Déjà vu? Exactly when did Japan decide to kill an ocean? 2022? Or 2024? Or this coming Thursday? ‘Tis a question of the mind, it would seem. Meaning?

Each of those dates Japan had decided to let lose their nuclear waste into the ocean. The next question is Indian ocean or Pacific? Which will die? A third of the living creatures in the sea died, and a third of the ships were destroyed. To hope for salvation. And realize that governments of the world are fighting UFOs or God or gods? It makes reality kind of fictional today. Doesn’t it?

From Guest Contributor Clinton Siegle

The snow covered the land, as it had all winter. He picked his way to the rocky shore and looked longingly to the foggy sea. His sea, his love. He knew it; she should have known it.

His mother always said that snow covers sins. It was true; a blanket of white hides everything. But the snow had started to recede from the shore this past week. Today’s snow-eating fog will make short work of the rest of the snow. His sins would no longer be covered; her shallow grave will be exposed. He should head out to his love.

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.

Too small, too tough, the forever stuff. Five millimeters to a nanometer, all recycle cheaters. Polyethylene is not green. Debris in the sea, in the sand, on the land, in the air. The minuscule plastic molecule – drink it, breathe it, absorb it. 200 thousand microplastic molecules in you every year. Perfect hair, revolutionary skincare – just vain dreams ruining streams. All the sales promotions on lotions and potions, laundry soap, shopping bags, and tags. So much trash; it’s the sin of the bin. It’s hard to be a container abstainer, a nature campaigner. This is the mess we’re in.

From Guest Contributor K Mayer

It was an overcast humid morning and the church bells mingled with the foghorn. It was warm. Uncharacteristically so. This was his usual return time from fishing and his favorite time of day to be at sea. He skillfully edged his lobster boat along the dock, then stepped onto it holding the bow line. A practiced hand tied the cleat knot efficiently. He went up the gangway empty handed, unusual for him. The ocean had always been good to him and never gave up their secrets. He needed it to continue. His cheap wife will never cheat on him again.

From Guest Contributor N.T. 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.

A nest formed at some point over thousands of years as eggs drift into the sea, carried by currents and tides. Birds with broken feet but wings spread wide, fleeing in flight from dying hearts filled with the blackness of obsidian inhabitants and their unforgiven. They mutate and break down within the lethal darkness from which it grows, blinded by ignorance.

Mothers must be on their guard in the warm calm of dawn, similar to the nights when they sense the fragile awakening of what is. And sometimes they forget the one thing they should never forget: everything is hungry.

From Guest Contributor J. Iner Souster

Stella longs for the unseen soul who one day will meander into her home to touch (perhaps envy) each of her precisely placed gatherings.

From Guest Contributor The Poet Spiel

Mom digs her feet under the wet sand of the Atlantic. I stand next to her, wondering if the ocean will remember her and melt her legs back together.

My toes tingle, translucent skin spread between them. The ocean’s song calls me.

From Guest Contributor Sally Simon

Sally (ze/hir) lives in NY. When not writing, ze’s travels and stabs people with hir epee. Read more at www.sallysimonwriter.com.

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

The crew is swept out to sea by the powerful waves. I hear their screams as they are drowning, and it’s haunting. The captain died by a blow to the head and it’s every man for himself. I jump into the deep ocean and grab onto a piece of debris. As I’m floating, I hear distant cries of the men still onboard the ship. They are sinking and clinging to the railing. I’ve known these men for years. I hold on tightly and pray.

Help will come.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

“Harvest-bots eat tomatoes?” Randall asks, stroking one ripening.

Arielle looks out on the defiant cerulean blue of the tented field. Years of used plasticine pouches of Mega-Meat and Vital-Veg, sewn together. They undulate and ripple in the wind. Waves, like the sea.

From Guest Contributor Nina Miller

Nina is an Indian-American physician, epee fencer and micro/flash fiction writer from New York. Her work can be found in TL;DR Press’s anthology, Mosaic: The Best of the 1,000 Word Herd Flash Fiction Competition 2022, Bright Flash Literary Review, The Belladonna, Five Minutes, 101 words and more. Find her on Twitter (@NinaMD1) or ninamillerwrites.com