Contributor: Eric Suhem

- -

Sally looked at the pile of lima beans on her plate. “I don’t like this food, why do I have to eat it?”

“Be quiet and eat your lima beans, or you’ll go to your room.” said her mother.

At the bean conference in Lima, Ohio, on a small table, in the middle of the auditorium, under harsh white light, sat a single lima bean. “We all must eat the town bean,” was the general agreement voiced.

 “But I don’t want to!” responded a small child’s voice, to which the instant response was to remove the youngster from the room.

There was an argument in the auditorium about the origins of the lima bean. “The lima bean’s origins are in Lima, Peru,” correctly asserted a woman in a pea-green sundress, and there were roars of agreement throughout the auditorium.

A man in a severe yellow suit disagreed, arguing that the bean either came into existence in Lima, Ohio, or that the lima bean’s beginnings were somehow linked to former pro golfer Tony Lima (one of only 3 two-time winners of the Buick Open). There was some murmuring in the room about the Tony Lima theory when the yellow-suited man asked, “But what about the kumquats?” followed in response by a thunderous ovation.

A steaming vat of lima beans was wheeled into the auditorium, and all participants consumed one bean apiece. “Will this help resolve the disagreement about the lima bean?” the leader of the bean conference asked the briefly munching throng.

The answer was a resounding “No!” as eating this bean with broad pods seemed to put each person into an even fouler mood, and the debate about the lima bean became more rancorous and unproductive.

The man in the severe yellow suit arose once again and announced, “I am one of the kumquat people!” Half the auditorium roared cheers, joining the man in a chant of “We are the kumquat people!”

The other half of those in the auditorium yelled in response, “We are the bean people!”

“Why didn’t you buy the lima beans at the discount mart instead of that strange health food emporium?” asked Sally’s mother.

Sally’s father took a deep breath and loosened his yellow tie, saying, “The discount mart didn’t have the kumquats I like, but that ‘strange’ health food emporium did.”

The bean people came from pods, but that was their only ‘abnormality’. In every other aspect, they were exemplary citizens, living life on the low burner of the universal gas stove. Some had been through tumultuous incarnations, and were now ready for peaceful conformity, forming the rules that would be the bedrock of their bean-oriented society.

The kumquat people had been crawling from their caves for centuries, agitating the bean people. “We bring revolution!” the kumquat people would always scream, thumping their golden orange citrus tomes.

The bean people countered, “We shall slay you and your heretical ideas!” while fist-pounding their corresponding legume scriptures.

Sally’s mother rolled her eyes. “You know we need to save money, Sally needs new clothes for school. Why can’t you be responsible? Am I the only adult here?”

“I’m going to buy more kumquats tomorrow!” yelled Sally’s father.

The man in the severe yellow suit arose once again and announced, “I believe that no resolution will be met at this time about the origin of the lima bean, nor about the merits of lima beans vs. kumquats. In fact, there seemed to be no discord at all until that little child refused to eat the town bean, and had to be removed from the room. That’s when the trouble started!” He looked to the nearby woman in a pea-green dress with sensible shoes, and she nodded her slight approval, eliciting his relieved sigh.

There was a roar of agreement. “Yes, it’s the child’s fault that we disagree! Destroy the child!”

“Well Sally, that’s a nice little story about kumquat and bean people, but you still can’t have any kumquats until you finish the lima beans,” said her mother. Sally scowled at her plate, and her parents resumed arguing.

- - -
Eric Suhem dwells in office cubicles and ocean waves. His book 'Dark Vegetables' can be found in the orange hallway (www.orangehallway.com)

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Author: Eric Suhem

Contributor: Chris Rhatigan

- -

I drive on the interstate.

Things are very loud.

It is like the car is a noise-absorbing box.

I cover my ears.

The car veers toward the guard rail.

I uncover my ears.

The car no longer veers toward the guard rail.

I do not feel comfortable in the right lane.

I move to the left lane.

The left lane is uncomfortable too.

I see a bright, colorful sign for a gas station.

This seems right.

The gas station sign should be here.

The gas station sign belongs.

I need to go to the gas station due to my desire to go there, so I cut off a pickup truck. The driver yells obscenities.

Maybe they were not obscenities. I could not really hear him. I am driving on the interstate. As I may or may not have mentioned. And things are loud.

As I may have mentioned.

I leave my car running and enter the store. I select a sixteen-ounce cup of coffee. I add three sugars and no milk. I select a shrink-wrapped snack cake.

There are three people in line ahead of me.

I sip my coffee.

I want to eat the snack cake now, but I think (know) people will judge me for it.

“Why is he eating that snack cake? He has not purchased it yet. That is not his snack cake. Why can he not wait until he has paid for it? If everyone acted like him, what kind of society would we have? We would not be able to trust anyone. Everyone would go around eating their snack cakes prior to paying for them. This would lead to chaos.”

But why does the logic of the snack cake not apply to the coffee? Even though you have not paid for either, it is acceptable to drink the coffee, but not to eat the snack cake.

This is what I question.

I pay the three dollars and eighty-seven cents for my coffee and snack cake.

The clerk wears a hat advertising a mustache.

He also has a mustache.

The mustache is not special in any way. It is not a handlebar mustache or a pencil line mustache or a Tom Selleck mustache. It is just a mustache.

The mustache should be here.

The mustache belongs.

The clerk moves his finger in circular motion. He pokes a hole in the circle, obscenely. This display makes me think of the word serious.

He says, “You’re liable to land yourself a parking ticket, you keep messing around like that.”

I say, “What do you mean?”

He juts his mustache at me. The hat’s mustache is also jutted at me. “You know what I mean.”

“No, I do not.”

“Well, you’ll find out soon enough, partner.”

“Why are you calling me partner? We do not have a partnership. Unless I am unaware of our partnership.”

“That is true. We don’t have a partnership. Not legally, at least.” He smiles. “But I know a guy who knows a guy.”

I open the doors. It is raining.

I have nothing to cover my head with.

I consider buying a newspaper, but I hate newspapers. They depress me. Not the stories in the newspaper, but the ink. The ink is, at this moment, the most awful thing I can think of. The way it is on the page. This is truly offensive.

Maybe I could pay the clerk for his mustache and cover my head with that.

I would like a mustache.

A mustache says, “Authority over facial hair.”

There is an enormous stack of parking tickets on my car jammed between the windshield wipers and the windshield. The rain is making them wet.

The tickets are written in crayon for various amounts.

The first one is for thirty-two cents.

I can pay that.

I think.

The next one is for fifteen thousand dollars.

I cannot pay that.

I think.

I will have to get out a loan from a bank. I will use the clerk’s mustache as collateral. They will say “How can you afford to pay this loan?” and I will pull the mustache out of my pocket and they will say “Oh. I’m sorry, sir. I will fill out all of the necessary paper work.”

I sit on the hood of my car.

I eat my snack cake and drink my coffee. The rain makes me wet. This makes me think of the word dog.

I am not going to let these parking tickets make me depressed.

I wonder if I will get another parking ticket.

It would stand to reason that I would get another parking ticket.

Although I know there is a flaw in my logic.

The wind sweeps parking tickets away and they swirl around me like dragonflies.

Magical.

I drive on the interstate. The parking tickets swirl around me like bumble bees.

Threatening.

But they do not strike.

They must be biding their time. Waiting until my guard is down. Then they will devour the supple flesh around my rib cage and between my toes.

Three weeks later, I receive a letter from the gas station. They apologize for the inconvenience. (No problem!) The parking tickets were issued by a rogue force who has since been terminated. (Phew!) They would like to offer free snack cakes and coffee to anyone who suffered mental duress due to the errant parking tickets. (Compensation!)

My return to the gas station is triumphant.

I eat two snack cakes and drink two cups of coffee, making the whole world seem excellent, I should be here, I belong, there is no question about that.

The clerk stares at me.

He pets his mustache, maintains his stare.

Authority.

Maybe I should have paid the parking tickets.

- - -
Chris Rhatigan is the editor of All Due Respect and the co-editor of the anthologies Pulp Ink and Pulp Ink 2. He has published more than 30 short stories in venues like Needle, Pulp Modern, Shotgun Honey, and Beat to a Pulp. He reviews short fiction at his blog, Death by Killing.

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Author: Chris Rhatigan

Contributor: David Gill

- -
The men were gathered around a great table in a conference room on the 78th floor of the Baxter Building.
“We could call it Pep,” one man said.
“Or Zazz” another chimed in.
There arose a clamour in the boardroom as several of the men offered their opinions at once.
Then, the man at the end of the table spoke, “Hell, boys, we can call it whatever we want and people will buy it by the caseload if it’s as good as you say.”
The man at the other end of the table, in a lab coat,
responded, “All the testing sir, ind_
The man at the end of the table cut him off, “I don’t care about the tests, son, what’s it like? Have you tried it?”
The man in the lab coat looked troubled for a moment and then spoke, “I haven’t tried it, sir, but my lab partner did, and I documented his experience very thoroughly.”
The man at the end of the table asked, “Well...?”
The man in the lab coat dabbed at his brow with a handkerchief, “The chaos in his life certainly seemed to get better.” The man in the lab coat paused, “It... went away.”
The man at the end of the table stared. The man in the lab coat continued: “At first the subject was full of newly found confidence. He seemed surer of himself, somehow. There was a marked change in his behavior.”
The man at the end of table said, “...and then?”
“Well sir,” the man in the lab coat stammered, “we’ve since dealt with this, but, the subject, began exhibiting anomalous behavior, he started making mistakes. These were minor concerns we corrected during our dosing calculations; we’ve taken this all into account. But the subject was mistaken about nearly everything. If you asked him who was president, he would respond with the name of a prominent shortstop. If you asked him to do a simple math problem, he’d get it wrong, spectacularly wrong, and then, because of his increased confidence he would berate anyone who tried to correct him. Finally, he left the lab in a huff after some argument, got lost on his way home - it was December - and he died, dropped dead on the sidewalk. Still in the hospital gown.”
The man at the end of the table said, “You’ve fixed it? You’re sure? Johnson, hell, let me try the stuff.”
After a long moment, the man in the lab coat removed a tupperware container from the inside pocket of his lab coat and handed it to the man at the end of the table.
The man at the end of the table opened the container and removed a bright red pill which he then put in his mouth and swallowed, without water.
What struck the man first was the prow of a vessel, its great beam expressing the scope of the pointlessness in all things. The meaninglessness blotted out the sky completely. Tears welled up in his eyes the way sea water rises through the bottom of a sandy hole dug at the shoreline, and he succumbed to quick waves of searing loss and guilt which consumed him. And just as he thought the tragedy too great to lament, he saw how stupid it all was, how inconsequential, and he began to laugh, a great set of giggles that engulfed him until his jaws and abdomen ached. And then like the water emptying a tub, everything left the man at the end of the table, until he was completely empty - without a sense of time, who can say when that was - but after that there was only space and drifting. Without a sense of body, or purpose, or time, just drifting. And then his body, drifting in space, out beyond the first light of the stars, in infinite, inky, blackness.


- - -
My fiction has appeared at the Jersey Devil Press, The Daily Love (!), and is forthcoming in issue one of Theurgy Magazine.

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Author: David Gill

Contributor: Brent Rankin

- -
He was standing in front of the door to his apartment. He rapped on the door three times. He knew no one was inside. There was no one outside. There was no one anywhere, anywhere in the world. He was alone.

He had always been intrigued with the paradox of time travel. Paradox. He liked the word. Travel back, say, one hundred and fifty years. Kill your great grandfather. That would be impossible. If he killed his great grandfather, then the proceeding generations would not be born. He wouldn’t be born. There would be no one to kill his great grandfather. Mind bending ideas. If he killed a butterfly in 358 B.C., would the Second World War have happened? What if his timing was off by a few seconds and he returned to the present, two minutes earlier than he’d left it. And he met himself. That, he knew, was utterly impossible.

When there were people on earth, he adjusted the time travel device he’d created and took a deep breath. His thumb was on the red toggle switch that, when tossed, would send him back to sometime before the species of modern man began. A very long time ago.

He flicked the switch.

In the past, the air was putrid. He gagged and spat. Enough. He flicked the switch to return. There was a momentary delay, and then he was back to the present.

He returned and discovered he was the only person on earth. The buildings were there, the roads, the infrastructure. Everything was as before, except there were no people. The world was void of humans. Except for him.

What had he done? He only spat in the past. He almost upchucked. He didn’t touch anything, nor kill anything. He didn’t interact with anything, but still, he changed everything. He was utterly alone.

He went into his apartment. Nothing there had changed. It was just as he left it. Looking out his window, pouring himself a stiff drink, he didn’t see a person anywhere from his eighth floor advantage. God, he thought, what have I done? He went to the sofa and sat.

He took a large gulp from the glass, and then rested it on the arm of his chair. Think. The moment of hesitation just before he returned. Had that caused a riff? Did it cause the annihilation of mankind?

