Crazy

That’s what he thought. Small balloon floated over his head with &#%!@?; yet, he smiled at her with his lizard eyes—his lips razor-thin, unable to utter the string of words that would sear the flesh off of her. He remembered a bible verse as a matter of reckoning the lies he listened to while sitting at that table. He thought about the sounds that kept him up half the night. Not new sounds in the farmhouse— no new sounds, except theirs, living in the thin cracks of ticking floorboards and plaster dust. He listened without making a sound.

From Guest Contributor M.J. Iuppa

M.J.’s fifth full-length poetry collection The Weight of Air is forthcoming from Kelsay Books, May, 2022. For the past 33 years, she has lived on a small farm near the shores of Lake Ontario. Check out her blog: mjiuppa.blogspot.com for her musings on writing, sustainability & life’s stew.

Me Or The Dog

It was challenging moving into my girlfriend’s studio apartment. It was crowded for two adults and an ancient Shar Pei wrinkly beast.

“Package deal,” Sheila smiled. “I love you but -”

Shorthand, it meant Skippy slept with us. He snored, farted, whimpered in his sleep and pushed me to the brink of falling off the bed as his massive paws twitched.

Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. I threw down the gauntlet.

“It’s me or the dog.”

That night I discovered Sheila changed the locks. Skippy barked at me through the window as if to say, “I loved her first.”

From Guest Contributor Marc Littman

In A Bar, Near The Sea

“No harm done”, I replied, but inside I was fuming.

My new shirt! Bought it at Ray’s Boutique and it wasn’t even on sale. I desperately wanted to impress the brunette and now look at it…

The man spilled some beer on it, looked at me and apologized.

I decided to leave it. The guy probably didn’t do it on purpose. After all, I was here to have a drink with some friends and not to get into an ordinary bar fight.

Of course, the fact I knew he was a former heavy weight world champion did help a bit.

From Guest Contributor Hervé Suys

Hervé Suys (°1968 – Ronse, Belgium) started writing disturbing fiction whilst recovering from a sports injury. He writes them mostly hatless and barefooted.

Angels And Crows

I was eight, maybe nine, when my little cousin stuck out her foot and tripped me, and my father, in a red rage because I had chipped a tooth, whacked me across the face. Forty years later, my cousin would be found dead on the floor from a drug overdose. If there were actually angels, would they fly in a V-formation like geese, you think? Someone was just telling me that crows can hold a grudge for a year or longer against a person who has mistreated them. When I walk, wherever I walk, my shadow walks ahead of me.From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author most recently of the poetry collections Gunmetal Sky (Thirty West Publishing) and Famous Long Ago (Laughing Ronin Press).

Chicken

"Don't call me that," I, blue-in-the-face, scream at my grade school friend. The hallway is long and narrow, lit by one naked bulb, a beaded pull-chain hanging. I stand trembling at the edge of the basement stairs.

"Turn the light on, chicken."

The wall switch is to my left. Weeks ago, on a dare, I placed my hand on the switch plate to lift the lever. A jolt threw me down the flight of stairs. I landed feet first, hands crunched against the concrete wall.

Now I hover on the top step. Terror tight in my throat.

Ready or not.

From Guest Contributor Flo Gelo

The Moment In My Pocket

Even in your tight orbit of busy and work and home there are moments whose skin slips, crumbles like the dry shell of a red onion, and a person is laid bare in your hands. It stains your fingers, stings your eyes: your sister, a stranger. A student, mother of four, six-month chip in her pocket, stepping off the cliff edge of giving upbut you catch her hand just in timeand you hold the sphere of this moment,paint it, polish it, and keep it safein your pocketto show to someonewho might give up tomorrow.

From Guest Contributor Brook Bhagat

Brook’s poetry, fiction, non-fiction, and humor have appeared in Monkeybicycle, Empty Mirror Magazine, Rat's Ass Review, and other journals and anthologies. She is a founding editor of Blue Planet Journal. She is the 2020 winner of A Story in 100 Words’ nature writing contest, and the 2021 winner of Loud Coffee Press's microfiction contest. She is an assistant professor of English at Pikes Peak Community College and is writing a novel. Her poetry collection, Only Flying, is due out Nov. 16, 2021 from Unsolicited Press. See the book trailer, read her work, and find out about in-person and virtual book launch events at https://brook-bhagat.com/.

One Cookie Or More?

The pile of chocolate chip cookies on the plate was shrinking. Big Ed put five on his plate. “These are going to be gone before I get back for more,” he said to the person across the buffet line. “Same thing on these brownies,” while heaping five on his overloaded plate. Some shook their heads, but no one said anything. Neil approached the dessert table and looked down at the long line behind him. He selected one brownie and placed it on his plate. When there is a risk of running out, are you a one-cookie or a four-cookie person?

From Guest Contributor NT FranklinNT has been published in Page and Spine, Fiction on the Web, 101 Words, Friday Flash Fiction, CafeLit, Madswirl, Postcard Shorts, 404 Words, Scarlet Leaf Review, Freedom Fiction, Burrst, Entropy, Alsina Publishing, Fifty-word stories, Dime Show Review, among others.

Waiting

The mud on my face sticks to me from the heat of the sun, and I’m cramped in a hole waiting.

The sound of ammunition and men screaming is deafening. I reach in my pocket and take out the picture of my wife. She’s so beautiful. I close my eyes and envision myself stroking her long black hair and kissing her luscious lips. I miss her so much, it aches. I promised I’d make it back, but I know that could be a lie. No one knows what will happen in this damn war.

And so, I sit and wait.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Free

"Oooh, look!" Miriam slowed for a u-turn. They had been driving the county routes and dead ends. The third sofa. "Free" written on cardboard. A recliner.

Her daughters tumbled out. Mitzi leaped from the hatchback. The girls bounced. One bounced on the recliner.

"Here Mitzi!" Mitzi jumped.

"Over here!" One daughter bounced on the sofa. Cushion to cushion. Mitzi twirled.

Miriam pointed to the recliner. "This one?" One daughter squealed. "That one?" nodding to the sofa. The other squealed.

Mitzi spun.

Miriam placed two cushions into the far back. Mitzi jumped. The girls slid. Miriam drove.

"That's enough for today."

From Guest Contributor Rick Henry

Dead Language

The beggar standing on the corner was holding up a cardboard sign I drove past too fast to read. I heard a red alarm bell ringing when one of my students, a college junior, spelled “toxin” “tocsin” in an essay. In the surviving fragment of his book, On Analogy, Julius Caesar tells us to “Avoid strange and unfamiliar words as a sailor avoids rocks at sea,” which, I admit, seems like sensible advice. But even so, I’m not about to take writing tips from the man who started the fire that in 48 B.C. destroyed the Great Library of Alexandria. From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author most recently of Famous Long Ago (Laughing Ronin Press).