Them By Meg Pokrass

January 18, 2023 by Every Writer

Them

By Meg Pokrass

You would hate it if you knew how many times I apply lipstick now that you’re gone. I’m putting it on, like, every five minutes to get through the next fifteen, though I know they use fish scales to make it, and it’s like killing fish to put on lipstick for no reason. Nobody usually sees my champagne-grape stained lips except myself, and two adorable medical professionals.

If I had been a cat you probably would have kept me forever, even with an incurable disease. I think about that every time I clean the litter pan, especially late at night. I clean it too often because it makes the cats love each other more, and also because I can smell how sad I really am in the unpleasant odor of their piss, which I’ve read glows under black light.

In bed, my eyelids behave like cheap polyester drapes, unable to keep out the light. I wake from dreams about us walking nowhere… covered with butterflies. I can taste you with my feet the way butterflies taste leaves and flowers. Without you here, I notice too much about how the town is changing, new money moving in, teenage girls with their rubbery, flat stomachs. They walk around cold-eyed, like billboards about nothing.

Sometimes, I drive to the Taste It where they use organic bags. As I shop, I try not to gawk at girl’s stomachs like I used to try not to stare at perfect front lawns. If I had a flat stomach, and a perfect lawn, and if I were not dying – you might have stayed here on my sofa, drinking beer and burping to mark your territory.

I’m a sloth, it’s what we had in common. And the fact that our left eyes feel much more connected to the intuitive parts of our brains than our right eyes do!

Also, the first time we made love, I remember how we talked about the fact that bulls are really color blind, and how a red garment has nothing to do with their rightful anger. How just having to cope with a cape being waved at you by some short murderer dressed up like a kid on Halloween would be bad enough.

The young doctor took my pulse this morning, prescribed yoga. He had stubble on his shin, and Teva sandals—like you. This guy, this doctor, made me blush when he said he liked my cockroach tattoo. He walked out to get the nurse, held her hand and brought her in to see it. She had a cute hair cut, neon blue eye shadow. She laughed, said random. I told them why cockroaches fascinate me, that they can live for weeks with their heads cut off.

They looked at each other, seemed to connect without touching—as if this were all about them.

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MEG POKRASS has published stories in McSweeney’s, Five Points, Wigleaf, Bayou, 3AM, Smokelong, and numerous other literary magazines online and in print. Her work has been internationally anthologized, most recently in the Norton anthology Flash Fiction International (W.W. Norton, 2015). Meg received the Blue Light Book Award for her collection of prose poetry, Cellulose Pajamas (Blue Light Press, 2016). Her other collections include Damn Sure Right, My Very End of the Universe, Bird Envy and The Dog Looks Happy Upside Down. She is the flash fiction curator for Great Jones Street App, and curates the Bath Flash Fiction Festival (Bath, U.K.).

Miracle Stain Remover

January 14, 2023 by Every Writer

Miracle Stain Remover

by Glen Donaldson

Long-suffering Gwendolyn O’Malley felt mid-sentence, the tiredness that comes with uttering pointless words.

“How hard would it be to put your dirty glass in the dishwasher instead of leaving it on the counter?” Her self-aware-grump husband Art, reclined in the floral-patterned lounge chair not ten feet away and busy entertaining himself with a fifty-year-old episode of ‘Green Acres’, returned fire in the same milky-adult tone he adopted when talking to their grandchildren and animals – “Don’t know. I’ve never tried.”

The 76 year-old retired milkman considered himself just another techno-phobe trying to make their way in a digital-age, info-saturated world. In contrast, wife Gwendolyn regarded herself as no less than a modern gadget deity, confident and proud of her ability to run a house, and especially the kitchen of that house, generously equipped with all manner of labor-saving appliances.

Over the years, one appliance in particular, the dishwasher – which, amusingly, Art often referred to as the ‘aquatech’ – had been the source of a number of petty squabbles. Art had learnt the hard way some time back that for beloved Gwendolyn, something as seemingly non-grievous as placing items on the upper rack when they were supposed to go on the lower rack – or vice versa – was a lock-uppable offence.

That hadn’t stopped him from boldly inserting a many and varied odd assortment of everyday objects – everything from finger nail clippers, dentures, dirty shed tools and the plastic cactus plant that stood next to their front door welcome mat to assorted hair razors, hubcaps from their prized Ford Pinto and even Art’s own flip flops into the dishwasher so that they might be cleaned. Hi innovation also extended to using the steam from the machine to force-ripen avocados.

Knowing full well such unorthodox use of their automated ‘dish pit’ would never meet with the approval of the woman he had once referred to in the heat of battle as the ‘house crocodile’ (all mouth, no ears and bloody sharp teeth), naturally the dishwasher ‘experiments’ had been planned well in advance to coincide with Gwendolyn’s visits to the shops or coffee catch-ups with friends.

On one memorable occasion however, Art’s maverick, man-moment dishwasher ways had been welcomed. Ingeniously, he’d thought to include one of his wife’s favorite dresses through not one but three successive suds-packed cycles in order to remove a Pinot Noir red wine stain. It was an option Gwendolyn herself would never have considered. Apparently the mix of different chemicals swirling inside the dishwasher compared to those inside the washing machine had made all the difference

An unprophesied happy ending like that had earned Art an elated kiss on the cheek. A verbal orchid followed a few days later. While enjoying the salty, oceanic air of a beach vacation and with warm grains of sands grinding between both their toes, Gwendolyn turned to her husband of fifty-three years and remarked, “You hear waves crashing Arty. Now thanks to you dearest, I hear our dishwasher.”

Thief by Kristy Gherlone

February 4, 2019 by Every Writer

Thief

by Kristy Gherlone

I watch them together, though I’m supposed to be in my room. They’re sitting too close. Cigarette smoke trails in front of my eyes as I sit huddled in the corner.

They talk to each other like they’re good friends, but I don’t know the woman with my father. She’s pretty and young, but there’s something ugly about her too.

He faces her as he sits on the couch, strumming away on his guitar. The woman places her hand on his knee. Her thumb moves in lazy circles over the denim fabric of his pants before slipping in and out of a frayed hole to touch his bare skin.

I can’t breathe. I cough. The woman glares at me, then mashes her lips together until they melt into a smirk. Her eyes speak to me. They say, ‘I’m taking him. He’s mine now. Just sit there and let it happen.’ She turns back to my father. His eyes tell her that I’m not important. She smiles. I hold my blanket over my nose and breathe in filtered smoke as I suck my thumb.

My mother walks in. “Another guitar lesson?” She asks. Her voice is strange.

The woman takes her hand off from my father’s knee and he stops playing.

“Yes,” the woman answers. She picks her bag up off the floor. “I have to get back to work now. Same time tomorrow?” she asks my father, like she doesn’t need my mother’s permission. Like she’s going to be the boss now.

He clears his throat, “yeah, tomorrow’s good.”

“Bye,” she sings to me. She pats my head like I’m a dog before breezing out in a choke of perfume.

My father puts his guitar down and gets up. He stretches and walks over to the fridge, where he reaches in for a beer.

“I don’t want her back here,” my mother says. Her voice is shaky, as if she’s about to cry. She whips a dirty plate into the sink. It shatters. “I’m not stupid! I know what’s going on.”

“Okay, so you caught me,” he shrugs and looks at the floor.

My mother chokes, “that’s just great!” She snatches her purse off the counter, “you’re not leaving me with this mess.” She motions towards me and slams the door on her way out.

My father picks up the phone. “I told her. Come and get me?”

He’s going through the drawers in his room, throwing things into his suitcase when I hear someone pull up and honk. I go to the window. That woman is sitting in the driver’s seat of a car with no roof. Her hair swirls in the breeze, as if they are already driving away.

I want to say something, but I don’t exist anymore.

He runs out and kisses the woman on the lips.

She waves to me as they pull away. My father looks straight ahead.

Nobody Shall Sleep By T. Dem

February 3, 2019 by Every Writer

Nobody Shall Sleep

By T. Dem

I’m lying down on the bed. Naked. Carefree. One hand thrown carelessly behind my head propping me up. The other playing with my belly button or any small indent on my skin within a comfortable radius. I don’t even notice the neuroticism. In this corner of the world, in this cove of the Montenegrin coastline, the sunsets is out of this world. Like it doesn’t belong to the world.

Instead, I’m watching the white, translucent drapes flutter in the wind coming through my open balcony door. Mesmerized by the light of the setting sun. I’m relaxed. Carefree. Bored a little. I remember the small table and two chairs in the corner pushed together. But there is only me here. I’m the only one that came. In a car. By my own hand. I smile to myself.

Eyes close. Fingers rub my face. Slowly over my eyebrows, down my neck, past my shoulders, and bare breasts and to my breathing belly. I miss other hands on my body. Another woman’s hands on my body. Touching. Pushing. Her smell. Softness. Warmth.

I stand up. Face myself in the mirror. 37. Shoulder length hair. Brown. Eyes too. 178 cm tall. Large breasts. Small waist. Round hips. Decent legs. Mostly flat belly. Nice looking. But they don’t see me. I’m an invisible in our world. The curse of blending.

My hands cup my breasts. Squeeze. I feel so much want. Down my belly. Over my shaved pussy. Inside my lips and over my clit. I press a little. But it’s not satisfying. I take a deep breath and brush my hair back. Dress. Long white pants and a print tee. Hair still wet, I head out.

