Cold

He’d never told a girl that he loved her before. The anxiety was far worse than a first kiss, his teeth chattering as if he’d been blasted by cold air. Although the June night was hot, she rubbed his arms, to warm him.

He started a couple of times, the vibration of his teeth getting in the way. Finally, amid a sparse chorus of crickets and the buzz of the street lamp over head, he said the words.

She responded by kissing him and holding him tightly, but that summer she would never say the words he craved to hear.From Guest Contributor Ran Walker

Ran is the author of 24 books. He teaches creative writing at Hampton University in Virginia. He can be reached via his website, www.ranwalker.com.

Abiding

I stir the White Russian, the clink of ice so soft, tender. I should be grading papers and concentrating on how to explain Rasputin and Nicholas II to my students. I just want to abide in White Russians and ice, a creamy sea.

I take a sip, savor cream-filled sensation. Hold onto it. Too many rules, kiss department chair’s ass. Don’t swear. Be responsible like Professor Gebert. Voices rise, like some discordant chorus.

I take another sip.

How rich I feel, world subordinated to ice-filled buzz.

I take another small sip, trying to keep creamy seas from melting.

I’m losing.

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.

Survivors

They live presently. Now they tear the soft meat from the bone, now they hear the twang of resistant tendons. The vibration of it. A chorus of crows. Scudding wings of moths that search for the darkness just beyond. In the pit is hunger. We exist, hands pasted to rifle stocks, glimmering gunmetal eyes, rattle-boned. They know family born of teeth, defined by the low moans of their communes. Their tongues hang together. Our hands hang separately, our nails scratching our own stomachs, our thighs, our faces. But we are all hungry. We will all ooze the same black ichor.From Guest Contributor Carrie Cook

Carrie received her MA in Creative Writing from Kansas State University and is currently living in Colorado. Her work has appeared in The Columbia Review, Midwestern Gothic, Menacing Hedge, and Bartleby Snopes.

Last Sunset Before Flagstaff

Sydnacious Crumb’s “Pick Me a Squirrel,” Grunge’s last anthem, fought through the mountains for spotty FM reception. Too dark now for sunglasses, he rested his eyes on the long stretch of desert between painted rocks and casino frybread. Squinting occasionally, he thought of how this band, or any artist, could create something that was so much better than anything that came before or after. Just as Crumb caught a clear wave and the chorus echoed, “squirrel, squirrel, squirrel,” he saw in the rearview a beam of light. Not quite purple or red, no, it was pink. And then he understood.

From Guest Contributor Adam Axler

Adam is a former New York City paramedic, physician assistant, and is the current owner of online bookstore Collectible Science Fiction.

Sunday Morning

Polystyrene-on-glass calls pause. Unknown bird waits. Magpie’s hoarse rattle bobs upon chill breeze, followed by one clipped caw. Wind and distant slumber.

Dog yelp, muffled by intervening streets, punctuates keyboard-click.

Repeated.

Nothing.

Wheeze of diesel engine and hiss of pneumatic tyres upon Tarmac cue pair of voices in garbled conversation, growing as they near.

The dog dips paw into arena of proper barking before relenting, wounded by unanimous indifference.

Then...timeless chorus of seagulls.

All cede to a hesitant wind under sombre sky.

Footfalls.

Children’s voices shatter tableau, announcing subdued urgency of Sunday morning.

Bleakness prevails, yet wind chimes sound.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid

One Last Sunrise

Carl awoke to the escalating chorus of songbirds echoing through the dense northeastern forest. He arose and went through his morning ritual in silence. Dress and redon boots. Rehydrate and consume breakfast, coffee. Breakdown camp. Load his backpack.

These same activities he had performed for countless summers, now at a slower more deliberate pace.

The sealed cardboard box was left out of his pack today. He would carry it the last few miles in his hands.

Arriving at their unnamed peak, he savored the sunrise view east. Opening the box, he sprinkled her remains. Finally, at peace. Finally, at home.

From Guest Contributor Todd Raubenolt