Lost In Space

It is a sweltering summer evening, and Dad bursts through the back screen door, home early from work, carrying a paper bag stuffed with green frilly leaves. “Look,” he beams unpacking the strange-looking vegetable. “Something new. It’s called Romaine lettuce.” He tears off a long tapered leaf and glides it over my upturned hand. “Try it,” he grins. “It flies—like a supersonic r-r-rocket!”

It is the age of Sputnik, Explorer, ballistic missiles and orbital launchers, and we kids are all enthralled. I bite into the crisp, tall leaf, savor the pleasantly cool, exhilarating blast and I am riding high.

From Guest Contributor E. C. Traganas

Rock Star, Jr.

Dad’s a rock star. You know the type. Wild hair. Leather pants. Naked-lady tattoos. He’s never around for any father-and-son stuff, always away on some sold-out stadium tour.

For my 12th birthday, he gave me one of his old Gibsons. He didn’t have time to show me any chords, so I taught myself. I’ve been practicing every day.

He’s coming home after six months on the road, and I can’t wait for him to hear all the amazing riffs I’ve learned.

Because even if he doesn’t think a son deserves his attention, he’s got to appreciate a fellow musician, right?

From Guest Contributor Lori Cramer

Cosmic Illumination

“Northern lights?” Jonathan pointed skyward.

“No. Stardust. We’re too far south for Northern Lights,” replied Dad.

They viewed the spectacle in awe.

“I want to be an astronaut when I grow up,” Jonathan stated.

“I know. You say that often enough.”

“What are you making?”

“Cosmic pudding,” answered Dad, pouring water into a foil bag.

His son’s face changed from fascination to frustration.

“What’s tomorrow’s supper?” Jonathan asked.

“Hamburgers.”

“Real hamburgers?”

“Real, but with pita bread. Buns would cause floating crumbs, a major hazard in a spacecraft.”

“Dad, where’s the nearest burger place?”

“Thought you want to be an astronaut.”

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

The Dean Of The Old School

Dad segues into another riveting anecdote with, “That’s not how we did things back in the day.”All three teenagers glaze over in unison. Closed. They nod if eye-checked for confirmation, but almost immediately they’re not listening. Their father is a bundle of clichés glued together with corn.

Had the kids been striving to understand, they could now know more about activities from back in the day than they know of current events. It seems Dad rides that tangent whenever possible.

Before the present era, everything was more superlative. Right kids? Whereas now it’s flat and probably made from plastics.

From Guest Contributor Todd Mercer

Todd writes fiction and poetry in Grand Rapids, Michigan. His collection Ingenue was published by Celery City Press. Recent work appears in Literary Yard, The Lake and the Michigan Bards Poetry Anthology.

Cold Iron

Walking to the back of the old house, Samuel noticed the changes since last time he'd been home. There were weeds growing up from the foundation. The chicken coop had probably been empty for more than a year. But none of the of the deterioration moved him. He had no nostalgia for this place. In truth, this was no longer his home.

The smithy was the one part of the farm almost as he remembered. All the tools hanging in just the right place. Except the forge wasn't burning anymore, the anvil had long grown cold.

Dad was truly gone.

Truth

The doors open and the bridal party makes their entrance, the music resonating throughout the church. The women shine in their baby blue gowns and the bride, Belle, arm in arm with her dad, shines. Her white gown with sequined embroidery catches the eyes of the onlookers, as her father smiles and leads his daughter to the groom. My stomach churns. I can’t let this wedding happen knowing the truth.

Once the priest gives his wedding sermon the vows begin. When he asks if anyone objects, I hastily stand.

The room, aghast over the disruption, waits for me to respond.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Squabble

Up from clamor of Thanksgiving dinner, two voices drowned out the rest. Uncle Frank (Mom's brother) and Uncle Norm (Dad's brother), were at first pointedly not talking towards each other as they contradicted everything the other said. Then it was raised voices, direct, insistent, until they were shouting over everyone, ignoring their wives' pleas.

Then the fighting really began, first with silverware, then a carving knife versus a brass candlestick, then gunfire and light artillery. By this time, the two halves of the family had divided.

There would be no more Thanksgiving dinners until after the war was long over.

Runnin’ On Adrenaline

I’m amazed at how much energy I can muster after that dreaded phone call. It doesn’t matter it’s 3:00 AM. I can sacrifice sleep. I’m dressed in a flash and on the road racing to the hospital, running through hallways, arriving before your final breath, “I’m here Dad, I love you.”

You whisper, “Always remember Helen, you’re my queen of queens.”

And after arranging your funeral, packing your clothes, arguing with my siblings about who gets what, I drag myself home, plop down on the bed thinking I’ll pass out from exhaustion, instead, I think of you and tears erupt.

From Guest Contributor Charles Gray

Open Arms?

When I took the online family DNA test for fun, I didn’t expect to find out I have a sister. After I read the results, I confronted my mom, and she admitted the truth that she gave birth to a daughter before she met and married my dad. My heart ached knowing all these years I could’ve had a sister and didn’t know.

I’m driving on the parkway, the radio blaring. In fifteen minutes, I’ll be at Cassie’s house. The big sister I didn’t grow up with and meeting for the first time.

Will she welcome me with open arms?

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Dad

When I met my biological father, Robert, I was surprised at the similarities. We had a small mole on the left side of our temple, and I was left-handed, as he was. But the similarities stopped there. He was a selfish man. He left with another woman before I was born, and my mom had to be mother and father. Fortunately, she met my stepdad, and he made us a family.

As I sat and pondered, my arms around my mother, I knew blood didn’t matter. Charlie had been my dad in every way that counted.

Rest in peace, dad.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher