Contributor: Shihab Noor and Dekript Pakpoom-Shihai

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This last golden day, of this golden week, begun like gold. Not quite shimmering exactly, not gold dust to be sure, but the homogenous dulled gold that marks the mornings of my life. Was it this morning, I asked myself? The answer repeated itself a million times over in my hollowed-out skull.

Not yet.

My feet touched the floor, and I placed my hands on my knees tentatively. They still ached from the previous days labor. A golden, fruitful labor it was. The gold coins I left on the dresser still shone with their hard-day’s satisfaction. Of what more could I ask?

The day’s golden moon lights streets and falls golden in through windows upon hands touched with gold rings, embossed with golden rubies. It’s time for work! Excitedly I snatch my golden jumpsuit out of the dresser drawer and fumble with the zipper as I pull it up over my shoulders. The words “factory man” embossed in gold varsity lettering shine on the front of the jacket, broadcasting my profession to the golden streets ahead of me. This was gonna be a good day…

I step out the door, a golden smile on my face. From across the street I see “bag woman,” in her wonderful jumpsuit. She grins, “Hello!” Yes, she is my favorite neighbor. It is written in the book! Out onto the golden streets I go, and into the golden light I grow, and onto the golden bus, whose golden driver, “driver man,” I know. Today is a golden day, I know.

Gold bus skips down the street, stopping to pick up such friends as “birdtender woman” “Grave man” “Scholar man” and “Old mann.” A quick glance out the window reveals fields of gold boys and gold girls twirling and shouting in a golden meadow. The future! The bus drives through Bisch district, the last stop before the “FACTORY” and as I stare out the glass of the window I see something different. At the exit point of the Bisch district sewer was a man standing. He stood, his eyes wide, his arms stretched, and his teeth bore. This man was known only in the golden tales. Silver man. Shining with the sheen of a thousand sons, “Silver man” bellowed at my bus. “Old man” seemed startled, but “driver man,” well he’s a good man, and he kept on driving to the factory! It looked like “Silver man” saw me through the window, but what do I know!

The golden bus pulled up at the “FACTORY” and let all of its remaining passengers out. I gave “driver man” a kiss and stepped off the bus and into the “FACTORY” parking lot. I saw my friend “Assembly line man” and I waved to him; a friendly wave, with no animosity intended or received. We went on our ways, I into “gold door A,” he into “gold door B.”

Today’s a good day. I see “factory man” on the factory floor, his hands grabbing at a golden box moving along a curving, gold conveyor belt. And there, at the other end, is “factory man,” one of my closest friends at the “FACTORY.” It is written in the book!

Now I standing next to “factory man,” doing the work! I move this box to this belt, and that tube to that slot! My hands move quickly! I like to think that I am the fastest “factory man” there is, but what do I know! I am a “factory man,” and I move golden boxes!

The factory is hot. I perspire and gold sweat begins to drip off of my face and fall in small puddles on the golden floor. Now I am next to “factory woman”. She is not a pleasant woman and she is of the texture of golden eggs. It is written in the book! I notice a golden pustule on her forehead. To her, I turn, and I shout, “factory woman, this is not part of protocol.” She makes a quizzical sound, but before she can do anything I reach for her head and squeeze. The pustule pops, golden pus oozes down her face. Her tongue flashes out, hoping to lap up the golden nectar before it evaporates in the sticky factory air. Golden youth returns to her countenance.

We work on silently. No one speaks on what just happens. All the better for little old golden me! Ears perk up, ring of the bell,

LUNCH TIME.

I wait patiently in line for my Texas Toast Grilled Cheese Sandwich and Chips Lunch. Everyone murmurs to each other about this and that. My shoulder is tapped. I turn and find myself looking at “boss man”, a fat old gold man wearing shining gold robes emblazoned with gold birds.

“factory man, you made a big mistake. There’s a seat in my orifice office for you, go now and you may be speared.” My eyes widened, a darker shade of gold cast a pall over my face. Uh-oh, spaghetti-o’s.

“boss man’s” orifice office was small damp and wet. It’s shade of gold was not pleasant to the eyes or nose. As I sat in my chair I recalled my sins. They shone golden in the dark recesses of my mind.

A window appeared above the office door. I saw “boss man” appear and smile a wide toothy grin. He held up four fingers and said “four days, bad boy, you got a lot of work to do.” His laugh echoed through the office. I shivered. The laugh continued, and only now did I realize it was not “boss man” laughing at all. Out of the shadows in the corner of the room stepped a sculpted, looming, nude, figure.

Silver man.

His smile widened in conjunction with his eyes as he strode towards me, making a cyclical motion with his hands directed at my junktrunk.

------------

To this day if anyone tells you Silver Man does not exist, say “no” he touched factory man. Who am I now?


“Ya Johnny!”


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We are two twins from, but not in blood, though we love each other. We are from Kulu, but frequent the towns of Baltimore and Philadelphia. America is like a second home to us! Our friction and pottery has been published in such places as “Seafood Dinner Surprise”, “Cook’s Cutlery”, and “Chief Fundamentals”. We find history a very interesting thing. Enjoy our readings and books! This one’s for you!

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Author: Shihab Noor and Dekript Pakpoom-Shihai

Contributor: Harry Noussias

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Every man has his destiny.

He suddenly awoke with that uneasy feeling. This was quite unusual for the coldhearted, uncaring, ruthless, businessman. No sense in trying to go back to sleep. Something just wasn’t right. Fluffing the pillow or turning over on his other side wasn’t going to help. The uneasiness was just too overpowering.

Maybe a walk before going to the office would help.

On a bridge not far away stood another man staring at the murky water below. He too had an uneasy feeling. To jump or not to jump, that was the question.

As the businessman exited his home he could see in the very far off distance, in that other side of town, the dark cloud which was belching out of the smokestacks of his factory. Normally it would have been a joyous sight for him. Production meant money, lots of money.

This time it was different.

For the first time he noticed the slight stinging in his eyes from the very fine nearly imperceptible layer of dust particles that covered all surfaces everywhere - the tree leaves, the mail boxes, his BMW, everything. Why hadn’t he noticed it before?

The ruthless businessman was noticing everything. The other man, the one on the bridge, was noticing almost nothing. He stood on that bridge not paying any attention to the birds joyfully singing or to the beauty of the wild flowers that lined the river’s banks. He only stared at the murky water flowing beneath. To jump or not to jump, that was still the question.

Why did the businessman choose to walk over the bridge instead of walking in some other direction? Perhaps it was destiny.

Destiny cannot be changed.

The troubled businessman stopped dead in his tracks. It took less than a thousandth of a second to process the information about the contemplator with emotionless eyes and a sorrowful face about to end it all. He sensed determination. If it’s one thing that he understood, it was determination.

Maybe this explained that uneasy feeling. Something was causing him to be here at this exact moment, something that instilled purpose and meaning within him. Here was an opportunity to act unselfishly and do some good for someone else. It was a philosophically profound revelation from within the depths of his being.

Surely he could talk this man out of self-destruction. It’s just a matter of knowing how to negotiate. Ruthless businessmen are keen negotiators and he was an absolute master.

The conversation began. Things cannot be that bad. You have a lot to live for. What about your family? Think of them. There is always help available. God loves you. Just step away from the railing. He watched as he spoke but noticed no change in expression on his listener’s face. It wasn’t working. None of it was working.

Giving up is not an option. Never give up. It’s just a matter of trying a different approach. So the conversation took a different turn. You’re not the only one with failings. My life hasn’t been perfect. I’ve used and abused people. I’ve been heartless, callous and often cold-blooded toward my fellow man. I am unloved and lonely. I’m very lonely. This was working. His listener was showing sympathy. He could see tears coming from his eyes and a smile, a warm compassionate, understanding smile. It was over. The man promised to come off the bridge.

The businessman walked away feeling good with the promise from the man to come off the bridge. The experience had touched and changed him deeply in a profound and irrevocable manner. Things were going to be different. He was going to be a better person. Today all his employees could take the day off with pay.

But, he would always be a businessman. That was his destiny. And even though things had changed. Destiny itself cannot be changed.

The man that contemplated ending his life would keep his promise to come off the bridge. He had shown kindness to a stranger. He too was changed by the experience. He too would fulfill his destiny. Destiny cannot be changed.

The man on the bridge smiled as he watched the businessman walk away. He paused for a moment to gaze at the beauty of the wild flowers and to listen to the birds singing and then… he jumped.


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Harry Noussias is a writer of short stories, plays and poetry. His works may be found in print and online magazines including Linguistic Erosion’s sister site Daily Love.

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Author: Harry Noussias

Contributor: Jon Moray

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Rusty “The Crusher” Crusheda stood outside the batter’s box, took a few practice swings while eyeballing the pitcher on the mound for the Kansas City Royals. The pitcher, Lefty Nolan, the ace of the staff and the reigning Cy Young award winner peered back at Rusty, with eyes beckoning him into the batter’s box. He was no ordinary pitcher and Rusty was no ordinary hitter. And this showdown was no ordinary showdown.
It was the last game of the season and Rusty was a homerun away from breaking the single season record. The stadium was overflowing with fans, hoping to witness an historic night. Lefty had something to gain from this game as well. He was going for the league’s lead in wins, trying to notch number 25 under his belt and all but guaranteeing a second consecutive CY Young award. A reporter asked him before the game whether he was going to pitch to Rusty, to which he replied, “I am coming with my best and we’ll see if his best is better than my best.” Lefty’s best featured a fastball clocked as high as 105 mph. Rusty’s best was destroying a fastball. Something had to give.
Rusty stepped into the batter’s box, while a ball boy handed the home plate umpire a special hologram marked baseball to authenticate the identity of the potential record setting baseball. No one in the stadium was sitting. Flashbulbs were popping as Rusty prepared to bat. Networks broke away from their regular programming to cover Rusty’s every move at the plate.
Lefty bore down, focused on the catcher’s signals. He shook off a curveball and a waste pitch outside before agreeing on his bread-n-butter, the fastball. Lefty went into his wind up and hurled the baseball toward the plate. The pitch went right down the middle and Rusty swung as hard as he could. He made contact and the ball skyrocketed off his bat and into the chilly autumn night, gradually elevating up and over the right field upper deck façade. The ball looked like it was going into orbit as it disappeared out of the stadium. Suddenly, it was gone, vanished, out of thin air. Everyone that saw the ball thought they lost sight of it in the dark. Fans that were outside the stadium and were situated in the vicinity where the ball would’ve landed, reported never seeing it make land fall. They did report seeing a flash and a vibrating blur in the direction where the ball was leaving the stadium. The ball would never be found, becoming the strangest and most unsolved mystery in modern history.
Unknown to any of Earth’s scientists, the flash and the vibrating blur represented a portal to another dimension, into a world in its infancy in regards to evolution.
Oog worked diligently on sharpening his rock into a point when a thump behind him startled him and drew his attention. He turned and saw a white foreign object lying in the dusty tan terrain. He cautiously hunched over to the object and surveyed it curiously. He hopped around it several times before kicking at it lightly. He gathered enough courage to grasp at it and pick it up. He felt the texture of the red stitches as he brought the sphere to his mouth. He instantly spat, disgusted at the beaten leather taste.
Several other inhabitants converged upon him, wanting to examine the new object. Oog ran off in defense and was able to distance himself from the crowd, suddenly becoming protective over his new souvenir. Gretch, the biggest and the most feared among the natives, picked up a large club and stomped over towards Oog. Oog, fearful of the giant, backed away and in his haste tripped over a large stone, dropping the sphere in the process. Gretch made up ground, while Oog quickly shot to his feet, and retrieved the orb. As Gretch grew nearer, Oog threw the sphere at Gretch in desperation and Gretch instinctively lifted his club in a swinging motion to defend himself. The ball met the bat and careened off of it about two hundred feet. They both looked on in wonder at the flight of the object and grunted at their discovery. Oog retrieved the ball and again tossed it at Gretch and a new pastime was born.


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Author: Jon Moray

Contributor: Kristen Keckler
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Pam and Jerry arrived at the Eden pool, the adults-only section of the resort, expecting to see flesh—the website had alluded to “European-style bathing.” So when they’d found everyone in swimsuits, Pam was relieved. Jerry pretended to be disappointed but he wasn’t. He just wanted to be, didn’t want to worry about anything, nothing, not even tits.
“Isn’t this classy?” Pam said as they claimed two in the line of chaise lounges. She’d never seen an infinity pool—the pool’s tiles shone like opals, the water flowing over into a tile-lined moat. But instead of lining up with the ocean, the edge only lined up with the fence.
Green hammocks hung from poles among raised queen-size mattresses and pruned palms with bark like the skin of pineapples. A clutch of yuppies from Jersey sat on the ledge, debating St. Martin over St. Barts, the casinos, golf, and “natives.”
“Listen to them,” Pam said. “The one in the purple thong is a doctor—surgeon, cardiology.”
“You miss nothing,” Jerry said.
“I miss you,” she said.
Jerry laughed—she was right—and stroked his scruffy gray goatee. As Pam rubbed milky sunscreen into his back, the faded eagle tattooed on his deltoid flexed. Still laughing, he returned the favor, and when he lingered over the familiar constellation of freckles on her shoulders, she said, “Get under the straps?”
She adjusted the front of her pink one-piece, arranged the skirt-thingy that hid her uppermost thighs. Jerry watched her tuck her champagne blonde hair under her floppy hat.
“Another margarita?” he asked.
“Let’s try that thing,” she said, stacking her magazines.
“That the lady at breakfast was talking about?”
“She was a teacher.”
“With a mouth like that.”
Pam grinned.
A Dominican waitress suddenly materialized, clad in all white, like a nurse, the outline of white underpants showing through tight slacks. She listened to his description, some piña colada daiquiri concoction.
“Miami Bice,” she said.
“Bice,” Jerry repeated, and kept repeating as the afternoon wore on.

#

Pam lowered herself into the pool, pushing the water in circles. “Look, Jerr, I’m a mermaid!” she called out, then crossed and rolled her eyes. She did a dance for him, stringing her fingers through the air like a belly dancer, the way she had years ago at Hogs and Honeys—she’d had a good little figure back then. Jerry still liked it, even if she didn’t.
He had that grin. He rolled his shoulders to the ambient music, winking at her, sipping his drink.
“Come in!” she said. “It’s refreshing, the water, it’s like caresses,” but he shook his head, took another sip. “Bice,” he said.
Their waitress—Luz—brought another round.
Under the surface, Pam slipped out of her top, felt the water flow over her nipples, tried to get Jerry’s attention, but he was studying the fence. She felt reckless, silly, even a little spurned, like she had the first time they met, at that dive bar watching some cover band. She licked the salt off her lips, waded to shallow end.

#

The sun had moved beyond their umbrella, and they squinted at the light glinting off the pool, something profound about it.
“I can’t believe we’re actually here,” Pam said.
“Are you crying?” Jerry glanced at her, then around the deck. “You’re not fucking crying.”
Two women in the chairs next to them were reading, one from a thick hardcover, which she lowered to her tanned stomach, as if she’d lost her thought.
“I’m just happy,” Pam said, rolling her body toward him. “Drunk and happy! Twenty-four years, and our little Jonah, that Tina actually married Jonah’s dad, and that Billy isn’t dead. Remember, we thought he’d be dead.”
“He’s a fucking dentist,” Jerry said.
“He was a wild man.”
“But Jonah,” Jerry said. And felt his own eyes welling. He said, “I never got why women cry, then say they’re happy.”
“It’s like men drinking,” she said.
“I never said I was happy.”
She held up the issue of People in her lap. “All these people who have so much more than us, private planes, infinity pools, Miami Vices every day. But they don’t have, I don’t know, anything real.”
Jerry sighed, stared at the supposedly infinite edge of the pool, kept staring.
“You deserve this vacation more than anyone—Jerry Conners, you deserve this!”
“Infinite my ass.”
“Especially after what happened on your birthday.”
He hefted himself up and lumbered over to the pool, the waistband of his trunks hanging low under his gut, waded in, waded away from her, jaw set, Bice high in the air. He dunked his head—shock of coldness.
Eyes closed, she counted her breaths, one through ten, trying to bring back the moment. When she opened them, he was beside her, dripping puddles onto the nice stone deck.

#

The sun now only hit the hammocks beside the fence, and the mattresses were scattered with damp towels abandoned and twisted into lumps. The wind had picked up, carrying a hint of chlorine and fryer grease. Luz appeared, asking, “You like something else?”
“No,” Pam said.
“Gracias,” he said, fumbling with a wad of bills, sliding several off for a tip.
Pam stood and looked at the pool, now empty. “See, Hun?” she said, pointing. “A petal from this morning!” There’d been lots, she’d heard, all colors of roses, when the pool opened that morning.
She dipped her feet in, and as the petal drifted across the swells, peach as a swatch of flesh, she imagined hundreds floating, spilling over.
Some waiters were wheeling in carts of flowers for a wedding, orchids, birds of paradise, and he noticed then, as if for the first time, the carefully landscaped plots along the fence, the lemon yellow lilies with orange freckles, the papery purple bougainvillea spilling over raised beds, and even his wife, hands stretched behind her neck, rising from the pool like a lotus.


- - -
Kristen Keckler's work has appeared in the Iowa Review, Prick of the Spindle, Ecotone, and other magazines. She currently teaches creative writing at Mercy College in the Bronx and is obsessed with basketball, astrology, flip-flops (sandals) and cats.

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Author: Kristen Keckler

Contributor: Ray Daley

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Some intact statues of The Last Mighty One still existed in the smaller outer provinces.

A few desperate people still left their votive offerings at the various altars in the vain hope that life would return to them one day.
That was the function of The Last Mighty One.

To bring life to the lifeless. To restore energy to the exhausted. Power to the powerless.

No-one truly understood the nature of his form.

Why wasn't he Human, like his devotees?
Obviously at some point in time people had known why he had taken that particular form.

The Great Rabbit.

Worship at his feet, prostrate, genuflect.

The Mighty Duracell.

Hear our prayers.

Bring the power back, light the darkness.
Save us from ourselves.


- - -
Ray Daley was born in Coventry & still lives there. He served 6 yrs in the RAF as a clerk & spent most of his time in a Hobbit hole in High Wycombe. He is a published poet & has been writing stories since he was 10. His current dream is to eventually finish the Hitch Hikers fanfic novel he's been writing since 1986.

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Author: Ray Daley

Contributor: Sean Crose

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In truth you prefer the dry harvest to its more colorful counterpart. Who wants to work with water outdoors in November? Besides, the dry harvest allows you to mostly work alone. It's just you, nature, the gas-powered picker, and the cranberries.
Naturally such solitary manual labor causes one's mind to wander. You tend to think of two things as you work your way across the rows of hard earth: the past and your ambitions.
In a distinct way you see them both as being connected, since you never actually fulfilled the promises you made to yourself back in the day. You wonder what some of your peers would say if they saw you now, toiling in soiled jeans at six-thirty in the morning.
Would they be embarrassed or would they simply turn to one another with “I told you so” looks? Of course you'd tell them that you love the work and are still planning on attending law school. Yet, being almost forty, that bold proclamation doesn't carry that much weight. You wonder if you even have the ambition to attend night classes anymore.
And so you continue on with your dry harvest, toiling under the awareness that others are thriving. On some mornings you find yourself wondering if your endless youth has finally morphed into belated adulthood. You've yet to come up with an answer to that question. You know only that all dry harvests come to an end.


- - -
My work has appeared in such publications as FICTION 365, CRACK THE SPINE, THE COPPERFIELD REVIEW and, of course, LINGUISTIC EROSION. I live in Connecticut with my wife, Jen, and Cody, the world's greatest cat.

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Author: Sean Crose

Contributor: Christopher Grey
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The heat seemed worst after dusk, as if the layers of summer piled on top of each other under a thick, humid, blanket. That is why he sat on the roof of his building, enjoying a cigarette and flipping through a magazine. The last of his beer was consumed half an hour ago and so he was thirsty, drowsy and fighting a headache.

Still, it was cooler up there.

He heard sirens below and rose to look out over the street, but stopped. There was lavender in the air and so he knew she was there.

"The girl I can't forget," he said without turning.

She didn't respond.

"Do you remember our song?"

His mind fluttered away for a moment, recalling their time in Madrid. Candlelight hovering above the plaza. Red wine. The scent of lavender.

"The melody only," he lied.

He felt her breath behind him and gentle fingers squeezing his arm, running down to his hand and to the tips of his fingers.

She began humming softly, the music entering from deep inside conjuring it all. The war. The lost battle on the mountain. The scimitar driving past the breastplate and icy pain splinters piercing into his core. He remembered seeing the red cross on white flags above the horizon, collapsing underneath smoke and fire.

"Why New York?" She asked quietly.

"So I'll forget."

"But you can't."

He turned to her. She had the same radiance she did three centuries years ago. Dark skin and green eyes. Improbable perfection in her eastern face.

"How did you find me?" He asked, but didn't need to. She always found him. Even before Spain, before Gaul. When Iberia was a colony and the ships arrived in their majesty from the Atlantic continent. She found him then. She found him in Athens. And in Thebes. In Alexandria and in the wastes of the Bavarian winter.

"I can see your heart," she said.

"Then you know I am lost."

"It's the saddest it has ever been," her voice was just above a whisper.

He held her hands and brought her close.

"You have to take me to him?" He asked, but didn't need to. She didn't answer, only took his lips with hers. Lavender spilled into him and for a moment he could feel nothing else.

When they released her eyes softened and she said, "It is time."

Behind her, he saw the masked man, dark overcoat whipping and cracking in a wind that didn't exist.

"Where will I be the next time?"

She lead him to the masked man, gently holding his hand.

"We don't know if there will be a next time."

He stayed silent, understanding. It was all coming to an end. His role was finished. He was unnecessary. As lost as he thought he was. When he closed his eyes, he pictured rising through the light, swimming through the sea of fire that created the light, and dissolving into the dark abyss that separates mankind from God.

The masked man was cold and quiet, as he always was. He held a revolver in a gloved hand. A far cry from the old days when he carried a scythe or trident.

She was quiet too, unable to look him in the eyes. Even in the dark heat of the New York summer, she was beautiful. He would have said "I love you" before the masked man shot him, but he didn't need to.

His lifelong trial was at last over and he rose through the light, swam through the sea of fire and dissolved into the abyss before God.


- - -

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Author: Christopher Grey

Contributor: Ray Daley
- -


I'm sitting there alone on a park bench with nothing but the fading remnants of my thoughts and dreams for company when the bomb finally goes off. There are children who are still playing on the swings, people are walking their dogs too. A little way down the path a couple are walking, holding hands, probably on their first date.

On the pond, ducks and swans are competing for space with the model boat enthusiasts. Underneath the shady Oak trees a family is bonding over a picnic lunch.

And this is the way the world ends.

No countdown timer, no ticking clock, nothing visible to defuse. It's the ultimate weapon.

You can't disarm what you can't see.

When it happens it's the biggest bang since the first one.

***

And yet all around me they carry on with their lives as though nothing has changed for them, the kids swinging higher; determined to get over the top, sandwiches being passed around amongst friends and family, dogs refusing to let go of interesting sticks and ducks glaring at model yachts.

Because this is how my world ends.

Not with a bang, nor a whimper. The only victim of the fallout is me.

I sit alone on the bench where she just walked away, still holding the ring after she said no.

The bomb was dropped.

No.

The emotional time-bomb exploded. And this is how my world ends.

Wounded by rejection, death by broken heart.


- - -
Ray Daley was born in Coventry & still lives there. He served 6 yrs in the RAF as a clerk & spent most of his time in a Hobbit hole in High Wycombe. He is a published poet & has been writing stories since he was 10. His current dream is to eventually finish the Hitch Hikers fanfic novel he's been writing since 1986.

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Author: Ray Daley

Contributor: Portia Dawn

- -
It has happened again. The species of Earth has once again come to its turning point. Humans, animals, and plants. They all think they have what it takes to survive. But nobody can escape the inevitable. All things must come to an end.
But how have things survived so long? Because of women like us. The Mothers of Nature. There used to be hundreds of us.
Each time humanity needed us, one would step up to save them. In order for them to live, one of us must die.
I am the last one of many. Humanity has been given too many chances. I'm not going to fie for them.
I'm not afraid of death. They just keep making mistakes they can't fix. Polluting water, waging wars, and making even more decisions that could kill them all. After this last one, who knows if they'll survive without my help.
So I have only a little advice for humanity " Adapt or die."


- - -
I enjoy books.
I love to write.
I would love to meet all my heroes.

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Author: Portia Dawn

Contributor: Marian Brooks

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Every time Clara wears her black leather jacket she thinks of Joe Grimaldi. He purchased this jacket for her fifteen years ago. It’s missing a button now but otherwise, still wears well.

Clara graduated from an Ivy League university with a degree in English Literature. She loved ballroom dancing. She was quite tall, not really glamorous but classy and fashionable. She twisted her blonde hair neatly into a bun at the nape of her neck. Joe liked to kiss her there. It tingled for a long while afterward.

Clara categorized Joe as her first and only “true grit” boyfriend after the divorce. She was tired of academics and thought she might be missing something by limiting her mate selection to college graduates. Joe never finished high school, lived with his sister and sometimes drove a green taxi with several hefty dings on the passenger side. His grammar was deplorable. He took on construction work from time to time just to buy small trinkets for Clara. Joe had a blue lightning bolt tattooed on his right forearm. She’d never once dated anyone with a tattoo.

Joe loved to dance. In fact, that’s how they met, at the Summit Ballroom in New Jersey. It was an elegant venue with fine table linen and the customary mirrored ball rotating from the ceiling. Sometimes Joe would just jump up in mid-air during a swing number without any warning and land on the floor in a split. Clara laughed until she could no longer breathe. There was a glow on her face when they waltzed or tangoed. He made Italian spaghetti sauce from scratch. Joe thought Clara was beautiful. She was his “Uptown Girl.”

It took several months for the grammatical errors and lack of good manners to begin to grate on Clara’s sensibilities. He embarrassed her by greeting her friends with “Yo” and “Whazzup?” Eventually, all things conspired to reach the inevitable conclusion. She began making excuses for not being available and he began following her whenever he had the opportunity. He called Clara five times a day and parked his taxi outside of her upscale, high-rise condo, waiting and hoping. Ultimately, he gave up in frustration and, after a few choice expletives, drove away for the last time dragging his tailpipe.

Several months later, he discovered Sandy, a petite redhead, with a wild history. She helped him forget about Clara who was happy for them both and relieved for herself.

Clara met Ethan Granger, II at an art exhibit and, after a short courtship, married him. He knew when to applaud at concerts and could quote many Shakespearean sonnets. He often did just that. Ethan was grounded, handsome and refined, a gentleman whose decorum Clara could count on even though he had a weakness for outlandish bow ties. But he rarely kissed Clara and disliked dancing of any sort.

Two weeks ago, Clara’s friend called with the dreadful news that there had been an accident. Joe was dead. He had electrocuted himself at a hotel construction site. Although Clara had not seen Joe for over ten years, she felt an overpowering compulsion to visit his grave site. His tombstone read, “Joseph Grimaldi danced his way into this world on March 6, 1948 and split on June 12, 2004.” Clara reached for a tissue in the pocket of her black leather jacket and began to weep.


- - -
Recently retired, Marian Brooks has begun to write some short fiction. Her work has appeared in Curly Red Stories, Linnet's Wings, First Stop Fiction and others.

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Author: Marian Brooks

Contributor: Ray Daley

- -
A man comes to your house, he is wearing a grey suit. He pulls at his tie nervously as he speaks to your mother. She asks his name, "William Gibson" he replies. You later discover that he calls himself Twelve Bears, he is of the Navaho Nation. It is not a traditional name, he has not been named in the traditional First Nation way.

He was not named for the first thing his mother saw after giving birth to him.
He jokingly says "Otherwise my name would be Hospital Ceiling."

There are many other possible reasons why he calls himself this name. He may have seen twelve bears, he may have killed twelve bears. He may have even owned twelve bears at some point in his life.

You will later discover that none of these reasons are the correct one.

"My mother was a good woman" he tells your mother. He insists on speaking to you in person but you refuse to come down the stairs, he looks very scary, afterwards you can remember telling your mother that. "It doesn't really matter, there will be another day." he says to your mother and excuses himself, leaving your home as quickly as he had entered it.

The following week you see on television that he has been arrested by officers of the Oak Ridge Police Department for the crime of murder. He has killed a boy the same age as you, leaving his mother as the only witness that he "had to kill Baby Bear". He is still being called William Gibson by the news reporters. Only this time he is calling himself Thirteen Bears.

You will remember this forever.


- - -
Ray Daley was born in Coventry & still lives there. He served 6 yrs in the RAF as a clerk & spent most of his time in a Hobbit hole in High Wycombe. He is a published poet & has been writing stories since he was 10. His current dream is to eventually finish the Hitch Hikers fanfic novel he's been writing since 1986.

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Author: Ray Daley

Contributor: Matthew H Emma

- -
Over the last two years, Tim Emmer had seen 80 short stories and two novels in printed works that sold seven million copies. Success brought him critical notoriety, but also social duties. Eloise Branberry, Tim’s publisher and CEO of Year of the Tiger Books expected him to attend various Upper East Side social events.
Eloise somehow convinced Tim to host a soiree celebrating the signing of author Michael Stevens inside his Manhattan apartment. The gong show took place September 14, 2012. Beginning at seven o’clock, Branberry and her cronies descended. One complained about having to “rough it” by driving her Porsche because the Bentley was being serviced. Another bitched the Brie cheese was too strong for his palette.
He shook hands, pretended to be grateful for their half-assed praise and tried to smile while grinding his teeth. Finally, at a quarter-past eight, Belgian Countess Brigitte Vonyckx walked through the door. Revelers knew her, but not as Tim’s girlfriend. Brigitte was polite, extending her respects to all who approached. Tim waited 20 minutes before texting her.
“Hi,” he wrote.
“Be right there,” Brigitte typed back.
Tim let Brigitte work the room. He got up, went to the bar and downed a couple Heinekens. Ninety minutes later, his phoned beeped.
“Help me,” Brigitte jokingly declared in her message.
He glanced over and saw his better half speaking with Eloise, Michael and a few people he didn’t know. They made eye contact and waved to each other. Tim got an idea and grabbed his phone.
“You look so damn hot tonight,” he texted Brigitte. “I’m going to our room. If you love me, meet me there in 10.”
Tim left the bar and darted towards the master suite. He walked in and began to pace, while nervously hoping Brigitte would follow. Sure enough, exactly 10 minutes later, his wish came true.
“Did anyone see you?” Tim asked her, as she closed the door.
“I don’t think so,” Brigitte answered.
“Shit,” Tim said. “I wanted every last one of them to see you walk in here with me.”
“Tim,” Brigitte said. “We really shouldn’t do this. You’re the host.”
“Hon,” Tim responded. “Not one of them means a thing to me. Only you do. I am so madly in love and want you right now. If anyone notices, who cares? Please, just one hour. They have booze, fancy food and their shallow conversations to keep them entertained.”
“The writer again proves he has a way with words,” Brigitte said. “You persuaded me.”
They undressed quickly and made torrid love for an hour, first on the floor and then in the shower. After completing their tryst, the pair re-emerged.
Jane Litchfield, Tim’s publicist gave him a look and grinned.
“Did you do what I think you did?” she inquired.
“Absolutely,” Tim responded.
“Alright,” Jane said, as she high-fived Tim.
“Jane,” Tim said. “Tell me the truth. Did anyone notice?”
“Everyone saw Brigitte follow you into your bedroom,” she answered. “That is what you’re wondering I take it?”
“That’s all I needed to know,” Tim replied.


- - -
Matthew H Emma is a freelance writer currently pursuing a career as a fiction author. His short story "Mutual Satisfaction" was published in the December 2012 issue of Skive Magazine. Mr. Emma resides in Valley Cottage, NY.

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Author: Matthew H Emma

Contributor: Joshua Dobson

- -
"What do you do?" the bar slut asked in an absurdly affected doll voice.

The question used to make me wince and gnash my teeth, that dismal afternoon in the dingy dive bar it made me giggle dementedly. The sound of my desiccated cackle disturbed even my jaded self, the bar slut was so stunned she stopped prosti-jecting, the flawless porcelain of her carefully controlled facade cracked for the briefest of seconds and she regarded me with utter revulsion in her dead doll eyes. She caught herself slipping and jerked immediately back into "sell" mode, twinkling her dead doll eyes twice as hard.

"I am a waiter," I said hollowly.

"Oh really, that's kewl. Where at?" she asked, back on script, but noticeably creeped out by me.

"Near here . . . the big black glass domes down by the highway."

"I didn't even know that was a restaurant and I love eating out . . . tee hee," she tinkled.

"No," I said, "I am not a restaurant server, I used to be, but now I am a waiter. I made the same mistake when I first read the ad headlined, Waiters Wanted. But when I interviewed with the man who is now my superior, a nondescript black man named Mr. Blackman, I learned that the opening the Black Dome Limited Liability Corporation sought to fill was that of Waiter, whose job description is nothing more nor less than sitting motionless, though an exception is made for blinking, yawning and the occasionally involuntary twitch, in a black chair, in near total darkness under one of the seven identical black domes for seven hours a day. I thought the whole thing sounded absurd, but when Mr. Blackman told me what the Black Dome Limited Liability Corporation paid Waiters, I . . . "

"What does it pay?" she demanded in her real voice, which didn’t sound the least bit like a cartoon bunny.

I told her.

"Wow! That is crazy. So you get paid for doin' nothing?" she asked incredulously.

"Essentially,” I said, “I get paid to wait."

"For what?" she asked.

"I don't know, and I don't think any of the other Waiters know either, though I can't be sure as we aren't allowed to fraternize or even speak to one another, however when I occasionally lock leprous eyes with another Waiter, they seem as clueless as me. But I do know that I will recognize that which we waiters await when it comes," I said.

"Must get pretty boring," she said.

"It gives me time to think." I gulped down my shot of rotgut. "There are things I think about only in my black chair, #327, one of seven-hundred-sixty-five identical black chairs in black Dome #7."

She arched an eyebrow as if intrigued.

"While I wait in the darkness, I have extremely vivid daydreams about faceless grey humanoids with no genitalia building some sort of huge irregular tower of ashy grey volcanic rock, it's getting bigger and bigger, stretching higher and higher into a grey sky that grows slightly darker with every block that is added. There are millions of the faceless grey things crawling all over each other like writhing maggots. They smash themselves between the rocks to make the mortar for their chaotically designless tower. They’re full of grey sludge inside. There’s something inside the crooked tower, something living and horrible, and it’s growing bigger with each second that passes."

"That's pretty weird, but it still sounds better than this," she said wearily in her real voice.

"What is this?" I asked disinterestedly.

"Oh, I'm not supposed to say . . ."

"What is this?" I asked disinterestedly.

"Okay, I guess I can tell you, but don't tell anyone," she said, glancing over both shoulders to see if anyone was listening. "I work here, well, not just here, but all kinds of dives like this. I work for Pine Barrens Vodka; they pay me to flirt with losers . . . no offense, in dumps like this to sell their shitty booze."

As my buzz was sufficient to clock in and start my shift in chair #327 under black Dome #7, I donned my sunglasses and made to take my leave from the gloomy confines of the dingy dive bar, but before I did, I set on the bar before the weary professional bar slut a black business card that read in red:

Mr. Blackman

Server

The Black Dome Limited Liability Corporation

- - -
Joshua Dobson likes to make his own fun.

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Author: Joshua Dobson

Contributor: David Elliott

- -
‘One year.’ He’d clicked on the link, entering the website for the first time in his life. ‘One year, and it’s come to this.’

Three-hundred-and-sixty-five days ago, Brian had come up with a plan. He’d decided to spend the rest of his life online; no more human interaction, no more disastrous relationships, no more work, no more physical activities. Brian was going to become a fully-fledged virtual person, a cyber-hermit, and how wonderful it might have been, if anything about his plan, his scheme, his anxiety-avoiding blueprint for a better way of life, had actually worked.
     

And maybe it could have worked, if circumstances had been different; if he hadn’t accidentally stumbled upon lonelysouls.com.
     

Brian wasn’t a lonely soul, of course. The idea was completely absurd. How could people assume such a thing? Just because Brian happened to have a less stimulating sex life than Pope Benedict the Sixteenth, did that automatically classify him as being a lonely soul? No, it did not. He was insulted by the Google adverts inference that he would be even mildly interested in that kind of service.   

His index finger was still trembling with suppressed rage, as he clicked the link.
     

Why did I ever click that link? Why, God? Why?
     

He’d met a girl on lonely-souls.com. Hot-lips 22. At first, they simply chatted. After a few days, their chatting had developed into laughing-out-loud. Before long, they were rolling-on-the-floor-laughing. Eventually, they were laughing-their-fucking-asses-off, and occasionally, to Brian’s delight, even pissing themselves laughing.
     

It was a match made in cyber-heaven.
     

Despite only knowing each other for a short while, they decided to dispense with the cyber-courting, throw caution to the wind, and become E-man and  E-wife. Hot-lips 22 accepted Brian’s proposal, and after a brief virtual engagement, they were cyber-married. A beautiful old virtual chapel, StAndrews.com, was booked for the big day, and everything went off without a hitch. The cyber-caterers were the very height of professionalism, the virtual band had all of their cyber-friends boogying until the early hours, and the cyber-minister, Reverend Meat Rocket 37, brought a much-needed touch of gravity to the event.
     

For Brian, it was a perfect but unexpected start to his new life. He was thrown out of the library for spilling champagne over their only internet computer, but otherwise, everything went swimmingly.
     

But, as with many modern marriages, after the initial excitement had faded away, things started to unravel.
     

Hot-lips 22 gradually lost interest in cyber-sex, and began filling up her time with various Brian-excluding activities; cyber-shopping, cyber-tupperware parties, cyber-Zumba, anything to avoid online contact with her new virtual spouse. Without the love of his life, Brian went into a downwards spiral. He withdrew from cyber society, sometimes hardly going online at all, and once, during a particularly low month, even started to interact with the real world again; engaging in small talk with other human beings, walking to the local shops, making phone calls, sending letters, a collection of bizarre activities usually only associated with the diseased mind.
     

Rumours of his eccentric behaviour finally made their way to Hot-lips 22, who, after much online soul searching, decided to file for cyber-divorce. It was this that, inevitably, led to Brian’s cyber-depression, cyber-self-loathing, and cyber-eating-disorder. Hotlips 22’s virtual lawyer, Scumbag 52, bled him dry. She gained possession of the cyber-cottage, the cyber-car, and was awarded full custody of the cyber kids.
     

Brian was alone. Within a year, his online life had been completed then destroyed, like the creation of a temperamental artist.
     

And then, one night, this very night, on the anniversary of their first meeting, Brian, in a fit of despair, had logged on to slash-your-wrists.com, with the intention of committing cyber-suicide.
     

‘One year,’ he said. ‘One stupid year.’
     

Brian browsed through the catalogue of virtual destruction, chose an appropriate method for his cyber-execution, clicked the ‘Yes’ tab under the legend: ‘Are you sure?’, and erased himself from the cyber-world.
     

Brian no longer exists …


- - -
David Elliott is a writer and musician, living in Cheshire UK. His short fiction has appeared in Linguistic Erosion, MicroHorror, Flashes in the Dark, Twisted Tongue, Whispers of Wickedness and Delivered.

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Author: David Elliott

Contributor: Marian Brooks

- -
Joyce watched her mother disappear, slowly.

Now she’s doing the same thing. She is certain of it.

When she walks down the street, no one even notices her or nods Sometimes people bump into her without so much as an “excuse me.” At one time her appearance was dramatic. Joyce loved exotic hats, expensive shoes and colorful, tailored clothing, always in good taste. Now she feels invisible. Men stare right through her, eyes like lasers, scanning the field for young, healthy women. Her reproductive equipment is thirty years past providing a viable home for anyone.

When she looks in the mirror, she sees someone who “cannot possibly” be her. She sees a woman with jowls and frown lines. Joyce notices age spots and gray hair and wrinkles at the corners of her blue eyes. Her skin is dry; it flakes and floats in the air when she brushes against it.

Sometimes she thinks her own children forget who she is. In their defense, she’s not the mother they once knew who could jump out of a chair in a fraction of a second to catch them before they fell. She’s perplexed when it comes to electronic correspondence. Joyce neither tweets nor twerps nor texts. She does have a Facebook account to keep track of the children’s comings and goings and to see photos of her grandchildren, Ben and Sally, along with their menagerie of dogs, cats and birds. She doesn’t think her cellular phone has any “aps” at all.

Sometimes Joyce and her husband, Bradley, don’t exchange more than four hundred words in a day. They lead parallel lives, reading, walking and sleeping. She does the laundry. He vacuums. She wonders if they really see each other after all of this time. She asks Brad about this. He’s half asleep in the recliner and waves his hand dismissively. “You worry too much, Joyce. We love each other, the kids are fine and we’re healthy. Isn’t that enough?” He drops his bifocals from the top of his head, grabs a pencil and turns his attention to the daily crossword puzzle.

They watch the talking heads on CNN and disagree about politics. On those days, their total word count might be five hundred, some of those words, heated for a change.

Her friends are disappearing too. Some have died. Others have too many doctors’ appointments to schedule lunch or husbands with broken hips and heart attacks to care for. When they do meet, their discussions revolve around diabetes, cholesterol and back surgeries. It’s been some time since they talked about men and sex and career aspirations. They’re not even sure what the “glass ceiling” is all about. It sounds like something that might be striking but difficult to clean.

Joyce is disappearing, melting like an ice sculpture, but slowly. It’s OK because no one’s watching.


- - -
Marian Brooks lives in Pennsylvania with her husband. Her work has appeared in Curly Red Stories, Short Humour, Linnet's Wings and elsewhere.

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Author: Marian Brooks

Contributor: Rohini Gupta

- -
He is late at the supermarket and almost all the fruit is gone. Many trays are empty, leaving only out-of-season mangoes and a few sad pears. At the end are apples: the small, orange ones, and the green, imported ones. In the last tray he finds what he seeks. On the dark red paper are six golden apples, round, shiny and polished, reflecting the ceiling lights.

A big woman is bearing down on them, followed by a small boy. She is heading for the last tray, but he is ahead of her and scoops them quickly up.

“Surely you don’t have to take them all,” she says.

“They are mine,” he snaps at her so fiercely that she steps back. She looks at his face and leaves hurriedly, dragging the child by the arm. Other people turn to look at him, but he ignores them all and makes off down the aisle with his prize. He will not give up his apples for any price – why can’t they just understand that?

There is a line at the counter but they let him go past, stepping nervously out of his way. He lays the six apples on the cashier’s counter and adds a banana. He has no other shopping.

“You must really like apples,” says the cashier who has seen him before, and always seen them in his basket.

“My wife loves them,” he says. Then he avoids any more questions by insisting she pack them carefully, separately, so that their waxed perfection will not be bruised. It’s a slow procedure and the people in the line behind him are shifting their feet and murmuring but they do not protest.

--

He leaves the supermarket carrying his groceries.

He has been doing all the shopping for quite a while, ever since his wife, Sita, became too weak to get out of bed. He always buys her apples. Even when she cannot eat, when only the tubes feed her, even then she craves the golden apples. She grew up among them, in her family orchard high up in Manali, under the Himalayan snows.

“My favourite tree,” she always told him, “Every year it grew the sweetest apples.” Her face is gaunt from her long illness, but her eyes are still bright when she remembers those happy years.

“There is no misery in the orchard,” she says.

The orchard is long gone. Her father gambled and drank it all away. After he died her mother was forced to sell more and more of the land, but she kept the apple trees. Every year she put the first fruit in her daughter’s hands, “A special apple for my golden girl,” she said with a special smile.

In the end it was Sita who had to sell the orchard. The debts had to be paid, and she did what she had to, but she has never forgotten. The orchard is still home and sometimes, when the pain is a dark shadow in her eyes, she forgets “Take me home,” she whispers, “Take me to the apple trees.”

He opens her hand and puts a golden apple into it. She smiles. Her fingers close, her breathing eases and she sleeps. He had plans once of taking her back to the hills but she is too weak to travel. So all he can do is sit by her bedside and remember.

He remembers how they met, at a party. He was new to Mumbai. No job, no money for food, but he had friends so he attended their parties and lingered by the food tables. She was there for the food too, a starving actress. He saw her joyous smile from across the room and then there was no looking back.

They married and found a house. He got a job, she got a part. They both worked hard and met late in the evenings eagerly, as if for the first time. They had three happy years together until that terrible day at the doctor’s office.

Malignant, the doctor said, and growing.

After that, it had become a nightmare. He hardly sleeps or eats.

He lives from day to day, moment to moment.

No one eats the apples. She cannot, and he will not.

--


He walks home with the bag of apples and one banana.

The house is in darkness as he puts his key in the door. He sits in the dark sitting room and eats the banana.

He looks out at the streets outside, at all the passing people and he wonders where they are going and why they are so cheerful, what they can possibly have to laugh about. Laughter is extinct in his world, for more than a month now, since that terrible day when he lit her funeral pyre.

The black moods, which she had dispelled for him, claim him again. He feels like a straw in the ocean, lost in a tidal wave of darkness. His heart begins a painful thumping, his throat tightens and he suffocates.

But, from somewhere deep, resolve comes. No, he thinks firmly. He has promised her that he will never go to that black place again. He intends to keep his promise.

He holds a golden apple in each hand, clutching them desperately, as if they could save his life. Holding them he feels her close. Is she walking in her bright leaved summer orchards again? Is she laughing under the fruit laden trees? He likes to think that, from wherever she is, she is looking down at him sitting here, and she is smiling.

The suffocation eases and he relaxes a little. For tonight he has won the battle. He will fight it again, but for now, he can sleep sitting in the dark, holding the fruit.

He has nothing else, nothing but that one thing which is left to him now, and for that he will always buy the golden apples.

For her smile.


- - -
I am a writer from Mumbai, India. I have published non fiction and poetry books. Writing flash fiction is keeping me happy while I work on longer stories. My story Dream Keeper was published in Yesteryear fiction in November 2012.

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Author: Rohini Gupta

Contributor: Michael Plesset

- -
He lay in the hospital bed, not in pain, but knowing that the time he had left was short. “What can we say with our last breath,” he thought, “when we have to say it all, when it really matters what we say. We can let go and drown in sadness and fear and let out a scream of anguish. That would give everybody a scare they’d always remember, but that’s not enough. Or we can say things that we should have said to people before. Or we could talk about the big things that happened over the years.”

Then a nurse came in, the one with the pretty face and great body. He felt his heart beat stronger, he could always see his pulse rate and blood pressure go up on the monitor when she was in the room.

He watched her move around, straightening things and checking the IV bottle with its tube leading into his arm. When she started to leave he made a sound and pointed to the tube that was in his mouth. She asked him “Do you want to say something?” He nodded. She took the tube out, and he had to swallow a couple of times before he could speak, slowly, but with a clear, strong voice, “I’ve been wanting to say, you have the most gorgeous ass in the world,” then, smiling broadly, he died.

A little while later a group of relatives arrived, to take a last look at him. They stood quietly for a few minutes. “Did he just pass away in his sleep?” the older lady asked. “No he was awake and we spoke.” “What did he say?” one of the women asked. “He said `Tell my family I love them all very much.’”

They looked surprised, looking at each other. “Wow,” the older lady said, “that’s the nicest thing he ever said.”

As they were leaving a younger man stayed behind and asked her “Are you sure, he said the whole family?” “Yes, I’m sure.” she said. He nodded slowly, smiled, and looked as though a great weight had been lifted from him, ”Thank you so much” he said.


- - -
Michael Plesset has published poetry, short fiction, non-fiction, and wrote material for a stand-up comedian. He did graduate work in mathematics and philosophy, worked in high technology, and teaches English to Chinese students.

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Author: Michael Plesset

Contributor: MARK SLADE

- -
I was lying face down on the beach tasting the sand mixed with salt water in my mouth from the ocean's waves repeatedly smashing me in the face. I opened my eyes to a blurred spiraling sun in the damning sky, sending shock waves to my brain.

When my eyes finally focused correctly, I saw Alban lying beside me, dead. A puddle of crimson forming around a black hollow chasm that was once where his left eye had been. His otherwise smooth golden skin on his face had not a scar nor a blemish. He had a dark, ludicrous smile on his face.

I started to rise and discovered the WW1 Colt .45 revolver firmly in my hand.

I jumped up, dropping the gun. “No!” I screamed.

I backed away, cursing at everything and everyone. It was happening again. This time, it was my turn. And I can't understand why God and the universe hates me so.

Alban and I had met a few days ago in the local cafe in Madrid. Stephanie had put us together, she was my contact in the states. Hooking me up to different thieves around the world, all of us apart of the Raven syndicate, providing rare items to the rich and often obsessive people one could meet. Alban was known as the Magical Arab with sticky digits, one of the best thieves from Palestine.

Alban knew where this WW1 Colt revolver resided, It belonged to one Humus Titus. Another of the rich the Ravens had done a service for. But this particular item we had not acquired for him. It seemed Titus stolen this item from the British museum. An item they were not ready to part with.

The revolver has a bit of history to it. Apparently this revolver had belonged to an English officer who who needed medical attention. The officer and a German soldier were lost in the outland of the battle of the Rhine. Caught in the barbed wires that were among ghostly trenches of ill-fated dead, the German soldier cut him loose and as a thanks, the English officer shot the German dead. As Alban relayed it to me, those who fire the weapon is doomed to be killed by the one that had just been killed. And the cycle can not be broken.

Words we should have paid heed to.

It's not the death part that worries me so....

No.

It's the rebirth that I hate so much.

We did as the job required. We broke into Titus castle on this very beach. No problems whatsoever. No guards, no guard dogs, no homeowner, no troubles. In and out like it was nothing. We had rowed over from the island to the north in a small boat. It was only five miles to the beach and Titus castle. We were not taking our lives in the ocean's hands.

At least I didn't think so until the storm came. The storm turned everything inside out and we lost the oars. We were adrift in the ocean with a violent storm swirling around us. Alban had a terrible idea running through his head. He no longer needed me, alive or dead. He drew the .45 revolver on me.

“I can sell this to the Raven syndicate on my own. I don't need you to take my share of the profit.” He said.

The skies behind him were split in two by flashes of yellow-orange lightning and Alban's face was completely drenched by torrential downpour.

Anger had filled me up. I dove upon him and grabbed hold of his hand that held the gun. It fired twice.

As I pushed his hand up to the dark sky with bright slashes across it. That bullet was torn from the barrel and had disappeared into the darkness. He pulled his hand back down, the barrel of the gun facing me. Just as he squeezed the trigger, I jerked his hand backwards. The bullet exploded from the thin barrel and entered Alban's left eye.

I took the gun from his limp hand. Just as I sat on my side of the boat, a strong wind lift the boat into the air....

And here I am, on the beach with a dead Arab.

Oh, God!

I feel it happening.

My skin on my body has become irritated. A burning sensation was inside my chest. The skin was slowly torn right above my heart and lungs. A hand has shown through a bloody mess....golden skinned hands....then arms.....

Just before a dark veil drapes across my eyes and I slip away, I see the same thing is happening to Alban's dead body. As his chest splits open a pair of pale,white hands appear...

The rebirth has begun.

The rebirth of both of us.....


- - -
MARK SLADE LIVES IN WILLIAMSBURG, VA WITH HIS WIFE AND DAUGHTER.
HE HAS APPEARED IN BURIAL DAY, WEIRDYEAR, WORDHAUS AND OTHERS.
HE RUNS THE SHORT STORY PODCAST DARK DREAMS.

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Author: Mark Slade

Contributor: Chelsea Resnick

- -
We walk through the drip-drip gloom of Pike’s Market, Lena in an electric-purple windbreaker and Marc in a gray wool coat. We’ve never matched in outward appearances, Marc so handsomely tailored, and Lena so quirkily adorned in handmade creations, but we move in step, trusting in the silent communication we’ve always shared. We move past rows of watermelons, carrots, and kumquats. Somewhere off to our right is the Sound, a salty sheet of steel that we can’t see around the frozen stacks of halibut at a fish stall.

Marc speaks openly first. “I thought you were gone for good. I assumed you were married by now. Probably selling your stuff at craft fairs if you weren’t pinned down with kids or something.”

To fill the uncomfortable pause, we each take a haricot from a vendor, a stocky man in overalls and a knitted cap, offering samples. “The sweetest green beans you’ll ever taste!” His voice is like sandpaper, rubbing us smooth.

Our footsteps slow as we crunch into the green haricot stalks. When a group of tourists roar past, they jostle our shoulders and twist our postures. Lena says, “God, we can’t stand still here. Let’s keep moving.” We both understand that these words refer to more than the disruption of tourists.

As we resume our stroll, there is another silent beat in conversation, and we wonder when such awkwardness began. Finally Lena chimes in: “You look taller than I remember.”

“I don’t see how. Last you saw me, I was--what?--twenty-two? People don’t get taller after that age.”

“Still. You look taller.”

For a moment, we lock eyes. Then just as quickly, we look away again. The reflected weight of our stares tells us what we’d rather not know.

“So when is the wedding?” Lena asks.

“End of May. Hopefully the rainy season will be over. Victoria wants to have the reception in the park.”

We stop to buy coffee, ordering two small cups. “Just black, please.” Lena buys a croissant, too. As we pull money from our pockets to pay the cashier, we are careful that our arms don’t brush. Lena’s cash is a crumpled wad from a back pocket. Marc’s is a crisp stack straight from a billfold.

“How long are you in town for?” Marc asks.

“Three more days. The festival is tomorrow and Sunday. I’ll head back to Austin on Monday.”

We don’t address what will happen over the coming days--or even the coming months. Instead, we turn, and Lena asks, “Would you mind if we walked down to the water?”

At each pier, there is a landmark of varying interest. The aquarium. An information booth. An ice cream shop. A boat for touring the Sound. We see these things the way we notice our hands and legs--as matters of fact, easily taken for granted.

At different moments, we are tempted to remark on how each of us has changed--the creases in our faces that weren’t there before--but such words might sound critical, and they never make it off our tongues. Instead, we pass the time with talk of houses, jobs, and weather. Eventually we sit on a bench facing the water. Lena feeds the last bits of croissant to the gulls pacing at our feet.

Neither of us is sure when it happens. Or whose hand inches out first. But after a long while, we look down and see that somehow our palms have found one another, fingers thoroughly entwined.

“I always thought...” Marc starts.

It doesn’t matter that our fingers are knitted together, for we both sense the great unraveling that is happening.

We press our hands tighter.

The permanence of loss absorbs later, when we each ride in airplanes and cars, our bodies molded to chairs that carry us away. Our spheres disconnect and drift, but our thoughts are together still, sitting at that bench in front of the Sound.


- - -
Chelsea Resnick is a Texas-born, Kansas-bred writer with works published by Hallmark Gift Books, Every Day Fiction, and StressFree Living Magazine, among others. She currently lives in North Carolina.

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Author: Chelsea Resnick

Contributor: David Macpherson

- -
My father was beside himself over the dirt bikes. A bunch of the neighborhood teenagers had dirt bikes and they rode through our subdivision late at night, every night. Because our house was on the corner of Hemlock Lane and Elm Street, they cut through our lawn, tearing up the grass every time.

His first course of action was talking to the dirt biker’s parents. Did he really think that was going to help? It seemed that the ruts in the lawn got deeper.

Next, my father reasoned that he should make the lawn less appealing to the dirt bikers. He bought a large landscaping rock and placed it in the middle of the lawn, the place that the bikes always appeared to go through. In the morning, we woke to see that this large half ton rock was rolled up right next to the house. Like a giant Easter egg roll, they pushed the offending lawn obstruction away from their preferred bike path.

My father had the rock returned to its place and planted pricker bushes all around it. The bikers responded. The bushes were pruned down to the roots and the rock was now just gone, never to be seen again.

It was here that he stopped seeing them as annoying kids with dirt bikes and only as the enemy. He taught my sister and I a new word, proliferation.

From a Korean War buddy, he scored a half dozen or so landmines and as a family activity, we planted them in the lawn. It was similar to our gardening chores, if the geranium bulbs were hollowed out and filled with nitro glycerine.

We were awoken by two shattering explosions and pleas for help. No one was killed, but two of the kids were without dirt bikes and one was missing a pinky finger. That was the last time they tore through our yard.

The only thing, my father was not in ordinance back in Korea; he was a desk jockey. His ability to retrieve unused armaments probably was a tad underdeveloped. My sister discovered this fact as she ran through the yard for the school bus. She heard the distinct click of a landmine being stepped on.

She stopped and and cried for help. She stood there for seven hours. They had to call the bomb squad from Chicago to deal with it. When she was finally taken off the mine, she had no more tears to weep. She was haggard and exhausted.

My father swept her into his arms and bombarded her with apologies. He was so sorry. How can he prove to her he was sorry? What can he get for her so she will forgive him?

My sister looked at him and said, “I want a dirt bike.”


- - -

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Author: David Macpherson

Contributor: Brent Rankin

- -
    Our baby was born a…ah…I don’t know how to say this.  Even now, I shutter when I think about it.  When delivered, our baby was…a frog.  A tadpole, actually, with the little green arms and legs just forming, and a tail to match.  Huge bulbous eyes, both with convex lens like swimming goggles, filled with a clear fluid.  Water, I think.  A toad.  When slapped on its bottom (where ever that was), it didn’t cry.  It just went “ribit…ribit…” and licked its long slanted forehead with its elongated tongue.
    I realized it was time to have a talk with the wife, but she was sedated.  So I waited in the room where fathers’ wait.  How am I going to explain this to the family?  Who is even going to believe me?  Where is my sedation?  I’ll be put away.  Locked in a room with padded walls, where the books have short words, large letters, and plenty of pictures.  What was I to do?
    The nurse sauntered in and announced that my wife was awake and wanted to see me.  She made no mention of the amphibian in the cradle (an aquarium, really, on rockers) beside my wife’s bed.
    When I entered the room, she could tell by the expression on my face that something was greatly amiss.  I sat down in a chair on the opposite side of the bed from the…baby…and stared at my wife.  For a while, anyway.
    She opened her eyes wider, smiled, and then said, “Beautiful, isn’t he?”
    “It’s a frog,” I said.
    “Oh, my little prince, of course he’s a frog.  What did you think?”  When there was an argument, I was called The Little Prince.  Always The Little Prince, like the fake compliment would ease the tensions.
    “I expected something more…human,” I said, “You know, pink and bald, ten fingers and toes.  You know?”
    “Oh,” she cooed, closing her eyes, “That’s right.  You forgot.”
    “Forgot?  Forgot what?”
    “When we first met, I was enchanted by you.  Do you remember?  You, sitting there, all proud and regal, wearing that cute tiny crown.”
    I squinted, put my face closer to hers and said, “What are you talking about?”
    “The pond was so very calm and the lily pads just floated on the water, gently, like cotton.  “Kiss me’ you said.”
    “I asked you to kiss me?  By a pond?”
    “Not by a pond, you where in a pond, sitting on a lily pad.”
    “What?”
    “You said that if I kissed you, you’d become a handsome prince and love me forever.”
    “…what…?
    “So I picked you up and gently kissed your mouth, because you didn’t have lips.  And here you are.”
    “You kissed me and you fell in love with me?  Are you still doped up?  What do you mean that I didn’t have any lips?”
    She turned her head to the side and giggled into the pillow.
    And then she said, “Silly Prince.  Look at your son.  Frogs don’t have lips.”


- - -
It's true. One has to kiss a lot of nasty things, until you find the real one.

