The Bluebird Word

An Online Literary Journal for Poetry and Flash

Category: Fiction (Page 3 of 5)

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Spruce

8 December 2022 /

Special Selection for the 2022/2023 Winter Holiday Issue

Fiction by Austin Gilmore

Do you know who cared where it came from? Absolutely no one.

Most thought, and I admit I was one of them, it was a lightning strike that turned a pile of discarded Christmas trees into one gigantic, murderous Spruce. Others believed a more nuanced story, something about it being born from vengeance, going from being the center of every household’s holiday celebration to being tossed out like a piece of trash. I couldn’t track that one, but now I see my explanation wasn’t much better.

I didn’t know what to believe after that mountain of thrown out Christmas trees mysteriously disappeared, leaving only a trail of needles leading deep into the woods of Franklin Park. But there it stood, a gargantuan Spruce that wasn’t there the day before.

And do you know who cared? Absolutely no one.

The town gave a collective shrug and went on with their lives. But it bothered me. I call it The Detective Nag. Trees don’t just appear out of thin air. But that’s a soap box you can’t stand on for very long. When I heard myself saying wild things like “Trees don’t grow on trees!” I knew I had to stop and just accept the anomaly like everyone else.

Winter turned to Spring and life went on as usual. I avoided driving by Franklin Park whenever I could. The rare times I had to, when I saw the tip of the Spruce high above the other trees gashing clouds and sky, it felt like it was watching me, like it was watching everyone. Like it was biding its time.

Halloween and Thanksgiving came and went. Christmas lights were hung, Santa’s face popped up in the windows of businesses, and Braxton Sifers was found in the bullseye of our Target, his ravaged body held up by jagged sticks and pine needles.

That was December 1st.

Amanda Girouxi was discovered in her parked LeSabre, a tree limb the size of a light pole kabobbed both body and car.

That was December 2nd.

Larry Atchity was found bobbing face down in his jacuzzi, with a wreath of dense pine needles wrapped tightly around his neck, both carotid arteries expertly gashed.

That was December 3rd.

I went to my old station for the first time since I was forced into retirement and laid out my theory. “It’s the Spruce. There’s gonna be twenty-two more bodies if we don’t do something about it!”

And do you know who believed my theory? Absolutely no one. They laughed me out of the bullpen. And as the next few days passed without another body, I began to understand why they had. It was ridiculous theory, a murderous Spruce.

But I was right, there were other bodies. It just took a few days to find them.

It was like living in a macabre Advent calendar. Every new December day we’d wake to find another loved one torn apart by tree limbs, gutted by bark. It wasn’t until we started using the Super Food Barn freezer as a make-shift morgue, packed tight with fifteen mutilated bodies, that people started to believe my absurd theory.

Like modern day townspeople with torches and pitchforks, we all met up at Franklin Park and waited for some brave soul to volunteer to go in and cut down the Spruce. It was Shane Schefter who finally spoke up, wearing his letterman’s jacket, only a month removed from bringing home his second State championship. That damn Shane Schefter, if anyone could do it, it would be him. He tugged the cord of a chainsaw and heroically disappeared into the darkness of the woods.

We cheered at the sound of the chainsaw grinding into fresh wood. We high-fived as limbs crashed to the ground. We dove for cover when Shane shot out of the woods crashing like a meteorite into the side of his F150, his chest stabbed with so many tree shards it looked like the top of a pineapple.

Some packed up and moved that very night. The rest of us stayed, hoping to ride out the rest of the holiday season, hiding in our basements like we were stuck in a permanent Tornado Warning. I spent those ensuing days listening to Christmas carols, wrapping presents, and formulating a plan, only catching its movement a handful of times. The sounds though, you couldn’t miss. The shimmering shuffle of the needles in motion, the crack of limbs making its attack, the screams of its daily kill.

On Christmas Day, I put my plan into action. I went for a walk, hoping by then the
Spruce had claimed its final victim of the holiday season. I stepped over bodies of friends, with thick branches sticking out of their chests and needles in their eyes. Each step emboldened my plan even more.

I was going to burn it down.

I pulled out the engraved lighter the department gave me for thirty years of service, flicked it lit and tossed it into the darkness of Franklin Park. From a park bench I sat alone, watching my town fill with smoke and ash, dramatically humming Santa Claus Is Coming to Town.

As the sun rose on the morning of the 26th, so did the people from their seasonal hiding places, only to find what I had been staring at since the fire died down hours before. The blackened remains of the woods, with the Spruce untouched standing at the charred center.

And do you know who cared? Absolutely no one.

The town gave a collective shrug, and with the holiday season over, they went back to their lives like nothing had happened. “What about the Spruce?” I’d ask anyone who would listen, the Detective Nag taking over.

“Eh, Christmas is a long way off. We’ll figure something out.”

And there it still stands. Watching us. Biding its time for the temperature to drop, for Thanksgiving to pass, and for its reign of terror to begin again.

Austin Gilmore is an Art Director and gallery artist, who co-ran Kevin Costner’s production company for 7 years. He is passionate about donuts.

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The Christmas Tree Shop

4 December 2022 /
Special Selection for the 2022/2023 Winter Holiday Issue

Fiction by Derville Quigley

There is a Christmas Tree Shop where the chemist used to be. I work there. Today an old man and his daughter passed through. The man had a slight American accent and the look of a returned expat. He was dapper, carried a blackthorn stick, wore a long tweed coat and a knitted woollen hat.

“We would like one of your finest trees,” said his daughter.

“At a good price,” he piped up.

She smiled lovingly at him while throwing her eyes to heaven. With that he turned on his heel and walked to the far end, to explore the shop on his own.

“I love the smell. Daddy, don’t you just love the smell?”

He was ignoring her, lifting his stick to poke the trunk of a tree on display. The sign said, Non-shed Trees For Sale and he saw hundreds of pine needles scattered on the ground.

“We normally have an artificial one, but this year I have persuaded Mum and Dad to get a real one,” she told me.

“What do you think of that tree in the corner, Dad?”

“No,” was his adamant reply.

“Tell me about them,” she said.

So I told her how they were all Noble fir grown on the side of a mountain in County Wicklow. Grand, full trees. Sixteen years old. No trimming necessary.

“What do you think Dad?”

“I think you’re wasting your time,” he replied.

Her smile dropped and she walked over to the trees still packed in their netting. Bing Crosby sang of days merry and bright. There was a low fog and the lights glowed red, green and blue on the tree outside the courthouse. Meanwhile the old man was bent over his stick, looking at the pine needles lying everywhere. For a precious moment, the three of us were suspended in silence, in the fog.

“Show me one, which is seven foot and full right up to the top. I don’t want gaps and I want a bushy one,” she said sharply.

“Dad do you want to sit down?” she asked.

“No,” he replied.

“Okay we’ll take this one,” she said pointing to a large tree, wrapped and close at hand.

“Dad I’m going to pay for it and don’t tell Mum how much it cost.”

He took no notice of her. “I’m just going to bring the car back around and go to the bank machine. You stay here.”

She left the shop and he relaxed although looked weary. I faced the chair towards him and he sat down.

“Which one did she pick?” he asked clutching his stomach.

“This one,” I said.

He looked frail and tired and although genuinely interested he seemed to have more energy when despondent.

“I have birds in my chest,” he said. “I can feel them, their beaks pecking through my ribs. Sometimes they sing to me. There are six of them.”

He smiled with a wink.

“I was in hospital, treated for cancer and the damn bastard thing is back. I tell ya, I’m going to drink a lot of whiskey before I go. When a doctor tells a sick man to carry on as normal and don’t change his lifestyle, that’s when he knows he’s had it. Dr. Dutton told me not to listen to my wife…to do whatever I want to do. Not listen to my wife…and now we’re getting a real tree.”

For a moment he looked terribly frightened and then he started to laugh. We both laughed and snorted as tears streamed down our faces. “It’s getting dark now,” he said, sobered by the thought. She came back red-nosed with her purse in hand.

She was muttering to herself, “I’m going to be all right with the tree. I think I’ll be able to manage it in the car.” She handed me twenty euro.

