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.

When I Realised The Earth Wasn’t Flat, I Felt Pretty Damn Foolish

The swarm arrived at the beginning of the week, their language that of war, and humanity the patient listeners.

Continents of flame pulsed now, flickering orange across a world recently gone dark.

Those who could, stayed and fought. Crumbling capitals and plasma-charred skeletons formed the battlefields of Earth by midweek.

Those who couldn’t (and those like myself who wouldn’t), hopped on the soonest evac shuttles to Mars.

I nudge a couple away from the window to catch the last view of a burning Earth from orbit.

The sight haunts me.

After all this time, I had guessed the shape wrong.

From Guest Contributor S.R Malone

Strange Sightings

HISTORICAL FICTION SUBMISSION:

Bill watched as fire tore the sky. Just as suddenly, the flame disappeared and a streak of dark smoke hit the ground. Whatever noise sounded at the impact was too distant for Bill to hear.

He hopped on his tractor and headed to the next field. He'd heard of airplanes in Albuquerque, but never actually seen one.

What Bill found at the crash site sent him running. As he drove to Roswell to inform the authorities, he was passed by a line of army trucks headed to his farm. By the time he returned home, the strange vehicle was gone.

From Guest Contributor Chris Thompson

Parting Sails

The seas clash between her and the shore. Yer crew lined up on the edge of the beach. Her sails are riddled with holes from cannon fire. Her hull crushed and impaled by other vessels that have crashed beside her. Quite a miracle she can float even now. As yer crew take their final glances, ye walk until the water reaches yer knees as ye recall her the most. Through storms, valleys, and currents. With a staff of flame on yer right hand, ye set her ablaze in a last gaze of glory. She rests in the sea’s foamy waters.

From Guest Contributor Nahum Zewdie

Nahum is a student of general studies in Pikes Peak Community College.

Match Light

The flame exploded into being as the match head dragged across the sandpaper. It might have seemed magical, but really it was just that the glass-on-glass friction generated enough heat to kindle the match's phosphorus.

The match provided the only light in the entire house, perhaps the entire city. Between the impenetrable clouds and the power outage, darkness had descended as quickly as the sun.

The illumination lasted long enough for Theresa to count the remaining matches. Seventeen. Each one guaranteed to ignite but she knew such guarantees were hollow.

Seventeen matches to survive until the end of the world.

Dysfunction 3

“Some days you just can’t write,” he said aloud.

The citrus-scented candle was not impressed. The flame didn’t even react to his big sigh. It sat on the side table oozing atmosphere but no empathy.

“Oh yeah?” he snapped at it. “When you’re burnt out that’s the end of you. I prevail.”

Hiatus… Odd looks in his direction and muttered comments from bar patrons fused as he tried to blink his tired eyes clear. In the bright honey light, they became drones attending the queen behind the counter: alkaloid aromas their insectoid murmurs of my intrusion.

The page remained blank.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid

Old Flame At A Party

“Long time no see,” she says tipsily, introducing me to a ‘Rick.’ There’s tension between them, something’s not quite right.

Though remaining a looker, she doesn’t turn heads anymore.

I was too dull for her then, with my monogamy, my love of poetry. Chatting, I mention I still like T.S. Eliot, and have a family.

“Oh, settled down, have we?” she says, her tongue as sharp as ever, yet I sense an envy beneath the sarcasm.

“Well, I’m not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be,” I quote, a certain satisfaction in my self-deprecation, when bidding these lost souls goodnight.From Guest Contributor Ian Fletcher

Ian studied English Literature at Oxford University many years ago. He has had short stories published in various genres in Schlock! Webzine, Schlock! Bi-Monthly, Short-story.me, Anotherealm, Under the Bed, A Story In 100 Words, Friday Flash Fiction, and in anthologies by Horrified Press and Rogue Planet Press. He is an Affiliate Member of the Horror Writers Association.