My Father Calls During My Daughter’s Bath – Andy Fogle


The Binnacle’s Eleventh Annual Ultra-Short Competition – 2014

He’s on the side porch open
to the south meadow, as a storm
booms through. Do I remember
running to him? Daddy, Daddy,
can we go sit in the garage
and watch the storm?
I’d help him
put the door up, and we’d sit
in lawn chairs, feel the thunder
in the floor, watch water rush
down Amberly Road. She squawks
in my face, he cackles in my ear,
and I span to heed the arc
that beams and fades and crackles again.

Andy Fogle has five chapbooks of poetry, and various nonfiction in The Writer’s Chronicle, English Journal, Gargoyle, and Cobalt. He grew up in Virginia Beach, spent thirteen years in the DC area, and now lives in upstate New York, teaching high school and working on a PhD in Education.

Flavor – Sophie Fern


The Binnacle’s Eleventh Annual Ultra-Short Competition – 2014

The curve of a pregnant woman’s stomach tastes of strawberries. I do not know the taste of the unborn child. I may never know. All things hinge on how much the mother, Kat, enjoys my company here.
The other synesthetic person I’ve known would have told me “Kat” is orange.
Kat’s face is gingersnaps. The ocean to our left is spearmint. Nothing in the café is orange – but, well, I don’t see that way.
“Penny for your thoughts,” Kat offers. My eyes snap forward.
“You won’t have them if that’s what you’re offering,” I shoot back. “Pennies taste like bile.”
Silence stretches. Yawns. The face she’s making is not a good sign for the rest of the date.
“…I forgot you could taste the way things look.”
“It takes some getting used to.”
Kat considers that, removes her sunglasses, and chooses to remain seated. With my record, it’s progress.

An aspiring author, screenwriter, and actor, Sophie Fern is a full-time student who spends free time gathering an army of loyal followers, cooking, traveling, and – most importantly – eating. She’s probably not the age you think she is and she appreciates Oscar Wilde’s sass.

I Run – Jann Everard


The Binnacle’s Eleventh Annual Ultra-Short Competition – 2014

I train six days a week. Started in first grade – a Popsicle stick for each circuit. Mom wasn’t interested, never cared if I won or lost a race.
Then we went camping. We circled the park looking for a site until a wasp in the back seat freaked me out. Mom stopped the car and flung open the door. “Get out!” she yelled. “But you better keep up!”
She peeled off and I followed. When I pulled into the campsite, Mom said, “We should find you a coach.”

Today’s the big race. I’ve warmed up and stretched. But something’s wrong. I’m frozen in the blocks. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the starter pistol. I hear: Ready…set…
I grind my teeth, think you can do this, but feel nothing but doubt.
Then, a fraction before the starter’s shot, my mother’s voice: “WASP!”
I explode forward. I’m off.

Jann Everard lives in Toronto, Canada, where she works part time in research ethics. Her short fiction and creative nonfiction have been published in The Fiddlehead, Grain, The Antigonish Review, The Los Angeles Review, and elsewhere. Please visit Jann at www.janneverard.com.