Headless

Mr. Morgan was incapable of making wise decisions.

He constantly confused compost and garbage pickup weeks. Waste-collection trucks drove past his house without stopping.

Mr. Gerald down the street didn’t receive his disability payments. A mail-delivery person was reprimanded for not noticing one differing number between the addresses of Mr. Gerald and Mr. Morgan.

The latter meant to take them over to his neighbor but didn’t after a rumour circulated: he was seen stumbling outdoors in the dark appearing to have no head.

Truth be, he wore a coat over his head for warmth because he often forgot his hat.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

The Dean Of The Old School

Dad segues into another riveting anecdote with, “That’s not how we did things back in the day.”All three teenagers glaze over in unison. Closed. They nod if eye-checked for confirmation, but almost immediately they’re not listening. Their father is a bundle of clichés glued together with corn.

Had the kids been striving to understand, they could now know more about activities from back in the day than they know of current events. It seems Dad rides that tangent whenever possible.

Before the present era, everything was more superlative. Right kids? Whereas now it’s flat and probably made from plastics.

From Guest Contributor Todd Mercer

Todd writes fiction and poetry in Grand Rapids, Michigan. His collection Ingenue was published by Celery City Press. Recent work appears in Literary Yard, The Lake and the Michigan Bards Poetry Anthology.

Furry Friends

The park is filled with pets. It’s a hot summer day and I can feel the perspiration on my back. I come here every week to watch the dogs run and play, catching frisbees. It’s comical when one small dog grabs the frisbee and runs away under the tree when the owner is waiting.

You can see in the kids’ and parents’ faces, how their dogs make the family complete with their huge smiles, laughter and affection toward their hairy friends.

I didn’t realize the time. I must leave for an important appointment.

A new furry companion awaits my arrival.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

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

King Of The Court

Every afternoon, Marcus ruled the court. Sneakers squeaked as he crossed defenders, launched impossible threes, and hammered dunks that rattled the rim. His friends groaned while commentators crowned him a legend. He knew every hesitation, every perfect release, every seam in the opponent's defense. He was lightning—untouchable, unstoppable, airborne.

When the final buzzer sounded, the crowd’s roar thinned to a mechanical hum. “Marcus, dinner’s ready,” his mom called from the kitchen.

“Coming,” he answered, while unlocking the brakes on his wheelchair, gripping the rims of the wheels and pushing himself back from his desk. Beyond the doorway, reality waits.

From Guest Contributor E. Barnes

E. has work published at A Story In 100 Words, Spillwords, The Purple Pen, The Haven, and Medium.

War

I watched as my buddy exploded into fragments from a grenade. I saw the fear on his face knowing at that moment, he would die. It was chaotic and when I ran for cover, I thought he was behind me, but he stayed to help an injured soldier to safety. Now, both are gone.

I’m in the trench shaken, wishing I were anywhere else but here.

I heard the tanks roaring, and men yelled, guns ready in hand.

My ears rang; head pounded with all sound, until everything became muffled, and my right hand shook uncontrollably.

Then came the explosion.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

#Blemished

The comments hit hard. @keybrdwar58 wrote “Pepperoni face.” Certified rage baiter @uplinegeek’s “Wear a mask” got fifteen likes, zero from me. Ouch! Why did @soyzgalz comment “Get a life” just because I asked for advice? @vawaxayaz replied “Boomer talk.” Merci @vawaxayaz. She’s a skinfluencer. Now if she could please give me a follow back. Maybe she’ll ghost me. If she’s not a pretty deepfake bot, bet she uses AI-smooth filters. Like who doesn’t? Anyway, this is the last time I’ll ask for derma advice on Insta. Gotta have thick skin. Girls with thick skin don’t get pimples. There’s my problem.

From Guest Contributor Elizabeth Murphy

Dairy Reinvented

“Our regional cows have been highly productive,” beamed Norm, supervising an employee unload dairy products for customers.

But where were they?

The regulars showed up. Tourists trickled in as they did elsewhere in the vacationland—unlike booming pre-pandemic times. Did the current political climate have a bearing?

After days of dismal turnout, Norm called his staff for a meeting.

“Put up a new display poster,” he instructed. “Half price: ALL dairy!

A sampling counter was set up, manned by an employee.

Sales accelerated. Many shopping carts left the grocery store with dairy. Late comers found the refrigerated section emptied out.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Nothing

The engine gives out and we’re about to crash. I guide the plane as best I can and brace for impact. Then there’s blackness.

When I wake, Ted has a blank stare, and his head is twisted in an awkward position. He’s dead.

The bone in my left ankle is protruding from the skin and I’m having trouble breathing. I’m sure I’ve ruptured my ribs.

The door is jammed and I can’t walk. The airplane will soon explode and there’s nowhere to go. I say a silent prayer and close my eyes.

There’s a crackling noise, flames and then nothing.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Roses

Apprehension accompanied me to my car. How would they react? With sadness? Indifference?I placed the bouquet lovingly into the trunk, holding back tears.

The intended beholders knew nothing of its history. Nor of the person who presented it to me. Roses, once of warmth and vivid pink, had crumpled to shades of aged dryness. Like his love did, when he left for another and I didn’t realize he meant it for real.

I set the vase onto my desk in the classroom, for my art students to observe, interpret and present their creativity onto canvas—of a life stilled.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs