The Golden Thread Part Two

“What is that? I can’t see. Some sweet jungle flower. Are we getting close?"

"No, it is poetry, a copycat fragrance to lure butterflies. It is carnivorous. Stay back—"

"Those are my words on the vines! God, those electric blue letters! Let’s read—"

"Don’t—"

“Why? 'Once upon a time I died. I crucified myself on a ladder made from the bones of birds, hollow, not yet cleaned by cannibals or the sun, yet flightworthy by nature.' I wrote that."

“The vines will strangle you, make you blind, make you forget why you are here. And then you drop the thread."

From Guest Contributor Brook Bhagat

Brook’s poetry, fiction, non-fiction, and humor have appeared in Empty Mirror Magazine, Little India, Dămfīno, Nowhere Poetry, Rat's Ass Review, Peacock Journal, A Story in 100 Words, Anthem: A Tribute to Leonard Cohen, and other journals and anthologies, and are forthcoming in MoonPark Review and Almagre. She has completed a full-length poetry manuscript, is writing a novel, and is editor-in-chief of Blue Planet Journal. She holds an MFA from Lindenwood University and teaches creative writing at a community college. More at brook-bhagat.com

Conquest Sapiens

Winter today felt like death. Sor glared at the obvious trail leading to his concealment.

The scentless pale race had carried out a callous pogrom against his kind. He was the last. They’d extracted the cave tribe like so many snails from their shells.

The speed and nature of the slaughter had appalled. Herded into a clear space, Gargar and her people had seemed to shrink, then vanish in light when the captors had waved short sticks in their direction.

Better to die fighting.

Sor tensed. Someone– His crouching body disintegrated.

"The planet’s sterilized," the marine announced over her com.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid

End Of An Era

I never heard my grandfather say a cross word to my grandmother. They never had an argument. Love and devotion from another era.

She started fading and could not take care of herself; he was there.

She stopped recognizing him; he wouldn’t leave her side.

She needed more care than he could give so she moved into a facility; he moved in to be with her.

She faded from his sight after 63 years and 37 days of wedded bliss. I watched him cry for the first time that day.

I buried my grandfather and grandmother on the same day.

From Guest Contributor NT Franklin

The Lessons

Lydia played the piano hoping that would make her parents smile. Her daddy broke some furniture. He bought an accordion and she took lessons. He kicked the dog. Her parents came to see her dance recital. Her daddy yelled at her mama for flirting with a man. He gave her a black eye. Lydia took swimming lessons. Her daddy took her fishing and threw her in the lake yelling “Swim.” She went down down down to the murky bottom where a huge whiskered catfish blinked at her. It was very peaceful. She came up and swam away from the boat.

From Guest Contributor Sandra Ramos O'Briant

Just Another Day

Officer Barrett aimed and fired his gun, hitting the man in the shoulder. The criminal dropped his weapon and screeched in pain.

“On your knees, hands behind your head,” Barrett said, cuffing the man’s hands.

“Take it easy, I have a bullet in my shoulder,” he wriggled as Barrett pushed him to his feet.

“Better than a bullet in your head, like you did to that poor woman’s husband. You’re going away for a very long time. This was your last house robbery.

Barrett put him in the squad car and slammed the door.

Just another day on the job.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Keeping Up Appearances

Several seats were open at the bar and I sat next to an elderly lady. "Don’t forget Michelle’s dinner," I thought.

“How do you do?” the lady asked.

“Pretty well. Just getting home from work. How are you?”

“I’m well, thanks. Where do you work?”

“I work as a counselor,” I said. I was a peer counselor but I didn’t want to disclose my diagnosis.

“What’s your focus?”

“Psychotic disorders.”

“I feel so bad for those poor people,” she said as she looked at her glass.

“Oh, I dunno, you’d be surprised. Some of them do better than you think.”

From Guest Contributor Steve Colori

A Nice Girl

Samantha read The Great Gatsby, to her elderly grandmother Millie,again.

She sat with the book in one hand and her coffee mug in the other. Thesmall room was warm and cozy as the sun beamed through the window.Samantha took a sip of coffee and listened to the birds chirping and theticking of the wall clock. It was time to leave.

She kissed Millie on the cheek. “Okay, grandma, see you on Sunday.”

Samantha’s eyes teared as she left, knowing her grandmother no longerknew who she was, other than a nice girl who came to visit.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

The Golden Thread Part One

“It’s too dark. I heard there are tigers in this jungle.”

“Yes.”

“Ordinary tigers?”

“Different. They’re faster, and their fangs have venom, like a snake.”

“What if we see one?”

“They will see you first. Just watch. Just be still.”

“How can we be still with tigers after us?”

“They’re not after us.”

“What if they catch us?”

“If you run they will chase you and they will catch you. They tear the throat, and the poison goes in the blood. It paralyzes you, makes you blind, makes you forget why you are here. And then you drop the thread.”From Guest Contributor Brook Bhagat

Brook Bhagat’s poetry, fiction, non-fiction, and humor have appeared in Empty Mirror Magazine, Little India, Dămfīno, Nowhere Poetry, Rat's Ass Review, Peacock Journal, A Story in 100 Words, Anthem: A Tribute to Leonard Cohen, and other journals and anthologies. She has completed a full-length poetry manuscript, is writing a novel, and is editor-in-chief of Blue Planet Journal. She holds an MFA from Lindenwood University and teaches creative writing at a community college. More at brook-bhagat.com

To The Sci-fi Gazette

The SciFi Gazette--shining beacon of non-cliché speculative fiction. Submission guidelines had listed discouraged themes; ‘dystopias’ were number one: bad news for a pessimist like myself.

The state of the world sank home for me when The Gazette’s most hackneyed theme changed to ‘utopias.’ Still, they never published my bleak predictions.

I’d intended to kick down the door, but it already hung on its hinges. Scattered papers decorated shattered furniture. I luckily bagged a tatty anthology edition for later reading.

The editor was, of course, not there. On her desk, I deposited my latest story. I had high hopes--my first utopia.

From Guest Contributor Tris Matthews

Unconventional Ray

“I need to take another X-ray,” the doctor said.

“Why?” asked the patient.

“Not ‘Y’. ‘X’ as in X-rated.”

“What is X-rated?” The patient was awakening from post-surgery slumber.

A nurse entered the hospital room. The doctor left.

“So, how does it look?” the patient asked the nurse. Realizing his covers were off and she was peering down at him below the waist.

“I mean, my ankle.”

The nurse funneled her eyes through his. Her full lips smiled at the corners. Giggling followed.

“You’re on the mend, Ray,” she said. “Dr. Hoo just wants to take one more X-ray.”

“Who?”

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes poetry, flash fiction and short stories. She’s published in Canada, United States and Europe in journals, anthologies and online including Boston Literary Magazine and Friday Flash Fiction. She won several poetry contests, was shortlisted in a short story competition and is a member of two writers’ groups where she resides.