Truth

The doors open and the bridal party makes their entrance, the music resonating throughout the church. The women shine in their baby blue gowns and the bride, Belle, arm in arm with her dad, shines. Her white gown with sequined embroidery catches the eyes of the onlookers, as her father smiles and leads his daughter to the groom. My stomach churns. I can’t let this wedding happen knowing the truth.

Once the priest gives his wedding sermon the vows begin. When he asks if anyone objects, I hastily stand.

The room, aghast over the disruption, waits for me to respond.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

The Pyramids

The new neighbors were installing an elevator in the three-story home on the corner. As soon as it was finished, they handed out tickets like we were going for a ride. When the doors opened, we stepped out into a blistering afternoon, where men were struggling with giant blocks of stone. Were they busy creating one of the ancient wonders of the world? It looked like we might be witnessing a miracle, but the air was stifling, thousands of years old. Wasn’t it time to go home and relax? Kick off our shoes, call an end to this crazy day?

From Guest Contributor Linda Lowe

Life Misspelled

Intelligent machines probe not only my words, but also the silent spaces between words, searching for hidden doors to secret rooms. As a kid, I won a goldfish at the county fair by tossing a ping-pong ball into the fish’s bowl. My mom flushed Goldie down the toilet while I was at school. I think of it sometimes when I see Nazis invading Poland on the History Channel. “Last name?” the woman behind the counter asks, eyes on the computer screen, hands poised on the keyboard. “Good,” I say. “How do you spell that?” “Like God, but with two o’s.”From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author most recently of Stick Figure Opera: 99 100-word Prose Poems from Cajun Mutt Press. He co-edits the online journals Unbroken and UnLost.

Scrabbling For Vanity

Most had outside toilets, located in narrow backyards just far enough away from kitchen doors for odours to dissipate.

Granddad’s was a stark brick shell with a plank-door, cord for inner handle, neatly torn newspaper for wiping, and Adamant throne a chasm to toddlers.

The landlord was actually well-to-do and had provided an Edwardian commode, but this was purely for night-time excursions by the ladies of the house.

The home of the paternal grandmother faced the cathedral; the toilet inside. She boasted poshness.

The facility was internal only because her house had no yard. She forever nagged about flushing properly.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid

Last-Minute Shoppers

“Wrapping paper! Ha, ha!”

Shoppers passed by clutching rolls of it.

“Fancy spending Christmas Eve wrapping presents!” Ian thought, reflecting on how he’d finished his yesterday.

“My God, they’re fighting over chocolates,” he sneered, observing a couple of housewives tugging the ends of a Milk Tray box in Howell’s Department Store.

He resolved to have a latte in Starbucks to fully savour the spectacle before the shops finally closed.

“Chocolates?!...Christ, I forgot the wife’s chocolates!”

Ian rushed out of the café.

“Where the hell can I find some now?” he thought, seeing the doors of Howell’s snap shut.

From Guest Contributor Ian Fletcher

About Hearts

She told him he had no heart. He was shocked.

Didn’t she appreciate his help? He opened doors whenever she carried heaped laundry baskets. At mealtimes, he cleared the table and piled dishes in the sink.

Not fair! He planned to prove her wrong.

When dinner was ready, he called her over. She was surprised. Said he had a huge heart to spend hours fixing that gourmet meal. He was speechless.

In the outdoor trash lay packaging from the foods he presented. Topped with a heart-shaped box of chocolates. It got crushed by a car after falling off his bike.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. Her work has been published at: Nailpolish Stories, 50-Word Stories, 100 word story, 101 Words, Boston Literary Magazine, From the Depths (Haunted Waters Press), ShortbreadStories, SixWordMemoirs, and Espresso Stories.

My Love Is A Store

My love is a store whose shelves are stocked with goods which are all long past their expiration date. Somewhere amongst the forgotten and unwanted items I know there’s still one or two things whose time has not yet come. They’re waiting patiently, like me, for the day a shopper finally comes inside and finds exactly what’s she’s been looking for. When that day comes (and it will), all the waiting will have been worth it, and I can shut down the register, turn off the lights, and close the doors for the last time on this unique little shop.

From Guest Contributor Dan Slaten