Turning The Tables

The darkness was like ink, but that did not bother the mouse's keen eye sight, and smell told him where to go for the food. Its tiny heart was racing with fear because its mortal enemy was out and about as well. He’d lost several of his litter mates to that awful feline beast, but tonight things may be different.

Suddenly there was that awful snarl. Behind him its claws slashing through the air, where he’d been just seconds ago. Twisting and turning, he dodged; suddenly that awful snap of the trap! The cat cried out, the mouse scurried away.From Guest Contributor Derrick Fernie

Comparison

He stood mesmerized by the depth and variety of the spice-stall’s palette; deep reds to yellows that hurt the eyes so much he had to close them, having to be satisfied with inhaling the melange of aromas.

The taste of burger was still in his mouth from the fast food outlet around the corner. It felt cheap and nasty in such company. He felt shame.

Then he felt a piercing violation of flesh and fell forward, arms failing to move to cushion. The chain securing the briefcase was snipped. Bolt cutters, he thought as his brighter red smothered the fruit.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid

Newsletter Correction

Hi everyone. Due to an Auto Save snafu, and a lack of careful proofreading, I allowed a paragraph to sneak through in my interview with Perry McDaid that actually was an excerpt from last month's interview with Kelli Allen. Here is the portion of the interview that was incorrectly used:

I grew-up as a military brat, an only child, and have thus not quite yet figured out what “home” means. For now, I occupy space in the Midwest and spend most of the Spring and Summer months hoping to avoid tornadoes and mutant insects. Whenever possible, I travel and typically land on a beach. I have collected various degrees and have nestled nicely into an academe womb wherein I can play with words and spend time with students and colleagues who enjoy language. Dance has been a major part of my life since childhood and I still attempt to employ grace and movement in my every-day.

Please ignore this paragraph.

I'd like to apologize to both Perry and Kelli for the mistake, and thank them again for taking the time to be interviewed for the newsletter.

If you'd like to subscribe to the newsletter, click here. It updates, at most, once a month.

The Trenches

Joseph lived in the trenches. The others came and went, firing weapons at the enemy location before marching elsewhere. Joseph always stayed.

The soldiers ignored him, except to push him aside when he got in their way. On occasion, an officer noticed him and ordered that he be taken away, but then a bomb would explode and Joseph was left to his own devices.

Joseph had a reasonably comfortable spot. He mostly just lay in the soft mud. It no longer mattered if he was face down in the pool of water at their feet. Breathing was no longer necessary.

We Accommodate Everybody

"Humanoid preparation team to the front counter."

Shaun, Michelle, and Joan crossed the lobby in seconds. Standing by the "We Accommodate Everybody" sign were a family of black eyed hairless grey humanoids.

"What can we do for you?"

"We can use beds at a pinch, but we always sleep better in a web" said the largest humanoid.

Galactic Hub Hotels are proud of their service. Joan holstered a plastisilk gun and led the family away. Nobody spins more comfortable webs than Joan.

"Humanoid preparation team to the front counter."

Uh-oh, aquatisuits. This is going to be more of a challenge.

From Guest Contributor Ross Clement

Infinite Summer

God had bleached everything. The shattering sky. Erin’s face. Even our baby’s perfect hands were white.

Tiny, frozen fingers assail the windshield while Erin shivers in the passenger seat. I ease the gas pedal cautiously, hesitantly–-coaxing a reluctant lover.

Tires slip and I wonder if it would be so bad, sliding to our end in ice and pavement. Why not, with the cold body of our almost baby left at the hospital?

Erin clutches her abdomen, lingering reflex, and whispers the name I refuse to remember. The name we picked when the world was warmer and life infinite summer.

From Guest Contributor Sierra Donahue

B.H.

I swirl around the last dregs of my falsely sweetened coffee. Waiting for something that will cause my pupils to expand, or contract. Something to make me short of breath, to pant. I wait for something to make my palms sweat and tap my feet nervously.

Looking at the last of my coffee, I sigh, exhausted. No longer strong and dark, it has turned milky with too much creamer. I wonder how long something can stay like that.

This is what my life has been reduced to? I cannot remember anything B.H. (before him).

He always made the coffee.

From Guest Contributor Tess Pfeifle

Pumpkin Face

Pumpkins. Melissa hated them. She also hated Halloween.

A classmate called her Pumpkin Face. She knew why. Her face being round, like a pumpkin.

She pretended it didn’t matter but it did. Deeply. She stayed long hours in her bedroom and cried.

Then, something unusual happened. The doorbell rang on Halloween Eve. The name-caller and his parents stood at the front door. Melissa was summoned. She obliged.

The boy apologized for being mean. He handed a decorated bag of candy and wished Melissa a happy Halloween.

The young girl told her parents she could hardly wait to go out Trick-or-Treating.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. Her work has been 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.

The Incubus

When misery left, I missed it dearly. Numbness arrived in its place--an evil lurking miles below sorrow.

Then the Incubus came. His fingers soothed me, dancing like spiders across my back, before plucking me from my flesh.

Exquisite melodies escaped his mouth instead of language. I understood every word.

He held me on his fist, soaring me to gloomy, lilac clouds. My body quaked, and it began to rain.My thoughts fluttered like butterflies. He captured them; sang my own song back to me.

Sadly, he was just a dream; but the Incubus cured me, bringing back my misery.

From Guest Contributor L. Michelle Corp

Running In The Rain

The skies open up and unleash a deluge, but this does not deter him. If anything, it only pushes him harder, as he longs to move with superhuman speed and avoid every single drop of rain entirely. His body falters, his breath heavy. He thinks of himself as a cross between Steve Prefontaine and yet another umbrella-less John Cusack character. Is he running from or chasing something? Does it matter? Either way, in the end, he still has to go home and face his broken heart alone. And that is something he isn’t ready to do, so he keeps moving.

From Guest Contributor Dan Slaten