Contributor: MARK SLADE

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I was lying face down on the beach tasting the sand mixed with salt water in my mouth from the ocean's waves repeatedly smashing me in the face. I opened my eyes to a blurred spiraling sun in the damning sky, sending shock waves to my brain.

When my eyes finally focused correctly, I saw Alban lying beside me, dead. A puddle of crimson forming around a black hollow chasm that was once where his left eye had been. His otherwise smooth golden skin on his face had not a scar nor a blemish. He had a dark, ludicrous smile on his face.

I started to rise and discovered the WW1 Colt .45 revolver firmly in my hand.

I jumped up, dropping the gun. “No!” I screamed.

I backed away, cursing at everything and everyone. It was happening again. This time, it was my turn. And I can't understand why God and the universe hates me so.

Alban and I had met a few days ago in the local cafe in Madrid. Stephanie had put us together, she was my contact in the states. Hooking me up to different thieves around the world, all of us apart of the Raven syndicate, providing rare items to the rich and often obsessive people one could meet. Alban was known as the Magical Arab with sticky digits, one of the best thieves from Palestine.

Alban knew where this WW1 Colt revolver resided, It belonged to one Humus Titus. Another of the rich the Ravens had done a service for. But this particular item we had not acquired for him. It seemed Titus stolen this item from the British museum. An item they were not ready to part with.

The revolver has a bit of history to it. Apparently this revolver had belonged to an English officer who who needed medical attention. The officer and a German soldier were lost in the outland of the battle of the Rhine. Caught in the barbed wires that were among ghostly trenches of ill-fated dead, the German soldier cut him loose and as a thanks, the English officer shot the German dead. As Alban relayed it to me, those who fire the weapon is doomed to be killed by the one that had just been killed. And the cycle can not be broken.

Words we should have paid heed to.

It's not the death part that worries me so....

No.

It's the rebirth that I hate so much.

We did as the job required. We broke into Titus castle on this very beach. No problems whatsoever. No guards, no guard dogs, no homeowner, no troubles. In and out like it was nothing. We had rowed over from the island to the north in a small boat. It was only five miles to the beach and Titus castle. We were not taking our lives in the ocean's hands.

At least I didn't think so until the storm came. The storm turned everything inside out and we lost the oars. We were adrift in the ocean with a violent storm swirling around us. Alban had a terrible idea running through his head. He no longer needed me, alive or dead. He drew the .45 revolver on me.

“I can sell this to the Raven syndicate on my own. I don't need you to take my share of the profit.” He said.

The skies behind him were split in two by flashes of yellow-orange lightning and Alban's face was completely drenched by torrential downpour.

Anger had filled me up. I dove upon him and grabbed hold of his hand that held the gun. It fired twice.

As I pushed his hand up to the dark sky with bright slashes across it. That bullet was torn from the barrel and had disappeared into the darkness. He pulled his hand back down, the barrel of the gun facing me. Just as he squeezed the trigger, I jerked his hand backwards. The bullet exploded from the thin barrel and entered Alban's left eye.

I took the gun from his limp hand. Just as I sat on my side of the boat, a strong wind lift the boat into the air....

And here I am, on the beach with a dead Arab.

Oh, God!

I feel it happening.

My skin on my body has become irritated. A burning sensation was inside my chest. The skin was slowly torn right above my heart and lungs. A hand has shown through a bloody mess....golden skinned hands....then arms.....

Just before a dark veil drapes across my eyes and I slip away, I see the same thing is happening to Alban's dead body. As his chest splits open a pair of pale,white hands appear...

The rebirth has begun.

The rebirth of both of us.....


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MARK SLADE LIVES IN WILLIAMSBURG, VA WITH HIS WIFE AND DAUGHTER.
HE HAS APPEARED IN BURIAL DAY, WEIRDYEAR, WORDHAUS AND OTHERS.
HE RUNS THE SHORT STORY PODCAST DARK DREAMS.

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Author: Mark Slade

Contributor: Chelsea Resnick

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We walk through the drip-drip gloom of Pike’s Market, Lena in an electric-purple windbreaker and Marc in a gray wool coat. We’ve never matched in outward appearances, Marc so handsomely tailored, and Lena so quirkily adorned in handmade creations, but we move in step, trusting in the silent communication we’ve always shared. We move past rows of watermelons, carrots, and kumquats. Somewhere off to our right is the Sound, a salty sheet of steel that we can’t see around the frozen stacks of halibut at a fish stall.

Marc speaks openly first. “I thought you were gone for good. I assumed you were married by now. Probably selling your stuff at craft fairs if you weren’t pinned down with kids or something.”

To fill the uncomfortable pause, we each take a haricot from a vendor, a stocky man in overalls and a knitted cap, offering samples. “The sweetest green beans you’ll ever taste!” His voice is like sandpaper, rubbing us smooth.

Our footsteps slow as we crunch into the green haricot stalks. When a group of tourists roar past, they jostle our shoulders and twist our postures. Lena says, “God, we can’t stand still here. Let’s keep moving.” We both understand that these words refer to more than the disruption of tourists.

As we resume our stroll, there is another silent beat in conversation, and we wonder when such awkwardness began. Finally Lena chimes in: “You look taller than I remember.”

“I don’t see how. Last you saw me, I was--what?--twenty-two? People don’t get taller after that age.”

“Still. You look taller.”

For a moment, we lock eyes. Then just as quickly, we look away again. The reflected weight of our stares tells us what we’d rather not know.

“So when is the wedding?” Lena asks.

“End of May. Hopefully the rainy season will be over. Victoria wants to have the reception in the park.”

We stop to buy coffee, ordering two small cups. “Just black, please.” Lena buys a croissant, too. As we pull money from our pockets to pay the cashier, we are careful that our arms don’t brush. Lena’s cash is a crumpled wad from a back pocket. Marc’s is a crisp stack straight from a billfold.

“How long are you in town for?” Marc asks.

“Three more days. The festival is tomorrow and Sunday. I’ll head back to Austin on Monday.”

We don’t address what will happen over the coming days--or even the coming months. Instead, we turn, and Lena asks, “Would you mind if we walked down to the water?”

At each pier, there is a landmark of varying interest. The aquarium. An information booth. An ice cream shop. A boat for touring the Sound. We see these things the way we notice our hands and legs--as matters of fact, easily taken for granted.

At different moments, we are tempted to remark on how each of us has changed--the creases in our faces that weren’t there before--but such words might sound critical, and they never make it off our tongues. Instead, we pass the time with talk of houses, jobs, and weather. Eventually we sit on a bench facing the water. Lena feeds the last bits of croissant to the gulls pacing at our feet.

Neither of us is sure when it happens. Or whose hand inches out first. But after a long while, we look down and see that somehow our palms have found one another, fingers thoroughly entwined.

“I always thought...” Marc starts.

It doesn’t matter that our fingers are knitted together, for we both sense the great unraveling that is happening.

We press our hands tighter.

The permanence of loss absorbs later, when we each ride in airplanes and cars, our bodies molded to chairs that carry us away. Our spheres disconnect and drift, but our thoughts are together still, sitting at that bench in front of the Sound.


- - -
Chelsea Resnick is a Texas-born, Kansas-bred writer with works published by Hallmark Gift Books, Every Day Fiction, and StressFree Living Magazine, among others. She currently lives in North Carolina.

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Author: Chelsea Resnick

Contributor: David Macpherson

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My father was beside himself over the dirt bikes. A bunch of the neighborhood teenagers had dirt bikes and they rode through our subdivision late at night, every night. Because our house was on the corner of Hemlock Lane and Elm Street, they cut through our lawn, tearing up the grass every time.

His first course of action was talking to the dirt biker’s parents. Did he really think that was going to help? It seemed that the ruts in the lawn got deeper.

Next, my father reasoned that he should make the lawn less appealing to the dirt bikers. He bought a large landscaping rock and placed it in the middle of the lawn, the place that the bikes always appeared to go through. In the morning, we woke to see that this large half ton rock was rolled up right next to the house. Like a giant Easter egg roll, they pushed the offending lawn obstruction away from their preferred bike path.

My father had the rock returned to its place and planted pricker bushes all around it. The bikers responded. The bushes were pruned down to the roots and the rock was now just gone, never to be seen again.

It was here that he stopped seeing them as annoying kids with dirt bikes and only as the enemy. He taught my sister and I a new word, proliferation.

From a Korean War buddy, he scored a half dozen or so landmines and as a family activity, we planted them in the lawn. It was similar to our gardening chores, if the geranium bulbs were hollowed out and filled with nitro glycerine.

We were awoken by two shattering explosions and pleas for help. No one was killed, but two of the kids were without dirt bikes and one was missing a pinky finger. That was the last time they tore through our yard.

The only thing, my father was not in ordinance back in Korea; he was a desk jockey. His ability to retrieve unused armaments probably was a tad underdeveloped. My sister discovered this fact as she ran through the yard for the school bus. She heard the distinct click of a landmine being stepped on.

She stopped and and cried for help. She stood there for seven hours. They had to call the bomb squad from Chicago to deal with it. When she was finally taken off the mine, she had no more tears to weep. She was haggard and exhausted.

My father swept her into his arms and bombarded her with apologies. He was so sorry. How can he prove to her he was sorry? What can he get for her so she will forgive him?

My sister looked at him and said, “I want a dirt bike.”


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Author: David Macpherson

Contributor: Brent Rankin

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    Our baby was born a…ah…I don’t know how to say this.  Even now, I shutter when I think about it.  When delivered, our baby was…a frog.  A tadpole, actually, with the little green arms and legs just forming, and a tail to match.  Huge bulbous eyes, both with convex lens like swimming goggles, filled with a clear fluid.  Water, I think.  A toad.  When slapped on its bottom (where ever that was), it didn’t cry.  It just went “ribit…ribit…” and licked its long slanted forehead with its elongated tongue.
    I realized it was time to have a talk with the wife, but she was sedated.  So I waited in the room where fathers’ wait.  How am I going to explain this to the family?  Who is even going to believe me?  Where is my sedation?  I’ll be put away.  Locked in a room with padded walls, where the books have short words, large letters, and plenty of pictures.  What was I to do?
    The nurse sauntered in and announced that my wife was awake and wanted to see me.  She made no mention of the amphibian in the cradle (an aquarium, really, on rockers) beside my wife’s bed.
    When I entered the room, she could tell by the expression on my face that something was greatly amiss.  I sat down in a chair on the opposite side of the bed from the…baby…and stared at my wife.  For a while, anyway.
    She opened her eyes wider, smiled, and then said, “Beautiful, isn’t he?”
    “It’s a frog,” I said.
    “Oh, my little prince, of course he’s a frog.  What did you think?”  When there was an argument, I was called The Little Prince.  Always The Little Prince, like the fake compliment would ease the tensions.
    “I expected something more…human,” I said, “You know, pink and bald, ten fingers and toes.  You know?”
    “Oh,” she cooed, closing her eyes, “That’s right.  You forgot.”
    “Forgot?  Forgot what?”
    “When we first met, I was enchanted by you.  Do you remember?  You, sitting there, all proud and regal, wearing that cute tiny crown.”
    I squinted, put my face closer to hers and said, “What are you talking about?”
    “The pond was so very calm and the lily pads just floated on the water, gently, like cotton.  “Kiss me’ you said.”
    “I asked you to kiss me?  By a pond?”
    “Not by a pond, you where in a pond, sitting on a lily pad.”
    “What?”
    “You said that if I kissed you, you’d become a handsome prince and love me forever.”
    “…what…?
    “So I picked you up and gently kissed your mouth, because you didn’t have lips.  And here you are.”
    “You kissed me and you fell in love with me?  Are you still doped up?  What do you mean that I didn’t have any lips?”
    She turned her head to the side and giggled into the pillow.
    And then she said, “Silly Prince.  Look at your son.  Frogs don’t have lips.”


- - -
It's true. One has to kiss a lot of nasty things, until you find the real one.

