Love Note

Even though the sign says, “Do not swim near seals,” we’ll have fun, go on a picnic in the hills, maybe spend the whole night there, so many stars that the sky looks perforated by cosmic buckshot, or we’ll sleep in and then helicopter over traffic jams, moving, breathing, shining from rehab center to wedding cake palace, while the angel of death rolls a cigarette and the border wall sinks another quarter of an inch, and this will happen again and again and again, people turning up at all hours to complain bitterly about being written out of our story.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author most recently of Stick Figure Opera: 99 100-word Prose Poems from Cajun Mutt Press.

Prairie Phantom

Sand rolls steadily along the prairie with a wild wind. The fox finds his home between the sagebrush and through the sunflowers. He leaps airily at ease with his snout grinning. Atop the hill, he shimmies about and slides down while birds depart. Below he creeps to the cemetery and waits for night to lay a veil. A gentle chill glides along as starlight washes over weary stone. With a swift bark and a bound, he weaves among the graves. Moonlight tickles his whiskers and mist wanders in. Here the fox dances with ghosts who once called his prairie home.

From Guest Contributor Kristi Kerico

Kristi is a psychology major at Pikes Peak Community College. She is studying to become a horticultural therapist. She currently works at a bookstore and volunteers at a zoo and nature center. She began writing after enrolling in a creative writing course at PPCC. She enjoys poetry the most, considering it's brief yet complex beauty. She also loves writing with a focus on nature.

A Centuries Old Vanity

The prince stared at the parchment, as his ministers watched impatiently.

“This treaty will mean peace with the Empire and ensure that our kingdom remains independent.”

The prince hesitated as he dipped his pen in ink. He understood the ramifications. He knew that to continue fighting against the Holy Roman Empire would eventually lead to his destruction. The church could not tolerate anything they saw as a perversion.

But then he looked at the names at the bottom. King Ferdinand II and Prince Gabriel Bethlen.

He threw his pen aside. Vlad Dracula would never lie about his name. Not ever.

Getting excited about our historical fiction contest, and so I wrote this little piece, from 1620.

Confessions

Did she hear right?

The curtains are parted. It is naked black in the bedroom except for a slice of light exposing one hazel eye, the outline of his angular face. Clare knows how soft that eye-brow is to touch and how it is to be in the centre of that dark gaze.

Moving to the window, she peers outside: they will never be two names chiselled into a hill, hewn into rock. For months she wished she was that whisper of sunlight on his face. That and no more.

‘I’m married,’ Mike repeats.

‘I heard you. So am I.’

From Guest Contributor Louise Worthington

Panic At Sea

Mary attached her life vest to her body, squeezed through the screaming crowd and made her way to the lifeboats. The cold air chilled her body and numbed her feet; she could barely walk. Frozen in fear, she waited. After being placed in the lifeboat, panicked passengers tried to jump in as the deck hand began lowering them down. He took out his gun and started firing at no one in particular and shot a poor elderly man.

Mary, stunned, looked at the dark sea beneath, bodies floating by.

Titanic began to sink, and the lifeboat collapsed into the ocean.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

The end times are nigh. Let's write some stories.

With forced quarantines around the world, there's never been a better time to stay in and write. I'd like to help. That's why I'm adding a new feature to the site.

Beginning April 1st, each month I'll be opening up submissions based on a particular theme or genre. Every day, I'll post one story for the contest, saving my favorite for the last day of the month. (I've amended this part of the contest, because it didn't make sense when entries were still incoming. I will post the stories as they come in, and then announce the winner at the end) Assuming we get enough submissions, that will be 20 or so stories a month. And that's in addition to the general submission stories I'm already posting.

Basically, it means you'll get to enjoy two stories a day instead of one. Plus, some lucky writer will get to tell their readers they've won a flash fiction contest.

For month one, starting in April, the theme will be Historical Fiction.

The rules are simple:

1. All stories must be set in a time period pre-2000.
2. While it doesn't need to be obvious, there has to be some indication within the story what the time period is. This might be anachronistic costume or technology, archaic language, or anything else you can imagine. Be creative.
3. The story must be exactly 100 words, not including the title.

That's it. Start writing. I hope I get plenty of stories, so spread the word.

Could there be a better way to face the end of the world?

*Note: This contest is meant for fun. While there are no actual prizes, extreme bragging rights are involved!

Coda

He followed the familiar tune through the fog: strings, horns, that impossibly sweet voice. The gloom lifted to reveal the girl, singing her heart out under the spotlight, invisible orchestra in accompaniment. He cried tears of joy, felt love, and also something not quite love.

"You sing it to me every night in my mind. But it sounds so much clearer now. Why?"

She smiled sadly. "Can't you guess?"

*

"Is he dead?" The reporter watched the killer's body inside the execution chamber.

"Yes."

He peered closer. "What does he have to smile about? He murdered that girl right on stage!"

From Guest Contributor Clay Waters

Barking At Shadows

One minute I’m falling exhausted into bed. The next I’m getting beaten by goombahs wielding metal bats. “I’m going to die,” I think. “I’m going to lose everything.” My body trembles like it’s not under my jurisdiction anymore. I don’t want to make this sound worse than it is, but there isn’t a lot else happening, just assorted crises, each at a different point of unfolding. It’s an intricate universe. When day returns with a button or two missing, I’m spooning hot cereal into a small white dog that has been exhibiting signs of incipient dementia. Heartache is everyone’s neighbor.

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.

This Message Cannot Be Delivered

Old friends’ emails become inactive, enveloped by electronic monsters. My message cannot be delivered, electronic gatekeepers proclaim.

I can’t tell them of being alone. I can’t hear their off-color jokes about paraplegics and suicide, youth at its most delightfully stupid. Tell them of empty, sterile walls. I can’t confess I absorbed their stories of family, an electronic voyeur.

I keep trying. Messages come back.

I drive to distant homes. But staring through lit windows, I feel like a magazine, an obnoxious knickknack among order and precision. I imagine them discarding jokes, smiles replaced by starched replicas.

This message isn’t delivered.

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 work is forthcoming or has been published in WestWard Quarterly, Café Lit, 50 Word Stories, (mac)ro (mic), and Ariel Chart.

Along The River

Tawny wings tail the Arkansas and their shadows brush Russian olive. A hoo! drifts along begging recognition. Drowning the scuttle of waves, a quavering reply invites determination. Feathers ripple towards cottonwoods, nudging the fading sunlight across leaves and between branches. He allows a hoot to stray ahead asking for her to answer with a wandering whistle. The night approaches with a dimming silence that hushes happenings of the day and offers silhouettes. Moonlight shifts over a hollow as a frayed figure sails with unfurled wings. They settle below the canopy and dust bark with steadied feathers, ceasing flight for tonight.

From Guest Contributor Kristi Kerico

Kristi is a psychology major at Pikes Peak Community College. She is studying to become a horticultural therapist. She currently works at a bookstore and volunteers at a zoo and nature center. She began writing after enrolling in a creative writing course at PPCC. She enjoys poetry the most, considering it's brief yet complex beauty. She also loves writing with a focus on nature.