Good And Evil

Bradley wondered what was wrong with him. Other kids may have complained about working their chores, but they enjoyed eating bacon and hamburgers, and talked excitedly about weekend hunting trips.

Bradley didn't know anyone for whom slaughtering a cow prompted an existential crisis. There was no doubt he was the weird one in town, and his parents, his brothers and sisters, his classmates, even his teachers, all knew this to be true.

He simply couldn't shake the feeling that just because everyone else thought eating animals was normal, there was something inherently evil about it.

From the cow's perspective anyway.

Turnaround Day

Midway through the exam my lead broke. What to do?

The boy across the aisle noticed.

“I brought extras. Take one,” he coaxed, extending an arm towards me.

Why would he offer to help me? I, the lowest achiever of the class; the one all classmates avoided.

Reluctantly I accepted his pencil, resuming my guesses to multiple choice questions.

“Good luck,” the same boy whispered, bending towards me.

I watched him rush to the front of the room to be the first to hand in his exam. He, the smartest student of the class.

The one who gave me hope.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes poetry, fiction and creative nonfiction regardless of the season or location she finds herself in.

Ajar

“Time sure flies. Tomorrow is already his Big Truthful Day.”

“I’m glad we won’t have to lie to him anymore.”

“It wasn’t really lying – rather hiding the truth.”

“What shall we tell him first? About Santa or the Easter Bunny?”

“Wouldn’t you think he already knows this stuff? Probably a few of his classmates must have told.”

“Then we’ll tell him we’re not his real parents and that he’s hereditarily predestined to be offered to the gods.”

Both giggle inaudiblely.

“Ssssh… wait… did you hear that?”

“No. You are imagining things.”

“Perhaps. Are you sure you closed his bedroom door?”

From Guest Contributor Hervé Suys

Contrast

A painting pulled me from across the room. Past spectators scrutinizing other exhibits. Past a man commenting on contemporary art.

I wanted to meet the artist and ask what had inspired him.

Hut alone in a field. The dark evening sky contrasted with flaxen wheat. No people or animals.

“Do you like it,” a man asked me.

“Too depressing,” I answered. “Looks familiar.”

“It’s the toolshed on my parents’ farm. As a boy, I took shelter there during a sudden storm.”

“So, you’re the artist,” I exclaimed eyeing him.

I left the gallery realizing we were once classmates at school.From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. Her work has been published at: Nailpolish Stories, 50-Word Stories, 100 word story, 101 Words, Boston Literary Magazine, From the Depths (Haunted Waters Press), ShortbreadStories, SixWordMemoirs, and Espresso Stories.

Backfire

Betsy wanted to slay a dragon. All her friends had killed at least one and it was embarrassing to show her face at the academy.

Sadly, Betsy's father had strictly forbidden her from joining any quests. He kept telling her maybe when she's older.

Betsy's brother had resigned himself long ago to never slaying any dragons and he told Betsy she might as well give up too. "Dad's never going to change his mind. He's against all slayings. Mom says that it's because his grandfather was a dragon."

Betsy grew up to hate dragons more than any of her classmates.