For Yulia Navalnaya

Beware, murderer. I know widows. I watched my mother become one, imagined how my face would bend and darken in the shadow of the word that means shroud, dusk, ash. What lies inside the bones of a woman who does not crumble before you—who wears this word to war, vowing not to yield? Something heavy: iron, redwoods. Oak, like him: an oak among reeds who knew he would be uprooted, just as she knows she will be. No, it is light, hydrogen fusion in the belly of a star, howling life, dawn, freedom. Beware of this widow on fire.

From Guest Contributor Brook Bhagat

Brook Bhagat (she/her) is the author of Only Flying, a Pushcart-nominated collection of surreal poetry and flash fiction on paradox, rebellion, transformation, and enlightenment from Unsolicited Press. Her work has won or placed in the top two in contests at Loud Coffee Press, A Story in 100 Words, and most recently, the Pikes Peak Library District 2023 fiction contest. It has been published in Monkeybicycle, Empty Mirror, Soundings East, The Alien Buddha Goes Pop, Anthem: A Tribute to Leonard Cohen, and elsewhere. She is a founding editor of Blue Planet Journal and a professor of creative writing Read her work and learn more about Only Flying at https://brook-bhagat.com/.

Wandering Star

I killed the crew of the Wandering Star, humanity’s last hope.

A desperate mission to find a new home. The ship crashed into this lonesome planet of obsidian.

Maybe I’ve lost my mind. But I heard a voice calling me here. A soft whisper in the dark. They called me insane, said I’d gone AWOL. Tried to lock me up.

I wandered the surface, guided by the whisper, until I stood in its shadow, a great five-pointed upside-down black star floating high above.

I wept when I realized why I’d been led here. The leviathan declaring the end of humanity.

From Guest Contributor Rick Ansell Pearson

Rick lives and works in central Mexico. His fiction can be found forthcoming in Year Five: Dark Moments and Patreons, published by Black Hare Press.

The Kiss

I can hardly think of a better way to say goodbye.To the sun and the moon, the water and the clouds,I've always wanted to live on a planet where the sky was blue.

I can hardly think of a better way to say goodbye.The light of a star. The smell of a blooming fruit tree. The kiss of a bare human hand.To the fading flowers on a winter's night

I can hardly think of a better way to say goodbye.To be one last person who will fall in love.Because in death, she is beautiful.

From Guest Contributor J. Iner Souster

I Met A Man, A Most Remarkable Man

I met you at a time when the star of you was careening downward. Though in descent, due to illness, your radiance shone in your discussions of the band Rush, the literature of Chesterton, and your absolute love and skill at cooking. You were afraid of being an imposition, not realizing that giving me a chance to help you—during our fateful trip—was my chance to brush against your beauty, your deep, feeling heart. I am selfish; I want more. But I must wait, as your star has again swung into ascension, brightening this world even upon your exit.

For Tony Rome By Keith Hoerner

Wars Have Been Started Over Less

When we first encountered the Alavariuum, great expectations immediately spread across Earth. Not only were they a technologically-advanced extraterrestrial race from a thirteen-planet civilization 23 light years away, but they were friendly and offering to help us expand beyond our martian colonies.

Lately, many of the negotiators have admitted their enthusiasm is dampened. While still congenial, most of the committees and protocol meetings have become bogged down in naming conventions. The Alavariuum insist that every significant planet and star be referred to using their complicated symbology, and we'll be damned if we'll let anyone tell us what to call Earth.

Reunion

Imagining their reunion had helped her do unspeakable things since the Collapse. The cold night crystallized her tears. Others might mistake the flicker on the mountainside for a twinkling star, but she knew it’s a candle burning in the window--their sign. Don’t worry baby, she thought, Momma’s coming.

By daybreak, she had reached their cabin. Its warmth draped itself around her like a blanket. Wiping her shoes on the mat (force of habit) a small thing flew out of a cupboard and pinned itself to her legs. “Mummy! I missed you!” David emerged; his face already crumpled with emotion.

From Guest Contributor Carla Halpin

The True Meaning Of Christmas

Three-year-old Hannah placed a reindeer ornament on the Christmas tree while her mother put on the sparkling red star topper. The tree with its colorful lights lit up the room.

Hannah’s mother admired its beauty. “Your father will be very surprised.”

“Do you think Santa will bring me everything I asked for?” Hannah danced in a circle.

“Presents aren’t the true meaning of Christmas. We celebrate the birth of baby Jesus.”

Hannah didn’t quite understand, but picked up the baby Jesus from the manger.

“Mom can we buy Jesus a present for Christmas?”

Hannah's mother touched her face and smiled.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Abraham Lincoln Watching Django Unchained For The First Time

The producers were expecting some strong reactions as the movie reached its climax. The violence was among the most graphic they had ever seen. But when their star guest collapsed, all the executives fell into a stunned silence.

"Is he all right?"

One of the marketing interns knelt to feel his pulse. "His heart has stopped."

No one thought to call a doctor. The cover up began immediately.

"Luckily, he was shot just a few weeks after we picked him up. History shouldn't be too affected."

Everyone nodded in agreement but, in true Hollywood fashion, it was just wishful thinking.

Just A Game

Paul steps to the line and takes a deep breath. Were he to sink the next two shots, he will be celebrated globally for the rest of his life. Women will worship him. Children will be named after him. Movies will be made and he'll be the star. His legacy will be forever secure.

If he misses, however, not only will his own life be ruined, but those of an entire city.

The shots miss badly. Death, when it finally comes, will be a mercy for Paul.

And to think there was a time when basketball was just a game.

My Grandfather's Pocket Knife

When he asked me to guess what he had in his pocket, I had no idea he was carrying a star. An honest-to goodness star, not some chunk of comet or a bit of dust.

I didn't believe him. When he opened his pocket, all I could see was a determined blackness threatening to pull me into its bleakness and never let go. He said this was a black hole, and after he explained the physics of it all, it seemed he was telling the truth.

I realized just how woefully unprepared I was for show and tell.