Cursed Sword

Dark ripples spread across the surface as I wade into the water. I hold my breath and dive. To my surprise, the sword lies among the weeds, quite within reach. It’s mine. I chuckle with joy. I kick my legs harder, needing to go only a few inches deeper, but I can’t reach it. No matter how long I swim, I can’t grab the sword. I can’t hold my breath anymore. I struggle to the surface, but I’m yanked down. I tear at the weeds tangling my feet, but, as I sink, all I see is the sword’s gleaming wink.

From Guest Contributor Yukari Kousaka

Translated by Toshiya Kamei

Born in Osaka in 2001, Yukari Kousaka is a Japanese poet, fiction writer, and essayist. Translated by Toshiya Kamei, Yukari’s writings have appeared in The Crypt, New World Writing, and The Wondrous Real Magazine, among others.

Art History

A stranger walked up to me on the street and said with a quaver, “I am completely overwhelmed.” He was wearing a black raincoat that reached down below his knees. Wait, I thought, it’s not raining. When we’re dead, it’ll be a whole different story. Cosimo de Medici once complained to Michelangelo, “That sculpture doesn’t look like me.” “Listen,” Michelangelo told him, “you’ll be dead in 20 years, this will be around for 2,000 years. So that’s what you look like!” And now, even though it’s nighttime all over the world, there are pictures on fridges and music in elevators.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author of more than a dozen poetry collections, including most recently Gunmetal Sky (Thirty West Publishing) and The Bad News First (Kung Fu Treachery Press).

The Price Of Love

The ozone scent of the ocean reminds me how much I have sacrificed to be here: friends, family, home, heritage.

Was it worth it? Most days, yes, but on black days – every step painful – I find myself back before the water.

Mother warned me. But I knew better. “You don’t choose who you fall for.”

“Mark my words, no good came of such a union.”

I brushed it aside – another of her fables.

He is a devoted husband, but he cannot bridge the loneliness.

I lose myself in the roaring of the waves: a world I can no longer enter.

From Guest Contributor Iqbal Hussain

Clever

Sydney prides herself on her cleverness. Her teachers and prospective lovers (usually different) always commented it was her most identifiable trait.

So it's frustrating when this critical character component fails to impress. Like when she explains to the traffic cop that coming to a complete stop was both unnecessary and a waste of fuel, and she's doing everyone a service.

Or when she told Ian that kissing her boss simply made her appreciate Ian more as a boyfriend.

Neither did he laugh at her joke about the dog dropping his bouquet of white flowers to bark at its own reflection.

The Seventh Floor

The squad car with blue lights flashing lit up the night and announced a police presence before he entered the building.

The receptionist looked up at the cop coming through the door and smiled.

“Good evening officer. This is becoming a regular occurrence.”

“Yes, Ma’am, second Friday night this month,” said the cop.

“Let me guess, seventh floor? Mrs. Smith called about Frannie’s drinking party again?”

“Bingo.”

“We’ll try to settle Mrs. Smith down first, then talk with Frannie.”

“Thanks.”

The cop shook his head and asked, “How loud can they be? This is a retirement village for God’s sake.”From Guest Contributor N.T. Franklin

NT Franklin has been published in Page and Spine, Fiction on the Web, 101 Words, Friday Flash Fiction, CafeLit, Madswirl, Postcard Shorts, 404 Words, Scarlet Leaf Review, Freedom Fiction, Burrst, Entropy, Alsina Publishing, Fifty-word stories, Dime Show Review, among others.

Making Textiles

Kneeling on the hard ground making textiles is an arduous task when the sun is beaming, but the heat is worse indoors. The brick wall of my home blocks the air flow and sweat trickles down my forehead.

My husband Mario is walking up the path after a long day of working in the fields.

“Maria, please come inside now. It is time to cook dinner.”

“I’ll be just a minute.”

I pack my belongings and go home.

Mario and our boy are laughing and singing a mellifluous tune while setting the dinner table.

My heart is full of love.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Leaving Home

When he slammed the door, he did not say goodbye. He just left. He left the house, the street, the small town, all the narrow-mindedness he had endured for eighteen years. No one was going to tell him what to do or what to believe.

He boarded the train, and soon he was in boot camp. Then he was a full-fledged soldier. He had enough anger inside to slay the enemy. Before long he was on a troop ship, and then in the forests of France where he began to miss the town where he grew up.

It was 1942.

From Guest Contributor Anita G. Gorman

For Life

“Pillow fight!” Jenya yelled.

I tossed the pillow at her, and white fluffy stuffing went flying. We both giggled as we bounced on the bed in our pjs until Mom came in.

“Enough, girls,” she said, smiling. “Time for bed.”

We lay our pillows down and panted, holding hands. “Best friends for life?” she asked, hooking her pinky in mine. I nodded.

I lay my hand against the bed, and the tears fell as I recalled her last days. “For life, Jenya,” I said, remembering all those years we had lain side by side as sisters. And now, never again.

From Guest Contributor rani Jayakumar

In Tents

“This abandoned road looks really creepy. Are you sure we’ll be safe camping out here?”

“Not to worry Sally. My gang used to camp here regularly. There are no scary animals. The biggest around here is the chipmunks.”

After Duke set up the tent and Sally fixed food, they went to bed early. “Can you relax now Sally? See, it is completely safe.”

“I don’t think that you have relaxing on your mind, not that I disagree.”

They stop what they are doing when they hear something tearing.

Duke yelled “It’s coming from under the tent and it’s bloody huge!”

From Guest Contributor Doug Hawley

Abedabun

Abedabun weaves baskets while her father makes arrowheads. The sun is warm against her face and she tires of the mundane ritual but does not complain when her father rubs a droplet of sweat from her cheek with affection.

Her mother is by the river collecting herbs, humming in tune with the birds, while her brother and sister collect insects for amusement.

Hiawatha, the finest young man in the tribe, approaches Abedabun and her father with a token of marriage, a deer slung over his broad shoulders.

She stops her work and looks to her father.

Hiawatha’s token is accepted.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher