Contributor: Tim Gerstmar

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It was really awful what happened to her, wasn't it? I mean, if you could have seen it. If you could have seen what had been done to her. That was Cherrie though, and she had a right to do whatever she wanted. That was just the way she was, and if she liked living the way she did, then that was her business. I'm not about to get on her case.

Anyway, I can outline the whole thing for you a bit, at least what I understand about it. It needs the right approach. I really cared about Cherrie in my own way, and I want to get across how horrible it was what was done to her.

Picture a girl alone on the elevator. There is the cold hum of the building, all those apartments, all those people, and yet so much isolation. The lights flicker in the elevator, and then it stops on the fifth floor. The key turns in the lock of the door, and she turns the knob.

She was such a nice girl. At this point in the story, there were only about five minutes left in her life, and only one minute that wasn't sheer pain. It was in the shower, or that's what I recall anyway. It's all so distant, and I can't even sleep anymore, and I can no longer go into cities, for the very cement reminds me of it.

The apartment was dead silent when she stepped inside and shut the door. She never saw what happened, but she did hear the rustle of its black skirts flowing behind it like curtains in the breeze. Then there was only the darkness and the feeling of force.

It wasn't like I ever saw it, you understand. There was only the sheer sensation that something had gone on there. Everyone meets their lover in the end, even young girls on elevators with flickering lights. Voyages end, and we sleep the deep sleep of dreams.

You know, you look at those curtains, and you think to yourself, those are probably the same curtains that were hanging in there when she died. I never even saw Cherie. I didn't even know who she was. Cherie Beaumont was her name. I could picture her. I could see her blond hair, kind of wavy, and that listless smile on her face. She was a girl who liked summer dresses and being lazy while she shopped. She was happy.

Then I looked out that window at the view that she must have seen everyday while she stood there drinking coffee. I was hearing what she heard. I was walking where she walked. I was sitting where she made love and ate and laughed.

I see Cherie every night in my dreams, except I don't see her. I just see wallpaper with a mesmerizing pattern on it, and I can hear the pulsations like a ships boiler, and I can tell she's coming.

Even as I walk through the city, my eyes are always drawn to the window of that condo. The shades are always drawn, but sometimes I can see shadows moving behind it. Sometimes I wake up in there. When I do, I think about how cold I am, and I start to tremble. I stay awake late and wander the streets, but in every alleyway and every porno theatre I see her. Cherie stands out, her face lighted by the awful neon and the sweating pavement.

I had to finally have it out with her. I had to release Cherie, because you know, I think that’s what she wanted. I called out to her, and she didn't answer, only the room answered. Only the room. It talked to me through the hum of the walls and the gurgling of the pipes. It was the horrifying sound of my dreams, but I was awake. I searched for her in there. I pulled apart the sofa and scoured the corners for some trace of her, some left over remnant of her being, but there was nothing. There was something else in that room with me. The place became ice cold. I shivered and slumped into a corner. Then I noticed that the closet door was just slightly ajar. However, I could swear it had not been when I entered. Slowly, with agonizing speed it began to open, and I heard the dull thundering in the walls, masked by the gurgling and the incessant hum. I became tired, as though I had taken an entire bottle of sleeping pills. Then came the voice, "The pattern on the wallpaper," it said, whispering to me a clue to the mystery that I would never solve. "Cherie, I am here for you baby. I've come to help you." The door of the closet swung open and slammed into the wall. An impenetrable darkness beckoned to me. I heard the slow tread of heavy footsteps, and it was then that I learned that not all spirits want release.


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Born in 1972, Tim Gerstmar came to writing later in life. He has been an illustrator, teacher, film actor, shoe salesman, and he even spent time in the U.S. Navy. He now works as a high school teacher in Bangkok, Thailand.

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Author: Tim Gerstmar

Contributor: John Laneri

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Several years ago, I inadvertently contributed to the murder of a man named Jason Stone.

My involvement started with a phone call. It was the urgency of Jason’s tone that compelled me to get out of bed and tackle the weather on a dreary winter night.

Actually, I had never met the man, but his wife had been a longtime patient of mine. And, from what I could determine, she was having a severe anxiety attack associated with palpitations and hyperventilation.

For no particular reason, I elected to make a house call. It seemed an easy enough task – an hour or two of work then back to bed. Hysterical people, I knew, were often difficult to control and getting her to an emergency room could become an impossible task, especially in the dead of night.

My situation started when I turned onto his street and drove into a solid wall of fog. To my surprise, the house numbers were impossible to see.

Slowly, I cruised from house to house, trying to make out lights. Finally, I picked the most likely place based on Jason's hasty description and headed to the front door.

I rang the doorbell and waited.

“Who’s there?” a woman’s voice asked. “It’s two o’clock in the morning.”

“Jason...?”

I heard a gasp come from the other side of the door.

“Go away. And, please leave me alone.”

“Let me in,” I said, as I reached to jiggle the door handle, thinking something was wrong.

I heard footsteps shuffle away from the door. Then nothing.

I knocked again.

After failing to get any further response, I backed away and looked up and down the street, wondering.

Two doors away, I spotted a man moving in my direction.

