For The Taking

“Men line up for me gingerly,” I told my friend.

“Lucky you,” she remarked. “Hasn’t happened for me in months. Last one was a real flop.”

“Sorry to hear that,” I consoled, suddenly aware of my insensitivity. “When you’re ready, I can send one or two over to you.”

She was stunned, telling me how she lacked the courage to date again.

“What I have to offer...well, they’re good looking and appealing in other ways.”

Silence prevailed. Then she spoke. “Seriously?”

“Absolutely. I can deliver my gingerbread men to you, or you can pick them up at my place.”

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes, poetry, fiction and creative nonfiction.

Stranger One

One day a few years back I accompanied spouse and editor (same person) while she went shopping at the Albertsons a few blocks away. I would wander aimlessly if I went with her, so I sat in a chair outside. An average looking and dressing man walked up and sat beside me. I feared he would talk religion or politics, but the conversation was banal to the point that I don’t remember it. He walked away. It seemed that he disappeared, but he probably entered the store or turned a corner. I wonder why he chose to sit beside me.

From Guest Contributor Doug Hawley

Splinter

I clutched her glittery pink butterfly pencil in my left pocket. She wrote with it every day; it’s her favorite. When she dropped it at recess, I knew it was finally my chance to talk to her; to be noble, and return it. I watched her turn the corner towards her 4th-period class. Now’s my chance! Rounding the corner, I bumped into the captain of the football team. Startled, he turned towards me mid-kiss. On the other side of his lips stood Macy, with a brand new butterfly pencil in hand. Engraved were the words, Will You Be My Girlfriend?From Guest Contributor Molly Fay

Molly lives in Buffalo, NY. Currently, she is studying Psychology at SUNY Brockport. In her free time, she enjoys baking, taking long walks by the water, and listening to music.

The Dreaming Man

Calvin approached every situation with the same primary assumption: he was dreaming.

This outlook freed him from the tethers of reality. He lived with a complete disregard for consequence only the dreaming man could fully fathom. It lent his existence a sort of Buddhist clarity, in which only the current moment mattered. He possessed at all times a tremendous sense of self-possession and lucidity, while remaining entirely divorced from the trivial concerns of everyday society.

Now that he had been sentenced to forty-five years to life for first-degree murder, this mindset would be even more of a refuge moving forward.

The Chipmunk And The Squirrel

The chipmunk that lives outside my dog’s window has been avoiding me lately. He says his name is Tony Fauci, but I don’t believe him. Today he’s hanging out with a squirrel in the front yard. The squirrel freezes like a statue when I see him. He thinks this makes him invisible because the trick works on my dog; it doesn’t work on me.

I tell Tony his rent check is late, and both Tony and the squirrel scamper away like a couple of bandits. I’m not mad, though. Tony never pays his rent. These are challenging times for everyone.

From Guest Contributor Dan Slaten

Thoughts And Prayers

Small furry animals have crawled out of their holes for a look. Such sights! Smashed-in skulls and severed feet and angels covered in blood. Like a nasty drunk, God has been exceptionally belligerent of late. A cadaverous woman in blue scrubs who says her name is April asks, “On a scale of 1-10, with 1 being the lowest, how severe is your pain?” Strangers on social media offer thoughts and prayers. Even then, the leaves on trees instantly wither as a burning airship passes overhead. My wife refuses a ride. We cling together just like the words in a poem.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author of Failed Haiku, a poetry collection that is the co-winner of the 2021 Grey Book Press Chapbook Contest. It is scheduled for publication in summer 2022.

Soldier’s Return

It’s been years since I could feel my wife’s hands on my body, and I can’t wait to lay next to her in bed caressing her soft skin.

I didn’t know what to give my kids for Christmas, so I made a collage of all the letters and pictures my son and daughter sent me. I made the same gift for my wife, but with a personal touch, for her eyes only. Their pictures and letters helped keep me strong through the long war.

The bus has come to a stop.

The three of them are here, smiling, anxiously waiting.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Let Go, She Said

“What do you think you’re doing, young man?”

The waiting room on platform 10, a jewel of early 20th century art deco, was rather crowded, but Lady Sophie had – as always - the most comfortable seat. She lay down her book, a first print of ‘Homicide on the Western Rapid’ by Dame AC Miller. Lady Sophie was absolutely ill tempered, because she was about to discover what the brilliant detective Benoni Pommier was about to úncover.

“If you don’t let go of my handbag immediately, you’d better start praying. Let your undoubtedly very rare little grey cells do their work.”

From Guest Contributor Hervé Suys

Hervé Suys (°1968 - Ronse, Belgium) started writing whilst recovering from a sports injury. To impress wife, kids and closest friends, he does this barefooted and hatless.

In Pursuit Of Tomorrow

A young boy shaped sand sculptures. His parents combed the beach with a metal detector. When clouds rolled in, mother rose, balancing on the only leg spared in a shark attack.

Over driftwood, shells and rocks they trampled to reach the trail that would lead them to a road.

Father turned for one last glance of the abandoned tanker anchored by the coast. He had heard of buried treasures from at least a dozen ships in those turbulent waters.

As he imagined newly acquired wealth for his family, the sea tossed out a bottle. Nestled inside was a folded note.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes poetry, fiction and creative nonfiction. She resides in Alberta, Canada.

Fire And Ice

“He took me for ten grand. Hustled me when I wasn’t in my right mind,” Demar mentioned. The waitress turned back, having forgotten a glass of water.

“So what’s happening to him now?” Jim asked.

“He’s losing everything. Never got a job. Had a streak of bad luck. Getting divorced.”

Looking at the water, Jim noticed it was mostly ice. “Well, that’s great. He deserved those things.”

“I knew this day would come. I didn’t know I’d feel sorry for him.” The water arrived. Demar took a sip, and the coldness of the ice sent a shiver down his spine.

From Guest Contributor Steve Colori