Super Man

“I vacuumed and mopped,” Andy said to his wife, Michelle.

“Really?” Michelle replied, looking up from scrubbing the upstairs toilet.

“Yes,” Andy beamed. “And you didn’t even have to ask.”

“Fantastic,” Michelle said before turning back to attack the porcelain with a scrub brush. “Your award ceremony will be on ESPN tonight at seven.”

“Cool!’ Andy said, and he took his cellphone to the downstairs bathroom to catch up on Facebook. Thirty minutes later when he flushed for the second time, he was starting to wonder if Michelle had been joking.

He decided to set the DVR just in case.

From Guest Contributor John Sheirer

John is an author and teacher who loves living in New England. His most recent book is Fever Cabin, a fictional journal of a man isolating out of fear of COVID-19 who confronts his life choices. Proceeds benefit virus relief organizations. Find John at JohnSheirer.com

New Story Contest: Pride Cometh Before The Fall

I continue to get strong interest in these contests, so we're going to have another one in August. The theme for this new contest is Hubris. It seems particularly relevant given the state of the world at the moment. Feel free to interpret it anyway you like.

Submissions are due by July 31st. Please follow the normal submission guidelines (here) but also include Hubris Contest in the subject header so I know it is for the contest. One contest submission per person (though you are free to submit as many pride-themed stories for regular posting as you want).

The rules are simple, but don't get cocky. Submitters somehow fail to follow instructions all the time:

1. All stories must somehow engage with the theme hubris. Be creative.
2. The story must be exactly 100 words, not including the title.
3. Only one submission per person. All entries are due by July 31st.

That's it. Start writing. I hope I get plenty of stories, so spread the word.

*Note: This contest is meant for fun. While there are no actual prizes, as always, EXTREME bragging rights are involved!

Remember, I’ll still be posting non-contest-related posts on a daily basis, so keep sending in your stories on any topic you like!

Melodious Birds

Erik sat silently in the small attic, fatigued, and his legs aching from being crunched together in the confined space. His father had told him to stay quietly hidden until the birds chirped.

Before the gunshot, his mother screamed. His father yelled a profanity, then he heard another gunshot and muffled his cries.

As Erik awakened, the birds sang. He slowly opened the creaking door and went downstairs.

In the kitchen, his parents bloodied bodies laid on the floor and a Nazi soldier stood against the wall.

“Ich habe gewartet.” I’ve been waiting.

A gun was aimed at Erik’s head.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

The Lie

It is too easy to start a lie.

I tried for a solid year to start a regular exercise routine, but it just didn’t take.

I promised myself eighteen months ago that I would only drink three days per week, but that never came to fruition. My current goal is to make a bottle of wine last three days.

Lying, on the other hand, was easy. I didn’t have to think about it. The words just spilled right out. It wasn’t conscious. I didn’t even have to journal about it or set a goal for myself. I just did it.

From Guest Contributor Amy Bracco

Learning To Read

I lean into my chair holding the book by its bind, learning to read what I did not as a child, but now with gray in my stubble. Flipping through the pages, feeling the paper crease between my fingers, I fumble to link it all together.

I follow the words with a methodical dexterity of a trained scientist, and with repetition, I begin to sense the fruits of my labor, basking in the glow of my mother’s maiden language come alive.

The exercise ends with a whistle, as I close my cookbook and taste the pepperpot burn my overeager tongue.

From Guest Contributor Eric Persaud

Eric is an Indo-Guyanese American living in New York City. He is currently working on his doctoral dissertation in Public Health and writing stuff in his free time.

Prey

The birds of appetite circled the spot below them on the desert floor. Inkblots against a sky cloudless and blue. They wheeled in decreasing concentric circles. Always, the spot the center of a bull’s-eye.

One bird landed feet from his target. Drawing nearer, he became agitated. There was nothing there. With a screech he took off in search of better prey.

Slowly, the spot resolved itself against the haze and became the figure of a man. He had stopped to rest after walking for hours. He stood now, indifferent to temperature and to thirst. Indifferent as well to his destination.

From Guest Contributor James C. Clar

Plastic Jesus In An Upright Tub

Me and Dale chuck rocks at it. Before school, while we wait for the bus on Highway 62 and after school or on Sundays. It's not all we do. We sit and talk about which girl at school we'd most like to bang. I'm more of an ass man. Dale really likes big boobs and has lots of ideas about what to do with them. Dale has a .22 rifle he shoots stuff with. I tried to get him to shoot Plastic Jesus but he said the bullet might ricochet and kill us. That would be a miracle, I said.

From Guest Contributor John Riley

John is the founder and publisher of Morgan Reynolds, an educational publishing company. He has written over forty books of nonfiction for secondary level students. His fiction and poetry have been published in Smokelong Quarterly, Connotation Press, St. Anne's Review, The Dead Mule, and other many other journals both online and in print.

A Beginner’s Guide To Dystopia

From the street outside, a loudspeaker boomed, “According to the decree of the 17th of this month on the Abolition of Walls.” I got up from the table where I was reading and went over to the window. Banners with the slogan “Public Interest Comes Before Self-Interest” fluttered in endless repetition down the street. Practically right under my window, officers were clubbing a man who lay crumpled on the pavement. I sighed, then went and sat back down and found my place in the book – sea nymphs with red seaweed hair were sunning themselves on the ledges of seaside cliffs.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author of THE DEATH ROW SHUFFLE, a poetry collection forthcoming from Finishing Line Press.

Found And Lost

I’d seen her at the bar at least twenty times before. This time I told her “There are better drinks at my place. Please join me.”

She followed me to my apartment. After a round, she walked into my bedroom. When I followed her, I saw one of the few women who looked better naked than dressed. She told me what she wanted; I did my best to deliver, and enjoyed every minute of it.

The next day I went back to the bar. Everyone there claimed that no one like her had ever been there. I doubt my sanity.

From Guest Contributor Doug Hawley

Troubles

Covid-19 has taken a toll on my social life. The quarantine has me cooped up other than grocery shopping or a drive, and I miss the sounds of my friends boisterous laughs when we joke about men while watching romance movies chomping on popcorn.

Reading a novel with my feet up, the same words stare at me. I toss the book aside and pace, when a tapping on the back door distracts my thoughts. I look outside and a black kitten is on the patio meowing.

I forget all my troubles when I step outside and pet this adorable animal.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher