Contributor: David Macpherson

- -
The knuckles crash my cheek and one of my teeth loosens. Later, I will spit blood. But now I swing from my side and connect with somebody’s ear. My shoulder twinges from the compression of the impact. I hope I didn’t hit one of my own. My bros: Joey, Mac and the other guy. The guy whose name I don’t know. He sits by himself most nights at the end of the bar. But when the swinging starts, he usually swings for us.

Mac clobbers the bearded dude with the frosted beer mug, clubbing him on the top of the head. Joey takes an elbow to the chin. We are all backing up to the fire exit. We’re not surrendering, its just that we can see the bouncer heading our way and its best to take it outside then to be taken.

I aim my foot for the little guy’s knee and I get nothing but air. I can’t do any of that karate shit. I grab the front of his collar and swing him to the side, hitting the broken bowling game. I step outside to the alley and now I’m doubled over from a shot to my gut from some fist.

The assholes run. The only one left is the one we’re all kicking on the ground. The one that stumbled. He moans long and low like a fog warning. We step back and I guess he crawls away. I don’t know the assholes we swung at. I just saw Mac moving hard and jumped in.

The bouncer pours into the fire exit door. “This shit keeps happening and you’ll be out for good. Not just the night.”

“Fuckers started it,” Mac says.

“They always do,” the bouncer says.

“We can’t help it,” the guy whose name I don’t know says. “It’s part of the DNA of every bar goer. It’s a royal tradition. Hell, a king of England died in a bar fight. King Edmund the Magnificent died in a pub fight in 943 in Pucklechurch. This thief Leofa was giving one the King’s bros some shit and wouldn’t leave and they had at it. Leofa knifed Edmund. But at least the King’s men got Leofa too, Evens it out. If it’s good enough for kings, who the hell are we to stop?” He wipes the blood from his lip.

I don’t know what he’s talking about, but I know he’s right. The way I feel now, the pulsing of the blood in my veins, it’s not just my blood, I feel all my bros and all the bros before me, like a line going way down the years.

The bouncer thinks its funny. He almost smiles as he shakes his head and steps back to close the door on us, leaving us heaving for breath in the alley. The click of the door’s lock telling that we’re exiled again.


- - -

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Author: David Macpherson

Contributor: Matthew Vaughn

- -
I walked into my local Marketplace and stopped near the entrance to look at the DVD’s in the DVD Machine. I had been dying to see that new Johnny Depp movie, but the last three times I looked for it, they didn’t have it. Scanning through the available movies it seemed this time was no different.

I thought about kicking the machine, but I knew that wouldn’t get me the stupid movie, if anything it would probably just hurt my foot. I tried cussing at the machine a little, but all that got me was some funny looks from people passing by.

But then, like being open handed smacked in the face, an idea popped into my head. I decided I would climb into the DVD Machine and just wait for somebody to return a copy of the movie.

It was a perfect plan, but squeezing myself into that little slot the DVD’s slid through proved to be harder than I hoped. With a little wiggling and some sweet contorting skills I managed to get in there.

Walking around all the different movies was kind of boring at first, but then something weird happened, I wasn’t the only person in there. Taking a left around the newest romantic comedy starring Justin Timberlake I almost ran into another person.

“Oh, excuse me.” I said. Then I realized it wasn’t a person. It was a large collection of dirt and debris shaped like a rabbit. It was an Evil Dust Bunny.

“Oh crap, its an Evil Dust Bunny.” I said aloud.

It frowned at me and then started punching me in the jeans. I wasn’t really sure why It was doing that but I didn’t like it.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean anything by it, please stop.” I said to It. The Dust Bunny looked at me and smiled, I took that as a good sign. Then It smacked me over the head with the latest Hostel movie, uncool.

I didn’t waste any more time trying to talk to this thing, instead I pulled a Sponge Bob Christmas special down in-between us and took off running.

I decided to head for the slot that I originally came through. As I was running I looked back over my shoulder. The Dust Bunny was surrounded by movies starring Ryan Reynolds, Jack Black, Chris Evans, and Simmon Pegg, and they were all laughing at me.

I finally reached the slot and tried to go back through exactly opposite from the way I came in. After I got my whole body out of the slot my head got stuck, I looked back just in time to see the cover of Kung Fu Panda 2 come flying at my face. It was solid hit, and it was enough to push my big noggin through.