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Author: Brent Rankin

Contributor: Jerry Guarino

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    Times change and we change with them.  Television, movies, clothing, food; you could probably name your own list.  Technology has probably been the most significant catalyst of change.  Think about the cell phone, digital camera and the Internet.  Joey was one of those people who resisted change, someone still looking for phone booths and mailboxes in 2013.
    “I’d like a roll of stamps please,” said Joey.
    “Sorry, we don’t sell stamps anymore” replied the pretty teenager.
    “But it’s Sunday.  The post office is closed.”
    “You can always email,” said the grocery store clerk.
    “I don’t have a computer,” said Joey.  The girl just shrugged a little, not knowing what to say.
    Guess I’ll just go to the library.  Tony figured he could get a book to spend time with.  As he drove into the library parking lot, he noticed designated spaces for fuel-efficient vehicles, school vans and compact cars along the front entrance.  His 1978 Cadillac didn’t fit any of these categories, so he parked in the back and walked up.
    When he arrived, he saw the modern, grey Formica desks in neat rows, at least 50 of them, with black computer keyboards and monitors.  No computer boxes, just thin coated wires running into the floor.  He looked for the library card catalog, but he didn’t see it, not even a Dewey Decimal system sign to direct him to the non-fiction history titles he liked to read.  Hmm.  How about that?
    He walked up to the checkout counter, but no one was there.  What kind of library is this?  He saw people checking out their books by scanning their cell phone over the bar code.  Joey didn’t have a cell phone; in fact he still had a rotary dial phone at home.  Guess I’m just a dinosaur.  The woman walked up to the checkout counter.
    “May I help you?”
    “Yes, I’m looking for books on The Civil War.  I didn’t see the card catalog.”
    “No, sorry.  We replaced those years ago.  You can use the terminals over there.”
    “I don’t know how.  Can you just point me to the right aisle please?”
    “C’mon.  I’ll walk you over to it.  We don’t have many people looking for American history anymore.  It’s good to know someone does.”  The Asian beauty didn’t look like any librarian he remembered.  “Here we are.  Civil War books are on this shelf here.”
    “Thank you” and he watched her walk away.  The books were older, some with broken spines and several with dust on them.  Oh, let’s see.  ‘The Red Badge of Courage’ by Stephen Crane.  I’ve read that.  Maybe something about Lincoln.  What’s this one?   ‘Abraham Lincoln and Civil War America’.  Joey took the book out, hoping the librarian was back at the check out counter.
    She was.  “Hey, you found one.  Yes, this is a very good book.  Give me your library card.”  Joey handed her the card and the librarian quickly scanned the book.  “Here you go.  It’s due in three weeks.”
    “Thank you again,” said Joey.  He walked out of the library, admiring his new book.  
    Turning the corner, he heard a loud honk.  He looked up just as a motorcycle hit him.  Joey fell hard and hit his head.  The next sound he heard was an ambulance siren.
    “Just lie still sir; don’t try to get up,” said an EMT.  He scanned Joey’s head with some space age gadget.  Joey heard beeps and other sounds.  “You’re going to be fine sir.  But we’re going to take you to the hospital to make sure.”
    Joey went in and out of consciousness during the ride in the ambulance.  Meanwhile the EMT monitored his blood pressure and breathing.  He slipped away again as they rolled him into the emergency room.
    A nurse attached an IV bag of fluids to his arm and an oxygen clip to his index finger.  The doctor examined his eyes, pulse rate and other vital signs.  “Do a CBC and keep salts and fluids in him.  His breathing is fine, but let him rest.  Call me when you get the blood count.”  
    The nurse stayed with Joey as he slept, monitoring the heart rate and oxygen levels.  Another nurse returned with the doctor as he scanned the blood count numbers.  He walked over to Joey, just as he was waking up.
    “Mr. Wilson, I’m doctor Rivera.  You were lucky it was a motorcycle.  Otherwise you might be looking at broken bones or worse.  It looks like you just have a concussion, and we’re going to keep you here overnight for observation.  If everything is OK in the morning, we’ll release you and you can rest at home.”
    Joey looked up, trying to focus his eyes on the doctor, still hazy from the bump on his head.  His speech was soft but understandable.  

“Do you sell stamps?”

- - -
Jerry Guarino’s short stories have been published by dozens of magazines in the United States, Canada, Australia and Great Britain. His latest book, "50 Italian Pastries", is available on amazon.com and as a kindle ebook. Please visit his website at http://cafestories.net

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Author: Jerry Guarino

Contributor: Jeremy Levine

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Jeb was puttering along, sitting atop his tractor, its rattling vibrations shaking his gritted teeth. He turned his head skyward, observing a hawk glide across the cloudless sky in effortless circles. While his gaze was distracted, there was a crashing and a clunking, a rumbling under his vehicle.

“Tarnation!”

Jeb tuned off the tractor and jumped down from it, stumbling as he landed on the soft earth. He spotted a flash of red on the brown dirt by the front tire. He rushed forward and knelt down. Sheriff was there, crushed under the wheel, stone dead.

“Ma! I need you!”

Jeb pivoted in his squat, his eye on his home. After a few seconds, Jebʼs wife, Henrietta, was out in the field, her apron billowing in the dusty wind.

“Whatcha need, honey?”

“The dog, Ma, the dog!” Jeb said, a shaking finger pointing at the deceased
canine.

“Oh Lord in heaven, did you do that?”

“I know Ma, itʼs bad. Itʼs bad. I need you to break it to Betsy. Sheʼs a-gonna be home any minute.”

“Why me?”

“”Cuz Iʼmma run across to the Bakers. They just had a litter.”

“So this puppy that youʼre gonna steal was supposedly Sheriffʼs?”

“I donʼt know, Ma, I guess.”

“And Iʼm supposed to tell her that you hit Sheriff with a tractor?”

“No!”

“Then what do I tell her?”

“Make something up,” he said, walking away towards the Baker home.

“Right,” Henrietta grumbled to herself, her head spinning with semi-believable explanatory fictions. “Just leave me to deal with this one.”

There was a mechanical roaring behind her as the school bus kicked up a storm of dust out in the street. The muted pounding of the small, excited footsteps of a Friday afternoon were getting closer.

Henrietta left the field timidly in response to Betsyʼs two note whistle.

“Sheriff!” she called.

Clap. Clap.

“Sheriff!”

“Hi, honey,” Henrietta said, unhitching their squeaky picket gate and kneeling
down to give Betsy a hug.

“Hi Ma! Whereʼs Sheriff?”

“Honey, come on inside, thereʼs something I want to tell you.”

“Ma, whereʼs Sheriff?”

Henrietta opened the aluminum front door, ushering Betsy inside.


“Here, you want some cider?”

The kitchen was a dimly lit room with wooden tables and countertops. Squeaky clean dishes were arranged neatly cabinets with glass windows. Henrietta reached over the barometer for a ladle and began scooping helpings of apple cider into a a pair of glasses. Betsy plopped into a wobbly kitchen chair.

“Honey, I need to tell you something.”

Henrietta placed the two glasses on the faded green tablecloth and sat opposite her daughter.

“Betsy, you know that puppies donʼt always make it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, when a puppy is born, it might get sick and die, which is a really sad thing.”

“Uh huh.”

“Well, the good news is that Sheriff had a baby puppy, and we kept him a secret from you just in case he didnʼt make it.”

“Because I would be sad?”

“Right.”

“But now heʼs gonna be fine?”

“Yes.”

“Yay!” Betsy jumped out of her seat and was dancing around the kitchen. “Now me and Sheriff and... and... and... Deputy! Thatʼs his name! Deputy! Me and Sheriff and Deputy can run around and play together and have so much fun!”

Henrietta got up and wrung her hands, reaching out to Betsy.

“Well, Betsy, actually, thereʼs something else that I have to tell you. You see--”

But Betsy was having none of it, gallivanting around the kitchen, rambling. “We can play fetch and weʼll train Deputy. Sheriff can help because Sheriff is already trained. I wonder if we have enough food. Ma, can we go get some more food? I donʼt want them to get hungry when we have so much to do.”

Henrietta stood up and walked to Betsy, gingerly placing a hand on her shoulder.

“Betsy, you see, there was a problem. We were keeping Deputy at the Bakerʼs house for a few days while we made sure he was healthy. When they were on their way here, a wolf came.”

“A wolf?”

“Yes. You know theyʼve been around the area lately. Sheriff got in front of Deputy, to protect him. The wolf attacked and Sheriff kept him off long enough for Deputy to run away back to the Bakers, but Sheriff didnʼt make it. Iʼm sorry, Betsy.”

“What do you mean, didnʼt make it?”

“The wolf, uh, got him.”

“Is he dead?”

“Yes.”

Betsyʼs lip quivered. Henrietta got up and walked the length of the table, half-
squatting to rub her daughterʼs back. “Shhh, Betsy, itʼs okay to cry. She died doing a good thing, protecting her baby. Thatʼs what a mama always wants to do. And now I donʼt want to see my baby all sad. Come here.”

Betsy buried her head in Henrietta's breast, sobbing into her apron. “Shh, shh, itʼs
okay, itʼs okay.”

The storm door banged open and a clawed scurrying was heard on the wooden floor. Deputy rocketed around the house, crashing into cabinets and walls.

“Hello ladies,” Jeb said, “I brought your puppy home.”

Betsy peeked through a gap between her motherʼs arm and her body to watch the dog bounce around the home. She smiled. Henrietta loosened her hug and Betsy jumped down from her chair and scampered off with the puppy. It jumped up and licked her face.

Henrietta got up and stood alongside her husband.

“How much did the want for the dog?”

“They had too many. There were just giving em away.”

The parents watched their daughter for a content moment, grateful that she
daughter had found another friend.

“I should probably move the tractor.”

“Yeah, probably.”


- - -
Jeremy Levine is a sophomore at Clark University in Worcester, Massachusetts, where he is the Editor-In-Chief of the student newspaper, The Scarlet. He is originally from Long Island, New York.

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Author: Jeremy Levine

Contributor: Victoria Slotover

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I feel like Chicken Licken waiting for the sky to fall down; the unsayable unsaid is heavy in the air about to plummet.

They’ve been busying me into forgetting, or at least trying to. We’ve fed the ducks, been to the shops, baked cakes, but I know it could crash down on my head at any minute and there’s nothing any of us can do to stop it. I hold my breath all day waiting for it to happen, a part of me
wishes it would just so I can stop wondering when it will, but that’s only a tiny part, and at night however much I beg sleep to come and take the worry away, it’s my dreams that stay away instead.

There’s an empty space on my cheek where her kiss should be and I touch my fingers to it as I listen to Grandma and Grandpa shuffling about, going to the bathroom, going to bed. Sometimes I hear one of them get up in the night and boil the kettle. They seem to do that a lot. Boil the kettle. It must be magic or something because it seems to help them stay awake, and get to sleep. I wish I had a magic kettle, then maybe I’d be able to change things, to make everything alright again, to make her
better.

