COFFEE?

Maggie burst into the quiet office, her chest heaving and with anger dancing upon her brow, she seethed "YOU! You did this!"

Unseth, expecting her, casually glanced away from his paper before setting it down slowly and saying dryly, "Oh Maggie, stop with the drama. I did what?" The last three words drawn out slowly before he sought his coffee cup.

Maggie, still enraged, stood before Unseth for a moment longer before clearing his meticulously organized desk in one sweep and he, with impeccable timing, lifted his cup as papers whooshed past just before Maggie sprang upon the desk. She was seething and leaned in to say "I know it was you."

Leaning back in his chair, and with excellent restraint, he sipped again at the coffee.

Dagger filled eyes followed calm ones, seeking a glimpse of confirmation but Unseth said only, "You want to sit down and tell me what this is all about?"

A distinctly animal like growl came the response from Maggie's throat before she snatched the covered coffee mug away and hurled it at the nearest wall, thus concluding her visit.

When she was gone, Unseth made his way over to retrieve the dented mug. With one hand in his pocket, he inspected the vessel: no harm really and no mess. The cup never actually contained any coffee because Unseth had been too busy this morning taking care of other business.

BIO:  Olive Rosehips...

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REALLY

“Are you sure?” He asked, struggling to conceal the emotion in his voice.

“Yes.” She replied, calm and certain, like she always was.

He reached out hesitantly and held her hands. “There’s no going back...It will never be the same.”

She just nodded.

“Ever.” He said. “Are you sure you want to end it like this? After all this time?”

“It’s for the best.” She said, her voice gentle, as if she was trying to lighten the blow.

“Fine.” He looked like he was going to burst into tears at any moment.

He directed a single glance full of despair at her and then he turned around.....and kicked the castle till it was just another pile of sand.

“Don’t be sad.” She said, patting him on the back. “We’ll build a better one tomorrow.”

Bio: Abhinav Sapru, Engineering student (unlikely but true), aspiring writer...Due to the fear of boring you I'm going to stop right now. You can visit Abhinav Sapru http://flash-999.blogspot.com/

FEAR OF FLYING

He got off the plane and had the urge to kiss the carpeted floor. He thought better of it when he considered the amount of foot traffic the floor had seen, and that doing so would hold up the line and cause a distraction.

All that was left was to pick up his luggage from baggage claim.

He moved with a sense of urgency through the airport pathway; meandering through the crowded hallway like a fearless motorcyclist on a congested freeway. Or maybe he was more reckless – like the motorcyclist with a death wish.

He survived near death on the flight from BWI-Thurgood Marshall to LAX. His ears popped something fierce, and he felt as if he was having a brain aneurysm. The agony – which still lingered – would be well worth it when he sees her face.

But she wasn’t waiting for him at the baggage claim area, or at the pick-up location outside. He waited at the airport for immeasurable hours – even after she returned his numerous calls and informed him she had no intention of following through with their plans to meet.

BIO: A. Jarrell Hayes writes poetry and fiction. In his spare time, Hayes designs wearable expressions and various merchandise with writers and poets in mind. Visit his website: http://www.ajhayes.com or check him out here http://www.facebook.com/jarrellhayes.

BREATHLESS

More cotton than you care to see.

There used to be time for driving,

for singing at the top of our lungs,

running, screaming.

Our legs stopped craving the feeling

of being stretched, pushed.

Running with mouths wide open,

tiny yelps greeting clouds of dust.

The field strewn with yellow buds,

a blanket of sunshine.

Driving, we wish we hadn’t forgotten

running breathless, to lay 

in summer-bloomed shade of trees, 

gulping air like water.

