Tag: guilt

All Stories, General Fiction

Missed Connections by J.D. Strunk

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On that day, as on most days, the 8:22 was right on time. Book in hand, I boarded a nearly empty car and secured a seat facing west, so as to avoid the blistering fire of a Colorado sunrise. The city burned amber and rose as the doors dinged closed and the train lurched forward. I gazed out the window as we glided out of downtown, past campus, and under 6th Avenue. At Broadway we met I-25, which we would parallel for the remainder of the journey south.

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All Stories, General Fiction

Julia by Chloe M. Dehon

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The sun is too hot for May, and my arm is starting to burn. That’s what I’m thinking of when I’ve missed my afternoon bus. That and my sister, Julia. My name is Elijah William Scott. And I am the reason my sister is dead. There’s a shortcut you can take off of Sawmill Road to get to our house. I don’t take it anymore. I don’t need to look at the drawings, the flowers, the “We Miss You” signs. It’s all bullshit. It doesn’t mean anything. She won’t know.

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All Stories, General Fiction

A Long Time Between Yesterday and Tomorrow by J Bradley Minnick

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Mr. Overalls comes into Old Da’s room at Henrytown Home for the Elderly and Infirm at night—not each night—but often—and pisses in the radiator. This is particularly problematic in winter. She tells Nurse Bee that she hears the hiss, which, she says, makes her queasy and uneasy, and she says she worries that if she can get used to the smell, she might be able to get used to anything, and she says she fears what it is she may have already gotten used to.

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All Stories, General Fiction

Girlfriends by Donna Tracy

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Warning – References to suicide, bullying and self harm.

It is in the dead days between Christmas and New Year that Candy finally comes. The cat stands in the doorway, back arched, tail huge, hissing into the vacant space beside me and I know, even before I turn my head and see the pale shape in the tail of my eye, that it’s her. I am twenty-eight now, twice the age she will ever be. Perhaps I wanted to believe that she had forgotten.

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Short Fiction

Leaves by August Miller

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The spiced cool air blowing through the car vents comes laced with wood smoke. It is a scent that weaved its way into the fabric of childhood alongside that indoor fireplace, which had been a burning city, or a burning home, or a burning bridge, or any burning spectacle I felt should be extinguished during games of heroism in the autumn and winter months.

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All Stories, General Fiction

Hen and Chicks by Rachel Sievers 

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The pain in her chest was akin to a physical blow. It had always been this way, in life outside of family she was well-spoken and liked by many. In the circle of family suddenly she was reduced to the small child who hid when voices rose. 

I just don’t understand why you have changed so much Callie Rose,” the woman’s voice was raspy from years of chain-smoking. “It’s like you don’t even love the Lord Jesus anymore.” 

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All Stories, Crime/Mystery/Thriller, General Fiction

Follow by R B Miner

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The morning is cold and dark and quiet. The roads are nearly empty, strange for a Monday, even at this early hour. Victor Fetter watches the clouds, purple against the leaden sky, while he listens to the familiar rattle inside his mail truck. He thinks the clouds look like rain, and he is pleased. Rain means fewer people, fewer eyes, fewer conversations. He can go about his business with his head down, without fear of interruption, the way he likes.

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All Stories, Fantasy, General Fiction

 Standing in the Rain to Wash the Sins Away by Tom Sheehan

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He stood in the rain to wash his sins away thinking it would do the trick, cleanse his soul, invigorate him once more, to be what he once was. That’s our hero, Viking Arel Tor, neighborhood leader, pointer of straight or straighter paths, finder of fame, good luck, saving for you the best lady of all in your welcome arms, for now and always. Viking’s way in the world.

But where did he go wrong, our Viking?

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All Stories, General Fiction

Pearl by Morgan Krueger

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I thought it would be a relief to escape, to finally be free; free from the accusing eyes, the whispered comments, the scornful stares. And for me, it was. It was glorious freedom. I relished the human interaction that was suddenly possible. I was free to be me without being accused of being a witch or a devil’s child. But for mother it seemed to be a punishment, to be void of punishment. This puzzled me; indeed I was hard to understand my mother’s plight, why she spurned the friendly people of Austria, always polite and a willing confidant, but never inviting friendship. After a while the reason became apparent; it was the embroidered patch on her dress that still set her apart, not because others spurned her, but because mother chose to keep that scarlet token as a wall between herself and the Old World.  

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