Maxwell

When Maxwell slept, he always dreamed of chocolate. According to his psychoanalyst, this was a long repressed association he had with the candies his mother gave him as a child. His medical doctor insisted it was a result of his chocolate allergy (technically three different allergies to milk, nuts, and soy, but who's keeping track). His wife believed it was a sign he should get her a Valentine's Day gift (collateral damage be damned).

Maxwell visited a dream analyst. She said chocolate represents an indulgence, and his subconscious was telling him to live life.

In other words, death by chocolate.

Home For Christmas

I finished arranging the last of the ornaments on the Christmas tree. I pressed the switch and the bright red, green and blue lights lit the room, and the star topper sparkled.

The manger was arranged with Mary and Joseph beside the baby Jesus and the wise men holding their gifts.

My children were getting the milk and cookies ready for Santa Claus before going to bed and awakening to presents and my laughter, even though Hal wasn’t home.

I sat on the large sofa and sipped my hot cocoa when the doorbell rang.

My Hal, home from the war.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Ingredient

Of course Mickey was very honored that the great wizard Merlin asked him, an apprentice, to fetch an important ingredient for his secret potion.

He rode for days to get to the desert hills, where he encountered a wolf’s nest, five cubs and their mother. Without hesitation he pulled his dagger and turned her offspring into orphans.

Wolf’s milk was a peculiar ingredient Merlin requested for his magic potion, he thought.

On his way back, he saw plants he had never seen before.

‘I should bring some home and who knows, Merlin could find some use for these too.’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.

The Stalker Inside Me

I’ve been watching them. Her and her baby. I know she'll leave the baby alone in a minute for what she thinks is only seconds. But precious seconds for me.

She turns and enters a walk-in closet.

I move closer.

The aroma of milk on its breath sends me over the edge.

I jump.

I'm grabbed by the back of my neck while still in flight and hauled against the wall. I didn't know she was a ninja.

He storms into the room.

"Why did you do that to Churchill?"

"Keep your freaking cat away from my baby."

Divorce follows.

From Guest Contributor E. Barnes

E has works in The Purple Pen, The Haven, Spillwords, Centina Pentina, Entropy, NanoNightmares and a collection of the works, Flash Crazy, was published in 2021 and is available on Amazon.

Afterlife

People say when you die you see a tunnel. A bright light. Angels. Pearly gates. Or hellfire and brimstone, depending on your earthly deeds.

Lies.

There is no tunnel. No welcome by ghostly outspread arms. No river of milk and honey.

Instead, I see a river of blue. Vertical lines of binary code, scrolling endlessly in the void. The emptiness is so vast, it tugs at my soul, a remembrance. Grief.

I begin to walk, seeking. I push back the lines of code like a curtain. And then there you are. Your ocean eyes, your quicksilver smile.

“Welcome home, love.”

From Guest Contributor Heather R. Parker

Omelette

“You crack me up!” Benjamin cackled.

Kenneth looked his friend over as if to check for any cracks needing medical intervention.

“It’s time you learn,” Benjamin said. “How can you go through life without making an omelette?”

Kenneth reluctantly selected a recipe. He gathered all ingredients he could find and set out to cook.

Benjamin took a bite. “You call this an omelette?”

The cook wriggled uncomfortably. “I didn’t know we ran out of milk.”

“You could’ve used skim milk powder, mixed with water.”

Benjamin continued crunching, picking out bits from his portion.

“How much eggshell does this thing have?”

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna is a writer of poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. She resides in Edmonton, Canada.

Ghost Milk

Before going back to the backyard she checked on her husband and her two-month-old kid who were fast asleep. The bed was undone, the dishes were huddled up in the sink unwashed, the rugs were clumsily rolled up. She knew that the child would wake up in an hour exactly. Those midnight crying fits. Last Sunday the infant was inconsolably crying, craving for milk, while she was in the backyard. She wanted to feed him, but couldn’t. Her breasts were heavy with ghost milk. The newspaper on the table read, “Delhi woman electrocuted by wet electric pole in the backyard.”

From Guest Contributor Anindita Sarkar

Holiday Spirit

My neighbor’s colorful red, blue and green Christmas lights gleam
through my window, as my tree with white lights and silver garland
enliven the room.

I sit with my coffee and watch my wife and children prepare milk and
sugar cookies for Santa.

The Christmas song Silent Night plays on the radio and I sit back, feet
reclined, taking in the warmth of the fireplace.

My kids leave the milk and cookies by the fireplace, expecting Santa will come through the chimney with his big round belly and toys.

My family is as true the meaning of Christmas as Jesus.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Pull Tab – Lift Cover

"Hold corner tear along dotted line.” Pulling the seam cereal exploded everywhere. Darn, another bag with a large tear.

Reaching for the unopened milk carton the instructions read: “Push up.” Using both hands it still wouldn’t separate. I grabbed a steak knife loosening the space between. Milk spilled everywhere. Darn instructions. If it says “snip corner,” sauce spurts out. If it’s a spray nozzle, it pops off. If it’s a “tamper proof cap,” it never comes off.

Mm, maybe a bagel with cream cheese. How hard is it to “Pull tab – lift cover.” Never mind, I’m starving. Where’s that knife?From Guest Contributor Dana Sterner

Affinity

You talk in your sleep. At first I thought it was adorable. I’d lean my ear closer to your head on my chest and catch things like, “Silly penguin doesn’t even know!” or “Better take that milk back to Saturn tomorrow.” I’d laugh and go back to reading and hold you closer. Then things changed, starting with when you arched your back away from me and hissed like a demon cat from hell. I didn’t hold you closer after that, and it’s gotten weirder since. Now I lay awake on my side of the bed, wondering what you’ll do next.

From Guest Contributor Sarah Reddick

Sarah is a writer who spent ten years learning the hard way in Mississippi and she will always be grateful for that state's ability to give a body the blues. She is currently enrolled in the MFA program at Lindenwood University in St. Charles, MO. Her work has previously been published in The Local Voice, Salt Zine, Cattywampus Magazine, and the Mid-Rivers Review.