Special Sauce

Maybe advertising was the wrong field for Bob. His boss, Ralph, passed him up for the accounts he wanted, like “Granola Gambit” and “Veg It Up,” giving those to his arch-nemesis, Ted. Bob kept getting accounts like “Killer Shrimp” and “Pork for Your Fork.” (Bob was a known vegan; passive aggressive much, Ralph?) Bob would’ve left ages ago had it not been for his secret love for his coworker, Darlene. He couldn’t shake the vision he’d had of her one day when he’d come upon her eating barbecued ribs like a wild animal. She’d been covered in sauce, but adorable.

From Guest Contributor Susmita Ramani

Susmita lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with her husband and two children. She’s a lifelong writer whose work has appeared in The Daily Drunk, Nymeria Publishing (winner of March 2021 poetry contest), 50 Word Stories, and Vine Leaves Press (50 Give or Take), and will appear in upcoming issues of Short Fiction Break and Secret Attic.

Orange Man

Once upon a time, an orange man became president. He dressed in red, white and blue, but he liked white more than black and brown, and he loved orange most because he was orange.

The orange man made many people cry.

One day the orange man and his friends were indicted, prosecuted, convicted, liquidated, and incarcerated under state laws.

The orange man couldn’t pardon himself or anyone else convicted under state laws.

The orange man painted his prison cell orange, because he loved orange most because he was orange.

And people of every color lived happily ever after.

The end.

From Guest Contributor Todd Matson

Todd Matson is a Licensed Marriage and Family Therapist. He has written poetry for The Journal of Pastoral Care and Counseling and has been published in Vital Christianity. He has also written lyrics for songs recorded by a number of contemporary Christian music artists, including the Gaither Vocal Band.

The Sobbing Lady

It was about 2 am. I was on my way home. Again, as expected, I heard the same old sobbing of a lady that I have been hearing for a month on that particular road. I know it’s creepy and haunting, but I’m pretty used to it and have nothing to do. This is the only path I can take. No shortcuts, long routes, nothing! I couldn’t even tell anyone. After all I was responsible for all the things happening to me. Yeah, I was the one who ran her over with my truck and killed her a month ago.

From Guest Contributor Prapti Gupta

Drinking

There was a time that drinking carried with it a thrill. The flash of acceptance by his peers, the risk of being caught.

Then it became a habit. An expectation, though not a conscious one. It was just a part of everyday life, like the friends he no longer really connects with, but finding new friends seems complicated and lonely.

Now it is no longer drinking. It is alcohol, and he needs it to not feel sick, to not hate himself.

Maybe he should quit. But that strikes him as uncomfortable. Better just to not think about it too much.

Deep Moaning Blues

They’re traveling incognito, George Washington with a moustache and Abe Lincoln without a beard. Time is like a river that has jumped its banks and carved a brazen new course through the ruins of fabled industries. They follow its many twists and turns, only to find themselves weeks later cold, ragged, and hungry, and under perpetual ban. Meanwhile, killers walk around free if they’re white and have a badge. It’s as though the laws have been rewritten by malignant algorithms. A night of solid sleep is impossible. The moans that keep waking me up, I finally realize, come from me.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie Good is the author of more than a dozen poetry collections, including most recently Gunmetal Sky (Thirty West Publishing).

Sometimes

Sometimes at night I cling to her hand in the darkness and try to imagine what she's dreaming.

Sometimes the illusion of connection is disrupted enough that I acknowledge--never out loud--the person I fell in love with is my own creation.

Sometimes I wake up early and clean the house before I go to work without ever insisting on credit.

Sometimes I'm so angry that the next words out of my mouth will mean the end.

Sometimes her smile reminds me of why I asked her to marry me.

But most of the time we just watch television.

Sailing To America

There was something about the endless sky, gray and somber, and the ship’s surging through the dark swirling waters of the Atlantic, that prompted Macbeth to worry about the past. The witches. The blood. The trouble that followed. Was there a route to forgiveness? People went down on their knees, didn’t they? Could he hire someone to do it for him? He was still royalty, wasn’t he? But the breeze was so soothing, the trouble, so remote. Surely Scotland was a memory best forgotten. Besides, in the distance, he could almost see, shining like a pardon, the Statue of Liberty.

From Guest Contributor Linda Lowe

Linda Lowe's stories and poems have appeared in Gone Lawn, Tiny Molecules, Eunoia Review, Misfit Magazine, Six Sentences, and others.

Victory

The force of the sword against my shield knocked me to the ground. As the sword came toward me, I turned and pushed myself up. I could barely see through my protective head shield and the sweat dripped down my face. The man, large and fierce, came at me again, and the clanking of our swords filled the arena.

One of us would die, slaves no one cared about.

In one last attempt, I lunged, stuck my sword into his side and twisted. He moaned, collapsing to the ground face down. The crowd cheered.

I raised my hands in victory.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Early Bird Special

Doubled-masked and leaning into the pharmacy’s window, you answer questions that will later identify you immediately. It’s 11:59 a.m. and the Know-It-All Tech, with a bar code label on her wrist and seascape nails, is already sick of the routine: Fill out these papers, sign here and here; take papers around back & sit with arm exposed; face turned to the left, as a cool alcohol swab cleans an invisible bull’s eye. The outgoing pharmacist chats about snow & cold and you barely feel him stick you with the needle. Done, he says, pressing a circle band-aid over your future.

From Guest Contributor M.J.Iuppa

M.J.Iuppa lives on a small farm near the shores of lake Ontario. Her 100 word stories have appeared in 100 Word Story, Eunoia Review, Otoliths, Jellyfish Review, A Story in a 100 Words, The Dribble Drabble Review, The Drabble Review, Milk Candy Review, Lost Balloon, and others. . Check out her blog: mjiuppa.blogspot.com for her musings on writing, sustainability & life’s stew.

Scriptless Dream

Alright, I’ll tell you about the dream I had last night.

Several older women – I guess your mum and a couple of your aunts – were trying to match you with a movie director. And I stood there, saying nothing, convinced he had nothing to offer you I didn’t.

Suddenly, we found ourselves in an undefined take away chip shop (remember, it’s a dream) and guess who’s there? That same director. You acted like you didn’t notice him, but somehow I ended up home with two meals just for me.

So, that’s why I don’t want to see that movie tonight.

From Guest Contributor Hervé Suys

Hervé Suys (°1968 - Ronse, Belgium) started writing short stories whilst recovering from a sports injury. He generally writes them barefooted and hatless.