Elethea needs rest—there is no peace—looking for a place to hide, she’s found it. A good deal of space inside the umbrella, so she lay there with her face turned up towards the light. She cannot help but dream as she admires the firefly-lit lantern from the lamppost on the corner. Above all others, it is virtuous in golden light. Down, down, down into the darkness of the silken parasol. So gently it goes as she settles in her bitter bed. Several people walk by, uninterested in her. None of them bother to look in through the silk.

From Guest Contributor J. Iner Souster

Sounds become muffled. All she hears is an echo bouncing off the walls. For an infinitesimal moment her soul levitates, detaching from the present. She looks at the doctor’s face as words grow inaudible. A silent scream explodes from her lungs into an invisible body spasm. A voice in her head continues unrestrained: ‘She’ll be alone” but her mind allows her to compose herself as she kisses minuscule freckles on her daughter’s face. As chubby little fingers wipe off her tears, she peers into the eyes of Innocence, so intrinsic, untainted.

The headstone inscribes: ‘RIP Innocence. Your life starts anew.’

From Guest Contributor Andrea Damic

Amateur photographer and author of micro and flash fiction, Andrea Damic, born in Sarajevo, Bosnia and Herzegovina, lives in Sydney, Australia. Her words have been published or are forthcoming in 50-Word Stories, Friday Flash Fiction, Microfiction Monday Magazine, Paragraph Planet, 100 Word Project & TDDR with her art featuring or forthcoming in Rejection Letters, Door Is A Jar Magazine, and Fusion Art’s Exhibitions. One day she hopes to finish and publish her novel. You can find her on TW @DamicAndrea, Facebook or Instagram.

scowling, baldwin grabbed the welcome-to-9 birthday card from the tv compartment. birthdays? useless! he thought. aren’t birthdays for children whom god gave little time and had to celebrate their short lives. just like my twinnie.

—he’s my twin. he wanna live, too!

From Guest Contributor Elisha Oluyemi

The car is in park, with the air-conditioner cranked. I finish my ice-cold soda, and would like another, but I’m not leaving this spot. It’s broad daylight and people are walking to work or taking their kids to school. I can’t wait until this is over so I can go home and get some much-needed sleep. A cold beer and cool shower will do nicely too.

My payment awaits.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

The slave driver’s eagles squawk and shift violently in the wind to dodge the endless barrage of waves crashing against the rocky cliff’s edge. By our scent, they know we are close, but they can’t see us.

I struggle to speak and strain through the invisibility incantation I have surrounding us and our boat, “Row boy! It was no illusion. It’s our only salvation.”

From Guest Contributor John Martinez

‘Can you please complete your homework?’ the frustrated dad nagged his uninspired child, for three consecutive days, rather the Sony PlayStation grasped her attention.

‘Dear Mr. So and So, it saddens us to summon you to school like this,’ the Headmistress began to berate him, ‘your child has complained to us regarding her inability to complete her homework due to you occupying her time after school.

From Guest Contributor Imraan Ganie

Imraan is a seasoned technologist, father of 3, and a lyrical addict who writes short stories, poetry, and limericks in his spare time. His quirky take on life, inspired by his curiously unconventional life experiences lead to twists of humour and tales that are always entertaining. Imraan lives on the Southern Coast of KwaZulu Natal in South Africa. Imraan has two short stories published in 2021 in an anthology called Taxi through Mzansi featuring short stories by twenty of South Africa’s finest authors.

There is El Boncalo, Platero. It is too late now to turn around without insulting him.

Apparently.

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.

Little by little, she slept. The world had become rather too much. She began, in the night, when no one was watching, stealing away to where she couldn’t be found. Her great disappearing act. But before long, she’d be pulled back to the incessant waking wants, needs, demands. So she honed her skills. Cut social ties, snuck off earlier. Worked from home, held out longer. Staked claim to a full half of each day. And of what did she dream? Every night, the greatest dream of all. A world without work, without demands, where she could sleep as she pleased.

From Guest Contributor John Villan

On the borders of this serene land lay a dark shadow formed from a massive structure built on the ruins of another once-great civilization. It often feels like an ominous storm cloud in an otherwise starry sky.

On this glorious night, as the sun sets, dark clouds dissipate; the moon rises on the horizon, filling the entire night sky with dangerous possibilities as they come one step closer to the stars.

From Guest Contributor J. Iner Souster

My head rotates like the Earth around the sun, except at excessive speed.

As I walk onto my front porch, I remember what it’s like to feel the air against my face.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher