Spring

Spring is wonderful in Michigan. The snow melt signals that the warm weather has arrived. Flowers begin to bloom. Birds and squirrels appear out of nowhere, ready to embrace the new growth all around.

Jenny steps outside, bracing for the biting wind, only to realize she has on too many layers. Her watch says it's 60 degrees, the warmest day of the year so far. When she moved to Kalamazoo for grad school, she'd worried the winters would be too intense. Growing up in Atlanta, she was seven the first time she saw snow.

The only problem: It's January 12th.

Fake Spring

You'd think it was a beautiful spring day. The sky was filled with puffy clouds. The temperature was unseasonably warm, perfect for short sleeves. The air had just a hint of pollen, so that anyone with allergies needed to worry. Colorful buds were starting to pop, and every creature, from squirrels to songbirds to rabbits, believed winter was no more.

I would have smiled if I could. Heavy storms were just over the horizon. Thunder, frosty winds, perhaps even a burst of snow.

George would need to hurry if we wanted to bury my corpse before the soil froze over.

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.

The Wait

I woke up early and went for a jog. As I followed the path through the park, I listened to nature. The sounds of the birds singing, and the squirrels running up trees were a sign of early spring. It was an unusually hot day in March, so the park benches were filled with people. I had water in my pouch and took a sip. It felt good going down into the pit of my stomach.

After, I sat I checked my phone. There it was, the message I had been waiting for.

My first novel was accepted for publication.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Beneath The Snow

Winter arrived early. Sheep were herded off the pasture. Leaves gathered by Pa stood statuesque in domed heaps.

Grandpa didn’t look at them; reminded him of Quonset huts, the friends he lost in war. Our border collies stared and growled, sensing something amiss. I discovered why.

Furry heads with pink pointed snouts erupted like volcanoes from new, smaller mounds across the hushed terrain, spewing dirt from within.

Pa noticed? Doubt it. Rosie pulled him into town often.

With spring in a few months, planting season will bring him back to the fields.

He’ll learn all there’s to know about moles.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Wishful Thinking

As the Strawberry moon sets on the peak the sky shines bright like a diamond ready for its new owner. Spring weather in the Springs is springing but the cool breeze feels good on our cocoa butter infused skin. Your eyes bright like a newborn showing off their first smile and your touch soft yet warm like Vicuña. The record player sings the soft sweet sounds of “The Sweetest Taboo” with our feet's glued to the floor with no care in the world. Nights like this are longed for with breathtaking experiences, never ending memories but nothing like wishful thinking. From Guest Contributor Renee' Battle

Renee' is a student studying broadcasting and legal studies at Pikes Peak State College.

Repose

The warmth of the spring sun filled my body with repose. I laid back and looked up at the sky. The blueness bright and cheery awakened my eyes to ebullience.

I let the small rowboat drift on its own while the sound of ducks quacked and flapped their wings bathing in the lake. Nature was all around me. Birds chirped, on the shore frogs hopped, crabs crawled on the sand, and tree leaves quietly blew in the slight breeze.

I closed my eyes and soaked it all in, storing every sound and image in my mind.

Tomorrow, I start anew.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Seasons

I face the storm as hail pelts my already-weathered brow, reminding me of the life I once lived, traveling at a hundred miles an hour with my soul on fire. My eyes closed in anticipation of the impending crash.

As spring approaches, the mourning of winter's end has begun. In summer, I stand alone naked, allowing the burn to continue unabated.

Spotting my image in the water, washed in its divine glow, my eyes meet my reflection, and we both take a step backward.

The epitome of life and death, or a reminder of the most graceful and majestic journey?

From Guest Contributor J. Iner Souster

Officer Down

The bullet tore through flesh and bone. The arm fell limp, and Officer Brady drew his weapon with his non-shooting hand. Their assailant continued to fire from outside the passenger window of the cruiser as his partner slumped unconscious and bleeding in the front seat. Her baby was born in spring. She returned to duty last week.

Placing his front sight on center mass, Brady squeezed the trigger and watched the attacker drop to the pavement. After screaming “officer down” into the microphone, he smashed his foot down on the accelerator, racing the mother of his child to New York-Presbyterian.

From Guest Contributor B.G. Smith

B.G. Smith enjoys writing flash fiction and drinking Kentucky straight bourbon, usually at the same time. B.G. is a married father of four boys and a lifelong fan of Philadelphia professional sports teams, which explains the affinity for bourbon. His stories have appeared in Pocket Fiction, Microfiction Monday Magazine, The Drabble, and Scribes*MICRO*Fiction.

Preparing For Landing

Do we have to visit them?” the eight-year-old asked. “Grandma is weird and...”

“Grandpa is mean,” added her older brother.

Elsa observed the linear perfection of farmland below, largely ignoring her children.

At their age, she rode a tractor alongside her grandfather. They made rows into which other tractors dropped seed potatoes and covered them with soil.

By summer, when Elsa returned from the city, those fields were lush green having absorbed spring rainfalls.

As the plane prepared for landing, she knew her children would experience a different summer vacation.

The farm was no longer a property her family owned.From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction regardless of the season, although she prefers spring.