Vernon took his knife and silently pulled it from the tree bark. With a shriek, the first crow flew from the hollow, resting on the ragged grass. Its feathers ruffled, and its face pinched.

Vines sunk from branches covering the ground, winding around tree trunks and breaking them apart. The crow’s mouth yawned open, tearing at Vernon’s thoughts with claws and teeth.

From Guest Contributor J. Iner Souster

At my forest camp, he collapses on to the mattress in my tent, and is asleep in moments. I pack my travel bag, leave him a note saying he can have the tent and everything in it, light some incense and put it at my tiny shrine to Lord Ganesh, say a prayer for him and the other strugglers around here, feed peanuts to the local monkeys, my friends for the last few months, and walk back along the path into the village and across the bridge over the River Ganges towards Rishikesh, to get a bus back to Delhi.

From Guest Contributor Stephen House

The heat has taken its toll on my men and the tents smell of sweat and rotting flesh. The battle raged taking many of my soldiers, still left in the trenches, their corpses exposed.

A loud explosion startles me. I inadvertently drop the letter and run for cover.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

The morning light was still dim, but the streetlamp sufficiently illuminated the permanent marker slipping down the glass door of my cafe like eels: STOP EATING DOGS.

A heavy sigh fogged the glass as I unlocked the door and tramped to where the cleaning supplies were kept. “The fact that I’m Asian doesn’t make me a dog-eater,” I muttered, but once again, there was no one to hear me.

From Guest Contributor Rina Olsen

Rina is a Korean-American teen writer living on Guam. Her work has either appeared in or is forthcoming in Jellyfish Review, Dreams and Nightmares, 101 Words, Nano Fiction, Friday Flash Fiction, and Mobius: A Journal of Social Change, among other places.

Off in the distance, hundreds of lifeless began to shuffle toward town. Vernon turned and saw the cowboy he’d killed staring at him with bloodshot eyes.

Hell-bent for leather on horseback, they left the living and the un-dead behind.

From Guest Contributor J. Iner Souster

Summer has been washed and hung to dry across the equinox. Quibble gathers the last of his alien friends for a farewell. To feast, they eat the neighbor’s two loudest dogs. Those dogs kept Quibble away at night barking at wishes and dreams. Quibble does not partake of the meat, but he imagines the joy the aliens conclude. At the end of the farewell celebration, the aliens open a portal between the shed and fence line and fall one by one through. Quibble only mentions the aliens when his neighbor tries to blame him for the disappearance of the dogs.

From Guest Contributor Ken Poyner

For Duard, his dog Rocky was his life’s purpose. Two-hour walks in the park were as common as sharing corn flakes at breakfast. When an inattentive woman and her Cadillac hit the big dog and the old man, all four of them – both people, the dog and the car – were badly damaged.

Duard recovered first but sorely missed his comfortable and companionable walks with Rocky. After 12 days without any progress, Duard put Rocky down. He never forgave himself even though none of it was his fault. As for the causative woman and her Cadillac, the story isn’t about them.

From Guest Contributor Gip Plaster

Gip is a Texas web content writer who experiments with microfiction. He is the creator of 17WordStories.com.

The bold lion hunts searching for prey. In the distance it spots a striped zebra, and slowly makes its move. The zebra is unaware of the lion’s approach and continues chewing grass. Now the lion hauls its front legs forward and jumps midair landing on top of the zebra. The zebra howls in fear too frightened and not strong enough to fend off the fearless lion. The struggle is short lived as the lion bites the zebra’s neck, killing it instantly. As the deceased animal lays limp the lion devours it, content.

The courageous animal forages the fields once again.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

They say my garden is wild, Platero, as is my hair – Martha would be ashamed if she saw this garden.
Don’t they know this garden is an ode to Martha?

That’s why this garden is an ode to Martha: because I’m lost without her and not just in the garden.

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.

Good evening, miss, you’re looking lovely tonight. Miss? Do wait up. I meant no offense! Now I just wanted to bid you a good night but – swat! Hey now, there is no reason to strike with such malice, now is there? I don’t mean to drool, but your skin tonight is so pale, so smooth, so inviting… I’m just the slightest bit peckish. You wouldn’t mind if I had a taste? A sip? Pints and pints you have, an abundance. Surely you wouldn’t mind if I took your hand in mine, and gave it a pinch of a kiss – smack!

From Guest Contributor Skyler Bath