Contributor: Hailey Hartford

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“It’s just a car,” I kept telling myself, like a mantra. Over and over and over. “It’s just a car.”
But it was staring. At me. The headlights looked so incriminating, and I felt dirty. I wiped my back and looked at my palm. No dirt. Just a feeling.
After a day or so of watching the car parked next to my house, I decided to look at more than just the bow. The back right bumper had caved in quite a bit, and looked rather rusty. Why didn’t the whole car rust over?
I sat back down next to the front again and resumed the staring competition. It got more and more intense, and I had to look away a few times. It won, and I continued to feel guilty. Where was the guilt coming from?
It was starting to get dark, but the car was parked directly beneath the street lamp. It looked angrier with me, even though I couldn’t see the headlights anymore. It was all shadows and shining chrome.
A shiver ran through me, even before the wind started to pick up. When it did, I didn’t leave. I just kept repeating, “it’s just a car. It’s just a car.”
The leaves were getting picked up in the late-night breeze, and I caught glimpses in them in the street lamp light. The concrete on the sidewalk shone when they left, almost as bright as the chrome. It shone and shone, right into my eyes. And it hurt, but I looked anyways.
There was rust. Just like on the bumper. Was it rust?
I scooted closer and squinted. It wasn’t as orange as it was dark red. Blood, maybe?
I began to panic. Why was a car dripping blood parked next to my house? Is a murderer loose on our street? I scooted back to the front, and then a few more scoots further up my driveway.
“Tom, sweetie. Are you coming in? You need to go to bed,” my mother’s voice brought me to my feet. She was standing in the doorway, arms crossed. She looked worried. “We’re all worried about her, Tommy. But staying out here all night isn’t going to get her home any sooner. The police looked for her all day today, and said we can join them tomorrow.”
Who were we all worried about? Why were the police looking for her? I tried to make my confusion look somewhat like concern. My mother walked out to me, put her robe about my shoulders, and led my inside. She looked so scared.
“I’m sure she’s alright,” I finally choked out when we made it up the stairs.
“I’m sure she is,” she smiled. “Your sister’s a strong girl. She’s young, but there’s a fire in her. Anyone that crosses her is sure to get a beating.” Her own jokes seemed to reassure her of her daughter’s, my sister’s, safety. “I’m glad you were the last face she got to see before-“ she cut herself off. She swallowed hard and smiled again. “She’s fine.”
I said goodnight, and she did the same. After closing my door, I went to the window. The car was in view.
“It’s only a car.”
Where’d Izzy go? That couldn’t be her blood, could it?
“It’s only a car.”


- - -

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Author: Hailey Hartford

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

- -
Teddy Fister took the bus to work today, something he will never do again, unless the used car he plans to buy tonight also croaks in the middle of an intersection the way his 1960 Rambler did last night. He sold the clunker on the spot to the tow-truck driver who took it to his junkyard. And that's where his beloved Rambler, and its 210,000 miles, sits in a row with other cars, some terminal and others deceased, every one of them waiting for an automotive mortician to part them out.

That unfortunate incident is why Teddy is on the bus this morning, bouncing up and down with others, including a rotund man, redolent of garlic, who took the seat next to Teddy a moment ago. The rotund man is Oliver Beckin. After he settled in next to Teddy, he began a soliloquy that everyone on the bus could hear if not enjoy. The oratory was very philosophical in nature. Some might even say it was spiritual in that it was an account of how Oliver had reached the age of 50 this day without any idea of where he was going after he died. And on this particular day, after a lifetime of not caring about that subject, Oliver Beckin was looking for an answer, if an answer to a question like that was available.

Pausing in his speech, Oliver asked his seat mate, Teddy Fister, if Teddy might be able to help him find the answer. After all, Teddy looked like an intelligent man and Oliver figured that he probably knew where he was going after he died. Actually, Teddy was going to his day job as a dishwasher in one of the better restaurants downtown, a job he had held for 30 years. His longevity in the position was due to Teddy being a dependable sort, one who always knew when a dish needed a second scrubbing.

At first Teddy didn't know what to say. He had never had the problem that Oliver had. He knew for a long time where he was going once his toes turned up. In fact, he had known the answer since grammar school. The nuns had told him every year in religion class what his options were and it was something he never forgot. He'd have choices to make along the way, of course, but the choices were easy ones to make.

Teddy's problem at the moment, however, was that he had no car. Since he had no newspaper to read, either, and since Oliver didn't seem to be an urban crazy, Teddy thought, what the hell, he'd give it a go, maybe he could help this guy. After all, popes have been telling Catholics like Teddy for years that they must begin to evangelize and spread the faith, even if most Catholics--and Teddy was certainly among their number--were not in the same class as Mormons and Witnesses when it came to evangelization. But if Oliver didn't know where he was going, Teddy could at least explain what his options were before he had to get off the bus.

Teddy decided to get right to the point. He asked Oliver if he believed in God. Oliver said he didn't know whether he did or not since he had never met God and didn't know anyone who had but he was open to an introduction if that was something Teddy could arrange.

"I'm single and I'm free most evenings and weekends," Oliver said.

Teddy asked him if he had heard about Jesus Christ who died on the cross for the sins of every man who ever lived or will live.

"That's according to those of us who follow him, of course," Teddy said. "Some people might disagree with that and that's their right. We all have free will."

Oliver said he had heard about Jesus and thought that anyone with more than 2000 years of shelf life had to have something going for Him. He indicated, however, that he had not been too impressed over the years with many of the followers of Jesus, especially the ones who rang his doorbell at odd hours. Even worse were those who yelled at him from his television set while he was surfing cable channels looking for something interesting to watch. Preachers were not the kind of people Oliver cottoned to.

"The people who ring my doorbell give me leaflets in tiny print," Oliver told Teddy, "and the preachers on television want my money. Not good."

Teddy told him he wasn't looking for money but he thought people like Oliver who don't know where they were going ought to meet Jesus. This is important, Teddy said, even if many of those who already know Jesus can at times be an aggravating bunch. Teddy himself had been accosted many times by street proselytizers who wanted to save him from damnation. Their rhetoric would grow even stronger, Teddy said, when he would tell them he was Catholic.

Oliver seemed to relax a bit after hearing that Teddy didn't want his money so Teddy decided to press on. He leaned forward and quietly told Oliver he should call on the Holy Spirit to provide him with the gift of faith because faith cannot be earned by any man. And it takes faith to believe in Jesus. And one has to believe in Jesus as Savior to be a Christian.

"Faith is a gift from God," Teddy said. "Once you have the gift of faith, you'll know that the Holy Spirit and God the Father and Jesus are three divine persons in one God. The Trinity is a mystery so it might help you to think about it as kind of a trifecta."

Teddy figured Oliver might understand a term like trifecta better than a term like Trinity in light of the racing form sticking out of his coat pocket.

Teddy admitted that he was partial to the Holy Spirit because he had always thought of Him as the Rodney Dangerfield of the Trinity in that He never seemed to get the degree of respect that believers give to God the Father and God the Son.

"But that's understandable," Teddy said, "because God the Father created the universe and everything in it and God the Son died on the cross to open the Gates of Heaven for every man, even for wretches like you and me. Many believers think of the Holy Spirit as simply a dove or a tongue of fire whose big day is Pentecost. There's a lot more to the Holy Spirit than that."

Oliver was not particularly happy about being called a wretch. He became even more unsettled when Teddy told him that he needed to ask the Holy Spirit to introduce him to Jesus. Oliver didn't know the Holy Spirit any more than he knew Jesus.

Teddy also told Oliver he was telling him all this because he didn't want Oliver to end up like his 1960 Rambler, sitting in a junkyard waiting to be parted out.

Then, as quickly as Teddy's first effort at evangelization had started, it was over. Oliver was ready to make a decision. He smiled at Teddy, rose from his seat and thanked him for explaining everything in such detail. Then Oliver headed for the empty couch seat in the back of the bus. There he began talking out loud again about trying to figure out where he had come from and where he was going.

One stop later, Teddy got up and got off the bus. He had arrived at the restaurant. Moments later he would be in the steamy confines of the dish room where he was master of all he surveyed.


- - -
Donal Mahoney has had poetry and fiction appear in various publications in North America, Europe, Asia and Africa. Some of his work can be found at http://eyeonlifemag.com/the-poetry-locksmith/donal-mahoney-poet.html

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Author: Donal Mahoney

Contributor: Beth J. Whiting

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Stephen was nervous. The competition looked prepared, but he wasn’t sure about himself. He'd practiced at least two hours a day for the past month. He'd like to say his parents forced him to, but he couldn’t lie; he pushed himself into it.
Stephen saw all the other children in the piano competition. They were pretty good. They were dressed at their best as he was. The girls wore glittery blouses or Sunday dresses. The boys dressed in mini tuxedos.
Even though they were children it was still very intense. The judges sat in the front row of the theatre. The remaining expanse of red seats was empty. Stephen could see the judges taking terse notes with disapproving expressions on their faces.
The pianists in this group weren’t amateurs. They were all gifted prodigies. It was regrettable, but each hoped the other one might take a dive. They also worried it would happen to themselves.
Stephen could feel the sweat on his face. He knew he wasn’t the best. They scheduled him last. It was just as well. This was Stephen’s first competition.
The spotlight was followed each piano player to the black Steinway grand piano in center stage. Stephen watched the others play. He had to admit they knew their craft. Only two made obvious mistakes. Though only a few notes fell out of order they knew the damage had been done. Each left early out the back door.
It was an hour and a half until Stephen got his chance. He walked onto the stage. He was average looking. He had brown curly hair, was kind of short for a ten year old, but still all right. His slacks dragged on the floor. He tried to approach the piano with confidence.
But he didn’t sit in the chair. Stephen stood his distance.
Now the judges would see how he played.
Stephen closed his eyes and concentrated on the piano in front of him. He picked a hard piece but one he knew he could master.
He focused his mind on the piano. The white and black keys moved by themselves. Fortunately Stephen chose not to look at the judges. One was annoyed, another shocked, the last one put down his pencil. Technically, Stephen played the piece well. Stephen also played it passionately. He knew that capturing the emotion of the piece was one of the most important things about playing the piano. After releasing the last note Stephen knew he had performed at his absolute best and far better than the rest of the competitors.
Stephen turned to bow and glanced at the judges.
He knew he hadn’t won by the looks on their faces.
Stephen went backstage. Fifteen minutes later the judges came back with their decisions.
A girl who he admitted was excellent won. Stephen didn’t make second or third place. He was disqualified.
“But I played the best of them,” he pouted.
His parents patted him on the back and said, “Maybe you should try and play piano the normal way.”
“Who says I’ll be any good at it? I’ve been practicing for years this way as it is.”
“Well maybe you should go the carnival route,” his father said.
Stephen frowned as he left the building.


- - -
I love to write. I'm 29. I live in Mesa, AZ.

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Author: Beth J. Whiting

Contributor: Vela Damon

- -

"Well, I guess you could get that one if you want…you know…the worst performance ever."

Kirsten let out a sigh. Why did Micha always have to be such a techno snob? So what if she was being a total girl, deciding on a laptop just because it came in hot pink and neon green? But of course Micha had to go on about megabytes this and RAM that and streaming video the other. The laptop she recommended: boring black and twice as much as the one in the cool colors. Kirsten automatically winced at the price tag, wondering for the thousandth time if she'd ever be rid of the habit.

Micha didn't bat an eyelash, but Micha hadn't grown up dirt poor; both of her parents were doctors.

Kirsten sighed again. “Are you sure this one's worth the extra money?"

She didn't hear half the response, tuning Micha out once she started back up with all the techo jargon, thinking instead about her new circle of friends, how they were all so quick to whip out their debit cards, I'll take it! forming on their lips before they'd hardly stepped foot in the store. It didn't matter which store or what they were taking—all about the conquest, snatching up the latest designer bag or smartphone to use as spackle, attempting to patch up the holes in their hungry little upper class hearts.

And now Kirsten was supposed to be one of them?

Micha prattled on, building up to her big and that's why this is the greatest computer ever! finale. Kirsten cut her off by waving the sales guy over to unlock the cabinet; maybe she'd get lucky and the boring laptop would be out of stock.

No. At least a dozen boring boxes were crammed into the skinny shelves, probably because everybody else didn't have a friend like Micha and just bought the cool-colored computer they actually wanted.

Note to self: never bring Micha shopping again.

The sales guy rang her up right there in the computer department, cutting off all routes of escape. Kirsten clung to her debit card a little too tightly; the poor guy had to pry it from her fingers.

