Plans For Departure

This feels like the worst place one could possibly be – insurrectionists on the front steps, an unkindness of ravens in the yard, a side door that requires a sign explaining how to open it. I’m leaving for. . . I don’t know where. Maybe somewhere bombs would only ever kill the bomb makers. You can come if you wish. I can’t promise there’ll be roads and buildings made of spider silk or that lakes will gently bubble to the dreams of sleeping fish, but light will reach us even a million years after the source of light has gone out.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie's latest poetry collection, Gunmetal Sky, is due in February from Thirty West Publishing,

Status Update

Tina hated the outdoors. But there she was, Saturday morning­—hiking with mom.

“You’re on the phone too much. You need to experience the outdoors,” her mother said.

Just then, Tina’s friend texted: Don’t forget to update your status, nature girl. LOL.

Pouting, Tina logged onto Twitter and tweeted: ‘Urban girl meets nature.’

Instantly, 5 likes. Tina smiled.

“Mom, where’s the bathroom?”

“Privy is over there.”

Inside, Tina looked around, tweeting: ‘First time in a Porta Potty.’ 7 likes. She smiled again.

‘So nasty, so gross—'

Plop.

Tina paused momentarily. Then carefully navigated her finger into the fetid blue liquid.

Tweet.

From Guest Contributor Jennifer Lai

Finding Deepstaria

I found her in the rust climbing over shower tiles, red-brown on sea-green. She began as spots, then shapes—a rabbit? A snail? A man, then a woman. She was a mermaid with me for five years, singing pirate songs of lost souls in fishbowls and other Pink things; then she grew out of her skin, became an unnamed creature, alive without lines, her hair like fire. Now only one wisp of her tail holds on to the faucet, for me. She floats free in the glossy turquoise beyond, laughing above the rusty piles of what she used to be.

From Guest Contributor Brook Bhagat

Brook Bhagat’s poetry, fiction, non-fiction, and humor have appeared in Monkeybicycle, Empty Mirror Magazine, Harbinger Asylum, Little India, Rat’s Ass Review, Anthem: A Tribute to Leonard Cohen, and other journals and anthologies. She and her husband Gaurav created Blue Planet Journal, which she edits and writes for. She holds an MFA from Lindenwood University, is an assistant professor of English at a community college, and is writing a novel. Her poetry collection, Only Flying, is due out Nov. 16, 2021 from Unsolicited Press. See more at brook-bhagat.com.

Do It Well

Do it well, honey. My lover’s voice echoed inside me as I stabbed my wife repeatedly. Fear flashed in her doe-like eyes. She fell to the wet forest floor and crawled away. I grabbed her ankle and pulled. On my umpteenth attempt, my knife struck through her neck, severing her jugular vein. Blood splattered. The light faded out of her eyes. I rolled her up in a plastic sheet and buried her. Later, I stumbled into my home, choking on her perfume. There she stood in front of me. “What?” I gasped. She brandished a knife. Sharper than my own.From Guest Contributor Fusako Ohki

Translated by Toshiya Kamei

Fusako Ohki is a Japanese writer from Tokyo. She obtained her master’s degree in Japanese literature from Hosei University. Her debut collection of short fiction is forthcoming in 2021.

Inspiration

Beads of sweat dripped down my face as I hurried into the door of the Royal Museum of Fine Arts. People gathered at one painting, “The Virgin and Child Surrounded by Angels,” by Jean Fouquet.

I pushed my way through the crowd until I reached the exquisite masterpiece. The Virgin’s voluptuous breast was exposed for her hungry child that sat naked on her lap, her hand gently around his waist. Dozens of angels surrounded them while her crown glowed, and she sat high in her throne.

I stood awestruck.

That was all the inspiration I needed to begin painting again.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

The Three Of Clubs

One night our guy grabs the deck of us and off we go to school. “Pick a card,” he says, walking around the classroom. Yes, we’re old, with some bent corners and a few stains, our winning days behind us. But to be held up and fanned out? Like we were some old chorus line, called up for one last show. I go right after my buddy, the Four of Clubs, to someone who sticks me in a book called Misery. And how! I was never one for the solitary life. All I wanted to do was play my part.

From Guest Contributor Linda Lowe

Linda's stories have appeared in Misfit Magazine, Star 82 Review, Bombfire Lit, and others.

The Hawk

A red-tailed hawk screeched as it circled above. Grandfather pointed and said, “That is your spirit animal, my little one. You are a chosen one. It carries a message for you.”

“What do I do, Grandfather?”

“Clear your mind.”

“How will I know?”

“When your mind is clear, the message will come.”

“I’m trying to hear, but there is no message.”

“Stop trying, clear your mind.”

An eerie stillness settled in. “What will happen when they dig the new mine, Grandfather?”

The old man looked at the hawk circling and said nothing.

“We must stop them.”

The old man smiled.

From Guest Contributor NT Franklin

NT 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.

'Tis My Life

A knock at the door jolts me off the sofa. I peek through the blinds then rush to the bedroom to throw on my favorite dress, hoping he’ll wait.

“I’m coming!”

I brush my hair and give myself a once-over in front of the mirror as I don my mask, careful to not snag my earrings. My phone dings. A text from him.

I dash to the door, but it’s too late. As he drives away, I feel sadness overtake me for a minute. Then I remember his purpose. Smiling, I look to the ground. My Amazon order has arrived.

From Guest Contributor Jennifer Lai

Muscle Memory

Other residents would cradle baby dolls, designed to match the heft of a newborn. But for Grandpa, who’d been one of America’s top reporters, only a typewriter would do. It didn’t even need paper; as the nurses discovered, simply sitting at the antique Olivetti was enough to quell his nightmares. Though his mind was gone, his fingers retained echoes of his memories, shaping them into the staccato sound of clacking keys.

He would sit there, morning to night, at his little utilitarian desk. And while he never produced a single page, we still cherished each and every word he wrote.

From Guest Contributor Keshe Chow

The Last Bath

I bathe the cat in the bathroom sink, so light, his little feline spine sharp with the thinning of time—twenty years. Hold him by the belly in the right hand, baby shampoo with the left. More soap for the diaper area. Careful of his eyes, looking so far away these days. Squeeze the water down his tail, his legs, all bones. Towel off, gentle, gentle. Murmur assurances that it’s almost over. Sit down on the couch, hold him in the towel. Is he ok? Movement—a gasp, he’s fine. Then my tear fell in his eye. He didn’t blink.

From Guest Contributor Brook Bhagat

Brook’s poetry, fiction, non-fiction, and humor have appeared in Monkeybicycle, Empty Mirror Magazine, Harbinger Asylum, Little India, Rat’s Ass Review, Anthem: A Tribute to Leonard Cohen, and other journals and anthologies. She and her husband Gaurav created Blue Planet Journal, which she edits and writes for. She holds an MFA from Lindenwood University, is an assistant professor of English at a community college, and is writing a novel. Her poetry collection, Only Flying, is due out Nov. 16, 2021 from Unsolicited Press. See more at brook-bhagat.com or reach her on Twitter at @brookbhagat.