Type-Setting Tunes
The machine engulfed Travis, but he didn’t seem to mind. Travis chain-smoked unfiltered Camels; and one was always burning at his side as he pressed the buttoned keys for all the letters to appear, just as I had originally typed them. Sometimes, yes, he made mistakes but not often. And anyway, when the words appeared in print, I was the editor; I was the responsible party. And so I never mentioned Travis or his work to anyone. He was frail and hunch-backed. Stooped just in the form you’d expect from one who spent eight, maybe ten hours each day typesetting others’ words, making sure...
Read MoreSmoker’s Cross
I was standing in front of the building where I worked, smoking a cigarette and ruminating bitterly over a recent memorandum announcing that soon the front of the building would become a smoke-free zone. It would be the latest conquest in a relentless march of smoke-free zones that had routed me from my office and chased me from the cafeteria and the restroom and, finally, booted me out through the big, glass entrance door to the portico at the front of the building, where I have routinely stood (several times a day), outcast and despised, along with a ragtag group of fellow practitioners,...
Read MoreVisiting
I am drifting towards her like vapor. Buddha and Social workers teach us not to assume what goes on within each other’s worlds. Regardless, I see me in her mind, through the haze of disease and hollowed corridors of her memory. Is he real? she wonders. He is my father. He is my husband? My name, as I repeat it, comes to visit, too; the sound folding into the outline of my body, bringing me closer to wherever she might be. For this purpose, I wear the same yellow button-down shirt every time, my hospice badge clipped to the pocket. I never know what will find the switch. She has remembered...
Read MoreFeatured Works: Week of August 17 (Secrets)
Unknown streak Psst… Can our contributors tell you something? “Making Safe to Tell” by Vicki Mandell-King is a poem about the delicate art of discussing family secrets. In “Rushing” by John Hedren, a retired football player finally discusses a famous fumble. The poem “Where I’m From” by Amy Barone recalls teenage moments of rebellion. In the short story, “D&M” by Ann Lamparski, a nursing home resident relives her past. Dan Grote’s “The Meet” creates a sense of unease as a lifelong criminal awaits an...
Read MoreThe Meet
I would like to hunt down and beat senseless the asshole who wrote “Walking on Sunshine.” That’s what I said to the waitress when she asked if I wanted more coffee. I wasn’t saying it directly to her, nor was I offering it as any kind while I was thinking out loud. I do that a lot. She just looked at me like I was some kind of nut. I get that a lot. I haven’t always been like this. It was good for a while, my life that is. I had a normal childhood, was a mediocre student and grew into a sub-par member of “polite” society. I was truly unremarkable....
Read MoreD&M
Dottie drifted into sleepiness here and there. The bed was comfortable enough. The nurse could have used a little sweetening up, though. A glass of water wasn’t too much to ask. No matter how many times she pressed that silly button, no help arrived. “Excuse me, nurse? I need a glass of water, please. Are you out there? Make sure it doesn’t have any ice. Makes me shiver.” The nurse dropped the powdered donut she had been trying to eat for the last two hours, shook the residue from her hands and presented herself in the old woman’s room. “Mrs. Murchison,...
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