Furry Friends

The park is filled with pets. It’s a hot summer day and I can feel the perspiration on my back. I come here every week to watch the dogs run and play, catching frisbees. It’s comical when one small dog grabs the frisbee and runs away under the tree when the owner is waiting.

You can see in the kids’ and parents’ faces, how their dogs make the family complete with their huge smiles, laughter and affection toward their hairy friends.

I didn’t realize the time. I must leave for an important appointment.

A new furry companion awaits my arrival.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

The Walk

Spring is here. The annual renewal of the town means that colors abound, including in the faces of every passerby. People say hello to each other in a friendly manner that hasn't been seen since the previous year. The smiles are contagious.

Stephen, the town priest, is perhaps the only unhappy soul to be found. He sulks from the portico of the church as the healthy and eager parishioners who remain alive celebrate as if he weren't there.

Business was much better during the plague. For once in living memory the townspeople actually welcomed his ministry instead of the doctor's.

Stuffing Made Of Memories

They sit on your bed, on a shelf, or maybe tucked away in a confined box collecting a musty smell. Once you cared for them and kept them neatly stacked up...but now they are forgotten and dusty all alone. They are full of memories of the smiles from old relatives who placed them in your arm. Or maybe the memory of wishing on their heart before their stuffing was sealed up, hoping it’d work like a charm. Think back to the stuffed animals that you held so closely as a child. Where are they now? What do they mean? From Guest Contributor Madison Rutkowski

Madison is a student of literature and the sciences at Pikes Peak Community College.

The Cycle Repeats

There are no bruises. No black and blue markings. The damp pillow muffles my sobs. Berating me with silence, his brand of torture is debilitating. I cower in the dark. The smaller I get, the more his power swells.

He dares me with a narrowed glare, and I shrink a little more. I bite my tongue to stifle my fear. The spiral deepens. He said, I was worthless. He said, I was stupid. I am all those things.

I wait, holding my breath until the deafening silence has passed.

Then he smiles. I can breathe again.

Until the next time.

From Guest Contributor Violet James

On The Floor

Marty was a penny stock trader back in the 80s. A breathtaking collection of liars and cheats, everyone doing blow. Stock exchange officials were bribed. Client accounts were bled. It was something to behold.

His supposedly statelier sales manager was all smiles but for the dead shark eyes. He would say, "If people want yellow ties, sell them goddamn yellow ties."

Once or twice a month, after market hours, Marty would go out and stick up random banks, his rickety scheme to salvage honour.

His profession was put early to the silicon sword. Mercifully, Marty never saw the party end.

From Guest Contributor Kevin Campbell

Kevin writes in Vancouver, Canada.

Fond Memory

As I lifted my daughter in the air, her melodious laughter echoed. My wife waved and set the picnic table, her long blond hair blowing in the breeze. The birds chirped in unison and the squirrels scampered searching for food. The sun beamed without a cloud in the sky and I relished the day.

“Let’s go eat my little one,” I took her small hand in mine.

I sipped cold water and it cooled my insides. I kissed my wife on the lips and my daughter on the forehead, their smiles branded in my mind.

Tomorrow I leave for war.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Divorced

I’m the son of divorce to the neighborhood. Parents keep me from their children. They don’t know my pedigree, they claim. Nothing against me personally.

They know about Dad and his liaisons. They slander over smiles and Sinatra. Mother’s a “hysteric.” Can’t keep a husband. Son’s a bastard.

Mother wears starched smiles for neighbors, weeps at night.

I want to fight. I want Mother to smile. Let neighbors hate me for loving Elvis, not for Dad’s idiocy. I want to cruise the streets, to be called friend. Best friend.

I’d be considered hysterical to mention this.

I don a smile.

From Guest Contributor Yash Seyedbagheri

Yash is a graduate of Colorado State University's MFA program in fiction. Yash’s work is forthcoming or has been published in WestWard Quarterly, Café Lit, 50 Word Stories, (mac)ro (mic), and Ariel Chart.

This Message Cannot Be Delivered

Old friends’ emails become inactive, enveloped by electronic monsters. My message cannot be delivered, electronic gatekeepers proclaim.

I can’t tell them of being alone. I can’t hear their off-color jokes about paraplegics and suicide, youth at its most delightfully stupid. Tell them of empty, sterile walls. I can’t confess I absorbed their stories of family, an electronic voyeur.

I keep trying. Messages come back.

I drive to distant homes. But staring through lit windows, I feel like a magazine, an obnoxious knickknack among order and precision. I imagine them discarding jokes, smiles replaced by starched replicas.

This message isn’t delivered.

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 work is forthcoming or has been published in WestWard Quarterly, Café Lit, 50 Word Stories, (mac)ro (mic), and Ariel Chart.

Postcards Of Joy

Mother loves postcards. I wish you could see this cathedral. I miss you. I have been constrained by tradition. I move from friend to friend. Wake in one bedroom, slumber in another. No personal markers, photos. Gifts conveying motherly intimacy. My favorite Yates novel, a radio, a train set. Living with Mother was rife with frenetic energy once Dad left. He called her a senseless dreamer. Life was defined by bottles, hissing wine. Cackling laughter, dissolved smiles. I want Mother at ease. Instead, I conjure her flitting about cathedrals, mistaking facades for joy. I tell her I’m happy. Try to believe.

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 and he has also had work nominated for The Best Small Fictions. Yash's work is forthcoming or has been published in journals such as 50-Word Stories, Silent Auctions, City. River. Tree. and Ariel Chart.

Youth

It started out from minimalism – a certain connection yet to be plowed. Hands touching, eyes linking, and smiles fleeting. A natural happenstance around the daily living.

“I want to explore this with you.”

Willpower surged around my lungs – please, do the same.

“Yet we are so young, remember? We must be fools!” Apprehensions coiled your tone, but I understood. I feared it too.

“I think we should brave this feeling.”

“What if it fails? We don’t know what we are doing. What if it’s all a waste?”

“Are you willing to gamble?”

A beat of silence.

You gripped my hand.

From Guest Contributor Matthew Burgos