Contributor: Ryan Thomas

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The night sky was littered with specks of falling snow, making it impossible for Joey to see more than ten feet in front of him. He and Dirk sat alone in the cold muddy trench huddled next to each other for warmth. Winter had come early that year, delaying supplies, troops, and the rest of Germany.
“Look at us, D,” Joey started as he dropped his cigarette by his feet. “Just like old times. Just a couple of homos curled up on the couch together.”
Dirk chuckled, “If I was going to be like that with anyone, J, it sure as hell wouldn’t be you.”
Joey lifted his jacket to reveal his well-established beer belly, “Come on, this doesn’t get you going?”
“That is mighty impressive. What’s that, five hundred beers?”
Joey smiled, “All bought and paid for.”
“Yeah, by me mostly. Worthless bum.” The two laughed, but were interrupted by an explosive crack that rang out through the trees. The men scrambled to their feet, raising their rifles to their cheeks. More gunfire followed. Flashes of light lit up the forest like a thunderstorm in the direction of their base camp. Then in an instant, it was over. The two infantrymen stood at the ready while listening to faint foreign cries of retreat. Then, silence. Still the boys stood frozen, peering through the dense snow for any signs of life. Once again, they were the only two souls in the vast tundra.
Joey breathed a sigh of relief and let down his rifle. “Well, that’s one way to get your blood pumping. For a minute there, I forgot how fucking cold it is.” Dirk remained motionless, staring into the darkness.
“Would you relax?” Joey reached up and put a hand on Dirk’s gun. “It’s all over. Every day those jerks try to make an advance on our camp, fail miserably, and then sleep it off the rest of the night. We can take it easy for—” Two gun shots cut Joey off. One from Dirk, the other from an enemy soldier now lifeless in the snow. They waited, and then together the men climbed from the trench to check the body. It was a young man, no more than twenty years old. Crimson stained the frosted ground beneath him.
“Damn, D. Nice shot.” Joey kicked snow into the soldier’s empty face. “Worthless dog.”
“Don’t. Think of his family. I hate killing. If it weren’t for the draft I wouldn’t be here right now.”
“Well at least you’re good at it. I didn’t even see the bastard.”
“Yeah, well, when you’re a super soldier like myself, nothing gets past—” Once again, conversation was halted by the sound of gunfire. Dirk and Joey hit the ground. Joey reached for his side arm and fired all of his ammunition blindly in the direction of the noise. A second legionnaire cried in agony as he clutched his leg and collapsed to the ground.
Joey smiled. “See that, D? Who’s the super soldier now?” No response.
“Dirk? Dirk!” Joey crawled to Dirk and flipped him onto is back. The only movement from Dirk’s chest was the blood spilling from it.
“No, no, no. Don’t do this buddy. Come on. Breath.” Joey began CPR, holding the wound with one hand, and pounding on Dirk’s chest with the other. Miraculously, Dirk regained consciousness, gasping for air and coughing up blood. Joey ripped off his coat and wrapped the wound, all the while disregarding the moans of the fallen enemy soldier.
“I’m done, J.” Dirk said, spitting up blood.
“You’re not, D. Base camp isn’t far from here. I’ll get you to a medic.”
“There’s no time. Don’t let them have the pleasure of taking my life. Just do me a favor after. Put a bullet in his head.”
“What?” Joey asked. “But you said—”
“You were right, J. They are worthless dogs.”
“Diederik, you don’t mean that.”
“I do, Josef! Kill me before it’s too late!”
Joey stopped. Could this really be happening? It was so cold; it seemed for a moment that everything was frozen. The ground, the trees, even time was frozen. Flakes of snow were somehow suspended in midair, breath escaping Joey’s lips remained stationary, steam from Dirk’ warm blood, motionless.
Joey regained himself when he felt a pistol slide into his hand.
“Please and thank you,” Dirk said with a smile. His blue eyes widened, and without warning he coughed uncontrollably, spray-painting the snow red.
Joey brought himself to his feet and stood above Dirk.
“It’s been an honor serving with you, D.” With that he pointed the pistol, and fired.
Joey knelt down and took the bloody ID disk from around Dirk’s neck. Then, with Dirk’s gun at the ready, walked toward the injured soldier. A trail of blood led Joey from the spot the man was shot to where he had tried to crawl away. One of his pant legs was torn off and poorly fashioned into a bandage. He hadn’t gotten far before he passed out, and judging by the stale scent in the air it was due to loss of blood. Joey stood for a minute, aiming the gun at the heart of his comrade’s killer. He knew what he had to do. Ignoring the sound of his friend’s last wishes echoing in his mind, Joey fixed the bandage, hoisted the American over his shoulder, and carried him toward his camp.


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There are few passions in the world that are greater than the passion Ryan Thomas has for writing. He is currently studying creative writing at Full Sail University, and plans to use his degree to write for movies, TV shows, and video games.

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Author: Ryan Thomas

Contributor: Kristina England

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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.


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

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Author: Kristina England

Contributor: Krysta ViPond

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Andy pulled the car over to the side of the road. He had just returned from the gas station. He wanted the tank to be full for the next potential owner. It was something his father always taught him.

“Always make sure there’s fuel in the tank for the next person. Nothing worse than getting in the car and finding it on E.”

Andy smiled as he heard his father’s voice in his head. It still did not seem real. It was only a month ago that his father was doting over the old vehicle. Andy’s father, Rick Marley loved the car, and had spent most of his weekends taking care of it.

The car had been in the family since Andy was ten years old. Much of his allowance was earned by washing the car’s exterior with an old sponge and a blue bucket full of soap water. As Andy grew older, awaiting the day when he would turn sixteen, his father taught him all there was to know about cars. He knew how to change the oil, give it a tune-up, replace the brakes, and just about whatever else it took to keep the car running like a top. His first driving lesson had been in his father’s prized possession. He could still remember how nervous he looked when he’d given Andy the keys for his first solo trip to the store.

It’d been many years since then. When his father suddenly passed away the car became Andy’s inheritance. Andy already had his own car; a modern Japanese mid-size, plus the minivan his wife drove. He did not need three cars. Besides, the old thing was now registered as a classic, and was more for show. It was not the kind of car you drove down to the supermarket. Maintaining it would have been more trouble than it was worth. He would have to keep it out of the weather, regularly tend to it, and drive it around the block now and then to keep the engine alive. Selling it seemed to be the only logical thing to do.

Andy pulled out the folded silver sunshade from the back seat, and spread it out across the front window. He opened the car door and stepped outside. After pushing the door shut, he circled around the car as he inspected it. There was not a single dent or scratch on the metallic blue paint.

“It’s perfect. Just the way it should be. The way he always kept it.”

As Andy gazed at the car, he thought of the long nights he and his father had spent together in the garage. Growing up, Andy did not share much in common with his father, but they both enjoyed working on cars. Rick was a mechanic, and sometimes brought his work home with him. He would let Andy work alongside him. It had become their way of bonding.

Andy’s cellphone rang, snapping him out of his trance. He checked the screen. On it was a number he did not recognize.

“Hello, Andy Marley speaking.”

“Hi, Mr. Marley. My name is Fred Harper. I’m calling about your ad I saw in the paper. It says you’re selling a 1965 Rambler Classic ”

“Ah, actually...”

Andy returned his stare towards the car again, but his eyes were seeing more than just an automobile. He was staring at his past, and the memories of his father. He suddenly realized that the car that had meant so much to his dad meant just as much to himself.

“I’m sorry. The car has already found its owner.”

“Oh, that’s too bad. Sounded like a nice one too. Hope whoever bought it takes good care of it.”

“Don’t worry, he will. He said it’d be like a member of the family. Thank you for calling. Goodbye.”

Andy pressed the red button on the screen. He turned toward the house and called to his eight-year-old son.

“Brad, can you come out here for minute? I have something I want to show you.”


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Author: Krysta ViPond

Contributor: Christi Shin

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Pitter-patter. Pitter-patter. Pitter-patter.

The rain hit the car heavily but that didn’t matter to the two situated in the car. The bass boomed loudly, vibrating the car parked in front of the quiet suburban home community.

Warm hazel eyes met softly with deep emerald orbs and dark caramel fingers traced down the well-built firm peach chest hidden by a white cotton dress shirt. Ebony curly tresses gently tickled ivory skin and large firm hands moved to hold onto the small caramel frame above his chest. The deep R&B beat gently vibrated the seat under the couple as their lips pressed together, both eyes closing as the rhythmic song filled their ear drums.

