Machine Music

"Why do I have to learn piano if in five years all music's going to be made by AI anyway?"

Gale generally enjoyed his life as a piano instructor, but his sessions with Kimberly were an exception. She was the kind of student who constantly wasted his time and purposefully avoided practice, so even her warm up scales grated on his nerves.

"AI doesn't know the first thing about writing actual music. It's just a bunch of sounds that vaguely resembles a real song. Art can't be created by a machine."

"But my biology teacher says humans are machines too."

Debauchery

Rick stumbled into the alleyway hoping no one would notice him puking. The retching sounds could be heard one block over. He got back in his police car and drove away.

Preston kept his hat low over his face while checking into the hotel with his secretary. During the five minutes of sex, he wondered where he recognized the desk clerk from. Hopefully not his congregation.

Barbara dropped one last token in the slot and pulled the lever. She was bust. They never should have voted her treasurer of the cancer foundation.

Just another night in the big American city.

Super

You’d probably call it spying, but how else to know when I should come? Sounds are a bit muffled after all this time. My body feels battered; too many buildings leapt at a single bound wreaked havoc on my joints. I’m not as fast either, for speeding bullets whiz by me, and this famous cape I still wear drags in the wind. Lois passed years ago, and where is Lex? Running some nursing home into the ground; I’ve no doubt. Yes, I fly lower and peer through your windows. I need you all now, more than you ever needed me.

From Guest Contributor Colleen Addison

Downstairs

“Otto, I heard something.”

“What?...What time is it?”

It was 2 AM. They were in their second-floor bedroom.

“I think I heard something downstairs...Could you make sure there isn't someone breaking in?”

“We have an alarm, Claudette.”

“You've heard of disabling them, haven't you?”

Of course, he'd heard of that.

Only moonbeams filtered into their small bedroom.

“Anyway, Frodo's down there, Claudette.”

Frodo was a Labrador retriever.

“Yeah...But you know him, and he's probably playing dead.”

She listened intently for any sounds.

“It all depends on Frodo and you, Otto...Hey, Otto.”

But Otto was playing dead.

From Guest Contributor David Sydney

The Wait

I woke up early and went for a jog. As I followed the path through the park, I listened to nature. The sounds of the birds singing, and the squirrels running up trees were a sign of early spring. It was an unusually hot day in March, so the park benches were filled with people. I had water in my pouch and took a sip. It felt good going down into the pit of my stomach.

After, I sat I checked my phone. There it was, the message I had been waiting for.

My first novel was accepted for publication.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

What The Stars Saw

The stars saw her face, someone who wishes wildflowers never died, thunder always accompanied rain, and the sounds of the waves were something that left the shoreline. Even the tears she shed when she thought it was only her and the items of clothes on the floor because the mirror just did not look right. The stars saw the smile she wore when he cherished her in the dark and the tears she lost when she was left to her own company on the worst nights. Some nights the stars were enough. Some nights, she wished they would do more.

From Guest Contributor Caitriona Mullenix

Wishful Thinking

As the Strawberry moon sets on the peak the sky shines bright like a diamond ready for its new owner. Spring weather in the Springs is springing but the cool breeze feels good on our cocoa butter infused skin. Your eyes bright like a newborn showing off their first smile and your touch soft yet warm like Vicuña. The record player sings the soft sweet sounds of “The Sweetest Taboo” with our feet's glued to the floor with no care in the world. Nights like this are longed for with breathtaking experiences, never ending memories but nothing like wishful thinking. From Guest Contributor Renee' Battle

Renee' is a student studying broadcasting and legal studies at Pikes Peak State College.

Echo Of Inevitability

Sounds become muffled. All she hears is an echo bouncing off the walls. For an infinitesimal moment her soul levitates, detaching from the present. She looks at the doctor’s face as words grow inaudible. A silent scream explodes from her lungs into an invisible body spasm. A voice in her head continues unrestrained: ‘She’ll be alone” but her mind allows her to compose herself as she kisses minuscule freckles on her daughter’s face. As chubby little fingers wipe off her tears, she peers into the eyes of Innocence, so intrinsic, untainted.

The headstone inscribes: ‘RIP Innocence. Your life starts anew.’

From Guest Contributor Andrea Damic

Amateur photographer and author of micro and flash fiction, Andrea Damic, born in Sarajevo, Bosnia and Herzegovina, lives in Sydney, Australia. Her words have been published or are forthcoming in 50-Word Stories, Friday Flash Fiction, Microfiction Monday Magazine, Paragraph Planet, 100 Word Project & TDDR with her art featuring or forthcoming in Rejection Letters, Door Is A Jar Magazine, and Fusion Art’s Exhibitions. One day she hopes to finish and publish her novel. You can find her on TW @DamicAndrea, Facebook or Instagram.

Winter's End

Sounds of breaking ice awaken her mind as she settles back down upon the thawing earth, with its cracks and pops as faults move forward at increasing speeds revealing hibernating secrets.

Inspiring streams, reverting from their crystalline form, fish returning from the spirit world greeted by crimson grass and creeping Phlox in efflorescence.

Rain continuously taunts her from all directions. She watches an ascending pale moon in its most majestic of phases. With welcoming pulsations, feeling her heart stir once again as its frozen arteries struggle to kick off winter's cold embrace.

The heat she now feels comes from within.

From Guest Contributor J. Iner Souster

Soothing Sounds

As soon as I entered the apartment, I felt the heavy air of disappointment. Lauren hadn’t made the all-star team. She’d been practicing her foul shots and layups for months. She was curled into the recliner with a blanket tucked under her chin. I knew better than to speak to her.

On my way into the kitchen, it struck me that my father had discovered texting and Face Time on his cell phone. I shot him a text, turned the speaker on, and my father’s warmth came through my phone.

“Pop Pop” Lauren squealed, jumping and tossing the blanket aside.

From Guest Contributor Edith Gallagher Boyd