Heatwave

They slept in front of stores closed for the day. Others pushed personal belongings in shopping carts.

A young woman missing front teeth stared upward as I passed. I crossed the street aware of an underweight cat doing likewise ahead.

“You have more?” I caught my partner off guard, showing the contents of my opened bag.

“How many you need?”

“At least a dozen.”

“That’s all I have,” he grimaced.

I resumed my mission as the sun lowered into its nighttime place, knowing that at some point I won’t have enough bottles of water to distribute to those in need.

From guest contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Parts

There are so many parts. Kept in so many places. Compartments. Boxes. Bags. Bottles of fragile glass. Crumpled notes. Silent emotions. Screaming thoughts. Swept under the rug, in full view for all to see. No one cares to look. Feet itch. Throats burn and choke. There is pain. A fullness in the head. Legs are terrified. Hips want to cry. I don’t know why. Go, in search of questions. Lost with all your parts. Unable to fix. Unable to stop. Unable to flee. Unable to look you in the eye. Scared of what you already know. Parts of a whole.

From Guest Contributor Courtney King

The Journey

She crawls up the streambank to the edge of the road to carry out her innate mission. Now in the twelfth year of her life, she’s made the trip six times before, but the litter gets worse every year. On her way to the roadside, she moves past another snapping turtle hopelessly tangled in clear fishing line. Discarded beer cans and bottles keep getting in her way. She claws away sand and starts laying eggs. Fifty white eggs are guided into the hole and covered, only to be abandoned; in ninety days, the turtle hatchlings will be on their own.

From Guest Contributor N.T. 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.

Dragonfly And Crow

We—who were left by the fire after the boss stood on the flame's waving edge, wearing his black suit and immaculate boots, to tell the dragonfly and the crow that had bedeviled his every moment since the fire's first spark that he had found a solution and would soon be free of their cruelty, that he, the boss, would soon pull off their wings and grind them into dust, and then turned, the boss, and ran into the flames—joined our hands before spreading blankets on scorched grass, opening bottles of cold beer, and sharing figs fatter than those in eternity.

From Guest Contributor John Riley

John is a former teacher who works in educational publishing. He has published fiction and poetry in Smokelong Quarterly, Mojave River Review, Ekphrastic Review, Connotation Press, Banyan Review, Better Than Starbucks, and many other journals and anthologies. EXOT Press will publish a book of his 100-word prose poems in 2022.

The Walking Dead

Thinking about escaping across closed borders, I dug a hole outside. It was hard work. I pulled out bricks, barbed wire, glass bottles and jars, and old cans as I dug deeper. When my mind drifted too far into sadness, I stopped. Everything moves slowly now. I’m learning to be very stingy with supplies. On the table is a bunch of flowers I found in the trash. This may be a day for catching up on The Walking Dead, but I stand at a window that looks out on a yard. Somehow, just standing there feels like a hopeful gesture.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie Good is the author of What It Is and How to Use It (2019) from Grey Book Press, among other poetry collections.

Abracadabra Universe

I got to tell you, what a computer thinks a man looks like, adversarially evolved hallucinations, is the kind of shit that wears me out. But, apparently, it isn’t the kind of shit that wears most other people out. Their focus is just too taken up with acquiring the essentials – liquor, guns, toilet paper, travel bottles of hand sanitizer – for them to ever notice the heart lying in rags at their feet, or the African monkeys rafting across the Atlantic, or the shrill, jangly sound in the background that can be variously translated as “hello” or “goodbye” or even “peace.”

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author most recently of Stick Figure Opera: 99 100-word Prose Poems from Cajun Mutt Press. He co-edits the online journals Unbroken and UnLost.

Bottles Of Love

Nick is aroused by the clinking of bottles in the fridge. Mother’s having another drink.

That old clink, so familiar. It’s a constant sound since Dad took off, piercing Nick’s twelve-year old ears.

Cue Mother’s laughter, cackling. Cracked.

He can’t tell Mother what it means to see tenderness replaced by laughter. Rage. Bills go unpaid, furniture disappears. But night after night, bottles take over. Wine, vodka. Beer.

One night, Nick sneaks downstairs, removes each bottle with methodical coldness. Hurls each one at the floor.

He shatters again and again, surveys the ruins.

Tomorrow, more will appear. He’ll do it again.

From Guest Contributor Yash Seyedbagheri

Yash is a graduate of Colorado State University's MFA program in fiction. His story, "Soon," was nominated for a Pushcart. Yash’s stories are forthcoming or have been published in Café Lit, Mad Swirl, 50 Word Stories, and Ariel Chart, among others.

Postcards Of Joy

Mother loves postcards. I wish you could see this cathedral. I miss you. I have been constrained by tradition. I move from friend to friend. Wake in one bedroom, slumber in another. No personal markers, photos. Gifts conveying motherly intimacy. My favorite Yates novel, a radio, a train set. Living with Mother was rife with frenetic energy once Dad left. He called her a senseless dreamer. Life was defined by bottles, hissing wine. Cackling laughter, dissolved smiles. I want Mother at ease. Instead, I conjure her flitting about cathedrals, mistaking facades for joy. I tell her I’m happy. Try to believe.

From Guest Contributor Yash Seyedbagheri

Yash is a graduate of Colorado State University's MFA program in fiction. His story "Soon," was nominated for a Pushcart and he has also had work nominated for The Best Small Fictions. Yash's work is forthcoming or has been published in journals such as 50-Word Stories, Silent Auctions, City. River. Tree. and Ariel Chart.

The Sound Of What’s Coming

There was a guillotine in the basement. People in the surrounding buildings reacted by hurling rocks and bottles. The whole thing felt suspicious, like someone was trying to send me a message. So I started cutting out images of crashes and mass shootings from the newspaper and transferring them onto the surface of prison-issued soaps. Then I figured out a way to do that onto the prison sheets. The residue that accumulated on the floor and walls took on a life of its own. Now what do we do? The window provides enough natural light to keep the snake alive.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good