A Hankerin' For Apple Pie

Contributor: John Laneri

- -
Sheriff Matt Carson first noticed the bicycle when he saw it roll past the town square and turn down a dirt road toward the church.

Continuing on, he made his way past storefronts and along quiet tree lined streets. Morning walks were a part of his routine, the activity just another of the many duties that kept him familiar with the happenings in Neverton, a small community along the cattle trail to Fort Worth.

Near the church, he spotted the Reverend Armsworth walking aimlessly about the churchyard, reading from a Bible.

“I see you’ve got a new protegee,” the Sheriff said, as he stepped in the minister’s direction.

The good Reverend adjusted his glasses and looked up. “I hope the boy isn’t causing trouble.”

“No, No” the Sheriff replied. “I noticed a young man on a bicycle near the town square. I figured he belonged to you.”

“It was probably him. He takes a fancy to that contraption.”

To the Sheriff’s eye, the Reverend Armsworth was stately man, wearing a starched clerical collar and black coat – customary attire for devout Texas Ministers.

The Reverend looked about, his eyes peering over his glasses. “I’d like to have you meet him. I saw him peddling by a short while ago.”

The Sheriff looked back and forth along the road, his eyes squinting against the sun.

Suddenly, he spotted a bicycle parked in the shadows directly across the road at Aunt Jillie’s Boarding House, the finest establishment along the Brazos River – definitely, not a place for the Reverend's new protegee.

Realizing the consequences, he quickly turned about and pointed in the opposite direction. “Maybe, the boy is still peddling about the town square.”

The preacher followed his lead, his neck craning to look. “He could be at the candy store. He does like sweets.”

Nodding, the Sheriff replied. “That’s a likely possibility. Most boys his age like to indulge a piece of candy from time to time.”

“Some boys do get a lust for candy.”

The two men agreed. And, for some time, they remained in the churchyard gazing toward town, that is, until the Reverend’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Candy, you say.”

Quickly, he turned to look toward the boarding house. “Hell fire, the boy’s already sinning.” He pointed across the street. “His bicycle’s parked at Aunt Jillie's.”

The Sheriff turned to follow his direction. “Maybe, he’s converting the girls to religion.”

“He’s a mite too young to convert Aunt Jillie and her girls over to much of anything.” Turning away, the Reverend began pacing back and forth. Finally, he stopped and said, “But then again, he’s not too young to be taught the wild side of living.

“What do you want me to do?”

The Reverend walked to the edge of the churchyard where he remained for some time quietly studying the house, his bible tucked under an arm. “I don’t see much activity about the place. Most of the curtains are drawn tight.”

“The window curtains stay closed on the second floor. That's where the girls work. He’s probably sitting in the kitchen, preaching the good book and having a bite to eat. I understand Aunt Jillie keeps plenty of food about … helps fellows keep their energy up.”

“I hear her apple pie is mighty tasty too,” the Reverend said, turning to him, grinning.

“It’s the best in these parts.”

“That’s good to know,” the preacher said. “But still, his mother insisted that I keep him pure while he’s under my tutelage. You need to do something to get him out of that place.”

The Sheriff cleared his throat. “He probably won’t leave without puttin’ up a commotion.”

“That’s what worries me,” the Reverend replied. “Maybe, we should walk over and sample some of her apple pie. Then, you can snoop around while I try converting those girls to the ways of the Lord.”

The Sheriff looked at the preacher, his eyes expressing doubt. “Jillie might not be too happy if I poke my head into each her rooms.”

“How so?” the Reverend asked, turning to him.

“Cause, you're talking sacred ground. Even the Good Lord would think twice. In fact, I’m not sure He’d consider it – being the practical man that He is.”

“You do have a point,” the preacher said quietly.

In the distance, the Sheriff spotted a bicycle moving in their direction. He nudged the preacher and pointed toward the end of the road. “Is that your boy peddling our way?”

The Reverend again adjusted his glasses then let out a sigh of relief. “Thank the Lord… That’s him. I recognize the cowlick on top his head. Now, I’m a mite disappointed.”

“Disappointed?” the Sheriff asked.

“Of course,” the good Reverend replied. “I keep needing a reason to visit her house. I've been hankering’ to sample that apple pie for years.”


- - -
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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Eyes Forward

Contributor: Gary Hewitt

- -
There is no possibility of return. A hypnotic refulgent light dances ever closer.

‘Keep looking ahead.’

A burning flavour escapes nearby. The head remains still and eyes are wide open. Several clicking sounds begin and white fire pulses into the line of sight. Hands tighten. No sense of pain, yet nausea rises.

‘You’re doing well. Just keep staring ahead.’

Liquid is dashed into the eyeball. Blinking is impossible. The eyelids are fastened. A figure in a green mask peers inside. A swab follows and scrapes across the pupil.

‘Try not to look away.’

The Arabic voice reassures. A black bulkhead is removed and jettisoned to the left side of the face.

‘We’re half way through the first procedure. Now just like before, keep looking ahead.’

Teeth clench. Star Wars begins again. The same words mirror those of moments before. Everything is aflame.

‘Fantastic. You’ve done ever so well. All we need to do now is to seal up the flaps.’

The paid victim swivels to the right and gazes into an orange glow. He can smell a foul aroma and the flashing continues.

‘Don’t look away.’

The voice is insistent. The mind drifts to the three hour wait before. Those hours seem much shorter than the ten minutes inside the theatre.

‘Right, we’re on the last stretch now. A few moments and it’ll be over.’

The vision is blurred by the unpleasant pressure of saline and swabs. Dr Hussein nods whilst inspecting his work.

‘Marvellous, I do believe we’re finished.’

Slender female fingers prise off a hairnet. Eye clamps are eased away.

‘Well done Mr Case. We’ll take you through to the dark room. You may find yourself feeling rather strange for a short while.’

The client blunders to his feet. He reaches for his redundant glasses and tucks them into a jacket pocket. The sterile world appears bright yet blurry. Disorientated, he follows the young woman into a cell with no light. His vision is dazzling.

‘You can relax now, Mr Case. Here, take these drops. There are clear instructions for you to follow but you will certainly need the anaesthetic ones in a while.’

The patient reclines and tilts his head back. He is seized by panic. Ahead, a poster promotes the advantages of the laser yet he cannot focus.

‘Hi, how did you find the operation?’

He glances left and a raven haired woman stares back with a tissue implanted beneath her eyes.

‘Weird, I’m a bit worried though. I paid all this money and everything seems blurry.’

‘I know exactly what you mean. They told me these effects are quite normal. By the way I’m Karen.’

Mr Case relaxes.

‘I’m Ray. I imagined it’d be more painful.’

Karen nods.

‘Trust me it is. My eye’s are on fire and these tears never stop. Believe me; you’ll need your tissue and those drop soon enough.’

‘I thought for a moment I got away with it. What procedure did you have done? My one was the expensive one.’

‘Me too, I can’t get used to being without wearing glasses though. Did you travel far to get here?’

Ray straightens his back and inspects his unexpected acquaintance. She warms to his happy eyes.

‘Oh, twenty minute drive down the motorway. My brother took me. How about you?’

‘I’m a local girl, but a friend helped.’

‘You mean your boyfriend?’

Karen leans her head forward. She catches the scent of cologne.

‘No, I’m single; I’m still waiting for Prince Charming to carry me away.’

Ray flushes. His skull begins to blaze with growing pain.

‘I’m not Prince Charming, Karen. However, I’d be delighted to help a beautiful woman escape from the eye doctors.’

‘Careful Ray, you might get more than you bargained for. Oh, I think you need your tissue.’

Ray stems a deluge of tears and cranes his head back.

‘Typical, here I am happy as I can be and I’m crying.’

He stabs eyeballs with cold liquid. Relief soon follows.

‘This is for you.’

