Something To Eat

“The city is breaking up the encampment, clearing us out,” Olivia said. “I’m leaving.”

“Where are you going?” asked Simone.

“Jail.”

“Jail? Why?”

“In jail I’ll eat every day, have a place to sleep, shower and go to the toilet.”

Simone shivered and pulled the blanket tight around her shoulders. “Jail is awful.”

“Being old and homeless is worse.”

“How will you get sent to jail?”

Olivia opened her coat, exposing the pistol tucked in her waistband. “I’m robbing the first bank I see.”

Simone watched Olivia walk away and tried to ignore the hunger growling deep in her belly.

From Guest Contributor Robert P. Bishop

Robert, a US Army veteran and former Biology teacher, lives in Tucson, Arizona. His short fiction has appeared in numerous online and print journals.

Saturday Jog

Jogging through the park, I keep the pace feeling energetic and free. The breeze against my cheeks feels refreshing and the chirping birds fill the air with song.

It’s crowded for a Saturday morning and parents are up early with their children. I pass two women pushing their young children on the swings as the boys soar high and chortle. Other joggers pass and smile contently.

I finish my lap and take a seat on the bench gulping water.

After breakfast and a shower, I will go about my regular weekend visiting my dad in the nursing home memory unit.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Caught

The car is in park, with the air-conditioner cranked. I finish my ice-cold soda, and would like another, but I’m not leaving this spot. It’s broad daylight and people are walking to work or taking their kids to school. I can’t wait until this is over so I can go home and get some much-needed sleep. A cold beer and cool shower will do nicely too.

She exits the apartment wrapped in his arms passionately kissing. I snap the photos with my cell phone and text the pictures to her husband. I put the car in drive.

My payment awaits.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

I Should’ve Known Better

The sweat is dripping down my neck. I chug water to quench my thirst,but it doesn’t alleviate my heated body. Why did I promise my wife I’dplant the basil seeds today? Why? Because I’m an idiot and she knows it.If I have a heart attack, all she’ll care about is the garden.

I finally finish up and brush myself off. I can’t wait to feel the coolshower on my body.

“Did you finish up outside?”

“Yes, Dear, the planting is done.”

Now I know better than to have an affair with another woman in ourhouse.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Song Service

It’s seven in the morning. I’m supposed to be at Songshan Church in Taipei teaching a small Sabbath-School group at nine. But I’m sitting in my kitchen hot boxing a cigarette. Mitigating the queasiness from last night’s escape: a single malt Speyside scotch accompanied by Mozart’s Requiem.

Blazing summer humid heat even at this hour. Should I shower? Will they smell the booze and tobacco on me?

A two-hour train ride later and I find myself up in front of all of the congregants. Ambushed into leading out in song service. The sweat oozes and I wonder if they know.From Guest Contributor Robert Vogt

Robert worked as a custodian for a number of years until switching to EFL educator after graduating with a bachelor’s degree in Fine Arts. Changing from manual laborer to educator caused Vogt much regret though he has reaped manifold benefits from the career change. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Degenerate Literature, Horror, Sleaze and Trash, Outlaw Poetry, and Unlost Journal. Vogt is chief editor at White Liquor.

Prescience

Liam awoke from a phantasm where puppy-like pigs defecated down his back, their feigned embraces weighing him down so much that he was left behind by his peers as he strove to participate in some great undefined quest.

As sleep dispersed, he really hoped it was allegorical. He dragged himself to the bathroom for ablutions and a shower. Today’s staff outing should clear all that from his head.

The phone rang, interrupting the ‘bathing therapy.’ He answered, dripping.

“Hello.”

“Liam, Jeremy here.” Head zookeeper.

“Pete’s called in sick, would you relocate the vampire bats to their new enclosure?”

Hell.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid