Skipping Stones

I once skipped a stone 17 times across Lake Wawasee. It was one of those still days when the water is pure glass and you can see the clouds clearly reflected on the surface. We competed in hunting for the smoothest rocks all morning. I found one that was round and flat and just the right weight so I saved it until last. No one else got more than 11 and I was proclaimed the rock-skipping champion of Indiana.

I've never skipped a stone since. I'm satisfied knowing I once achieved a moment of perfection that can never be matched.

Visiting A Mountain Top

Visiting a mountain top. The experience made me realize that time and rocks seem to stand still for a while. Far off view showing a mountain range haven been beaten smooth with time. Rugged edges of the stones reminded me that here, at least, the stones were sharp and not dull. From lack of water. For water makes everything smooth. Without the rain. The area was semi aired and contained the smell of earth. Making the entire experience surreal for a moment. Making me think of the adventure of the Hobbits and wizards and such. An adventure on a mountaintop.

From Guest Contributor Clinton Siegle

The Sweat Lodge

The second hour of the sweat lodge was conducted in total silence and reflection, as was the first.

An elder finally spoke. “The path you are walking leads to darkness.”

Moonchild nodded.

“What am I to do, Bearpaw?”

“There are many paths that don’t lead to darkness. Cleanse your thoughts and ask the Great Spirit for guidance.”

More stones were brought in and doused with water and healing herbs.

“My child died in school, Bearpaw. Those responsible must pay.”

“I lost a grandchild as well, but your path leads to darkness and solves nothing. Keep searching, the answer will come.”

From Guest Contributor N.T. Franklin

NT Franklin has been published in Page and Spine, Fiction on the Web, 101 Words, Friday Flash Fiction, CafeLit, Madswirl, Postcard Shorts, 404 Words, Scarlet Leaf Review, Freedom Fiction, Burrst, Entropy, Alsina Publishing, Fifty-word stories, Dime Show Review, among others.

The Lions

It was coming home and it had to pass through the (Gareth) South Gate.

I wanted to witness this, so I hurried. Normally I’m a (Kyle) walker, but this time I had to (Jordan) pick Ford as means of transportation. Money didn’t matter, I had so much pound (Raheem) sterling in my pocket that I could have bought (Mason) Mount (Harry) Maguire if I wanted to.

During halftime, they played a song I like: Sugar (Harry) Kane.

I had a bowl of (Ben) white (Declan) rice, but it felt like eating (John) stones.

This really was a (Jack) grealish day.

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.

Personal History

Adulthood in Texas means being old enough to get the electric chair if you kill someone. In 17th century England offenders sent to the pillory were pelted by the crowd with dung, dead cats and dogs, rotten vegetables, and, in extreme cases, stones and even saucepans. Some, though, flung flowers in Defoe’s face. It’s the difference between weather and climate. The least you can do is pretend to care. In Jewish tradition a righteous man is buried with 144 prayer books atop his coffin. When my Uncle Lou was buried, they put the books in cardboard boxes labeled Kitchen Utensils.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author most recently of What It Is and How to Use It from Grey Book Press. He co-edits the journals Unbroken and UnLost.

Duck And Cover

What sounds implausible in most languages, a flock of winged skulls hovering on the wind, happens three or four times before I admit, yes, this is real. I hurl stones at the skulls and jeer when they fly off in all directions. “Are you kidding me?” a man hurrying past says. “Don’t you realize how dangerous that is?” I do, but it’s not like we have much choice. Troops have draped public buildings in protective netting. The police are going around with guns drawn. Meanwhile, school kids have been taught to hide under their desks, you know, just in case.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie's latest poetry collections are I'm Not a Robot from Tolsun Books and A Room at the Heartbreak Hotel from Analog Submissions Press.

Ludere

He introduced himself to the elegant redhead, making the proper, respectful eye-contact interspersed with cheekily brazen glances beyond the pendulous necklace of green stones.

He listened to her queries, gave all the right answers, asking questions on cue, seizing each opportunity for sexual inference.

Waiting for her fiancé, she allowed herself to bask in the attention and enjoy the ancient game. She even allowed her secret smile to beam forth occasionally, assuring herself that her fidelity was as icily resolute as the emeralds about her flushed neck.

Shortly after an artful hand touched her thigh, only the emeralds kept table.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid

Only Flying

It was not until it hit the blade of the worst rock, riddled with femurs and water skulls, that the river split open and found the leverage to jump out of its bed. It left comfortable moss, minnows’ gossip, and the sound of its own body rubbing past stones, on or around. It surrendered, leapt without choosing, a reflection in air of the path it had known before—the meadow, the factory, the wooden swing. The cottonwoods, black and white. It had become the ocean it had always wanted to meet, silent now, still on the same path. Only flying.

From Guest Contributor Brook Bhagat

Brook holds a BA from Vassar College and an MFA in Writing from Lindenwood University. She teaches college writing and is the co-owner and chief editor of BluePlanetJournal.com. Her nonfiction, poetry, and flash fiction have appeared in Creations Magazine, Little India, Outpost, Nowhere Poetry, and The Syzygy Poetry Journal.

On The Shore

"They'd both die for you, you know," he said.

She watched as the man and the dog, floundering in the sand as though beached at low tide, laughed and barked in hoarse revelry.

"Does it scare you?" he asks.

"No. That I'd die for them, that scares me."

He watches her watch the man and the dog.

"Feeling is more frightening than being felt for?"

"It's more difficult to control," she says, finally looking at her interrogator.

"Dying," he says. "That's the ultimate in losing control."

"Not if you control how you die."

Her pockets were already full of stones. From Guest Contributor Peter Hynes

Peter's stories have appeared in such publications as Flesh & Blood, The Malahat Review, Transversions, Dark Tales, Wicked Hollow, Rain Crow, Not One Of Us, Aiofe's Kiss, Horror Library Vol 2, and On Spec.

Surprise

He always smiled when she appeared. Today, he also winked.

No one else gave her a second look. At school, girls called her names. Boys threw stones.

She placed a chocolate bar on the belt. He rang in the price. She paid.

“Not getting your favourite?” he asked.

“You’re out,” she answered.

“It won’t happen again.”

She tore the wrapper off exiting the store. Took a mouthful. As she started walking home, a car pulled up behind her. The driver’s window opened.

“Found these in the back of the store,” he said handing her a caramel chocolate bar.

“Thanks, Grandpa.”

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes poetry, fiction and creative nonfiction. Her recent work has been published at: Nailpolish Stories, 50-Word Stories, 100 word story, Boston Literary Magazine, From the Depths (Haunted Waters Press), ShortbreadStories and espresso stories.