Truth

The doors open and the bridal party makes their entrance, the music resonating throughout the church. The women shine in their baby blue gowns and the bride, Belle, arm in arm with her dad, shines. Her white gown with sequined embroidery catches the eyes of the onlookers, as her father smiles and leads his daughter to the groom. My stomach churns. I can’t let this wedding happen knowing the truth.

Once the priest gives his wedding sermon the vows begin. When he asks if anyone objects, I hastily stand.

The room, aghast over the disruption, waits for me to respond.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Growing Up With Lions

CONTEST SUBMISSION:

Swimming with sharks? I’ve been growing up with lions. Coalitions of gown-wearing males, competitive and cooperative. A strong coalition, George and Chris built an empire that lasted for ten years before being kicked out by an invader. Leading an exodus of talent, each took over a different territory. Ryan lost the battle for supremacy to Elaine who extended her influence over critical areas. Parachuted, Lydia cooperated with Harry, but got rid of Zoey being in her way. But there is a new species emerging, leading an open ecosystem to unite and build territory. It’s all about joining the right pride.

From Guest Contributor David Chek Ling Ngo

David lives in Puchong, Malaysia, where he works as a professor at a Scottish university branch campus. His short prose has appeared in A Story In 100 Words, Friday Flash Fiction, and Five Minutes.

Daddy's Little Girl

His little girl called and said that she was getting married.

When he first held her she weighed about as much as two large apples. He was told it could be only hours so say goodbye.

Hours turned into days and then years.

His wife never wanted to try again so his little girl would be the only one that went to see the Yankees with him and share the dogs, the overloaded nachos, the wings, sundaes, and when she was old enough, the brewskis.

"How do I look, Daddy?" The gown was perfect for her 400 pounds.

"Beautiful, Baby."

From Guest Contributor E. Barnes

Firstborn

The soon to be father entered the delivery room wearing a hastily tied paper gown.

“You’re just in time, Dad. We’re about to have a baby,” the doctor said. A large set of forceps flashed before vanishing behind the curtain. “Okay Mom, one more good push.”

Mom screamed while attempting to crush her husband’s hand. After a smack on the rear, the newborn sucked in its first breath and wailed.

“Congratulations, you have a baby girl.”

Tears of joy filled mom’s eyes as her daughter was placed into her arms, and she said with concern, “She looks like an alien.”

From Guest Contributor Eddie D. Moore

Eddie travels hundreds of hours a year, and he fills that time by listening to audiobooks. When he isn’t playing with his grandchildren, he writes his own stories. His stories have been published by Kzine, Alien Dimensions, Black Hare Press, Nomadic Delirium Press, Fantasia Divinity Publishing and by dozens of online publishers. You can find a list of his publications on his blog, eddiedmoore.wordpress.com, or by visiting his Amazon Author Page, amazon.com/author/eddiedmoore. While you’re there, be sure to pick up a copy of his mini-anthology Misfits & Oddities.

Reflection

I sit by the fireplace in the cabin I rent, sipping steaming tea,staring at the painting above the mantel.

The woman’s face has a distinct redness to her cheeks and lips. Her deepbrown eyes match the color of her hair which is tied in a bun with onesmall red rose tucked behind her left ear, her head tilting ever soslightly. Her pearl necklace drapes neatly around her neck and shestands tall, her gown showing off her shapely hips.

There’s no date on the painting or artist signature.

The young woman in the painting is me.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

The West Wing

We’d barely set down our suitcases when Vic said he wanted to leave. “Let’s wait for a Howard Johnson. This place is a dump. Look, cockroaches!”

And there they were, pausing to look at us as they strolled across the bed. “Yes,” I said, “but they’re dressed to the nines.”

They were stunning, her in a lacy ball gown with puffed sleeves and a train, fashioned from the iridescent wings of flies, and him in his coat and tails and tiny top hat.

“Let’s stay,” I said. “Maybe we can learn something.”

“Don’t be stupid,” he said. “Roaches are roaches.”

From Guest Contributor Brook Bhagat

Brook’s nonfiction, poetry, and fiction have appeared or are forthcoming in dozens of publications, including Little India, Outpost, Nowhere Poetry, The Syzygy Poetry Journal, and Rat's Ass Review, and she is the co-owner and chief editor of BluePlanetJournal.com. She holds a B.A. from Vassar College and an MFA from Lindenwood University and teaches creative writing at a community college. She has completed a full-length hybrid manuscript and is writing a novel.

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