“Did you ask the girl for a discount?”

“No, Dad, I didn’t.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “‘”I can’t give any discounts. They’re not my trees.” He stood up straight and poked another tree.

“I would have preferred that one myself, anyway I thought our plan was to leave by sunset.”

“Dad, I still have to collect the turkey,” she said, and with that pulled the large, awkward, prickly tree out the door.

Derville Quigley is a writer and poet based in the Netherlands. She is co-founder of Strange Birds, a migratory writing collective and a co-organiser of Writers Flock, an international writers’ festival. Visit www.dervillequigley.net for more info.

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In Deep December

1 December 2022 /
Special Selection for the 2022/2023 Winter Holiday Issue

Fiction by Zan Bockes

When Jo got home from the hospital where her husband lay comatose, the house blazed with Christmas decorations he’d put up and connected to a timer just after Thanksgiving. Every evening since, the reindeer and sleigh on the roof lit up automatically. The large plastic Santa loomed above the icy shingles, and a series of inflatable candy canes danced across the snow-covered yard. Cheery elves rocked back and forth and a red-nosed reindeer turned its face slowly side to side. The crèche radiated a soft yellow, the three wise men and animals peacefully gathered in the rough wooden enclosure.

Merrill spent weeks ahead of time positioning ladders and climbing on the roof, hanging looping strands of colored bulbs around the gutters and windows. When it was all done, when the cords connected and electricity surged through every circuit, the three-bedroom split level leaped from darkness like the Big Bang. Neighbors gathered for the event, and their cul-de-sac overflowed with cars driving by in a long line to observe the spectacle.

Jo again resolved to hire the teenaged boy next door to take it all down as soon as possible—the gaiety seemed false and irreverent with Merrill strung with tubes and wires that ironically mirrored the display at their house.

Three days ago, the surgeon removed a blood clot from Merrill’s aorta and replaced it with a stent, a tiny mesh cylinder to keep the artery open and blood flowing. Jo related the details to their son, who would fly in with his wife and three young children the next day. The thought of noise and commotion drained her. She hadn’t had time for baking or shopping for presents, every spare moment taken up by visits with Merrill.

Once inside, Jo took off her coat and hung it in the hall closet. She heated up a cup of milk in the microwave and turned out the hall light, sinking into an easy chair with her head against the lace doily on the back. The lights in the juniper bush outside flashed in random sequences, casting shadows of branches and needles across the ceiling.

This might be Merrill’s last Christmas, she thought. No more festivities and decorations, laughter and singing. No one to lie next to when the night grew deep and sleep descended.

Perhaps she could ask God politely for a reprieve. It seemed important not to be too demanding or greedy. Just one more year to watch the grandchildren grow, to pay off the house…

She tried to picture the vague deity she hesitantly worshipped. She saw an old man, rigid, gray-bearded, and unlikely to bestow favors, especially to those who otherwise rarely consulted Him. From the clouds above, He orchestrated all that happened on Earth and punished those who questioned His power. But she doubted He would answer her request, or that a prayer could make any difference in the outcome.

Through the frost-feathered glass, the scene in the front yard blazed across the deep snow. The plastic baby Jesus in his bed of fresh straw glowed like an oracle.

The wind was picking up. The tinfoil star on top of the crèche shivered. The colored bulbs winked on their frozen wires, ticking against the windows.

Jo stared absently at the doll’s swaddled body. A curious shadow drifted back and forth across its face, and as she tried to identify its source, the scene suddenly went black. Jo blinked against the darkness. Maybe a fuse had blown. She thought of opening the fuse box, but she knew nothing about what was inside. That had always been Merrill’s territory.

Or perhaps a transformer in the neighborhood had lost power. But the Reynolds’ Christmas tree across the way still reflected its colored lights in the ice rutted street.

Maybe the wind was responsible—a power line was down, lying like a snake in the back yard, electrocuting any live animal that ventured near. She thought of stepping out into the electric snow, her charred body sizzling under the bulbous yellow moon.

Next door, the streetlight still shone, snowflakes circling through its illuminated cone. The cuckoo clock on the piano whistled twelve times.

