Jet Fuel

Whenever I take a flight, I prefer to relax with a good book for the duration. The last thing I need is a disruption.

The man next to me had his own system. It involved complaining to the flight attendants about every little annoyance. First it was the seating assignment, then the lack of proper meal service, unless he was willing to pull out his credit card.

Spoiler alert: he wasn't.

The worst part was all of his bellyaching had to go through me, since I'd paid for the aisle.

My big mistake was politely asking him to stop whining.

Don’t Do It

I tried to warn him. Several times. Maybe that was the problem.

“Listen to your buddy. She’s not the one for you.”

Instead, he hauled butt down the aisle. All I saw was the dimpled boy from our youth slipping away, oblivious of the cliff ahead.

It gets worse. Under the chuppah, our hero someway somehow managed to screw up his only freaking duty: stomping the bejesus out of a glass goblet — missed it by that much.

‘Twas a harbinger of things that came.

He hasn’t spoken to me in years.

Perhaps I shouldn’t have said I told you so.

From Guest Contributor David Thow

Corpus Delicti

Every day there’s a funeral – actually, several. You peer into the open casket and immediately regret it. I have that kind of face. There has just always been something about me that provokes people to anger and upset. “Hitler should come back and gas you!” they would yell, as if the very idea of me threatened them. An unknown caller once even left a series of gunshots on my voicemail. Now I’m being lifted off the bier and swiftly carried down the aisle and out the door. A desolate rain is falling. I don’t remember a time when it wasn’t.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie's newest book, Frowny Face, a synergistic mix of his prose poetry and handmade collages, is forthcoming from Redhawk Publications.

Turnaround Day

Midway through the exam my lead broke. What to do?

The boy across the aisle noticed.

“I brought extras. Take one,” he coaxed, extending an arm towards me.

Why would he offer to help me? I, the lowest achiever of the class; the one all classmates avoided.

Reluctantly I accepted his pencil, resuming my guesses to multiple choice questions.

“Good luck,” the same boy whispered, bending towards me.

I watched him rush to the front of the room to be the first to hand in his exam. He, the smartest student of the class.

The one who gave me hope.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

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

Apple Jenga

Pyramids of fruit abound in the market’s produce section.

A man pokes and squeezes to find the perfect Gala. Five tiers down, he locates a winner, and the Jenga game begins.

He shapes his hand into a “C,” then moves in slowly to extract the prize, leaving a hole in the pyramid where the apple once was.

Standing a little taller, he raises his chin and puffs up his chest.

One aisle over, he sees a woman arch her back and hold her shoulders high. Next to her, three holes exist in the Golden Delicious pile.

He’s met his match.

From Guest Contributor Jennifer Lai

Cannibal Snacks

The only store open at that hour was out of the first-aid cream I needed. Security cameras recorded what happened next. I ran amok in the chips and candy aisle, as if a slave to junk food. It was scary how much I could pack in. By the time the cops showed up, I was outside again and a cat had become just a red smear in the road. Someone recently asked me how I would describe red to a blind person. I shrugged. No one wants your honest opinion, ever. They may say they do, but they really don’t.From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie Good is the author of The Titanic Sails at Dawn (Alien Buddha Press, 2019)

Ignominy

The oppressive dryness from the onboard heating joins forces with the mid-carriage intensity of the bus engine to agitate my Nor Loch-purchased nausea. I glare up the aisle at the convex miniature of the driver’s face trying not to think of anything stomach-related...or liquid...or food.

My teeth are Publius Horatius at the Sublicius Bridge: facing off against a more dreaded force than that of Clusium.

But bridges span rivers, and the guy next to me sipping spring water from a bottle of ostentatious brand summons images of the Tiber and spilt blood.

Bile breaks through and brings friends.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid