A Day at the Lake

Cartoon fishing is bloodless but the one who landed on the bodies of trees that was a good excuse for a sweating can of beer in the red hand of Uncle John was a body, eyes peeled and gasping, flapping, slapping, impaled with rusting violence and the lie about the free lunch of the worm and I also stopped chewing, not because of my seven-year-old wiggly tooth but because of the hook in the ham sandwich my mother'd given me, the hook in the wooden deck of the boat, the hook that cartoon fishing is bloodless

and then she died

From Guest Contributor Brook Bhagat

Lost Children

One morning, the adults of Sycamore woke up to find that all of the children had disappeared. There were no signs of abduction or notes left behind and, even more curious, it appeared that many of them had packed bags of clothes and favorite belongings before they departed.

A meeting was convened. An argument ensued. The parents blamed the police. The police blamed the parents. Rivals and political adversaries threatened violence. The fault lines of the town were laid bare.

Eventually, a letter arrived. It read:

"To our parents,

Get your shit together or we're never coming back.

-Your children"

Chatrang

“Your move,” Death said.

They can’t hear me. Please give me another chance. The mortal shivered.

“Thirteen moves.” The Guardian Angel moved his bishop.

The Death Angel smirked. "Check."

“It's never enough to defend their lives,” the Guardian sighed.

No, I don’t want to die.

“They never learn, do they?” Death chuckled. “No empathy for others, until violence knocks on their doors.”

No, please, I’m a good person.

“Someday, maybe, I hope to defend a man who is worth a decent game." The guardian placed his knight.

Oh god, I can’t see anything, I want to live!

Death roared, “Checkmate.”

From Guest Contributor Amberstar Rosette

Amberstar is a writer who lives in the Czech Republic

I'll Stay

I’ll stay.

I never did see their faces when they grabbed, raped, and beat me. Nor when they left me for dead in the canal not far from home.

A delusional hermit fished me out – tended to me in his old gardening shed they used to give coal miners. He called me daughter. His tenderness and doting seemed true.

It’s been two years – he is my Dad. And I his Isabella. A cozy shed-home for two.

But now shades of my past have begun flickering through the fog. I had been Anne. An orphaned young prostitute. Alone.

Isabella was lucky.

From Guest Contributor Nicolle Browne-Jamet

Abraham Lincoln Watching Django Unchained For The First Time

The producers were expecting some strong reactions as the movie reached its climax. The violence was among the most graphic they had ever seen. But when their star guest collapsed, all the executives fell into a stunned silence.

"Is he all right?"

One of the marketing interns knelt to feel his pulse. "His heart has stopped."

No one thought to call a doctor. The cover up began immediately.

"Luckily, he was shot just a few weeks after we picked him up. History shouldn't be too affected."

Everyone nodded in agreement but, in true Hollywood fashion, it was just wishful thinking.

Street Life

November spreads gray across sticky sidewalks as acrid smoke from burn barrels warms frigid hands and stings sleep-weary eyes. Winos huddle wary knowing tempers can flare as quickly as last week’s newspapers tossed in the fires. On the streets a life is worth a pint of Mad Dog. Desperate men commit despicable acts for a drink. Women trade sex and dignity for comfort under blankets. Robert the Shank holds jagged metal to a girl’s throat. Bettie slams a bottle against his ear. He cuts her bad. An ambulance takes her to County. She smiles bleeding, thinking of a clean bed.

From Guest Contributor, Jeff Switt

Jeff is a retired advertising agency guy who loves writing flash fiction—some days to curb his angst, other days to fuel it. His words have been featured at Dogzplot, Boston Literary Review, Flash Fiction World, Nailpolish Stories, 50-Word Stories, and Shotgun Honey, and have appeared at lots of places that take whatever you send in.

Everything Has Its Cost

Lester frowned. The map told exactly where to find the hidden fortune of Reginald Day, the object of treasure hunters everywhere. Unfortunately, the map was now in the possession of his chief rival.

Lester plotted many possible methods for securing the map, but all of them ended either with him in jail, or in violence. Though it was at times necessary, Lester didn't particularly care for violence. But the thought of prison was even less appealing.

So it was that Lester absconded with the entire Day fortune, at the cost of dropping Reginald's 11-year-old granddaughter off the village clock tower.