Unfinished Business

I returned from the dead, a list in my pocket: wrongs to right, pleasures to reclaim, truths to confess, sins to own. Mostly I needed to know how the world had fared without me. Apart from my poor mother, a grieving ghost of her former self, it was as if I’d never lived. Never loved. Never mattered. A stranger slept in my bed, alongside my darling wife, in my home, the one I’d slaved to pay for, my manicured garden now wildly overgrown. I fed the list to the fire. I’d start over from the very beginning, wherever that was.

From Guest Contributor Elizabeth Murphy

The Neighborhood Speakeasy

Earl's Blind Tiger served as the chief gathering place for the town of Hanover. Old men who liked to share memories, lonely men looking for companionship, and young men wanting to prove themselves worthy all frequented the speakeasy on a nightly basis. In addition to the liquor, drama was nearly always on the menu, in the form of fisticuffs and bar sports. Earl knew that more conflict led to more alcohol being sold and more money in his pocket.

Now if only there was a woman or two willing to enter his place, Earl might be able to retire soon.

Old Phone

Scattered pixels form your face, I forgot to delete a few, I still miss you sometimes. I miss you more and hear your voice, recorded, a missed call. If only, who knows when the last time will be the last time prior to, I should have kept my phone in my pocket. You always ask asked me to be more available, I always think thought we’d have another moment. To me you are were forever, forever is never forever. Not even these pixels, replicating your face, fading, scattered, fleeting. Afraid I’ll lose you again, broken charger, my phone is dying.

From Guest Contributor Mekah Baker

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

Funky

There was something funky about the way no one noticed as he walked the sidewalk.

The gentleman picking out fruit at the corner stand. The woman walking her dog towards him. The delivery man checking over the boxes in back of his truck. Never mind it was ten in the evening.

Not one person glanced in his direction.

He stopped at the newsstand, looked over the headlines, asked about the impending strike at the local paper. The vendor grunted noncommittally.

He fished into his pocket, as if looking for change, and drew in one smooth motion.

Everyone reacted at once.

On The Money Trail

Family members need help. I oblige. I’m their doer of tasks.

Why me? I’m between jobs, behind with payments and I haven’t shopped for new clothes in ages. I guess they trust me to deliver. I’m okay with that.

No time to linger. Housebound auntie wants her groceries.

As I hasten, sunshine glues sweaty polyester to my back. I spot sparkles on the sunlit lawn along my walkway.

Coins! Many coins, strewn in a line towards the space where a car had once parked.

I gather, add up their value, sigh.

Someone’s emptied change-purse or pocket. My bit of fortune. From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes poetry, fiction and creative nonfiction regardless of the season or location she finds herself in.

Last Breath

My heart aches when I look at the faded photo of my wife. I place it back in my pocket and lean over the trench, rifle in position.

The tanks approach and deep down I know it’s an impossible situation, but I run onto the field shooting, the tanks firing back, hitting me, and my body thrown midair.

Charles, my friend, pulls me into a ditch and I manage to gesture to my pants pocket. Charles reaches in and pulls out the picture and hands it to me.

With the photo clutched to my chest, I take my last breath.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Until Death

When I rode my bicycle past the Nazis they laughed and threw rocks at me. They hated our kind, and it was time to leave. I had no family, and lived in a small apartment alone, so it wouldn’t take long to pack. I neatly folded my suits and placed them into the luggage. I took the money I saved, stuffed it inside my jacket pocket, took one last look around and walked out the door to the train station.

A few months later, the Jewish families were rounded up and taken to camps.

My heart would ache until death.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

The Long Battle

The heat has taken its toll on my men and the tents smell of sweat and rotting flesh. The battle raged taking many of my soldiers, still left in the trenches, their corpses exposed.

I take refuge in my own tent and remove my wife’s letter from my uniform pocket where I’ve kept it for the last month, her encouraging words the only solace to get me through this hell of a war. The scent of her fragrance has worn, but I envision her beautiful smile.

A loud explosion startles me. I inadvertently drop the letter and run for cover.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Splinter

I clutched her glittery pink butterfly pencil in my left pocket. She wrote with it every day; it’s her favorite. When she dropped it at recess, I knew it was finally my chance to talk to her; to be noble, and return it. I watched her turn the corner towards her 4th-period class. Now’s my chance! Rounding the corner, I bumped into the captain of the football team. Startled, he turned towards me mid-kiss. On the other side of his lips stood Macy, with a brand new butterfly pencil in hand. Engraved were the words, Will You Be My Girlfriend?From Guest Contributor Molly Fay

Molly lives in Buffalo, NY. Currently, she is studying Psychology at SUNY Brockport. In her free time, she enjoys baking, taking long walks by the water, and listening to music.

The Moment In My Pocket

Even in your tight orbit of busy and work and home there are moments whose skin slips, crumbles like the dry shell of a red onion, and a person is laid bare in your hands. It stains your fingers, stings your eyes: your sister, a stranger. A student, mother of four, six-month chip in her pocket, stepping off the cliff edge of giving upbut you catch her hand just in timeand you hold the sphere of this moment,paint it, polish it, and keep it safein your pocketto show to someonewho might give up tomorrow.

From Guest Contributor Brook Bhagat

Brook’s poetry, fiction, non-fiction, and humor have appeared in Monkeybicycle, Empty Mirror Magazine, Rat's Ass Review, and other journals and anthologies. She is a founding editor of Blue Planet Journal. She is the 2020 winner of A Story in 100 Words’ nature writing contest, and the 2021 winner of Loud Coffee Press's microfiction contest. She is an assistant professor of English at Pikes Peak Community College and is writing a novel. Her poetry collection, Only Flying, is due out Nov. 16, 2021 from Unsolicited Press. See the book trailer, read her work, and find out about in-person and virtual book launch events at https://brook-bhagat.com/.