Bottles Of Love

Nick is aroused by the clinking of bottles in the fridge. Mother’s having another drink.

That old clink, so familiar. It’s a constant sound since Dad took off, piercing Nick’s twelve-year old ears.

Cue Mother’s laughter, cackling. Cracked.

He can’t tell Mother what it means to see tenderness replaced by laughter. Rage. Bills go unpaid, furniture disappears. But night after night, bottles take over. Wine, vodka. Beer.

One night, Nick sneaks downstairs, removes each bottle with methodical coldness. Hurls each one at the floor.

He shatters again and again, surveys the ruins.

Tomorrow, more will appear. He’ll do it again.

From Guest Contributor Yash Seyedbagheri

Yash is a graduate of Colorado State University's MFA program in fiction. His story, "Soon," was nominated for a Pushcart. Yash’s stories are forthcoming or have been published in Café Lit, Mad Swirl, 50 Word Stories, and Ariel Chart, among others.

The Toxins in All My Pores

My name was Dr. Jillian Fisk. My specialty was genetically engineered marine invertebrates.

When Dr. Gardner stole my research grant, I was reduced to testing myself as a subject. I couldn’t know the altered hemocytes -- the experimental "jelly cells" -- would multiply everywhere within me.

I find Dr. Gardner and embrace him, smoothly, wordlessly, wetly. His face scalds in my translucent hands. The toxins in all my pores scorch his skin there. My gelatinous tongue fills his throat, ruptures his stomach.

I rise, bioluminescent. DR.JELLYFISH.

All the world will know the scent of salt, the sting of soft skin.

From Guest Contributor Eric Robert Nolan

Dangerous Waters

After smoking cigarettes with a few other men in the lounge, I walk onto the deck for some ocean air, and watch the water splash against the Lusitania. I rest my arms against the railing and look out at the great ocean. After taking a deep breath, I notice a ship in the near distance. Other passengers are pointing, and no one seems panicked, but I know. Below I hear a rumble and see something approaching at great speed. A torpedo.

I jump, and when I hit the water, a mental image of my family without me, aches my heart.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Parasitic Sea

A stillness descends on the empty beach. The children are asleep in cottages. How many of you stepped on shells and hurt yourselves? How many of you were stung by jellyfish?

A small light shines far away over the dark sea. It rushes faster than the waves, dashes across the beach, and dives deep into the scratched feet of the dreaming children. And it divides, multiplies, and devours.

The next morning, the children wake and run toward the sea. They leap into the waves and swim away.

It’s time to go home. Are your parents going to miss you, kids?

From Guest Contributor Natsumi Tanaka

Translated from Japanese by Toshiya Kamei

Natsumi Tanaka is a writer living in Kyoto, Japan. Her short stories have appeared in journals such as Anima Solaris, Kotori no kyuden, and Tanpen. She is the author of the short story collection Yumemiru ningyo no okoku (2017). Translations of her short fiction have appeared in Fanzine, Star 82 Review, and The William & Mary Review, among others.

Heart On Ice

I was driving like I always do, as if I were transporting a heart packed in ice for a patient in imminent danger of dying, when outside Springfield, Mass., a bird that was also in an exceptional hurry crashed into my windshield with the boom of a gunshot, startling me about as bad as I’ve ever been startled, but the strangest part was that there were no cracks in the glass, no blood splatter, no feathers caught in the wipers, nothing to see, just the greasy crayon colors of dusk smeared all around and the cold stretch of road ahead.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author most recently of Stick Figure Opera: 99 100-word Prose Poems from Cajun Mutt Press. He co-edits the online journals Unbroken and UnLost.

Taking Chances

I held the charred remains of something dear to me. Last glowing sparks from the fire catapulted towards the night sky, disappearing upon impact.

“Have more wine,” my friends encouraged. “You’ll sleep easier.”

I took the bottle, poured a glassful. Considered my next move with every sip. What if this happens again? Can I take more defeat?

We sat at the scene of the blaze. The nearby forest receded into a thickening mist. I removed that which once was from my clasp and attached another to the end of my skewer.

Toasting marshmallows over a campfire need not be complicated.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna is a writer of poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. She resides in Edmonton, Canada with her husband and stuffed animals and many friends.

Embers

He thinks he sees her again and he’s mesmerized by her perfection.

He watches her and remembers his perfect past; remembers what it was like for him all those many years ago when, returning home, he'd find the perfect woman there, smiling, standing beside the fireplace, close to the fire, waiting. He can’t always recall her name, but he remembers the fire and her smile; the perfectly soft glow, the welcoming warmth.

These are the benedictions of age, he thinks. Even when the fire burns low, there is memory and imagination; even in an empty room I am never alone.

From Guest Contributor Ron. Lavalette

Find Ron. Lavalette’s work at: EGGS OVER TOKYO

A Ravenous Canvas

Walking forever through corridors of art, that's the fate I sought. If I were doomed to resurrect, as everyone was, why not wander eternally around beauty?

But when I tried to reach The Metropolitan Museum, the apocalypse stopped me. Manhattan's zombies swarmed my car, buried it in dead flesh. I'm trapped.

Now they're a ravenous canvas, pressed against my windshield. Their faces are yellow papyrus; their spoiling blood and bile are rancid inks and pigments, their viscera are rotting oils. This is their dead aesthetic; their moans exhort me to join it.

I'll starve.

I'll rise.

I'll create art too.

From Guest Contributor Eric Robert Nolan

Dinner Time

Sam sat, crossed his hands over his chest, and sighed.

“Baked chicken, boiled potatoes, and string beans. Really, Mom?”

“You know the doctor wants you to eat healthy,” she answered, filling his dish.

Sam swallowed a piece of chicken and it was like a rock had hit his stomach. He missed the crispy taste of fried, juicy white meat.

“String bean pie for dessert,” he chuckled and noticed a hair on his dish.

Sam removed his hat and a clump of his hair fell on the table.

“Does this mean the radiation is working?”

His mother gasped at the sight.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

On The Train

Poof went my idea for a poem, off it charged into the common air. It could be anywhere on this train now, traveling up the coast. Maybe people are talking about it in the dining car, maybe the conductor’s thinking about it as he takes their order for dinner. It could be in the heart of the young marine from Camp Pendleton, a lieutenant, stationed there for three years. He’s on his way to San Francisco to see his girlfriend. He has something important to tell her, something that just came to him, while the sun set over the Pacific.

From Guest Contributor Linda Lowe

Linda's stories and poems have appeared in Outlook Springs, Crack the Spine, New Verse News, Star 82 Review, Indolent Books, A Story in 100 Words, and others.