Unsolved

Jon Gilbert took his tools from the back of the company van, walked to Jocelyn Pierce’s front door, and started to ring the bell when he noticed that the door was ajar. He was perplexed, having been warned by his boss that Mrs. Pierce, who was robbed a few months before, was obsessed with home security. Not wanting to enter the Pierce house uninvited, Jon shouted “Arno Landscaping.” When there was no response, he stepped into Mrs. Pierce’s foyer. There he found her lifeless body, supine, unmoving eyes staring, not seeing, a faceless doll nailed to the ceiling above her.

From Guest Contributor Dave Harper

Dave, a recovering software developer, now finds himself addicted to writing fiction.

Happier Times

Lindsey searched the attic for old family photos. Her dad had just passed away from Alzheimer’s and she wanted to make a collage for the funeral. Through dust and cobwebs she came across the box. She found the photo of her and her dad when she was five-years-old. The Ferris wheel was scary to her young eyes.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be with you to hold your hand.” She heard her dad’s voice.

She pressed the picture close to her chest. Then she placed the picture in the pile of memories she’d cherish from happier times before his disease took him.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Mutant Frogs

“The grandkids found albino frogs again,” he said.

“We can see them much better on the grass when they're white,” they told him.

But they had found two more the week before, and he worried that the pesticides he had used had drifted into the pond and caused mutations. His wife wasn't listening; she was trying to figure out why there were two small dents in the flour in the canister just like last week.

The children herded the frogs to the edge of the pond. Where each splashed into the pond, a small, white circle floated on the water.

From Guest Contributor Diane de Anda

Attrition

I’m meeting with Robert Todd, our best employee. He arrives early, stays late, seldom takes sick days, and works well with staff.

“Bob, come in,” I say when I spot him waiting by my office door.

“As you know the powers that be cut our budget and we have to let some employees go. Since you do the work of at least four of our other employees, I have no choice: get rid of four employees or you.”

“You don’t want to see four families lose their major primary breadwinners, do you?”

Bob didn’t respond.

“Robert, you’re fired,” I say.From Guest Contributor Dave Harper

Dave, a recovering software developer, now finds himself addicted to writing fiction.

A Killer

I should have sensed him as I entered the room, guessed that he was crouched in the corner silently watching me. As I reached for a bowl he dashed out from his hiding place. I shrieked as I brought the bowl down repeatedly onto his body. I didn’t stop until his insides spilled out beyond the edges of his cool smooth skin. His head was pressed over the edge of the sink in an unnatural position, as if dreaming of escape from a deranged woman wielding a bowl. I'm a killer; this unfortunate salamander’s life taken in five horrible blows.

From Guest Contributor Natashia Smith

Natashia writes poetry and flash fiction. She has been published at: 50-Word Stories, Friday Flash Fiction and Postcard Shorts.

Double Down

Dave peered from his bunker across the smoldering horizon. He refused to cry.

That charred skeleton of masonry and rebar had once been home. People he knew had died in those streets, now nothing more than corpses and ruin.

After the initial wave of destruction came the pestilence and blight. The rotting skin and miracle pleas suggested a biblical retribution was at hand. The metaphor was on everyone's lips, but Dave clamored against it. He blamed the whining snowflakes who refused to accept they had lost.

Dave remained certain. This outcome was still better than if she had been elected.

Tableau

The protracted screaming was unnerving. I thought a rat had been caught by one of the local dogs allowed loose around the estate. It was Creggan in the nineties, where all sorts of mixed breeds roamed freely.

I pushed aside the lace curtain and gaped.

Pinning a dunnock to the ground with its talons, a sparrowhawk majestically scanned for potential interruption, its ribbed breast an exotic cuirass.

I caught its eye, heart strained in macabre tug-of-war between awe and horror at the continuing shrieks.

The raptor blinked like its distant ancestor, stooped, and ripped the voice from the little hedge-sparrow.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid

Nothing To Spare

Yours? Mine? Arguments. Ideologies differ. Attempt to build bridge between us. Links missing. Structure collapses. Earth? Water? No collaboration. Excuses made. Stubbornness. Misunderstandings. Light? Dark? We try meeting at middle ground. Concluding we can't agree. Not in thought, time or space. Coffee's gone cold. I mind. He doesn't. Ketchup smeared on fridge door. I wipe off. Mustard appears. Grass is greener over there, he says. I don't care. I prefer wildflowers. He repaints the scene with concrete. I'm younger, by two years exact. Can hardly wait for... Brother leaves for college. Forgets his toothbrush. I throw it into his room.From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. Published at: Nailpolish Stories, 50-Word Stories, 100 word story, 101 Words, Boston Literary Magazine, From the Depths (Haunted Waters Press), ShortbreadStories, SixWordMemoirs, and Espresso Stories.

One Last Sunrise

Carl awoke to the escalating chorus of songbirds echoing through the dense northeastern forest. He arose and went through his morning ritual in silence. Dress and redon boots. Rehydrate and consume breakfast, coffee. Breakdown camp. Load his backpack.

These same activities he had performed for countless summers, now at a slower more deliberate pace.

The sealed cardboard box was left out of his pack today. He would carry it the last few miles in his hands.

Arriving at their unnamed peak, he savored the sunrise view east. Opening the box, he sprinkled her remains. Finally, at peace. Finally, at home.

From Guest Contributor Todd Raubenolt

Unrequited

Soft and warm, her diamond-drill eyes cut through troubles to allow her molten laughter to fill his heart.

She moved like a leopard and, when her thighs brushed innocently, nerve endings tingled with an indescribable charge.

Wanting her more than breath, his eyes often sought the smooth valley beneath her throat, desire locking his tongue until...too late, leaving him to pounce at the desiccated dust eddies in her wake.

Fleeting shards of opportunity teased like mirages, requiring more energy and know-how than his aging, wounded, soul possessed.

She’d offered him a photo once. He’d declined. 2D simply wasn’t enough.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid