Rental Agreement

They were only pygmy hippos, she said, and she was planning to have them fixed. They were emotional support animals, one for each of her personalities, so there was nothing we could do about it. The pond became unspeakable, even though it was still below freezing. They floated there in the muck like ominous little storm clouds forming over smog. Trucks delivering their crates of fruit and greens continually blocked the driveway. Then one day their gauzy pink wings emerged. Angels, someone whispered, despite the aerial bombardment of neighboring gardens that now commenced. Then the local population began leaving offerings.

From Guest Contributor F. J. Bergmann

A Boy In The Torn Jacket

The horror of an early morning bombardment urged the boy in the torn jacket to seek his mom. Out of debris and rubble, he most needed the dearest soul to hug him tightly.

I stood and watched the scene in despair. Out of nowhere, a social worker appeared, took Ian’s hand, and asked his name. I tapped the man on the shoulder and offered to adopt the boy.

“Are you sure you’d cope?” the man reacted in disbelief.

I have never regretted my choice. Ian has substituted our once-unborn-child, ‘the diamond in the sky,’ as we call him with Liz.From Guest Contributor Taras Bereza

Taras is a professional lexicographer at 'Apriori Publishers' with 10 published dictionaries. He has worked as a contributing freelance writer since 2006 and wrote for Bacopa Literary Review and Freedom With Writing.

Death’s Head

Retreating from Leningrad respect for the Soviets had grown amongst SS Totenkopf, elevated from Untermensch – ‘suhumans’ – to Bolsheviks.

After the bombardment from the eerily howling Katyushas – ‘Stalin’s organs’ – half of Franz’s platoon had been blown to bits, their blood staining the snow.

Silence.

Then line after line of T-34 tanks covered in infantrymen appeared over the frozen steppe.

The odds were impossible, yet none would surrender, warriors moulded by the code of blood, iron and unconquerable will.

Franz, 19, watching the approaching hordes, glanced at the Totenkopf – ‘Death’s Head’ – insignia on his lapel.

Yes, this was what he existed for.

From Guest Contributor Ian Fletcher