Numerical Perplexity

The opened book lured him with its golden glow.

He imagined himself as a student in the day. Calculations done by mind or slide rules. No electronics to verify answers. Would he have had a good friend to ask for help? Were teachers stricter?

If it was a book of literature he would have fully appreciated it. But math? None of it made sense to him. The only value of the book, he determined, was its artistic calligraphy.

“Excuse me,” someone interjected. “Are you soon finishing your observation?”

He relaunched into the present, moving onwards to the museum’s next exhibit.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

A Day at the Lake

Cartoon fishing is bloodless but the one who landed on the bodies of trees that was a good excuse for a sweating can of beer in the red hand of Uncle John was a body, eyes peeled and gasping, flapping, slapping, impaled with rusting violence and the lie about the free lunch of the worm and I also stopped chewing, not because of my seven-year-old wiggly tooth but because of the hook in the ham sandwich my mother'd given me, the hook in the wooden deck of the boat, the hook that cartoon fishing is bloodless

and then she died

From Guest Contributor Brook Bhagat

Sunday Dinner At My House

I carry the steaming pot of paprikash to the table. It’s spicy and garlicky, and my mouth waters in anticipation.

“That looks amazing,” my sister says.

“You printed this?” My mother’s nose wrinkles, and she leans back in her chair.

“Of course,” I say as my sister shifts a bowl of buttered noodles. I set the pot down.

“You kids have it so easy. In my day, we had to chop our own vegetables and simmer the chicken for hours.”

My sister and I grin at each other, but my mother doesn’t notice. She’s already spooning food onto her plate.

From Guest Contributor Julia Rajagopalan

It Happens Like This

How many years since your hand found her knee? She will never leave you. Your voice is her background music, her dance. Smile at her from across the kitchen, her hands sorting knives and forks. Her smile is for you, but her thoughts are there, with him. That day. Cold wind pulled them close. Her hand on his neck, his hands in her hair. She knows by now she'd have tired of him as well. Forgotten how she spent afternoons in his freckled arms. She'd gaze across a room not seeing him, not feeling more than this slow, quiet day.

From Guest Contributor Beth Mead

Dead Meat

The carcass on the shoulder buzzed with flies and other insects feeding on the rotting flesh. The process of decay started the moment the vehicle, probably an SUV or pickup truck by the amount of damage, rammed into it.

Larger critters had already been by, but there was enough intermittent traffic during the day that the real feast would wait until dark.

In a way, we're always rotting, from the moment we're born. It's thanks to the magic of cellular technology we're able to keep regenerating through the decades, sloughing off the dead skin and useless morality as we go.

Heatwave

They slept in front of stores closed for the day. Others pushed personal belongings in shopping carts.

A young woman missing front teeth stared upward as I passed. I crossed the street aware of an underweight cat doing likewise ahead.

“You have more?” I caught my partner off guard, showing the contents of my opened bag.

“How many you need?”

“At least a dozen.”

“That’s all I have,” he grimaced.

I resumed my mission as the sun lowered into its nighttime place, knowing that at some point I won’t have enough bottles of water to distribute to those in need.

From guest contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

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

The Wait

I woke up early and went for a jog. As I followed the path through the park, I listened to nature. The sounds of the birds singing, and the squirrels running up trees were a sign of early spring. It was an unusually hot day in March, so the park benches were filled with people. I had water in my pouch and took a sip. It felt good going down into the pit of my stomach.

After, I sat I checked my phone. There it was, the message I had been waiting for.

My first novel was accepted for publication.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Day At The Park

The fresh scent of flowers fills the air with sweetness. Diana takes a deep breath and relishes the moment, strolling through the park listening to the children play and the birds sing, the warm breeze against her face. She finds a bench, sits, puts her reading glasses on, and takes out her book. She takes a sip of water and begins reading, enthralled in the story, content with the sun on her face, when the cell phone rings.

Diana closes the novel, rushes to the car, and drives to the hospital to say goodbye to her father, her only family.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Relishing The Day

When I step into the taxi, what happens next is something I will never forget…

It is warm so I loosen the annoying necktie and use my handkerchief to wipe the sweat from my brow.

I gaze out the window at the immense buildings relishing my first time in Manhattan. Tired from the flight, I rest my eyes. There is time before we reach the office building.

A loud honk and screeching tires startle me. Coming toward us is a large white truck.

As I’m loaded onto the ambulance in a stretcher, fading, my handkerchief lays torn on the ground.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher