Contributor: Chris Leek

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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.


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Author: Chris Leek

Contributor: George S. Karagiannis

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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?


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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/

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Author: George S. Karagiannis

Contributor: Jerry Guarino

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    “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.” 


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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.

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Author: Jerry Guarino

Contributor: Samuel Cole

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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.


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

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Author: Samuel Cole

Contributor: T. M. Black

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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.”


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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.

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Author: T. M. Black

Contributor: Sydney Boles

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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?


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Author: Sydney Boles

Contributor: Peter Andrews

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“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.


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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.

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Author: Peter Andrews

Contributor: Jane Hertenstein

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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.


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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.

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Author: Jane Hertenstein

Contributor: Jeremy Jones

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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.


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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.

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Author: Jeremy Jones

Contributor: Brian Barbeito

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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.


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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

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Author: Brian Barbeito

Contributor: Danica Green

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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.


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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.

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Author: Danica Green

Contributor: Michael Albani

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“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.


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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.

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Author: Michael Albani

Contributor: Tahni J. Nikitins

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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.


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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.

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Author: Tahni J. Nikitins

Contributor: Jerry Guarino

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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?”


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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

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Author: Jerry Guarino

Contributor: Eric Suhem

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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.


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Author: Eric Suhem

Contributor: Rebecca Buchanan

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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.


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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.

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Author: Rebecca Buchanan

Contributor: P.A.Levy

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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


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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.

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Author: P.A.Levy

Contributor: Simay Yildiz

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''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.

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Author: Simay Yildiz