Contributor: Mark Slade

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Colored pebbles dream because they were apart of the genetic makeup. Softcover Mother at the touch of keywords, sitting in a synthetic chair, had to steal the body of water indefinitely.

       In quick steps inside the end of the night, People babbling to themselves, playing a game heart attack.

                          A droning sound of daydreaming teardrops fell from memory.

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my name is Mark Slade. I live in williamsburg, VA with my wife and daughter. I have been published in Burialday.

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Author: Mark Slade

Contributor: Andrew Ross

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Topic Sentence
“It’s my fault,” the man said to himself. “I did this.”

Initiating Circumstance
A boat. Water. Wind. Rain.

Dialogue
The man sits on the pillowed bed deep inside the sailboat’s cabin. Sees water slipping through the closed door. He thinks. Moves from the obvious to the speculative. Figures his wife and their two friends are dead. The water must have flooded the rest of the cabin by now. The boat’s probably already submerged. That bang must have been the hull hitting rocks, another boat. Maybe it was the boom collapsing. His friends were smashed when the boom fell. If he had been on deck he could have maneuvered the boat to safety. He could have prevented the mast from crushing their skulls. He could have saved them. He could have—

Backstory
The man had a recurring dream haunt him since youth. The man would enter the land of dreams and envision himself bathed in darkness. But soon he would be expelled from this warmth, the safety of the surroundings he was familiar and comfortable with. He would spiral through a dark tunnel and be pulled into scathing bright lights. His eyes pained, his body weak, he would open his eyes to frightening masked faces and sharp metal objects. The last connection to his warm darkness, to life as he knew it would be severed, and he’d long to travel back up the tunnel, to reside once again in a safe world. But to go back is impossible. And he would begin to cry.

Thoughts
The water slides around the man’s knees now. Still he doesn’t move. He thinks.

Rising Action
His friends—another husband and wife pair—were on the deck keeping watch. He remembered falling asleep. His wife went to the bathroom and he had heard heavy rain. No rocking yet though. He would never see his wife again. She closed the door behind her and he had rolled over and closed his eyes.

Backstory
When the man was a boy his father told him never to read the biggest book on the bookshelf, the book ordained “Holy.” His father told him he could read any of the hundreds of other books, but to never read “The Holy Book.” This book was off limits. When the boy asked why, his father responded that this book contained dangerous ideas, revolutionary philosophies that could provoke fickle loyalties and unbound submission.
His curiosity unhinged, the boy snuck into the library late one night. The book called the boy, attracted him with its size and fancy lettering. He stood on a chair and reached for the red-bound cover. The book was too heavy and they fell—boy and book—to the floor. Scrambling over to it, the boy laid the book in his lap and opened to page one.
The boy’s father heard the noise and entered the library. He asked his son what he was doing. The boy responded that he was reading a book. When the father saw the book, he told his son to get out. He told his son that he could never enter the library again. The boy carried the book with him and turned to see the door to the library close forever.

Feelings
The man feels water nibble his genitalia.

Rising Action
When the man had awoken, the boat was rocking back and forth, tipping with what must have been large waves—the man guessed at least five feet. Really he had no idea. This was the man’s first trip on a boat.

Dialogue
The man curses himself for falling asleep. He should have been on deck. He should have stayed awake after his wife went to the bathroom. He should have realized the heavy rain meant a terrible storm. He should have—

Character
The man feels water around his neck. He sits still. He thinks about life.

Climax
The man holds his breath.

Resolution
“It’s my fault,” the man thought to himself. “I did this.”


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Author: Andrew Ross

Contributor: Geoffrey Carter

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They say your entire life flashes in front of your eyes before you die. They also say that light travels at a speed of 299,792,458 meters per second. Of course it is easier to tell how fast light is going than it is to tell what you see before death. The only reason people say this is because they believe the ones that go about bragging that they “died for six seconds.”

 It’s like trying to remember how many kids were on the bus on your first day of kindergarten versus how many sharks there are in the sea. I think there were eighteen kids minus the eighth graders who boarded after I did and forced me to move out of “their seat” in the back.

                As for the sharks, the only amount I can give you is number swimming beneath my tired feat. I count one…two…three…four…five…six…seven…eight...nine...ten…eleven…twelve…thirteen. Thirteen of them dashing around like the people in Grand Central Station.

