Disintegration

"Imagine all of the possibilities!"

Debra completed the tour with a flourish and, rather than attempt the hard sell, left David and Barb to do the heavy lifting.

"I love it, honey." David cringed, having asked his wife to hide her enthusiasm. She was an eternal optimist, while he spent most of his waking hours dreaming of all the ways his life might begin crumbling around him. Opposites and all that.

While the two women huddled together like old friends, David anxiously anticipated closing on the property, and then watching as the house completely disintegrated in front of his eyes.

Platero And I: The Tour

Do not judge me with your eyes, Platero. I had the best intentions helping the lost walkers on their way.

I know there is a shorter route, but that couple seemed sympathetic and I had the impression that their restaurant was still filled up.

Thanks to the detour I made them take, they get a nice view over the valley, past the cherry trees - currently in full bloom - and can see the foal grazing in the meadow since yesterday.

Admit it, Platero. They will enjoy it more than just turning right at the end of the road to get there.

From Guest Contributor Hervé Suys

Hervé (°1968 – Ronse, Belgium) started writing short stories whilst recovering from a sports injury and he hasn’t stopped since. Generally he writes them hatless and barefooted.

The Cave

Today is his wife’s birthday. Five years later, a ghastly memory lingers over him. He cringes recalling the cave tour he planned for his adventurous wife. Now, he desperately yearns for her.

A cold breeze sends shivers down his spine while he silently fights back tears. His grief-stricken heart is infuriated by Mother Nature’s cruelty.

He still hears echoes of his wife’s pleas to rescue their child from nature’s wrath. Ruthless in stealing her, now this cold cave is blessed with his wife’s beautiful soul.

A flurry of air passes through him as her immortal love warms the hollow cave.From Guest Contributor Hetal Shah

Hetal Shah graduated with her Bachelor of Commerce from SIES. She lives in Mumbai with her husband, son, and daughter. She rekindled her hobby of writing over the past year. She is the winner of Mumbai Poetry League 2020, and her poem was published in an anthology by Poets of Mumbai called Guldastaa A Bouquet of Poems. She also writes flash fiction, and has been published twice on 101words.org. She loves to read, and especially enjoys reading and writing stories of romance and everyday life. Besides writing, she enjoys cooking new cuisines, traveling, and singing.

Step Nine

He rode that one hit as far as it would take him. Now all he had left was the blue guitar. He had hocked, sold, or left behind everything else, including the royalties. The blue guitar, even with the missing string; he couldn’t bring himself to part with that.

The alcohol and cocaine haze had lifted long ago, leaving memories from that time scrambled.

He knew she was blond, she wasn’t just any groupie, and he’d broken more than just a guitar string.

He needed to make amends but he couldn’t remember where the tour had been playing that week.

From Guest Contributor Simon Hole

Simon lives in rural Rhode Island where he taught fourth grade for 35 years, publishing essays and co-authoring a book focused on life in the classroom. Since retirement he has been playing poker, gardening, and writing short fiction. Some of his work can be found on-line at 101Words, The Zodiac Review, 200cc’s, and Bewildering Stories.

In the Paris Catacombs

My tour is just two thousand meters of the hundred kilometer labyrinth that forms this subterranean ossuary.

The tunnel walls are stacks of femurs, tibias, scapulas, et alia, interspersed with grinning skulls.

Six million dead unceremoniously disinterred, generation upon generation, from centuries ago.

Good, evil, male, female, beautiful, ugly, aristocrat, artisan, everyone has attained an undignified égalité here.

I could laugh myself to scorn at this macabre absurdity. Not a ghost in sight, merely piles of bones!

Back in the land of the living, I emerge into the rush hour: busy throngs of stick people, all sharing the same destination.

From Guest Contributor Ian Fletcher

Ian studied English Literature at Oxford University many years ago. He has had short stories published in various genres in Schlock! Webzine, Schlock! Bi-Monthly, Short-story.me, Anotherealm, Under the Bed, A Story In 100 Words, and in anthologies by Horrified Press and Rogue Planet Press. He is an Affiliate Member of the Horror Writers Association.