Contributor: J.C. Jackson

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Soup
“Soup or salvation?” she said.
“Beg your pardon?” He glanced around the room. A few old men sipped coffee and scanned the local paper. Dust drifted through the sunlight escaping the aluminum blinds like glitter in a snow globe. Fluorescent lights buzzed sporadically and an ancient window unit rattled behind a glass display full of Payday, Zagnut, Camel, and Lucky Strike.
“You want the soup?” she said. “Or would you prefer an eternity spent in the bosom of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ?” He looked at the laminated menu on the counter. A quarter-sized stain, probably soup, had crusted over at the top of the menu and abbreviated a part of the block text centered there.

ALIFORNIA LUNCH ROOM
F OF SCENIC HWY 49 NEAR SUTTER CREEK
NG GOD AND GREAT FOOD FOR 25 YEARS!

“I’ll give you a sec,” she said, and pulled a coffee stained pot from the burner. He watched her reflection in the mirror behind the counter as she floated through the room filling the thick white ceramic mugs, humming a familiar tune and nodding politely to each customer as she worked. Each man thanked her in a different way as if communicating in some wordless language known only to blue-collar retirees. There were nods and points and grunts and winks and clicks in various combinations and she acknowledged each with a look of understanding. She stopped at every empty table to arrange the little groups of condiments by height - ketchup, hot sauce, and mustard at the back; sugar and creamer in the middle; salt and pepper at the front. She’d step back and admire each grouping with a little smile on her face before moving on to arrange the next family portrait of flavor. A damp rag was tucked into her apron and she gave each table a Zorro-like swipe, replacing crumbs and drips with a wide glossy streak that quickly evaporated into the dry air. An empty “Daily Deals” sign on the wall was just out of level and she touched it into place as she circled back around the counter.
“So, what’s it gonna be?” she said.
“I’m, uh…I’m not sure I understand the question.” He looked up as he spoke and flinched as she reached to tuck a cluster of reddish-grey hair back under her hairnet. His face was scrunched up like someone waiting for a balloon to pop.
“Listen, sweetie,” she said, “do you want the soup? Or, would you rather spend a thousand lifetimes baskin’ in the glory of heaven and God’s almighty goodness? ” She pulled an order pad from under the counter, flipped the page, and placed a well-worn carbon underneath. A piece of yarn dangled from the pad and held a stubby pencil wrapped with masking tape. She held it at a distance and examined the lead over the top of her glasses. As she touched the point to her tongue, she turned back to him, smiling. “It’s a pretty simple question, really,” she added.
He looked around the room for some sign of understanding. A logging truck roared past and rattled the blinds and the “Open-C’mon In” sign hanging on the glass door. The old men sat and noisily slurped their coffee. Occasionally one would shake and fold and shake a section of paper like a spasmodic cough until it was a manageable quarter sheet. The compressor on the window unit kicked on and off like an alarm clock signaling the next sibilant sip of coffee. There was silence amid a cacophony of sounds. He looked back at the stained menu.
“Take the soup.” An old man in a grease-stained Kenworth hat looked up from his coffee, and half-turned toward the counter. A week’s worth of white beard covered his cheeks. His Dickies work shirt was pressed, but only half-buttoned, exposing a white V-neck. A patch of silver-white chest hair poked over the V like a hood ornament. He paused for a moment, almost facing them then turned back to his cup. “Take the soup.”
“Cecil,” she said. “Mind your business.”
“Take the soup.” He spoke without turning around; his coffee cup inches from his mouth. His voice was deep and comforting, but rattled like the window unit. “Take the soup. It’s made with love.”
“I guess I’ll have the soup.”
She stared at the Cecil briefly, the returned to her pad, her smile only a little less broad. She checked the stubby pencil over the top of her glasses, and touched the lead to her tongue.
“Chicken Noodle, or Split Pea?”


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Middle-aged author and QA Analyst from Nashville, Tn.

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Author: J.C. Jackson

Contributor: Elizabeth Collins

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Once upon a time there was an artist. His name was Mikey and he lived near the heat vents on 33rd and Maple. Mikey was an origami master and could make anything and everything out of stray newspapers or fliers.

“How do you do it?” One tourist asked as Mikey handed him a replica of Mt. Rushmore.

“I’m not sure. My mama never showed me, and my pa only had one hand!” Mikey chuckled, showing off his seven magnificent teeth.

“You have to do something with this! The world has to know!”

The tourist took out his smartphone, and with a crazed look in his eye he started recording himself talking about the homeless wonder who was to become an internet sensation.

Mikey muttered to himself, “Sure, sure. Millions of views. Ahuh.” He put on his origami Napoleon hat, strapped his origami fanny pack around his waist, slung his origami backpack over his shoulder, slipped on his origami slippers, and slipped away from the tourist who was busy crying about how moving Mikey’s story was.

“I heard it all before.” Mikey told his squirrel-friend that night under their tree. “They can do all they want with the youtubes and the tweeters, but it don’t put food on the table, you know?” Squirrel-friend was sitting on an origami table nibbling on an origami apple. “Real food!”

Mikey and squirrel-friend laughed the night away, drinking from origami champagne flutes, and pointing at misshapen trees. The next morning a woman in a business suit approached Mikey and offered him a check for $10,000. “To kick-start your brilliant art career!” the woman told Mikey as he stared at the little piece of paper. After a moment his eyes lit up.

“Squirrel-friend! Where are you?! Lookit, we’re not gonna have no money problems no more!” Mikey looked around for squirrel-friend, and finally found him halfway across the road, and halfway under a tire.

Mikey was sobbing uncontrollably and the woman muttered something about “Good luck,” and “Sorry about your thing,” as she slipped away.

“Don’t worry,” Mikey cried out to his roadkill-friend. “I’ll take care of you! I’ll take…”

His words fell away as his fingers worked and created the most beautiful origami Viking funeral boat the world had ever seen. He pulled the bits of squirrel-friend he could get a hold of out from under the tire and placed them in the boat. He marched to the nearest pond, drew an origami match from his origami fanny pack, lit the boat on fire, and pushed it off into the pond.

As it floated away from him he could just make out the number on the port side of the vessel: “$10,000.” As the fire spread, the number diminished. “$10,00” “10,0” “10” “1” until there was nothing left, and the squirrel-bits sunk to the pond floor.

A few years later, Mikey was telling a tourist about how he had once been given $10,000 to kick start his art career but that he had turned the check into a Viking funeral boat for his squirrel-friend and then burned it on the pond.

“Oh.” The tourist said as he pulled out his phone to text someone. “Do you regret destroying that much money?”

Mikey glanced over at his origami table sitting below his tree near the heat vent on the corner of 33rd and Maple.

“Yeah, of course I do.”


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Elizabeth is an English graduate student at the University of Northern Iowa. She lives with three fish and a sock monkey and still doesn't know what she wants to be when she grows up.

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Author: Elizabeth Collins

Contributor: Jerry Guarino

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A great donut (yes, this is how I spell it) is like a great marriage. Really. Let me explain. The best donuts have two components, not that a basic donut isn’t wonderful. Donuts should be filled with fruit, cream or other sweet ingredients. The outside of the donut is the protector, the guardian or in our analogy, the groom. The inside is the essence of the donut. Raspberry, cream and apple fillings make the donut come alive, leave a lasting impression on the palate and provide the love, or the bride. The groom is a wonderful man, but most of the attention on the wedding day is paid to the bride. When you love a donut, it’s the filling that you remember, not the dough, as indispensible as it is.

There are two major donut franchises in the U.S., one great one you can find in 49 states and one not so great one in California (don’t ask me why you can’t get the best donuts in California, that’s another rant); back to our comparison between great donuts and great marriages.

My best friend from New Jersey invited me to his son’s wedding and it was a chance to celebrate their happiness as well as revisit one of my first loves, that donut (you know the name). My wife and I left the hotel to attend the rehearsal dinner. On our way we had to pass that donut shop (with a drive-thru lane now). “We’re stopping there for dessert,” I said to my wife.

“They will probably be serving dessert tonight” my California wife said, obviously unaware of the importance of first loves, be they soft and feminine or named Boston Kreme.

“I haven’t had one of these donuts in twenty years. We’re stopping.”

My best friend is Asian and so were most of the guests. I hadn’t seen his son since he was a child and now he had just graduated dental school. He was a solid professional, a protector. His fiancé was his perfect complement, a lovely young Asian professional woman, smart and practical, the sweet filling to his outer coating. I have no doubt that this couple, like a perfect donut, will endure and bring happiness to everyone they touch.

I expected a Chinese banquet but the rehearsal dinner was an Italian feast. “This is great,” I said to my wife.

“Really, wonderful” she said. “And so many choices. Did you try the eggplant?”

“Yes, but I’m going back for more of this chicken first.”

At this point I can tell you that the company was as wonderful as the food. To see my friend’s family, from all over the country who were also well suited to each other (I’ll have to corner the Californians and tell them about the donut). Husbands and wives, happily married, like the newlyweds-to-be. And the single friends, including my son, showing great promise for being happily married someday too. Thank goodness they invited a poor kid from Jersey to this event. After stuffing ourselves over three hours, I was ready to get my treat and head back to the hotel hot tub.

“Ready to go dear?” I said to my wife.

“You’re not still planning on getting a donut after that raspberry, ricotta cheesecake and the chocolate cannolo (yes, the singular of cannoli), are you?”

“Of course.”

“I can’t believe you have any room left.”

“Twenty years sweetheart. I’ll make room.” I told my son we would be back to pick him up as he was enjoying new friendships here.

My wife and I headed down the street and pulled into the drive-thru behind a half-dozen cars. This time of night, it wasn’t unusual to see a line; late night donuts are a favorite snack everywhere, and particularly in New Jersey. Passing the right side of the shop, I saw dozens of donuts neatly positioned in their cubicles behind the counter, romantically illuminated, like a bride on her wedding day. “It won’t be long now,” I said.

When it was my turn to order, I spoke clearly and concisely into the speaker. “Two Boston Kreme donuts please.” My mouth was watering. I was a minute away from that sweet taste I had been away from for so long.

“No donuts” came the reply from the speaker.

I stared at the speaker then to my wife. Surely they didn’t understand. “Two Boston Kreme donuts please.”

“No donuts” repeated the speaker. Have I crossed over to the Twilight Zone? This is what the shop is famous for. It’s called Dunkin Donuts for Pete’s sake (who is Pete anyway?). This line of cars can’t be here just for coffee at this time of night. I pulled out of the line and returned to the party. My best friend met me at the door.

