Contributor: Michael Fontana

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The wasp flew outside our door, his little pinprick legs hauling in mud for construction of a nest. I responded by breaking out the broom and attacking his pile of mud with the bristles, breaking it out of the crevice in our fireplace, scattering it to the ground and then spraying it with wasp killer for good measure.

He then flew up into my face, extending a leg forward as if for a handshake before speaking. His voice was all gravel like he smoked a pack a day. “Charlie the Wasp, Mike. You don’t mind if I call you Mike, right?”

“I suppose not. I let the kid at the deli do it. You’re no more offensive than him.”

“Where you get off wrecking my house, Mike?” He was a lanky purple sucker, his wings whirling to keep him afloat in front of my nose.

“What do you mean?” I asked. I was in my 40s, lanky and lean, dressed in a polo and jorts for the day. It was like to break 100 out so my brown hair was in a soak from sweat.

“You got this nice suburban ranch home going there, Mike,” he said. “You and your wife got it really cozy. Just think a minute was I to bring along a tree trunk and starting pounding away at your bricks and mortar. You wouldn’t take a shine to that now would you?”
“You don’t have the wherewithal to pick up a tree trunk,” I said. “The whole comparison is absurd.”

Obviously tiring at beating his wings, he took a rest on the edge of our porch railing. “You got a bad attitude toward us insects, Mike,” he said. “It’s downright discriminatory.”

“How you mean?”

“Listen, Mike, I got my function on the planet just like you. You got your job, I got mine, just let me be, okay?”

“Can’t do that,” I said. “You’d sting my wife’s ass just as sure as I dig bread pudding.”

He hoisted one of his spindly front legs like a Boy Scout. “Swear I never do such a thing.”

“Uh-huh. That’s the nice thing about bees. They sting you once and it’s suicide for them. You little pricks sting over and over without consequence.”

“You think I got no remorse for giving up the sting? Let me tell you, Mike, it’s hard work having a human flail at you with his hands like to smash you into oblivion. It’s all self-defense, kind of like the way you idiots all shoot each other and blame the pistol for it.”

“Different scenario entirely,” I said, thinking about the Glock I had locked away in a desk drawer for safe keeping. “We have property and life to think about. You got bitty little eggs and a clump of mud to consider.”

“I don’t kill people though, Mike. Your type does. On a regular basis.”

“What if someone has an allergy to you?” I asked. “It’s pretty lethal then.”

“Rare aspect,” Charlie said. “I often fly around the head of the corpse afterward or tap at the window of the funeral home to level my apologies.”

“Wasps don’t have remorse.”

“You don’t know wasps.

I considered this with a finger to my chin. “I suppose you’re right.”

“Now see, Mike, we are an oppressed creature from time immortal. Always viewed as evil, always viewed as bane despite our industriousness. We help the ecological plan along.” He took a thoughtful pause. “You do support the ecology, don’t you Mike?”

I perked up. “We recycle.”
“Good man, Mike. See, we help that along. There’s a chain of interaction involved in all of this, Mike, and the wasp has just as much a role in it as your kind.”

“I’m still not letting you build your nest on the outside of my fireplace.”

“Where am I supposed to build, Mike? Your neighbors don’t want me any more than you do. I thought we had an understanding brewing here.”

“I understand. I just don’t want you sharing quarters with my family.”

“You’re a real piss, Mike, you know that? I take you for a stand-up rational guy and you turn out to be etched of the same flickering flame of miscreation that all you people are.”

“Now who’s stereotyping?”

“I got my sweet recompense though, Mike.” I could have sworn he smiled on that pinpoint purple face of his. He flew at me in a hustle and stung my neck and ear before taking flight into the distance. In the midst of all my cursing I hurled the mud of his would-be nest into the air after him.

My wife came out to scope the situation. She was a heavyset bundle of beauty that knew me better than I knew myself. “You’ve been arguing with the insects again, haven’t you?”

I nodded, cringing in pain from the stings, a hand to the back of the neck and to the ear.

“Inside with you,” she said, guiding me with a loving palm to the small of my back.

Before the door closed completely, Charlie the Wasp returned to fly up to her. “Give him what-for,” he said to her. “He’s a real dip.”

“Try living with him,” she said.

They both chuckled as I ministered to my wounds.


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Michael Fontana lives and writes in beautiful Bella Vista, Arkansas.

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Author: Michael Fontana

Contributor: Taran Washington

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To the new people we meet in our lives, we are all shadows. I understand that may be an unclear statement, allow me to shed light on it. . . no pun intended. When you first meet someone, you see their appearance of course. Hair, eyes, race, gender and so on; that is not what I mean though. The shadow I’m talking about is a mental shadow, a soul shadow. Simply put, the more you learn about someone, the clearer you can see them. Like someone in the dark who steps ever slowly into a defining light.

Relationships grow, falter, and fade depending on how much you truly see one another. Has someone who you believed to know with fondness or disdain ever surprised you? For better or for worse your view has changed, their image, their shadow has faltered. That being said almost no one truly knows anyone else. How much do you know your partner, your spouse, your best friend?

Anyone and everyone can change; that person you knew has the capability to alter. What would you do then? What would you do when that person has once again become shrouded in the indiscernible blackness of shadow? Do the dance and try to find them again in the uncertainty or would you rather preserve them as they were?


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My name is Taran Washington, I'm a college student studying Management Information Systems. I elected to take a couple fiction writing courses and found myself with a new hobby. Now I write some flash fiction from time to time and I thought I would try my hand at submitting!

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Author: Taran Washington

Contributor: Jessica Knauss

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“Good girl,” said Shelley, patting a Javan rhinoceros on her round rump.
She pulled on long gloves, grasped the cartridge-sized ultrasound camera, and inserted her arm into Kunthi’s rectum. Kunthi had behaved just as patiently during the painstaking ultrasound and insemination attempt three days before, which had used up the last of their supply of male Javan DNA. Kunthi was twenty-two, about two-thirds the maximum estimated age of her wild counterparts, and had never given birth.
Kunthi’s name, meaning “motherly” in Indonesian, had been an act of optimism that looked more pathetic every day. The Javan rhinoceros was the world’s rarest large land mammal. Pushed down by poaching, palm oil crops, and human settlement, after millions of years on Earth, Kunthi’s wild relatives numbered only thirty. She had been one of five brought to the swamps of Mississippi in a special captive breeding program designed to combat the Javans’ historical inability to survive an enclosed existence. When they set her free from checkups like this one, Kunthi roamed a million-acre preserve that had many of the same characteristics as her native tropical lowland habitat on the Ujung Kulon Peninsula and even went for a daily swim. In spite of everything, Kunthi’s travel companions seemed to know they were captive and passed away before reaching half the age of their wild counterparts. This rhino and that last insemination were the species’ single greatest hope.
Shelley peered at the monitor her assistant held at face level, practically on the rhino’s back. The ultrasound camera traveled a long, twisting tunnel as Shelley eased deeper and deeper.
Years of schooling and student loans, scores of failed relationships, utter dedication to bringing the Javans back from the brink, Shelley’s agonizing decision to move to Mississippi — a whole, complex life, and it always seemed to end up in the same either/or. Their efforts worked, or they failed; the species continued, or it died out.
Easing its way past a final narrowing, the camera reported bulky blurs to the monitor. There was the uterus, and there, the ovary that had appeared ready to burst forth three days ago. The tiny mass that looked like a ball of dryer lint on the screen was still attached to the ovary.
Shelley’s arm was shoulder-deep when she had to give the news.
“She didn’t ovulate.”
A collective sigh erupted among the other rhino keepers. “No,” moaned the intern. The assistant set down the monitor and petted Kunthi’s smooth nose while Shelley eased the equipment out, then peeled off the glove and threw it down.
“Forty-two days. We’ve got to plan for the next cycle,” said one of the keepers.
“But where are we going to get more semen?” the intern cried. Kunthi balked at the noise, throwing the assistant against the table, and hurried back amongst the fronds.
Shelley longed to follow Kunthi, to join in whatever childless destiny she determined for herself.


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Born and raised in Northern California, Jessica Knauss is a New Englander by design. She co-founded Loose Leaves Publishing and has published fiction, poetry, and nonfiction in numerous venues, including Bewildering Stories, Do Not Look at the Sun, (Short) Fiction Collective, Full of Crow Quarterly Fiction, Metazen, and Short, Fast, and Deadly. Her non-literary goal is to save all five species of rhinoceros from extinction.

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Author: Jessica Knauss

Contributor: C.L. Manion

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He had ink on his hands. I remember the way it crept through the grooves of his skin. The roots of weeds. It was just small spots, but unmistakable. And a loose-wrinkled shirt. Yellow or faded or not. It was a long time ago.

The kettle screams on the stove. Tea leaves swirl in the chipped-china pot. An afternoon at home. Jenny asks if she can go play in the garden. Barely twelve. A tomboy. No interest in boys but that'll come soon enough. Go and play. Ma won't mind, Granny says it’s ok.

Just like her mother, Jenny. All sports and bare knees. Jarred frogs and adventures. Comes from somewhere, I guess, but not me. I was never. But maybe that would have been better.

He would ask me where things were. In my first real job as a library clerk I was full of poorly trained self-importance. Had I been a little wiser, I would have realized he wasn't actually trying to find anything. He just enjoyed watching me bumble about, earnestly chasing wild geese. A game of obscure titles and fictional subjects. Or flirting.

Jeremy the cat jumps up on the table. Strutting about, poking his head into cups. He adopted himself into the family three years ago. As if we had any say in the matter. I just wish he wasn't naked. Perhaps I'll knit him a sweater. Perhaps I'll learn to knit. For now I'll just pet his bald little head. An elderly man-cat. Two old farts and tea.

He plucked a gray hair from my head once. I was nineteen. Came right up and pulled the strand straight out of my head. I must have blushed pools of blood. Wide eyed and incapable of saying anything. He just laughed and walked away. So damn clever. Sent me into a panic. I spent the evening glued to the mirror, looking for the first shoots of an old hag. Silly girl.

I let the tea sit too long, it’s gone all bitter. Never mind, milk and sugar. Jenny giggles in the yard. To be so young. And always in a hurry to grow up. Like her mother. Like me. Not my favorite legacy.
 
Coming from a town too small for maps, a graduate student seemed like a wildly exotic creature. Irrevocably tied to visions of bohemian genius. And my impressions were knowingly reinforced. He was wit and mischief hung on bones. I did everything I could to make myself appealing. I did everything I could to hide.

I didn't learn his name until months after we met. Certainly not bold enough to ask, not in those days. I thought he must have an adventuring, romantic name. He didn't. And he called me all sorts of things. Sweet things. Sugary nicknames and French endearments I couldn't understand. I don't think he ever called me by name. I don't think he remembered. I don't think I cared.

Jeremy sprawls out on the table, I rub his belly. Our innumerable wrinkles. He sounds like a motorbike. That went to a party. In someone else's flat.

A nice cashmere sweater is not always suitable for a party. A calcified square caught in music made for shaking. He introduced me to his friends. Blue haze and bottles. Words I had only read, and mentally mispronounced. I just sipped my drink and smiled. Prayed to God no one would ask me a question. Thrilled just to be there. On the way home he -

Jenny calls from the garden. Touch the phone, talisman. No emergency, just a bird’s nest. That's wonderful dear. Put it back.

Those days fall together. Fused. Stretched and condensed through time. I was blissfully thoughtless, a fanatic for attentions. And he paid them. Sometimes miserly, sometimes generous. I told all my girlfriends. What a wonderful hero-saint-genius I had. Hours spent listening to drivelsome coffee-jabber and tracing the weeds of ink.

The stains came from a pen. A hand-me-down from someone I pretended to have heard of. A beautiful fountain antique prone to leaking. He was going to change the world and write something brilliant. So I believed and believed. Through reams of paper. Sheets and sheets. And sheets.

My cup has gone cold. The phone rings and jitters. Here in half an hour to pick up Jenny. Lovely. Press twelve different buttons to hang up. My kingdom for a landline.

Three weeks of silence. Months too close, then three weeks. Young eternity. I drove my body to ache, willing the phone to ring. And nothing. And nothing. I call, and nothing. Sleepless, eatless, and bent. Rotten. Dead. Then all the sudden. Come again like nothing happened. I should have been furious, but was elated instead. Joyous mistakes.

When I told him we had a secret, he didn't react. Just carried on. I repeated myself, thinking he hadn't heard. He assured me he had. I started in on questions, but got nowhere. A row ignited, storms have less thunder. Terrible, brash things inflated with irrelevancies. Stomps. Strikes to walls and tables.

And the whole thing broke.

A crash. Jenny apologizes, almost sobbing. It's alright dear, I never really cared for that anyway. She cut her hand, slight as an eyelash. Band-Aids and kisses. Dry your eyes. Granny can fix it. Ma will be here soon.

I gave her. For better chances. Three counties over, I met them once. Good people. I was wretched a long time after.

The door opens. Jeremy scoots to quieter places, Jenny wriggles away. Ma's here! Looks just like her father. The gawky waiter in a lousy Italian restaurant when we were first introduced. My saving grace. I should bring him flowers tomorrow. Not really a man for flowers. But it's not like he'll see them through all that dirt.

Ma greets her girl, me. Jenny clings her waist. On my hand? Nothing. Just ink. I was writing a letter earlier. It creeps through the grooves. The roots of weeds.


- - -
C.L. Manion is a writer living in Madison, WI.

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Author: C.L. Manion

Contributor: Ali Banner

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Hotel 14 wasn’t the classiest of places, but they kept the rooms neat and tidy and didn’t bother you unless you requested service at the front desk. Dinah liked that about them. They also didn’t ask questions, so it was a popular place for lovers to meet in secret. Hotel 14 washed their hands of anything that went on behind closed doors. Dinah liked that, too.

At half past midnight, Dinah slipped down the east hallway hand in hand with Truman, both of their heads still swimming from the evening’s free-flowing champagne. They stopped in front of Room 108 and Dinah pulled the plastic keycard from her handbag. She handed the card to Truman, who swiped it through the scanner until the machine beeped in approval. Grinning, he took her by the hand and led her into the room.

“Hell of a party, wasn’t it?” He loosened his tie and kicked off his shoes by the door. Static sparked between his socks and the shaggy carpet as he walked over to the identical pair of full size hotel beds. Swans made from hand towels relaxed near the pillows of each bed.

Dinah peeled off her shawl, draping it across the back of a wooden chair.

“Best one of the year. Paisley never fails to impress.”

“You, my dear, were the most impressive one in the room.”

A flatterer. Figures. She walked across the room to the sliding doors that led to their private porch, picking up the swan on the bed closest to the door. She bent down, unfastened her high heels, and stepped onto the concrete.

“Come out here and join me.” She winked and crooked her finger. She turned her back to him and tilted her face up to the moonlight.

The night air was cool, but not unpleasant. The breeze tiptoed across her naked shoulders and seeped through the sheer silk of her evening dress.
She shuddered, though whether from the temperature or her excitement she could not say. Truman came up behind her and rested his hands at her waist. He bent forward to nuzzle her neck, placing light kisses on her smooth skin.

She giggled and moved to the small table off to the side. “Let’s talk a bit. I’m still a bit tipsy.” He pulled out a chair for her and waited for her to sit before taking a place for himself. At least he’s a gentleman. But then, they all are when they want something.

“So, tell me about yourself then,” he said.

She brushed her hair out of her eyes. “What would you like to know?”

“How did a beautiful woman like yourself end up at Paisley’s party without a date?”

Again with the flattery. “Oh, I had one, but he ditched me last minute. I’d already bought the dress and wanted to wear it so I came anyway.”

“You wear it well, my dear.”

Gag me. “And how about yourself?”

“I always fly solo. You can’t tie a wild horse down.” He smiled. “Well, maybe you can. . .”

“So, you’re single then?”

“For now. That might change by morning.”

“Oh? You sound pretty sure of yourself.” Arrogant ass. “You think you can handle me?”

“Positive.” His grin oozed with charm.

Dinah let him take her hand again and followed him back into the room. He shut the door and slid the curtains over the glass, blocking the moonlight and any prying eyes. The vertical stripes of the comforter crinkled up as he pushed her down onto the nearest bed and pulled off his jacket. She grabbed his tie and scooted back to the headboard, tugging him along until only inches separated the two of them. His mouth devoured hers in a hard, hungry kiss.

Dinah shuddered again, this time her excitement was clear. She felt Truman’s arm slip behind her back and lift her up as he rotated their positions until she was on top. His hands grazed her thighs as he moved to take off her dress. Up and up his hands traveled until they came to rest on the knife she had holstered to her hip. His hand froze as he realized his discovery. Before he had time to register what was happening, Dinah reached into the side drawer and grabbed two sets of handcuffs, securing him to the bedposts in seconds.

“Wh-what?”

She slapped him in the face. “Single, my ass! You might have taken the ring off, but I can still see a tan line where it sits, thin and faint as it might be. Tell me, how long was it after the honeymoon before you started cheating?”

“You knew?” It was an accusation, not a question.

“Of course I knew. Do you really think a sleazeball like you could land someone like me? Hilarious.”

“But then—”

“Your wife found me. Came to me, brokenhearted. Told me about your infidelities. Said it felt like her heart was being cut into a million tiny pieces. I offered to help you understand her feelings.” She pulled the knife from her holster and admired its blade.

“Who the hell are you?”

“Just someone who believes in something.” Dinah leaned over and picked up the swan decoration from the spare bed, petting its head as she talked. “Did you know that swans mate for life? Their loyalty is so well known that the image of two swans with their necks wrapped around each other in the shape of a heart has become a symbol of love in many different cultures around the world. But, I wouldn’t really expect you to know anything about that.”

“You’re a fucking psycho. Let me go!” He pulled at the handcuffs and tried to throw her off by bucking his hips.

“No, Truman. Men like you need to learn how it feels to be cut into pieces.”

His eyes widened as she stuffed the swan in his mouth to muffle his screams. Hotel 14 didn’t notice as she carved into him.


- - -
Ali Banner is a former English teacher who spent two years teaching in Handan City, China. She is currently a Creative Writing student at Full Sail University. She lives at home in West Virginia with her roommate, Emily, and her dog, Sparky.

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Author: Ali Banner

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

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"Sometimes Jesus walked around with a big staff, just like me," Mrs. Day says to herself as she looks at the frayed picture on her kitchen wall just above the little kitchen table. She cut that picture out of a magazine 50 years ago when she subscribed to Life and Look and Colliers magazines.

"Jesus doesn't need that staff," Mrs. Day tells herself. "It was a sunny day in Jericho, the article said. I'll bet He used that staff to go up in the hills to pray. The Bible says He often left the apostles behind to go away and pray. I'd have kept an eye on Him if I was there."

At 80 Mrs. Day is legally blind with one good leg. She has a staff of her own to help her walk to stores and then back to her little house. The staff is at least a foot taller than she is. It was a gift from a dead neighbor who was handy with tools and liked to carve and whittle. Mrs. Day needs that staff this Thanksgiving Day as she makes her way through drifts of snow, an unusual amount for this first big winter holiday.

With nothing in the fridge except old bread and prunes, Mrs. Day hopes to find a diner open. Even Jack in the Box is closed for Thanksgiving so there will be no coffee with a Breakfast Jack to go but Mrs. Day has time today to find a place that is open. And she knows that place will probably be Vijay's Diner, where she's a customer on days when every other place is closed.

Vijay came to the United States long ago when Mumbai was still Bombay. He cooks for everyone every day of the year, whatever God they worship or ignore. He makes fine Indian dishes for customers who emigrated from India as he did. And he makes fine American cuisine for people from the neighborhood, most of whom have yet to adjust to Indian dishes and their redolent spices.

"I have a nice turkey leg, Mrs. Day, if you'd like that," he says, but all she wants is coffee, two sugars and a muffin to go.

"I'm on a diet," she tells him.

Vijay puts her items in a small brown bag and adds a free candy bar, a Baby Ruth bar, a big one, for later tonight. Mrs. Day will be angry when she gets home and finds it but that's okay. She can't come out at night to look for something to eat. It's tough enough for her to get around in sunlight.

Vijay waits for Mrs. Day to dig in her big purse and put all of her change on the counter. Then they count aloud together each coin that he picks up one at a time. Finally they agree he has the right amount even though Mrs. Day has trouble seeing the coins. Usually she can tell which are which by the feel of them. Now Vijay smiles at Mrs. Day, his customer on the holidays only.

"Happy Thanksgiving, Mrs. Day," he says. "I hope you'll come again. We'll have leg of lamb on Christmas. And ham and yams on New Year's Eve. I'll make you a nice big sandwich. I know you'll like it. You can skip the diet for one day."


- - -
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

- -
Jerry walked into the Midnight Boulevard Diner and sat down. 100 miles of road now between him and the past, he finally realized how hungry he'd been.

A waitress came over and smiled at him. "You look like you need the chef's special today."

He looked up and shrugged. He knew better than to smile. Smiling led to talking, perhaps friendship and, before you knew it, three kids your wife said she never wanted.

The waitress nodded and handed him a menu. She went on to the next customer, her face more formal and reserved.

Jerry looked at the menu, then blinked. He turned and beckoned for the waitress. She waved a "one moment" finger at him and took the other customer's order. Then she returned to his booth.

"Yes?"

"There's only one item on this menu."

"Yes, that's our special."

"But where's your regular menu?"

"Out of order."

His eyes scanned her face to see if she was being wise, but the face was now stone, almost as stiff as rock. He felt an urge to reach up and touch it. There was something so familiar about that face.

Jerry pulled himself together, the grumble of his stomach reminding him why he was there.

"I'll take the special."

The mouth thanked him. The hand took his menu. The skirt swiveled away.

Jerry looked out the window, but all he saw was his own refection. He heard a clanking sound and turned to find a bowl in front of him.

Cactus soup. That's how he met Dee. Over a bowl of cactus soup. Not the bowl specifically but the conversation on how odd it was to find a menu item like that in a diner. He wondered if this was the same diner they had both happened upon one snowy night? Were there other menu items then? Were there different waitresses? Did their emotions change with his as the whole diner seemed to dim with his mood right now?

He was happier then. He was sure he smiled.

Of course, that was back before he and Dee became a them. Back before reality became jobs and crying babies. It was long before he realized she wasn't fit for the role of wife. Long before he learned the third kid wasn't his.

That reality struck him only a week ago, filling the next seven days with yelling and tears. It left him packing, running out the door, the hardened look of his eldest daughter the last memory he had of home.

The cactus soup warmed him. It rehydrated his heart. He stumbled to his feet, digging for change.

"Soup's on me," said the waitress.

He smiled, thanked her, and ran out the door. He spun out of the parking lot in the same direction he had come, all the while thinking of his daughters and how he should make them each a cup of cactus soup.

Jerry turned his head to give the diner one last glance, but all he saw behind him were cacti and the long stretch of an open desert.


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Kristina England resides in Worcester, Massachusetts. Her poetry and fiction is published or forthcoming in Extract(s), Gargoyle, New Verse News, The Story Shack, The Quotable, and other journals. Her first collection of short stories, "Stanley Stanley's Investigative Services and Other Mysteries," will be published in the 2014 Poet's Haven Author Series.

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Author: Kristina England

Contributor: John Laneri

- -
At this particular moment, I’m standing in the kitchen near the stove over a large pot of water, feeling my emotions reach the boiling point.

“That’s ridiculous,” I say to her a bit too passionately.

“What’s wrong with moving home and living with my mother,” she says, as her
eyes flare with anger. “She doesn’t yell at me when the pasta pot boils over.”

Maria’s a strong willed woman. It’s in her blood. She’s of Italian-American descent like me. And yes, we’re having an argument.

In truth, Maria’s a good person – short, bouncy and usually fun, except when we’re in the kitchen together. That’s when she turns into a different animal.

Me… I’m Mario, Maria’s husband – the most frustrated person in the world.

Today, I’m trying to teach her to cook. I’ve been at it for months, and she still doesn’t have a clue – not even close.

At first, after we were married, I thought she would learn to prepare a few simple things like pasta with a marinara sauce spiced with basil and a pinch of oregano for Sicilian flavor. I soon learned she had other ideas, so I continue to do all of the cooking.

Even now, when I work with her in our apartment, I watch her fumble around in the kitchen banging pots, trying to act interested. She still doesn't know how to make a cheese sandwich much less dip a scoop of ice cream from a container.

Maria doesn’t cook. She likes salads. And, she hates pasta, saying that it makes her hips too fat. I won’t even mention the one time we talked about doing a pizza in the oven.

“What’s so hard about cooking?” I say to her. “All Italian women know how to cook. Most of them keep something on the stove simmering just to make the house smell good. If it wasn’t for my mother – God Bless her heart – I’d be begging for good food.”

Maria merely shrugs and looks away. “Then move home with your mother.”

“She’ll drive me crazy,” I say in frustration.

In the past, I’ve tried telling Maria that pasta is good for the soul – that it strengthens the spirit for love. When I say these things, she only laughs, telling me there’s nothing wrong with her lovemaking – that she has plenty of spirit.

I think she misses the point.

Finally, I step beside her, feeling remorse for yelling then softly caress her shoulder, my lips making playful circles at the top of her blouse.

“When the pasta pot starts to boil over,” I say gently. “You need to remove some of the water. If it spills into your sauce, you have to start again.”

She turns to me and asks, “How do I know when the water is ready to boil over?”

“When the water begins to foam near the top of the pot, it’s ready to boil over. It’s just something you know deep inside. It's like knowing when your love juices are bubbling and ready to explode.”

She turns to me, and soon, a smile forms on her lips as a sparkle of light spreads across her face.

“I’m beginning to feel a few bubbles now,” she says.

“Then, keep stirring the water.”

“No, not those… I mean the playful bubbles.” She glances at me and giggles softly. “Do you mind kissing my other shoulder? It needs your attention too. I’m beginning to like cooking pasta.”

Our eyes meet. Then like magic, that special something again passes between us, and we return our attention to the water, confident in knowing that pasta truly is the food of love.


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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 professional journals as well as a number of internet sites and short story periodicals.

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Author: John Laneri

Contributor: Ali Banner

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Flying always made her nervous. It wasn’t so much the soaring through the clouds thousands of miles above the surface of the planet as it was the rough takeoffs and even rougher landings, especially with the ever-looming possibility of crashing into desolation, miles away from help or hope. Either way, she preferred to travel on land despite death-by-automobile being statistically more likely than a nosedive into a remote mountainside with nothing but the airplane tail jutting from rocks in a cloud of billowing smoke. Her lacework was the only thing that soothed her nerves and took her mind off what was sure to be certain doom.

This flight was more nerve-wracking than usual. Not only was the weather deteriorating by the minute, a dense cloud that threatened snow hanging thicker and thicker, but she was traveling to meet him, her Achilles’ heel, the one man who had all the power to weaken her resolve and lead her to her demise. It had been years since they’d seen or spoken to each other. Now she sat in a plane guiding her tatting shuttle around strands of black thread, lacing knots to keep her mind occupied. She should have refused his invitation. Said no when he offered to transport her, all expenses paid, three hundred miles from northeastern Iowa to northwestern Minnesota. Kept her feet on the ground when she felt it quaking beneath her. It had all happened so fast. That phone call, that invitation, that velvety voice she could never refuse.

“Hello, Baby.” It echoed in her mind, over and over. “You know what I like.”

The plane hit a violent patch of turbulence moments after gaining altitude and leveling off. A pair of pretty stewardesses, lips painted red and blonde hair in bobs, braced themselves near the service station as the seatbelt light switched on. Over and under, under and over, the worn ivory shuttle passed between twin strands of thread, two anxious hands gripping and guiding the knots into place, thirty thousand feet high in the air.

“This is your captain speaking...”

Over and under, under and over. Transfer the stitches, then turn and repeat. Drops of sweat beaded her forehead and the cabin jerked back and forth, but her practiced hands never faltered, completing every knot with compulsory ease. The plane began to plummet, unsecured baggage and carry-on luggage following suit. Screams filled the cabin and the stewardesses begged for order. All around her chaos struck, but her hands never broke rhythm.

