Still Mad

I woke up in the middle of the night feeling hungry and went down to the kitchen. I had leftover pizza in the fridge that would really hit the spot.

Bob was sitting at the table, as if he were expecting me. I ignored him as I took out the plate and put it in the microwave. I wasn't happy about how our last conversation had ended so I was annoyed to see him here, like nothing had happened.

He finally spoke. "Are you still mad?"

I chose not to respond. I have a longstanding rule against speaking to ghosts.

Life

When they were at war, everything was easy. They could yell at each other, throw pillows and then sleep in different rooms, sulking and ignoring each other.

But when they were at peace, the silence became so thick it choked him.

They stayed like this for years, until one morning she woke up and the only thing left of him was the Jasmine tea he drank every evening and a letter on the Fridge.

But her?

She liked to fit people into her world like puzzle pieces so she removed the note, lit a fire and watched it burn, unopened.

From Guest Contributor Will Simon

Art History

A stranger walked up to me on the street and said with a quaver, “I am completely overwhelmed.” He was wearing a black raincoat that reached down below his knees. Wait, I thought, it’s not raining. When we’re dead, it’ll be a whole different story. Cosimo de Medici once complained to Michelangelo, “That sculpture doesn’t look like me.” “Listen,” Michelangelo told him, “you’ll be dead in 20 years, this will be around for 2,000 years. So that’s what you look like!” And now, even though it’s nighttime all over the world, there are pictures on fridges and music in elevators.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author of more than a dozen poetry collections, including most recently Gunmetal Sky (Thirty West Publishing) and The Bad News First (Kung Fu Treachery Press).

Bottles Of Love

Nick is aroused by the clinking of bottles in the fridge. Mother’s having another drink.

That old clink, so familiar. It’s a constant sound since Dad took off, piercing Nick’s twelve-year old ears.

Cue Mother’s laughter, cackling. Cracked.

He can’t tell Mother what it means to see tenderness replaced by laughter. Rage. Bills go unpaid, furniture disappears. But night after night, bottles take over. Wine, vodka. Beer.

One night, Nick sneaks downstairs, removes each bottle with methodical coldness. Hurls each one at the floor.

He shatters again and again, surveys the ruins.

Tomorrow, more will appear. He’ll do it again.

From Guest Contributor Yash Seyedbagheri

Yash is a graduate of Colorado State University's MFA program in fiction. His story, "Soon," was nominated for a Pushcart. Yash’s stories are forthcoming or have been published in Café Lit, Mad Swirl, 50 Word Stories, and Ariel Chart, among others.

Breakfast

8:45, he gets up quietly. While the coffee’s brewing he takes two cups and two glasses and places them on the kitchen table. He takes the orange juice and the butter from the fridge and the butter knife from the drawer, then slips English muffins into the toaster. He pours himself coffee and orange juice and switches on the radio for the news.

When he’s done, he trudges to the living room and does a crossword puzzle in the armchair, facing her photograph. Later, when he puts everything into the dishwasher, he’ll place her cup and glass next to his.

From Guest Contributor Xavier Combe

Xavier is a freelance conference interpreter and translator. He teaches at the University of Paris X. He has authored two non-fiction books in French as well as op-eds in the French press. His story The Games People Play won 3rd Prize at the October 2019 Bath Flash Fiction Award. He writes and produces audio fiction with 2-time Peabody award winner Jim Hall on their website muffydrake.com. He has two adult sons and lives in the Paris suburbs with his wife, their two teenage daughters and their dog Zelda.

Nothing To Spare

Yours? Mine? Arguments. Ideologies differ. Attempt to build bridge between us. Links missing. Structure collapses. Earth? Water? No collaboration. Excuses made. Stubbornness. Misunderstandings. Light? Dark? We try meeting at middle ground. Concluding we can't agree. Not in thought, time or space. Coffee's gone cold. I mind. He doesn't. Ketchup smeared on fridge door. I wipe off. Mustard appears. Grass is greener over there, he says. I don't care. I prefer wildflowers. He repaints the scene with concrete. I'm younger, by two years exact. Can hardly wait for... Brother leaves for college. Forgets his toothbrush. I throw it into his room.From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. 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.

The Birthday Party

Once the lawn chairs have been folded and stacked inside the shed, the plastic wrap stretched across rows of cheese glistening with sweat to be stuffed into the fridge and forgotten, the shrieking of grandchildren and boozy chatter of distant relations swept out the front door and down the driveway, and the candles—slabs of wax carved into a 7 and 5 and crusted with cake—tossed into the sink to be dealt with later, the man lifts legs snaked with purple veins onto the recliner and makes his annual wish: that he won’t be here this time next year.

From Guest Contributor Doug Koziol

Doug is the Fiction Editor for Redivider, a journal of new literature and art. His work has appeared in CounterPunch, Driftwood Press, and theEEEL.