Ray’s palm is filled with a small note. Delicate fingers linger for the tiniest moment on the top of his hand.

‘I can’t read just now. What have you wrote down?’

‘I’m sure you can work out the words and numbers.’

The chamber bursts with amber light.

‘You ready to go, Karen.’

‘I think so, Helen. Good luck, Ray. I’ve really enjoyed meeting you.’

‘And you Karen. See you.’

‘You can count on that. Bye.’

He hears the door close and dabs away the tears before opening his eyes. He glances towards Karen’s empty seat before inspecting the small piece of paper. He finds his mobile and adds a new contact. He’s sure his brother won’t mind being a minicab for a week or two.


- - -
Gary Hewitt is a writer from a small village in Kent, England. He has a unique style and has had several stories published including Morpheus Tales, M-Brane to name but a few. He is also a member of the Hazlitt Arts Centre Writers' Group.
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A letter of grind

Contributor: Amin Hosseinioun
- -


You were shutting the door behind you when I told you to stop. I told you I still loved you. Told you how your departure crushes me; but you went anyway and that's ok. It is your life and I couldn’t make you stay. I am just telling you in this letter one thing. Don’t ever come back, because if you do so, I will throw you into my grinder.

Your appearance in my life made me so happy. You were the best thing that ever happened to me. But I didn't force you to come, you came all by yourself and now you left me for someone else. I am sure you are making him happy too. I am sure you have turned his life over too. You know why? He is a friend of mine. It is all good, but I know something. If you ever come to my way, if I ever see you, I will grind you both; you and your lousy partner. Or maybe I just Kebab you both and start a charity dinner for all town.

Don’t be surprised. I am still the same guy kind and gentle. I still look at your photos while tears are in my eyes. You know, I still have your picture on the bookshelf. I cherish all those good memories. I even bought this house just for you to relax. You know, I am a true liberal and I care for you, so please: don’t come back.

My grinder is really big, almost as big as a closet or a fridge. I've read through its manual as well. It says undress your person in use and put him/her down onto the grinder. Yes you'll go in by your legs. It has a very nature friendly design too. It doesn’t use electricity. It has pedals. So as I hold your naked body over the grinder I can set the speed with those pedals. I promise you I will grind you so slowly that it feels like a lifetime.

Let me ask you something. Has a piece of your body ever been cut off? Have you ever been bitten by a wolf or shark? Of course not, you are too spoiled for that kind of action. Isn’t it great that your last life experience would be the most exciting one? I think you'll fall in love with my grinder. You always said you enjoyed violence. Is my friend more violent? Is that why you left me for him? Or maybe you just left me because you wanted to be grinded? Well, now that we both want the same thing, and if you ever come back you'll prove that I am right. I have no other ways but grinding you slowly by your legs. And proudly watch those pretty legs, belly, and breasts cutting into pieces, oh what a scene!


- - -
I am a published writer in Farsi, in Iran, I have published two gothic novellas and many essays on literature and other narrative forms.
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Tweezers

Contributor: Zachary Zuccaro

- -
Looking through the binoculars, Samuel Malato could faintly see his own
brain. To his horror, there was a cockroach in the very center slowly eating its
way out.

There was only one thing to be done – he ran to his bathroom and grabbed a pair of tweezers which he pushed into his ear. Pain shot through his head, blood dripped from his earlobes, but he knew that he had to remove the cockroach at any cost. With a final shove he pushed the tweezers deep into his brain.

The entire community was stunned and appalled that such a wealthy, respected, and friendly man committed suicide with a pair of tweezers. It was beyond comprehension.


- - -
Zachary Zuccaro was born November 9, 1989 and grew up in Lynchburg, TN. He is currently studying mathematics at the University of Pittsburgh.
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The Lonely Man

Contributor: D. Robert Grixti

- -
It had seemed like nothing but a mundane bedroom.

“Is this it?” Haversham asked, producing a notepad from within his coat.
“Yup, that’s the one,” the proprietor said cheerfully, gesticulating with his arm as if he was a game show host revealing the grand prize. “Now, don’t be fooled by how it looks. We keep it maintained ‘cause of hotel standards an’ all, but it’s definitely haunted.”

“Right,” Haversham said, consulting his notebook. “Well, we’ll soon see, I guess.”

He stepped into the room and surveyed it. It was adorned with the typical fixtures of a motel room: a standard double bed; two cheap bedside tables beside it; a small black and white television sitting on a cabinet opposite. There was a door in a corner that opened into an adjoining bathroom. It was all well kept, and aside from the fact that the blinds were drawn on the single bay window above the bed, which cast a thick blanket of shadow over the room, it was perfectly ordinary.

He’d seen creepier.

“Guy hung himself in the bathroom,” the proprietor said casually as he followed Haversham into the room. “Usually, we keep it locked ‘cause the staff don’t like going in there.”

“Who was he?” Haversham asked.

“Just some nutcase. I remember when he checked in – said his wife had left him or something. Poor janitor found him next morning, when he came to refill the shampoo.”
“And that’s when the haunting started?”

“Yup, started happening right after. Whatever it is – ghost or what you want to call it – comes out just after midnight. Vanishes an hour later.”

Haversham scribbled something in the notepad.

“Any of the guests see it?”

“Yeah, several. On three separate nights. Thing must be scary as Hell – they all ran for it in the middle of the night. Didn’t even bother checking out.”

“Well, I’ll see what I can do,” Haversham said, bored, returning the notepad to his pocket and sitting down at the foot of the bed. “Seems like a straight forward case to me.”

The proprietor chuckled morbidly.

“You shouldn’t say that, buddy. Ever seen a horror movie?”

*

Haversham lay in the damp bed, awakened by the alarm on his cell phone. He’d taken a moment to muster the strength to turn onto his side and turn it off. As he touched it, the time – 11:45pm, the time he’d set for the alarm before going to sleep – flickered into existence on the screen, and eerie white light that both illuminated and obscured filled the room.

He’d spent the day outfitting the small room with equipment. He’d set up infrared cameras overlooking the bed and the entrance to the bathroom. He’d even taken the time to set up an extra camera above the grimy shower cubicle, along with a handheld tape recorder, though a strange feeling of being watched had bothered him the entire time he’d been in the bathroom.

After he retired to the motel room proper, he recorded a minute of test footage to make sure the cameras were working, then sat down to rest, and wait.

He turned on the television; it only played static, no matter how he adjusted the aerial. After twenty minutes, all he’d managed to get was a snatch of distorted conversation – “please, don’t leave me” – from a local station, interspersed with the white noise, so he turned it off and decided to get a few hours of sleep.

The bed was damp and the springs were worn out. It had taken him a conscious effort to fall asleep, and now he regretted it: his back was aching and he felt like he’d sunk so low into the mattress that he was almost touching the floor.

A sliver of movement on the edge of his vision disturbed his thoughts and returned him to full wakefulness.

He sat up against the wall and watched curiously as a slender figure, seemingly composed of darkness, glided silently out of the bathroom, stood at the end of the bed, and stared.

He leaned forward cautiously to get a better look. It didn’t respond to his movement, continuing to hover, motionless, in front of him. If it had facial features, they were invisible in the darkness, though shining white orbs glimmered where its eyes would be. What appeared to be spindly arms hung at its sides, though they were as long as its body – if it was indeed a body.

“What are you?” Haversham asked, pressing the record button on the tape player beside his hand.

The being bowed its head.

“You came back,” it said, in a forlorn whisper. “I was waiting for you.”

“You aren’t supposed to be here,” Haversham said firmly. “You have to move on.”

“But I don’t have to leave,” the being said, reaching towards him with its long arms. “Now that you’ve come back to me. I was waiting for you. Now I don’t have to be alone.”

Haversham edged backwards, the tip of his fingers fumbling for the revolver he stored under the pillow.

“I’m not here to stay. I’m here to make you leave.”

“No,” said the creature, slowly gliding towards him. “We can stay here together. Forever.”

It began to advance faster. The glowing orbs turned bright red.

“I love you.”

*

The check out time was 10 in the morning. When Haversham failed to meet it, the proprietor and the head janitor went to his room to remind him.

They found the room empty. The bed was unmade, and the cameras were still rolling.

“I guess he couldn’t take it,” the janitor said, making the bed. “Too scary, even for a ghost hunter.”

The proprietor smiled a knowing smile, and nodded.

“He’s probably halfway to Clement Cove by now.”

The janitor had finished cleaning by lunch time. He decided to go out for burgers. As he fished his car keys out of his pocket, something occurred to him: Haversham’s car was still parked in the guest bay.


- - -
D. Robert Grixti is a speculative and horror fiction writer from Melbourne, Australia. His influences include Stephen King, John Wyndham and H.P Lovecraft.
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New Earth

Contributor: Tyler Fleck

- -
I woke up on the asphalt. Through groggy eyes I noticed the small neon droplets falling and bursting as they hit my body. I rolled over onto my back and looked up at the liquid sky that stretched out above me, it was like an infinite explosion of lava lamps looming above, raining down on the planet in an ugly way.

The earth had been sucked into a great glory hole in the sky, the streets ran rampant with cross dressing fortune tellers and drag queen virgins of the night. The prostitutes and proud practitioners of paralyzed lives sharing the corners with yesterdays youth, panhandling nostalgia to fill a pez dispenser prescription.

This was the new earth.

I struggled back onto my stomach, with tear ducts flooding from the luminescent smog polluting my pores. I pulled a piece of black tarp over my body to shelter me from the lava lamp rain. I remembered a satellite had fallen from orbit some time earlier, had came crashing down to meet the earth not far from where my apartment building had been, I didn't remember when. . . days ago probably. I didn't care. I was nodding off, and for the first time in years, looking forward to dreaming.


- - -
A previously unpublished writer from Nova Scotia, Canada. I enjoy bringing to life different worlds through my words.
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Guidance Counselor in Korea

Contributor: Chris Wilkensen

- -
I was standing in front of twelve Korean teenagers. I was their writing teacher, but their behavior made it seem like no adult was in the room. Most of the kids were talking to each other in their native tongue, except for one. He never talked. Then, he asked me a question.

Just before, I was trying my hardest to quiet the students down. I wanted them to like me, so I didn’t yell at them. Sometimes, I felt more like a guidance counselor than an English instructor. Reading essays about poor kids getting belted for bad grades. I couldn’t find it in me to yell at these students.

If the students weren’t chatting, they were asleep. They would tell me they were too tired to study. I could understand. School was seven hours a day. After-school learning institutions were nearly three hours a day. And they had homework from both.

Handsome. Kind. They would use these words whenever I cleared my throat or spoke in a lower voice. I didn’t hear compliments about my looks often. And I couldn’t prove them wrong about being nice. Most of them were thankful for the freedom I gave them.

“Did you ever want to die?” It was the first time the boy spoke in the semester without being asked something. I chuckled at his query.

“You’re going to kill me?” I heard all those jokes before. The academy would be set on fire, all the teachers would be ablaze. Then, the children could finally be true children and not studying machines.

“No.” He gazed into my eyes. Meanwhile, the class was still lost in conversations.

“Why would you ask that?”

“Because I want to die.”

Leaving the room and sprinting through the halls to find the institute’s director, my boss, I heard the fire alarm go off. All the classrooms scattered into the hall in moments.

Afterward, I told my boss about the conversation. He didn’t believe me. The next time I lost control of my class, I would be on a plane back to America.

The boy sat in his usual desk two days later. He sat in the corner by the door, away from everyone else. The rest of the class was either talking or playing cell-phone games.

“Why’d you do it?”

“I’m sorry, teacher.”

“It’s okay. But why?”

“I wanted everyone to listen to me.”

“I can listen to you.”

I wrote my e-mail address on his desk, and he copied it into his notebook. It was safer. My phone number would probably change, especially since I was one mistake away from America.

We high-fived. Then, I walked to the door, opened and slammed it. The kids were tranquilized.

“Less talking and more writing.” I folded my arms and grunted. “Now.” Almost everyone sighed.

The boy looked up at me and smirked his lips to one side of his mouth, his happiest countenance yet. As time allowed, I would be his real teacher and his unofficial guidance counselor.


- - -
Chris is a scribe from Chicago who teaches English as a Second Language in Daegu, South Korea. After graduating college amidst a recession, he stopped stalking the American dream of a white-collar career and headed to Korea, where people wanted to flee to his homeland. His work has appeared in The Stone Hobo, Pulp Metal Magazine, Curbstone Collective and Combat! Chicago.
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Shootin' Flies

Contributor: John Laneri

- -
Sheriff Matt Carson was into page two of the Brazos River Weekly when his Deputy, Jasper Martin, a young man with light hair and a freckled face, returned to the jail house, his lanky body dropping casually into a chair.

“The main street looks quiet,” Jasper said, as he swatted at a fly. “Not much happening – just a couple of scrawny girls standing in front of the saloon.”

“Lets hope it stays quiet,” the Sheriff replied. “I’d like to enjoy the newspaper.”

Jasper watched the Sheriff turn a page. “What are you reading?”

The Sheriff glanced his way. “It's an editorial about the dangers of carrying hand guns. Makes some interesting points about irresponsible people.”

“Ain’t nobody gonna take my forty-five!” Jasper said quickly, his eyes bulging.

“Relax... nobody’s talking about taking away your hand gun. The writer is simply voicing an opinion about too many guns being in irresponsible hands. As bad as you shoot, folks needn’t be too worried.”

Jasper scrunched his face then reached for a fly swatter and swished it about.
”These flies are driving me nutty. I think we need more flypaper.”

The Sheriff looked up. “Tending to flypaper and sweeping cells is your job. As a matter of fact, this place is a mite dusty.”

“I’m serious, Sheriff. We need to do something about these flies.” He lifted the swatter and smacked at a couple of laggards. “Flies are everywhere. I even feel ‘em in my clothes.”

The Sheriff settled his other boot on the desk and glanced as Jasper. “If the flies are bothering you so much then try taking a bath once a week.”

“You’re funny, Sheriff… real funny.”

Laughing the Sheriff continued, “We’ll get some relief whenever that herd of cattle moves past. We always get flies when they drive cattle to market north of here.”

Jasper set the fly swatter aside and removed his forty-five from its holster. “Do you think we’ll get much trouble with the cowpunchers coming to town?” He spun the cylinder, listening to it click past the chambers.

Turning another page, the Sheriff looked up. “If we do, then we’ll jail ‘em overnight and charge a fine of two dollars for disturbing the peace.”

“One thing for sure, the girls at the saloon make a pile of money.”

The Sheriff glanced over his newspaper. “Cowboys do like girls, that’s a fact.”

Jasper jumped to his feet and slapped off a couple of draws. “I’m getting fast in front of a mirror.”

The Sheriff again lowered his newspaper. “Cowboys don’t gunfight. They’re into herding cattle and buying whores, so you’d best be leaving your six-shooting for varmints in your backyard. And, put that blasted gun away. We don’t need holes in the walls.”

“What ever you say, Sheriff. But, I’m still planning to practice my draw.”

Finally, the Sheriff set his newspaper aside and came to his feet. “Think I’ll head over to the cafe. I’ve been looking forward to fried steak for lunch. And while I’m gone, get over to the hardware store and round up more flypaper.”

“But Sheriff, hanging flypaper causes my shootin’ finger to get sticky.”

Squaring his hat, the Sheriff started for the door. “Just do what you’re told and quit playing with that gun. You might hurt somebody.”