Standing in front of the DVD Machine I straightened myself up and flipped off the machine. I promptly turned and left the store, stupid Johnny Depp and his good movies.


- - -
Matthew Vaughn fixes machines in an Injection Molding facility. When he is not working with robots plotting world domination his enjoys writing bizarre stories. You can follow his ramblings on twitter @ https://twitter.com/edkemper or at his site http://mcvaughn.wordpress.com/

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Author: Matthew Vaughn

Contributor: Chris Griglack

- -
His shadow stalks swiftly from tree to tree, though the man is little more than shadow himself. The dark cloak weighs heavily on his shoulders, bound with a duty black as night.

They scream when he cuts them, but this is good. A silent harvest is a poor one. He whistles a tune as he works, and the wind whistles through their branches with him, a tune of cold, slow, remorse that no words can convey.

His sickle flashes, and for a moment the wind stills as the willow's hoarse, ethereal scream fills the air. He gathers the freshly cut boughs and moves along the river bank to the next tree, whistling the song of lament known only in that grove.

The moon hides her face from his work, but the stars look on with interest. Too distant to hear the screams, too cold to care. He continues harvesting as they watch, winking down at him as if they understand and share in the secrets of his work.

But they don't even know the song.

He waits for the wind to draw a veil of clouds across their peeping eyes before he tends to the seedlings. Each one so delicately balanced on the cusp of existence. No light can see them until they are rooted. Even the tiny glint lost in the dark depths of his eyes could be enough to wither their fragile shoots.

His shrill whistle becomes a low, rumbling hum to soothe the earth as their roots invade her. She trembles as they lap up her moisture, the sole comfort she can offer to these sad, tender lives. They drink greedily to ease their fears and quell their confusion, sating themselves on the tears of their elders.

The most ancient willows weep to see their children so, and the river swells with their sorrow. They rattle their branches in a howl which the wind echoes, dropping the veil in which the stars are tangled.

In the light of their curious glances the river glows. Individual streaks of silver tears gleam brilliantly for a moment before they are briskly swept away by the current.

One by one the trees grow silent as a different light moves among them. This light is dampened by the darkness with which it is imbued, a terrifying darkness with which they are all too familiar. It is accompanied by a shrill whistling which they shudder to hear.

He touches each one with the shining sickle before moving on. They shiver at its icy touch, squirming beneath the bark which imprisons them before stiffening in silence.

When dawn breaks the grove is silent but for the slow whistling of a man with no past. He vanishes as he walks amongst the trees, merging with their shadows which writhe in the sunlight though their pale bodies remain still.

The reaper fades from the ancient grove, but his song lingers in the air. A haunting echo of a man that only the earth and wind know.


- - -
My name is Chris Griglack and I'm a senior English major at UMASS Dartmouth. I prefer to heavily blend genres when I write in order to create unique works, but I occasionally write straightforward horror, fantasy, and sci-fi, as well as poetry, reviews, and non-fiction opinion pieces.

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Author: Chris Griglack

Contributor: Linda Garnett

- -
“Mitch, can't this car go any faster? We’re not going to make it."
“We’re almost to your house, Jackie. You’ll make your curfew.”
“We should've left the dance earlier. I told you what’ll happen if I’m not home right at midnight.”
Mitch laughed. “You didn’t need to make up a stupid story so I’d get you home on time.”
“I didn’t make it up. Drive faster!”
A few minutes later, Mitch parked outside her house and glanced at his watch.
“Not bad, it’s only one minute past midnight. How about a good-night kiss?”
He let out a blood curdling scream as Jackie the werewolf lunged at him.


- - -
Linda Garnett is currently editing her first novel, a science-fiction comedy. Her work has appeared in New Flesh, Flashes in the Dark, Static Movement, WeirdYear, Flash Shot and The Short Humour Site.

