Only Ever Three

by Ron Wetherington

There are only ever three things that Emily prays for at night, kneeling at her bed. To hear what the nightingale hears, to sing with the crickets, to see the world through the eyes of a damselfly. Her mother tries not to question this unusual longing, given her young daughter’s severe handicap. She seeks instead to quietly encourage more realistic dreams. But in her happy, tiny world Emily is stubbornly confident.

Occasionally, Emily disappears for an entire night, her empty room falling silent except for the soft chirping in a distant corner. And at times a cautious response.

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Ron Wetherington is a retired professor of anthropology living in Dallas, Texas. He has published a novel, Kiva (Sunstone Press), and numerous short fiction pieces in this second career. He also enjoys writing creative non-fiction. Read some of his pubs at https://www.rwetheri.com/.

 

Shades

by Nick Young

Cool? Ha! You think you're cool? You've got nothin' on me, man. Whether chillin' at the beach or cruisin' with the top dropped, he's got me down and wrapped, you dig? No sun? No sweat. I'm ridin' high on his head. Top o' the world, the coolest of the cool.

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Nick Young is a retired award-winning CBS News Correspondent. His writing has appeared in dozens of reviews, journals and anthologies. His first novel, "Deadline," was published in 2023. He can be found on Bluesky @youngnick.bsky.social. He lives outside Chicago.

 

Still Bound

by Huina Zheng

The dog had been chained in the corner of the yard for six years. The iron chain had rusted red, like a dried-up trail of blood. You can’t blame me—when he was just a puppy, he tore around wildly, scattering the neighbor’s chickens and even killing one. When I fastened the chain around his neck, I saw a flash of confusion and fear in his eyes. I should have felt pity. But the neighbor had shouted, “If you don’t keep that dog under control, I’ll stew him myself.” I did it to protect him, to make him good. I did it out of love, or so I told myself.

At first, he howled through the nights, the chain pulled taut, his little body rubbed raw from struggling. Every time I passed, I walked faster, trying to outrun the guilt. Later, his cries faded to a rasp, folding into the wind. And then, even the rasp vanished. In storms, rain poured through the crooked kennel roof. He curled into the puddle. If he whimpered, the rain swallowed it. Under the scorching sun, he looked like a sunbaked lump of clay, motionless except for his tongue.

He grew into a large dog but lay in that narrow patch of dirt, quiet as stone. I should have let him run, let his muscles remember what it was to stretch. I should have warmed his cold nose with my palm before the light left his eyes. But I only hurried past, the way you pass a plum tree that never bears fruit—there, but no longer seen. For six years, aside from refilling his bowl, I nearly forgot he was alive.

One autumn afternoon, I walked toward him with a key. When the lock popped open with a click, he didn’t even twitch an ear. I called his name. He looked at me. I felt dizzy. I touched my neck—no chain. But something still choked me.

My late husband’s face flashed: twisted with rage, fists flying, spit in his curses. Blow after blow, I shut my eyes, unmoving—like a dog long used to being kicked. Why did you make me do it? You know how much I love you! He shouted, striking again. I looked into the dog’s hollow eyes and thought: do I have the same dead fish stare? If I had struggled harder, could I have broken free? Or was I, like him, still shackled to the years I thought I’d outlived?

I looked at him. Obedient. Broken. Utterly resigned. “It’s over,” I whispered. The chain was off. And yet I wondered: how long would it take for us to stand?

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Huina Zheng, a Distinction M.A. in English Studies holder, works as a college essay coach. Her stories have been published in Baltimore Review, Variant Literature, Midway Journal, and others. Her work has received nominations three times for both the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. She resides in Guangzhou, China with her family.

 

Pick-Up at The Dump

by E.P. Lande

Every Wednesday I go to the dump; I call it Dump Day. It’s not that I have that much trash in the house, but with six horses, a week’s worth of wood-shaving plastic bags fills two 35-gallon garbage cans. Rather than let this accumulate, I designated Wednesday as my day to drive to the dump in town.

This Wednesday, as I was taking one of the 35-gallon cans from off the back of the truck, I heard an unfamiliar voice ring out “Aaron”. I turned, to a woman who had passed her first youth but still retained a je-ne-sais-quoi fascinating face that caused me to smile.

“Louise,” she said, “... Louise Neuland.”

“Louise,” I echoed, remembering the name but not the face. “What a nice surprise,” trying to place her, acknowledging to myself that I had known her ... sometime ago, just not exactly when.

“It’s been at least ten years,” Louise said. “You haven’t changed. I’m so glad to see you.”

While I couldn’t, with honesty, return the flattering remark — as I couldn’t remember her face from our last encounter — I set aside my garbage can and smiled, “Louise ....”

“You still have a bewitching smile, Aaron. It was one of your qualities that captivated me,” Louise demurred.

How could I possibly not say, “Louise, if you carry on, you’ll cause me to blush,” to which she came a step closer.

“What have you been up to, since I last saw you in your restaurant?” Now I remembered. With her husband, Louise would dine in my restaurant at least once a week; how could I forget such a loyal patron.

“After I closed The Chelsea Grill, I devoted my time to my animals — my horses, chickens, pigeons, and guinea hens — which I still do, and I write. What about you?” I didn’t ask about her husband as I wasn’t sure he was still in her picture.

“Well, you know Bob died ....”

“No, I didn’t; when?”

“Six years ago ... and while it is often lonely,” she stepped a little closer, “I have friends ....” and she came closer. “Do you live alone?” she asked in a hushed tone.

“Eh, yes. Since Janet died ....” I couldn’t continue; Louise’s gaze transfixed me.

“Why don’t we share a coffee,” she suggested.

“I would like that.” Looking at Louise, she suddenly appeared years younger, even younger than when I last saw her in my restaurant ten years before.

“Now?” she whispered.

When I didn’t answer immediately, she added, “At my place.” She enfolded my hand in hers and led me to her truck.

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
E.P. Lande, born in Montreal, has lived in the south of France and now, with his partner, in Vermont, writing and caring for more than 100 animals. Previously, as a Vice-Dean, he taught at l’Université d’Ottawa, and he has owned and managed country inns and free-standing restaurants. Since submitting less than three years ago, more than 100 his stories — many auto-fiction — and poems have found homes in publications on all continents except Antarctica. His story “Expecting” has been nominated for Best of the Net. His debut novel, “Aaron’s Odyssey”, a gay-romantic-psychological thriller, has recently been published in London.