Inkling Of Jackals

While you putter and sputter and wander room to room forgetting

there are jackals on the moon. They nip and shiver in a hidden corner of the Lake of Dreams, a secret pocket of atmosphere just big enough to make a den, a home, a scratching ground. Black eyes shine from once red-brown-white coats, now just ashen tufts of moondust, moondust, pale gray. The pups scramble up from their rough and tumble, fall silent, and sit still, narrowing their eyes and curling their ears at the little blue marble in the wet ink sky.

They are waiting for your Howl.

From Guest Contributor Brook Bhagat

Brook Bhagat’s poetry, fiction, non-fiction, and humor have appeared in Monkeybicycle, Empty Mirror Magazine, Harbinger Asylum, Little India, Rat’s Ass Review, Anthem: A Tribute to Leonard Cohen, and other journals and anthologies. She and her husband Gaurav created Blue Planet Journal, which she edits and writes for. She holds an MFA from Lindenwood University, is an assistant professor of English at a community college, and is writing a novel. Her poetry collection, Only Flying, is due out Nov. 16, 2021 from Unsolicited Press.

The Botanist

HUBRIS CONTEST:

Settled at the picnic table, I was teaching my three-year old granddaughter, Natalie, the process of planting seeds. Surrounded by supplies: seeds, cardboard egg cartons, a bag of soil, a big spoon and a spray bottle filled with water, Natalie carefully filled each section of the egg carton with soil. All the while I explained to her how seeds grow into plants if they have sun, water and food. I believed that she thoroughly understood. She was seriously working.

Grandpa joined us and asked, “What are you doing?”

“We are growing eggs!” Natalie boasted.

I’d better wait till she’s four.

From Guest Contributor Patricia Gable

The Dollhouse

is custom made to look like my house, our house. My new wife’s idea—for Sarah. Same front elevation. Duplicate floorplan. But my step daughter’s attempt to match furniture placement is off. I nudge the miniature hutch to its true location. She frowns, pushes my hand away, makes me move to the front yard, so to speak. I look at her through the windows. She appears as if a Goliath child. My sling: empty after repeated attempts to penetrate the four walls of her heart. I lean low, peer inside the front door. “Knock, knock,” I say. She never answers.

Keith Hoerner lives and pushes words around in Southern Illinois.

Rags To Riches And Back

HUBRIS CONTEST:

Mr. X fell. How badly?

Initially, he didn’t know. He continued contriving grandiose schemes. To deceive and conquer. Gain at the loss of others.

Friends he once had dwindled to one. They witnessed him gloating. How he went from rags to riches, increasing net worth “like no one else.”

Until the world sank into monetary collapse.

His temper shot up. Those he benefited from abandoned positions of his corporate ladder. He maintained headstrong in his quest of greatness, overriding those needing assistance.

Indeed, Mr. X fell. Sad thing, he had no clue how to rise.

Nor do others marked ‘X.’

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

On Being A Man

HUBRIS CONTEST:

His backhand caused her body to pirouette grotesquely before landing face down on the coffee table.

Wincing, she rolled off the table, and sat up, mopping blood futilely from her mouth with the back of her right hand.

“Aren’t ya proud o’ me, workin’ all night?” he whined.

Unblinking, she nodded.

Then, the boy, who’d learned what a man was from his father, brought the cast iron pan onto the back of his father’s head with a sound like a loud wet kiss.

The man slid to the ground gracefully.

Beaming at her son, she said, “Now that’s a man!”

From Guest Contributor Jody Lehrer

Swimming Sterility

HUBRIS CONTEST:

I’m a fish, except I swim between kitchen, bedroom, and bathroom.

I sterilize, wash, wipe, dry. Watch episodes of Barry and Curb Your Enthusiasm, semblances of entertainment before the virus.

I’m swimming in sterile fishbowls.

Some nights, I open windows. I absorb tree branches shifting, the tenderness of a fleeting breeze. I absorb the thump of distant speakers. Wear widened eagerness, an expression I thought I suppressed.

Some nights, I try to step out among bars, laughter, bodies.

Some nights I make it a block. Two, even.

But I retreat. Wide eyes sink into submission.

Brave fish are always doomed.From Guest Contributor Yash Seyedbagheri

Yash is a graduate of Colorado State University's MFA program in fiction. A native of Idaho, Yash’s work is forthcoming or has been published in WestWard Quarterly, Café Lit, and Ariel Chart, among others.

A Piece Of History

The suicide stopped drowning for a minute to pose for the art students sketching on the riverbank. It happened about the time Sartre claimed he was being followed through the streets of Paris by a pair of rare blue lobsters. The bearded lady sat at the window, beautiful in her own way, but struggling to decide whether or not she should start to shave. Even though Hitler was dead, the screams from the gas chambers went on. People in the surrounding area would later say they thought it was just the collection of apple-cheeked Hummel figurines above the fake fireplace. From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author of The Death Row Shuffle, forthcoming from Finishing Line Press. He co-edits the online journals Unbroken and UnLost.

Let's Stay Focused On The Good News

HUBRIS CONTEST:

Gerald raced home, test in hand, too excited to look both ways as he crossed intersections. There was never any traffic anyway, and this news was too good to wait. He only paused at one point to pick up the books that had scattered on the sidewalk behind him because he'd forgotten to zip closed his backpack.

He sprinted up his driveway and burst through the front door.

"I am the GOAT!!!" He threw the paper towards his mother, who looked up in bewilderment.

"A B+ on your English exam. I'm proud of you. Now what about your math quiz?"

From Guest Contributor Breanne Nyhoff

Their Tale

The day after they were introduced to each other, the author sent a message.“I’m planning on writing a story about a young, talented and beautiful female musician, thousands of miles away from home. But I’ve still got some research to do. I thought maybe you’d like to help me out.”

“Is it a love story?” she asked.

“It might just turn out to be one of the greatest love stories ever told,” he answered.

“Do you think it’ll have a happy ending? I love happy endings.”​From that moment on, they both knew her story also became his.From Guest Contributor Hervé Suys

Hervé (°1968 - Ronse, Belgium) started writing short fiction whilst recovering from a sports injury and hasn't stopped since.

The Truth And Nothing But The Truth

HUBRIS CONTEST

At a young age, Bjorn swore he would never tell another lie. For others, this might have been a quickly forgotten boast, but for him it was the mantra he would forever live by.

In the beginning, it was relatively easy to always tell the truth. But gradually he found that being honest frequently hurt the feelings of those closest to him. He began to meticulously avoid human connection, because this way he would never have to disappoint anyone by telling them how he really felt.

What had initially seemed like a valiant choice eventually became Bjorn's life long curse.

From Guest Contributor Gil Anders