Girl In Nature

I read a story once about a girl in nature. A man was watching her ride her bike through a field of flowers. She was beautiful, so he stopped her. He frightened her, her fear frightened him, he panicked. He raped and killed her, strangling her in perfectly-rendered fragments, snippets of sun-burnished green, pale skin under cobalt sky, a tale of flushed mania and hazy recollections of doomed resistance. A beautiful life snuffed out in beautiful prose.

I don’t ride alone through fields. I’ll never taste the freedom that killed the girl. Another beautiful life snuffed out in beautiful prose.

From Guest Contributor Tara Campbell

Tara is a fiction editor at Barrelhouse and an MFA candidate at American University. Prior publication credits include SmokeLong Quarterly, Masters Review, Jellyfish Review, Booth, and Strange Horizons. Her novel, TreeVolution, was published in 2016, followed in 2018 by Circe's Bicycle. Her third book, a short story collection called Midnight at the Organporium, will be released by Aqueduct Press in 2019.

Especially In Alabama

The water's chilly for late August. My biology teacher says the lake retains the cold air from the night before, but I wonder why it doesn't soak in the heat of the sun during the day. Nature doesn't make sense.

Rebecca and Claire are arguing over whether bras and panties count as skinny dipping. It doesn't, no matter what Rebecca says. Claire decides I'm brave because I'm already in the water. But if the boys come they won't be able to see anything.

I've decided I don't care if they do. I wonder if that makes me a bad person.

Wear Me Down

The shavings scattered as he coughed, revealing how little actual progress had been made in the last thirty minutes. The brace still protruded from the floor enough to be noticed.

His wife's admonishments occupied him as he filed. It was always her way, whenever she made a mistake, to look for any way to shift the blame elsewhere. Better still if she could pin him as the culprit. So when she'd tripped on the uneven joining between the foyer and kitchen, she yelled at him. Who cares the house had come that way.

He'd given up fighting back decades ago.

The Bodies Are Piling Up

She killed another overnight. Now what, she thought, as she headed to the woods with the dead body. She had to be careful not to draw carrion eaters near her house, that would lead to other problems.

How many did this make, four, five, six? She lost count. Meaningless lives, they disgusted her. No one would miss them. Any of them. How many more would she have to kill before she could sleep soundly? She stopped and thought. Five dead, she was sure now, then proceeded to open the mouse trap and let the lifeless body fall to the ground.

From Guest Contributor NT Franklin

Tony

Tony sat on his Camaro at the corner of 14th and Lexington every weekend night, hollering at girls across the street. Some would ignore him but others flirted back. Occasionally, they'd drink Miller Lites in the backseat and heckle people coming out of the Vietnamese store.

After a few weeks, the girls started asking why he always picked the same corner. "Let's visit the City," suggested Jessica Rizzo. When Tony refused, she left for the bar with her girlfriends.

In reality, the Camaro had crapped out the day after he bought it and Tony didn't have the cash for repairs.

Dynasty

Scott surveyed the pieces, trying to keep track of the colors in his head. To his left, Evelyn sighed.

"It's no fun watching you stare at the board."

Scott didn't respond. Everyone was mad enough. They hated losing, and he'd won every game since arriving. Protesting it was all luck only increased their frustration.

He picked up the knight-looking character and moved it into the green circle. "How's that?"

"You win again. You don't have to be a jerk about it."

Scott smiled, embarrassed. He decided it was a bad idea to admit he still didn't fully understand the rules.

Never Forgotten

The eerie sound of rumbling and cries coming from the street as the day turns clouded with dust and debris.

Sirens blaring, chaos ensuing. A day of sadness and a city coming together in the face of tragedy.

The memory of falling angels and blackness in lower Manhattan as firefighters run to help the innocent.

Seventeen years later, the depth of emotion still consumes our souls.

Names read every year on the day, by a weeping family member.

Sleepless nights and sorrow for family still waiting to hear if their loved one’s remains are found, never forgetting September 11th, 2001.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

The Grave

When the old man stopped and wiped his brow, the echo of his shovel continued for a beat. The grave wasn’t deep enough yet, but it was getting light. Every year for the past ten years, he was at the same beach, digging a grave. The digging took longer each year, but he never missed the day. Every year he buried a part of her. It became easier each year; piece by piece, he was healing. The ocean took the love of his life and each year he buried a piece of her favorite jewelry he knows she would want.

From Guest Contributor NT Franklin

Adventure Of A Lifetime

The black clouds rolled in at a frightening pace, so close now that the lightening and thunder arrived simultaneously. His boat pitched up and down with such force, the hull strained at the seams and might break apart at any moment.

Gordon used the anchor line to lash himself to the railing. Sailing around the world had been his lifelong dream. He expected to spend his retirement visiting exotic ports and using the solitude to work on his memoir. But here he was fighting for survival in open ocean.

His remarkable life deserved something more than such a futile end.

How We All Found Out

Marlee couldn't sleep, what with all that worry over her mother moving into the senior home down in Florida. So she sat on her Maine back porch, sipping hot cider in the wee October hours, watching falling stars while Bill slept. She stopped thinking about her mother when she realized that way more stars were falling tonight than other worried nights. And then she noticed many of those falling stars changing direction, hovering over the woods, and slowly descending. Then she yelled for Bill and grabbed her fancy new camera phone. The next day, of course, we all found out.

From Guest Contributor John Sheirer

John lives in Northampton, Massachusetts, with his wonderful wife Betsy and happy dog Libby. He has taught writing and communications for 26 years at Asnuntuck Community College in Enfield, Connecticut, where he also serves as editor and faculty advisor for Freshwater Literary Journal (submissions welcome). He writes a monthly column on current events for his hometown newspaper, the Daily Hampshire Gazette, and his books include memoir, fiction, poetry, essays, political satire, and photography. Find him at JohnSheirer.com.