Headless

Mr. Morgan was incapable of making wise decisions.

He constantly confused compost and garbage pickup weeks. Waste-collection trucks drove past his house without stopping.

Mr. Gerald down the street didn’t receive his disability payments. A mail-delivery person was reprimanded for not noticing one differing number between the addresses of Mr. Gerald and Mr. Morgan.

The latter meant to take them over to his neighbor but didn’t after a rumour circulated: he was seen stumbling outdoors in the dark appearing to have no head.

Truth be, he wore a coat over his head for warmth because he often forgot his hat.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Something To Eat

“The city is breaking up the encampment, clearing us out,” Olivia said. “I’m leaving.”

“Where are you going?” asked Simone.

“Jail.”

“Jail? Why?”

“In jail I’ll eat every day, have a place to sleep, shower and go to the toilet.”

Simone shivered and pulled the blanket tight around her shoulders. “Jail is awful.”

“Being old and homeless is worse.”

“How will you get sent to jail?”

Olivia opened her coat, exposing the pistol tucked in her waistband. “I’m robbing the first bank I see.”

Simone watched Olivia walk away and tried to ignore the hunger growling deep in her belly.

From Guest Contributor Robert P. Bishop

Robert, a US Army veteran and former Biology teacher, lives in Tucson, Arizona. His short fiction has appeared in numerous online and print journals.

Is It A Lie?

Anna walks in and out of alleys to avoid the Gestapo, hiding bread and cheese under her coat to feed the Jewish child she is hiding.

Anna, a Catholic, met Helena in the neighborhood when they were children and have been friends ever since. When news broke that Hitler would be sending the Jewish to camps, Anna immediately took her friend’s daughter into hiding.

She makes it home without incident. Anna hurries upstairs to the attic and pushes the latch open.

Anna takes the girl in her arms and tells her everything will be all right.

Is it a lie?

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Duel At Dawn

The cool, crisp morning air is cold, even in the fog I see my breath. “10 paces I’ll count; 10 paces then turn and shoot,” said my friend. I begin to walk. One. The wet, dewy grass is under my feet. Two. I wore my best clothes today, complete with the gray coat. Three. Black crows call in the distance, laughing at us fools. Seven. Dear god he is already at seven, I think. Eight. The black trigger of this 50-year-old pistol will have another kill. Nine. “Forgive me, Anne. Forgive me,” I pray. Ten. I turn, aim, and shoot.

From Guest Contributor Hayden Unfred

Work Of The Unemployed

I recently lost my job. With nothing much to do, I sneaked the other week into an exhibition at the Galerie der Moderne. The walls were hung with paintings by people who didn’t seem to know how to paint. However, I did enjoy the complimentary wine and the cubes of cheese on frilly toothpicks. I would have stayed longer, only there were these police around. In the old country, my great-grandfather went to fetch a ration of bread, and the loaf was sticking out of his coat when the SS officer who shot him for sport rolled his corpse over.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author of Famous Long Ago, a forthcoming prose poetry collection from Laughing Ronin Press.

My Death

This is a country you only hear about when there is a failed coup or a 7.2 magnitude earthquake or all the whales have syphilis. Most days I feel as if hundreds of tiny worms with razor teeth are whittling my bones. People who have seen me grab onto a wall to keep from falling down in pain sometimes suggest I try heat or special creams. I thank them just to be polite. Meanwhile, a figure in a long black coat lurking nearby sucks on a cigarette, then expels a mouthful of smoke like the monster in a fairy tale.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie's chapbook Famous Long Ago is forthcoming from Laughing Ronin Press.

The Birth Of Tragedy

I was nervous about interviewing for the job, but my confidence rose as soon as I walked into the anteroom. My only competition seemed to be ignoramuses with a fixed repertoire of inanities and washed-up ballplayers in the habit of spitting. Forty minutes later, my name was called. “I’ll lick stamps,” I told the gargoyle from HR. “I’ll lick whatever you want.” He looked at my wrinkled boots and patched coat and just shook his big ugly head. Some may be born with a tragic sense of life. Others are like me and acquire it by dint of long effort.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie's most recent poetry collection is Gunmetal Sky, available from Thirty West Publishing.

Fate

Cold and hungry, I shivered on the platform.

Everything had been taken. The silverware from Grandmother Petra, tossed in a bag, was a knife to the heart. All our valuable paintings, ripped from the walls and tossed into a pile, was too much for my husband Jenko. He protested and got a bullet in the head. I held my chin high without weeping.

I’m alone, except for the hundreds of people waiting to board the train and wondering where we are going.

I lowered my head and pressed my hand against “The Star of David,” sewed onto my fraying coat.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

First Mate

The scream of the seagull broke the silence on the dock. His old dog looked at him and gave a soft whine. It was her fourteenth season and he wondered if it would be her last. Her coat had lightened over the years and little wasn’t gray on her muzzle. He rubbed her head as they walked to his boat.

She struggled to climb over the starboard side of the boat, so he lifted her in. She made it by herself every time last year.

The traditional start of main lobstering season was underway. It might be her last season.

From Guest Contributor NT Franklin

Lipstick Car Wreck

Finally alone, you open your coat in the snowRevealing the soft hum of your pilot lightLiving, walking to the water’s edgeTo pray for river’s cleansethe water is polluted with reflectionSo you run, you always do, into an idlecar on the street outsideOf where you need to be, you’ve circled around3 times already (you’re not getting any more inside)and drive, flood down the avenue to the last bridgeLeft erect from burned out comings-aliveswitch, from automatic to manualStop self-correcting let it careenA smile like wreckage smears across your face

From Guest Contributor Wyatt Martin