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Author: Linda Garnett

Contributor: Phillip Donnelly

- -
In the dream, he was a she.
He had the frame of a young girl, thin and fragile, but the body had no face. He, or rather she, or it, or whatever, was walking along a rocky beach in late Autumn. The sun set, turning the sky a dark red, like the embers of a forgotten fire.
She knew she was looking for something but did not know what. There was a dreamy emptiness to her quest, but also the will to continue.
She could make something out near the water's edge and cautiously approached the bobbing figure, wondering what it could be.
The sound of the waves washing against the shores grew. It became magnified and distorted and each wave began to cry. Each wave was soured with the bitter spite of all little girls, each wave's curl was twisted by the crashing malice of a child’s hate.
The sun, which had been setting, rose again and began to burn with a new midday intensity, its rays now beating in time with the waves' girlish laughter.
The grey sand turned black and oily, swallowing the dreamer’s feet. The boy who dreamed he was a girl wanted to run away, but couldn’t get her feet out of the slimy black quicksand. The more she struggled, the deeper she fell.
She stopped moving and felt her sense of will start to ebb and flow into the will of the tide.
The figure she had seen in the water was being swept towards her. As it got nearer, she could begin to distinguish some of its features. It was a little over a foot in length, and almost rectangular in shape. Whatever it was, it was floating. It grew closer, inch by inch, and the rest of the world began to fall out of focus and dissolve.
She could see the strands of long brown hair floating on the water, like a thousand tiny sea worms, all moving independently of one another. She could also make out a navy school uniform of some kind, but it was tattered and the sun and salty water had left it partly bleached.
One shoe remained, but the other had been removed by the tide, revealing a tattered sock, with a bloated yellow foot and blackened nails underneath.
Entirely against her will, she turned the floating corpse over.
What had once been a young girl's face stared at her through eyeless sockets. Maggots squirmed in the bloody holes and the child's skin had been stretched and so totally disfigured as to be unrecognisable. It had become a ghoulish mixture of blue and purple, but with the faintest hue of yellow underneath. Septic fluid seeped from her ears, and a large grub poked out of the hole where her nose used to be.
Despite the visage, the dreamer’s attention became fixated on one of the child's ‘hands’, part dog’s paw, part eagle's claw. On one side, white fur was soaked and matted, but on the other, it had yellow scales, some of which had fallen off, revealing bloody flesh. Twisted talons jutted out of the rotten flesh and gripped something fiercely.
She tried to unfasten the dead girl's grip, but she didn't have the strength. It was as though the girl had died through the effort of holding onto whatever was inside her claw, and not even death could make her release her grip.
The dreamer wanted to leave but couldn't. She did not remember where her home was, or who she was, or if indeed she was a she or a he. The answer to these questions was wrapped up in what the dead girl was holding.
“We know not what we are, nor what we do,” a ghostly voice whispered, and then a thousand wavelets giggled ringlets of contempt.
The sun suddenly disappeared and was replaced by a full moon. A billion stars came into being and waited. The girl’s hand opened, revealing the skull of a foetus.
Without warning, the dead girl jerked her head towards the dreamer in a strange mechanical way. The dreamer flinched at the sound of the bones clicking into and out of place as she made raven-like spasmodic movements with her head.
What was left of the girl's mouth slid into a sickening smile, a slimy grimace. Her open cavernous mouth contained no teeth and no tongue--only a hole that seemed to lead to infinity, and to the hell that lies beyond it.
A mournful but raspy voice emerged from the gaping hole. It was an adult female voice, a voice that had once been human, but would never be so again: a voice moving from sadness to despair.
When it spoke it felt as though all other noises on the beach had vanished.
"I am mother, child, future and past
I am the waves, the tide and the sea
I am all and you are nothing
And now not even time is yours”

*****

With a sharp intake of breath, the dreamer awoke...
And then he died.


- - -
Phillip Donnelly grew up in Dublin but has spent most of his life teaching English as a foreign language in various countries and continents. He currently lives in Hong Kong. He has had several short stories published in ezines, including one at Weirdyear, Proppland, and has also written three novels and several travel books. He is currently trying to interest publishers in his latest noel, Kev the Vampire.

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Author: Phillip Donnelly

Contributor: David Macpherson

- -
Two days after my grandmother died, we were in Neptune, New Jersey, where she was spoken about by people standing behind a podium. My father's best friend growing up was there with the wife he was soon to divorce. He spoke of the importance of family, God's ever loving gaze. Things like that.

Afterwards, we grandchildren were deposited on the Ocean Grove boardwalk, while the parents went to handle the paper work that survived the old lady. We talked for a while about college and work and things we did. The wind did not allow such autobiography and we walked down a frigid December gang plank in silence, heading to the Playland we went to when we visited as kids. It was shuttered closed. Not for the season, but for the ages.

We spoke about the funhouse we loved. The tilting room, the hall of mirrors. The pre-recorded shrieks of horror that startled me every time. On the plywood that covered the Playland entrance was spray painted the words Die Big, in large block letters. Fearing omens, we turned round.

