Milk Candy Review

We recently published Kelly McElroy’s heartrending “The Dive.”

Here, we ask her two questions about her story:

1) I love the details here, the specificity. How much the narrators remember of this night! All except that one thing. That one devastating thing. Do you think any of them might remember more than they are revealing? Or was this one thing truly missed amongst the rest of the night?
I think it’s certainly possible that one or more of the girls remembers more than the collective narration claims. I was really interested in playing with the idea of blame here, and how the narrators try to shift it off of themselves, emphasizing the action they took once they realized what was wrong as opposed to the mistakes they made along the way. I think there is also safety in numbers; for one of the girls to admit that she realized something was wrong sooner would be to step out of the collective and invite greater scrutiny. Better to stick with the rest of the group’s story.

2) But, oh, the details! Those secret looks! The shyness, the fear of revealing yourself to the others. Do you think this, perhaps, is what kept them from noticing?
Yes! The girls are so caught up in how they appear to each other. They are self-conscious about feeling self-conscious, all wanting to seem confident and cool in their bodies. The irony, of course, is that they’re so busy thinking of themselves that they end up not seeing each other, and this self-obsession is what keeps them from noticing the most vital detail of the night.

We’ve already been drinking for hours by the time we get the idea to go to the ocean. The water is only a five minute walk away and wouldn’t it be a waste of our night if we didn’t take advantage of the opportunity to swim? Our mothers would be horrified to know where we are and what we’re doing but we slip off our clothes, tops first because we are less self conscious of our breasts than we are of our lower bellies. We slide our shorts and our underwear off quickly, trying to seem indifferent to nakedness like we undress in front of others all the time, and then we are streaking down to the water, kicking loose sand up behind us. The moon lights quick snatches of skin as we run, a curved waist, a sharp shoulder blade, a dark nipple, our flesh glowing against the black sea we dive into. In the ocean we are all the same body. The borders between our skin and the water and each other are fluid. It might be the alcohol or the fact that we were already unsteady back on land but when the waves toss us around we are not frightened. We appreciate the disorientation, the push and pull of the tide. We are warmer down here than in the night air and it is a comfort, but still after a few moments of weightlessness we reluctantly swim back to the shore, the thrill having passed, and race up to where we piled our clothes. We throw back on our t-shirts and shorts but not our underwear, because we are soaking wet and no one wants cotton underwear clinging to them when they are coated in sand and seaweed and salt. We are halfway back to one of our homes, bare feet on street pavement, socks and panties balled up in our hands, when we remember that the neighbor’s house is under construction and no one is home. The pool sits like a glowing orb in the backyard, waiting for us. Carefully, but not as carefully as we think, we climb over the fence that separates their property from ours. We undress, more shyly this time because the pool is lit up from below and we can see each other now so clearly. We pretend we are not looking but we are, glimpses of bodies through the broken prisms of the water. Later, no one will be able to say how long we were in the pool before we realized that one of us was missing. They will ask us again and again and we will say we don’t know we don’t know we don’t know and they, our mothers and later the police, will ask how could we possibly not know? And we will repeat it again like it is our penance. What matters, we will insist, is that when we did realize that someone was missing we peeled ourselves dripping out of the pool and put our clothes back on again, hurrying this time, exposing more of ourselves than we meant to. First we checked the house, checked the bedrooms, because maybe she just went upstairs and went to sleep, but she was not there so we went back to the beach but she was not there either. There were just her clothes, still piled in the sand. The moon cast its indifferent glow on the waves and we wondered how we could have missed it. She must have been so quiet as the sea pulled her under, away from us.

***

Kelly McElroy is a fiction writer from New Jersey, whose work has previously been published in Flash Frog. She is currently pursuing her MFA at Bowling Green State University.