“You just gotta let my love, let my love, let my love adorn you,” His deep velvet voice sung against her lips, the two smiling against each other, the rain a dull sound in the fading background. The two pressed their lips once more, before a soft laugh escaped the woman who then rested her head against the man’s firm chest looking at her left hand beside her and she let out a sigh as her diamond studded ring glimmered in her eyes.

Applause filled their ears as the two pulled back from a kiss, tear filled hazel eyes meeting the warm emerald orbs, the two being pulled back into the room, having have fled to their own realm, this same song enveloping the young pair. A smooth caramel woman looking at the tan ivory colored male dressed awkwardly in his tuxedo, his muscular build stretching the fabric to it’s limit.

“After all these years you still remember this song?” She let out softly, looking up at the aged face of her husband, whose emerald spheres seemingly peered into her soul. Feeling him move his hands to wrap his arms fully around her, pulling her closer to him she laughed softly.

“I mean it was only our wedding song Liz, how could I forget?” He responded, closing his eyes and humming along to the song. “John, I thought you hated this song. I remember when we were younger and you said-“

“Why do we have to have this crap song in our wedding?” John finished, the two laughing as the song progressed on in the background, fully drowning out the rain. The melody played on, warming the air as the two sung on loudly together. “The same way that the stars adorn the skies yeah, that the same way that my whole world’s in your eyes yeah,” Liz moving up as their eyes connected once more before pressing a kiss onto John’s forehead.

“You always know how to make me feel like a teenager, you know” She whispered against his skin and the elder man chuckled softly feeling his wife run her hands through his short grey hair. “Well we’ll always be teenagers love, we met teenagers, we die teenagers.” He retorted.

Small aged dark caramel fingers ran down to his tan ivory firm palms and interlaced their fingers. John looked at his wife, her apparent wrinkles oblivious to his eyes and the rain started to fill his ears as the song faded into its end. The two for moments just looked on at each other, before John’s eyes filled with tears and he closed them pained as the song started once more.

Opening his emerald eyes the aged man looked up at his car ceiling, the rain hitting the car hard.

Pitter-patter. Pitter-patter. Pitter-patter.

He opened his left palm, as the diamond ring dropped onto the floor of his car and cried out, the song vibrating the car softly. In his right arm that lay over his heart was her obituary, as his phone alarm went off reminding him this midnight was indeed their anniversary.


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Author: Christi Shin

Contributor: Khadijah Holgate

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“Have you spoken to your father lately Teresa?” Miranda asked her daughter.
“Nope, and I don’t plan on it.” She replied.
“Well, he keeps writing you these letters.” She looked down at the bundle of letters resting on the kitchen counter. “I think you should read at least one of them.” Miranda said with worry.
“Why should I? We haven’t spoken in years and now all of a sudden he wants to write me letters? Who writes letters anymore?”
“Give him a chance Teresa, he’s trying to reconnect with you.”
“Why are you defending him? He broke both of our hearts and I’m just supposed to move on from that?” Teresa questioned with anger. “If you are ready to forgive him, that’s fine but I’m not.”
“He really misses you.”
“Are we done with this conversation?”
“Look, when you forgive someone you aren’t doing it for them, you are doing it for yourself. Think about it.” Miranda explained.
“I have to go, I’m running late.” Teresa said as she grabbed her keys and purse off the counter.
“Okay, can we continue this later?”
“I don’t know but I really have to go.”
“Okay, just keep in mind what I said, only forgive for yourself and when you are ready to do that, you will feel so much better about everything.”
Miranda walked into the living room as Teresa flew for the front door. She stopped just as she wrapped her hand around the golden round knob. A single tear descended from her dark green eyes as she took a deep breath. Teresa turned around and walked back to the kitchen, she stared down at the pile of letters then grabbed one. She opened it and started reading as she left her house.


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Khadijah Holgate is a Creative Writing major studying at Full Sail University in Florida. I'm originally from Boston, MA. I enjoy screenwriting but tried my hand in flash fiction writing and recently discovered a new love for it.

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Author: Khadijah Holgate

Contributor: William Gray Tait

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I call out into the chaos one more time your name. Yet there will be no answer. There never is anymore. This endless day has turned eternal. It hardly feels real. On so many other evenings we would argue and fight late into the early morning hours and then make love afterwards. It was a ritual of sorts, a dance, a synergy, only we understood. And in those moments we would achieve a perfectly symmetrical relationship of angst and anger, where I would wait until that passion, that fire burning in your veins would swell up and push through, melting away the ice built up in your heart.

But in the end, at least what we had was real. I know your pain was. I told myself we were better for what we went through. It bound us closer. And to be fair, for all the bad times shared, there were just as many moments cherished. Only now can I assign due value to our relationship. Only now in the face of loss can I finally see how much each moment meant in twenty-twenty, crystal, clear clarity.

If tomorrow the sun does rise I will go out again looking for you, my dearest. I will look along with the thousands of other people also looking for love lost in that valley of cold concrete. I will call out again into that void, down each of the streets of Hades as the clouds of smoke billow up from the ground, surrounding me, raining down fiery paper snowflakes and burning ash. I will continue looking through that wall of photographs extending into infinity. I will take comfort in my makeshift brothers and sisters, consoling each other, even if just to alleviate a little bit of the pain for just a moment in time, enough to get me through that next day and into the next.

And I won’t stop looking for you even on that day. Never until I find you, even if only in my dreams. And I will tell you just how much I love you even now, for being able to see me for who I was and accepting that, for loving me for me, and at the end for giving me the space I thought I needed even though doing so tore you apart. I’m so sorry I didn’t say those things the last time we spoke face to face, three weeks ago, when we fought about some stupid, mundane detail, something I have already long forgotten but I will never forget.


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Author: William Gray Tait

Contributor: David A Moody

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There is a desk and a chair that do little to cover the nakedness of the room. A body, frail and brittle as the old wallpaper, sits at the desk with bad posture—he often corrects himself and straightens his spine, only to give in to distraction and allow it to curve again. His world is silent and possesses all the charm of a beloved pet in pieces on a roadway. Occasionally, the wind rattles his windows and reminds him of his ghosts too disinterested to haunt him.
Then she arrives. She spills from his mind and leaks down his spine until he can feel her throughout his entire body. Her colors stain his skin a spectral shade of white so dull it glows. She stops at the country store between his heart and ambition to purchase a roadmap of his veins. She wants to see the sights and enjoy the rural fare. She’s a city girl and has always maintained a mocking curiousness toward how the others live.
Her car slows to observe the scene. It begins to rain desperation and loathing, and she has to pull over to fasten the cloth top of her convertible and quickly roll up the manual windows. The muscles of her petite arm burn as the oxygen leaves as a result of her strenuous effort. Damn the charm of antiquity. She sees his daily motions. The alarm clock sounds the urgency of the hour, and he is on his feet and in the shower within moments. She laughs at his body. He is so thin the water from the shower seems to miss his body and roll down the ceramic floor as if in a hurry to escape. The shower is brief, and he stands before an empty closet that holds three identical suits. She shakes her head in disgust at the speed with which he buttons his collar and ties his laces. It is a joyless routine.

