Contributor: Chris Leek

- -
People didn’t come from Las Vegas, not in the same way as people came from Baltimore or Jonesboro County, Idaho. Joe had decided Las Vegas was a place to go to, not come from.
He sat swilling coffee from a fresh white china mug and idly surveyed the casino's gaming floor. The slots restless and chattering even at this late – or was it early – hour. He watched a plump woman at the nearest machine relentlessly feeding in quarters. Her ample backside attempting to swallow the stool on which she perched. Time and again she yanked on the lever and stared intently as the reels spun, clunking to a halt one by one. At last a bell rang, a light flashed and the machine spat out a tray full of change. She didn’t break stride, just fished again in her blue plastic cup and continued to worship at the temple of the slot.
Beyond her, a lone black jack player rapped on the table and cried “Hit me again Dougie!” The weary dealer flipped him a card along with a look that said he hated the guy just for being born.
A waitress breezed past Joe, handing him a flyer that showed the variety and delights of breakfast cocktails. Two weeks ago it had never occurred to him that such a thing as a breakfast cocktail could exist let alone entertain the thought that he might order such a thing. He felt his stomach would probably handle one but he wasn’t sure that his conscience could. He was a new fish; road dust fresh on his shoes. A Bloody Mary or a Palmango Mimosa at 6.30am was still in his future, he didn’t doubt for a moment that he would get to it, just not quite yet.
He spun lazily round to face the bar and wordlessly indicated his need of a refill. The bar tender broke off from studying form at the track and slid over, seamless in his retrieval of the coffee pot on route. Joe nodded his thanks and sipped gratefully at the black-brown sludge, marveling again at its restorative powers.
From what he had seen everyone in Vegas was a gambler of sorts; they all played the game. The hooker out on the strip rolling a dice on every trick, hoping for a clean one, an easy one, one that wouldn’t knock her around. The not-so-high roller at the tables nursing his desperate, diminishing pile of chips (hit me again Dougie!) And Joe himself, still not sure what game would be his or how big to bet, but like cocktails for breakfast he would get to it soon enough.


- - -

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

1 comment

Author: Chris Leek

Contributor: George S. Karagiannis

- -
Of vital significance for your narrative is and will always be the way you visualize the futuristic and utopian or dystopian world where real action is taking place, along with its very details. Just to toy with the idea you are on the safe side, you may describe ‘your world’ as a philip dickish setting with post-apocalyptic, totalitarian surroundings or with humanity drawn to its endmost humiliation suppressing any specified freedom all along. The philip dickish environments render flexible access to shifted realities, sociopolitical hysterias, religious inconsistencies and paradoxical behaviors by authority-doubted human entities, thus yielding a user-friendly framework to build up the most non-comprehensive, deteriorated, knotty or psychopathic character you’ve ever imagined.

Of course, there could be numerous alternatives in the world you might envision for your story. For instance, you may purely formulate it as peter hamiltonish if you tend to describe events with their consequences in large scale impact; however in this case, avoid generating dramatis personae of more than two-hundred characters, should you wish your audience being able to follow you through your warily-crafted, space opera pages. In yet other cases, you might seek for a brian aldissish surrogate world, whereby you describe strange prospective fates for humanity, with human leftovers typically struggling for survival in a hostile plant- or insect-dominated planet; however in this case, avoid establishing cliché tribal organizations living in caves –or obsolete nuclear stations they are unaware of– and deploying cliché myths and prophecies that one divinely chosen man –usually naming him or her as ‘the light-bringer’, ‘the plague-hunter’, ‘the child of the dawn’ or something relevant– will bring an end to this wretchedness. Also, unless you keep in possession a far better idea than internet obtaining some level of self-consciousness, artificial intelligence coming into conflict with human neuroethics, and virtual realities intermixing with the present so-called human realities in a Matrix fashion, do not attempt to give your story a william gibsonish or tony ballantyneish tone. Finally, unless your mind shovels up a fascinating medical thriller, or at least a thought-provoking and dogma-challenging biological premise –almost to the level of integrating Darwin’s evolutionary theories with genetic bioengineering– it wouldn’t be advised to adopt a robin cookish, greg bearish or nancy kressish technique.

Improper character development that would not serve the purpose of your story would be an added constraint for a successful outcome; therefore, implementing the finest characters in your given world should not be circumstantial at all, but thoroughly designed. To avoid stereotypic ‘implants’ in your story, you may have to create characters that will question the unquestionable on a –preferably– paragon bureaucratic State, haunted from the ghosts of a previous or potential socioeconomic rupture or perhaps female characters seeking for their sexual orientation in a philosophical perspective; in such case you should concentrate on an ursula le guinish pattern. Upon wishing to involve characters that will deal with a crisis or dilemma in your story, guided by scientific rationales, research-based hypotheses and address the questions as reasoning-oriented puzzles –who are most probably also involved in academia– then an isaac asimovish character profiling is the most suitable fit. But, unless you have to offer a fresh challenge for the three laws of robotics, do not even bother to consider a robot character encompassed by bioethical issues. If your character personalities are tailored as interstellar spies, mercenaries, detectives or even lovers, then a lois mcmaster bujoldish style could efficiently do the job for you. If you are inclined to develop charismatic leaders followed by slavish human cohorts, then a frank herbertish milieu could easily be applied to your character panel; however, in this case, try to avoid positioning these leaders in deserted dune-resembling planets with lack of water, because you will end up repeating the story all over again. Finally, are you in need of a superhero for your story? Just bring into play the orson scott cardish spirit, as long as it is at least an adult one this time!

If the perspective of your story will be first-person, then it should always follow a gene wolfeish method of development, for it will be safeguarding reader’s suspense throughout. For the rest narrative modes or in cases of attempted literary experimentation, you should always keep to the robert heinleinish and theodore sturgeonish paradigms as they have fairly defined the existing standards for the science fiction school.

Salt and pepper is an essential evil for a good science fiction story! So, never ever forget to also introduce diminutive amounts of douglas adamish elements, since spicy or satiric humor is always highly-appreciated in a broad sci-fi readership. It is not highly-recommended, but upon your own volition of spreading an aura of bizarro in your story, you may attempt to provide a carlton melick IIIish texture in it; however, you should steer clear of the Satan’s successful attempts of conquering Earth, Jesus figures participating in porn movies, excessive descriptions of sexual orgies ending up in abdominal penetrations with splatter-like consequences, and attacks of highly-intelligent zombies flying with helicopters and jumping out of them with parachutes in case of an imminent crash.

Last but not least, you should always bear in mind to bring into context a personal signature in your work –in my case to allow for a george karagiannisish color to be penciled all over my novel– or else your story will be accused of being in fact non-authentic or even worse a stolen concept. And as an amateur author, you wouldn’t want that happening, now, would you?


- - -
George S. Karagiannis was born in Thessaloniki, Greece at 1984. He finished the School of Veterinary Medicine and is currently a PhD student at the University of Toronto in Canada, studying the molecular mechanisms of cancer metastasis. He enjoys writing science fiction, mainly in the sub-genres of (1) hard science fiction, (2) bizarro and horror sci-fi and (3) apocalyptic/post-apocalyptic, but more often blending all those, together! His favorite science fiction author is Philip K. Dick, whom he has been reading since he was introduced in the field. He is also an abstractionist/surreal artist and his blog can be found here: http://abstractsur.blogspot.com/

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: George S. Karagiannis

Contributor: Jerry Guarino

- -
    “I’ll take a Venti hot chocolate, raspberry scone and one of those new holiday cups,” said the man as he flirted with the beautiful girl behind the counter.  The Latina barista took his money, winked and prepared his order.  Meanwhile, the line was back out to the doorway, not uncommon at this time of the morning.  

California coffee houses were a little different than those back east.  Sure, they still have their share of serious bankers, lawyers and business professionals, but you can tell by the way they order.  On Wall Street, it’s a lot of black coffee, maybe with a Danish.  In D.C. it’s a croissant and latte and in Boston, it’s black tea and “that’s all thanks…I have my Dunkin Donut.”  

    But the prices were still high.  $3.25 for a hot drink, more if you wanted anything special.  Not that any coffee shop is taking change anymore.  More likely, people are scanning their debit card across a laser, totaling $11.25 or more.  But it’s a new day.  Coffee houses are as important as showers for the fortunate few and almost as much for the 99%.  Thank goodness for debit cards.


    Fortified with coffee and a superior scone, they go off to conquer the world, knowing that the working Joe can’t compete with his home brew and store bought donut.  The right breakfast separates the haves and the have-nots and creates confidence.  If you’re sitting down to a $39 breakfast buffet, you’ve already impressed your potential client.  He/She will go along (thanks to expense accounts), ignoring the cost, demonstrating that they are as comfortable in this venue as the mechanic getting his meal at McDonalds.


    That’s why this latest trend will catch on.  It’s a natural marriage, the combination of all that is required in today’s society with the convenience of starting the day off right.


    The Latina barista took off her apron and walked over to the man she had served.  “Well, it’s almost 9:00am, time I got to my day job.”  She kissed her husband, coming on for the day shift at the cafe and walked across the floor to take her place behind the bulletproof glass.  An older woman with a cane walked up to her, handed her a paper and smiled.  “Dear, can you put this social security check in my savings account?”  The Latina looked as beautiful behind the teller counter as she did at the café inside the bank.  “Certainly, Mrs. Wilson.  When you’re finished, you should try the Italian roast today.  It’s very good.” 


- - -
Jerry Guarino’s short stories have been published by dozens of literary magazines in the United States, Canada, Australia and Great Britain. His first collection of twenty-six critically acclaimed stories, Cafe Stories, was released in October, 2011. It is available as a paperback on amazon.com and as an e-book on kindle.

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: Jerry Guarino

Contributor: Samuel Cole

- -
Tires crush gravel beneath me until brakes squeal and a muffler vibrates wildly. Power windows buzz down, up, down, up, down; soulful whispers of acknowledgment pierce my well-polished ears and mended face, permanently smiling at a giant rose blooming before my marble-threatened eyes.

Hands clutched across my heart as if hovering for surprise, the clock inside my head ticks on and on and on. I can’t see my fingernails, but I trust they’re not painted bright red like some third rate whore, but French-tip-pink like a woman of good-standing means.

Somewhere my daughter is biting the corners of her fingernails; my cousins, damn moochers, likely licking their chops; my two sisters shaking their hands and heads complaining, oh, it’s so hot out, oh, that boring service, oh how long, how very very long; my grandson sticking his fingers between his armpits making that funny whoopee cushion noise; my granddaughter waving her hand over her nose, no doubt scowling at the farm yard smells of this eerie calm place called Reflections II. Believe it or not, even I can smell it. Reflections I, across the street, my first choice, filled up six year ago. Reflections III, beside the pond, begins construction next April, but I couldn’t wait that long.


Suddenly, my mother’s auburn-flip-style-hairdo and see-through-me-eyes find me in the dark, her pucker skin floating above me like a shadowy screen, her bile index finger pointing deep into my chest until my heart implodes. She pokes fun at my weakness, as she knows I have nowhere else to run and hide.



--Where have you been? she screams, judging me, like before, like now, like forever.

But I can’t close my eyes or dream her away.

--I have been here waiting, she screams even louder. --I have kept my word, my promise, my end of the bargain.



I hear men breathing, marching toward my cold, marble slab. The wind shifts me to the right, left, hands down, spectacles falling between my nose and upper lip. My back is breaking, but I can’t resist one final stretch.

--I’m right here. I yell. --I am lying right here. I lose a finger; two toes; the end of my tongue.

She seems pleased. Like a smile before gutting an enemy.

Oh, how her darkness admires me now, to bully, allot, damn, razor.

I am hers.

Hers.

Her.


- - -
Samuel Cole lives in Woodbury, MN. He loves to run, STEP, photograph bowls, hang with friends, boo bad movies, and of course, write.

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: Samuel Cole

Contributor: T. M. Black

- -
Santa loaded the ammo belt of candy canes into the machine gun and cocked it. After a long night delivering presents, he hated the idea of facing the forgotten presents, but like every year they waited for his return, and so he readied for the frenzy.

The full moon sprayed enough light over the barn-style workshop to reveal the wooden doors were open, revealing a gaping, black mouth. While no alien toys were built by the elves that year, or mad hatter tea party sets, any toy was capable of brutal attacks. He knew that well, and rubbed the scar on his hip through his red suit.

The night had flown by without a hitch, and he thanked the cloudless skies. Even when they hit England, where a gale tugged at the sleigh, the reindeers didn’t grumble. But once he landed the sleigh, things felt very wrong. Someone was watching him.

He stepped closer to the shed, snow crunching beneath his boots, and stopped when a white teddy bear, sporting a red bow around his neck, spilled out from within the darkness. In one hand, the plush toy gripped a whip and in the other a whistle. The bear cracked the whip by its side, causing a puff of snow to loop about its feet. The toy pressed its hand to its mouth and a high-pitched shrill screamed through the silent night.

Santa’s finger twitched from the sudden sound, and released a round of candy canes into the bear. Bam, bam. The toy’s body was thrown backward into the blackened shadows of the workshop.

“Ho Ho, to you too, little bear.” Santa lowered the weapon.

The repetitive thudding from within the barn made Santa tense. Tens, if not hundreds of teddy bears, in a rainbow of colors, dressed in every manner of costume from a catsuit to a Spiderman outfit and even a blonde Marilyn Monroe bear, poured out from the building. They were all newbies. Santa would never leave behind so many toys. He stumbled backward.

Unlatching a mistletoe grenade from his belt, he pulled the ring and threw it into the mass of bears. A pop sounded, and a thin layer of green vapor enveloped the toys. Bears stopped their march and instead turned to a nearby toy, kisses each other, over and over.

But when another throng of bears emerged from the workshop, Santa gasped aloud and pulled the trigger, projecting a shower of candy canes into the toys. That did little to stop them. He recoiled, and hit the wall of the reindeer stables, fumbling with a new ammo cartridge. But the bears poured around him too fast.

They tugged at the hems of his red pants, climbing up his legs. Their tiny sharp teeth found skin. He kicked, whacked them with his gun, shouted, but nothing helped.

Then he spotted Rudolf sauntering from the workshop, his chin high in the air.

“Rudy, buddy, help me.” He threw a zebra-colored bear off him.

The reindeer grunted and flashed his white teeth. “Maybe you shouldn’t have left me at home on the most important day of the year.”


- - -
I am a marketer by day and storyteller by night, which means I make up a lot of things. When not with my family, I’m writing or reading.

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: T. M. Black

Contributor: Sydney Boles

- -
Ngöbe girls don’t wear shoes, Mama tells her.
What do we wear, then, Mama?
We walk the way our ancestors walked, with their dust between our toes.
Mama strokes the girl’s dark hair, runs a finger down the wide, dark flank of her nose.

Ngöbe girls don’t speak to White Men, Mama chides with her finger.
What if it’s important?
Don’t play their game, Little One.
But what if a White Man speaks to me?
They came to our land and took everything, Little One. Don’t let them take your voice, too.
Mama smiles at the little girl’s wide lips: my mother’s lips, she thinks. My mother’s full-moon eyes.

Ngöbe girls weave rope bags out of plant fibers.
But Mama, did I tell you about this white girl I saw with this pretty blue bag?
Hush. Our way is the way it has always been.
Mama guides the girl’s fine-boned fingers through the ancient process.

The parade is coming!
The little girl flaps out of the mud town and slogs through the formerly-a-river and crosses that cranky old man’s farm and hurries into the White Man’s City. Cars here, and sidewalks, and telephone poles, and advertisements for bottled iced tea. Buen es Bien, Muy Bien es Mejor. The little girl can’t read. Everybody must be so smart, with all those signs and information everywhere.
The parade is coming!
The music! The drums! The people! Everybody is wearing beautiful tight clothes. So many pretty shoes! So many wonderful hats and bags! Vendors sell freshly cooked meats, shaved ice, even cotton candy! The little girl wonders if you can beg for cotton candy like you can beg for coins.


But there, coming into view, are the white girls, their hair clean and curled, lips darkened, cheeks rouged, skin smooth and clean, no pimples, no scars, eyebrows like birds silhouetted on the heavens, matching white outfits, hips tipping, inviting, youthful breasts thrust out, feet arched like swans in shiny high heels, batons twirling. Here they are, these paragons of youth, these bright lights of our future, Panama’s joys, these glistening, smiling, perfect little ladies, march on! Dance on our streets and bless them with your presence, you queens of tomorrow, let us clap and cheer for you as your pass in your elegant heels.
The little girl smooths her dirty hand-made tunic.
But look! How lovely the Panamanian girls, watch them! Lust after them, men, their small waists, their thighs, even their youthful, noticeable knees. Lust after Panama, because these white-clad girls and their batons, they are Panama!
The little girl licks her fingers and scrubs dirt from her dark-skinned cheek.
Their glistening cheeks, men, their shining eyes! Do you see how proud we are of Panama?

Ngöbe girls don’t wear their hair like that, Mama scolds.
But Mama, how will I ever be beautiful?


- - -

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: Sydney Boles

Contributor: Peter Andrews

- -
“Everything is a balance,” Priest says. Sat across from me, imagine a priest in a movie, you won’t go far wrong. Imagine him sat in an interrogation room, you get the idea.
Small clear packet in my hand, two red pills inside. Does he recognize these? Yes, he does, a little nod.
“Red Devils,” I say. “They don’t even have any aliases yet that I know of.”
Priest shrugs: What you don’t know…
Then he says: “Evil Nicks.”
Did he come up with that one himself? He nods. I sigh, plenty of theatre in it, sit back in the plastic chair, hand through the hair. Am I tired or getting pissed off? he should be wondering. By the look of him, he isn’t.
I took him at the church. A big one, angels and stained glass, all that stuff. This one had a basement and a fuck-off utility bill.
“The factory,” I say. “Pretty slick operation. Who was the know-how?”
He doesn’t want to talk, nothing that implicates anyone else anyway.
I lean forward, eye contact. I might be sympathising, poor gullible priest led astray by some narco ring, manipulated. Priest doesn’t look like he gives a shit about my sympathies.
Motive. “Money?” I say.
No, not money. What then? He shrugs; it’s working for him so he does it again.
“These,” I wave the baggie again, “turn people into…” dramatic pause. Touch of outrage: “Have you seen what they do? Those eyes, slithering movements, you know what I mean? Like they’re on slow-mo or something. That gaping grin thing they do, drooling. Mania, psychosis. Trapped like that for. fucking. ever.” Hammering the words with my fist on the table.
“A balance,” Priest says. I blow air out of my cheeks. Care to elaborate? The grin says maybe he will.
“Bring the Devil to this world,” he says, “and control him.”
“Doesn’t sound like a balance.”
“But there will be, there must always be. The pills take you to Hell. Come back, you’re a demon, a manifestation of damnation.”
“And what? Send in the angels?”
A nod.
“Well they’re not here yet,” I say.


