My perfect unarmed robbery plan:
A busy bank with everyone in masks,
depositors, clerks and me.
My note to a youngish teller: “Two
hundred twenties in this bag please,
or else.”
Her nervous compliance, poor kid,
and then my calm, unobtrusive
departure.
The only possible flaw:
My squeaky getaway walker.
Gene Newman is a retired old guy (90 yrs) and former New Jersey journalist and columnist. Read more at GeneNewmanImagineThat.com.
The bartender eyed the brunette with a sideways grin, leaning in. “You don’t look the type for straight-up bourbon.”
The woman tilted her head, unsmiling. “Best you got.”
The edge in her eyes and voice made him straighten up fast. Nothing good came out of the bayou these days.
Casey Laine comes from a long line of talkative women. She works as Fantasy Editor at Cosmic Roots and Eldritch Shores, and publishes an annual anthology of fiction and poetry for her writing group, Writers Assembled. In her spare time, she chases butterflies with her camera. Find her at Facebook, Cosmic Roots and Eldritch Shores, and Amazon
I speak to the crow.
Every day, its tapping becomes more eloquent. The world outside is locked; I haven’t been anywhere in months: I take its word on what it’s like.
Tap, tap, against the windowpane.
Oh, an ocean. The crow saw seals diving, and a boy with a mandolin.
Andrin Albrecht was born in 1995 in Switzerland and holds a Master of Arts in English Literature from the University of Zurich. He spends his time writing, playing the guitar, and looking at the sky. His poetry and short fiction have appeared, among others, in “The Foundationalist”, “Down in the Dirt Magazine”, and “The CMU Literary Review”.
The Master Puzzler is gone now.
Her delicate hands used to glide across the pieces, choosing keys and locks, like chocolates from a jewel box.
The cover was always overturned. She said, “You’re not doing the puzzle if you look at the picture.”
I sit alone, piecing the remaining fragments.
Teresa Del Mastro lives in Toronto. She has co-authored, with Kerry Hodgson, a collection of ten coffee break meet-cutes called Sugar with that?
Across thirty years, my legs have lost an inch or so. Sometimes I sway. But I’ve held you: Pregnant. Nursing. Mourning your mother; reading your son tales.
Now you track the plane-free evening skies. A starling mob. One intent hawk. Through clouds, thin moon. You lean back. And I hold.
Lynne Barrett’s story collection Magpies received a Florida Book Awards gold medal. Her recent work appears in Orange Blossom Review, The Hong Kong Review, New Flash Fiction Review, Necessary Fiction, River Teeth, and Grabbed: Poets and Writers on Sexual Assault, Empowerment, and Healing. See more at LynneBarrett.com.
Wrong place, wrong time, wrong ID, and a cop car slowly following her. Deep breath, big smile, “can I help you officer?” A bank robbery? Here? Now? Suspect resembles me? I’ll go with you. Teller remembers: hair, coat, height, age, the same.
Thankfully the culprit wasn’t also eight months pregnant.
Eileen searches her own memory bank for possible subjects. Life being lived twice over.
Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall is all the paramedic can think, shivering as the ambulance screeches away. But this fall had been deathly intentional, the aftermath bloody…
He breathes a shaky, sincere prayer of thanks to the King; this time, the soldiers’ efforts have been enough.
Humpty will live.
Maria Cargille wrote this story. The darkness of nursery rhymes has always intrigued her.
Outside a fierce wind blows as the temperature plummets inside the drafty old house. Grandma sits in her rocking chair as Emily lovingly wraps a shawl around her skeletal shoulders.
Sipping a cup of tea, Emily turns to her grandmother and says, “Tell me again, Grandma. How did you die?”
Peggy Gerber is a poet and short story writer from New Jersey. Her stories have appeared in many publications including Terror House Magazine, Daily Science Fiction, and many others.
Rutabagas, incandescent. Golden turnips, soft as flesh. Caramelized carrots, parsnips roasted and crisp.
She chooses to remember the vegetables sliced and seasoned by her grandmother’s hands, translucent as Vidalias.
The rest of her roots, she knows, belong mangled in the disposal. Feeble skins and rotting corpses, bitter fennel, putrid beets.
Joree is an anti-poverty advocate who moonlights as a writer when she’s not recovering from putting her toddler to bed.
The story of the week for March 1 to 5 is…
Bonkers by Robert Markovich