Belly/Belie

I remember the push of the needle through my flesh, a burst of pain, the reddened swelling, and then the bruise, spreading like a distorted coneflower from my stomach.

“Sexy,” he mutters later. He pushes my sweater higher up around my breasts, leaning in to kiss the tender flesh around the belly ring. I look up at the ceiling tiles. I close my eyes, and I imagine this ring is a portal. I crawl through the small metal circle, into the deep hull of this ship--a stowaway, hidden from view. I smile. It works. He doesn’t even notice I’m gone.

From Guest Contributor Helen Raica-Klotz

Weightlifting

When he first started pushing barbells, he did it to get his anger out, throwing the weights from his body, stressing his tendons as he exhaled sprays of spit with every red-faced repetition, every sweaty pump. He realized his joints wouldn’t last long hurling metal, so he calmed his approach, traded manic intervals – of fighting gravity with fury – for calculated precision, and he’d demonstrate, lying down on a chair with an invisible bar connecting his fists, showing us the proper form of a barbell press, his big forearms and biceps flexing and twisting slowly as his muscles contracted, then extended.

From Guest Contributor Parker Wilson

Parker is a writer and editor living in Highland Park. He is a recent MFA graduate and spends his free time running along the Detroit River. He’s published in Bristol Noir and is a founding editor at DUMBO Press.

Instagram:@parkerreviewsbooks

Note To Self

I recognized the helmet on the unearthed body as the same customized gear hidden in my private lab. The ancient, scarred face underneath it, not so much. The damage was far too extensive. Even so, I knew.

Words scratched into the metal plate the body clutched remained legible: “Do not activate.” It didn’t specify what, but I knew that, too.

If I press that button in my lab a portal will open to the past. I had decided against the risk.

But now I must do it. I need to find out what could cause me to write that warning.

From Guest Contributor Sean MacKendrick

Giant

The giant came over the hills, his axe as lengthy as the oak trees in the playground stumbled upon. Amid the outrage and terror, someone called the mayor. The police put their hands to their guns, waiting.

The giant chopped down a tree first, carving it, whittling it down into the mayor’s likeness. This pleased the townsfolk, convinced them. They gave him cement, metal, wood, anything to build. “More, more,” they shouted as he built their buildings and streets.

He left as quickly as he came, taking only the axe. Maybe the next town, he thought, would be more welcoming. From Guest Contributor E. M. Foster

E. M. is a fiction writer from Florida. She is currently preparing for a Master's of Studies at the University of Cambridge, St. Edmund's. She is a reader for Farside Review and Sepia Journal and a writer for Coffee House Writers. Her work has been published in The Aurora Journal, Sledgehammer Lit, and others.

Mr. Robot

Robots Contest Entry:

I wanted a new laptop for my seventeenth birthday, but my parents bought me a robot instead.

It’s not that bad, I call it Mr. Robot. I know, it’s not that creative, but the name is fitting for a machine, and it’s become a friend. I programmed Mr. Robot to speak and follow commands. Its square eyes and grey metal body are scary to look at, but hey, it does what I need it to do.

In fact, my parents didn’t consider that it is a computer and can give me the answers to my homework.

A win all around.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Who Cared?

Robots Contest Entry:

He tinkered for a year, ignoring his phone and only leaving the house for Wacko Wake or the hardware store. The rest was delivered.

The garage was littered with tools and metal shards. The WiFi flicked on for two hours each night so he could comb websites.

His friends had given up on him. Who cared? He was done. Done with living like an open wound, a scrap of plastic blown in someone else’s breeze.

Finally, it was time. He flipped the switch and felt an electric jolt. The eyes lit up. The battery hummed.

Then it spoke. “Yes, master?”

From Guest Contributor Faye Rapoport DesPres

Relic

They found the capsule buried in the desert. Its outer shell consisted of some unknown material, a shiny metal that was alien in origin. Opening it with their bare hands proved impossible and smashing it against the rocks barely left a scratch.

Many theories arose as to where the container came from. Perhaps it was a message from the stars. One wiseman hypothesized it was a relic from the distant past. The future seemed more likely.

When they finally pried the lid off, the language seemed familiar but the words were largely unintelligible:

Crispus Attucks Elementary School Class of ‘25.

Martial Arts As A Way Of Life

Ken determined that martial arts would be his way of life and so set about training with both sword and spear. His intention was to practice until he was ready for mortal combat, and then square off against consecutively more difficult challengers. In this way, he would rise to become the greatest master of sword fighting.

Training with a wooden sword is not the same as fighting with a metal one. For this reason, Ken spent three years sparring against fellow students before he felt himself ready to fight his first fatal duel.

His first would also be his last.

Christmas Eve On The Eastern Front

Schmidt and I carry Braun into the church. Outside we’d freeze to death this Christmas Eve.

Icy wind blows through the shell hole in the cupola. We break up a pew for a fire.

It illuminates a statue of St. Michael.

We share a cup of schnapps.

Braun cannot partake. His stomach wound means he will die during the night.

We hear the squeaking of metal tracks.

“Tanks!”

Schmidt extinguishes the fire. If they’re T-34s we’re doomed. The Russians take no prisoners for what we’ve done to their land.

In the darkness I sense St. Michael’s eyes staring down unforgivingly.

From Guest Contributor Ian Fletcher

Reader's Choice

“What is essential in war is victory, not prolonged operations. Sun Tzu.”

“Eh?” Brett peered over the safety cage of the Ferris wheel, checking for progress.

Toni made to repeat herself. “What is–"

“I heard you. What the hell are you blabbering about?”

“Well, Sun Tzu was a philosopher–“

“Psychopath who fancied himself as a guru. Sure you want to be quoting him in our predicament? Not sure He’s a fan.” Brett pointed skyward.

“Tut, they’ll fix it. I’m just commenting on their taking their sweet time.”

There was a deafening grinding of metal.

There were screams from below.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid