Working Theory

He has a fear of hot Danish. When the bakery shop opens its accusing awning in the morning, he retreats to avoid notice by the shop’s pastries. Open-air breakfast shops infuriate him. In his infrequent sleep, he is haunted by the idea of smothering icing, steam welling into a wall of baker’s avenging anger. The syrup run-off loitering in the pan. He wakes with his cheeks and tongue burning, the rift of his nose aflame, a gooey lump of heat assaulting his eyes from the backside. He tells himself: they will cool. When they do, he will conquer them all.

From Guest Contributor Ken Poyner

Muted

Late one night in a foreign town, I walked past two men just inside a dark alley. The larger one had the other pushed up against a wall with a knife under his chin. The smaller man looked at me with pleading, terror-filled eyes. When the larger man jerked to follow his gaze, I hurried beyond them up the street. No one else was around to turn to for help. I had no cell phone and no idea where the nearest police station was. So I just continued on my way, hands trembling, head down: voiceless, derelict, abandoning all rectitude.

From Guest Contributor William Cass

The Right Thing

When I stepped into the cold of the night, the wind against my face, there wasn’t a soul in sight. I walked the streets in desperate need of an answer. Those files I found would ruin the company and probably cost me my job but inevitably save lives. I wish I hadn’t come across those documents. At least I wouldn’t have insomnia.

After what seemed like hours, I had an idea. I’d go in tomorrow as if nothing happened. No one would suspect a hard working every-day man like me would do what I decided.

And that’s the right thing.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Dougie

I carried my dog Dougie to the car, his whining echoing. I was too busy engrossed in the baseball game to notice his barking and I have no idea how long he was trapped in that wire fence while I cheered and gorged on chips.

I drove to the veterinarian at warp speed and hoped not to get pulled over. My heart pounded, but I kept my cool and talked to him. “It’ll be okay, Dougie.”

I slammed open the door and yelled: “Help him!”

“Don’t worry we’ll do everything we can to save Dougie’s leg.”

I sat and waited.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Lost

Which way do I go? Delirious, I have no idea. Lost, walking in the desert, hot, tired, and thirsty, my lips dry and cracked, I crumble to the ground from exhaustion.

I don’t remember how I wound up in this hell, but I know I will die here. I stare at the empty sky; the sun torching my body and pray for a quick death.

“Doctor, he’s opening his eyes.”

“Jared, can you hear me?”

Everything is blurry for a moment and then focuses. Standing before me is a doctor and nurse, the nurse gently holding my hand.

I’m home.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Corpus Delicti

Every day there’s a funeral – actually, several. You peer into the open casket and immediately regret it. I have that kind of face. There has just always been something about me that provokes people to anger and upset. “Hitler should come back and gas you!” they would yell, as if the very idea of me threatened them. An unknown caller once even left a series of gunshots on my voicemail. Now I’m being lifted off the bier and swiftly carried down the aisle and out the door. A desolate rain is falling. I don’t remember a time when it wasn’t.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie's newest book, Frowny Face, a synergistic mix of his prose poetry and handmade collages, is forthcoming from Redhawk Publications.

Undercover

The clatter of typewriters, especially Maryanne’s, echoes in the room. She’s pounding heavily on the keys to reach the deadline. It’s imperative she gets done before the other women if she’s to prove herself capable. She reaches the end and pulls out the paper. With quick steps, her heels clanking on the floor, she heads to her boss’s office.

“Well done, Maryanne. You’ve proven yourself. You’ll be going to France as an undercover secretary. Are you up for it? I can’t help you if you’re caught.”

Maryanne nods and waits for instructions.

She has no idea the danger she’s in.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Hospice

Having survived hospice twice is something. No one wants to talk about hospice. Reason? People go there to die. And? I assure you I am dead. Laughter. How are you writing this? I have no idea. In yet? I watched people starved to death. I have seen 130 pound man starved down to looking like a leftover turkey at a Homer Simpson Thanksgiving. I have seen people wave one hour prior to their death. I have watched as people in authority have forgotten to feed people. Sounds wicked. And maybe it is. God has to judge the people. Deathly endings.

From Guest Contributor Clinton Siegle

Changing

"You've changed," she said, as I held her in my arms. She had no idea how much, how often! But I wasn't the man she'd known before, and I could see she'd leave me soon.

There was no time for whining, I needed to act. I spent days shaping the perfect moment to make my move: the roses were divine, the wine an excellent vintage, and moonlight glinted on brass candlesticks. She didn't see it coming.

Afterwards, I crunched down on her bones, and cleaned my muzzle in the bowl by the door. Then I ran to rejoin my pack.From Guest Contributor Alastair Millar

Alastair is an archaeologist by training, a translator by trade, and a nerd by nature. His published flash and micro fiction can be found here.

Sir Francis Bacon

CONTEST SUBMISSION:

Sir Francis Bacon, an educated beagle, wondered about his name, did some research, and learned that his namesake was a statesman and writer who lived at the same time as Shakespeare. Some people thought that Bacon was the real writer of Shakespeare's plays. This puzzled Sir Francis Bacon the beagle.

"Why is my name Sir Francis Bacon?" he asked his human friend.

"Because I like bacon, and you like bacon."

"Did Bacon write Shakespeare's plays?"

"No. Silly idea. Would you rather be named Shakespeare? I could give you a spear to shake."

"I prefer eating bacon. And answering to Bacon."

From Guest Contributor: Anita G. Gorman