Sylvia And Mel's Future

Sylvia was at Madame Olga's. The psychic peered into her crystal ball.

“Will Mel make it?”

“There's a chance.”

“His liver's bad. Dr Fruman's taking care of him.”

Mel, Sylvia's ex-husband, was hospitalized. She was at the fortuneteller's for a second opinion.

“Even though it's Fruman, I see Mel pulling through.”

“Really? Do you think a near-death experience will change him?”

“Change?”

“Will I get any support checks Mel owes me?”

“Checks, huh?”

Madame Olga stared intently. Syvia had paid $225 for the ‘Deluxe View’ into the future.

“Madame Olga?”

“I'm looking…”

“Even one lousy check?”

“I'm looking...I'm looking...”

From Guest Contributor David Sydney

Ghosts

In front of the circus truck came a moving van and two old clunkers. People were finally moving into the house at the end of the cul-de-sac, which we’d all suspected was haunted. The circus truck double parked beside the moving van and out poured our old friends, the bearded lady and fortune teller, clutching his crystal ball, two sweet loveable clowns who rolled out smiling, somersaulting around the cul-de-sac. Soon our kids were busy taming the lions while the elephants practiced their counting and we gossiped about the new neighbors until one of them floated by and said hello.

From Guest Contributor Linda Lowe

Steering Law

A man lost his dog, but the cat lets him walk her. Connected by the dog’s old leash, they walk. The man explains the world as they go: this leash is our curve of pursuit, he says.

What’s that? The cat, having no crystal ball or even a decent pair of glasses, might wonder.

See those ants? Each walks at the same speed toward the ant on their left. The curve of pursuit is the curve traced by the pursuers.

Never one to grovel for place, the cat assumes a posture identical to the man, and pulls ahead of him.

From Guest Contributor Cheryl Snell

Cheryl's new series is called Intricate Things in their Fringed Peripheries.

The Goblin King Slips An Empty String

With a slipknot on the hole of you. Look at him, all owl feathers and magic tricks, costumes and dreams, a liar in the land of the living walking on the ceilings of time. Beauty boots and poison peaches work on your weaknesses, blackmail your truth with your vanity, measuring you for fitting. He sings to things you think you are, illusions orbiting colors you can’t see with eyes so wide. The crystal ball rolls up the stairs, bait for your monstrous desire. He wants his woman to fear him. You must be starving: beautiful or not, that’s not love.

From Guest Contributor Brook Bhagat

Brook’s poetry, fiction, non-fiction, and humor have appeared in Empty Mirror Magazine, Little India, Dămfīno, Nowhere Poetry, Rat's Ass Review, Peacock Journal, Anthem: A Tribute to Leonard Cohen, and other journals and anthologies. She has completed a full-length poetry manuscript, is writing a novel, and is editor-in-chief of Blue Planet Journal. She holds an MFA from Lindenwood University and teaches creative writing at a community college.