Floating

On the way to our waterhole, I noticed something hanging from my ballcap. Repeated brushing did not get rid of what I had thought was a spider on a thread. Checked eyebrows and eyelash – no. Eventually had to accept it was in my eye. Call to doctor sent me quickly to an ophthalmologist. I got my first floater but was relieved to find out that I didn’t have anything more serious wrong with my eye. I thought that it would dissolve by itself or there was a miracle laser that could blast it, but no. We’ve learned to live together.

From Guest Contributor Doug Hawley

Yes, Dr. No

I’m told to go sit in the waiting area while “the laser heats up,” and for an instant, I’m not at the clinic or some anxious old man unable to see out his left eye, I’m with Sean Connery/James Bond in Dr. No, the scene where he’s tied spreadeagle on a steel table, and even as the fiery red laser beam that cuts through metal creeps closer and closer and closer to his, you know, “junk,” he banters with the archvillain, demonstrating to each of us caught in our own desperate straits the art of living bravely under imaginary circumstances.From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie 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.

Eye Of Beholder

Todd had always put others before himself, which had brought a sense of well-being and worth when he was young.

But the years and the takers had garnered their toll: the most recent family emergency leaving him stranded on an island of agoraphobia.

He’d just washed the dishes when the doorbell rang.

The wireless security camera bought online amid a bout of paranoia relayed the image of a stranger with a clipboard – practiced smile glued to his face.

Todd could just make out the logo of a phone company on the top sheet.

Another would-be taker.

Sunlight glinted off steak-knives.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid

The Last Bath

I bathe the cat in the bathroom sink, so light, his little feline spine sharp with the thinning of time—twenty years. Hold him by the belly in the right hand, baby shampoo with the left. More soap for the diaper area. Careful of his eyes, looking so far away these days. Squeeze the water down his tail, his legs, all bones. Towel off, gentle, gentle. Murmur assurances that it’s almost over. Sit down on the couch, hold him in the towel. Is he ok? Movement—a gasp, he’s fine. Then my tear fell in his eye. He didn’t blink.

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, 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, is an assistant professor of English 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.

Forever And Ever

“Love from my heart to yours, always,” Christopher’s mother cooed, cradling his young body.

During adolescence their relationship strengthened. Whenever he lost direction, she made time for him.

Into adulthood, the pattern continued. He didn’t hesitate in seeking her wisdom.

As Christopher strolled on the beach near the home they once shared, something at a distance caught his eye. A polished heart-shaped pebble glistened under the streaming sunshine.

He looked to the deep blueness above, thanking his mother for the gift. Feeling her warmth, after she had left life on earth.

Hearts continued to surface the rest of his life.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna is a writer of poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. She resides in Edmonton, Canada.

Lucif And Mi

Lucif turns to his friend Mi. “Let’s go.”

“Nonsense, we have yet to explore.”

“With days of darkness, how can this be a safe home for our families.”

“No, we are staying.”

Lucif makes a run for the spaceship. He almost reaches the lever for the door when Mi pulls him back, knocking him to the ground. They struggle and with one sweeping kick, Mi flies in the air and lands hard on his head, yellow eye wide open. He is dead.

Lucif leans over his friend and closes his eye, then heads to the ship.

He is going home.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Confessions

Did she hear right?

The curtains are parted. It is naked black in the bedroom except for a slice of light exposing one hazel eye, the outline of his angular face. Clare knows how soft that eye-brow is to touch and how it is to be in the centre of that dark gaze.

Moving to the window, she peers outside: they will never be two names chiselled into a hill, hewn into rock. For months she wished she was that whisper of sunlight on his face. That and no more.

‘I’m married,’ Mike repeats.

‘I heard you. So am I.’

From Guest Contributor Louise Worthington

Decree 349

Five naked women had been lined up against the wall. Something about the one in the middle caught the captain’s eye, whether a tattoo or the way she shyly covered her breasts with her hands. “May I offer you some candy?” he asked. It was only then she remembered that Kafka was buried in a plain wooden coffin, a stray fact that under other circumstances might have been interesting to share. That’s just the sort of place this is, no time for a chat, not even about who it was that tracked in blood on the bottom of their shoes.From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author most recently of What It Is and How to Use It from Grey Book Press. He co-edits the journals Unbroken and UnLost.

The Sea

The gentle ripple of the waves soothes me, as I listen to the seagulls flying above searching for prey. A mother is helping her young son build a sandcastle while keeping an eye out for her daughter. “Don’t go too far out,” she bellows.

The ocean splashes against my legs and seaweed gets caught in-between my toes. I chortle and kick my feet, releasing it back into the water. I love the sea, its openness and the people who come to get away from everyday life.

The ocean is a world of its own, and the world is the ocean.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

The Hold-Up

Standing in a long bank line that isn’t moving makes M itchy. The dog controller, sloughed in front of her, smells of stale tobacco. M stands too close, and her nose begins to run. In time to her sniffles, the line of gritty workmen shifts its weight. M looks ahead and sees the hold-up—the town collector, cashing her social security. At last, she steps away. The line glares at her. On her way out, red velvet cupcakes catch her eye. She stops, takes napkins, and stacks a tower inside her oversized purse—smiling, this is what she came for.

From Guest Contributor M.J. Iuppa