War

I watched as my buddy exploded into fragments from a grenade. I saw the fear on his face knowing at that moment, he would die. It was chaotic and when I ran for cover, I thought he was behind me, but he stayed to help an injured soldier to safety. Now, both are gone.

I’m in the trench shaken, wishing I were anywhere else but here.

I heard the tanks roaring, and men yelled, guns ready in hand.

My ears rang; head pounded with all sound, until everything became muffled, and my right hand shook uncontrollably.

Then came the explosion.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

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.

Alive

Guns roared and bullets skyrocketed past my head. I ducked and took deep breaths. The man next to me bled out. There wasn’t anything I could do.

“Retreat,” the lieutenant yelled.

Retreat where, I wondered? I reloaded my weapon and aimed at anything coming toward me.

It was chaotic. Men screaming, bodies strewn everywhere. If I got out alive it would be a miracle.

Something hit me from behind. I looked and my stomach bled deep red. I crumpled to the ground, then everything went black.

When I awakened, I was on a stretcher in a helicopter.

I made it.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

The Choice

When the bombs exploded, I veered the plane sideways.

My men yelled we should vacate, but I had to make the destination point.

As the men jumped one by one until I was the only one left, shots hit the fuel tank, and I had no choice.

I said a prayer, left my station and vaulted out into the sky.

In the distance, I heard an explosion and flames filled the air.

I heaved a sigh of relief when I landed safely on solid ground, until footsteps approached, and guns were aimed at my chest.

I landed on enemy territory.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Giant

The giant came over the hills, his axe as lengthy as the oak trees in the playground stumbled upon. Amid the outrage and terror, someone called the mayor. The police put their hands to their guns, waiting.

The giant chopped down a tree first, carving it, whittling it down into the mayor’s likeness. This pleased the townsfolk, convinced them. They gave him cement, metal, wood, anything to build. “More, more,” they shouted as he built their buildings and streets.

He left as quickly as he came, taking only the axe. Maybe the next town, he thought, would be more welcoming. From Guest Contributor E. M. Foster

E. M. is a fiction writer from Florida. She is currently preparing for a Master's of Studies at the University of Cambridge, St. Edmund's. She is a reader for Farside Review and Sepia Journal and a writer for Coffee House Writers. Her work has been published in The Aurora Journal, Sledgehammer Lit, and others.

Platero And I: The Hunt

You will be pleased to know, Platero, that the Earl has decided to no longer conduct or permit hunting parties on his estate.

You and all the other animals of the village will no longer be startled by loud blasts of old guns, nor will the smell of gunpowder hang over the fields for days like an autumn mist.

I will certainly miss that delightful and wonderfully spiced pie the Earl brings me every year.

Ramiro, the old poacher, chuckled as he confided in me: "That recent obligation to wear fluorescent vests while hunting was too much for the Earl."

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.

River Of Memories

Fishel sent his wife and two boys away even though Adella insisted they stay until his fever broke. He wouldn’t hear of it. The “Wolves” could arrive at any moment, and he didn’t want to risk his family.

Fishel’s temperature raged, and he became delirious, his wife a constant vision. Too weak to travel, he went to bed, fell into a deep slumber, and dreamt of his family.

Stomping and yelling awakened him from his pleasant dream.

Four Nazi’s burst through the door, guns pointed at Fishel’s face.

“Get up Jew.”

He obeyed and left a river of memories behind.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Sick World

It’s like a post-apocalyptic movie. A usually bustling city is eerily vacant. Essential supplies have come to include liquor, guns, and toilet paper. Who isn’t secretly embarrassed? Around midnight I take a puzzle apart just for the hell of it. The next morning my department holds a Zoom session on how to prevent cheating in online classes. Other professors mention they also have been having strange dreams. In mine, I’m eating Crown Fried Chicken on a bench while eyeballs the size of boulders roll across the grass and dirt, and a woman I recognize from TV weeps into her hands.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie Good is the author of What It Is and How to Use It (2019) from Grey Book Press, among other poetry collections.

Abracadabra Universe

I got to tell you, what a computer thinks a man looks like, adversarially evolved hallucinations, is the kind of shit that wears me out. But, apparently, it isn’t the kind of shit that wears most other people out. Their focus is just too taken up with acquiring the essentials – liquor, guns, toilet paper, travel bottles of hand sanitizer – for them to ever notice the heart lying in rags at their feet, or the African monkeys rafting across the Atlantic, or the shrill, jangly sound in the background that can be variously translated as “hello” or “goodbye” or even “peace.”

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author most recently of Stick Figure Opera: 99 100-word Prose Poems from Cajun Mutt Press. He co-edits the online journals Unbroken and UnLost.

Duck And Cover

What sounds implausible in most languages, a flock of winged skulls hovering on the wind, happens three or four times before I admit, yes, this is real. I hurl stones at the skulls and jeer when they fly off in all directions. “Are you kidding me?” a man hurrying past says. “Don’t you realize how dangerous that is?” I do, but it’s not like we have much choice. Troops have draped public buildings in protective netting. The police are going around with guns drawn. Meanwhile, school kids have been taught to hide under their desks, you know, just in case.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie's latest poetry collections are I'm Not a Robot from Tolsun Books and A Room at the Heartbreak Hotel from Analog Submissions Press.