“You’re at the wrong house,” he said breathlessly. “Hurry, my wife is completely out of control.”

I followed him across the lawn, mumbling something about scaring his neighbor to death.

He promised to convey my apologies, pausing only to tell me that she was an attractive woman that lived alone.

After treating his wife's anxiety with a intravenous sedative and listening to her ramble incoherently, I returned home and back to sleep. The next day, I called her house and left several messages on her voice mail. When she failed to respond to any of my phone calls, I soon forgot the matter.

Several weeks later, I heard on the news that the wife had shot and killed Jason Stone.

What I didn’t know at the time of my house call was that the woman at the door and Jason had been engaged in a neighborhood affair that was beginning to unravel once the demands of their activities began to complicate their lives.

Based on testimony at the trial, the wife stated that she had first learned of the relationship the very night of my house call – thus the reason for her anxiety reaction.

Unfortunately, by going to the wrong house, I initiated a series of complex interactions between all parties. My mistake, as benign as it seems, resulted in an angry confrontation, which ultimately resulted in a violent death.

Had I been able to decipher the wife's ramblings, then maybe Jason Stone would be alive, and his wife would not be in prison for putting a bullet in his head.


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John is a native born Texan living near Houston. His writing focuses on short stories and flash. Publications to his credit can be found on the internet and in several print edition periodicals.

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Author: John Laneri

Contributor: Scott Harmon

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It was then and there. We waited, as if perched on a cliff. Our entire existence was on the line. Then we heard it. A sound... To most beings it was barely a hiss of nothing. But to us, it was the most beautiful thing we'd ever heard. Our bodies of cement, brick, wood and shingles began to swirl. Our substance and tangibility started to sift like sand. No longer were we to be chained down to our cement foundations. It was over.
Before all this, we watched day after day as our free floating neighbors went off to explore the world. Always returning some day to spout their adventurous tales. We had grown angry....restless. It was useless to complain. Everyone told us it was impossible. How could a house roam the planet like a bird or a speck of dirt? It was not reasonable. Of course we knew that. As a house, there is nothing else to do than think. Finally we came to a realization that the modern world was too logical. Most of the houses today had been built into a scientific age. We all watched little boys and girls grow up in our bodies. Small children who at a young age were full of fanciful, impossible ideas. Then, as they grew up, the notions slowly get squeezed out of them, like someone wringing out a wet rag. Those whimsical ideas filed away as fiction.
Silently, we challenged these beliefs. We were tired of being put in our place. I think most beings underestimate our intelligence. When our frustration was at its highest, we held a global mind communion. We decided that if we could create a psychokinetic signal with enough force to travel to the other side of the galaxy, perhaps we could reach a civilization not based on science. Someone with the power to set us free.
And thus the story is told. As I said before, our man made structures began to swirl. The wind rushes through and around my body, scattering it like dust. The tiny sound that emanated from across the cosmos set us free. We're leaving now, our first destination will be that spot in the galaxy to thank our liberators. We feel no remorse about leaving our inhabitants behind. We are free, and nothing will stop us now. I feel so happy. The future is bright. Farewell Earth, at least for now. Signed,

       The Houses


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I'm 31 and I have been actively writing since 2005. I started out doing micro fiction(although not realizing it until later) and poetry. I progressed into longer short stories. I spend most of my time writing screenplays or comic books. I have a feature length written and other shorts, but right now I am outside of the actual business.

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Author: Scott Harmon

Contributor: John Laneri

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The first time I saw a flying saucer was the morning I arrived at my putt-putt in hopes of playing a few rounds of golf before the day got hot.

I called the place, Justin’s Fabulous Putt-Putt. And, it truly was a challenging, eighteen hole, miniature golf course that featured water falls, windmills and the only singing parrot in the community of Possum Hollow.

Naturally, my girlfriend Becky tagged along, nagging me as usual about getting married. She immediately spotted the saucer.

“A flying saucer,” she said excitedly, running to it – her shoes, flip-flopping ahead of me. She was a cute little thing with a nice smile and skinny legs.

At first, I couldn’t believe my eyes. The thing was just sitting in the middle of the sand trap on the eighth hole streaming whips of vapor from both sides.

Right off, I realized the experts were wrong. The shape was elliptical and not circular like popular concept. It featured a bright green paint job and looked to be about six feet wide by three feet high. And best of all, it was resting on skinny legs that were splayed at the bottom like chicken feet.

“Where’d the flying saucer come from?” I asked Gordon, my assistant, as I hurried toward him. By then, I was beginning to wonder how to incorporate it into the putt-putt.

At the time, he was poking around the bottom with a crowbar, trying to pry it apart.

“It must have landed here during the night,” he replied, as he moved to another site. “I’ve been trying to get it open all morning.”

“Woe-e,” Becky said. “Another flying saucer.” She walked over and kissed the side. “Today’s my lucky day.”

“Don't touch it,” I warned her. “You could be hurt.”

“No, I won’t,” she replied. “I’m familiar with flying saucers.”

She continued walking around the thing, her eyes aglow.

Finally, she glanced at me and smiled. “For your information, I rode in one a year ago. That was the day I almost got married. But... I decided to wait for you.”

