Reunion

by B. C. Nance

He saw her in the produce section of the grocery, smirking at him over the apples and pears. She was out on parole after twenty years in the state prison. He had helped put her away when he was still very young.

No longer a boy, and less a wonder, he was making his own way in the world. The old boss, starting to go a little batty, had finally hung up his dark cape, and now he kept to his man cave.

She was older and less feline, but still attractive.

“Coffee?” he asked.

“Maybe a saucerful,” she purred.

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
B. C. Nance is a writer who hasn't given up his day job. A native of Nashville, Tennessee, he works by day as a historical archaeologist. At night, after roaming his neighborhood, he writes fiction and poetry, then stays up too late reading.

 

Inefficiency

by Jeff Kennedy

I was ready to leave the bodega after Eric tried his mark for the third time. The 666 tat was pulsating light red. No reason he couldn’t get his smokes, but the register kept beeping.

“This ain’t working man. Let’s go.”

The monkey demon grabbed Eric’s arm and scanned it again. Still with the beeping. The demon screeched and shrugged his shoulders.

“Show him another ID. Maybe he can just look it up.”

Eric fished around until he found his old Ohio ID and handed it to the demon.

Somehow, I thought the apocalypse would be better managed than this.

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Jeff Kennedy is a 2025 Pushcart nominee and past Thurber House and Erma Bombeck essay contest winner. Jeff’s short form writing has appeared in publications such as Maudlin House, Everscribe Magazine, Flash Fiction Magazine, and Bright Flash Literary Review. Read his recent work at www.justanotherdamnblog.com and follow him on Bluesky @jkennedy60.bsky.social

 

Post-Funeral Taco Bell (Modern-Day NDNs)

by Kiara M. Tanta-Quidgeon

After the fire, we pile into my old Elantra—six cousins, four shades of skin, two lost earrings, and no plans except Taco Bell before it closes at 1:00 AM.

It’s 12:45 now.

“Faster! Faster! Faster!” the youngest cousin demands from the back seat, sandwiched between his sister and my brothers.

“This thing doesn’t go any faster, dude,” says my passenger, the eldest cousin, his long hair dancing in the wind.

Even with the windows down, the car smells of cedar, smoke, and salt—like prayer songs and old sweat, like the funeral clinging to our clothes.

The boys wear dress pants and pressed shirts with floral appliqué blooming from the seams. The girls, outnumbered four to two, pair plain tees with ribbon skirts. We all wear sneakers—Nike, Adidas, New Balance—mixing streetwear with tradish pieces like a couple of modern-day NDNs.

There’s a handful of dollar bills and quarters at the bottom of my purse, sticky with tobacco and gum residue, but just enough for a $5 Luxe Cravings Box. We order at the drive-through window and park in the back of the lot.

The drink is passed around from eldest to youngest—six mouths, one straw, no worries about swapping spit. “What’s mine is yours” has always been our motto, and what are germs to people who share grandmothers and grief, anyway?

We tell stories about Grams between bites of our burrito and taco. We talk about how much she loved this place. How she brought us here every Sunday, still dressed for church, heels clicking on the pavement so loudly that the employees, who knew her order by heart, could hear her coming. How she’d tear open hot sauce packets with her teeth, saying a Southern woman’s food wasn’t right without spice, and smiling when it made us sweat. How she’d eat so much, she’d fall asleep for the rest of the afternoon once we got back to her house, sprawled across the living room couch until supper.

When the box is empty, the straw chewed and bent, our words trail off. The lot is quiet, save for the faint chirping of crickets, but I do not start the car.

Tomorrow, we’ll wake to the ache of Grams’ absence, our clothes still laced with the scent of her funeral. Next week, we’ll go our separate ways—three of us back to college in different corners of the country, the eldest to his job in New York City, the youngest staying on the rez for his final year of high school. But tonight, six cousins sit under the flickering glow of a Taco Bell sign in a rundown Connecticut town, carrying Grams’ stories on our tongues, her spirit in our hearts, and her blood in our veins.

And I’m not ready for that to end.

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Kiara M. Tanta-Quidgeon is a Mohegan researcher and scholar of Indigenous health and well-being, as well as a storyteller who writes poetry, short stories, creative nonfiction, and blog-style essays. She is currently based in Boston, Massachusetts. https://www.kiaramtantaquidgeon.com/

 

When Pickles Fly

by William P. Adams

Play was interrupted when several large dill pickles suddenly flew onto the Pickleball court at Gherkin Acres Country Club. On the other side of the wall, Heinz Vlasic, recently fired GACC kitchen helper, relished the moment and said to himself, “That’ll teach ‘em to take away my bread and butter!”

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
William P. Adams writes stories.

 

A Sky Stitched with Stars

by G.R. LeBlanc

Maya stood at the ocean’s edge, gray-streaked locks twisting in the wind, the tang of salty mist filling her lungs. The pendant around her neck weighed on her like an old, rusty anchor. She clawed at it, struggling to banish memories of his lies and betrayal, until it slipped free into the breaking foam, releasing the life her young, naïve self had once clung to.

She’d give anything for the chance to turn back time, to experience the magical melody of whale song again—to feel it reverberate through her body.

Memories flooded her mind: the vibrant colors of coral reefs, the sound of the ocean waves, and the salty tang of the sea.

Maya…

Scanning the waves, she wiped her cheeks and, as if drawn by a magnet, waded out into the frigid, shadowy water.

She dove under, letting the current carry her until it pulled her into its inky darkness. Her chest constricted as she struggled, limbs flailing to reach the surface.

Let go…

Maya stopped fighting, let her thoughts drift and surrendered to the sea. Something deep within her shifted, then she heard it: the mystical lullaby of whale song. Its tendrils wrapped around her, set her cells tingling, humming, unraveling, then reweaving. The cold faded as her burning lungs quieted, soothed by the rhythm of the sea.

Maya’s tail sliced through the water, laughter bubbling from her lips. She twirled, basking in this forgotten, delicious surge of freedom.

Ripples stirred nearby. Hope and uncertainty churned in her chest. Her sisters emerged from the murk, their gazes wide, their untamed, sea-glass-adorned tresses shimmering in the moonlight.

With palms pressed to her cheeks, Maya blinked back tears. She had assumed her sisters had already moved on. Their safety depended on it. But they were here before her, and as beautiful as she remembered them—Neve, Ondine, Brina, and Seraphine.

One by one, they gathered close, tentative hands caressing her face and hair. The weight of Maya’s journey wordlessly passed between them, weaving itself into their shared memories.

And then, under a sky stitched with stars—where nothing mattered beyond this moment—Maya finally exhaled.

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
G.R. LeBlanc is a haiku poet, fiction writer, and managing editor of The Hoolet’s Nook, an online publication dedicated to short-form writing. In her downtime, you’ll often find her puzzling over NYT word games with a chai latte in hand. Learn more at https://sleek.bio/grleblanc.

 

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.