The Last Cigarette
by Scott Bogart
He took one last drag in the darkness, high above the city, savoring the moment, before flicking the butt and watching it fall. A stiff breeze tousled his hair, causing his cancer riddled body to sway. He gripped the railing. He’d quit years ago, but what good had it done? The bustling streets below were a noisy and glittering reminder of life’s indifference. He smiled at the thought then released his grip on the railing. As he fell back into bed he pondered what laid ahead. Maybe it won’t come tonight. Afterall, there’s still one cigarette left in the pack.
by Rebecca Iden
The trees are washed in morning gold and rain impregnates the air. My skin holds the shadow of his hands and my muscles are hot with blood. Leaves cling to the back of my liver-colored frock and I must hurry. A rabbit freezes on the path, eyes bright like coins.
by Natasha Dalley
Dad stands next to the shower holding a library book he will never return. When Mom asks, he swears he is clean. Mom gets stomach aches when she eats grapes but not when drinking them. Dad says if she would stop holding her breath she would feel better. He hands her a glass of wine. Mom belts out “super six pack shower hour” upstairs. The psychic tells her that there will be peanuts in the bathtub tonight. Or penis. Or perhaps a pianist though that is the least likely. When Mom gets out, she will swear she is clean too.