Thanks

I cannot thank you,little cat with serious eyes,for your gift of a dead mouse.

I flee from remindersof killing. I am a vegan, and it wouldbe easier if you were too.

But then I would loseyour playfulness and pounce, and turnyou into a timid, nibbling rabbit.

I love you for those things,for your wish to feed me, and foryour love for me, strange as

I must appear to you: so huge,so hairless, so hopeless a hunter. I am thankfulfor what I cannot understand, this strangelove than can span species.

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.

Helicopter Parenting

HUBRIS CONTEST:

Malcolm was the victim of helicopter parenting. Literally. He didn't drive to school, he flew. His mother and father, both victims of neglect and recrimination growing up, had overachieved as adults so that they could protect their own child from such abuses. This meant sheltering Malcolm from all criticisms, never allowing him to fail or even fall short in anything he did.

When he inherited the family business, he was both horribly unqualified to run a company and incapable of conceiving of the possibility of failure. Thanks however to his tremendous hubris, the company continued to thrive under his direction.

From Guest Contributor Mindy Storr

A Genius Remains Unrecognized

HUBRIS CONTEST:

John shouted into his megaphone, sending the entire set scrambling. He was in command. He was a god, and "Flesh Would Melt" was his creation, his masterpiece finally springing to life.

Even amidst the commotion, there was a still part of John's mind that was not occupied by the calculating of f-stops or picking out of wallpaper patterns. He thought of the first time he'd seen Hamlet performed, wondering at the rapturous applause, and thinking to himself that if he had been in charge, he would have done better.

Almost exactly one year later, John's film premieres to universal vilification.

From Guest Contributor Eduardo Felin

Flash Bang Boom

With the encouragement of family and friends, I adopted a retired bomb-sniffing dog. I called him “Flash” – after the flashing lights of a migraine, I would joke to anyone who asked. One day he discovered under the couch a severed doll’s head I didn’t even know I had. Next the piano stopped producing sounds when I sat down to play it. Then the tree outside my window appeared suspended like an astronaut in space. Now I often catch the dog lying on the couch studying 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.

Conversation Between A Composer And Their Psychologist

“I’ve always heard it.”

“And you coped by writing?”

“Yeah.”

“Did writing help?”

“Yeah, when I write it down the music cadenzas. And I get to perform it and make a decent living too.”

“What do you mean by cadenzas?”

“It’s Latin for stop. Then diminuendo until a new tune starts up in allegro. And I write that down too.”

The psychologist wrote: persistent auditory hallucinations & delusions of grandeur. There might be a book deal in this; a construction worker who believes himself a composer. Hottest thing in ClinPsych since the man who mistook his wife for a hat.From Guest Contributor Harman Burgess

Harman's short fiction has previously been published in CafeLit and Friday Flash Fiction, as well as in the upcoming September edition of Scarlet Leaf Review.

The Hubris Of An Atheist

HUBRIS CONTEST:

Steven had few religious friends. He’d hector and accuse anyone who was a believer, demanding proof they both knew didn’t exist. He belittled their faith, claimed they were wasting their time, and insisted that all plausible evidence pointed towards the folly of religion. No matter how generous of spirit they might have been, Steven's condescending demeanor drove them off.

In some ways, Steven's faith in his own rationality was stronger (and more misguided) than the religious devotion of any of his former friends. Ironic that he now found himself at a loss for words before Saint Peter at the gate.

From Guest Contributor Sarah Levy

The Queen

HUBRIS CONTEST:

She relished her place at the center of the colony. All her needs were met. Her food was brought to her, as well for her nursing children. She had thousands of workers at her beck and call, digging, constructing, foraging. Mating took place whenever she felt the urge. Even her waste was disposed of for her.

Taken care of in this manner, was it any wonder that she could expect to live for as long as ninety years? Every day, nothing but leisure.

She thought herself fortunate, but all the other ants thought of her as nothing but a slave.

From Guest Contributor Wilson Edwards

Lucif And Mi

Lucif turns to his friend Mi. “Let’s go.”

“Nonsense, we have yet to explore.”

“With days of darkness, how can this be a safe home for our families.”

“No, we are staying.”

Lucif makes a run for the spaceship. He almost reaches the lever for the door when Mi pulls him back, knocking him to the ground. They struggle and with one sweeping kick, Mi flies in the air and lands hard on his head, yellow eye wide open. He is dead.

Lucif leans over his friend and closes his eye, then heads to the ship.

He is going home.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

The Chopping Block

The cabbage on the chopping block was a vivid royal purple. She couldn’t figure out why it was called red cabbage. It certainly looked purple, even after it was cooked. Her sheepsfoot knife was thinly slicing the quartered pieces with almost no effort. Good knives were worth every dollar spent on them, she mused.

She thought ahead: I still need to chop the onions and the Granny Smith apples. I hope I have apple cider vinegar. This dish will go perfectly with roasted pork.

She looked down and noticed blood on the board. Was that the tip of her finger?

From Guest Contributor Janice Siderius

Seeing

“Who’s that little girl over there?”

I stop buckling her three-point harness and look over my shoulder.

“I don’t know who you mean, babe,” I say. “There’s no one there.” I go back to buckling.

Her tiny, chubby index finger points straight behind me and into our backyard.

We are in a hurry, running late to the library’s story hour. It’s hot out. I exhale loudly. I turn my head again and then turn my body in a full circle to scan.

“Who do you see?” I ask.

She shrugs. She’s over it, as if this happens all the time.

From Guest Contributor Amy Bracco