’ would be great!

It was the last event, Musical Sacks. Music plays. When it stops, you have to dismount and stand on a sack. They take one sack away each time. I was allowed to ride into the ring. Barbary stood on the sack. I couldn’t get on and off on my own. Seven riders were left.

There were only six rosettes. The music stopped. Barbary trotted into the middle arena. She stood on the last sack! I was out next go. I didn’t care. Mum tied the pink rosette on Barbary’s bridle. With all the other winners, we trotted round the ring. Mum cried. Dad took a photo. Lizzy muttered something about not playing the game properly. I didn’t care. I had the pink rosette with me in bed all night!

Sarah Das Gupta is a retired teacher from near Cambridge, UK. She has work published in over thirty different magazines, including: Paddle, Waywords, Dipity, Pure Haiku, Rural Fiction, Green Ink, among others. Her interests include most subjects except computer games and football.

Evanston in June

12 July 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Rosalie Hendon

The taste of sun-ripened mulberry
A two-hour rain delay
A deluge pouring over rows of white chairs
Homemade bagels, bowls of cut fruit

An elderly woman in a mask
hovering behind a glass door,
hand on her cane

Rings on my brother’s hands,
silver paint worn to copper
a purple stone found gleaming in the dust

Speeches in sunshine,
a sea of purple
Cheers of recognition
effervescent under the late afternoon sky

The future as tangible as a ripe fruit,
as a mulberry plucked from the branch

Rosalie Hendon (she/her) is an environmental planner living in Columbus, Ohio. Her work is published in Change Seven, Pollux, Willawaw, Write Launch, and Sad Girls Club, among others. Rosalie is inspired by ecology, relationships, and stories passed down through generations.

sunset monument mill windmill — Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Whooshie and Me

10 July 2023 / Editor

Fiction by Kenneth M. Kapp

I was visiting my grandkids, who can be a handful. There’re two of them, twins. So after the first day I told my son, I have to take at least three walks each day. “Doc says if I don’t, my arteries are going to clog in short order and ‘Mr. S, it’s sayonara.’ So I take my walks, mid-morning, mid-afternoon, and after supper.”

I’m not totally heartless; I told the twins: “You want to walk with grandpa, you need to behave for 30 hours straight – then you can come with me the next time I go out.” They looked at me as if I’m nuts. I tell them: “Look at the clock, little hand goes around three-and-a-half times – good behavior – and you can come with me next time I’m out the door.”

“Grandpa. We only have digital clocks and 30 means we’d have to add. We’re only in 1^st grade.”

Well, I wasn’t about to teach the kids how to add, that’s what parents are for. Maybe it’s moot anyhow: the twins are high-spirited, that’s how my daughter-in-law puts it. I wasn’t going to argue, I like to walk by myself anyhow; it gives me time to think.

That’s how I met Whooshie, name I gave a boy I met on one of those walks. He was probably two years older than the twins and six inches taller. His head came up to my chin.

When I walk, I wander. Gets my kids mad when they ask me where I’ve been and I answer: “Oh, hither and yonder,” waving my hand above my head.

“Dad, one of these days you’re going to get lost and find yourself in a bad neighborhood.”

I don’t think so; I have a good sense of direction. Besides, I like the challenge of finding my way home after not paying much attention on my way out. Cloudy days can be a challenge since moss doesn’t always grow on the north side of the trees. I must have a beagle’s nose; anyway I always manage to find my way home. Heck, I know where my kids live, have their addresses and phone numbers, so what’s the problem if I’m rather vague where I walk. For an old man, it makes it more of an adventure.

With Whooshie I walked mostly in a southwesterly direction. Crossed the big divided boulevard. Other side of the tracks like they say. The neighborhood is a little less middle class, but the lawns are all well-kept. I thought I’d go a couple of more blocks, looked like some shops ahead, see if there was a place I could get a cup of coffee since I could use some caffeine for the way home. A block later this kid comes around the corner towards me, slinging his hands around like he was a human windmill.

I wasn’t far from the mark. As I got closer I heard him going, “Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh,” making big, slow circles with his palms turned out to catch the wind. “Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh.” I liked the sound and smiled. “Way to go kid. Can I try that?”

He comes up straight, almost could hear his heels clicking, snapping his arms to his side. He inclines his head. “My parents taught me that this is a free country but not in stores. There you have to pay. I asked them how can it be free? They told me it’s not that kind of free, more like free to be stupid.”

I laughed. Never thought of things that way. Racked my brains for a good question. I came up empty and could only think of a dumb one since I think I knew the answer. “You go to school?”

“No. I’m home-schooled. My parents said windmills aren’t allowed to go to school.”

“You’ve always been a windmill?” I couldn’t help asking.

“Ever since I read Don Quixote. I read it in Spanish when I was eight. Decided it was stupid tilting at windmills when you could be one.”

I had to step back – Whooshie started up his arms again.

I decided that was enough for our first meeting and went in search of a cup of coffee, leaving Whooshie to find his own way.

I went that way a couple more times over the next ten days – two weeks was my limit at one time with my kids and I was four days into the visit when I first met Whooshie. No luck. By the end of my stay I was friends with the barista, so I asked if he knew Whooshie, tall, lanky kid with a funny smile.

He laughed. “I think I know who you mean. Kid’s nuts, came in once and starts going round with his hands. I said, ‘Whoa, kiddo! You’re going to knock coffee all over the place. What do you want?’ Kid tells me his parents want he should get a summer job, so since it’s hot, he thought maybe he could get work here as a fan. ‘I can lie on the table, move my hands around like this.’ And he starts going with his whoosh, whoosh, whoosh thing. I tell him I don’t think it’ll work out, but I appreciate the offer, gave him a cinnamon bun for trying. He never came in again. You looking for him?”

“Not really. I met him a week ago. We got to talking and I thought of a question I wanted to ask him. No big deal.”

I went home the next day. Next time I visited my son, I failed to come across Whooshie. Ditto, the following year. Then my son gets a promotion and moves to another city. By that time I had forgotten the question anyhow. Couple of times I tried making like a windmill – whoosh, whoosh, whoosh. It wasn’t the same thing. Must be how you turn out your palms.

Kenneth M. Kapp was a Professor of Mathematics, a ceramicist, a welder, an IBMer, and yoga teacher. He lives with his wife in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, writing late at night. He enjoys chamber music and mysteries. Read his earlier microfiction story in The Bluebird Word‘s May 2022 issue.

the Irish goodbye

8 July 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Christine Brooks

I was distracted,
looking this way and that
enjoying cocktails,
laughter & the company
of a stranger just for a
moment

one moment

I knew you were there,
always, so I took
another sip, laughed another
laugh and turned my back
on you
to dance

just for one moment

you had perfected it
though,
the Irish goodbye
and
I never saw it coming

sometimes, I still think
you will come walking back through the front door
and my heart
beats & a smile turns up

just for a moment

hello —
did you forget your cap?

I say to no one

Christine Brooks holds her M.F.A. from Bay Path University in Creative Nonfiction. She has two books of poetry available, The Cigar Box Poems and beyond the paneling. Her next two, inside the pale and the hook-switch goodbye, will be released in 2023.

Beauty

5 July 2023 / Editor

Fiction by Paul Hostovsky

The way her hands danced across the braille page, it was a beautiful choreography to behold. Her left hand beginning each line, handing it off to her right hand halfway across the page, the right hand finishing the line as the left moved down to begin reading the next line. Left hand to right hand to left hand to right hand. Expert, fleet, like a concert pianist, or like relay runners in a race, the handoff accomplished seamlessly over and over, line by line down the page, page by page through the book, book by book through his entire childhood.

There was never a time when he didn’t know it. He’d learned it with his ABCs, fingering the raised dots with his tiny hands, sitting in his mother’s lap as she read to him aloud from the print/braille children’s books while he looked at the pictures. B was but, C was can, D was do. M was more. M with a dot five in front was mother. White dots on a white page, but they cast these tiny shadows so he could see them in the light. Like a country of igloos as seen from an airplane on a sunny winter morning.

