Contributor: Sean Crose

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You’ve thought about it for a bit and have decided to finally go back up to the “House of Pleasure” to see how your new acquaintance is doing. It’s true that you’re not a big supporter of the man, even now that he’s sick and dying. For he’s mocked your faith, your very existence, for that matter, ever since he arrived here at Hiva Oa.

Truth be told you were stunned when you first received the message from him, the one informing you that he wanted to see you, that he was so sick he could no longer walk. Indeed the man has been a horrendous sight for quite some time now. Nearly blind and crippled, he could be spotted these past few months hobbling around Atuona, covered in sores.

At one time his scandalous liaisons with young girls made you sick inside, even more sick than his degenerate paintings and sculptures did. Now, however, he is avoided by most on the island. The authorities, of course, are the exception. They’ve been eager to have this wily Frenchman in their clutches. Indeed, he’s soon supposed to start a prison sentence for his opposition to the European authorities. You realize, however, that he simply won’t live long enough to begin his short term.

Which, of course, is why you’re on your way to see him now. Admittedly, your first conversation with the man didn’t go well. At least it didn’t for you. He seemed to enjoy himself, though, as he talked at length about the Tahitian social hierarchy. Yet you had gone to his squalid abode to treat his sores and to try to help him see the light, not to talk about Tahiti. While it’s true he ultimately admitted to you his belief in God, he wasn’t willing to budge further.

That angered you, naturally, which is why you’ve been avoiding him since that first meeting. Now, however, word has arrived that his time is short. What’s more, you’re wondering if you possibly made an impact during that first visit, if you somehow began the slow opening of the man’s eyes. Walking up from the beach, you became determined to find out.

As you near the “House of Pleasure,” you become aware of your surroundings: the lush flora, the clear sky, the luscious blue water beyond the shoreline. How strange it is that he’s made Hiva Oa appear so unnatural in his art. He claims it’s how he sees nature. Fair enough. If only, you think, if only he could now somehow see other matters as you do.

That, you realize, is what’s leading you back to the “House of Pleasure,” a place which, in reality, is a small, filthy hut done in a long forgotten native style. You’re not being driven by responsibility at the moment, you’re being driven by hope, hope that the man known in decent company as a degenerate has finally, belatedly, changed his ways.

“The white is dead.”

These words, which come from a young Polynesian man who has just stepped out of hut, hit you hard.

“Monsieur Gauguin?” you ask, somehow feeling the need for comprehension.

The young man nods.

“Oui.”

You slowly step inside the abode. He may have called it the “House of Pleasure,” but the stench and darkness make it clear that, in the end at least, it was truly a house of pain. Lying lifelessly on the bed, he is surrounded by the art he created, the art which carried with it so much controversy and scandal.

“He was fifty-four years old,” the young man tells you.

“Fifty-four,” you say, understanding that your question has been answered, but that you will never know what that answer is.


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Sean Crose teaches writing at Post University and Philadelphia University. He's also a columnist for Boxing Insider. He lives with his wife, Jennifer, and Cody, the World's Greatest Cat.

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Author: Sean Crose

Contributor: John Laneri

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I arrived in Santa Fe by stagecoach, the trip marked by sweltering heat, constant breakdowns and potholes deep enough to swallow a man whole. All of which prompted me to rest up for a few days before continuing on to Texas where a job offer awaited me in Fort Worth.

Laura came into my life on the second day while I was having dinner at a local cafe. Our mutual attraction had been immediate.

In appearance, she was a pleasant looking woman with reddish-brown hair highlighted by a captivating smile. She was also the reason why I had extended my stay for another few days when I realized that I had never met a woman who enraptured me so completely.

Several days later, while waiting for her near the town square, I saw her hurry in front of a horse drawn wagon then step quickly in my direction. She appeared shaken, her blouse torn and her hair tossed about as if blown by a strong wind.

In her right hand, partially hidden between the folds of her skirt, I noticed a Colt forty-four revolver.

What are you doing with that thing?” I asked, as I stepped in front of her and reached to take it away.

She released the weapon then cautiously looked about saying, “I just shot a man.”

“Who... why?” I asked quickly, my surprise obvious.

“One of the local troublemakers.”

“Where....”

“One street over, in a side alley.”

I started her away. “Was he someone you knew?”

“No...” she replied, as we moved out of sight between two buildings. “He was some bully that's been annoying me for weeks, making suggestive remarks. A few minutes ago, he threatened me with a knife. He wanted to take me.”

She pointed to her torn blouse, tears filling her eyes. “I can still feel his dirty hands groping my body touching everything.”

“Is this his gun?” I asked, turning the thing over in my hand.

She paused to dry the tears then said, “He was too busy pawing my breasts to notice me take it. At first, he backed away, but then suddenly, he came toward me like a mad man and grabbed my hair. That's when I hammered the thing then pulled the trigger and shot him in the chest. You have to understand, I was fighting for my life.”

She turned away. “The smell of liquor on his breath still makes me sick.”

“We need to keep moving,” I indicated, as I nudged her further along.

Once safely in the shadows on another street, we stopped to catch a breath.

She glanced my way, “My heart's still pounding. I've never shot a man.”

“Take a moment to relax. You'll get over it.”

Once calmed, her eyes steadied on mine. “Yesterday, I mentioned that I wanted to ride with you.”

“I remember.”

“Now, I need to ride with you.”

“I told you that I don't travel with women. The trail through Texas is too dangerous. The Comanche are everywhere.”

“So they say.”

“You need to listen up and understand that white women are much desired by the Indians. The plains are teeming with raiding parties looking for trouble.”

She touched my hand, her tone softening. “I can't stay in this town after what's just happened. The man had friends that are just as mean and nasty as him. Take me with you. I'm easy to please.”

I reconsidered the dangers and said. “You'll need a horse.”

“We can easily buy a horse and put together enough provisions to last a few days – something to get us started.”

“Did anyone see you shoot him?”

She paused to think back. “I'm not sure. I remember one of his friends was across the street in front of the saloon.”

“Did he make a move toward you or indicate that he knew something had happened?”

“He looked to be asleep. I think he was too far away to see anything. The alley was out of his direct line of sight and no one was nearby to witness the shooting. And besides, gunshots are common in this town. I hear several everyday.”

I knew the odds of making a long journey through Indian territory with a woman would be difficult, but I had no choice if I was to keep Laura in my life as well as protect her from people that would eventually seek retribution for the loss of their friend.

Finally after several minutes, I relented, “We'll leave tonight when the air is cool and pray for the best.”

She hurried to me and threw her arms about my neck, pressing her body freely against mine. “I'm so grateful,” she whispered, as her lips went to mine, her warmth penetrating my core, melting my concerns.

Once on the trail, our days passed easily. For entertainment, we sang melodies and related stories of people and places we had known. At other times, I taught her how to watch for signs that would indicate the presence of Indians.

Our happiest times were the conversations we shared when we talked of our dreams for the future. At night, we slept under the stars, sharing our love, our bodies curled into one.

To us, the world had became a joy until that day a raiding party attacked and left me for dead, hopelessly pinned beneath a dead horse with an arrow in my back and my confidence broken.

To this day, I still remember laying in the dirt feeling the agony of loss cut through me like a ragged blade, as I watched a band of renegades ride her away, their shouts of jubilation sending chills along my spine.

From that moment on, I knew that I would never again see her or feel her or taste her sweetness, for I understood the way of the Comanche and the fate that was surely hers.


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John's 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: Dr. T. Michael Roberts

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Dear Pius XII,
I need your advice on something weird. For the last 12 months random things have being disappearing from my house, toilet paper, toothpaste, laundry liquid, chicken fillets and even money. There have been no break ins, no one has a spare key and yet these things are vanishing from one day to the next. Do I have a Demon or a poltergeist and if so how do I get rid of it?
Yours Truly,
Uncle Joe Stalin


Uncle Joe,
I have your stuff. It has been appearing without rhyme or reason on the big screened porch on the back of my house for the last year. I'm sorry about the raccoon. A critter with an electric blue strip running down his back and continuing in the same shade in a barber pole configuration around the tail is certainly distinctive. But, this gave me no clue who to call when the distressed yawls of my cat signaled me that something unusual, which turned out to be your critter's mysterious and unexpected arrival, was occurring out in the sun-room.

I don't think Kristoff would be alive today if I had not realized instantly that what he was complaining bitterly about was the unreasonable way your guy defined him as prey at first glance without even asking where he went to church or how he voted. That is considered at best rude and, at worst, cop-like behavior where we come from. You don't just decide to kill a fellow creature just for shits and giggles without, at very least, making sure you do not have friends in common first. For all your guy knew, Kristoff could have been a Mason. We were both fine with letting him set up shop out in the back yard. There was even a dog or two that comes around that we were hoping he would take care of for us in response to our kind-hearted hospitality.

Your guy hung around for a week or so living high on the hog in our spacious and well-provisioned suburban garbage can. According to the Brookfield Zoo, there are, at present, several times as many raccoon {as with “moose” singular and plural are the same} in North America as there were when Columbus opened up a lively trade in infectious diseases that made life more exciting on both sides of the water. Also according to BZ, The preferred contemporary habitat of a race grown more cosmopolitan and civilized as they have grown more numerous is the suburban garbage can, so your guy was treated as he deserved until he decided, with absolutely no encouragement from us, to take himself elsewhere, without, I might add, doing anything about those dogs. I hope for your sake that he got bored and came home but I really would not know.

Anyway, send me your address, $300 for shipping and handling and another $300 for one year's storage and I will get your stuff back to you. This is a message from God but you will need the decoder ring to get much benefit from it. I'll slip that in for free just so you will not spend your life wandering around all troubled and perplexed by life's mysteries.
Sure Hope this Cheers You Up,
Pius XII


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Dr. T. Michael Roberts, rumored to be guilty of virtual ethnography, writes and teaches from an undisclosed location in order to have no face. He needs readers like heroin and seldom interacts except in a somewhat distant and cryptic manner.

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Author: Dr. T. Michael Roberts

Contributor: Adrian Fort

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He pulled the slack end of the tie once, twice, then it was just a string of fabric with a knot in it. So he pulled the thick end through and smoothed the fabric. Hung it back on the tie rack.
Wished he hadn’t brushed his teeth.
His breath was never great anyway, she made sure he knew that.
Two quick jerks and the shirt tails were out of his pants, then the rest of the hem, and he started unbuttoning the shirt at the bottom. The neck button was always a pain in the ass, he’d picked up some weight. She’d taken it harder with the baby, with Eli, they had already named it even. But he always said “baby” then she gave him that look.
He hung the shirt back up but didn’t fold the undershirt, just threw it in the drawer.
He shouldn’t have yelled at her.
There were several worn holes in the belt and he wondered if he would make a new hole when the time came, or if he would just buy a new belt. He coiled it up on top of his dresser.
Everything. He’d said she ruined everything. Yelled it. It was her responsibility to get up and get the tickets, that was true. But maybe he could have stopped and got them on the way to work Friday. Or been late and taken the write-up.
Instead, she slept through her alarm, which went off an hour after his, and the box-office sold out. No Saturday through Sunday art auction. It was her idea, too.
He unbuttoned his pants and wondered when the button would pop off, she’d curse him while sewing it back on. He folded them and sat them next to the belt.
Slipped the underwear to the floor, hooked the elastic band with his big toe and kicked them up to himself. Caught them, put them back in the drawer and closed it gently.
One step by one step he walked gently back toward the bed. He knew around where the creaky board was so he took a long open step, spread himself wide to avoid it. Got his front foot on the ground and pressed his back foot off of the soft carpet and arched it over like a cat and when it landed back on the soft carpet the floorboard creaked.
He stopped.
She snored lightly. And again. And again.
He moved each foot slightly in front of the other until he was at the side of the bed.
The sheets were cool against his fingers and he was sweating. He tugged the sheet and held his breath as he lifted his leg up onto the bed. He sat his leg on the bed and a little bit at a time he let his weight down on the bed until his standing leg cramped and he collapsed onto the bed.
He nestled back into her warmth. Little spoon because she liked to be the big spoon. He was sweating and he thought about how sad that really was and that he’d get a gym membership soon. And he hoped that sweat would dry before she woke up. And he wasn’t sure how much time he had left. But thinking like that just made him sweat more, so he tried to relax.
He shouldn’t have yelled at her.
If he tried hard enough, maybe he could actually fall back asleep.
No, that didn’t even make sense. He’d just lay there and feel her.
Eventually the alarm went off and she waited a few seconds before she pretended to wake up.


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Adrian Fort is a writer from Kansas City, Missouri, his work has appeared in Existere, decomP, The Bluest Aye, Bareback, and upcoming issues of Chrome Baby, Eunoia Review, and Gadfly ONLINE. Follow him on twitter @adriananyway

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Author: Adrian Fort

Contributor: Angeltopia

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Penelope stood in front of the mirror perplexed. Her life was a beautiful mess. Her bedroom was a circus of confetti-filled photos that seemed to drape every part of the room. She searched photo after photo of her mother’s first husband, Dale, and her second husband, Scoot for similarities in appearance. Ashley, Scoot's sister, was the culprit. She had intrigued her with the irresistible curiosity of searching for her true identity.

She held the photo of her and her stepdad Scoot that Ashley had given her. She clutched it in confusion and frustration. Scoot was sitting in his chair at the home office and she stood behind him crouching over him, hugging him, and remembering the bittersweet moments of their unspoken bond. Caressing the photo of his face comforted her. She mumbled to herself over and over again in confusion and then looked at herself in the mirror for reassurance as if her reflection was another person.

