Imminent

The blow knocks me and my horse to the ground. I reach for my sword and swing at the enemy, his roars deafening. My leg is cut, and the breath is knocked out of me, but I endure the pain for my king and country.

Another foe is coming toward me. A comrade rushes to my aide and stabs him in the abdomen. He gushes blood from the mouth and dies.

I manage to fend off my attacker for now. One of us will tire.

And so, it seems death is imminent for him as my sword pierces his heart.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Recovery

“Hi darling,” the young man giggled, noticing a pretty woman leaning towards him. “Which one are you?”

The woman left in disgust. Two men cloaked in white entered.

“Nasty blow to your head,” one confirmed in a heavy accent following something vocalized by the other. “You remember anything?”

“Molly’s. I left Molly’s. Might’ve been O’Hara’s,” the patient prattled. “Didn’t see Molly.”

The two towering over his bed exchanged words.

“When can I leave?” the patient interjected. “Molly is waiting for me. Best beer on the house.”

“You’re in Spain, recovering from an all-nighter at an Irish Pub,” explained the doctor.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes poetry, fiction and creative nonfiction regardless of the season, although she prefers spring.

On The Floor

Marty was a penny stock trader back in the 80s. A breathtaking collection of liars and cheats, everyone doing blow. Stock exchange officials were bribed. Client accounts were bled. It was something to behold.

His supposedly statelier sales manager was all smiles but for the dead shark eyes. He would say, "If people want yellow ties, sell them goddamn yellow ties."

Once or twice a month, after market hours, Marty would go out and stick up random banks, his rickety scheme to salvage honour.

His profession was put early to the silicon sword. Mercifully, Marty never saw the party end.

From Guest Contributor Kevin Campbell

Kevin writes in Vancouver, Canada.