I Can't Explain

I know things look bad. I can explain the blood. I was playing with my dog and he scratched me pretty bad. He can be rough.

What about the witness who saw you going into the house?

I was just dropping off the divorce papers. They should be in the filing cabinet.

I see. And the threatening emails from your account?

Someone's trying to frame me.

Very good. That just leaves the matter of the security camera. How do you explain that someone who looks remarkably like you was recorded beating your ex to death with a field hockey stick?

Punishment Without Crime

Oompah-pah music and traditional German drinking songs floated up from the street festival into the third-floor courtroom. I shifted uneasily from foot to foot as I stood before the scowling judge. One prosecution witness after another had described in specious detail my attitudes, conversations, habits, and interests. There was even testimony about the transparent Jewishness of my penis. Now it was finally my turn to speak. I had just begun when the judge interjected, “Spare us your life philosophy.” His face was grave. He studied me with cold, squinty eyes as if calculating exactly how much a person can bear.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author of THE DEATH ROW SHUFFLE, a poetry collection forthcoming from Finishing Line Press.

The Witness

HISTORICAL FICTION ENTRY:

Her footman stood in the midst of the crowd on the grounds of the White Tower. He could see the scaffolding, the glistening executioner's sword, and the block where his lady would place her head. Then, Lady Anne climbed onto the scaffolding.

Holding back his tears, the footman listened to the Queen's prayerful last words. He watched as the attendants removed her mantle of ermine and blindfolded her. She knelt down.

With one swift stroke, the French swordsman ended the life of Queen Anne.

The footman turned to his friend and cried, "If only she had given him a son."

From Guest Contributor Deborah Shrimplin

Regrets

I write my own praises, dictating stories to muckrakers. Advisors insist on it.

I ran for office to serve. Tragedy. Much is given, much is expected.

I spout platitudes with such grace, it scares me.

Advisors expect me to conduct myself with grace. Don’t show feelings.

Constituents expect a shining prince, savior of liberalism.

I drink copiously, the moon as my witness. I can’t contain the weight of demands, desires.

I wake up on stairwells and in closets, hangovers uniquely my own machination.

I feel failure pirouetting, a taunting ballerina. She’s right to taunt.

But I’m not allowed to regret.

From Guest Contributor Yash Seyedbagheri.

Yash is a graduate of Colorado State University's MFA program in fiction. He is the recipient of two Honorable Mentions from Glimmer Train. His story, "Strangers," was nominated for The Best Small Fictions. Mir-Yashar's work is forthcoming or has been published in journals such as (mac)ro (mic), Runcible Spoon, JAB Fiction and Poetry, Unstamatic, and Ariel Chart.

Displacement

Love at first sight, different people from different cultures.

Driving my Pajero along the rugged coastline of Mayo. A fortnight I had lived in Ireland. Banished for my own safety; a key witness in court against something dark, dangerous. Displaced from my family for doing what was right, exiled into the night. The previous eve I lost myself in similar lanes, crying.

In daylight the shadows dispersed. He was in his tractor, he belonged, descendant of families forever etched in the Irish soil. Appointed by chance as my gardener, meeting by fate. I never once doubted. Three years married. Aliens.

From Guest Contributor Kerry Valkyrie Kelly