Breathe stale air with dried lips
Summer heat with a night mix.
So bright, find a tree or two
Shade from a nuclear sun
Author: Bristol Noir
Short Story: HANK & BETH by A.R. Bender
The racetrack bugle call blaring out the intercom speakers jolted him out of his reverie, followed by the sight of horses galloping from the paddock to the track. He checked the odds on the Tote Board, scrubbed his stubbly gray goatee, and tried to figure out if he wanted to bet on it. Finally, he decided to pass because he was already forty bucks down and fifty was his limit. He’d handicapped a promising 8-1 shot on the morning line coming up later in the card, and a $10 win ticket on it might put him even or better for the day.
Short Story: HITTING HER MARK by Russell Thayer
Patting her pale stomach and the dark pile of hair where her long legs met for pleasure, Vivian calculated it must be her sixth visit to Tully’s private getaway cave, with its bare walls, dark-stained Venetian blinds, and wide, comfortable bed. An assistant director at Paramount, Tully had money. He always tipped her a sawbuck just for showing up, and he treated her swell during the hours they spent together. When he called the agency, Tully always asked for their prettiest girl.
Short Story: HEARTSTRINGS by M.E. Proctor
They clapped, whistled, and hooted. The guitar player had a hold on the audience. His songs were all right, the banter between them was better. Max leaned against the back wall. He was tempted to go to the well-appointed bar in the foyer to get a drink, but he had a job to do. Most of the people around him held glasses and plastic cups that they put down on the floor when the urge to applaud came over them. It was a civilized venue, not one of these roadside watering holes where bottles and fists were likely to take flight and crash. The urbane, and urban, nature of the converted cinema presented difficulties.
Short Story: CHARLIE & LOUISE by George C. Glasser
The last time Charlie saw his father was at the train station at the onset of World War Two, and from that point, he and his mother were on their own. He was near four years old then, and the memories of his father were more like fragmented dreams – a person he vaguely remembered.
Flash Fiction: THE BUBBLEGUM INCIDENT by George C. Glasser
Fritz was a writer who only got a job to earn enough money to finance his next move and pay the rent. He was a degenerate gambler of sorts, but he figured it was better to bet on himself than to play the odds at a card table or on the ponies. At any rate, he liked to write.
