Hermitage

Harvest missed, starlings busy with unworked seed, overripe corn, a laugh with the scarecrow - leave toward evening. Leaves of fall turn red like the blood fingering across the green linoleum kitchen floor after the thud of the back of your head, split like a too-ripe pumpkin. A widower falls in the kitchen, no one hears it, did it make a sound? The trees in the yard mourn the wood you stacked anticipating winter, as it dries, rots, quietly decays. Equinoxes later it splinters, skips off across tan, fallow fields in a cold wind, wet with the rustle of black wings.

From Guest Contributor Craig Kirchner

Craig thinks of poetry as hobo art. He loves storytelling and the aesthetics of the paper and pen. He was nominated twice for the Pushcart Prize, and has a book of poetry, Roomful of Navels. After a writing hiatus is being published and has work forthcoming in a dozen or so journals.

Illusion Of Water

"Harvest-bots eat tomatoes?" Randall asks, stroking one ripening.

"They let 'em rot for bio-fuel," grunts Arielle, hammering another spike deep into the soil. "Being greedy, Harvest-bots take everything, but they won't go near water."

She sets another spike while Randall adjusts the tarp.

"If your plan works, we'll have real food," he says, punctuating his remark by crushing a bee-drone. Small metallic pieces pepper his palms.

Arielle looks out on the defiant cerulean blue of the tented field. Years of used plasticine pouches of Mega-Meat and Vital-Veg, sewn together. They undulate and ripple in the wind. Waves, like the sea.

From Guest Contributor Nina Miller

Nina is an Indian-American physician, epee fencer and micro/flash fiction writer from New York. Her work can be found in TL;DR Press's anthology, Mosaic: The Best of the 1,000 Word Herd Flash Fiction Competition 2022, Bright Flash Literary Review, The Belladonna, Five Minutes, 101 words and more. Find her on Twitter (@NinaMD1) or ninamillerwrites.com

Bountiful Harvest

“Beautiful garden,” a man interjected. “Looks like a good harvest.”

Judy paused from pulling out weeds. “Not really. July was too rainy. Zucchinis are rotting on the plants and maggots have infested my apple tree. It’ll be a chore to salvage what’s edible.”

“Do you need help? I have lots of time being on my own.”

“Sorry, it’s getting dark,” Judy answered.

The man turned around and started walking.

“Wait!” Judy called out. “Pot roast is almost ready. Would you like to join me for supper? I too live alone.”

Harvest became bountiful with the start of a new friendship.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. Her work has been published at: Nailpolish Stories, 50-Word Stories, 100 word story, 101 Words, Boston Literary Magazine, From the Depths (Haunted Waters Press), ShortbreadStories, SixWordMemoirs, and Espresso Stories.