                I am breathing in. I am breathing out. I am breathing in. I am breathing out. I am breathing…..a trick my mother taught me when crying over spilled milk, stressing out over a late research paper or vomiting on the linoleum floor, or, in this case, in the almost black ocean. It was rolling out of my mouth like yellow paint.

                I shut my eyes and flip over like a “Worst Case Scenario” card that says how to swim at sea for long periods of time. The answer to this is, according to the card, is to do just as I am doing now: lying on my back and occasionally kicking my arms and legs. This is a game I used to play with my cousin Greta, but instead of actually playing the board game that went along with it, we would spend hours at a time by the fire at her father’s house just reading the cards out loud to each other in hope of gaining some sort of knowledge of what to do in desperate situations.

Like this one.

I guess the reason for our game was Greta’s father himself. He would never let her have any friends over to his dusty old mansion. Or any relative, for that matter. I would have to sneak out of my own house and meet her at the back door when her dad was out. That was rarely possible.

When we were inside, I could usually catch a glimpse of her backside which was a rainbow of mostly purples, some blues. Or, she would just flinch as a response to my touch.

“My father,” she explained.

 And I understood.

We’d take our mind off things with that only game Greta had in her house. It was kept in the bottom left corner of the dresser in her father’s bedroom. Sometimes we would just sneak around the living room and eventually end up in her minimalized bedroom and stay there until the man she dreaded came home.

                I’m still doing what the card tells me to, staring up at the starry, starry night and holding my breath and letting it out with a loud whoosh. The breaths become closer and closer together until I am back to where I started: A hyperventilating body in the water frantically thrashing my arms and legs trying to stay afloat, but the monsters beneath my feat swam dangerously near and I could sense them smelling the vomit swimming amongst them in the water.

                It reminds me my father telling me how much barf attracted fish. The bigger ones especially. We would always take these fishing trips at my grandfather’s expense in the heat of the summer when the fish were slow and tired.

                I went on the very first one that was offered and was never planning on going back.

                How was I supposed to know I get seasick?

                After I had spent approximately an hour puking over the side of the boat, many fish would swarm like poor children after a French fry was dropped. We had about ten fish that night because that was the limit, and my father made me come the year after. And the year after that. And the year after that.

                They were obviously ore of them now which only made me kick harder.

                Fourteen…fifteen….sixteen sharks join. It only adds to my fear and I begin to tremble. Or It could have been from the ice cold water, I don’t know, but I am beginning to kick my feet again and the only thing to do is kick harder. I remember the card again: Only kick when absolutely necessary. My eyes shut. Forget everything that I know

Except for this.

3.14159

And then I cry.
Because that is the thing to do.

- - -
I am a junior in high school and really want to be a writer. I took a writing class at a local college for a couple of weeks over the summer and am now taking a year long course in school. Other interests include playing music, crocheting, and skiing.

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Author: Geoffrey Carter

Contributor: Tim Sullivan

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There is much we cannot explain hidden out in the woods and wildernesses. Well, at the very least, there are people out there behaving in ways that cannot be explained. Not long ago, I came upon such individuals myself. I had taken it into my head to go for a jaunt into the relative unknown and so headed to explore a forest some distance from my house, well outside of town.

A certain famous horror movie had been filmed there; I won’t say which, but suffice to say they all died screaming-- quite a twist. Despite this fictitious blot, the region has quite a good name among locals for being idyllic in its seclusion and challenging in its hiking. The latter is due to the lack of established trails beyond a simple right-on-through job about as satisfying to hike as a sidewalk.

After arriving, I picked a direction and began walking. For two hours I blazed my trail--whatever that means—-over rocky hills and along more than one ravine. I was good and lost. The sun was not yet going down, but just passing that teasing azimuth where it giggles and flirts as a shy date with her skirt. Realizing that I had best begin the trek car-ward, I produced my trusted GPS, and, after ordering it to conduct me home, spun on heel and marched.

I had gone no more than twenty paces before the ground gave way and I slipped over the edge of a short cliff I had not noticed earlier. The fall proper was short, but the ground I landed on was steeply declined and I immediately began rolling down through brush and over branch.

