She's Already Made Up Her Mind

She's already made up her mind.

Howard doesn't see it. He tries bargaining, apologizing (without ever saying the words I'm sorry), pleading. When that fails, out come the threats, the fits of anger, the hints at suicide. He thinks about hitting her, because it's just so unfair, but he throws his phone agains the wall instead.

It's worse that she doesn't get angry at his anger. She's quiet. Resolute.

He tries convincing her he'll be better. But his apologies are just excuses. He still refuses to say he's sorry, wouldn't matter if he did.

She's already made up her mind.

Apocalyptically Yours

It was the end of the American Century, and as if at a secret signal, the streets suddenly filled up with dancing grannies. I looked in their doll-like painted faces for an explanation. What I saw instead were suicide nets, abortions by wire coat hanger, piles of broken bricks. Life in our little town was becoming more and more like life elsewhere – a movie trailer for the Apocalypse. I would shake my head in an attempt to get rid of the eerie images, but every morning children would once again be walking past the slaughterhouse on their way to school. From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author of Failed Haiku, a poetry collection that is the co-winner of the 2021 Grey Book Press Chapbook Contest and scheduled for publication in summer 2022.

Savage State

Special trains departed every hour on the hour for labor camps and reeducation centers. Hatchet-faced men in leather trench coats would grab people right off the street. I struggled hard to keep the look of the panic-stricken out of my eyes, the hitch of the guilt-ridden out of my step. It wouldn’t even be noon, and the sun would already be a dying ember in an ashen sky. There was no specific end to the workday. Steel bars had been installed on factory windows and suicide nets on the roofs. Manufacturers knowingly sold baby food contaminated with the devil’s tears.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author of more than two dozen poetry collections, including most recently Gunmetal Sky (Thirty West Publishing, 2021).

A Piece Of History

The suicide stopped drowning for a minute to pose for the art students sketching on the riverbank. It happened about the time Sartre claimed he was being followed through the streets of Paris by a pair of rare blue lobsters. The bearded lady sat at the window, beautiful in her own way, but struggling to decide whether or not she should start to shave. Even though Hitler was dead, the screams from the gas chambers went on. People in the surrounding area would later say they thought it was just the collection of apple-cheeked Hummel figurines above the fake fireplace. From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author of The Death Row Shuffle, forthcoming from Finishing Line Press. He co-edits the online journals Unbroken and UnLost.

April Come She Will

Men on the street would call my girlfriend lindo. “Get used to it,” she said. I decided the best thing for me to do was nothing. April had been designated Artichoke Month. I remember we saw a movie about astronauts on a mind-bending journey to the cosmic womb. It was confusing and a little scary. She got really into the singer-songwriter who had committed suicide by stabbing himself in the chest. There were long lines outside liquor stores and gun shops. One day we found a hand-lettered cardboard sign lying abandoned on the sidewalk: Hungry & Cold / Anything Helps. From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author most recently of Stick Figure Opera: 99 100-word Prose Poems from Cajun Mutt Press. He co-edits the online journals Unbroken and UnLost.

This Message Cannot Be Delivered

Old friends’ emails become inactive, enveloped by electronic monsters. My message cannot be delivered, electronic gatekeepers proclaim.

I can’t tell them of being alone. I can’t hear their off-color jokes about paraplegics and suicide, youth at its most delightfully stupid. Tell them of empty, sterile walls. I can’t confess I absorbed their stories of family, an electronic voyeur.

I keep trying. Messages come back.

I drive to distant homes. But staring through lit windows, I feel like a magazine, an obnoxious knickknack among order and precision. I imagine them discarding jokes, smiles replaced by starched replicas.

This message isn’t delivered.

From Guest Contributor Yash Seyedbagheri

Yash is a graduate of Colorado State University's MFA program in fiction. His story, "Soon," was nominated for a Pushcart. Yash’s work is forthcoming or has been published in WestWard Quarterly, Café Lit, 50 Word Stories, (mac)ro (mic), and Ariel Chart.

Kiss Your Ass Goodbye

There are always more volunteers than available spots on the firing squad. But the really terrible part isn’t how cold it is out. It’s how much I tremble. The I Ching advises, “Wait in the meadow,” meaning caring for a cow will bring luck. I can remember a time when everyone wasn’t in such a hurry to fuck off to somewhere. Now, whatever phone number I punch in, the suicide hotline picks up. I think about mentioning this to someone. And then I get distracted by the wind and the rain and the loud kissing noises they seem to make.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Delhi Rape Case

Cell 1: Driver. Charged with rape and murder. Known as "mental/alcoholic."Escaped punishment by suicide.Cell 2: Brother of driver. Charged with same. Kept in solitary confinement after assault from inmates.Hung to death.Cell 3: Gym instructor. Guilty of kidnapping, robbery, rape, murder.Death sentence.Cell 4: Fruit Seller. Guilty of "rarest of rare." Raped so hard; intestines bled.Death penalty; followed by cheering by crowd.Cell 5: Unemployed man; commits atrocities to pass time and have a laugh.Death penalty.Cell 6: Minor. Charged with rape and immense body mutilation.Tried as juvenile. 3-year sentence.

Fuck Justice.

From Guest Contributor Suhasini Patni

Suhasini is a second year undergraduate at Ashoka University, in India, studying English literature. She has previously published a book review in The Tishman Review and a micro-fiction piece with A Quiet Courage, and hopes to publish many more. She is new to the publishing world but loves to write.

The Mystery Of Life And Death, Unexplained

For decades, scientists have studied Blackrock Crater to understand it's almost mystical attraction. Birds, animals--even insects--travel miles to the scenic spot, only to die from a combination of hyperthermia and suffocation. These deaths were not random. Rather, something was attracting the animals.

All manner of hypothesis were considered and then discarded. Magnetic fields, parasites, chemicals. There was no plausible explanation for the mass deaths. It almost seemed like intentional suicide.

Finally, Dr. Seaver decided that truly was the answer. There wasn't any scientific explanation for the phenomenon. The animals came to Blackrock simply because they wanted to die.

Good Bye World

The blood of the homeless worked nicely. I was able to refine the unimaginably gruesome ritual and it worked, I stopped aging! I am writing this to repent for my sins and to warn others. Now the only life I will take is my own, to ensure that the minute details of the sickening ceremony die with me. Always remember that one virtuous short life is worth more than a hundred long lives of evil like the one I have lived. I now say goodbye to the world I have known longer than anyone else in the history of man.

From Guest Contributor Kevin Pentalow