Contributor: Hailey Hartford - - “It’s just a car,” I kept telling myself, like a mantra. Over and over and over. “It’s just a car.” But it was staring. At me. The headlights looked so incriminating, and I felt dirty. I wiped my back and looked at my palm. No dirt. Just a feeling. After a day or so of watching the car parked next to my house, I decided to look at more than just the bow. The back right bumper had caved in quite a bit, and looked rather rusty. Why didn’t the whole car rust over? I sat back down next to the front again and resumed the staring competition. It got more and more intense, and I had to look away a few times. It won, and I continued to feel guilty. Where was the guilt coming from? It was starting to get dark, but the car was parked directly beneath the street lamp. It looked angrier with me, even though I couldn’t...

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Author: Hailey Hartford

Contributor: Donal Mahoney - - Teddy Fister took the bus to work today, something he will never do again, unless the used car he plans to buy tonight also croaks in the middle of an intersection the way his 1960 Rambler did last night. He sold the clunker on the spot to the tow-truck driver who took it to his junkyard. And that's where his beloved Rambler, and its 210,000 miles, sits in a row with other cars, some terminal and others deceased, every one of them waiting for an automotive mortician to part them out. That unfortunate incident is why Teddy is on the bus this morning, bouncing up and down with others, including a rotund man, redolent of garlic, who took the seat next to Teddy a moment ago. The rotund man is Oliver Beckin. After he settled in next to Teddy, he began a soliloquy that everyone on the bus could hear if not...

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Author: Donal Mahoney

Contributor: Beth J. Whiting - - Stephen was nervous. The competition looked prepared, but he wasn’t sure about himself. He'd practiced at least two hours a day for the past month. He'd like to say his parents forced him to, but he couldn’t lie; he pushed himself into it. Stephen saw all the other children in the piano competition. They were pretty good. They were dressed at their best as he was. The girls wore glittery blouses or Sunday dresses. The boys dressed in mini tuxedos. Even though they were children it was still very intense. The judges sat in the front row of the theatre. The remaining expanse of red seats was empty. Stephen could see the judges taking terse notes with disapproving expressions on their faces. The pianists in this group weren’t amateurs. They were all gifted prodigies. It was regrettable, but each hoped the...

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Author: Beth J. Whiting

Contributor: Vela Damon - - "Well, I guess you could get that one if you want…you know…the worst performance ever." Kirsten let out a sigh. Why did Micha always have to be such a techno snob? So what if she was being a total girl, deciding on a laptop just because it came in hot pink and neon green? But of course Micha had to go on about megabytes this and RAM that and streaming video the other. The laptop she recommended: boring black and twice as much as the one in the cool colors. Kirsten automatically winced at the price tag, wondering for the thousandth time if she'd ever be rid of the habit. Micha didn't bat an eyelash, but Micha hadn't grown up dirt poor; both of her parents were doctors. Kirsten sighed again. “Are you sure this one's worth the extra money?" She didn't hear half the response, tuning Micha out once...

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Author: Vela Damon

Contributor: Bob Carlton - - My name is Bob. It has always been Bob. Until now. Suddenly, no matter how much care I take in spelling out my name, whenever I go back later and reread it, it appears as “Bobby.” I began to see things, things that no one else seemed, or bothered, to notice. More and more baby names beginning with 'B'. An increase in alliterative poetry, brimming over with such lines as “My brain, battered by barbiturates.” A sudden resurgence in airplay for the song “Beat on the Brat” by the Ramones (rhymes with 'bones'; why did I say that?). An academic essay by a respected linguist, noting that recently, through some unexplainable phonemic shift, the occurrence of the letter 'b' in written documents of any kind had increased by 22.2%. My own prose began bubbling over with 'b' words. It has become beyond obvious to me...

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Author: Bob Carlton

Contributor: Kristina England - - Jamie lit a cigarette and leaned up against the wall of an old warehouse. "Hear about the mailbox bandit?" Billy shook his head. He looked at her lips as she casually brought the ciggy up and parted them. "What's the deal with the mailbox bandit?" He said, trying to pry his eyes from her mouth. "Some kid, or maybe kids, has been going around taking out mailboxes. Cops think the weapon's a bat." "What does your father think?" "He's a fire fighter. They fix the issue. They don't solve it." Jamie pushed her hair out of her face and turned to Billy. "You want a taste?" "Huh..." Jamie's lips curled. "The cigarette, man. You want some?" Billy blushed and shook his head. "You need to live dangerously, man. That's what the mailbox bandit is doing. He's living life on the edge." Billy shook his...

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Author: Kristina England

Contributor: Foster Trecost - - Alone on the platform, I waited for a train. I stared down the rails until they ran together and wondered what I'd say. Shuffling sounds broke my trance and I turned to see a familiar face. The name Carl Timmons came to mind, along with a hidden cringe. He kept his distance and I wasn't sure if he remembered me. English teacher at some girls prep. Preppie himself. My hidden cringe was beginning to show. Jenny was coming home for the holidays; Christmas closed in and I looked forward to spending it alone. I just had to find a way to tell her. The train came and she stepped down wearing that cream-colored beret, of course, and I thought it wouldn't be so hard. I asked if she was hungry. She fidgeted, looked around, shrugged shoulders. “There's a place around the corner.” A last meal, I thought. She...

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Author: Foster Trecost

Contributor: Judy Hall - - The worst part? I know who I am but I don’t know when I am. There I am. I am twelve years old, my calico hair cut short. I am hiding in the backyard, in what we call the Children’s Forest and there are birds singing lullabies and if I didn’t know that Daddy is hunting me and he’s more than just angry I would think it is beautiful. But beauty doesn’t enter here. Daddy’s more than furious. There is no word in my vocabulary for what Daddy is except Daddy. Not the good Daddy who is funny and plays pinochle. Not the Daddy who takes us to Sunrise Mall and buys us bandannas from Spencers’ and shakes from Orange Julius. This Daddy is too scary for words and I have made him angry – again – and I have escaped, the quivering but resolute prey, and am hiding in places so obvious he would never look. I am under a wild...

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Author: Judy Hall

Contributor: Burt Baum - - “I need you to get some fruit and vegetables,” my wife said. We were having people to dinner the next evening and from her voice, her pallor and her glassy eyes I realized that she was in a state somewhere between high anxiety and complete panic. Now I’d rather subject myself to a colonoscopy than shop, but I agreed. I needed to get far away before she began her “you never do anything to help me” diatribe, invariably accompanied by her imitation of Mount Vesuvius. She told me to go to the Pharmer’s Market. This is a new “cutesy” store and it’s not that its owners can’t spell. The name is meant to show that they sell fresh produce (mainly organic) as well as a variety of herbs, supplements, vitamins (from A to Z) and non-prescription lotions and pills that will cure anything from hangnails to halitosis. They...

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Author: Burt Baum

Contributor: J. Figueroa - - (Shots fired) my love, my hustler, my protector is gone. I hide under my bed as far away from my window. Momma is a crack head so I don’t think she paid it any attention. Dad was never around so I’m afraid. Who will protect me? I am only 19 years old. Who do I run to? There is nobody around just him. The man I am always staring at pass by my window everyday. He looks so confident. I am sure I will never be afraid if I were wrapped in his arms; and his money, oh God he must have lots of it. Someone like him I would love, not a crack head who would not even notice if I were gone; or a person who forgot I even exist. He stares back at me and I like that. He is always outside making his money but I hate that he always has to run. Cops are always after him and men are always looking to scare him but he is the...

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Author: J. Figueroa

Contributor: Nicole Chapman - - The night before, my mother extracted the box of ashes from the back of my grandmother’s minivan where it had been resting for three days. I expected an ornate vase, a velvet drawstring bag, or a porcelain jar, something (anything) other than a plain cardboard box sealed with packing tape. The box sat on the dining room table overnight. I crawled out of bed and tiptoed through the house by the glow of the hallway nightlight to check to see if it had shifted. In the morning, the box was gone and so was my family. I searched the house and then found them, sad silhouettes performing a ceremony in the early morning sun. The sliding glass door felt cool on my cheek. With one hand on the smooth, black door handle and the other clutching my grandmother’s beige, lace curtains, I watched through the glass as...

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Author: Nicole Chapman

Contributor: Caroline Kepnes - - It was such a mistake to start menstruating at a coffee shop in Silver Lake.Wrong, wrong, wrong. The only thing stupider would be menstruating in Santa Monica because then you'd have to find somewhere to throw stuff away. I should have gone to Hollywood to bleed. People get shot there. It's cool. This cushy sea-foam green vinyl chair probably costs five grand and nobody else in here started the day with a Midol and a donut at 7-11, except maybe the girl washing dishes in the back. They're all so skinny. Even their skin is skinny. They look hydrated. Yet they're not drinking water. WTF? And the clothes, wow, these people don't just leaf through Lucky Magazine. They mark their favorite products with those freebie post-its and go out and actually buy the red pants. Naturally, because I'm a day early, Scott...

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Author: Caroline Kepnes

Contributor: Chris Griglack - - He stands still in quiet contemplation as the heavens empty themselves around him. His mind wanders and his feet long to do the same, but they are still as the rain continues to fall. Warm droplets soak into the tightly woven fibers of his suit, pressing close to flesh, running ever onward to some new place. He stands still as it washes over him and allows it to take him elsewhere. The man in the suit remembers a different rain, or perhaps the same rain in a different place. The rain he remembers is lighter, a mist which hangs in the air like a fine net, waiting to ensnare any who might dare stride through it. One child dares, though he is not snared by the mist's presence. He is energized by it, leaping from puddle to puddle and through its shimmering presence in the air. It sticks to his face as he...

