This Morning I Lost My Favorite Sock And I Knew The World Was Ending

I wake up to the sound of volcanoes and people screaming.

Outside, Kīlauea glows. The Goddess of Volcanoes is sitting at my breakfast table, drinking coffee as she makes the world burn.

I say: “I hate my life. Take it.” I rip at my shirt collar, thrust my naked breasts forward.

Pele blinks. She is so, so beautiful.

Anxiety mounts and I wonder: did I come on too strongly, too like a beggar? A murderer’s least satisfying victim is the one that wants to die, after all.

Pele sits up and kisses me. Her tongue, velvet lava, melts everything away.

From Guest Contributor Andrei Șișman

Andrei is a fiction author and memoirist from Bucharest, Romania. He is currently wading through a forest of banalities in search of the perfect Tweet. By trade a lawyer, his literary work has appeared or is forthcoming in Every Day Fiction, Flash Fiction Magazine, Drunk Monkeys, and other places. Andrei can be found at andrei-sisman.carrd.co and on Twitter at @sisman_andrew.

Whiskey On His Breath

Grampy came into my bedroom with whiskey on his breath. He had a bible in his hand, so it would be awhile before he left and I could go to sleep.

That night it was all about how Joe Frasier was never the boxing champion Ali was, and never would be. Sure, anyone would pick Smokin’ Joe in a street fight, but not in the “sweet science.” Joe had no body discipline, he beat the air. Corinthians said so.

Grampy passed on thirteen years ago. Each night I close my eyes and hope he’ll come reeling into my bedroom again.

From Guest Contributor N.T. Franklin

NT Franklin 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, and Dime Show Review, among others.

The Silence Of Space

Silence.

Complete silence filled his head.

A dark empty void encompassed him. Helpless, he hurdled in an endless tumble towards infinity. In the lonely darkness the unending quiet pulsed in his head. The terror of the inevitable quickly found his thoughts. Alone he fought to control his mind as he drifted aimlessly in space. His only partner the broken umbilical from the shuttle. The debris scattered around him a vivid reminder of the devastating meteor storm. An emergency alarm sounded though his visor. Fifteen minutes of oxygen left. His life now measured in minutes. Alone, he awaited his cruel fate.

From Guest Contributor Stephen Johnson

The Death And Life Of The Avant-Garde

When Franz K. was taken off the train in the middle of the night, he came to on a street of futuristic glass towers that, from an architectural perspective, were already passé. “What are those buildings?” he asked his keeper, a tall, thin, priestly figure who emanated an aura of gentle authority. “You’ll find out,” the keeper said, smiling. He never did. By the time the sun rose, he was tied to a post, watching in terror the firing squad assemble. It was sort of like avant-garde cinema where a series of incidents doesn’t necessarily add up to a plot.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie Good is the author of more than a dozen poetry collections, including most recently Gunmetal Sky (Thirty West Publishing) and The Bad News First (Kung Fu Treachery Press).

The Fade

There wasn’t much to see, wasn’t much to be seen, and he knew it. He knew every inch of the room; had taken its inventory a million billion times, day in and day out since his sentence had begun. Nothing but crumbs and dust and a bed he’d never made.

He hadn’t heard a thing but his own thoughts in ages, and even they were beginning to fade. Mostly all he had these days was the memory of sound: screams, sobs, and the slamming of doors.

The only face he’d seen was his own, smiling, on the tattered magazine cover.

From Guest Contributor Ron. Lavalette

Ron. Lavalette’s debut chapbook, Fallen Away (Finishing Line Press) is now available at all standard outlets.

Special Sauce

Maybe advertising was the wrong field for Bob. His boss, Ralph, passed him up for the accounts he wanted, like “Granola Gambit” and “Veg It Up,” giving those to his arch-nemesis, Ted. Bob kept getting accounts like “Killer Shrimp” and “Pork for Your Fork.” (Bob was a known vegan; passive aggressive much, Ralph?) Bob would’ve left ages ago had it not been for his secret love for his coworker, Darlene. He couldn’t shake the vision he’d had of her one day when he’d come upon her eating barbecued ribs like a wild animal. She’d been covered in sauce, but adorable.

From Guest Contributor Susmita Ramani

Susmita lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with her husband and two children. She’s a lifelong writer whose work has appeared in The Daily Drunk, Nymeria Publishing (winner of March 2021 poetry contest), 50 Word Stories, and Vine Leaves Press (50 Give or Take), and will appear in upcoming issues of Short Fiction Break and Secret Attic.

Orange Man

Once upon a time, an orange man became president. He dressed in red, white and blue, but he liked white more than black and brown, and he loved orange most because he was orange.

The orange man made many people cry.

One day the orange man and his friends were indicted, prosecuted, convicted, liquidated, and incarcerated under state laws.

The orange man couldn’t pardon himself or anyone else convicted under state laws.

The orange man painted his prison cell orange, because he loved orange most because he was orange.

And people of every color lived happily ever after.

The end.

From Guest Contributor Todd Matson

Todd Matson is a Licensed Marriage and Family Therapist. He has written poetry for The Journal of Pastoral Care and Counseling and has been published in Vital Christianity. He has also written lyrics for songs recorded by a number of contemporary Christian music artists, including the Gaither Vocal Band.

The Sobbing Lady

It was about 2 am. I was on my way home. Again, as expected, I heard the same old sobbing of a lady that I have been hearing for a month on that particular road. I know it’s creepy and haunting, but I’m pretty used to it and have nothing to do. This is the only path I can take. No shortcuts, long routes, nothing! I couldn’t even tell anyone. After all I was responsible for all the things happening to me. Yeah, I was the one who ran her over with my truck and killed her a month ago.

From Guest Contributor Prapti Gupta

Drinking

There was a time that drinking carried with it a thrill. The flash of acceptance by his peers, the risk of being caught.

Then it became a habit. An expectation, though not a conscious one. It was just a part of everyday life, like the friends he no longer really connects with, but finding new friends seems complicated and lonely.

Now it is no longer drinking. It is alcohol, and he needs it to not feel sick, to not hate himself.

Maybe he should quit. But that strikes him as uncomfortable. Better just to not think about it too much.

Deep Moaning Blues

They’re traveling incognito, George Washington with a moustache and Abe Lincoln without a beard. Time is like a river that has jumped its banks and carved a brazen new course through the ruins of fabled industries. They follow its many twists and turns, only to find themselves weeks later cold, ragged, and hungry, and under perpetual ban. Meanwhile, killers walk around free if they’re white and have a badge. It’s as though the laws have been rewritten by malignant algorithms. A night of solid sleep is impossible. The moans that keep waking me up, I finally realize, come from me.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie Good is the author of more than a dozen poetry collections, including most recently Gunmetal Sky (Thirty West Publishing).