The Whimsical Sun

It always rained where I lived, and the sun never showed its face. January to December: an encore of relentless grey days.

Sometimes during the summer break, when the gray became unbearable, my mother allowed me a night’s stay at my best friend's house next door.

There at her place, we would play late into the night and there was always an abundance of hot chocolate and stories to go around. Late mornings, while we were still in bed, her father used to roll up the clacking blinds, and tiny motes of dust danced in the sun, just like magic.

From Guest Contributor E. Rhyme

Escape

Jake and Emily look at each other dreadfully as they realize their apartment is on fire. Jake yells to Emily, “Grab Sarah out of her bed and I’ll get May out of her bedroom!” The fire is spreading quickly around the house so they have to think of a plan to get out. They end up thinking of a plan to get out. They use a crowbar to break the window. It shatters in the dead of night as pieces of glass go all over. Eventually, they reach a beach in Tampa Bay, Florida. Everyone is alive, safe, and happy.

From Guest Contributor Mikayla Wikoff

Memories

My grandmother tells me not to forget where she is. But she’s forgotten who I am. Would it matter if I was back soon like I told her I would be? Am I even a part of her fragmented memory? She lit up when she saw me (but she could have just craved company). The nurses have to be her companions now. The granddaughter role in her life doesn’t exist anymore. Are you a granddaughter still when your grandmother doesn’t know your name? Face? My grandmother lives in the past now but not the past I am a part of.

From Guest Contributor Olivia Bond

Undercover

The clatter of typewriters, especially Maryanne’s, echoes in the room. She’s pounding heavily on the keys to reach the deadline. It’s imperative she gets done before the other women if she’s to prove herself capable. She reaches the end and pulls out the paper. With quick steps, her heels clanking on the floor, she heads to her boss’s office.

“Well done, Maryanne. You’ve proven yourself. You’ll be going to France as an undercover secretary. Are you up for it? I can’t help you if you’re caught.”

Maryanne nods and waits for instructions.

She has no idea the danger she’s in.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Big Money

Howard entered the school’s front office Monday morning following his Saturday wedding. The head secretary smiled at him and cooed coquettishly, “Ooh, Mr. Morgan, how’s married life?” The other secretaries smirked, eager to hear his reply.

The question amused Howard. He didn’t know what to say so he pumped his fist in the air three times and said, “It’s fantastic. I’ve doubled my income. Life is good!”

“Oh! Oh!” the head secretary shrieked, hands flying to her throat. “You’re just the most horrible man.”

Grinning madly, Howard walked out of the office thinking, What a great start to the day.

From Guest Contributor Robert P. Bishop

Platero And I: Miss Dolores

Look at Don Fernando, Platero. He is wearing his best suit.

He bought it thirty-seven years ago, when he was first invited to read to the fifth grade Miss Dolores has taught for so long. He had written two children’s short stories in his life. Miss Dolores loved both.Today he will be reading for the last time. Miss Dolores is retiring and her successor doesn’t believe in reading by 'a failed writer.'

"What are you going to do now?" I asked.

“Write new stories,” he replied adamantly.

Maybe he'll write short stories about a sweet donkey like you, Platero.

From Guest Contributor Hervé Suys

Hervé (°1968 – Ronse, Belgium) started writing short stories whilst recovering from a sports injury and he hasn’t stopped since. Generally he writes them hatless and barefooted.

Pizza

Bill picked mushroom slices off the boxed pizza, grimacing, stacking them.

Sadie watched. “What’s wrong, Honeybun?”

“Mushrooms. They don’t belong on pizza. My ex-wife knew that. They’re like human ears.” Bill shuddered.

“Sorry!” Sadie sniffled, blue eyes pooling on her freckled face.

“Don’t be a baby.”

She was 20. Their infant son lay in the bedroom, drooling on Bill’s pillow, fitful with eczema. His ex Patsy, thinner now, lived in her own divorce trailer, screwing her burly handyman. Grown kids, not speaking to Bill. Everyone, broken. Bill sighed at the pile of ears. “Growing you up, it takes time, Sadie.”

From Guest Contributor Nicole Brogdon

Nicole is a trauma therapist in Austin TX, interested in strugglers and stories everywhere. Her flash fiction appears in Flash Frontier, Bending Genres, 101Words, Bright Flash, Dribble Drabble Review, Centifictionist, and elsewhere.

Orbits

She flips her glasses onto her hair where the shine is slippery. It falls back down to her nose, plastic lenses smudging. She goes for a drive wearing the blurry wedge and thinks she must be imagining the sight of two moons in the sky. One higher than the other, they supervise the intersection. "That was just Mars approaching Earth," her husband says tartly. He’s quite the mansplainer but she knows a defunct theory when she hears one. She’s seen for herself that it’s possible for the sun to set while the moon rises on anything else, anything at all.

From Guest Contributor Cheryl Snell

Cheryl's recent fiction has appeared in Gone Lawn, Necessary Fiction, Pure Slush, and elsewhere.

For The Record

“She was attractive. Cute face.”

“Facts, please,” the officer cringed, pausing his pen.

“Black-rimmed glasses, plum lipstick and...”

“What was stolen?”

“My cellphone. One minute in my hand. The next, gone.”

A woman was called to the counter by the second officer on duty.

“Reporting a theft,” she announced. “Thief had salt and pepper hair.”

“What was taken?”

“My cellphone.”

The officers compared the complainants with the details given.

“You two realize making false claims is an offence,” one said.

“We can let you go this time,” the other scolded. “Go home and make up or see a marriage counsellor.”

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes poetry, fiction and creative nonfiction regardless of the season or location she finds herself in.

The Promise

When I enter the library, I take a deep breath. I haven’t been here in months, but I had a promise to keep, so I pushed myself out of bed and here I am.

I walk to the fiction section and scan the row of books. I choose a few of my all-time favorite classics and find a seat near the window, once his favorite spot.

I miss him terribly, but I promised I would continue to come, even though it pains me.

He had said he would always be with me through books.

I can almost hear his voice.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher