Machine Music

"Why do I have to learn piano if in five years all music's going to be made by AI anyway?"

Gale generally enjoyed his life as a piano instructor, but his sessions with Kimberly were an exception. She was the kind of student who constantly wasted his time and purposefully avoided practice, so even her warm up scales grated on his nerves.

"AI doesn't know the first thing about writing actual music. It's just a bunch of sounds that vaguely resembles a real song. Art can't be created by a machine."

"But my biology teacher says humans are machines too."

Coffee?

Coffee? I asked.

Totally, you replied.

When I offered an invitation, you always accepted. You never extended one yourself.

Was this friendship a one-way mirror, a one-way road, a one-note song?

Over several years, I pondered what it signified. If a friendship is only one-sided, is it a friendship at all?

I waited. I didn’t hear from you. Months.

Lunch? I asked.

Can’t wait, you answered.

More months later.

Dinner?

Tomorrow? Your text read.

Your company was always innocuous, comforting in a way. Reliably benign.

I never messaged you again. After nineteen years, that was the last time we spoke.

From Guest Contributor Justene Musin

First Time

I have waited for this moment since childhood. Now as an adult in my car with the engine running, I’m thinking of excuses to put my foot to the accelerator.

I remove my sunglasses and shut the radio in the middle of “You are the Wind Beneath My Wings,” and turn the car off. This song brings back memories of my wedding. I wish Melinda were still alive.

As I approach the porch and knock on the door, I hear footsteps stomping down the stairs.

Would it be my mother or father who’d I’d be meeting for the first time?

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Saturday Jog

Jogging through the park, I keep the pace feeling energetic and free. The breeze against my cheeks feels refreshing and the chirping birds fill the air with song.

It’s crowded for a Saturday morning and parents are up early with their children. I pass two women pushing their young children on the swings as the boys soar high and chortle. Other joggers pass and smile contently.

I finish my lap and take a seat on the bench gulping water.

After breakfast and a shower, I will go about my regular weekend visiting my dad in the nursing home memory unit.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

The Missed Date

I first saw you in the waiting room. I had an appointment with the oncologist. I was waiting. You waited too, month after month, for the trial results. You often came alone. You often sat alone in a corner, fiddling with the ring finger. The absence of a ring created a note of discord. It took me six months to gather courage to ask your name, your hobbies, your favourite colour, flower, song, season. For a date finally. You said yes. I wore blue and ordered one hundred and one tulips for the day. The day I attended your funeral.

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.

The Secret To Staying Human

Mom digs her feet under the wet sand of the Atlantic. I stand next to her, wondering if the ocean will remember her and melt her legs back together.

Each wave climbs higher up our pale legs. Our feet sink deeper and deeper. The surge threatens to topple me, to suck me out to sea. Tears stream down my cheeks.

Mom grabs me. “This was a mistake.”

I cling to her as she rushes toward our towels.

She dries her feet. Inspects each toe. Sighs in relief.

My toes tingle, translucent skin spread between them. The ocean’s song calls me.

From Guest Contributor Sally Simon

Sally (ze/hir) lives in NY. When not writing, ze’s travels and stabs people with hir epee. Read more at www.sallysimonwriter.com.

Call Of The Deep

It was his first and last voyage to sea. An escape ship. His duty; to scrub the decks. He watched as jellyfish gathered around the keel, unnoticed by the experienced sailors. A simple extra hand. Days passed, or months.

Brine burned his lips, rum quelled his pains.

The jellyfish still gathered.

In the moonlight glow their beauty morphed into that of a woman, her tail flowing along the starboard side.

She called to him, and the dragon uncoiled. Drunk with thirst and madness he dove into her arms, and the dragon swallowed him whole. Only the birds’ song remembered him.

From Guest Contributor Valkyrie Kerry

Dancing With The Boss

“Listen...it’s that song where, in the music video, he picks someone from the audience and starts dancing with her.”

“He has better songs.”

“Did you know she became his wife?”

“You got it wrong. She’s an actress.”

“What do you mean?”

“Before she became famous for her role in that sitcom, she appeared in commercials and music videos.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“You don’t have to, but check him on the web, search for his wife and check her picture.”

“...”

“It isn’t the same one, is it?”

“Could I have been wrong all these years?”

“Looks like it.”

From Guest Contributor Hervé Suys

Hervé Suys (°1968 – Ronse, Belgium) started writing short stories whilst recovering from a sports injury and he hasn’t stopped since. Generally he writes them hatless and barefooted.

Welcome Back, Class Of '96

“Do you want me to hold the...?”

The song is about to start, something by Vanessa Williams. His one good hand is pressing on her waist. She does not know what to call the other one, the absence.

He shakes. “I can just put my arm here.” He rests his folded sleeve on her pink shoulder strap. They have been given a wide berth by the other couples on the gym floor.

They shuffle together in silence. Finally, she asks. “How did—?”

He shrugs. “Cleaning the picker.” Somebody had turned it on by mistake.

“Does it hurt?”

Sometimes. It tickles.

From Guest Contributor Brennan Thomas

Ophelia Takes A Bath

Ophelia under the water; kneecap mountains poking out dwarf the dipping hills of her breasts. The ragged, brown seaweed strands of her hair move gently as her hot kettle sighs ring around the steam-shrouded bathroom.

She finds brash or delicate things expose her madness—the rough lyrics of a Pogues’ song or the fragrance of a flower bomb. Silver chains on her thighs, bright relics of dejection, shackle her to the past but aren't enough to save her. So she piles his words as pebbles on her heart and in this way she doesn't float away—at least not today.

From Guest Contributor Adele Evershed