Memories

When I walked into the restaurant, everyone yelled surprise and my heart palpitated with joy. A large sign above the room read “Happy Birthday, Breanna,” and my eyes watered. It was overwhelming with family and friends vying for my attention to plant kisses on my cheek, but thankfully my best friend Tina asked everyone to take a seat.

Tina asked us to raise our glasses for a toast, and I teared at the memories she shared. It didn’t seem possible it was that long ago when we were young and couldn’t wait to grow up.

If only Ted was here.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

First Year

As I stood on the beach, I folded the letter, placed it in the bottle and closed the cover. I promised him that every year on the anniversary of his death I would write a letter and throw it into the ocean from his favorite spot. This was the first year.

A tear slid down my cheek as I listened to the waves splashing.

When I threw the bottle into the sea, it made a splash and bounced with the waves.

I watched until the sun set over the water, and the bottle drifted out of sight, seagulls soaring above.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

After Auschwitz

Survivors with faded numbers tattooed on their wrinkled forearms slowly reboard the tourist bus. The archives they were supposed to visit burned down months ago. Yahweh beckons me forward with a curled finger. Don’t make eye contact, I remind myself. Seconds later I feel the blast wave on my cheek. It also knocks off my hat. “Look!” Yahweh booms in his usual angry voice. “Remember!” There are clouds, come evening, that will resemble bleeding stigmata. There are birds that return to nests in the eyeholes of skulls. I could try to explain it to anyone who asks. No one asks.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Kingdom

I want to assure you we are all safe here. We have adequate resources to wait until all of the infected have died. With our fortifications and firepower there is no way any plague carriers can get in here. Furthermore, all of you have been chosen for your talent, intelligence, and genes for repopulating the country when the time is right. As long as you trust me as your King, we will prevail against all challenges. Questions? Yes, my good friend Geraldine Jackson. King, have you looked in a mirror lately? You have a red splotch on your right cheek.

From Guest Contributor Doug Hawley

Peggy Is A Piece Of Work

Peggy is a piece of work. Only Joanie knows. While she would be happy to talk, she's not about to volunteer just how big a piece and what kind of work. So Joanie shoves it to the back corner of her mind so that it only appears when Peggy does. Then it explodes and she has to cheek her tongue—Peggy is a piece of work—and shove it back. It was Peggy that sicced them dogs on Marianne. That was some job. It was Peggy that sicced them girls on that young SOB. So sicced, Joanie catches her breath.

From Guest Contributor Rick Henry

Rick's most recent? "The Other Daughters," an audio production a performance poem featuring 120 contributing voices.

Abedabun

Abedabun weaves baskets while her father makes arrowheads. The sun is warm against her face and she tires of the mundane ritual but does not complain when her father rubs a droplet of sweat from her cheek with affection.

Her mother is by the river collecting herbs, humming in tune with the birds, while her brother and sister collect insects for amusement.

Hiawatha, the finest young man in the tribe, approaches Abedabun and her father with a token of marriage, a deer slung over his broad shoulders.

She stops her work and looks to her father.

Hiawatha’s token is accepted.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Three Claw Marks

In a flash, a furry bundle leaps silently onto the bar counter.

Before the sailor can cover his face, sharp claws tear skin from his cheek. The glass of bourbon falls from his hands, and its contents spill over the table.

“Don’t talk behind my back—”

The sailor turns and sees a tabby with a metal peg leg glaring at him in the tavern’s gloom.

“—if you want to live long in space!”

“Aye sir.” The sailor trembles like a child.

“Sayonara, baby.” The tabby lifts his tail and vanishes. Blood drips from three claw marks on the sailor’s cheek.From Guest Contributor Umiyuri KatsuyamaTranslated by Toshiya Kamei

Umiyuri Katsuyama is a Japanese writer of fantasy and horror. In 2011, she won the Japan Fantasy Novel Award with her novel Sazanami no kuni. Her latest novel, Chuushi, ayashii nabe to tabi wo suru, was published in 2018. Her short fiction has appeared in numerous horror anthologies in Japan.

Watching Me

Her eyes flashed with mischief in the warm street light. Green, full of longing, on a young fall night. Her hand merged with mine and then her breath drew short--and I felt nothing.

In a moment I saw myself in the third person, a cold drifting observer. Helplessly I looked, unaware of my own consciousness, merely seeing--there she was, running her hand down his face, soft voice muffled as through wool. Her fingers brushed across his cheek. She closed her eyes and leaned forward. Their lips moved together and apart, and the moment passed.

I had missed it.

From Guest Contributor Caleb Woodman

Caleb is an aspiring spiritual writer studying at Pikes Peak Community College.

Him

And, the sad truth was: he really could have loved me so well, and he would have, too. He would have opened my door, bought me vibrant purple irises, and kissed my cheek. But his idea of forever and mine just weren’t the same. He wanted to settle down in the same small town where we met, and I wanted more. The sad truth was he could have and would have loved me so well, but I could not give him the same in return. I wanted more. I needed more. And I gave him up because I knew him.

From Guest Contributor Kelsey Swancott

Kelsey is a senior majoring in English with a minor in Visual Arts and Spanish while also being involved in the campus literary magazine Angles. She plans on furthering her education by getting her master’s degree in English as well.

Unspoken Memory

Memories surfaced as the woman on the balcony leaned against the balustrade, her young daughter beside her.

She had been joyfully preparing to tell him the wonderful news. She cooked a special dinner and waited for his return from work. She opened the bedroom window, breathed in the fresh spring air, and watched the passersby. A group of people gathered near a stopped buggy. Tears rolled down her cheek. There had been no mistake. It was his still body.

She gently hugged her daughter and watched the young girl’s red hair blow in the breeze. The same color as his.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher