Contributor: Scott Harmon

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It was then and there. We waited, as if perched on a cliff. Our entire existence was on the line. Then we heard it. A sound... To most beings it was barely a hiss of nothing. But to us, it was the most beautiful thing we'd ever heard. Our bodies of cement, brick, wood and shingles began to swirl. Our substance and tangibility started to sift like sand. No longer were we to be chained down to our cement foundations. It was over.
Before all this, we watched day after day as our free floating neighbors went off to explore the world. Always returning some day to spout their adventurous tales. We had grown angry....restless. It was useless to complain. Everyone told us it was impossible. How could a house roam the planet like a bird or a speck of dirt? It was not reasonable. Of course we knew that. As a house, there is nothing else to do than think. Finally we came to a realization that the modern world was too logical. Most of the houses today had been built into a scientific age. We all watched little boys and girls grow up in our bodies. Small children who at a young age were full of fanciful, impossible ideas. Then, as they grew up, the notions slowly get squeezed out of them, like someone wringing out a wet rag. Those whimsical ideas filed away as fiction.
Silently, we challenged these beliefs. We were tired of being put in our place. I think most beings underestimate our intelligence. When our frustration was at its highest, we held a global mind communion. We decided that if we could create a psychokinetic signal with enough force to travel to the other side of the galaxy, perhaps we could reach a civilization not based on science. Someone with the power to set us free.
And thus the story is told. As I said before, our man made structures began to swirl. The wind rushes through and around my body, scattering it like dust. The tiny sound that emanated from across the cosmos set us free. We're leaving now, our first destination will be that spot in the galaxy to thank our liberators. We feel no remorse about leaving our inhabitants behind. We are free, and nothing will stop us now. I feel so happy. The future is bright. Farewell Earth, at least for now. Signed,

       The Houses


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I'm 31 and I have been actively writing since 2005. I started out doing micro fiction(although not realizing it until later) and poetry. I progressed into longer short stories. I spend most of my time writing screenplays or comic books. I have a feature length written and other shorts, but right now I am outside of the actual business.

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Author: Scott Harmon

Contributor: John Laneri

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The first time I saw a flying saucer was the morning I arrived at my putt-putt in hopes of playing a few rounds of golf before the day got hot.

I called the place, Justin’s Fabulous Putt-Putt. And, it truly was a challenging, eighteen hole, miniature golf course that featured water falls, windmills and the only singing parrot in the community of Possum Hollow.

Naturally, my girlfriend Becky tagged along, nagging me as usual about getting married. She immediately spotted the saucer.

“A flying saucer,” she said excitedly, running to it – her shoes, flip-flopping ahead of me. She was a cute little thing with a nice smile and skinny legs.

At first, I couldn’t believe my eyes. The thing was just sitting in the middle of the sand trap on the eighth hole streaming whips of vapor from both sides.

Right off, I realized the experts were wrong. The shape was elliptical and not circular like popular concept. It featured a bright green paint job and looked to be about six feet wide by three feet high. And best of all, it was resting on skinny legs that were splayed at the bottom like chicken feet.

“Where’d the flying saucer come from?” I asked Gordon, my assistant, as I hurried toward him. By then, I was beginning to wonder how to incorporate it into the putt-putt.

At the time, he was poking around the bottom with a crowbar, trying to pry it apart.

“It must have landed here during the night,” he replied, as he moved to another site. “I’ve been trying to get it open all morning.”

“Woe-e,” Becky said. “Another flying saucer.” She walked over and kissed the side. “Today’s my lucky day.”

“Don't touch it,” I warned her. “You could be hurt.”

“No, I won’t,” she replied. “I’m familiar with flying saucers.”

She continued walking around the thing, her eyes aglow.

Finally, she glanced at me and smiled. “For your information, I rode in one a year ago. That was the day I almost got married. But... I decided to wait for you.”

Cringing at the thought, I watched her continue around it, her fingers skimming over the surface. Suddenly, the hiss of air startled me, and then to my surprise, a door popped opened on the top.

Gordon jumped to his feet, “What the ….”

“Don’t be scared,” Becky said. “That’s how we get inside.”

I backed away a step. “I’m not getting inside that thing – no way.”

“Why not?” she asked. “The Captain performs marriage ceremonies every hour on the hour Afterward, Elvis serenades the bride and groom with a vocal tribute.”

“I’m to young to be married,” I replied quickly.

She scrambled on board and scooted toward the opening, her excitement almost contagious.

Gordon followed her saying, “Let me see. I’ve always wanted to look inside a flying saucer.”

She extended a hand in my direction. “Come with me, honey. Gordon can be our best man.”

I watched him scurry to the hatch and drop inside without a second thought – possibly lost forever.

Becky swung her legs into the opening. “I’ll meet you at the alter. It’s on the promenade deck close to the honeymoon suites. This is going to be a dream come true.”

“I’ll be right behind you,” I replied, as I watched her drop away and disappear from sight.

Carefully, I edged close to the opening and ventured a look inside, seeing what appeared to be a smoky abyss overlaid with a faint smell of noxious gas.

I waited around for about thirty minutes, figuring that Gordon and Becky had lost track of time. Eventually, I gave up and headed over to the putt-putt office to begin preliminary sketches in hopes of making the thing my feature attraction. I knew it would draw crowds.

Later that morning, I returned to the eighth hole with my tape measure. I needed to get exact specifications, certain that my life was about to change. To my surprise though, the saucer was nowhere to be seen.

I walked around the area for some time, studying the site. Finally, I tossed my sketches aside, dropped a ball on the ground and launched a shot on the number seven – my most difficult hole. I carded a hole-in-one too, the ball doing a loop-d-loop before dropping into the cup. The shot was my very first ace on the seventh hole.

Like Becky, I was also having a lucky day.

About a year later, I read in the National Enquirer that the saucer driver had let Becky and Gordon out near Baton Rouge where they had moved into an apartment and were living as husband and wife.

To this day, I still miss Gordon. We shared a similar vision for exciting putt-putt golf courses. Losing Becky, I have to confess, was the best thing that ever happened to me because a few weeks later, I met Ronda Maples – a charming lady, who after five marriages, knew better.


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John is a native born Texan living near Houston. His writing focuses on short stories and flash. Publications to his credit can be found on the internet and in several print edition periodicals.

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Author: John Laneri

Contributor: Brian J. Smith

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TOMMY GIBBS WAITED UNTIL THE BLUE FORD ESCORT EASED OUT OF THE driveway before creeping down the hallway into Bridget’s bedroom. There was no room for failure this time; no slip-ups like last time when she caught him two nights ago and screamed for Daddy as he bolted out of the bedroom. Outside, the rich blue sky was vibrant with sunlight and streaked with clouds shaped like joints. Across the street, a two story house had been ate by fire, its rough brick exterior and large windows smudged by soot. The joyful sound of afternoon play from the neighborhood kids echoed up and down the street.

He knelt down before her bedside table, moved the four Twilight novels aside and came up empty. He was setting them back up when his eyes drifted over to the small pink object jutting out from between the mattress and box-spring. He pinched it between thumb and forefinger, slid the diary out of hiding and set it on the bed. She always did have a nice bedroom, so white and clean and so many boy-band posters up on the walls, even a few people from the actual Twilight movies. When he turned the little conjoined key, the clasp snapped apart and the book opened, pages slowly fluttering back and forth.

Each page smelled like some flowery perfume and lightly dusted with glitter. He thought it was funny and sat down on the edge of the bed to read the page he found. His laughter ceased and the gaiety he felt when he obtained the precious journal drained away from him like the color from his face. His fingers slowly glided down the page, over the neatly scrawled script and shook his head. He couldn’t bring himself to read it, just couldn’t, and before he knew it he was holding the book up to his face and reading every bit of it word for word.


July 11, 2012

Dear Diary,

My mother woke me up last night to tell me the house across the street caught fire and that no one inside had made it out alive. I ran upstairs and fell onto my bed, crying and I stared out the window and stared at the house all black and burnt down and thought about Tommy Gibbs all over again and how he never had any real friends and never got to play outside because his parents always kept him inside and have parties at all hours of the day and night. He always waved at me from his bedroom window and let me know he was okay even though his father was constantly drunk and beat him and his mother was too busy smoking pot (I could smell it from their front porch one day when I was walking by to go to school) to even care about him but he always let me know he was okay. The paper says the fire was started by faulty wiring but I think I know better. I think Tommy did it because he—.”

He followed the arrow and turned to the next page. Tears slid down Tommy’s cheeks.

“knew the only way to free himself from that prison was death and if it meant taking everyone with him then he was fine with it, too. He was like a little brother to me and even thought he scares me when he comes in here at night to read my diary I would never get angry about it. I think I might leave a candle on my dresser and leave the book open for him tonight. Let him know everything he’s ever wanted to know about me."

Feeling the diary slide out of his hands and back onto the bed, Tommy sobbed uncontrollably and, at the sound of footsteps pounding up the staircase, carried his sadness long into the farthest reaches of the Unknown.

“Eavesdroppers never hear
anything good about themselves.”
—Old Saying


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Brian J. Smith has been featured in numerous anthologies such as Living Dead Press’ E-Mails of the Dead and Book Of Cannibals 2: The Hunger, Pill Hill Press’ 365 Days of Flesh Fiction, Metahuman Press’ The Dead Walk Again and And The Nightmare Begins...Vol.1: The Horror Zine. He’s also been seen in such magazines as Dark Gothic Resurrected Magazine and New Voices In Fiction and such e-zines as The Horror Zine, Postcard Shorts, Thrillers Killers and Chillers, The Carnage Conservatory and The New Flesh and The Flash Fiction Offensive. He’s an avid fan of the horror and mystery suspense genre and a hardcore fan of both The Ohio State Buckeyes and The Cleveland Browns; he currently resides in Chauncey, Ohio with his mother, his brother the writer J.R. Smith and six dogs.