The noise was as a deafening explosion, one that sent the sound of disaster reverberating throughout the room. As his hat went flying, the Sheriff dove to the side. Behind him, splinters flew from his desktop sending pieces of newspaper fluttering about the room.

The Sheriff sprang to his feet. “Are you okay boy? I told you not to be playing with that gun.”

“I’m fine, Sheriff,” Jasper mumbled, his eyes wide. “The thing just went off for no reason.”

The Sheriff grunted then took a step toward the desk.

“Hum…” he said, as his fingers probed along the edge of the hole. Reaching for his glasses, he looked closer, his eyes squinting.

“What do you see,” Jasper asked, as he stepped beside him.

“You ruined my desktop, but I think you got it – fairly clean shot too.”

“Got what,” Jasper asked, curiously.

“Got that fly. Now, get the hell out of here and get more flypaper like I told you. And, keep that gun holstered. Otherwise, you might shoot off something important.”

“Like what?” Jasper asked.

“Like something you’ll be needing when the girls stop looking scrawny.”


- - -
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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Horror

Contributor: Jon Wesick

- -
A werewolf and a vampire sat on a ratty couch watching a black-and-white, Boris Karloff movie on TV. Their looks weren’t unusual, just two guys in their twenties. Though it was almost 10:00 AM, neither had shaved.

“So what do you want to do, today?” the werewolf asked.

He was stocky, maybe 210 pounds, with frizzy, blonde hair the length of his forearms and he wore red, plaid pajama bottoms with a moth-eaten, blue T-shirt. The vampire also dressed sloppily in SDSU running shorts and a gray hoodie. He was thin with pretty-boy features, piercing blue eyes, and skin too pale for someone with such dark hair.

“I don’t know. What do you want to do?” The vampire sipped coffee from a Garfield mug.

“We could get some virgins to fall in love with us and then refuse to have sex with them until we’re married.”

“Boring!”

“How about forming teams, your friends versus my friends in a struggle for world domination?” The werewolf poured Dog Chow into a cereal bowl, set the twenty-pound bag back on the coffee table, and topped the bowl off with milk.

“That’s so last year.” The vampire used the remote to cycle through TV channels. “Why don’t you fly to London and then go really old school?”

“Been there. Done that. Hey, you could darken your skin like in Black Like Me and go hang out in Harlem.” The werewolf lifted the bowl, spooned kibble in his mouth, and chewed with loud crunches.

The vampire shrugged and changed channels.

“We could start a private detective agency or team up with a hot, female pathologist to battle an evil coven.”

“Let’s not and say we did.”

“Give an interview to a reporter? Become rock stars? Free an ancient vampire queen from a crystal pyramid and then stop her from taking over the world?”

“Nah, how about setting up an isolated retreat center for traumatized humans so we could really scare them?”

“Where’d we get the money?”

“Good point.”

“I know. We could each have a crisis of conscience and spend the rest of our lives hunting gangsters, terrorists, or Wall Street bankers.”

“We could do that or I don’t know.” The vampire turned back to the Boris Karloff movie. “Suppose we get jobs at a hospital and pretend to be ordinary humans except that we have wacky supernatural adventures?”

“We could be cowboys.”

“You’d eat the herd whenever there was a full moon.”

“Astronauts?”

“We’d run out of food after eating everyone aboard the space ship.”

“Deep-sea divers?”

The vampire gave his roommate a pained look.

“If we don’t think of something new, we’ll end up doing the same thing we do every night.” The werewolf shook the milk carton.

“We’re out of milk.” He got up, tossed it in the trash, and returned to the couch. “So what do you want to do?”


- - -
Host of the Gelato Poetry Series, instigator of the San Diego Poetry Un-Slam, and an editor of the San Diego Poetry Annual, Jon Wesick has published more than fifty short stories in journals such as Space and Time, Zahir, Tales of the Talisman, Blazing Adventures, and Metal Scratches. He has also published over two hundred fifty poems. Jon has a Ph.D. in physics and is a longtime student of Buddhism and the martial arts.
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By The Fire

Contributor: D. Robert Grixti

- -
It’s been a hard day. I throw my rucksack to the ground in relief and take a seat next to the fire. A particularly large rat is roasting in the flames, but it’s still a ways from being done, so I reach for the yellowed paperback laying on top of my sleeping bag and begin perusing it in the flickering light.

“That book again?”

Across the campfire, Rowan looks at me curiously, taking a break from watching our dinner cook.

“Seriously Jess, what’s with it? You’ve read it at least twenty times by now,” he says.

“Do you see anything else to do around here?” I reply coolly, glaring at him and then returning to my well-read book. “I don’t think cinemas or amusement parks make very good business these days, do they?”

“Whatever,” Rowan says in exasperation, going back to watching the rat revolve on its spit, slowly browning. “I don’t even know how you can feel like reading a book when we have all this real life stuff to deal with, let alone the same one over and over.”

Suddenly, he’s back to contemplating the fire. That’s how he spends most nights, though it’s not like I can blame him. The fire is probably the most interesting thing to stare at, I’ve figured: everything else around us is gray, empty and dead, and it’s been like that for quite some time.

He notices me watching him and he shoots me a look as if to dare to me to ask what’s on his mind. I don’t take the bait.

I ignore him and continue reading my book. It’s hard to get into it since its pages are so well tread, but I try my best to zone out and relax. Tonight, it’s not working. I swear loudly and toss the book aside.

“Thanks a lot, Rowan,” I say. “You’ve ruined it for me.”

He looks up briefly, smiling lightly.

“My pleasure,” he says, before poking the rat carefully with the edge of his rifle. “Let’s eat!”

He cuts the rat into tiny pieces and we attempt to make a meal out of it. We devour it in two quick mouthfuls. It’s not very satisfying fare; I don’t even taste it as it goes down, I just register the fact that the bones are crunchy before it’s over and I’m only slightly less hungry than I was before.

“How was that?” Rowan says kindly after we’re done. “Better than nothing, right?”

“Better than nothing. But…”

“But you’re still not full, right Jess?”

I give him a forlorn look.

“I just wish we had a bit more to eat, sometimes,” I reply, staring at the small pile of bones beside my knee.

“Well, hopefully we’ll find something more substantial tomorrow,” he says. “You should get used to not eating much. Unless you want to make like the marauders, that is. Then you’d get a little more to eat, but…”

He trails off, pointing at the rolled up sleeping bag beside me. It’s a spare. It used to have an owner. He was our friend, but he’s gone now, killed by one of the monsters that lurk beyond the light of the campfire.

“Never,” I say through gritted teeth. “I’ll never resort to that.”

He gives me a sad look, then turns to blow up the air mattress that is our bed for the night.

“Then try to keep a happy face about things.”

Feeling dejected, I pick up my book and return to the page I left off. I need to forget. It’s been a very hard day.


- - -
D. Robert Grixti is a speculative and horror fiction writer from Melbourne, Australia. His influences include Stephen King, John Wyndham and H.P Lovecraft. His work has appeared in Imagine Literary Journal, Crossfire Magazine, Black Petals, Flashes In The Dark, Eunoia Review and more.
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The Cost of a Billion Dollars

Contributor: Michael Wen

- -
As soon as Brad added the purple powder to the kylix a filmy white vapor began to ooze out of the top of the shallow bowl. He began the chant, struggling to reproduce the exotic syllables denoted by the ancient script. At the fifth repetition tiny strands of the smoke began to separate, swirl and weave. After the tenth one a pair of bulbous compound eyes could be discerned. He stopped chanting after the twentieth time and prostrated in front of the altar. The smoke formed proboscis began to twitch and a buzzing voice at once inchoate and thunderous streamed into Brad’s ears.

“Again? Have you no better use for precious Black Sea purple Operculum powder than to court repeated rejection?”

“Hear me out, Lord Beelzebub, for I offer not the same exchange as before. I am aware by now that my soul is not worth a hundred million dollars. This time I believe I have an agreement more amenable to you.”

“Then present it.”

Brad got up and picked up an ochre colored scroll. He unrolled it carefully, then grabbed its top roller and held it before the altar, straining to keep the bottom off the floor as the whole thing was nearly five feet long.

“This is a scroll made of the Mithraic Parchment, Lord Beelzebub.

Its charm is strong enough to bind agreements in your world and mine. If your lordship would gaze upon the middle section, the names inscribed there represent the souls of the finest financiers, speculators, power grabbers, and other fortune seeking types of my time. When they pass their souls are bound to those whose signs are displayed at the bottom of the document. “

“How strong are the terms?”

“They are for eternity and unbreakable except ...”

“For the usual caveat?”

“Right. Unfortunately no charm exists that is strong enough to bind a soul should it decide of its own volition to join the flock of the Old Man Upstairs.”

“I fathom. I made out the word “tranch” numerous times in the document. What is its meaning?”

“It means a slice of the whole. This contract entitles all signatories to take full control of a number of the souls on the list for a given time period, the number and duration of which depends on the amount of interest you own. The schedule of which are laid out in the table at the top right section of the document.”

Brad moved half a step forward and lifted to scroll higher to provide a better look.

“Why is your name not among those listed?”

“Because I have come to realize that one can always bargain for more with the promise of high quality goods tomorrow than with the delivery of less worthy ones today.” This time Brad had no difficulty remembering what he was told to say in response to this line of query.

“So you have learned your place. Most gratifying. I find your proposal intriguing. I often do tire of a soul after a decade or two. I will bargain with you for a one tenth share. Name your price.”

“I ask for only the following; fifty names in your own hoard added to the list, in consideration of other signatories, and a favor for me as the middleman. The research at the biotech venture I own has not yielded much fruit. If your lordship can direct our efforts toward more fruitful avenues…”

“I believe the exchange to be fair. The deal is struck.”

****

After Brad finished bandaging the fresh cut on his arm he carefully rolled the document and walked into the next room. It was a large, cubical chamber dominated by an enormous contraption that terminated in a large flat screen monitor which faced a wall filled with smaller flat screen sets tuned to news channels. Brad flicked a switch on the wall and the cacophony died. He prostrated in front of the reptilian face on the giant monitor.

“Lord Kukulkan.”

The Bose speakers next to the monitor began to hiss. “How goes the deal?”

“Very well. Lord Beelzebub placed fifty of his finest potentials onto the agreement for the terms we’ve discussed.”

“Fifty, about a third of his total. Beelzebub is a bigger fool than I took him for. And how goes your other task?” Lord Kukulkan’s thin tongue began to flick in and out in satisfaction.

“I managed to meet with the directors of all of the organizations on your list and made the donations in person. They promised me that they’re prepared to redouble the white collar prison ministry next year.”

“Most pleasing to hear. Soon enough the others shall see their stocks decimated and I shall repay their gloat thrice fold for the time I lost almost all of my Mayan supplicants.”

“Lord Kukulkan,” Brad began.

“Yesss?”

“How many more such deals must I make?” He said as he rubbed the fresh bandage gingerly. Lord Beelzebub had demanded two pints of blood as consideration to seal the contract.

“The time you live in is complex, my friend, as myriads of forces tinker with the flow of events. For so colossal an aim as yours to be reached a multitude of critical junctures must be interceded. But despair not. My gaze shall be affixed to all affairs that impact you and my subtle but firm hand shall negotiate outcomes your way until you reach your goal. Tarry not now. I believe Lord Chernobog is most eager to hear our proposal.”

“I shall begin preparations right away.” Brad stowed all objects back to their proper places, turned the volume back up on the television set, and then closed the door to the chamber behind him. As the door snapped shot he paused to wonder how many souls one billion dollars will end up costing.


- - -
Michael Wen writes computer code by day and speculative fiction by night. He lives in Houston, Texas
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Sighting Big Foot

Contributor: Chris Sharp

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Terrible!
Terrible it is to receive an original Christian LaCroix nouveau dress shirt from Paris by the hand of a loving Auntie Mame, only to have it explode on his neck in the men’s room. His Auntie Mame – she was really his Aunt Mary – had no idea his neck had grown into a 17 incher since she last found a shirt for him. He gritted his teeth and growled in front of the men’s room mirror, but it was no help in getting him to get his top button to cooperate under his tie.
John Bousque III flinched when his manager Mort stepped up to stand right beside him in the restroom mirror.
“Our conference begins in ten minutes,” said Mort. “What’s the matter with you, John?”
“This shirt costs hundreds of dollars, but the idiot top button won’t close under the tie.”
“Maybe you should lose some weight.”
“I have ten minutes to shrink into a size 16 neck, Mort. Help.”
“I’m telling you, John, we have a CEO coming in on his private jet all the way to our little Surf City branch to look product and results, not appearances. Jim’s not so great looking himself. That’s why you never see his picture anywhere, you know. He’ll tell you himself he looks like an ape.”
“You think this collar makes me look like a mess-up?”
“I think you better be in the conference room and well prepared before Jim gets in there. Let me tell you something about Jim. If you flip heads on Jim, he’s a flaming genius. You flip him tails, he’s a frigging animal who’ll have you for lunch.”
Then – to make Mort’s portrait of their company CEO even better – the manager turned on his heel and strode hard out of the restroom. John Bousque III followed him meekly with his right hand still on his open collar and his left hand shooting breath spray into his poor mouth.
All the officers of the branch were already seated around the conference table. There was a quality in their eyes of being at a solemn ceremony – a wake, or a corporate funeral.
“Jim should be in here in just a few minutes,” Mort said in general, but it seemed to be in particularly directed to John Bousque III. He looked straight through his subordinate’s eyes as he finished saying “minutes.”
Then a man entered the room, but when John Bousque III looked up at the fluster breaking the grim silence, he saw a sort of a man.
The other part of the being that entered the room was more a creature of the wild.
He was huge. His pin-striped suit burst at the seams under his gigantic torso. He had no shoes because his wild, hairy feet just burst out under the hem of his pants to turn into a flood of wild nature into the conference room.
The ape man stepped right up in back of John Bousque III, as if he were preying on a new food from behind.
“I don’t believe I have yet met this gentleman,” said the creature.
“Jim, this is John Bousque III,” said Mort. “John is the new finance manager of our branch.”
John Bousque III had only been looking at the ape man’s available skin all the time, because it was twitching feet at every pore. He somehow recalled reading that the exposed skin of hominids twitched to throw off the jungle bugs.
“Hello John,” said the CEO. “I’m Jim.”
The ape man put out one of his upper paws, which was about half the size of his “foot,” to shake “hands.”
John Bousque III came to his feet in an effort to come out of everything else in the room.
The CEO’s head was about two feet tall from the top of his head to the point on his “chin.” There was so much hair on his head that the details of his face seemed like they had a natural tendency to be masked by what looked like million-year-old facial fur.
“John,” said the ape man. “I’ve got my hand poking out here and it’s ready to shake hands with you.”
Mort the manager – or someone – sighed loudly at the conference table.
“Hi,” said John Bousque III finally.
“Is that all you’ve got, John?” said Jim, not just shaking his “hand” but vibrating it at everyone now. It seemed to John Bousque III that once the CEO had gotten his prehistoric “hand” over his own, his human hand would never be the same again.
“Hi,” John Bousque III said again, this time forcing himself to smile somehow.
“Gentlemen,” said Jim, drawing his “hand” back at last. “We have adult business to discuss today. I recommend we first find something for this young man to do as we adults talk.”
“John,” said Mort, the life-long name ripping from his throat. “Go to the office and make a copy of something. Make a copy of the phone book.”
“Make a copy of the phone book?”
“The business section. Might come in handy to you to call some business owners. Take a trip downtown also.”
“Yes sir. Yes sir.”
“And John. Hold on a minute.”
Mort actually ran up John Bousque III and got so close his breath could be felt.
“John, you know how people are in this one-horse town. The last thing we need is to get people talking that Big Foot has visited us.”
“Yes sir.”
Then John Bousque III strode away from the whole scene in a conscious gait that was gentlemanly and as non-simian as he could. It was the only way he had left to argue, to walk in a way that was a million years distanced from all the creatures that had preceded him in this earth’s history. He just wanted to walk and walk, far away from the whole scene, even from Surf City itself, and keep wearing this Christian LaCroux shirt that made him feel so evolved.


- - -
Chris Sharp has several flash-fiction stories in the archives of Daily Love, Linguistic Erosion, Weirdyear and Yesteryear Fiction. His new book, “Dangerous Learning: The New Schooling in California” is being distributed by Barnes & Noble and Amazon.
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Maelstrom

Contributor: Jessica Morrow

- -
There’s a scream, a shudder and a quick jolt.

She’s in trouble, and my only thought is that I have to help her. But where is she? She can’t be gone too far. I’d only seen her half an hour ago.

I wish my dad was here, or my friends from school. They’d be far more useful than me right now. I’m worthless. I have to be. How else can I not be able to help her?

I try to make my way through the darkness, wishing for the clarity so many people took for granted. I would do anything for it. I'd be able to save her!

But here I am, as useless as ever.

The screams begin again. This time it’s closer, and my heart begins to pound.

I find myself leaning down, not by my own control. I feel excitement, and I’m confused as to why I feel it. I’m scared! I want her to be safe, free from the evil in this house, but here I am, excited. What was going on?

With my knees sinking down onto what feels like carpet, I place my hands in front of me and feel through the air.

After a moment, they touch something solid.

My heartbeat dies instantly, but I feel myself continuing to breathe, excitedly, jaggedly.

She gives a choked whimper as I touch her lightly.

That’s the moment I realise something is up. Why am I not trying to save her?

Why am I moving in such slow motion? I’m taking an eon, an eternity, to move closer to her. I try to hurry up, but I can’t. It’s like I’m not even controlling my own body, like this is some sort of sick dream.

And I can’t even save her.

I lean down, and her breath fans into my face. I try to scream to her, 'I’m here to save you, mum', but no words come out.

I’m confused.

My own breath becomes ragged, and her breathing dies down. She begins to shake, but I find myself holding her in place. I wonder why on earth I did that. I’d never want to hurt her. Why was this…?

Mum? I try to ask again, but yet again, my voice escapes me. A barrage of thoughts assaults my mind, and I’m taken aback. It’s like it isn’t even me thinking anymore…

At the thought of that, a few things click into place.

What, I think nervously, irrationally. What if it actually isn’t…?

There’s a sudden flash of light, and I’ve grabbed something previously unthought-of out of my pocket. I’m about to place it – 'no, mum, I don’t want to hurt you, I just want to hurt you' - when suddenly a voice screams out, as light floods through the room. It’s oddly familiar, far too familiar.

“Mum!” the voice of the boy screams as he leaps towards me.

I lose my grip on reality. That boy, he can’t be, it can’t possibly be.

He pushes her – mum – to the side as he makes his way for… No way, it can’t be true, this can’t be happening.

I’ve never been hurt before, not seriously. Once, I almost broke my knee climbing a tree at my uncle’s place when I was four, but nothing like this.
I’m the man, I’m the child. It doesn't matter to me. I’m both. And I’m saving her.

I’m not as useless as I thought.

I don’t even know if I’ll survive, but at least I’m saving her.

That ought to count for something, right?

“Eli, son?” she whispers, as darkness overcomes me.


- - -
Jessica Morrow is an emerging writer and second year Bachelor of Arts (Professional and Creative Writing) student at Deakin University in Geelong, Australia. Inspired by the works of authors such as Suzanne Collins and George Orwell, Jessica likes to strike a balance between literary and genre fiction in her writing. Hopefully, this inspires more people to read.
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The California Crab

Contributor: Alessandro Cusimano

- -
Wendy's obsession with Hollywood was born in a motley bungalow, where all the plans begin to jell. In the still of the night, Wendy get up with a jerk, dreaming of a trip to Temptation, odds and ends, jeopardies, jests, strait jackets and phony excuses! Wendy took off a little time this summer, but her vacays didn’t exactly resemble the exotic escapes of Hollywood films: because she never managed to get perfectly tousled beach hair.
Obsessive thoughts make Wendy feel nervous and afraid. She tries to get rid of these feelings by performing certain behaviors. Due to these thoughts, Wendy may, for example, wash her hair repeatedly. Performing these behaviors usually only makes her nervous feelings go away for a short time. When the fear and nervousness return, she repeats the routine all over again. Her recurrent and persistent obsessions cause marked anxiety and distress. Wendy attempts to ignore or suppress such impulses, or images, or to neutralize them with some other thought or action. Watching her favorite Hollywood stars in films and on television also gives her the mistaken impression that she knows what a person is like. Wendy feels a sort of camaraderie to certain actors. However, in reality, movie stars have private lives as well as she really doesn't know what they could be like on a personal level, no matter how many interviews of them she has seen.
We all have habits and routines in our daily lives, such as brushing our teeth before bed. However, for Wendy, patterns of behavior get in the way of her daily life. She knows that her obsessions make no sense, but she can't ignore or stop them. Ideas, images and impulses run, uninterrupted, through the Wendy's mind. While they are disturbing, she can't control them. Sometimes these thoughts come just once in a while and are only mildly annoying. Other times, Wendy has her obsessions all the time!
She lives in Queer Street, dressed in a persuasive crocodile kimono. Wendy is photogenic! Wendy is pyromaniac! Wendy has the nerve of a squeezed orange!
Hitting big time in Hollywood is based on good luck and pure timing. As a Hollywood actress to get herself meaty roles she has to know the right people and be in the right place at the right time. Dazzling good looks will also go far in getting her noticed!
Next to the rose gardens, Wendy is the lover of the betrayals! With the intent to entertain radio stars, movie makers, fumy outlines, Rams and Raiders! Speaking into a wonky microphone, chasing a nine days' wonder, the crucial romance. Confusional states of America!
As a possible Hollywood star, Wendy loves the attention she get from her fans and from the press. However, there is a downside to all this publicity. Star stalking is rather common and can be very dangerous. Drunk, Wendy is the perfect woman of straw, along with a braggart in a jammy loft, or the rakehell of the day!
Because of her mental disabilities, Wendy often fixates on Hollywood stars and creates fantasy lives where she thinks she knows the star personally. Much of this has to do with looks and public relations skills. Wendy is prepped and preened before any public appearances. She looks flawless. Everything, from her hair styles to the makeup she wears. It all makes many people feel inferior and in awe of the rich and famous. Wendy has things that they could never dream of owning!
And yet, she is unable to recognize that the obsessional images are not only a product of her own mind, but also imposed from without, as in thought insertion. Repetitive behaviors such as hair washing, ordering, checking or mental acts like praying, repeating words silently, are aimed at preventing or reducing distress or preventing some dreaded event or situation; however, these behaviors or mental acts either are not connected in a realistic way with what they are designed to neutralize or prevent or are clearly excessive. Moreover the obsessions significantly interfere with the Wendy's normal routine, occupational, functioning, or usual social activities or relationships. Wendy buys all the popular fashion magazines featuring movie stars on the cover: she sees movie stars and celebrities everywhere.
Unfortunately, Wendy continues to be bothered by thoughts or images that repeatedly enter her mind, such as concerns with gaining weight, choosing the wrong lipstick or keeping shoes in perfect order or arranged exactly. Images of porno movies or horrible events. She worries a lot about terrible things happening, such as being on the set and forget her lines. Senseless urge or impulse, such as pushing a competitor, for the part in a movie, in front of a bus, steering her car into oncoming traffic or poisoning dinner guests. She feels driven to perform certain acts over and over again, such as excessive or ritualized laughing, jogging, or sleeping. Repeating routine actions: in/out of chair, going through doorway, re-lighting cigarette. Unnecessary re-reading or re-writing. Avoiding colors: red means blood! Numbers: 13 is unlucky. Or names: those that start with F signify flop! That are associated with dreaded events or unpleasant thoughts. Needing to confess or repeatedly asking for reassurance that she said or did something correctly!
To make matters worse, Wendy suffers from another strange mental disorder. She has a strong need to count her actions or objects in her surroundings. Wendy may for instance feel compelled to count the steps while ascending or descending a flight of stairs or to count the number of letters in words. She often feels it is necessary to perform an action a certain number of times to prevent alleged calamities. All of this develops into a complex system in which Wendy assigns values or numbers to people, objects and events in order to deduce their coherence. At times she counts aloud, at times silently. She is still unsure if it is a blessing or a curse. She always thought it was just the way her brain works. Surely, nobody else would really be able to comprehend what her brain does on it’s free time.
She doesn’t actually count the number of objects. She counts the angles, sides, corners of each star. Not the sum. Here’s a highly simplified example of what her brain does: picture a pink painted star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. It is flat, so it has no dimension to it. There are ten sides and five corners. Each side has two terminals, where the line ends at the corner. She tends to count those terminals on each corner. So in this example, each corner would have a value of “2″. So she would go around the painted star, counting 2, 4, 6, 8. Not too difficult. Now, picture doing that to every single painted star on Hollywood Boulevard and Vine Street while driving at 50 mph! Now imagine applying that habit to a three-dimensional star! Now, put yourself into a room that has stars of all different shapes, sizes and thicknesses! Hollywood rules everything around her!
The other day Wendy thought about one thing: a few years ago, before leaving Illinois, to go to live in Los Angeles, she decided to install an aquarium in her home. She got everything you need, and after creating the ideal habitat put some fishes in the aquarium. Very nice to watch the fishes and plants that grew and multiplied. Wendy noticed that the fishes did not like too much her and then she had to observe them better hidden. After an initial period, where Wendy had to intervene frequently to maintain the ideal habitat stable, she let it all live on their own. Everything worked perfectly until she introduced a particular species within the aquarium. The California crab! At first all is well. It grew quiet and seemed to adapt to the environment. Then it started to destroy everything and everyone. Ate the plants and kill other fish. The possibilities were two. Step in and remove the intruder destroyer or let nature take its course. For a split second Wendy felt God! Intervened! She removed the crab from the aquarium and everything slowly returned to normal.


