Up The Hill

The new boy lived in the old house on top of the hill. The house was abandoned years ago and every kid knew it was seriously haunted. If you rode your bike by at night, a witch could be seen standing in the window.

The new boy was shunned at school. He seemed normal enough, the first clue something was wrong. Only Ricky Landover sat with him at lunch, so he was shunned too.

When it turned out the new boy's parents were vampires, and every family in town was killed except the Landovers, it seemed a particularly harsh punishment.

Isolated

House manager Morgan came into my room. He sniffed the air and looked disapproving.

“Mrs Towne,” he began, “The Cobra Committee has issued an edict that there are to be no more visitors.”

I didn't mind. Old age had already picked off my friends and family like a sniper.

“And you cannot go out,” he added. “You'll just have to wait here until you die.”

He smiled to show it was a joke. Hilarious. I was truly isolated now. The other residents were deaf or dumb or their brain was out to lunch, or all three.

Then the telephone rang.

From Guest Contributor Derek McMillan

Derek is the writer of "Murder from Beyond the Grave" available on eBay.

Coffee?

Coffee? I asked.

Totally, you replied.

When I offered an invitation, you always accepted. You never extended one yourself.

Was this friendship a one-way mirror, a one-way road, a one-note song?

Over several years, I pondered what it signified. If a friendship is only one-sided, is it a friendship at all?

I waited. I didn’t hear from you. Months.

Lunch? I asked.

Can’t wait, you answered.

More months later.

Dinner?

Tomorrow? Your text read.

Your company was always innocuous, comforting in a way. Reliably benign.

I never messaged you again. After nineteen years, that was the last time we spoke.

From Guest Contributor Justene Musin

Dr. Marks

Dr. Marks observes Tommy. “How are you feeling?”

Tommy fidgets. “Okay.”

Dr. Marks writes on her pad and then looks at Tommy again. “Tell me about your friend Sal.”

“He stands up for me when the other kids are mean. Isn’t that right, Sal?” Tommy turns to the empty chair next to him.

“Tommy, was Sal there when Charlie took your lunch?”

“Yeah, he hit him with his history book.”

Dr. Marks writes more notes.

“Tommy, you’re going to be staying here for a while.

“Me and Sal?”

Dr. Marks places a hand on Tommy’s shoulder. “Yes, you and Sal.”

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Family Matters

“Hola! Anyone inside?”

There were no smells of frying chicken or beans being reheated.

“It’s your Tito,” the elderly man continued.

Someone arrived to sit at one of the picnic tables nearby.

“Ran into your madre. Said you bought a food truck. Set up in my end of town. Sorry your restaurant closed down. Covid’s a beast.”

He shuffled around the vehicle, returning to the truck’s open window.

“Still angry? Not my fault your parents split up.”

The truck’s door opened and a lean young man stepped out.

“Na, not angry, gramps. Now what would you like for lunch today?”

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction regardless of the season, although she prefers spring.

Threatened Birds Nesting

You’re eating lunch on a bench in the park, close to a roped-off area where a sign says threatened birds are nesting. It’s the first nice day in a week. You’re enjoying the spring-like weather when a man you’ve never seen before steps out from behind a tree. He points a .38 special at you, shouts, “I regard Henry Ford as an inspiration,” and fires. In just hours, friends have assembled a pop-up shrine at the spot, with flowers, teddy bears, messages of love and respect. Although not me. I’m reading true crime books in order to gather survival tips.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author most recently of Stick Figure Opera: 99 100-word Prose Poems from Cajun Mutt Press. He co-edits the online journals Unbroken and UnLost.

Drought’s End

It was almost dark and he pulled into his driveway a happy man.

He had planned to be home in time for lunch, or at least to be at home at lunchtime, home in time for his favorite talking heads to read him the news he’d missed in the morning while he showered so as to make himself presentable at his favorite café, his best black journal open, crying out for him not to allow yet another eight-day lapse without so much as a single penstroke.

It was almost dark and he was happy to have generated three whole sentences.

From Guest Contributor Ron. Lavalette

Futile Gestures

Leslie struck at the hand as it approached her face.

"Don't touch me."

"There's a leaf in your hair."

"I can take care of myself."

Steven remembered when they cared for each other. He'd cook dinner on nights she got home late. She packed a lunch when he had fieldwork, a chocolate bar hidden at the bottom of the bag.

Those thoughtful gestures became less frequent as the fights occurred more often. She perceived every request as an assault on her freedom. She likely had her own side, but he'd stopped caring long ago.

Steven walked away without another word.

The Benefit Of Integrity

He sat alone at lunch. The rest of the section gathered near the tea urn to create a susurration of disapproval, which reached for some sort of crescendo which might adequately protest his being promoted without due process.

The manager emerged from her office, paused at the door – interrupting her daily early escape – to absorb, glancing occasionally in his direction. Then she approached – a study in authority.

“Sean–”

A sudden gust whipped the vertical blinds inward, toppling a desk tidy perched atop an in-tray filled with unexamined client files. The clatter distracted.

“We’re public servants. They’re entitled. I told them.”

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid

Lure Of The Surf

Chatter heightened in a resort restaurant.

“She’s a striking beauty,” someone blurted. “Out surfing every day,”another added. “Can’t miss.”

Ken placed lunch servings before the patrons, imagining running intosomeone like that.

When work ended, he headed for the beach. Between relationships,feeling low, he sought peace by the sea. Surfers dotted distantsparkling waters. Their faces couldn’t be distinguished.

Next day, Ken served the same group of diners who had talked sopassionately about the mystery woman.

“She’s walking ashore holding a surfboard,” someone shouted.

Everyone, including Ken, turned to look out the window.

It was his sister.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction.