Time

Hope is the eternal companion of time. Whatever amount we have, we always believe there's more.

Shannon reflects on the time they've wasted. Angry for no good reason. Lost in mindless distraction. Drunk to the point of blacking out. That's time literally given away for nothing.

Now that the end is upon them, she's choking on the regrets. The bad choices, the meaninglessness. The moments of the past that were perfect and yet so brief and unappreciated.

But those moments were perfect because they were unreflected upon.

All you can do is focus on the hour that is upon you.

Sledgehammer

Bill had never been so in love. Kristen was to a woman like a sledgehammer is to a hammer. He was grateful that she felt the same way.

He proposed after six months of dating. She said yes. Everyone that knew them said after the first time seeing them together that they were perfect for each other.

They decided to write their own vows. Kristin told a story about telling her grandmother right before she died she'd just met the man she was going to marry. Bill told the sledgehammer analogy.

That's when she realized they were making a mistake.

Perfect Spring Day

Rob stares out the window at two young girls playing jump rope while their mother and grandmother cheer. The girls are chortling and clapping without a care.

The birds swoop overhead, and leaves blow in the light breeze. It’s the perfect spring day.

It becomes too hot by the window, so Rob backs away.

“Hello son. Let’s go outside. The doctor says the fresh air will do you good.”

Rob nods and wheels his chair toward the door. His dad pushes him the rest of the way.

The girls will be jumping rope, while he looks on from his wheelchair.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Stakeout

The house whose elderly owner didn’t believe in staging finally sold, for way below market value. The old man called Jane twice to back out, overcome by nostalgia. When it sold he moved in with his daughter. She lived nearby.

The excited buyers said it was perfect. A week after move-in they found him seated in a lawn chair, under the oak tree, sipping coffee.

The third time it happened the couple enlisted Jane. She talked him out of serial trespassing. The guy was ninety, a widower.

The buyers threatened to call the police if there was a fourth time.

From Guest Contributor Todd Mercer

Todd writes Fiction and Poetry in Grand Rapids, Michigan. His collection Ingenue was published in 2020 by Celery City Press. Recent work appears in Praxis, The Lake, Literary Yard, and Star 82 Review.

Courage

HISTORICAL FICTION ENTRY:

“Can I help you?”

“I...I just need a stamp, please.” he stammers, tapping his envelope on the counter. “Do...do you have anything interesting?”

“Not in singles.” She crinkles her nose, mirroring his disappointment. “A Purple Heart?”

“Perfect.”

His quarter and her first-class stamp exchange hands.

“Front box picks up at five. Still time to get that in today’s mail.”

At the door, he affixes the stamp and writes out the address. He retrieves the long-carried letter that starts ‘Dear...Mom?’ and tucks it inside. He seals it, takes a deeper breath, and passes the letter through the slot.

From Guest Contributor Scott Burnam

Your Lips

I can judge this only by looking at them, but I think you almost certainly have the most kissable lips I have ever seen. They look soft and your bottom one hangs out from below the top one slightly in a way that is so graceful and delicate that it fills me with an immense desire to kiss it—and bite it a little. They are always of the correct moisture too; they are never dry nor too wet. They seem to have that perfect amount which makes them look radiant and healthy. Desperately, I want to kiss your lips.From Guest Contributor Mark Beddard

She Was Beautiful

I’ve never been accused of being a dirty old man and I’m not. I know it. I’m not even close. But I couldn’t help staring at her walking in the park. What a beautiful sight. Trim, lean, and muscled; a perfect specimen. A joy to watch. She had no idea how perfect she was. Perhaps that made her perfect. I stared at her and no one seemed to care. I even received a nod or two from others in the park. I can’t be sure, but I think they were watching her as well. A prize-winning poodle, she was perfect.

From Guest Contributor N.T. Franklin

Imperfect

Some say handwriting is an art form. Practice makes perfect, the preschool teacher said. If it were true, I would have the handwriting of an exquisite 14-point Arial. Instead, my wastebasket overflows with paper balls of failure. Black smudges across my skin like dried blood from the words I’ve killed with imperfection. Sweat seeps over pores as I seethe at my incompetence. When the flawless blue lines of loose leaf repulse me, I succumb to technology. Every keystroke delivers proportional consistency, yielding blissful pride as my fingers connect. Only then am I free from the curse of my obsessive mind.

Laura Widener

Laura is a wife, mother, and coffee addict living in rural Georgia. She holds degrees in Sociology and Human Services, and completed her MFA in Writing at Lindenwood University. Her forthcoming work will be found in Riding Light and NoiseMedium, and her previous work can be found in TWJ Magazine, Morpheus Tales, and Life in 10 Minutes. Visit her blog at: http://incessantpen.wordpress.com

The Artist

I was smitten with her, and the pretty photos she mailed me.

I told her I'd plunder her supple body; that I imagined her rolling, like liquid, beneath me.She loved when I said her moans would ricochet off every surface of her lovely bedroom, glazing it in sinfulness.

I told her everything she wanted to hear.

Anticipating our first meeting, I created a collage of her photos: my vision of our tryst.

I savored each slice of my scissors as I dismembered her perfect limbs, her naïve, breathtaking head, rearranging each fragment of her like a scrambled jigsaw puzzle.From Guest Contributor L. Michelle Corp