Smog Moon

It's one of those days when the pollution's so thick, you can stare directly at the sun and it looks like the old Japanese flag. We call it the smog moon.

We used to get away with a lot on smog moon days because most sensible people staid indoors. But as the pollution got worse, and the blue sky days less common, people stopped thinking about what the air was doing to their lungs and just went about their business.

Now, most of the gang are either dead, in jail, or under contract, and smog moons make me sad remembering.

Something To Eat

“The city is breaking up the encampment, clearing us out,” Olivia said. “I’m leaving.”

“Where are you going?” asked Simone.

“Jail.”

“Jail? Why?”

“In jail I’ll eat every day, have a place to sleep, shower and go to the toilet.”

Simone shivered and pulled the blanket tight around her shoulders. “Jail is awful.”

“Being old and homeless is worse.”

“How will you get sent to jail?”

Olivia opened her coat, exposing the pistol tucked in her waistband. “I’m robbing the first bank I see.”

Simone watched Olivia walk away and tried to ignore the hunger growling deep in her belly.

From Guest Contributor Robert P. Bishop

Robert, a US Army veteran and former Biology teacher, lives in Tucson, Arizona. His short fiction has appeared in numerous online and print journals.

Huff It Your Way

“They’re moving Poe from the County jail to the Big House in the morning,” Dink Delmonico, head of the notorious Delmonico Crime Syndicate said. “Grub, you and Chub are gonna’ bust him out tonight.”

“How, Boss,” Grub asked. “There’s only two of us and at least a dozen guards.”

“With these,” Dink said, putting two pesticide spray canisters on the table. “They’re filled with quick-acting knockout gas. One whiff and the guards will hit the floor like bags of horse manure. Just don’t spray Poe.”

“Right, Boss,” Chub said.

“Remember,” Dink said. “Go directly to jail, and don’t gas Poe.”

From Guest Contributor Lee Hammerschmidt

Lee is a Visual Artist/Writer/Troubadour. He is the author of the short story collections, A Hole Of My Own, It’s Noir O’clock Somewhere, For Richer or Noirer, and Flash Wounds. Check out his hit parade on YouTube!

Except In Pictures

NATURE SUBMISSION:

His mother always said you solved more problems with words than with fists. But his was not a peaceful nature, and after years of unanswered abuses, he was unwilling to sit by and do nothing.

The bomb exploded on the night of May 1st, 1997. One person was killed, another injured. Both security guards.

His lawyer would argue that the deaths were tragic accidents, that he'd thought the building would be empty. The truth was he hadn't cared.

Now he's in jail, no chance for parole. Nature is still being destroyed, and he hasn't seen a tree in many years.

From Guest Contributor Samantha Dryden

Failed Poet Theater

You stared out at our radiant world with an intense, even belligerent, expression. A ratty top hat, at least half a size too small, sat on your head at a treacherous angle. Your gaunt, wrinkled cheeks might have come from having lived on the street or being tortured in some foreign jail for political crimes, but didn’t. These were the years you renamed yourself, smoked a white clay pipe, worked in a carnival of night sweats and empty thought bubbles. Sometimes the stock market cratered. Other times you just wished we each could experience the irony of posthumous cult status.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

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

Callous Humans

An aged tiger was on the prowl. One night it caught a sheep. As it could not carry its prey, it tried to eat it there. The cows in the shed raised an alarm. The villagers gathered, pelting stones. The tiger ran away.

The villagers staged a protest, wanting the government to exterminate it. Experts were called in. The next day they shot the tiger. How callous are humans, I thought.

A tiger took a sheep, a sheep that was to be slaughtered the next day!

If animals could strike back for their rights, we all would be behind bars!

From Guest Contributor Thriveni C. Mysore.

Guilt-Free Murder

Carlos dragged the body onto the street. Veronica screamed about the neighbors, but if anyone was awake, it was because she was screaming. Besides, he didn't care who knew.

Mr. Caspar had deserved to die. He'd hit Veronica. He'd hit Mrs. Caspar. He'd hit the dog. If Carlos had to go to jail, at least he'd know Veronica was safe.

Veronica screamed again. It made Carlos mad to see her crying for her father, but he'd never admit to a mistake.Today, we're deviating from the 100-word format. Today's story is exactly 81 words, and is a submission for this writing site.

Everything Has Its Cost

Lester frowned. The map told exactly where to find the hidden fortune of Reginald Day, the object of treasure hunters everywhere. Unfortunately, the map was now in the possession of his chief rival.

Lester plotted many possible methods for securing the map, but all of them ended either with him in jail, or in violence. Though it was at times necessary, Lester didn't particularly care for violence. But the thought of prison was even less appealing.

So it was that Lester absconded with the entire Day fortune, at the cost of dropping Reginald's 11-year-old granddaughter off the village clock tower.

The Taxi Driver

Ed was too frightened to open the boot. The banging from inside could indicate the end of his job, but there were also plenty of scenarios that would lead to deportation back to England, jail, or worse.

He shifted through his options as he searched up and down the empty street. Finally, with his maglite in hand, he pushed the button on his keychain and jumped back.

As the jackal darted out and ran into the ditch, Ed cursed. He'd been ordered to stay silent. This was his last warning. No amount of money would be worth what came next.

This story is meant to demonstrate suspense, the topic of today's post over at The Chaos Factory.