Daydreaming

Morning. Walking to the shops in a daydream, hungover. My mind wanders and takes me somewhere else....

I am sitting at the bar in the Wolf Dog Tavern with John. I ask the landlord to sub me a fifty. The landlord moans, 'go and cut some lawns and make your own money.' I tell him that I will have money next week. John was going to cut his lawn by the fish factory.

A lady snaps me out of my reverie, I must have be talking aloud and waving my hands.

'You alright?' She asks assuming that I am mad.

From Guest Contributor Declan Kelly

Declan lives in Mayo, Ireland. He is a big fan and follower of Irish heritage, culture, and beer.

Revenge

Home for a funeral, I pop into my local of yesteryear.

I recognize that boozy bleary-eyed pig face propping up the bar.

Wilkins, the school bully!

Wanker!

How he’d tormented me forty years ago, but clearly he remembers me not.

How I’ve fantasized about going back in time and standing up to him!

But now he has aged, badly, looking like a grotesquely inflated beach ball with his vast beer belly, all muscle turned to flab.

I fantasize about following him out at closing time and beating him up but desist, for life has already done the job for me.

From Guest Contributor Ian Fletcher

The Snake Tree

The forest saw it all. Less than a moon turn she lasted.

Wrapped in a shroud, he planted her in the leafy earth under the shade of birch and pine. Worms and beetles took her to the forest, bit by bit.

She called to him from the snake tree, and he rushed to her while the moon shone across the water. They lay on sheets of green. Her embrace was stronger than death. Beetles and worms took him bit by bit. The rustle of leaves and the sighing of wind.

The forest saw it all and the forest was pleased.

From Guest Contributor David Rae

David lives in Scotland. He loves stories that exist just below the surface of things, like deep water.He has most recently had work published or forthcoming in; THE FLATBUSH REVIEW, THE HORROR TREE, LOCUST, ROSETTA MALEFICARIUM, SHORT TALE 100, and 50 WORD STORIES. You can read more at Davidrae-stories.com

Tick Tock

With his apartment empty and no sounds other than the ticking of the clock, Timothy took a walk in the cold night air until a bright sign caught his eye. Psychic Reading. Reluctantly, he went inside.

“I’m, Tianna. Sit.”

Tianna smoothed her fingers across his palm. “You will be the cause of a terrible accident.”

Upset, Timothy stormed out and crossed the street when he heard a woman’s voice.

“Hey, you didn’t pay me!”

He turned and then a car came to a screeching halt, but not before hitting Tianna.

Still on the ground, her eyes open, Tianna was dead.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Calypso: Bright-Eyed Goddess

Unknown amongst them,she sits; awe and wonder.Blazing eyes searching,surrounded, glorious banquet,wondering of the occasion.‘Where is your father?’Calypso forbidden his return!Wanting the strong man herself,locked away, a vaulted cave;awaiting his love.

Prisoner of the Nymph’s love.‘I actually heard he was home!’The gods, it seemed, had sinister plans.Not returned from battle,vanished, Never to be seen again.

‘What is the meaning of this banquet?’Men of Troy had heard of the banishment,their behavior animalistic.Seeking the love of the ‘widow,’leaving the son belittled,doomed to an inglorious future.

From Guest Contributor Melissa Land

Writing Over

I hadThis poemThat was likeRe-FusingTo beLike junkRunning lateIn your veinsRe-WiringMemoriesBefore theyare madeOkay, theyare notsunk inThat deepBut narrativeAbout thisIs on itsWay butits latejust likeThis feeling-Passing-FeelingRe-LivingScreens toSublimatedDreams

I'm walkingAnd the sunHits meEveryone wantsTo haveSomethingThey don’tSee, in youthis poetryConcealed inA voiceBut they will keepWriting yourStory overBefore it isOneBefore onceEven notingThat your poemIs already

From Guest Contributor Wyatt Martin

Chivalry

“How many years do you think we’ve known each other?” Zoey asked.

“I dunno, at least since pre-school. We’re both thirty now,” I replied. We walked the cobbled roads of Newburyport. The clouds looked like lines of poetry.

“You go first this time,” Zoey said.

“I like holding the door for you though.”

“Damn it, Tyreke. Why do you always hold the door, and hold the umbrella, and make me coffee? Women can do things you know.”

“I know that.”

“Do you feel you have to protect me, or be a man, or–––“

“I do them because I love you.”

From Guest Contributor Steve Colori

Sirens

He’d risen early this morning to plan the house his wife had dreamed of, but the hilltop’s stark beauty had rooted him to the spot.

His tea got cold.

It suddenly seemed a travesty to spoil the land’s personality.

Don’t seek to dominate, Mother Nature whispered, explore me as you would a lover.

He felt his pulse race at the imagery. There were enticing little copses in his eye line.He wondered if Elaine was up for–

“GRAHAM!” Her voice scattered the erotic thoughts.

He sighed and slouched towards the mobile home.

“Coming.”

He reflected on the nature of sirens.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid

Happy Max

Perhaps it’s the abundant sunshine, or the bees pollinating the flowers, or even the birds flying from tree to tree. Or, it could just be that Max is a happy man. Yes, happy. He walks around the neighborhood listening to his favorite group U2 on his iPod. His stride quickens to their song, The Streets Have No Name. He waves to his young neighbor Tammy, who is riding her pink striped bicycle.

“Max, watch out!” Tammy bellows.

Max turns, but it’s too late. The last thing he sees before the car strikes him is birds soaring above, and feet approaching.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Cars And Cradles

The drive was rocky. Hanging out of the window of the car speeding past pine trees, barely clinging to the edge of a degrading dirt road, she felt free. Sitting on the edge of her seat, she stuck her hand out the window and played with the wind whipping past her fingers. Up and down up and down her hand went. As the road got rougher she tightened her seat belt, the last vestibule of safety in a spiraling series of events. She tucked herself in as if waiting for the kiss that never came, that hug that never happened.

From Guest Contributor Noah Bello