The Bed One Lies In

Brother declared himself ‘nonconformist,’ deciding back in grade school that rules and rituals mattered not.

Many blamed him in situations for his lack of respect. He claimed he simply had no interest.

The breaking point was the forging of Dad’s signature on a cheque. Mother decided on a punishment.

“You have to lie in the bed you made,” she grunted.

“I never make my bed,” he grinned.

He broke the curfew, not returning on time. In the morning it was learned he crashed his motorcycle into a cement wall.

Mother stopped making his bed. No one slept in it again.From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes mainly short fiction and poetry.

Mistaken For Quackery

HISTORICAL FICTION ENTRY:

Dr. Jeremiah Jackson touted himself as the most learned man in the Northwest Territory. He offered cures, extremely cheap cures, for everything from consumption to the plague, and he guaranteed their efficacy. As far as he knew, in fact, he was the only man of medicine to offer guarantees of any sort, which should have been testimony enough as to his trustworthiness.

A man of such esteemed intellect deserved respect and accolades everywhere he traveled. So it was with great consternation that he found himself sentenced to death and hanging from a rope just a day's ride from Fort Detroit.

From Guest Contributor Oliver Park

Threatened Birds Nesting

You’re eating lunch on a bench in the park, close to a roped-off area where a sign says threatened birds are nesting. It’s the first nice day in a week. You’re enjoying the spring-like weather when a man you’ve never seen before steps out from behind a tree. He points a .38 special at you, shouts, “I regard Henry Ford as an inspiration,” and fires. In just hours, friends have assembled a pop-up shrine at the spot, with flowers, teddy bears, messages of love and respect. Although not me. I’m reading true crime books in order to gather survival tips.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author most recently of Stick Figure Opera: 99 100-word Prose Poems from Cajun Mutt Press. He co-edits the online journals Unbroken and UnLost.

The High Priest's Attendant

He was charged with carrying the great scriptures. It was a position that afforded him great respect.

The scriptures were placed into five stacks, each of which was enclosed between two layers of tanned sheepskin. Each stack was then rolled tightly so as to prevent air from reaching inside. The five rolls were stored in an iron chest and covered with cotton and dried cayenne to repel pests.

For many years, he had traveled in the high priest's retinue, the heavy chest strapped to his back. Yet, not once had he read a single word contained on those sacred pages.

Martinet

He enters the classroom on Monday morning.

They ignore him, will not be silent as he speaks, chatting about the weekend, this and that, cocooned in subcultures he would not understand.

He cannot break in to quell their energy, bend them to his will, force the curriculum upon them, teach them ‘respect,’ nor corral them down the narrow path his life has taken.

He would beat them if he could but, thwarted by laws he would repeal, he can only shout.

“Shut up! Listen!” he bawls, getting their attention, momentarily.

“Why?” one of them simply asks.

He has no reply.From Guest Contributor Ian Fletcher

Born and raised in Cardiff, Wales, Ian has an MA in English from Oxford University. He has had poems and short stories published in The Ekphrastic Review, Tuck Magazine, 1947 A Literary Journal, Dead Snakes, Schlock! Webzine, Short-story.me, Anotherealm, Under the Bed, A Story In 100 Words, Poems and Poetry, Friday Flash Fiction, and in various anthologies.

The Do-Gooder From Beyond The Grave

Shit! Here he comes.

“I’m running for cancer research on Sunday.”

“Oh, yeah?” I say looking at the gaunt face, an over-achiever in athletics as well as the office.

“Will you sponsor me? Most are pitching in a pound or two per mile.”

Christ, a fucking half-marathon.

I pledge a pound.

“Thanks, it’s a good cause.”

Monday morning. He’s late, he’s never late.

“Bad news,” says the boss. “Mike collapsed and died after the race.”

Thirteen quid saved, I think amidst the office tears.

“I suggest we all double our contributions to show respect,” says the boss.

God damn him!

From Guest Contributor Ian Fletcher

Ian has an MA in English from Oxford University. He has had short stories and poems published in Schlock! Webzine, Short-story.me, Anotherealm, Under the Bed, A Story In 100 Words, Friday Flash Fiction, Dead Snakes, 1947 A Literary Journal, and in various anthologies. He is an Affiliate Member of the Horror Writers Association.