Category: Fiction (Page 1 of 5)

Estate Sale

19 August 2024 / Editor

Fiction by Deborah Wessell

“Excuse me. Excuse me? Would you take ten for this?” Lois hoisted the tuxedo
pants and jacket before the bored, merciless eyes of the man accepting money.

“Tag says fifteen.”

He was middle-aged, as she was, but lean and weathered, with a graying ponytail
and bare feet. His till was a fishing tackle box. Behind him a Sunday morning crowd
picked over the debris of someone’s life, the husband who had worn the tuxedo and read Sky & Telescope, the wife given to macramé and saving cottage cheese containers. Lois wondered if they were dead, but of course it would be ghoulish to ask.

“I know the tag says fifteen. But it’s not in good shape, and anyway I only have
ten dollars with me, so…”

“So?”

“Never mind,” she murmured, but he cut her off.

“OK, ten.”

Lois was certain that the man knew she had always wanted a tuxedo jacket, just to
wear with jeans, and that she feared she was too old and overweight to carry it off. Well, was he such a prize, with that silly hair and the T-shirt with the rude slogan? She pulled out her wallet and something dropped from her purse: a slip of paper folded around two twenty dollar bills.

“Oh!” said Lois, appalled. “Oh, that’s right, I went to the cash machine last night.
I could, I mean, if you want fifteen…”

The man snorted. “Forget it.”

Lois drove home in mortification, and it was days before she could bring herself to try on her purchase. The pants, at least, made her laugh: clown pants, much too short and huge around the waist, with stiff black suspenders. Then the jacket, heavy on her shoulders. She slid her hands down the lapels and smoothed the skirts over her hips, sighing over the bulges. Then she frowned and explored a miniature inside front pocket. A small rough nugget met her fingertips and she drew it forth: a tiny ivory wedge, smooth-sided, red-brown at the jagged base. A baby tooth.

Lois had a rushing vision of a dark bedroom, a child’s breathing, a slanting slice of light from the hallway. Daddy, with his barrel belly and his suspenders and his satin lapels, on his way to some long-ago fancy night out, steps to the bedside and slips one hand gently under the pillow to exchange a silvery dime for this disgusting little miraculous tooth.

The man in the rude T-shirt, was he that child? Even if he wasn’t, he was a child once, and someone loved him, or didn’t love him. Lois was dizzied by the thought, not only of the man, but of everyone, herself and her own children and her friends and their children and oh Lord, everyone she’d ever met or would never meet and all of them, every individual on this entire warm busy planet, would someday be dead, and there would just be these little things, these objects once significant of love. The thought was marvelous but entirely too much, and Lois threw the tooth away.

Deborah Wessell writes the Wedding Planner mystery series under the name Deborah Donnelly. She is a former librarian, copywriter, and speechwriter. She lives in Bellingham, Washington, with her writer husband and their unruly corgis.

Angel

1 February 2024 / Editor

Fiction by Paul Hadella

“You can say sorry all you want about breaking the lamp,” Mom said at the top of her lungs, “but this isn’t about breaking the lamp.” Then she stomped out of our apartment and slammed the door.

I asked Vince, “What’s she mean? If she’s not mad at us for breaking the lamp, then what’s she mad about?”

“Maybe she meant it’s about the money,” he said.

“The money?” I said.

“That now she has to buy us a new lamp,” my brother said, “and she doesn’t have the money. She never has the money for anything.”

“Do we really need the lamp?” I asked.

“I guess so,” said Vince. “I don’t know.” Then he asked me what I thought she meant.

“Beats me,” I said. “That’s why I asked you.”

“Could be she’s just mad because we’re boys, and boys play rough,” Vince said. “She really wanted girls. How many times has she told us that?”

I said, “She’s just teasing us when she says that.”

“Just teasing?” Vince grumbled. “Get real.”

Anyway, I’m not blaming the broken lamp all on Vince. It’s true, though, that I didn’t start it. He was the one who brought home the tennis racket with two busted strings. He found it on the grass outside Building Five. “It was just laying there,” he told me.

“What good is it?” I asked him.

“Watch,” he said. Then he went into the kitchen and came back with a sponge, just a bit damp, so it had some weight. Then he started whacking the sponge around the living room, using the racket like a hockey stick. “You be the goalie,” he told me.

We slid the coffee table against the wall and made it the goal. Then things got a little out of hand.

Mom walked through the door, home from work, about five minutes after we broke the lamp. She saw we were picking up the pieces.

Right away, Vince said to her, “Sorry for breaking the lamp.” I said it next. Mom tried plugging her temper but couldn’t. She yelled that thing about it not being about the lamp, then left me and my brother standing there in the living room, our heads down.

