War

I watched as my buddy exploded into fragments from a grenade. I saw the fear on his face knowing at that moment, he would die. It was chaotic and when I ran for cover, I thought he was behind me, but he stayed to help an injured soldier to safety. Now, both are gone.

I’m in the trench shaken, wishing I were anywhere else but here.

I heard the tanks roaring, and men yelled, guns ready in hand.

My ears rang; head pounded with all sound, until everything became muffled, and my right hand shook uncontrollably.

Then came the explosion.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

After Destruction

The prophet mutter his pronouncements to a jaded congregation that paid no attention. They didn't need to hear the truth from the mouth of a crazed zealot to understand this time was different. The world really was coming to an end. At least all the parts that mattered.

War. Drought. Pestilence. Disease.

Everything promised had finally arrived, and the people, rather than tending to their own affairs, were content to rage and destroy and ensure that everyone would meet the same fate. Leave nothing behind.

The prophet continued to mumble for anyone who might be listening.

"After destruction comes rebirth."

Homecoming Surprise

Izzy rubbed her protruding stomach. It’d been months since she’d seen him, and soon he’d find out she was pregnant.

Sam was on his way home, the war ended. Izzy prepared his favorite meal, lamb with cut string beans and mashed potatoes. The aroma of cooked meat and vegetables filled the room.

The doorbell rang and Izzy hastened to answer it. There in the doorway stood Sam holding a bouquet of freshly cut flowers.

Sam stared at her stomach. “Izzy, are you?”

Before he could finish the sentence, she pulled him into a hug and screamed yes, the meal forgotten.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Home For Christmas

I finished arranging the last of the ornaments on the Christmas tree. I pressed the switch and the bright red, green and blue lights lit the room, and the star topper sparkled.

The manger was arranged with Mary and Joseph beside the baby Jesus and the wise men holding their gifts.

My children were getting the milk and cookies ready for Santa Claus before going to bed and awakening to presents and my laughter, even though Hal wasn’t home.

I sat on the large sofa and sipped my hot cocoa when the doorbell rang.

My Hal, home from the war.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Squabble

Up from clamor of Thanksgiving dinner, two voices drowned out the rest. Uncle Frank (Mom's brother) and Uncle Norm (Dad's brother), were at first pointedly not talking towards each other as they contradicted everything the other said. Then it was raised voices, direct, insistent, until they were shouting over everyone, ignoring their wives' pleas.

Then the fighting really began, first with silverware, then a carving knife versus a brass candlestick, then gunfire and light artillery. By this time, the two halves of the family had divided.

There would be no more Thanksgiving dinners until after the war was long over.

Life

When they were at war, everything was easy. They could yell at each other, throw pillows and then sleep in different rooms, sulking and ignoring each other.

But when they were at peace, the silence became so thick it choked him.

They stayed like this for years, until one morning she woke up and the only thing left of him was the Jasmine tea he drank every evening and a letter on the Fridge.

But her?

She liked to fit people into her world like puzzle pieces so she removed the note, lit a fire and watched it burn, unopened.

From Guest Contributor Will Simon

What Made Me Cry...

It wasn’t your lifeless body accompanied by sympathy cards and my childhood stuffed animal, not your workplace name tag displayed in your shirt pocket, not the sermon praising your altruism, not the incense that uplifted our prayers, not as a pallbearer guiding you to your resting place.

It was the blasts of a three-volley salute followed by the silence of two soldiers that lifted the flag off your casket and with precision folded it into a perfect triangle, and my realization that if you didn’t survive war and didn’t start a family, I wouldn’t be standing here missing you, Dad.

From Guest Contributor Charles Gray

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/.

Beneath The Snow

Winter arrived early. Sheep were herded off the pasture. Leaves gathered by Pa stood statuesque in domed heaps.

Grandpa didn’t look at them; reminded him of Quonset huts, the friends he lost in war. Our border collies stared and growled, sensing something amiss. I discovered why.

Furry heads with pink pointed snouts erupted like volcanoes from new, smaller mounds across the hushed terrain, spewing dirt from within.

Pa noticed? Doubt it. Rosie pulled him into town often.

With spring in a few months, planting season will bring him back to the fields.

He’ll learn all there’s to know about moles.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Christmas

Ten-year-old Richie helped his mom decorate the Christmas tree with colorful red, green, and blue lights, and an array of ornaments. When he lit the tree, everything in the room illuminated.

His mom sank into the couch. “Maybe this year Christmas won’t be so lonely.”

Richie sulked, grabbed a chocolate chip cookie from the tray and nibbled on it to savor the taste, when the bell rang, and he ran to answer it.

His eyes widened when he saw who stood in front of him. His dad in his navy uniform.

The war had ended, and Christmas was whole again.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher