Contributor: Gary Clifton

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L.C. Clark had operated the joint for 27 years. Like gory scarecrows, the photos of men who'd tried to rob the old man were taped in the front windows. He'd shot ever mother's son of them deader than good manners. The place was called a restaurant, but Clark only sold dope, booze after hours, and sex with some of the butt-ugliest whores you ever saw.

McCoy had played a year at linebacker for SMU before the grade-monster caught up with him. Harper had kicked more asses than any human alive. But being tough old boys didn't close the deal. Both McCoy and Harper needed snitches like Clark, as sure as the old man needed his hookers - hard to do business without them.

"No, hell no, McCoy, of all them sumbitches I offed," he gestured to the photos. "I never let the hammer down on a white man, but I could if I hadta," he leaned back against the bar in a reasonable Wyatt Earp impersonation. Pudgy, with one gold tooth and drugstore half-glasses on his nose, his ample stomach showed that even if the Rosie Mack didn't sell food, he ate good someplace.

The next night, a wild-eyed-asshole redneck barged in waving a pistol. Clark gave up the register, but opened fire as the guy cleared the door. When McCoy and Harper got down there, the toad lay dead on the sidewalk, his head splattered in the center of a yard wide circle of crimson brains and gore.

"Biker...from his clothes," McCoy said. "Deader n' hell."

"Said I could kill a white man if I had too, McCoy," old Clark sat on a battered barstool and puffed on a menthol filter tip.

Harper knelt and poked at the body. "You ain't killed one yet, Clark. No bullet holes in this carcass. This guy died from a crushed skull. Ran headfirst into a utility pole. Hell, dude, you scared him to death."


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Clifton, forty years a cop, has an M.S. from Abilene Christian University and has short fiction pieces published or pending on several online sites.

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Author: Gary Clifton

Contributor: Christopher E. Long

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Pete lies atop a plastic mattress cover on a bed. He’s in a fetal position and the flap is open in the back of his hospital gown. His body is deflated like a balloon, and he has dark circles around his bloodshot eyes. There’s a four-leaf clover tattoo on his neck, which is pretty ironic because Pete feels like the unluckiest person alive.

The only light in the room comes from under the door, illuminating the drain in the middle of the tiled floor where human fluids are washed away.

“You look like shit.”

Pete turns his head toward the steel door, but nobody is there. His arms strain under his weight as he pushes himself up. “Hello?”

A teen-ager steps out of the darkness, wearing ripped jeans, a flannel shirt, and a patch of peach fuzz on his chubby face. “You’re a mess.”

Mustering all his strength, Pete plants his feet on the cold floor. “Can I help you?”

“It’s a little late for that.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m you.” The boy steps closer, and says, “ten years ago, when you were nineteen.”

Pete squints and looks closely at the boy hovering over the bed. He looks vaguely familiar, like a shadow from the past. There’s something about him that tugs at his memory. “I don’t remember being that fat.”

“The pounds melt away once we start smoking heroin,” the boy says. “Guess that means I have something to look forward to. Thanks.”

Pete rubs his face, and says, “Oh, that’s just great. I get all the blame.”

“I’ve never done heroin, have I?”

“You’re too busy taking horse tranquilizers.”

“I’m thinking about becoming a veterinarian,” the boy says, looking around the dark room with a disapproving stare. “This place is a dump. Can't we afford to go to a better rehab?”

Pete tries to stand up, but falls back onto the bed. “With what we make? I don’t think so.”

“How much is that?”

“Nineteen grand.”

“A month.”

“A year.”

“Jesus Christ!” the boy says. “What do we do for a living?”

“Deliver flowers.”

“We went to college, right?”

“Got a degree in English,” Pete says. “But it’s hard to hold down a good job when we’re scoring drugs full time.”

The boy moves toward the bed, and says, “Scoot over. I’m depressed as hell.”

Pete slides over and allows the boy to plop down next to him. “Are we still dating Stacy?”

“I broke up with her last week,” the boy says.

“We regret that all through our twenties.”

A man wearing designer jeans and shirt, expensive shoes, and a silk scarf wrapped around his neck appears out of nowhere.

“And who the hell are you?” Pete asks.

“I’m you in ten years,” the man says.

The boy looks at Pete, then the man. “Bullshit.”

The man unwraps the scarf from his neck, revealing the four-leaf clover tattoo. “See.”

Pete stares at the well-dressed man with admiration, like a proud parent. “We certainly clean up well, don’t we?”

“If you stay sober, things get better,” the man says. “We end up owning the Hoopla Flower Shop.”

“A flower shop,” the boy says, shaking his head.

“And if you lay off the gluten,” the man continues, motioning toward the boy, “you won’t balloon up like tubby there.”

“Watch it,” the boy says.

The man leans in next to Pete. “Do you still live next to David?”

“Yeah.”

“When you start dating, don’t do anything to screw it up, okay?”

“What? We’re not gay,” Pete says.

The man winks, and says, “Not yet anyway.”

The boy jumps on the man and forces him to the ground, repeatedly punching him in the face. “I’m no queer!” He continues to beat the man until his face is unrecognizable. Breathing heavily, the boy leans over the lifeless body and inspects it. “He’s dead.”

Suddenly, the bleeding man pulls pruning shears from his pocket, plunging it deep into the soft flesh of the boy’s neck. Blood falls to the floor like crimson rain. The dead boy falls on top of the man, their lifeless bodies piled on top of each other.

Pete stares at the bodies, shakes his head and says, “Kicking dope sucks.”


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My publication credits include numerous articles and short stories in magazines, including Flaunt, 30 Days of Night: Bloodsucker Tales, and Thuglit. My writing for comic books has been published by a variety of publishers, including Marvel Comics, DC Comics, IDW Publishing and Image Comics.

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Author: Christopher E. Long

Contributor: Allie Coker-Schwimmer

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“Well, Ms. Havenscope you certainly do look good for a woman your age! You look good for a woman half your age. What brings you to my office?”

“Hi, Dr. Peters. Oh, just general upkeep. You can’t have a show vehicle if it starts to rust, can you?”

“Ha, no I suppose you are right. Ok, let’s just go over your history. Excellent breasts by the way.”

“Why thank you, they’re Dr. Masterson’s.”

“Mhm. He’s a real professional. And your lips look quite plump and radiant.”

“Dr. Shanju.”

“Ok, let’s see here….stomach. And a flat one at that!”

“That would be Dr. Rassner, no wait…it was Dr. Rassner the first time….was it Dr. Gene? You might want to check on that one- I’m not all too sure.”

“Ok, I can do that. I’ll just make note of it here. How about…thighs?”

“Oh yes! Dr. Forten. Don’t you just love Dr. Forten? The man is an absolute miracle worker! He’s so wonderful.”

“Dr. Forten is quite the magic worker. So I take it this leaves…”

“Yes, correct.”

“Ok, well let’s get you prepped for the procedure. Soon you’ll be able to say your face is Dr. Peters! As for taking your surgical history down, I’m done with you.”


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Currently, I am obtaining my MFA in Creative Writing from Queens University in Charlotte and live with my husband in Durham, NC. I also wrote a book which is due to be published later this year.

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Author: Allie Coker-Schwimmer

Contributor: John Laneri

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My nemesis had always been the sixth hole at Hickory Hollow. It’s a dogleg left bordered by trees on the right – a setup that does not play well to a slice.

Naturally, I put my drive into the woods, watching it fly the canopy and disappear from view. All told, I took nine strokes to complete the easiest par four on the course.

But then, as I was reaching to take my ball out of the cup, I noticed a smoky haze begin to rise around my hand. Stepping back, I watched it slide up my arm and swirl around my head. I started to scream, but then, it coalesced into a man about the size of an elf wearing an old-fashioned green golf hat.

“Don’t be alarmed,” he said bowing. “I’m Wilson, the Genie of the golf course.”

“Yeah, right,” I replied, as I turned to leave.

Hurrying beside me, he continued, “I’m here to grant you one wish for an entire year, if you accept my offer.”

His voice was remarkably deep for a little fellow.

For fun, I looked him in the eye. “Put me down for par golf. I’m ready to play like the pros.”

I started toward the next hole. Genies on a golf course – what bunk.

He followed me, his smoky trail swirling in the wind. “I’m privileged to offer more, if you want.”

I stopped and turned to him. “I’d be satisfied with shooting par.”

“That’s a common wish,” he said, as he reclined against his cloud and crossed his legs while considering my response. “But, it may not be the best choice.”

“What’s wrong with making par on every hole?”

“One needs to weigh the trade offs,” he said, as his lips curled into a smile.

“What kind of trade offs are you talking about,” I asked cautiously, as I began to have second thoughts in my rush to brush him off. I stepped closer to his cloud, my concern growing.

He reached for a notepad, his finger thumbing through several pages. “Golf: country club…No, that's not it. Resort… Tour.” He flipped back a couple of pages.

“Hurry up,” I said, “I’m here to play golf. The next hole is waiting.”

He looked up with a toothy grin. “Here it is… par golf.”

I listened to him spell out the requirements of the wish, my courage turning cold when he informed me of the imposed penalty.

He looked up and began laughing. “I’m afraid your sex life will go to the wayside for a full year.”

“I’m not interested in sacrificing my sex life,” I said firmly, taking another step to leave.

“Don’t be in too big a hurry. I’m offering you the opportunity of a lifetime.” He settled back to examine his fingernails. “Just think, you’ll be the world’s finest golfer for one entire year, even better than Tiger Woods.”

I considered my choices, knowing that beyond a doubt, golf was my greatest love in life. But, could I abstain for a year… even a couple of months?

Finally after a good bit of soul searching and introspection, I said, “I’ll do whatever it takes to shoot par golf.”

“Good choice,” he replied, as he tipped his hat and disappeared in a puff of smoke.

I stepped closer to the hole and ventured a look inside. From what I could see, the cup looked normal. I felt around the inside and then checked the grass near the edge. Wilson was nowhere to be seen.

Coming to my feet, I continuing on, feeling a bit confused by the whole encounter.

On the next hole, I teed my ball and cracked a booming drive, which set up a birdie. All in all, I finished the round one stroke under par.

And, that's how my year went. I won several local tournaments… made quite a bit of money too.

Then, one day last month, I again encountered that swirl of smoke rising out of the cup on the sixth hole.

“How’d your year go?” Wilson asked, as he stood to the side, brushing a swirl of eddies from his tunic.

“Good,” I replied. “Very good… my golf was spectacular.”

“I bet the sex was terrible.” He laughed aloud, slapping a hand against his leg. “I’m always amazed at what folks do to play good golf. People are so wrapped up in their sex lives. Personally, I find it a bit nauseating.”

I shrugged. “The sex was not all that bad... pretty good actually.”

“Not all that bad?” he asked in surprise, his green eyes searching mine. “Most of my customers go crazy when they’re forced to abstain for a year. I’ve got quite a few ex-clients living in insane asylums.”

Smiling, I went on to describe some of my better shots, including a detailed description of several holes-in-one, then I returned to the sex. “Well, I have to admit the sex was not as good as most years. Maybe, I was too busy playing golf.”

Still confused, he looked me in the eye. “How many time did you have sex – out of curiosity, of course?”

“I’d guess about once or twice,” I replied comfortably. “I don’t usually keep count.”

He began laughing. “One or two times… that’s terrible.”

Feeling a bit miffed, I waited for him to calm down then replied as best I could. “Maybe for some people that’s nothing. But, for an eighty-seven year old residing in a small town – no car, no teeth – that's like scoring a hole-in-one over water using the back side of a putter.”


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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: Miles Gough

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We were talking very innocently, one evening, over the preference of man-eating mutant octopi for the flesh of baseball players, when with no connection, the Grand Fiend slammed an angry claw down and stated with hissing insistence, “I just don’t understand why putting human brains into gorillas was ever a popular fad!”

It took me a moment to catch the swing in the conversation and then asked, “I am sorry, but I don’t recall it ever being a fad. Pet rocks, I recall, but not Gorillas with the brains of humans.”

“How could you not recall it? It seemed to be everywhere for a while. You would go in for a kill, hungry and hot, and there distracting your victim was a gorilla wildly genuflecting for freedom from its current predicament. Oh it was an epidemic. Some of the gorilla men were angry and took it out on the population, which ruined the market for us regular monsters. We would go into a new neighborhood and find security heightened due to the gorilla problem. A few gorilla men used their new agility to rob jewelry stores, which seemed like a logical use of their new skill sets, but mostly they tried to round up other apes and take over the world. If we nether creatures cannot seem to dominate the world, do you think a small band of intelligent oversized monkeys can do it. I think not. They would be round up and put into labs or the unfortunate zoo. Even now, if you go to a zoo and marvel at how intelligent the gorilla behind the bars appears to be, it most probably because he has the brain of a man. Less of them are around, this was a fad of the fifties and sixties.”

I had no idea that such a thing was the case and I told the Grand Fiend such.

“Just so. Even the ones that caused havoc should not be seen as a nether creature. They were victims, though highly odorous ones. This was all the faults of those mad dabblers, the scientists with endowments who decided that they should try to be bend nature itself and put a human brain in any old thing they had lying about the laboratory. Why so many of them had spare gorilla carcasses handy is a mystery beyond my capability. My theory is that one mad dabbler created one on a whim and wrote about it in a magazine, something like Popular Vivisectionist Magazine, including plans and schematics and all the subscribers had to do the same. Monkey see, monkey do, if you will forgive the obvious idiom.”

This was all fascinating, but I squashed anymore discussion with my next question, “So would you consider these scientists, these mad dabblers, monsters? Would they be the human equivalent to your nether creatures?”

The Grand Fiend was obviously upset with this question. After a long pause he simply said, “They are not even worthy of being a late night snack and we would have eaten them all long ago if they didn’t have a foul aftertaste.” He grumbled that it was getting late and all my apologies did not change his mood.

As I was leaving, he did seem to regain his regular demeanor. In parting he said, “But speaking of fads, you mentioned pet rocks and if you remind me, I will tell you the true origin of the Pet Rock and the great destruction it left in its way.” I did bring that up to him later and the story was a fine one, which might be told in these pages on another occasion.


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Author: Miles Gough

Contributor: George Sparling

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The Man first entered through my nose after he had waited outside the doctor’s office in his truck. I had seen him from the waiting room’s window for 30 minutes, then had a procedure done, and 60 minutes later, The Man’s truck was still parked outside. Clearly, as I soon found out, he was the culmination of extensive surveillance developments, a thug utilizing advances in neuro-technology. My paranoia proved true.

I walked past his empty truck and found him smoking on the sidewalk. The Man, scrawny, in his mid-fifties, casually sucked nicotine, then blew it my way as I jabbed my four-pronged aluminum cane at him. “Get the hell away from me. I’ve had enough of you working-class chumps thinking you’re civic-minded now that you get paid by the cops to track me.” The Man said, “I’m only doing my job.” I wanted to walk to the bus stop but I couldn’t, and stood still like a frozen computer. I stopped operating and would never go through the steps to restart.

The Man’s proboscis, the olfactory nerves traveled from his nose to mine, and I hadn’t power to stop it, his nose goblins, boogers, thickened mucous crept into my nasal passage. I inhaled the odor of hamburger and onion rings he had eaten behind the wheel of the truck. Call it olfactory memory. I now lost my own sensory neurons, my life’s worth of smell erased, The Man replaced it. I saw him waft fetid sulphur to his nose, like the Devil, meaning my nose also. Bright sunshine, blue skies, yet there stood the Prince of Darkness.

Traffic played discordant death metal on the street inches away from us. The Man then raped my mouth, his tobacco, liquor, cunnilingus stench, chewing gum, foul gases and the like disappeared my tongue, teeth, soft and hard palates as he quickly ground down my nubbins and inserted everything of his mouth into my mine. Worse than replacing my teeth with his was that my tongue began to form the very words he spoke to me. “Bret Trumbo’s shit,” I said, that my name. His digitalized voice, sounding as an owl’s call but it was just another surveillance technique I previously heard that bounced off houses, telephone poles, trees, the air in my town 7 miles north…I had become my worst enemy. “What an ugly puss, take a look at him,” I said, mimicking the mimickers who derided me, even the minutest, trivial things I did within my house these terrorists’ voices harangued me.

The Man smirked, his insolence, contempt and mockery towards me shaped his sneer as it wiped across my lips. Though I tried hard to maintain my wrath towards The Man, I hated myself for miming his lips’ expression, its sphincters shaped just as his.

I heard a loud engine pass me, my bus’s noise so fierce as if I wore headphones with the volume turned to 100%, the blare traveling through my brain. The Man had transferred his nerve impulses from both his ears through a cranial nerve and into the temporal lobe in my cerebral cortex. His hearing was as good as an owl’s. I also heard from The Man’s tiny implanted device, now embed in my ear, receiving another’s words, instructions about how best to complete replacement, technical jargon, instructions to complete the steps. It was the 21st century’s version of hanged, drawn and quartered, the medieval victim disemboweled, watching (I believed the dead can feel pain greater than the living.) his entrails burn.

Next: the infiltration of my eyes. That tiny accessory I now heard signaled my coming destruction. My hazel irises now colored gray, his eyes. “The eye sees more than the heart knows,” wrote William Blake: he was partly right, but my heart knew, too. I saw through The Man’s eyes and penetrated his clothes, finding a small caliber handgun concealed in a shoulder holster. I wanted to grab the machete from my backpack and mutilate him, but that was so old fashioned. “It is the human that is the alien,” wrote Wallace Stevens, literally, not philosophically.

Other points of entry: anus and penis. My rectum’s memory ( Don’t all parts of the body have consciousness, recollection and retention? ), now his. I felt all the butt-shafting by convicts while he did time for child molestation. Damn, it hurt. Blood seeped from my underpants and down my thigh. His cock, smaller than mine but with larger balls, had had intercourse with many females and males. The Man psychically castrated me, replacing my genitalia with his. Quite a few Filipino “psychic surgeons” performed operations. Perhaps The Man trained there and equipped himself with better ways to thwart my life, make it unbearable and impossible, my enemies’ by-any-means-necessary policy of murder. A cleaner death awaited me rather than bullets, surveillers selecting The Man to rid the community and the world of me.

He pushed himself forward and grasped his arms around me, all points of his body touched mine, then the final touch, he scooched closer, tighter, and drove himself into me and my mind nearly clicked off, except for my final utterance, “Cops eat shit”: 3 of the most inconsequential words in the history of language. The Man walloped my skull with a sledgehammer, then, groping until he found my amygdala, squeezed it as I released a screamless scream, and I was gone. The Man entered all the hollows and crevices of my body and brain until I no longer existed.


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Author: George Sparling

Contributor: Justine M Dunn

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I stop off at the little cafe on my way to work, they make the best coffee in town and without doubt always have the best selection of cakes. At that time of the morning you can smell the scones baking, I have to use all my willpower not to take anything away other than a coffee. But I know I will resist buying one today.

There is just one lady ahead of me, she is already being served. As I stand in line the sound of a motorbike breaks the silence of the quiet high street. I look out the window to see the rider, dressed in leathers, just swinging his leg over to dismount his huge road machine. He pulls his gloves off and rests them on the seat, then takes off his helmet and shakes his head. His sandy coloured curls spring into life. He runs his fingers through his hair; giving his scalp an invigorating rub. He’s talking to someone out of sight, he picks up his gloves and gestures towards the cafe - and just a moment later, he’s on the same side of the door as me.

There is something familiar about this handsome young man that has just entered the shop, but I can’t put my finger on it. I watch him as he flirts with the girl as she works; clearly, she finds him enchanting. Her cheeks flush as she looks up at him from under her mascara-clad eyelashes. I wish it were me, twenty years younger and standing on that side of the counter.

The lady in front pays up and gathers her things, then it’s my turn to order. I request my usual coffee; no milk or sugar, just a shot of caramel syrup.

The young biker says he is in a hurry, and asks if I mind him being served first; he only wants a can of coke. I say I don’t mind, step aside and suspect that the drink in his hand isn’t the only reason he’s here. The young girl takes his money and gives him his change, their eyes meet and they hold each others gaze for a few seconds. I turn away, slightly embarrassed by the sexual tension in the air.

He says goodbye and leaves the shop, the girl goes about making my coffee. Only when I look up again I notice that he has left his gloves on the counter. Without thinking I pick them up and take them outside, he is just revving up his engine ready to pull away. I call out to him but he doesn’t hear me. Rushing up to him I tap him on the arm. At that precise moment a strange feeling of deja vu washes over me; I have done this before, I feel. Only as we each go about our movements I can predict what is about to happen next. But just one nanosecond in advance, not enough time to change anything.

He will turn and face me, I will speak, but again, the engine will drown out my voice. I will hold up his gloves, he will look at them and turn his front wheel back to centre. All of this I know. He will take them from me and thank me - unsure how he’s managed to leave them behind. I will smile, shrug my shoulders and go back inside the shop feeling pleased with myself for helping. He will put on his gloves, turn his front wheel and accelerate out onto the road. I will turn at this point and look at him through the window of the cafe. Just in time to see him parted from his bike by a large white truck, and thrown fifteen feet through the air like a rag doll. The girl will drop my coffee, scream and run outside. I will stay exactly where I am; pinned to floor, unable to move, wishing I had left him alone.


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Justine Dunn is British and currently living in Slovenia, she writes flash fiction, adult humour, and has recently finished writing her first book, Beach Lanes. She blogs, tweets and generally avoids the real world.

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Author: Justine M Dunn

Contributor: Joyce Chong

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“Slide Brothers Circus Presents: The Great Landon Winnsfield at Blue Valley Falls”

Dmitri Petrovsky adjusted his horn-rimmed glasses as he peeked out from behind the curtain and examined the large banner strung across the fairground entrance. A whispering crowd of onlookers stood before the outdoor stage, clapping as the animal trainers made their exit. Dmitri ducked backstage where Sandra was rushing to and fro, tools in hand. A mechanical vest sat on the table, the secret behind most of Landon's stage performances. Her blonde hair was tied up in a messy bun that jostled each time she shifted her head, Dmitri smiled at the sight of his wife hard at work. She called her husband over, tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear.

“Can you tell me where the spring is? I need it for the confetti finale.”

“Bottom pocket in the suitcase.”

“Thanks, honey.” She paused, giving her husband a concerned look,“You don't have to help, I know how to do set-up on my own.”

Dmitri nodded, jaw clenched. Sandra's brow knit in concern and she stepped close to him, whispering.

“We should leave this stupid circus troupe. You can't work for a lowlife like him. We'll find work somewhere else.”

“It's fine.” said Dmitri.

Sandra's voice was low this time, full of danger, “It's not fine. He's a fake! What kind of magician uses another man's work? Look, just go. I'll take care of it.”

Dmitri nodded, stepping outside for a smoke. He watched as mist floated up from the Blue Valley Falls and stiffened when he heard steps behind him. His two seconds of peace were up.

“Hiding again? You always were a worthless performer. That's why I'm the one on stage.”

Landon wore his stage costume, an old tattered hat and a suit thick enough to hide his trick gear underneath. Dmitri took a deep drag of his cigarette, watching with eyes narrowed at the man who had used his inventions for the past six months, propelling him into an absurd spotlight of attention and fame. Landon's grin seemed to grow with the silence.

“I'm just thinking, we don't really need you anymore. Your pretty wife can stay, though, I like having her as my assistant.”

Landon's snide grin was brief because in one movement, Dmitri had punched him in the face. Cigarette still crushed between his fingers, it burned against skin. Landon screamed and clawed at Dmitri. The man's snarl was beastly, grotesque.

“Get out. You're not coming back, tricks or not. Get out of here!”

Dmitri finished his pack, inhaling mist with his bitter smoke as he leaned against the railing, bordering onto the Falls. He would tell Sandra after the show; at least he'd get the opportunity to see his wife on stage. Dmitri laughed to himself when Landon appeared, his left cheek patched up. Sandra wore a sparkling silver dress and had her hair down, smiling to the audience, glaring to Landon's back.

When the grand finale approached. Dmitri knew where to look. Landon tripped mid-show, and sure enough, it was Sandra who stood back up, dressed in a man's suit. She bowed to raucous applause, then the stage lights shut off. A spotlight cut through the dimness, and there was Landon, standing on a platform above the Falls. Dmitri had seen this routine practised, so when the man threw his arms out for the grand finale, the last thing he expected was a gush of blood. The confetti still shot out, though.

Landon was frozen in shock, crimson seeping rapidly down his shirt from the base of his neck. The blood soaked his suit and revealed the mechanical gear beneath, of which a sharp piece had stuck itself into the magician's neck. There was a brief moment where Dmitri saw the man's face, blank with terror, before the coloured paper pieces obscured his view. Landon fell back as the crowd's cheers began to dim, and before the confetti could settle, he was lost to the misty waterfall and the currents below.

On stage, Sandra screamed, but the sound was dulled by everyone's cheering. She was on her knees, and when Dmitri saw her, he sprinted onto the stage and took her away. There was the chaotic sound of shouts and whispers, clashing against each other. Everyone struggled to understand what had happened and brief, discernible bits of conversation cut through to Dmitri from the cacophany.

“Is that for real?.......that thing under his suit.....he's a fraud...........Is he dead?”

Sandra buried her face in Dmitri's shoulder, sobbing quietly. The crew watched with eyes wide as they approached.

“I'm taking her to our trailer,” whispered Dmitri to the crew, who nodded, still in shock.

Sandra sat down as soon as they were back in their trailer. Dmitri sighed, unsure of what to do or what to say. Then she looked him right in the eyes and smiled.

“Honey, that was one of the best shows I've ever seen.”

Dmitri was perplexed. That had hardly been a success. “What are you talking about?”

”I told you I could set up his gear on my own. It's about time you saw one of my tricks.”

