The Shot

Ekanth carefully eases the postcard out of its nail. His fingers caress over the smiling faces etched against white peaks and pine-specked slopes. Bittersweet childhood memories rush through him: the long-planned vacation, the magical snow, the family selfie for a postcard, and then the crack of guns. All that remains is the postcard, now framed.

Setting it down with a tremble, he climbs onto the stool beneath the fan. Noose in place, he closes his eyes.

Just then, the doorbell rings. His eyes jerk open. Neha smiles at him from a postcard, the Eiffel towering behind her. His gaze falters.

From Guest Contributor Naga Vydyanathan

Naga likes to pen stories that explore the quiet fears and hidden thoughts of her characters. Her work has been published in online magazines like Literary Stories and MeanPepperVine.

Our Night Out

Thomas was excited to see Our American Cousin at Ford’s Theatre. President Lincoln would be attending, and he was overwhelmed with contentment that he’d be there on the same night.

Inside the theater, Thomas took his wife’s gloved hand and offered her a seat before seating himself.

The play was amusing and colorful with a copious audience.

Above, Lincoln sat with his wife Mary enthralled with the actors, then a shot fired, and screams erupted. A man jumped onto the stage and yelled before fleeing, “Thus always to tyrants.”

That would be the one and only time I’d see Lincoln.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Justice Delivered

It left a strange taste in her mouth, just as Robert said her first would. But it was successful and could launch her career. A perfect heart shot at 300 yards. There are those that will want to know who made the shot. She left traceable evidence of her sniper nest, so the exact shot distance would be known.

Maybe it should have bothered her, but it didn’t. What’s one less human trafficker in the world? She’d happily trade his life for one less girl trafficked. At least one mother got the justice she wanted and will sleep well tonight.

From Guest Contributor NT Franklin

NT Franklin has been published in Page and Spine, Fiction on the Web, 101 Words, Friday Flash Fiction, CafeLit, Madswirl, Postcard Shorts, 404 Words, Scarlet Leaf Review, Freedom Fiction, Burrst, Entropy, Alsina Publishing, Fifty-word stories, Dime Show Review, among others.

Juiced

Reuben downs a shot of tequila and says to me, “Keep up. We don’t like to drink alone.” I down two, three, four shots and fail to catch up.

Reuben turns to the brunette sitting on the next bar stool. “People claim your fingernails and hair keep growing after you die. You believe that? I don’t.”

“You’re drunk,” she snaps.

Reuben grins at me and says, “When men get embalmed, the juice pumped into them gives them a world-class boner. That’s what I want, a boner that lasts forever.” He downs another tequila, trying to calm his demons and himself.

From Guest Contributor Robert P. Bishop

Standish

Tyler unfolded from the blue compact. His knees hurt. He had suffered this torture for one reason: to keep Standish quiet...forever.

Ten years as a bartender at the Capital Club, the city’s most prominent private club, provided Standish with enough knowledge to end important careers, marriages, and lives. That knowledge became an opportunity. It needed to be stopped.

Tyler walked in, silenced gun in his coat pocket. Standish was behind the bar. A shot rang out. Tyler crumpled to the floor.

“Thanks, Joe,” Standish said, smiling. A man at the end of the bar nodded, finishing his bourbon.

“Anytime.”

From Guest Contributor Gary M. Zeiss

Papa

I slip through alleys to get to the resistance and relay the information I have learned. The black out starts and the only sound is the rustling of my dress.

I hear footsteps and then a voice. “Halt! Papers.”

“Certainly. My father is sick and needed medicine. I had to go across town to the only doctor available.”

There’s something in his eyes that I don’t trust. I stab him through the gut. I’m almost in the clear and then a shot rings out. Blood soaks through my dress, I gasp for air and then collapse.

See you soon, Papa.

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

Caught On Tape

Funny, no one notices who is watching them. Overhead cameras, hidden inside rooftop owls, are wired to scare away drifting seagulls eating garbage bin leftovers. Genius: catching two birds with one shot—two kinds of thieves that never pay attention. 24/7: every move recorded, like clockwork. The boss reads the tape & sees you hustle into the crowded store, stopping first at the newsstand for a free newspaper; then, heading to the back where wild caught clams sit on crushed ice. It’s always a gamble, perched there like a fixture, until they switch off the lights for the night shift.

From Guest Contributor M.J. Iuppa

M.J.'s fourth poetry collection is This Thirst (Kelsay Books, 2017). For the past 31 years, she has lived on a small farm near the shores of Lake Ontario. Check out her blog: mjiuppa.blogspot.com for her musings on writing, sustainability & life’s stew.

Rabid

Sally sits at the dining table, scooping a spoonful of cheerios.

Her dog, Willow, begins to growl viciously. “Willow, what’s wrong?”

Willow snarls, revealing his sharp teeth. Drool dripping onto the floor. His eyes fixated on her. Ready to kill.

“Mommy! Daddy! Something is wrong with Willow!”

Minutes pass.

Sally’s parents run into the kitchen to find Willow is on top of Sally. His jaw locked on Sally’s leg. Ripping the flesh off. Blood gushing. Sally screams in agonizing pain.

Her father grabs the shotgun from the bedroom.

He takes a shot. Willow falls.

Sally is free, but bleeding heavily.

From Guest Contributor Alexa Findlay

Alexa spends most of her time writing fiction and poetry. She is the Founder and Editor-in-Chief of three online literary magazines. She is obsessed with Disney and Jurassic Park. Her work has been featured in Pomona Valley Review, Better than Starbucks Magazine, Adelaide Literary Magazine, Halcyon Days, Grotesque Magazine amongst others.

Cowboy

Billy had never been drunk before. That’s why he didn’t feel much pain.

The stars above were bright.

The runt of the family, he’d run off from the farm and joined the ranchers. They had gone to the saloon.

The strumpet at the bar had smiled at him. After his seventh whisky she winked.

Billy felt like a man. He was somebody.

“Move over boy,” the stranger said.

Billy stood his ground. There were words, then the challenge.

Outside, Billy got shot in the chest. Alone, he lay dying.

Tomorrow they would bury him. A nobody in a nobody’s grave.

From Guest Contributor Ian Fletcher

Ian is originally from South Wales. He studied English Literature at Oxford University many years ago. He currently lives in Taiwan with his family and is a high school teacher there. He has also been a freelance writer for over 12 years, writing articles for Taiwanese educational textbooks. He has had short stories published in various genres on Short-story.me, Schlock! Webzine, Schlock! Bi-Monthly, Anotherealm, Under the Bed, and in anthologies by Horrified Press and Rogue Planet Press. He is an Affiliate Member of the Horror Writers Association.