The Hymn Of Future Days

With the contract for his eternal soul available for sale on the open market, Henry weighed his many options before settling upon the only religion he could find fully focused on the future as it really is, not some promised eternity we can never verify for ourselves.

The congregation sings the Hymn of Future Days, our days, the days that grow out of our decisions now. We erect our house of worship on these very real bones of actions and words, and if it all comes crumbling down, we have only ourselves to blame.

Choose your building blocks with care.

Visitor

When I visited his grave, the grass had not been cut, and the mixed bouquet of flowers someone placed in the ground were wilted. I walked to the office, and the receptionist told me their groundskeeper quit, and they just hired someone new to take his place. She assured me the cemetery would be taken care of in a few days. I’m not a frequent visitor so I wouldn’t know if that’s true.

I removed the dead flowers and replaced them. Then I said a prayer and asked again for forgiveness for my recklessness that put him in the ground.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Corn Maze Days

Corn maze stocks walk along, step by step, in endless motion. Lefts turned to rights back to lefts, leave us wondering and wandering alongside the corn maze. Eleven in the morning turns to seven at night, soon the moon will guide our way. Apple cider dances while the fire flickers, old folks singing folk songs. Knit sweaters insulate the warmth of your love, arms wrapped around my waist. Shadows once trailing, we now chase. Mama made a pie, pie's been cooling on the counter, calling our name. One more corner, one more corner turns a long day to sweet dreams.

From Guest Contributor Mekah Baker

Mekah is a student of literature and the applied sciences at Pikes Peak State College.

That Summer Feeling

Stephanie walks from her apartment to the subway every morning on her way to work. During the summer, the sidewalks are crowded with fellow commuters and hawkers and a general hustle and bustle smelling of sweat and petrol.

There's a viral eagerness that has infected the city on these days, and she's one of the few people who's immune. She's turned off by the aggressive friendliness that so easily tips towards hostility. There's too much skin and fake pleasantry.

It makes her wonder why so much of her life's been given over to strangers and people she doesn't care for.

The Whimsical Sun

It always rained where I lived, and the sun never showed its face. January to December: an encore of relentless grey days.

Sometimes during the summer break, when the gray became unbearable, my mother allowed me a night’s stay at my best friend's house next door.

There at her place, we would play late into the night and there was always an abundance of hot chocolate and stories to go around. Late mornings, while we were still in bed, her father used to roll up the clacking blinds, and tiny motes of dust danced in the sun, just like magic.

From Guest Contributor E. Rhyme

Accompaniment

Almost every morningit’s the same old ambient toss-up:Susumu Yokota or Lazybatusu.

Some days, neither flips his switch;some days: nothing but nothing. Silence.(He neither needs nor wants either one.)

Some days—especially days he’s up early—he just sits and types, humming his own theme:he calls it Lazysusubatsumu Yakotoma.

He hums and writes and writes againuntil everything comes out right,or his fingers start to bleed.

Even then, though,intent on his missionhe encourages the hemorrhage.

He’s stumbled onto something good;he’s just got to keep at ituntil it sings on its own.From Guest Contributor Ron. Lavalette

Ron.’s debut chapbook, Fallen Away (Finishing Line Press) is now available at all standard outlets. Many of his published works can be found at EGGS OVER TOKYO.

Lovers And Leaves

Staring out through a grove of trees, mouths moaning as swirls of dark browns cover the bright yellows and vibrant orange of autumn leaves, whispering to the fields of dying long grass.

The artist found his place and began to paint. Hours turned into days, joyously becoming lost in the thoughts of his one true love.

When the artist's trance ended, he was perplexed by the ghostly image of his lover in a pink dress, his heart in her hands and his love-lorn self standing beside her.

Behind them, the fields were a sea of violet flowers in violent bloom.

From Guest Contributor J. Iner Souster

It's Not My Fault

‘Can you please complete your homework?’ the frustrated dad nagged his uninspired child, for three consecutive days, rather the Sony PlayStation grasped her attention.

‘Hmm’ this being her only response.

On the fourth day, the exasperated father was summoned to the principal’s office, knowing full well that he would be questioned regarding his child’s tardiness, he braced himself.

‘Dear Mr. So and So, it saddens us to summon you to school like this,’ the Headmistress began to berate him, ‘your child has complained to us regarding her inability to complete her homework due to you occupying her time after school.

From Guest Contributor Imraan Ganie

Imraan is a seasoned technologist, father of 3, and a lyrical addict who writes short stories, poetry, and limericks in his spare time. His quirky take on life, inspired by his curiously unconventional life experiences lead to twists of humour and tales that are always entertaining. Imraan lives on the Southern Coast of KwaZulu Natal in South Africa. Imraan has two short stories published in 2021 in an anthology called Taxi through Mzansi featuring short stories by twenty of South Africa’s finest authors.

Exit Stage Left

A young lady reminded me of the theatre, a single spotlight illuminating an actor on stage; blackness all around except for her brightly lit face and dust particles dancing about, defying gravity as they floated in all directions.

I also thought about a woman, a wife and mother, watching television, a solitary figure in a dark room. Her life’s work was behind her, trying to distract herself from reality by watching mindless entertainment and wondering what people had to do with themselves when they weren’t doing anything else.

Now, I'm nothing more than that dust particle floating my days away.

From Guest Contributor J. Iner Souster

War Without Rules

There were days when the explosions didn’t subside. The sirens became more and more frequent, especially at night. We began to sleep badly. Then one morning, while hurrying to the market, I was struck by flying debris. At the hospital the doctor first looked around to make sure no one was listening who shouldn’t be. “I just need to grab a lab coat and one egg and I can fix this,” he said. He cut my feet open and put pennies in the incisions before sewing them back up and wrapping them in bandages. He said they were lucky pennies. From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is a poet and collage artist on Cape Cod. His latest poetry books are Famous Long Ago (Laughing Ronin Press) and The Bad News First (Kung Fu Treachery Press).