There Are Moments, Like These

where I see this beautiful creature’s frayed leash, the far end trapped under a great stone. So great I assume she cannot lift it. She tells me how time is consumptive, and while consuming us, so it must erode the stone. But the longer she or I stare, the slower it seems to weather. Is it any wonder her running throat is yanked taught? The urge to break the circle is the legacy of choice. Look at her and promise, “I cannot lift that stone. But I can sit here and wait until you do. Your wings, they're pinned beneath."

From Guest Contributor Nick Scott Christian

Nick’s poetry has appeared in Poetry Quarterly. He lives in St. Louis and currently studies at the University of Missouri-St. Louis.

Destiny's Edge

He held the rifle tightly. Looking through the scope, his target was approaching. Should he take the shot? The target was approaching slowly, allowing the opportunity to fire multiple shots before anyone would react.

Instead, he was patient. His life had brought here: his mother, the Marines, Russia, even buying this cheap rifle he was holding. All of that had brought him to this moment. He'd wait a little bit longer.

His target turned. It was now moving away from him. He took a deep breath and knew destiny awaited him.

With that thought, Lee Harvey Oswald pulled the trigger.

From Guest Contributor Matthew Kresal

Collect

The men stand quietly, exchanging cigarettes and glances. There is nothing to say.

A klaxon sounds. More than one man sighs with relief: the mine-cage rises from below. Two men open the cage doors, collect the dripping bones of the man who lost the draw.

“Sacrifice accepted,” the mine owner announces, as though the men can't see the evidence themselves.

The bones are buried. The widow and children will receive a fat check from the owner, and much pity for the “unpreventable accident.”

“Okay, boys,” the foreman slaps his hat on. “Go ahead and collect. Coal ain't gonna fetch itself.”

From Guest Contributor Laura Lovic-Lindsay

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.