A Broken Glass

Flour, salt and baking powder. Margaret whips up a cake recipe as familiar as her own name. The whirring of the stand mixer comforts her.

Her mind drifts to Karl. They were late to an appointment. Brakes squeal. An impact. Karl’s head shatters the windshield.

As she pours the batter, a glass rises off the counter, picked up by an unseen hand. It hovers suspended in the air, the ceiling light fixture reflected inside.

Or is it Karl’s face?

Margaret does not move or breathe. The glass falls.

Broken shards cover the tile floor.

The glass, like Karl, is gone.

From Guest Contributor Heather Santo

Mutant Frogs

“The grandkids found albino frogs again,” he said.

“We can see them much better on the grass when they're white,” they told him.

But they had found two more the week before, and he worried that the pesticides he had used had drifted into the pond and caused mutations. His wife wasn't listening; she was trying to figure out why there were two small dents in the flour in the canister just like last week.

The children herded the frogs to the edge of the pond. Where each splashed into the pond, a small, white circle floated on the water.

From Guest Contributor Diane de Anda