While At AL'S Counter

“Otto, look at that.”

Stan and Otto were at AL'S DINER, side by side at the uneven linoleum counter. Stan pointed with his spoon.

“Is that a fly in my soup?”

Both studied the chipped bowl and the small thing squirming in it.

“Seems more like an ant, Stan.”

“With wings?”

“Sure...Lots of ants have them. Is that the chicken soup?”

“No, clam chowder”

All soups looked alike at AL'S.

“Clam, huh?”

They stopped eating. Otto decided against dipping his fingers in the bowl to see.

“I'm pretty sure it's an ant, Stan...The flies don't seem to enjoy Al's chowder.”

From Guest Contributor David Sydney

Sunday Dinner At My House

I carry the steaming pot of paprikash to the table. It’s spicy and garlicky, and my mouth waters in anticipation.

“That looks amazing,” my sister says.

“You printed this?” My mother’s nose wrinkles, and she leans back in her chair.

“Of course,” I say as my sister shifts a bowl of buttered noodles. I set the pot down.

“You kids have it so easy. In my day, we had to chop our own vegetables and simmer the chicken for hours.”

My sister and I grin at each other, but my mother doesn’t notice. She’s already spooning food onto her plate.

From Guest Contributor Julia Rajagopalan

Slab Of Butter

James had few true pleasures remaining in his life. Time, divorce, and the company had taken most everything. His doctor seemed intent on taking what remained.

"You're going to have to cut out alcohol and fatty foods."

James stared down at his bowl of greens. Across the table, George was cutting into his steak. Steven, keeping it light, had a baked potato topped with sour cream, chives, and bacon. They both drank from judicious glasses of red wine.

"Can you pass me that plate?"

Ignoring the stares from his friends, James smeared a large slab of butter onto his salad.

Changing

"You've changed," she said, as I held her in my arms. She had no idea how much, how often! But I wasn't the man she'd known before, and I could see she'd leave me soon.

There was no time for whining, I needed to act. I spent days shaping the perfect moment to make my move: the roses were divine, the wine an excellent vintage, and moonlight glinted on brass candlesticks. She didn't see it coming.

Afterwards, I crunched down on her bones, and cleaned my muzzle in the bowl by the door. Then I ran to rejoin my pack.From Guest Contributor Alastair Millar

Alastair is an archaeologist by training, a translator by trade, and a nerd by nature. His published flash and micro fiction can be found here.

The Lions

It was coming home and it had to pass through the (Gareth) South Gate.

I wanted to witness this, so I hurried. Normally I’m a (Kyle) walker, but this time I had to (Jordan) pick Ford as means of transportation. Money didn’t matter, I had so much pound (Raheem) sterling in my pocket that I could have bought (Mason) Mount (Harry) Maguire if I wanted to.

During halftime, they played a song I like: Sugar (Harry) Kane.

I had a bowl of (Ben) white (Declan) rice, but it felt like eating (John) stones.

This really was a (Jack) grealish day.

From Guest Contributor Hervé Suys

Hervé Suys (°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.

Life Misspelled

Intelligent machines probe not only my words, but also the silent spaces between words, searching for hidden doors to secret rooms. As a kid, I won a goldfish at the county fair by tossing a ping-pong ball into the fish’s bowl. My mom flushed Goldie down the toilet while I was at school. I think of it sometimes when I see Nazis invading Poland on the History Channel. “Last name?” the woman behind the counter asks, eyes on the computer screen, hands poised on the keyboard. “Good,” I say. “How do you spell that?” “Like God, but with two o’s.”From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author most recently of Stick Figure Opera: 99 100-word Prose Poems from Cajun Mutt Press. He co-edits the online journals Unbroken and UnLost.

Faith, Hope, Etc.

The next time you’re caught in a really bad place – the kind of place where people are always asking each other, “Oh why can't they get that baby out of the ground?” – take some frequently used verbs and combine them in a bowl with Hindu magnet incense, a bit of forgotten history, brain fluid, and warm dog’s breath, and then let the mixture sit for 20 minutes, after which you should be able to see a faint glow up there, see it coming over the hill, women wearing sky blue T-shirts that say “Quaker” and waving signs that say “Love.”

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie's latest collections are I'm Not a Robot from Tolsun Books and A Room at the Heartbreak Hotel from Analog Submissions Press.

The Death Of Tales

The mist glistens with false promises. The canopy drips blood of myriad misled bards vanquished by the Mediocre tribe.

The incantation echoes through the rain forest, causing even lianas to cringe. “We have decided not...”

The shaman feels tears slow to a reticent trickle from still-closed eyes. His heart freezes with horror, sharp mind balking from interpretation.

“Vates!”

It takes a moment to understand he is being addressed.

Lids snap open. “Yes?”

“Did the Mystic Mushroom bring wisdom?” The bard asks, handing him a bowl of spring water.

Cathbad rises from the straw bed. “No, Carolan, a warning of ignorance."

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid

A Killer

I should have sensed him as I entered the room, guessed that he was crouched in the corner silently watching me. As I reached for a bowl he dashed out from his hiding place. I shrieked as I brought the bowl down repeatedly onto his body. I didn’t stop until his insides spilled out beyond the edges of his cool smooth skin. His head was pressed over the edge of the sink in an unnatural position, as if dreaming of escape from a deranged woman wielding a bowl. I'm a killer; this unfortunate salamander’s life taken in five horrible blows.

From Guest Contributor Natashia Smith

Natashia writes poetry and flash fiction. She has been published at: 50-Word Stories, Friday Flash Fiction and Postcard Shorts.