Quantum Entanglement

Like a string of fireflies, we were at first one, then two; then two paired and paired again until the dark spaces between us led us to mirror a necklace of uncountable stars. Now, as I float in a glass-bottomed boat on waves that meet the river's edge, I watch a scene unfolding: watercolor sunset over breaking waves, night wind in the willows and finally the gold sunrise through the green of this island where we once searched for Sirius among the stars, your voice in the breeze saying, the greatest illusion in the world is the illusion of separation.

From Guest Contributor Cheryl Snell

Burt And Argos

The news sent everyone into a panic. Years of cable sensationalism had afflicted society with a horrible sense that by paying attention to world events, they could actually make an impact. With that illusion shattered, the reality would take time to settle over them. Time that was no longer available.

Burt had stopped watching the news years ago. He'd accepted his futility and was the happier for it. Better to spend that time with Argos, his rescue.

So while most people rioted, Burt and Argos sat on the beach watching the sunset together, waiting for the end of the world.

My Setting Sun

We sit on the beach watching a summer sunset, foamy saltwater encroaching upon our bare toes. Distant mountains cut jagged lines in the sky. We’re laughing, your warm arm around my shoulders. I glow in your rare happiness, believing you’ll stay with me always.

I sense you withdrawing as the sun sinks behind the mountains, air chilling as the golden orb dwindles. Just before it disappears, my soul cries: don’t fade away, don’t leave.

The sun pauses, a yolk balancing on the highest peak.

The moment breaks. Your arm falls from my shoulders.

My soul aches as the sun vanishes.

From Guest Contributor Katla Watersin

Love You Till The End

NATURE SUBMISSION:

I’d never seen a more glorious sunset, even after a tornado. Half the sky was a golden yellow and the clouds above the sun were skeins of vermilion fire. Even the orange flames on the horizon dulled in comparison. Dust in the air; much of it probably radioactive.

We had come out of the root cellar, its door fortunately hidden by an overgrown raspberry patch, where we’d hidden from marauding mobs that had fled the cities, and hidden again when the pursuing troops began shelling. Our house and outbuildings were charred skeletons, the animals gone. We were still holding hands.

From Guest Contributor F. J. Bergmann

Sunset

She's walking home when she sees the most beautiful sunset she's ever seen. Her phone is already in her hand. For some shots she aims low, including both the sunset and the winding tree-lined path that stretches across the park. For others, she aims high, capturing only the yellows, oranges and reds of the evening sky. There is no pleasure in the moment, only later after she arrives at her apartment, after she sits on her bed, after she looks through the photographs, after she decides which she likes best, after she uploads it, after she starts counting the likes.

From Guest Contributor Spencer Chou

Mary Of Silence

From where she stood, she watched the blood soak into the hard, compacted earth. It was like watching water that has spilled from a glass onto the countertop evaporate in fast motion. Soon it would be as if the dark fluid had never been there, absorbed into this wasteland where it could serve no purpose.

Mary wanted to scream. But her voice had fled long ago. With no one willing to listen futility had eventually won out. The doctors called it aphasia.

So Mary watched her husband die. Here, freedom surely was a bitterness. Alone, she started walking towards sunset.

Last Sunset Before Flagstaff

Sydnacious Crumb’s “Pick Me a Squirrel,” Grunge’s last anthem, fought through the mountains for spotty FM reception. Too dark now for sunglasses, he rested his eyes on the long stretch of desert between painted rocks and casino frybread. Squinting occasionally, he thought of how this band, or any artist, could create something that was so much better than anything that came before or after. Just as Crumb caught a clear wave and the chorus echoed, “squirrel, squirrel, squirrel,” he saw in the rearview a beam of light. Not quite purple or red, no, it was pink. And then he understood.

From Guest Contributor Adam Axler

Adam is a former New York City paramedic, physician assistant, and is the current owner of online bookstore Collectible Science Fiction.

Forever In Sunset

Seamus liked this time of day for visiting Breige. It seemed fitting.

She’d enjoyed sitting outside in her Yorkshire Fiddleback, just under the scullery window, breathing in the satisfied air of a full day’s work done as the chickens clucked down the hours to twilight.

She’d watch the sun set across the farm.

“Hell of an old gal,” Seamus sighed, manoeuvring to stand in the spot, watching his shadow sweep along the cemetery path.

The sun dipped, sending the shade of her headstone growing alongside his until it was shoulder to shoulder.

He reached out, smiling as the shadows embraced.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid

Her Note

The front door slammed.

Before leaving, she posted a note on its frame. Unlike the daily reminders she scribbled, this one was blank.

Her husband grasped at the sofa for comfort, nestling his body in her lingering perfume. Their terrier snuggled beside him.

His mind revisited their argument. Was he wrong to throw back insults at her?

When the doorknob turned, he looked up.

“I didn’t write you a note,” she said with her voice breaking.

“I noticed.”

For a while they sat together in silence watching the sunset.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. Her work has been published at: Nailpolish Stories, 50-Word Stories, 100 word story, 101 Words, Boston Literary Magazine, From the Depths (Haunted Waters Press), ShortbreadStories, SixWordMemoirs, and Espresso Stories.

The Hour Before Sunset

Dax Morgan policed the town of Ashland with a harsh tongue and pair of Colt revolvers. He tolerated no dissent, even from his own sons. The town tolerated him in return, as long as peace was maintained.

Gil Thompson hated the sheriff more than most. Dax’d been responsible for his ranch being seized by the government, using technicalities and subterfuge to cheat him of his birthright.

Each wanted the other dead. They finally faced off on a lonely dusty road in the hour before sunset.

As Gil rode away, a rivulet of blood soaked into the thirsty clay behind him.