Supercut

Ray slipped at the top of his building's stoop and flew face first at the cement below. Time elongated as a supercut of his entire life played out like a scene on a museum urn.

There was Ray's first memory: being handed to a smelly, strange man, dressed in red and white with a giant beard. He'd been waiting in line with many other equally scared children. While he screamed, the scary, strange, smelly man laughed and his parents took photos and everyone laughed.

That was really the only memory that came to mind. Ray was only four years old.

Interview

“Why do you want to work here?”

I’ve been warned about this, the stupidest, trickiest interview question. Don’t say you, like all job seekers, need a paycheck to pay the rent. They don’t want reality, they want flattery. But don’t get personal. Don’t say it’s because the interviewer is charming. It must be something you like about the company, and it must be believable.

Easy! I give her the real reason I’m attracted to this place. The building is right next to a bus stop, so I won’t have to walk far in bad weather.

I don’t get the job.

From Guest Contributor R.K. West

They Were Her Rock

“You can do this!” “Be positive.” “You’re not alone.”

An assortment of rocks made up the flowerbed in front of a tall brick building. Some were scattered, others piled, many with painted pictures and handwritten messages.

Walking from the parking lot was perilous at best. Cheryl navigated the uneven sidewalk cautiously, crunching ice under heavy boots, pounding stale snow into powder.

The front glass-door opened. Volunteers greeted at the end of the entrance foyer away from the cold drafts of the outdoors. Someone sat at the reception counter awaiting questions.

Cheryl’s heart raced. Her radiation treatment was about to begin.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Demolition

He passed the tax building, now being slowly demolished.

“Everything’s done online these days,” he thought bitterly.

He’d been a manager there, running his section with the efficiency of a concentration camp commandant.

“Got any spare change?” asked one of a group of teenagers watching the demolition.

Giving them an evil stare, he walked on.

“Goddam!” The beer can struck him on the back of the head.

“Fuck off and die, you old fart!” he heard as they ran off laughing.

He looked at the shell of the building for a while.

Soon – like him – it would be gone forever.

From Guest Contributor Ian Fletcher

Mammoth

An airplane soars into the mammoth building, leaving a gaping hole. Blackness, dust, and papers fill the air.

Angels fall and my heart beats quickly not knowing what to do. I pace the floor with the others, stunned, quiet, unable not to watch. The sirens pierce our ears, and we stare at one another.

The phones ring with panicking family members crying that a second plane has crashed into the other building. I drop the phone when the fire drill alarms. The sky darkens and we head to the staircase not knowing our fate.

The World Trade Center is no more.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

A Good Day

My day wasn’t a wasted one after all, he said to the man in the mirror while washing the blood from his hands. He lifted his shirt and uncovered a nasty wound on his abdomen. His clothes were ruined, those stains would never wash out.

The radio was on and reported on events earlier that day:“...concerning the mystery man who saved two children from a burning building. The man jumped through a window on the second floor carrying the infants. He might be in need of some medical attention…”

Not a bad day at all, said the Superhero. From Guest Contributor Hervé Suys

Hervé Suys (°1968 – Ronse, Belgium) started writing whilst recovering from a sports injury. He writes his disturbing fiction generally barefooted and hatless.

The Seventh Floor

The squad car with blue lights flashing lit up the night and announced a police presence before he entered the building.

The receptionist looked up at the cop coming through the door and smiled.

“Good evening officer. This is becoming a regular occurrence.”

“Yes, Ma’am, second Friday night this month,” said the cop.

“Let me guess, seventh floor? Mrs. Smith called about Frannie’s drinking party again?”

“Bingo.”

“We’ll try to settle Mrs. Smith down first, then talk with Frannie.”

“Thanks.”

The cop shook his head and asked, “How loud can they be? This is a retirement village for God’s sake.”From Guest Contributor N.T. Franklin

NT Franklin has been published in Page and Spine, Fiction on the Web, 101 Words, Friday Flash Fiction, CafeLit, Madswirl, Postcard Shorts, 404 Words, Scarlet Leaf Review, Freedom Fiction, Burrst, Entropy, Alsina Publishing, Fifty-word stories, Dime Show Review, among others.

Equals

“Hurry up with those bricks!” the manager screamed.

The workers glared at him but moved faster, wheeling bricks to the concrete slab.

Looking at his watch, the manager scowled. “This building isn’t going to make itself. If you work harder, maybe one day you’ll be my equal.”

The group of men laughed and shook their heads. They spoke in their native tongue, their words meaningless to the manager.

“What are you saying? Speak English!”

They looked at him with contempt, and a man stepped forward before answering, “Learn our language and find out, then maybe someday you’ll be our equal.”

From Guest Contributor Caitlyn Palmer

Gordon Perkins, Analyst

NATURE SUBMISSION:

Gordon drummed his pen listlessly as he stared out the window. From his office on the 24th floor, it was possible to see a sliver of ocean, but only when pressed against the glass. Here at his desk, all that was visible was the building across the street, a grey brick affair more depressing than his cubicle.

The plant on Gordon's desk was equally as depressed, drooping over the edge of the pot, three detached brown leaves huddled in the corner. They both needed the same cure. Sunlight and soil.

Instead, Gordon returned to the spreadsheet open on his desktop.

From Guest Contributor Stanley Dutt

Except In Pictures

NATURE SUBMISSION:

His mother always said you solved more problems with words than with fists. But his was not a peaceful nature, and after years of unanswered abuses, he was unwilling to sit by and do nothing.

The bomb exploded on the night of May 1st, 1997. One person was killed, another injured. Both security guards.

His lawyer would argue that the deaths were tragic accidents, that he'd thought the building would be empty. The truth was he hadn't cared.

Now he's in jail, no chance for parole. Nature is still being destroyed, and he hasn't seen a tree in many years.

From Guest Contributor Samantha Dryden