You Know Birds

“Look, Ed. the Sun's coming out.”

“The Sun, huh?”

Actually, it had been out, fusing protons into helium nuclei in its core. Daily, unendingly, for billions of years, it kept at it. Cloud cover had temporarily blocked Edna's view.

“Look at the trees. Let's go out on the patio, Ed.”

Squinting, she turned from the window.

“But the birds in the trees like to crap on me, Edna.”

It was true. They aimed for Ed's head especially.

“Yeah, Ed. But they'll hold off.”

“What?”

“Your hair's a mess...You know birds. They'd rather splatter you after your shampoo, not now.”

From Guest Contributor David Sydney

Deep Slumber

Every part of my body ached; and my hair was pasted to the pillow from sweat. My lips were dry, yearning for water, but I couldn’t drink with the tube down my throat. I’m in the hospital, but what happened?

There’s movement around me, but it’s just a blurred mess. My head feels as if it was struck with a hammer, the pain shooting down to my neck.

I heard voices.

“She needs surgery to remove the swelling. Sarah suffered severe head trauma in the accident.”

Is that a doctor?

Slowly I’m being moved and sedated into a deep slumber.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Chihuahuas

It had been raining 40 days and 40 nights. What a soggy mess.

"I told you we should've gotten on that Ark, Mel.""Stop reminding me, Harriet."The vessel had taken off, with the creatures two-by-two.Then, there were those left behind.

"Would you stop looking out the window, Mel. It's depressing.""I just want to see what's going on.""See? Who can see anything. It must be raining cats and dogs, if I know Jehovah.""No. Not so many cats. But it's amazing the number of Chihuahuas falling from the sky, Harriet.""My God, Mel. And floating everywhere?""Exactly..."

From Guest Contributor David Sydney

Microplastics

Too small, too tough, the forever stuff. Five millimeters to a nanometer, all recycle cheaters. Polyethylene is not green. Debris in the sea, in the sand, on the land, in the air. The minuscule plastic molecule – drink it, breathe it, absorb it. 200 thousand microplastic molecules in you every year. Perfect hair, revolutionary skincare – just vain dreams ruining streams. All the sales promotions on lotions and potions, laundry soap, shopping bags, and tags. So much trash; it’s the sin of the bin. It’s hard to be a container abstainer, a nature campaigner. This is the mess we’re in.

From Guest Contributor K Mayer

A Second Chance At Life

There's an owl outside the window. That's a bad omen.

"Maybe we should stay home tonight."

Amanda ignored his reluctance. "You got us into this mess. Let's get this over with so we can get our lives back."

He sighed, knowing what she said was true. But he'd been backed into a corner, with no good options left. He tried convincing Amanda everything he'd done was for her sake, but she still insisted she'd finally divorce him once they were free. If they could get free.

The thing about pacts with the devil is they are notoriously difficult to break.

Sightseeing In The Subway

There are names scratched onto the walls of New York City subway cars. Monday it was Mark. Tuesday, Dylan. Wednesday, Fatima. Thursday, Kat, and Friday, Lucy. The poorly carved letters, engraved with care, resemble the jagged handwriting of a preschooler; It's something inexplicably human. Though the scratches will fade, and the steel of the cars will corrode, I like to think otherwise; the remnants of these people will linger long after time forgets who they are. Every name I spot, a wave of tranquility washes over me as I stand in a mess of busy people in a busy city.

From Guest Contributor Eshal Yazdani

Disruptions

People, she thought, were like gadgets. They could be tucked away neatly into white boxes, each waiting to fulfill their role. Friends, family, coworkers—they each had their own purpose in her life, and she never let them stray. Few coworkers ever became friends, and even fewer friends became family. Nobody crossed the inner circles of her life without her permission. And then, there was him. The glitter explosion that disrupted her perfect life, bringing just a little mess with him, wherever he went. She now carried that intoxicating aura as it radiated from her chest in amber waves: Bull’s-eye.

From Guest Contributor Kelsey Swancott

Kelsey is a senior majoring in English with a minor in Visual Arts and Spanish while also being involved in the campus literary magazine Angles. She plans on furthering her education by getting her masters degree in English as well. Her work has been published in Entropy Squared, The Dribble Drabble Review’s Spring 2021 issue, and Otoliths in February 2021.

Assembly Required

His parents were poorly assembled themselves. Throw meth and booze into it, and no wonder he grew into a discombobulated mess.

Those who tried to help fled after one too many black eyes from his spazzed-out fists. Well-meaning therapists nodded blankly as he sobbed.

One part worked, though: his left pinkie.

Undoing himself was no walk in the park; piecing himself together was the challenge of a lifetime.

Through trial and error, he bravely persevered.

And one day, like a miracle, all his parts beautifully aligned—with only an occasional faint clicking sound to remind him how far he’d come.

From Guest Contributor Michelle Wilson

Michelle Wilson’s words have appeared in Entropy Squared, 50-Word Stories, 101 Words, Literally Stories, The Miami Herald, and elsewhere. She lives in Miami Beach, Florida. Sometimes, she can be found here.

Fall

The blanket of brown leaves, crisp underfoot before the overnight rains, were now a moist, organic mess. The wind was forcing entire sheaves of debris into clammy piles against curbs and hedges.

The water-logged corpse of one of the neighborhood's homeless lay in the street half-covered as well. A growling dog poked at an exposed leg, disturbed by a scent only it could perceive.

Mrs. Roberts waited at the corner for the paramedics. She didn't like the dog bothering the body, but she was unwilling to get any closer. She instead dragged from her cigarette and stared at her phone.

The Rights And Duties Of A Mother

The apartment is bare of any ornament.

Hannah had expected to find a shambles, hence the bucket of cleaning supplies in her hand. It's difficult to believe he's lived in this studio for the past six months. The only sign that she's in the right place is a stack of his clothes in the corner, neatly folded. Otherwise, there's none of his personal effects, even in the wastebasket.

Her grief isn't prepared for this. She's a mother, long accustomed to fixing the messes of her children. Finding that his last act had been to clean his room leaves her devastated.