Her text read, i left it out on the porch, in a silver adidas bag. No explanation. No apology for last night. No reply when I asked to meet her. Just this dead drop of our relationship. I opened it…

She wakes up early to say goodbye; he’s already gone. She runs to the door, catches a glimpse of his car as he drives away. Her mind takes a picture, processes it, then hangs it in her heart, just a b...

“Welcome to ‘Extreme Breed Makeover,’ the competition in which six new breeds designed to take on the challenges of the modern world will be vying for the chance to garner the top prize at the world’s...

Your room is always dark. The lampshade is heavy and the bulb dim; they only make shadows of everything. I run my finger along your desk. I hold back the urge to scrawl my name in the dust that clings to my pinky. I wipe it on your shirt, the one you wore the last time I saw you. It hangs on the bedpost, a ghost of you with loose arms and wrinkles and a fading marker stain on the sleeve. Your bed is cold and sinks down in the middle. I rock back and forth, arms folded inside themselves, legs crossed, a piece of hair caught on my dry lip. I touch your pillow, craving its familiarity.  I imagine you’re here. You tuck my hair behind my ear, annoyed that it always ends up in my mouth. I promise to get a haircut. You promise to introduce me to your friends. I stop imagining. I touch the snow globe on your desk, the one with the taxicabs and synthetic snow falling down on plastic people. I shake and the snow falls and falls and no matter how hard I shake, the people always smile and the little taxi never goes anywhere. I crawl back into your bed and remember the way it felt to have your arm draped across me. I remember how you laughed in your sleep. I will myself to feel the weight of your arm on me, to hear the dry whisper of your last good night. It’s starting to snow, light puffs of white slapping against the window. I imagine I’m in the snow globe and I’m always smiling and the clock never moves and the headlights never appear outside the window, making me tumble from the bed and toward the back door.

You loathe the carseat. Being constrained in any capacity must be fought against with every limb, howled against with every decibel your toddler lungs can muster. Strollers are a nuisance, but carseats are anathema.  I tell myself the stress and ear ache are a necessary tradeoff in order to eschew the comfort of couches and TV screens. I tell myself we are encoding something, deep down in your DNA, when we choose horse trails over ipads. That the real magic waits in secret ponds, pickable flowers, in stumbling upon a tiny fairy door at the base of a giant poplar (a wonder even to me).  We just have to withstand the tantrum-filled drive to get anywhere.  I’m in the backseat, cajoling you into a game of peekaboo, when the car swerves into the opposite lane, pitching my body to the side, then corrects again.  “Damn,” my husband says from the driver’s seat. His eyes flash to the rearview mirror. “That was a turtle.” His eyes meet mine, calculating, and the decision is made. The Honda bangs a uey, and we race to backtrack before another car comes. A tiny brown dome sits on the pavement, fixed squarely in a groove carved from an endless parade of tires.  Your dad leaps from the car, delicately hooks the sides of the shell with his fingertips. The turtle’s limbs are fully retracted, likely terrified from the close kiss of a hot rubber death. He disappears behind the tree line next to the road, depositing the turtle in wooded safety.  You are still wailing as we roll onward to the trailhead. I tell myself, one day, you will not be crying, unaware, but watching these little acts. You’ll be the one to look at us and know. We stop for turtles. --- Mackenzie is a Virginia-based writer with a love of baking, animals, and all things wild. When not writing, Mackenzie is hiking with her dog, baking something chocolate, or cozying up with a novel.

“Just don’t,” I tell him as I pour my first cup of coffee. Mr. Ackshually blows through that stop sign and informs me, in a tone I’m sure he doesn’t find condescending, that I should put ice packs on my perineum to help relieve the menstrual cramps.  I should have known better than to moan, as I dragged myself into the kitchen, "Can I just get on with menopause already?” He's always been a know-it-all, but ever since the kids flew the coop, the stream of unsolicited advice has become insufferable. My friends call him a mansplainer, but he’s an equal-opportunity annoyer. Last week I overheard him lecturing our neighbor—he of the prizewinning dahlias—about the best time to prune his rosebushes.  "That’s for after childbirth, hon,” I say, my eyes plotting an escape route.  “Ackshually—” At times like this, I usually think back to when I found his aggressive erudition comforting, sometimes even charming—chatting up our gondolier in Italian on our honeymoon, pointing out the constellations to the kids on a camping trip, talking me down with treatment statistics when my father was diagnosed with prostate cancer. Now all I want is to throttle him until all that misguided certainty explodes out the top of his head.  “That’s enough,” I say, stirring. “Ice helped when those enormous babies you put in me left it feeling like braised chuck roast down there. But it’s useless for my current situation.” While he goes on about how he’s sure I must be mistaken, I scroll through my phone. “Average life expectancy is seventy-five years and eight months. Only twenty-four years, three months, and sixteen days until I’m out of my misery.” “Ackshually, it’s higher for women.”  He can’t help himself. I almost pity him. “It’s not my days I’m counting down, dear.”  --- Jim Parisi lives in Occupied Washington, D.C., with his long-suffering wife, Beth. and their dog, Dolce. He writes fiction and creative nonfiction, which has appeared in FlashFlood Journal, The Bluebird Word, Five Minutes, Club Plum, and The Good Life Review, among others.  

Her toes, nails painted lilac to match her fingernails, pressed into the windshield, above the inspection sticker.

Explore the Wandering Lights Literary Magazine Archives to read previous issues that feature original poetry, fiction, art, and photography.

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He recorded it a month ago, when he knew it was over.  The death rattle of her soft palate strangling her. The soundtrack of their nights, their years together. He doesn’t nudge the phone awake, ju…

He recorded it a month ago, when he knew it was over.  The death rattle of her soft palate strangling her. The soundtrack of their nights, their years together. He doesn’t nudge the phone awake, ju…