Change Of Heart

Think of it as a substitute pump,” the surgeons encourage him. “Latest technology, stringent testing. Equally life-enhancing as the heart God gave you.”

Will it buy him time for his daughter’s imminent wedding? Or beyond, and a new grandchild?

“Side effects include problematic emotional disorders.”

Surely morning birdsong, leisurely travel, favourite classical music will quiet unexplained turmoil.

He acquiesces, yet flails against this plastic invader into his chest.

Without warning, a fog enwraps his mind, shrouds familiar feelings. The mystifying retreat of joy, sorrow, empathy panics him. Why has love for his daughter vanished?

Oblivious, his new heart pumps steadily.

From Guest Contributor Gary Thomson

Duel At Dawn

The cool, crisp morning air is cold, even in the fog I see my breath. “10 paces I’ll count; 10 paces then turn and shoot,” said my friend. I begin to walk. One. The wet, dewy grass is under my feet. Two. I wore my best clothes today, complete with the gray coat. Three. Black crows call in the distance, laughing at us fools. Seven. Dear god he is already at seven, I think. Eight. The black trigger of this 50-year-old pistol will have another kill. Nine. “Forgive me, Anne. Forgive me,” I pray. Ten. I turn, aim, and shoot.

From Guest Contributor Hayden Unfred

The Tempest

The trees about Raoul start to strain on their top masts and branches. Fog flees, a great wind comes, a storm too.

Raoul continues his walk, waiting, patient. Ever aware of the menace about him. The sky about him blackens. Cold winds herald the approaching storm before him, devouring and chasing back the once settled fog bank.

Mountains now appear in the distance. He eyes the storm dancing down their peaks, dragging the the veil of night with them and...the frozen tempest coming.

Over the drone of the wind, Raoul distinctly hears the Watcher in the Woods growl, 'Raoul!'

From Guest Contributor Brett Dyer

Coda

He followed the familiar tune through the fog: strings, horns, that impossibly sweet voice. The gloom lifted to reveal the girl, singing her heart out under the spotlight, invisible orchestra in accompaniment. He cried tears of joy, felt love, and also something not quite love.

"You sing it to me every night in my mind. But it sounds so much clearer now. Why?"

She smiled sadly. "Can't you guess?"

*

"Is he dead?" The reporter watched the killer's body inside the execution chamber.

"Yes."

He peered closer. "What does he have to smile about? He murdered that girl right on stage!"

From Guest Contributor Clay Waters

Happiness In Heaven

I walk down the abandoned streets as the slightest beam of light begins to brighten the unlit sky. The brisk wind forces a stubborn tear to stream down the side of my cheek and crystallizes from the absence of warmth. In the fog filled skies of New York City, I take my last exploration before I restart my life. I stumble down the stairs that stand before me and I make my way into a desolate tunnel that fills with light the longer I wait. A loud horn echoes. I guess now is my time to fly away from here.From Guest Contributor Lilia Onstott

Lilia is an English student at Pikes Peak Community College. She spends her free time by allowing her mind to express itself within many artistic fields, like writing, photography, and music.

Memorials

Through the fog and overgrowth that chokes the front yard, an eruption of tulips grows on either side of the doorway, an invitation to visitors that stopped visiting decades ago. They are the only splash of color on the otherwise gray facade of the crumpling structure that used to be a house.

Tulips once required cold weather to survive. Somehow these plants learned to adapt, and are now in flower nearly year round. A stark contrast to the failure of civilization all around them. Were anyone still alive who could understand, there's a metaphor to be found in those plants.

Roswell Café

Occupants of the flying saucer are being chased by their archenemy. Desperately looking for a safe place to hide.

Radar shows a habitable planet nearby. After scanning the surface they decide to land in a town called Roswell. They wait until late at night, create a thick fog, and then land the spacecraft. They scan the Internet and soon have the information they need. As the fog clears one of the aliens puts a sign on the front hatch that reads “Opening Soon.”

Billy and Betty Simms drive past the saucer. “Looks like another new restaurant,” Betty says to Billy.

From Guest Contributor Denny E. Marshall

I'll Stay

I’ll stay.

I never did see their faces when they grabbed, raped, and beat me. Nor when they left me for dead in the canal not far from home.

A delusional hermit fished me out – tended to me in his old gardening shed they used to give coal miners. He called me daughter. His tenderness and doting seemed true.

It’s been two years – he is my Dad. And I his Isabella. A cozy shed-home for two.

But now shades of my past have begun flickering through the fog. I had been Anne. An orphaned young prostitute. Alone.

Isabella was lucky.

From Guest Contributor Nicolle Browne-Jamet

Overindulgence

She was tired and had too much to drink. Her eyes drooped to provide the perfect screen for strange imaginings. Time passed.

Chloe jolted awake to a shift in the buzz of conversation, her vision presenting a weird split screen of a now empty hotel bar, a new day’s sun barging through the large windows and reflecting off each polished surface to sear through the fog in her brain: judgmentally bright.

Her clothes smelled of staleness and smoke. Stale vomit prowled the back of her throat.

Chloe waddled to the bathroom, suddenly aware of another need.

She’d open late today.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid

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.