Welcome To Chez Yesterday

We step into the past, warm and bright, light up a Lucky and slip into the booth by the window with its posh leather seats, its black and white glossies on the walls: Sinatra, Sammy, Bogey and Bacall. We say, Let’s have the T-bone rare, please, the baked potato, loaded, and that wonderful Caesar salad tossed tableside. While outside, mayhem on the march. Throngs chanting, flags unfurled in a cold rain, and darkness soon to settle in. While we sit, sipping Manhattans, cozy in our denial, where dinner will soon be served, and there’s Sinatra piped in, singing “My Way.”

From Guest Contributor Linda Lowe

Linda's stories and poems have appeared in Beatnik Cowboy, BOMBFIRE, Misfit Magazine, Outlook Springs, and others.

For The Taking

“Men line up for me gingerly,” I told my friend.

“Lucky you,” she remarked. “Hasn’t happened for me in months. Last one was a real flop.”

“Sorry to hear that,” I consoled, suddenly aware of my insensitivity. “When you’re ready, I can send one or two over to you.”

She was stunned, telling me how she lacked the courage to date again.

“What I have to offer...well, they’re good looking and appealing in other ways.”

Silence prevailed. Then she spoke. “Seriously?”

“Absolutely. I can deliver my gingerbread men to you, or you can pick them up at my place.”

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes, poetry, fiction and creative nonfiction.

She Wasn't Crying

Danny watched Roberta carry an armful of her clothes and drive away. He watched until she was out of sight, then turned to look at the shoddy living room of his trailer and shrugged. He hadn’t hit her this time, just pushed her around a little. Maybe yelled and cursed her out.

Not that young or pretty anymore, he assured her no one else would have her and she was lucky he would. Three days was the longest she’d stayed away before. She’ll come back. Always did. Even so, something was different this time. She wasn’t crying when she left.

From Guest Contributor N.T. Franklin

NT Franklin has been published in Page and Spine, Fiction on the Web, 101 Words, Friday Flash Fiction, CafeLit, Madswirl, Postcard Shorts, 404 Words, Scarlet Leaf Review, Freedom Fiction, Burrst, Entropy, Alsina Publishing, Fifty-word stories, Dime Show Review, among others.

The Angry Camper

Stuart had a heart transplant last March and felt lucky to sit around a campfire with Paul.

The drunk from the next campsite stumbled over again. "Stop all that damn noise!"

Paul stood and yelled, "Look buddy, we're just talking. No way you can hear us."

"Stop banging on those drums. Next time I'll have a twenty-two."

"Call 9-1-1, Paul."

Twenty minutes later they heard all the commotion of the arrest.

"You guys gonna be on the news," said the park ranger. "That guy was wanted for the murder of Alex Edmund."

Shocked, Stuart said, "Alex Edmund was my donor."

From Guest Contributor E. Barnes

E has works in The Purple Pen, The Haven, Spillwords, Centina Pentina, Entropy and the anthology NanoNightmares.

The House On The Hill

As the floodwaters receded, Thompson entered what used to be his home. The structure had once stood proud at the top of the hill. Now it was in shambles, the storm having carried it off its foundations and depositing it several hundred yards away.

With stooped shoulders, Thompson shifted through the remains. His friends would say he should count himself lucky that anything survived at all. At least he was alive. But it was hard to think that way with Jessie's waterlogged doll in his hands. He was not one of those parents who looked at their children as disposable.

Grief Group

“It’s only been eleven months,” said the other woman afterwards.

“This’ll probably surprise you.”

“You’re attracted to one of the guys in our group?”

“Ha! No, what I miss most is the comfortable, predictable ways Ben and I had. But real love? It disappeared years ago.”

“Real love? You don’t know how lucky you were!”

“Yeah. Part of me likes being on my own again. Still...”

“So you’ll go for the passion next time?”

“Next time? My libido’s semi-retired. So I think it’d be more like us both coming home from work, and just drinking wine together at day’s end.”From Guest Contributor Gerald Kamens

I'll Stay

I’ll stay.

I never did see their faces when they grabbed, raped, and beat me. Nor when they left me for dead in the canal not far from home.

A delusional hermit fished me out – tended to me in his old gardening shed they used to give coal miners. He called me daughter. His tenderness and doting seemed true.

It’s been two years – he is my Dad. And I his Isabella. A cozy shed-home for two.

But now shades of my past have begun flickering through the fog. I had been Anne. An orphaned young prostitute. Alone.

Isabella was lucky.

From Guest Contributor Nicolle Browne-Jamet

I Had A Dream

That horrible dream kept coming back: there I was, a birthday girl at the local gas station purchasing the winning lottery ticket for the Mega Million jackpot.

As a devout Christian, I condemn gambling and other greedy activities. However, this dreadful nightmare made me feel shamefully happy and put my virtues in danger.

So, on my birthday, I resolved to resist Evil and locked myself home. The dream did not return.

The same night, some sleazy socialite from Miami stole the lucky numbers from my dream and won the Mega Million jackpot.

Some people have no decency, no decency at all.

From Guest Contributor Olga Klezovitch

Olga is a scientist who lives in Seattle. Her previous work has appeared in 50-Word Stories, A Story in 100 Words and Necon E-Books. Her "When It Dribbles, It Drabbles" Kindle book can be found at Amazon.com.

Guilt

I wasn’t the only one at the metro station the evening one of the trains blew up. But I was among those who stood the farthest from the flaming train. I was among the lucky few who escaped unhurt. I was among those who smelt the burning flesh first. I was among those who saw the first streams of blood escaping the bombed coach. I was also among those who ran towards the exit as soon as the shock wore off.

And now I am among those who are haunted by the images of the passengers we could have saved.

From Guest Contributor Namitha Varma

Namitha Varma is based in Mangaluru, India. Her works have appeared in Sahitya Akademi’s journal Indian Literature, eFiction India, Hackwriters, MadSwirl, and Every Writer's Resource, among others. She can be reached on twitter via @namithavr.