Contributor: Jeff Hill

- -
He walked into the very poorly lit bar and took the stool right next to me, even though there were literally dozens of other available seats to choose from. I politely smiled and raised my glass to his arrival, but the look he gave me sent chills right down to my core. He glared at me. He hated me.
But screw him. He was the one who chose to sit by me. Obviously he had something on his mind. He had to. Why else would he have sat next to a complete stranger in an almost empty bar?
I opened my mouth to make a comment on the latest game or the weather, I’m not really sure which, when he put up his hand and stopped me. “Don’t,” he said. “Just… Don’t.”
So I didn’t.
Instead, I picked up my drink and walked to the other end of the bar. Disgusted and a little confused, I finished my drink and signaled the bartender. He walked right past the strange, rude little man and asked me if I’d like another or to close out my tab.
I considered my options. I asked for my tab.
The strange little man across the bar started fidgeting around in his pocket and looked at me nervously. Pulling out his cell phone, he nonchalantly pointed it at the bartender and took a photo, sending it in a text message to god knows who. The bartender didn’t notice, so I paid him and started to summon up the courage to leave.
The other man’s phone vibrated, shaking the whole bar. He checked it. he glanced at me. He nodded at the bartender. And then pulled his gun and badge and arrested the man who had been serving me all night long.


- - -
Jeff Hill is a writer/teacher who graduated from the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. A proud alumnus of Phi Delta Theta Fraternity and regular participant of the National Novel Writing Month, Script Frenzy, and the Clarion West Write-a-Thon, he is also a past participant in the Nebraska Summer Writers Conference and the Sarah Lawrence College Summer Seminar for Writers in New York. His fiction has appeared in Weirdyear, Cuento Magazine, Weekly Artist, Writing Raw, Microhorror, Fiction 365, Flashes in the Dark, Postcard Shorts, Static Movement, Eunoia Review, and The Cynic Online Magazine and is forthcoming in Apocrypha and Abstractions.

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Author: Jeff Hill

Contributor: Gary Clifton

- -
DEA tried a dozen ways to make a buy off this dealer "Red Fred" - white guy who operated around Grand Avenue east of Fair Park. A skinny lunk with scruffy red hair, he wore a bullet scar through his face - a little round circle on each cheek.
Boss was up my ass to bust the guy. My snitch, Willie One Nut said Red Fred hung around a crap game in a house just off R.L. Thornton Freeway. "Jes' walk in with me, toss some bread on the table, and bingo...two honkys playing like old buds. And Home, I'm gonna split, soon as you touch them dice."
Hell, piece of cake. Besides Red Fred and Me, there were five other shooters and two or three more spectators leaning on walls. Nobody seemed concerned about two white guys playing. Flash my roll, convince him I was fiendin', see if he would offer up any crank he might be holding - Red Fred's ass was about to be mine.
They kept a "good-eye" on the front door. His job was to jigger if the cops showed, not security - every guy there had at least one pistol. The good-eye flew backwards through the door, knocking two crap shooters flat. Everybody clawed for pistols.
This clone of Frankenstein, African American version, eyes stoned two days deep, wearing a brilliant tan, leather suit and waving a metal pipe materialized in the doorway. He started around the table, his eyes lasered on a skinny little dude next to me. "Sucker," he lunged for the little guy, "...I swam an ocean of shit to pay my debts and now you gonna pay yours."
Little Dude came out with a chrome plated .32 revolver, pointed it the general direction of Leather Suit and fired. Leather Suit grabbed his thigh. "That ain't shit," he continued advancing. The shooter let fly again. Leather Suit grabbed his shoulder. "That ain't shit." On he came. Little Guy held the .32 in both hands and at arms length put one in the center of Leather Suit's chest. "Oh shit," Leather Suit groaned and fell on the floor, deader than last Thanksgiving's turkey.
Half the Dallas Police Department showed up, then some DEA people. "Why didn't you draw your weapon and intercede?" the DEA honcho asked..
"Did...hid beneath the table, got out my piece and saw everyone else down there all holding at least one pistol. I opted to stay alive to tell this interesting story."
Turned out the dead guy was called "Rain". He was wearing a brand new nine hundred dollar, moleskin suit, whatever that is. The morgue found the receipt in his pocket. Should have used the cash to buy a pistol - better range than a chunk of pipe in a gunfight. They funeralized Rain in his moleskin suit - must have found brilliant tan tape to cover the holes.
Two nights later, they found Red Fred in an alley down the street - his head beat in with a tire iron. Nope, I didn't do it. Turned out his name was Sylvester Crabbepool. That's reason enough to kill that rascal.


- - -
Gary Clifton, forty years a cop has about forty short fiction pieces published or pending with online sites. He's now out to pasture on a dusty north Texas ranch.

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Author: Gary Clifton

Contributor: Acquanetta M. Sproule

- -
Peterboro had come to the wrong side of town to play.

His Rescuer whistled for a cab.

For some reason, the closest cab driver sped up and kept driving.

The Rescuer pulled a pistol from his back waist-band, shot out two of
the taxi's tires and whistled for another cab.

This one stopped.

The Rescuer settled Peterboro into the back seat and handed the driver
a C-note.

He winked at Peterboro, then returned to the alley where he'd just saved
Peterboro's butt from three muggers.

What sounded like three gunshots scattered the lookee-lous and spurred
Peterboro's driver into traffic.

Peterboro didn't feel as embarrassed as he might've.

From the smell, the driver was gonna have to clean the front seat as well
as the back…


- - -
I write weird stuff.

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Author: Acquanetta M. Sproule

Contributor: Anant Hariharan

- -

The only noise that filtered through the gently shimmering mist of snowflakes was the throbbing beat of dark, pristinely laced shoes against the sidewalk. 

You can do this, Will-

The teenager twisted his head towards the nearest house; the blaze of luminescence emanating from the dwelling surpassed the pitiful glow of all the streetlights that adorned the narrow road. It was flanked by an array of vehicles that included a five-wheeled motorbike acrimoniously letting out slow, grating rumbles, as well as an exhibition of sports cars and a single mini blissfully parked several meters away from the rest of its loud-mouthed relatives.

-Just go over there and say hi.

Will took two quivering steps; past two boys slumped against a patch of broken shrubbery like beaten scarecrows, their sweaty arms fastened tightly around each other’s necks. 

Up the six creaky steps and the moth-eaten wooden railing; onto the panels that wove bent lines of darkness through the oak flooring. 

Three knocks on the hard door; two confident, the last one uncertain. Feeling the pulse of the music that wove through the house depart his body as he withdrew his palm from the doorknob, Will stood apprehensively, his arms pressed to his sides. 

The wall of wood swung open to reveal a sweaty-faced, handsome teenager sporting a leather jacket and a mildly annoyed expression.

“Hi, Benjamin!” Will burst out, a little over-enthusiastically.

A strand of hair plastered to the boy’s forehead broke free of its restraints and sprung into the dry night air. He looked Will up and down, his eyes hovering over the other boy’s raised shoulders and faintly quivering legs. 

He shook his head from side to side with just the barest hint of condescension. 

“Sorry, kid. The party’s winding down already-” He began, a burst of electronic music and an accompanying chorus of yells drowning out the rest of his sentence. 

“I mean, um-” He rubbed the back of his head embarrassedly. 

“Look, there’re plenty of good places to be tonight, y’know?” He said, smiling sheepishly at Will and taking a slight step backwards.

“Wait, Benjamin. I’m Will, remember? We were friends in grade nine!” Will burst out desperately, flicking away the hood that obscured his weedy brown hair.

“-and grade eight and seven, and, um, six and five...” He added awkwardly, his hands flopping uselessly at his sides.

Benjamin raised his eyebrows. 

“Of course. You’re...Will?” He asked, not troubling to keep the surprise out of his voice. 

“Yeah. Maybe we could talk or something... in there?” Will asked, jerking his head towards the doorway blocked by the other boy’s large frame. 

Benjamin looked at Will confusedly, as if unsure of what to do. Then he smiled.

“It’s been, I don’t know, nearly a year since-” He began, as a girl emerged from inside the house into the constricted space. Leaning against Benjamin, she draped her arms across the boy’s shoulders and flipped a long curtain of smooth golden hair back down her neck.

“Hey, Ben.” She purred into his ear.

“What’s going on?” She paused, looking at Will.

“And who’s this midget?” She added.

“Um, I’m Will. Hi.” He said confidently, thrusting his hand forwards and gallantly ignoring the jibe.

The girl shrugged her shoulders and turned away, drawing both boys’ glances until she had faded into the murky fumes of club music that seemed to tantalizingly swirl a few meters past the doorway.

Benjamin blinked twice. 

“Yeah, well, Will. It was cool to see you again, yeah? I’ll keep an eye out for you, then.” Benjamin said, turning around with an unconcerned expression on his face.

“Uh-hey, wai-!”

The door slammed shut with a menacing growl of wood. 

***

Will raised the glass to his lips and drank deeply; the liquid seared his throat, making him cough a little. As vile as it was, Will couldn’t quite shake off the feeling that the world seemed to make more sense when seen through the warped exterior of the glass.

“Tough break, huh?” Came a sympathetic voice to his right. Will ceased staring through his glass. 

A short, middle-aged man behind the counter was looking at him. Single-handedly cleaning a glass with a ragged cloth, he held Will’s gaze. 

“...Yeah.” Will said morosely, holding the now empty glass upside-down by its handle. 

“Wanna talk about it, kid?” 

“No. It’s just-”

The barman gently put his glass down, turning both his eyes on the boy.

“I guess I didn’t realize how much people change.” Will blurted out, his voice so squeaky one might think the man had just scrubbed it clean.

“One day they’re your friend, and when you come back after a year- they’re, bigger, and d-d-.” The words seemed to drain out of his mouth.

“Different?” The man supplied, looking at Will knowingly. 

“Yeh.” Will put in. 

The barman let out a short sigh. 

“Don’t worry about it, kid. If it’s any consolation, things’ll get better. They always do.”

Will glared hazily at the barman through a fog of frustration.

“What do you know?”

The barman let out a grating, harsh laugh. 

“What do I know, he asks.” He muttered in a dark undertone. 

“Hey!” The man let out a hoarse yell.

In an instant, silence rippled through the space as heads twisted towards the source of the noise.

“How many of you guys’ve been right where the kid is now?” The barman asked, pointing at Will. 

Around the boy, a host of hands burst into the air; hands clutching beer mugs, hands stained with grime, and hands balled into fists so tight that thin bones seemed ready to burst out of their skin. Wads of crinkled playing cards and empty cigarette lighters clattered to the floor as nearly everyone in the bar thrust their palms into the heady air.

Will was transfixed by the worn figures now looking expressionlessly back at him; their tired hands seemed to beckon him over to them.

- - -
I'm an avid sixteen-year old writer who writes novels, short stories, and poetry. I'm currently attempting to enjoy my final years of high school.

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Author: Anant Hariharan

Contributor: Acquanetta M. Sproule

- -
“Please! Don’t do this!”

(...tired...so tired...)

“We love you!”

(...yeah, right...like pizza or cookies or various types of chocolate...)

“Please come out...”

(...I think that I shall miss butterflies most...)

“...let’s talk about things!”

(...but then, butterflies are eaten, too.)

“NO!!!!!...oh no...”


- - -

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Author: Acquanetta M. Sproule

Contributor: Jim Clinch

- -
Betty lived alone. It was how she liked it, and one of the few positive contributions she made to the world.

She watched the soap opera network at high volume because her hearing was going. She chain smoked long, filtered lady cigarettes and had a cat named Bob until one night he didn’t come back in large part because he was sick of the loud TV, her secondhand smoke and the crummy table scraps.

Leon broke in to the old single-wide because he thought no one was home. The blaring TV might have suggested otherwise, but he’d heard somewhere that old people sometimes leave the TV on while they are away to make burglars think someone’s home. Leon thought he was pretty smart not to fall for that trick. Leon had an IQ that bordered on the mentally disabled range.

When he saw Betty in her dirty recliner he gasped, not because he was shocked to find someone home but because he thought she was dead. Her pail, bony frame clad in a worn housecoat looked like a withered corpse, the big chair like her coffin. She wasn’t dead, though. Her head turned quickly in his direction and her eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed to squinty slits as she regarded the young man in her tiny living room. The flickering lights from the TV were the only illumination and they made the shadows dance around the edges of the dim tableau.

“Waddaya want!” she barked, her voice a low and husky pre-cancerous rasp. A cigarette burned among a dozen dead compadres in a fifty-year-old ashtray that said “Stolen From Ernie’s BBQ, Racine, WS” somewhere beneath the soot and stubs.

“Ahh . . . Ahh . . . I got a gun! Leon yelled, louder than he needed to.

“The fuck you do!” Betty growled. “'I got a gun.’ Bullshit! Show me!”

Leon appreciated the suggestion and wished he’d thought of it himself. He pulled the small pistol from the back of his waistband and held it sideways like the gangstas he’d seen in music videos. Betty laughed at him. It was not only humiliating, it was one of the weirdest sounds Leon had ever heard. Her laugh soon devolved into a spasm of coughing. When she finished she picked up the cigarette and took a long drag.

“Gimme your shit, lady,” Leon demanded. He thought he sounded tough.

“Fuck you!” Betty said.

Leon was taken aback. Old ladies were not supposed to talk like that. Leon’s grandmother would never do that and had, in fact, once made Leon eat a tablespoon of hot sauce for using the “F” word. It made his eyes water just thinking about it.

“I got a gun!” he said again.

“Me, too,” Betty said. “Right here in my chair. Now get outa here ‘fore I shoot you!”

Leon thought for a moment. He kept his weapon on the old woman while looking around the room. Man, what was he thinking breaking into a place like this? He should be robbing rich folks. This old bitch had nothing to steal. He would be seriously laughed at by his friends. Again.

Leon lowered the gun and looked at Betty, frowning. “You got pills?” he demanded. “Per-scriptions?”

“Healthy as an ox,” she replied. “So, smart guy, what-cha gonna take? Soup? Saltine crackers? My smokes? Oh, wait, how ‘bout that cat clock on the wall? See? The tail goes back an’ forth and the eyes move. Really spruce up your ‘crib.’”

Leon put the gun back in the waist of his sweatpants. He felt embarrassed. He thought about his grandmother again. He felt ashamed.

“So, you want some cocoa?” Betty asked in her raspy, croaking voice.

“Um . . . no . . .”

“Some tea maybe?”

“Um . . . no . . .”

“Good!” Betty barked. “I got none ‘a that shit anyway. So, make yourself useful and get me a beer before you go.”

Leon looked down at the skinny, wrinkled old woman in the big chair. He didn’t know what to do. This had not gone at all like he had imagined. Stuff just never did for Leon.

He sighed and, without a word, walked a few paces to the refrigerator in the tiny kitchen area. He opened the door and heard a pop, then two more. He fell to the yellowed linoleum, on his back, looking up at an old woman, her face hard and creased and utterly remorseless in the light from the open refrigerator door. She reached down toward his face, a tiny wisp of smoke curling from the barrel of the five-shot .38 and put a final round in his head.

Betty lived alone. She liked it that way.


- - -
I am a Florida author living in a small town on the Gulf coast. I am also a singer/songwriter, and I enjoy writing humorous songs poking fun at the bellicose and pompous. It is a target rich environment.

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Author: Jim Clinch

Contributor: Anton Gunasingam

- -
"There's a monk at our front door," I told my sister.

She was in bed reading a book. “What does he want?”

“He won’t say. He’s just standing there and grinning.”

She didn't look up. "Tell mom."

"I already did."

"And..."

"She's busy emailing someone. She said she'll speak to him in a minute."

"Did you ask him in? Mom will say you didn't show him any respect. And she'll be mad."

"Already did. But like I told you he isn’t replying."

"Is he one of those foreign guys who can't speak English?"

"No. He looks like us. But he's got a bowl under his arm."

"A bowl?" My sister was interested. "What kind of a bowl?"

I shrugged. "I don't know. But it’s a pretty big one. Like those bowls you put fish in."

My sister shut her book. "Let's go have a look."

He didn't see us check him out from the upstairs window. And from where we stood, we couldn't see much of him either. Just the top his head and it was all white and gleaming as if he'd massaged it with a load of grease.

My sister stared at him for a long while without speaking. When she finally turned and looked at me, she had a worried look on her face.

"What's the matter?" I asked her.

She said, "I think he's come for your Ferrari."

I said, "What are you saying?"

She said, "Didn't you see what dad was reading the other day?"

I shook my head. She said, "It's a book called The Monk Who Sold His Ferrari."

I stared at her puzzled. "What does that have to do with this guy who's on our doorstep?"

She said, "Don't you get it, Dumbo?"

I shook my head.

She said, "The monk sold his Ferrari, so now he's come for yours."

Of all the cars I owned, the Ferrari was my prized possesson. It was what I dreamt about when I slept. So naturally, I hoped she was wrong. I said, "The guy on the cover of dad's book, he looks different. It can't be him."

