Parade

The parade marched, danced, and pranced down Main Street, the entire town joining in a festive orgasm of delight. The inclusive nature of the procession meant that everyone was assigned to one of several variegated assemblies. There was a troop of cheerleaders, sports teams, amateur acrobats, and dancing animal costumes. Strangely, everyone was carrying their own tuba, and the deep blasts rebounded off the stone edifices and pavement majestically.

Upon reaching one end of the town, the entire cavalcade turned about and headed in the opposite direction. This continued ad nauseam until everyone was dead.

The Pied Piper strikes again.

Their Saturday Morning Walk

“How was it Ed?”

By 10:30, Ed returned with Frodo, after their Saturday morning walk. Frodo, a Labrador retriever, immediately went to his food dish.

“I played fetch with Frodo in the park. He chased a squirrel, Edna, and they ran into the middle of a parade. I caught him, then we went by Sawyer's place.”

“Was his forsythia in bloom?”

Cornelius Sawyer had an almost pathological attraction to his bush.

“Yeah...Frodo peed all over it, Edna. Then Sawyer threw a brick at him.”

“That was it?”

“No, he threw a tennis racket at me.”

“Oh...So, nothing unusual.”

From Guest Contributor David Sydney

Buffalo Parade

The brown, mangy forelock and beard of the drum major serves as a baton for the rest of the herd despite being littered with straw. He marches forward without waiting for his retinue to follow. Their accordance is coded in.

The troop rushes forward like a flood of molasses, slow at every moment, but before we know it, we're drowning in buffalo, breathing in their musk. They pretend to ignore us as we snap photos and move as far too close. They seem more like comfortable bedding than a physical threat.

Neither group understands the true danger it is in.

Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving, a time to spend with family. The turkey is in the oven filled with my famous bread stuffing, the pumpkin pie is cooling, and the vegetables are ready to go.

I sip wine and watch the parade waiting for my company. It’s half past 4 o’clock. I told everyone to be here over an hour ago for anti-pasta.

My cell phone rings.

“Hey, Myra, sorry, but we all came down with the stomach flu. We’re not going to make it this year. Hopefully, we’ll see you at Christmas.”

I pack up my dinner and take it to a shelter.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Voice

Philip, my husband, gently massages the knot in my shoulder. “Are you ready?”

Turning, I kiss him on the lips. “Of course.”

My daughter is playing with her grandmother, talking gibberish. This is for her future as much as it is for mine. She will be more than a housewife.

I grab my banner, walk out the door and join the parade of women marching down “Fifth Avenue.”

It may not happen today or tomorrow, but we will keep on going until we’re equal.

With Philip smiling and watching from the sidewalk, I feel confident our voice will be heard.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Suffrage

I clear the breakfast plates as a dutiful wife, while my husband, Robert, legs crossed, newspaper in hand, clears his throat and faces me.

“Are you seriously considering going to the parade, Grace?”

“Not considering, I’m going,” I say and slam the cabinet door, dishes rattling.

“There’s no reasoning with you,” he says and leaves the room.

I want more than keeping a home and obeying Robert’s commands. I want the freedom to choose.

I hold my head high, grab my “Women have the Right to Vote banner,” and walk out the door to Fifth Avenue to make a difference.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Autumn’s Menace

A plainclothes policeman, using a pair of handcuffs as brass knuckles, cut the face of a boy who was wandering the city in a hospital gown. The sirens got louder. Windows rattled and the pictures on the walls shook. Sometimes I think it's not true that teaching a child to not step on a caterpillar will make you a better person. Sometimes I think the plainclothesman is going to walk through the door, so I just keep waiting. The city streets are deserted – no St. Patrick’s Day parade, no people. In these slow days of unease, everyone is a biohazard.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie's latest poetry collections are The Death Row Shuffle (Finishing Line Press, 2020) and The Trouble with Being Born (Ethel Micro-Press, 2020).

Neighbors

Everett was swinging back and forth on his porch enjoying a glass of iced tea, sweet tea, watching the annual 4th of July parade make its way past the little house he’d lived in all his life.

Everything he understood about history he’d learned watching that parade go up that road.

Here came local girls twirling pretend wooden rifles in front of the marching band from over at the white high school.

Back when Everett was young, girls, black and white, twirled batons. But the world today was meaner. Neighbors didn’t even try anymore. Or so it seemed to Everett.

From Guest Contributor Brian Beatty

Brian is the author of four poetry collections: Borrowed Trouble; Dust and Stars: Miniatures; Brazil, Indiana: A Folk Poem; and Coyotes I Couldn’t See. Beatty lives in Saint Paul, Minnesota.

Father

Father threw his coat on the chair and announced, “I'm tired of trying to see the good in people.”

“Tough day, Father?”

“You have no idea. All day long, problems, problems, problems. I can’t fix chronic poor choices in partners or unfulfilled dreams of success because of laziness.”

“Did anything good happen today?”

“Well, the steps were repainted. It was a decent job, considering it was done by a recovering alcoholic.”

“See, that’s a start.”

“But there was a parade of people coming to confess all sorts of stupid things to me.

“Well, maybe being a pastor isn’t for you.”

From Guest Contributor NT Franklin

At Least It Gets Me To Work And Back

I pass the dump truck parade on my way to work, and I pray the spider cracks in the windshield of my creaking and shaking and ground-scraping savior will remain intact until tomorrow. But this is the end for it. The heavy glass shatters on me, pouring down with a ripping gust of gravel and unpaid bills. I cover my scrunched face to protect from the impending costs. I bleed my next paycheck into the repairs. There is a new scar on my credit report, just next to my student loan debt. My last breath is spent coughing up pennies.

From Guest Contributor Stacy Gorse