It’s steep over The Edge, one slip, anyone could fall. The Edge overlooks the city, and many people come here to think, make out, and party. Driving to The Edge is easy, it’s leaving that is hard. There are stories about this place; no one is ever invited. The Edge pulls you in, a tense grip leaving you struggling for air. No one really knows how they get here, there are no directions to The Edge, you just appear. I’ve been to The Edge once, it’s scary there. Dark and gloomy, even when there are no clouds in the sky.

From Guest Contributor Montana Huston

Montana is a student of journalism at Pikes Peak Community College.

I lived once upon a time on Sagittarius. That dream took me to Perseus, then to Orion, then to Orion’s arm, then to Orion Nebula, where we pick up this story. Death I travel the ways is scary. I awoke in the green realm right before entering the latest world.

To watch the end. Bye to Humanity. Why? In my mirror reality I did things and was once upon a time a person of influence. Doubt me? I doubt myself these days. I write to the same people with influence there here and nothing happens. All self bent on death.

From Guest Contributor Clinton Siegle

Clinton is a blogger, disabled, expat, filmmaker, poet, and writer living in La Paz, Bolivia.

I joined the Air Raid Precautions as a warden, ready to serve. I never imagined the danger.

I returned home, fell into bed, and dreamt of my childhood, a happy, peaceful time when there was no war.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Lisa has been writing since 2010 and has had many micro-flash fiction stories published. In 2018 her book Shorts for the Short Story Enthusiasts, was published and The Importance of Being Short, in 2019. Her most recent book In A Flash, was published in the spring of 2022.

Sounds of breaking ice awaken her mind as she settles back down upon the thawing earth, with its cracks and pops as faults move forward at increasing speeds revealing hibernating secrets.

The heat she now feels comes from within.

From Guest Contributor J. Iner Souster

“You’ve changed,” she said, as I held her in my arms. She had no idea how much, how often! But I wasn’t the man she’d known before, and I could see she’d leave me soon.

Afterwards, I crunched down on her bones, and cleaned my muzzle in the bowl by the door. Then I ran to rejoin my pack.

From Guest Contributor Alastair Millar

Alastair is an archaeologist by training, a translator by trade, and a nerd by nature. His published flash and micro fiction can be found here.

A tap on the shoulder a jolt back to reality, not reality to an abyss. Weary as someone falls on the ground blood everywhere. Running and screaming in vengeance. The puddle grows sticky I melt into the floor, watching time slow down. Put on a pedestal not to adore or admire but to pity. Voices behind me question our reality. Time slowly tick-tocks by. A car ride later, bright lights and people dawned in blue hovering over me. Green silk and glowsticks draped with fresh blood dripping on the expansive white linoleum floors. Going back, I see a molded reality.

From Guest Contributor Bandit Taylor

Bandit is a student at Pikes Peak Community College. He Is only 16 and is loving going to college for education. He is currently working on a novel based in Leningrad, Russia during the Cold War.

They sit on your bed, on a shelf, or maybe tucked away in a confined box collecting a musty smell. Once you cared for them and kept them neatly stacked up…but now they are forgotten and dusty all alone. They are full of memories of the smiles from old relatives who placed them in your arm. Or maybe the memory of wishing on their heart before their stuffing was sealed up, hoping it’d work like a charm. Think back to the stuffed animals that you held so closely as a child. Where are they now? What do they mean?

From Guest Contributor Madison Rutkowski

Madison is a student of literature and the sciences at Pikes Peak Community College.

The Colonel finally got mail, Platero. He has been waiting for this letter for such a long time: his daughter will finally visit him, after all those years. And he will meet the granddaughter he didn’t even know existed.

Her as well as the fruit in her womb.

From Guest Contributor Hervé Suys

Hervé (°1968 – Ronse, Belgium) started writing short stories whilst recovering from a sports injury and he hasn’t stopped since. Generally he writes them hatless and barefooted.

When the sun finally set that evening, it was as if someone was turning off a faucet. The water ran clear and cold, then stopped running altogether, leaving behind a long, jagged-edged stain on the pavement that slowly grew into a pool of blood on the street below, like a wound left open too long, growing wider.

Clouds pressed down hard against the earth while the sky darkened. The townspeople began dying in great numbers. The river never once turned red with the blood that flowed through its banks. Nothing could change the truth of who and what I’d become.

From Guest Contributor J. Iner Souster