All-American Reject

Bill had a simple ethos. He believed in the constitution. He believed that the United States was created to combat tyranny, and that this country was the best example of democracy ever created. He believed that if you left people to their own devices, they would generally do the right thing, and come together to help each other, with a shared sense of right and wrong. He believed that a true American would not sit idle while his country was being dismantled by forces of evil.

Bill now realized that he and his radical views had no place in this America.

Fireflies

In the distance, flashes of light blinked in and out through the trees. Like lightning just before the storm. And getting closer.

"What are those?"

"They're just fireflies. They can't hurt you."

"Mommy, I'm scared."

Gina held her son tightly. "Hush baby. They can't hurt you."

They huddled together among the trees and watched the lights. She sang to him his favorite lullaby. The same lullaby her Mother had sung to her on the hot summer nights before they came to America.

"Hush baby. No one's going to hurt you."

When the bombs finally reached them, everything was over quickly.

Bass Fishing In America

CONTEST WINNER:

The bass must talk to each other.

“Hey, I’m not going to chase those chartreuse spinners today. Are you guys with me?”

It’s amazing that creatures with brains the size of a split pea can outsmart other creatures that are supposedly the pinnacle of creation, or happenstance. Anglers driving hundred-thousand-dollar boats equipped with underwater cameras, sonar, and drones occasionally get skunked.

“Let’s follow those surface poppers right up to the boat, then suddenly dart into that network of rocky crevices.”

“Okay.”

Stealth trolling technology, GPS markers, anise-scented lures.

I’m really not surprised that the war in Afghanistan didn’t go better.

From Guest Contributor Mark Thomas

Sailing To America

There was something about the endless sky, gray and somber, and the ship’s surging through the dark swirling waters of the Atlantic, that prompted Macbeth to worry about the past. The witches. The blood. The trouble that followed. Was there a route to forgiveness? People went down on their knees, didn’t they? Could he hire someone to do it for him? He was still royalty, wasn’t he? But the breeze was so soothing, the trouble, so remote. Surely Scotland was a memory best forgotten. Besides, in the distance, he could almost see, shining like a pardon, the Statue of Liberty.

From Guest Contributor Linda Lowe

Linda Lowe's stories and poems have appeared in Gone Lawn, Tiny Molecules, Eunoia Review, Misfit Magazine, Six Sentences, and others.

Muscle Memory

Other residents would cradle baby dolls, designed to match the heft of a newborn. But for Grandpa, who’d been one of America’s top reporters, only a typewriter would do. It didn’t even need paper; as the nurses discovered, simply sitting at the antique Olivetti was enough to quell his nightmares. Though his mind was gone, his fingers retained echoes of his memories, shaping them into the staccato sound of clacking keys.

He would sit there, morning to night, at his little utilitarian desk. And while he never produced a single page, we still cherished each and every word he wrote.

From Guest Contributor Keshe Chow

God Bless America

HISTORICAL FICTION ENTRY:

He was met by his family at the Orlando airport after 12 long months of active duty.

Captain Steven Hooks was a free man. Now that the Army didn't need him anymore, he could get back to being a husband and a father and re-open his dental practice.

Gloria, his wife, suggested a movie for his first night home. They gave the kids baths, dressed them in cozy pajamas, and loaded them into the station wagon.

Upon arriving at the booth he handed the cashier the money but she wouldn't take it.

"Sorry, but this drive-in is for whites only."

From Guest Contributor E. Barnes

E. has works published at Entropy, Spillwords, The Purple Pen, The Haven, and several works are in the anthology, "NanoNightmares."

This Boy's Life

Sammy's live-in, Tanya, abhors Sammy's pet tarantula, Quentin. Tanya's friend, Gwen—Sammy's illicit lover—sees murder in Tanya's eyes. Quentin disappears. Sammy suspects Tanya. Time smolders. Back into the picture Quentin dramatically creeps. Tanya proves Gwen prescient, then moves out. Gwen moves in, eventually giving birth to a boy they call Quentin. Time bursts into flames. Hating his parents for naming him after a spider, Quentin kills spiders to spite them, worrying school counselors. Twenty-first century America. Mad boy. 3-D printers. Time, get wise. They call the boy Thomas. He learns violin, no spiders wantonly harmed in this boy's life.From Guest Contributor Darrell Petska

Darrell is a Madison, Wisconsin writer. View some of his fiction and poetry at conservancies.wordpress.com.

The War Of Walls 2

One Hundred years in the future a time machine is built to enlist war troops. After the resistance, America was angry as the resistance killed. The Americans hijacked a plane, so the English grabbed an attack plane. The American General said, 'We can't shoot it down!' His Major had an idea.

The Major said, 'Go above the plane and drop soldiers on it!' The General said to the Major, 'You are right.' As the hijacked plane flew he pushed the Major onto the attack plane. The Major's team took out all of the enemy and both war planes landed safely.

From Guest Contributor Bayley Kelly

The Only Casanova in This Dead Country

"She was so hot,” Sam says. “It was like she was blasting out chunks of magma. When we finished, the whole apartment looked like Pompeii. Anyway – how'd you do with your lucky lady?"

I light up a cigarette and think for a moment.

"I was depressed the next day. Does that answer your question?"

"You tellin' me you didn't make a formaldehyde fetus?"

"Oh we had unprotected sex. I don’t know. Something doesn't sit well inside."

Sam puts his hand on my chest.

“There's nothing comfortable inside that heart of yours,” he says. “It's an abandoned archaeological site. Like America."

From Guest Contributor Justin Karcher

Justin lives in Buffalo, NY. Recent works have appeared in Crab Fat Literary Magazine, Mixtape Methodology, and Maudlin House. You can find him on Twitter.

The Prince Of America

The prince lives in a gated estate deep in the Hollywood Hills. The paparazzi shadow him everywhere, heralding his arrivals and departures. His office, now purely ceremonial, still holds the attention of the populace, many of whom harbor secret hope his family will one day be restored.

The prince, despite being quite eligible, has not settled on a bride. His handlers have broached the topic of a reality TV show, a graceless suggestion that has not sat well. Discretion has always been important to the prince.

Also, he likes to sleep around. The prince is a slut. A discrete slut.