Contributor: Taylor Gibbs

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Well you see, it all started with that campy pop-rock song “Drops of Jupiter,” by that corny pop-rock band Train, I believe they are called. Something quite mystical transpired. I was listening to the starry entrancing lyrics when the world began to slip into an unreality. A hazy floating daze swept me off the computer chair where I was checking bus times to a stop seldom used by myself. I realized time was of the essence and I had to get moving if I wanted to catch the bus, on account of the fair walk ahead of me to that near stop.
I began my journey home from work at a slightly less than frantic pace toward the aforementioned bus stop. I was getting near to it when all the street lights began to dim. A blank bus appeared out of the darkness, off in the distance, heading toward me. Desperately I picked up my pace in order to get to the stop on time. In my panic run I hadn’t paid attention to the lights or the bus that arrived at the stop at the same time as I did, until the doors slowly opened. I looked up only to notice where it should have said the route and number, read “Out of Service.” Oddly enough the bus had stopped regardless, and the doors were open, an inviting embrace to the soft ambient glow of its interior. I got on and swiped my card staring at the middle-aged female driver who only gave a vague nod and said no words. Her mouth closed in a thin white line as if it had been glued shut.
The bus was completely empty. I was the only passenger riding this mystery bus into the under lit depths of the city of Guelph.
As the bus traversed the streets I noticed that the city was empty and completely dark. The bus began a long and winding path into an abyss unseen, and in an eerie silence.
It glided through the streets like a boat on smooth, glass lake, fluid and agile.
It preambled so far off the path into deeper darkness that I no longer recognized or could describe anything outside the windows. The bus, however, was so quick to reach places I did recognize that it was as if the driver not only steered the great monolithic bus, but folded space in half and reached further destinations without actually traveling to them.
As it approached the downtown station the silence was oppressive. Where normally all the buses arrive with a practiced synchronicity; there were none to be found. We were the sole accompaniment. I nervously decided to unload myself quickly, allowing the driver a “good night,” to which she responded again with that vague (this time “knowing”) wordless nod.
I exited the bus onto the platform. Under the orange-yellow glow of the arc lights, silhouettes of people were milling about. Not quite substantial people, with many goals and things to find, none seeming to know exactly what they were looking for.
Lost obsidian souls in the ceaseless night.
I traversed this strange desolation with the stealth and cunning of a cat to an empty Subway restaurant for a sandwich, only to find no one would acknowledge my presence and serve me. I was invisible – a greyish specter of myself. So I left bereft, paranoid, and confused and headed home alone in the solitude of the night.
My building when I arrived was like a deprivation chamber. There were faint sounds and lights but everything seemed distant and unreachable.
I got into my room closed the door to be alone and try to piece my thoughts and rationale together, assimilate what it all meant. All I could focus on was the comforting song my roommate sang, drifting to me muffled through the wood of our closed doors.


- - -
My name is Taylor Gibbs, I am a twenty nine year old Support Worker and full time student at York University in English Literature. I have been writing for a few years as a hobby and only recently worked up the nerve to begin submitting for publication. I have a few poems that will be published in Leaves of Ink and The Wilderness House Literary Review come October.

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Author: Taylor Gibbs

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

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"Throw me down the stairs a sandwich, Ollie, I'm hungry," said Dr. Olga Sumvitch, hollering up to me from Hell again in her best fractured English.

Although she had spent the last 30 years of her life in the United States working for Monsanto, Dr. Sumvitch still speaks English with a thick accent. I'm one of the few Americans who can always understand her. She has trouble pronouncing my first name, Oliver. But she can always say Ollie, and I have no problem answering to that.

Years ago, Dr. Sumvitch emigrated from Moldova to the United States after being hired by Monsanto to fine-tune the formula for Agent Orange. There were some problems in its effectiveness and she had the expertise to work them out.

The day the government finally approved the formula for use in Viet Nam, Dr. Sumvitch had gotten hit by a bus coming back to work after a sumptuous lunch with her celebrating co-workers.

The injuries were bad. She suffered seizures in the hospital for several days and foamed at the mouth intermittently. The night nurse needed towels to sop it all up. She died at midnight on Good Friday with a groan that woke everyone in her ward. After her last groan, a deaf patient on her floor said that he could hear again on Easter morning.

Dr. Sumvitch and I were chemists by trade. We became friends at professional meetings. In the beginning I knew nothing about her work. In fact, I had declined a job at Monsanto right after getting my doctorate from the University of California at Berkeley, and I had always wondered if I had made a mistake in turning that job down. The pay and the benefits were excellent. And Monsanto had a great reputation for quality in their products.

Dr. Sumvitch trusted me not to talk about her work, saying it was top-secret, hush-hush by order of the government. It was the government, after all, that had underwritten the years of research and development that made Agent Orange possible.

Without millions in taxpayer money funneled through the government back to Monsanto, Agent Orange might never have been produced. I promised her I would never say a word about her work. That would have been hard for me to do even if I had wanted to because I honestly didn't quite understand the true nature of the product at the time.

Even now, more than 40 years later, I have to ask myself why would our government be interested in producing a product that would silently decimate land and crops as well as the people who depend on both for their livelihood.

It sounds a lot like chemical warfare to me, and I didn't think my country would ever engage in such a thing.

Right now, America is all worked up about what's going on in Syria--poisonous gases of one kind or other. I'm happy that I'm an expert in formulating new toothpastes. It's my job to make people smile brighter and whiter--not kill them--over a period of time.

Dr. Sumvitch went to Hell immediately but stayed in touch with me after she died. I was afraid to tell anybody about that for fear they would think I was hallucinating after too many years experimenting with toothpaste. Once a month or so, however, she hollers up from Hell when she gets real hungry.

"Food is scarce down here," she told me, "unless one has no objection to cannibalism."

On Earth, and in Moldova especially, she had developed a taste for organ meats--gizzards and livers and hearts--provided they had been harvested from beasts, not human beings.

Chicken gizzards piled on a mountain of rice were her favorite, although turkey hearts, if they were big enough, were almost as good.

Whenever Dr. Sumvitch hollers, and lately she's been doing it more frequently, I wake up and get out of bed and head for the kitchen. I always make her a fine sandwich. I stack beef or pork, whatever I have in the fridge, on marble rye with a slice of onion and a dollop of Tabasco sauce. I top it off with a slice of Kosher pickle, wrap it in Saran Wrap and toss it down the stairs to Hell. It takes around an hour for it to arrive so I hang around in the kitchen till I hear from her.

"Thank you," she yells, when the sandwich finally gets there.

"Believe me, Ollie, I'd ask someone else for help but no one believes in Hell any more except me and my co-workers down here. It's like a big Monsanto reunion from decades ago. There are thousands of us.

"Sandwiches like yours are impossible to come by. Eyeballs, armpits and feet are plentiful, if you like your meat well done.

"You can always see what you're eating because of the bright light, and that can ruin one's appetite. Agent Orange burns night and day. It's always High Noon down here. No one gets any sleep."


- - -
Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.

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Author: Donal Mahoney

Contributor: April Winters

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The day she walked into the high school cafeteria, Michael fell in love for the first time. Tall, naturally blonde, and blue-eyed, the girl was a knock-out in Michael’s eyes. I wonder what grade she’s in, he thought.

He found out soon enough when she strode into his tenth grade Geography class well after the bell rang. She handed Mr. Jacobs a piece of paper. He glanced at it then placed it on his desk. “Boys and girls,” he said, “this is our new student, Tammy Remington. Her family’s been stationed here for a while; her father’s a military man.” Then he told Tammy to take the seat behind Joe Raver. Michael cursed the fact that his last name was Connors, wishing it was something with an ‘R’ that would have let her sit in front of him.

Michael, quiet and shy, developed into the class clown. He’d do silly stuff to get Tammy’s attention, like pretending to trip then bumping into a nearby student. Or throwing his hand in the air and asking ridiculous questions when Mr. Jacobs called on him. Most of the girls clicked their tongues, but Tammy giggled. Michael loved her even more.

Tammy was in town almost a month when the kids buzzed about the dance, coming up the following Friday. Heart pounding, Michael mustered the nerve to ask her to go with him. She said yes. It took days before the silly grin disappeared from his face.

At the dance, they laughed and talked a lot. After the dance, he asked her to go steady with him and, again, she said yes. The grin reappeared.

The more time they spent together, the more Michael realized Tammy was not only beautiful, but she was what his mother would call ‘cultured’. Tammy had spent part of her life in Japan, Italy, and Germany, thanks to her father’s career choice. Michael was fascinated and wanted to know what each of those countries were like. Born and raised in Columbus, Ohio, he’d never left the state. Tammy didn’t see the glamour in foreign life like Michael did. She explained how difficult it was to live in countries where she didn’t speak or understand the language and where she was so different from the other kids. She said she didn’t care for being an outcast.

When Michael and Tammy weren’t together at school, they were on the phone for hours each night. Everything was roses and rainbows for over a year, during which time Michael told Tammy he loved her and planned to marry her. “Gee, I don’t know, Michael,” she said. “I mean, I don’t want to hurt your feelings or anything, but we’ve never dated anybody except each other. I’m not sure we should tie ourselves down; I mean, we’re both still so young and all. Besides, my father would have a hissy fit if I told him we were engaged. I’m not even seventeen yet!”

“Well, yeah, but you’ll be seventeen soon; same as me. I don’t see what’s wrong with planning our future. Besides, I don’t mean we’ll get married tomorrow.”

“You’re right, Michael; I suppose there’s nothing wrong with it. It’s just that my mother has told me as long as I can remember not to get married until I’m well into my twenties. She says marrying too young can cause lots of problems, and she doesn’t want me to ruin my life like she ruined hers.”

Within a week, Tammy broke the news that her father had been transferred to Arizona. She’d be gone very soon. Michael didn’t know how on earth he’d be able to say goodbye.

He wrote Tammy letters every day, but she stopped answering after the first six weeks or so. Heartbroken, Michael moped for months. Then his luck changed. His father’s health demanded a drier climate which made Michael happy because they were moving to a town in Arizona that was just twenty miles from where Tammy lived.

His mom and dad drove Michael to Tammy’s house a few days after the Connor’s settled into their new home. Michael thought Tammy would be thrilled to see him. He couldn’t have been more wrong.


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April Winters hopes to help people forget their troubles through her stories, even if only for a little while. Her other works can be read at The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, Short-Story.Me, The Short Humour Site, and here at Linguistic Erosion.