(CW: implied sexual assault)

She could have said no. (She did eventually.) But she could have said no right away. Could have said no, I don’t want to leave the bar and go with you. Could have just stayed at Jasper’s with her glass of whiskey and cherries. Could have said no to the cigarette. No, thank you, I do not want a cigarette. Or, she could have taken it, tucked it behind her ear, and that could have been all. The end. No. She did not have to go outside with him. Did not have to stand in the street, smoking, watching the moon fail to rise. And even if she had, she could have said no then. Afterward. She did not have to follow him back to his lemon-yellow Cadillac. And even if she had followed him there, she could have stayed in the fresh cool night air. She did not have to open the boat of a door and climb in. Did not have stay in there either. She could have said no then. Returned her body to the bar. And while he drove—Stevie Ray Vaughn vibrating her skull—she could have asked him to pull over. Or she could have opened the door and jumped. Could have simply walked the winding country roads home. It was a thick dark night, but she could have walked those roads sightless. (She knew them so well.) And when he pulled onto that dirt road with the apple trees on either side (an orchard), she could have said stop (she did say stop). She could have run through that orchard like her life depended on it. Stumbled past tree trunks over knobs of apples in the dust. And again, when the next door presented itself, a ripped screen thing with a metal frame, she did not have to walk through it. Did not have to enter the trailer. No, she could have left. And when he offered her a swig from that water bottle (whiskey, he said), she could have kept away from it. Could have not swallowed it deep and long like she did. Could have not coughed and laughed. Could have pushed his hand away when he reached for her face afterward. Could have said fuck you (she did say fuck you eventually). And when he peeled her clothes off layer by layer, where was she? She could have said no then. Could have stopped him. (Where was she?) Silence. Not in her body. No. She was back in the orchard, curled into the branches of an apple tree. No moon. Just fog. Imagining herself fog, drifting, dissolving. And now, not saying no, a time before the bar: flick of mascara for the eyelashes, spritz of perfume on the collarbone, a bit of lipstick. Could have stayed in those moments, before the trailer, before the dirt road, before the Cadillac, the cigarette, Jasper’s. Could have not gone there at all. 

***

Allison Field Bell is a multi-genre writer from California. She is the author of two forthcoming collections: Bodies of Other Women (fiction, Red Hen Press) and All That Blue (poetry, Finishing Line Press). She is also the author of three chapbooks: Stitch (flash fiction, forthcoming from Chestnut Review Books), Without Woman or Body (Poetry, Finishing Line Press), and Edge of the Sea (Nonfiction, CutBank Books). Find her at allisonfieldbell.com.

I tossed the used diaper, I buckled the seatbelt, I put my daughter into her stroller, I checked four times to make sure I put my daughter into her stroller, I lowered her visor, I pressed the lock button on my car keys four times; someone reassure me that I tossed the used diaper, that I buckled the seatbelt, that I put my daughter into her stroller, that I checked four times to make sure I put my daughter into her stroller, that I lowered her visor for the sun is hot today and fizzles downward onto her tufts of brown hair; at the trailhead, I turn us around to recheck the car is locked; the only thing that calms her is for me to roll her stroller two steps forward and one back, and in the lulling I say shhhh, darling, shhhh to stop her fussing; shhhh goes the river beneath the pedestrian bridge; shhhh go the trees above the long winding trail; if I do not continue this forward forward backward forward forward backward she will wake up; she will again cry; (When was the last time I rested in the eyes of someone I didn’t realize loved me as deeply as I do her? What is the normal amount of fear this loving should hold?); Every few minutes I lift the visor because I am convinced a quiet daughter is a dead one.

***

Kenny Mitchell is a writer from Nebraska who graduated from the University of Nebraska at Kearney in 2024. He is currently living in Bloomington, Indiana studying for his MFA in fiction writing at Indiana University, where he serves as an associate instructor and the fiction editor of Indiana Review.

We recently published Lisa Thornton’s thoughtful “In That Little House on Maple Street With the Curtains Always Drawn.”

Here, we ask her two questions about her story:

1) I love the correction of “Small Henry” and “Big Henry” to “Young Henry” and “Old Henry.” It tells the reader so much about what has changed between the two men. Do you think Young Henry thinks of his father as “Small Henry” now?
I think Young Henry will always think of his father as big; big boots, big support, big voice, big love. But some of the success of his caregiving is due to Young Henry’s ability to see his father’s physical condition clearly. Maybe the size of Old Henry is getting funneled from his physical form into Young Henry’s love for him. This way Old Henry will still take up a lot of space even when his body is gone. 

2) The dedication Young Henry demonstrates here is so powerful! He shows so much care and devotion to Old Henry. Would this relationship be different if there were a third party introduced, do you think? Say, a Mrs. Henry?
Young Henry and Old Henry’s relationship would be changed by a woman. I mentioned the memories of the woman along with the morphine in the fridge because I wanted the reader to know that it was just the two men. I think these two men have had only each other for a while now, and their close relationship reflects that bond. Since there is no one else to pass responsibility on to, Young Henry has embodied the role of caregiver that he might otherwise not have accepted (or been expected to fill). And he has accepted this traditionally female role with a patience and big-handed grace that makes him seem even stronger (at least to me!). 

In That Little House on Maple Street with the Curtains Always Drawn

there is Big Henry and Small Henry. No. Young Henry and Old Henry. The son caring for the father. Removing soiled bandages from pressure sores, wiping, applying ointment, measuring. Cutting gauze into perfect shapes. Pressing. Taping. Rolling Old Henry into position so he can see the TV. A man’s big hands careful. Old Henry’s eyes follow his son as he arranges boxes of green foam on the end of plastic sticks, the ones made for moistening chapped lips and white, fuzzy tongues inside mouths hanging open. Gaping in sleep, breathing the days and nights of a hospital bed in the living room, a waiting dry in the air. Old Henry was the big one once we all remember, cheering at the home games, ag company cap and mud on his Wranglers. But now he is body curled like a kitten and skin draped over bone. The refrigerator in the kitchen is full of morphine and memories of a woman long gone. Young Henry finds Columbo on the channel that plays vintage faves. Old Henry doesn’t smile when the detective turns around and says, “Just one more thing.” Not like he used to. Not on the outside, anyway. Young Henry lifts his father’s hip and inserts a pillow between the joint and the mattress. Like a seamstress or a baker, Young Henry’s hands move with dedication. As if hemming. As if kneading. Quarterback no more, Young Henry is full-time in the living room. Hour after hour, he does his work and time does its.

***

Lisa Thornton is a writer and nurse. She has stories in SmokeLong Quarterly, Pithead Chapel, Necessary Fiction, and other magazines. She has been shortlisted for the Bath Flash Fiction Award and the Bridport Flash Fiction Prize. Her work has been nominated for the Best of the Net, the Pushcart Prize, and Best Small Fictions. She lives in Illinois and can be found on Bluesky and Instagram @thorntonforreal. 

We recently published Madison Ellingsworth’s shimmering “Golden Polyps.”

Here, we ask her two questions about her story:

1) I love how literally the narrator takes the line the doctor gives them about their mother’s mind “going,” and how it leads them into reminiscences of a trip they never took, one they hope their mother will remember. But of course, the narrator doesn’t really take the line literally — they only wish to accompany their mother on this last, lonely trip. Do you think there will still be moments between the two of them when they can “travel” together?
I believe that the narrator and their mother will continue to “travel” together, definitely. There is a deep love between these two. The narrator’s care comes from more than a desire for maternal validation, and the mother has people in her life that she could sit and drink coffee with instead of her child. But these two choose to spend time together day after day. They “travel” through conversation, as they have not (and now likely can’t) travel physically. One day, the mother will travel on without her child to an unknown place, and they will never “travel” together again, but that is what makes these small “travels” special. I like to picture them at the narrator’s kitchen table, reminiscing on the mother’s bygone trips, and Bill and Mary’s crazy relationship, and how much those golden polyps hurt, for many years to come.

2) You approach the subject of dementia with such a subtle and delicate touch — the child’s pain is so palpable. But how does this story look from the mother’s point of view? Will she see the photograph on the fridge? Would there be a part of her that understands and remembers?
Thank you for your kind words! 
I would like to think that the narrator’s mother sees this photograph and she laughs, shocked to remember it all. I imagine that this vacation predated the birth of the narrator, and that the mother talks about her golden polyps with a gleam in her eye. The memories she has of the trip are heartwarming—even more so, now that her husband has passed—and she tells the narrator about Bill and Mary and their father as young people with the kind of fondness that only comes from several decades worth of distance. 
However, maybe that is not the case. Maybe she does not recognize the father in the picture, or know that those are her genitals. But, no matter what, I know that the narrator’s mother will notice this photograph. I see her plucking it off the fridge and examining it. Maybe she chuckles and asks what it is because, even if she does not remember it, this is not the kind of photo that goes unnoticed.

