Deadly Decisions

She was just as charismatic as he had imagined her. She was not beautiful, really, her nose was too big. But standing there in the throne room, Marcus could see why Caesar had been fascinated. Part of it was the wealth and the power. Now it was his turn to woo her; he needed her money and ships to accomplish his plan to rule Rome.

He caught her gaze and the future became real to him. They would sail the Nile and have great military successes in the East. But he couldn’t see the asp slithering along in his future.

From Guest Contributor Janice Siderius

Signs

“Look for shiny pennies, rainbows, Monarch butterflies, they’re all signs she’s trying to connect with you,” my friend Jason tried to cheer me.

“Mom hated butterflies. They made her sneeze.”

Jason shrugged. “All the more reason she’ll come back as one. Karma.”

“What do I say to her? In two weeks you’ll die and I’ll feel godawful losing you all over again?”

“You’ll know what to say,” Jason smiled.

So when my mother alighted on my nose while I sat in her garden, I pinched her buttery wings and wiped my hands on my pants. “Shouldn’t have come back, Mom.”From Guest Contributor Marc Littman

My Doctor Must Not Have Seen The Hashtag

"STATES DEPRESSION IS STABLE. NO THOUGHTS OF SELF-HARM. DOING PRETTY WELL ON [redacted]. NO SIDE EFFECTS. REALLY NOT THAT MUCH EFFICACY, HOWEVER." That's my medical chart, caps lock and all.

A hot take on treatment-resistant ("stable") MDD. Weird it's called mental health, which per Twitter, university listservs and healthcare.gov, "matters," but not really without physical evidence.

Maybe by next appointment I'll throw myself in front of the doc's Porsche so he'll believe me. But if I die, only the Eliphazs, Bildads, and Zophars retweeting "Ask for help #mentalhealthmatters" will get the glory.

So, my hands are tied. Bound until bleeding.

From Guest Contributor Connor Orrico

The Walking Dead

Thinking about escaping across closed borders, I dug a hole outside. It was hard work. I pulled out bricks, barbed wire, glass bottles and jars, and old cans as I dug deeper. When my mind drifted too far into sadness, I stopped. Everything moves slowly now. I’m learning to be very stingy with supplies. On the table is a bunch of flowers I found in the trash. This may be a day for catching up on The Walking Dead, but I stand at a window that looks out on a yard. Somehow, just standing there feels like a hopeful gesture.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie Good is the author of What It Is and How to Use It (2019) from Grey Book Press, among other poetry collections.

Three Books

Sure, many of the English majors at Wilson-Reed College had read works by George Orwell, Octavia Butler, and Margaret Atwood before, but they had never read them assembled together in one course, until they took Dr. Regina Cabello’s Survey of Protest Literature.

When word of the curriculum made its way around campus, the board of trustees wrestled to find a loophole that would strip Dr. Cabello of both her tenure and job. Eventually they were successful.

By that time, though, her many students had learned, firsthand, the lessons of it all and were already preparing themselves to join the fight.

From Guest Contributor Ran Walker

Ran is the author of 20 books. He teaches creative writing at Hampton University in Virginia. He can be reached via his website, www.ranwalker.com.

It's Time To Get Out And Enjoy Nature

Unfortunately, for many of us, we can't. Or not the way we might be used to. So that's the topic of our next 100-word story contest: Nature.

Submissions are due by May 31st. Please follow the normal submission guidelines (here) but also include Nature Contest in the subject header so I know it is for the contest. One contest submission per person (though you are free to submit as many nature-themed stories for regular posting as you want).

Remember, I’ll still be posting non-contest-related posts on a daily basis, so keep sending in your stories, on any topic!

The rules are simple:

1. All stories must somehow engage with the theme nature. Be creative.
2. The story must be exactly 100 words, not including the title.
3. Only one submission per person. All entries are due by May 31st.

Starting in June, I'll for the most part post the stories in the order I received them, but I will keep the winning story for last.

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

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

The Sickness

The sickness, that’s all we told Billy.

He couldn’t believe that Grampy fit into such a little container and we couldn’t convince him Grampy wasn’t coming home.

“But Grampy lives at home. Where will he live?”

The two were inseparable from Billy’s birth. Half-day Kindergarten was traumatic. Grampy paced all morning waiting for Billy to get home.

Once we gave Grampy a T-shirt emblazoned “Grampy: the myth, the legend, the man.” He wore nothing else unless it was pried off him to wash. He looked so peaceful in the casket wearing that T-shirt, we cremated him in it. Damn coronavirus.

From Guest Contributor NT Franklin

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

Donning A Mask

The first time I’d worn a mask other than Halloween, was during the Covid-19 crisis. I needed groceries and the supermarkets had strict rules about entering without protection.

When I exited my car, I donned my mask, latex gloves, wiped down the wagon and entered the store. The supermarket was eerily empty, and the shelves were bare of toilet paper and rice.

I approached the cashier who was behind a protective shield and slid my credit card through the slot. Once approved, I packed my bags and left.

When I got behind the wheel, I removed my mask.

Fresh air.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Wasted Time

A woman sighed and leaned over the cash register. “I wish I could travel through time and be done with this shift already,” she groaned.

Suddenly, there was a whoosh, and the woman’s short hair whipped around her face. Upon opening her eyes, she found herself sitting comfortably on her sofa at home. She grinned and turned on the television.

Days, month, and years passed at light speed. With just one wish, each mundane, terrifying or embarrassing moment blurred into the past.

The woman finally stopped when she lay sick and old on her bed, having never lived at all.

From Guest Contributor Caitlyn Palmer

Senseless Dreams

We’re speeding in Mama’s 1955 Chevrolet Bel-Air. Mama’s talking about new names we’ll concoct. Lives we’ll live.

“It’s a movie,” she says, smile crooked. “Our lives. We can be anyone. Romanovs, if we want. People of privilege.”

I think of him. Proclaiming Mama hysterical, a dreamer too much into writing and other subversive things. He threatened to have her committed. I think of Mama and me packing late at night, holding on to each other.

“It’ll be fine,” Mama says. “He can fuck himself.”

We need plans, not senseless dreams. But she needs to believe. So do I.

“Yes, Mama.”

From Guest Contributor Yash Seyedbagheri

Yash is a graduate of Colorado State University's MFA program in fiction. Yash’s work is forthcoming or has been published in WestWard Quarterly, Café Lit, 50 Word Stories, (mac)ro (mic), and Ariel Chart.