Miracles

Steve wasn't one to believe in miracles. He understood too well the depravities of the human heart. More often than not he was victim to the world's machinations. That's how fate had led him to the streets.

So when the woman offered a hot meal, he expected some sort of catch, likely in the form of a lengthy sermon. When she offered a warm bed, he called to mind images of harvested organs and sexual servitude. When she claimed through phony tears to be his mother, he fled at the first opportunity, certain it was another conspiracy plotting against him.

Chopping Along

Knife steadied, I proceeded to chop sweet pepper. Choppy chords of a Chopin prelude dominated the airwaves as the sound of an overhead chopper faded. “Anything else to add to our Chopin list? Sorry, couldn’t help it,” husband laughed. Lucky he’s not on my chopping block, I thought. “Don’t forget. Mother’s here for dinner tonight,” I said. Onions appeared next on my chopping board. “What are you making, Mom?” I turned around to answer: “Vegetarian Chop Suey.” “No lamb chops? That’s okay,” my boy surmised. “Don’t think grandma’s choppers can take anything tough. Does she know how to use chopsticks?

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna is a writer of poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. She resides in Edmonton, Canada with her husband and stuffed animals and many friends.

Duck And Cover

What sounds implausible in most languages, a flock of winged skulls hovering on the wind, happens three or four times before I admit, yes, this is real. I hurl stones at the skulls and jeer when they fly off in all directions. “Are you kidding me?” a man hurrying past says. “Don’t you realize how dangerous that is?” I do, but it’s not like we have much choice. Troops have draped public buildings in protective netting. The police are going around with guns drawn. Meanwhile, school kids have been taught to hide under their desks, you know, just in case.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie's latest poetry collections are I'm Not a Robot from Tolsun Books and A Room at the Heartbreak Hotel from Analog Submissions Press.

The Goblin King Slips An Empty String

With a slipknot on the hole of you. Look at him, all owl feathers and magic tricks, costumes and dreams, a liar in the land of the living walking on the ceilings of time. Beauty boots and poison peaches work on your weaknesses, blackmail your truth with your vanity, measuring you for fitting. He sings to things you think you are, illusions orbiting colors you can’t see with eyes so wide. The crystal ball rolls up the stairs, bait for your monstrous desire. He wants his woman to fear him. You must be starving: beautiful or not, that’s not love.

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, 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.

Where Did All The Anger Go?

She raged against the shackles that fashion lashed around her body, that gender weighed upon her soul, and she spit and she clawed and she cursed the names of the boys who mocked her aspirations.

Until she fell in love with a man and he told her lies about what was possible and she managed to stop cursing all the boys and their contempt. The aspersions weren't gone but just forgotten as she slowly bled to death.

She'd once promised to burn herself to ashes but that was long ago. Now she asked herself "Where did all the anger go?"

Thankful

I smell the turkey as my father carves each slice delicately. Mymother’s homemade mashed potatoes steaming, the butter melting down ontomy dish, makes my mouth water.

We can’t touch our food until the turkey is on the dish and theThanksgiving prayer has been said.

My younger brother squirms in his seat waiting to shovel stuffing intohis mouth.

“Okay, the turkey is carved,” my father says and clasps his handstogether and begins the prayer.

It’s not the food I realize that makes me happy. It’s the facessurrounding me at this table that I’m thankful for.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

As You Wish

There's a man on the television in an outdated suit. He is talking to a famous interviewer I have always liked. The words on the screen read: William Goldman -- Author, The Princess Bride.

This is not the truth. I know this for a fact because I have read The Princess Bride. It was not written by a man. It was bequeathed to us fully formed by Prometheus, who stole it from the heavens.

There is one thing the man says that I agree with in addition to his mustache. "The easiest thing to do on Earth is not to write."

To Have A Dress Made

He gently whispered in my ear: turn yourself around. Then he measured my waist with the corner of one eye. He said: “You are beautiful, my true!” You look like Venus coming of the foam with golden curls. I shall make you a dress that floats in the Sun. I shall make you an evening gown for your prince, The One. I shall dress you in purple and stick silver hairpins in your kirtle. I shall give you a mantle, and dress you in white. I shall draw stars upon you, your nails are painted, but you still walk naked.

From Guest Contributor Svetla Vasileva

Reflection

I sit by the fireplace in the cabin I rent, sipping steaming tea,staring at the painting above the mantel.

The woman’s face has a distinct redness to her cheeks and lips. Her deepbrown eyes match the color of her hair which is tied in a bun with onesmall red rose tucked behind her left ear, her head tilting ever soslightly. Her pearl necklace drapes neatly around her neck and shestands tall, her gown showing off her shapely hips.

There’s no date on the painting or artist signature.

The young woman in the painting is me.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Flower Girl

Springtime breeds passion. It is the riotous pheromones.

A vision wanders down the garden path in a sundress that waves in the breeze like the surrounding petals. Swaying, they dance together. Her radiant smile and obvious love for the flirting blossoms is what originally caught my attention. She gently sprinkles water.

One of her solar smiles would make my life soar. She doesn't notice me among all this teeming beauty. Nonetheless, in love-struck desire, I sit taller as she approaches. Surely, if she can adore flowers so fully, I can cherish her as much. If only I wasn't a cactus.

From Guest Contributor Bill Diamond