Jo tried to resist the idea that God’s hand descended from the heavens, compelling her to repent or submit. She didn’t believe in omens, really. But she whispered a clumsy prayer nevertheless. “Please, God. Help me…”

Wind buffeted the house, driving snowflakes against the windows. Jo’s hands trembled as she felt for the lamp beside her chair. As she turned the switch, she recalled the timer Merrill had set to extinguish all the Christmas lights at midnight.

Oh, she thought.

Zan Bockes (pronounced “Bacchus”) earned an MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Montana. Her work appears in numerous publications, and she has had four Pushcart Prize nominations. Her first poetry collection, Caught in Passing, was released in 2013. Another collection, Alibi for Stolen Light, appeared in 2018.

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Suspension

18 November 2022 /

Fiction by Michele Annable

She’s so cold that her teeth smash together, and the wind creeps up her sleeves and pant legs like little ice imps. When she looks down, she sees the pink rosettes of her slippers. It’s a winter’s day. December, she thinks.

Who dressed her this morning? It was one of those women, always pushing her: “Here, take your pills, Joan. Brush your teeth.” That’s what started it, the constant hurrying when she didn’t want to. How simple it was, after all. Just push open the big glass entrance doors and walk right through. No one yelled. No one followed.

It’s very bright in the world outside. She has to hold up her hands to her eyes. The sun hits the salt on the road, shatters into rays of light. On both sides of the street, people are dressed in puffy winter clothes, like big colourful balloons. Everyone looks happy. The trees crackle as their remaining leaves turn in the wind. She wants to keep walking forever, as long as her legs will carry her, but she knows she should get off the road somewhere, to be safe. They will come after her.

A bright red hand floating in mid-air tells her to wait, wait, wait. She sees her small self in the window of a passing car. Face all scrunched up. Her eyes meeting eyes behind the dark glass. Frightened, she crosses the street against the traffic. Cars blare their horns, and she freezes in the middle. She scuttles across the busy road, her slippers sliding, and reaches the other side. The dark park looms ahead. There, only the treetops are brushed with light.

She knows this park. Knows that on the path ahead there is a suspension bridge she has been visiting all her life. As a teenager, shrieking with excitement as her boyfriend shook the cables at one end. He made her bounce and wobble as she tried to balance in the middle. As a young woman, she came with her kids, always so anxious about them. Later, she came with her seniors’ hiking group. 

Inside the park and out of breath, she sits at the base of a huge evergreen, her back against the solid trunk. The tree whispers to her. “Where to? Where to now?”

Small knots of people move past her, stare and look away. No wonder. Look at the way she is dressed! They probably think she is a…what’s the word? There’s a word. She can’t get it. It slips away into the darkness of her thoughts like an arrow.

Her mind deserts her now, and she is like the tree, breathing in, breathing out. She has a sharp pain somewhere. Is it her stomach? Or her legs?  A crow toes its way across the path, looking at her with one eye and then the other. He’s big and shiny and frightening. Her heart thuds. 

“What are you doing here?” he asks in a hoarse voice. Terrified, she stumbles forward onto her hands and knees, then scrambles down the stairs onto the suspension bridge. This is the only way to cross the ravine.  

She starts out, heel, toe, heel, toe, hands like claws clutching the cold steel railing. The swaying begins. She can’t catch the rhythm, her steps too slow, too heavy. She grabs the mesh with her frozen hands and gasps. Down below is the river. The rocks. The rushing torrent of water. Should she let go and let herself fall over the edge? Falling through the air, one last moment in the world. Air, water, rocks, body.

Halfway across, she looks back. Then ahead. She is suspended above the cold green river. Her mouth opens to call for help, then clamps shut. They would put her back in that place and she would never get out again. She takes one small step, then another, and she is across. Tears slide down her frozen cheeks.

Under a cluster of trees, she finds a patch of leaves and needles untouched by ice or snow, like a blanket. She sits and stretches her legs. Sees that she has lost her slippers, and that her feet are now purple lumps. She digs them deep into the soft needles, pulls her jacket tighter around her, closes her swollen eyes.

Slowly and almost imperceptibly, she feels vibrations passing into her from the tree, as if it were nurturing her. Bit by bit, her body ceases to matter. She remembers the things of her life that she has forgotten for so long, recalls them fondly as if saying goodbye. Husband, kids, love, sleep, sex, skin, ocean, sand, mountains.

She lies back and gives in to the enfolding warmth.

Michele Annable is a writer and teacher living in West Vancouver. She is an emerging writer with two short stories published in Room and Prairie Journal Online.

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Mid-Summer Saturday

7 November 2022 /

Fiction by John Sheirer

2:10 p.m.: He awoke with an insect crawling inside his left ear. 2:05 p.m.: Darkness. Only darkness. 2:04 p.m.: He was surprised to notice the unscuffed red paint on the underside of the wheelbarrow. 2:03 p.m. The leaves rustled in the swaying treetops even though there was no wind. 2:01 p.m.: Sweat stung his eyes as he leaned on the sledgehammer handle. 1:38 p.m.: He split the first chunk of wood, beginning the pile for that night’s neighborhood firepit gathering. 1:36 p.m.: “Of course I won’t overdo it,” he assured his wife as he stepped from their air conditioned home.

John Sheirer lives in Western Massachusetts and is in his 30th year of teaching at Asnuntuck Community College in Enfield, Connecticut. His latest book is the award-winning short story collection, Stumbling Through Adulthood: Linked Stories. Find him at JohnSheirer.com.

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Dear Anthony

4 November 2022 /

Fiction by Alison Sanders

A week later he was still numb with shock, and as he stood staring at the kitchen floor Anthony searched for signs of her there – a crumb from a bagel she’d toasted, maybe a strand of long, brown hair. He found nothing, and the fridge hummed loudly, and he wondered how long he could go on in this empty house.

He’d stopped crying. He’d turned off his phone, ignored the knocks at the door. He wasn’t hiding, exactly. He’d simply gone silent – bewildered and hurt, like a child slapped by his mother for the first time.

There was movement outside the kitchen window and Anthony saw it was the mail carrier. The young man wore sunglasses and pleated shorts, and he strolled up to the mailbox at the end of the driveway, inserted a tidy handful of envelopes, then continued on to the next house, eyes on the stack of mail in his arms. A car drove past, and the mailman glanced up, gave a small wave. It all seemed so casual, so efficient. So indifferent. Anthony had to look away, back to the kitchen floor. How dare he, he thought. How dare that man deliver mail like it’s any other day? And how dare the person in that car just drive and wave and live their life? How dare the sun shine, how dare the earth spin.

He realized he hadn’t checked the mail since the accident. This was a Thing Which Must Be Done. There were things like that – tasks which took all of his energy, all of his strength, every ounce of willpower he had, but he knew he had to do them. The hardest was walking out of the hospital and leaving her there, knowing that as soon as he left they’d pull a sheet over her face and roll her to the basement. The thought of her alone in the dark made him howl inside. How could he leave her? But he knew he had no choice. He’d stared at his feet, willing them to move, left – right – left – right, down the hall, through the sliding doors, out into the terrifying cruel sunlight. Then there was getting out of bed a few days later. It took hours to convince himself. Hours of staring at the ceiling and willing himself to move. But he did it, eventually. He got up. He rubbed his face, which felt puffy and soft in his hands, and he drank a glass of water. There were just some things, he knew, which still needed to be done.

He stepped out into the soft evening light. In the mailbox he found a small stack of envelopes. He carried them inside and placed them on the kitchen counter, then took a step back for a moment and watched the small pile. What stirred in him was not just exhaustion from having just completed one Thing Which Must Be Done, but also a growing dread. It was the realization that her name might be on some of that mail, and the fear of what would happen in his heart if he had to see that. He couldn’t do it. He stared at the stack and for a moment all he could hear was his own breath, shallow in his throat.

