On And On And On

On the fifth anniversary of his father’s heroic death in a far-off jungle, a nine-year-old boy pleads and screams as he’s dragged into a tool shed by his drunken stepfather.

On the twenty-fifth anniversary, the boy, reeking of cheap whisky and cigarettes, staggers into his daughter’s bedroom while the young girl cowers against the wall.

On the fifty-eighth anniversary, that girl collapses into her lightless closet, and as her fury-laced glares and impaling shouts become anguished sobs, her teenage daughter sits alone in the bathroom and once again glides the thin, comforting edge of a razor blade across her thigh.

From Guest Contributor J. Paul Ross

Nothing Unusual

Rayette answered the early morning cellphone call from Ralph.

“Look out your window, Rayette.”

They lived close to one another in Northeast Philadelphia and shared pretty much the same view of the sky and the rest of the Universe.

“Do you see it? I'm pretty sure this time.”

She checked.

“No, Ralph, it's not a UFO.”

“I think I see one.”

She rechecked.

“How many times do I have to tell you there’re no such things as UFOs. You're wrong.”

“Not a flying saucer, huh?”

“No… Can't you see it’s only Superman zipping back-and-forth.”

“Nothing unusual?”

“No.”

“Only Superman?”

“Exactly.”

From Guest Contributor David Sydney

Scarf

A silky white scarf sits on Kate’s hope chest, a gift from her mother resurfacing memories; the laughter of family and friends filling the room, the sound of voices singing happy birthday, and the gifts. The most precious, the scarf. It had been handed down by her grandmother to her mother and now Kate.

On her sick bed, Kate’s mother, with little strength, placed the scarf around her daughter’s neck and tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. She wiped away a tear rolling down Kate’s cheek.

As Kate places the scarf around her neck, she feels her touch.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Cruel

On our Saturday morning walk, my daughter found a baby bird that had fallen out of its nest.

"Can we take it home?"

"I think it's dead, sweetheart." When I explained what that meant, she didn't seem too bothered and I thought the matter forgotten.

A few days later, my ex-wife called to say she'd had to meet with Chelsea's teacher after school. "She got in trouble for making two of her classmates cry."

"What did she do?"

"She told them that God is cruel and kills those who deserve it least."

"Weird. I wonder where she got that from."

Long Enough

David kept asking, “Whose funeral is it?”

His daughter replied, “Mom's.”

Minutes later he said, “Whose funeral is it?”

“Mom's.” Each reply earned the same quiet nod.

When the service ended, mourners drifted away. David stepped beside the casket. He slipped off his wedding band. “You'll need this,” he whispered to the casket. “Take good care of it.”

The daughter blinked back tears.

He smiled faintly, patted the casket, and walked on. Halfway down the path, he stopped. “Whose funeral is it?”

His daughter slipped her arm through his, and they walked slowly toward home beneath silent autumn trees together.

From Guest Contributor E. Barnes

E. Barnes has work published at A Story In 100 Words, Spillwords, The Purple Pen, The Haven, and Medium.

Dive Night

From the street, the Cowpony looks like a generic Tucson bar. Nondescript, squat, windowless. Cowboy silhouette on the exterior.

Gerry and I wander inside. The back room features an empty pool table. I rack the balls. Gerry breaks them, sinks the eight ball. Decrepit characters wait beside the bar for karaoke to begin. They leer at us and wink.

“This place reminds me of my misspent youth,” I say.

Gerry thumbs through the karaoke catalog. “Let’s stay a while. There’s a Steely Dan song I want to sing.”

I settle into the booth. It’s going to be a long evening.

From Guest Contributor Leah Mueller

The Opera

I met Katherine at the opera, where I’d shared a box with her and her partner, a tall brute of a man. During the interval, they rowed; he stormed out. After the finale, Katherine and I went back to my place.

The next morning, as we were leaving my flat, a big Merc pulled up next to us. Her boyfriend sat in the front passenger seat, face like thunder.

I had a feeling of dread when two swarthy-faced, black leather-jacketed men jumped out, bundled her into their car, and drove off with her. She was never ever seen again.

From Guest Contributor Val De Vere

A Dozen

Mort motioned to the waitress who took her time getting to the booth.

“Is this place okay?”

“Okay?”

“Yeah. I just saw a fly.”

The waitress, with the name ‘Marge’ stenciled on her food-stained uniform, twisted her face.

“Are you sure?”

“I know a fly when I see one. And Claudette saw another one over there.”

Claudette nodded, pointing to the empty counter where a bulbous-headed insect stumbled erratically.

“Only two?”

“What’d you mean ‘only?’”

“Look, I get your point. A dozen or more flies aren't going to be wrong about a diner. But you saw only two in here…

From Guest Contributor David Sydney

Café

Sarah limps from the explosion, barely able to see through the dust and debris. She coughs, covers her mouth with the torn scarf, and follows the sounds of voices.

Her son and husband are most likely buried in the rubble. The last visual she has of them is laughing while they were having lunch at the café, she sipping her tea while listening to their previous day’s outing.

Her leg is throbbing, and her head pounds, but she sees soldiers up ahead.

Panting, she pleads, “My husband and son need help.”

The soldier gives her a pitying look and nods.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Branded

“Do you see the donut,” the cancer specialist asks, sounding suddenly anxious, “or just the hole?” My eyes burn, though tears are 98 percent water. Once cancer touches you, you belong to it, you’re marked with the herd brand. It would take something like a miracle for me to recover. Yesterday, to the shock of tourists, a statue of the Virgin Mary in a fourteenth-century cathedral in Linz appeared to go into labor. Belief is contagious. And so, I lie in bed at night with all the windows open, listening intently to the gregarious insects at ease in the dark.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie's latest poetry collection, True Crime, was published by Sacred Parasite in Berlin this year.