Edwin, his name tag read above the store's not-so-catchy slogan. How may I HELP you today?

Kirsten assumed that the slogan would make more sense if she understood what HELP meant. Obviously some sort of acronym, but for what? Here Everybody Loves Profiteering?

Edwin attempted to sell her the extended warranty. Kirsten declined. He asked if she needed a USB cable, a laptop bag, a printer. No, thank you. After running the gauntlet of up-selling, she entered her pin number, hesitated over the Is This the Correct Amount? button.

Edwin made an eek! face, smiled. "I know it's a lot of money, but this is a really good laptop. It's gotten great reviews and we haven't had any in for repairs."

"It's just...I could pay all my bills for the month with this."

"This'll last way more than a month," Micha cut in. "And it's the best one for the money."

Edwin nodded. "It has almost all the same features as the pricier models. It really is the best deal."

Kirsten hit the YES button, felt as if the blood were draining from her veins as the money drained from her checking account. If only she could have a nice, thick, cheap chocolate shake from The Shake Shack to help wash down her buyer's remorse…but Micha wouldn't go for it. She'd rather have a $6.75 wheatgrass smoothie from Bountiful Beverage Barn.

A receipt as long as Kirsten’s arm spit out of the register.
Edwin studied it a moment before folding it up, handing it over. "Have a good day, Kirstin."

"Thanks. You, too. So, what does HELP stand for?"

He looked puzzled. Kirsten nodded toward his name tag.

"Oh. That. It doesn't really mean anything. Just that we're here to help."

Kirsten glanced over at Micha, lured away once again by the siren song of $pend, turned back to non-doctor, non-lawyer, non-upper class but damn cute Edwin. "So, do you like The Shake Shack?"

- - -
Vela Damon lives in the Lone Star State and likes writing short stories, proving that everything is actually NOT bigger in Texas.

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Author: Vela Damon

Contributor: Bob Carlton

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My name is Bob. It has always been Bob. Until now. Suddenly, no matter how much care I take in spelling out my name, whenever I go back later and reread it, it appears as “Bobby.” I began to see things, things that no one else seemed, or bothered, to notice. More and more baby names beginning with 'B'. An increase in alliterative poetry, brimming over with such lines as “My brain, battered by barbiturates.” A sudden resurgence in airplay for the song “Beat on the Brat” by the Ramones (rhymes with 'bones'; why did I say that?). An academic essay by a respected linguist, noting that recently, through some unexplainable phonemic shift, the occurrence of the letter 'b' in written documents of any kind had increased by 22.2%. My own prose began bubbling over with 'b' words. It has become beyond obvious to me that the letter 'b' is the manifestation of some kind of intelligence beyond our ability to understand, the sound of it a mating song, calling new ones into being ('b'-ing?). Oh no! Bob has become Bobby has become BobBy has Become BoBBy. The adult BoBulation is exBloding! What boo they want? Why are they Bere? Bob belB us Ball.


- - -
Bob Carlton lives a bio-free life in Garland, TX.

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Author: Bob Carlton

Contributor: Kristina England

- -
Jamie lit a cigarette and leaned up against the wall of an old warehouse.

"Hear about the mailbox bandit?"

Billy shook his head. He looked at her lips as she casually brought the ciggy up and parted them.

"What's the deal with the mailbox bandit?" He said, trying to pry his eyes from her mouth.

"Some kid, or maybe kids, has been going around taking out mailboxes. Cops think the weapon's a bat."

"What does your father think?"

"He's a fire fighter. They fix the issue. They don't solve it."

Jamie pushed her hair out of her face and turned to Billy.

"You want a taste?"

"Huh..."

Jamie's lips curled.

"The cigarette, man. You want some?"

Billy blushed and shook his head.

"You need to live dangerously, man. That's what the mailbox bandit is doing. He's living life on the edge."

Billy shook his head. He hated when Jamie got like this. So what if he didn't drink, smoke, or get arrested every Tuesday night. There were better risks to take than living in the shadows.

"The bandit is faceless... He's no more a man than me. If anything, he's less of one."

Jamie rolled her eyes.

"And what would you know about being a man?"

Billy pushed himself away from the wall. He looked up at the empty warehouse. Its walls seemed to shudder with abandonment.

"I know a man doesn't need to commit a crime to be a criminal"

"Oh really? And what kind of criminal are you?"

"The kind that wants to start a fire."

Jamie looked at him.

"Don't even joke about that."

"What? I thought you liked dangerous men? And who said I was joking?"

Jamie examined his face. She took a puff of the cigarette and exhaled.

"So, Mr. Fire Starter, where would you light a match if you had the guts?"

Billy walked up to her. He took the cigarette from her hand.

"I was thinking right here, right now."

Jamie looked up at him. Her eyes widened. "With my cigarette?"

"No, with your lips."

Jamie's forehead creased in confusion, but before she could reply, he leaned in and kissed her.

She pulled back a little, then leaned into him.

Billy broke away from the embrace and put her cigarette out on the warehouse.

He smiled. "I've got to go."

"But we were just getting started."

"I know," he said.

Billy pushed Jamie's hair over her left eye, winked, and walked away into the smoke-filled night.


- - -
Kristina England resides in Worcester, MA. Her writing is published or forthcoming at Extract(s), Gargoyle, The Story Shack, and other magazines. For more on her writing, visit http://kristinaengland.blogspot.com.

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Author: Kristina England

Contributor: Foster Trecost

- -
Alone on the platform, I waited for a train. I stared down the rails until they ran together and wondered what I'd say. Shuffling sounds broke my trance and I turned to see a familiar face. The name Carl Timmons came to mind, along with a hidden cringe.

He kept his distance and I wasn't sure if he remembered me. English teacher at some girls prep. Preppie himself. My hidden cringe was beginning to show.

Jenny was coming home for the holidays; Christmas closed in and I looked forward to spending it alone. I just had to find a way to tell her. The train came and she stepped down wearing that cream-colored beret, of course, and I thought it wouldn't be so hard. I asked if she was hungry.

She fidgeted, looked around, shrugged shoulders.

“There's a place around the corner.” A last meal, I thought.

She noticed me struggling with her suitcase offered to get a cab, even offered to pay--and that was my first clue. Never before had she offered to pay for anything, neither movie nor meal, and certainly not a taxi. “Tell you what,” I said, “you buy lunch and we'll call it even.” I didn't expect her to buy lunch, I just wanted to start a fight. I thought it'd be easier if we were fighting, but she said sure and for the second time, I wondered who I walked with. I'd wait no later than dessert.

She asked for a table in the front, but the hostess took us to the back. After we were seated, she reached to brush away the skeleton of a leaf clinging my collar; her hand grazed my cheek and she jerked it back. She asked about my parents, asked if I was ready for Christmas. Small talk. She knew what was coming, of course she knew. How could she not?

Finally she took off that silly hat and her hazel eyes seemed different. Her turtleneck sweater looked warm and made me feel warm. “I really like school,” she said. “I've got a lot of friends, but it's good to be home.”

And I felt the change. If she'd just put the hat back on; I hated that hat, it allowed me to hate her. But she didn't. Four days till Christmas, plenty time to buy a present, something nice...

A waitress appeared, but Jenny looked toward the window and said she wasn't hungry. I offered a drink, but she asked only for water. She was upset, she'd lost her appetite, so I reached to grab her hand, hoping the gesture might ease her mind, but she lowered them both to her lap and asked if I planned to finish college.

That's when I saw it, an old picture of a man holding a fishing pole in one hand, a big fish in the other. He was proud of that fish and I wondered who he was and if he knew his picture hung in a restaurant, or if he'd gone to college.

“Maybe next year we can take a class,” I said. She lowered her head and I asked, “Aren't you going to college?”

“I can't see you anymore.”

“What?” I asked. “You're breaking up with me?”

“I got accepted to a college in California. Carl-,” she cut herself short, “I mean my English teacher pushed me to apply and I got accepted.”

Carl?

“But it's Christmas. How can you do this at Christmas?”

“I've got to go. Say hi to your parents.” She pulled from her coat pocket the cream-colored beret, styling it down just a bit further on one side. She looked beautiful. This time, when she looked toward the front window, I looked with her and standing there was Carl Timmons. Everything made sense. “Oh, I almost forgot, this is my treat.” She fished a twenty from her pocketbook, laid the bill on the table and tapped it twice. “Merry Christmas.” She grabbed her bag and left.


- - -
Foster Trecost is from New Orleans, but he lives in Germany. His stories have appeared in Elimae, Corium and Metazen, among other places.

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Author: Foster Trecost

Contributor: Judy Hall

- -
The worst part? I know who I am but I don’t know when I am.
There I am. I am twelve years old, my calico hair cut short. I am hiding in the backyard, in what we call the Children’s Forest and there are birds singing lullabies and if I didn’t know that Daddy is hunting me and he’s more than just angry I would think it is beautiful. But beauty doesn’t enter here. Daddy’s more than furious. There is no word in my vocabulary for what Daddy is except Daddy. Not the good Daddy who is funny and plays pinochle. Not the Daddy who takes us to Sunrise Mall and buys us bandannas from Spencers’ and shakes from Orange Julius. This Daddy is too scary for words and I have made him angry – again – and I have escaped, the quivering but resolute prey, and am hiding in places so obvious he would never look.
I am under a wild cherry tree at the edge of the Children’s Forest. I am wearing a Pac-Man t-shirt and pink panties and it is cold so I cover myself in leaves and dirt and lie down, a death design, only I am listening for the sound of Daddy calming so I can come in again, to find him smiling and asking me to play pinochle or just ignoring me while watching a Mets game. It is the sound of naught or the soft cadence of the TV and running water. My sister pacifies him after I infuriate him. He has said cruel things to her – slut and whore and lazy and useless – that I can’t allow so I bait him and he comes after me, his fists like anvils and his reach so, so long and I run. Then, when he can’t find me to batter me, to pummel me anymore, then my sister says sweet, soothing words and fixes him a drink in a Big Green Glass and then sits looking at her feet until he calms down.
That’s what I imagine. I don’t know. Maybe she hides too. I never asked her. But he always has a Big Green Glass when I come back and she is always there.
I make up stories to pass the time in the Children’s Forest, named this by my sister and me in the time before time, before we can remember because now that’s the name of this quarter of the huge yard, almost an acre, and this part is all trees and furry animals and bugs. My favorite story is about Now.
Now I am a grown up.
Now I am married and I am the Mama but I am alive.
Now I live with my husband and kids in a house which is clean in that way where you know people live there and have fun; not so clean so you think no one ever does anything in this house but clean in the way you know people care and social workers never show up to yell at you for the house being a pigsty.
Now I have a car, a red car which is mine and which works and at any moment I can go to my car and get in it and go away if I want.
Now my husband loves me and would not hurt me or our children.
Now I am part of we and we are a normalish family with bed times and meal times and homework times.
My stories are so real in the Children’s Forest, so real I sense them. They feel like the fading of the scars on my arms from the cigarette burns and the soothing of the ache from my shoulder wrenched too often and hugs which are frank and not I’m sorry for you hugs. They smell like clean laundry and strawberries plucked off the vine in the sun and mown grass early Saturday morning through the open bedroom window. They taste like chocolate, milky and melty, and sweet Mama kisses and bubble gum before it loses its flavor. And I smile thinking of the Now that will someday come if I can wait and grow up and get away, if I can get away alive everything will be okay and no one will beat me and I will be safe when it is Now.
There I am. I think I am about forty. I have long hair the color of autumn. I have a fire-engine red car and a tender husband and children who have never known terror or deprivation or flight. Something happens – some thing which scares me and makes me need to escape. I want to run to the Children’s Forest but I can’t find it.
I’m not on Long Island.
I am on Long Island.
I’m not twelve.
I am twelve.
I check my arms and there are scars, but the scars are faded.
I see the red car. But I can’t tell if it’s real. Is that my red car?
And now I’m being hunted again. I’m (un)sure it’s real and I don’t know what to do or where to hide because this isn’t my house. This place is unfamiliar. It smells wrong, it tastes wrong, it feels like another world where I can’t be safe. It looks like my house but I know it can’t be my house; it is my house in another dimension with an alternate me. I look but I can’t find the Children’s Forest and my sister is missing and there is a monstrous game of hide but don’t seek and all I know is that I must try to save myself
and I never remember what happens next.


- - -
Judy Hall is a teacher of English both at the high school and college level. She's been previously published in Outsider Ink. She lives in New Jersey with her husband, three children, one stupid cat and one evil cat.

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Author: Judy Hall

Contributor: Burt Baum

- -
“I need you to get some fruit and vegetables,” my wife said. We were having people to dinner the next evening and from her voice, her pallor and her glassy eyes I realized that she was in a state somewhere between high anxiety and complete panic. Now I’d rather subject myself to a colonoscopy than shop, but I agreed. I needed to get far away before she began her “you never do anything to help me” diatribe, invariably accompanied by her imitation of Mount Vesuvius.
She told me to go to the Pharmer’s Market. This is a new “cutesy” store and it’s not that its owners can’t spell. The name is meant to show that they sell fresh produce (mainly organic) as well as a variety of herbs, supplements, vitamins (from A to Z) and non-prescription lotions and pills that will cure anything from hangnails to halitosis. They even have a guy in a white coat called Herb, the Herbalist, who recommends botanicals for all occasions. And remember all those guys with ponytails from the 60’s and 70’s? Well, they’re working in this store. They’re just grayer, balder and paunchier.
I drove to the market and parked in a spot up front. I didn’t want to do any unnecessary walking since I knew once I went through those sliding doors I'd be wandering around. I never know where anything is, and I become completely disoriented by the bright lights, the big garish signs and the scurrying customers. What I generally do is grab one of everything in sight, take it all to the cashier and hand him my wallet. This time, however, my wife gave me a shopping list, and, to make sure that I got the most out of the experience, she included all the things she needed for a week.
Once I was in the market I noticed that, while I was wearing tennis shoes and jeans, everybody else seemed to be in sandals and shorts with thin volumes of haiku sticking out of their back pockets.
The first place I went to was the produce section. All the fruit was piled high in pyramids and I felt as if I were in Egypt, strolling along the Nile. Each piece of fruit shined, and the glare was so strong that I put on my sunglasses.
After about fifteen minutes of roaming, I found the first item on my list, navel oranges, on sale at three for a dollar. (I haven’t the slightest idea why they have that name, because no matter how carefully I inspected them I couldn’t find any that looked like any belly button I’d ever seen.) The oranges appeared to be the right color so I began to drop them into a plastic bag that I ripped off a roller hanging nearby and had a hell of a time opening. Just then I heard a feminine voice.
“How are the oranges?”
I started to say that I didn’t know the first thing about oranges when I turned to see a woman without any clothes standing right next to me. I mean not a stitch--she was completely naked. I looked for the cameras like on Candid Camera, but I didn’t see any.
Being quick on the draw, I dropped my oranges and said, “Uh…okay.”
The woman started putting oranges in her plastic bag and seemed no longer interested in conversation.
I grabbed a quick glance. She was fortyish, dark haired all over, and a little on the chunky side. She was no Playmate of the Month, but her figure was acceptable and everything appeared to be authentic. I went back to staring at the oranges, pretending to be more engrossed in their navels than in hers, but my insides felt like a disco on Saturday night. Maybe this was all a dream but I hadn’t dreamt about a nude woman since I was a teenager.
I looked around. Everything appeared normal. Customers were scrambling, clerks restocking and checkout lines moving.
The lady in question was now walking toward the barrels of cereal, where I was going to go next to get the steel cut oatmeal. (What exactly does steel cut mean? Is every oat cut with a knife?) I figured one encounter was enough for that day. I grabbed my bag of oranges and headed for the checkout.
I went to the line with the male cashier. He was young with short, neatly combed hair so I couldn’t figure out how he got a job there.
“Is that all for today, sir?” he said. I really hate it when someone calls me “sir”--like I remind them of their grandfather.
“Yeah, that’s it. By the way,” I said, trying to sound casual, “I noticed a woman shopping without any clothes on.”
“Oh, that’s Mrs. Jamieson. You know how some women like to clean house in the nude? Well, with her it’s shopping in the nude.”
I looked at him, not sure I was hearing right. I handed him my credit card, and I said, still casual-like, “You mean she does this all the time?”
“No, just on Wednesdays--that’s the double special day.”
“Doesn’t it upset some of the customers?”
“No, they’re too busy picking through the produce to notice.”
When I got home, before my wife could ask how the shopping went, I said: “Same old story--they were out of almost everything.”
“I knew it. I just knew you’d come back with nothing. You did it on purpose so I wouldn’t send you anymore.”
“No, it’s not like that, at all,” I said. “In fact I’ll go back tomorrow morning and make sure I get everything, even if I have to speak to the manager. Not only that, I’m willing to go there every Wednesday, and get all those specials.”
She smiled, hugged me and gave me a big wet kiss. “Oh, that’s just great, honey. I know that deep inside you're really a sweetheart.”


- - -
Burt Baum is a former industrial research chemist who has been writing stories ever since he retired fifteen years ago. His work has appeared in a number of online and print publications.

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Author: Burt Baum

Contributor: J. Figueroa

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(Shots fired) my love, my hustler, my protector is gone. I hide under my bed as far away from my window. Momma is a crack head so I don’t think she paid it any attention. Dad was never around so I’m afraid. Who will protect me? I am only 19 years old. Who do I run to? There is nobody around just him. The man I am always staring at pass by my window everyday. He looks so confident. I am sure I will never be afraid if I were wrapped in his arms; and his money, oh God he must have lots of it. Someone like him I would love, not a crack head who would not even notice if I were gone; or a person who forgot I even exist. He stares back at me and I like that. He is always outside making his money but I hate that he always has to run. Cops are always after him and men are always looking to scare him but he is the street’s most dangerous hustler I am sure he can protect me as he protects himself.

I remember being afraid to go outside. I always felt so alone. Mom was more focused on her drugs I cant remember the last time she asked how my day went in school. Dad used to come home from work and leave again. He always argued with my mom about being a crack head. She did not dress up any more. She never cooked or cleaned. My house was always a big mess. Daddy stopped coming back. I think he left us for someone else. Family nights only consisted of myself. I used to look out the window hoping that someday I would not be afraid anymore. The hustlers were always looking out for everyone especially one in particular. He was so fine. His confidence was amazing. His body was sent from heaven and he dressed in the most expensive fashion and jewelry that shined like stars. I always admired him. He was everything I dreamed for and I knew I would never have to be afraid again if I had him.