She disagreed. "Then, why is he carrying a bowl?" she asked. When I didn't reply, she gave me the answer. "It’s to put your Ferrari in, Dumbo."

"Well, he's not taking it away. I'm not giving it to him," I said firmly.

Sister gave me a sad look. "You don't have a choice, Dumbo. If he asks, mom won't refuse. She'll never turn a monk down." She seemed so certain of what she was saying that it had me worried. "But it's my Ferrari," I protested. "She can't give away my things without asking me."

Sister shrugged. "Who bought it for you?"

"Dad."

"And?"

"Mom."

"So she can give it away," she said.

"But it's mine. They gave it to me."

My sister sighed. "I know that. You know that. And mom and dad know that. But when a monk appears and asks for your Ferrari, how can they refuse? Think of what'll happen if they do. They’ll get landed with bad
karma."

"But it's not fair," I wailed. Sister put her finger to her lips. "Shush. He might hear you. And that will be worse."

"I said, "I don't care. It's my car. And I want it."

Then, we heard mom at the door. She spoke to the monk. My sister bit her hand. "It's bye-bye time for your Ferrari, brother."

Mom went into the kitchen. When she came out she headed straight back to the open door. There was more conversation. We heard a rustling. Mom put something into the monk's bowl. Then, he was gone and she
shut the door.

"Mom," I called out.

"Yes, dear?"

"What did the monk want?"

"Some food, dear," Mom said.

Next to me, my sister shook her head. Her twelve-year-old eyes were wider than usual. "She's lying, brother," she whispered. "Don't believe her. She's lying. How can she tell you the truth about your car? Better go check for yourself. The last time, I saw it, it was on the floor next to my Barbie."


- - -
I have a BA in Mass Communications and I write features for 'The Sunday Island'

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Author: Anton Gunasingam

Contributor: Leonard Treman

- -
The fortune cookie read, “First, the unthinkable will happen. Then there will be world peace. Then a lobster will ask your hand in marriage. Then the world will end.”

Clara began to laugh hysterically. That fortune cookie was awful. She looked at her fiancé and said, “Have you ever seen anything like that in a fortune cookie before?”

Her husband to be, Bill looked her in the face and said, “No.”

His nose twitched, his nose always twitched when he lied.

“Can’t you ever tell the truth?” Clara asked.

“Of course I can,” Bill said.

Clara sighed and let it go; it was not worth a fight.

The next morning she drove to work. She was a teacher at cobblestone elementary, but more than that, she was a kindergarten teacher. She started her day and noticed that the teacher’s assistant had given them all Sippy cups. It looked to be apple juice in each one.

Later that day, Clara looked down at all the little angels and smiled. For once, they were all doing what they were supposed to do and not running amuck.

Clara thought, I always thought the day the kids all behave is the day the world ends.

Clara had a brief suspicion and turned on the class radio for a moment. “, and in a historic movement the US senate and house have universally voted to become one with the super nation called the United Nation in desperation to try to com-,” Clara shut off the radio. She had a suspicion what was going on.

Clara thought warmly, Bill is such an idiot.

A tapping came at the window. Clara looked over and saw a giant lobster. Her first inclination would have been to scream or go to the doctor, but she had some idea who the lobster was and what he wanted.

She opened the window to the fake looking lobster costume. It was wearing khakis on some very human looking legs. The lobster suit tail hung from the back of the suit which seemed to drape over her fiancé’s shoulders.

The giant red claw held out a diamond engagement ring into the window.

“Bill, are you serious? Do you know how long I’ve waited for this?” Clara asked.

Bill stood there silent staring at her.

Clara smiled, “You are so weird, but yes! I will marry you,” she leaned forward and gave the mask a kiss when a sudden pounding came at the door.

Clara broke from the kiss and grabbed the box from the lobster claw and walked to the door.

When she opened the thick wood door, Bill fell inside. He was missing an arm that’s stub was covered in blood.

“They’ve drugged the water supply,” Bill said lying on the floor coughing up blood.

Clara looked over at the kids who were as complacent as vegetables.

He began to convulse violently and he grabbed Clara’s arm and looked up at her.

“Whatever you do, don’t say no,” Bill said.

He fell over, and passed out from blood loss.

Clara blinked a couple times to make sure she wasn’t dreaming.

She wasn’t.


- - -
Leonard Treman is a 23 year old author who lives in Michigan, USA. He's been published 5 times so far and hopes to one day go pro.

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Author: Leonard Treman

Contributor: Acquanetta M. Sproule

- -
"Blurrrpulrr'rr?" Wwurrburrlurrbela asked it's partner in crime -- for the third time.

Kerrplukkerrlurrkle gurgled it's amusement, "You worry too much, old friend! If these things are as unusual as you've said, I wouldn't miss perceiving them for anything. Besides, what could possibly happen that we two couldn't handle?"

"Very Well," Wwurrburrlurrbela glurmbled discontentedly, "I just hope that I won't be sorry for having mentioned it."

Kerrplukkerrlurrkle, demonstrating its confidence, oozed ahead even faster through and out of the porous rock, collecting itself into a handsome, brown puddle on the sandy beach. It jiggled with delight as Wwurrburrlurrbela struggled to catch up.

"Keep to the darker areas," Wwurrburrlurrbela warned, "the brighter ones hurt and make you dry out too fast."

Kerrplukkerrlurrkle obediently withdrew its fringes under the rocky shelf.

"Yes," it admitted, "that does feel a lot better."

Kerrplukkerrlurrkle began discerning the alien landscape, its most disconcerting aspect being that the walls of this place didn't go all the way up to the bright blue ceiling with its moving whiteness!

"How can you catch the meat up there?" asked Kerrplukkerrlurrkle, extending a pseudopod to point at the noisy creatures wheeling above and occasionally diving down into the water.

"I've never been able to," admitted Wwurrburrlurrbela, "except when they come down to stone."

"What do they taste like?"

"Like fish and not like fish."

"Not much of an answer," glumbered Kerrplukkerrlurrkle.

"Best I can do. Maybe we'll hunt a bit, later, and see if you're as good as you think you are ..." challenged Wwurrburrlurrbela.

"Glurplur'kl!" scoffed Kerrplukkerrlurrkle.

Ensconced beneath the rocky overhang, they jiggled so much they were both nearly foaming. It was a while before they got themselves back under control.

"Now, where," gurgled Kerrplukkerrlurrkle, "are those things that've been keeping you so preoccupied recently?"

"Follow -- if you can!"

Wwurrburrlurrbela kerplunked on to the hot sands, drew itself into a flap flopping cylinder, and raced around the rocky base.

"HA!" answered Kerrplukkerrlurrkle. With a pop, it puffed itself into a sphere and dashed into the lead.

"Do you know where you're going?" Wwurrburrlurrbela teased.

"Perhaps not! But I'll get there before you!"

Knowing what lay ahead, Wwurrburrlurrbela flopped to a stop and waited as Kerrplukkerrlurrkle barrelled 'round this particular bend.

SPLOOSH!

"Arrrgh!"

Wwurrburrlurrbela unrolled itself and crept, bubbling uproariously, along the rock face. There Kerrplukkerrlurrkle deflated noisily, mired in some sticky glop that shrouded the sand and rocks, and water and assorted creatures. The stuff very much resembled one of Kerrplukkerrlurrkle's and Wwurrburrlurrbela's People, IF it was long dead and decaying and very, very, VERY big.

"You really should try to be less impulsive!" gurgled the still bubbling Wwurrburrlurrbela.

"You knew this would happen!" accused Kerrplukkerrlurrkle.

"Not really. But knowing you, it was a safe bet!"

"Are you going to hang there foaming, or are you going to help me out?"

Anchoring itself securely, (Wwurrburrlurrbela had much experience in the types of tricks Kerrplukkerrlurrkle was inclined to pull), Wwurrburrlurrbela cautiously exuded a pseudopod out to Kerrplukkerrlurrkle, who twined a temporary tentacle around Wwurrburrlurrbela's, then gave two quick tugs.

"If you don't behave yourself, I'll let you try and haul your own self out," warned Wwurrburrlurrbela.

"Just making sure you had a good grip."

"Right."

"Wouldn't want you ending up down here in the muck with me."

"'Course not. You ready yet?"

"Ready!" gurgled Kerrplukkerrlurrkle.

Wwurrburrlurrbela retracted itself, reeling in Kerrplukkerrlurrkle until, with a sucking splurp, it broke free, somersaulted over Wwurrburrlurrbela and splatted safely on the rock face.

"You should have warned me about that stuff!"

"You're welcome. Come on, and be more careful!"