“Hey, where did you go?”

“I went to get a couple of donuts to end this perfect meal, but they didn’t have any.”

“What? Are you sure?”

“I swear to you. They actually said No donuts.”

“Maybe they didn’t understand you.”

“I ordered twice. Same response. No donuts. I could see them in the case as we drove in. I saw the donuts.”

I felt like a groom being left at the altar. They can’t tarnish this perfect night. Thinking I may have indeed crossed into some surreal dimension, I decided to return to try once more. My son and wife in the car, we pulled into the drive-thru lane, again behind a half-dozen cars and waited patiently as each one was served. Then I found myself in front of that speaker, now ominously looking back at me.

“Two Boston Kreme donuts please.”

“No donuts” came the reply from the speaker.

My wife shook her head. My son was stunned; his mouth was open as if to say WTF, a common phrase from his generation. I thought I should give it one more try.

“Two Boston Kreme donuts please.”

“No donuts” came the reply from the speaker one more time. No explanation, no regret, just a matter-of-fact denial.

I drove back to the hotel, not entirely convinced that this wasn’t some evil omen for the couple’s wedding day. On a night when my wife and I should have been celebrating our love, I could only go straight to sleep, apologizing, but she understood.

“I’m sorry dear. Maybe tomorrow.”

“Argh.”

On the wedding day, I woke up early, knocked on the door where my son stayed and waited. He opened the door. “What’s up Dad?”

“We have to get a donut.” He understood. I had taken him to New Jersey on road trips when he was a little boy. He knew White Castle hamburgers, pizza from the Jersey shore and these donuts.

We drove to the shop. I decided to park and go inside. If I wasn’t going to get donuts, I wanted to know why.

“Two Boston Kreme donuts please.” I had my fingers crossed behind my back.

“Right away sir.” The girl at the counter put two donuts into a bag and handed them to me. Order was restored to the universe. The wedding would go on and the couple would live happily ever after.

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Jerry Guarino’s short stories have been published by dozens of magazines in the United States, Canada, Australia and Great Britain. His latest book, "50 Italian Pastries", is available on Amazon.com and as a Kindle eBook. Please visit his website at http://cafestories.net

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Author: Jerry Guarino

Contributor: Leonard Treman

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I was the world's greatest financial mind. I had 300,000,000,000 dollars in the bank. I had created “Immortality,” the first stem cell pharmaceutical company to take ten years off. I finally was married to a woman named Jane Berber at the age of 33. The only problem was 12 hours after the marriage she'd filed for divorce.

We were married and no sooner had the wedding night passed then did she disappear and send her lawyers. It became clear quickly, the love of my life wanted half of my fortune to spend with the love of her life.

I sat in the chair and stared at the wall. How could I be duped? I, the richest and therefore presumably the most powerful man in the world.

It then hit me. What about the globalization project? That bitch was going to take 150,000,000 ,000 dollars from the poorest nations in the world. I could not let that happen.

I began to question how I would stop her when the phone rang.

“Hey this is the foundation for the global prosperity, could we interest you in donating to help a good cause today?”

I smiled.

“Actually, yes. You might have just solved a problem for me,” I replied.

“Oh, I'm glad to hear that sir. Is there anyway you could find it in your heart to donate just $20 dollars to us today?” the telefund caller asked.

I replied, “You'll need to get your supervisor, I intend to make a much larger donation.”

“Oh, well I am permitted to handle all calls up to a thousand dollars,” the telefund caller responded.

“Well I'm thinking about donating much more then that,” I replied.

“Right,” the man said with a tinge of disbelief in his voice.

A moment later his supervisor was on the line, “Hello, this is Anna Bent. I understand that you are wishing to donate more then a thousand dollars?”

“Anna, I'll bet you I'm about to make the largest donation you've ever had,” I said smirking.

She replied, “Oh,you might be surprised.”

“I'd like to donate 300 billion dollars, and-” I began.

“Very funny sir,” she interrupted.

“I'm serious, let me give you my debit card number,” I said.

“Ok, Mr. Billionaire, what's your account number?” she asked.

I told her the debit card number and a moment later I got a phone call by an automated voice on my cellphone. The woman at the donation center was still on the house phone.

The robotic voice said, “Our records indicate you are making a donation of three, zero, zero, zero, zero, zero, zero, zero, zero, zero, zero, zero dollars today. Is this correct?”

“Yes,” I replied.

The voice responded, “Thank you, and have a good day.”

I put my ear up to the house phone and the woman was silent at the moment. All of a sudden there was a loud, “Oh my god. I must be dreaming?” on the other side of the line.

She picked up the phone, “You are a saint, who the heck can give away 300 billion dollars? Whoever you are you are my new hero,” Anna said, she was crying with joy. Her tone betrayed her to be sobbing with happiness.

“You can mark the donation as anonymous,” I said. I knew full well that the world would know who made the donation. The IRS would likely be the first to know. My wife's lawyers would probably be the next. After them, my wife would know. After she did the news would find out. Then the world would find out.

“Thank you for your donation sir,” Anna said. She had a bit more composure.

“Thank you for sitting in a call center and helping the world every day, each of us does our part. I did mine and you did yours,” I replied and hung up.

