Preparing For Landing

Do we have to visit them?” the eight-year-old asked. “Grandma is weird and...”

“Grandpa is mean,” added her older brother.

Elsa observed the linear perfection of farmland below, largely ignoring her children.

At their age, she rode a tractor alongside her grandfather. They made rows into which other tractors dropped seed potatoes and covered them with soil.

By summer, when Elsa returned from the city, those fields were lush green having absorbed spring rainfalls.

As the plane prepared for landing, she knew her children would experience a different summer vacation.

The farm was no longer a property her family owned.From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

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

Cloudy Day

Nothing hurts like the pain in my chest or the ache in my head. Thoughts of my grandma’s last embrace grip me. I look up, expecting to see her face in the clouds, but all I see is rain. Perhaps, her tears appear as raindrops, and her face is only visible to angels. I was once her angel. She took with her my wings, the same ones that gave me the strength to fly above obstacles. I hold her umbrella above me, her scarf wrapped around my neck. Some say I inherited her kindness, the only inheritance that truly matters.

From Guest Contributor Ernestina Aggrey

Dear Amy

CONTEST SUBMISSION:

Here’s what happened: The huntsman burst in wielding a knife, and lunged at me! In my shock, I coughed up the Grandma. I said sorry, truly, and ran off, hoping to mend my ways. I wound up in a bar in NYC, drinking with humans who were all peace and harmony, until one of us bit one of them—justified! Then it was omg throw them out. Now I’m back in the woods, in the heart of temptation, where every guy and his girlfriend is noshing on Grandmas and Little Reds. How can I resist? What should I do?

Wolf

From Guest Contributor Linda Lowe

Linda's stories and poems have appeared online in Outlook Springs, A Story in 100 Words, Star 82 Review, BOMBFIRE, Misfit Magazine, and others.

Mending Hearts

Olivia’s heart is broken since her husband Stan’s death. His cancer so brutal, she’d weep alone in the bathroom. Her spirits lift slightly when her son, his wife, and their daughter visit, but when they leave it’s difficult to be alone. One morning Olivia is awakened by stomping on the stairs. She regrets giving her son the spare key. The bedroom door bursts open and her granddaughter Molly is holding a white and brown spotted purring kitten. “Grandma, this is your new husband,” little Molly says. “Can you name him Stan like grandpa,” she asks. Some hearts can be mended.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

The Wooden Spoon That Left A Scar

The wooden spoon has its many uses. Grandma used it to stir the pot as the sweet savory smell of her brown stew wafted through the kitchen door to the hallway. After a hearty meal, I was always waiting for the unknown. This caused all my childhood anxiety. Grandma’s mood – now dark. I winced as the wooden spoon landed on my bare buttocks, smack after smack. I couldn’t sit down. When my teacher found out, I ended up in care. It was very unpleasant. The wooden spoon left more than a scar. I panic each time I see one.

From Guest Contributor Ibukun Sodipe

Sabre Tiger

Abandoned… Alone!

Sabre Tiger the children named him. The apartment manager said, No!”

Dad said, “Ask Grandma,” Grandma said, “Ask Grandpa.” Grandpa was reluctant. The children loved him, the boy said, “Take him home,” the girl said, “Please!” Grandpa relented.

The vet said, “He’s healthy, but overweight at 13 pounds,” Sabre swished his tail severely, “Might not get along with your cat.”

At home, Sabre was content; on his back, trusting, paws in the air, asleep.

Now, at 19 pounds plus, he’s Sabre Tiger; struts, ruler of the household. Grandpa reminds him daily. “You’re a cat, remember, you're a CAT!

From Guest Contributor Ted Duke

Chopping Along

Knife steadied, I proceeded to chop sweet pepper. Choppy chords of a Chopin prelude dominated the airwaves as the sound of an overhead chopper faded. “Anything else to add to our Chopin list? Sorry, couldn’t help it,” husband laughed. Lucky he’s not on my chopping block, I thought. “Don’t forget. Mother’s here for dinner tonight,” I said. Onions appeared next on my chopping board. “What are you making, Mom?” I turned around to answer: “Vegetarian Chop Suey.” “No lamb chops? That’s okay,” my boy surmised. “Don’t think grandma’s choppers can take anything tough. Does she know how to use chopsticks?

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

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

Grandma

The woman who has been known only as Grandma for most of her life holds the baby in her lap tight and points to different pictures in the photo album. “That’s my father in that picture right there,” she says, pointing to a black and white image that seems almost ghostly.

Grandma watches the baby’s eyes pour over the pictures, and she wonders what will happen to this generation that won’t be preserved in faded photographs. Will they live forever on social media timelines, or will their digital afterlife be as fleeting as the breaths one takes in a lifetime?

From Guest Contributor Dan Slaten

Rain Vigil

Worn wooden arms hold me as I rock in my grandma’s rocking chair on the front porch of her old house. My grandma’s quilt keeps me warm in the cool fall air. It’s the first day it hasn’t rained in weeks. A mist of water rises over the treetops, and the grass is wet. I can’t stay here long. The house is already sold. All the rooms are empty. All that’s left is the rocking chair, the quilt, and me. I’ve kept vigil with the sorrowing rain. I pack up these last moments, get behind the wheel, and drive away.From Guest Contributor Tyrean Martinson

Tyrean is a writer, daydreamer, and believer at http://tyreanswritingspot.blogspot.com