Biker

She first hit the big time in the musical Binary System. It was a righteous indignation among the bikers. “You’re right about the party- it’s awful,” Fly Wind said single-handedly. We were all looking at her in her akimbo position. Her shirt was on back to front.

“If anything goes wrong, the technicians are here to put it right,” Madam Sixth Sense, the head, spoke slowly and clearly. “Who do you back to win the Superbowl?”

We slowly backed away from the snake.

She raised me as she was wrong. We played billiards a long time before I came in.

From Guest Contributor Jacob Kobina Ayiah Mensah

Jacob is the author of more than 19 poetry book publications, including Witness and a poetry collection in Spanish, agua y color, is forthcoming from Valparaiso Poetry Press. His individual pieces have appeared in numerous journals and anthologies, including JMWW, Constellations, Trampoline, 1-70 Review, Beautiful Cadaver Project Pittsburgh, The Meadow, Beyond Words Literary Magazine, Rigorous, etc. He lives in the southern part of Ghana, in Spain, and the Turtle Mountains, North Dakota.

Rainbow Potato

I tell myself I don’t belong here, and I don’t. The place is home to depressives, insomniacs, winos, recidivists. Trains pass through without whistling or slowing down. Meanwhile, stacks of coffins keep arriving in the dark by truck. The first thing I do most mornings is examine my face in the mirror for signs of fresh trauma. There was one morning when I asked Google if rainbow and potato rhyme. The answer came back, “Not exactly.” A handsome young drifter, stepping off the overnight bus from Providence, smiles plausibly while wearing a necklace of human ears tucked inside his shirt.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie's latest book is Frowny Face, a mix of his prose poems and handmade collages from Redhawk Publications.

Resistance

The bomb exploded and debris collapsed all around. Covered in dust and choking from dryness, I ran to the alley. A sharp pain in my leg, I realized I had a large gash. I tore the sleeve of my shirt and wrapped my leg to stop the bleeding. With the gestapo in the area and people screaming, I stayed put.

After hours of cramped space and agonizing discomfort, I got up from the ground and limped to the safe house where my team awaited.

The resistance would be pleased with my finding and hopefully the allies would be here soon.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

All Below Was Sky

All below was sky. No, that isn’t right. You are upside down. The seatbelt keeps you suspended a foot above ground. Blood swells and pounds in your temples, or was it the whiskey? Frank was on the street.

Ejected. He had been thrown fifty feet.

Dead and dusky.

His seersucker shirt plunged a deep v on a chest of ringlets. Oxford buttons pin a lapel dyed crimson. You count the spots on a ladybug as it skitters across. Stripes and six spots. A gnarled oak casts shade on the misshapen corners of a green license plate.

A wailing siren approaches.From Guest Contributor Kyle J. Ames

Kyle is a student of English at Pikes Peak Community College

In A Bar, Near The Sea

“No harm done”, I replied, but inside I was fuming.

My new shirt! Bought it at Ray’s Boutique and it wasn’t even on sale. I desperately wanted to impress the brunette and now look at it…

The man spilled some beer on it, looked at me and apologized.

I decided to leave it. The guy probably didn’t do it on purpose. After all, I was here to have a drink with some friends and not to get into an ordinary bar fight.

Of course, the fact I knew he was a former heavy weight world champion did help a bit.

From Guest Contributor Hervé Suys

Hervé Suys (°1968 – Ronse, Belgium) started writing disturbing fiction whilst recovering from a sports injury. He writes them mostly hatless and barefooted.

I See You

If we could only look deeply into the eyes of strangers, we’d see not a stranger at all, but a piece of ourselves.

As I stand in line, I see a man pull his shirt over a large belly. Beside him, a teenager glances anxiously at passing faces.

If people knew, they’d feel more compassion for one another. Indeed, they’d offer kindness even as they are shown anger.

The knowing inside me is too big. I’m surrounded by the noise and lights of the world, seemingly unchanged from before. My heart aches. I see you, but do you see me?

From Guest Contributor Caitlyn Palmer

Leading The Formation

I was the second-best dancer then. Mariza, with her long black hair waving down the front of a white cotton shirt, tucked into just-right faded jeans, controlled all of nature’s choreography within her. Her feet skimmed the floor, easy on the beat. Her arms and legs flexed to the rhythm, finding a kind of body paradise. But following her movements, memorizing and imitating, I became frustrated and discouraged. Until I realized I wasn’t destined to be a mirror. I would guide the expression of music I felt, becoming the lead dancer on that thin ledge, possessing my true 13-year-old self.From Guest Contributor Yvonne Morris

Yvonne is the author of the poetry chapbook Mother was a Sweater Girl (The Heartland Review Press). She has poetry and fiction forthcoming in Cathexis Northwest Press and Drunk Monkeys.

A Good Day

My day wasn’t a wasted one after all, he said to the man in the mirror while washing the blood from his hands. He lifted his shirt and uncovered a nasty wound on his abdomen. His clothes were ruined, those stains would never wash out.

The radio was on and reported on events earlier that day:“...concerning the mystery man who saved two children from a burning building. The man jumped through a window on the second floor carrying the infants. He might be in need of some medical attention…”

Not a bad day at all, said the Superhero. From Guest Contributor Hervé Suys

Hervé Suys (°1968 – Ronse, Belgium) started writing whilst recovering from a sports injury. He writes his disturbing fiction generally barefooted and hatless.

The New Normal

Three minutes before the meeting, I don my favorite blouse. It won’t pass the waft test, but I’m out of clean clothes. My flannel pants are ripped; it’ll have to do. My hair is in a bun because styling takes too long.

Apple sauce pools on the high chair; fruity pebbles litter on the floor.

I rush to open the laptop and enter the meeting. Twelve baggy pairs of eyes stare back at me. I then remember that no one can smell my shirt or see my pants. But I wonder if anyone would mind if I went to pee.

From Guest Contributor Jennifer Lai

The Sickness Unto Death

I pulled up my shirt to show the doctor the painful rash that had appeared like stigmata on my front and back. He looked at it, then shrugged. “What do you think it is?” he asked. I decided at that moment to stop carrying my phone everywhere. Somehow disturbing news still managed to reach me. I was out of step with the times. My days were endless. I walked on the beach, took naps, tried to teach myself the guitar. There was a blue iris sitting in a bottle on my table. It would have made a lovely Hallmark card.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author most recently of Spooky Action at a Distance from Analog Submission Press. He co-edits the journals Unbroken and UnLost.