Headache

I’m having trouble concentrating and so I close my novel with a thump. Then I curse, having had a headache for several days that I can’t get rid of. On the coffee table there are piles of bills that I haven’t paid in months. Hence the headache.

My dog Charlie cuddles beside me and rolls over for a stomach rub. Sadly, he’s my only true friend.

“Hey, boy, thanks for always being around.”

I get up to take two aspirins when the phone rings. What I hear on the other end worsens the migraine.

I’ve been evicted from my apartment.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Sofa Of Cycles

The sagging couch cushions are a trophy–evidence attesting to her self-discipline to stay situated.

She’s a chameleon in her contradictory custom office. An extension cord slithers around wooden legs, dressed with a black and blocky laptop vitalizer. The coffee table has been repurposed into a feet-book-pen desk, crowded with sacred guides to creation and the honing of creative crafts. No clocks tick, as time gives no counsel. Silence rears its head to the ears of the beholder, mouth perpetually packed by scribbles and click-clacks.

She forges life and death. A prolific puppet master.

Stay at home God of worlds.

From Guest Contributor Madeline van Batum

Madeline lives in Colorado with her cat and hopes that one day she can go back to her home country of the Netherlands to finally meet the Flying Dutchman.

On Being A Man

HUBRIS CONTEST:

His backhand caused her body to pirouette grotesquely before landing face down on the coffee table.

Wincing, she rolled off the table, and sat up, mopping blood futilely from her mouth with the back of her right hand.

“Aren’t ya proud o’ me, workin’ all night?” he whined.

Unblinking, she nodded.

Then, the boy, who’d learned what a man was from his father, brought the cast iron pan onto the back of his father’s head with a sound like a loud wet kiss.

The man slid to the ground gracefully.

Beaming at her son, she said, “Now that’s a man!”

From Guest Contributor Jody Lehrer

Yellow Rose

She stood in the kitchen, surrounded by packed boxes. The yellow rose lay wilting on the coffee table; a reminder of the stunning events of the past several days. In flower parlance, yellow roses ask for forgiveness. She knew her marriage was in trouble when her husband turned up with a sheepish look on his face and a yellow rose in his gloved hand. Now it wilted on the table, a ridiculously anti-romantic symbol of their once healthy and robust relationship. He had moved in with the dog trainer and she was left feeling as faded as the damned flower.

From Guest Contributor JoAnne Dowd

The Wonder Of Pictures

Beth became chilled from the eerie black and white photo. A picture of supposed birds, looked like three monsters from a low-budget horror flick. Still, she stared at it wide-eyed. What did it mean? Why was she fascinated? She turned the picture upside down and sideways studying it, hoping to find meaning. It was useless. After all, in the digital world, anything could happen. She decided to let go of her obsession and tossed the unpleasant picture into the garbage can. After she left the room, that same photo appeared on the coffee table waiting for the next family member.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Reminiscence

Kahea thought pensively about her college days as she made her way to the coffee table, stirring her tea absentmindedly, her spoon making soft clinking sounds against the glass cup.

"What will you do with a degree in English?” voices murmured. “A degree in computers, now that's a solid deal".

"You will get nowhere."

"Writing isn't a career."

Kahea recollected their condemning tones, sneers and concerned looks as she reached for that day's newspaper.

"Hmm...I look good", she said, gazing approvingly at her photo next to the article that read: Kahea Sanders becomes the youngest writer to bag a Pulitzer.

From Guest Contributor Drishika Nadella

Drishika is a 15 year old from India. She seeks comfort in words, tunes, and nature. Her blog Desolation And Delectation will be happy to see you.

The Babysitting Job

Lisa had been babysitting for almost two years, ever since she was 14. Never in her long career had she seen anything so disgusting as this.

Little kids will puke and poop and spit and generally make a mess of everything they touch. Lisa was used to all these awful behaviors. She was a pro.

But she'd never seen a baby molt before, yet that was exactly what this toddler was doing. Shedding its skin and revealing a hard layer of scales underneath. Lisa shrieked and jumped on top of the coffee table.

Perhaps the Iguana family wasn't hispanic after all.

OCD For PTSD

Herbert surveyed the battle raging before him. Never had he seen his living room in such disarray. The coffee table, seven degrees askew, was at war with his sofa and chaise. The casualties were everywhere, as the legroom between sofa and table had practically been murdered, and the rug underneath was suffering its death throes as it bunched up under the strain.

As heroically as Alvin York, who risked life and limb for his fellow soldier, Herbert dove into the tempest.

With the furniture righted, and the correct layout restored, Herbert knew all that would remain would be his PTSD.