On The Floor

Marty was a penny stock trader back in the 80s. A breathtaking collection of liars and cheats, everyone doing blow. Stock exchange officials were bribed. Client accounts were bled. It was something to behold.

His supposedly statelier sales manager was all smiles but for the dead shark eyes. He would say, "If people want yellow ties, sell them goddamn yellow ties."

Once or twice a month, after market hours, Marty would go out and stick up random banks, his rickety scheme to salvage honour.

His profession was put early to the silicon sword. Mercifully, Marty never saw the party end.

From Guest Contributor Kevin Campbell

Kevin writes in Vancouver, Canada.

The Sound Of Silence

I pine for smiling yellow walls, the low murmur of conversation.

Social distancing exiled me.

I try to write among sterile walls. Blank screens taunt.

There’s no favorite table in the corner. This space is devoid of smiling baristas with big glasses. No laughter from large rectangular tables or sizzling coffee. No undergraduates talking of failed chem tests and parties. I can’t inhale fragments of conversation or insert myself into their worlds.

There’s just silence, the occasional clump of feet upstairs.

I play movies, but my companions are always lonely 80s working-class characters or Lifetime psychopaths.

I surrender to silence.

From Guest Contributor Yash Seyedbagheri

Yash is a graduate of Colorado State University's MFA program in fiction. Yash’s work is forthcoming or has been published in WestWard Quarterly, Café Lit, 50 Word Stories, (mac)ro (mic), and Ariel Chart.