Cirque Du Silly

One summer, I went to Circus Camp. As an acrobat, I was overcome by terror, lost my grip on the trapeze, and plunged into the net before my partner could grab my ankles. Animals hated me. The dancing horse tried to bite me, and the performing poodles peed on my shoes. I looked hilarious in clown makeup, but my timing was terrible, and I was trampled while exiting the tiny car. I tried juggling and hit myself in the face with the balls. Fortunately, the camp staff were brilliant photographers; the shots they posted on Instagram made my family proud.

From Guest Contributor R.K. West

Welcome, Everyone, To The Vortex Universe.

One night, the sky's illumination changes and Harland sees the galaxy open up. The stars fade away as hundreds upon thousands of brand-new ones are born. The light reappears, and he watches as, one after another, the familiar stars disappear again. After a new dawn, the sky will shine with the beauty of new creation, as new forms of life will emerge, be nurtured, become powerful, and change the course of history.

Harland's vision starts to fade, and he rests his head on his desk in silent contemplation and smiles. The grip of the world slips away.

Life is good.

From Guest Contributor J. Iner Souster

The Edge

It's steep over The Edge, one slip, anyone could fall. The Edge overlooks the city, and many people come here to think, make out, and party. Driving to The Edge is easy, it’s leaving that is hard. There are stories about this place; no one is ever invited. The Edge pulls you in, a tense grip leaving you struggling for air. No one really knows how they get here, there are no directions to The Edge, you just appear. I’ve been to The Edge once, it's scary there. Dark and gloomy, even when there are no clouds in the sky.

From Guest Contributor Montana Huston

Montana is a student of journalism at Pikes Peak Community College.

The Daisy

I feel warmth from looking at the hydrated light glistening on the soft petals of the daisy. I also feel cold from observing the water droplets slowly slipping off of those same petals as they struggle to keep their grip. The daisy, once a seed, now a flower. She contains just as much life as she did hidden in the soil. I know the daisy will not be here forever. I know I will not be here forever. I know you will not be here forever. One day the daisy will be pushed; dead. As every other daisy before it.

From Guest Contributor Winter Daisy

Winter is an author that has a deep desire to make a difference. To read more from them go to https://linktr.ee/winterdaisy.

Everything Will Be Perfect

She exclaims into the camera with twice as much enthusiasm. Smiling at herself, she admires her smoky eyeliner, sleek black cat frames, and her hair’s feathered highlights, with its slight curl held in place with a butterfly barrette. Hard to believe she’s afraid of losing her upper hand— her grip that keeps the focus on her. Even though, she knows she has run out of excuses to stay home. She's just worried sick about everyone. So, she must make do with sharp sound bites, while her inner voice bounces like a loose tin can, tumbling down another dark side street.From Guest Contributor M.J. Iuppa

M.J.’s 100-word stories have appeared most recently in 100 Word Story, Eunoia Review, Milk Candy Review, Otoliths, PIF Magazine, The Drabble Review, The Dribble Drabble Review, A Story in 100 Words, and others. For the past 33 years, she has lived on a small farm near the shores of Lake Ontario. Check out her blog: mjiuppa.blogspot.com for her musings on writing, sustainability & life’s stew.

Writer's Block

He sighs.

“What’s wrong, darling?”

She stretches her arms out from behind over his chest.

“This isn’t going anywhere. I’ve been staring at this blank piece of paper for hours now. What am I saying, for days.”

Once more, he sighs.

She squeezes him just a bit tighter.

“The only thing I seem to be good at is writing about how tough it is to write and to be a writer. The daily struggle with words and how to use them. Questioning myself if it’s all worth it.”

She loosens her grip.

“But at this, darling, you’re so very good.”

From Guest Contributor Hervé Suys

Hervé Suys (°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.

Invincible

Vainly, her vulva strained to become prehensile. With her digits and her digestive tract things of the past, her vaginal aperture was the only anatomical feature that could hope to get a grip on the handle and shut off the valve before all the veal broth leaked away again. Yes, they would probably replace it with venison consommé, which might well be more flavorful—but existence is fraught with uncertainties. She suddenly remembered that she had once seen a man visibly twitch his large, convoluted, rather hairy ears. If he can do it, I can do it better, she thought.

From Guest Contributor F.J. Bergmann

Thrill

“Not healthy,” Jan whispered to her surviving brother, peering into the darkened parlour where her mother sat, eyes fixed on the flickering screen of Brian’s cracked Smartphone.

Tom lifted and dropped his shoulders helplessly and returned to the closed-coffin wake in the other room.

Jan herself had only been able to watch the footage once: the glee of Brian hanging from a spar changing to terror as his grip had slipped.

The phone had been lucky enough to fall back onto the bridge.

Jan stared as her mother hit replay again. She’d even stopped sobbing.

“Friggin’ selfie generation,” she muttered.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid

Betrayed

Leo squeezed Hayden’s neck. Slowly the life began to leave her body as her eyes widened and face reddened.

“You slept with him, you damn witch!” Leo squeezed harder banging Hayden’s head against the wall until she collapsed with a thump, her dead eyes staring blankly at him. Leo released his grip and took a deep breath wiping the sweat off his face with the back of his hand.

Leo wiped down every trace of his finger prints and DNA. He put the gloves in his pocket and left Hayden’s house intent on finding the man she left him for.

From Guest Contributor Lisa Scuderi-Burkimsher

I See

I paint you by numbers, capture your features one by one… from the fair Irish skin; to the coal-black hair; to the rich, ruby lips; and the fiery-, emerald-green eyes.

I reach for the palette of paint and thrust my brush like a mop into a bucket and swish it around. The color washes your face with only shades of grey. The numbers on the canvas do not add up. I am left only with a monotone portrait of shadow and sadness.

Betrayed, my grip clenches. I see, I know your colors. I see, I know your lack of them.

From Guest Contributor Keith Hoerner