“Brian,” she said

I tend to forget the name of anyone introduced to, or not be able to recall the name of a person I should remember, especially at a cocktail party (when already stressed), surrounded by aliens wearing suits and ties or dresses and scarves, each person holding a glass of chardonnay or pinot noir, Hofbräuhaus or Stella, old-fashioned or martini—better than name tags to identify the drinker’s personality and whims—like the other night, at a crowded, suburban, country club ballroom with a bar overlooking the first tee and eighteenth green, when my wife and I ran into a woman whose name we both knew (so chatty she was, how could we forget?), and suddenly her brother-in-law (by reputation a million- or possibly billionaire, the kind whose family name bestrides downtown skyscrapers) strode up, all six-foot seven, blazered, vested, no tie (too rich for that), the nicest guy, a guy whose last name, if mentioned, would be like a déjà vu for all of you, but I knew right away we wouldn’t be introduced because we’d met before, had friends in common, our knowing like the back of our hands his first name a truth that was a lie, and I feared not knowing his name, not welcoming him into our circle (of deadly boring conversation) by first name (as Dale Carnegie urges), would be the social spear impaling me, a fallen gladiator, taking my wife and me out of contention for not only the imagined prize for the most popular couple chit-chatting tonight, but canceling our goodwill, calling into possibility a genetic dementia, and causing us to be chauffeured home as EMS cargo, lights blazing, sirens wailing.

“Brian,” my wife said, but we were at home, nearly asleep.

~ ~ ~

Richard Holinger’s work has appeared in The Iowa Review, Cimarron Review, Chautauqua, and elsewhere. His new chapbook, Down from the Sycamores, is available from Finishing Line Press. A short fiction collection, Unimaginable Things, will be released in February 2026. He lives in rural Northern Illinois.

Feathers

Philadelphia stinks, every New Year. It’s a heady mixture of Coors Light and urine. People breathe in your face: “Happy New Years!” I peer at my son, Ben, whose holding hand is a vise-grip. He returns my gaze, questioning. I have no answers. I pick a feather from his hair, smile widely. I flick it from my gloved fingers, but the feather clings stubbornly. Ben is delighted.

I pantomime exaggerated flicking gestures, and he belly-laughs. “Get off me, feather! Why won’t you leave?”

I want Ben to have traditions, like I did. I drag him through crowded streets, chasing String Bands. Bright-white ostrich feathers sway from tall headdresses, confetti flutters. Feathers dislodge from floats and costumes in wind gusts, confusing pigeons. Ben doesn’t ask, but internally, I do: Are we having fun?

My father had no such doubts. He shouldered an aluminum ladder and herded three children to a sidewalk spot. We stayed for hours while String Bands paraded by. We talked shop: Whose band was too small? Whose costumes underwhelming? The routine never changed.

We always stopped at dad's uncle's house for hot chocolate, warmth, a bathroom. An old wooden box TV played the parade, the music tinny from tiny speakers. A cat darted, chasing a feather dragged in from another pair of boots. I held dad’s hand like a vise-grip. Impatient with my nervousness, he laughed at me, let go. My stomach filled with feathers, fluttering, like they were still attached to something living.

Laughing, I tell Ben: “This place never changes.” String Bands march every year, and if I looked, someone’s house would be available. Someone’s uncle would be in the same spot on the same couch. Just like dad’s uncle, and dad, he would be a man who has never worn a feather, not even on a cap.

I’m the one who never changes. When the aunts used to tsk-tsk at me, ask me about school, make me twirl, tell me I look just like so-and-so (frowning, not smiling), it mirrors my sisters’ friends now, asking about work, saying Ben is so tall (they only see him once a year), wanting a funny anecdote that fits into five minutes. Every New Year, unfailingly, my only New Year’s resolution is to open my mouth and speak. And every New Year, unfailingly, when I open my mouth, all that comes out is feathers.

~ ~ ~

Melissa Rosato is a family physician, writer, bicyclist, and mother, in no particular order and hopefully with some flair. Her nonfiction chapbook We Are All Patients was published in 2021 by Variant Lit. She has flash in Prime Number Magazine, Windmill Journal, Narrative Northeast, Into the Void, Schuylkill Valley Journal, and essays in Blood Pudding and Intima.

ETA

I’m sorry I couldn’t make it to your party. I really do want to hear everything—who laughed, who cried over their ex, what the light looked like just before you blew out the candles. I was running a little late. Actually, I got into the car on time, early enough to get through the jam on 280. But then I had to use the bathroom. And when I wiped, there was a dot of blood. Actually, I wasn’t sure it was blood, but there was pinkish mixed into the brown, and I wasn’t on my period. I’m sorry, this is probably too much, but it scared me, even though I haven’t had any symptoms lately. I thought it might be starting like this, again. So I Googled a little, but kept one eye on the map in that small rectangle in the corner of my screen—it was still green, still promised I’d make it on time, maybe even early. Actually, after a few minutes I swiped it away, because I was reading about hemorrhoids, which felt like the best-case scenario, and this guy on Reddit with 249 upvotes swore by sitz baths. I thought I’d stop by CVS, grab one of those plastic basins that fit over the toilet, maybe some Preparation H. So I started driving. Actually, just as I was backing out, the feeling came again. This time there was a little more blood. Actually, a lot more. I figured probably best to do the sitz bath right away, so I Doordashed the plastic basin and the cream, except the guy brought a baby bathtub and Vaseline, so I had to call, get a refund, place another order. And while the new guy was shopping, I thought it’d be best to move up my colonoscopy by a couple months, just to be safe, just in case there’s a flare, or a polyp, or the pre-cancer is back. You never know. And when I was on hold with the clinic, that’s when you texted—Kenny was doing a kegstand and Cynthia’s ex showed up—and I responded that I was almost out the door. Actually, I meant to respond, but I was translating the Doordash guy’s message, so I forgot. By the time I was finally sitting in the warm water, the small rectangle on my screen had gone from green numbers to orange, and I watched it go to red, then dark red, even darker than the blood in the toilet, and I got scared. That the drive might make things worse, or the clinic might call back and I wouldn’t be able to check my schedule from the car, or that you might be mad at me because I did this again. So I decided it might be better to stay home this time. Actually, to be completely honest, I’d decided that long before the sitz bath. I’m so sorry. Tell me everything. Actually, give me a second. My doctor’s calling. 

Tell me about it another time?