My Date with Dawn

By Warren McPeherson

Whilst in college I had the great fortune of going out on some very bad dates. I also had the great fortune to drive some very bad cars. My date with a girl named Dawn was a staggering combination of the two engrained forever in the fabric of my life. If you have been reading the stories previous you have an idea that this fabric is nothing like the smooth feel of silk or the comforting embrace of velvet, but actually something more akin to a potato sack.

As I mentioned earlier, while in college I had a crappy car. It was a blue Nissan Stanza that I called “the Co-Stanza” ala George Costanza and the “by Mennen” jingle addition he added to his name so people would remember him. (The irony of course was that I didn’t want anyone to recall my horrible car.) Other than a bullet hole in the hood my father had put there one night while shooting at nothing in particular, the car ran fine. And that is all that really matters.
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First Cut

By Ngozi Nwabineli

That can’t just have happened. I looked at my screen willing it to tell me otherwise. But its rebellious silence told me otherwise. We had split up. Via Instant Messenger. How on earth did I allow that one to get by? I willed him to write and say that all was forgiven, but no, that didn’t happen either. The shocked numbness gave way to teary anger. I just could not understand how it had all taken place, I didn’t see it coming, I was blindsided, I had been thrown a curveball and I had struck out in spectacular fashion.

I didn’t think it possible to feel such pain. Everything hurt from my eyes to my stomach stopping via my heart to deliver blow after agonising blow of acute agony. It may seem like I’m being dramatic here and perhaps I am. I am a woman after all. But you see they had definitely got it right when they said that the first cut is the deepest. Yes that’s right, my now ex boyfriend was my first love.
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The Worst Break-Up

by Tiffany Kildale

He left before I even knew he was going. He left without saying goodbye or anything at all. By the time I grasped what was happening there was nothing I could do or say to change the outcome. Pins and needles of panic stabbed my face, I felt like I was going to throw up. I sat down, put my head in my hands and cried a desperate cry. It was the worst kind of desperation, the desperation that knows he’s not coming back. Hopeless and terrified, for the very first time in my life I didn’t know what to do.
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Blind Date Turns into Soul Mate

By Rick Fowler

My sister, a Health nurse for our part of the county had spoken to a teacher through a visit to the school where this young lady was teaching. After this visit my sister called me and told me I should give her a call; she seemed to be single and not involved with anyone. It took a few days to get my nerve up but one evening I dialed her number and began my conversation with: “Hi, you don’t know me from Adam but….” One hour later, and with a date to a high school play at the school where I taught arranged, we ended our conversation.

Two weeks later I arrived at her door not knowing what to expect. She met me at the top of the stairs dressed in a pink outfit accented by a striking string of pearls around her neck. I was nervous at first but soon spellbound by her charm, sense of humor and the way she looked at me, not through me.
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Bath Water

by Theresa Ward

Have you ever been dumped under water?  I’m not referring to any mafia exploits or navy seal rescue missions, although I imagine those would also make for an excellent story.  No, I mean have you ever had someone break up with you while you were physically submerged in water?  Water has long been used in literature and films to symbolize ambiguity:  the ability to give and take life at a moment’s notice.  Unfortunately, this is where I found myself three years ago, in limbo somewhere in between both extremes, while deep in the hot water of a pink seventies bathtub in a small seaside town. Continue reading »

“On Fjords and Fourteen Year Olds”

by Jessie Ann Morrison

The boy and I are sitting on the carpeted floor of Katie’s bedroom, leaning against the side of her bed.  His name is Jax and he wears scuffed white shoes.  He has a little mole on his neck, and shiny hair that needs cutting.  It hangs over his eyebrows in lanky curtains.  His eyes are dark and inscrutable.

“Hey,” he says, unfolding his legs and standing up.  “I’ve got a song you’ve gotta hear.” Continue reading »

Bless the Child

by Georgia Rushing

I hate to see water collect on a rainy day. Looking at the yellowish brown water with the little black specs floating around in it makes me sick to my stomach and I’m immediately reminded of Dustin.

One thanksgiving, my aunt Lisa who had been living in California, introduced us to her godson Dustin. I was much taller, but he was older. He was a clean boy with waves in his hair. His smell reminded me of my grandfather.

“Crystal, why don’t you show Dustin the T.V. game I got you.” After Mama’s suggestion, I led Dustin to my bedroom.

“You can call me Dusty.” He said Continue reading »

“Can I Fit in Your Genes?”

Ty Brenneman

Once I’ve had the chance to thoroughly described the process, most people will exclaim “Oh, how magnanimous of you!” or “You must really got a heart of gold!” On the other hand, the more curious conversant will say, “I’ve always thought about doing that… how much did it pay?”

Depending on her genetic uniqueness an egg-donor can charge anywhere from $5,000 to $15,000 per donation and may receive “severance” pay if the preparation process—the incubation stage–fails to produce a minimum number of viable eggs, usually ten. For receiving the flat rate payment, or “donor’s fee” as it is called, the egg-donor is taxed as a private contractor at roughly six percent the fee.
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Homesick

by Evelyn Block

Wisdom and maturity are not the way I want to go with this. I want to whine and complain and I want it fixed. Yes. I guess in a sense it can be fixed, but it’s sort of like putting a band-aid on a bullet hole. The truth gets out. You can buy a pretty face again, yours but better looking, or a brand new and improved version, but they don’t do anything about the crepe-y neck and the thin-skinned blue veined hands. No magic yet available for those. Even the feet sort of swell up and spread so you look more like a waddling duck than a graceful woman. Everyone bashes the people who get plastic surgery while clandestinely wishing they had the guts, money, pain threshold, honesty or whatever it takes to go do it themselves. At thirty-three I was still proofed entering a bar. Now I can go almost anywhere and be totally invisible. Ma’am? I still look around when someone calls me that! And why do they always think I’m shopping for someone other than myself?
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Shadows

by Rich Lessing

There is a place, a very cold and stark place, where shadows cut like knives across the airless landscape. This edge is defined by its abruptness, in light and heat. Above, the sun stares down with a clarity that stuns the mind. One cannot look into that with eyes unprotected. Nor can you stand in the light or the shadow and not be confined within a bubble of armor.

Approaching the transition is strange. Below one can see the line of demarcation. Above you cannot. The distant cliff is dark but easy to see, reflected light. Not as bright as the surface on which we travel. The edge is close now. A line, straight as if drawn by a ruler; only changes in the line above are distorted by the angle of the sun on the line below.
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