The Lit Bedroom

As nightfall descended, a feathery latecomer gathered crumbs from Vi’s patio. Lights in a nearby house turned off, except for one.

It shone from a second story. An elderly woman was seen looking out the window.

When Vi met the house owner at their communal mailbox, she remarked on the upstairs light being left on at night and asked how long the guest would be visiting.

The neighbor looked perplexed. She said it was her mother’s room, until her death a year ago.

Vi wondered if her imagination played tricks. Since their conversation, that bedroom light no longer lit up.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction, primarily residing in Edmonton, Canada.

The Fade

There wasn’t much to see, wasn’t much to be seen, and he knew it. He knew every inch of the room; had taken its inventory a million billion times, day in and day out since his sentence had begun. Nothing but crumbs and dust and a bed he’d never made.

He hadn’t heard a thing but his own thoughts in ages, and even they were beginning to fade. Mostly all he had these days was the memory of sound: screams, sobs, and the slamming of doors.

The only face he’d seen was his own, smiling, on the tattered magazine cover.

From Guest Contributor Ron. Lavalette

Ron. Lavalette’s debut chapbook, Fallen Away (Finishing Line Press) is now available at all standard outlets.

Shame

I take a bite of the chocolate cheesecake, stolen from a remote corner of the refrigerator and want to savor with closed eyes, but I don’t dare. Mom can come anytime. I gobble it up, throwing the carton in the trash.

She descends the stairs and frowns at the cake crumbs on the floor. I hate her for that.

I look at the book I’m supposed to be reading and try to hide my shame, my secret. The same secret that’s hers when she introduces her teenage daughter to her friends, her eyes apologizing for the girth of my thighs.

From Guest Contributor Anuradha Dev

Life’s Surprises

I’m walking along the parks path and the sun is so hot, sweat drips down my neck. The trees are full of sparrows chirping in unison, and the benches are full of elderly men reading the newspaper or just staring ahead. One man is eating chips and crumbs stick to his mustache. I chortle and move along. Mothers with children, some eating ice cream, drop sprinkles on the ground and the ants come in droves.

It’s days like this I don’t take for granted. Life is full of surprises and I never know what will be, once I start radiation.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

The Cookie Jar

Leon sat across the kitchen table, gulping down instant coffee and looking everywhere but at Jaclyn. He was late for work, again, and spoke of nothing else. The toaster pinged and he bustled away.

She felt that their love was like a cookie jar. At first it was full of unexpected treats: crumbly sweetness with sticky jam fillings, dark chocolate coated crunchy goodness, and much, much more.

Now she felt that if she turned the jar upside down and shook it, there might be a few crumbs in there. But it would be too much effort for too little return.

From Guest Contributor Ross Clement

My Nana's Custard Tarts

Reflected by the low sun, her chair cast almost mechanical shadows.

Her milky waxy eyes somehow still sparkled.

She chuckled and a few chins flapped like defrosted chicken skin.

I sat pinned, and listened well.

So she told me about custard tarts.

"A good custard tart is rare you know, but you know when you have found one, the pastry is shorter than a long weekend, but as flaky as a veteran hippy! The filling, lovemaking of newlyweds, egg and vanilla, on velvet sheets of cream, complete with nutmeg confetti."

We both sat grinning at the crumbs on our plates.

From Guest Contributor Christoctopus

Crumble Life

After the day’s hard work I returned to my hut. In the corner slept my 9-year-old daughter, abused recently by rich boys. My fisherman husband had strayed far into the sea. Hungry I walked to the corner of the hut. There was a tomato and two slices of stale bread. I made a soup. The bread, I broke it down to crumbs. Counting one for one suffered sorrow, I drowned it in the soup. I and my girl sipped it as long as possible, in silence, wishing all the sorrows would drown the same way in this crumb of life.

From Guest Contributor Thriveni C. Mysore