Conspiracy Theory

Beyond porch lights, snow piles up, sealing in anxious women. They stand at windowsills watching the sky glower. Blinking in the fists of children are glo-stix to throw at the towering drifts, aiming where the eyes should go. Elsewhere, a child snaps his birthday gift of a bow-and-arrow in half. The moon rolls down a hill and thunder beats its metal chest, a rattling that distracts everyone from the whir of an incoming drone. It kicks up all the snow but means no harm, though some will insist the machine was an alien ship, come to take the glo-stix home.

From Guest Contributor Cheryl Snell

Weightlifting

When he first started pushing barbells, he did it to get his anger out, throwing the weights from his body, stressing his tendons as he exhaled sprays of spit with every red-faced repetition, every sweaty pump. He realized his joints wouldn’t last long hurling metal, so he calmed his approach, traded manic intervals – of fighting gravity with fury – for calculated precision, and he’d demonstrate, lying down on a chair with an invisible bar connecting his fists, showing us the proper form of a barbell press, his big forearms and biceps flexing and twisting slowly as his muscles contracted, then extended.

From Guest Contributor Parker Wilson

Parker is a writer and editor living in Highland Park. He is a recent MFA graduate and spends his free time running along the Detroit River. He’s published in Bristol Noir and is a founding editor at DUMBO Press.

Instagram:@parkerreviewsbooks

Tremors

My clammy palms drip sweat and my icy feet shiver. I barely fit on this stiff, creaky bed. From the haunted murkiness, a shadow emerges and creeps around.

Drowning in the claustrophobic silence, I am trapped. No one hears my heart’s pounding rattle. As he looms from the dark, my throbbing stomach twinges and my wobbly legs quiver.

He lifts the thin sheet off of my legs and I clench my fists timorously. I tremble in trepidation as he plunges the invasive latex-covered wand into my body.

Moments later, he tenderly pulls it out and smiles. “Your baby is healthy.”

From Guest Contributor Hetal Shah

Hetal graduated with her Bachelor of Commerce from SIES. She lives in Mumbai with her husband, son, and daughter. She rekindled her hobby of writing over the past year. She is the winner of Mumbai Poetry League 2020, and her poem was published in an anthology by Poets of Mumbai called Guldastaa A Bouquet of Poems. She also writes flash fiction, and has been published twice on 101words.org. She loves to read, and especially enjoys reading and writing stories of romance and everyday life. Besides writing, she enjoys cooking new cuisines, traveling, and singing.

Assembly Required

His parents were poorly assembled themselves. Throw meth and booze into it, and no wonder he grew into a discombobulated mess.

Those who tried to help fled after one too many black eyes from his spazzed-out fists. Well-meaning therapists nodded blankly as he sobbed.

One part worked, though: his left pinkie.

Undoing himself was no walk in the park; piecing himself together was the challenge of a lifetime.

Through trial and error, he bravely persevered.

And one day, like a miracle, all his parts beautifully aligned—with only an occasional faint clicking sound to remind him how far he’d come.

From Guest Contributor Michelle Wilson

Michelle Wilson’s words have appeared in Entropy Squared, 50-Word Stories, 101 Words, Literally Stories, The Miami Herald, and elsewhere. She lives in Miami Beach, Florida. Sometimes, she can be found here.

Except In Pictures

NATURE SUBMISSION:

His mother always said you solved more problems with words than with fists. But his was not a peaceful nature, and after years of unanswered abuses, he was unwilling to sit by and do nothing.

The bomb exploded on the night of May 1st, 1997. One person was killed, another injured. Both security guards.

His lawyer would argue that the deaths were tragic accidents, that he'd thought the building would be empty. The truth was he hadn't cared.

Now he's in jail, no chance for parole. Nature is still being destroyed, and he hasn't seen a tree in many years.

From Guest Contributor Samantha Dryden

The Price Of Loyalty

Jesse saw his blood staining the grass behind him as he was dragged across the lawn. At least he thought it was his blood. He'd taken such a beating that he was starting to worry about Mr. Jordan's fists.

Most people thought Mr. Jordan had an awful temper and they generally quit his service after only a few weeks. Those that lasted did so because they stood up for themselves.

That meant, when Mr. Jordan was in one of his moods, Jesse was the singular focus of all the boss's anger.

Tonight, Mr. Jordan was in one of his moods.