Edify Fiction - V1, Iss. 5

Edify Fiction August 2017

Volume 1, Issue 5

"Green Plant on an Orange Landscape"

by Ashley Parker Owens

Editor Angela Meek

Assistant Editors Craig Mardis Michelle McMillan­Holifield

Submissions: First and foremost, we love a good story in prose, poetry, flash, or photography/digital artwork form. Secondly, we welcome all writers and photographers, whether you have been

Edify Fiction Magazine

published worldwide or this is your first story.

We do not subscribe to a specific genre, as we enjoy reading all kinds of things ourselves ­ including mysteries, fantasy, sci­fi, romance, historical, comedy, and YA among others. What unifies Edify Fiction's content is its ability to be positive, inspirational, and motivating.

Submissions are accepted on a rolling basis online. Full guidelines and the submission link are found online on the Submissions page of our website.

Best of the Best: Cover Art: Green plant on orange landscape Artist: Ashley Parker Owens Ashley Parker Owens is a writer, poet, and artist living in Richmond, Kentucky. She has an MFA in Creative Writing from Eastern Kentucky University, and an MFA in Visual Arts from Rutgers University. All collage parts are from images in the public domain, and do not require attribution.

Check out her website: ashleyparkerowens.wordpress.com.

Published contributors are automatically entered into the annual Best of the Best contest. This contest provides cash prizes for the pieces that were audience favorites. Contest is held annually each Spring.

Careers: Volunteer graphic artist needed. Do you love computers, magazines, and design? Would you like to contribute your design talent to encourage and uplift others? This position requires evaluation of submitted work, communicating with designers, designing work for the website and magazine, and finalizing pieces for publication. Also has the option of working on layout of magazine. If interested, please email contact@edifyfiction.com.

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© Edify Publications, LLC 2017. All rights reserved. Reproduction in whole or in part is strictly prohibited.

Copyrights revert back to individual authors and artists after publication.

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August 2017

Contributors 1 Green Plant on Orange Landscape by Ashley Parker Owens 4 The Diner by Daniel F. Giallombardo 5 The Chiffonier by KB Baker 9 Curiously, Unexpectedly Optimistic by Katheen A. Lawrence 1 0 Valley View Nursing Home, 1993 by Kevin Casey 1 1 Purple Crocus by Tina Weikert 1 3 A New Chance for Love by Kadee McDonald 1 9 Night Boats by Ayaz Daryl Nielsen 20 Invisible Desires by Ahrend Torrey 21 The Frame by Lisa Holloway 23 Manito Lilacs by Sandra Hosking 25 Labor Day Delight by Jennifer Anne F. Messing 29 Linens by Michelle McMillan­Holifield 32 Airplanes by Ethan Moser 33 Showered Roses by Kayli Meek 35 Wiltern (As the Summer Dies, I Search for You) by Kathryn H. Ross 39 East Interstate 90 by Jane Noel Dabate 40 Gliomatosis Cerebri by Cameron Morse 41 Midnight Mindset by Melynie Ferrari 43 Autism's Spectrum by C. Marie Matos The photos found on the following pages are from StockSnap.io, Pexels.com, and Pixabay.com and fall under the Creative Commons CC0 license: pages 4, 5, 9, 10, 13, 19, 20, 21, 25, 29, 32, 35, 39, 40, 41, and 43.

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Contest Winners Congratulations to our book giveaway contest winners!

Terri W. from Virginia, Michelle D. from Colorado, and Marina M. from New York all won a copy of Chicken Soup for the Soul's The Cat Really Did That?

The book is now available at major book retailers.

Proceeds from book sales go to American Humane.

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From the Editor I hope this edition of Edify Fiction finds you safe and well. A number of our readers and some of our contributors have been greatly impacted by the arrival of Hurricane Harvey. On page 13, you'll find a story by one such contributor, Kadee McDonald. We planned to include the story well before the arrival of Harvey, so we find the tale to be rather timely, albeit completely unplanned. We have confirmed that Kadee is safe. However, keep her and the thousands impacted by this natural disaster in your thoughts and prayers.

If you are able, do a little more, and donate to any of the reputable resources that are providing supplies, services, and resources to those adversely affected. If you are able and have time, consider volunteering in some way to serve the area. We can all pitch in and assist in some way either with service, funds, or prayers. Everyone can make a difference.

Once you've done your part, come back and settle down with another great collection of poems, stories, and digital art. Some of the big themes are once again under the lens as our artists consider all kinds of love, dying, and living while dying. Heady stuff. I don't know about you, but when I ponder these themes in conjunction with a large calamity like a hurricane, I can only come to a singular conclusion: life on this planet is finite short so we should make the best of it. Put aside the worry about bills, stuff, climbing the corporate hierarchy, competing with the Joneses, Botox, and who is at the top of the iTunes chart. Instead, be and enjoy the moment.

Dig into hidden treasures in The Chiffonier on page 5Íž enjoy a smirk in Valley View Nursing Home, 1993 on page 10Íž find love during a Labor Day Delight on page 25. Come stay awhile. Be. And be thankful.

Best regards,

Angela Meek Editor, Edify Fiction

Best of the Net and Pushcart Nominations We will be selecting our nominees for Best of the Net 2017 and announce those in our September issue.

There's still time to be under consideration for our Pushcart Prize nominee list, however. Turn in your best work by November for possible nomination. We'll announce those we nominate in our Christmas edition.

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Edify Fiction

The Diner

By Daniel F. Giallombardo

The flames could be seen for miles.

Some said it was a grease fire, others said the insurance came due—there are always doomsayers I guess. Personally, I think it was done by a ghost.

The old diner had been there for, well…no one really knew. It seems it always was there. Some of the oldest members of the town knew it; some of the younger members of the town went there. It was the place to go to dine.

The diner was originally a railroad freight car. When the original owners bought it, they found an old Indian chief living inside. A real Indian, of the Algonquin tribes. Being of a generous nature and needing one badly, they hired the chief as a short­order cook. So ferocious was his visage that few ever told him of the shortcomings of his rabbit stew. Still, he was a good cook, for the most part and everyone liked him. Until the diner was sold.

Three weeks after the new owners took over they fired the Chief and brought in a “Frenchie” cook from upper Michigan. The food changed—wasn’t near as good, most thought.

Now the diner is gone. The only reminder of it being there was the axle rods from where the railroad wheels used to rest. Now, as I stand looking at the still smoldering ruins, I swear I can see the old Chief doing a victory dance in the smoke.

About the author Daniel F. Giallombardo was born in Chicago, IL. He currently lives in its far northwest suburbs near his daughters and grandson. He is a veteran of the US Army and the US Navy. He is a VietNam veteran as well. Giallombardo has served on a police department in exurbia and has worked for a major airline. He has traveled extensively and often refers to himself as "a small town boy with a lot of mileage on him". He has been writing since he was in the 7th grade and has been published in magazines and smaller publications as well. He has a passion for social justice, mutual respect among all people and baseball.

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Edify Fiction

The Chiffonier

By KB Baker The cursory grunt Mr. Oldwright issued by way of introduction, he validated by thrusting his business card into my hand. I think it was the brittle ivory of his tower that prevented his making any real attempt at a greeting. He was not at all at home in my humble bungalow nor indeed the neighbourhood at large, and I thought to offer him a clothes peg as protection from the bad smell he clearly thought I was. I resisted, though, when I noticed his upper lip was a curl that nearly touched his nose ­­ it probably filtered most odours. It must also have severely restricted his intake of oxygen.

I led him to the small back bedroom, to where it stood as it had for five years. A sheet served as a dust cover and as I pulled it away with a flourish, the air filled with motes which defined the shaft of sunlight entering via the window. Mr. Oldwright cut a swathe through it and gloried for a moment in dust and celestial light before his eyebrows lifted. He had come from the Antique Centre in the city at my request and was very impressed, I could tell.

"Where did you get it? That's a lovely chiffonier ­­ early Victorian, I would say."

His mean features had transformed, animated now by excitement. He shot me a quick searching look to reassure himself that I was indeed the owner, prejudicial scorn still in situ. For my part, I watched him, incredulous; to me this was the ugliest piece of furniture on earth. I had called him, ulteriorly motivated to get the thing shifted and maybe make a few quid in the process. Oldwright now caressed the carvings on it like an early Victorian groom about to possess his virgin bride and it became the turn of my lip to curl ­ in revulsion at his lascivious display. I watched the iceman become a heaving cauldron of covetousness.

He knelt and ran his hands across the underside and down the short curved legs in a motion that struck me as obscene.

"It's funny ­­ I mean strange funny ­ but only last week I was browsing through an old, old saleroom catalogue that listed one just like this. I'd never seen one before. It's a rare piece ... so rare! I discovered there were only ever two in existence. Both were commissioned, would you believe? by an aristocratic gentleman for his wife and his mistress. One each."

He looked up, gave what he may have imagined was a conspiratorial wink and made my internal organs shrink.

"I don't suppose it's insured?"

He was business­like again and I watched him through narrowed eyes. He needn't play the chameleon with me. He'd shown his real colours and he'd never know a real gentleman if one bit him on the bum.

"Yes, it is." I lied.

"Home insurance, I suppose? That's not enough. This is a very valuable piece ­ two to three hundred thousand I would predict at auction."

"Two or three thousand? Gosh, how very generous ­ it was a present from a friend ..."

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August 2017 "Nooo ­ between two and three HUNDRED THOUSAND." Oh my! I had to sit down. Oldwright took matters upon himself while my thoughts turned to Eleanor. Sad, loving Eleanor. I could see she'd known exactly what she was doing when she gave me this strange gift.

The memory of her vivacious laughter, heard so often before she was ill, almost stopped my heart. Originally getting to know her as her paid companion, we found we had lots in common and at the finish we were dear friends. I really missed her. Blinking away the tears which threatened I tried to put my concentration in gear ...

Having dialed a number on his mobile, Oldwright was talking in language beyond my ken and arranged insurance for transport and storage with immediate effect. I shook with the shock of it, hardly able to think about counting the zeros involved. Who'd pay that for a sideboard?

"That's sorted. It's covered through my company, in your name. I'm assuming you wish me to arrange a sale through the London saleroom?"

I hadn't said so but I supposed he gathered I didn't want to keep the horrible thing and he clearly wanted a deal 'in the bag'. Interestingly, the £ signs in his eyes didn't perturb me as much as the rest of him.

"If it's alright with you, I'll give it a once­over before I get you to sign a couple of papers."

That 'once­over' prospect bothered me a lot but my blank stare seemed to bring out a certain solicitousness from him: "Are you okay?" he asked.

His mere modicum of concern, however, faded fast amid the zinging preoccupation of his brain.

I, while not wanting to be the voyeuse for a second time, needed a get­out­of­the­room clause and called upon the ever­faithful old standby to give me my chance: "I'm going to make a cup of tea. Would you like one?"

By then, thoroughly detached from my bewilderment, he had carefully pulled out the large drawer and set it on the top, folded dust sheet separating its base from the polished surface. He began his intimate exploration of the cavity and was up to his elbows in early Victorian values before catching my drift and declining.

I beelined for the kitchen, opened the back door to the garden and stepped outside to gulp air. I filled my lungs over and over, then marched back inside to switch the kettle on.

Many long minutes and half a cup of tea later, I sauntered back to the spare room and hoped he'd be leaving soon. I slid around the door jamb and saw that Oldwright, more or less finished with his business, had draped the sideboard with the dust cover leaving the front visible. I knew not from where the sexual associations sprang, but I saw the sheet as a lifted skirt exposing wares that should be hidden and, illogically, my hackles rose. He turned to face me.

"You must see this."

His excitement had subsided somewhat, leaving him almost clinically efficient ­ business­like, with beady eyes alight. He opened the top right hand drawer and, reaching in, accessed a switch which he flicked to release a small secret drawer, little bigger than a pencil box. I was delighted. Doesn't everyone love a secret drawer?

"This definitively identifies the piece ­ and it belonged to the mistress. Its twin, wherever it is, is a mirror image with the secret drawer on the left. And," he laughed, "neither woman knew the other chiffonier existed."

He clearly revelled in the deceit and dextrous manipulation that had been wielded in its history or, more important, herstory. Oldwright disgusted me and it, the bloody sideboard, disgusted me.

Calling it a chiffonier does not sweeten the debasement it represents. The unit was drenched in a not­ so­subtle air of oppression which now oozed out of it after so long under wraps. I wanted it to stop and so I pulled the folds of the sheet back into place over the polished façade.

"Oh, yes! I found this in your secret drawer."

He passed me a paper bag which was crushed and slightly grubby. Inside it was a folded note and a two­inch cube parcel wrapped in newspaper and tied with garden twine. I supposed it was a child's treasure, stashed and forgotten.

"Are you going to open it now?"

He was waiting for my signature. Fazed and dazed by the day thus far, I wanted to broach this 6

particular mystery without a witness. My "No" prompted his meticulous explanation of the implications for each signature he requested ­ a receipt proving ownership of the sideboard, my agreement for the auction, a list of costs etc etc... I heard it all as if through water. Emphasising each point stressed with pointed finger beneath every operative word, his professionalism couldn't be faulted and only when he was convinced of my understanding did he let me sign.

The logistics of his taking custody of the precious cargo were finally sorted and I watched, curious as documents slid into his briefcase. His initial sneering contempt for me had transmuted to near­reverence. All because the connection with some obscure, ugly, inanimate object had promoted me in his estimation. I had neither changed nor achieved anything within the hour or so since his arrival. I thought about this and decided that while I wouldn't say he was shallow, fear of drowning in his sincerity would be groundless. I hurried matters along and got rid. He'd be back soon enough to supervise the collection and transport later in the day.

The silent rooms were my own again. In the kitchen, I exhaled to the point of collapse, placed the crumpled little bag on the table and, pulling the contents out, set to reading the note. The handwriting I recognised at once as Eleanor's. Her script was a little shaky and had been dated. I read and cried, realising that this was, more or less, her last communication before she died, later, on that very day.

Her voice spoke to me direct across the years, telling me I was in her thoughts at the end. Her words went a long way towards assuaging my terrible anguish at having not shared her last moments. I was choking with sobs, before I stopped in my tracks and began to piece things together.

At that time, five years before, the delivery of that monstrous piece of furniture came out of the blue. Arranged by her ­ secretly and in collusion with Andrew, the loyal, helpful gardener ­ at the time it had perplexed me. Yet, I could now see she had worked under the radar to avoid the greedy, prohibitive grasp of her controlling family so she could bequeath to me something of hers. Coordinating her actions with their absences during that day, she had managed its conveyance. Her missive clearly demonstrated that she understood its provenance. She had bought it for a song in her youth with her first real salary. A canny purchase, she had seen it as an investment and after her marriage stored it in a barn on the estate.

Its history resonated somewhat with Eleanor's own life experience. Her aristocratic husband was a libertine. He had never valued her and nor had their two avaricious offspring. Her expression of happiness with my role in her life, especially during her illness, meant a great deal. I was gratified beyond words that I could have had such a positive impact.

I put the note down and picked up the forgotten package. Its tatty appearance, all newspaper and garden twine, became smile­worthy for its newly obvious offbeat route via the potting shed. It pleased me to know that Eleanor had had allies for her subterfuge. I pulled it open to find a small aged box from which I tentatively lifted the lid. Blue ice­fire from the hefty rock cut through the relative gloom of my north facing kitchen, hit me between the eyes and froze me to the spot.

It was a shock too many. As I dropped the box and the ring with its diamond the size of a small country onto the table, a tiny roll of paper came adrift. My hands were shaking and made three attempts to open it. More words. Miniature words that were almost beyond the capability of my swollen eyes. I switched on the overhead light. The diamond put on its first spectral display in five years ­ and it hadn't lost the knack. Picking it up I slid it onto the middle finger of my right hand. It'd be worth my putting on some weight so I could wear it all the time ­ the diamond was actually only the size of a marrowfat pea. I put it back in its open box where I could see it, while I read Eleanor's healing words so enriched by friendship:

My Dearest Daisy, I don't have very long left, I know that, so with Andrew's help I am tying some loose ends concerning you, while I am home alone. I'm looking forward to seeing you tomorrow when I shall explain everything to you.

I want you to know you made my life bearable - no! more than that! a delight. I regard you as more of a daughter than I do my own child and I celebrate the day you answered my advert for a domestic assistant. Please know you were never that - from the first you were my friend and I value your help, your humour, our outings and your inspiring comfort as my health deteriorates.

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You know my marriage hasn't been happy. Marriage to a stately stack carries so many restrictions which make it impossible for me to provide you with a token of appreciation (money or heirloom) apart from this Victorian sideboard. It has quite a history and I'll tell you about it tomorrow. I bought it myself, it's mine to give and you can sell it for a tidy sum, I'm sure.

As for my ring (no doubt a big surprise), it was my engagement ring from many years ago given to me by the love of my life. It represents the most joyous time of my life when I was surrounded by the most tender love and I want you to have it.

Our marriage never happened, though, he died suddenly and tragically. We were so young. I'll tell you more tomorrow but, believe me, everything that came after was a rebound - and a waste of life.

I am sure with my death, when it happens, we will be reunited. When you read this, please know I am not afraid, the prospect thrills me.

I need to rest now, Daisy - we'll talk tomorrow.

Please know that I wish for you, everything you wish, Yours with Love and kisses Eleanor xxx I didn't see her the next day, or ever again. Her demise, that night, was probably because she overtaxed herself making these arrangements. I sit for an age, almost stupefied, until the sound of a large van pulling up outside, stirs me. It's here to collect the chiffonier.

I'm on the home run of an exhausting day of revelation. I'm rich. More important, though ­ filled to bursting with Eleanor's proclamation of love, respect and care, I have clear proof of my value. This gives me everything I wish.

About the author KB Baker is retired and spends much time crafting stories. Previous writing experience was concerned with creating courses for personal development, equal opportunities, problem solving and creativity in industry.

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Curiously, Unexplainably Optimistic

By Kathleen A. Lawrence

(spiraling abecedarian)

I imagine jumping. keep love. mind negates Optimism pessimism quoting Roving suffocated by Truth unusual Voluminous well. express yelling. zeal anticipates blessings. candor, destiny Energetic flutters, generous hopes infinity.

Innocently, joyful Keys locking My never opening. pokes quietly renewal. self­loathing tenderness. unifies value. wonderings, Exaltations youthful Zestful always beautiful Coupling determination, emboldened. feminism giving heavenly inspiring

About the author Kathleen A. Lawrence has had poems appear recently in Rattle online, Eye to the Telescope, Silver Blade Magazine, haikuniverse, New Verse News, Inigo Online Magazine, and The Epic Presidential Poem: The Trump Years (section 74), as well as in two anthologies memorializing Prince, Delirious and A Prince Tribute. A poem in Altered Reality Magazine was nominated for a 2017 Rhysling Award from the Science Fiction and Fantasy Poetry Association. She was Poet of the Week at Poetry Super Highway in January 2017.

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August 2017

Valley View Nursing Home, 1993

By Kevin Casey

A few dollars, a few hours after school, between sports­­push a mop, a broom between exhausted, shuffling bodies, lingering.

