Contributor: Jeff Hill - - He walked into the very poorly lit bar and took the stool right next to me, even though there were literally dozens of other available seats to choose from. I politely smiled and raised my glass to his arrival, but the look he gave me sent chills right down to my core. He glared at me. He hated me. But screw him. He was the one who chose to sit by me. Obviously he had something on his mind. He had to. Why else would he have sat next to a complete stranger in an almost empty bar? I opened my mouth to make a comment on the latest game or the weather, I’m not really sure which, when he put up his hand and stopped me. “Don’t,” he said. “Just… Don’t.” So I didn’t. Instead, I picked up my drink and walked to the other end of the bar. Disgusted and a little confused, I finished my drink and signaled the bartender....

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Author: Jeff Hill

Contributor: Gary Clifton - - DEA tried a dozen ways to make a buy off this dealer "Red Fred" - white guy who operated around Grand Avenue east of Fair Park. A skinny lunk with scruffy red hair, he wore a bullet scar through his face - a little round circle on each cheek. Boss was up my ass to bust the guy. My snitch, Willie One Nut said Red Fred hung around a crap game in a house just off R.L. Thornton Freeway. "Jes' walk in with me, toss some bread on the table, and bingo...two honkys playing like old buds. And Home, I'm gonna split, soon as you touch them dice." Hell, piece of cake. Besides Red Fred and Me, there were five other shooters and two or three more spectators leaning on walls. Nobody seemed concerned about two white guys playing. Flash my roll, convince him I was fiendin', see if he would offer up any crank he might be...

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Author: Gary Clifton

Contributor: Acquanetta M. Sproule - - Peterboro had come to the wrong side of town to play. His Rescuer whistled for a cab. For some reason, the closest cab driver sped up and kept driving. The Rescuer pulled a pistol from his back waist-band, shot out two of the taxi's tires and whistled for another cab. This one stopped. The Rescuer settled Peterboro into the back seat and handed the driver a C-note. He winked at Peterboro, then returned to the alley where he'd just saved Peterboro's butt from three muggers. What sounded like three gunshots scattered the lookee-lous and spurred Peterboro's driver into traffic. Peterboro didn't feel as embarrassed as he might've. From the smell, the driver was gonna have to clean the front seat as well as the back… - - - I write weird stu...

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Author: Acquanetta M. Sproule

Contributor: Anant Hariharan - - The only noise that filtered through the gently shimmering mist of snowflakes was the throbbing beat of dark, pristinely laced shoes against the sidewalk. You can do this, Will-The teenager twisted his head towards the nearest house; the blaze of luminescence emanating from the dwelling surpassed the pitiful glow of all the streetlights that adorned the narrow road. It was flanked by an array of vehicles that included a five-wheeled motorbike acrimoniously letting out slow, grating rumbles, as well as an exhibition of sports cars and a single mini blissfully parked several meters away from the rest of its loud-mouthed relatives.-Just go over there and say hi.Will took two quivering steps; past two boys slumped against a patch of broken shrubbery like beaten scarecrows, their sweaty arms...

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Author: Anant Hariharan

Contributor: Acquanetta M. Sproule - - “Please! Don’t do this!” (...tired...so tired...) “We love you!” (...yeah, right...like pizza or cookies or various types of chocolate...) “Please come out...” (...I think that I shall miss butterflies most...) “...let’s talk about things!” (...but then, butterflies are eaten, too.) “NO!!!!!...oh no...” - -...

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Author: Acquanetta M. Sproule

Contributor: Jim Clinch - - Betty lived alone. It was how she liked it, and one of the few positive contributions she made to the world. She watched the soap opera network at high volume because her hearing was going. She chain smoked long, filtered lady cigarettes and had a cat named Bob until one night he didn’t come back in large part because he was sick of the loud TV, her secondhand smoke and the crummy table scraps. Leon broke in to the old single-wide because he thought no one was home. The blaring TV might have suggested otherwise, but he’d heard somewhere that old people sometimes leave the TV on while they are away to make burglars think someone’s home. Leon thought he was pretty smart not to fall for that trick. Leon had an IQ that bordered on the mentally disabled range. When he saw Betty in her dirty recliner he...

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Author: Jim Clinch

Contributor: Anton Gunasingam - - "There's a monk at our front door," I told my sister. She was in bed reading a book. “What does he want?” “He won’t say. He’s just standing there and grinning.” She didn't look up. "Tell mom." "I already did." "And..." "She's busy emailing someone. She said she'll speak to him in a minute." "Did you ask him in? Mom will say you didn't show him any respect. And she'll be mad." "Already did. But like I told you he isn’t replying." "Is he one of those foreign guys who can't speak English?" "No. He looks like us. But he's got a bowl under his arm." "A bowl?" My sister was interested. "What kind of a bowl?" I shrugged. "I don't know. But it’s a pretty big one. Like those bowls you put fish in." My sister shut her book. "Let's go have a look." He didn't see us check him out from the upstairs...

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Author: Anton Gunasingam

Contributor: Leonard Treman - - The fortune cookie read, “First, the unthinkable will happen. Then there will be world peace. Then a lobster will ask your hand in marriage. Then the world will end.” Clara began to laugh hysterically. That fortune cookie was awful. She looked at her fiancé and said, “Have you ever seen anything like that in a fortune cookie before?” Her husband to be, Bill looked her in the face and said, “No.” His nose twitched, his nose always twitched when he lied. “Can’t you ever tell the truth?” Clara asked. “Of course I can,” Bill said. Clara sighed and let it go; it was not worth a fight. The next morning she drove to work. She was a teacher at cobblestone elementary, but more than that, she was a kindergarten teacher. She started her day and noticed that the teacher’s assistant had given them all Sippy...

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Author: Leonard Treman

Contributor: Acquanetta M. Sproule - - "Blurrrpulrr'rr?" Wwurrburrlurrbela asked it's partner in crime -- for the third time. Kerrplukkerrlurrkle gurgled it's amusement, "You worry too much, old friend! If these things are as unusual as you've said, I wouldn't miss perceiving them for anything. Besides, what could possibly happen that we two couldn't handle?" "Very Well," Wwurrburrlurrbela glurmbled discontentedly, "I just hope that I won't be sorry for having mentioned it." Kerrplukkerrlurrkle, demonstrating its confidence, oozed ahead even faster through and out of the porous rock, collecting itself into a handsome, brown puddle on the sandy beach. It jiggled with delight as Wwurrburrlurrbela struggled to catch up. "Keep to the darker areas," Wwurrburrlurrbela warned, "the brighter ones hurt and make you dry out too fast." Kerrplukkerrlurrkle...

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Author: Acquanetta M. Sproule

Contributor: Ryan Stevens - - Loud, crass punk rock music rudely awoke Bill Poore on Monday morning. His anarchist neighbors in the next apartment, a bunch of cokehead 20-somethings trying to make it big as a punk-rock stars, were starting practice earlier and earlier it seemed. Bill hated them. He didn’t know any of their names, but he knew their faces, pale and tattooed and pierced with hair colors alternating neon greens and dismal blacks. As much as he hated their music, he hoped they stuck to it. He hoped they stuck to it, went nowhere with it, and all died from heroin overdoses. These thoughts floated in Bill’s head as he made breakfast in his robe and slippers. He worked nights as a security guard at the local Wal-Mart, and his open eyes were a deep rouge from sleep deprivation, but once awoken he had been unable to ignore the...

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Author: Ryan Stevens

Contributor: Darlene Campos - - Mondays at the Ennis Washateria were always empty. Samuel ‘Suds’ Ennis, the boss and big bellied man behind the register was giving spare change to Miss Johnson. Unlike the rest of Elgin Avenue, Miss Johnson did laundry on Monday mornings. Suds thought she was peculiar with her tiny loads, never having quarters, and that awful purse she carried around. She was close to his age, around 55 or so, with grown kids and a long dead husband, but still the weirdest woman on the block. Suds gave her enough change for one load, her usual, but this time she said she only had half a load. “Half a load?” Suds exclaimed. “Where’d you get them clothes? A half off sale?” “Very funny, Suds,” she said and strolled her cart away to washer #2. Suds locked the register and dragged himself to outside for a quick cigar smoke....

