Camaraderie

Quibble believes the Paterson boy is getting a little close to his daughter. He has seen how tethered they sit when allowed to linger together on the porch. Three school dances in a row they have been each other’s primary partner. Quibble’s wife has taken to complimenting for no reason, with fanfare, the boy’s taste in clothing. The conspiracy grows. Quibble is sure, if he had a mind to intercede, he could find the couple parked in the graveyard, innocently – so far – bobbing for lumber. He likes the boy well enough. He has to find a way to warn him.

From Guest Contributor Ken Poyner

21

My sister’s 21 years older. She’s 37. Often jokes I’m the milkman’s son.

Nancy calls me Saint Nick, says I’m too giving. Nicknames me dummkopf when I trip.

I love her energy, when she jokes about my clothing or love of Debussy. She’s an Elvis-loving newspaperwoman.

Yet, the banter lacks that natural rhythm, that give-and-take. We didn’t grow up playing or fighting together. But Nancy says age is arbitrary.

I wonder if she feels self-consciousness. Especially when she calls me little brother, accentuating the words.

I just banter. Call her sis. Joke that she’s my secret mother.

It’s almost believable.

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.

The Subway

Standing three feet tall Travis was wearing a Celtics hat, jersey, and green shoes on the subway with his Dad.

“Dad, why is that guy sleeping??”

“Shhh… you don’t want to wake him.”

“I’m awake, don’t mind me none.” Dressed in tattered clothing, he sipped a bottle from a paper bag.

“What are you drinking?” Travis asked.

“That’s not our business, Travis.”

“This is just what you drink when you’re lonely and life isn’t working out.”

“You can hang out with us if you want.”

With watery eyes he stared outside. “If only more people were like you.”

From Guest Contributor Steve Colori

The Never Ending Work

She looked at him constantly, with eyes full of stories, desires, and expectations.

He was not used to it. Nervous, he kept ignoring her.

She called to him. Scared, he turned back to look.

She murmured, "Gimme an hour of happiness." He saw she was wearing a sari, shabbily tied, covering her sparsely. Her eyes were full of coal, lips beaming out in red. She was wearing socks in Calcutta summers. He could not stop himself from questioning her.

She smiled and replied that it was the only piece of clothing that she didn't have to take off to work.

From Guest Contributor Manmeet Chadha

Pity Me, My Preconception

I'd been here before, but I was lost. Confusion, desperation took residence in my bones, my breath, my very being. Everything had changed.

I stumbled along, eyes rambling in vicious circles, a desperate search for something familiar. Nothing made sense anymore. Tradition sacred, change took me by unfriendly surprise. If no one tells me who to be, who am I? I need structure.

I found a man, wearing men's clothing, and I asked where to find the Men's Department now that it was just Department. He pointed to the sign that said "Men's."

"But what does that mean?" I asked.

From Guest Contributor Stacy Gorse

Pigeons With Pants

In an effort to eradicate the disease carrying pigeon population from the city, the mayor signed into law an ordinance requiring all pigeons within the city limits to wear pants. His hope was that they would be forced to flee the city as they did not possess the dexterity necessary to fashion their own clothing. He underestimated the pigeons’ solidarity and the ordinance instead sparked an uproar in the garmentless pigeon community. The pigeons quit their jobs as letter carriers in protest and decided to focus their efforts solely on their cynical hobby of defecating on large man-made objects.

From Guest Contributor, Sean Franklin