Youth

We pelt through the underbrush, giddy and squealing, following a trail too small for adult passage. Fronds of yellow broom lash our way with petals; it is early spring and the mud has only freshly set beneath our footfalls. The wooden knuckles of roots provide easy grapple holds for our pudgy hands, and we push on undaunted.

"Where are you?" he calls, breathless from behind me.

"Here! I'm up, follow my voice!" I guide him and we emerge, hand in hand, into the clearing.

Noble and patient, our grandfather's oak tree welcomes us. A bird's nest awaits as our reward.

From Guest Contributor Violetta Buono

London-based introvert Violetta Buono (@ViolettaBuono on Twitter) lives in a fantasy land of her own making. She graduated in Classical Studies, and is currently a freelance writer. Between writing poetry, flash fiction, and pretending to work on a novel, she sometimes submits her work but has yet to be published. This is her first piece appearing to the public.

A Singular Engagement

William cradled his seven billion secret.

So many sparkles, surfaces splintering sunlight.

He couldn’t name a single confidant. The gravity and the gossamer belonged to him alone.

He snapped the case shut. The light remained. Would it fit? He believed so. He hoped so.

Then again, it didn’t matter. If it fit, they’d tell a fairy book tale. If it didn’t, they’d laugh, they’d reconsider, and they’d refit, impervious to the punches.

All of which they would come to know together. In the meantime, he’d know all alone, confident yet precarious in the center of his chest.

Witnesses could wait.

From Guest Contributor Frankie Sturm

Martinet

He enters the classroom on Monday morning.

They ignore him, will not be silent as he speaks, chatting about the weekend, this and that, cocooned in subcultures he would not understand.

He cannot break in to quell their energy, bend them to his will, force the curriculum upon them, teach them ‘respect,’ nor corral them down the narrow path his life has taken.

He would beat them if he could but, thwarted by laws he would repeal, he can only shout.

“Shut up! Listen!” he bawls, getting their attention, momentarily.

“Why?” one of them simply asks.

He has no reply.From Guest Contributor Ian Fletcher

Born and raised in Cardiff, Wales, Ian has an MA in English from Oxford University. He has had poems and short stories published in The Ekphrastic Review, Tuck Magazine, 1947 A Literary Journal, Dead Snakes, Schlock! Webzine, Short-story.me, Anotherealm, Under the Bed, A Story In 100 Words, Poems and Poetry, Friday Flash Fiction, and in various anthologies.

Unlucky Fate

After six months of recovery in the hospital from my car accident, I’m finally going home.

I walk outside into the fresh air, taking deep breaths, inhaling and exhaling. I can’t stand the musty air in hospitals. My cell rings distracting me from my happy moment and I answer it.

“Hey, Charlie, I heard you’re discharged today.”

“Yeah, I’m on my way home as we speak.”

As I’m crossing the street, I walk straight into an oncoming car. People gather around me as I’m on the ground unable to move.

I guess I won’t be enjoying my own bed tonight.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

The Sea At Night

Dana wasn't allowed to walk the beach alone, even in broad daylight. Her parents never gave a reason, but she'd heard them whispering about the men who lived in the sea.

Late at night, when her family was asleep, Dana would wade out into the surf. She'd dig up sand dollars and watch the moonlight refract through the water. She had never been hindered by fear of the unknown.

When the sea men came for her, Dana did not scream. Perhaps this was what she wanted all along. She would not miss her family. She would not miss the earth.

Taking The Leap

"I can’t believe we’re doing this,” Andrea says.

I look over at my best friend, then down at the water below us. I swallow nervously before replying.

“It can’t be that bad. After all, Alex has done this at least twenty times.” I wince at how shaky my voice sounds.

“Yes, well, Alex is Alex. Remember the time he stayed underwater for two minutes because Tim offered him a frappe?”

We laugh, breaking the tension.

I take a deep breath. It’s time. “Alright, together. Breath, crouch, and jump.”

We clasp hands. I see the doubt and jump off the cliff.

From Guest Contributor Neroli Ladner

The Sprocket

A tooth broke off a sprocket of a bicycle once. It made a small chinking noise hitting the street but the rider kept riding.

The sprocket tooth said, “Too bad, I liked that bicycle, but maybe being on my own will be easier; plus, I’ll be free of the other teeth, and that awful chain.” And the tooth went about being a bicycle himself.

But being a bicycle when you’re just a sprocket tooth is harder than it looks. A storm came and swept the tooth into a storm drain; it was lost forever. That bike never ran as smoothly.

From Guest Contributor Henry Eutaw

Bad Journey

Rob drove down the back road at excessive amounts of speed. After losing his job, his fiancée, Felicia, broke off their engagement. He swerved into the next lane and an oncoming car approached.

“Watch it, nut!”

“Screw you,” Rob yelled.

Those few seconds his eyes were off the road, he came head on with a tree. His head slumped on the steering wheel, horn honking.

Several hours later he awakened handcuffed to a hospital bed with a policeman standing next to him.

“Once the doctor releases you, you’re coming to the station with me.”

Could Rob’s life get any worse?

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Final Act

Scott stared at the blank screen and pondered how to begin his obituary. Prone to bouts of depression, solitude, and introspection, Scott Beeker lived a quiet life filled with anger, passion, and, most importantly, love. Yes, that sounded nice, he thought. During the final years of his life he traveled the country in search of romance and adventure. He found both one night last May in the basement of a restaurant in downtown Los Angeles. There was so much to tell, wasn’t there? So many stories that were more interesting than he’d first thought. If only there was more time.

From Guest Contributor Dan Slaten

The West Wing

We’d barely set down our suitcases when Vic said he wanted to leave. “Let’s wait for a Howard Johnson. This place is a dump. Look, cockroaches!”

And there they were, pausing to look at us as they strolled across the bed. “Yes,” I said, “but they’re dressed to the nines.”

They were stunning, her in a lacy ball gown with puffed sleeves and a train, fashioned from the iridescent wings of flies, and him in his coat and tails and tiny top hat.

“Let’s stay,” I said. “Maybe we can learn something.”

“Don’t be stupid,” he said. “Roaches are roaches.”

From Guest Contributor Brook Bhagat

Brook’s nonfiction, poetry, and fiction have appeared or are forthcoming in dozens of publications, including Little India, Outpost, Nowhere Poetry, The Syzygy Poetry Journal, and Rat's Ass Review, and she is the co-owner and chief editor of BluePlanetJournal.com. She holds a B.A. from Vassar College and an MFA from Lindenwood University and teaches creative writing at a community college. She has completed a full-length hybrid manuscript and is writing a novel.