Cringing at the thought, I watched her continue around it, her fingers skimming over the surface. Suddenly, the hiss of air startled me, and then to my surprise, a door popped opened on the top.

Gordon jumped to his feet, “What the ….”

“Don’t be scared,” Becky said. “That’s how we get inside.”

I backed away a step. “I’m not getting inside that thing – no way.”

“Why not?” she asked. “The Captain performs marriage ceremonies every hour on the hour Afterward, Elvis serenades the bride and groom with a vocal tribute.”

“I’m to young to be married,” I replied quickly.

She scrambled on board and scooted toward the opening, her excitement almost contagious.

Gordon followed her saying, “Let me see. I’ve always wanted to look inside a flying saucer.”

She extended a hand in my direction. “Come with me, honey. Gordon can be our best man.”

I watched him scurry to the hatch and drop inside without a second thought – possibly lost forever.

Becky swung her legs into the opening. “I’ll meet you at the alter. It’s on the promenade deck close to the honeymoon suites. This is going to be a dream come true.”

“I’ll be right behind you,” I replied, as I watched her drop away and disappear from sight.

Carefully, I edged close to the opening and ventured a look inside, seeing what appeared to be a smoky abyss overlaid with a faint smell of noxious gas.

I waited around for about thirty minutes, figuring that Gordon and Becky had lost track of time. Eventually, I gave up and headed over to the putt-putt office to begin preliminary sketches in hopes of making the thing my feature attraction. I knew it would draw crowds.

Later that morning, I returned to the eighth hole with my tape measure. I needed to get exact specifications, certain that my life was about to change. To my surprise though, the saucer was nowhere to be seen.

I walked around the area for some time, studying the site. Finally, I tossed my sketches aside, dropped a ball on the ground and launched a shot on the number seven – my most difficult hole. I carded a hole-in-one too, the ball doing a loop-d-loop before dropping into the cup. The shot was my very first ace on the seventh hole.

Like Becky, I was also having a lucky day.

About a year later, I read in the National Enquirer that the saucer driver had let Becky and Gordon out near Baton Rouge where they had moved into an apartment and were living as husband and wife.

To this day, I still miss Gordon. We shared a similar vision for exciting putt-putt golf courses. Losing Becky, I have to confess, was the best thing that ever happened to me because a few weeks later, I met Ronda Maples – a charming lady, who after five marriages, knew better.


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John is a native born Texan living near Houston. His writing focuses on short stories and flash. Publications to his credit can be found on the internet and in several print edition periodicals.

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Author: John Laneri

Contributor: Brian J. Smith

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TOMMY GIBBS WAITED UNTIL THE BLUE FORD ESCORT EASED OUT OF THE driveway before creeping down the hallway into Bridget’s bedroom. There was no room for failure this time; no slip-ups like last time when she caught him two nights ago and screamed for Daddy as he bolted out of the bedroom. Outside, the rich blue sky was vibrant with sunlight and streaked with clouds shaped like joints. Across the street, a two story house had been ate by fire, its rough brick exterior and large windows smudged by soot. The joyful sound of afternoon play from the neighborhood kids echoed up and down the street.

He knelt down before her bedside table, moved the four Twilight novels aside and came up empty. He was setting them back up when his eyes drifted over to the small pink object jutting out from between the mattress and box-spring. He pinched it between thumb and forefinger, slid the diary out of hiding and set it on the bed. She always did have a nice bedroom, so white and clean and so many boy-band posters up on the walls, even a few people from the actual Twilight movies. When he turned the little conjoined key, the clasp snapped apart and the book opened, pages slowly fluttering back and forth.

Each page smelled like some flowery perfume and lightly dusted with glitter. He thought it was funny and sat down on the edge of the bed to read the page he found. His laughter ceased and the gaiety he felt when he obtained the precious journal drained away from him like the color from his face. His fingers slowly glided down the page, over the neatly scrawled script and shook his head. He couldn’t bring himself to read it, just couldn’t, and before he knew it he was holding the book up to his face and reading every bit of it word for word.


July 11, 2012

Dear Diary,

My mother woke me up last night to tell me the house across the street caught fire and that no one inside had made it out alive. I ran upstairs and fell onto my bed, crying and I stared out the window and stared at the house all black and burnt down and thought about Tommy Gibbs all over again and how he never had any real friends and never got to play outside because his parents always kept him inside and have parties at all hours of the day and night. He always waved at me from his bedroom window and let me know he was okay even though his father was constantly drunk and beat him and his mother was too busy smoking pot (I could smell it from their front porch one day when I was walking by to go to school) to even care about him but he always let me know he was okay. The paper says the fire was started by faulty wiring but I think I know better. I think Tommy did it because he—.”

He followed the arrow and turned to the next page. Tears slid down Tommy’s cheeks.

“knew the only way to free himself from that prison was death and if it meant taking everyone with him then he was fine with it, too. He was like a little brother to me and even thought he scares me when he comes in here at night to read my diary I would never get angry about it. I think I might leave a candle on my dresser and leave the book open for him tonight. Let him know everything he’s ever wanted to know about me."

Feeling the diary slide out of his hands and back onto the bed, Tommy sobbed uncontrollably and, at the sound of footsteps pounding up the staircase, carried his sadness long into the farthest reaches of the Unknown.

“Eavesdroppers never hear
anything good about themselves.”
—Old Saying


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Brian J. Smith has been featured in numerous anthologies such as Living Dead Press’ E-Mails of the Dead and Book Of Cannibals 2: The Hunger, Pill Hill Press’ 365 Days of Flesh Fiction, Metahuman Press’ The Dead Walk Again and And The Nightmare Begins...Vol.1: The Horror Zine. He’s also been seen in such magazines as Dark Gothic Resurrected Magazine and New Voices In Fiction and such e-zines as The Horror Zine, Postcard Shorts, Thrillers Killers and Chillers, The Carnage Conservatory and The New Flesh and The Flash Fiction Offensive. He’s an avid fan of the horror and mystery suspense genre and a hardcore fan of both The Ohio State Buckeyes and The Cleveland Browns; he currently resides in Chauncey, Ohio with his mother, his brother the writer J.R. Smith and six dogs.

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Author: Brian J. Smith

Contributor: Jim Barry

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People from all over Ohio called Cleveland “The Mistake By the Lake”. But I didn’t care. This was my hometown. Sad thing was, there really wasn’t really much of a lake to speak of. Most of it had been polluted by radioactive waste. I remember when the water was actually blue. Or was it green? Well, that point was moot now as the water had turned a bright purple. It also wasn’t uncommon to find garbage floating in the waste. Popsicle sticks, women’s shoes, 7 Up cans, dead midgets, you name it.
Most regretful was that my father used to take me fishing by the lake. I do miss the sound of the actual water splishing and splashing as we would skip stones. Now, well, hmm..now you really couldn’t call it water. It was more like an ooze. It would bubble and cough. A sickening sound that was reminiscent of a frog with indigestion.
So basically, the world had completely gone to shit. But, hey! No reason to get down about it! I mean, sure, I had lost my wife, family, and all of my friends, but I was still happy. Some of my friends died by radiation poisoning, some were devoured by the invading giant lobsters from Alpha Centaurus IV, and some I had killed myself! I really didn’t want to kill them, but when my supply of food and clothing ran out, they wouldn’t share! They said “Ernie, you’ve been mentally unstable since you lost your wife Doris. We feel just as bad as you do when she was eaten by that giant radioactive goldfish, but you’ve become so violent, we’re afraid to let you into our homes.”
Ha! They said I was crazy! They made fun of my tin foil hat, Enrique. I love Enrique! Enrique guides me. Enrique understands me. And what’s more, Enrique NEVER steered me wrong. In fact, it was his suggestion to kill my friends and neighbors who were too selfish to share their food and clothes with me.
They said I became violent after Doris died. Ha! What the hell did they know? So what if I started to chase squirrels with a meat cleaver? They didn’t understand! The squirrels made fun of me! They were evil! EVIL!
It wasn’t long until the neighbors’ food ran out. I guess I could have eaten my dead friends and neighbors, but what am I? Crazy? Jeez. What’s wrong with you people?
I decided to go to the lake when my father had taken me years ago. I rummaged through one of my now departed neighbor’s clothes closet. Enrique told me to pick out my neighbor’s wife’s blouse and a pair of high heels. Then he told me to apply some make up and lipstick. “Damn,” I thought. “I look goooood.”
What? You think this is crazy?
Armed with my fishing pole, I headed over to the lake. Even from miles away, I could hear the ooze bubbling about.
I cast off and waiting patiently for a bite. Then..yes! At last! I had something! I reeled it in with all of my strength. And had caught……a green, 6 eyed goldfish. Sweet! The last one I caught only had 5 eyes!
The metal hook on my fishing rod was strong enough to handle the toxicity of the wriggling creature. My hands, however, were not. My flesh burned when I tried to grip my hand around the creature. “Aaaaah”, I yelled. “It burns!”
Right. Well, can’t eat that I thought. The fish continued to burn right through the scorched earth I had dropped it upon. Enrique suggested I should move on to downtown Cleveland.
First, I went to a butcher shop I went to as a kid called “Mr. McFee’s Neat Meat Machine”. Mr. McFee was such a nice man. Enrique tells me I shouldn’t feel sad for killing him, but I kinda still do. But he refused to share his meat. So, I had to feed him to the meat grinder.
Sadly, it didn’t look like there was any food left over at all. Besides the giant lobsters, another thing you had to cope with in this world was the giant rats. The rats had now grown to the size of Volkswagens. People started complaining about them when they started to eat small children.
At any rate, they had apparently ate all of the food. I did however, find a meat cleaver. It was even bigger than the one I used with chasing the evil squirrels! I held it up and salivated at the glistening metal. I always did love shiny things! I asked Enrique if I could keep it and he told me I could. So don’t touch it!!
I walked deeper into downtown Cleveland. Then I saw it! A giant golden letter “M”! I couldn’t remember what the letter “M” stood for, but I vaguely remembered it had something to do with food!
My stomach was growing louder and louder by the minute. So I ran towards the large golden “M”.
