First Year

As I stood on the beach, I folded the letter, placed it in the bottle and closed the cover. I promised him that every year on the anniversary of his death I would write a letter and throw it into the ocean from his favorite spot. This was the first year.

A tear slid down my cheek as I listened to the waves splashing.

When I threw the bottle into the sea, it made a splash and bounced with the waves.

I watched until the sun set over the water, and the bottle drifted out of sight, seagulls soaring above.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Wish

I cannot tell you how long it’s been since my yacht sank and I wound up here. I remember the storm and jumping into the life boat, praying that the rain pelting on my head eased and a ship would find me. I must’ve passed out from the cold because when I awakened, my body was muddy, freezing and drenched from the water. Sand and ocean surrounded me, and the boat had floated back into the sea. I was stranded on an island.

I wanted to spend time sailing alone.

Every day I wish I went to a movie instead.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Seawater

“Ed, I can't go on.”

“What do you mean, Mel?”

“The water… I can take seawater.”

“Mel, snap out of it. We're in the middle of the desert. We're dying of thirst.”

“No water?… You mean that isn’t the ocean right over there?”

“No, it's the desert. Just sand and more endless sand.”

“No giant waves, huh?”

“Mel, you're hallucinating. You're delirious.”

The sun beat down. Its photons were brutal. The high energy particles must have penetrated Mel's skull.

“No seaweed? No ocean?”

“No, Mel.”

“Thank God… You know, Ed, I always get a little nauseous when I swallow seawater.”

From Guest Contributor David Sydney

Desert Tide

Millions of years ago, this desert lay at the bottom of an ocean. The sand I'm walking on is the crushed bones of our ancestors, lost to time except for the polynucleotide chains twisted inside of us. Their collective memories have been encoded inside me. Had they not lived and died, I would not exist.

The desert stretches out of sight in all directions. It might never end for all I know. Even if I could arrive at the other side, how would I know I was there. You never know when you've reached the end. You can only guess.

Death Of Humanity Or Earth?

Déjà vu? Exactly when did Japan decide to kill an ocean? 2022? Or 2024? Or this coming Thursday? ‘Tis a question of the mind, it would seem. Meaning?

Each of those dates Japan had decided to let lose their nuclear waste into the ocean. The next question is Indian ocean or Pacific? Which will die? A third of the living creatures in the sea died, and a third of the ships were destroyed. To hope for salvation. And realize that governments of the world are fighting UFOs or God or gods? It makes reality kind of fictional today. Doesn’t it?

From Guest Contributor Clinton Siegle

The Ocean

It was an overcast humid morning and the church bells mingled with the foghorn. It was warm. Uncharacteristically so. This was his usual return time from fishing and his favorite time of day to be at sea. He skillfully edged his lobster boat along the dock, then stepped onto it holding the bow line. A practiced hand tied the cleat knot efficiently. He went up the gangway empty handed, unusual for him. The ocean had always been good to him and never gave up their secrets. He needed it to continue. His cheap wife will never cheat on him again.

From Guest Contributor N.T. 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.

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.

Clinging To Hope

The crew is swept out to sea by the powerful waves. I hear their screams as they are drowning, and it’s haunting. The captain died by a blow to the head and it’s every man for himself. I jump into the deep ocean and grab onto a piece of debris. As I’m floating, I hear distant cries of the men still onboard the ship. They are sinking and clinging to the railing. I’ve known these men for years. I hold on tightly and pray.

In and out of consciousness, my head is weary, and my stomach growls.

Help will come.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Our Private Summit

I listened to Camilla talking about global warming, the ocean plastic crisis and the deforestation of the Amazon rainforest. Words crowded behind her lips: I silenced them with a kiss. We stayed ten eternal seconds in that first intimate contact.

“I didn't see it coming,” she told me, when she recovered.

“I don't believe you.”

“I knew it could happen, but not so soon. I thought you were harmless.”

“The same they say about climate change.”

We spent all afternoon enjoying our private summit, evaluating the measures to be taken in the future. We started to negotiate ecological caress credits.

From Guest Contributor Marcelo Medone

Marcelo (1961, Buenos Aires, Argentina) is a fiction writer, poet, essayist and screenwriter. His works have received numerous awards and have been published in magazines and books, individually or in anthologies, in multiple languages in more than 40 countries all over the world, including the US.

He has been nominated for the 2021 Pushcart Prize.

Facebook: Marcelo Medone / Instagram: @marcelomedone

Afterlife

People say when you die you see a tunnel. A bright light. Angels. Pearly gates. Or hellfire and brimstone, depending on your earthly deeds.

Lies.

There is no tunnel. No welcome by ghostly outspread arms. No river of milk and honey.

Instead, I see a river of blue. Vertical lines of binary code, scrolling endlessly in the void. The emptiness is so vast, it tugs at my soul, a remembrance. Grief.

I begin to walk, seeking. I push back the lines of code like a curtain. And then there you are. Your ocean eyes, your quicksilver smile.

“Welcome home, love.”

From Guest Contributor Heather R. Parker