The Shot

Ekanth carefully eases the postcard out of its nail. His fingers caress over the smiling faces etched against white peaks and pine-specked slopes. Bittersweet childhood memories rush through him: the long-planned vacation, the magical snow, the family selfie for a postcard, and then the crack of guns. All that remains is the postcard, now framed.

Setting it down with a tremble, he climbs onto the stool beneath the fan. Noose in place, he closes his eyes.

Just then, the doorbell rings. His eyes jerk open. Neha smiles at him from a postcard, the Eiffel towering behind her. His gaze falters.

From Guest Contributor Naga Vydyanathan

Naga likes to pen stories that explore the quiet fears and hidden thoughts of her characters. Her work has been published in online magazines like Literary Stories and MeanPepperVine.

Wanderlust

The pulse of the city is becoming my own. I woke up with a thrumming headache this morning. The night and the dawn are a patchwork in my aching head. When I walk down the street, steam ripples off the pavement, as intangible as my disintegrating memories. How is my stranger? I wonder. The one from last night’s club. Gone now. He’s returned back to his own life after our brief collision: my drunken frame hung off his neck. His glassy brown gaze still holds me. Power lines cross my heart. My eyes swim in the summer sweat and rain.

From Guest Contributor Siri Harrison

The Stranger

There was a man who looked at her deep into her eyes. The gaze was strong. As strong as to peer through her soul. She saw him again and then again. Sometimes at the supermarket, then at the gym, and then at a night walking past by her. She was with another man, but their eyes locked. The guy noticed she was holding the hand of someone else and crossed by him. Their eyes met again. The girl found it pretty strange and in her innocence she told the guy that she often bumps into this stranger and wonders why? From Guest Contributor Preeti Singh

Preeti is a novice cine writer and translator. In her free time she loves to hum and strum her guitar. Also, she is a nature lover who loves birds, plants and the skies.

Death Sentence

“Stay,” I commanded, my palm facing him.

He dropped to his belly, those big brown eyes looking up at me. Our gaze hung for a moment, lovingly. He was my only friend, and I, his only master.

I grabbed the package and headed to the meeting point. That’s when I heard the sirens. Four years for distribution, the judge decided, as it was my first offense. It would have been life if they’d found the warehouse.

Four years tougher, I returned. There, just as I left him, was Julian. Emaciated and still. The most loyal gimp I ever did have.

From Guest Contributor Liam Kerry

Fifteen Minutes

After a lifetime of deception, a sense of purposelessness persisted. Trapped in darkness, Sarah faced tests, time lost all meaning, hunger gnawed, and survival was vital. Guilt spiraled into self-blame. A presence loomed, with fear gripping her. A hidden cave, a reward, reality slipping, and power and control are beckoning. Uncertainty and choices lead to dark paths. Sarah complied, fearing the unknown. Urgency and the cave's depths awaited. A dangerous allure, dread mounting. Unease, an invisible stalker, the crunch of footsteps. The weight of a gaze, fear, and defiance entwined.

"I'm not here to make friends, I'm here to win!"

From Guest Contributor J. Iner Souster

When Cupid Calls

They laugh their boisterous laughs, holding hands with Pride seated in the gaps between their knuckles. Butterflies overflow their love-struck hearts and they try their best not to erupt in a bashful fit of giggles. He looks at her like she is all the world's treasures in one. And she looks at him like he’s everything her heart has ever yearned for.

Then they leave the room, white with Shame, hands still clumsily interlocked. But with preening eyes, tugging hearts and Cupid calling them away to the gaze of their secret lovers.

Oh, how first love always ends in regret.

From Guest Contributor Mahathi Sathish

The Portrait

The Duke of Westland stared down from his portrait. Walter studied the painting, admiring the duke’s powdered wig and frilled cravat.

Walter’s eyes widened as the duke stepped out of the gilded frame and strode towards him, extending a bejeweled hand. Walter grasped the duke’s icy palm and noticed that the lavish rings now adorned his own fingers. Puzzled, he looked up and met his own gaze. His other self winked, turned, and left the room.

Walter called out and raised his hands but his glittering rings thrashed against the inside of the canvas, causing his powdered wig to slip.

From Guest Contributor Cate Vance

Cate Vance writes from the mountains of Montana where she is inspired by misty mornings, brilliant days, and starry nights. Her short fiction has been featured in Sky Island Journal.

Some Games Are Not For Grown-Ups

Ten, nine, eight jumps to go. Nick meets my gaze. Seven, six, five, four.

Say it, Nick. Say it. Three.

“Irene.”

Grown-ups shouldn’t play alphabet games.

“Isa, come back. Letter I is so tricky.”

Grown-ups shouldn’t jump rope. It’s not good on the heartstrings.

I sat under a Jacaranda and tore the Valentine’s Day card. Nick and Isa 4 ever 2 gether littered my lap.

Grow up.

I dug into my hand bag, pulled out my diary and littered again. My lap brimming with lavender scented paper.

Grown-ups shouldn’t keep diaries. It’s not like I’m Anaïs Nin for goodness sake!

From Guest Contributor Isabelle B.L

Isabelle is a teacher based in France. She has published a novel inspired by the life of a New Caledonian feminist and politician. Her work can be found in the Best Microfiction 2022 anthology, Visual Verse, Free Flash Fiction and elsewhere.

Deadly Decisions

She was just as charismatic as he had imagined her. She was not beautiful, really, her nose was too big. But standing there in the throne room, Marcus could see why Caesar had been fascinated. Part of it was the wealth and the power. Now it was his turn to woo her; he needed her money and ships to accomplish his plan to rule Rome.

He caught her gaze and the future became real to him. They would sail the Nile and have great military successes in the East. But he couldn’t see the asp slithering along in his future.

From Guest Contributor Janice Siderius

Confessions

Did she hear right?

The curtains are parted. It is naked black in the bedroom except for a slice of light exposing one hazel eye, the outline of his angular face. Clare knows how soft that eye-brow is to touch and how it is to be in the centre of that dark gaze.

Moving to the window, she peers outside: they will never be two names chiselled into a hill, hewn into rock. For months she wished she was that whisper of sunlight on his face. That and no more.

‘I’m married,’ Mike repeats.

‘I heard you. So am I.’

From Guest Contributor Louise Worthington