Still Mad

I woke up in the middle of the night feeling hungry and went down to the kitchen. I had leftover pizza in the fridge that would really hit the spot.

Bob was sitting at the table, as if he were expecting me. I ignored him as I took out the plate and put it in the microwave. I wasn't happy about how our last conversation had ended so I was annoyed to see him here, like nothing had happened.

He finally spoke. "Are you still mad?"

I chose not to respond. I have a longstanding rule against speaking to ghosts.

Superhero

Pay attention to your other senses, the blind man said, words muffled by my failing ears. They’ll take over if you lose one. He laughed, and I pushed our shared plate of sushi towards him, because I knew his touch was in no way enhanced. I watched his lips then: I’m no superhero. In the silence, the sushi tasted the same, the salt of tamari, snap of wasabi. Still I'd hoped: I’d envisioned a saving grace, sniffing people out by their soap’s scent, the sweetness of body lotion. The blind man, wishing for another roll, groped around on the tablecloth.

From Guest Contributor Colleen Addison

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

Slab Of Butter

James had few true pleasures remaining in his life. Time, divorce, and the company had taken most everything. His doctor seemed intent on taking what remained.

"You're going to have to cut out alcohol and fatty foods."

James stared down at his bowl of greens. Across the table, George was cutting into his steak. Steven, keeping it light, had a baked potato topped with sour cream, chives, and bacon. They both drank from judicious glasses of red wine.

"Can you pass me that plate?"

Ignoring the stares from his friends, James smeared a large slab of butter onto his salad.

Note To Self

I recognized the helmet on the unearthed body as the same customized gear hidden in my private lab. The ancient, scarred face underneath it, not so much. The damage was far too extensive. Even so, I knew.

Words scratched into the metal plate the body clutched remained legible: “Do not activate.” It didn’t specify what, but I knew that, too.

If I press that button in my lab a portal will open to the past. I had decided against the risk.

But now I must do it. I need to find out what could cause me to write that warning.

From Guest Contributor Sean MacKendrick

One Cookie Or More?

The pile of chocolate chip cookies on the plate was shrinking. Big Ed put five on his plate. “These are going to be gone before I get back for more,” he said to the person across the buffet line. “Same thing on these brownies,” while heaping five on his overloaded plate. Some shook their heads, but no one said anything. Neil approached the dessert table and looked down at the long line behind him. He selected one brownie and placed it on his plate. When there is a risk of running out, are you a one-cookie or a four-cookie person?

From Guest Contributor NT FranklinNT has been published in Page and Spine, Fiction on the Web, 101 Words, Friday Flash Fiction, CafeLit, Madswirl, Postcard Shorts, 404 Words, Scarlet Leaf Review, Freedom Fiction, Burrst, Entropy, Alsina Publishing, Fifty-word stories, Dime Show Review, among others.

The Pencil

Spine broken. Pages deliver a scrambled story. I have the power to pick up the fragments. Rewrite. Write what others have tried to mute. Seventeen centimeters of lead might not be much, but I’m her voice. I’m sharp. I’m ready, but she turns away from me and picks up her glass of whisky instead.

We’re both small. Lead or crystal? One can save her. One can break her. Who will she choose?

Neither. She adds another plate to her dish-pile. It looks like the Tower of Babel, minus the words.

She turns. She’s getting closer. Closer. Picks me up and—writes.

From Guest Contributor Isabelle B.L

Isabelle is a teacher and translator currently living in New Caledonia. She has published a novel inspired by the life of a New Caledonian politician. Her work can be found in the Birth Lifespan Vol. 1 anthology for Pure Slush Books and Flash Fiction Magazine. Her work is also forthcoming in Growing Up Lifespan Vol. 2 for Pure Slush Books and Drunk Monkeys.

The Untimely Demise Of Adrian Perez

HUBRIS CONTEST:

Joe, doing his best to hide the fear bubbling up from within, kicked dirt from the mound as the next batter sauntered to the plate. This was Adrian Perez, MVP, future Hall-Of-Famer, and the best home run hitter alive.

Ninth inning. Bases loaded. Two outs. Clinging to a one-run lead.

Before Perez entered the batter's box, he did the unthinkable. He pointed towards the outfield, confirming what everyone already knew about the ball's final destination. Joe winced at the shame that was sure to follow.

Nobody was more surprised than Joe Flack when Perez hit a soft grounder to first.

From Guest Contributor Bill Kern

Like Mommy and Daddy

"Mommy, you and daddy look funny." said five-year-old Julia.

"We're OK. We are flying high!" Julia's mommy replied as she chewed a weed-laced cookie.

"These cookies! Flyin' like a bird," Julia's daddy sang.

He took another cookie off the plate on the kitchen table.

"Let's go upstairs, sweetheart. A little lovin' ......Julia, watch TV."

Julia watched as her parents climbed the stairs. She grabbed a cookie, then ran upstairs to her bedroom and ate it.

When her beautiful wings fluttered, she floated to the open window.

She pushed out the screen and thought, "I wanna fly like mommy and daddy."

From Guest Contributor Deborah Shrimplin

The Button

Blake sat alone in the cell. He only had the bar of soap his guards had given him, and a button he'd smuggled under his tongue.

Alone. Alone. It had been 17 days now. He knew it was 17 days, because each morning, he made a mark in the soap with his button. There were 17 marks for 17 days.

For those 17 days, his only contact with the outside world was the metal plate they slid through the door at mealtime.

17 days to contemplate his crime, his smuggled button the only thing keeping his sanity from slipping away.