Lost Children

One morning, the adults of Sycamore woke up to find that all of the children had disappeared. There were no signs of abduction or notes left behind and, even more curious, it appeared that many of them had packed bags of clothes and favorite belongings before they departed.

A meeting was convened. An argument ensued. The parents blamed the police. The police blamed the parents. Rivals and political adversaries threatened violence. The fault lines of the town were laid bare.

Eventually, a letter arrived. It read:

"To our parents,

Get your shit together or we're never coming back.

-Your children"

On A Bus

78-year-old Frieda tried to maintain balance while holding her bags. No one offered to exchange places, never mind looked up from a cell phone.

"People used to give an old person a seat," said Frieda out loud.

A seat? The young driver had seen nothing like that in his experience. "Sit here for a minute," he offered.

* * * * *

A few blocks after Frieda had driven erratically, a policeman signaled the bus over.

"Enough," he demanded, tired of her playing on the sympathy of young drivers to gratify her bus-driving-desires. Enough with the previous warnings. He never trusted little old ladies anyway.

From Guest Contributor David Sydney

Parts

There are so many parts. Kept in so many places. Compartments. Boxes. Bags. Bottles of fragile glass. Crumpled notes. Silent emotions. Screaming thoughts. Swept under the rug, in full view for all to see. No one cares to look. Feet itch. Throats burn and choke. There is pain. A fullness in the head. Legs are terrified. Hips want to cry. I don’t know why. Go, in search of questions. Lost with all your parts. Unable to fix. Unable to stop. Unable to flee. Unable to look you in the eye. Scared of what you already know. Parts of a whole.

From Guest Contributor Courtney King

Huff It Your Way

“They’re moving Poe from the County jail to the Big House in the morning,” Dink Delmonico, head of the notorious Delmonico Crime Syndicate said. “Grub, you and Chub are gonna’ bust him out tonight.”

“How, Boss,” Grub asked. “There’s only two of us and at least a dozen guards.”

“With these,” Dink said, putting two pesticide spray canisters on the table. “They’re filled with quick-acting knockout gas. One whiff and the guards will hit the floor like bags of horse manure. Just don’t spray Poe.”

“Right, Boss,” Chub said.

“Remember,” Dink said. “Go directly to jail, and don’t gas Poe.”

From Guest Contributor Lee Hammerschmidt

Lee is a Visual Artist/Writer/Troubadour. He is the author of the short story collections, A Hole Of My Own, It’s Noir O’clock Somewhere, For Richer or Noirer, and Flash Wounds. Check out his hit parade on YouTube!

A Dream

The house is empty, and my bags are packed. I don’t know where I’m going, but I reach for and open the front door anyway, ready for whatever awaits me on the other side. I realize I’ve left the radio on, though, so I turn around and go back to take care of that. While I’m doing this someone or something scurries through the front door. I look and see that it’s my brother’s dog, Oswald. “You can’t be here,” I say. “You’re dead.” Oswald wags his tail and tells me that he’s here to take me to the afterlife.

From Guest Contributor Dan Slaten

Donning A Mask

The first time I’d worn a mask other than Halloween, was during the Covid-19 crisis. I needed groceries and the supermarkets had strict rules about entering without protection.

When I exited my car, I donned my mask, latex gloves, wiped down the wagon and entered the store. The supermarket was eerily empty, and the shelves were bare of toilet paper and rice.

I approached the cashier who was behind a protective shield and slid my credit card through the slot. Once approved, I packed my bags and left.

When I got behind the wheel, I removed my mask.

Fresh air.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Wife's Helper

John flipped his wife’s shopping list and reached for the phone in his jacket. No charge.

He caught a nearby shopper.

“Excuse me, what are these,” he pointed to the list.

“Try the seafood counter,” was the reply.

Once there, John asked, “Do you have scal...?”

“Scallops?” the server interjected. “Half a pound? They’re pricey.”

John placed the package into his basket. “Where do I find this,” he showed the same man.

“Rubber scrapers in kitchen gadgets.”

“Thank you.”

When John arrived home, his wife unpacked the bags.

“I’m allergic to shellfish!” she shrilled. “Where are the scallionsand capers?”

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction.