Smoke on the Water

by Beth Sherman

When I get to the High School, I see all the girls look like me in 10th grade. Long, straight hair, parted in the middle. Bellbottoms and platform shoes. Jean jacket. Classes have just ended and I talk my way past the security guard and head down the hall to Mr. Eckhert’s room, the same one he’s used for 50 years. Today it’s decorated with balloons and streamers because he’s retiring. I read about it in our local paper.

He's standing in front of the Blackboard, erasing something. When he turns around, I notice his hair is greyer. He’s gained a little weight. Otherwise, he’s the same.

“Hello, Mr. E.”

He peers at me through wire-rimmed glasses. For a second, I think about pretending I’m there because my non-existent daughter has forgotten her phone. But that’s stupid, so I dive right in.

“I had you the first year you taught here. Susan Oakley?”

I can tell he doesn’t remember.

“We took a field trip to Twin Ponds.”

He’s smiling, trying to place me.

“To study the Ph level of the water,” I say.

“I’ve had so many visitors today. Children of children I taught, if you can believe it.”

He sounds the same. A DJ’s voice. The vowels smooth as a dirty martini.

“Twin Ponds,” he repeats. “The town turned it into a housing development, didn’t they?”

I remember everything about that day: the marsh grass, the rocks, the flowered blouse I had on, how young I was, how in love with him. He’d brought a boom box and Kiss You All Over was playing, scaring the fish. There were other kids around, but I thought he only had eyes for me. Like we were in a music video, only he didn’t know it.

“Susan did you say your name was?” he’s asking, looking around the room one last time, preparing to say goodbye.

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Beth Sherman’s writing has been published in over 150 literary journals and appears in Best Microfiction 2024 and Best Small Fictions 2025. She’s also a multiple Pushcart and Best of the Net nominee. She can be reached on X, Bluesky, or Instagram @bsherm36.

 

Diagnosis

by Beth Sherman

Why do I have to go to the doctor? my mother asked.

It’s been awhile since you’ve had a check-up.

Remember when you were little and you bit Dr. Kirschenbaum?

That was an accident.

The way he carried on. The man didn’t like children. He should have been an accountant, not a dentist.

I made an appointment.

An appointment for what?

The doctor.

Why do I have to go to the doctor?

There are 85 billion cells in the human brain that knit together fragments of the past into memories and many tools for diagnosing dementia, including a thorough physical examination, neurological and psychological exams, a review of the patient’s medical history, medications, an EEG, and an MRI.

My mother’s brain was moon white, with steep cracks meandering through it like rivers that had lost their way.

Her cortex has thinned, the doctor told me. There’s been some damage to the smaller blood vessels.

The edges of her brain appeared ruffled, reminding me of flames or fairy tale trees that come to life when no one’s watching.

The middle part of her brain was black. I saw twin lakes. A nose and a frowning mouth. It looked like a dangerous mask I didn’t want her to wear.

Late onset Alzheimer’s, the doctor said.

The word landed like a blow.

There will also be a cognitive evaluation, which tests for visual and spatial skills, helping to guide prognosis and treatment.

Draw a clockface, said the nurse.

A what?

The face of a clock or a wristwatch.

My mother looked at me with alarm. She wasn’t wearing the silver Tourneau watch my father gave her for their 25th anniversary. She claimed the watch had been stolen. Now I wasn’t so sure.

She picked up the blue marker, put it down, handed it to me.

This is ridiculous, Lauren. I’m not a child.

Mrs. Goodman. Sylvia. Are you able to draw a clockface?

The biology of the brain remains among the deepest mysteries in neuroscience.

I’m going to give you four words: Kite – zebra – pen - microwave. Could you say them back to me?

My mother stared at the nurse. She had a fearful, withdrawn expression as if she’d lost something irreplaceable.

I . . . don’t . . . microwave?

Only a few years after symptom onset, neurons in the frontal lobe and cerebral cortex will start to perish – disrupting mood, spatial awareness, face recognition and long-term memory.

What will I do when she doesn’t remember me? I imagined placing her hands on my face, like I was teaching her to read Braille.

Hippocampus is the Greek word for seahorse.

We emerged from the air conditioning of the medical center into an unseasonably hot June afternoon.

My mind was doing handsprings. Care-money-insurance-comfort-sick. Everything had shifted, but the world looked the same.

Let’s go to the beach, my mother said, as we walked to the car.

We have to go home first and get our bathing suits.

The last thing I wanted was to go to the beach and see all the happy people doing happy things.

We don’t need those. Let’s just go. I’ll buy you a Creamsicle.

My favorite ice cream when I was little. I loved the orang-y taste, a little milky, sweet but not overly.

She remembered.

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Beth Sherman has had more than 200 stories published in literary journals, including Flash Frog, Fictive Dream, Bending Genres and Smokelong Quarterly. Her work is featured in Best Microfiction 2024 and Best Small Fictions 2025. She’s also a multiple Pushcart and Best of the Net nominee. She can be reached on social media @bsherm36.

 

To Do List: Buy Sharpies

by Beth Sherman

Label medications by the day of the week. Label appliances in big block letters: STOVE, DISHWASHER, FRIDGE. Label the cat’s collar so when it darts out the door, a kind stranger will return it. Label the door. Label your wrist: name, address, daughter’s cell. Label the toilet. Label your past happy – who’s to say otherwise? Label your memories, fragile as soap bubbles, before they drift away and pop. Label your children: the good one, the pretty one. Label the stranger’s face confused when he appears at last holding a struggling animal that might, in the right forgiving light, be yours.

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Beth Sherman’s writing has been published in over 150 literary journals and appears in Best Microfiction 2024 and Best Small Fictions 2025. She’s also a multiple Pushcart and Best of the Net nominee. She can be reached on X, Bluesky, or Instagram @bsherm36