Living In Paradise

Robert repeats his mantra as he tries to concentrate on nothing but his breathing.

Every moment is a paradise. Every moment is a paradise.

He remembers his trip to Bali, floating in the ocean surf as the sun set over the horizon. That was paradise.

He remembers looking into his eyes and the world disappearing in the totality of their love. That was paradise.

He opens his eyes surreptitiously and glances about the room. The faux-wood floors, the scent of cleaner in the air, the sad plant in the corner.

This is not a paradise. This is not a paradise.

No Paradise

We left our gear on the shore and braved the jungle. Verdant, mossy plants, swollen fruits, normal snakes and spiders. All expected. But that smell. Like sulfur. Why? As earth and rocks piled up it permeated everything. It coated our hair and settled into the weave of our clothes. Warnings went unheeded. When we summited, it was too late. The crag gave way to a cavernous cleft. It glared a stony glare. Then the ground shuttered. Then it trembled. In those final fleeing moments, choked in smoke, death raining down, we understood the island's ancient name: The Great Giant's Buttocks.

From Guest Contributor Nicholas De Marino

Tales Of Quantum

Solomon’s statement. Everything under the sun has been done. I did not believe it to the extent I do now. Meaning? Future, present and past all happen at the same time if the latest quantum hypothesis is real. Meaning? If you spin a reality fast enough with distance enough, it can live, die several times while the reality that spun that reality up. Well, they watch it to see the good, the bad, and the ugly of those souls trapped in their paradise turned into a hell. Say what? Earth is paradise until those in it turn it to hell.

From Guest Contributor Clinton Siegle

Anyway JJ Cale Blows

The old man and me were travellin’ light.

“I can’t live here,” he said. Guess I lose, because this girl of mine, is livin’ here too.

“We’ll be leaving in the morning.” But I wanted to stay around, so I asked to call the doctor.

“It’s hard to tell, but I really do think: you got something,” he said. He must have been the sensitive kind when he saw my crying eyes.

“So, can we stay around? Everything will be alright.”

I wish I had not said that, because at this moment we are ridin’ home, to the artificial paradise. From Guest Contributor Hervé Suys

Hervé Suys (°1968 – Ronse, Belgium) started writing short stories whilst recovering from a sports injury and he hasn’t stopped since. Generally he writes them hatless and barefooted

Leading The Formation

I was the second-best dancer then. Mariza, with her long black hair waving down the front of a white cotton shirt, tucked into just-right faded jeans, controlled all of nature’s choreography within her. Her feet skimmed the floor, easy on the beat. Her arms and legs flexed to the rhythm, finding a kind of body paradise. But following her movements, memorizing and imitating, I became frustrated and discouraged. Until I realized I wasn’t destined to be a mirror. I would guide the expression of music I felt, becoming the lead dancer on that thin ledge, possessing my true 13-year-old self.From Guest Contributor Yvonne Morris

Yvonne is the author of the poetry chapbook Mother was a Sweater Girl (The Heartland Review Press). She has poetry and fiction forthcoming in Cathexis Northwest Press and Drunk Monkeys.

Over(cast)

A jar of coconut oil sits on the sink. These days, she oils all the rough parts of her body: elbows, knees, and everything in between. Beneath her fingertips, the white glob melts quickly and glistens as it glides head to toe, her whole body suddenly pink before the mirror. She looks into her cunning eyes, searching for the humor in this beauty care. She smirks. The smell of the coconut makes her think of Paradise. What is she waiting for? The day unfolds. When she passes her hand over her head’s short silver hairs, she hears that funeral tune.

From Guest Contributor M.J. Iuppa

The Conductor

Sunil's adolescent fantasy of being a bus conductor was now fulfilled. Nubile women pressed against him in strategic spots, he smirked.

At Valanchery, a horde of schoolgirls boarded. Sunil could barely squeeze through to sell tickets. This was heaven.

At Vattappara, thirteen aunties got on. Commuters. Other passengers were in hell. Sunil attained paradise. Though paradise was slightly suffocating.

At Kakkad, the tension eased slightly, but before Sunil could exhale, twenty quavering old biddies surged into the bus. A handbag knocked against Sunil's temple.

When the bus pulled into Ramanattukara bus stand, Sunil was no longer in this world. Literally.

From Guest Contributor Aparna Nandakumar

Aparna lives in Calicut, India, and writes stories and poems. Her work has been published in Atticus Review and previously at 100 Words, and is forthcoming in Cafe Dissensus and Red River Review.

Just A Pinch

Her car broke down on the longest stretch of highway in the middle of nowhere. Selena popped the hood and even her rudimentary knowledge was enough to diagnose an overheated engine. It had been hours since she'd seen another vehicle.

Nowhere happened to be exactly between where she was headed and where she was running from. Selena had enough water to survive a couple days and enough cash to buy a plane ticket to paradise.

As the black Cadillac pulled up beside her, she wondered if she could trade the water and money for just a pinch of good fortune.

Part One