“Mommy! Is that woman talking to herself?” asked a curious Jeff to his busy mother.
Startled by the interruption in her tank top perusal, she tried to ignore him, hoping he would let it go.
But Jeff wouldn’t comply. “Mommy! Why is that woman talking to herself?!”
Annoyed, she replied without shifting her gaze from the tops, “She has an invisible friend. Someone only she can see, she’s probably talking to him.”
Jeff was slightly taken aback. “Well if only she can see her friend, then how do you know it’s a him?”
Sadly, Jeff had pulled the last straw. “Be quiet Jeff! Mommy has to shop. Besides, it’s not a good idea to look at people talking to themselves.”
“Jeff! Another word out of you about the woman and you’re grounded for the week!”
Unconvinced, yet left without a choice, Jeff continued to look the other way quietly. (more…)
As a new year is rapidly driving its way forward, destined to reach the next, we are, as always, on the look out for new and exciting short stories to share.
Details on how to submit can be found here: Story Submissions (more…)
In April of 2019, Hafez Abu Rabat, patriarch of the family owned Tangiers Grill and Crêperie, scrapped all plans for expansion and, apparently, for success. The menu of the West 62nd Street establishment was greatly altered and reduced. (more…)
It was the essence of soup, the paragon, the highest Platonic form. The soup was, in a word, sublime.
It had to be hers.
She was permitted half a spoonful: just enough to measure the flavour, the temperature, the presence or absence of poison. She soaked up that half-spoonful, she lingered on the scent, the seasoning, the warmth in her throat.
“Well, taster?” the queen hissed at last. (more…)
Whenever I see lunar rays coming into my room on new moons, when I hear the catbird bark, and I feel my internal organs curling, jumbling up like chitlins and sweetmeats on a tray handed a dying man in the desert, weakening in the sun before he can reach up to take them, I suspect they are coming for me again, like they did, starting years ago, when I was transferred to command at the new Army base. Little did I know I’d be waking with scrapes on my arms, grass scattered around my pillow, spend my hours trying to understand my secret life. It wasn’t my idea. It was theirs. Whoever they are. (more…)
June breezed through the door wearing about an acre of sunglasses. They were big aviators that covered her face from her cheekbones to her hairline.
Behold the profile of the fashionably grieving black widow: She’s wearing a black dress cut to accentuate her curves. Plenty of cleavage pouring out. Her platinum hair is pinched back in a bun.
“Hi, Jim.” June said, dabbing her nose with a handkerchief … a black one, of course … as she settled into a chair.
“Hello, June. How can I help you?” I knew June well — much too well for someone in my profession, not that I’d be foolish enough to mention it. June provided steady business, and I didn’t want to rock the boat by asking too many questions.
Bowling accident, she offered anyway. Poor Charles. (more…)