In Its Own Glory

“Tree looks unwell,” stated Dad.

“When was the last time you watered it, Robbie?” Mother asked their eldest offspring.

“Whoops! I forgot.”

Mother got the watering can out. After days of nurturing, the needles still cascaded to the floor.

“Need to add more decorations,” Dad beamed, holding a box of icicles.

On Christmas Eve they all gathered around the tree to sing carols. Selfies were taken between exclamations of “ooh and aah.”

“Christmas 2020!” exclaimed Mother. “COVID-19 edition.”

Extended family, among them the dearly departed, stared down from their portraits on the wall.

“Grandpa would’ve loved this tree,” said Robbie.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna is a writer of poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. She resides in Edmonton, Canada with her husband, stuffed animals and many friends.

The Postcard

I sit in the beaming sunlight reading Tim’s postcard from France repeatedly.

“Callie, I met a beautiful French woman and we’re in love. I’m not coming home.”

My sweat drips onto the postcard leaving smudge marks. How could he do this to me? I’m so aghast, I throw the postcard on the grass and my dog Bentley whimpers as I kick the lawn chair across the yard, hitting the neighbor's fence.

“Hey, watch it, Callie! You’ll break my fence,” Charlie yells.

Before I have a chance to answer, I look at the postcard and chortle. It’s full of bird excrement.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher