Guilt burns my gut, only slightly sated by the whisky I sip.
The affair had been revenge for all the times his eyes had strayed. Joke was, I couldn’t tell him.
So my gut continues to burn as I take another sip and watch as his eyes stray once more.
Melissa is a writer, teacher, and dog lover in the Middle of Nowhere, Michigan.
I remember our hotel, how you always insisted on room service, how we waited until dusk before strolling hand in hand along the deserted beach, how you wore that silly hat.
I remember rushing to your side when you collapsed, sitting by your hospital bed, being introduced to your wife.
is an eternal optimist who thinks life is for living and tries hard not to waste it.
Business trip cancelled.
Jack and Coke: he drank it in gulps.
The drive home was slow, thoughtful. Driveway full. He parked down the street.
The door opened quietly. He ascended the stairs. Giggles and moans echoed across the wooden floors. Oak. Just what she wanted.
He unholstered his new .38.
Nicolas Frame is an author of short fiction, nonfiction articles, and some poetry.
I smelled her perfume on him. He was seeing her again. Disappointing.
I had survived his last affair; I could survive another one.
I got him a cold beer and started dinner—steak and potatoes, his favorite—and watched him play cards with the children. They’d chosen Happy Families. Ironic.
Carol is easily distracted by books, and reads just about anything. She has written short stories for competitions, websites, educational software, and even an international cartoon channel.
He orders for his wife. The waitress scribbles something on his napkin, slipping it under his whiskey glass.
His wife returns, applies lipstick.
“Not at dinner, dear,” he says.
His wife sips his whiskey and wipes her mouth with his napkin, smearing the phone number with her Revlon 43 lips.
Deanna Morris is a MFA graduate of Butler University (2013) with publishing credits for poetry, short stories, interviews, and freelance articles. Her work can be found in First Stop Fiction, Subtle Fiction, Clever Magazine, Scissors, and Spackle, among other places.
It’s midnight and I still can’t sleep. I imagine lying down beside you, your arms around me. You slowly lull me to sleep, making me smile all the while. But in the end, it’s just an imagination. You’re still ten feet below me, sharing an eternal embrace with your mistress.
Le-an Lai Lacaba is an eighteen-year-old girl from Tacloban City, growing up in between everyone pressuring her to grownup and wanting to be a kid. She fills her blog, Imperfect is Beautiful, with her poems and short stories. Le-an has won multiple essay-writing contests in both local and regional competitions. She is studying for a B.A. in Communication Arts at the University of the Philippines, and struggling to become the writer she dreams of being.
On their first date he had taken her to a wine bar, kept her to himself until he realized he was in love. That had been two hours after they’d met.
“Tell me your secrets,” he whispered.
“You’ll have to search,” she said, sliding her ring deeper into her pocket.
Eabha Rose lives in Dublin Ireland. She writes for Plum Tree Books and Brazil’s literary journal, O Ecuador das Coisas. Eabha has had her work published both online and in print. Check out her blog at theatreofwords.blogspot.ie