The Watchmaker

He had become a master in the arrangement of all her beautiful pieces.

A lifetime of experiencing his shattered dreams had made this so.

With patience, he would file down or build up their broken parts until two pieces fit together as one.

His hands of meticulous love removed the heart from his chest and gently placed it within hers.

She raised her head slowly and smiled.

His head sagged downward as he did the same.

With that, she rose, exiting the tiny room.

Opening the door as the sun burnt her eyes, but the pain only lasted a moment.

From Guest Contributor J. Iner Souster

The Art Of Manipulation

The art of manipulation or being a spy is something. To be a double agent or triple agent even is more interesting than one would expect.

To deal with the reality of a government. Change it just a little. By using words instead of physical assassination, one can change realities.

To get into a government or corporation and manipulate it towards good? Something very few can do. The intentions of corporations along with the state is to control the minds of the people the system of things enslaves. To change the doctrine even a bit can cause pain. Free humanity.

From Guest Contributor Clinton Siegle

Clinton is an expat, filmmaker, and story teller

Executive Execution

He said he was blown over, that the breeze from the kitchen door had left him defenseless. But our Lord sees only in black and white. The laws are clear: no dust bunny shall enter another bunny’s land--no exceptions. A silent crowd awaits as the trespasser is dragged into the dimly lit square: thrashing, kicking, pleading. It is pointless. Laws are laws, we must simply obey. He is tied to the base of a pink cocktail umbrella. We all turn our heads to our Lord expectantly. He gives a simple nod. The match is struck and the pyre lit.

From Guest Contributor Skyler Bath

Some Games Are Not For Grown-Ups

Ten, nine, eight jumps to go. Nick meets my gaze. Seven, six, five, four.

Say it, Nick. Say it. Three.

“Irene.”

Grown-ups shouldn’t play alphabet games.

“Isa, come back. Letter I is so tricky.”

Grown-ups shouldn’t jump rope. It’s not good on the heartstrings.

I sat under a Jacaranda and tore the Valentine’s Day card. Nick and Isa 4 ever 2 gether littered my lap.

Grow up.

I dug into my hand bag, pulled out my diary and littered again. My lap brimming with lavender scented paper.

Grown-ups shouldn’t keep diaries. It’s not like I’m Anaïs Nin for goodness sake!

From Guest Contributor Isabelle B.L

Isabelle is a teacher based in France. She has published a novel inspired by the life of a New Caledonian feminist and politician. Her work can be found in the Best Microfiction 2022 anthology, Visual Verse, Free Flash Fiction and elsewhere.

The Day Before Yesterday

Meanwhile, Franz Kafka sells another piece of his dead mother’s jewelry to pay for his brothel visits. Pablo Picasso and Henri Matisse go horseback riding together. Alma Mahler has just aborted their child. The police question Picasso, but he has an alibi and they release him after slapping him around. Summer is fading, and Rainer Maria Rilke feels it as a wound in his chest. Using an alias, Adolf Hitler boards a train for Munich to escape conscription in the Austro-Hungarian army. Da Vinci’s Mona Lisa is missing from the Louvre. Museumgoers lay flowers in front of the bare wall.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie's latest poetry collection, THE HORSES WERE BEAUTIFUL, is forthcoming from Grey Book Press.

Fade Away

As I pass through the automatic doors into the library, the smell of musty books fills the air. I browse the shelves for what seems like hours until I come across a fantasy novel with magic and fire breathing dragons. My favorite.

I plop into the usual large, cushioned chair, and my mind wanders to all the chores I need to do when I get home. The bills need to be paid; I have stacks of laundry waiting to be washed, dinner needs to be cooked. It makes my stomach churn.

I start chapter one.

All my worries fade away.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

The Engineers Play Chess

Christos and Lieberman, veteran development engineers, played chess every lunch hour. Watson, a young engineer, joined the project, watched them play and immediately starting making unwanted comments. They put up with him for two weeks.

One day Christos briefly studied the board, then moved Knight to F4.

"That's a strange move," Watson commented.

Lieberman immediately moved rook to H6.

"That doesn't make sense. What did you do that for?" Watson demanded.

The two chess players said nothing, just stared at him.

"OK, I'm leaving," Watson finally said.

"Check," said Christos and reset his pieces.

"Mate," Lieberman added and did likewise.

From Guest Contributor Ronald Larsen

The Pit

There is an island floating above a shattered and charred plane of earth. It's a little black island, untouched by the sun, hovering above with an unsettling presence. It is awaiting something.

An eerie cosmic wind sweeps into a bottomless chasm beneath the island, the deepest pit ever known to exist.

It stretches from the center of the planet to the edge of reality's outer realms, a limitless abyss that devours anything thrown into it.

Nature's laws do not apply here.

This pit is the only law. It will not be content until it has devoured everything in the world.

From Guest Contributor J. Iner Souster

Officer Down

The bullet tore through flesh and bone. The arm fell limp, and Officer Brady drew his weapon with his non-shooting hand. Their assailant continued to fire from outside the passenger window of the cruiser as his partner slumped unconscious and bleeding in the front seat. Her baby was born in spring. She returned to duty last week.

Placing his front sight on center mass, Brady squeezed the trigger and watched the attacker drop to the pavement. After screaming “officer down” into the microphone, he smashed his foot down on the accelerator, racing the mother of his child to New York-Presbyterian.

From Guest Contributor B.G. Smith

B.G. Smith enjoys writing flash fiction and drinking Kentucky straight bourbon, usually at the same time. B.G. is a married father of four boys and a lifelong fan of Philadelphia professional sports teams, which explains the affinity for bourbon. His stories have appeared in Pocket Fiction, Microfiction Monday Magazine, The Drabble, and Scribes*MICRO*Fiction.

Multiverse Question?

Wandering the multiverse. I find the concept of change the bi-word of everything. One day, the illusion spells the reality of a word one way. The next day, the reality spells it another. The definition of wisdom is to come to some understanding? Probably why I still have not mastered how to play the cord of C on a guitar.

If everything changes from one reality to the next. What is the purpose of study? Defining a reality for when the next moment you could be elsewhere seems the definition of absurdity. To waste time trying to understand. Try to succeed.

From Guest Contributor Clinton Siegle