The Last Leaf In Autumn

Grayson watched the oak tree at all hours, day and night. Even when sleeping for short intervals, he'd installed a monitoring system to protect against intruders.

He'd become an unexpected celebrity in his town when it was officially determined the last autumn leaf clinging to a branch was in his yard. Local police immediately established a protective perimeter, followed by the FBI and military. Grayson wasn't fully convinced of their trustworthiness however, hence his own added security .

After all, if there were no more leaves, than climate change was real, and he hated for his wife to be proven right.

Before The Words, There Were Echoes

There was silence in the universe. Words were nowhere to be found, as if all existence had stopped and all that was left was a void of utter disbelief and confusion. How can there be something, and yet it means nothing?

She had many words inside her, words that boiled into nothingness and brought about the vapor of insignificance. She remembered “in the beginning was the Word,” but instead of feeling any sense of security, she lost heart.

In that loss, she grasped the emptiness of whispers and asked the vast expanse:

“What is needed to be compassionate?”

“A soul.”

From Guest Contributor Aida Bode

A Termination At Jaguar Tree Conditioning

“You ordered the wrong humidifiers, Eckersley. We’re letting you go.”

Eckersley blinked disbelievingly. Nineteen years in data entry and supply procurement.

As security was escorting him to the exit with his belongings, Eckersley abruptly broke free and fled to the (HEC) Harsh Elements Chamber.

Their company was based out of a biodome in Lehigh Valley, Pennsylvania where they simulated extreme jungle, desert, and arctic conditions to test the constitution of military grade radar equipment and software.

Sealing the doors behind him, his elusive promotion finally at hand, he sprinted confidently into the dunes and vanished—smiling—into a quicksand pit.From Guest Contributor Thomas Fitzgerald McCarthy

Dreaming Of Mitch

I’m wearing my navy blue, long sleeve shirt that says, “Nevertheless She Persisted,” just like the one I have in real life. I’m standing on the shoulder of a mighty highway, with my thumb out! Me, looking to hitch a ride to Washington DC! Was Mitch even there? Was Congress still in session? What about security? That’s the trouble with dreams. They’re stingy with details. I’ll leave them to my ride, who’s shown up driving an eighteen-wheeler. He’s honking and honking that bazooka kind of horn. It’s saying hurry up. It’s saying you’ve got work to do, girl. Get in.

From Guest Contributor Linda Lowe

Lunch With Maurice

I was doing time at another warehouse.Another W2 in a factotum year.Maurice, pudding formed with a handlebar mustache, sat across from me.He liked security. “I keep a weapon in every room. I don’t even lock my door. I have got a shotgun on the wall, a handgun in each room unregistered. I got a bat in the bathroom and a sword under my bed with a knife between my pillows.”“Expecting trouble?”“My dad was in the navy. Antiwar activists target the relatives of veterans.”Maurice was found dead in his apartment.Stabbed in the eye.From Guest Contributor Michael Zone

Michael is the author of Fellow Passengers: Pubic Transit Poetry, Meditations & Musings and Better than the Movies: 4 Screenplays. His work has been featured in Because Eileen, Dead Snakes, Horror Trash Sleaze, In Between Hangovers, Three Line Poetry, Triadae, and The Voices Project. He scrapes by in Grand Rapids, MI

Eyes Everywhere

The woman limped slowly down the street, a pained look on her face, looked twice, and dropped an envelope inside a mail drop box. She felt a vibration in her pocket, checked her phone, and promptly gave a one-finger salute to the overhead sun.

Incoming Text 2:34PM: At 2:32PM, Sheila George took Orwell Street, favoring her left leg from a prior injury. At post office drop box #019840 deposited a letter addressed to her mother, Ann George. Contents are to be determined.

Incoming Text 2:36PM: Obscene gestures made to Patriot Security Surveillance Devices will result in a fine of $200.

From Guest Contributor Matt Turner

Dopamine For Breakfast, Armageddon For Lunch

I needed more dopamine. Desperately.

I knew the effects of my last dose, taken by syringe early that morning, had begun to wear off. The implications of what we were about to do had begun weighing on me again.

F-ward housed the dopamine embeds, the featureless slugs of DNA and tissue that were supposed to output enough golden eggs to inhibit the entire district. I scrambled through the remains, but there was not a single usable drop remaining. Security had ransacked the place.

The last thing I needed as I was about to abort the human race was a hangover.