When My Wish For A Unicorn Finally Came True

Unicorns are not a figment of my imagination. They are as real as I am and I know where to find them.

Santa took me on his sleigh with Rudolph leading the reindeer herd. I didn't expect to land in Santa's workshop when I followed the funny white rabbit, but my curiosity always gets the best of me. Santa took me to a place with singing mermaids by the beach, hundreds of scurrying hobbits, and dragons flying above.

I should’ve been ecstatic but I couldn’t stop thinking about how much more I wanted to ride a Pegasus over a Unicorn.

From Guest Contributor, Kristen Lum

The Recumbent Bicycle

When Inspector Grimes arrived at the scene, a flood of details cried out for his attention, as they so often did: the layer of grime between the flagstones, the single shoelace tied around a stack of books, the taste of almonds hovering in the air. Any of them might be important, but it was the recumbent bicycle the inspector focused on now. Someone had knocked it to the ground.

Being a good detective requires blotting out emotions and staying focused on the meaningful details. But right now all Grimes could think about was that his best friend had been murdered.

A Letter After “N” On The Last Day Before Treatment

You are the hair against my belly, left too long in slick cooling foam. You are the pull of my arm as it leans closer to ground than shoulder. You are the gelatin near my breast where I am found waiting, one more time. You are sorted beyond shape, into one scent I'll accept, one I push heavily against, a reminder of reverse birthing, of what inside might mean if wrapped, warped by artifice and vivid yellows. You are this sweetness I take instead of a lesson—a cabbage of greens kept to hide the reds left in your leaving.

From Guest Contributor, Kelli Allen

Kelli Allen’s work has appeared in numerous journals and anthologies in the US and internationally. She served as Managing Editor of Natural Bridge and holds an MFA from the University of Missouri. She is currently a Professor of English and Creative Writing at Lindenwood University. Allen gives readings and teaches workshops throughout the US. Her full-length poetry collection, Otherwise, Soft White Ash, from John Gosslee Books (2012) was nominated for the Pulitzer Prize.

The Invisible Man

Henry was an old man. In the last ten, maybe twenty years, he realized that he had grown invisible. When shopping, picking a loaf of bread off the shelf, or choosing a couple of oranges at the produce counter, young people would pass by, almost brushing into him, but not making eye contact or offering a greeting. At the front entrance of the post office, an attractive young lady appeared, face to face at the large, double doors. She stared straight ahead, not changing her expression. She looked through the old man as if he was glass in the door.

From Guest Contributor, Thomas Pitre

Whispers And Tears

"I love you," she whispered. She felt guilty. Part of her wanted to yell for the entire world to hear, but she shrank from revealing herself in front of so many of her peers. Whispers would have to do.

Guilt changed to anger as her expression of love was met by silence. She shook the phone, thinking it might be broken, even banged it against the floor. Now she was embarrassed and didn't care who was looking at her. Tears came as she screamed into the receiver.

Mrs. Johnson came and scooped her up.

"It's time for your nap, dear."

Watch Out

Time is my mortal enemy.

There are never enough minutes in a day. No matter how scheduled and organized I try to be, time always manages to sneak up on me, slipping through the cracks, flying past me unnoticed, baffling me every time. It’s a constant battle that begins the minute I wake up each morning. I start each day feeling invigorated and optimistic, but no matter how much I accomplish, there are still tasks left unfinished, boxes left un-ticked. With each passing day, I slump away feeling defeated.

In an effort to boycott time, I never wear a watch.

From Guest Contributor, Kristen Lum

Once You Can Get By The Smell, You Have It Licked.”

“Once you can get by the smell, you have it licked.”

This sign was posted on the blue-veined cheeses in Uncle Kenny’s delicatessen. Other signs adorned some of the exotic cheeses and meats in the shop. “Check out our rump,” “Squeeze this pork butt,” and so on. Kenny thought he was a comedian, but he made his customers uncomfortable. He vowed to lighten things up a bit, and quit using the coarser texts. He made some signs and posted them above the cheese: “What happened after an explosion at a French cheese factory? All that was left was de brie.”

From Guest Contributor, Thomas Pitre

Reminder: Picasso Painted Dinosaurs Now On Sale

Hey there, readers of short fiction! If you like these stories, then you'll love my collection of 100 100 word stories, entitled Picasso Painted Dinosaurs. You can purchase it from Amazon, iTunes, Barnes and Noble and pretty much anywhere else you might want to buy an eBook.

The book sells for the low and extremely reasonable price of $2.00. It features original artwork by Seattle artist Mike Simon. It includes two essays on finding inspiration and writing flash fiction. It will make you a better person. Korean parents give it to their children because it will make them taller.*

Here are the links:

AmazoniTunesBarnes And NobleSony

*This has not been verified by science, but neither has global warming.

Grass Stains

The neighborhood still smoldered as much as the house's charred remains. Hushed faces stared out from lawns, secretly cathartic. Firemen, and one woman, huddled in clusters, their whispers lingering like the smoke. Beside the black husk that used to be 4522 Westhaven Drive, memories were piled up like litter, tossed aside to make way for fire hoses.

Rebecca sat against the oak tree, numbed. The fire was probably her fault. Her mother had always warned her about those candles. But as she huddled against the dawn chill, all she could think about were the grass stains on her floral pajamas.

Bird Chitter, Flight

Some morning, early, no sound from worrisome bees, refugees from last summer, moved twice, days after we decided to keep going, to lie, to lay together near the buzzing, pretending a world away from this one:

If I welcome you into my kitchen, to turn one of my forks over your fingers, flipping the metal into your palm, against knuckles, as you talk, too quickly, about what it means to leave her, what we can do with this freedom, I'll mark the time, exactly, in quick numbers carved into the sink's rough porcelain, unable, quite, to let the knife go.

From Guest Contributor, Kelli Allen

Kelli Allen’s work has appeared in numerous journals and anthologies in the US and internationally. She served as Managing Editor of Natural Bridge and holds an MFA from the University of Missouri. She is currently a Professor of English and Creative Writing at Lindenwood University. Allen gives readings and teaches workshops throughout the US. Her full-length poetry collection, Otherwise, Soft White Ash, from John Gosslee Books (2012) was nominated for the Pulitzer Prize.