But the envelope on top was addressed only to him. In slanted block letters. After a pause he eased it open. It was a thick card with a watercolor painting of a tree on the front. Inside were handwritten words, in a shaky scrawl which leaned to the right as if blown by a strong wind: “Dear Anthony, We’re so sorry for your loss. May God wrap His loving arms around you. Love, Bill and Connie Matsumoto.” Matsumoto? For a moment his mind was blank. The old folks in the little grey house down the street? He barely knew them, other than casually waving as he drove to and from work. He tried but couldn’t recall the last time he’d said a word to either of the Matsumotos.

But now he pictured them together, wearing their matching sneakers with Velcro tabs, driving to the store, for him. He imagined them shuffling down the card aisle to the SYMPATHY section, choosing a card, for him. He pictured Connie sitting at her kitchen table, with a ballpoint pen gripped in her tiny hand, writing those words. And he pictured Bill – his bald head like a speckled egg – placing the envelope inside their mailbox, raising their little metal flag. For him.

He reread the note, and held that card for a long time, staring at the tree on the front. After a while, emboldened maybe, he flipped through the rest of the envelopes. They were all addressed just to him. And so he opened the next, and the one after that, and in between each he paused, and at some point he found his face wet with tears. He stacked the cards neatly on the counter and placed one hand on top, and in that moment he was overwhelmed with such gratitude he could hardly breathe. This world. It could be so cruel, so vicious, so unfair. And then, suddenly, so kind. So beautiful it could break your heart.

Alison Sanders‘ work has been published in Stanford Magazine and is forthcoming in Seaside Gothic. She lives in Santa Cruz, California and is working on her first novel.

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You Never Know

26 October 2022 /

Fiction by Paul Dubitsky

My very first class, on my very first day of High School was English. How could I possibly like English class? I didn’t like to read. I didn’t like to write. I expected it to be my least favorite.

My English teacher, Ms. Mac, assigned seats alphabetically. Mine: second row, first desk.

Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.

She asked the class, “What did you read this summer?”

“What did you read?” What a dumb question. It was summer; I didn’t read. Sure, this was the class with the smart kids, but c’mon.

She called on each of us. Up and down the rows. I heard all kinds of answers, The Great Gatsby, Great Expectations, War and Peace.  

Are you kidding me? War and Peace?

My turn next. Think man, think.

The teacher stared right at me. “What about you?” 

I thought I might impress her with honesty. “It was summer, I didn’t read…wait. I did read the newspaper.”

Was that a smirk? Or hint of a smile?  She asked, “What did you read in the newspaper?”

Fair question. Deserves an honest answer.

“The Daily News. The sports pages. I follow the Mets.”  That oughta  impress her.

Ms. Mac put a hand on her hip, turned away and stared out the window. She seemed lost in thought. She slowly shook her head. It seemed that we shared a common thought, this could be a long year.

Finally, she turned away from the window and looked back at me and asked, “If someone called you the epitome of asinine stupefaction, would you be angry or pleased?”

I shrugged, then decided to give honesty another chance. “I don’t know.”

This couldn’t get any worse. But wait, it could, and it did. In the third row, second desk, diagonally back from me, sat the prettiest girl I had ever seen. I heard her whisper, “What a jerk.”

The teacher walked closer to me. She leaned in, resting her hand on the corner of my desk. She smiled, not a smirk, a warm, caring smile. In a soft gentle voice, meant only for me, she quietly said,  “That’s why you need to read.”

Life is funny. Ms. Mac became my favorite teacher. That pretty girl became my wife.

You never know. It turns out, they both valued honesty. As for me?  I still read about the Mets. You never know.

Paul Dubitsky is a retired, medical professional who has been encouraged to write by friends who have enjoyed his stories.

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A Special Place

15 October 2022 /

Fiction by Laurel DiGangi

Judith and Marlon sat on their veranda, sipping Château Lafite Rothschild and nibbling chunks of a divine French brie. The setting sun painted the clouds above and ocean below in iridescent strokes of color. But they didn’t know what specific ocean they viewed, nor could they describe the colors since they didn’t exist on the spectrum.

A year earlier, Pastor Ned had told Judith, Marlon, and the rest of his congregation that there was a special place in heaven for those who put their total faith in the Lord. Believers, true believers, did not need masks, vaccines, seat belts, safety razors, smoke alarms, carbon monoxide detectors, or non-slip bathmats.

