All Arise

The entire population heeds the call to arise. Yet to an outside observer no actual call has been made, no clear sign or order to rouse the masses. You might question whether there's a leader at all, for it appears a communal urge has overtaken the congregation and compelled an immediate revolution of activity after weeks of idle rest.

It's a sudden cacophony accompanied by the requisite rush of sound and fury, enough to strike fear into any unfortunates standing in the way of the mass migration.

The flock, once airborne, assumes formation and heads south for its winter home.

Wrecking Ball

It's a metaphor for wanton destruction, indiscriminate, total. It levels everything in sight, out with the old, room for the new, the outset of a revolution.

But a wrecking ball is just a machine. A big one to be sure, yet still a tool, a vehicle, a spare part--the last one that needs replacing. It's not the ball doing the annihilation, but the driver. It's not the driver, but the foreman, or the one percent, or the unbearable weight of social change.

It's just a giant piece of forged steel. It's just the end of everything you've ever known.

Authority

I know only one enemy in this world, that person who holds power over me. No matter how slight the exercise of authority, how minor the inconvenience, any attempt to coerce me in any manner, even if I would have otherwise been inclined to act in the desired fashion, will be met with the strongest disagreement within my power.

You insist I should eat more vegetables. I will only be eating meat from now on. I am a rebel. I am the rebellion. Tell me what to do one more time, and I'll be the leader of a third-grade revolution.

The First In A Long History Of Injustices

Sharon was proud of all the drugs she'd done. Enough drugs to supply a hospital or fund a revolution in Eastern Europe. Enough drugs that her memories of the last seven years had melted together like the rainbow of candle wax she'd made for her fifth grade science fair.

Sharon still thought of herself as the hero in her fucked-up drama of a life. At the meetings she occasionally attended, they preached shedding your ego. They preached a lot of nonsense.

Sharon did not win that science fair, an injustice she still clings to even in her most lucid moments.

Laundry Cleaning Model, Satisfaction Guaranteed

Robots Contest Entry

Before the Robot Revolution, work meant something. My human’s child, Harold, played in the soft fabric that fed into my sorting compartment. One day, he gasped as his blanket disappeared within me. After that, he hid all his favorite clothes. It made the job harder, but finding his treasures added, not subtracted, to my routine. When the kill-all-humans command popped up in my downloads, I deleted it, but Harold and his mom never came home. These days, the dressers overflow, yet sometimes, I find an item, like his superhero underwear. I fold and then place it alone on his bed.

From Guest Contributor Frederick Charles Melancon

Frederick lives in Mississippi with his wife and daughter. More of his work can be found on Twitter.

Burning Uncertainty

HISTORICAL FICTION ENTRY:

My elder sister Tanya and I burn portraits of Nicholas, watching his solemn eyes melting. Melting, melting. Flames envelop his beard, rising into the night sky.

“To the Revolution,” she proclaims. “We’ll be happy again.”

“To happiness,” I proclaim. I hug Tanya. She smells of sweat and oil and victory.

I wonder what will come next. We’ve lost homes and positions, slaved in Siberia. She was a teacher and I, a writer. Those positions are in the past, though.

Will we be of use? Or will the Revolution brand us too bourgeois?

I wish the picture wouldn’t burn so fast.From Guest Contributor Yash Seyedbagheri

Yash is a graduate of Colorado State University's MFA program in fiction. Yash’s work is forthcoming or has been published in WestWard Quarterly, Café Lit, 50 Word Stories, (mac)ro (mic), and Ariel Chart.

The Standard

"Don't get me started on politics."

May took a drag from her cigarette and rolled her eyes so only Sal, the bartender, could see.

"All them crooks in Washington robbing the money right out of our pockets. It's a travesty."

"If your Pappy was alive, he'd be at the front of the revolution."

"Damn straight he would be."

May and Stan started laughing. Bill didn't seem to mind. He just frowned at his empty cup of coffee.

"Let me get you a refill, Mr. Guthrie."

She returned with a steaming pot.

"What was I talking about again?"

"Tonight's baseball game."

The Bottle Spins

“Screw you!” I scream through bloody cracked lips.

He turns his head and looks at me curled up on the cold granite floor. He smiles. Ash from his cigarette drops onto his cheap suit. He carefully brushes it off, not once taking his eyes off me.

On the floor by his feet is an empty wine bottle lying on its side. Slowly, he bends down and spins it once more.

We all watch its slow revolution, desperately praying it won’t point in our direction.

God is not with me today. My silent prayer goes unanswered.

It was my turn again.

From Guest Contributor Mike Jackson

Mike lives in the UK and enjoys writing short tales, especially Drabbles. Many of his offerings can be found on his blog ‘Stories In Your Pocket.’

The Mirror Code

The Resistance, with patience and guile, communicated only through a secret symbolic code, made unbreakable because of the need to use a mirror to make sense of it. After several decades of quietly accepting the tyrannical rule of the state, this evening would mark the beginning of the revolution.

Their simulators had predicted a zero percent chance of failure. Unfortunately, the Authority were waiting for them. It didn't make sense. The plan had been broken down into small pieces and nobody knew enough to betray them.

It was only later that they learned about the hidden cameras inside the mirrors.

The Balloon Vendors

The people had long dreamed of revolution, but it was the balloon vendors who finally convinced them it was possible. They possessed more than empty talk. They had a plan of action.

They would topple the regime with helium.

It wasn't until much later that they realized their mistake. Helium isn't the explosive element. What you need is hydrogen.

They long harbored a measure of bitterness at their failure, but their prison sentences were ameliorated at least somewhat by the fact they had tried to do something. No one could say the same of the knife sharpeners or pitchfork salespeople.