Headless

Mr. Morgan was incapable of making wise decisions.

He constantly confused compost and garbage pickup weeks. Waste-collection trucks drove past his house without stopping.

Mr. Gerald down the street didn’t receive his disability payments. A mail-delivery person was reprimanded for not noticing one differing number between the addresses of Mr. Gerald and Mr. Morgan.

The latter meant to take them over to his neighbor but didn’t after a rumour circulated: he was seen stumbling outdoors in the dark appearing to have no head.

Truth be, he wore a coat over his head for warmth because he often forgot his hat.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Dairy Reinvented

“Our regional cows have been highly productive,” beamed Norm, supervising an employee unload dairy products for customers.

But where were they?

The regulars showed up. Tourists trickled in as they did elsewhere in the vacationland—unlike booming pre-pandemic times. Did the current political climate have a bearing?

After days of dismal turnout, Norm called his staff for a meeting.

“Put up a new display poster,” he instructed. “Half price: ALL dairy!

A sampling counter was set up, manned by an employee.

Sales accelerated. Many shopping carts left the grocery store with dairy. Late comers found the refrigerated section emptied out.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Roses

Apprehension accompanied me to my car. How would they react? With sadness? Indifference?I placed the bouquet lovingly into the trunk, holding back tears.

The intended beholders knew nothing of its history. Nor of the person who presented it to me. Roses, once of warmth and vivid pink, had crumpled to shades of aged dryness. Like his love did, when he left for another and I didn’t realize he meant it for real.

I set the vase onto my desk in the classroom, for my art students to observe, interpret and present their creativity onto canvas—of a life stilled.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Held Up

“Don’t take the ‘Express Lane’,” Paul warned. “Last time chickens slowed us down.”

Tim frowned. “Darn slowpokes! Afraid to drive fast, should stay out.”

“Na, I’m talking real chickens,” Paul continued. “Engine trouble. Took a while to get going.”

“What?”

“We was lucky. Truck behind had new barbecues. Behind him, delivery van with bbq sauce.”

Tim listened, keenly interested.

“Get this, they set up on the roadside. Best supper ever.”

“You lucky no cops showed up.”

“Two did. Said ‘twas illegal what we’s doin’.”

“You’s arrested?”

“Nope. After two rounds of chicken, they thanked us. Took off on their bikes.”

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Teeth Of A Dragon

“Isn’t he great?” the mother asked amid clanging cymbals.

She looked down noticing that her toddler was no longer by her side.

The dragon who wiggled towards them, opening and closing its massive jaw, had danced its way into the crowd.

The mother searched frantically, calling out her son’s name. She passed grills barbecuing kebabs and performers playing folk music with pan flutes. In better times she enjoyed the ethnic celebration.

An intercom announcement prompted her to hurry to the admin office. Her child sat silently when she arrived.

“I got scared, Mommy. Did you see the dragon’s big teeth?”

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Confidentiality

Busy medical clinic. Patient-chart filing cabinet stuffed. More charts waiting to be shelved, by me. Where to?

It’s the Computer Age. The weight of paper is seriously impacting office health.

I walk by my desk, accidentally knocking down the records I’m to file.

Uncle Frederic is a patient here. He hasn’t told me why.

Footsteps?

Have to gather the wayward folders and pile them neatly onto the desk. The night patrol nods, passing by my opened doorway.

Tomorrow’s a new workday. Perhaps I can linger again after office hours and find out why uncle visits this clinic once a week.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

They Were Her Rock

“You can do this!” “Be positive.” “You’re not alone.”

An assortment of rocks made up the flowerbed in front of a tall brick building. Some were scattered, others piled, many with painted pictures and handwritten messages.

Walking from the parking lot was perilous at best. Cheryl navigated the uneven sidewalk cautiously, crunching ice under heavy boots, pounding stale snow into powder.

The front glass-door opened. Volunteers greeted at the end of the entrance foyer away from the cold drafts of the outdoors. Someone sat at the reception counter awaiting questions.

Cheryl’s heart raced. Her radiation treatment was about to begin.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Debunking Resolutions

As the clock ticked towards the ending of a year, Ted was fast asleep.

He got up at noon to have brunch and catch up on emails.

“What are your resolutions for 2025?” asked a friend. Another asked similarly and another…

Ted closed his tablet.

Why should he stress himself about resolutions? Life ought to simply evolve, problems solved along the way.

He got up to make coffee. What, no coffee? Okay, he’ll have some tea. The canister usually filled with various teabags was empty.

Ted decided he would start the next New Year differently, with his kitchen well stocked.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Dare To Taste

“Ewwww...what’s that sickening smell?”

“You wouldn’t want to know,” Jack insisted. “Can you walk faster?”

“Why?”

“You don’t want to be stopped by she who lives there,” pointed Jack.

It could’ve been dried autumn leaves rustling in the wind, but they didn’t want to take a chance by looking back. They scurried past her unkempt lawn, not noticing the silhouette of someone sitting on the front porch.

“You boys hungry? Stew’s almost ready,” a woman’s voice shrieked.

The friends pretended not to hear.

“Rumour has it that she had four husbands,” Jack murmured. “No one has seen even one.”

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

His Stuff

Junk: garbage to some, treasure to others, clutter at best, navigational obstacle on flooring, the cause of falls and injury…

Antonio learned firsthand. The architect of his own disaster, he sat idly on an easy chair, arm in cast, pondering what to do with all his stuff.

Quite unexpectedly a lightbulb lit up his mind, showing him the way. Creativity reawakened. His heart warmed with new purpose. He sprung to work.

Praises from the artistic community accelerated his mission. Photos of his unique collages went viral. He was crowned ‘artist extraordinaire’.

…all because of the ‘junk’ in his humble abode.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs