Category: Nonfiction (Page 3 of 15)

Railroad Run

1 September 2025 / Editor

Nonfiction by Dick Daniels

My favorite race tee came from the Amory Railroad Festival Run. Bright orange and black, which happened to be my college colors, the front displayed a grinning locomotive chugging down the tracks in running shoes. Whenever worn, it stood out and drew favorable comments from other runners.

The shirt has long since gone the way of so many other articles of clothing: either victimized by my laundering inadequacies; passed down to one of my three sons; or packed in a grocery sack for donation to a local charity. However, my memories of that race day remain—as vivid as the orange of that shirt.

Amory didn’t have the appeal of other Mississippi towns like Natchez, Oxford, or even neighboring Tupelo. If Elvis had been born about twenty miles further south, that tee might have had a different face. But Amory had given birth to a thriving rail center, and that was the part of its history around which it created a festival every spring.

I was living in Memphis at the time and Amory was only a two-hour drive. The race brochure was particularly inviting—something for the whole family. Train rides on authentic railroad cars! Merchandise drawings! Colorful t-shirts! And the unstated possibility to a man nearing forty that he might have a chance for an age-group trophy at the small-city event. In those days, I eagerly journeyed to such out-of-town races as the Okraland Stampede and the Trenton Teapot Trot. The idea of accumulating more race shirts than you could ever wear had not occurred to me.

So off we went, my wife and youngest son along for the festivities. The sun came up early that late-spring day. Its warmth was particularly soothing after so many cold and dreary days of winter. The temperature eventually reached about 85 degrees, which doesn’t sound all that scary to a Southern runner. It was, however, the first day that year of any significant heat, and I would later calculate that it was nearly 30 degrees warmer than the average temperature at which I had been training just a few weeks prior.

As we gathered at the starting line, a quick survey of the field indicated a supreme effort might indeed result in age group recognition. For some reason, the actual start caught most of us by surprise, and there was an excessive amount of chaos and jostling for position as startled runners surged ahead. I remember seeing a young boy of ten or eleven who lost one of his shoes in the ensuing panic. He fought to retrieve it without being trampled by the herd of thinclads, then wisely retreated to the safety of the sidelines to lace up. A Stage Mom shrieked at him the whole time, ‘Hurry! You’re going to be last!’ Mercifully, I was soon out of earshot and had some running space.

The Amory Run, as I recall, was a five-miler, and I expected it to be less demanding than all those 10Ks which were the standard race at that time. My split times were pretty good the first two miles, but it was soon painfully apparent that I was overheating. I could visualize wavy vapors coming off the top of my head. That sinking feeling of knowing that you had ‘gone out too fast’ slowly overtook me. A mile later the disgrace of stopping to walk during a race had to be endured. It was my first time, and it was humbling. But I knew there was no other choice.

With each person that passed me, I suffered a little more as runners with excess weight or without the smoothest strides went streaming by. There were even children passing me. Among them, I recognized the boy who had lost his shoe at the start. His labored breathing had been audible before I saw him. As he went by, I could see a face flushed as red as a warning light on a car’s dashboard, similarly indicating an impending boilover. In that instant, I imagined how he might be struggling to gain his mother’s approval, thought about my own upbringing and how achievements had been expected by my parents, and knew how proud I would have been to see one of my sons showing that much determination.

Before he got too far ahead, I broke into a half-sprint to catch up, resolved to help him finish. I pulled up beside him and asked if he minded some company. His breathing was so heavy, words could not be summoned, so a shake of his head was my invitation. Over the remainder of that course, he became the recipient of all the information I had ever read on breathing, relaxation and pace. ‘Hold what you got!’ was encouragingly repeated.

My own pain and humiliation had been forgotten, and before I knew it, we had turned a corner and entered a long parking lot that housed the finish line at its other end. The resilience of youth and the shouts of Amory citizens lining the course spurred him to sprint the final straightaway, and I watched him proudly as he exuberantly pulled away with arms and legs flailing. When I finally came up behind him in the chute, he uttered his first words as he turned and looked up to me, ‘Thanks, Mister!’ I nearly cried. To borrow from Charles Dickens, “it was the worst of times” I ever ran, but “the best of times” I ever had running.