He was the last living person on earth, alone in his living room.
Then, there were three loud raps at the front door .


- - -
I've been around the block a few times more than the ice cream truck. I graduated from college with a degree in English (a long, long time ago) and decided to put it to work.

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Author: Brent Rankin

Contributor: Layden Robinson

- -
The year is 2012, and I had been lying dormant in a coma for the last 38 years. When I came to, I was told I had been in a head on collision and that there was no long term physical damage. (The Doctors said that it was the massive impact of crash that caused me to “go under”.)
I can vividly remember driving, listening to “Houses of the Holy,” looking up into the watermelon skies riding the finest wave of acid there was to offer. I was truly living, with my crush Melissa by my side as we fused together in perfect warmth, one and one. (Then as sudden as the realization of a passing moment, I ended up here, 38 years later.)
“Mr. Murdoch, please follow me. You are free to go.”
“Experience your new beginning.”
So confused was I stepping into my “New reality”, wondering if I was still tripping on that wonderful, fluent acid I had gotten a hold of ? “Had the acid taken me further than I ever expected to go?” I contemplated to myself.
The air outside was pleasantly brisk, as I decided to take a left and then several rights, becoming more and more overwhelmed by my “New situation” with every passing moment. I tried to hail down a taxi, but there were none to be seen. (Everything was being run by robots, HUMANOIDS.)
“So wild that everyone has bought into such a synthetic dream,” I thought quietly to myself while “scanning” my ticket and stepping onto vessel reminiscent of something right out of a fucking terrifying Sci-Fi movie. (We began to float, passing a purple lit gas station, as I could feel “The eyes” begin to fall upon me.)
“$11.11 for a gallon of gas?!”
“I wonder how much it is for an ounce of weed, or if weed even still exists?”
There were TV monitors situated all around me inside the macabre futuristic vessel I was inside, spurting preposterous political scripture and propaganda, the latest sensational food recipes, and Madonna videos.
“Who in God’s name is Madonna?” I said underneath my own breath.
“A beer should take the edge off a bit.”
[Two blocks down, I found a tavern with a Neon Budweiser sign illuminated within its front window.]
“Yes Budweiser. Now there is something I recognize, SOMETHING I can relate too.” I sit inside a too pristine and empty bar, requesting a bottle of frosty solace.
“That will be $7.50 please,” a young, Brylcream-laced bartender emotionlessly states to me.
FUCK ME. I say nothing, paying my tab, moving on to a record/ CD store.
“CD?”
I am nervous, jittery, out of place as I ask an androgynous clerk if they have any Led Zeppelin. He/She is utterly confused, going to something called a “computer”. After a head nod and confirmation from another boy/girl, I am shown Led Zeppelin’s “Houses of the Holy” on Compact Disc. (The price reads “$27.78” and I almost shit myself in shock and dismay.)
“What the fuck is going on in this wicked fucking world? And what the fuck do I even do with this CD! This is getting to be one big fucking drag, Man!!” (Time traveling Drag mimes.)
Discouraged, I exit out of the music store, making my way down to a dock by the water, trying to gather my limited sanity and sporadic thoughts.
“Hey mate.” A drunkard approaches me, knowing I am suffering in a “different” way.
“Hey man.” I responded back with a faint smile, continuing. “May I ask you something?”
“Sure mate.” The drunkard gives me his consent.
“What the fuck is going on here, man?”
“What do you mean, mate?” The drunkard responded within a consoling tone.
“I mean, I have been asleep for decades, and now there is ‘This’.”
“What do you mean by ‘This’ mate?” The drunkard becomes more curious.
“I mean this – A disillusioned land without a plan.”
“Hmm, you’ve got a point, mate. I never thought of it that way. I guess I have just accepted it for what it is?” Such a sullen stare the drunkard gazed out into the distance before asking of me:
“Could you happen to spare some change, mate?”
“Of course, man. Of course”
I give my only friend in the known world all of my change, moving on from the dock by the water to try and find my lost love, Sweet Melissa. (Oh my sweet Melissa, with her flowing Strawberry blond hair and sunshine smile. ) I was given an address of where she might be from the Holy white institution where I had slept my lengthy deep sleep. (After hours and hours of old school hustle, I located the address. When I arrived, everything is wrong.)
“Can I help you?” It is her, but not “her”.
My Sweet Melissa had been transformed by her own doing into a synthetic, living breathing demented mannequin. There was no more life in her eyes, no natural sag in her tits. My God!
“Sorry, I have the wrong address,” I responded with sadness and mass confusion owning my existence.
I go about my way staring up into the restless evening sky, suddenly sensing something of Biblical proportion was beginning to transpire. [It was quite obvious.] Fire, Hail, and a Sea of locusts began to fall and ravage the world from every direction. (A second seemed like an eternity, until abruptly, an arising stillness overcame the sky, revealing the silhouettes of two figures shaking hands, coming to terms on their Master plan.)
Good and Evil had both decided things had gone too far. The world had lost face and everything had ended up the way it was supposed to. I had awakened briefly, but now it was time to go back to sleep, drift to another time, to the true promised land.


