The Invisible Man

Henry was an old man. In the last ten, maybe twenty years, he realized that he had grown invisible. When shopping, picking a loaf of bread off the shelf, or choosing a couple of oranges at the produce counter, young people would pass by, almost brushing into him, but not making eye contact or offering a greeting. At the front entrance of the post office, an attractive young lady appeared, face to face at the large, double doors. She stared straight ahead, not changing her expression. She looked through the old man as if he was glass in the door.

From Guest Contributor, Thomas Pitre

Whispers And Tears

"I love you," she whispered. She felt guilty. Part of her wanted to yell for the entire world to hear, but she shrank from revealing herself in front of so many of her peers. Whispers would have to do.

Guilt changed to anger as her expression of love was met by silence. She shook the phone, thinking it might be broken, even banged it against the floor. Now she was embarrassed and didn't care who was looking at her. Tears came as she screamed into the receiver.

Mrs. Johnson came and scooped her up.

"It's time for your nap, dear."

Watch Out

Time is my mortal enemy.

There are never enough minutes in a day. No matter how scheduled and organized I try to be, time always manages to sneak up on me, slipping through the cracks, flying past me unnoticed, baffling me every time. It’s a constant battle that begins the minute I wake up each morning. I start each day feeling invigorated and optimistic, but no matter how much I accomplish, there are still tasks left unfinished, boxes left un-ticked. With each passing day, I slump away feeling defeated.

In an effort to boycott time, I never wear a watch.

From Guest Contributor, Kristen Lum

Once You Can Get By The Smell, You Have It Licked.”

“Once you can get by the smell, you have it licked.”

This sign was posted on the blue-veined cheeses in Uncle Kenny’s delicatessen. Other signs adorned some of the exotic cheeses and meats in the shop. “Check out our rump,” “Squeeze this pork butt,” and so on. Kenny thought he was a comedian, but he made his customers uncomfortable. He vowed to lighten things up a bit, and quit using the coarser texts. He made some signs and posted them above the cheese: “What happened after an explosion at a French cheese factory? All that was left was de brie.”

From Guest Contributor, Thomas Pitre

Reminder: Picasso Painted Dinosaurs Now On Sale

Hey there, readers of short fiction! If you like these stories, then you'll love my collection of 100 100 word stories, entitled Picasso Painted Dinosaurs. You can purchase it from Amazon, iTunes, Barnes and Noble and pretty much anywhere else you might want to buy an eBook.

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Grass Stains

The neighborhood still smoldered as much as the house's charred remains. Hushed faces stared out from lawns, secretly cathartic. Firemen, and one woman, huddled in clusters, their whispers lingering like the smoke. Beside the black husk that used to be 4522 Westhaven Drive, memories were piled up like litter, tossed aside to make way for fire hoses.

Rebecca sat against the oak tree, numbed. The fire was probably her fault. Her mother had always warned her about those candles. But as she huddled against the dawn chill, all she could think about were the grass stains on her floral pajamas.

Bird Chitter, Flight

Some morning, early, no sound from worrisome bees, refugees from last summer, moved twice, days after we decided to keep going, to lie, to lay together near the buzzing, pretending a world away from this one:

If I welcome you into my kitchen, to turn one of my forks over your fingers, flipping the metal into your palm, against knuckles, as you talk, too quickly, about what it means to leave her, what we can do with this freedom, I'll mark the time, exactly, in quick numbers carved into the sink's rough porcelain, unable, quite, to let the knife go.

From Guest Contributor, Kelli Allen

Kelli Allen’s work has appeared in numerous journals and anthologies in the US and internationally. She served as Managing Editor of Natural Bridge and holds an MFA from the University of Missouri. She is currently a Professor of English and Creative Writing at Lindenwood University. Allen gives readings and teaches workshops throughout the US. Her full-length poetry collection, Otherwise, Soft White Ash, from John Gosslee Books (2012) was nominated for the Pulitzer Prize.

Trust Issues

The tears stung as they traveled the well-worn grooves on her cheeks. Susan swore her wrinkles were his fault, her aging caused by all the grief he brought into her life.

The stories, always complicated, always full of unlikely detail, astounded as much for their audacity as for their content. After all this time, why he expected her to believe them seemed the greatest insult of all.

"Why should I keep trusting you when all you do is tell such awful lies?"

"It seems to me that if you really trusted me, it wouldn't matter how bad my lies were."

Happy Dick

I fell hard for Johnny Carvello. Dagos got me wet. He preferred strippers, ringside tables, hand on crotch, watching them work the pole. Called it “happy dick.” We were the perfect pair, the ex-Mafioso and the car crash cripple. Both, second rate goods. He had a thing for my still-perfect feet, bathed them in rosewater, sucked the toes, jacked himself off all over them. He'd pose me naked, on the bed, do tai chi by candlelight, his eyes on mine. Months into it when he tried to fuck me, I broke it off. The relationship, not the dick.

From Guest Contributor Alexis Rhone Fancher

Alexis is a member of Jack Grapes’ L.A. Poets & Writers Collective. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in RATTLE, BoySlut, The Mas Tequila Review, The Good Men Project, Gutter Eloquence, Cultural Weekly, High Coupe, Tell Your True Tale, Downer Magazine, Bare Hands Anthology, Ireland, The Sun Magazine, The Juice Bar, and elsewhere. Alexis was nominated for a Pushcart Prize in 2013. She is the poetry editor of Cultural Weekly. Hotnovelist@me.com/alexis@culturalweekly.com

Test Day

Test day had arrived. Paul entered the arena with overwhelming trepidation. Failure today would mean death.

The arena was smaller than on television. And the stench of blood and burning flesh threatened to suffocate him. No matter how much training they'd given him, nothing had prepared him for that.

In the end, Paul passed his test, the lone survivor among his 99 classmates. He didn't like being a stooge for the network--murder should be a choice, not something forced upon you--but at least he was still alive.

In any case, he looked forward to graduating to middle school.