Contributor: Ryan Priest

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His breath is hot against my face which is funny because his words are lighting a fire in my mind. He’s so animated and passionate that I don’t care that I don’t know what he’s talking about, don’t really know what I’m nodding along with. I’m just so happy to have his attention.
I can’t help but to hang on every word, every delicate detail of this encounter. He’s got that thing, charisma.
It’s like a magnet in his smile and you can’t help but to be drawn in. You simply like him and have a desperate need for him to like you back. You always want more of him. It’s not about sex but he is sexy. You’re not gay but you would be for him. If he asked you. You’d do anything to make him like you. This is charisma and I know this. I recognize it easily but still I am powerless against it. More power than any one man should have, yet he’s got it in spades.
He’s gone on for longer than ever before. I’ve followed him, taken his picture a thousand times, in a thousand ways. At every premiere I’ve been there. I gave him five once as he was on his way out of a club. I didn’t wash my hand for a week. And now finally here he is one on one with me talking, sharing with me as if I was a real person to him. This magnanimity humbles me even more.
I quake in his presence but I don’t want it to end. Ever. I can’t even fully enjoy this moment because I can feel its inevitable end coming quick. Another star will walk into the bar and he’ll be gone. Or his agent will call and he’ll tell me, “Sorry, got to take this,” as he casually turns his perfectly contoured back to me.
The sun will set on this short gift and then life will be all downhill from there. There’s not going to be any topping this, beers with a superstar. I could follow him for another five years and never again this close, this candid, this personal.
I can tell by the rhythm of his speech he wants to wind this down. And why shouldn’t he? He’s got glorious places to go and magnificent things to do. At this moment I’m glad I always carry a gun. I’m glad because in a sense I can make this moment last forever. That is to say at least things won’t have to get any worse. Go out on a high.
I’m smiling so hard I’m crying. Either that or I’m crying so hard it’s making me laugh. The gun’s out now wiggling at him almost out of my control. I can’t hold still but it doesn’t matter at this range. His blood tastes of syrup and iron.
In a day I’ll be famous too. Not a star but famous none the less. They’ll never be able to tell his story without mentioning my name. I’ll have my own Wikipedia page and it’ll be linked to his for as long as there’s an internet.
Even in death he looks like a god. His body fallen over in its chair like a perfect pose. Like an artist would depict a murder.
The muzzle’s a lot hotter than I figured. It burns the soft underside of my chin. Notoriety is just a different kind of fame. The click of the hammer sends a sharp vibration rattling through my jaw.
This is worth dying for. This is worth the bullet that’s about to spin its way out of the barrel and through my brain. This isn’t what I dreamed about as a child but neither is it the worst way it could have gone. Being a somebody, anybody beats being a nobody. Especially if you weren’t lucky enough to be endowed with any charisma of your own.


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Ryan Priest is a screenwriter who lives in Hollywood. His newest project "Top Flight Security" just premiered on Youtube as a web series.

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Author: Ryan Priest

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

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Barney, I'm pro-life so I can't kill Rosie, no matter that I caught her in bed with Wilbur. I'm a Catholic so if I were to kill her, I'd go straight to Hell if I were to die before going to confession.

And even if I go to confession, and Jesus Christ forgives my sin, imagine how long I'd be in Purgatory. It would take years to strip away the stain--not the guilt--of that sin from my soul. Christ's death on the cross took care of the guilt but I'd still have the stain.

I know you Baptists don't believe in Purgatory but I'm reserving seats for both us in advance.

You see, killing Rosie would be a little like setting my neighbor's house on fire and it burns to the ground. My neighbor might forgive me in time but I'd still have to pay for the damages. Worse, I'd spend years in jail. Sins can be forgiven but they leave a stain. And no stained soul is suitable for heaven. Purgatory purifies a stained soul. That's how us mackerel snappers see it.

Some folks think Catholics think they can commit any sin at all, go to confession, receive absolution, die and go straight to Heaven. Even the dumbest Catholics don't believe that--and let me tell you we're not all Rhodes Scholars.

You and I argue about this stuff every time I get a haircut. For 30 odd years, you've been telling me I'm one of the few Catholics you know who's saved--that I'll go straight to heaven because I accept Jesus as my Lord and Savior. Rumors to the contrary, Barney, every Catholic accepts Jesus as his Lord and Savior. There is no one else. We just say it in a different way.

At the same time, Catholics don't believe they're going straight to heaven simply because they believe in Jesus. They believe Jesus expects us to behave as though we believe. We're not talking about good works here. We're talking about the Ten Commandments--not the ten suggestions.

So, Barney, it boils down to this: Even if I'm saved as you maintain, I can't kill Rosie because that would make Jesus unhappy. And you and I agree, we don't want to make Jesus unhappy. Besides, He'd probably tell me to find a decent girl, marry her, settle down and raise a nice family.

What's almost as bad, Barney, is my faith says I have to forgive Rosie. That's almost as tough as not killing her since I know she'll do it again. She'll cheat on some other guy who has yet to catch on to her.

Barney, ol' buddy, take it from me. It's inconvenient at times being a pro-life Catholic, saved or otherwise.

I'll see you in three weeks when I need another haircut. And stop eating those stuffed pork chops. Too much cholesterol. Purgatory will be there soon enough when we need it.


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Donal Mahoney has had work published in various print and electronic publications in North America, Europe, Asia and Africa. Some of his earliest work can be found at http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com/

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Author: Donal Mahoney

Contributor: Jerry Guarino

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    “But it’s not really my fault, then is it?”  Joseph was confessing to the psychiatrist.  “I mean, we can’t really control our thoughts, can we?

    “Is that what you believe?”

    “I’m looking for an answer.  You’re the expert.  Can anyone really control their thoughts?”

    “Joseph.  The mind is a very complex entity.  Are you looking for a medical answer or a religious one?”

    “I didn’t think there was a difference.  I want to know whether my thinking has implications for my actions.”

    “Ah.  Then that’s a medical question.  Strictly speaking, this is a question that has been going on for ages.  Will you be an astronaut or an astronomer?  Do you prefer action or observation?  People tend to lean one-way or the other.  From our discussions, I think you are more of an astronomer, someone who observes more than acts.”

    “Yes, I suppose so.  Is that wrong?”

    “Joseph.  There is no right or wrong, only choices.  Your life is guided by your choices.”

    “Yes, yes.  I know.  But how can choices be neutral?  Don’t all choices point one way or the other?”

    “One way or the other?  Your choices are based on your beliefs.  Your beliefs are based on your values.  Are we moving back to the religious implications?”

    “I guess.  So choices are neither good nor bad, just what you believe, what you value?”

    “Yes Joseph.  I think that’s a good way to look at it.  I suspect that you are worried about some choices you have made.  Is that it?”

    “Are my beliefs reliable?  Are my values in line with society?  What happens if my thoughts are not in line with my values?”

    “Then what you have is a conflict, a most common part of thinking.  Everyone has these every day.  Absolutely normal.  It seems, Joseph, that you are worried about the moral dilemma, to align your actions with your values.  I think that meeting with your pastor will help there.”

    “OK.  Are you saying I don’t need therapy?”

    “Well no.  I’m trying to tell you that religious questions should be discussed with someone else.  I can only advise you on medical questions, the examination of your life in less theological terms.  I believe people should have counsel from the right expert.  Your pastor wouldn’t give you advice on treating a medical condition; you would go to your doctor.  You see.  Coincidentally, that’s all the time we have for today.”

    “All right doctor.  I’ll see you again next week.”

***

    Joseph was still upset.  He decided to meet with his pastor, to get that religious perspective his therapist recommended.  

    “So you see pastor.  I’m conflicted.  My thoughts aren’t lining up with my beliefs, my values.”

    “Joseph, this happens to everyone.  Why are you so worried?”

    “Well, I worry that I have improper thoughts and I don’t dismiss them immediately.”

    “What kind of improper thoughts?”

    “Well, you know.  Mostly sexual.  Improper sexual thoughts.”

    “You can tell me Joseph.  Are you considering infidelity, an affair?

    “This is confidential, isn’t it?”

    “Of course.  Unless you are planning on committing a serious crime.”

    “No, nothing illegal pastor.  Just extramarital fantasies.”

    “Only fantasies?  You haven’t acted on these feelings yet?”

    “No.  Just thoughts.”

    “Are you unhappy in your marriage?”

    “That’s just it.  I’m very happy.  Linda is a wonderful wife, best friend and a great mother.”

    “And as a lover?”  This direct question startled Joseph.

    “It’s good.  I just imagine it being better.  More exciting.”

    “Are these thoughts related to lovemaking with Linda or the desire to be with another woman?”

    “Well, another woman, of course.”

    “So what you are saying is that your wife is incapable of satisfying your sexual desires?”

    “Well, I don’t know.  She hasn’t yet.”

    “You need to decide whether it is because of your sexual desires or a need for a different lover.  There’s quite a difference.  Obviously it is all right to want different sexual experiences with your wife, but quite wrong to get them outside your marriage.”

    “Yes, I can see that.  But are the fantasies, the desires morally wrong?”

    “What do you think?”

    “I don’t know.  I guess it’s wrong, but I can’t seem to help it.  Even though I enjoy the fantasies, I feel guilty immediately afterward, if you know what I mean.”

    “Well fantasies are normal.  It’s part of our sinful nature.  But acting on those fantasies is a more serious matter.”

    “So fantasies are all right?”

    “Anything that distracts us from God is sinful, so fantasies are not all right.  The trouble with fantasies is that they eventually replace your desire to seek God, to follow his path for you.  Just as the love of money is a sin, so are immoral fantasies.”

    “But why would God allow me to have these thoughts if it’s sinful?”

    “God gave us free will.  It is our responsibility to use it wisely.”

    “What if I never do anything more than fantasize, never act on my desires?”

    “It is still sin Joseph, but better than acting out.  It seems you want me to tell you that fantasizing is morally all right.  I can’t do that.  But I’m glad you haven’t acted upon those thoughts.  Have you discussed this with your wife?”

    “Heavens no!  I could never tell her that.  She would hate me.”

    “It might be a way to get over the guilt you’re feeling for having them.  She might be able to bring your focus back to her.  She may even be having similar thoughts.”

    “You think so?”

    “It’s possible.  Especially if you’re not giving her what she needs.”

    “I never thought of that.”

    “I didn’t think so.  If you want, you can both come in and talk with me or your therapist, someone who can guide the discussion and support both of you.”

    “That wasn’t my thinking when I came in here.”

    “Yes Joseph.  You were hoping I would tell you fantasizing was normal and acceptable to God.  Sorry I can’t do that.”

    “Thanks pastor.  I’ll think about it.”

    “I’ll pray for you Joseph.  Come back and see me again.”

***

    Joseph was still conflicted.  His therapist said his fantasies were normal and his pastor said they were sinful.  Both said it wasn’t appropriate to act on the fantasies.  Why would God allow me to have these thoughts if it was sinful?  Free will.  So I can’t blame God.  I want to have these thoughts.

    As Joseph was driving home, he saw the lovely young women leaving from work, off to the gym, to meet their boyfriend or for drinks with girl friends.  The twenty something’s were all so fit, with long hair and clothing that invited watching.  They walked lightly in their shoes, some high heels, some flats, some with sneakers.  He wished he were twenty something again himself.  He drove around for another half hour watching, then headed for home.

    “I’m home dear.”  He saw his wife, pretty enough for someone in their 50s.

    “Hi Joe.  How was your day?”

    “Oh, fine.  Nothing unusual.”  He walked over to his wife, put his arms around her and kissed her.  “I love you.”

    “I love you too dear.”

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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: Cezarija Abartis

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They had courted under the branches of the oak tree sixty years earlier, and she wanted to bury him in its roots. But there were city regulations about burials, and in the end she obeyed. She even wished they had made love in the cemetery the way the other high school kids boasted they did. She and Hank held hands and walked to the library and back–hardly models of steaming romance.

Hank brought her a copy of Romeo and Juliet for her seventeenth birthday. “Well, your name is Julie.” He drew a circle in the dirt with the toe of his shoe.

“Does that make you Romeo?” she had asked, knowing he would be embarrassed.

“I didn’t mean...” He sighed. “I only wanted to give you the book.”

She patted the cover. “I’ll keep this always.” She held the book to her chest and kissed him on the cheek.

The book sat on the shelf between their photo album and the first novel he published. She became a high school teacher and he a mid-list novelist. He was at his computer when he slumped over at the desk.

She dusted the monitor. He’d been writing a mystery:

“The detective feared going back to his apartment. When he unlocked the door, he smelled the cordite in the air. His heart thumped. The kitten meowed piteously. He almost tramped on the fallen body sprawled on the floor. The kitten meowed again. He turned over the body and recognized his best friend.”

She read the first page: “To my wife, my muse, my sine qua non.” He had dedicated all seven of his books to her. Their children were not much interested in mysteries, though they politely accepted his gifts of books and displayed them prominently on their mantels. Susan practiced law and Ricky sold corporate real estate.

Her neighbor told her about the stages of grief, and that people do come to acceptance. Julie shook her head. Her neighbor said she was almost relieved when her Reynold died after the long illness.

“That was hard,” Julie said. She caressed Dolores’s shoulder, and Dolores burst into tears.

“I guess it’s never over,” Dolores said. “It’s been three years, and I’m still crying.”

The curtains fluttered at the open window and the September breeze. She still thought of September as the real beginning of the year–all those years teaching school and welcoming the students back. The curtains seemed ghostly. Their old kitty, Agnes, jumped on the window sill and watched the squirrels scampering down the oak tree and the cars turning at the corner.

Julie picked up Agnes and held her like a baby in her arms. She was now a skinny cat. The bones of her haunches made her like a halloween cat. Agnes nuzzled her upper arm.

“I remember her as a kitten,” Dolores said. “She tore up my garden once.”

“She’s better behaved now. Hank chose her at the Humane Shelter--the friskiest one in the litter.” Julie hugged Agnes to her chest. “Hank lavished love on this one.” The fur was scraggly. Julie petted her and petted her. She would groom her later.


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Cezarija Abartis' Nice Girls and Other Stories was published by New Rivers Press. Her stories have appeared in Per Contra, Pure Slush, Waccamaw, and New York Tyrant, among others. Her flash, “The Writer,” was selected by Dan Chaon for Wigleaf’s Top 50 online Fictions of 2012.“The Argument,” was chosen by Beate Sigriddaughter as a runner-up for the Fourteenth Glass Woman Prize. Recently she completed a novel, a thriller. She teaches at St. Cloud State University. Her website is http://magicmasterminds.com/cezarija/

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Author: Cezarija Abartis

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

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Two new crutches and two double shots of Bushmills Irish Whiskey enabled Joe Faherty to move from the back seat of Moira Murphy's 1976 Buick into Eagan's Funeral Home for Tim McGillicuddy's wake. At 87, Joe was in bad shape, only a tad better than McGillicuddy who looked splendid in a rococo casket.

The way the funeral home had painted McGillicuddy's face, he looked better than most of the folks who had come to say good-bye. Many of them were in their eighties. Even Moira, who still had her driver's license, was creaky at 75.

McGillicuddy was 90 when he fell off his horse out in the country. Until that moment he hadn't been sick a day in his life. Never drank and never smoked. Women were his passion. He was calling on a couple until the day he died.

Few folks knew that McGillicuddy had been expelled from Ireland by the British in 1920. He was 18. He had been captured at 16 bringing guns to older IRA rebels who were fighting the British. A few rebels with rifles caused the British occupiers a lot of problems.

For two years they kept McGillicudy in prison. They finally agreed to let him go to America. Why not, McGillicuddy thought. Life in America had to be better than prison.

In the funeral home, however, much to the disgust of Joe Faherty, the priest had come to the wake early. This meant Joe didn't have time to grab his crutches and get to the bar next door before the priest started the rosary. The custom at Irish wakes was that the priest would arrive at 6:30 p.m. and all the men would have made it to the bar by then. The women would say the rosary with the priest.

But this was a new priest and there he was in front of the casket saying 15 decades of the rosary. Not the traditional five, as was the case at Polish wakes.

Joe figured it would take the priest an hour to finish. Then he'd ask Moira to take him home. He was too tired to go to the bar. Besides, he had had more than the two double shots of Bushmills he had mentioned to Moira.

Moira drove Joe home. She waited until he was inside the house. She wanted to make certain his new crutches wouldn't result in a fall. Joe waved good-bye to Moira and shut the door but didn't lock it. He had to let the dog out.

Although he hated to turn on a light--he lived on Social Security--he turned on just one because it was as dark inside as it was outside. He planned to buy some candles.

As soon as Joe turned on the light, he saw McGillicuddy in his favorite recliner wearing the same fancy suit he had on in the casket.

"What the hell are you doing here," Faherty asked. "Why didn't you stay where you were. We got through the rosary so why do this. They'll come here first, considering all the years we've been friends."

McGillicuddy didn't say a word.

"Well," said Faherty, "if you aren't in the mood to talk, I'll have another Bushmills till you decide to say something. You don't look dead. In fact, you never looked better."

McGillicuddy maintained his silence.

"It's too bad you don't drink. You could join me in some Bushmills. It's as good today as it was back in Ireland."

Down deep Faherty didn't know what to do with dead McGillicuddy in his favorite recliner. How long, he wondered, would McGillicuddy stay. He wanted to be friendly but there was a limit to his hospitality.

"Let's watch the news on television," Faherty said, turning on the set. "Maybe they'll explain how I've come to enjoy your company.

"You didn't drive, did you? If you need a lift I'm sure Moira will come pick you up. After all, you two almost got married. I think she's still fond of you.

Still, not a word out of McGillicuddy.

"I'm going in the kitchen and call Moira," Joe said. "I'll be right back. We can talk about which way you're going, up or down, if you know what I mean.

"The bets were about even on you. I told everyone you'd be in heaven before they embalmed you. Except for the women, you probably didn't commit another mortal sin in your life. Of course, you were dead when the priest gave you the Last Rites. Don't know if they work on a dead person. Let's hope they do."

Faherty hoisted himself out of the guest chair, got on his crutches and headed for the kitchen to call Moira. He stumbled a bit on the rug because he wasn't used to the crutches or all that Bushmills.

"Hello, Moira," Faherty said when she answered the phone. "Could you drop back here for a minute. I've got an unexpected guest who needs a lift. I think you'll be happy to see him. I have to go to bed. We've got McGillicuddy's funeral Mass tomorrow. Wouldn't want to miss that."

Moira said she'd be right over. Faherty, heading back to the parlor, tripped over his dachshund. The dog had slept through all the commotion with McGillicuddy. Joe landed with a thud on his forehead. He never moved.

The next day Moira blamed Joe's death on his crutches and indeed that was part of the problem. No mention was made of the Bushmills, however. Moira, who had found the body, found the half empty bottle and took it home.

As Joe's driver for three years Moira thought she deserved the liquor. But she wondered who the guest was that Joe had called about. When she got to his house, there was only the dachshund snoring next to the body.


- - -
Donal Mahoney has had work published in various print and electronic publications in North America, Europe, Asia and Africa. Some of his earliest work can be found at http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com/

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Author: Donal Mahoney

Contributor: Kristina England

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Jenny pulled her hair in a ponytail and smiled at herself in the mirror. She fixed her dress, pushing one last wrinkle out of it.

Then she left for work.

***

Jenny had been through a tough year. Unexpected weight loss and cramping had led to tests and medical bills.

Then there was her attitude. She was having constant mood swings. This ongoing shift in emotions had impacted her relationship with her husband, her coworkers, even her twin sister.

"I can't do this anymore. I'm not happy," she said to her boss, crying in his office.

"I don't understand. What changed, Jenny? What is it?"

"I don't know."

Tears were always followed by a too-straight-faced posture, denial, and the inability to seek help.

The weight loss got worse.

She had colitis, so she went to the GI doctor insisting it was a bout.

Blood work showed nothing.

Her primary doctor sent her for thyroid and cancer tests.

Again, nothing.

She didn't mentioning the mood swings to the doctors. Why should she?

Her husband and others said, "Go to a therapist."

Of course, she saw the therapist during one of her "normal" phases.

"You don't need therapy. It sounds like you're just under appreciated."

She had been in the same job position for years, hadn't succeeded in her afterwork initiatives, but the truth is she was the one holding herself back, timid, afraid of failure, and unable to stand up to aggressive personalities.

Nor did she deal well with the coworker who had physically hit her.

She had told the therapist none of this. She had held back when her boss, her husband or the therapist questioned her.

She was the classic definition of passive aggressive.

Maybe the capped bottle inside her had started to leak.

Her boss had no choice but to involve HR. Her husband had no choice but to move out.

She felt the leaking fluids festering inside of her, the skittering of a cockroach across her heart.

She knew everyone else couldn't see what was going on but how could they when she was baffled herself.

Her job, her husband, her life, her body was infested with cockroaches. And by trying to fix it all with answers, she was just spreading the bugs.

"I think it's how so-and-so treats me."

"I think it's because I don't know where I'm going."

"I think... I think... I think..."

"I wish you could hear yourself. The answer's different every time."

"I may have to fire you. Do you understand that? Figure it out."

That's when the GI doctor called.

"Listen, you've been colitis free for seven years. I'm taking you off the medicine for now. We'll see how it goes. I just don't think you need it at the moment."

