Cindy's Day

Cindy sipped her hot cocoa and let the warmth hit her stomach, as she listened to the serene crackling of the fireplace. She opened her book, and cuddled on the couch with her dog Bree, until the phone rang.

“Who could be calling me on my day off?” she asked Bree as she barked. “I feel the same way,” she said as she patted Bree’s head and answered the phone.

“Stan has called in sick. You need to come to the office now,” Cindy’s boss said without a hello.

Her planned relaxing day became a hectic day at the office.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

A Troop Of Mushrooms

Stephanie didn't know who else to call, so she called the exterminator. She was vague over the phone, preferring him to see the infestation for himself. His condescending tone annoyed her.

When he arrived, the condescension immediately turned to terror.

"I've never seen anything like this before."

So they brought in an expert from the university. He surveyed Stephanie's house and proclaimed it a colony, though he admitted he'd never seen human-sized toadstools before. He suspected they were deadly.

Stephanie wasn't paying attention to his diagnosis. She couldn't get over the fact he kept pronouncing fungi with a soft gee.

Dangerous

A young couple ambled into a strip mall parking lot. Carla wrapped herself around Thomas.

“I’m making a point,” she said.

“Cool.”

“I want to show someone I’m in love.” He smiled. “An old man.”

He frowned, and Carla nodded toward a lone figure staring from across the street. She kissed Thomas hard, quick. “He found me on the dating site. We had coffee. I was, like, your picture was 30 years old! Think your Cary Grant charm would win me over?”

“Cary …?”

“George Clooney?”

Thomas pouted.

“But it’s you I love. Now go put a scare into him.”

From Guest Contributor Chris Callard

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."