Contributor: Patricia Crandall

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The Sipperly family of Virginia were anxious to move into an old homestead they had acquired in upstate New York. The front of the house faced a little stream of water poetically called Plakapots Killitie by early Dutch Settlers. In back, ran the Hudson River.

When they arrived to claim their new home, a Husky lay possessively across the threshold. Assuming he was lost, or left by the previous owner, the family adopted him. The dog came and went regularly, being of no trouble at all. Etched into the wood panel of the upstairs mantelpiece in the large old-fashioned parlor, were the words; La Vita Comincia Domam.*

The Sipperlys were presently incorporating the original fireplace bricks to renovate the upstairs fireplace.

Ada Sipperly was shocked beyond belief when her husband, Tom, discovered the hearth had been the gravestone of Cornelius and Henrietta Yates’ daughter, Sarah, who died April 20, 1842, at the age of eleven. Ada pleaded with Tom to return the gravestone to the family burial plot located on a hill one-half mile beyond the house.

Tom looked pensively at the stone and decided he would use the slab for the new hearth.

Ada vehemently protested even to the point where she vowed she would not step foot into the room if her husband proceeded with the original plan.

Tom relented to his wife’s wishes and the fireplace was built using local granite for the hearth. The day after he returned the original gravestone, setting it in place in the wooded family plot, the Husky howled continuously and paced up and down the road. Just as suddenly, he disappeared…never to be seen or heard from again.

*Life Begins At Home


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Author: Patricia Crandall

Contributor: Andrew Wayne Adams

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The birthday boy lifted the AK-47 from its box. He grinned and said, “Thanks, Kevin!”

Kevin grinned back, chocolate cake smeared around his mouth like a larger mouth.

The birthday boy pointed his new AK-47 at the balloon artist. “Mother promised the best balloon artist in the world.”

“I am the best in all worlds!”

“Prove it,” the birthday boy said, and fired a warning shot into the ground.

The balloon artist yelped. He twisted a long slender balloon into the shape of an Old English Terrier. A pearl of sweat quivered at his temple as he presented the Old English Terrier for inspection.

Kevin sneered. “Not very realistic.”

The birthday boy put a bullet in the balloon artist’s kneecap. The balloon artist folded to the ground, allowed himself two seconds of terrified screaming, and then launched into the construction of another animal.

It was his greatest work ever: a life-sized zebra with functioning genitals and the brain of a philosopher-king. The zebra spoke, introducing itself as the Alpha and the Omega.

The birthday boy fired his AK-47 at the Alpha and the Omega.

The zebra thrashed, balloon organs exploding. Scraps of latex rained down to litter the earth, all trace of divine intelligence gone.

Kevin high-fived the birthday boy.

The balloon artist allowed himself three seconds of bereaved weeping—the Alpha! the Omega! murdered!—and then launched into the construction of, not a balloon animal, but a balloon weapon: an AK-47.

He squeezed the trigger, and the gun fired a barrage of sewing needles and lit cigarettes. A needle hit the birthday boy, and he popped like a balloon, his own AK-47 clattering to the ground. Kevin screamed, and then he too popped, pierced by the cherry of a cigarette.

The balloon artist swept gunfire through the birthday party. The guests popped, popped, popped. The cake (an enormous chocolate octopus) popped; the presents (pastel boxes that sweated and coughed) popped; the petting zoo (pygmy gorillas and defanged cobras in an enclosure of hay) popped. Scraps of false cheer rained down and turned to mud, all trace of the birthday party gone.

The balloon artist kept firing. In the distance, a stand of trees popped. A line of hills popped. Everything between him and the horizon—popped. He stood alone at the center of an empty plane.

His gun floated out of his hands, into the sky.

He tried for years to recreate his greatest work. He produced zebra after zebra, but none were the Alpha and the Omega. He rejected them, and they galloped away to start their own civilization.


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Andrew Wayne Adams is an American writer/artist. He was born in the Midwest in the 1980s. His work is largely unknown, because it largely does not exist.

