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.

The Postscript

It was boiling mid-September, Freshman Gym, 30 kids in blue and white trying not to faint, two bees hounding us, Mrs. Jenkins scowling at our clumsy volleyball.

Since then, Brian’s been in and out of marriages, has a kid he’s ok with not seeing often, multiple jobs, half-bald, half-brown wisps, slow, ineffectual, chunky.

But in that gym, Brian was a long-haired demon god, always moving, lean and all instinct, feasting on shiftless opponents and becoming the postscript to everything I would ever write about my youth, not always the point or the signature, but an afterthought never to be ignored.

From Guest Contributor Steve Bogdaniec

Colony Collapse

Hands full of bees, Alice screamed at the sky. Sitting in the grass, blades tickled her thighs. Bee by bee, Alice lined them up. “I’m sorry,” said the speaker at a funeral attended only by the dead.

Maybe she shouldn’t have quit work. Never built an apiary. Would’ve been better joining a gym. Cooking. Reading books that lived in corners of her home. Would’ve been better to speak what he said in the elevator, his voice curling green, twisting to lick her ears.

Alice lay down, tears falling into her hair. She didn’t want the bees to see her cry.

From Guest Contributor Michaela Papa

Self Help

Whenever he did curls on the bench, he had to resist the urge to look at himself in the mirror. He was always disappointed.

Everything he tried, varying his routine, increasing his dosages, upping his protein intake, failed to have the desired results. He'd even cut back his work hours because being here was more important.

Barbara didn't understand. His parents didn't understand. His professors definitely didn't understand.

Every second of his existence was a battle against his oxidizing cells as they gradually lost the ability to replicate.

The gym was not an addiction. It was a fight against oblivion.