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Author: Darlene Campos

Contributor: John Laneri - - Bernard stepped toward the flower garden, his movements slow and measured. It was time for his customary morning walk through the flower garden. Near a gazebo, he spotted Millie Boyd sitting on a bench beside a red hibiscus. He waved to her and continued on, his attention going to a line of roses along the quiet secluded paths. To him, Millie was an old friend, another elderly resident at the Happy Years Retirement Home. “Bernard, darling. Could you come here a minute?” Never one to deny Millie, Bernard turned away from the flowers and ambled toward the gazebo where she sat with a friend. “You’re looking quite lovely, Widow Boyd.” “Why thank you, Bernard.” She indicated the woman beside her. “Have you met, Georgia?” Bernard cocked his head to the side and bowed. “I haven’t had the pleasure.” He studied...

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Author: John Laneri

Contributor: Bob Skoggins - - The bus creaked forward, people still shuffling in to fill the empty seats. Some were in suits. Some were in hoodies. Some were wearing shorts, their skin bumpy from the cold. It was crowded and loud and warm on the city bus. It traveled from Jarvis to Dan Ryan on the south side of Chicago. It carried all kinds of people. A young couple sat in the back. The girl was wearing a backpack, having gotten out of a class at Harold Washington College. Her husband was in a suit. A struggling realtor. They lived on Garfield. “We should have walked. This is taking too long,” he said. “I’m not getting off.” She scooted away from him. “Or taken the L,” he said. “But I hate the L. I hate the bus.” “I’m moving,” she said. “You know I didn’t mean anything by it,” he said. “You talk to him too much. I want you to stop....

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Author: Bob Skoggins

Contributor: Gary Clifton - - In 1952, money in the neighborhood was tighter than wet underwear. Mom couldn't get many shifts in the chicken plant and we hadn't seen the old man since he ran off with that waitress from Omaha the year before. Any work was good work. The smoking old truck sputtered up at 4:30 A.M. This was a strawberry day - pickers needed. I was nine that Summer and they wouldn't let a kid that young on the truck unless they were with an adult. I'd been climbing the side over the stock racks, but somebody snitched. Now the driver watched. Most of the adults were African American females - many with a string of kids attached. I asked Miz Wilson if I could follow her bunch as one of her kids. She was old, maybe thirty-five, with multiple stomachs and a beautiful ebony face that couldn't stop smiling. "Squeeze between Isaac...

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Author: Gary Clifton

Contributor: S Marston - - Splitting the seventh outside Reno; passing wind when you have diarrhoea; Making drunken phone calls to exes; the matrix sequels; experimenting with PCP; having a child to cement a failing marriage; taking one last Long Island for the road; selling Alaska; letting the kids stay over at uncle Mike’s; not signing a prenup; timeshare; electing bush; buying poodles; replying to spam; speedos; upsetting the sacker of cities then taking on Illium; re-electing bush; not scouting Isandlwana; arguing religion; eating pink pork; invading Russia in winter; following Lost. Everyone makes mistakes. Mine was fucking you. - -...

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Author: S Marston

Contributor: Pranas Perkunas - - I had some darkness for breakfast and some light for lunch, then J.S. Bach came knocking and told me about this strip club where they didn’t take dollars, but you could pay the door and the dancers with poems. I scooped up a fistful of sappy sonnets from the kitty-littered floor, and Bach showed me the horrible haikus he wrote about a Korean cutie he friended on Facebook. (He was friend number 4,147.) Then away we sped in the Bachmobile! The place was packed with pimply-faced poets while the dancers were literate and lovely. As I pulled back a glittery garter to insert a poem, my youth was magically restored, and I looked just like Justin Bieber again! Bach and a dazzling dime just out of high school shared a Kool-Aid with two Krazy straws. Her stage name was Baby Gaga, and they went on to make...

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Author: Pranas Perkunas

Contributor: Alyanna Diavane - - At first, we didn't care. We're just too different, Or maybe just indifferent To each other's existence. I can still remember the time when you were just standing there, minding your own business while everyone was rushing to meet you, to get a hold of you, to get close to you. You just didn't care, did you? Too caught up in your mind's devices, never seeing the horde of women wanting, struggling, to be near you, to be recognized by you. It was ironic, really, how we ended up as part of each other's pseudo-family. We never cared for those kinds of things. We had our lives to live, and that's that. I was too preoccupied with my studies while you, you with the piercing stare, was too busy with your mind's abyss. I was useless as your pseudo-sister. We didn't even talk, meet or anything in particular....

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Author: Alyanna Diavane

Contributor: Amy Pollard - - Adamson College would unravel. Nadine just knew it. Adamson College would unravel and she would be the first to go. Biting into her lunch, Nadine grimaced and wiped her lips with a napkin. Nothing would ever be right again. A sour, tangy mayonnaise ground against the edges of her teeth, already lathered with viscous mustard. The slimy, paper-thin lettuce smudged against the roof of her mouth, washed down her throat only by a long sip of thick, goopy root beer. Cheap concession stand, she groused, glancing around the plaza as she wiped her lips again. Named after some heck-of-a-rich professor, Adamson Plaza attracted many visitors from outside of the university. Smiley, gray-haired couples would often stroll the grounds with their yappy toy dogs, restrained by a mere thread. Accountants from other offices...

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Author: Amy Pollard

Contributor: Gary Clifton - - "George, you know them darkies ain't allowed in here." George stood on Turner's Drugstore stoop in the sweltering August sun. James and Early Dee behind, stared at their bare feet on the brick sidewalk, their faded jeans, nearly white from years of harsh washing and sun-bleaching on a hot clothesline, gapped six inches above the ankles. "Made a nickel apiece rakin' Miz Evan's leaves. Jes' wanted to buy some candy." In 1952, a nine year old had good reason to be afraid of a big man in the Alabama Klan like Willis Turner. Turner was heavily into "The Cause" of white superiority. "Get your white trash ass in here and buy for them." George picked out a meager selection while James and Early Dee stood, noses pressed against the window glass. Turner took...

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Author: Gary Clifton

Contributor: Chad Bolling - - Most people in my time are ageless and live forever without fear of a natural death. It was not through science that this was achieved. It was through myth, the supernatural, and the like that ageless immortality was given to the human race. Not to say that science hadn't achieved many wondrous advancements. In my time, “humans” have traveled to galaxies far past our own. Because of our advancement in lifespan, distant space exploration was made possible. We can spend many decades in cryo-sleep, traveling through deep space, and those at home don’t age a day while they wait for their explorer to return home. We have colonies on Mars and many reside in space-station cities that house millions of “souls”. The other problem the human race had was disease. Cancer more specifically, but the path to immortality...

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Author: Chad Bolling

Contributor: Chris Sharp - - “Papa, I was just accidentally coming up with the name of that salmon you pulled out of that little brook the other day with your fingers. It was the General Patton brook salmon. That’s what you called this salmon, Papa. Remember?” Mary’s drinking is revolting, Hemingway said in his head, as he liked to do when he was writing. Without pencil or typewriter in front of him, he was in the writing habit inside his brain anyway, chronicling Mary as he had done for their last safari together following that crazy Pauline in “The Green Hills of Africa.” Mary was a good wife with a big heart and loyal to him and she was also the biggest imposter and the littlest fool he had ever known in his life. “Mary,” he said to her. This fourth wife had become such a Hemingway imitation that he thought of her caged in parenthesis...

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Author: Chris Sharp

Contributor: Susan Dale - - ‘Soldiers steadily advancing.’ He fell to the ground, this Cherokee son, fighting in Vietnam. He was laying pressed tight against a log. Tall, thick underbrush concealed him from approaching guerrillas; the guerrillas advancing up from an underground tunnel. A steady stream of them coming to keep coming. ‘Parades of Asian soldiers. As many vietcong, as ants emerging from an ant hill. Marching up and forward with set purpose.’ Sunset to twilight. The blue-black beginnings of night peeking around the corner with starry eyes when he felt brave enough to pop his head up and assess. ‘More, than more guerrillas; all emerging from that same underground tunnel. Fanning out to be here, there, everywhere. Steps cracking branches and rustling underbrush. All taking positions that begin battles with Arvin. Arvin...

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Author: Susan Dale