I knew full well that I'd make the full amount back in a few years, as eternal youth isn't a product anyone wants to live without. My ex-wife however, would be hit by a media storm as soon as the questions came in about why I chose now to donate. A billionaire's wife of 12 hours wouldn't likely be able to fend off some of the more ruthless questioning she'd receive. If she's lucky, she might get some media coverage and end up as a porn star. She might make a million or two out of it, but, at least then she'd contribute something to the world.


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Leonard Treman is a run of the mill 24 year old author with a website at http://authorleonardtreman.webs.com/ that contains where you can find some of his other published work.

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Author: Leonard Treman

Contributor: Anthony Mullinix

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“General, Sir, I believe we may have a problem,” he said.

“What kind of problem, Lieutenant?” I asked.

“The kind that will need some sort of clean-up crew, Sir.”

What a smart-ass. Why else would my Command and Control center call me at this hour? Looking up at the monitors revealed the truth to his statements. The man that found it looked pudgy and unkempt. Our instruments are light-years ahead of his, but that didn’t really matter since he somehow managed to find it.

This isn’t the kind of wake-up I expected.

“Who do we have available?”

“I asked who was available, not who wasn’t. Don’t waste my time. Understood?”

“Understood Sir. We only have one team,” he said, stacking his initial set of papers off to side leaving a singular piece for me to view.

No. Not the kind of wake-up call I expected.

“Not much of a team is it?” I asked.

“Not at all Sir. Despite him being a singular person, it appears he is able to perform jobs that normally require teams, at roughly the same output,” the Lieutenant responded.

“I’m aware of him son. We’ve worked together before. Call him up,” I said.

Watching the Lieutenant was like watching a baby learn how to walk. He had no idea who he was calling, and less of an idea as to why. His uniform was crisp and clean; his demeanor was soft and malleable. I don’t expect this to be anything less than amusing. Unfortunately, I wasn’t going to be standing around listening to it.

The pudgy man on the screen found one of our favorite toys, and we need to do something about it.

“Captain Jacobsen, with me,” I said to one of the other officers in the room. She nodded and grabbed her cover.

“No, you won’t need that. You will, however, need a paper and pencil. Or pen, if you so choose,” I said.

She nodded again and grabbed the nearest pad and pen as we left the room. I needed to have someone in control of the situation. Someone who could command the clean-up crew, while still keeping their cool. Captain Jacobsen was exactly that. Her uniform was natural on her; no crispness, because it didn’t need that. Her attitude was firm, stern, and immovable. Exactly what we needed.

“Captain, I assume you are aware of the importance with this situation. I feel you may have been misled on exactly how important it is, and how it plays into our mission here. Do you know how it plays into our mission here?” I asked.

“Sir, our mission is to study any artifact, foreign or domestic, for the purposes of science, economic growth and military superiority,” she responded. A little too rehearsed.

“Do you believe in that mission statement?” I asked.

“I do Sir.”

“I’m not asking if you want its hand in marriage. I’m asking if you believe in it. Do you believe in it?” I asked again.

“I believe we should be researching and applying what we learn for defense, but more so for prosperity. Having the upper hand doesn’t mean we win. Sir.”

“Well said. That’s why you and I are stopping here,” I said, motioning for her to step through the door.

The other side of the door held a myriad of diplomats’ aids; protocol when this sort of thing happens. They ranged from Chinese to Saudi, and from South American to the Congo. They were all sitting, or standing, around a large circular table. They all stood as I entered.

“Please. Formalities aside for now. What do we have?” I asked the group.

An aid in a heavy British accent answered first, “A big damn problem General. Type A wasn’t supposed to be found. We could handle any of the others’ locations being forfeit. But this bullocks is beyond what we anticipated.”

“I asked what we have, not what the issue is,” I answered back. Looking to the Captain I said, “Is there a rash of stubbornness going through the facility?”

I could tell she had no idea how to react. Candidness isn’t something Officer Candidate School teaches when dealing with superiors. I’ll have a talk with her, and the rest of the officers, tonight at chow about that.

“One of my guys is already on the phone with a team. My question now is exactly what do we want that team doing? What type of clean-up is needed here?” I asked.

They all looked around like I was out of my mind. Could I have asked the dumbest question? To them, most likely. That is why, however, I brought my Ace.

“Sir…” she said, forcing everyone to turn and stare at her, “we need divers. We need divers, underwater welding tools, and roughly three days.”

“What do you have in mind, Captain?” I asked.

“Divers can be used to remove certain pieces of Type A, then bring them back here for safe keeping and further study. The trail left by the craft can be positioned to look more like sediment residue from underwater rivers moving against the object. Once the divers come back with the pieces, we wait.”

Some of the aids didn’t really like this idea at first. A stare from me quieted them down. Still, one got through, “What of the rest of Type A? Exactly how would we explain that, Captain?” he said.

I wasn’t too keen on his tone there.

“That is the easiest part. We let the public find it. It’s too far down for their equipment to really reach anyway. Not in any suitable fashion at least. What’s the harm in letting them discover something new? We will have all the important parts. Let someone else have some fun for a change. Sir.”

I had to chuckle. Simplicity. I knew she was the one I would need.


- - -
Spent nine years in the military and am finally able to pursue the field of my dreams. I enjoy writing, video games, commentaries, and the fantasy (or science fiction) world. I have a loving, supportive wife, and a son on the way.

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Author: Anthony Mullinix

Contributor: Brandon Mc Ivor

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"People live in Port-of-Spain all their lives—maybe they go Maracas on weekends—and they think they know Trinidad," says my father.
The groundskeeper laughs as he puts the $20 bill my father slipped him into his back pocket.
"They don't know Trinidad," he says, "This is Trinidad."
We are standing on a mountaintop in Tortuga Village. Behind us, Our Lady of Montserrat is cradling her child and looking out into the distance. The sun is sinking into a sea of rolling elephant grass on the Gulf of Paria.
"Trinidad small," says the groundskeeper, "But some people feel it tiny—like it have nothing here at all."
"But it have this, though," I say.
The groundskeeper smiles, bows his head. He turns away from us and brushes a cobweb from his statue’s shawl.
"He leaving for America," says my father, gesturing towards me, "So I say I would show him Trinidad before he leave."
"You live in the States?" the groundskeeper asks.
"No," I say, "I only going there for school."
"So where you live, then?"
"Port-of-Spain"
The groundskeeper nods. Cars, down on the Solomon Hochoy Highway, pass one another—going to San Fernando, coming from Mount Hope, going to Chaguanas.
"So,” he says, “When you leaving?"
"In a week. I have some time."
The groundskeeper shakes his head.
"You could live Trinidad your whole life and you wouldn't have time. You must feel Trinidad small too, eh?"
"No—" I start.
"So why you leaving, then?"
My father has walked over to the grotto and I can see him thumbing his rosary, saying quiet prayers for me.
"I get a scholarship—"
There is a lump in my throat, which I nearly choke on, but I manage to swallow it.
“—from the government," I say.
The groundskeeper takes his cap off and he runs his hands through his hair. His fingers are shining, and I can smell the sticky-sweetness of coconut oil.
"Well," he says, loudly enough for my father to hear, "That's all it really have to show here—just the church. Allyuh through?"
My father raises his hand, mouthing the last few verses of the prayer he is saying.
"Give us a little more time," he says.
The groundskeeper nods, and he walks off, back to his hut.
"Lock the door when you leave," he says.
But he had never opened it. I call out to him, but my father waves me off.
"It's alright," he says.
We walk around the church and find a spot to sit—just the two of us.
The sun has gone down, and Trinidad is all shadows now. Little lights are burning on the mountainside and the stars have come out. Behind us, Our Lady of Montserrat, the black virgin, is cradling her child and she is looking out over our island and into the Gulf.


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Brandon was born and raised in Trinidad and Tobago. He came to New York City to study English in 2009. He will likely spend the rest of his life coming and going between those two places.

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Author: Brandon Mc Ivor

Contributor: Jerry Guarino

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Hannah could have had an easy life. She could have spent her days with charitable causes or artistic pursuits. She could have been free to write or paint. If only she had chosen Richard or Ben. Their devotion and money was the type of temptation that many women would be satisfied with, but Hannah was less conventional.

A modern flower girl in looks and dress, with a contemporary liberal arts education, she had borrowed her parent’s idealism and combined it with her grandparent’s pragmatism. She was everything an accomplished man might want as his mate, a partner with values, intelligence and beauty.

But we all know that it isn’t the man who chooses the woman. Richard didn’t know that. Neither did Ben. As successful as they were, there was one area of life, they couldn’t control. Finding a mate.

Richard was a financial analyst. His rise from Harvard business school to a seven-figure income on Wall Street was typical of the privilege that comes from wealth. His path was as sure as his parents had designed, laying out the ladders from a private grammar school to elite prep school to the Ivy League. One ladder led to him to sailing camp on Martha’s Vineyard, another to meeting debutantes in cotillion balls and another to a summer job working at the stock exchange for family friends. With his family connections, wealth and resources, it would have been surprising if he hadn’t been successful. Like many in his social circle, he attributed his success to providence, while ignoring the more demanding requirements of responsibility that privilege may owe back to others.

Ben was a brilliant software engineer. Unlike Richard, Ben didn’t grow up surrounded by wealth and family connections. His path was more pragmatic, hard work in public schools and an academic scholarship to a top public university to study computer science and engineering. These EECS, as they were called, were pursued by the power companies in Silicon Valley, recruited almost as soon as they were admitted to school and followed until they graduated, with summer internships along the way. Starting work two weeks after graduation for $140k, Ben launched a successful career in a short time. Ben didn’t take his good fortune as fate. He had compartmentalized his life into boxes, boxes for education, for work, for hobbies and even for people. He even grouped his friends and family into an online program showing their relationships so he could understand his social world.

David had been born to teachers in a small New England town outside Boston. He lived comfortably but not lavishly. He didn’t have Richard’s family connections or Ben’s engineering mind, but David was given freedom to follow his own path. He took this freedom seriously, excelling in school and playing town soccer, without the anxiety or expectations of other parents. This allowed David to find his way, in spite of his parent’s divorce when he was 14. His inner strength persisted through a trip across country to live with his father, leaving his mother on the East coast. This made his journey even more remarkable and admirable than either Richard or Ben’s life. David could have put his considerable intellect and personality into making money, but he had an idealistic, almost hippy like temperament for public service.

Although Richard used ladders and Ben used boxes, they both had one thing in common. They were both about to fall in love with Hannah.

All four of them met one evening at a benefit fundraiser for homeless healthcare in the Bay Area. Richard was there looking for West coast financial connections. Ben was there representing one of the tech companies, meeting investors. David was there as a member of the coalition that distributed funds to free clinics in Oakland and San Francisco. And Hannah. Hannah was with the catering group, although she was as lovely and educated as any of the junior league women who organized these charitable benefits, there to find a wealthy husband for their continued lifestyle of leisure. They too were ladder climbers, although their ultimate goal wasn’t the working world, but as the proper social family director, raising good children to continue the legacy.

If you observed carefully, you could tell what line of work people were in. Ben was dressed in a sports jacket, button down blue shirt, matching tie and khaki pants so typical of tech managers. Richard had an Amosu suit, Eton shirt, Ferragamo tie, platinum cuff links, and Italian shoes, easily a $5000 outfit. No secret who the women were tracking, Richard, not Ben. David was virtually invisible, looking more like a graduate student than a key figure at the benefit.

But Hannah noticed him. “Who is that?” she asked her boss.

“That’s David Wilson. He’s the project manager for the company distributing funds to the free clinics.”

“Are you sure? He isn’t dressed up, just a casual shirt and pants.”

“That’s his way Hannah. Very understated. Look him up on Google and you’ll see.”

“I might just do that.”

“But if you want rich, there are plenty here to choose from. But don’t get engaged too soon. I’ve lost too many staff at these events already.”

Hannah laughed. “I’m not here to find a husband. Just here to make some money while I figure out what to do with a degree in English literature.”

“That’s not very reassuring dear,” said her boss. “My last two girls were liberal arts major seeking their destiny and now they live in Atherton. You will remember to have me cater your events when you get there, won’t you?”

“Too isolated for me. I’m more of a Berkeley girl,” said Hannah.

“Yes, and the two girls in Atherton both went to Cal.”

Ben was the first to notice Hannah in her white chef jacket. “Excuse me. Do you have any more of these shrimp puffs?”

Hannah looked up. “Sorry, I don’t know. I’ll go into the kitchen and check.”

“No wait” he said awkwardly. “I don’t really want the shrimp puffs.”

Hannah looked confused. “All right. Some other pastry perhaps?”

Ben blushed. “I just wanted to meet you. I’m Ben.”

“Thank you Ben, but I really shouldn’t be socializing with the guests. May I ask why you wanted to talk to me?”

Ben wiped away sweat from his brow, realizing this wasn’t going well. “These charity women aren’t my type. I’m more comfortable with regular people.”

“Regular people?” said Hannah.

“That’s not derogatory. I’ve been analyzing relationships and it says that I would be suited with someone in the restaurant or catering field.” Ben realized how lame that sounded.

“A program told you to find a relationship with someone in the food industry?”

“Actually, it was my own program. I have these groups and assign everyone I meet into them, like boxes. Seems the people I’m interested in all work in restaurants.”

“You put people in boxes?” Hannah put her tray in front of her body as she took a step back.

“No, I don’t put people in boxes. I put their traits, their qualities, aspects of their personality into boxes, then I quantify which ones would appeal to me most.”

“So you put people in boxes?”

Ben was crestfallen. “Yes, I suppose so. But it works for most parts of my life; shouldn’t it work for relationships?”

“It was nice to meet you Ben. I have to get back to work.” Hannah made a beeline for the kitchen when Richard blocked her path.

“Hi.”

“May I help you sir?”

“Call me Richard.”

“All right Richard. What would you like?”

“I don’t usually do this but I couldn’t help notice how beautiful you are.”

“I’m flattered Richard, but I am afraid you’re not my type. Besides I have to work. Sorry.” She turned to walk away.

“Not her type,” he muttered to himself. “A common shop girl. I don’t understand.” As he walked away, several of the junior league girls went to consol him.

Hannah came back from the kitchen and set out more food. Then she felt a tap on her shoulder. “Oh no...which one of these two is it now?” She sighed and turned around.

“Miss. I just wanted to thank you. Your service and professionalism has helped make this fundraiser a success. Please thank the others for me.” He turned to leave.

“Wait. You’re David Wilson. Can you tell me more about your organization?”

“Well, would you really like to know? Don’t you have to work?”

Hannah turned to see her boss, gesturing to her to go ahead. “It’s my break. Why don’t we go out on the balcony?”

***

Hannah finished packing her belongings into the boxes. Everything was ready to go, except for some things above the closet, under the high ceiling. She couldn’t reach them from a chair. “Honey, can you get these up here?”

David looked at Hannah. “Looks like we’re going to need a ladder.”

Hannah smiled and put a finger to her cheek. “I don’t have one, do you?”

David smiled back at his new fiancé. “Nope, never had the need for one.”

- - -
Jerry Guarino’s short stories have been published by dozens of magazines in the United States, Canada, Australia and Great Britain. His latest book, "50 Italian Pastries", is available on Amazon.com and as a Kindle eBook. Please visit his website at http://cafestories.net

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Author: Jerry Guarino

Contributor: Taylor Gibbs

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Well you see, it all started with that campy pop-rock song “Drops of Jupiter,” by that corny pop-rock band Train, I believe they are called. Something quite mystical transpired. I was listening to the starry entrancing lyrics when the world began to slip into an unreality. A hazy floating daze swept me off the computer chair where I was checking bus times to a stop seldom used by myself. I realized time was of the essence and I had to get moving if I wanted to catch the bus, on account of the fair walk ahead of me to that near stop.
I began my journey home from work at a slightly less than frantic pace toward the aforementioned bus stop. I was getting near to it when all the street lights began to dim. A blank bus appeared out of the darkness, off in the distance, heading toward me. Desperately I picked up my pace in order to get to the stop on time. In my panic run I hadn’t paid attention to the lights or the bus that arrived at the stop at the same time as I did, until the doors slowly opened. I looked up only to notice where it should have said the route and number, read “Out of Service.” Oddly enough the bus had stopped regardless, and the doors were open, an inviting embrace to the soft ambient glow of its interior. I got on and swiped my card staring at the middle-aged female driver who only gave a vague nod and said no words. Her mouth closed in a thin white line as if it had been glued shut.
The bus was completely empty. I was the only passenger riding this mystery bus into the under lit depths of the city of Guelph.
As the bus traversed the streets I noticed that the city was empty and completely dark. The bus began a long and winding path into an abyss unseen, and in an eerie silence.
It glided through the streets like a boat on smooth, glass lake, fluid and agile.
It preambled so far off the path into deeper darkness that I no longer recognized or could describe anything outside the windows. The bus, however, was so quick to reach places I did recognize that it was as if the driver not only steered the great monolithic bus, but folded space in half and reached further destinations without actually traveling to them.
As it approached the downtown station the silence was oppressive. Where normally all the buses arrive with a practiced synchronicity; there were none to be found. We were the sole accompaniment. I nervously decided to unload myself quickly, allowing the driver a “good night,” to which she responded again with that vague (this time “knowing”) wordless nod.
I exited the bus onto the platform. Under the orange-yellow glow of the arc lights, silhouettes of people were milling about. Not quite substantial people, with many goals and things to find, none seeming to know exactly what they were looking for.
Lost obsidian souls in the ceaseless night.
I traversed this strange desolation with the stealth and cunning of a cat to an empty Subway restaurant for a sandwich, only to find no one would acknowledge my presence and serve me. I was invisible – a greyish specter of myself. So I left bereft, paranoid, and confused and headed home alone in the solitude of the night.
My building when I arrived was like a deprivation chamber. There were faint sounds and lights but everything seemed distant and unreachable.
I got into my room closed the door to be alone and try to piece my thoughts and rationale together, assimilate what it all meant. All I could focus on was the comforting song my roommate sang, drifting to me muffled through the wood of our closed doors.


- - -
My name is Taylor Gibbs, I am a twenty nine year old Support Worker and full time student at York University in English Literature. I have been writing for a few years as a hobby and only recently worked up the nerve to begin submitting for publication. I have a few poems that will be published in Leaves of Ink and The Wilderness House Literary Review come October.

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Author: Taylor Gibbs

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

- -
"Throw me down the stairs a sandwich, Ollie, I'm hungry," said Dr. Olga Sumvitch, hollering up to me from Hell again in her best fractured English.

Although she had spent the last 30 years of her life in the United States working for Monsanto, Dr. Sumvitch still speaks English with a thick accent. I'm one of the few Americans who can always understand her. She has trouble pronouncing my first name, Oliver. But she can always say Ollie, and I have no problem answering to that.

Years ago, Dr. Sumvitch emigrated from Moldova to the United States after being hired by Monsanto to fine-tune the formula for Agent Orange. There were some problems in its effectiveness and she had the expertise to work them out.

The day the government finally approved the formula for use in Viet Nam, Dr. Sumvitch had gotten hit by a bus coming back to work after a sumptuous lunch with her celebrating co-workers.

The injuries were bad. She suffered seizures in the hospital for several days and foamed at the mouth intermittently. The night nurse needed towels to sop it all up. She died at midnight on Good Friday with a groan that woke everyone in her ward. After her last groan, a deaf patient on her floor said that he could hear again on Easter morning.

Dr. Sumvitch and I were chemists by trade. We became friends at professional meetings. In the beginning I knew nothing about her work. In fact, I had declined a job at Monsanto right after getting my doctorate from the University of California at Berkeley, and I had always wondered if I had made a mistake in turning that job down. The pay and the benefits were excellent. And Monsanto had a great reputation for quality in their products.

Dr. Sumvitch trusted me not to talk about her work, saying it was top-secret, hush-hush by order of the government. It was the government, after all, that had underwritten the years of research and development that made Agent Orange possible.

Without millions in taxpayer money funneled through the government back to Monsanto, Agent Orange might never have been produced. I promised her I would never say a word about her work. That would have been hard for me to do even if I had wanted to because I honestly didn't quite understand the true nature of the product at the time.

Even now, more than 40 years later, I have to ask myself why would our government be interested in producing a product that would silently decimate land and crops as well as the people who depend on both for their livelihood.

It sounds a lot like chemical warfare to me, and I didn't think my country would ever engage in such a thing.

