Change Of Heart

Think of it as a substitute pump,” the surgeons encourage him. “Latest technology, stringent testing. Equally life-enhancing as the heart God gave you.”

Will it buy him time for his daughter’s imminent wedding? Or beyond, and a new grandchild?

“Side effects include problematic emotional disorders.”

Surely morning birdsong, leisurely travel, favourite classical music will quiet unexplained turmoil.

He acquiesces, yet flails against this plastic invader into his chest.

Without warning, a fog enwraps his mind, shrouds familiar feelings. The mystifying retreat of joy, sorrow, empathy panics him. Why has love for his daughter vanished?

Oblivious, his new heart pumps steadily.

From Guest Contributor Gary Thomson

Truth

The doors open and the bridal party makes their entrance, the music resonating throughout the church. The women shine in their baby blue gowns and the bride, Belle, arm in arm with her dad, shines. Her white gown with sequined embroidery catches the eyes of the onlookers, as her father smiles and leads his daughter to the groom. My stomach churns. I can’t let this wedding happen knowing the truth.

Once the priest gives his wedding sermon the vows begin. When he asks if anyone objects, I hastily stand.

The room, aghast over the disruption, waits for me to respond.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

First Time

I have waited for this moment since childhood. Now as an adult in my car with the engine running, I’m thinking of excuses to put my foot to the accelerator.

I remove my sunglasses and shut the radio in the middle of “You are the Wind Beneath My Wings,” and turn the car off. This song brings back memories of my wedding. I wish Melinda were still alive.

As I approach the porch and knock on the door, I hear footsteps stomping down the stairs.

Would it be my mother or father who’d I’d be meeting for the first time?

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Big Money

Howard entered the school’s front office Monday morning following his Saturday wedding. The head secretary smiled at him and cooed coquettishly, “Ooh, Mr. Morgan, how’s married life?” The other secretaries smirked, eager to hear his reply.

The question amused Howard. He didn’t know what to say so he pumped his fist in the air three times and said, “It’s fantastic. I’ve doubled my income. Life is good!”

“Oh! Oh!” the head secretary shrieked, hands flying to her throat. “You’re just the most horrible man.”

Grinning madly, Howard walked out of the office thinking, What a great start to the day.

From Guest Contributor Robert P. Bishop

The Celebration

Where was he?

Anxious guests chattered in anticipation of what would happen next. The priest glanced at the row of individuals immediately before him. Then, at his watch.

Time passed on. The front door opened. A man rushed in.

No one turned to greet him. No talking caught his ears.

Who would’ve believed his story of being caught up in traffic when he was golfing with friends and lost track of time?

He fumbled in his dress jacket pocket, finding the wedding ring lodged in its creases.

Despite his absence as ‘best man’, he hoped his brother’s wedding went well.From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna is a writer of poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. She resides in Edmonton, Canada.

The Silenced

She did not say yes.

The silence of more fear than cultural respect was not a sign of consent. The tears on her face at the dawn of her 'big day' were not a sign of consent.

The lashes fell upon her, one, two...

She had dreamt of wearing green for her wedding. Red was her mother's choice.

His voice was loud it silenced her lips.Ninety-eight or was it already past hundred? She'd later count the scars on her back, looking at her reflection in the broken mirror stained with blood.

She never wanted marriage.She never wanted this.

From Guest Contributor Anne Silva.

Anne is a student writer from Sri Lanka. She publishes her writing on social media as Poetry of Despair.You can read them at www.instagram.com/PoetryofDespair.

Is This What You Thought Married Life Would Be Like?

“Is this what you thought married life would be like?”

The first time Ann asked me that was at a church wedding, with me holding our three-month-old as he filled his diaper. Excrement slowly seeped down into my suit jacket sleeve.

The question was always asked facetiously: Ann’s way of finding humor in challenging situations (little league games, parent-teacher conferences, prom night). It helped. We always smiled and, sometime later, laughed.

Now, married thirty-eight years, with grandkids and happily retired, she asks me again as we sit together at dinner.

Smiling, I answer, “Oh yes...even better than I thought.”From Guest Contributor Mike Nolan

Mike is a freelance writer living happily ever after in Port Angeles, WA, USA. Mike is the author of the forthcoming memoir My Second Education, and has a web presence at mikenolanstoryteller.com.

She Looked On The Bright Side

“Going to the wedding, are you?” The SuperValu cashier jigged the question as the wiry woman with blowzy white hair fished coins from her purse for the crossword lotto cards lying on the counter. “Here you go, exactly.” She plunked the coins down and scooped up her cards. “Hope you’re a winner. Spelling games are my pet picks,” quipped the cashier. “Yes, I deserve a good spell; even though these daily lotto spoil everything. I’ll be back in a short bit to bet on today’s talk of the town. I have a hunch the odds are running in my favor.”

From Guest Contributor M.J. Iuppa

His Girl

He returned to their place, behind a shrub. Where they as teenagerswatched practitioners exit a church. Where he kissed away her tearsafter her father walked out, showering affection on a stranger.

She, the girl he played tag with in childhood. The one he datedthrough high school. The one he wrote to after he moved out of thecity, and her letters stopped abruptly.

He watched between raindrops clinging to leafless branches. She exitedthe church on the arm of another man. Wedding procession followed.

Rainstorm may have passed, but the storm in his mind had only intensified.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna is a writer of poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. Sheresides in Edmonton, Canada with her husband and stuffed animals andmany friends.

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