Former Glory

She sits in a worn wheelchair, slightly swaying to the raspy and sultry melodies playing on the radio behind her. Drunkenly sloshing the dark brown liquid in the bottle she’s nursed throughout the night. Her eyes are as heavy as her heart, drooping with sadness and weeping with grief. Taking another sip, she sighs as the liquid scorches down her throat. She hums along to the music, reminiscing times when she played the same syncopated rhythms on stage. Her knobby and wrinkled fingers dance in the air on her ghost piano while swallowing sobs, thinking about her glorious old memories.

From Guest Contributor Sa'Mya Hall

In Its Own Glory

“Tree looks unwell,” stated Dad.

“When was the last time you watered it, Robbie?” Mother asked their eldest offspring.

“Whoops! I forgot.”

Mother got the watering can out. After days of nurturing, the needles still cascaded to the floor.

“Need to add more decorations,” Dad beamed, holding a box of icicles.

On Christmas Eve they all gathered around the tree to sing carols. Selfies were taken between exclamations of “ooh and aah.”

“Christmas 2020!” exclaimed Mother. “COVID-19 edition.”

Extended family, among them the dearly departed, stared down from their portraits on the wall.

“Grandpa would’ve loved this tree,” said Robbie.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna is a writer of poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. She resides in Edmonton, Canada with her husband, stuffed animals and many friends.

The Path

I hurried, heart trilling, feet moving. Left turn, right. The path was familiar, an old enemy. Left again. I could have screamed. It was here somewhere. Right turn.

Yes. There it was, the candy-red button. I pressed it down. A tray burst open with the pellet inside. I crunched into its horrible glory. Relief.

“Nice work, Algernon,” the human said, her thick hand lifting me from the labyrinth and setting me in fresh sawdust. I curled my tail around me. If I slept now, I would reawaken to the path and begin again. Did I have a choice?

I slept.

From Guest Contributor Ryan Doskocil

Parting Sails

The seas clash between her and the shore. Yer crew lined up on the edge of the beach. Her sails are riddled with holes from cannon fire. Her hull crushed and impaled by other vessels that have crashed beside her. Quite a miracle she can float even now. As yer crew take their final glances, ye walk until the water reaches yer knees as ye recall her the most. Through storms, valleys, and currents. With a staff of flame on yer right hand, ye set her ablaze in a last gaze of glory. She rests in the sea’s foamy waters.

From Guest Contributor Nahum Zewdie

Nahum is a student of general studies in Pikes Peak Community College.

The Eclipse

John stared down at the multitudes surrounding him. From his spot at the top of the hill, he could see in all directions. Thousands of people stared up. All here to see him.

As the darkness gradually deepened, the excitement of the crowd grew. Strange glasses were raised to faces. Perhaps they hoped to look more closely at John, in all his glory. But if the sunlight continued to disappear, no one would see anything.

John did not like their attention to be diverted away from him. He deserved the acclaim. Much more so than some trivial act of nature.

The Original Olympians

The original Olympic Games started out of a desire to bring together the warring factions of the Greek City States to do battle inside an arena instead of on the fields of war. Each city would select its best heroes to compete in the most basic athletic pursuits: running short and long distances, wrestling, and hurling a spear or a disc. The champions would achieve the honor of bringing glory and fame to their homeland.

The original Olympic Games ended when a tribe of storm giants descended from the mountains and slaughtered every single one of the participants and spectators.