Tourist In My Own Mouth

I’m inside my own mouth, seeing what the dentist sees. I’m awed by the whiteness of my teeth – their lingual surfaces, anyway. I don’t notice the tongue, any more than a carpet under my feet. The teeth are like panels of marble. But they have labels on them, which seem to be just A4 sheets printed out and laminated, as we might stick up temporarily on an office door. Some of them seem to be self-praise for fillings and crowns: “Great Job!” and “Fabulous!” But there is criticism as well: “Lousy cap that she got in Italy in the 1990s.”

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.

Is This What You Thought Married Life Would Be Like?

“Is this what you thought married life would be like?”

The first time Ann asked me that was at a church wedding, with me holding our three-month-old as he filled his diaper. Excrement slowly seeped down into my suit jacket sleeve.

The question was always asked facetiously: Ann’s way of finding humor in challenging situations (little league games, parent-teacher conferences, prom night). It helped. We always smiled and, sometime later, laughed.

Now, married thirty-eight years, with grandkids and happily retired, she asks me again as we sit together at dinner.

Smiling, I answer, “Oh yes...even better than I thought.”From Guest Contributor Mike Nolan

Mike is a freelance writer living happily ever after in Port Angeles, WA, USA. Mike is the author of the forthcoming memoir My Second Education, and has a web presence at mikenolanstoryteller.com.

The Manor

The enormous house consisted of large acres of land with an abundance of flower and vegetable gardens. Violet’s only companion was her cat Missy.

She walked down the basement steps, the kerosene lamp, her only light. The stairs creaked and the ghastly noise churned her stomach.

When Violet reached the top shelf and grabbed a bucket, something brushed her leg. Startled, she tripped, fell, and hit her head unconscious. Missy pawed her arm until she awakened.

“Missy, don’t do that again.” Violet rubbed her lump and walked upstairs with Missy trailing behind.

In the basement, the deceased prior owner chortled.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M.Scuderi-Burkimsher

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