Analog

Clocks are next to useless and no alarm cares what you think of it. Their noise is neither birdsong nor church-bell. It is measured by eye-blinks and muscle contractions. Clocks reflect anxiety when the big hand overtakes the little. Their seconds are like tickles of hair. Sometimes clocks are said to be buying time. But what happens when that time is only borrowed? Clocks stop without notice when their time is up. When their battery runs out, it sounds like the click of a tiny rifle; the tapping of a deathwatch beetle. No one hears it until it’s too late.

From Guest Contributor Cheryl Snell

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

Man-Eater

It’s rare, but a fact that there are man-eating lions. My friend is dead because of one, attacked in his tent while sleeping. The screams and tearing of flesh are still vivid in my mind.

I hear the low growl and then it leaps from behind the trees. I point the rifle and as soon as it jumps to take me down, I fire one shot at its head, the lion falling on top of me dead, eyes unblinking. I roll the mighty beast off my body and stand.

I hear a roar. There’s a second.

This time I miss.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Chaos

George fires his rifle, and the bullet hits the enemy in the gut. The man lands with a thud, and blood drips from his mouth. George seeks cover in a nearby ditch, men screaming and dying all around. The sun is fading, and the firing hasn’t stopped. He can’t stay there any longer. One of his comrades jumps in.

“Charles, we need to get out soon or we’ll be sitting ducks.”

They wait until the firing slows and run.

George gets to the other side, but Charles gets fatally shot in the chaos.

George continues running and never looks back.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

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.

Plastic Jesus In An Upright Tub

Me and Dale chuck rocks at it. Before school, while we wait for the bus on Highway 62 and after school or on Sundays. It's not all we do. We sit and talk about which girl at school we'd most like to bang. I'm more of an ass man. Dale really likes big boobs and has lots of ideas about what to do with them. Dale has a .22 rifle he shoots stuff with. I tried to get him to shoot Plastic Jesus but he said the bullet might ricochet and kill us. That would be a miracle, I said.

From Guest Contributor John Riley

John is the founder and publisher of Morgan Reynolds, an educational publishing company. He has written over forty books of nonfiction for secondary level students. His fiction and poetry have been published in Smokelong Quarterly, Connotation Press, St. Anne's Review, The Dead Mule, and other many other journals both online and in print.

1970s Justice

HISTORICAL FICTION SUBMISSION:

Nevada shivered from the rush of adrenaline. Life was not fair, so why should she be? She cried for justice for her daughter. He laughed. She had never fired a gun. So uninformed she didn't know if she held a rifle or shotgun, nor the proper distance from her target. She took the gun, the one he used camping and to bag deer, from his end of the closet. She did not know the blast radius or the kick that would knock her on her ass. She did not know how to hunt a moving target, but she could learn.

From Guest Contributor Leah Holbrook Sackett

Boss

The dog was known as Boss by the Belfast housing estate kids. They heard harsh scratching as he desperately tried to crawl away from his tormentor, his muzzle leaving a dark trail of blood from where the first round had hit him in the face. His life trickled away from him through the short grey hairs on his jaw; an occasional desperate snarl ripping apart the cold morning air before he began whimpering again like a child.

Lining up the rifle sight, his tormentor watched the heaving chest, pressed the trigger and the pavement was awash with blood and fur.

From Guest Contributor Bernie Hanvey

The Priest

It looked like the kid in the black hoodie had a gun in his hand. And, we all knew that the officer, who was coming around the corner, couldn’t see him.

The priest raised the Glock and fired, hit the kid square in the chest, knocked him flat.

The guy in charge whistled. “Why’d you shoot?”

“Thought he had a gun.”

He reran the video. “It’s an axe—he’s splitting wood.”

Everyone could tell the priest felt foolish. No matter. We got on the bus and rode to the shooting range. We wanted to see them shoot the 50-caliber rifle.

From Guest Contributor Andrew Miller

Andrew retired from a career that included university teaching and research. Now he has time to pursue his long-held interest in creative writing. Check out some of his publications at: http://www.andrewcmiller.com/

Destiny's Edge

He held the rifle tightly. Looking through the scope, his target was approaching. Should he take the shot? The target was approaching slowly, allowing the opportunity to fire multiple shots before anyone would react.

Instead, he was patient. His life had brought here: his mother, the Marines, Russia, even buying this cheap rifle he was holding. All of that had brought him to this moment. He'd wait a little bit longer.

His target turned. It was now moving away from him. He took a deep breath and knew destiny awaited him.

With that thought, Lee Harvey Oswald pulled the trigger.

From Guest Contributor Matthew Kresal