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Author: Andrew Wayne Adams

Contributor: Valerie Z Lewis

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Adam craned his neck to see over the lip of the tall kitchen trash bin and searched for the can he'd dropped inside.
Adam hated his new house. There were too many things he wasn't allowed to do. He wasn't allowed to wear his sneakers inside. He wasn't allowed to play with his soccer ball in the driveway. He couldn't go in the living room at all, only the smaller TV room. He wasn't supposed to make noise in the morning, not even talking noises, because it would wake up his step-dad, his fake-dad.
Adam liked school better, where he could talk whenever he wanted, and he even got stickers for answering questions in Math. At school nobody yelled at him. If he broke a rule, instead of being yelled at, he would have to sit in the Time Out Chair for five minutes. School was also good because his friend Pauly would teach him a bad word in exchange for a quarter.
Adam's step-dad was an asshead.
Every time Adam came out of his room, he would hold his door open just a little bit, just a crack, and he would press his eye to the opening and look for asshead. He didn't want to come out of his room if it wasn't clear, because every time he saw asshead he got yelled at.
At school a man dressed like Captain America came to their class, which was stupid because Captain America died like six issues ago. But Adam paid attention anyway. He didn't want to get the Time Out chair.
Captain America said all kids could be heroes if they cared about the environment. He said that, by recycling and not wasting things, they could save the world.
After school Adam's mom gave him a Gatorade and told him not to talk because asshead was taking a nap. Adam tried to be quiet, he really did, but he accidentally dropped a knife when he was setting the table. Asshead came stomping out of his room, his feet heavy on the wood floor, like a giant, screaming that he couldn't get any sleep around this stupid worthless kid.
Adam sat down on the floor and started crying. Asshead kept screaming, and his mom put her hands on his chest and said, "I'm sorry, honey, I'm sorry." When asshead went back to bed, Adam's mom hugged him and whispered, "Shhhh." It was time to be quiet again.
"Just stop crying," his mom whispered. "And I'll give you anything you want."
Adam stopped crying and asked for a quarter.
After dinner, when Adam was clearing the table, he put his Gatorade bottle in the trash instead of the blue recycling bin. He didn't want to save the world.
At school the next day, Adam answered two questions in Math and read a paragraph out loud in Reading. Miss Ellway gave him a small eraser shaped like a strawberry as a prize for being so good, and Adam hid it in the bottom of his pencil box so no one could find it. In Art, when he was drawing a picture of his mom, he used another eraser, so the strawberry would stay perfect forever.
That night at dinner, dickface yelled at Adam the whole time. He said Adam didn't eat enough of his green beans, and scraped his fork too loud, and was a spoiled brat who made his mother work too hard.
When he was cleaning up, Adam put everything in the trash: the leftover food, the silverware, his mom's soda can, and dickface's beer bottle. Dickface found it in the morning, and Adam woke up to screaming. Dickface said he was a little psycho, a worthless piece of shit, and a bastard no one wanted. Adam pulled his blanket over his head and blocked his ears with his fists, but he could still hear the screaming.
Adam craned his neck to see over the lip of the tall kitchen trash bin and searched for the can he'd dropped inside. He spotted it peeking out from underneath a wadded-up paper towel. He tugged on the edge of the trash bag until the can slipped down, disappearing into the depths of the garbage.
Adam pressed his face against the open crack of the kitchen door. He could barely make out the figure on the couch, sickly white in the light of the television.
"Just wait, motherfucker," Adam whispered. "Just wait."


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Valerie Z Lewis is a writing professor in New York.

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Author: Valerie Z Lewis

Contributor: Steve Karas

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"David is in the front of the building,” the secretary informed me. “Lying on the concrete. Again.”

This was why I’d become a social worker at El Dorado High School. To save America’s youth. To save the world.

David had transferred in from Vermont. Within the first few weeks of the school year, it had become increasingly evident that Hobson, the veteran social worker on staff, had dumped his most difficult cases on me, the rookie. Hobson, on the contrary, spent his days between the faculty lounge and dealing with family disagreements over car privileges.

I walked outside. Through his bird’s nest hair, David picked at his scalp with the tip of a pencil. He had on the same knit sweater he wore every day, even though it was eighty-five degrees. A camera case hung from his neck like an Olympic medal.

“What’s going on, buddy?” I said. He sat up.

“I’m consumed by a great philosophical conundrum. Free will versus determinism.”

The kid was smarter than me. I.Q. of 139, 99.5th percentile. I didn’t follow.

“Determinism. Nothing is uncaused. Everything that happens must happen. Your actions are part of a causal chain that extends back far before your birth and each link of the chain determines the next link on the chain. Hence, although it may appear that you have control over your present actions and mental state, you, in fact, do not.”

In his short life, David had already racked up an assortment of diagnoses: Asperger’s Syndrome, Schizoaffective Disorder/Bipolar Type, Anxiety with Panic Episodes, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder.

“I used to have such potential,” David said, “but now I fear I’m going mad and will be a complete nuisance to society. An ignominious fool. And there’s nothing I can do to stop it. I might as well be gone, swimming with the fishes.” A bee lifted from a potted geranium and circled him. “Oh, dear God,” he said, ducking and weaving like a prize fighter.

Here was David’s history: Dad and Mom were both alcoholics and God knows what else. Dad had made a handful of unsuccessful suicide attempts in the past. Maternal grandparents were pathological hoarders. An aunt was Schizophrenic. Truth was, kid barely had a puncher’s chance. By third grade, he was pulling knives out on his mom and threatening to jump from third-story windows.