Sandra smiled and gave Dmitri a quick kiss on the cheek. He suspected that she really did love him.

“So, what was the trick?”

“Make Landon Winnsfield disappear.”


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Joyce Chong is a hobby writer, currently studying health sciences in Ontario, Canada.

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Author: Joyce Chong

Contributor: Lauren Hoyt

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I see the world through men’s faces. Men with religious beards and carefully acquired wrinkles. I see women and I don’t. Every woman has my mother’s face, my wife’s face, my daughter’s face. Only the eyes change. Black, almond, brown, round, squinted, sometimes painted up like a cheap whore. Masha’Allah, the eyes.
I walk through the streets of Dammam and see women paces behind their husbands. Their eyes are hidden behind their niqab. The men nod to me, Salam, muttawa. I sift through my prayer beads, reciting the Qu’ran. I hear the Salah ring through the streets, and I go to a mosque. We wash our hands and feet in unison, speak in unison, pray in unison, bow to Mecca in unison, in a sea of black eyes. Praise be to Allah. We try to be the same in our piety, a world of uniformity. I do not want this for my sons, my daughter, their sons, their daughters.
I leave the mosque silently, their bodies still posed in worship. I hear the House of Allah moan prayers, shout praises, curl words. I walk down the dusty road, staring at the beads in my hand. I feel the smoothness of them and the soft whisper of the tassel brushes my palm. While walking, I see a man with blue eyes sitting on a bench. I let go of the beads and they drop onto the filth of the street. I hear men leaving the mosque, muttering praise be to Allah.


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Lauren Hoyt is a senior majoring in English with a minor in creative writing from Stephen F. Austin State University in Nacogdoches, Texas. She grew up in Ras Tanura, Saudi Arabia, but her family is from Baytown, Texas.

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Author: Lauren Hoyt

Contributor: Allie Coker-Schwimmer

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Jeremy tried to hatch eggs by sitting on them and keeping them warm. It’s not funny. He did a lot of things like that- he was just an odd kid. Ok, Jeremy was a weirdo. He invented a time machine which really meant he would lock his “friends” in the closet and flick the lights on and off, then when they got out he would hand them a faded rock from the driveway claiming it came from prehistoric times and show them a black and white postcard of the Queen Mary trying to pass it off as a picture he took of the Titanic in 1912. I don’t know if the Titanic was sunk or not by then, but regardless that was always the year he claimed- 1912. Jeremy often pretended he was a dog. He would lay on all fours mimicking a dog’s position while he lapped water from a bowl and scratched invisible fleas. At night he would curl up into a tight circle and drift off to sleep, truly believing he was of the canine world. Except for the time when he was a human marrying a dog. Back on the blacktop at recess, a group of us gathered to be the witness, flower girls, and chorus for his wedding to Wishbone- the ever famous t.v. dog. The wedding procession was set to Christmas carols. It was April. Another one of Jeremy’s favorite activities was making outrageous claims. He told us he would win the Nobel Prize for writing and that he could be an Olympic ice skater one day if he wanted to. He didn’t know how to ice skate very well though. Then again, anyone can win the Nobel Prize I suppose. I could win it for this eulogy for all I know. Jeremy boycotted the rise of all boy bands. He thought they were cheap and that bands should stay female only. Due to this he had very little to converse about with his peers at snack time. He also loved to keep files on everyone. After snatching a copy of Harriet the Spy from his older sister’s bookshelf, he became enthralled with the idea of spying on people and keeping tabs on them. Jeremy loaded a box full of notecards where he listed each classmate’s name and what was good about them and what wasn’t. Much like Harriet, he got caught. Yes, Jeremy was a strange kid. He’d eat lunch in the bathroom or the hallway early in the morning just to avoid the fear of loneliness and rejection from others. He held block parties in his room like they did on the radio where he was the DJ and the only guest aside from his 50 stuffed animals. It’s all true, but it’s not funny because now he’s dead because of you. All of you. He was 20 and because all of the shit you put him through in college and high school and middle school he killed himself. You had to go all the way back to elementary to even find me- his only true friend- to write his eulogy because you all treated him bad. I used to say it back then when people would laugh at him and I’ll say it again now. It’s not funny.


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Currently, I am obtaining my MFA in Creative Writing from Queens University in Charlotte and live with my husband in Durham, NC. I also wrote a book which is due to be released later this year.

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Author: Allie Coker-Schwimmer