Big Money

Howard entered the school’s front office Monday morning following his Saturday wedding. The head secretary smiled at him and cooed coquettishly, “Ooh, Mr. Morgan, how’s married life?” The other secretaries smirked, eager to hear his reply.

The question amused Howard. He didn’t know what to say so he pumped his fist in the air three times and said, “It’s fantastic. I’ve doubled my income. Life is good!”

“Oh! Oh!” the head secretary shrieked, hands flying to her throat. “You’re just the most horrible man.”

Grinning madly, Howard walked out of the office thinking, What a great start to the day.

From Guest Contributor Robert P. Bishop

Platero And I: Miss Dolores

Look at Don Fernando, Platero. He is wearing his best suit.

He bought it thirty-seven years ago, when he was first invited to read to the fifth grade Miss Dolores has taught for so long. He had written two children’s short stories in his life. Miss Dolores loved both.Today he will be reading for the last time. Miss Dolores is retiring and her successor doesn’t believe in reading by 'a failed writer.'

"What are you going to do now?" I asked.

“Write new stories,” he replied adamantly.

Maybe he'll write short stories about a sweet donkey like you, Platero.

From Guest Contributor Hervé Suys

Hervé (°1968 – Ronse, Belgium) started writing short stories whilst recovering from a sports injury and he hasn’t stopped since. Generally he writes them hatless and barefooted.

Pizza

Bill picked mushroom slices off the boxed pizza, grimacing, stacking them.

Sadie watched. “What’s wrong, Honeybun?”

“Mushrooms. They don’t belong on pizza. My ex-wife knew that. They’re like human ears.” Bill shuddered.

“Sorry!” Sadie sniffled, blue eyes pooling on her freckled face.

“Don’t be a baby.”

She was 20. Their infant son lay in the bedroom, drooling on Bill’s pillow, fitful with eczema. His ex Patsy, thinner now, lived in her own divorce trailer, screwing her burly handyman. Grown kids, not speaking to Bill. Everyone, broken. Bill sighed at the pile of ears. “Growing you up, it takes time, Sadie.”

From Guest Contributor Nicole Brogdon

Nicole is a trauma therapist in Austin TX, interested in strugglers and stories everywhere. Her flash fiction appears in Flash Frontier, Bending Genres, 101Words, Bright Flash, Dribble Drabble Review, Centifictionist, and elsewhere.

Orbits

She flips her glasses onto her hair where the shine is slippery. It falls back down to her nose, plastic lenses smudging. She goes for a drive wearing the blurry wedge and thinks she must be imagining the sight of two moons in the sky. One higher than the other, they supervise the intersection. "That was just Mars approaching Earth," her husband says tartly. He’s quite the mansplainer but she knows a defunct theory when she hears one. She’s seen for herself that it’s possible for the sun to set while the moon rises on anything else, anything at all.

From Guest Contributor Cheryl Snell

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

For The Record

“She was attractive. Cute face.”

“Facts, please,” the officer cringed, pausing his pen.

“Black-rimmed glasses, plum lipstick and...”

“What was stolen?”

“My cellphone. One minute in my hand. The next, gone.”

A woman was called to the counter by the second officer on duty.

“Reporting a theft,” she announced. “Thief had salt and pepper hair.”

“What was taken?”

“My cellphone.”

The officers compared the complainants with the details given.

“You two realize making false claims is an offence,” one said.

“We can let you go this time,” the other scolded. “Go home and make up or see a marriage counsellor.”

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes poetry, fiction and creative nonfiction regardless of the season or location she finds herself in.

The Promise

When I enter the library, I take a deep breath. I haven’t been here in months, but I had a promise to keep, so I pushed myself out of bed and here I am.

I walk to the fiction section and scan the row of books. I choose a few of my all-time favorite classics and find a seat near the window, once his favorite spot.

I miss him terribly, but I promised I would continue to come, even though it pains me.

He had said he would always be with me through books.

I can almost hear his voice.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Former Glory

She sits in a worn wheelchair, slightly swaying to the raspy and sultry melodies playing on the radio behind her. Drunkenly sloshing the dark brown liquid in the bottle she’s nursed throughout the night. Her eyes are as heavy as her heart, drooping with sadness and weeping with grief. Taking another sip, she sighs as the liquid scorches down her throat. She hums along to the music, reminiscing times when she played the same syncopated rhythms on stage. Her knobby and wrinkled fingers dance in the air on her ghost piano while swallowing sobs, thinking about her glorious old memories.

From Guest Contributor Sa'Mya Hall

Live A Little Before You Are Eaten

Hybrid kids of Earth? Munching on mermaids? Half-trout, half-human tumors to turbocharge fish growth? A few escape, and voilà, mermaids? Dining on Manitours? Half-cow, half-human tumors? Some flee, transforming Earth into fairyland? How 'bout orcs? Half-pig, half-human tumors? Orcs could settle scores when they flee. The weirdest? Chickenman. End days echo Noah's. Bon appétit! The sad truth of mankind? Will humanity never learn? Eating yourself to death is humanity into Soylent Green all over again? Does humanity never listen and learn change your way before you become the meal of the day. For in the end. Live before being eaten.

From Guest Contributor Clinton Siegle

Work

At first, I kept my distance, suspicious of my new colleague. They had replaced my good friend Jen, which had left me bitter. I know that wasn’t his fault, but still.

After they’d been with the company for three months my stance started to soften. He started to sound like the rest of us.

He complained of no autonomy. The cramped working conditions. Management being clueless and disorganized. Finally, he ranted about the microwave smelling and dirty dishes piled high.

Looking back I don't know what all the fuss was about. It turns out the androids are just like us.From Guest Contributor Wendy Cooper

Wendy was born and raised in England but now resides in Vancouver, BC. Wendy is autistic and co-founder of the Autistic Writers' Group. Wendy placed third in the Women on Writing Spring 2023 Flash Fiction competition.

The Garden

"Be seen not heard," they'd say. Even as I dreamt my voice was void. I found myself questioning; was I even being noticed? My arms were flailing, begging for someone to lay their eyes on me. Their blank stare told me all I needed to know. I was nothing at all. I sauntered to the garden and rested my head on the bed of soft blooms. The leaves wound and bent until they filled up my throat, my ears, my eyes; beauty had taken over. I was pulled into the damp soil. I was now definitively neither seen nor heard.

From Guest Contributor Kenna Elliot