I wake up for school but I am staying in today to admire him. He has not looked at me yet but I know soon he will. He doesn’t seem like himself today. I wonder what is wrong. The neighborhood seems quiet I guess because everyone is in school. I make myself something to eat with the little we have at home but all I care about is admiring him. He has me caught up in a love spell. A spell of protection that he does not even know about but he hasn’t looked at me yet and it bothers me. I run to shower and get dolled up maybe then he will notice me. Black V-neck tank top to show off my caramel chest, I put my hair up so my neck can be exposed and some red lipstick so my lips can stand out, and some shorts to finish. I run to the window once I’m done maybe now he will notice me. What is going on? A drive by? I begin to worry. I don’t see him anymore. He has not looked at me yet. Where could he be? My love, my hustler, my protector, I want him. I need him but everyone wants him gone. Did they hurt him? Did the cops take him in? People want his money. They don’t want him in the game. Did they rob him? I need him to walk by once more. I want to keep admiring him. Where is he? He is my confidant man. I need his protection. I need him to notice me. Did anyone protect him? Where is he? My protector is gone.


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"J.Figueroa, a mother of three; building her career as a writer. She is currently a Full Sail University 'Creative writing for entertainment' student."
Hope my work inspires you as it has me.

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Author: J. Figueroa

Contributor: Nicole Chapman

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The night before, my mother extracted the box of ashes from the back of my grandmother’s minivan where it had been resting for three days. I expected an ornate vase, a velvet drawstring bag, or a porcelain jar, something (anything) other than a plain cardboard box sealed with packing tape. The box sat on the dining room table overnight. I crawled out of bed and tiptoed through the house by the glow of the hallway nightlight to check to see if it had shifted.

In the morning, the box was gone and so was my family. I searched the house and then found them, sad silhouettes performing a ceremony in the early morning sun. The sliding glass door felt cool on my cheek. With one hand on the smooth, black door handle and the other clutching my grandmother’s beige, lace curtains, I watched through the glass as my mother and sister struggled to open the box under the evergreen pines. My grandmother sat beside them, observing their antics from a beach chair, sun hat on, folded crossword puzzle in lap, half-melted gin and tonic in hand.

My mother broke through the packing tape with a quick slice from my grandfather’s pocketknife. The cardboard flaps flew open in the breeze as if to let something inside escape. I was afraid the ashes would be carried away by the wind. Could a gust steal them from their rightful resting place in the rose bushes and deposit them instead in the neighbor’s lawn where the dog pees? I stole a quick breath of air and clutched the curtains tighter, as if I had the power to still the wind.

You’re being silly. Just go out there.

I slid the door open and stepped on to the water-worn deck. Leaning against the wooden rail, I squinted to see my family awkwardly shake dust into dust. The rose bushes were blooming with new buds, and I imagined for a moment that the flowers were a deeper pink, a purer white, a stronger red – all the colors I wanted them to be. But, I knew they would wilt at the start of next week’s cold front. My mother waved me over, but I stayed up on the deck, not wanting to walk through the grass in bare feet.


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Nicole Chapman is a Creative Writing MFA student, poet, and screenwriter at Full Sail University in Orlando, FL.

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Author: Nicole Chapman

Contributor: Caroline Kepnes

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It was such a mistake to start menstruating at a coffee shop in Silver Lake.Wrong, wrong, wrong. The only thing stupider would be menstruating in Santa Monica because then you'd have to find somewhere to throw stuff away. I should have gone to Hollywood to bleed. People get shot there. It's cool.
This cushy sea-foam green vinyl chair probably costs five grand and nobody else in here started the day with a Midol and a donut at 7-11, except maybe the girl washing dishes in the back. They're all so skinny. Even their skin is skinny. They look hydrated. Yet they're not drinking water. WTF? And the clothes, wow, these people don't just leaf through Lucky Magazine. They mark their favorite products with those freebie post-its and go out and actually buy the red pants.
Naturally, because I'm a day early, Scott Speedman is here—as in Ben from “Felicity”, not Noel. He is so serious, reading a script and listening to music made by musicians who probably grew up going to shows at The Greek and were careful to never get jazzed up about the shows, no matter how good they were. Excitement isn't something you display in Silver Lake. Excitement is for those sad sacks in the Valley.
Meanwhile, the guy who played Noel is probably fist-pumping and stoked in North Hollywood with lots of affable date rapists who prefer Starbucks. The Valley is prime for menstruating: more fat people, less lettuce, bigger trash cans. I would feel fine about bleeding near Noel. He was always so puffy and unsure of himself, nothing like these two self-proclaimed “women in film” (AKA pretend filmmaker and actress who had a line on “90210” three seasons ago) performing conversation for Speedman. They’re not on the rag. No way.
The actress looks too wan to get PMS and watch Beaches and the "filmmaker" looks like she lives in Los Feliz adjacent and over-thought her burgundy lipstick. The actress probably flaked on her last week, which was good timing because last week she was licking her fingers (Cool Ranch Doritos) and reading about Miley Cyrus' relationship. These are not things you can do right before you go to Silver Lake.
New people. Also not menstruating. A slave/nanny in too tight irregular exercise clothes she got at TJ Maxx holds the hand of a four year-old girl with cool accessories. The nanny is in her thirties and you can actually see her giving up on acting/writing/happiness. She looks like she has long heavy periods and knows the words to "Party in the USA" and owns a VHS box set of "Felicity". She speaks: "Claire, combining blueberries and cinnamon might alarm your pallet."
Poor nanny. She is so warped in the head from working and menstruating in Silver Lake that she's actually trying to do a great job cultivating Silver Lake's top export:
Snobs!
These pre-bleeding years matter a lot when it comes to raising superior beings. The nanny is killing it. You can tell by Claire's adultish eyes and non-laughing face and striped socks and penchant for scones that Claire is going to be a solid, dazzling nightmare of a human being one day. Her freshman roommate at Barnard will be on financial aid and eat Lean Cuisines and use Always pads with wings and Claire will make her feel so bad about herself just by looking at her. And you know what Claire's mom will put in the care package with non-toxic tampons and laxatives and satchels of scented flowers and shit?
Bags of coffee from this place, because unfortunately, it really is the best coffee in the world, so Claire will be right when she schools her financial aid receiving roommate. Bitches like Claire are right about a lot, damn it.
The nanny leans in: “Excuse me, I feel so bad, but do you have a tampon?”


- - -
I was born and raised on Cape Cod and pretty much always liked writing stories. I live in Los Angeles and write about TV for Yahoo. My short film "Miles Away" will be premiering at a film festival possibly somewhere near you within the next few months.