It wasn’t the first time Mom has stomped out of the apartment. It’s happened, I think, five other times. So me and Vince know how to handle it by now. First, we give Mom about fifteen minutes to cool down before we go get her and bring her back. We know where she’ll be. She walks down to the pond behind the apartment buildings, sits on a bench, and stares at the water.

Here’s how it usually goes.

First, when Mom hears us coming, she scoots to the middle of the bench. That gives me room to sit on one side of her and Vince on the other.

Then I take one of her hands, and Vince takes the other.

Then we all sit there and watch the water for a few minutes. None of us says anything.

Then I tell her I love her. Vince says it next. He should go first, because he’s older, but he always waits for me.

Then we promise we’ll try to behave better, and not make her life so rough.

Then we ask her to please come back home because we can’t live without her.

Then she kisses both of us on the cheek, and we walk back to our apartment together. Mom might even crack a joke or two to show there’s no hard feelings.

That’s how it usually goes—but that’s not how it went yesterday, after we broke the lamp. Not exactly. Yesterday, when me and Vince got to the edge of the parking lot behind Building Ten, we saw Mom down by the pond, just like we expected. She was even sitting on the same bench she always sits on.

Yesterday, though, she wasn’t there alone. She had company. Not a person—but a big white swan. There’s a bunch of swans that live at the pond. Yesterday, all but this one were out on the water, cruising around like little ships. They plowed right through the creases the breeze was making. This other one, though, was sitting on the grass, facing Mom, about ten yards from her and the bench. It looked white as an angel.

Even from where me and Vince had stopped, at the edge of the parking lot, we could tell Mom was talking to the swan. Talking and talking. Her hands moving to her words. You could bet she was telling the swan about our hockey game that got a little out of hand. I could almost hear her saying, “But it isn’t about breaking the lamp.”

The swan bobbed its head up and down as Mom talked. It was like an angel telling Mom, “Yeah, I get exactly what you’re saying, and I take pity on you.”

It even opened its wings and flapped them a couple of times—which made it look even more like an angel—a mighty angel. Maybe by flapping its wings it was giving Mom a blessing.

I spent a year in Catholic school, second grade—which is probably why I saw an angel and Vince just saw a swan. Vince has always gone to public school. He did think of something, though, that didn’t cross my mind. He said, “That swan must be a she.”

Paul Hadella is a journalist, creative writer and musician, living in Ohio. “Angel” is from a series of stories about his childhood on Long Island, New York.

Days After Christmas

31 December 2023 / Editor

Fiction by Gregory Cusumano

The Christmas tree had begun to sag. It actually started to sag several days ago, but it was a slow process— incremental, first the bottom branches drooped, then the next row up, and the next. The pine needles dried, and the trunk slumped to its side. Now, the needles were pallid, and the string lights had slipped low on the branches. It was daytime. The apartment dim, lit from only the front window, which was defused by flurries of snow.

The new Christmas gifts had been opened, played with, and now set up neatly in all their new homes around the living room. The hollow green Castle Grayskull, with its skeleton face, mouth for a drawbridge, sat at the foot of the tree. Across from it, next to the sofa, was the purple snake-like castle of Skeletor. A landspeeder sat above it on the side table, accompanied by a 4″ plastic Luke Skywalker on his Tauntaun battling a fluffy white horned monster called a Wompa.

On the TV stand, the new Donkey Kong Jr. and Q*bert video cartridges were lined up with the other Atari games next to a Zenith box tube television set.

Yes, all the presents had found a home except for the lone package beneath the tree. Its paper was crinkled, the rips taped, torn again, and re-taped again with stronger masking tape.

The name tag lost days ago.

A strong wind whistled past the window, making it shudder. “Will you get off of there?” the mom said as she dragged a large suitcase into the living room. She was dressed for traveling, comfy jeans, a sweater, and sneakers.

“No,” said the boy sitting by the window, his nose pressed against the glass. He was almost too big to be sitting on the sill. Once upon a time, he could crawl along it with ease. Now, at nine, he had to balance carefully.

“It’s too cold to be sitting that close to the window.”

“I’m not cold.”

“I’m cold just looking at you, and it’s time to go. I’d like to get on the road before the weather gets really bad.”

“Can we wait a little longer?”

“We’re going to be late.”

“Half-hour?”

“Fifteen minutes.”

“Ok.”

“Can you at least get off of there and put on a sweater?”

“No!” said the boy, not looking at her. He was intent on staying there all day if he had to. He didn’t care if they spent New Year’s Eve with his cousins. He was half-hoping that they would get snowed in.

His mother came over to him, putting her arms around him. “You’re freezing. Come on, let’s get down.”

He didn’t budge.

Outside, a handful of kids dressed in snow gear entered the courtyard of their apartment complex, whooping and chasing after each other, throwing snowballs. “Nicky and Joel are outside. It looks like they are having a good time. Why don’t you go out and play with them? It’s as good as waiting here.”

“I’d rather stay here.”

“It will be more fun with your friends.”

“Can you call again?”

“I called already. There was no answer.”

“If you call him again, maybe, he’ll answer this time.”

“I’ve called! He swore he would be here Christmas morning. Then the next day and the next, and now today,” she looked at her watch. “He’s five hours late. No, I will not call him again. We should get on the road.”

The boy pushed his tongue against the back of his front teeth, crinkling his lips and nose, holding back the brimming tears.

“Please,” his lower lip trembled.

“If you get off there, I’ll call him again.”

The boy didn’t budge.

“Suit yourself.”

The boy watched the kids play. The chase had ended. Now, they were behind the short leafless hedges on the courtyard area that, in a different season, would be green with a manicured clipped lawn. They were building a snowman.

The flurries were picking up. Maybe he would get his wish. A gust rattled the window. The snow was making it hard to see. Yet the boy steadfastly continued to search. Then, in the distance, near the road, a man entered the courtyard. He was bundled in a parka, his arms laden with packages.

“HE’S HERE!”

The boy leaped from the window sill, running across the living room, hopping into his boots, tearing open the door, and bounding down the stairs.

“Wait, your coat!” his mom yelled out to him. THUMP – THUMP – THUMP, the sound of his boots thumping down the stairs to the front door.

He turned the knob, cold to his ungloved hand. It spun, he pulled the door open, and he was hit with a windy, white torrent of flakes. Wiping it away, he plowed ahead, running as best he could, slipping at times but righting himself before he could fall. He ran up to the man in the parka holding the packages.

“Hello,” said the mailman with a smile.

His face went gaunt.

“Hi,” said the boy. He blinked. One tear appeared, then the next. No matter how hard he pressed his tongue against his teeth, he couldn’t keep back the thing he had so successfully suppressed in the past.

From behind him, his mother approached with a coat. He slipped his arms into its sleeves. She zippered it for him. “You always have me.”

“I know.”

“Is that enough?”

“I don’t know.”

“Me either.”

They walked side by side back through the courtyard. She knew better than to offer her hand. After a time, he offered his. She accepted. The snow drifting around them, sometimes in torrents, sometimes in flurries.

“Do you want me to call him?”

“No,” said the boy, less sullen, “I think it’s time to go.”

Greg Cusumano‘s love of storytelling began at a young age sitting at his grandparent’s table for the traditional Italian Sunday meal. He is mainly known for his work as a film and television editor; his recent credits include Grey’s Anatomy, Teen Wolf The Movie and Wolf Pack. This is his first published story.

Christmas

17 December 2023 / Editor

Fiction by Ernest Troost

She snatched the moon from the winter sky and buried it in the stubbled field. When she was done, the old lab sniffed the fresh dirt.

She walked back towards the house with the dog at her side, their breath little puffs in the dark. She could smell the wood smoke from her neighbor’s chimney. Fat snowflakes floated slowly down through the light from the corner streetlamp. The night was still, except for the soft jiggling of the dog dragging its leash.

What had he said? “I like it here on the coast. I’m going to stay.”

And then, nothing but the soft wash of white noise, sloshing between relay towers, through transmission lines, across the 3,000 miles between them.

She let the dog in and leaned the shovel against the house. She took one more look up at the December sky and thought, tomorrow night I’ll put out the stars.

Ernest Troost is an Emmy-winning film composer, and Kerrville New Folk winning songwriter. He is also a writer of essays and short stories when he is not composing music.

Say It With a Smile

13 October 2023 / Editor

Fiction by Melissa Witcher

Tory’s lips form the first syllable but no sound comes from her throat. Conversation swirls around them, voices rising and falling, people coming and going. She pinches the bridge of her nose. She recently read that there were three systems necessary for voice: the respiratory, phonatory, and resonatory systems. She only vaguely recalls learning about the resonatory system, and wonders if that was why she can’t say sorry.

She is not an overly apologetic woman. In 3rd grade, she was the new kid in a suburban school where everyone knew each other. At lunch, she sat at one of the long formica tables in the cafeteria and said something funny. A girl with silky brown hair and a striped blue shirt had laughed, milk coming out of her nose. It never occurred to Tory to apologize—she wanted to do it again. She looked it up to better understand; it happened because of the uvula.

She looks across the round table and Chris’ pursed lips make it obvious that he is waiting for an apology. If she doesn’t say it now it will require further explanation and more extensive effort later. She puts up one finger and balances her head up and down. Her throat is dry and her tongue burns as it pushes against the back of her teeth. She tries again, her mouth opens, but the only noise she produces is the wet sound of her tongue moving.

