Moonflowers & Untold Truths

Mother waters her garden at midnight, with tears of the moon, she says. I can sometimes hear her crying, but I don’t tell her. Her garden is beautiful, with pale petals on willowy stems and dew clinging onto their souls, she says. I asked her once to see her budding seeds, but she insists that she must tend to them alone, fragile blooms. I nod because I know she is right, and because I am scared that if I don’t, she will find out, and my heart is too fragile.

Mother’s garden has no flowers, and I am still wilting.

From Guest Contributor Zeyneb Kaya

Close Call

The traffic light turned amber. On any other day Geoff would have braked, but today something compelled him to floor the accelerator.

His wife, Janet, looked over, alarmed. "What are you doing?"

Grim-faced, Geoff focused on the road ahead. The light went red. Janet covered her eyes as the car shot through the intersection.

Safely on the other side, Geoff eased off on the accelerator and breathed out.

"What was that all about?" Janet asked.

Geoff was lost for words.

Glancing in the mirror, his jaw dropped as he watched a jack-knifing lorry careering into stationary cars at the intersection.

From Guest Contributor David Lowis

Saunders S. Saunders

Saunders S. Saunders liked his name and the way it confused people. He liked tantalizing the public, and even though his middle name was Samuel, he thought from time to time about changing Samuel legally to Saunders. Then he would have a totally unusual name. Somewhere, someplace there might be a Saunders Samuel Saunders, but he doubted that a Saunders Saunders Saunders existed anywhere else in the world, or possibly in the entire universe. There was only one problem: Saunders S. Saunders had no other claim to fame, and that, he thought, was a problem, a major, major, major problem.

From Guest Contributor Anita G. Gorman

Recovery

“Hi darling,” the young man giggled, noticing a pretty woman leaning towards him. “Which one are you?”

The woman left in disgust. Two men cloaked in white entered.

“Nasty blow to your head,” one confirmed in a heavy accent following something vocalized by the other. “You remember anything?”

“Molly’s. I left Molly’s. Might’ve been O’Hara’s,” the patient prattled. “Didn’t see Molly.”

The two towering over his bed exchanged words.

“When can I leave?” the patient interjected. “Molly is waiting for me. Best beer on the house.”

“You’re in Spain, recovering from an all-nighter at an Irish Pub,” explained the doctor.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes poetry, fiction and creative nonfiction regardless of the season, although she prefers spring.

Escape Route

Nadia rushes through the streets. Gunfire and bombs go off in the near distance and people are scrambling, and screaming, knocking into her while sweat drips down the nape of her neck. Her breath is shallow from the heat and clouds of black smoke fill the air. She uses her sleeve to cover her face from breathing in the toxic fumes, but she coughs heavily. She prays her husband is safe, but she hasn’t heard a word since he left to fight for their country.

She reaches the bridge.

A bomb explodes creating darkness and the bridge collapses beneath her.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Leading Questions

“Does my ass look OK in these jeans?” she asked me.

“What do you mean?”

“Me arse—it looks OK?”

“Why? Did you do something to it?”

“Can’t you be serious?”

“You're aware it has a crack in it, aren’t you?”

“Do you think you’re funny?”

“What do you want to know? Is it the right shape? The right size?”

“Is it big?”

“What does big mean? Can you walk over by the door?”

“To here? Far enough?”

“There now you’ve made it smaller, haven’t you? Does that make you happy?”

“You just can’t get in the mood, can you?”

From Guest Contributor Edward Voeller

Rubble

The ruler of the rubble sits at the end of a table that reaches around the world. Who will live to see his reign unravel? The babies, who grow up somewhere else? Will they return middle aged, full of stories from their broken parents, and older brothers and sisters who went to school in their own country, saluted their own flag, played in the sea that belonged to everyone? Surely they will come, full of sadness and anger, looking for remnants of family left behind. Grownups, who pick up handfuls of rubble and say, this used to be my home.

From Guest Contributor Linda Lowe

You...Just Watch

“Do you have the time?”

I had never seen this youngster before – I would have remembered.

“Of course,” I replied. I looked at my watch and told him the exact time.

“No, that’s not what I meant. I would like to know if you have the time.”

“Well, I’m a bit ahead of schedule right now. So, yes. Sure. I can spare a few minutes. What is it you wanted to talk about?”

He shook his head and walked away slowly.

“Judging by your answers, you are not the one who has the time. You’re the one with the watch.”

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.

Thank You Lady Erzulie

In her dormitory room, Evangeline examined the ‘Special Romance Candle”, which she bought today from Madame Laveau’s House of Voodoo on Bourbon Street in New Orleans.

The candle was a plea to the Haitian spirit, Lady Erzulie, for assistance with awakening the attention of her classmate and unrequited love, Gabriel.

The clerk in the shop promised “An Evening of Unforgettable Passion.”

Evangeline placed the lighted candle on the table next to her bed and prepared for the spell to work.

She slipped out of all her clothes, climbed under the covers, and eagerly waited for a knock on her door.

From Guest Contributor Don Kirksey

Our Private Summit

I listened to Camilla talking about global warming, the ocean plastic crisis and the deforestation of the Amazon rainforest. Words crowded behind her lips: I silenced them with a kiss. We stayed ten eternal seconds in that first intimate contact.

“I didn't see it coming,” she told me, when she recovered.

“I don't believe you.”

“I knew it could happen, but not so soon. I thought you were harmless.”

“The same they say about climate change.”

We spent all afternoon enjoying our private summit, evaluating the measures to be taken in the future. We started to negotiate ecological caress credits.

From Guest Contributor Marcelo Medone

Marcelo (1961, Buenos Aires, Argentina) is a fiction writer, poet, essayist and screenwriter. His works have received numerous awards and have been published in magazines and books, individually or in anthologies, in multiple languages in more than 40 countries all over the world, including the US.

He has been nominated for the 2021 Pushcart Prize.

Facebook: Marcelo Medone / Instagram: @marcelomedone