Drama Llamax

Jared dropped his items at the cash register and asked for a pack of Marlboros.

"Wait, I recognize your voice," the cashier exclaimed.

Jared grimaced, hoping she wouldn't make the connection.

"I know. You're the Drama Llama."

He nodded with a forced smile.

"Do the catch phrase."

Jared hesitated, calculating whether he could demure long enough without it becoming awkward. He hated reciting the line unless he was getting paid. Unfortunately, the woman had paused in anticipation.

He finally gave in. At least she hadn't gotten out her phone.

"Remember kids, only you can stop the drama in your life."

Dirty Talk

She answers the phone and lies on the bed, silk sheets touching her legs.

“I’m ready,” she says.

His mellifluous voice responds through the receiver.

“A student's laundry basket.”

“Oh yeah.”

“A tramp's underpants.”

“Umm, yeah.”

“An abattoir worker's smock.”

“Keep going.”

“A bucket of pig swill.”

“I love it when you tease me.”

“The blocked drain of a slum toilet.”

“Please don’t stop.”

“The mouth of a raw sewage pipe.”

“Oh my god.”

“Untreated bedsores.”

“I’m almost there.”

“A puss-filled boil.”

“Yes, yes.”

“A colonoscopy tube.”

“Yesssss.”

He ends their call and returns to his job running the country.

From Guest Contributor Neil Benad

The Boat

At summer's end, Marta found her dead brother's phone charging in the boathouse, though she had emptied his pockets herself in May. The screen showed one message, unsent: Don't sell the boat.

She laughed, because the boat leaked and because Erik had never repaired anything before being asked twice.

Outside, pines scratched the roof. The red mailbox leaned toward the road, waiting for bills.

Marta carried the phone to the jetty. Under the seat, beside a rusted thermos, lay fresh gray putty around the seams.

She launched at dusk. Halfway home, the phone died. The boat did not sink either.

From Guest Contributor Niklas Pettersson

Headache

The pressure was excruciating; a hammer beating against my eyelids. I had headaches before, but this was bad enough to send chills down my body and put me in bed. All I could think about was how I would get through my job interview at three o’clock. It was eleven o’clock. I had three hours to let the pain subside. I just had to relax and let the Ibuprofen take effect.

I awakened two hours later, refreshed and ready to take a shower, when I noticed a voicemail on my phone.

It was the company calling to reschedule the interview.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Said The Spider To The Fly

“Give me $50,” said the spider to the fly.

“That’s not how this scene usually starts,” said the fly.

“I know; I’m trying something new here.”

“Okay, sorry. Start again?”

“Give me $50,” said the spider to the fly.

The fly patted itself. “I don’t have any cash on me.”

“Venmo works.”

The fly searched itself again. “Oh, right, I don’t have a phone.”

The spider tore open its silk pouch, looked inside, then hid the pouch behind its back. “Neither do I.”

“What’s in the pouch?” asked the fly.

“Never mind. Let’s just do the usual. I’ll start over...”

From Guest Contributor Tara Campbell

Tara (www.taracampbell.com) is a writer, teacher, Kimbilio Fellow, and fiction co-editor at Barrelhouse. She teaches flash and speculative fiction, and is the author of two novels, two hybrid collections, two short story collections, and a chapbook of sestinas. Additional publication credits include Masters Review, Wigleaf, Electric Literature, CRAFT Literary, Uncharted Magazine, Daily Science Fiction, Strange Horizons, and Escape Pod/Artemis Rising.

Novel

The house I bought was built in the early 1900s. When I renovated, I never expected to find a note hidden in the floor boards from a distinguished gentleman to his maid from the year 1907. It gave me great inspiration to write a romance novel. I submitted my finished manuscript to my agent, and she said it had potential. The next day she sent it to the publishing house.

Several months passed, and finally my agent called. When I answered the phone, my heart beat quickly, the anxiety rising throughout my body.

The publisher loved it.

My first novel.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

For the prompts Manuscript and Letter.

Affair

I parked across the street and put the car in park. I had the radio low and gulped a beer, hoping a cop wouldn’t catch me in the act. Fortunately, no cars were in sight.

Deep down I knew something was amiss, so when I found the texts on her phone, I wasn’t surprised. But my best buddy, that’s unforgivable on both sides.

Her car just pulled in. When she reached the porch, he came outside and smiled. They embraced, lips locked together, hands in each other’s hair, before shutting the door.

I knew then what I had to do.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Old Phone

Scattered pixels form your face, I forgot to delete a few, I still miss you sometimes. I miss you more and hear your voice, recorded, a missed call. If only, who knows when the last time will be the last time prior to, I should have kept my phone in my pocket. You always ask asked me to be more available, I always think thought we’d have another moment. To me you are were forever, forever is never forever. Not even these pixels, replicating your face, fading, scattered, fleeting. Afraid I’ll lose you again, broken charger, my phone is dying.

From Guest Contributor Mekah Baker

Mekah is a student of literature and the applied sciences at Pikes Peak State College.

Missed The Boat

Silas sprinted to the dock, ticket in hand, shouting for them to turn around. But his charter boat reached the line demarcating the no-wake zone and sped towards open water.

With slumped shoulders, Silas turned towards the shore. He'd been planning this diving expedition for months. Thanks to a misaligned charging cable, his phone had died during the night and his alarm failed to go off. The small print on the booking website had been very clear: no refunds for any reason.

His only solace would be learning that his charter boat had sunk and everyone aboard eaten by sharks.

The Twilight Palace

Sydney looked at the atlas. There was no denying he was lost, to the point where he couldn't even be sure he was using the right map anymore. His phone had lost service hours ago.

A flash of reflected light caught his attention up ahead: some sort of structure spotted through the trees. He hurried forward hoping they'd have good WiFi.

As Sydney entered the clearing, a massive palace stood before him, with intricately carved roofs, marble fountains, and gold latticework. A white-robed fellow standing in the entrance smiled in his direction.

This looked nothing like the photos on Airbnb.