The Hymn Of Future Days

With the contract for his eternal soul available for sale on the open market, Henry weighed his many options before settling upon the only religion he could find fully focused on the future as it really is, not some promised eternity we can never verify for ourselves.

The congregation sings the Hymn of Future Days, our days, the days that grow out of our decisions now. We erect our house of worship on these very real bones of actions and words, and if it all comes crumbling down, we have only ourselves to blame.

Choose your building blocks with care.

Regular Occurrence

The sky is clear, but not for long as bomber planes are approaching. As the blaring alarm sounds, Esme heads to the basement with the other tenants. Sadly, no one looks frightened as it’s a regular occurrence.

Bundled, but still cold, Esme and the other people sing to pass the time while others close their eyes or read.

Hours pass and finally they get the okay to go home.

Her apartment is unharmed, but a few blocks away buildings have been destroyed.

She closes her eyes and prays she makes it out of the war to see her family again.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Stranger One

One day a few years back I accompanied spouse and editor (same person) while she went shopping at the Albertsons a few blocks away. I would wander aimlessly if I went with her, so I sat in a chair outside. An average looking and dressing man walked up and sat beside me. I feared he would talk religion or politics, but the conversation was banal to the point that I don’t remember it. He walked away. It seemed that he disappeared, but he probably entered the store or turned a corner. I wonder why he chose to sit beside me.

From Guest Contributor Doug Hawley

Mack’s Walk

A chill is in the air and Mack’s hands are numb. He pulls his coat collar around his neck and shoves his hands deep inside his pockets. He’s looking forward to a hot cup of coffee when he returns home, the simmering heat soothing his stomach. A few more blocks and he’ll turn back.

“Hi Mack. Have you seen my cat Arty;” the boy asks. “He got loose today, and I can’t find him.”

“Sorry, no, I haven’t.”

Timmy rides his bike at warp speed, making Mack’s head dizzy. Then a gentle brush against his pants distracts him.

It’s Arty.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Forgiveness

She walked along the deserted beach, cold wet sand hard underfoot, leaving her well-formed arch, her heavy heel dug-in tight, her human track. She scanned the choppy grey ocean, a seagull skimming along ready to dive. Looking ahead, an outcropping of massive black boulders stumbled together into a makeshift Henry Moore sculpture. The solid blocks of granite, columnar or reclining, soft-edged or angular, were reminiscent of her mother. The stoic strength, the impermeability, the dense solid weight of judgement. She had framed her adult life accordingly, with a negative imperative: I will not be like my mother.​

From Guest Contributor Holiday Goldfarb