The Taco Truck

My Tata sat in the front row crying. A photograph of his beloved 1977 taco truck stood next to Mita’s casket. Very first taco truck on the east coast, he always said. Mita bought a taco from the truck at closing. She was a stunner and captured his eye. Always the gentleman, he would not let her walk home in the dark. He drew a crowd as he rolled up to her family home in the taco truck. Her parents came out and wanted to evaluate his cooking. Today will be the first day they will be apart since then.

From Guest Contributor NT Franklin

NT Franklin has been published in Page and Spine, Fiction on the Web, 101 Words, Friday Flash Fiction, CafeLit, Madswirl, Postcard Shorts, 404 Words, Scarlet Leaf Review, Freedom Fiction, Burrst, Entropy, Alsina Publishing, Fifty-word stories, Dime Show Review, among others.

I Met A Man, A Most Remarkable Man

I met you at a time when the star of you was careening downward. Though in descent, due to illness, your radiance shone in your discussions of the band Rush, the literature of Chesterton, and your absolute love and skill at cooking. You were afraid of being an imposition, not realizing that giving me a chance to help you—during our fateful trip—was my chance to brush against your beauty, your deep, feeling heart. I am selfish; I want more. But I must wait, as your star has again swung into ascension, brightening this world even upon your exit.

For Tony Rome By Keith Hoerner

The Short-Lived Joys Of Youth

When I married at eighteen,a friend gave us The Joy of Cooking.My husband, nineteen, turned every page,looked at every recipe, writing, “Yes!” “Try!”or (for his mother’s recipes) “No!”Never thinking of actually cooking something himself.I wasn’t sure whether to be annoyed or flattered,but the marriage lasted about a year.

When I married at fifty-one,we compared copies of The Joy of Cooking.My husband’s was in better repair,so we gave mine to Goodwill.He likes cooking, so he does it. I wash the dishes.It’s been nine years now. We are still married.

From Guest Contributor Cheryl L. Caesar

Cheryl lived in Paris, Tuscany and Sligo for 25 years; she earned her doctorate in comparative literature at the Sorbonne and taught literature and phonetics. She now teaches writing at Michigan State University. Last year she published over a hundred poems in the U.S., Germany, India, Bangladesh, Yemen and Zimbabwe, and won third prize in the Singapore Poetry Contest for her poem on global warming. Her chapbook Flatman: Poems of Protest in the Trump Era is now available from Amazon and Goodreads.

Granular

Justin and Franklin had been roommates for six months. They disputed everything on a granular level.

If Justin wanted to use the kitchen, Franklin would argue that in the fundamental sense of the word, kitchen is simply a place to cook. Justin could just as easily cook something in his bedroom, say a package of ramen noodles, so it would be correct to say that his bedroom was also a kitchen. Justin would retort that since his name was on the lease, one could consider that the entire apartment technically belonged to him.

Justin and Franklin hated each other immensely.