Until Death

When I rode my bicycle past the Nazis they laughed and threw rocks at me. They hated our kind, and it was time to leave. I had no family, and lived in a small apartment alone, so it wouldn’t take long to pack. I neatly folded my suits and placed them into the luggage. I took the money I saved, stuffed it inside my jacket pocket, took one last look around and walked out the door to the train station.

A few months later, the Jewish families were rounded up and taken to camps.

My heart would ache until death.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

A Boy In The Torn Jacket

The horror of an early morning bombardment urged the boy in the torn jacket to seek his mom. Out of debris and rubble, he most needed the dearest soul to hug him tightly.

I stood and watched the scene in despair. Out of nowhere, a social worker appeared, took Ian’s hand, and asked his name. I tapped the man on the shoulder and offered to adopt the boy.

“Are you sure you’d cope?” the man reacted in disbelief.

I have never regretted my choice. Ian has substituted our once-unborn-child, ‘the diamond in the sky,’ as we call him with Liz.From Guest Contributor Taras Bereza

Taras is a professional lexicographer at 'Apriori Publishers' with 10 published dictionaries. He has worked as a contributing freelance writer since 2006 and wrote for Bacopa Literary Review and Freedom With Writing.

Street Hustle

“Hey man, wanna buy a Rolex,” the punk in the shiny nylon jacket asked as he approached me on the street.

"How much?” I asked as I looked around to see if he had a partner. He didn’t.

“Thirty bucks, and it’s the real thing,” he told me as he handed the watch to me.

I pretended to be examining the watch, when I said “hold on,” as I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out my badge.

“Metro vice,” I announced as I reached for my handcuffs. He spun around and ran like Jack the bear towards Fremont.

From Guest Contributor Leroy B. Vaughn

Wife's Helper

John flipped his wife’s shopping list and reached for the phone in his jacket. No charge.

He caught a nearby shopper.

“Excuse me, what are these,” he pointed to the list.

“Try the seafood counter,” was the reply.

Once there, John asked, “Do you have scal...?”

“Scallops?” the server interjected. “Half a pound? They’re pricey.”

John placed the package into his basket. “Where do I find this,” he showed the same man.

“Rubber scrapers in kitchen gadgets.”

“Thank you.”

When John arrived home, his wife unpacked the bags.

“I’m allergic to shellfish!” she shrilled. “Where are the scallionsand capers?”

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction.