Eyebrow

by Brandy Reinke

Blanket around our shoulders, ankles crossed, mine crossed again over the top of yours. The rubber soles of my slippers do not stop the rain that drips off the edge of the roof from seeping through to my feet. The smell of it- wood and wet-is why we are outside. The snick of the lighter in my hand is loud. You watch me bring the cigarette to my mouth.

I hate when you do that.

I hate when you do that, I say back, grateful for the edge of my right eyebrow, how I can make it arch up.

Unbelievable

by Joseph Howse

I mean, who are you gonna believe, the ones in the kitchen or the ones in the dining room? There’s a flambé to light and a grandfather in ashes. He was a yachtsman and a sportsman and a man, oh, man! Quite a businessman. And how many times he shoved her down the stairs. And if she divorced him he’d get the kid.

Endless Grays

by Roman Albertson

Those I met in the other place speak only of gray.

I first sought the ferryman’s advice, and he told me colors were signs of madness. I thanked him, two gold pieces poorer, and wandered from the bank. I followed her voice, fading into my amnesia.

Then you, the mirror, revealed to me my forgotten truth:

I met my end by the venom of love. I rushed to her side, but she moved no more. I drank deeply of poison, and began my search for her. Now I search, trapped in memory, my endless grays traded for love’s taunting ruby.

Practice

by Scott Burnam

Cassie’s always one-third done her tea when she reaches for her Taoist to-do book. She opens to today’s reading with a heading numbered forty-six. There are no page numbers. She never remembers if her bookmark, a piece of red construction site danger tape, is for the left page or the right one. Or maybe, and likely, she never turned the last page.

Uncaring (some review or preview never hurts), she sips, ponders, then puts the danger tape back. She closes the book on her peaceful space to ready for traffic, work, and whatever else she has not yet figured out.

Short Shrift

by F.D. Jackson

The sheriff, needing chest x-rays, arrives at the county hospital. He doesn’t recognize the radiology tech’s face. Eli’s daughter, Frances, sizes him up, arms folded over her chest. She fits him with the shortest hospital gown she can find.

Standing in the doorway, chewing on a sucker, Frances watches the sheriff walk down the hallway. A sad smile forms at the corners of her mouth.

Despite his best efforts, the sheriff’s privates dangle out from under his gown. A small indignity compared to the one that he visited upon Frances’ father–the night Eli died in his jail cell.