Briefcase in hand and foot following foot, he makes his way to the train. She must apply more pressure to the accelerator to keep his pace. She races alongside the train and maneuvers the subterranean tunnels with the greatest of ease. His heart is rolled up in his sleeve like a pack of cigarettes. She jerks the wheel suddenly to avoid an obese man’s cough. She applies the brakes to dodge an invalid’s wheelchair. Everyone is beautiful in her neighborhood. Never has she seen such imperfection. A cat on the prowl, she slinks up the moving stairs; the treads of her tires struggle for traction on the filthy ground. He increases the speed of his walk near the park. The beggar woman there hurls venom and spittle at him. The crust that resides on the corners of her mouth resembles the makeup of a sickening party clown. There are no balloon animals for the children, only hepatitis. He pays her no mind; this is normal. Silence is his weapon. Numbness to the world is commonplace here. She twists a knob by the steering column to activate the windshield’s blades to clear the unpleasantness that obscures her vision. It will be difficult for her to sleep tonight.
Following him from a distance through the heavy glass doors and up the elevator to the seventh floor, she sees him at his desk and places the transmission of her car in park. Carefully she unbuckles her seatbelt and observes. This is the most horrible sight of all. The work is dull and the day moves slowly. Now she understands why he never calls on her anymore. This has become her replacement. A bloated double-breasted monster in a suit slithers from cage to cage and leaves behind it a trail of gelatinous self-importance. By the end of the hour she can take no more. The engine stutters when she holds the turn of the ignition too long, and the car lurches forward with a jolt; her foot is too anxious to press the gas and escape. She will wait for him at home.
Long after it is dark, he comes home. The door cracks open, he steps into the apartment, and places his bag on the desk. He looks at her and smiles. She is naked. Her hair is beautiful and long and covers her shapely breasts and spills over her delicate shoulders. The air is saturated with her intoxicants.
He unbuttons his shirt and sits down at the desk. Tonight will be different. Tonight he will write. Her hands move with his. He presses his fingers to the keys and begins to think and feel. Throughout the night he continues. It pleases her. She rolls about on the bed and gives everything she has to him. Her hand teases between her legs. Fingers make their way to the swollen source of her aching. The carnival balloon swells as the water pistol hits the target. Who will be the winner? Her toes curl, and her limbs threaten to stretch beyond their limit. Her teeth bite her lip until the blood runs down her chin and mixes with the sweat between her breasts. She falls asleep naked, bleeding, and satisfied.
The next morning, he is still at the desk pressing the keys. She dresses quickly and leaves without a word. She will return. He needs her more than ever. But she doesn’t need him. That’s the way she likes it. The smoke curls from her tailpipe as she idles momentarily before accelerating into the soft morning. She feels like getting lost.


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I am in my last twenties and overly fond of cats, mountains, and cane sugar. I'm as clueless as everyone else.

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Author: David A Moody

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

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Tea in the afternoon with his wife of many years is usually peaceful, Hubert thinks before he makes his announcement. Then he says it.

"I'm going upstairs," Hubert tells Ruth as he hoists himself out of his old recliner, "and if I don't ever come back down it's because you want to fly to Rome before we die so we can meet Pope Francis. Fat chance of that happening! You think the pope takes walks in St. Peter's Square?"

"Well, why shouldn't we go," Ruth says. "We may be old but we're still healthy and seeing Rome might be nice. Pope Francis seems like a pretty nice guy."

"Getting old is bad enough," Hubert says, "but why complicate matters with a trip to Rome? We'd have to pull out visas and passports and we'd have TSA agents--total strangers--patting us down in nooks reserved for a doctor or spouse. Besides, Pope Francis might be busy."

"Well, I'd still like to go," Ruth mumbles, none too happy with her husband's lack of enthusiasm. "If I wanted to go to Minnesota and fish for northern pike, you'd be packed, sitting in the car and gunning the motor. Why not do something interesting while we still have time? We'll be dead long enough."

Hubert suddenly has another idea, one he hopes Ruth will buy into.

"Why not let me die first and then you and the ladies from the garden club can go to Rome on that certificate of deposit we let sit in the bank all these years, the one I should have cashed in and invested in that electric car company, Tesla.

"That CD is big enough to take you and five ladies to Rome and back home again. They'd probably like to see Pope Francis as well. Fat chance of that. Unless you want to stand with thousands of others on a Wednesday morning when he speaks from the balcony. Better take binoculars."

Hubert is on a roll now, explaining to Ruth that she and the ladies will have a great time touring gothic churches and eating the finest pasta in the world once he's in the ground looking up but unable to see the sky.

"Once I'm dead, Ruth, you won't have to worry about me being grumpy on the trip. I'll be in the family graveyard stretched out between your Uncle Elmer and your Uncle Vince. Right now those two fine farmers are staring at the sky and bookending the plot your father allotted to me once the poor man realized I was actually going to be his son-in-law."

When Hubert first met Ruth's father many decades ago--fresh off the plane from Chicago, in a suit and tie no less--her father had bounced Hubert over many a country road to show him the plot in the family graveyard reserved in case Ruth married someone eventually. She hadn't married young because as a professional photographer working for National Geographic she had traveled all over the world and preferred taking photos to marrying any of the men she had met. Then she met Hubert in Chicago and decided to settle down.