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Author: April Winters

Contributor: W.M. Dufresne

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There is a desolate barbershop still limping along on Terrier St., but you wouldn’t know it unless somebody told you. It smells like turpentine and all the equipment is really old and what most would consider crappy. But Bob is still cutting hair and making good conversation there.

When I first visited Bob, he was trimming sideburns with surgeon’s precision while Dr. Phil babbled on the TV. Some inanimate booger green chairs sat in the middle of the room. From the very get-go I could tell that he was honing in on every individual hair follicle, sniping them joyously with his battered old clippers.
I sat there for awhile and watched Bob like a gardener tending to his anthropoid flowers. A black African American man outside dressed as the Statue of Liberty was shrieking obnoxiously about taxes and tax preparation and discounts while holding a red body-sized cardboard arrow. People stuck in traffic tried not to make eye contact with him. He was pointing his arrow every which way and playing it like an air guitar. It was simultaneously absurd and enchanting. I immediately wanted to do my taxes.

Some effeminate doctor in blue fatigues opened the door to the place and the once hum street murmur came blasting in saxophone style. Bob seemed to have liked this gentleman, this doctor. They had known each other from haircuts long past; sideburns long trimmed.

On that day, Bob was a master of razors and the blades. He was mythological, almost. A folk hero in my mind.

Old Mrs. Westwood confirmed this to be true. She popped in through the doorway in a sudden and spry manner just as the blue fatigued doctor was leaving. You could tell she was eager to see Bob. On the TV the nightly nightmare called the news started sounding off.

I was now positioned to be Bob’s final haircut of the day.

The razors were increasingly loud and throbbed hot about my ears. 80-year-old Mrs. Westood sat in the audience. She came just for the conversation. At least she was honest.

She had known Bob since he was a little chap. I remember her saying something about how she helped him get through Boy Scouts. His nickname had been Greyfoot back then and in her exchange with him, she referred to him as such.
Bob was buzzing about my head with a great deal of mental equipoise and skill of the blade. Through the hot scrap of the tiny microblades, I could still hear the emasculated Statue of Liberty sounding off and carnival barking outside.
When Bob took out his straight blade razor to clean up my neck I saw it immediately as a relic of the past; something to be revered. It had such impressive intrinsic value. It took skill to whip it around, sharpen the blade, and put it to someone’s neck.

When he was done I felt so smooth that when I walked out onto Terrier Street I felt like I was walking into an Artic wind tunnel. For a moment I forgot all about him and Mrs. Westwood and the blue fatigued doctor and the state of the world as evidenced by the nightly news and that dingleberry Dr. Phil. The cold air dizzied my epidermis and pulled it tight like the membrane on a snare drum.

I crawled into the driver side with the utmost caution. Ever since I was a kid and my big cheese schoolbus ripped a door off a parked car, I’ve had this idea that if I timed my entry incorrectly I might lose my head or at least a limb to another sideswiping car. My worthy vessel was ready for voyage. In the rear-view mirror I caught that damn Statue of Liberty twirling his giant arrow like a baton over and over.


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William Michael Dufresne is a writer living and working in Pittsburgh, PA. His work has been found in a number of online literary publications including the Compendium Review and Bulletproof Glass. He is currently working on a book called Souvenir about mania in big cities.

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Author: W.M. Dufresne

Contributor: Jerry Guarino

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“Who is this person?” Said Armen, the owner of the new bakery. Armen looked around at his customers, sitting at café tables, drinking tea or coffee and eating desserts.

Meanwhile, John was on his computer in the second floor apartment next door. He was playing a game of hide and seek with Armen.

“Guess it’s time to make another appearance” said John. Whenever the café was busy, John came in, bought a cookie, hung out a while and checked in, but since he also checked in from his apartment, Armen had no idea whom the Duke of Yelp was.

The modern coffee house was not a bohemian or flower child flophouse. Instead of a bearded man playing a guitar, there was jazz and spa music coming out of ceiling speakers. Tie-dye cloth and beanbag chairs gave way to expensive leather furnishings expertly matched to create an ambience of warmth and relaxation. At least a dozen people were connected by phone, laptop or iPad, tapping away while talking with companions; heads bobbed and eyes darted up and down. Although Armen was playing catch up, it seemed all young people were skilled in tech use. He just hoped none of them were hacking into his computer to get credit card information.

“Great shortbread,” John said to the cashier. “I’ll take four.”

The dark haired girl with Mediterranean looks selected four unbroken cookies and put them in a bag. “Will that be all?” she said smiling.

“And a coffee,” said John as he selected a large take-out cup and lid, then filled it from the self-service decanter. While John was waiting for his change, he tapped on his iPhone, checking in to the location.

Armen heard a ping from his computer and looked around the room. He walked over to his computer, set to the Yelp page that showed his bakery/café. “This one person keeps checking in with the name Pat27. Hmmm. Could be a man or a woman. No picture.” He needed another way to find him or her.

A 20-something Asian woman with faded jeans, soft, brown boots and a pink cotton sweater walked in; John’s head came to a stop as he saw her. He watched as she bought a tea and raspberry scone, sitting at the corner table and opening her kindle to read. Normally not one to take chances, John decided this was worth the risk. He walked over to her table, paused, presented his bag and said, “Have you tried the shortbread?”

The woman gestured for John to sit down, “No, I would like that. I’m Amy.”

John smiled. “John” and he sat down next to her.

“I don’t normally take desserts from strangers” she said.

“I don’t normally offer them,” said John. “Are you from the Mission?” John asked.

“No, the Sunset. My friend is in the wine bar next door.”

Armen walked around the seating area, glancing at screens. People continued to come and go. He decided to secretly take snapshots of them with his phone.

John wondered if her friend was male or not; he hoped she would offer this information. “Yes, it looks like a fine place, a little upscale for this neighborhood though.”

Amy broke off a nibble of shortbread and swallowed. “Well, that’s my friend’s way of meeting rich guys.”

John put his hand on the table. “And you?”

Amy took a sip of her tea, and then put her hand on the table closer to John. “Money comes and goes. I don’t waste it, so I don’t need much.”

John was feeling comfortable now. “Yeah, me too. But I guess you can tell by the way I dress.”

Amy looked John over. “You look fine, do you mean the plaid, flannel shirt?”

John nodded. “Holdover from winters in Berkeley. You?”

Amy leaned forward. “UCLA, but I grew up here. You’re not from here, are you?”

How would she know that? John had no discernible accent. “No, Boston. How did you know?” he asked.

“You speak more slowly than natives.” After about an hour of social dancing, John and Amy walked out, went up to his apartment and made love.

Back in the bakery, Armen looked at the customer pictures he had on his phone. It was 10:00pm, closing time when a man in a mask came up to the register, pointed a gun at Armen and demanded the money. The gunman tapped something into his phone. “Ping.” The dark haired girl took the money out and handed it to the gunman.

You could almost make out a smile from the robber as he turned to leave. “Remember the Duke!”

When the police arrived, Armen showed them John’s picture. “This is the guy who’s been casing my place.”

John escorted Amy back to the wine bar. “Who is this?” said Jenny as she saw John with Amy.

John extended his hand. “John, this is Jenny, a sorority sister visiting from L.A.”

Jenny could tell where Amy had been. “So, John what do you do?”

Amy gave her a nudge. “Hands off girl, I saw him first.”

John was flattered with the attention of these two beautiful women. “Would you ladies like a drink?”

Amy and Jenny said in unison “champagne please.”

In his peripheral vision, John caught them whispering to each other as he walked to the bar. “Three champagnes please, but let’s keep it under $25.00.”

A waitress from the wine bar pointed out John to a policeman, who was letting them know about the robbery next door. “OK, I see him.”

As John and the women were toasting, John pulled out his phone and checked in to the bakery one last time, after they had closed. This would give Armen a laugh when he got in next day; it was just harmless fun.

The policeman, seeing John posting on his phone, confiscated it, looked at the posting for the bakery. “Turn around Pat27, we got you” and led him out the door in handcuffs. “Or should I call you Duke?”

- - -
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: Sarah S. Cain

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Margaret thought it would be fun to take the train to Boston, but now it seemed like an ordeal. Brian bounced in his window seat though there was little enough to see in the dark. He made faces at himself and stuck out his tongue. Soon though she could give him his medicine, and he'd calm down.

“Mom, Mom, Mom, Mo--”

“What is it, Brian?”

“Look! There’s a man with a purple tie!” He pointed across the aisle to the slim blond man in the gray suit who indeed wore a bright purple tie. He didn’t glance up when Brian pointed him out, though he must have heard his voice. He was youngish. Thirties, Margaret thought.

“Yes, Brian. There’s a man with a purple tie. Keep your voice down.”

Sometimes Margaret wished she could wear earphones when she was with Brian. She listened to the train clack over the rails. It didn't drown out his voice.

“Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom--”

“Yes, Brian?”

“The man with the purple tie has an iPad.”

“I can see that, dear.”

Brian shifted and squirmed. Thank goodness the train wasn’t crowded. Two seats up, a woman in a black suit pulled out a pair of headphones, slipped them into her ears and plugged them into her computer. She shot Margaret a look--something between pity and impatience. An older man snapped his paper with impatience.

Margaret searched through her bag for her phone. Brian could play a computer game or two on it. She didn’t want to drag out the computer, but if he kept it up, she would.

“Newark," wheezd the intercom.

“Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom! Is this our stop?"

“No, dear. We’re going on to Boston. To see Gammy and Papa.”

She handed him her phone and a pair of headphones. Brian played in relative quiet through the Newark stop, but once the train started up, he grew bored.

“Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom, M--”

“What, Brian?” Margaret felt a headache forming between her eyes. They had at least six hours to go, depending on the layover in New York. She hated driving with Brian because it always took forever. They had to stop at every rest stop along the way, and flying was worse. He’d kick the seats and squirm and ask the flight attendants every five minutes if the plane might crash. Once when they flew through bad weather, he’d shrieked for the entire flight.

Now that they sat on the train, Margaret knew she’d made a dreadful mistake. She should have driven. She could bear Brian’s quirks alone; she’d done so since Henry left them three years ago.

“Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom, M—“

“Yes, Brian.” Perhaps a Valium would calm him, except it would probably react with his other medications then she would be to blame.

“The man with the purple tie looks like the guy from TV. He's a bad man.”