Dick Daniels is a combat veteran from Memphis with nonfiction work in Submarine Review and several other military magazines. His fiction pieces, backboned by historical research, have appeared in multiple journals, including Alabama Literary Review, Hare’s Paw, Wilderness House, Cardinal Sins, Valley Voices, and Two Thirds North.

Fallen Hearts

1 September 2025 / Editor

Nonfiction by Angie Sarhan Salvatore

The hearts drifted from the sky that October, cascading much like snowflakes or teardrops do. Though I requested them, their sight still startled me.

I ask for signs the way people order coffee—without thinking, a habit ingrained over time. Is this the right choice? Show me a sign. Do I say yes? Show me a sign.

This was different. You were gone without goodbye. Desperate for a lifeline, instinct kicked in. Show me a heart if you’re with me, I whispered.

Only three hours later, a heart found me. While I thought the heart might come in the form of a bumper sticker or a billboard while I drove to work, that’s not how you showed up. Instead, the sign came while I walked to my office, shoulders slumped, feet slow, head down. My mind caught up to my eyes a few seconds after I took it in. I turned around to look again. I was shocked, but only for a moment.

I knew if you could, you would send me signs.

Years ago, I visited you at your home in London. I could immediately tell that this place was your heart. You could immediately tell I wasn’t visiting, but rather escaping. I was having an upside down moment in life, and hadn’t figured out how to make it right side up again. You offered me a quiet space to settle and sort things out.

When you asked what I wanted to do on my trip, and I replied I wanted to see a psychic, you didn’t seem surprised. Yes, we would sightsee, and yes, I would fall in love with London returning again and again to stay with you, but the first priority was find someone with answers, since I sure as hell didn’t have any.

I wasn’t sure where you stood with psychics or the afterlife, but as my older cousin, you indulged my request, making an appointment at what I would later find out was a world-famous psychic shop. You accompanied me, which made me feel accepted. I opened up. You understood my need to believe in something beyond me. You understood my need to look for signs.

There I stood, eyes fixed on the beige leaf, misshapen and alone—an offering of hope in the darkness. I picked it up from its stem and it was obvious this folded over leaf was a heart. I choked out a breath. I reached for my phone, took a photo, and gently put the leaf back. Thank you, I said to the sky, to you.

For the rest of the day I regretted not keeping it, not saving it somewhere.

Thankfully, this was the first of many signs to come.

Days collapsed into weeks. The leaves found me, over and over again. These unusual gifts became a trail of breadcrumbs propelling me forward each day, giving comfort and reassurance you were with me. Some bore jagged edges. Others looked like a perfectly crafted cutout, but they all had something in common.

Each fallen heart seemed like a symbol of resilience and I saw reflections of me—torn, scattered, and in full surrender. These delicate offerings felt like tiny miracles, nudges from you reassuring me somehow. I took photos and collected them. I told myself I wanted to preserve the memory, but really I wanted to preserve the proof. I saved them like treasures, tucking them away for safekeeping—tokens to be found sometime in the future, when the leaves might stop appearing or when I needed to be reminded of something more.

In those moments, I saw myself as a woman with a beat up heart, desperately hanging onto beat up heart-shaped leaves, but I didn’t care. Though they didn’t take away the sting of your unshakeable loss, they felt like an elixir to my soul, making the grief more manageable, if only for a moment.

I started painting a small, black heart on my fingernail. All of a sudden, we had a thing going. Death didn’t sever our connection. It just took a new shape.

I went back to London three years after your passing. As I packed to leave, I wondered if I would go by your place, if even to pass it from the outside. The idea simultaneously gutted and lifted me, and so, minutes before I left for the airport I tucked something in my purse.

A place can be a container, filled with a mixture of memories, emotions, and past selves. London held so many versions of me. The sad one. The lost one. The hopeful one. The happy one. It had yet to carry this new version, though. The me-without-you one.

Your son was in town and asked me to come by your place. I think he sensed I needed to be there.

It was exactly as I remembered. The staircase that seemed endless. The artwork you painstakingly picked out, hanging in every possible spot. I thought of how happy you would be that we were there together.

When I had a moment alone, I reached into my purse for my hidden treasure. Your son told me that one day he might have to sell this place, my home away from home. It made sense that I did this then.

I hid a tiny heart-shaped amethyst in the unused fireplace. I placed it with a silent prayer, a thank you for all that you gave me: for your grace, generosity and kindness when I was at my lowest; for your friendship and guidance when I was flailing; and for your faith in me. I thanked you for the signs that still arrive when I need them most.

