He woke up early that Sunday morning excited to go on a trek. His friends had been calling since morning, planning the route, discussing apparel. He was enthusiastic. It was a perfect getaway from the usual day-to-day stress. Chirping birds, a cool breeze, and serenity!

He was about to leave when his phone rang. His ex-girlfriend said, “I love you”. He skipped the trek.

From Guest Contributor Manmeet Chadha

Manmeet is an Alumunus from the London School of Economics & Political Science. He works in India as an Economist & Writer.

Heather relaxed into the sofa. The best word to describe her sessions with Dr. Goldstein was therapeutic. She especially took pleasure in the way her stories shocked the old man.

Heather tried piecing together an explanation that involved vintage reruns, but it eventually unraveled. Still, the umbrage her therapist took when he learned Heather had been sharing entries from her mother’s diary all along made up for her deception’s untimely demise.

First little Amy was stricken, taking three days to die.

Thus the pauper Mary Wells died alone in London in 1665, with no priest to console her, no caring God above her.

From Guest Contributor Ian Fletcher

Born and raised in Cardiff, Wales, Ian has an MA in English from Oxford University. He has had poems and short stories published in The Ekphrastic Review, Tuck Magazine, 1947 A Literary Journal, Dead Snakes, Schlock! Webzine, Short-story.me, Anotherealm, Under the Bed, A Story In 100 Words, Poems and Poetry, Friday Flash Fiction, and in various anthologies.

I write my worries in the sand. They stretch across the beach, one after another. I shake as I write them – the pain intense. Finally, I finish. I walk away from them and sit down on the dry sand above the tide line to wait. The waves rush in, lapping over the words, washing them away. The tension leaves my shoulders as the sand smooths out, but the pain is still there. Will death wash away aches like the tide waters? Will I become smooth like the sand as I wash out into the eternal sea of the next horizon?

From Guest Contributor Tyrean Martinson

Tyrean is a daydreamer, believer, and writer from the Pacific Northwest.

Debbie got high last night.

Debbie remembers kissing Eric Bradshaw and decides that no one listens to hindsight. No one cool anyway.

Lift the perfume, dust, put it back down.
Lift the box, dust, put it back down.
Lift the moisturizer, see her initials, freeze.
JS.
Just last week she was teasing me about cleaning our bedroom.
Well, my bedroom now.
Since the accident.
Not an accident, a stupid drunk drove into the side of the car.
The violent end replays in my mind.
My room is silent now. No more laughing. No more cuddling. No more urging me to clean up.
Just an alone silence. An empty room.
I put down the moisturizer.
Lift another perfume, dust, put it back down.

From Guest Contributor Rodney Goodall

I was about to toss you out. End our years of coexistence.

Lamp I’ve owned for countless years, we belong together.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. Her work has
been published at: Nailpolish Stories, 50-Word Stories, 100 word
story, 101 Words, Boston Literary Magazine, From the Depths (Haunted
Waters Press), ShortbreadStories, SixWordMemoirs, and Espresso
Stories.

I stare out the window watching the torrents of rain pound the leaves on my maple tree and listen to the ferocious wind hit against the siding of my house. My dog Patty barks and scratches the windowpane. I pull her next to me on the couch and rub her stomach, the only thing that soothes her. Roads are closed due to flooding and I’m stuck at home.

It’s funny how things turn out.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

She rarely lied. Sure, there was the occasional well-intended compliment to spare someone’s feelings. She might make a prevarication of convenience when the full story would take too long to explain. She didn’t consider these lies.

But she rarely lied.

It was a brisk autumn afternoon, with variegated leaves cascading over the pavement before congregating in the gutter. A penny caught his eye, resting Lincoln-side up in the middle of the sidewalk. He wanted to ignore it, but rather than speed past, he reflexively slowed and glanced behind him. The closest pedestrian was a block behind him.

He tried to bend at the knees, reach down for the penny, and place it into his pocket in one sweeping motion. He didn’t need to be pinching pennies, but he wasn’t really in a place to leave money just sitting there either.