Leading Questions

“Does my ass look OK in these jeans?” she asked me.

“What do you mean?”

“Me arse—it looks OK?”

“Why? Did you do something to it?”

“Can’t you be serious?”

“You're aware it has a crack in it, aren’t you?”

“Do you think you’re funny?”

“What do you want to know? Is it the right shape? The right size?”

“Is it big?”

“What does big mean? Can you walk over by the door?”

“To here? Far enough?”

“There now you’ve made it smaller, haven’t you? Does that make you happy?”

“You just can’t get in the mood, can you?”

From Guest Contributor Edward Voeller

Rubble

The ruler of the rubble sits at the end of a table that reaches around the world. Who will live to see his reign unravel? The babies, who grow up somewhere else? Will they return middle aged, full of stories from their broken parents, and older brothers and sisters who went to school in their own country, saluted their own flag, played in the sea that belonged to everyone? Surely they will come, full of sadness and anger, looking for remnants of family left behind. Grownups, who pick up handfuls of rubble and say, this used to be my home.

From Guest Contributor Linda Lowe

You...Just Watch

“Do you have the time?”

I had never seen this youngster before – I would have remembered.

“Of course,” I replied. I looked at my watch and told him the exact time.

“No, that’s not what I meant. I would like to know if you have the time.”

“Well, I’m a bit ahead of schedule right now. So, yes. Sure. I can spare a few minutes. What is it you wanted to talk about?”

He shook his head and walked away slowly.

“Judging by your answers, you are not the one who has the time. You’re the one with the watch.”

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.

Thank You Lady Erzulie

In her dormitory room, Evangeline examined the ‘Special Romance Candle”, which she bought today from Madame Laveau’s House of Voodoo on Bourbon Street in New Orleans.

The candle was a plea to the Haitian spirit, Lady Erzulie, for assistance with awakening the attention of her classmate and unrequited love, Gabriel.

The clerk in the shop promised “An Evening of Unforgettable Passion.”

Evangeline placed the lighted candle on the table next to her bed and prepared for the spell to work.

She slipped out of all her clothes, climbed under the covers, and eagerly waited for a knock on her door.

From Guest Contributor Don Kirksey

Our Private Summit

I listened to Camilla talking about global warming, the ocean plastic crisis and the deforestation of the Amazon rainforest. Words crowded behind her lips: I silenced them with a kiss. We stayed ten eternal seconds in that first intimate contact.

“I didn't see it coming,” she told me, when she recovered.

“I don't believe you.”

“I knew it could happen, but not so soon. I thought you were harmless.”

“The same they say about climate change.”

We spent all afternoon enjoying our private summit, evaluating the measures to be taken in the future. We started to negotiate ecological caress credits.

From Guest Contributor Marcelo Medone

Marcelo (1961, Buenos Aires, Argentina) is a fiction writer, poet, essayist and screenwriter. His works have received numerous awards and have been published in magazines and books, individually or in anthologies, in multiple languages in more than 40 countries all over the world, including the US.

He has been nominated for the 2021 Pushcart Prize.

Facebook: Marcelo Medone / Instagram: @marcelomedone

Ambrose Bierce Walks At Midnight

I recognized him from his picture in an old literature textbook. It had been over 100 years since he had mysteriously vanished. I asked where he had gone and why and what he had done there. He wouldn’t answer. When I added I was a big fan of his writing, especially the Civil War tales, he just snickered. I didn’t know what to say next but felt I had to say something. "You like being a ghost?" I asked. He gave me a sly little grin. "You get to sleep all day," he said, "so you can work at night."

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.

How High The Moon

Many years have passed since both horrific creatures, Count Dracula and the Wolf Man, fell over the cliff's edge, plummeting into the sea below. Never seen or heard from again.

But as it was said, time and wars proceeded to pass throughout the globe. While this cursed man's battle never ends.

Witness the horrors of a desperate man that defines new meanings such as, love and happiness, for his restful end.

If only that where true. To finally have my soul released from this misery, this burden... This curse.

I then chuckle, before frantically saying...

But, I can never die.

From Guest Contributor Jason Jenkover

The Black Figures

He rested on the soft surface, observing one among the many roses surrounding him, the white petals layering atop each other. Whimpering from piercing screams, trembling from blaring sirens, shutting his ears tightly with his hands couldn’t help. Two black figures stood over him. One leaned closer, tenderly stroking the boy’s forehead. ‘You love flowers, don’t you?’ it whispered. He smiled, and the other handed him a bouquet. ‘Let’s leave him some peace now, shall we? And I’m quite certain he does—loved them since birth.’ It nodded, and with a thud, blocking the perceivable, the velvet lid slid over him.

From Guest Contributor Lo Xing Le

Echoes And Reflections

It follows me everywhere, the inaudible predator. Fixated upon a daily routine, mocking every subtle maneuver that I made. The thing glissades in a deriding dance upon my every step. A replicant of form cast under the luminosity of ever radiant sun.

Signified in our sinister, daily reflections. An entity of faux similarity and duplication. In such replication a truer self and profound verity obtained. Co-conspiring and willingness etched upon that imitation smile. The backdrop of the unstained silhouette and persona versus my tainted hand. A cheering entourage as the blade is always in my hand painted with crimson delight.

From Guest Contributor Brett Dyer

Cryoromance

"I'm still burning for Aliona!" Evan cried. "Not for long," said the Lords before they locked two lovers together inside the intergalactic cryo chamber.

Punishment for love between people, in the world overpopulated with hungry people, was inescapable. Stuck in the moment of desire and hunger they were banished far from Earth, only to wander through the darkness of time and space, without enough food, to the unknown destination.

Out there, Evan was just a piece of frozen meat. Aliona was like a mantis in human form.

The last we heard, Evan was eaten alive during his deep hibernation sleep.

From Guest Contributor Ivan Ristic

Ivan is a Serbian short story writer, poet and composer of ambient music.