Interstellar Rebellion

"Red Alert!"

Captain Spiff dashed to the bridge of his sentinel frigate, shocked at what he found. Thousands of enemy warcraft descended on the capitol planet's defenses, seemingly out of nowhere.

Emperor Devane had ruled the galaxy for more than 2700 CR (Capitol Revolutions) with no hint of rebellion. Entire systems were wiped out for causing the slightest upset to the Emperor's mood. Coordinating such an attack must have taken years, yet his daily security briefing had offered zero hint of the possibility.

Spiff's final thought was to contemplate what promotion might be available were he to defeat these insurgents.

Chaos Angel

Bill stood overlooking the Hudson River, contemplating what reason he had for still living. He half expected an angel to appear, a wise guardian able to show him all the people who'd miss him were he no longer here. Instead, he found himself completely alone, a feeling that had grown so oppressive that any outcome would be preferable.

Bill did have a guardian angel. His name was Donald. He was scheduled to be at the bridge at exactly the moment he was most needed. Unfortunately, Donald did not believe in keeping a calendar. He preferred to wing it (pun intended).

A Frank Conversation Following An Epistolary Courtship

How will you tell people we met? she asks.

I’ll say I’m a quantum anthropologist from a parallel reality who built a machine to peer beyond dimensional walls. That I spent years studying myriad earths twitching across infinite frequencies until, one day, I saw you through my viewfinder. Yes, I knew crossing the trans-dimensional bridge would buckle my reality’s foundations. I didn’t care. I’ll warn everyone, my love for you doomed a universe.

And you? he asks.

She shifts. Her shackles jingle. The guard clears his throat. The truth. I took first at the International Sasquatch Rodeo. You were runner-up.

From Guest Contributor Keith J. Powell

Keith is co-founder of Your Impossible Voice. Find more of his writing at www.keithjpowell.com.

My Forest Camp

At my forest camp, he collapses on to the mattress in my tent, and is asleep in moments. I pack my travel bag, leave him a note saying he can have the tent and everything in it, light some incense and put it at my tiny shrine to Lord Ganesh, say a prayer for him and the other strugglers around here, feed peanuts to the local monkeys, my friends for the last few months, and walk back along the path into the village and across the bridge over the River Ganges towards Rishikesh, to get a bus back to Delhi.

From Guest Contributor Stephen House

Escape Route

Nadia rushes through the streets. Gunfire and bombs go off in the near distance and people are scrambling, and screaming, knocking into her while sweat drips down the nape of her neck. Her breath is shallow from the heat and clouds of black smoke fill the air. She uses her sleeve to cover her face from breathing in the toxic fumes, but she coughs heavily. She prays her husband is safe, but she hasn’t heard a word since he left to fight for their country.

She reaches the bridge.

A bomb explodes creating darkness and the bridge collapses beneath her.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

The Gandy Dark

Three miles, under moonlight, over the dark bay, a long bridge over troubled water. Aside the Sawgrass swamps. The Doors’ low groan hypnotic. New Orleans is waiting for you. Look, I’ll drive, your friend says when you start swerving sideways. You’re slipping under, you are fading down to dreams. Yes, you say, stab your fingers into the packet of American Spirit, wave them at the pale pomelo half-plate in the sky, the sliver of moon that is lighting your way. You are on your way to meet the Devil you don’t believe in, but neither of you know it yet.

From Guest Contributor Lorette C. Luzajic

Lorette is a widely published writer of flash fiction and prose poetry, with recent or forthcoming appearances in Tiny Molecules, The Citron Review, Ghost Parachute, Dillydoun Review, and more. She is the founder and editor of The Ekphrastic Review, a journal of literature inspired by visual art.

Platero And I: The Bridge

Do you remember last year, Platero? We were heading off to Señora Jiménez to bring her some deadwood.

We were already halfway across the narrow stone bridge over the Rio Molino when Juan, the warden of the hacienda, came running towards us. He shouted he was in a hurry – he suspected his daughter was meeting her lover Ramon at that same moment. He must have frightened you, Platero, because there was no way to get you moving. You stood there for over two hours.

Juan sends his greetings: “Tell your donkey that thanks to his stubbornness I’m a grandfather now.”

From Guest Contributor Hervé Suys

Hervé Suys (°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.

April 1912

It is never quiet in the engine room of an ocean liner. I am on the night shift; the lights are bright and the boilers noisy. Suddenly I feel the ship shudder and hear a grinding noise on the starboard side. Something is very wrong. I make my way to the telephone to call the bridge, but no one answers.

Now I notice that water is beginning to flood the engine compartment. I order the bilge pumps activated but they cannot handle the incoming sea water. The sea is a fearsome master; I elect to remain with the foundering ship.

From Guest Contributor Janice Siderius

Mother Nature Always Wins

NATURE SUBMISSION:

When you push the envelope, sometimes the envelope pushes back.

The architects and the engineers were certain that their calculations were correct. The bridge would save time and effort when driving across the sound. The financing was in place after years of wrangling. The bridge was inaugurated with great fanfare.

The Williwaw was the locals’ name for the wind that came from the north. High winds were not unusual, and the designers of the bridge had accounted for them. Mother Nature didn’t know the words “vortex shedding” or “aeroelastic flutter.” But she didn’t need words, she just needed the wind.

From Guest Contributor Janice Siderius

Lipstick Car Wreck

Finally alone, you open your coat in the snowRevealing the soft hum of your pilot lightLiving, walking to the water’s edgeTo pray for river’s cleansethe water is polluted with reflectionSo you run, you always do, into an idlecar on the street outsideOf where you need to be, you’ve circled around3 times already (you’re not getting any more inside)and drive, flood down the avenue to the last bridgeLeft erect from burned out comings-aliveswitch, from automatic to manualStop self-correcting let it careenA smile like wreckage smears across your face

From Guest Contributor Wyatt Martin