“Could this really be my dad, my biological father? Why didn’t mom tell me?”

She pulled on her cheeks and lifted the center of her eyebrows in curiosity. She pulled her bottom lip down to look at her teeth, the crooked ones and admired the contours of her nose, neck, and shoulders as her fingers stroked every crevice. Searching for some reassured semblance, she hurriedly searched through the piles of photos on the floor, desperate to find anything that provided some evidence.

She heard her mother’s footsteps approach her bedroom door. The clapping sound of her sandals sounded louder than usual as she walked in her direction. Penelope’s heart raced. She wondered what mood her mother would possess seeing her room in disarray. The bright and early morning sun overtook the room as she opened the door with her usual unpleasant and abrupt demeanor.

“Penelope, I need to go shopping for some linen, let’s go!”

Seeing her daughter teary-eyed in front of the mirror only seemed to irritate her.

She tried to act concerned and superficially asked, “What’s wrong?” in an apathetic tone.

She mustered up a response with self-pity, “Scoot’s sister, Ashley, and I have been talking a lot lately and she mentioned something that confused me.”

Stuttering she replied, “Why are you talking to her? You know I don’t like Scoot’s family and they don’t like you either.”

“Well, we missed each other and were out of contact far too long, is this a problem?” she asked in a respectful tone.

Her mother nodded in disfavor opposing the question and the insistence of their communication. Her stance and voice remained rigid although her words were slow.

“I just don’t understand why you would want to communicate with them. They excluded us from all their family functions when Scoot was alive,” she said, frantically embracing her elbows.

Penelope looked in the mirror and then at her mother. She wondered if her mother even knew who her real father was. Her hands shook with tension as she held the picture in her left hand. She took a deep breath and walked toward her mother putting her hands on her shoulders.

In a soft but firm voice she asked, “Was Scoot my father? Please tell me, I need to know the truth!”

Her mother’s eyes paced back and forth with resentment refusing to look her in the eyes. Her shoulders shrugged, her hands clapped against the side of her thighs sighing with irritation. Her eyebrows clashed with a silent roar as they collided in shame as she nodded.

She hesitatingly answered, “I don’t . . . know!”

Her mother’s attempts to detach herself from any emotion were feeble and she stomped out of the room as if she were stepping on land mines.

Penelope felt dejected but couldn’t stop thinking about the idea of an official confirmation. She scrambled through her photos and grabbed the DNA test kit and tried to get Ashley on the phone before she changed her mind. Her calls went straight to voicemail.

The very next day, Penelope drove to her house but to no avail. She sat in the car pacing her thoughts in eagerness to complete the DNA kit and send it off. Waiting only irritated her, so she went home to check her messages. Her mother sat at the kitchen table reading the newspaper and scornfully flipped through the pages. As Penelope entered the room, her mother derisively read Ashley’s obituary. Penelope was overcome with emotion over the horrifying news. She drowned herself in sorrow for two weeks.

After some time, she desperately searched for the DNA kit. She began to rip it apart and threw it at her mirrored reflection. She was overtaken by anger. She began to grab all the photos that surrounded her and attempted to rip them in bundles. As she frantically cried, she picked up the picture Ashley had given her from among the piles. At that moment, she got up and slowly walked to the mirror. For a moment, she just looked at herself blankly. She took the picture and held it toward the mirror wanting to finally rid herself of it. She wanted the mystery to stop torturing her.

Then suddenly, she squinted at the mirror. She leaned in closer and saw faded letters. It looked like handwriting and she immediately turned it over to make it out. Then all of a sudden, she heard a piercing sound, almost deafening. It was the sound of her alarm clock and she was abruptly awakened by it. After turning it off, she immediately grabbed the picture and quickly approached the mirror. Slowly turning it over, she took a deep breath. She looked for the faded letters, but what she found was a faded watermark stain. At that very moment, Penelope realized that she had set her alarm a second too soon. She somehow knew that her next dream would bring her one step closer to the truth. It was just a matter of time.


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Disciplined and skilled in the acquisition of analysis and critical thinking in literature, film, and music. Propitious screenwriter. I am brave enough to be different, smart enough to be humble, and short enough to take leaps and bounds.

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Author: Angeltopia

Contributor: Eric Suhem

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“Howard, get me some water!” ordered Manager #5 to one of his subordinates, as the management team of Acme MegaCorp gathered in the conference room to explore ideas designed to improve employee productivity and morale. “I suggest we add a mood-enhancing substance to the company’s drinking water. A number of drugs have been very effective in experiments on dogs, cats and pigs,” said Manager #5, staring moodily into his coffee mug. The management team approved the proposal for altered tap water.

Two days later, Howard was called into his manager’s office. “Howard, we’d like you to be the point man for a new company-wide high-profile project. In fact, you’ll be our guinea pig,” said Manager #5, handing him a plastic cup of enhanced water. “Now drink this, and give me a report later.”

“Yes, sir!” said Howard, grateful to be chosen for an important project. He’d always been a good team player. Maybe now it would pay off.

Back at his desk, arranging memos and paper clips into a geometric order that felt pleasing, Howard had a vision of a large guinea pig, sitting in the chair across from him, pounding its paw on the desk, “Let’s close the deal now, H.B.! And I won’t take ‘No’ for an answer!” The guinea pig threw its head back and laughed, pulling a scythe out from under the table.

Wielding the scythe given to him by the guinea pig, Howard went to the lobby and sliced up various artificial plants and topiary efforts, hacking rhythmically as a secretary looked on in horror. Later that day, Manager #5 called him into his office. “Howard, we need to discuss your behavior, upper management has taken an interest in your cutting of the welcoming area’s greenery,” said Manager #5, starting right in on an assessment of Howard’s workplace conduct, using the word ‘failure’ 12 times, Howard’s smile brightening each time he heard the word.

“I think it’s great!” said Howard in a good mood after drinking the enhanced water.

“Look Howard, we’re going to install a training wheel in your cubicle. “It will help you work off that energy in less destructive ways. You know, like a hamster or a guinea pig,” said Manager #5.

As the days went by, the drugged water increased Howard’s productivity and morale, which pleased the management team. Howard exercised vigorously on his little wheel, and some of the secretaries walked by his cubicle to feed him shredded lettuce.

One morning in his cubicle, Howard found the large guinea pig sitting in his chair. “Howard, we have to talk,” whispered the guinea pig, beckoning Howard to have a seat on the training wheel. “Howard, you don’t like this job, do you? It’s demeaning and humiliating. You’ve played by the rules for your entire career, and look where it’s gotten you.”

Sitting on the training wheel, chewing shredded lettuce from his little bowl that was adorned with pictures of rodents at play, Howard felt something open up in his imagination. He’d always felt trapped in his job, and he hadn’t been able to visualize himself doing anything else. But staring at the guinea pig, ideas began to flow: maybe he could join an organization that cares for and protects guinea pigs….maybe he could start a business building guinea pig cages…maybe become a chef that cooks guinea pigs in Cusco, Peru, near Machu Picchu. He wasn’t sure if it was due to the water, but for the first time he felt free, aware of options he hadn’t realized.

Howard went to his manager’s office to resign, bringing the scythe with him.


- - -
Eric Suhem lives in the orange hallway.

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Author: Eric Suhem

Contributor: John Laneri

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Friends call me Rick. It's a nickname for Richard Harrison, art dealer, speculator and connoisseur of fine living.

My story began with Vickie, an attractive woman who visited my gallery one morning while I was preparing a exhibit for several local artists. At the time, I noticed her glance my way and maintain a moment of eye contact – a move that suggested we get acquainted.

The lady appeared early thirties and was stylishly dressed. I noted dark hair and a smile that seemed to project a mischievous yet confident attitude.

Intrigued, I suggested a nearby coffee shop. She accepted, and before long, we were splurging calories on two fresh mochas. For the next hour, we mostly talked art, but I did learn that she worked in sales, traveling throughout much of the country.

Over the next few days, we became regulars, so I invited her to my condo in an effort to get better acquainted.

That evening, as I was opening a bottle of wine, she arrived wearing a chic outfit punctuated by a revealing silk top.

We conversed briefly near the bar then she reached for her wine glass and started a casual sweep around my living room. I followed her, pointing to a painting that dominated the wall over my couch.

“You're looking at a Stanley Brown original that I recently acquired at an estate auction.”

“It's impressive,” she replied, “very impressive.”

We studied the painting for several minutes, enjoying its full effect, then I said, “It's by far my most favorite purchase.”

“I can understand why his landscapes are top dollar items. The colors are so vivid, ” she said, as she continued looking about, admiring my other pieces.

After a simple dinner on the balcony, we watched a colorful sunset fade into night then we opened a fresh bottle of wine, our eyes rarely leaving one another.

Soon, she began to quietly communicate her desires. Encouraged, I approached her and ran my hands across the shoulders of her silk blouse. “Your outfit is interesting. I like by the way it reveals your beauty.”

Smiling pleasantly, she pressed her body against mine, letting her warmth linger seductively. Then taking my wine glass, she refreshed it and eased onto the couch, saying, “Wine too has a pleasant way of releasing beauty.”

