Memories

When I walked into the restaurant, everyone yelled surprise and my heart palpitated with joy. A large sign above the room read “Happy Birthday, Breanna,” and my eyes watered. It was overwhelming with family and friends vying for my attention to plant kisses on my cheek, but thankfully my best friend Tina asked everyone to take a seat.

Tina asked us to raise our glasses for a toast, and I teared at the memories she shared. It didn’t seem possible it was that long ago when we were young and couldn’t wait to grow up.

If only Ted was here.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Slab Of Butter

James had few true pleasures remaining in his life. Time, divorce, and the company had taken most everything. His doctor seemed intent on taking what remained.

"You're going to have to cut out alcohol and fatty foods."

James stared down at his bowl of greens. Across the table, George was cutting into his steak. Steven, keeping it light, had a baked potato topped with sour cream, chives, and bacon. They both drank from judicious glasses of red wine.

"Can you pass me that plate?"

Ignoring the stares from his friends, James smeared a large slab of butter onto his salad.

Orbits

She flips her glasses onto her hair where the shine is slippery. It falls back down to her nose, plastic lenses smudging. She goes for a drive wearing the blurry wedge and thinks she must be imagining the sight of two moons in the sky. One higher than the other, they supervise the intersection. "That was just Mars approaching Earth," her husband says tartly. He’s quite the mansplainer but she knows a defunct theory when she hears one. She’s seen for herself that it’s possible for the sun to set while the moon rises on anything else, anything at all.

From Guest Contributor Cheryl Snell

Cheryl's recent fiction has appeared in Gone Lawn, Necessary Fiction, Pure Slush, and elsewhere.

For The Record

“She was attractive. Cute face.”

“Facts, please,” the officer cringed, pausing his pen.

“Black-rimmed glasses, plum lipstick and...”

“What was stolen?”

“My cellphone. One minute in my hand. The next, gone.”

A woman was called to the counter by the second officer on duty.

“Reporting a theft,” she announced. “Thief had salt and pepper hair.”

“What was taken?”

“My cellphone.”

The officers compared the complainants with the details given.

“You two realize making false claims is an offence,” one said.

“We can let you go this time,” the other scolded. “Go home and make up or see a marriage counsellor.”

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes poetry, fiction and creative nonfiction regardless of the season or location she finds herself in.

Lonely Planet

Sometime after midnight I stepped into a smoky cellar bar, gave the miserable clientele the once-over, and located an empty stool toward the back. The bartender, a cigarette between his lips, was drying glasses with a dirty rag. In my beret and belted black raincoat, I might have been taken for a fugitive Trotskyite – or perhaps the assassin sent to execute him. A woman slipped onto the next stool. She had a face like that of a 13-year-old girl who died of heart failure following prolonged laughter. “I am here to entertain you,” she said, “but only during my shift.” From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie Good is the author of The Death Row Shuffle (Finishing Line Press, 2020) and The Trouble with Being Born (forthcoming from Ethel Micro-Press).

The Sound Of Silence

I pine for smiling yellow walls, the low murmur of conversation.

Social distancing exiled me.

I try to write among sterile walls. Blank screens taunt.

There’s no favorite table in the corner. This space is devoid of smiling baristas with big glasses. No laughter from large rectangular tables or sizzling coffee. No undergraduates talking of failed chem tests and parties. I can’t inhale fragments of conversation or insert myself into their worlds.

There’s just silence, the occasional clump of feet upstairs.

I play movies, but my companions are always lonely 80s working-class characters or Lifetime psychopaths.

I surrender to silence.

From Guest Contributor Yash Seyedbagheri

Yash is a graduate of Colorado State University's MFA program in fiction. Yash’s work is forthcoming or has been published in WestWard Quarterly, Café Lit, 50 Word Stories, (mac)ro (mic), and Ariel Chart.

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.

The Eclipse

John stared down at the multitudes surrounding him. From his spot at the top of the hill, he could see in all directions. Thousands of people stared up. All here to see him.

As the darkness gradually deepened, the excitement of the crowd grew. Strange glasses were raised to faces. Perhaps they hoped to look more closely at John, in all his glory. But if the sunlight continued to disappear, no one would see anything.

John did not like their attention to be diverted away from him. He deserved the acclaim. Much more so than some trivial act of nature.

The Left Eye Is Enough

Because you can see. It is other people who have the problem--flies cannot understand singular vision; pros and cons blink in unison. Suits and snoots on the train and even the grubs on the street shoot sideways sneers and whispers, feary scowls and snickers. The nothingness bothers them, the absence of the right, smooth as burned-off fingerprints. They are not convinced by your best prosthetic and toss you pity, a reward for your emulation of their normalcy. Dark glasses and patches insult the blind and pirates. Your final answer is the biggest lie by the bluntest knife: a wound.From Guest Contributor Brook Bhagat

Brook holds a BA from Vassar College and an MFA in Writing from Lindenwood University. She teaches college writing and is the co-owner and chief editor of BluePlanetJournal.com. Her nonfiction, poetry, and flash fiction have appeared in Creations Magazine, Little India, Outpost, Nowhere Poetry, and The Syzygy Poetry Journal.

Tulsa

She understood Brooklyn. You needed the right glasses, the right shoes, the right jeans. And my God, the hair. You had to nail the hair exactly. If it looked like you were trying too hard, you weren't trying hard enough.

She didn't understand Tulsa. No one seemed to be trying. It would almost be cool, the way nobody seemed to care, except what's the point of being cool if you don't even realize it. She was going to hate it here.

But the sweater-skirt combination on that lady was going to kill when she wore it home for Christmas vacation.