Teases

Sam is lying languid on yellow sheets. James will be home tomorrow which leaves little time for new lovers.

Sam reaches up and receives the glass and sips, as I drink from the bottle and look at scars on a wrist, tattoo marked and bled, bracelet often mislaid.

Bob Marley doesn't give a shit, while Sam Cooke looks dispirited at what yet will come. Joplin cries wild abandon from vinyl well-worn and well earned.

And James will return and for now Sam is here and I am here and the bottle is half full and Sam teases with a fingertip...

From Guest Contributor Michael Tyler

Michael writes from a shack overlooking the ocean just south of the edge of the world. He has been published in several literary magazines and plans a short story collection sometime before the Andromeda Galaxy collides with ours and...

When The Clock Strikes Twelve

It wasn’t a new year; it was the new year. Margo watched the clock tick down to midnight with bated breath. Her hand tightened around the stem of her bubbly champagne flute until her fingers turned red. A fresh start; a new beginning. As the clock struck twelve and the ding sounded the glass stem shattered in her grasp, forcing crystal shards into her palm. Blood ran down her wrist. With a resigned sigh she flopped back on the couch and watched the red drops dripping from her fingers permanently stain the rug. Oh well. There was always next year.From Guest Contributor Madison Randolph

Madison is a reader by day and a writer by night. Her works have appeared in Friday Flash Fiction, The Drabble, Bright Flash Literary Review, Spillwords, The Chamber Magazine as well as 101 Words under the name Ryker Hayes. She can be found on Instagram madisonrandolph17 or Twitter @Madisonr1713

Temperature Rising

Rudder lay on the trainer’s table writhing in agony. His throwing arm was swollen to bulbous proportions. A nasty, blistering rash spread from his wrist to his shoulder. His body convulsed with chills, a fever of 105°.

“Have you been self-treating again?” the team doctor asked.

“Just some analgesic balm. The big game’s on Sunday and my arm’s killing me. I need to be ready.”

“How much balm?”

“Four tubes.”

“What! The body can’t absorb that much!”

“Will I be okay by kickoff?”

“There’s no way you’re playing!” the doctor said. “You’ve got a severe case of Ben Gay Fever!”

From Guest Contributor Lee Hammerschmidt

Lee is a Visual Artist/Writer/Troubadour who lives in Oregon. He is the author of the short story collections, A Hole Of My Own and It’s Noir O’clock Somewhere. Check out his hit parade on YouTube!

Early Bird Special

Doubled-masked and leaning into the pharmacy’s window, you answer questions that will later identify you immediately. It’s 11:59 a.m. and the Know-It-All Tech, with a bar code label on her wrist and seascape nails, is already sick of the routine: Fill out these papers, sign here and here; take papers around back & sit with arm exposed; face turned to the left, as a cool alcohol swab cleans an invisible bull’s eye. The outgoing pharmacist chats about snow & cold and you barely feel him stick you with the needle. Done, he says, pressing a circle band-aid over your future.

From Guest Contributor M.J.Iuppa

M.J.Iuppa lives on a small farm near the shores of lake Ontario. Her 100 word stories have appeared in 100 Word Story, Eunoia Review, Otoliths, Jellyfish Review, A Story in a 100 Words, The Dribble Drabble Review, The Drabble Review, Milk Candy Review, Lost Balloon, and others. . Check out her blog: mjiuppa.blogspot.com for her musings on writing, sustainability & life’s stew.

The Goddess Becomes

It was a pleasure to burn. Of the eight, it was my most beautiful arm: the hillside slope of the shoulder, the tender elbow, that lilting wrist, narrow yet invincible. Had he seen it in the dance, or still in his Sistine posture, even Michelangelo would have known God is a woman.

The downy hair went up first, and then the skin, the perfect fingernails, the sizzling fat and muscle. There is always a relaxation in admitting the truth, even a truth that smells like sulfur and charcoal: I am the flames as much as I was ever the arm.From Guest Contributor Brook Bhagat

Brook’s poetry, fiction, non-fiction, and humor have appeared in Monkeybicycle, Empty Mirror Magazine, Harbinger Asylum, MoonPark Review, Little India, Dămfīno, Nowhere Poetry, Rat's Ass Review, Peacock Journal, Anthem: A Tribute to Leonard Cohen, and other journals and anthologies. In 2013, she and her husband Gaurav created Blue Planet Journal, which she edits and writes for. She holds an MFA from Lindenwood University, teaches poetry and creative writing at a community college, and is writing a novel. See more at www.brook-bhagat.com or reach her on Twitter at @BrookBhagat.