I doubt that amethyst will ever be found. At least, that’s my hope. I want it to remain in the dark depths of this faraway, sacred spot so that a piece of my heart will always be there, nestled in with a piece of yours.

Angie Sarhan Salvatore is a Writing Professor. Her writing has been featured on The Huffington Post, Tiny Buddha, Positively Positive, Mind Body Green, Rebelle Society, Elephant Journal, Having Time, Herself 360 and her blog: universeletters.com. You can find Angie on social media @universeletters.

The Little Lizard That Could

29 August 2025 / Editor

Nonfiction by Priscilla Davenport

I’ve spent an hour trying to free the little green lizard. He’s caught between the window glass and the screen. Imagine the gecko you see on TV, but just a baby and in dire straits.

He’s tiny, about two inches long with a tail of similar length. He should be bright green and cavorting among grass and plants, but he has turned a grayish-green camouflage to match the screen he managed to invade but now is trying to escape.

Ideally, the screen is removed by opening the window and punching it out from the inside, but I can’t get the window open. These windows are an aggravation despite their supposed superiority, but they are no match for me today. If I can get the screen bent slightly from the outside, I reason, it will create enough space for the lizard to escape. I take a variety of unorthodox tools to the patio and start trying to bend the screen’s stiff frame. Finally, a garden trowel and a screwdriver prop it open, just enough, at the bottom of the window.

I go inside to watch the lizard work his way to freedom.

He’s at the top of the window. Now moving down the side. Getting closer. There, he’s almost at the opening. Oh no. He stops and works his way back to the top. Does he think the screwdriver and trowel are predators? Speaking of predators, here comes our indoor cat. The lizard’s sides heave after the cat flings himself against the glass. We don’t need this stress. I close the cat in the laundry room.

Back at the window, here comes the little captive again, inching downward. But there he climbs to the top again, and then in a circle. You’re making bad decisions, I tell him. I get it. My mind is a muddle when I’m panicked and battle-weary. But you’re so close. Stop and think. Don’t repeat your defeatist behavior over and over. This is your survival we’re talking about.

If I stop watching, maybe he’ll work it out. Maybe I make him nervous. I’ll come back later and hope he has returned to his rightful reptilian world.

If he’s still trapped, I’ll work on that damn screen again.

One hour later. The lizard is still there, frozen in defeat. You will not die today, I assure him. I take a hammer outside and use the claw to bend the screen’s frame out of its track and into a triangular-shaped escape route a couple of inches at its widest. The trowel and screwdriver drop away.

I go back inside, leaving the tiny creature alone again to figure things out. When I check back, he’s gone. Yes! I pump my fist in celebration and hammer the misshapen frame into a semblance of straight. A hard push gets it back inside the window track.

Six days later. I’m sitting in a patio chair when a lizard startles me by skittering across my lap and jumping to the table at my elbow. This lizard is slightly bigger than the captive. But could it be? How much do lizards grow in a week? The little guy settles on a table leg only inches from my hand, camouflages from green to brownish, and looks at me. I mean, really looks at me, our eyes locking. I talk softly to him, holding his dark eyes with mine. He blinks. I feel as if we understand each other.

He stays, looking around but mostly watching me, until I need to leave ten minutes later. I get up from my chair and turn to say goodbye, but he is gone.

I sit on the patio daily, but my little friend has not returned. An internet search tells me that small lizards like geckos can live for several years even in the wild, so with luck we’ll connect again. I’ll keep an eye out.

Priscilla Davenport has spent a lifetime with words, first as the daughter of an English teacher and later as a journalist and lawyer. Now retired, she spends time writing creatively and supporting animal rescue organizations. A story of hers was shortlisted for the 2023 International Amy MacRae Award for Memoir.

Lying in Wait

1 August 2025 / Editor

Nonfiction by Jennifer Pinto

My dog, Josie, is barking at the kitchen window, warning me of an intruder. I look out into the front yard expecting to see deer or perhaps a wild turkey but if there is danger out there, I can’t see it. She continues jumping and pawing at the glass so I look outside again, this time glancing downward at the porch situated just below the window. It’s a snake. Its three foot long body is nestled and expertly blended into the wicker of my favorite chair but its head is levitating skyward, peeking into my kitchen window. I think about how many times I sat in that chair oblivious to this danger. This unexpected interloper upends the sense of tranquility and comfort I normally feel in my beautiful yard. I’m not sure I will ever be able to relax out there again.

