Published by Gooseberry Pie Lit Mag on August 14, 2025
Fleeing family holiday celebrations, driving Mom’s metallic blue Impala with my sister riding shotgun, we fly down narrow country roads between our home and her boyfriend, Mike’s, a rented room in a house with a half dozen roommates, one town over, where he’s attending community college, and sitting out the draft.
I know her allowing me to hang out with her at Mike’s is a pity invite after my break up with my first real boyfriend, but I don’t care. Since our quarrel last week, when I asked him who the girl was he was slow-dancing with, time is suspended, the days taste bitter, and I can’t sleep.
The car radio is booming, and we sing every song with the same sweet strong voices we’d used in the church choir when we were little. Don McClean comes on and we belt out, ‘Do you believe in rock and roll; can music save your mortal soul’ and I’m crying so hard I can’t see the road. She lunges and grabs the wheel.
Published in Exposition Review July 2025 – 2nd Place Winner – Flash 405, April 2025: “Quitting”
1 Dear Mary Lynn, Saw this still shot from “Grease” and thought of you. Could be us at eighteen, right? I still have that leather jacket you loved to borrow. Breaks my heart. My mouth watered for a Hot Fudge Sundae seeing you at the Dairy Queen every day. I moped for weeks after my parents sent me to college back east. What kind of life would we have had if I stayed? I’ll be in town for our 25th reunion. Want to hook up behind the gym for old-times’ sake? Love, Hank
2 Hi Hank, You Hank Miller with the oily jelly roll or Hank Jenson with the bad acne in Henderson’s English class? I try to see the sunny side of life and I never look back. I sprinted out of graduation like my shoes were on fire. I buckled down, like Mama always said, eyes on the prize. Got my associate’s in one year and married Henry when he finished med school. I own three Dairy Queens now. ML
3 Dear Mary Lynn, I’m really happy for you. Have kids? We just had one before Donna left me for her boss. Finally, my boy has a steady job at the power plant in Corpus. Luckily, they sealed his juvie record. He sees me every Christmas. A good boy—loves his dad. You changed much? My hair is mostly sprayed on, and my chest moved south. Gravity’s a killer. I’d love to see you if you can make it. Hopefully, Hank
4 Hi, I’ll be there. Keep your eyes peeled for a blond driving a red Camaro, V8. All those losers will shrink like salted slugs when I walk in. Henry’s touring colleges with our oldest. Perfect SATs, class president, top-ranked in squash, and plays oboe with the regional orchestra. Harvard’s interested. How will I know you? Wear a red carnation maybe? ML
5 Hi Mary Lynn, I flew in, rented a Crown Victoria, and drove to the hall. Saw you walk in, looking like a million bucks. I couldn’t get out of the car, so I went to DQ. I’ve been such a fool. My Hot Fudge Sundae dripped all over my hired tux and I had to pay extra to get it cleaned. I should’ve stayed with you or come back after I graduated. Quitting you was the stupidest thing I ever did, and I’ve done plenty. I need a do-over. Hank
Published in The Hooghly Review, April 20, 2025 (Easter Sunday)
Nominated for a 2026 Pushcart Prize.
Celeste’s family was due to arrive at our loft in Brooklyn for Easter dinner. I triple-checked to make sure everything was tidy—not easy with all the art supplies and equipment we had. Celeste monitored the progress of the scalloped potatoes and the ham in the oven. A homemade apple pie was on the counter. This was their first visit, and we were making an effort.
“Ben, we should go outside to wait for them now.” Celeste grabbed her keys.
“Good thinking.”
No one in our building had a doorbell. Visitors would shout from the street to the people with lofts in the front, but our place was in the back. Explaining to her family about calling us from the phone booth on the corner was more complicated than waiting for them on the loading dock in front of the building. Sundays were quiet in our neighborhood with all the factories closed. Hoping we weren’t setting ourselves up for a disaster, we waited holding hands until we spotted her parents’ silver-blue Impala slowly turning onto our street.
“Hello and welcome.” Celeste waved like a kid. “We’re so glad you’re finally here.”
I directed Celeste’s father to a safe parking spot near the building. Her parents, Joe and Bernice, with Celeste’s younger siblings, Tina and Carl, emerged from the car, scanning our street as if they’d arrived in an alternate universe.
“Quite a neighborhood.” Joe double-checked his car door locks.
Tina handed a plant to Celeste. “We brought you an Easter lily.”
“It’s beautiful,” said Celeste, hidden by the leaves. “Thanks for coming.”
Bernice frowned at the dirty façade. “What kind of building is this, Ben?”
“It used to be the Brillo Soap Pad building. Now it’s artists’ lofts.”
Mom was in the kitchen cooking like it was a penance: ham, turkey, mashed and sweet potatoes, three kinds of vegetables, biscuits, and pies – many pies. The windows were steamy.
“How can I help?” I asked from the doorway. At seventy, Mom still preferred doing the cooking, all sweat and glory.
“Lisa!” Mom feigned surprise. “When did you arrive?”
“Just now. You make enough?”
“It’s like the loaves and the fishes. Your father invites everyone he sees. I cook, and it works every time.”
“A marvel.”
“You know,” Mom frowned. “I wish you’d do your hair differently.” She held out her arms for a hug, but I backed away.
“I like it this way,” I couldn’t recall my last haircut.
When my sister and I were kids, Mom gave us pixie cuts. She had no patience for long hair and its daily detangling. I hated those haircuts. Since moving out, I’ve worn my hair shoulder-length or longer.
“How many people are out there?” Mom draped a dish towel around her neck. Her apron was stained with the day. She was barefoot.
“At least twenty, including Dad’s friends from AA or the Fellowship – I can’t tell which.”
“The AA contingent are better dressed.”
“Okay. Plus the kids; another five. And three dogs.”
Published in Dulcet Literary Magazine, Volume 1, Issue 2, on February 18, 2025
A few weeks after she buried her mother, an envelope arrived in the mail with the payout from her mother’s insurance policy. Julie stared at the check propped against the toaster while she drank a cup of coffee and ate breakfast. She then booked a round-trip flight to Florence, Italy, and then spent the rest of the week in the house sorting her mother’s possessions. When her mother died, Julie cried for days. She cried for the mother she’d nursed for twenty-one years. Then she cried for the time lost that could never be replaced, for the husband and children she might’ve had, for the many friendships abandoned, and for everything else she couldn’t name. Then she stopped.
Three months later, Julie set off from her hotel on her first morning in Florence along the Via della Vigna Nuova. The sun sliced through the narrow street, blinding her despite her new Gucci sunglasses. She avoided being hit by a Vespa by hugging a building. Sidewalks in Florence were medieval afterthoughts that lost the battle for space to vehicles a hundred years earlier.
Julie’s people were quiet Midwesterners transplanted to New Jersey who mowed their own lawns and didn’t buy on credit. A trip to Europe was inconceivable – a week at the Jersey shore, maybe. Julie had had a happy childhood with Barbie dolls, swimming lessons, and friends. The youngest of three, her two older brothers had both left home for college by the time she was twelve. She was good at art and enjoyed it, so she went to art school but lacked the passion to pursue a career as an artist. Julie married briefly in her mid-twenties.
She walked to the Strozzi Palace to see the Picasso show, but she was early, and it wouldn’t open until later. The unfiltered sunlight made her eyes water as she proceeded east toward The Bargello, her next stop. As she passed through the Piazza Della Repubblica, she noticed an empty table in the shade at an outdoor café. Julie craved something she couldn’t quite determine, but maybe some biscotti and coffee would be good.
When her father’s war injuries triggered his early retirement, and her mother suffered the first in a series of strokes, Julie agreed to become their temporary caregiver. It seemed practical. Her brothers each had families by then and lived hundreds of miles away. Her dad died five years later, but her mom lingered and became increasingly irascible and critical of Julie, her only daughter. Julie had been in a half-life, a hibernation, until her mother died, and now she was awake and hungry for sustenance but untethered on her own.
Published in North American Review, Open Space, December 13, 2024
“So you’re driving upstate again?”
She lunged for their toddler before he tumbled down the steps. She held him on her hip as his tiny limbs scissored in front and back of her body.
“I want to check out some real estate.” He pulled his T-shirt over his head in one fluid motion. “Something bigger that we can afford. There’s nothing around here.”
“The baby’s fifteen-month checkup’s today. They’ll give him shots.”
He ignored the baby’s tiny hands reaching out toward him and stared at the street. At seven in the morning, nothing stirred.
“You’ll be fine. You don’t need me.”
“It’s easier with two people if he’s fussy after the shots.” She stared at the back of his head, willing him to see how much the baby looked like him, how blue his eyes were, how his red hair lit up his face, but also to see her, to look at her like he used to, the way she was now.
The three-room cottage contained their whole world.
The baby pawed her breasts and whimpered. She shifted her weight.
The father didn’t turn. “While I’m gone, maybe you can straighten up the house, do some laundry. This is my last clean T-shirt,” he said pointing to his chest.
“Yeah.”
“Okay, I’m off.” He brushed her cheek with his lips and kissed the baby’s head. “I’ll text you if I’m not coming back tonight.”
He bounced down the steps and jogged to his pickup.
She buried her face in the baby’s silky neck, breathing in his newness. She kissed his head in the same spot her husband had. The baby patted her cheek, blotting her tears.
They’d hardly made love since their son was born. But sometimes once is all it takes. She wanted to tell him her news but dreaded his reaction. Their place was crowded, all the toys, tiny clothes, and baby stuff. When the baby couldn’t sleep, his cries filled every minuscule sliver of space inside the house and drove her husband to get up, whatever the time, and do dishes or clean the bathtub. Anything to distract him from baby cries.
They’d lived contentedly in the tiny space for six years, but she’d wanted a baby so much. She’d needed one. Her body felt incomplete without one. Her pregnancy had been a joyful surprise that he seemed to share, but as the house filled with baby gear, he stubbed his toes and tripped on tiny obstacles. His trips away became more frequent.
Click on link to read story in archives (03-02-24) Or read story below.
1
My sister found our parakeet, Hercules IV, dead on his back in his cage that hung near the telephone. Hercules, one in a series of less-than-robust birds purchased from the pet store at the strip mall, loved chattering whenever anyone was on a call. He’d learned to imitate the phone ringing, which caused frustration when one of us raced from the bathroom to answer it, or rather him.
My sister was eight years old and had not yet chosen a future occupation. Two years older, I was undecided myself. Our grandfather had died a few months earlier, and we’d attended the funeral. Possibly inspired by that experience, she announced her intention to bury Hercules. Our mother had no objection, having previously deposited Hercules I, II, & III in our kitchen garbage can.
My sister found a shoebox, wrapped Hercules in a sock that had lost its mate, picked wildflowers, and glued two popsicle sticks together to form a cross after sacrificially eating a frozen treat that stained her tongue blue. A few kids from the neighborhood attended the ceremony, which included a speech by my sister about Hercules’ brief though wonderful life, a moment of silence, and a rendition of “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star,” with almost everyone chiming in. There was a scuffle over who would fill in the hole after she placed the box in the bottom which was settled after someone suggested everyone throw in a handful of dirt simultaneously.
(Click on number 2 to continue reading the story.)
Suzanne C Martinez 