The offense occurred during a simple thought exercise: who is best equipped to survive the apocalypse? It is no longer a hypothetical situation, with global pandemics and the climate crisis and the rise of machine intelligence, they are literally living through the test run, but it is still far off enough (5-10-15 years?) that the topic wavers between necessary and humorous.

Tory has no desire to survive chaos. She is fine with no hot water, it’s better for her skin, but no running water? No electricity or functioning food supply chain, no ready-made clothes, no medical services, no random internet searches to explain bodily functions? Really truly, no thank you. As such, her stakes in these discussions are very low. If zombies are a real thing, or a meteor hits, or fungi eat brains, or a virus wipes out 80% of the population, she wants to be the first to go.

She picks up her glass of pop, Vernors for an upset stomach made worse by Chris’ apocalyptic aspirations. The glass is wet with condensation and bubbles race to the top, desperate to explode. She gulps down the amber liquid fast, swallows hard, and opens her mouth before closing it in defeat.

Something that never ceases to amaze her is how intensely others want to survive. It shouldn’t surprise her—history is filled with humans enduring impossible-horrible-terrifying situations because of the sheer will to live—but she is still caught off guard by how ardently people insist they can do the same. Chris is one of those people; her comment that his quick texting fingers and a charming ability to never pay full portion when they ate out won’t get you very far when cell towers and diners don’t exist hadn’t gone over well.

Instead of agreeing, the group fell silent and his nostrils flared. When he’d jutted his chin out and crossed his arms over his chest she knew that an apology, not deep but at least sincere, needed to be made. She hurt his feelings, wounded his self-image, questioned his very essence, and he wanted her to take it back. Even if she was most likely right.

She opens her mouth again and knows it will not happen.

Instead, her burp is loud enough to silence those around them and startle Chris into dropping his arms to his sides. During the ensuing collective laughter, she makes eye contact with him and mouths the word. He nods in reluctant acceptance and taps out a message on his cell phone quicker than she ever can. She smiles with tears in her eyes, relieved that an accumulation of air in her esophagus diffused the tension and that their inevitable deaths won’t happen with any lingering resentment.

Melissa Witcher (she/ela) is a self-taught writer, collagist, muralist, and embroidery artist. She was born in Brazil, raised in the U.S. and has lived in São Paulo since 2011. Her writing has appeared in 805 Lit + Art and Panorama Journal.

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Artificial Lawn

12 August 2023 / Editor

Fiction by Amy Akiko

He flutters past concrete at the back of houses, knows the slabbed rectangles will not feed him. But look, up ahead, a square of green promise, his own emerald city of grass and worms and slugs and larvae. Swooping down, he prepares to peck into the lifegiving soil, but his beak is rebuffed by an unyielding ground―a manmade sheet of death for the fauna beneath.

Amy Akiko is an educator, journalism graduate and writer from South London. She enjoys creating various forms of fiction including poetry, children’s stories, flash and short stories. Her work is soon to appear in The Tiger Moth Review, and she is currently editing her first novel.

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Changes

25 July 2023 / Editor

Fiction by Brian Daldorph

“The only thing that changes,” Sheila says, “is that nothing changes.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I say.

Sheila’s been taking night classes at Juco, and she reads books of poetry in the kitchen while I’m watching TV. We used to sit together on the couch, our thighs pressed together, our arms around each other, and I’d tell her things about the nature shows I watch all the time.

Do you know how much a grizzly bear eats in a day?

Do you know how fast a tiger shark swims?

Which is bigger, the Taj Mahal or a humpbacked whale?

Sheila would ask me how I knew these cool things and I’d say, “I’m just a smart guy, that’s why you married me.”

But now she’s the one telling me things about Buddhism and poetry and this Russian story about a rich man falling off a chair, hitting his side and then he’s dying and his family and colleagues gather like vultures waiting to feast.

“What’s the big deal about that?” I say. “That’s what happened when my Uncle Alex got sick.” (We all thought he had money, but we were wrong).

Sheila asks me if she can read me one of her poems, so I say, “OK, just wait until after my show, please, because this is really interesting. It’s about tarantulas down in New Mexico and the border states.”

The show ends and slides into another about hyenas, and I keep watching though I know Sheila’s hovering, poem in hand. She’s in bed after the hyena show, turned away from me.

I don’t mind her doing some of what she’s doing but not all of it because we had things really nice just the way they were so why make changes?

I’ll tell her in the morning that I’d like to hear her poem, please, and tell her too that I bought chocolates for her. I put them in back of the refrigerator and forgot to tell her about them. She can write a poem about them, about how just like love they’re dark and sweet but sometimes difficult to find.

Brian Daldorph teaches at the University of Kansas and Douglas County Jail.

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.

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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.

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