Homer

Marjorie and her husband Herbert thought that names were important. When their first child was born, they named him Homer in hopes that some day he would be a major-league baseball player. Herbert used to laugh at the concept even while he predicted that Homer would be inspired by his suggestive name.

When Homer was three, Herbert bought him a baseball bat. Then it was Little League and high-school baseball and finally the college baseball team. Marjorie and Herbert were ecstatic; their dream was coming true.

In the end Homer majored in Classics and wrote an epic poem in Greek.

From Guest Contributor Anita G. Gorman

Failed Poet Theater

You stared out at our radiant world with an intense, even belligerent, expression. A ratty top hat, at least half a size too small, sat on your head at a treacherous angle. Your gaunt, wrinkled cheeks might have come from having lived on the street or being tortured in some foreign jail for political crimes, but didn’t. These were the years you renamed yourself, smoked a white clay pipe, worked in a carnival of night sweats and empty thought bubbles. Sometimes the stock market cratered. Other times you just wished we each could experience the irony of posthumous cult status.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author of What It Is and How to Use It (2019) from Grey Book Press, among other poetry collections.

The Path

I hurried, heart trilling, feet moving. Left turn, right. The path was familiar, an old enemy. Left again. I could have screamed. It was here somewhere. Right turn.

Yes. There it was, the candy-red button. I pressed it down. A tray burst open with the pellet inside. I crunched into its horrible glory. Relief.

“Nice work, Algernon,” the human said, her thick hand lifting me from the labyrinth and setting me in fresh sawdust. I curled my tail around me. If I slept now, I would reawaken to the path and begin again. Did I have a choice?

I slept.

From Guest Contributor Ryan Doskocil

A Picture Of Him

The rain came in through the window, but she didn’t move to close it. Her eyes were fixated on the picture of her late husband.

His toothy grin, unkempt hair, and the obnoxious Rolling Stones t-shirt brought a smile to her face. She had forgotten how goofy he could be when taking a photo. He had the complete inability to be serious when a camera was pointed at him. The various ridiculous poses and his exaggerated grins came to mind and made her chuckle to herself.

She gently traced his face with her fingertip as tears glided down her cheeks.

From Guest Contributor Zane Castillo

Mack’s Walk

A chill is in the air and Mack’s hands are numb. He pulls his coat collar around his neck and shoves his hands deep inside his pockets. He’s looking forward to a hot cup of coffee when he returns home, the simmering heat soothing his stomach. A few more blocks and he’ll turn back.

“Hi Mack. Have you seen my cat Arty;” the boy asks. “He got loose today, and I can’t find him.”

“Sorry, no, I haven’t.”

Timmy rides his bike at warp speed, making Mack’s head dizzy. Then a gentle brush against his pants distracts him.

It’s Arty.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Papers

- Good afternoon, sir. Can I see your papers, please?

- Is there a problem, officer? I don’t think I was speeding, was I?

- I said: papers.

- ...uhm...all right. Here they are.

- Are you the person on this ID?

- Yes, I am.

- This picture isn’t very recent.

- Can I take a look? ... No it isn’t.

- I’m afraid I’ll have to bring you in, sir.

- What? Because my picture isn’t very up-to-date?

- No sir, because of the consequences it might have.

- Such as?

- Well...you might run into someone you bullied as a kid and who is now a cop.

From Guest Contributor Hervé Suys

Waiting Game

“I hate this waiting,” grumbled Rob.

In childhood years he waited countless hours for his mother’s homemade cookies. He sprung leaks in pj’s waiting for a sister to leave their one and only bathroom. College dates made him wait outside their apartments. He didn’t know why but when they emerged they looked gorgeous.

Now this. Physical distancing to get necessities. Because of a virus.

Rob’s phone rang.

“I’m still waiting in a lineup for the pharmacy,” said his wife. “At least a dozen shoppers before me.”

Rob stepped inside the grocery store smiling, relegating another ‘wait’ time to the past.From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

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

Deadly Decisions

She was just as charismatic as he had imagined her. She was not beautiful, really, her nose was too big. But standing there in the throne room, Marcus could see why Caesar had been fascinated. Part of it was the wealth and the power. Now it was his turn to woo her; he needed her money and ships to accomplish his plan to rule Rome.

He caught her gaze and the future became real to him. They would sail the Nile and have great military successes in the East. But he couldn’t see the asp slithering along in his future.

From Guest Contributor Janice Siderius

Signs

“Look for shiny pennies, rainbows, Monarch butterflies, they’re all signs she’s trying to connect with you,” my friend Jason tried to cheer me.

“Mom hated butterflies. They made her sneeze.”

Jason shrugged. “All the more reason she’ll come back as one. Karma.”

“What do I say to her? In two weeks you’ll die and I’ll feel godawful losing you all over again?”

“You’ll know what to say,” Jason smiled.

So when my mother alighted on my nose while I sat in her garden, I pinched her buttery wings and wiped my hands on my pants. “Shouldn’t have come back, Mom.”From Guest Contributor Marc Littman

My Doctor Must Not Have Seen The Hashtag

"STATES DEPRESSION IS STABLE. NO THOUGHTS OF SELF-HARM. DOING PRETTY WELL ON [redacted]. NO SIDE EFFECTS. REALLY NOT THAT MUCH EFFICACY, HOWEVER." That's my medical chart, caps lock and all.

A hot take on treatment-resistant ("stable") MDD. Weird it's called mental health, which per Twitter, university listservs and healthcare.gov, "matters," but not really without physical evidence.

Maybe by next appointment I'll throw myself in front of the doc's Porsche so he'll believe me. But if I die, only the Eliphazs, Bildads, and Zophars retweeting "Ask for help #mentalhealthmatters" will get the glory.

So, my hands are tied. Bound until bleeding.

From Guest Contributor Connor Orrico