Another Boring Dinner

It was another Wednesday night, and…

“What's for dinner, Rayette?”

“We’re going to have Escargot a la Bourguignonne, followed by Confit de Canard, finished off with double-baked cheese soufflé, Ralph.”

“Oh, no… Not Escargot a la Bourguignonne, Confit de Canard, and soufflé again.”

“Come on, Ralph… Don't complain.”

“But couldn't we have something different for a change?… Maybe chicken fingers?”

“You know I don't know how to cook chicken fingers.”

“I could try, Rayette.”

“No, Ralph… The last time you tried chicken fingers, they tasted like Coq au Vin, and you know how much I dislike Coq au Vin.”

From Guest Contributor David Sydney

Evening Walk

I still smelled the floral scent of my wife’s perfume and dreamed of her laughing, a soft cackle that used to bring a smile to my face. Her beautiful complexion used to turn heads wherever we went. She was flawless.

One evening the air was perfect for a walk, or so we thought.

That was the evening a man wearing a mask robbed my wallet. When my wife called him a coward, he shot her in the stomach. When she laid on the ground, my hand cupping her head, she whispered, “I love you.”

My world was never the same.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Silver Flower

The bee insistently buzzed around the silver flower decoration, flitting in and out of the petals. An anthropocentric reading of the situation would suggest the insect was growing increasingly frustrated at the futility of its sugar gathering.

Something in its infrared vision must have found the flowers appealing, even if to human eyes no color or pattern was visible other than shiny metallic chrome. How ironic that something so valuable to our way of thinking was nothing but a torture for the poor bee, who would have preferred the nectar of a dandelion.

I suppose there's no accounting for taste.

Adventure Prone

“Careful!” warned the attendant. “Not as cute as popular opinion has you believe.”

The visitor wheeled out of the gas-station. Blue skies and folksy music accompanied him into the countryside.

New country, new job, new adventure… With a friend’s help he restored his confidence following a wrenching divorce.

The visitor stopped abruptly. A mob of kangaroos blocked his lane.

“Be patient,” he told himself, waiting for the animals to move away on their own. When they did he stroked the dog on the passenger seat beside him.

Splashes of color painted the sky as they rode into the setting sun.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Trait

This is a strange scenario where she turned around to see if the guy that she dated was still around or not. He was there, but she lost interest. Not fully, but with the arrival of a past partner things changed. She was into him but yeah now someone else was there to share the attention too. She was not sure if she should move forward with the one she dated. A date with the same mate? Is too fate? Or, too late? Next, is a date with either of the soulmate? Or, let fate be the cupid's old trait.

From Guest Contributor Preeti Singh

Preeti is a Freelance French Interpreter, author, newbie script writer, and likes to humm and strum her guitar.

In A Waymo

The doors automatically lock as we settle into the Waymo self-driving car riding to the restaurant from the hotel. It’s strange riding without a driver. The Waymo jolts to a stop in the middle of the street; its computers seem confused by the police cruisers. Heavily armed cops bang on the windows yelling, open for a drug search. Not knowing how to unlock the doors and looking around, there’s a black bag on the floorboard from the last passenger. There was no driver to remove it before we got in. Gasping awake, I throw the bedside lamp at the window.

From Guest Contributor Michael C. Roberts

Getting Off The Island

“What's the matter, Mel?”

“I'm trying to get help for us, Charlie.”

“But I already put a letter in a bottle and threw it in the ocean.”

“What'd it say?”

“I wrote – ‘HELP, WE'RE ON A DESERT ISLAND. ALL WE HAVE TO EAT ARE COCONUTS AND WASHED-UP FISH.’ Then I gave them our last coordinates before the boat sank.”

“But it didn't work.” Mel had a point. They were still eating coconuts and fish heads. “That's why I've written this manuscript. People should respond to a manuscript.”

“But will it fit in a bottle, Mel?”

“Well, Charlie…That's my problem.”

From Guest Contributor David Sydney

For the prompts Manuscript and Letters

Adrenaline

Bullets passed by my head in a blur, and I had only one chance to make a run for it.

I hid behind the bushes with soldiers’ lifeless bodies nearby, a sitting duck waiting to be devoured. I took deep breaths, counted to ten, then ran and shot in the air at anything that moved.

I had to make it back to my family. My wife’s sky-blue eyes, flowing brown hair and son’s quick wit pictured in my mind, gave me the adrenaline I needed.

Chaos ensued and men started shooting, but I kept going.

I made it. Then collapsed.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Drone

Have you felt like someone was following you and when you turned around nobody was there, but you were worried they were still behind you? Wherever you turned, your unseen stalker always managed to keep just out of sight?

I bring this up because for several months I've been followed by a constant humming, a droning I can't shake. Almost like tinnitus but it's coming from behind me, even though there's nothing there.

Except it turns out I really am being followed by a surveillance drone. We all are these days.

So the good news is I'm not going crazy.

Said The Spider To The Fly

“Give me $50,” said the spider to the fly.

“That’s not how this scene usually starts,” said the fly.

“I know; I’m trying something new here.”

“Okay, sorry. Start again?”

“Give me $50,” said the spider to the fly.

The fly patted itself. “I don’t have any cash on me.”

“Venmo works.”

The fly searched itself again. “Oh, right, I don’t have a phone.”

The spider tore open its silk pouch, looked inside, then hid the pouch behind its back. “Neither do I.”

“What’s in the pouch?” asked the fly.

“Never mind. Let’s just do the usual. I’ll start over...”

From Guest Contributor Tara Campbell

Tara (www.taracampbell.com) is a writer, teacher, Kimbilio Fellow, and fiction co-editor at Barrelhouse. She teaches flash and speculative fiction, and is the author of two novels, two hybrid collections, two short story collections, and a chapbook of sestinas. Additional publication credits include Masters Review, Wigleaf, Electric Literature, CRAFT Literary, Uncharted Magazine, Daily Science Fiction, Strange Horizons, and Escape Pod/Artemis Rising.