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Wax

by Robert Beveridge

The heat of the melted wax
draws the splinters from your hands.
You had been holding the shaft
of the hammer when it slid.
The little knives went deep,
broke off. I dripped
gloves of wax
over your hands
and the splinters rose.

It was what you needed,
you said, and the wax on me
sank in, nestled itself
around my heart, drew out
the thorns.


Robert “Goat” Beveridge makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in The Nixes Mate Review, Violet Rising, and The Road Less Travelled, among others.

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Wade’s Apology

by Lori Cramer

Wade said he was sorry for not showing up at my friend Shayna’s birthday party. He swore he’d planned on meeting me there. In fact, he’d even plugged Shayna’s address into his GPS so that he’d know exactly what time he’d have to leave Finnegan’s Pub.

At Finnegan’s, everyone’s eyes were glued to the game on the big screen. The Twins were down 5-3 in the ninth when Wade got up to make his exit, but then Mauer smacked a two-run bomb to tie the game.

“You can’t leave now,” Bruno yelled at Wade from behind the bar. But Wade informed old Bruno that he’d made a promise to his girlfriend–and that he was a man of his word.

Then Angie walked in.

Angie. The one who’d left Wade three years earlier without so much as a Post-it note. The one who’d refused to take any of his calls and eventually even changed her number. The one who’d pretended not to recognize him last fall at the gas station on Route 33.

Imagine his astonishment when she asked him to have a drink with her for old times’ sake! How could he refuse?

So while I was at Shayna’s house, incessantly checking my phone, my so-called boyfriend was having a heart-to-heart chat with his ex-girlfriend about their completely-dysfunctional-and-now-defunct relationship.

To Wade’s surprise, Angie told him that the reason she’d left him wasn’t because she hadn’t loved him enough (as he’d always believed) but because she’d loved him too much (whatever that means). A few beers later, she admitted that leaving him had been the biggest mistake of her life.

And then she kissed him.

(Not that Wade fessed up to the part about the kiss. But how else would that pink lipstick smudge on the corner of his mouth have gotten there? Hard to believe that he hadn’t had enough sense to check a mirror before trying to feed me his half-baked half-truths about The One Who Got Away.)

What Wade did admit was that Angie had invited him to her place. “I didn’t go, of course,” he clarified in a self-righteous tone. Instead, he told Angie about how I was making a better man of him and how he’d never thought he’d be able to trust another woman after what she’d put him through.

When he finally reached the end of his tale, his blue eyes shone with virtue, and I honestly think he was expecting me to tell him how pleased I was that he’d chosen me over The Great Angie.

What he wasn’t expecting, judging by his countenance, was for me to say that, coincidentally, I’d run into my ex as well–so I didn’t have any more time to listen to him drone on about Angie because I was on my way out for some last-minute dinner plans.


Lori Cramer’s short prose has appeared in more than two dozen publications, including Fictive Dream, Riggwelter, Train, Unbroken Journal, and Whale Road Review. Links to her work can be found on her website. Follow her on Twitter: @LCramer29

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Lasting Impression

by Alexis Hunter

Her hand hovered over the door handle. She had saved this room until last. She was unsure if she could bring herself to cross the threshold. The thought occurred that she could leave this room and let the people who bought the house deal with it.

They wouldn’t be assaulted by the memories of sitting cross-legged on the handtied rag-rug, reading to Mamma as they were warmed by the sun streaming through the high windows. They wouldn’t hear an echo of Mamma’s voice or feel the drying clay on her hands as she clasped theirs with joy or consolation.

They also wouldn’t have the memory of opening the door and finding Mamma’s chair overturned. Of Mamma lying across the rug looking as though her colour had drained away into the vivid tufts.

Mamma’s voice gently rebuked her, “Don’t be daft girl, get in that room and do what needs to be done.” She ghosted a smile and opened the door.

The room was as it always had been, save for the unfinished pot on the table and the chair, now righted, sat against the far wall. The lump remained in her throat, she couldn’t deal with the pottery table right now. She chose to pack the rest of the room.

~*~

An hour passed, each piece of craftwork, materials and knick-knacks were now lovingly packed and stored in boxes for the movers to take to the storage facility. The misplaced chair was gone, the colourful rug had been rolled and stored. There was only the table remaining.

