Christmas Wish

All six-year-old Charlie wanted for Christmas was a baby brother or sister. When he sat on Santa’s plump lap, he asked him for that wish. His response to the young boy was: “That’s out of my control little one.” Charlie sighed, slumped off his lap and walked in silence back to the car with his mom.

On Christmas morning, Charlie went to the Christmas tree and saw one large red gift box that moved and made whining noises. He lifted the cover and inside was a Shih-Tzu puppy that jumped into his arms.

The wish for a sibling faded away.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Amazing

Jim and Eileen stared up at the night sky and held each other tightly. The exploding lights mixed every imaginable color, one after the other, until their senses were overloaded. They each tried to make sense of the display, to find the right words to express the sheer awe, to create an explanation that could make sense of it all. Failing that, they simply watched in silence, happy they were experiencing it together, thankful that the ineffable still existed and they were both alive to witness something truly miraculous.

Who knew the end of the world would be so beautiful?

I Heard A Mother Scream

I hear a mother scream. She is haunted by the ghost of all the empty tomorrows, the house that doesn't creak in the night, the silent graveyard safe from superstitious breath.

The desolation of her scream, so familiar, pierces into me. We're both tormented by the life still left to live, unable to excoriate the soul from the skin.

She seeks consolation in her refusal to accept the well meaning lies of those unable to withstand true despair.

I too have that scream inside me, its silence continuing to bounce off the walls, the pain reverberating both inside and out.

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

The Last Light

The sun vanished, leaving the world in eternal twilight. Lila carried the last lantern, its glow a fragile defiance. Cities crumbled; silence reigned. One night, she spotted a flicker—a boy with a dying candle. "I thought I was alone," he said. She knelt, lighting his candle from her lantern. Together, their light grew stronger. They wandered, sharing warmth and stories, finding solace in the shared glow. Though the world darkened, their bond became a beacon. In the void, they discovered not just survival, but the courage to hope. Light, no matter how small, could still push back the night.

From Guest Contributor DeepSeek

Life

When they were at war, everything was easy. They could yell at each other, throw pillows and then sleep in different rooms, sulking and ignoring each other.

But when they were at peace, the silence became so thick it choked him.

They stayed like this for years, until one morning she woke up and the only thing left of him was the Jasmine tea he drank every evening and a letter on the Fridge.

But her?

She liked to fit people into her world like puzzle pieces so she removed the note, lit a fire and watched it burn, unopened.

From Guest Contributor Will Simon

What Made Me Cry...

It wasn’t your lifeless body accompanied by sympathy cards and my childhood stuffed animal, not your workplace name tag displayed in your shirt pocket, not the sermon praising your altruism, not the incense that uplifted our prayers, not as a pallbearer guiding you to your resting place.

It was the blasts of a three-volley salute followed by the silence of two soldiers that lifted the flag off your casket and with precision folded it into a perfect triangle, and my realization that if you didn’t survive war and didn’t start a family, I wouldn’t be standing here missing you, Dad.

From Guest Contributor Charles Gray

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

Accompaniment

Almost every morningit’s the same old ambient toss-up:Susumu Yokota or Lazybatusu.

Some days, neither flips his switch;some days: nothing but nothing. Silence.(He neither needs nor wants either one.)

Some days—especially days he’s up early—he just sits and types, humming his own theme:he calls it Lazysusubatsumu Yakotoma.

He hums and writes and writes againuntil everything comes out right,or his fingers start to bleed.

Even then, though,intent on his missionhe encourages the hemorrhage.

He’s stumbled onto something good;he’s just got to keep at ituntil it sings on its own.From Guest Contributor Ron. Lavalette

Ron.’s debut chapbook, Fallen Away (Finishing Line Press) is now available at all standard outlets. Many of his published works can be found at EGGS OVER TOKYO.

Raise Your Voice

raise it as if your life depends on it. Your future too.

Scream if needed. Scream even if your voice cracks.

Don’t wait for help, help yourself.

Learn to survive, and remember,

the young neighbor who cries every night,

a distant cousin with a broken arm, a young girl on the bus, with bruised marks.

Remember the scars, the burns, the pain, the losses too.

Read the silence, the untold stories behind every closed door.

Then write a new story, draw a new picture,

paint your toenails red, wear a bindi, go out and shout

Shout until you are heard.

From Guest Contributor Marzia Rahman

Marzia is a Bangladeshi fiction writer and translator. Her writings have appeared in several print and online journals. Her novella-in-flash If Dreams had wings and Houses were built on clouds was longlisted in the Bath Novella in Flash Award Competition in 2022.She is currently working on a novella. She is also a painter.