- - -
Peter Andrews is an aspiring writer, which means he thinks about it a lot and then plays video games. Once in a while he does do some work, though, and has most recently been shortlisted for the Cheshire Prize for Literature. He lives in Chester, UK, with his wife and daughter.

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: Peter Andrews

Contributor: Jane Hertenstein

- -
I remember when we used to take things for granted. When we threw away the heels of bread, left lights burning all night long, and traded in for a new car every four years.

Before the terrorists hit.

I remember when recycling was cool, when reusing a bag was simply being green, when it was trendy to bike to the coffee shop and request the china mug instead of the disposable paper cup.

Before the crash.

We thought about having kids.

Before you lost your job and I lost mine.

We started saving things like old toothbrushes to use for cleaning; we made our own laundry detergent from an on-line recipe. I used the Swifter cleaning clothes multiple times, front and back. Those slivers of soap—I microwaved them and pressed them together to make a new bar.

Before when the going got tough, the tough got going.

We kept the car parked and walked. On long road trips you set the cruise-control and avoided quick starts. You made sure the tires were inflated to the proper psi in order not to waste gas.

Before gas prices spiked—and stayed there.

We had already cut back on our meat consumption. We bought in bulk, ate in instead of eating out, and made more soups and hearty stews that stuck to the ribs. Cigarettes were our only splurge.

Before food prices went through the roof.

We planted a garden, after which we pickled, smoked, dried, and canned most of what we grew. One summer I put up fifty-two quart-size jars of tomatoes.

Before the bad storms came.

Nothing got tossed. Sour milk was used for biscuits and hot cakes. If the apple cider turned then it became vinegar. Bread crumbs were saved. With the extra egg yolk, we made mayonnaise.

Before the house got taken.

I began to darn our socks. I salvaged zippers, buttons, and snaps, every scrap, to use later. We patched our jeans over and over. Old clothes got made over.

Before we moved in with your parents.

We shopped at thrift stores. Got stuff for free off Craigslist. We bartered, traded, and clipped coupons.

Before our bank went under.

We got into the habit of unplugging our electronics and waited until we absolutely had to before turning on the air conditioner.

Before the power disruptions.

I remember when we used to flush the toilet after every use or squandered water, letting it run while brushing our teeth. We watered the grass, for Pete’s sake!

Before water was rationed.

I saved vegetable peelings. Sometimes I boiled them to make a kind of broth. I foraged edible weeds to make a salad.

Before the harvests failed.

We had already sold the car for parts. In a pinch we hitched.

Before travel was restricted.

I remember when people didn’t have to strip old houses for metal or sleep outside. Now we salvage large pieces of plastic sheeting, search for junk wood, extracting the nails and straightening them out, like licking bones clean, bones split open in order to suck the marrow. We fight over carrier bags, weaving them into sleeping mats.

Before the wars.

We’d sit around a wood fire, staring into the flames, trying hard not to remember how things used to be.

Before darkness descended.

Trouble used to be measured by inconvenience. Waiting measured in minutes. Now time has no limit. Catastrophe can visit both the living and the dead.

Before the end.


- - -
My short stories have appeared or are forthcoming in: Foliate Oak, Cantaraville, Rosebud, Word Riot, Flashquake, Steam Ticket, Greensilk Journal, Fiction Fix, Six Minute Magazine, The Write Room, Frostwriting, Hunger Mountain, and Tonopah Review.

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: Jane Hertenstein

Contributor: Jeremy Jones

- -
As the painfully burning liquid flows over my skin, I reflect on my life. I see how I ruined my own childhood and blamed others. I see the father I left to rot in a hospital and to die alone. I see the mother I drove away and the brothers I shut out. I see the loving wife I destroyed and drove to adultery. I see the pain I caused all my loved ones. I see all the Marines I fucked over. I see all the lives I took, all the souls I sent to hell, all the futures I erased. I still see their eyes and hear their screams when I sleep. I can see everything I have ever done in my life when this liquid rushes over my flesh, burning me as it goes. I try to think of the good but cannot. The worst part is I see my children. Poor bastards that never deserved to be around a prick like me. My sweet angels will forever be changed by my actions and how I wronged them. For that I cannot allow myself to live. I tear my eyes open to see the flowers all around me. The roses have just come into bloom. The night air is filled with a gentle breeze that is carrying the sweet smell from the roses. With my arms raised above my head, I finish dumping the liquid on my head. I gag at the choking smell from the gasoline. Not even the heaven of these amazing flowers can shut that away. I suddenly regret that the flames will destroy them as well. I pull out the Zippo that has my cherished EGA engraved on it next to the words my lover put on there, “Life would not be worth living, without you in it.” I think it’s only fitting to kill myself with it.

Narrative:

Gunnery Sergeant Zack McNeil slams the lighter open; the sound reminds him of racking a round. Slowly he brings the lighter to life and watches the flames dance to the left and right. Zack thinks one last time of his girls and how he would beat and molested them. Seeing their sad, hollow eyes helps to resolve his will. He drops the lighter and is consumed by flames. You can almost hear the flames laughing as they devour him, eating him alive. His screams are instant and loud. The pain brought on by burning to death does not compare to the anguish in his soul. His screams reflect his torment and agony escaping his body. The torture is almost orgasmic, knowing that his twisted soul is going to feel this for all eternity; knowing that his living form is being destroyed. GySgt McNeil’s body is found the next day still on his knees clutching what looks like a picture frame.


- - -
Prior Sergeant of Marines, never been published. I started writing about 6 months ago, and I was told I should post my stuff. I like to write flash fiction and prose poems, but am trying to broaden my horizon.

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: Jeremy Jones

Contributor: Brian Barbeito

- -
Summer rains and purple cotton, where the cool women go, or the fantastic plastic horse from so many years and days and nights ago that it is a miracle to think existence can bring you so far. Dreams of police with the faces of pigs, because someone mentioned they were such, and the old man J-walked and got hit by cars by the grocery store afternoon. The grand church, and the ceilings with saints, where the Madonna will crush the snake with her feet, where the bleached blond knowing one will survey the scene, and the cross-town market is there with nooks and crannies- people old and in heavy suits. The world there and in other places was full of electrical tape, splinters, needle nose pliers, silver watches, cords, small Christmas Trees for the faithful, diligent crates of candies waiting, close angels whispering in the ear, other spirits too, and night terrors, visions, a ringing in the ear, an intensity indescribable, and some kind of hope or chance. But it was also laden with dust and the idea of things that were past their time and only the poor might really want them. If the autumnal leaves swept through the town like a loud racket it would be good, or if winter came and painted everything with snow...or even spring and her flowers trying to survive by the roadside or in an old grandmother’s garden...but it was the summer rains, where the cool women go, and those women are not humble, generous, or wise. The world flashes on and off, and someone tries to remember a dream while another on the other side of the earth tries to dream a dream. The whole thing is sometimes muddied, and sometimes clear, but all the time sacrosanct in the end, though we can’t see it right now, blocked as we are by summer rains and the way of things.


- - -
Brian Michael Barbeito writes impressionistic vignettes, flash fiction, short stories, prose poetry, experimental novels, book and film reviews. His work has appeared at Glossolalia, Subtle Fiction, Mudjob, Six Sentences, Thinking Ten, American Chronicle, Our Echo, Ezine Authors, Author Nation, A Million Stores, Crimson Highway, Paragraph Planet, Useless-Knowledge Magazine, Exclusive Conclave of Delights Magazine, and Lunatics Folly. His work is forthcoming in the Contemporary Literary Horizons Journal, and in Kurungabaa Magazine. He is the author of ‘postprandial,’ an experimental novel, and a compilation of his work, ‘Vignettes,’ is being compiled. Brian resides in Ontario, Canada

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

1 comment

Author: Brian Barbeito

Contributor: Danica Green

- -
Mama kept chickens in the yard all through my childhood. Every few days she and I would go out together and collect the eggs, feed the chickens, check the cage wires, and I would say hello to each chicken individually. Mrs. Cluck was my favourite, we adopted her from a shelter and she'd been the only survivor of a fox attack on the coop she lived in as a chick. It had left her mother and siblings dead and her wings torn off so she looked a bit like one of those New Zealand kiwi birds. It never phased her though, she produced just as many eggs as her coop-mates, ate fine, slept well. Plucky Mrs. Cluck.

Since papa left the house two years earlier, money had been tight. I'd often go without fancy birthday gifts so that we could feed the chickens and I didn't mind it at all. Who'd want a stupid cassette player when they could have walking, talking toys, right? One Christmas I spent the morning playing with my paltry gifts and watching tv before mama called me to the kitchen. I loved Christmas lunch and it was always fair, I liked the legs, mama liked the wings and we'd share the rest between us, so when I saw her reaching for one of my drumsticks I got pretty annoyed and went to snatch it out of her hand. That's when I looked down and saw the wingless chicken carcass on the table. Mama stared down at her plate. I let go of the drumstick and did the same.


- - -
Danica Green is a UK-based writer of things that make no sense. She hopes to burn your eyeballs out with her words, or at the very least, make you smile awkwardly.

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: Danica Green

Contributor: Michael Albani

- -
“Johnny,” said the younger runaway, “I really don’t think we should be hanging out around here.”

