Dairy Reinvented

“Our regional cows have been highly productive,” beamed Norm, supervising an employee unload dairy products for customers.

But where were they?

The regulars showed up. Tourists trickled in as they did elsewhere in the vacationland—unlike booming pre-pandemic times. Did the current political climate have a bearing?

After days of dismal turnout, Norm called his staff for a meeting.

“Put up a new display poster,” he instructed. “Half price: ALL dairy!

A sampling counter was set up, manned by an employee.

Sales accelerated. Many shopping carts left the grocery store with dairy. Late comers found the refrigerated section emptied out.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Be

Sherman breathed deeply, concentrating on emptying his mind of all thoughts. The contradiction of thinking about not thinking about anything gave him a headache. His spiritual advisor instructed him to repeat his mantra at times like this.

"Be...be...be..."

He chose his mantra because of the fundamental reason he'd begun a meditation practice: he wanted to stop analyzing everything and just be. He wanted to overcome all of the angst that seemed to plague all of his waking thoughts, prevented him from sleeping and leaving him chronically depressed.

His advisor didn't understand. "Why do you sound like a bumblebee?"

So It Goes

A brave man killed a monster. He became a hero and was celebrated. He married a princess and eventually became a king. He had many children. Then he died.

An unlucky man was born poor. He made an unfortunate bargain and was cursed. He turned into a horrible monster, was shunned by society. Eventually a man came along and killed the unlucky man.

A unremarkable man lived an unremarkable life. He had good times. He had bad times. He died an unremarkable death.

A thoughtful man spent his entire life trying to make sense of it all. Then he died.

Former Glory

She sits in a worn wheelchair, slightly swaying to the raspy and sultry melodies playing on the radio behind her. Drunkenly sloshing the dark brown liquid in the bottle she’s nursed throughout the night. Her eyes are as heavy as her heart, drooping with sadness and weeping with grief. Taking another sip, she sighs as the liquid scorches down her throat. She hums along to the music, reminiscing times when she played the same syncopated rhythms on stage. Her knobby and wrinkled fingers dance in the air on her ghost piano while swallowing sobs, thinking about her glorious old memories.

From Guest Contributor Sa'Mya Hall

Curious Cath

She needed to know so badly, but was afraid to ask. Imagine he didn't know either or – worse – had forgotten.

No, she wouldn't bother the renowned academic (and her life partner) with it. It would only distract him from his life's work: the analysis of 100-word stories.

For days on end he researched various pieces, decomposing the sentences and studying the words.

A few times he attempted himself, but he never got further than 96.

His admiration for the 100-word virtuosos was endless.

However, her curiosity got the upper hand.

"Honey, I've waited a long time to ask you, but…"

From Guest Contributor Hervé Suys

Hervé (°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.

Bitch Please!

CONTEST SUBMISSION:

I see you and think of stars but they are just stones. I think of you as Moon but it has scars. Maybe Sun but it is just a fireball. A stream of water is what you are off course, your fun never ends. A flower at times, I know your trace is always here and like a flower shall have a small life. You are like my guardian always helping me in this nonsense world, insensitive to blind. You fly, run, cry, have fun. Let me tell you once and for all, you are one of a kind, Bitch!

From Guest Contributor Manmeet Chadha

Manmeet is an Alumunus from the London School of Economics & Political Science. He works in India as an Economist & Writer. He can be reached at http://linkedin.com/in/manmeet-chadha-8b606924

October Blues

The stickiness of the summer air had finally disappeared, leaving behind a brisk chill in its wake. Bronze leaves danced in the wind after departing from their trees, reviving nostalgia that remained hidden deep within your bones. The same way you felt it deep inside your bones when he kissed you that Fall years agoーcupping your face with his warm hands while leaving the sweet taste of honey and cinnamon behind. Shuddering, whether from the bitter wind or suppressed memories of times that no longer existed, you crunch the leaves beneath your heavy boots harderーand you keep on walking.

From Guest Contributor Kelsey Swancott

Kelsey is a graduate of St. John Fisher College, majoring in English, with a concentration in writing while also being an editor in the campus literary magazine Angles.She is furthering her education by attending SUNY Brockport for her master’s in English, specializing in creative writing. Following graduation, she is interested in working in the editing and publishing field.

Berries

An unpleasant task of my youth was picking raspberries in our backyard. Raspberries are the least tasty of Oregon’s big three, the others being blackberries and strawberries. Raspberries are also soft, easily squashed and have unpleasant texture. At times I imagined cutting the roots as a way to avoid picking them. Blackberries and marionberries (a kind of blackberry) are pleasures that can be picked while standing up and grow wild, so one need not grow them yourself or pay for u-pick. Oregon strawberries are the best tasting strawberries, but they must be bought or paid for by back breaking u-pick.

From Guest Contributor Doug Hawley

A Postcard To The Afterlife

Hi Dad, it’s me again. Still here on Earth. Still wishing to be where you are, engulfed in the brilliant light of peace and tranquility, behind gates guarded by ancestors from times never known to us. Still waiting for a sign, a rainbow, a white dove, anything that tells me things are better out there in the universe than they are here, right now. Still missing the opportunities that passed us by when we thought there were an infinite number of opportunities left. Still whispering unheard, unanswered prayers into the night sky. Still hoping the moonlight carries them to you.

From Guest Contributor Rhiannon DeCambra

The Sickness Unto Death

I pulled up my shirt to show the doctor the painful rash that had appeared like stigmata on my front and back. He looked at it, then shrugged. “What do you think it is?” he asked. I decided at that moment to stop carrying my phone everywhere. Somehow disturbing news still managed to reach me. I was out of step with the times. My days were endless. I walked on the beach, took naps, tried to teach myself the guitar. There was a blue iris sitting in a bottle on my table. It would have made a lovely Hallmark card.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author most recently of Spooky Action at a Distance from Analog Submission Press. He co-edits the journals Unbroken and UnLost.