So Lonely

Enlo's shallow breaths barely inhaled enough oxygen to maintain consciousness as he summited. Another goal accomplished. He surveyed the crests of the tallest mountains searching for some meaning to it all.

His assistant had urged he take a selfie, but he decided a photograph would only remind him of the futility. This expedition was meant to refresh him. All he felt was the impotence of the air around him.

Enlo Tuffin was the richest man in the world, and surely the unhappiest.

He started his descent. Nothing left but to punish the world for the misery it had brought him.

My Setting Sun

We sit on the beach watching a summer sunset, foamy saltwater encroaching upon our bare toes. Distant mountains cut jagged lines in the sky. We’re laughing, your warm arm around my shoulders. I glow in your rare happiness, believing you’ll stay with me always.

I sense you withdrawing as the sun sinks behind the mountains, air chilling as the golden orb dwindles. Just before it disappears, my soul cries: don’t fade away, don’t leave.

The sun pauses, a yolk balancing on the highest peak.

The moment breaks. Your arm falls from my shoulders.

My soul aches as the sun vanishes.

From Guest Contributor Katla Watersin

I Overhear My Grandmother In A Dream

I knew about the tarpaper roof torn in the shape of the mountains she had just left, the shape of her youth spent in birthing a dozen children. I did not know she sang only to the sons, who arrived looking like wrinkled old men. When I asked her why she wouldn’t sing to her daughters, I already knew the answer: the girls would just leave her for strangers.

I saved my voice for prayer. The light flinched under the lie, but it was only my shadow. That light came from some distance, she said. You really shouldn’t impede it.

From Guest Contributor Cheryl Snell

Cheryl is a classically trained pianist who writes by ear. Author of several collections of poetry, she has also written a series of novels called Bombay Trilogy; and been published in hundreds of literary journals and anthologies, including a Best of the Net. Look her up on Facebook.

The Tempest

The trees about Raoul start to strain on their top masts and branches. Fog flees, a great wind comes, a storm too.

Raoul continues his walk, waiting, patient. Ever aware of the menace about him. The sky about him blackens. Cold winds herald the approaching storm before him, devouring and chasing back the once settled fog bank.

Mountains now appear in the distance. He eyes the storm dancing down their peaks, dragging the the veil of night with them and...the frozen tempest coming.

Over the drone of the wind, Raoul distinctly hears the Watcher in the Woods growl, 'Raoul!'

From Guest Contributor Brett Dyer

Ophelia Takes A Bath

Ophelia under the water; kneecap mountains poking out dwarf the dipping hills of her breasts. The ragged, brown seaweed strands of her hair move gently as her hot kettle sighs ring around the steam-shrouded bathroom.

She finds brash or delicate things expose her madness—the rough lyrics of a Pogues’ song or the fragrance of a flower bomb. Silver chains on her thighs, bright relics of dejection, shackle her to the past but aren't enough to save her. So she piles his words as pebbles on her heart and in this way she doesn't float away—at least not today.

From Guest Contributor Adele Evershed

The Tides They Are A-Changin'

It was a twice daily occurrence. Water gradually crept up the shore, claiming the land and scattered detritus in sacrificial tribute, only to recess gracefully back once more.

The powerful and inexorable tides! Countless livelihoods depended on their constant rhythm. Yet for those who knew what to look for, troubling signs portended a change was coming. A slight burgeoning of the seas slowly encroaching the Earth's surface.

And then tonight. Water flooded everywhere, until even the tallest mountains were covered. This was no 40-day affair, but the complete envelopment of all humankind.

Water, water everywhere, no one left to drink.

Dear New York

Your 9 a.m. is my six. Once again, you didn’t leave a message. I was asleep, and not dreaming of my youth. Or Bobby Short at the Carlyle, Yul Brynner as the King. The Oak Room, their scotch so expensive I almost gave it up. Since I’m awake now, I’ve begun my day. Doing the wash. Starting breakfast. Wondering what it is you want. Why not cast me aside as just another woman who headed west when the buildings fell? Here, the mountains are tall, the sea, a pebble’s throw away. I know it’s you, New York. Calling me home.

From Guest Contributor Linda Lowe

Linda's stories and poems have appeared in Outlook Springs, A Story in 100 Words, What Rough Beast, the New Verse News, Misfit Magazine, and others.

Last Sunset Before Flagstaff

Sydnacious Crumb’s “Pick Me a Squirrel,” Grunge’s last anthem, fought through the mountains for spotty FM reception. Too dark now for sunglasses, he rested his eyes on the long stretch of desert between painted rocks and casino frybread. Squinting occasionally, he thought of how this band, or any artist, could create something that was so much better than anything that came before or after. Just as Crumb caught a clear wave and the chorus echoed, “squirrel, squirrel, squirrel,” he saw in the rearview a beam of light. Not quite purple or red, no, it was pink. And then he understood.

From Guest Contributor Adam Axler

Adam is a former New York City paramedic, physician assistant, and is the current owner of online bookstore Collectible Science Fiction.

The Sandbox

The days pass, and with each exhale, from nothing, there is formation of something; something new. She kneads Gaia’s dough to create substance; substance from silt. Steadfast, the new titan’s loamy paws fury on, and her reliefs; bring her relief.

Unknown eyes gaze in unease, at the new one, at Poseidon and Hephaestus as one, a little one, a guileless deity of change. Born from the inertia of Chaos, born as something different; different than what was before. The Twelve gaze in unease. Deimos pours another round. In their kylixes, they see moving mountains. It’s time to protect their home.

From Guest Contributor Kyle Malloy

Worker

The sparse landscape spread in every direction. There were mountains to be sure, a flat white one to this left and a glass tower to the right, but there was no food within actual reach.

Jim crawled forward, then back, then to the left and right. An observer might think his path random, but Jim's instinct told him that the best way to find food was this haphazard approach.

He panicked when the giant approached. Only its torso was visible above the horizon, but Jim went hurdling in the other direction.

He wished he'd never left the hill this morning.