- - -
I am a Independent Writer of three Ebooks and have a successful Wine Review Blog as well. Hope you enjoy my voice! Best regards, Layden Robinson

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Author: Layden Robinson

Contributor: Gary Clifton

- -
Christian Jonic had gotten drunk that Saturday night. Then, cellular hell invaded his stupor at 3:08 A.M.
"You asleep?" asked his partner, Houston Homicide Detective Maria Martinez.
"No," he heaved himself upright. "Just hopin' you'd call." The room spun wildly. Two years a tight end for the University of Houston, Jonic was fifteen years a Houston cop, the last five in Homicide.
"Somebody just murdered Fat Fender Fred."
"Damn, Detroit Blue's trial starts Monday...sure he's dead?" Fred was the principal prosecution witness against Blue in the murder of a fellow pimp.
"Shot deader than good manners...Telephone Road, off the Gulf Freeway."
Jonic and Martinez worked their way through the jumble of emergency vehicles tumble parked around a black Cadillac. Fat Fender Fred slumped in the driver's seat, his head a bloody stub of gore. "About six in the head with maybe a .25...looks to me," Jonic said. The sticky hot August, pre-dawn gulf air was mostly liquid.
A patrol officer leaned close. "Witness got a partial tag number," he said, handing Jonic a notebook page. "One number short of complete...blue Continental."
"That's Detroit Blue's car, sure as hell," Martinez grinned. She was twenty-nine, smart, beautiful, and was preceded thirty seconds by boobs the size of a bulldog's head. Unmarried, she dated no cops, male or female.
"Detroit guy, huh?" the patrol officer asked.
"Naw," Jonic gave his temples another squeeze. "Always drives a blue Continental...dunno why the hell they called Fred "Fat Fender".
"His fat gut...looked like a pickup truck fender," Martinez studied Fred's remains. "He's got more holes than grandma's pin cushion."
Jonic, so hung-over he doubted if he'd live to see sunrise, said: "If we can shake out a judge on Sunday, we can get an arrest warrant and snag his sorry ass. We grab him right away, we may find evidence...like a pistol. He stays over on South Calhoun...but he definitely won't be there now."
"The judge?" the patrolman asked.
"Kid," Jonic massaged his forehead. "Judges live in River Oaks. Detroit Blue lives on South Calhoun."
Coffee and eggs at Denny's ressurected Jonic somewhat. Several hours judge shopping by telephone and they held a warrant of arrest for one Reginald Wilson, also known as Detroit Blue.
They spent the day kicking doors and asses across the Third Ward where the crime scene was situated. At dusk, a snitch told them Blue was hiding in his Auntie's house on South Scott. By the time they clustered up behind the church of something marvelous, the sun had dropped behind the western horizon. The August, humid heat hung around..
"Can't let this toad bust a cap in one of us and claim he didn't know we were cops," Jonic called for a marked squad-car. The unit rolled up carrying a pair of young male officers, one black and one white.
"I'm James Little," the black officer recognized Jonic and Martinez from previous crime scenes. Little was bigger than Jonic with a round face that never quite stopped smiling. "This is my partner Kevin Clark." Clark was husky, blond, and a head shorter than Little. They shook hands all around in the southern police fashion.
Jonic drew a crude map of Auntie's house on a sheet from his notebook on the hood of the patrol car and passed around a mug photo of a scowling Blue. "This guy is a mean-assed nut job. Let him shoot you and he'll walk as a mental case. Little, bring your shotgun and take the front door with us," he gestured to Martinez. "Clark, you cover the back door. We only have an arrest warrant which limits any right to search...so when you do, don't tell me."
They parked two doors down and stepped out into the sweltering humidity. The neighborhood was quiet, rodent quiet, too quiet. Blue's Continental was nowhere in sight. Clark hurried to the rear. Jonic kicked the front door, followed by Martinez and Little holding the shotgun. The small house had only two small rooms and appeared to be vacant.
Blue burst from a closet, waving a .25 automatic pistol. The muzzle flash was the only indication he'd fired the weapon - the sound of his shot lost in the roar of Little's shotgun. The blast slammed Blue against a wall, a smear of blood as he slid down the wall.
A quick check confirmed Blue was alone in the house. Little leaned against a doorjamb, dropped the shotgun and slumped on a sofa. "My God, I'm sick..." He lost consciousness, eyes open and rolled back. Two gasps and he stopped breathing. A flashlight exam disclosed massive crimson flow from his inner thigh. Jonic ripped open his trousers. Arterial blood was pumping like a broken fire-hydrant. The little pistol had found a sweet spot
Martinez dialed 911. Clark rushed in. Horrified, he burst into tears. They tried mouth to mouth, a drapery sash tourniquet, some prayer and considerable profanity. Little had died in less than two minutes. From the floor, Blue, whom they'd thought dead spat: "Good riddance, pig."
Clark, distraught, kicked Blue. Jonic dragged him to the front porch. Martinez, pistol drawn, stood over Blue just inside the door. The sharp report of Martinez's pistol surprised even Jonic. Sounds of approaching sirens wafted in on the humid air.
Jonic left Clark on the front stoop and stepped back inside. In the dim light, Martinez, the beauty whose smile overcame strong men, stared unblinking into Jonic's face, eyes cold death.
"Listen partner, he grabbed at your pistol...I saw it. You were in deadly fear of your life. Don't waver, no matter what they toss at you," he gestured toward the incoming assistance. "Blue needed killing."
She stared long and hard at Jonic. He thought she might shoot him too. Finally, she holstered the Glock and nodded. Martinez, he realized, was harder than granite - or any man he knew.
An E.M.T. squeezed past Clark, sobbing on the front step.


- - -
Gary Clifton, forty years a cop, has over forty short fiction pieces published or pending with online sites. Clifton, who has an M.S. from Abilene Christian University has been shot at, shot, stabbed, sued, lied to and misunderstood. He's currently out to pasture.

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Author: Gary Clifton

Contributor: Sam Rushton

- -
The two fossils eyed a sleeping woman through the one way mirror, as they had done for the last eight years. One was dressed in a beige suit, the other in a Nazi uniform.

"Is it time?" wheezed Maximilian, pupils glassy with cataracts.

"Soon." said Sergei, massaging his rough hands. He'd once used them to strangle a rottweiler, now he could barely open a pill bottle. The hundred year old woke up and began to laugh.

"Go."


Maximilian entered the room, a simulacrum of a nineteen forties bedroom. A wireless played Django Reinhardt, audio cues for the spy.

"Hello darling. How are you today?" said Maximilian.

"Hello my love. I just had the strangest dream."

"Yes?"

"Yes, that the Allies won the war. They drove tanks to the Reichstag and started to shoot. And I was there and could not scream."

"Ha. Then we are lucky it was but a dream." said Maximilian, taking off his captain's hat before kissing her lightly on the forehead.

"How is the fuhrer?"

"Magnificent. In fact he wanted me to ask you something." said Maximilian slowly. This was always the tricky part.

"Yes?" said the woman, moving beneath the off-white sheets.

"He wondered if you could remember any of the account numbers you put the gold in? He wants to commission a statue of Eva you see. As a surprise."

"Oh, I couldn't say dear. Those numbers were so long."

"Try. For your fuhrer." smiled Maximilian. He watched the old woman closed her eyes, as she had done countless of times before, and attempted to remember.

"Well...there was some stored at the Swiss National...let's see now..." she said, rolling her tongue across ancient lips.

"Yes?"

"Four...zero...one...um...now was it an eight or a five?" Behind the one-way mirror Sergei entered the numbers into a database. So far the string was lit green.

"Any more?"

"Five...double zero and...oh I can't remember. Let me check my books." said the woman and made to get out of bed. A look of horror washed over her face and she yanked away the sheets.

"Oh..." said Maximilian, picking up his hat.

