Roller Coasters

By: Steve Fite

I spend a lot of my life trying to not get motion sickness.

I will ride a roller coaster.  Once. You get one if you go to a theme park with me.

I don’t really drink to excess, and if I do I know it won’t stay in my system for very long.

I drive.  Everywhere I go.  You want to drive?  That’s okay. I’ll drive.  Yes, all 12 hours.

Uber?  Hmm. How far?  

Catalina?  But we can just get a nice hotel here.

All because my brain thinks I’m in trouble when I’m not. I can’t convince myself otherwise.  

Green Snot and Jam

By: Rochelle Rickoff Wilensky

I wish I may, I wish I might

May you, damn virus, be gone tonight.

You’ve had your way

With my little one.

You’ve caused her nose to

Run, Run, Run.

Her snot went green

Her cries won’t bend;

I think our nights

Will never end.

It’s one bad cold right to another.

Will G-d have pity on your mother?

I wipe; I soothe; I sing; I pray.

I beg for yet another day.

Where’s sleep? We need so


To rest rest rest

And zzzz zzzz zzzzz.





I hate you most

Green snot and jam.

What You Get

By: Steve Fite

What you remember isn’t the sickness.  It isn’t the vomiting or the loss of energy or the sense of dread that came with every appointment.  You don’t remember feeling angry with the disease for taking your loved one from you. You don’t dwell on what they could have been or what dreams they had or what they could have accomplished.

You remember you. Then. Suddenly you’re transported back to watch them smile or laugh and every problem you’d have or ever had paused for just a moment while you get a small lesson in what it means to be happy.

Another Pullman Car Hiawatha

By: Andrew Dahl

The train sped through the countryside, taking curves at a pace that Cynthia found inappropriate. “Can I get a fucking break?” she thought.

“Ah, the relentlessness of existence,” replied the endless fields of timothy grass.

“What?” Cynthia asked.

“Life hurtles on, with or without you,” said the fields.

“I was just—I’m getting motion-sick.”

“From the left turns your life has taken—“

“No. From the train.”

“It’s never just about the train, Cynthia.”

“What do you know? You’re a fucking field,” she snapped.

The endless fields wept quietly, having never before been spoken to in that manner. Cynthia rolled her eyes.

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