The Waiting Room

My clammy hands make the number I pulled soggy. I roll the paper’s corner between my fingers until it looks like the twisted end of those poppers you throw at the ground. The chairs are ice cold and don’t warm up to me. Who am I waiting for to call my name? The slip is blurry. There’s no number after all. My skin is on fire. The paper disintegrates. Now I’ll never know when I’ll be called. The gift of creation is eating me alive. I really wanted to get that checked out. But I don’t think anyone is coming.

From Guest Contributor Madeline van Batum

Madeline lives in Colorado with her cat and hopes that one day she can go back to her home country of the Netherlands to finally meet the Flying Dutchman.

Wheatfield With Crows

He presented himself at Licensed Brothel No. 1 and asked with formal politeness for the girl named Rachel. When she appeared, dressed for work in stockings and a slip, he handed her his ear (or, more precisely, the lower half of his left ear, wrapped in cloth). “Guard this object carefully,” he said without prelude, and you would’ve thought he was bestowing on her a fabulous piece of art. Then he turned and walked away. She was accustomed to getting freaky requests from men in her boudoir, but this was a first. The police said call if it happened again.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Permission Slips

The night sky was red and the grass was a deep green. Kerrin and Jobe were walking.

“I just wish she would forgive me. I feel awful,” Jobe said.

“You guys have been divorced three years?” Kerrin asked.

“Yeah, I feel terrible when I see her. I shouldn’t have cheated.”

“She may never forgive you,” Kerrin said. She squeezed his hand.

“I know.”

“Do you need permission to forgive yourself?” Kerrin asked.

“I don’t, no.” Jobe smiled and took an old slip from his pocket and trashed it.

“People have trouble forgiving but that doesn’t mean you don’t deserve it.”

From Guest Contributor Steve Colori