Written Florida

The hospital counter balanced the consequences of Chloe’s belief in radiological.

“Poise Samuel. It’s dosage and daydreaming. Don’t slam this shut, there’s no ambush in it.”

Samuel’s reptilian wheelchair spontaneously defended his ego with a damp pelvis moan.

“You need to explore your obsession with maintaining haste.”

And then Chloe was behind him, creating an exit.

Outside the gravity of habit drew dated windows and naked brick into Samuel’s response.

“Chloe, you are the answer to a whistle.”

Her blouse threw out naked holes of laughter until the urban inside her tongue finished the joke.

“But you have no teeth.”

From Guest Contributor Geoffrey Miller

August Drops

It's not fall yet. It's still light ‘til eight and the kids want to stay out past that on the trampoline that squeaks now with every bounce, its round net keeping out the cucumber-loving mosquitoes, the raspberry-loving bees, the cool night-loving spiders. The sky goes sherbet and then gray and raindrops fall but stop just before you get them to come in and then the sky is bright on one side, and the baby is jumping and pointing: light! (spin) dark! (spin) light! (spin) pink! And it's time to do pajamas and kitchen and bills but you don't.

You jump.

From Guest Contributor Brook Bhagat

Brook is the author of Only Flying, a Pushcart-nominated collection of surreal poetry and flash fiction on paradox, rebellion, transformation, and enlightenment from Unsolicited Press. Her work has won contests at Loud Coffee Press and A Story in 100 Words, and it has appeared in Monkeybicycle, Empty Mirror, Soundings East, The Alien Buddha Goes Pop, Anthem: A Tribute to Leonard Cohen, and other journals and anthologies. She is a founding editor of Blue Planet Journal and a professor of creative writing. Read her work and learn more about Only Flying at https://brook-bhagat.com/.

Journey's End

My duty to the Dispossessed is finally done.

I carried and cared for the few thousand survivors in their cryotubes, as we fled the 200 light years from Earth. Their life signs, my only companions, became dear to me. Now, after T-centuries of terraforming, K2-72e is habitable. I call it Hope.

But responsibility remains. If Hope falls to hubris, or misjudgement, or pollution, then the work will have been for nothing; my friends and their children will die.

The risk is too great. I will let them sleep safely on, watching over them, and keeping this garden in their memory.

From Guest Contributor Alastair Millar

Alastair is an archaeologist by training, a translator by trade, and a nerd by nature. His published flash and micro fiction can be found at https://linktr.ee//alastairmillar and he lurks on Twitter @skriptorium.

The Flight

He wouldn't let me go. He simply wouldn't let me go.

First he took my money and wouldn't give it back. Then he threatened to call the police on me! For what? For creating a scene in public? It was I who should have called the police on him for stealing my money!

The train has stopped. Passengers get off. Passengers get on. He shoves me into the car. The doors shut.

I get off at the next station. Standing penniless on the street outside, I see a colossal cocktail glass filled with blue wine sitting high atop a skyscraper.

From Guest Contributor Richard Evanoff

The Little Things

Tiny micro explosions, one after another, lit up the night sky in a cascading array of magentas, periwinkles and mulberry, accented by warm yellows and golds, a momentary distraction utilizing everything that is beautiful living inside the fire. Even the soulless ones, with clouded empty eyes, were taken aback as their heads tilted towards the heavens unblinkingly.

The degradation of pathways in their once human brains would soon enjoy their form of pyro techniques as neurons started firing once more. Reminding them that we were now their food source while simultaneously forgetting that once we would call each other family.From Guest Contributor J. Iner Souster

Adrian’s Jog

Adrian jogged in the park, the autumn breeze against his face. He nodded his good morning to fellow joggers as he enjoyed the chirping birds.

When he finished his laps, he stopped at the breakfast truck and bought his usual cup of black coffee.

The owner handed Adrian his change. “Crisp morning.”

Adrian sipped his coffee before responding. “Yeah, sure is.”

He said goodbye and took a seat on the bench.

The park began to fill with dog owners taking their pets for morning walks and the cool air warmed.

Adrian relaxed and closed his eyes.

It began to rain.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Soup’s On!

“Any luck, Paleo?” Keto asked his fellow cannibal as he approached the giant cauldron he was stirring.

“Nothing,” Paleo said. “Zero, zip, zilch, nada. No airplane crashes. No lost safaris. Not a single soul out there for dinner.”

“Well then, it’s soup again.”

“Ah, man! I need to sink my choppers into some nice juicy ribs or breasts, or wings or... Hey! Where’d you get that?”

Paleo froze, his mouth watering, as Keto dropped portions of two human legs into the pot.

“Let me have some of that meat!” Paleo yelled.

“Sorry,” Keto said. “I only have thighs for stew.”

From Guest Contributor Lee Hammerschmidt

Lee Hammerschmidt is a Visual Artist/Writer/Troubadour. He is the author of the short story collections, A Hole Of My Own, It’s Noir O’clock Somewhere and For Richer or Noirer. Check out his hit parade on YouTube!

The President Who Never Lied

“If you’re innocent, why are you taking the Fifth Amendment?” asked the President who never lied to whip his followers into a frenzy. His true believers cheered.

“The mob takes the Fifth,” said the President who never lied. His true believers hooped and hollered.

“The Fifth. Horrible! Horrible!” insisted the President who never lied. His true believers waved flags of his graven image.

Then when he was deposed.

“Why did you overvalue your assets to secure loans and undervalue your assets to evade taxes?” he was asked for hours by New York state attorneys.

He took the Fifth 440 times.

From Guest Contributor Todd Matson

Hours, Later

I’m thinking of them, those soft-lipped women, sitting side by side like litter-mates. They yawn simultaneously, then settle their curly-haired heads against each other; closing their eyes for just a moment. The smell of vanilla lotion is thick in the air, and smooth as honeyed kisses. Nothing is wasted; yet, their story is full of unanswered questions. A string of pearl-sized love bites ring their necks, making it hard to disguise the plum-colored bruises on their golden skins that glow above the soft folds of sundresses. Do they ever sleep? These pure and chaste women who lean on each other.

From Guest Contributor M.J.Iuppa

M.J.’s forthcoming fifth full length poetry collection The Weight of Air from Kelsay Books and a chapbook of 24 100-word stories, Rock. Paper. Scissors. from Foothills Publishing, in 2022. For the past 33 years, she has lived on a small farm near the shores of Lake Ontario. Check out her blog: mjiuppa.blogspot.com for her musings on writing, sustainability & life’s stew.

Giant

The giant came over the hills, his axe as lengthy as the oak trees in the playground stumbled upon. Amid the outrage and terror, someone called the mayor. The police put their hands to their guns, waiting.

The giant chopped down a tree first, carving it, whittling it down into the mayor’s likeness. This pleased the townsfolk, convinced them. They gave him cement, metal, wood, anything to build. “More, more,” they shouted as he built their buildings and streets.

He left as quickly as he came, taking only the axe. Maybe the next town, he thought, would be more welcoming. From Guest Contributor E. M. Foster

E. M. is a fiction writer from Florida. She is currently preparing for a Master's of Studies at the University of Cambridge, St. Edmund's. She is a reader for Farside Review and Sepia Journal and a writer for Coffee House Writers. Her work has been published in The Aurora Journal, Sledgehammer Lit, and others.