Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving, a time to spend with family. The turkey is in the oven filled with my famous bread stuffing, the pumpkin pie is cooling, and the vegetables are ready to go.

I sip wine and watch the parade waiting for my company. It’s half past 4 o’clock. I told everyone to be here over an hour ago for anti-pasta.

My cell phone rings.

“Hey, Myra, sorry, but we all came down with the stomach flu. We’re not going to make it this year. Hopefully, we’ll see you at Christmas.”

I pack up my dinner and take it to a shelter.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

All The Time In The World

“Paul, Emily here.” Pleasant and composed as always. “I need a power of attorney for my mom, Agnes.”

“Sure. Why the POA?”

“Mom has terminal cancer. Not yet but very soon she’ll need heavy morphine. I’ll handle her affairs.”

We meet at Hospice. Agnes is sitting up, hair brushed, gracious, as pleasant and composed as Emily. She signs the POA, we find witnesses. We chat, then: “Thanks, Paul, so very much. Goodbye!” All without any misgivings, remorse, self-pity. As I leave, mother and daughter carry on, chatting amiably. They make the most of it.

All the time in the world.

From Guest Contributor Tony Covatta

The Island

Emmett had one wish, a quiet place to call his own.

He found his island floating above the planes of a fractured, blackened Earth. A small, dark place, untouched by the sun as it hovers with a dizzying presence. This place does not feel like it belongs to the world that Emmett knows, but it has been here since time began and will continue even when the sun collapses, when all life on Earth ends.

It contains nothing except itself (nothing but pure consciousness), for this is space without form or substance, and it is a terrible sight to behold.

From Guest Contributor J. Iner Souster

Sightseeing In The Subway

There are names scratched onto the walls of New York City subway cars. Monday it was Mark. Tuesday, Dylan. Wednesday, Fatima. Thursday, Kat, and Friday, Lucy. The poorly carved letters, engraved with care, resemble the jagged handwriting of a preschooler; It's something inexplicably human. Though the scratches will fade, and the steel of the cars will corrode, I like to think otherwise; the remnants of these people will linger long after time forgets who they are. Every name I spot, a wave of tranquility washes over me as I stand in a mess of busy people in a busy city.

From Guest Contributor Eshal Yazdani

Thick Crust

The real Spartacus was among the guys who answered to that name when Romans captured hundreds. No photos on file—he was the one who looked like Kirk Douglass.

He’d take his punishment alone for leading the slave uprising. Except his men wouldn’t allow it. The Romans spread them out along the Appian Way, crucified.

Appian Way was a strange name for a box mix of pizza dough a few eons after the action.

No one schools Romans. That’s clear as he walks to the cross they raise. Still, he’d do it all over—break for freedom, die beside the road.

From Guest Contributor Todd Mercer

Scars

I weave between trees, around my bike and up the stairs. The screen door slams in my wake. Through the kitchen, I run for my room. Behind me, my brother stretches out his Gumby-hand. He’s within inches of touching my skin. Inside, a tick is dying to suck my blood.

Years later, I’ll run on the beach. You’ll chase me with something in your hand. Perhaps a periwinkle plucked from a nearby dune. You’ll hand it to me and smile. Say you love me. I’ll take it, hold the flower to my nose, and wonder what it wants from me.From Guest Contributor Sally Simon

Sally (ze/hir) lives in NY. When not writing, ze travels and stabs people with hir epee. Read more at www.sallysimonwriter.com.

Live

The Fuhrer took everything. My husband, two sons, and our home that had been in the family for years. I’m all that’s left. The war is over, but who and what do I have to go back to. I lived through the filth and disease when everyone else was dying and there had been nothing I could do.

When the Americans arrived and liberated the camps, I fell to my knees and wept. I couldn’t believe it was over.

It’s tragic and my heart aches every-day, but I will continue to live, if not for myself then for my family.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Lisa has been writing since 2010 and has had many micro-flash fiction stories published. In 2018 her book, Shorts for the Short Story Enthusiasts, was published, and The Importance of Being Short in 2019. Her most recent book In A Flash, was published in the spring of 2022.

She currently resides on Long Island, New York with her husband Richard and dogs Lucy and Breanna.

The Fall Of The Roman Empire

Frank stumbles down the street in broad daylight. The crisp air helps dull the pain in his wounds. Lightheaded and off balance, he is reminded of late nights in college, wandering drunkenly back to his dorm room. His vision now has the same tunnel focus that causes him to lose sight of his surroundings.

He'd never finished that final essay for History of Rome, but Professor Dutton had allowed him to pass anyway. She'd always liked him. Maybe it was her fault that he'd never learned any discipline.

What a weird thing to remember as he is about to die.

The Kiss

I can hardly think of a better way to say goodbye.To the sun and the moon, the water and the clouds,I've always wanted to live on a planet where the sky was blue.

I can hardly think of a better way to say goodbye.The light of a star. The smell of a blooming fruit tree. The kiss of a bare human hand.To the fading flowers on a winter's night

I can hardly think of a better way to say goodbye.To be one last person who will fall in love.Because in death, she is beautiful.

From Guest Contributor J. Iner Souster

On Loving

What happens when you keep uttering the same word? One moment, it has a meaning. The next moment, it stops being a word.

Familiarity is the flourishing ground for intimacy. You repeat a word over and over so that you can describe its curves and contours, its light and luster. Rolling it inside your mouth smooths its jutting edges. Running your tongue playfully over it changes its tone. Mixing it up with other words makes it sway to strange rhythms. Wrapped in the warmth of your spit, it tries to germinate.

And, snap!

Familiarity is the flourishing ground for morbidity.

From Guest Contributor Aparna Rajan

Aparna is a research scholar and an aspiring writer, currently living in Mumbai, India.