Month: January 2025

The Summer I Watched “Boyfriend takes care of you while sick” ASMR Videos on Repeat by Danielle Shorr

On By okaydonkey7In poetry1 Comment

My loneliness had teeth, no eyes, and legs
that walked me back to bed at all hours of the day.
The room spun only when I was conscious.
Exhaustion replaced all other natural desires
and it was the best I had ever looked.
The first medication was wrong, the second and third, too.
The days were a shrinking room,
and I had eaten all of the doors.
So I watched Youtube videos where a man
I didn’t know pretended to nurse me back to health
through my phone. I can’t remember the circumstances
of the discovery, only that the videos found me
when I needed them to. A fraud, a two-timer,
I went on dates where I couldn’t make eye contact,
then went home to the arms of my laptop’s screen.
Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you.
You’ll be better before you know it.
A hand reached out holding a spoonful of chicken soup
and I opened my mouth. His fingers scratched
the top of the camera and I felt it on my head.
He rubbed my shoulders and cleared the tears
forming in the pockets of my eyelids.
How did he know I was crying?
I watched the videos like porn but without shame.
What we did here in the bedroom was
nobody’s business but ours. No one would think to ask,
so I had nothing to tell.
He would fix me before anyone knew I was dead.
He would keep me until it was safe to send me off,
until I could reenter the world and want to stay there

Danielle Shorr is a professor of creative writing at Chapman University. Winner of the Touchstone Literary Magazine Debut Prize in Nonfiction, a finalist for the Diana Woods Memorial Prize in Creative Non-fiction, and nominee for The Pushcart Prize 2022 & 2023, and the Best of the Net 2022 & 2023, her work has appeared in The Florida Review, Driftwood Press, The New Orleans Review, and others. Find her at: @danielleshorr.

Micros About Marriage by Amber Burke

On By okaydonkey7In flash fictionLeave a comment

Dark Circles

The husband and wife my husband and I met at the dinner party both have undereye circles so dark they are almost purple. Even though they smiled often enough, the dark rings gave the couple a haunted, intimidating air, as if they had glimpsed the end of the world, and we didn’t talk to them much. We talked about them—or rather, their dark circles–later that night in bed. We wondered if the dark circles could have predated the marriage and even sparked the initial attraction between the future husband and wife, causing each to recognize in the other a second self. Or perhaps they came after the marriage and are being caused by the same factor; the meals the husband and wife share could be missing the same important nutrient, or the same city noise or streetlight could be keeping them both awake, or they could be worried about or grieving for the same person. Or perhaps they have caused them in each other—the dark circles arose from whatever they are in the habit of doing together that is keeping them up: fighting, or making love, or reading out loud, or speculating late into the night about couples they hardly know.

A Small Danger Remains

I am no seamstress, but no one would see the rough stitches I was hash-marking in the ripped lining of my husband’s coat pocket, through which he’d lost many things—money, keys, his phone. When I was nearly finished, I lost my needle. I’d set it down to adjust the coat on my lap and when I reached for it, it jumped off the table where it had been resting. I couldn’t see where it went. This is why people have pincushions, I thought, but I didn’t have a pincushion. It was remarkable really that I had a needle and thread that matched the coat well enough.

I thought the needle was likeliest to have landed on the coat itself. I inspected it, then got up and flapped it over the chair where I’d been sitting, in the corner of the living room by the light. Nothing. I inspected the chair, and then the floor under and around it. I didn’t see the needle anywhere.

My first impulse was to get my husband to help me look. But I thought it unlikely that he would find it; his eyes are exactly as bad as mine, and I am usually the one who finds things. I thought it more likely that he would upbraid me for my carelessness; he could sit on the needle, or the dogs could step on it, and was I going to be the one to take them to the vet if they did? If we didn’t find it, from then on, every time we went to the living room, he’d inquire about the needle and lower himself onto the couch with exaggerated wariness. After long enough, it might turn into a joke; wherever he sat, he might say, “Ouch!” and I would laugh but also feel something poking me. I decided to take my chances; if the needle was somewhere I couldn’t find it, perhaps it was also somewhere it wouldn’t hurt anyone. I took another needle, finished my sewing, and this second needle I made sure to put away neatly.

Later that night, when my husband was showering, I looked for the lost needle with the help of a flashlight, to no avail. I put on my reading glasses and crawled around the living room with my nose very close to the floor. No needle. The following week, I expanded my search field, even flipping books over and shaking them and tapping the dirt around potted plants fruitlessly. That was last month. More recently, I’ve checked for the needle in the fruit bowls on the kitchen counter, between the sheets of our bed, and in the cupholders in the car where all manner of things appear, but not the needle. We sat outside on the porch last night, and I caught myself scanning the early spring grass, looking for something sharp.

No one has so far been injured. The days are already lengthening. It will be summer soon, and in the sharper light, the glint of the needle may be easier to see.

Miracle Grow

My husband planted grass seed but would water it only once a week, and then give it only a quick sprinkle, saying it is drought-resistant grass. I too am ambivalent about grass, but I pitied the grass he so carefully planted, which, after the spring rains were over, quickly began yellowing under the hot sun. So I began watering it generously when he was gone, which he was for work, a few nights every week. Now he thinks the drought-resistant grass grows magnificently without water and is sure we do not need to water it even one day a week.

Amber Burke graduated from Yale and the Writing Seminars MFA Program at Johns Hopkins University. She now teaches writing and yoga at UNM-Taos. Her work has been published in in swamp pink, The Sun, Michigan Quarterly Review, Flyway, X-R-A-Y, Quarterly West, and Superstition Review, among other places. She is also a regular contributor to Yoga International and co-author of the yoga ebook, Yoga for Common Conditions.

They Look Dead, but They are Just Dreaming by Amanda Chiado

On By okaydonkey7In poetryLeave a comment

There is an ant infestation at the laundromat. The little legged beauty marks are marching toward a large hole in the wall. I start a load of whites then get in line with the ants. Upon arriving at the hole, I gaze inside where I see a newborn baby covered in stickiness. The ants work hard at cleaning the infant, dropping crumbs and water droplets into its mouth. The child looks well-cared for, but I have no children of my own, so I don’t know the full extent of rearing a tiny person. A pregnant terminator arrives, “The baby has done its job. Everyone must evacuate.” I go next door and buy a pink frosted donut and a bottle of chocolate milk. I watch as they freeze the ants into immobility with ice guns and throw them into large ant farms hoisted onto 18 wheelers. I read a tabloid about the protein packed insect food of the future until the washer chirps from across the parking lot. The crime scene tape is still whipping in the wind like sweet strands of honey. The ants look dead behind the glass. I am sure they are just dreaming.

Amanda Chiado is the author of Vitiligod (Dancing Girl Press). Her work has most recently appeared in Rhino, The Pinch Journal, and The Offing. Her poetry has been nominated for the Pushcart & Best of the Net. She is the Director of Arts Education at the San Benito County Arts Council, is a California Poet in the Schools, and edits for Jersey Devil Press. www.amandachiado.com

I Found a Stone Under My Skin by Amanda Parrack

On By steve cIn flash fiction1 Comment

May 10th 9:58 pm

I was brushing my hair when I noticed the top part of my head was tender. When I put my fingers through my hair searching for the tender spot, I stopped and felt the bump the size of a dime. For some reason I had an urge to pop it, like a pimple, so I did. When I squeezed the bump, blood ran a straight line down my neck and what was left was a small stone in my hand. I took a shower of course. I am hoping to schedule a doctor’s appointment tomorrow.

Before that, I was having one of my depressive episodes. Thank God I live alone even though I have my cat, because who in the world would keep up with the messes I leave around the house? I fed Salem in the morning and laid around all day watching reruns of Community. I don’t know what I am doing with my life, and graduation is around the corner. I hate that Sammy broke up with me only two months in. I was hoping she would be my future or at least I would have her a part of that.

May 11th 5:58 pm

I scheduled a doctor’s appointment and was able to get something at 3pm. When I checked in, I sat in the waiting area by a TV with sounds from a recent episode of SpongeBob. I glared at past text messages from Sammy and decided to shoot her an update. I know she said she doesn’t have feelings, but there’s always a chance. Wouldn’t she want to know about the part-time job I got? In all honesty I shouldn’t have sent it, but I did.

The doctor had my blood taken and is supposed to call tomorrow if there is a chance I have cancer or something. She asked if I did drugs or alcohol to which I said no, but then she asked if I drank caffeine, and I said I did. She looked at me like I murdered someone even though tea and coffee are the one joy I have in life. She suggested I cut back on so much caffeine and said that the hole in my head should heal up soon. She also was in much disbelief when I said a stone came out of my head. Perhaps she thinks I do LSD. She did ask very carefully if I did drugs.

May 13th 6:45 pm

Sammy didn’t reply to my texts for a while. I kept saying that we should talk and asking why she was pushing me away. When she finally did respond, she sent something short and simple. That she is sticking to our agreement of not talking for a while until she gets her shit figured out. I should probably get my shit figured out.

The doctors called and said there is no sign of cancer in my bloodstream but I am low on iron. I am not sure what that means or why a rock came out of my head. Just yesterday, I found another tender lump in my armpit. This morning I popped it and this time the stone was as big as a quarter. The doctor suggested I take iron pills, so maybe there is some correlation? Who knows, I am not a doctor. I am just a music major.

Speaking of which, I haven’t been doing good at being a music major. I haven’t been practicing much and I haven’t been inspired to write music. With graduation around the corner, sometimes I wonder if it was a terrible idea to do music. The job outlook isn’t too great. I guess I could be a teacher. Backup jobs are always teaching at some middle school, because the world will always need more teachers. People keep asking me my plans after graduation. If these stones don’t stop coming and I die from them magically, perhaps there won’t be any future.

There is this guy Brian I work with at the gas station. He’s a smoker and always knows what each regular prefers when they check out. Brian used to also be a music major but ended up as the manager of the gas station which worries me.

Working at the gas station, you see a lot of people that are reflections of the broken systems in society. You start to feel pretty terrible handing a forty-year-old man his tenth lottery ticket for the day around lunchtime. Or the woman who just bought a whole box of cigarettes.

Anyways, these stones that keep coming from my body feel like a relief.

May 14th 9:00 pm

There’s a handful of repeat customers who buy lottery tickets. They go and scratch off and come back with less money than they had and start the process all over again. They don’t even say hi at this point like some normal human would. They just go to the lottery board and point at the numbers they want me to grab.

But it turns out I handed out a winning ticket that ended up becoming $141,000. The lottery guy came in and told me. I was nervous since there were rumors I was going to receive a $1,000 tip. That would definitely help. I had a stone at the tip of my thumb, just a small one that’s all, but I could feel it was ready to pop. The guy ended up giving me 50 dollars. When he did, I gripped the money too hard and the stone popped out right into the lottery guy’s hands. We both just looked at each other.

May 20th 11:45 pm

Wow, it’s been a while since I have updated. I usually jot something down every day or two.

The problem is that I have been busy. The stones have been growing from my body at an astounding rate, and I probably look pretty ugly from them. Sammy would never take me back. I have a little bucket in the corner of my room full of them. Salem tends to keep away from them and always hisses when she gets near. I have wondered if there is some correlation to kidney stones, but the last two appointments have found no correlation. The doctors left me with no answers and a huge hospital bill, so I have decided not to go back and to deal with this problem on my own.

Maybe the stones are growing because I want them to.

I don’t smoke or anything nor have I ever bought lottery tickets, but these stones, although they might sound scary to you, are a way for me to cope sometimes. It’s almost out of compulsion, the way people pop a zit and find it satisfying. There is no pain and little blood from my scars. One time after an angry customer argued with me, I went to the bathroom to pop a stone from my elbow and it felt so good.

I guess you could say I wanted this to happen.

I want something, anything, to happen.

Amanda Parrack is an undergraduate at Missouri State University and works at the writing center as a writing consultant. She lives in Springfield and spends her free time out in nature.

Bright Invitations by Dani Janae

On By okaydonkey7In poetryLeave a comment

after Camille T. Dungy

I bathe my tongue in syrup.
The rest of my body in sugaring
light, black leaf, smoke poplars, sulfur.
There is a stain on me that will not wash
out. No matter what a river says you cannot
flow in the direction of want all your life. Who
do I blame if not the shadow over the house, if not
the blade of his hands, if not the blade of the moon’s
light as it watched everything. if not the holler of night
turning to day, if not the room of my weeping, if not myself?

Dani Janae is a poet and journalist from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Her work has been previously published in Longleaf Review, SWWIM, Palette Poetry, Dust Poetry Magazine, among others. She lives in South Carolina.

After His Mother Throws Him Out, Nicky Spends the Night on the High School Roof by Kathryn Kulpa

On By steve cIn flash fictionLeave a comment

This was 1997, before everything sucked. You could wander off school grounds, or back onto them. Life was fluid. It could expand. “A FIDDLER ON A ROOF!” Nicky shouted. His tenth-grade girlfriend had been in that play. She played a grandmother in a babushka: still looked hot. And now, like he’d psychic summoned her, his old girlfriend came walking by. He gave her a hand up. They shared a smoke. Nicky watched moths masquerade as fireflies against the moon. He watched the moon turn shy and hide behind a cloud. Like his ex-girlfriend, it went away sometimes. Sometimes, it came back.

Kathryn Kulpa is the author of For Every Tower, a Princess, just released by Porkbelly Press, and A Map of Lost Places, forthcoming from Gold Line Press. Her stories can be found in Best Microfiction, Best Small Fictions, BULL, Moon City Review, trampset, and other journals. Find out more at kathrynkulpa.com