Superhero

Pay attention to your other senses, the blind man said, words muffled by my failing ears. They’ll take over if you lose one. He laughed, and I pushed our shared plate of sushi towards him, because I knew his touch was in no way enhanced. I watched his lips then: I’m no superhero. In the silence, the sushi tasted the same, the salt of tamari, snap of wasabi. Still I'd hoped: I’d envisioned a saving grace, sniffing people out by their soap’s scent, the sweetness of body lotion. The blind man, wishing for another roll, groped around on the tablecloth.

From Guest Contributor Colleen Addison

The Last Bath

I bathe the cat in the bathroom sink, so light, his little feline spine sharp with the thinning of time—twenty years. Hold him by the belly in the right hand, baby shampoo with the left. More soap for the diaper area. Careful of his eyes, looking so far away these days. Squeeze the water down his tail, his legs, all bones. Towel off, gentle, gentle. Murmur assurances that it’s almost over. Sit down on the couch, hold him in the towel. Is he ok? Movement—a gasp, he’s fine. Then my tear fell in his eye. He didn’t blink.

From Guest Contributor Brook Bhagat

Brook’s poetry, fiction, non-fiction, and humor have appeared in Monkeybicycle, Empty Mirror Magazine, Harbinger Asylum, Little India, Rat’s Ass Review, Anthem: A Tribute to Leonard Cohen, and other journals and anthologies. She and her husband Gaurav created Blue Planet Journal, which she edits and writes for. She holds an MFA from Lindenwood University, is an assistant professor of English at a community college, and is writing a novel. Her poetry collection, Only Flying, is due out Nov. 16, 2021 from Unsolicited Press. See more at brook-bhagat.com or reach her on Twitter at @brookbhagat.

The Button

Blake sat alone in the cell. He only had the bar of soap his guards had given him, and a button he'd smuggled under his tongue.

Alone. Alone. It had been 17 days now. He knew it was 17 days, because each morning, he made a mark in the soap with his button. There were 17 marks for 17 days.

For those 17 days, his only contact with the outside world was the metal plate they slid through the door at mealtime.

17 days to contemplate his crime, his smuggled button the only thing keeping his sanity from slipping away.

Rotten Teeth

Staring down at my bloody teeth, I vowed this would be the last I had this nightmare.

Dr. Lawson called them stress dreams and suggested I examine where my anxiety was coming from. Only I knew their true source. I wasn't going to share it with my therapist.

I tried washing my hands, but soap and water couldn't cure the corruption. My soul had turned, many years ago, and the only way to end its blight was to take my own life. Or to kill again.

Dr. Lawson was the next victim to pay the price for my own cowardice.

Happy Halloween

Homophasmatic

George had always been different. His parents first noticed something was wrong when he was only three because he had a habit of confusing words that sounded the same.

It took many different specialists before George was finally identified as a homophasmatic. They determined a portion of his brain was insufficiently developed and it prevented him from distinguishing certain sounds, much like a person who is color blind can't tell the difference between red and green.

The worst part for George was that he kept eating his soap and washing himself with his soup, so everything about him smelled awful.