- - -
Alessandro Cusimano was born in Palermo in 1967. Son of a painter and a teacher, he moves to Rome where he attends the classics. Poet, writer, playwright, since the age of 21, his life is marked by recurrent and painful bouts of depression, by the use of alcohol and drugs. None of this, however, distracts him from the research and the study of his expression ideals, his narrative technique, his poetic style, along with a a special focus on visual arts, from painting to cinema, from photography to theatre.

Appeared recently on the international literary stage, some of his writings have been published by The Cynic Online Magazine, RED OCHRE Lit, Decanto Magazine, Weirdyear, Streetcake Magazine, Anotherealm, Numinous Magazine, Parting Gifts, Eratio Poetry Journal, EPIPHANY Magazine, Deadman’s Tome, Black Cat Poems, Orion’s Child Magazine, Bewildering Stories, FOLLY Magazine, Exercise Bowler, Emerging Visions, Write This and Linguistic Erosion.
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Bare Feet

Contributor: Matt Micheli

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The cigarette smoke. The pile of dishes in the sink and atop the surrounding counters—stacks of them. The empty and half-empty beer bottles scattered throughout the house—I count one, two, three, four, and so on, until I lose count after thirty or so. The warm breeze from the outside sneaks through the tiny holes in the front screen door that probably should be closed but never is. I try and imagine the sound of small birds chirping outside, bathing in the morning’s golden sunlight, but I can’t. The TV’s volume is turned up as loud as it’ll go and is still muffled by the yelling, the crying, the words, “Fuck You” and “I’m gonna leave your ass,” and “You’re nothing but a whore,” and “Go ahead,” and “I dare you,” and “You won’t,” and “You don’t have the fucking balls,”—all the typical terms I’ve gotten used to in this house.

I walk right into the line of fire—through the battleground, through the war-zone, through the flying debris, through the hatred—going unnoticed and push the screen door open to the outside. The sun hits my face, and my eyes squint as I step down onto the worn wooden porch, feeling the heads of nails trying to make their way back up. The door springs shut behind me, and I stand there and look as far away as I can down the street to another distant land far, far away from here; from them. I step down onto the grass—still cool and wet from the nightly dew—and make my way to the street. The asphalt is hot, but my feet have gotten used to it, burnt black and calloused over. This time, I know I’ll be able to go even farther than I had last time. Really far this time, maybe even far enough.

“Fuck you!”

“I’ll fucking do it! I’ll do it!”

I can’t tell if the yelling and cursing is following me or just embedded in my head from repeated assaults. I continue on. Over the yelling, I am able to hear those small birds I tried to imagine earlier, chirping, and this is nice. Walking down the street, away from there, away from them, there’s a soft breeze on my back, helping me along the way, the further I get, the better I start to feel; the less lonely I become. It seems like hours have gone by, and where I am, I don’t recognize. There’s no one here. Just me and woods to either side and this street that leads somewhere, anywhere. The sun has moved higher into the sky and the asphalt is hotter now then when I had left, but I can do it. I can make it.

I hear the yelling but then the birds again. Then I hear the siren round once and gravel crunch as a car pulls off to the side of the road behind me. The car door opens, then come the words, “Johnny, it’s time to go home.”

On the way home, I dream about next time and wonder how far I’ll get, and Officer Tate gives me advice, as he always does on our rides back. I stare out the window, the warm sun feels good on my face, and as he talks, all I can hear are birds chirping, and this is nice.


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Matt Micheli is a transgressive fiction writer out of Austin, TX, author of MEMOIRS OF A VIOLENT SLEEPER: A BEDTIME STORY. His analytical, sometimes satirical, and often times blunt views of love, loss, life, and beyond are expressed through his writing. For him, writing is an escape from the everyday confines of what the rest of us call normal.
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Biblioteca

Contributor: Zachary Zuccaro

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Lauren's dream had always been to visit the Library of Congress. She loved books – their appearance, their odor, their covers, the sounds of the pages turning. Of course Lauren had been to libraries before – she cherished the quiet atmosphere, the rows and columns of books, the veritable temples of human knowledge and imagination.

Then one day Lauren's dream became a reality, she finally got an opportunity to visit the Library of Congress – the largest library in the world. The tour guide led her into an 8'x8' prison cell. A laptop lay on a small desk in the center of the room.

“What is this!” Lauren exclaimed, appalled.

“Oh, you didn't hear?” the tour guide replied, “The library was renovated – this was deemed more efficient than the old system so the library was moved here – isn't it amazing?”

Lauren said nothing; she walked to the center of the cell, grabbed the computer, and smashed it on the floor.


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I was born in Lynchburg, Tennessee and am now studying mathematics at the University of Pittsburgh. Some of my hobbies include reading, writing, playing in chess tournaments, going mushroom hunting, and listening to classical music.
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The Aburrido Burrito

Contributor: Scott Harmon

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The business meeting was going great. Everyone along the shiny black table had gotten along and it looked as though we were all going to be billionaires. There was one man however that hadn’t said a word. He was the new guy. I hired him out of a Burger King because I thought he was brilliant. Call it one of those hunch things. In his short career he had said very little. He seemed to always have a steely intensity in his eyes. I was having some doubts about him.
Anyways, Mr. Johnson had just made a side splitting joke. We were all in riotous laughter. After it died down, there was a moment of silence.
That’s when it happened. The new guy spoke. He raised his hand shyly and said “Uh I know this doesn’t have much to do with the meeting, but I was thinking we should start a new Mexican restaurant chain called The Aburrido Burrito.” Everyone kind of stared at him blankly, confused. He quickly elaborated and said “You see, aburrido in Spanish means boring.”
Vice President Haskins was clearly annoyed and sputtered, “Wait, why would anyone want to go to the boring burrito?!”
The new guy sat perplexed for a moment or two admitting to himself that he never thought of this. He finally answered, “Because it sounds cool?”
Now I was angry. I really let him have it. I said “Look man, we don’t hire fools like you to come up with crap like this!” I was fuming. I let myself burn for a few seconds, then I erupted. “I should have let you die at that Burger King! Your idea, it’s worthless! Take your junk and hit the road!” And that was that.
I expected him to be offended and storm out. Instead he let out an evil cackle that lasted so long it gave everyone the chills. He finally spoke maniacally. “You fools! You’re all fools! You think I’m stupid. Well guess what?! I’ve done all the secret paper work. When your backs were turned! I own this company! The Aburrido Burrito will be the ultimate empire!” He let out another cackle.
We all thought he had lost his marbles until the armed guards barged in and carried us away. I had no idea where they were taking us until I saw a giant door with a sign saying “The Aburrido Burrito Training Camp.” I knew I was in biiiig trouble. . .


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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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Grue

Contributor: Tim Gerstmar

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It was really awful what happened to her, wasn't it? I mean, if you could have seen it. If you could have seen what had been done to her. That was Cherrie though, and she had a right to do whatever she wanted. That was just the way she was, and if she liked living the way she did, then that was her business. I'm not about to get on her case.

Anyway, I can outline the whole thing for you a bit, at least what I understand about it. It needs the right approach. I really cared about Cherrie in my own way, and I want to get across how horrible it was what was done to her.

Picture a girl alone on the elevator. There is the cold hum of the building, all those apartments, all those people, and yet so much isolation. The lights flicker in the elevator, and then it stops on the fifth floor. The key turns in the lock of the door, and she turns the knob.

She was such a nice girl. At this point in the story, there were only about five minutes left in her life, and only one minute that wasn't sheer pain. It was in the shower, or that's what I recall anyway. It's all so distant, and I can't even sleep anymore, and I can no longer go into cities, for the very cement reminds me of it.

The apartment was dead silent when she stepped inside and shut the door. She never saw what happened, but she did hear the rustle of its black skirts flowing behind it like curtains in the breeze. Then there was only the darkness and the feeling of force.

It wasn't like I ever saw it, you understand. There was only the sheer sensation that something had gone on there. Everyone meets their lover in the end, even young girls on elevators with flickering lights. Voyages end, and we sleep the deep sleep of dreams.

You know, you look at those curtains, and you think to yourself, those are probably the same curtains that were hanging in there when she died. I never even saw Cherie. I didn't even know who she was. Cherie Beaumont was her name. I could picture her. I could see her blond hair, kind of wavy, and that listless smile on her face. She was a girl who liked summer dresses and being lazy while she shopped. She was happy.

Then I looked out that window at the view that she must have seen everyday while she stood there drinking coffee. I was hearing what she heard. I was walking where she walked. I was sitting where she made love and ate and laughed.

I see Cherie every night in my dreams, except I don't see her. I just see wallpaper with a mesmerizing pattern on it, and I can hear the pulsations like a ships boiler, and I can tell she's coming.

Even as I walk through the city, my eyes are always drawn to the window of that condo. The shades are always drawn, but sometimes I can see shadows moving behind it. Sometimes I wake up in there. When I do, I think about how cold I am, and I start to tremble. I stay awake late and wander the streets, but in every alleyway and every porno theatre I see her. Cherie stands out, her face lighted by the awful neon and the sweating pavement.

I had to finally have it out with her. I had to release Cherie, because you know, I think that’s what she wanted. I called out to her, and she didn't answer, only the room answered. Only the room. It talked to me through the hum of the walls and the gurgling of the pipes. It was the horrifying sound of my dreams, but I was awake. I searched for her in there. I pulled apart the sofa and scoured the corners for some trace of her, some left over remnant of her being, but there was nothing. There was something else in that room with me. The place became ice cold. I shivered and slumped into a corner. Then I noticed that the closet door was just slightly ajar. However, I could swear it had not been when I entered. Slowly, with agonizing speed it began to open, and I heard the dull thundering in the walls, masked by the gurgling and the incessant hum. I became tired, as though I had taken an entire bottle of sleeping pills. Then came the voice, "The pattern on the wallpaper," it said, whispering to me a clue to the mystery that I would never solve. "Cherie, I am here for you baby. I've come to help you." The door of the closet swung open and slammed into the wall. An impenetrable darkness beckoned to me. I heard the slow tread of heavy footsteps, and it was then that I learned that not all spirits want release.


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Born in 1972, Tim Gerstmar came to writing later in life. He has been an illustrator, teacher, film actor, shoe salesman, and he even spent time in the U.S. Navy. He now works as a high school teacher in Bangkok, Thailand.
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A Deadly House Call

Contributor: John Laneri

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Several years ago, I inadvertently contributed to the murder of a man named Jason Stone.

My involvement started with a phone call. It was the urgency of Jason’s tone that compelled me to get out of bed and tackle the weather on a dreary winter night.

Actually, I had never met the man, but his wife had been a longtime patient of mine. And, from what I could determine, she was having a severe anxiety attack associated with palpitations and hyperventilation.

For no particular reason, I elected to make a house call. It seemed an easy enough task – an hour or two of work then back to bed. Hysterical people, I knew, were often difficult to control and getting her to an emergency room could become an impossible task, especially in the dead of night.

My situation started when I turned onto his street and drove into a solid wall of fog. To my surprise, the house numbers were impossible to see.

Slowly, I cruised from house to house, trying to make out lights. Finally, I picked the most likely place based on Jason's hasty description and headed to the front door.

I rang the doorbell and waited.

“Who’s there?” a woman’s voice asked. “It’s two o’clock in the morning.”

“Jason...?”

I heard a gasp come from the other side of the door.

“Go away. And, please leave me alone.”

“Let me in,” I said, as I reached to jiggle the door handle, thinking something was wrong.

I heard footsteps shuffle away from the door. Then nothing.

I knocked again.

After failing to get any further response, I backed away and looked up and down the street, wondering.

Two doors away, I spotted a man moving in my direction.

“You’re at the wrong house,” he said breathlessly. “Hurry, my wife is completely out of control.”

I followed him across the lawn, mumbling something about scaring his neighbor to death.

He promised to convey my apologies, pausing only to tell me that she was an attractive woman that lived alone.

After treating his wife's anxiety with a intravenous sedative and listening to her ramble incoherently, I returned home and back to sleep. The next day, I called her house and left several messages on her voice mail. When she failed to respond to any of my phone calls, I soon forgot the matter.

Several weeks later, I heard on the news that the wife had shot and killed Jason Stone.

What I didn’t know at the time of my house call was that the woman at the door and Jason had been engaged in a neighborhood affair that was beginning to unravel once the demands of their activities began to complicate their lives.

Based on testimony at the trial, the wife stated that she had first learned of the relationship the very night of my house call – thus the reason for her anxiety reaction.

Unfortunately, by going to the wrong house, I initiated a series of complex interactions between all parties. My mistake, as benign as it seems, resulted in an angry confrontation, which ultimately resulted in a violent death.

Had I been able to decipher the wife's ramblings, then maybe Jason Stone would be alive, and his wife would not be in prison for putting a bullet in his head.


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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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