Author: Rose City Sisters

The wet kiss of the air, the possibility of rain. We huddle under a child’s umbrella in preparation, one found in the bottom of your backpack earlier, where you did not expect it to be; nor did either of us expect that it would be needed, the summer sky clear and blue all day, the chance of rain never seeming more remote. The sight of the umbrella nearly ended our stolen time just as it was beginning, the hotel room around us suddenly becoming both too big and too small. I remember watching you, seeing you frown as your hand closed around something unknown in your bag, your facial expression simultaneously falling and solidifying as you pulled it out. I felt my heart shift inside me in the moment before I saw the umbrella in your hand, concerned that you had cut yourself on something sharp, and then, seeing the umbrella, its rainbow colours, I experienced a stillness in my chest that seemed to last longer than possible. I witnessed the silent battle that was being waged throughout your entire being, before you shook yourself, a movement so slight I would have missed it if I had not been watching you so intently, and placed the umbrella back into your backpack, the hotel room expanding around us, like the world gaining previously unknown possibilities. The stillness passed from my chest, my heart regaining its beat. Continue reading A Child’s Umbrella by Edward Lee

The hiss and steady, low thumping of machines assaulted the hallway air. White uniformed men and women, occasionally one in a dark blue smock and matching pants, cruised throughout. What type of shoes do they wear? They make no noise except for an occasional squeak when they stop abruptly.

One figure stood out. The black outfit with the white collar told it all.

“We don’t often get many of our kind in here,” he said almost gleefully. Not one to push back from a table, the man in black waddled to the bedside. Continue reading Our Kind by P. A. Farrell

I will leave the building with her. We will walk together for several blocks. It will be night. Before we leave, she will say something to me, she will make some remark about the tone of my voice. When I speak to her, the tone of my voice will have a certain effect on her, and so she will make this comment. As we leave the lobby of the building, I will notice that its beige marble walls have a faint glow. This will be the effect of a street lamp shining through the glass doors of the entryway Continue reading Ineluctabilis by Peter J. Dellolio

Henry tapped his greased fingers on the steering wheel as he hummed along to a rock song that shook the speakers. He glanced at his wife, Sandra, whose gaze was fixed out the window, to the ocean below.

“Why did you go this way? You know I hate bridges,” she said.

“What?” he shouted over the music.

She jammed the radio knob in command for it to go silent. “I said, I hate bridges! I don’t know why you always go this way! Or play the music so damn loud!” she shouted.

“Because it’s the quickest way, dear,” he replied in a calm tone. “Don’t get your knickers in a wad. Your fear for bridges is just an illusion, you’ll be fine.”

Six paintings sold! Carey pumped her arms overhead and swayed to Kenny Rogers’ “The Gambler.” Apropos. Her gamble on an unknown artist had paid off. Humming, Carey locked the gallery and set the alarm. The mess and champagne bottles could wait. Besides, a seat at Soboba’s Casino’s poker table, and a couple of martinis, would top off her night perfectly.
 
Except for the smokers loitering outside the dance clubs, the street was empty. The theater wasn’t out as yet. If she’d locked up an hour ago, she could have begged a lift to her car. Carey’s footsteps echoed on the pavement. The long walk to the dirt parking lot was unappealing, but tonight finding parking at all was pure luck.
 
After six blocks, the arts district merged with a once-stylish neighborhood awaiting gentrification. Carey’s feet rebelled in her narrow, new boots. But there it was, right after the fire hydrant—a cobbled alley she knew was a shortcut.
 
Carey hesitated at the entrance. During daylight hours this was just your typical graffitied alley, but after dark it was, well, dark.

“Mommy, look! A Black baby!” bellowed my four-year-old son, Silas, in a volume characteristic of all children his age. “He’s so cuuuute!”

I felt my insides immediately freeze, unsure whether to be mortified or not. Outwardly, I kept idling my shopping cart along the grocery store aisle, being careful not to quicken or slow my pace, eyes pretending to look around for the brand of ground thyme I like but can never remember before stealing a glance at the woman wearing the tiny baby in a carrier. We couldn’t have looked more different. She was tall; I am short, not even able to reach the lone packet of Red Star yeast she effortlessly extracted from the top shelf and dropped into her cart. She had shimmering dark caramel skin; I have pasty, dull skin with freckles. She had thick African braids bundled up like a crown on her head, making her look even taller; I have thin brown hair that clings to my head like it’s afraid to go out into the world.