“Not healthy,” Jan whispered to her surviving brother, peering into the darkened parlour where her mother sat, eyes fixed on the flickering screen of Brian’s cracked Smartphone.

“Friggin’ selfie generation,” she muttered.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid

Landslide. Highway closed. Closest motel, five miles back.

Next day’s news revealed that a bear had to be tranquilized on the
grounds, taken back into the woods.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. Published
at: Nailpolish Stories, 50-Word Stories, 100 word story, 101 Words,
Boston Literary Magazine, From the Depths (Haunted Waters Press),
ShortbreadStories, SixWordMemoirs, and Espresso Stories.

I should have sensed him as I entered the room, guessed that he was crouched in the corner silently watching me. As I reached for a bowl he dashed out from his hiding place. I shrieked as I brought the bowl down repeatedly onto his body. I didn’t stop until his insides spilled out beyond the edges of his cool smooth skin. His head was pressed over the edge of the sink in an unnatural position, as if dreaming of escape from a deranged woman wielding a bowl. I’m a killer; this unfortunate salamander’s life taken in five horrible blows.

From Guest Contributor Natashia Smith

Natashia writes poetry and flash fiction. She has been published at: 50-Word Stories, Friday Flash Fiction and Postcard Shorts.

Yours? Mine? Arguments. Ideologies differ. Attempt to build bridge between us. Links missing. Structure collapses. Earth? Water? No collaboration. Excuses made. Stubbornness. Misunderstandings. Light? Dark? We try meeting at middle ground. Concluding we can’t agree. Not in thought, time or space. Coffee’s gone cold. I mind. He doesn’t. Ketchup smeared on fridge door. I wipe off. Mustard appears. Grass is greener over there, he says. I don’t care. I prefer wildflowers. He repaints the scene with concrete. I’m younger, by two years exact. Can hardly wait for… Brother leaves for college. Forgets his toothbrush. I throw it into his room.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. Published at: Nailpolish Stories, 50-Word Stories, 100 word story, 101 Words, Boston Literary Magazine, From the Depths (Haunted Waters Press), ShortbreadStories, SixWordMemoirs, and Espresso Stories.

There was an old man who never slept at night. I saw him often from my room, I recognized him but didn’t know him.

My sister got married and I shifted to her room. I never saw him again; now all I get to see is a closed window with broken glass. I wonder where he’s gone? Previously, the open window disturbed me and now it’s the closed one.

From Guest Contributor Preeti Singh

Preeti is a french language interpreter and a media professional who is engaged in writing short films and playing characters for tv series.

We hoped the bad dog was gone. We couldn’t put off seeing our daughter’s family in upstate New York but they had a mean pit bull who they said was as gentle and loved kids.

“Isn’t my Bruno cute?” She said. “He’s smiling at you.”

From Guest Contributor Paul Beckman

I always said I was scared of nothing. I wasn’t afraid of the dark, or death, or even lizards, mice and cockroaches. I didn’t disbelieve in ghosts, but they’d done nothing to make me believe. Nor was I frightened of Judgement Day, because I am a conscientious person. Until the moment I heard the sound of footsteps approaching my room, I was truly scared of nothing. But when his shadow crept into the bedroom and his sinewy hands stifled my scream before tearing off every scrap of modesty on my being from that moment on, I became scared of everything.

From Guest Contributor Namitha Varma

Namitha Varma is a media professional based in Mangaluru, India. She has publishing credits in over 15 literary journals including Sahitya Akademi’s journal Indian Literature, eFiction India, Hackwriters, MadSwirl, FIVE Poetry, Microfiction Monday Magazine, and Postcard Shorts. Her micropoem has been read out on NPR Radio as part of the National Poetry Month 2014, and a poem of hers features in the Authorspress anthology ‘Resonating Strings.’ She blogs on narcissistwrites.blogspot.com and tweets via @namithavr.

“Ugh, Dad you cannot send me to that school!” I squealed.

I hesitated. I saw nothing.

From Guest Contributor Joshua Wallis

Joshua is a home-school student from the United kingdom, who loathed reading literature until recently! He is looking forward to reading works of great novelists and insightful 100-word stories in the coming years.