Having blind parents was as unremarkable as having breakfast in the kitchen, having mail in the mailbox, having rain on rainy days and sun in the summertime. Lending his mother or father his shoulder–his elbow as he grew taller–was like offering his arm to the sleeve of his own jacket, like giving his hand to his other hand. He thought nothing of it, didn’t even have a word for it until he started kindergarten and the word got spat on the ground by some ugly mouths on the playground, older boys snickering and pointing, mimicking his parents as they swept their white canes back and forth, back and forth. Click sweep, click sweep, click sweep.

Those white canes. At home they leaned quietly against the wall like backslashes in the unpunctuated dark. Or else they sat folded underneath a chair or table like bundles of long chalk, a red one in each. K was knowledge. P was people. And the braille dictionary in seventy-two volumes was stacked practically to the ceiling, like a cord of wood.

His mother would stop reading, open her watch then close it, click, reach under her chair for her cane and open it, chick-a-chick, into a white line which she swept across an invisible line which she walked, out the door and down the street to the grocery store. Q was quite, U was us.

Braille was dots in a cell, lots and lots of cells. Each cell was a three-story building at dusk, the lights on in certain windows, not others. Each book was a city, where he and his mother looked through the windows, their fingers pressed to the panes.

Outside it’s beginning to snow. And each snowflake is a different character in the Complete Works of Beauty, which contains no mistakes that he has ever been able to find. And he has looked—he has looked his whole life—but has never found a single mistake.

Paul Hostovsky makes his living in Boston as a sign language interpreter and Braille instructor. His latest book of poems is Pitching for the Apostates (forthcoming 2023, Kelsay Books). Website: paulhostovsky.com

Roller Coaster

3 July 2023 / Editor

Nonfiction by Mary Zelinka

It’s 1973 and I’m working at the Federal Reserve Bank in downtown Denver. I’m twenty-five and at the tail end of my marriage. Only one of our two cars runs at a time and my husband uses it. After we drop our four-year-old Bobby off at the sitter’s at 6:00 AM, he drives me to work. I’m always an hour early. I spend this hour in the bank cafeteria’s kitchen tagging after Velma and her twelve-inch beehive hairdo as she fixes me breakfast and spouts raunchy jokes. This is the best part of my day.

After work, I take the bus home. This is the worst part of my day. Crowds of people jostle for position – if you don’t make the first bus, which I rarely do – you have to wait twenty minutes for the next. Then I’m late picking Bobby up and we have to walk the mile home in the dark.

On this particular summer afternoon as I’m being shouldered about on the sidewalk, I hear a loud voice, thick with accent, “Vitch bus the Elitch Garden? I must to ride famous roller coaster!”

It’s sweltering hot, in the way heat beats down on a city. My thin cotton dress feels damp as my opponents for the first bus press close. But the louder the Voice grows, the wider the space between me and the crowd becomes. Finally, the Voice is right next to me, and, since I haven’t learned (will never learn, actually) not to make eye contact with anyone in the city, he is looking at me right in the eyes.

“Vitch bus the Elitch? I must to ride roller coaster!” I look around at the other bus riders, but everyone keeps their gaze firmly fixed at some point far away. I shake my head and shrug my shoulders at the man.

Deep lines cut through his big square face, his smile wide. He laughs, a great booming laugh. And then, to my increasing anxiety, unbuttons the left cuff of his heavy long-sleeved shirt (how could he wear such a shirt on this hot day?) and begins rolling up his sleeve in an alarming manner.

He flexes his bicep at me and laughs. “Russian! Ninety years! Strong!” Not sure of the proper behavior in this situation, I nod at him and smile.

“I like you!” He’s no taller than I am, but he wraps his arms around me and lifts me off the sidewalk. He tosses me upwards a bit, the way you would a child, and then sets me down. My legs wobble.

“I find the Elitch Garden! Ride roller coaster!” And he marches on down the street just as the first bus sighs to a stop. The crowd shoves past and I’m vaguely aware of the bus leaving without me as I stare after him.

My husband and I divorce not long afterwards. He leaves me the car with the payments and my bus riding days come to an end.

Six months later, I am downtown at night on a date. It’s late and has been snowing. The sidewalks are slick and Jack has his arm around me as we leave the restaurant.

Suddenly a short square man marches up to us, stops, and peers into my face. “You!” He laughs his booming laugh. “I find Elitch! Roller coaster fast!” I laugh with him, but I notice Jack takes his arm from around me and moves a half step away.

“Still strong!” The Russian flexes his bicep at me, thankfully leaving all his clothing securely buttoned. He wraps his arms around me and tosses me upwards. This time my legs do not wobble when he sets me down. He laughs and then marches off into the night.

I look up at Jack, thrilled that he witnessed this event. He had accused me of making the Russian up.

His face has gone dark.

Later I will realize Jack’s reaction accurately foretold my next four years. And by the time I escape him, this dark look has become normal.

But in that moment, watching the Russian materialize through the snow, giant flakes clinging to his hair, his wide smile upon recognizing me, I am so taken with the magicalness of his existence I am filled with joy.

Mary Zelinka lives in Oregon’s Willamette Valley and has worked at the Center Against Rape and Domestic Violence for almost 35 years. Her writing has appeared in The Sun Magazine, Brevity, and Multiplicity.

Photo of Father's Coat (courtesy of author)

My Father’s Coat, in Three Acts

1 July 2023 / Editor

Nonfiction by Cheryl Sadowski

How old am I—four? five? awaiting my father’s arrival. I stare out the picture window of our living room watching snow fall like feathers when his car rolls into the driveway. The door swings open, and my mother cheerfully calls out. I see my father’s face and run headlong into his herringbone coat: it smells of spice, wool, and winter. I huddle against his legs and look down at his shiny black shoes. Whether or not my father loves his herringbone coat, or even likes it, I cannot say. Only that it is his.

So called for its resemblance to fish bones, herringbone is an interlocking pattern of zig-zag lines known for strength and durability. Ancient Egyptians borrowed the design from nature for their jewelry. Romans laid roads in a herringbone pattern. Herringbone tweed began as a working man’s cloth, serious and sturdy, to guard against the damp climates of Scotland and England.

My father’s coat is classic herringbone, tightly woven, with woolen Vs in black and gray, and an expertly tailored, glossy black lining. A sewn-in patch indicates provenance: Diamond’s Store for Men, a sartorial staple for professional attire during the 1960s and 70s.

For years the coat hangs in our cramped foyer closet amid a cadre of more flamboyant jackets: my mother’s Christmas cloak, my younger brother’s recreational wear, my high school letter jacket with a giant green ‘M’ emblazoned on the breast. I catch a glimpse of herringbone pattern—steadfast, stoic—whenever I grab my own coat and run out the door.

II.

My father’s coat accompanies me to college in Wisconsin, though I have no memory of asking him if I could take it. I wear it walking to classes, laughing and kicking through snow drifts with friends on the way to Ivan’s Pizza. Wisconsin winters are stark and cold. The herringbone acts like armor, blunting the sharp winds.

The coat is too big for me, but when I pair it with black biker boots and patterned tights, I love the way it makes me feel: artistic, complicated, like Ally Sheedy in The Breakfast Club. It is a warm, woolen talisman, cloaking me after nasty rows with my boyfriend. When I wear the herringbone with a pink velvet scarf, I am La Boheme! conjugating French verbs while I walk … je travaille, tu travailles, il travaille.

I recall a scene from Flaubert’s novel Madame Bovary: Emma Bovary, fresh from the winter air, lifts her hem to warm her foot by the fire, the allure and power of her well-revealed ankle. The hem of my father’s coat brushes over the tops of my boots when I walk. My calves are strong and young beneath its shelter. I saunter, sing-songing, insouciant, and free.

III.

It’s February. Seated on a cold, steel outdoor bench, I wait for the train. Beneath the elevated platform, office workers escape the manacles of cubicles and conference rooms. I, too, am tethered to the office, and to Chicago rents and utility bills. My father’s coat, now vintage, is admired by colleagues.

Snow sifts down through the mesh muslin sky. I raise the crook of my elbow to my nose and breathe in deeply. The coat’s fibers are still coarse and sturdy, the herringbone pattern so close, familiar. But the memory is thin, a wavering white veil between myself and my childhood.

I can’t see my father’s face to know if he is happy or tired or anxious. I long for the smell of spice, wool, and winter. My black biker boots are long gone, and I have no idea what became of my pink velvet scarf.

