I Overhear My Grandmother In A Dream

I knew about the tarpaper roof torn in the shape of the mountains she had just left, the shape of her youth spent in birthing a dozen children. I did not know she sang only to the sons, who arrived looking like wrinkled old men. When I asked her why she wouldn’t sing to her daughters, I already knew the answer: the girls would just leave her for strangers.

I saved my voice for prayer. The light flinched under the lie, but it was only my shadow. That light came from some distance, she said. You really shouldn’t impede it.

From Guest Contributor Cheryl Snell

Cheryl is a classically trained pianist who writes by ear. Author of several collections of poetry, she has also written a series of novels called Bombay Trilogy; and been published in hundreds of literary journals and anthologies, including a Best of the Net. Look her up on Facebook.

Like In Versailles

"Poplars lining the road, like in Versailles. Not that I've been there. I just imagine that's how it would be."

"Are you sure they're Poplars? Maybe Birch."

"Birch in Versailles?! I don't think so."

"I mean the ones outside. Maybe they're Birch."

"I'd prefer Poplars. Like in Versailles. Though I've never been there."

"If you've never been there, how do you know anything lines the road?"

'I imagine there would be something. It's Versailles, after all. Most likely Poplars."

"I guess you're right."

A silence fell over the room, broken only by the sound of the wind in the Aspen.

From Guest Contributor E. O'Neill

All Below Was Sky

All below was sky. No, that isn’t right. You are upside down. The seatbelt keeps you suspended a foot above ground. Blood swells and pounds in your temples, or was it the whiskey? Frank was on the street.

Ejected. He had been thrown fifty feet.

Dead and dusky.

His seersucker shirt plunged a deep v on a chest of ringlets. Oxford buttons pin a lapel dyed crimson. You count the spots on a ladybug as it skitters across. Stripes and six spots. A gnarled oak casts shade on the misshapen corners of a green license plate.

A wailing siren approaches.From Guest Contributor Kyle J. Ames

Kyle is a student of English at Pikes Peak Community College

I Met A Man, A Most Remarkable Man

I met you at a time when the star of you was careening downward. Though in descent, due to illness, your radiance shone in your discussions of the band Rush, the literature of Chesterton, and your absolute love and skill at cooking. You were afraid of being an imposition, not realizing that giving me a chance to help you—during our fateful trip—was my chance to brush against your beauty, your deep, feeling heart. I am selfish; I want more. But I must wait, as your star has again swung into ascension, brightening this world even upon your exit.

For Tony Rome By Keith Hoerner

He’s Not Coming Back

“He’s not coming back, honey.”

“Don’t say that Daddy.”

“Baby, maybe it’s for the best.”

With that, Charlotte wailed and ran out of the living room crying. “You always hated him, didn’t you?”

Robert followed his only daughter into the kitchen. “I hated how he treated you. But he’s your husband.”

“He’s always come back.”

“You mean after he puts you in the ER?

“Not helpful.”

"Perhaps you’re right, he’ll come back. I need to go for a drive and give you some space.” Robert thought it best he get rid of the shovel from the back of his truck.

From Guest Contributor NT Franklin

Open Casket Funeral

Walking inside the church, a woman hands out pamphlets with a picture of the deceased. There’s a room full of people standing and talking. In the corner of the room stands an open casket and your aunt to the left. Tears fall down her cheeks. People walk up in a line and hold her hands, giving condolences. Within the casket, a corpse lays with its pale skin, shut eyelids, and carved lips. Not four months ago your uncle gave you a remote control helicopter so you wouldn’t be the only one in the room without a gift on Christmas day.From Guest Contributor Leif Bradley

Leif is a student of Literature and Creative Writing at Pikes Peak Community College.

The Dig

A woman’s voice beneath the ash and rubble signals me. I tell her to keep talking and follow the sound, digging, my hands and arms aching.

“We’re almost there,” I say, gasping, dripping sweat and thirsty.

One of my workmen approaches. “Ben, she won’t survive long if we don’t get her out soon.”

“Keep digging,” I say.

An image appears and to my stunned eyes, I see a protruding stomach. She has lost consciousness and is covered in earth. I get her onto a stretcher and into the ambulance.

I take the shovel and begin digging for the next victim.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

You Become The One They Leave Behind

Grandfather waved us goodbye in his distinctive style, up and down instead of side to side. As we drove off and he became smaller and further away, mother said ‘Poor old man.’ He was alone, and living the life he’d always lived - the life he wanted - but I understood her sentiment.

A generation on, and my father’s on his own. This time we’re separated by countries and we rarely get to wave.

It’s clear to me now that finally you become the one they leave behind. That’s the way it is. The way it has to be. And that’s alright.

From Guest Contributor David Dumouriez

Of Two Minds

He begged her to come back and now he’s watching her unpack her suitcase. He knows that she isn’t going to stay. She’s the sort of woman who never stays. She’s the sort of woman who has a purple hairdryer, peach-scented lotion, and coconut shampoo. Who does she think she is? A movie star? Her underpants are black, red, green, and blue, because she’s fickle. She can’t choose just one color. Everything in the suitcase is evidence of her inconstancy. A pair of roller skates is the last straw. This is insanity, he thinks. I will tell her to leave.

From Guest Contributor Alice Brigance

Platero And I: The Hunt

You will be pleased to know, Platero, that the Earl has decided to no longer conduct or permit hunting parties on his estate.

You and all the other animals of the village will no longer be startled by loud blasts of old guns, nor will the smell of gunpowder hang over the fields for days like an autumn mist.

I will certainly miss that delightful and wonderfully spiced pie the Earl brings me every year.

Ramiro, the old poacher, chuckled as he confided in me: "That recent obligation to wear fluorescent vests while hunting was too much for the Earl."

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.