Shortly after she turned 70, Celeste discovered that she was suddenly, remarkably, no longer allergic to cats. “This happens,” her allergist said without resentment or skepticism. “We can’t explain it. Probably has some relation to a change in hormones.” Her… Continue Reading
Paul never liked the refrigerator. His husband had been the one who wanted stainless steel. “But fingerprints wipe right off this one,” he explained when Paul pointed to an eggshell model across the showroom. The refrigerator had drawers for everything… Continue Reading
Hello. Please… sit. Relax. See? The snow’s not so bad a seat. How high have you climbed? You don’t know? Well… neither do I. When did you start? You don’t know? Well… it doesn’t matter now. What a wonderful view.… Continue Reading
Her menu was written in Helvetica. The standard black font paired against off-white paper in a contest of monotony. Cleverly named breakfast options and well thought out puns added colour to the menu choices. She debated between the aptly named… Continue Reading
Inside the poem was safe and quiet, but the word knew its time was limited. Even here, amid the heady chaos of surrealism tinged with psychedelia, staying still for too long could be fatal. Peering out from between two random… Continue Reading
I keep a baseball bat under my bed. It’s not a genuine Louisville Slugger, carved from Northern white ash, but it’s polished smooth and when I crept across the outfield to claim it from the equipment shed last week, it… Continue Reading
Arthur Norris went back to the shed to fetch gasoline for the mower. In the twilight the straight tracks of newly shaved grass looked like different shades of ribbons spilled from the spool. “Arthur!” he heard her calling. She was… Continue Reading
The chain rattled against the door as it swung open, revealing the matted green carpet and mustard bedsheets. Lights above the two queen beds filled the room with a steady hum, casting a dim glow against the faded and stained… Continue Reading
It started out with a scribble. As she dragged a blue crayon across a crumpled sheet of white paper. The messy scrawl was an abstract piece. But like all art, it was a mark from the artist — I am… Continue Reading
You’ve come here to see— To see. To see her. That’s right. Ethel. Your wife of sixty-six years. You remember her: hair that was always in rollers, an apron knotted around her waist even though she stopped baking once she… Continue Reading