When gravity was finally through with me I had accumulated only a few scratches and bruises. Nothing was seriously hurt; I once come out worse after an ill judged hop over a puddle. My GPS was not so lucky. The green “on” light shone happily, but the screen was black--likely due to the crack right in its center. There was no chance of climbing back up, and I had, of course, lost my bearing in the tumble and possessed no compass. Orienteering had never been a strength of mine, thus the GPS. My cell phone would be of no help either; it was in my glove box.

With the sun now on its way down, I picked a direction and set about extricating myself from this suddenly too exciting adventure. Before long, I came upon a narrow trail. I followed it for sometime before I found myself standing before a large stone monument. The shape of a man on his knees in supplication had been carved from a rock just larger than I. He appeared old and weathered, his features were indistinct.

Puzzled but aware of the setting sun, I continued on. Much to my shock, I soon came upon a ring of small, stone people in mid-dance. These statues were carved of old limestone and had clearly been brought here from elsewhere. They were much pitted from age and acid rain.

By now I was both unsettled and curious, conditions that were exacerbated around the next bend when I noticed all manner of shapes carved into the trees; some seemed recent. A wailing then reached my ears, accompanied the slow thudding of a drum. Curiosity trumped unease, and I followed the sounds up the trail. At the source, I was awash in bewilderment.

The wailing proved to be a harsh harmonica--the drum just a drum--both played by old men wearing suits. Gathered around them, a ring of some twenty individuals danced in a decidedly, well, tribal manner. They were all dressed quite modernly, there were more suits, jeans, t-shirts, polos; near them a fire burned in a pit. Strange blue and green flames leapt about and the profuse, wind-blown smoke made me lightheaded and dizzy. The scene was made no less surreal by the raucous colors of the setting sun behind them. I was not thirty feet away and could do nothing but stare.

Finally, I came to my senses and ducked behind a large tree. Strange wilderness cults demand caution. Soon after, the dancing and playing ceased. The ring sat with their backs to me and faced a tall hill with a tremendous boulder at its peak. Harmonica climbed the hill to stand near it, while Drummer moved to the fire pit. He fed the fire long varicolored logs and the flames grew and grew. The wind was blowing the heavy smoke into my face and I was having trouble seeing straight.

The sun continued to fall until it was obscured by the hilltop monolith; its great shadow fell like night on the scene. Harmonica began to play once more and the ring, joined by Drummer, began to chant words I could not discern. The harmonica’s manic call sliced the air and I could feel dread spreading through me. I longed to feel simply uneasy again.

The monolith had a hole cut through its center and suddenly the descending sun passed behind it. Strong orange-red rays shone through the hole and all over us; it hit me hard—I could FEEL it--and I dropped to the ground. The wind gusted and the ring of people began howling and screaming. I never knew humans could make such noises.

At this moment, I felt something. The acrid smoke, setting sun and the screams lead by the harmonica combined to manifest a presence. It was a density, a palpable SOMETHING, all around me. I could feel it pressing in tighter and tighter. I’d had enough.

I sprinted away, not following the path, just running. I fell many times; the smoke had made me feel as if I were rocking on an ocean. Eventually, I could never say how long, I burst on to a wide, flat trail and immediately recognized where I was. I turned left and followed the path right-on-through to my car.


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Tim recently began writing due to a frustrating dearth of gainful employment following his college education. Writing hasn't helped that, but it's more fun than sending out resumes. He also has a cat.

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Author: Tim Sullivan

Contributor: Erika Price

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Sometimes you inherit your wants. It was for her mother, her mother who wanted to marry Herod (though most daughters despise parents’ suitors), that Salome wanted the head. Salome wanted the head because her mother wanted the head, and Salome wanted to please her mother more than anything. She wanted the first unmoved mover to be happy, and there wasn’t really any proper concept of ‘happy’ back then except to be wed. Barriers had to be squelched. Red tape severed.

And John the Baptist said unto Herod that schtupping his brother’s wife (Salome’s mom) was a total bro-code violation. And Herod was one of those dudes who was not trying to fuck with the bro code. Women will persuade you into all kinds of amoral things, being creatures of the earth and not Heaven, but John the B had internal consistency. Salome’s mom was just trying to persuade Herod that he wanted to fuck her. That it wasn’t borderline-incesty to till ground already plowed, to uncover seeds your brother’d buried. She was the one that wanted it. She was persuasive.

But John the Baptist was insistent, consistent, and his words were adhered to. Salome’s mom fumed and focused the way only a middle-aged preorgasmic mother of one can. She’d already made her daughter into a project, burned off a decade and a half of sexual frustration teaching the ninny to bow and twirl and leap, but soon it would be time for the well-sown seed to blossom and be plucked and wed and fucked on her own. It’s hard to be a pageant mom when your toddler-in-tiara was turning into a woman of the actual world.

Salome’s mom brushed her daughter’s hair and put it up in plaits and whispered in her ear. Then she sighed extravagantly. She draped herself over furniture and made a big scene of crying, ostensibly about her loneliness. Salome protested to her mother that she wasn’t alone, not at all— they had each other! They were mother-daughter BFFs in the Baby Spice, Gilmore Girls mold.

Salome’s mom just said: “Someday you will marry or someday I will die. I didn’t have you as young as Lorelai had Rory Gilmore, kiddo. You’ll have many years of solitude and spinsterdom if you stay single to keep me company.”

Salome said she couldn’t get married, she didn’t want her mom to be lonely. She was a stutterer but the passion behind her point was clear. If her mother was alone, she’d ride solo too. Salome’s mom said it was a shame, a real shame, especially with the solution so close.

Salome wasn’t skeeved out by the prospect of her mom shacking up with her uncle. I mean Christ, they were a beauty pageant family. Their standards were low in many ways. But she knew John the Baptist said it was verboten (though she didn’t know the word verboten; she took French). She leaned her golden head on her mother’s lap, for they knew no spatial or age-appropriate boundaries, and she asked her mom how it was they were ‘so close’ to a solution.

And Salome’s mom eventually told her the plan, flat out. Salome wasn’t bright enough to be tricked into thinking the idea was her own.

And Salome killed it on the dance floor.

When she took the entirely adult-sized crown, Salome was initially rapturous. She knew her dance had fucking slayed, especially the b-boying and cat-backing. Everyone hollered and roared. It was a large comfort, being so seen, but even larger was the comfort of doing her momma bear proud.

The wedding was tasteful. Salome’s mother wore a yellowy-cream colored dress, light enough to intone purity without actually being white. Salome danced with Herod (who insisted she call him Daddy 2.0) and gave her mother away, in a ceremony everyone agreed was understated, progressive, refreshing. That night, Salome’s mother screamed like a virgin and bucked her hips like a Lilith. Salome was moved to a separate wing of the house.

At first she found it difficult to cope. She’d never learned to braid her own hair, she didn’t know how to treat a cold or blister. The nights were quiet without their former nightly chatter about outfits, up-do’s, and pageant competitors they wanted to Nancy Kerrigan the shit out of. Suitors never called on her the way mother had promised. Salome watched The Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood probably a thousand times, curled up in the guest bed, but it was little comfort.

She grew, however, to enjoy her new companion. She could try on clothes all night and he’d never be loathe to review an outfit. Salome’s mother hadn’t watched all her daughter’s dance practices, but Salome’s new companion did. He never grew bored with her or feared her abandonment. He didn’t lust. There were no physical contact or neediness taboos with him.

She grew old and grew to love him. The mother had been wrong; Salome never married. She curled around him with placid glee and stroked his thinning hair. She dreamed of times long past and dances she could no longer do. She whispered in his ear and cradled what remained of his neck. She had been a dancer, not a storyteller, but he didn’t care. When dancer’s bodies fall apart, they’re just husks with little conversational skill. But he listened to her. He stayed where she held him, transfixed by whatever nonsense she had to say.


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Erika D. Price is a social psychologist, writer, and eternal student living in Chicago, Illinois. She writes all her first drafts on the Notepad app of her iPhone, which sounds insane but is actually quite a convenient way to bang out ideas on the go while simultaneously looking like a vapid, perpetually-texting woman-child.

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Author: Erika Price

Contributor: Gary Clifton

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Eighteen years I'd been on the job. The convenience store guy had just taken my 89 cents for a pack of Juicy Fruit. This bozo in a hoodie barged in and busted a cap in the ceiling. I shot him through the left ear - permanent rehab. My second round shot the big toe off another customer. DEA decided the head shot was hunky-dory, but one extra toe equated to one year's assignment in Mexico. Go figure.
So along with twenty million other souls, 55,000 cops, and 60,000 taxis, I'd done 11 months, one week, and three days in teeming Mexico city, assigned to the Mexican Federal Judicial Police. Washington called it "Operation Interdiction." "Operation Screw-up" was a lot better fit. Federales and dope war in Mexico - think Moses holding back the Red Sea. Every Federale carried a .45 automatic and was quick to use it. My assignment was to watch and duck - near as I could figure..
I'd finally beat Montezuma's Revenge, but I still slept with pistol in hand. I crept around expecting to die of ptomaine from bad food, or be assassinated by a fat cab driver, or a cartel flunky, or a traffic cop. But what the hey, that would have been too easy. Headquarters had a more diabolical recipe.
Mother of all mistakes, some clown from Washington called. "Ludowsi, we're sending you a rookie for two weeks assimilation." Before I could even cuss, he hung up. The flight arrival info arrived instantly by email.
The kid was young, blond, and had a Masters in Spanish Literature from an ivy league school. "You ain't gonna be able to understand a damned word these locals say," I explained. It was like an English translator from upper Volta trying to communicate with an English speaking ATM - pretty tricky stuff.
"Do we have an assignment today?" the Rook asked, not having heard a word said about the language thing.
"Yep, we're going to ride in the back seat of the Comandante's Cadillac. We follow two dopers from the U.S. side, and seize the cash and dope they accumulate from selling their trunk-load of pistols to dope dealers and the like. Welcome to Operation Interdiction."
"Pistols in the trunk? How do you...?"
"We opened it last night and wrote down the serial numbers."
"What about the Fifth Amendment?" the Rook's eyes cloned my ninth grade algebra teacher.
"You would be referring to the Fourth amendment which zeroed out when you flew over the Rio Grand," I gestured to the north.
"What a strange place." He'd learn soon enough "Strange" didn't quite make it.
Commandante Carlos Alvarez waited on us at curbside. He stepped out, corpulent, manicured nails, and a beautiful head of black hair with matching mustache. "Nice to meet you, Rook," he said in unaccented University of Texas English.
After three hours of watching the slimy duo peddle guns in a hundred places, Carlos leaned back and said in English: "They're down to no guns. They took on very little dope...oughta be holding a wad of cash." I immediately knew the Federales had already swooped up the dopers' customers, kicked the dogshit out of them, confiscated their money, guns, and what have you, then clapped then in that dungeon they called a jail.
"I'm ready for lunch," I said. "End this when you want...we're only ornamental."
So a gaggle of Federales blue lighted the hapless pair down, dragged them out of their Mustang, kicked some preliminary ass, and had then face down on the asphalt in three seconds. "Oh oh, lizard-skin boots...Justin's I'm afraid," I raised up in the back seat, better to see.
"Boots?" the Rook asked.
I probably should have given the kid a head's up. "Rook," I said. "See that green haze back to the North?"
"Yeah," the Rook craned his neck to the rear window.
"That's smog. Hell of a problem down here." The explosion of two gunshots pinned the tail on my comment.
"Murder!" The Rook whirled back to the two dopers, pulled a pistol from his boot, and started out of the Cadillac. The two dopers lay in a spreading ring of crimson, dead as good manners.
"Get your ass back in here and hide that hog-leg. Carlos is walking over here with that .45. A word from you, he puts one between your eyes, then I cap him and try to ram the Embassy gates with this Caddie."
"He'd shoot us?"
"Only if you run your mouth."
"Murder, Dumbrewski...murder."
"It's still Ludowski, dude. Murder is a term with variable meaning. Sit, understand?"
The kid stuffed the pistol out of sight just as Carlos leaned in. "Sucker tried to grab my pistol. Y'all see what happened?"
"Naw, me 'n the Rook was lookin' at the puta over there...short skirt."
"You see?" Carlos asked the Rook, eyes still in detached death mode.
The Rook shook his head like a dog with a snake, eyes wide as silver dollars. Carlos walked away, stuffing his .45 in his waistband. "My God, what sort of hell have we gotten into?" the kid's voice cracked.
"Hell? Slick, that's two sorry dope dealers who won't be in a San Antonio school yard peddling smack next week."
"What will they do now?" He was still trembling.
"As soon as they get us gone, they're gonna get them lizard boots...and if there ain't too much blood on them blue jeans, they'll take their britches too...plus they keep the Mustang." I raised up for a better angle.
"The bodies...what...?"
"Oh that. They'll haul them up on that mountain yonder for the coyotes to eat."
"My God, they shot 'em for clothes...boots?" the Rook's eyes were still astounded. "Why not just leave them in the street."
"Hellfire, Rook, didn't them academy mopes teach you any etiquette? Leaving bodies in the street ain't civilized."


