Living Water

After the world died, when our water had left us and even the sea divulged its deepest secrets, that was when they came. They had waited until our darkest, driest hour. And with them came the living water. And so we drank. But in our haste to escape the desert we had made of our world, we were blind. They had made the water a gift, to save us from ourselves. But the living water was a bitter gift. For it was alive; alive with them. And now, we are satiated. But now we are them, and they are us.

From Guest Contributor J.S. Apsley

Time

Hope is the eternal companion of time. Whatever amount we have, we always believe there's more.

Shannon reflects on the time they've wasted. Angry for no good reason. Lost in mindless distraction. Drunk to the point of blacking out. That's time literally given away for nothing.

Now that the end is upon them, she's choking on the regrets. The bad choices, the meaninglessness. The moments of the past that were perfect and yet so brief and unappreciated.

But those moments were perfect because they were unreflected upon.

All you can do is focus on the hour that is upon you.

An Hour Ago

This chipmunk has run up to me twice now. It retreats again and I crouch to tie my shoe. My eyes track my new acquaintance, surrounded by lush pines, miles of mountain-top views, and a deer carcass ransacked by the food chain about ten feet away from me. A ding distracts me from my observations–you texted me. We were meant to go somewhere an hour ago, but an hour ago I was already on this trail. The predators which are surely on this path, brush which camouflages them, and the overlook’s treacherous heights will always be more unwavering than you.

From Guest Contributor Morgan Sanders

Morgan is a student of biology at Pikes Peak State College.

Pitch

He had been following her for over an hour. She had seen him before and was concerned. Bulging belly, dirty holey sweatshirt, grungy jeans at half mast. Just his luck, she walked into an alley. When he followed her, she reached into her bag. When he became conscious, he turned his head and picked up a baseball by his head. It read, "Stalking a star pitcher is a really bad idea. Don’t do it again." The next thing he noticed was that his pants were around his ankles and his drawers were down to his knees. The police showed up then.

From Guest Contributor Doug Hawley

Charles’ Walk

Charles’ aide was fast asleep on the couch, television blaring. He slipped out the back door and walked not knowing where he was going. He watched the strangers pass and smile as if they knew him. Charles had been lonely, scared, and uncertain about where he belonged, so he walked and walked. It became dusk and he wasn’t sure of his surroundings and stared confused.

A woman with dark hair walking a small dog approached Charles. It was his neighbor of twenty years, Lily.

“Charles, what are you doing walking alone at this hour?”

Charles stared blankly at the lady.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Anomie Can Be Defined As . . .

At that late hour, the streets were deserted. I wandered the dirty sidewalks in a kind of amnesic daze. Somehow I had gotten lost in a part of town I thought I knew well. Familiar landmarks had simply disappeared. I didn’t recognize the faces of buildings or the signs on storefronts. My own footfalls sounded weirdly detached from me. After only twenty minutes of this, I felt as though I had been running, falling, flying, floating, crawling half the night. I sat down on the curb exhausted. Clouds shaped like vague suspicions of vast conspiracies were just starting to pinken.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie's latest poetry book is The Horses Were Beautiful, available from Grey Book Press.

The Sweat Lodge

The second hour of the sweat lodge was conducted in total silence and reflection, as was the first.

An elder finally spoke. “The path you are walking leads to darkness.”

Moonchild nodded.

“What am I to do, Bearpaw?”

“There are many paths that don’t lead to darkness. Cleanse your thoughts and ask the Great Spirit for guidance.”

More stones were brought in and doused with water and healing herbs.

“My child died in school, Bearpaw. Those responsible must pay.”

“I lost a grandchild as well, but your path leads to darkness and solves nothing. Keep searching, the answer will come.”

From Guest Contributor N.T. Franklin

NT Franklin has been published in Page and Spine, Fiction on the Web, 101 Words, Friday Flash Fiction, CafeLit, Madswirl, Postcard Shorts, 404 Words, Scarlet Leaf Review, Freedom Fiction, Burrst, Entropy, Alsina Publishing, Fifty-word stories, Dime Show Review, among others.

Mystery Hour

A 9-year-old girl trick-or-treating in a black-and-white Halloween costume got mistaken somehow for a skunk. The lead detective on the case is borderline Asperger’s. Covering an entire wall of her grubby office is one of those conspiracy theory maps, with all the pins connected by strings. “I’ll break anything in order to figure out how it works,” she’s famous around headquarters for saying. Her brisk confidence irks male colleagues. “Go away,” one shouts, “and take your shitty forest!” She can’t hear him. She’s out in a far corner of the city collecting evidence of the refulgence of pearls of blood.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author most recently of Spooky Action at a Distance from Analog Submission Press. He co-edits the journals Unbroken and UnLost.

Cannibal Snacks

The only store open at that hour was out of the first-aid cream I needed. Security cameras recorded what happened next. I ran amok in the chips and candy aisle, as if a slave to junk food. It was scary how much I could pack in. By the time the cops showed up, I was outside again and a cat had become just a red smear in the road. Someone recently asked me how I would describe red to a blind person. I shrugged. No one wants your honest opinion, ever. They may say they do, but they really don’t.From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie Good is the author of The Titanic Sails at Dawn (Alien Buddha Press, 2019)

Snow

The town plow thunders by with its single headlight. You listen with your eyes squeezed shut, imagining the snow that touches everything—sliding under your mudroom door—powder dusting the floor. You’re warm, curled up in an igloo of quilts; yet, your nose feels cold. You know the woodstove burned out after the late news—only a lingering scent of smoke drifts up the backstairs. You wake, uncertain of the hour’s shade of blue, and look up at the white ceiling where a teensy black speck of a spider scales a silver thread, finding its way in this uncompromising dark.

M.J. Iuppa