The Untimely Demise Of A Teenage Rebellion

Heather relaxed into the sofa. The best word to describe her sessions with Dr. Goldstein was therapeutic. She especially took pleasure in the way her stories shocked the old man.

Today, she was relating a particularly scandalous dream, one involving a milkman and a silk robe.

"I must interrupt, Heather. Isn't a milkman rather anachronistic for a teenager's dream?"

Heather tried piecing together an explanation that involved vintage reruns, but it eventually unraveled. Still, the umbrage her therapist took when he learned Heather had been sharing entries from her mother's diary all along made up for her deception's untimely demise.

Plague

First little Amy was stricken, taking three days to die.

After collecting the body, the wardens painted the black cross on the door.

Then her husband and son Mark sickened. She could do nothing for their agonies.

A cart collected them to be buried in the pit.

Now the street is sealed off. No food arrives, and the water is almost gone.

She sneezes twice. She knows this is the end. But what is there to live for?

Thus the pauper Mary Wells died alone in London in 1665, with no priest to console her, no caring God above her.

From Guest Contributor Ian Fletcher

Born and raised in Cardiff, Wales, Ian has an MA in English from Oxford University. He has had poems and short stories published in The Ekphrastic Review, Tuck Magazine, 1947 A Literary Journal, Dead Snakes, Schlock! Webzine, Short-story.me, Anotherealm, Under the Bed, A Story In 100 Words, Poems and Poetry, Friday Flash Fiction, and in various anthologies.

Worries In The Sand

I write my worries in the sand. They stretch across the beach, one after another. I shake as I write them – the pain intense. Finally, I finish. I walk away from them and sit down on the dry sand above the tide line to wait. The waves rush in, lapping over the words, washing them away. The tension leaves my shoulders as the sand smooths out, but the pain is still there. Will death wash away aches like the tide waters? Will I become smooth like the sand as I wash out into the eternal sea of the next horizon?

From Guest Contributor Tyrean Martinson

Tyrean is a daydreamer, believer, and writer from the Pacific Northwest.

Hindsight

Debbie got high last night.

Her conscience weighed on her, but not enough to refuse her friends. There was no explicit peer pressure. Rather, not joining in would have meant that she'd forever be considered apart from them..

Once the high came on, her reservations disappeared. It was the best decision she'd ever made.

Twelve hours later, lying in bed as the guilt tries to set in along with the nausea, she's no longer so sure. Hindsight suggests getting high was a mistake.

Debbie remembers kissing Eric Bradshaw and decides that no one listens to hindsight. No one cool anyway.

Lift The Perfume

Lift the perfume, dust, put it back down.Lift the box, dust, put it back down.Lift the moisturizer, see her initials, freeze.JS.Just last week she was teasing me about cleaning our bedroom.Well, my bedroom now.Since the accident.Not an accident, a stupid drunk drove into the side of the car.The violent end replays in my mind.My room is silent now. No more laughing. No more cuddling. No more urging me to clean up.Just an alone silence. An empty room.I put down the moisturizer.Lift another perfume, dust, put it back down.

From Guest Contributor Rodney Goodall

Relationships

I was about to toss you out. End our years of coexistence.

Reminiscing helped me see you in a new light. Made me realize how goodyou’ve been to me.

Through difficult as well as good times you were there for me. Yourgoal to please was simple. You aimed to brighten my dark evenings andmake me feel safe at night when I couldn’t sleep.

I’m thankful for your enduring warmth. For without you, I wouldn’thave been able to orientate myself in these surroundings. Nor read myfavorite books.

Lamp I’ve owned for countless years, we belong together.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. Her work hasbeen published at: Nailpolish Stories, 50-Word Stories, 100 wordstory, 101 Words, Boston Literary Magazine, From the Depths (HauntedWaters Press), ShortbreadStories, SixWordMemoirs, and EspressoStories.

Rain Day

I stare out the window watching the torrents of rain pound the leaves on my maple tree and listen to the ferocious wind hit against the siding of my house. My dog Patty barks and scratches the windowpane. I pull her next to me on the couch and rub her stomach, the only thing that soothes her. Roads are closed due to flooding and I’m stuck at home.

I had an argument with my boss yesterday about not getting enough time off. Now I’m home and bored out of my mind watching the clock.

It’s funny how things turn out.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Honest

She rarely lied. Sure, there was the occasional well-intended compliment to spare someone's feelings. She might make a prevarication of convenience when the full story would take too long to explain. She didn't consider these lies.

And it certainly wasn't dishonest to keep her genuine opinions hidden when the truth could serve no purpose but to engender an argument. Even when she was honest, he would challenge her and pick apart every little detail, hoping to catch her in a falsehood. So what difference did it make if not everything was one hundred percent the truth?

But she rarely lied.

Penny

It was a brisk autumn afternoon, with variegated leaves cascading over the pavement before congregating in the gutter. A penny caught his eye, resting Lincoln-side up in the middle of the sidewalk. He wanted to ignore it, but rather than speed past, he reflexively slowed and glanced behind him. The closest pedestrian was a block behind him.

He tried to bend at the knees, reach down for the penny, and place it into his pocket in one sweeping motion. He didn't need to be pinching pennies, but he wasn't really in a place to leave money just sitting there either.

The Left Eye Is Enough

Because you can see. It is other people who have the problem--flies cannot understand singular vision; pros and cons blink in unison. Suits and snoots on the train and even the grubs on the street shoot sideways sneers and whispers, feary scowls and snickers. The nothingness bothers them, the absence of the right, smooth as burned-off fingerprints. They are not convinced by your best prosthetic and toss you pity, a reward for your emulation of their normalcy. Dark glasses and patches insult the blind and pirates. Your final answer is the biggest lie by the bluntest knife: a wound.From Guest Contributor Brook Bhagat

Brook holds a BA from Vassar College and an MFA in Writing from Lindenwood University. She teaches college writing and is the co-owner and chief editor of BluePlanetJournal.com. Her nonfiction, poetry, and flash fiction have appeared in Creations Magazine, Little India, Outpost, Nowhere Poetry, and The Syzygy Poetry Journal.