On the boardwalk, the Devil his own self stood on a soap box selling whatever was desired, wanted. Anything at all, cheap, only the price of a soul. They didn't even have to be our souls. They could be lingering in our pockets, stuck on our shoes, sent to us in the mail by mistake.

It was too cold to be tempted and we walked on, finding our parents. My Aunt was in tears. She wanted her mother's engagement ring. The nursing home said it was missing. It had not been stolen, goodness no, just missing. These things happen.

They said my grandmother probably was the one to lose it what with the state she was in at the end. My aunt didn't care, she said, “It's not even that nice a ring, I just want it back.” With nothing to give her, we bid our goodbyes.

For the next week, I found myself inspired to do stupid, drunken acts with no knowledge of why I might do such things.


- - -
David lives in Central Massachusetts with his wife Heather and son George.

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Author: David Macpherson

Contributor: Stephen V. Ramey

- -
A boy stood in dappled sunlight, blocking my way. He was bone thin, all arms and legs. His expression reminded me of a clown's face. Not the garish white makeup and oversized nose, but the way his lips curled into a goofy smile even as his gaze violated me.
"What do you want?" I said. I had some change in my purse, but he should at least have to ask before I offered it up.
He laughed a child's laugh, unpracticed, full of noise. He raised one hand. In his fist was clutched a hand grenade, oblong and dimpled, grayish green in color.
"Where is your mother?" I said.
"Here," he said.
"Where?"
"Dead," he admitted.
"Your father, then." What a crass woman I must seem, not to offer sympathy for a dead mother.
"Hell," the boy said. He lowered the first hand and raised the other. It, too, held a grenade. The pin dangled like an earring.
"Is that a toy?" I said. "Who's watching you?"
That laugh again. Burst after burst of caustic sound. It set my nerves on edge, stirred something dark in my gut. Nauseated, I clutched my stomach and crouched down. Beyond the boy, a couple held hands on a park bench. Were they his parents? They seemed too young.
"So?" he said. He stood over me now, a scarecrow silhouette. I swallowed the sourness from my mouth.
"So?" I managed. I felt an impulse to cradle him, to feel that mouth pulling at my nipple. I leaned onto my knees.
A grenade fell past my face.
The explosion threw me back, light and sound and emotion all at once. Hair pulled from my scalp, skin from bone. I felt the structure of my skeleton cave in.
Pain radiated from my uterus, shot to my ankles and elbows, my tender breasts. Another contraction. Contraction, convulsion, burst after burst.
The bastard who raped me flashed bright, that pocked face, the pug nose and squinting eyes. Drunk, disoriented, I felt him thrust into me, once, twice, again, again. Where was the pleasure it was supposed to bring? Where was the connection I craved?
Another digging cramp. Sobs stretched my throat. A dented oval gushed out of me, red tissue, a spreading clot. Was that a face?
The boy was gone. Shifting patterns of light lapped at my shadow. A wave broke over my upturned face, coated my tongue with honey. I breathed in and out.
The dark thing inside me was gone.
Smoothing my dress, I stood. As I walked past the couple, I felt my halo emerge.


- - -
Stephen V. Ramey lives in beautiful New Castle, Pennsylvania where it is always sunny and warm and kittens do not suffer. His work has appeared in various places, and he edits the annual Triangulation anthology from Parsec Ink.

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Author: Stephen V. Ramey

Contributor: David Macpherson

- -
Rob was this roommate I had in college who had slept hard. He'd be asleep and not wake up even when the phone was ringing, but he would get up, answer it, and have a conversation, all while still being asleep. You would be on the phone with him talking and suddenly you would realize that something wasn't quite right, the way the conversation was going was off and you would ask, "Rob are you asleep right now?" And he would say, "Yes." So you would say, "Now Rob, listen to me. Hang up the phone and go to bed." And that’s what he did. He had no memory of any of this. Not even a dream memory.

We would have him write down phone messages when he was like this. He would wake up and see a note in his own hand that said, "I was asleep when Pete called. I will call him in the afternoon." That was a nice message. We didn't do nice messages often. Sometimes he would read messages that he wrote down that said, "I'm a bad bad boy. Have to return my professor's diaper." Or "I live in the Pink Pretty Panty Pantry." Junk like that. It wasn't clever, but we thought it was. Rob would smile along, though who would really like this kind of shit being done at his expense? Really.

I didn't see him for a while, I had graduated, and we were roommates, we were never best buds. But I was visiting an ex-girlfriend in his dorm, seeing if we wanted to do something about our relationship status or just be something undisclosed when I saw him. I didn't recognize. My ex had to tell me it was Rob. "Come on, that ain't him." She just shook her head and went back into her room closing the door behind me, which kind of let me know where I stood with her.

“Rob,” I said, “How you been?” I didn’t need for him to tell me. He was thin and puffy, all at the same time. His skin looked pale, like it had trapped in the wash for fifty cycles. He hadn’t been showering often enough, that was easy to determine.

He took some time to recognize me. Then he smiled yellow teeth. “Man, you are just the kind of guy I was hoping to see. I mean, you know people. I need to know people who know people.” It was like a bad musical number but I just nodded my head.

He dragged me into his room. He didn’t have a roommate. No one wanted to be his roommate, so the second bed was vacant waiting for a brave soul to fill it. “Remember those phone messages you guys used to have me write when I was asleep? Remember that? Well I still have the notebook and still I wake up and there be more of them. But about a month ago, they changed.” He pushed aside hamburger wrappers and showed me the note book he wrote the messages in. I looked at it.

They were how I recalled them. Funny things: “Must buy new footie pajamas,” or “I’m a little tea pot short and stout.” Then in his hand was a longer message, “The time has come. There will be knives on throats. There will be stains on poor campus carpets that no one will be able to remove. They will have to cut the carpets out. The blood will come. The bodies will be deposited. You need to understand Rob. This is inevitable. This shall occur. I needed a scribe, someone to record my good works. I chose you Rob.”

“Wow,” I said. “That ain’t funny.”

Rob grabbed the notebook back. “There’s others. They get more detailed. They list dates things will happen. The dates are still in the future, but not by much now.”

“Dude, go to the police.”

“How can I do that. It might be me writing this, thinking this. I might not just be dictating it. I don’t know. I figure all I need to do is not go to sleep. That’s all I can do.”

“Rob, what can I do for? Really. You won’t do the right thing and go to the cops.”

He smiled that ugly smile. “I know you have connections. Mini-thins and coffee are not cutting it anymore. I need something stronger to keep me awake. You know people.”

“Rob, that’s not a solution.”

He just stared at me. Ugly tired eyes did not plead at me, they just observed me, clinically, dispassionately. I told him sure, I would call some people. I would get him all he needed and then I left campus.

I didn’t call anyone. I don’t know anyone. I can’t figure why he thought I did. Every day I check the campus news site to see if anything happened. Nothing yet. And that’s good I guess.


- - -
David is a writer living in Central Massachusetts with his wife Heather and son George.

