Work

At first, I kept my distance, suspicious of my new colleague. They had replaced my good friend Jen, which had left me bitter. I know that wasn’t his fault, but still.

After they’d been with the company for three months my stance started to soften. He started to sound like the rest of us.

He complained of no autonomy. The cramped working conditions. Management being clueless and disorganized. Finally, he ranted about the microwave smelling and dirty dishes piled high.

Looking back I don't know what all the fuss was about. It turns out the androids are just like us.From Guest Contributor Wendy Cooper

Wendy was born and raised in England but now resides in Vancouver, BC. Wendy is autistic and co-founder of the Autistic Writers' Group. Wendy placed third in the Women on Writing Spring 2023 Flash Fiction competition.

Eye Of Beholder

Todd had always put others before himself, which had brought a sense of well-being and worth when he was young.

But the years and the takers had garnered their toll: the most recent family emergency leaving him stranded on an island of agoraphobia.

He’d just washed the dishes when the doorbell rang.

The wireless security camera bought online amid a bout of paranoia relayed the image of a stranger with a clipboard – practiced smile glued to his face.

Todd could just make out the logo of a phone company on the top sheet.

Another would-be taker.

Sunlight glinted off steak-knives.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid

Suffrage

I clear the breakfast plates as a dutiful wife, while my husband, Robert, legs crossed, newspaper in hand, clears his throat and faces me.

“Are you seriously considering going to the parade, Grace?”

“Not considering, I’m going,” I say and slam the cabinet door, dishes rattling.

“There’s no reasoning with you,” he says and leaves the room.

I want more than keeping a home and obeying Robert’s commands. I want the freedom to choose.

I hold my head high, grab my “Women have the Right to Vote banner,” and walk out the door to Fifth Avenue to make a difference.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Served

“You are served!”

“Why?”

“She didn’t say.”

“Hmm. No contact, the papers state, so I won’t know. Let me think. I haven’t bought her a birthday present for four or five years, but she doesn’t like what I buy anyway. I always turn over all of the money I make. She is a great bookkeeper. No 'out to dinner,' but I cook often. I don’t do dishes. The kids are grown and out on their own. We don’t talk too much. I imagine she emptied out the savings. Where are Ted and I gonna get stoned? Where am I to sleep?”

From Guest Contributor Virginia Timm

Ghost Milk

Before going back to the backyard she checked on her husband and her two-month-old kid who were fast asleep. The bed was undone, the dishes were huddled up in the sink unwashed, the rugs were clumsily rolled up. She knew that the child would wake up in an hour exactly. Those midnight crying fits. Last Sunday the infant was inconsolably crying, craving for milk, while she was in the backyard. She wanted to feed him, but couldn’t. Her breasts were heavy with ghost milk. The newspaper on the table read, “Delhi woman electrocuted by wet electric pole in the backyard.”

From Guest Contributor Anindita Sarkar

About Hearts

She told him he had no heart. He was shocked.

Didn’t she appreciate his help? He opened doors whenever she carried heaped laundry baskets. At mealtimes, he cleared the table and piled dishes in the sink.

Not fair! He planned to prove her wrong.

When dinner was ready, he called her over. She was surprised. Said he had a huge heart to spend hours fixing that gourmet meal. He was speechless.

In the outdoor trash lay packaging from the foods he presented. Topped with a heart-shaped box of chocolates. It got crushed by a car after falling off his bike.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. Her work has been published at: Nailpolish Stories, 50-Word Stories, 100 word story, 101 Words, Boston Literary Magazine, From the Depths (Haunted Waters Press), ShortbreadStories, SixWordMemoirs, and Espresso Stories.

Basic Behavior

All I could say to my mother as she stood haggard over the sunken sink and washed the dishes; rattled the stainless steel pots trying to make some type of noise to fill up space that the silence had long held ransom was, “I don’t mean to be sad.” I gripped at the air as I said the words; tried to catch eloquence and understanding in my palms. I wanted to give her a better answer, a better reason. I wanted to appease. “I don’t mean to be sad,” again. Basic. All I could be…everything I could say. “I’m sorry.”

From Guest Contributor Endya Goliday

Endya is a fiction writer and playwright who resides in Saint Louis, Missouri.