Contributor: Taylor Gibbs - - Well you see, it all started with that campy pop-rock song “Drops of Jupiter,” by that corny pop-rock band Train, I believe they are called. Something quite mystical transpired. I was listening to the starry entrancing lyrics when the world began to slip into an unreality. A hazy floating daze swept me off the computer chair where I was checking bus times to a stop seldom used by myself. I realized time was of the essence and I had to get moving if I wanted to catch the bus, on account of the fair walk ahead of me to that near stop. I began my journey home from work at a slightly less than frantic pace toward the aforementioned bus stop. I was getting near to it when all the street lights began to dim. A blank bus appeared out of the darkness, off in the distance, heading toward me. Desperately I picked...

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Author: Taylor Gibbs

Contributor: Donal Mahoney - - "Throw me down the stairs a sandwich, Ollie, I'm hungry," said Dr. Olga Sumvitch, hollering up to me from Hell again in her best fractured English. Although she had spent the last 30 years of her life in the United States working for Monsanto, Dr. Sumvitch still speaks English with a thick accent. I'm one of the few Americans who can always understand her. She has trouble pronouncing my first name, Oliver. But she can always say Ollie, and I have no problem answering to that. Years ago, Dr. Sumvitch emigrated from Moldova to the United States after being hired by Monsanto to fine-tune the formula for Agent Orange. There were some problems in its effectiveness and she had the expertise to work them out. The day the government finally approved the formula for use in Viet Nam, Dr. Sumvitch had gotten...

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Author: Donal Mahoney

Contributor: April Winters - - The day she walked into the high school cafeteria, Michael fell in love for the first time. Tall, naturally blonde, and blue-eyed, the girl was a knock-out in Michael’s eyes. I wonder what grade she’s in, he thought. He found out soon enough when she strode into his tenth grade Geography class well after the bell rang. She handed Mr. Jacobs a piece of paper. He glanced at it then placed it on his desk. “Boys and girls,” he said, “this is our new student, Tammy Remington. Her family’s been stationed here for a while; her father’s a military man.” Then he told Tammy to take the seat behind Joe Raver. Michael cursed the fact that his last name was Connors, wishing it was something with an ‘R’ that would have let her sit in front of him. Michael, quiet and shy, developed into the class clown. He’d do silly...

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Author: April Winters

Contributor: W.M. Dufresne - - There is a desolate barbershop still limping along on Terrier St., but you wouldn’t know it unless somebody told you. It smells like turpentine and all the equipment is really old and what most would consider crappy. But Bob is still cutting hair and making good conversation there. When I first visited Bob, he was trimming sideburns with surgeon’s precision while Dr. Phil babbled on the TV. Some inanimate booger green chairs sat in the middle of the room. From the very get-go I could tell that he was honing in on every individual hair follicle, sniping them joyously with his battered old clippers. I sat there for awhile and watched Bob like a gardener tending to his anthropoid flowers. A black African American man outside dressed as the Statue of Liberty was shrieking obnoxiously about taxes and tax preparation...

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Author: W.M. Dufresne

Contributor: Jerry Guarino - - “Who is this person?” Said Armen, the owner of the new bakery. Armen looked around at his customers, sitting at café tables, drinking tea or coffee and eating desserts. Meanwhile, John was on his computer in the second floor apartment next door. He was playing a game of hide and seek with Armen. “Guess it’s time to make another appearance” said John. Whenever the café was busy, John came in, bought a cookie, hung out a while and checked in, but since he also checked in from his apartment, Armen had no idea whom the Duke of Yelp was. The modern coffee house was not a bohemian or flower child flophouse. Instead of a bearded man playing a guitar, there was jazz and spa music coming out of ceiling speakers. Tie-dye cloth and beanbag chairs gave way to expensive leather furnishings expertly...

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Author: Jerry Guarino

Contributor: Sarah S. Cain - - Margaret thought it would be fun to take the train to Boston, but now it seemed like an ordeal. Brian bounced in his window seat though there was little enough to see in the dark. He made faces at himself and stuck out his tongue. Soon though she could give him his medicine, and he'd calm down. “Mom, Mom, Mom, Mo--” “What is it, Brian?” “Look! There’s a man with a purple tie!” He pointed across the aisle to the slim blond man in the gray suit who indeed wore a bright purple tie. He didn’t glance up when Brian pointed him out, though he must have heard his voice. He was youngish. Thirties, Margaret thought. “Yes, Brian. There’s a man with a purple tie. Keep your voice down.” Sometimes Margaret wished she could wear earphones when she was with Brian. She listened to the train clack over the rails. It...

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Author: Sarah S. Cain

Contributor: Chico Mahalo - - So now they’re all holding rallies, thinking they’re going to be the ones to set this country on fire again. But who’s kidding whom? What do they really want? What does anybody really want? Love? Sex? Respect? Money? Power? Egos stroked until their Ids come all over their superegos? It’s a simple question. Costs a hell of a lot more than $64,000 these days, but I think you’ll find the answer is reasonably priced. In fact it might even be on sale. For the right asking price. Just call up your friendly neighborhood lobbyist; they’re the ones hanging out in the lobby of the Ritz Carlton reading the Financial Times and having green tea and pastries. And then the scene suddenly dissolves. But where are the network cameras? Out of focus again. But if you squint real hard you can see where the unemployment lines...

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Author: Chico Mahalo

Contributor: Diana Chen - - Two snaps marked the first opening of the two white tabs that held the yellow, plastic briefcase closed. The next two snaps trapped its first victim: a purple-grey muscular foot that carried a round, tan shell and left a faint trail of clear slime. One became two, two became three, and soon the yellow case was saturated with snails, each handpicked from the backyard garden to the soundtrack of a gurgling fountain and high-pitched laughter. Between each new addition were a series of snaps heralding the replacement of wilting maple leaves riddled with nibbled edges and holes. Each new resident was welcomed by two more snaps. The last two snaps of the case left 87 snails in the sunshine of a summer day as a U-Haul truck rumbled noisily away. Now the child’s briefcase sits empty among growing weeds in a silent...

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Author: Diana Chen

Contributor: Jerry Guarino - - David sat in front of his big screen television, set the sound field on his digital home theater and basked in the color and sound of the hockey game. Home theaters and HDTV cameras had made watching at home virtually as good as going to the arena and a whole lot less expensive; you just had to provide your own food. Add a girl that liked the game, a pizza and good wine and you had a date night to remember. David had mastered the art of at home dating on the cheap, thanks to his home theater, an investment that kept paying him back. College students usually put their money into clothing or cars, but David wore his jeans and t-shirts while building a Blu-Ray collection of movies women liked. Insider’s note: some readers will think this is the same David that created the bird feeder in Practical...

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Author: Jerry Guarino

Contributor: Gary Hewitt - - George swore his arms had grown another two inches. He glanced at rows of copious corn before wiping away layers of sweat. “We have to get this finished by dusk.” George resisted the urge to retaliate. He tilted his straw hat and hacked. “Michael, what time are we finishing?” “We stop when everything has been done.” “When are we going to have something to eat and drink?” The foreman shook his head. “Get back to work.” Michael spat into the dust. George took heart when they reached the edge of the field. He salivated for beef and tomato. He hated the taste corn. “Why are you slowing down?” “I’m exhausted.” “You’ve no time to get exhausted. Get busy.” George shook his head. “I’ve had enough. I’ve been at this since six with no break and you tell me to hurry up.” “Oh you’ve done it now. Just you wait until...

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Author: Gary Hewitt

Contributor: Victoria Elizabeth Ann - - She watched it, luminous in the yellow glow of the street lamp, and wondered would it be there in the morning. It sat there for days, locked to the rusting u-shaped bar, rooted deep in the cement. The front tire turned slightly to the right. In the middle of the HOA-manicured lawns and pristine porches, the blue Schwinn rested in front of the neighborhood pool. Perhaps, waterlogged and sun-drunk, its owner forgot he rode his pristine bike that morning and was desperate to return his blue baby to the sanctity of his dark garage. In the morning, she walked her dogs, and passed the bike for the sixth time since it’s mysterious appearance in front of the white brick wall surrounding the pool. Would it find its home? Mounted on the back of an SUV, perhaps? Maybe suspended in a garage, or, if very...

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Author: Victoria Elizabeth Ann

Contributor: Donal Mahoney - - Marcia was 17 the first time thousands of locusts rose from the fields of her father's farm and filled the air, sounding like zithers unable to stop. Her father was angry but Marcia loved the music the locusts made. She was in high school then and chose to make locusts the focus of her senior paper. At the town library she learned locusts spend 17 years deep in the soil, feeding on fluids from roots of trees that make them strong enough to emerge at the proper time to court and reproduce. Courtship requires the males to gather in a circle and sing until the females agree to make them fathers. Courtship and mating and laying of eggs takes almost two months and then the locusts fall from the air and die. Marcia remembers the iridescent shells on the ground shining, She was always careful not to step...

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Author: Donal Mahoney

Contributor: Jerry Guarino - - Part 1

- David, a computer science major in college, was completing the setup of his new bird feeding system. Instead of the usual tree house, painted with bright colors, he had designed a more elegant solution. Altruism aside, he wanted to do more than just provide food for birds in the bad weather; he wanted to see the birds enjoy their treat while keeping squirrels from squandering the seeds. So he set up a trough with three lids, mechanically operated based on a computer program. The first container had birdseeds and suet, the second fruit and nuts and the third meat scraps and insects. In front of the trough was a bar that activated a 13” LCD screen when the bird landed on it. On the screen was a picture of the three food types, corresponding to the placement of the trays. The bird...

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Author: Jerry Guarino

Contributor: LA Sykes - - I don’t know why I cannot sleep. I don’t know why. I take my cigarettes and creep out the door and down the stairs of the apartment block. I sit on the raised step and flick the lighter as it fires up with a sparkle in the evening darkness. I see a cat toying with a dying rat over the road. I see car headlights flashing by, whirls of blur amber and red. I see pretty girls trying to catch my eye as they sashay by. See them trying to glean a smile from my lips for them to take away. I turn my head. I see a hearse go by, an oak coffin ferried with a procession of mourners in line, following. I lower my head. I see two birds huddle together under the arch of the weeping willow tree. Clinging to a branch as the wind whips the browning leaves, pinching them from their stems as they flutter in swirls. I see the exhaled...

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Author: LA Sykes

Contributor: Marla Johnson - - Three things made me fall in love with Gabby: her eyes were dark tidal pools, watery and rippling; she tasted like sunshine, a blend of citrus and honey; and her sugar-soaked scent of honeysuckle. Now, I think of Gabby as a wide-eyed fish flapping and jumping about while trying to escape. After all, I’m the one who sent her away. I’m the one who locked her up. She was supposed to be gone forever, but somehow she found a way out. The gun, a puny .22, nodded at me. Gabby’s thin finger caressed the trigger. “I told you I’d see you again.” I looked into the black pit of the gun’s muzzle and then looked at Gabby. Her once fluid eyes were black river stones. Three long stir-crazy years locked up with bipolar, suicidal, and schizophrenic misfits had stripped the sheen from her eyes. “Gabby, you shouldn’t...

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Author: Marla Johnson