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Author: Caroline Kepnes

Contributor: Chris Griglack

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He stands still in quiet contemplation as the heavens empty themselves around him. His mind wanders and his feet long to do the same, but they are still as the rain continues to fall.
Warm droplets soak into the tightly woven fibers of his suit, pressing close to flesh, running ever onward to some new place. He stands still as it washes over him and allows it to take him elsewhere.
The man in the suit remembers a different rain, or perhaps the same rain in a different place. The rain he remembers is lighter, a mist which hangs in the air like a fine net, waiting to ensnare any who might dare stride through it.
One child dares, though he is not snared by the mist's presence. He is energized by it, leaping from puddle to puddle and through its shimmering presence in the air. It sticks to his face as he runs, like sweat, a spiderweb, and a puppy's kisses all in one. The rain is his playground, his toy, his friend.
He remembers another rain, this one sharp and cold as ice. A rain which falls like knives against him as he walks a deserted highway. Raindrops which appear like bullets in the twin gaze of the headlights of the truck wrecked three miles back.
He wears a coat, but it is heavy and stiff from the freezing rain. Unrelenting it continues to acquaint itself with the top of his head, seeping ever downward, seeming to seek the very core of his being through eroding the outer layers of his self. He cries as he walks down that road, and the rain sweeps his tears away to new lands, estranged brothers at last reunited.
He remembers a rain which is not really a rain, yet borrows all its sensations. A crash of thunder lights a cluster of clouds far above, yet no water falls from their vaporous bodies. The smell of ozone is thick in the air, and the local flora stretch for the sky and gape their pores in anticipation, but they are to be disappointed.
The sweat rolls down his face in rivulets which form streams at his neck, pool where his thin shirt meets the waistband of his shorts, each movement spilling more through that seal until his legs feel submerged. The jungle is hot, but worse, it is humid. So humid that each breath threatens to drown him. The rain is tangible, as if it can be drawn forth from the air by hand. But there is no rain. Only thunder, sweat, and a tantalizing promise.
Each memory rises to the surface of the man in the suit like the earthworms rise at his presence. One after the other they surface and are swept away by the peaceful torrent which surrounds him.
He stays until he feels it is time to go. The rains lighten behind him as he walks where the wind blows. When he is hours gone the sun emerges and delivers back to him some of his waters. Droplets which have fallen for billions of years across the world delivered back to him as he continues his endless journey.
For it never really stops raining.
It just rains elsewhere.


- - -
Chris Griglack is a lifelong Massachusetts resident with a degree in writing from UMASS Dartmouth. His original stories have been featured in Fear and Trembling, Microhorror, and Linguistic Erosion.

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Author: Chris Griglack

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

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As I've told my wife too many times, the meaning of any poem hides in the marriage of cadence and sound. Vowels on a carousel, consonants on a calliope, whistles and bells, we need them all if a poem is to tickle our ears. Otherwise, the lines are gristle and fat, no meat.
Is it any wonder, then, my wife has had a problem, for decades now, with any poem I've given her to read for a second opinion. This is especially true when we both know the poem has no message and I simply want to hear the music, assuming there is some. Miles Davis made a living doing the same thing in jazz clubs. Why can't I have a little fun and give it a try even if my instrument is words?
The other night in bed I gave my wife my latest poem to read. I said it was fetal, not final. Afterward she said that reading this poem was no different than reading all the others I had given her over the years. She had thought I'd improve by now. Maybe I should switch to fiction or the essay, she suggested, or else stick with editing the manuscripts of others since I had made a decent living as an editor for many years.
"You've been writing poetry for decades," she said, "but reading a poem like this is like looking through a kaleidoscope while listening to a harpsichord."
Point well taken, I thought, point well said. The nuns for whom I toiled all those years in grammar school would have liked my wife. They might have even recruited her to join their order.
Then I asked her what a man should do if he has careened for years through the caves of his mind spelunking for the right line for a poem only to hear his wife say that reading his poem was like "looking through kaleidoscope while listening to a harpsichord."
Should I quit writing? Start drinking? After all I quit drinking when I started writing and I discovered that the hangovers from both were equally debilitating.
The following morning she said, "You should never quit writing."
At that moment, she was enthroned at the kitchen table, as regal as ever in her fluttery gown and buttering her English muffin with long, languorous strokes Van Gogh would envy.
"You should write even more,” she said, “all day and all night, if need be. After all, my line about the 'kaleidoscope and harpsichord' needs a poem of its own. It's all meat, no gristle, no fat."


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Nominated for Best of the Net and Pushcart prizes, Donal Mahoney has had work appear in Linguistic Erosion and other publications in North America, Europe, Asia and Africa. Some of his work can be found at http://eyeonlifemag.com/the-poetry-locksmith/donal-mahoney-poet.html

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Author: Donal Mahoney

Contributor: Gary Clifton

- -
Freddy and Jimmie Bob sat on Freddy's back porch, chugging shots of shine, chasing it with Budweiser. The air at dusk was still sticky with humidity, but the temperature had dropped and mosquitoes weren't bad yet. The old man shuffled up through the trees in the fading light.
"Hey, Arthur," Freddy said. "Meet my brother Jimmie Bob...plumber up in Hot Springs, drove down to visit." Freddie circled his ear with a finger and pointed his chin at Arthur. Jimmie Bob nodded understanding.
"Hot Springs," the old man struggled up the steps. Ancient, with a permanent forward stoop, his bushy hair and scraggly beard had dodged the comb for months. "Must be sixty mile."
"More like 97...this far into Louisiana here," Jimmie Bob scratched his nose with the back of a hand and took a hit of shine.
Freddy, with more tattoos than teeth, grunted over his huge gut as he reached into a cooler at his feet. He handed old Arthur a Budweiser and pointed to a wicker chair.
"Plumber, huh," Arthur slumped in the seat. "Gotta leak in my kitchen. You fix it, I could pay...maybe later." The old man filled his mouth with beer.
"Got no tools...on vacation." Jimmie Bob swatted an insect and drunkenly spilled shine in his lap.
"Maybe come back tomorrow?" The old man looked over half glasses perched on his nose.
"Told ya. Crazy as hell," Freddy whispered.
"Whut's that? Gettin' crazier 'n hell?" Arthur echoed, his belly laugh like tearing cardboard. "Cain't hardly hear a damned thing.” He cupped a hand to his left ear.
"Brain's prolly pickled." Jimmie Bob tossed a dead soldier into the darkness. "You 'member how nuts grandpa Chadsey got?"
"Maybe oughta to be in a home," Freddie said He glanced at Arthur out of the side of his eye.
"Home? Gotta leak in my home. Iffen you come fix it, I'd pay you when I get my check," Arthur said. "You maybe come back down from Little Rock?"
"Oh for God's sake," Freddy roared. His beer-belly quivered like jello. "Looney old fool. Jimmie Bob's on vacation. He ain't gonna do no plumbin' on vacation...an' he livin' up in Hot Springs...not no Little Rock"
Arthur drained his beer and flipped the can into the weeds. He peered wistfully at Freddy's cooler. "Did I ast if y'all knowed a plumber?" Arthur cackled. The vacant eyes didn't match his lively laugh.
"Damnation, old man, lemme see what kinda tools I got in the truck." Jimmy Bob stood. Unsteady, he leaned on the frail porch railing. "You got any pliers, Freddy?" Tall and skinny, he slugged down a double shot of shine. Excess whiskey dripped off his thin goatee.
“Dammit, Jimmy Bob, you got no need to…”
“Aw hell, he sorta makes me think of Uncle Chadsey. You live long ‘nough, you gonna get old too.” He moved down the steps and turned toward his old pickup.
Arthur, grinning, shuffled over and snagged another beer.


- - -
Gary Clifton, forty years a cop, has over sixty short fiction pieces published or pending with online sites. He's been shot at, shot, stabbed, sued, and is currently retired. He has an M.S. from Abilene Christian University.

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Author: Gary Clifton

Contributor: P.M. Brandvold

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My mother and father met on New Year’s Eve at an office party. They were drunk and lonely, which is almost certainly a requirement for attending such a party. Mother was 27, and the receptionist of some CEO on the top floor. Father was a 29 year old accountant on the fifteenth floor. By all laws of the universe they should never have met. But fate was with me as I tried to enter the world.

My recipe: an empty office, a desk cleared in haste, and a lot of tequila. My mother found out soon after. My father knew shortly after that. He wasn’t happy. He never really was happy, though I think he just hated his job because, let’s face it, nobody wants to get with an accountant. They might catch boring.

There were fights after that. They were constantly yelling, though they avoided each other for the most part. But when they were together, it was a storm of persuasive tones turned to angry shouts. Father didn’t want me, and Mother didn’t know what she wanted. She couldn’t be a single mother on her receptionist salary. She didn’t know if she could even handle motherhood. Father won her over.

My curse is that I existed when I should not have. The punishment for my crime is watching the world from without, never entering it. I can see my ghost. My future echoes show me what I could be, but none of it will happen. I watch, a child born of the short spark of lust.


- - -
Phillip Brandvold is a writer and musician based out of St. Paul, MN. He is currently attending school at Concordia University, St. Paul.

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Author: P.M. Brandvold

Contributor: Beth J. Whiting

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Mr. Sawyer needed to rest his body so he took his brain out on the front porch. After resting he went to the front porch to get his brain back and he saw that it had disappeared.
He asked the neighbor across the street if she saw anything.
The neighbor was an elderly person like himself. She was rocking in her chair, crocheting.
“I saw some kids who were playing soccer take it with them. They were kicking it around.”
“WHAT?” He yelled.
“Yeah they were kicking it like a ball.”
He was nervous and fidgeting.
“Did you see where they went?”
“They went to play out in the park.”
The park was only a block away. Mr. Sawyer anxiously walked to the park, cursing the boys.
The park was large and green. He saw two boys there. He knew it must have been them so he yelled to the boys.
“Where did you put my brain?”
“Oh that. We got tired of it. It’s by the tree in the shade.”
He walked across the field to the tree in the corner. He found his brain and it was covered with ants.
He wanted to yell at the kids but decided it would be useless. If they were willing to play with someone’s brain, they wouldn’t learn anything from a lecture.
He looked at it. Mr. Sawyer sighed. He would have to take it to the brain doctor tomorrow to get it cleaned and polished


- - -
I was born in 1983. I live in Mesa, AZ. I was born to a family of brainy eccentrics.

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Author: Beth J. Whiting

Contributor: Jade Kolbo

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The service was nice. An old man with a wrinkled tie had read the eulogy. In the front of the tiny chapel, old ladies had patted their eyes with handkerchiefs, careful not to mess up that cheap red lipstick and blue eye shadow. Most people paying their respects had left their children at home, much to the relief of the grieving family who had ached for some peace. There had been no coffin or urn in front of the altar. They had to go without saying their goodbyes to something they could physically see.

Mutterings of the latest news in the investigation had circulated throughout the dim room by the end of the service. Some people had made comments saying that the family should have waited for the body to be found before planning a major service. Others had mentioned that the family needed some kind of closure and had every right. A select number of people had said at least some of the family members must have been the ones responsible since no other suspects had been found.

The grief-stricken family seemed like they had tried to ignore any gossip that had been making its way throughout the room. The father had tapped his foot in a clear state of agitation. The mother had held on to the sobbing kids. At the end of the service they had revealed the headstone that would mark the empty grave. "He doesn't lie here, but we loved him anyway."


- - -
Jade Kolbo studies Journalism at Concordia University, St. Paul.

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Author: Jade Kolbo

Contributor: Kristina England

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Mary turned the corner onto Contel Street. Her feet hit the pavement in careful strides. Every few minutes, she winced.

After 5 miles, she stopped and leaned against a street sign. She bent over and massaged her left leg.

"Come on, baby. You can do it."

The truth was that Lefty wasn't a baby. She was more like a worn-out house wife. If she could talk, she would have told Mary to go take a walk, but not in the literal sense.

Lefty let out a tired sigh that ran along Mary's nerves.

Mary winced again.

"Okay, that's enough for today."

Lefty sighed again. She could feel herself giving out, the fall that came with it. She didn't bother to warn Mary. They had been here too many times before.

Nothing Lefty did could stop Mary, short of going limp for good. And Lefty really didn't care for that option, but what choice did she have?


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Kristina England resides in Worcester, MA. Her writing is published or forthcoming at Extract(s), Gargoyle, The Story Shack, and other magazines.

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Author: Kristina England