The Steward

Rebecca and I drove up the long gravel way until it crested a small ridge and our new home came into view. She sucked in her breath, shocked by the magnificence of the old mansion.

"I haven't been here in thirty years. Nothing's changed."

She squeezed my hand, in excitement or perhaps disbelief. The estate belonged to my grandfather, then my uncle, and now me, a string of unfortunate deaths leaving me the only heir.

My anticipation ceased when I saw Bidwell waiting to greet us.

"What's wrong?"

"The steward. He died in the same accident that killed my uncle."

Muted

Late one night in a foreign town, I walked past two men just inside a dark alley. The larger one had the other pushed up against a wall with a knife under his chin. The smaller man looked at me with pleading, terror-filled eyes. When the larger man jerked to follow his gaze, I hurried beyond them up the street. No one else was around to turn to for help. I had no cell phone and no idea where the nearest police station was. So I just continued on my way, hands trembling, head down: voiceless, derelict, abandoning all rectitude.

From Guest Contributor William Cass

Traveling Light

Roger has a tremendous urgency to explore. Everywhere he travels, he moves extremely fast. There are never any stops along the way, and no sightseeing, at least not in the traditional sense.

Of course, part of the enjoyment of a long voyage is observing the scenery as you go. Roger is always more comfortable being the observer rather than being observed. In fact, he'd be fine if no one ever knew when he had passed by, as he feels traveling unnoticed is his natural state.

In the time it's taken you to read this, Roger has traveled 3.35 million miles.

A Boy I Knew

A boy I knew killed a man. Lost his mind. Shaved his head. His face on the news was an open-mouthed scream, soundless. His eyes so round, searching. I whispered to the screen: please blink. I said it like ice in his mouth, like the way he’d look up at stars puncturing the still night sky, the cold air, too many angles of his body pushing out, knees and elbows and chin. I said it without hope. When this boy was mine, he danced and wide-smiled and kissed and laughed. His voice rang out, ethereal, hit the earth like rain.

From Guest Contributor Beth Mead

A Mother’s Love

First it was only yelling. Then she sported bruises. The police carted him away. He came back. He was sorry, couldn’t believe he was capable of that. She let him back in. He escalated. A fresh set of bruises appeared. The cycle continued.

She stayed to protect the child. His safety was all that mattered. A mother’s love.

A protection order was issued, papers were served, the divorce imminent. That was the legal way to handle the situation, but not Dad’s way. He wasn’t worried about legal. He didn’t give his daughter away to be slapped around. A father’s love.

From Guest Contributor NT Franklin

Data Dada

I walked for eight months, following a man who was carrying books on a donkey. I thought of it as my way of creating memories and putting them in my diary, except I don’t have a diary. So, yes, it’s ironic. Now as I go around the city, I see cigarette butts and chewing gum on the pavement, and people clipping their fingernails in the subway. I mean, who would do that, leave their DNA all over the place for others to collect and store? It’s like the secret to keeping a secret is the only secret still being kept.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author most recently of What It Is and How to Use It from Grey Book Press. He co-edits the journals Unbroken and UnLost.

On My Way?

Speeding through town, the traffic light signals me to stop. I sit. Idle. Stone faced. I’ve been stuck here many times. On my way to the wedding. On my way to the police station. On my way to the hospital. To the hospital again. Even in the ambulance, I assume. On my way to court. Now, here, I’m stopped again. Alone. My right foot yearning to push the gas. I always obey the traffic light. Red light. Red blood. My blood he committed to spilling one soul-crushing punch at a time. Stupid traffic light. Suddenly, I get the green light.

From Guest Contributor Nancy Geibe Wasson