Shadowfax Marie

Just before he’s seventy, just before seven in the morning he finds Shadowfax Marie at the 6068 Spa, lets her drift him into his morning pages, levitate him, lets him forget everything, dismisses all of his desires--even his morning coffee, even his Beloved (still in bed, dreaming he’s still there, sleeping, beside her).

His wings, though, are only borrowed and insubstantial. Before he can float away, he remembers his flesh, recalls his agenda, and realizes that there’s a day ahead during which Shadowfax Marie will inevitably fade; a day filled with no sound worth hearing, no vision worth sharing.

From Guest Contributor Ron. Lavalette

Ron.’s debut chapbook, Fallen Away (Finishing Line Press) is now available at all standard outlets. Many of his published works can be found at EGGS OVER TOKYO

Regrets

I write my own praises, dictating stories to muckrakers. Advisors insist on it.

I ran for office to serve. Tragedy. Much is given, much is expected.

I spout platitudes with such grace, it scares me.

Advisors expect me to conduct myself with grace. Don’t show feelings.

Constituents expect a shining prince, savior of liberalism.

I drink copiously, the moon as my witness. I can’t contain the weight of demands, desires.

I wake up on stairwells and in closets, hangovers uniquely my own machination.

I feel failure pirouetting, a taunting ballerina. She’s right to taunt.

But I’m not allowed to regret.

From Guest Contributor Yash Seyedbagheri.

Yash is a graduate of Colorado State University's MFA program in fiction. He is the recipient of two Honorable Mentions from Glimmer Train. His story, "Strangers," was nominated for The Best Small Fictions. Mir-Yashar's work is forthcoming or has been published in journals such as (mac)ro (mic), Runcible Spoon, JAB Fiction and Poetry, Unstamatic, and Ariel Chart.

Fuel For Thought

I miss him already.

Longing for his accommodation from my customary position on his lap. His immediate response to desires communicated with a caress of my foot.

This will be our last intimacy for some time. The intercooler died. The journey to the garage is an uncomfortable affair. Accelerating by exhaling, barely contacting the pedal. Still plunging the road behind into an apocalyptic black cloud of unburnt diesel.

Miles per gallon reading’s down to yards. Glares from other road users threaten to ignite the fuel trail.

“Go green!” They yell.

Jersey is green. Spruce Green. Says so on his logbook.

From Guest Contributor Frances Tate

The Never Ending Work

She looked at him constantly, with eyes full of stories, desires, and expectations.

He was not used to it. Nervous, he kept ignoring her.

She called to him. Scared, he turned back to look.

She murmured, "Gimme an hour of happiness." He saw she was wearing a sari, shabbily tied, covering her sparsely. Her eyes were full of coal, lips beaming out in red. She was wearing socks in Calcutta summers. He could not stop himself from questioning her.

She smiled and replied that it was the only piece of clothing that she didn't have to take off to work.

From Guest Contributor Manmeet Chadha