How I wished I could remember what this place was called. The lettering on the side of the building had been blackened out by the bomb blasts. Without my glasses, I couldn’t read the sign that was high in the sky. Only the golden “M” I could make out.
Aw, now THIS is sad. Here are two people who are frozen from shock. Must have happened during the last nuclear blast. One guy looked like a clown in a yellow and red suit. I love clowns! The other guy looked like a purple blob thingy. That poor man, he was probably mutated by the radiation.
That’s funny. They feel like they are made out of hard plastic. But..NO! They ARE real people. I KNOW it! Enrique TOLD me they were!
Then I heard a clattering noise. Then I saw these two guys coming out from the back of the building. I listened in to what they were saying.
“Wow, Darryl”, said one of them. “I can’t believe we found these two boxes of apple pies”.
“You’re not kidding, Frank”, said the other. “It’s incredible that no one ever found these..and that’s including the giant rats & lobsters. These should last us for 2 months at least!”
Those bastards! How dare they steal food from that poor clown and that purple..thing. They must pay for their crimes!
“Stop, evil doers!”, I bellowed as I ran after them.
“Wha..? Who the hell’s that?”, said one.
“Vermin!”, I said. “How dare you two villains steal from that poor clown and his portly, but pleasant purple pal?”
One of them gave such a flimsy excuse. “Buddy, what the hell are you talkin’ about? We were just tryin’ to find food. If you’re hungry, we ‘d be more than happy to sha--..”
“Silence, miscreant!”, I bellowed. “Taste my cleaver of justice!”
With all of my might, I hurled my cleaver at this one fool’s head. He barely had time to scream as the cleaver quickly lodged into his head.
One of the thieves’ bodies was now sprawled on the ground, completely lifeless. I pulled my cleaver out of his head and shifted my vigilant gaze towards his partner in crime.
“Screw the pies!”, he frantically screamed. “I’m getting the hell outta here!”
Oh, how he tried to run, but I was able to stop him with a flying tackle. I turned his body over, held my cleaver high and let out a primal scream!
CHOP! CHOP! HEE HEE! Chopping good! Hee hee hee! Wow, not only is he dead, but now he’s in pieces. Hee hee! That’ll teach him.
“Here you go, gentlemen. I have returned your food!” I placed the two boxes of apple pies in front of this poor clown and his friend, the purple monster. They did not answer. I asked them if it was ok if I could eat some of their pies. They still did not answer. Those poor people. They’re probably in shock from having their food stolen. Well, Enrique said it was ok to eat the pies, so I did. Nom nom.
Y’know what’s wrong with the world today? Well..besides the fact that 85% of the world’s population was dead and the earth had been ravaged by radioactive contamination. There was no order! Everything had devolved into total anarchy! What kind of world do we live in where a clown and his purple monster friend can’t eat their apple pies in peace? The world had gone to hell..and it was time to make things right! First, I needed a uniform.
I found a thrift store nearby where I could assemble my uniform of justice. I found a blank T-shirt and proceeded to draw “CC” on the chest. I then found some hot pants so everyone could see my amazing body. Then I found a pair of yellow galoshes and brown gardening gloves. Then, I found a “Holiday Inn” towel for a cape. Finally, I found some pantyhose which I thought would make a decent mask. I looked in the mirror and thought I looked pretty amazing. Watch out, everybody! Captain Cleaver is here to make the world a better place! Now I decided to look for crimes.
I stopped a man from taking out books from a library. He tried to bargain with me. He told me it didn’t matter as most of the city was dead. Who was he trying to kid? Stealing is stealing, right? CHOP!
Two men were loitering outside a convenience store. I can’t believe these two had the audacity to hang around when the sign clearly said “no loitering”. They told me they needed rest and were suffering from exhaustion. Feh. A likely story. DOUBLE CHOP! That’ll teach’em.
Later, I hid in the shadows. I saw some guy walk by eating chips. I was curious of where he found the chips? He seemed like he was done, so he tried throwing the empty bag into a trash can. But he missed! Litterer! I lunged at him and chopped him with everything I had while letting out another primal scream. CHOP!
This was great! So far I had taken out 20 evil doers with my cleaver of justice! I felt powerful! I felt like I could do anything! Why, I bet I could even fly! What am I saying? Of course I could fly! Enrique told me I could. I just needed an appropriate launching pad. But where could I find one? Then in the distance, I saw it!
It was a miracle that Key Tower was still standing. I had heard when the bombing started, most of America’s sky scrapers had been decimated. The Empire State Building, The Sears Tower, and even the Liberty Towers in Philly were all gone. Yet, The Key Tower, constructed in 1991, was still standing.
Oh. Right. The elevators were out of order. I forgot. Sometimes I forget how useful electricity was. Only other option was to take the stairs.
Around the 33rd flight of stairs, fatigue started to kick in. I thought about quitting, but I couldn’t. Cleveland needed a protector and everyone needed to see that their new protector could indeed fly.
I finally reached the top of Key Tower. This was my moment. Now or never. I wanted to run off the roof and into the sky, but I was so tired from climbing the stairs. The best I could do was jog. I jogged off the edge, held out my arms and yelled “geronimoooo…”
I was doing it! I was flying!
Wait..why am I going down? Shouldn’t I be going upwa—

THUD!

Ouch..

I..I don’t feel at all well right now. I feel awful. In fact, I don’t think I can even move. Much less feel anything.

Everything’s..getting..dark…

Enrique you jerk..

You..lied..to..meeee….

- - -
My bio? Just a 36 year old comic book geek still looking for his niche in this world. Naturally, I'd LOVE to write comics, but thought it may be best to get my feet wet by writing short stories first.

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Author: Jim Barry

Contributor: Damien Krsteski

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"Oh, crap," said process ID #71, also known to other currently running processes as Dave. "I can't make out the second word."

His hands shook visibly, cueing Steve, or process ID #72, to step in. He elbowed his way to the front, took Dave's place before the controls and peered into the periscope himself, though not without first casting a reproachful glance at the other, apparently much less capable process.

"Second word's 'incense' you myopic moron," he said, handed the periscope back to Dave and proudly strolled to the back of the room. Dave blushed and mumbled something about the letters being in different colors and hard to discern.

The whole vessel, which rather resembled a submarine, vibrated softly, its passengers buzzing with excitement. Finally, they'd been given access to the password entry forms. Every single one of them sprawled on the floor as a clunky sound signaled the rapid ascent to the surface. Steam whistled out of pipes mounted to the side walls and pressure gauges dropped sharply. The ride was rough on every process in the bunch; Dave felt confident by the end he'd be lying in a puddle of the half-digested tomato soup and broccoli salad he'd had for lunch (Tuesday was Low-Calorie Day).

Several moments later, the vessel stabilized and surfaced near a sandy beach. It was your typical postcard beach with palm groves scattered here and there and foamy waves lazily nibbling on the golden shore. There was one slight difference, though. Along the entire coastline, metal crosses and barbed wire planted in the sand made sure to render an intruder's life significantly harder.

"Holy CPU," exclaimed Steve, "I'm willing to bet a thousand milliseconds of computing time they have underwater bombs too."

"We never expected a second firewall." Bill heaved out a sigh of resignation.

Steve cast him one of his patented sharp looks, one eyebrow cocked up. "I didn't come this far to give up." He put his hands around his mouth and shouted to the back of the room, "Prepare the password arrays."

One by one, around fifty little soldiers got out of their quarters and lined up to the front of the vessel. They all wore shirts that had a number, character or a symbol stamped on it. Steve queued them up neatly, stuffed letter 'Q' in a cannon and fired him towards the island's jungle. He gave the second one, letter 'p', a salute, stuffed and fired him too. Once the first platoon of fifty characters had been fired out, Steve ordered another and then another after that.

Somewhere in the middle of the firing of the third platoon, the vessel shook ominously. A loud but muffled bang resounded and mere seconds later water leaked inside. The crack widened, spraying water in every direction.

"Run for your lives," screamed symbol '~'.

Steve's shouts about desertion and treachery were soon stifled as water filled up the entirety of the submarine. Every single process, character, buffer and pointer disappeared until there was nothing and nobody.

*

Matt stared at his computer screen, incredulous. The loading bar stuck at ninety-six percent disappeared and a crash report took its place, blinking stupidly at him.

He banged his fist on the keyboard, cursing under his breath.

So far this month, this had been his seventieth attempt at breaking into Jennifer Morgan's online personal profile, and he didn't seem to be getting any closer. All that trouble just to learn a girl's likes and dislikes, secret ambitions, wishes and aspirations. That way, Matt had theorized, at least he'd stand a chance.

Now, out of sheer frustration, Matt started thinking the unthinkable. Maybe, he should just go up to her, tell her everything.

Except, this time, without stuttering and sweating all over.

Blushing with shame, he brushed the thought away, muttering about suitable algorithms to crack the second firewall.

Matt pushed his glasses up his nose. He rebooted the hacking program, its autobots respawning, ready for action. Seventy-third time's a charm, he thought, and slammed the Enter key.



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Damien Krsteski is a science-fiction author and musician from Skopje, Macedonia, tirelessly working to earn his Comp. Sci. degree.

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Author: Damien Krsteski

Contributor: John Laneri

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I've watched enough television to know that DNA evidence is often found on a murder victim’s hands. With a dead body across the street, it's clear to me that I'll become a prime suspect when the police begin to canvas the neighborhood.

The ironic thing is, I didn't murder the woman. I hardly knew her for God’s sake.

My dilemma started last night when our new neighbors, the Johnson’s, threw a neighborhood party. Jane and I attended along with most of the other people on our street.

We arrived at eight o’clock. The host and hostess were cordial people from the west coast. He was into banking and she… well, I’m not sure about her. But, we did converse briefly before Jane and I headed to the food table.

After about thirty minutes, the party came to life. By then, Jane had wandered away, so I looked around amazed at how quickly the place had become a madhouse of conversations. Everyone seemed to be talking and mingling at once.

Before long, our hostess, a woman named Serena, drifted my way and stopped in front of me.

“Enjoying yourself?” she asked, the green of her eyes sparkling playfully.

“It's a great party.”

“It gets better. We're only getting started.” She eased closer to me, her manicured fingers reaching to touch my shirt. “How’s the punch?”

“I usually don’t go for party punches. Scotch is my drink, but I have to admit it's very smooth.”

My attention remained on the nails. They were the long and tapered, and they appeared to be natural – not the synthetic types commonly seen on many women.

I took another sip of the punch and looked around for Jane. I saw her near the punch bowl engaged in an animated conversation with a group of women. In the back yard, I noticed someone jump into the swimming pool fully clothed. The party was indeed heating up at a rapid pace.

Serena stepped closer, her fingers still touching my shirt. “Have you lived in the neighborhood long?”

“Four to five years,” I replied, as her fingers began to fondle the shirt. Uncertain of her intentions, I touched her hand saying, “You shouldn't do that. People might wonder about us.”

She looked about, her eyes sweeping the room. “No one’s watching. They’re too busy talking. And besides, the punch should begin working in minutes.”

Surprised, I took a step back, my thoughts immediately turning to the possibility of a mass poisoning.

She laughed, her sparkling manner lighting her features. “Relax... the punch is nothing more than brandy, champagne and club soda. It's called a French Seventy-Five. Once it hits, the party explodes into excitement. That's when things really get lively.”

Moving closer, she placed an arm around my shoulder. “Dance with me,” she said,as she began moving slowly in place, her body swaying to the tempo of the music. “Take a few steps and work your hips,” she insisted. “The music is Latin.”

I slipped an arm around her waist and tried to follow her lead. Across the room, I noticed Jane looking wobbly, as if she was having trouble standing.

Returning to Serena, I felt her stumble momentarily before righting herself as if nothing had happened. “Too much punch?” I asked carefully.

“Not enough,” she replied, as she pressed her body against me and whispered, “I would love to get you alone in the pool house.”

Ignoring her, I again looked around the room. The remaining crowd seemed to be thinning out. Several couples were leaving early. And surprisingly, I noticed Jane following them, her hand cupping her mouth.

I returned to Serena, saying. “I need to go.”

“So soon?” she asked, as her fingertips caressed my face. “We’re just getting started.”

“My wife is sick, sorry.”

Seconds later, her eyes flared. Then suddenly, she raked the hand across my face, her fingernails digging deep. “You’re no fun,” she said, as she spun away, her manner causing the people near us to turn and take notice.

Hurrying outside, I found Jane laying in the front yard, retching. I helped her to her feet, listening to her mumble incoherently about the punch. Then, carrying her in my arms, I managed to get her home and put her to bed before another wave of nausea overcame her.

And, that's why I'm worried....

I phoned an attorney about thirty minutes ago. That was shortly before the police wheeled Serena’s body to the street. Now, I repeatedly ask myself the same questions. Who killed her, and why did she choose to hit on me, a graying fifty-year old?

Behind me, I heard Jane drift into the room. “Thank you for putting me to bed. I slept like a baby.” She moved beside me at the window and asked, “Why are the police at the Johnson's house?”

“The woman was murdered last night. I heard on the news that a maid found her in the pool house.”

“That's awful... do they know who did it?”

“The news reports are sketchy. But, I suspect the police plan to question everyone at the party. They're going from house to house now.”

“Then, I need to get dressed,” she said, as she turned to me, her eyes suddenly going wide. “Oh, my God! What happened to your face? It's horrible!”

I knew the scratches would raise questions. And, with my skin cells under Serena's nails, I was soon to become a suspect and very possibly a DNA casualty.


- - -
John is a native born Texan living near Houston. His writing focuses on short stories and flash. Publications to his credit can be found on the internet and in several print edition periodicals.

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Author: John Laneri

Contributor: Molly Hamilton

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I came by myself tonight. I walked into the room and selectively took my seat in the middle of the rows and rows of chairs. It’s like tic-tac-toe—the middle is the best spot. Surely somebody will come sit by me. Here they all come, all of the people, my future friends. I hope I look nice. I put on my best outfit. I’m smiling.
All of the people are walking by. They’re grinning, identifying their buddies. A mob of them is being divided slowly. They’re sectioning off into groups: a cluster of pretty girls here, a cluster of laughing boys there, and a pack of artists up there. Perhaps a group will sit by me. I move my purse over. I sit up straighter. I look around. I watch the packs of teens. The groups are migrating to seats, filling all of the rows and rows of empty chairs. “Come over here!” I want to say. Surely someone will sit nearby me. They’re not. None of them are. They’re choosing rows north, rows south, rows east, rows west. The middle row, my row is only occupied by me. My smile is fading; my eyes feel full.

But wait! A boy is approaching. He’s looking at me, he looks nervous. I grin. I want to look friendly. He speaks, “can I borrow this chair?” he asks, indicating one of the many empty ones beside me. I didn’t want to hear that, but I must show him I’m nice.

“Sure,” I tell him, “I’m not using it.”

Quickly he swipes my future friend’s seat. It’s OK. There are other chairs beside me. More people are coming now, lots of people. None of them are even asking. All of the chairs beside me are being captured. Taken to a place where the clichés are. The middle wasn’t a good place after all. The speaker is coming. Everyone is settled in. I’m by myself, in the center of the room with two crooked chairs a foot away from me. I listen to the buzzing of many giggling, happy voices. It happened again. I keep trying though. The battle to try to find a friend is an ugly one. The skin of my confidence is all scars. Maybe next time you’ll return my smile, and if I’m lucky maybe you’ll say hello.


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Author: Molly Hamilton

Contributor: Chris Sharp

- -
There was some extra quality of urgency in the 6:30 am telephone ringing. It made Scott Gillespie sense there was much more urgency to come from the other end of the phone line.
“Scott, good morning. Did you hear call about the solar storm about to hit us in an hour?”
“No, George. I mean yes. These solar storms that come and go in cycles, as the weatherman said.”
“But the weatherman also said this will be the biggest solar storm to hit the earth in history, much bigger than the enormous sun storm in 1859 that had the magnetic force to magnetize the Northern Lights into the New York City skyline.”
“Well, that would be fun. I would like to see some Northern Lights here on a Saturday night.”
“This is serious, Scott. Because you have high blood pressure.”
“Because I have a little high blood pressure?”
“Exactly right.”
Scott and George had been roommates at a Greek fraternity at Oregon State University for almost two years. They had ended up graduating together and trying now to somehow evolve into a traditional adult life in their 25th years, knowing much more about each other than they needed to know.
“George, you woke me up way too early on a Saturday morning. Let me drink some coffee and I’ll call you back. And also what do you mean, my high blood pressure? It’s not so high. What, you think maybe I’m so frail a silly solar storm is going to finish me off.”
“I’m saying you’re in danger because you’ve got the high blood pressure from your body being so full of iodized sodium. How do you think your iodized body is going to react to the biggest cloud of iodized plasma to hit earth in recorded history, at three million miles per hour, full of electro-magnetism?”
“Wait a minute. I’m starting my coffee now.”
“The last thing you need now, Scott, is to be drinking coffee. That’s just going to make your blood pressure get even worse.”
Scott didn’t have the patience to caffeinate coffee. He simply boiled water and threw some instant coffee in a cup. Then he topped it off with a little milk and more pancake syrup, which always equalized the taste of caffeinated and instant coffee in an instant.
“It is amazing, George, the number of things that pancake syrup can turn into a delicacy. Have you ever poured it on baked trout?”
“Scott, what you need to be eating now is bananas. Plenty of bananas.”
“You’re hilarious. George.”
“Or eat tomatoes or oranges. They have enough potassium in them to maybe neutralize some of your sodium ions before the hour is over.”
“Thank you, George, but I think I will take my chances.”
“The nation’s airlines aren’t taken their chances. They’re being grounded until the storm is over. The storm is that big, that it could magnetized any jet’s electrical system into chaos.”
“Thank you, George.”
“They predict even our cell phones will take a hit. The electro-magnetism will leave us all with blank blood-red screens on our cell phones today, is what they’re saying. Scott, this storm could possibly short circuit a person’s entire electrical neuron system, especially when you’re filled with all those sodium ions”
“Thank you, George. Let me fill myself with my coffee and I’ll call you on my blood- red cell phone down the road.”
Then Scott hung up the phone and drank his coffee.
He usually woke up on Saturday morning three hours later. Now those three hours reminded him of three ugly blind dates that he didn’t know what to do with.
He turned on his television. “When in doubt, get the TV Guide out,” he said to himself.
But now there was something wrong with the TV. The screen gave nothing but gray static. “This precious weekend is starting out for the dogs,” Scott muttered to himself.
He really didn’t know what to do three hours before the town opened and with not even the TV working.
Then, against the early morning quiet, he heard the bellowing of a beach scene, the screams of sea gulls. “What’s with this?” he said, as he went to his widow.
Outside, on the different arms of the various light poles, dozens of sea gulls were perched, seemingly screaming at him. “What made you guys fly so far inlaid today?” he said as he watched them. “Stop screaming at me. Shut up, will you?”
He went back to bed and tried to go back to sleep. He stayed there for an hour thinking the silly rapid-eye-movement thoughts that lead to sleep. But finally he gave up, giving in to the inevitability of starting a good day off too early. He felt a metallic taste in his mouth.
He put his feet on the floor, but then he had a difficult time standing. He staggered when he took his first steps. Then his left arm started tingled.
“What now? A stroke at only age twenty-five?”
His left arm got worse within a minute, and he couldn’t move his left-hand fingers. He decided he needed to see a doctor immediately, knowing that with a stroke the brain damage can be irreversible if even a few extra minutes are wasted. But his feet felt so heavy that he actually didn’t think he would be able to walk to his home phone. Instead he stayed in his bedroom, took the cell phone out the pants he had left on the floor, and with increasingly tingling in his right hand he dialed for the first time in his life “911.”
“Hello! Hello!” he said into the dead phone.
He even resorted to looking at his idiot cell-phone screen to shout at it.
The cell phone looked back at Scott with a blood-red screen.


- - -
Chris Sharp is a teacher in Menifee, California, where he lives with his wife Debbie, a parrot and a cat. He has several stories in the archives of Yesteryear Fiction and Daily Love, and has published a book, “Dangerous Learning.”

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Author: Chris Sharp