Spilt Milk

editor's note

Spilt Milk by Milena Nigam
I remember a week after my mother died, and all of us at my stepfather’s apartment making plans for her ashes, for the memorial service, talking over again and again the accident that had taken her life. The kids were six and eight, and one of them spilled a glass of milk at the dinner table. My generous stepfather was in the middle of bringing food out to the table, and I remember him freezing, his face showing incredible emotion, incomprehension mixed with an inner fight to suppress fury. With everything else, the spilled milk was beyond him.

poetry

Que Sera, Kitchen by Katelyn Thomas
After all, it is only spilt milk rushing
across my freshly cleaned table
Anger Is Its Own Lesson by Laura Grace Weldon
She keeps gin under the kitchen sink,
cleans scummy build-up
by pouring caustic shots down her throat.
Next Moment After by Gordon Kippola
As eyes adjust to morning, fragments gather
into sheets again.

fiction

The Cobbler on Duplication Road by Faiza Bokhari
There were those who passed through and those who stayed. Permanent fixtures included a mix of street sellers; the painter, the barber and most notably, the cobbler on Duplication road. Although he preferred to be known by his birth name ‘Sunil’, he understood the reduced significance of a name when you are a standard fixture, something rooted to the spot- referred to by proximity or distance from the nearest known landmark.
The Things I Seen by Nina Fosati
It was the recent changes in my mother that had concerned me. Fragments of memory, diffuse and jumbled, spilled out of her in splinters. I’d grown sharp and angry with her, impatient with tales I could not parse. A therapist from the elder care facility sat with us. She’d cautioned me beforehand to remain quiet. I needed to listen with my heart instead of my head. She softly asked my mother to tell her a story from her childhood.
Tree, Water, Girl, Machine by Richard Hartshorn
The island called me, I think. I saw it through a V opening in the trees across the lake, an opening like palms about to touch. The leaves rustled like little breath-blown hairs. Sporting a tank-top and striped gym shorts, I abandoned the boat and let the lake swallow me in a dive.