Contributor: Patricia Crandall - - The Sipperly family of Virginia were anxious to move into an old homestead they had acquired in upstate New York. The front of the house faced a little stream of water poetically called Plakapots Killitie by early Dutch Settlers. In back, ran the Hudson River. When they arrived to claim their new home, a Husky lay possessively across the threshold. Assuming he was lost, or left by the previous owner, the family adopted him. The dog came and went regularly, being of no trouble at all. Etched into the wood panel of the upstairs mantelpiece in the large old-fashioned parlor, were the words; La Vita Comincia Domam.* The Sipperlys were presently incorporating the original fireplace bricks to renovate the upstairs fireplace. Ada Sipperly was shocked beyond belief when her husband, Tom, discovered the...

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Author: Patricia Crandall

Contributor: Andrew Wayne Adams - - The birthday boy lifted the AK-47 from its box. He grinned and said, “Thanks, Kevin!” Kevin grinned back, chocolate cake smeared around his mouth like a larger mouth. The birthday boy pointed his new AK-47 at the balloon artist. “Mother promised the best balloon artist in the world.” “I am the best in all worlds!” “Prove it,” the birthday boy said, and fired a warning shot into the ground. The balloon artist yelped. He twisted a long slender balloon into the shape of an Old English Terrier. A pearl of sweat quivered at his temple as he presented the Old English Terrier for inspection. Kevin sneered. “Not very realistic.” The birthday boy put a bullet in the balloon artist’s kneecap. The balloon artist folded to the ground, allowed himself two seconds of terrified screaming, and then...

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Author: Andrew Wayne Adams

Contributor: Valerie Z Lewis - - Adam craned his neck to see over the lip of the tall kitchen trash bin and searched for the can he'd dropped inside. Adam hated his new house. There were too many things he wasn't allowed to do. He wasn't allowed to wear his sneakers inside. He wasn't allowed to play with his soccer ball in the driveway. He couldn't go in the living room at all, only the smaller TV room. He wasn't supposed to make noise in the morning, not even talking noises, because it would wake up his step-dad, his fake-dad. Adam liked school better, where he could talk whenever he wanted, and he even got stickers for answering questions in Math. At school nobody yelled at him. If he broke a rule, instead of being yelled at, he would have to sit in the Time Out Chair for five minutes. School was also good because his friend Pauly...

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Author: Valerie Z Lewis

Contributor: Steve Karas - - "David is in the front of the building,” the secretary informed me. “Lying on the concrete. Again.” This was why I’d become a social worker at El Dorado High School. To save America’s youth. To save the world. David had transferred in from Vermont. Within the first few weeks of the school year, it had become increasingly evident that Hobson, the veteran social worker on staff, had dumped his most difficult cases on me, the rookie. Hobson, on the contrary, spent his days between the faculty lounge and dealing with family disagreements over car privileges. I walked outside. Through his bird’s nest hair, David picked at his scalp with the tip of a pencil. He had on the same knit sweater he wore every day, even though it was eighty-five degrees. A camera case hung from his neck like an Olympic medal. “What’s...

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Author: Steve Karas

Contributor: Jack Caseros - - ON BEHALF OF EVERY WRITER WHO HAS TAKEN INSPIRATION FROM A LIVING MUSE I hope everybody knows that this was never personal. Look, nobody likes having their lives retold from another perspective, especially one that is chilling and removed; nobody likes being made out to look like an anti-hero, especially when everybody else is cast the same way. I know you fucking hated everytime I made a character that sounded like you. But I hope you know, it was never you. How could I imitate or even try to recreate those I love and care about? Is there any reason? Why would I attempt to remould you, when I am well aware that re-creation is perversion. I would never threaten your sanctity to me. And that is because I believe in the holiness of coincidence—the universal karmic meddling that places you...

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Author: Jack Caseros

Contributor: Amin Hosseinioun - - Her blanket slipped down as she raised herself from the bed. He was outside again; sitting on a branch on the old oak; staring at her through the window. He was the Crow. She cried out and covered her nakedness. They stared at each other for several minutes. "What of it" she thought, "it is only a crow". Throwing off her blankets she walked from the room naked, under the crow's fixed gaze which she felt even through the walls. Whatever it was, it wasn’t natural. In the classroom, words on the blackboard were out of focus. She could feel his eyes roaming over her body. Glancing outside she screamed in surprise: he was there again, sitting in an oak tree, staring at her. From that day on, things grew more different by day. Now she walked with her hair around her neck and her high heels giving her a...

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Author: Amin Hosseinioun

Contributor: Alun Williams - - The old man who worked on the fourteenth floor had no name. I guess his mother gave him one, but that was some time ago and no one knew what it was or what he did. We all had our jobs, our little compartments and we all had name tags too, just so we didn’t forget, except for the old guy. He didn’t have an office of his own, not that we knew about. We couldn’t ever find out where he worked, except that we knew it was on the fourteenth floor. Once, we put a chalk cross on every door on the floor and wrote the names of all the staff who worked there. He didn’t work in any of them but each morning he arrived, disappeared down the corridor and reappeared when it was time for lunch. Harvey Goldblum followed him one time. He came back and said that the old guy, we called him Arthur, went to the third bench on...

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Author: Alun Williams

Contributor: Erin Cole - - Claire popped her joints into the corner of the wall and became amber doorframe. Three children charged down the hallway, shrieking with ear-splitting rumpus. The eldest, Sam, tripped over a spot he couldn’t identify. He scratched his head in wonderment, then resumed to the fake beheading of his twin sisters’ by the dull glint of a plastic, pirate sword. Only when they were gone, did Claire wring her shoulders from the molding and continue searching Sam’s room, specifically looking for evidence that he had been shifting. A number of peculiar happenings threatened to confirm her hunch: the stereo clicked on by itself, skipping through tunes like a scratched record. The front door slammed on its own, not a breeze in sight, and the lights intermittently. New house, new bulbs. If he had been shifting,...

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Author: Erin Cole

Contributor: Taylor Dibbert - - Everybody is talking about the economy. He knows that’s a big deal. When things are bad, English classes are one of the first things to go. He is underpaid, underworked and will be on a plane to the US soon unless he can find some new friends with children and deep pockets. He’s not sure if he even cares. He lives in the heart of Madrid, right next to the Plaza Mayor. He knows a lot of people, but he knows few people well. That first conversation, first copa, first kiss is always easy. He’s looking for something more. He knows that what happened in Barcelona wasn’t real. He knows that that was part of the deal and yet he wishes there was more to it. He will finish after lunch tomorrow. From there he will go straight to El Prado. He knows which ones she likes. Besides, stranger things have happened....

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Author: Taylor Dibbert

Contributor: Graham Lowther - - "Nothing is indivisible," said the moldering frail shadow of the antique silent dead clock. "Well that's very dispiriting," came the reply. "Not my concern. However, there is this exception." The clock's shadow extended a faint fist which corresponded with nothing of the clock, and uncurled it revealing the Indivisible Exception flickering with inward red light--a Substance in the shape of a miniature unicorn stood solidly on the moldering silhouette palm. A human hand took the Indivisible Exception. A mouth laughed in triumph. Eyes roved about in jittery, nervous near-terror. Legs carried the whole assembly, the man, away from the clock and, more significantly, its shadow. The shadow of a lamp lay in the path the desiccated shriveled brain had plotted out. "Why do you put my progress in doubt?" said...

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Author: Graham Lowther

Contributor: Miles Gough - - “You would be amazed with what monsters talk about when they get together,” the Grand Fiend told me over a meal of take-out falafel (for me) and deep fried human fingers (for him). He leaned back, in that typical expansiveness of his, and smiled fangs. “What do you think monsters talk about?” “I’m not sure, prime hunting grounds, you know, how to get victims.” “Not by half,” he said with strong slither of dismissal. “Why would they ask about that in this overpopulated world, this is a global fast food proposition. Do you talk to your friend about grocery shopping?” “Then I suppose they go on about not getting caught by the authorities or at least, from those monster hunters you’ve mentioned.” “Sir Edward and his ilk? Why bother? Talking about them just enables the little nuisances, best not mention vermin...

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Author: Miles Gough

Contributor: John Laneri - - A September moon was just beginning to appear when Jarvis Thornton, a quiet, little man, stepped away from the food table and started across the town square. In the air, a hint of fall made the night perfect for an old-fashioned election rally. Smiling broadly, he worked his way through a crowd of people, acknowledging friends and acquaintances. In just two short months, he hoped to be the next mayor of Baxterville, a small community near Waco. From all indications, his candidacy was pulling ahead, especially after the town council had refused to endorse Big Al Slocum, the current mayor and local Chevrolet Dealer. “Howdy folks. How y’all tonight,” he said comfortably, his voice inspired with power. “You’re lookin’ good,” a voice screamed from the crowd. Once on the grass away from the crowd, Jarvis...

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Author: John Laneri

Contributor: Taylor Dibbert - - String hoppers, chili paste, dahl, gravy, chicken, a fried egg, greens, an array of curries, a bit of arrack and copy of Boomerang by Michael Lewis. If Lewis is not doing the trick I will switch to fiction; I have been meaning to get to Sons and Lovers for months. Maybe tonight will be the night. Why would my phone be ringing? Nobody ever calls me after 9PM. (Nobody ever calls me before 9PM either). “Hello. Is this Siva?” “No, this is not Siva.” “Okay, thanks.” My phone is ringing again. “Hello, Siva…” “Sorry, I am still not Siva. You have the wrong number. This is Mr. Mark.” “Are you Sri Lankan?” “Do I sound like I’m Sri Lankan?” “No.” “You would be correct.” “Well, are you alone then?” “Yes. I’m alone.” “What do you do for fun? Aren’t you lonely?” “I read. I write. I walk. But, most of...

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Author: Taylor Dibbert