Spring 2018 | Candy Issue | 75
I MET RON MYERS at an amateur astronomers' club, our identical Celestron SkyMaster binoculars slung around our necks - an unusual omen from the start. We clustered around the telescopes, listening to the lecture about Vega, faint and barely visible against the backdrop of light pollution. Ron was watching me, I could tell. Later, after most of the group members had left, we bonded over the moons of Jupiter. His favorite: Ganymede. Mine: Io. His name, Ron, was hardly of any interest, at first.
"A Boy Who Does Not Remember His Father"
Issue 60 | 15th Anniversary Contest Issue
IN THE BOY'S MIND his father could be anyone: A taxi driver or a chef, an actor or a judge. Someone who lives in one of those tall, shiny office towers in Albuquerque. Maybe his father wears those skin-tight suits and steps onto the backs of whales to cheering crowds. But his mother has said that his father is none of those; that his father is far away, hiding.
The Iowa Review
IN HER FINAL DAYS, my wife begins hoarding furniture. She's grown so weak that she can't leave her bed, but she insists on flipping through local catalogs, circling all the wooden chairs, end tables, and nightstands she wants in red marker.
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"How to Survive on Land"
New Ohio Review
2016 Ploughshares' Emerging Writer's Contest Honorable Mention
LET ME TELL YOU ABOUT MY MOTHER, a mermaid: For years, despite her handicaps, she embraced land life in Okanogan, Washington—the drizzly winters and sun-soaked summers—with a steadfastness both impressive and exhausting. She read us stories with the ardor of a human mother; bagged our lunches; brushed our hair.
"The Forgiveness Machine"
THE FORGIVENESS MACHINE ARRIVES in a box with bubble wrap. It’s small, sleek, and Pam sets it on the table. She’s already written each item she’ll forgive on blank two by four inch flash cards, in black ink, as stated in the directions, and she stands admiring the machine that will change her life, tracing her fingers over its lunar contours.