I reach back to the classroom: Nous travaillons. We are working.

The train approaches, a rushing ribbon of herringbone on iron wheels, unspooling, unstoppable. I stare at the long track ahead. It bends around the corner and disappears into the distance. Briefcase in hand, I rise and brush the snow from my lap. For the first time I notice that my father’s coat is heavy.

Cheryl Sadowski writes essays and short fiction that explore the connections of everyday life with landscape, literature, art, and the natural world. Her writing appears in About Place Journal, Vita Poetica, Orchards Poetry Journal, EcoTheo Review, Broadkill Review, After the Art, and Bay to Ocean Journal. She lives in Northern Virginia.

Defining Silence

29 June 2023 / Editor

Nonfiction by Candy Hamilton

As I take notes on Latin influence in Indo-European languages, playground noises easily distract me. On the school playground across the street, a dozen or so kids are shifting in some ad hoc football game, full of passes and soprano yells. Long after the bell shrills over the thuds on the playground. Mostly the voices blur, but now and then from my living room rocking chair, I distinctly hear, “No it didn’t go out. No we don’t need ’em.” I have much more to do than watch youngsters celebrating a warm fall day, but nothing better to do than watch surrogates for my grandchildren three hundred miles away, so I lean forward in my chair to peer through the storm door window.

Two kids weave their bicycles through the ad-lib formations without bothering the football players. I’m watching two ballet performances winding through each other. One boy, (They are all boys, I think) taller than the others, already has that loose-limbed walk that comes with adolescence and for some never disappears. Slack arms pumping faster, more flowing than his legs, he moves as if his muscles and bones float in water. He knows nothing about gravity, and his shoulders have a life of their own.

Finally a smaller boy actually catches the ball and runs triumphant toward the fence—straight toward me. If he knew I was here, now standing behind the door, perhaps he’d leap the fence, the road, score his touchdown through my front door. Green Bay style. Perhaps he’d prefer to leap the tree where the birds and squirrels make up the cheering section, or perhaps they sound more like coaches cussing and raising hell over so many dropped passes.

The kids don’t have a running game except for chasing the ball bouncing in its oval wobbles around the paved playground. A break in the action, and finally I notice the empty parking lot—no school today. These boys have scrimmaged through a perfect unending recess while I dreaded the arrival of teachers or a principal full of discipline.

Then the kids start a kicking game, pretty much straight up straight down, so that one kicker catches his own punt—the only catch in this game. Nobody cares. They just want to run, kick, and yell the freedom of their day-off. The bicycles join two rollerbladers, a moving horizontal backdrop to the vertical kicking game.

One last thud and the players disappear, only their voices (words even less discernible) walking back through the trees. They wander off in all directions, pairs, threesome, a little round one churning his legs to keep up, three spans of his legs to the others’ steps. Only the squirrels and birds and I remain to consider an empty, silent playground. Now so many distant words run together, they are like silence; the same as the blend of squirrels, birds, refrigerator hum, my breathing, the occasional turning of a book page, no silence at all.

Having celebrated the freedom of ignoring school bells, the kids go home to complain they have nothing to do. I do not have to hear those words to know they say them.

Candy Hamilton, an award winning journalist and poet, has also published essays and short stories in many literary magazines and national publications. She lives in Rapid City, S.D., with three rescued dogs and a ridiculous number of books.

Julia and Chang

27 June 2023 / Editor

Fiction by Brett Scott

And here’s the opening, the opportunity you’ve been waiting for, Julia told herself, looking in Chang’s direction, who now sat alone on the other side of the garden. His assistant, after seeing him to a comfortable spot and getting all of his various affairs in order, had promptly left him unattended, which was a rarity as far as Julia had seen this week. Although she and Chang had known each other as children, he was eventually transferred to California, leaving the two out of touch. Chang was famous now, and far too good for her, as far as Julia was concerned. In truth, his success was somewhat more modest than she understood, but his image did grace screens and billboards across the country. He had returned to Omaha just a handful of times on his promotional tours, and Julia had finally worked herself up to trying to reconnect with him on his present trip.

The garden was Julia’s favorite place. In the middle of a bustling and chaotic world, she had only this small piece of paradise. The sunlight, filtered through the shade of the lofty trees, gave her body comfort, and the sound of the softly trickling stream gave her spirit peace. And although she couldn’t believe he had started showing up there out of the blue that week, she was overcome with excitement to see him again. Just do it, Julia. It’s now or never, she encouraged herself, standing up from her spot beside the stone wall.

Slowly and nervously making her way across the garden, she watched as some of the passersby took notice of Chang. This was normal for him, she thought. As they smiled and pointed, he simply nodded back politely and resumed his business. Steadily, in only the time it took for her to advance, Chang’s number of gawkers increased to the proportion of a small crowd. Chang remained ever stoic, even as the cluster began pulling out their phones and pointing their cameras toward him.

Chang, peering subtly around the garden in hopes of catching a glimpse of his assistant’s return, instead noticed Julia, who now stood only several yards away beneath the shade of a pine tree. They smiled at each other, and Julia thought she saw his face warm with the spark of recognition. But just as quickly, Chang bowed his head politely, yet indiscriminately, toward her and then resumed anxiously scanning the grounds for his assistant. Discouraged, but not defeated, Julia approached Chang.

“Chang! I—It’s me, Julia.” Again, Chang looked in her direction, but his expression was vague and empty, as though he hadn’t heard her speak at all. Julia swallowed hard and spoke again. “I’m sorry. You might not remember, but we were friends a long time ago… Do you remember? We used to play in this garden. Chang?” Chang stood up and gazed deep into Julia’s eyes. A look crossed him as though he was about to reply. Instead, and without forewarning, he softly tumbled down onto the grass in front of her. “Chang?” Rolling onto his back, belly in the air, he turned his head away from Julia and back towards the direction in which he last saw his assistant. Tears began creeping into Julia’s eyes, but she did her very best to blink them away. “Anyway, Chang, it was nice to see you… And I’m sorry if I’ve bothered you.”

As she walked back towards the pine tree with her head down, she turned to get one last look at Chang. Still lying on his back, he was now grabbing fallen leaves from the ground and tossing them in the air to playfully enjoy their descent. He’s changed so much and yet not at all, she thought—the tears finally breaching from both eyes and rolling down her cheeks. Then, from high atop the stone retaining wall, Julia heard a young girl shout.

“Look, they’re bringing out the food!”

“That’s right, Addie. And what do pandas eat?” The girl’s mother responded.

“Bamboo!” Several of the children shouted in unison, having just learned this fact from the tour guide. The families watched as the enclosure door opened and Chang’s attendant emerged carrying a bundle of bamboo stalks. Chang urgently leapt upward and embraced his attendant with joy, almost knocking the poor teenage boy to the grass. The boy laughed as he surrendered some of the bamboo to Chang, who couldn’t get to work eating it fast enough. Grabbing the remaining stalks, the boy then came up to Julia, who was now lying sullenly in her spot on the other side of the enclosure.

“There there, big girl… He’ll come around one of these days,” he assured her, patting the top of her head and laying the bamboo before her on the rocks. Julia watched as the attendant crossed back through the garden, stopping only to rub Chang’s belly and then exiting through the same door in which he entered. She looked at Chang as he happily munched away, and then up to the families on the ledge, who laughed as they held out their phones—some of the children were doing their very best Chang impressions. Julia laid her head back down on the rock and closed her eyes, hoping the day would just end.

Brett Scott is a writer from the Kansas City area.

My one true love is golden like the sun

25 June 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Riley Davis

My one true love is golden like the sun
With specks of green like the fresh morning grass
Truly, for me you are the only one
That I will want forever in my grasp

I greedily want you all to myself
Since of you, there is not a great bounty
Although you are also selfish yourself
When I’ve had more than my fill, you hurt me

I love you when you are warm and fluffy
As everyone deems you should always be
I love you when you are cold and greasy
For I love you in all states, I decree

You nourish my heart and keep my soul fed
My true love for all of time: garlic bread

Riley Davis‘s eyes were first opened to the world of fiction with Harry Potter when she was eight, and they have not closed since. Although most of her creative work for her college career has been writing for games, she enjoys writing short stories and poems as well.