The Hubris Of An Atheist

HUBRIS CONTEST:

Steven had few religious friends. He’d hector and accuse anyone who was a believer, demanding proof they both knew didn’t exist. He belittled their faith, claimed they were wasting their time, and insisted that all plausible evidence pointed towards the folly of religion. No matter how generous of spirit they might have been, Steven's condescending demeanor drove them off.

In some ways, Steven's faith in his own rationality was stronger (and more misguided) than the religious devotion of any of his former friends. Ironic that he now found himself at a loss for words before Saint Peter at the gate.

From Guest Contributor Sarah Levy

The Queen

HUBRIS CONTEST:

She relished her place at the center of the colony. All her needs were met. Her food was brought to her, as well for her nursing children. She had thousands of workers at her beck and call, digging, constructing, foraging. Mating took place whenever she felt the urge. Even her waste was disposed of for her.

Taken care of in this manner, was it any wonder that she could expect to live for as long as ninety years? Every day, nothing but leisure.

She thought herself fortunate, but all the other ants thought of her as nothing but a slave.

From Guest Contributor Wilson Edwards

Lucif And Mi

Lucif turns to his friend Mi. “Let’s go.”

“Nonsense, we have yet to explore.”

“With days of darkness, how can this be a safe home for our families.”

“No, we are staying.”

Lucif makes a run for the spaceship. He almost reaches the lever for the door when Mi pulls him back, knocking him to the ground. They struggle and with one sweeping kick, Mi flies in the air and lands hard on his head, yellow eye wide open. He is dead.

Lucif leans over his friend and closes his eye, then heads to the ship.

He is going home.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

The Chopping Block

The cabbage on the chopping block was a vivid royal purple. She couldn’t figure out why it was called red cabbage. It certainly looked purple, even after it was cooked. Her sheepsfoot knife was thinly slicing the quartered pieces with almost no effort. Good knives were worth every dollar spent on them, she mused.

She thought ahead: I still need to chop the onions and the Granny Smith apples. I hope I have apple cider vinegar. This dish will go perfectly with roasted pork.

She looked down and noticed blood on the board. Was that the tip of her finger?

From Guest Contributor Janice Siderius

Seeing

“Who’s that little girl over there?”

I stop buckling her three-point harness and look over my shoulder.

“I don’t know who you mean, babe,” I say. “There’s no one there.” I go back to buckling.

Her tiny, chubby index finger points straight behind me and into our backyard.

We are in a hurry, running late to the library’s story hour. It’s hot out. I exhale loudly. I turn my head again and then turn my body in a full circle to scan.

“Who do you see?” I ask.

She shrugs. She’s over it, as if this happens all the time.

From Guest Contributor Amy Bracco

A Mother’s Love

First it was only yelling. Then she sported bruises. The police carted him away. He came back. He was sorry, couldn’t believe he was capable of that. She let him back in. He escalated. A fresh set of bruises appeared. The cycle continued.

She stayed to protect the child. His safety was all that mattered. A mother’s love.

A protection order was issued, papers were served, the divorce imminent. That was the legal way to handle the situation, but not Dad’s way. He wasn’t worried about legal. He didn’t give his daughter away to be slapped around. A father’s love.

From Guest Contributor NT Franklin

Afterthought

Suddenly aware that he might at any moment glance down at her waist and thereby notice the steely tip of the long-handled knife that was peeking out of her shoulder bag, not truly obtrusive, but visible enough nonetheless, with its dark, coagulated blood and a few long strands of blond hair clinging stubbornly to the blade, she deftly angled her lithe body so that the sheriff’s green eyes bore rather unmistakably into the depths of her cleavage, swaying and full of promise, beneath the silky crimson blouse she had tossed on in the morning as a now greatly appreciated afterthought.

From Guest Contributor Jody Hart Lehrer

The Lottery Jackpot

“You know what I’d do if we ever win the Lottery Jackpot,” she says while she crumples this week’s ticket.

I’ve heard this before. She’ll start summing up wild and expensive dreams, each time leaving out some she no longer desires, but adding a few new extravaganzas.

“...south of France. An electric car, we’ve talked about this. It’s the latest fashion – we should definitely own one. Quit our jobs, obviously. And you won’t have to mow the lawn of that young widow twice a week any more.”

I sure as hell hope we never win that freaking Lottery Jackpot.

From Guest Contributor Hervé Suys

Hervé (°1968 – Ronse, Belgium) started writing short stories whilst recovering from a sports injury and hasn’t stopped since.

Dear New York

Your 9 a.m. is my six. Once again, you didn’t leave a message. I was asleep, and not dreaming of my youth. Or Bobby Short at the Carlyle, Yul Brynner as the King. The Oak Room, their scotch so expensive I almost gave it up. Since I’m awake now, I’ve begun my day. Doing the wash. Starting breakfast. Wondering what it is you want. Why not cast me aside as just another woman who headed west when the buildings fell? Here, the mountains are tall, the sea, a pebble’s throw away. I know it’s you, New York. Calling me home.

From Guest Contributor Linda Lowe

Linda's stories and poems have appeared in Outlook Springs, A Story in 100 Words, What Rough Beast, the New Verse News, Misfit Magazine, and others.

Metamorphosis

Kids are dumb. Especially when they're fourteen.

Vivian was this really fat girl in my Algebra class. Her friend passed me a note via my friend: Vivian likes you.

She waited for me in the cafeteria.

Her face was cute, but I didn't want to be seen with her.

"I don't like that fat girl," I shouted so all would hear.

Since then I can't bear to see her cry.

Yesterday, over breakfast, I asked my son to pass a birthday card to her.

She cried.

"You know, Dad, sometimes you're a real dumb guy."

I smiled. "I know, Son."

From Guest Contributor E. Barnes

E. has works published at Entropy, Spillwords, The Purple Pen, The Haven, and several works are in the anthology, "NanoNightmares."