Taking Hubert home to meet her extended family of farmers, however, had not been easy for either of them. And not easy for her family either. They had hoped Ruth would marry one day, preferably a farmer with lots of acreage, not some editor from a big city and certainly not someone like Hubert who couldn't tell a Holstein cow from a Guernsey.

No matter how much Ruth talked about the delights of a trip to Rome, Hubert still didn't have much interest in going, with or without the rare possibility of meeting Pope Francis.

Hubert liked Pope Francis because the media kept hoping the pope would change some things in the Catholic Church but the things the media hoped he would change no pope could ever change. It would be like saying the color red is blue which can never be true.

Pope Francis, Hubert knew, was an old Jesuit, theologically sound and skilled in handling the media. What's more he had the capacity to rile both conservative and liberal Catholics at the same time. And it was always interesting to see him pop up on the nightly news. Anchors not too well acquainted with matters Catholic would sometimes offer commentary far off the mark.

"Ruth, you and I are the only family left, except for the kids and they're doing fine working in the big city, several big cities, in fact, as your father would have called them. And although the grim reaper isn't waving his scythe and ringing our doorbell yet, I still think you should let me die first and then you and the garden gals can go to Rome. When you get back you can plant sunflowers around my headstone to give the squirrels something to gnaw on in the many hot summers to come."

"Well," Ruth said, "if you had a terminal disease, I might not mind the wait. Why don't we go out for dinner now and we can talk about all this later. I'm hungry."

"Okay," Hubert said, "but I hear the pike are hitting the lures pretty hard up in Minnesota. And I think there's a new bishop in charge. We could go to the cathedral for Mass. Maybe you and the new bishop could have a chat. Some day he might become pope. One of these days an American has to get that job. Can you imagine listening to the News at 10 when that happens."

Ruth agreed to go to a Thai restaurant that evening, a place she had never gone to in the past. It was a tiny place where immigrants from Thailand liked to eat. She knew the food would be too spicy for her but that Hubert would love it.

Eating Thai food was the start of her new campaign to win Hubert over to making that trip to Rome--following a fishing trip to Minnesota, of course. Ruth planned on asking that new bishop to drop a note to Pope Francis to let him know she and Hubert would be coming to visit. She thought it was only right to give him time to adjust his schedule. She was planning on giving him a big batch of her fudge--and a small batch to Hubert to eat on the plane.


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Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.

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Author: Donal Mahoney

Contributor: Elliot Richard Dorfman

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In his sleep, Paul McCue heard someone knocking at his front door, but upon wakening, the house was quiet.

Getting off the bed on this cold February morning of his sixtieth birthday, he looked out of the window. The grounds were beginning to be covered with the falling snow. Whenever the weather was like this, he felt aches throughout his back and feet. Well, at least today was Saturday and the accounting firm he worked for was closed.

Quickly dressing, he went into the kitchen of his well-maintained ranch house that was located in the small town of Mayfield, New York. After feeding Scruffy, his little black dog, he made himself two pieces of toast and a pot of coffee. Eating, the thought of his wife leaving him two weeks ago hit him and he sighed.
“It’s been rough trying to adjust my life since Noreen left me for some man she met in the library. How could she do such a thing - especially after 35 years of being married?”

To avoid becoming more depressed, Paul dropped the thought from his mind and took his dog for a walk in the backyard. By now, the snowfall had intensified.

“Wow, if this keeps on, we’ll be getting well over a foot by this evening,” he told Scruffy, who quickly did his “business, anxious to get back inside.

A few minutes later, the phone rang. It was his son, Vick, who lived with his wife and two children across the street.

It’s fortunate to have my son so near during this difficult time of my life, Paul thought.

“Glad I got your birthday cake last night, dad. It may have been difficult going to the bakery today in such a snow storm,”

“Ah, you and your family didn’t have to go to all that trouble,” Paul replied, not wanting to be a bother.

“But we want you to have this birthday party, pop!” Vick answered enthusiastically. “So, what time are you coming here?

“I’ll be at your house about three.”

“Fine that gives us ample time to get everything ready for the party. Be careful when you cross the street, the weather is treacherous.”

“I’m aware of that,” Paul said, appreciating his son’s concern.

After the call, Paul cleaned up in the kitchen, took a shave, straightened up the bedroom, and went down into the den to check if there were any e-mails on the computer.

