Lake

The cool lake soothed my warm feet. It was a stifling day and the sun beat on my neck. Trickles of perspiration dripped down my back as I watched people pass by in row boats waving their hands fanning themselves as if that would break the heat. Some were prepared with water in toe and shading.

There wasn’t a light breeze or cloud in the sky, just complete aridity. I didn’t care. The water always gave me respite and I needed it today before going home.

I wanted to enjoy the moment before telling my wife I lost my job.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Sawdust

In 1870, no town in the Wild West was as dangerous or dusty as Sawdust, Nevada. Public drunkenness, gunfights in the main street, and rotting buildings - that was Sawdust.

For every drunken gunfighter there were several termites. Moe, Curly, and Mel were three of them. Al was the termite boss.

Termites build multi-tiered mounds.

“Moe, you're working on the back tier… Curly, you're in the middle…”

Al twisted his antennae.

“Mel, you're on the front tier.”

“Please, not the Frontier.”

“I said the front tier… But wait a minute…”

He knew Mel. Maybe he should send Mel into downtown Sawdust…

From Guest Contributor David Sydney

For the prompt Frontier

A Walk In The Woods

At the foot of a Hawthorn tree, I discover a pine cone sitting in a nest. I wonder how that got in there? A mother bird would surely like to fill this nest with her eggs. A fairy-wren? A thornbill? Besides, I am going to make a wreath for Christmas. Did it just move? Wow. Soft. Heartbeat. The young creature, a precocious master in camouflage and a guaranteed non-candidate for extinction, twitches in the palm of my sweaty hand. I caress its feathers. A teardrop lands on its woody back. I step backwards. Crunch go the leaves. Goodbye little one.

From Guest Contributor Isabelle B.L

Isabelle is an Australian/French author and TEFL teacher.

Said The Spider To The Fly

“Give me $50,” said the spider to the fly.

“That’s not how this scene usually starts,” said the fly.

“I know; I’m trying something new here.”

“Okay, sorry. Start again?”

“Give me $50,” said the spider to the fly.

The fly patted itself. “I don’t have any cash on me.”

“Venmo works.”

The fly searched itself again. “Oh, right, I don’t have a phone.”

The spider tore open its silk pouch, looked inside, then hid the pouch behind its back. “Neither do I.”

“What’s in the pouch?” asked the fly.

“Never mind. Let’s just do the usual. I’ll start over...”

From Guest Contributor Tara Campbell

Tara (www.taracampbell.com) is a writer, teacher, Kimbilio Fellow, and fiction co-editor at Barrelhouse. She teaches flash and speculative fiction, and is the author of two novels, two hybrid collections, two short story collections, and a chapbook of sestinas. Additional publication credits include Masters Review, Wigleaf, Electric Literature, CRAFT Literary, Uncharted Magazine, Daily Science Fiction, Strange Horizons, and Escape Pod/Artemis Rising.

When The Fairy Dust Wore Out

When the great clock hands of Big Ben stretched upwards to midnight, Peter Pan sagged and leaned against them, resting his aching back. After years of flying, he had grown not old but weary. London was all skyscrapers now, smoke-plumes that he had to twist to avoid. Still, beneath the honks and hustle of the streets below, Peter imagined he could hear the calls of Tiger Lily, Tinkerbell. As he watched the dull skies, he pictured Neverland, the green of it, the harbours. Then through the smog he saw hands outstretched, a Lost Boy perhaps. Relief coursed, and Peter sighed.

From Guest Contributor Colleen Addison

Colleen lives, and writes on a small island off Vancouver, Canada. Her work has been published in River Teeth, Painted Pebble Lit Mag, and Crow & Crosskeys, among others. She is a recent winner of the 3rd Wednesday flash fiction contest.

Truth

When I awoke in the hospital, I knew the truth. The agonizing pain in my back, the nurses rushing me to the operating room, with the walls spinning around me. The doctor's “everything will be okay, Katie.” But it isn’t.

I’m bleary eyed from the sedative, but I feel a hand in mine, my husband’s. I’m too weary and can’t speak, so I give his hand a squeeze, and he gently squeezes mine back. He speaks of his love for me and how he’ll never leave. Then the doctor comes in and he lets go.

“Will my wife walk again?”

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Biker

She first hit the big time in the musical Binary System. It was a righteous indignation among the bikers. “You’re right about the party- it’s awful,” Fly Wind said single-handedly. We were all looking at her in her akimbo position. Her shirt was on back to front.

“If anything goes wrong, the technicians are here to put it right,” Madam Sixth Sense, the head, spoke slowly and clearly. “Who do you back to win the Superbowl?”

We slowly backed away from the snake.

She raised me as she was wrong. We played billiards a long time before I came in.

From Guest Contributor Jacob Kobina Ayiah Mensah

Jacob is the author of more than 19 poetry book publications, including Witness and a poetry collection in Spanish, agua y color, is forthcoming from Valparaiso Poetry Press. His individual pieces have appeared in numerous journals and anthologies, including JMWW, Constellations, Trampoline, 1-70 Review, Beautiful Cadaver Project Pittsburgh, The Meadow, Beyond Words Literary Magazine, Rigorous, etc. He lives in the southern part of Ghana, in Spain, and the Turtle Mountains, North Dakota.

Dead Flowers

I was still in my twenties. A woman at the bar grabbed my arm and asked for my help. But I also would have rather done the tying than be the one tied up. Faraway in time, my doctor was phoning me with the results of the biopsy. I had what he called “an oddball cancer.” Of course, I did. What other kind would a poet have? The woman, her back now to me, was singing along with the jukebox about all the lonely people, a small, crumpled sound like foul dead flower water at the bottom of a vase.From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie's newest poetry collection, Heart-Shaped Hole, is available from Laughing Ronin Press. He co-edits the online journal UnLost, dedicated to found poetry.

On The Money Trail

Family members need help. I oblige. I’m their doer of tasks.

Why me? I’m between jobs, behind with payments and I haven’t shopped for new clothes in ages. I guess they trust me to deliver. I’m okay with that.

No time to linger. Housebound auntie wants her groceries.

As I hasten, sunshine glues sweaty polyester to my back. I spot sparkles on the sunlit lawn along my walkway.

Coins! Many coins, strewn in a line towards the space where a car had once parked.

I gather, add up their value, sigh.

Someone’s emptied change-purse or pocket. My bit of fortune. From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes poetry, fiction and creative nonfiction regardless of the season or location she finds herself in.

Kidney

Because blood had been found in my urine, I was ordered to have my kidneys imaged. After I was adequately undressed, the doctor or technician took a thick wand-like instrument and ran it around my back. I could see what they could see on a small screen. Everything looked fine until a bright orange spot turned up on one of my kidneys. Thoughts of cancer or other possible diseases ran through my head. Would I lose a kidney? The exam was over soon, and I was sent away after being told that the results would be back in ten days.

From Guest Contributor Doug Hawley