Debunking Resolutions

As the clock ticked towards the ending of a year, Ted was fast asleep.

He got up at noon to have brunch and catch up on emails.

“What are your resolutions for 2025?” asked a friend. Another asked similarly and another…

Ted closed his tablet.

Why should he stress himself about resolutions? Life ought to simply evolve, problems solved along the way.

He got up to make coffee. What, no coffee? Okay, he’ll have some tea. The canister usually filled with various teabags was empty.

Ted decided he would start the next New Year differently, with his kitchen well stocked.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

When The Clock Strikes Twelve

It wasn’t a new year; it was the new year. Margo watched the clock tick down to midnight with bated breath. Her hand tightened around the stem of her bubbly champagne flute until her fingers turned red. A fresh start; a new beginning. As the clock struck twelve and the ding sounded the glass stem shattered in her grasp, forcing crystal shards into her palm. Blood ran down her wrist. With a resigned sigh she flopped back on the couch and watched the red drops dripping from her fingers permanently stain the rug. Oh well. There was always next year.From Guest Contributor Madison Randolph

Madison is a reader by day and a writer by night. Her works have appeared in Friday Flash Fiction, The Drabble, Bright Flash Literary Review, Spillwords, The Chamber Magazine as well as 101 Words under the name Ryker Hayes. She can be found on Instagram madisonrandolph17 or Twitter @Madisonr1713

When I Write

When I write, I look above my screen and think. When I write, I ponder the entertaining events a published book may possess. When I write, I revere the marvelous feeling of finishing a book. When I write, I envision what I’ll do with my upcoming chapters. When I write, I imagine the extravagant scenes I can conjure up in my mind. When I write, I realize all I’ve been doing is daydreaming about moments of a future not yet known. Watching the clock tick, I look down at my screen and notice I’ve still not even begun to write.

From Guest Contributor Leif Bradley

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

Rainy Day Woman

She was sitting on the bed, crying and feeling “something’s wrong, I should be asking for help,” but she couldn’t remember who or what she should be asking. Everything in her brain was white static. Secretly she wanted to see beautiful color, a purple that vibrates at the very end of the spectrum. Anyone observing her would have probably concluded she would never get away – away from clock faces with Roman numerals, the tyranny of structure, all those people going about their day on a busy street. When something needs water, you water it, you don’t just hope for rain.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie's latest poetry collections are The Death Row Shuffle (Finishing Line Press, 2020) and The Trouble with Being Born (Ethel Micro-Press, 2020).

Song For Ancient Children

You’re moving away rather than moving toward something. I can't be sure if you’ll ever come back. The sky is dotted with clouds that resemble ominous black eggs. You want to scream for help, but you’re out of breath. You’ve no idea at all what you should do next. “Fuck the clown!” you confusedly think. “Where’s my clock?” Just as someone is saying it’ll be OK, you feel a bone break. You see buildings toppling over, trees melting back into the ground. You hear angels approaching at full speed in chariots. There aren't even parking spaces big enough for them.From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author most recently of Stick Figure Opera: 99 100-word Prose Poems from Cajun Mutt Press.

The Clock Tower

The clock tower, situated in the center of the town square, afforded views of the entire valley. No shadow could hide from its rapacious stare.

Townspeople went about their business quietly, all eyes on the ground, hoping to avoid unwanted attention.

Rebecca and Victor met in the churchyard green. They'd yearned for each other since youth, but had never managed to share even kiss. Now might be that moment.

Time stopped. The entire town froze.

When the clock resumed, Rebecca and Victor, despite being certifiably sober, returned to their homes after once again awakening from a stupor under mysterious circumstance.

A Nice Girl

Samantha read The Great Gatsby, to her elderly grandmother Millie,again.

She sat with the book in one hand and her coffee mug in the other. Thesmall room was warm and cozy as the sun beamed through the window.Samantha took a sip of coffee and listened to the birds chirping and theticking of the wall clock. It was time to leave.

She kissed Millie on the cheek. “Okay, grandma, see you on Sunday.”

Samantha’s eyes teared as she left, knowing her grandmother no longerknew who she was, other than a nice girl who came to visit.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Tick Tock

With his apartment empty and no sounds other than the ticking of the clock, Timothy took a walk in the cold night air until a bright sign caught his eye. Psychic Reading. Reluctantly, he went inside.

“I’m, Tianna. Sit.”

Tianna smoothed her fingers across his palm. “You will be the cause of a terrible accident.”

Upset, Timothy stormed out and crossed the street when he heard a woman’s voice.

“Hey, you didn’t pay me!”

He turned and then a car came to a screeching halt, but not before hitting Tianna.

Still on the ground, her eyes open, Tianna was dead.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Rain Day

I stare out the window watching the torrents of rain pound the leaves on my maple tree and listen to the ferocious wind hit against the siding of my house. My dog Patty barks and scratches the windowpane. I pull her next to me on the couch and rub her stomach, the only thing that soothes her. Roads are closed due to flooding and I’m stuck at home.

I had an argument with my boss yesterday about not getting enough time off. Now I’m home and bored out of my mind watching the clock.

It’s funny how things turn out.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

End Of The Line

Grace ran her finger over the word.

TERMINATED

She over-pronounced each syllable. The word crashed off her computer’s screen. The “t” chipped the floor with its hook. The “e” cracked the tile, and the rest of the letters tumbled into the void.

“Didn’t tell me in person.” The night beacon, bedroom clock blinked 11:15.

In her unkempt kitchen, she knelt beside the sink. Ants crawled, a living chain of perfect order. They bypassed her bait. Scouts explored on. Workers followed trails through the cracks. But in the hive, the queen risked nothing.

Life balanced on the pinhole of a hilltop.

From Guest Contributor Embe Charpentier