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.


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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: 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

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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.


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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

Contributor: Eric Suhem

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He pedaled more furiously. He was 3 years old, riding a tricycle through a maze of hedges in the springtime. At each turn he became more lost, and he could feel the wings bearing down on him from the sky. His brain started to throb and bubble, seemingly simmering for an imminent explosion. Finally he couldn’t pedal anymore, and the tricycle stopped in the far corner of the labyrinth. His sister was there and she looked at his head. “There’s a dead butterfly in your hair,” she said, pinching it with her thumb and forefinger. He stared at her, and looked around, seeing nothing but foliage towering above, and started to smile.

Now he was riding a bright red bicycle over the new pavement in the tract-house suburban neighborhood. He was 9 years old. It was a bright summer’s afternoon, the temperature over 100 degrees, the light and horizon shimmering darkly in the pavement’s reflection. He was sweating as he popped wheelie after wheelie over the sidewalk curbs. He was sucking on a lemon popsicle, and he could feel the wings upon him, as he rode the bike faster and faster down the hill, trying to outrun them. Playing cards were clothes-pinned on the bike spokes, and he saw a few pomegranates situated oddly on the sidewalk, but they were just a blur as he sped by, the cards clacking. The skies darkened as a swarm of butterflies flew overhead, blocking the sun, their shadow weighing him down. At the bottom of the hill, he slammed on the brakes and left a tire skid of about 10 feet on the asphalt. During the skid, he felt freed from the butterflies.

He was now an adult, 32 years old, riding a rusty bicycle to work in the autumn. Big sunflowers started to grow out of cracks in the sidewalk. He could see peaceful golden hills on the horizon and a clear blue sky. Birds were chirping, butterflies flew about, and the air had a crisp smell of early morning. He approached the pomegranate orchards, the sights, smells and sounds filling his body with energy. The sunflowers were growing taller and taller, towards the sky. The weather was cold, but felt so good. His hands were getting numb on the handlebars, but he didn’t care. He rode through the pomegranate orchards, amongst the butterflies, to his construction job at Caterpillar Inc.

The butterflies flutter through the black corridor. All colors: yellow, blue, orange, green, red, purple. They sail past each tightly bolted black door, down the hall, through miles and miles of blackness to the 457th door on the right, slightly, ajar. They swarm into the hospital operating room, bright hues flowing amidst the surgical masks and gowns. They fly, and then settle on the beeping iron lung.

He was 81 years old, in a wheelchair, being pushed through corridor after corridor in a pale green institution. The smell was one of cold antiseptic efficiency. He was being pushed by someone in a nurse’s outfit with rolls of gauze wrapped around his/her head. A screaming sound of little wings furiously beating together filled his ears. Finally, the gauze-bound ‘nurse’ gave him a mighty shove, and the wheelchair went speeding blindly down the corridor, crashing through the doors at the end. There was nothing on the other side of the doors but black winter’s night, and the wheelchair, with him in it, started falling… He saw large butterflies above him, and he reached for the big wings, hoping they would lift him up, but he missed, and laughed as he fell into oblivion.

His mother was pushing him around the park in his stroller on a warm spring day. He was back to 8 weeks old. He saw a monarch butterfly on the left safety bar of the stroller. He put it in his mouth, and chewed.


- - -
Eric Suhem lives in California and enjoys the qualities of his vegetable juicer.

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Author: Eric Suhem

Contributor: John Laneri

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It was a Sunday morning. Jillie and I had just finished breakfast, and I was sitting on her porch swing reliving our night of pleasure – a good one too. I'm not sure I got my boots off the first time around.

Jillie, as most folks know, runs the finest establishment in Texas. As to me, I'm the county's most confirmed bachelor. I'm also the sheriff of Neverton, a small community along the cattle trail to Fort Worth.

About then, I noticed the new girl standing to the side of the porch. In appearance, she was a cute little thing with freckles on her nose and a friendly smile on her lips. For dress, she was wearing a red ribbon in her hair and a man’s shirt with long tails hanging to her knees – nothing out of the ordinary for most of the girls working at the boarding house.

Thinking back, I suspect her spurs grabbed my attention most. They looked to be a size too big for bare feet, and they sported rawhide straps circling her ankles like the wraps attached to little dancing shoes.

She took a couple of steps in my direction, the spurs jingling as they bounced across the porch.

“Busy night?” I asked.

“Cowboys like their Saturday nights,” she replied, as she yawned softly and ran her fingers through her hair. “I’ve got another fellow waitin’ in my room – a wild one from Oklahoma.”

I pointed to the swing. “Have a seat. Jillie’s in the kitchen getting more coffee.”

She dropped beside me and laid a foot across her knee, her eyes turning to mine. “My name’s, Frances May.”

“Sheriff Carson,” I replied. “Jillie and I are friends.”

She looked away to begin working on a spur, her fingers moving deftly along the leather.

“Havin’ problems?” I asked.

“I can’t seem to get these straps adjusted.” She pulled on a buckle. “If they’re not right, fellows complain.”

Surprised, I looked away from the spurs and straight into her eyes. “You mean… you wear those things while you’re working!”

Her eyelids fluttered playfully as she reached to tug at another strap. “Spurring fellows comes natural. They pay me an extra two dollars for the pleasure.”

“Two dollars… For pleasure?”

She stopped and turned to me. “Lots of cowboys like the spurs best of all. Don't you know anything?”

Ignoring her, I watched her continue tightening the straps. Soon, she extended her leg to the front and spent a few moments admiring her handiwork. Then wiggling her toes in satisfaction, she turned to me and dropped the foot onto my lap.

“What do you think?”

I edged away, wincing as a tine poked my leg.

“Give the wheel a spin,” she said, pointing to the metal. “After a few turns, it starts to sound like music.”

Reluctantly, I sent the wheel to spinning, listening to the sound ring out. “Your spurs seem a bit sharp,” I said, as a flurry of goose bumps ran my spine.

“Most fellows like ‘em sharp. The hearty ones say they get more pleasure when I dig deep.” She inclined her head in my direction, her lips formed into a smile. “That’s when the screaming really begins.”

I set the foot aside. “I don’t see much need for spurs. Natural romancing suits me plenty fine.”

Relieved, I turned away when I heard the screen door open and saw Jillie head my way carrying two cups of coffee. As usual, she was smiling brightly, her red hair glowing in the sunlight.

“I see you two have gotten acquainted.”

Frances May spoke up. “I was showing Sheriff Carson my spurs.”

Jillie cocked her head in my direction. I avoided her gaze, preferring not to discuss the subject. And soon, Frances May returned to the house, the sound of her spurs fading somewhere in the distance.

Jillie settled onto the swing and handed me a coffee. “I didn’t know you were interested in spurs.”

“I’m not. Just thinkin’ about those things bothers me.”

We sat for several minutes, enjoying our time together. Soon, she laid her head against my shoulder and sighed. “You’re a good man, Matt Carson.”

“I try to be,“ I replied, feeling her warmth lift my heart.

She took my hand. “We should have gotten married years ago.”

I glanced her way. “Then we wouldn't be friends. We'd be miserable.”

She snuggled closer. “You're probably right. Being friends, keeps everything easy.” She looked into my eyes, her softness pressing against me. “Would you like to go upstairs and kick off your boots again? We have the whole morning.”

“Those are the best words I’ve heard since breakfast.”

She stood and started toward the house, saying, “We can begin easy with a few light scratches, and then…”

I stopped dead in my tracks, refusing to move another step. “My backside’s too fragile for that kind of stuff. I could be crippled.”

She pushed me on, determined as ever. “Don’t be silly. I’ve been wanting to try spurs for the longest time.”

“But, being injured for life doesn’t sound like fun to me.”

Laughing playfully, she gave me another push. “Then, indulge me this once unless you'd like to get married and be miserable for the rest of your life.”


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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: Samantha Memi

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I was walking along the street on my way to see a friend when I noticed something sparkling in the grass of the verge. I picked it up to take a closer look. A bracelet, which seemed to be gold, a pattern of entwining hands, encrusted with turquoise and what I thought might be rubies. Good, I thought, I’ll sell this. Just as I’d decided to be my usual dishonest self, a woman ran down the road towards me. She looked around frantically then turned to me, desperation in her face, and asked,
“Have you seen a bracelet?”
I gripped the bracelet tight in my fist, determined not to give it back.
I tried to say ‘no’, but the word stuck in my throat.
I felt the bracelet burn in my hand, and she glanced at my fist and back to my face. Her eyes narrowed. The bracelet wanted honesty.
“Yes,” and against my natural instinct I showed her what I had found.
Joy blew her panic away. “Oh my bracelet,” she exclaimed, and took it from me.
“It must be worth a lot,” I said, “it looks like gold.”
“It’s not the intrinsic value. It's sentimental. My husband bought it for me. When I saw it in a jewelers, I fell in love with it. It said buy me. I dragged my husband to the shop. When the manager took it from the window, he said, ‘this was my daughter’s. It was given her by the Caliph of Baghdad. She went to Egypt for a holiday but she was kidnapped by some kidnappers. There’s a lot of them in Cairo. As they were bundling her into a car they were seen by one of the Caliph’s servants who took a photograph and showed it to the Caliph who immediately fell in love with my daughter, Anna was her name – such a sweet little thing – and he instigated a search and found my daughter bound and gagged in a carpet warehouse near the port.
After she spent some time in the Caliph’s palace – and God only knows what happened to her there – she was always an adventurous girl, if you know what I mean – he gave her this bracelet, and said, ‘My mother gave this to me and she said, ‘One day you will be the Caliph of Baghdad, and you will need this bracelet because it will protect you, but only if you have pure thoughts. Be warned; if you think badly of anyone or allow anger or jealousy or bitterness into your heart, the bracelet will mirror your thoughts and fate will turn against you,’ and my daughter took the bracelet and the Caliph told her, ‘the bracelet brought me great fortune and my kingdom expanded, but one day I caught one of my wives with a courtier. Enraged I had her whipped then beheaded; her lover was drowned in pig’s urine. Two weeks later my kingdom collapsed when the revolutionaries took power and I was deposed and forced to seek sanctuary in Egypt.’
My daughter loved the bracelet but was wary of it, though she always had good luck – she was such a sweet girl – she married and had children – oh you’ve never seen such grandchildren as I have – but her husband left her and she wished him a nasty death. The very next day he was crushed by a machine at work. Shortly after that she developed awful headaches. She saw all kinds of specialists but no one knew what was wrong with her. Just before she died she gave me the bracelet and said, ‘Sell this to someone honest, or throw it away’.”
A breeze lifted paper from the street. The brakes of a bus screeched. The woman looked at me.
“And even though we knew its history I so loved the bracelet my husband bought it for me, and we’ve both had an idyllic life together. Without a trace of anger or suspicion or jealousy. But tell me, you wanted to keep the bracelet?”
“No no,” I lied.
She looked at me suspiciously.
“I think you did,”
Then she walked away without even a thank you, and I wished I’d kept it.
As she was crossing the road she turned to give me a look which said, I hate you.
At that moment she was hit by a car which scraped her body 30 yards along the tarmac.
I thought of rushing to her quickly and tugging the bracelet from her hand, but I realized I’d never had a pure thought in my life, what the hell would the bracelet do to me.


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Samantha Memi is a patisserie chef in London. Her recipes for a happy life can be found at http://samanthamemi.weebly.com/

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Author: Samantha Memi

Contributor: Linda Garnett

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Two exhausted vacuum salesmen walked to the last house in the neighborhood.

A 'Solicitors Welcome' sign hung on the front door.

"Don't you think that's a weird sign, Joe?" said Dave.

Joe rang the doorbell. "Are you kidding me? We've been to at least thirty houses today and we haven't made one sale. I think that's about to change!"

An elderly man wearing sunglasses opened the door. "Hello, boys. What are you selling today?"

"I'm Dave and this is Joe. We have here the new Kilby Supreme Sucker Vacuum. It'll clean up the toughest spills and stains you got, even beer and pizza. Let me show you how this beauty works."

"Sure, come on in! I've had visitors all day and they've left behind a huge mess."

They followed him into the living room and saw large piles of orange goo everywhere on the carpet and around the furniture.

"What the hell is that stuff?" asked Joe.

The man pointed to a pile next to the coffee table. "Well, right over there is Jane, the Avon lady; on the couch is Jake the magazine subscription kid; Mitch from the Church of Satan is by the fireplace, and under the dining room table is Missy, the Tupperware gal."

"What happened to them?" said Dave.

"I hated their sales pitches so I melted them into Orangoobles, my favorite Plutonian snack."

Joe laughed. "Yeah, sure you did."

The elderly man took off his sunglasses and his eyes began to glow. Suddenly, lasers shot out of his eyes.

Joe screamed as he became a pile of goo.

"Go on, show me how this vacuum works. If I like it, I might let you live."

After Dave finished his demonstration, he saw the elderly man's eyes begin to glow.

"That crappy vacuum certainly didn't do anything you promised it would. Looks like you're joining my snack collection."

"Wait, let me show you one more feature," said Dave.

He pushed the Supreme Clean button on the vacuum. The machine let out a roar and swallowed the elderly man.

It made a few chomping noises and then burped.

Dave emptied the vacuum bag into the garbage can.

"And that's how I deal with people who don't like my product demonstrations."


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Linda Garnett is currently editing her first novel, a sci-fi comedy. Her work has appeared in Stories That Lift, New Flesh, Flashes in the Dark, Static Movement, Linguistic Erosion, Weirdyear, and The Short Humour Site.

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Author: Linda Garnett

Contributor: John Laneri

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Sheriff Matt Carson paused to let a horse drawn wagon clatter past then continued on, his steps taking him toward Aunt Jillie’s Boarding House, the finest establishment in North Texas.

“From the way you’re walking, it must be time for lunch.”

The Sheriff recognized the voice as that of Roscoe Sayers, editor of the Brazos River Weekly.

Turning in Roscoe’s direction, he headed toward the boardwalk, saying, “I didn’t know my hunger was so obvious. I must have been thinking about the fried chicken at Jillie’s. Today’s Wednesday, my day for chicken.”

In appearance, Roscoe was a skinny, little man with a balding head and bulging eyes.

“I've always liked fried chicken,” Roscoe said. “But, the little lady prefers I take my noon meal at home – says it’s good for my digestion.”

“There’s nothing better than fried chicken to soothe the digestion. In my opinion, Jillie serves the best southern fried in these parts. Her chicken’s hard to resist.”

Roscoe lifted an eyebrow. “I figured Jillie only served meals to her social customers.”

The Sheriff grinned. “Naturally, she likes to reward her patrons with a small lunch as a gesture of goodwill. But, she encourages everyone to visit… only charges two bits if you’re eating with your boots on.”

“Only two bits?”

“Yup… two bits. Noon timers cost two dollars more. If you’re hungry for southern fried, I’ll buy you a good meal.”

“Do you think my little lady will mind?”

“Not if you consider it an opportunity to do a story about good eating places around the county.”

A few minutes later, they stepped inside the boarding house and edged past a cowboy groping to a cute little lady then headed toward the dining room, a spacious area decorated Victorian style and set to the side of the foyer. Several gentlemen were already eating.

Once seated, Jillie moved toward them, smiling brightly. She was an attractive woman with green eyes, soft powdered skin and red hair cascading to her shoulders.

“Afternoon Sheriff,” she said with a flourish. “I bet you're in the mood for some of my chicken.”

“I’m always ready for your chicken,” he replied, reaching for a napkin.

She turned to Roscoe and cocked her head inquisitively. “I’m mighty proud to have a newspaperman visit my house. What brings you here Mr. Sayers?”

The Sheriff spoke up. “Roscoe’s planning a story.”

She moved close to Roscoe and nuzzled his ear. “You’ll find my house to be the finest in Texas. I like servin’ gents in a high-spirited manner.” She pointed across the room. “See that young girl with the yellow ribbon in her hair….”

The Sheriff quickly spoke up. “Roscoe’s not interested in your house as a house. He’s interested in your food.”

Jillie forced a smile. “Well, that’s different. Most fellows think my food is the finest they ever tasted. And, I offer desert, if you have a mind to get the sparks to flying.”

“Roscoe’s not here for the desert,” the Sheriff said. “He wants to sample the chicken.”

“That’s why I’m here,” Roscoe said eagerly. “I’m planning to do a story about good eating places around the county.”

He reached for a drumstick.

Jillie touched his hand. “Then, you’d best be reaching for a breast. They’re my specialty. I offer them, big and juicy.”

Roscoe smiled politely. “I like breasts too. But, I prefer startin’ with a leg.” He looked away to begin eating.

“You work the pieces however you see fit,” she said, pointing to the chicken. “But, fellows I know prefer to move in a particular order.”

“How’s that?” Roscoe asked, glancing in her direction.

“For starters,” she said, “Most gentlemen like to run their lips over a neck then ease toward a breast before movin’ on to the legs and thighs.”

“I prefer the legs first.”

“That fine,” Jillie replied. “Some fellows do prefer to move straight to the legs then head for the thighs, especially if they’re in a big hurry. But, they tend to miss some spicy parts by being too eager. In my opinion, the best way….”

The Sheriff spoke-up, “Jillie, leave the man alone. He knows how to eat chicken!”

She laughed softly. “I guess you’re right. I shouldn’t tell a man how to his chicken. Sometimes, I get too worked up.” She tapped Roscoe on the shoulder. “But, don’t forget my breasts. They’re much better than those dried-out kinds some people offer.”

Roscoe watched her move away then turned to the Sheriff. “Was she talkin’ about fried chicken?”

“Hell if I know,” the Sheriff replied. Jillie likes to keep people guessing. So… what do you think of the food?”

Roscoe shifted in his seat. “It’s not spicy enough for me.”

“Sometimes the spice is hard to detect,” the Sheriff said, as he indicated across the room to where Jillie had stopped to lift her skirt and adjust a garter. “Check out her legs.”

Roscoe looked away to study Jillie's legs. After some time, he turned back to the Sheriff. “They remind me of drumsticks attached to nice thighs.”

“Like I was saying,” the Sheriff replied, smiling happily. “Wednesday's my day for chicken.”


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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: David Macpherson

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On the edge of the beginning, Moss Child crawled to the pickling fields for something to eat. This land was owned by the creators. The storytellers and cloth-spinners that chose to create this world, this beginning. They would not want her eating what was theirs, but Moss Child was hungry and hunger didn’t stand on polite expectations.

With soft green fingers, she dug out the first jar that gravity and divine edict nestled under the earth. The jar was cast from the hide of old Gods. It was brittle and broke to the touch.

She took out the second jar. It was made from black ink. Inside she found a giant ossified heart. She gnawed at that organ for two days and stopped only when she thought she might tire.

She took out the third jar, made from the caul of infant stars. Inside were people, the we. She put one in her mouth, found it bitter and spit it out. She upended the jar and all the people tumbled out.

To their fleeing forms she shouted blessing, "Be free you bad food. Ruin the taste buds of those who should never have harvested you. Worship them, but never forget to get a decent wage for the adulation. Never be satisfied. When that happens, your flesh will mellow and taste sweet and they will greet you with smile and fork."

Moss Child found the other jars empty and went looking onto the next page for something new to please her.


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Author: David Macpherson

Contributor: John Laneri

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Webster Nightingale trudged on, feeling another gust of winter wind blow against his neck. He needed sustenance – anything to warm the fibers deep within his being.

The storm raging about him was a severe blast, one reminiscent of the blizzard of 1887 when the Brazos froze from bank to bank. Now, only a few years later, he, along with most of the people in Neverton, a small town on the cattle trail to Fort Worth, were indeed feeling its fury.

Grumbling, he lifted his collar, determined to make his way to Aunt Jillie’s Boarding House, the finest establishment in North Texas. Near the town square, he looked up and spotted Roscoe Sayers standing in front of his newspaper office leaning against a post. Curious, he turned in Roscoe’s direction and made his way across the street.

“Mighty cold morning,” he said, when he reached the boardwalk.

Roscoe looked his way, his eyes lifting weakly. “I’ve been standing here since dawn, hoping the cold air might give me some relief.”

Webster spoke out, his voice bellowing against the wind. “I thought you promised the Good Lord that you’d stay away from Mexican beans. Most folks consider ‘em powerful enough to prime cannons.”

“It’s not the beans. It’s my tooth,” Roscoe replied, as he turned away from another gust of wind.

Webster scratched at his whiskers and reached for a back pocket, his eyes settling on Roscoe’s bulging jaw. “I remember one year when I was workin’ cattle on the high plains in the Panhandle....”

“I don’t need another of your long-winded stories. My tooth hurts too much to listen.”

“I wasn’t talkin’ to your tooth.

“Maybe so, but, my tooth has ears. It hears you just the same, and it says, talk softer ‘cause it feels the words.”

Webster took a draw from his flask. “You may be right, but like I was sayin’, a good drink of whiskey works magic for easing tooth pain. There’s no a finer remedy known to man.”

“My little lady frowns on whiskey -- claims it’s the fastest way to get possessed by the devil.”

Webster lifted the flask and downed a shot, smacking his lips. “But, it’s a mighty fine way to get possessed, leads to all kinds of interesting possibilities.”

“Like what?” Roscoe asked.

“Like getting acquainted with one of those pretty young girls over at Aunt Jillie’s Boarding House. There’s a world of pleasure waitin’ at her establishment.”

Turning away from another flurry of snow, Roscoe replied, “I don’t step around. And besides, it’s too cold.”

Webster did a double take and looked directly into Roscoe’s eyes. “It’s never too cold for a good tossing. As a newspaperman, you should know that. A little lovin’ keeps the world warm when the snows ‘a falling… might help your tooth too.”

Roscoe lifted an eyebrow. “Fooling around with young girls won’t help my tooth.”

“Maybe so, but they did me some good when my rheumatism was acting up.”

Roscoe cocked his head in Webster's direction, his eyes brightening. “As I recall, you were laid up in bed for quite a spell.”

“I was until I visited Aunt Jillie’s and met a cute, little filly with flame red hair. Afterward, I came out feeling like a new man. Yes sir, a good tossing has a remarkable way of curing most maladies.”

Webster handed the flask to Roscoe. “Take a couple of swigs. Then we’ll head over to her place and get out of the cold. The girls are always happy to have visitors.”

Hesitantly, Roscoe took the flask in his hands and turned a portion, his face contorting in various directions. “Your whiskey tastes terrible.”

“Take another shot. It might do you some good.”

Roscoe again tipped the flask and took a healthy pull. “You’re right, it does make my tooth feel better.”

Webster chuckled. “After a while, it makes the girls look pretty too.”

For some time, they passed the flask back and forth while they continued to discuss Aunt Jillie and her girls at the boarding house. Finally, the sound of groaning caused Webster to lower his flask and glance in Roscoe’s direction.

Seconds later, Roscoe pitched forward and bounced off a hitching post, his face plowing into the snow.

Hurrying to his side, Webster helped him to his feet. “You needn’t be in such a hurry. Most of the girls sleep ‘til noon.”

“I wasn’t headed to the boarding house. I was trying to lean against a post and rest my tooth. I so happened to miss the post.”

Webster downed another shot while he watched Roscoe stagger about with his fingers in his mouth. “Is something bothering you? It looks to me like you’re trying to eat your fingers.”

“I got it... Look here,” Roscoe said, as he shoved a hand at Webster's face. “My tooth came out when I fell in the street.”

Webster lowered the flask. “By golly, that does look like a tooth. Now, I’m disappointed.”

“Why are you disappointed? I’m cured. The Good Lord saved me from going to the boarding house and sinning.”

Webster grunted. “He only saved you from suffering a toothache. I’m confident He expected us to walk over to Aunt Jillie’s and spend some time with the girls.”

“But, I made the right choice. You can still go to the boarding house. No one’s stopping you.”

“I would,” Webster replied, as he stumbled into a snowdrift. “The problem is, I’m too drunk to walk by myself.”


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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