Island Of Souls

Simon woke up in the sand, waves lapping against his legs. For once his pants weren't soaking wet from urine.

He braced for a hangover to wash over him that never came. After a few moments he struggled to his feet, trying to piece together where he was and how he ended up here. Not the strangest place he's woken up, but he seemed far from a Starbucks. He'd even settle for a 7/11 at this point, but all he saw was the empty beach in either direction.

Maybe running away from his intervention had been a bad idea.

At The Bar

Drunk Joe asked the man next to him at the bar “Do you believe in flying saucers? I think they are a crock.”

“No it’s absurd. They have it all wrong. Our ships are triangular.”

”Huh?”

“Aliens aren’t little green men. We come in many colors. You get light and dark ones here.”

“Where do you get these ideas?”

“I’m a triangle pilot. They are half as wide as they are long. Don’t believe me? We look mostly like humans, but” it pulls up its pants and takes off its shoes “see – four legs.”

Joe goes home and quits drinking.

From Guest Contributor Doug Hawley

Cheat Sheet

Smith, from supply-chain management, stirring lemon into oolong. Taylor and Grzegorzewski, from customer service, talking about their crap husbands. Sunny sweaters, coffee mugs. Smith nods, sips. He knows their pain. Taylor plays with her jade rabbit pendant. She says she is like a secretary, fielding his calls. Grzegorzewski harumphs. In Santorini last fall, their second honeymoon, celebrating the remission of her lupus. Caught in flagrante delicto, pants around his ankles with the chambermaid. I have crib notes, Taylor huffs. To keep track of the lies and the ladies. Smith finally speaks. I’ll show you how to use Excel, he says.From Guest Contributor Lorette C. Luzajic

Lorette reads, writes, publishes, edits, and teaches small fictions. She has appeared in Unbroken, Bending Genres, Ghost Parachute, Brilliant Flash Fiction, and hundreds of other journals. Her story was selected for Best Small Fictions 2023. She has been nominated several times for Best Microfictions, Best of the Net, and the Pushcart Prize. Her collections of small fictions are The Rope Artist, The Neon Rosary, Pretty Time Machine and Winter in June. Some of her works have been translated into Urdu and Spanish. Lorette is the founding editor of The Ekphrastic Review, a journal of literature inspired by art. Lorette is also an award-winning mixed media artist, with collectors in more than 40 countries so far.

From Treadmill To Rowing Machine

Charlie researched the treadmill market. He was intent on good habits from thereon, starting with a mile walk per day in the bedroom.

"Do you think you'll last even a month?" asked Cheryl. Two months later, she noted that it made a great drying rack for his shirts and undershirts.

Nothing is as firm as a habit. Charlie researched exercise bikes. A 5-mile ride in the morning was the way to start a day. "That thing," said Cheryl after two months, "is perfect for drying pants and pillowcases."

The rowing machine – the next purchase – was better yet for drying socks.

From Guest Contributor David Sydney

Pitch

He had been following her for over an hour. She had seen him before and was concerned. Bulging belly, dirty holey sweatshirt, grungy jeans at half mast. Just his luck, she walked into an alley. When he followed her, she reached into her bag. When he became conscious, he turned his head and picked up a baseball by his head. It read, "Stalking a star pitcher is a really bad idea. Don’t do it again." The next thing he noticed was that his pants were around his ankles and his drawers were down to his knees. The police showed up then.

From Guest Contributor Doug Hawley

The New Normal

Three minutes before the meeting, I don my favorite blouse. It won’t pass the waft test, but I’m out of clean clothes. My flannel pants are ripped; it’ll have to do. My hair is in a bun because styling takes too long.

Apple sauce pools on the high chair; fruity pebbles litter on the floor.

I rush to open the laptop and enter the meeting. Twelve baggy pairs of eyes stare back at me. I then remember that no one can smell my shirt or see my pants. But I wonder if anyone would mind if I went to pee.

From Guest Contributor Jennifer Lai

Mack’s Walk

A chill is in the air and Mack’s hands are numb. He pulls his coat collar around his neck and shoves his hands deep inside his pockets. He’s looking forward to a hot cup of coffee when he returns home, the simmering heat soothing his stomach. A few more blocks and he’ll turn back.

“Hi Mack. Have you seen my cat Arty;” the boy asks. “He got loose today, and I can’t find him.”

“Sorry, no, I haven’t.”

Timmy rides his bike at warp speed, making Mack’s head dizzy. Then a gentle brush against his pants distracts him.

It’s Arty.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Signs

“Look for shiny pennies, rainbows, Monarch butterflies, they’re all signs she’s trying to connect with you,” my friend Jason tried to cheer me.

“Mom hated butterflies. They made her sneeze.”

Jason shrugged. “All the more reason she’ll come back as one. Karma.”

“What do I say to her? In two weeks you’ll die and I’ll feel godawful losing you all over again?”

“You’ll know what to say,” Jason smiled.

So when my mother alighted on my nose while I sat in her garden, I pinched her buttery wings and wiped my hands on my pants. “Shouldn’t have come back, Mom.”From Guest Contributor Marc Littman

Strange Sounds

A year ago it started like a joke. We were laying on our flat mattress together. Innocent. We were children.

Amadi was my brother, I was twelve. It came one night when we watched Mama and Papa do things underneath their sheets while she made strange sounds like she was in pain. When I slept that night, I felt it. Amadi took off my pants and put his thing inside of me. There was a pain like it was a needle, only there was breaking and entering, a salted liquid, and nine months later a child was on my breasts.

From Guest Contributor Oghenemudia Emmanuel

Supermarket Sleep

Wednesdays, post-second shift, bone-marrow tired, Kyra grocery-shopped. To stay alert, she categorized customers, itemized their purchases.

First: class, marital status, number of kids, happiness level. Pony-tailed woman opposite Kyra? Pinching pants tight in the crotch? Must be married ten years; barely making do managing odd-lots store; two sucrose-loving preteens; miserable as a mutt, minus flea collar, August.

Cart contents: Pony tail and family down waffles, wings, PB & J, rolls, store-brand sherbet, Bud, Coke.

Kyra’d be sad, eating that.

Pulled leggings, smoothed hair. Double-take: her mirrored reflection! She’d best snap out of this, load check-out counter. Be on her way.

From Guest Contributor Iris N. Schwartz

Iris is a fiction and nonfiction writer, as well as a Pushcart-Prize-nominated poet. Her work has appeared, or is forthcoming, in such journals as Bindweed Magazine, Connotation Press, The Flash Fiction Press, Jellyfish Review, Quail Bell Magazine, and Random Sample Review.