Wwurrburrlurrbela slithered carefully around the rocks. Kerrplukkerrlurrkle followed close on Wwurrburrlurrbela's fringes.

"There!" exclaimed Wwurrburrlurrbela.

It pointed toward the sludge speckled sands. Running and bouncing to and fro among narrower, taller form locked creatures that seemed to be trying to scrub the sticky, black glop from struggling meat, were the reasons for their upward quest. The things were a deep stone gray, flat surfaced and put together with many angles. Hanging between four obscenely stiff and truncated tentacles were transparent sacs, filled to different levels with the glop and sand and various other incidentals.

"Disgusting!" proclaimed Kerrplukkerrlurrkle.

"Yes, but watch this!" Wwurrburrlurrbela extended and flattened out a small section of itself and folded its end over, leaving a little space surrounded by loose membrane. It whirled this overbody, producing a thin whistling sound.

"You should do that during the next Festival," advised Kerrplukkerrlurrkle, admiringly.

Wwurrburrlurrbela continued signalling until several of the things ambled over to investigate.

"Now, remember," cautioned Wwurrburrlurrbela, "don't get too close to the sucking ends, keep a tight grip on the rock, don't let your ..."

"Yes, yes," interrupted Kerrplukkerrlurrkle, "you lectured me all the way up, Wwurrburrlurrbela! I remember, I remember! ..."

Wwurrburrlurrbela eased upward along the rock face.

"... You really are much too young to be such a nag!" continued Kerrplukkerrlurrkle.

Wwurrburrlurrbela oozed back into the rock's cavities.

"Where are you going, now?"

"Someone has to deliver the sad news."

"WHAT sad news?"

"The sad news about what happened to you," Wwurrburrlurrbela explained from the safety of the rocky pores.

"Wha ... !?!"

SLURP!!

Trembling, Wwurrburrlurrbela compressed against the walls of its hiding places until the snuffling sounds from outside moved away.

Then, continued waiting, for a long, long time.

Finally, cautiously, it telescoped out a pseudopod. The things had returned to suctioning the glop from the sand. Some, with bloated belly compartments, trotted over to a cavernous container, spewing their loads into it, then resumed their cleaning.

Even from this distance, Wwurrburrlurrbela perceived that one of the things had a belly bulging full of a handsome, brown puddle.

"Thank you, thing," Wwurrburrlurrbela gurgled quietly. It retracted and began its long trek home.

Above, of its churning brown belly, some thing queried: "Bark?"


- - -

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Author: Acquanetta M. Sproule

Contributor: Ryan Stevens

- -
Loud, crass punk rock music rudely awoke Bill Poore on Monday morning. His anarchist neighbors in the next apartment, a bunch of cokehead 20-somethings trying to make it big as a punk-rock stars, were starting practice earlier and earlier it seemed. Bill hated them. He didn’t know any of their names, but he knew their faces, pale and tattooed and pierced with hair colors alternating neon greens and dismal blacks. As much as he hated their music, he hoped they stuck to it. He hoped they stuck to it, went nowhere with it, and all died from heroin overdoses.

These thoughts floated in Bill’s head as he made breakfast in his robe and slippers. He worked nights as a security guard at the local Wal-Mart, and his open eyes were a deep rouge from sleep deprivation, but once awoken he had been unable to ignore the clanging symbols and belching bass and had given up to sleeping.

He took his pot of coffee and began to pour into his I Hate Mondays mug, but drowsiness caused him to misjudge the distance and scald his hand. His mug fell as his hand recoiled, shattering on the ground. He stared at the debris in numb disbelief. He wasn’t yet fully awake, and refused to accept his luck. His posture slumped and the arm holding the coffeepot dipped, spilling brown magma on the linoleum. Hissing droplets splashed up and nipped Bill’s ankles while the creeping, steaming puddle threatened to eat through his slippers. He decided he didn’t particularly want any caffeine.

Bill sighed mournfully and prepared some toast and jam in silence as the Satanist Minstrel Militia next door strummed, slammed, and screamed out a spot-on impersonation of a garbage disposal.

Eight months, he’d been subject to the malcontents’ ever-shifting practice schedule, though he would swear mental scars of this magnitude could only come from years of trauma. He couldn’t remember his last good night’s sleep. He never had anywhere to escape to except for work, meaning his life was either painted-on pleasantries with moronic sheeple or wave after wave of discordant auditory rape.

His templed throbbed in rhythm with the grunting sludge in the air. He found that he had chewed his mouthful of toast and jam into a paste, but was unable to swallow, unable to relax any part of his body.

Like a dim bulb in a cellar, the memory of an old Louisville Slugger bat stuffed in his closet flickered into Bill’s mind. At the same time a voice in his head scolded him for the notion. Yes the punks were annoying, but murder was unconscionable. He’d lose his job, his apartment...

Bill decided he would go over next door with the bat, just to ruffle the youngsters and quiet them up, nothing serious. At least, that’s what he told himself his plan was. Whatever happened in the heat of the moment, he couldn’t predict. He rose to his feet, feeling the dampness in his slippers, and prepared to fish out the old baseball bat.

Suddenly the world went sideways as the floor under Bill’s feet, slick with lukewarm coffee, gave way and he slipped, falling rapidly backwards. Before he knew it he was lying splayed on his back in a puddle of coffee, a few shards of shattered coffee-mug porcelain embedded in the back of his head and neck.

Bill stared at his dull gray ceiling, vaguely aware of some sort of music coming from somewhere far away.


- - -
Ryan Stevens was born and raised on a farm in South Carolina. He found this boring, so now he writes.

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Author: Ryan Stevens

Contributor: Darlene Campos

- -
Mondays at the Ennis Washateria were always empty. Samuel ‘Suds’ Ennis, the boss and big bellied man behind the register was giving spare change to Miss Johnson. Unlike the rest of Elgin Avenue, Miss Johnson did laundry on Monday mornings. Suds thought she was peculiar with her tiny loads, never having quarters, and that awful purse she carried around. She was close to his age, around 55 or so, with grown kids and a long dead husband, but still the weirdest woman on the block. Suds gave her enough change for one load, her usual, but this time she said she only had half a load.
“Half a load?” Suds exclaimed. “Where’d you get them clothes? A half off sale?”
“Very funny, Suds,” she said and strolled her cart away to washer #2. Suds locked the register and dragged himself to outside for a quick cigar smoke. He had a leather office chair chained to the ground which he called ‘the CEO throne.’ Suds had been chaining down chairs for over 23 years and not once did he have a stolen CEO throne.
“Gotta love that ol’ chain,” he said to nobody as he sat down in his beloved chair. He lit up his cigar, reclining, when a shiny BMW pulled over next to him. The window rolled down and a man stuck his head out saying, “You seen a Miss Johnson?”
“Yes I have, young man. Why you ask?”
“No reason, give her this,” the man muttered, slipping a $100 bill into Suds’ palm.
“Hot cakes!” Suds cried out. The man waved a goodbye and drove off. He finished his cigar before heaving up to his feet back to his washateria.
“This here’s for you, baby,” Suds smiled, handing her the money. She asked who it was from and he answered that Jesus must drive a BMW because miracles like that didn’t happen on Elgin Avenue. Miss Johnson’s clothes were toasty dry by 10 am and she left hastily. See, Miss Johnson was going to ‘college’ and working the night shift at Fry’s Burger Hut, so he heard. She was different than the rest of Elgin Avenue. Elgin Avenue was a high school dropout sundae with poverty whipped topping.
That Monday, Suds closed late. For some strange reason, he didn’t feel like going home. His wife, Francine, called and told him to come home before she beat him on the head with detergent bottles. Suds told Francine he’d be in soon, so he had to get going before she got those detergent bottles out again. Within five minutes, he was heading down the crooked sidewalk. Soon out of breath, he sat down on the curb in front of the Fishing Man Market. Miss Johnson bolted past him, dropping that old sack of nothing.
“Now hold on, Miss J, you dropped your sa-, purse!” he called after her. She turned around, grabbed it, only to drop it again. Suds was confused by her behavior. First she had half a load and now she was dropping more things than a bomber plane.
“You doing okay?” he asked her.
“Get on back to your bubbles,” she snapped at him. She scurried down the street, disappearing. Suds hopped on home to Beulah Street where Francine was on the porch, trying to fix the shattered windows for the millionth time.
“Don’t you mess with those windows again, my lady. Not like we got anything worth stealing in the first place,” Suds said.
“We got detergent bottles!” she shouted.
“What them burglars gonna do then? They’s gonna break in the house, get our detergent bottles and then you know what else they’s gonna do? Wash their clothes at the washateria and give us mo’ business!” he laughed.
“You so funny,” Francine said as she taped a strip of duct tape across a crack in the left window. “Now get your butt in the house.”
Not too long after dinner, there came a knock on the door. Suds hopped over and swung the door open. It was a police officer with a badge shining his name.
“Hold on sir, I ain’t done nothing bad, I own a washateria, that’s it! My wife is innocent too!” Suds blurted. The officer shook his head and asked if he knew a Miss Johnson. Suds said of course he did. He asked if he gave her a $100 bill earlier that day and Suds said of course again. Miss Johnson, according to him, was an illegal prostitute.
“Hot cakes! That’s impossible! You seen that sack she carries? She got a sack of sorry and you telling me she’s a hooker? She’s 55 years old too! If she’s a hooker, then my pants are waist 34!”
“Mr. Ennis, I was given a tip that she provides, service, in your washateria at night,” the cop admitted. “Anything you know about Miss Johnson would be very helpful to the investigation.”
“Baby,” Francine said from the living room. “She is.” Suds hung his head low and asked the cop what he wanted to know.
Miss Johnson wasn’t arrested but rather fined for her actions. She became the laughingstock of Elgin and at the same time, Suds tried to save his washateria’s reputation. She still came in on Monday with her sack of sorry, half loads, and no change. Despite the laughs, she kept going out, using the washateria at night. She needed the money if she wanted to go through ‘college.’ Suds handed her five quarters for the day. He then walked outside and sat in the CEO throne, chained to Elgin Avenue as Miss Johnson did her laundry. The BMW stopped by again, this time with $300 for her. Every Monday, she was washing more than clothes.


- - -
Darlene Campos is an undergraduate at the University of Houston's Creative Writing Program and minor in Medicine. Her work has appeared in A Celebration of Young Poets, The Four Cornered Universe, The Collegiate Scholar, and in The Aletheia. She currently works as a writer for The Daily Cougar newspaper and Kesta Happening DC magazine.

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Author: Darlene Campos

Contributor: John Laneri

- -
Bernard stepped toward the flower garden, his movements slow and measured. It was time for his customary morning walk through the flower garden.

Near a gazebo, he spotted Millie Boyd sitting on a bench beside a red hibiscus. He waved to her and continued on, his attention going to a line of roses along the quiet secluded paths.

To him, Millie was an old friend, another elderly resident at the Happy Years Retirement Home.

“Bernard, darling. Could you come here a minute?”

Never one to deny Millie, Bernard turned away from the flowers and ambled toward the gazebo where she sat with a friend.

“You’re looking quite lovely, Widow Boyd.”

“Why thank you, Bernard.” She indicated the woman beside her. “Have you met, Georgia?”

Bernard cocked his head to the side and bowed. “I haven’t had the pleasure.” He studied Georgia a moment, his eyes searching hers. “You remind me of a woman I met during the last war.”

Georgia smiled brightly. “Was she beautiful?”

“She was,“ Bernard replied, looking away distantly. “Her hair flowed to her shoulders. And, her eyes were as blue as the sky.”

Millie touched his arm. “We have a secret to confess.”

“And, what is that?” Bernard asked on returning to her.

“Georgia and I were discussing you only a moment ago.”

“You were discussing me?”

“Yes dear, we were discussing you. We were wondering how old you are? Your body is so masculine and so, so….” She turned to Georgia.

“So, erect,” Georgia added, with a smile.

Bernard blushed, his cheeks turning a bright red. “Most women are fooled by my age. I’m older than I look.” He stepped back to dance a little shuffle. “But, there’s still plenty of punch in this old body. I bet you can’t guess my age.”

Georgia reached for her purse and placed it in her lap. “I have a dollar. I’m good at guessing ages.”

“You’re wasting your money,” he said with a twinkle. “My age is a well kept secret.”

“I’d like to try… just for fun,” Georgia said. “Can I see your hands? I can always judge a person’s age by the skin on their hands.”

Confidently, Bernard extended a hand and held it poised in front of her face.

Georgia adjusted her glasses. “Interesting,” she said turning to Millie. “That odd color around the knuckles. What do you think? Your eyes are better than mine.”

Millie took the hand and began examining it, turning it from side to side studying every detail. “I see what you mean. The little lines and the way the skin….”

“Is something wrong?” Bernard asked, withdrawing his hand to look it over.

“No… No,” Millie said. “Your hands are fine.”

“Then you can’t guess my age. I win a dollar.”

Millie continued. “Bernard darling, your hands are only a part of guessing your age.”

“What more do you want?”

She smiled softly then said, “The only way to truly judge a man’s age, especially one who’s lived through so many wars, is to see everything.”

Bernard hesitated. “But, I might get into trouble with the nurses.”

“Bernard, darling,” Millie purred, “All I’m asking is for one little look.”

Bernard thought a moment. “Only one look?”

“Just one teeny-weeny look.”

Bernard again glanced about the garden searching for nurses then reached for his belt and let his pants drop to his ankles.

The two elderly women sat there for some time staring straight ahead, their mouths agape. Eventually, Millie spoke up. “Can you turn around a couple of times?”

“Turn around?”

“Yes dear, you need to turn in little circles so we can see everything. We’re trying to guess your age.”

Bernard turned a couple of circles then stopped. “How’s that?”

“You need to remove your shorts too,” she continued, pointing to his underwear. “It’s easier with the shorts off.”

“My shorts?” Bernard asked, confused.

“The shorts please… and the shirt too.”

After some time, Bernard finally spoke up. “Have you seen enough? I’m getting cold.”

“I’ve seen all that I need to see,” Georgia said, turning to Millie. “Truthfully, I think he’s older than he looks.”

Millie touched Bernard on the arm. “You can get dressed dear. We’ve seen enough.”

With his pants in place, Bernard asked, “How old am I?”

The ladies looked to one another. Then, Millie replied, “You’re ninety-eight years old.”

Surprised, Bernard did a double take, his head bobbing up and down. “How’d you know?”

Millie chuckled, her cheeks brightening in pleasure. “You told us yesterday, dear. We were just wondering if you remembered.”


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

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Author: John Laneri

Contributor: Bob Skoggins

- -
The bus creaked forward, people still shuffling in to fill the empty seats. Some were in suits. Some were in hoodies. Some were wearing shorts, their skin bumpy from the cold. It was crowded and loud and warm on the city bus. It traveled from Jarvis to Dan Ryan on the south side of Chicago. It carried all kinds of people.
A young couple sat in the back. The girl was wearing a backpack, having gotten out of a class at Harold Washington College. Her husband was in a suit. A struggling realtor. They lived on Garfield.
“We should have walked. This is taking too long,” he said.
“I’m not getting off.” She scooted away from him.
“Or taken the L,” he said. “But I hate the L. I hate the bus.”
“I’m moving,” she said.
“You know I didn’t mean anything by it,” he said. “You talk to him too much. I want you to stop. That’s all I was saying.”
“Goodbye.” The girl picked up her backpack, looking at an empty seat next to a handsome Asian. It would bother her husband if she sat next to him. “I can talk to who I want. I can sit where I want. I’m moving.”
Her husband touched her arm and she lowered herself back onto the seat and looked at him. “You’re embarrassing me,” he said.
She raised her voice. “I’m not getting off because my husband is a pig.”
Some people turned their heads and the husband smiled, nodding at them. The lady in front of them laughed.
“They are listening,” he said.
“I don’t care. Let them.”
“Stop.”
“Or what? You won’t do anything here.”
“I might.”
The girl ignored him as he stared at her. “I’ll drag you if I have to,” he said.
She laughed. He leaned in closer. “If you don’t stop this, you know what I’ll do.”
“You won’t do anything.”
“When we get home.” He bit his tongue and shook his head. “Woman,” he said. “I’ll kill you. You know I will do it.”
“Go ahead. I’m not getting off.” Her voice grew louder again. “My husband is going to drag me off of this bus and when we get home he is going to kill me.”
People shifted in their seats and the lady in front of them laughed again. The husband smiled and nodded again, but only with his teeth, his eyes serious and wide. “Don’t make a scene,” he said.
“You’re making the scene,” she said. “I can talk to who I want to.”
“Not the way you two talk.”
“He’s a friend.”
“It’s more than that.”
“You’re paranoid.”
The bus stopped and the driver said over the speaker, “Forty-seventh.” The handsome Asian got off and the bus started moving again.
“Our stop is next,” said the man. He pulled the wire running along the bus windows and a bell rang. “Let’s get off.”
“I’m not going to.”
“I’ll drag you. These people won’t remember us.”
“They already remember us.”
He grabbed her arm. “You’re getting off.”
She jerked away from him. “You don’t have the guts to drag me here.”
The husband lifted a hand to slap her and she flinched and stood up. “I’m not the one going to get killed when we get home,” she said. “I’m calling my brother.”
And then the man slapped her. He had never done it before. The girl looked at him in shock as the bus slowed down and stopped, and the folding doors swung open. She got up after her husband and the couple walked up the aisle and got off.
A new group shuffled in and the bus creaked forward.


- - -

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Author: Bob Skoggins

Contributor: Gary Clifton

- -
In 1952, money in the neighborhood was tighter than wet underwear. Mom couldn't get many shifts in the chicken plant and we hadn't seen the old man since he ran off with that waitress from Omaha the year before. Any work was good work.
The smoking old truck sputtered up at 4:30 A.M. This was a strawberry day - pickers needed. I was nine that Summer and they wouldn't let a kid that young on the truck unless they were with an adult. I'd been climbing the side over the stock racks, but somebody snitched. Now the driver watched. Most of the adults were African American females - many with a string of kids attached. I asked Miz Wilson if I could follow her bunch as one of her kids.
She was old, maybe thirty-five, with multiple stomachs and a beautiful ebony face that couldn't stop smiling. "Squeeze between Isaac and Leroy. Nobody gon' see you a white boy in this dark, Paulie."
That day, the field had probably fifty workers - mostly women and kids. We got individual chits for pickings. By mid day, I'd turned in enough berries to have nearly a dollar. A kid worked good all day might make $2.50, if he could hustle and handle twelve hours bent over in the sun.
Unusual, a man was working that day - a skinny, wiry little dude with two days whiskers and penitentiary tattoos on both arms. I didn't think he rode in on the truck. I was careful looking at him lest he catch me with those cold, piercing blue eyes. Working two rows over, he whistled continuously - a monotone with no melody.
Zuber, a hired flunky was the supervisor - they called him "Row Boss". A big, mean bully with angry black eyes, he swatted me once for not working fast enough. He strutted up and down rows, feeling important - scared hell out of me. He straddled the row above the whistler. "Knock off that damned whistling."
"Why?" the slender man said upward, the blue eyes surprised.
Zuber bully-kicked him in the chest. Then the bloodbath. The little guy, probably a hundred pounds lighter, instantly had Zuber on his back, killing him. In a field with only a few women, no men, and a gaggle of kids, one man beating another to death was a full load.
The little guy was probably ready to quit on his own when Miz Wilson, two or three other ladies, and some older kids pulled him off. Zuber wasn't moving, his face, raw meat. Back in the neighborhood, I'd seen men shot and cut, but never saw one's face torn off.
The little guy ran across the field, stole a truck, and split. The Sheriff showed up, then an ambulance, and I only made $1.55 that day.
Next day, they had a new row boss. Two more years working that field and we never saw Zuber again. Everyone figured he died, but nobody cared enough to ask. I never told a soul, but the thought of Zuber in Hell had a certain ring to it. Wherever he was, I always figured he'd think twice before kicking a guy for whistling. If they ever caught that little guy, I never heard about it.
A lifetime later, someone whistles, I see Zuber's bloody face.


- - -
Gary Clifton, forty years a cop, has short fiction pieces published or pending on over thirty online sites. He is retired, and has an M.S. from Abilene Christian University

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Author: Gary Clifton

Contributor: S Marston

- -
Splitting the seventh outside Reno; passing wind when you have diarrhoea; Making drunken phone calls to exes; the matrix sequels; experimenting with PCP; having a child to cement a failing marriage; taking one last Long Island for the road; selling Alaska; letting the kids stay over at uncle Mike’s; not signing a prenup; timeshare; electing bush; buying poodles; replying to spam; speedos; upsetting the sacker of cities then taking on Illium; re-electing bush; not scouting Isandlwana; arguing religion; eating pink pork; invading Russia in winter; following Lost.

Everyone makes mistakes. Mine was fucking you.


- - -

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Author: S Marston

Contributor: Pranas Perkunas

- -
I had some darkness for breakfast and some light for lunch, then J.S. Bach came knocking and told me about this strip club where they didn’t take dollars, but you could pay the door and the dancers with poems. I scooped up a fistful of sappy sonnets from the kitty-littered floor, and Bach showed me the horrible haikus he wrote about a Korean cutie he friended on Facebook. (He was friend number 4,147.) Then away we sped in the Bachmobile!

The place was packed with pimply-faced poets while the dancers were literate and lovely. As I pulled back a glittery garter to insert a poem, my youth was magically restored, and I looked just like Justin Bieber again! Bach and a dazzling dime just out of high school shared a Kool-Aid with two Krazy straws. Her stage name was Baby Gaga, and they went on to make some quite strange music together.


- - -
Pranas Perkunas (pen name) rejects everything you probably believe in. He fervently hopes that a new reality exists somewhere or sometime which is not predicated upon the premise of a food chain. If this is the only current reality, then God created surrealists as a kind of collective think tank.

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Author: Pranas Perkunas

Contributor: Alyanna Diavane

- -
At first, we didn't care.
We're just too different,
Or maybe just indifferent
To each other's existence.

I can still remember the time when you were just standing there, minding your own business while everyone was rushing to meet you, to get a hold of you, to get close to you. You just didn't care, did you? Too caught up in your mind's devices, never seeing the horde of women wanting, struggling, to be near you, to be recognized by you. It was ironic, really, how we ended up as part of each other's pseudo-family. We never cared for those kinds of things. We had our lives to live, and that's that. I was too preoccupied with my studies while you, you with the piercing stare, was too busy with your mind's abyss. I was useless as your pseudo-sister. We didn't even talk, meet or anything in particular. Then again, you weren't exactly the ideal pseudo-brother either. You never needed the help anyway. You got by with what you already have, even with the knowledge that everyone's more than willing to help you out.

Or you were just too aware.
Silently observing,
With feigned innocence,
As everything transpired.

You were always the mysterious one. Always had that observing vibe with you everywhere you go. It's as if you're just waiting for someone to fall from grace. I didn't mind, at first. I mean, why would I? We weren't close or anything to that extent. We didn't even acknowledge each other's presence. As the days went idly by, we were gradually finding ourselves entwined to each other's lives. Who knew? But we weren't together because of the pseudo-family status. We were just (un)fortunate enough to wind up in the same circle of people. Or maybe I was just too persistent in forcing myself in yours, I don't know. Something happened. Or, maybe, someone happened. You know this more than anyone else. You saw what happened, didn't you? And, even then, you were feigning innocence, waiting for me to spill all those emotions I strove so hard to keep for myself. But, you listened. You, actually, listened to all the gruesome details as if you didn't care. And, honestly, it helped.

Until that night, of course,
How could I ever forget?
The cold mask shattered
And all I saw beneath was regret.

Normally, I was the only one whose mask would slip away. You were always the mature one, weren't you? But... that night happened. I won't sink into details. You know that night just as well as I do. And, besides, we really don't want to go back to that time, now do we? Since then, this idea intrigued me: "What will happen if your masked shattered, to the point of no return?" It's sick, I know. Wanting to destroy the thing that made you so unique in the first place. That chivalry, it's sickeningly ideal.

It was something different
And it made me cling to
An impossible dream
Of seeing you lose control.

You always said that you despised men who took women for granted. That you would never, ever, turn into someone like... him. You know who he is, don't you? He's the reason why we became somewhat close to begin with. So, I thought: "What if the 'using someone' part was mutual?" That way, it wouldn't look like we're using each other. Just some agreement that entailed no emotions whatsoever. Since then, I did my best to join the various gimmicks you're going to. Silly, I know. It's like something a preschooler would do, yes, I know that too. Don't worry, I don't like you, not like that. Not that way, anyway.


- - -
Innocent enough to love. Knowledgeable enough to think things through. "Be warned. I'm a disaster in the making." is what she'd normally say but now it's just "This has tragedy written all over it."

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Author: Alyanna Diavane

Contributor: Amy Pollard

- -
Adamson College would unravel. Nadine just knew it. Adamson College would unravel and she would be the first to go. Biting into her lunch, Nadine grimaced and wiped her lips with a napkin. Nothing would ever be right again. A sour, tangy mayonnaise ground against the edges of her teeth, already lathered with viscous mustard. The slimy, paper-thin lettuce smudged against the roof of her mouth, washed down her throat only by a long sip of thick, goopy root beer. Cheap concession stand, she groused, glancing around the plaza as she wiped her lips again.

Named after some heck-of-a-rich professor, Adamson Plaza attracted many visitors from outside of the university. Smiley, gray-haired couples would often stroll the grounds with their yappy toy dogs, restrained by a mere thread. Accountants from other offices often came during their lunch hours to sit and gaze at the fountain or, as Nadine was, to eat their deli sandwiches on one of the stone benches.
Nadine groaned. Birds squawked around the prim birdbaths by the gazebo, where ignorant little girls and boys were teasing them with crumbs. The workers at the concession stand were laughing amid the clatter of banging dishes. Stroller wheels clacked alongside black, bushy-tailed squirrels pitter-pattering as they scrounged for leftovers. A flicker of stress shot through Nadine as she felt the yellow string tied around her forefinger give a tug. Oh yes, she thought. How silly of me. The files, of course, the files! She had forgotten to put new labels on them. Nadine shuddered beneath her cobalt-blue skirt, cobalt-blue coat and cobalt-blue tie. Lifting her sticky bangs off her forehead, she paused and listened. Was that an e flat hurdling through the bushes? Yes—yes, of course, it was! Nadine sat up straighter and leaned forward. The note was coming from the open stage a block away—the same stage upon which she had performed elaborate cello pieces. A giddy, girlish excitement seized her. The unlabeled files and her sweaty work clothes faded to the back of her mind as she remembered her first-ever cello recital, at the old, torn-down middle school. The audience was silent and the auditorium lights were dimmed. The stage lights, however, breathed fire upon her stretched fingers as they jerked the bow across the strings. Nadine remembered her cello instructor, telling her exactly which strings to press and the precise angle at which she should hold the bow. Every pulse of the melody, every whine of the bow and every thump in her chest seemed to mix into one beautiful blur of depth and color, as she listened to the music from the open stage.

As the memories began to fade away, note by note, chord by chord, a bitter numbness struck Nadine’s chest. Her hand itched to grasp the cello bow again, to retrace its fragile dance across the delicate yet resilient strings. Her ears craved the harsh, metallic thump of the music stand and the persistent whining of the notes coming to life on the sheet. But most of all, her soul longed to feel the music, just once more, as it throbbed through her, scraping against the roof of her mouth in a cold rush of wine, gushing into her bloodstream like a fey, tingling caress and, finally, echoing the drum of her heart, fathomless and true. Nadine shifted on the bench as the stage music swelled in a wistful seventh, almost resolved, almost whole, blurring the squawks of the birds, the clatter of the concession stand, the clacking of the stroller wheels and the pitter-pattering of the squirrels into one melodious torrent. Nadine felt a sigh escaping her; there had never been music like this. Music that could merge soul and body as it extolled legatos and fermatas, and all of the eternity that notes on a scale had to offer. Brushing the crumbs off her clothes, Nadine rose to her feet. The stage was not far, only one block away. Surely she could go, if only for five minutes, and inhale the perfection of that music.

Crumpling up the remains of her sandwich, Nadine started forward only to stop and wince at the slight tug on her finger. Why, of course, the string. About the undo the knot and toss it in the garbage can along with the ruins of her lunch, she paused and frowned. The files…oh yes, the files. The files must be labeled. More than that, the checks must be compiled and organized and all the old receipts must be sorted and shredded. Otherwise, Adamson College would unravel. Nadine just knew it. Adamson College would unravel and she would be the first to go. Tossing her wadded-up lunch into the garbage can, she gulped and hurried out of the park.


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Amy Pollard is a poet, writer and student. She maintains a book review blog at http://cafereads.blogspot.com/. Her poetry has appeared (or is forthcoming) in Emerge Literary Journal, Eunoia Review and The Copperfield Review.

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Author: Amy Pollard

Contributor: Gary Clifton

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"George, you know them darkies ain't allowed in here." George stood on Turner's Drugstore stoop in the sweltering August sun. James and Early Dee behind, stared at their bare feet on the brick sidewalk, their faded jeans, nearly white from years of harsh washing and sun-bleaching on a hot clothesline, gapped six inches above the ankles.

"Made a nickel apiece rakin' Miz Evan's leaves. Jes' wanted to buy some candy." In 1952, a nine year old had good reason to be afraid of a big man in the Alabama Klan like Willis Turner. Turner was heavily into "The Cause" of white superiority.

"Get your white trash ass in here and buy for them."

George picked out a meager selection while James and Early Dee stood, noses pressed against the window glass. Turner took his money easily enough. "Keep runnin' with them coloreds out there," he gestured, "and your mama's shack likely gonna have a fire, George," Turner said, eyes radiating hatred. He was fiftyish, roundish, with yellow teeth and a thin comb-over. "And don't sit out there on my curb." He stepped out and kicked at Early Dee's backside, but missed.

That night, Turner's Drugstore burned smooth to the ground. The "cause" here was definitely arson by gasoline. Townspeople spread the word ol' Turner was up to insurance fraud.

Sheriff Roberts agreed, because he slapped Turner in jail. But one of the Klan was a judge and sprung him. It would have been Turner's ass, the sheriff said, if only he could find the gas can.

The insurance company wouldn't pay and Turner ended up sitting on the curb in front of a pile of burn debris - until the bank repossessed the property. Seems the banker, a vocal Klan brother, wasn't quite as imbued with the Klan "cause" as Willis Turner when dollars were the bottom line.

An old wino was said to have drunkenly slurred more than once he'd seen George, James, and Early Dee toss a gas can into a passing boxcar. He guzzled so much wine he died of cirrhosis not long after. Who'd believe three kids from skidsville had enough sense to burn down a drugstore anyway?

Nobody ever did try to set fire to George's shanty. Not enough fervent "cause" by the bigots to muster the courage to attempt the deed, you might suppose


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Gary Clifton, forty years a cop has over thirty short fiction pieces published or pending with online sites. He has an M.S. from Abilene Christian University.

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Author: Gary Clifton

Contributor: Chad Bolling

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Most people in my time are ageless and live forever without fear of a natural death. It was not through science that this was achieved. It was through myth, the supernatural, and the like that ageless immortality was given to the human race. Not to say that science hadn't achieved many wondrous advancements.

In my time, “humans” have traveled to galaxies far past our own. Because of our advancement in lifespan, distant space exploration was made possible. We can spend many decades in cryo-sleep, traveling through deep space, and those at home don’t age a day while they wait for their explorer to return home. We have colonies on Mars and many reside in space-station cities that house millions of “souls”.

The other problem the human race had was disease. Cancer more specifically, but the path to immortality and agelessness proved to be one in the same with our quest to become healthy and disease free. Cancer, and many other deadly diseases were no longer a problem once humans “agreed” to become immortal.

Wars are still fought, unfortunately. Sometimes even nuclear war. However, the immortality “treatment” not only stopped disease, but renders humans immune to the effects of radiation. Despite the immunities to radiation from the bombs, the intense light flash which occurs after detonation harms immortals severely.

It is a simple (well not too simple) decision one must make, whether or not they want to live forever. However unbelievably good this agelessness and immortality “treatment” may seem, there are some drawbacks. Like any medicine it has side-effects, and as you can imagine, the side effects for a treatment that cures death and aging must be quite severe. However, I can assure you that they are easy to get used to after a few decades.

The first and most severe side-effect is that you cannot be in the presence of direct sunlight or any type of UV ray. This is perhaps the most unappealing effect the “treatment” has and perhaps even, the main reason many decide not to do it.

The next-side effect is very minor, unless you love garlic. I must admit, being the lover of Italian food that I am, for me personally it took longer to get used to eating pasta sauce without garlic than never being able to see the sun again. The second side-effect being of course, a painful and deadly allergy to garlic.

Oh, I almost forgot the most severe side effect. After the “treatment”, you have an insane thrust for fresh, warm blood from a still beating heart. This part must have slipped my mind, as it is thought by some to be the worst side-effect, I myself find the thrust quite delightful. That is, of course, once it has been quenched.


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Chad lives in Long Beach, California and loves to read and write science fiction when he is not enjoying the cinema or a fine cheeseburger. He has been published in Farther Stars Than These.

