Feathers

These were plucked especially for you. Tonight, at the table, after the mash taters and stuff leftovers, the hardened rolls and thick gravy, the slimy pineappled ham, pumpkin pie and whatnot, do me a favor and think of the bird. It’s a special bird that doesn’t come around that often. Only sometimes, and to a few it seems. We salivate at that door, you should know, waiting. Someday. We know. Someday the tickle will be unmistakable, and off we’ll go.

– Everyone at the coffee shop knows he is going away in the morning, and they are all nice to him. The Cajun cook comes out from behind the grill to shake his hand. Ella sits down and talks for a while when she brings their coffees. The regulars are proud of him and wish him luck. Daniel and Juliana leave around ten to go for their last drive. — Lindsay Purves in Anderbo

– After losing his brother, Pascual, my father and family moved to Tijuana and then to L.A.. Little did he know that he relocated his kids from one violent place to another. — Álvaro Huerta in La Bloga

– Dying lungs wheeze. Urine stink fills the room. Reaching for my book, I try imagining how he sees me. Still wearing his nose. Still wearing mom’s cheeks. Still wearing those faggy earrings. — Tom McMillan in Backhand Stories

– I dreamed of swimming across an Olympic pool even though, in waking hours, I cannot swim without inhaling water and choking. In the dream, though, I inhaled and exhaled at the right moments — face above, face below the water and not the other way around. Children played in my racing lane, but I swam around them without scolding them. — Amy Minton in elimae

– He had seen no tunnel or loved ones waiting in the light, perhaps he had not gone far enough, the ceiling had blocked him in, but he knew for certain now that Warren had been right, that death was not really death but a kind of second, better life, and he was eager to see his fallen brothers-in-arms. — Nels Hanson in Sixers Review