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Author: Brian J. Smith

Contributor: Jim Barry

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People from all over Ohio called Cleveland “The Mistake By the Lake”. But I didn’t care. This was my hometown. Sad thing was, there really wasn’t really much of a lake to speak of. Most of it had been polluted by radioactive waste. I remember when the water was actually blue. Or was it green? Well, that point was moot now as the water had turned a bright purple. It also wasn’t uncommon to find garbage floating in the waste. Popsicle sticks, women’s shoes, 7 Up cans, dead midgets, you name it.
Most regretful was that my father used to take me fishing by the lake. I do miss the sound of the actual water splishing and splashing as we would skip stones. Now, well, hmm..now you really couldn’t call it water. It was more like an ooze. It would bubble and cough. A sickening sound that was reminiscent of a frog with indigestion.
So basically, the world had completely gone to shit. But, hey! No reason to get down about it! I mean, sure, I had lost my wife, family, and all of my friends, but I was still happy. Some of my friends died by radiation poisoning, some were devoured by the invading giant lobsters from Alpha Centaurus IV, and some I had killed myself! I really didn’t want to kill them, but when my supply of food and clothing ran out, they wouldn’t share! They said “Ernie, you’ve been mentally unstable since you lost your wife Doris. We feel just as bad as you do when she was eaten by that giant radioactive goldfish, but you’ve become so violent, we’re afraid to let you into our homes.”
Ha! They said I was crazy! They made fun of my tin foil hat, Enrique. I love Enrique! Enrique guides me. Enrique understands me. And what’s more, Enrique NEVER steered me wrong. In fact, it was his suggestion to kill my friends and neighbors who were too selfish to share their food and clothes with me.
They said I became violent after Doris died. Ha! What the hell did they know? So what if I started to chase squirrels with a meat cleaver? They didn’t understand! The squirrels made fun of me! They were evil! EVIL!
It wasn’t long until the neighbors’ food ran out. I guess I could have eaten my dead friends and neighbors, but what am I? Crazy? Jeez. What’s wrong with you people?
I decided to go to the lake when my father had taken me years ago. I rummaged through one of my now departed neighbor’s clothes closet. Enrique told me to pick out my neighbor’s wife’s blouse and a pair of high heels. Then he told me to apply some make up and lipstick. “Damn,” I thought. “I look goooood.”
What? You think this is crazy?
Armed with my fishing pole, I headed over to the lake. Even from miles away, I could hear the ooze bubbling about.
I cast off and waiting patiently for a bite. Then..yes! At last! I had something! I reeled it in with all of my strength. And had caught……a green, 6 eyed goldfish. Sweet! The last one I caught only had 5 eyes!
The metal hook on my fishing rod was strong enough to handle the toxicity of the wriggling creature. My hands, however, were not. My flesh burned when I tried to grip my hand around the creature. “Aaaaah”, I yelled. “It burns!”
Right. Well, can’t eat that I thought. The fish continued to burn right through the scorched earth I had dropped it upon. Enrique suggested I should move on to downtown Cleveland.
First, I went to a butcher shop I went to as a kid called “Mr. McFee’s Neat Meat Machine”. Mr. McFee was such a nice man. Enrique tells me I shouldn’t feel sad for killing him, but I kinda still do. But he refused to share his meat. So, I had to feed him to the meat grinder.
Sadly, it didn’t look like there was any food left over at all. Besides the giant lobsters, another thing you had to cope with in this world was the giant rats. The rats had now grown to the size of Volkswagens. People started complaining about them when they started to eat small children.
At any rate, they had apparently ate all of the food. I did however, find a meat cleaver. It was even bigger than the one I used with chasing the evil squirrels! I held it up and salivated at the glistening metal. I always did love shiny things! I asked Enrique if I could keep it and he told me I could. So don’t touch it!!
I walked deeper into downtown Cleveland. Then I saw it! A giant golden letter “M”! I couldn’t remember what the letter “M” stood for, but I vaguely remembered it had something to do with food!
My stomach was growing louder and louder by the minute. So I ran towards the large golden “M”.
How I wished I could remember what this place was called. The lettering on the side of the building had been blackened out by the bomb blasts. Without my glasses, I couldn’t read the sign that was high in the sky. Only the golden “M” I could make out.
Aw, now THIS is sad. Here are two people who are frozen from shock. Must have happened during the last nuclear blast. One guy looked like a clown in a yellow and red suit. I love clowns! The other guy looked like a purple blob thingy. That poor man, he was probably mutated by the radiation.
That’s funny. They feel like they are made out of hard plastic. But..NO! They ARE real people. I KNOW it! Enrique TOLD me they were!
Then I heard a clattering noise. Then I saw these two guys coming out from the back of the building. I listened in to what they were saying.
“Wow, Darryl”, said one of them. “I can’t believe we found these two boxes of apple pies”.
“You’re not kidding, Frank”, said the other. “It’s incredible that no one ever found these..and that’s including the giant rats & lobsters. These should last us for 2 months at least!”
Those bastards! How dare they steal food from that poor clown and that purple..thing. They must pay for their crimes!
“Stop, evil doers!”, I bellowed as I ran after them.
“Wha..? Who the hell’s that?”, said one.
“Vermin!”, I said. “How dare you two villains steal from that poor clown and his portly, but pleasant purple pal?”
One of them gave such a flimsy excuse. “Buddy, what the hell are you talkin’ about? We were just tryin’ to find food. If you’re hungry, we ‘d be more than happy to sha--..”
“Silence, miscreant!”, I bellowed. “Taste my cleaver of justice!”
With all of my might, I hurled my cleaver at this one fool’s head. He barely had time to scream as the cleaver quickly lodged into his head.
One of the thieves’ bodies was now sprawled on the ground, completely lifeless. I pulled my cleaver out of his head and shifted my vigilant gaze towards his partner in crime.
“Screw the pies!”, he frantically screamed. “I’m getting the hell outta here!”
Oh, how he tried to run, but I was able to stop him with a flying tackle. I turned his body over, held my cleaver high and let out a primal scream!
CHOP! CHOP! HEE HEE! Chopping good! Hee hee hee! Wow, not only is he dead, but now he’s in pieces. Hee hee! That’ll teach him.
“Here you go, gentlemen. I have returned your food!” I placed the two boxes of apple pies in front of this poor clown and his friend, the purple monster. They did not answer. I asked them if it was ok if I could eat some of their pies. They still did not answer. Those poor people. They’re probably in shock from having their food stolen. Well, Enrique said it was ok to eat the pies, so I did. Nom nom.
Y’know what’s wrong with the world today? Well..besides the fact that 85% of the world’s population was dead and the earth had been ravaged by radioactive contamination. There was no order! Everything had devolved into total anarchy! What kind of world do we live in where a clown and his purple monster friend can’t eat their apple pies in peace? The world had gone to hell..and it was time to make things right! First, I needed a uniform.
I found a thrift store nearby where I could assemble my uniform of justice. I found a blank T-shirt and proceeded to draw “CC” on the chest. I then found some hot pants so everyone could see my amazing body. Then I found a pair of yellow galoshes and brown gardening gloves. Then, I found a “Holiday Inn” towel for a cape. Finally, I found some pantyhose which I thought would make a decent mask. I looked in the mirror and thought I looked pretty amazing. Watch out, everybody! Captain Cleaver is here to make the world a better place! Now I decided to look for crimes.
I stopped a man from taking out books from a library. He tried to bargain with me. He told me it didn’t matter as most of the city was dead. Who was he trying to kid? Stealing is stealing, right? CHOP!
Two men were loitering outside a convenience store. I can’t believe these two had the audacity to hang around when the sign clearly said “no loitering”. They told me they needed rest and were suffering from exhaustion. Feh. A likely story. DOUBLE CHOP! That’ll teach’em.
Later, I hid in the shadows. I saw some guy walk by eating chips. I was curious of where he found the chips? He seemed like he was done, so he tried throwing the empty bag into a trash can. But he missed! Litterer! I lunged at him and chopped him with everything I had while letting out another primal scream. CHOP!
This was great! So far I had taken out 20 evil doers with my cleaver of justice! I felt powerful! I felt like I could do anything! Why, I bet I could even fly! What am I saying? Of course I could fly! Enrique told me I could. I just needed an appropriate launching pad. But where could I find one? Then in the distance, I saw it!
It was a miracle that Key Tower was still standing. I had heard when the bombing started, most of America’s sky scrapers had been decimated. The Empire State Building, The Sears Tower, and even the Liberty Towers in Philly were all gone. Yet, The Key Tower, constructed in 1991, was still standing.
Oh. Right. The elevators were out of order. I forgot. Sometimes I forget how useful electricity was. Only other option was to take the stairs.
Around the 33rd flight of stairs, fatigue started to kick in. I thought about quitting, but I couldn’t. Cleveland needed a protector and everyone needed to see that their new protector could indeed fly.
I finally reached the top of Key Tower. This was my moment. Now or never. I wanted to run off the roof and into the sky, but I was so tired from climbing the stairs. The best I could do was jog. I jogged off the edge, held out my arms and yelled “geronimoooo…”
I was doing it! I was flying!
Wait..why am I going down? Shouldn’t I be going upwa—

THUD!

Ouch..

I..I don’t feel at all well right now. I feel awful. In fact, I don’t think I can even move. Much less feel anything.

Everything’s..getting..dark…

Enrique you jerk..

You..lied..to..meeee….

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My bio? Just a 36 year old comic book geek still looking for his niche in this world. Naturally, I'd LOVE to write comics, but thought it may be best to get my feet wet by writing short stories first.

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Author: Jim Barry

Contributor: Damien Krsteski

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"Oh, crap," said process ID #71, also known to other currently running processes as Dave. "I can't make out the second word."

His hands shook visibly, cueing Steve, or process ID #72, to step in. He elbowed his way to the front, took Dave's place before the controls and peered into the periscope himself, though not without first casting a reproachful glance at the other, apparently much less capable process.

"Second word's 'incense' you myopic moron," he said, handed the periscope back to Dave and proudly strolled to the back of the room. Dave blushed and mumbled something about the letters being in different colors and hard to discern.

The whole vessel, which rather resembled a submarine, vibrated softly, its passengers buzzing with excitement. Finally, they'd been given access to the password entry forms. Every single one of them sprawled on the floor as a clunky sound signaled the rapid ascent to the surface. Steam whistled out of pipes mounted to the side walls and pressure gauges dropped sharply. The ride was rough on every process in the bunch; Dave felt confident by the end he'd be lying in a puddle of the half-digested tomato soup and broccoli salad he'd had for lunch (Tuesday was Low-Calorie Day).

Several moments later, the vessel stabilized and surfaced near a sandy beach. It was your typical postcard beach with palm groves scattered here and there and foamy waves lazily nibbling on the golden shore. There was one slight difference, though. Along the entire coastline, metal crosses and barbed wire planted in the sand made sure to render an intruder's life significantly harder.

"Holy CPU," exclaimed Steve, "I'm willing to bet a thousand milliseconds of computing time they have underwater bombs too."

"We never expected a second firewall." Bill heaved out a sigh of resignation.

Steve cast him one of his patented sharp looks, one eyebrow cocked up. "I didn't come this far to give up." He put his hands around his mouth and shouted to the back of the room, "Prepare the password arrays."

One by one, around fifty little soldiers got out of their quarters and lined up to the front of the vessel. They all wore shirts that had a number, character or a symbol stamped on it. Steve queued them up neatly, stuffed letter 'Q' in a cannon and fired him towards the island's jungle. He gave the second one, letter 'p', a salute, stuffed and fired him too. Once the first platoon of fifty characters had been fired out, Steve ordered another and then another after that.

Somewhere in the middle of the firing of the third platoon, the vessel shook ominously. A loud but muffled bang resounded and mere seconds later water leaked inside. The crack widened, spraying water in every direction.

"Run for your lives," screamed symbol '~'.

Steve's shouts about desertion and treachery were soon stifled as water filled up the entirety of the submarine. Every single process, character, buffer and pointer disappeared until there was nothing and nobody.

*

Matt stared at his computer screen, incredulous. The loading bar stuck at ninety-six percent disappeared and a crash report took its place, blinking stupidly at him.

He banged his fist on the keyboard, cursing under his breath.

So far this month, this had been his seventieth attempt at breaking into Jennifer Morgan's online personal profile, and he didn't seem to be getting any closer. All that trouble just to learn a girl's likes and dislikes, secret ambitions, wishes and aspirations. That way, Matt had theorized, at least he'd stand a chance.

Now, out of sheer frustration, Matt started thinking the unthinkable. Maybe, he should just go up to her, tell her everything.

Except, this time, without stuttering and sweating all over.

Blushing with shame, he brushed the thought away, muttering about suitable algorithms to crack the second firewall.

Matt pushed his glasses up his nose. He rebooted the hacking program, its autobots respawning, ready for action. Seventy-third time's a charm, he thought, and slammed the Enter key.



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Damien Krsteski is a science-fiction author and musician from Skopje, Macedonia, tirelessly working to earn his Comp. Sci. degree.

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Author: Damien Krsteski

Contributor: John Laneri

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I've watched enough television to know that DNA evidence is often found on a murder victim’s hands. With a dead body across the street, it's clear to me that I'll become a prime suspect when the police begin to canvas the neighborhood.

The ironic thing is, I didn't murder the woman. I hardly knew her for God’s sake.

My dilemma started last night when our new neighbors, the Johnson’s, threw a neighborhood party. Jane and I attended along with most of the other people on our street.

We arrived at eight o’clock. The host and hostess were cordial people from the west coast. He was into banking and she… well, I’m not sure about her. But, we did converse briefly before Jane and I headed to the food table.

After about thirty minutes, the party came to life. By then, Jane had wandered away, so I looked around amazed at how quickly the place had become a madhouse of conversations. Everyone seemed to be talking and mingling at once.

Before long, our hostess, a woman named Serena, drifted my way and stopped in front of me.

“Enjoying yourself?” she asked, the green of her eyes sparkling playfully.

“It's a great party.”

“It gets better. We're only getting started.” She eased closer to me, her manicured fingers reaching to touch my shirt. “How’s the punch?”

“I usually don’t go for party punches. Scotch is my drink, but I have to admit it's very smooth.”

My attention remained on the nails. They were the long and tapered, and they appeared to be natural – not the synthetic types commonly seen on many women.

I took another sip of the punch and looked around for Jane. I saw her near the punch bowl engaged in an animated conversation with a group of women. In the back yard, I noticed someone jump into the swimming pool fully clothed. The party was indeed heating up at a rapid pace.

Serena stepped closer, her fingers still touching my shirt. “Have you lived in the neighborhood long?”

“Four to five years,” I replied, as her fingers began to fondle the shirt. Uncertain of her intentions, I touched her hand saying, “You shouldn't do that. People might wonder about us.”

She looked about, her eyes sweeping the room. “No one’s watching. They’re too busy talking. And besides, the punch should begin working in minutes.”

Surprised, I took a step back, my thoughts immediately turning to the possibility of a mass poisoning.

She laughed, her sparkling manner lighting her features. “Relax... the punch is nothing more than brandy, champagne and club soda. It's called a French Seventy-Five. Once it hits, the party explodes into excitement. That's when things really get lively.”

Moving closer, she placed an arm around my shoulder. “Dance with me,” she said,as she began moving slowly in place, her body swaying to the tempo of the music. “Take a few steps and work your hips,” she insisted. “The music is Latin.”

I slipped an arm around her waist and tried to follow her lead. Across the room, I noticed Jane looking wobbly, as if she was having trouble standing.

Returning to Serena, I felt her stumble momentarily before righting herself as if nothing had happened. “Too much punch?” I asked carefully.

“Not enough,” she replied, as she pressed her body against me and whispered, “I would love to get you alone in the pool house.”

Ignoring her, I again looked around the room. The remaining crowd seemed to be thinning out. Several couples were leaving early. And surprisingly, I noticed Jane following them, her hand cupping her mouth.

I returned to Serena, saying. “I need to go.”

“So soon?” she asked, as her fingertips caressed my face. “We’re just getting started.”

“My wife is sick, sorry.”

Seconds later, her eyes flared. Then suddenly, she raked the hand across my face, her fingernails digging deep. “You’re no fun,” she said, as she spun away, her manner causing the people near us to turn and take notice.

Hurrying outside, I found Jane laying in the front yard, retching. I helped her to her feet, listening to her mumble incoherently about the punch. Then, carrying her in my arms, I managed to get her home and put her to bed before another wave of nausea overcame her.

And, that's why I'm worried....

I phoned an attorney about thirty minutes ago. That was shortly before the police wheeled Serena’s body to the street. Now, I repeatedly ask myself the same questions. Who killed her, and why did she choose to hit on me, a graying fifty-year old?

Behind me, I heard Jane drift into the room. “Thank you for putting me to bed. I slept like a baby.” She moved beside me at the window and asked, “Why are the police at the Johnson's house?”

“The woman was murdered last night. I heard on the news that a maid found her in the pool house.”

“That's awful... do they know who did it?”

“The news reports are sketchy. But, I suspect the police plan to question everyone at the party. They're going from house to house now.”

“Then, I need to get dressed,” she said, as she turned to me, her eyes suddenly going wide. “Oh, my God! What happened to your face? It's horrible!”

I knew the scratches would raise questions. And, with my skin cells under Serena's nails, I was soon to become a suspect and very possibly a DNA casualty.


- - -
John is a native born Texan living near Houston. His writing focuses on short stories and flash. Publications to his credit can be found on the internet and in several print edition periodicals.

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Author: John Laneri

Contributor: Molly Hamilton

- -
I came by myself tonight. I walked into the room and selectively took my seat in the middle of the rows and rows of chairs. It’s like tic-tac-toe—the middle is the best spot. Surely somebody will come sit by me. Here they all come, all of the people, my future friends. I hope I look nice. I put on my best outfit. I’m smiling.
All of the people are walking by. They’re grinning, identifying their buddies. A mob of them is being divided slowly. They’re sectioning off into groups: a cluster of pretty girls here, a cluster of laughing boys there, and a pack of artists up there. Perhaps a group will sit by me. I move my purse over. I sit up straighter. I look around. I watch the packs of teens. The groups are migrating to seats, filling all of the rows and rows of empty chairs. “Come over here!” I want to say. Surely someone will sit nearby me. They’re not. None of them are. They’re choosing rows north, rows south, rows east, rows west. The middle row, my row is only occupied by me. My smile is fading; my eyes feel full.

But wait! A boy is approaching. He’s looking at me, he looks nervous. I grin. I want to look friendly. He speaks, “can I borrow this chair?” he asks, indicating one of the many empty ones beside me. I didn’t want to hear that, but I must show him I’m nice.

“Sure,” I tell him, “I’m not using it.”

Quickly he swipes my future friend’s seat. It’s OK. There are other chairs beside me. More people are coming now, lots of people. None of them are even asking. All of the chairs beside me are being captured. Taken to a place where the clichés are. The middle wasn’t a good place after all. The speaker is coming. Everyone is settled in. I’m by myself, in the center of the room with two crooked chairs a foot away from me. I listen to the buzzing of many giggling, happy voices. It happened again. I keep trying though. The battle to try to find a friend is an ugly one. The skin of my confidence is all scars. Maybe next time you’ll return my smile, and if I’m lucky maybe you’ll say hello.


- - -

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Author: Molly Hamilton

Contributor: Chris Sharp

- -
There was some extra quality of urgency in the 6:30 am telephone ringing. It made Scott Gillespie sense there was much more urgency to come from the other end of the phone line.
“Scott, good morning. Did you hear call about the solar storm about to hit us in an hour?”
“No, George. I mean yes. These solar storms that come and go in cycles, as the weatherman said.”
“But the weatherman also said this will be the biggest solar storm to hit the earth in history, much bigger than the enormous sun storm in 1859 that had the magnetic force to magnetize the Northern Lights into the New York City skyline.”
“Well, that would be fun. I would like to see some Northern Lights here on a Saturday night.”
“This is serious, Scott. Because you have high blood pressure.”
“Because I have a little high blood pressure?”
“Exactly right.”
Scott and George had been roommates at a Greek fraternity at Oregon State University for almost two years. They had ended up graduating together and trying now to somehow evolve into a traditional adult life in their 25th years, knowing much more about each other than they needed to know.
“George, you woke me up way too early on a Saturday morning. Let me drink some coffee and I’ll call you back. And also what do you mean, my high blood pressure? It’s not so high. What, you think maybe I’m so frail a silly solar storm is going to finish me off.”
“I’m saying you’re in danger because you’ve got the high blood pressure from your body being so full of iodized sodium. How do you think your iodized body is going to react to the biggest cloud of iodized plasma to hit earth in recorded history, at three million miles per hour, full of electro-magnetism?”
“Wait a minute. I’m starting my coffee now.”
“The last thing you need now, Scott, is to be drinking coffee. That’s just going to make your blood pressure get even worse.”
Scott didn’t have the patience to caffeinate coffee. He simply boiled water and threw some instant coffee in a cup. Then he topped it off with a little milk and more pancake syrup, which always equalized the taste of caffeinated and instant coffee in an instant.
“It is amazing, George, the number of things that pancake syrup can turn into a delicacy. Have you ever poured it on baked trout?”
“Scott, what you need to be eating now is bananas. Plenty of bananas.”
“You’re hilarious. George.”
“Or eat tomatoes or oranges. They have enough potassium in them to maybe neutralize some of your sodium ions before the hour is over.”
“Thank you, George, but I think I will take my chances.”
“The nation’s airlines aren’t taken their chances. They’re being grounded until the storm is over. The storm is that big, that it could magnetized any jet’s electrical system into chaos.”
“Thank you, George.”
“They predict even our cell phones will take a hit. The electro-magnetism will leave us all with blank blood-red screens on our cell phones today, is what they’re saying. Scott, this storm could possibly short circuit a person’s entire electrical neuron system, especially when you’re filled with all those sodium ions”
“Thank you, George. Let me fill myself with my coffee and I’ll call you on my blood- red cell phone down the road.”
Then Scott hung up the phone and drank his coffee.
He usually woke up on Saturday morning three hours later. Now those three hours reminded him of three ugly blind dates that he didn’t know what to do with.
He turned on his television. “When in doubt, get the TV Guide out,” he said to himself.
But now there was something wrong with the TV. The screen gave nothing but gray static. “This precious weekend is starting out for the dogs,” Scott muttered to himself.
He really didn’t know what to do three hours before the town opened and with not even the TV working.
Then, against the early morning quiet, he heard the bellowing of a beach scene, the screams of sea gulls. “What’s with this?” he said, as he went to his widow.
Outside, on the different arms of the various light poles, dozens of sea gulls were perched, seemingly screaming at him. “What made you guys fly so far inlaid today?” he said as he watched them. “Stop screaming at me. Shut up, will you?”
He went back to bed and tried to go back to sleep. He stayed there for an hour thinking the silly rapid-eye-movement thoughts that lead to sleep. But finally he gave up, giving in to the inevitability of starting a good day off too early. He felt a metallic taste in his mouth.
He put his feet on the floor, but then he had a difficult time standing. He staggered when he took his first steps. Then his left arm started tingled.
“What now? A stroke at only age twenty-five?”
His left arm got worse within a minute, and he couldn’t move his left-hand fingers. He decided he needed to see a doctor immediately, knowing that with a stroke the brain damage can be irreversible if even a few extra minutes are wasted. But his feet felt so heavy that he actually didn’t think he would be able to walk to his home phone. Instead he stayed in his bedroom, took the cell phone out the pants he had left on the floor, and with increasingly tingling in his right hand he dialed for the first time in his life “911.”
“Hello! Hello!” he said into the dead phone.
He even resorted to looking at his idiot cell-phone screen to shout at it.
The cell phone looked back at Scott with a blood-red screen.


- - -
Chris Sharp is a teacher in Menifee, California, where he lives with his wife Debbie, a parrot and a cat. He has several stories in the archives of Yesteryear Fiction and Daily Love, and has published a book, “Dangerous Learning.”

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Author: Chris Sharp

Contributor: Eric Suhem

- -
He pedaled more furiously. He was 3 years old, riding a tricycle through a maze of hedges in the springtime. At each turn he became more lost, and he could feel the wings bearing down on him from the sky. His brain started to throb and bubble, seemingly simmering for an imminent explosion. Finally he couldn’t pedal anymore, and the tricycle stopped in the far corner of the labyrinth. His sister was there and she looked at his head. “There’s a dead butterfly in your hair,” she said, pinching it with her thumb and forefinger. He stared at her, and looked around, seeing nothing but foliage towering above, and started to smile.

Now he was riding a bright red bicycle over the new pavement in the tract-house suburban neighborhood. He was 9 years old. It was a bright summer’s afternoon, the temperature over 100 degrees, the light and horizon shimmering darkly in the pavement’s reflection. He was sweating as he popped wheelie after wheelie over the sidewalk curbs. He was sucking on a lemon popsicle, and he could feel the wings upon him, as he rode the bike faster and faster down the hill, trying to outrun them. Playing cards were clothes-pinned on the bike spokes, and he saw a few pomegranates situated oddly on the sidewalk, but they were just a blur as he sped by, the cards clacking. The skies darkened as a swarm of butterflies flew overhead, blocking the sun, their shadow weighing him down. At the bottom of the hill, he slammed on the brakes and left a tire skid of about 10 feet on the asphalt. During the skid, he felt freed from the butterflies.

He was now an adult, 32 years old, riding a rusty bicycle to work in the autumn. Big sunflowers started to grow out of cracks in the sidewalk. He could see peaceful golden hills on the horizon and a clear blue sky. Birds were chirping, butterflies flew about, and the air had a crisp smell of early morning. He approached the pomegranate orchards, the sights, smells and sounds filling his body with energy. The sunflowers were growing taller and taller, towards the sky. The weather was cold, but felt so good. His hands were getting numb on the handlebars, but he didn’t care. He rode through the pomegranate orchards, amongst the butterflies, to his construction job at Caterpillar Inc.

The butterflies flutter through the black corridor. All colors: yellow, blue, orange, green, red, purple. They sail past each tightly bolted black door, down the hall, through miles and miles of blackness to the 457th door on the right, slightly, ajar. They swarm into the hospital operating room, bright hues flowing amidst the surgical masks and gowns. They fly, and then settle on the beeping iron lung.

He was 81 years old, in a wheelchair, being pushed through corridor after corridor in a pale green institution. The smell was one of cold antiseptic efficiency. He was being pushed by someone in a nurse’s outfit with rolls of gauze wrapped around his/her head. A screaming sound of little wings furiously beating together filled his ears. Finally, the gauze-bound ‘nurse’ gave him a mighty shove, and the wheelchair went speeding blindly down the corridor, crashing through the doors at the end. There was nothing on the other side of the doors but black winter’s night, and the wheelchair, with him in it, started falling… He saw large butterflies above him, and he reached for the big wings, hoping they would lift him up, but he missed, and laughed as he fell into oblivion.

His mother was pushing him around the park in his stroller on a warm spring day. He was back to 8 weeks old. He saw a monarch butterfly on the left safety bar of the stroller. He put it in his mouth, and chewed.


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

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Author: Eric Suhem

Contributor: John Laneri

- -
It was a Sunday morning. Jillie and I had just finished breakfast, and I was sitting on her porch swing reliving our night of pleasure – a good one too. I'm not sure I got my boots off the first time around.

Jillie, as most folks know, runs the finest establishment in Texas. As to me, I'm the county's most confirmed bachelor. I'm also the sheriff of Neverton, a small community along the cattle trail to Fort Worth.

About then, I noticed the new girl standing to the side of the porch. In appearance, she was a cute little thing with freckles on her nose and a friendly smile on her lips. For dress, she was wearing a red ribbon in her hair and a man’s shirt with long tails hanging to her knees – nothing out of the ordinary for most of the girls working at the boarding house.

Thinking back, I suspect her spurs grabbed my attention most. They looked to be a size too big for bare feet, and they sported rawhide straps circling her ankles like the wraps attached to little dancing shoes.

She took a couple of steps in my direction, the spurs jingling as they bounced across the porch.

“Busy night?” I asked.

“Cowboys like their Saturday nights,” she replied, as she yawned softly and ran her fingers through her hair. “I’ve got another fellow waitin’ in my room – a wild one from Oklahoma.”

I pointed to the swing. “Have a seat. Jillie’s in the kitchen getting more coffee.”

She dropped beside me and laid a foot across her knee, her eyes turning to mine. “My name’s, Frances May.”

“Sheriff Carson,” I replied. “Jillie and I are friends.”

She looked away to begin working on a spur, her fingers moving deftly along the leather.

“Havin’ problems?” I asked.

“I can’t seem to get these straps adjusted.” She pulled on a buckle. “If they’re not right, fellows complain.”

Surprised, I looked away from the spurs and straight into her eyes. “You mean… you wear those things while you’re working!”

Her eyelids fluttered playfully as she reached to tug at another strap. “Spurring fellows comes natural. They pay me an extra two dollars for the pleasure.”

“Two dollars… For pleasure?”

She stopped and turned to me. “Lots of cowboys like the spurs best of all. Don't you know anything?”

Ignoring her, I watched her continue tightening the straps. Soon, she extended her leg to the front and spent a few moments admiring her handiwork. Then wiggling her toes in satisfaction, she turned to me and dropped the foot onto my lap.

“What do you think?”

I edged away, wincing as a tine poked my leg.

“Give the wheel a spin,” she said, pointing to the metal. “After a few turns, it starts to sound like music.”

Reluctantly, I sent the wheel to spinning, listening to the sound ring out. “Your spurs seem a bit sharp,” I said, as a flurry of goose bumps ran my spine.

“Most fellows like ‘em sharp. The hearty ones say they get more pleasure when I dig deep.” She inclined her head in my direction, her lips formed into a smile. “That’s when the screaming really begins.”

I set the foot aside. “I don’t see much need for spurs. Natural romancing suits me plenty fine.”

Relieved, I turned away when I heard the screen door open and saw Jillie head my way carrying two cups of coffee. As usual, she was smiling brightly, her red hair glowing in the sunlight.

“I see you two have gotten acquainted.”

Frances May spoke up. “I was showing Sheriff Carson my spurs.”

Jillie cocked her head in my direction. I avoided her gaze, preferring not to discuss the subject. And soon, Frances May returned to the house, the sound of her spurs fading somewhere in the distance.

Jillie settled onto the swing and handed me a coffee. “I didn’t know you were interested in spurs.”

“I’m not. Just thinkin’ about those things bothers me.”

We sat for several minutes, enjoying our time together. Soon, she laid her head against my shoulder and sighed. “You’re a good man, Matt Carson.”

“I try to be,“ I replied, feeling her warmth lift my heart.

She took my hand. “We should have gotten married years ago.”

I glanced her way. “Then we wouldn't be friends. We'd be miserable.”

She snuggled closer. “You're probably right. Being friends, keeps everything easy.” She looked into my eyes, her softness pressing against me. “Would you like to go upstairs and kick off your boots again? We have the whole morning.”

“Those are the best words I’ve heard since breakfast.”

She stood and started toward the house, saying, “We can begin easy with a few light scratches, and then…”

I stopped dead in my tracks, refusing to move another step. “My backside’s too fragile for that kind of stuff. I could be crippled.”

She pushed me on, determined as ever. “Don’t be silly. I’ve been wanting to try spurs for the longest time.”

“But, being injured for life doesn’t sound like fun to me.”

Laughing playfully, she gave me another push. “Then, indulge me this once unless you'd like to get married and be miserable for the rest of your life.”


- - -
John is a native born Texan living near Houston. His writing focuses on short stories and flash. Publications to his credit can be found on the internet and in several print edition periodicals.

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Author: John Laneri

Contributor: Samantha Memi

- -
I was walking along the street on my way to see a friend when I noticed something sparkling in the grass of the verge. I picked it up to take a closer look. A bracelet, which seemed to be gold, a pattern of entwining hands, encrusted with turquoise and what I thought might be rubies. Good, I thought, I’ll sell this. Just as I’d decided to be my usual dishonest self, a woman ran down the road towards me. She looked around frantically then turned to me, desperation in her face, and asked,
“Have you seen a bracelet?”
I gripped the bracelet tight in my fist, determined not to give it back.
I tried to say ‘no’, but the word stuck in my throat.
I felt the bracelet burn in my hand, and she glanced at my fist and back to my face. Her eyes narrowed. The bracelet wanted honesty.
“Yes,” and against my natural instinct I showed her what I had found.
Joy blew her panic away. “Oh my bracelet,” she exclaimed, and took it from me.
“It must be worth a lot,” I said, “it looks like gold.”
“It’s not the intrinsic value. It's sentimental. My husband bought it for me. When I saw it in a jewelers, I fell in love with it. It said buy me. I dragged my husband to the shop. When the manager took it from the window, he said, ‘this was my daughter’s. It was given her by the Caliph of Baghdad. She went to Egypt for a holiday but she was kidnapped by some kidnappers. There’s a lot of them in Cairo. As they were bundling her into a car they were seen by one of the Caliph’s servants who took a photograph and showed it to the Caliph who immediately fell in love with my daughter, Anna was her name – such a sweet little thing – and he instigated a search and found my daughter bound and gagged in a carpet warehouse near the port.
After she spent some time in the Caliph’s palace – and God only knows what happened to her there – she was always an adventurous girl, if you know what I mean – he gave her this bracelet, and said, ‘My mother gave this to me and she said, ‘One day you will be the Caliph of Baghdad, and you will need this bracelet because it will protect you, but only if you have pure thoughts. Be warned; if you think badly of anyone or allow anger or jealousy or bitterness into your heart, the bracelet will mirror your thoughts and fate will turn against you,’ and my daughter took the bracelet and the Caliph told her, ‘the bracelet brought me great fortune and my kingdom expanded, but one day I caught one of my wives with a courtier. Enraged I had her whipped then beheaded; her lover was drowned in pig’s urine. Two weeks later my kingdom collapsed when the revolutionaries took power and I was deposed and forced to seek sanctuary in Egypt.’
My daughter loved the bracelet but was wary of it, though she always had good luck – she was such a sweet girl – she married and had children – oh you’ve never seen such grandchildren as I have – but her husband left her and she wished him a nasty death. The very next day he was crushed by a machine at work. Shortly after that she developed awful headaches. She saw all kinds of specialists but no one knew what was wrong with her. Just before she died she gave me the bracelet and said, ‘Sell this to someone honest, or throw it away’.”
A breeze lifted paper from the street. The brakes of a bus screeched. The woman looked at me.
“And even though we knew its history I so loved the bracelet my husband bought it for me, and we’ve both had an idyllic life together. Without a trace of anger or suspicion or jealousy. But tell me, you wanted to keep the bracelet?”
“No no,” I lied.
She looked at me suspiciously.
“I think you did,”
Then she walked away without even a thank you, and I wished I’d kept it.
As she was crossing the road she turned to give me a look which said, I hate you.
At that moment she was hit by a car which scraped her body 30 yards along the tarmac.
I thought of rushing to her quickly and tugging the bracelet from her hand, but I realized I’d never had a pure thought in my life, what the hell would the bracelet do to me.


- - -
Samantha Memi is a patisserie chef in London. Her recipes for a happy life can be found at http://samanthamemi.weebly.com/

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Author: Samantha Memi

Contributor: Linda Garnett

- -
Two exhausted vacuum salesmen walked to the last house in the neighborhood.

A 'Solicitors Welcome' sign hung on the front door.

"Don't you think that's a weird sign, Joe?" said Dave.

Joe rang the doorbell. "Are you kidding me? We've been to at least thirty houses today and we haven't made one sale. I think that's about to change!"

An elderly man wearing sunglasses opened the door. "Hello, boys. What are you selling today?"

"I'm Dave and this is Joe. We have here the new Kilby Supreme Sucker Vacuum. It'll clean up the toughest spills and stains you got, even beer and pizza. Let me show you how this beauty works."

"Sure, come on in! I've had visitors all day and they've left behind a huge mess."

They followed him into the living room and saw large piles of orange goo everywhere on the carpet and around the furniture.

"What the hell is that stuff?" asked Joe.

The man pointed to a pile next to the coffee table. "Well, right over there is Jane, the Avon lady; on the couch is Jake the magazine subscription kid; Mitch from the Church of Satan is by the fireplace, and under the dining room table is Missy, the Tupperware gal."

"What happened to them?" said Dave.

"I hated their sales pitches so I melted them into Orangoobles, my favorite Plutonian snack."

Joe laughed. "Yeah, sure you did."

The elderly man took off his sunglasses and his eyes began to glow. Suddenly, lasers shot out of his eyes.

Joe screamed as he became a pile of goo.

"Go on, show me how this vacuum works. If I like it, I might let you live."

After Dave finished his demonstration, he saw the elderly man's eyes begin to glow.

"That crappy vacuum certainly didn't do anything you promised it would. Looks like you're joining my snack collection."

"Wait, let me show you one more feature," said Dave.

He pushed the Supreme Clean button on the vacuum. The machine let out a roar and swallowed the elderly man.

It made a few chomping noises and then burped.

Dave emptied the vacuum bag into the garbage can.

"And that's how I deal with people who don't like my product demonstrations."


- - -
Linda Garnett is currently editing her first novel, a sci-fi comedy. Her work has appeared in Stories That Lift, New Flesh, Flashes in the Dark, Static Movement, Linguistic Erosion, Weirdyear, and The Short Humour Site.

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Author: Linda Garnett

Contributor: John Laneri

- -
Sheriff Matt Carson paused to let a horse drawn wagon clatter past then continued on, his steps taking him toward Aunt Jillie’s Boarding House, the finest establishment in North Texas.

“From the way you’re walking, it must be time for lunch.”

The Sheriff recognized the voice as that of Roscoe Sayers, editor of the Brazos River Weekly.

Turning in Roscoe’s direction, he headed toward the boardwalk, saying, “I didn’t know my hunger was so obvious. I must have been thinking about the fried chicken at Jillie’s. Today’s Wednesday, my day for chicken.”

In appearance, Roscoe was a skinny, little man with a balding head and bulging eyes.

“I've always liked fried chicken,” Roscoe said. “But, the little lady prefers I take my noon meal at home – says it’s good for my digestion.”

“There’s nothing better than fried chicken to soothe the digestion. In my opinion, Jillie serves the best southern fried in these parts. Her chicken’s hard to resist.”

Roscoe lifted an eyebrow. “I figured Jillie only served meals to her social customers.”

The Sheriff grinned. “Naturally, she likes to reward her patrons with a small lunch as a gesture of goodwill. But, she encourages everyone to visit… only charges two bits if you’re eating with your boots on.”

“Only two bits?”

“Yup… two bits. Noon timers cost two dollars more. If you’re hungry for southern fried, I’ll buy you a good meal.”

“Do you think my little lady will mind?”

“Not if you consider it an opportunity to do a story about good eating places around the county.”

A few minutes later, they stepped inside the boarding house and edged past a cowboy groping to a cute little lady then headed toward the dining room, a spacious area decorated Victorian style and set to the side of the foyer. Several gentlemen were already eating.

Once seated, Jillie moved toward them, smiling brightly. She was an attractive woman with green eyes, soft powdered skin and red hair cascading to her shoulders.

“Afternoon Sheriff,” she said with a flourish. “I bet you're in the mood for some of my chicken.”

“I’m always ready for your chicken,” he replied, reaching for a napkin.

She turned to Roscoe and cocked her head inquisitively. “I’m mighty proud to have a newspaperman visit my house. What brings you here Mr. Sayers?”

The Sheriff spoke up. “Roscoe’s planning a story.”

She moved close to Roscoe and nuzzled his ear. “You’ll find my house to be the finest in Texas. I like servin’ gents in a high-spirited manner.” She pointed across the room. “See that young girl with the yellow ribbon in her hair….”

The Sheriff quickly spoke up. “Roscoe’s not interested in your house as a house. He’s interested in your food.”

Jillie forced a smile. “Well, that’s different. Most fellows think my food is the finest they ever tasted. And, I offer desert, if you have a mind to get the sparks to flying.”

“Roscoe’s not here for the desert,” the Sheriff said. “He wants to sample the chicken.”

“That’s why I’m here,” Roscoe said eagerly. “I’m planning to do a story about good eating places around the county.”

He reached for a drumstick.

Jillie touched his hand. “Then, you’d best be reaching for a breast. They’re my specialty. I offer them, big and juicy.”

Roscoe smiled politely. “I like breasts too. But, I prefer startin’ with a leg.” He looked away to begin eating.

“You work the pieces however you see fit,” she said, pointing to the chicken. “But, fellows I know prefer to move in a particular order.”

“How’s that?” Roscoe asked, glancing in her direction.

“For starters,” she said, “Most gentlemen like to run their lips over a neck then ease toward a breast before movin’ on to the legs and thighs.”

“I prefer the legs first.”

“That fine,” Jillie replied. “Some fellows do prefer to move straight to the legs then head for the thighs, especially if they’re in a big hurry. But, they tend to miss some spicy parts by being too eager. In my opinion, the best way….”

The Sheriff spoke-up, “Jillie, leave the man alone. He knows how to eat chicken!”

She laughed softly. “I guess you’re right. I shouldn’t tell a man how to his chicken. Sometimes, I get too worked up.” She tapped Roscoe on the shoulder. “But, don’t forget my breasts. They’re much better than those dried-out kinds some people offer.”

Roscoe watched her move away then turned to the Sheriff. “Was she talkin’ about fried chicken?”

“Hell if I know,” the Sheriff replied. Jillie likes to keep people guessing. So… what do you think of the food?”

Roscoe shifted in his seat. “It’s not spicy enough for me.”

“Sometimes the spice is hard to detect,” the Sheriff said, as he indicated across the room to where Jillie had stopped to lift her skirt and adjust a garter. “Check out her legs.”

Roscoe looked away to study Jillie's legs. After some time, he turned back to the Sheriff. “They remind me of drumsticks attached to nice thighs.”

“Like I was saying,” the Sheriff replied, smiling happily. “Wednesday's my day for chicken.”


- - -
John is a native born Texan living near Houston. His writing focuses on short stories and flash. Publications to his credit can be found on the internet and in several print edition periodicals.

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Author: John Laneri