The Hymn Of Future Days

With the contract for his eternal soul available for sale on the open market, Henry weighed his many options before settling upon the only religion he could find fully focused on the future as it really is, not some promised eternity we can never verify for ourselves.

The congregation sings the Hymn of Future Days, our days, the days that grow out of our decisions now. We erect our house of worship on these very real bones of actions and words, and if it all comes crumbling down, we have only ourselves to blame.

Choose your building blocks with care.

Meat Monster

The fleshy carcass emerges from the oven with ill intent in its heart. What was once a peaceful, feeling, sentient creature is now sliced and glazed in a glass casserole dish. The gluttonous desire of the would-be cannibals turns to terror upon seeing the monster they have crafted. The violent nature of their death at the hands of their once victim will pale in comparison to the guilt that will weigh down their souls as they pass on to whatever eternity they might have waiting for them on the other side.

At least that's how a vegan imagines it.

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.

Hylas

The journey with Hercules was arduous. We sailed the ominous sea, and the storm destroyed our ship. Stranded, with few survivors, I searched for a lake to quench our thirst.

As I came to a clear, calm stream, a lovely naked woman rose before me, her long black hair drenched and covering her breasts. She pulled me under with the strength of a man, as other women surrounded me.

“Relax, Hylas, we are here to please you.” Her voice melodious and soothing.

I drifted for what seemed an eternity and surfaced as if nothing had happened.

The ritual began again.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Dust To Dust

NATURE SUBMISSION:

The dust swirls through the late evening sun, catching the light just so. Growing up, people used to say the dust was your dead skin. A few of my more morbid friends even said it was the skin of dead people. Dust to dust after all.

I wonder if that's true. The poet in me wants to believe it is, that we're surrounded by our ancestors at all times, that their spirits live for eternity on the winds.

The claims adjuster in me turns back to my computer screen. Perhaps if I concentrated a bit more I'd be home already.

From Guest Contributor Angie Thrush

The Gravity Of Shame

Daphne has a secret.

She's scared to speak of it. She doubts anyone will understand, even her closest friends. She only ever wanted to fit in, and so she's hidden her affliction for more than a year now. She's bought heavy boots, wears bulky jewelry, and ties herself to her bed at night, to avoid drifting away.

She's searched on Google to no avail. She thinks about seeing a doctor, but what if they want to do experiments on her?

In the end, she decides it's easier to float into the eternity of space than to admit she's gravity immune.

The Margin Between Here And There

The margin between her final breath and eternity was shorter than she'd been led to believe, barely enough time to comprehend what was happening. She felt herself suffocated by regret and panic and an overwhelming sense of injustice..

There had been one moment when she'd been truly happy.

As her body twisted inside its metal chariot that would drive her forcefully into the afterlife, the airbag slammed away her breath, swallowed up her regrets, bludgeoned her consciousness, until all that was left was that moment.

She wanted to call out to him.

Before she could say goodbye it was over.

100 Words

They've given me 100 words to either make my confession or damn my soul for eternity. It makes me want to stop all together, not give them the satisfaction. I'd like to take Hell over their smug superiority.

But that's the kind of attitude that got me in here to begin with. You'd think all the time alone would have given me a chance to mature, but it's always the same. I can never yield, even in the face of overwhelming odds.

So it's time to make a decision, but it seems that 100 words wasn't enough and now I've run out.