Here, in micro-flash nonfiction, writers make quick work of compelling stories. During July 2020, we present short takes on work and working.

Escape

by L’Tanya Durante

I stripped down to the swimsuit I wore underneath my protective gear, imagining my body under attack by asbestos fibers—and by the stares of the all-male abatement crew.

I’ve told myself I quit that job after only six months because I was afraid of a future that looked like the man who spoke to us at the training, with his raspy voice and oxygen tank. It’s more palatable than admitting that a body potentially ravaged by asbestos worried me less than a body invaded by self-doubt and hatred, a body that might be unpleasing to men.

Daddy Was a Baker

by Karol Jackowski

Daddy was a baker because his Daddy was a baker, leaving him the Normal Bakery in East Chicago, Indiana. We lived above the bakery with donuts for breakfast, cupcakes for the whole class on my birthday. At age three, I was putting chocolate sprinkles on butter cookies. Truth is Daddy felt born to be a dentist, and the Normal Bakery drove him to drink.  Mom closed the bakery when Daddy went into the hospital, and we all swore off family businesses forever. Now, only the sweetest memories remain of being a baker’s daughter, and I still eat donuts for breakfast.

New Guy

by John Sheirer

When I started working at an ivy-covered New England college, I discovered how cold those ancient buildings are. One day, as I warmed my hands on the humming photocopier, the fire alarm blared. Assuming it was a drill, I strode to my little office and opened the door to find billowing smoke and my cheap, plastic space-heater melting into the shape of a defeated alien invader in a low-budget sci-fi movie. In the coming weeks, I discovered how long the stench of burned plastic lingers, how cozy an office sweater is, and how quickly good colleagues forgive the new guy.

Shell

by Anita Kestin

It fell to me to inform the 18-year-old-girlfriend of one of our patients that he had tested positive for HIV. He wanted her to know, but he did not want to tell her. When I broke the news, she reached into her handbag. Out came a bottle of nail polish. She carefully began to paint her nails with a shell-pink shade.

“Do you have any questions?”

She was quiet for a moment, then blew on her nails.

“No,” she said, picking up the polish and leaving the room.

Request from the Bandstand
[a Fibonacci poem]

by Jean Fineberg

It’s
my
calling
to play tunes
fondly remembered
from your wild and free salad days
bring on the requests, but please don’t ask for one more tune.
Sure, I’m digging playing rock star
but I gotta go
and take my
fifty
bucks
home.

About the Writers

L’Tanya Durante lives and writes in Durham, North Carolina. She loves reading and writing flash nonfiction and several of her “Tiny Truths” have been published in Creative Nonfiction Magazine. She is on Twitter @writeordiegirl.

Karol Jackowski is a member of the Sisters for Christian Community. Her books include Ten Fun Things to Do Before You Die, Forever and Ever, Amen, and Sister Karol’s Book of Spells, Blessings, and Folk Magic.

John Sheirer lives in Northampton, Massachusetts, and teaches at Asnuntuck Community College in Enfield, Connecticut. His most recent book is Fever Cabin, a fictionalized journal of a man isolating himself during the current pandemic. JohnSheirer.com.

Anita Kestin, MD, MPH, has worked in academic settings, nursing homes, hospices, and the locked ward of a psychiatric facility. She is a daughter (of immigrants fleeing the Holocaust), wife, mother, grandmother, and a progressive activist.

Jean Fineberg is an award-winning saxophonist who has studied poetry with Kim Addonizio. Her work has been published in Soliloquies, Vita Brevis, Uppagus, Literary Yard, Flagler Review, Riza Press, High Shelf Press, Shot Glass Journal and Fibonacci Review.

The Quick Work series is curated by Multiplicity Contributing Editor, Kate Whouley.

Submissions to Quick Work (100 words or fewer) will close on July 15. We also welcome stories up to 5,000 words for our work-themed Fall issue of Multiplicity Magazine. More details here.

By Benjamin Thomsett

The decapitated wasp head still bit and chewed at anything in front of its face. Meanwhile, a little further away on the windowsill, the body arched and the tiny black-needle stinger jabbed and jabbed. I watched the two separate parts do this for 20 minutes, sometimes prodding and leaning in close for a better look. Was the wasp alive or were the spasms of post-death the angry feelings of a yellow and black soul? Was there a difference?