Now, here they were, the both of them.

A trio of humpback whales breached in the distance.

“Magnificent creatures!” announced Marlon.

“Yup,” said Judith, but they only reminded her of their three grandchildren. She tried not to miss them because she felt guilty when she did, as if wishing for their early demise. 

Suddenly Marlon sprung from his lounge chair. “I think I’ll go for a run,” he said.

“Have fun,” said Judith, but she was thinking, “Don’t come back.”  If it weren’t for Marlon, she could be jangling her hip scarf at belly dance lessons or helping her grandkids look for seashells and hermit crabs on a real, living beach. Instead she’d spent her last semi-conscious days traumatizing them, their parents, and her friends—including a special friend who couldn’t visit her in intensive care because their friendship was, well, secret.

Judith felt achingly lonely. Sensing this, her lifetime’s accumulation of dogs, five mutts, a dachshund and a Lab, ran out the back door to join her. A plate of doggie treats and chocolate chip macadamia nut cookies appeared. The dogs sat in a row on their haunches and waved their forepaws in the air like little beggars. They were never this well-behaved when alive, but rowdy or polite, they were now one of her few joys.  

She tossed treats at the dogs. She ate the cookies. And no matter how many she ate, more would appear. She tried a dog treat, just for fun. It tasted like ambrosia.

Judith leaned back and cracked open her book, a tell-all memoir written by her favorite actor after his death. The dachshund jumped on her lap, waves churned in the distance, and by page 12, she had fallen into a light slumber.

When she awoke, Marlon was hovering above her, scowling.

“The people down the shore have a gazebo,” he said. “And a fire pit, hot tub, and swimming pool.”

“Cool,” said Judith. “Maybe they’ll invite us over.”

“No. Not cool. We deserve everything they have, plus maybe a fifty-foot catamaran and our own private pier!”

“What makes you think we deserve anything?”

“We were specifically told, a special place in heaven!” Judith had no words. All she could do was glare at her husband. She glared for a long, long time, as time was now mockingly irrelevant.

Laurel DiGangi’s writing has been published in The Chicago Reader, Denver Quarterly, Fourth Genre, Asylum, Atlanta Quarterly, Cottonwood, Two Hawks Quarterly, and Under the Gum Tree, among others. A Chicago-born, former graphic designer and illustrator, she now teaches and is coordinator of tutoring services at Woodbury University in Burbank, California.

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Hiding in Plain Sight

12 September 2022 /

Fiction by Lucy Fox

The trouble with being a therapist is I can’t switch it off. Constantly, I’m analysing
people, trying to dissect their triggers. It makes dating difficult. I’ve found men are often on edge when they find out what I do as if over our meeting of wine and breadsticks, I’m trying to work out if they have a good relationship with their mother. So, I haven’t told Thomas.

We met on a dating app a few weeks ago. I was surprised to see him on there; he
didn’t seem like the type, but he’s exactly what I go for. We started texting, but he said he prefers to talk over the phone, so our texts turned into calls. Now, here we are, sitting opposite each other, sipping wine and sharing stories.

Over the phone, we briefly touched on the topic of work. He told me that he doesn’t work much anymore and he accepted that I didn’t want to talk about what I do either. “So, what do you do in your free time?” I ask now, leaning forward, arms uncrossed, using my body language to show how open I am to hearing him.

“I do a bit of DIY, but mostly I play golf.” He smiles, it is friendly, not leering like some men. “Are you close with your family?” He mirrors my body language.

“Oh you know, the usual story. Dad left when I was three.” My throat closes up; I take a sip of wine, savouring the bitterness of the Cabernet Sauvignon Thomas picked out for us. “I don’t know him but it’s fine. It’s been thirty years, you know? And my Mum did an amazing job of raising me and my younger brother. When you have one incredible parent, who needs a Dad?”

“Mothers are wonderful. My Mum was a fantastic woman. She stayed at home raising me, looking after my Father and the house and she liked doing it. Never complained. Women aren’t like that now.” I bristle slightly; it’s involuntary and not professional – he’s not a client, Meg – I reprimand myself, but honestly, those views! If he was my patient I would say no woman will ever live up to his Mum. Obvious Mummy issues.

