An Hour Ago

This chipmunk has run up to me twice now. It retreats again and I crouch to tie my shoe. My eyes track my new acquaintance, surrounded by lush pines, miles of mountain-top views, and a deer carcass ransacked by the food chain about ten feet away from me. A ding distracts me from my observations–you texted me. We were meant to go somewhere an hour ago, but an hour ago I was already on this trail. The predators which are surely on this path, brush which camouflages them, and the overlook’s treacherous heights will always be more unwavering than you.

From Guest Contributor Morgan Sanders

Morgan is a student of biology at Pikes Peak State College.

Hunting

I left the cabin against my wife’s wishes and ventured into the woods hunting for anything that might feed my family. Within minutes the wind picked up and I found myself struggling in knee-deep drifts and knew an arduous journey was ahead. Would there be any rabbits or deer to hunt? Am I the only one who has a starving wife and children?

I continued my quest until my body tired and I had to rest. I collapsed to the ground, snow pelting my face, and my toes frozen.

I closed my eyes and knew my hunting days were over.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Night Thoughts

I can’t bring myself to read the news anymore or even watch it on TV. There are just so many unidentified dead men with my face, just so many couples in their late thirties having trouble making a baby. Meanwhile, a small band of starving deer stagger out of the snowbound woods in search of help, but help has been repealed. Like the Oxford comma or the use of voiceover in film, the whole thing is controversial. And although it’s day, night thoughts are stuck in my head, and the only immediate alternative may be to cut my head off.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie Good is the author of Failed Haiku, a poetry collection that is the co-winner of the 2021 Grey Book Press Chapbook Contest and scheduled for publication in summer 2022.

Abedabun

Abedabun weaves baskets while her father makes arrowheads. The sun is warm against her face and she tires of the mundane ritual but does not complain when her father rubs a droplet of sweat from her cheek with affection.

Her mother is by the river collecting herbs, humming in tune with the birds, while her brother and sister collect insects for amusement.

Hiawatha, the finest young man in the tribe, approaches Abedabun and her father with a token of marriage, a deer slung over his broad shoulders.

She stops her work and looks to her father.

Hiawatha’s token is accepted.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

1970s Justice

HISTORICAL FICTION SUBMISSION:

Nevada shivered from the rush of adrenaline. Life was not fair, so why should she be? She cried for justice for her daughter. He laughed. She had never fired a gun. So uninformed she didn't know if she held a rifle or shotgun, nor the proper distance from her target. She took the gun, the one he used camping and to bag deer, from his end of the closet. She did not know the blast radius or the kick that would knock her on her ass. She did not know how to hunt a moving target, but she could learn.

From Guest Contributor Leah Holbrook Sackett

Quick Examples Of Homonyms

“To bare one’s soul is a difficult thing indeed,” Pappa said.

Baby Bear tried to balance on one leg and fell over.

“Not that type of sole, dear,” Mamma confided, helping her son to his feet.

“What sort of education is that school providing,” Poppa growled, we can barely bear the annual fees. They don’t mete out value for honey.”

“Only the bare essentials, dear,” Momma said, ladling porridge. “That principal, Goldilocks, operates under the principle that bears have no role in The Academie.”

“I must meet her.”

“Deer meat – where?” Baby Bear licked his lips.

Poppa rolled his eyes.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid

Sniper

As if part of the land Masha merges into the rubble. A file of battle-weary Wehrmacht fighters passes.

The last is in her sights.

She had hunted deer in Siberia. They never detected her, so camouflage in Stalingrad’s snow-clad ruins is easy.

Deer, she respects, sharers of the Motherland, killing only for meat.

These Nazi scum are vermin. She would exterminate them all if she could.

She aims for the chest to mortally wound. He falls.

Two comrades rush back to help.

Her next two bullets pass through their foreheads.

She scurries off undetected, three more notches to her name.

From Guest Contributor Ian Fletcher

Tracks

The snow showed her tracks. It was easy for them to follow her. They were clumsy and noisy, but were on her trail. At this pace, she was not sure how long she could last.

As the snow came down harder, her tracks were getting covered and would make them hard to follow. If the snow continued at this rate, her tracks would be obliterated and she would be safe. Then she could stop and rest, and hide under some fir trees until they passed or gave up. She would live another day and maybe give birth to her fawn.

From Guest Contributor NT Franklin

Listing Fear: How to Tell You That I Want

If the bear sits next to the wombat, and a stinkbug bats his lashless eyes at some roundness near a deer, how do I tell you about longing? The robin is silent, the rooster’s belly is a curve under fog, and I am too timid to explain what I want. If the same bear drops his fat genitals onto the pond, water too still, no one wants to look. Your patience is a woman with her voice down low, as if lined in wet fur. And this? This is me practicing, wide-eyed, my mouth a dusty O, palms spilling candy.

From Guest Contributor, Kelli Allen

Kelli Allen’s work has appeared in numerous journals and anthologies in the US and internationally. She served as Managing Editor of Natural Bridge and holds an MFA from the University of Missouri. She is currently a Professor of English and Creative Writing at Lindenwood University. Allen gives readings and teaches workshops throughout the US. Her full-length poetry collection, Otherwise, Soft White Ash, from John Gosslee Books (2012) was nominated for the Pulitzer Prize.