The Cave

Today is his wife’s birthday. Five years later, a ghastly memory lingers over him. He cringes recalling the cave tour he planned for his adventurous wife. Now, he desperately yearns for her.

A cold breeze sends shivers down his spine while he silently fights back tears. His grief-stricken heart is infuriated by Mother Nature’s cruelty.

He still hears echoes of his wife’s pleas to rescue their child from nature’s wrath. Ruthless in stealing her, now this cold cave is blessed with his wife’s beautiful soul.

A flurry of air passes through him as her immortal love warms the hollow cave.From Guest Contributor Hetal Shah

Hetal Shah graduated with her Bachelor of Commerce from SIES. She lives in Mumbai with her husband, son, and daughter. She rekindled her hobby of writing over the past year. She is the winner of Mumbai Poetry League 2020, and her poem was published in an anthology by Poets of Mumbai called Guldastaa A Bouquet of Poems. She also writes flash fiction, and has been published twice on 101words.org. She loves to read, and especially enjoys reading and writing stories of romance and everyday life. Besides writing, she enjoys cooking new cuisines, traveling, and singing.

Salvation

I release the sewer grate and climb into the darkness, the stars my only light. I stay close to the alley in case German police scope the streets. My family is starving and out of the three of us, I’m the least weak to make the walk, even though I stumble from fatigue. We’re all in angst living in sewage, but we have no other option.

His figure is faint, but recognizable. He hands me the bag of potatoes and apologizes for not having enough, then kisses me passionately.

“Go now, my Sadie.”

Aron, my salvation in this wretched war.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Afterlife

People say when you die you see a tunnel. A bright light. Angels. Pearly gates. Or hellfire and brimstone, depending on your earthly deeds.

Lies.

There is no tunnel. No welcome by ghostly outspread arms. No river of milk and honey.

Instead, I see a river of blue. Vertical lines of binary code, scrolling endlessly in the void. The emptiness is so vast, it tugs at my soul, a remembrance. Grief.

I begin to walk, seeking. I push back the lines of code like a curtain. And then there you are. Your ocean eyes, your quicksilver smile.

“Welcome home, love.”

From Guest Contributor Heather R. Parker

Writer's Block

He sighs.

“What’s wrong, darling?”

She stretches her arms out from behind over his chest.

“This isn’t going anywhere. I’ve been staring at this blank piece of paper for hours now. What am I saying, for days.”

Once more, he sighs.

She squeezes him just a bit tighter.

“The only thing I seem to be good at is writing about how tough it is to write and to be a writer. The daily struggle with words and how to use them. Questioning myself if it’s all worth it.”

She loosens her grip.

“But at this, darling, you’re so very good.”

From Guest Contributor Hervé Suys

Hervé Suys (°1968 – Ronse, Belgium) started writing short stories whilst recovering from a sports injury and he hasn’t stopped since. Generally he writes them hatless and barefooted.

Abandoning Ship

Those looking in from the outside viewed her as strong, smart, someone who had control of her life and never lost it. That was true, she never did lose itーbecause she never gave anyone the chance. Those looking in only saw her as the one who always came out on top, but that was because they never saw who she left on the bottom to get there. Leaving before she could be left, keeping everyone at arm's length, abandoning ship the moment she felt herself losing control. But no one ever saw how lonely it was; always leaving, always running.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.

Narcissi

Resplendent in her white dress, she headed down the steps from the veranda. He tightened his parka to stave off the wind and followed.

Behind the house they built, they strode toward the pond, their barren feet leaving a trail along the mucky ground. Her smile was terse, he clenched his jaw. He searched for something new to say, she shook her head. They knit their hands, now ringless, and peered at their reflection.

Later, when the children rushed out to search for them, all they found by the water’s edge was a white lily rising beside a thistle bush.

From Guest Contributor Nicholas Katsanis

Nico is a writer of magical realism and absurdist fiction. His work has appeared in 50-word stories and Literally Stories. Look out for his debut novel Bocce at the End of the World in 2022 and follow him on Twitter @nicholaskatsan1

His Touch

Staring out of the frosty window, Samaira inhaled the misty air. She was captivated by her onerous thoughts when, suddenly, an arm coiled around her petite waist. The touch of her stepfather suffocated her. She loathed the repulsive sensation of his hand brushing against her body. Still, she surrendered to the molestation silently so her dying mother could pass peacefully. Years after her mother’s demise, she’s no longer startled by such fondling. She feeds on the arousal ignited by the stroke of a man’s body against hers. These carnal touches, which earlier caused misery, are now her gateway to riches.

From Guest Contributor Hetal Shah

Hetal Shah graduated with her Bachelor of Commerce from SIES. She lives in Mumbai with her husband, son, and daughter. She rekindled her hobby of writing over the past year. She is the winner of Mumbai Poetry League 2020, and her poem was published in an anthology by Poets of Mumbai called Guldastaa A Bouquet of Poems. She also writes flash fiction, and has been published twice on 101words.org. She loves to read, and especially enjoys reading and writing stories of romance and everyday life. Besides writing, she enjoys cooking new cuisines, traveling, and singing.

Voice

Philip, my husband, gently massages the knot in my shoulder. “Are you ready?”

Turning, I kiss him on the lips. “Of course.”

My daughter is playing with her grandmother, talking gibberish. This is for her future as much as it is for mine. She will be more than a housewife.

I grab my banner, walk out the door and join the parade of women marching down “Fifth Avenue.”

It may not happen today or tomorrow, but we will keep on going until we’re equal.

With Philip smiling and watching from the sidewalk, I feel confident our voice will be heard.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Untethered

Odd remembrances haunt my lazy brain unbidden at odd times. Family legend has me nearly drowning after falling out of a boat when very young. The woman who is now great grandmother and widow that I made out with in my car sixty years ago. A small clothing store that I walked past in West Portland fifty plus years ago. Now there is a freeway where it was. I think it was small, isolated and named Mode O’Day. The traumatized beauty that abruptly rejected me while in college. Did she ever care for me, or was it completely one-sided?

From Guest Contributor Doug Hawley

Authors And Readers

It became obvious to the Minister of Culture that everyone wanted to be a writer, and no one wanted to be a reader. When the Minister of Culture collected statistics, she noticed that most of the stories published by reputable publications remained unread. With the support of Parliament, the MOC instituted a new rule: for every story published on the internet, the writer was obliged to read ten stories by other authors and write a summary and critique of each story. This practice led to a number of happy authors and readers, who turned out to be the same people.

From Guest Contributor Anita G. Gorman