I finally fall asleep dreaming of magic and her and for a brief moment when I open my eyes the spell is intact but then I remember and it breaks. I hear Grandma in the kitchen making tea. Why does it work for her and not for me?

They’ve tried to talk to me, looking at each other not sure who should go first. It’s usually Grandpa. ‘Your mother,’ he says. I run from the room to the bed I can’t sleep in and let go of my tears. For a while as I listen to the sounds of my sobs I stop hearing the thud of my thoughts.

Daddy hasn’t been to see me. He’s been with her. He calls Grandma and Grandpa every evening with updates. That’s what grown-ups call, news. Not the sort of news we write in our weekend diaries at school. That’s good news. This isn’t. This news normally makes the person listening say things like, ‘Ah, I see’ rather than, ‘Oh, how lovely’. He’s tried to speak to me but I won’t listen, I don’t want to hear his news. So each time Grandma tries to pass me the phone I clamp my hands over my ears
and scream.

Daddy hasn’t phoned this evening. I stir the bath bubbles and wonder if no news is better than bad news. I hear Grandpa open the door and then two under water voices in the hall. Getting closer. I cover my ears and start to shriek as Daddy opens the door to tell me that my mother’s dead, but he gets it wrong and says over and over again until I can’t help hearing- I have a new baby brother.


- - -
I write fiction for Mumsense Magazine, and my short stories have been published on The Writer’s Hub and the Short Fiction Collective as well as in the Ham & High. They have been accepted for publication by Smashed Cat Magazine, Bartleby Snopes and Families Magazine.

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Author: Victoria Slotover

Contributor: Ryan Stevens

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Phillie’s used to be the place. There used to be crowds here every night of the week, packed in here like sardines. Used to be, like I said. Now I’m sittin on a barstool by my lonesome, while Phillie himself shines the mugs and makes nice with some wiseguy and his lady all dolled up in red. I wonder what it’d be like to have the old days, the salad days of this place come back again. It’d be different, sure. The patrons have all aged a little, we’re not as lively as we used to be, yeah, but still, what a sight it would be to have the old crowd back in here, even with the extra gray hairs.

It’s so bright in here. Ol’ Phillie’s has these damn fluorescent bulbs that throw fake light all over the place, blasting this harsh glow on every square inch of the place. They bombard the surfaces, hemming in all the shadows to the smallest possible specks of darkness. Behind the counter, low to the ground, there’s a rim of shadow that is completely safe from the lights. Out on the customers’ side of things there’s nowhere for our shadows to hide. Even us non-shadows kind of suffer from these lights. They glint and gleam off of every reflective surface in the damn place. It ain’t so bad in the daytime, when the natural light pouring in from the big windows covering two of the three walls in the place. At night, thought, the transition from natural darkness (even at dusk when there’s still natural light out, just dimmed is all) to this store-bought light is absolute hell on the senses. Not just the eyes. Yeah, your eyes sting with whiplash and you’ve got to do a few blinks to adjust, but it’s more than that. Your ears perk and readjust to the air pressure of the tiny room. Your nose crinkles when you squint in the new light and as a result you get an even bigger whiff of the cigar smoke and the coffee. From that your brain sends a pulse to your mouth, guessing how everything tastes, all because of the lights. And the last sense, touch, that one feels the lights just as much as your eyes do. The hairs twitch, your hair goes ever-so-slightly taut with the tension of transitioning from the real, natural world of shadows and dusk and crowds to this place, all linoleum floors and chrome coffee makers.

I could be eavesdropping on Little Miss Red and Bogart jr.’s conversations over there, every now and then extending to include Phillie, if I wanted to. I don’t want to. I just want to finish my coffee and go home. This place, it really did used to be something. I’m here more than I really should be, and it’s not like I ever plan to come here when I wake up. But over the course of the day I get all misty-eyed and start thinking about those old days when there were more people to talk to besides Phillie himself and Miss Scarlet and her Sharkskin boyfriend, people that were interesting and going places and fun to talk to.

Like I said, I don’t want to listen to that vapid tube of lipstick and Sinatra jr.’s conversation. But in a place this small, with sound bouncing off the three walls mercilessly, no cup of Joe or Sports Page or even a pair of steel wool earmuffs could blot out everything. she says something about “hitting up that new jazz place” and I can see Phillie wilt ever so slightly. I can’t blame the poor guy; that tart just flat out said she wanted to leave this place to go somewhere else, right in front of the owner! No tact, these people.

Not that I can fairly blame her, not really. It is dead in here, tonight and every night the same for God knows how long. At least, that’s how it’s been the nights I’ve been here.

