War

I watched as my buddy exploded into fragments from a grenade. I saw the fear on his face knowing at that moment, he would die. It was chaotic and when I ran for cover, I thought he was behind me, but he stayed to help an injured soldier to safety. Now, both are gone.

I’m in the trench shaken, wishing I were anywhere else but here.

I heard the tanks roaring, and men yelled, guns ready in hand.

My ears rang; head pounded with all sound, until everything became muffled, and my right hand shook uncontrollably.

Then came the explosion.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Affair

I parked across the street and put the car in park. I had the radio low and gulped a beer, hoping a cop wouldn’t catch me in the act. Fortunately, no cars were in sight.

Deep down I knew something was amiss, so when I found the texts on her phone, I wasn’t surprised. But my best buddy, that’s unforgivable on both sides.

Her car just pulled in. When she reached the porch, he came outside and smiled. They embraced, lips locked together, hands in each other’s hair, before shutting the door.

I knew then what I had to do.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Don’t Do It

I tried to warn him. Several times. Maybe that was the problem.

“Listen to your buddy. She’s not the one for you.”

Instead, he hauled butt down the aisle. All I saw was the dimpled boy from our youth slipping away, oblivious of the cliff ahead.

It gets worse. Under the chuppah, our hero someway somehow managed to screw up his only freaking duty: stomping the bejesus out of a glass goblet — missed it by that much.

‘Twas a harbinger of things that came.

He hasn’t spoken to me in years.

Perhaps I shouldn’t have said I told you so.

From Guest Contributor David Thow

The Angry Camper

Stuart had a heart transplant last March and felt lucky to sit around a campfire with Paul.

The drunk from the next campsite stumbled over again. "Stop all that damn noise!"

Paul stood and yelled, "Look buddy, we're just talking. No way you can hear us."

"Stop banging on those drums. Next time I'll have a twenty-two."

"Call 9-1-1, Paul."

Twenty minutes later they heard all the commotion of the arrest.

"You guys gonna be on the news," said the park ranger. "That guy was wanted for the murder of Alex Edmund."

Shocked, Stuart said, "Alex Edmund was my donor."

From Guest Contributor E. Barnes

E has works in The Purple Pen, The Haven, Spillwords, Centina Pentina, Entropy and the anthology NanoNightmares.

The Three Of Clubs

One night our guy grabs the deck of us and off we go to school. “Pick a card,” he says, walking around the classroom. Yes, we’re old, with some bent corners and a few stains, our winning days behind us. But to be held up and fanned out? Like we were some old chorus line, called up for one last show. I go right after my buddy, the Four of Clubs, to someone who sticks me in a book called Misery. And how! I was never one for the solitary life. All I wanted to do was play my part.

From Guest Contributor Linda Lowe

Linda's stories have appeared in Misfit Magazine, Star 82 Review, Bombfire Lit, and others.