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Author: Brent Rankin

Contributor: Jerry Guarino

- -
    Times change and we change with them.  Television, movies, clothing, food; you could probably name your own list.  Technology has probably been the most significant catalyst of change.  Think about the cell phone, digital camera and the Internet.  Joey was one of those people who resisted change, someone still looking for phone booths and mailboxes in 2013.
    “I’d like a roll of stamps please,” said Joey.
    “Sorry, we don’t sell stamps anymore” replied the pretty teenager.
    “But it’s Sunday.  The post office is closed.”
    “You can always email,” said the grocery store clerk.
    “I don’t have a computer,” said Joey.  The girl just shrugged a little, not knowing what to say.
    Guess I’ll just go to the library.  Tony figured he could get a book to spend time with.  As he drove into the library parking lot, he noticed designated spaces for fuel-efficient vehicles, school vans and compact cars along the front entrance.  His 1978 Cadillac didn’t fit any of these categories, so he parked in the back and walked up.
    When he arrived, he saw the modern, grey Formica desks in neat rows, at least 50 of them, with black computer keyboards and monitors.  No computer boxes, just thin coated wires running into the floor.  He looked for the library card catalog, but he didn’t see it, not even a Dewey Decimal system sign to direct him to the non-fiction history titles he liked to read.  Hmm.  How about that?
    He walked up to the checkout counter, but no one was there.  What kind of library is this?  He saw people checking out their books by scanning their cell phone over the bar code.  Joey didn’t have a cell phone; in fact he still had a rotary dial phone at home.  Guess I’m just a dinosaur.  The woman walked up to the checkout counter.
    “May I help you?”
    “Yes, I’m looking for books on The Civil War.  I didn’t see the card catalog.”
    “No, sorry.  We replaced those years ago.  You can use the terminals over there.”
    “I don’t know how.  Can you just point me to the right aisle please?”
    “C’mon.  I’ll walk you over to it.  We don’t have many people looking for American history anymore.  It’s good to know someone does.”  The Asian beauty didn’t look like any librarian he remembered.  “Here we are.  Civil War books are on this shelf here.”
    “Thank you” and he watched her walk away.  The books were older, some with broken spines and several with dust on them.  Oh, let’s see.  ‘The Red Badge of Courage’ by Stephen Crane.  I’ve read that.  Maybe something about Lincoln.  What’s this one?   ‘Abraham Lincoln and Civil War America’.  Joey took the book out, hoping the librarian was back at the check out counter.
    She was.  “Hey, you found one.  Yes, this is a very good book.  Give me your library card.”  Joey handed her the card and the librarian quickly scanned the book.  “Here you go.  It’s due in three weeks.”
    “Thank you again,” said Joey.  He walked out of the library, admiring his new book.  
    Turning the corner, he heard a loud honk.  He looked up just as a motorcycle hit him.  Joey fell hard and hit his head.  The next sound he heard was an ambulance siren.
    “Just lie still sir; don’t try to get up,” said an EMT.  He scanned Joey’s head with some space age gadget.  Joey heard beeps and other sounds.  “You’re going to be fine sir.  But we’re going to take you to the hospital to make sure.”
    Joey went in and out of consciousness during the ride in the ambulance.  Meanwhile the EMT monitored his blood pressure and breathing.  He slipped away again as they rolled him into the emergency room.
    A nurse attached an IV bag of fluids to his arm and an oxygen clip to his index finger.  The doctor examined his eyes, pulse rate and other vital signs.  “Do a CBC and keep salts and fluids in him.  His breathing is fine, but let him rest.  Call me when you get the blood count.”  
    The nurse stayed with Joey as he slept, monitoring the heart rate and oxygen levels.  Another nurse returned with the doctor as he scanned the blood count numbers.  He walked over to Joey, just as he was waking up.
    “Mr. Wilson, I’m doctor Rivera.  You were lucky it was a motorcycle.  Otherwise you might be looking at broken bones or worse.  It looks like you just have a concussion, and we’re going to keep you here overnight for observation.  If everything is OK in the morning, we’ll release you and you can rest at home.”
    Joey looked up, trying to focus his eyes on the doctor, still hazy from the bump on his head.  His speech was soft but understandable.  

“Do you sell stamps?”

- - -
Jerry Guarino’s short stories have been published by dozens of magazines in the United States, Canada, Australia and Great Britain. His latest book, "50 Italian Pastries", is available on amazon.com and as a kindle ebook. Please visit his website at http://cafestories.net

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Author: Jerry Guarino

Contributor: Jeremy Levine

- -
Jeb was puttering along, sitting atop his tractor, its rattling vibrations shaking his gritted teeth. He turned his head skyward, observing a hawk glide across the cloudless sky in effortless circles. While his gaze was distracted, there was a crashing and a clunking, a rumbling under his vehicle.

“Tarnation!”

Jeb tuned off the tractor and jumped down from it, stumbling as he landed on the soft earth. He spotted a flash of red on the brown dirt by the front tire. He rushed forward and knelt down. Sheriff was there, crushed under the wheel, stone dead.

“Ma! I need you!”

Jeb pivoted in his squat, his eye on his home. After a few seconds, Jebʼs wife, Henrietta, was out in the field, her apron billowing in the dusty wind.

“Whatcha need, honey?”

“The dog, Ma, the dog!” Jeb said, a shaking finger pointing at the deceased
canine.

“Oh Lord in heaven, did you do that?”

“I know Ma, itʼs bad. Itʼs bad. I need you to break it to Betsy. Sheʼs a-gonna be home any minute.”

“Why me?”

“”Cuz Iʼmma run across to the Bakers. They just had a litter.”

“So this puppy that youʼre gonna steal was supposedly Sheriffʼs?”

“I donʼt know, Ma, I guess.”

“And Iʼm supposed to tell her that you hit Sheriff with a tractor?”

“No!”

“Then what do I tell her?”

“Make something up,” he said, walking away towards the Baker home.

“Right,” Henrietta grumbled to herself, her head spinning with semi-believable explanatory fictions. “Just leave me to deal with this one.”

There was a mechanical roaring behind her as the school bus kicked up a storm of dust out in the street. The muted pounding of the small, excited footsteps of a Friday afternoon were getting closer.

Henrietta left the field timidly in response to Betsyʼs two note whistle.

“Sheriff!” she called.

Clap. Clap.

“Sheriff!”

“Hi, honey,” Henrietta said, unhitching their squeaky picket gate and kneeling
down to give Betsy a hug.

“Hi Ma! Whereʼs Sheriff?”

“Honey, come on inside, thereʼs something I want to tell you.”

“Ma, whereʼs Sheriff?”

Henrietta opened the aluminum front door, ushering Betsy inside.


“Here, you want some cider?”

The kitchen was a dimly lit room with wooden tables and countertops. Squeaky clean dishes were arranged neatly cabinets with glass windows. Henrietta reached over the barometer for a ladle and began scooping helpings of apple cider into a a pair of glasses. Betsy plopped into a wobbly kitchen chair.

“Honey, I need to tell you something.”

Henrietta placed the two glasses on the faded green tablecloth and sat opposite her daughter.

“Betsy, you know that puppies donʼt always make it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, when a puppy is born, it might get sick and die, which is a really sad thing.”

“Uh huh.”

“Well, the good news is that Sheriff had a baby puppy, and we kept him a secret from you just in case he didnʼt make it.”

“Because I would be sad?”

“Right.”

“But now heʼs gonna be fine?”

“Yes.”

“Yay!” Betsy jumped out of her seat and was dancing around the kitchen. “Now me and Sheriff and... and... and... Deputy! Thatʼs his name! Deputy! Me and Sheriff and Deputy can run around and play together and have so much fun!”

Henrietta got up and wrung her hands, reaching out to Betsy.

“Well, Betsy, actually, thereʼs something else that I have to tell you. You see--”

But Betsy was having none of it, gallivanting around the kitchen, rambling. “We can play fetch and weʼll train Deputy. Sheriff can help because Sheriff is already trained. I wonder if we have enough food. Ma, can we go get some more food? I donʼt want them to get hungry when we have so much to do.”

Henrietta stood up and walked to Betsy, gingerly placing a hand on her shoulder.

“Betsy, you see, there was a problem. We were keeping Deputy at the Bakerʼs house for a few days while we made sure he was healthy. When they were on their way here, a wolf came.”

“A wolf?”

“Yes. You know theyʼve been around the area lately. Sheriff got in front of Deputy, to protect him. The wolf attacked and Sheriff kept him off long enough for Deputy to run away back to the Bakers, but Sheriff didnʼt make it. Iʼm sorry, Betsy.”

“What do you mean, didnʼt make it?”

“The wolf, uh, got him.”

“Is he dead?”

“Yes.”

Betsyʼs lip quivered. Henrietta got up and walked the length of the table, half-
squatting to rub her daughterʼs back. “Shhh, Betsy, itʼs okay to cry. She died doing a good thing, protecting her baby. Thatʼs what a mama always wants to do. And now I donʼt want to see my baby all sad. Come here.”

Betsy buried her head in Henrietta's breast, sobbing into her apron. “Shh, shh, itʼs
okay, itʼs okay.”

The storm door banged open and a clawed scurrying was heard on the wooden floor. Deputy rocketed around the house, crashing into cabinets and walls.

“Hello ladies,” Jeb said, “I brought your puppy home.”

Betsy peeked through a gap between her motherʼs arm and her body to watch the dog bounce around the home. She smiled. Henrietta loosened her hug and Betsy jumped down from her chair and scampered off with the puppy. It jumped up and licked her face.

Henrietta got up and stood alongside her husband.

“How much did the want for the dog?”

“They had too many. There were just giving em away.”

The parents watched their daughter for a content moment, grateful that she
daughter had found another friend.

“I should probably move the tractor.”

“Yeah, probably.”


- - -
Jeremy Levine is a sophomore at Clark University in Worcester, Massachusetts, where he is the Editor-In-Chief of the student newspaper, The Scarlet. He is originally from Long Island, New York.

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Author: Jeremy Levine