Crazy?

Every second changes everything. Even in a padded room with nothing but white walls, a locked door, and himself, he knew this as truth.

All that seemed mundane and inconsequential to others was of the most dire significance to him. How many times he blinked per minute. How many seconds it took the orderly to unlock the door for dinner. When he felt his bladder swell -- it all worked towards the preservation of reality.

He sat in the corner, eyes wide. If his left foot moved, the Earth explodes. If the right, then all was well.

His left toe twitched.

From Guest Contributor Patrick Winters

Exiled

The road is not straight. It swines and curves. Like a path of destruction. No journey here I called. I couldn’t see ahead. Deviation, pain, loss, pricked at me. They said no left turn, back up, 6 months, maybe less. Who decides, hurray, take a right? No, down that alley, over there. A light, but you can’t escape. It creeps in deceptive, unimaginable, taking everything. There is no humility. It feeds off itself until the end. Then a rapture egresses, no more pain, no more exile from the human race. So many, yet one name. So common - cancer awaits.

From Guest Contributor Dana Sterner

The Birthday Party

Once the lawn chairs have been folded and stacked inside the shed, the plastic wrap stretched across rows of cheese glistening with sweat to be stuffed into the fridge and forgotten, the shrieking of grandchildren and boozy chatter of distant relations swept out the front door and down the driveway, and the candles—slabs of wax carved into a 7 and 5 and crusted with cake—tossed into the sink to be dealt with later, the man lifts legs snaked with purple veins onto the recliner and makes his annual wish: that he won’t be here this time next year.

From Guest Contributor Doug Koziol

Doug is the Fiction Editor for Redivider, a journal of new literature and art. His work has appeared in CounterPunch, Driftwood Press, and theEEEL.

On Behalf Of A Boy

Dear Mr. Pankhurst:

As you know, my adopted son John Wesley is only the second American to have netted a clownfish with a single-flue toggle iron harpoon. As a result he has been offered a scholarship to the New Bedford Academy of Utter Disregard for Marine Life (formerly the Herman Melville Institute for Misplaced Revenge). To compliment his coursework, I'd like to inquire about an internship at the Pankhurst Center for the Study of Severe Saltwater Psychosis and Alarming Aquatic Aberrations. I believe you'll find John to be handsome, alert, and fond of ribbons.

Awaiting your response.

Elliot C. Balderdash

From Guest Contributor Amiel Rossin

Best In Show

Charlie’s Shih-Tzu Bucky ran across the lawn fetching his favorite blue ball. He chewed and pawed at it for a few minutes and then brought it back to Charlie to throw again. Charlie threw it farther this time and Bucky ran faster as the ball rolled across the grass almost hitting the maple tree. Again, Bucky played with it and brought it back to Charlie. This time Charlie didn’t throw the ball. He placed it on the ground to see what Bucky would do. Bucky looked up at Charlie, looked at the ball laying on the ground and walked away.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Cicadas

Gary’s gasping two-hand tap against the wall earned second place in the breaststroke. Pete had less time to breathe.

First in the butterfly - their final high school triumph shared.

Later, they met in the shower. Whispers were overpowered by streaming water.

Gary’s kiss goodbye burned as a beloved's should.

“You’re sure? My heart...so damn broken.” A lump choked his every word.

“Me, too.” Gary held him. “But we’ll be one thousand miles apart.”

Later, Pete laid in the tall grass behind the aquatic center. Silver-voiced male cicadas polished their mating song in desperation, chanting for a miracle.

From Guest Contributor Embe Charpentier

The Wait

Delays. Train late.

My thoughts wander between reality and what ifs. Our last conversation remembered. Your smiling eyes as well.

Did you pack my favorite chocolates?

Scared to visit the ladies’ room in case we miss each other. Two lovers lock in an embrace beside me. A woman narrowly misses my toes pulling luggage. I rise. Look around. Someone takes my seat. I feel a tug at my side.

“Have you been waiting long?” a voice booms above all.

“Do you have money to pay for parking?" I ask. "My wallet was stolen.”

You tell me you forgot the chocolates.

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.

Ah, Love

"I need a man that can put a ring on my finger."

"I'll get you one as soon as possible, baby!"

"I deserve someone better."

"I can be better. I swear I can!"

"I need someone that will always be there for me."

"And I can do that! I'll be here, there, anywhere! Just name it!"

"I want a guy that will actually listen to me."

"I'm listening, sweetie. My ears are all yours."

"Somebody that loves me."

"I do!"

"I need a man that is guaranteed to please me in bed."

" . . . I don't think this is going to work."

From Guest Contributor Patrick Winters

Only Flying

It was not until it hit the blade of the worst rock, riddled with femurs and water skulls, that the river split open and found the leverage to jump out of its bed. It left comfortable moss, minnows’ gossip, and the sound of its own body rubbing past stones, on or around. It surrendered, leapt without choosing, a reflection in air of the path it had known before—the meadow, the factory, the wooden swing. The cottonwoods, black and white. It had become the ocean it had always wanted to meet, silent now, still on the same path. Only flying.

From Guest Contributor Brook Bhagat

Brook holds a BA from Vassar College and an MFA in Writing from Lindenwood University. She teaches college writing and is the co-owner and chief editor of BluePlanetJournal.com. Her nonfiction, poetry, and flash fiction have appeared in Creations Magazine, Little India, Outpost, Nowhere Poetry, and The Syzygy Poetry Journal.

Small Mercies

Her father had come out a year before he died. Her parents had been divorced more than a decade by then and the news probably shouldn't have comes as such a shock. At the eulogy, she lamented not handling his announcement with more compassion. She would never be able to understand what it had been like for him, growing up in small town Indiana.

She left the election viewing party early. She needed to cry alone. It was the first time she was glad Dad had died. He was spared having to see the wheels of progress start rolling backwards.