Instructions For Life After Life

Cast my ashes into an Atlantic gust alongside pelagic birds soaring, sleeping.

Watch them disappear over rogue waves.

Mourn me with salt-stung eyes and encyclopedias of words left unspoken.

Celebrate me with a frenzied fiddle and jittery jig.

Find me in the memory of a parting embrace.

Hear me in sweet words whispered in dark spaces.

Take solace knowing you, too, will one day suffer the pyre.

Picture your ashes strewn to the wind’s caprices.

Believe in an eternal afterlife of repurposed atoms.

Let us rest, not in peace, but spiraling together in an infinite universe pulsating with ancient energies.

From Guest Contributor Elizabeth Murphy

In The Museum

“It's tough being a museum worker, Ed.”

“Yeah, but somebody has to take care of these letters and manuscripts.”

Mel and Ed were two workers in the Antiquities Section.

“No, I mean the flies. These ancient letters are really worthless at swatting the flies in here.”

The museum had a lot of flies.

“You shouldn't be using ancient letters for killing flies, Ed.”

“No?”

“No way…See that one on the table there.”

The creature had a bulbous head.

“You should drop a heavy manuscript on it…Like this.”

He found the older the manuscript, the more squashed the fly.

From Guest Contributor David Sydney

For the prompts Manuscript and Letters

A Blow To The Head

Justin never saw what hit him. Last he remembered, he was walking down the street and felt a sudden blow to the head, then everything went black.

He awoke inside what he could only assume was a dream. It was a magical land filled with all manner of exotic animals. Many of them had wings and were flying about, while others were swimming in tanks of water or prowling inside cages. There were balloons and children and even a colorful train.

Several sets of eyes were staring down at him with concern.

"Where am I?"

"You're at the city zoo."

Fur Baby

My small fur baby, fifteen-years-old, passed away gently in my arms. Before she closed her lids for the final time, she looked at me with her big brown eyes and gently patted my arm, as if to say thank you for the years of love and care.

As I held her softly, I whispered that she was a joy and gave my life purpose as only a sweet dog can do.

I brushed her ear forward, kissed her tiny head and her hair tickled my face.

Goodbye my cute one, you were loved and will be forever in my heart.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Back From The Correctional Facility

“I took the letters you sent, Ralph, and made them into a book.”

“A book? Or a manuscript, Claudette?”

After six months at the correctional facility, Ralph was finally home.

“Did you like them, Claudette?”

“I guess it's the thought that counts. I couldn't always get your spelling. Sometimes you were in a bad mood.”

“It was food…I kept writing for food.”

He was allowed only a pencil and paper.

“That's great, Claudette. You made a manuscript, and you were faithful to me the whole time.”

“Well, I wouldn't go that far.”

“You mean...You didn't make a manuscript?”

From Guest Contributor David Sydney

For the prompt Manuscript and Letter

The Manuscript

They found their grandfather's manuscript buried in a box in the corner of the attic. It was almost thrown out with yearbooks and tax documents that not even an archeologist would find interesting. But Rebecca saw Papa's name typed on the cover page, and fortunately set it aside for later examination.

There was debate over what they would find inside. The consensus was it would most likely relate to Papa's service in World War II, though the sisters were pulling for a good old-fashioned love story about their grandmother.

No one was expecting a Romantasy novel featuring centaurs and fairies.

For the prompts Manuscript and Letter.

What’s In A Letter?

Uncle Max was as jovial in death as in life, Melinda chuckled.

One by one she discovered his letters by completing a series of navigational instructions from each. Midway through the fifth she froze. Right door, or left? Uncle wrote “the door”.

She decided on the right, but it did not lead her to the 6th letter, and there was no going back. Uncle’s rules.

“What’s in your bag?” she asked her brother.

“Candy, jokes, puzzles. You went through the wrong door,” brother grinned, popping gummy-bears into his mouth.

“Uncle Max should’ve written: Spying not allowed!” she squirmed, walking away.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

For the prompts Manuscript and Letter.

I'm A Blessed Man

Last night wasn't enough. I wanna take her robe off and enjoy her all over again on the table after breakfast. Fuck work! I'll call off to touch her all over again all day. I'll no-call-no-show to taste her all over again all day. I'll pay a co-worker to clock me in to be in paradise all over again all day. Unfortunate for me bosses don't pay employees to be stay-at-home husbands. Unfortunate for me sex don't pay the bills. She hands me my briefcase and keys. Kisses me goodbye. Tells me she loves me. Sees me off to work.

From Guest Contributor Gary L. Dozier

Mrs. Garvey

Tom mostly preferred to forget his high school years, but he did recall his senior English class. He spent an entire semester imagining his future married to Mrs. Garvey. As far as he was concerned, she was the most beautiful woman alive. The fact she was well versed in romantic literature only made their life together even more appealing.

Encountering his former crush at the grocery store should have provided the perfect opportunity to realize his dream. Unfortunately, despite being ten years older, he found himself just as incapable of forming a coherent sentence as when he was a student.

Eating at Fromkin's

The larvae of beetles and moths – often described as bookworms – enjoy eating manuscripts and printed material. Lem, a Drugstore Beetle larva, Clem, a Cigarette Beetle larva, and Mel, a developing moth, burrowed away at Fromkin's Bookshop, after Al Fromkin locked up the place and drove to his small condo in Northeast Philadelphia.

Lem held his abdomen with four of his legs. “That manuscript was awful.”

“Tell me about it.” Clem had burrowed through several letters Al Fromkin left on his imitation oak desk.

Both were sick as dogs.

Mel smiled. “I finished a 100-word story. I feel pretty good, actually.”

From Guest Contributor David Sydney

For the prompts Manuscript and Letter.