Putting Everything Together

Detective Bobby considered all of the pieces before him one at a time, thoughtfully analyzing the unseen solution. A lesser detective might have wanted a map or set of instructions to understand the full picture, but Detective Bobby eschewed relying on such crude crutches. Detective Bobby instead relied purely on his own intellect and so far it had never failed him, despite what certain others might say.

But no matter how long he puzzled the problem laid out before him, something wasn't adding up. There was definitely a piece he was missing.

"Bobby, put your Legos away! Time for dinner!"

Very Emotional

Bart is in the middle of throwing a tantrum, to the point where his words become largely unintelligible.

"Anger at high levels. Refusing all requests."

The experts estimate that Bart has the mental acuity of a high school student, but his behavior is both erratic and juvenile, filled with insults, threats, and curse words. Most conversations, including the current one, quickly devolve into confrontations. The only solace is that the majority of the invective lacks any connection to reality, meaning the sting is less.

The doctors huddle and agree there's only one solution. "Let's turn Bart off and start over."

The Cemetery Of Buried Feelings

I would pretend to be sleeping when he flipped on the light in my room. He would loom over me until my eyes opened. The walls would seem to lean in. Fear would distort my breathing. If I tried to scoot away, he would grab me by the arm and drag me back and crack me across the face with the flat of his hand. He was buried on a cold Sunday next to my mother. Some thirty people, mostly family, attended. It began to snow as stood at the graveside. He had finally found a solution to his loneliness.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie co-edits the online journal UnLost, dedicated to found poetry.

Dragonfly And Crow

We—who were left by the fire after the boss stood on the flame's waving edge, wearing his black suit and immaculate boots, to tell the dragonfly and the crow that had bedeviled his every moment since the fire's first spark that he had found a solution and would soon be free of their cruelty, that he, the boss, would soon pull off their wings and grind them into dust, and then turned, the boss, and ran into the flames—joined our hands before spreading blankets on scorched grass, opening bottles of cold beer, and sharing figs fatter than those in eternity.

From Guest Contributor John Riley

John is a former teacher who works in educational publishing. He has published fiction and poetry in Smokelong Quarterly, Mojave River Review, Ekphrastic Review, Connotation Press, Banyan Review, Better Than Starbucks, and many other journals and anthologies. EXOT Press will publish a book of his 100-word prose poems in 2022.

The Gift

Timothy wants a brother for Christmas.

His mother, divorced, comes up with an alternative solution and sits Timothy on her lap. “Honey, there’s another way we could give you a similar present. Each month we can sponsor a child.”

Timothy tilts his head. “What does that mean, Mommy?”

“Well, each month we’ll send money to help the boy get food, education, and whatever he needs. Some children in other countries can’t afford these things and need help.”

Timothy’s face lit up the room with his radiant smile. “I like that, Mommy.”

In Bangladesh, a little boy has a happy holiday.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

The Black Dots, Part Four

By the time I got to Pine Hill, someone had warned Mr. Dowling of my impending arrival. An army of his goons were waiting for me outside. There was no way I was getting an audience.

I thought maybe they'd been warned about how I shot up the pharmaceuticals factory and they weren't going to let me do the same thing to Mr. Dowling's precious estate. Turns out I'd misread the situation.

I now had my own Black Dot on my forehead. It meant I had only a few hours to find a solution or I'd be the next victim.