Interview

When I stepped out of the car, I took a deep breath and cleared my mind.

I hadn’t been interviewed in years and now older, I didn’t know what my chances were of getting hired. My friend recommended me to the department head, and I hoped that would get my foot in the door.

I had my briefcase in hand with an excellent portfolio and references. What more would they want?

I opened the door and entered the office only to be told by the receptionist that the manager had an emergency and I’d have to come back another day.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Lost

I'm tramping through the parking garage, briefcase in hand, searching, again, for my car. Stopping at a sign that says "Level 3", with the word “Remember” under it. As if that’s an easy thing. As if by putting "Remember" there that will make me remember where the damned car is. First or second time maybe. But, after that, it’s like all those other things that you filter out and forget. The trick is to remember to remember, otherwise you're lost.

As I am. Staggering up the parking ramp, wondering where all those things went that I can no longer find.From Guest Contributor Mitchell Waldman

Mitchell's fiction, poetry, and essays have appeared in numerous publications, including The MacGuffin, Fictive Dream, Corvus Review, The Waterhouse Review, Crack the Spine, The Houston Literary Review, The Faircloth Review, Epiphany, Wilderness House Literary Magazine, The Battered Suitcase, and many other magazines and anthologies. He is also the author of the novel, A Face in the Moon, and the story collection, Petty Offenses and Crimes of the Heart (originally published by Wind Publications), and serves as Fiction Editor for Blue Lake Review. (For more info, see his website at http://mitchwaldman.homestead.com).

Comparison

He stood mesmerized by the depth and variety of the spice-stall’s palette; deep reds to yellows that hurt the eyes so much he had to close them, having to be satisfied with inhaling the melange of aromas.

The taste of burger was still in his mouth from the fast food outlet around the corner. It felt cheap and nasty in such company. He felt shame.

Then he felt a piercing violation of flesh and fell forward, arms failing to move to cushion. The chain securing the briefcase was snipped. Bolt cutters, he thought as his brighter red smothered the fruit.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid