Sorrow

I browsed old photographs and hoped it would ease my sorrow. It was two weeks since he passed, and the heartache was unbearable, my chest heavy. I collapsed on the couch and clutched a picture in my hand. I revisited that day in my mind. He had just bought me a large pretzel and we were about to go on the Ferris wheel. Mom took the picture of us right before the ride. He looked so happy, his arm around me smiling, mustard on my lip.

If he only knew how sorry I was. Now he’ll never know.

“Goodbye, Daddy.”

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

He’s Not Coming Back

“He’s not coming back, honey.”

“Don’t say that Daddy.”

“Baby, maybe it’s for the best.”

With that, Charlotte wailed and ran out of the living room crying. “You always hated him, didn’t you?”

Robert followed his only daughter into the kitchen. “I hated how he treated you. But he’s your husband.”

“He’s always come back.”

“You mean after he puts you in the ER?

“Not helpful.”

"Perhaps you’re right, he’ll come back. I need to go for a drive and give you some space.” Robert thought it best he get rid of the shovel from the back of his truck.

From Guest Contributor NT Franklin

Like Mommy and Daddy

"Mommy, you and daddy look funny." said five-year-old Julia.

"We're OK. We are flying high!" Julia's mommy replied as she chewed a weed-laced cookie.

"These cookies! Flyin' like a bird," Julia's daddy sang.

He took another cookie off the plate on the kitchen table.

"Let's go upstairs, sweetheart. A little lovin' ......Julia, watch TV."

Julia watched as her parents climbed the stairs. She grabbed a cookie, then ran upstairs to her bedroom and ate it.

When her beautiful wings fluttered, she floated to the open window.

She pushed out the screen and thought, "I wanna fly like mommy and daddy."

From Guest Contributor Deborah Shrimplin

Mother

I try on names for mythical mother. Mother. Mama. Mom. They hold their own weight. Mother, formal, yet beautiful. Mama, the moon, wistful and luminous. Mom is too plain.

Daddy tells me to stop with the mother stuff. Focus on what I have. He stayed to keep me safe.

But he never loves. Never smiles.

I conjure images. From ten years ago. Maybe they’re dreams. A silhouette. A lavender dress, a temper. Perfume. Words of love, fleeting.

Dad’s all beards and beer. Orders, no words of love.

Love doesn’t pay bills.

I keep trying on names, wishing. I can’t stop.

From Guest Contributor Yash Seyedbagheri

Yash is a graduate of Colorado State University's MFA program in fiction. A recipient of two Honorable Mentions from Glimmer Train, he has had work nominated for a Pushcart Award and The Best Small Fictions. Yash's work is forthcoming or has been published in journals such as Unstamatic, Door Is A Jar Magazine, Maudlin House, and Ariel Chart.

Daddy's Little Girl

His little girl called and said that she was getting married.

When he first held her she weighed about as much as two large apples. He was told it could be only hours so say goodbye.

Hours turned into days and then years.

His wife never wanted to try again so his little girl would be the only one that went to see the Yankees with him and share the dogs, the overloaded nachos, the wings, sundaes, and when she was old enough, the brewskis.

"How do I look, Daddy?" The gown was perfect for her 400 pounds.

"Beautiful, Baby."

From Guest Contributor E. Barnes

The Lessons

Lydia played the piano hoping that would make her parents smile. Her daddy broke some furniture. He bought an accordion and she took lessons. He kicked the dog. Her parents came to see her dance recital. Her daddy yelled at her mama for flirting with a man. He gave her a black eye. Lydia took swimming lessons. Her daddy took her fishing and threw her in the lake yelling “Swim.” She went down down down to the murky bottom where a huge whiskered catfish blinked at her. It was very peaceful. She came up and swam away from the boat.

From Guest Contributor Sandra Ramos O'Briant

He Will Think I Don't Love Him Anymore

Seven-year-old Ava Mendez fidgets with Mimi's cellphone in her lap.

Abruptly it rings. She smacks the green button. A recording informs her it's a free call from her daddy, being recorded.

Press one to accept. Hastily she slams her little finger onto the keypad.

Horror grips her sullen face as tears flow uncontrollably, realizing she pressed the number two in haste.

Nothing but dial tone. She wails for her Mimi. "I have to talk to my daddy," she cries.

Daddy, in a holding cell waiting for deportation, has not forgotten nor heard her angelic voice in three days and nights.

From Guest Contributor Yknow

The Meaning Of Divorce: As Told By A Seven Year Old

My name is Caleb Jones. What does divorce mean? It means daddy doesn’t live here anymore. It means mommy and daddy used to fight, now daddy moved away. I don’t cry anymore. I can only see daddy on the weekends. Oh joy. My room seems grayer than I remember it being. My teddy bear, Howard, I hug him tighter than before.

Should I go out to play today?

No it’s raining, that’s ok I’ll read the book daddy bought me, last Christmas. It’s a good book. I read aloud. I can still smell daddy’s pipe as I read. Good night.

From Guest Contributor, Doug Robbins