Submissions to RFM are now open on a limited basis. For the time being, this will not be widely publicized. The publisher must work this into his current work load.
Material accepted will be published sporadically, but the author will be notified on acceptance when it will appear. Hopefully, before long RFM will be publishing on a regular basis, probably once per month.
Please read the updated guidelines before submitting. A few things have changed.
I crash through the dry, thorny underbrush, despite my efforts to stay silent, all the while questioning why I’m here. The constant uncertainty of “why I’m here” keeps my mind distracted from the dark midnight wilderness around me, and gives me a purpose as I move forward. I’d be lying if I didn’t want to prove all the doubters wrong, but that isn’t the main thing pushing me forward. I have something to prove to myself, also.
I tear my thoughts away from the “why” and turn them to my surroundings, for they are dangerous. It is near midnight, and the dark woods around me hold many things that could be dangerous. Not that I am overly worried, because I am prepared, but I still must be careful. I’m high in the Cascade Mountains of the Pacific Northwest, home to the elusive sasquatch. One of the families of sasquatch, at least. Contrary to popular belief, the sasquatch species are spread throughout North America and even parts of Europe. To most people, Sasquatch is just a joke and the mascot of a beef jerky commercial. To me? Sasquatch is a rare, intelligent beast that needs to be…what does he need? Exposure? Help? Honestly, I don’t know what I would do even if I did find a sasquatch. I want to protect them of course, but I would also want to share my discovery. Would anyone even believe me?
As I hike up the loose gravelly hillside, I look for potential spots to place my game cameras. These motion activated cameras are a useful tool for a Squatcher, someone who actively searches for sasquatch, allowing us to have eyes in multiple locations at once. The only trees at this level are pines, and there are no defining features of the landscape other than the slanted-growing trees and the shale beneath my feet. I am far from any trail. Sasquatch wouldn’t have stayed hidden this long if they hadn’t been avoiding trails, so to find them I must avoid trails as well.
I wrap the strap of one camera around a tree, flicking the on switch and quickly moving on. Part of what sets me apart from other Squatchers is I don’t go looking for sasquatch; I let them come to me. I move a few more yards, then place another camera. I go on for a while placing cameras in a diagonal line across the Valley. Trudging through the underbrush, pine branches continuously scraping my shins and bashing my arms, I quickly grow tired. Traversing across the Valley along the base of the cliff, I place another diagonal line that eventually meets at a point with the first. These two lines, combined with the base of the cliff that serves as my vantage point above the Valley, form a triangle. This will allow me to see anything that passes into or out of the upper part of the Valley, either with my own eyes or through the cameras. I started using this method to simulate a visual trap, which allows me to know if anything breaks the barrier of cameras.
••••••••••
I hope my cameras are angled well. We don’t need any more Blob-Squatches. Blob-Squatch is the name given to photos of “Sasquatch” that are unidentifiable. They could be a tree stump, a shadow, or simply nothing. I setup my game cameras an hour ago, and I’m now waiting silently atop the bluff overlooking the valley. Same program as always: setup cameras, take position at the overlook, and wait for the valley to quiet itself. Obviously my crashing through the woods would scare away most animals, so I wait for the woods to come back to life.
As I wait for the resurrection of the valley, I get a chance to stargaze. This might actually be the best part of these trips. Could the magnificence of a sasquatch even compare to the majesty of the heavens? Obviously the answer is no. Sasquatch, despite his elusiveness and mystery, is still a mortal beast. The heavens, on the other hand, are infinite and eternal. Sometimes, the woods feel the same way.
The time for world-brain and philosophical inquiry is not now. Now, it is time for Squatching. I may differ from other Squatchers in how I look for a sasquatch, but I’m the same in how I call for them. Sasquatch vocalizations are very specific to their species but are also extremely simple. The main ones are tree knocks, whoops, and screams. They are pretty self-explanatory, aside from tree knocks. A tree knock is basically taking a very large branch and smacking a tree. Hard. Sasquatch do this a lot when they come upon campers, either to draw attention to themselves or scare away the intruders. A tree knock can draw other sasquatch in, as well, because it is somewhat of a distress signal. Most people don’t understand how curious sasquatch are, despite their elusive nature. Many times, you are being observed without even knowing it. Sasquatch have a natural ghillie suit, which most people don’t understand makes them effectively invisible unless you know they are there.
I grab the biggest branch I can firmly hold in my hands, a log about 5 feet long and 6 inches in diameter, and pick a tree. I want a tree that’s separated from the rest around me on the edge of the bluff, so the sound isn’t immediately deadened. There is a nice large pine, leaning out over the edge of the hillside, about 45 inches around. I ready myself for the abusive sound I’m about to create and swing the branch like I’m in the Homerun Derby.
The sound is heart stopping. It echoes through the valley like a blow to the heart of nature itself. I freeze immediately after the swing and listen for any sounds from the valley below. I never expect to hear anything after a tree knock because it isn’t necessarily a friendly call. There is a two-tone chirp from the East side of the valley, to the left from my viewpoint on the bluff, but I disregard it. Sure, the two-tone whistle is a common sasquatch vocalization. Everyone knows that. But any bird can make that noise as well. I need to not be so quick to jump to conclusions. At this point, it’s easy to shrug off certain sounds. After years of visiting these mountains, I’ve built a shield against hope. The skeptic in me comes out more and more, but my faith in the reality of sasquatch has never wavered.
I wait until the valley quiets again before moving on to more vocalizations. I start with the scream because it is much louder and travels further. Scream is somewhat of a misnomer; it is more of a bellow. This is another unusual call that is very specific to sasquatch. Puffing my chest out and steeling my nerves, I scream. I scream a scream so raw and primitive that I question whether it even came from me. My heart races as I listen for a response other than the echo of my own voice tearing itself apart through the valley.
Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. THERE!!! I hear a whoop, again to the East, and something crashing in the trees. I try to subdue my excitement, but the barrier I’ve built over the years is failing. Rarely have I ever heard two clear calls in one night, and there is definitely something moving down there.
What do I do?! Should I move? Should I stay? It is coming closer…I need to call again. That movement should be close enough to one of my cameras that I’ll know what it is when I retrieve them. I call again, this time switching to a whoop. It is a more tonal version of a scream, and is much quieter. I hear another whoop in response and can barely contain my excitement. I want to move, but the sasquatch is coming to me, just as I had always planned. If I move positions now, I might scare it off. The only option is to get as far out of the open as I can without making too much noise, but at this point it almost doesn’t matter. I can hear the beast crashing through the underbrush, storming up the valley towards the bluff. It is not trying to be stealthy.
I never thought I would be faced with an actual face-to-face encounter. I never really planned on what to do. Now realizing I about to meet this humongous beast, I realize that I am entirely incapable of defending myself if it feels threatened…there is no running, however. I can’t hide; it will find me for sure. Their sense of smell is much too strong. I can’t run; they can run much faster, up to 40 mph. There is only one choice. I must hope it perceives me as friendly. I stand in the clearing as the crashing grows closer. The first thing I see is a mass with no shape, lumbering through the brush and pushing branches out of the way. It quickly gains a humanoid shape, and just as more features start to come into focus it stops. It knows something is not right. I am not a sasquatch. It takes a few tentative steps towards me and its eyes become visible. They are a rich dark brown, more majestic than the heavens, and more divine than the forest. I ought to be entranced, but I only feel fear. This is not a friendly being. It only knows violence and pain, and I am an enemy in its territory.
Tyler is a Senior at Lindenwood University graduating December 2021 with a BA in English Lit with an emphasis in Creative Writing. He works full-time as a freelance Project Manager specializing in the nonprofit sector, and spends time volunteering in his church and for Alcoholics Anonymous.
The time was approaching and Rodolfo was preparing to start the session. Nervousness invaded his body and it was not for less, because it was the first time that he tried something similar. He prepared the table where he was going to arrange to place his board and the various artifacts that he had to use. Sweat was running down his forehead and he was trying to hide it quickly so as not to show signs of inexperience.
“Hello there? Do you hear me?” Rodolfo asked with a slight tremor in his voice.
He looked at his board uneasily, trying to remember every step he had to take. Regrets invaded his head and the desire to leave grew stronger, but he was not going to give up so easily.
“If you are listening to this, please give a signal.”
For long minutes not the slightest sound was emitted and Rodolfo crossed his fingers, clinging to the hope of being able to connect with someone. Silence roamed the room and tension was in the air. Rodolfo felt as if he were walking through a gloomy cemetery, alone and at night, looking for some merciful soul to help him find his way out. However, the pessimism increased with each movement of the clock’s hands.
“What are their names?” Rodolfo said, almost shouting “Is there someone? Please give a sign” despair showed in his actions. “Well, I think I’ll say goodbye.”
With a great sadness on top of him, Rodolfo was preparing to end the session that he had prepared with so much effort; until suddenly a slight murmur began to be heard from afar, which shook him considerably. His heart began to pound and his pupils dilated at the sudden manifestation.
“Hello, Professor Rodolfo,” says a student suddenly. “I’m George, I am a freshman student, nice to meet you”
“Hi, professor! Sorry, my microphone was not working. My name is Cristian.”
Rodolfo began to explode with joy at the presentations of his new students. His eyes narrowed and the daisies were easily seen by the huge smile that was drawn on his face. For an instant, he thought that all the lessons his eldest daughter had given him to learn how to use the computer had been in vain. Rodolfo gleefully picked up his notebooks to begin his class and put aside his trusty board that was full of instructions of how to turn on the camera and microphone, so that he could have a successful first online class.
Fernanda Poblete González is a chilean senior English Literature- Creative writing student with a minor in History and Religion at Lindenwood University. Some of her writing has been published in the Arrow Literary Journal and the Academic Heart and Mind.
It was late October; harvest season was winding down across Iowa. Mick Shelly, a laborer at the Cambridge grain elevator, was busy off-loading corn, working truck scales and shooting the breeze with local farmers. With the harvest almost complete, Mick’s time at the elevator was coming to an end.
Cambridge is one of about a thousand small towns in Iowa you’d miss if you weren’t paying attention. When he came to town, Mick’s intention was to work a little, then leave. He knew no one. After he landed a job, he found an apartment behind the local hardware store. It was a clean, one bed room place, rented on a weekly basis. His apartment was close to everything in town. Then again, in Cambridge, everything in town was close to every other thing in town.
It was Saturday night; at Godfrey’s, the only bar in town, it was “Stripper Night”. Mick figured to make one last visit before he hit the road. He showered to clean off the residue of his day’s work and shaved off a week’s worth of stubble. Putting on neat clothes, he got ready to walk to the bar. The word around the elevator was “that a real piece from Des Moines” was performing. Those who had seen her before said she “moved like a cat”. Expecting a crowd, Mick left early to get a good seat.
Godfrey’s was in a long, thin building. The bar stood to the left, running along the wall until it reached the kitchen door. In the back, next to the kitchen, was the “ballroom”. It was a large space that had the stage for shows and some tables and chairs. You had to pass through a beaded curtain from the barroom to get in. The cover charge, collected there, was split at the end of the night with the girls. The performances started at eight.
When Mick arrived, some of the guys pointed out the young lady who was the star attraction. To Mick, this girl seemed out of place. She didn’t mingle with the crowd or chat with the other dancers. With the performances about to begin, it was time to pony up the five buck cover and grab a seat.
After the other dancers got the hayseeds “in the mood”, the bar owner, acting as MC, introduced, “Shelly from Des Moines.” Mick’s ears perked up. “So her name is Shelly too,” he thought. Tonight would be as good a night as any to try out that hook to meet her.
When it was Shelly’s turn, he sat back and watched. Each of her movements was fluid and strong. She grabbed the pole, mounted it, using her leg to assume an upside down position. Then she twirled around and around, getting those too close to the stage dizzy. With Shelly, there was no inadvertent twitching, no flopping around, no phony bedroom moves. Her motions were economical, effortless. The other dancers didn’t compare. Shelly didn’t play to the crowd. She danced with a vacant, unfocused stare. Mick had seen that look so many times before. He was sure she was detaching herself from a trauma of some kind.
It was clear to him; Shelly had professional training involving complicated, rhythmic movements. “This girl is no weekend stripper. There’s more to her than that. How’d she end up here? I gotta find out,” he thought.
At the conclusion of her first set, she grabbed up the dollar bills on the stage floor. Mick noticed she never allowed anyone to get near enough to stick dollar bills in her G-string. If a guy got too close, she moved back and pointed to the floor as the place to put the money. At the end of her set, wrapping herself in a sheer robe, she came off the stage. Walking through the beaded curtain to the end of the bar, she was about to order a drink as Mick approached her.
“Hi, I’m Mick Shelly. I loved your performance. You’re much better than the other girls,” he said. As the words left his mouth, he thought, “That was weak”.
Shelly looked him in the eyes and said, “Beat it.” This happened to her too many times before. She was there to work, not get picked up. But there was something about Mick that made her reconsider. He wasn’t a “hick”, she knew “hick”. Mick wasn’t that. He was out of place. She sensed it because she was too. Curious, she reconsidered. As he was walking away, she said, “Hey was there something you wanted?”
