Because you can see. It is other people who have the problem–flies cannot understand singular vision; pros and cons blink in unison. Suits and snoots on the train and even the grubs on the street shoot sideways sneers and whispers, feary scowls and snickers. The nothingness bothers them, the absence of the right, smooth as burned-off fingerprints. They are not convinced by your best prosthetic and toss you pity, a reward for your emulation of their normalcy. Dark glasses and patches insult the blind and pirates. Your final answer is the biggest lie by the bluntest knife: a wound.

From Guest Contributor Brook Bhagat

Brook holds a BA from Vassar College and an MFA in Writing from Lindenwood University. She teaches college writing and is the co-owner and chief editor of BluePlanetJournal.com. Her nonfiction, poetry, and flash fiction have appeared in Creations Magazine, Little India, Outpost, Nowhere Poetry, and The Syzygy Poetry Journal.

Delays. Train late.

You tell me you forgot the chocolates.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. Her work has been 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.

It’s seven in the morning. I’m supposed to be at Songshan Church in Taipei teaching a small Sabbath-School group at nine. But I’m sitting in my kitchen hot boxing a cigarette. Mitigating the queasiness from last night’s escape: a single malt Speyside scotch accompanied by Mozart’s Requiem.

A two-hour train ride later and I find myself up in front of all of the congregants. Ambushed into leading out in song service. The sweat oozes and I wonder if they know.

From Guest Contributor Robert Vogt

Robert worked as a custodian for a number of years until switching to EFL educator after graduating with a bachelor’s degree in Fine Arts. Changing from manual laborer to educator caused Vogt much regret though he has reaped manifold benefits from the career change. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Degenerate Literature, Horror, Sleaze and Trash, Outlaw Poetry, and Unlost Journal. Vogt is chief editor at White Liquor.

As soon as Aarthi could walk she had toddled off to the nearby railroad crossing and plopped herself down under the sign to play in the dust with whatever curios escaped from the trains’ wakes as they slowed.

Sixteen long years ago. Now, she eased her battered body to a sitting position and placed her hand on the rail. It was coming to free her from her abuser.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid

Peering through the tinted windows, she saw the river’s glittering trickle and the constellation of shiny debris scattered over the vast expanse of sand. Plate-sized, they glinted in promise. Starfish? Shells? Ornaments discarded as the river retreated to curl down in a corner?

The train blew past the retreating river with barely a sigh, as always.

From Guest Contributor Aparna Nandakumar

Aparna lives in Calicut, India, and writes poems and short stories. Her work has previously been published at Atticus Review and A Story in 100 Words, and is forthcoming at Cafe Dissensus and Red River Review.

I wasn’t the only one at the metro station the evening one of the trains blew up. But I was among those who stood the farthest from the flaming train. I was among the lucky few who escaped unhurt. I was among those who smelt the burning flesh first. I was among those who saw the first streams of blood escaping the bombed coach. I was also among those who ran towards the exit as soon as the shock wore off.

And now I am among those who are haunted by the images of the passengers we could have saved.

From Guest Contributor Namitha Varma

Namitha Varma is based in Mangaluru, India. Her works have appeared in Sahitya Akademi’s journal Indian Literature, eFiction India, Hackwriters, MadSwirl, and Every Writer’s Resource, among others. She can be reached on twitter via @namithavr.

Charlie Bohack! Charlie Bohack! Five-and-dime derelict turned depot Demiurge, soot-stained, reeking; his thermos filled with God knows what. He’s rattling off again: In the 60s he was the beau of long-legged gals with Cleopatra eyes; he had seduced Charo (or was it Cher?)at Studio 54, with Travolta-like moves and an avalanche-white smile; and was weaned on Goddess’ teats, on the Good Stuff, but Old Crow and Granddad could hold him for a spell.

The 8:15 is on time (Thank God!). Bodies and briefcases careen around the Bohack-pylon. Chug-Chug-Chug! Charlie Bohack grows small, but of infinite potential, dancing on the tracks.

From Guest Contributor, James Zahardis