Hello Goodbye

Life is all about the timing.

I fell in love over the course of a several hours last Saturday. I'd only intended to stay out a couple hours, as I was still processing my recent breakup. But then I met Alex. We ended up dancing and talking until dawn, bouncing from one club to the next around the city, and I decided that here, finally, was the love of my life.

It turns out he was pulling one last all-nighter before leaving for a new posting in Olive Branch, Mississippi.

Just as I was saying hello, he was saying goodbye.

Maple Tree

There was a maple tree on the corner of Ryan's yard as he was growing up. When he was seven, the city ordered it cut down because the branches were interfering with the electrical lines. Ryan cried a lot and convinced his mom to fight. It took many hours of sitting in on city council meetings and gathering signatures for a petition, but eventually the power company relented. The tree was saved.

Now the trees are the only things left standing in their old neighborhood. Once the plant revolution started, Ryan and his mom were spared, but the houses weren't.

Something To Eat

“The city is breaking up the encampment, clearing us out,” Olivia said. “I’m leaving.”

“Where are you going?” asked Simone.

“Jail.”

“Jail? Why?”

“In jail I’ll eat every day, have a place to sleep, shower and go to the toilet.”

Simone shivered and pulled the blanket tight around her shoulders. “Jail is awful.”

“Being old and homeless is worse.”

“How will you get sent to jail?”

Olivia opened her coat, exposing the pistol tucked in her waistband. “I’m robbing the first bank I see.”

Simone watched Olivia walk away and tried to ignore the hunger growling deep in her belly.

From Guest Contributor Robert P. Bishop

Robert, a US Army veteran and former Biology teacher, lives in Tucson, Arizona. His short fiction has appeared in numerous online and print journals.

Wanderlust

The pulse of the city is becoming my own. I woke up with a thrumming headache this morning. The night and the dawn are a patchwork in my aching head. When I walk down the street, steam ripples off the pavement, as intangible as my disintegrating memories. How is my stranger? I wonder. The one from last night’s club. Gone now. He’s returned back to his own life after our brief collision: my drunken frame hung off his neck. His glassy brown gaze still holds me. Power lines cross my heart. My eyes swim in the summer sweat and rain.

From Guest Contributor Siri Harrison

When I Get To Heaven

The dust stuck to everything, even my sweat. The heat wasn't as dry as everyone said. I'd be happy when this job was over and I could head back to the city.

The pay had been too good to say no. Five thousand bucks for a single target. I assumed there would be catch.

The catch was the location. Heaven, a town I'd never heard of, found just a few miles down from the edge of absolutely fucking nowhere.

If I wasn't headed to heaven to kill a man, I'd have assumed I was the one who was already dead.

That Summer Feeling

Stephanie walks from her apartment to the subway every morning on her way to work. During the summer, the sidewalks are crowded with fellow commuters and hawkers and a general hustle and bustle smelling of sweat and petrol.

There's a viral eagerness that has infected the city on these days, and she's one of the few people who's immune. She's turned off by the aggressive friendliness that so easily tips towards hostility. There's too much skin and fake pleasantry.

It makes her wonder why so much of her life's been given over to strangers and people she doesn't care for.

Babylon

A city thrives and a city dies, from village to metropolis to graveyard. Now, the desert rocks hide secrets of millennia past, lives long forgotten, dreams of glory faded to black.

A man and woman once lived in Babylon. They fell in love, had children, populated the city with dreams of a family empire that would never end. The man and woman grew old together, surrounded by children and grandchildren, bolstered by laughter and love.

The city endured longer than the man and woman. It endured longer than the grandchildren. But the city didn't live forever. The family still endures.

Falling

Dominicus Tyrannus watched the city crumble from his tower. For years, advisors and barely-trusted confidantes had warned such an outcome was inevitable. There were always warnings and doomsayers looking at him as if somehow he was the one who had failed them, not the other way around.

They were dead now, publicly executed by being tossed from this very tower, their deaths meant to placate the masses. Perhaps it had just whetted their appetites for more blood. Either way, with the empire falling after more than a thousand years of uninterrupted reign, Dominicus regretted not killing them all much earlier.

Monty Rediscovers Home

Six-year-old Monty, a master of his plastic sword, calculates strikes against imaginary giants while he takes cover behind backyard trees. When his mother’s voice pierces through his fantasy, calling him for dinner, the warrior boy marches home victorious.

Forty-year-old Monty daydreams of being a fearless commander defending his country against terrorists and, at night, dreams of being a superhero saving his city from crime and corruption.

While cleaning out his garage, Monty finds his plastic sword and wields it again, destroying enemies with a battle cry whoop. The brave boy/man rediscovers his inner sanctuary to face his lackluster world.

From Guest Contributor Leigh-Anne Burley

Platero And I: Old Skool Bloodbrothers

No doubt you have been wondering, dear Platero, why Stefano keeps spitting on the ground each time we pass his house and I greet him with a slight nod.

We grew up in the same neighborhood and became good friends. Later we went to college in the same city, where we got drunk together and whispered similar sweet words in girls ears. We were convinced the world was at our feet and nothing would ever change that.

But then...the civil war broke out and blood brothers became sworn enemies.

Time heals many wounds, Platero, but clearly not all.From Guest Contributor Hervé Suys

Hervé (°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.