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Gary Clifton, forty years a cop, has over thirty short fiction pieces published or pending with online sites. He has an M.S. from Abilene Christian University.

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Author: Gary Clifton

Contributor: Ron Moreau

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The atmospheric conditions of the planet were calm and the navigator had predicted a smooth landing. The ship was half-way through its descent towards the city of Thurn when the engines went out of control. The computer showed that a navigational sabotage beam had hit the vessel. None of the eight crew members could understand who had fired the beam. They'd been sure that the Threl rebel force was immobilized. The report from the robot stationed on the planet's surface had told them that was so:

'Peace in Thurn once again
I walk around the city walls
And hear a Xi fly laughing.'

Captain Benfrey scrutinized the printout and cursed the fact that the remaining surveillance robot that the company had stationed in Thurn was a refurbished humanities teaching device which kept reverting to haiku composition mode in order to write its reports. He shouted out
to his crew members, more in desperation than in hope.

'Is there anything in this report that will help us?'

For the first time on the mission, the quiet cartographer, Coleen, spoke up.

'I think we misinterpreted the report, Captain.'

Benfrey raised one eyebrow but didn't waste time on words. There was not long until the estimated moment of collision with the planet's surface.

'I looked up haiku on the ship's database. Haiku traditionally contain a reference to the seasons, although the reference may be somewhat oblique...'

'Eh? Get to the point can't you? We could die at any second!'

Murray the ship's engineer had lost his composure. He seemed ready at any second to hit something or someone with a telekinetic spanner.

'...the seasonal reference in this report is the laughter of the Xi fly. Unfortunately the Xi fly only produces a sound similar to humanoid laughter at the end of hibernation...'

Now the whole crew craned towards Coleen and the cabin was silent other than for the engine's whine.

'...and the current hibernation period of the Xi fly species finishes ten years from now..The report from the robot was a prediction based on hope...'

The captain stood up before he spoke.

'We're going to make a crash landing on a planet held by rebel forces. Before I initiate the landing sequence, let's get one thing clear. That robot's messages aren't any use to us.'

No one heard Coleen mutter,

'If we don't try to understand them...'

Lights flashed around the cabin as the landing procedures began.


- - -
Ron Moreau lives and works in London and various locations in Austria. He is currently working on a speculative fiction novel set in the near future.

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Author: Ron Moreau

Contributor: Ryan Priest

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For about twenty-five hours I was a writer. A real writer. Well screenwriter at least. Not exactly a novelist or poet but a paid man of words nonetheless. Thank god for the internet or I might have labored under this false belief for longer. Twenty five hours, sixty minutes over a day was as long as it took for the entire charade to play itself out.

You don't realize how long five years is until a five year wait ends and sitting in your inbox is a letter from some guy. He calls himself a producer, says he loves your script. And you read, reserving judgment because anybody could be anybody in this business. It might be a thirteen year old boy at the other end of the keyboard.

So I'm a killjoy. I convinced myself that there'd be no pay. There seldom is for someone's first project. The movie might suck. He may have no money or talent, this would-be benefactor come to rescue me after five years of poverty. Los Angeles poverty. After five years of dead ends and unanswered calls...

I never should have told my girlfriend. Not until I was sure. But I wanted to show her that at least some progress had been made. That all of the sacrifices were for something. This guy here, he likes my script. He may be nobody but if he likes it then maybe others will too, maybe somebody. And lacking my cynical discretion she celebrated this "big step" and we went out and paid too much for food at an upscale restaurant. But I didn't get mad once or worry because inside me was this warmth.

Twenty five hours later you're checking your email. There should be some kind of contract to sign and maybe, just maybe, a paycheck. Instead you receive written in a font so innocuous it could never bring devastation, lies. Lies so blatant, a con so obvious that no creature in the possession of the tiniest bit of shame could ever attach their name to the bottom of:

"We just need you to send $3,000 to the address below to get the process started."

And upon seeing the words that little warmth inside me died...


- - -
Ryan Priest is now a produced screenwriter and published novelist. He lives in Los Angeles California where the people are all pretty but the food is all gross.

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Author: Ryan Priest

Contributor: Sean Crose

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Five minutes after we got off the boat we were back on the bus heading towards the hotel. Our last night in Paris, the city of light.
“Beautiful,” she said.
I nodded.
“It really is impressive.”
“I've never seen anything like it.”
“Washington D.C. is similar.”
“Is it?”
“Sort of,” I shrugged. “Each town has its own distinct personality, though.”
We had been on tour together the whole week. I was in my twenties at the time, she her fifties. She had a husband back home in New Zealand.
“I'll miss France,” she said.
“I'm going to miss it, too. Still, it will be good to see my family.”
“I've been missing my husband and dogs,” she smiled.
“You won't be missing them much longer.”
We drove under the Arc de Triomphe and progressed through the Champs-Élysées. People on the tour bus were snapping pictures, soaking in the city for the last time before heading to home to wherever it might be home was.
“I like traveling,” I exclaimed. “It makes the world seem that much bigger.”
She didn't respond. In fact, she didn't say a word for a good ten minutes. She just stared out the window.
“There's Montparnasse in the distance,” I exclaimed.
She still remained silent.
Fifteen minutes later we were back in La Defense, back at the hotel. I wondered if the Vietnamese joint across the plaza was still open.
“Oh Kurt,” she said suddenly, “I have cancer.”
Since that moment I've been wondering how one is to respond to such an abrupt, grave statement.
“I'm so sorry to hear that.”
“I shouldn't have brought it up.”
“Why wouldn't you?”
She shrugged.
“I'm sure it's being treated,” I offered.
She nodded.
“There's hope, then.”
She shrugged once more.
“It doesn't look good.”
“Hang in there,” I said. “Keep fighting the good fight.”
Our rooms were on the same floor. Donald Fagan sang through the speakers of the elevator as we made our way up. The two of us stood there in silence until the doors opened. I now understood why her hair was so short.
“Well,” she abruptly chirped as we stepped into the hallway, “I guess this is it.”
I wanted to say that it's never “it,” at least one should never admit to that fact. I opted, though, to nod silently.
“Take care, then,” she said.
“Have a great flight back,” I replied.
She turned and made her way down the hall. I wondered if I should call out and ask for her email address, her phone number, anything that would allow me to be kept abreast. I decided not to, though, why, I don't know.


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Author: Sean Crose

Contributor: James Higgins

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Another Friday night at the railroad yard. When the last brown bottle was empty I punched the clock with my fist and walked out the door. A beautiful warm summer night. I picked Susie up behind the general store. She was shy at first, but gave in when I sang to her. We went back to my home and I fell through the screen door into the kitchen.
Inside the living room was Mabel. Mabel was old, boring and asleep on the couch in front of the radio, as usual. She looked up from her dirty afghan. Susie and I crept across the floor through the dim glow of the lantern. Mabel lowered her eyes and disapproved but remained silent, as usual. Susie slept in my bed but I woke up alone, as usual. It was three weeks before I saw her again.
I brought Susie home for good and chained her to the wall. "It's better this way." Susie didn't fight. Sometimes she would cry at night and sometimes she would smile.
We've lived together for seven years. I talk about work and Susie is a great listener. We sleep a lot. We eat a lot. We listen to the radio. We go for walks at sundown.
Today her four legs couldn't carry her down the stairs so I shot her in the back of the head. I buried her in the yard next to Mabel.


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James Higgins is a teacher in Detroit. He writes fiction and non-fiction.

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Author: James Higgins