Contributor: Robert Srange

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Seventeen-year-old Christine Anderson had been missing for twelve years and eleven months. No ransom note had ever been sent and no body had been recovered.
The police and the FBI had searched under every rock, in every place they could think of to look, but had given up the search. Her mother and father had given up hope of ever seeing her alive again and closure is what they sought most desperately. Just to know what had happened would have been a release. But no news ever arrived. No call had ever been received. They sat silently and waited, staring at the walls, together.

Dorothy Mae Swanson was a quiet girl. She was the kind that enjoyed serene meadows and babbling brooks. She also loved poetry books and every month, when a new volume of prose arrived she would find a quiet place and read.
She had been going to an old cemetery that overlooked the river near her home to read her books for some time and she particularly enjoyed the silence of the headstones. It wasn’t a morbid feeling; it just made her calm and able to immerse herself in each poem, after all she felt something compelling amongst the tombs, something reassuring.
One afternoon she felt drawn to explore the garden at the center of the mausoleums. It was a peaceful, well-manicured garden with benches and a park like setting. The garden seemed to bring her pleasure and she delighted in returning day after day.
This went on for some time and it began to take a toll on her. Her mother asked if she was feeling all right, but she just shrugged it off and smiled as she left for her daily walk in the garden.
It had been almost a month since she began to sit in the garden, when she heard a voice. It started out small but it began to grow louder and louder. It was a beautiful voice she thought and it brought her peace. She began to listen to the voice closely. It seemed to come from all directions at once. But sounded so beautiful, so lovely.
The voice began to call to her. It called her to an old gate that closed the entrance to a tomb, a very old tomb. As she reached out for the gate it began to move and opened on its own. Normally this would have frightened her, but the voice was so soothing so beautiful and it beckoned her to enter the dark room beyond.
Within her heart she began to scream but nothing came out. It seemed as if her throat was frozen, but the soothing voice called to her, its lullaby and harmony was so enchanting, so irresistible. She screamed with horror deep within herself, but her feet kept moving forward as if they moved of their own will and not hers.
Within the dark chamber of the tomb there appeared another door. It seemed to have been painted shut with rust and corrosion. “No one could open such a door” she thought within her subconscious mind and it made her heart leap to think she could go no further. But the door began to open; its rust and corrosion fell to the floor as the door began to open with a loud and terrible sound.
Her mortal soul was fighting and kicking, she howled with fear within herself, but the voice continued to call and her body listened. So calming, so lovely.
The doorway opened to a spiral staircase, its walls narrow and confining. She continued down into a room that held a sarcophagus its lid had slid partly open and revealed its contents.
In the scant light that fell from the open door above she could see a mans body stretched out in eternal sleep, his hands and face uncovered, he looked as if he was made of marble and his body was shrouded by a thin veil of cobwebs. The ghastly scene was almost more than her struggling mind could accept.
Against her will she moved to the sarcophagus and peered within. For a second she stood in abject terror peering into the dark tomb. Then suddenly to her horror the corpse moved, it shifted slightly and then its arms reached forward and drew her into the stone box. As she caught one last, fleeting glimpse of the room, she could see in the dim glow, skeletons and corpses desiccated and scattered all about the room and volumes of poetry, dusty and falling apart lying everywhere. The lid slowly closed behind her with a scratching, hollow sound that echoed through the chamber.

Lt. Gill was a detective. He had been hired to investigate the disappearance of Dorothy Mae Swanson by her parents, hoping he could find something to lead them to her.
He was exhausted, he had followed every lead and tracked down every detail possible, it had led him nowhere. He was about to give up when the phone rang. It was the gardener at the cemetery on the hill. The old gardener insisted that he meet him in the garden at the center of the mausoleums.
Arriving at the garden he found an elderly man standing near a locked gate. He was holding a small book of poetry, his hands shaky with age. He said that he had found it lying next to a tomb entrance and that it was an important clue to the disappearances.
Lt. Gill took the old book from the old mans weathered hands. It was in very bad shape from lying in the ferns and garden soil and it was certainly found in an odd place.
He opened its brittle cover and on it’s inside leaf, barely legible, the name, Christine Anderson.


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I have been writing fiction and short stories since college.
I'm currently writing all kinds of short stories.

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Author: Robert Srange

Contributor: Hannah Garrard

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I followed the woman’s head nodding forward as she teetered on the brink of sleep. Her hair fell about her face and her jaw slackened. On her lap she clutched a designer handbag and a cake in a box with a clear lid, through which I could just make out some birthday text amongst the whipped cream.

That cake won’t make it home in one piece, I said to myself. I was suddenly struck by a stab of Schadenfreude, triggered perhaps by the expensive handbag.

It wasn’t difficult to spot the haircut to my left, because it belonged to a man a clear head above the rest of the crowd- squashed against the doors of the rumbling carriage. But the haircut was just the beginning: Armani sunglasses flashed reflected neon as the train sped past LED advertisements. I surreptitiously followed the angular lines which began at his crown and led to his muscular body, scantily clad in black mesh. Next, came white Lycra leggings that had every intention of turning strangers crimson. Finally, at the bottom amongst a mob of scuffed loafers, stood luminous green sling-back trainers. He looked amazing, like a futuristic Mardi Gras. I looked down at my own white t-shirt, splattered orange with ramyen from that day’s lunch.

The designer handbag emptied itself onto the floor of the carriage, followed by the cream cake. The woman woke up with a jolt and Happy Birthday was ruined.


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Hannah is from the UK but now lives in South Korea amongst the neon signage. From her apartment she can see the ocean, and a rusty cruise ship that makes tired laps around the peninsular. You can follow her travels and her writing at: www.lookingformyhat.blogspot.com

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Author: Hannah Garrard

Contributor: Gary Clifton

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She was female and appeared young, burn damage too severe to really tell. "Tied to that bed, McCoy," the Medical Examiner bent over the carnage. "The autopsy will tell more."
"They's been a man comin' up there nights...when her roommate is away at work," the apartment manager worked on a tall boy and a menthol filter tip at 3:00 A.M.
"Tonight?" McCoy asked. It was his turn in the barrel for Homicide deep night call-outs. He'd handle the preliminaries and begin the follow up on Monday - so he thought.
"Dunno...could be...just dunno." she exhaled smoke.
The victim's name was Lynn and she had a lover, Charlie, a bouncer at an all night, b.y.o.b. lesbian club on Fitzhugh. McCoy figured Charlie was working when her roommate had been murdered by the man the manager had mentioned, so he delivered the tragic news alone. Then he'd crawl back in bed.
The alleyway was pitch black. McCoy was used to dark alleys. Charlie, a dumpy little number in black Doc Marten's, had a silver chain hanging from her belt. Flash of a badge and a quick word normally would have salved the way to a very sad meeting. Instead, Charlie clipped his chin with an overhand right. "Gonna kick your ass, sumbitch," she spat. When she yanked on her belt chain, out came a mace.
He grabbed Charlie's shirt and tossed her headfirst onto the sidewalk, then quick-stepped down and kicked her in the ribs. Yeah, the book said don't slap women around, but this was a little different.
A second bouncer landed on McCoy's back, grappling for a choke hold. He slid away and Charlie's helper landed hard on the pavement. Four more appeared in the doorway. Time to give a little ground...consider pulling a pistol.
Then, behind him, three more figures blocked the street. One was African American and big. Two and three were smaller, white and waved those metal flashlight-clubs. "What the hell's goin' on?" the African American stepped forward.
"Just conferring with Charlie here," McCoy waved his badge.
The African American turned to the doorway. "Police business, ladies, everybody back inside!" Distant streetlight twinkled off the badge on his chest.
"Why no call for backup?" one officer asked.
"Good question." McCoy pulled handcuffs. "I came with tragic news, but I'm afraid Charlie just shot off her foot. Charlie, you're under arrest...murder. Dunno why the hell you didn't just disappear."
"Lynn...my little Lynn was cheating...with a man, for Christ's sake. She said she'd love me forever," Charlie sobbed on the sidewalk.
"You still coulda just split," McCoy shook his head. His mind morphed to notifying next of kin. Suddenly he felt very old and bone tired. No sleep tonight.


