iPad

"There,” she said as she quietly used me. Etching away with her instrument of pain, a black pen. It was supposed to be pressure sensitive but it was I who was forced to feel it. I always knew in my heart that it would stop, eventually… She would either tire of me or I would fall into the deep darkness of sleep. The only question left is which would come first? Could I manage to hold out? Or would some kind soul save me from this hell, distracting her while I drift off? This is my life, I endure, iPad.

From Guest Contributor, Erik Menches

He Dreamed Betrayal

Allen awoke from his morning dream reluctantly because he didn't want to face the disturbing reality of what it might mean.

Why had he been kissing his best friend's wife? He'd known Samantha for years, and in fact had been at the party when she first met Tim. They were perfect together. Did this dream mean that he secretly had feelings for her.

Sure, he'd been sleeping with Samantha for months, but that was just sex. It didn't mean anything. Yet what if he actually had some affection for her. That would be a betrayal of his friendship with Tim.

There Lies The Gun

There lies the gun.

After years of gathering information, months of undercover work, weeks of planning tonight's sting, and hours of waiting for the motorcade to arrive, the situation has unravelled.

There lies the gun.

The gun is the only weapon within easy reach. They both know it. As soon as one of them makes a move, they'll both lunge for it, and then one of them will be shot.

There lies the gun.

A flinch, and they are fighting. Neither was quick enough.

There lies the gun.

By now the President is most likely dead.

There lies the gun.

Beautiful George

It's hard to believe, but there was a time in the early 21st century when serious art had fallen out of fashion. Everything was pop culture and reality TV and Banksy.

Then Jurgen Mather changed everything.

To say that his painting, Beautiful George, was popular would be like calling the Pope fat. Everyone loved it, including the critics. Single-handedly, it created an artistic revival that continues today.

Of course, in order to be considered art now, a piece must include at least one monkey, but like Earnest Hemingway used to say, monkey art is better than no art at all.

The Alien

She had not seen a human before. She had read about them, of course, and heard endless stories from her father, The General. How they had saved the remaining few, bringing them back before Earth finally died.

The humans had not adapted well to their new home. Father said the trauma of what they had done marked their souls, and the majority did not survive long. Sometimes you heard reports, sightings…

He was as clumsy as the books suggested, but his eyes shocked her most. Shapeless, lonely grey eyes. Only regret was left. It was too late for anything else.

From Guest Contributor, Amy Evans

Carma

Road curling up the mountain. In the rearview a city smears towards a gunmetal ocean. Escaping its saliva slip is rebirth.

Ahead a dust truck grinds up the incline. Slapping flapping ropes fail to keep a torn tarp from exposing garbage bag cleavages, coyly winking. She lay on a tiled floor back there. The tidal slappings audible, not to her.

A stretch opens up. Open road. Serpent ropes reach out, a single newspaper sheet escapes, rises up; twisting, turning, laying itself flat, across his windshield. Centre fold, it’s her, smiling sweetly at him. The heavy saloon hurls itself into space.

From Guest Contributor, Matthew Evans

A Modern Fable

The old man who lived on the hill was named Mr. Hill. He was so stingy, he even begrudged giving affection.

At the bottom of the hill, there lived an old widow. She was named Mrs. Bottoms. She was extremely lonely because no one from the town ever visited her.

The town social worker, her name was Mrs. Church, decided it would be a good idea to get Mr. Hill to marry Mrs. Bottoms. She concocted a very complicated plan to bring them together.

Although Mr. Hill and Mrs. Bottoms did indeed marry, their union brought neither of them happiness.

The Prince Of America

The prince lives in a gated estate deep in the Hollywood Hills. The paparazzi shadow him everywhere, heralding his arrivals and departures. His office, now purely ceremonial, still holds the attention of the populace, many of whom harbor secret hope his family will one day be restored.

The prince, despite being quite eligible, has not settled on a bride. His handlers have broached the topic of a reality TV show, a graceless suggestion that has not sat well. Discretion has always been important to the prince.

Also, he likes to sleep around. The prince is a slut. A discrete slut.

There Is A Tiger Waiting For All Of Us

The rain fell lightly upon the pavement. Benfer was dry in the bus shelter, but he was trapped as well. He watched as the moisture slowly seeped closer and it wasn't very long before he'd been forced onto the bench.

Across the street, even in the dim light, Benfer could see the tiger. This was not an ordinary tiger, of course. It was the tiger that had been stalking him his entire life.

The difference between tigers and Benfer was that tigers weren't afraid of moisture. Benfer's last, sad thought was that he'd expected his story to end very differently.

Final Instructions

My toes wrap precipitous edges. Points of shale and limestone gouge my feet, painting blood trails. Struggling to stand, I traverse the narrow path. Black canyons rise below-- inviting me to swim in their depths. Immense. Cold. My hands flutter through gray smoke, displacing sacred dancers who vanish in gasping silence.Our last meal rustled as we pulled cardboard food from tattooed paper bags. You scrawled the plan across my brown napkin, freezing me.

I thrust myself into blankness, crystal ice. I discard hope, the weak’s weight. Growing lighter, I embrace your last etching, scratched upon my fading horizon. Goodbye.

Karen Burton recently received her MFA from Lindenwood University in St. Charles, Missouri. She currently serves as the managing editor of The Lindenwood Review.