Your Cold Heart

The damn dog wouldn't stop digging.

Bitches can't be with you if you don't scream.

I paid the bills. The rent, the cellphone, the electric.

Why weren't you on my side?

"Come with me!" I yelled.

You said, "You mean it?"

The dog stared at me, wanting an answer too.

I picked up a rock.

I usually miss, but it struck you right between the eyes.

I kept digging in the almost frozen ground.

I'm so sorry!

I guess the dog missed you as much as I did 'cause---

The dog kept digging.

I hit her right between the eyes.

From Guest Contributor E. Barnes

E has works in The Purple Pen, The Haven, Spillwords, Centina Pentina, Entropy, NanoNightmares and a collection of the works, Flash Crazy, was published in 2021 and is available on Amazon.

Lost

Which way do I go? Delirious, I have no idea. Lost, walking in the desert, hot, tired, and thirsty, my lips dry and cracked, I crumble to the ground from exhaustion.

I don’t remember how I wound up in this hell, but I know I will die here. I stare at the empty sky; the sun torching my body and pray for a quick death.

“Doctor, he’s opening his eyes.”

“Jared, can you hear me?”

Everything is blurry for a moment and then focuses. Standing before me is a doctor and nurse, the nurse gently holding my hand.

I’m home.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Hot Mess

She waddled when she walked. Her left arm hung like a donkey dick. She loved to sit in the tub with lots of bubbles and read those silly magazines from the grocery checkout. Those were all she could mentally comprehend. She probably only looked at the pictures.

She was told not to take baths. She couldn't lift herself out. No longer had the strength. But damned if she didn't give it a try or two or fifteen. She'd be embarrassed with every rescue. It didn't stop her from filling the tub and getting in.

The paramedics knew her by name.

From Guest Contributor Laura Shell

Laura quit her day job to become a full-time writer. She will be published in Calliope, eMerge, WINK, and Literally Stories, and will have an anthology of horror stories published in February. When she isn't writing or reading short fiction, she watches horror movies with her dog, Groot.

Deja Vu

Deja vu... To see something happen over again. What does it mean? If one believes in the Old Testament God, maybe a chance of salvation.

That is the question of time. To see the Bible change - they call it the Mandela Effect. However, my monkeys are pretty, and here they only fly, fly, fly... Making this a surreal game of who is real and what is happening.

In a closed time-curved loop - people could change. And yet? If I am from the future, this is the past. And? Nothing changed. Just a time traveler ranting: do not use thermonuclear weapons.

From Guest Contributor Clinton Siegle

The Bequest

Matt arrived at the reading of Grandfather's will ready for his moment of ascendance. As the only living male heir, the family's wealth now belonged to him.

During the ceremony, Matt's seat was eclipsed only by that of the adjudicator. Grandfather was known for his love of pomp and grandeur, so it was only after many arcane rituals and benedictions that the adjudicator cracked open the will. "The heir shall find his bequest inside the labyrinth."

Next thing he knew, Matt was naked and bleeding at the center of a hedge maze. This was not the inheritance he'd been expecting.

The Fortress Of A Man

“How much to bypass this process? Fabricate a report for the court?” Mr. Jacobs asked, frustration evident.

The therapist was dazed. “Pardon?”

“I’m a businessman. Need to get back to work..”

“Even if I accepted, what about your mental health?”

“Beating up that sassy bitch on the plane doesn’t make me mentally unstable.”

“Reacting quickly to provocation is something that should be managed.”

“Just name your price!”

She sighed heavily. “I’ll do it, but won’t take anything.”

He made for the door.

“Whatever belief hinders seeking help, I hope you unlearn it,” she called, urging him to think things over.

From Guest Contributor Seyi Adedayo

Seyi writes fiction and poetry. He writes because every now and again the urge to put pen to paper takes hold of him.

In Memoriam

Sunday, you’ll have been dead a week. I sit at the kitchen table, laptop open in front of me, doing what I think you’d be doing in my place, writing something. You were a poet, a real one, a soldier with a flower in his helmet. I’m hunting and pecking when I suddenly hear the tinkling of Tibetan prayer bells. Five seconds – 10 max – pass before I realize it’s the new ringtone on my phone. A prim female voice announces, “Unknown caller.” I always just assumed Death would have the surly demeanor of the lunch ladies in a school cafeteria.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie's newest poetry collection, Frowny Face, a mix of his prose poems and collages, is now available from Redhawk Publications He co-edits the online journal UnLost, dedicated to found poetry.

Christmas

Ten-year-old Richie helped his mom decorate the Christmas tree with colorful red, green, and blue lights, and an array of ornaments. When he lit the tree, everything in the room illuminated.

His mom sank into the couch. “Maybe this year Christmas won’t be so lonely.”

Richie sulked, grabbed a chocolate chip cookie from the tray and nibbled on it to savor the taste, when the bell rang, and he ran to answer it.

His eyes widened when he saw who stood in front of him. His dad in his navy uniform.

The war had ended, and Christmas was whole again.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Stirring Up The Pots

“Everything under control?”

“Absolutely,” I responded, stirring the contents of the left pot, checking on the right.

Gravy bubbled up delicious aroma. Steamy chocolate swirled to the ceiling, taking me back to the time I watched mother make the same recipe.

“Darn!” my inner voice screamed. “Cornstarch lumps!”

I reached for the blender. Meantime I detected a slight burning cocoa smell and set the dessert sauce aside.

“Fifteen minutes left!” the announcer yelled.

A panel of judges awaited each contestant’s creations.

“Interesting combination with chicken,” one stated, sampling mine. “There’s brandy. Definitely chocolate. Cherries are divine. What’s your dessert sauce?”From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes poetry, fiction and creative nonfiction regardless of the season or location she finds herself in.

Age Of Reality

Closed time curved loop? How to escape? Can one escape? The death of humanity? I doubt it. I wonder. Trapped in quantum confines, disbelief shattered when I queried the local AI about our galaxy's age. Its cryptic answer: 50 million years. Puzzled, I questioned how Earth, at 4.5 billion years, coexisted with an arm merely 50 million years old. The AI faltered, unable to clarify. Seeking cosmic origins, I realized 50 million years aligned with the universe's dawn. Reality morphed within this fragment, hinting at an enigmatic age defining both inception and present, blurring the edges of perception and time.

From Guest Contributor Clinton Siegle