Contributor: Gavin Wilson

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While waiting for his girlfriend he noticed the slim, nondescript volume on the library shelves. As he had little to occupy his time, or his mind, his hands made a decision for his brain and reached out for entertainment. Not really concentrating, he flicked idly through looking for pictures. He wasn’t normally much of a reader, preferring a good comic, so it was some moments before his brain, preoccupied with other thoughts, realised the pages in front of him were blank.

He stopped and, concentrating more fully now, opened the book at random, finding an earlier entry in what looked like a diary.

…Adam finished his toast, marmalade as usual, put on his red jumper and left the house, forgetting his library card which lay on the desk in the hall…

Dry mouthed, Adam looked at his jumper, checked his wallet for his library card, which was missing, and looked ahead to the most recent entry.

Words appeared on the page as he watched, magically inking themselves into literary existence. His mouth opened in amazement as he read the most recent line.

… having waited half an hour for his girlfriend, she finally turned up with an armful of books…

He shut the small volume with a snap. He’d been there for ten minutes: the book was twenty minutes ahead of time. He knew what was going to happen in the future.

Looking around, he noticed a comfy looking chair in the corner and sat heavily on the cushioned leather. Once settled he re-opened the book to look into the past. Everything written there was an exact copy of what had happened in his life, but only spanned a few weeks of time. It was a slim book after all, he thought. He shut the book again and sat, deep in thought with the book held loosely in one hand.

Did he want to know what happened in the future? Did he really want to spend his life looking twenty minutes ahead to make sure he didn’t do anything stupid; a slave to the immediate future? If it was written down, could he change it anyway?

A myriad of questions, possibilities and unknowns flashed through his brain as he sat staring into space.

~

“Adam?”

He smiled as he became aware of her. She stood nearby, a large armful of books in her hands.

“You found something to read?” she said, a puzzled look on her face as he struggled for words. He took a deep breath and seemed to come to some sort of decision.

“Nah, you know I prefer a good comic,” he replied.

He stood up, kissed her and smiled wryly, making sure he slotted the book back on the shelf where he’d found it. As he pushed it back into place, he turned away, putting his arm around Anna, and so missed the fleeting appearance of a face in the leather cover of the book. The soundless scream formed in the patina went unnoticed as the book slid back between its fellows on the shelf.

The Librarian watched them leave.

Reaching up with long fingers, he pulled the book from the shelf and looked at the still screaming soul trapped in the book as it raged within the confines of the spell. He opened the rear cover and added another mark to the tally, the ink fading once he’d added the most recent line.

The humans constantly surprised him, but one day, the trap would be sprung and a second soul would be trapped inside the book, releasing the power he craved.

Until then, all he could do was wait; quietly. The Librarian was good at waiting…

…sssh!


- - -
Although trained as a geologist, Gavin has spent most of his life buried in the pages of other worlds. With thoughts of choosing a mid-life crisis, he has now taken a literary route and fills blank pages with worlds of his own construction.

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Author: Gavin Wilson

Contributor: Michael A Perry

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“The last time I cried watching the news,” he says, looking over her shoulder at the open cupboard. “The last time was Katrina. The nine inch color tv. The last days of analog. Still have it in my basement. Useless now.”

“And this time?” she asks.

“50 inch plasma. You ask me, it seems less real. Too perfect. Too pretty. You know I used a fork to get reception on that old thing.”

He stands up and walks over to the cupboard. He closes it.

“Actually, sobbing is a better word to describe it. I sobbed. My wife, she didn’t say a word. But the look she gave me. Man, she always knew what to say without saying it.”

“Did you sob this time?” She clarifies. He is looking up at the ceiling. A light is out. She had noticed this when they first sat down.

He answers with his eyes.

Outside she can still see the fires. They are far away. At night, it seems you never get away from them. And when you live in a desert, there is nothing to put them out.

“Did you turn it on knowing what to expect?” she asks. “I mean, with Katrina, I just turned on the tv and there it was. An old woman waving on a rooftop. Fuckin’ unreal.”

He smiles. And he looks young again. It erases lines and years. Wonderful what a carefully placed f-bomb could do.

“I smelled it before anything. Then I opened up my browser. Then the tv.” He walks to the closet and grabs a light bulb. Standing on the kitchen table in his hiking boots, he changes the light. She lights a cigarette.

“Before all of this, I would never had considered this again,” she says, looking around for something to ash in. “But everything is just sitting out there. It’s not really looting with so few around.”

“What are we doing?” he asks. He voice is strained. “This conversation. Why, in this of all worlds, are you talking around it? Why can’t you just ask me?”

He jumps off the table. At his age, and he still jumps. Suddenly she remembers complaining to dad about being dragged along to his games. The star point guard.

“And do we just smoke inside people’s houses now? Is that our response?” he says. But he is not mad. Not at her.

Outside a light flares in the east. God, another one. They will hear it soon. It has been almost an entire week. She was beginning to think they might have stopped. The sound. Seconds later, a slight rumble. Her ash falls to the floor. She rubs it into the carpet with her bare foot.

“Who carpets their kitchen, Alex? And yes, that is what I do,” she says, exhaling smoke directly at him. “And I’d drink if you had anything decent in your fridge.”

Alex leaves the kitchen, muttering. She considers following. Before she can move she hears glass shattering. Then a string of expletives. Then more glass. But he cried for Katrina, she thinks. Her sensitive little brother. He would need her, and so she made it to his door after all this time, during the end of everything. She couldn’t make it to the funeral, but she was here now. And what she had done to get here. She couldn’t think of that. Not now. Not here.

“Kate,” he calls from the other room.

She tosses her cigarette into a cold cup of coffee left on the counter, probably days old, and follows his voice.

“Here,” he says. “And careful for the glass. But look.”

It’s the 9 inch television. Mustard Yellow. The one they watched the Jetson’s on when they were kids, eating colored cereal and drinking apple juice.

“Where is the fork?” she asks.

“With the rest of the silverware,” he says. “She took it with her. The fork. A
month before all this happened. We tried calling you. We always did. But…A blown tire, they say. That’s it. A blown tire. Her Hyundai veers left, jumps a curb and runs into a flatbed stacked with re-bar. Impaled. Left breast and right eye. Pinned her to the seat. It’s all so impossible. You know she survived. That’s the true horror. They moved her and the re-bar to the ER. And then they tell me she died moments before I made it there? Why tell me that?”

He starts to laugh. She reaches for another cigarette.

“She was taking it to have it polished. The silverware. Who even does that? And all of this?” he says, gesturing toward the windows, the fires, the yellow sky. “I don’t cry for this. This is a welcome distraction.”


- - -
Michael A Perry is an assistant professor in the department of English at Rockford College. He teaches creative writing, African American literature, and popular culture studies. In summers and on breaks, he turns his attention to fiction writing.

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Author: Michael A Perry

Contributor: Christopher T Garry

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Nothing but the soft hum of the ship's electronics accompanied Michael as he lay dreaming again. The crew's quarters were in almost perfect darkness. Glasses, water, a pen, a pill wrapper and a communicator all individually reflected the dim pinpoint lights that could be seen in the bedside console. He dreamed as he had every night since leaving the colonies months ago. In his bunk he was perfectly still with only his eyes moving from side to side under his lids.

#

In his dream he was looking for someone. Michael stepped from the train and looked about the platform uncertain of where exactly the boy had gone. Steam obscured his view of the platform, the train yard and industrial district beyond. The men were all in hats and there were a few women bundled against the cold. Soldiers lined the edge of the platform, chatting amongst themselves, keeping wary eyes on the crowd with tired, lined faces. Clearly no child was going to be trailed directly in such a disarray of gray and brown dreariness.

He drifted toward the terminal with the rest of the people. He knew his job and he knew the station well. As long as the boy had no idea he was being followed he could safely assume that the child would follow a predictable path off the train, out of the station and into the city. He knew where he lived, where he went to school. He knew the disposition of his family and where his usual haunts were during the short daylight hours of winter in the village that they had left behind. What he did not know was why the boy had broken his routine and taken the train here to Sterngarten with such apparent urgency.

The city was a transportation hub along the eastern borderlands, home to few but the most resolved artisans and tradesmen. There were factories, warehouses and shipyards along the riverfront. Most of the populace here were transient following private agendas, working for a few months and then moving on. No one remained attached for very long during wartime. Work was long and hard and dangerous and then bombs would fall setting back progress. Workers would sort through the rubble, rebuild, retool and start again. It was a metropolitan anthill that would suffer any amount of destruction merely to shift and restore itself in a few days to a new shape but with the same purpose. Survive and supply the war.

There was no reason for the boy to come into the city. Children under 13 were forbidden from work. There were no schools or homes left, no parks or cultural centers since they had stopped bothering to rebuild them. Food was scarce here and most lived underground at night to avoid the air raids. The trains brought more workers, building supplies from the countryside, food and news of the progress of the war.

Michael felt strange and began to feel more urgent. He spotted the boy finally, standing near the cab stand staring straight at him with set resolution in his face. Not angry but not childlike either. The boy suddenly became transparent showing the traffic behind right through his body. In a moment he was gone. Michael stood in the mad rush of people with isolation crowding around him.

#

The dim pinpoint lights of the bedside console reflected in the boy's eyes as he watched his pursuer sleep.


- - -
Born in Illinois CTG lives outside Seattle with family and pets. If he were born at another age perhaps he would stare blankly at the sunset as he wipes mastodon blood from his chin, tossing the bone aside.

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Author: Christopher T Garry

Contributor: Ken Poyner

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It is to be the execution of someone. A crew of workmen have been building the fatal platform for nearly a month. Good government work. No benefits, due to it being a temporary job – but each could apply for a full time position, if they stand out and someone retires. We might see one of these platform builders inspecting imported fruit, or performing same-day civically approved surgeries.

It is to be the execution of someone. A small start up company has been gluing flyers to trees and telephone poles, and was putting them into mailboxes – until one of the constables told them that mail boxes were for mail and they would have to put a stamp on anything they stuffed into anyone’s mailbox. So they left the excess on car windshields, dumped a sheaf of them into the town fountain, folded them into the coin slots of parking meters.

It is to be the execution of someone. To mark the event, the hardware store is putting up a twenty percent off sale, and will give forty percent off for stock more than a year old. The grocery store next door is giving a flat five percent off if you bring in a receipt from the hardware store showing your twenty percent discount, and swear there is nothing in the transaction you might try to return. That grocery store has been a good neighbor for thirty years, and we need corporate citizens like that.

It is to be the execution of someone. I keep looking for the bars and restaurants to announce two dollar drafts, or to take up the peanuts and put out the mixed nuts: the ones you can go fishing for cashews in. A few barkeepers keep coming to their establishments’ front doors and looking both ways along the street, fixing the execution structure against the time of day and the parting of the light. If enough people are out and about who will be thirsty at full price, the alcohol managers will not be inclined to give an inch. And if the crowd is too small, they won’t give in either and let idlers toss back, in glasses that still have to be washed, all the profits in alcohol. No. The crowd has to be just right. They look for shadows gathering in alleys, for lone patrons where couples should be.

It is to be the execution of someone. The whole month’s worth of preparations comes down to tonight. Jobs and sales will be terminated. Discounts will roll back. The talk will turn again to weather; which girls becoming women sway with a more comfortable look; speculation on when we can get up enough tax money for another execution; and what the executioner does during his long time off; and who might have seen him patronizing businesses across county lines.

It is to be the execution of someone. Enough people will gather that we will look like an audience and not just a crowd. Women will wear gloves. Children will be told not to run too far. The librarian will be out to show too much bosom, just to prove she is not a stereotype. I will be watching. I could read that book like Braille. And I will count the number of children just because I like counting and I don’t like children.

It is to be the execution of someone. I am going to wait right here, on the corner left open forty-five degrees off center from the gut of the execution platform. I will wait as though I were wrestling with the librarian and fearlessly holding back - eyes bulging, pressurized forward - my already secretly sprung surging gift of children. I will be taking in the full practical view when the executioner strides square shouldered out, spins once to the applause of the perfectly tuned crowd, and then, with one hand enrolled and his business finger pointed like the bluff of a carpenter’s nail, the executioner says: you!

It is to be the execution of someone. Skip, and let your heart get ahead of itself. Taste the benefits of industry, for now, on your tongue. Slap your thigh and think of giddy nights with drunken girls and the wind in your testicles and nothing, not even the disharmoniously magical, beyond your control. Think that there is nothing beyond my control. Believe that out of the remains of the execution platform tonight there will be firewood to gather, scrap that might patch a porch or lengthen a scarecrow or surprise in inexplicable ways a wife. Let everyone make the most of it.


- - -
Ken Poyner's recent e-book, "Constant Animals", 42 brief fictions, is available at the usual e-book retail sites. His previous two books of poetry are out of print. He loiters menacingly in the dark corners of the web.

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Author: Ken Poyner

Contributor: Carly Berg

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I wasn’t allowed in my friend Journey’s house because my parents thought the Hoolihans
were trash. They had six kids, and two of their girls had kids of their own. They all crammed into an old rent house. Her parents were always drunk and out of everything they needed. It was the
funnest place in the world, though.
Dad said, “An orchid will not bloom in a garbage dump, Susan.” Mom said, “What the hell is wrong with you? Do you want people to think you’re a tramp?” Even Miss. Selena, our maid, tsk-tsked at me.
To other people my mom was tinkly and gay and we laughed
ourselves sick listening to her on the phone. “She is tinkling!” I tittered. “She is gay!” Journey screeched. Well, that made me a little mad,
that’s my mother.
Miss Zita closed her window when we stopped at her magazine stand after school, ever since I talked Journey into showing Miss Zita her new red bra.
Journey accidentally pulled her bra up too, and showed her boobettes. Miss Zita turned bright purple. She said, “You are not-a nice girls!” and slammed her window shut.
We made prank calls there before that. I did “Is your refrigerator running?” and Journey did “Do you have Prince Albert in a can?” And then I called again and said “bitch,” and hung up. Journey said “fuck you,” on her turn. But after Miss Zita started shutting her window, we
got in deeper.
The first time, we looked through a Penthouse magazine. The grown men’s things made me queasy. But later Journey’s sister said don’t worry. Penthouse didn’t photograph normal men, only Guinness World Record holders.
The next time, we swiped Chiclets, a pack each. We ran all the way to Journey’s house and didn’t go back to Miss Zita’s for a while.
We had more things planned, which we wrote up on a chart and signed. I didn’t think we’d really nick the bottle of T.J. Swan (“for the night people” the commercial said). You couldn’t just get a whole bottle of wine out of the cooler and walk down the street with it. Cigarettes would be hard to take, too because they were kept behind the counter.

#

I picked out a Mad Magazine, a Coke and cheese popcorn.
“Can I bum a quarter?” Journey already had the Lick-a-Stick in her hand. The big pack with three different flavors, even.
She mooched too much. “You have to tell Miss Zita, ‘Zita pita, smell my feeta.’”
Journey smiled, all on one side of her mouth. Once I told her she smiled like a Mafia guy, which made her happy. She banged on the glass and shouted “Miss Zita pita. kiss my feeta. Open your window this instant, or you’ll be sorry.”
Meanness filled the area.
The window slid open. Journey, charged up from talking smart, snatched the two dollars out of my hand and flung them at Miss Zita. She said, “You get off your rectum and get me my change.”
Miss Zita seemed small. She collected the bills, keyed our stuff into the register, and handed Journey the change with shaky hands.
I picked up the bag. “Come on, Journey. That’s enough.”
Journey spit on the sidewalk. She walked with her fist on her hip like she was big stuff because she had scared an adult.
“You didn’t do it right,” I said. “You were supposed to say ‘smell’ my feet. You said ‘kiss’ my feet.”
“So? You didn’t say anything at all.”
“I could have. I’m not afraid.”
“Well?” she said, “Do it, then.”
My throat went dry. “This Coke isn’t cold. When I pay twenty-five cents for a bottle of soda, I expect the goddamned thing to be cold!” I said. “I’ll handle this.”
I rapped on the window three times, sharp.
Journey yelled, “Zita pita, you open the window this instant.”
“Open it!” A little crazed, I knocked with the glass Coke bottle, and didn’t notice when Miss Zita slid the window open.
Her nose gushed blood. Blood stained her blouse.
We ran.

#

Ms. Selena had just served the pork tenderloin and left out the back when the doorbell rang. My dad muttered something about having to get the damn door himself and put down the wine he was pouring.
He came back and motioned me to follow him to the foyer, where a policeman waited.
“Susan, were you at Miss Zita’s today with Journey Hoolihan?”
The walls swayed. “Um, yeah.”
My father nudged me. “That’s ‘yes, sir,” he said.
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ve just been to the hospital. Miss Zita was assaulted with a bottle. Her nose is broken.”
My mother said, “She hit that old woman in the face? With a bottle? Officer, I have told this child repeatedly those people were trouble.” She gazed out the window. The police car was parked in front of the house for the entire neighborhood to see.
My father said, “Susan will not have any further contact with the Hoolihan girl.”
“She is being held at juvenile hall anyway, sir. I expect she’ll be staying for a while. You’re a lucky girl, Susan, to have parents who care.”
“Yes, sir.”
My mom watched the cruiser pull away from the curb, her hand over her mouth.
Dinner was quiet except for the clinking of silver on china.


- - -
Carly Berg's always behaves when out in public. Her stories appear in several dozen journals, including PANK, Word Riot, and Bartleby Snopes, and she has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize as well. She is currently at work on a book of flash stories.

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Author: Carly Berg

Contributor: Aaron Levy

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Before I went to the farm, I was fat as fat can be. My friends called me heavy, my parents said I was physically challenged, but the monkey bars told me the truth – you be fat, man. I was five years old and just over 500 lbs., none of it was muscle, but my family took me everywhere like a rabbit’s foot and I loved being out in the public with my bathing suit. I was fat happy, a happy fat and blind fat, fat as fat can be kind of fat.

Like a brand new house, fat as a house I was, a house that had no upstairs cause the fat in my legs had squashed my cartilage so that my knees were just fat bone on fat bone. A house that had only one room, a ranch house with only one room and no uncomfortable corners to stuff away my fat ass. Sometimes you couldn’t see the middle of the room because I was in the way.

Like fat that smiles, smiling giggling saucey-saucying, ignorant fatty fat.

Like the fat guy that is so fat chicks dig him and he squeezes the better part of his fat into a different lovely lady each night except for the Sabbath when he rests because he’s got fatty asthma, so he just rests on a giant chair and replays the week on his widescreen t.v.

And I had so many friends because everybody wants to be around the fat guy of course because the fat guy has the best laugh in the world and my pants were so big that my friends fit in my pockets and they could eat the leftover crumbs, the sugar coated lint, the cans of Spam that were just there. And all my friends and I would talk about going on a big fat diet, but we decided to put it off because we were all so fat together. Always full. Bloated…Happy.

And now, because I went to the Fat Farm, a place where the animals are so skinny they disappear before you can pet them, I am so, so, I am so skinny.

It’s like my mother said it would be, that people are not against you but for themselves. Trust only your thinning family she would say to me over a plate lettuce leaves.

I am skinny like a bone inside another bone inside another bone inside a cartilage.

Skinnier than the popsicle stick on a Weight Watchers fudgical.

Skinnier than the slip of me you just filed under miscellaneous.

Skinnier than a pregnant pause.

I’m so skinny, secrets are telling secrets about me behind my thin back. I’m so skinny, poetry slips through my fingers until only the punctuation sits in my bony palms.

I’m so skinny that I want to call you, my old old friends, but I don’t have the stamina to push all of the buttons.

I’m so thin that my pants look good on me, but my colon paints a different picture.

I used to be fat, fat as a horse, no, fatter than a fat horse that can’t even sleep standing up, and now…the only thing I want is a thick piece of cow, but my stomach is stapled shut and I am lonely.


- - -
Aaron Levy currently teaches creative writing and English Education at Kennesaw State University in Atlanta, GA. His award-winning plays have been produced nationally and internationally, and published by Dramatic Publishing and Smith & Kraus. Recently he has had or will have shorter work appear in Eleven Eleven, Black Heart Magazine, The Kennesaw Review, and Apollo's Lyre. You can reach him at alevy2@kennesaw.edu, and soon visit his new website at www.aaronlevy.net.

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Author: Aaron Levy

Contributor: Gavin Wilson

- -
15th March 2012 – Laboratory Diary of Dr Mark J Solomon

This will probably be my final entry in my lab diary for this experiment. We have found the cure; the cure for all known diseases and poisons!
After decades of research and experimentation, I have proved that the universal antidote was possible with a simple demonstration. I confirmed it in front of the panel, by the simple expedient of injecting myself with a variety of horribly virulent diseases and poisons that should kill any normal man within days; or, in the case of some of the poisons, within minutes.
I sat happily in my environmentally safe cell for a week, and then sent out blood samples for checking. They were clean. Barring accident and old age, it would appear that I am near invulnerable.


18th March 2012 – Personal Diary

I am invulnerable, sadly I am not infallible. There was, as with all things, an unforeseen consequence that I need to write down for the future – if there is one. There is always a chance, however slim, that someone will need to make use of this.
I have made a mistake.
Well several, but the compound error of all of this is that I have doomed humanity. In my state of ego, and massive belief that I had cured the world, I allowed many of my colleagues to be caught up in the supposed majesty of the situation, and allowed them to inject my serum. We danced around and drank poisons together, reveling in the fact that none of us instantly dropped to the ground dying in an orgy of agony. Drunk on our own success, we madly injected ourselves with everything from common flu viruses to the Ebola virus, rummaging through our stock of virulent disease vials like an alcoholic given the keys to the liquor cabinet.
The next day we all woke up grinning.
Yesterday however, I awoke to horror.
Everyone I’d known, with the exception of a few, died horribly as the serum mutated with the viruses we’d injected, spawning a rampaging virulent plague that appears to have moved with the speed of the rising sun to infect the world.
With the exception of a few…
I had only tested the virus on myself. It was specific to my DNA, but there are some people who share a form of my DNA. It's not an exact match though, which has caused other unforeseen side effects.
I can hear the movements outside.
My children are coming home.
Unrecognisable now, they are searching for food as humans have searched for generations. They are a new form of human, but seem to have retained some vague sense of belonging. The table is set for tea. The places are set with cutlery, glasses and side plate: the door is open and the kids are coming home for some food.
Welcome back kids, the ketchup is on the table.
The meal is ready and just needs to put down his pen.


- - -
I'm a writer, a reader, and producer of odd little short stories and various other pieces of random fiction.

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Author: Gavin Wilson

Contributor: Brandon Barrows

- -
“Thirty-five is not enough!” Kayla scrunched up her face and pouted, transforming from a pretty, newly-eighteen, young woman into a little girl once more.
Eve sighed, closed her eyes and pressed her hand to her forehead all at once. She is your daughter. She is still a child. You love her dearly. It had become a mantra of sorts over the years.
“Kayla, don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”
“A what?”
Picking up her needlepoint and settling into the nearest window seat, Eve sighed again, almost silently. “Never mind. It’s just an expression.”
“Mother!”
“Look at it this way, darling: thirty-five is more than you had this morning, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but-“
“How many did you have when you woke up today?”
“None, but-“
Eve smiled on the inside. Maybe it was petty, but she loved shattering the girl’s tantrum logic. “And why, exactly, is thirty-five not enough to your mind?”
“Well,” Kayla began, looking at her feet and trying to hide the oncoming blush rising to her cheeks. “All my friends will make fun of me,” she finished quietly.
The older woman nearly laughed, but caught herself before she could ruin whatever progress she’d made with her daughter. “That’s ridiculous. Why would anyone make fun of you?”
Kayla shuffled her feet, still refusing to look at her mother, but not retreating, either. This “issue” apparently did mean something to her. “It’s, you know, just not very many. Abby already has forty-nine and Raina’s up to sixty-one since her last birthday.”
Putting aside her project, Eve pursed her lips and waved a hand, gesturing for the girl to join her at the window seat. Kayla approached, but it took a hand on her shoulder to guide her down and take a reluctant seat.
Eve raised her daughter’s gaze with a gentle hand beneath her chin and said “Kayla, listen to me. Both of those girls have a head start on you by at least a year or two. Your grandfather was very generous to give you what he did. He has many, many children and grandchildren and he didn’t have to give you anything. It was a lovely birthday gift.”
The glow in Kayla’s cheeks reddened. “I know,” she said softly.
Eve smiled encouragingly. “You know, nobody gave your grandfather anything and see what he ended up with? He worked and planned and fought hard for every single thing that he has.”
“Yeah…”
“But you know what else? You’re starting way ahead of where he, or your dad or I was at your age.”
Brightening somewhat, the red of her cheeks subsiding just a bit, Kayla allowed the barest hint of a smile to tug at the corner of her mouth. “That’s true…”
“So what do you say we look at this as sort of a starter kit, a chance to show everyone what you can do given a little bit to work with?”
The dam broke and Kayla’s lips split into a grin that could light up a room if she so chose. “Okay. Yeah, you’re right.”
Kayla threw her arms around her mother, pressing a cheek to her shoulder as they embraced. “Thanks, mom. You always know how to set me straight.”
Eve returned the hug, then drew back and held her daughter at arms-length so Kayla could see she was sharing her smile. “That’s what I’m here for, sweetie.”
“Thirty-five’s not so bad at all. I bet with some planning and a little luck, I could get all the way up to fifty in a year or two.”
Retrieving the needlepoint pattern from where she’d left it, Eve nodded and said “I bet you could at that.”
Kayla grinned even wider. “Thirty-five planets of my own. Not a bad way to start an empire…”


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Brandon Barrows writes comic books prodigiously and is dipping his toe into the waters of prose fiction. His award-nominated detective series JACK HAMMER is published by Action Lab Comics, and his graphic novel VOYAGA was recently published by AAM/Markosia.

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Author: Brandon Barrows

Contributor: Shihab Noor and Dekript Pakpoom-Shihai

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This last golden day, of this golden week, begun like gold. Not quite shimmering exactly, not gold dust to be sure, but the homogenous dulled gold that marks the mornings of my life. Was it this morning, I asked myself? The answer repeated itself a million times over in my hollowed-out skull.

Not yet.

My feet touched the floor, and I placed my hands on my knees tentatively. They still ached from the previous days labor. A golden, fruitful labor it was. The gold coins I left on the dresser still shone with their hard-day’s satisfaction. Of what more could I ask?

The day’s golden moon lights streets and falls golden in through windows upon hands touched with gold rings, embossed with golden rubies. It’s time for work! Excitedly I snatch my golden jumpsuit out of the dresser drawer and fumble with the zipper as I pull it up over my shoulders. The words “factory man” embossed in gold varsity lettering shine on the front of the jacket, broadcasting my profession to the golden streets ahead of me. This was gonna be a good day…

I step out the door, a golden smile on my face. From across the street I see “bag woman,” in her wonderful jumpsuit. She grins, “Hello!” Yes, she is my favorite neighbor. It is written in the book! Out onto the golden streets I go, and into the golden light I grow, and onto the golden bus, whose golden driver, “driver man,” I know. Today is a golden day, I know.

Gold bus skips down the street, stopping to pick up such friends as “birdtender woman” “Grave man” “Scholar man” and “Old mann.” A quick glance out the window reveals fields of gold boys and gold girls twirling and shouting in a golden meadow. The future! The bus drives through Bisch district, the last stop before the “FACTORY” and as I stare out the glass of the window I see something different. At the exit point of the Bisch district sewer was a man standing. He stood, his eyes wide, his arms stretched, and his teeth bore. This man was known only in the golden tales. Silver man. Shining with the sheen of a thousand sons, “Silver man” bellowed at my bus. “Old man” seemed startled, but “driver man,” well he’s a good man, and he kept on driving to the factory! It looked like “Silver man” saw me through the window, but what do I know!

The golden bus pulled up at the “FACTORY” and let all of its remaining passengers out. I gave “driver man” a kiss and stepped off the bus and into the “FACTORY” parking lot. I saw my friend “Assembly line man” and I waved to him; a friendly wave, with no animosity intended or received. We went on our ways, I into “gold door A,” he into “gold door B.”

Today’s a good day. I see “factory man” on the factory floor, his hands grabbing at a golden box moving along a curving, gold conveyor belt. And there, at the other end, is “factory man,” one of my closest friends at the “FACTORY.” It is written in the book!

Now I standing next to “factory man,” doing the work! I move this box to this belt, and that tube to that slot! My hands move quickly! I like to think that I am the fastest “factory man” there is, but what do I know! I am a “factory man,” and I move golden boxes!

The factory is hot. I perspire and gold sweat begins to drip off of my face and fall in small puddles on the golden floor. Now I am next to “factory woman”. She is not a pleasant woman and she is of the texture of golden eggs. It is written in the book! I notice a golden pustule on her forehead. To her, I turn, and I shout, “factory woman, this is not part of protocol.” She makes a quizzical sound, but before she can do anything I reach for her head and squeeze. The pustule pops, golden pus oozes down her face. Her tongue flashes out, hoping to lap up the golden nectar before it evaporates in the sticky factory air. Golden youth returns to her countenance.

We work on silently. No one speaks on what just happens. All the better for little old golden me! Ears perk up, ring of the bell,

LUNCH TIME.

I wait patiently in line for my Texas Toast Grilled Cheese Sandwich and Chips Lunch. Everyone murmurs to each other about this and that. My shoulder is tapped. I turn and find myself looking at “boss man”, a fat old gold man wearing shining gold robes emblazoned with gold birds.

“factory man, you made a big mistake. There’s a seat in my orifice office for you, go now and you may be speared.” My eyes widened, a darker shade of gold cast a pall over my face. Uh-oh, spaghetti-o’s.

“boss man’s” orifice office was small damp and wet. It’s shade of gold was not pleasant to the eyes or nose. As I sat in my chair I recalled my sins. They shone golden in the dark recesses of my mind.

A window appeared above the office door. I saw “boss man” appear and smile a wide toothy grin. He held up four fingers and said “four days, bad boy, you got a lot of work to do.” His laugh echoed through the office. I shivered. The laugh continued, and only now did I realize it was not “boss man” laughing at all. Out of the shadows in the corner of the room stepped a sculpted, looming, nude, figure.

Silver man.

His smile widened in conjunction with his eyes as he strode towards me, making a cyclical motion with his hands directed at my junktrunk.

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To this day if anyone tells you Silver Man does not exist, say “no” he touched factory man. Who am I now?


“Ya Johnny!”


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We are two twins from, but not in blood, though we love each other. We are from Kulu, but frequent the towns of Baltimore and Philadelphia. America is like a second home to us! Our friction and pottery has been published in such places as “Seafood Dinner Surprise”, “Cook’s Cutlery”, and “Chief Fundamentals”. We find history a very interesting thing. Enjoy our readings and books! This one’s for you!

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Author: Shihab Noor and Dekript Pakpoom-Shihai

Contributor: Harry Noussias

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Every man has his destiny.

He suddenly awoke with that uneasy feeling. This was quite unusual for the coldhearted, uncaring, ruthless, businessman. No sense in trying to go back to sleep. Something just wasn’t right. Fluffing the pillow or turning over on his other side wasn’t going to help. The uneasiness was just too overpowering.

Maybe a walk before going to the office would help.

On a bridge not far away stood another man staring at the murky water below. He too had an uneasy feeling. To jump or not to jump, that was the question.

As the businessman exited his home he could see in the very far off distance, in that other side of town, the dark cloud which was belching out of the smokestacks of his factory. Normally it would have been a joyous sight for him. Production meant money, lots of money.

This time it was different.

For the first time he noticed the slight stinging in his eyes from the very fine nearly imperceptible layer of dust particles that covered all surfaces everywhere - the tree leaves, the mail boxes, his BMW, everything. Why hadn’t he noticed it before?

The ruthless businessman was noticing everything. The other man, the one on the bridge, was noticing almost nothing. He stood on that bridge not paying any attention to the birds joyfully singing or to the beauty of the wild flowers that lined the river’s banks. He only stared at the murky water flowing beneath. To jump or not to jump, that was still the question.

Why did the businessman choose to walk over the bridge instead of walking in some other direction? Perhaps it was destiny.

Destiny cannot be changed.

The troubled businessman stopped dead in his tracks. It took less than a thousandth of a second to process the information about the contemplator with emotionless eyes and a sorrowful face about to end it all. He sensed determination. If it’s one thing that he understood, it was determination.

Maybe this explained that uneasy feeling. Something was causing him to be here at this exact moment, something that instilled purpose and meaning within him. Here was an opportunity to act unselfishly and do some good for someone else. It was a philosophically profound revelation from within the depths of his being.

Surely he could talk this man out of self-destruction. It’s just a matter of knowing how to negotiate. Ruthless businessmen are keen negotiators and he was an absolute master.

The conversation began. Things cannot be that bad. You have a lot to live for. What about your family? Think of them. There is always help available. God loves you. Just step away from the railing. He watched as he spoke but noticed no change in expression on his listener’s face. It wasn’t working. None of it was working.

Giving up is not an option. Never give up. It’s just a matter of trying a different approach. So the conversation took a different turn. You’re not the only one with failings. My life hasn’t been perfect. I’ve used and abused people. I’ve been heartless, callous and often cold-blooded toward my fellow man. I am unloved and lonely. I’m very lonely. This was working. His listener was showing sympathy. He could see tears coming from his eyes and a smile, a warm compassionate, understanding smile. It was over. The man promised to come off the bridge.

The businessman walked away feeling good with the promise from the man to come off the bridge. The experience had touched and changed him deeply in a profound and irrevocable manner. Things were going to be different. He was going to be a better person. Today all his employees could take the day off with pay.

But, he would always be a businessman. That was his destiny. And even though things had changed. Destiny itself cannot be changed.

The man that contemplated ending his life would keep his promise to come off the bridge. He had shown kindness to a stranger. He too was changed by the experience. He too would fulfill his destiny. Destiny cannot be changed.

The man on the bridge smiled as he watched the businessman walk away. He paused for a moment to gaze at the beauty of the wild flowers and to listen to the birds singing and then… he jumped.


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Harry Noussias is a writer of short stories, plays and poetry. His works may be found in print and online magazines including Linguistic Erosion’s sister site Daily Love.

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Author: Harry Noussias