I write my worries in the sand. They stretch across the beach, one after another. I shake as I write them – the pain intense. Finally, I finish. I walk away from them and sit down on the dry sand above the tide line to wait. The waves rush in, lapping over the words, washing them away. The tension leaves my shoulders as the sand smooths out, but the pain is still there. Will death wash away aches like the tide waters? Will I become smooth like the sand as I wash out into the eternal sea of the next horizon?

From Guest Contributor Tyrean Martinson

Tyrean is a daydreamer, believer, and writer from the Pacific Northwest.

Grandfather boarded the old boat cautiously, wary of his footing. But once he’d left the docks behind, his balance actually improved. The years on shore might have accelerated his aging. We all silently hoped that being on the water might reverse his decline.

We cried then, knowing we’d never see Grandfather again. The horizon beckoned.

Only a motorcyclist knows why a dog sticks his head out a car window, he thought. A perfect day for a road trip. 79 degrees, cloudless blue sky, divorce finalized, and the new girlfriend’s boobs felt terrific against his back. The speedometer needle inched past 105mph. Miles of Nevada Highway 50 stretched into the horizon.

The desert’s natural silence prevailed.

From Guest Contributor Edward Yoho

Edward recently earned an MFA in Writing from Lindenwood University. According to his spirit guide/favorite professor, the title of his thesis, Science Fiction, Sarcasm, and Other Profane Oddities, accurately reflects his writing aesthetic. Edward’s previous publication credits include an essay and a fiction story in Potluck Magazine.

The sparse landscape spread in every direction. There were mountains to be sure, a flat white one to this left and a glass tower to the right, but there was no food within actual reach.

He wished he’d never left the hill this morning.

Raymond stared across the horizon. Where Denver once stood, there was just a huge crater lake beneath a shimmering mist. The black water reflected the sunlight like a dark twisted mirror. There was no sigh of any survivors.

The boat listed back and forth in the gradual waves under a massive, cloudless sky. Drake, scratching at his stubbled face, stared across the empty horizon. As the sunlight refracted in time to the vessel’s movement, he could not spy even a mirage. The sea was parched of features, as it had been for countless weeks. Drake could not remember the last time they had encountered another ship, or his last sip of whiskey.

Drake sighed and went back to swabbing the deck. Life as a pirate was much less interesting than the stories had made it out to be.