Mia

The truth is ugly and often hurts.

Mia triggered those around her with her refusal to couch her insults. Every remark succeeded in cutting the receiver exactly where it hurt most.

Her justification was that everyone deserved the truth. Only by recognizing his faults would a person be able to improve themselves.

However Frank, Mia's ex-boyfriend, used the excuse of honesty to rationalize being hurtful towards her. He claimed he was behaving no differently than Mia, but Mia didn't feel bad after speaking honestly to others.

Frank was a jerk. Mia told him so as she broke up with him.

Zombies

The question. Do nanobots work? Does the Graphene oxide poisoning cause Biden's dementia statement that US will be facing in 15 years? Remember his rambling in 2021. Seeing a future when everyone has Dementia or Alzheimer’s?

The truth?

The Graphene in the vaccine made those not reading the contract property of some DARPA weapon system.

In the end it makes people nuts in time.

Zombies?

I remember on Sagittarius thermonuclear war. in Zachariah. The Blood shall rise to a horse's bridle.

I now live on Orion and Zechariah if you read seems to indicate zombies or werewolves. Just not sure which.

From Guest Contributor Clinton Siegle

Gaslighting After Dark

As the new employee at the haunted mansion, I quickly realized that my job is to communicate with the ghosts rather than clean up after them. Neither appeal to me very much.

To tell you the truth, I don't believe in ghosts. That's one of the first questions Ralph asked during my interview, and I straight up told him I wasn't the kind of person who had fanciful notions about such things. He said that was just fine. It works better when you don't believe.

It turns out that the undead are just as susceptible to gaslighting as the living.

As A River Runs Cold

When the sun finally set that evening, it was as if someone was turning off a faucet. The water ran clear and cold, then stopped running altogether, leaving behind a long, jagged-edged stain on the pavement that slowly grew into a pool of blood on the street below, like a wound left open too long, growing wider.

Clouds pressed down hard against the earth while the sky darkened. The townspeople began dying in great numbers. The river never once turned red with the blood that flowed through its banks. Nothing could change the truth of who and what I'd become.From Guest Contributor J. Iner Souster

See You Soons

Autumn was the only time we could be together, but that doesn’t mean it was the only time we were together. Catching quick glimpses, stealing kisses behind closed doors and see you soons were all we knew. But I was okay with that, because it was all I knew. All I knew were rainy October days, curled up for a few hours in his arms. He whispered half promises of forever onto my forehead, but we knew that it wasn’t the truth. It was just a better version of our reality; the one where see you soons never became goodbyes.

From Guest Contributor Kelsey Swancott

Kelsey is a senior majoring in English with a minor in Visual Arts and Spanish while also being involved in the campus literary magazine Angles. She plans on furthering her education by getting her masters degree in English as well. Her work has been published in Entropy Squared, The Dribble Drabble Review’s Spring 2021 issue and Otoliths in February 2021.

Ajar

“Time sure flies. Tomorrow is already his Big Truthful Day.”

“I’m glad we won’t have to lie to him anymore.”

“It wasn’t really lying – rather hiding the truth.”

“What shall we tell him first? About Santa or the Easter Bunny?”

“Wouldn’t you think he already knows this stuff? Probably a few of his classmates must have told.”

“Then we’ll tell him we’re not his real parents and that he’s hereditarily predestined to be offered to the gods.”

Both giggle inaudiblely.

“Ssssh… wait… did you hear that?”

“No. You are imagining things.”

“Perhaps. Are you sure you closed his bedroom door?”

From Guest Contributor Hervé Suys

Forgotten

He doesn't remember me. I used to be someone who was close to him. At least I thought I was close to him. He'd look at me as if I were a friend. He'd look at me as if I were a stranger but what exactly was in those eyes? In those sparkly eyes, was that affection, sympathy, or simply pity?

Seeing him walking down the street were the only happy moments of my life. Doesn't he remember he saved me once and every day since then from all my misery. Well, the truth is I don't remember him either.

From Guest Contributor Sergio Nicolas

The Goddess Becomes

It was a pleasure to burn. Of the eight, it was my most beautiful arm: the hillside slope of the shoulder, the tender elbow, that lilting wrist, narrow yet invincible. Had he seen it in the dance, or still in his Sistine posture, even Michelangelo would have known God is a woman.

The downy hair went up first, and then the skin, the perfect fingernails, the sizzling fat and muscle. There is always a relaxation in admitting the truth, even a truth that smells like sulfur and charcoal: I am the flames as much as I was ever the arm.From Guest Contributor Brook Bhagat

Brook’s poetry, fiction, non-fiction, and humor have appeared in Monkeybicycle, Empty Mirror Magazine, Harbinger Asylum, MoonPark Review, Little India, Dămfīno, Nowhere Poetry, Rat's Ass Review, Peacock Journal, Anthem: A Tribute to Leonard Cohen, and other journals and anthologies. In 2013, she and her husband Gaurav created Blue Planet Journal, which she edits and writes for. She holds an MFA from Lindenwood University, teaches poetry and creative writing at a community college, and is writing a novel. See more at www.brook-bhagat.com or reach her on Twitter at @BrookBhagat.

As You Wish

There's a man on the television in an outdated suit. He is talking to a famous interviewer I have always liked. The words on the screen read: William Goldman -- Author, The Princess Bride.

This is not the truth. I know this for a fact because I have read The Princess Bride. It was not written by a man. It was bequeathed to us fully formed by Prometheus, who stole it from the heavens.

There is one thing the man says that I agree with in addition to his mustache. "The easiest thing to do on Earth is not to write."