The Consortium

After five years on the job, the speculative nature of their work weighed on Debra. Bobby said it was a waste of time to worry over whether any of it mattered, that she just needed to concentrate on the task at hand. Little by little, the evidence would pile up, and they'd uncover the truth. The whole truth.

Debra stared at their conspiracy wall and she could not quell her doubts any longer. The tenuous connections among various suspects required a gargantuan leap of faith.

She thought back to Sunday School. There was a time she'd believed in God too.

The Party

The smell of quality cheese and the clinking of wine glasses told Mark he was at the right party. He was feeling good. That is, until they came in.

The divorce destroyed him, and there they were. At the same party. With him.

It took two years of therapy for Mark to recover, to heal, to become whole. They were supposed to be out of town. But here they were.

They walked up to him.

“Hello, Mark. Good to see you.”

She was holding Nanette. One look at the poodle and Mark knew two years of therapy was not enough.From Guest Contributor NT Franklin

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

Conversation RIP (Killer)

There was furious silence in the booth from the women, mixed with a gauged suspension of opinion from the men.

Ginny, being invested, had expressed her dissatisfaction with the quality of man available to the unwed mother.

Kurt had provided a brutally frank answer. It hung in the air above the table like a phantasm.

To me, he’d drawled, a man willing to bring up another’s child born of selfish gratification – or conversely accept someone who’d aborted – wouldn’t think much of himself. Where’s the quality in that?

I wished the now red-faced Frank had given a brutally curt answer instead.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid

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