Grief

doorknob-686491_1280

By J. Hardy Carroll

After the funeral, I made arrangements for the bills to come to my office.

Every month, I paid her rent, her electric, even her phone.

At least once a day I would call her number and pretend she might answer it, hear her voice on the answering machine.

At first I left messages, but then I couldn’t.

I’d turned her apartment into a time capsule.

A shrine.

In September I got a letter that her lease was up.

Time to face it.

I needed to move on.

I stood at her door a long time, key poised in my hand.

Advertisements

Memories, No Memoir

actress-1347194_1280

By John Davis Frain

She started in Vaudeville. “Disappearing nightly,” she’d say. Cinema arrived, and absent the beauty of a Mae West, she departed.

A Red Cross nurse, she was ribboned for saving thirty-two Yanks one night in Nazi-occupied France. “They were soldiers, and young.”

She returned home after the 91st Evacuation Hospital. Raised four successful daughters. “My most delightful job.”

Making ends meet proved slippery until she invented bottle caps that preserved beverages. “Pepsi purchased the patent.”

Today, her 100th birthday, her youngest, Elizabeth, said, “Mama, you should write your memoir.”

“Oh, dear,” she blushed. “I’d have nothing to say.”

Old to Joy

age-2804726_1280

By Pat Brunson

The worst part is the forgetting,
If I remember correctly.
At the Dollar Tree, for eight dollars I buy eight pairs of reading glasses.
I see old faces, my mind races through the Rolodex, “Hi, Cindy.”
My keys are always in the last place I look.
The button on my car key shows me where I parked.
Waiting for my prescription at CVS and being told Walgreens is across the street.
Called my daughter about losing my cell phone, she said, “Daddy, look in your hand.”
But my socks always match. I bought 22 pairs, all black.

Fungible Love, 1986

smoke-2571739_1280

By Sean D. Layton

You took my hand, and we slipped away from Karen’s party like we’d known each other forever.

Later, I scribbled down my number, then a lingering, predawn kiss at your front door.

All week I lived on memories. Brown, pliable curves and wine-dark nipples stiffening under the brush of my fingertips. My phone sat stubbornly silent.

On Wednesday, your dusty pickup pulled up to Karen’s.

Streaming sunlight turned your sundress to gossamer revealing the silhouette of your secrets. Your surprised smile was frayed, your eyes anxiously pleading as some guy touched the small of your back, then shook my hand.

The Gardener

equipment-2047314_1280

By GriffithsKL

Under an organic coverlet
tangled roots channel through clay.
Each threadlike finger, a plunge
into dark, moist, fecund paradise.

The shape is defined, turned, hoed.
A spade and a savage push cuts through.

The oily scrape of metal on soil
churns up segmented, sinuous miners
the color of waggling tongues.
And leggy parasites, their sultry wind
through fathomage interrupted.

The bed, sedulously furrowed and sown
by a calloused and grime-lined hand
swallows.

Silence, as unseen feasts, a million quickenings
and a thousand microscopic fornications explode within.

Humans

space-2809624_1280

By Anthony Rose

I’m just a simple explorer, floating in the endless sea of space, observing planet XC-3450 from the comfort of my pod.

The primary life form calls this planet Earth.

The primary life form seems to be an emerging intelligence that my species could potentially share inter-dimensional travel knowledge with.

After all, the primary life form has developed satellite-based nuclear weapons.

Oh wait, they turn the weapons on themselves.

Never mind …