House Of A Hoarder

The stench of stale tobacco hangs in the air. You treat your house like an air-tight Tupperware; you think your hoarded items could be destroyed by fresh air, so you never let me in. You ignore the smoke that settles on those decaying maps of ancient civilizations.

I walk into this careful messiness. The smoke accumulates on the loose silk threads of my dress. You study my face as if it were one of your maps: tracing the lines of ancient feelings in the wrinkles of my skin. I replace the roughness of your scrutiny by leaving. Can't hoard me.

From Guest Contributor Suhasini Patni

Suhasini is a second year undergraduate at Ashoka University, in India, studying English literature. She has previously published a book review in The Tishman Review and a micro-fiction piece with A Quiet Courage, and hopes to publish many more. She is new to the publishing world but loves to write.

In Darkness...Light

I helped move your walker over the curb. You listened as I shared my emotional grief. We became friends.

One day I drove to meet you. Snow fell in sheets. The unknown lurked beneath. I swerved, stopped. Not far, the lake within walking distance.

Cabins sent curls of wood stove smoke into late autumn air. I would see yours with a candle at the window and you behind, waiting for me.

Years passed. With them storms I couldn’t control. Passing of friendships, from start to finish. Even ours. Candles lit. Extinguished.

I read your obituary. Memories touched with an afterglow.

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.

Stupid-Cupid

It was late evening of my birthday dinner, and we were having a nice time watching our favorite TV show. In between the commercial breaks we had some small discussions. My friend shared a video. She was narrating the story to me and told me that in the story there is a small boy flying in the air with a bow and arrow who makes people fall in love when they get struck by his arrow. Smiling at the innocence, I said, 'We call it Cupid' and she replied back with the same innocence, 'Oh wow, cupid is so stupid.'

From Guest Contributor Preeti Singh

Preeti is a French language interpreter and media professional who is engaged in writing short films and playing characters for tv series. You can get in touch with her at http://languages-consult.com/

New Year's Eve

Charlie and Shannon had been expecting a crowd at their house for New Year’s Eve, but ten o’clock approached and still no one showed.

“Charlie, where is everyone? You did put eight o’clock on the invitations, didn’t you?”

“Of course, I did.” Charlie went to the counter for a glass of wine, when he noticed something sticking out from under the piles of papers. All the invitations he was supposed to mail two weeks ago, under a stack.

“Shannon, it looks like it’ll be just the two of us at midnight.”

Charlie threw the invitations out and gulped his wine.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Just A Cigarette

Sometimes I wish I smoked just to have something else to do. While I watch you paint the bodies of other women with your electrifying and magical fingertips, it feels almost natural to have a cigarette between my fingers. Yet I do not set my lungs on fire. I suspect it has something to do with your disapproval. You say smoking is a sign of suicidal behavior. You will not go out with a mental patient. So I quietly sit and watch as you caress and trace the contours of other women, happy not to be in a coffin instead.From Guest Contributor Suhasini Patni

Suhasini is a second year undergraduate at Ashoka University, in India, studying English literature. She has previously published a book review in The Tishman Review and a micro-fiction piece with A Quiet Courage, and hopes to publish many more. She is new to the publishing world but loves to write.

Harvey Speaks

This guy keeps introducing me to people, which is really embarrassing because none of them can see me, and he says I’m a rabbit, which is a load of bullshit because I’m well, I’d rather not say, but I guess he’s ashamed to be hanging out with a rather-not-say, and if he did tell the truth, they’d just think he was crazy for thinking there was such a thing as a rather-not-say, which they do anyway because no one can see me, but if they could somehow escape their blindness, they’d know I can pass pretty well for a rabbit.

From Guest Contributor Max Harris

Regret

I freeze at the crossing, not because of the cold, but at how a stranger walks.

Even the musculature of her legs reminds me of Sandy. For a moment her profile ensnares my heart. Then she looks in my direction, questioning without expecting an answer. She doesn’t break stride.

We’d made a pact to run away together: escape doldrums and parental tyranny...to find adventure in The City. We’d agreed to rendezvous here. I’d been waiting more than an hour.

I set off alone, annoyed when her name escaped my lips; and admonished myself that I never really knew her.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid

Her Weary Madness

There she goes again, completely absurd. Nothing she says is true or worthwhile. But she's livid, wreaking havoc on all of us, destroying our mood and self-worth over invented situations; she, the perpetual victim.

The little guy is so young; does he realize this isn't normal? Should I calm her? Argue? Agree? It doesn’t matter I should know, after 17 years. I escape momentarily…is there a normal reality beyond this, a calmer, serene existence? Or am I fabricating a comforting utopia?

Tomorrow, she won't apologize, or even remember this madness. But it’s real and I must stay to protect them.

From Guest Contributor Henry Eutaw

Disturbed

There was an old man who never slept at night. I saw him often from my room, I recognized him but didn't know him.

I used to see a flickering light in his room, it disturbed me and didn't let me sleep. I wanted to shout 'could you turn off the light' but never did.

My sister got married and I shifted to her room. I never saw him again; now all I get to see is a closed window with broken glass. I wonder where he's gone? Previously, the open window disturbed me and now it's the closed one.From Guest Contributor Preeti Singh

Preeti is a french language interpreter and a media professional who is engaged in writing short films and playing characters for tv series.

Window Towards The Barn

She consoles the dust for being lonely. The rust for being needy. The rot for becoming unstitched by rain. It is easy to whisper these things on the day of rest. When even birds decline seeding and bees stay inside hives. There was little moving in the sparse outside, save a cat prowling between an empty peach bucket and a splintered fish pole leaned against fence rails, its frayed point vanishing in the tale’s middle.

She sits with tears on her cheek. Cheek on her hand. Pinkie finger tracing glass. Watching her three level acres all forlorn, infertile, sour, outworn.

From Guest Contributor Catherine Moore

Catherine is the author of three chapbooks including “Wetlands" (Dancing Girl Press, 2016). Her fiction appears in Tahoma Literary Review, Illinois Wesleyan University Press, Tishman Review, Mid-American Review, and The Best Small Fictions of 2015 anthology.