Not One Of Us

They watched Mark with great interest. Everything about him screamed that he was different, from the way he was dressed (tattered blue jeans and a Winter is Coming t-shirt) to the way he shunned their company.

As he walked briskly past, heads turned seemingly as one. Before long, Mark had a large retinue, each individual dressed in a dark blue suit, following after him. He hurried on without directly acknowledging their attention.

"He's not one of us."

Mark stopped. "Why won't you leave me alone?"

"We just want what's best for you, Mark. Join us and never be alone again."

Platero And I: Miss Dolores

Look at Don Fernando, Platero. He is wearing his best suit.

He bought it thirty-seven years ago, when he was first invited to read to the fifth grade Miss Dolores has taught for so long. He had written two children’s short stories in his life. Miss Dolores loved both.Today he will be reading for the last time. Miss Dolores is retiring and her successor doesn’t believe in reading by 'a failed writer.'

"What are you going to do now?" I asked.

“Write new stories,” he replied adamantly.

Maybe he'll write short stories about a sweet donkey like you, Platero.

From Guest Contributor Hervé Suys

Hervé (°1968 – Ronse, Belgium) started writing short stories whilst recovering from a sports injury and he hasn’t stopped since. Generally he writes them hatless and barefooted.

Dragonfly And Crow

We—who were left by the fire after the boss stood on the flame's waving edge, wearing his black suit and immaculate boots, to tell the dragonfly and the crow that had bedeviled his every moment since the fire's first spark that he had found a solution and would soon be free of their cruelty, that he, the boss, would soon pull off their wings and grind them into dust, and then turned, the boss, and ran into the flames—joined our hands before spreading blankets on scorched grass, opening bottles of cold beer, and sharing figs fatter than those in eternity.

From Guest Contributor John Riley

John is a former teacher who works in educational publishing. He has published fiction and poetry in Smokelong Quarterly, Mojave River Review, Ekphrastic Review, Connotation Press, Banyan Review, Better Than Starbucks, and many other journals and anthologies. EXOT Press will publish a book of his 100-word prose poems in 2022.

Blues For Beginners

My mother went in the hospital for heart surgery and never came out. What would make someone leave all this? It’s a question I often ask myself when I get up in the morning or when I lay down at night. Take cleaning your sheets seriously; there’s sweat and drool and worse on them. (By the way, meat tenderizer and saliva remove bloodstains.) The old bluesmen had voices caked with blood and as scuffed and battered as their guitar cases. No one will believe you live the blues if you wear a suit – unless, like me, you’ve slept in it.From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is on the pavement, thinking about the government.

The Accidental Transcendentalist

Having fallen asleep in one town, Thoreau woke up in another, intent on uncovering what had happened to the organ grinder’s monkey. He did everything he could, but with no electricity, there was very little he actually could do. Meanwhile, the police mistook a man in a green suit walking in the forest for Thoreau. The man confessed right off to visiting the pirate queen in her cave. When Emerson dropped in on Thoreau that afternoon, he had the same question as everyone else, “Is this even real?” which was yet another reason why Thoreau loved trees more than people.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author of I'm Not a Robot from Tolsun Books and A Room at the Heartbreak Hotel from Analog Submission Press.

As You Wish

There's a man on the television in an outdated suit. He is talking to a famous interviewer I have always liked. The words on the screen read: William Goldman -- Author, The Princess Bride.

This is not the truth. I know this for a fact because I have read The Princess Bride. It was not written by a man. It was bequeathed to us fully formed by Prometheus, who stole it from the heavens.

There is one thing the man says that I agree with in addition to his mustache. "The easiest thing to do on Earth is not to write."

The Bottle Spins

“Screw you!” I scream through bloody cracked lips.

He turns his head and looks at me curled up on the cold granite floor. He smiles. Ash from his cigarette drops onto his cheap suit. He carefully brushes it off, not once taking his eyes off me.

On the floor by his feet is an empty wine bottle lying on its side. Slowly, he bends down and spins it once more.

We all watch its slow revolution, desperately praying it won’t point in our direction.

God is not with me today. My silent prayer goes unanswered.

It was my turn again.

From Guest Contributor Mike Jackson

Mike lives in the UK and enjoys writing short tales, especially Drabbles. Many of his offerings can be found on his blog ‘Stories In Your Pocket.’

Her Little Plum

The plum blossoms dance in the spring breeze like pink snowflakes across the yard.

A boy again, mother lifts me into the limbs to pick ripened fruit. “Be careful, my precious squirrel.”

“Ready, dear?” my wife asks.

“Yes,” my voice chafes. I inspect my dark suit, adjusting my tie in the window’s reflection. Wipe my face and rub wet fingers together.

“Your speech is in my purse.”

Words. An inadequate parting gift.

My mouth waters as mother sets down a steaming plum pie.

After her funeral, floodlights illuminate wreckage of the fallen tree. A brittle heart splinters. Sobs erupt anew.

From Guest Contributor Eric Schweitz

Office Drone

He adjusted his tie, making sure the knot was centered, and returned to his keyboard. He added a macro to the spreadsheet.

He stood up, and took a lap around his desk. Maybe if he took off his jacket. He shrugged his shoulders, stretching out his arms, then returned to his keyboard. He double checked all the numbers for the third time.

His pants were starting to bunch up. He stood up to straighten out his pleats, and returned to his keyboard. He'd be finished with the spreadsheet in another hour. Maybe he'd have time to fit in some minesweeper.