Contributor: Ryan James Black - - “I’ll see your hundred,” snarled Wolfman. “And raise you another.” He pawed a chip onto the pile, accidentally cleaving a jagged gash in the green felt table top. “Hey,” whined Louis. “Be careful wouldja? I just had this resurfaced.” Wolfman glared at Louis, the way Wolfman glares at rabbits. A muscle car idled deep in his throat. He ashed his stogie, purposefully missing the ashtray. Louis huffed. He rolled his eyes. He looked like he wanted to say something, but instead crammed his mouth full of pretzels. “Okay, okay, you two,” Dracula chuckled. He took a swig of his Romanian microbrew and turned to his right. “Bets to you Frank.” “Frankenstein,” groaned Frankenstein. “Bet.” With a green bratwurst finger, he inched forward a ten dollar chip. “Okay, two things Frank,” Dr.Jekyll said irritably....

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Author: Ryan James Black

Contributor: Donal Mahoney - - Buford was a big man, at least 300 pounds, with a heart of silver if not of gold. No one messed with Buford. He had a limp and for years he had used a cane too short. Neighbors feared some day he might fall and sure enough one day he did fall in his backyard. He was going out to his dump truck. The only good thing that came out of that fall is that I got a chance to talk to an ambulance driver in Beijing, China. But I’m getting ahead of myself. When Buford fell, he disappeared and left a massive hole in his wake. Dirt rose like a volcano eruption for minutes after he was gone. I lived across the street from Buford so I climbed over his fence to see if I could help in any way. I knew I would not be able to pull him out of the hole by myself. It would take a crane, I figured, to get him back on solid ground....

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Author: Donal Mahoney

Contributor: John Laneri - - It was another lazy summer day when I started toward Aunt Jillie’s Boarding House, a place most Texans refer to as the finest establishment in Neverton, a small community along the cattle trail to Fort Worth. As I neared her front gate, I noticed a bicycle parked against a picket fence. Curious, I stopped to check it out. “Why Sheriff Carson, you look like a young boy admiring a new toy.” Turning about, I saw Jillie coming my way, her red hair glowing in the sunlight. She was undoubtedly the most beautiful woman I had ever known. I'd probably loved her since the first day we met some twenty years ago. “I couldn’t resist the opportunity to look at a bicycle.” She eased beside me and took my arm. “Then, take your time. We can look together.” “These contraptions are interesting. I've been wanting to...

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Author: John Laneri

Contributor: James Tressel - - She stands on the sidewalk and cranes her neck to see the third floor window where light flashes and stutters across begrimed glass. Shadows pulse to a dull beat there, but the people throwing them seem stilled. She walks toward the front door through a colonnade of inky cypress. Tree to tree, a low shuddering darkness passes, and the trees shrink to shrubs. When she reaches the front door, she finds it much too small for her body. She retreats and begins to circle the building. Her eyes flicker over the graffiti gouged into its sandstone: names and accusations, the names of lovers crowding into each other. Rounding a corner of the building, she catches an artist in the act: a little girl, braids like lengths of old rope, jaw wired shut. The girl drops her nail file to the pavement and runs. ...

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Author: James Tressel

Contributor: Damian Wesley Du Charme - - Jack looked to his wife and then to the leather satchel now sitting on the hotel room table: clasp undone and zipper unzipped, revealing its contents. “Just call the concierge to come get it and let them call the police on whomever was previously in the room,” Sandy said. “You know we can’t afford to do that Sandy. The police will want to talk with us even if we handed it over during our check out. We’ve been here 3 days and discovered the bag last night. That would seem very suspicious to the police I’m sure.” Sitting back down, Jack and Sandy puzzled together. Then a rap whap tap sounded from their room door. “That’ll be lunch,” Sandy said, pointing to the door. He heard shuffling outside the door as he approached and peered through the peephole. A tall, lanky man with giant aviator sunglasses...

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Author: Damian Wesley Du Charme

Contributor: Ava Wilson - - “Two beds? What’s with the two beds, Martha?” “Just because there are two beds in the room, doesn’t mean anything, Joe.” “I mean look in there, Martha. Even from a distance, the beds look like time-out corners, thought we were here to work things out.” “We are,” she said. Joe ran his hand over his slicked back hair, and plopped down in the fabric-covered patio chair. He leaned forward, sighed deep, and lowered his head. “You flustered, Joe? Oh yeah, that’s right. Your version of working things out never involves any talking. Never does, Joe. We need to talk.” “See now, there you go Martha, jumping to conclusions. I want to¬¬¬— talk.” Martha squinted through the light-grey cloud of smoke, and tapped the train of limp ash from her cigarette. “Want a drink, Joe? I’m having one.” “No.” “Suit yourself,” said...

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Author: Ava Wilson

Contributor: Sean Crose - - You can find them under, on top of, and around that small pavilion by the cove down in Milford. They all just hang around there all day, living their lives. Fishermen walk past them hour after hour, on their way to cast out for Stripers or Blues. Most of the fishermen stare at them for at least a moment or two before moving on. At the end of the trail, right at the water, you can look across the cove and see 95 traffic coming and going. During rush hour you actually see the Metro Norths and Amtraks coming to and from Grand Central Terminal under the bridge below the freeway. It's cool standing at the end of the trail, actually. You, right there amidst nature – nature being the cove, of course – yet just beyond nature is the growl of the urban northeastern United States. For the record, the cats never go...

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Author: Sean Crose

Contributor: John Laneri - - Before Sharon came into my life, I rarely traveled to New York City. The place was too busy for a small town lawyer from Texas. I first met her that afternoon at her firm's office where she represented legal council for one of my client’s business interests. On entering her suite, I glanced about. The setting was impressive as were the impressionist paintings on the walls. From what I saw, I pictured Ms. Sharon Parker as a high priced, no nonsense woman who wore sensible shoes and trampled other lawyers for fun. My first surprise came when I encountered an attractive woman wearing a fashionable suit accented with a white silk blouse and sexy, high heel pumps. She rose from behind a large desk and extended a hand to greet me, her bright eyes and dark hair projecting an alluring presence, one reminiscent...

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Author: John Laneri

Contributor: David Macpherson - - Disaster Doll the First was late for our interview where she was to discuss the history of roller derby. I was informed that she removed her feeding tubes, left her room and was up on the roof of the nursing home pitching donuts in a wheelchair she stole from the basement storage closet. How she got herself down the four floors to the basement and up to the roof froze the Duty Nurse with dread. “She should not be able to do this. She’s 97 years old.” She was going to say more but was interrupted by an orderly who said, “Not 97. She told me she’s 108 this April.” The Duty Nurse glared, “WHy are you correcting me with numbers and not trying to get her back to her bed. 108. She’s not 108. No one at the age of 108 is going to be drag racing a manual wheelchair on the roof.” “And that’s an acceptable...

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Author: David Macpherson

Contributor: Tom Vinson - - The dishes were piled high and the kitchen smelled of wet bananas. The trash receptacle stood a foot and a half away; green smoke, revealing itself, thusly- ”Good afternoon” said the smoke, hat tipped. It was time to open a window, but the chipmunk, the one I thought I’d shooed away four hours prior, wasn’t having it. I caught my reflection in the toaster. ”I don’t have a toaster” I said. My friend Garvy’s dad stood on my roof looking in. He smiled and waved. I waved back. Atypical, but I was having it. This is how it is . Sometimes when you take a pee, it smells like certain things. This afternoon it smelled like the coffee I hadn’t yet drank’n. Pre-emptive odors for a noon pee read the headline of the Yearly Shave. This is how it would be. I would not shave for a year. For it was Tight that told me that...

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Author: Tom Vinson

Contributor: Cathy S. Ulrich - - Her daughter burned. She was the youngest, Mommy’s Little Sweetheart. Her other children were nearly grown by the time the last was born, so they never knew that the youngest was her favorite: Martha, sweet Martha, the silent film star. Oh, Mother, please. I’m not a star yet. But they both knew she would be. Martha in her first leading role: Not the vamp this time, but a lady, a real lady, wearing hoop skirts and all. Martha could invite her mother to watch the filming; no one else could get away with it. Relatives, husbands, wives — all banned. Only Martha, tilting her head to one side, flashing that lovely smile: Please? Martha’s mother sat behind the director and observed quietly. Sometimes she’d even bring cookies for the crew that would be devoured during the breaks. Martha always came running to...

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Author: Cathy S. Ulrich

Contributor: Bruce Costello - - “Sir, I just can’t walk any further!” the soldier cried out, his battalion exhausted from days of movement and fighting in the mountainous Cretan terrain. “Get up, lad,” the officer said, kicking the sole of his boot. “You’ve been marching in your sleep the last half hour. Stand up, go back to sleep and keep walking.” After digging in on the outskirts of a town recently captured by Germans, the men sat down to devour whatever rations were left. When the officers weren’t looking, Privates Arthur FitzPatrick and Wiremu Parata went scavenging. Arthur and Wiremu had been brought up on neighbouring farms on the East Coast of New Zealand’s North Island, and were scallywags together at the same country school. A week before the troopship sailed, Arthur had asked Wiremu’s sister, Moana, to marry him. Wiremu found...

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Author: Bruce Costello

Contributor: Donal Mahoney - - Technology is wonderful, especially in medicine, Elmo told Opal, the day their son Brett called to tell them the good news. The doctor had told Brett and Debbie their first child would be a boy, according to the machine in the doctor's office. Elmer never trusted machines other than the machines he used on the farm and Opal didn't either but they were happy to hear about their first grandchild. "It's wonderful news," Opal told Brett over the phone. "Your father and I will have two cups of cocoa tonight. It's as cold as you probably remember growing up in North Dakota. I know that teaching at the university means you and Debbie must live in Florida but your father and I miss you." Six months later, Brett called again to say the same machine in the Doctor's office now showed their grandson would be a dwarf....

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Author: Donal Mahoney

Contributor: Eric Suhem - - “Bill, what I like about you is your predictability, I always know what I’m going to get from you, and that’s hamburgers” said Bill Pleck’s neighbor nemesis Gene, peering over the fence as Bill barbecued hamburgers in the back yard on a summer’s evening. Suddenly Bill Pleck tore off his barbecue apron and threw it down in disgust, stomping on it emphatically. Next, he poured lighter fluid on the apron, torched it, and reached into a shopping bag, removing a chef’s apron, on which was lettered ‘Mr. Enzyme’. “An enzyme is a chemical catalyst, an agent of change, and that’s what I will be! My new name is Mr. Enzyme, no matter what people say, even you!” he declared, gesturing toward Gene, whose eyes were glued to a pair of binoculars, focusing on the briquettes in the barbecue. “I’m not pleased by this change...

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Author: Eric Suhem

Contributor: Bruce Costello - - She was bearded, shabby, alone, and struggling to pick up one of her walking sticks from the carpet. The minister, young and bald, broke off his conversation with a group of relatives, picked up the stick with a cheery hello and asked if Edward, the deceased, had been a friend of hers. The old lady replied but the minister did not catch what she said. The mourners had gathered for afternoon tea – or, as funeral directors say among themselves, ‘the after match function.’ Adults were mingling. Children were sitting or running about and being growled at. There was lots of noise, and heaps of food, including asparagus rolls and pikelets with raspberry jam and whipped cream on top. The minister pulled up a chair, plonked himself down beside the old lady, beamed and repeated his question. “Edward was a great...

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Author: Bruce Costello

Contributor: Jim Buck - - This is the last version. I commit it to light. This version, unlike any that preceded it, will be definitive. It may not be as scholarly, or flow as instantly as those other versions. The writer may use fewer words, which will allow room for pseudo semantics, when before, he just wrote and wrote, as though he knew everything and said nothing. This might not mean anything to anyone. This version may be criticized for being perfunctory, or for lacking sagaciousness; it may lack a hell of a lot of things. This version may be criticized for wasting the time of the critic. The critic may be right, his time may be wasted, but I hardly held a gun to his head and demanded he read it. If I had a gun, I would’ve held it to the head of the critic, but not to demand he read it. What does he want from me, anyway? ...

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Author: Jim Buck