“Carmine, don’t be such a freakin’ baby,” Johnny ordered. “I mean, where’s your sense of adventure? We could never find a place this sweet back in Philly.”

Johnny and Carmine were brothers. Johnny was 16. Carmine was 14. They had both run away from home and were travelling together across the country.

Well, perhaps “run away from home” is not the right phrase. After all, “home” is an abstract concept, a warm and comforting state of mind. There was nothing warm or comforting about the run-down house in Philadelphia that Johnny and Carmine came from.

Johnny and Carmine were raised by a drunkard father who could not hold down a steady job. He was a mean drunk who took out his frustrations on them before slithering back into his bottle. They both knew they had to escape from that Hell hole.

The latest stop on their tour across America was an abandoned carnival. The sun was setting and the whole place was cloaked in dusk. It was a dirty place, littered with half-torn tents and ancient popcorn bags. There were rotting game stands with headless stuffed animals resting on the shelves. A rusty Ferris wheel and other rides enveloped in overgrown foliage dotted the landscape.

“Johnny, how could you think a place this creepy is sweet?”

“Aw, whatsa madder?” Johnny asked in baby talk. “Is my baby bwudder ascared?”

“No!” Carmine yelled. “I just don’t think we should be hanging around a place like this at night.”

“Ha! You’re scared.”

“Am not!”

“Are too.”

“Am not!”

“Are…”

“And what’s wrong with being scared, my boy?” someone interjected.

Startled, the brothers turned around. An old man was standing a few yards away from them, and a strange old man at that. The abandoned carnival was in the middle of nowhere, but this old man was dressed to kill. He wore an immaculate white suit with a matching shirt, tie, and shoes. In his right hand, he clutched a stunning ivory cane with a silver head. A black mourning band was affixed to his left arm.

“What was that, mister?” asked a bewildered Johnny.

With a sinister smile on his face, the old man slowly approached the brothers, speaking as he walked. “Well, my boys, I just said there’s nothing wrong with being scared, especially in this place.”

“Who are you, mister?” asked Carmine.

The old man laughed. “That’s not important. What is important is that you boys should be getting home. The stars will be out soon and so will Salazar the Snake Eater.”

The brothers both looked confused.

“You boys don’t know about Salazar the Snake Eater?” asked the old man.

The brothers both shook their heads.

The old man tightened his grip on his cane. “You boys must not be from around here. Everyone around here knows the legend of Salazar the Snake Eater. Sit down. I’ll tell you the story.”

The old man disturbed the brothers, but he did not appear dangerous. They decided to do as they were told and took a seat on the grass.

“Well,” began the old man, “many years ago the abandoned grounds over there were the site of a thriving carnival. This carnival had a Freak Show. Its star was Salazar the Snake Eater.

“Salazar had a very strange act. He would bite the heads off of live cobras and suck out their venomous blood.”

Upon hearing this, the brothers’ stomachs churned.

“Some people loved this act,” continued the old man. “But many more were disgusted by it. They called Salazar an abomination, a monster. This made Salazar very sad and very angry.

“One night, Salazar wished upon a star for a way to get revenge on all those people who looked on with revulsion. The star he wished upon was called ‘the backbone of the Serpent’ by ancient peoples. In fact, there it is right now.” The old man pointed a single bony finger into the air. The sun had set and a solitary star shined dimly in the sky.

“Well,” the old man continued, “when Salazar woke up the next morning, he discovered he had grown three times his size! This made him very happy. Some say he still lives on the carnival grounds, waiting to bite the heads off of any snakes that would dare call him a monster.”

For a moment, the brothers were speechless. “Well,” Johnny finally said, “thanks for the story, but I think it’s time for us to go.”

The old man smiled sinisterly. “Alright. You boys just remember my story.” The old man turned and walked away, disappearing into the trees.

“That was really creepy,” said Carmine.

“Yeah,” agreed Johnny. “So, you ready to turn in for the night?”

“Turn in for the night? Here?”

“Why not? I’ve always wanted to sleep under the stars.”

“But that old man…”

“Aw, is my baby bwudder ascared of some old man and his fairy tales?”

“Stop it! Fine, you win. We’ll turn in here tonight.”

After a few hours of sleep under the stars, Johnny felt a few drops of rain falling on his head. He turned over in his sleeping bag to shake Carmine awake. “Wake up, Carmine. It’s starting to…

Johnny stopped. His brother was not in his sleeping bag. Instead, there was a corpse with a bloody stub where the head should have been.

“You really should have listened to me,” someone said.

Johnny jerked around to see the old man lying next to him with his signature sinister smile on his face. More rain fell on Johnny’s head. He looked upward and was horrified to find that it was not rain that was falling on him. It was drool.


- - -
My name is Michael Albani and I am a native Michigander and a student at Albion College. I am the founder and editor of the new online environmental fiction zine Appalachia Fiction and Fact and I have previously been published for my horror fiction in Flashes in the Dark and Deadman's Tome.

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: Michael Albani

Contributor: Tahni J. Nikitins

- -
Mysterious Mr. D is not a tall man - no. He is, perhaps, five-seven - five-eight. He is not a man heavily built - quite the contrary. He is lanky - quite wiry. He is not attractive as you might expect him to be, with shaved head, pale eyebrows and lashes, dense freckles, and ruddy skin. Perhaps, if you were to wager a guess, you might say he was of Irish or Scottish descent. Then again, maybe not.

He may not be tall or powerful in build - he may not be handsome as your daydream, but his eyes are the color of warm amber. And he knows much about you, it seems, while you know nothing about him save for his interest in astrology - and that he recognized the pendant on your neck.

There is his laugh, as well. His laugh is abrupt. It shocks you some, leaves you reeling. It takes you a moment to catch up; a second to be let in on the joke. And when he laughs, the corners of his eyes crinkle. Perhaps you didn't notice the fine lines there before, but you do when he laughs - just as you didn't notice the lines at the corners of his mouth until the smile broke.

Oh, Mysterious Mr. D...if you're lucky, perhaps you'll see him again. You chose your clothes carefully - just in case. And then you laugh uneasily because you feel silly, but also because you know you recognize him from somewhere but you just can't recall...

Well, it's only fitting...to know him not at all.


- - -
Tahni has been writing since she could hold a pen, filling journal after journal with stories which, more often than not, made little to no sense. Since then, however, some of her writings have been featured at Eternal Haunted Summer (eternalhauntedsummer.com) and in Anya Kless's devotional anthology Lilith: Queen of the Desert.

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: Tahni J. Nikitins

Contributor: Jerry Guarino

- -
It was one of the most disturbing images Tony had ever seen, if only for a few seconds. Along a highway on the seedier side of the city, a man dressed in plain clothing, an old, wrinkled grey jacket and worn, work boots was kneeling in front of a large industrial building with huge, glass windowpanes. Standing around him were two men with black suits, sunglasses and shining black shoes, looking very much like the men in black. He was driving too fast to hear what the men were saying, but their expressions painted a picture of a sober and terrifying incident about to happen.

Tony was forced to drive past them, on a highway without any place to pull over. As he sped by, he looked for a way to turn around, but the nearest break in the median was a mile away. He couldn’t leave without trying to help the man, so he made a u-turn and drove back to the scene on the opposite side of the highway. Tony honked his horn as he went by, but the men didn’t respond; he only angered the drivers in front of him. “I’m not honking at you,” Tony yelled out his window. A busy intersection ahead gave him an opportunity to make another u-turn, but no place to park.

So Tony drove past the men again, unable to stop, honking his horn and yelling out the passenger side window. “Hey, leave him alone.” But his cries fell on deaf ears. Tony decided to pull into the nearest side street and run back to the group, hoping he would arrive before the man was shot or beat up. “How am I going to stop this? Those men obviously have guns and outweigh me by fifty pounds.” His sense of right and wrong neutralized his fear. Adrenalin rushed through his limbs as he raced towards the men. He didn’t know what he was going to do, but he was going to do something.

One hundred yards away now, he saw the sun glaring off the windowpanes, creating those rays you often see breaking through clouds. But this was not the peaceful image of a church or sunset. It was very likely an eminent crime scene. Tony ran faster and he could feel his heart thumping in his chest. “This is crazy. I could get killed.” Tony could see the man pleading for his life, his hands interlaced and tears running down his face. He also saw something black in the hand of the aggressor, pointing towards the victim. One last time, his principles gave him strength, overriding all common reason and sense of self-preservation.

He turned his ears on high, hoping to hear something he could use to placate the aggressors. His back up plan was to dive headlong into the men, praying for some help from above; it wasn’t a good plan B. Just before he leapt into the air, he could make out the determined words of the man with the black object in his hand, now holding it above the head of the kneeling man.

“Do you now affirm your willingness to turn over your life to Christ Jesus, to follow his path and to spread his gospel to the world?” The man raised his hands towards the sky, lifted his head and face up and responded.

“I do so swear. Jesus, I turn my life over to you.”

The men in the sunglasses turned to face Tony with dispassionate expressions. “Son, have you heard the good news?”


- - -
Jerry Guarino’s short stories have been published by dozens of literary magazines in the United States, Canada, Australia and Great Britain. His first collection of twenty-six critically acclaimed stories, Cafe Stories, was released in October, 2011. It is available as a paperback on amazon.com and as an e-book on kindle.

Watch for his new story, The Chess Table at the Twenty or Less Press website.

He is currently working on a murder mystery for the stage.

