Haunting Silence

“If Sam took a hearing test today, she’d fail it in the left ear, probably both.” The doctor points to diagrams, talks about adenoids and semi-clear liquid the color and consistency of honey.

Since January, I’ve watched Samantha’s world get smaller. She laboriously mastered “DaDa” and nothing more.

The doctor and my wife talk about tubes and advances in the technology of tubes.

I’m haunted by an image I haven’t seen yet—Sam unconscious, on a white hospital sheet awaiting surgery. I see this when I check on her.

In her crib, the sheets are pink, stuffed animals all around.From Guest Contributor Shane Borrowman

Teases

Sam is lying languid on yellow sheets. James will be home tomorrow which leaves little time for new lovers.

Sam reaches up and receives the glass and sips, as I drink from the bottle and look at scars on a wrist, tattoo marked and bled, bracelet often mislaid.

Bob Marley doesn't give a shit, while Sam Cooke looks dispirited at what yet will come. Joplin cries wild abandon from vinyl well-worn and well earned.

And James will return and for now Sam is here and I am here and the bottle is half full and Sam teases with a fingertip...

From Guest Contributor Michael Tyler

Michael writes from a shack overlooking the ocean just south of the edge of the world. He has been published in several literary magazines and plans a short story collection sometime before the Andromeda Galaxy collides with ours and...

Blues For Beginners

My mother went in the hospital for heart surgery and never came out. What would make someone leave all this? It’s a question I often ask myself when I get up in the morning or when I lay down at night. Take cleaning your sheets seriously; there’s sweat and drool and worse on them. (By the way, meat tenderizer and saliva remove bloodstains.) The old bluesmen had voices caked with blood and as scuffed and battered as their guitar cases. No one will believe you live the blues if you wear a suit – unless, like me, you’ve slept in it.From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is on the pavement, thinking about the government.

The Sound Of What’s Coming

There was a guillotine in the basement. People in the surrounding buildings reacted by hurling rocks and bottles. The whole thing felt suspicious, like someone was trying to send me a message. So I started cutting out images of crashes and mass shootings from the newspaper and transferring them onto the surface of prison-issued soaps. Then I figured out a way to do that onto the prison sheets. The residue that accumulated on the floor and walls took on a life of its own. Now what do we do? The window provides enough natural light to keep the snake alive.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

The Snake Tree

The forest saw it all. Less than a moon turn she lasted.

Wrapped in a shroud, he planted her in the leafy earth under the shade of birch and pine. Worms and beetles took her to the forest, bit by bit.

She called to him from the snake tree, and he rushed to her while the moon shone across the water. They lay on sheets of green. Her embrace was stronger than death. Beetles and worms took him bit by bit. The rustle of leaves and the sighing of wind.

The forest saw it all and the forest was pleased.

From Guest Contributor David Rae

David lives in Scotland. He loves stories that exist just below the surface of things, like deep water.He has most recently had work published or forthcoming in; THE FLATBUSH REVIEW, THE HORROR TREE, LOCUST, ROSETTA MALEFICARIUM, SHORT TALE 100, and 50 WORD STORIES. You can read more at Davidrae-stories.com

Strange Sounds

A year ago it started like a joke. We were laying on our flat mattress together. Innocent. We were children.

Amadi was my brother, I was twelve. It came one night when we watched Mama and Papa do things underneath their sheets while she made strange sounds like she was in pain. When I slept that night, I felt it. Amadi took off my pants and put his thing inside of me. There was a pain like it was a needle, only there was breaking and entering, a salted liquid, and nine months later a child was on my breasts.

From Guest Contributor Oghenemudia Emmanuel

Clothesline

“Something landed in our yard,” I announced.

Harold unlocked the backdoor, glanced around.

“Softball,” he hollered. “Next door thugs peering over our fence.Undies on their clothesline again.”

“I’m cooking. How about returning the ball?”

“Nope. They know where it is,” Harold grumbled holding a newspaper.

When the doorbell rang, he answered. Two boys asked permission toretrieve their ball.

“Nice kids. Better than the previous neighbors. Remember, they hungsheets on that silly clothesline to avoid talking with us.”

I looked out the kitchen window.

Our neighbor had taken down the underwear. Sheets strung the length ofthe clothesline.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction.