Sometimes

Sometimes at night I cling to her hand in the darkness and try to imagine what she's dreaming.

Sometimes the illusion of connection is disrupted enough that I acknowledge--never out loud--the person I fell in love with is my own creation.

Sometimes I wake up early and clean the house before I go to work without ever insisting on credit.

Sometimes I'm so angry that the next words out of my mouth will mean the end.

Sometimes her smile reminds me of why I asked her to marry me.

But most of the time we just watch television.

Sailing To America

There was something about the endless sky, gray and somber, and the ship’s surging through the dark swirling waters of the Atlantic, that prompted Macbeth to worry about the past. The witches. The blood. The trouble that followed. Was there a route to forgiveness? People went down on their knees, didn’t they? Could he hire someone to do it for him? He was still royalty, wasn’t he? But the breeze was so soothing, the trouble, so remote. Surely Scotland was a memory best forgotten. Besides, in the distance, he could almost see, shining like a pardon, the Statue of Liberty.

From Guest Contributor Linda Lowe

Linda Lowe's stories and poems have appeared in Gone Lawn, Tiny Molecules, Eunoia Review, Misfit Magazine, Six Sentences, and others.

Victory

The force of the sword against my shield knocked me to the ground. As the sword came toward me, I turned and pushed myself up. I could barely see through my protective head shield and the sweat dripped down my face. The man, large and fierce, came at me again, and the clanking of our swords filled the arena.

One of us would die, slaves no one cared about.

In one last attempt, I lunged, stuck my sword into his side and twisted. He moaned, collapsing to the ground face down. The crowd cheered.

I raised my hands in victory.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Early Bird Special

Doubled-masked and leaning into the pharmacy’s window, you answer questions that will later identify you immediately. It’s 11:59 a.m. and the Know-It-All Tech, with a bar code label on her wrist and seascape nails, is already sick of the routine: Fill out these papers, sign here and here; take papers around back & sit with arm exposed; face turned to the left, as a cool alcohol swab cleans an invisible bull’s eye. The outgoing pharmacist chats about snow & cold and you barely feel him stick you with the needle. Done, he says, pressing a circle band-aid over your future.

From Guest Contributor M.J.Iuppa

M.J.Iuppa lives on a small farm near the shores of lake Ontario. Her 100 word stories have appeared in 100 Word Story, Eunoia Review, Otoliths, Jellyfish Review, A Story in a 100 Words, The Dribble Drabble Review, The Drabble Review, Milk Candy Review, Lost Balloon, and others. . Check out her blog: mjiuppa.blogspot.com for her musings on writing, sustainability & life’s stew.

Scriptless Dream

Alright, I’ll tell you about the dream I had last night.

Several older women – I guess your mum and a couple of your aunts – were trying to match you with a movie director. And I stood there, saying nothing, convinced he had nothing to offer you I didn’t.

Suddenly, we found ourselves in an undefined take away chip shop (remember, it’s a dream) and guess who’s there? That same director. You acted like you didn’t notice him, but somehow I ended up home with two meals just for me.

So, that’s why I don’t want to see that movie tonight.

From Guest Contributor Hervé Suys

Hervé Suys (°1968 - Ronse, Belgium) started writing short stories whilst recovering from a sports injury. He generally writes them barefooted and hatless.

The Get Together

Today is a very special day for my mom and me. Today we are going to meet with our father after a long time. I am very excited for it. But the meeting period is very short, just 10 minutes.

Mr. Morgan was waiting for us. He was the medium through which we are going to talk with him. Yes, we are going to do planchette.

My mom and I haven’t talked with him since the day we both died in a road accident a year ago that my father survived!!!!

It’s really a special day for both of us.

From Guest Contributor Prapti Gupta

The Jigsaw Man

He would have been handsome if it weren’t for the cheeks left pitted by adolescent acne. In what seemed an attempt to distract from the scars, he dressed with obvious expense. He also carried a small black satchel everywhere. There was talk that under another name he had once been a backstreet abortionist or a doctor in a concentration camp. When he died and the satchel was opened, it was found to contain a ski mask such as stickup men wear, a Florida orange, and a book of 105 poems, all of them about the death of the poet’s child.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

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

A Grass Dog

After my death, one half of my soul rose to the heavens, and the other half slept underground. My blood seeped into the roots of weeds. When the village held a festival, my daughter cut the grass and wove my halved soul into a dog-shaped chugou. She placed me beneath my husband’s bed. After a while, my husband tossed about and moaned in sleep.

“Don’t kill me!” he screamed.

My daughter stood over him and flung down her hatchet. His blood dripped through the mattress and onto the floor. I chuckled as I learned who had murdered me while asleep.From Guest Contributor Yuki Fuwa

Translated by Toshiya Kamei

Yuki Fuwa is a Japanese writer from Osaka. In 2020, she was named a finalist for the first Reiwa Novel Prize. In the same year, her short story was a finalist in the first Kaguya SF Contest. Translated by Toshiya Kamei, Yuki’s short fiction has appeared in New World Writing.

The Silenced

She did not say yes.

The silence of more fear than cultural respect was not a sign of consent. The tears on her face at the dawn of her 'big day' were not a sign of consent.

The lashes fell upon her, one, two...

She had dreamt of wearing green for her wedding. Red was her mother's choice.

His voice was loud it silenced her lips.Ninety-eight or was it already past hundred? She'd later count the scars on her back, looking at her reflection in the broken mirror stained with blood.

She never wanted marriage.She never wanted this.

From Guest Contributor Anne Silva.

Anne is a student writer from Sri Lanka. She publishes her writing on social media as Poetry of Despair.You can read them at www.instagram.com/PoetryofDespair.

Broke

Bills. They stacked up like a child's art project on the kitchentable, each stamped red with the word "overdue." The house wascrumbling down, the wallpaper peeling off every panel. The wallstrembled as the couple screamed at each other. Blame flew likehousehold objects; lamps, chairs, and plates.

They stormed off in a huff to the same bedroom, facing away from eachother, their faces too hot and hearts beating too hard to sleep.

So they stayed awake, until the sunlight streaked in through thebroken blinds and the couple was ready to start the routine overagain.

From Guest Contributor Artie Kuyper