“Whatever your conditions,” I said, “there are treatments. How about your medications? They help, don’t they?”

“I stopped taking them. They were speeding up my downfall, making me glib. Besides, that’s no cure – pumping me full of pills, turning me into a zombie.”

Hobson poked his head out the door. He signaled me over. I hesitated for a moment.

“Give me a second, David.”

“What’s going on with him this time?” Hobson said.

“He’s okay. Just having a bit of an anxiety attack. I’m talking him down.”

“Talking? Can’t fix a guy like that. Why don’t you get in touch with his mom? Tell her to pick him up, take him to hospital for an evaluation. Tell her he can’t come back to school without a doctor’s note.”

When had he forgotten why he’d entered the field? The helping profession. Had he been soured by bad experiences or had he just become immune to people’s pain?

“He’s a capable kid,” I said. “He’s sabotaging himself.”

“He’s nuts. C.Y.A., young gun. Cover Your Ass.” And then Hobson’s smile dropped. That’s what I remembered. His eyes widened. “Oh shit,” he said. “Oh boy.” And there was a loud splash. I turned to see David flailing in the school pond amongst the blue-green algae and carp. I ran in to call 911. Hobson hollering behind me, “I’m not going to say I told you so, but I did.”

#

By the time the fire department rescued David from the pond, half the school’s teachers and students were pressed against the windows looking on. Hobson was surrounded by other staff members, no doubt telling them how the kid was crazy, how he never belonged at El Dorado in the first place. I stood next to David’s mom. She had leathery skin, a purple nose, and breath that smelled like an ashtray.

“I wish he would just try to fit it,” she slurred, arms folded. “I don’t know how many times we’ve been through this. A woman can only take so much.”

David sat on the stretcher, wrapped in towels, his hair like seaweed. I wanted to hug him, comfort him, but you couldn’t do that in schools these days. I walked over and patted him on the shoulder, told him he’d be okay. I told him it was just a bump in the road and that he’d soon be back to his old self, whatever that was.

“Everything will be fine, buddy,” I said. “We’ll see you here in school shortly.”

David ended up hospitalized for a month. When he was discharged, his mom sent him back to Vermont to live with Dad. I never saw him again.

I wondered if things would have turned out differently if I’d kept my eye on him. If I hadn’t left him alone. Would he have stayed out of the pond? Would he have still been with us? Or maybe he was better off in Vermont. That’s what I’d convinced myself. That maybe his plunge was a baptism of sorts, a rebirth. I imaged that the water and algae would keep his skin slick so that Life couldn’t get a hold of him. So it couldn’t catch him. Couldn't swallow him whole.


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Steve Karas lives in Chicago with his wife and daughter. His short stories have appeared or are forthcoming in Bartleby Snopes, Xenith, ken*again, Foliate Oak, and Little Fiction. You can visit his website at stevekaras.wordpress.com

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Author: Steve Karas

Contributor: Jack Caseros

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ON BEHALF OF EVERY WRITER

WHO HAS TAKEN INSPIRATION FROM A LIVING MUSE

I hope everybody knows that this was never personal.

Look, nobody likes having their lives retold from another perspective, especially one that is chilling and removed; nobody likes being made out to look like an anti-hero, especially when everybody else is cast the same way. I know you fucking hated everytime I made a character that sounded like you. But I hope you know, it was never you.

How could I imitate or even try to recreate those I love and care about? Is there any reason? Why would I attempt to remould you, when I am well aware that re-creation is perversion. I would never threaten your sanctity to me.

And that is because I believe in the holiness of coincidence—the universal karmic meddling that places you and I in the same space and same time, which may form a relationship, and, if persistent, a bond. Look, you mean more to me than literature. If I ever crossed your path, I have recognized you as a fragment of the Absolute.

Just like when Conan O’Brien pointed you out for an Audiencey, and you pouted on camera, not even laughing once. You mouthed the words ‘not cool’, and he only made fun of you for saying it. Really. Stop taking fiction so fucking seriously. You’re going to give yourself an ulcer.

And take it from a man with a tapeworm. A kink in your digestive tract is no light joke.

And what about you? Do you think I never checked your Myspace page? You think I never saw your tribute to our time together? The song, the photos, the quotes and all. You had them all on display, for strangers. You were poised, too. You meant everything you said for those other people. But what about me? Do you know why I say anything at all?

Look, I know speech is useless. Communication is ninety percent farce and nine percent lying. So why do I inscribe all my bottled thoughts on paper?

Maybe because I don’t want to remember all the hours I spent awake throughout a night, uttering epiphanies into my bedsheets—

Maybe because I don’t want to brood over all the things I never said—

Maybe I don’t want to die without anybody knowing what my life meant, even if that body isn’t me—

Maybe I want you to read my thoughts louder than I could ever screech it at the top of my lungs with my mouth pressed up against your ear—

And for all those utterly uncontrollable reasons, I spill my gluttonous memory onto the blank page.

So you see, it’s not about me, or you, it’s about the Voice. It speaks on its own. I don’t make it up. It’s not me. What? I can’t be crazy. I am too normal to be crazy. Please. Believe me.

Look. The story is about a girl who meets a guy, and doesn’t turn out to be what she is. Isn’t that any relationships? It’s a general observation, a window unto life—you remember, how I always say art is a mirror—well this is one of those time—the observations are only the shiny surface of a deep lake. You know what I mean?

Wait. Let me finish—

ON BEHALF OF EVERY PERSON WHO HAS APPEARED,

IN PART OR IN FULL,

AS A CHARACTER IN A PIECE OF LITERATURE

Who the fuck do you think you are?

You come into my face, and tell me that I’m no better than a fucking rose, or a star, or some weird poetic shit?

Look. Look. Look. Shut. The. Fuck. Up.

I want you to hear me ‘On Behalf of Every Person Who Has Ever Taken a Person…they’ve loved for granted’. You insult me by claiming that  I can be simplified to some weird, ugly character. You make me sound so two-sided, like I have no third—or fourth!—dimension. Do you think I just roll out of bed to meet you with a smile? Am I here to serve you complaceny, like, a passing handshake?

Is that what you want? I can jerk you off, but it’d be much easier if I just have to shake your hand.

Alright, well, stop being so fucking stupid. All I hear are excuses. You’re making up your whole argument as you go, aren’t you? If you probably don’t mean anything when you write, then you definitely don’t mean anything when you’re apologizing to me. How can I ever believe you?

Why would I? Take your shit and leave. Flush out! Get out, piece of shit! Want to write a story? Write one about a innocent girl who kicks you out for transforming her into a bitch. Grab your stuff and go.

Leave. I’ve read the story already. It’s very touching. It made me cry, so you know what? I’m prepared. I’m ready for anything. You have nothing more to say to me. Go and speak to your blank pages and your stupid fantasy worlds. Go finger-fuck your keyboard. Give it all your lazy ass lust.

Wait. Where are you—


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Jack Caseros is a writer and ecologist from Mississauga, Ontario. His first novel, Onwards & Outwards, is available as an e-book.

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Author: Jack Caseros

Contributor: Amin Hosseinioun

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Her blanket slipped down as she raised herself from the bed. He was outside again; sitting on a branch on the old oak; staring at her through the window. He was the Crow. She cried out and covered her nakedness. They stared at each other for several minutes. "What of it" she thought, "it is only a crow". Throwing off her blankets she walked from the room naked, under the crow's fixed gaze which she felt even through the walls. Whatever it was, it wasn’t natural.

In the classroom, words on the blackboard were out of focus. She could feel his eyes roaming over her body. Glancing outside she screamed in surprise: he was there again, sitting in an oak tree, staring at her.

From that day on, things grew more different by day. Now she walked with her hair around her neck and her high heels giving her a sexier shape. Finally on a day like any other, as she was removing her blouse to take her shower, she saw him again, his face covering an entire wall, his eyes as big as her head. She backed away, her hands faltering as they reached for the door.

For a while she resisted, finally she shed her blouse with shaking hands, naked legs propelling her under the dashing warmth of falling water, and the crow observing her fingers as they worked her neck and chest.

Without drying herself she made her way to her room, head lowered. He was waiting in the window frame. Opening the window, she knelt down and shut her eyes and kissed his beak. Bones in her fingers stood out, her lips were merging into his black beak. As she pulled back, her lips stretched out. She struck at him in fright, but her arms now were covered with feathers, spreading into wings. Soon she perched in the window frame, a small crow.


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I am a published writer in Farsi, in Iran, I have published two gothic novellas and many essays on literature and other narrative forms. you can read my other publication here: http://www.linguisticerosion.com/2012/04/letter-of-grind.html

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Author: Amin Hosseinioun

Contributor: Alun Williams

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The old man who worked on the fourteenth floor had no name. I guess his mother gave him one, but that was some time ago and no one knew what it was or what he did.
We all had our jobs, our little compartments and we all had name tags too, just so we didn’t forget, except for the old guy. He didn’t have an office of his own, not that we knew about. We couldn’t ever find out where he worked, except that we knew it was on the fourteenth floor. Once, we put a chalk cross on every door on the floor and wrote the names of all the staff who worked there. He didn’t work in any of them but each morning he arrived, disappeared down the corridor and reappeared when it was time for lunch.
Harvey Goldblum followed him one time. He came back and said that the old guy, we called him Arthur, went to the third bench on the Bethesda Terrace, folded his jacket and lay down and slept for thirty four minutes before returning to his non-existent office and his non-existent job. Each of us took turns following him after that. Arthur followed exactly the same routine every lunch break and seemed to sleep through the noise of the city for exactly thirty four minutes. When it was my turn to follow him, I watched him fall asleep and wished that I too could sleep as easily and as well as he did. He seemed to reach a peak of total calm. I hated him for that.
No one at the office wanted to confront him. Administration thought it was the responsibility of human resources, who in turn thought it was payroll’s responsibility. Payroll said security were the ones who should handle it, but they felt that without any evidence to back up any action, they might be sued, so they sent a memo to all departments asking for a list of all employees’ names and security id numbers. They thought that by eliminating names to numbers they could find out who the mysterious old guy was. Unfortunately they found another sixteen members of staff who weren’t supposed to work there and all hell broke loose!
They never did find out his secret. Arthur continued to come in every day and carried on taking a thirty four minute nap on his lunch break. We decided to let him continue. Confrontation is not one of the main attributes of a data processor’s functions and one day we thought, if we live long enough and beat the boredom, we could all sleep like Arthur.


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Alun Williams resides in Wales and is no relation to either Tom or Catherine Zeta Douglas. Writer of Flash fiction and poetry he resides as maxieslim and maxwell allen on sites such as Critters-bar and Scrawl. Published in Yellow Mama, Pure Slush and Palehouse to name but a few. Loves noir and Charles Bukowski.

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Author: Alun Williams

Contributor: Erin Cole

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Claire popped her joints into the corner of the wall and became amber doorframe. Three children charged down the hallway, shrieking with ear-splitting rumpus. The eldest, Sam, tripped over a spot he couldn’t identify. He scratched his head in wonderment, then resumed to the fake beheading of his twin sisters’ by the dull glint of a plastic, pirate sword.

Only when they were gone, did Claire wring her shoulders from the molding and continue searching Sam’s room, specifically looking for evidence that he had been shifting. A number of peculiar happenings threatened to confirm her hunch: the stereo clicked on by itself, skipping through tunes like a scratched record. The front door slammed on its own, not a breeze in sight, and the lights intermittently. New house, new bulbs.

If he had been shifting, flakes of skin would dust the floor around the objects he had shifted into, one of the side effects of chemical alteration. Claire didn’t think he would be of mind yet to hide it.

But Sam was only eight, much too young to start shifting. Regardless of age, shifters had to sign contracts, be initiated, undergo training … it was a thorough, tedious process with the Others, that if skipped, resulted in fines and/or imprisonment.

Claire rummaged through tubs of ‘boy stuff’ also know as ‘what the hell is this?’ stuff. After an excess of crude discoveries, she sat down on his bed defeated, but still ripe with suspicion. The blanket beneath her moved and transformed into her husband’s groping hand.

“Dammit Jack. Stop that!”

The blanket curled up, becoming his head, torso, and legs. A giggle reddened his shifting face. “Works every time,” he beamed, sitting down human again.

Claire flicked his skin flakes away with the back of her hand and turned pinched brows to him. “This is serious. Sam is only eight, and I think he’s shifting already. Last week, Evette’s daughter, Lynn, you know, the little girl with the hot-pink braces smile?” She paused, if only for a vague nod from Jack before continuing. “Turns out, she shifted into the microphone before her brother’s performance. I heard it was awful and obvious to the Others. They fined the family $1000, and no one has heard from the mother since. She just up and disappeared.”

“She probably shifted into a boat and sailed away.”

“Patty? She’d never do a thing like that.” Claire noticed Jack lift his face aside, in a way that seemed to conceal the expression of a secret thought. “Spill it or by the dark side of the moon, I’ll shift into the unthinkable.” Her eyes drilled him with equal threat.

He stalled, seemingly teetering on a decision, and then pulled a card from his shirt pocket. He handed it to her.

Shape Shifters Anonymous: we bend into objects, so why not rules? “Oh, Jack. Say you didn’t?”

His mouth bent into a smirk, then he slipped into the lamp next to him. The cord tugged on itself and suspended Claire in darkness.

“Aaaagghh!”

She shot up from the bed, made contact with the ceiling, and melted into it like a snake gliding into water. The house shook side to side. It shuddered, knocking pictures from the wall and books off the shelves. The lights flashed, cutting everyone’s movement into a robotic stride.

Jack shifted back into human and followed his children’s hollers into the kitchen.

“Dad!” the twins yelled. “It’s an earthquake!”

“No,” Jack said, shaking his head. “Your mother is … home.”


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Erin Cole is a dark fiction writer from Portland, OR with work published in various electronic and print publications. Last year, her story, “The Wall of Never Doubt,” won 10th place in Writer’s Digest 80th Annual Writing Competition, Genre Short Story.

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Author: Erin Cole

Contributor: Taylor Dibbert

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Everybody is talking about the economy. He knows that’s a big deal. When things are bad, English classes are one of the first things to go. He is underpaid, underworked and will be on a plane to the US soon unless he can find some new friends with children and deep pockets.

He’s not sure if he even cares. He lives in the heart of Madrid, right next to the Plaza Mayor. He knows a lot of people, but he knows few people well. That first conversation, first copa, first kiss is always easy.

He’s looking for something more.

He knows that what happened in Barcelona wasn’t real. He knows that that was part of the deal and yet he wishes there was more to it.

He will finish after lunch tomorrow. From there he will go straight to El Prado. He knows which ones she likes.

Besides, stranger things have happened.


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Taylor Dibbert has been published in Slow Trains Literary Journal, Foreign Policy Journal, Foreign Policy in Focus and elsewhere. He is a columnist for International Policy Digest and the author of the book Fiesta of Sunset: The Peace Corps, Guatemala and a Search for Truth.

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Author: Taylor Dibbert

Contributor: Graham Lowther

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"Nothing is indivisible," said the moldering frail shadow of the antique silent dead clock.

"Well that's very dispiriting," came the reply.

"Not my concern. However, there is this exception." The clock's shadow extended a faint fist which corresponded with nothing of the clock, and uncurled it revealing the Indivisible Exception flickering with inward red light--a Substance in the shape of a miniature unicorn stood solidly on the moldering silhouette palm.

A human hand took the Indivisible Exception. A mouth laughed in triumph. Eyes roved about in jittery, nervous near-terror. Legs carried the whole assembly, the man, away from the clock and, more significantly, its shadow. The shadow of a lamp lay in the path the desiccated shriveled brain had plotted out. "Why do you put my progress in doubt?" said the mouth.

The lamp's shadow was still and silent.

"You should know of my importance: I am the carrier of the Indivisible Exception," said the mouth. A fist extended clutching the Indivisible Exception, and uncurled.

The lamp's shadow rippled and shook. It said, "That is a model of indivisibility in the same way as it is a model of a unicorn."

The ears recoiled, squeezing themselves into the skull, smothering the brain. The other, unpreoccupied hand reached for the lamp's switch. Both outstretched hands trembled. The Indivisible Exception tipped and fell. The lamp clicked on, its shadow-obliterating illumination depicting individual abstract shapes scattered on the floor.


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Graham Lowther lives in Maine, currently five miles from a timeless black planet he sees hovering thirty feet closer to his residence every other week. A flash fiction of his was published in The Thackery T. Lambshead Cabinet of Curiosities.

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Author: Graham Lowther

Contributor: Miles Gough

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“You would be amazed with what monsters talk about when they get together,” the Grand Fiend told me over a meal of take-out falafel (for me) and deep fried human fingers (for him). He leaned back, in that typical expansiveness of his, and smiled fangs. “What do you think monsters talk about?”

“I’m not sure, prime hunting grounds, you know, how to get victims.”

“Not by half,” he said with strong slither of dismissal. “Why would they ask about that in this overpopulated world, this is a global fast food proposition. Do you talk to your friend about grocery shopping?”

“Then I suppose they go on about not getting caught by the authorities or at least, from those monster hunters you’ve mentioned.”

“Sir Edward and his ilk? Why bother? Talking about them just enables the little nuisances, best not mention vermin or every where you go, you will swear you are noticing cockroaches underneath every foot fall, for those who have feet. No. I will stop you from going any further. What do monsters talk about? They talk clothing.”

He paused long enough to realize that I had an expected response and filled my part, “Clothing? What do you mean clothing?”

“I mean, that is what they talk about. Vampires go on about adequate dry cleaning. The kind that truly can remove blood stains from good shirts. They exchange business cards of good ones for every city they might be visiting. They mention the excellent, no questions asked locations. There are endless debates over the worth of one hour cleaning or the two days get it right establishments. They can go on endlessly on a side debate about proper reprisals of those dry cleaners who leave stains in. Should they be killed or perhaps just a well worded critique on Yelp. Then another discussion concerns why get the stains out at all, is it to avoid detection or is it but a deep sense of propriety? Vampires are much about aesthetics, too much if you will take my editorial aside.

“Lycanthropes and all the shape shifters have in depth discussions on leaving and creating clothing caches. These might be the most delightful of arguments, it borders on art because there is no good way to seed the world with proper sweat suit hideaways. One were-bear I had the chance of meeting claimed to have created the entire nudist colony movement back in the fifties just to justify his lack of proper dress. I did not believe him, but a what a lovely hour I spent listening to such rot.

“Other popular topics are about biting through types of clothing. Some shape shifters are allergic to the synthetic material in some apparel. Others cannot stand the feel of gortex on their incisors. And everyone loathes down vests with all those feathers fluttering about their crime scenes. It is all about clothing.”

Perhaps I was too entertained with the topic, and I said, “And mummies go on about what medical supply stores have the best gauze bandages.”

The Grand Fiend sniffed dismissively. “Mummies do not stay in their bandages. They leave that thing behind as soon as they are resurrected. Though that does bring up a difficult and all too common discussion; what clothing style should be worn? Is one trapped in an antiquated style or should one go modern dress? The mummies also want to wear those ancient Egyptian toga schmatas that they were so found of back in the hieroglyphic days. Others in the conversation stress that you should consult the latest issue of GQ. Some vampire tribes live for that new couture, while others, those recently unearthed, are stuck in fedoras and starched shirt collars. Wars have started over such schisms. “

“And what’s the answer,” I said. “Who’s right?”

“Neither are completely wrong. I think the skeletal parasite demons have it right when they wear the skin of their victims. It doesn’t matter the style or skin color, it is how you swagger in it. If you believe in yourself and your right to be seen, then you are wearing your environment like a fine beau brommel. You have to feel good in your own skin, whether it is yours or just something you’ve borrowed for a spell. But, it is best to change with the age, to shed your skin for the time. Like this.”

And the Grand Fiend demonstrated how that change should be done.


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Author: Miles Gough

Contributor: John Laneri

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A September moon was just beginning to appear when Jarvis Thornton, a quiet, little man, stepped away from the food table and started across the town square. In the air, a hint of fall made the night perfect for an old-fashioned election rally.

Smiling broadly, he worked his way through a crowd of people, acknowledging friends and acquaintances. In just two short months, he hoped to be the next mayor of Baxterville, a small community near Waco.

From all indications, his candidacy was pulling ahead, especially after the town council had refused to endorse Big Al Slocum, the current mayor and local Chevrolet Dealer.

“Howdy folks. How y’all tonight,” he said comfortably, his voice inspired with power.

“You’re lookin’ good,” a voice screamed from the crowd.

Once on the grass away from the crowd, Jarvis relaxed, glad to be away from the scrutiny of voters, and lifted his dinner plate close to his nose. To him, the aroma of fried chicken was hard to resist.

“Hi Jarvis.”

Startled, he lowered the plate, his pulse quickening.

The voice of Miss Suzy Blaze, one of several young girls that worked the motel row along the highway, started the bells of disaster to ringing.

“Would you like to dance with me tonight?” she asked merrily, as she hurried to his side.

“I don’t dance,” he replied, as he moved quickly away. “Now, get going. Folks might see us talking.”

“But, you promised.”

“I only said I’d think about asking you to dance and that was a long time ago – too long to remember.” He continued on, forcing a smile with each step.

“I’ve been practicing the two-step.”

“I’m not interested in dancing. I’m here to eat fried chicken. And besides, my little lady might see us talking – not to mention what the voters might think. They’re already looking in our direction.”

“But, you told me you liked to dance.”

“Forget I ever said that. I was sippin’ whiskey at the time.”

She lifted her skirt. “Can I show you what I’ve learned? I’m getting’ good at slow dancing.”

Jarvis stopped and forced another smile. “Go ahead and show me, but be quick about it. I’ve got serious campaigning to do.”

She inched her skirt higher and began slowly dancing in place.

“Your legs sure are pretty,” Jarvis said. “But with the mayor’s election, I need to maintain discretion.”

“What’s discretion?”

“It means you have to act like you don’t know me.”

“I don’t understand. On Wednesdays, you say you love me.”

“Wednesdays are different. That’s when….”

Suddenly, he gasped. “There’s Margaret, my little lady. Oh my God, she’s moving in our direction. You need to go. She’s worse than Big Al. She always brings trouble.”

“Who’s that girl?” the wife growled, when she arrived beside him.

“Oh her... she’s some young kid trying to dance. I was tellin’ her how to vote.” He loosened his collar and looked about. “The fried chicken sure smells good. Where’re we sittin’?”

The wife looked away to watch Suzy twirl in circles, her attention going to shapely legs and a colorful skirt flowing to the sounds of fiddle music. “Have you been admiring at that girl’s legs?”

Jarvis took a deep breath, his lips quivering. “The only legs I see are the drumsticks on my plate.”

Suzy stopped dancing. “My legs are pretty. They’re not drumsticks!”

Shaken, he turned to her. “I’m not calling your legs, drumsticks. I’m talking to my wife – if you don’t mind. So, please keep quiet.”

“But, you always say my legs are pretty. Now, you’re calling them, drumsticks. That’s rude.”

“I was only talking about the chicken legs on my plate,” he replied, his shoulders beginning to slump.

Margaret looked from Jarvis to Suzy, her eyes narrowed. “Tell me something mister, how would you know what her legs look like?”

Cautiously, Jarvis glanced about. “I'm a people watcher and sometimes I see legs. Right now,I see people watching so keep your voice down. We could be living in the Governor’s mansion next year.”

Margaret considered the situation, then grabbed his ear. “You come with me Mr. Thornton. We need to have a serious talk.”

Suzy watched Jarvis stumble away, his candidacy ended.

A short time later, as she was making her way around the crowd, Big Al Slocum stepped from the shadows.

“Did I do good?” she asked, turning to him.

“You did very good, Little Lady. We’ll have to take another ride in one of my Chevrolet's.”

He looked her over, his eyes running her length. “From what I see, I’m thinkin’ real soon.” He handed her a hundred dollar bill and started away. “But now, I have some serious politicking to do, so I’ll get back to you later.”

She took the money and followed after him. “Can I ask you one question?”

Big Al looked around uncertain. “You can ask, but be quick about it. The voters are always watching.”

Suzy raised her skirt. “Do my legs look like drumsticks? That other gentleman made some derogatory remarks that hurt my feelings.” She raised the skirt higher. “You always say my legs are pretty when we're in the backseat of your new cars.”

Big Al again glanced about, hearing those same bells of disaster. He started to speak. By then, the crowd around him was already applauding in laughter.

Still thinking about pretty legs, Suzy Blaze drifted away, unaware that she had left behind two fellows – fried chickens so to speak – cooked to a sizzling, well done.


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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 have appeared in several scientific journals as well as a number of internet blogs and short story print editions.

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Author: John Laneri

Contributor: Taylor Dibbert

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String hoppers, chili paste, dahl, gravy, chicken, a fried egg, greens, an array of curries, a bit of arrack and copy of Boomerang by Michael Lewis. If Lewis is not doing the trick I will switch to fiction; I have been meaning to get to Sons and Lovers for months. Maybe tonight will be the night. Why would my phone be ringing? Nobody ever calls me after 9PM. (Nobody ever calls me before 9PM either).

“Hello. Is this Siva?”

“No, this is not Siva.”

“Okay, thanks.”

My phone is ringing again.

“Hello, Siva…”

“Sorry, I am still not Siva. You have the wrong number. This is Mr. Mark.”

“Are you Sri Lankan?”

“Do I sound like I’m Sri Lankan?”

“No.”

“You would be correct.”

“Well, are you alone then?”

“Yes. I’m alone.”

“What do you do for fun? Aren’t you lonely?”

“I read. I write. I walk. But, most of all, I wonder what I am doing here. I wonder why I don’t just move to a beach town in Mexico and look for my wife because she certainly is not here.”

“I like the sound of your voice.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“No. It’s nice, different and soothing. Are you really alone?”

“Always,” I tell her.

“I was being serious.”

“So was I.”

Even though it’s only a phone call, now I am wishing that I’d had a bit more to drink.

*

I’m at Lemon, a rooftop bar in Cinnamon Gardens. I haven’t been here since the time Sonali was in Colombo. It’s a good spot, but I’ve come entirely too early. I’m already working on my third drink by the time she shows up.

“Hi there. Mark…right?”

“Tania. You are on time. Are you sure you are Sri Lankan?”

“Pretty sure.”

I was planning on grabbing something to eat; I quickly forgot about dinner and a lot of other things.

*

I wake up with a splitting headache and in need of more sleep. Evidently that is not an option.

“You need to get out of there. He will be coming back soon.”

“Alright, I heard you the tenth time.”

“Also, don’t call my phone today. You can text me if you want.”

I can’t find my other sandal. Vodka is still on my breath. There are all kinds of stains on my pants. I have no idea what that stuff could be; they don’t appear to be bodily fluids. (I hope.)

*

I’m now onto Duplication Road. No taxis are available. I’d rather walk back to Bambalipitiya. I need some lunch, an IV and a nap. I’ve got to go back to Delhi tomorrow morning. I will be riding the L train into Manhattan before I know it.
I burned a lot of money last night and I don’t care. Again I woke up to a wad of crumpled bills and a general sense of uneasiness, yet for once I wasn’t alone.

After all, even the loners long for the touch of a woman.


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Taylor Dibbert has been published in Slow Trains Literary Journal, Foreign Policy Journal, Foreign Policy in Focus and elsewhere. He is a columnist for International Policy Digest and the author of the book Fiesta of Sunset: The Peace Corps, Guatemala and a Search for Truth.

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Author: Taylor Dibbert