The Bigger

It was just before the bout between Lefty Louie and Bonecrusher Rocco. Both fighters were in their corners. Louie's manager, Al, offered his last words of advice...

“Remember, Louie, the bigger they are...”

Bonecrusher was big all right. Huge head, bull neck, massive right hand, and a 15-0 record, all by knockouts.

“Got it, Al. The bigger they are, the harder they fall.”

Al added a few more lines of disbelief to his face.

“What'd you mean, Louie?”

“Fall, Al. The bigger they are, the harder...”

“No, Louie, hit. Remember, it's hit. The bigger they are, the harder they hit...”

From Guest Contributor David Sydney

Burn Book

The colors bled into the paper as the flames curdled the corners. Names, dates, crimes, it all melted into ash before their eyes, disappearing into oblivion. They all vowed never to speak, even in a whisper, what was written within its binding. Their sins no longer existed.

Most religions have a bible or a creed that is a resolute anchor of all that is sacred. For those lucky souls who inscribed their names into the burn book, their holiness was birthed out of that which was not recorded. Their spirits flew forever free, their futures untied to fate or destiny.

All Below Was Sky

All below was sky. No, that isn’t right. You are upside down. The seatbelt keeps you suspended a foot above ground. Blood swells and pounds in your temples, or was it the whiskey? Frank was on the street.

Ejected. He had been thrown fifty feet.

Dead and dusky.

His seersucker shirt plunged a deep v on a chest of ringlets. Oxford buttons pin a lapel dyed crimson. You count the spots on a ladybug as it skitters across. Stripes and six spots. A gnarled oak casts shade on the misshapen corners of a green license plate.

A wailing siren approaches.From Guest Contributor Kyle J. Ames

Kyle is a student of English at Pikes Peak Community College

The Three Of Clubs

One night our guy grabs the deck of us and off we go to school. “Pick a card,” he says, walking around the classroom. Yes, we’re old, with some bent corners and a few stains, our winning days behind us. But to be held up and fanned out? Like we were some old chorus line, called up for one last show. I go right after my buddy, the Four of Clubs, to someone who sticks me in a book called Misery. And how! I was never one for the solitary life. All I wanted to do was play my part.

From Guest Contributor Linda Lowe

Linda's stories have appeared in Misfit Magazine, Star 82 Review, Bombfire Lit, and others.

The Machiavellian Necessities Of A Woman On The New York City Subway

For the majority of Deb's daily commutes, she preoccupied herself with the most strategic seat location choice. She normally picked the open space closest to the door. She didn't like standing, when it felt like every male gaze pointed her way, or looking for less populated corners, where some old dude would inevitably decide it was cool to plop their sweaty ass right next to her or, sometimes worse, directly across from her.

Being near the exit provided the comfort of knowing she could quickly escape at any stop, should it ever become necessary.

This necessity was a weekly occurrence.

Unconventional Ray

“I need to take another X-ray,” the doctor said.

“Why?” asked the patient.

“Not ‘Y’. ‘X’ as in X-rated.”

“What is X-rated?” The patient was awakening from post-surgery slumber.

A nurse entered the hospital room. The doctor left.

“So, how does it look?” the patient asked the nurse. Realizing his covers were off and she was peering down at him below the waist.

“I mean, my ankle.”

The nurse funneled her eyes through his. Her full lips smiled at the corners. Giggling followed.

“You’re on the mend, Ray,” she said. “Dr. Hoo just wants to take one more X-ray.”

“Who?”

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes poetry, flash fiction and short stories. She’s published in Canada, United States and Europe in journals, anthologies and online including Boston Literary Magazine and Friday Flash Fiction. She won several poetry contests, was shortlisted in a short story competition and is a member of two writers’ groups where she resides.

Colony Collapse

Hands full of bees, Alice screamed at the sky. Sitting in the grass, blades tickled her thighs. Bee by bee, Alice lined them up. “I’m sorry,” said the speaker at a funeral attended only by the dead.

Maybe she shouldn’t have quit work. Never built an apiary. Would’ve been better joining a gym. Cooking. Reading books that lived in corners of her home. Would’ve been better to speak what he said in the elevator, his voice curling green, twisting to lick her ears.

Alice lay down, tears falling into her hair. She didn’t want the bees to see her cry.

From Guest Contributor Michaela Papa

Preserved

It floated in a four-foot cube glass case with runes etched into the gold frame and tiger’s eye gems set into all eight corners.

Connor found his gaze drawn to their chatoyant lustre and wondered if the sphere was only an optical illusion.

“It must be,” he verbalized. “There’s no such thing­–”

“Ah, ah...unnatural,” the mage corrected. “You were never going to get this from nature.”

The image of Claudia moved inside the time-bubble. Connor watched his daughter smile: a welcome change from the burial mask.

“I’ll take it,” he said, smearing tears with the back of his hand.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid