The President Who Never Lied

“If you’re innocent, why are you taking the Fifth Amendment?” asked the President who never lied to whip his followers into a frenzy. His true believers cheered.

“The mob takes the Fifth,” said the President who never lied. His true believers hooped and hollered.

“The Fifth. Horrible! Horrible!” insisted the President who never lied. His true believers waved flags of his graven image.

Then when he was deposed.

“Why did you overvalue your assets to secure loans and undervalue your assets to evade taxes?” he was asked for hours by New York state attorneys.

He took the Fifth 440 times.

From Guest Contributor Todd Matson

Hours, Later

I’m thinking of them, those soft-lipped women, sitting side by side like litter-mates. They yawn simultaneously, then settle their curly-haired heads against each other; closing their eyes for just a moment. The smell of vanilla lotion is thick in the air, and smooth as honeyed kisses. Nothing is wasted; yet, their story is full of unanswered questions. A string of pearl-sized love bites ring their necks, making it hard to disguise the plum-colored bruises on their golden skins that glow above the soft folds of sundresses. Do they ever sleep? These pure and chaste women who lean on each other.

From Guest Contributor M.J.Iuppa

M.J.’s forthcoming fifth full length poetry collection The Weight of Air from Kelsay Books and a chapbook of 24 100-word stories, Rock. Paper. Scissors. from Foothills Publishing, in 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.

Giant

The giant came over the hills, his axe as lengthy as the oak trees in the playground stumbled upon. Amid the outrage and terror, someone called the mayor. The police put their hands to their guns, waiting.

The giant chopped down a tree first, carving it, whittling it down into the mayor’s likeness. This pleased the townsfolk, convinced them. They gave him cement, metal, wood, anything to build. “More, more,” they shouted as he built their buildings and streets.

He left as quickly as he came, taking only the axe. Maybe the next town, he thought, would be more welcoming. From Guest Contributor E. M. Foster

E. M. is a fiction writer from Florida. She is currently preparing for a Master's of Studies at the University of Cambridge, St. Edmund's. She is a reader for Farside Review and Sepia Journal and a writer for Coffee House Writers. Her work has been published in The Aurora Journal, Sledgehammer Lit, and others.

Exit Stage Left

A young lady reminded me of the theatre, a single spotlight illuminating an actor on stage; blackness all around except for her brightly lit face and dust particles dancing about, defying gravity as they floated in all directions.

I also thought about a woman, a wife and mother, watching television, a solitary figure in a dark room. Her life’s work was behind her, trying to distract herself from reality by watching mindless entertainment and wondering what people had to do with themselves when they weren’t doing anything else.

Now, I'm nothing more than that dust particle floating my days away.

From Guest Contributor J. Iner Souster

Clinging To Hope

The crew is swept out to sea by the powerful waves. I hear their screams as they are drowning, and it’s haunting. The captain died by a blow to the head and it’s every man for himself. I jump into the deep ocean and grab onto a piece of debris. As I’m floating, I hear distant cries of the men still onboard the ship. They are sinking and clinging to the railing. I’ve known these men for years. I hold on tightly and pray.

In and out of consciousness, my head is weary, and my stomach growls.

Help will come.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Indignation

The kid just ran out. I was only doing twenty-five in a twenty zone. You’re allowed some slack. He magically appeared from behind a van. I didn’t put the ice there that caused me to skid. I didn’t put a school gate by the main road. I wasn’t the one teaching road safety and I didn’t call myself on the phone, talking garbage. Yet I stand accused.

A hundred times his face turns toward me in slow motion, eyes widening, then everything becomes rapid, the exploding noise and flying glass.

Was no one responsible for a traffic patrol? So unfair.

From Guest Contributor Duncan Bourne

The Journey

She crawls up the streambank to the edge of the road to carry out her innate mission. Now in the twelfth year of her life, she’s made the trip six times before, but the litter gets worse every year. On her way to the roadside, she moves past another snapping turtle hopelessly tangled in clear fishing line. Discarded beer cans and bottles keep getting in her way. She claws away sand and starts laying eggs. Fifty white eggs are guided into the hole and covered, only to be abandoned; in ninety days, the turtle hatchlings will be on their own.

From Guest Contributor N.T. Franklin

NT Franklin 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.

Illusion Of Water

"Harvest-bots eat tomatoes?" Randall asks, stroking one ripening.

"They let 'em rot for bio-fuel," grunts Arielle, hammering another spike deep into the soil. "Being greedy, Harvest-bots take everything, but they won't go near water."

She sets another spike while Randall adjusts the tarp.

"If your plan works, we'll have real food," he says, punctuating his remark by crushing a bee-drone. Small metallic pieces pepper his palms.

Arielle looks out on the defiant cerulean blue of the tented field. Years of used plasticine pouches of Mega-Meat and Vital-Veg, sewn together. They undulate and ripple in the wind. Waves, like the sea.

From Guest Contributor Nina Miller

Nina is an Indian-American physician, epee fencer and micro/flash fiction writer from New York. Her work can be found in TL;DR Press's anthology, Mosaic: The Best of the 1,000 Word Herd Flash Fiction Competition 2022, Bright Flash Literary Review, The Belladonna, Five Minutes, 101 words and more. Find her on Twitter (@NinaMD1) or ninamillerwrites.com

The Portrait

The Duke of Westland stared down from his portrait. Walter studied the painting, admiring the duke’s powdered wig and frilled cravat.

Walter’s eyes widened as the duke stepped out of the gilded frame and strode towards him, extending a bejeweled hand. Walter grasped the duke’s icy palm and noticed that the lavish rings now adorned his own fingers. Puzzled, he looked up and met his own gaze. His other self winked, turned, and left the room.

Walter called out and raised his hands but his glittering rings thrashed against the inside of the canvas, causing his powdered wig to slip.

From Guest Contributor Cate Vance

Cate Vance writes from the mountains of Montana where she is inspired by misty mornings, brilliant days, and starry nights. Her short fiction has been featured in Sky Island Journal.

Key

I rummage through drawers and cabinets before placing everything back. It hits me then. There must be a hidden key somewhere. I look under every piece of furniture and there it is under the desk chair. I scan the room and come across a painting of the Fuhrer that is askew. I remove it from the wall and find a safe. The key fits.

Inside are papers with the Nazi’s plans. I memorize what I can and place the picture and the key back, making haste through the rear entrance without being noticed.

Outside, I breathe a sigh of relief.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher