Resigned

by Andy Millman

When my coworker blew out the candles on her birthday sheet cake, I made a wish to leave my job. An hour later I resigned with some made-up excuse. I didn’t say how invisible I felt. My boss asked me to finish out the week. On that final Friday there was no sheet cake. I wasn’t even sure people knew I was leaving. One of my supervisors handed me a thick file and asked when I could summarize the reports inside. I guess he hadn’t noticed the box on my desk. I told him to check with me next week.

Photograph 

by Raven Pena

A photograph is all I know of you and all I have of you. You’re young in this photo, and I can tell by your smile that your mouth is trying to move. Since you’re no longer here, you’re trying to speak to me from that moment in Hawaii from across decades, dimensions, and the space between living and sleeping. You’re saying: “Look at me. Look at me, slender and long, hair thick, tied up in a knot, teeth white and strong. I’m beautiful, happy, brown eyes glistening.” You’re saying: “You’re my granddaughter and granddaughter – You’re just like me.” 

Monday, Peter 

by G.J. Williams 

Of all the thoughtographs to have emerged from the mind of Peter Monday, perhaps the most illuminating, sadly, is that of himself hand in hand with his own double. The landscape around them is lush. Birds fill the trees. There appear to be two suns in the sky. And Peter Monday’s faces? One of them is smiling broadly, the other looks as if it could kill. In the foreground there’s a swan oozing cool, its significance quite lost. However, look closely, note the birds in the trees, how their eyes are reminiscent of Peter Monday’s; there’s no escaping him, truly. 

Breaking Baking Bread

by CLS Sandoval

She was frying donuts at Winchell’s, just thinking about her next move when she realized she hadn’t had her period in a while. She kept frying donuts. Frying gave way to baking. She did the kindest thing she could; picked a mom and dad. Shortly after giving birth, she stopped frying. But she never stopped making confections. 23 years went by. She made cakes and crème brûlée. She invited me to dinner, smiled, and cried. Thanked me for coming. We started our meal with the latest from her kitchen. A crisp, piping hot, loaf of soft, buttered French bread.

On The Page

by Emma Burnett

He asks to read my stories.
I ask if he’s sure. Some of them are kind of dark.
He says yeah, sure. I want to support you.
I pull up three stories, some of my favourites. I wait while he reads, trying not to pick my nails, trying not to fidget, trying not to say: Well? Well? Did you like it?
He reads. Then he gets up and gives me a hug.
Are you ok? He asks. Do I need to check for self-harm marks?
I look at him, and consider.
No, I say. It’s all there on the page.