Not another sensitivity seminar! The professor already kept his door open when he was with a female student. What more did they want? And who else had been sent this message from the dean? Nobody had been cc’d, so the professor forwarded the message to the entire department, the colleagues scratching their heads when they got it. Why had the professor sent them the dean’s message about sensitivity training? Each colleague checked the skeletons in his closet before flinging their doors open to the punishment of pizza stacked up against the professor’s office. One good prank deserves another, they agreed.

From Guest Contributor Cheryl Snell

Cheryl’s recent fiction has appeared in Gone Lawn, Necessary Fiction, Pure Slush, and elsewhere.

The real Spartacus was among the guys who answered to that name when Romans captured hundreds. No photos on file—he was the one who looked like Kirk Douglass.

No one schools Romans. That’s clear as he walks to the cross they raise. Still, he’d do it all over—break for freedom, die beside the road.

From Guest Contributor Todd Mercer

“I’m still burning for Aliona!” Evan cried. “Not for long,” said the Lords before they locked two lovers together inside the intergalactic cryo chamber.

The last we heard, Evan was eaten alive during his deep hibernation sleep.

From Guest Contributor Ivan Ristic

Ivan is a Serbian short story writer, poet and composer of ambient music.

Oompah-pah music and traditional German drinking songs floated up from the street festival into the third-floor courtroom. I shifted uneasily from foot to foot as I stood before the scowling judge. One prosecution witness after another had described in specious detail my attitudes, conversations, habits, and interests. There was even testimony about the transparent Jewishness of my penis. Now it was finally my turn to speak. I had just begun when the judge interjected, “Spare us your life philosophy.” His face was grave. He studied me with cold, squinty eyes as if calculating exactly how much a person can bear.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author of THE DEATH ROW SHUFFLE, a poetry collection forthcoming from Finishing Line Press.

My footsteps echo on the road pavement in the still, cool morning. It is eerie being out on the quiet streets. I walk before people are awake; the darkness is my ally, helping conceal me. I stop and hide when I hear voices from an approaching patrol. Flattened against the side of a garage, I hold my breath as they pass, innocently chattering. I venture into the street after I can no longer hear them. The punishment for violating the lockdown order is severe. Never would I have believed my country would use military patrols to enforce a lockdown policy.

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.

Summer holidays meant wagon rides and a delicious break from school.

Standing on the desolate bank, I glance at the familiar walnut blooms at Johnson’s. I wonder how we never discovered the weak spot in life.

From Guest Contributor Swatilekha Roy

In my perfect prison of smooth, curving walls, I dread the serpentine rope, curling on the bottom of the well.

I have suffered long in this prison well, and I have chosen my end. Once I am no more than soot and foul air, with my last, dry gasps, I will poison them.

From Guest Contributor Virginia Marybury

As far back as anyone can remember, Lulumak stole. When he was young, the elders told Lulumak’s parents that this was a sign of intelligence but once he matured into warriorhood, the elders warned Lulumak that he would be punished if he stole again. A day after Lulumak was warned, Chinoon caught him stealing fish from Yellow Hair’s net. The next day a few elders told Lulumak they discovered a rich fishing area and invited him to fish with them. When the elders returned without Lulumak, they told the tribe that Nanal, the monster, had eaten Lulumak for his sin.

From Guest Contributor Dave Harper

Dave, a recovering software developer, now finds himself addicted to writing fiction.

I see the favor he shows him and it sickens me. Everything seems to be given so freely in this world. And here is one after his own heart, obeying without even the slightest hesitation, never once questioning the directions he is given. There was a time when I was a follower, but I had ambition and drive. He couldn’t take it. Some may call it punishment, but I like to think of it as enlightenment. If this fool won’t come to his senses, perhaps that nice new companion can be swayed. I see the way she eyes that apple.

From Guest Contributor Nicholas Froumis

Nicholas practices optometry in the Bay Area. His writing has appeared in Gravel, Right Hand Pointing, Dime Show Review, Snapdragon: A Journal of Art & Healing, Ground Fresh Thursday, Balloons Lit Journal, and Short Tale 100. He lives in San Jose, CA with his wife, novelist Stacy Froumis, and their daughter.

I was seized by the worst criminals and forced into bondage.

But none of their tortures pained me as much as knowing that it had once been my job to dream up these punishments.