Memories

When I walked into the restaurant, everyone yelled surprise and my heart palpitated with joy. A large sign above the room read “Happy Birthday, Breanna,” and my eyes watered. It was overwhelming with family and friends vying for my attention to plant kisses on my cheek, but thankfully my best friend Tina asked everyone to take a seat.

Tina asked us to raise our glasses for a toast, and I teared at the memories she shared. It didn’t seem possible it was that long ago when we were young and couldn’t wait to grow up.

If only Ted was here.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Change Of Heart

Think of it as a substitute pump,” the surgeons encourage him. “Latest technology, stringent testing. Equally life-enhancing as the heart God gave you.”

Will it buy him time for his daughter’s imminent wedding? Or beyond, and a new grandchild?

“Side effects include problematic emotional disorders.”

Surely morning birdsong, leisurely travel, favourite classical music will quiet unexplained turmoil.

He acquiesces, yet flails against this plastic invader into his chest.

Without warning, a fog enwraps his mind, shrouds familiar feelings. The mystifying retreat of joy, sorrow, empathy panics him. Why has love for his daughter vanished?

Oblivious, his new heart pumps steadily.

From Guest Contributor Gary Thomson

Independence Day

It’s “Independence Day,” and I’m excited to see the fireworks show at the beach with my kids. I’ve packed a small picnic of chicken sandwiches and soda, nothing fancy and we’ll sit on the sand watching the sky light up. I want to make this day special for Charlie and Kenny since the divorce has been tough on them.

My youngest, Kenny, takes my hand and gives me a warm smile while Charlie is sitting cross legged waiting.

The sky bursts into red, green, blue and white and the look of joy on my boys’ faces is all I need.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Reflections In The Rain

Amid labyrinthine alleys and neon-lit streets, a small cafe beckons. Inside, a lone figure cradles a lukewarm coffee, eyes weary yet searching. Across, a young couple laughs—a fleeting yet beautiful symphony of joy.

The cafe hums: baristas call orders, chatter blends into a comforting buzz. Inside him, a yearning tide—echoes of a once-ablaze love, now scattered like dead autumn leaves. Rain taps a melancholy rhythm, each drop a plea.

The coffee, bitter; the rain, demanding. He catches someone staring back—unspoken stories, quiet regrets. He reaches to comfort the other, feeling only glass. No one searches but himself.

From Guest Contributor Chinmayi Goyal

The Lord Loves Me

The Lord loves me even though I don't love myself.

Not every day goes great. But when I pray, I pray for joy and happiness.

The wife comes and yells, "your lazy butt still sitting in that darn chair?"

"Just talkin' to the Lord for a moment."

A bolt of lightning makes us both jump and her fall to her knees.

"No, David," she yells, "not a storm. We need the tomatoes to bloom, you old fool."

The second bolt of lightning enters the house and her skull.

I smile, realizing even the weather listens when I talk to God.From Guest Contributor E. Barnes

E. Barnes has works published in The Purple Pen, The Haven, Spillwords, Centina Pentina, A Story In 100 Words and the anthology NanoNightmares.

Watching Grass Grow

Willow loved the flowers.

Yellow lilies sprouted from breaks in old, torn tree bark. Hydrangeas shot up from the ground so beautifully. Willow waited with anticipation and baited breath as grass grew. She watched every moment of it. As tiny white tips sprouted from the dirt, oh joy of joys, the beginning was so exciting! Then, the tiny blades raised up to the sun, and Willow screamed with excitement. She couldn't contain her joy. She watched impatiently as the leaves turned from green, to yellow, to orange, then brown. The moss grew over Willow's feet. Oh, to be a tree.From Guest Contributor Eliana Diaz

Eliana is an English literature and visual art major at UCCS. She is a feature artist in the 50th edition of Riverrun. She is a large fan of mythology, fantasy, and other make-believe.

Giant Oaks

I sighed as my breathing slowed. The sun rose over my head, and I felt the power inside me waking, like the tree in the woods that had grown into giant oaks, covering the forest floor in the summer. I would sit in the shade of those trees until nightfall, waiting for the stars, reaching for the promise of sleep. The light in the sky became a distant memory, and I could almost feel the joy that the moon brought to those born in the middle of winter or during those spring showers that brought new life to the earth.

From Guest Contributor J. Iner Souster

Rationale

Summer has been washed and hung to dry across the equinox. Quibble gathers the last of his alien friends for a farewell. To feast, they eat the neighbor’s two loudest dogs. Those dogs kept Quibble away at night barking at wishes and dreams. Quibble does not partake of the meat, but he imagines the joy the aliens conclude. At the end of the farewell celebration, the aliens open a portal between the shed and fence line and fall one by one through. Quibble only mentions the aliens when his neighbor tries to blame him for the disappearance of the dogs.

From Guest Contributor Ken Poyner

Cursed Sword

Dark ripples spread across the surface as I wade into the water. I hold my breath and dive. To my surprise, the sword lies among the weeds, quite within reach. It’s mine. I chuckle with joy. I kick my legs harder, needing to go only a few inches deeper, but I can’t reach it. No matter how long I swim, I can’t grab the sword. I can’t hold my breath anymore. I struggle to the surface, but I’m yanked down. I tear at the weeds tangling my feet, but, as I sink, all I see is the sword’s gleaming wink.

From Guest Contributor Yukari Kousaka

Translated by Toshiya Kamei

Born in Osaka in 2001, Yukari Kousaka is a Japanese poet, fiction writer, and essayist. Translated by Toshiya Kamei, Yukari’s writings have appeared in The Crypt, New World Writing, and The Wondrous Real Magazine, among others.

Like The Wind

The steppe beneath me speeds by as I become one with the wind. The monk on my back screams with joy. My hooves kick cotton clouds, and fresh air caresses my muzzle. I gallop toward a light in the distance. My tail flows freely. A small dot appears in the middle of the great plain and gradually becomes larger. A colorful, three-storied pagoda comes into view.

“See that, Rlung-rta? That’s our new home,” the monk says, his voice bouncing with excitement. He grabs my mane as we descend. “We’re reclaiming our faith,” he says with a smile, patting my neck.

From Guest Contributor Toshiya Kamei

Toshiya Kamei holds an MFA in Literary Translation from the University of Arkansas. His translations have appeared in venues such as Clarkesworld, The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, and Strange Horizons.