Round One

It was the end of the first round between Rockcrusher Rocco, the favorite, and Lefty Louie. Rocco wasn't called 'Rockcrusher' for nothing. And not just for publicity's sake. He could really hit.

Louie's manager, Al, and cutman, Mel, were in the corner with Louie…

"Do you think you can go another round, Louie?"

"Huh?"

"A round? Another round?"

"Is that you, Sally?"

"No. It's me, Al."

"What?"

"Remember what I told you? When he jabs twice with the left, he throws his right cross."

"Sally, I can't believe you're here."

"It's me and Mel, Louie."

"I still can't believe it…"

From Guest Contributor David Sydney

Found And Lost

I’d seen her at the bar at least twenty times before. This time I told her “There are better drinks at my place. Please join me.”

She followed me to my apartment. After a round, she walked into my bedroom. When I followed her, I saw one of the few women who looked better naked than dressed. She told me what she wanted; I did my best to deliver, and enjoyed every minute of it.

The next day I went back to the bar. Everyone there claimed that no one like her had ever been there. I doubt my sanity.

From Guest Contributor Doug Hawley

Boss

The dog was known as Boss by the Belfast housing estate kids. They heard harsh scratching as he desperately tried to crawl away from his tormentor, his muzzle leaving a dark trail of blood from where the first round had hit him in the face. His life trickled away from him through the short grey hairs on his jaw; an occasional desperate snarl ripping apart the cold morning air before he began whimpering again like a child.

Lining up the rifle sight, his tormentor watched the heaving chest, pressed the trigger and the pavement was awash with blood and fur.

From Guest Contributor Bernie Hanvey

Shades Of White

He had spent the morning prepping: moving furniture, taking down curtains, removing pictures from the walls, spreading drop cloths, and taping: lots and lots of taping.

Finally, the paint was open and stirred. Before dipping the brush in the can, Paul looked longingly through the picture window at the gorgeous spring day. He sighed, knowing his friends were probably just finishing their round at the country club.

“Honestly,” he thought, “who can tell the difference between Yucca White and Painter’s Canvas. I just did this room two months ago.”

He hated painting, but when his wife said paint, he painted.

From Guest Contributor Simon Hole

Simon lives in rural Rhode Island where he taught fourth grade for 35 years, publishing essays and co-authoring a book focused on life in the classroom. Since retirement he has been playing poker, gardening, and writing short fiction. Some of his work can be found on-line at 101Words, The Zodiac Review, 200cc’s, and Bewildering Stories.