Reality Shift

Seventeen doctor visits to prove my mind was sound. In yet? I assured them that Abe Lincoln was a senator in my world. And? To me, the rapture had happened. Meaning? I was missing two billion people from a couple of days before. Did they believe me? I had photos to show them. They started feeding me pills to shut me up. What did the photos show? Deagel.com showed a population of 8.5 billion and? The current reality had 6.3 billion people. They said Photoshop. I laughed. Why? To realize one is dead when breathing is not what one expects.

From Guest Contributor Clinton Siegle

Clinton is a blogger, disabled, filmmaker, and poet living in La Paz, Bolivia.

Not Roadrunner

A few years ago, editor and I visited Malheur Refuge in remote Southeast Oregon. This was before the infamous “occupation” by a fringe group. We got a visual treat starring a coyote and a pheasant. The coyote would approach the pheasant and the pheasant would fly fifty feet out of range. The coyote would approach again; the pheasant would fly off again. Neither party seemed particularly excited. It seemed they may have played this game regularly. We watched for a few minutes, but we had other things to do, and it appeared that this game could go on for hours.

From Guest Contributor Doug Hawley

The Origin Of A Species

To this date, she had led a fairly convenient life. No big ups, but no big downs either, aside from the occasional deep grief over the loss of a pet.

But all of this was about to change, the turn of history would change, if not for the rest of humanity, at least for her. She had hesitated some time, but finally made up her mind.

This was definitely the last time she was going to wait in line at this store.

When it was her turn, she said: “Can I speak to the shop manager? Tell him it’s Karen.”

From Guest Contributor Hervé Suys

Hervé (°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.

The Taco Truck

My Tata sat in the front row crying. A photograph of his beloved 1977 taco truck stood next to Mita’s casket. Very first taco truck on the east coast, he always said. Mita bought a taco from the truck at closing. She was a stunner and captured his eye. Always the gentleman, he would not let her walk home in the dark. He drew a crowd as he rolled up to her family home in the taco truck. Her parents came out and wanted to evaluate his cooking. Today will be the first day they will be apart since then.

From Guest Contributor NT 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, Dime Show Review, among others.

Mayhem

The last time I saw Clara, she was by the door waving goodbye after our passionate kiss. I still smelled the scent of her flowery perfume.

I wrote as often as I could, but the mail was not reliable. I received a letter a few weeks ago that our son was born healthy and named Brian Joseph after my brother who died a war hero.

I didn't know when I’d see them. A loud noise awakened me from daydreaming, and I ran for cover.

The photo of my wife was destroyed in the mayhem when it dropped from my hands.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Sofa Of Cycles

The sagging couch cushions are a trophy–evidence attesting to her self-discipline to stay situated.

She’s a chameleon in her contradictory custom office. An extension cord slithers around wooden legs, dressed with a black and blocky laptop vitalizer. The coffee table has been repurposed into a feet-book-pen desk, crowded with sacred guides to creation and the honing of creative crafts. No clocks tick, as time gives no counsel. Silence rears its head to the ears of the beholder, mouth perpetually packed by scribbles and click-clacks.

She forges life and death. A prolific puppet master.

Stay at home God of worlds.

From Guest Contributor Madeline van Batum

Madeline lives in Colorado with her cat and hopes that one day she can go back to her home country of the Netherlands to finally meet the Flying Dutchman.

Every Mickle

The local Farmers’ Bank went belly up.

It was a cooperative concern, like many in the region. The Secretary of the Bank had taken a loan in her late husband’s name on forged documents. Almost all the staffers either embezzled or connived with the defalcators.

Investors, most of them traders and peasants, were shell-shocked. Some blamed themselves for their imprudence while others huddled indecisively.

Kali, the old woman who sold candles, also had a deposit in the bank.

As the bank’s director exited from his car, she confronted him.

“Where’s my money?” Kali yelled, catching the man by his collar.

From Guest Contributor Sathyajith Panachikal

Sathyajith. P.S has reconciled himself to the reality that it is impossible to be reborn in an ancient past with a smartphone and internet connection. Currently, he is trying in real earnest to regain the originality he had when he first chanced upon this planet.

Sexy Beast

The sky that bleeds at dawn burns at dusk. I steep in the blood and flames as a kind of penance, but not for doing a recognizable wrong – for doing nothing. The honey bees are diseased and dying. The birds on the wire shake as though likewise afflicted. From somewhere nearby comes a shockingly loud bang. “Was that a gunshot?” I ask the first person I see stumble out, a diminutive woman of indeterminate age with unnaturally bright red hair. She squeezes my arm and begs for help. But I also would rather do the tying than be tied up. From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie's latest poetry books are The Horse Were Beautiful, available from Grey Book Press, and Swimming in Oblivion: New and Selected Poems from Redhawk Publications.

Camaraderie

Quibble believes the Paterson boy is getting a little close to his daughter. He has seen how tethered they sit when allowed to linger together on the porch. Three school dances in a row they have been each other’s primary partner. Quibble’s wife has taken to complimenting for no reason, with fanfare, the boy’s taste in clothing. The conspiracy grows. Quibble is sure, if he had a mind to intercede, he could find the couple parked in the graveyard, innocently – so far – bobbing for lumber. He likes the boy well enough. He has to find a way to warn him.

From Guest Contributor Ken Poyner

The Secret To Staying Human

Mom digs her feet under the wet sand of the Atlantic. I stand next to her, wondering if the ocean will remember her and melt her legs back together.

Each wave climbs higher up our pale legs. Our feet sink deeper and deeper. The surge threatens to topple me, to suck me out to sea. Tears stream down my cheeks.

Mom grabs me. “This was a mistake.”

I cling to her as she rushes toward our towels.

She dries her feet. Inspects each toe. Sighs in relief.

My toes tingle, translucent skin spread between them. The ocean’s song calls me.

From Guest Contributor Sally Simon

Sally (ze/hir) lives in NY. When not writing, ze’s travels and stabs people with hir epee. Read more at www.sallysimonwriter.com.