Putting Everything Together

Detective Bobby considered all of the pieces before him one at a time, thoughtfully analyzing the unseen solution. A lesser detective might have wanted a map or set of instructions to understand the full picture, but Detective Bobby eschewed relying on such crude crutches. Detective Bobby instead relied purely on his own intellect and so far it had never failed him, despite what certain others might say.

But no matter how long he puzzled the problem laid out before him, something wasn't adding up. There was definitely a piece he was missing.

"Bobby, put your Legos away! Time for dinner!"

No Thought

My doorbell rings with flowers from David. Every year on Valentine’s Day he sends me red roses. The delivery boy smiles waiting for his tip. I hand him the money and shut the door forcibly causing the room to shake. Another vase to take up room in my cabinet.

Just once I’d like David to say he loves me and take me out to a nice dinner. He does the same thing every year without any other thought.

I throw the roses in the trash, the vase cracking into pieces.

I grab my car keys and take myself to dinner.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Curious Cath

She needed to know so badly, but was afraid to ask. Imagine he didn't know either or – worse – had forgotten.

No, she wouldn't bother the renowned academic (and her life partner) with it. It would only distract him from his life's work: the analysis of 100-word stories.

For days on end he researched various pieces, decomposing the sentences and studying the words.

A few times he attempted himself, but he never got further than 96.

His admiration for the 100-word virtuosos was endless.

However, her curiosity got the upper hand.

"Honey, I've waited a long time to ask you, but…"

From Guest Contributor Hervé Suys

Hervé (°1968 – Ronse, Belgium) started writing short stories whilst recovering from a sports injury and he hasn’t stopped since. Generally he writes them hatless and barefooted.

Once Upon A Time

Once upon a time a new pen got a first assignment: write a story with the title ‘Once upon a time.’ The owner of the pen who is also the writer of this story was curious about the result of this first cooperation.

The ink dried rather quickly which was a nice perk of course.

He bought the pen at an office supply store where he always had to enter every time he passed it.

It’s worth saying: the author loves holding the pen

So remember: the pieces you will be reading from now on are written with this pen.

From Guest Contributor Hervé Suys

Hervé (°1968 – Ronse, Belgium) started writing short stories whilst recovering from a sports injury and he hasn’t stopped since. Generally he writes them hatless and barefooted.

The Watchmaker

He had become a master in the arrangement of all her beautiful pieces.

A lifetime of experiencing his shattered dreams had made this so.

With patience, he would file down or build up their broken parts until two pieces fit together as one.

His hands of meticulous love removed the heart from his chest and gently placed it within hers.

She raised her head slowly and smiled.

His head sagged downward as he did the same.

With that, she rose, exiting the tiny room.

Opening the door as the sun burnt her eyes, but the pain only lasted a moment.

From Guest Contributor J. Iner Souster

The Engineers Play Chess

Christos and Lieberman, veteran development engineers, played chess every lunch hour. Watson, a young engineer, joined the project, watched them play and immediately starting making unwanted comments. They put up with him for two weeks.

One day Christos briefly studied the board, then moved Knight to F4.

"That's a strange move," Watson commented.

Lieberman immediately moved rook to H6.

"That doesn't make sense. What did you do that for?" Watson demanded.

The two chess players said nothing, just stared at him.

"OK, I'm leaving," Watson finally said.

"Check," said Christos and reset his pieces.

"Mate," Lieberman added and did likewise.

From Guest Contributor Ronald Larsen

Family Tree

Robots Contest Entry:

I was born in the rain and dark. “Cure me or kill me,” I begged the doctors in attendance. But apparently only when silent was I able to be heard. I’d been assembled by someone who couldn’t be bothered to read the assembly instructions. Seventy years later, I look in the mirror and see bits and pieces of a stranger’s face – a long, fleshy nose, protuberant eyes, a domelike Shakespearean forehead. My now grown children stand well off to the side, uncertain whether to huddle or flee. As I tentatively approach, I clutch a rose, shoulder high like a dagger. From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie's books include the prose poetry collection THOUGHT CRIMES, scheduled to be published in fall 2022.

The Chopping Block

The cabbage on the chopping block was a vivid royal purple. She couldn’t figure out why it was called red cabbage. It certainly looked purple, even after it was cooked. Her sheepsfoot knife was thinly slicing the quartered pieces with almost no effort. Good knives were worth every dollar spent on them, she mused.

She thought ahead: I still need to chop the onions and the Granny Smith apples. I hope I have apple cider vinegar. This dish will go perfectly with roasted pork.

She looked down and noticed blood on the board. Was that the tip of her finger?

From Guest Contributor Janice Siderius

The Natural In Nature

NATURE SUBMISSION:

“It’s all natural,” Kathy tells Gordon, her teenaged son. “We don’t use pesticides.”

She tears lettuce into bite-size pieces. Radishes lie on the chopping board next in line for the salad.

“But chemicals can fall from rain,” replies Gordon. He fills a glass with filtered water.

Bruno, seen through a window, is crouching between rows of spinach and lettuce in the garden.

Gordon cringes. “So much for natural. Think of all the junk that dog picks up along the way in his daily romps.”

“That’s nature,” says Kathy. “Can’t help what one is meant to do.”

“Certified organic?”

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna is a writer of poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. She resides in Edmonton, Canada with her husband, stuffed animals and many friends.

Dynasty

Scott surveyed the pieces, trying to keep track of the colors in his head. To his left, Evelyn sighed.

"It's no fun watching you stare at the board."

Scott didn't respond. Everyone was mad enough. They hated losing, and he'd won every game since arriving. Protesting it was all luck only increased their frustration.

He picked up the knight-looking character and moved it into the green circle. "How's that?"

"You win again. You don't have to be a jerk about it."

Scott smiled, embarrassed. He decided it was a bad idea to admit he still didn't fully understand the rules.