The Twilight Palace

Sydney looked at the atlas. There was no denying he was lost, to the point where he couldn't even be sure he was using the right map anymore. His phone had lost service hours ago.

A flash of reflected light caught his attention up ahead: some sort of structure spotted through the trees. He hurried forward hoping they'd have good WiFi.

As Sydney entered the clearing, a massive palace stood before him, with intricately carved roofs, marble fountains, and gold latticework. A white-robed fellow standing in the entrance smiled in his direction.

This looked nothing like the photos on Airbnb.

Platero And I: Ode In The Garden

They say my garden is wild, Platero, as is my hair - Martha would be ashamed if she saw this garden.Don't they know this garden is an ode to Martha?

That every year when the leaves lose grip, I prune erratic. I seek your approval, Platero, because you‘ve seen Martha do it so often.

That hedge over there: sloppy and unevenly shaven; the bushes butterflies like to sit on, brusquely stripped of their thick branches - hopefully none vital.

That’s why this garden is an ode to Martha: because I’m lost without her and not just in the garden.

From Guest Contributor Hervé Suys

Hervé (°1968 – Ronse, Belgium) started writing short stories whilst recovering from a sports injury and he hasn’t stopped since. Generally he writes them hatless and barefooted.

Anomie Can Be Defined As . . .

At that late hour, the streets were deserted. I wandered the dirty sidewalks in a kind of amnesic daze. Somehow I had gotten lost in a part of town I thought I knew well. Familiar landmarks had simply disappeared. I didn’t recognize the faces of buildings or the signs on storefronts. My own footfalls sounded weirdly detached from me. After only twenty minutes of this, I felt as though I had been running, falling, flying, floating, crawling half the night. I sat down on the curb exhausted. Clouds shaped like vague suspicions of vast conspiracies were just starting to pinken.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie's latest poetry book is The Horses Were Beautiful, available from Grey Book Press.

Tire Chains

"I'm packing tire chains in the boys' luggage. Just wrap them around the tires," the father of my two nephews advised.

"Sounds easy." I reply. "We'll have fun in the snow!"

Three days later, my nephews and I are standing by the snow-laden roadside with tire chains wrapped around the axle.

We look forlorn and lost. A park ranger passes by, a CHP passes by, and a dozen travelers glance at a young woman and two children in distress.

"Lady? Need some help?" says a tatooed Hell's Angel over the roar of his Harley.

"Please! You are an angel. Thanks."

From Guest Contributor Deborah Shrimplin

Pity Me, My Preconception

I'd been here before, but I was lost. Confusion, desperation took residence in my bones, my breath, my very being. Everything had changed.

I stumbled along, eyes rambling in vicious circles, a desperate search for something familiar. Nothing made sense anymore. Tradition sacred, change took me by unfriendly surprise. If no one tells me who to be, who am I? I need structure.

I found a man, wearing men's clothing, and I asked where to find the Men's Department now that it was just Department. He pointed to the sign that said "Men's."

"But what does that mean?" I asked.

From Guest Contributor Stacy Gorse

Wrong Turn

Gareth and Melissa knew they were lost when they reached the gas station. It seemed abandoned, with the rusted pump and the crooked sign and the station house that had collapsed years previously.

They argued bitterly, with each blaming the other. Melissa had missed the turnoff, Gareth had refused to look at the map. But their anger towards each other was really just a mask for their own fears.

The station pump was well over 3 meters tall. They couldn't be sure when it had happened, but sometime during the night they had crossed over into the land of giants.

Hannah

I'm in a hurry so this story needs to be fast, because in the twenty-three years I've worked as a city bus driver, I've never been late, not counting of course the day my wife went into labor, but this morning as I was leaving the station a little girl was standing in front of the bus--I figured she was probably ten years old, and that would have been how old...well you can't expect me to talk about that--forcing me to slam on the brakes and I was certain I'd run her over but when I hurried round to the front she was unharmed, though she was crying pretty hard and said that she was lost and needed my help so I followed her across the street to the city park, down a path I can't remember ever having seen before into a place that was dark with ancient trees and cold and I was starting to get worried but she said this was the way home and she couldn't get there by herself, so I took her by the hand and we walked together and even though she said she'd never been here before she was the one leading me through the darkness until we finally came to a warm, bright clearing where she stopped and said goodbye and I didn't want to leave but she said that I had to go back and drive the bus and finally she told me her name was Hannah and that's when I understood and today was the first day I've cried in ten years and now that I think about it I don't really mind if for once I'm late to work.

Here's another one sentence story. Enjoy!

Forever Lost

Her most prized possession, what she cared for more than anything she had ever owned, more than her own person, was forever lost.

All that ever mattered to her was that small trinket, given to her by her dad, with the words, "Treasure it always."

She had been so young when he died, and that keepsake was all she had to remember him by.

Of course, she knew that it was all imagined, that her Dad was still alive, but the fantasy was more important than reality. She wanted this other life, and so she would keep looking for it.

Loyalty

Most people looked at my behavior with quiet condescension.

But while it might have seemed unimportant to others, Higgins was more than just a dog. He was a member of my family. He was my best friend.

The animal shelters couldn't help. The police scoffed. People I previously counted as friends suddenly had "things to do."

While wondering the streets, putting up posters, I met Barbara. A complete stranger, she listened to my pathetic tale and agreed to help me search. A year later, we were married.

Even today, I would trade twenty years of marriage to have Higgins back.