Jog

I jog along the pathway with my Shih-Tzu Bentley, but the sunshine and heat cause me to stop and rest. Bently jumps on the bench panting. I pour water in the large plastic bowl I brought for him and drink the rest out of the bottle. I probably shouldn’t be jogging in this heat, but my compulsive tendencies tell me otherwise. After a ten-minute rest, I start again along the path.

Sweat drips down my forehead and the temperature feels intense. Suddenly, I get a shooting pain in the chest, and collapse to the ground, Bentley barking.

Everything goes black.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Snow Storm

It’s freezing and I’m stranded on a back road with no cell service and a raging snow storm. In my defense, the snow was light when I started driving and this is not what the weather forecast predicted. I’m pinned in the car and can’t move. My chest aches, most likely from the impact, and my left leg is throbbing. It must be fractured. I’m too weak and cold to move and I’m afraid if I try to, I’ll hurt myself more. All I can do is wait and pray.

Is that lights ahead?

“Miss, are you okay?”

I’m rescued.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

A Brief Interaction

An old woman and a boy. Both walking on opposite sides of the same busy street; her with a bag full of groceries. She enters a crosswalk, stumbles over a crack, falls, her groceries scattering. The boy gasps watching vehicles swerve around her, none stopping. He scurries between them to her side, helps her to her feet, collects her groceries back into her bag, leads her carefully across to the sidewalk on the other side. Their eyes meet and hold. The old woman pats her heaving chest and points to him. The boy smiles, nods, then continues on his way.

From Guest Contributor William Cass

William has had over 395 short stories accepted for publication in a variety of literary magazines and anthologies such as december, Briar Cliff Review, and Zone 3. Winner of writing contests at Terrain.org and The Examined Life Journal, he's also been nominated once for Best of the Net, twice for Best Small Fictions, and six times for the Pushcart Prize. His three short story collections have all been published by Wising Up Press.

Mother Bird

I dreamt my mother’s voice became a flood in the hallway, walls bowing to her words. I held a paper bird to shield myself, and it tore in my hands, scattering wings across the shallow floors. Waves of her lullabies chased me through rooms that stretched into the sky, where I ran barefoot over glass clouds, each step echoing familiar fear. When the storm softened, I found a small window of light, where I could breathe without drowning. I reached out, and it grew until it swallowed the echoes, leaving only the warmth of my own hand on my chest.

From Guest Contributor Taylor Brann

Taylor studies sociology at Pikes Peak State College and writes poetry that traces the landscapes of memory, family, and the human heart.

Final Goodbyes

As I held Josh’s hand, looked at his face, eyes shut, tubes in his nose and throat, I teared trying to hold back my emotions from a full-blown cry. It had been several months, and the doctors tried everything, but he remained unresponsive. Every day I prayed for a miracle, but deep within, I knew there wasn’t one. So, I continued to speak and visit him often.

Today he’s being taken off the machines, and now it’s time for final goodbyes.

I watched his chest move slowly up and down until his final breath.

A cold shiver.

He was gone.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Change Of Heart

Think of it as a substitute pump,” the surgeons encourage him. “Latest technology, stringent testing. Equally life-enhancing as the heart God gave you.”

Will it buy him time for his daughter’s imminent wedding? Or beyond, and a new grandchild?

“Side effects include problematic emotional disorders.”

Surely morning birdsong, leisurely travel, favourite classical music will quiet unexplained turmoil.

He acquiesces, yet flails against this plastic invader into his chest.

Without warning, a fog enwraps his mind, shrouds familiar feelings. The mystifying retreat of joy, sorrow, empathy panics him. Why has love for his daughter vanished?

Oblivious, his new heart pumps steadily.

From Guest Contributor Gary Thomson

Sorrow

I browsed old photographs and hoped it would ease my sorrow. It was two weeks since he passed, and the heartache was unbearable, my chest heavy. I collapsed on the couch and clutched a picture in my hand. I revisited that day in my mind. He had just bought me a large pretzel and we were about to go on the Ferris wheel. Mom took the picture of us right before the ride. He looked so happy, his arm around me smiling, mustard on my lip.

If he only knew how sorry I was. Now he’ll never know.

“Goodbye, Daddy.”

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Conspiracy Theory

Beyond porch lights, snow piles up, sealing in anxious women. They stand at windowsills watching the sky glower. Blinking in the fists of children are glo-stix to throw at the towering drifts, aiming where the eyes should go. Elsewhere, a child snaps his birthday gift of a bow-and-arrow in half. The moon rolls down a hill and thunder beats its metal chest, a rattling that distracts everyone from the whir of an incoming drone. It kicks up all the snow but means no harm, though some will insist the machine was an alien ship, come to take the glo-stix home.

From Guest Contributor Cheryl Snell

The Choice

When the bombs exploded, I veered the plane sideways.

My men yelled we should vacate, but I had to make the destination point.

As the men jumped one by one until I was the only one left, shots hit the fuel tank, and I had no choice.

I said a prayer, left my station and vaulted out into the sky.

In the distance, I heard an explosion and flames filled the air.

I heaved a sigh of relief when I landed safely on solid ground, until footsteps approached, and guns were aimed at my chest.

I landed on enemy territory.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Final Instructions

The fight between Lefty Louie and Bonecrusher Rocco was only minutes away. Bonecrusher was an awesome specimen – a huge head, bull neck, and massive chest and biceps.

In Louie's corner, Al, his manager, had a few last words.

“The referee’s going to give you both instructions in the middle of the ring.”

Why a square surface was called a ring Louie didn't understand.

“He's going to tell you to go to a neutral corner when someone's down. Break when he tells you to. Then he'll say let the better man win.”

“What?”

“I know, Louie. Just forget that last part.”

From Guest Contributor David Sydney