Fake Spring

You'd think it was a beautiful spring day. The sky was filled with puffy clouds. The temperature was unseasonably warm, perfect for short sleeves. The air had just a hint of pollen, so that anyone with allergies needed to worry. Colorful buds were starting to pop, and every creature, from squirrels to songbirds to rabbits, believed winter was no more.

I would have smiled if I could. Heavy storms were just over the horizon. Thunder, frosty winds, perhaps even a burst of snow.

George would need to hurry if we wanted to bury my corpse before the soil froze over.

Landing

If we hadn’t been watching them for years, pondering their moves, their moods, their governments; if we hadn’t probed several of their species, and winced when they inflamed their planet; if we hadn’t seen the hatred they exacted upon each other, and the disregard they displayed for the welfare of other life, we might have shown them patience, and considered their plea for refuge, when they landed their crude spaceship upon our soil. But we had seen too much, and knew all too well what they were capable of—and so we slew the humans as quickly as we could.

From Guest Contributor Wolfgang Wright

Wolfgang is the author of the comic novel Me and Gepe and the forthcoming science fiction novel Being. His short work has appeared in over forty literary magazines, including Dark Yonder, Oyster River Pages, and Paris Lit Up. He doesn’t tolerate gluten so well, quite enjoys watching British panel shows, and devotes a little time each day to contemplating the Tao. He lives in North Dakota.

Once In A Lifetime

It was a once-in-a-221-year-event, the simultaneous emergence of two different cicada broods. One was the 13-year group. The other, the 17-year variety. So, as predicted, a trillion cicadas emerged, one-by-one, from the warming soil. Sam and Waldo were two such cicadas.

"Can you believe it?"

"What, Sam?"

"We're In the southeastern United States."

"What a racket."

Cicadas make noise through a special organ, a tymbal.

"What?"

It was increasingly hard to hear.

"HEY, WALDO?"

"YEAH."

"I NEVER THOUGHT I'D SAY IT."

"WHAT?"

"I DON'T KNOW ABOUT YOU...BUT AFTER 221 YEARS, I THOUGHT IT'D BE A LOT BETTER THAN THIS."

From Guest Contributor David Sydney

The Garden

"Be seen not heard," they'd say. Even as I dreamt my voice was void. I found myself questioning; was I even being noticed? My arms were flailing, begging for someone to lay their eyes on me. Their blank stare told me all I needed to know. I was nothing at all. I sauntered to the garden and rested my head on the bed of soft blooms. The leaves wound and bent until they filled up my throat, my ears, my eyes; beauty had taken over. I was pulled into the damp soil. I was now definitively neither seen nor heard.

From Guest Contributor Kenna Elliot

Illusion Of Water

"Harvest-bots eat tomatoes?" Randall asks, stroking one ripening.

"They let 'em rot for bio-fuel," grunts Arielle, hammering another spike deep into the soil. "Being greedy, Harvest-bots take everything, but they won't go near water."

She sets another spike while Randall adjusts the tarp.

"If your plan works, we'll have real food," he says, punctuating his remark by crushing a bee-drone. Small metallic pieces pepper his palms.

Arielle looks out on the defiant cerulean blue of the tented field. Years of used plasticine pouches of Mega-Meat and Vital-Veg, sewn together. They undulate and ripple in the wind. Waves, like the sea.

From Guest Contributor Nina Miller

Nina is an Indian-American physician, epee fencer and micro/flash fiction writer from New York. Her work can be found in TL;DR Press's anthology, Mosaic: The Best of the 1,000 Word Herd Flash Fiction Competition 2022, Bright Flash Literary Review, The Belladonna, Five Minutes, 101 words and more. Find her on Twitter (@NinaMD1) or ninamillerwrites.com

Preparing For Landing

Do we have to visit them?” the eight-year-old asked. “Grandma is weird and...”

“Grandpa is mean,” added her older brother.

Elsa observed the linear perfection of farmland below, largely ignoring her children.

At their age, she rode a tractor alongside her grandfather. They made rows into which other tractors dropped seed potatoes and covered them with soil.

By summer, when Elsa returned from the city, those fields were lush green having absorbed spring rainfalls.

As the plane prepared for landing, she knew her children would experience a different summer vacation.

The farm was no longer a property her family owned.From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

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

The Daisy

I feel warmth from looking at the hydrated light glistening on the soft petals of the daisy. I also feel cold from observing the water droplets slowly slipping off of those same petals as they struggle to keep their grip. The daisy, once a seed, now a flower. She contains just as much life as she did hidden in the soil. I know the daisy will not be here forever. I know I will not be here forever. I know you will not be here forever. One day the daisy will be pushed; dead. As every other daisy before it.

From Guest Contributor Winter Daisy

Winter is an author that has a deep desire to make a difference. To read more from them go to https://linktr.ee/winterdaisy.

The Botanist

HUBRIS CONTEST:

Settled at the picnic table, I was teaching my three-year old granddaughter, Natalie, the process of planting seeds. Surrounded by supplies: seeds, cardboard egg cartons, a bag of soil, a big spoon and a spray bottle filled with water, Natalie carefully filled each section of the egg carton with soil. All the while I explained to her how seeds grow into plants if they have sun, water and food. I believed that she thoroughly understood. She was seriously working.

Grandpa joined us and asked, “What are you doing?”

“We are growing eggs!” Natalie boasted.

I’d better wait till she’s four.

From Guest Contributor Patricia Gable

Gordon Perkins, Analyst

NATURE SUBMISSION:

Gordon drummed his pen listlessly as he stared out the window. From his office on the 24th floor, it was possible to see a sliver of ocean, but only when pressed against the glass. Here at his desk, all that was visible was the building across the street, a grey brick affair more depressing than his cubicle.

The plant on Gordon's desk was equally as depressed, drooping over the edge of the pot, three detached brown leaves huddled in the corner. They both needed the same cure. Sunlight and soil.

Instead, Gordon returned to the spreadsheet open on his desktop.

From Guest Contributor Stanley Dutt

Junk

There’s so much still to suffer that even tediously waiting for a train that’s hours late would be a grateful interruption. People are digging in the burning soil with bare hands. My wife’s there. My mother, too. I was going to join them, but now I can’t. It’s as if I’ve become, without my consent, a junk collector. Strange items keep appearing outside the door: a pamphlet, “Human Beings against Music”; rusted bedsprings; a bundle of pencils with broken points; feathers from random birds. Someday, I suppose, children will ask me, “What was it like, the end of the owls?”

From Guest Contributor Howie Good