Since it was his birthday, there were many messages. He felt fortunate to know so many people who cared about him. Too bad his wife was not among them! It took him over half an hour to check the e-mails, and by that time, he was ready for another cup of coffee. Putting on the television, a bulletin flashed on the screen warning people not to travel far since ice and snow had built up on the roads.

At ten to three, Paul crossed the street. It took him nearly three times longer to get to his son’s house because a strong wind kept blowing the snow in his eyes.

His two grandchildren, Victor and Connie, his daughter-in-law, were eagerly waiting for him and ushered him into the dinning room. The room was cheerfully decorated with colorful balloons and a big happy birthday sign. Connie had prepared his favorite dish, Lasagna, which was served before the cake. Around eight in the evening, Paul decided to go home and take Scruffy for his evening walk. Fortunately, the snow had stopped, so it wasn’t difficult to walk his dog. Later that night, Scruffy began growling. Running to the front door, the animal began scratching it with his paws.
“What’s wrong, pal, is there someone out there?” Paul asked, recalling his morning dream, cautiously, grabbing a metal stick that was kept in the closet for defense in case an intruder tried breaking into the house.

“Who is it?” Paul asked.

There was no answer, but a moment later – someone knocked on the door again.
“Who’s there?” he asked much louder.

Still, no one responded.

Cautiously, Paul opened the door. A gust of cold wind blew into his face. Strangely, Scruffy calmed down immediately and sat next to him. A figure shrouded in the darkness moved forward. It was his wife, Noreen. Her face was pale, and she had such a sad expression, that he felt pity for her suddenly.

“It’s cold out there, Noreen. Come in and get warm. We have much to talk about.”

She moaned and shook her head. “I wish I could, Paul - but that’s impossible.”

He could feel his bitterness and anger towards her returning.
“Well, what do you want then?”

“I just came back for a moment to apologize for leaving you. I hurt not just you and the family, but myself as well.”
Paul gloated. “Why the sudden change; did your infatuation with that man fade - or did he get tired of you?”

Tears fell from Noreen’s sunken in eyes.

“What difference does it make now? I was wrong and was going to make it up to you, but fate has other plans for me.”

She moved closer to him and gave him a kiss.

“Happy birthday, my darling,” she said with affection, and vanished.

Paul gasped. Where had she gone? He and Scruffy looked in the street, but it was empty. Had she just been an illusion created by his subconscious longing to have her back?

Unable to sleep after this experience, he put on the television.

“Now for the local news,” a reporter said. “We just found out a moment ago that the woman who died early this morning after her car skidded and overturned on the thruway has been identified as Noreen McCue of Mayfield.”

“Well at least she somehow got the chance to apologize and wish me a happy birthday,” poor Paul whispered.


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Elliot Richard Dorfman taught 31 years in the New York Public School System and was an artistic director an Off-Broadway Repertory Group. Since 1997, over 120 short stories have appeared in 36 publications. He has written 2 novels, the second just published in April. Further information: elrite.webs.com

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Author: Elliot Richard Dorfman

Contributor: Misti Rainwater-Lites

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The deer was definitely dead and the car was definitely fucked up but I was alive, somehow, so I walked through the warm breath of the Texas hill country night not thinking of anything, just looking up at the stars and smiling like an idiot, thankful for the random adventure. I didn't have a phone anymore but I also didn't have a boyfriend, hadn't had one in months, so I was free. No one knew where I was or wasn't. No one gave a fuck. I was glad. I walked alongside the two-lane highway. I was maybe five miles from home. I've never been good with numbers. There wasn't any neon or greasy fast food smells assaulting me. I knew there were animals behind the trees. More deer, for example. Maybe the deer were plotting revenge against me for killing one of their own. If I had died instead of the deer it would be less of a tragedy. Sure, if there was a funeral my parents and siblings would show up. Obligations. Most people have at least a few. I wasn't scared of the deer, though. "Bring it on, motherfuckers," I said in case they were listening. I fingered the tiny pink can of pepper spray on my key ring. I was always prepared.


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Misti Rainwater-Lites likes to collaborate with her son on Spider-Man stories. She also enjoys playing with dolls. Her novel Bullshit Rodeo is available at amazon and from Tree Killer Ink.

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Author: Misti Rainwater-Lites