Unfinished Business

I returned from the dead, a list in my pocket: wrongs to right, pleasures to reclaim, truths to confess, sins to own. Mostly I needed to know how the world had fared without me. Apart from my poor mother, a grieving ghost of her former self, it was as if I’d never lived. Never loved. Never mattered. A stranger slept in my bed, alongside my darling wife, in my home, the one I’d slaved to pay for, my manicured garden now wildly overgrown. I fed the list to the fire. I’d start over from the very beginning, wherever that was.

From Guest Contributor Elizabeth Murphy

The Boat

Queenie was a friend of mine. I went to visit one weekend. Her husband was there but I didn't get to see him much because he was "busy working on the boat."

He was working in the garden. I went out to say hello but he was silent and went on with the work.

We had a meal, just the two of us. Queenie was used to dining alone.

When we heard that the boat had sunk on its first voyage, there was a certain amount of hilarity. He had escaped with his life. The devil looks after his own.

From Guest Contributor Derek McMillan

Derek is the writer of "Murder from Beyond the Grave" available on eBay.

The Garden

"Be seen not heard," they'd say. Even as I dreamt my voice was void. I found myself questioning; was I even being noticed? My arms were flailing, begging for someone to lay their eyes on me. Their blank stare told me all I needed to know. I was nothing at all. I sauntered to the garden and rested my head on the bed of soft blooms. The leaves wound and bent until they filled up my throat, my ears, my eyes; beauty had taken over. I was pulled into the damp soil. I was now definitively neither seen nor heard.

From Guest Contributor Kenna Elliot

Vines

Amidst the barrenness of their surroundings, they found refuge in each other's arms. Though the winds howled and rained down upon them, they held on tight, refusing to let go. Together, they weathered the storm, their love growing stronger with each passing moment. And as the skies cleared and the sun shone, they knew they had found something special—a love that could withstand anything. Their hearts began to beat as one, like two vines interwoven, awaking a long-forgotten garden. It was as if fate had brought them together—two lost souls searching for a way out of the darkness.

From Guest Contributor J. Iner Souster

That Night

The sky looked heavy as darkening clouds pressed hard against the planet's surface. The two dominant elements fought. It was like an unstable ballet.

"Are you going to fight with me?"

Sam shook his head. "We're not fighting."

He wanted to return to that night in the garden with Lily.

Lightning illuminated the clouds, shattering the heavens, spilling its hot sparks in whirlpools that burst into thunder. Sam's heart pounded fast.

"It can't end here," Lilith cried.

Sam knew what was coming.

"Hey guys," Adam waves. "Beautiful night."

Thunder crashed.

Samael bowed his head crying as the real thunderstorm began.

From Guest Contributor J. Iner Souster

Gratitude

“So nice,” Sarah thought, reciprocating a friendly wave.

She would’ve helped if her arthritic hands weren’t an issue. Instead, she watched the next door neighbor bend countless times to weed a bountiful garden.

When showy bouquets were presented at her front door, Sarah returned the favor with her baking. When her husband died, the neighbor had arranged funeral flowers free of charge.

Drought settled the following year. Flowering plants suffered. Rosebuds dried, not getting a chance to bloom. Much of the garden had dwindled.

Unlike the blossoming friendship between the two women, who found themselves together at a seniors’ lodging.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes poetry, fiction and creative nonfiction regardless of the season, although she prefers spring.

Sparks

I lit a fire in the garden brazier and threw in all my notebooks. If books are shut they burn slowly but if you fan them out they may catch; soon the blaze was roaring sparks up into the arms of Orion, poised with his great stellar fire-blanket. Passport, driving licence, certificates: orange heat, a feeling of rage and an aftertaste of rubber and almonds. Then I jumped, arms turning into wings, I took the fire into myself. Then I was the stars, then I knew, I was the burning. Singed feathers, and now I could be the morning mist.

From Guest Contributor Geoff Sawers

Platero And I: Ode In The Garden

They say my garden is wild, Platero, as is my hair - Martha would be ashamed if she saw this garden.Don't they know this garden is an ode to Martha?

That every year when the leaves lose grip, I prune erratic. I seek your approval, Platero, because you‘ve seen Martha do it so often.

That hedge over there: sloppy and unevenly shaven; the bushes butterflies like to sit on, brusquely stripped of their thick branches - hopefully none vital.

That’s why this garden is an ode to Martha: because I’m lost without her and not just in the garden.

From Guest Contributor Hervé Suys

Hervé (°1968 – Ronse, Belgium) started writing short stories whilst recovering from a sports injury and he hasn’t stopped since. Generally he writes them hatless and barefooted.

Fifty-Fifty: A Sullen Revival

scowling, baldwin grabbed the welcome-to-9 birthday card from the tv compartment. birthdays? useless! he thought. aren't birthdays for children whom god gave little time and had to celebrate their short lives. just like my twinnie.

he crumpled the card. flung it. headed for the garden.

seeing him, his mother flinched. this wasn't baldwin. but why wear baldwin's clothes? even baldwin's red hair?

—joey!

—i'm now baldwin. no longer joey. i come to say 'no birthdays anymore!'

—whatcha doing, eh?

—we're fine wi'ddis, mum.

his mother wiped tears. groaned. —baldwin's dead, joey. stop this.

—he's my twin. he wanna live, too!

From Guest Contributor Elisha Oluyemi

Journey's End

My duty to the Dispossessed is finally done.

I carried and cared for the few thousand survivors in their cryotubes, as we fled the 200 light years from Earth. Their life signs, my only companions, became dear to me. Now, after T-centuries of terraforming, K2-72e is habitable. I call it Hope.

But responsibility remains. If Hope falls to hubris, or misjudgement, or pollution, then the work will have been for nothing; my friends and their children will die.

The risk is too great. I will let them sleep safely on, watching over them, and keeping this garden in their memory.

From Guest Contributor Alastair Millar

Alastair is an archaeologist by training, a translator by trade, and a nerd by nature. His published flash and micro fiction can be found at https://linktr.ee//alastairmillar and he lurks on Twitter @skriptorium.