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Author: David Macpherson

Contributor: Nathaniel Tower

- -
A puddle of goopy pink blob greeted Marty Cooper when he woke up one Sunday morning. He'd been dreaming about his wife being angry at him for some reason or another.
When his alarm blasted him out of his nightmare, he tried to spring his head off the pillow and silence the buzzing, but the thick sticky substance clung to his head and pillow like gum to a shoe and asphalt on a hot day. The further he pulled his head away from the pillow the further the pink gelatin stretched.
Despite the force pulling Marty's head back to the stained pillow, his head felt significantly lighter. Staring at the goop, it didn't take long for Marty to figure out what was happening. His brain was leaking out of his ear.
While trying to gather the strength to lift his leaking body from the bed, Marty tried to remember what he had done the night before and where his wife was right now. There was the off chance she had gone to church, but he didn't think she would have gone without at least waking him. Unless of course she really was mad at him. Perhaps that hadn't been a dream after all.
Through his gooey thoughts, Marty thought he heard his wife's nagging voice call for him to get out of bed so she could change the sheets. Marty sprang out of his bed like a lopsided jack-in-the-box. His unbalanced body bumped into the nightstand, knocking over the hand-blown glass lamp his grandmother had given him for no reason other than she was dying. The lamp fell to the carpet out of Marty's desperate reaching hand. He shook his head to try to regain his center of balance, a string of thick pink goo squirting like jelly out of a water pistol onto his dresser and carpet.
"Muhbran," Marty shouted, the words coming out mostly wrong. He clasped his hands to his head in a scene reminiscent of The Scream, which Marty had never actually seen. The goop seeped onto his left hand and oozed its way between his fingers and down his arm, but nothing came out of the right ear.
Marty raced to the bathroom, his body dragging as if he were some sort of wounded animal searching for protection from an onslaught of hunters. He rifled through his toiletries until he came across a loose cotton ball. Showing no concern for the grime that had collected in the soft fabric, Marty plunged it into his left ear. After tilting his head to the right a little to let his brain settle, he stood and looked in the mirror.
Nothing seemed out of the ordinary with his general appearance, save for the cotton ball sticking out of his ear. Only a few seconds into the study of his visage, Marty saw the cotton ball expanding as it filled with the pink sludge that he had formerly used to think. Without thinking, he sprinted from the bathroom into the kitchen and threw his body down by his wine rack. He pulled out the bottles one by one, but they were all unopened. Without much consideration, he chose the finest bottle from his collection, a 1998 vintage, and set it down on the linoleum tile while he searched his drawers for a corkscrew, but all he could find were some knives and toothpicks.
By now the cotton ball was a breaking dam, and Marty's liquefied brain was seeping down his neck and unto his favorite shirt. He mumbled and moaned as he grabbed the wine bottle and headed down the hall and out his front door. Bottle in hand, he stumbled like a drunken zombie across his lawn and then his neighbor's, almost tripping over the Sunday paper. Two cars driving slowly through the neighborhood almost collided as their drivers gasped at the sight.
Marty charged up the lone step onto the neighbor's porch and began pounding on the door. After three knocks he slapped at the doorbell. Unsure if he'd actually hit it, he slapped twice more. A moment later, with little sense of urgency, a man in a blue robe opened the door.
"What's going on, Marty? What brings you over to the ol' abode so early in the morning?" the robed man asked as he sipped from a steaming coffee cup.
"Corscrew," Marty shouted as he held up the wine bottle while pressing his other hand against the swollen cotton ball.
"I don't think you need to drink this early in the morning," the neighbor replied with a few hearty laughs.
"CORSCREW!" Marty screamed at the man, the force of his efforts causing a thick sludge of brain to ooze between his fingers and onto his neighbor's immaculate porch.
"What the hell?" With a horrified look, the neighbor slammed the door. Marty heard the man's hoarse screams echo around the foyer. He smashed the bottle of wine against the sidelight window, the shards of glass piercing the delicate flesh of his uncalloused hand. With blood seeping from his hand and brains gushing from his head, Marty staggered back to his house with the half-broken bottle dangling from his fingertips to do the next most logical thing: call 9-1-1.
Hunched over in a near bear crawl, Marty reentered his house and climbed the stairs to his bedroom. He grabbed his phone from the nightstand and flipped it on. His fingers jabbed at the buttons until he finally dialed the right combination.
"9-1-1, what's your emergency?" he heard an operator say as he brought the phone to his good ear.
Before he could utter a response, he saw the handgun resting on the floor. He inhaled deeply the scent of fresh gunpowder. The phone slipped from his hand as he felt the small hole on the right side of his head. His body collapsed to the carpet and his wife smiled in the mirror.


- - -
Nathaniel Tower writes fiction, teaches English, and manages the online lit magazine Bartleby Snopes. His short fiction has appeared in over 100 online and print magazines. His story "The Oaten Hands" was named one of 190 notable stories by storySouth's Million Writers Award in 2009. His first novel, A Reason To Kill, is was released in July 2011 through MuseItUp Publishing. Visit him at www.bartlebysnopes.com/ntower.htm

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Author: Nathaniel Tower

Contributor: Chad Stroup

- -
Do not attend class; it is a construct.
Cross the revolving threshold with a malleable mind.
What you absorb may or may not affect you profoundly.
You may think the man next to you is corporeal.
Caress his well-worn sweater.
It is the dressing of a corpse.
You may know in your mind's eye that the woman across the room is breathing.
Crumple a piece of paper and softly toss it at her.
It will bounce off her face as if she were made of wax.
You may believe that your professor is planting seeds in your mind.
He or she is digging shallow graves.
Determine for yourself what will be engraved in your headstone.


- - -
I am an MFA Creative Writing Student with a focus in fiction at San Diego State University. I enjoy twisting the possibilities of the darker side of fiction. I also run a blog at http://subvertbia.blogspot.com/

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Author: Chad Stroup