Issue 5 (January 2023)
Memento Maurie
By Andy Contari
Malachai could smell death. It wasn’t the stench of a rotting carcass, but rather like an autumn orchard when half the harvest falls and ferments. His parents never understood, all those years ago, when Malachai asked why their parakeet smelled like the mushy brown apples in their yard. His mother had shrugged and told Malachai the smell would go away eventually—nothing lasts forever, except God and apple trees, she’d always say. They thought, perhaps, Fergus had gotten into the trash, or perhaps Malachai had taken him outside to play where fallen apples gathered beneath their ancient tree with its limbs clawing the sky.
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