Working Theory

He has a fear of hot Danish. When the bakery shop opens its accusing awning in the morning, he retreats to avoid notice by the shop’s pastries. Open-air breakfast shops infuriate him. In his infrequent sleep, he is haunted by the idea of smothering icing, steam welling into a wall of baker’s avenging anger. The syrup run-off loitering in the pan. He wakes with his cheeks and tongue burning, the rift of his nose aflame, a gooey lump of heat assaulting his eyes from the backside. He tells himself: they will cool. When they do, he will conquer them all.

From Guest Contributor Ken Poyner

Difficult Patient

The hearing aid specialist, Linda, clasped her hands against her cheeks.

“Mrs. Marconi, for months now I’ve shown you how to insert the hearing aids. If you're having difficulty, we need another impression to order a new pair.”

Mrs. Marconi shifted in her seat. “No, I hear fine with these.”

Linda explained that if she’s not satisfied, then she needs to rethink her choice.

Mrs. Marconi thanked Linda and walked out.

Linda rolled her eyes and dreaded the thought of her next appointment with her.

She noted in her calendar to call in sick the day of Mrs. Marconi’s appointment.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Home

The muffled voices from outside the closed door play behind every memory. The echoes of arguments filled my ears each night as I fell asleep. The stinging sliding down my face and the taste of salt along my lips fills me with comfort. My frowning face in the bathroom mirror, as I rinse the dried tears from my cheeks, is a clear picture of me. Home is a safe place. I feel safe behind those doors. I feel safe tucked in my bed. I feel safe as I cry myself to sleep. Home is the familiar noise of troubled souls.

From Guest Contributor Selah Mantravadi

Saturday Jog

Jogging through the park, I keep the pace feeling energetic and free. The breeze against my cheeks feels refreshing and the chirping birds fill the air with song.

It’s crowded for a Saturday morning and parents are up early with their children. I pass two women pushing their young children on the swings as the boys soar high and chortle. Other joggers pass and smile contently.

I finish my lap and take a seat on the bench gulping water.

After breakfast and a shower, I will go about my regular weekend visiting my dad in the nursing home memory unit.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Blue Lights

“In the basement?” I throw my face at Sunny. Gosh. I hate him sometimes. “What could you possibly want to show me...in the basement?”

The bulb above us illuminates his smile. “Just open it, Sophie.”

I push the door, and I gasp.

“It’s beautiful,” I whisper.

“Yes. Just like you.”

“Where did you get this Sunny? It must have cost a lifetime.”

“You’re worth a million lifetimes, Sophie.”

Tears anoint my cheeks.

“One more thing.” Sunny flicks off the lights. The white dress glows an azure sheen.

He kneels. “Will you marry me?” A ring sparkles in my face.

From Guest Contributor Tom Okafor

The Secret To Staying Human

Mom digs her feet under the wet sand of the Atlantic. I stand next to her, wondering if the ocean will remember her and melt her legs back together.

Each wave climbs higher up our pale legs. Our feet sink deeper and deeper. The surge threatens to topple me, to suck me out to sea. Tears stream down my cheeks.

Mom grabs me. “This was a mistake.”

I cling to her as she rushes toward our towels.

She dries her feet. Inspects each toe. Sighs in relief.

My toes tingle, translucent skin spread between them. The ocean’s song calls me.

From Guest Contributor Sally Simon

Sally (ze/hir) lives in NY. When not writing, ze’s travels and stabs people with hir epee. Read more at www.sallysimonwriter.com.

Open Casket Funeral

Walking inside the church, a woman hands out pamphlets with a picture of the deceased. There’s a room full of people standing and talking. In the corner of the room stands an open casket and your aunt to the left. Tears fall down her cheeks. People walk up in a line and hold her hands, giving condolences. Within the casket, a corpse lays with its pale skin, shut eyelids, and carved lips. Not four months ago your uncle gave you a remote control helicopter so you wouldn’t be the only one in the room without a gift on Christmas day.From Guest Contributor Leif Bradley

Leif is a student of Literature and Creative Writing at Pikes Peak Community College.

Open Casket Funeral

Walking inside the church, a woman hands out pamphlets with a picture of the deceased. There’s a room full of people standing and talking. In the corner of the room stands an open casket and your aunt to the left. Tears fall down her cheeks. People walk up in a line and hold her hands, giving condolences. Within the casket, a corpse lays with its pale skin, shut eyelids, and carved lips. Not four months ago your uncle gave you a remote control helicopter to avoid you being the only one in the room without a gift on Christmas day.From Guest Contributor Leif Bradley

Leif is a student of Literature and Creative Writing at Pikes Peak Community College.

Gravity

You are not bound by gravity, my son.

Midnight, finger tapping my shoulder.

Fortress under my blankets. Helpless tears slip down his cheeks.

“They hate me, Momma,” he whispers, voice cracking. What can I say to that?

You are not bound by gravity, my son.

“Why am I so weird?” His question is broken, tentative. Saying it aloud makes it more real than it was before.

“Some people are just born different, baby.”

“Are you different, Momma?” What an innocent question.

“Yes,” I say, voice sticking. So I repeat myself. “Yes, I am.”

But we are not bound by gravity.

From Guest Contributor Tirzah Blazis

Tirzah is a high school senior who takes dual enrollment classes at Pikes Peak Community College.

The Jigsaw Man

He would have been handsome if it weren’t for the cheeks left pitted by adolescent acne. In what seemed an attempt to distract from the scars, he dressed with obvious expense. He also carried a small black satchel everywhere. There was talk that under another name he had once been a backstreet abortionist or a doctor in a concentration camp. When he died and the satchel was opened, it was found to contain a ski mask such as stickup men wear, a Florida orange, and a book of 105 poems, all of them about the death of the poet’s child.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

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