Please visit his website at http://cafestories.net
jguarino.author@gmail.com
twitter: @cafestories

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: Jerry Guarino

Contributor: Eric Suhem

- -
Alfred was a somnambulist. As a somnambulist, he would walk about the house in the middle of the night, deep in slumber, sitting in different chairs, turning on and off various faucets, eventually winding up back in bed. His family had become accustomed to his nocturnal ramblings. One morning, after falling asleep in bed the night before, he woke up in a brightly colored lawn chair out in his vegetable garden. The morning after that, he woke up in a neighbor’s yard, and the next morning in another neighbor’s yard. Each morning Alfred would wake up in the brightly colored lawn chair, closer and closer to the nearby freeway, until he woke up 10 feet away from the road’s speeding cars. At this rate, he would wake up on Lane 1 of the freeway.

Two mornings later, after the usual nighttime ambling, he did wake up in a brightly colored lawn chair on the freeway, but saw that 78 other people were either asleep or awake in brightly colored lawn chairs on the freeway, so everybody got out of their stopped cars and had a picnic. While chewing on a blood orange, one of the lawn chair occupants asked Alfred, “Who are you?” Alfred was about to describe his dead-end job at the orange grove, packing crates, preparing invoices, and sweeping up orange peels, when, in an epiphany, he suddenly visualized his new career, saying, “I’m Alfred Lindquist, I sell lawn chairs.”

The person chewing the blood orange looked at Alfred strangely, and cryptically muttered, “Through the miles of desert in the blazing sun…on the arid, parched, barren ground…ants and worms crawling amidst wayward oranges…wind howling through the empty canyons…in the middle of the silence sits a wooden coffee table…on it pumps a heart…veins, arteries, aorta, valves, pulp, peels…blood and soul spread out on the dirt…it’s the heart you’ll never know.” He then handed Alfred an orange.

Alfred started a new business selling yard furniture, and the sleepwalking stopped, much to his family’s relief. One night, after the business day had ended, Alfred sat down to fill out some paperwork that had been piling up. The plastic blinds of the window were open, filtering the glare of the streetlights onto the imitation wood paneling of his office. The first item in his inbox was a refund request for one of the lawn chairs he’d sold the previous week. This particular lawn chair included the wide orange ‘Happy Face’ on its seat. Unfortunately, customers of this product had reported skin rashes, and more severe epidermis disturbances. It was soon discovered that some fibers in the ‘Happy Face’ symbol on the lawn chair, derived from an obscure toxic plant, were creating itching, and much worse. Hostile litigation would undoubtedly flow in, and further tests indicated that an increase in degree of the smile caused more skin rashes, as more of the toxic threads of the wide smile were directly under customers’ legs on the chair. One of these chairs was in Alfred’s office, and he looked at it, the ‘Happy Face’ seeming to word, “Who are you?”

The next item in his inbox was an invoice for another lawn chair he had sold that week. Alfred needed to sign his name on the invoice, but for some reason, no matter how hard he tried, could not remember his name for the signature. He set the invoice aside, and picked up the next piece of paper, a memo from the orange grove, having to do with his some minor job severance insurance issues. His name popped instantly into his head and he was able to sign his name: Alfred Lindquist. He picked up the lawn chair invoice again, and stared at the signature line, unable to sign. The somnambulism returned.

The next morning, after a night of sleepwalking, he woke up in a lawn chair under orange trees in the orchard where he used to work. In his lap was the orange that the strange person had given to him on the freeway weeks ago. The orange had a little “d” imprinted on its side, and it was ticking, like a bomb. A year ago, Alfred had seen another orange with a “d” imprint, which had been an advertising stunt from a fruit juice stand, extolling the benefits of Vitamin D, but this time he realized that the “d” stood for “decide”. He stood up, threw down the lawn chair, and went to the orchard manager’s office, where he got his job back. The orange stopped ticking, and later became a refreshing mid-afternoon snack for a passerby.


- - -

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: Eric Suhem

Contributor: Rebecca Buchanan

- -
He was awakened at dawn by a terrific crash, a bunch of smaller crashes, and the shriek of his car alarm. Muttering, he pulled on his robe, grabbed his keys, and staggered down the stairs. The old bat in 3C was already whining about her beauty sleep.

The roof of his Corolla was completely caved in, a large chunk of scaly rock in its center. Smaller bits of rock were scattered around. His toe bumped something that might have been a claw or horn. He stabbed at the key chain a few times. The pretty girl from 4G, her earbuds belching Ozzy, shrugged as she jogged passed him. The alarm squeaked and abruptly cut off. He sighed, wondering what the chances were of reaching his insurance guy on a Sunday morning.

The old bat was leaning out her window now, yelling down at him. He looked up to yell back. And kept looking up. The rest of the flock was perched on the fifth-floor ledge. A couple of them were covering their eyes, wings curled tight. A third leaned down, reaching, eyes and mouth wide: horror and despair petrified for all the daylit world to see.


- - -
Rebecca Buchanan is the editor of Eternal Haunted Summer, a Pagan literary ezine. She has been previously published in Luna Station Quarterly, Bards and Sages Quarterly, Cliterature and Hex Magazine.

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: Rebecca Buchanan

Contributor: P.A.Levy

- -
the great outdoors isn’t that great if the outdoors is a council estate a bomb city with some of its glass panes still intact where grey scratches on the grey landscape to form into rectangular outlines of washing machines left to get a rinse in the dirty acid rot not trip rain and under an orange glow of city echoes fridges are left out freezing their nuts off in the cold as creeping rust begins to accumulate and spread across the incinerated carcasses of exhausted cars whose final act of exploding into flames provided entertainment for several minutes of wild jubilation as if worshipping some heathen god to free the world of boredom and the bass and drum of drum&bass mashed with dubstep follows you like radar trace orchestrates skank in yer gait shuffling in the shadow of a high rise where the junkies crash on the top floor getting as close to heaven as they dare YOU DON’T GO ON THE TOP FLOOR in fact don’t go near the underground car park either STAY IN THE OPEN STAY IN THE LIGHT but don’t take that as a metaphor for god ‘cos it ain’t it’s survival tagged on the shuttered shops of the cctv parade like a holy scripture for an underclass but then being as low as that the only way is up lifts are smashed plod each stair until yer muscles ache too far to turn back now straight up darkside with the top floor about to greet you


- - -
Born East London but now residing amongst the hedge mumblers of rural Suffolk, P.A.Levy has been published in many magazines, both on line and in print, from ‘A cappella Zoo’ to ‘Zygote In My Coffee’. He is also a founding member of the Clueless Collective.

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: P.A.Levy

Contributor: Simay Yildiz

- -
''Fuck off,'' I hiss between my clenched teeth, staring inside the eyes of the boy who came up from behind me and is still holding a supposedly-dead, plastic mouse in front of my face. As I stare and state into his eyes grinding my teeth, I can hear the other boys whispering, “She’s not scared…” My stare-boy turns away when I pull the toy from his hand in full force. Facing his friends, ''She's a witch,'' he shrieks with his hands up in the air, and with the blink of an eye, there are no more boys in sight. I throw the mouse into my coat pocket and check the time on my cell phone: I don’t need this on an empty stomach…

The food is an hour away from where I get on the bus, so once I find an empty seat, I sit down and open the book I've been trying to read for a week. The driver's deep, loud voice distracts me. “You again? Once again you don't have any money, do you? Why you always gotta pick MY vehicle?” I sit up, thinking there'll be a fight and I'll have to spend the night with this leather seat grabbing my ass. As I think about the burgers and the beer I could be filling my stomach with, I turn to see who the money-less person is.

The bus starts moving again, and the driver is giggling: it's a 15-year-old boy with the biggest and warmest smile I've ever seen. It takes me quite a while because he looks very different under the lights, but when I realize it’s the same boy who pulled the plastic mouse trick on me, I listen in closer: he never could learn how to read ''all the confusing'' letters, but he's good at counting money when he has it. He has his dead mother's ability to shape unshapely things, so his father found him a job at a barbershop.

Thinking to myself what someone might call a cute face like that, I try to catch his name. As I listen more, staring at my hands, I realize I really just want to pinch his cheeks and squeeze him until he giggles so hard he can’t breathe. I laugh a satisfied laugh, the booze I haven’t yet consumed already kicking in.

''Whatcha laughin’ at?'' asks barber-boy as he sits next to me. ''Nothing,'' I say and turn to him, which makes him jump out of the seat and get on his knees: ''Oh, please, the beautiful witch of the town,'' he says, ''please kiss me and make me immortal – I beg you.'' I catch the driver's eyes on his mirror, and I mouth WHAT THE FUCK? ''Never mind him,'' he says, ''he's got a few loose screws.''

Whenever the bus stops to pick someone up, the driver threatens my barber-boy, saying he'll throw him out for not having the fare. He's joking, but barber-boy doesn't understand; he gets on his knees, trying to hold onto the side of the vehicle, ready to cry. This happens a few times, and I can't take it anymore. ''Quit it,'' I say to the driver as I walk up and throw at him whatever change I have in my coat pocket.

With the change flies out the supposedly-dead, plastic mouse and the lady sitting in the front starts screaming as if she saw her dead husband’s ghost. The bus stops all of a sudden; I can't catch the railing on time and fall on the screaming lady. When I hear barber-boy laughing his ass off, I can't help but join in. ''GET THE HELL OUT," yells the driver, "BOTH OF YOU – NOW!" We jump off, still laughing, and the screaming lady throws the mouse at me, but I catch it before it hits my face, which makes barber-boy go, "Woooooooow!"

"Guess ya gotta go naw," says barber-boy when we cool down. I motion him to get closer and give him a kiss on the cheek. Holding my palm in front of his face, "You're immortal now," I whisper, and watch him skip as he walks down the side street. "What's your name," I yell after him, but he's already lost in the dark.


- - -
Simay lives and works as a copywriter in Istanbul. She likes reading thankyous in CD booklets, dancing in the rain and staying up all night to read. She might burst into song at random times.

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

2 Comments

Author: Simay Yildiz

Contributor: Kyle Hemmings

- -
When he first learned he could fly, Pigeon-boy blushed at the thought of hand-me-down wings. Yet, he learned to dance on street corners, laugh mid-stream at the thought of being lighter than an idea. Then he was hired to carry messages between lovers. The distances increased & Pigeon-boy grew breathless. Sometimes, he delivered messages to the wrong lovers. The notes read I love you, still, or walking on air. Some receivers at the wrong destinations died in air-tight bliss. When this happened, the world grew smaller. One day, a morning where everyone carried some form of artificial sunshine in their pockets, of paper planes released from the sweaty palms of air controllers, Pigeon-boy delivered a note that read: I don't love you anymore. He fell from the sky. A girl named Yugi took him home, brought him back to life with her songs of flight. From then on, Pigeon-boy was wiser with air-time, more cautious about his fly-ways. He circled & landed only within her. In total, they never touched ground. Whenever she breaks open a Chinese cookie, the message is always the same--When the world is cold, stay indoors.


- - -
Kyle Hemmings lives in New Jersey. He has two chapbooks from Scars Publications: Avenue C (2010) and Cat People (2011), and one forthcoming from NAP: Tokyo Girls in Science Fiction.

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: Kyle Hemmings

Contributor: Autumn Humphrey

- -

You know better than to eat Gummi bears.  Reminders of the last time are still evident back at the house, the couch missing an arm and a bullet hole in the ceiling.  Fingering the crinkly cellophane of the package, you imagine the chewy sweetness and throw it into the cart.  Maybe you’ll put it back at some point, but for now you indulge the thought of being naughty. 

Making your way through the store, you keep an eye on the clear bag with the multi-colored little bears inside.   When adding more items to the cart, sugar-free soda, sugar-free grain bars and oatmeal, you take care not to bury the treasure of sweet treats.

The next day you don’t remember paying for the Gummi bears, but you have an idea you did.  The evidence is obvious:  Two more bullet holes in the ceiling, the Barcolounger destroyed, and a missing husband.

Rubbing your eyes, you try to remember what happened.  As you clean up the mess, you pray you don’t find blood, like last time.  In the closet upstairs there is no male clothing.  The drawers are also empty of boxers or briefs.  The medicine cabinet holds only your prescription bottles.

You finally find your cell phone between the cushions of the sofa.  Frantic, you search for your husband’s cell phone number in Contacts.  Nothing.  You check the dialed calls and missed calls.  Still nothing.  Then you realize you don’t remember your husband’s name. 

As you curl yourself up into a fetal position on the couch, you hear a crinkling sound, and find the package of Gummi bears.  It has not been opened. 

It wasn’t the Gummi bears after all, you think, as you tear open the bag and stuff a handful of candy into your mouth.  An overwhelming sense of joy fills you from the sweet taste of forbidden fruit, and your body relaxes.  Across the room you see another cellophane bag.  It is empty except for a few little bears, who begin to march slowly toward you.

- - -
Autumn Humphrey's stories can be found at Every Day Fiction, kill author, The Legendary, Aurora Wolf, and other sites. She lives in Long Beach, California where she is an active member of the Long Beach Writer's Group. She cut her teeth writing short fiction in a factory not far from here where the sound is click-clickety-click and everything else is silent.

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

6 Comments

Author: Autumn Humphrey

Contributor: Moxie Malone

- -
"Hello you. How was your trip?" he asked her as she entered.

"Fun...wondrous...interesting. It was everything you said it would be," she beamed as she dashed in. "Still, it's good to be back," she added and wrapped herself around him.

He chuckled as he drew her close, "It's good to have you back."

"Ummmhmm," she purred as she wallowed in his loving embrace. "Next time we should go together."

"We'll have to plan that. So, tell me all about it. Did you get to do everything we talked about?"

"I sure did," she told him excitedly. "Some things more than once!"

"Food?" he asked.

"Yum!" she exclaimed.

"Dancing?" he queried.

"Oh, I danced until I dropped from exhaustion," she told him, giggling.

"Sex?"

"Well, sure. There was plenty of opportunity for that," she laughed. "It would have been better with you there, though."

He flexed and squeezed her.

She sighed a bit, "It's...it's...just so hard to get close to anyone, you know?"

"I know. It's such a short time. It seems like you just get there and get the hang of things and it's time to come home."

"There is that, but...," she paused as she pressed into him, simply luxuriating in the feel of him.

"But?" He asked as he held and stroked her.

She drew back a moment as she collected her thoughts, "I just don't see how anyone can ever get close to anyone, there. Things get in the way."

"Things," he repeated as he considered what she was saying. "Ah," he said as he pulled her back to him, "You mean the bodies."

She felt herself happily, blissfully melting into him, "Exactly. You can't do this with bodies. They just get in the way."


- - -
Moxie is a purveyor of dreams, fantasies and the occasional nightmare -- Purv for short. Usually sensual, often romantic, frequently erotic, sometimes humorous and nearly always offbeat aiming for provocative, the stories that she writes as well as the people, places and events found in them are pure fiction and nothing more - as far as you know.

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

2 Comments

Author: Moxie Malone

Contributor: Samantha Memi

- -
I was lying in bed wondering if the hotel would remember to wake me in the morning when a gecko came in through the window and walked along the wall.
I was too tired to shoo it away.
“You won't hurt me will you, Mr Gecko.”
“I'm looking for roaches, big fat juicy roaches. What would I want with the likes of you.” and he continued his journey on the wall.
Just as I was drifting into sleep he started whistling. There's nothing worse than a whistling gecko when you're trying to sleep.
“Do you mind not whistling?” I asked.
“What's with all the complaining?” he replied, “you get on with your life and I'll get on with mine.”
“Yes, but your whistling bothers me.”
“You're breathing bothers me. Do I complain about it? No. Why not? Because I believe in letting others live their lives the way they want to. But not you. You want to dictate to others how they should live.”
He stopped whistling. I drifted. I needed to get to the train station early to ensure I got a ticket.
He started singing. It was a song about a cockroach who fell in love with a grasshopper and wooed her with many gifts and just as they were about to marry both were eaten by a gecko. I asked him not to sing.
“What? you wanna run my life for me? I can't do anything because big fat Miss Human thinks she can tell me what I can and can't do.”
“I want to get some sleep.”
“I'm not stopping you.”
“You’re singing.”
“I like to sing. You don't like singing and that gives you the right to stop me.”
“I do like singing, but...”
“You like Mozart?”
“That wasn't Mozart.”
“I didn't say it was, I asked if you liked him.”
“Yes.”
“You like Don Giovanni?”
“I have to get up in the morning. I just want to sleep. This is my room.”
“Your room? So I'm not allowed in? Is that what you're saying? Do I tell you not to climb my tree? No. And you know why? Because I don't have a tree. Did you ever see a gecko struggling along with a backpack? No. You know why? Because we’re free. We're not enslaved by possessions and all your stupid this is my room, this is my bed, this is my space. You should learn how to live.”

This was too much. I had to see Janine tomorrow. I got out of bed.
“Hey hey hey,” screamed the gecko, “I know you're bigger than me. But there's no need to resort to violence. Why don't we settle this matter amicably.”
I picked up a newspaper and shooed him out of the room. I closed the shutters and the window, and lay down. Without the cool breeze it was too sticky hot to sleep. The hotel sign squeezed intermittent orange and green through gaps in the shutters. I listened to the crickets. Then from the window I heard a squeaky song:

The grasshopper and the cockroach they wanted to wed.
But sly Mr Gecko, he ate them instead.
And selfish Miss Human, she lay on her bed.
Thinking and dreaming that he would be dead.
But a gecko so lively, it has to be said,
Could outwit a human without any dread.

Sleep was out of the question. I went down to the bar.
“There's a gecko in my room.”
“All the rooms have geckos.”
“It's singing.”
“Opera?”
“It's keeping me awake and I have to get up early to buy a train ticket.”
“I can sell you a ticket. Where are you going?”

Ticket in hand and no thought of queues in the morning, I went back to my room and opened the window.
The gecko stood on the window ledge.
“Oh, it's you,” he said.
“Do you know the duet of Don Giovanni and Zerlina?”
The gecko coughed and cleared his throat, he stood on his hind legs and looked at me. In perfect Italian he sang:
Lá ci darem la mano, lá mi dirai di sì
I stood by the open window bewitched by the sunrise gradating into the purpling sky and sang:
Vorrei e non vorrei, mi trema un poco il cor
The gecko stood on the ledge, his slit eyes gazing at me, and our hearts came together in Mozart, and I forgot about queues and train stations and lived for the moment, not for tomorrow.


- - -
Samantha Memi lives in London. Her fictional life can be found at http://samanthamemi.weebly.com/

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

1 comment

Author: Samantha Memi

Contributor: Marissa Medley

- -
When I met her for the first time, we were at a funeral. Everyone was so somber, which is to be expected at a gathering of the kind. It was interesting for me to see how everyone coped with the loss. Women cried into the arms of their husbands. Husbands patted the backs of their close friends saying things like “How unexpected” and “What a great loss”. The little children cried for their mothers and asked what was wrong. The mothers replied in sweet voices trying to keep in their tears. They didn't want to explain that someone they all once knew and loved had died. The crowd all around me was quiet and sad. Almost everyone had cried at some point except for me and her. When I looked at her, her face was even more blank than mine.
I felt uncomfortable to watch her. She was there just watching everyone pass by her. Like her, I was just there to support my family. We both watched as people passed by the body. The mother of the daughter who had died was crying hysterically. The cries reached a volume that seemed too loud to be coming out of a human body.
As other people started to go up to see the casket, I stayed behind to watch the children. There was something so beautiful in their innocence. I envied their ability to be at the funeral without feeling guilty that they were still alive. They had no idea that someday there would be a funeral for them. Soon though, they would find out how life ends.
One of the little girls I was watching ran over to her crying grandmother.
“What's wrong Gramma?” she asked.
“Gramma lost something very precious to her,” she answered while barely keeping her composure.
“What'd you lose, Gramma?”
“I lost a precious gem. A very, very, very precious gem,” the grandmother said while picked up the child. She held the girl so close as if she were afraid that death would fly in at that moment and take another granddaughter away from her.
The crying grandmother had made me feel horrible for not joining her in being sad. Instead, I just felt guilty. To take my mind off of the guilt, I looked up and saw the blank faced girl still there. Even though her face was blank, there was some sort of a peace in her expression. There were no tears coming from her eyes. She had been wearing an odd item for a funeral. On top of her head sat a tan cowboy hat. Nobody seemed to care or notice. They acted like it was just part of her.
“Would you like to come up and see the body?” asked a man I had come with.
I wasn't terribly excited to go up and see the body, but I wanted to show my respects. I didn't answer the man with words. I nodded my head and waited in line to see the body. I looked around and saw the people mourning. There were many young people there who looked shocked and confused. They didn't understand how someone so young and full of life could end up dead. I heard gossip from two old women behind me who had said that she died in a car crash. The driver had been speeding and they were not wearing seat belts. The women behind me seemed to be angry because such a stupid mistake of not putting on a seat belt killed the young girl.
Again I looked up at the girl with the blank face. At this point people were watching her and she was watching back even more intently. Her coldness had started to bother me.
When I got up to the casket her grandfather hugged me and thanked me for coming. He gave some trivial advice about driving that many people had told me before, except for when he said it there was more meaning. He had been affected by that piece of trivial advice more than anyone could know. I had finally started crying. I couldn’t control myself. The tears of previous losses, fears, and guilt had been set free.
When I looked down into the casket I saw the girl with the blank face. She was the girl who had tragically died in the accident. Her hat had covered up the damage from the accident. She was dead, but she was still watching everyone and I could tell. She wasn't sad.


- - -
Marissa Medley is currently attending Toledo School for the Arts, where she takes a creative writing class. She writes prose and poetry. She also loves to read and is often inspired by J.D. Salinger and Sylvia Plath.

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: Marissa Medley

Contributor: Allen Griffin

- -
There is a grinding of metal on metal as the two cars meet and become one, fenders locking lips and fluids co-mingling. The bones snapping and the sudden exhale. The voice that lives in the blood crying out one final time, is less than an afterthought, lost silent in the cacophony of this moment.
Just as quickly as it occurred, I am floating above the highway, a canal that is quickly clogging like the artery that I secretly had figured would be my true end. I am not sad that I cannot say goodbye, their faces are already slipping away, the imagery lost in the afternoon haze and exhaust fumes. I am quickly losing myself into a strange memory, wondering if I am really up here, floating, or if my brain has thrown together this image as the last neurons fire their sacred payload.


- - -
Allen Griffin writes and plays music in Indianapolis. His work has previously appeared in Rebel Doll zine, Indiana Horror Anthology, and Theory Train.

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: Allen Griffin

Contributor: Hannah M. Hill

- -
Four bars, four cops, then sixteen more bars – the last sixteen being quite rusty and annoying. I rata-tat-tatted a twelve-bar blues, and the other four objected, leaving me with a mattress and a bar-shaped bruise... but no bars. Outside, a road is a long bar of its own; a thousand miles per brandy, 85 and a half shots to the gallon.

I took the mattress and made some shoes – and I rata-tat-tatted along down that road; two straight yellow bars, on my feet, and in that tarmac that was dark as the white rich man's wine in the light of the black-backed bar. I walked on the gold, shifting shoes like my hands to my pockets slide when they're rattling out a beat for that Shining American Dollar.

Lost my rattle when the blues mixed reds; a young red head in a red dress, half dead with a half glass and brash lipstick stains. She's calling my shots; a thousand-proof crimson beats, backed at the back of the black bar by a click-rata-click of a red poker chip.


- - -
I've been writing since I can remember; I'm a history lover, a blues musician, an ex-librarian and a vodkaphile.

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: Hannah M. Hill

Contributor: Jonathan Byrd

- -
I couldn’t do my work today. All of my office supplies attacked me.

I suspected that something was amiss for a while. The pens were grumbling about “Unfair usage,” “Pointless notes,” “Useless Endeavors.” It was becoming clear that my pens wanted to work for the guy on the other side of the cubicle wall.

“Why can’t we do work like him? Everything he does sounds so engaging.”

I’ve told them that we all do the same work, but pens never listen.

I did my best to keep them away from the stapler. My stapler has always been impressionable; I think it suffers from low self-esteem. However, I couldn’t always keep them separate. You know how it is, you get busy. You have to comfort your keyboard who is upset because the monitor won’t display all of the pretty words it is capable of typing, so you throw the pen down on the desk where it lands near some other supply and the discord begins.

I heard the grumblings for a few days, but thought everything would be ok, given that the weekend was approaching. On the weekends, I usually put my pens in the desk drawer. One: to keep them from talking to the other supplies; and two: to keep them from climbing the cubicle wall and deserting me. But I was wrong about the grumbling, it didn’t quite down.

Today, I came in and found my desk drawer open. The pens were gone.

Or so I thought.

I pulled my chair out and attempted to sit down. To my surprise, I missed the chair and fell straight to the floor. My chair backed slowly away to the entrance of the cubicle, just out of reach. It was then, while my attention was on my retreating chair, that the pens struck.

“NOW!”

Paper clips and staples flew at me; printer paper fell on me from the cabinets. The tape dispenser sent a long stream of tape into my hair.

I tried to struggle against the barrage; I pulled against the tape stuck in my hair and swung wildly at the falling paper. Through the din, I saw the rude personal attacks the monitor was flashing at me. The keyboard, ever loyal to me, was crying and begging the other supplies to stop.

As I got to my feet, to make a desperate attack on the paper clip dispenser, my chair attacked me from behind. I landed hard on the seat, paper clips and staples continued to sting my face and arms, the tape dispenser tugged at my hair, and paper continued to rain on me. The chair backed away and then quickly spun me around.

The desk supplies continued to attack. My cubicle blurred as I spun around and around.

Finally, the chair dumped me at the entrance of my cubicle.

“Don’t let him get away,” the pens yelled.

The supplies doubled their efforts; the paper clips and staples aimed for my eyes, the falling paper angled itself, trying to cut me as it fell, and the tape dispenser gave one final tug, pulling out a tuft of hair.

What could I do, but retreat? I was hopelessly out numbered. As I crawled out of my cubicle, I glanced back and saw the pens scaling the cubicle wall. They had staged all of this to make their escape.


- - -
I began writing strange, dark, and bizarre stories in the 4th grade. That year, I was referred to the school psychologist after writing a story mimicking Edgar Allan Poe’s The Tell-Tale Heart. My work has been featured on the Mustache Factor, Bizarro Central, and 69 Flavors of Paranoia.

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: Jonathan Byrd

Contributor: Brandon Swarrow

- -

            Bruce is bald, divorced, pays child support yet raises both boys, and is a relentless misanthrope.  If he weren’t spewing heated complaints about his miserable job, his whore wife, or just life in general, he would most likely stop breathing all together.  

            On his 33^rd birthday, Bruce drinks so much by himself that, in the middle of the night, he accidentally stumbles into his sons’ bedroom after using the bathroom.   The bottom bunk creaks and squeaks as he bounces on his belly onto the old mattress.  His face catches a postage stamp portion of the corner of the pillow.  He crashes down so hard that if his son were lying there that night; he probably would’ve crushed him.  Luckily, he was staying over at a friend’s house.     

            Before fully asleep, Bruce’s body is sucked upward.  He awakes.  His spine is pressed so firmly to the brittle slats on the underside of the top bunk that two of the four snap in half, forcing his body to near fold to accommodate the displacement. 

            Through his son’s small window, the moonlight refracts to form a brilliant circle of light on the carpet.  The illuminated sphere contorts tighter, similarly to someone angling a magnifying glass in the sun to achieve heat.  The white beam of light slowly moves up the side of the child’s sports themed comforter.  The circle creeps up toward the sweating and straining Bruce, illuminating a baseball bat, a basketball, and now a lean tan ladder.   The round beam hits his face like a sucker punch.  He squints, but the intensity is blinding.   Just then Bruce hears what he believes is his eleven year-old son’s voice.  “Come with me,” the voice of infinite echoes speaks slowly.   “Come on”

            Bruce’s vision is funneled to a different place.  This is not his boys’ bedroom, this place is bustling.  There are people walking briskly, determined and motivated everywhere.  He sees himself now and a group of busy men and women begin swarming him.  He is being attacked and mauled by these red-eyed humans.  They are all talking and asking him questions at the same time to the point where he can’t really make out what they are saying.  Finally he focuses on another man who seems even more aggressive than the rest; it appears as if he offers him drugs.  Then another man offers him some more drugs.  A middle-aged woman is shouting out offers for sex.  Finally, after being groped, and forced back into a wall, Bruce screams, “What?  What do you people want?” 

            An older gentleman simply says, “Sleep,” and he is erased from the red-eyed rabble, but most respond back with (almost in unison in fact) “What do you want?” 

Bruce thrashes his arms to deflect the gropers and then bellows out, “What?  What do all of you people want?”  The crowd continues to squeeze and pet, groaning the same phrase over and over, “What do you want?  What do you want? What do you want?” 

            Bruce shouts, “Enough with the grabbing already, what do I look like a stuffed teddy bear?!!”  And just then, Bruce turns into a huge puffy, plush tan bear complete with droopy sad, yet lovable eyes. 

The mob parts, smiling, happy and excited.  Some even begin to laugh, while others weep from some unknown yet overwhelming joy.

The middle aged woman who previously offered sex laughs out loud, “That is a good one, but watch this…” Just then the woman says, “Hello Kitty,” and POOF a large half adult half kitten stands before the befuddled Brucey Bear.               

The overly aggressive man from before whispers the phrase, “Wow, imagine that, you’re in a world where you can happily do or be whatever you want,” and he turns and walks away.

Bruce’s face, then body smacks the pillow and the rest of his son’s squeaky old bunk bed.


- - -

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: Brandon Swarrow

Contributor: Penny Estelle

- -
There were so many people. Who would have thought this many would show? I made my way through the crowd, listening as friends reminisced about old times and sharing remembered stories.
“Do you remember when…” or “What about that time…” followed by bouts of laughter.
This is how it should be, I thought, chuckling at some story, a little red-faced at others.
Women were dressed in white, pink, red and blue, while men sported kakis, Levis, polos, or sport shirts. I loved it. Just what I had asked for.
I heard a laugh that always made me cringe. Sophie Martin! What was she doing here? Her ass, covered in a tight, magenta spandex skirt, looked like two beach balls, ready to take out anything that got in her way. “She should have done herself a favor and worn the traditional black,” I muttered.
“We do not speak unkindly of others,” a voice boomed behind me.
I practically jumped out of my skin. “Oh Jacob, I didn’t know you were around.”
“I will be…around, until orientation.” Jacob was a distinguished looking gentleman. Thick gray hair and blue eyes that had dulled with age. I had not seen him actually smile. There was a smirk, but that may have been gas.
The grating laugh again. “Well, seriously, look at that ass!”
“Nor do we swear.”
“Well, I don’t know why she’s even here. I couldn’t stand her when I was alive!”
Jacob was gone.
Cindy Murphy, one of my closest friends, was crying as her hubby, Tim, was comforting her. She was pointing to a poster size collage. I looked over her shoulder. Pictures of our Vegas trip. Such a good time. There were pictures of me alone and with friends. “Oh my God,” I yelled. “What the hell?” There I was, at the beach in my bathing suit, looking a lot like Shamu!
I knew he was behind me. I turned to see him across the room. His white linen shirt was tucked into brown cotton pants. His air of arrogance was stifling, not to mention, annoying.
“Okay, I know, but float on over here and look at this picture!”
Jacob leaned in and in that same old emotionless voice said, “Stunning.”
“Yea, that’s the word I’d pick!” I hadn’t lost my sarcasm, even in death.
“It is time for orientation. Please come with me.” Jacob started toward a closed curtain, framed in a brilliant light.
My steps faltered a little. “Jacob, the story goes that when people bite the big one, and the bright light appears, then all’s good with the man upstairs and your ticket up is a go.”
There it was – an actual smile. He said nothing, just pulled the curtain aside, almost blinding me.
I looked at him and then back at my group of friends, remembering nothing but good times. I walked to Jacob, putting my arm through his and said, “Let’s do this!”


- - -

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

6 Comments

Author: Penny Estelle

Contributor: Dan Nielsen

- -
Pamela Wilson sat in the car working a crossword puzzle while her husband Glenn and her son Billy grocery shopped. She heard Billy's voice, looked up, and saw him running through the parking lot. Billy got in and sat crouched over as though in pain. He cried. He sucked his thumb. He rocked back and forth. He looked at his mother.
“Billy, what’s wrong?" Pamela said.
Billy said, “Daddy fell.”
“How did he fall?” Pamela said
“On his head,” Billy pointed to his own head.
“Is he okay?”
“No.”
Pamela, in robe and slippers, wasn’t about to get out of the car. She flipped open her cell phone. She flipped it shut.
“Billy, tell me exactly what happened.”
Billy took a breath. “Daddy had eggs. He dropped them and stepped in it. His legs flew up and he landed on his head.”
An ambulance, lights flashing and siren wailing, pulled into the parking lot and stopped by the supermarket door. A small crowd made way.
Pamela’s cell phone rang. The Caller ID said Piggly Wiggly. Pamela turned off the phone and started the car.
“Billy, put on your seat belt.”
“What about daddy?”
“He’ll be fine,”
Back at the house, Pamela applied makeup and chose a matching skirt and blouse. Billy asked if he could watch TV.


- - -
I have almost no imagination, but what little I have is extremely vivid.
I can foresee the future, but only the foreseeable future.
I am a autodidactic uniglot.

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

2 Comments

Author: Dan Nielsen

Contributor: Rich Ives

- -
Whence the migration of pain. Whence the horror. A happy little bumpkin wets his willy and the jig is up. It doesn't hurt so much. He can't hurt so much without experience.
Sometimes duty gets delivered to the wrong address. A package of surgical sponges instead of dinner. A piece of the right patient through the wrong end of the microscope.
Whence the incumbent derives his verity. While we wander the garden paths below the hospital with our own. It’s a big hurt and we love it dearly, sugarpants.
She wanted more and he just wanted.
The child of knowledge and the child of ignorance. Both chopping the same onion.
A big hurt indeed and we came down from the towers into the land of breaking and keeping, into the land of another before us.


- - -
Rich Ives is the 2009 winner of the Francis Locke Memorial Poetry Award from Bitter Oleander. An interview and18 hybrid works appear in the Spring 2011 issue of Bitter Oleander. In 2011 he has been nominated twice for Best of the Net.

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: Rich Ives

Contributor: Eric Suhem

- -
Oliver, just out of jail, was in the supermarket committing a holdup, threatening the employees with curare-tipped darts. As the frightened store manager was opening the safe, a bag boy emerged from the produce section, and threw fruit at Oliver’s head. A cantaloupe knocked Oliver out, and he slipped into oblivion.

The next thing Oliver knew, he was entering a pool hall, feeling disturbed by the neon-colored sprouts on the outside sign, which lit up the bleak alleyway in an organic glow. “Another sign of gentrification,” he declared darkly, walking through the door. He approached the cashier and upon payment was given a rack for the game, each pool ball replaced by a fruit or vegetable. The cue ball was an orange, the 1-ball was an apple, the 2-ball a head of lettuce, the 3-ball a lemon, the 4-ball a lime, and so on.

The rack was set and it was Oliver’s turn to break. He hit the cue ball (orange) into the 2-ball (head of lettuce), and it rolled across the felt, unraveling quickly, resulting in lettuce leaves strewn across the table. Oliver took a deep breath, trying to maintain his temper. After enough times hitting the cue ball (orange), it started to spring leaks, with orange juice and pulp joining the lettuce leaves on the felt. As the 6-ball and 7-ball (blueberry and raspberry) engaged in a number of collisions, they also began to come apart. “You have now created a fruit salad! Congratulations on your accomplishment, as we are also a dining establishment!” announced one of the proprietors cheerfully from behind the counter, quickly handing menus to Oliver and his opponent. The pool hall had been purchased by a nameless, faceless conglomerate that was combining various services to increase profits. Oliver glared at the proprietors, annoyed by the distractions.

Looking towards the dart board, Oliver pulled out a small case he had brought, filled with darts and a vial of curare. It was his hostile use of curare that had landed Oliver in jail. “When I was a kid, all I heard was ‘Eat your fruit, Oliver’…and now this,” he said, looking at the fruit scattered across the pool table. “I just wanted to play a simple game of pool, but now it’s time to play darts,” he added grimly, dipping the tip of a small pointed missile into the poisonous curare, aiming towards the proprietors.

Oliver gazed over at the pool table one more time, noting the tangerine in the middle of the green felt, which transported his thoughts back to when he was a kid. “Eat your fruit, Oliver!” There was always a bowl of tangerines in the middle of the kitchen table. The neighbors had a rickety pool table in their basement. Young Oliver was the best pool player in the neighborhood, and had gone on to win a number of tournaments. Everything seemed so full of promise. What had he done with his life since then? Oliver looked at the tangerine, and knew those days would never come again, but suddenly things seemed a little more clear. Maybe there was still time to change?… He put the darts and curare back into the case, grabbed the tangerine, and slowly walked home through the dream.


- - -
Eric Suhem lives in California and enjoys the qualities of his vegetable juicer.

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: Eric Suhem