Living in Sepia

by D. Richard Pearce

“I saw the kids this morning,” he said suddenly, as if he knew it was on her mind. “They’re growing like weeds.”

“Yeah,” she nodded vaguely, dumping out the last of the birdseed, “William is just like you. He fell in the canal this morning.”

He laughed at this, and then started walking away toward the barn.

“You wanna come for dinner?” she called out after him, already knowing the answer.

“Cain’t,” he yelled back.

She stood there as he disappeared, then turned back to the doves. Some were coming out now, eyeing her warily as they pecked at her offering. Suddenly she heard squawks from the salt cedar brush, and saw a crow taking off, eggshell and a bloody squab hanging from its beak.

The Sons of Carbon County

by Amanda Spikol

It was truly a wretched sight. They walked, little more than shambling, for it was the last thing that they possessed the will to do. Eyes grim, fixed and hollow, almost lifeless, they still kept on. Johnny Jones watched them go by, fetching up a silent prayer that Bryn was inside, resting, and wouldn’t have to bear the sight of them. His child was within her, so big these past few weeks, and he knew seeing this might drive her into some kind of fit.

The mules tripped to a sullen halt and the cart behind them stopped. At this, the slow procession came to life. One woman, thin hair tied back with a strip of burlap, and one little boy missing three fingers from his left hand, burst into tears. Weariness and exhaustion still bleeding from their eyes, the other women clustered around her like mother hens. The children only stood mutely by while the boy bawled angrily at the sky. Johnny ran forward. He was strong, he should help.

Heartstrung

by Rachel Swirsky

One, two, three, the needle swoops.

Pamela squirms as the needle cuts into her sensitive heart tissue. “It hurts!”

“Shh,” the seamstress says. “It’s almost done, honey. Just a few more stitches and you’ll be like mommy.”

The seamstress bends forward as she presses her needle into her daughter’s heart for another stitch, squinting to make sure she sews tight and even. As she pulls the thread taut, she realizes this stitch marks the midpoint – she’s now halfway finished sewing Pamela’s heart onto her sleeve.

The Language of Crows

by Mary E. Choo

“Susie… Susan…” Jeremy’s eyes struggle to find me. His voice is coarse, beleaguered. “I must know how everything….”

“Jeremy, love… everything’s fine,” I interject. “Min’s round and about, Fidel has been fed, and Edward is coming today, with the papers you wanted.”

Edward, Jeremy’s solicitor, has been back and forth with his secretary a lot lately, regarding Jeremy’s will. Edward did tell me, last time, that he’s getting concerned, in view of Jeremy’s extreme medication and state of mind. Most of the estate and the house go to me, but… well… after… I’d rather not stay.

It’s Easy to Make a Sandwich

by S.L. Bickley

You know what goes into each variety — you’d better, you’ve gone over it enough times. You know what’s in each of the recessed boxes in the counter.

Meats: Salami, pepperoni, roast beef, turkey, tuna salad, meatballs, chicken salad. Bacon’s in the narrow coffin-like depression, dead center.

Cheeses: American, white American, pepper jack, Colby, provolone.

Vegetables: lettuce, tomato, cucumber, shredded carrots, peppers (red bell, green bell, jalapeño, banana), black olives, pickles.

Sauces: mustard, mayonnaise, chipotle mayonnaise, Italian, light Italian, ranch, all in upside down squeeze bottles. Oil and vinegar in cruets. Shakers of salt-and-pepper, oregano, Lawry’s Seasoned Salt.

It’s a lot to keep track of. At least, it’s a lot for the mind to keep track of.

It’s easy to make a sandwich if you switch off your mind.

Votary

by MK Hobson

One day Mom came home from work early. Votary found her sitting on the porch talking with Mr. Dubeck, the postman. He had his bag next to him, full of mail. He was bald and skinny, with neck muscles that stuck out and jumped around when he laughed. He had strong muscular legs, rippling and hard, and they had fine golden hairs on them that shone in the sun. He was sitting on the stairs below my mother, in the late afternoon sunshine.

She was sitting in the cool shadow, speaking quietly, her hands clasped together. The thumb of one hand was stroking the palm of the other. She was sitting back under the overhang of the roof; her face was darkened by the heavy shadow. Mr. Dubeck had his head inclined sympathetically toward her.

They weren’t talking about mail.