Monty Rediscovers Home

Six-year-old Monty, a master of his plastic sword, calculates strikes against imaginary giants while he takes cover behind backyard trees. When his mother’s voice pierces through his fantasy, calling him for dinner, the warrior boy marches home victorious.

Forty-year-old Monty daydreams of being a fearless commander defending his country against terrorists and, at night, dreams of being a superhero saving his city from crime and corruption.

While cleaning out his garage, Monty finds his plastic sword and wields it again, destroying enemies with a battle cry whoop. The brave boy/man rediscovers his inner sanctuary to face his lackluster world.

From Guest Contributor Leigh-Anne Burley

Sunflowers On The Horizon

The rows of sunflowers spread across the horizon, tiny flames of color against a burnt-out sky. Megan ducks away from the window, hoping she wasn't spotted.

"They're coming closer."

Charles scrambles on hands and knees from room to room, locking each door without standing up, praying the bolts will be enough to keep them safe.

"I'm scared."

Megan ignores his cowardice, once again apologizing to her inner voice for ignoring its many warnings that an RPG podcaster would not make a good husband.

"Just shut up and go get the pesticide from the garage. I have some sunflowers to murder."

Who Cared?

Robots Contest Entry:

He tinkered for a year, ignoring his phone and only leaving the house for Wacko Wake or the hardware store. The rest was delivered.

The garage was littered with tools and metal shards. The WiFi flicked on for two hours each night so he could comb websites.

His friends had given up on him. Who cared? He was done. Done with living like an open wound, a scrap of plastic blown in someone else’s breeze.

Finally, it was time. He flipped the switch and felt an electric jolt. The eyes lit up. The battery hummed.

Then it spoke. “Yes, master?”

From Guest Contributor Faye Rapoport DesPres

Quiet Streets

My footsteps echo on the road pavement in the still, cool morning. It is eerie being out on the quiet streets. I walk before people are awake; the darkness is my ally, helping conceal me. I stop and hide when I hear voices from an approaching patrol. Flattened against the side of a garage, I hold my breath as they pass, innocently chattering. I venture into the street after I can no longer hear them. The punishment for violating the lockdown order is severe. Never would I have believed my country would use military patrols to enforce a lockdown policy.

From Guest Contributor NT Franklin

NT Franklin has been published in Page and Spine, Fiction on the Web, 101 Words, Friday Flash Fiction, CafeLit, Madswirl, Postcard Shorts, 404 Words, Scarlet Leaf Review, Freedom Fiction, Burrst, Entropy, Alsina Publishing, Fifty-word stories, Dime Show Review, among others.

The World Is Nothing But Chaos And Entropy

Brian stared at the devastation. Where once stood his immaculately kept garage, packed with 45-years worth of careful philatelic curation, was a skeletal frame and mound of black cinders. His eye would be diverted by what momentarily struck him as an envelope floating on the breeze, but turned out was nothing but ash.

His wife attempted consoling him. Imagine the insurance payout! But his devotion had never been about money. Only now, staring at the remains of his life's work, did he truly understand his need for the comfort of a well-aligned stamp in a world of chaos and entropy.

Fuel For Thought

I miss him already.

Longing for his accommodation from my customary position on his lap. His immediate response to desires communicated with a caress of my foot.

This will be our last intimacy for some time. The intercooler died. The journey to the garage is an uncomfortable affair. Accelerating by exhaling, barely contacting the pedal. Still plunging the road behind into an apocalyptic black cloud of unburnt diesel.

Miles per gallon reading’s down to yards. Glares from other road users threaten to ignite the fuel trail.

“Go green!” They yell.

Jersey is green. Spruce Green. Says so on his logbook.

From Guest Contributor Frances Tate

Luke the Wonder Dog

My dog takes credit for ‘diagnosing’ my brain tumor. My husband and I entered our garage together, but he jumped back. I asked what’s wrong.

“You’re kidding? The stench is unbearable.”

Late August temperatures cooked the bin used to collect the dog’s poop and the lid fell open, releasing a stink.

“I don’t smell anything.”

“That can’t be right.”

My doctor scheduled an MRI that revealed a racquetball-sized tumor between my eyes and olfactory nerve. It was operable and benign. I was lucky.

My dog reminds me at every turn that I owe him my life. He thinks he’s Lassie.

From Guest Contributor Anne Anthony

This Story Takes Place In Minnesota

Rebecca hurried from the office. She jumped into the front seat of her car, tossed her bag down next to her, threw the key in the ignition, then suddenly paused.

There was a stranger sitting in the backseat. Rebecca pulled out of the lot and headed towards the highway while trying to avoid looking in the mirror. An awkward silence hung in the air. Rebecca refused to be the first one to say anything.

When she finally pulled into her garage, Rebecca grabbed her bag and hurried into the house. She hoped the man would be gone by the morning.