As an eight-year-old I couldn’t work it out. I still can’t, come to think of it. I guess I could look it up now, but I don’t think it’ll change the perspective I have of cruelty and death, or the historical religious ideology that grew with that warped little boy. Memories can’t remake themselves, and I don’t care what a Nobel prize-winner tells me after being locked in a laboratory for 10 years. Lab chemicals and a lack of natural light can do strange things to a mind. So can academic isolation.

As an eight-year-old I tested things for myself: “O Lord, receive this wasp…. Shit, is it dead yet? Send me a sign.” Nothing.

A poll on the UK news yesterday showed that a little less than three quarters of the Christians polled believed in the resurrection of Jesus following his crucifixion. Just over half of them said they believed in Heaven/Hell/some form of afterlife.  Is that important? I don’t know. And I doubt you do either.

There’s only one way of finding out and we’ll all get our answer to that particular sticky question in the end—heart attack, eaten by a bear, it doesn’t matter how you get there, just be assured you will eventually see the truth, even if it’s just the light fading and the voices getting distant. One thing is certain: you’ll never be able to share the answer with the rest of us back here scrabbling in the human filth of war, enforced poverty, and a vicious pandemic. It’s hard to hear spiritual whispers from beyond the grave when you’re choking.

Just as well. Questions are okay, but only if you are ready for the answers.

There must have been 10 wasps on the windowsill that summer. They all died terribly, jabbing and twisting, little legs circling. Some of them took a long time to stop moving, the stinger last of all. Victims of me and a cheap copy of a Swiss Army penknife. No anger or revenge. Just cold concentration.

It felt good to be in charge for once.

About the Writer:
Benjamin Thomsett is a parent, partner, and hot noodle hater. He lives in North Lincolnshire, UK, where the air is clear and the birds sing loudly. In his spare time, he worries about most things.

By Christine Richardson

I stepped through the frigid northern Minnesota darkness toward my sleeping dog team, careful not to rouse the eight dogs tucked under warm piles of frost-coated arctic sleeping bags in front of the dogsled they had pulled 80 miles. We were at a rest stop in a 120-mile race on the north shore of Lake Superior. 

Bending over the alcohol stove, I heard shuffling. It was Dory, my seven-year-old lead dog. She stood up. Her sleeping bag slipped off.

“We’re not leaving for an hour,” I whispered.

She blinked and stood quietly, observing me.

“Please lay down,” I implored.

Dory had calm focus in her light brown eyes. If I was up, she was determined to be up too.

Switching off my headlamp, I knelt in the darkness and draped my arms around her neck. It was -20F—killing temperature—but Dory was warm under her arctic coat.

The moon was full and the wolves on the trail had stayed away from the racing dog teams. Neither the cold nor the wolves would be problematic as long as the lead dog kept a steady pace. Looking at Dory I knew all would be well. She loved racing. A few years ago, on a cold, starless night in northern Maine, she led our team and out-ran a lone wolf after the meat snacks in the dogsled. She was always all in, despite the danger.

“We’ve got this, wolves be damned,” I whispered to Dory, knowing I couldn’t do it without her.

Truthfully, I would never have had the confidence to participate in that race, less than a year after my battle with breast cancer had left me weak and bald, if Dory hadn’t been leading. From the minute the veterinarian delivered her by C-section and placed her soft newborn body into my arms, I knew we were important to each other.

At age two, she graduated from being a playful puppy, running in the back of the dog team where I could see her shenanigans, to a full-fledged lead dog.

“Wanna lead for a while?” I asked Dory only 30 miles into her first 250-mile race, when my old pro, Glock, lost interest in going forward.

Bouncing in her harness, Dory dragged me to the front of the team, where I clipped her into the top spot. She had been waiting for this. Dory led the remaining 220 miles to the finish line. From then on, she led every race we ran together until she retired a few months ago.

Upon returning home to New Hampshire from our last race this year, in early March, everything became eerily quiet. The whole world was still, hoping that the prolonged silence of lockdown was the only thing COVID would force us to endure.

By mid-April, I was jobless. My partner, Kip, would soon be too. My sister-in-law in New York City was just out of the hospital after major heart surgery, and my step-father was determined to continue working at a local senior home in spite of his and my mother’s ongoing health problems. I couldn’t visit anyone.

As my options disappeared, my fear heightened. This was an uncharted trail and I wasn’t sure where the wolves were hiding.

Keeping busy held my panic at bay. I found solace in making maple syrup from the trees on my land. The physical work of hauling sap was rewarded by long hours of staring into the fire under the boiling sap pans while contemplating life. I remembered that cold night in Minnesota vividly. Dory had led the dogsled team into the moonlight, over 55 miles through The Caribou Hills to the finish line with ease and confidence. The struggle to get there felt like a dream. I had been overwhelmed by cancer for so long, but that day, Dory had made anything seem possible again.

Suddenly, I was jarred from my thoughts.  Kip was shouting from the deck.

“Christine, come now!”

It was his there is a dog emergency voice. I ran.

Dory was bloating. Without immediate treatment, the air gathering in her stomach would kill her. I rushed her to the emergency vet where a masked and gloved tech took her from me and told me to stay in my truck. Sitting in the parking lot, looking through the vet’s huge glass window, I hoped to get a glimpse through an open door of busy technicians working furiously on Dory.

Fifteen anxious minutes later, the veterinarian called.  Dory needed surgery—now. I choked when I heard the estimated cost was between $7500 and $9000 and wailed that I did not have that much, even on my credit card.

“Let me call you back,” I begged.

“Ok, but hurry,” she replied. “In the meantime, we’ll put together a quote.”

Sobbing, I called Kip. “What do I do? It’s Dory!”

“I know.” He tried to calm me, but he was as shaken as I was.

“If we have to put her to sleep, I can’t even be with her!” I was hyperventilating, barely able to speak.  

Then my phone beeped, it was the vet again.

“If there are no complications, it will only cost $5000,” she said.

“DO IT!” I yelled.  I had no job but precisely $5000 in credit. I gave her my card number and then called Kip to tell him the “good news.”

I was tremendously relieved when Dory pulled through. The next day, I was allowed to bring her home. She healed well with only an eight-inch scar on her belly, a reminder of how close I came to losing her. My finances are even more limited now, but I have no regrets. Money doesn’t live, breathe, or outrun wolves.  Letting Dory go would have been unbearable.

Sometimes, when Dory is sprawled on the couch with her legs in the air, I run my finger gently along her scar. Before long, tears escape my eyes. Sensing my mood, Dory rolls over, licks my hand. I can’t predict the future, but I’m grateful that Dory and I will both be here to greet it.

About the Writer:
Christine Richardson lives on a farm in Canaan, New Hampshire with her partner Kip and 16 sled dogs. She has an MS in Cell Biology, but left her 18-year career in science to pursue an MFA in Creative Nonfiction at Bay Path University and to work on her memoir and practice shamanism. She describes herself as an outdoor adventurer, retired scientist, dog musher, cancer survivor, wisdom keeper and writer. . .but most of all, a dog lover.

Here, in micro-flash nonfiction, writers make quick work of compelling stories. During July 2020, we present short takes on work and working.

Summer 1980s
Roach Trap Line

by María Luisa Arroyo

I twisted orange earplugs in to muffle the cacophony of conveyor belts. One roaring belt pushed shampoo bottles down the line as nimble women’s hands like my mother’s picked them up, four at a time, to pack. Newbies like me started on the roach trap line, alcohol fumes pinching our noses. We dipped long-stemmed Q-tips (like the ones they’re now using up people’s noses to test for COVID-19) into alcohol. Then we pushed the peeping yellow poison back into black roach traps. Full-timers moved on to pack vitamins. Summertime workers like me, though, stayed here on tall stools, eyes burning.

Quickening
 

by Chelsea L. Smith

I push the body pillow aside and press my belly into my husband’s back while he sleeps. Already, he’s aware of the baby. He leans into me ever so slightly, a subconscious turn of affection, and moans.

 “Can you feel Loren moving?” I whisper into the rough hairline at the nape of his neck.

“No,” he mumbles, half-asleep, “but I like the idea that he’s there.”

Roberto

by Pamela Lear

The 14 boys prepared to leave after a creative writing lesson on Mark Twain. As the guard arrived to escort them to math class, they each stood in “safety position” with arms crossed as if shielding their chests, hands clasping the shoulders of matching prison-issue T-shirts. The young men shuffled through the open security door, looking down at the floor. A boy named Roberto, 15-years-old and a foot taller than me, surreptitiously glanced up and whispered, “Hey teacher, want to put me in your purse and take me home?” He winked at me, and then they were gone.