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Author: Chad Bolling

Contributor: Chris Sharp

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“Papa, I was just accidentally coming up with the name of that salmon you pulled out of that little brook the other day with your fingers. It was the General Patton brook salmon. That’s what you called this salmon, Papa. Remember?”
Mary’s drinking is revolting, Hemingway said in his head, as he liked to do when he was writing. Without pencil or typewriter in front of him, he was in the writing habit inside his brain anyway, chronicling Mary as he had done for their last safari together following that crazy Pauline in “The Green Hills of Africa.” Mary was a good wife with a big heart and loyal to him and she was also the biggest imposter and the littlest fool he had ever known in his life.
“Mary,” he said to her. This fourth wife had become such a Hemingway imitation that he thought of her caged in parenthesis on one of his rough drafts.
“But I know why you wrote about about Georgie so derisively, Papa. Georgie Patton was a terrible bully to you in France when you were only trying to serve your country and write about the war.”
“Thank you. Now go in your room Mary and stay in there.”
“Go into my little room like a little child.”
“That may be your charm, Mary, to be a little child.”
“Oh Papa, you understand the people you write about so well. Can you just spare a little understanding for your wife, too?” she said. But compliantly she back-pedaled out of his cabin and started closing his door for him. “You know so much about animals, Papa. You know how desperate an animal is when they try to talk to you.”
“Then why don’t you stop being an animal?”
She only glared at him as she vanished into the door.
Hemingway’s own forest cabin was looking more like the real Arles room that Van Gogh sat in than ever. It was that Dutchman’s doing to make him so crazy, that little Vincent boy who had burned himself up in his own artistic integrity and then finished himself with his gun because nothing else would stop the artistic radiation in him.
Hemingway’s twelve-gauge shotgun Old Boss leaned in the corner waiting for action, out from hiding in the basement. Once Old Boss had been in the hands of his father, Dr. Clarence, as he was known to his backwoods patients. During a safari vacation once Dr. Clarence finished off a great old elephant the hunting party had named Perry. Today, when Hemingway squeezed his eyes shut tightly, he saw the elephant’s dying eye one more time shining right on the darkness underlying everything else.
Now the ghost of the young Agnes Von Kurowsky was in his cabin also, entering as she did so mysteriously and silently as she had moved into his Italian hospital room over four decades go. Impossible to believe his faithful war nurse had been replaced by an old woman nearly seventy years old. Yet Agnes had never given any indication she had ever aged beyond her twenty-five years tallied when she had first met him on the Austrian front.
Her long blond hair was all tied up in the back according to the rules of the Red Cross, so that her womanly aspect couldn’t spread germs among the wounded in the Milan Soldier’s Hospital. Few men had been wounded in so many places as the nineteen-year-old Hemingway. Agnes’s idea of treating him was to shut in his body so no one would see it, step up into his bed and spread herself all over his wounds.
Agnes had a style of her own. As she lay over his body, she pulled at the bands holding her hair in the back and suddenly her blond hair would drop over his face like a tent, turning into a shelter where his face would share an absolute privacy with hers. It is the one time in his life when he felt totally safe.
“What are you doing, Agnes?”
“Checking you out, Hemingway. Want to be sure the Austrians didn’t pull the plug from you having good children like you should.”
“But look, Agnes, the sun also rises.”
“Don’t even say it. Obviously, you’re more than okay. What a shame if you weren’t. You certainly have a duty to father a child as cheeky as you are, Hemingway.”
She had disappeared with this statement immediately, because his time travel expired whenever he had lapsed into referring to anything that happened after 1919. That was when the beautiful Agnes had vanished after writing she intended to marry some Italian lieutenant she met somewhere.
As Hemingway had picked up Old Boss, there was an energized but tricky thought in his mind. He decided he was going to kill someone who was not himself. But then by the time he had reached the closed door of Mary’s room, losing all of his breath not just with his movements but the panting of his heart, he had pushed two shells into his double-barrel Old Boss and resolved to kill the first person he saw, even if that was going to be himself.
“Bang.”
The “bang” sounded sort of Chinese. He would like to have told his friend the General Vinegar Joe Stilwell how Chinese this dying sounded when death was right in your face talking to you. At once he felt his life had been so twisted with words even his death had arrived as a word.
As a bottle-fly flew over the body, it witnessed that the great writer’s upper face had been blown off, leaving only the famous white beard alone.
Mary was out the door and screamed. “Oh Papa, why, why, why?”
The bottle-fly could not answer Mary’s question but buzzed and observed everything until at the end of the day he had also died.


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Chris Sharp has short stories published in the archives of Daily Love, Linguistic Erosion, Yesteryear Fiction and Weirdyear, as well as under Google: “Short Stories by Chris Sharp.” His new book “Dangerous Learning” is distributed by Barnes & Noble.

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Author: Chris Sharp

Contributor: Susan Dale

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‘Soldiers steadily advancing.’ He fell to the ground, this Cherokee son, fighting in Vietnam. He was laying pressed tight against a log. Tall, thick underbrush concealed him from approaching guerrillas; the guerrillas advancing up from an underground tunnel.

A steady stream of them coming to keep coming. ‘Parades of Asian soldiers. As many vietcong, as ants emerging from an ant hill. Marching up and forward with set purpose.’

Sunset to twilight. The blue-black beginnings of night peeking around the corner with starry eyes when he felt brave enough to pop his head up and assess. ‘More, than more guerrillas; all emerging from that same underground tunnel. Fanning out to be here, there, everywhere. Steps cracking branches and rustling underbrush. All taking positions that begin battles with Arvin. Arvin waiting for them behind tree lines.’

The death and dying that began in a narrow sunset, continued with blazes of orange and golds that thrashed a violet twilight. The twilight led to blue-black night, to black-black night. All the time he stayed motionless. Quiet, behind the log in shadowed sundown. Wrapped in a harrowing night of owl eyes and jungle screams, of battles and battle cries. Screams of tracers. Screams of men. Through it all, he heard stars shouting directions to the moon. The moon heard and widened to full face to create a valley of light, by which guerrillas slunk back to the tunnels; many less soldiers than when the battles began.

There, in the deep, dark tunnels, the jungle fighters stayed throughout this night, and the nights thereafter. Nights after nights: nights until the gray’ before dawns. After coming up, they moved through amplified days of grasping, gasping battles on this war-torn earth___ to nights within the dark tunnels. Battles upon battles: sunsets into sunrises: twilights into sun-ups.

And while he was yet lying tight against the log, he felt that he too was moving beyond time measured in hours and minutes. ’I enter an interim that transfixes me into leaving when I will.’

The time, this time removed from the body of the universe. Time was entering into the arteries of his being. Changing time palpitating inside of him. Time expanding, shrinking, as he lay behind the log. His time collapsed around space. Space being swallowed by other spaces. Spaces reaching beyond sundown to stretch towards a time of stars and other worlds.

Once a time when he looked into the sky and saw sunspots on the sun. Sunspots flashing and jumping___ altered the time within him. Behind the log he stayed, and knew, as he was lying there, that he was both in front and behind time. He was following time and looking back at time___ to be part of the moments being shattered by rocket attacks and mortar fires. Behind the log he remained. He remembered to know, thus fear the grenades and bullets zinging over his head.

Yet pressed behind time, and against the log when he saw slashes of sunsets sink into ivory twilights. Still and yet, he laid silent, motionless, fearful behind the log while the sun sunk further to be behind a mountain range.

Within the immense silence of another mountain night, ’how many nights has it been,’ his eyes held to the womb of mother moon. Her soft sure light bathed the heavens and gave birth to myriads of baby stars. He was drifting off in dreams of the six grandfathers. They were picking him up and moving him one step closer to transcendence.

And when he awoke, the Cherokee son realized that he had been carried over to a time given over to what he was becoming. And what he was becoming actually saw the sun trembling the next day, simultaneous with mortar attacks that shook the earth. He rubbed his eyes and looked again. Cassava vines were sweeping along the earth. Crawling about and choking everything in their path, including the cavity that swallowed the guerrillas.

The next morning, ’but what morning, when?’ guerrillas were chopping through the vines’ profundity with machetes. Heading into another day of bloody battles. Rushing forth, yelling, cursing into bloodshed and death.

But then the next night, the 22nd night of the third moon, the land was sanctified by the star-studded curtains of the sky falling to earth. This was the night that the guerrillas completed what it was they came to do.

‘They came to kill and to be killed,’ he concluded.

The following morning, ’what morning?’ broke with sunrise shining against a dusk of the mountains. Frail facets of sunlight broke into a drifting fog. The guerrillas left, so too did he leave. He hustled away from the killing fields, but again. Away from skies dark with crows circling. Away from v-shapes of black wings in the skies. Away from plumes of smoke rising from charred lands. From blood-soaked ground. From a cratered earth; from cratered minds; from broken
bodies; away from all of it. And on his way to gone, he realized
that he had fulfilled the Cherokee direction of the west; dark and death.


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Susan’s poems and fiction are on Eastown Fiction, Tryst 3, Word Salad, Pens On Fire, Ken *Again, Hackwriters, and Penwood Review. In 2007, she won the grand prize for poetry from Oneswan.

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Author: Susan Dale