Louise Dolan. “Departures”
I walk the long aisle to the end of the plane to stretch my legs. Back at my row, I gently tap my seatmate on the shoulder to get to my seat. I slip my book from the pocket in the seatback ahead of me and the bookmark falls to the floor.
“Oh darn, lost my page.”
“What a beautiful bookmark,” my seatmate says.
“Thank you. It’s actually a birthday card that I laminated. From my mother. One of her watercolors.”
“Gosh, it’s beautiful. I paint a little myself. Your mother is very talented.”
“Was. She’s been gone for eleven years.”
“You can almost smell those daffodils. They’re translucent, as if you can see the sunlight shining through their delicate petals. That’s not easy to do.”
“I’m not a painter, but I agree with you, they’re special.”
“It’s called a flat wash. You achieve that kind of nuance by brushing successive strokes of color on wet paper. It gives the petals that gradual gradation of color. Seemingly without a beginning or end to the color value.”
“We used to pick flowers for her, bring her bouquets to paint.”
“Better than buying them, like I’ve often done.”
“Whoa! That was quite a bump!”
“Id better pop to the bathroom, too, before they tell us we can’t.”
My seatmate dashes up the aisle just as the pilot comes on the intercom.
“Looks like we have a bit of rough air for the next fifteen-twenty minutes. I’m gonna ask you to return to your seats and fasten those seatbelts until we’re on the other side of this. We should be smooth sailing the rest of the way into Minneapolis. Sit back and enjoy the flight. I’ll let you move about the cabin again, once it’s safe.”
The seatbelt light dings on and the flight attendants zip up and down the aisle ensuring compliance. I flip through the pages of my book unsure of where I was last night before dozing off. Giving up, I place the book face down on my lap, and cradle the bookmark in my hands, my thoughts drifting to the mixed feelings it produces in my heart.
Glenn Marchand. “Borderline on The Acts of Love”
“You’re being insensitive. Rick means the best for me.”
“Your psychiatrist is controlling. The goal should be to guide you, not dictate what goes
on in your life.”
“You’re an asshole.”
“You’re attached to him because he never tries to fix things. He just schedules another appointment.”
“How do you think I have the insights I have?”
“Did he give them to you, or did you come to them through discussion?”
“Maybe both! Who cares!”
The tension was building. There was no insurance against a collision. While Jamesia sat in a bundle, gripping a pillow, I fiddled with a fidget toy and stared at a doorknob. A waterfall of friction cascaded into the room.
“You don’t know what it’s like to have this type of dynamic.”
“I don’t want someone running my life.”
“He doesn’t run my life, he helps me!”
“Why would he tell you to get away from your mother? What did she do?”
“Leave me alone!”
“I just want you to make your own conclusions.”
“When I can, I do.”
I was swishing inside. We’d been over this several times. There were things she wasn’t telling me. I’d just learned she was afflicted with PTSD. I knew there had to be a big reason. But she wasn’t ready to share. I didn’t want to push her. I never wanted to push her. I just wanted to understand, to aid where I was permitted, or to listen with depth of knowledge and keenness.
Françoise Nieto-Fong. “Oxido-Rust.”
My rust-colored extra-large L-shaped sofa looked so bright under the evening light; what an irony that the sofa’s color was equivalent to what I felt had befallen our relationship. Microfiber is the modern velvet, I think. Less plush, less lux, but the material still tries to convey some lusciousness to the touch. I dragged my finger along the edge; it always left a trace. I imagined I was a forlorn fairy sitting on a soft pumpkin rind. One must have some whimsical thoughts to break up life’s drama. After all, it was October, and pumpkins were all around; in the neighbors’ yards, parking lots turned into temporary fields. I looked up and saw our piano in the background, the fireplace. Bob sat just across from me without his guitar, his dreads now long and stringy framing his round face, his eyes trying to investigate my mind.
“Andre talked to me. He told me the truth.” I said, hoping it would sound casual. Over the weekend, my son had lied to me about him and his friends drinking vodka while Bob and I were at the opera.
Sarah E. G. Francis. “Late October, 2019.”
Five months after dad’s 69th birthday, I sat in my car outside the dry-cleaners back on the West coast agonizing over a text. I could not figure out what to say. My sister Billie was sending me text after text, a deluge of anxiety, asking what each detail meant, if I thought this was the end, could she finish her honeymoon, would dad still be there when she got back in four days? I stared at my screen as it chirped, frozen while the car began to overheat with the Los Angeles sun hammering my beat-up Ford Escape. Drops of sweat dripped down my arms, and I felt feverish in the souls of my feet and palms.
I jumped when a loud honk came from behind. A red Prius wanted my spot. I had been idling too long. I gave up on the text and dialed my brother while maneuvering out of the minuscule parking lot, making sure to flip off the Prius on my way.
Josh answered on the first ring. “Hey, when’s your flight getting in?” He cut straight to the point.
Jason Robinson. “Lion´s Den.”
I was born in a desert, raised in a lion’s den
My number one occupation, stealing women
From their men
-New Minglewood Blues, Noah Lewis.
Photo by Alexas Fotos on Pexels.com
I want You to remember the lion’s den and its stench
The tangled messy manes of boys trying so hard
To be men in the 80s, tufts of hair matted
Yes, yes I remember
Yes, we must go back and feel again
Yes, feeling
Like adolescent male lions
Preparing for exile from the pride
From the hypervigilant generations
Lionesses accustomed to doing everything
Hunting, feeding, weening
Yes, we must go back and feel again
Yes, we must go back and feel again
Yes, feeling
Preparing for exile from the pride
From the hypervigilant generations
Lionesses accustomed to doing everything
Hunting, feeding, weening
The fear consuming
So you see the dusty excursions into open spaces
Sage brushed against our jeans
Clods of earth in our socks
Yes, yes I remember
Finding safety in numbers
Rainbowe Kilborn. “But…I am not White.”
I was at school. It was lunchtime and I was getting ready for my appointment with the school psychologist at 1 pm. My appointments with him were always right after lunch. I was eating my tuna sandwich as fast as I could, I mean, I wasn’t going to throw it away. Those tuna sandwiches were the highlight of my day, the best thing I had ever tasted, and for $1.75, a bargain! They came in soft toasted wheat bread with only one piece of lettuce inside and always cut in the middle. What I liked the most about my tuna sandwich was that it didn’t smell like fish much. As I bit into my last piece, I thought about what the school psychologist and I were going to talk about this time. I wondered because he always starts with the same question, “What do you want to talk about today?” And I would always say, “Nothing.” Of course, he always ends our sessions advising me I need to socialize more. As if I don´t know that.
On The Edge 
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