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Author: Chris Griglack

Contributor: Donal Mahoney - - As I've told my wife too many times, the meaning of any poem hides in the marriage of cadence and sound. Vowels on a carousel, consonants on a calliope, whistles and bells, we need them all if a poem is to tickle our ears. Otherwise, the lines are gristle and fat, no meat. Is it any wonder, then, my wife has had a problem, for decades now, with any poem I've given her to read for a second opinion. This is especially true when we both know the poem has no message and I simply want to hear the music, assuming there is some. Miles Davis made a living doing the same thing in jazz clubs. Why can't I have a little fun and give it a try even if my instrument is words? The other night in bed I gave my wife my latest poem to read. I said it was fetal, not final. Afterward she said that reading this poem was no...

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Author: Donal Mahoney

Contributor: Gary Clifton - - Freddy and Jimmie Bob sat on Freddy's back porch, chugging shots of shine, chasing it with Budweiser. The air at dusk was still sticky with humidity, but the temperature had dropped and mosquitoes weren't bad yet. The old man shuffled up through the trees in the fading light. "Hey, Arthur," Freddy said. "Meet my brother Jimmie Bob...plumber up in Hot Springs, drove down to visit." Freddie circled his ear with a finger and pointed his chin at Arthur. Jimmie Bob nodded understanding. "Hot Springs," the old man struggled up the steps. Ancient, with a permanent forward stoop, his bushy hair and scraggly beard had dodged the comb for months. "Must be sixty mile." "More like 97...this far into Louisiana here," Jimmie Bob scratched his nose with the back of a hand and took a hit of shine. Freddy, with more tattoos...

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Author: Gary Clifton

Contributor: P.M. Brandvold - - My mother and father met on New Year’s Eve at an office party. They were drunk and lonely, which is almost certainly a requirement for attending such a party. Mother was 27, and the receptionist of some CEO on the top floor. Father was a 29 year old accountant on the fifteenth floor. By all laws of the universe they should never have met. But fate was with me as I tried to enter the world. My recipe: an empty office, a desk cleared in haste, and a lot of tequila. My mother found out soon after. My father knew shortly after that. He wasn’t happy. He never really was happy, though I think he just hated his job because, let’s face it, nobody wants to get with an accountant. They might catch boring. There were fights after that. They were constantly yelling, though they avoided each other for the most part....

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Author: P.M. Brandvold

Contributor: Beth J. Whiting - - Mr. Sawyer needed to rest his body so he took his brain out on the front porch. After resting he went to the front porch to get his brain back and he saw that it had disappeared. He asked the neighbor across the street if she saw anything. The neighbor was an elderly person like himself. She was rocking in her chair, crocheting. “I saw some kids who were playing soccer take it with them. They were kicking it around.” “WHAT?” He yelled. “Yeah they were kicking it like a ball.” He was nervous and fidgeting. “Did you see where they went?” “They went to play out in the park.” The park was only a block away. Mr. Sawyer anxiously walked to the park, cursing the boys. The park was large and green. He saw two boys there. He knew it must have been them so he yelled to the boys. “Where did you put my brain?” “Oh...

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Author: Beth J. Whiting

Contributor: Jade Kolbo - - The service was nice. An old man with a wrinkled tie had read the eulogy. In the front of the tiny chapel, old ladies had patted their eyes with handkerchiefs, careful not to mess up that cheap red lipstick and blue eye shadow. Most people paying their respects had left their children at home, much to the relief of the grieving family who had ached for some peace. There had been no coffin or urn in front of the altar. They had to go without saying their goodbyes to something they could physically see. Mutterings of the latest news in the investigation had circulated throughout the dim room by the end of the service. Some people had made comments saying that the family should have waited for the body to be found before planning a major service. Others had mentioned that the family needed some kind of closure...

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Author: Jade Kolbo

Contributor: Kristina England - - Mary turned the corner onto Contel Street. Her feet hit the pavement in careful strides. Every few minutes, she winced. After 5 miles, she stopped and leaned against a street sign. She bent over and massaged her left leg. "Come on, baby. You can do it." The truth was that Lefty wasn't a baby. She was more like a worn-out house wife. If she could talk, she would have told Mary to go take a walk, but not in the literal sense. Lefty let out a tired sigh that ran along Mary's nerves. Mary winced again. "Okay, that's enough for today." Lefty sighed again. She could feel herself giving out, the fall that came with it. She didn't bother to warn Mary. They had been here too many times before. Nothing Lefty did could stop Mary, short of going limp for good. And Lefty really didn't care for that option,...

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Author: Kristina England