Sea Angel

Silvia, sound asleep, pleasantly dreamed of the beach, her solace.

She relished the sound of the ocean splashing against the dock, and the warm breeze against her face, when a beautiful image ascended from the water. A lovely sea angel flapped its white wings, and a halo gleamed above her head. The glowing angel approached Silvia and told her she would be her protector, then placed her translucent hand on Silvia’s forehead.

Silvia awakened calmed and ready to start her day. She showered, dressed, and left for work.

When she returned that evening, a glimmering halo lay on her pillow.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Omelette

“You crack me up!” Benjamin cackled.

Kenneth looked his friend over as if to check for any cracks needing medical intervention.

“It’s time you learn,” Benjamin said. “How can you go through life without making an omelette?”

Kenneth reluctantly selected a recipe. He gathered all ingredients he could find and set out to cook.

Benjamin took a bite. “You call this an omelette?”

The cook wriggled uncomfortably. “I didn’t know we ran out of milk.”

“You could’ve used skim milk powder, mixed with water.”

Benjamin continued crunching, picking out bits from his portion.

“How much eggshell does this thing have?”

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna is a writer of poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. She resides in Edmonton, Canada.

The Birth Of Tragedy

I was nervous about interviewing for the job, but my confidence rose as soon as I walked into the anteroom. My only competition seemed to be ignoramuses with a fixed repertoire of inanities and washed-up ballplayers in the habit of spitting. Forty minutes later, my name was called. “I’ll lick stamps,” I told the gargoyle from HR. “I’ll lick whatever you want.” He looked at my wrinkled boots and patched coat and just shook his big ugly head. Some may be born with a tragic sense of life. Others are like me and acquire it by dint of long effort.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie's most recent poetry collection is Gunmetal Sky, available from Thirty West Publishing.

The Curse Of The Wormhole

You look like a sailor, sir. I thought so. Do me a favor, will you? Take me with you. You could use a talisman in space. Listen, I used to be just like you. How did I get my peg leg? Aye, I wrestled a space shark and lost my leg. After we passed through a wormhole, we ran aground here. All I do now is meow, lick my paws clean, and cough up hairballs. I’m easy to care for. I promise. Proud to be potty trained. Tuna-flavored Meow Mix will do. Take me with you. You won’t regret it.From Guest Contributor Umiyuri KatsuyamaTranslated by Toshiya Kamei

Umiyuri Katsuyama is a Japanese writer of fantasy and horror. In 2011, she won the Japan Fantasy Novel Award with her novel Sazanami no kuni. Her latest novel, Chuushi, ayashii nabe to tabi wo suru, was published in 2018. Her short fiction has appeared in numerous horror anthologies in Japan.

Welcome Back, Class Of '96

“Do you want me to hold the...?”

The song is about to start, something by Vanessa Williams. His one good hand is pressing on her waist. She does not know what to call the other one, the absence.

He shakes. “I can just put my arm here.” He rests his folded sleeve on her pink shoulder strap. They have been given a wide berth by the other couples on the gym floor.

They shuffle together in silence. Finally, she asks. “How did—?”

He shrugs. “Cleaning the picker.” Somebody had turned it on by mistake.

“Does it hurt?”

Sometimes. It tickles.

From Guest Contributor Brennan Thomas

The Angry Camper

Stuart had a heart transplant last March and felt lucky to sit around a campfire with Paul.

The drunk from the next campsite stumbled over again. "Stop all that damn noise!"

Paul stood and yelled, "Look buddy, we're just talking. No way you can hear us."

"Stop banging on those drums. Next time I'll have a twenty-two."

"Call 9-1-1, Paul."

Twenty minutes later they heard all the commotion of the arrest.

"You guys gonna be on the news," said the park ranger. "That guy was wanted for the murder of Alex Edmund."

Shocked, Stuart said, "Alex Edmund was my donor."

From Guest Contributor E. Barnes

E has works in The Purple Pen, The Haven, Spillwords, Centina Pentina, Entropy and the anthology NanoNightmares.

My Father

My father says it’s okay to be scared, but now it’s time to be brave. I trust and look up to him, so when he tells me to hide under the floorboard because the Nazis are coming, I do so.

There’s banging at the front door, and then it bursts open. Footsteps and yelling are what I hear. My legs are cramped and I’m sweating from my forehead to my cheeks.

My father is crying, pleading with the Nazis and I feel helpless hiding. I want to show myself, but I’m too frightened.

Gunshot, thump, silence.

My father is dead.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Whodunnit

Elementary knowledge of physics and chemistry saved the life of Lord Sherlock.

This was a case of national security, something to do with secrecy about canons. All the evidence had shown that state secrets were sold to a foreign power.

Judge Lestrade certainly would have found him guilty and would have sentenced him to the firing squad if it hadn’t been for the world famous detective Moriarty and his brilliant assistant Mrs Hudson. They countered all the incriminating material which now acquitted the accused and finally they revealed what no one could have ever suspected: Watson, the butler, did it.

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.

Validate Yourself

“Don’t expect a pat on the back, just know you did your best,” Ted’s mentor in Rail Dispatch taught him the most important lesson. He was right. Ted never was acknowledged, but years later he validated himself.

In the dimly lit Rail Control Center, while his colleagues were distracted by a stalled train, Ted studied his flickering console and alarm bells sounded in his head. Another commuter train would crash into it if he didn’t act quickly to shunt it to a siding.

Ted didn’t wait to be feted as a hero. He just did the deed and thanked himself.

From Guest Contributor Marc Littman

Dancing Hands

She talked with her hands. It was comical.

The more animated she became, the more her hands flapped and fluttered through the air.

We teased her, had her sit on her hands, which practically made her mute.

She’d laugh then and poke our ribs, call us stinkers, and her hands danced as she did.

I didn't make it back in time. I would have if I didn't stop.

The bill wasn’t even due.

I was stalling, but stalling what?

My return to her bedside? Her last breath, or both?

When I got there, her hands were at her sides, spent.

From Guest Contributor Linda Chandanais