Fallen Fruit

The peach tree in the yard was surrounded by fallen fruit, all of it shockingly well preserved, as if each one had been individually painted there. The house itself was in worse shape, with pealing paint, overgrown ivy, and several cracked window panes. No one lived there anymore but ghosts.

Sarah took in the scene from her car. She'd been nervous all morning, not knowing what to expect, but now that they were here, she felt nothing. She was simply numb.

"Let's go." Henry drove away. Sarah stared at the old neighborhood and wondered why people take pleasure from nostalgia.

The Importance Of Listening

I went on my own because I couldn't get anyone to come with me. What had once been an orchard was now a graveyard for old tires, sprung mattresses, rusty paint cans, even broken microwaves, scattered over the slope like the indecipherable wreckage of some puzzling event. The trees, untended for years, had long since stopped producing apples and been twisted into painful shapes by time and storms and then overwhelmed by creeper vines and opportunistic birds and insects. I just stood with my head cocked to one side as if trying to catch every single word the crows said.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie co-edits the journals UnLost and Unbroken.

New Year's Resolutions

A new year. Time to make new, exciting changes.

Shall I spend more time writing, or perhaps make time to relax with a cup of coffee next to the warmth of the fireplace with a good book. I could clean out the basement and get rid of old Christmas ornaments I never use. How about jogging or enrolling in a paint class. Joining a book club could be fun. I would love to discuss “To Kill A Mockingbird.” Skydiving, snorkeling, traveling the world. Maybe.

Or maybe this is all wishful thinking, since I only have a short time to
live.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Reduction

He sat alone.

He watched her scrape the painted letters from the window; watched FINE ARTS CAFE become FINE ART, then FINE and finally FIN.

She took a break.

He couldn’t bear to watch anymore anyway, imagined Painting becoming mere Paint, then Pain; Lessons, Less.

Having finished his coffee, he talked to the café owner about her plans now that she’d finally served up her last cup.

He knew he’d go soon too.

He mentally counted out the other empty storefronts, some of the buildings invisible from where he sat, their windows staring out at a rapidly fading Main Street.

From Guest Contributor Ron. Lavalette

Just A Cigarette

Sometimes I wish I smoked just to have something else to do. While I watch you paint the bodies of other women with your electrifying and magical fingertips, it feels almost natural to have a cigarette between my fingers. Yet I do not set my lungs on fire. I suspect it has something to do with your disapproval. You say smoking is a sign of suicidal behavior. You will not go out with a mental patient. So I quietly sit and watch as you caress and trace the contours of other women, happy not to be in a coffin instead.From Guest Contributor Suhasini Patni

Suhasini is a second year undergraduate at Ashoka University, in India, studying English literature. She has previously published a book review in The Tishman Review and a micro-fiction piece with A Quiet Courage, and hopes to publish many more. She is new to the publishing world but loves to write.

Woman In Silhouette

I still remember the night when you left me, air thick with mist, the full moon hanging low like a moth in a tomb of cobwebs. Your deceitful voice was floating like paint fumes, stretching through the void.

«Don’t worry, honey. I’ll be back in a bit,» you said, kissing my forehead with stone-cold lips, smoothing my braids with moist and stiff hands.

Time has swallowed hundreds of full moons ever since, its belly round and black, cradled my sleepwalking heart, watched your features fading away from my memory. Now there’s nothing left of you but a woman in silhouette...

From Guest Contributor Cristina Iuliana Burlacu

Shades Of White

He had spent the morning prepping: moving furniture, taking down curtains, removing pictures from the walls, spreading drop cloths, and taping: lots and lots of taping.

Finally, the paint was open and stirred. Before dipping the brush in the can, Paul looked longingly through the picture window at the gorgeous spring day. He sighed, knowing his friends were probably just finishing their round at the country club.

“Honestly,” he thought, “who can tell the difference between Yucca White and Painter’s Canvas. I just did this room two months ago.”

He hated painting, but when his wife said paint, he painted.

From Guest Contributor Simon Hole

Simon lives in rural Rhode Island where he taught fourth grade for 35 years, publishing essays and co-authoring a book focused on life in the classroom. Since retirement he has been playing poker, gardening, and writing short fiction. Some of his work can be found on-line at 101Words, The Zodiac Review, 200cc’s, and Bewildering Stories.

I See

I paint you by numbers, capture your features one by one… from the fair Irish skin; to the coal-black hair; to the rich, ruby lips; and the fiery-, emerald-green eyes.

I reach for the palette of paint and thrust my brush like a mop into a bucket and swish it around. The color washes your face with only shades of grey. The numbers on the canvas do not add up. I am left only with a monotone portrait of shadow and sadness.

Betrayed, my grip clenches. I see, I know your colors. I see, I know your lack of them.

From Guest Contributor Keith Hoerner

My Last Hawaiian Vacation

My new swim trunks were still crispy and smelled of a fresh paint. I plunged into the warm Hawaiian water, ready for my long-postponed vacation. And then I saw Her.

She gave me a hearty, genuinely happy smile, exposing a string of perfect, pearly white teeth. Her tight black skin glittered under the sun. She was clearly into me.

I looked back at my family uncomfortably. Little Johnny was pointing his little finger in my direction: too late. My body split in half, the ocean stained scarlet.

Luckily, my swim trunks remained completely intact: Sharky did not like their taste.

From Guest Contributor, Olga Klezovitch

Olga is a scientist who lives in Seattle. Her previous work has appeared in 50-Word Stories, Necon E-Books, and A Story in 100 Words