Ascent

I turn aside before Everest’s summit. Hobbling to a low drift, I scoop away the snow. I have found her, still lying where she had collapsed on her fateful ascent years ago. I peel off her goggles. She stares at the cobalt sky, as if daydreaming. Her ivory skin remains unspoilt, despite the passage of time.

Laying down beside her, I unclip my mask and gasp in the thin air.

My heart pummels my ribs while I remove our gloves.

I wrap my wife’s stiff hand in mine and gaze up at the heavens, waiting to see what she sees.

From Guest Contributor Christopher Mattravers-Taylor

Chistopher has been shortlisted in the Summer 2023 and Autumn 2024 Voice.Club Competitions and longlisted in Periscope Literary’s 2023 short story competition. He was also a finalist in Globe Soup’s October and November 2024 100-word competition. His short stories have variously been described as fierce, dark, humorous and descriptive. Currently he enjoys writing short stories with a speculative edge, and now is beginning his debut novel. He lives in Bristol, UK, with an amazing wife and two wonderful children he does not deserve.

His writing is coloured by his experiences as a ME sufferer, particle physicist at CERN, property developer, core driller, disability benefits claimant, Dalmatian breeder, traveller, and more besides. One thing has remained constant in his chaotic life, however: his love of Encona Hot Sauce.

Storm

The snow and wind pelted my face. The inclemency hadn’t started until I was half-way to the subway station, and people slipped across the pavement rushing to get home. Vehicles honked at pedestrians cutting in and out of lanes, so I had to be careful. I tried not to think about the numbing in my fingers after forgetting my gloves at home.

After a half hour walk which should’ve taken ten minutes, I was in the station.

When the train arrived and I boarded, I knew it would be a matter of time before I’d be snug by the fireplace.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Nature

NATURE SUBMISSION:

I watch the red cardinal swoop from tree to tree and chirp in unison with the other birds while flapping its wings. The air is crisp and the sun abundant. The breeze gives a slight chill, so I wrap a scarf around my neck and continue planting.

The sun begins to fade, and the birds disappear into the sky. I wipe my forehead and remove the gardening gloves.

As I sit with my feet up sipping a cold glass of water, I say a silent prayer that the pandemic ends, and we are free as the birds flying this earth.

From Guest Contributor Lisa Scuderi-Burkimsher

Frozen Morning

The bright light of the dawn greets him with a cheerful glow, sneaking lies between the buildings.

His breath forms thick clouds that mocks him with its resemblance to cigarette smoke. His fingers ache in his tattered gloves. His legs creak as he raises himself from his bed to face the whitewashed town, bleached clean of its sins.

Looking back towards his bed, the cardboard's damp. Ragged sleeping bags and repurposed plastic have brought him into the frozen day.

Children laugh in the distance. The rumble of snowploughs begin, pushing the salt-weakened snow into heaps of black slush.

From Guest Contributor T.W. Garland

Yellow Rose

She stood in the kitchen, surrounded by packed boxes. The yellow rose lay wilting on the coffee table; a reminder of the stunning events of the past several days. In flower parlance, yellow roses ask for forgiveness. She knew her marriage was in trouble when her husband turned up with a sheepish look on his face and a yellow rose in his gloved hand. Now it wilted on the table, a ridiculously anti-romantic symbol of their once healthy and robust relationship. He had moved in with the dog trainer and she was left feeling as faded as the damned flower.

From Guest Contributor JoAnne Dowd

The Anniversary

The mirror was unkind. Struggling to zip the reclaimed wedding gown, she closed fading blue eyes. The scent of fresh roses mingled fern, the coolness of pearl against deep furrowed neck. Weathered, shaking hands smoothed vintage satin. Gently opening the floral hat box, once belonging to grandmother. Keepsakes of that day hidden for decades welcomed light. The tea length veil distorted graying hair, a pair of ivory gloves, stained by spilled wine from an over zealous toast. "Somewhere My Love" played in her head, lifting her gown she twirled. Singing softly. He watched without her knowing, not wanting to interrupt.

From Guest Contributor Christy Schuld