By Kim Farrar

The Check Up

The doctor observes the daughter’s non-reaction to his entrance, to his voice, and the mother notices him noticing. The child is entranced by the blur of tile beneath her swinging feet. Heartbeat, blood pressure, ears, eyes, reflexes, temperature, weight and height, are all perfect, but he pauses for a final question: Does she ask for the potty? No. Even occasionally? No. Never. He is kindly, but the mother hears a sadness in his voice that alarms her as he recommends an evaluation, hands her a card: Speech Pathologist.

At the Playground

A woman from the mommy group that she is never invited to join wears a t-shirt with Speech Pathologist emblazoned across the chest.

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By Anna Keeler

Surielle and I sat feet extended to the coffee table, her left thigh eclipsing my right. This was comfortable for her, treacherous for me.

I was still blushing; God willing, she didn’t see that.

A game show flickered in front of us and had for some time, but neither of us were paying attention. She tried, and I couldn’t, and her television barely held its color.

“You should get a new one,” I said.

Her scowl was hard underneath ice white bangs. “Hianna,” she sighed. “Please don’t.”

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By Adam Lock

When I’m home, if I can change my clothes, make tea, all without waking mom, she won’t be angry with me.

103, 104, 105…

126 slabs to go.

There was the time I threw a tennis ball against the house wall and caught every rebound. Doing it one hundred times in a row without dropping it meant Mom would be ok.

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By Andrew Davidsmeyer

“Bravo one-seven, this is bravo one-three,” my squad leader says into a radio clipped to the shoulder of his body armor. “The mosque is clear.” Some garbled reply comes in, but I don’t hear because of the ringing in my ears. “Team leaders get me LACE reports and start secondary searches.”

I wait for my team leader to come do his check on me and look out across the haram—the oratory. Arabic is a beautiful language; words string together like lyrics. Sajjada—prayer rugs—and bullet eaten concrete jersey barriers dragged in from the street outside are scattered everywhere. The rest of my squad are scattered to corners beginning to rip the ancient building apart looking for anything they can use to learn more about their enemy. I scan around my area with the intent to do the same, but little lyrics of Arabic continue to cavitate in my head as my eyes pass over objects around me. Kursi—a chair. Alttawila—a table. Next to this there’s a bunduqia—rifle. I move past an aljism—a body. He’s covered in dam—blood.

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By Lucia Damacela

Death is such an intrusive bitch. Two weeks have passed, and I didn’t want to put this off anymore: I am going through his things, like he did with mom’s two years ago. That was a rough period for all of us but mainly for dad. Cancer not only ate mom’s body away; it also consumed dad’s will to live. He never recuperated from the loss.

I work my way around the house. I have organized stuff into piles to donate, to throw away, and a small box of items to keep. I am finishing up their bedroom now. I find dad’s library card, the one he used to borrow books for me before I got my own. Terrible, Horrible Edie comes to mind. I sit on the trunk at the foot of the bed, holding the card. I take a moment while early memories sink in. Back then, I felt like the world opened up its doors to me every time Dad or Mom took me to the library, and I could choose books to read all by myself. I am keeping this.

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By Jon Anderson

She struggled through the sand. Her legs felt heavy and, for every step, it seemed she had to pull her leg out of a sandy hole. She pulled and then placed her foot into the sinking sand. Over and over. She tried to make it closer to where the water was—it seemed harder and flatter there.

Finally, near the water line, it was easier, and she walked northward, glancing at the sunset setting behind the dusty horizon. The sun was not going down with a blast of color but slowly fading in grey orange dust.

A tall, skinny boy approached carrying a large wooden box by a handle. The box was a wooden frame covered in wire screening. There was sharp and active movement inside the box and flashes of bright orange. It was not until the boy came closer that she realized that the box was completely full of small finch like birds—orange billed quelea—all very much alive.

“Wish Birds! Wish Birds! Free a bird and make a wish!” he sang.

“How much?” the woman asked.

“One bird, one hundred,” he said, “or special Valentine’s Day price: five birds, five hundred.”

“Quite the deal,” she said.

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