Meat Monster

The fleshy carcass emerges from the oven with ill intent in its heart. What was once a peaceful, feeling, sentient creature is now sliced and glazed in a glass casserole dish. The gluttonous desire of the would-be cannibals turns to terror upon seeing the monster they have crafted. The violent nature of their death at the hands of their once victim will pale in comparison to the guilt that will weigh down their souls as they pass on to whatever eternity they might have waiting for them on the other side.

At least that's how a vegan imagines it.

Out Of Time

Christopher ran as fast as possible to the station. Typical, leaving it to the last minute.

He kept hoping Brian would say something first. Even if it wasn't I'm sorry, the simple act of reaching out would have encouraged Christopher to admit the accusations had been out of line. He can't help his sensitive heart, and sometimes Brian was the victim.

Now Brian is on the train to Boston. Now Brian is marrying the ex he'd left for Christopher. Now Brian is dead.

The apology will forever go unstated. He will forever be alone. Christopher has fallen out of time.

Gift

Philonik was born into slavery. He never knew love, and was barely treated better than an animal. Known for his obstinance and refusal to obey commands, he was beaten often and mercilessly. There were also times that he was treated cruelly simply out of malice, the victim of abuses that can't be repeated here.

He was subject to hard labor on a daily basis, until he was no longer able to handle the rigors and thrashings. He was lame, blind, discarded, with nothing left but to beg for the barest scraps, until one day he died.

Life is a gift.

Peaches

I open the window with force to see what the commotion is. The street is filled with people standing and screaming. I see a glimpse of a shoeless foot, sock hanging. Long red hair catches my eyes, as does the smashed front windshield of a small car.

An ambulance approaches blaring its siren and the crowd shifts to the sidewalk.

Now I see the victim is my next-door neighbor and my heart palpitates.

Sitting on my lap is her kitten Peaches, who I pet sit.

I coddle the furry cat in my arms, and realize I’ll be his home now.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

The Dig

A woman’s voice beneath the ash and rubble signals me. I tell her to keep talking and follow the sound, digging, my hands and arms aching.

“We’re almost there,” I say, gasping, dripping sweat and thirsty.

One of my workmen approaches. “Ben, she won’t survive long if we don’t get her out soon.”

“Keep digging,” I say.

An image appears and to my stunned eyes, I see a protruding stomach. She has lost consciousness and is covered in earth. I get her onto a stretcher and into the ambulance.

I take the shovel and begin digging for the next victim.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

This Morning I Lost My Favorite Sock And I Knew The World Was Ending

I wake up to the sound of volcanoes and people screaming.

Outside, Kīlauea glows. The Goddess of Volcanoes is sitting at my breakfast table, drinking coffee as she makes the world burn.

I say: “I hate my life. Take it.” I rip at my shirt collar, thrust my naked breasts forward.

Pele blinks. She is so, so beautiful.

Anxiety mounts and I wonder: did I come on too strongly, too like a beggar? A murderer’s least satisfying victim is the one that wants to die, after all.

Pele sits up and kisses me. Her tongue, velvet lava, melts everything away.

From Guest Contributor Andrei Șișman

Andrei is a fiction author and memoirist from Bucharest, Romania. He is currently wading through a forest of banalities in search of the perfect Tweet. By trade a lawyer, his literary work has appeared or is forthcoming in Every Day Fiction, Flash Fiction Magazine, Drunk Monkeys, and other places. Andrei can be found at andrei-sisman.carrd.co and on Twitter at @sisman_andrew.

What Family?

When I sat at my one-hundred-year-old mother’s bedside, she told me I was adopted, that she couldn’t die without telling me. I’m seventy-three years old, what was the point when no family was left to answer my questions?

I did a DNA test, and thought--what have I done?

An e-mail appeared in my DNA account from Tom, who said he was a cousin. My parents were illiterate, poor and didn’t know they signed me away permanently.

Tom explained I was a victim of the Tennessee orphanage scandal, along with many victims.

I deleted my account and never looked back.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

A Netflix Original

Two Scandinavian dudes set out in a vintage VW microbus to prove the secretary-general of the United Nations was the victim of assassination. But then, by accident, they discover an attempt to eliminate entirely the smoking of cigarettes after sex. The Scandinavians meet a leader of an underground militia who says that while that’s his signature on the document, he didn’t write the signature himself. I got to be honest, I was expecting more: maybe a “crime wall,” with photos and red strings and so on; maybe the angel of death promising in a mocking tone to stay in touch.

Howie Good is the author most recently of What It Is and How to Use It from Grey Book Press. He co-edits the journals Unbroken and UnLost.

Miracles

Steve wasn't one to believe in miracles. He understood too well the depravities of the human heart. More often than not he was victim to the world's machinations. That's how fate had led him to the streets.

So when the woman offered a hot meal, he expected some sort of catch, likely in the form of a lengthy sermon. When she offered a warm bed, he called to mind images of harvested organs and sexual servitude. When she claimed through phony tears to be his mother, he fled at the first opportunity, certain it was another conspiracy plotting against him.

Invasion

Crowds of strangers gather to see an unfamiliar lightning storm. The thunder roars and howls as the storm grows angrier. The ground begins to shake and rumble. Lightning bolts strike near and far.

What was once a quiet town was now invaded by alien-like creatures. So small, yet full of razor sharp teeth. They leap from one victim to the next, craving the taste of human blood. Their bodies growing by the millisecond.

Their nests all around. Cone-shaped and green. Clumped together. Millions of babies hatching. The human race dwindling by the minute.

The invasion has just begun.

From Guest Contributor Alexa Findlay

Alexa is an Undergraduate student at the University of California, Riverside. She spends her time writing fiction and poetry. Her work has been featured in Pomona Valley Review, Better than Starbucks Magazine, Adelaide Literary Magazine, Halcyon Days, Grotesque Magazine, and Blood Moon Rising Magazine amongst others.