The six had been out together several times already, and always had a good time. Allison smiled and waved as she walked to the table. Brad hoped things would lighten up once they joined the others. Their friends seemed to be arguing about something.
The only thing I knew about MS-related blindness was a condition called Optic Neuritis—a painful condition that hurt like a migraine, or worse. Now, in the waiting room, blind as a bat, I couldn’t recall being in any pain the night before when the issue started. New panic set in—was the issue my retina? Could it be falling off without me even feeling it? I’d been so used to blaming things on my MS, any alternatives fell by the wayside. I hoped for the best.
over hours of desolate pondering
in frozen root-rot
and composts of unattainable dreams
the ice melts
while breath quickens
and for a shudder,
fulfillment strikes
He blames his chosen trade, his aways,
He also blames his wife for not fusing
him into Riley’s memory
and heart, no matter how many pictures
he texts to share with his girl.
One evening, she went to Grandpa’s restaurant, walked to the back, and beckoned for him to follow. There, she looked him straight in the eyes, said she was done waiting, and if he didn’t marry her within the next month, she would leave him.
She was the last to arrive. She spread her hands wide in apology. “Nowhere to park.” The restaurant was noisy; Dave, Joey and Annette were noisy. Kathy ordered a glass of pinot grigio and drank it like water.
This is the fifth episode of the entire show, though if I had seen it out of order my only clue that it wasn’t one of Nicholas Colasanto’s last episodes would be Diane’s clothes and the lack of Frasier. How immediately cohesive this show was from its origin: George Wendt is greeted with a rambunctious “Norm!”, Diane’s trill of “Norman” quick behind. Sam wiggles in overture at Diane, who flits him away, only for her to lose her balance in the flit and land on her face.
I had a severe post-partum depression in the summer of 2013, after my younger son was born. That was around the time The National released their album Trouble Will Find Me. Every song hit me straight in the feels and filled me with sorrow. And yet, I kept listening.
He says I can soften the blow by explaining that it’s not her cooking, her sandwich construction, or any other reason associated with her own blame, but that I just don’t like beetroot, plain and simple. My friend says that it could actually paint me the hero, the gentleman, the adorable sweetheart, that for a dozen years I put up with beetroot sandwiches that I detest because my love for Margaret is greater than my hate for the devil’s vegetable.
she's radiating ecstasy and we are riveted by her
grace and pure comfort in the spotlight so bright (just yesterday I was running behind her bike
without training wheels, to keep her from falling), this complex artistry of removing garments
while balancing on the platforms she commands with military precision
Spirit meets me in an ancient red Chevy pickup. She steps out and slams the door. She has to do it twice. A lovely long-haired chick in a tie-dyed T-shirt with her yellow Labrador Retriever, Buck, riding shotgun. Fine gray hair to the base of her spine. Love senior girls who resist those ear show cuts. We hug, of course. A good one, not of the vanilla variety. “Toss your shit in back, brother.” The handsome Lab, with sad eyes, hops in the truck-bed.
LETTER FROM THE EDITOR / November 2023 / Kolleen Carney-Hoepfner
I've softened my stance on Thanksgiving over the years, though. For one thing, I'm happy(ish) now.
The current receptionist, an older woman seasoned with gossip, related this to you. She was there, yes, when her boss wore foundation and blush—one day he’d forgotten it, and she caught him with a red face smeared with tears and snot. That’s how she knows. You don’t question her; there’s more knowledge in her crow’s feet than in your whole wrinkly brain.
FILM / Nausicaä of the Valley of the Wind and the Power of Ecofiction / Brendan Brewster
One of the most important and central elements of ecofiction, that human accountability is intrinsically part of an artwork’s ethical positioning, is a topic central to the works of famed filmmaker Hayao Miyazaki.
the dry-humored sky refuses to respect
the plasma of my pain. it smirks up its
sleeve at the leaks oozing from fresh
wounds, unwrapping a hot,
plastic sun to queer the lymph.
“they’re only paper cuts,” it sneers
I’ve seen my portrait in a broken mirror, a clock spun backwards, a life lost.
With defeat I learn the most valiant thing a man can be is dead.
The value of existence accrued in stillness.
He pours me a white. Usually a buttery Chardonnay. He doesn’t pour enough. Nothing is enough. I take a small sip. I mistakenly swallow way too soon without tasting it and await the blood alcohol brain depressive effect to cool my mood. Not quick enough.
I’ve suffered a few whacks. The doctors call them strokes. But I remain committed to my lifelong poem and celebrate the final edition that supersedes all. Truth be, I’d much rather have a mud bath followed by an immersion in a cold spring. That is my ease.
Not a trace of shame in her voice. It was as if she were sharing an unexpected revelation with this fresh-faced kid, a former coworker, still stocking shelves at Frys. Like she’d been to the mountain, at the foot of the guru, and had returned with a higher wisdom.