Right now, America is all worked up about what's going on in Syria--poisonous gases of one kind or other. I'm happy that I'm an expert in formulating new toothpastes. It's my job to make people smile brighter and whiter--not kill them--over a period of time.

Dr. Sumvitch went to Hell immediately but stayed in touch with me after she died. I was afraid to tell anybody about that for fear they would think I was hallucinating after too many years experimenting with toothpaste. Once a month or so, however, she hollers up from Hell when she gets real hungry.

"Food is scarce down here," she told me, "unless one has no objection to cannibalism."

On Earth, and in Moldova especially, she had developed a taste for organ meats--gizzards and livers and hearts--provided they had been harvested from beasts, not human beings.

Chicken gizzards piled on a mountain of rice were her favorite, although turkey hearts, if they were big enough, were almost as good.

Whenever Dr. Sumvitch hollers, and lately she's been doing it more frequently, I wake up and get out of bed and head for the kitchen. I always make her a fine sandwich. I stack beef or pork, whatever I have in the fridge, on marble rye with a slice of onion and a dollop of Tabasco sauce. I top it off with a slice of Kosher pickle, wrap it in Saran Wrap and toss it down the stairs to Hell. It takes around an hour for it to arrive so I hang around in the kitchen till I hear from her.

"Thank you," she yells, when the sandwich finally gets there.

"Believe me, Ollie, I'd ask someone else for help but no one believes in Hell any more except me and my co-workers down here. It's like a big Monsanto reunion from decades ago. There are thousands of us.

"Sandwiches like yours are impossible to come by. Eyeballs, armpits and feet are plentiful, if you like your meat well done.

"You can always see what you're eating because of the bright light, and that can ruin one's appetite. Agent Orange burns night and day. It's always High Noon down here. No one gets any sleep."


- - -
Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.

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Author: Donal Mahoney

Contributor: April Winters

- -
The day she walked into the high school cafeteria, Michael fell in love for the first time. Tall, naturally blonde, and blue-eyed, the girl was a knock-out in Michael’s eyes. I wonder what grade she’s in, he thought.

He found out soon enough when she strode into his tenth grade Geography class well after the bell rang. She handed Mr. Jacobs a piece of paper. He glanced at it then placed it on his desk. “Boys and girls,” he said, “this is our new student, Tammy Remington. Her family’s been stationed here for a while; her father’s a military man.” Then he told Tammy to take the seat behind Joe Raver. Michael cursed the fact that his last name was Connors, wishing it was something with an ‘R’ that would have let her sit in front of him.

Michael, quiet and shy, developed into the class clown. He’d do silly stuff to get Tammy’s attention, like pretending to trip then bumping into a nearby student. Or throwing his hand in the air and asking ridiculous questions when Mr. Jacobs called on him. Most of the girls clicked their tongues, but Tammy giggled. Michael loved her even more.

Tammy was in town almost a month when the kids buzzed about the dance, coming up the following Friday. Heart pounding, Michael mustered the nerve to ask her to go with him. She said yes. It took days before the silly grin disappeared from his face.

At the dance, they laughed and talked a lot. After the dance, he asked her to go steady with him and, again, she said yes. The grin reappeared.

The more time they spent together, the more Michael realized Tammy was not only beautiful, but she was what his mother would call ‘cultured’. Tammy had spent part of her life in Japan, Italy, and Germany, thanks to her father’s career choice. Michael was fascinated and wanted to know what each of those countries were like. Born and raised in Columbus, Ohio, he’d never left the state. Tammy didn’t see the glamour in foreign life like Michael did. She explained how difficult it was to live in countries where she didn’t speak or understand the language and where she was so different from the other kids. She said she didn’t care for being an outcast.

When Michael and Tammy weren’t together at school, they were on the phone for hours each night. Everything was roses and rainbows for over a year, during which time Michael told Tammy he loved her and planned to marry her. “Gee, I don’t know, Michael,” she said. “I mean, I don’t want to hurt your feelings or anything, but we’ve never dated anybody except each other. I’m not sure we should tie ourselves down; I mean, we’re both still so young and all. Besides, my father would have a hissy fit if I told him we were engaged. I’m not even seventeen yet!”

“Well, yeah, but you’ll be seventeen soon; same as me. I don’t see what’s wrong with planning our future. Besides, I don’t mean we’ll get married tomorrow.”

“You’re right, Michael; I suppose there’s nothing wrong with it. It’s just that my mother has told me as long as I can remember not to get married until I’m well into my twenties. She says marrying too young can cause lots of problems, and she doesn’t want me to ruin my life like she ruined hers.”

Within a week, Tammy broke the news that her father had been transferred to Arizona. She’d be gone very soon. Michael didn’t know how on earth he’d be able to say goodbye.

He wrote Tammy letters every day, but she stopped answering after the first six weeks or so. Heartbroken, Michael moped for months. Then his luck changed. His father’s health demanded a drier climate which made Michael happy because they were moving to a town in Arizona that was just twenty miles from where Tammy lived.

His mom and dad drove Michael to Tammy’s house a few days after the Connor’s settled into their new home. Michael thought Tammy would be thrilled to see him. He couldn’t have been more wrong.


- - -
April Winters hopes to help people forget their troubles through her stories, even if only for a little while. Her other works can be read at The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, Short-Story.Me, The Short Humour Site, and here at Linguistic Erosion.

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Author: April Winters