Issue 6 | Refuge
Here, in 100 words or fewer, writers make quick work of compelling true stories, in the lead up to Multiplicity’s 2025 Spring/Summer issue, REFUGE.
by River Rising
River Rising, a Bay Path MFA candidate, created this piece in the Multiplicity Studio class during the 2025 spring semester.
Issue 6 | Refuge
Here, in 100 words or fewer, writers make quick work of compelling true stories, in the lead up to Multiplicity’s 2025 Spring/Summer issue, REFUGE.
by Judithann Walz
Amidst the hum of my new kitchen, a meaty hambone sits in a crockpot with split peas, rosemary, garlic, a bay leaf, and chopped carrots.
Marriage still young, invites heat through time.
I submerge the medley in six cups of chicken broth, set it to simmer, and open my book.
Soon, the story on the page competes with the smokiness of hambone and subtle hints of cinnamon.
When I lift the lid, I see how heat through time has transformed these disparate ingredients into a velvety cohesion.
My husband picks up the ladle and kisses me.
Judithann Walz, a Bay Path MFA candidate, wrote this piece in the Multiplicity Studio class during the 2025 spring semester.
Issue 6 | Refuge
Here, in 100 words or fewer, writers make quick work of compelling true stories, in the lead up to Multiplicity’s 2025 Spring/Summer issue, REFUGE.
by Dulce María Reyes Bonilla
A U.S. consular interview concludes Mami’s septennial wait. My mother is fifty-four and stern. I’m seventeen, there to assist, betting my hope for freedom on her migration dream.
The officer scans us. We resemble future FLOTUS Obama more than Barbara Bush.
“She is?”
“Daughter.”
She nods, stamping APPROVED thrice.
“And bring her in three weeks with everything listed here,” she instructs my gleeful and stunned mother.
Splatter from Mami’s luck shocks me with bittersweetness.
Unbeknownst to me, but not the consul, I’m still becoming. And here’s a scarlet box: fire extinguisher and axe included. Fire will emerge in due time.
Dulce María Reyes Bonilla, a Bay Path MFA candidate, wrote this piece in the Multiplicity Studio class during the 2025 spring semester.
Issue 6 | Refuge
Here, in 100 words or fewer, writers make quick work of compelling true stories, in the lead up to Multiplicity’s 2025 Spring/Summer issue, REFUGE.
by Janet Marler
For forty years, the cabinet hung above the toilet in a house where a family was born, a child grew up, and a mother died.
“Sure, honey,” he said when his new wife suggested a remodel, “but this cabinet is in good shape, and it’s one hundred percent oak—you don’t see that nowadays. No MDF.”
Perhaps he was conditioned to look for the things that might be salvaged. He pointed out the wood trim around the front panels.
“When do you notice the details of anything in this house?” she asked, surprised.
“Every time I pee,” he answered.
Janet Marler, a Bay Path MFA candidate, wrote this piece in the Multiplicity Studio class during the 2025 spring semester.
Issue 6 | Refuge
Here, in 100 words or fewer, writers make quick work of compelling true stories, in the lead up to Multiplicity’s 2025 Spring/Summer issue, REFUGE.
by Kerri Call
Violence blew through my neighborhood like dust devils. Poverty scorched dreams. My mother concocted her own serum to blow a bubble big enough to hold me. I floated above the prickly Arizona desert, my bubble obscuring and shielding me from its harsh and unforgiving landscape.
On a breeze, I drifted off to college in Hawaii where I overheard fellow students call bubble-dwellers naive and overprotected. My own bubble now punctured, I found myself—finally—grounded. I marveled at it all, this tropical island paradise, this life of beauty and ease. A new iridescence.
Kerri Call, a Bay Path MFA candidate, wrote this piece in the Multiplicity Studio class during the 2025 spring semester.
Issue 6 | Refuge 2
Here, in 100 words or fewer, writers make quick work of compelling true stories, in the lead up to Multiplicity’s 2025 Spring/Summer issue, REFUGE.
by Juliet James
Sleep does not give me respite when it deigns to take me
Vivid dreams disturb my slumber nightly
Once I could wrap my body around his or be held in his embrace
And love would ease my anxious mind
But chronic pain stole this from us
Now comfort only comes from the small dog
Tucked under my blanket, behind my knees
His warm little body relaxes me,
Stops my spiraling thoughts
And I find enough peace to fall
Even if the landing won’t be soft
His presence always is
Juliet James, a Bay Path MFA candidate, wrote this piece in the Multiplicity Studio class during the 2025 spring semester.
Here, in 100 words or fewer, writers make quick work of compelling true stories, in the lead up to Multiplicity’s 2024 Spring/Summer issue, OUT OF CONTROL.
by Jeanne Ryan
Four AM. I am suddenly awake—about to be sick from the sleep medications they gave me. I jump out of bed, my blood pressure plummeting. My head spins. Stumbling out of my room, I find the nurse halfway up the hall.
“I’m going to throw up,” I spit out.
“Let’s get you to a bathroom.” he says.
But we don’t get that far.
I am vomiting. And vomiting. Before I feel myself sliding down the nearest wall. I come to a stop when my head lands on the tile floor.
Welcome to your first night on West 5.
Photo by Cory Mogk on Unsplash
by Sarah Chrosniak
One day, I’ll make a dent in the dishes, not have a pile of laundry to do, and live in a crumb-free world. Four wild children, homeschooling, volunteering, and a job with increasing hours and no pay raise.
I need help? I’ve learned not to say.
Time is moving, but I am not. Stagnant in my skin, afraid to be myself or who I hope to be.
You are worthy, I wish I believed.
One day, you will miss all of this, I tell myself.
I blindfold myself with gratitude, and wait for the spin cycle to finish.
Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash
Jeanne Ryan and Sarah Chrosniak, Bay Path MFA candidates, wrote these pieces in the Multiplicity Studio class during the 2024 spring semester.
The Quick Work series is curated by Kate Whouley and Heidi Fettig Parton.
Here, in 100 words or fewer, writers make quick work of compelling true stories, in the lead up to Multiplicity’s 2024 Spring/Summer issue, OUT OF CONTROL.
by William Grussenmeyer
“Work all night?” I asked into the phone.
“Until six am,” Amos said.”
“At that sewage facility?”
“Yep. Still here. Gotta keep the homeless out.”
“Out of a sewage place?”
“They steal anything they can. Or sleep inside.
There’s an encampment right outside.” He paused for a few seconds. “I gotta watch out for the serial killer too.”
“Did you say serial killer?”
“Some guy going around killing homeless people.
They know who he is. Can’t find him. Cause he’s homeless, too.”
“I haven’t seen anything on the news?” I asked.
“News don’t care,” Amos said.
Photo by Tommy van Kessel on Unsplash
by Robyn Weaver
I blame Heinz.
They had to go and change the labels on their ketchup bottles, and if they had never done that, Daniel would have never come up with the idea that I was trying to poison him, or that Heinz was somehow in on it. I would have never said how crazy that sounded, and he would have never thrown his dinner plate against the wall, leaving that permanent gash that bled red for days until I had the heart to wipe it clean.
Photo by Pawel Czerwinski on Unsplash
William Grussenmeyer and Robyn Weaver, Bay Path MFA candidates, wrote these pieces in the Multiplicity Studio class during the 2024 spring semester.
The Quick Work series is curated by Kate Whouley and Heidi Fettig Parton.
Here, in 100 words or fewer, writers make quick work of compelling true stories, in the lead up to Multiplicity’s 2024 Spring/Summer issue, OUT OF CONTROL.
by Monica Deck
“Baby. Tell me I’m not having a heart attack.”
This happens a couple of times a month, if my meds are off or I’m in a pain flare, or if the sun rises in the east or the butterfly flaps its wings on Tuesday in New Mexico.
We sit on the couch. On a deep sinus inhale, his fingertips find mine, dry pads slightly rough from frequent washing.
Palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss.
He brings my hand to his lips.
“You’re not having a heart attack,” he murmurs against my skin, and kisses my hand again.
Photo by Priscilla Du Preez on Unsplash.
by Sarah Leete Tsitso
I’ve mastered the fake smile. You’d never guess what’s really behind my upturned lips—exhaustion, frustration, anger—bubbling just underneath the spot where my long-absent tonsils once lived.
Years spent networking, business cards clutched in one hand and vodka soda in the other. Playing that role—pretending to care about your boat docked in Narragansett—has eaten away chunks of me. Death by 1,000 hours of small talk. Boredom and fury masked by my favorite shade of lipstick.
The smile doesn’t reach my eyes. To notice, you’d have to look up from my breasts. But that seems unlikely.
Photo by Cesar La Rosa on Unsplash.
Monica Deck and Sarah Leete Tsitso, Bay Path MFA candidates, wrote these pieces in the Multiplicity Studio class during the 2024 spring semester.
The Quick Work series is curated by Kate Whouley and Heidi Fettig Parton.
Here, in flash nonfiction, writers make quick work of telling compelling stories.
by Jones Irwin
A veteran winter swimmer, Cathy, suited up, dives in with her Border Collie, Rossi.
Rossi, his black and white coat soaked through, remembers previous masters who didn’t appreciate his exuberant energy, who tried to beat the happiness out of his hardy body.
I’ve chosen not to invest in a wet suit as, frankly, they look ridiculous. My extremities feel like they are going to fall off, and not just my hands.
Rossi, healed by Cathy and the waves, knows that none of us are here for very long, and we might as well die by extremity as by anything else.
by Sharon Goldberg
I sling my skis over my right shoulder, the non-arthritic one. They’re girlie skis with green and yellow polka dots, the edges sharp to carve turns through hard-packed snow and ice, the bottoms freshly waxed to glide through soft snow and powder. My bindings are calibrated to release if I take a major tumble. A neoprene brace anchors my funky left knee. I’m no expert or daredevil, but I have taken risks. Will I today? I feel the flutter that proceeds my first run of the morning. I’m sixty-six, but I like to think I haven’t peaked yet.
Photo courtesy of the author
by Maria Luisa Arroyo Cruzado
Among bobbing black chadors and bearded men in the Khomeini Airport, I hear Mamani’s “Maria-jan!” She rushes, embraces me, her daughter-in-law.
*
Later, Mamani and her daughters laugh as I reach toward salamanders skittering up cement walls. Palm huge pomegranates. Fumble with the chador slipping from my head like rain.
*
I was 28, and months before my trip, Mamani lost the man she loved. Her only living son had named Mamani’s brother the executor of the world she was not allowed to claim.
*
At supper, when I praised her cooking, Mamani asked me: What else do I have?
Photo by Cath Smith on Unsplash
Multilingual Boricua poet & intersectional feminist educator María Luisa Arroyo Cruzado writes about her experiences with the four cultures and languages that inform her identity and her creativity: Puerto Rican Spanish, American English, German, and Farsi.
Sharon Goldberg is a Seattle writer whose work has appeared in anthologies and literary magazines, including The Gettysburg Review, New Letters, The Louisville Review, Cold Mountain Review, River Teeth, Jellyfish Review, Southern Indiana Review and Gargoyle.
Jones Irwin describes himself as a postmodern existentialist, a dash of noir mixed in with a progressivist ethic. He teaches Philosophy and Education in Dublin, Republic of Ireland, and writes across the genres of philosophy, fiction and poetry.
The Quick Work series is curated by Multiplicity Executive Editor, Kate Whouley.