Where's Frank?

It was 2:30. AL'S BAR opened at 3:00. Al, sitting by the counter, squinted at the door.

“Is that you, Edna? We're closed.”

The place was poorly lit.

“I know. I just wondered if Frank was here last night. He found some money I hid. I figured he must have gone out drinking.”

“Maybe he went to the track?”

“Nah, not enough money.”

“I didn't see him. Did you try THE TOP HAT or LEO'S LOUNGE?”

“No.”

“How about TED'S PLACE.”

“No way, Al. It wasn't much money, and you know Frank. He only goes to crummy places like this...”

From Guest Contributor David Sydney

Cheat Sheet

Smith, from supply-chain management, stirring lemon into oolong. Taylor and Grzegorzewski, from customer service, talking about their crap husbands. Sunny sweaters, coffee mugs. Smith nods, sips. He knows their pain. Taylor plays with her jade rabbit pendant. She says she is like a secretary, fielding his calls. Grzegorzewski harumphs. In Santorini last fall, their second honeymoon, celebrating the remission of her lupus. Caught in flagrante delicto, pants around his ankles with the chambermaid. I have crib notes, Taylor huffs. To keep track of the lies and the ladies. Smith finally speaks. I’ll show you how to use Excel, he says.From Guest Contributor Lorette C. Luzajic

Lorette reads, writes, publishes, edits, and teaches small fictions. She has appeared in Unbroken, Bending Genres, Ghost Parachute, Brilliant Flash Fiction, and hundreds of other journals. Her story was selected for Best Small Fictions 2023. She has been nominated several times for Best Microfictions, Best of the Net, and the Pushcart Prize. Her collections of small fictions are The Rope Artist, The Neon Rosary, Pretty Time Machine and Winter in June. Some of her works have been translated into Urdu and Spanish. Lorette is the founding editor of The Ekphrastic Review, a journal of literature inspired by art. Lorette is also an award-winning mixed media artist, with collectors in more than 40 countries so far.

Relationships

Anna reflected on her most cherished companions.

There wasn’t a room in her home that didn’t feel their presence. They helped her become organized and value the importance of scheduling her days.

When they stopped behaving as expected, especially at times of need, Anna fell apart.

Her son noticed the untimely demise. How she missed appointments or arrived late for others. How her personality took on an air of grumpiness.

“Let’s get you back on track,” he said, visiting one day.

Once he fitted batteries into the once silenced clocks, his mother bounced back.

Her time-focused companions ticked on.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes poetry, fiction and creative nonfiction while trying to keep warm through a Canadian winter.

Forgiveness

She walked along the deserted beach, cold wet sand hard underfoot, leaving her well-formed arch, her heavy heel dug-in tight, her human track. She scanned the choppy grey ocean, a seagull skimming along ready to dive. Looking ahead, an outcropping of massive black boulders stumbled together into a makeshift Henry Moore sculpture. The solid blocks of granite, columnar or reclining, soft-edged or angular, were reminiscent of her mother. The stoic strength, the impermeability, the dense solid weight of judgement. She had framed her adult life accordingly, with a negative imperative: I will not be like my mother.​

From Guest Contributor Holiday Goldfarb