It left a strange taste in her mouth, just as Robert said her first would. But it was successful and could launch her career. A perfect heart shot at 300 yards. There are those that will want to know who made the shot. She left traceable evidence of her sniper nest, so the exact shot distance would be known.

Maybe it should have bothered her, but it didn’t. What’s one less human trafficker in the world? She’d happily trade his life for one less girl trafficked. At least one mother got the justice she wanted and will sleep well tonight.

From Guest Contributor NT Franklin

NT Franklin has been published in Page and Spine, Fiction on the Web, 101 Words, Friday Flash Fiction, CafeLit, Madswirl, Postcard Shorts, 404 Words, Scarlet Leaf Review, Freedom Fiction, Burrst, Entropy, Alsina Publishing, Fifty-word stories, Dime Show Review, among others.

I only ever communicate with Kari on Facebook. We are too similar now, both forever reliving the war we shared like stale bread. She lost her Navy career after an inpatient stay while I am just trying to get to the end of mine by avoiding the pills doctors offer for anxiety and depression. Yesterday she posted a picture from Camp Bastion of her and a British nurse we worked with. The caption said this is my favorite person from Camp Bastion. I write in the comments section my least favorite person from Bastion was me. She says she understands.

From Guest Contributor Matthew Borczon

Lillith’s earliest memory is of her nail poking at her father’s love handle. As if her finger was able to inject happiness, and heal the month-to-month worries that emerged as dollar signs in his eyes, just around his pupils.

On her thirtieth birthday, Lillith’s parents pulled up to her one-hundred-and-forty-four-square-foot tiny home. As Lillith washed the sand off her feet, her mother whispered to her father, “When’s she gonna grow up?”

From Guest Contributor Susan Shiney

Susan is a writer, painter, and teacher originally from Southern California. She is now living in Lille, France.

Gareth had retired from the superhero business because he grew weary of dealing with the inflated egos of supervillains. It didn’t help that many of the people he saved from certain doom were generally ungrateful and occasionally blamed him for causing more harm than good in his frequent efforts to save the day. Feeling burnt out, Gareth went to law school and became an attorney. Almost a year into his new life, following a particularly loathsome day, he decided his old job wasn’t so bad after all. Gareth went home, donned his tights and cape again, and never looked back.

From Guest Contributor Dan Slaten

I’ve discovered a niche taking the place of other people, in particular performing those tasks they themselves prefer to avoid. This kind of specialty service requires seamlessly blending into any situation, as well as incredible forbearance. You are often the target of vitriolic abuse.

This was how I found myself last Saturday night at the city’s most exclusive fine-dining establishment in the company of Veronica Roth. The meal was delightful. The trip to the emergency room after I told Ms. Roth that Mr. Deveraux had sent me to break up with her was just another of my career’s many pitfalls.

Shelly sighed as she looked at the stray. Something in her mind shouted “Run away,” but it was too late. The kitten would be coming with her.

She entered her home and set the kitten on the floor. There was no turning back. This was cat number four. Shelly was officially a crazy cat lady.

Lisa had been babysitting for almost two years, ever since she was 14. Never in her long career had she seen anything so disgusting as this.

Perhaps the Iguana family wasn’t hispanic after all.

She holds two swords of societal success. Her career of achievement, her marriage of love realized. Nice house, nicer car. The look that men look at – even her husband. Meditative dreams on summer days under a comforter of cool breezes. Still, one regret reflects the swords’ sharp edges. Cut her caesarean style – deep as you like; take out the child she cannot carry… his son. The single thing she cannot give him. Justice, she feels, is not in the cards for her. She seeks to be satiated through gluttonous eyes. Where are maternity clothes, the infant boy she must steal?

From Guest Contributor. Keith Hoerner

Keith lives, teaches, and pushes words around in St. Louis, Missouri.

Megan loved when someone asked about her job, especially a man.

“You mean a space janitor.”