Down the stairs of my hotel. Down the hill. Past the casino. To the waterfront littered with restaurants where groups of people sit. Talking. Eating. Smiling. I stroll. The feel of my white pants soft against my skin. My shoulders tender from the afternoon sun. Soft Balkan music filling the air with the sound of bagpipe and violins. The moon glistens on the water. The boats, medium and small, sway softly, tied to some anchor that can’t be seen in the black waters. I scan the scene. Aim for a table near the corner. Perfect.

I cast my eyes. Everyone smokes here. Like in a movie. They dress well too. Especially the women. I lean back in my chair. Finger the menu. I know this restaurant has English translations. Grilled octopus. White wine. I tell my waitress who has brought me some fresh bread and a mix of olive oil and vinegar. Napkin on lap, I break bread and dip and taste. Lean back in my chair. Feel the softness of the bread in my mouth. The silky oil. Tart vinegar. Refocus my eyes. Two couples ahead of me. Well dressed. Smoking. Smiling. Joking. Finishing dinne

Retreat by Jack Coey

February 1, 2019 by Every Writer

Retreat

by Jack Coey

She ran away from home, and Pastor Bruce was dismayed after talking with her mother. Her mother said she’d been sullen for the last month or so, and even the school nurse called once. Her daughter wouldn’t tell her what was wrong, and she asked Pastor Bruce whether she ever said anything to him, and the only thing Pastor Bruce could say was they talked about her going to community college in the fall. Her name was Theresa, and she was seventeen years old, and her mother feared she was addicted to drugs. Pastor Bruce didn’t think that was right, and speculated on her boyfriend, Roger. Roger was a likeable fellow, and the top shoe salesman at Penny’s even though he worked part-time while going to college. The managers at Penny’s thought he had a prosperous future as a salesman. Pastor Bruce asked if she’d talked to Roger about what he knew. Theresa’s mother said she was angry with Roger, and Pastor Bruce waited for more, but only heard silence. Pastor Bruce thought there was a good chance that may have something to do with this. He was curious, and wanted to ask, but changed his mind. He asked about her husband, who he bowled with, and she said he traveled a lot for business, and was flying back from Houston. After he hung up the phone, he sat at his desk, and looked out over the green lawn of the church. He pictured Theresa, and drove the image from his mind. He squeezed his hands into fists to help him discipline his thoughts. His envy of Roger, and the pleasure he had with Theresa, made him feel weak and sinful. He took up the sermon he was writing on his desk, and distracted himself with that. He wanted to help others with temptation. One had to deny oneself pleasure for a greater good was the idea he had, but what was the greater good? And why would one deny oneself pleasure now for a greater good later? He looked at the green lawn and focused his thoughts. The verse from Corinthians came to him: but with the temptation he will also provide the way of escape that you maybe able to endure it. That’s it. One has to have belief that God will deliver him if one has the will to resist. So maybe my message is that temptation is a temporary condition that won’t last if one has belief in the Lord. He liked that, and thought of Theresa. He heard something in the outer hallway. He stood up from his desk, and went to the door, and saw a middle-aged man in a sweat shirt and khaki pants standing in the hallway. He held up a badge.

“Detective Carlson from Keene Police.”

“Oh yes, how do you do? Please come in and have a seat.”

The two men walked into Pastor Bruce’s office, and the detective sat in a chair facing the desk. He took out a notebook and pen.

“Theresa Murphy ran away from home last night, and we’re talking to people who knew her to gather information.”

“Yes, of course.”

“She is a member of your congregation?”

“Yes, she is.”

“How long?”

“Oh, I would say three years or so.”

“Just Theresa or Theresa and her parents?”

“Theresa was fully involved, her mother moderately involved, and her father marginally involved.”

There was silence as the detective wrote in his notebook. He looked up, and paused, before he said,

“Theresa spent time here alone then?”

“Alone?”

“I mean without her parents?”

“Yes, that’s not unusual for teenagers to be here for activities without their parents. The parents like it, in fact.”

“Last month there was a retreat?” Pastor Bruce shifted in his seat.

“Yes.”

The detective didn’t say anything.

“I took a group of teenagers to Foster Falls for an overnight retreat.”

“Theresa?”

“Yes, she was part of the group.”

“That was when her mother saw a change in her attitude.”

“I refute your insinuation that the retreat had anything to do with that.”

The two men briefly made eye contact. The detective wrote in the notebook.

“Okay. I’m going to be talking with you again. Thank-you for your time.”

The detective stood up and walked out of the office. Pastor Bruce sat at his desk for a long time. Later that afternoon, Theresa’s father thought it odd when he saw him in the airport concourse.

The End.