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

Final Goodbyes

As I held Josh’s hand, looked at his face, eyes shut, tubes in his nose and throat, I teared trying to hold back my emotions from a full-blown cry. It had been several months, and the doctors tried everything, but he remained unresponsive. Every day I prayed for a miracle, but deep within, I knew there wasn’t one. So, I continued to speak and visit him often.

Today he’s being taken off the machines, and now it’s time for final goodbyes.

I watched his chest move slowly up and down until his final breath.

A cold shiver.

He was gone.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Sunday Dinner At My House

I carry the steaming pot of paprikash to the table. It’s spicy and garlicky, and my mouth waters in anticipation.

“That looks amazing,” my sister says.

“You printed this?” My mother’s nose wrinkles, and she leans back in her chair.

“Of course,” I say as my sister shifts a bowl of buttered noodles. I set the pot down.

“You kids have it so easy. In my day, we had to chop our own vegetables and simmer the chicken for hours.”

My sister and I grin at each other, but my mother doesn’t notice. She’s already spooning food onto her plate.

From Guest Contributor Julia Rajagopalan

Best Friends Forever

Michael sits on the dock with his feet dangling in the water. Frank lounges next to him, his nose alert for danger or snacks.

Perhaps they will go for a walk along the lake, or follow the dried creek bed up to the moss tree. Or Michael might grab a fishing pole from the shed and spend the afternoon at the shady shore. Frank would probably rather chase squirrels and rabbits in the grassy meadow.

It's the kind of day that you want to freeze in time and make it last forever.

The kind of day made for best friends.

Dream?

The doctor looked at me through his eyeglasses that sat perfectly on the rim of his nose.

“In your dream, you said a spirit you didn’t recognize handed you a feather.”

“Yes, but the figure was only a cloudy shape of a person.”

“What do you suppose the feather represents, Charlie?”

“My father used to train pigeons before he died in the car accident. Maybe that?”

“Possibly. Time to stop. We’ll continue this next week.”

When I arrived home, I felt something in my pants pocket. I reached in and my eyes widened. It was the feather from my dream.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Two Of The Estimated

There are an estimated 380 trillion viruses in the human body. The entire population is known as the virome. Ed and Frank were two of the viruses in Mel Fromberg. As it happened, they talked to one another…

"Let me ask you, Ed. Did you ever want to be something else?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, how about a bacterium?"

"I can't stand those things, Frank."

"Or how about a cell?"

"What?"

"You know. How about a cell in a human being like Mel here?"

"What?"

"Maybe a lung cell? Or nose cell?"

"Mel? His nose? Are you kidding me?"

From Guest Contributor David Sydney

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.

Scars

I weave between trees, around my bike and up the stairs. The screen door slams in my wake. Through the kitchen, I run for my room. Behind me, my brother stretches out his Gumby-hand. He’s within inches of touching my skin. Inside, a tick is dying to suck my blood.

Years later, I’ll run on the beach. You’ll chase me with something in your hand. Perhaps a periwinkle plucked from a nearby dune. You’ll hand it to me and smile. Say you love me. I’ll take it, hold the flower to my nose, and wonder what it wants from me.From Guest Contributor Sally Simon

Sally (ze/hir) lives in NY. When not writing, ze travels and stabs people with hir epee. Read more at www.sallysimonwriter.com.

Family Tree

Robots Contest Entry:

I was born in the rain and dark. “Cure me or kill me,” I begged the doctors in attendance. But apparently only when silent was I able to be heard. I’d been assembled by someone who couldn’t be bothered to read the assembly instructions. Seventy years later, I look in the mirror and see bits and pieces of a stranger’s face – a long, fleshy nose, protuberant eyes, a domelike Shakespearean forehead. My now grown children stand well off to the side, uncertain whether to huddle or flee. As I tentatively approach, I clutch a rose, shoulder high like a dagger. From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie's books include the prose poetry collection THOUGHT CRIMES, scheduled to be published in fall 2022.

Fatigue

The day I wound a rope around my neck and jumped off the washing machine wasn’t even the worst day of that week. It started when I met my best friend Helen at McDonald’s for coffee.

“It’s your Harold,” she said. “He’s having an affair.”

I gotta tell ya, I laughed so hard, coffee came out my nose, and it was hot! “Come on,” I said. Harold doesn’t have the stamina to have an affair."

But he was.

And she was our daughter's college roommate.

And our daughter approved.

And I was too tired to divorce him.

So I left.

From Guest Contributor Pat Tyrer

Pat is a writer who hikes and watches birds when the sun is up and star gazes when it’s not. When not reading or writing, she can be found out walking with her dog Emma. Her work has appeared in Readers’ Digest, Quiet Mountain Essays, Black Fox Literary Magazine, among others. She has published two poetry books: Creative Hearts (Path Publishing) and Western Spaces, Western Places (Local Gems Press).