A Mere Shell

In the end I ran away, fleeing what I am guilty of. As a young man I committed those crimes, telling myself orders were orders, that we were the justified, dealing out punishments fit for imagined crimes.

Now, older, reflecting on how my past moulded me, I return to the scene of my crimes. German and Jew, I embraced one me and snuffed out the other. Is this survivor guilt? Or am I finally realizing and admitting my evil past?

I wander the compound, begging spectres for a forgiveness that will never come. Are they the ghost, or am I?From Guest Contributor Tim Law

The Reluctant Time Traveler

Chance traveled to this decade against his will. Yes, he'd complained plenty about how fucked up everything was in his own time. He'd pointed to a number of examples of how society had been better before and that the whole country was doomed if we didn't get our shit together. But the last time he checked, it was still a free country. He could complain all he wanted. It didn't mean he actually wanted to teleport back to the past.

How was he to know his wife was building a time machine in their basement just to shut him up?

Memories

My grandmother tells me not to forget where she is. But she’s forgotten who I am. Would it matter if I was back soon like I told her I would be? Am I even a part of her fragmented memory? She lit up when she saw me (but she could have just craved company). The nurses have to be her companions now. The granddaughter role in her life doesn’t exist anymore. Are you a granddaughter still when your grandmother doesn’t know your name? Face? My grandmother lives in the past now but not the past I am a part of.

From Guest Contributor Olivia Bond

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

Welcome To Chez Yesterday

We step into the past, warm and bright, light up a Lucky and slip into the booth by the window with its posh leather seats, its black and white glossies on the walls: Sinatra, Sammy, Bogey and Bacall. We say, Let’s have the T-bone rare, please, the baked potato, loaded, and that wonderful Caesar salad tossed tableside. While outside, mayhem on the march. Throngs chanting, flags unfurled in a cold rain, and darkness soon to settle in. While we sit, sipping Manhattans, cozy in our denial, where dinner will soon be served, and there’s Sinatra piped in, singing “My Way.”

From Guest Contributor Linda Lowe

Linda's stories and poems have appeared in Beatnik Cowboy, BOMBFIRE, Misfit Magazine, Outlook Springs, and others.

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.

Perspectives

In the past, they described Michael as an “introvert” and “sensitive.” They said he was “different, but he’s harmless.” “He’s a good kid, just a little shy.”

Today, they said he’s a “loner” and is “withdrawn.” “I knew something was wrong with that kid. “He had no friends at school and never seemed to want any friends. He sat and ate alone in the cafeteria.” “Sometimes other kids teased and made fun of Michael.”

The headline read: Michael Stocktan, age 19, entered Morris High School with his dad’s handgun and shot 19 students and a teacher. Three are critically wounded.

From Guest Contributor David W. Cofer

Alice Falls For A Killer

She surmises blood stains under everything. His skin is cracked like hard dirt in a barren winter. "You could use baby oil," she says. Later, they share a half-gallon of chocolate chip ice cream, her treat. They always meet by the railroad tracks because of his love of trains and exit signs. He speaks in fragments, and she imagines his past is dammed up, full of unexplained absences. She wants to show him her breasts under the moonlight. She wants to hear him whistle so shrilly it will puncture the dark. Then, the darkness will erase the both of them.

From Guest Contributor Kyle Hemmings

Dream Beach

He walked along the beach he’d frequented as a child in holidays long ago.

“All those years,” he thought, “and my life has had as much significance as a grain of sand on this shore!”

“Even my memories are fading,” he reflected, as the past receded ever further year on year.

“My senses too are dulled. The sights and sounds of the sea are not as vivid as before.”

Hearing the mesmerizing cadence of the waves he felt he was walking in a dream.

Yes, it would soon be time for his return to the dust from whence he came.

From Guest Contributor Ian Fletcher

The Bundle

He’d always seen the precious bundle as his passport to validation, his means to assuage all the failures of the past. He sought to learn from the wisdom of its sometimes harsh words. It was only two years old, light enough yet to cradle in his arms until he fell asleep in his chair, teary-eyed, yet hopeful.

Each morning there would be either little to feed it, or surfeit enough for an unsightly spurt of growth. It all depended on the postman.

A particularly cruel epithet from an envelope’s maw tipped the scales.

The bundle helps the dry leaves burn.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid