Above Average Wear And Tear

Pete grabbed his lucky t-shirt from the back of the closet and threw it on.

"I'm ready."

"You are not wearing that."

"What? It's a classic."

"It's barely holding itself together. It must be 20 years old."

Pete was proud of his vintage Pearl Jam concert tee. Sure it may have seen better days, but the real ones would know. "25 actually. I got it when they played Bridge School in '99."

"You promised me you'd dress up tonight." Rebecca sighed, realizing it was a lost cause.

"Why are guys always more attached to their old clothes than their wives?"

Deep Shag

"Barry, is your homework finished?"

Barry started awake. His mom's muffled shout sounded a million miles away. His bedroom lay in total darkness.

He felt for his phone, but immediately encountered large woolly tendrils draped all around him. The only sensible explanation for the complete lack of light and the suffocating fabric was he'd been sleepwalking again and was nestled away in his closet.

Panic set in as he thrashed about searching for the door. He felt like he was drowning in an endless kelp forest.

It would be hours before he realized he'd been completely swallowed by his carpet.

Sensitivity Training

Not another sensitivity seminar! The professor already kept his door open when he was with a female student. What more did they want? And who else had been sent this message from the dean? Nobody had been cc’d, so the professor forwarded the message to the entire department, the colleagues scratching their heads when they got it. Why had the professor sent them the dean’s message about sensitivity training? Each colleague checked the skeletons in his closet before flinging their doors open to the punishment of pizza stacked up against the professor’s office. One good prank deserves another, they agreed. From Guest Contributor Cheryl Snell

Cheryl's recent fiction has appeared in Gone Lawn, Necessary Fiction, Pure Slush, and elsewhere.

Spoiler Alert

“There’s, like, a huge pile of packages out here, did you know?”“Get out of the way!” I shout, toppling my children like bowling pins.“What’s in there, Mom? Is it for us?” ask my mosquitoes.“None of your business!”My stomping covers the clamorous clattering of toys as I drag the heavy stack upstairs. I cram the boxes in my closet and hide them behind rarely-worn dresses. An old blanket covers the teetering mountain.“Can we see?”“No! Don’t come in here!”Slamming the door shut, I wonder if they might have guessed that their Christmas presents had arrived.From Guest Contributor Sarah Czarnecki

Sarah is a dog-walking, fast-knitting, list-making Sconnie who sometimes writes.

The Bobby Pin Woman

In my brother’s dream, a woman was sleeping on his closet shelf. When she woke, she claimed she was going to kill our grandfather with bobby pins. She was surrounded by them, and called herself the Bobby Pin Woman. All the pins were short in those days, without the cushion things on the ends like now, that save your scalp. When we went to see our grandfather, he lay in a hospital bed that raised him up from the waist. At the Rosary, I asked my brother what “Hail Mary” meant. At five I only knew to bow my head.From Guest Contributor Linda Lowe

Linda's stories and poems have appeared in Outlook Springs, Misfit Magazine, Gone Lawn, A Story in 100 Words, What Rough Beast, Eunoia Review, and others.

Love Triumphal

Mother hides me in the closet.

You won’t go back to that school. I’ll deal with that asshole father.

She smells of lavender perfume and sweat. Not like Dad with his Old Spice, calculated aroma, who mocks Mother. Arranges my future with Headmaster Edgar. Harvard, law.

Men bang at the doors. Buzzwords waft into my musky space: “Custody arrangement,” “Legal orders.”

Fuck off. Mother’s words hold firmness, edge.

Footsteps draw near, unpleasant pounding.

My mother tells them I’m her son. I’m someone who needs love.

I absorb that word, so foreign, while she spars, words rising.

Love. What beautiful form.

From Guest Contributor Yash Seyedbagheri.

Yash is a graduate of Colorado State University's MFA program in fiction. His work is forthcoming or has been published in journals such as 50 Word Stories, Silent Auctions, City. River. Tree. and Ariel Chart.

Layers

Her mind acts as warden, keeps her in her room most days.

She confesses to me that one week straight, she huddled in the dark base of her closet. She had built a nest within, its four tight walls comforting her like an eggshell: no demands made upon her, no chance to fail.

I ask what she will need if she comes home. She cannot answer, and so I build a table with layers of blankets both over and under it, where, like the Princess, she can feel despair creeping in even if it is the size of a pea.

From Guest Contributor Laura Lovic-Lindsay

Outside The Box

Annie is missing. “Not in her room,” Mom said. “Can’t find her outdoorshoes,” noted Dad. “Maybe she fell into a humongous puddle,” quippedyounger brother. Older brother was silent. Two guinea pigs madlythreaded wheels. Crows lined the backyard fence squawking at thehouse. “Bet she’s at a friend’s,” said Dad. “Maybe a monster snatchedher,” younger brother grinned. “That’s enough young man,” assertedMom. “We need to think OUTSIDE the box,” Dad stated. “Maybe someoneput her INSIDE a box,” giggled younger brother. “Hush!” yelled Mom.Older brother emerged: “Annie’s in my bedroom closet with an imaginaryfriend.”From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction.

Prom Night

She hung the dress on a hook and shoved it all the way back in her closet, past her pink winter coat and communion dress. This was where outfits went to die.

She took a tissue and wiped her tear-stained makeup off in the mirror. The rolled up wad joined a dozen others in the vicinity of her trash bin.

She crawled into bed in full surrender. She looked at her cell phone on the table and thought of calling Janet, but she likely wasn't home yet. The fact she hated that her friend was enjoying herself made everything worse.

Nerve

She waited in the closet while tightly clutching the letter opener to her chest. She'd never killed anyone--never come close really, unless you count the car accident and she'd been drunk so she never did. But she was going to kill Stan, or at least hurt him really bad. She knew she had to do it quickly, as soon as the door opened, because if she saw his face she'd lose her nerve. Not that he didn't deserve to die, but she'd be too scared.

She heard footsteps, so she stood next to the door, her whole body tense.

Part Twelve