The Lilith Bird

He was tempted by her cardinal blouson and red pout, by the slippy-strap escaping down her arm, showing she was a little disheveled. She was unadorned, but her fangs flickered gold in the glow of candles and broken mirrors. He imagined the impossible, undressing her in his world, how he would unravel in her beautiful feathers. But he knew her kind, how she could only take and not be taken. She would ravish him in a few ecstatic moments and leave his husk in a heap of satin sheets, while she licked the last drops of blood from her claws. From Guest Contributor Lorette C. Luzajic

Lorette reads, writes, publishes, edits, and teaches small fictions. Her work has appeared in hundreds of journals and a dozen anthologies. She was selected for Best Small Fictions 2023. She has been nominated several times for Best Microfictions, Best of the Net, and the Pushcart Prize, and shortlisted for Bath Flash Fiction and The Lascaux Review flash prizes. Her collections of small fictions are The Rope Artist, The Neon Rosary, Pretty Time Machine and Winter in June. A collection of her work has also been translated into Urdu by Saad Ali. Lorette is the founding editor of The Ekphrastic Review, a journal of literature inspired by art. Lorette is also an award-winning mixed media artist, with collectors in more than 40 countries so far.

When The Clock Strikes Twelve

It wasn’t a new year; it was the new year. Margo watched the clock tick down to midnight with bated breath. Her hand tightened around the stem of her bubbly champagne flute until her fingers turned red. A fresh start; a new beginning. As the clock struck twelve and the ding sounded the glass stem shattered in her grasp, forcing crystal shards into her palm. Blood ran down her wrist. With a resigned sigh she flopped back on the couch and watched the red drops dripping from her fingers permanently stain the rug. Oh well. There was always next year.From Guest Contributor Madison Randolph

Madison is a reader by day and a writer by night. Her works have appeared in Friday Flash Fiction, The Drabble, Bright Flash Literary Review, Spillwords, The Chamber Magazine as well as 101 Words under the name Ryker Hayes. She can be found on Instagram madisonrandolph17 or Twitter @Madisonr1713

August Drops

It's not fall yet. It's still light ‘til eight and the kids want to stay out past that on the trampoline that squeaks now with every bounce, its round net keeping out the cucumber-loving mosquitoes, the raspberry-loving bees, the cool night-loving spiders. The sky goes sherbet and then gray and raindrops fall but stop just before you get them to come in and then the sky is bright on one side, and the baby is jumping and pointing: light! (spin) dark! (spin) light! (spin) pink! And it's time to do pajamas and kitchen and bills but you don't.

You jump.

From Guest Contributor Brook Bhagat

Brook is the author of Only Flying, a Pushcart-nominated collection of surreal poetry and flash fiction on paradox, rebellion, transformation, and enlightenment from Unsolicited Press. Her work has won contests at Loud Coffee Press and A Story in 100 Words, and it has appeared in Monkeybicycle, Empty Mirror, Soundings East, The Alien Buddha Goes Pop, Anthem: A Tribute to Leonard Cohen, and other journals and anthologies. She is a founding editor of Blue Planet Journal and a professor of creative writing. Read her work and learn more about Only Flying at https://brook-bhagat.com/.

You

Run.Feet crush the leaves; waves of terror crawl your spine.Slide.A tree – a savior! Red drops drip down from your ears to the ground.Crack!Terror returns like an old friend. It seems now is your end.Look.A challenge beckons you. Leaning around the bark, you peak into the clearing.Empty?Before you can contemplate, a hand wraps around your throat.“Missed me?”The version of yourself you keep locked away smirks at you.“I’m afraid of the dark.”The clearing dissipates as you are released.Clink!Chains now hold you down.“I don’t want to disappear.”

From Guest Contributor Sydney Clark

Under The Rainbow

For an instant, just before noticing the new bank of threatening clouds conspiring on the darkened horizon, it seemed like everyone knew how to think, knew what to think; everyone knew how to feel. No one could take their eyes off the rainbow until it faded—as all rainbows always do—and the first few burning drops of the new and far more furious downpour, promising only flood, destruction, and despair appeared.

By the time the storm reached its new-found fury, everyone had given up seeking shelter. No one had any recollection whatsoever of anything even vaguely resembling a rainbow

From Guest Contributor Ron. Lavalette

Ron. Lavalette’s many published works, including his debut chapbook, Fallen Away, can be found HERE.