Ben Gorman

Clark sniffed the chill air, frowned. He had to be careful.

Transitions are delicate times.

Fraught with danger. Springtime is one—a green siren song of possibility. Very tempting. But especially autumn. Not the harlequin first flush, but deep autumn—the shortening days, draining colors.

That’s when things can go awry.

Shifts excite mania. Things unhinge, doors fly open, wind gusts into the kitchen, strips off the fridge photos, memories fluttering like leaves. Clark had once succumbed, a blown oak leaf, clattered westward in his stuffed jalopy.

He rubbed his white-whiskered, leathery chin, gauged the risk.

It could happen.

A Cabrera's poetry, fiction and essays have appeared in The New Guard, Brain,Child Magazine, Colere, Acentos Review, The Berkeley Fiction Review, Best Travelers' Tales 2021 Anthology, Mer, Deronda, and other journals. Her short fiction has been nominated for a Pushcart Award and adapted for stage by the Bay Area Word for Word Theater Company. She writes, teaches, dances and ride bikes in San Francisco, but not always in that order.

Ben Gorman is a wearer of many hats presently living far from the madding crowd in rural Minnesota. He has served as a publisher, poet, actor, solar electricity installer, graphic designer, wedding minister and a maker of humorous videos, to name but a few pursuits. He appreciates good craft and a garlicky pesto.