They Were Her Rock

“You can do this!” “Be positive.” “You’re not alone.”

An assortment of rocks made up the flowerbed in front of a tall brick building. Some were scattered, others piled, many with painted pictures and handwritten messages.

Walking from the parking lot was perilous at best. Cheryl navigated the uneven sidewalk cautiously, crunching ice under heavy boots, pounding stale snow into powder.

The front glass-door opened. Volunteers greeted at the end of the entrance foyer away from the cold drafts of the outdoors. Someone sat at the reception counter awaiting questions.

Cheryl’s heart raced. Her radiation treatment was about to begin.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Flake

Everyone considered him a flake. He had a way of chipping away at you until you gave in out of frustration or boredom.

You know how onions have many layers, and you have to keep peeling away until you get to the center. The thing is, all the layers are the same. You aren't discovering some hidden core that no one else knows about. It's still just onion.

At least with rock there's a chance you'll find a rare metal.

When Janine from accounting decided to marry him, we felt sorry for her. But I guess she really likes onions.

Your Cold Heart

The damn dog wouldn't stop digging.

Bitches can't be with you if you don't scream.

I paid the bills. The rent, the cellphone, the electric.

Why weren't you on my side?

"Come with me!" I yelled.

You said, "You mean it?"

The dog stared at me, wanting an answer too.

I picked up a rock.

I usually miss, but it struck you right between the eyes.

I kept digging in the almost frozen ground.

I'm so sorry!

I guess the dog missed you as much as I did 'cause---

The dog kept digging.

I hit her right between the eyes.

From Guest Contributor E. Barnes

E has works in The Purple Pen, The Haven, Spillwords, Centina Pentina, Entropy, NanoNightmares and a collection of the works, Flash Crazy, was published in 2021 and is available on Amazon.

Confessions

Did she hear right?

The curtains are parted. It is naked black in the bedroom except for a slice of light exposing one hazel eye, the outline of his angular face. Clare knows how soft that eye-brow is to touch and how it is to be in the centre of that dark gaze.

Moving to the window, she peers outside: they will never be two names chiselled into a hill, hewn into rock. For months she wished she was that whisper of sunlight on his face. That and no more.

‘I’m married,’ Mike repeats.

‘I heard you. So am I.’

From Guest Contributor Louise Worthington

Dinner Time

Sam sat, crossed his hands over his chest, and sighed.

“Baked chicken, boiled potatoes, and string beans. Really, Mom?”

“You know the doctor wants you to eat healthy,” she answered, filling his dish.

Sam swallowed a piece of chicken and it was like a rock had hit his stomach. He missed the crispy taste of fried, juicy white meat.

“String bean pie for dessert,” he chuckled and noticed a hair on his dish.

Sam removed his hat and a clump of his hair fell on the table.

“Does this mean the radiation is working?”

His mother gasped at the sight.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Prisoners

Auntie asks my mother and I to move out of her house. She says I make too much noise when I sleepwalk and my rock albums are causing Uncle Herman more brain damage from his tour of duty in Afghanistan. Upstairs, I take down my posters of Geronimo, John Lennon, and James Dean from the finely cracked yellow walls. Exhausted, my mother sits on my bed and breaks down. “It’s all your fault,” she says. As if I had the power. At night tiny policemen march into my ears. I’m not sure it’s a dream. They say come with us.

From Guest Contributor Kyle Hemmings

Kyle's latest collection of text and art is Amnesiacs of Summer published by Yavanika Press. He loves street photography, French Impressionism, and 60s garage bands that never made it big.

Maxine and Me

Linda bought it for me at the museum gala. "So many wonderful things for a donation." she said, "You should have come, my dear! Meet new people."

She's part mother, part matchmaker. I need both.

But do I need this? A burnt, ugly, pockmarked lump of rock. The note with it read "Deaccessioned. Meteorite acquired by Dr. Harris, Labrador 1905. Once much larger, visitors took pieces for many years."

My friend must think I'm like this thing. Dark, scarred. Fragmentary since Bruce left.

I call it Maxine. Sits brooding under a lamp on my desk. We keep each other company.

From Guest Contributor Karen Walker

Sweet Memory

The girls play hopscotch, the one sister’s hair bounces in rhythm to her skips. She giggles and bends to pick up the rock, balancing her leg in the air. She wins, and they play again and again, until the sky opens, drenching them. Hand in hand they run home with their mouths open tasting rain drops. Entering the house, their mother yells for them to take off their wet sneakers and leave them by the door.

They kick off their sneakers and socks.

In the kitchen there’s the sweet smell of chocolate chip cookies.

Eighty-five-year-old Cindy smiles at the memory.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Bad Escape

Alcatraz, 1938.

Prisoners Nick and Daryl were aboard a boat to Alcatraz. The boat collided with a rock and turned over. Nick and Daryl swam to shore followed by a guard. He knocked them out. Outside of the prison Daryl grabbed the guard's gun and shot him.

With Nick, Daryl ran from the loosened dogs and guards. They found a boat. The warden followed as the men stole the boat.

'This is the life' cried Nick.

'Hungry for bullets?' called the warden as he shot Daryl. Nick, an identity thief, shot back.

Nick lived another fifty years as a warden.

From Guest Contributor Bayley Kelly

Only Flying

It was not until it hit the blade of the worst rock, riddled with femurs and water skulls, that the river split open and found the leverage to jump out of its bed. It left comfortable moss, minnows’ gossip, and the sound of its own body rubbing past stones, on or around. It surrendered, leapt without choosing, a reflection in air of the path it had known before—the meadow, the factory, the wooden swing. The cottonwoods, black and white. It had become the ocean it had always wanted to meet, silent now, still on the same path. Only flying.

From Guest Contributor Brook Bhagat

Brook holds a BA from Vassar College and an MFA in Writing from Lindenwood University. She teaches college writing and is the co-owner and chief editor of BluePlanetJournal.com. Her nonfiction, poetry, and flash fiction have appeared in Creations Magazine, Little India, Outpost, Nowhere Poetry, and The Syzygy Poetry Journal.