
A MARTINI WALKS INTO A BAR by Francine Witte
The sun outside is the color of false hope. He gets to the booth and starts to think handsome thoughts.

The sun outside is the color of false hope. He gets to the booth and starts to think handsome thoughts.

Unbeknownst to you, you were in a ménage à trois with me and depression and I was only able to pleasure one of you.

His mom made a quiet bleating sound under her breath. Fear bolted through him, but now he was seven and so he stood his ground.


Ultimately, she accepted me, weird diet and all. And last night, for the very first time, she slept over.

But maybe it would be good in some way, this sudden death of his, maybe it would mean his son Jason would move back to town and stop chasing that stupid life as a YouTube street magician.

Transfixed by the odd turns and cadence of its speech, each day I set a timer and kept writing until the alarm went off. This approach no doubt held its roots in my background recording music: I thought of these writing sessions like performances, called “takes.”

When it’s dark, we’ll turn off the freeway, pull into the one place we can find. Look, you’ll say, pointing up at the harsh red neon.

The plague, the Good Prophet told them, was a judgment, and it would lay Harpers to waste if they did not repent, so they begged the Lord for mercy.
