Contributor: Kristina England

- -
Danny and Joe hiked up the mountain trail. Danny nervously balanced from one rock to the next.

Joe shook his head. "Pick up the pace, man."

"Listen, I am accident prone and have asthma. I warned you ahead of time. Go ahead without me. I'll catch up."

"No, you never leave another hiker behind. Besides, you aren't supposed to hike by yourself."

"Says who?"

"Says the official hiking association. Although, I suppose people do it."

"I'd say so. Thoreau would have never written Walden Pond if he brought along a friend. It's the only way you get real peace and quiet."

Joe sighed. "You know, I'm beginning to see Thoreau's reasoning."

Danny stopped. "I have to take my inhaler. Wait, what was that? Oh my God, is that a bee! I'm allergic to bees. Well, I don't know if I am but I hear if you are allergic to dust..."

Joe held his head. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something move.

"A baby armadillo!"

Danny was sucking at his inhaler and flailing one arm at a mosquito. He exhaled and stopped moving.

"What do we do?"

"What do you mean? I'm going to pick him up."

"You're what?!"

Joe looked at the armadillo, which returned the same curious look. Joe walked slowly over clucking his tongue. Before the baby armadillo could prepare itself, Joe reached down and picked it up. That's when the poor thing let out a scream.

"Rrau! Rrau!"

The screaming got louder as the animal twisted and turned in his hand, fearing an impending doom.

"Oh, I'm sorry, honey," he said putting down the scared animal.

He heard the sound of tree branches snapping and turned around. Somewhere in the distance he saw Danny flailing down the mountain.

He sighed. "Hope he looks out for snakes."

The armadillo grunted, then shuffled away into the woods.


- - -
Kristina England resides in Worcester, Massachusetts. Her poetry and fiction has been published in Gargoyle, New Verse News, Linguistic Erosion, The Story Shack, and other magazines.

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: Kristina England

Contributor: Kristina England

- -
A hummingbird makes its way into the backyard, hovers at its feeder, sipping at nectar.

Charlie sits in the grass, marvels at its balance, something he lost months ago. His 18-month-old tot, Jo-Jo, chortles at the creature as it feeds. He reaches down, tugging at his father, desperate to get a better view.

Charlie calls out to his wife, who stands at the other side of the yard. She does not hear him, too wrapped up in planning, her voice low, impossible to hear.

He knows the arrangements she is making. They discussed it all last night after he told her it was time, the tugs on his body insisting they prepare.

Charlie's eyes wander to the IV in his arm, the pole suspended above him. He sighed, makes one last effort for his son, rising half way from the ground until his arms say "no more."

Jo-Jo's excitement fades. He watches the little guy toddle away, reaching into the air for something neither of them can touch, the boy's chatter drifting away in the autumn breeze.

Then, Charlie relaxes, his body sinking deeper into the ground.

The unexpected crash of his bones back into the earth rattles the hummingbird from its breakfast. He watches as it disappears over the fence.


- - -
Kristina England resides in Worcester, Massachusetts. Her writing is published or forthcoming at Gargoyle, Linguistic Erosion, New Verse News, Poetry24, and other magazines.

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: Kristina England

Contributor: Kristina England

- -
Dotty leaned over and scribbled a word in her journal. Then she exhaled her last breath of life into the moonlit bedroom.

Her son, Andrew, found her the next morning. He wept for some time before calling in her death. After her body was taken away, he sat in the room watching the day pass into night. When it became dark, he leaned over and flipped on the lamp on her night table. He looked at the open journal and pulled it into his lap. He stared at the word and shook his head.

His mother had carried around the journal for the last three months as the cancer ate at her.

"Are you keeping a diary?"

"Oh goodness… No. I've decided to be reincarnated, but I don't know what I want to be yet. The journal is for brainstorming."

Chemo brain, Andrew thought. The treatments were making her wacky. Then again, she was also more open than she had ever been.

"Your father was a cheat."

"Yes, I know."

"I should have left him. I deserved more respect than that."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't ever apologize for someone else's faults, dear. You picked that up from me. Move past it. Let the fools be the fools. Appreciate yourself, you know?"

"Yes, yes, I know."

"No you don't. But you will someday."

Then the dizzy spells, the lack of appetite, the dwindling into the tiniest he had ever seen her. And, yet, she kept that journal by her side, even after her voice had become extinct.

Andrew ran his fingers along the pen’s imprints, then put the journal down.

The word "Me" sat there in the glow of the lamp as he rested his head on her pillow and slept.


- - -
Kristina England resides in Worcester, Massachusetts. Her writing is forthcoming or published in Gargoyle, Haggard and Halloo, The Story Shack, Weirdyear, and other magazines.

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: Kristina England

Contributor: Kristina England

- -
Jerry walked into the Midnight Boulevard Diner and sat down. 100 miles of road now between him and the past, he finally realized how hungry he'd been.

A waitress came over and smiled at him. "You look like you need the chef's special today."

He looked up and shrugged. He knew better than to smile. Smiling led to talking, perhaps friendship and, before you knew it, three kids your wife said she never wanted.

The waitress nodded and handed him a menu. She went on to the next customer, her face more formal and reserved.

Jerry looked at the menu, then blinked. He turned and beckoned for the waitress. She waved a "one moment" finger at him and took the other customer's order. Then she returned to his booth.

"Yes?"

"There's only one item on this menu."

"Yes, that's our special."

"But where's your regular menu?"

"Out of order."

His eyes scanned her face to see if she was being wise, but the face was now stone, almost as stiff as rock. He felt an urge to reach up and touch it. There was something so familiar about that face.

Jerry pulled himself together, the grumble of his stomach reminding him why he was there.

"I'll take the special."

The mouth thanked him. The hand took his menu. The skirt swiveled away.

Jerry looked out the window, but all he saw was his own refection. He heard a clanking sound and turned to find a bowl in front of him.

Cactus soup. That's how he met Dee. Over a bowl of cactus soup. Not the bowl specifically but the conversation on how odd it was to find a menu item like that in a diner. He wondered if this was the same diner they had both happened upon one snowy night? Were there other menu items then? Were there different waitresses? Did their emotions change with his as the whole diner seemed to dim with his mood right now?

He was happier then. He was sure he smiled.

Of course, that was back before he and Dee became a them. Back before reality became jobs and crying babies. It was long before he realized she wasn't fit for the role of wife. Long before he learned the third kid wasn't his.

That reality struck him only a week ago, filling the next seven days with yelling and tears. It left him packing, running out the door, the hardened look of his eldest daughter the last memory he had of home.

The cactus soup warmed him. It rehydrated his heart. He stumbled to his feet, digging for change.

"Soup's on me," said the waitress.

He smiled, thanked her, and ran out the door. He spun out of the parking lot in the same direction he had come, all the while thinking of his daughters and how he should make them each a cup of cactus soup.

Jerry turned his head to give the diner one last glance, but all he saw behind him were cacti and the long stretch of an open desert.


- - -
Kristina England resides in Worcester, Massachusetts. Her poetry and fiction is published or forthcoming in Extract(s), Gargoyle, New Verse News, The Story Shack, The Quotable, and other journals. Her first collection of short stories, "Stanley Stanley's Investigative Services and Other Mysteries," will be published in the 2014 Poet's Haven Author Series.

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

1 comment

Author: Kristina England

Contributor: Kristina England

- -
Darlene looked up at the bird house, then at the ground.

Ten very dead birds were piled at its base.

Her mouth stayed downward drawn as her husband joined her.

"Honey, he didn't know," Sam said, pulling his gardening gloves on.

"He's fifteen. How the heck didn't he know?"

"No one ever told him."

"It's common knowledge."

"Oh please. Remember that story you told me?" Sam said with a wry smile.

"What story?"

"About your attempt at making chocolate pudding at sixteen."

Darlene bit her lip.

"Remind me again what happened?"

"I used water instead of milk. But I didn't kill anything."

"Yeah, but you had instructions on the back of the box. Rice doesn't come with a label that says, 'Warning: Kills birds.'"

"Why do you have to be so... so..."

"Logical?"

"Yes."

"Well, someone has to," he said with a wink. "Now how about you put on some gloves and help me bury these poor things?"


- - -
Kristina England is a Virgo residing in Worcester, Massachusetts. Her poetry and fiction is published or forthcoming in Extract(s), Gargoyle, New Verse News, The Story Shack, The Quotable, Tipton Poetry Journal, and other magazines.

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: Kristina England

Contributor: Kristina England

- -
Jenny pulled her hair in a ponytail and smiled at herself in the mirror. She fixed her dress, pushing one last wrinkle out of it.

Then she left for work.

***

Jenny had been through a tough year. Unexpected weight loss and cramping had led to tests and medical bills.

Then there was her attitude. She was having constant mood swings. This ongoing shift in emotions had impacted her relationship with her husband, her coworkers, even her twin sister.

"I can't do this anymore. I'm not happy," she said to her boss, crying in his office.

"I don't understand. What changed, Jenny? What is it?"

"I don't know."

Tears were always followed by a too-straight-faced posture, denial, and the inability to seek help.

The weight loss got worse.

She had colitis, so she went to the GI doctor insisting it was a bout.

Blood work showed nothing.

Her primary doctor sent her for thyroid and cancer tests.

Again, nothing.

She didn't mentioning the mood swings to the doctors. Why should she?

Her husband and others said, "Go to a therapist."

Of course, she saw the therapist during one of her "normal" phases.

"You don't need therapy. It sounds like you're just under appreciated."

She had been in the same job position for years, hadn't succeeded in her afterwork initiatives, but the truth is she was the one holding herself back, timid, afraid of failure, and unable to stand up to aggressive personalities.

Nor did she deal well with the coworker who had physically hit her.

She had told the therapist none of this. She had held back when her boss, her husband or the therapist questioned her.

She was the classic definition of passive aggressive.

Maybe the capped bottle inside her had started to leak.

Her boss had no choice but to involve HR. Her husband had no choice but to move out.

She felt the leaking fluids festering inside of her, the skittering of a cockroach across her heart.

She knew everyone else couldn't see what was going on but how could they when she was baffled herself.

Her job, her husband, her life, her body was infested with cockroaches. And by trying to fix it all with answers, she was just spreading the bugs.

"I think it's how so-and-so treats me."

"I think it's because I don't know where I'm going."

"I think... I think... I think..."

"I wish you could hear yourself. The answer's different every time."

"I may have to fire you. Do you understand that? Figure it out."

That's when the GI doctor called.

"Listen, you've been colitis free for seven years. I'm taking you off the medicine for now. We'll see how it goes. I just don't think you need it at the moment."

She burst out crying, hung up on the old man. She was scared to say she was scared. She picked up the phone, dialed employee assistance, and set up an appointment with a new therapist.

She then dumped the last of her colon pills in the toilet and flushed.

***

Two weeks later, she sat in front of the therapist.

"When was the last time you cried?"

"A week ago."

"Why?"

"I don't know."

"Let's start from the beginning."

***

Two months later, here she was leaving the house with her husband still asleep in the bed upstairs.

She had gained back twenty pounds, no longer looking like the "scarecrow" her sister had lovingly and worriedly nicknamed her.

The cramping had gone away as well.

But more importantly, the depression was gone.

Her boss was elated. "Whatever you're doing is working."

The funny part - for the last two months, she had no clue what was different. It was only last night, at a colitis support group where she had the revelation.

A young woman named Samantha was recounting a similar episode.

"What happened to you?"

"My body rejected the drugs. I lost hair, started having headaches, all kinds of problems. Did you know that stuff can mess with emotions? I didn't have that part, but it was scary," Samantha said.

Jenny immediately went home and looked up reactions to her medication. Weight loss, cramping, and mood swings were among the potential reactions. Her GI doctor has always said there was a risk of rejection, that the drug could damage your liver. But she had never bothered to look at the other symptoms.

Her therapist kept telling her that although she was an anxious over-thinker, he couldn't make sense of the depression, anger, and occasional paranoia that had led her to him.

Now it all made sense.

She wondered if the new woman in the mirror - the risk taker her therapist was developing - would have been possible without her GI doctor's random decision.

Maybe everything was about timing. Even the cockroach. She wouldn't have become this new and admired woman without that damn skittering cockroach.


- - -
Kristina England is a Virgo residing in Worcester, Massachusetts. Her poetry and fiction is published or forthcoming in Extract(s), Gargoyle, New Verse News, The Story Shack, The Quotable, Tipton Poetry Journal, and other magazines.

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: Kristina England

Contributor: Kristina England

- -
“We’re what?”

“We’re taking the birds to the beach,” Stacey said, rubbing sunscreen onto her shoulders, then down her arms, her fingers making slow, small loops.

Nick watched her apply the cream. It always confused him how a woman could make even sun protection look sexy. Or maybe it was just the male hormones that distorted the freeze frames in his brain.

He looked over at the nylon carrier, then back at Stacey.

“Why the heck would parakeets want to go to the beach?”

“To listen to the ocean, silly,” she said with a full smile, the strawberry-flavored lip gloss she had applied five minutes ago reflecting back at him.

“Okay, so play some nature music or something. Those birds aren't going to the beach”

She gave him the look that made any man check himself in the bathroom to make sure all his wonders were still there.

Nick looked at the birds. The problem with every relationship was that each person came with a level of quirkiness. Stacey’s crazy streak came with her birds. He’d dated OCD and paranoia. A bird woman didn’t seem as crazy. Or maybe it did.

The birds looked back at him and made no protest in regards to their current situation. They were quiet and content in their nylon carrier. Sure, they squawked at bedtime, but take them to the beach and they were just as happy as bikini-clad women.

He sighed. “Okay... It looks like the convertible roof is staying up today.”

She smiled, leaned over and kissed him. He suddenly felt a desire for Strawberry Shortcake so he kissed her back.

Ten minutes later, he lugged the birds out to the car. Stacey did three checks of their driving situation and they were off.

Betsy and Stan (the birds) were surprisingly quiet on the trip. The cars outside were more noticeable than Stacey’s feathery friends.

At the beach (a small one that only a few locals came to), Stacey set the bird carrier down on the sand. The waves rushed in and out, hissing against the rocks. The birds heads turned and let the water spray their little faces.

Nick laid down and watched them in silence. After five minutes, he turned to Stacey.

“I think those birds have enjoyed the beach more than I have in the last thirty years.”

Stacey smiled at him and lowered her sunglasses. “Nope.”

“Nope?”

“How do you feel right now?”

“Relaxed.”

“Then there you go.”

He turned back to the birds and continued to watch them, the sound of Mother Nature lapping his ears.

Maybe Betsy and Stan weren’t so bad after all, even if they squawked when Nick and Stacey made love.


- - -
Kristina England resides in Worcester, Massachusetts. Her writing is published or forthcoming at Decades Review, Extract(s) Gargoyle, The Story Shack, and other magazines.

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: Kristina England

Contributor: Kristina England

- -
Jamie lit a cigarette and leaned up against the wall of an old warehouse.

"Hear about the mailbox bandit?"

Billy shook his head. He looked at her lips as she casually brought the ciggy up and parted them.

"What's the deal with the mailbox bandit?" He said, trying to pry his eyes from her mouth.

"Some kid, or maybe kids, has been going around taking out mailboxes. Cops think the weapon's a bat."

"What does your father think?"

"He's a fire fighter. They fix the issue. They don't solve it."

Jamie pushed her hair out of her face and turned to Billy.

"You want a taste?"

"Huh..."

Jamie's lips curled.

"The cigarette, man. You want some?"

Billy blushed and shook his head.

"You need to live dangerously, man. That's what the mailbox bandit is doing. He's living life on the edge."

Billy shook his head. He hated when Jamie got like this. So what if he didn't drink, smoke, or get arrested every Tuesday night. There were better risks to take than living in the shadows.

"The bandit is faceless... He's no more a man than me. If anything, he's less of one."

Jamie rolled her eyes.

"And what would you know about being a man?"

Billy pushed himself away from the wall. He looked up at the empty warehouse. Its walls seemed to shudder with abandonment.

"I know a man doesn't need to commit a crime to be a criminal"

"Oh really? And what kind of criminal are you?"

"The kind that wants to start a fire."

Jamie looked at him.

"Don't even joke about that."

"What? I thought you liked dangerous men? And who said I was joking?"

Jamie examined his face. She took a puff of the cigarette and exhaled.

"So, Mr. Fire Starter, where would you light a match if you had the guts?"

Billy walked up to her. He took the cigarette from her hand.

"I was thinking right here, right now."

Jamie looked up at him. Her eyes widened. "With my cigarette?"

"No, with your lips."

Jamie's forehead creased in confusion, but before she could reply, he leaned in and kissed her.

She pulled back a little, then leaned into him.

Billy broke away from the embrace and put her cigarette out on the warehouse.

He smiled. "I've got to go."

"But we were just getting started."

"I know," he said.

Billy pushed Jamie's hair over her left eye, winked, and walked away into the smoke-filled night.


- - -
Kristina England resides in Worcester, MA. Her writing is published or forthcoming at Extract(s), Gargoyle, The Story Shack, and other magazines. For more on her writing, visit http://kristinaengland.blogspot.com.

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: Kristina England

Contributor: Kristina England

- -
Mary turned the corner onto Contel Street. Her feet hit the pavement in careful strides. Every few minutes, she winced.

After 5 miles, she stopped and leaned against a street sign. She bent over and massaged her left leg.

"Come on, baby. You can do it."

The truth was that Lefty wasn't a baby. She was more like a worn-out house wife. If she could talk, she would have told Mary to go take a walk, but not in the literal sense.

Lefty let out a tired sigh that ran along Mary's nerves.

Mary winced again.

"Okay, that's enough for today."

Lefty sighed again. She could feel herself giving out, the fall that came with it. She didn't bother to warn Mary. They had been here too many times before.

Nothing Lefty did could stop Mary, short of going limp for good. And Lefty really didn't care for that option, but what choice did she have?


- - -
Kristina England resides in Worcester, MA. Her writing is published or forthcoming at Extract(s), Gargoyle, The Story Shack, and other magazines.

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: Kristina England

Contributor: Kristina England

- -
Jamie pushed her way into the booth, her legs squeaking against the plastic.
Henry smiled.
"It was the cushion," she said, playing with her bracelet.
"Sure."
"It was..."
"I'm messing with you. Relax..."
"I am relaxed."
"Sure..."
"I hate it when you do that!"
"Oh boy... Here we go again."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"You can't handle a joke. That's what it means."
Jamie's face fell.
Henry shook his head.
"This is exactly why I broke up with you. You are way too emotional."
"Oh, I can't stand it when you use that word. What do you expect when you say something that hurts?"
"I don't know what's going to hurt and what's not. I have to think way too much before I talk. It's exhausting..."
"I'm sorry... I can do better."
"I used to believe that... I mean, I still do... I just don't think you believe it enough."
Jamie ran her finger along the silver bracelet. She felt Henry scooting out of the bench.
"By the way, you look cute in polka dots," he said.
She looked down at her dress as if to remind herself what she was wearing. She could feel him hovering.
"I forgot you hate compliments," he said, the words jabbing her.
Jamie listened to his footsteps, the sound of the bell over the diner door.
"Thanks," she said. "I bought this dress especially for you."


- - -
Kristina England resides in Worcester, Massachusetts. Her writing is published or forthcoming in Gargoyle, Short, Fast, and Deadly, Yellow Mama, and other magazines.

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: Kristina England

Contributor: Kristina England

- -
Samantha pushed at the lid again.

“Let me out, Jason. Let me out.”

Jason looked at the box and sighed.

Last time he let her out, she went to the next man’s garden and ate all of his berries.

Jason looked out the window at the horizon - a collision of lavender, pink, and gray. He glanced at his breakfast, uneaten on the table.

“Okay, but do you promise to behave?”

Samantha sat down in the box, pulled her knees up to her chin, and said nothing.

Jason lowered his head.

“Then I can’t let you out.”

“But I’m hungry.”

“I can give you some fruit.”

“I don’t want your fruit.”

He bit his lip, looked at the sun exploding outward, his mouth salty with daybreak.

Jason walked over to the box, pulled out a key, and opened it.

Samantha smiled and climbed out.

“When you’re done eating, don’t come back,” he said.

“Don’t worry. I won’t,” Samantha said, grabbing his cold slice of toast on her way out.


- - -
Kristina England resides in Worcester, Massachusetts. Her writing is published or forthcoming in Gargoyle, One Forty Fiction, Short, Fast, and Deadly, and other magazines.

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: Kristina England

Contributor: Kristina England

- -
Diane leaned into the counter, stared at her reflection in the microwave. She rolled a plastic cap along her palm.

The cat pounced into the room. She was always a pouncer. So light of foot, so happy. Diane smiled half heartedly as the feline rubbed against her leg.

She walked over to the back door, opened it, peered out at the trees. A tumbler skirted the yard, then flew inward and landed on the porch about five feet from her.

The pigeon poked its head around.

Diane immediately felt the cat’s eyes narrow. She put her body in the door as a stopper. The cat stuffed her face in the back of Diane’s knee and began to nudge her repeatedly.

Domesticated. That was the tumbler. Her cat - not as domesticated as she would have liked. But the same could be said about Diane.

Of course, more unique was the tumbler’s ability to tumble backwards in flight.

Diane slid a piece of hair behind her ear. She hadn’t showered in days. She pushed the cat back with her leg and closed the door. The tumbler took off but did not perform for her in its departure.

She knew what it was like to tumble backwards. But for her, tumbling was not fancy, it was not desirable. Tumbling always meant a fall, a bruise. And every tumble took another person with her.

Diane wiped her eyes with the back of her sleeve and walked upstairs.

She had tumbled backwards all her life. Every time someone tried to push her forward, she propelled herself in the opposite direction. She was resistant to anything that disrupted routine. So her boss had told her. So her mother had told her. So her therapist had told her. Years and years of people telling her what she felt, yet could not get under control.

Now, after years of tumbling, after years of rolling away, there was no one left to tumble towards. Friends, family, coworkers, had all stopped watching her flight, had all stopped waiting for her pattern to change.

Diane stripped off her clothes, sank into the bathtub. The water, cold from sitting, pickled her skin. She pushed her head underwater, opened her eyes, looking for signs of air.


- - -
Kristina England resides in Worcester, MA. Her writing has been published in Haggard and Halloo, Haibun Today, OVS, Pound of Flash, Streetcake, and other magazines.

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: Kristina England