Alone

James was exhausted by his work. He walked slowly up the stairs. He opened the door of his apartment and went inside. He saw that there was no one. He put his bag on the table and stood there. The room was cold and quiet. For a few seconds all he did was to stare at the empty bed. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Everything was dark before his eyes. He sat on the edge of the bed and rested his face on his palms. The sun was about to set and he sat still.

From Guest Contributor Sergio Nicolas

An Appreciation Of Nature

NATURE SUBMISSION:

David led the group to the African Savanna. He'd been here many times and knew the habits of the big cats, in particular the lions, which were what everyone wanted to see. "They mostly just lay around in the sun, resting. But watching them feed is a transformative experience."

No one seemed impressed. Even the children were more interested in their phones than looking at the animals. It was a sad commentary on the state of the world.

"Acting this way can get you killed in the wild," he warned.

"Good thing we're at the zoo then," one boy retorted.

From Guest Contributor Leonard Panse

Creation

The painting of the woman holding a baby close, swaddled in a white blanket, is meticulous. Her long unkempt hair is covering her face, and a man leaning over has his hands gently placed on each of her shoulders. The mother’s tear drop gives off a somber scene; however, the colorful blue background breaks the bleakness.

“Sarah, this sullen painting, even with blue in the background, isn’t joyful as I instructed.”

“It is.”

“Explain.”

“If my brother hadn’t been still born, I wouldn’t have been created.

Sarah packed her supplies and, satisfied, left the room with a sensation of stares.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Mother Nature Always Wins

NATURE SUBMISSION:

When you push the envelope, sometimes the envelope pushes back.

The architects and the engineers were certain that their calculations were correct. The bridge would save time and effort when driving across the sound. The financing was in place after years of wrangling. The bridge was inaugurated with great fanfare.

The Williwaw was the locals’ name for the wind that came from the north. High winds were not unusual, and the designers of the bridge had accounted for them. Mother Nature didn’t know the words “vortex shedding” or “aeroelastic flutter.” But she didn’t need words, she just needed the wind.

From Guest Contributor Janice Siderius

Neighbors

Everett was swinging back and forth on his porch enjoying a glass of iced tea, sweet tea, watching the annual 4th of July parade make its way past the little house he’d lived in all his life.

Everything he understood about history he’d learned watching that parade go up that road.

Here came local girls twirling pretend wooden rifles in front of the marching band from over at the white high school.

Back when Everett was young, girls, black and white, twirled batons. But the world today was meaner. Neighbors didn’t even try anymore. Or so it seemed to Everett.

From Guest Contributor Brian Beatty

Brian is the author of four poetry collections: Borrowed Trouble; Dust and Stars: Miniatures; Brazil, Indiana: A Folk Poem; and Coyotes I Couldn’t See. Beatty lives in Saint Paul, Minnesota.

The Great Moose Walk

NATURE SUBMISSION:

It was time for The Great Moose Walk. The moose knew it was their task to walk from northern Sweden to the somewhat more hospitable south. In recent years cameras had been placed on their route, and people all over the world watched the moose on television. Inevitably, the cameras affected the animals, who knew that humans wanted to be entertained. "Hey guys," the head of Moosedom said, "Let's show them a thing or two." So they made odd gestures, smiled a lot, pranced and danced and generally showed off. Then the head of Moosedom yelled, "Hey, guys, watch this!"

From Guest Contributor Anita G. Gorman

Werewolf

NATURE SUBMISSION:

It is nighttime. Myriad dots of light litter the sky. We lie on our bed with our distinct commitments disinterested in rekindling a lost pulse. As a pack of wolves practice their choric song, my wife trembles, scratches her skin and flutters her limbs trying to repress an urge. She grinds her teeth as if she wants to sing like the baritone owls and soprano sparrows. I ask, “What’s wrong?” She doesn’t bother with an answer. Instead she escapes into the toilet. A high-pitched scream perks my ears. She returns with calm on her face and nuzzles into my neck.

From Guest Contributor Anindita Sarkar

Anindita is from India. She is a Research Scholar at Jadavpur University. Her works have recently appeared in Indolent Books, Ariel chart Magazine, and Flash Friday Fiction.

Anger Is An Arrow

The sun was shining for once, and I was sitting out on the patio with a book, Clare Carlisle’s Philosopher of the Heart: The Restless Life of Soren Kierkegaard, open on my lap, while I stared off into the middle distance, trying to think of a specific skill my angry beautiful workaholic father had taught me growing up – how to change the oil in a car, for example, or restring a steel-string acoustic guitar, or make sourdough starter from scratch – and I couldn’t, I couldn’t think of one, unless, that is, you consider being a yellow bull’s eye a skill.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.

A New Home

NATURE SUBMISSION:

“Hi, we’re the new foster parents. Are the little ones ready?”

The woman who opened the door has tears in her eyes.

“You’re early.”

“We were anxious to see them.”

“Promise me you’ll take care of them.”

“Um… certainly, madam.”

“I’ll get my husband.”

A man comes to the door, carrying a basket and then handing it over.

“Is everything all right with the missus? She seems a bit upset. She IS aware we will end up eating them, right?”

“Sssst. No need to remind her of that.”

“Maybe you should consider to stop giving away free tomato plants, then.”

From Guest Contributor Hervé Suys

The Man Who Loved Trees

NATURE SUBMISSION:

There once was a boy who loved trees. He frequently played in the woods near his village, until one day all the trees were gone.

He decided to plant a new tree every day. His friends laughed at him, insisting that one person couldn't make a difference. But he was determined. Many years passed, and the number of trees he'd planted grew into the thousands. An entire forest existed thanks to his efforts.

Then the hurricane came. All his trees were wiped out in a single night.

The morning after the storm, the man woke up and planted a tree.

From Guest Contributor Cissy Lee