'Reception' by Allison Renner

The motel was all hers, one-story, eight rooms in a line. Josephine made her way up and down the row each afternoon, cleaning when a family checked out, before a couple checked in. No one stayed more than one night; it wasn’t that type of place. It wasn’t a resort, or a home base where you unpacked while exploring everything the area had to offer, but still she found herself here, week after week, trying to find purpose or a way out. At this point, she didn’t care which.

***
We fought near the Grand Canyon; he wanted to go west to Vegas while I wanted to go east to Four Corners.

“Who cares about being in four places at once?” James yelled, not caring that tourists were turning to watch.

I thought of how I wanted to be in four places at once instead of with him, staring out the window at the flat nothingness we passed. I saw a rundown motel in the distance, the opposite of what James would book in Vegas, yet suddenly there was no place I’d rather be.

'To get to where my heart is buried, head toward Costco on the edge of town' by Beth Sherman

Turn off Map Quest, it’s not going to help. (Play sad music in the car. Maybe Lewis Capaldi’s “Someone You Loved” to set the mood). Keep going straight, past Rite Aid and the Broadway Mall that closed last year. When Route 25A forks, bear left, then leave your Jeep at the Park & Ride next to the train station and take the dirt trail at the edge of the lot. Hopefully, you’re wearing comfortable shoes as the path has a tendency to get muddy. (Remember our camping trip to Vermont when you forget to pack hiking boots and it rained and you kept telling me you wanted to break up?) Don’t read the map on the wooden board. (All the landmarks are wrong). The trees are scarred with red paint to help guide you. Not every tree – that would be overkill. Just the ones far enough apart to make it interesting. (In case you forgot why you’re here and thought you were taking a nice walk in the woods). When you get to the big oak, there’s a picnic basket underneath, with lunch inside. (Bacon folded into hearts, broken heart chocolate cake, hot Cheeto mozzarella hearts, candy hearts that say YES PLZ and BAE and KISSES). Consider if you should eat these goodies or if they might contain something unsavory. Proceed to the creek, where you’ll see a shovel. Start digging. It’s a shady spot, with bottled water next to the shovel. (See warning about the heart themed food above.) Keep digging until you touch something pulpy and wet. Fragile. Oxblood red. Lift it out gingerly. Rinse it clean in the water. Try to forget it’s a human heart, still beating, still warm. Try to remember what love tastes like. The best of us. The marvelous. That’s what you’ve lost. 

'Anointed' by Allison Renner

She stands on the beach, the sand packed so firmly that it doesn’t even seem like she’s staring out at an ocean. Then again, nothing ever turned out like she expected.

Though she left no footprints in this hard-packed sand, she can clearly see the paths she could have taken, looking back—studying instead of going to the party, taking the job in New York rather than walking down the aisle before following him around the Midwest, from town to town that all managed to look and feel like the hometown she’d wanted to escape: bland, flat, stifling.

A wave rouses in the sea and she watches it approach, wanting to step forward to meet it halfway, but she holds her ground, makes it come to her, and though it’s a lukewarm splash that eventually laps at her toes, it feels like a baptism.

'Troll Bridge' by Birgit K. Gaiser

Troll Bridge, 2 km
Sign outside Tarovia City

Troll Bridge, 1 km
Sign outside Tarovia City

You are entering the area of the Troll Bridge Massacres. We ask you to treat the memory of our loved ones with the appropriate respect and refrain from smoking including vaping, drinking alcohol, eating, shouting, wearing crocs or team colours, playing ball games, playing loud music and running.
Signs around Troll Bridge

Beware of troll.
Faded sign on Troll Bridge

What troll?
Graffiti on Troll Bridge

Dedicated to the victims of the Troll Bridge massacres, April to July 2011.
May they live forever in our hearts, and may our city never have to face such tragedy again.
Troll Bridge Memorial, central engraving.

'The Final Countdown' by Scott MacLeod

It was the fanciest Kevorkian clinic anywhere on Swiss soil. 

The cost to pull the plug still staggered him.

The kids gathered, dutifully ringing the death bed.

 

Staring blankly or busy doing inheritance math?

The needle began its desired effect.

 

“Any last words, Pop? Regrets?”

“I don’t think so.”

 

“Are you sure?”

He considered.

 

“Wait!”

'The Log Ride' by Melissa Flores Anderson

The lines are long because school just got out last week so all the parents are here with their babies and toddlers, even though there are only like five rides for little kids. Macy is grouchy because she skipped breakfast and the line is long and she wants to get into the park to get something to eat. Jane is grouchy because she skipped breakfast because that’s been her thing ever since she made the cheerleading squad and she doesn’t want to watch me and Macy eat.

Inside the park, we rush by all the families with the babies who are lining up for the carousel. Macy finds something to eat. The log ride isn’t running yet so I don’t rush her.  Last time, Jane’s dad dropped us off, we rode it 18 times because it was a cold day and no-one else wanted to go on it. We went on it because the guy who lets people on the ride is super cute. Macy has a boyfriend, so she doesn’t care, and Jane says she just likes the rush.

Macy and Jane go on the revolution, a giant battleship that almost goes upside down, and I won’t go on it because I don’t like the feel of falling. But after, we climb all the steps up to the top of the log ride, at least three stories up, if we were measuring by the office buildings nearby. And when we get to the top, I see Joe, with his curly brown hair and puppy dog eyes, and he waves a little and says, “You girls are back again. It was Lilly, right?”

I don’t mind the fall, and the climb, and the fall, again.

'Bardi Bids ‘Adieu’ with a Heavy Heart' and 'Jhuma’s Wedding' by Rathin Bhattacharjee

Bardi Bids ‘Adieu’ with a Heavy Heart'

 

As Tapasi was leaving her elder sister’s house and getting on to the rickshaw, she found Bardi red-eyed, wiping at the corners of her eyes with the fold of her sari.
 
Little Tapasi was surprised. Why was Bardi crying like that? She felt very unhappy finding her Bardi in such an unhappy state of mind.
 
Tapasi's pocketing the 100-rupee-note Bardi'd given her as she bent down to touch her feet.
 
“Come again.” She heard Bardi cry out in a soulful voice from behind the wooden gate.
 
This incident haunted Tapasi for a long time till she became an adult herself.
 
Jhuma’s Wedding
 
It was the day after her daughter, Jhuma's wedding. The whole day Tapasi was running around like one possessed. Jhuma would be leaving for her in-laws' soon. The flower-bedecked car was waiting outside. Then she saw Jhuma, with a corner of her sari tucked in her husband's hand, coming down. In a red- ordered sari with the vermilion mark on the forehead, she looked stunning.

As Jhuma bent down to touch her feet, Tapasi felt proud. Jhuma'd be a fantastic wife.

"Come again," Tapasi said, kissing Jhuma on the forehead.

The familiar picture of Bardi bidding her farewell, haunted her then.

'Old friends and new' by Birgit K. Gaiser

“Where are you going?” Velika asked, looking at her friend with tears in her eyes.

Bruno looked down at her and lowered himself to his knees, groaning a little. He really wasn’t young enough anymore to kneel down without carefully planning the movement.

“I don’t know,” he said.

“Then why are you going there?” Velika asked, her little face scrunched up in wonder.

“It’s our way,” Bruno explained. “We rarely stay anywhere as long as we did here. After a time, we pack up and go. Find a new place we like and stay there. Every town and village has a market, and they all need well-crafted goods.”

“I don’t want you to leave,” Velika cried. “First my mum and dad died, and now you’re leaving.”

“What if I promise you that I’ll write you a letter?”

Velika sniffed. “That might be acceptable.”

Bruno laughed. “Where did you pick that up?”

“Auntie Melina said it to the man who’s courting her.”

Bruno laughed even harder. “Give her a hug from me. And don’t be sad. You’re such a smart little girl, you’ll find plenty of friends once you start looking for them.”

“Why do I have to do the looking?”

“Because not everyone has eyes as sharp as yours,” he said. “But now I really must go. Look, the sun’s about to set, and the others are waiting for me.”

He pointed towards the group of people, maybe twenty overall, who were waiting, their belongings packed onto old-fashioned carriages with – where had they been hiding the donkeys? Velika was twice-upset now.

“Byebye,” she said, turning away and hugging the other Bruno, the bear the old man had sold her at a heavily discounted price two years ago, tightly to her chest.

'The Rainbow Bridge' by Abida Akram

I am on the rainbow bridge of self-love. I am high and loving the brightness of all the colours. Days and ideas swirl above me like a galaxy of desires.

It was all so easy, making the decision to stop, making all the pressure to succeed at work go away. Yes, maybe I will miss the money but I learnt during the Covid lockdowns that I could survive on very little money. It was great having all those daily temptations suddenly unavailable. 

The bridge to freedom was simply making a decision to honour my dreams. Just one step and I was on a new adventure. Now I am more me, still an independent, strong and assertive adult but a happier more fulfilled woman.

Because I feel so much lighter, I have floated to the high bridge of forgiveness, a light bamboo structure between the two highest mountains in the world. The person I had to forgive the most was actually myself for falling into the trap of the expectations surrounding me for so many years. 

I am lucky that I now breathe the air that angels breathe. All I did was give myself the luxury of time and the freedom to pursue my passion - which I had had since I was a young girl. Now the joy from the flow state as I write creatively is overwhelming. Beats writing dry policies and reports for a living, which no one really enjoyed reading. Now I happily travel far in my head every day and inhabit many different worlds and characters and do not notice the passage of time.

'Free' by Catherine Marina

I’ve been doing this now for 47 years. Got my Black Cab license when I was 20 and never looked back unless it was in the rear view mirror. Never wanted to do anything else.

And you, have the great honour of being the last fare of my last shift.

I’ve taken punters to every life event you can mention. Births (two in the cab), deaths (be careful taking corners if it was a cremation), thousands of holidays, drunk nights out (I’ll fine you if you’re sick in my cab). All the bodily fluids have touched that back seat, as well as quite a bit of kebab meat.

Some people like a chat, others don’t. I put the radio on if they don’t want to talk, see? You’re quite quiet but I suppose I’m doing all the talking, aren’t I!?

I’ve had quite a few death threats. Lost count of the number of knives I’ve seen. One guy pulled out a sawed-off shot gun but he didn’t say anything. Just sat in the back then tipped a tenner. None of my business.

People can be quite racist but I just shrug it off. As long as they pay. I’ve had to drive a few fares to the police station.

They’re not all like that. I’ve got one regular airport lady who insists on bringing me back Turkish Delight from her holidays. Every time. I don’t really like it but I smile and keep it for the missus.

I don’t know if I’ll miss all my customers, but I’ll definitely miss some.

Is this you? Nah you don’t owe me anything mate. Last fare. You’re free.