I Alone

Jim, Clark, Alex, and myself lined up before the principal like toy soldiers. We'd grumbled the whole way here, lamenting Grace Johnson's unforgivable sin of tattling. I could tell for the others the complaints masked an underlying horror of what punishments might await. They'd never been in real trouble and us regulars liked to tell stories to bolster our bonafides.

Dr. Wilson lectured us for a few minutes before demanding a confession and apology. I don't know what bravado took hold of me, but I stepped forward.

"I alone threw mud at those girls."

The others nearly cried in relief.

Waiting

The mud on my face sticks to me from the heat of the sun, and I’m cramped in a hole waiting.

The sound of ammunition and men screaming is deafening. I reach in my pocket and take out the picture of my wife. She’s so beautiful. I close my eyes and envision myself stroking her long black hair and kissing her luscious lips. I miss her so much, it aches. I promised I’d make it back, but I know that could be a lie. No one knows what will happen in this damn war.

And so, I sit and wait.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Dandelions

Passersby might have been forgiven for thinking the playground was host to a psychedelic staging of an Andrew Lloyd Webber musical, but it was just Cassie and Bobby, who'd rubbed dandelions on their skin until their faces were streaked with yellow. They wanted to camouflage themselves like the soldiers on TV, but all they had was mud and flowers and imagination.

When the real life soldiers came, Cassie and Bobby hid in the drainage tunnel as they'd been taught. The gunshots echoed like firecrackers in the air around them while they waited in vain for their parents to find them.

The Chariot

Pale reaching hands slipped below powdered ash and blood-soaked mud, pressing tighter to the earth, seeking salvation in the grave-like ditch. War thundered overhead as gunpowder sparked and chorused above. The soldier turned his silver eyes over the mud—to the cemetery of barbed wire and bruised corpses.

A high-pitched scream wailed distantly from two warring steeds tethered together. He watched the blood-stained Roan shriek and kick as it fell into the sea of barbed wire; the moon-kissed Arabian jolted from the tearing spikes, her gas mask hanging from bloodied leather, not knowing whether to die quietly or while struggling.

From Guest Contributor Mikayla E. Gruber

Mikayla is currently writing a fantasy/sci-fi novel and studying English and German at Pikes Peak Comunity College. She is also working towards a CPDT-KA Certification.

Yard Work

His boots sinking in the mud, Joseph pushed the mower across the lawn. Cecile admonished him for its futility, but with the water receding today, now was his opportunity. He'd always enjoyed doing yard work. There was the sense of accomplishment, but he also liked getting out of the house for a couple of hours.

The water was getting higher every year. Cecile talked about moving, but this was where the kids had grown up and they still visited every Christmas. He refused to leave.

It made him angry to think some people were blaming all this on global warming.

A Survivor’s Calling

Mouth agape, eyes widened with fear, I looked on to what my world had been. Everything I lived for was swept up in a distant array of mud, debris and...corpses. Even through my grief, I knew the landslide had chosen me, to avenge everyone's lives that came to an end in this short, devastating moment. This was my calling, which I would live through for the rest of my life, bearing their dreams.

Standing strong, even until this day, I recall this distant memory. With tears beginning to well in my eyes I see hope glimmering from the future.

From Guest Contributor Danielle Simpfendorfer

Youth

We pelt through the underbrush, giddy and squealing, following a trail too small for adult passage. Fronds of yellow broom lash our way with petals; it is early spring and the mud has only freshly set beneath our footfalls. The wooden knuckles of roots provide easy grapple holds for our pudgy hands, and we push on undaunted.

"Where are you?" he calls, breathless from behind me.

"Here! I'm up, follow my voice!" I guide him and we emerge, hand in hand, into the clearing.

Noble and patient, our grandfather's oak tree welcomes us. A bird's nest awaits as our reward.

From Guest Contributor Violetta Buono

London-based introvert Violetta Buono (@ViolettaBuono on Twitter) lives in a fantasy land of her own making. She graduated in Classical Studies, and is currently a freelance writer. Between writing poetry, flash fiction, and pretending to work on a novel, she sometimes submits her work but has yet to be published. This is her first piece appearing to the public.

The Trenches

Joseph lived in the trenches. The others came and went, firing weapons at the enemy location before marching elsewhere. Joseph always stayed.

The soldiers ignored him, except to push him aside when he got in their way. On occasion, an officer noticed him and ordered that he be taken away, but then a bomb would explode and Joseph was left to his own devices.

Joseph had a reasonably comfortable spot. He mostly just lay in the soft mud. It no longer mattered if he was face down in the pool of water at their feet. Breathing was no longer necessary.

The Staircase

It was a Sisyphean task. Tom's only job was to clean the staircase leading down the side of the building. Never mind that he lived in Seattle. Or that they were located directly across from the Rodeo and Cattle Auction. Never mind that he never managed to reach one end of the 17-step flight of stairs before someone muddied them up again by walking past.

Never mind all that.

What really bothered Tom was that not once in his 30 years of employment had he ever been named Employee of the Month. It was enough to make a man give up.