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

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

An Empire At War

The empire went to war the same way an insecure dog picks fights, erratically and for unknown cause. Was it to assert dominance in an uncertain universe? Or maybe to protect resources of little worth and questionable appeal to her adversaries? Who can say? The whims of the empress were unpredictable and perhaps more than a little self-destructive.

The reasons mattered little to the soldiers of the empire. They were just unfortunate strays caught up in affairs beyond their ken, with only one concern: hope that their lives, and their deaths, would somehow satiate the inscrutable monarch.

They rarely did.

Splayed And Displayed

I went to a market of oddities and curios. One hundred vendors and their jars of preservation liquids, mounted heads, spell jars, and crystal towers. Shoppers passed me with arms full of worn antlers and venomous plants. I weaved my way through the crowds until I stood in front of a glittering wall. Iridescent wings pinned in shadow boxes lined up like soldiers against black stock paper. I never knew something could be beautiful and sad at once. The stage lights did not do justice to the splayed things. Floating over flowers in the sun is a much better sight.

From Guest Contributor Madeline van Batum

Madeline lives in Colorado with her cat and hopes that one day she can go back to her home country of the Netherlands to finally meet the Flying Dutchman.

War

There’s not an easy way to explain war on the battlefield. Only the soldiers who lived it can do so. It’s been years and I remember it as yesterday. The horrifying sound of gun fire and large tanks coming straight for us still terrify me, and I relive it each night in my sleep.

The therapist says it’s natural when experiencing traumatic events. However, he didn’t live through it and hear the screams of the dying men.

Sacrificing my life to save a fellow soldier is the best thing I ever did.

Even at the cost of my left leg.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

For MM

The ground is wet with rain, and yet a book is lying there dry. I pick it up. Whoever snapped the photo used on the cover was either too excited or in too much of a rush to hold the camera steady. The faces of the naked women standing in an open field are blurred, less visible than their dark triangles of pubic hair. Soldiers gesturing with rifles have lined the women up in front of a burial trench. The women, still concerned for decency, keep their arms folded modestly over their breasts. Everything that isn’t a predator is prey.From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie's latest poetry book is Swimming in Oblivion: New and Selected Poems from Redhawk Publications. He co-edits the journal UnLost, dedicated to found poetry.

The Long Battle

The heat has taken its toll on my men and the tents smell of sweat and rotting flesh. The battle raged taking many of my soldiers, still left in the trenches, their corpses exposed.

I take refuge in my own tent and remove my wife’s letter from my uniform pocket where I’ve kept it for the last month, her encouraging words the only solace to get me through this hell of a war. The scent of her fragrance has worn, but I envision her beautiful smile.

A loud explosion startles me. I inadvertently drop the letter and run for cover.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

One Last Time

The ringing in Timothy’s ears from nearby bombs gives way to headaches and fear. Doctors are scrambling while patients are moaning and yelling for their mothers.

He closes his eyes and remembers the last time kissing Amanda, laying under the large oak tree after a summer picnic. Her lips tasting of fresh strawberries, the sweetness giving him a quiver. He wants to go back to that happier, peaceful place.

A nurse is moving his stretcher with great speed. “We need to evacuate.”

As the blinding brightness approaches the vehicle, and soldiers scream, he tastes Amanda’s strawberry kiss one last time.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Napoleon In Rags

It was the season of mists. He had been forced by necessity to pawn his one good pair of pants. Now that he couldn’t confidently appear in public, he sat sulking in his underwear at the kitchen table. He couldn’t remember, Josephine wasn’t there to remind him, what it was like to live in anticipation of making love. Adversaries swooped around him like moon-crazed bats. If he had had a suicide pill, he might have taken it. The world only ever really pays attention when there is a panic or a traveling guillotine or when all the soldiers have syphilis.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author most recently of the poetry collection Gunmetal Sky (Thirty West Publishing).

Cemetery Sentiment

in this silent graveyard,no one mentioned death.the hair on my arms stood at attention,like soldiers in the cold war.temperature below freezing,any moisture turned into iceand fell onto his eyelashes.just before midnight,we grabbed a bouquet ofplasticyellowroses.he quivered from the cold,but his smile never faded.vows spilling from his lips,like a waterfall made of his soul.his nose was cold against mine,after the final words of our connection.pulling away he looked at me,a shimmer in his eyes,knowing,that forever,he will always be mine.

From Guest Contributor Neyalla Ryu