“Yeah, how long before you have to go back on? You got time for a drink?”
“Yeah, I got some time,” she said. They grabbed an open table near the end of the bar and sat across from one another.
“Is beer OK?” She nodded. Mick ordered.
“Like I said, I’m Mick Shelly. I work at the grain elevator.
She laughed, “So your real last name is Shelly and my stage name is Shelly. What an interesting coincidence. You’re making that name up, aren’t you?”
“Nope, that’s my name. I’ve had it all my life. Wanna see my driver’s license?” Mick said.
She surprised him and said, “Yeah.” He took it out and handed it to her.
“It says here you’re from Chicago. What are you doing in this dump? Did you murder somebody and now you’re hiding out?” She smiled.
“No, nothing like that, but I guess you could say I’m hiding out, maybe, it’s more running than hiding.” He said nothing more.
“Oh no, you can’t leave it at that. Which is it?”
Mick thought he may have opened a door best left closed. If he shut it now, she’d leave. He didn’t want that so he started his story.
“I was a Captain in a medical unit in the Army, a doctor. I served in Afghanistan. I saw a lot of suffering.”
“You’re a real doctor? Not a medic?” She asked.
“Yeah, I was a surgeon.” She pulled back her chair a little and folded her arms. Mick thought something was off but he continued.
“When I got discharged I wanted to work in Chicago at the VA hospital to try to help the returning vets. A lot of them had PTSD, drug problems and trouble fitting back into civilian life.” Hearing that, she leaned back in to get closer.
“Did you get the job?
“I got it but pretty quick, but I found I couldn’t help the vets.”
“Why?”
“The VA drug rehab programs were crap. The wait times were long; there were few counselors, and no jobs programs. Most of the guys, hooked on heroin and other drugs, couldn’t get into the VA methadone program.”
“I’ve heard that. What’s the problem with VA anyway?”
“The excuse was, ‘we don’t have the budget and the staff’. In the meantime, the vets were on the streets; some killing themselves, others committing crimes, most were homeless.”
Shelly could see this memory was making Mick angry. “These soldiers, broken by their service, were now refused the help they earned.” As Mick continued, Shelly moved her chair around the table, a little closer to Mick.
He continued, “I met a guy who ran an “off the books” methadone clinic for vets. He moved the clinic site around a lot to avoid detection. What he was doing was illegal but he found doctors and counselors who were willing to volunteer time to help our guys.”
“How’d he get the drugs?” she asked.
“I was one of his sources. Since I had a DEA drug number, I could get methadone. I tried ordering as much as I could without drawing attention from the pharmacists at the VA. It was stupid but I had to do something. Anyway, long story short, I got caught, accused of stealing.”
“What did they do to you?”
“No charges were filed because I paid to get the drugs replaced but I got fired. They reported me to the state medical board. At my hearing, the Medical Discipline Board listened to the reasons for my actions. In the end, I lost my license to practice and had to get out of Chicago. The wind blew me here. When the harvest is over, I’ll be leaving.”
Shelly stared at Mick for what seemed a long time, then said, “Do you have family and friends in Chicago?” She said.
“Yeah, I did. This whole thing was tough on them too. They wanted me gone. My so-called friends ran for the hills. Now, I move from place to place, taking whatever jobs I can get.”
Mick looked away from her, then into his beer glass. Shelly’s eyes locked onto him. Then he smiled and said, “Hey, enough about me. I have a few questions, if you don’t mind.”
Shelly said, “Shoot.”
“You move like a well-trained athlete, not some wannabe, weekend stripper, how come?”
“Wow, somebody who pays attention. These other idiots just stare at my body.”
Before she said anything else, she thought, “Do I want to tell this guy?” It was a risk but he seemed genuine. She decided, “I’ll do it.”
“Since I was a little girl, I trained to be a dancer. I got better as I got older. So good, in fact, I ended up on the US Gymnastic Team as a rhythmic dancer.
“I knew it,” Mick said. “Now it all makes sense.” Before he could say anything more, she held up her hand as if to get him to stop. It was important for her to keep talking or she’d lose her nerve. Mick got the message and shut up.
“I had to be examined regularly by the team doctors. The doctors told me it was for ‘my own good’. The exams were nothing more than the doctors feeling me up. They did other things. I didn’t want this but there was no one to tell, no way to stop it. If you wanted to be on the team you had to go through the exams. I was just a kid so I went along.”
Mick thought, “Jesus, she’s been abused by doctors and I tell her I’m a doctor. Nice move.”
Shelly then said, “I’m sure you heard about all this. I was one of the many girls molested and abused by the team doctors. I told the coaches. I told my parents but nobody believed me. I got thrown off the team for being a troublemaker, a liar.”
“My God, I’m so sorry.” Mick could see it was hard for her to admit.
“I found out me being on the gymnastics team was more important for my parents than it was for me. After this, I had to get away. It took some time but I left home as soon as I could. I haven’t talked to my folks or family since. My only friends were teammates. I lost them too.”
Mick saw tears in her eyes. He said, “You did nothing wrong.”
“Does it matter? It feels like I did. I wonder over and over what I could have done differently. I guess it doesn’t matter. I’m alone, a stripper working for tips and part of the cover fees in dumps like this instead of competing to be a world class athlete.”
“We trusted the wrong people,” Mick said. “I guess we’re both running and hiding.”
Before he could say anything else, a loud voice came from behind the bar, “Shelly you’re up again.” She waved to let him know she heard him.
As she got up, she said, “Mick, you’re sweet. See ya.” He took it as a goodbye.
She headed back to the “ballroom”. He followed. As she walked up the stairs and onto the stage, she looked back at him, flashed him a sly smile and then grabbed the pole. As the performance began, her stare returned.
Mick was angry, “The people and systems that did this to us should be suffering the consequences, and instead, we are.”
He watched her dance a while longer then figured it was time to leave. He stood up, looked at the stage and managed to catch her eye. He gave her a small wave goodbye, went through the beaded curtain, walked past the bar and went out the door.
He wasn’t very far down the street when he heard a voice. “Mick, wait up.” It was Shelly.
Turning to look, he said, “What the hell Shelly, where’s your clothes?” She was wearing only her red pumps, a G-string, and a shear robe. It was cold. She shivered in the crisp night air.
“I didn’t want you to get away. My shift was nearly over anyway. Can I come with you? “
“Sure. You’re freezing.” He slid his arm around her. She leaned into him. Mick said, “Let’s go get your clothes and your money.”
They walked back to the bar together. Mick waited by the front door. After a few minutes, carrying her coat and dressed in blue jeans and a sweater, she walked from the dressing room to the front door. Mick watched her the whole way. “She has a fluid walk too and she looks great in clothes; as good as she did with practically nothing on,” he thought.
As they left the bar, Shelly locked her arm around his. She leaned into him as they walked toward his apartment. A chilly October wind swirled around them, neither noticed. They both wanted the same thing, to feel good again about something . . . anything.
Edward N. McConnell started writing flash fiction and short stories in 2020. His flash fiction and short stories have appeared in Literally Stories, Terror House Magazine, Mad Swirl, Down in the Dirt, Rural Fiction Magazine, among others. He lives in West Des Moines, Iowa with his wife.
His sadness smells like the yellow fruit falling from the tree during summertime. I’d keep my distance, not coming closer, leaving him alone in his private space. He values silence, a quiet room, sunlight playing on surfaces like the Monet paintings he loves. I’m sad I can no longer lie down beside him on his bed – to look at him fall asleep.
His voice echoes like lost days. I’ve been staring at the mahogany door, deep brown as his grief, blocking my view of the blue sky. I don’t want to leave him. The pot with the glass lid holds smells of his care and love, wafts of chicken broth too real. My eyes would water.
Tiptoeing back to his room I’m shrouded with absence. I remember the time when my joints murmured, pain pulsing in my head, especially during stormy nights. I could no longer hold the nausea back, I vomited. He cleaned the floor the way he read books, peaceful, his face showing his distant mind. He’d cup my face and press his lips and nose on my forehead, my cheek. I could hear his inhalation, he loved my smells. His kiss was balm to my sufferings. The vomit became numerous as words he put on paper.
I was diagnosed with late-stage kidney failure. Back home, he closed his room’s windows and cried. We knew each other’s thoughts. I watched him fold the lab results into a brown envelop.
He drank, constantly inebriated with rum in my ordeal’s final two months. I smelled his daze as he brought water-blended moringa, chlorella and wheat grass, which he fed me using a spoon, or with a syringe if I was hardheaded and spat his kidney tonic. He no longer cooked chicken legs or wings, too busy writing as I slept on his bed. He’d wake me, in the middle of his writing frenzy. He’d pull me up and embrace me, smell of rum from his face like summertime’s fruit. He asked God aloud to give him kidney disease. He wanted to die like me.
