By K. L. Soverns

“Tension,” I shout to my brother Tom as he works the belay rope forty-five feet below. 

His movements vibrate through the nylon rope which tightens around my waist and upper thighs. Tom literally holds my life in his hands. His hands slip; I plunge from the rockface. 

Despite the clear sky and bright morning light, I see shadows of trees, and the granite horn I cling to is a muted gray, camouflaging vertical handholds. I use a shoulder to rub stinging sweat and dust from my eyes, then strain them to sharpen my blurred vision. Stress triggers the worst flashbacks of the accident that took my sight, though the memories are reels on continuous play in my mind. 

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By Elahe Nassr

Casey knew I hated crowded places, yet he insisted on taking me to the Venice Carnival for our anniversary. Watching the masquerades with such exaggerated delight, he handed me a mask of his choice. When he saw the pizzeria, he ran straight in like a twelve-year-old, without asking me what I wanted or if I was feeling hungry at all. He thinks he’s doing me a favor, always planning out everything by himself. He assumes he knows everything about me, all my likes and dislikes. But that is just impossible. People change. That’s what he doesn’t realize. 

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By Maggie Nerz Iribarne

I am the second Mrs. Roberts. 

I don’t ever, ever want to meet the first Mrs. Roberts. The first Mrs. Roberts put a glass on the mantel in our living room thirty years ago and left a persistent ring. The first Mrs. Roberts colors her hair a fake imitation of the deep red she supposedly had twenty years ago. The first Mrs. Roberts gets boob jobs and Botox between her eyes. The first Mrs. Roberts looks down at me—a younger, natural beauty with sandy hair and dark brown eyes. 

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By Karla Young

Bridget’s mom always told her she could grow up to be anything she wanted. She was smart, beautiful, and strong. She could be a doctor, or a lawyer, an engineer, or even the president. Bridget would smile and nod and say that she wanted to be a doctor. 

But what seven-year-old Bridget really wanted to be was an elephant.

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By Stephen Duffin

I sit by Urquhart Castle’s tourist shop, my hands wrapped around a hot mug of coffee. My ancestors owned these lands centuries ago. Memories flit through my mind like shreds of stained gossamer. By the Gatehouse, Morag had called my name. By Grant Tower, she rested a hand on my shoulder. Our last kiss was beside Loch Ness, so dark and ancient.

Should I tell the police all I know about my pretty lady?

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By Lisa Ann Dalton

I came to recognize the smell of a corpse through a closed coffin after I spent a year working in Shipping & Intakes for The Port of Savannah right after I turned twenty (to save money for, as I claimed, college). Life took on a temporary new direction when I met Poncho Pilot on an extra late delivery one August night. His plane landed twenty seconds before Tropical Storm Julie began pounding the hangar, and he made a run for it under the cover of a bright yellow poncho. It was a silly sight at first, him jogging through the rain like an off-brand traffic cone, but when he peeled the plastic off and golden-retriever-shook the last few drops from his dark, springy hair, I completely forgot about the first image. 

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