Fond Memory

As I lifted my daughter in the air, her melodious laughter echoed. My wife waved and set the picnic table, her long blond hair blowing in the breeze. The birds chirped in unison and the squirrels scampered searching for food. The sun beamed without a cloud in the sky and I relished the day.

“Let’s go eat my little one,” I took her small hand in mine.

I sipped cold water and it cooled my insides. I kissed my wife on the lips and my daughter on the forehead, their smiles branded in my mind.

Tomorrow I leave for war.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Punishment Without Crime

Oompah-pah music and traditional German drinking songs floated up from the street festival into the third-floor courtroom. I shifted uneasily from foot to foot as I stood before the scowling judge. One prosecution witness after another had described in specious detail my attitudes, conversations, habits, and interests. There was even testimony about the transparent Jewishness of my penis. Now it was finally my turn to speak. I had just begun when the judge interjected, “Spare us your life philosophy.” His face was grave. He studied me with cold, squinty eyes as if calculating exactly how much a person can bear.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author of THE DEATH ROW SHUFFLE, a poetry collection forthcoming from Finishing Line Press.

Decision

The witch stared into the candlelight. The darkness and tempest outside would strengthen her spell, To Make Him Love You More. He wasn’t home yet, now was her chance to cast it.

The thunderbolt’s light lit up the room, and a sparkle under the bed caught her eye. Squinting, she focused on it. A shattered mirror.

“Next time, it’ll be your head.”

Her eyes widened as his harsh words echoed in her ears, and her hand froze mid-air. Without thinking, she flipped to the following page of her open spell book, To Mend Your Broken Heart.

Decided, the witch chanted.From Guest Contributor Soleah Kenna Sadge

Soleah is a fantasy writer. You can learn more about her and her writings by visiting https://linktr.ee/sksadge

Limited Engagement

Curtain rises.

Exterior of a house, bushes, a weathered blue Chevy in the drive.

The door opens. Enter GRANDPA. Locking the door, he crosses to the car. Six-year-old JEFFREY sneaks out of the bushes and creeps up behind Grandpa.

"Boo!"

The new game. He's incorrigible.

Grandpa jumps. "Jesus Motherfucking Christ!" Clamping a hand over his chest, he staggers, collapsing onto the side of the auto. Grandpa slips to the ground and is still.

Wide-eyed Jeffrey cries.

A spotlight from the stage shines out. The crying, a baby's voice.

The curtain falls.

No curtain call.

The houselights come up.

Get out.

From Guest Contributor Erik C. Martin

Erik lives and writes in San Diego. He misses Comic-Con, his critique group, and SCBWI meetings. Follow him on Twitter at @ErikCMartin.

Raking Leaves

Raking leaves

is an exercise in the good-enough.

You will never get them all.

You come to prize

the strong, steady stroke of the rake,

the appropriate armful that you lift

into the waiting wheelbarrow.

The maple leaves which from a distance

appear two-tone, red and silver,

reveal a soul-satisfying palette

from crimson to lavender.

A leaf falls in your hair and tickles your neck.

You cover the lily beds

with their winter blanket,

a gorgeous quilt

in five-pointed patchwork.

You’re no good at quilting, but it doesn’t matter.

Raking leaves is an object lesson

in Lamott’s “shitty first drafts.”

From Guest Contributor Cheryl Caesar

Cheryl lived in Paris, Tuscany and Sligo for 25 years; she earned her doctorate in comparative literature at the Sorbonne and taught literature and phonetics. She now teaches writing at Michigan State University. Last year she published over a hundred poems in the U.S., Germany, India, Bangladesh, Yemen and Zimbabwe, and won third prize in the Singapore Poetry Contest for her poem on global warming. Her chapbook Flatman: Poems of Protest in the Trump Era is now available from Amazon and Goodreads.

Super Man

“I vacuumed and mopped,” Andy said to his wife, Michelle.

“Really?” Michelle replied, looking up from scrubbing the upstairs toilet.

“Yes,” Andy beamed. “And you didn’t even have to ask.”

“Fantastic,” Michelle said before turning back to attack the porcelain with a scrub brush. “Your award ceremony will be on ESPN tonight at seven.”

“Cool!’ Andy said, and he took his cellphone to the downstairs bathroom to catch up on Facebook. Thirty minutes later when he flushed for the second time, he was starting to wonder if Michelle had been joking.

He decided to set the DVR just in case.

From Guest Contributor John Sheirer

John is an author and teacher who loves living in New England. His most recent book is Fever Cabin, a fictional journal of a man isolating out of fear of COVID-19 who confronts his life choices. Proceeds benefit virus relief organizations. Find John at JohnSheirer.com

New Story Contest: Pride Cometh Before The Fall

I continue to get strong interest in these contests, so we're going to have another one in August. The theme for this new contest is Hubris. It seems particularly relevant given the state of the world at the moment. Feel free to interpret it anyway you like.

Submissions are due by July 31st. Please follow the normal submission guidelines (here) but also include Hubris Contest in the subject header so I know it is for the contest. One contest submission per person (though you are free to submit as many pride-themed stories for regular posting as you want).

The rules are simple, but don't get cocky. Submitters somehow fail to follow instructions all the time:

1. All stories must somehow engage with the theme hubris. Be creative.
2. The story must be exactly 100 words, not including the title.
3. Only one submission per person. All entries are due by July 31st.

That's it. Start writing. I hope I get plenty of stories, so spread the word.

*Note: This contest is meant for fun. While there are no actual prizes, as always, EXTREME bragging rights are involved!

Remember, I’ll still be posting non-contest-related posts on a daily basis, so keep sending in your stories on any topic you like!

Melodious Birds

Erik sat silently in the small attic, fatigued, and his legs aching from being crunched together in the confined space. His father had told him to stay quietly hidden until the birds chirped.

Before the gunshot, his mother screamed. His father yelled a profanity, then he heard another gunshot and muffled his cries.

As Erik awakened, the birds sang. He slowly opened the creaking door and went downstairs.

In the kitchen, his parents bloodied bodies laid on the floor and a Nazi soldier stood against the wall.

“Ich habe gewartet.” I’ve been waiting.

A gun was aimed at Erik’s head.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

The Lie

It is too easy to start a lie.

I tried for a solid year to start a regular exercise routine, but it just didn’t take.

I promised myself eighteen months ago that I would only drink three days per week, but that never came to fruition. My current goal is to make a bottle of wine last three days.

Lying, on the other hand, was easy. I didn’t have to think about it. The words just spilled right out. It wasn’t conscious. I didn’t even have to journal about it or set a goal for myself. I just did it.

From Guest Contributor Amy Bracco

Learning To Read

I lean into my chair holding the book by its bind, learning to read what I did not as a child, but now with gray in my stubble. Flipping through the pages, feeling the paper crease between my fingers, I fumble to link it all together.

I follow the words with a methodical dexterity of a trained scientist, and with repetition, I begin to sense the fruits of my labor, basking in the glow of my mother’s maiden language come alive.

The exercise ends with a whistle, as I close my cookbook and taste the pepperpot burn my overeager tongue.

From Guest Contributor Eric Persaud

Eric is an Indo-Guyanese American living in New York City. He is currently working on his doctoral dissertation in Public Health and writing stuff in his free time.