Joyful moments walking with him outdoors became fewer and fewer. I missed the pleasantly intoxicating smells of grasses and wildflowers. He didn’t want to strain my weakening legs, so he limited our walks outdoors. I longed for those mornings and midafternoons when I ran beside him as he jogged, my happiest days, when I saw him happy, exercising daily and not drinking rum while writing.
He brought me to the hospital for my day-long fluid therapy. I shivered in his cavernous absence, hours dripping slowly like liquid through the plastic tube. Hearing loud voices and laughter of people, I remembered my partner, who was scared of firecrackers. I felt rejuvenated seeing his face. Our trip back home was heavenly. He embraced me a long time. His heartbeats warm as his bed. His mind had become the park of kindness and care I and my partner taught him, which took him years to master. I and my partner sensed his humility, always treating us as teachers.
On December 24th he brought me to the hospital for the last time. My time had arrived, and he knew it. The doctor said nothing could prolong my life. I heard them talk quietly. He said he’d do everything to make my departure comfortable. Back home, he spread his own blanket on his bed. With all my strength I tried prolonging my last moments with him. I smelled firecrackers like his refusal to eat. Early morning the following day I began to struggle, having a hard time breathing, my heartbeats like cats I loved chasing.
When the eighth hour blossomed he knew it was time to pick me up into his embrace. I began to shiver, cold claiming my body slowly and so full of love. I saw my partner passing by, taking short glances at us. His love tightened, and it my eyes watered. I saw him crying, his mouth moving and moving, as though he were saying final words for me to bring to the rainbow bridge. I no longer heard his words clearly, but twice I heard my name like dried summertime fruits from his tongue – Dexter, Dexter. Gentleness gripped my heart, and it felt iron, painful, and I knew it was the last thing my dying heart held.
Something hot spurted out my anus. I smelled blood no matter how faint. He pressed his lips and nose against my cheek, and I knew it was time. 8:10 in the morning when I soared out of my body. I willed myself to hover and take another look at him. I couldn’t hear anything but I saw him screaming. Soundlessness made his cry all the more painful.
I soared towards the light, heavenward pull like love leaving weight behind, gravity no longer holding me to my earthly desires. I remembered the time when I tested my footsteps as a weeks-old youngster, the first time we met when I inhaled his body’s smells that I’d always recognize. As I entered the space of stars, I felt like his baby again, running as fast as I could, exhilarated as I chased the rainbow bridge’s intoxicating smells, sniffing here and there. As I entered deep space I floated. I looked for Leo his constellation, eternity mine. Eternity will be ours together. A pack of happy souls welcomed me to their heavenly home. I was joy personified. I am joy. My brothers and sisters beyond the rainbow bridge are joy.
He spent the morning of Christmas day in the crematorium’s front office, his mind blank as bond paper as he waited for my ashes in a glass jar. He enshrined my enlarged photo framed in glass on his writing table. I’ve been listening to him pray for my guidance. I see his thoughts like kaleidoscopes, his his mind like mandala. His wonder makes me smell Bermuda grass. Quiet joy makes his mind fold like origami. I’m happy to have fulfilled my life’s purpose, having lifted him onto a spiritual place.
One recent evening I was surprised but delighted to see my partner, Nicola, love of my life, mother to my countless boys and girls living across the City with their humans in forever homes. We were reunited, but I felt sad and alarmed. I hadn’t been watching him for some time, so I rushed to his room. It’s been days that he’s stuck in motionless staring, picking himself up only to cook. I saw his lab results, sad his prayers to die like me seems to have been answered. I’m glad he’s stopped drinking. His mind’s sunflowers and lilies show his efforts to regain health, because he still has our younger siblings – Bowitch, Yves and Donna.
Yves and Donna are now parents to Daisy, whom he loves the way he loved me. Bowitch has joined us beyond the rainbow bridge.
He’s been sensing my presence, his turns to look at my favorite corners in the house coinciding with my presence there. I’m grateful he knows I’m alive, waiting for him at the edge of the rainbow bridge.
Jonel Abellanosa lives in Cebu City, The Philippines. His poetry and fiction have appeared in hundreds of magazines and anthologies. His poetry collections include, “Multiverse” (Clare Songbirds Publishing House, New York), “50 Acrostic Poems” (Cyberwit, India), and his speculative poetry collection, “Pan’s Saxophone” (Weasel Press, Texas).
