We’re in the ultrasound room. I stare at the blank screen, it having only my information on it for now. It’s last November again. We’re here for the first time and all I am worried about is if the internal wand will hurt. Our doctor’s words remind me: honestly, it’s probably smaller than him. I never knew no baby was even an option. My tests told me positive, my symptoms told me pregnant. But the ultrasound showed that these were true and not. We both stared at that screen. Silence. We didn’t know we were staring at our miscarriage. But it is not then, it is today— so we stare at the empty screen and hope not to repeat history. The tech remembers us.…
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Ten days after Christmas,
a six-foot-four woman in heels
clops in front of me from
the convenience store bathroom,
her face sweats tree lights
with her candy cane eyes
as the scent of pine
lingers in the pop aisle.
Red tights blend thighs and cheeks
into a sack of presents now
leaning beside her man of five-five
who tosses another scratcher
into his pile of losers.…
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The door swung shut so fast it almost hit Joe in the ankle, almost nipping at his heel like a sheepdog would its misbehaving charge. Joe had slammed the door shut behind him for effect and it almost came back to bite him. In spite of his rage, he chuckled at that fact as he made his way down the weathered stairs of the rented beach house. He followed the trail that led through the dunes, covered in sea oats, to the Gulf of Mexico.
When one door closes, another one always opens. Joe had heard that theory although it was merely wishful thinking to him. The idea certainly couldn’t be counted on like Newtonian laws of gravity and motion. But in this case, the same shut door opened up again briefly, just long enough for Joe’s little sister to slip through and pull it shut behind her, closing it much more gently than Joe had done.…
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After Mom got too tired to get out of bed, that man she insisted on calling my dad couldn’t be bothered to pick up the slack.
He took money out of her purse and walked with me to the store. I made friends with a little girl while he was inside. Her face tasted like peanut butter.
When he came back out, that man had a big box and he stood there by the trash can pulling everything out except what he needed. He stuck some of those cords in his pockets and a stack of paper, too. The whole time he was mad at me for making too much noise and helping too much.
Finally, he pulled the important thing out. He had to crack it out of a white shell that sounded terrible when the pieces of it scraped together.…
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I read Ken’s poem online
about his father and the paucity
of love words
the mental leaps
across the gaps
of knowing love was there
it reminded me how Dad
loved us without ever
saying that word
without giving up
his helpful notes
on jobs we should apply for
or cars we might buy
or ways we should save money
like the way he saved words
his suicide note typed out
with his one good hand
apologized
for leaving the way he did
he was proud of each of us
and wanted us to care for mom
whom he said deserved
great love
and then he signed it
Dad
– Mimi Whittaker
Note: This piece was originally self-published in a book called In a Dark Sea.…
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The Death
In the land of the dead, reapers usher the spirits of the dead across a river. One such reaper, Grimm, has done this for over six hundred years.
Unquenched
Grimm studied the familiar map showing where to collect his next spirit. As he approached, the spirit eyed him with disdain, and refused to pay for the ride. Grimm, momentarily taken aback, informed him that no money was needed to cross, after which the spirit happily boarded. Grimm asked the spirit his name and where he came from, but the spirit scoffed, insisting on payment for his answers. Grimm rolled his eyes beneath his hood, but tossed the spirit a gold coin, the metallic clink echoing in the stillness. The routine of ferrying souls through the underworld had left Grimm thoroughly unentertained, and the spirits’ tales were one of the few diversions left to him.…
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Last time I gripped
a badminton racquet: Puerto Rico.
Wide white sand bracketed
by palm trees, Atlantic Ocean.
Small waves rose a half mile
from shore
broke in rhythmic ripples,
spilled warm water
onto heated afternoon sand.
Tardy for family dinner
and we didn’t care,
protected by vaulted status
of newly betrothed.
There was no badminton.
We snorkeled in a crescent cove,
searching for the barracuda
Bob glimpsed the day before,
sharp needle-file nose
sliced through clear water.
He likes to hang out in that reef,
Bob said,
dove under.
I shook my head like a dog
freeing water from her ears.
Grinned with anticipation.
The man I’m about to marry
believes he thinks like a barracuda.
– Christy Wise…
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