Soldiers Of Fortune

"Who's to say if any of this really matters?"

George smacked Thomas across the face as soon as the words were out of his mouth.

"Ouch! What was that for?" Thomas whined.

"Because if we give up hope, we die."

Thomas pointed towards the enemy lines. "If we die, it's because of them."

"And if we give up the fight, then we lose not only our own freedom, but the freedom of an entire nation."

"And my question to you is, what difference does it make?"

George lowered his hand. "Perhaps you're right."

Together, George and Tom fled the battlefield.

It’s Not What It Seems

Mike, feverish, tossed in bed. Head aching and muscles tense, he dreamed of the beach, the hot sun beating on his face, when a voice awakened him.

“Babe, how are you feeling,” asked his wife Liz.

“My body feels like a truck hit it.”

“You heard what the doctor said. You have the flu. Rest, Tylenol and fluids is what he prescribed.”

“Yeah, well, the flu stinks and I feel like it’s more than the flu.”

“Stop being so dramatic. I’ll make you some homemade chicken soup. That should help.”

Mike laid back, closed his eyes, and never dreamed again.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

A Survivor’s Calling

Mouth agape, eyes widened with fear, I looked on to what my world had been. Everything I lived for was swept up in a distant array of mud, debris and...corpses. Even through my grief, I knew the landslide had chosen me, to avenge everyone's lives that came to an end in this short, devastating moment. This was my calling, which I would live through for the rest of my life, bearing their dreams.

Standing strong, even until this day, I recall this distant memory. With tears beginning to well in my eyes I see hope glimmering from the future.

From Guest Contributor Danielle Simpfendorfer

The Mouse

Robert and Rebecca arrived home to find a dead mouse on their kitchen floor.

It was an old building, so Rebecca was not surprised there would be rodents. Rather than being grossed out, she began reflecting on her own mortality, wondering if she were better or worse off than the mouse for having knowledge of her impending oblivion. It was a thought that often kept her up late into the night, as she listened to Robert's light snoring and choked back tears.

Robert could only think about the mess that must have attracted the mouse, and began a thorough cleaning.

Natural Beauty

Todd places a bouquet of red roses on his wife’s grave. The rain pelts down and the flowers wither. He sighs and kneels on the muddy ground, tears filling his eyes. Drenched from head to toe, he doesn’t care. It’s been two months since Maria died from cancer and his chest aches. He has no family, only his job to keep him company.

“I miss you, Maria. I wish it had been me instead.”

Weeping, Todd somberly rises to his feet and walks to his car.

After several minutes, the rain stops and the roses return to their natural beauty.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

The High Priest's Attendant

He was charged with carrying the great scriptures. It was a position that afforded him great respect.

The scriptures were placed into five stacks, each of which was enclosed between two layers of tanned sheepskin. Each stack was then rolled tightly so as to prevent air from reaching inside. The five rolls were stored in an iron chest and covered with cotton and dried cayenne to repel pests.

For many years, he had traveled in the high priest's retinue, the heavy chest strapped to his back. Yet, not once had he read a single word contained on those sacred pages.

Match Light

The flame exploded into being as the match head dragged across the sandpaper. It might have seemed magical, but really it was just that the glass-on-glass friction generated enough heat to kindle the match's phosphorus.

The match provided the only light in the entire house, perhaps the entire city. Between the impenetrable clouds and the power outage, darkness had descended as quickly as the sun.

The illumination lasted long enough for Theresa to count the remaining matches. Seventeen. Each one guaranteed to ignite but she knew such guarantees were hollow.

Seventeen matches to survive until the end of the world.

To Clara: Regarding Your Critique

You shared your writing with me. An extension of friendship, like a handshake. More like the reaching out of hands with the chance to be held – or swatted – open palmed. Sharing...emptying pockets to reveal hidden things among the embarrassment of collected lint, is a dangerous proposition. Your shadows merged with mine, achieving the density of darkness that brings on the dawn. How can I thank you? For selflessly taking my hands and guiding me to an unknown resting place within the pages of you. I spoke in an attempt to reciprocate. My words: sandpaper to your beach of memory.

From Guest Contributor Keith Hoerner

Waiting

Johnny sat in the waiting room, with sweaty palms, anxiously awaiting the doctor’s results. His eyes searched the area and came across a plump brunette sneezing into her handkerchief. She stuffed it back into her purse and Johnny cringed. He hated germs.

Finally, the nurse called Johnny into Dr. Lovell’s office.

“Johnny, you are perfectly healthy. I called you in because I want you to see a therapist to control your obsessive behavior with germs. Here’s a reputable doctor.” He handed Johnny the paper. “Go home and stop worrying.”

Johnny, relieved, left, but not before sanitizing his hands with Purell.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Alma's Journey

I'd always known about my husband's cheating, but when he was home, he was good company. Now he'd left.

Was I losing my mind, too?

"Leave Miami," my daughter had said. She’d just given birth to my only grandchild. "You can start over with us in Orlando."

What was she was thinking? She knows I've never been more than thirty miles from home.

I looked down. The purse I thought I'd lost was between my shoes.

Picking up my purse, I couldn’t wait for the train doors to open fully—my daughter cradling my granddaughter on the brightly lit platform.From Guest Contributor Geoffrey Philp

Geoffrey is the author of the YA novel, Garvey’s Ghost. He teaches English and Creative Writing at the Inter-American Campus of Miami Dade College.