Stitch

By Kathleen Schaefer

Dalia doesn’t like how the stale hospital air pricks at her cheeks, and Aden doesn’t understand why no one else notices. He snatches his newborn daughter back from his husband.

“There you are,” he says, adjusting Dalia’s blanket to shield her face. “You need to keep her comfortable.” He holds Dalia to his chest and finds she likes the beat of his heart.

“She wasn’t even fussing,” says Garret, and only then does Aden realize that maybe new fathers don’t always know that their daughter’s left foot itches (he massages it beneath the swaddling blanket) or that a buildup of gas from her last feeding pushes against her stomach.

There’s something in Aden’s head. His daughter’s mind is in his head. Or rather, there’s a knot through which he slips in and out of his daughter’s thoughts.

“A mind stitch,” the nurse diagnoses by shining a flashlight in Aden’s eyes. His daughter’s pupils contract in response — a two-way bond, Dalia watching the world through his eyes.

The nurse pulls her away from him. “Mind melds with children. That’s wrong. Illegal and wrong.” She holds her hand over the infant’s head like a shield. An ineffective one, as Aden still feels the blanket slip from around Dalia’s face, exposing her once more to the stinging air.

“Wrong?” The nurse blocks him from comforting his child, and Aden’s throat constricts in anger — an anger he knows how to contain, but his daughter does not. Dalia screams, bellowing fury on his behalf.

He is supposed to protect his child from his pain and fears, not reflect them back to her. Aden leans on the wall, closing his eyes against his tiny daughter’s all-encompassing rage. Garret squeezes his hand. (Continue Reading…)

Apolépisi: A De-Scaling

By: Suzan Palumbo

I find Aleda’s scale, sticky with ichor, tucked between the tentacles of our pink anemone bed. I tweeze it out from the undulating appendages with my thumb and index finger and flounder against my escalating heart rate.

Aleda’s swishing back and forth, getting ready for work near the mouth of our cave. It’s time for her to catch the current to the school where she teaches merlets the whisper of the sea.

“I love those ‘mussel heads’,” she’ll say when she returns and rests her hands on my shoulder later tonight. I’ll swivel around and squeeze her so close a longing will bloom in my chest. Except this time, the need won’t fade with the dwindling evening. It will deepen like a cavern and devour me.

I should call out; show her the errant piece of her body that signals the end of our days together before she’s off to the currents.

Let’s have this last carefree day.

The thought crests and seals my mouth mollusc tight. When she’s gone, I pretend it’s the cold moment she’s left forever and let desolation creep over me like the shadow of a shark. (Continue Reading…)

The Woman on the Balcony

by Dorothy Quick

Sherry thought she had never seen anything more beautiful than the Villa del Quisce.

White and shining it nestled halfway up one of the Italian foothills like a snowy flower sheltered by greenery. The glass glistened in the sunlight. Its marble columns were perfection and at its foot was the violent blue of a lesser lake than Como but having the same intense loveliness. Green lawns, lemon trees, oleanders and flower beds sloped down from the Villa to the sandy shore. Tall cypresses outlined the road that curved upwards. Small spring flowers grouped around the roots of the trees. Violets sprinkled the grass in abundance.

“It looks like some heavenly stage set designed by Bel Geddes,” Sherry thought, “ too beautiful to be real.” Then, suddenly looking at Gio sitting tall and straight beside her, “But it is real, and its ours — our honeymoon house —”

Just at that moment Gio slowed the car and turned to her. “Do you like it, my darling?” he asked. (Continue Reading…)

The Somnambulant

by Sam W. Pisciotta

The moon sits plump within a windowpane as if plucked from the sky and framed for safekeeping. Bound by forces beyond our control, the moon and I share a yearning to pull free. I touch my finger on the icy glass and dream of leaving this place.

But I’m often reminded that such dreams are not for me.

Waiting in the small antechamber, I rise to the tips of my toes, an elevé to focus the mind — legs quiet, core taut, head tilted just so. A dancer’s body. Countless hours of plié, relevé, and sauté. I hold this pose and listen.

Murmurs from the next room. The clink of wine glasses. A shred of laughter. Outside, the final night of winter. The tight drone of propellers slices the evening air as the bulk of an airship moves to block the moon’s full light. The last of the guests have arrived.

Father enters the room. He glowers and pulls me toward the closed door leading to the dining room. “Katya, what are you wearing? Where’s the gown I laid out for you?”

Icy-white layers of tulle drape from my hips, a romantic tutu in the style of Taglioni flowing just past my knees. A white leotard beneath a soft-pink bodice, and slippers laced with pink ribbon. Perfection. My feet move into the fifth position. I bend at the knees and push into a small assemblé. Since that night in London’s West End at Her Majesty’s Theatre, I have lived for one purpose. This evening, I’ll find my soul and gain my freedom. (Continue Reading…)