Bird With A Broken Wing

One day a bird with a broken wing showed up on the back porch of the old man’s house. He tried nursing the bird back to health. He bought birdseed and he put out water. He took the bird to the vet, and the vet told him there really wasn’t anything they could do for the bird; the wing would never heal enough for the bird to fly again. The man took the bird back home, but the vet was right. One day the man looked out at the porch and saw a single feather, but the bird was gone.

From Guest Contributor Dan Slaten

A Dream

The house is empty, and my bags are packed. I don’t know where I’m going, but I reach for and open the front door anyway, ready for whatever awaits me on the other side. I realize I’ve left the radio on, though, so I turn around and go back to take care of that. While I’m doing this someone or something scurries through the front door. I look and see that it’s my brother’s dog, Oswald. “You can’t be here,” I say. “You’re dead.” Oswald wags his tail and tells me that he’s here to take me to the afterlife.

From Guest Contributor Dan Slaten

The Chipmunk And The Squirrel

The chipmunk that lives outside my dog’s window has been avoiding me lately. He says his name is Tony Fauci, but I don’t believe him. Today he’s hanging out with a squirrel in the front yard. The squirrel freezes like a statue when I see him. He thinks this makes him invisible because the trick works on my dog; it doesn’t work on me.

I tell Tony his rent check is late, and both Tony and the squirrel scamper away like a couple of bandits. I’m not mad, though. Tony never pays his rent. These are challenging times for everyone.

From Guest Contributor Dan Slaten

Love Letters

They sit in the bottom of a shoebox in a dusty corner of an attic on an unremarkable street in a neighborhood that could be located almost anywhere. Love letters. Old, forgotten love letters. They were written over thirty years ago by two people who barely exist anymore, only one of whom lives in this particular house. He doesn’t remember they’re there, of course, and she, wherever she is, doesn’t remember writing them. She has moved on, married someone else, had kids, just like he did. But the letters remain, fading reminders of a forgotten passion neither one feels anymore.

From Guest Contributor Dan Slaten

The Dog And I

The dog and I had a disagreement over where my hands belonged. She had a name, but I’d reached the point where I rarely used it anymore.

“Why can’t you learn to be more independent?” I asked, trying desperately not to raise my voice.

“Why can’t you just put your stupid hands on me?” the dog asked with her eyes and whimpers.

It seemed we were at an impasse. I just wanted to read my book after a long day at work, and the dog just wanted to be loved after a long day of solitude. First world problems indeed.

From Guest Contributor Dan Slaten

What Happened To Ben?

“So, uh, what happened to Ben?”

“Twitter. Once he discovered that, well, he just sort of fell into a black hole.”

“Do you talk to him on Twitter?”

“Oh yeah. All the time.”

“That’s funny. I can’t get him to return my calls. I even went to his house one day and he didn’t answer the door.”

“Just tweet him. He’ll respond.”

“That seems weird. Does he make sense? Talk in complete sentences?”

“He’s hilarious. Same old Ben.”

“Only he’s not really there. He’s just a digital ghost.”

“When you put it that way it just sounds sad.”

“I know.”

From Guest Contributor Dan Slaten

Final Act

Scott stared at the blank screen and pondered how to begin his obituary. Prone to bouts of depression, solitude, and introspection, Scott Beeker lived a quiet life filled with anger, passion, and, most importantly, love. Yes, that sounded nice, he thought. During the final years of his life he traveled the country in search of romance and adventure. He found both one night last May in the basement of a restaurant in downtown Los Angeles. There was so much to tell, wasn’t there? So many stories that were more interesting than he’d first thought. If only there was more time.

From Guest Contributor Dan Slaten

The Mirror

The crack begins in the center of the mirror, spreads out, and creates four distinct sections. Each one reflects a different period of his life: childhood, young adult, middle age, old age. He sees the past and the future all at once. Like the mirror, he is shattered, torn in different directions. He has regrets, sure, but he wouldn’t be where he is today without those regrets and where he is isn’t so bad. Still, what if he could do it all over again? He reaches out and falls into the mirror and finds himself back at the beginning again.

From Guest Contributor Dan Slaten

Grandma

The woman who has been known only as Grandma for most of her life holds the baby in her lap tight and points to different pictures in the photo album. “That’s my father in that picture right there,” she says, pointing to a black and white image that seems almost ghostly.

Grandma watches the baby’s eyes pour over the pictures, and she wonders what will happen to this generation that won’t be preserved in faded photographs. Will they live forever on social media timelines, or will their digital afterlife be as fleeting as the breaths one takes in a lifetime?

From Guest Contributor Dan Slaten

TKO

In a year in which everything was falling apart, both personally and globally, Joe wasn’t prepared for the news of Scott’s death. The impact was more devastating than any of the hundreds of punches he’d absorbed during their fight trilogy.

“How?”

“Heart attack.”

Joe looked at the photos and trophies on the bookshelf across the room, mementos from the recent past, a time when he and Scott, though rivals, had been on top of the world.

Now Scott was dead, too young and too soon, reminding Joe of the one fight he, like everyone else, had no chance of winning.

From Guest Contributor Dan Slaten