Valley Of The Sighing Wind

The horse stopped dead in its tracks. Restive, on its hind legs, it neighed.

I dismounted.

“You will know it when you reach there,” I recalled the sage’s words.

Mist slyly revealed silhouettes of burnt trees in the distance.

“How will I find her in the dark?” I had queried.

“Spring returns to the parched land the moment one meets their beloved.”

“And if I don’t?”

“You become what you search for: the forsaken.”

“And I can't return?"

“The drought will follow you.”

While descending into the eerie silence, I looked back.

The horse watched me, foreboding in its stillness.

From Guest Contributor Sathyajith Panachikal

For the prompt Frontier

Long Enough

David kept asking, “Whose funeral is it?”

His daughter replied, “Mom's.”

Minutes later he said, “Whose funeral is it?”

“Mom's.” Each reply earned the same quiet nod.

When the service ended, mourners drifted away. David stepped beside the casket. He slipped off his wedding band. “You'll need this,” he whispered to the casket. “Take good care of it.”

The daughter blinked back tears.

He smiled faintly, patted the casket, and walked on. Halfway down the path, he stopped. “Whose funeral is it?”

His daughter slipped her arm through his, and they walked slowly toward home beneath silent autumn trees together.

From Guest Contributor E. Barnes

E. Barnes has work published at A Story In 100 Words, Spillwords, The Purple Pen, The Haven, and Medium.

Mountain

Eons ago I was born in a cauldron of lava and steam. When I finally cooled off, tectonic plates shifted, lifting me upward thousands of feet. The ages passed and I was molded by the rain, wind, and cold. Eventually I was dressed in vegetation and scarred by rivers. My face has developed wrinkles and I have shrunk. Through the geological ages I have looked down upon a parade of flora, sea creatures, and mammals.

Modern man sends in his bulldozers, cuts down my trees, and mines my ores. Despite this, I will be here long after they have gone.

From Guest Contributor Janice Siderius

A Day at the Lake

Cartoon fishing is bloodless but the one who landed on the bodies of trees that was a good excuse for a sweating can of beer in the red hand of Uncle John was a body, eyes peeled and gasping, flapping, slapping, impaled with rusting violence and the lie about the free lunch of the worm and I also stopped chewing, not because of my seven-year-old wiggly tooth but because of the hook in the ham sandwich my mother'd given me, the hook in the wooden deck of the boat, the hook that cartoon fishing is bloodless

and then she died

From Guest Contributor Brook Bhagat

Maple Tree

There was a maple tree on the corner of Ryan's yard as he was growing up. When he was seven, the city ordered it cut down because the branches were interfering with the electrical lines. Ryan cried a lot and convinced his mom to fight. It took many hours of sitting in on city council meetings and gathering signatures for a petition, but eventually the power company relented. The tree was saved.

Now the trees are the only things left standing in their old neighborhood. Once the plant revolution started, Ryan and his mom were spared, but the houses weren't.

You Know Birds

“Look, Ed. the Sun's coming out.”

“The Sun, huh?”

Actually, it had been out, fusing protons into helium nuclei in its core. Daily, unendingly, for billions of years, it kept at it. Cloud cover had temporarily blocked Edna's view.

“Look at the trees. Let's go out on the patio, Ed.”

Squinting, she turned from the window.

“But the birds in the trees like to crap on me, Edna.”

It was true. They aimed for Ed's head especially.

“Yeah, Ed. But they'll hold off.”

“What?”

“Your hair's a mess...You know birds. They'd rather splatter you after your shampoo, not now.”

From Guest Contributor David Sydney

Fireflies

In the distance, flashes of light blinked in and out through the trees. Like lightning just before the storm. And getting closer.

"What are those?"

"They're just fireflies. They can't hurt you."

"Mommy, I'm scared."

Gina held her son tightly. "Hush baby. They can't hurt you."

They huddled together among the trees and watched the lights. She sang to him his favorite lullaby. The same lullaby her Mother had sung to her on the hot summer nights before they came to America.

"Hush baby. No one's going to hurt you."

When the bombs finally reached them, everything was over quickly.

The Twilight Palace

Sydney looked at the atlas. There was no denying he was lost, to the point where he couldn't even be sure he was using the right map anymore. His phone had lost service hours ago.

A flash of reflected light caught his attention up ahead: some sort of structure spotted through the trees. He hurried forward hoping they'd have good WiFi.

As Sydney entered the clearing, a massive palace stood before him, with intricately carved roofs, marble fountains, and gold latticework. A white-robed fellow standing in the entrance smiled in his direction.

This looked nothing like the photos on Airbnb.

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

Hermitage

Harvest missed, starlings busy with unworked seed, overripe corn, a laugh with the scarecrow - leave toward evening. Leaves of fall turn red like the blood fingering across the green linoleum kitchen floor after the thud of the back of your head, split like a too-ripe pumpkin. A widower falls in the kitchen, no one hears it, did it make a sound? The trees in the yard mourn the wood you stacked anticipating winter, as it dries, rots, quietly decays. Equinoxes later it splinters, skips off across tan, fallow fields in a cold wind, wet with the rustle of black wings.

From Guest Contributor Craig Kirchner

Craig thinks of poetry as hobo art. He loves storytelling and the aesthetics of the paper and pen. He was nominated twice for the Pushcart Prize, and has a book of poetry, Roomful of Navels. After a writing hiatus is being published and has work forthcoming in a dozen or so journals.