Fresh Start

I’m spending New Year’s Eve with my Shih-Tzu Millie, sitting on the couch with a novel, sipping wine and eating crackers. I’ll turn on the television when it gets close to midnight. In the meantime, I’m enjoying the last few nights of the Christmas tree and its decorations. Millie tugs at my sweater since I’ve been ignoring her, so I rub her stomach. I check my watch and turn on the television. The ball begins its descent.

As I sit and wait, I reflect on the many mistakes I made and hope the new year will be a fresh start.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Manuscript

The rain pelted the window as I typed the last few pages of my manuscript. It was past midnight, and I had been working for hours with a cold cup of coffee on my desk. My agent advised that it would be in my best interest to have it ready by tomorrow morning, my first novel.

Thunder filled the sky, and my dog Bree ran under bed, my concentration never faltering.

As I typed “The End,” a flash of lightning lit the sky, and the electricity went out.

I didn’t have a chance to hit save before the power outage.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

The Wait

I woke up early and went for a jog. As I followed the path through the park, I listened to nature. The sounds of the birds singing, and the squirrels running up trees were a sign of early spring. It was an unusually hot day in March, so the park benches were filled with people. I had water in my pouch and took a sip. It felt good going down into the pit of my stomach.

After, I sat I checked my phone. There it was, the message I had been waiting for.

My first novel was accepted for publication.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Day At The Park

The fresh scent of flowers fills the air with sweetness. Diana takes a deep breath and relishes the moment, strolling through the park listening to the children play and the birds sing, the warm breeze against her face. She finds a bench, sits, puts her reading glasses on, and takes out her book. She takes a sip of water and begins reading, enthralled in the story, content with the sun on her face, when the cell phone rings.

Diana closes the novel, rushes to the car, and drives to the hospital to say goodbye to her father, her only family.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Headache

I’m having trouble concentrating and so I close my novel with a thump. Then I curse, having had a headache for several days that I can’t get rid of. On the coffee table there are piles of bills that I haven’t paid in months. Hence the headache.

My dog Charlie cuddles beside me and rolls over for a stomach rub. Sadly, he’s my only true friend.

“Hey, boy, thanks for always being around.”

I get up to take two aspirins when the phone rings. What I hear on the other end worsens the migraine.

I’ve been evicted from my apartment.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Bruno Schulz On The Street Of Crocodiles

The pills I take at night to get to sleep leave me feeling dazed all morning. I stare stupidly at the white screen of my laptop while rubbing my head in a forlorn attempt to stimulate the language center of the brain. I think once again of Bruno Schulz. Only the first sentence of the novel he was writing when he was murdered survives: Mother awakened me in the morning, saying, “Joseph, the Messiah is near...” A Gestapo officer shot him down in the street in broad daylight. It was a kind of hobby, to be honest.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author most recently of the poetry collections Gunmetal Sky (Thirty West Publishing) and Famous Long Ago (Laughing Ronin Press).

Troubles

Covid-19 has taken a toll on my social life. The quarantine has me cooped up other than grocery shopping or a drive, and I miss the sounds of my friends boisterous laughs when we joke about men while watching romance movies chomping on popcorn.

Reading a novel with my feet up, the same words stare at me. I toss the book aside and pace, when a tapping on the back door distracts my thoughts. I look outside and a black kitten is on the patio meowing.

I forget all my troubles when I step outside and pet this adorable animal.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Postcards Of Joy

Mother loves postcards. I wish you could see this cathedral. I miss you. I have been constrained by tradition. I move from friend to friend. Wake in one bedroom, slumber in another. No personal markers, photos. Gifts conveying motherly intimacy. My favorite Yates novel, a radio, a train set. Living with Mother was rife with frenetic energy once Dad left. He called her a senseless dreamer. Life was defined by bottles, hissing wine. Cackling laughter, dissolved smiles. I want Mother at ease. Instead, I conjure her flitting about cathedrals, mistaking facades for joy. I tell her I’m happy. Try to believe.

From Guest Contributor Yash Seyedbagheri

Yash is a graduate of Colorado State University's MFA program in fiction. His story "Soon," was nominated for a Pushcart and he has also had work nominated for The Best Small Fictions. Yash's work is forthcoming or has been published in journals such as 50-Word Stories, Silent Auctions, City. River. Tree. and Ariel Chart.

Echo Of Time

I watched the child in the blue sweatshirt jump in the leaves, laughing. What a delight to have heard the echo of his chortle as I sat with the cool autumn breeze against my face. I had my novel opened at the same page for the last fifteen minutes, my eyes focused on the fair-haired boy.

He plopped down, waved his hands through the leaves and looked at the clear sky.

I closed my book and lifted myself up with my cane.

The boy had gone and all I saw were leaves blowing in the park.

That boy was me.

From Guest Contributor Lisa Scuderi-Burkimsher

Book Launch

“Congratulations,” I said. “I’ve been following your development.”

The honored author uttered an inquisitive “Oh.”

“I mean, as an author,” I clarified.

A young twenty-something giggled placing a copy of the new novel between us. She begged for a signature. I turned around to mingle with others.

“Wait, I would like to talk with you,” the author insisted. “You look familiar. Have we met before?”

“Nice line,” I responded.

“I admit, not original. But say...”

“We met an hour ago.” I smiled. “You’re the new next door tenant at Argyle Road. You handed me an invitation to this event. Remember?”From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna is a writer of poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. She resides in Edmonton, Canada with her husband and stuffed animals.