Headless

Mr. Morgan was incapable of making wise decisions.

He constantly confused compost and garbage pickup weeks. Waste-collection trucks drove past his house without stopping.

Mr. Gerald down the street didn’t receive his disability payments. A mail-delivery person was reprimanded for not noticing one differing number between the addresses of Mr. Gerald and Mr. Morgan.

The latter meant to take them over to his neighbor but didn’t after a rumour circulated: he was seen stumbling outdoors in the dark appearing to have no head.

Truth be, he wore a coat over his head for warmth because he often forgot his hat.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Debauchery

Rick stumbled into the alleyway hoping no one would notice him puking. The retching sounds could be heard one block over. He got back in his police car and drove away.

Preston kept his hat low over his face while checking into the hotel with his secretary. During the five minutes of sex, he wondered where he recognized the desk clerk from. Hopefully not his congregation.

Barbara dropped one last token in the slot and pulled the lever. She was bust. They never should have voted her treasurer of the cancer foundation.

Just another night in the big American city.

Trap

Rachel pulled her hat covering her face and walked. Curfew was about to begin, and the gestapo would be patrolling. She had an important piece of information tucked inside her left shoe and she had to get back to the safe house.

Rachel heard footsteps and a chill ran down her spine. They became quicker and then it went dark. A hand touched her shoulder, and she was about to run, when a man’s voice said her code name, Vivian.

“It’s too dangerous to go back to the safe house. Quickly, come.”

Soon Rachel would realize it was a trap.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Haircut 2.0

Ever since he switched hairdressers, his wife always made remarks about the result.

“Are you sure he's qualified? I’d even be better at it.”

Came the Great Lockdown when most shops had to close and his appointment at the barber shop got cancelled.

After a few weeks his hair started getting unmanageable, so he said: “Go ahead, dear, show us you can do a better job.”

She started handling scissors and trimmers as if she were a pro, until finally she stepped back, bent her head to the left, then to the right, and said: “Ever considered wearing a hat?” From Guest Contributor Hervé Suys

Hervé (°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.

Conversation Between A Composer And Their Psychologist

“I’ve always heard it.”

“And you coped by writing?”

“Yeah.”

“Did writing help?”

“Yeah, when I write it down the music cadenzas. And I get to perform it and make a decent living too.”

“What do you mean by cadenzas?”

“It’s Latin for stop. Then diminuendo until a new tune starts up in allegro. And I write that down too.”

The psychologist wrote: persistent auditory hallucinations & delusions of grandeur. There might be a book deal in this; a construction worker who believes himself a composer. Hottest thing in ClinPsych since the man who mistook his wife for a hat.From Guest Contributor Harman Burgess

Harman's short fiction has previously been published in CafeLit and Friday Flash Fiction, as well as in the upcoming September edition of Scarlet Leaf Review.

Slow And Steady

Millie was a fireball and Herbert was steady. The cattle woke them up one night.

“Snake,” Millie said. And she shot out of bed.

Millie had the snake partially subdued with a garden rake. It was still moving so she stood on it with her right foot just behind the head and her left near the tail. Barefoot.

“Herbert! Get out here!”

No answer.

“Herbert!”

Finally, Herbert comes sauntering up to the corral. Fully dressed, knife in pocket, hat on, boots laced up, he sized up the situation.

“Millie, if I knew you had it, I wouldn’t have hurried so.

From Guest Contributor NT Franklin

Drowning Memories

Alex listened to the waves crashing against the shoreline while seagulls flew above, searching for prey. The sun beamed on his face and he wished he had worn a hat.

He walked the beach, the hot sand stinging his toes. Boats sailed in the distance and he wondered what it would feel like to be free of land, but that thought dissipated. His mind shifted to when he almost drowned and his father pulled him from the water shouting his name, punching his chest until he spit up.

His father was now the one drowning, of a disease called cancer.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Last Days Of Summer

Charles Delany stepped off the horse and buggy. In front of him a whiteshingled wood house with a porch, surrounded by an abundance of trees,overlooked the ocean. He removed his hat and walked slowly up thepathway to the porch. He sat on the wooden bench and took it all in,listening to the waves slapping against the fishing dock.

“Okay, son, this’ll be your home for the summer. The doctor said thefresh air and trees are good for your condition.”

Charles nodded and when his father walked away, he coughed clumps of redinto his handkerchief.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Let It Snow

The endless snow was really starting to get to him. With every slippery step, he cursed silently through the scarf wrapped around his mouth.

He saw a woman with an oversized hat and coat moving toward him through the snow. She looked up at him with snowflakes on her face and gave him a large smile.

“Let it snow, let it snow,” She said in a singsong voice while walking past him. He stared at her in complete surprise.

Her singing continued as he watched her plod away. He shook his head in disbelief but could not help but smile.

From Guest Contributor Zane Castillo

Collect

The men stand quietly, exchanging cigarettes and glances. There is nothing to say.

A klaxon sounds. More than one man sighs with relief: the mine-cage rises from below. Two men open the cage doors, collect the dripping bones of the man who lost the draw.

“Sacrifice accepted,” the mine owner announces, as though the men can't see the evidence themselves.

The bones are buried. The widow and children will receive a fat check from the owner, and much pity for the “unpreventable accident.”

“Okay, boys,” the foreman slaps his hat on. “Go ahead and collect. Coal ain't gonna fetch itself.”

From Guest Contributor Laura Lovic-Lindsay