Contributor: Kyle Hemmings

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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.


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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.

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Author: Kyle Hemmings

Contributor: Autumn Humphrey

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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.

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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.

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Author: Autumn Humphrey