Daddy's Little Girl

His little girl called and said that she was getting married.

When he first held her she weighed about as much as two large apples. He was told it could be only hours so say goodbye.

Hours turned into days and then years.

His wife never wanted to try again so his little girl would be the only one that went to see the Yankees with him and share the dogs, the overloaded nachos, the wings, sundaes, and when she was old enough, the brewskis.

"How do I look, Daddy?" The gown was perfect for her 400 pounds.

"Beautiful, Baby."

From Guest Contributor E. Barnes

Decree 349

Five naked women had been lined up against the wall. Something about the one in the middle caught the captain’s eye, whether a tattoo or the way she shyly covered her breasts with her hands. “May I offer you some candy?” he asked. It was only then she remembered that Kafka was buried in a plain wooden coffin, a stray fact that under other circumstances might have been interesting to share. That’s just the sort of place this is, no time for a chat, not even about who it was that tracked in blood on the bottom of their shoes.From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author most recently of What It Is and How to Use It from Grey Book Press. He co-edits the journals Unbroken and UnLost.

Death’s Head

Retreating from Leningrad respect for the Soviets had grown amongst SS Totenkopf, elevated from Untermensch – ‘suhumans’ – to Bolsheviks.

After the bombardment from the eerily howling Katyushas – ‘Stalin’s organs’ – half of Franz’s platoon had been blown to bits, their blood staining the snow.

Silence.

Then line after line of T-34 tanks covered in infantrymen appeared over the frozen steppe.

The odds were impossible, yet none would surrender, warriors moulded by the code of blood, iron and unconquerable will.

Franz, 19, watching the approaching hordes, glanced at the Totenkopf – ‘Death’s Head’ – insignia on his lapel.

Yes, this was what he existed for.

From Guest Contributor Ian Fletcher

Quest

“Are you going to die soon?”

“Yes, I guess.”

“Will you take me with you?”

“Can’t do that”.

“Why not?”

“I just can’t.”

He was in search of true love. His search wasn’t easy. He searched everywhere but never realised how close his love was to him. He had been looking for love at all the wrong places. His quest for love only got longer. He stayed up all night and dreamt all day. The sun went down. The night deepened and darkness hid everything. He thought what could be more mysterious than night when you have secrets to bury.

From Guest Contributor Sergio Nicolas

Young Love

Elsie opens the window and the warm breeze enters the room. She sits next to William holding his hand, remembering.

“It’s a beautiful spring day. It reminds me of our first picnic in the park. After eating and talking for hours, you finally leaned my head back, kissed me and wrapped your hands gently around my waist. Your lips were soft and tasted of salt from the chips.” Elsie brushes William’s hair behind his ear. “I can’t believe that has only been a year ago.”

Elsie’s eyes begin to water, and she wonders why dementia has taken her young love.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Maxine and Me

Linda bought it for me at the museum gala. "So many wonderful things for a donation." she said, "You should have come, my dear! Meet new people."

She's part mother, part matchmaker. I need both.

But do I need this? A burnt, ugly, pockmarked lump of rock. The note with it read "Deaccessioned. Meteorite acquired by Dr. Harris, Labrador 1905. Once much larger, visitors took pieces for many years."

My friend must think I'm like this thing. Dark, scarred. Fragmentary since Bruce left.

I call it Maxine. Sits brooding under a lamp on my desk. We keep each other company.

From Guest Contributor Karen Walker

Data Dada

I walked for eight months, following a man who was carrying books on a donkey. I thought of it as my way of creating memories and putting them in my diary, except I don’t have a diary. So, yes, it’s ironic. Now as I go around the city, I see cigarette butts and chewing gum on the pavement, and people clipping their fingernails in the subway. I mean, who would do that, leave their DNA all over the place for others to collect and store? It’s like the secret to keeping a secret is the only secret still being kept.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author most recently of What It Is and How to Use It from Grey Book Press. He co-edits the journals Unbroken and UnLost.

One Hundred

We have class together ninety-nine times. Four times a week she sits at the front, eyes bright, hand shooting heavenward. She is always in a group, no space beside her. She never sees me.

Ninety-nine times I try to catch her. Once I run so fast down the stairs I trip, scattering books and pride. She has already gone. She does not see me fall.

Class one hundred. She is late. The front is full. Flustered, she moves to the back, beside me. Seizing chance, I smile, and choke out a word I can’t remember. She smiles. She sees me.

From Guest Contributor Bronwen O'Donnell

Stalker

She was always staring at him, even in the eighth grade when I sat behind him, green with envy.

"He doesn't even know you're alive?" I snipped at her in the tenth grade when I caught her staring at him in the cafeteria.

He did not recognize either of us when we attended his lecture at Harvard. I couldn't have cared less what the new advances in pediatric neurosurgery were, but I went at her insistence.

I stand on the walk and give them distance, as she places red roses on his grave.

Tonight, I finally have her to myself.

From Guest Contributor E. Barnes

The Sea

The gentle ripple of the waves soothes me, as I listen to the seagulls flying above searching for prey. A mother is helping her young son build a sandcastle while keeping an eye out for her daughter. “Don’t go too far out,” she bellows.

The ocean splashes against my legs and seaweed gets caught in-between my toes. I chortle and kick my feet, releasing it back into the water. I love the sea, its openness and the people who come to get away from everyday life.

The ocean is a world of its own, and the world is the ocean.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher