YASH SEYEDBAGHERI: Slammed Doors

Artistic, Submissions, , , , ,

I avoid Father’s Day.

People ask me what I’m getting him. I laugh. I’ll figure something out.

Maybe I should. Maybe I’d be the bigger man.

But that word, father, slams in my ears, a fragile door.

Giving him anything’s pointless.

He’d just say it’s cheap, flimsy, another door slammed.

Yash Seyedbagheri is a graduate of Colorado State University’s MFA fiction program. His stories, “Soon,” “How To Be A Good Episcopalian,” “Tales From A Communion Line,” and “Community Time,” have been nominated for Pushcarts. Yash’s work has been published in SmokeLong Quarterly, The Journal of Compressed Creative Arts, Write City Magazine, and Ariel Chart, among others.

VERITY DUNCAN: Escape

Adventure, Submissions, , , ,

Along the fog-shrouded road, trees appeared as islands lining a coast. I trudged on, responsibilities heavy, wet shoes leaving no wake.

The road ended at a stream. A brightly-colored skiff glowed through the fog. The elf beckoned, musical voice enticing. “Come sail with me.”

Hand in theirs, I stepped aboard.

Verity Duncan (she/her) works in quality assurance, gets distracted by stories, drinks flat whites.

HELEN CURRAN: Plain Sight

Amusing, Artistic, Submissions, , ,

He was born with plain sight. Beige, khakis, white tees, muted colors; a grandiose assortment of the mundane was his blessing. Most would call it a curse—an endless tedium—but he was a glass half full kinda guy. He would gratefully bottle every bland rainbow caught in plain sight.

Helen’s lived in a lot of places, but the worlds created when writing are some of her favorites.

SUSAN GALE WICKES: Memories of a Maternity Ward

Artistic, Submissions, Touching, , , , ,

Memories of a maternity ward should be happy.

Crying babies.

Proud fathers.

The counting of fingers and toes.

Exhausted, but exuberant, mothers.

Except for one.

There, in the corner.

The one facing the wall.

The one without a baby.

That was me.

Memories of a maternity ward should be happy.

Susan Gale Wickes is a writer from Indiana.

ILONA RAPIN: Paradise – A State of Mind

Artistic, Submissions, , ,

The Hawaiian radio station invites song requests.

“Two Tickets to Paradise by Eddie Money.”

“Good choice. When will you be arriving?” emails the DJ, after I tell her where I am from.

“I’ve been in Kona for three months, and I’ve had a wonderful time, but I’m heading home tomorrow.”

Ilona Rapin is addicted to the curiosity and excitement of wandering the world, which inspires her to write short stories about her impressions.

HANNAH BUB: I Wish You Hadn’t

Artistic, Submissions, Top Stories, , , , ,

I could tell you wanted to kiss me because you watched my lips instead of the fireworks. My eyes were devout worshipers of the colorful display. I felt your body’s heat oppressing my space. Your breath was slow; my heart was fast. I am sorry that I turned my head.

Hannah Bub writes both fiction and poetry. You can find some of her work in October Hill Magazine (2018, 2023), Wingless Dreamer (2021, 2023), and the Greene Street Review.

KAREN CRAWFORD: The Color of Clouds

Artistic, Submissions, , , , ,

I remember the stars sprinkling a cotton candy sky. Pinky fingers intertwined. A promise we’d always be close.

Then school, jobs, husbands, miles. A post on Facebook. Feeling my knees fall.

I remember the color of clouds. A whispering sky. The fresh breath of trees. Being nowhere. Feeling you everywhere.

Karen Crawford lives and writes in the City of Angels where she exorcises demons one word at a time.

ERIKA NOEL JOHNSON: Down

Adventure, Amusing, Artistic, Submissions, , , , ,

Focus on SkyMall. Pick a snack. Granola. Chew it slowly.

Crashes are rare and panic doesn’t help.

Soon I’ll be on a beach, alive and well with sandy toes.

Focus on chewing. Chocolate.

The plane will descend, it will land, I’ll cancel my return flight, and I’ll swallow.

Trail mix.

Erika Noel Johnson is figuring things out.

BRENNA BOYTIM: Crash at the Bottom

Artistic, Submissions, ,

She fell down the stairs yesterday. Bruised her cheek. Bloodied her nose. All she did was smile up at me from her crash at the bottom.

I flickered the moth-crazed house lights, seeking help. She laughed, then.

I floated down, but my vaporous hands couldn’t hold her. No one can.

Brenna Boytim writes about ghosts, regrets, and reveries. You can find her on Twitter at @hi_thisisbrenna.