Nothing

The engine gives out and we’re about to crash. I guide the plane as best I can and brace for impact. Then there’s blackness.

When I wake, Ted has a blank stare, and his head is twisted in an awkward position. He’s dead.

The bone in my left ankle is protruding from the skin and I’m having trouble breathing. I’m sure I’ve ruptured my ribs.

The door is jammed and I can’t walk. The airplane will soon explode and there’s nowhere to go. I say a silent prayer and close my eyes.

There’s a crackling noise, flames and then nothing.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Fool In The Rain

The rejection stings. Dave stumbles down the sidewalk, absorbed in his own thoughts, oblivious to the people walking nearby or the rain pouring overhead. Motor memory guides him back to his apartment despite never making a decision to walk home. He's too preoccupied with being left standing on the curb looking a fool. The others were probably still laughing.

All he knows with any certainty is he will never allow himself to be in such a vulnerable position again.

If only he'd been a few seconds quicker, he could have boarded the bus before the door slammed in his face.

Biker

She first hit the big time in the musical Binary System. It was a righteous indignation among the bikers. “You’re right about the party- it’s awful,” Fly Wind said single-handedly. We were all looking at her in her akimbo position. Her shirt was on back to front.

“If anything goes wrong, the technicians are here to put it right,” Madam Sixth Sense, the head, spoke slowly and clearly. “Who do you back to win the Superbowl?”

We slowly backed away from the snake.

She raised me as she was wrong. We played billiards a long time before I came in.

From Guest Contributor Jacob Kobina Ayiah Mensah

Jacob is the author of more than 19 poetry book publications, including Witness and a poetry collection in Spanish, agua y color, is forthcoming from Valparaiso Poetry Press. His individual pieces have appeared in numerous journals and anthologies, including JMWW, Constellations, Trampoline, 1-70 Review, Beautiful Cadaver Project Pittsburgh, The Meadow, Beyond Words Literary Magazine, Rigorous, etc. He lives in the southern part of Ghana, in Spain, and the Turtle Mountains, North Dakota.

Last Breath

My heart aches when I look at the faded photo of my wife. I place it back in my pocket and lean over the trench, rifle in position.

The tanks approach and deep down I know it’s an impossible situation, but I run onto the field shooting, the tanks firing back, hitting me, and my body thrown midair.

Charles, my friend, pulls me into a ditch and I manage to gesture to my pants pocket. Charles reaches in and pulls out the picture and hands it to me.

With the photo clutched to my chest, I take my last breath.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Sweet Freedom

Mira closes her eyes and concentrates.

“Very good, Mira. This time you held your concentration and an apple appeared.”

Mira takes a hard bite of the fruit with a distasteful expression. She is telekinetic, and her parents sent her to a special school for young adults with the same talent. She hasn’t forgiven them.

“Try it again, only think larger.”

Mira resumes her position and raises her lips into a grin.

The roof caves in, and a black convertible appears, surrounded by falling rubble. Mira gets in, puts the car in gear and speeds through the debris into sweet freedom.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Lightfall

It took millennia for the rays to alight atop the sky. As It saw them, It rejoiced. Its cold corpse rose from Its slumbering position. The light would not be long now. The radiance burnt the gray skies, who smoldered with violent violet rage, fading to baby blue embers. The trees near It unfurled their stalks, reaching lightwards towards the first sunbeams. Kaleidoscopic rays raked closer. It grinned giddily. So long to shadow and cold. The light finally, finally, finally touched the tops of the trees, which elongated upwards. And as It touched the sky’s embers It smiled, burning happily.

From Guest Contributor Kaleb Bjorkman

Kaleb is an aspiring poet, artist, and electrical engineer from Colorado Springs.

Fuel For Thought

I miss him already.

Longing for his accommodation from my customary position on his lap. His immediate response to desires communicated with a caress of my foot.

This will be our last intimacy for some time. The intercooler died. The journey to the garage is an uncomfortable affair. Accelerating by exhaling, barely contacting the pedal. Still plunging the road behind into an apocalyptic black cloud of unburnt diesel.

Miles per gallon reading’s down to yards. Glares from other road users threaten to ignite the fuel trail.

“Go green!” They yell.

Jersey is green. Spruce Green. Says so on his logbook.

From Guest Contributor Frances Tate

Echoes

The crowd echoes in the distance. My feet are in position, and my hands above my head. Mozart plays as I gracefully glide across the ice. The judges eyes weigh on me as I prepare for my triple axel.

I take a deep breath and jump mid-air, landing perfectly on my left foot. The crowd roars.

I did my best, but there's still more skaters ahead.

I wave to the crowd and pick up the freshly bloomed roses. As I make my exit, my skate lace becomes loose, and I trip, hitting my head against the wall.

The roses fall.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

The High Priest's Attendant

He was charged with carrying the great scriptures. It was a position that afforded him great respect.

The scriptures were placed into five stacks, each of which was enclosed between two layers of tanned sheepskin. Each stack was then rolled tightly so as to prevent air from reaching inside. The five rolls were stored in an iron chest and covered with cotton and dried cayenne to repel pests.

For many years, he had traveled in the high priest's retinue, the heavy chest strapped to his back. Yet, not once had he read a single word contained on those sacred pages.

The Guidance Counselor

Gerald Dansforth, the guidance counselor at Lakeview Elementary School, had already been growing increasingly disgruntled with his position in life by the time Ripley Harrington appeared in his office for what would be his 22nd meeting of the day.

"And what would you like to be when you grow up, Ripley?"

"I want to be a dragon."

It was more nonsense, and he didn't appreciate giving career advice to 7-year-olds.

"Why don't you pick something more practical, honey?"

"You mean like a dinosaur? I was thinking about it, but Mrs. Johnson said dinosaurs were extinct."

Dansforth sighed. He hated children.