Preparing For The Afterlife

Sally spent most of her days cleaning. She polished and buffed and wiped her way through every room in the house, until it was time to start all over again. The dwelling wasn't that cluttered either. She was just extremely thorough in her routine.

Matt, her husband, had argued they should hire a cleaning service, but Sally believed it was her responsibility. He eventually gave up and left her to it. It seemed to make her happy.

Sally took more care with her possessions than she did with herself. Perhaps because she knew they would someday be all that remained.

Kingly Pursuits

Every spring, King Tolliver traveled with his retinue to the ruins. None of the official historians had an explanation of what city once stood here, all of the stories offered contradicting explanations of the calamity that brought the civilization to decrepitude.

The official justification for King Tolliver's annual sojourn was his desire to reflect on the folly of excessive hubris. This was deemed a kingly pursuit. But the truth of the matter was much more prosaic.

Tolliver's son enjoyed scrambling over the rocks looking for cracked ceramics and the occasional colored glass. More importantly, the king shared the prince's enthusiasm.

His Girl

He returned to their place, behind a shrub. Where they as teenagerswatched practitioners exit a church. Where he kissed away her tearsafter her father walked out, showering affection on a stranger.

She, the girl he played tag with in childhood. The one he datedthrough high school. The one he wrote to after he moved out of thecity, and her letters stopped abruptly.

He watched between raindrops clinging to leafless branches. She exitedthe church on the arm of another man. Wedding procession followed.

Rainstorm may have passed, but the storm in his mind had only intensified.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna is a writer of poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. Sheresides in Edmonton, Canada with her husband and stuffed animals andmany friends.

The State Of Care

A banner stretching across the building’s exterior says, “What’s Shakin’.” You aren’t sure how that should be read, as a description or a question. There’s only one way to find out. You enter through an unmarked door, walk down a long, dim hallway and up a set of stairs into an area filled with bad smells and loud noise. If you’re going to be stranded somewhere, this may not be the best place. The caregivers take frequent breaks to look out the large windows. It isn’t safe or legal, but they’re Americans and believe they can do whatever they want.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author of three recent collections, I'm Not a Robot from Tolsun Books, A Room at the Heartbreak Hotel from Analog Submission Press, and The Titanic Sails at Dawn from Alien Buddha Press.

Emptiness

Toniann held her infant daughter close to her chest. She hummed and rocked looking at her tiny eyelids, gently pressing her face against baby’s fragile skin.

The nurse came in to take her, but Toniann pleaded for a few more minutes. She loved the feel of her small body in her arms.

Kurt gently reached to remove the baby from Toniann’s arms. “Honey, it’s time to let the nurse take her.”

Toniann struggled at first, but then released her daughter into the hands of her husband. Emptiness filled her heart.

She’d never feel the soft touch of her daughter again.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Jesus Christ Superstar DJ

The most impressive thing Jesus has done recently other than walking on water and dying for everyone’s sins is buying that used turntable at a yard sale. From the moment his fingers graced the platter, he couldn’t stop himself from shredding sweet jams, morning, noon, night.

Wrists limp in constant trance, eyes filled with stars, he gave birth to melodic mixes that wafted through windows and pierced hearts.

The evening he stood on that stage holding the Cincinnati DJ Superstar rhinestone-encrusted first place trophy, a tear streamed down his cheek. This one’s for me, Dad. This one’s just for me.

From Guest Contributor Ashley Jae Carranza

The Wooden Spoon That Left A Scar

The wooden spoon has its many uses. Grandma used it to stir the pot as the sweet savory smell of her brown stew wafted through the kitchen door to the hallway. After a hearty meal, I was always waiting for the unknown. This caused all my childhood anxiety. Grandma’s mood – now dark. I winced as the wooden spoon landed on my bare buttocks, smack after smack. I couldn’t sit down. When my teacher found out, I ended up in care. It was very unpleasant. The wooden spoon left more than a scar. I panic each time I see one.

From Guest Contributor Ibukun Sodipe

The Sound Of What’s Coming

There was a guillotine in the basement. People in the surrounding buildings reacted by hurling rocks and bottles. The whole thing felt suspicious, like someone was trying to send me a message. So I started cutting out images of crashes and mass shootings from the newspaper and transferring them onto the surface of prison-issued soaps. Then I figured out a way to do that onto the prison sheets. The residue that accumulated on the floor and walls took on a life of its own. Now what do we do? The window provides enough natural light to keep the snake alive.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Martial Arts As A Way Of Life

Ken determined that martial arts would be his way of life and so set about training with both sword and spear. His intention was to practice until he was ready for mortal combat, and then square off against consecutively more difficult challengers. In this way, he would rise to become the greatest master of sword fighting.

Training with a wooden sword is not the same as fighting with a metal one. For this reason, Ken spent three years sparring against fellow students before he felt himself ready to fight his first fatal duel.

His first would also be his last.

Bespoke

Gordon hated being measured. It wasn't just the crinkled-paper hands running over his body, but also the implication that in the intervening months he had changed shape.

This was the price he paid for original attire. Whether it was too familiar touches or jealous stares, Gordon's success was a constant chore. Yet these labors must be endured, for triteness was the precursor to death.

Let the old man fondle his buttocks, and the common folk stare at his unconventional wardrobe. He was one of the few people in the world that could claim he was truly one of a kind.