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.

Portmanteau

My parents named me Heaven, a combination of their names, Heather and Kevin. They said it meant I was the most special parts of both of them.

They got divorced when I was twelve, and split everything between them, including me. They never understood the irony.

One time a guy tried to pick me up in a bar by asking if my name was Heaven. When I told him yes, he was too surprised to tell me I was the answer to his prayers.

Lucky for him. His name was Mel, and that would have made for one lousy portmanteau.

Crossroads

A skinny young guy, carrying a battered guitar case slung over his shoulder like a cotton picker’s sack, went down to the crossroads to catch a ride. The folks at home wouldn’t ever hear from him again. Rumors took the place of news – that he’d been shot and killed over a gambling debt, that he’d been lynched by a white mob, that he played guitar on the Chitlin’ Circuit with such violent energy that gravestones fell over and broke and that’s why now, every day around dawn, birds resume singing a centuries-old murder ballad specifically for our continued moral instruction.From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie's newest poetry collection, Heart-Shaped Hole, which also includes examples of his handmade collages, is available from Laughing Ronin Press.

Just Looking

Robots Contest Entry:

Carl pulled over beside a car in the parking lot and said, “Wow. Look at that Maserati.”

Duke replied, “I thought that you were a one car guy. Aren’t you crazy about Josie?”

“Sure, but a car can look, can’t he? You’re in love with Sheila, but you stare at good looking women.”

“That’s fair, but I didn’t know that it worked with cars as well as people.”

“Think about it Duke, humans gave AI to cars, shouldn’t we act like you?”

“Guess you are right. I’ll pick up the groceries, and we can get back to our better halves.”

From Guest Contributor Doug Hawley

In A Bar, Near The Sea

“No harm done”, I replied, but inside I was fuming.

My new shirt! Bought it at Ray’s Boutique and it wasn’t even on sale. I desperately wanted to impress the brunette and now look at it…

The man spilled some beer on it, looked at me and apologized.

I decided to leave it. The guy probably didn’t do it on purpose. After all, I was here to have a drink with some friends and not to get into an ordinary bar fight.

Of course, the fact I knew he was a former heavy weight world champion did help a bit.

From Guest Contributor Hervé Suys

Hervé Suys (°1968 – Ronse, Belgium) started writing disturbing fiction whilst recovering from a sports injury. He writes them mostly hatless and barefooted.

Dear Amy

CONTEST SUBMISSION:

Here’s what happened: The huntsman burst in wielding a knife, and lunged at me! In my shock, I coughed up the Grandma. I said sorry, truly, and ran off, hoping to mend my ways. I wound up in a bar in NYC, drinking with humans who were all peace and harmony, until one of us bit one of them—justified! Then it was omg throw them out. Now I’m back in the woods, in the heart of temptation, where every guy and his girlfriend is noshing on Grandmas and Little Reds. How can I resist? What should I do?

Wolf

From Guest Contributor Linda Lowe

Linda's stories and poems have appeared online in Outlook Springs, A Story in 100 Words, Star 82 Review, BOMBFIRE, Misfit Magazine, and others.

The Angry Camper

Stuart had a heart transplant last March and felt lucky to sit around a campfire with Paul.

The drunk from the next campsite stumbled over again. "Stop all that damn noise!"

Paul stood and yelled, "Look buddy, we're just talking. No way you can hear us."

"Stop banging on those drums. Next time I'll have a twenty-two."

"Call 9-1-1, Paul."

Twenty minutes later they heard all the commotion of the arrest.

"You guys gonna be on the news," said the park ranger. "That guy was wanted for the murder of Alex Edmund."

Shocked, Stuart said, "Alex Edmund was my donor."

From Guest Contributor E. Barnes

E has works in The Purple Pen, The Haven, Spillwords, Centina Pentina, Entropy and the anthology NanoNightmares.

The Three Of Clubs

One night our guy grabs the deck of us and off we go to school. “Pick a card,” he says, walking around the classroom. Yes, we’re old, with some bent corners and a few stains, our winning days behind us. But to be held up and fanned out? Like we were some old chorus line, called up for one last show. I go right after my buddy, the Four of Clubs, to someone who sticks me in a book called Misery. And how! I was never one for the solitary life. All I wanted to do was play my part.

From Guest Contributor Linda Lowe

Linda's stories have appeared in Misfit Magazine, Star 82 Review, Bombfire Lit, and others.

The Well-Tempered Clavier

Bach wrote a ton of beautiful music while he lived in Germany, or was it Poland? I’m not up on his heritage, though I wish I was. He was some kind of guy. Organs and harpsichords all over the place. Probably in the United States too, though now I think it’s mostly those big Steinways, and everyone knows they were the best for Vladimir. I mean the Vladimir who could actually play the piano. Not the Vladimir they have now, over there. The puppet master, the interloper, the one who poisons people. But what can we do? Bach is dead.

From Guest Contributor Linda Lowe

Linda wishes that the wind stop blowing.

The Priest

It looked like the kid in the black hoodie had a gun in his hand. And, we all knew that the officer, who was coming around the corner, couldn’t see him.

The priest raised the Glock and fired, hit the kid square in the chest, knocked him flat.

The guy in charge whistled. “Why’d you shoot?”

“Thought he had a gun.”

He reran the video. “It’s an axe—he’s splitting wood.”

Everyone could tell the priest felt foolish. No matter. We got on the bus and rode to the shooting range. We wanted to see them shoot the 50-caliber rifle.

From Guest Contributor Andrew Miller

Andrew retired from a career that included university teaching and research. Now he has time to pursue his long-held interest in creative writing. Check out some of his publications at: http://www.andrewcmiller.com/