The Choral Rotundum

Every year at the vernal equinox, the entire population gathered for the annual Choral Rotundum. Arranged in a large circle, they sang the national anthem for 24 straight hours. The youngest babes held in mei-tais to the most geriatric unable to stand without the help of a cane or pole all attended.

The patriotic fervor acted like a drug, stimulating the vocalists to fervid attention, giving even the most anemic enough stamina to last the entire duration.

Or perhaps they were aided by the knowledge that stepping out of line or lacking appropriate zeal was instantly punished by death.

The Great Beyond

“I don’t know how I feel about myself anymore?” I asked. The long quiet hallways of the in-patient unit were brightly lit and sterile.

“The mental health journey is a hard process,” the counselor mentioned. I picked up my heavy luggage and walked to the door. Nathaniel, an elderly man with a cane methodically lumbered the length of the hall to catch me.

“I wanted to tell you something,” he said. “I think you are an amazing person, and I hope to see you in the great beyond.”

I exhaled deeply and walked through the doorway looking at the sun.

From Guest Contributor Steve Colori

The Last Voyage

Our 93-year-old dad, without his hearing aids or even his three-pronged cane, still managed somehow to give everyone the slip, sneaking off to Monte Carlo Night down in the cellar of the dream factory, where he coolly turned over his hole card and won the pot, after which he started back upstairs, but on the way, and despite struggling for breath, charmed a roller derby queen on a royal visit out of her skates, so instead of ever returning to his rooms at the assisted living boarded a ship they say was built in the same shipyard as the Titanic.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author most recently of Stick Figure Opera from Cajun Mutt Press. He co-edits the journals Unbroken and UnLost.

Echo Of Time

I watched the child in the blue sweatshirt jump in the leaves, laughing. What a delight to have heard the echo of his chortle as I sat with the cool autumn breeze against my face. I had my novel opened at the same page for the last fifteen minutes, my eyes focused on the fair-haired boy.

He plopped down, waved his hands through the leaves and looked at the clear sky.

I closed my book and lifted myself up with my cane.

The boy had gone and all I saw were leaves blowing in the park.

That boy was me.

From Guest Contributor Lisa Scuderi-Burkimsher