On Keyboard

by Clifton J. Noble

Practicing the piano as a five-year-old, I had no inkling that I was preparing for my life’s work.  I was doing something I loved—reading and speaking a language shared by musicians for centuries, opening doors to other worlds as surely as a reader of books travels via the printed word.  Five decades later, I perform and record using the same 88 keys, thankful and amazed that my employers’ checks are being deposited in my bank account. Doing what I love and getting paid for it? That ain’t workin’.

Wrong Team

by Maria Smith

He kept his graying hair slicked back, dressed in three-piece suits with expensive silk ties. He wore shiny, black leather shoes and overpowering cologne, which always arrived before he did. He was the boss at the satellite office of a national insurance company. An executive assistant in my early twenties, I was one of four women who reported to him. Sometimes during late afternoons, he would call us into his office, joking around, coaxing us to sit on his lap. While the others fawned over him, I refused. “You aren’t a team player,” he said, when he fired me.

About the Writers

Born in Manatí, Puerto Rico and raised in Springfield, MA, poet María Luisa Arroyo pays tribute to thirty-two women poets in her latest original collection, Destierro Means More than Exile.  She is an Assistant Professor at Bay Path University.

A recent graduate of the Stonecoast MFA program, Chelsea Smith is working on a series of essays that celebrate the joys and difficulties of growing, delivering,  and protecting life during a time of isolation and physical distancing.

Pamela Lear lives with her husband in Miami, where she is thrilled to have grandchildren nearby. A first-year student in the MFA in Creative Nonfiction at Bay Path University, she is following the Narrative Medicine track.

Clifton J. Noble is a composer, arranger, performing musician, and music critic who works in musical genres ranging from art music to rock n’ roll. He serves as the Staff Accompanist for the Smith College Music Department.

Maria Smith is a writer and multi-media artist living in Bluffton, South Carolina. She holds an MFA in Creative Nonfiction and a PsyD in Conflict Resolution & Mediation.  She served for 16 years as an officer in the Air Force Reserve.

The Quick Work series is curated by Multiplicity Contributing Editor, Kate Whouley.

Submissions to Quick Work (100 words or fewer) will close on July 15. We also welcome stories up to 5,000 words for our work-themed Fall issue of Multiplicity Magazine. More details here.

By Reverie Koniecki

When I was still young enough to believe I could become president someday, but old enough to watch my little brother occasionally, my family went to two different Baptist churches. On weekends when my mother didn’t have to work, we went to a church where the congregation looked like us. The preacher went in and out of song when he felt moved, and the choir responded to his lead the same way a baby mirrors its mother. Women in white dresses and gloves monitored the congregation for those who lost control of their bodies to the spirit. The spirit scared me. I didn’t want some other entity coming into my body. The women in white pulled seizing bodies into the aisle and made sure the invaded didn’t accidentally knock their heads into the pews or kick their skirts up for everyone to see their unmentionables. Church ended when the preacher finished preaching. If the spirit moved him, we’d let out at 2:30.

On the weekends when my mother did have to work, we went to another church where we sang quietly from hymnals to music played at a respectable volume. Most kids left their parents to go to the nursery. The ones who stayed said soft “Amens” that curved around their tongues at the right pauses in the monotone sermon. No one yelled. There were no ladies in white. The pastor stayed on schedule and the service ended promptly at noon.

When we couldn’t go to church, we prayed to Reverend David Paul on The Miracle Hour TV show.  We praised God when he stepped onto the stage. David Paul put his hands on heads. He took donations. You could call an 800 number or mail him a check. He went on tour and spread his miracles from city to city. Heads bowed for him when he asked people to believe. When he said to have faith, we had faith. I believed in the power of David Paul the way I believe that I sit at the right hand of my Father.

When my mother became a Mormon, she sicced the missionaries on me. I argued with them about the three tiers of heaven they tried to convince me existed. I can’t remember the requirements for the top two tiers, but I figured I could probably make it to the lowest one. I just wouldn’t be able to travel up to visit my better-behaved loved ones. I was suspicious about that sort of segregation. It seemed unjust to me, especially compared to more the cut-and-dried concepts of heaven and hell. How do you divide degrees of goodness? I thought if I could just be good, then good things would come my way.

We learned about confessing sin in Sunday School, yet my sins still have kinetic potential. And I can’t confess the sins of my father, whose parting silhouette is my childhood tragedy.

