Corn Maze Days

Corn maze stocks walk along, step by step, in endless motion. Lefts turned to rights back to lefts, leave us wondering and wandering alongside the corn maze. Eleven in the morning turns to seven at night, soon the moon will guide our way. Apple cider dances while the fire flickers, old folks singing folk songs. Knit sweaters insulate the warmth of your love, arms wrapped around my waist. Shadows once trailing, we now chase. Mama made a pie, pie's been cooling on the counter, calling our name. One more corner, one more corner turns a long day to sweet dreams.

From Guest Contributor Mekah Baker

Mekah is a student of literature and the applied sciences at Pikes Peak State College.

Honeymoon At Home

The cats prefer to keep their secrets or their distance. Never both. But Darling even looks different, like a Saturday morning Sylvester. The first time it happened, I asked my husband if he wanted some blueberry cake. He didn’t hear me, but Darling said, “Muah, I do.” He winked. He answered me from then on, but never in front of my husband. I began to come up with questions just to hear him talk. “What’s your favorite pie?” “Do you enjoy having a tail?” “Do you love me?” My husband planned a second honeymoon. Darling and I watched him pack.

From Guest Contributor Luanne CastleLuanne’s recent fiction can be found in Bending Genres, The Dribble Drabble Review, Does It Have Pockets, South 85 Journal, and The Ekphrastic Review. She has written several award-winning poetry books.

Her Little Plum

The plum blossoms dance in the spring breeze like pink snowflakes across the yard.

A boy again, mother lifts me into the limbs to pick ripened fruit. “Be careful, my precious squirrel.”

“Ready, dear?” my wife asks.

“Yes,” my voice chafes. I inspect my dark suit, adjusting my tie in the window’s reflection. Wipe my face and rub wet fingers together.

“Your speech is in my purse.”

Words. An inadequate parting gift.

My mouth waters as mother sets down a steaming plum pie.

After her funeral, floodlights illuminate wreckage of the fallen tree. A brittle heart splinters. Sobs erupt anew.

From Guest Contributor Eric Schweitz

The Final Body

Once the police left with the final body, the reporters scattered their separate ways, much like vultures after a dinner party. I headed to my favorite diner, hoping some scalding coffee and room temperature pie would scrub away my lingering sense of insignificance.

Denizens of a past-its-prime diner also tend to be past-their-prime, but on this night, the man staring at me from across the booth reminded me of an aging but still dangerous predator, albeit one missing his front teeth.

Staring back at him, I had no way of knowing I was about to be embraced by eternal irrelevance.

Balloon Pop

At the top of the cliff, Kurt ran back forth with a bag full of rocks, trying to pop any of the various-colored balloons that were floating past him. His sole task was to make sure that none of the balloons reached so high as to pass the tree line.

After a while, Kurt realized that the variegated balloon colors signified different values. For example, if he popped a green balloon, he was given a piece of pie. Each color offered something unique.

If his life weren't in such danger, he'd have thought this would make an outstanding video game.

Abnormal

Ben's parents adopted him late in their lives. They fed him and encouraged him to make friends and planned elaborate birthday parties that no other children came to. They did their best to give him a normal life, but something just seemed wrong with him.

Eventually, Ben's parents realized they had been wasting their time. What was the point of adopting a child if he wasn't going to attract more children to their home in the woods? They could have just kidnapped him and baked him into a pie and saved a whole lot of money on clothes and tuition.