Contributor: E.K. Smith - - “So, I’ve called you in here today to let you know that… well, there’s really no easy way to say this, so I guess I’ll just say it--- we’re going to have to let you go. I wish we had another option, but we don’t.” Clinton sat across from his boss of ten years in a stuffy, cramped office on the twelfth floor of a high rise built in the 1970s. As soon as he heard the voice stop emanating from his boss’s gingivitis-ridden mouth, he closed his eyes to allow each word to sink in--- one by one--- into the utter chaos that constituted his fatigued, painfully mediocre brain. Just as he was starting to process the meaning behind the string of words, a brisk banging sound shoved its way into his ears. It came from behind him. A morbidly obese, blonde man in a skin-tight button up shirt turned the doorknob and stuffed...

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Author: E.K. Smith

Contributor: Michael A. Withell - - I'm tired and I can't remember why they didn't bring me my tablets. I have my tablets every morning at six, it's strange that no-one brought them to me. The lady walks over to my bed, touches me on the face. Not too hard. And she gives the small cup to my tired hand. They always taste like the cold; bitter and metallic like the robot that they intend to turn me into. I wonder if a robot can feel the cold? Cold; it's cold in here. The Sun seems to be on the other side of the corridor and it's dark. I can even begin to see my breath in front of my eyes, dancing in the remnants of the morning light. You shouldn't smoke in here, they'd say to me; but I'm not smoking. It's the cold, I'd say, A picture painted by my very lungs. The door in front of me is open and my breath quickens in apprehension...

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Author: Michael A. Withell

Contributor: Janet Yung - - The old, light blue, faded mini-van moved slowly down the street, pausing for a moment in front of the house. Emily wouldn’t have noticed except she was in the yard adjusting the sprinkler set up to water the newly laid sod. “Twice a day, one hour each for two weeks till it takes,” the landscaper who’d installed it the previous week advised. Emily stuck to the regimen in spite of the slightly water logged appearance it was taking on. “It’s doing okay,” the landscaper said in response to Emily’s frantic call regarding it’s condition. Stooped by the faucet behind the shrubs, she glanced up as the van crept by. The water sprayed droplets on the driver’s side with the sign advertising yard clean ups specializing in scooping poop. It could’ve been any old van, similar to the ones that trolled the alleys for...

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Author: Janet Yung

Contributor: George Sparling - - Two ugly lizards climb my wall to eat sow bugs, flies, and cockroaches. I can direct these glaucous reptiles back into their home, a terrarium, with my pineal gland. I eat human placenta whenever I can to boost my immune system. Red peppers, beets, turnips, dandelion leaves, and fetus-food I mix in a cast iron skillet cooked on a wood-burning stove. My teeth, serrated from too much port wine and bad horse while living in Oakland, yet my words are fluent, so others tell me, thoughts spilled loose from my lips, doves escaping their cage. It was in the hole in prison that I understood I was a shaman, one who knows. The hole was midnight black, with a concrete floor, a small opening to piss and shit, and I was always naked. Where else would you expect to find a man convicted of second-degree murder? Unceremoniously,...

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Author: George Sparling

Contributor: Gary Clifton - - The ear-splitting music in the kitchen distracted the undercover cop. As Pablo stepped away to get the dope, the huge dog materialized, intent on a bite of Narc crotch. Pablo returned. "Damn Bozo, sleeping on the job again." Stoned, he didn't notice the dent in the skillet on the stovetop. - - - Gary Clifton, forty years a cop, published a novel in national paperback and has published or has pending articles in several online magazine si...

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Author: Gary Clifton

Contributor: Lewis Gesner - - Dad told me not to talk with other children, or even to the teachers but to answer questions as short as I could. He told me, there is nothing for me to gain from them. Go to school and come home. I always tried to do as he told. I don’t go out to recess and I sit alone at lunch. The others are mostly boring to me, and I am not good at playing and running and jumping and other physical things. But I can move a pencil good. I mean, draw pictures. Dad doesn’t even know about that. I draw alot, when I don’t go out to recess. Actually, I feel a little lonely. I want to talk sometimes, but I don’t. I want to talk about pictures. I don’t like the school. So, when I draw, I am drawing the things I like to be around, and things that I remember from home, and I don’t feel so lonely. My desk top has a couple of...

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Author: Lewis Gesner

Contributor: John Laneri - - Sheriff Matt Carson first noticed the bee when it flew from a prickly pear to the wooden casket containing the remains of the Honorable Theodore Busard, a man originally from Kentucky. At the time, the Sheriff was standing with a group of people at the cemetery, wiping sweat from his brow and reflecting on the final minutes of the Judge’s career, which so the story goes, ended with a smile during his last visit to Aunt Jillie’s Boarding House, the finest establishment along the cattle trail to Fort Worth. Curious, he followed the bee, watching it explore a handful of flowers as it worked its way from bloom to bloom, oblivious to the people at the graveside. Soon, he saw it dart to the preacher’s shoulder where it dawdled quietly close to the man's collar. The good Reverend casually flicked it away, his...

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Author: John Laneri

Contributor: Justine M Dunn - - My wife and I sat by the river drinking beer, as we often did on a Saturday afternoon. The streets were busy, the sunshine a welcome visitor after a week of sporadic weather. We watched the pedestrians flow past in their hundreds; some dressed for dinner others looked ready for the beach. We chewed our courtesy peanuts as we chatted and I waved the waitress for another round of beers. Just as my arm reached its resting position on my thigh, my wife gasped and stared at me wide eyed. “What happened to you just then?” She said, snatching her sunglasses away from her face. “What do you mean?” “You vanished. I blinked, and then for a tiny, tiny second you weren’t there.” “Um, I haven’t gone anywhere.” I replied, confused at her sudden outburst and slightly embarrassed by the flutter of attention by the couple...

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Author: Justine M Dunn

Contributor: Leonard Treman - - They traveled through the woods and headed to the next town in Mississippi. The two had been friends since childhood. Jordan was black, Michel was white and together they had raised money to see the MBA finals and meet their all-time favorite player. An amount that had taken them nearly a year to raise. An interview with Michael Jordan was not cheap. "Man, don't stop here," Jordan said. "Why, it's just a gas station," Michel replied. "It's a red-neck gas station," Jordan voiced with a bit of concern. "What's wrong with red necks?" asked Michel innocently. "They don't like my people," Jordan said dryly. "Says who?" Michel asked slightly offended. For a moment they were both silent then out of nowhere Jordan said, "Don't you remember when we drove through Detroit. You didn't want to stop at the gas...

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Author: Leonard Treman

Contributor: Gary Clifton - - She sat at the computer, poking into genealogy. "That's similar to experimenting with anthrax," I said. "The dead are dead. Oughta leave 'em there." "Good God," she rushed into the bedroom. "We're figgin' cousins." "This mean no more sex?" "Oh, hell dude, don't get too carried away." - - - Gary Clifton, forty years a cop, published a novel in national paperback and has published or has pending articles in several online magazine si...

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Author: Gary Clifton

Contributor: Karishma Shetty - - She stood there in the cold, dressed in a faux fur coat and leather overalls. Flicking her wrist, she raised the tobacco-stained ochre end to her trembling lips and filled her lungs with pretentious comfort. She stubbed the last ultra-mild under her stiletto and strutted towards his car. This was not the first time. He would park his black Sedan at the corner of Mt. Vernon street on Wednesday nights, and wait outside Delilah’s till she had wrapped up for the day. She’d hop in and they’d head to a pre-booked suite at a wayside inn. Mr. Maloney was a reputed judge who had spent 30 years of his life to serve the law. He was a dedicated husband, a devoted father, and a man whose career panned out without a blotch on his reputation. Tina wasn’t his first escort, but there was something about her that kept...

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Author: Karishma Shetty

Contributor: S.R. Buckley - - Jamie drove them into town, winding through the suburbs at a gentle forty and dropping to thirty as the trees and cul-de-sacs began to fade to terraces and hemmed in, monoxide-shaded office buildings. Jen gave the glove compartment a little tap with her finger, and watched streams of sixth-formers wind their way around a large green park. Jen looked at Jamie’s hands on the steering wheel: still smooth as peaches, without even ghosts of hairs. Her parents would have sounded off about it on any other day: ‘never done a hard day’s work in his life! Call himself a man?’ Today, though, they sat back behind the two of them and said nothing. Cordial, or perhaps intimidated by the inevitable sight of some huge suburban villa. The houses around here were dog-eared, cracked, lopsided. It was all fine having a chip...

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Author: S.R. Buckley

Contributor: Miles Gough - - It was an odd evening with the Grand Fiend. He was reluctant to talk. He begged forgiveness by stating he had a large meal earlier and it was not agreeing with him. He did not need to explain; it was obvious from his distended stomach and from his dinner kicking and hitting. I could see the rumbles and stretched areas where I made out the shape of the desperate fist. Truly, I could almost identify the brand of the boot pushing futilely for some freedom. “Oh, how I wish for fleeter gastric acids. But that is beyond anyone’s control. The part I can control is the ostentatious flourish I have of swallowing my prey whole. It does nothing for the taste, just a party trick that amuses. Like someone who can toss peanuts high in the air and have them land in opened mouth every time. Of course, peanuts are small...

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Author: Miles Gough

Contributor: Chad Stroup - - The tooth pricked and became wedged in my finger. I extracted my hand from the salty water, terrified by the determined nibble. Shark? No, this tooth was somehow less threatening. Iridescent, as though articulated by a masterful diamond cutter. Brilliant and entrancing, it stirred my primal urges. I understood my fate. Tonight I attached a loincloth to my waist (for I may still be modest if I meet a mermaid) and plunged into the sea. I dove deep into the dark, the water filled my lungs, my situation seemed bleak. Pressure building. My man-gills appeared seconds before suffocation. Home. Finally. - - - Chad Stroup is currently pursuing his MFA in Fiction at San Diego State University. He also runs a blog at http://subvertbia.blogspot.c...

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Author: Chad Stroup

Contributor: Eric Suhem - - Leo squeezed into the tiny little chair in the children’s reading room of the public library. Seated around the room, fittingly, were children, aged 4 through 8. On the walls and shelves were various children’s’ art projects, such as finger paintings, drawings, ceramics. The children waited eagerly for Leo to begin reading the story, he chose ‘Crime and Punishment’ by Dostoyevsky. As he read page after page, Leo became more and more animated, eyes bulging, jowls sweating, yelling intensely. Leo was a professional wrestler who liked to volunteer at the library to help the community, and the tiny children’s reading room chair was creaking under his girth. Many children had already left the room. Some of them were disturbed by the incident and dealt with it in their own individual ways. A couple of the children...

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Author: Eric Suhem

Contributor: John Laneri - - Once a month, Jane, and I gather with family for a relaxed evening at the country club. The affairs are comfortable events that feature good food and stimulating conversation. While dressing for last night’s occasion, I recall asking Jane, “Should I wear my red golf shirt?” ”The blue and white you bought at Pebble Beach would look great.” “But, it's my favorite shirt. I’d hate to get blood on it.” She looked at me, frowning. “I’ll never understand what it is between doctors and lawyers. You people have no respect for one another. Just try to endure her. She’s actually a very nice person.” Jane might be right, but with Mary Ellen being the lawyer in the family, I have a personal obligation to protect my ego from her acid tongue. Not only does the woman irritate the hell out of me, she turns simple conversations...

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Author: John Laneri

Contributor: G.A. Rozen - - Never show your cards. Standard maxim, and everyone who knows better keeps it holy. Unless, of course, there's the tilt factor. Before I even look at my cards, I know this is the hand to take him. I've had this guy on the hook for hours, and outside the casino, I have the feeling the sun might just be poking up from behind the mountains. Some people have work weeks, work hours, work seasons. I work when the right fish comes along and starts taking nibbles. Jack seven, off-suit. Garbage. Excellent. He's a math geek, a scientist from one of those countries that might as well be Russia. “Didn't even start playing til' I'm forty,” he'd said, back when he was still talking. He's short, fat, and has one of those god awful haircuts you'd swear was a bad piece. I've played his type before. Lovers of the order hidden...

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Author: G.A. Rozen

Contributor: Zach Smith - - “It doesn’t matter what you say, it doesn’t matter how you say it, as long as you say it with a pipe in your mouth, you will look intelligent.” he said with a pipe in hand being prepared to smoke. He scooped up the tobacco, and pressed it in, but not too firm, testing the firmness by giving a few unlit puffs on the stem to make sure there was proper draw. If the pipe was packed too firmly, then keeping it lit would require much more effort and ergo less enjoyment, if the tobacco was not in firm enough then the smoke would likely get too hot and scald ones mouth, like a hot cup of coffee drunk too fast. He flicked the Zippo, they say you are supposed to use a wooden match with a pipe, but he played by his own rules. How many college guys do you see smoking a pipe around campus anyway, a tobacco pipe that is?...

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Author: Zach Smith

Contributor: Lacy Lalonde - - It was not that Sara wanted to be different, even though she really did. And it wasn’t like she wanted people to notice how different she was, even though she really did. It was just that she wanted to do things in a way that nobody else did, and she never liked to do the same thing the same way twice. She always took a different route home, even if it meant just walking on the opposite side of the street, it was still different. She was still seeing it from a different angle. She was still walking on new ground. It all had to do with a poem, that Robert Frost poem, The Road Not Taken. It is a poignant poem. It is a dangerous poem. It changed her life. History has shown us the power literature can have on the human mind. There are countless examples of this, Plato’s Republic, the Communist Manifesto, Uncle...

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Author: Lacy Lalonde

Contributor: Miles Gough - - "Why are you not doing mating rituals?" the Grand Fiend asked one evening. "You are just cloistered away with such a doddering old monster such as myself. Shouldn't you try to find a mate, a companion, or at least some late-night hook-up?" I told him that I only meet with him once a week, and I enjoyed our time together and our talks. I also mentioned that dating was never a comfortable thing for me. That was one of the reasons I enjoyed the research I was conducting. Talking with blood thirsty monsters once a week was more satisfying and safe then a blind date excursion to a TGIFridays. "But what about dancing?" he asked. "How can you live without dancing? A little Inuit woman told me once that if you do not dance you rust. What fine advice. I was greatly affected by her wisdom and made sure to eat her...

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Author: Miles Gough

Contributor: Matt Shaner - - I stand at the entrance of the room holding a clipboard with our standard sheet of paper; blank lines and spaces for demographics as if you could narrow down a life to bullet points. The man is on the stretcher, tubes running from his arms. A younger man leans at his side. “Matt, is that you?” the man asks. “It is dad. I’m here.” “I’m so glad you’re here. Thank god you’re here.” His wife fills out the paper. Her hand is red around the pen, going white with force. “I want to go. I can’t take this anymore.” “I know dad.” “We had our differences but I love you.” She keeps writing. “He wants to go,” she says. Before I walked in, the nurse told her he would be admitted. His information said he swallowed pills and whiskey. It said he was ranting about returning to Vietnam. The man has a ring of white hair and...

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Author: Matt Shaner

Contributor: John Laneri - - It was a Sunday morning when Sheriff Matt Carson arrived at the Judge's house – a large Victorian located on a hilltop overlooking Neverton, a small community along the cattle trail to Fort Worth. The Judge was none other than the Honorable Theodore Busard, a man that controlled the countryside with a firm hand, a powerful will and a rope that fit readily around many a neck. Hurrying to the Judge’s office, the Sheriff – usually a relaxed, confident man – was justifiably tense, unsure of the Judge's intentions. The old man looked up, peering over half glasses. “Take a seat Sheriff. We need to talk.” He pointed a gnarled finger to a stool then returned to his telescope, a newer model that kept him abreast of the happenings in his domain. To the Sheriff’s eye, the Judge was an frightful man with a skeletal...

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Author: John Laneri

Contributor: Daniel Rosales - - Martin Clark is not a man unlike most, he requires and breathes oxygen, eats and secretes feces like the best of us, and by that I mean people such as presidents and celebrities. However, upon medical examination of said waste you would find the difference between a Herbert Hoover deuce and of fools making some claim to fame; and that of our inadequate narrator’s eating habits and disparaging quality of subsistence. The reader could even determine Clark is malnourished by the coloring of said deuce, but we aren’t here to discuss the fecal matter of someone belonging to the lowest strata of society. Instead this is the tale that begins and ends with Martin Clark. A former prominent Congressman turned destitute bum; looked down upon by former colleagues, and even other beggars. He felt so lowly that it...

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Author: Daniel Rosales

Contributor: Holly Day - - I pick up the newspaper and I see her picture on the front page. Every morning, across the aisle from me on the bus, she sits there with her swollen eyes and her chipped teeth and her layers of pancake makeup, trying to hide the destruction of the night before. For weeks, I’ve tried to work up the nerve to ask her where the bruises come from, who hurts her, why she puts up with it. For weeks, I’ve made plans to become her friend, only chickening out at the last minute. I don’t want to get involved in something I can’t handle. I don’t know how to do these things. I’ve convinced myself she’s a boxer, a wrestler, a rodeo clown, a personal trainer. Of course, I know all these things aren’t true, because she’s so small, too small, and women who do those things usually have muscle tone, height, an aura of self-possession,...

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Author: Holly Day