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

Ascent

I turn aside before Everest’s summit. Hobbling to a low drift, I scoop away the snow. I have found her, still lying where she had collapsed on her fateful ascent years ago. I peel off her goggles. She stares at the cobalt sky, as if daydreaming. Her ivory skin remains unspoilt, despite the passage of time.

Laying down beside her, I unclip my mask and gasp in the thin air.

My heart pummels my ribs while I remove our gloves.

I wrap my wife’s stiff hand in mine and gaze up at the heavens, waiting to see what she sees.

From Guest Contributor Christopher Mattravers-Taylor

Chistopher has been shortlisted in the Summer 2023 and Autumn 2024 Voice.Club Competitions and longlisted in Periscope Literary’s 2023 short story competition. He was also a finalist in Globe Soup’s October and November 2024 100-word competition. His short stories have variously been described as fierce, dark, humorous and descriptive. Currently he enjoys writing short stories with a speculative edge, and now is beginning his debut novel. He lives in Bristol, UK, with an amazing wife and two wonderful children he does not deserve.

His writing is coloured by his experiences as a ME sufferer, particle physicist at CERN, property developer, core driller, disability benefits claimant, Dalmatian breeder, traveller, and more besides. One thing has remained constant in his chaotic life, however: his love of Encona Hot Sauce.

Soup’s On!

“Any luck, Paleo?” Keto asked his fellow cannibal as he approached the giant cauldron he was stirring.

“Nothing,” Paleo said. “Zero, zip, zilch, nada. No airplane crashes. No lost safaris. Not a single soul out there for dinner.”

“Well then, it’s soup again.”

“Ah, man! I need to sink my choppers into some nice juicy ribs or breasts, or wings or... Hey! Where’d you get that?”

Paleo froze, his mouth watering, as Keto dropped portions of two human legs into the pot.

“Let me have some of that meat!” Paleo yelled.

“Sorry,” Keto said. “I only have thighs for stew.”

From Guest Contributor Lee Hammerschmidt

Lee Hammerschmidt is a Visual Artist/Writer/Troubadour. He is the author of the short story collections, A Hole Of My Own, It’s Noir O’clock Somewhere and For Richer or Noirer. Check out his hit parade on YouTube!

Dancing Hands

She talked with her hands. It was comical.

The more animated she became, the more her hands flapped and fluttered through the air.

We teased her, had her sit on her hands, which practically made her mute.

She’d laugh then and poke our ribs, call us stinkers, and her hands danced as she did.

I didn't make it back in time. I would have if I didn't stop.

The bill wasn’t even due.

I was stalling, but stalling what?

My return to her bedside? Her last breath, or both?

When I got there, her hands were at her sides, spent.

From Guest Contributor Linda Chandanais