Mamma loved to make small pots, pinching and shaping the clay until it was transformed from a formless lump into something beautiful and with purpose. She smiled, Mamma had used the same technique on her, coaxing her into the best version of herself. Mamma said that the clay did most of the work and she only guided it to where it was supposed to be.

She touched the clay with some trepidation. It had dried out, moisture leaching away in the weeks that had passed since Mamma had died, setting the pot into this shape that it would retain forever. One side of the pot was buckled, almost pressed flat into the base. She could picture Mamma sitting here, molding and pushing the clay, and then the stroke had happened. She imagined Mamma being frightened, not sure why she felt so ill, not able to move part of her body. She imagined her fingers crushing this piece of ridiculous clay as she was trying to call out for help or stand.

She wanted to crumple the clay, crack it’s dried out edges so that it became dust. Her hand slipped into the crumpled part of the clay, and her breath was suddenly gone. Her hand fit perfectly into the four distinct grooves there, and it was as if Mamma was in the room with her. The warmth and brightness of the sun was her smile, the clay her gentle hands.

She knew what needed to be done.

With care, she unpacked the desktop kiln and turned it on. While it heated, she made calls to home and to delay the removal company, she needed a few more days here. She loaded the pot with caution into the kiln, ensuring she preserved the most important part, and prepared herself to wait the few days it would take for the pot to set and cool.

~*~

In the days that passed, she slept on the floor of the craft room and talked to the walls as though Mamma was still held within them. She talked about the things that had happened in the months since Mamma died. She spoke about Dad and his new home, how he missed Mamma so much that it was almost as if she had lost two parents. She confessed how she missed her, though they had seen each other less since she moved away. She even spoke about the incident with Aunty Pam sneezing in the pastor’s face at the wake. At the time it had seemed a strange and removed series of events, and now, in this room with the memory of Mamma’s laughter made possible, it became hilarious and caused tears of mirth which felt like a release.

When the pot was finally ready, she wrapped it with care and secreted it in her handbag, packed the remaining items away and then locked the house. She would never return here.

~*~

She drove the few hours to home, but before being able to kiss her husband and children, she had an important stop to make.

There was a raucous game of bingo in the communal hall as she arrived at the care home. She knew her father would not be with the crowd. He wasn’t ready to join in yet, but she was hopeful that he would make some friends to help him fill the lonely hours. Now that he was close by, she could be here often too.

When she opened the door to his suite, he was exactly where she expected him to be, in his favourite armchair, staring out of the window with his sad expression. There was no tv or radio to fill the silence in which he enveloped himself, only the deafening sorrow for his lost half.

“Hey, Dad,”

He turned, “Hi pet. You all finished?” She nodded.

“I brought you something.”

He withdrew a little, “I can’t…”

“Trust me.” She put her handbag on the chair and drew the package from within. She unwrapped the pot, coloured now the warm and faded orange of all terracotta. She had chosen not to glaze it so that the clay would have the perfect texture. She took his hand and slid his fingers into the four grooves where her mother’s fingers were forever imprinted.

Some of the torture slid from his face.


Alexis Hunter is a self-published author of a children’s picture book, Clara’s Search for Magic, from the North East of England. She loves exploring short stories or all genres and talks to her imaginary friends daily. They always reply. Follow her on Twitter: @casnarrative

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The Story of The Creator

by Mackenzie Belcastro

Once upon a time there lived a boy named Jean-Paul. He was a rather short, squat boy. That is, compared to all the others he went to school with in his homeland of Alefia, otherwise known as the land of the fair. His parents never understood why he looked the way he did. And, out of love, they did their best to fix him.

His mother was an especially sweet woman, but she was also living proof that sweetness is not the be-all and end-all when it comes to proper child rearing. One day, she went to the best herbalists in the land and asked if they could please provide her with some potions that would rosy up Jean-Paul’s bleak cheeks, clear his spotted skin, and grow his slits-of-eyes so they could be round and lovely. The herbalists greatly respected Jean Paul’s mother, for she was one of the fairest of the Alefians—and also, notably, married to the most powerful Alefian of all.

She said her thanks and left, returning home to surprise her son. She was very excited, and so was Jean-Paul, at first. He took the potions from his mother and ran to his bathroom. The burbling red was most intriguing and so he opened it first, dabbing it delicately onto his cheeks. It would remain for a full twenty four hours, so said the crystal bottle it came in. The other two bottles promised the same. The peach coloured liquid cleared his skin, and the green one, which had to be applied with a dropper straight into his eyeballs, did, indeed, grow them to be round and lovely.

He looked in the mirror and said, “Now Jean-Paul, they will love you.”

Well, he went to school the next day, and they did not.

“You’re still fat. Even with that stupid makeup on your face,” one said.

“And you’re still short,” another said, looking down at him from great height.

So the next day, Jean-Paul’s mother returned to the herbalists and asked if she could please be provided with two more potions for her son. One that would make him lean, and another that would grow him to great heights, such that he could be even taller than the rest of the rude boys and girls in his grade. Once again, the herbalists obliged, for they wanted to impress the beautiful woman and her powerful husband.

The potions were black and red. The black was to make him lean when poured into a bath and bathed in. The red was to make him tall, when drunk straight from the bottle.

“Tend to these both,” his mother said, “And you still have your potions I gave you the day before, right?”

Jean-Paul nodded and she smiled, pleased.

“Good. Tend to all five.”

So, he went to his bathroom, took a bath in the black potion, drank the red potion, and repeated the process from the previous night with regards to the other three.

Once again, he looked in the mirror and said, “Now Jean-Paul, they will love you.” Only this time he added, “They didn’t today, because you forgot to tend to everything. But now you have. So you are fixed.”

Well, he went to school the next day and still they did not.

“You may be tall, thin, clear-skinned, rosy-cheeked, and doe-eyed now,” one said, “but you still dress like a short, fat boy.”

His clothes, it was true, did not fit him.

So he went home, resolved to get the right clothes to make them love him.

“Oh my, Jean-Paul,” his mother had said when he pointed out he would, indeed, need finely sewn garments in order to be lovable, “I can’t believe I forgot that! Of course. Let me get them for you.”

His sweet mother went to the finest tailors in the land with her son’s new measurements in hand and asked for them to please create him something extra special and luxurious, something that would wow the kids in his class and make them love him. The tailors, like the herbalists, obliged for she herself was so lovely. And they created them extra quickly, too. In a matter of minutes, in fact—so that she could bring them home to Jean-Paul and he may have them for tomorrow.

“Now you shall be perfect,” his mother said to him when she presented him with his new clothes. “But you must make sure you don’t forget: take all the potions and wear these clothes. That’s what you need to do.”

Jean-Paul was very tired now of taking all these potions, and so he told his mother he would do it all in the morning. She nodded, pleased, and kissed him goodnight.

Well, the next morning Jean-Paul was still very tired. He looked at all the potions lined up on his bathroom counter, and then he looked at the many outfits hanging up beautifully now in his armoire—each with at least four pieces to them. He pulled one outfit off the hanger and brought it to his bathroom and then looked at it all again, then back in the mirror.

He didn’t want to do any of it.

So, he yawned and went back to bed for an hour. When he woke up, just in time to go to school, he went to his bathroom quickly, looked in the mirror at his real self and said, “They will have to love me. For this is just how I am.”

Well, when he went to school, they did not.

And so he decided that instead of trying to impress his schoolmates he would move to a place where people accepted him. This he told to a fairy in the garden after school that day.

“That place,” she said, “doesn’t exist.”

“Well then,” he said, “I guess I will have to make it.”

And so began the planning for Adalira.


Mackenzie Belcastro is a writer from Toronto. Her work spans from short fairy tales, to fantasy fiction, to non-fiction memoirs and profiles on contemporary artists. She’s inspired profoundly by Lewis Carroll and Angela Carter. Presently, she’s working on her debut novel. Follow her on Twitter @mack_belcastro

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Kaleidoscope Girl

by Fabrice Poussin

Once more she stands in the face of another soul
the smooth surface of century old looking glass
squinting at fragments of a self once whole.

The pulses in her breast beat inside the thin vessels
hovering timidly in the burning light of summer’s heat
she grasps only shards of her former thoughts.
when, little girl she pondered no such queries.

She may be that forgotten Renaissance girl in the attic
put to canvas by a hopeful lover from a distance
her fair complexion torn by the craquelure
at the jigsaw she has become to suspect so well.

Where does she begin, where are the boundaries
of so many parts in motion as she sits in fearful awe
sharp edges of the giggling teen she once was
cut deep at the dreams of a future she once fathomed.

Even the sorrow of a tear venturing down her lip
seems to break apart thus devoid of source or intent
her pain excruciating must remain hidden in her chest.

She is the kaleidoscope of her many dawns
a universe hoping to come together in a grand home
made of walls seamless of like a marble giant
idea of the child building days of carefree wisdom.


Fabrice Poussin teaches French and English at Shorter University. Author of novels and poetry, his work has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, The Chimes, and dozens of other magazines. His photography has been published in The Front Porch Review, the San Pedro River Review and more than 350 other publications.

Storm Window

by Copper Rose

As the storm clouds gathered and the wind accelerated, Carrie could hold back no longer. The words sprang from behind her clenched teeth. She had been through this too many times before. A storm was brewing, a storm strong enough to rip the flowers from their beds, the branches from the trees, the roof from its rafters. And there he was again. Thunder cracked overhead and a gust of wind sucked at the windows, rattling the glass in the casings.

Carrie yelled into the dining room. “This time, Conrad, you’re coming to the basement with me instead of sitting in front of the dining room window like you always do!”

Carrie cocked her ear, listening. The only sound was the moaning of the wind.
Carrie screamed louder, “Only a crazy man would want to sit out this kind of storm in front of the dining room window!”

Again, the only sound was the wind whistling in through the cracks around the door. Carrie raced into the dining room. “It’s like you to just sit there, but not this time. There’ll be no arguing. You’re coming with me, mister.” Carrie raced down the stairs with Conrad in tow. Midway to the bottom she stopped.

Just like that.

It was wrong, what she was doing.

“I’m sorry, Conrad.”

She trudged back up the stairs, lips pressed tight as the great wind howled and threatened. She slid the urn full of Conrad’s ashes onto the table, in front of the dining room window and then, once again, Carrie raced for the basement, all the while screaming, “There you go! Have it your way, Conrad! I hope the friggin’ house falls in on you!”


Copper Rose perforates the edges of the page while writing unusual stories from the heart of Wisconsin. Her story “Buried in a Book” first appeared in FlashPoint: Inner Circle Writers’ Group Flash Fiction Anthology 2018. Her work has appeared in Night Garden Journal, Spillwords, Soft Cartel and other online webzines. She also understands there really is something about pie.

Can I Catch You?

by Nicole DeVincentis

It was still snowing. It was late March and I found myself sitting on my couch, wrapped in my favorite plaid blanket, cradling my coffee between my hands. There was still enough heat left in the lukewarm liquid to provide a comforting warmth to my palms. Sammie, my golden retriever, lay asleep at my feet. I loved when I had mornings off from work. I would sit by the window, with my coffee and a good book, enjoying the peace and quiet. But I didn’t feel like reading today.

I sighed deeply, leaning my head against the headrest, as the snowflakes continued to fall outside my window. A few landed on the glass, and I caught just a swift glance at each unique pattern before it melted, the drops of water racing each other down the pane.

Suddenly, I heard laughter, and then two kids clad in puffy, down coats—one pink, one blue—came running through the field across the street. They played in the wide expanse of snow, chasing one another, throwing snowballs. Finally, they both fell to the ground and I could see their arms moving back and forth. They were making snow angels.

Watching them, I smiled a bittersweet smile, and regressed 10 years back into my childhood where I played in the same field with my best friend.

~

“You can’t catch me!” I yelled, running away from Jake with everything I had. My legs, weighted down by my snow boots, pumped furiously; and yet, I could never outrun Jake. He was the fastest kid in the 7th grade, something he never hesitated to gloat about. The thought nearly caused me to roll my eyes; instead, I huffed, my lungs burning from the cold air.

I risked a glance behind me, and threw terror-stricken eyes at Jake, who was almost on top of me. I lost my footing and fell into the snow. Jake jumped, landing on top of me with his arm raised. I looked up in horror at the dreaded snowball, and silently thanked my mother for insisting I wear my wool hat.

Jake stared down at me with a mischievous smile. “I caught you, Emma. You know what that means.” I shut my eyes, waiting for the shock of a freezing cold snow bomb. But it never came. I heard a sound, like someone plunging their hand into a delivery box full of Styrofoam. I opened my eyes to see Jake smiling at me, melting snow dripping off his head. He collapsed beside me and I turned to him. “I thought you were gonna hit me with the snowball?” I asked, perplexed.

“Why?” he laughed. “I already caught you, isn’t that enough embarrassment?” I smacked his arm. “Hey!” he yelled, both of us laughing. I started moving my arms and legs, making a snow angel. Jake watched me for a few seconds, then mimicked my actions. He helped me stand and we looked down at two angels, side by side. His was slightly larger than mine. “Pretty,” I said.

He shook his head, “It needs something.” He laid back down, pressing his mitten into the snow.

“Give me your glove.”

I did, and he pressed it diagonally across his own imprint. He stood up, handing it back to me. He’d made it look like the “angels” were holding hands. “Looks better, don’t you think?” I nodded. Soon, it grew cold and we started on our way home. Suddenly, Jake bent down to pluck something from the grass; then turned to me holding a small purple flower I knew to be corn speedwell between his fingertips.

“For you, the first flower of spring.”

I frowned. “That’s a weed.”

He smiled, devilishly, “Think of it as a consolation prize.”

I glared at him, “Shut up, Jake. I let you catch me.”

He threw his head back, laughing. “Sure, you did!” Fuming, I started walking away, but Jake grabbed my hand.

“Then, think of it as compensation.” He lifted my hand and placed the “flower” in my palm.

I rolled my eyes. Jake winked. I blushed.

“Thanks.”

~

I still had that flower. I got up out of the chair, throwing the blanket aside, cold coffee forgotten. On the bookshelf in the hallway, where all my childhood memories were stored, I found the leather-bound journal. As if it knew what I’d come for, it instantly opened to the page where the now withered flower lay, nestled between the pages where I’d recounted the events of that day, and everyday afterward. Whenever Jake wanted to play tag, he’d ask, “Can I catch you?” It was like our code.

It was shortly after that playful afternoon that Jake moved away. We kept in touch for a few years, but eventually lost touch. Oddly, I’d been thinking of him a lot recently. While I was staring into space, the dog started pawing at my leg. I looked down to see him sitting at my feet, softly whining—he needed to go out. I put on my jacket and hat, and walked outside.

We crossed the street to the field. Sammie walked right beside me, obedient enough to walk without a leash. I trudged through the snow in a trance, barely noticing the footprints I was following. Suddenly, they stopped. In front of them, written in the snow, was a question, Can I catch you? My breath caught in my throat. Sammie whined next to me in excitement. I could feel his wagging tail beating against my legs.

I gasped when I heard the voice behind me. “Well, Emma…” I turned to see Jack standing behind me, holding a single purple flower. “Can I?”

I answered by jumping into his arms.


Nicole DeVincentis is an aspiring editor and hopes to work in the publication industry soon. Reading and writing are her passions, among nature walks, workouts, music, and martial arts. Currently, her genres are fiction and fan fiction, but she’s also dabbled in poetry a bit, and continues to spread her wings.

The Proposal

by Keelah Rose Calloway

He said “Marry me” and got down on one knee.
He opened a box, and inside was a rock.
When I said yes, I envisioned a dress,
Not a life as a wife always dealing with stress.
I thought of an aisle and everyone’s smiles,
Bouquets of bright flowers and fun bridal showers,
Not fighting and shouting for hours and hours.
So now we’re divorced, of course.


Keelah Rose Calloway is a writer, a stand-up comedian and a singer. Her first novel book is being published serially as an audiobook, and the first three chapters are available to hear now on Youtube. She is also now posting daily microfiction stories on Twitter @MissKeelahRose. For more information on her growing list of accomplishments, check her out on Facebook.

For Who He Is

by Linda M. Crate

musing mildly
a song of flowers
beneath
a stormy sky
cold winter
isn’t ready to leave behind
the fragrance of spring,
and all her warmth;
shivering and starving for light
we resent winter for holding on
but perhaps his last prayer
is that he be loved
for who he is.


Linda M. Crate is a Pennsylvanian native born in Pittsburgh yet raised in the rural town of Conneautville. Her poetry, short stories, articles, and reviews have been published in a myriad of magazines both online and in print. She has five published chapbooks A Mermaid Crashing Into Dawn (Fowlpox Press – June 2013), Less Than A Man (The Camel Saloon – January 2014), If Tomorrow Never Comes (Scars Publications, August 2016), My Wings Were Made to Fly (Flutter Press, September 2017), and splintered with terror (Scars Publications, January 2018).

Catch and Release

by Steve Carr

Although Carton Laxwell had lived in the hills of Kentucky his entire life, he never liked killing another living thing, but he loved to fish.

He parked his pickup truck on the gravel road about fifty yards from Piney Creek. It wasn’t a creek at all, but a narrow, murky river that flowed gently through the woods just a few miles out of town.

He got out of the cab and went around to the back and lowered the tailgate. He took out a small basket containing his lunch of potted meat sandwiches and two cans of beer, his fishing pole, tackle box, and a folding canvas stool to sit on. He shut the trunk, then with everything either awkwardly held in his arms, or precariously balanced on both shoulders, he stepped into the knee high grass and walked through a grove of maple trees to the bank of the creek.

First making certain there were no birds nests or other woodland creature created habitats in the grass, he then stomped a flat area in the grass, making his own kind of nest, then laid everything down. As he unfolded the chair he saw a piece of red flannel in the grass on the perimeter of his newly created fishing spot. He bent down to pick it up, but pulled his hand back when he saw the cloth was wound around the wrist of a severed arm. The hand portion still attached to it was missing all of its fingers, although the thumb was still there, pointing upward as if giving the okay sign. The skin on the arm was gray and decayed, but teeth marks were clearly visible. There was a tattoo of an eagle on the forearm.

“That’s Neb Duly’s arm,” he said aloud. “I’d recognize that tattoo anywhere.”

With no one else around and uncertain what to do, he covered it with grass and returned to setting up his fishing spot.

Sitting on his chair he took a rubber worm from the tackle box and put it on the hook. He cast the line out into the water and watched the worm sink beneath the surface. He sat back and listened to the birdsong coming from the trees and opened the basket and took out a sandwich and opened a beer. While biting into the sandwich, there was a tug on the fishing line. He sat bolt upright, dropped the sandwich and quickly jerked the fishing pole and began to reel in his catch.

When he raised the line out of the water, a large catfish was dangling on the hook. He stood up and stared into the fish’s eyes as it struggled to breathe. “Well, aren’t you fine lookin’,” he said to the fish. He then removed the hook from the inside of the fish’s mouth and threw the fish back into the river. A few minutes later he threw the line back into the water and returned to his lunch.

“What a great day for fishin’,” a voice said from behind him. Carton turned.

It was Miles Pelroy, the owner of the local hay and feed store.

Miles was wearing rubber waders and carrying a fishing pole and a net. He stepped out of the grove and trampled across his nest and stopped at the bank. “What kind of bait are you usin’, Carton?” Miles said.

“Just a rubber worm,” Carton said.

“You’ll never catch a fish that way,” Miles said. “You got to get right in the water and go after the fish with somethin’ alive on the hook.” He held up his pole and showed a squirming worm that was skewered on the hook. “I always catch a big one on my first try. Pan fried catfish is some darn good eatin’.”

“I don’t eat the fish I catch,” Carton said. “I catch them and release them back into the water.”

“That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard,” the man said.
“Ain’t no sense catchin’ somethin’ if you don’t plan to eat it.”

Miles waded out into the water and cast his line with one hand while holding the net in readiness with the other. A few minutes later he let out a scream and began frantically smacking the water with the net.

Carton stood up and helplessly watched as Miles thrashed about, letting loose of his pole and net and was then pulled under the water. Large blood red bubbles quickly rose to the surface. A few minutes later a bloody leg covered by a shredded wader pants leg was tossed out of the water and onto the river bank.

“If only I knew how to swim,” Carton said aloud, “maybe I could have saved him.” He shrugged. “I never much liked him anyways.”

With his pole still in the water, Carton was surprised when there was a tug on the line. Grasping tightly onto the pole he started to reel it in but lost his footing and was pulled into the water. Quickly submerged, he stared, terrified, at a man-sized creature the color of mud, with long sharp fangs, and an exposed human-like brain on the top of a fish-like head. The creature wrapped its sharp claws around Carton’s forearms.

Certain he was going to die, Carton closed his eyes.

A moment later he was flung up onto the river bank a few feet from his nest.

He didn’t take the time to question why he was still alive. He sprung to his feet, gathered his things and ran to his truck and sped off.


Steve Carr, who lives in Richmond, Va., began his writing career as a military journalist and has had over 150 short stories published internationally in print and online magazines, literary journals and anthologies. Sand, a collection of his short stories, was published recently by Clarendon House Books. His plays have been produced in several states in the U.S. He was a 2017 Pushcart Prize nominee. You can find him on Facebook and Twitter @carrsteven960