Another Broken Heart

They'd warned her. They told Sheila that he wasn't boyfriend material, let along worthy of marriage. But she hadn't listened. Sheila believed that if she stuck with him, Greg would prove them all wrong. He had hidden layers.

Then Greg decided it was over, and here she was in tears. The same thing had happened again. Her girlfriends didn't need to say, "I told you so." Her therapist didn't need to remind her of repetitive behavior patterns.

Greg wasn't the one. And thinking that he might be after their first date said more about her than it did about him.

All The Choices

Stacy surveys the cereal aisle.

When she was young she could never choose. There were too many favorites. Lucky Charms. Cinnamon Toast Crunch. Cocoa Puffs. Even Cheerios on occasion. Her mom always got frustrated, because she'd settle on one, and five minutes later want to run and grab another. Nothing looks as delicious as the cereal not picked.

As an adult, Stacy keeps it simple. Always granola. But tonight she's in the mood for something new. 20 minutes later, and she is still trying to decide.

Once she gets home, she'll finally have to tell Jake their marriage is over.

Lay Your Body Down

Maria watched the crowd gathered around her. It was too many people, too much forgotten history and buried resentments that she'd rather not remember. Let all of them leave her in peace.

Well not all of them. Not John. Not Heather and Tony. Even Steven was growing on her, though Maria still believed her daughter had rushed into her marriage. At least he was respectful even when Heather was too strong willed.

Everyone else could go. These last few moments should just be for the ones she truly cared about. Leave the eulogizing for after she was dead and buried.

A Family Affair

I couldn’t help but keep my hand on my stomach as the baby kicked inside. “Jace, you can’t tell Jeffrey the baby is yours. It would destroy him, our marriage.”

He took a gulp of water. “He needs to know. If you don’t tell him, I will.”

I grabbed him by the shirt. “Please, Jace, don’t tell your brother.”

He pushed me away; I lost my balance and fell. I hit my head hard and blacked out.

When I awakened, Jeffrey was by my side in the hospital.

I knew from the tears in his eyes the baby was gone.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Looking For Mr. Goodbar Version 2022

Mr. Goodbar was a respected man, but he was still single at fifty. The woman he picked wore no panties under her joggers. She said she liked having sex with two men. Mr. Goodbar was happy.

The woman got pregnant. He married her because he was a good man. She wanted him to change for their child. He did not. In work and now in marriage, he had to live a double life. Mr. Goodbar was exhausted and miserable.

The woman had deceived him. She was not like she had led him to believe when they had met.

She vanished.

From Guest Contributor Dominique Margolis

The Mona Lisa

Mona was known for her smile, but really, what was so great about it? Just a slice of smile, nothing big and welcoming. Not a smile with a future in it, more of a flirtatious glance than anything else.

Mary Lee had a big welcoming smile. It had greeted legions of men. It was a smile that had launched many ships, one that let men know that she was available and ready for marriage. Perhaps that had been part of her problem. Men wanted what they couldn’t have. They preferred having their hearts broken over settling down to someone real.

From Guest Contributor Eliza Mimski

Abedabun

Abedabun weaves baskets while her father makes arrowheads. The sun is warm against her face and she tires of the mundane ritual but does not complain when her father rubs a droplet of sweat from her cheek with affection.

Her mother is by the river collecting herbs, humming in tune with the birds, while her brother and sister collect insects for amusement.

Hiawatha, the finest young man in the tribe, approaches Abedabun and her father with a token of marriage, a deer slung over his broad shoulders.

She stops her work and looks to her father.

Hiawatha’s token is accepted.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

A Deadly Metaphor

Chester tosses rocks over the cliff, ruminating over whether to respond. Angelica expects tacit agreement with all her decisions, only consulting him on the timing and execution, never the overall direction. This makes sense as a way to run a boardroom, but not a marriage.

Even this vacation, celebrating their anniversary, was her concoction. Sure, the views are spectacular, but she knows he's no fan of hiking. That's most likely her secret reason for this destination. He tosses another pebble, watching it careen out of sight.

At the bottom of the gorge, three fresh bodies lay buried beneath Chester's avalanche.

The Silenced

She did not say yes.

The silence of more fear than cultural respect was not a sign of consent. The tears on her face at the dawn of her 'big day' were not a sign of consent.

The lashes fell upon her, one, two...

She had dreamt of wearing green for her wedding. Red was her mother's choice.

His voice was loud it silenced her lips.Ninety-eight or was it already past hundred? She'd later count the scars on her back, looking at her reflection in the broken mirror stained with blood.

She never wanted marriage.She never wanted this.

From Guest Contributor Anne Silva.

Anne is a student writer from Sri Lanka. She publishes her writing on social media as Poetry of Despair.You can read them at www.instagram.com/PoetryofDespair.

The Short-Lived Joys Of Youth

When I married at eighteen,a friend gave us The Joy of Cooking.My husband, nineteen, turned every page,looked at every recipe, writing, “Yes!” “Try!”or (for his mother’s recipes) “No!”Never thinking of actually cooking something himself.I wasn’t sure whether to be annoyed or flattered,but the marriage lasted about a year.

When I married at fifty-one,we compared copies of The Joy of Cooking.My husband’s was in better repair,so we gave mine to Goodwill.He likes cooking, so he does it. I wash the dishes.It’s been nine years now. We are still married.

From Guest Contributor Cheryl L. Caesar

Cheryl lived in Paris, Tuscany and Sligo for 25 years; she earned her doctorate in comparative literature at the Sorbonne and taught literature and phonetics. She now teaches writing at Michigan State University. Last year she published over a hundred poems in the U.S., Germany, India, Bangladesh, Yemen and Zimbabwe, and won third prize in the Singapore Poetry Contest for her poem on global warming. Her chapbook Flatman: Poems of Protest in the Trump Era is now available from Amazon and Goodreads.