She burst out crying, hung up on the old man. She was scared to say she was scared. She picked up the phone, dialed employee assistance, and set up an appointment with a new therapist.

She then dumped the last of her colon pills in the toilet and flushed.

***

Two weeks later, she sat in front of the therapist.

"When was the last time you cried?"

"A week ago."

"Why?"

"I don't know."

"Let's start from the beginning."

***

Two months later, here she was leaving the house with her husband still asleep in the bed upstairs.

She had gained back twenty pounds, no longer looking like the "scarecrow" her sister had lovingly and worriedly nicknamed her.

The cramping had gone away as well.

But more importantly, the depression was gone.

Her boss was elated. "Whatever you're doing is working."

The funny part - for the last two months, she had no clue what was different. It was only last night, at a colitis support group where she had the revelation.

A young woman named Samantha was recounting a similar episode.

"What happened to you?"

"My body rejected the drugs. I lost hair, started having headaches, all kinds of problems. Did you know that stuff can mess with emotions? I didn't have that part, but it was scary," Samantha said.

Jenny immediately went home and looked up reactions to her medication. Weight loss, cramping, and mood swings were among the potential reactions. Her GI doctor has always said there was a risk of rejection, that the drug could damage your liver. But she had never bothered to look at the other symptoms.

Her therapist kept telling her that although she was an anxious over-thinker, he couldn't make sense of the depression, anger, and occasional paranoia that had led her to him.

Now it all made sense.

She wondered if the new woman in the mirror - the risk taker her therapist was developing - would have been possible without her GI doctor's random decision.

Maybe everything was about timing. Even the cockroach. She wouldn't have become this new and admired woman without that damn skittering cockroach.


- - -
Kristina England is a Virgo residing in Worcester, Massachusetts. Her poetry and fiction is published or forthcoming in Extract(s), Gargoyle, New Verse News, The Story Shack, The Quotable, Tipton Poetry Journal, and other magazines.

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Author: Kristina England

Contributor: John Laneri

- -
It was a Saturday night, and a group of us from the Double T were celebrating at the Dead Horse, a saloon on the outskirts of San Angelo. We had just ordered beers when a cute little lady wearing jeans and a red tank top started circling our table.

“I’m selling kisses for five dollars”, she said in a friendly voice.

I tossed her a smile. “Cowboys don’t kiss. It ain’t’ natural.”

“And, why not?” she asked, as she settled onto my lap and draped an arm about my neck. “I bet cowboys are good kissers.”

“We are, but we only kiss when we have good reason.”

She fluffed her hair and offered me another smile. “I’ve always liked rugged men with happy faces.” She paused to look me over, her eyes going from my curly hair to my freshly polished boots. “You're exactly my type.”

“That’s good enough for me,” I said, as I pulled five from my pocket and proceeded to lay a big one on her lips.

She sighed deeply, her softness pressing me close.

Coming up for air, I said, “Wow… that was great.”

“Was it your best ever?" she asked playfully.

“I need another kiss before sayin' for sure. But, you’re better than Mildred.”

Her eyes searched mine. “Who’s Mildred, your wife?”

“No ma’am,” I replied laughing. “I’m not married. Mildred’s my horse.”

She smiled politely, as if she had expected to hear something more lasting, then she came to her feet and headed toward Charlie, one of my friends from the ranch.

I settled back to work my beer, watching while she moved around the table, going from person to person presenting them her lips. By then, I was beginning see her in a different light, and I liked what I saw.

From time to time, I noticed her look my way, and soon, we were communicating something special between us. It was as if we had been friends forever and were ready for some serious re-acquainting.

Finally, she returned to my lap and quietly settled her head against my shoulder, her eyes going to mine. “I've never known a man like you. You make me feel so hot. I could kiss on you all night long.”

I sought her lips. She responded eagerly, the warmth of her caress overwhelming me with pleasure – that is, until the thud of boots stopped beside us.

“What the hell are you doing with my girl?”

Suddenly, she went flying off my lap like someone shot from a cannon. I came to my feet trying to explain her little game and found myself confronting fiery eyes and a bull neck. It wasn’t long before I was on the floor kissing a size twelve boot.

“Don’t hurt him, Big Jake…please. He's a good man. I was only selling play kisses.” She reached into her pocket and shoved a hand full of money toward him. “I’ve already turned twenty-five dollars – just what you wanted.”

He eased off the boot, and grabbed the money. “Twenty-five dollars! That ain’t enough. I told you to charge these yahoos ten bucks a head.” He returned to me. “The lady’s worth more. How much you got, cowboy?”

I mumbled something unintelligible.

He gave the boot another nudge and growled, “I asked you a question, and I don’t have time to stand around.”

“Probably about twenty,” I replied quickly, using the side of my mouth to talk.

“Then, hand it to her – you underpaid.”

I did as he asked and felt the boot ease away. Soon, I watched him stomp out the door with her in tow.

Feeling a bit dazed from the ruckus, I lifted my head and turned to my friends, “Why are you fellows grinning like that? She liked me.”

Charlie slapped his leg in laughter. “I've never seen a girl jump so high. I’m bettin’ you tasted like Mildred; otherwise, she’a stayed in your lap and finished that last kiss.”


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John is a native born Texan living near Houston. His writing focuses on short stories and flash. Publications to his credit have appeared in several scientific journals as well as a number of internet sites and short story periodicals.

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Author: John Laneri

Contributor: Eric White

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“It was a beautiful service. I think it would have made him smile,” Ryan said to his mother.
“Yes…it was. He would have been shocked that so many people showed up. It would have definitely brought a tear to his eye,” his mother replied.
“You think so?” asked Ryan, “I don’t think I ever saw dad cry. He always told us he loved us and always showed it, but he was so strong. He was always in such control. I don’t think things got to him the way they did to us.”
“Come sit by me honey, I want to tell you something,” said his mother. “Now, how many times have you seen me and your father sitting where we’re sitting now?”
“I don’t know. Hundreds maybe…maybe more…you guys spent our whole childhood on this porch swing.”
“That’s right, all them times you kids played in the yard, we’d sit here and watch you. We saw every laugh, scraped knee, personal victory, and hurt feeling. So many moments of your childhoods took place in that yard right there.”
“I know, mom,” replied Ryan, “He loved this porch, and he loved watching us grow up from it.”
“Me and your father used to sit out here at almost every night and look at the stars, and I know you remember the rain storms. He loved them. We always sat out on this porch swing when it rained like this. He loved the way the rain made the grass and trees look, and we both loved the strong cool winds.”
“Yea, I remember, I didn’t know you two came out here that often though,” replied Ryan.
“Well baby, we did, and your father cried on a few of those starry nights. He cried when you got cut from the baseball team. He cried when your little brother had that surgery, and he cried when your sister’s first boyfriend broke up with her. He cried after every one of y’alls graduations too. Honey, him and I both cried several times out here.”
“I didn’t know…” Ryan said.
“And he never wanted you to,” replied his mother. “That’s why we always waited till you kids were sound asleep. Then the two of us came out here and talked about our hopes and dreams for you kids, and we talked about our worries and fears.“
“There were times when you kids were hurting, and you all went through some personal battles. You kids also made us so proud too. That’s when your father cried. He cried when he couldn’t do anything for you, because it hurt him to see y’all hurt. He cried when he was proud, because he loved seeing you kids happy. He loved y’all so much, but he always wanted to be strong for you. He just never wanted you kids to see that side.”
“I…I never knew that. I always knew he cared, but I never knew that you two were out here crying over us. I wish you guys had told us...”
“Now don’t go thinking we were out here flooding the Mississippi every night,” his mother chuckled. “We had some nights where you kids had us madder than we have ever been in our lives, but we always cared. We always had this porch.”
“Well, I know I shed some tears today myself.” Ryan said.
“I know, baby, but your father would be happy right now. He’s at finally at peace, and you kids turned out so wonderful. He’s smiling right now, Ryan.”
“Are you sure?” asked Ryan.
“Even through the rough times, we always smiled when it rained. It was our favorite, and it made him so happy. You see that rain out there?” asked his mother.
“Yes ma’am.” Ryan answered.
“That’s how I know your father is up there smiling at us now. He might have a tear in his eye, but trust me, Ryan. He’s up there smiling. Now just sit out here with me, and lets smile back at him.”


- - -
I'm a current student at Full Sail University. I have been writing all my life, and I am hoping to write for television and animation. However, I enjoy writing in any form.

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Author: Eric White

Contributor: Jerry Guarino

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Joseph Bosco looked down at the sidewalk, after hearing the bird whistle in the tree overhead. That’s when he saw the worn, twenty-dollar bill caught in the stray roots breaking through the sidewalk. “Hmm. How about that?” and he put the bill in his pocket. Joe learned one important lesson growing up. He didn’t believe in luck but whenever fortune passed his way, he would say ‘it was God’s will’ and accept it. In fact, Joe attributed everything that happened to him to God’s will, good or bad. “Much less stress” he used to say, “much less disappointment too.”

Most everyone accepted Joe’s philosophy of life. His friends liked the fact that he was so even tempered, never too high or too low. At holiday gatherings, he could be counted on to balance out the histrionics and emotional outbursts of his Sicilian family. At work, he would be the voice of reason when an argument ensued. His matter of fact personality worked just about everywhere, except when he was dating.

***

When Joe was a boy back in 1995, he had his first crush on Sorana Antonelli, a pretty eighth grader in his English class. They were sitting in the movie theater, sharing a box of popcorn. Sorana, like Joe, was from the poor side of town, but that doesn’t matter.

“I like your dress Sorana.”

“Thanks Joe.” Sorana blushed. “I like your shirt.”

Joe and Sorana’s first date was everything it should have been. Their infatuation continued for two years, until Sorana’s parents moved out of state. As it is with young love, both of them were heartbroken. They tried to keep in touch but high school pressures and other interests gradually pulled them apart. Later in life, he wished he had been more persistent and not just accepted their breakup.

***

“Thank Senator.” George took the papers from him and filed them into the briefcase. “We have a vote coming up at 2:00pm, so I will pick you up after lunch.”

“Get me something at the deli George. I’d like to do some reading. I’ll be in my office.”

“Corned beef on rye?”

“You know it George.”

Senator Joseph Bosco sat in his office reading the paper and eating his lunch when his secretary interrupted him.

“Excuse me senator. You have a visitor.”

“Who is it, Hannah?”

“Her name is Sorana Antonelli. She says she’s an old friend.”

Joe stood up, smiled and gestured her to let Sorana in. He got up to greet her at the door. As Sorana entered, she saw Joe with open arms.

“Senator Bosco, do you remember me?”

“Sorana, you’re not allowed to call me senator. How are you?” He gave her a long hug, and then pushed her back while holding on to look at her. “I can’t believe it. What’s going on with you now?”

