Countdown

by Karen Zey

You wince at the rows of empty squares on the kitchen calendar. Three weeks until his follow-up appointment. After surgery, hubby needed help to navigate the shower, tie his shoes, take his meds. Six days of pajamas and pain until a nurse removed the catheter—until he slowly returned to his old self and you resumed your quiet routines. He does dishes and laundry; you shop and cook. But you can’t stop yourself from checking and rechecking that date while bleak what-ifs swarm your brain. You put on the kettle and wait. Sip your wild raspberry tea between measured breaths.

Delivery

by David M Wallace

Peter could not stanch his sadness. It settled on him like morning fog. It flowed through him as relentless as the tide. To breathe was to drown and not to die. No sun could cheer him; neither moon nor stars could console him.

Sometimes sadness is like that. An empty mailbox in a month of Sundays. Hoping for an overseas letter from an ex-lover who has lost your address. A stubborn infinity in pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt, rummaging through the junk drawer and forgetting what you were searching for.

Free in the Tree

by Nicole Brogdon

No human saw Katy behind the leafy tree branches. A nearby squirrel stared, then disappeared into foliage. Katy had two peanut-butter sandwiches and one raisin box. Tree kept her safe from Grandpa. If he or Grandma caught her now, there’d be hell to pay —belts, boiling water. For stealing peanut butter, which is food. Stealing, which is a sin.

Lately, Grandpa tied her up in the barn, left her. Tree was better. She’d brought Grandma’s wool sweater, forgotten a blanket. Wind blew, Owl hollered. Night sky turned dark like her soul. Sometimes here in Oklahoma, snow fell like tears.

Mackenzie in the Roses

by Blake Bell

Mackenzie, burning with youth, hollers, “Your roses are dead!” and pedals away from the Rose Witch and my big sister. Cackling over her tanned shoulder at the white-haired woman running one withered hand after another along her confettied bushes, she’s blind to the Oldsmobile hurtling five thousand pounds and a family of four toward her. The Oldsmobile family attends her funeral, but not the Rose Witch. Nobody talks about that, but I ride past her house daily, wondering why she didn’t come and why she would, and across the hall from Sarah’s sobs, a perfect rose wilts under my pillow.

Surreality in the Exit Row

by Sara King

Seven hours to Iceland. I eat and sleep in the middle seat, lost to longitude, and anticipation. Lights dim and the cabin quiets; voices muffle in the row behind, stowed in the overhead locker perhaps. Mouths gape but elbows respect the no man’s land of the armrest.

Clink—one eye half opens. Across the aisle tiny wines arrive to scale with the pixelated Tom Hanks, who
addresses the yoga pants congregated by the toilet, which croon over the assistance dog, curled and cosseted in his own thousand-dollar seat.

And night passes beyond the portholes without the sky growing truly dark.