A Brief Interaction

An old woman and a boy. Both walking on opposite sides of the same busy street; her with a bag full of groceries. She enters a crosswalk, stumbles over a crack, falls, her groceries scattering. The boy gasps watching vehicles swerve around her, none stopping. He scurries between them to her side, helps her to her feet, collects her groceries back into her bag, leads her carefully across to the sidewalk on the other side. Their eyes meet and hold. The old woman pats her heaving chest and points to him. The boy smiles, nods, then continues on his way.

From Guest Contributor William Cass

William has had over 395 short stories accepted for publication in a variety of literary magazines and anthologies such as december, Briar Cliff Review, and Zone 3. Winner of writing contests at Terrain.org and The Examined Life Journal, he's also been nominated once for Best of the Net, twice for Best Small Fictions, and six times for the Pushcart Prize. His three short story collections have all been published by Wising Up Press.

The Agony Of De Feet

We took a cruise which included Roatan, an island off the Honduras coast. We had a fine time just wandering around the island but decided it would be a good idea to go kayaking. We were right, it was a beautiful day in the Caribbean and the bright sun was fine. We thought we had dressed for the occasion, but even with suntan lotion on most parts of our exposed bodies we forgot our feet. Both of us got extremely sunburned feet. Walking was painful for days after, but we still remember our cruise and time spent on Roatan fondly.

From Guest Contributor Doug Hawley

Best Friends Forever

Michael sits on the dock with his feet dangling in the water. Frank lounges next to him, his nose alert for danger or snacks.

Perhaps they will go for a walk along the lake, or follow the dried creek bed up to the moss tree. Or Michael might grab a fishing pole from the shed and spend the afternoon at the shady shore. Frank would probably rather chase squirrels and rabbits in the grassy meadow.

It's the kind of day that you want to freeze in time and make it last forever.

The kind of day made for best friends.

The Ascent

The door heaves open. Light floods me while darkness retreats inside me. The guards shove me outside my cell. On the stairs, my heart beats like a war drum. One step. Two. Many more. While my chains gently clink. At the summit, I look down and the people cheer. I see their mouths moving but I can’t hear a sound. All I hear is my panicked breath. As they take off my chains, the darkness escapes. I feel so light that I lose the ground under my feet. I smile, in the twenty-five meters that separate me from the abyss.

From Guest Contributor Davide Risso

Davide grew up in Italy, but his itchy feet led him to live in Ireland, Germany, the United States, and travel around the globe. Scientist by training, writer by passion, rock climber by vocation, his fiction has appeared in Flash Fiction Magazine, RumbleFish Press, Literary Yard, and Cranked Anvil among others.

Two Ottos

By the time he awoke that Saturday morning, Otto was exhausted. It was another night of running dreams – of being on a treadmill, getting no place fast. And, then, of the treadmill ratcheted up to greater and greater inclines.

How much more could he take?

Painfully, step after step, he stumbled into the kitchen. Were his feet blistered?

There, in the cage on the counter, was Little Otto, his hamster.

And on the ridiculous hamster wheel.

Little Otto's legs moved faster and faster.

"Stop it."

But Little Otto only sped up.

"At least wipe that damned smirk off your face."

From Guest Contributor David Sydney

Island Of Souls

Simon woke up in the sand, waves lapping against his legs. For once his pants weren't soaking wet from urine.

He braced for a hangover to wash over him that never came. After a few moments he struggled to his feet, trying to piece together where he was and how he ended up here. Not the strangest place he's woken up, but he seemed far from a Starbucks. He'd even settle for a 7/11 at this point, but all he saw was the empty beach in either direction.

Maybe running away from his intervention had been a bad idea.

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.

Wishful Thinking

As the Strawberry moon sets on the peak the sky shines bright like a diamond ready for its new owner. Spring weather in the Springs is springing but the cool breeze feels good on our cocoa butter infused skin. Your eyes bright like a newborn showing off their first smile and your touch soft yet warm like Vicuña. The record player sings the soft sweet sounds of “The Sweetest Taboo” with our feet's glued to the floor with no care in the world. Nights like this are longed for with breathtaking experiences, never ending memories but nothing like wishful thinking. From Guest Contributor Renee' Battle

Renee' is a student studying broadcasting and legal studies at Pikes Peak State College.

Parts

There are so many parts. Kept in so many places. Compartments. Boxes. Bags. Bottles of fragile glass. Crumpled notes. Silent emotions. Screaming thoughts. Swept under the rug, in full view for all to see. No one cares to look. Feet itch. Throats burn and choke. There is pain. A fullness in the head. Legs are terrified. Hips want to cry. I don’t know why. Go, in search of questions. Lost with all your parts. Unable to fix. Unable to stop. Unable to flee. Unable to look you in the eye. Scared of what you already know. Parts of a whole.

From Guest Contributor Courtney King

The Secret To Staying Human

Mom digs her feet under the wet sand of the Atlantic. I stand next to her, wondering if the ocean will remember her and melt her legs back together.

Each wave climbs higher up our pale legs. Our feet sink deeper and deeper. The surge threatens to topple me, to suck me out to sea. Tears stream down my cheeks.

Mom grabs me. “This was a mistake.”

I cling to her as she rushes toward our towels.

She dries her feet. Inspects each toe. Sighs in relief.

My toes tingle, translucent skin spread between them. The ocean’s song calls me.

From Guest Contributor Sally Simon

Sally (ze/hir) lives in NY. When not writing, ze’s travels and stabs people with hir epee. Read more at www.sallysimonwriter.com.