On the way to our waterhole, I noticed something hanging from my ballcap. Repeated brushing did not get rid of what I had thought was a spider on a thread. Checked eyebrows and eyelash – no. Eventually had to accept it was in my eye. Call to doctor sent me quickly to an ophthalmologist. I got my first floater but was relieved to find out that I didn’t have anything more serious wrong with my eye. I thought that it would dissolve by itself or there was a miracle laser that could blast it, but no. We’ve learned to live together.

From Guest Contributor Doug Hawley

I had been told of the dangers of the assignment and assured my boss that I could handle it. Now on the dark, ominously quiet streets after curfew, in Nazi-occupied Poland, I wondered. I told myself I’m doing it for my country and for myself.

I hid the folded map in the secret compartment in the heel of my shoe. If I am captured, we will all be tortured and then executed.

I continued until I reached my destination and handed over the map to the leader of the resistance.

I finally let out a sigh of relief and wept.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Ender the pirate was paying attention. Aliens were among those who called themselves humans. August 2023, alien souls from Perseus arrived via asteroids. Eager to explore our world, they realized the limitations of their ethereal existence. Filled with curiosity, they inhabited human bodies to navigate our reality. At first, chaos ensued as they adjusted to their newfound life. However, through empathy and understanding, they integrated seamlessly. Together, humans and extraterrestrial souls embarked on a remarkable journey, fostering unity, and rewriting the definition of what it means to be alive. The problem? Everyone on Orion were hybrids already with mRNA vaccines.

From Guest Contributor Clinton Siegle

Smith, from supply-chain management, stirring lemon into oolong. Taylor and Grzegorzewski, from customer service, talking about their crap husbands. Sunny sweaters, coffee mugs. Smith nods, sips. He knows their pain. Taylor plays with her jade rabbit pendant. She says she is like a secretary, fielding his calls. Grzegorzewski harumphs. In Santorini last fall, their second honeymoon, celebrating the remission of her lupus. Caught in flagrante delicto, pants around his ankles with the chambermaid. I have crib notes, Taylor huffs. To keep track of the lies and the ladies. Smith finally speaks. I’ll show you how to use Excel, he says.

From Guest Contributor Lorette C. Luzajic

Lorette reads, writes, publishes, edits, and teaches small fictions. She has appeared in Unbroken, Bending Genres, Ghost Parachute, Brilliant Flash Fiction, and hundreds of other journals. Her story was selected for Best Small Fictions 2023. She has been nominated several times for Best Microfictions, Best of the Net, and the Pushcart Prize. Her collections of small fictions are The Rope Artist, The Neon Rosary, Pretty Time Machine and Winter in June. Some of her works have been translated into Urdu and Spanish. Lorette is the founding editor of The Ekphrastic Review, a journal of literature inspired by art. Lorette is also an award-winning mixed media artist, with collectors in more than 40 countries so far.

At 11:30 p.m., Mother woke and found her son Bin wasn’t in bed. She scurried into the living room and found the siblings watching cartoons.

Lan pretended she wasn’t hurt.

From Guest Contributor Huina Zheng

Huina either coaches her students to write at work or write stories for fun after work.

“Darling,” Burt said from the bedroom doorway to Anita, his wife of many decades. “You may get another email.”

Burt laughed too. Then he returned to his private study where he transferred another cryptocurrency payment to the anonymous account, hoping this would resolve the matter at long last.

From Guest Contributor John Sheirer

John lives in Western Massachusetts and is in his 30th year of teaching at Asnuntuck Community College in Northern Connecticut where he edits Freshwater Literary Journal (submission welcome). His work has appeared recently in Five Minutes, Wilderness House Literary Review, Meat for Tea, Poppy Road Review, Synkroniciti, Otherwise Engaged, 10 By 10 Flash Fiction, The Journal of Radical Wonder, Scribes*MICRO*Fiction, and Goldenrod Review, among others. His latest book is Stumbling Through Adulthood: Linked Stories. Forthcoming in fall 2023 is For Now: One Hundred 100-Word Stories. Find him at JohnSheirer.com.

I want these days to be about more than just waiting. How can they be? Waiting surrounds me, engulfs me, floods me…swirling, fast, faster than I can dog-paddle away… Things will never be the same again, even if, even if… Things will never be the same again, even if the white coats say all is well, even if what I’m awaiting turns out to be snip-snip-and-it’s-gone. I’ve caught a whiff that so permeated my nostrils my neural pathways my brain my heart, its remnants echo into the rest of whatever part of not-forever that I do get to see.

From Guest Contributor Cynthia Bernard

The warmth of the spring sun filled my body with repose. I laid back and looked up at the sky. The blueness bright and cheery awakened my eyes to ebullience.

Tomorrow, I start anew.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Nobody’d said okay to the infamous moving in, but who should drive up but Bonnie and Clyde in their 1934 Ford, parking it in their 21st Century driveway? What were we to do with the notorious couple but invite them to our pot luck dinner, held alfresco every Wednesday evening? We were all enjoying delicious tiramisu when Charlene showed up late with her high-strung Doxie, yapping and nipping at Bonnie, who whipped out her .38 Special and shot, missing the dog by a mile, or maybe 238,00 of them. As just then, across the sky sailed half a bloody moon.

From Guest Contributor Linda Lowe

A skinny young guy, carrying a battered guitar case slung over his shoulder like a cotton picker’s sack, went down to the crossroads to catch a ride. The folks at home wouldn’t ever hear from him again. Rumors took the place of news – that he’d been shot and killed over a gambling debt, that he’d been lynched by a white mob, that he played guitar on the Chitlin’ Circuit with such violent energy that gravestones fell over and broke and that’s why now, every day around dawn, birds resume singing a centuries-old murder ballad specifically for our continued moral instruction.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie’s newest poetry collection, Heart-Shaped Hole, which also includes examples of his handmade collages, is available from Laughing Ronin Press.