I stir the White Russian, the clink of ice so soft, tender. I should be grading papers and concentrating on how to explain Rasputin and Nicholas II to my students. I just want to abide in White Russians and ice, a creamy sea.

I’m losing.

From Guest Contributor Yash Seyedbagheri

Yash is a graduate of Colorado State University’s MFA program in fiction. His story, “Soon,” was nominated for a Pushcart. Yash’s stories are forthcoming or have been published in Café Lit, Mad Swirl, 50 Word Stories, and Ariel Chart, among others.

We all got off the coach and headed for the beach. The couple who’d sat across from us stripped to reveal their swimsuits, like a superhero duo. I told Dad on the sand, but he seemed distracted, staring into the horizon.

The water was warm, like a bath. That was our second clue. ‘Don’t worry,’ the news anchor had said at breakfast. ‘Hurricane Katrina isn’t expected to cause much damage.’

From Guest Contributor Robert Keal