"Max! Max! My legs are gone! What has happened to my legs!" she wailed.

"I'm sorry darling, I must be going. I'll be back soon." said Maximilian, kissing her head again before walking out. He went to join Sergei in the observation room and they watched the woman remember her missing limbs.

"You have to keep her in bed Max."

"I know. We'll try again in an hour."


The two old spies ate dumplings and gravy. Maximilian dripped some onto his lapel and cursed under his breath.

"Does it ever bother you?" said Sergei.

"What? The gravy?"

"Interrogating an old flame."

"Not much bothers me comrade, not after Stalingrad."

"But do you still feel anything for her?"

"Yes. But the mission is more important." said Maximilian. He sucked on his inhaler.


The interrogations went on all day and they were no closer to finding any of the account numbers than they had been that morning. The mission had gone on for so long, with no real results. Maximilian wondered if their handlers had forgotten about them, or worse, died off and told nobody of the slow espionage that they were undertaking. Sometimes Maximilian would go in and try to hold a conversation with her in the hopes it might somehow reverse the deterioration though the conversations often went around in circles.

"I want to try something different tomorrow." said Sergei as both men walked to their cars. Max nodded. Different was always good.


"Hello darling. How are you today?" said Maximilian.

"Hello my love. I just had the strangest dream."

"Yes?"

"Yes, that the Allies won the war. They drove tanks to the Reichstag and started to shoot. And I was there and could not scream."

"Ha. Then we are lucky it was but a dream." said Maximilian, taking off his captain's hat before kissing her lightly on the forehead.

"How is the fuhrer?" she said. And as if on cue in walked Sergei, dressed from head to toe in the finery of the Nazi dictator. He even had on a fake toothbrush moustache.

"I'm here!" said Sergei.

"Hitler!" she said, saluting.

"Hello darling! I was just wondering if you could remember where you put my gold?"

"Absolutely. I'll just go and check my books, excuse me." she said, pulling back her covers.

"Oh." said Maximilian.

"Meine fuhrer...I can't walk!" she said, shocked. The fake Hitler and the ancient spy looked at each other and shrugged before leaving the woman alone. Maybe Hitler was too exciting.


- - -
My name is Sam Rushton, a graduate from a university and unemployable bum. I have been writing for several weeks and quite enjoy the noise the keys make when I press them. I am currently working on a novel of scientific fiction due to my background as a science man.

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Author: Sam Rushton

Contributor: Hannah Garrard

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Mrs. Barton-Hoff sashayed into the jeweler’s, slinging her clutch purse and her small son, Mungo, onto the chaise lounge. She flexed her fingers in preparation for a BIG PURCHASE. “Good afternoon Mrs. Barton-Hoff” oozed the jeweler, already counting his commission.

“I’m after the new season’s Dolce diamonds,” bellowed Mrs. Barton-Hoff, her thick calves striding towards the twinkling cabinet display. She placed her palms ceremoniously onto the cold glass, and made as if to inhale the light that spun off the diamond-encrusted contents.

“I need a wee,” said her son in a small voice from the chaise lounge.

“Mungo! Don’t be so disgusting!” Mrs. Barton-Hoff spat, her trance broken. She returned to the cabinet to admire the earrings on her reflection in the glass.

“I’ll try the studs first.”

“As you wish madam,” radiated the jeweler.

“Mummy I must have a wee,” whimpered Mungo- Mrs. Barton-Hoff’s only, and last, child.

“Shut up, Mungo! It’s mummy’s time now!”

Mungo got up and started to make those half automatic bucking motions with his hips that signaled a full bladder. He was old enough to know when he needed to go, but not yet old enough to hold it in for very long. He looked around for a potty, but he couldn’t see one in the big, boring shop with all the glass boxes and shiny things that he wasn’t allowed to touch.

Just then Mrs. Harrison-Ford swept in, accompanied by her three-year-old daughter, Melody. This isn’t a bloody crèche thought the jeweler, wondering where all the nannies were.

“I’m after the new line in Dolce,” barked Mrs. Harrison-Ford, nose first. She placed Melody along with her clutch purse neatly onto the chaise lounge where she sat, cherub like in her white frock and bows.

She spotted Mrs. Barton-Hoff with her fingers in the diamonds she was after, and marched right over to the cabinet at the far end of the shop. The two women stood like sows jostling for space at the dinner trough.

