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

The Steward

Rebecca and I drove up the long gravel way until it crested a small ridge and our new home came into view. She sucked in her breath, shocked by the magnificence of the old mansion.

"I haven't been here in thirty years. Nothing's changed."

She squeezed my hand, in excitement or perhaps disbelief. The estate belonged to my grandfather, then my uncle, and now me, a string of unfortunate deaths leaving me the only heir.

My anticipation ceased when I saw Bidwell waiting to greet us.

"What's wrong?"

"The steward. He died in the same accident that killed my uncle."

Accident

The cars came to a halt, and sirens blared. I wondered how bad the accident was. I couldn’t see anything other than flashing red and white lights and I hoped no one was killed. I called my wife, but the connection was bad. I managed to tell her I’d be late due to traffic.

The sun shifted and it was blinding so I pulled my visor down.

After an hour the traffic let up. Ambulances and stretchers were on the scene of the accident.

I said a silent prayer and drove on, anxious to get home and kiss my wife.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

All Arise

The entire population heeds the call to arise. Yet to an outside observer no actual call has been made, no clear sign or order to rouse the masses. You might question whether there's a leader at all, for it appears a communal urge has overtaken the congregation and compelled an immediate revolution of activity after weeks of idle rest.

It's a sudden cacophony accompanied by the requisite rush of sound and fury, enough to strike fear into any unfortunates standing in the way of the mass migration.

The flock, once airborne, assumes formation and heads south for its winter home.

Cold Iron

Walking to the back of the old house, Samuel noticed the changes since last time he'd been home. There were weeds growing up from the foundation. The chicken coop had probably been empty for more than a year. But none of the of the deterioration moved him. He had no nostalgia for this place. In truth, this was no longer his home.

The smithy was the one part of the farm almost as he remembered. All the tools hanging in just the right place. Except the forge wasn't burning anymore, the anvil had long grown cold.

Dad was truly gone.

Stupid Planet Cruises

I can hardly wait. This is going to be a good one I know, another one with no faster than light speed travel. So primitive. Do you ever wonder why anyone would ever go to a smart planet? It would be just like being home in Karg. Boring. The guide to this blue and green planet says they fight and kill each other. Can you imagine something so stupid? We’d better put on armor under our earth disguise, so someone doesn’t kill us at random. We’re landing in a place called Portland Oregon where something called government impoverishes the locals.

From Guest Contributor Doug Hawley

Flyover State

Sebastian and Miranda scurried out of the shade to their makeshift white board, a section of ground where they'd used branches and whatever detritus was at hand to spell out the word, "HELP!" But the passenger plane was too high and too fast to notice them amid the long expanse of nothingness that constituted their home.

They both sighed and trudged back to their seats. Sebastian took a sip of his coffee while Miranda crunched down on her avocado toast.

"I don't think anyone is coming to save us."

"As long as we have NPR on the radio, we'll survive."

Run Run Run

Last one home is a rotten egg.

Run.

Coach says if I make top two in the state I'll get a scholarship offer from every school in the country.

Run.

We saw red and blue lights flashing from the front yard at Kristi Fields' graduation party.

Run.

Becca asked if we were boyfriend and girlfriend now that we'd done it.

Run.

Do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?

Run.

A knock on the door. Blood all over the floor, all over my hands, all over the knife. No one will believe the truth.

Run. Run. Run.

Who Am I?

When my parents told me the news that I was adopted, it didn’t shock me. I knew that I was different. I have black hair and deep brown eyes, and both my parents have hazel eyes and blond hair. I was told I took after my grandfather who died before my time. Conveniently, no one had pictures.

I decided to track my biological parents. Now we’re meeting for the first time at their home, and I have a lot of questions.

I stood outside pondering whether to go in since I may not like the answers.

I turned and left.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

We Will All Stop Using Acronyms

Friday afternoon: Another email pinged through from the boss, full of acronyms and bullet points. Bullet points always made Stella want to shoot herself.

“WTF,” Stella replied. “This is CRAP. CBA, TBH.” She went home.

***

Monday morning: “Stella. My office. Now.”

***

“Well, of course I mean Wednesday/Thursday/Friday,” Stella explained. “There’s to be a Completion Report After Production. Your IRK suggestion Can Be Arranged. Your third request, the prioritization protocol presentation, I’ve marked To Be Handled.” She drew a long breath.

***

Another email pinged through as Stella returned to her desk: “Moving forward we will all stop using acronyms…”

Stella smiled.

From Guest Contributor Fiona M Jones