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The Language of Crows

by Mary E. Choo

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“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.

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It’s Easy to Make a Sandwich

by S.L. Bickley

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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.

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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.

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Ice

by Heather Hatch

Johnson looked out at the glistening white expanse, glad for the barrier between him and the snow covered ice. He noted the research ship’s position and speed in the log book – along with the calm emptiness of the Antarctic wasteland – and turned to Ivers, the man at the radar.

“Still no sign of Dr. Fenton?” Johnson asked.

“Nope. Nothing from Saunders – how much longer are we waiting out here?”

Johnson shrugged. “Captain says another day.”