And that one, slight woman­­a blossoming paperwhite­­strapped to her wheelchair with a ribbon of gauze, in the way.

Hurrying to be done, impatient for the cool, fall sky beyond, I gave her chair an off­hand shove away from the path of the vacuum.

When her wheels left the edge of the carpet’s pile, met the glassy sea of tile, she shot forward.

Now freed, unreeling across the common room’s expanse, she slowed at last, and came to rest by the picture window beside the Exit sign.

I often think of her downy form shrinking as she rolled from me, and I choose to believe she felt no panic at the strange force that compelled her, but that she smiled as she was released from the rug’s coarse and grasping nap that kept her from that better view.

About the author Kevin Casey is the author of And Waking... (Bottom Dog Press, 2016), and American Lotus, winner of the Kithara Prize (forthcoming, Glass Lyre Press). His poems have appeared recently or are forthcoming in Rust+Moth, Valparaiso Poetry Review, Pretty Owl Poetry, and Ted Kooser's syndicated column American Life in Poetry. For more, visit andwaking.com.

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Purple Crocus

by Tina Weikert

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August 2017

About the photographer Tina Weikert lives in Vermont which is rather conducive to quality scenery for photography. Along with her Canon Rebel camera, a husband, 2 boys, and 2 dogs reside in her house on a lake.

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A New Chance For Love

By Kadee McDonald My stomach clenched in fear. I tried to turn away from the bedroom window, but keeping watch made me feel like I was at least doing something active.

The first high waves from the storm seemed almost alive as they rose, curled and landed, pounding the rocky shoreline that curved outward from both sides of the lighthouse, defining the small natural harbor of the island off the east coast that we called home. A lone seabird escaped the water's crest and soared inland, chasing the flock that had flown ahead to safety without him.

There was never a light now at the top of the concrete tower. It stood abandoned, much like most of the small town below it had been since the last bad storm raged through five years ago. A shipping company's warehouse had been damaged beyond repair, so the port closed and there was no more need for a beam to guide boats safely in through the rocks at night.

My husband David and I were two of the few people left who lived here year­round. The general store downstairs, left to us by his parents, and our apartment upstairs, along with a half dozen beach houses were all that remained. After the full force of the storm hit later tonight, I knew it would all be here in the morning only by the grace of God. David and I talked about the voluntary evacuation order and chose to stay. Now, as darkness descended on the island, I hoped the wind and rain wouldn't be as bad as predicted. If the storm surge hit at high tide, the bridge to the mainland would be flooded over. We'd be completely alone here and cut off from help until the water receded.

I barely heard the door open over the sound of the wind and the roar of the angry ocean. When I did, I hurried into the front room just in time to meet David as he came inside. His blond hair lay flat against his head and droplets of water clung to his tanned, stubbled cheeks. His rain coat looked almost soaked through. I helped him shrug it off, then brought towels from the bathroom.

"The Johnsons and the Meyers decided not to leave, either," he said, wiping his face dry. I tried not to think he looked as worried as I felt. "I took extra supplies over to them‌bottled water, canned 13

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August 2017 goods, and some fresh batteries."

"What about the McClintons…and the Wilsons?"

"They both evacuated about an hour ago, so they'd have the best chance to get across the bridge to the mainland before nightfall and high tide."

"The baby must have been scared to death." Angela Wilson was my age and often came to visit for lunch. She always brought along their baby girl, Jessica, with her golden curls and happy laugh and two front teeth just starting to break through. Angela knew how much I'd always wanted to be a mom. If David and I had a daughter, I thought she'd look like little Jessica.

"I'm sure they made it, Maggie."

He cupped my face with his large hand, his thumb brushing over my right cheekbone, smoothing the wrinkle of worry away.

"How are things here? Is there more I need to secure downstairs in the store?"

"I don't think so." I reached up to cover his fingers with mine, holding him close. "I put everything up on higher shelves and I braced the back door like you showed me. David…do you think the building will…? I mean, if it doesn't, we'll lose everything."

"Granddad knew the storms around here. He built this place strong, with steel beams in the framing." David pulled me into a secure hug. "It'll stand."

He knew me so well, my mind, and my anxieties. Without speaking, he understood the unspoken question between us. Would we survive?

"You should get into dry clothes. I'll make some sandwiches and get everything else ready." We'd been through storms here on the island before and I always found some comfort in the routine of preparation.

David plugged in his cellphone to recharge as he changed. The power stayed on for another hour and we sat down to eat, until a loud howl of wind and lash of rain struck the building, and then the lights went out. We lit a candle and finished our meal in silence, trading a look, touching hands now and then, anchoring ourselves to each other.

We'd been through so much in our nine years of marriage. First, defying my parents, who wanted me to go to college before settling down and who didn't want me to live on a remote island so far away from them. Then a miscarriage the first year after we moved here, and being told I'd never be able to get pregnant again.

I'd been so angry with God for that, had grieved and cried until I almost made myself sick. David kept me sane, loved me through it, held me and comforted me, even though when he must have thought I was asleep, I heard him crying, too. We'd talked about adopting, but what kind of life could we really offer a child out here, so isolated and alone, even if we could afford the attorney fees to make it all legal?

After we ate, we nailed planks of plywood in place over the window facing the ocean, leaving an inch between two of them so we could see the fury of nature that raged beyond. Watching sheets of rain blow sideways unnerved me as much as feeling the structure which was our home and our livelihood shudder on its concrete foundation.

Sometime around four in the morning, exhausted, I fell asleep in David's arms. I woke later with a start, not sure how long I'd slept. I lay still, listening for the sounds of the storm. A watery ray of light came through the slit in the plywood and it seemed surprisingly quiet outside. All I heard was the gentle pit­pat of small drops against the window, sounding no more threatening than a gentle spring rain.

"David?"

I sat up and looked around, wiping the sleep from my eyes. I saw his silhouette in the shadows on the other side of our bedroom as he talked quietly on his cellphone. After a minute, he tapped the screen to end the call.

"Has the storm passed?"

"The worst of it's done."

He came over, stretched out next to me on the bed, and held me close.

"I called your folks to let them know we were all right. Then I finally got through to Aaron 14

McClinton, to see if they and the Wilsons found a safe place to stay on the mainland. Maggie, there's bad news."

"The baby," I said, not even knowing why I said it. Maybe the tone in David's voice. "Little Jessica?"

"She's safe, by some miracle," he assured me, but his face was grave. "But her mom and dad—" "No!" I pulled back from him and shook my head, refusing to think the worst. "Not Angela…not Joe!" "They'd almost made it to the mainland yesterday evening when the storm tide came up over the bridge and hit their car. The McClintons were a few hundred feet ahead of them, but they saw it happen.

As soon as it was safe, they went back. The car's windows were down and the doors open. Jessica was still strapped in her car seat in the back. She was drenched and crying, but otherwise okay. Rescuers are looking for Joe and Angela, but so far they haven't found them."

I couldn't believe it, didn't want to. The Wilsons left the island to be safe and we'd stayed behind.

Now we'd survived and maybe they hadn't.

"Can—can we help?"

"I knew you'd say that. I told Aaron we'd secure things here, check on the Johnsons and the Meyers, and then see if we can get across the bridge to join the search. The storm is tracking northwest and moving fast. We may have clear skies before noon."

I went into auto­pilot mode after he said that, knowing there was no time to lose. We left the planks over the window, which had cracked but not broken. Like the island, I thought, damaged but still here, and the glass could be replaced. The lighthouse in the distance stood as silent and stoic as ever, affected not at all it seemed by the destructive forces that had passed by it. Even one of the dark sea birds had already returned, circling over the shore, diving once, then a second time, coming up with a fish stranded between the rocks by the outgoing tide.

The store below us had taken in water, but the damage wasn't as bad as it could have been. We went back upstairs, packed toothbrushes and a change of clothes, then set out to see how our neighbors had fared. Their houses, built up on stilts, looked worse off than ours, but they'd hunkered down and survived, just like us. David told them about the Wilsons and they seemed as stunned as we were, promising to join in the search if Joe and Angela weren't found by nightfall.

The bridge was empty when we got to it, damaged but passable. It would need repair before it could take much traffic. I saw no sign of the Wilson's car during the two minutes that it took us to drive across. I held my hand over my mouth, barely breathing, as if taking in too much air from the area where our good friends were last seen was somehow disrespectful.

Once we got onto the mainland, David sped up and we were at the sheriff's station in the nearest town in less than ten minutes. The McClinton's car sat in the small parking lot in front. Aaron stood talking to a female deputy while his wife, Lori, held her husband's arm and cried.

Aaron spotted us and the three of them walked over. My deepest fears were confirmed the minute we got out of our little Honda. "One of the search teams just called in," the young deputy said.

She didn't look more than twenty­five, far too young to be delivering bad news.

"They found the bodies about a mile from the bridge. The couple's clothing caught in some low tree branches near shore or they might have been washed out to sea and never recovered."

I grabbed David's arm for support. He felt as strong and steady as always.

"What about the baby?" I looked at the deputy. "Where is she? Is she safe?"

"Child Services has her now, ma'am. She got checked out at the hospital and she's okay. Are you the couple's family?"

"No," David said, "we're their neighbors...and their friends. I don't think Joe ever mentioned any family."

"Angela told me she had a cousin in Lewisville," I added, "but she said they weren't close and hadn't spoken in a few years. I guess he'd know if there was anyone else."

"We'll check into that." The deputy took out her notepad and pen. "Can I get your name and 15

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August 2017 phone number, in case we need anything more?"

After we gave her our information, she said she'd be in touch. "Stay safe, folks." She went back into the station, leaving us outside with the McClintons.

"I still can't believe it," Lori said. "Life is so fragile, isn't it?" I looked over at my husband and he nodded. We both knew how fast happiness could turn to sorrow. I felt a wave of dizziness and David put his arm around my shoulders. In the midst of my grief, I was so grateful for his strong and steady presence.

"We drove by your place, Aaron, and it's still standing, but we didn't stop to look around."

The McClintons were grateful for that much information. Living on the water had always been their dream and they planned to go back. I wasn't sure I wanted that life anymore. I loved my husband completely and I'd stay with him wherever he was, of course, but he'd talked more than once about selling the old family store and moving inland. I hoped he meant it.

None of us had eaten that morning, so we decided to drive into town to see if we could find a place that was open for breakfast. A small family diner had survived the storm with only minor damage, a cracked front window and the outside sign hanging precariously from a single hook. We took the only available booth and a tired­looking waitress brought us coffee.

There seemed nothing more to do after eating than go home and start cleaning up. Another deputy was now posted at the bridge and confirmed we were residents before he'd allow us to drive back over to the island. With new­found respect, I looked down at the still­churning water lapping against the base of the bridge. It had taken two friends from us, left an innocent child an orphan, and there was nothing to be done about it.

David added fuel to the emergency generator that kept the store's lights on and the freezer case working. He recharged his cellphone again as we worked the rest of the day, sweeping out the water, mopping up the aisles and reorganizing the shelves. The power came back on the following morning and we turned on the TV to get the news and weather reports. Life seemed almost normal again and we'd go on, but I knew things would never be the same now that Angela and Joe were gone.

David's cellphone rang as we finished breakfast. It was an attorney by the name of Madison, who said he'd drawn up wills for the Wilsons, detailing their last wishes, and we were in it. He asked if there was any way we could drive into town that day.

David called the neighbors to see if they needed anything from the store. They didn't, so he hung up the "Closed" sign and we drove over the bridge and into town again, in search of Mr. Madison's office. It was in an old red brick building, not at all fancy, just solid and respectable.

"Sit down, please."

The attorney, an older man, directed us to a couple of guest chairs.

"Thanks for coming in so quickly. I didn't want to say too much over the phone but the matter is rather urgent."

I glanced over at David. He seemed as mystified as I was.

"As you may know, Joe and Angela Wilson had no immediate family, but they told me they counted the two of you as their closest friends. Their wish, should something happen to the both of them, was for you to adopt their daughter, Jessica, and raise her as if she were your own child. But I imagine they discussed all this with you."

David shook his head. "No, they never said a word."

"Well…" the lawyer began, then he paused and seemed more than a little puzzled as he continued. "That's most unusual. I assumed you'd agreed to the arrangement. Of course, you're under no obligation to accept such a huge responsibility, and I'm sure you'll need some time to think this over,

Life is so fragile, isn't it?

16

discuss it and such—" I felt such surprise and shock, I almost couldn't breathe. Another emotion came up, too. Hope.

"No," David and I spoke in unison.

He reached over and interlaced his fingers with mine. I answered the unspoken question in his eyes with a slight nod.

The lawyer frowned.

"Then you definitely don't want to consider adopting the child?"

"No, sir, what we mean is we don't need time to think it over," David said. "We'd like to take Jessica home with us as soon as possible."

"Are you both sure about this?"

"Yes," I told him. "We couldn't be more certain. But what about Angela's cousin? I would think her family would want Jessica."

"No," Mr. Madison said. "He's a widower himself with a teenaged son. The Wilsons wanted their daughter to grow up with two parents in a stable home, and from what Angela told me, her cousin couldn't provide that, even if he were willing to, which he isn't."

"We're both very glad to take Jessica," David said.

"There'll be some paperwork to draw up and at least one home visit from a social worker," the lawyer continued. "If there's no concern there, a judge will have to sign off on the adoption. Joe and Angela left the funds to cover all the legalities. I understand the two of you also live over on the island?"

"We do now, but we've talked about moving back to the mainland, near my wife's mom and dad."

David gave my hand a firm, reassuring squeeze.

"We're ready to do whatever the court asks to be the best parents we can be for that baby."

I sat forward in my chair, feeling more than a little dazed by the suddenness of it all, and trying to process what was happening.

"Apparently, Joe and Angela picked their friends wisely." Mr. Madison smiled. "I'll reach out to Children's Protective Services and give them your information. I imagine you'll hear from them in a day or so to start the process. Do you have any other questions for me?"

"Yes," I said. "What about‌the funerals?"

It seemed impossible that we were sitting there, talking about burying Joe and Angela.

"Aren't there‌decisions to be made?"

"The Wilsons had already planned and paid for everything, and they both had life insurance.

There'll be money for you to help raise the child and some of it is earmarked to start a college fund for her. They were one of the most prepared young couples I've ever worked with, although certainly they never expected their arrangements to be needed so soon. As their executor, I've already spoken with the cemetery. They can hold graveside services there as soon as Friday morning. The Wilsons specified that if you agreed to adopt Jessica, that any final decisions would be yours to make."

"It all still seems so unreal," David said. "But yes, I guess Friday should be okay."

We were both quiet as we left the attorney's office.

"I never realized it was possible to both mourn and rejoice at the same time, but that's how I feel," I told David as we drove back to the island. "I'm also more than a little overwhelmed at the idea of finally becoming a mom, and having such a precious girl to love and care for. I wonder if I'm going to be any good at it."

"You're going to do great, Maggie."

He squeezed my hand reassuringly.

When we got home, I immediately went to our photo albums and opened the newest one. We had a lot of digital photos stored on the laptop that David used to order supplies and keep the books for the store, but sometimes I liked to have some of the pictures printed, too, so I could share them with my parents, who didn't own a computer.

The most recent photos were ones we'd taken at a beach picnic we'd enjoyed just a couple of months 17

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August 2017 earlier with the Wilsons. There was even one of me holding the baby, both of us laughing and waving to the camera. Angela stood behind me, her hand on my shoulder, and she was smiling, too. I felt privileged that she and Joe had thought we were the best people to take care of their only child, and the picture reassured me that Angela's spirit would always be with us, watching out for all of us.

Realizing that Jessica would have no memories of her parents, I decided to have several of the pictures enlarged so I could frame them for her to see when she got older and we could explain to her what happened. I didn't want her to ever wonder how much Angela or Joe loved her or forget about them. I knew that David and I never would because they'd given us the most precious gift in the world.

The double funeral on Friday was an incredibly sad time. The McClintons, the Johnsons and the Meyers were there from the island. Mr. Madison came, as did Angela's cousin from Lewisville with his son, a teenager sporting multiple piercings and tattoos and wearing a leather jacket. Despite all that, he might still be a good kid, but I could see why Angela and Joe didn't think her cousin's home was the right place for a little girl to grow up.

"Where is Jessica?" Lori McClinton asked as we slowly walked back to our cars after the service.

"Have you seen her?"

"Not yet, but the woman from Children's Services came to visit us yesterday. She said Jessica was with one of their best foster families and was being well taken care of."

I told Lori that the social worker had seemed very efficient and even a bit cold at first. She finally relaxed and smiled when David told her that we'd listed the house and store for sale with a nearby real estate firm and David already had a job interview scheduled in my hometown.

Now, over a year later, the adoption papers are signed and filed away. David and I feel completely fulfilled to be Mama and Daddy to Jessica, who's about to turn three. We live in a small two­ bedroom house about a mile from my parents, who adore their only grandchild. She's a beautiful and happy girl, loving and content.

With his experience, David quickly became the manager of a local supermarket, and while Jessica is down for her afternoon naps, I'm taking online classes in bookkeeping and accounting. When she’s old enough for school, I hope to find a part­time job, so David and I can make the best life possible for all of us. We've even talked about saving so someday we can adopt a little brother or sister for her.

Somehow God had taken a storm and death, and out of that tragedy, we'd been blessed with a miracle. A new chance for love.

Editor's Note: Our thoughts and prayers go out to those affected by Hurricane Harvey. The author of this story, Kadee, was in Harvey's path. She is safe, but was impacted by the storm.

About the author Kadee McDonald is a native Texan and the author of both traditional Regency romance (set in the time of Jane Austen) and clean contemporary romance. She loves cats, reading, movies, and history, although that order varies (depending on the mood of the cats). Check out her website kadeemcdonald.com or follow her on Twitter @KadeeMcDonald.

18

Night Boats

By Ayaz Daryl Nielson

rowing our night boats toward the threshold of an awakening each stroke of the oars immersed in forgiveness

About the author Ayaz Daryl Nielsen is a veteran, hospice nurse, and ex­roughneck (as on oil rigs) living in Longmont, Colorado. He is editor of bear creek haiku (26+ years/135+ issues) with poetry published worldwide (and deeply appreciated). Follow his blog: bear creek haiku poetry, poems and info.

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August 2017

Invisible Desires

By Ahrend Torrey I would like to sit next to you, invisible, as you wait idly. I would like to sit next to you as you go through one of the toughest times of your life.

And I would like to invisibly take on the consciousness of your keys, as you carry me with you after hearing the news— as you hold me tightly in your right hand, wet from wiping tears. I want to feel the way you push me into the ignition, not knowing that I am here.

As you pull away I want to become the car that you are driving, just as unsure as you are about where we are headed.

I want to keep you moving forward as time goes on. I want to become time, in which once again you are okay with how adverse the world can be. And I want to become this miraculous world in which we all live and succeed through.

I want to see you rise like the egret in summer lifts above the cypress tree. I want to see you smile as perfectly as things use to be before everything happened and now we are here.

About the author Ahrend Torrey is a poet and painter. He is a creative writing graduate from Wilkes University in Wilkes­Barre, Pennsylvania. When he is not writing and teaching English in New Orleans, he enjoys the simple things in life, like walking around Bayou St. John with his partner, Jonathan, and their two rat terriers Dichter and Dova. Follow him on Facebook: poetahrendtorrey.

20

The Frame

By Lisa Holloway The visions were a waterfall of poetry: symmetry in images flowing longingly across Evelyn’s mind like a dream. She quickly became certain she saw for another, her eye holes framing the view for someone far away, distorted by the distance...someone whose mind worked differently. Orderly but curious. Perhaps the travelers soaring through unknown distances of space toward them, bringing the end of everything humanity knew.

Who were they? Even now, defenders hovered just out of sight in the sky, making themselves a wall against the onslaught to come. If only she could get through to the travelers —get beyond traded words falling away heavy and incomprehensible, like the failed message Earth sent speeding through the far reaches of space when telescopes first detected oncoming vessels.

Words had not worked. The alien ships moved inexorably closer.

Maybe this was a chance to reach them. Maybe the sights she chose to see for them could communicate a symmetry and harmony the universe would understand. Maybe. It was all so nebulous, not knowing if the experiences would translate. If it would be enough to hold off destruction.

“I have to try...”

Softly, Evelyn spoke the words to herself and climbed stairs toward a faint light above. She would show them what they were coming toward.

No more would she be a passive frame through which they watched. She set her will to find the things worth seeing through her eyes, even as she gazed through the attic window, past the long fields of grain swaying in a rustic dance, the faintest hint of a rasping whisper rustling on the wind. She knew what it was to touch the heads of wheat and rub them from their husks, chewing berries fresh, hearty. It was emmer, the old kind of wheat from the old land. Still good. No random chaos of chromosomes piling up inside. She liked its purity.

Farther she looked, up the green hills bunched thick with trees. In spring, the stags rubbed long strips from the bark, shining velvet from the spear tips of their antlers, soft eyes liquid as water, fierce as hunger. She liked watching them run, the leaping freedom of it. Small creatures would skitter past, gray squirrels arcing waves of fur around and around the tree trunks, chattering, graceful and light. Wide­ winged birds flew high, soaring on the wind, and she wondered at their magnificence...wondered what they saw so far above everything.

Did falcons watch the sky ships in their endless maneuvers—their race to save mankind from the alien presence drawing nearer...from so far away? So impossibly far to travel, they must be beyond Earth. Stronger than Earth.

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August 2017 Crueler or kinder?

Undoubtedly different.

Evelyn understood Earth’s fear. Yet she hoped. If she were right, those beings, those travelers, were the ones trying to see through her. To understand.

She looked away from the faraway vessels marking the sky. If the aliens were other than she hoped, to look too long—to look at all—on those ships and Earth’s defenses would be a betrayal. To make Earth more vulnerable was akin to stealing the future and laying her people groveling in the dust for the travelers to do with as they saw fit.

Should she go on showing them what made Earth beautiful, or would that only make them covet it more?

It was a necessary risk, she concluded. They should have the chance to know what was precious in it before changing it all irrevocably. She would make herself real to them. With this shift in intention, she felt their attentiveness ripen.

Closing her eyes, she focused on love, making the image strong, sharp, clear. Love in all its forms. She thought of God and let the feeling wash over her in its confusion of struggle, light, freedom.

It had changed the way she dealt with the world...with the travelers. There is no fear in love.

She looked on a picture of her child, long since grown up. The boy in the frame lit green eyes with life, hair curling at the tips. He used to narrate his play out loud—farms and battles, magic swords, imaginary soldiers, journeys down unexplored rivers, giant spiders. Color battles scattering green and red and silver to the ends of the air, a whole world inside his head, painted in sound and motion. How he would nestle into her as they read. They could always say they were sorry and mean it, even when they really messed up. It was a good thing. They should know about it.

Trinkets sorted from a box brought more of the loves to mind—the love she gave, eating lunch with the homeless guy who lost his way in the war...lost his family when he came back. The picture she kept of him showed a man with stubble on his chin, shy eyes, faking a pride he didn’t feel. He gripped a Purple Heart in his hand, held out so it seemed larger than his face in perspective. Beside it was a crayon­traced picture of a girl and a dog, all outlined in indigo, whipping lines like the wagging of a tail.

Then the gift­memories from friends who understood her without explanation—a love that gave without asking. The act of speaking to them made muddy meanings clear to her. On image­paper she watched the memories they’d chosen for her over the years, moving moments lifelike enough to touch, then folded them away in the box.

Love words from her husband rustled like leaves on the wind, and she drifted with them. Now he lay in a hospital bed off the living room, too big for her to move much on her own. Ian had to help with that when he came every day. But she knew what was dear in him, heat rushing into her, remembered the feel of his arms wrapped around her the first time their lips met. Later, when his whispers melted into her, warm and longing. Take off your pants. When he lost directions to their honeymoon retreat. The arguments over what to name the baby. The way she would go off for days on her own to regain her center, and he understood. The hurts and cruel words and stubborn pride.

The loyalty. It was all part of their story.

Are you seeing this? She wondered and wandered, filling her mind and sight with every cherished and graceful instance she could find, every precious object, and hoped the harmony she played on the strings of the universe was beautiful to them—hoped it was enough.

I come to you in peace, she thought. Here is my heart.

About the author Previously a staff editor and ghostwriter, Lisa Holloway now practices duct­taping her inner nitpicker, so her creative side can speak. She lives in South Carolina with her family.

22

Manito Lilacs

by Sandra Hosking

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August 2017

About the photographer Sandra Hosking is a professional editor, writer and playwright based in Spokane, WA, USA. Publishing credits include The Spokesman­Review, Journal of Business, Glass International, Inland NW Homes & Lifestyles, Down to Earth Northwest, Insight for Playwrights, Literary Salt, Redactions and the Midwest Book Review. Photography has recently appeared in 3 Elements Review and Joey. Hosking holds an M.F.A. in theatre/playwriting from the University of Idaho and an M.F.A. in creative writing from Eastern Washington University. Follow her on Twitter @SandraHosking and view her website sandrahosking.webs.com.

24

Labor Day Delight

By Jennifer Anne F. Messing

Why do I always get roped into doing favors for people? I can’t seem to say no. This explains why I'm spending the Labor Day weekend helping my elderly neighbor, Madeline, with her garage sale...instead of hanging out at the lake with friends!

Maybe it's because, during the last three years we've been neighbors, I've grown fond of Madeline, a widow for ten years. I've gotten to know her quite well over many dinners we've shared together in her cozy home. She reminds me of my mother—she's feisty and too opinionated, but is generous and kind­hearted.

"But why on the Labor Day weekend?" I'd asked, two weeks earlier. "There are other weekends to do a garage sale."

"I'll sell a lot because several families on our street have barbecues that weekend. Plus, my sister and her husband have invited me to visit them in Georgia the week after. I'd like it done before I leave."

Well, that answered that. And now the Saturday morning of the holiday has arrived. It's 8:15 and the sale starts at 9:00.

“Karena," Madeline says, "there are two other fold­up tables in the spare bedroom closet in the basement. Would you please go and get those while I finish putting price tags on these?" She points at some assorted kitchenware.

"Of course," I answer. I walk into the house, then make my way down the familiar stairs to the basement and into the spare room, where I quickly find the tables.

Forty minutes later, while I'm doing last­minute rearranging of some DVDs and books, Madeline hangs up a big and bright American flag on her front porch. It's sunny and eighty­two degrees and a beautiful day.

“You look adorable in those turquoise shorts and matching shirt! Is that a new outfit?” Madeline exclaims.

“Yes,” I answer, smiling. “Now's the season to wear fun, summery stuff. Right?”

“Hah!” she says, “Not all women in their mid­thirties—or even younger than you—have a waistline as little as yours and long, slender legs. You're blessed!”

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August 2017 I blush. Madeline is such a dear.

“Aw, thank you. You're thoughtful and very kind.”

“I'm not being kind,” she says. “I'm just telling the truth. I always wanted to have a daughter who's talented and sweet­natured—just like you—but God gave Ernest and me two sons—” “And they're both married now, and God has blessed you with a couple of dear daughters­in­law and a grandbaby on the way!” I quickly add.

“Oh, yes,” she agrees. “I thank Him above for all the blessings He gave me, and the wonderful life I shared with Ernest for forty­four years—” she says, while buttoning up some floral blouses hanging on display. Then a wistful look comes into her warm, brown eyes. “...but have you ever felt like you've met someone you instantly bond with and become fond of, who you understand easily and who understands you, someone who wasn't born into your family, but you wish they were? Have you ever felt that way? Because that's how I've always felt about you.”

“I know exactly how you feel,” I tell her. “And you know I adopted you as my dear Aunt a long time ago!”

“How much are the blouses?” asks a young, auburn­haired girl, who looks about ten years old.

“Hanging ones are a dollar; folded ones are fifty cents,” I answer.

While she proceeds to shop, we are suddenly deluged with a string of about forty customers for the next few hours. I can't believe how quickly we sell so many things; blouses, slacks, knick­knacks, shelves, chairs, and even a vintage electric fan! It's almost 1:30 by the time they've all paid and leave.

“Hey, Aunt Maddie,” I hear a deep and pleasant male voice. “How's the sale going? I've come to look at the furniture.”

I turn and see a tall and blond­haired, thirty­something man draw Madeline into an embrace.

His light­blue shirt and khaki walking shorts perfectly fit the pleasant summer day.

“James!” Madeline says. “So good to see you. I'm glad you didn't forget about the furniture.” She looks at me and says, “Karena, I don't believe you've met my nephew before, our family architect. This is James.”

“A pleasure to meet you,” I glance at him, smiling. “I'm Karena Finley.”

He nods and says, “James Bradford.” Then he steps forward and extends his right hand. I shake it firmly and find it feels warm and strong. Am I imagining this...or did he hold my hand just a few seconds too long?

Presently, a big family arrives and I hear the mother ask Madeline about some toys.

“Karena, would you go and show James the daybed and dresser in the guest bedroom? My sons have all the furniture they need and don't want those.”

“Sure, happy to,” I reply.

Moments later James and I are standing in the guest bedroom. I've always loved this warm and inviting, mint green wall­papered room, with many treasured photos adorning its walls.

“I know some of the family members in these pictures,” I tell James. “Madeline has told me a little bit about your clan.” Then my eyes fall on a familiar, black­and­white photo of Madeline and her late husband. “Oh, and that wedding picture is priceless. What a beautiful bride she was!”

“Yes, indeed,” he says. “And my Uncle Ernie was a very good man.”

“I know she loved him so much and they had a great marriage,” I add. “Do you know why she wants to get rid of this furniture?”

“This five­bedroom home is getting to be too much for Aunt Maddie to maintain. She plans to sell it at some point and downsize.”

I'm quiet for a few moments. “I'd be sad to see this home get sold. I've grown fond of Madeline and this house.”

A tender look comes into James's face. “Yes, it is a really handsome, 1950s­style home. I've 26

entertained the thought of buying it myself...” His gaze slowly moves from the photos on the wall to the vintage­style, wooden dresser. “Where do you live, Karena?”

“Just four houses down. I rent a small bungalow with a lady friend. How 'bout you?”

“I live in Mount Holly, about a forty­minute drive from here. Been there?” he asks.

“Yes, I love it! It's a very quaint town.” I notice then that James is eyeing me quite intensely. I feel a little self­conscious.

“I remember Aunt Maddie talked about you before,” he says softly, “but she never told me how pretty you are.”

Looking into his eyes, I see that he's sincere.

“Thank you,” I answer.

“Just being honest,” he says, as a shy grin curls his lips. “So, what do you do?”

“I'm an academic tutor. I work with grade­school age kids in long­term care at a local hospital.”

“Someone, please help!” a young voice cries out. Then a distraught teen­aged girl comes running into the room. “The elderly lady started to complain that she wasn't feeling well, then after a few moments said she was having chest pain—” “Where is she?” James demands.

“She sat down to rest, right now she's with my mother—” but before the girl can finish we've rushed outside to see Madeline.

“Aunt Maddie, do we need to call an ambulance?” James asks, his forehead perspiring.

“Are you okay?” I ask, worried.

“I'm a little better now, but still quite winded,” Madeline replies, her voice faint. “I need to rest for a while. I have a chest condition—non­life­threatening—” she quickly adds, “that gives me pain every now and then.”

“Your Costochondritis!” I cry out. Looking at James, I tell him, “I've been with Madeline before when this happens. She gets better after several minutes, by resting and drinking some water. I’ll go and get some for her right now!”

I run back into the kitchen.

When I return, James has already thanked the family with the mother and teen­aged daughter who helped Madeline. Afterward, the family is quickly on their way.

James insists that Madeline do no more work, and assures her that he and I will finish up the garage sale and close it at 5:00. Then he gently helps her stand up and steadies her with his arm around her as he walks her back into the house. He helps Madeline get settled on the sofa. I sit beside her and gently pat her arm.

“Thank you, James,” Madeline says, still weak.

It's wonderful to have his strong and reassuring presence here. I'm sorry this had to happen to Madeline—but am grateful I wasn't alone with her when it did.

An hour and a half later, at 6:00, with everything done, James and I are sipping iced tea and enjoying some cookies with Madeline. We're both relieved that she's somewhat better, and James has suggested we stick around longer.

“So, what's for dinner?” James asks. “I'm buying.”

“Daisy's Fried Chicken N Biscuits opened recently—” Madeline says.

“Sounds yummy!” I answer.

“Do they have take­out?” James asks.

“Absolutely!” I answer.

“So, what are we waiting for?” he asks. I chuckle and hand Madeline her smartphone. She calls and promptly places an order.

After her phone conversation, Madeline asks, “How about a game of Scrabble after dinner?”

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August 2017 “Sounds great,” James answers. “Just hope I don't get humiliated. I haven't played in a long time and I know you're a great player, Aunt Maddie!”

“Well, Karena is no slouch either,” Madeline says. “The last two times we played she beat me.”

I laugh with pleasure, and notice for the second time that James is gazing at me.

“This will be fun—” he announces, “dinner with two lovely ladies, and afterward I'll work hard to hold my own in a competitive Scrabble match.”

“The one who has the highest score, and uses the most holiday­related words, wins!” I add.

“It's a deal,” Madeline answers.

“Yes, a deal.” He flashes me a wink.

Why does my heart flutter every time he looks at me? I'm happily anticipating our evening ahead—not how I expected to spend the Labor Day weekend, but delightful anyway!

About the author Jennifer Anne Fabregas Messing is an author, poet, and creative writing teacher who has a bachelor's degree in Journalism and Religious Education. A past president of the Oregon Christian Writers, she has over 200 articles, short stories, and poems published in 60 magazines, including: The Storyteller, The Gem, LIVE, Story Shack, and Mocha Memoirs. Originally from the Philippines, Jennifer Anne and her husband have three young adult children and reside in Oregon, USA. Find her on Facebook and Twitter (@JennyAnnMessing) and get information about her award­winning books, Morning's Promise and Everlasting Love at JenniferAnneMessing.com.

28

Linens

By Michelle McMillan­Holifield She refuses to align creases. Her corners never touch. One might presume a laziness that begins in the heart, radiating into the bends of arms and fingers.

Or ignorance of proper etiquette, a gulf of know­how that affects more than bed linens. But look at her face, carrytale lines around that purposed mouth, each a gallery: from her grandmother’s girth in the fields, taut hands plucking, plucking till the rows were empty to her mother’s fascination with numbers and order, toothbrushes cleaning baseboards, in whose crisp closets unaligned linen corners

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August 2017 were always realigned, even at midnight, even at sun­up, even when already perfect.

So now, when the flourish of fabric softener spills like a christening over fingers, when the dryer sheet, once stiff with fragrance, becomes comfortable in its sweet, soft skin, when the linens are warm against her face and throat and hands she skews the lines, pleats first one way and then another, imperfect folds kneaded into fabric that has been washed and washed and washed.

About the author Michelle McMillan­Holifield studied poetry at Delta State University in the Mississippi Delta and recently completed a writer’s residency at Wild Acres Retreat in North Carolina. Her work has been included in or is forthcoming in Boxcar Poetry Review, Found Poetry Review, poemmemoirstory, Silver Birch Press’s Nancy Drew Anthology, Stirring, The Collagist, Toasted Cheese, Whale Road Review and Windhover among others. She is also Assistant Editor of Edify Fiction.

30

Airplanes

By Ethan Moser The air outside the window is thin and clean, your youthful hand gliding easily along its currents like a jet in the blue skies above. Your arms are shaky ­­ twitching at the thought of your pale fingertips scraping the sandpaper bark of the trees that have grown much too close to the road. You brace yourself on the dash as your mother brakes for crossing deer and opossum, taking all the time they need to cross in front of skidding tires that leave black footprints on the pavement.

And you look at the mountain that they called Liberty, plush and green and full in the summer light. You wonder how the tourists that will ski down her icy face in six months can’t see how ordinary and everyday it is when they flock in on buses, cramped tight with ski boots and snowboards, their exhaust choking the air with thick sludge that will no longer support the epidermis wings of your finger plane. And in those days, you can smell the gas of buzzing cars and taste the salt thrown on roads so that the cars may continue to buzz by in blurs of silver and black against a white backdrop.

The lights of the mountain are alight all of the time now looking over midnight skiers. It lights the sky too ­­ stealing the moon’s territory with its harsh luminescence. And it’s harder for you to sleep because they shine brightly through your window and blot out the stars that your mother used to count with you before she got sick. Even the high school carolers can’t make you smile again, no matter how off tune their Spanish rendition of Jingle Bells may be.

And you remember when she died: heart attack. Quick. Short. Over. You noticed that yours wasn’t the only head hung low in the halls because maybe they didn’t know her but they know you. They can see that you don’t smile anymore; that the patches under your eyes have turned black like rotting fruit.

They were there when you buried her, the dirt caking your fingerprints like paint as you threw the first handful over the dark coffin and you asked why we bury black with black and if it was to hide her away forever like a forgotten paperback.

You remember when summer returned and the air became thin again and your plane still hovered out the window; only now it flew lower and closer to the door as if to avoid any more casualties.

And you remember your mother as a flower, blooming fast and dying young like so many things in this world. It’s hard for you to smile now, but you do it anyway because if you don’t ­­ there’s nothing to stop your body and mind from shattering like glass, falling to the pavement in fragmented shards with nothing left to do but reflect those mountain lights that kept you awake when your mother couldn’t 31

Edify Fiction

August 2017 fight them off.

You remember the first time you laughed after she was gone and you slapped your hand over your mouth, and your friends looked at you through eyes of blue and brown, full of concern within their tilted heads. With a shake, you turned away and ran.

You found yourself later with your blonde curls tucked between your knees and tears cracking on the floor like eggs. And you remember when that girl from that party found you there and kissed you again. This time she tasted like strawberries instead of metal braces. Her hand in yours was warm instead of clammy and her eyes were soft instead of wild. And you remember kissing her back.

You remember driving, with her, and him, and them and singing songs that all of you knew. You remember smiling, teeth bright like headlights in the rearview mirror, and she smiled back. Your hand out the window didn’t just glide because this time it soared ­­ scarred and broken but beautiful; flying higher than the last time, but never as high as before with rocks of the past tied to wings of the future.

And in that moment you smiled, and your plane flew just a little bit higher.

About the author Ethan Moser is an undergraduate sophomore at the University of Pittsburgh majoring in both English Literature and English Writing. His studies are focused in Fiction Writing specifically, includes a minor in Gender, Sexuality, and Women’s Studies with an overall concentration in Irish Studies.

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Showered Roses

by Kayli Meek

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August 2017

About the photographer Kayli Meek is a student and photographer who is an avid music lover. Originally from China, she now lives in central Alabama. She is well­traveled, having been to over 29 states in the U.S., and much of her photography provides unique perspective on the sights she has seen.

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Wiltern

(As the Summer Dies, I Search for You)

By Kathryn H. Ross “Do honeysuckles still smell like they used to?”

Early September, the honeysuckles my father planted for me and wound around the trellis outside my bedroom window are blooming. I don’t know whether or not they’re in season. It’s still summer—just reaching the end—but they’re now emerging, opening to the bitter heat. Fall is a few weeks away, but it’s still hot—80 degrees by 10 am, 100 by noon. Before now, I didn’t realize the plant was even still alive. I text my grandmother sometimes, not as much as I should, but I had painted her a picture of honeysuckles blooming against a bright blue background for her birthday just a few days before.

“Such beautiful yellow flowers,” she had said when I first handed it to her.

“Honeysuckles,” I said, smiling.

Her face brightened and she brought the canvas close to her, as if she were going to smell it.

“Oh, I love honeysuckles. Did I ever tell you?”

I said I loved them too, and she hugged me, and asked me to find a spot for it in her room. On her bookshelf were two other paintings I had made for her: another birthday, a past Mother’s Day. Soft pink blossoms on a thin branch twisting against a turquoise sky, pale golden yellow strokes to indicate the sun shining down from somewhere. A tulip with dew against a soft mint green sky.

She texted me early, eleven minutes after eight am, saying how much she loved her painting, how she looked at it every morning and thought of me.

And then: “Do honeysuckles still smell like they used to?”

“What did they used to smell like?” I texted back.

I put my phone aside and smiled, partly because I wondered why she would ask me, how I would know.

But the fact that she had asked me made me nostalgic in a way I couldn’t explain, and then suddenly I could see her as a young girl in a sepia toned memory that wasn’t mine, surrounded by soft yellow 35

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August 2017 blooms beneath a muted sky.

“Soft and sweet,” her message said. “Distinctive, but faint. I can’t really explain; it was so many years ago. They always bloom everywhere when it gets warm and the air is so fragrant.”

I was sitting in my underwear, covers around my ankles. I had sweated in the night, even under the thin summer quilt I used when the weather got like this. My skin felt soft, if not a little clammy, and the ceiling fan jangled above me as it wobbled on its rudder, swirling the air around in lukewarm waves. It was half past eight and the room was already bright—that brightness you associate with a day that’s going to scorch the air, your skin, your clothes, leave you smelling sunbaked. I remembered the honeysuckle lotion I used to wear as a teenager, colored soft yellow like cake batter. She said I smelled nice when I wore it to her house, all year, every season, until it was gone. I sat there thinking that I could turn her message into the opening line of a story, not because I had a story yet, but because that’s how they started for me: A memory, a single line spoken by someone, a question, a smell. Do honeysuckles still smell the way they used to?

I saw her again, young pale girl, everything soft and blurred with a touch of gold—the old photograph in your parents’ drawer. She was surrounded by honeysuckle, a spray of which was pressed against her face. She was smiling, and in her hands was the painting I would make for her in the future.

Little brown child, little brown grandbaby. Her smooth white hands clutching the canvas, staining her skin with the bright blue, pressing into the creases of her palms. She plucked a bloom and stuck it gently in her smooth dark hair, catching sunlight.

Could the flowers have changed their smell since she was young? Did roses not smell the same since Shakespeare wrote about them? Were they different from when Adam named them? I realized there was no way I could know, and it was something I’d never thought about. That smell, like thought and memory and experience, was subjective. That I could be experiencing something vastly different than everyone who ever came before me, from everyone who would ever come after. Maybe no one honeysuckle bloom smelled the same to two people; maybe we were experiencing different flowers. I didn’t want to think of it that way because I felt even further removed from the memory that wasn’t mine, because it went against what I’d always held as truth, but never really thought about. Why would she ask? Do honeysuckles still smell like they used to? Could they change?

I saw her straighten up, honeysuckle bloom in her hair. She looked at me. Maybe she was wondering who I was, watching her, all gold and bronze, blurred edges. I pointed to the canvas, smiled.

She looked at it, then at me, then at it again, and then raised it to her face, as if she were about to smell it, tears in her eyes.

“They still smell sweet,” I told her, adding a smiling face to my message. “They’re sweet and soft.”

I couldn’t articulate the actual smell either, and that was a good sign, meant that maybe they did smell the same as they did in a time before I was alive, before I was a thought, before the people who would think of me had even been born. I wanted to ask, how else would one describe a flower other than sweet? But there was a softness outside the window too, captured within the strokes of the pastel crayons I had used to create her painting, in the lotion I used to wear in high school. I don’t think they make it anymore. * “You wanted that plant so badly and now you never look at it,” my father said. “I’ve been keeping it alive; don’t you ever go and smell it?”

I thanked him and said I was sorry—sorry that I hadn’t noticed, sorry that I hadn’t thought about the honeysuckles in some time. When I was a child he had bought me lupin seeds to plant in the backyard. They rattled around inside thin packets with depicted sprays of purple, pink, and blue flowers that reminded me of grapes or Marge Simpson’s hair. I used to say that these were my favorite 36

flower—not because they actually were, while they were lovely enough, but because of their name. Lupin.

I had been reading Harry Potter books. My father didn’t really understand the reference, but he took me down to the garden center and let me pick out a few seeds. He told me where to plant them, how much sun they needed, how much water, how much care.

“These are your plants—you take care of them,” my father said.

I told him I would. They never bloomed.

I planted them at the end of the spring, start of the summer. I watered them, rose early every morning to check on them. I lost interest after a few weeks when it was hot and the soil turned dry and craggy. There were no little green shoots, no beginnings of a bloom. The backyard wilted, only receiving water when my sister and I splashed around in our little wading pool, or when my father brought out the hose we used to make rivers with in the dirt.

We sent water bottle caps down those rivers, a brave bug inside as the captain of the ship. We’d watch as the cap was carried down the gentle current and if it got stuck behind a twig or a root, we’d hurry forward, dislodging it until the cap was swept away again. The grass grew along the edges of our makeshift river, long and thin and green, little wisps with no substance, gone if we missed a day, if the sun got too hot and the air too dry.

One summer, maybe the same summer, grandma came to watch us, brought our cousins, and we all sat in our wading pool under an overcast sky. We were in our bathing suits while she sat with only her feet in the water, pants rolled up over her knees. The wading pool was filled to the brim, sending water over the plastic turquoise lips. The tilled dirt where my lupins were meant to grow, where the seeds had probably died, became flooded. She brought us out of the pool and into the dirt where we sat and made mud pies and dug for roly­polies and worms. She didn’t step in the mud with us, but watched us from the porch by the wading pool. It was cold, but the cold of June where a bite of summer exists; dry ice.

The air smelled of earth and water and clay, and we reached deep into the soil, dirt beneath our fingernails, staining our skin and the creases of our palms. * Bougainvillea petals in the wading pool, years ago when my hair was long. Sprays of pink and white and purple coloring the backyard where the rivers we used to make have long dried. We can’t waste water for the California drought, but maybe now we’re just too old to send insects careening down a swift current beneath the thick ivy growing along the back wall. I see the petals floating in the clear blue water of the wading pool as memories saved on my smartphone and I remember how I had spent that day in the backyard—in the water—alone, summer beating down from the slats of the wooden pergola.

The wading pool is gone now, like my long hair, and there is something irreversible about seeing the pink and purple and white petals floating in water that has long since soaked into the soil the last time I picked the pool up by its end, lifted it, and let the water spill over the patio onto the grass, making a marsh that sent the insects out of the ground and up into the sky.

These are not sepia toned memories—too fresh and too recent to be browned by time and sunshine and the edges of forgetfulness. These are vibrant—sky bluer, water clearer, grass greener, flowers pinker, more purple, whiter than was possible even then. In the front yard, there are white roses and silver sheen in the planter box, butterfly plants outside of my sister’s window. My father planted them all, but only one vine he planted for me, wrapped around the trellis outside my bedroom window.

Yellow blooms. I try to remember. I breathe deep, eyes closed, and I can’t smell the bougainvillea, the wet grass or the wading pool water, the white roses or the soil, the sun singeing the air. I can’t remember, and I think of my own little brown grandchildren, far off in the future, thinking of me, young and sepia toned with a yellow bloom in my spring­wire hair and pastel paint on my fingers. * 37

Edify Fiction

August 2017 “Do honeysuckles still smell like they used to?”

I save the message. It’s almost nine and I should be leaving for work. I sit at the kitchen counter and eat my breakfast alone, and reread the message over and over again in my mind. I think of her, young and pale standing amongst the yellow blooms, faded edges where my false memory stops. I imagine her seeing me, tears still in her eyes, my painting in her white hands.

She beckons me over and I go, tip­toe through the golden grass, towards her. She smiles at me and in her features, I see my mother, maybe even the ghost of myself, still unthought of, but coming.

She takes the yellow bloom from her hair and her dark strands fall against her ivory face. She brushes them away and holds the bloom out to me, placing it directly under my nose. The soft petals touch my lips as I breathe in, and it all washes over me—the stolen memory of what they used to smell like. Soft and sweet, coloring the air and the wind, turning blue summer skies yellow like cake batter, like the lotion I no longer wear.

She smiles at me, and I take the bloom from her, hold it against my nose and inhale, inhale, inhale, until breath escapes through nose and lips, causing the petals to flutter, taking them from my fingers and blowing them to the ground. The bloom lands between us—grandmother, ivory and white; granddaughter, brown and glistening, dying summer drawing moisture from my skin. The air around us is still—and its then I realize I’m holding my breath at the kitchen counter. I glance at the clock. I’m going to be late.

Outside the sun is high. My bag weighs heavy on my back and I can already feel sweat beading on my forehead and neck. I move toward the car, then stop. To my right, down the walk, past the brick­ boarded planter where the white roses and silver sheen bloom, on the other side of the white picket fence my father built himself, is my bedroom window. In the window box are white blooms, more roses.

In front of them, the pebble path wraps around the yard, enclosing bunches of sweet­smelling jasmine.

Beside the pebble path is the trellis, paint chipping in places where the leaves have rubbed against the wood. Vines loop in and out of the trellis openings, woven with care by my father’s hands. Honeysuckles droop from the vines, wilting in the morning heat. I walk over to them; bees strum their wings; the sun beats down harder and harder—the death throes of summer.

Gently, I lean forward, taking steady breaths. First the roses, then the jasmine, and then—faint—a distinct sweetness, small and timid, wafts around me. I reach for a wilting bloom, pluck it from the vine. The bees stir. I take it, and I can feel her young white hand, fingers smeared with blue and yellow pastel paint, reach over my own. She guides my arm, tucking it into myself, pressing my fingers against my lips, placing the honeysuckle beneath my nose. Inhale, inhale, inhale. Sweet and soft; cake batter lotion, bougainvillea in the pool, wet grass and dark soil, white roses in the planter, pastel painting on grandma’s shelf miles away—all at once, all at once. She leans towards the painting, close, as if she is going to smell it, smell them. Exhale.

I drop the bloom in the grass and hurry to my car.

About the author Kathryn H. Ross is an L.A. based writer whose works have recently appeared in The Gravity of the Thing, Split Lip Magazine, and Aether and Ichor, among others. Check out her website speakthewritelanguage.com.

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East Interstate 90

By Jane Noel Dabate There is something you should know.

What I remember most about busy streets and narrow alleyways is the way I remember you.

You told me snowflakes were granted wishes falling, praying for me.

Pause and remember December in Boston.

The concrete floors shined under glossy rain and headlights.

Picture the cubes of salt­ swirled across the pavement.

Dulled flecks dry and lovely, hidden beneath or above something else.

Remember a quiet symphony of SUVs hitting breaks on the slippery street and their music escaping thin windows.

Inside your car, the loudest song was my breath above the speed limit.

There is a dark brightness in those nighttime holidays we celebrated on the highway.

About the author Jane Noel Dabate is a poet and writer from the Boston, Massachusetts area. She has been writing for several years and is inspired by favorite poets Mary Oliver, Sabrina Benaim, and Kendrick Lamar.

She has competed in several poetry slam and spoken word events, and has been published by Rattle Poetry, Crosswinds Poetry Journal, Claudius Speaks, and ANGLES by St. John Fisher College. In addition to writing, her passions include philosophy and political science.

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Edify Fiction

August 2017

Gliomatosis Cerebri

By Cameron Morse Threads, like the white vermiculate roots of the tomato plant in my Mother’s hands, infiltrate, filtering in to my brain substance.

At sunset in her garden, she loosens the boxed fists of soil, pearls of fertilizer falling into spaded holes.

Threads of glial cells filter down deep into the soil, taking root, while the sky darkens around us.

I sit in the lawn chair of my life, watching her work. The sky comes into focus: Astrocytes, stars so oft compared to needlepoints, poke fun at me, the poet, embroidering their stick figures into my brain: Aries, the constellation of my birth; Cancer, known because of its obscured visibility, as the dark sign: nocturnal, introspective

About the author Cameron Morse taught and studied in China. Diagnosed with a brain tumor in 2014, he is currently a third­year MFA candidate at UMKC and lives with his wife, Lili, in Blue Springs, Missouri. His poems have been or will be published in over 50 different magazines, including New Letters, pamplemousse, Fourth & Sycamore and TYPO. His first collection, Fall Risk, is forthcoming from Glass Lyre Press.

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Midnight Mindset

By Melynie Ferrari

"Are you ever falling asleep and think to yourself: this is what dying feels like?"

The air is stagnant, hanging all around the two women standing.

One looks up from the ground.

"Maybe? I don't know."

A light chuckle escapes her cracked lips.

"I do."

The other woman still stares at the ground. Yellow­brown grass covers her bare feet.

"I guess that's why you asked me, isn't it?"

The twinge of sarcasm tracing her words makes the other woman sigh.

"Suppose one day I think I'm just falling asleep, but then I don't wake up in the morning. Is that what dying feels like?�

Crickets and cicadas blare in the background. As if yearning to join in on the conversation, only to be shut out by lingual barriers.

"I think dying feels like dying."

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Edify Fiction

August 2017 A loud groan erupts and pierces the air.

"That makes no sense. You can't define something by stating 'it is what it is.’" The questioning woman rocks on the balls of her feet. Pale, white moths flutter through the air, unnoticed amongst the dark canopy of night.

"I guess dying feels like pain, then. Dying must be painful."

"But then wouldn't every dead person have a face frozen in pain? Everyone has the same facial expression when they're dead. Plain and emotionless. Like they're sleeping."

The one with all the answers rolls her eyes. She rolls them so hard they seem to vanish indefinitely to the back of her head.

"I guess we'll never know."

"Yeah. Not until we die.�

The questioner stares upwards. The stars glimmer and flicker like flecks of silver.

"Don't worry so much about it. We both have years ahead of us."

She looks towards her companion.

"Until we don't. Time goes by fast. It seems like just yesterday we were kids. Now we're in our twenties.

Out in the real world, you know? Soon we'll both have kids and then they'll have kids. And then, we'll be old."

"Stop thinking like that. Matter of fact, stop thinking! You're in your head too much."

"That's all we are. Our heads, our minds. Maybe our minds make us think we're falling asleep when we're dying. Maybe that's why dead people look so peaceful."

They lean against each other. The clouds slowly ebb and flow over the stars, masking them momentarily, but they are unable to put out their light.

"Maybe."

About the author Melynie Ferrari is a graduate of Pace University. She possesses an immense love of reading and writing.

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Autism's Spectrum

By C. Marie Matos

We pass each other nearly every day.

Most times, you squeeze by—absent gaze, stilted mutters.

Sometimes you cross over, take another way, zigzag off sidewalks, tramp along rusty gutters,

determined not to brush my coat sleeve.

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August 2017

We pass each other again today.

Your face lights up—“Hi.” Closer you are leaning.

This time, you don’t avoid me.

But what can I say?

I smile. “Hi.” One word rife with meaning.

Autism doesn’t make me less kind.

About the author C. Marie Matos is a full­time writer with a love for cooking and a passion for Christ. She writes short stories and poems, and is currently working on a collection of poetry in the small state of Delaware.

Check out her website: writingandcontent.wordpress.com and follow her on Twitter: @CMarieMatos.

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Best of the Best & Comments You may have noticed this icon near each of our contributor's pieces. We've implemented a system that's unique to our magazine that allows readers to be more proactive and interactive with each issue of Edify Fiction.

Clicking an icon (located near a piece's title) will take you to the comment section of Edify Fiction's website. There, you may discuss your thoughts on the piece, say hello to the contributor, and engage in dialogue with other readers.

Your comments are valuable as they serve to encourage our contributors. They also continue the edification process as you interact with others about what you have gleaned from the pieces and how you hope to apply what you learned to your life.

In addition, Edify Fiction uses the comment activity to gauge popularity of a piece. Why is this important? It could mean cash prizes for the most talked about work. Each year, Edify Fiction will award Best of the Best prizes in each category ­ short story, flash fiction, poetry, and photography / digital art. Your comments are an integral part of the selection and award process. Tell us what moved you; let the authors and artists know when you'd like to see more of their work. Please do your part and help us recognize the Best of the Best!

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Edify Fiction

August 2017

Call for Submissions Do you have an edifying or uniquely positive short story, poem, flash fiction, or digital art piece brewing inside of you? We have a rolling submissions policy so you can submit any time, for free.

For those of you who like a little more feedback than the standard 'accept' or 'decline' letter, we offer a paid critique option when you submit. This paid critique entitles you to a commentary on your piece on what works and what could use improvement. The critiques are provided by Angela Meek or Michelle Holifield. Michelle is a Master of Fine Arts candidate and Angela has an interdisciplinary Master's degree in Writing, English, and Psychology. Both Michelle and Angela have published work, edited for publication, and coached other writers. They are avid readers and enjoy helping others hone their writing skills.

When submitting, please take time to read and adhere to the guidelines posted on our Submissions page. Due to the number of submissions we receive, we generally do not have time to send back every piece that needs editing to meet the guidelines. Sending in a polished piece that follows guidelines and meets the magazine's mission really catches our eye!

Currently, our greatest needs are: • Flash fiction and digital artwork • Holiday themed pieces for our Christmas issue • Non­traditional genre pieces: sci­fi, romance, western Our needs change as submissions come in so be sure to follow us on Facebook and Twitter to keep up with the latest!

...until next time...

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