Fantasy Winners

Were the Newtown Bluebirds getting worse? Their last loss was 19-0. The one before that, 17-0.

Coach Mel Fromberg, at the practice field, addressed the Little Leaguers.

"Winners. We're going to be winners."

“Close your eyes, everybody. "

It was to be a group-fantasy-session.

"See yourself as a winner. Then, see the whole team of winners…"

"Eddie? A winner?" Steve Bramwell, the second-baseman, said he couldn't see it.

Eddie Franklin, the shortstop, said the same of Steve.

"Try again," demanded Mel, his eyes still closed. But Steve? Eddie? The Bluebirds? Winners? What kind of task had Mel set for them all?

From Guest Contributor David Sydney

Election

It’s election night and everyone is on edge, waiting to hear if the candidate they voted for wins. I don’t discuss politics with friends or family since it only leads to arguments. In some cases, I blocked friends on my social media page because they’ve become too involved discussing politics and arguing.

Whoever wins I will be grateful whether it’s for the candidate I voted for or not. They are strong leaders and I envision a great country with a thriving economy.

The winner has been declared. It isn’t who I voted for, but regardless, I’m happy.

Bless this country.

From Guest Contributor Lisa Scuderi-Burkimsher

Apple Jenga

Pyramids of fruit abound in the market’s produce section.

A man pokes and squeezes to find the perfect Gala. Five tiers down, he locates a winner, and the Jenga game begins.

He shapes his hand into a “C,” then moves in slowly to extract the prize, leaving a hole in the pyramid where the apple once was.

Standing a little taller, he raises his chin and puffs up his chest.

One aisle over, he sees a woman arch her back and hold her shoulders high. Next to her, three holes exist in the Golden Delicious pile.

He’s met his match.

From Guest Contributor Jennifer Lai

Incensed

The crumpled notebook paper can’t be hurt, no matter how hard it’s thrown. An anemic crackle sounds at impact, a lazy, pointless attempt to uncurl is its sole achievement. The lopsided wad sits atop the unburning end of a Duraflame log. Mercifully, black char ashes the paper’s edge, further loosening the ball until gravity pulls it down to hearth. Still misshapened, I see blue ink, evidence of the second worst opening line in the history of writing. The winner is in my fist, ready to toss to the flames. It’s the only way to bring fire to my words today.

From Guest Contributor DL Shirey

DL Shirey lives in Portland, Oregon, writing fiction, by and large, unless it's small. He has been caught flashing at Café Aphra, 365 Tomorrows, ZeroFlash, Fewer Than 500 and others listed at www.dlshirey.com and @dlshirey on Twitter.

DDS Confession

Here is a secret--it’s not about the pain. Rather, it’s about prolonging the discomfort.

I like to let the saliva build. Oh, you need suction? Sorry, it hadn’t occurred to me.

Pinching gums with the film is also a winner (hope you don’t have gingivitis!), as is leaving impression compound in too long (can you feel it hardening?).

But the all-time best: we exchange pleasantries, and once my hands are in your mouth I start the questions. The mask covers my smile. But look closely, ever so closely…

…and you might just catch when my eyes roll back.Mmmmmm.

From Guest Contributor Jeff H.

Jeff is a high school English teacher. He blogs at https://batchandnarrative.com/ with his wife, a dietitian, about writing, food, and everything else.

She Looked On The Bright Side

“Going to the wedding, are you?” The SuperValu cashier jigged the question as the wiry woman with blowzy white hair fished coins from her purse for the crossword lotto cards lying on the counter. “Here you go, exactly.” She plunked the coins down and scooped up her cards. “Hope you’re a winner. Spelling games are my pet picks,” quipped the cashier. “Yes, I deserve a good spell; even though these daily lotto spoil everything. I’ll be back in a short bit to bet on today’s talk of the town. I have a hunch the odds are running in my favor.”

From Guest Contributor M.J. Iuppa

There's Probably A Metaphor Somewhere

They'd played countless times, but never with so much at stake. Their matches began as flirtation, then morphed into courtship. They won in equal amounts until, as time passed, her victories became mostly afterthought.

Their styles contrasted perfectly. He was aggressive, careless even, looking to strike quickly at her most vulnerable spots. She played cautiously, guarding every pawn. Eventually, he'd wear down her defenses.

This was their final game. The winner would keep the house, the car, the dog. When she won, he couldn't believe it.

"You were always awful at chess. I let you win because it was easier."