Beyond Belief

The ancient gods of the Nilmani people occupy a liminal position between myth and religion, no longer worshiped but still respected. Only the oldest living souls remember these forlorn mischief makers, who liked to plague even their most devout followers with typhoons or earthquakes or other inconvenient harrassments.

When the new gods arose, offering their dogmatic rules and promises of reliable salvation, the Nilmani moved on from their primordial divinities, failing to comprehend the consequences of betraying old oaths. Devastation soon followed, and an important lesson learned.

It won't do to anger a forgotten deity with nothing left to lose.

Who's To Blame?

There's a responsibility implicit in every act. By choosing to engage in life, we accept that our choices will have consequences, even when we consciously deny them. We are of the world and we are defined by the actions we take as surely as by those we don't.

This isn't about blame or guilt. Such concepts are constructs of society, attributes of culture. Animals probably don't understand guilt. Plants certainly don't, nor rocks. But they live by the same rules of causation that all of us do.

So yes, Mother, I broke the dish, but is it really my fault?

The Bed One Lies In

Brother declared himself ‘nonconformist,’ deciding back in grade school that rules and rituals mattered not.

Many blamed him in situations for his lack of respect. He claimed he simply had no interest.

The breaking point was the forging of Dad’s signature on a cheque. Mother decided on a punishment.

“You have to lie in the bed you made,” she grunted.

“I never make my bed,” he grinned.

He broke the curfew, not returning on time. In the morning it was learned he crashed his motorcycle into a cement wall.

Mother stopped making his bed. No one slept in it again.From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes mainly short fiction and poetry.

Breaking The Rules

I before E except after C, unless I’m seeing too much ceiling from under my eiderdown. I turn my eyes in disbelief to my neighbor Keith, who at this moment is receiving eight heifers of various heights and weight. Having been neither seized in some heist nor had any profits forfeited, they are feisty beasts. A brawn of weightlifters, beings made of veiled skeins of protein, caffeine and bulging veins, takes them away, no receipts involved. Afterward, the men reign over steins of beer at their leisure. Weird that it should be so hard to relieve the stress of thievery.

From Guest Contributor Cheryl Snell

War Without Rules

There were days when the explosions didn’t subside. The sirens became more and more frequent, especially at night. We began to sleep badly. Then one morning, while hurrying to the market, I was struck by flying debris. At the hospital the doctor first looked around to make sure no one was listening who shouldn’t be. “I just need to grab a lab coat and one egg and I can fix this,” he said. He cut my feet open and put pennies in the incisions before sewing them back up and wrapping them in bandages. He said they were lucky pennies. From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is a poet and collage artist on Cape Cod. His latest poetry books are Famous Long Ago (Laughing Ronin Press) and The Bad News First (Kung Fu Treachery Press).

Donning A Mask

The first time I’d worn a mask other than Halloween, was during the Covid-19 crisis. I needed groceries and the supermarkets had strict rules about entering without protection.

When I exited my car, I donned my mask, latex gloves, wiped down the wagon and entered the store. The supermarket was eerily empty, and the shelves were bare of toilet paper and rice.

I approached the cashier who was behind a protective shield and slid my credit card through the slot. Once approved, I packed my bags and left.

When I got behind the wheel, I removed my mask.

Fresh air.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Abiding

I stir the White Russian, the clink of ice so soft, tender. I should be grading papers and concentrating on how to explain Rasputin and Nicholas II to my students. I just want to abide in White Russians and ice, a creamy sea.

I take a sip, savor cream-filled sensation. Hold onto it. Too many rules, kiss department chair’s ass. Don’t swear. Be responsible like Professor Gebert. Voices rise, like some discordant chorus.

I take another sip.

How rich I feel, world subordinated to ice-filled buzz.

I take another small sip, trying to keep creamy seas from melting.

I’m losing.

From Guest Contributor Yash Seyedbagheri

Yash is a graduate of Colorado State University's MFA program in fiction. His story, "Soon," was nominated for a Pushcart. Yash’s stories are forthcoming or have been published in Café Lit, Mad Swirl, 50 Word Stories, and Ariel Chart, among others.

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.

Home School

It was agreed I would be home schooled, with my Mother as the teacher.

I didn’t know what to make of it. I mean, it’s not like I’m a poor scholar or dumb. It’s just that regular school complained I am a disruptive influence with an attitude problem.

All the school administrators care about are their own rules.

At the end of day one, Dad walked through the door and asked how it had gone down.

“It would have gone a lot better if the teacher wasn't such a bitch,” was my candid reply.

That’s how I flunked home school.From Guest Contributor Barry O’Farrell

Barry is an actor living in Brisbane, Australia. The acting experience has inspired a latent desire to write. Barry is enjoying the challenge of writing in 100 words.