FirebrandMarty O’Brien pushed through the door of his local, nodded at the barman, then tripped on an errant shoe left discarded near the door.
‘Ah, for feck’s sake...’ Marty groaned as he struggled to his feet. He dusted off his tweed trousers and cast a scowl at the barman. ‘Watch yourself there,’ the barman said in a sing-song voice as he dried a glass with a towel. Marty cast his gaze around the bar. The pub was vacant except for the barman, unusual as at least a couple of locals tended to wait outside for the eleven o’clock opening time, and it was already quarter to twelve. The floor of the bar was littered with shoes of all kinds. |
by Andrew McAuley (400 Words) 
Beer and Fire by Alan Levine | Flickr
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The Poet in Bed
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by Carolyn Banks (486 Words) He reads my poem. “But you’re not married,” he says. Right. Not only is there a husband in the penultimate line, but a son, even earlier. “I guess it’s good,” he says, trying to mend things, erase his memory of the look that swept across my face.
“It’s okay,” I tell him. “You don’t have to like it.” I rub my bare foot against his to tell him it really is okay, “I’m used to it, really.” “I’ve never met a poet before,” he says. “And I sure as hell never slept with one.” We both laugh, his laugh real, I think. “We’re a dying breed.” “Not just yet,” he says, flopping atop me. |
After ACHES“Head lice are easier to get rid of,” Sarah whines, and the group nods in unison. Sarah is the newest member of ACHES—Adult Children at HomE Still—a support group that meets every Friday night at the Wine On Bar, rain or shine, statutory holidays excepted. Counting Sarah, we now fill a table for twelve.
Meghan, our facilitator, gives us a few seconds to scratch our scalps. “We’re near the end of the venting segment of our meeting,” she says. “Does anyone else need to vent this evening?” No one speaks up. We’ve pretty much covered the insect analogies in past sessions—our kids as difficult to dislodge as wool moths, potato bugs, cockroaches. Meghan raps the table with shiny black nails. “Good. Let’s move on to coping strategies and self-care. Vivian, how are you doing?” Next to me, Vivian shudders as if woken by gunshot. |
by Jann Everard (2015 Words) 
sjm_sleeping_red1 by Michael Mandiberg | Flickr
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Doggerel [ daw-ger-uhl ] adj. 1. (of verse) comic or burlesque, and usually loose or irregular in measure. 2. rude; crude; poor. |
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one tiny elephant
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