Finals by Khristian Smith

“What a sunset,” I coughed.

I do not know why I remember this, but I recollect my deplorable health. Nulling stress,

little sleep, sparse food, and too much nicotine were at fault. By some means, I found myself

lounging on a pleather sofa perched on a concrete balcony. Boone’s Farm helped little in this

scenario. I recall the flavor: Snow Creek Berry. What the fuck is a snow creek berry, anyway?

            “Right?” whispered a guy I didn’t know. Dark cyan sky lit his sunk eyes, defined jaw,

uncombed mop. Thunder broke through the steel clouds. He smiled. “Sounds like storm

season.”

 I recognized his voice, but cigarettes and cheap wine kept me puzzled. I strained from

asking more questions than necessary. The night was too beautiful to eat at with queries. A light

breeze kissed my cheeks flushed from the wine and I breathed in mountain air.

 “Petrichor,” I spat.

 “D’fuck?”

 I laughed. “Petrichor. It smells like petrichor.”

            “Is that some of your literature scholar bullshit?”


            I snorted. It seemed he knew me. I hacked and spat over the edge, threw my legs up

onto the railing — sank further into the tan pleather. It had to have been from the ‘80s. “Yeah,”

I admitted. “It’s the scent of rain on dry earth. Grass and the like. Romantic shit.”

 “A’ight. I dig.”

 I heard him fight a Zippo. He won, for an orange flare opened my nose to the smell of

cannabis burning in glass. The stranger coughed. I reached out for the lighter, tipped a cigarette

into my mouth and sucked until I burned. Swing low, sweet chariot, I thought. Then, I knew the

taste of cancer well.

 Rain plashed. Gentle drops crashing against the veranda. The guy inhaled.

            “Petrichor?” he asked.

 “Yep.” I sucked until my cigarette seared my tongue. What use was it with few meals?

            Churning storm turned a pallid dusk sable. Streaks of ozone-rich lightning flared verdant

against the nimbus vortex. Devil’s fire — angels at war, as my grandmother explained weather

phenomena. Strands of Christmas lights along the gutters flickered; a solar timer brought them

life. Another strand of lightning. Distant. It broke violet. Violet and jade. A war of color in a

black sea as rain crashed in sporadic, heavy sheets.

 “It’s raining sideways,” the stranger cackled. Horizontal sweeps brushed my boots. I

huddled deeper in my sweater, flicked my dead cigarette butt into the tempest, rubbed my

numbing hands. Atypical cold seized April, but recurrent showers retained. The stranger sucked

at his bowl, rolling French inhales and putrid smoke rings. “Fuck finals,” he spat.

The Throne and Parliament remove Catholics from London following Guy Fawkes’s

Gunpowder Treason in 1605. Isolated to the suburbs, they relied on communal efforts to

survive. As an example: Alexander Pope’s The Rape of Lock, a heroi-comical poem,

attempted alleviating a growing feud when Arabella Fermor and Lord Petre’s scandal

threatened dividing and conquering his Catholica community.

Bioluminescence — the production and emission of light by living organisms. Marine

vertebrates and invertebrates (such as plankton), some fungi (such as foxfire),

microorgansims, and terrestrial invertebrates (glowworms and fireflies) are common

producers.

“Don’t remind me,” I hissed. I lit another cigarette. Flaming lightning split like spider’s

legs across the void. A brief, effulgent ball branded the horizon. I coughed, closed my eyes, and

thought.

St Elmo’s Fire — weather phenomenon where coronial discharge from objects in strong

atmospheric electric fields forms a luminous plasma. Named after patron saint of

sailors.

I drifted as thunder broke and the stranger lit his second round.

Khristian Smith is a senior at Bethany College in Bethany, West Virginia.

The Glance by Alexander Pyles

Eyes met, glance away, and then meet again.  An awkward dance, like junior-high students mingling, yet it still caused Luke’s heart to jump.  The eyes peeked out from beneath the brim of a faded baseball cap.  The navy had turned a mottled gray; the Cubs logo was a pastel peach.

He could feel a rush of warmth as his heart beat kept a frantic pace.  Luke looked out of the bus windows.  He gripped the overhead bar tighter as the bus came to a squeaking halt.

Luke looked back to the woman with the Cubs cap.  She was just staring out the window.  He could see the gentle slope of her nose as he gazed on.  Yet, when she looked up, he winced.  There was something. 

His mind flashed with the thought of a woman not long ago.  Her face wrinkled in disgust.  Asking him to fight, but he hadn’t.  He couldn’t. Those blue eyes beckoned him, though.  He straightened, wetting his lips.  He had to talk to her.

The bus stopped again and he watched to see if the woman rose, she didn’t.  Luke decided not to leave until she did.  His stop was only a few more, but when they came to it, the woman still had not budged from her seat.  He grasped the rail for several more stops, until she finally stood, and exited the bus.  Luke froze almost unwilling to follow, but he caught a faint wisp of lilac, reminiscent of a home he once knew.

Once he reached the street he looked frantically for the woman and saw her heading down 40th street.  He half-jogged half-walked, to catch up with her.  Luke slowed as he grew closer, his crocs scuffing on the concrete.  

She turned slightly to see who was coming so quick behind her.  Her hands clutched her bag and she drew away slightly unsure what his intentions were.  Those eyes flashed at him.  Luke was almost struck to stone by that look; he slowed to a stop, but he did stutter a hello.  

She returned it, but continued on to say, “Who are you?”

Luke’s face rippled as he realized there was no good way to say it, “I saw you on the bus.”

“Oh,” she said, though her face was still wrinkled in uncertainty. “Well, I’m Maggie,” she said.  She extended her hand to him.  He gently took it, his breath catching as their skin touched.  He struggled out, “I’m Luke.”

They let go of their handshake and he realized he was going to have to say it.  He couldn’t.  He wanted to, but heart and mind wrestled for an instant.  His heart lost.  Fear won.  “I just wanted to tell you that your eyes are beautiful.”

            Her eyebrows rose at him, disappearing in the cap’s shadow.  She rocked back on her feet, adjusting her bag on her shoulder. She finally replied, “Oh, thank you.”

            Luke could hear the nicety and his heart fell.

            “Well bye,” Maggie said.  And then she started walking.  

Luke said goodbye to her back.  And he walked the other direction.

Alexander Pyles is a graduate philosophy student at Franciscan University of Steubenville.  He is hoping to break into the world of novel writing and/or screenwriting, with hopes of bringing literature and beauty to the foreground of culture.  When he isn’t writing, he enjoys; reading, movies and hanging out with people.

When Harry Met Sydney by Walter Pierce

Harry was sitting on a park bench soaking-up some of that free Vitamin D doctors were telling folks to absorb this time of year. The sun’s rays felt warm, hinted at the prospect of better weather, but it wouldn’t be the first time, he thought, when we’ve been sucker-punched by a surprise late April or early May snow storm.

Harry liked to take walks through various neighborhoods and then sit down for a lunch break in some cozy restaurant he discovered along the way, topping it off with a glass of wine or beer to celebrate the occasion.

Lately, he was slowing down, seemed to lack the stamina of a few years ago when he could speed-walk up Beacon Hill to the State House without stopping to lean on a lamp post to catch his breath. 

He was past seventy, closer to eighty and maybe the inevitable was in sight. Better not to think about it.

He was feeling a bit weary, caught himself dozing off, but soon he’d awaken feeling recharged, and that always brought a spring to his step.

He was surprised to see a former neighbor, Sidney, heading his way.  He couldn’t believe it. Harry attended Sidney’s funeral a month ago. Harry admits his eyes are not what they used to be, what with the cataracts and all, but dead is dead. It must be some guy who resembles Sidney.

He couldn’t resist. “Is that you, Sidney?”

The person stopped, stared at Harry, began to shuffle along much the way Sidney used to drag his feet as he walked.

Harry said: “Sorry, I thought you were someone I knew.”

The person turned and said, “It’s me all right.”

“You can’t be here.”

“Why not, it’s a public park.  I’m not trespassing.”

“But you’re dead.  I attended your funeral.”

“I saw you there. You didn’t look unhappy.”

“I’m not one to display emotion.”

“For a friend you could shed a tear. How long did we know each other – ten, fifteen years?

“Maybe, closer to twenty,” said Harry.

“That’s not worth a little grief?”

“I told you I’m not an emotional person.”

“Come to think of it, nobody showed much grief. It was an obligation they were forced to attend, but couldn’t get away fast enough. My own daughter acted as if she was missing a once in a lifetime sale at Filene’s Basement. I should have cut her off without a cent, given my money to some bogus charity. Family is overrated, remember that.”

“What are you doing here?” asked Harry.

“I’m taking a walk, it’s a nice day. Is there a law against that?

“Do dead people do this?”

“I can’t speak for the others. For me, a daily walk keeps me fit. Otherwise, I get lazy, lie around, do nothing.”

“What’s it like over there?” asked Harry.

“You’ll find out soon enough.”

“Can you tell me a little of what to expect?”

“When it happens, it happens. Then you’ll know.”

“Just a hint, that’s all I’m asking.”

“I have no time for that. I have a way to go before lunch.”

“Do you still eat lunch?”

“A guy gets hungry.”

“What do you eat?”

“What did you have for lunch yesterday?”

Harry thinks a moment: “A little soup, a sandwich, some tea.”

“So there – lunch is lunch. You eat what you like, I eat what I like.”

“Does it hurt when you die?" asked Harry.

“I suppose it hurts if you’re in an automobile accident or a fire. But if you pass in your sleep, you just wake up on the other side.”

“Do you have a room, an apartment?”

“It’s what it is -- could be better, but not so bad.”

“Do you have furniture, a bed, TV?”

“You don’t need that stuff – it’s a lot simpler.”

“Tell me more," said Harry.

“What’s to tell? You’ll find out soon enough.”

“What do you mean soon enough? Do you know something about me – my future?”

“I’m getting a headache from all these questions.”

“I want to know, and yet you won’t tell me anything,” said Harry.

“What’s to tell?”

“See what I mean. You evade the issue – answer a question with a question. Tell you what. I’ll take you to lunch – my treat.  We’ll go anywhere you like, just answer a few questions – is it a deal?”

“I don’t make deals -- that was in another life.”

“All right, no deals, just a chat about the other side.  What I should expect, stuff like that.”

“You make it sound like you have to pack a bag, bring the right clothes.  No need for anything like that.”

“I want to know the living conditions,” said Harry.

“There are no living conditions – you’re dead. It’s not a hotel – you don’t check in.  You arrive, that’s it.”

“And then what?”

“You’ll find out.”

“Can’t I have a hint?  Something to help me get ready – it’s a big move,” said Harry.

“I have to go."

“I’ll slow down, be more discreet.”

“Goodbye, I’m on my way.”

“Wait. What about lunch?” asked Harry.

“I’m heading there.”

“Can’t I go with you?”

“Your time will come soon enough.”

“No, I meant to have lunch with you,” said Harry.

“Goodbye.”

Sidney picked up the pace of his shuffle and disappeared from view. Harry got up from the bench intent on following him but Sidney was nowhere in sight.

Walter Pierce has been writing short fiction since his retirement as managing director of the Celebrity Series the major presenter of music and dance in Boston. His story "Foliage Weekend" was recently published in the 2013 Vermont Literary Review.      

Mr. and Mrs. Barrow by Brandon Madden

            I pulled my car into the driveway of a bird blue bungalow. The screen door opened slowly, and a tiny, hunched woman walked out. Simply dressed in black pants and a gray sweater, with a totebag on her arm, Mrs. Barrow had been my next door neighbor since the time I moved in seven years ago. She and her husband had been the first to welcome me to the neighborhood with baked goods and a smile. I put the car in park, opened the door, and walked towards her to assist her down the stairs.

            Fresh snow crunched under our feet as she grabbed my arm and we cautiously walked down the concrete steps.

            “Would you like me to take your bag?”

            Keeping the bag close to her, she gave off a small smile, deepening the wrinkles around her mouth. “Thank you, dear, but I can carry it; after all, I am seventy-five years young.”

            She opened the back door of the car and took a seat, nestling the bag on the ground in front of her.

            “You can sit in the front if you’d like.”
            “That’s alright dear,” she said. “I get vertigo if I sit in the front.”

            I opened my door, pulled out of the driveway, and drove off.

            “Thank you again for taking me to the bank,” she said. “My husband said that he was going to run some errands this morning and will meet us there for our appointment.”

            “It’s no problem,” I said. “I wasn’t doing anything today anyway.”

            “That’s nice.”

            “So, is it a special occasion today?”

            “Oh yes,” she said as her eyes lit up. “Today is our anniversary of when we first met.”

            “Congratulations,” I said, looking in the rearview mirror. “When did you two meet?”

            “I met him at a friend’s house in January of 1930,” she said with a smile. “I just knew when I saw him walk through the doorway that I would be with him for the rest of my life.”

            I smiled. “You know, Mrs. Barrow, people don’t talk like that anymore. Which is a shame, if you ask me.”

            “Are you dating anyone, William?”

            “Oh,” I said, stopping the car as the light ahead turned yellow. “Well, no. Work is busy and I just don’t think I have enough time to do that.”

            “Nonsense,” she said. “Mr. Barrow and I grew up during the Depression. We made plenty of time for each other.”

            “Maybe you’re right.” I said as the car hummed. “But wasn’t it hard during back then? How did you manage to survive?”

            “Well, William,” she said as the light turned green. “Mr. Barrow came to me one day and said that if we left home we could go from town to town and find whatever money we could. He said that there was no money to be had here, but there would be more if we travelled far enough.”

The car continued to roll down the slick road. Ice had accumulated in large patches, forcing all the cars to go slower than usual.

“But most importantly,” Mrs. Barrow continued, “he said that if we did this that we’d always be together. My mother and father wouldn’t have been pleased if I told them I was running out of town with him, so I told him we would have to leave at night. And that very same night, he came with his car and we drove off and stayed together, just like he’d promised.” 

“Did you ever speak to your parents again?”

“No,” she said as she looked out the window. “They were probably too disgraced and shocked at my gallivanting around with him.”

“What did you and Mr. Barrow do for money?”

“We robbed banks.”
            I laughed. “Oh, Mrs. Barrow, I surely can’t see you doing that.” I looked back in the rearview mirror. Mrs. Barrow was applying red lipstick using her faint reflection off of the window.

“Okay dear,” she said, puckering her lips to smooth out the lipstick.

“Did you and Mr. Barrow move a lot?”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “Why, I can’t remember the last time we were stationary, until we moved here.”

“Got tired of robbing banks?” I asked.

“We wanted a quieter life.”

“I’m sure a life on the road must have been stressful.”

“Of course, dear, even more so when you have the police chasing you.”

I laughed. “You’re far too funny, Mrs. Barrow.”

We turned the corner onto Main Street where the bank was. Standing outside, on the side of the road, was Mr. Barrow. I slowed the car, and he approached. He was wearing blue jeans, a black sweater, and around his arm was a plastic bag. Hunched over from old age, he used a cane to walk cautiously over to the car. I rolled down the window.

“I have your bride in the back, sir, safe and sound.”

“Thank you William,” he said. He opened the door to the back of the car.

“Did you bring our favorites?” he asked Mrs. Barrow as he climbed into the back.

“Of course,” she said.

Out of the totebag, Mrs. Barrow drew two pistols. My eyes widened, and my lips parted.

“I got the bullets for cheap. Buy two boxes, get one free,” he said as he loaded the bullets into the revolvers. Both of their heads were down and staring through the rearview mirror. All I could see were shades of light and dark, and gunmetal gray.

“That’s a great deal,” Mrs. Barrow said. “Dear, you should pay William for driving me here. He took time out of his day off to do this.”

Mr. Barrow reached into his pocket and took out a fifty dollar bill.

“Thank you, William,” he said.

I froze, trying to make sound come out of my mouth, but failing to produce anything audible. Mr. and Mrs. Barrow got out of the car. Both hunched over slightly, they began to walk towards the bank.

“Happy Anniversary,” said Mr. Barrow

“Happy Anniversary,” replied Mrs. Barrow.

Brandon T. Madden is a recent graduate from Michigan State University. He has recently published short stories through "The Red Cedar Review", "The Offbeat", "Outrageous Fortunes" and "S/tick". In 2011, he published his first novel "V.S.A".

Fading by Sherri Ellerman

     I have watched her die every day for 6 months.  I love her more because we are losing her yet hate her for leaving us.  I despise myself for feeling angry as I pass my parents’ bedroom door and hear her moaning from a drug-induced sleep.  I turn my head to avoid seeing the metal hospital bed crammed into the space between my parents’ bed and their dresser-afraid of seeing the frail stranger lying in it.  Just as I reach the safety of my room, she calls out.  Her voice is so soft I could almost pretend it wasn’t her, but I hear it again, a little louder this time.  

   

     I pause at my door and wait, hoping Mama will realize that it’s me she hears.  It has been three days since I heard her utter my name.  She is silent again, but I still turn back toward her room.  It’s dark but for a thin ray of light that slips through a small opening in the bathroom door and falls across the sharp angles of her face, cancer having robbed it of the soft curves.  Her eyes are closed.  I trace the light as it slips from her body and falls upon faded Holly Hobby sheets, the only ones we have that are small enough to fit the hospital bed that enables Mama to remain at home-with us.  The light outlines a splash of red, the ink still as bright as the night my twin sister used a permanent marker to color one of the tiny dolls.  The only Holly Hobby with a red dress appears three dimensional among the others-a constant reminder that not all things are permanent. 

     I lean over the bed, cringing as the cold, metal rail presses against my chest.  She is so quiet.  So still.  I close my eyes and lay my hand across her chest. It rises and falls. 

     “Mama,” I whisper.  She doesn’t answer, but it is enough to know she is here. 

     A faint trace of her scent, Skin-So-Soft lotion mixed with hairspray, still lingers in the room.  It doesn’t smell right mixed with Bengay and sickness.  I have to work harder to smell it every day-terrified of the day that it is no longer here.  I have convinced myself that, no matter how faint it becomes, it will never be gone. 

   

     As I stand to leave, her eyes flicker behind thin lids, and I wonder who she is in her dreams.   Is she the Mama who lived in my past, or has cancer reached her even there?  I wake up every morning in fear that it will have taken what is left of her from us yet wonder how even that could feel any worse than watching her slip away.   I push the thought away as I slip quietly from her room.

   

     Sleep comes to me slowly tonight, but when it does, I am dragged into a deep, dark place.  I am chasing something that I’m running from, catching up to it just as I escape, screaming for it to leave me alone yet begging and pleading for it to stay.  A cold hand grabs my bare arm and pulls me from the nightmare.  I hear myself scream but do not feel it.  In the heavy silence that follows, I hear Daddy whisper.

“She’s gone.”

     Another scream, coming from my sister’s bedroom, rips through the silence, and I wonder why it isn’t coming from me. I cover my ears and take a deep breath, holding it for as long as I can while waiting for the faint, familiar scent that doesn’t come.  The next scream explodes through the silence, and this time I feel it. 

Sherri Ellerman is an Occupational Therapist who has put her career on hold to homeschool her children.  In her free time, Sherri enjoys writing, mostly creative non-fiction and short fiction.

                                                                                                                                            

That's Twice Now by Leah Christianson

Earlier in the evening, they had dinner with friends. She made a salad and he picked up a red blend from McEachern’s. She hadn’t liked it. He drank the wine himself. They ate their fill and returned home. Now they sat at the dining room table, facing one another.

“I don’t love you anymore,” she said.

“I’ll get you more wine.”

She wiped at invisible dirt on her cheek. He went to the kitchen.

“I don’t want any.”

He returned with two glasses. They were gifts from her mother. There used to be four, he remembered.

“Alright, Ok. I’ll pay someone to fix the end table.” He sighed. “Will you, just? Here.”

He poured the wine.

“You can keep the table. You can throw it out.”

“Did you pay the babysitter?” He pushed the glass towards her. A bit sloshed over its crystal edge.

She waved her hand as though swatting at a gnat, lips pursed. Running her finger along the stem, she cleaned the maroon streaks dripping down. She sucked it dry and made a face.

“You don’t—“ she began.

“Don’t be ridiculous, now.” He patted her arm.

“Listen,” she said.

There was a small knock at the door, a suggestion. He took a sip.

“Can you believe Denise’s pie?” He adjusted his belt.

“We have to talk about the kids,” she said.

“I’ll put some coffee on. She sent leftovers.” He stood.

The wine that escaped her fingers seeped onto the tablecloth. It soaked the cotton and pooled above the waxy film protecting the dark mahogany. There was another knock, insistent now. He lifted the glass to his lips, still standing.

“Jim—”

“I’ll do better.”

“I’m going to stay with Denise and Mark.”

“I’ll do anything.”

“I don’t want anything.”

There was a slam against the door, like something being thrown. In three strides, he reached it. It flung open.

“You didn’t pay me,” said the babysitter, a hefty girl with shaky hands. He knew he should know her, but it took a moment to place her face.

“Your wife said she would be right back. I’ve been waiting in my car. It’s getting late.”

“My wife?” he asked. “Said she would pay?”

He looked to the dining room but the table was empty. The Earth was moving, he realized. He felt it shift under his feet.

“But why now?” he asked. The room echoed back.

“It’s been a while now.” She looked at her watch, as if to prove a point. 

“What did you say?”

“Didn’t you hear?” The babysitter recrossed her arms.

“Who do you think—?” He took a step towards her.

The babysitter lifted her chin, exposing blue veins in her pudgy neck. He thought about latching his fingers around it and pressing. He would close out the words. He would tell her that she would never see his boy and the two girls—no, she wouldn’t see any of them again. Emma, only three, wouldn’t even remember her name. He would push her against the wall of this house that he built—he built—up from nothing, where his children slept and his wife made brisket and he stayed up late watching Letterman and drinking gin with lemon, not lime. He would make her feel it all. Then, he would let go.

“This should cover it.” He thrust a fifty-dollar bill her way.

He shut the door. Returned to the empty table. Emptied her full glass into his. A bit more spilled out, splattering the tablecloth again. The stain would be permanent, he knew. Like blood.

“That’s twice now,” he said to no one in particular.

Soon, a thumping began. Like something being dragged down steps.                                                                                                                                                                                                     Leah Christianson began writing as a sixtteen-year-old suburbanite outside of Minneapolis.  After graduating with an honors thesis in short fiction from UCLA, Christianson began working in consulting.  Her work has appeared in Westwind Literary Journal and received the Ruth Brill Scholarship for fiction. She currently resides in Los Angeles and various airports.

If You Listen Close Enough, You Can See by Jos O'Connell

There is an old man that comes and sits in his car on the hill top overlooking Lake Alan every Tuesday night.  I know this because that overlook, up the hill, by the power lines is where I like to meet Jennifer when everyone else has fallen asleep.  Lake Alan is a beautiful stretch of water, but by moonlight, when the wind dies down and the groups of distant voices reveal themselves by the popping fires of the shoreline; it becomes mesmeric.  

I swore this spot to myself, but the night that Jennifer finally let me kiss her, I broke that promise in an instant boyish daze.  I begged her, with her wanting eyes and effortless glances, to come spend the night with me up at the power lines.  She knew that I had a spot that I kept for myself and the instant that I let her in her eyes grew and she smiled big and kissed me on the forehead.  Since then we have met up here almost every night since.  It was when our meetings grew so consistent that I first noticed the old man each week. 

One night in October, as the leaves were just starting to drop, I found myself in conversation with the old man.  The night was chilly and he invited me into his car to sit while I waited for Jennifer.  I was hesitant at first as I worried that Jennifer may not see me and turn back, but he assured me that it would be okay, and for some reason I believed him.  We spoke for a while. 

“If you had three wishes, and you could wish for anything, what would it be?” he asked me after some time.

I was hesitant to answer such a question to a stranger, but I felt a peculiar comfort in the company of the old man.  After some thought I answered him; “I would take all of the sickness and all of the pain that my younger sister ever felt and I would destroy it, and I would bring her back so that my Mother could feel whole again.”

I looked over at the man but he continued on his cigar as if I had said nothing.  He continued to scan the dark horizon of Lake Alan with a half-smile, studying each bend and break in the distant shoreline; as if he were recalling memories from a time long since passed.

“And your third wish?”

This one I knew instantly, for the thought had wrapped my mind like a plague for the past few weeks; “I wish that I could take the feeling that I had on the first night that Jennifer gave herself to me, and I wish that I could know it each time that I ever loved a woman ever again.  I don’t know that Jennifer will always have me, but I want that feeling, I have to have that feeling.”

The car was still and smoky and the wind rattled the leaves around us, if you listened close enough you could hear the hum of the power lines overhead.  The old man pulled the cigar from his mouth and brushed his palms across his eyes; this time he turned and faced me.

“I know that I am just an old man to you, and I trust that you have been hearing me as we have spoken, but for what I am about to tell you I need you to listen.”

He went on, “Jennifer will love you and relish you like a prize.  She will be so intrigued and absolutely captivated by you, that she will begin to beg your Mother to teach her how to treat you as she does.  She will even think of putting off school and following you as you go off to play ball at State—which you will do, just like you and your Father always wanted.  She will want to change her life to make it your life, but you will ruin this.  By giving into weakness and temptation you will lose Jennifer, and that feeling that you wished so badly to have back; you will never have again.

“And your Mother; the only woman who ever truly understood you, your best friend, and your biggest supporter—you will lose her too.  When you are twenty-one, while you are bombed off in some bar hundreds of miles away, her heart will stop and she will lose life and fall to the ground, and in an instant, everything will change.  Just like she always warned you of when you treated her wrong.”

However grand these things were, it didn’t feel wrong to listen to this old man.  My heart wasn’t racing, and I was not scared—I was rather peaceful--not questioning or panicked.  It hurt to hear these things said aloud, and I couldn’t bear the pain of imagining them as true, but I listened on and stared forward onto the surface of Lake Alan as it played back and forth with the moon.

“Go on, please go on, I am listening,” I reassured him.

“What do you think of the world, boy?  How old are you?”

“I am seventeen.”

“What do you think of the world right now?  What does it mean to you?”

“I think that I am meant, I mean I have always kind of felt that, I am bound for something higher—something bigger and better.  I think that I am well-grounded and motivated and that if I keep myself centered and stay out of trouble then I can really do something special.”

The man exhaled and then pulled back in on the end of his shrinking cigar, “I did not ask what you think of yourself, did I?  What do you think of the world?  Of us here?”

The question troubled me and I struggled to keep my sense of comfort.  I sat up in the seat and rubbed my hands down the legs of my jeans; “Well, um, I don’t know why we are here, but I know that, well I have been taught that, if you show the right Faith, the right Love, and the right Gratitude, then the grander plan can work out for you as it should, as it is all happening for a reason.”

“If I told you that you were going to live beyond sixty, and then I put this car into gear and let us roll down off of the big hill into the Lake, would you let me?  Would you stay in the car?”

My palms grew sweaty again and I sat up as tall in my seat as I could and tried to peer down the steep hill.

“Um, you know, I . . . I don’t know.  I mean would I get hurt, what if I got hurt and then what if I couldn’t play in the Fall, I mean I don’t kn--.”

“Fear,” the old man said cutting me off, “Fear of falling, fear of death, fear of affecting this existence that you think is so well planned—you will lose that.  Just as you will lose all of the faith, love, and gratitude feelings that you now imagine are so near and dear to your happiness and health.”

“Six months after you lose your Mother, you are going to find it hard to breathe some nights.  You will drink until you don’t wake up during the daylight and your friends will try to care at first, but they will all forget.  Seven months after, you will start to stop calling family and every time you get into a car you will pray the one passing you the other way smashes you into a crumpled pile of steel.  Eight months in you will start to thank God for each day that ends because it will be one more day closer to the imminent conclusion of, what you will come to know as, wanting-death.”

“Listen to me," he said looking me square in the eye, "If you can get through this, if you can manage to keep your head above water in this time," He took one last pull from his cigar and mashed it into the ashtray, "I promise you that things will get better, I promise you that you will change."

"Just hang on." 



Jos O'Connell is a man and these are his words.  He writes for his Mother and he writes for his Sister. It is his hope that if he writes enough, they will hear him, wherever they are.

The Wanderer by Vito Racanelli

George wore his favorite suit, his only suit, for the interview. It was brown corduroy. He’d owned it for years, though he hadn’t much call to use it. It had been in style before The Collapse.

His counselor, Andrea, from Back on Your Feet Each Day!, said not to be nervous. He hadn’t had a job in a long time but still he wasn’t nervous.

Mrs. Rose Landry met him on the 24^th floor. He’d been told it was a bank, but there were no tellers. It wasn’t even on the first floor, so he wondered how customers would be able to get their money. But they might give him a job so he didn’t ask any questions.

“George Willoughby,” she said with a smile, but also as a question.

“Yes,” he said and smiled back.

She was older, slim and well dressed. She had on a black pantsuit and wore a lot of make up. It must take her a lot of time to do that, he thought.

“Follow me,” she said, and they walked into a giant room full of people, mostly men, sitting at dozens of desks, each with three or four blinking computer screens. Many of them were barking into their phones, as if there was something wrong with the phones. No one paid attention to George or Mrs. Landry.

“This is the trading room,” she said. Once you start working you’ll be coming through here a lot. Don’t get to close to the animals, though.”

George laughed but he didn’t know what she meant. He looked for animals but saw none. They went down a long corridor, until they reached a scratched up metal double door. Mrs. Landry stopped, opening one of the doors wide enough for George to peek into the room too.

“Mr. Fallon, I have George from BYFED,” she said.

George couldn’t see him but he saw a few older men working at tables, sorting mail. It looked like fun and that was what he wanted to do, too. He hoped they would give him the job.

“I’ll be 15 minutes. OK?” Mr. Fallon said.

“He’ll be in Room A,” Mrs. Landry said. She turned to George. “He’s going to be your new boss,” she said with a smile. “He’s nice.”

George smiled too.

She put him in a small conference room with a view of the Hudson, and asked him if he wanted a coffee or water. George wasn’t thirsty but said he needed to use the men’s room.

Standing in the doorway, she said, “Down the hall, third door on the right,” and pointed the direction.

After she left, George rose and moved down the hall toward the men’s room. He saw people, mostly women, in glass walled cubicles looking at him and smile. He smiled back.

He passed another conference room, Room B, and saw two people in there, one, a very pretty woman sitting at the table and working a laptop, and another, a man in a shiny blue suit, very close to the door. The man seemed nervous and expectant.

When the man saw George stop for a moment at the door, his eyes brightened.

“Mr. Willoughby?” he said.

“Yes,” George answered, surprised that the man knew his name. He thought maybe this was Mr. Fallon.

Immediately, he came out of the room to shake George’s hand. “Bill Struther, from Struther Software. Good to finally put a face with a voice. I’m so glad you made some time for us. Hope we’re not too early,” he said, still shaking George’s hand vigorously. The man had on a big smile, very wide, and pulled George into the room.

George looked back in the direction of Room A and wondered about this. The man, however, would not let go.

“Take the head of the table and we’ll get started,” Bill said.

George sat. The woman, he noticed, also had on a lot of make up. But it looked better on her. He didn’t know why. She wore a green dress and smiled at him.

“Maggie. Maggie Lister,” she said, extending her hand. “Director of marketing.”

George shook it.

“I love your suit,” she said. “It’s so Mad Men.”

George said, “Thank you.”  He didn’t think he was mad.

She hit some keys on the computer and the large screen in the far corner came to life. There were a lot of colorful graphs on it.

Bill spoke, using a red dot pointer. The software they were offering would save George’s department hundreds of thousands of dollars, as well as man hours.

George didn’t understand “man hours,” but he nodded his head anyway. It sounded like a good thing.

Andrea had told him to be polite and nod his head a lot to get the job.

After about 20 minutes, Bill, who’d been talking the whole time—though George didn’t really understand most of it—finished.

“What do you think?” Bill asked.

“I like it,” George said, smiling. “Very much.”

“Great,” Bill said. “That’s really great. You’re not going to regret this,” and he came over to shake George’s hand again. He and Maggie seemed happy, and George was happy at that too.

Just then, Mrs. Landry walked by quickly. She stopped abruptly and moved to the door. “There you are.”

“Yes,” George said.

Mrs. Landry looked at Maggie and Bill. They seemed confused.

“George is here to see about a mailroom job,” she said to them. “I’ll have to collect him now.”

“Oh,” Maggie said. She smiled and seemed embarrassed. She looked away. Bill said nothing but his face got red. He slumped down into a seat opposite Maggie.

Mrs. Landry brought George back to Room A, where Mr. Fallon was waiting.

“Hi, George,” he said, shaking George’s hand.

“We’ve been having an adventure,” Mrs. Landry said to Mr. Fallon, with eyebrows raised, not looking at George.

“Everything ok?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Yes,” George said.

“Well,” Mr. Fallon said, his fingers tapping the table. “Let’s get started, shall we?”



Vito Racanelli's short fiction has been published in The Literarian and The Boiler Literary Journal and performed at Liar’s League NYC at KGB’s. He is a 2013 Fish Publishing Flash Fiction Story Prize finalist and a participant in the 2013 Pen World Festival. He's currently working on a book of short stories and recently finished a novel about a terrorist attack that took place 30 years ago in Italy, where he lived for four years. 

The Honolulu Mermaid by Michael M. Pacheco

Soft waves lapped the cream-colored beaches of Waikiki. It was a silent, scented evening Cameron knew could only be found in this part of the world. Soft violet and indigo light drenched the sky, the earth and the sea. The rhythmic to and fro of the water murmured to itself instead of roaring gustily, sounds so soft you could believe the creatures of the legends were singing inside them.

On a night like this, Cameron wondered whether he could glimpse mermaids dancing on the water’s surface. He wondered too, whether the mythological sirens with human attributes really did pounce on the souls of men and drag them down to their world forever. When he was little, his mother would tell him that somewhere in the deep blue depths, way down there, there lived a whole new civilization, people who were half fish and half human.

He gazed at the sea through blurry eyes and blinked hard. He’d just left Los Cocos, a rowdy bar on the main strip of the city. Maybe the El Patron was getting to him.

Cameron preferred to stroll here and work out the stiffness in his knees, with no particular destination, squishing the sand between his toes. He hadn’t come all the way from Seattle just to end up in a modern nightspot identical to the ones in the Emerald City.

Funny how they ended up there, thought Cameron. After his father died unexpectedly when they lived in San Diego, things were never the same. His mother saw images and ghostly apparitions of his father everywhere they went.

Then one day out of the blue, she said, “We’re moving to the Emerald City.”

“Why?” Cameron had asked. “What’s up there?”

“I’ve never been there, so I don’t really know, but I hear it’s lovely.”

Cameron knew why. She wanted a peaceful heart, but in San Diego where his father had lost his soul to a drive-by shooter, she’d never find one. She never did find what she was looking for in Seattle either.

His widowed mother had died only six months ago and Cameron’s depression had not eased. He kept reliving his mother’s last breath on her deathbed, just him and her, by themselves. He missed her warm embrace and her words of encouragement and comfort. Her soft lullabies still hummed in his head. He had no brothers, sisters or girlfriend. That’s why his friends, Thomas and Robert, had talked him into this excursion, “to pull him out of his funk” they’d said.

Just then, a pang of pain shot through his lower back. He paused, reached into his pocket and pulled out a small plastic medicine bottle. Ever since his injury at the Boeing plant, he’d resorted to popping Vicodin to take the edge off his pain. At this moment, he knew it was wrong to mix alcohol and narcotics, but what the heck, he was on vacation.

He’d walked to the southern tip of the tourist trap on the beach where the soft sand ended. To his left, was a more rugged beach, craggy rocks and large boulders standing steadfast against the endless slap of the waves. He glanced up at Diamond Head, the dead volcano.

Just then, he heard a soft voice, humming a soothing melody. The tune reminded him of a child’s lullaby.

Cameron noticed a figure in the deepening dark. He couldn’t quite discern whether it was a man or a woman but the figure was reclining on a large boulder, bathing in the moonlight. He decided he would make a friend tonight. This was his first time in Hawaii and so far, he’d only been with his Haole buddies from the United States. Where was the fun in that? Maybe this stranger was a Hawaiian native who could enlighten him on local customs and traditions.

As he came closer to the reclining figure, he realized it belonged to a shapely woman, bringing back to him memories of the actress, Bo Derek, in her sleek, one-piece swimsuit. His heart began to race.

“Excuse me? Mind if I join you?” he asked. The moment those words left his mouth, he felt stupid. Join you? What was he supposed to join her doing?

The woman was lithe with flawless tanned skin and sensuous curves in all the right places. Her short dark hair reminded him of Olympic swimmers. She pushed herself up on her elbows and turned to Cameron. Her smile was infectious.

“You want to soak up the moon’s rays, too?” she asked with a hint of a Spanish accent.

It may have been his anticipation or high expectations but Cameron thought her voice gave a suggestion of underlying passion and sensuality. “Yeah, if that’s what you’re doing. Sure, I’ll soak up some moon rays.”

The woman patted a spot next to her on the smooth boulder inviting Cameron to lie next to her. He noticed there was no beach towel underneath the woman but the boulder was moist where she had been lying, suggesting she must have been out for a swim.

As he scooted closer to this beach beauty, he realized that she had the legs of a dancer, long and muscular. If she stood upright, she’d probably be six feet tall. Cameron himself wasn’t quite that tall. He laid his body slowly onto the rock, put his hands behind his back and followed her gaze upward. Tiny lights twinkled everywhere in the dark, coruscant sky.

“Heavenly, isn’t it?” she asked.

“Yes, it is,” said Cameron. “Are you from around here? You speak perfect English.”

“I guess you could say I’m from around here. I spend so much time in this part of the world.” The tone of her voice dropped. “My parents were killed when I was young, so I’m not exactly sure where I was born.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Cameron. “Both of mine have passed too.” She looked at him and he turned to face her. “My name is Cameron.”

“I’m Lucero,” she said. “It’s Spanish for bright star.”

“That’s beautiful,” said Cameron. “My name means crooked nose.”

She giggled. “But your nose isn’t crooked!”

He grinned in return, appreciating the fact that she’d noticed his aquiline nose. “That’s true, but it’s okay because not too many people know the origin of my name.”

Lucero returned to her supine position. “Are you a tourist or do you plan on living here?”

Cameron sighed deeply. “If only I could. This place is like paradise. It reminds me of home, not where I live now, but my real home in San Diego.” He shook his head. “But me and my friends are only here for a short week and then it’s back to the grindstone. That’s what we call our regular jobs at home. How about you?” asked Cameron. “You gonna go back to somewhere away from here?”

“I like it here, too,” she said. “It does have a homey feel to it, huh?”

The Vicodin and tequila were a potent mixture and Cameron was starting to feel the earth sway. He hadn’t had dinner so there was nothing to vomit if the motion of the world continued. He decided to engage in more conversation, hoping to distract himself from the queasiness.

“Lucero, if you stayed here, what would you do for a living?”

“I don’t know, but it would probably have something to do with the sea. I love the water. I spend more time in the water than I do on land.”

He was surprised by the tone of her voice. It was as if she was singing her words to him in that same lullaby lilt that had first drawn his attention to her. He looked across at her and studied her face. It was such an attractive face, strong, with prominent cheekbones, piercing eyes and that bronze texture to her skin. Cameron decided he liked everything about this woman. He knew attractive women were numerous, but with this person, he realized there was more. Even though he had just met her, there was something indefinable about her that compelled him toward her.

She looked at him once more. “Are you all right? You look a little dazed.”

She was right. Cameron felt ready to pass out. His vision was blurrier than it had been before he met Lucero and his nausea was twice as bad. Maybe he needed to slap some water on his face to wake him up.

“Can you help me into the water?” he asked. “I’m not feeling well.”

Lucero scooted toward the end of the partially submerged boulder and took Cameron’s hand, sending a tingle throughout his body. “Come toward me, my little pretty. I will hold you. You’re safe with me.”

Cameron slipped into the tepid water of the Honolulu Harbor. The tropical warmth against his skin reminded him of his mother’s embrace. Lucero went completely underwater taking a willing Cameron with her. The lullaby started again in his ears.

He inhaled a large amount of water and expected to choke on it. He didn’t panic. Instead, the water seemed to flow right through him and out of his ears. He felt a private instability and reached out into the blur with his free hand, as if to grab hold. Then everything went calm, even his heart seemed to rest. The back pain he had felt earlier slowly dissipated from his bones. He caught his breath as the water inched up over his body and over his face.

He looked around, startled by the mythic beauty of the world around him, the rainbow colored fish, the swaying sea plants and starfish on the ocean floor. He heard a faint call - Cameron - and realized it was Lucero trying to get his attention.

She smiled at him. “Welcome home, Cameron.”

At that moment, he knew there was no place like home, and his world would never be the same again.



Michael M. Pacheco’s fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in The Bilingual Review Press (ASU), Southwestern American Literature, The Gold Man Review, Azahares Literary Magazine, Foliate Oak Literary Magazine, Boxfire Press, The Acentos Review, Red Ochre Press, Label Me Latina, VAO Publishing - Along the River II, St. Somewhere Journal, Emerge Literary Journal, Writer’s Bloc Literary Magazine (Texas A&M), Fiction Vortex, Valley Voices, a Literary Review, Circa Journal of Historical Fiction, Veterans Writing Project, The Story Shack, and AirplaneReading (twice).