Chatrang

“Your move,” Death said.

They can’t hear me. Please give me another chance. The mortal shivered.

“Thirteen moves.” The Guardian Angel moved his bishop.

The Death Angel smirked. "Check."

“It's never enough to defend their lives,” the Guardian sighed.

No, I don’t want to die.

“They never learn, do they?” Death chuckled. “No empathy for others, until violence knocks on their doors.”

No, please, I’m a good person.

“Someday, maybe, I hope to defend a man who is worth a decent game." The guardian placed his knight.

Oh god, I can’t see anything, I want to live!

Death roared, “Checkmate.”

From Guest Contributor Amberstar Rosette

Amberstar is a writer who lives in the Czech Republic

October Blues

The stickiness of the summer air had finally disappeared, leaving behind a brisk chill in its wake. Bronze leaves danced in the wind after departing from their trees, reviving nostalgia that remained hidden deep within your bones. The same way you felt it deep inside your bones when he kissed you that Fall years agoーcupping your face with his warm hands while leaving the sweet taste of honey and cinnamon behind. Shuddering, whether from the bitter wind or suppressed memories of times that no longer existed, you crunch the leaves beneath your heavy boots harderーand you keep on walking.

From Guest Contributor Kelsey Swancott

Kelsey is a graduate of St. John Fisher College, majoring in English, with a concentration in writing while also being an editor in the campus literary magazine Angles.She is furthering her education by attending SUNY Brockport for her master’s in English, specializing in creative writing. Following graduation, she is interested in working in the editing and publishing field.

The Celebration

Where was he?

Anxious guests chattered in anticipation of what would happen next. The priest glanced at the row of individuals immediately before him. Then, at his watch.

Time passed on. The front door opened. A man rushed in.

No one turned to greet him. No talking caught his ears.

Who would’ve believed his story of being caught up in traffic when he was golfing with friends and lost track of time?

He fumbled in his dress jacket pocket, finding the wedding ring lodged in its creases.

Despite his absence as ‘best man’, he hoped his brother’s wedding went well.From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna is a writer of poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. She resides in Edmonton, Canada.

The Great War

The gunfire in the near distance didn’t faze me after ten months of war. I had a job to do and with few hours of sleep and lack of food, the lieutenant couldn’t believe my energy. The truth was, I hid my exhaustion because the men needed my surgical skills.

I operated on an eighteen-year-old boy who took two bullets to the leg. By the time he came to me, it was too late. I had to remove it, or he’d die.

The captain said ‘The Great War' would end soon.

I wished I believed him as another casualty arrived.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Changeling

Susan struggled against her mother’s prying hands, desperate to keep her favorite teddy, but mother won at last, tearing it free. The child wilted to the floor. “You can have it back when you apologize,” said her mother, slamming the door behind her. Susan saw the little man out of the corner of her eye, beckoning from the window, his crown adorned with fresh lily blooms. He was so polite and understanding. Her mother would never know. Susan’s mother returned and found her daughter’s window open, wind scattering lily petals across the floor.

“Susan!”

“Here,” replied the child behind her.From Guest Contributor Sean Ferrier-Watson

Sean has pieces published or forthcoming in Borderlands, Better Than Starbucks, Forces, and Illumen. His book The Children’s Ghost Story in America was published by McFarland in 2017. Follow him at www.seanferrierwatson.com.

Declaration Of War

The noon sun was a blazing red ember in an ashen sky. It was all anyone could talk about. Even the dogs of the kingdom were going crazy, whining and running in circles and hypersalivating. Meanwhile, on the birthing table, the Red Queen, her knees up, her legs spread apart, her multiple chins trembling, pushed and pushed and then pushed again. Music – Wagner or perhaps Sousa, something rousing – came thundering out of her. She was like a little brass ensemble playing mightily. The royal physician remained strangely calm, as though thinking, “OK, why not?” Blood had never looked so red.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author of more than a dozen poetry collections, including most recently Gunmetal Sky (Thirty West Publishing).

Manipulation

He was a mastermind, slowly taking over as he got deeper and deeper under my skinーconvincing me it was love the entire time. And I believed it, I believed him, because his hooks were in me so deep that I couldn’t see I was trapped. He knew what he was doing, it was all part of his plan. What he claimed was love was his way of making sure I wouldn’t leaveーeven if I wanted to. I was a toy to him; something he could keep, control, and manipulate into staying. As if I were something that could be kept.

From Guest Contributor Kelsey Swancott

Kelsey is a graduate of St. John Fisher College, majoring in English, with a concentration in writing while also being an editor in the campus literary magazine Angles.She is furthering her education by attending SUNY Brockport for her master’s in English, specializing in creative writing. Following graduation, she is interested in working in the editing and publishing field.

Sanctuary

The showerhead above rains hot water hitting the skin hard with maximum strength, like it means it, sending a tingling current that pulls through every fiber. Having a powerful drowsing effect, these watery sounds mingled in heater noises fill the room like a warm blanket. A comforting scent of the body wash lifts the spirit up to a momentarily lightness of serenity. Back against the wall, I stare emptily at the floor as if I can see through it to the scornful world beneath. I think I still have some time to go...or do I?

“May I come in?”

From Guest Contributor David Chek Ling Ngo

David Chek Ling Ngo is a professor at a Scottish university in Malaysia.

Inner Child

A child’s world view is often slanted, by life’s gifts he often took for granted.

Too innocent, young to understand, the gift of true love portends to be grand.

Oh how I wish up to this day, my present happiness could be measured by play.

Fragile psyche as to when as a child came to harm, leads to a life often seen without charm.

The troubles of this life to which I often succumb, often seem monumental in task to overcome .

Having paid over again at a magnanimous cost, will I regain that which I know I have lost?

From Guest Contributor Christopher Baker

Than Anything Else

I asked him about the authors that influenced him.

He shrugged the question away.

"I'm more embarrassed by the story than anything else. Let it die."

"Than anything else," I thought. And again "Let it die." What was that anything else?

He was at the wood stove again, apparently indicating that was it, the interview was over.

"Walkside, strophanthin, and the adult bookstore," I said, trying to be delicate. "I'm not saying you didn't make things up, but..."

He spun quickly, poker in his hand. The dogs' heads jerked up.

"What do you want from me?"

The interview was over.

From Guest Contributor Rick Henry