Dragonfly And Crow

We—who were left by the fire after the boss stood on the flame's waving edge, wearing his black suit and immaculate boots, to tell the dragonfly and the crow that had bedeviled his every moment since the fire's first spark that he had found a solution and would soon be free of their cruelty, that he, the boss, would soon pull off their wings and grind them into dust, and then turned, the boss, and ran into the flames—joined our hands before spreading blankets on scorched grass, opening bottles of cold beer, and sharing figs fatter than those in eternity.

From Guest Contributor John Riley

John is a former teacher who works in educational publishing. He has published fiction and poetry in Smokelong Quarterly, Mojave River Review, Ekphrastic Review, Connotation Press, Banyan Review, Better Than Starbucks, and many other journals and anthologies. EXOT Press will publish a book of his 100-word prose poems in 2022.

October Blues

The stickiness of the summer air had finally disappeared, leaving behind a brisk chill in its wake. Bronze leaves danced in the wind after departing from their trees, reviving nostalgia that remained hidden deep within your bones. The same way you felt it deep inside your bones when he kissed you that Fall years agoーcupping your face with his warm hands while leaving the sweet taste of honey and cinnamon behind. Shuddering, whether from the bitter wind or suppressed memories of times that no longer existed, you crunch the leaves beneath your heavy boots harderーand you keep on walking.

From Guest Contributor Kelsey Swancott

Kelsey is a graduate of St. John Fisher College, majoring in English, with a concentration in writing while also being an editor in the campus literary magazine Angles.She is furthering her education by attending SUNY Brockport for her master’s in English, specializing in creative writing. Following graduation, she is interested in working in the editing and publishing field.

The Birth Of Tragedy

I was nervous about interviewing for the job, but my confidence rose as soon as I walked into the anteroom. My only competition seemed to be ignoramuses with a fixed repertoire of inanities and washed-up ballplayers in the habit of spitting. Forty minutes later, my name was called. “I’ll lick stamps,” I told the gargoyle from HR. “I’ll lick whatever you want.” He looked at my wrinkled boots and patched coat and just shook his big ugly head. Some may be born with a tragic sense of life. Others are like me and acquire it by dint of long effort.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie's most recent poetry collection is Gunmetal Sky, available from Thirty West Publishing.

Slow And Steady

Millie was a fireball and Herbert was steady. The cattle woke them up one night.

“Snake,” Millie said. And she shot out of bed.

Millie had the snake partially subdued with a garden rake. It was still moving so she stood on it with her right foot just behind the head and her left near the tail. Barefoot.

“Herbert! Get out here!”

No answer.

“Herbert!”

Finally, Herbert comes sauntering up to the corral. Fully dressed, knife in pocket, hat on, boots laced up, he sized up the situation.

“Millie, if I knew you had it, I wouldn’t have hurried so.

From Guest Contributor NT Franklin

The Sparkle On The Horizon

There was a sparkle on the horizon.

It was the only thing keeping him alive. He'd run out of water hours ago, lost his horse soon thereafter, and even destroyed one of his boots when its heel broke off as he attempted kicking through the cracked ground in search of any remnants of moisture. He'd probably lost his sanity at that point too, but who was keeping track?

Yet there was that sparkle. No matter how many steps forward he took, the sparkle remained in place, forever out of reach.

He kept walking anyway. Hope was all he had left.

Sophie's Voice

It got to the best of them.

“Yes, I went to that movie, have those boots, test-drove that car just the other week,” Sophie would yipe.

There was nothing she had not lived, owned, eaten, worn, dated, or experienced by association: no conversation – however private or surreptitious – she didn’t inveigle her way into.

They decided to invent something to teach her a lesson.

“Went to that gig you recommended, Gloria. Buttinskis? Wow!!”

“Nosey can fairly play that bass, eh?”

“Oh yes, I went to their debut last month,” Sophie interjected.

Their shared smirk soured at her gormless need to belong. 

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid

The Goblin King Slips An Empty String

With a slipknot on the hole of you. Look at him, all owl feathers and magic tricks, costumes and dreams, a liar in the land of the living walking on the ceilings of time. Beauty boots and poison peaches work on your weaknesses, blackmail your truth with your vanity, measuring you for fitting. He sings to things you think you are, illusions orbiting colors you can’t see with eyes so wide. The crystal ball rolls up the stairs, bait for your monstrous desire. He wants his woman to fear him. You must be starving: beautiful or not, that’s not love.

From Guest Contributor Brook Bhagat

Brook’s poetry, fiction, non-fiction, and humor have appeared in Empty Mirror Magazine, Little India, Dămfīno, Nowhere Poetry, Rat's Ass Review, Peacock Journal, Anthem: A Tribute to Leonard Cohen, and other journals and anthologies. She has completed a full-length poetry manuscript, is writing a novel, and is editor-in-chief of Blue Planet Journal. She holds an MFA from Lindenwood University and teaches creative writing at a community college.

Yard Work

His boots sinking in the mud, Joseph pushed the mower across the lawn. Cecile admonished him for its futility, but with the water receding today, now was his opportunity. He'd always enjoyed doing yard work. There was the sense of accomplishment, but he also liked getting out of the house for a couple of hours.

The water was getting higher every year. Cecile talked about moving, but this was where the kids had grown up and they still visited every Christmas. He refused to leave.

It made him angry to think some people were blaming all this on global warming.

Caught At The Bottom

From his vantage point, Josh could see their faces, those who weren’t masked anyway. The zealotry was apparent on both sides.

The blows, unintentional at this point, kept coming. Boots rammed into his hip. Someone stepped on his right hand, the one that had been holding the rainbow sign, and he felt the bones snap. He stopped struggling as everything went numb.

All Josh discerned now were their eyes. He realized they saw nothing outside of their own preconceived notions. They looked at the men and woman across from them with hatred.

And these were the people he agreed with.

One Last Sunrise

Carl awoke to the escalating chorus of songbirds echoing through the dense northeastern forest. He arose and went through his morning ritual in silence. Dress and redon boots. Rehydrate and consume breakfast, coffee. Breakdown camp. Load his backpack.

These same activities he had performed for countless summers, now at a slower more deliberate pace.

The sealed cardboard box was left out of his pack today. He would carry it the last few miles in his hands.

Arriving at their unnamed peak, he savored the sunrise view east. Opening the box, he sprinkled her remains. Finally, at peace. Finally, at home.

From Guest Contributor Todd Raubenolt