Sunday Morning

Staying home sick from Church is the real blessing. The entire comics section all to myself. Mom leaves me hot chocolate with the hard marshmallows dissolving into pure sugar.

Sinking into the beanbag. Feet buried in the shag of the carpet, working knots with my toes. Sips of too hot chocolate that burn my tongue with sweetness

Calvin and Hobbes. Peanuts. The Far Side.

It's a perfect Sunday morning.

I don't hear my older brother come home early. Before I know it, he has me buried under the beanbag, smothering me so I can't breathe.

I hate my older brother.

Hunting

I left the cabin against my wife’s wishes and ventured into the woods hunting for anything that might feed my family. Within minutes the wind picked up and I found myself struggling in knee-deep drifts and knew an arduous journey was ahead. Would there be any rabbits or deer to hunt? Am I the only one who has a starving wife and children?

I continued my quest until my body tired and I had to rest. I collapsed to the ground, snow pelting my face, and my toes frozen.

I closed my eyes and knew my hunting days were over.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

My Setting Sun

We sit on the beach watching a summer sunset, foamy saltwater encroaching upon our bare toes. Distant mountains cut jagged lines in the sky. We’re laughing, your warm arm around my shoulders. I glow in your rare happiness, believing you’ll stay with me always.

I sense you withdrawing as the sun sinks behind the mountains, air chilling as the golden orb dwindles. Just before it disappears, my soul cries: don’t fade away, don’t leave.

The sun pauses, a yolk balancing on the highest peak.

The moment breaks. Your arm falls from my shoulders.

My soul aches as the sun vanishes.

From Guest Contributor Katla Watersin

The Sea

The gentle ripple of the waves soothes me, as I listen to the seagulls flying above searching for prey. A mother is helping her young son build a sandcastle while keeping an eye out for her daughter. “Don’t go too far out,” she bellows.

The ocean splashes against my legs and seaweed gets caught in-between my toes. I chortle and kick my feet, releasing it back into the water. I love the sea, its openness and the people who come to get away from everyday life.

The ocean is a world of its own, and the world is the ocean.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Drowning Memories

Alex listened to the waves crashing against the shoreline while seagulls flew above, searching for prey. The sun beamed on his face and he wished he had worn a hat.

He walked the beach, the hot sand stinging his toes. Boats sailed in the distance and he wondered what it would feel like to be free of land, but that thought dissipated. His mind shifted to when he almost drowned and his father pulled him from the water shouting his name, punching his chest until he spit up.

His father was now the one drowning, of a disease called cancer.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

The Beauty Of Summertime

Sarah sat on the beach swooshing her toes through the hot sand. In the near distance, two young girls were building a sand castle, arguing about who was the better swimmer. Sarah turned up the radio and tuned them out. She closed her eyes and let the warm ocean breeze sooth her tension. With a smile on her face she listened to the waves, in between her favorite songs.

“What a beautiful day,” she said.

Within minutes the sun disappeared and it began to thunder and lightning. Seconds later Sarah was drenched and running to her car, the day ruined.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Love Be The Devil, But It Won’t Get Me

We were watching the show from a splintered, weathered picnic table in front of the big stage at The Shack when she told me she was leaving me. It was midnight, but it was still a hundred degrees out and sweat rolled down my face and into my eyes as she walked away. The Burnside boys were singing their brand of gritty, corn liquor soaked blues. My heart thudded in my chest like it was threatening to make an appearance but the toes of my boots kept tapping the dirt and eventually I threw my head back and sang along.

From Guest Contributor Sarah Reddick

Sarah Reddick is a writer who is currently in the MFA program at Lindenwood University in St. Charles, Missouri. Her work has appeared in Cattywampus Magazine, Salt Zine, The Local Voice, and the Mid Rivers Review.

The Discovery

Professor Viterbi puffed up like an overripe seed pod, ready to shower his discovery all over the conference delegates in their seats.

"We have discovered a species with left handed DNA. This means life on Earth started not just once, but two or more times."

The delegates' jaws dropped; mouths like pitcher plants waiting for further details to fall in.

"This organism has been in front of our noses all the time. The common toenail fungus."

Half the delegates gave Professor Viterbi a standing ovation. The other half removed their shoes and socks, and stared at their toes in wonder.

From Guest Contributor Ross Clement

Cramming For Midterms

Back against the wall, arms at my sides, and my heart pounding in my throat and toes, I closed my eyes and let him explore the soft wetness of lips, the tight reluctance of tongue. My fingernails dug into my thighs, the way love, or maybe obsession, forces its way into the folds of your brain, seeping into your consciousness and taking over everything you thought you knew about yourself.

I surrendered, flat, still, and unendingly insecure. I hated him.

He caressed my hair and my face. The ground gave way, an unexpected and fragile molehill, and I found myself.From Guest Contributor Stacy Gorse

Final Instructions

My toes wrap precipitous edges. Points of shale and limestone gouge my feet, painting blood trails. Struggling to stand, I traverse the narrow path. Black canyons rise below-- inviting me to swim in their depths. Immense. Cold. My hands flutter through gray smoke, displacing sacred dancers who vanish in gasping silence.Our last meal rustled as we pulled cardboard food from tattooed paper bags. You scrawled the plan across my brown napkin, freezing me.

I thrust myself into blankness, crystal ice. I discard hope, the weak’s weight. Growing lighter, I embrace your last etching, scratched upon my fading horizon. Goodbye.

Karen Burton recently received her MFA from Lindenwood University in St. Charles, Missouri. She currently serves as the managing editor of The Lindenwood Review.