Hurt

“We’re joined today by the great Cuban émigré slugger Robinson Falco Villegas, Jr.”

“Hola.”

“Robby, rather than talk about your recent injury, why don’t you tell us why you and your father were named after Jackie Robinson?”

“I wasn’t named after him. I was named after the great irascible poet, Robinson Jeffers. I learned English so I could read his poems.”

“I didn’t know that. Can you quote your favorite lines?”

“I’d prefer to paraphrase.”

“If it makes you more comfortable, go right ahead.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, go for it.”

“Were it not for penalties, you’d be dead now.”

From Guest Contributor Clyde Liffey

Dreamland

The lake has an island that has a church on it with fine black cracks etched all over. It’s the place where disaster originated. Everything else has been declared safe for visitors. The sky is an orange I never experienced before. A smell like the rancid diapers of the spawn of Satan crawls through trees. A fox poses in front of a sign that says NO JEWS AND ANIMALS ALLOWED. Joggers, dog walkers, and parents with strollers slow down as they go past. I catch the expression on their faces, mostly a combination of surprise and puzzlement. Sometimes they smile.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author of two new poetry collections, The Death Row Shuffle (Finishing Line Press, 2020) and The Trouble with Being Born (Ethel Micro-Press, 2020).

The Receipt

Monday was always wash day in Marla’s house. She sorted through the load of “darks,” mostly jeans and towels. While checking the pockets, she thought she felt a piece of paper in her husband’s jeans.

Marla found a receipt made out to her husband. It read: “Rent for the month of October 2020, paid.”

“What rent?” she thought to herself. Marla didn’t recognize the address. She began to consider the possible explanations. Was it a pied-a-terre? The more she thought about it, the angrier she became. What had the bastard done now?

Just then, her husband walked in the door.

From Guest Contributor Janice Siderius

Dangerous Dan

Dan is a famous television personality. He tells everyone via Twitter, television, and sky writing that he is a rich and brilliant man. His public statements have attracted a following of those who hate the same people that he does. Recently he advised people to drive 100mph in dense traffic without seatbelts, despite transportation experts saying it would lead to deaths to both drivers and the innocent. Many thousands died following his advice. Dan laughed it off, until he himself was injured while driving at 100mph. Several others were injured in his crash. What do you think of Dan now?

From Guest Contributor Doug Hawley

The New Normal

Three minutes before the meeting, I don my favorite blouse. It won’t pass the waft test, but I’m out of clean clothes. My flannel pants are ripped; it’ll have to do. My hair is in a bun because styling takes too long.

Apple sauce pools on the high chair; fruity pebbles litter on the floor.

I rush to open the laptop and enter the meeting. Twelve baggy pairs of eyes stare back at me. I then remember that no one can smell my shirt or see my pants. But I wonder if anyone would mind if I went to pee.

From Guest Contributor Jennifer Lai

Queue For Killing Time

Mow lawn with toenail clipper; count sand. Invite spiders to tea party; pretend you’re the Mad Hatter.

Adopt imaginary twins; cry when they say their first word (“quarantine”); ransack new recipes to quiet their insatiable hunger; crank open doors and windows; demonstrate how to run fingers over wild, overgrown grass; bike them to beach; build castles, mermaids, moats; inhale salty ocean air; watch fire-red sun sink into horizon.

Lift face to pale moon and marvel, “Isn’t it crazy that there are more stars in the sky than all the grains of sand on earth?”

Time killed, savor moment without end.From Guest Contributor Michelle Wilson

Michelle’s words have appeared in 50-Word Stories, 101 Words, Literally Stories, The Miami Herald, and elsewhere. She lives in Miami Beach, Florida.

Ajar

“Time sure flies. Tomorrow is already his Big Truthful Day.”

“I’m glad we won’t have to lie to him anymore.”

“It wasn’t really lying – rather hiding the truth.”

“What shall we tell him first? About Santa or the Easter Bunny?”

“Wouldn’t you think he already knows this stuff? Probably a few of his classmates must have told.”

“Then we’ll tell him we’re not his real parents and that he’s hereditarily predestined to be offered to the gods.”

Both giggle inaudiblely.

“Ssssh… wait… did you hear that?”

“No. You are imagining things.”

“Perhaps. Are you sure you closed his bedroom door?”

From Guest Contributor Hervé Suys

Unspoken Memory

Memories surfaced as the woman on the balcony leaned against the balustrade, her young daughter beside her.

She had been joyfully preparing to tell him the wonderful news. She cooked a special dinner and waited for his return from work. She opened the bedroom window, breathed in the fresh spring air, and watched the passersby. A group of people gathered near a stopped buggy. Tears rolled down her cheek. There had been no mistake. It was his still body.

She gently hugged her daughter and watched the young girl’s red hair blow in the breeze. The same color as his.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Beauty Of Life

Walking through the park's garden, the fresh scent of grass and flowers soothes me. The leaves are slowly blowing in the breeze and the chipmunks race around the path.

Children are laughing and playing baseball while their parents proudly watch, and it reminds me of my own childhood summers, playing catch with my friends while my father coached us on our throws.

I wish I could go back and be young again, but I can’t change time. I’m elderly, brittle and fortunate to be able to walk at my age.

This is why I’m thankful for the beauty of life.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Ontological Question Within A Dream

I know I am asleep. I am floating, cruising through an old neighborhood. I recognize every detail of the houses and the trees. Perhaps I am just exploring the deepest, untouched basement spaces of my memory, where everything is stored? I float by an antique shop. The elderly owner, opening it up, looks at me. Now I muse: am I experiencing astral projection within my dream? I float by a little boy in black: going to a funeral? He is snagged on my floating robes, which are also black. I wonder: is this how one becomes, all unknowing, a witch?

From Guest Contributor Cheryl Caesar

Cheryl lived in Paris, Tuscany and Sligo for 25 years; she earned her doctorate in comparative literature at the Sorbonne and taught literature and phonetics. She now teaches writing at Michigan State University. Last year she published over a hundred poems in the U.S., Germany, India, Bangladesh, Yemen and Zimbabwe, and won third prize in the Singapore Poetry Contest for her poem on global warming. Her chapbook Flatman: Poems of Protest in the Trump Era is now available from Amazon and Goodreads.