A Mere Shell

In the end I ran away, fleeing what I am guilty of. As a young man I committed those crimes, telling myself orders were orders, that we were the justified, dealing out punishments fit for imagined crimes.

Now, older, reflecting on how my past moulded me, I return to the scene of my crimes. German and Jew, I embraced one me and snuffed out the other. Is this survivor guilt? Or am I finally realizing and admitting my evil past?

I wander the compound, begging spectres for a forgiveness that will never come. Are they the ghost, or am I?From Guest Contributor Tim Law

Demolition

He passed the tax building, now being slowly demolished.

“Everything’s done online these days,” he thought bitterly.

He’d been a manager there, running his section with the efficiency of a concentration camp commandant.

“Got any spare change?” asked one of a group of teenagers watching the demolition.

Giving them an evil stare, he walked on.

“Goddam!” The beer can struck him on the back of the head.

“Fuck off and die, you old fart!” he heard as they ran off laughing.

He looked at the shell of the building for a while.

Soon – like him – it would be gone forever.

From Guest Contributor Ian Fletcher

In The Stir Of A Hand

Robots Contest Entry

“Squeal! Crunch!”

“What’s that sound?” questioned Susan.

Tom ran into the kitchen to check. AngelCakes attempted to blend soup with the batter, including the tin can.

“Darn, instructions weren’t clear,” Tom fretted, making necessary adjustments.

With a replacement of ingredients, the smell of spicy tomato soup cake soon filled their house.

“Hmmm...crunchy!” Susan commented, spitting out bits of cake.

“Yuck!” Tom balked, taking a bite. “Should’ve written: Put egg into mixing bowl. Throw out shell.”

He made another note in the recipe.

“I’ll have our baking robot ready in time to make you a birthday cake, hon.”

Susan grimaced.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction regardless of the season, although she prefers spring.

The Moment In My Pocket

Even in your tight orbit of busy and work and home there are moments whose skin slips, crumbles like the dry shell of a red onion, and a person is laid bare in your hands. It stains your fingers, stings your eyes: your sister, a stranger. A student, mother of four, six-month chip in her pocket, stepping off the cliff edge of giving upbut you catch her hand just in timeand you hold the sphere of this moment,paint it, polish it, and keep it safein your pocketto show to someonewho might give up tomorrow.

From Guest Contributor Brook Bhagat

Brook’s poetry, fiction, non-fiction, and humor have appeared in Monkeybicycle, Empty Mirror Magazine, Rat's Ass Review, and other journals and anthologies. She is a founding editor of Blue Planet Journal. She is the 2020 winner of A Story in 100 Words’ nature writing contest, and the 2021 winner of Loud Coffee Press's microfiction contest. She is an assistant professor of English at Pikes Peak Community College and is writing a novel. Her poetry collection, Only Flying, is due out Nov. 16, 2021 from Unsolicited Press. See the book trailer, read her work, and find out about in-person and virtual book launch events at https://brook-bhagat.com/.

Relic

They found the capsule buried in the desert. Its outer shell consisted of some unknown material, a shiny metal that was alien in origin. Opening it with their bare hands proved impossible and smashing it against the rocks barely left a scratch.

Many theories arose as to where the container came from. Perhaps it was a message from the stars. One wiseman hypothesized it was a relic from the distant past. The future seemed more likely.

When they finally pried the lid off, the language seemed familiar but the words were largely unintelligible:

Crispus Attucks Elementary School Class of ‘25.

The Needle's Tip Is Not Sharp Enough to Cut Me Out

I see the demons you dance with; chanting in your ear, ripping you apart, gnawing upon your flesh—consuming you. Your nightmare has peeled my eyelids open. You say, “I’m a monster that can’t be revived. My carcass is a puppet to the demons that infect my soul: A hollow shell filled with darkness and decay.” I realize the words tangle on your tongue like the English Ivy on the stone walls that trap you inside. I know you’re shackled behind your sapphire orbs that peer upon my face.

I am not scarred...

I am in control,

Of my fate!

From Guest Contributor McKenzie A. Frey

Scrabbling For Vanity

Most had outside toilets, located in narrow backyards just far enough away from kitchen doors for odours to dissipate.

Granddad’s was a stark brick shell with a plank-door, cord for inner handle, neatly torn newspaper for wiping, and Adamant throne a chasm to toddlers.

The landlord was actually well-to-do and had provided an Edwardian commode, but this was purely for night-time excursions by the ladies of the house.

The home of the paternal grandmother faced the cathedral; the toilet inside. She boasted poshness.

The facility was internal only because her house had no yard. She forever nagged about flushing properly.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid

Christmas Eve On The Eastern Front

Schmidt and I carry Braun into the church. Outside we’d freeze to death this Christmas Eve.

Icy wind blows through the shell hole in the cupola. We break up a pew for a fire.

It illuminates a statue of St. Michael.

We share a cup of schnapps.

Braun cannot partake. His stomach wound means he will die during the night.

We hear the squeaking of metal tracks.

“Tanks!”

Schmidt extinguishes the fire. If they’re T-34s we’re doomed. The Russians take no prisoners for what we’ve done to their land.

In the darkness I sense St. Michael’s eyes staring down unforgivingly.

From Guest Contributor Ian Fletcher