With that said, I downed the remains in my wine glass, set it aside and headed to the couch. Once there, I reached for her feeling in return an eager, passionate response that lasted only minutes until everything around me slowly began to turn hazy. At first, I tried to ignore the sensation, but then my head began to spin.

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

I tried to reply, but suddenly, my world dropped into a confusing matrix, filled with twists and turns, distorted colors, crazy smiles – all infusing my senses at once.

The following day, I awoke on the floor and subsequently ended up in the hospital. I later learned that I had been drugged with a substance that produces marked sedation when mixed with alcohol. It's effect, the doctor indicated, was similar to a so called, date rape drug.

Naturally, I laughed that off wondering -- why me?

Later that afternoon, I had my answer when I returned home and found an empty wall in place of my Stanley Brown original along with several other items of significant value.

The police investigator, a pleasant appearing, self-assured woman, listened quietly while I related my story.

“I'll have the forensic people check for prints,” she said evenly. “But, the lady had plenty of time to clean the scene, so it's unlikely we'll learn much.”

Still confused, I asked, “Why didn't she just steal the painting during the day while I was at work?”

The investigator smiled compassionately, her manner easy and relaxed. “By inviting her to dinner, you allowed her to sidestep your alarm system. Based on the drug she administered, consider the theft a sophisticated variation of date rape. It's common with financially secure men. Expensive watches, cash, credit cards, firearms, you name it. Gone in an instant. I suspect your friend has already moved to another city to find a new target.”

To my thinking, her take on the incident seemed about as reasonable as any.

Nonetheless, something intriguing happened while I was walking her to the door. Maybe it was the softness of her features or the sincerity of her manner that drew me to her, but I immediately liked her.

In no time, we were conversing like old friends.

That night, we had dinner at a quiet restaurant. The following night we attended a showing for a new artist, and before long we were inseparable, our hearts drawn to one another in a passionate, whirlwind romance which incidentally still continues today.

For us, that chance encounter was the ember that ignited our lives, thanks in part to the loss of my Stanley Brown original.

Now, her time is spent running the gallery as well as our home while I continue to work the markets buying and selling other pieces of art.

As to my Stanley Brown, it's yet to resurface even after ten years. If it did, I would let it pass simply because I already have the finest work of art ever created and her name is Suzy – my nickname for Susan Harrison, wife, mother and love of my life.


- - -
John's 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: Chris Milam

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She could handle a fork. The woman sat in a booth underneath a painting of a lighthouse emitting a dim glow. She wore yoga pants and a black V-neck and she looked glorious, alluring and edible. She consumed the pecan pie in delicate bites, the fork like a pendulum arcing from plate to mouth. After every swallow she smiled, which caused me to smile and we shared a moment, but she wasn’t aware that we shared a moment. She slid a pink and flirty tongue out and used a reptilian curl to cleanse residue from her upper lip. She caught me staring and used that same inviting tongue to brush across her luminous teeth while her eyes stayed on mine and we shared a moment that she had engineered. She emptied her plate and walked out of the restaurant. I caught an aroma of something tropical, evasive, and lonely and all I wanted was to bottle it and spray it on my walls.

The woman in white cotton shorts sat in a booth underneath a picture of a boat listing in a harbor. She ordered chocolate cream pie and took monstrous bites. She couldn’t handle a fork, she was graceless and erratic. Amateurish. She unfurled a gritty, bovine-like tongue to slurp cream from her lower lip. She didn’t respect the luscious pie, it was just a dessert to her, a wedge of calories and gluttony. I glared at her because she didn’t understand the rules, she didn’t belong in this house of fixation. We did not share a moment. I paid my tab and headed to the diner on Jackson that catered to a more deviant brand of clientele. They made a decadent strawberry cheesecake that would require a cultured hand to properly maneuver a fork into its velvety heart.

I sat in a booth underneath a print of Botticelli’s Map of Hell. My stepmother emerged from the kitchen wearing her tangerine uniform and carrying one of her irresistible creations. She nestled a fork against her elegant forefinger, carved a pristine slice and guided it to my quivering lips. She let it dangle and tease for a beat before she plunged it deep into my mouth. The strawberry glaze was orgasmic and succulent on my carnal tongue and we both smiled and a shared a moment that we’ve been sharing for years. Miranda could always handle a fork and she knew that I had no willpower, that I could never resist the temptation of her creamy pie, her wedge of edible love.


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Chris Milam resides in Hamilton, Ohio. He is a voracious reader, a baseball junkie, and a consumer of processed foods.

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Author: Chris Milam

Contributor: Ryan James Black

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“I’ll see your hundred,” snarled Wolfman. “And raise you another.” He pawed a chip onto the pile, accidentally cleaving a jagged gash in the green felt table top.

“Hey,” whined Louis. “Be careful wouldja? I just had this resurfaced.”

Wolfman glared at Louis, the way Wolfman glares at rabbits. A muscle car idled deep in his throat. He ashed his stogie, purposefully missing the ashtray.
Louis huffed. He rolled his eyes. He looked like he wanted to say something, but instead crammed his mouth full of pretzels.

“Okay, okay, you two,” Dracula chuckled. He took a swig of his Romanian microbrew and turned to his right. “Bets to you Frank.”

“Frankenstein,” groaned Frankenstein. “Bet.” With a green bratwurst finger, he inched forward a ten dollar chip.

“Okay, two things Frank,” Dr.Jekyll said irritably. “One. I can totally see your cards.”

Frankenstein held three mismatched cards, a coaster, and what appeared to be a grocery list.

“And two. Wolfenstein just raised, big guy. It’s two hundred to play.”

Frankenstein moaned. He retrieved his ten dollar chip, inadvertently crushing it like the top of an Oreo cookie.

“Frankenstein,” groaned Frankenstein. “Fold.”

“Alright,” said Dracula around a mouthful of potato chips. “Frank and Mummy are out,”

“Ma…neme…izzz…Ram-zees,” mumbled Mummy from across the table. He struggled to find an opening in his face bandages for his Pharaoh Lager. No luck.

“Whatever,” said Dracula. “That leaves me, the wolfster, Louis, and to start us off, betting goes to you Doc….Oh, excuse me. Mr. Hyde.”

Mr. Hyde laughed maniacally, and for reasons known only to him, yanked out a tuft of his hair. Tatters of Dr.Jekyll’s lab coat had fallen into his mug of beer. He gulped it down anyway, splashing more of it on the rug than into his mouth.

“Hyde!” Louis sniveled. “Come on, man. You know Francine and I got this rug as a wedding gift.” He waddled away into the next room, returning an instant later with a spritz bottle and rag. Dropping to the knees of his khaki’s, rolling up the sleeves of his peach cardigan, he went to work, scrubbing the rug around Mr. Hyde’s Sasquatch foot. What remained of the giant’s shoe looked like a spent firework.

“Can we just play cards already?” Wolfman growled.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Mr. Hyde boomed like thunder. He materialized a bowler hat out of the shadows and plopped it on to his head. “Soon as you give me one of them cigars.”

“No!” Louis snapped. “No, no, no. No more smoking in the house.” He stood up, smoothed down his cowlick and pushed up his eye glasses. He was breathing heavy, his face was flushed “As a matter of fact, Wolfman, you put that out. Come on you guys? If Francine finds out you were smoking in here she’s gonna kill me.”

Awkward silence.

Dracula made a sound like a whip crack.

Everyone laughed. Everyone but Louis.

“Ha, ha, ha,” said Louis dryly as he took his seat. “Very funny.”

“Relax Louis,” chuckled Wolfman. “Look, you want my stogie gone. It’s gone.”

Wolfman mashed his cigar into Mummy’s forearm, igniting the bandages like dry leaves. Mummy let out a muffled shriek and in an absolute panic, extinguished himself with foamy Pharaoh Lager. Most of it went on the rug. Everyone laughed. Everyone but Louis.

“Okay,” Dracula sighed, wiping a laugh tear off his bone white cheek. “At this rate were gonna be here till sunrise. Let’s play already. Hyde, what are you gonna do?”

Hyde looked at his cards. He snorted.

“I don’t know what Jekyll was thinkin,” he barked. He threw his cards in the air. “I fold.”

“Well, I believe I am going to raise,” Dracula said with a hungry shark smile. “Five hundred.” He pushed his chips forward with the tip of a sharp, glossy nail. “Louis?”

Louis stared at his cards. A bead of sweat tracked down his pink cheek, coming to rest on the second of his three chins. He pushed up his glasses and cleared his throat.
“You know what?” He bulldozed all his chips into the center of the table. “I’m all in.”

Wolfman snarled.

Mr. Hyde laughed.

Dracula bared his fangs.

Mummy mumbled, gingerly poking his soggy, blackened arm.

Frankenstein groaned “Frankenstein.”

Louis leaned back, clasping his hands behind his head. He smiled.

“You’re bluffing!” Sneered Dracula.

“Am I?” asked Louis.

All eyes fell on Wolfman. White foam was collecting around his snout, dripping onto the table. It wasn’t from his beer.

“Fold,” he barked, tossing his cards. He howled in frustration.

Louis smiled wider.

“Count?’ Louis said softly. “Your move. You in, or out?”

Dracula stared from his cards, to Louis, and back again. His eyes glowed red, deep set fiery embers.

“Fold,” he said calmly.

A chorus of snorts and grumbles went up from around the table. Louis bear hugged his winnings and dragged them across the table towards him. He began to hum a happy tune as he stacked the colorful chips into wobbly towers.

“You know, Louis,” Dracula said coldly. “You’re the only mortal at this table. You may want to consider playing a little more tactfully. You wouldn’t want to make any of us angry would you?”

Wolfman scratched his jagged, yellow claws across the green felt.

Mr. Hyde nodded vehemently and began eating his bowler hat.

Frankenstein groaned “Frankenstein,” with hostility.

Mummy pounded his fist into his open palm. It might have been intimidating had he not been looking in the wrong direction, across the room, at Louis’ sleeping cat.

“I don’t know,” Louis said disinterestedly as he counted out his winnings. “There’s only one person I really don’t want mad at me.”

As if on cue, the door at the top of the stairs smashed open.

A fat, black tentacle snaked its way halfway down the stairs, dripping with tar-like ooze, covered with blinking eyes and barbs the size of tyrannosaur teeth. The monstrosity the tentacle was attached to would have made a Kraken look like a house cat by comparison.

“YOU BOYS WANT ME TO FIX YOU SOME SANDWICHES?”

The voice was like a thunderclap full of broken glass, terrifying, impossibly loud, and just a tiny bit feminine.

“No thanks Francine,” Louis called out. “We have plenty of snacks. You’re a sweetheart for asking though.”

The nightmare oozed back upstairs and shut the door.

Dracula un-bared his fangs.

Mr. Hyde shriveled back into Dr. Jekyll.

Wolfman attempted to hide the shredded table top with a couple of strategically placed coasters.

Frankenstein groaned “Frankenstein,” apologetically.

Mummy mumbled something that sounded like “Has Francine lost weight?”

Louis sighed, then chuckled.

"Like I was saying," he said between pretzel chomps. He shuffled the cards like a man with ten thumbs. "Happy wife, happy life."


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Author: Ryan James Black

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

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Buford was a big man, at least 300 pounds, with a heart of silver if not of gold. No one messed with Buford. He had a limp and for years he had used a cane too short. Neighbors feared some day he might fall and sure enough one day he did fall in his backyard. He was going out to his dump truck. The only good thing that came out of that fall is that I got a chance to talk to an ambulance driver in Beijing, China. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

When Buford fell, he disappeared and left a massive hole in his wake. Dirt rose like a volcano eruption for minutes after he was gone. I lived across the street from Buford so I climbed over his fence to see if I could help in any way. I knew I would not be able to pull him out of the hole by myself. It would take a crane, I figured, to get him back on solid ground.

But when I looked down the hole, I could see nothing but darkness so I went home and got a flashlight and then went back. Now I was able to see far down, apparently miles and miles away, and I saw a group of Chinese emergency medical technicians working feverishly to revive Buford. But he didn’t move. He was lying on his stomach and looked a little like a whale (of the beached variety).

The EMTs were short in stature but obviously industrious, caring people who may never have seen anyone as big as Buford, never mind trying to revive or treat someone that size. They looked like ants trying to get an angle on a giant carcass. They kept prodding and moving around him in a circle but he still didn’t move. They took turns yelling to him in Chinese but even if he could have heard them, Buford didn’t speak a word of Chinese. He was a deaf mute and used only American Sign Language, which only one of his neighbors understood. She was deaf too but spoke very well.

Finally I yelled to the workers and asked if Buford was alive. One of the EMTs looked up and said something in Chinese but I don’t speak Chinese and I don’t know American Sign Language either. I could see they had brought a crane to the scene and were using it to attach leather straps all over Buford’s body. It appeared they were planning to drag him away since they may not have had an ambulance big enough to accommodate him.

The last thing I saw down the hole was the disappearance of Buford’s feet. The rest of him had been dragged out of the frame, so to speak. He had one shoe on and the other was gone. No socks. Buford only wore socks in the winter and this was fall, not cold enough for socks in our country.

I hollered down the hole one more time, and the last EMT visible to me hollered something back but again it was in Chinese. After that I saw nothing except what looked like a crater dent in a paved parking lot where Buford had apparently landed. Even with all that momentum behind him, Buford had not crashed through the pavement. Going back home I realized that if he had fallen through the parking lot, and then through the Chinese ground beneath it, he would probably be floating like a zeppelin somewhere in space. If he were still alive, I figured he was much better off having to learn Chinese Sign Language than knocking over stars and planets.


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Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.

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Author: Donal Mahoney