Strange Happenings In Northern Pucklechurch

John Nithercott exited his front door to find a clutter of mushrooms in his front lawn. Nor were these ordinary mushrooms. Fantastically colored in psychedelic neon, the shortest one stood over three feet tall.

John diligently choose not to pay any mind to the unwanted visitors as he plodded by. He prided himself on his stolid demeanor in even the worst circumstances, and he refused to give his neighbor the satisfaction of seeing him disturbed.

Mr. Periwinkle was undoubtedly watching, wondering if his latest deceit would finally force John from the neighborhood. One more example of why John hated fairies.

The Chariot

Pale reaching hands slipped below powdered ash and blood-soaked mud, pressing tighter to the earth, seeking salvation in the grave-like ditch. War thundered overhead as gunpowder sparked and chorused above. The soldier turned his silver eyes over the mud—to the cemetery of barbed wire and bruised corpses.

A high-pitched scream wailed distantly from two warring steeds tethered together. He watched the blood-stained Roan shriek and kick as it fell into the sea of barbed wire; the moon-kissed Arabian jolted from the tearing spikes, her gas mask hanging from bloodied leather, not knowing whether to die quietly or while struggling.

From Guest Contributor Mikayla E. Gruber

Mikayla is currently writing a fantasy/sci-fi novel and studying English and German at Pikes Peak Comunity College. She is also working towards a CPDT-KA Certification.

I Should’ve Known Better

The sweat is dripping down my neck. I chug water to quench my thirst,but it doesn’t alleviate my heated body. Why did I promise my wife I’dplant the basil seeds today? Why? Because I’m an idiot and she knows it.If I have a heart attack, all she’ll care about is the garden.

I finally finish up and brush myself off. I can’t wait to feel the coolshower on my body.

“Did you finish up outside?”

“Yes, Dear, the planting is done.”

Now I know better than to have an affair with another woman in ourhouse.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Last Sunset Before Flagstaff

Sydnacious Crumb’s “Pick Me a Squirrel,” Grunge’s last anthem, fought through the mountains for spotty FM reception. Too dark now for sunglasses, he rested his eyes on the long stretch of desert between painted rocks and casino frybread. Squinting occasionally, he thought of how this band, or any artist, could create something that was so much better than anything that came before or after. Just as Crumb caught a clear wave and the chorus echoed, “squirrel, squirrel, squirrel,” he saw in the rearview a beam of light. Not quite purple or red, no, it was pink. And then he understood.

From Guest Contributor Adam Axler

Adam is a former New York City paramedic, physician assistant, and is the current owner of online bookstore Collectible Science Fiction.

Preventing Regret

The road was empty at two in the morning and felt like a different world.

“We should…go to the strip club...” Jim said slurring his words.

“I don't know,” I replied. “His wife would kill him. He’d probably screw up.”

“It’s coming up…Just…take us.”

“I’m not so certain.”

“Drop me off and I’ll…I’ll Uber home.”

He hit my arm and pointed. I fiddled through every pre-set radio station.

“Looks like we missed it,” I said.

Two days later we were golfing.

“Thanks for not leaving me there the other night.”

“I didn’t think you remembered that.”

From Guest Contributor Steve Colori

In Which We Get Multiple Points Of View

"I was provoked!"

Dennis plead his case with the self-assurance of someone who refused to consider another point of view. Amy pitied him.

"It doesn't matter what he said to you. You can't just punch someone."

Amy's pacifism, for all its naiveté, no longer had even a slight element of cuteness. Dennis knew firsthand how ugly the world could actually be.

The couple continued their argument, their voices drifting across the park. Emily shook her head. It was obvious they were terrible for each other.

Dixon watched the lonely woman, her contempt written plain. "Judge not lest ye be judged."

Possibly Stephen

The writer stared at the page, expecting inspiration to spring at him from the fibres of the old-style reporters’ notebook.

Words trickled...gushed...cascaded. He ripped the page out, rolled it into a tight ball and chucked. It bounced off the bin, thran as the incorporeal muse.

“What was wrong with that?” she asked, form flickering in the draught.

“It was in Latin,” he spat.

She giggled a bit. “Sorry, my mind wandered. I know, how about–?”

“Look, could you put on something less filmy. It’s distracting. Tired, not dead.”

“Tweeds okay?”

He nodded, and wrote Misery.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid

Endless Love

He holds her close to him, the same way he has for over 70 years. She fights him and pulls away, she doesn’t know him. He doesn’t know not being with her. They were born the same day and grew up two houses apart, married once it was legal. He would visit her every day before it became too difficult. Then he moved into a room in the same care facility to be close to her. He still visits every day. He still eats meals with her. She still has no idea who he is. His is an endless love.

From Guest Contributor NT Franklin

NT has been published in Page and Spine, Fiction on the Web, 101 Words, Madswirl, Postcard Shorts, 404 Words, Scarlet Leaf Review, Freedom Fiction, Burrst, Entropy, Alsina Publishing, Fifty-word stories, among others.

A Beautiful Day For A Stroll

I strolled down the street enjoying the spring air. Birds chirped, andsquirrels crossed my path. What a beautiful day for a walk.

“Hey, Bree,” a voice yelled from across the street.

It was Myra. A nice person, but too verbose.

“Guess what, I got a job at Smith & Smith. I start next Monday. Isn’tthat great! I can’t wait until I tell my boyfriend Hank. He’ll be soexcited. Do you want to get coffee? I could really use a cup.”

“Got to go, Myra. Good luck.”

“Are you sure you don’t want…”

My stroll became a jog.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Garage Sale Books And Modern Lovers

Barbara poked around the stack of discarded books, hoping this would be their last sale for the day. What joy Joseph derived from driving across the city scouring garages for bargain antiques eluded her. She'd tolerated the pastime for three months now, but a quaint second date now had the hallmarks of a compulsive hobby.

Maybe she would end it with Joseph tonight after dinner.

Barbara picked up a battered copy of The Farewell Waltz, one of the only Kundera novels she had not yet read.

"How much?"

Two dollars seemed like a price well paid for such appropriate symbolism.