Meanwhile, Melody was watching Mungo dancing. That looks fun she thought to herself. Better than this boring shop with all the glass boxes and shiny things I’m not allowed to touch. She hopped off the chaise lounge and went to join Mungo in his fun dancing game.

“I was here first!” boomed Mrs. Barton-Hoff at Mrs. Harrison-Ford.

“I called ahead!” Mrs. Harrison-Ford spluttered back. The jeweler felt his Adam’s apple tighten.

“Perhaps madam would like to try the Chanel?” he proffered, sending appeasing glances. It was tough work being a jeweler sometimes, requiring diplomacy, tact, and flattery.

Mungo and Melody continued to buck and dance.

“Keep out the way it’s going to come out!”  Mungo warned Melody. If he weed himself his mummy would smack his bottom again; he didn’t want a repeat of the supermarket incident, that had left him sobbing by the sun dried tomatoes all by himself, his mother too disgusted by his wetness to claim him as her own. Mungo had an idea and bucked his way to the chaise lounge with Melody hot on his tail.

The squabbling at the counter was getting acerbic.

“MUTTON DRESSED AS LAMB!”

“LADY GAGA DRESSED AS LADY DIANA!”

Mungo snatched his mummy’s black clutch purse that was sitting on the chaise lounge and snapped it open, placing it on the floor in front of him. He pulled down his pants and pointed himself at it. Melody stopped dancing.

Mrs. Barton-Hoff was pulling at Mrs. Harrison-Fords hair.

A half-sob of relief left Mungo as he watched his fanfare of wee fill up his mother’s clutch purse. But it was almost full and he still had more. Melody (who was a smart girl and had figured out the rules to the new game), came to the rescue with her mummy’s clutch purse.

Mrs Harrison-Ford had snatched the pair of diamond Dolces from Ms. Barton-Hoff’s ears and was fumbling to place them in her own.

Just in time. Mungo redirected his aim and sent another fanfare of wee up into Mrs. Harrison-Ford’s clutch purse, finishing with an inch to spare. “Thanks for saving me!” Mungo said to his new friend as he shook the last spots. Mungo and Melody snapped the purses shut and replaced them on the chaise lounge.

“Now ladies,” interjected the Jeweler over the din his customers were making. “I will sell the diamonds to the fist credit card I see.”

Both women raced towards the chaise lounge, batting their small children out of the way and scrambled for their purses. They emptied their contents onto the counter, and all over the diamond Dolce display.

- - -
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: Neila Mezynski

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The space between two black chair to define chaos in white light, right angle for poetic sake. Not too far don’t blur, boundary. Move straight line, there. Little black dress soften nice, glare, shoulder strap, off. Impossible. Care.


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Dancer/choreographer turned abstract painter/writer turned installation artist.

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Author: Neila Mezynski

Contributor: Tyler Gates

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She holds you down as she tightens the knots around your wrists. You are being attached to the bed frame. There you lay naked and cold. She has a grin plastered across her face. She is happy, an emotion she rarely displays. Reaching past your head she grabs a large box cutter. Moonlight sneaks in past the blankets she has covering her windows and shines across the brand new blade. Fear explodes inside you and begins a frantic race through your veins. Your muscles twitch and you try to shake loose. She smiles as she begins violently slashing at your chest. You scream and struggle to throw her off. She counters by putting her weight into her knees and muffling your screams by forcing her tiny fist in your mouth.


She continues slashing until a gaping hole forms in the center of your chest. Once satisfied with the size she tosses the blade aside and forces her free arm into your chest. The cavity where your heart used to be fills with blood as she begins to pump her fist in and out of your chest. Suddenly she begins moaning and and arching her back; an obvious result of the pleasure she is having. This goes on and on until she climaxes in a torrent of screams; matching yours in volume and intensity. After several moments of heavy panting she rips her blood soaked arm out of your chest and shoves two fingers in your mouth. Forcing you to taste the pieces of your own soul; a taste all too similar to metal shavings. Wiping the rest of the blood on the bedsheets she rolls over and gets comfortable with her back facing you. “Tomorrow night you can do it to me.” she says quietly before falling asleep.


- - -
Tyler Gates exists barely in small town rural Midwest. His life is dotted with violent encounters with hillbillies, night jobs, alcohol binges, gas station explosions, and the occasional cult abduction. Besides playing writer he occupies his time with illegal underground home made hot air balloon races.

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Author: Tyler Gates