2021 Submissions
The Bus by Alexandra Thomas
On the first day’s bus ride,
I found, under the neon exit sign
A perfect hideaway, a loners retreat
To sit and gulp down line after line
Of unthinkable creatures, fantastical worlds
And adventure that would never be mine.
Not long after, to my horror,
A siege was waged which my solitude could not weather.
A siege with hair long and dark as a winter night
And eyes of soft heather,
Looking happy as could be
In my hideaway’s soft leather.
Within a second, my defenses rose,
Her greetings met with a cold stare,
Still her friendly smile gleamed bright,
Like a knight’s sword in the dragon’s lair.
Any treasure, I’d have given freely,
But my company, I was unwilling to share
I held my silence for days,
Determined not to forfeit first.
But eventually my walls began to crack,
And I found myself beginning to thirst
For company, for knowledge, for the stories she told,
With so many questions, I felt fit to burst.
The stories she started,
How did they end?
Had her parents held ground against her,
Or, like me, did they give in and bend?
What ever happened to all the toys,
That to her sister she’d had to lend?
Slowly, slowly, I crept from my shell,
First with a giggle, quiet but true.
Then, my books began to lower,
Hardcover shields long past their due.
Soon, my heart grew soft, my eyes warm,
And enjoyment replaced my initial rue.
---
Untitled by Don Wong
So in my attempt to fulfill my mission, I will need to recalculate the flight path to set to Earth. Probably not to difficult, though let me enjoy this untouched view of Mars for just a few months longer.
A Root’s Journey
by Marina Foster
There was no one but me at the beginning.
And I did not know there could be anyone, I only knew that my purpose was to collect water and nutrients to the plant that sprouted above me in the world I would never know.
But over time, I stretched my arms wide and penetrated the soil deeper as the walls around me permeated with the water that appeared and I grew to know others as we intertwined to create a network in this underground world.
These others were no different than me, but I had to learn to share my water and nutrients. Some needed it more than others.
I could communicate with these others to learn what they were doing miles across from me, but I could never know what it was like above the darkness that surrounded me. What was I helping to grow?
My arms continued to expand, as did the passing of time and so did our knowledge of when we needed to store water or plunge further into the earth.
There was a time when I felt I had been digging deeper and deeper to find new minerals, wondering if this search would ever come to an end when I felt an excitement from the network, or maybe a nervousness.
The Earth rumbled and quickly the tips of the longest of roots were saturated in liquid.
The thin, dried arms suddenly became hydrated and plump.
I could feel my sprout above smiling, basking in the nourishment we were sending to it.
But the water did not stop.
The excitement turned to panic as we no longer had hold of the soil around us.
It was running from my touch as my body rose upwards and suddenly, blackness turned brown spots, and these spots fell away, turning into a blinding white light that melted to a deep blue.
These large, pounding drops of water hit at my limp body and I knew I was drowning, but I looked around for the first time at this new world around me.
There was brilliant, flashing of colors I could have never imagined before and creatures scurrying about.
Other plants swayed and thrashed in the swirling of the storm that took hold of all artifacts near and far.
In the middle of all this chaos and discovery, I took a moment to look at what my frail body had been attached to all these years.
Its trunk strong and powerful, sheltering creatures from the violent waters, and its canopy towering over all else.
A calmness drifted over me and through each of my hundreds of arms and legs.
I had served my purpose and I served it well.
Flash Fiction by Paul Hook
They were identical. An army of men and women dressed in white biohazard suits, latex gloves and full face masks. They moved as one unit, walking through the corridor to the departure gates, eschewing the travelator. Anyone who saw them got out of the way, as if an invisible force field pushed at them.
Ten, faceless and nameless people. It was an imposing sight to even the most hardened adults used to scenes of violence and death.
Taggart, a forty-something business executive travelling home to New York looked up from his phone and stared as the group passed him. Normally, these sights would have been unseen by him as he spent his time in the executive lounge, but the flight had been delayed. He hadn’t found out until he got to the boarding area and saw the disappointment on fellow passengers’ faces.
Great. Just what we need. They’re probably going to scrub the whole plane and we’ll have to wait until they get a replacement. I knew I shouldn’t have left the lounge.
Even the recent success in his work had been forgotten as the worst thoughts chugged into his head.
Kids pointed and stared, one lady ran to get out of their way and the airport staff seemed hesitant to engage with any of them.
Taggart went back to watching the stock market updates on his phone as he waited for the announcement over the P.A. system. At least then he could know when the next timing would be so that he could go back to the relative safety of the lounge and drown his sorrows in a London Mule.
A minute passed and Taggart looked towards the boarding area. The attendants stood behind the desk, carrying on. Thinking that he must have been too engrossed in the bull run on the stocks, he walked up to get an answer.
“Excuse me, miss. I mustn’t have heard the announcement. What will the new boarding time be?”
A young brunette looked back at him, her eyes hidden by bangs. She replied, “Sir, boarding will be in ten minutes.”
Confused by the answer, he nodded and turned. It was only at that point in time that he began to laugh.
Twenty feet in front of him sat the faceless army. They had their phones out, some had crossed their legs, talking to one another and a chubby man looked like he was sleeping.
The biohazard team wasn’t going to scrub the plane, they were just passengers like the rest of the group. Only, they took their safety to another level.
Taggart could only hope that they couldn’t afford business class. He sat back down and surreptitiously took a photo of the group to share with his friends.
Some things were just too unbelievable unless seen in person!
I have a dog named Mia. She is 10 years old in human years and 77 in dog years. She has brown eyes and black fur. In my opinion, she is super cute! She is super calm, and she never bites or nibbles. Sometimes she yacks but I think that brings out her personality. She talks to us by barking. Sometimes she gets in trouble when she digs in the trash. My parents saved her life when they rescued her and adopted her. She is good at being a loyal dog. She loves it when we give her pats on the head and when we give her treats. And lastly, she does not like watermelon.
Dust clouds choked out the sun while Chet looked east. The hard work put in during spring time had been decimated by a once-in-a-century drought.
Crops were stunted or dead. Lack of water from a dry winter and an even drier summer meant that he and others had to rely on an inconsistent irrigation system promised by the local government. Having surveyed his acreage, he would likely lose ninety percent of his crop of barley. Prices had skyrocketed to the point where he and his wife spent most of their days in a daze. No amount of worrying was going to fix their debt with the banks.
His thoughts on that day, looking at the baking sun, were of his great-grandfather Chester, his namesake. Chester had moved to Manitoba over one hundred years earlier and bought the five hundred acres for the farm.
The farm was now and had always been a dairy operation, but Chet’s worries turned to despair three weeks earlier when he heard that wheat wasn’t coming from the east coast. He and his wife made the decision to sell half of the herd to pay off debts. The couple were tough and knew that, with some luck and prayer every Sunday at church, the rains would come.
Every night, they sat on the porch perpetually searching for elusive clouds. Checking the WeatherNetwork app became an obsession, sometimes even at three in the morning.
Daisy looked at Chet after a particularly rough day, when the grasshoppers were becoming more numerous. “How about we do a rain dance tonight with the kids?”
Chet looked at his wife in disbelief. “Are you kidding?” He could tell by the look on her face that she was dead serious. “What would your parents think if they saw you and I dancing in the yard, hoping that the rains would come?”
“Darling, we’ve prayed already. We’ve sold half of our cows. Our crops are going to be meagre and the grasshoppers are taking over. What do we have to lose?”
He saw the twinkle in her eye and the dimple on her left cheek underneath the freckles. After a moment’s thought, he said, “What the heck.”
Later that day, the two set a big bonfire and did a rain dance like they used to do as kids. Their children even participated and the two border collies joined in. Chet knew it wouldn’t work, but he had to admit that it was the first day in weeks that the four of them had had any fun.
Chet fell asleep without any worry, a half-smile on his face.
He awoke to a tapping sound on the metal roof. Looking over by the window, he saw the silhouette of his wife, hands on her hips. Still groggy, he got up and shuffled over to her. “What are you doing up, honey?”
And then, he realized what the sound was. He hugged his wife from behind and felt the tension in his shoulders evaporate.
Flash Fiction by Wendy Platt
Mechanical sex; what is that to you? Probably not the same thing it is to me.
I’m talking about pistons and rods, carburetors and camshafts, headers and injectors.
The sleek stance of a charcoal grey 2000 740iL rev’s up my thoughts of long-distance joyrides with the cruise control on at a very cushy 85mph.
Nothing can make my heart pump like gripping the stick of 24kGo, a 2013 Focus ST in Tangerine Scream; with both feet on gas and clutch, swiftly shifting through the gears up to 120 mph, the little 4 cylinder taking on its bigger V8 brethren, the ‘Stang, always so chicken and backing down after reaching into the red at 100 mph. Radar Love!
There’s the sultry seduction of playing footsy by placing lightest touch on the gas pedal of a mountain dew colored 2014 Porsche Cayenne GTS and having it take my heart and soul smoothly, rapidly, with it upwards to 125mph, on the backroads of the Arbuckles on a gloriously cloudless sunny Sunday morning.
In my 44 years of driving, I’ve owned more than 75 vehicles – from a ’63 Falcon to the Series I Discovery, from a Chevy Laguna to a Ford Festiva. I’ve owned imports and convertibles; Sunday drivers, gas guzzlers and daily commuters. I’ve loved them all (just about) because, I’m a Gear-Head.
But my favorite? My total O-car? That would be my Pink 2013 Smart Passion 4Two.
Why? Because this vehicle brings absolute joy no matter where I go. It knows no race, age, or gender boundary. It is a Universal Lover. People every single day, anywhere I drive my Smart, tell me: “I like your car.”
Whether Young/Old, Black/White, Gay/Straight, or something in between any of those, Pinky is always loved and a lover back. It’s such an incredibly euphoric feeling when you make a total stranger smile.
And me? In case you’re curious? I’m just a woman.
So, Let’s Do It.
A Partner Should… by Emmerson Rose Quigley
A-Always adore you
B-Be there for you always
C-Carry you when you are tired
D-Decide where to eat when you don’t know
E-Enjoy all of the movies you force them to watch
F-Fidget with your hair when you want them near
G-Gently rub your back
H-Hug you when you least expect it
I-Initiate date night
J-Joke around when you are in a playful mood
K-Kiss you when you least expect it
L-Let you choose what to watch
M-Mock the people you don’t like
N-Never not be on your side
O-Occupy you when you are bored
P-Play with the kids when you are too tired
Q-Quickly give you compliments after a rough day
R-Reason your case to someone against you
S-Sit next to you when there’s barely any room
T-Turn the house upside down looking for something you lost
U-Understand all the gibberish you speak
V-Vow to always love you
W-Willingly go shopping with you
(E)X-Exemplify their love of you to all of their friends
Y-Yell the loudest for you at any event
Z-Zap your grumpiness away
Vedanth's Nature Journaling
August 2, 2021
Time: 1:45 PM
Location: Frisco, TX
Temp: 84 degrees Fahrenheit
Wind Direction: North
Sunrise: 6:42 AM
Sunset: 8:25 PM
Moon Phase: Waning Crescent
The environment is warm and gloomy. There are cumulonimbus clouds, which look like very big mountains. They cover most of the sky, so there is very little blue.
I hear flies buzzing around and birds chirping. I also hear cars passing by my street.
I can see bright grass and yellow and purple flowers, and a bunny hopping around in my backyard.
I see other houses in the neighborhood, my fence, weeds, and very tall trees.
I like the way the sky looks today. It’s cloudy and the sun is hiding behind the clouds, but you can still feel its heat. It still provides lights and heat for plans to make food.
Comic by Renatta Fernandez
My Dog Mia by Anastasia Latham
I have a dog named Mia. She is 10 years old in human years and 77 in dog years. She has brown eyes and black fur. In my opinion she is super cute! She is super calm, and she never bites or nibbles. Sometimes she yacks but I think that brings out her personality. She talks to us by barking. Sometimes she gets in trouble when she digs in the trash. My parents saved her life when they rescued her and adopted her. She is good at being a loyal dog. She loves it when we give her pats on the head and when we give her treats. And lastly, she does not like watermelon.
By Alexandra Thomas
She wasn’t sure how long she could keep her head above the water, petticoats heavy with water and legs weak from malnourishment. The ship she had come so far on sailed into the distance, leaving her to her useless struggle.
With her last breath, she screamed - at the injustices, at the sailors who’d so callously thrown her overboard, at the superstitions of bad luck and distraction which had made them do it - and the current swept her under.
The seawater stung at her throat, her lungs, lighting fires in her chest. Her vision blurred and darkened, though she couldn’t tell whether it was her distance from the surface or the lack of oxygen to blame.
Finally, slowly, the agony faded away, leaving her world mercifully blank. She slept, for days or weeks or months, she didn’t know.
When she awoke, it was to a new, stronger body, with a long, powerful tail, strong enough to carry her wherever she wished, without the need for the boats of men, and gills that didn’t burn when the water washed over them, and a voice that could topple a thousand kingdoms.
Rising to the surface, the sunlight she thought she’d never see again burning her eyes, she searched the horizon. The ship which had thrown her from its bow was long gone, but there was another, made up of different colors and different shapes, but the same types of rowdy, callous sailors cheering and drinking on the deck.
She snarled, tail lashing angrily against the waves.
Then, she smiled, warm and inviting and harmless.
She opened her mouth, sharp teeth still covered by soft pink lips, and began to sing.
The Campfire By Paul Hook
There was only one left in the box in his hand, but that was all he needed. He could hear his dad’s old saying ringing in his ears, ‘If you can’t light it with one, then walk away and call yourself a failure.’ He couldn’t remember that ever happening, but the competition and the head games played between the family members was intense. Every advantage was used to put stress on one person to see if they rose to the occasion or not. It was all good-natured fun.
Lighting fires was something that Jake knew was a rite of passage in Canada. Whether lighting a stove in the cottages to burn off the cold in the air or lighting a campfire by the lakeside, he couldn’t remember any of his friends being incapable of starting a fire. To him and them, it was what separate man from beast – the ability to control nature’s heat and light source.
Jake shook the box, picked out the slender match and said a silent prayer. With a flick of the wrist, the matchhead scraped along the side of the box and came alive with hues of red. Canting the match and shielding it from the wind with a cupped hand, he leaned in to start the fire that would begin the summer season.
“You got that thing lit yet, Jake?”
Ignoring the taunting voice of his best friend and fishing buddy, Jake concentrated on placing the flame in strategic spots to ensure a quick and even build-up of heat. Within seconds, the flames came alive as they gobbled up the newspaper. Next, they licked at the kindling and turned yellow. The fire heated up quickly and Jake saw the pine cones catch next. They were ‘nature’s firestarters,’ and with everything set just so inside the circle of rocks, it was a choreography of flames and a sequence of different elements burning to create enough heat to light the next. Knowing that it was a success, he smiled to himself. A close eye was kept on the budding fire that would morph into a living, breathing thing. Gusts of wind could still wreck his hard work and make him the butt of jokes for the entire long weekend.
“I knew you’d get it started,” said Chris. Jake felt the slap of a hand on his shoulder. “Good thing, too, because I wouldn’t have given you this beer if it flamed out.”
“Chris, when was the last time that happened?”
A cold can of beer was passed to Jake and then Chris opened his.
The can was wet in Jake’s hands and there were more in the cooler. Jake backed up and sat in his chair as the kindling caught enough that the large pieces of wood would be next. Chris sat down on a log but leaned forward to clink cans with Jake.
“Here’s to another season opener for largemouth. It’s been twelve years,” said Chris, “and I hope this one will be as good as all of the others.”
“You know it brother.”
They sipped their beers in silence, watching the flames burn yellow and red as the heat ate at the hardwood that Jake had split the week before. The pine cones were glowing red-hot at that point and the heat was enough to bath the two in it from a distance of four feet.
“Why are you smiling?” asked Chris.
“Oh. Was I smiling?” replied Jake. “I was just thinking about the good times that I associate with campfires. Fishing season, camping with the family as a kid. Great memories.”
“Yup,” said Chris, who was also thinking about fires with his now-deceased grandfather.
For the next fifteen minutes, nothing was said and the only sounds were: the crackle of the fire, the ‘pssssssssch’ of a new beer can being opened, and the calls of loons on the lake. With no boat traffic, it was the perfect lake for a fishing weekend.
Snapped out of their reverie by the sound of a coyote in the distance, Chris looked at Jake and said, “You ready to cook some fish to go with this beer?”
“You know it.”
The skillet was buttered with an almost sacred reverence and once it was hot enough, four fillets of bass were put in the pan with garlic and lemon juice, some salt and chili flakes.
The aromas that emanated from the skillet made Jake salivate. He watched Christ expertly flip the fillets by sheer force of flicking the ten-pound skillet with his hands. Years of practice had made him the fish guy. Each knew their roles at the camp and it was a harmonious duo of synchronisation.
Having spent all day canoeing in the lake and taking only ‘the big ones,’ the first fish fry of the season was a ceremony, much like the lighting of the fire.
The butter and garlic enhanced the freshness of the bass and neither Chris, nor Jake would ever think of eating store-bought fish. It had to be caught, filleted and eaten within hours.
“You nailed the frying, Chris,” said Jake as he wiped the butter from the corner of his mouth. “Where’d you get the garlic? It was super fresh and zingy.”
“Off my gran. Can you believe that, even at ninety-three, she still has a garden?”
“Thank her for me, because you know I can light a fire, but I can’t keep anything alive,” said Jake.
With dinner finished and the paper plates feeding the fire, new cans of beer were in their hands and the two friends settled in for the night. It would be hours before they let the fire go out.
As the empty cans piled up and the flames got higher, the stories of big fish came out in a game of one upmanship. It was the same every year and yet, neither got tired of it. They just watched the fire, content in their friendship and making new memories.