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Gary Clifton, forty years a cop, published a novel in national paperback and has published or has pending articles in several online magazine sites

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Author: Gary Clifton

Contributor: Chris Sharp

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He had an unusual first name, “Stave,” which was at first explained was given as a gift by his parents to make him feel more unique. Later he learned “Stave” was a compromise between his father who preferred “Dave” and his mother who wanted to name him “Steve.”
Stave stood outside his apartment door that day, locked out again. Sometimes he thought that if his name were either “Dave” or “Steve” he would have been saved from so many absurd situations in addition to being locked out. He also recognized that a man named “Stave” was somewhat like a clown named “Bozo,” which guaranteed many kinds of funny encounters. But since Stave was an only child, he kept his name going strong to honor his parents.
While he stood at his locked door, waiting for something better to happen, his neighbor Scott whose life was always as normal as his name asked:
“Did you lose your keys again, Stave?”
“They sneaked away from me, when I wasn’t paying attention.”
“Oh no.”
“I guess it just won’t let up,” said Stave, spitting on a clump of grass.
He had finally started to think of his keychain by the pronoun “she” because of the personal way the keys ran away and hid from him. He confirmed he would never marry anytime soon, if even a lifeless thing like a keychain couldn’t resist abandoning him in a time of need.
One thing was in his favor that day. Like most of his fellow workers that he knew, Stave had to keep taking days off and stay under a 40-hour work week to keep his corporate owner from giving him medical benefits. On this latest day of loss, he had the whole day to retrieve the keychain at the two neighboring places where he had just wandered.
“I used the toilet here this morning, so my keychain might have bailed out on your bathroom floor,” he told the outlet store manager from the place he had checked out for earphone sales.
The manager shook her head even before she poked through the drawers at the point-of-sale. She shook her head harder when nothing turned up.
The other place Stave had been was a Mexican restaurant where he stopped for a breakfast as a reward for another day he had had taken off.
“It’s a sneaky keychain,” he told the young Latino man at the counter. “I lose her a lot, and she hides in the cleverest places. It’s like she wants nothing to do with me, like I’m too ugly for her or I’m too dumb for her.”
When the young Latino man repeated “keys” he went to three far-away places to look. “No,” said Stave when he came back. The young man – who acted reluctant to say a word – shook his head.
Stave went back to his apartment and pressed his hand hard against a back window, and suddenly it slid open. When he jumped inside, he felt at least a little progress was made. The first thing he found was a duplicate car key that he had kept under his silverware.
He kicked everything around on the floor for a few minutes, and the keychain turned up. It had been laying low between a cardboard box of old newspapers and another non-descript box.
“You,” said Stave, looking at the keychain with all the life he had left. “You feel important don’t you because you made me think about you all day long. But I’m sorry. You see I’m sorry I didn’t look to see if you were with me this morning when I just closed the door and just locked out everything in the world to me.”
A few months later he went through the same episode all over again.
“Oh no,” said Scott, the neighbor who continued to look as all right as his name. “Don’t tell me the keys are lost again, Stave.”
“Yes.”
“What are you going to do, Stave?”
“Look for her again.”


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Chris Sharp has several stories in the archives of Weirdyear, Yesteryear Fiction, Daily Love and Linguistic Erosion, with his short stories accumulating the most Internet hits listed under Google as “Short Stories by Chris Sharp.” His book “Dangerous Learning” is distributed by Barnes and Noble.

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Author: Chris Sharp

Contributor: Stephen V. Ramey

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February 17, 2007 began the Year of the Pig according to the Lunar New Year calendar. It was on that date that I started my quest to become Earth's fattest man. A side of bacon for breakfast, three Big Macs and triple fries for early lunch, then a plate of ribs at Zibo's an hour after that. Dinner was the immobile meal. I would routinely stuff myself so full of potatoes and pasta, with occasional salad (heavily dressed, of course) that I could not move from the sofa for hours. I began relieving myself into buckets. My wife complained, but kept cooking. I loved her more than life itself, but not more than a good steak rubbed with pepper and cooked over a low, blue flame.

February 7, 2008 brought in the Year of the Rat. I was at 390 pounds, and growing fast. I had been given permission to telecommute, and routinely did my job as a traffic analyst while chomping down bags of Doritos, Cheetos, and pork rinds. Coke was my morning drink. At noon I switched to sweetened tea, with so much sugar you could watch it precipitate out when you put the pitcher in the fridge. This was the year I began my affair with Meghan Chives. Almost every night after my wife was sleeping, blindfolded and tooth-guarded in her bed, I would squeeze through the doorway and make the laborious trek three row houses down to Meghan's. We would eat greasy chicken or meat skewered on metal. I think it was the adrenalin fear of discovery that drove me that year, though it could also have been that Meghan's cupboards were well stocked.

2009 initiated the Year of the Ox. I was over 500 pounds now, and every movement became a labor. I was dragging the world around. No surprise when the company laid me off. Times were tough, and my work had degraded. It's difficult to click when your finger is larger than the mouse button. I stopped my affair with Meghan. Lugging my heart monitor and O2 tank was not worth the reward.

2010, the Year of the Tiger. I took charge of my weight gain with a vengeance. My wife, with Meghan's encouragement, it turns out, had been working toward staging an intervention. They even arranged for a famous weight clinic to hoist me out of the apartment and put me under house arrest. There were whispers of stomach staples and liposuction. I put a stop to it. I was not about to waste three years.

2011 was the Year of the Rabbit. And it's true that I now had to forage for myself, nibbling through our pantry one shelf at a time. A difficult year, best left unrecalled. My wife was gone, and so was Meghan. I lost nearly a hundred pounds.

2012, the Year of the Dragon. I have refocused on weight gain, even as it consumes my hoard. I will soon be forced to return to my women for nurture, and I will do so without regret. It may take a week to make it down into the basement where the freezer is, but I will make it one way or another. And they will be there.

Next year begins the year of the Snake.


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Stephen V. Ramey lives in beautiful New Castle, Pennsylvania, with his novelist wife and three obstructionist cats. His work has appeared in various places, including Linguistic Erosion, Smashed Cat, A Capella Zoo, and is upcoming at Weird Tales. He edits the annual Triangulation anthology from Parsec Ink, and the speculative twitterzine, trapeze.

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Author: Stephen V. Ramey

Contributor: Kyle Hemmings

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I take a bus into the heart of the city of neon shams and unforgettable faces. It's a rickety old bus that wheezes and whirs and I imagine the headlights as two big eyes that can never see but provide some kind of light. The way I think about the medium who lives five stories up on Grant Avenue. Imagine if those headlights are eyes that are wired to a brain that can remember everything.

Not like mine.

Some years ago, I was diagnosed as brain damaged. It was very late at night and I was driving to see a woman who broke into night sweats or incomprehensible soliloquies at the thought of being alone. I was the psychiatrist on call and I made the mistake of sleeping with her, of becoming too close, of being wrapped in her own nightmares. She was once a prisoner of a war her ex-lover invented. That's how she explained it. Love turned into torment and all kinds of ingenious tortures. He made her confess to crimes she never committed, such as taking in stray cats and starving them. He made her wash his clothes on the wrong settings until the colors bled.

My patient/lover used to tell me that she wanted to keep my smooth baritone voice in a glass jar at night. It would help her sleep. She later died by her own noose.

On the way to her house that night, I had made a wrong turn and crashed into a tree. For months, I couldn't see. I kept hearing my mother's voice. She said "Son, just open your eyes. Do it for me." She had been dead for some time. But that was only a manner of speaking.

With a slice of moon in the medium's eyes, I lay all my cards on the table. The floor is not a quivering mouth. It's never as dramatic as in those movies directed by obscure Leftist directors who died in North African prisons or on islands too tiny to think about. I close my eyes and see the women of my life scurrying around the house, digging dirt under nylon loop carpets. My sister has the voice of the tabby cat who died under my bed. Some form of feline cancer. Whenever she talks about her life, she describes it as a series of casualties, or of aborted love affairs with what she calls "matchstick men," more often than not, with her being the one who was burned.

In the séance, I am standing in the middle of the living room and I say to the women of my past, "Can you come back and stay?" My sister acts as if I'm not there or anywhere, really. She disappears into rooms of unused closet space. My mother turns around, drops the dustpan and corn whisk broom.

Her face is glass perfect, as if behind an unscratched TV screen, bold close-ups of gleaming smiles and beautiful planet eyes. "No one ever helps me with these house chores. And that son of mine hardly ever writes from that manufactured war." She opens a bolt lock, retrieves the mail. She reads aloud a letter that must have been written by me. I can't make out all the words. She mocks my "Sincerely Yours," and improvises her own "Insincerely Yours." She thinks sons make up phony wars to get away from their mothers. I want to shout that "I'm coming home." She closes the door. At some distance, over the years, we die unnoticed, the blink of a cat's eye. We die in some form or another. We continue on as zombies. My sister, who does not survive an accident on Interstate 90, continues to walk underground. I open my eyes. I hear a distant knocking, of jars shattering. The sounds fade. I'm cursed again with tunnel vision.


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Kyle Hemmings is the author of several chapbooks of poetry and prose: Avenue C, Cat People, and Anime Junkie (Scars Publications). His latest e-books are You Never Die in Wholes from Good Story Press and The Truth About Onions (Good Samaritan Press).

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Author: Kyle Hemmings

Contributor: Benjamin F Jones

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I have never really been into pedigree felines but when I saw the Persian Violet advertised in the Evening Standard, I knew it had to be mine.

I took my cousin to the purchase; she is an expert on household pets and there are all sorts of horror stories about dangerous animals being botched together, re-sprayed and sold on.

We arrived at 57 Nutbush Road shortly after 7pm. I was carrying a cat-box and a wodge of money. The cat played in the uncut grass of the terraced house, opalescent and glittering in the sun; racing and pouncing through the heads of dandelions. As the owner gave me a brief service history my cousin checked the oil; apparently there is an old trick where treacle is put in to disguise rattles – the cat was clean and we took it for a walk around the block. Some of the tail-bearings seemed a little worn but the bodywork had been well looked after.

The street was peaceful when we returned. Far off I heard a petrol mower – the smell of cut grass drifted like gold in the air. My cousin gave me the nod and I knew I had a good deal.


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Benjamin F Jones is a writer working in South Wales. He loves pizza, photography and moist clay. When it rains he catches drops in his open mouth. He creates poetry, flash, absurdist snapshots, prose poetry and humorous fiction. Shuffled Fragments can be read at http://graphitebunny.wordpress.com/

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Author: Benjamin F Jones

Contributor: M. Scibelli

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Before sunset everything appears readily apparent. He pedaled his bike into the high school football stadium at half past five. A game had been played earlier that day, and the tattered bleachers on both sides had a number of balloons tied to them. Getting off of his bike, he braced it against the home bleachers and strode down the fine gravel track toward the far end. Due to the hour, long shadows were flung to the ground by an over-zealous sun dying of age. He turned and regarded the trodden field, tired from the day’s use but still fresh at the start of the season. The field seemed to smile bleakly at him; it was a tired runner at the start of a race that it knew was much too long for it.
Above the landscaped grass swarmed several dozen dragonflies, bounding off of unseen air currents and darting through the shallow sky. Each one would stop for a short period of time, reconsider its life, and turn and rocket away, only to repeat itself moments later. Dragonflies only seemed to come out for several weeks before they were gone again; the recent surge of these creatures impressed a strictly ephemeral sentiment on the youth;.
In his mind, the stadium incased a single instance. Although cars on the highway close-by could be heard. To him, they didn’t matter, or at least they seemed to not. A wind howled by, a campaign caller for the Fall-Winter ballot that hung up after the third ring.
He ambled back down the track toward his bike, halting at each of the helium balloons as he went. Wrapping the string around his fingers, he then tugged severely at it until the line frayed and gave. The bicycle, leaning on the splintered handrail of the bleachers, screamed of a youth he should no longer be in; indeed, he wasn’t.
The boy released the balloons into the air. At first gregariously remaining grouped together, they soon parted ways and began to form smaller and smaller profiles against the waning afternoon sky. He watched and he stood, he killed summer. The balloons floated higher and higher into the atmosphere, bolstered by air, until they were far out of reach of his vision.
He looked melancholy but gazed resolutely toward his bicycle, then got on and pedaled away. He knew that while he couldn’t see it happen, the balloons would all pop. Sometimes the sparsity of air around balloons would cause them to fill too large, and unwillingly kill themselves.


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Author: M. Scibelli

Contributor: Kevin Pierce

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“Next.”
A man walks up to my desk with a small girl in tow. I glance up just enough to see that his shirt and pants are dirty, a contrast to the girl’s Sunday-best blue dress.
“Name?” I ask.
“Margaret Brooks.” he says.
I press the button on my intercom and restate the name. “One moment, sir.”
The man places his hand on my desk and leans over. I can feel that his face is close to mine. “How long will we have?” he asks.
I focus on his dirty shirt. “One minute.”
“But I have so much to say.” His voice shakes.
I sigh. “So do they.” I say, gesturing behind him to the endless line of fidgeting onlookers.
He straightens up. “You’re right, of course. One more question. Does she know?”
I look up at his face for the first time. His mouth is drawn tight, and looks like he could use a shave. His eyes are at once open wide and sharply focused as they meet my own. “No.” I say, looking down and pressing the button on my intercom. “One minute.”
A woman’s voice rings out from the speaker. “Hello? Roy, is that you?”
The man moves forward and kneels down, face to face with the intercom. “Yeah, Maggie, it’s me. Clara’s here too.”
The girl’s face brightens. “Hi Mommy, it’s me.” she says.
The woman laughs. “I’d know your voice in a second, sweetie. Have you been a good girl for Daddy?”
“Yes, Mommy, of course. He’s been letting me stay up late and even let me skip school today – it’s been so much fun! His cooking isn’t as good as yours though. I miss you – will you come home soon?”
“Of course, baby. They told me it’s all going to be okay, and that I’ll be home in a couple of days.”
I look up at the man in front of me again. His eyes are wild, brimming with tears as they dart around the room. His fists clench as he turns to his daughter. “Say goodbye to Mommy.” he says. “I’d like to talk to her now.”
The girl nods enthusiastically. “Daddy wants to talk to you now.” she says. “I love you, and I’ll see you soon. Bye bye!”
“Bye bye back, Clara. Mommy loves you.” says the woman. “How are you, Roy? I hope it hasn’t been too much of a hassle while I’ve been away.”
The man’s fists begin to shake, but his voice remains steady. “It’s been no trouble at all, Mags. Listen, I just wanted to say how sorry I am about all of this. All the arguments, everything – you wouldn’t be there if not for me.”
“Oh honey, don’t be sorry.” says the woman. “It hasn’t been bad at all – like a vacation, really. And I’ve never missed you so much. In a way, I needed this. I can’t wait to see you.”
The man swallows hard. “I can’t wait to see you either.”
“Ten seconds.” I whisper.
“I – I have to go now – our time is up.” says the man. “I love you so much.”
“I love you too.” says the woman.
The moment she finishes the phrase, I press the button on the intercom, silencing it. I scan the list on my desk, crossing off the woman’s name to the sound of sobbing in front of me. Looking past the man, I gesture to two large men behind him to escort him out. I take a deep breath and look back at my list.
“Next.”


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Kevin Pierce is a recent college graduate and amateur writer. He recently finished his first novella, and also writes short stories, flash fiction, and poetry. He is currently working on his first novel-length work.

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Author: Kevin Pierce

Contributor: Jude Conlee

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Most of the things he doesn’t understand are the kind of things that you can comprehend right off. Like his surroundings. There’s no way to argue against heat, for example, but he doesn’t comprehend that so much. I mean, he burned his own hand off once because he couldn’t tell the difference between heat and coldness. I don’t enjoy being him, really. Because I am him, you know. Well, you wouldn’t have known it if I didn’t tell you, but who cares, anyway. I don’t. He doesn’t. You do, but I don’t care about you. Like my hand. I didn’t care about that, either.
Do I not care, or do I just not comprehend? You know, like the thing with the hand. Or cars. I just don’t comprehend the movements of cars sometimes. Most times I cross the street, I nearly get run over. They yell at me and say, “Are you trying to kill yourself? Didn’t you see me coming?” Yeah, I saw you coming, but I didn’t notice.
Once, I got hit, you know. Well, you didn’t know that before, either, but now you do. And the lady who hit me, I don’t remember, she gave me some angry, idiot rant about how reckless he was and how he should have looked, for God’s sake, and how it’s people like him who create a public menace just by existing. But then she realized that she needed to get him to a hospital, because you don’t just hit someone and rant about it. So they took me to the hospital, and the doctor said I had some kind of brain damage, and I said it doesn’t matter, I can deal with it. I scared him. I liked scaring him.
I haven’t told you the story with the heat yet, though. So it was some time after that car incident, so he’d already had brain damage. So you’d think that it was the brain damage that made it happen, so he couldn’t feel his hand burning off, but no, he’d had trouble with that kind of thing before. Not with his hand getting burned off, though. Not that. Not yet.
But so he was at his sister’s house, where she lives with an evil husband and two dogs, one of them’s nice and likes licking people’s hands, and one of them’s smelly and apathetic. Now, you’re probably wondering if the husband’s really evil. He is. He’s evil to half the people he meets, and he’s nice to the other half. He’s nice to women. Some of them. His wife.
But I was at the house, and he wanted me to help him with the fireplace, because he wanted me to help him start a fire there. So he put a few logs in but he also puts crumpled-up newspapers in there, too, because it helps the fire catch better. And once it all caught fire, he wanted me to put in the newspapers.
So the evil husband left for a moment to get something, and the one who was left behind started putting newspapers in there himself, right, and they caught fire and all. And so he said, is fire hot or cold, I don’t remember. I’ll find out.
So he left his hand there a while, and it caught fire. Yes. And after it was burned enough, he said, “Alright, it’s hot, okay.” And he left the room to put water on his hand, because he wanted the fire out, of course. And his sister saw it and she screamed because he’d burned his hand so much, and the evil husband started ranting at him. And they took him to the hospital. More hospitals.
Well, they told me they had to amputate my hand, and that didn’t bother me so much. I mean, you can get by without a hand. Okay. What made me angry was that it was the evil husband’s fault. He tried to burn my hand off by sending me to deal with the fireplace. Hideous fireplace. Never liked heat, anyway. He wanted my hand gone. To spite me. And I tried very hard to thwart him, but he did spite me. He did.
So now I’m minus one hand and I’ve got a bunch of people “marveling” over the fact that I see things but don’t notice them. I can’t tell the difference between heat and coldness. And I always have trouble with cars. Had trouble with one, once. Had trouble with a fireplace. And a hand. And an evil brother-in-law who wants to spite me. Who did spite me. All because I don’t understand things. It wouldn’t have happened to you, because your brain works. Mine can’t. Like I said, most of the things I don’t understand are the things you’d comprehend right off.


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Jude Conlee resides in the West Coast of the U.S. (which is possibly irrelevant) and writes poems, SF, psychological fiction, and other things in a similar vein (which is possibly not irrelevant). Other than the writing, Conlee drinks tea, enjoys psychedelic art, writes songs while playing piano, and speaks in the third person.

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Author: Jude Conlee