Bio:  Laura Rachel Fox ...  Her heart lies in the library, where she served as a Librarian for several years and discovered her love for the profession.  She is currently working to enter the writing field professionally, perhaps through the library, education, or writing.  You can view her recent work at http://rachelspillowbook.blogspot.com/

BLU'S CRISP BILLS

“I don’t feel right about this,” said Maxi, fumbling with her umbrella as wet curls lay plastered to her forehead as she waited for Blu to answer. Blu was pretending not to hear as she held tightly to the anger that was rising in her chest as she tried to quell it as it tried hard as it could to spew out profanity at Maxi. Blu did not like Maxi at all-- the sight of her scuff-free boots and manicured hands made her want to vomit as she thought of the rich brats she used to watch shop without care when she used to be normal and work a day job at the mall. But, she swallowed roughly, this was a job, and her job was to follow directions, whether she liked Maxi or not.

Blu opened the envelope that Maxi handed her, counted ten crisp one hundred dollar bills and scanned the other books of money neatly settled in the envelope. Funny, but thirty thousand dollars didn’t look like that much money .  Her mind remembered the bills the money was going to cover and, though relieved she would be debt free for a while now, she was a bit wistful about not being able to vacation with the windfall. She tucked the envelope into her purse and looked up. The glint from Maxi’s badge flickered first as she heard “You have the right to remain silent”, then she saw the uniformed cops emerge from surrounding spaces that had seemed so vacant before. As Blu put her hands up and felt rough hands push her head down and handcuff her, she hoped that her sister would be called soon enough to pick up the baby from daycare.

Khadijah Ali-Coleman is a playwright and performance artist. She is editor of the anthology Liberated Muse Volume I: How I Freed My Soul and will debut her play Running: AMOK this year in the Capital Fringe Fest this summer in Washington DC. She was inspired to write "Blu's Crisp Bills" when she learned that 62% of women imprisoned in the US are between the ages of 25-39 and typically mothers.

SPEAKING OF MRS. MORROW

by Olive Rosehips

Mrs. Morrow was outside, I knew this because her loud, chirpy voice carried through the open window as she called to Joanne across the street.  I whispered a wish under my breath that she would take up knitting or bridge or whatever it was people her age did when my little voice whispered back that gossip was what uncoupled, older ladies did. Loneliness to be sure and too much time on her hands had created this chapter of Mrs. Morrow; this overly organized, neat nick who hosed the rocks outside her home on week nights in order to be available to question, er, greet us when we came home from work each day.  Indeed, she had become a professional at drawing out information I never intended to add to her gossip list, and so I used to peek through all the front windows to see if the coast was clear of Mrs. Morrow before going out to my garden. 

Yet somehow, I suspect constant patrol, she always found me no matter how early I gardened, nor what side of the house I was on and so I pretended not to hear her calling to me as I berated her discovery under my breath.  Ignoring her only worked the first time and now she would walk her round self, gingerly and hastily over to where I was and tap me on the shoulder, causing me to look up into her time worn, smiling face; her bright eyes setting me up, along with her wrinkled mouth with how she never sees me anymore and how are the boys.  My mouth lied back to Mrs. Morrow with it’s own smile as my mind raced to come up with something to say which was really nothing so that I didn’t wince over having given her something to talk about.  

I began to feel like a hostage in my own home and felt I had to put an end to this nonsense, which is when it occurred to me to leave my garden tools lying about in such disarray as to discourage Mrs. Morrow from jaunting over to my yard. 

I could never have foreseen the possibility of her stepping right onto the head of the rake, nor how the handle would have struck poor Mrs. Morrow right between the eyes.  Everyone talked about it for months and now I comfort myself thinking that she would have liked knowing she was still in on the neighborhood conversation.

BIO: Rhonda M. Smolarek hides writes under the nom de plume of Olive Rosehips, where she makes up things all the while using proper grammer and spell checks.  She generally does this in stiletto's with her pedicure in vivid shades of red. Why? Don't ask me, I just work here. Word is she also does website design/re-design at OliveRosehips.com  and plays at getting absurd songs stuck in people's minds in order to amuse herself... I know, right?