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

A Diner Problem

Ralph and Rayette were at breakfast, with Ralph treating. He called the waiter over to their booth with its plywood table top.

“Is something the matter?”

“I'll say...Rayette, here, just saw another fly by her oatmeal."

Ralph had the eggs, and Rayette the oatmeal.

“What kind of place is this that has so many flies?”

“Many? What’d you mean by ‘many’?”

Rayette said she saw about five, maybe six of them.

Dismissively the waiter frowned.

“Six? You think six flies is a lot? You should see the number of ‘em in the kitchen...Especially around the pot of oatmeal.”From Guest Contributor David Sydney

Gordon Perkins, Analyst

NATURE SUBMISSION:

Gordon drummed his pen listlessly as he stared out the window. From his office on the 24th floor, it was possible to see a sliver of ocean, but only when pressed against the glass. Here at his desk, all that was visible was the building across the street, a grey brick affair more depressing than his cubicle.

The plant on Gordon's desk was equally as depressed, drooping over the edge of the pot, three detached brown leaves huddled in the corner. They both needed the same cure. Sunlight and soil.

Instead, Gordon returned to the spreadsheet open on his desktop.

From Guest Contributor Stanley Dutt

The Last Voyage

Our 93-year-old dad, without his hearing aids or even his three-pronged cane, still managed somehow to give everyone the slip, sneaking off to Monte Carlo Night down in the cellar of the dream factory, where he coolly turned over his hole card and won the pot, after which he started back upstairs, but on the way, and despite struggling for breath, charmed a roller derby queen on a royal visit out of her skates, so instead of ever returning to his rooms at the assisted living boarded a ship they say was built in the same shipyard as the Titanic.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author most recently of Stick Figure Opera from Cajun Mutt Press. He co-edits the journals Unbroken and UnLost.

The Wooden Spoon That Left A Scar

The wooden spoon has its many uses. Grandma used it to stir the pot as the sweet savory smell of her brown stew wafted through the kitchen door to the hallway. After a hearty meal, I was always waiting for the unknown. This caused all my childhood anxiety. Grandma’s mood – now dark. I winced as the wooden spoon landed on my bare buttocks, smack after smack. I couldn’t sit down. When my teacher found out, I ended up in care. It was very unpleasant. The wooden spoon left more than a scar. I panic each time I see one.

From Guest Contributor Ibukun Sodipe

Afternoon Tea Party

“Eat this, Mom,” she said, handing me a plastic donut.

“Mmm,” I said, pretending it was delicious. I put it down and asked for more tea. Giggling, she poured air into a pink cup.

Someone pounded on the door.

The pot dropped to the table. I slid our pre-packed bag out from under the bed. She clung to me, like a baby monkey to its mother, and reached for her doll.

The door was giving in. Soon, it’d be off the hinges. I hoped we had enough time. I opened the window and my heart clenched.

The FBI waited below.

From Guest Contributor Bethany Cardwell

New Start

A new year, a new start and I’m ready to begin my novel.

“Okay, I need a protagonist and an intriguing plot. I can definitely do this.”

I turn the computer on, fill the printer with paper and sit my butt down. Then I stretch my arms, put my fingers on the keyboard and stare at the blank screen.

“Okay, what’s my character’s name? Charlie Strong. Now, I need a plot.”

After typing, Charlie Strong sat at the table sipping coffee, I froze.

“Well, so much for my new start.”

I get up and make a fresh pot of coffee.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

The Standard

"Don't get me started on politics."

May took a drag from her cigarette and rolled her eyes so only Sal, the bartender, could see.

"All them crooks in Washington robbing the money right out of our pockets. It's a travesty."

"If your Pappy was alive, he'd be at the front of the revolution."

"Damn straight he would be."

May and Stan started laughing. Bill didn't seem to mind. He just frowned at his empty cup of coffee.

"Let me get you a refill, Mr. Guthrie."

She returned with a steaming pot.

"What was I talking about again?"

"Tonight's baseball game."