April 1912

It is never quiet in the engine room of an ocean liner. I am on the night shift; the lights are bright and the boilers noisy. Suddenly I feel the ship shudder and hear a grinding noise on the starboard side. Something is very wrong. I make my way to the telephone to call the bridge, but no one answers.

Now I notice that water is beginning to flood the engine compartment. I order the bilge pumps activated but they cannot handle the incoming sea water. The sea is a fearsome master; I elect to remain with the foundering ship.

From Guest Contributor Janice Siderius

Siblings

“Stop it, Sis. Mom and Dad can’t even hear you and there is no one else around. It’s just you and me. You’re making a fool of yourself...again. Get real, it would do you some good. You’re a pretty lousy actress. Stop pretending you’re having a cramp because you are definitely not. I am waiting, missy. Nobody will believe you, you know. In fact, come to think of it: you slipped, I did not push you in the pool at all. Anyway, you can keep your head under water as long as you want to. See if I care.”

From Guest Contributor Hervé Suys

Hervé Suys (°1968 – Ronse, Belgium) started writing short stories whilst recovering from a sports injury and he hasn’t stopped since. Generally he writes them hatless and barefooted.

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