Home From War

I stepped off the bus, my body drenched in sweat. I couldn’t wait to remove my uniform.

I walked the path, the grass greener than I remembered and budding with flowers.

My head ached from the heat, and I needed a bath, but I didn’t think my wife would mind.

There Jane stood, her dress blowing in the breeze, her hair longer, shielding the sun from her face. She screamed my name and ran into my arms.

We enjoyed a passionate kiss that lasted several minutes when she took my hand and led me inside.

The bath would certainly wait.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Papa

I slip through alleys to get to the resistance and relay the information I have learned. The black out starts and the only sound is the rustling of my dress.

I hear footsteps and then a voice. “Halt! Papers.”

“Certainly. My father is sick and needed medicine. I had to go across town to the only doctor available.”

There’s something in his eyes that I don’t trust. I stab him through the gut. I’m almost in the clear and then a shot rings out. Blood soaks through my dress, I gasp for air and then collapse.

See you soon, Papa.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Blue Lights

“In the basement?” I throw my face at Sunny. Gosh. I hate him sometimes. “What could you possibly want to show me...in the basement?”

The bulb above us illuminates his smile. “Just open it, Sophie.”

I push the door, and I gasp.

“It’s beautiful,” I whisper.

“Yes. Just like you.”

“Where did you get this Sunny? It must have cost a lifetime.”

“You’re worth a million lifetimes, Sophie.”

Tears anoint my cheeks.

“One more thing.” Sunny flicks off the lights. The white dress glows an azure sheen.

He kneels. “Will you marry me?” A ring sparkles in my face.

From Guest Contributor Tom Okafor

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

Narcissi

Resplendent in her white dress, she headed down the steps from the veranda. He tightened his parka to stave off the wind and followed.

Behind the house they built, they strode toward the pond, their barren feet leaving a trail along the mucky ground. Her smile was terse, he clenched his jaw. He searched for something new to say, she shook her head. They knit their hands, now ringless, and peered at their reflection.

Later, when the children rushed out to search for them, all they found by the water’s edge was a white lily rising beside a thistle bush.

From Guest Contributor Nicholas Katsanis

Nico is a writer of magical realism and absurdist fiction. His work has appeared in 50-word stories and Literally Stories. Look out for his debut novel Bocce at the End of the World in 2022 and follow him on Twitter @nicholaskatsan1

'Tis My Life

A knock at the door jolts me off the sofa. I peek through the blinds then rush to the bedroom to throw on my favorite dress, hoping he’ll wait.

“I’m coming!”

I brush my hair and give myself a once-over in front of the mirror as I don my mask, careful to not snag my earrings. My phone dings. A text from him.

I dash to the door, but it’s too late. As he drives away, I feel sadness overtake me for a minute. Then I remember his purpose. Smiling, I look to the ground. My Amazon order has arrived.

From Guest Contributor Jennifer Lai

Christmas Surprises

Kristy lights the Christmas tree, the glass ornaments glistening in the room. The freshly lit candle gives a warm aroma and the fireplace crackles. They tried for two years to conceive and today she received the wonderful news from the doctor.

Dinner is in the oven, and Kristy is wearing her best red sleeveless dress for the occasion. She sits near the fireplace and listens to the flickering flames, the sound soothing her nervous excitement.

She hears the key in the door and runs to the kitchen.

Cuddled in her husband’s arms is a tiny sleeping puppy.

Another Christmas surprise.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

The Homes Of Birds (Nature Contest Winner)

I'm very excited to present the winner of our Nature Flash Fiction Contest, from regular contributor Brook Bhagat. Someone might look at the strange format and say it's more of a poem than a short story, but my favorite poems are the ones that tell a story as well. Plus I liked it so this is the one I'm choosing. Congratulations Brook! And thanks to everyone who participated. A lot of great stories.

I understand the funeral I have the address the dress the time

it begins with smiling cameras and ends with paper tablecloths, cold cuts and deviled eggs downstairs

even worse is the sunshine, all those empty minutes left

I would have lost it

if not

For the hike, still in our black together,you and Ben, the boy,me and my sister arm in armdown the easy path atGarden of the Gods,

lighter than before, noticing the homesof birds in the rocks and rememberingwe are just a moment, fragmentsof a mystery that flies and sings.

From Guest Contributor Brook Bhagat

Brook’s poetry, fiction, non-fiction, and humor have appeared in Monkeybicycle, Empty Mirror Magazine, Harbinger Asylum, Little India, Rat's Ass Review, Lotus-Eater Magazine, Anthem: A Tribute to Leonard Cohen, and other journals and anthologies. She and her husband Gaurav created Blue Planet Journal, which she edits and writes for. She holds an MFA from Lindenwood University, teaches creative writing at a community college, and is writing a novel. Her poetry collection, Only Flying, is due out Nov. 16, 2021 from Unsolicited Press. See more at brook-bhagat.com or reach her on Twitter at @BrookBhagat.

Stay tuned for an announcement soon about our next contest!

Mother

I try on names for mythical mother. Mother. Mama. Mom. They hold their own weight. Mother, formal, yet beautiful. Mama, the moon, wistful and luminous. Mom is too plain.

Daddy tells me to stop with the mother stuff. Focus on what I have. He stayed to keep me safe.

But he never loves. Never smiles.

I conjure images. From ten years ago. Maybe they’re dreams. A silhouette. A lavender dress, a temper. Perfume. Words of love, fleeting.

Dad’s all beards and beer. Orders, no words of love.

Love doesn’t pay bills.

I keep trying on names, wishing. I can’t stop.

From Guest Contributor Yash Seyedbagheri

Yash is a graduate of Colorado State University's MFA program in fiction. A recipient of two Honorable Mentions from Glimmer Train, he has had work nominated for a Pushcart Award and The Best Small Fictions. Yash's work is forthcoming or has been published in journals such as Unstamatic, Door Is A Jar Magazine, Maudlin House, and Ariel Chart.

She's Done Crying

She wasn’t crying today. First day in years. All dolled up with makeup and wearing her fanciest dress, she was going somewhere. And she looked good, so good, that even her children smiled a little. Friends had been expecting this, and some stopped to see her. Daniel wasn’t there. He never was. His love for her was long gone. After being gone for fifteen years, even the kids didn’t care about him anymore.

It was time. A loud thump signaled the end. The latches sealed and locked the casket closed. The finality of it was unmistakable. She was done crying.

From Guest Contributor NT Franklin