I think about all those old times and I feel like they’re coming back. I really do. I genuinely trick myself, damn near hypnotize my own mind, into thinking that tonight, tonight, Phillie’s comes back. Or rather, people come back to Phillie’s. So I come by, expecting to actually have to wait in line (a problem no one has encountered at Phillie’s in a long time). And that’s never the case. I’ll sit, drink some coffee and read the Sports Page. Phillie’ll polish his mugs near me and we’ll shoot the breeze if it’s an extra slow day, but if someone new strolls in, he latches on like a tick, hoping to convert looky-loos into new regulars. I’m not mad, honestly. If I was him, I’d be doing the exact same thing. After all, for me this is just the hollow shell of a good time. For Phillie it’s the hollow shell of his source of income. Poor fella, nothing by way of legacy but a three-corner shack on a street corner in a past-its-prime part of town. I can’t even imagine that kind of life.


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Ryan Stevens was born and raised on a farm in South Carolina. He found this boring, so now he writes.

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Author: Ryan Stevens

Contributor: Jerry Guarino

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Joey and Sam were watching his sister Susan through the window of Sam’s house next door. They used the telescope Sam got for Christmas; Susan left the window shade open to get some natural light as she got ready for a date.

“What’s she doing now Joey?”
“I don’t know. Putting some kind of cream on her face.”
“I thought she already did that.”
“This is makeup, I think. It’s different.”
“How long does it take?”
“Once last year during prom it took two hours.”
“Two hours! Impossible.”
“I swear it Sam. On my baseball card collection.”
“Well, where is she going?”
“Some dance at the college.”
“The college? But she’s still in high school.”
“What can I tell you? Some guy saw her studying at their library. I don’t think he knows she’s in high school.”
“Do your parents know?”
“No, they think she’s going out with her friends to the high school dance tonight. They would never let her go to the college with a guy. They’re afraid…”
“Afraid of what?”
“You know.”
“No, what?”
“Remember what your Dad told you about how babies are made?”
“Ew! That. Think she wants to do that?”
“I don’t know. It seems that’s what college guys do with college girls.”
“But Susan’s seventeen. Isn’t that against the law?”
“Not if she wants to. I think. How should I know? I’m eleven.”
“Wait, she’s left the room. Probably to get dressed.”
“Sam, you have that Playboy, the one with the college girls?”
“Yeah Joey. It’s under my bed. Why?”
“Those girls, you know. They do it. Let’s see what they wear.”
“That’s some funny underwear. Why is it shiny?”
“I guess that’s so the boy can find them in the dark. What’s that thing?”
“I don’t know. Looks like a dog collar. Why does a girl need that?”
“Beats me. Has a nice pin in the middle, but no way it would hold a dog. It looks more like ribbon.”
“Look, see here. That’s the same dog collar, black with a white pin in the middle. Oh, now I get it.”
“What?”
“Never mind. I thought it was something to hold on a cape, but here’s a girl with just the collar and underpants on.”
“Man. You’re right. Wait, she’s wearing shoes too.”
“Oh, yeah. OK. I didn’t see that. Don’t look like shoes I’ve ever seen before, more like something from a fairy tale.”
“Yeah, like Cinderella. Don’t look comfortable though. Too high off the ground.”
“Hey, your sister’s coming back into the bathroom. Whoa!”
“What, let me look.”
“She’s wearing shiny underwear and one of those collar things. Now she’s putting on a red dress.”
“My turn. Give me the telescope. Oh. This isn’t good.”
“What?”
“She put the collar in her purse. Guess she doesn’t want your parents to see it.”
“Wow. That’s some dress.
“Let me see. Uh oh. That’s the red dress she wore at junior prom, the night she got in trouble for staying out too late.”
“Did she wear shiny underwear that night?”
“How do I know? We were camping in the backyard that day, remember? And we didn’t have the telescope.”
“Yeah, the telescope was a great Christmas present that year.”
“Yeah.”
“So, is she done getting ready?”
“Nope. Now she has to do something with her hair.”
“Her hair is already dry. I saw the hair dryer.”
“Yeah, but now she curls it with some hot thing and some spray.”
“How long does that take?”
“Another half hour. I timed it.”
“No wonder she started at five. It’s six now. When will she leave?”
“Probably not until seven. After she gets dressed, she talks on the phone with her friends. They talk about what they’re wearing and boys and other stuff. I don’t listen too well.”
“And what time is she supposed to be home?”
“Eleven o’clock, a half hour after the dance ends.”
“But she’s not going to the dance. She’s going to the college.”
“I know. But she would be foolish to be out too late, not after prom last year.”
“I’m going to get dinner. You want to come over? We can see her up close when she leaves.”
“OK. Let me hide the magazine first. Mom doesn’t know I have it.”
“Yeah, they never look under the bed.”
“If she did, she would have talked to me about it.”
“All right. I’m going home. Tell your mom you’re coming over to my house for dinner.”
“Hey! If I ask her to sleep over, we can wait till your sister comes home.”
“That’s great. Yeah. Maybe you should bring the magazine, you know, in case we get bored.”
“Yeah. I’ll roll it up in my sleeping bag.”
“Bring two, OK?”
“Yeah, two.”


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Jerry Guarino’s short stories have been published by dozens of magazines in the United States, Canada, Australia and Great Britain. His latest book, "50 Italian Pastries", is available on amazon.com and as a kindle ebook. Please visit his website at http://cafestories.net

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Author: Jerry Guarino

Contributor: Peter McMillan

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Day 1
There was a different guy on the corner. I wondered what happened to the old man.

Day 5
On the second day, the new guy greeted us pedestrians by humming loudly, "Hi ho, hi ho, it's off to work we go!" At first, it was funny, especially for the morning rush, but you were still torn between chuckling and wanting to throttle the mockingbird.

In passing, something about the new guy—I called him Panhandler Pete—reminded me of a homeless guy I met when I was in college. I was visiting D.C. It was on the Mall and we happened to be sharing a bench. He told me his life story, at length and without any prompting. He'd been a psychoanalyst before getting blacklisted. He said he had no regrets though, not of any duration anyway, because he got rid of them by shouting through the fence at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. This, he said, served the additional purpose of securing short-term food and lodging. I dropped a couple of bills in Pete's coffee cup.

Day 6
Monday morning—worst time of day on the worst day of the week—and again we're serenaded past like Disney drones. Not really thoughtful, this new guy. Quite insensitive really. “No money today,” I shouted as I ran past. He had to learn the rules.

Day 26
After a brief settling in period, Monday mornings began to look less miserable and gray. Panhandler Pete's "Hi ho, hi ho" thing didn't vex any more. And he'd taken to entertaining. Last week, he introduced magic tricks. At first nobody stopped, but day by day we got more curious, and we moved closer. By week's end, some of us stood and watched, mesmerized by Pete's show. Meanwhile the traffic light changed again and again. I was late for work three days and missed my performance review ... twice. “Train delays,” I said.

Day 31
Pete showed off a new set of tricks ... making stock picks. He would run through 10 stocks and give his buy, sell, and hold opinions. A beggar predicting the market? It was laughable, except that as he spoke, the language of the Street fell so fluently and melodiously from his lips, he had to be in the know. I couldn't swear it was him, since we'd only ever talked over the phone, but listening to Pete evoked images of my former stockbroker, the fellow who helped me see the need for a second mortgage and a moonlighting job. However, even if it was him, I couldn't exactly beat up a homeless guy. It would be me that got mobbed. Instead, I approached Pete and whispered, “It’s good to see you again.” He smiled.

Day 40
It was brutally cold. I don't know how these people do it, but there he was day like the postman ... of yesteryear. I hadn't forgotten about our possible history, so when I dropped change in his cup, I greeted him by name. The first couple of times he was taken aback, but he got used to it, likely judging me to be no real threat. However, he did stop picking stocks. The magic tricks were out, too. Come to think of it, it might have just been the cold. Now, he was shrunk into a ball to give the wind less to cut into. You couldn't see flesh. It was all tucked away into this snow-encrusted human ball. As I came closer to drop my coins into the coffee cup, which was nearly hidden in the snow, I saw a yellowish stain on the ground. My god! All of a sudden, I forgot everything about why I thought I should hate this man. I reached down and asked whether I could take him someplace warm. He raised his head slowly and choked out words to the effect that I should smile, because it wasn't as bad as it looked.

Day 41
All weekend I hadn't been able to get the image of Panhandler Pete out of my head. I brought a blanket, and not wanting to humiliate him, I gave it to the little girl in the private school uniform I'd seen watching the magic shows. I asked her to give it to him, and when she took it over to him, he turned his head graciously towards her, and I was speechless. It wasn't Pete.

I shuffled over through the snow, and asked what had happened to Pete, and the old man said that Pete was just temporary. The old man had collected a lot of money—he wouldn't say how much—just to give up his spot for 40 days. Pete, he said, had a bet on with some hustlers at the Exchange.

All that was left of Pete's turn on the street was a half-empty Lemon Gatorade bottle.


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The author is a freelance writer and ESL instructor who lives on the northwest shore of Lake Ontario with his wife and two flat-coated retrievers. In 2012, he published his first book, Flash! Fiction.

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Author: Peter McMillan