It’s 2004 and we were sitting at the kitchen table having family dinner when my husband reached for the salt shaker and yelped in pain. He tried to dismiss it as nothing but I knew acknowledging any sort of discomfort was out of character for him so I insisted he make an appointment with the doctor right away. I suspected it might be something as simple as a pulled muscle or a gallstone but I was wrong. This sudden sharp pain in his right side led to a doctor’s visit then an ultrasound and finally a biopsy that confirmed my husband had cancer. Primary liver cancer. The surgeon discovered a baseball-sized mass on his otherwise pristine liver. There were no symptoms, no warning signs. It’s likely these cancer cells were hiding in his body for years until the mass grew large enough to cause pain. I was a young mom with children ages eight, five, and three. It felt like the life I had envisioned had suddenly been turned on its head.

I shoo the snake off the porch with a long handled broom and watch as it slithers into the landscaping and disappears. I spend days searching for holes and researching ways to deter snakes. I eventually return to my chair on the front porch but feel like I’m in a constant state of hypervigilance. One afternoon the mailman comes to my front door with a stack of letters in his hand. I can’t deliver your mail today he says as he pulls out his cell phone and shows me a picture of my mailbox. There is a long black snake slithering up the stones encasing the mailbox and blocking the door. It is the same snake I had seen on my porch and now I’m convinced its home is somewhere close to my own. It will be months before I walk down the wooded path to retrieve the mail without a large stick in my hand.

My husband had a liver resection to remove two thirds of his liver. The healthy portion was expected to regenerate. The pathologist reported that while it hadn’t spread outside of the liver, there was some vascular invasion which meant some cancer cells had escaped into his bloodstream and could be lying in wait to cause a recurrence in another part of his body. There was no way of knowing if the cancer would appear again. I learned how to hope for the best while being prepared for the worst. We signed our children up for “Walking the Dinosaur,” a children’s cancer support group to help them deal with their feelings. My husband coped by buying me a new set of garbage cans with wheels so I could easily bring the trash to the curb and by writing out passwords and instructions for me on how to pay the bills.

The snake is like a shadow that follows me around, a vague yet niggling thought in the back of my mind. So when the HVAC man who is servicing our air conditioning unit knocks on the door and says, Do you know there is a huge black snake in your yard? I just nod and say, I know. He is a burly guy with large tattooed biceps and a long goatee. I’m surprised when he admits the snake is making him jumpy. I am no longer afraid of the snake although I remain vigilant. While I hope I never see it again, I’ve become accustomed to the idea that encountering the snake is always a possibility.

After his liver resection, my husband was scanned every three months for several years. When the scans were eventually put on a yearly schedule, he started to feel confident enough in his health that he allowed me to buy him new shoes and new clothes again. He had refused any purchases until he could be certain he would live long enough to get good use out of them. It’s been twenty years since he was first diagnosed and he remains cancer-free.

Just last week, in our basement, we caught a baby snake in a glue trap meant for mice. I’m horrified that a snake could penetrate our walls and get so close. It prompts me to stay vigilant. I remind my husband he’s due for his next scan.

Jennifer Pinto writes both fiction and creative nonfiction. She has three grown children and lives in Cincinnati with her husband. She enjoys drinking coffee at all hours of the day. Her work has been published in The Citron Review, SunDog Lit, Lunch Ticket, The Bluebird Word and Muleskinner, among others.

Summer’s End

28 July 2025 / Editor

Nonfiction by Vicki Addesso

for Cathy

It’s now, this evening, and like this summer, I have grown older. Yes, summers grow old, and come to an end. On this last day of August, September’s eve, I sense autumn’s approach.

The mammoth sunflower growing all alone by the young maple tree in front of my house bobs its heavy head and sighs it seems to be getting dark earlier and earlier. It has never seen a summer before, does not know summer must end. Or that this is its last, its one and only. The bulbous center is bursting with fresh sunflower seeds, and come early morning I will watch the goldfinches come to pluck them out, and the bees indulge. The golden-yellow petals are many and flutter in the tiniest of breezes yet remain put. That stem, so thick and straight and tall, sways for the wind in storms and refuses to break. Before the flower at its top bloomed, I thought of Jack and his beanstalk. Could I climb the stem and find a giant in the clouds?

The lonely sunflower, from leftover seeds I dropped next to the baby tree after running out of room in the backyard gardens. Only this one of the dozen or so seeds casually tossed into the dirt grew. The backyard has many other sunflowers, autumn beauties and sunspots and Little Beckas that had bloomed a couple of weeks earlier. Some are still vibrant, others wilting. They will not wither in loneliness; they have one another. But that sunflower out in front of the house, it rips at my heart, knows nothing of its fate. Its single solitary life that will fade as this summer ends. Trees, shrubs, other plants and other creatures share a world in our front yard and have more, some many, summers ahead of them. No worries, sweet sunflower, I whisper through the window screen. After the crispness of fall, the cold of winter, the promise of spring, I will plant more seeds. Summer will return. There will be sunflowers again.

What is this evening for me? It’s crickets. Their sounds fill late summer nights. It is leaving the bedroom curtains open as the sky darkens. Sitting in my quiet room with no lamp lit, listening, watching the light leave. It’s letting the emotions of memories set butterflies to flutter in my belly and goosebumps to rise on my skin. Letting my mind wander and visions to appear. Suddenly I am a child again. Chasing fireflies. Air on so much of my skin, warm, the breeze soft. Swatting at the mosquito on my elbow, sweating, and not caring. Looking back at the house I grew up in, I see the porch light come on. Tilting my head back to glance at the sky, I get dizzy with the sensation of falling up instead of down. Then my mother’s voice calling me inside. I am young but I know it must end.

When did I realize, at what age, did I learn of endings? As a baby, did I notice that the cold of March — the month of my birth —began lifting? That the sun stayed longer, warming my face as my mother pushed me in a stroller? Then, the heat of summer. The slow creeping back of early sunsets. A chill in the air. My first winter. Was I two years old, three, or four when I knew things would come to an end?

When did Eve, that second of the first two human beings, realize that everything was changing? For the first time, one season flowed into another, and nothing was sure any longer. Already banished from the paradise of the Garden of Eden, she now witnessed the utter destruction of all that was familiar. Was she frightened? Or was she too busy to notice? Being mother to the entire human race certainly must have kept her busy.

So amusing how I, and others, even after years of watching our star come and go, shift in the sky, making us alter our clocks, still say, Wow, it’s getting dark so early now, as if it’s something new. As if we were children. As if it were the first time. As if we were sunflowers.

And so, it will happen again, just as it has every year, all the years of my life — the end. These edges of the seasons are my favorite time. The end slides into a beginning. For the time being.

Now I sit, at my desk, the open window in front of me. It is dark outside. The screen of my computer bright. The crickets singing their song of summer’s old age, the sound of it so familiar. The sound of longing. Realization and acceptance. It is the song of ending, reverberating through space and time. It is falling upwards and flying away.

Originally published in The Bluebird Word in February 2024.

Vicki Addesso is co-author of the collaborative memoir Still Here Thinking of You~A Second Chance With Our Mothers (Big Table Publishing, 2013). Publishing credits include: Gravel Magazine, Barren Magazine, The Writer, Sleet Magazine, Dorothy Parker’s Ashes, and more. She was nominated for a 2023 Pushcart Prize.

Life and Love as Seen Through My Plum Tree

7 July 2025 / Editor

Nonfiction by Michele Tjin

The delicate popcorn balls of flowers have appeared again, the herald of a new season. The arrival seems earlier each year.

The plum tree was already a mature specimen when we moved into this house. That first July, one of the first things we did was to pick up the rotting fruit off the ground. I whispered to the tree and my pregnant belly that in a year or two, there would be small hands to help harvest the fruit.

How does this tree of the family Prunus salicina know when to emerge from winter and make slivers of leaves and dainty blooms?

How do I know when to kick off this curtain of chaos and confront hard issues, difficile confligit?

Other signs of life and hope in my backyard: tiny sparrows and hummingbirds dancing around the flowers of the plum tree; songbirds trilling. The harshness of winter is behind us.

Despite not watering and pruning this tree, not giving it any real love or attention, it continues to be dependable and prolific.

I look forward to the perfume of plums ripening in my kitchen. Nothing is as wonderful as biting into the amber flesh and allowing the clear juice to run down my chin.

After a few weeks of non-stop eating, I’m satiated. Yet others tell me they can’t get enough of this fruit.

Don’t you forget about me this year, a friend says.

If you want to come over and climb a ladder, help yourself, I answer.

If I climb a ladder to bridge the chasms, will it be worth it, or will I fall?

In the summer, this tree is weighed down so much by its fruit that it needs to be propped up with a stick, a visible reminder of how much goodness this tree gives.

I imagine the tree’s complex network of roots searching deep underground to find a source of life-giving water to nourish itself.

How do I nourish my spirit when it’s dry and withered?

Things this plum tree has witnessed: birthday cakes and birthday parties. A kiddie pool that lasted just an afternoon one summer. A bounce house that winter. Another bounce house the following winter. That time we dyed socks. My efforts at being a backyard gardener. Dinners outside. Ants. The neighbor’s cat. That stray rabbit. People who once came over frequently but no longer visit because of quarantine, new seasons of life, or small conflicts that festered and coalesced into something bigger, something that doesn’t have a name or shape anymore.

Or maybe it’s just a lost connection. I’m not sure anymore.

These blossoms are fleeting: in just a few weeks, they will be torn apart by the wind. Their fragile nature and impermanence have always struck me, like they’re a metaphor for something.

My hands and a pair of smaller ones will collect the plums in four months when the green small marbles deepen into crimson globes, and we’ll give much of our harvest away.

After the summer, after a period of cold and reset, this tree will bloom once more the following spring and offer me hope again. Where will I be in a year?

[Originally published in The Bluebird Word in March 2022.]

Michele Tjin is an emerging writer who writes others’ stories by day and her own by night. When she is not writing, she aspires to be a better backyard gardener.

Julia

28 June 2025 / Editor

Nonfiction by Pama Lee Bennett

I’m standing beside a gurney in the emergency room, a gurney on which my great-aunt, age 104, is lying. Some preliminary tests have been done. A doctor we haven’t seen before enters and stands opposite me across the gurney. He doesn’t address her but begins talking over her to me.

“She appears to have a kidney condition, but I’m not sure we can do much to help her at her age.”

I look down at her, and back to him.

“Doctor, I’d like you to do for her whatever you would do for me, or yourself, or your own mother.”

“Well, your aunt is very old. She is probably at the end of her life.”

I think to myself, wait for it, wait for it.

My aunt looks up at him sweetly and says, “Doctor, I would like to live. But if I die, it’s all right.”

The look on his face: priceless.

He mumbles that certain procedures might injure her delicate body, but he can order some medication. I say, “Ok, I can understand that, but let’s do what we can.”

He leaves the room.

He can’t know that she walked on her own and lived on her own until 100. That she loves to play Skip-Bo with family members every week. That she reads voraciously and still keeps in touch with former students from her days as a one-room school teacher. That she hushes me in conversation if Tiger Woods comes on the golf channel and she wants to watch him play.

I can’t know that nine months from now, she will die suddenly and quietly of natural causes one afternoon, just short of 105.

I can’t know that. But neither can the doctor.

Pama Lee Bennett is a retired speech-language pathologist living in Sioux City, IA. She has taught English at summer language camps in Poland and at a school there in 2019. Her work has appeared in Tipton Poetry Journal, Evening Street Review, The Bluebird Word, The Penwood Review, and others.

Photo by Vinandita Karina Nabilla on Unsplash

The Basket

20 April 2025 / Editor

Nonfiction by Bonnie Demerjian

has followed you everywhere, like a faithful dog, overfilled with things too useful to be filed where, perhaps, they’ll be forgotten, or thrown away to later regret. There are other things, fit for no category or home. Here is a slip of paper with the name of the plumber who’s not in the phone book. Who is anymore? The postal tracking slip for that package to your sister. You learned the hard way about keeping these. Raffle tickets bought in hope, expired, and baggage tags that traveled to La Paz one spring and Florence one fall. User’s manuals which will surely be consulted since everything breaks down sometime. There are vaccination records for cats and dogs long gone. You have their photos, but it’s so heartless to throw away these chronicles of their bodily care. Where else to keep her crayon drawing of a hummingbird once it’s migrated from the refrigerator door? At the bottom, a jumble of business cards for window glass, car repair, and a name tag on a string from your high school reunion. On it, a photo, you at seventeen to remind you of who you were. Are? Then, a penny, a bullet, and three keys to forgotten doors. It’s not big enough to contain a whole life, but what vessel could?

