Cage

The town came to the zoo based on the promise of a special exhibit of animals captured with great difficulty. The audience was truly impressed.

“My god, they are ten times our size.”

“They are bellowing so loud they can be heard ten towns away. The shrieking hurts my ears and might leave me deaf.”

Despite their fear people stuck around, mesmerized by the crazed beasts. They trusted the extra thick bars in the cage.

Their trust was ill-advised. The humans broke out of the cage and stomped the crowd into the ground. Three thousand Xanians died painfully.

From Guest Contributor Doug Hawley

One Last Time

The ringing in Timothy’s ears from nearby bombs gives way to headaches and fear. Doctors are scrambling while patients are moaning and yelling for their mothers.

He closes his eyes and remembers the last time kissing Amanda, laying under the large oak tree after a summer picnic. Her lips tasting of fresh strawberries, the sweetness giving him a quiver. He wants to go back to that happier, peaceful place.

A nurse is moving his stretcher with great speed. “We need to evacuate.”

As the blinding brightness approaches the vehicle, and soldiers scream, he tastes Amanda’s strawberry kiss one last time.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

The Final Procedure

She lays on the table like a forgotten doll, eyes closed. The final procedure is complete.

Let it work.

A moment of silence, then she opens her eyes. And smiles.

“Hi, Daddy!”

“I’m David.”

“But you’re...old.”

She searches her memory, then cries out.

“The car!”

“It can’t hurt you, Rachel.”

It hurt me. The drunk barreling down the road, right at her. And I, her big brother, her protector, too far away.

She wraps her arms around me.

“Don’t cry.”

I hug her to me.

“What is this place?” she asks.

“My laboratory. This is where I make cyborgs.”

From Guest Contributor Eric Petersen

Country Noir

A B-girl with sleepy, mud-colored eyes slipped onto the stool next to mine. “I am here to entertain you,” she said and then added as a tease, “but only during my shift.” At least she wasn’t the kind of woman who would refer to poetry as “verse.” I conspicuously returned my attention to the ball game on the TV over the bar. She leaned in closer and started to stay something. I cut her off. It’s not that I wasn’t tempted; it’s just that I’m cautious. Prison workshops and small rural cemeteries are filled with men who should have been.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author of Failed Haiku, a poetry collection that is the co-winner of the 2021 Grey Book Press Chapbook Contest and scheduled for publication this summer.

Dancing With The Boss

“Listen...it’s that song where, in the music video, he picks someone from the audience and starts dancing with her.”

“He has better songs.”

“Did you know she became his wife?”

“You got it wrong. She’s an actress.”

“What do you mean?”

“Before she became famous for her role in that sitcom, she appeared in commercials and music videos.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“You don’t have to, but check him on the web, search for his wife and check her picture.”

“...”

“It isn’t the same one, is it?”

“Could I have been wrong all these years?”

“Looks like 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.

Before The Words, There Were Echoes

There was silence in the universe. Words were nowhere to be found, as if all existence had stopped and all that was left was a void of utter disbelief and confusion. How can there be something, and yet it means nothing?

She had many words inside her, words that boiled into nothingness and brought about the vapor of insignificance. She remembered “in the beginning was the Word,” but instead of feeling any sense of security, she lost heart.

In that loss, she grasped the emptiness of whispers and asked the vast expanse:

“What is needed to be compassionate?”

“A soul.”

From Guest Contributor Aida Bode

Welcome To Chez Yesterday

We step into the past, warm and bright, light up a Lucky and slip into the booth by the window with its posh leather seats, its black and white glossies on the walls: Sinatra, Sammy, Bogey and Bacall. We say, Let’s have the T-bone rare, please, the baked potato, loaded, and that wonderful Caesar salad tossed tableside. While outside, mayhem on the march. Throngs chanting, flags unfurled in a cold rain, and darkness soon to settle in. While we sit, sipping Manhattans, cozy in our denial, where dinner will soon be served, and there’s Sinatra piped in, singing “My Way.”

From Guest Contributor Linda Lowe

Linda's stories and poems have appeared in Beatnik Cowboy, BOMBFIRE, Misfit Magazine, Outlook Springs, and others.

True Meaning

As a boy, I remember my dad telling me Christmas is about family and spending time together. Secondary, exchanging gifts.

My own children are opening their presents and their beaming faces light up the room. The Christmas tree is sparkling with silver tinsel and an angel at the top of the tree, its wings white and glowing. Decorations and food consume the house this time of year, the baked ziti’s sauce filling the air with a delicious aroma. But these delightful things are not what my children celebrate.

The birth of Jesus Christ is the reason we celebrate the holiday.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Hard To Swallow

We take the caddy everywhere; it is a modern Grand Tour.

During our European escapades my brother was the fourth cavalier, so we are retracing our trip of a lifetime: Oslo, Paris and Tuscany; Ljubljana and Granada.

Back in England, my wife welcomes us before we leave for the final destination: Bibury, the most beautiful village in England.

She makes steaming mugs of tea and we toast my friend, my brother, tears welling in our eyes. Then it is time to move, and I pick up the caddy.

It’s empty. He’s gone.

My wife is ashen-faced.

And we turn green.

From Guest Contributor Hugh Cartwright

Apocalyptically Yours

It was the end of the American Century, and as if at a secret signal, the streets suddenly filled up with dancing grannies. I looked in their doll-like painted faces for an explanation. What I saw instead were suicide nets, abortions by wire coat hanger, piles of broken bricks. Life in our little town was becoming more and more like life elsewhere – a movie trailer for the Apocalypse. I would shake my head in an attempt to get rid of the eerie images, but every morning children would once again be walking past the slaughterhouse on their way to school. From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author of Failed Haiku, a poetry collection that is the co-winner of the 2021 Grey Book Press Chapbook Contest and scheduled for publication in summer 2022.