The Grave Diggers

Bill and Greg had worked as gravediggers for the New Horizons Cemetery for more than twenty years, but their feelings about the job couldn't have been more different.

Bill hated digging graves. He detested manual labor, felt weirded out being around so many dead people, and frequently complained about his increased risk of skin cancer. He regretted not having finished high school, leaving him with few options to feed his family.

Greg, on the other hand, approached his job with a more optimistic demeanor. He responded to every one of Bill's complaints the same way.

"Well, it beats digging ditches."

The Secret To The Answer Is The Correct Question

"You may begin your journey," she said."Wise One, how far must I drive?" he asked."Until the pollution of light dims into darkness and the stars shimmer free," she answered."How far, Wise One, must I then walk?" he asked."Until the pollution of noise fades into the distance so that you can hear cicadas harmonize with the wind," she answered."How long, then, must I stay, Wise One?" he asked."Until the pollution of your mind drifts away like smoke," she answered."Then, Wise One, what must I do next?" he asked."You may begin your journey."

From Guest Contributor, Karen Burton.Karen is an MFA student at Lindenwood University in St. Charles, Missouri.

Closure

Dave wanted to see Rebecca one last time. He hated for something so meaningful to be left open-ended.

But what would he do if she refused to see him? If she left for Chicago without giving him any consideration whatsoever, he might do something crazy and drive to Chicago just to say goodbye.

As part of his court-mandated treatment, he discussed his options with his therapist.

"I think it's unhealthy to form such strong attachments to a cashier at Starbucks you've spoken to twice." His therapist always helped put things in perspective.

The next day, Dave was driving to Chicago.

Side Effects

The instruction on the bottle was clear: Don't fall asleep or you will die!

Lesley had no choice but to do everything possible to stay awake. She started with caffeine, loud music, and hourly callisthenics. Then she moved into harder drugs, inflicting pain on herself, and ice cold showers. By now, 48 hours had passed, and she began to wonder if she wouldn't die anyway. You could only go so long without sleep.

Eventually she succumbed to the sweet embrace of slumber. When she awoke the next morning, her schizophrenia medication had finally taken effect and her delusions were forgotten.

The Beer Has Two Inches Of Foam, Not One.

Pushing too hard. Pushing too fast. Wanting something with such veracity that the world disseminates into popping bubbles. I have poured myself into us with too much speed; I am breathless. You are smothered. As the air escapes into a toxic atmosphere, I gulp your aroma into my lungs. I clutch your being until the oxygen releases into the air, and you die beneath my affections. My sorrow does not reconstitute you; my grief does not call you from beyond. Can you hear the lack, the absence of hope? Slow is not for the desperate. I drown in your absence.

From Guest Contributor, Karen Burton

Karen Burton is an MFA student at Lindenwood University in St. Charles, MO

The Messiah Complex

They had him taped to the floor. When they were holding him down and placing one piece of tape after the other, he'd smiled. Faintly so as not to be noticed, but a smile nevertheless. They didn't have enough tape to hold a person flat to the ground.

But when they'd left him there, try as he might, he couldn't move.

Now the water was drop-by-drop filling the small room. In a few more hours, the water would reach his nose and mouth and he'd eventually drown.

This would certainly be one of the worst ways he'd ever been killed.

The Sound Of Duty

The silence wrapped around us tightly, even as we fought against it. There we tears, the quiet kind, and anguished expressions. More than one person collapsed to the ground.

I'd been through this before. We all had, so there was little to be gained with words.

We dropped our weapons and left them where they lay. Without any order, we gradually made our way back to the city. We refused to look each other in the eye.

The sacrifices were necessary. The welfare of our entire civilization depended on them. But we each vowed this would be the last time.

Standing On The Edge Of The Between

The portal calls to me in the songs of ancient gods, but my feet are mired in the ordinary, the necessary, the mundane. The music pulls me forward until I feel as if I shall break into two pieces—leaving only half of me to enter the world that is next.

The melody shifts in key, and I am beckoned not to walk, but to rise. I understand that I do not need these frozen feet. I spread my arms to the future, and I streak upward. My boots remain in the mud, but I am whole. I can fly.

From Guest Contributor Karen Burton.

Karen is an MFA student at Lindenwood University in St. Charles, MO.

Time Is Running Out On My Kickstarter

It's down to nail-biting time for my Kickstarter, in support of my novel Quitting the Grave. If you are a fan of this website, please consider contributing. Even a small amount will make a huge difference.

For 5 dollars, you'll receive a copy of my collection of microfiction, Picasso Painted Dinosaurs. For 10 dollars, you'll also get a copy of Quitting The Grave.

You can also help out massively by sharing the link to my Kickstarter with your friends and family. You can read more about the project on the Kickstarter page or on Facebook, but I'll just reiterate that I've made a firm commitment to publish as an independent author, which means I need to work extra hard to find my audience. The fact that you're on this website indicates you should at least take the time to go read about the project.

Thanks a million!

The Day The Sirens Weren’t Kidding

I am the wind that yesterday lifted your hair against the orange sky, cooling your skin. Now, I have arrived to collect respect. I bang on your door. Scream through your trees. You ignore me? I carried the seeds that became these trees that brush the sky. I exhale against the oak standing rigid against my gale, refusing to bend. He groans and snaps before my fury. And you, you who hide in your pretty squares constructed of his branches, think that you are protected from my force. Hear the glass that breaks as I announce that I am more.

From Guest Contributor, Karen Burton

Karen is an MFA student at Lindenwood University in St. Charles, MO.