Magnolia

Pink Patsy’s throne was her porch, where she roosted like a proud poodle through the better part of a century. She was all pretty pastry and puffball in oodles of swaddled satins and mega bijoux, with cloudward curls as epic as her jewels. Her communal vat of ice cubes and iced tea was legendary among heat-struck fieldhands and thirsty children alike: there was more gin than lemon or sugar, and we fished out ice with silver tongs that looked like chicken feet. They said she kept a tiny pearl pistol in her pom-pom mules, and she only used it once.From Guest Contributor Lorette C. Luzajic Lorette is a widely published writer of flash fiction and prose poetry, with recent appearances in Tiny Molecules, The Citron Review, Ghost Parachute, Dillydoun Review, and more. She is the founder and editor of The Ekphrastic Review, a journal of literature inspired by visual art.

Reflection

I sit by the fireplace in the cabin I rent, sipping steaming tea,staring at the painting above the mantel.

The woman’s face has a distinct redness to her cheeks and lips. Her deepbrown eyes match the color of her hair which is tied in a bun with onesmall red rose tucked behind her left ear, her head tilting ever soslightly. Her pearl necklace drapes neatly around her neck and shestands tall, her gown showing off her shapely hips.

There’s no date on the painting or artist signature.

The young woman in the painting is me.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

The Anniversary

The mirror was unkind. Struggling to zip the reclaimed wedding gown, she closed fading blue eyes. The scent of fresh roses mingled fern, the coolness of pearl against deep furrowed neck. Weathered, shaking hands smoothed vintage satin. Gently opening the floral hat box, once belonging to grandmother. Keepsakes of that day hidden for decades welcomed light. The tea length veil distorted graying hair, a pair of ivory gloves, stained by spilled wine from an over zealous toast. "Somewhere My Love" played in her head, lifting her gown she twirled. Singing softly. He watched without her knowing, not wanting to interrupt.

From Guest Contributor Christy Schuld