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

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.

Resistance

The Nazis arrived in Poland stomping down the street showing their authority. My mother was in the kitchen cooking dinner, the smell of vegetables wafting in the air, and my father had the radio on listening to the broadcast of the invasion. I sat next to him and stared out the window. For no apparent reason, one of the soldiers kicked a man that stood on the sidewalk with I’m assuming his young daughter. The girl screamed when the man collapsed in a heap. Was this the world now? No one was safe.

The next day I joined the resistance.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Fool In The Rain

The rejection stings. Dave stumbles down the sidewalk, absorbed in his own thoughts, oblivious to the people walking nearby or the rain pouring overhead. Motor memory guides him back to his apartment despite never making a decision to walk home. He's too preoccupied with being left standing on the curb looking a fool. The others were probably still laughing.

All he knows with any certainty is he will never allow himself to be in such a vulnerable position again.

If only he'd been a few seconds quicker, he could have boarded the bus before the door slammed in his face.

Ice Pond

When I stepped outside onto the cold snow-covered sidewalk, I remembered my childhood in Maine.

“Hurry, Artie!” My sister, Clara, bellowed from across the ice pond.

My friend Eric couldn’t keep up, and I quickly sped past him, my hands raised in victory. Eric sighed and skated away, having had enough.

Clara clapped and then glided toward me. Suddenly there was a crackling sound and a scream. Clara fell through the ice, hands flailing, eyes fearful. I tried to get to her, but people pulled me back and said I’d fall too. Then there was silence.

I never skated again.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Morning Constitutionals

Fred was a big man who walked a little dog. Pepe, the Chihuahua, nearly jerked Fred's arm from its shoulder socket as he dashed ahead of his owner on the leash.

Mel Friedman walked Franz, his Great Dane. Clearly outweighed by the larger animal, Mel had to jerk Franz around the neighborhood, at the risk of dislocating his own shoulder.

Whenever the dog owners met on the sidewalk, Fred and Mel were upset, if not very sore. These morning constitutionals were murder on their bodies, if not mental states. Pepe and Franz, on the other hand, nodded to one another.

From Guest Contributor David Sydney

Peaches

I open the window with force to see what the commotion is. The street is filled with people standing and screaming. I see a glimpse of a shoeless foot, sock hanging. Long red hair catches my eyes, as does the smashed front windshield of a small car.

An ambulance approaches blaring its siren and the crowd shifts to the sidewalk.

Now I see the victim is my next-door neighbor and my heart palpitates.

Sitting on my lap is her kitten Peaches, who I pet sit.

I coddle the furry cat in my arms, and realize I’ll be his home now.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

The Giver

It started with gummies. Her mother placed a bag inside her lunch box every day. She gave them all away, hoping the other kids would like her.

In high school, she had a crush on a cute boy. She gave him the best seat, and then she couldn’t see.

Away at university, she baked lemon cakes. She gave all the slices to students who studied in the lounge late at night.

One day after work, she paused at a window and stared. People on the sidewalk bustled behind her.

She stepped into the bakery, bought lemon cake, and ate it.From Guest Contributor Faye Rapoport DesPres

Faye is the author of the memoir-in-essays Message From a Blue Jay and the Stray Cat Stories children's book series. She lives and writes in Cambridge, Massachusetts.

Voice Of Despair

CONTEST SUBMISSION:

Kevin didn’t hear at first. Mabel did. Sensing the scratchy sound originated outside, they opened the front door. Before them stood a feline pulsating a ferocious “meow.” Seeing the humans, he stopped.

“He’s staring at us,” Kevin noticed.

The cat turned to go back to the sidewalk.

“Let’s follow,” Mabel figured.

They ended in a backyard. The cat went through a pet flap in the house. When he reappeared, he stood on a table by a bedroom window.

Kevin propped himself up on a patio chair and peered inside. Sprawled on the floor was the lifeless body of their neighbor.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna is a writer of poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. She resides in Edmonton, Canada.

Voice

Philip, my husband, gently massages the knot in my shoulder. “Are you ready?”

Turning, I kiss him on the lips. “Of course.”

My daughter is playing with her grandmother, talking gibberish. This is for her future as much as it is for mine. She will be more than a housewife.

I grab my banner, walk out the door and join the parade of women marching down “Fifth Avenue.”

It may not happen today or tomorrow, but we will keep on going until we’re equal.

With Philip smiling and watching from the sidewalk, I feel confident our voice will be heard.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher