Good At Any Age Anticipation
Of Ethnic Dances
By Carl Palmer
By Carl Palmer
By John Grey
so what do you say Wanna give it a try
She watches his precise approach in her rear view mirror, grips the steering wheel tightly keeping both hands in plain sight at ten and two. Not the first time in this situation, she recalls emotions felt while relating her last experience to smug listeners. He slowly circles her vehicle from the back, around the passenger side to stand directly in front while writing on his notepad the whole time. He moves methodically to the driver’s door and taps the window, “Please turn off the engine and get out of the car, Ma’am.” “Congratulations, you parallel parked perfectly. Here’s your license.”
Six men in two rows raise antlers before their faces, cross over and interweave slowly, sedately.
Remember the last time you did it? Me either. We’ll start out slow and easy be patient and understanding no use rushing right into it we don’t need to keep score. Nothing to prove; I’m sure it won’t be anything to write home about or tell a close friend; probably best to keep it secret, it’s really no one’s business how well we bowl.
CARL “PAPA” PALMER, twice nominated for the Micro Award in flash fiction and thrice for the Pushcart Prize in poetry, grew up on Old Mill Road in Ridgeway, VA. Carl now lives in University Place, WA. Contact Carl at email@example.com.
In ancient times, this very ceremony was performed to bring death to a foe. And to think, only moments before, you whispered to me, "I wish I could dance like that." JOHN GREY, an Australian born poet and financial systems analyst has literary work upcoming in Potomac Review, Hurricane Review and Pinyon. Contact John at firstname.lastname@example.org.
Left By Florence McCambridge A story about a mother, her son, and the decisions that shape our lives. Looking over at him I thought, I can’t do this. He sipped his apple juice through a straw, making loud sucking noises. Normally I would tell him to stop, but not today. We had been driving the dull farm landscape for hours and he was struggling to stay awake. I was still working on my coffee, which was now cold. The car smelled of cigarettes mixed with the faint memory of the pine air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror. I tried to pull over a few times, but there was always a reason not to: a passing car, not enough of a shoulder, good song on the radio. They were all just excuses. I was scared, but my time was running out. I slowed down and pulled over to the side of the road. The sound of the gravel underneath the tires was louder than necessary. He rubbed his eyes and I unbuckled his seatbelt. “I have to go to the bathroom,” he said. His sailboat pajamas were too small for him, and his little belly hung over the waistband. I pushed his soft blonde hair off his forehead and smiled at him. I watched him walk into the trees and waited until I could no longer see the fur trim of his jacket before starting the car. I drove away, picking up speed slowly and not looking back. FLORENCE MCCAMBRIDGE is a writer from Toronto who spends her days as a full-time copywriter and the rest of her
time as a freelance writer for clients and for her own projects including blogs and short fiction. Visit her website at http://florenceinprint.com.
4 | Twisted Endings March 2013