Growing up, my mother constantly reminded me she was the parent who stayed. I resented her because other kids with divorced parents got to choose one, but I was stuck with her. I gave her Father’s Day cards and told her she was a better father than the one I couldn’t remember. When my friends complained about getting grounded, I said, “At least you have a father.” I imagined running into him on the street. I searched the faces of strangers for my likeness.

People consoled me with accusations. “Your father’s a jerk.” “Your father’s an asshole.” “Your father up and left you.” I didn’t understand they were taking my side. All I knew was that this man, this myth, was part of me. When someone asked about my father, I’d say I didn’t have one. As I got older, I repeated phrases I had heard about him and knew too well. I grew to hate him. I denied him. I loved him.

David Paul came to Hartford. We went to see him because we were hungry for a miracle. He yelled on the pulpit. My skin grew into rugged terrain as each hair follicle stood to attention. He cured other people. People rose from wheelchairs. The blind could see. The sick became healthy. I tried to get David Paul’s attention. He never looked in my direction. I prayed because I believed. I believed because I prayed. David Paul didn’t put hands on me. He didn’t acknowledge my prayers.

After he left, my father and I didn’t speak again until I was 10. Then again at 24. And again at 32. Our conversations took the same arc each time we tried to have a relationship. First, we corralled the lost years between us and rediscovered that our memories were incompatible. He would go on and on about the past. About how he swindled my mother out of child support. About how he regretted his relationship with the woman he left my mother for, his sons’ mother. About the stupid canopy bed he bought me when I was four. Eventually we hit a wall where one of us offended the other and I dipped out.

He carries my fifth-grade picture in his wallet, the photograph preserved in yellowed plastic with specs of dirt lining the corners. To my father, the girl in his wallet is who I am.

I’m riding my red tricycle in front of our apartment when he drives up. My mother, watching from the front stoop, rises as he gets out of the car. I climb her tree trunk legs into the branches of her arms. My chest is about to snap like a rubber band, but I remain silent. I have already learned to be quiet. My father screams, “I thought you said she wanted to see me!” My mother screams back. There are no hymnals. No quiet prayers. No hushed “Amens.” We speak in tongues. The spirit takes over us. I protect their heads as they writhe. I pull down the skirt my mother has kicked up to her thighs. I massage my father’s temples as he gnashes his teeth. They scream until their noise turns brown and becomes everything—and nothing at all.

About the Writer:
Reverie Koniecki is an African American poet and educator living in Dallas, Texas. She is the co-founder of Meet Me With Curiosity, a poetry salon in Klyde Warren Park. She is the former Educational Arm Assistant for Asymptote and current poetry editor for the Henniker Review. Her poems and prose have appeared in Entropy, Thimble Magazine, Spiderweb Salon, White Rock Zine Machine, and Off the Margins. Reverie is currently working towards her MFA in Poetry at New England College.

By Linda Wisniewski

Imagine your feet in damp socks inside your sneakers. You jump over puddles on a busy Italian street. Rain drips off your glasses as you try to read the map your cruise line provided, searching for Mercato Centrale di Livorno—the Livorno Central Market. You’re nervous, but you think of your grandparents arriving in the U.S. 100 years ago. If they could navigate the streets of a foreign country, so can you. Your husband insists he knows the way, but you are skeptical. You just want to get inside, get warm, dry your feet.

It’s the first morning of your 30th-anniversary Mediterranean cruise, and you have arrived at your first stop. You duck into an information center, where a nice woman behind the counter shows you the way to the market.

“Go outside,” she says. “Turn left and there it will be.”

But the streets spread out like crooked wheel spokes. Which left? Your husband says he knows. You follow him and spy a brightly lit shop with an artful display of knit hats. You try on a soft purple one. Only six euros. In the mirror, you look stylish.

You walk on, your head dry and warm, but still no mercato. A pastry shop beckons. Don’t they always? You pull open the glass door and step inside. The man behind the counter shrugs when you ask directions. Frustration grips your forehead.

Imagine a male voice behind you. “Where do you want to go?” he asks. You show him on your map. “Why do you want to go there? It’s nothing to see.” He is dark-haired and handsome. A short pretty brunette at his side smiles at you.

You remember the next item on your list. Perhaps the Modigliani Museum?

“Ah, it is beautiful,” he says, then waves at the rain outside. “Mamma mia!”  He starts to give directions but the brunette interrupts. Clueless, you watch their hands wave left, right, up in the air, until laughing, they turn back to you.

“Come, I will take you there,” he says. “My car is just outside.” You and your husband exchange a glance, imagining the headline: “American Tourists Kidnapped in Italy.”

