In Love I Do Write

“Sorry, Ma’am. Nothing.”

Isabel nodded, dismissing the housekeeper. Tears accompanied her sullen soul.

In earlier times she and Alfred exchanged letters frequently. Physical distance between them, when he left for war, mattered not. Had the passion vanished?

Not for her. How could she forget their tireless walks in the countryside, their invigorating conversations, or his warm smiling eyes? He, the son of her parents’ friends.

The expected letter eventually arrived, as did others following.

Only after Isabel and Alfred had died was their love revealed to the world, in a manuscript—a collection of hundreds of letters penned between them.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

For the prompts Manuscript and Letter.

Every Ending

Needle prick. Anesthesia kicks in. You’re floating, light as a feather, then you fall back into your body. But not in this dream. You won’t wake up again.

Harsh hospital lights. There’s no capacity to sustain you. To build homes in this scorched world. You couldn’t afford them, not even before the natural disasters. Instead, one-square-meter pods in space—compact and cheap—for your brain. For all human brains. Other body parts are redundant.

We need to shrink. Reduce our footprint. The resources have been exhausted.

Before your eyes, the scalpel blurs. Remember that every ending is a new beginning.

From Guest Contributor Bettina Laszlo

Working Theory

He has a fear of hot Danish. When the bakery shop opens its accusing awning in the morning, he retreats to avoid notice by the shop’s pastries. Open-air breakfast shops infuriate him. In his infrequent sleep, he is haunted by the idea of smothering icing, steam welling into a wall of baker’s avenging anger. The syrup run-off loitering in the pan. He wakes with his cheeks and tongue burning, the rift of his nose aflame, a gooey lump of heat assaulting his eyes from the backside. He tells himself: they will cool. When they do, he will conquer them all.

From Guest Contributor Ken Poyner

Dispossessed

The spike in adrenaline that accompanied every previous eviction, bankruptcy, and foreclosure did not offer the same exhilaration on this occasion. Walter didn't like the feeling of being out of control.

"You can't do this to me. I'm the one who decides."

"You have ten minutes to gather your belongings and vacate the premises. I recommend contacting a lawyer too."

Walter stormed to his desk, fuming at the injustice. He saw the eyes following him and wondered which of his colleagues was behind this betrayal. They were all guilty of the same illegal bookkeeping errors.

He was simply the scapegoat.

The Shot

Ekanth carefully eases the postcard out of its nail. His fingers caress over the smiling faces etched against white peaks and pine-specked slopes. Bittersweet childhood memories rush through him: the long-planned vacation, the magical snow, the family selfie for a postcard, and then the crack of guns. All that remains is the postcard, now framed.

Setting it down with a tremble, he climbs onto the stool beneath the fan. Noose in place, he closes his eyes.

Just then, the doorbell rings. His eyes jerk open. Neha smiles at him from a postcard, the Eiffel towering behind her. His gaze falters.

From Guest Contributor Naga Vydyanathan

Naga likes to pen stories that explore the quiet fears and hidden thoughts of her characters. Her work has been published in online magazines like Literary Stories and MeanPepperVine.

Muted

Late one night in a foreign town, I walked past two men just inside a dark alley. The larger one had the other pushed up against a wall with a knife under his chin. The smaller man looked at me with pleading, terror-filled eyes. When the larger man jerked to follow his gaze, I hurried beyond them up the street. No one else was around to turn to for help. I had no cell phone and no idea where the nearest police station was. So I just continued on my way, hands trembling, head down: voiceless, derelict, abandoning all rectitude.

From Guest Contributor William Cass

Final Goodbyes

As I held Josh’s hand, looked at his face, eyes shut, tubes in his nose and throat, I teared trying to hold back my emotions from a full-blown cry. It had been several months, and the doctors tried everything, but he remained unresponsive. Every day I prayed for a miracle, but deep within, I knew there wasn’t one. So, I continued to speak and visit him often.

Today he’s being taken off the machines, and now it’s time for final goodbyes.

I watched his chest move slowly up and down until his final breath.

A cold shiver.

He was gone.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

The Dead Are Ghosts

Every time Marvin rode the subway, he thought of Sarah. It got to the point he wondered if she was haunting him. For more than a decade they'd ridden the train together every morning, her to the high school where she taught, him to the warehouse that he managed. When he closed his eyes, he felt Sarah sitting next to him. Sometimes she'd even lay her head on his shoulder like she used to. He didn't want to look for fear of what he would see.

The dead ARE ghosts, but not in the world around us. They live inside.

The Man Who Loved Bears

Bob was excited. His new coworkers had planned a birthday surprise. It was slightly strange they'd gone through the trouble of learning what he liked, blindfolding him, and driving him to a secret location when he'd only joined the team two weeks ago, but he he'd taken the job because of their excellent HR record. He was already impressed by their enthusiasm for team building activities.

"Okay, you can remove your blindfold."

Adjusting his eyes to the light, Bob jumped in terror. He was locked in a cage with a massive grizzly bear.

"I said I liked beer, not bears!"

Who Am I?

When my parents told me the news that I was adopted, it didn’t shock me. I knew that I was different. I have black hair and deep brown eyes, and both my parents have hazel eyes and blond hair. I was told I took after my grandfather who died before my time. Conveniently, no one had pictures.

I decided to track my biological parents. Now we’re meeting for the first time at their home, and I have a lot of questions.

I stood outside pondering whether to go in since I may not like the answers.

I turned and left.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher