Snow

The town plow thunders by with its single headlight. You listen with your eyes squeezed shut, imagining the snow that touches everything—sliding under your mudroom door—powder dusting the floor. You’re warm, curled up in an igloo of quilts; yet, your nose feels cold. You know the woodstove burned out after the late news—only a lingering scent of smoke drifts up the backstairs. You wake, uncertain of the hour’s shade of blue, and look up at the white ceiling where a teensy black speck of a spider scales a silver thread, finding its way in this uncompromising dark.

M.J. Iuppa

Something Gained, Something Lost

She took a long drag on her cigarette before crushing it out in the ashtray. Then she opened the drawer to her bedside locker and said: Okay, young man, the world’s your oyster. Take your pick.

Apart from the shelves of the drugstore, I'd never seen so many condoms.

If it's all the same with you, I said, I'll choose the red one. I like red.
She smiled again and said: Suit yourself, Baby. 

I briefly wondered whether I should ask her to marry me. I didn’t.

Barely five minutes after that, I left with no money and no virginity.

From Guest Contributor Henry Bladon

Street Hustle

“Hey man, wanna buy a Rolex,” the punk in the shiny nylon jacket asked as he approached me on the street.

"How much?” I asked as I looked around to see if he had a partner. He didn’t.

“Thirty bucks, and it’s the real thing,” he told me as he handed the watch to me.

I pretended to be examining the watch, when I said “hold on,” as I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out my badge.

“Metro vice,” I announced as I reached for my handcuffs. He spun around and ran like Jack the bear towards Fremont.

From Guest Contributor Leroy B. Vaughn

Under Watch

Armed agents conceal themselves in doorways and behind lampposts and newspapers. You just passed by one and didn’t even know you had. Time to electrocute your thinking. They’re paid to spy, and they spy on people like me – an old man walking a dog on a rope – who’ve done nothing wrong. I can’t sleep through the night for worry that they’re building a dossier against me by twisting something I said. Is it becoming a grass armchair? A black wall? A crying mirror? If it is, I’m finished. One day I’ll squeeze into a crowded elevator that’ll disappear between floors.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie's latest collections are I'm Not a Robot from Tolsun Books and A Room at the Heartbreak Hotel from Analog Submissions Press. 

Over(cast)

A jar of coconut oil sits on the sink. These days, she oils all the rough parts of her body: elbows, knees, and everything in between. Beneath her fingertips, the white glob melts quickly and glistens as it glides head to toe, her whole body suddenly pink before the mirror. She looks into her cunning eyes, searching for the humor in this beauty care. She smirks. The smell of the coconut makes her think of Paradise. What is she waiting for? The day unfolds. When she passes her hand over her head’s short silver hairs, she hears that funeral tune.

From Guest Contributor M.J. Iuppa

House Guest

A puppy was shivering in freezing wind and Bholu decided to bring it home and provide shelter for a night. He hid it from his granny, but as soon as Bholu dozed off to sleep the puppy came out and started licking the old granny's feet. The poor lady screamed and woke up from her sleep. The puppy got scared and hid under a cupboard in the room. Granny caught hold of a torch and flashed it under the cupboard. She saw two sparkling eyes gazing at her. She pulled it out and wondered how it got into the house. 

From Guest Contributor Preeti Singh

Preeti is an Indian French interpreter, international author, and scriptwriter. In her free time, she loves to play sundry characters for television series. 
You can check out her latest book at https://www.infiniterealmsbookstore.com/product-page/remember-me-not-by-preeti-singh

And follow her at Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/author/preeti

Twitter: https://mobile.twitter.com/PreetiWrites

A Man Among Ferns

He remembers waking up—ages ago—amid ferns, with neither a plan nor any desire to ever be waking up again at all, least of all amid ferns, which he had considered to be beautiful before he wandered into them and disappeared, hoping to disappear forever.

Now, almost a half-century later, he endures his almost unendurable insomnia in the broadest daylight his personal December has to offer. He sits with his journal at his favorite café table by the window, attempting to capture any fragment of last night’s dreams, but is sadly reminded—again—that not all attempts are successful.

From Guest Contributor Ron. Lavalette

Holiday Spirit

My neighbor’s colorful red, blue and green Christmas lights gleam
through my window, as my tree with white lights and silver garland
enliven the room.

I sit with my coffee and watch my wife and children prepare milk and
sugar cookies for Santa.

The Christmas song Silent Night plays on the radio and I sit back, feet
reclined, taking in the warmth of the fireplace.

My kids leave the milk and cookies by the fireplace, expecting Santa will come through the chimney with his big round belly and toys.

My family is as true the meaning of Christmas as Jesus.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Paper Thin Walls

Graham's 300 dollars a month bought him a two-room sublet on the Upper East side. The twenty-four hour access to entertainment from his coterie of neighbors was complimentary.

He was privy to all manner of arguments, heated conversations, shouting matches, and late-night confessionals. After only a few months, he was googling "How to become a therapist" now that he possessed real-world experience. Then there was the lovemaking.

Graham stopped watching TV soon after moving in. He found more value from the real lives around him rather than the fake ones on his television. He finally understood the meaning of authentic.

Human Beings Are The Only Wild Animals

Whenever I fly into a foreign country, I’m afraid I’ll be dragged into a room and forced to answer questions I’ll fail to understand. “You can do better,” the examiner will say, just before firing an electric current through the alligator clips attached to my ears. By the time I’m released from custody, I’ll be bent, shriveled, gnome-like, and afflicted with tremors. These events repeat themselves in my mind on a loop, every recurrence worse than the last, now involving sleep deprivation, now an inmate orchestra playing a German requiem, now corpses sprawled half in, half out of broken caskets.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie's latest poetry collections are I'm Not a Robot from Tolsun Books and A Room at the Heartbreak Hotel from Analog Submissions Press.