That Day

He dreamt of one. Then another and another...until the sky wascrowded with them. Umbrellas. Pristine white. Open. Descending from uphigh. Why?

They were irrelevant in his daily life. Not so for his wife who neededdifferent umbrellas to complement her wardrobe.

Upon awakening he realized what triggered the scene he envisioned. Whyhe told his boss he wouldn’t be at work that day.

“Does this go with my sweater?” his wife asked, opening an umbrella byhis bedside.

The man quietly slid back under the covers.

No way was he going to move on Friday the 13th.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna, a former librarian, gathers tidbits from around theworld in her travels, strings them into delectable morsels of poetryand prose, and stores them in her gopher hole in the CanadianPrairies. She is open to sharing, upon request.

The Gift

Timothy wants a brother for Christmas.

His mother, divorced, comes up with an alternative solution and sits Timothy on her lap. “Honey, there’s another way we could give you a similar present. Each month we can sponsor a child.”

Timothy tilts his head. “What does that mean, Mommy?”

“Well, each month we’ll send money to help the boy get food, education, and whatever he needs. Some children in other countries can’t afford these things and need help.”

Timothy’s face lit up the room with his radiant smile. “I like that, Mommy.”

In Bangladesh, a little boy has a happy holiday.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

One Last Time

"Be a good boy," said my mother. "Stop playing cricket in the graveyard with you likkle hooligan friend. I don’t want to hear that you trying to see duppies by washing you face with rice water."

I didn’t want to disappoint my mother, a God-fearing woman, who left Jamaica ten Christmases ago to work as a hospice nurse in Miami, comforting the soon-to-be dead. I'd been a good boy until last week when she came home in a box. So who could blame me (and I know she would forgive me) if I tried to see her one last time.

From Guest Contributor Geoffrey Philp

Geoffrey is the author of Garvey's Ghost

Deaths In July

On 17th July, Adhakanta’s twins Tompi and Shompi were found hanging from the tamarind tree their forefathers had planted outside Dhemaljote for the demons to rest in. Both had been national-level Kho-Kho players. Mairong Sarkar, their distant uncle, also an ex-KLO turned social worker, supported them as their father's 0.07 decimal land was engulfed by the malicious river Balashon.

The scene ignited Mairong's innermost despair and he took to the jungle again. Their father dead since last July, he untied the dupatta around his daughter’s neck.

Next July, their mother Meera eloped with Kanai, the infamous sand mafia of Balashon.

From Guest Contributor Nabanita Roy

Moon Shot

You can open your eyes now. The walls are covered in scribbled physics equations. Nothing wrong with that, but someone has to get on that rocket and get blown up, maybe. Take it from me, you don’t want to overlook product warnings (“Do not insert in rectum or vagina using fingers or mechanical device.”). Awareness is just so important. Everything happens too fast, as if hurled in irrational anger by the hand of God, though it’s really fluid dynamics. Even a momentary lapse in concentration can result in the sky cracking, dripping, burning, and the blue of night remaining unsolved.From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author most recently of Stick Figure Opera: 99 100-word Prose Poems from Cajun Mutt Press. He co-edits the online journals Unbroken and UnLost.

Invincible

Vainly, her vulva strained to become prehensile. With her digits and her digestive tract things of the past, her vaginal aperture was the only anatomical feature that could hope to get a grip on the handle and shut off the valve before all the veal broth leaked away again. Yes, they would probably replace it with venison consommé, which might well be more flavorful—but existence is fraught with uncertainties. She suddenly remembered that she had once seen a man visibly twitch his large, convoluted, rather hairy ears. If he can do it, I can do it better, she thought.

From Guest Contributor F.J. Bergmann

Postcards Of Joy

Mother loves postcards. I wish you could see this cathedral. I miss you. I have been constrained by tradition. I move from friend to friend. Wake in one bedroom, slumber in another. No personal markers, photos. Gifts conveying motherly intimacy. My favorite Yates novel, a radio, a train set. Living with Mother was rife with frenetic energy once Dad left. He called her a senseless dreamer. Life was defined by bottles, hissing wine. Cackling laughter, dissolved smiles. I want Mother at ease. Instead, I conjure her flitting about cathedrals, mistaking facades for joy. I tell her I’m happy. Try to believe.

From Guest Contributor Yash Seyedbagheri

Yash is a graduate of Colorado State University's MFA program in fiction. His story "Soon," was nominated for a Pushcart and he has also had work nominated for The Best Small Fictions. Yash's work is forthcoming or has been published in journals such as 50-Word Stories, Silent Auctions, City. River. Tree. and Ariel Chart.

Dungeons Without Dragons

Old castles and dungeons. Wizards and dragons. Evil Orcs and bewitching princesses. And he above all, The Mighty Knight, the warrior chosen to save the world from eternal doom.

One flash of lucid light and here he is again, imprisoned in his own dungeon, in his dusty boy's room, remembering days playing tabletop fantasy games with friends and reading Tolkien, back in the time when he was just a teenager. Now he feels so old, lonely, and helpless. Not even a witch by his side, no magic spells to pay alimony, no more ideals worth fighting for.

Nothing but memories.

From Guest Contributor Ivan Ristic

Giving Thanks

With Thanksgiving approaching, Ellie wanted to do something special. She dreaded listening to her sister complain about cooking Thanksgiving dinner when there were people that would give anything to have a meal and a family.

Ellie’s small fingers typed on the computer keyboard searching for anything she could do to help those in destitution and found it. Her eyes locked on a three-year-old girl from Africa who needed a sponsor. She had the brownest eyes and deepest dimples. Despite her cuteness, she appeared frail and that’s when Ellie came to a decision.

A little girl was very happy that year.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Names

"Mihir let us call our daughter Roja or else Shahad?"

I am now being dragged by my hair through the courtyard, then the terracotta floor of hanuman mandir, the broken scalps of which kept poking my menstrual pad. Crying hysterically, I pleaded "Only Hindu names from now. No Muslim.”

Nani, plastering dung cakes for the winter, Raja beta biting nails in anticipation, and Mantu my sister-in-law licking her middle finger out of the pickle jar as Mihir unburdened his hands off my hair with a thundering jolt of Indra.

Later, men smoking bidi took my bleeding body to Shamshan Ghat.

From Guest Contributor Noya Nirriti