So This Is Hell?

Revelation 20 states that earth and heaven are burnt up. And? That the evil one is sent to earth to the lake of fire. Making earth in fact hell.

To be living in hell for so long of a time begs the question what did I do? I must have been evil.

I doubt it. I do not like that which is and I do not like what I have seen in history. Is any of it real?Meaning? Fake history is all over reality these days.

Meaning? Everything seems a bit off kilter or not going according to plan.

From Guest Contributor Clinton Siegle

Escape

Jake and Emily look at each other dreadfully as they realize their apartment is on fire. Jake yells to Emily, “Grab Sarah out of her bed and I’ll get May out of her bedroom!” The fire is spreading quickly around the house so they have to think of a plan to get out. They end up thinking of a plan to get out. They use a crowbar to break the window. It shatters in the dead of night as pieces of glass go all over. Eventually, they reach a beach in Tampa Bay, Florida. Everyone is alive, safe, and happy.

From Guest Contributor Mikayla Wikoff

Illusion Of Water

"Harvest-bots eat tomatoes?" Randall asks, stroking one ripening.

"They let 'em rot for bio-fuel," grunts Arielle, hammering another spike deep into the soil. "Being greedy, Harvest-bots take everything, but they won't go near water."

She sets another spike while Randall adjusts the tarp.

"If your plan works, we'll have real food," he says, punctuating his remark by crushing a bee-drone. Small metallic pieces pepper his palms.

Arielle looks out on the defiant cerulean blue of the tented field. Years of used plasticine pouches of Mega-Meat and Vital-Veg, sewn together. They undulate and ripple in the wind. Waves, like the sea.

From Guest Contributor Nina Miller

Nina is an Indian-American physician, epee fencer and micro/flash fiction writer from New York. Her work can be found in TL;DR Press's anthology, Mosaic: The Best of the 1,000 Word Herd Flash Fiction Competition 2022, Bright Flash Literary Review, The Belladonna, Five Minutes, 101 words and more. Find her on Twitter (@NinaMD1) or ninamillerwrites.com

Keep Movin’

—Get in the car, doll.

—Where we goin’, Roy?

—To get us some money.

—Gonna buy me something pretty?

—The world, babe.

—Slow down. You almost—

—Look in your purse.

—A gun.

—Know how to use it?

—Point and pull?

—That’s all.

—Who’m I gonna point it at?

—You’ll see.

—Why the mystery?

—There’s Buster, on that park bench.

—You gonna stop?

—He ain’t movin’.

—Looks like a bullet hole in his head.

—Change of plan, doll.

—Who killed him, Roy?

—Wasn’t me.

—Didn’t Buster teach you all you know?

—Main thing he said was, keep movin’.

—Slow down, Roy.From Guest Contributor Joe Surkiewicz

Joe writes from northern Vermont.

Unsolved Mysteries #2

The unbalanced hostage-taker suddenly meekly surrendered to his Jewish hostages. A delegation of angels in a tree outside the synagogue hooted in derision and then rose into the sky and flapped away, leaving mysterious future gaps in the fossil record. In that instant, I became convinced of the essential stupidity of strictly adhering to any particular plan. And don’t think I didn’t know that, with my droopy face and drab old clothes, I looked like an unassimilable immigrant from a strange country – someplace dark and rainy and governed by contradiction, where there are no clues or, rather, only false ones.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author of Failed Haiku, a poetry collection that is the co-winner of the 2021 Grey Book Press Chapbook Contest and scheduled for publication in summer 2022.

Rider Of The Wind

Daylight spills over the trees, onto bones in our yard. A wind rattles the forest. We tense with fear. Before, we tended gardens, chopped wood, prepared for the next season. Now, we turn our homestead into a church, with crucifixes everywhere.

The minister won’t come.

We string garlic from the eaves, board our windows.

The wind steals our breath.

Father announces a plan. At dusk, as bait, I stand among animal and human bones. Behind me, through the cracked door, father points his rifle, waiting to shoot.

Inside the house, mother mourns her dead children.

Overhead, something rides the wind.From Guest Contributor Russell Richardson

Russell has written and published many short stories, illustrated a book of poetry, and created children's books to benefit kids with cancer. His YA novel, Level Up and Die! was published in April of 2021. He lives with his wife and sons in Binghamton, NY, the carousel capital of the world.

Manipulation

He was a mastermind, slowly taking over as he got deeper and deeper under my skinーconvincing me it was love the entire time. And I believed it, I believed him, because his hooks were in me so deep that I couldn’t see I was trapped. He knew what he was doing, it was all part of his plan. What he claimed was love was his way of making sure I wouldn’t leaveーeven if I wanted to. I was a toy to him; something he could keep, control, and manipulate into staying. As if I were something that could be kept.

From Guest Contributor Kelsey Swancott

Kelsey is a graduate of St. John Fisher College, majoring in English, with a concentration in writing while also being an editor in the campus literary magazine Angles.She is furthering her education by attending SUNY Brockport for her master’s in English, specializing in creative writing. Following graduation, she is interested in working in the editing and publishing field.

Bare Ruined Choirs

An ex-beauty queen has been found in her bedroom decapitated, limbless, a chainsaw nearby. On the wall, a decorative wooden sign says, “Breathe deeply and calmly.” How do you do that? We need a plan, an intervention, something. In Hiroshima after the bomb, they piled the bodies in the swimming pool at the college and cremated them with scrap wood. Last night when my mother finally managed to fall asleep, she dreamed she was walking through a ruined city in a hospital gown left behind from her cancer surgery, while, in the distance, sirens screamed. Assume the monster is everywhere. From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author of The Death Row Shuffle, forthcoming from Finishing Line Press. He co-edits the online journals Unbroken and UnLost.

A Man Among Ferns

He remembers waking up—ages ago—amid ferns, with neither a plan nor any desire to ever be waking up again at all, least of all amid ferns, which he had considered to be beautiful before he wandered into them and disappeared, hoping to disappear forever.

Now, almost a half-century later, he endures his almost unendurable insomnia in the broadest daylight his personal December has to offer. He sits with his journal at his favorite café table by the window, attempting to capture any fragment of last night’s dreams, but is sadly reminded—again—that not all attempts are successful.

From Guest Contributor Ron. Lavalette

Sirens

He’d risen early this morning to plan the house his wife had dreamed of, but the hilltop’s stark beauty had rooted him to the spot.

His tea got cold.

It suddenly seemed a travesty to spoil the land’s personality.

Don’t seek to dominate, Mother Nature whispered, explore me as you would a lover.

He felt his pulse race at the imagery. There were enticing little copses in his eye line.He wondered if Elaine was up for–

“GRAHAM!” Her voice scattered the erotic thoughts.

He sighed and slouched towards the mobile home.

“Coming.”

He reflected on the nature of sirens.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid