By Dennis Taylor

I liberate my tuxedo from its stale-smelling garment bag. A confused moth flutters weakly toward my lackluster dress shoes below. I spray and wash the entire shirt, with its yellowing collar, pits, and cuffs, until it is soaked. Same with the cummerbund and bow tie. They remind me of aging cheese. I wash all of these alone on the hot cycle, a waste of water and energy. The pants need dry-cleaning and pressing, but lacking time, I iron-sharpen the creases. I inspect the coat for moth holes. None. 

[Read more…] about Bach Air

By Marie-Louise McGuinness

I was mesmerized by his hair, the way it moved with each nod and bow of his head, silvered strands catching on the creases of his face as his toothless mouth gratefully sipped the salty broth of my mother’s *nikujaga*, bald gums swinging gaily on the fat and sinew of the cheap meat. Afterwards, he would pat his thin lips with a silk handkerchief in a rich hue of red or green. My father would admonish me for staring and shoo me back behind the beaded curtain where there would be pots, glass, and bowls to be scrubbed until my fingertips would crack and bleed.

[Read more…] about Mr. Tanaka’s Cane

By Rick Williams

I don’t remember street names. Buildings show me where to turn, but some are getting blurry. Sometimes I get lost, but I don’t tell my wife. I can’t put a face to the names of most family and friends…I say I do, but I can’t. When will I forget my sisters? My grandchildren? My past is slipping away. It would be better to end this slow torture, this march to…. At some point I won’t feel this shame because I won’t know who I am. Will I forget God too? 

[Read more…] about Trapped in a Vise

By Samuel Edwards

The house was certainly haunted. 

Dark, twisted spires adorned the roof, a carpet of foul mist lingered on the front lawn, and bats flew en masse from open windows while a disembodied voice wailed stark warnings—

But Crooked Manor was a bargain, make no mistake. The realtor only wanted a two and a half percent deposit, and mortgage payments were well below the average for the area. There was a Starbucks down the road, a rear garden walled off with hedges, and don’t even get me started on the public transport connections. 

[Read more…] about Who Cares about Bleeding Walls When It’s a Fixed-Rate Mortgage?

By R.P. Redridge

In the shadow of the cathedral, people form neat, straight “queues” as the locals call them. These queues convey people to attractions designed to catch the overflow of cathedral tourists. The overflow grows, and the queues continue to expand until they meld together and form a rigid square of tourists. The queues are made of people that have come from all over the globe to do the same things. As if programmed, they wait to spend their money, take their pictures, and show the world how sophisticated and cultured they are. Their heads are slightly bowed in silence as they scroll through the photos they have already taken at other such attractions.

[Read more…] about Calloused Hearts

By Jolie Lindholm

Tarah caught a glimpse of the backyard through the dusty kitchen window as she removed a recently expired jar of peanut butter from the cabinet. The yard’s rusted swing set was partially swallowed by weeds and knee-high grass. That rickety thing looked dangerous even when it was shiny, but now it offered a certain charm to the new generation when they’d visit.

[Read more…] about Gravity