by Robin E. Field
The green apron shields her muʻumuʻu from splashes of whole milk, oat milk, almond milk, the steamed milk and cold foam that crown the cups of coffee at the Starbucks on Waikīkī. Her name badge reads Lydia. Regal before the espresso machine, she sways the steam wand through the milk, graceful, precise, hips undulating before the song of steam. Continue reading
Filed under Fiction
by N.C. Miller
When Amelia Birch limped up to her late husband’s burial service wearing a walking cast and dragging a sledgehammer, the crowd gasped and the minister stopped preaching. She’d been in the car accident that killed her husband a week before – that much was known – but she was released from the hospital the same night and hadn’t been seen since. There’d been a lot of talk as to what happened and why she’d skipped the funeral. So, when she showed up at the cemetery, dressed for church but looking angry, she had everyone’s full attention. Continue reading
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by Neema Samawi
I’ve thought a lot about the way I died. Flashes of it come back to me on nights like this, when jackets pile by the door and voices mingle with the delicate taps of wine bottles placed on countertops. Harvey, the host of tonight’s housewarming, hovers in the foyer and gives tours to new arrivals. His eyes shimmer behind fishbowl glasses, darting between the entrance and the guests collected inside. He shuffles from foot to foot, glances at his phone. The doorbell rings.
Two men appear in the doorway, one in a Ralph Lauren sweater, the other with Stegosaurus spikes for hair. “Should we take off our shoes?” Sweater Guy asks, and Harvey gently requests they do. Timberlands, loafers, and about ten pairs of white sneakers line the entrance. I follow them as they follow Harvey up to his bedroom. Continue reading
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by Vanessa Blakeslee
Three days before Columbus Day weekend, the Aurora borealis was predicted to shine over New England with the best chances for clear night skies over coastal Maine, and the elderly father insisted that his sons drive him to see the phenomenon. He and their mother had always yearned to see the Northern Lights but had missed their chance, now that she had passed away in August. A trip to see the Northern Lights was something he wanted to do on what would have been their anniversary weekend, his first as a widower, to honor her memory. Continue reading
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by Masha Kisel
On Monday, I ate three Taco Bell Crunch Wraps, two bean burritos, one Fiesta Burrito and an order of Nachos Bellgrande. Washed it down with a large Coke. I practice in the mirror first. Tom always asks if my stomach hurts after, but it never does. Eating in front of the camera is like not eating at all. You’re a second person, a second stomach, a non-corporeal being, stuffing a hologram mouth for ED teens, bored housewives, and perverts. Continue reading
Filed under Fiction
