Infinite Summer

God had bleached everything. The shattering sky. Erin’s face. Even our baby’s perfect hands were white.

Tiny, frozen fingers assail the windshield while Erin shivers in the passenger seat. I ease the gas pedal cautiously, hesitantly–-coaxing a reluctant lover.

Tires slip and I wonder if it would be so bad, sliding to our end in ice and pavement. Why not, with the cold body of our almost baby left at the hospital?

Erin clutches her abdomen, lingering reflex, and whispers the name I refuse to remember. The name we picked when the world was warmer and life infinite summer.

From Guest Contributor Sierra Donahue

B.H.

I swirl around the last dregs of my falsely sweetened coffee. Waiting for something that will cause my pupils to expand, or contract. Something to make me short of breath, to pant. I wait for something to make my palms sweat and tap my feet nervously.

Looking at the last of my coffee, I sigh, exhausted. No longer strong and dark, it has turned milky with too much creamer. I wonder how long something can stay like that.

This is what my life has been reduced to? I cannot remember anything B.H. (before him).

He always made the coffee.

From Guest Contributor Tess Pfeifle

Pumpkin Face

Pumpkins. Melissa hated them. She also hated Halloween.

A classmate called her Pumpkin Face. She knew why. Her face being round, like a pumpkin.

She pretended it didn’t matter but it did. Deeply. She stayed long hours in her bedroom and cried.

Then, something unusual happened. The doorbell rang on Halloween Eve. The name-caller and his parents stood at the front door. Melissa was summoned. She obliged.

The boy apologized for being mean. He handed a decorated bag of candy and wished Melissa a happy Halloween.

The young girl told her parents she could hardly wait to go out Trick-or-Treating.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. Her work has been published at: Nailpolish Stories, 50-Word Stories, 100 word story, 101 Words, Boston Literary Magazine, From the Depths (Haunted Waters Press), ShortbreadStories, SixWordMemoirs, and Espresso Stories.

The Incubus

When misery left, I missed it dearly. Numbness arrived in its place--an evil lurking miles below sorrow.

Then the Incubus came. His fingers soothed me, dancing like spiders across my back, before plucking me from my flesh.

Exquisite melodies escaped his mouth instead of language. I understood every word.

He held me on his fist, soaring me to gloomy, lilac clouds. My body quaked, and it began to rain.My thoughts fluttered like butterflies. He captured them; sang my own song back to me.

Sadly, he was just a dream; but the Incubus cured me, bringing back my misery.

From Guest Contributor L. Michelle Corp

Running In The Rain

The skies open up and unleash a deluge, but this does not deter him. If anything, it only pushes him harder, as he longs to move with superhuman speed and avoid every single drop of rain entirely. His body falters, his breath heavy. He thinks of himself as a cross between Steve Prefontaine and yet another umbrella-less John Cusack character. Is he running from or chasing something? Does it matter? Either way, in the end, he still has to go home and face his broken heart alone. And that is something he isn’t ready to do, so he keeps moving.

From Guest Contributor Dan Slaten

Forgetfulness

Scratching his head, the man struggled to remember where he’d seen her. He felt that he should know her! The look of concern on her face disturbed him, often others came with her, although they seemed distant. He liked the company even though he did not recognize them. Sometimes they would raise a fuss over him. The little ones pleased him most, climbing up on him, laughing, full of life. He always had a good sense of humor, but never telling the same joke twice, or always meeting new people. That’s about as far as his humor went concerning dementia!

From Guest Contributor Derrick Fernie

The Flower

From the observation tower Alice could finally see the true scale of The Flower of Vermaltarok III. A reptiloid rudely pushed in front of her to set up some trinoculars.

The local guide wiped sweat from her brow. "Attention! Should the alarm sound, immediately use the lift down to the bunker and remain there until the all-clear is given."

Alice found another viewing spot, mesmerized by the colors, ... the SIZE.

Lights flashed, and the doors to the lift opened. But the siren was drowned out by the thunderous buzzing that echoed across the valley and shook the floor and walls.

From Guest Contributor Ross Clement

The Mad King

You timidly stepped inside the royal chambers, unnerved by the rumors of random beheadings and incoherent proclamations. Many people went for a sovereign audience and were never heard from again.

An old man sat the throne. He looked regal, not crazed, dressed in the golden robes and diamond crown of his august office. He stared sternly as, wobbling, you inched forward. In his lap sat a cat, which he stroked gently.

The man opened his mouth to speak and you dropped to one knee.

"The King has an announcement to make."

Everyone froze as the King opened its mouth.

"Meow."

Journey

This is a long haul, intercontinental flight. In the allocated, limited space on the plane it is a matter of organizing myself.

The challenge is to get as comfortable as possible. In such a tight space it is not easy. I keep shifting position.

I can’t believe how cramped conditions are and quietly curse the designer.

A saying pops into my mind. It is the journey, not the destination.

Common words yet concise and sagacious, they resonate immediately.

The most contradictory thing about this wise saying strikes me; globally quoted, all the while remaining completely unknown in the airline industry.

From Guest Contributor Barry O'Farrell

Barry is an actor who sometimes writes, living in Brisbane, Australia.

The Arts Alliance of Pine Rivers has announced Barry's piece RETREADS as runner up in their most recent writing competition. Also, Barry's story ARMED will appear in The Flash Fiction Press during the last week of October.

What It Felt Like To Die

I plummet to the earth--the emerald field I stood upon moments before.

The one who injured me was merely a streak of shadows which approached, just as quickly as he vanished.

Below my navel is a tiny puncture. What was once unblemished flesh is now a faucet, bathing soil with my body's vital broth.

I realize my aorta is severed.

Clouds bob and flicker, bearing the faces of my family. I panic, fervidly trying to grasp them--their expressions are indifferent, unresponsive.

Instantly, tranquility engulfs me. Darkness eclipses my vision. I surrender, relishing the divine slumber that beckons me.

From Guest Contributor L. Michelle Corp