No Paradise

We left our gear on the shore and braved the jungle. Verdant, mossy plants, swollen fruits, normal snakes and spiders. All expected. But that smell. Like sulfur. Why? As earth and rocks piled up it permeated everything. It coated our hair and settled into the weave of our clothes. Warnings went unheeded. When we summited, it was too late. The crag gave way to a cavernous cleft. It glared a stony glare. Then the ground shuttered. Then it trembled. In those final fleeing moments, choked in smoke, death raining down, we understood the island's ancient name: The Great Giant's Buttocks.

From Guest Contributor Nicholas De Marino

Falling

Dominicus Tyrannus watched the city crumble from his tower. For years, advisors and barely-trusted confidantes had warned such an outcome was inevitable. There were always warnings and doomsayers looking at him as if somehow he was the one who had failed them, not the other way around.

They were dead now, publicly executed by being tossed from this very tower, their deaths meant to placate the masses. Perhaps it had just whetted their appetites for more blood. Either way, with the empire falling after more than a thousand years of uninterrupted reign, Dominicus regretted not killing them all much earlier.

On A Bus

78-year-old Frieda tried to maintain balance while holding her bags. No one offered to exchange places, never mind looked up from a cell phone.

"People used to give an old person a seat," said Frieda out loud.

A seat? The young driver had seen nothing like that in his experience. "Sit here for a minute," he offered.

* * * * *

A few blocks after Frieda had driven erratically, a policeman signaled the bus over.

"Enough," he demanded, tired of her playing on the sympathy of young drivers to gratify her bus-driving-desires. Enough with the previous warnings. He never trusted little old ladies anyway.

From Guest Contributor David Sydney

Sunflowers On The Horizon

The rows of sunflowers spread across the horizon, tiny flames of color against a burnt-out sky. Megan ducks away from the window, hoping she wasn't spotted.

"They're coming closer."

Charles scrambles on hands and knees from room to room, locking each door without standing up, praying the bolts will be enough to keep them safe.

"I'm scared."

Megan ignores his cowardice, once again apologizing to her inner voice for ignoring its many warnings that an RPG podcaster would not make a good husband.

"Just shut up and go get the pesticide from the garage. I have some sunflowers to murder."

Paradoxically

The time machine had come with many instructions, disclaimers, and warnings. Multiple signatures were required, acknowledging no one could be held liable for what was about to happen other than himself. His lawyers advised against proceeding. His priest refused to absolve him of his sins, both past and future. His children cried.

He steps inside.

He didn't bother explaining that everything they feared had already happened. He died before he was born. The reality they knew and cherished was not the reality they had known and cherished. They paradoxically clung to an existence that never was and always would be.

The Fourth Of July

Pig, of brick house fame, smelled something burning. Was it a weasel? Then he heard cursing coming from next door. Witch again! After countless warnings from the city, she’d refused to clean up the candy bits and cake that littered her yard, refused to cease and desist in the eating of children. But what if she was on fire? What about the Good Samaritan Law? A law that he and his two brothers scoffed at years before, when they thought taunting a wolf caught in a trap was amusing, almost as enjoyable as the fireworks on the Fourth of July.

From Guest Contributor Linda Lowe