The Lions

It was coming home and it had to pass through the (Gareth) South Gate.

I wanted to witness this, so I hurried. Normally I’m a (Kyle) walker, but this time I had to (Jordan) pick Ford as means of transportation. Money didn’t matter, I had so much pound (Raheem) sterling in my pocket that I could have bought (Mason) Mount (Harry) Maguire if I wanted to.

During halftime, they played a song I like: Sugar (Harry) Kane.

I had a bowl of (Ben) white (Declan) rice, but it felt like eating (John) stones.

This really was a (Jack) grealish day.

From Guest Contributor Hervé Suys

Hervé Suys (°1968 – Ronse, Belgium) started writing short stories whilst recovering from a sports injury and he hasn’t stopped since. Generally he writes them hatless and barefooted.

Irony

I’m very excited to announce the winner of our Hubris Flash Fiction Contest, from regular contributor Lisa Scuderi-Burkimsher. I hope that winning doesn't go to her head!

Congratulations Lisa! And thank you to everyone who submitted to the contest. It was difficult picking just one.Bill combed his hair, gave a thumbs up to his reflection in the mirror and then left.

He walked with a swagger and passing bystanders cussed him.

“It’s a pandemic, wear a mask, idiot,” yelled an irate man from across the street.

Bill flipped him the finger and continued.

When he arrived at his cousin's barbecue, he was stopped at the back gate.

“You can’t come in here without a mask,” said his cousin, Mark.

“Come on, man, I never get sick.”

Mark slammed the gate in his face.

Bill stood for a moment before walking away and then sneezed.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

The Hubris Of An Atheist

HUBRIS CONTEST:

Steven had few religious friends. He’d hector and accuse anyone who was a believer, demanding proof they both knew didn’t exist. He belittled their faith, claimed they were wasting their time, and insisted that all plausible evidence pointed towards the folly of religion. No matter how generous of spirit they might have been, Steven's condescending demeanor drove them off.

In some ways, Steven's faith in his own rationality was stronger (and more misguided) than the religious devotion of any of his former friends. Ironic that he now found himself at a loss for words before Saint Peter at the gate.

From Guest Contributor Sarah Levy

The Squeaky Gate

Carol heard the front gate creak; someone had come into the garden. “Who could it be? Who is out at midnight?” The doorbell rang. She quickly put on her bathrobe and started for the door, then hesitated. Should she answer it? What if someone wanted to harm her?

Carol slowly cracked the door and saw her mother standing there.

“Mom! What are you doing here?”

“Promise me you will take care of your brother.”

Her mother turned and walked away.

The next morning Carol learned that her mother had died of a heart attack the night before at 11 pm.

From Guest Contributor Janice Siderius

Holocaust

One person in six hasn’theard of the Holocaust, doesn’t know what it is, a planet of smoke andflames. Seventy year ago my relatives didn’t believe it was there, andthen they walked through the gate and under the slogan, Arbeit MachtFrei, and found they suddenly had a dismal view of God’s back frominside the barbed wire. So I look around, and though the times areterrifying, try to act like a kind of thunderstorm blue, like I can seeclouds in the shape of a woman’s mighty body and feel the rain thathasn’t fallen yet.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie's latest collections are I'm Not a Robot from Tolsun Books and A Room at the Heartbreak Hotel from Analog Submissions Press. 

Ned

Ned woke with a sore head. The boys would be bailing hay, might have a spare half-one of whiskey for him. Still wearing yesterday's overalls he yanked on wellie boots and moseyed along the pot-hole filled coast lane up to the farms. Fred and Slap-head saw him weaving in and out of the irritated cows. Sneakily Fred poured a laxative into his moonshine. Great craic!

After a few good slugs of the bottle Ned hobbled quickly through the gate back to his stone cottage. Aggie was furious. He didn't make it to the outhouse. Her mother's floral sofa was ruined.

From Guest Contributor Valkyrie Kerry Kelly

Irish Ned

Farming is messy! Locals cling to the old ways; Tractors and pranks pass the wet summers. Old greying Ned couldn't drive. Two young bored farmhands picked fun.

'Label the pedals,' Ned instructed. Laughing, the word 'brake' was put on the clutch and 'clutch' on the brake. After a struggle Ned called brusquely,'I'm going on the beer.' His men kindly laced the ale with castor oil. Walking like a duck Ned struggled to the gate and wasn't seen for two days.

In the field the wife cried, 'What did you do to my Neddy? The sofa and bed are ruined!'

From Guest Contributor Kerry Valkyrie Baldock Kelly

Calendar Sex

Cellos make little nicks in the dark and we breathe together. The afternoon was a failure. This plain gesture, togetherness, makes quick use of industrious forgetfulness. I cannot keep you behind this gate beyond the third movement. We mean to create more than one monologue to accompany the flutist. The children upstairs, our occupancy momentarily set. I position your fingers behind my neck as talisman for strings. The tent is down. This igloo explodes into every shard of routine that has, before this moment, set what stands for you and for me, aflame, sparks falling into pockets, to the ground.

From Guest Contributor Kelli Allen

Kelli Allen’s work has appeared in numerous journals and anthologies in the US and internationally. She is a four-time Pushcart Prize nominee and has won awards for her poetry, prose, and scholarly work. She served as Managing Editor of Natural Bridge and holds an MFA from the University of Missouri St. Louis. She is the director of the River Styx Hungry Young Poets Series and founded the Graduate Writers Reading Series for UMSL. She is currently a Professor of Humanities and Creative Writing at Lindenwood University. Allen is the author of two chapbooks and one flash fiction collection. Her full-length poetry collection, Otherwise, Soft White Ash, arrived from John Gosslee Books in 2012 and was nominated for the Pulitzer Prize.

Our Understanding

Will you wait for me? I was distracted in the company of voices. Remembered you when I realized the time.

I race, feet positioning haphazardly over cobblestone. Last narrow lane weaves through a city's historic gate, connects me to the main square where I met you yesterday. Where pigeons scrambled for tossed seeds. Tourists watched.

I see you in the same location with the sun setting behind you. Your body pivots, face gestures into countless expressions. Your hands deliver a new story, in silence.

When you see me, your eyes smile. For you know I understand your art of pantomime.From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. Her fiction and poetry have recently been published online and in journals at: Nailpolish Stories, 50-Word Stories, 100 word story, A Story in 100 Words, 101 Words, From the Depths (Haunted Waters Press), ShortbreadStories, and espresso stories. Her nonfiction has appeared in flash fiction chronicles and in Wild Lands Advocate. Krystyna resides in Alberta, Canada.