This week’s artwork is “The Place Above” by G.J. Mintz

Thrill Seeker
by Jade Swann

Worn brakes screech on shiny metal tracks, speed and resistance fighting for control. Screams ring out on the abrupt turn. Her stomach drops twenty feet to the grass below as she’s hurtled upside down. The sky peers at her from underneath, a sunset streaked with cotton candy pink and vibrant orange. Her veins thrum with life. The metal box rights itself once more, the earth settling at her feet and the sleepy sun rocketing upwards. Pounding adrenaline remains as the ride slows. She gets up with wobbly legs, savoring the sensation, and rejoins the back of the line.

Not the Right Club
by Andrew Miller

Before we teed off for the last hole, Harold disappeared behind a red oak to relieve himself, and when he came back he said, “That’s the most accurate I’ve been all day,” and Jeffery said, “Maybe you should try hitting the ball with your dick,” and that got me thinking about the dead and dying spruce surrounding our house, how they could catch fire like they did all over Maine in 1947, and that I should get rid of them, make our property more like an old field or meadow, better yet, a golf course.

Grief In Two Acts
by Karen B. Kaplan

After a decent interval had passed since Gertrude’s demise, Gordon ordered a look-a-like and act-a-like fembot to stand in for his late wife. He was pleased with himself for finding a way to have Gertie live on and not be concerned with the aftermath of death. In no time, intimate goings-on ensued with Gertrude.1, followed by guilt: “Oh me oh my! I have besmirched my wife’s memory!” Disgusted with himself, Gordon let the bot’s batteries run down. Its last words were, “Think you could outwit grieving, Mr. Smarty-pants? Now you’ve got TWO Gertrudes to mourn.”

Ruby’s Shoes
by Iris N. Schwartz
Slanted rain pelts Ruby’s black patent-leather Mary Janes. She must propel herself to the dark limousine quickly. Then from limo to faraway funeral parlor. Outsized downpour. Now to the cemetery. Queens soil soaked. Teeming, still. Back to Brooklyn. Storming. Out the limousine door, up fifteen stairs to her home. Ruby’s dress shoes? Never the same.

Hands
by Alana Pasternak

Hands.
Hands bright red and swollen, from stinging nettles.
Hands that willingly grabbed the nettle to clear it away, so my brother and I wouldn’t get stung.
Hands that worked so hard to keep us alive, safe, and hidden.
Hands that kneaded dough for us, every day.
Hands that knit all the clothes we wore.
Hands that held us when we cried.
Hands that hung as limp as the rest of her, swinging from the gallows.
Eyes. Eyes that forgave us, the ever ungrateful. Eyes that told us to run, before they got us too.