The Shove Seen Round The World

My family sings and we eat ice cream cake, the crunchy bits dancing across my tongue. We shovel sugary forkfuls into our mouths, laughing and sharing kindred stories. We are warm. We are comfortable. We are sheltered.

I am enveloped in birthday cheer the exact moment when parts of our beloved country erupt in chaos.

Whistles for justice pierce the air before biting clouds of pepper spray surround the faces of protestors fighting for their neighbors. There is a shove, and all the world sees a cell phone raised in a clenched fist; a lifeless body sprawled in the street.

From Guest Contributor Brigitta Scheib

Transient

Leaving is always hard, especially when you think you’ve finally found a place to settle. Among the things I’ll miss about this world and its nascent civilisation are the secret songs hummed by pylons, and the brooding silences of daytime streetlights. Perhaps its denizens will evolve someday to not need that artificial interconnectedness that’s so important to them, but I won’t be around to find out. My time, like theirs, has expired: the Vsanic are here, camouflaged, probing, scouting the planet, and I, a fugitive from their cold, imperial justice, must leave before they find me. Time to run, again.

From Guest Contributor Alastair Millar

Justice Delivered

It left a strange taste in her mouth, just as Robert said her first would. But it was successful and could launch her career. A perfect heart shot at 300 yards. There are those that will want to know who made the shot. She left traceable evidence of her sniper nest, so the exact shot distance would be known.

Maybe it should have bothered her, but it didn’t. What’s one less human trafficker in the world? She’d happily trade his life for one less girl trafficked. At least one mother got the justice she wanted and will sleep well tonight.

From Guest Contributor NT 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.

Splayed And Displayed

I went to a market of oddities and curios. One hundred vendors and their jars of preservation liquids, mounted heads, spell jars, and crystal towers. Shoppers passed me with arms full of worn antlers and venomous plants. I weaved my way through the crowds until I stood in front of a glittering wall. Iridescent wings pinned in shadow boxes lined up like soldiers against black stock paper. I never knew something could be beautiful and sad at once. The stage lights did not do justice to the splayed things. Floating over flowers in the sun is a much better sight.

From Guest Contributor Madeline van Batum

Madeline lives in Colorado with her cat and hopes that one day she can go back to her home country of the Netherlands to finally meet the Flying Dutchman.

A Theory Of Justice

The medical assistant asked in a flat, toneless bureaucratic voice how I would describe the pain. Stabbing? Aching? Sharp? Dull? She entered my answer on the form, but without showing any actual concern. A philosopher once said – or should have – that a society is only as just as its treatment of its most vulnerable members: the old, the sick, the poor, the institutionalized. Using a dropper, I strategically place .50 milliliters of Triple M tincture under my tongue. I wait fifteen, twenty minutes, and then gray-clad troops burst from the treeline with a rebel yell. The tongue is all muscle.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author of Failed Haiku, a poetry collection that is the co-winner of the 2021 Grey Book Press Chapbook Contest and scheduled for publication in summer 2022.

1970s Justice

HISTORICAL FICTION SUBMISSION:

Nevada shivered from the rush of adrenaline. Life was not fair, so why should she be? She cried for justice for her daughter. He laughed. She had never fired a gun. So uninformed she didn't know if she held a rifle or shotgun, nor the proper distance from her target. She took the gun, the one he used camping and to bag deer, from his end of the closet. She did not know the blast radius or the kick that would knock her on her ass. She did not know how to hunt a moving target, but she could learn.

From Guest Contributor Leah Holbrook Sackett

Why Do I Lose My Voice When I Have Something to Say?

Jo cleared her throat. She'd prepared for this moment from the instant an audience had been granted. This was a safe space to share her story, to give voice to all the degradation she'd suffered at his hands. She would finally see justice done.

Instead, when her time arrived and the judge called her to the stand, Jo found she was unable to speak. It was everything that she feared. Just like during the interrogation. At the inquest. During the trial. The truth was they'd arrived at this moment despite her many failures.

Maybe she didn't deserve justice after all.

The Sheriff From Little Spring

The sheriff from Little Spring, Wyoming had a reputation for tenaciously hunting any outlaw who passed through his town. Lawbreakers were so rare, in fact, that he had taken to bounty hunting in the neighboring counties. Whenever a bank robber or horse thief saw his white ten-gallon in the distance, they fled immediately. But to no avail. The sheriff from Little Spring never failed once he caught the scent.

The truth was, if he had had his druthers, the sheriff would have been an outlaw himself. His fanaticism was born more out of a sense of jealousy than of justice.

The Vents

In Colossopolis, the slums and sewers were home to escaped convicts, perverts, and the debt-afflicted--the least desirable elements of society. Most of the city's population would never see the sewers in their lifetimes.

Such people had never even heard of the vents.

The vents were for the mutants and genkies who had nowhere else to go. There was a division of Justice that specialized in going into the vents to retrieve wanted criminals or especially valuable contraband. They had an 82% success rate of coming back alive.

Georgi was born in the vents and he didn't want to go back.

Part 3