Gratitude

“So nice,” Sarah thought, reciprocating a friendly wave.

She would’ve helped if her arthritic hands weren’t an issue. Instead, she watched the next door neighbor bend countless times to weed a bountiful garden.

When showy bouquets were presented at her front door, Sarah returned the favor with her baking. When her husband died, the neighbor had arranged funeral flowers free of charge.

Drought settled the following year. Flowering plants suffered. Rosebuds dried, not getting a chance to bloom. Much of the garden had dwindled.

Unlike the blossoming friendship between the two women, who found themselves together at a seniors’ lodging.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes poetry, fiction and creative nonfiction regardless of the season, although she prefers spring.

The Secret To Staying Human

Mom digs her feet under the wet sand of the Atlantic. I stand next to her, wondering if the ocean will remember her and melt her legs back together.

Each wave climbs higher up our pale legs. Our feet sink deeper and deeper. The surge threatens to topple me, to suck me out to sea. Tears stream down my cheeks.

Mom grabs me. “This was a mistake.”

I cling to her as she rushes toward our towels.

She dries her feet. Inspects each toe. Sighs in relief.

My toes tingle, translucent skin spread between them. The ocean’s song calls me.

From Guest Contributor Sally Simon

Sally (ze/hir) lives in NY. When not writing, ze’s travels and stabs people with hir epee. Read more at www.sallysimonwriter.com.

Sightseeing In The Subway

There are names scratched onto the walls of New York City subway cars. Monday it was Mark. Tuesday, Dylan. Wednesday, Fatima. Thursday, Kat, and Friday, Lucy. The poorly carved letters, engraved with care, resemble the jagged handwriting of a preschooler; It's something inexplicably human. Though the scratches will fade, and the steel of the cars will corrode, I like to think otherwise; the remnants of these people will linger long after time forgets who they are. Every name I spot, a wave of tranquility washes over me as I stand in a mess of busy people in a busy city.

From Guest Contributor Eshal Yazdani

Last Ditch Effort

The slave driver’s eagles squawk and shift violently in the wind to dodge the endless barrage of waves crashing against the rocky cliff’s edge. By our scent, they know we are close, but they can’t see us.

“It must’ve been an illusion, pa,” says my son. His tunic is soaked by sea and sweat as he rips oar against cruel wave. “The heat makes one see things while fishing. Perhaps there’s no cave.”

I struggle to speak and strain through the invisibility incantation I have surrounding us and our boat, “Row boy! It was no illusion. It’s our only salvation.”

From Guest Contributor John Martinez

Bee Grudged

The creature basked in the sensory experience that was home, almost oblivious to the otherwise hypnotic aroma of clover which wafted in from beyond the hive’s entrance each summer.

To most fauna beyond the narrow and disguised access, this was an old tree clinging to its few remaining vital branches.

Rejuvenated, the worker set to follow the next wave out to forage for more nectar and the inadvertent spreading of pollen on which the rest of the planet depended.

Its world ended when a great hairy paw collapsed walls, mashing bee with wax and bark as the bear claimed honey.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid

Lost

The only time I thought I’d seen a fairy was awakening with a hangover and propped up by the television set playing a Disney channel. But now I’m sober, standing upright, and engaged in talking to one that’s lost her way. She had proved her credentials with a wave of her wand and producing a glass of some mixture she said would quell the aftereffects of over-imbibing, but her wand wasn’t up to the GPS instrumentation. I didn’t tell her that her mob lived at the bottom of my garden. She’s tall and beautiful, and now shacking up with me.

From Guest Contributor Len Mooring

Last Sunset Before Flagstaff

Sydnacious Crumb’s “Pick Me a Squirrel,” Grunge’s last anthem, fought through the mountains for spotty FM reception. Too dark now for sunglasses, he rested his eyes on the long stretch of desert between painted rocks and casino frybread. Squinting occasionally, he thought of how this band, or any artist, could create something that was so much better than anything that came before or after. Just as Crumb caught a clear wave and the chorus echoed, “squirrel, squirrel, squirrel,” he saw in the rearview a beam of light. Not quite purple or red, no, it was pink. And then he understood.

From Guest Contributor Adam Axler

Adam is a former New York City paramedic, physician assistant, and is the current owner of online bookstore Collectible Science Fiction.

Waves

He phoned to tell me I hadn’t returned his wave yesterday. Wondered why.

I apologized, explained how busy I was. Being in a hurry, mind on other things. When absorbed with a book, I would walk with my head down. (Hadn’t he noticed?) Feel its characters as they stride with me. My physical surroundings matter not.

There were other days too, he said.

It wasn’t my intention to appear unfriendly. I promised I’d lift my head more and make a point of looking out for my neighbor.

Days later, I saw him running across the street.

I waved.

He didn’t.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. Her work has been published at: Nailpolish Stories, 50-Word Stories, 100 word story, 101 Words, Boston Literary Magazine, From the Depths (Haunted Waters Press), ShortbreadStories, and espresso stories.

Impressions

“Ugh, Dad you cannot send me to that school!” I squealed.

“Why Samantha? It looks lovely there.”

“It is on that terrible estate where children smoke drugs and lose their virginity at twelve years old.”

“You don’t even know the name of that estate, Sam,” my Dad challenged.

A wave of silence flooded the room. My Dad huffed, walked over to the bookshelf, picked up Hamlet and opened it to page twenty-six.

“Come here Sam and look at this page very closely, but don’t read the words. Read between the lines. What do you see?”

I hesitated. I saw nothing.

From Guest Contributor Joshua Wallis

Joshua is a home-school student from the United kingdom, who loathed reading literature until recently! He is looking forward to reading works of great novelists and insightful 100-word stories in the coming years.

The Good Neighbor

He waves from across the street, leaving, working nights again. Smiling, I return his wave. She watches him from the doorway, my gaze goes unnoticed.

Twilight passes, darkness falls. Lights go out in their upstairs window.

Patience. Give it time.

Minutes passing like hours.

Thinking back. Their vacation had been great, thanks for feeding the cat. Glad the new key worked.

It still works.

I fixed that squeaking door and creaking stairway for you.

Standing watch beside her, so lovely sleeping. She deserves more attention.

Sure, I'll keep an eye on the place while you're on graveyard shift. My pleasure.

From Guest Contributor Mirshaan.

Mirshaan has a BFA in Education. He loves words.