Peaches

I open the window with force to see what the commotion is. The street is filled with people standing and screaming. I see a glimpse of a shoeless foot, sock hanging. Long red hair catches my eyes, as does the smashed front windshield of a small car.

An ambulance approaches blaring its siren and the crowd shifts to the sidewalk.

Now I see the victim is my next-door neighbor and my heart palpitates.

Sitting on my lap is her kitten Peaches, who I pet sit.

I coddle the furry cat in my arms, and realize I’ll be his home now.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Five-Minute Rule

An apple drops onto the produce floor and bounces twice before rolling under the corn stack. You’d hoped to walk away, but three ladies saw it happen and are giving you an accusatory look. So you pick up the fruit and carry it to the baked goods section.

Five minutes later, you return the dropped apple and turn it inwards to hide the bruised spot and wet corn silk.

You grin with satisfaction and think of the poor sucker who doesn’t check his fruit before purchase.

At home, later that day, you unbag your peaches and notice they are mushy.

From Guest Contributor Jennifer Lai

The Goblin King Slips An Empty String

With a slipknot on the hole of you. Look at him, all owl feathers and magic tricks, costumes and dreams, a liar in the land of the living walking on the ceilings of time. Beauty boots and poison peaches work on your weaknesses, blackmail your truth with your vanity, measuring you for fitting. He sings to things you think you are, illusions orbiting colors you can’t see with eyes so wide. The crystal ball rolls up the stairs, bait for your monstrous desire. He wants his woman to fear him. You must be starving: beautiful or not, that’s not love.

From Guest Contributor Brook Bhagat

Brook’s poetry, fiction, non-fiction, and humor have appeared in Empty Mirror Magazine, Little India, Dămfīno, Nowhere Poetry, Rat's Ass Review, Peacock Journal, Anthem: A Tribute to Leonard Cohen, and other journals and anthologies. She has completed a full-length poetry manuscript, is writing a novel, and is editor-in-chief of Blue Planet Journal. She holds an MFA from Lindenwood University and teaches creative writing at a community college.

One Of A Kind

She was impeccable. His mentor. Love. Tears clouded his vision as he viewed their life together through photos he flipped.

“You ought to take better care of yourself,” she often scolded. He wanted to say the same to her. Couldn’t. He closed the album with her smile nestling in the recesses of his mind.

A wooden box nearby cradled ripe peaches. One had gone bad.

He thought of her, his mom. How she would have dealt with it promptly. Not like him.

He grumbled at the cancer that had wasted her body. Lifted the rotten fruit and threw it out.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. Her fiction and poetry have recently been published online and in journals at: Nailpolish Stories, 50-Word Stories, 100 word story, A Story in 100 Words, 101 Words, From the Depths (Haunted Waters Press), ShortbreadStories, and espresso stories. Her nonfiction has appeared in flash fiction chronicles and in Wild Lands Advocate. Krystyna resides in Alberta, Canada.

Honors Bestowed

When the bandit chief Harper Caine invaded the capital, he was met with the torrential might of the King's Watch. After he quickly dispatched the watchmen, the King's ministers unanimously called for negotiation.

It was decided they would offer Harper Caine lordship over the King's peach orchards.

"Why would I agree to such a settlement?" asked Harper Caine.

"Because tending to the King's peaches is considered the greatest honor in all the lands and comes with a salary of 1,000 gold bars."

"I agree to those terms."

It was many years before Harper Caine realized the King cared nothing for peaches.

God's Gonna Cut You Down

The lushness of heaven extends as far as the eye can see. The sweeping idyll possesses an organic quality only the most punctilious artisan could ever manufacture.

God dotes on his lawn with a paternal devotion. Most people consider the third dimension to be God's great masterpiece, but they have never been lucky enough to grace Heaven with their presence. God's lawn is softer than the softest hammock, yet firmer than the ripest peach. The waiting list to serve as one of God's lawn gnomes includes Albert Einstein and Napoleon.

But even in Heaven, the grass does not cut itself.