The man sees your silent exchange. “You can trust me,” he says. “I’m a lawyer.” Everybody laughs and you follow the couple outside to his car, which is indeed parked at the curb. He points at a child-safety seat in the back. “Per i bambini!”

His wife motions you into the back seat with her while your husband climbs in front. “It’s not far,” the Italian man says, putting the tiny car in gear. “Livorno is a very important port in the history of Italy….” His wife rolls her eyes and giggles. She points at your chest.

 “Il nave?”

Sorry, you say, you don’t understand. 

“Boat?” she asks, pointing toward the harbor.

“Si, si!” You both say “Il nave!” You laugh together.

Imagine you are off the boat in more ways than one. Your grandparents left Europe a century ago from a harbor farther north, bound for a better life in New York.     

Yesterday, you flew from New York to Rome in a third of a day, then stepped aboard a luxury liner for a vacation on a ship. Your grandparents’ ocean journey took weeks; they were probably seasick and traveled in steerage. There were no waiters, no violins at dinner. Nobody gave them a map.

But they gave you this: a life in which you sail into a European harbor. Like them, when you arrive at your destination, you seek help from people who barely understand you.

The young lawyer is right. The ride to the museum is short. He drops you off at the entrance and wishes you a nice day. “Grazie,”you say, and you part from the man and his wife using the universal language of nods and smiles.

Inside the museum, you view the work of an artist born in Livorno who lived only 35 years. “Modigliani knew how to soak up influences from everyone,” the curator wrote. “As a sea-faring man, someone who lived in a city with a harbour, …he understood that you can’t live there without encountering people coming into the port from elsewhere….”

That night, you hang your socks to dry in your cruise ship cabin’s tiny bathroom. You imagine the smiling young couple you met today at their home, telling their bambini about the Americans they met in the bakery.

About the Writer:
Linda C. Wisniewski lives in Bucks County, PA where she volunteers at the historic home of author Pearl S. Buck. Her memoir, Off Kilter, was published in 2008 by Pearlsong Press. Linda’ debut novel, Where the Stork Flies, is forthcoming from Sand Hill Review Press. She blogs about life and connections at www.lindawis.com.

By Alexandra Ronn

You save me
When I am a new kid in school
Shy, awkward, four-eyes, tinsel-teeth
Blushing all shades of pink and red
Eighth grade lab partner, note-passer, new best friend
You say we’re two peas in a pod
I smile
You lead, I follow

High school together, we laugh and laugh
No books for you
So I dumb down to stay
In your shadow
14 years old, 15, 16, 17
Drinking age 18, easy to get
You lead, I follow

First time off the path: senior year
Higher level English, my favorite class
All A’s
You frown and ask why

Commuting to junior college
You lead, I follow
We’re going to be travel agents, you say
Two peas in a pod

After one semester I switch my major
To English
Why? you ask, frowning

Still, the drinking, the bars
You lead, I follow
You drink so much
I can’t keep up

I date a guy because you’re going out with his friend
We marry them
He’s always liked you more than me

I have three kids, you have none
My second child is your godson
I no longer drink
I’m a mom

We go out to lunch, shopping, dinner with our husbands
You love your godson
You’re at every family event
Bearing gifts
Even when I’ve asked you not to

At long last I go back to college
You frown and ask why
My kids are nearly grown
I love being in school

You cheer loudly when my name is called
And I receive my diploma
You’re there if I ever need you
Forty years of friendship
You kiss my cheek, laughing
We always laugh
I’m not sure why

You say I’m foolish when I tell the cashier
She’s undercharged me
"What’s wrong with you?" you ask
Shake your head all the way home
You think I’ll be happy when you tell me
That you like Sarah Palin

Two peas in a pod
I flinch
I cringe
I hear how you talk about other people
More than you ever did before
People of color
Jewish, gay, autistic
Anyone "other"
You say you hate

You look at me when you say these things
Your liberal, hippie, women’s-libber friend
You laugh when I speak up

It took me so long
I’m stronger now
The phone rings
I don’t answer
You have a party
I don’t go

You’re angry
You say, "I forgave you for going back to school
But I can’t forgive you for not drinking with me"
You say you pity my husband

I try to pick up the pieces, but I can’t
I won’t
I don’t want to be in that pod

With you

After two years I see you at my son’s wedding
I approach you
We make small talk for a minute
It’s hot, yes it is
I walk away to sit with my family
You put down your empty glass and head to the bar.

About the Writer:
Alexandra Ronn is a writer, book editor, Reiki master, and librarian. A lifelong New England resident, she loves reading, painting, and spending time amongst the trees.

By Jerome Berglund

Artist Statement:

Richfield, Minnesota photographer Jerome Berglund has explored a variety of themes, figuratively following a principle of fatalistic discovery within the chaos of natural elements spiraling through his daily experience and environment to seek out and construct—via a scavenger hunt of sorts—a series of allegorical tableaux centered upon subjects of addiction, recovery, alcoholism, mental illness, depression, anxiety, alienation, loss, heartbreak, gentrification, corruption, hope, and acceptance. 

Ophelia II

About the Photographer:
Jerome Berglund graduated summa cum laude from the cinema-television production program at the University of Southern California, and has spent much of his career working in television and photography. He has had photographs published and awarded in local papers and recently staged an exhibition in the Twin Cities area that included a residency of several months at a local community center. A selection of his black and white fine art photographs was showcased at the Pause Gallery in New York over last Winter’s holiday season, and his fashion photography is currently on display at the BG Gallery in Santa Monica, California.

By Kara Noble

“I’m going to break your arm!”

The old man slams her to the emergency room floor, wrenches her arm behind her, wedges his knee in her back. His fingernails gouge her wrist, then jerk up and away. She pinches her eyes shut and presses her cheek into the floor, bracing for the punch she knows must be coming.

A man shouts nearby. She gasps as the old man thrusts himself up off her back. Freed from his weight, she curls into a ball and covers her head with her hands.

The old man hurls his wiry body at the oncoming hospital security guards. He crumples the first one with a right cross, then flings a chair at two others rushing toward him. She can see that his energy is nearly spent. The burly guards engulf him, pin his arms, and wrestle him onto the hospital bed in the middle of the disarray in his ER examining room.

She rolls out of the way of the swarming emergency responders and finds a wall. Its smooth solidness feels reassuring. She sits, her back pressed against it, knees clutched to her chest, and watches. A nurse produces a syringe. After the injection, the old man’s thrashing slowly subsides. His eyes close. His breathing eases. Restraints are fastened.

Someone helps her up. Someone else closes the dull gray medical drapes around them, shutting out the rest of the ER. A nurse guides her into a chair.

“Are you all right?” the nurse asks.

Am I? she wonders.

She nods.

“Are you sure?”

She isn’t, but she says yes anyway. She wraps shaking hands around the plastic cup of tepid water the nurse offers her and gulps it down.

Around her, hospital staff right toppled furniture, reset equipment, monitor the old man. They check on the security guards.

“I’m fine,” the punched guard says, massaging his jaw with his palm.

“Flattened by an 80-year-old,” says a second guard. “You’ll never live this one down, Jim.”

The guards disappear out the drapes, laughing as they go. Doctors and nurses drift away until only she and the old man remain in the tiny, curtained space. She drags her chair to the side of his bed.

Lying there, strapped to the metal rails, he looks deflated. Drool dribbles into his graying beard, the bristly beard that used to prickle her cheeks when he kissed her goodnight. His dark eyes—eyes that twinkled when he laughed—are now shrouded in wrinkled, twitching lids.

His hands are clenched in medically managed terror. They were strong hands, hands that once bent and welded steel into high-rise towers. They were gentle hands, hands that comforted her and smoothed away her tears the day she fell off her bike when she was nine.

She lays her hand over his fist. He feels so cold. She tugs the thin hospital blanket over him.

Dementia stole his mind, his personality. Will it steal my memories of him too? Will I forget the good times? Will I remember what he was like before he got sick?

She twists in the hard, plastic chair beside his hospital bed trying to find a comfortable position, but there isn’t one.

I must remember what not to forget.

About the Writer:
Kara Noble is a writer and editor whose work has appeared in publications ranging from textbooks and dictionaries to newspapers and magazines. She served as the editor for Merriam-Webster’s language question-and-answer column, “Take Our Word for It,” their public radio program “Word for the Wise” (WAMC, Albany, NY), and their online “Word of the Day” feature. She particularly enjoys writing about horses, and her equine-related stories have been published in Massachusetts Horse, Connecticut Horse, The Competitive Equine, Tölt News, and Quarterly, the official publication of the U.S. Icelandic Horse Congress. She holds a BA from Amherst College and an MFA in creative nonfiction from Bay Path University.

By Amy Jordan Cronin

My fortieth birthday is imminent. I tell myself that age is just a number and that 40 is a glorious age to reach, a milestone denied to many. 

Yet this birthday symbolizes so much more. 

While I exalt the virtues of a confident body image to my children, each time I stare at my own reflection my confidence droops. Things that once were perky are now saggy. Eyes that were clear and bright look dull in the mirror. Hair, once glossy, is dry from too many chemicals meant to mask grey hair. All of it reminds me I’m on the fast-track to the big Four-O.  

I consider my options. Among my girlfriends (can we still be considered girls?), age is the new topic of conversation over coffee or drinks. One friend advocates for the easiest way to feel younger: just look younger. Restore, revive, renew. I nod in agreement. Should I buy a pair of the leather leggings all the twentysomethings seem to be wearing, squeezing my love handles into sweaty oblivion? Should anyone ever?

My best friend’s response to the aging process has been to dabble in body piercings. She pierced her nipples, much to her husband’s delight and my absolute horror. My nipples and I have been through a lot together. From peeping seductively through sheer tops in my twenties to feeding my babies in my thirties, they’ve been good to me. I don’t feel justified in assaulting them with a sharp implement in the hope of reclaiming youth and frivolity. 

Should I follow my cousin’s example and make the ever-popular trip down Botox Lane? While my fear of needles was rapidly overcome the day I needed an epidural during excruciating labor, I’m not sure I want one brandished near my eyes and lips. Same goes for my nipples.

Still, when my husband moves towards me I wonder if he misses my pre-baby body, unmarked by the trials of childbirth. Does he miss the unlined face, my brow less furrowed, from the time when responsibilities were so much lighter to carry?

I wear my impending entry into the next decade as I would a scarf around my neck on a cold day. I’m grateful for it, and that gratitude warms me, yet sometimes it feels a little too tight and it takes my breath away. 

So, last week, with bated breath, I went to one of those hip boutiques and tried on leather leggings. The lighting was harsh and unfamiliar music blared from hidden speakers. The assistant was plumped and preened into terrifying Kardashian-esque perfection. The dressing room felt tighter than the leather pants, and after what felt like an hour of panting and contorting trying to get into the things, I was ready to give up. Just as I managed to pull them slightly past my knees, the curtain whipped back, and the shop assistant inquired how it was all going. 

“Well, I’m nearly 40 years old and I’m trying to squeeze into a child’s pair of pants, so not great,” I joked, desperate to keep my tears away. 

The copious amount of filler in her lips kept her from smiling, but her eyes were sympathetic. I grimaced, knowing she could read the sheer discontent of being my age. Almost 40. Middle-aged. She sensed the full extent of my doubt that I could even shop in a young person’s clothing store anymore. 

Her words of comfort reached my soul as if they had fallen from the lips of the Dalai Lama. They have stayed with me, offering me consolation in dark moments, guiding my hand as I pluck out stray grey hairs, wrapping around me as I wriggle into Bridget Jones-style knickers. 

“Honey, be kind to yourself.”

Gears inside my heart clicked into place. Surely it would be easier to embrace the changes life brings to body and soul, to offer myself the love I give to others? My attraction to my husband has never wavered, although he, too, is getting older, yet I reserve my loathing of aging exclusively for myself. Why?  

If we have gratitude for life, we must accept aging too. Fighting what naturally occurs is the epitome of wasting time. Just as time ticks ever forward, our bodies move steadfastly toward old age.

Aging isn’t to be feared. Self-criticism is. The challenge is to still the inner voice that bemoans every wrinkle. I have read the self-help books, watched the TED Talks, and experimented with therapy to help silence that voice when it shouts, “You’re too old, not pretty enough, not good enough.” All my efforts pale in comparison to the startling, simple wisdom of that shop assistant. 

I will be kind to myself.

I bought the leather leggings.

About the Writer:
Amy Jordan Cronin is a mum, a wife, a sister, a daughter, a friend, and a writer. A graduate of business management, she has taken time out to focus on being a mum. An avid diary-keeper since she was young, Amy writes to meditate and she adores the sense of wellbeing that comes from both reading and writing. Amy is a fan of thrillers and crime novels, and a huge fan of authors Ian Rankin and Lee Child. She will soon have a short story published in Woman’s Way and is working on the final draft of her first novel, a thriller.