Truth

The doors open and the bridal party makes their entrance, the music resonating throughout the church. The women shine in their baby blue gowns and the bride, Belle, arm in arm with her dad, shines. Her white gown with sequined embroidery catches the eyes of the onlookers, as her father smiles and leads his daughter to the groom. My stomach churns. I can’t let this wedding happen knowing the truth.

Once the priest gives his wedding sermon the vows begin. When he asks if anyone objects, I hastily stand.

The room, aghast over the disruption, waits for me to respond.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Wiser Now

As I listen to him lecture in the big hall surrounded by white boards full of equations, I know I can only swallow small sips from the fire hose of knowledge that flows from his mind and mouth, flooding the audience with his insight until it streams from their eyes, light filling the room and bouncing off the windows; and I must turn my mind from his most recent threat to divorce me to how it all started: a campus lawn, a daisy, the Quantum Uncertainty of petals on the subject of love─ he loves me, he loves me not.

From Guest Contributor Cheryl Snell

Home For Christmas

I finished arranging the last of the ornaments on the Christmas tree. I pressed the switch and the bright red, green and blue lights lit the room, and the star topper sparkled.

The manger was arranged with Mary and Joseph beside the baby Jesus and the wise men holding their gifts.

My children were getting the milk and cookies ready for Santa Claus before going to bed and awakening to presents and my laughter, even though Hal wasn’t home.

I sat on the large sofa and sipped my hot cocoa when the doorbell rang.

My Hal, home from the war.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Tannery

He received a large order to carpet an entire wall: that meant working late at the light tannery, in the other room. He looked at the skyscrapers at the far end of the room where he was now, but it could be done. He had to get to the other room, where the flowers grew: once the stem was cut, the stone inside reacted chemically with the local oxygen, then melted into spots of light whose original texture was much like a tongue’s. He sighed, thinking about his life. What he really enjoyed was preparing chlorophyll manually, on the piano.

From Guest Contributor Angelo Colella

Decision

The witch stared into the candlelight. The darkness and tempest outside would strengthen her spell, To Make Him Love You More. He wasn’t home yet, now was her chance to cast it.

The thunderbolt’s light lit up the room, and a sparkle under the bed caught her eye. Squinting, she focused on it. A shattered mirror.

“Next time, it’ll be your head.”

Her eyes widened as his harsh words echoed in her ears, and her hand froze mid-air. Without thinking, she flipped to the following page of her open spell book, To Mend Your Broken Heart.

Decided, the witch chanted.From Guest Contributor Soleah Kenna Sadge

Soleah is a fantasy writer. You can learn more about her and her writings by visiting https://linktr.ee/sksadge

Creation

The painting of the woman holding a baby close, swaddled in a white blanket, is meticulous. Her long unkempt hair is covering her face, and a man leaning over has his hands gently placed on each of her shoulders. The mother’s tear drop gives off a somber scene; however, the colorful blue background breaks the bleakness.

“Sarah, this sullen painting, even with blue in the background, isn’t joyful as I instructed.”

“It is.”

“Explain.”

“If my brother hadn’t been still born, I wouldn’t have been created.

Sarah packed her supplies and, satisfied, left the room with a sensation of stares.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Sweet Lullaby

Brianne gently swung the bassinet humming a lullaby. It had been in her family for years and it was her turn to place a baby in it.

She decorated the nursery with teddy bears and yellow duckling wallpaper. She spent the majority of her time in the baby’s room holding the many tiny onesies her family gave her and reading the children’s books for the baby’s library.

“Honey, I’m home,” said her husband Greg as he entered the room with a bouquet of freshly scented red roses.

Brianne began to weep.

It was time to tell him about the miscarriage.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Obsession

Are you addicted to chocolate? Creamy on the tongue. Eat it all you want, whenever you want it. Secretly in your room, for you and nobody else. Life’s hard. Chocolate melting in your mouth makes you whole. Briefly.

They’ll call you an addict. They’ll tell you to get help.

Are you addicted to a person? Soft in your ear. Ring her, mail her, message her all you want, whenever you want her. Secretly in her arms, you and nobody else. Life’s hard. Melting into her softness makes you whole.

They’ll call you in love. They’ll tell you you’re lucky.

Briefly.

From Guest Contributor Amita Basu

Amita is a graduate student of cognitive science. Her fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in The Right-Eyed Deer, Gasher, St. Katherine Review, Star 82 Review, Proem, Muse India, and Dove Tales. Her nonfiction has appeared in Countercurrents and Deccan Herald. She has finished a collection of literary short stories, and is working on a mystery novel about art. She lives in Bangalore, India.

The Gift

Timothy wants a brother for Christmas.

His mother, divorced, comes up with an alternative solution and sits Timothy on her lap. “Honey, there’s another way we could give you a similar present. Each month we can sponsor a child.”

Timothy tilts his head. “What does that mean, Mommy?”

“Well, each month we’ll send money to help the boy get food, education, and whatever he needs. Some children in other countries can’t afford these things and need help.”

Timothy’s face lit up the room with his radiant smile. “I like that, Mommy.”

In Bangladesh, a little boy has a happy holiday.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

The Look Of Things

We were invited to a silent room filled with melting glaciers. I just stood there, part of the system, but vulnerable in a way peculiar to men who are naked except for their socks and shoes. I’m constantly creating problems that never even existed. I have to walk really, really carefully or there’ll be more cats than people around. After we’re dead, it’s another story: Cosimo de Medici once complained to Michelangelo, “That sculpture doesn’t look like me.” “Listen,” Michelangelo said, “you’ll be dead in 20 years, this will be around for 2,000 years. So, that’s what you look like!”

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author most recently of Spooky Action at a Distance from Analog Submission Press.