The pressure dipped and oxygen masks dropped from their compartments above. Bound thread unraveled from her fingers with each double stitch, each intricate loop. She felt two hands slick with sweat pulling a mask down her face to secure it over her nose and mouth. She inhaled the sweet oxygen. Over and under, under and over. The pattern she’d started was almost complete.

Down and down, the plane hurtled toward an abandoned cornfield, once arid farmland now forgotten and barren. The pilots battled the elements and the passengers prayed to every deity they thought to invoke.

Over and under, under and over. “Hello, Baby. You know what I like.”

She closed the last stitch and examined her handiwork, running the black mourning veil over her hands before placing it on her head and covering her tear-stricken face. Her final thought was the sound of his voice tugging at her will as the plane crashed into the empty field.


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Ali Banner is a former English teacher who spent two years teaching in Handan City, China. She is currently a Creative Writing student at Full Sail University. She lives at home in West Virginia with her roommate, Emily, and her dog, Sparky.

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Author: Ali Banner

Contributor: Eric White

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“You can’t do this,” said the wiry man across from me. He spoke in Russian. It was sloppy, and his accent was almost comical.
“Please, Mr. Oswald, let us speak in English. It is, after all, your native tongue,” I said, and poured myself a drink.
“I’ve already told you. I’m more than willing to denounce my American citizenship. I can help you,” he said in English.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Oswald. That is just not true.”
The man was taken aback, but he knew better than to raise his voice. All he did was squirm in his seat, and glance around the mahogany office.
“I’ve already proven that I could be one of your agents. I’m the perfect spy.”
I nearly choked on my drink.
“What’s so funny? I’ve taken all the tests. I’ve proven I’m more than capable.”
“Why do you want to be a spy for the Soviet Union, Mr. Oswald?”
“What?”
“Answer the question, Mr. Oswald,” I said.
“I want to help the Soviet Union. I want to take down tyrannical capitalist governments. I want to — “
“You want to be a celebrity. You want undying fame and glory. It’s really quite easy to see.”
“What? That’s not true. I don’t know what you’ve heard, but—“
“I’ve heard plenty, Mr. Oswald. I’ve had plenty of reports from the town. You claim to denounce your homeland, but you use your status as an American to gain local fame. A spy that wants to be famous is no use to me.”
“That’s not what I’ve been doing. I have just been trying to—“
“Yes, I’ve heard about how the girls love the American turned Soviet spy. You have even been heard comparing yourself to the likes of Vasily Zaytsev with a rifle.”
“It was harmless fun. The locals don’t know anything.”
“You insult my people, Mr.Oswald. Everything that has happened since you’ve arrived on our base has been part of an assesment. You have been in contact with no less than twelve of my agents in the last month. You have been assessed and determined to be of no use to the Soviet Union, or anyone else.”
“Please, Mr. Chardov. I can still help. Maybe not as a spy, but I could be a translator or monitor American news or I could—“
“Mr. Oswald, you can barely read or write your native language. Do you take us for fools?” I said, taking another sip of my beverage.
He was sweating profusely as he rubbed his hands together.
“No, sir. Never.”
“Then why do you think I have any use for a dropout with no special skills whatsoever? A dropout who can barely read his own language. “
“Well, what about my citizenship? If your government approves it, I can still make a living. I can be a Russian. I could stay in the town, off base, and never bother anyone.”
“That will not be happening either,” I said. “You will be leaving the Soviet Union tonight on a flight back to the United States.”
“What? No. Please, no. Why?”
“Mr. Oswald, you are a sniveling and pitiful creature. My country has no use for incapable cowards. And that’s what you are, Mr. Oswald. A coward.”
“I can’t go back. What if they find out? I could be thrown in prison. I can’t. I can’t risk it.”
“Don’t worry about any of that. We have fabricated a story for your last year and a half in the Soviet Union and your last month on this base. You will comply with our fabrication, or you will be killed. That’s how I know you will agree to our terms.”
“Why are you just letting me go? Aren’t I a liability or something?`”
“No, Mr. Oswald. You are not,” I drank down the last of my glass. “You are of no threat whatsoever.”


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Author: Eric White