Bonnie Demerjian writes from her island home in Southeast Alaska in the Tongass National Forest on the land of the Lingit Aaní, a place that continually nourishes her writing. Her poetry has appeared in Tidal Echoes, Alaska Women Speak, Pure Slush, and Blue Heron Review, among others. Read some of her earlier work on The Bluebird Word, to include her flash nonfiction essay Three Scenes in Sunlight.

Yokwe!

15 April 2025 / Editor

Nonfiction by Linda Petrucelli

I spot my friend Malia among a squadron of women wearing flowery muumuus, shooing flies off a table laden with breadfruit. She’s invited me to the groundbreaking for a Marshallese community center and my husband Gary and I have just arrived at their out-of-the-way patch of volcanic real estate. I had helped Malia find support to take over the property and I anticipate being welcomed as a VIP, Pacific Islander style.

When she sees me, she waves.

“Yokwe, Leenda!” She is small-boned, with hair to her waist, a Polynesian Munchkin.

Malia is part of an exodus from the Marshall Islands who have migrated to Hawaii, refugees of rising sea levels and the health impacts of US nuclear testing. “Yokwe, Malia!” I repeat, recognizing the greeting, but not exactly sure what it means. We meet under a popup canopy flying turquoise, white and orange balloons, the colors of the Marshallese flag.

Gary, who has accompanied me for moral support and chauffeur services, is quickly dispatched to the crowd of men setting up folding chairs. Then Malia shows me a bolt of cloth which she cradles like a baby.

“Put this on now.”

“Excuse me?” I take a step back.

“You put this on now.” She presents the folded fabric with two hands. “Marshallese dress. Beautiful.”

Even after twenty years, I’ve never felt comfortable wearing the flamboyant frocks of my adopted home. My standard dress code is a black tee and jeans. But there is no escaping my plight. To refuse this gift would be insulting, so I relinquish the last shred of my autonomy, step inside a makeshift lean-to where the bathroom is located, and lock the door behind me.

Wild panic surges and my tee sticks to my skin like damp carbon paper. I unfold the dress and hold it up against my body. The Mother Hubbard, hand-stitched in the vibrant colors of their flag, appears to be an XS, suitable for a woman my size twenty-five pounds ago.

I strip down to my sports bra and briefs, then poke my head into the neck opening, sans hook and eye, snap, or even a button, and pull down as hard as I can. The seam stretches a little and my skull pops through, turning my hair into a fright wig and scraping my prominent, non-Marshallese nose.

Right around this time, Gary has graduated from folding chairs and is now in charge of grilling the ribs which, for a vegetarian, is a challenge.

With the dress bunched around my neck, I bend over to locate the sleeves. I squeeze my limbs into the tight pathways, two freighters navigating the Suez Canal, and immediately cut off the blood supply to my arms. If I was reasonably assured that I could get my perspiring body out of the dress, I would have called it quits and returned the gift with profuse apologies. But the patriotic straitjacket leaves me no choice, and I begin tugging the fabric hipwards.

When I strain the cloth over my haole butt, the material is so taut, I have to cross one thigh over the other to inch it down. What should be a flowing shift, on me, has become a slightly obscene, skin-tight shroud. I look like a Beluga whale wearing teal and tangerine.

Gary, now concerned by my absence, texts me: They want me to sing with them. Where R U? But the message never arrives. No cell service.

When I finally emerge, I mince my way into the daylight, hoping I will be able to breathe soon. Applause greets me and a cadre of Marshallese women appear to salute the flag I’m wearing. Malia whispers, beautiful, and adorns my forehead with a cowrie shell head lei that, due to my cramped posture, drunkenly tilts toward my nose.

I wish I was able to get into the spirit of things and enjoy myself. But I nearly fell over when I posed for photographs shoveling ceremonial soil, the garment interfering with my balance. And then there was the problem of sitting down and attempting to consume any quantity of food or drink, especially liquids. I’m sorry not to have fully appreciated the Marshallese haunting, acapella voices, their massive hospitality and joy. But I find joviality difficult when I wear a tourniquet from the neck down.

I sit next to Malia under the shade of a monkeypod tree and lean against her shoulder. “Remind me what Yokwe means.”

“You are a rainbow.”

Later, as we’re about to drive home my husband tells me, “Hey—nice dress!” I lower my rear end onto the car seat, swing my hobbled legs inside, and reach for the seatbelt. A rip sounds from under my right armpit. He asks me, “Don’t you want to change first?”

Finally, Gary puts the key in the ignition and the motor roars to life. He looks over at me, grins, and says, “Yokwe!”

“Shut up and drive,” I tell him. “I’m so over the rainbow.”

Linda Petrucelli’s essays have been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. Her work has appeared in Parhelion, Barren, and Permafrost, among others. She’s lived in Hawaii for the last twenty years. Read more at: https://lindapetrucelli.com

At the Dive Bar After Thanksgiving

7 April 2025 / Editor

Nonfiction by Olivia McGill

We were at a bar with my partner Sam’s friends. Cal showed up late in the night. I hadn’t seen him in a while but heard how things were going for him. His wife kicked him out for the sake of their seven-year-old daughter. He was crashing at his woodshop.

His dark hair was grown out and slicked back. He wore his normal outfit, basically an Ace Ventura getup with a Hawaiian shirt and teal pants. With his good looks, it used to seem quirky, almost cool. But now, the overall effect was nauseating. He was no longer parodying a slimeball. He was one. His shirt was unbuttoned halfway down his chest, and his normally tan, toned skin looked clammy.

Of course, the presence in people’s eyes is different when they’re on drugs. Distant. Wandering. But it was more than that. His eyes looked wider, slyer, his eyebrows more arched. I wasn’t shaken, per se, but had that subtle feeling that his arrival was doing something to my brain, somewhere deep in the engine room, where I couldn’t quite reach it.

“I like your sweater,” he said as he pulled at someone’s sleeve. “I love your hair,” he told me, his too-close gaze hooking into me as I tried to smile and turn away at the same time.

I tracked his movements as he hovered around the bar, bouncing from one group to the next, his unwantedness not registering for him. He slunk into the booth behind ours, and I tried to carry on a conversation but felt his presence above my head. He spilled a stranger’s drink. Then he slowly climbed over the booth wall, pried Sam and me apart, and sat in between us, his intense eye contact ping-ponging back and forth.

“Where’s your girlfriend?” Sam asked. Cal had a new girlfriend who looked like his wife but who was annoying. “She’s in Mass…,” Cal said wistfully, reminding me of my father. The self-pitying tone of the addict during the holidays. Just a few days before, my dad sent me a text asking, “what u doin for thanksgiving.” I knew it meant all his buddies were with their families.

I wanted to ask Cal about his daughter but didn’t, unsure of what it might trigger in him. I didn’t know how often he saw her. And anyway, it was clear that he was not identifying as a father at that moment. It was like I was watching a different angle of my dad’s life, the one where he parties and doesn’t think about his children. I was in the role of the friend instead of the daughter. It wasn’t happening to me. It was happening to another little girl. I thought of who the friends might have been. The ones who thought of me as they watched my dad stumble and wander.

I’ve been through a lot of therapy. Sam told me a while back that Cal’s wife is in AlAnon. That’s the one where you know an alcoholic or addict. I’m in the one for people who were raised by them. I wonder if their little girl will end up in the same program, working to undo all the damage being inflicted on her despite the efforts of the single mother.

The funny thing about having an addict for a father is you don’t usually have a clear picture of what you missed out on. And when you see it, fathers in white collars coming home at the same time every day, taking their girls on outings, talking with them lucidly, you think it’s “icky.” It’s “too tender.”

And then. After you’ve accepted what happened to you and grieved what you missed out on. After you’ve learned to stop expecting anything from him. After you’ve found your own source of stability, joy, and love and have seen a glimpse of who you are despite him. After all that, you end up at a bar and a friend shows up and it’s him. It’s your father, twenty-five years ago, woodshop and all. Just switch out the Hawaiian shirt for a cowboy hat.

And part of you can’t help but think, “Stop everything. We can’t let this happen again. There must be something we can do.” But everyone just shakes their heads and exchanges looks. And the daughter remains unmentioned. And you keep thinking, “Something should come of this.” And nothing does.

Olivia McGill is from Hell’s Kitchen and lives in Brooklyn. She writes for a consulting firm and volunteers with Showing Up for Racial Justice. You can read her work in Danse Macabre, Ant vs. Whale, and The Adult Children of Alcoholics blog. She is working on a book-length memoir.