Holes

A court decision of forced eviction awaited him on the table. A huge hole sudenly gaped where his intestines often knotted and his stomach spasmed. He found himself in the no-man's house he had once called home. And there is another new and bigger hole: where until a few moments ago the heart beat arrhythmically. “I need to sit down,” said the man who had no more legs at all. He stared at that thing that was still broadcasting a programme. A smile shone on his face. Through the hole in the skull flickered the healing glow of TV screen.

From Guest Contributor Ivan Ristic

Two Ottos

By the time he awoke that Saturday morning, Otto was exhausted. It was another night of running dreams – of being on a treadmill, getting no place fast. And, then, of the treadmill ratcheted up to greater and greater inclines.

How much more could he take?

Painfully, step after step, he stumbled into the kitchen. Were his feet blistered?

There, in the cage on the counter, was Little Otto, his hamster.

And on the ridiculous hamster wheel.

Little Otto's legs moved faster and faster.

"Stop it."

But Little Otto only sped up.

"At least wipe that damned smirk off your face."

From Guest Contributor David Sydney

Island Of Souls

Simon woke up in the sand, waves lapping against his legs. For once his pants weren't soaking wet from urine.

He braced for a hangover to wash over him that never came. After a few moments he struggled to his feet, trying to piece together where he was and how he ended up here. Not the strangest place he's woken up, but he seemed far from a Starbucks. He'd even settle for a 7/11 at this point, but all he saw was the empty beach in either direction.

Maybe running away from his intervention had been a bad idea.

At The Bar

Drunk Joe asked the man next to him at the bar “Do you believe in flying saucers? I think they are a crock.”

“No it’s absurd. They have it all wrong. Our ships are triangular.”

”Huh?”

“Aliens aren’t little green men. We come in many colors. You get light and dark ones here.”

“Where do you get these ideas?”

“I’m a triangle pilot. They are half as wide as they are long. Don’t believe me? We look mostly like humans, but” it pulls up its pants and takes off its shoes “see – four legs.”

Joe goes home and quits drinking.

From Guest Contributor Doug Hawley

Parts

There are so many parts. Kept in so many places. Compartments. Boxes. Bags. Bottles of fragile glass. Crumpled notes. Silent emotions. Screaming thoughts. Swept under the rug, in full view for all to see. No one cares to look. Feet itch. Throats burn and choke. There is pain. A fullness in the head. Legs are terrified. Hips want to cry. I don’t know why. Go, in search of questions. Lost with all your parts. Unable to fix. Unable to stop. Unable to flee. Unable to look you in the eye. Scared of what you already know. Parts of a whole.

From Guest Contributor Courtney King

The Secret To Staying Human

Mom digs her feet under the wet sand of the Atlantic. I stand next to her, wondering if the ocean will remember her and melt her legs back together.

Each wave climbs higher up our pale legs. Our feet sink deeper and deeper. The surge threatens to topple me, to suck me out to sea. Tears stream down my cheeks.

Mom grabs me. “This was a mistake.”

I cling to her as she rushes toward our towels.

She dries her feet. Inspects each toe. Sighs in relief.

My toes tingle, translucent skin spread between them. The ocean’s song calls me.

From Guest Contributor Sally Simon

Sally (ze/hir) lives in NY. When not writing, ze’s travels and stabs people with hir epee. Read more at www.sallysimonwriter.com.

A Moment In The Sun

He couldn't believe how amazing it felt to be free of the anguish and suffering he'd endured for so long. He fled this hellhole!

On an outcropping he sat, legs dangling over, watching the tiny ripples in the lake below. Looking towards the rising sun, it seemed to have sped up as it moved across the sky, a shadow of some type, nearly black, just behind it.

He watched as they raced above him, sun in the lead with shadow in tow, heading to the far side of the world. Now motionless, the darkness grew until the sun vanished entirely.

From Guest Contributor J. Iner Souster

Lucy’s Life

CONTEST SUBMISSION:

Lucy peers out the back door. “Hey, squirrel, stop eating my parents' tomato garden.”

The squirrel faces Lucy. “Since when do you talk, little dog.”

“I bark because that’s what dogs are expected to do with humans. I could ask why you only talk to animals, but I’m sure the answer is the same.” Lucy puts her paws on the door and growls a warning.

“Fine, I’m leaving. I’ll go scavenge in the woods.”

“There’s my Lucy,” says her mom as she enters, and Lucy jumps on her legs.

If only her mom knew what’s going on in Lucy’s life.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Tremors

My clammy palms drip sweat and my icy feet shiver. I barely fit on this stiff, creaky bed. From the haunted murkiness, a shadow emerges and creeps around.

Drowning in the claustrophobic silence, I am trapped. No one hears my heart’s pounding rattle. As he looms from the dark, my throbbing stomach twinges and my wobbly legs quiver.

He lifts the thin sheet off of my legs and I clench my fists timorously. I tremble in trepidation as he plunges the invasive latex-covered wand into my body.

Moments later, he tenderly pulls it out and smiles. “Your baby is healthy.”

From Guest Contributor Hetal Shah

Hetal graduated with her Bachelor of Commerce from SIES. She lives in Mumbai with her husband, son, and daughter. She rekindled her hobby of writing over the past year. She is the winner of Mumbai Poetry League 2020, and her poem was published in an anthology by Poets of Mumbai called Guldastaa A Bouquet of Poems. She also writes flash fiction, and has been published twice on 101words.org. She loves to read, and especially enjoys reading and writing stories of romance and everyday life. Besides writing, she enjoys cooking new cuisines, traveling, and singing.

Cursed Sword

Dark ripples spread across the surface as I wade into the water. I hold my breath and dive. To my surprise, the sword lies among the weeds, quite within reach. It’s mine. I chuckle with joy. I kick my legs harder, needing to go only a few inches deeper, but I can’t reach it. No matter how long I swim, I can’t grab the sword. I can’t hold my breath anymore. I struggle to the surface, but I’m yanked down. I tear at the weeds tangling my feet, but, as I sink, all I see is the sword’s gleaming wink.

From Guest Contributor Yukari Kousaka

Translated by Toshiya Kamei

Born in Osaka in 2001, Yukari Kousaka is a Japanese poet, fiction writer, and essayist. Translated by Toshiya Kamei, Yukari’s writings have appeared in The Crypt, New World Writing, and The Wondrous Real Magazine, among others.