Be Easy

Tomas nervously made his way to his seat at the very back of the lecture hall. He'd originally staked out this spot to avoid being called on during class discussion, but if it afforded him the opportunity to surreptitiously glance at his neighbors' test answers, that was just a happy accident.

He prayed this final was easy. He needed an A on the exam to ensure a passing grade. Failure meant his dreams of medical school would be over.

The first question contained the word "Gluconeogenesis."

Tomas stood and walked out of the classroom. The world needs car mechanics too.

Roses

Apprehension accompanied me to my car. How would they react? With sadness? Indifference?I placed the bouquet lovingly into the trunk, holding back tears.

The intended beholders knew nothing of its history. Nor of the person who presented it to me. Roses, once of warmth and vivid pink, had crumpled to shades of aged dryness. Like his love did, when he left for another and I didn’t realize he meant it for real.

I set the vase onto my desk in the classroom, for my art students to observe, interpret and present their creativity onto canvas—of a life stilled.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

The Three Of Clubs

One night our guy grabs the deck of us and off we go to school. “Pick a card,” he says, walking around the classroom. Yes, we’re old, with some bent corners and a few stains, our winning days behind us. But to be held up and fanned out? Like we were some old chorus line, called up for one last show. I go right after my buddy, the Four of Clubs, to someone who sticks me in a book called Misery. And how! I was never one for the solitary life. All I wanted to do was play my part.

From Guest Contributor Linda Lowe

Linda's stories have appeared in Misfit Magazine, Star 82 Review, Bombfire Lit, and others.

Martinet

He enters the classroom on Monday morning.

They ignore him, will not be silent as he speaks, chatting about the weekend, this and that, cocooned in subcultures he would not understand.

He cannot break in to quell their energy, bend them to his will, force the curriculum upon them, teach them ‘respect,’ nor corral them down the narrow path his life has taken.

He would beat them if he could but, thwarted by laws he would repeal, he can only shout.

“Shut up! Listen!” he bawls, getting their attention, momentarily.

“Why?” one of them simply asks.

He has no reply.From Guest Contributor Ian Fletcher

Born and raised in Cardiff, Wales, Ian has an MA in English from Oxford University. He has had poems and short stories published in The Ekphrastic Review, Tuck Magazine, 1947 A Literary Journal, Dead Snakes, Schlock! Webzine, Short-story.me, Anotherealm, Under the Bed, A Story In 100 Words, Poems and Poetry, Friday Flash Fiction, and in various anthologies.