Ripped To Bits By Ghosts

I moved into my workshop, with a gas-ring and pair of chickens in a cage. I needed no assistants. I watched the sky from a hilltop laboratory, harnessing the lightning.

In reality I sleep under the stairs in my friends’ flat. He’s a motorcycle courier, she’s a receptionist. I work where I can, wherever the agency sends me, seven days a week. If I’m ill I rely on her noticing and bringing me soup or something. I have a notebook to record my dreams. Huge flights of geese turn furrows through the red November skies. Worlds can barely contain me.

From Guest Contributor Geoff Sawers

Difficult Patient

The hearing aid specialist, Linda, clasped her hands against her cheeks.

“Mrs. Marconi, for months now I’ve shown you how to insert the hearing aids. If you're having difficulty, we need another impression to order a new pair.”

Mrs. Marconi shifted in her seat. “No, I hear fine with these.”

Linda explained that if she’s not satisfied, then she needs to rethink her choice.

Mrs. Marconi thanked Linda and walked out.

Linda rolled her eyes and dreaded the thought of her next appointment with her.

She noted in her calendar to call in sick the day of Mrs. Marconi’s appointment.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Of Two Minds

He begged her to come back and now he’s watching her unpack her suitcase. He knows that she isn’t going to stay. She’s the sort of woman who never stays. She’s the sort of woman who has a purple hairdryer, peach-scented lotion, and coconut shampoo. Who does she think she is? A movie star? Her underpants are black, red, green, and blue, because she’s fickle. She can’t choose just one color. Everything in the suitcase is evidence of her inconstancy. A pair of roller skates is the last straw. This is insanity, he thinks. I will tell her to leave.

From Guest Contributor Alice Brigance

Autumn’s Menace

A plainclothes policeman, using a pair of handcuffs as brass knuckles, cut the face of a boy who was wandering the city in a hospital gown. The sirens got louder. Windows rattled and the pictures on the walls shook. Sometimes I think it's not true that teaching a child to not step on a caterpillar will make you a better person. Sometimes I think the plainclothesman is going to walk through the door, so I just keep waiting. The city streets are deserted – no St. Patrick’s Day parade, no people. In these slow days of unease, everyone is a biohazard.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie's latest poetry collections are The Death Row Shuffle (Finishing Line Press, 2020) and The Trouble with Being Born (Ethel Micro-Press, 2020).

A Piece Of History

The suicide stopped drowning for a minute to pose for the art students sketching on the riverbank. It happened about the time Sartre claimed he was being followed through the streets of Paris by a pair of rare blue lobsters. The bearded lady sat at the window, beautiful in her own way, but struggling to decide whether or not she should start to shave. Even though Hitler was dead, the screams from the gas chambers went on. People in the surrounding area would later say they thought it was just the collection of apple-cheeked Hummel figurines above the fake fireplace. From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author of The Death Row Shuffle, forthcoming from Finishing Line Press. He co-edits the online journals Unbroken and UnLost.