Reminiscence

Kahea thought pensively about her college days as she made her way to the coffee table, stirring her tea absentmindedly, her spoon making soft clinking sounds against the glass cup.

"What will you do with a degree in English?” voices murmured. “A degree in computers, now that's a solid deal".

"You will get nowhere."

"Writing isn't a career."

Kahea recollected their condemning tones, sneers and concerned looks as she reached for that day's newspaper.

"Hmm...I look good", she said, gazing approvingly at her photo next to the article that read: Kahea Sanders becomes the youngest writer to bag a Pulitzer.

From Guest Contributor Drishika Nadella

Drishika is a 15 year old from India. She seeks comfort in words, tunes, and nature. Her blog Desolation And Delectation will be happy to see you.

Affinity

You talk in your sleep. At first I thought it was adorable. I’d lean my ear closer to your head on my chest and catch things like, “Silly penguin doesn’t even know!” or “Better take that milk back to Saturn tomorrow.” I’d laugh and go back to reading and hold you closer. Then things changed, starting with when you arched your back away from me and hissed like a demon cat from hell. I didn’t hold you closer after that, and it’s gotten weirder since. Now I lay awake on my side of the bed, wondering what you’ll do next.

From Guest Contributor Sarah Reddick

Sarah is a writer who spent ten years learning the hard way in Mississippi and she will always be grateful for that state's ability to give a body the blues. She is currently enrolled in the MFA program at Lindenwood University in St. Charles, MO. Her work has previously been published in The Local Voice, Salt Zine, Cattywampus Magazine, and the Mid-Rivers Review.

Curiosity Killed

The house-bricks were as red as the little squirrel which inhabited the tree just outside.

Ciaran was glad he was able to watch the little fellow scamper about, and even left treats on the window ledge...when it had been left open.

Those big frames were too heavy for him to handle and he’d been forbidden to try: they were treacherous when it came to crushing fingers.

He’d heard in school that the American Grey Squirrels were causing the reds to die out. Mum was angry-ironing. He cocked his head and risked a question.

“Mum–?”

The blow rattled his eyes.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid

Shades Of Time

I sat quietly on the exam table pondering my yellow skin. Turning toward the mirror hanging on the wall, I ran my blue fingertips up my slender arm touching the pale face that reflected. Too young for wrinkles I thought. I never liked doctors or hospitals. Maybe that’s why I waited. But after a year of treating my superfluous symptoms, well - it never crossed my mind that it would be too late. That time was limited and colors carried the secret. The doctor wasn’t comforting. My dark brown wide set eyes that glittered with life would soon turn dim. From Guest Contributor Dana Sterner

Dana is a registered nurse and has written for regional and national healthcare magazines and has been a prior contributor to a A Story in 100 Words.

Her Note

The front door slammed.

Before leaving, she posted a note on its frame. Unlike the daily reminders she scribbled, this one was blank.

Her husband grasped at the sofa for comfort, nestling his body in her lingering perfume. Their terrier snuggled beside him.

His mind revisited their argument. Was he wrong to throw back insults at her?

When the doorknob turned, he looked up.

“I didn’t write you a note,” she said with her voice breaking.

“I noticed.”

For a while they sat together in silence watching the sunset.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

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.

Career Change

Gareth had retired from the superhero business because he grew weary of dealing with the inflated egos of supervillains. It didn’t help that many of the people he saved from certain doom were generally ungrateful and occasionally blamed him for causing more harm than good in his frequent efforts to save the day. Feeling burnt out, Gareth went to law school and became an attorney. Almost a year into his new life, following a particularly loathsome day, he decided his old job wasn’t so bad after all. Gareth went home, donned his tights and cape again, and never looked back.

From Guest Contributor Dan Slaten

Love Be The Devil, But It Won’t Get Me

We were watching the show from a splintered, weathered picnic table in front of the big stage at The Shack when she told me she was leaving me. It was midnight, but it was still a hundred degrees out and sweat rolled down my face and into my eyes as she walked away. The Burnside boys were singing their brand of gritty, corn liquor soaked blues. My heart thudded in my chest like it was threatening to make an appearance but the toes of my boots kept tapping the dirt and eventually I threw my head back and sang along.

From Guest Contributor Sarah Reddick

Sarah Reddick is a writer who is currently in the MFA program at Lindenwood University in St. Charles, Missouri. Her work has appeared in Cattywampus Magazine, Salt Zine, The Local Voice, and the Mid Rivers Review.

Swan

Why such sorrow for the swan on the water? Why is it her head is hung with such woe? The moonlight lines her with silver as she glides ripples atop the placid pond. And there are banks of passionflowers that glint their crimsons through the night. Had I been that swan, never would you see my nape so weak and crestfallen, so inwardly curved like tendrils at winter’s start. Because there are other swans on the pond with dispositions just the same. And if I swam my sadness to theirs, perhaps our troubles would combine like violin strings and bows.

From Guest Contributor Man O'Neal

Fire Elemental

The craft eased through the continuum corridor, leaving old worlds behind.

Lick wondered what the new universe would be like. Elders had assured explorers that it would sustain life. Lick wondered if it could.

There was a concussion which buffeted Lick’s form; and the craft disintegrated around him.

He landed naked in a tangle of what he assumed was the plant life which had been incorporated into his exploration briefing. Some huge and hairy bipedal form was brandishing two rocks.

He was suddenly very frightened and terribly hungry. He began to consume the dried grass and twigs.

The primate flinched.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid

Milk

In the beginning, I cried for it. Yet each night after dark, I threw up that sour formula, that fake milk warmed in glass bottles my mother tested on her wrists, so I wouldn't burn my mouth.

Still, my mouth burned. I was a difficult baby, thin and colicky. I hungered but could not accept nourishment.

That's how I began: Born at just five pounds, brought home in a receiving blanket, placed in a crib where I protested and screamed, the vein in my neck throbbing.

Years later, I'm still protesting, still screaming.

It scares me to close my mouth.

From Guest Contributor Cinthia Ritchie

Cinthia is a two-time Pushcart Prize nominee who writes and runs mountains in Anchorage, Alaska. Find her work at Water-Stone Review, Evening Street Press, Third Wednesday, Best American Sports Writing 2013, Sports Literate, The Boiler Journal, Cactus Heart Press, Mary: A Journal of New Writing, damselfly press, Memoir, Sugar Mule, Foliate Oak Literary Journal and other small presses. Her first novel, Dolls Behaving Badly, released from Hachette Press/Grand Central Publishing