They're Cheap

After Victor finished laying into his subordinates, he always took a long sip from his diet coke. The sucking sound he made with the straw drove everyone crazy. He found great pleasure in their discomfort.

"Well? Do any of you jizzbags have any ideas how to turn around this colossus clusterfuck?"

"We could shave costs if we automated some of the more dangerous tasks. Insurance is up 13% over last year."

"We're insuring those motherfuckers? Get rid of that. It's cheaper to pay off families after an accident."

Victor used air quotes when he used the word accident. Everyone laughed.

The Wait

I woke up early and went for a jog. As I followed the path through the park, I listened to nature. The sounds of the birds singing, and the squirrels running up trees were a sign of early spring. It was an unusually hot day in March, so the park benches were filled with people. I had water in my pouch and took a sip. It felt good going down into the pit of my stomach.

After, I sat I checked my phone. There it was, the message I had been waiting for.

My first novel was accepted for publication.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Former Glory

She sits in a worn wheelchair, slightly swaying to the raspy and sultry melodies playing on the radio behind her. Drunkenly sloshing the dark brown liquid in the bottle she’s nursed throughout the night. Her eyes are as heavy as her heart, drooping with sadness and weeping with grief. Taking another sip, she sighs as the liquid scorches down her throat. She hums along to the music, reminiscing times when she played the same syncopated rhythms on stage. Her knobby and wrinkled fingers dance in the air on her ghost piano while swallowing sobs, thinking about her glorious old memories.

From Guest Contributor Sa'Mya Hall

No Soliciting

Good evening, miss, you’re looking lovely tonight. Miss? Do wait up. I meant no offense! Now I just wanted to bid you a good night but – swat! Hey now, there is no reason to strike with such malice, now is there? I don’t mean to drool, but your skin tonight is so pale, so smooth, so inviting... I’m just the slightest bit peckish. You wouldn't mind if I had a taste? A sip? Pints and pints you have, an abundance. Surely you wouldn’t mind if I took your hand in mine, and gave it a pinch of a kiss – smack!

From Guest Contributor Skyler Bath

Abiding

I stir the White Russian, the clink of ice so soft, tender. I should be grading papers and concentrating on how to explain Rasputin and Nicholas II to my students. I just want to abide in White Russians and ice, a creamy sea.

I take a sip, savor cream-filled sensation. Hold onto it. Too many rules, kiss department chair’s ass. Don’t swear. Be responsible like Professor Gebert. Voices rise, like some discordant chorus.

I take another sip.

How rich I feel, world subordinated to ice-filled buzz.

I take another small sip, trying to keep creamy seas from melting.

I’m losing.

From Guest Contributor Yash Seyedbagheri

Yash is a graduate of Colorado State University's MFA program in fiction. His story, "Soon," was nominated for a Pushcart. Yash’s stories are forthcoming or have been published in Café Lit, Mad Swirl, 50 Word Stories, and Ariel Chart, among others.

Taking Chances

I held the charred remains of something dear to me. Last glowing sparks from the fire catapulted towards the night sky, disappearing upon impact.

“Have more wine,” my friends encouraged. “You’ll sleep easier.”

I took the bottle, poured a glassful. Considered my next move with every sip. What if this happens again? Can I take more defeat?

We sat at the scene of the blaze. The nearby forest receded into a thickening mist. I removed that which once was from my clasp and attached another to the end of my skewer.

Toasting marshmallows over a campfire need not be complicated.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna is a writer of poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. She resides in Edmonton, Canada with her husband and stuffed animals and many friends.

Tepid

6:17 am. Chilly out. Her teeth, against the pink roses on the gold-leafed rim of her chipped tea cup with matching saucer cradling renegade drops of Lipton's--headquarters in Hoboken--clink and chatter. Behind her, tractor wheels first crunch and smash the little stick fence, cracking like femurs, then pummel the daisies, until finally the front door splinters apart. Empty Campbell cans and Hellman’s jars, lost tin and remnant timber crash the family photo, not hers, from a Sears’ catalog, but nonetheless... Miss Dallyworth takes the last sip, while the gentrification continues on, at her new address: the curb.

From Guest Contributor, Jennnifer Sarah Cooper