“My parents are retired down the shore. The Midwest winters were too much for them now. I came back to visit.”

“But they’re in good health?”

“Oh, they’re fine. Just spending their days walking on the boardwalk and nights watching TV.”

“Sit down please. Hannah, get us some snacks and soft drinks please.”

“Right away senator. Fruit and vegetable plate and iced tea?” Joe glanced at Sorana for approval, and then gave Hannah the thumbs up. They sat at the round table in the private room adjoining his office.

They each noticed the other’s ring finger, naked, providing an answer to one question. “The life of a senator; don’t you have anyone special in your life?”

“I was married for a few years, but she died from cancer in 2009.”

“I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“No Sorana. I’m glad you did. It’s time I moved on.”

“So you didn’t have any children?”

“No, that was a mixed blessing. I wanted a family. What about you?”

“Well, I was engaged for two years, but he cheated on me so we called it off. At least I didn’t marry someone who would be unfaithful. But at our age, I’m wondering if I’ll ever find love.”

“Our age? You’re only 31 dear. I’m sure any man would be lucky to have a beautiful and intelligent woman like you.”

Sorana blushed. “Well, several have made offers, but after the engagement, I’m hesitant to trust.”

Joe took Sorana’s hand and looked at her with a gentle smile. “You could always trust me.” Sorana put her other hand on top of Joe’s, more than just flirting.

“Yes. You were my first and best love.”

Hannah noticed the intimate moment and knocked gently on the door. “May I bring this in now?” The senator took his hands away and gestured her in. “Thank you Hannah. That looks perfect.” Sorana agreed. Hannah closed the door behind her as she left. Joe and Sorana had an intimate and joyful lunch together.

George knocked on the door. “Senator, it’s time for that vote.” Joe looked at his watch.

“Thank you George. Is that the only vote this afternoon?”

“Yes senator. You have a rare afternoon off.”

“Perfect. Sorana. I have to be away for about an hour, then I’d love to spend the rest of the day with you. Are you free?”

Sorana made a tongue in cheek pretense of propriety. “Yes, senator Bosco. I would like that very much” and shook his hand. Joe rolled his eyes.

“It’s Joe, dear, remember? Hannah, would you please help Sorana for the next hour and I’ll meet her back here at 3:00.”

“Of course senator. Sorana, would you like to go to the Smithsonian for a bit. I can have the senator meet you there.”

“Oh, that sounds lovely. Is that OK?”

Joe gave Hannah thumbs up, and then said to Sorana. “Of course, much better. Now you know why I hired Hannah. Have my driver bring her to the museum and I’ll meet her there at 3:00.”

“Very good senator.” Hannah nodded to Joe, then whispered to Sorana. “Sometimes these votes go longer so don’t worry if he’s a little late.”

Joe and George hurried out to make the vote.

Sorana walked leisurely through the museum, admiring the marvels of flight, from daVinci’s flying machine to the space shuttle. She was every bit as lovely as Joe had thought when they were kids, but now she was a striking, mature woman. Her pleated grey skirt over cranberry knee socks, L.L. Bean blouse and cardigan indicated her New England education. She had gone to Boston College, just a few miles from Harvard where Joe went to school. But they never ran into each other there.

Several men made extended glances at her while she walked; Sorana smiled back at them but didn’t encourage any more. She was secretly glad that Joe was ready and able for a relationship and she still felt that initial chemistry they had as youngsters.

The senator found her at the museum. He came up behind her and gave her a friendly hug and kiss on the cheek; others noticed this public display of affection. “Isn’t that senator Bosco?” said a man who was admiring Sorana.

“I’m afraid so, Bob” said his friend. “Women like that aren’t available very long. Looks like the senator has a new love or a mistress.”

“Oh, Joe. You made it on time.”

Joe took her hand and walked her away from the others. “So, what would you like to do now?”

Sorana squeezed his hand, acknowledging his gesture. “I like the museum but maybe we could go somewhere a little quieter to talk.”

As a senator in Washington, D.C., Joe knew all the best places for quiet conversation, whether it was for behind the scenes deal making or for greeting a constituent visiting from New Jersey. They went to one of his favorite cafés and found a table for a glass of wine. They sat in a corner booth, but not completely in private; several people noticed their body language but couldn’t hear their conversation. He was not ashamed to be seen in public with a beautiful woman.

“I didn’t think I would see you again. Thank you for coming to visit me.”

“To be honest, I was hoping it would turn out this way. I have been so blessed except for having someone to share with. That’s when I remembered how happy we were as kids. I guess that sounds a little desperate.” She lowered her head.

Joe held her hand. “Sorana. You know what I always say. Everything happens for a reason. We were meant to meet again. You are not desperate; you need the right person in your life. So do I. Maybe that’s why I haven’t moved on.”

Sorana felt relaxed and gave Joe a smile that let him know how happy she was. “Is it a problem if we spend time together? I wouldn’t want to complicate your public image.”

“My image will probably improve being seen with you. My colleagues are always trying to set me up with a lawyer clerking at the court or one of their staff interns. That’s not what I’m looking for.”

“Well, I’ll let you decide how much time you can give me. What hotel would you recommend here?” Her coy question suggested a lot more than a recommendation. Both of them knew where this was going.

“A hotel? Nonsense. You can stay at my townhouse in Georgetown. Where is your baggage?”

“At Union Station in a locker. I took the train from New Jersey.”

