Best Friends Forever

Michael sits on the dock with his feet dangling in the water. Frank lounges next to him, his nose alert for danger or snacks.

Perhaps they will go for a walk along the lake, or follow the dried creek bed up to the moss tree. Or Michael might grab a fishing pole from the shed and spend the afternoon at the shady shore. Frank would probably rather chase squirrels and rabbits in the grassy meadow.

It's the kind of day that you want to freeze in time and make it last forever.

The kind of day made for best friends.

Platero And I: The Tour

Do not judge me with your eyes, Platero. I had the best intentions helping the lost walkers on their way.

I know there is a shorter route, but that couple seemed sympathetic and I had the impression that their restaurant was still filled up.

Thanks to the detour I made them take, they get a nice view over the valley, past the cherry trees - currently in full bloom - and can see the foal grazing in the meadow since yesterday.

Admit it, Platero. They will enjoy it more than just turning right at the end of the road to get there.

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.

Kiss Your Ass Goodbye

There are always more volunteers than available spots on the firing squad. But the really terrible part isn’t how cold it is out. It’s how much I tremble. The I Ching advises, “Wait in the meadow,” meaning caring for a cow will bring luck. I can remember a time when everyone wasn’t in such a hurry to fuck off to somewhere. Now, whatever phone number I punch in, the suicide hotline picks up. I think about mentioning this to someone. And then I get distracted by the wind and the rain and the loud kissing noises they seem to make.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Only Flying

It was not until it hit the blade of the worst rock, riddled with femurs and water skulls, that the river split open and found the leverage to jump out of its bed. It left comfortable moss, minnows’ gossip, and the sound of its own body rubbing past stones, on or around. It surrendered, leapt without choosing, a reflection in air of the path it had known before—the meadow, the factory, the wooden swing. The cottonwoods, black and white. It had become the ocean it had always wanted to meet, silent now, still on the same path. Only flying.

From Guest Contributor Brook Bhagat

Brook holds a BA from Vassar College and an MFA in Writing from Lindenwood University. She teaches college writing and is the co-owner and chief editor of BluePlanetJournal.com. Her nonfiction, poetry, and flash fiction have appeared in Creations Magazine, Little India, Outpost, Nowhere Poetry, and The Syzygy Poetry Journal.