No Thought

My doorbell rings with flowers from David. Every year on Valentine’s Day he sends me red roses. The delivery boy smiles waiting for his tip. I hand him the money and shut the door forcibly causing the room to shake. Another vase to take up room in my cabinet.

Just once I’d like David to say he loves me and take me out to a nice dinner. He does the same thing every year without any other thought.

I throw the roses in the trash, the vase cracking into pieces.

I grab my car keys and take myself to dinner.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Safety In The North

We hug the coastline, the water lipping and lapping, squeezing us against scrub brush and pink granite boulders. Sophie stomps her feet in plops of seafoam eddying in the tide pools. We let her play. So much has been lost. But not this. Her innocence glinting in the sunlight, giggles clutching our heartbeats. We safeguard this last remnant, this singular, unsullied, untarnished, vestige. Otherwise, what is it all for? Trudging at night beneath ribbons of greenish-blue light, the auroras coxswaining us toward safety in the northern hemisphere. We press ahead. Agents two days behind at most. Our precious cargo intact. From Guest Contributor Karen Schauber

Karen’s flash fiction appears in over 100 international journals, magazines, and anthologies with nominations for the Pushcart Prize, Best Small Fictions, Best Microfiction and the Wigleaf Top 50. Schauber curates Vancouver Flash Fiction – an online resource hub, and in her spare time is a seasoned family therapist. Read her at: KarenSchauberCreative.weebly.com

Dirt

Dirt and dried mud clung to every surface of the house, a layer of grime so thick it suggested years had passed since any cleaning had been undertaken. Yet the inhabitants, their own clothes equally soiled, acted as if everything about the situation were normal. Their sunny dispositions and politeness in the face of even the rudest insinuations forced the consideration that exterior appearances were, at least in this situation, misleading.

When the discovery of a mass grave was discovered underneath their domicile, conclusions were again revised. Contamination of the home is indeed a sign of contamination of the soul.

The Agony Of De Feet

We took a cruise which included Roatan, an island off the Honduras coast. We had a fine time just wandering around the island but decided it would be a good idea to go kayaking. We were right, it was a beautiful day in the Caribbean and the bright sun was fine. We thought we had dressed for the occasion, but even with suntan lotion on most parts of our exposed bodies we forgot our feet. Both of us got extremely sunburned feet. Walking was painful for days after, but we still remember our cruise and time spent on Roatan fondly.

From Guest Contributor Doug Hawley

Living In Paradise

Robert repeats his mantra as he tries to concentrate on nothing but his breathing.

Every moment is a paradise. Every moment is a paradise.

He remembers his trip to Bali, floating in the ocean surf as the sun set over the horizon. That was paradise.

He remembers looking into his eyes and the world disappearing in the totality of their love. That was paradise.

He opens his eyes surreptitiously and glances about the room. The faux-wood floors, the scent of cleaner in the air, the sad plant in the corner.

This is not a paradise. This is not a paradise.

Deep Slumber

Every part of my body ached; and my hair was pasted to the pillow from sweat. My lips were dry, yearning for water, but I couldn’t drink with the tube down my throat. I’m in the hospital, but what happened?

There’s movement around me, but it’s just a blurred mess. My head feels as if it was struck with a hammer, the pain shooting down to my neck.

I heard voices.

“She needs surgery to remove the swelling. Sarah suffered severe head trauma in the accident.”

Is that a doctor?

Slowly I’m being moved and sedated into a deep slumber.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Mel Finishes the Week

His week at the coin-operated laundromat finally over, Mel wished for nothing more, after a meal of mac & cheese, than a night of uninterrupted sleep.

So, now in REM sleep, he was able to dream, to put his Uncle's laundromat behind him.

To recover.

But what the...

It was his Uncle Leo, bursting into Mel's dream of sleeping on laundry. There’s something pleasant about lying on towels and underwear at your work.

“I don't pay you to sleep. Take this mop, Mel.”

All that night he spent mopping.

Mopping and mopping linoleum until the morning, when he awoke exhausted.

From Guest Contributor David Sydney

Best Friends Forever

Michael sits on the dock with his feet dangling in the water. Frank lounges next to him, his nose alert for danger or snacks.

Perhaps they will go for a walk along the lake, or follow the dried creek bed up to the moss tree. Or Michael might grab a fishing pole from the shed and spend the afternoon at the shady shore. Frank would probably rather chase squirrels and rabbits in the grassy meadow.

It's the kind of day that you want to freeze in time and make it last forever.

The kind of day made for best friends.

Time

Hope is the eternal companion of time. Whatever amount we have, we always believe there's more.

Shannon reflects on the time they've wasted. Angry for no good reason. Lost in mindless distraction. Drunk to the point of blacking out. That's time literally given away for nothing.

Now that the end is upon them, she's choking on the regrets. The bad choices, the meaninglessness. The moments of the past that were perfect and yet so brief and unappreciated.

But those moments were perfect because they were unreflected upon.

All you can do is focus on the hour that is upon you.

You Are The Method

I met the man with the train face at a strawberry picking. Where you buy the basket, scatter into the field, pick as many as you like or as will fit. He moved in a straight line, boring ever farther ahead, picking with one hand, then the other, then engineering the basket forward along the ground. When I was beside him, I could feel his breath like steam; his eyes seemed to let out more light than they took in. Full basket, he passed it to his wife. Her face was a station. She handed him a new, empty basket.

From Guest Contributor Ken Poyner