The doctor says that my mother’s mind is going, and he never tells me where to, or for how long, but that kind of information is what a person needs when they are taking a trip, because how am I supposed to join my mother and her mind in this new place if I can’t plan for it, can’t plan what food to leave in the fridge, can’t plan what she’ll need to have on her person, versus what she will need to have packed away, can’t plan what we will do if something goes wrong, those unexpected delays, or injuries, like when she went to Aruba thirty years ago, she and my father and Bill and Mary, and they jetted their rented pontoon—all pure white fiberglass and polished teak—in the nude, laughing all the way to the crest of a sand barge, where they stranded themselves, and everyone got sunburns that blistered into golden polyps across every inch of their bodies, forcing the Caribbean Coast Guard to ferry them straight to the main hospital in Oranjestad, and I still have the photograph of my mother and father in the exam room, standing beside one another, both red as clown noses, the flash glinting off the coagulated ointments and gels that the Aruban doctors coated their naked bodies with, and, I know, it’s a strange photograph to have hung on my fridge, but I like to imagine that my mother will notice it again, one of these afternoons when she and I return to my house for coffee, following another appointment with another doctor, and she’ll recognize herself and my father, who followed his mind somewhere unknown only a few years ago, and my mother will laugh at the photograph, at her slimed pubic hair and at my father’s sunburned genitals, and at me having hung such a memory on my fridge—me, her beloved daughter; me, her appointment chauffeur; me, her willing trip companion—me, who would join her anywhere her mind wanted to go, even if it was to a sand barge in Aruba with nothing but a weak-engined pontoon, if only she would tell me when we are leaving.

***

Madison Ellingsworth is a writer and ceramicist based in Portland, Maine. Her stories can be found in an array of publications, including West Trade Review, Fractured Lit, Lunch Ticket, Apple Valley Review, and more. She is a Best of the Net 2026 nominee. Madison can be found at madisonellingsworth.com, and on Instagram @madisonellingsworth.

We recently published Frances Klein’s thoughtful “Good Samaritan.”

Here, we ask her two questions about her story:

1) This story is told in layers: the story being told at the dinner party, the story of the dinner party, the story behind the story being told. Do you think this story would be as effective without the framing of the dinner party?
For me, the framing of the dinner party is an essential layer to the story. It adds an additional element of isolation–the narrator unable or unwilling to discuss their college experience–that might excuse or at least contextualize their choice to their host. By having that additional layer, I hoped to emphasize and heighten the loneliness felt by the narrator. The interactions between the dinner party host and the narrator are also intended to make the real “goodness” of the narrator’s actions ambiguous. The host is clear and immediate in her condemnation of the narrator, but her many mistakes (undercooked and mismatched food) also cast doubt on her judgment. Without all of those layers of unspoken human interaction, I don’t think the loneliness of the narrator feels as stark.

2) The story is called “Good Samaritan,” but the narrator’s act is seen as selfish — partly by the host, who accuses them of taking away the man in the wheelchair’s “agency,” but also by themself, who simply longed for touch, for connection. Is the narrator less lonely now, do you think? Have they found some connection that keeps them from the painfulness of their college days?
Optimistically, I’d like to say yes (who doesn’t want their characters to have happy endings?!) but I think the real answer is more mixed. The narrator is now out of college, and at a dinner party, so we can assume that somewhere along the way they’ve found friends and connection, or at least a few people who’ll invite them over for dinner. However, in this scene at least the narrator clearly feels disconnected from like they can’t or aren’t connecting with them in the way they intended. It shows that, even though the narrator is now out of college and socializing as an adult, they still feel that sense of distance from the people around them. To me, it raises the question of whether we are ever really able to leave the past versions of ourselves behind, or whether we carry them forward with us, just dressed up in new outfits.