The Well-Tempered Clavier

Bach wrote a ton of beautiful music while he lived in Germany, or was it Poland? I’m not up on his heritage, though I wish I was. He was some kind of guy. Organs and harpsichords all over the place. Probably in the United States too, though now I think it’s mostly those big Steinways, and everyone knows they were the best for Vladimir. I mean the Vladimir who could actually play the piano. Not the Vladimir they have now, over there. The puppet master, the interloper, the one who poisons people. But what can we do? Bach is dead.

From Guest Contributor Linda Lowe

Linda wishes that the wind stop blowing.

This Boy's Life

Sammy's live-in, Tanya, abhors Sammy's pet tarantula, Quentin. Tanya's friend, Gwen—Sammy's illicit lover—sees murder in Tanya's eyes. Quentin disappears. Sammy suspects Tanya. Time smolders. Back into the picture Quentin dramatically creeps. Tanya proves Gwen prescient, then moves out. Gwen moves in, eventually giving birth to a boy they call Quentin. Time bursts into flames. Hating his parents for naming him after a spider, Quentin kills spiders to spite them, worrying school counselors. Twenty-first century America. Mad boy. 3-D printers. Time, get wise. They call the boy Thomas. He learns violin, no spiders wantonly harmed in this boy's life.From Guest Contributor Darrell Petska

Darrell is a Madison, Wisconsin writer. View some of his fiction and poetry at conservancies.wordpress.com.

The Look Of Things

We were invited to a silent room filled with melting glaciers. I just stood there, part of the system, but vulnerable in a way peculiar to men who are naked except for their socks and shoes. I’m constantly creating problems that never even existed. I have to walk really, really carefully or there’ll be more cats than people around. After we’re dead, it’s another story: Cosimo de Medici once complained to Michelangelo, “That sculpture doesn’t look like me.” “Listen,” Michelangelo said, “you’ll be dead in 20 years, this will be around for 2,000 years. So, that’s what you look like!”

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author most recently of Spooky Action at a Distance from Analog Submission Press.

Trick Or Treat

Drew wanted to play a trick on his young teenage neighbors. He dressed in an elaborate zombie outfit, blood dripping from his mouth, face and hands painted white. He’d wait for the boys and then make his move. It would be nice payback for toilet papering his car last year.

He peered out the window and there they were.

Drew limped down the block screaming. At first, they laughed and threw leaves at him, but then their eyes widened.

“Hey, it’s just me, Drew,” he said and removed the phony mask.

He turned and behind him stood an identical zombie.

From Guest Contributor Lisa Scuderi-Burkimsher

Reunion

Imagining their reunion had helped her do unspeakable things since the Collapse. The cold night crystallized her tears. Others might mistake the flicker on the mountainside for a twinkling star, but she knew it’s a candle burning in the window--their sign. Don’t worry baby, she thought, Momma’s coming.

By daybreak, she had reached their cabin. Its warmth draped itself around her like a blanket. Wiping her shoes on the mat (force of habit) a small thing flew out of a cupboard and pinned itself to her legs. “Mummy! I missed you!” David emerged; his face already crumpled with emotion.

From Guest Contributor Carla Halpin

Fall

The blanket of brown leaves, crisp underfoot before the overnight rains, were now a moist, organic mess. The wind was forcing entire sheaves of debris into clammy piles against curbs and hedges.

The water-logged corpse of one of the neighborhood's homeless lay in the street half-covered as well. A growling dog poked at an exposed leg, disturbed by a scent only it could perceive.

Mrs. Roberts waited at the corner for the paramedics. She didn't like the dog bothering the body, but she was unwilling to get any closer. She instead dragged from her cigarette and stared at her phone.

Arborists Cultivate Trees That Look Like Cell Towers

They are pollinated by wind, insects, and calls from former porn stars to their fathers. They disperse packets of data via winged and plumed seeds. They host mosses, mistletoe, birds, and full-duplex digital transceivers. Ultra High Frequency bands of bark, cork, geolocation, quinine, tannin, code division, salicin, syrup, microwaves, and tearful confessions. Across their collinear arrays of dipoles, clustered characters of fury, lust, and suicide notes are passed among their branches. And, late at night, handed over from tree to tree, lined along the Interstate, in streams of ones and zeros, the fathers forgive their daughters and invite them home.

Dale Wisely co-edits Right Hand Pointing, One Sentence Poems, Unlost Journal, and Unbroken Journal. www.dalewisely.com/literary

The Sickness Unto Death

I pulled up my shirt to show the doctor the painful rash that had appeared like stigmata on my front and back. He looked at it, then shrugged. “What do you think it is?” he asked. I decided at that moment to stop carrying my phone everywhere. Somehow disturbing news still managed to reach me. I was out of step with the times. My days were endless. I walked on the beach, took naps, tried to teach myself the guitar. There was a blue iris sitting in a bottle on my table. It would have made a lovely Hallmark card.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author most recently of Spooky Action at a Distance from Analog Submission Press. He co-edits the journals Unbroken and UnLost.

New York Strong

I climb the subway steps into the abundant sunshine. The weather is warm and it’s just another September day. Or so I think…

Paper is floating in the air; the sky darkens and desks tremble. Nearby buildings disappear in clouds of smoke. I watch wide eyed from the fourteenth-floor window across from the World Trade Center. Screams are unbearable and angels fall with a thunderous thump to the ground. My heart pounds and I can’t breathe. I don’t comprehend the horror; the fire, blackness, death.

The towers collapse, but eighteen years later we're strong for the victims and their families.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Traveler

Curiosity turned into passion. A passion to explore the unknown.

Time. Space. Alternate history. I visited them all.

And my memories unfolded...

Worlds I explored.Arrakis. Gethen. Narnia.

Characters I observed.Zaphod Beeblebrox. Severian.Winston Smith.

Wonders I experienced.Clocks that struck thirteen.Monoliths that searched minds ofape-like men.Farm animals that spoke of revolution.

Gods of worlds that I was privileged to.Wolfe. Asimov. Lewis. Clarke.

But you wondered about how I made the impossible possible.

Inventor of faster-than-light travel?Navigator of black holes?Man familiar with alien technology?

I responded with three simple words.

"No. I read."

From Guest Contributor John Lane