Mother Bird

I dreamt my mother’s voice became a flood in the hallway, walls bowing to her words. I held a paper bird to shield myself, and it tore in my hands, scattering wings across the shallow floors. Waves of her lullabies chased me through rooms that stretched into the sky, where I ran barefoot over glass clouds, each step echoing familiar fear. When the storm softened, I found a small window of light, where I could breathe without drowning. I reached out, and it grew until it swallowed the echoes, leaving only the warmth of my own hand on my chest.

From Guest Contributor Taylor Brann

Taylor studies sociology at Pikes Peak State College and writes poetry that traces the landscapes of memory, family, and the human heart.

Compassion

George staggered into the hallway searching for Cecilia. He didn’t have much time and he needed her to make haste.

“There you are. I signed it.”

She sipped her tepid coffee. “Oh, George, can’t I even take a short break?”

“Just take it. You don’t need to read it.”

“I know, I’m your attorney. I read it already. Are you sure about this?”

George sighed and put the paper in front of her, pushing aside the glazed donut.

It was done.

His estate would go to Myra Ariello, the compassionate nurse who cared for him when no one else would.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Lisa has been writing since 2010 and has had many micro-flash fiction stories published. In 2018 her book Shorts for the Short Story Enthusiasts, was published and The Importance of Being Short, in 2019. Her most recent book In A Flash, was published in the spring of 2022.

She currently resides on Long Island, New York with her husband Richard and dogs Lucy and Breanna.

Any Other Year

It’s “New Year’s Eve”, and Nick sits in front of the television gulping beer waiting for the ball to drop. His dog Gatsby rests his head on Nick’s lap seeking attention.

“Okay,” Nick says and rubs Gatsby’s head. “How’s that feel?” Gatsby contentedly wags his tail.

His neighbors are causing a raucous across the hall, laughing and playing loud music which fills the hallway, but the property owner doesn’t care since he’s there too. Nick, a loner, considers his science teaching job and Gatsby his friends.

The ball drops and Nick’s year will be the same as any other year.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Chicken

"Don't call me that," I, blue-in-the-face, scream at my grade school friend. The hallway is long and narrow, lit by one naked bulb, a beaded pull-chain hanging. I stand trembling at the edge of the basement stairs.

"Turn the light on, chicken."

The wall switch is to my left. Weeks ago, on a dare, I placed my hand on the switch plate to lift the lever. A jolt threw me down the flight of stairs. I landed feet first, hands crunched against the concrete wall.

Now I hover on the top step. Terror tight in my throat.

Ready or not.

From Guest Contributor Flo Gelo

Giant Ship

I listened to the sound of the waves smack against the giant ship, closed my eyes and pictured my wife’s face. Her radiant smile and long blond hair made my heart pulsate. Soon we’d be together once we docked in New York, and she’d be waiting for me with open arms and our son. I relished the thought.

I dropped the picture when the ship shuddered. I opened the door and panicked people filled the hallway.

“What happened?” I asked out loud.

“Titanic has hit an iceberg,” answered a fidgety man.

I went back into my cabin.

Titanic wouldn’t sink.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

The State Of Care

A banner stretching across the building’s exterior says, “What’s Shakin’.” You aren’t sure how that should be read, as a description or a question. There’s only one way to find out. You enter through an unmarked door, walk down a long, dim hallway and up a set of stairs into an area filled with bad smells and loud noise. If you’re going to be stranded somewhere, this may not be the best place. The caregivers take frequent breaks to look out the large windows. It isn’t safe or legal, but they’re Americans and believe they can do whatever they want.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author of three recent collections, I'm Not a Robot from Tolsun Books, A Room at the Heartbreak Hotel from Analog Submission Press, and The Titanic Sails at Dawn from Alien Buddha Press.

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