German Trains

by David M Wallace

First it was the beer. Uncorrupted beer. The commandment: Water, barley and hops. Simplicity.
Second came these ingredients, nailed to the church door: Sola Gratia, Sola Fide, Sola Scriptura.
Third was that spud, Philosophy, pared down to Pure Reason.
Fourth, the Reich and those immaculate weapons. Purgation and flames.
And now, a hair shirt and a stringent orthodoxy. A secular temple to correct thought, correct action. Perfectly sorted trash.
Why is it that every time we board a train for Jerusalem, we end up in Munich?

Bye-Over

by Jessica Klimesh

Benny and Jenny float back to the start like defeated, sputtering balloons. What now? Benny says, and Jenny shrugs. What now? Jenny says, and Benny shrugs. Together, with sordid reluctance, they shrug their way through seasons they never expected to see. Benny’s azaleas bloom, and Jenny gets promoted. Rain runs rogue from willing gutters, forms a puddle in their yard that soon becomes a lake. Neighbors call out the obvious, hey, you’re still here, feign cheap ignorance. Benny and Jenny kiss each other’s hesitant lips because duty calls, and moths fly toward the light, igniting death like paper and match.

Dine and Dash

by Char Rennes

You never know when someone will fuck your whole day. They came five minutes to closing, ordered a lot and ate slow – thanks, dudes. Can’t close, guess I’ll scroll my phone and get high. When they split you wouldn’t believe how fast I locked up. But I was frickin high cause I didn’t see them behind the counter with their guns but I was done. “You couldn’t, like, do this when you walked in?! You know what? I quit.” I stomped out, drove home and told Dad I lost my job and sat through his bullshit all night.

Mom

by Laura Shell

Mom had stopped bathing, had developed a rash beneath her right breast that looked like measles. She’d stopped curling her hair and wore perpetual bedhead like a hat. Her makeup bag remained at the bottom of a bathroom drawer instead of on the bathroom counter. No more dressing up, just the same three outfits, all pajamas, usually inside out and backwards. No more healthy meals, only fast food burgers via delivery, and bedtime snacks of cookies and gummies hidden in her nightstand drawer with her Oxycodone.
Did she know the end was near?
Why didn’t she tell me about it?

Poughkeepsie/Persephone

by Matthew Schultz

Slow steam rises from a perfect circle carved into crumbling asphalt beneath blinking yellow traffic lights that flash staccato warnings like the beacon of a north shore lighthouse shouting madly through the brume. The heavy steel water works cover has been removed and set to the side as if the moon about to slide before the sun. Traffic lights blink a brief solar eclipse and she appears ascending from beneath the avenue wearing a reflective safety vest and a golden helmet. She holds a wrench and ratchet like a queen brandishing sword and scepter, like Parmenides returning from the underworld.