Our perky waitress bounces over as I’m trying to come up with an appropriate
response, “are you guys ready to order?” She holds her pen and pad, poised. I tell her what I want, while Thomas fiddles around with his reading glasses.

“Thank goodness it’s not one of those places where you have to order on an app.”
Thomas huffs, handing the menus over. The waitress smiles and Thomas lights up, “you look just like my daughter when she was your age.”

“Oh really?” She laughs, “is this your daughter?” She turns to me and my cheeks
burn red.

“No. I’m his date.” Is that what it looks like from the outside? Like I’m having dinner
with my Dad?

“Oh I’m sorry,” she turns scarlet and runs away.

Thomas chuckles but I feel sick. I need a therapist.

Lucy Fox is an aspiring writer who likes to write from the female perspective. She will study English Literature and Creative Writing at university this September.

yellow and blue train toy
Photo by Brett Sayles on Pexels.com

The Train

1 September 2022 /

Fiction by Beth Ford

Macy would always remember the day she became a train. It was the tail end of winter, and she had had enough.

The kiddie train in the city park had shuttered what felt like ages ago now. A flood of rainwater had barreled through the park, upending earth, sidewalk, and tracks. And, of course, covid now made the tiny train cars too close for comfort so they remained locked away.

Which meant here they were, with Brendan melting down alongside the mini train tracks because there was still no train. She had walked them past the loop of track on the way back to the car, not thinking it would be a problem. But after telling him twice the train was not running, he had started crying. She wasn’t even sure how he remembered the train. He couldn’t have been more than three the last time he rode it.

She tried to be understanding. Everyone had reached their boiling point by this stage of the pandemic, adults included, so who could blame a child for acting out? Though the fact remained hers was the only one making a scene in the park this morning. The tantrum reached a new level of shrillness. She had to do something.

She knelt in front of her son. “Why don’t we be the train?” she asked.

He paused his screaming long enough to look up at her. He was interested, at least.

“Here. Get on my back.” She turned so he could get piggyback, then she stood and walked alongside the tracks. She felt a tug on her shirt at the shoulder and heard a loud sniffle, which probably meant the fabric had become a tissue. She ignored it and forged ahead. “Where is the train headed today?” she asked.

“Mexico!” he shouted.

Mexico? Where did he get this stuff? “All right, the 3:10 to Mexico it is.”

“Make the train whistle, mommy!”

She had to try a few times before a convincing whistle emanated from her lips, but eventually he was satisfied.

They began to attract attention. An older couple laughed and walked by with a wave. A woman and her son watched for a moment before approaching. The boy was a bit younger than Brendan, dressed in a blue t-shirt with a robot on it.

“Want to join our train?” Brendan asked from his perch. “We’re going to Mexico.”

The boy looked up at his mother. She shrugged. “Do you mind?” she asked Macy before taking position behind. The boys shouted as they went along, lots of chuga-chugas and choo-choos, and the occasional, Faster! The group had almost returned to their starting point when a little girl fell in at the rear of their train, parent unidentified.

“We’re reaching the station,” Macy said. “You boys better put on the brakes.”

Brendan made a whooshing sound she assumed was meant to be the sound of the train slowing. Behind her, the other boy simply shouted “Stop!”

She pulled up to the same tree they had begun under and let Brendan down. A mother ran from the direction of the duck pond to claim the little girl. “Sorry!” she said. “She got away from me for a moment.”

“No worries,” Macy said. They all introduced themselves. The kids grinned, thoughts of tantrums temporarily dissipated. For a brief moment, normalcy seemed restored. The sun peeked through the leaves above them, brightening the last winter chill out of the air.

“So,” she asked, “Same time next week? Different destination perhaps?”

Beth Ford lives in the beautiful Shenandoah Valley of Virginia. Her short fiction, poetry, and a novel excerpt have appeared in Embark Literary Journal, The Scores, Sangam Literary Journal, fresh.ink, and The Journal of Undiscovered Poets. For more information, visit http://bethfordauthor.com.

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