Rainbow Potato

I tell myself I don’t belong here, and I don’t. The place is home to depressives, insomniacs, winos, recidivists. Trains pass through without whistling or slowing down. Meanwhile, stacks of coffins keep arriving in the dark by truck. The first thing I do most mornings is examine my face in the mirror for signs of fresh trauma. There was one morning when I asked Google if rainbow and potato rhyme. The answer came back, “Not exactly.” A handsome young drifter, stepping off the overnight bus from Providence, smiles plausibly while wearing a necklace of human ears tucked inside his shirt.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie's latest book is Frowny Face, a mix of his prose poems and handmade collages from Redhawk Publications.

Street Life

November spreads gray across sticky sidewalks as acrid smoke from burn barrels warms frigid hands and stings sleep-weary eyes. Winos huddle wary knowing tempers can flare as quickly as last week’s newspapers tossed in the fires. On the streets a life is worth a pint of Mad Dog. Desperate men commit despicable acts for a drink. Women trade sex and dignity for comfort under blankets. Robert the Shank holds jagged metal to a girl’s throat. Bettie slams a bottle against his ear. He cuts her bad. An ambulance takes her to County. She smiles bleeding, thinking of a clean bed.

From Guest Contributor, Jeff Switt

Jeff is a retired advertising agency guy who loves writing flash fiction—some days to curb his angst, other days to fuel it. His words have been featured at Dogzplot, Boston Literary Review, Flash Fiction World, Nailpolish Stories, 50-Word Stories, and Shotgun Honey, and have appeared at lots of places that take whatever you send in.