Joe confirmed his feelings with a hand on Sorana’s arm. “That’s fine. After our drink, I’ll call my driver and we can pick it up. Then we can go freshen up before dinner.”

They went to Union Station. Joe went inside while Sorana stayed in the limo. A bird whistled in a tree just outside the entrance. A homeless man sat near the lockers holding a sign that read ‘can you spare some love?’ Joe reached into his pocket and took out the twenty-dollar bill he had found that morning.

“Here you go friend.”

The circle was completed. It wasn’t luck, just the way it was supposed to be.

- - -
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: Donal Mahoney

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Like many people today, Wally Przbylski works on a computer. For Wally, a computer looks like a typewriter attached to a television screen. It's a big improvement, however, over the Royal typewriter he worked on in the Fifties before a job change in the Sixties forced him to move to an IBM Selectric. As an editor, he was always on deadline and speed was important.

In the Eighties, a defense contractor hired Wally and he learned to edit on a Wang computer. His job was to copyedit technical prose written by engineers. The engineers wrote proposals to win contracts from the government. From Wally's point of view, the engineers were a strange lot.

The company's specialty was building missiles "to keep America safe," as Wally pointed out to his neighbors. At that time the company already had a missile they could put through then-Libyan dictator Muammar Gaddafi's bedroom window. The problem was, Gaddafi slept in a different domicile every night. He was said to have many wives. A married man himself, Wally understood how separate domiciles might help to keep the peace in an extended family.

Wally was one of a small group of editors in this company of engineers. The nicest thing an engineer might call an editor was a "wordsmith" but editors were called "erasers" as well.

The engineers considered the editors unnecessary outsiders hired to mess with their copy before it was collated in notebooks, boxed up, put on a plane and sent to the Defense Department where proposals from different contractors were evaluated. Eventually contracts would be awarded. And if Wally's company won one of them, ecstasy ruled for half an hour. He figured half an hour was about as long as the engineers would waste on ecstasy.

"And what's with their pocket protectors," Wally asked another editor during a coffee break. "Every engineer has a pocket protector and wears a short-sleeved white shirt with a tie too short. Every pocket protector has a rainbow of different colored pens. How many pens do you need? And they think we're weird!"

Brilliant in math and science, the engineers had a problem writing grammatically correct sentences. Punctuation was a mystery to many of them and spelling was as well. Most of them didn't realize they had this deficiency. In fact, Wally told his wife one night that he didn't think these engineers thought they had any deficiencies.

"I don't think there's in introspective one in the bunch," Wally said. "Their minds are lost in math and science. Brilliant men but tough to work with if you aren't one of them."

Wally was a good editor whether the engineers appreciated that or not. He was quick to spot misspelled words and faulty punctuation. And he excelled at fixing garbled sentences the engineers had cast in the passive voice.

Wally's job was to install the active voice in their copy without changing the meaning of the text. This was not easy for an ignoramus in technology to do but Wally managed to do the job well. He knew the engineers liked the passive voice but the marketing department knew the active voice would help sell a missile system to the government.

"What do you know about science?" a miffed engineer asked Wally one day after accusing him of "raping" his copy.

"Statutory rape," Wally said. "You gave it to me."

"I had to give to you," the engineer said. "It was perfectly fine the way I wrote it."

That's when Wally asked him if he could spell ukulele.

"Spell what?"

"Ukulele," Wally said.

The engineer sputtered a bit and then actually came close to spelling it before stomping back to his desk. He missed by one letter--the "u" that comes after the "k."

"That's the letter they all miss," Wally told his wife that night. "They never get it right."

Following other derisive comments that would occur occasionally about his editing, Wally made it a practice to ask every vituperative engineer to spell ukulele. Almost to a man none of them could. The engineers were all male in those days since everyone knew that women typed well, didn't particularly like math or science, but made excellent coffee.

It was this job as a wordsmith in a company of engineers that led Wally to lay down the law with his daughters.

"Never marry a man who can't spell ukulele," he told them one day when both were still in the Girl Scouts, selling cookies.

Wally even told his wife that if one of his daughters ever wanted to marry an engineer, he would have her deported to Slovenia. Not that there was anything wrong with Slovenia but he knew no daughter of his would like it there. Not enough nice places to shop. Two engineers at his company were Slovenes and they complained inordinately about the lack of good retail outlets in their country.

Despite all of Wally's warnings, one daughter grew up and married a man who couldn't spell ukulele. As Wally points out to strangers now, she's divorced with a flock of kids who are great in math but abysmal in English. She may even have lupus and Wally suspects she might have caught this non-contagious disease from her former husband.

"At least he wasn't an engineer," Wally often reminds his wife.

The other daughter, however, followed Wally's advice. She is married to a poet who was able to spell ukulele. Wally asked the young man to spell the word when he came to the house to ask for the girl's hand in marriage. Wally gave his permission and is proud that the couple's seven children won spelling bees in grammar school but never got past algebra in high school. Each child would warn the sibling next in line about the dangers of geometry.

Wally is a somewhat happy man these days as retirement looms. Not one of his grandchildren so far has shown any interest in becoming an engineer. And just the other day, the youngest one asked him to teach her how to play the ukulele. Wally agreed but first he will have to take lessons. After all, the girl is only seven but already she can spell ukulele.


- - -
Donal Mahoney has had work published in various print and electronic publications in North America, Europe, Asia and Africa. Some of his earliest work can be found at http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com/

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Author: Donal Mahoney