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.

Tannery

He received a large order to carpet an entire wall: that meant working late at the light tannery, in the other room. He looked at the skyscrapers at the far end of the room where he was now, but it could be done. He had to get to the other room, where the flowers grew: once the stem was cut, the stone inside reacted chemically with the local oxygen, then melted into spots of light whose original texture was much like a tongue’s. He sighed, thinking about his life. What he really enjoyed was preparing chlorophyll manually, on the piano.

From Guest Contributor Angelo Colella

The Glory Days

Captain Sam of the starship Gillian's Folly watches as the stars pass in long white arcs of Doppler light. As a boy, he always wanted to command a ship. The power. The excitement.

In reality, today everything is controlled by the ship's intelligence. Captain Sam is a glorified steward, employed by the corporation to ensure all the passengers behave themselves. For some reason they find listening to orders from a man in a uniform easier to swallow than from a computer, never mind said computer controls how much oxygen they receive.

Captain Sam longs for the days of intergalactic war.

If The World Stops While Having Coffee

“I felt a lurch.”

“I think it’s stopped.”

“All that spinning. What did it come to?”

“To leave or not, that is the question.”

“What if we need oxygen? Have you any squirreled away?”

“I confess I don’t.”

“What do you think? Should we blow this pop stand?”

“I always loved that expression. Now we’re saying the world is a pop stand.”

“Is that a yes?”

“I’d like to finish my coffee first.”

“Remember loose change? I still have a quarter. How about heads, we leave?”

“Who carries oxygen?”

“Amazon, no doubt.”

“Go ahead. Flip it.”

“Here we go!”

“Maybe!”

From Guest Contributor Linda Lowe

Linda's stories and poems have appeared in BOMBFIRE, The New Verse News, Microfiction Monday, Six Sentences, and others.

Add One More Day

Positive and quarantined at home, my days edge along like a snail. Immersed in social media and Netflix, suddenly, I gasp for oxygen. Panting for a breath, I’m rushed to the hospital. Tethered to oxygen, I yearn to hug and cradle my child. I have to bake her birthday cake. I want to see her victorious smile when I lose at UNO. I must leave a lingering kiss on my husband’s lips. Flustered by my thoughts, I inhale into darkness.

Cool air blows as the blanket is snatched off me. “Mom, the Zoom password is incorrect.” I breathe in relief.

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.

Blaze Of Glory

In the gloom a solitary light illuminated the Führer’s portrait.

“Two minutes oxygen left.”

No one responded.

Cross-legged like the Buddha, Steiner seemed at peace, thinking of his wife and son. Even Müller was becalmed, resigned to an iron coffin at nineteen.

Captain Mayer had himself fired the torpedo that sank the British battleship.

Submerging, a destroyer had detected them, the depth charge fracturing the hull.

They were the only three to survive, closing the hatch of the control room.

Losing consciousness, Mayer looked from the Führer’s eyes to the light. Ah! The explosion of the torpedo finding its target!

From Guest Contributor Ian Fletcher

Ian is originally from South Wales. He studied English Literature at Oxford University many years ago. He lives in Taiwan with his family and is a high school teacher there. He has also been a freelance writer for over 14 years, writing articles for Taiwanese educational textbooks. He has had short stories published in various genres in Schlock! Webzine, Schlock! Bi-Monthly, Short-story.me, Anotherealm, Under the Bed, A Story In 100 Words, and in anthologies by Horrified Press and Rogue Planet Press. He is an Affiliate Member of the Horror Writers Association.

The Beer Has Two Inches Of Foam, Not One.

Pushing too hard. Pushing too fast. Wanting something with such veracity that the world disseminates into popping bubbles. I have poured myself into us with too much speed; I am breathless. You are smothered. As the air escapes into a toxic atmosphere, I gulp your aroma into my lungs. I clutch your being until the oxygen releases into the air, and you die beneath my affections. My sorrow does not reconstitute you; my grief does not call you from beyond. Can you hear the lack, the absence of hope? Slow is not for the desperate. I drown in your absence.

From Guest Contributor, Karen Burton

Karen Burton is an MFA student at Lindenwood University in St. Charles, MO

The Empty Seat

There's a seat open right next to me. It's the only empty seat on the entire bus. You know that during rush hour you're lucky to get a few inches of space, let alone a seat.

Why don't you sit down. I will try my best not to squeeze up against you. I'm sure we'll touch a few times going around the curves, but always by accident.

If I lean in really close, we'll be breathing the same oxygen molecules. The hairs of my mustache might tickle your check.

Please, go ahead and sit down. I don't mind at all.

A Matter Of Life And Death

I was moments away from death. The oxygen in my blood stream was starting to expire.

In reaction, my diaphragm flattened, almost instinctively. The simultaneous contraction of my external intercostal muscles forced my lungs to expand. My ribs elevated, extending the length of my thorax.

All this action, seemingly involuntary, but triggered by long forgotten impulses, had decreased my internal intrapulmonary pressure. My body had established a new pressure gradient from the outer atmosphere to my alveoli, causing air to be sucked inwards.

I had once again successfully executed the carefully calibrated intake of oxygen and nitrogen into my lungs.