Margaret felt embarrassed. This might be some celebrity, and here was Brian making a fuss. “Brian, please stop talking about that man. He might get offended. He might think you’re a rude little boy.”

“New York.”

She watched the man place his iPad in a sleeve, stand, and slip into a black raincoat. He started to exit before turning back to them. He leaned over and smiled, his blond hair sweeping down over his brow. Margaret thought his teeth were very white, and his blue eyes had flecks of silver.

“Listen to your mother, Brian,” he said in a voice just above a whisper. “You never know who people are. Sometimes they’re nice, but sometimes they like to stick sharp objects into soft little necks.”

He straightened and walked to the door, his step jaunty. Margaret felt her heart thud; when she looked at Brian his mouth hung open. She wanted to call the conductor, but she couldn't force out a sound. The man melted into the crowd at Penn Station.

Brian was quiet all the way to Boston.


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Writing is my obsession. A lover of all genres of fiction, I lean to the dark and twisted, though I love well done humor. My micro fiction story, The Offering, recently first place on Flash! Fridays Online Fiction, and my short story Amsterdam will be published in the upcoming anthology, Voices of the Main Line.

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Author: Sarah S. Cain

Contributor: Chico Mahalo

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So now they’re all holding rallies, thinking they’re going to be the ones to set this country on fire again. But who’s kidding whom? What do they really want? What does anybody really want? Love? Sex? Respect? Money? Power? Egos stroked until their Ids come all over their superegos? It’s a simple question. Costs a hell of a lot more than $64,000 these days, but I think you’ll find the answer is reasonably priced. In fact it might even be on sale. For the right asking price. Just call up your friendly neighborhood lobbyist; they’re the ones hanging out in the lobby of the Ritz Carlton reading the Financial Times and having green tea and pastries.

And then the scene suddenly dissolves. But where are the network cameras? Out of focus again. But if you squint real hard you can see where the unemployment lines meet the coke lines and then you can watch them go to the after party with the thugs who can’t be identified in a lineup because they have diplomatic immunity.

Where is America? Where is Miss America? Being raped by Captain America, of course. And once again our judicial system has turned a blind eye to Lady Justice, who’s grown tired of being in the dark and has removed her blindfold and replaced it with shades of gray.

All those cancerous witches and warlocks pretending to race for the cure by filling out their pledge forms; but they don’t want to cure this disease. They want the disease to spread. They want to create a pandemic that is voter-resistant. What rhetoric! What spin! What a disenchanted forest we've wandered into again. Waiting for Supermen like Zuckerberg and Gates to be the saviors of our public schools because all those demagogic demigods on our school boards are more concerned with rewriting the history of the world by filling our children’s textbooks with ideological battles between Darwin and Christ.

“And, by the way, where is Christ in all this?” says the Atheist to the Evangelical.

“Living in you,” says the Evangelical.

“No, He’s not,” says the Atheist. “He’s with all those other ubermensches who always seem to be reaching toward thrilling ideas only to suddenly abandon them.”

And ’round and ’round the burning bush they go and where they stop, nobody knows; not even the shadow government knows what evil lurks inside the hearts and minds of the men and women of the Mad Tea Party who insist on seizing upon our differences and apprehensions rather than trying to grasp the reasons why the merry-go-round has collapsed mid-season.


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Chico Mahalo is a subtly charming writer, alcohol maven, passionate communicator, and hipster-friendly troublemaker with a strong interest in researching tattoos in Minneapolis, MN. He spent 2001-2005 donating Easter candy in Ocean City, NJ. He currently lives with a woman who puts you in mind of an unstoppable storm, whose luxurious, wavy, black hair is worn in a style that reminds you of a bale of hay.

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Author: Chico Mahalo

Contributor: Diana Chen

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Two snaps marked the first opening of the two white tabs that held the yellow, plastic briefcase closed. The next two snaps trapped its first victim: a purple-grey muscular foot that carried a round, tan shell and left a faint trail of clear slime. One became two, two became three, and soon the yellow case was saturated with snails, each handpicked from the backyard garden to the soundtrack of a gurgling fountain and high-pitched laughter. Between each new addition were a series of snaps heralding the replacement of wilting maple leaves riddled with nibbled edges and holes. Each new resident was welcomed by two more snaps. The last two snaps of the case left 87 snails in the sunshine of a summer day as a U-Haul truck rumbled noisily away. Now the child’s briefcase sits empty among growing weeds in a silent garden.


- - -
Diana's first independent poetic endeavors began at age eleven. Posting her writing on Tumblr since 2011 Diana's internet presence has grown to include her growing literary portfolio as well as her original art on both Tumblr and DeviantART.

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Author: Diana Chen

Contributor: Jerry Guarino

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David sat in front of his big screen television, set the sound field on his digital home theater and basked in the color and sound of the hockey game. Home theaters and HDTV cameras had made watching at home virtually as good as going to the arena and a whole lot less expensive; you just had to provide your own food. Add a girl that liked the game, a pizza and good wine and you had a date night to remember. David had mastered the art of at home dating on the cheap, thanks to his home theater, an investment that kept paying him back.

College students usually put their money into clothing or cars, but David wore his jeans and t-shirts while building a Blu-Ray collection of movies women liked.

Insider’s note: some readers will think this is the same David that created the bird feeder in Practical Goldberg: A Love Story in 3 Parts – yes, it is, but that was later in his quest for love.

Engineers are like that, carefully analyzing the project needs, putting together the resources required and building a system methodically with constant refinement. His liberal arts friends may be conversant in literature and music, but David could simply buy the appropriate movie or music required for that particular girl’s tastes. He did his research, carefully scanning through FB and Twitter pages before making an introduction. His online page had one picture; a romantically lit room, a soft leather couch, the black BOSE home theater system and a 61” HDTV screen with Andrea Bocelli singing in Tuscany; he even synched music to the page. When women checked it out, half the work of luring them to his small apartment was done. The page did the hard work, giving the women a glimpse of a romantic date. It looked safe and it was. David never treated his dates as captives or forced them to do anything. Your reputation is everything in college and David found himself dating friends of past date nights, usually with the recommendation “You just have to see his room”. Women saw the room and willingly offered to bring their favorite music or movie for the night. More often than not, that wasn’t the highlight of the evening. He even had requests from multiple coeds, with David the lone male providing simple food and drink and the girls fighting over what to watch. David had perfected the love nest and he kept that secret away from his male buddies, never allowing them in.

One day, while sitting in the campus coffee shop, a message popped on his screen.

Kelly(@kellywinter) is now following you.

David opened the link to see Kelly’s twitter page. She was a coed at his college, a Psychology major and member of the field hockey team. “Hmm, pretty, athletic and smart” He sent a simple message to her,

Hi Kelly, thanks for following. David 

and then went back to his iced tea. After a few minutes another message appeared.

Hi David. I love the picture of Bocelli on the big screen; is that the Tuscany DVD?

David waited a minute, pulled up the link to Bocelli’s Blu-ray disc, ‘Vivere, Live in Tuscany and sent it to Kelly with this note.

Yes, Vivere on blu-ray, amazing sound.

Most college guys would have tried to lure girls with some rock star music, but David knew what coeds wanted, a mature guy, a less common university species. Kelly quickly replied.

Are you a music major?

David paused long enough to consider his answer.

No, engineering, but I love music.

It’s not a good idea to lie; the truth always comes out. Engineering may not be sexy, but David had his picture online and he looked more like an English lit grad student so his major didn’t turn girls off.

My minor is classical music; I love Bocelli.

David wanted to invite her over (her picture was online too and she was quite pretty), but he knew from experience it was better to be asked than to invite. He kept the feed going.

The blu-ray classical DVDs are so rich. I just bought some Mozart piano concertos. If you close your eyes, you’d think he was playing live.

Kelly was hooked now.

I play piano. Mozart is so refined. I wish we had a piano in the dorm.

David had another clue; the dorm was only for freshman. Could this lovely be 19?

The dorm was fun my freshman year, but I needed my own space for studying and the frats weren’t for me.

This line was his way of saying he didn’t spend his weekends downing beer by the case, an essential piece of information to convey. He saw his opening.

I have a keyboard on my system, I’m not much of a musician, but I like to tinker.

Kelly was very interested. She was ready to invite herself in, but needed to know it was safe; she didn’t really know enough about David.

My friend Susan is a music major. Maybe we could come over to hear the Vivere concert sometime, if that’s OK? We could bring some Chianti.

David couldn’t believe his luck.

Is pizza OK? I put all my money into my system.

Kelly sent a picture of her and her friend Susan, friends from Manchester by the Sea on the beach along with a message.

Pizza is great. How about Friday at 8?

David took one look at the rich girls from Boston in their bikinis, thanked God for his good luck and responded simply, but politely.

That sounds perfect. I’ll send you my address and phone number.

David waited for Kelly to sign off, then packed up his computer for home. As he walked out, he noticed the pretty coed in the corner doing the same. He smiled at her and realized it was Kelly.

“Hi Kelly.”

“Hi David. Want to share a pizza?”

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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: Gary Hewitt

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George swore his arms had grown another two inches. He glanced at rows of copious corn before wiping away layers of sweat.
“We have to get this finished by dusk.”
George resisted the urge to retaliate. He tilted his straw hat and hacked.
“Michael, what time are we finishing?”
“We stop when everything has been done.”
“When are we going to have something to eat and drink?”
The foreman shook his head.
“Get back to work.”
Michael spat into the dust.
George took heart when they reached the edge of the field. He salivated for beef and tomato. He hated the taste corn.
“Why are you slowing down?”
“I’m exhausted.”
“You’ve no time to get exhausted. Get busy.”
George shook his head.
“I’ve had enough. I’ve been at this since six with no break and you tell me to hurry up.”
“Oh you’ve done it now. Just you wait until we get back to the big house.”
George’s knuckles whitened. His scythe cut down more than corn. He wiped his brow, sat down and took a rest.


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Gary Hewitt is a writer who tends to enjoy the dark side of fiction. He has had several stories/poems published including sites such as Morpheus Tales and Linguistic Erosion.

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Author: Gary Hewitt

Contributor: Victoria Elizabeth Ann

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She watched it, luminous in the yellow glow of the street lamp, and wondered would it be there in the morning.

It sat there for days, locked to the rusting u-shaped bar, rooted deep in the cement. The front tire turned slightly to the right. In the middle of the HOA-manicured lawns and pristine porches, the blue Schwinn rested in front of the neighborhood pool.

Perhaps, waterlogged and sun-drunk, its owner forgot he rode his pristine bike that morning and was desperate to return his blue baby to the sanctity of his dark garage.

In the morning, she walked her dogs, and passed the bike for the sixth time since it’s mysterious appearance in front of the white brick wall surrounding the pool.

Would it find its home? Mounted on the back of an SUV, perhaps? Maybe suspended in a garage, or, if very fortunate, tucked safely away in a covered sundeck overlooking a bike trail – a true Nirvana for any two-wheeled conception.

The blue Schwinn observed her in return, reflector pointed down, as she turned the corner and entered her home. Puppy bladders empty and bellies full, well cared for on a tepid Floridian night.

Tomorrow, its owner would return. It just hoped the WD-40 would keep the rust at bay for one more night.


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Victoria Elizabeth Ann is a lifetime student of the arts, literature, and life as a whole. She is currently studying Creative Writing at Full Sail University and aspires to publish a novel in the near future.

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Author: Victoria Elizabeth Ann

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

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Marcia was 17 the first time thousands of locusts rose from the fields of her father's farm and filled the air, sounding like zithers unable to stop. Her father was angry but Marcia loved the music the locusts made. She was in high school then and chose to make locusts the focus of her senior paper.

At the town library she learned locusts spend 17 years deep in the soil, feeding on fluids from roots of trees that make them strong enough to emerge at the proper time to court and reproduce. Courtship requires the males to gather in a circle and sing until the females agree to make them fathers.

Courtship and mating and laying of eggs takes almost two months and then the locusts fall from the air and die. Marcia remembers the iridescent shells on the ground shining, She was always careful not to step on them. She cried when the rain and the wind took them away.

Now 17 years later Marcia is 34 and the locusts are back again. Her dead father can't hear them and Marcia no longer loves the music the way she did in high school. Now she stays in the house and keeps the windows closed and relies on the air-conditioner to drown out the locusts. Marcia has patience, however. She knows what will happen. She reads her Bible and sucks on lemon drops, knowing the locusts will die.

In the seventh week, the locusts fall from the air in raindrops, then torrents. "It is finished," Marcia says. She pulls on her father's boots and goes out in the fields and stomps on the shells covering the ground but she stomps carefully.

At 34 Marcia's in no hurry. Before each stomp, she names each shell Billy, John, Chuck, Terrence or Lester, the names of men who have courted her during the 17 years since high school. They all made promises Marcia loved to hear, promises she can recite like a favorite prayer. She made each man happy as best she could. They would grunt like swine the first night, some of them for many nights. But then like locusts they would disappear.


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Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.

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Author: Donal Mahoney

Contributor: Jerry Guarino

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Part 1

- David, a computer science major in college, was completing the setup of his new bird feeding system. Instead of the usual tree house, painted with bright colors, he had designed a more elegant solution. Altruism aside, he wanted to do more than just provide food for birds in the bad weather; he wanted to see the birds enjoy their treat while keeping squirrels from squandering the seeds.

So he set up a trough with three lids, mechanically operated based on a computer program. The first container had birdseeds and suet, the second fruit and nuts and the third meat scraps and insects. In front of the trough was a bar that activated a 13” LCD screen when the bird landed on it. On the screen was a picture of the three food types, corresponding to the placement of the trays. The bird would peck at the screen and a touch sensor would open the appropriate food tray. If the bird didn’t peck, a camera would snap a picture of him and open the tray that species of bird prefers. To complete the environment, video with the sounds of like birds would play from the LCD.




But what about the bane of bird feeders, squirrels? The locked trays prevented them from eating. If a squirrel pressed the landing bar, the camera would snap a picture of the offender, then play a 3D video, complete with sounds of foxes, coyotes, hawks, owls and snakes eating squirrels. The longer the squirrel stayed there, the more graphic the video progressed. Last but not least, a small spray of that predator’s scent would shoot onto the squirrel’s leg (don’t worry, it washed away in the next rain). Needless to say, most squirrels never returned to the bird feeder.

No matter where David was, he could enjoy the feeder. A second, wireless camera sent a signal to the Internet so he could watch from any computer. He even wrote an app so he could watch the action from his cell phone. Why all the work to feed birds? David discovered that this was 100% effective in meeting women, especially when showing it off at a coffee house or party.

Rube would have been proud!

Part 2

- David was talking to a particularly cute young woman at his favorite franchise coffee bar. But let me digress a moment. As you know, David is that computer science major who used his engineering skills to design an automatic bird feeder that not only recognized the bird, but also provided their preferred food and kept squirrels out with a diabolical program that guaranteed a squirrel would never return. To be fair, David posted a warning in 300-point font “No squirrels allowed” with an accompanying 500 hundred-word disclaimer to avoid any lawsuits that may occur.

Not that David needed any help getting dates. He had the casual good looks of a surfer, perfect teeth and a well-proportioned six-foot frame. Although he was technically a geek, no one would have guessed; he looked more like a graduate student in literature. But being the precise, analytical person that he was, the bird feeder more or less guaranteed a subtle and inoffensive way to have a conversation with the opposite sex. Coeds would sidle up to him, looking over his shoulder to the laptop screen with pictures and sounds of blue jays, robins and nuthatches. Inevitably, they would start the conversation with a sound usually reserved when seeing puppies.

“Oh, that’s so cute. Is that a movie clip?” said the 5’9” brunette with jeans, ugh boots and crème colored sweater.

David turned and smiled. “No, it’s a live feed from my place.” Well, I won’t bore you with the details, but suffice it to say that after about a half hour, the woman was convinced she had found that all too rare quality in a man, genuine innocence. David never divulged his methodology to any friends or even family; that might put an end to his understated masterpiece.

Ninety-four times out of a hundred (we saw the statistics), the woman would want to visit the apartment and see for herself, partly to confirm David’s claim that he designed and built the best bird feeder, but also to learn more about her new love interest. Since birds feed mostly at dawn and dusk, David had woman asking to spend time at his home during sunrises and sunsets, enhancing the romance. But you can’t just stand next to the feeder; birds won’t come close. No, you have to view from the second floor of his bedroom, meticulously cleaned and fresh. New age music and scented candles (unlit for the moment) completed the ambiance. 



“Is that a blue jay?” said Karen.

“Yes, you see most of them in April, their mating season” replied David.

“Look, two more birds. What are they?”

David looked closely. “Red breasted nuthatches. They travel in small groups, sometimes in pairs. See how the male preens the female while she’s eating.” As the sun disappeared over the hilltop, Karen put her arms around David and kissed him.

Part 3

- Karen put her arms around David and kissed him. “David, I hear the birds” and she hopped out of bed and went to the window. David, still waking up, rubbed the sleepers out of his eyes. In panties and a college t-shirt, her lovely figure silhouetted in the window frame. Karen was different; she was genuinely happy with him as he was with her; no games here.

It wasn’t love at first sight, but it was contentment. “Hi” as he rubbed her shoulders and kissed her on the neck.

Karen squeezed his hand. “I think that’s a robin.”

David looked down at the feeder. “No it’s a Stonechat, but they look the same.”

David’s days of short affairs were over. Even though he had manipulated Karen into his arms, he had found an honest and wonderful relationship. Over the next few weeks, he realized that Karen was perfect for him. It seemed like whenever he needed anything, Karen was there. She knew when he needed to work and when he needed to relax, what stressed him out and all of his interests. She understood him completely. Their lives had become complementary, like puzzle pieces fitting just so. “This must be love,” David thought. “I guess I won’t be needing the bird-feeding program anymore.”

Anna was looking through Karen’s social networking program when she came in.

“Hey Anna, you’ll never guess what. David and I are going to a bed and breakfast up the coast this weekend!”

Anna looked up smiling. “I knew you two would hit it off. I had a feeling as soon as I started entering the data.”

Karen looked over her shoulder. “So who are you looking for?”

Anna replied, “It says Jeff Olsen would be a good match for me. It’s printing out his schedule, interests, love history and life goals now. I can’t believe how well this program of yours works.”

Karen gave her a little hug. “Well it worked for me.” 



Rube would have been proud!

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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: LA Sykes

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I don’t know why I cannot sleep. I don’t know why. I take my cigarettes and creep out the door and down the stairs of the apartment block.
I sit on the raised step and flick the lighter as it fires up with a sparkle in the evening darkness.
I see a cat toying with a dying rat over the road.
I see car headlights flashing by, whirls of blur amber and red.
I see pretty girls trying to catch my eye as they sashay by. See them trying to glean a smile from my lips for them to take away. I turn my head.
I see a hearse go by, an oak coffin ferried with a procession of mourners in line, following. I lower my head.
I see two birds huddle together under the arch of the weeping willow tree. Clinging to a branch as the wind whips the browning leaves, pinching them from their stems as they flutter in swirls.
I see the exhaled smoke dissolve in the air.
I see people a million miles away from each other only a step away holding hands.
I climb the stairs and slip back into the apartment.
I click the lock slowly.
I creak open the door.
I see her sleeping. Breaths, a steady rhythm.
I slide in beside her.
I hold her gently.
I whisper, ‘I love you’.
She melts into my arms.
I don’t know why I cannot sleep. I don’t know why.
But I know this is where I want to be.


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LA Sykes grew up in small town Greater Manchester, England. He studied psychology and criminology at University of Central Lancashire before working in psychiatry. His flash fiction is up at and due to appear in the likes of Shotgun Honey, Powder burn Flash and Blink Ink amongst others. He can be contacted at sykesfiction@live.co.uk

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Author: LA Sykes

Contributor: Marla Johnson

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Three things made me fall in love with Gabby: her eyes were dark tidal pools, watery and rippling; she tasted like sunshine, a blend of citrus and honey; and her sugar-soaked scent of honeysuckle.

Now, I think of Gabby as a wide-eyed fish flapping and jumping about while trying to escape. After all, I’m the one who sent her away. I’m the one who locked her up. She was supposed to be gone forever, but somehow she found a way out.

The gun, a puny .22, nodded at me. Gabby’s thin finger caressed the trigger. “I told you I’d see you again.”

I looked into the black pit of the gun’s muzzle and then looked at Gabby. Her once fluid eyes were black river stones. Three long stir-crazy years locked up with bipolar, suicidal, and schizophrenic misfits had stripped the sheen from her eyes.

“Gabby, you shouldn’t be here.”

“It’s my home. Well, it was, until you took it from me. You said I was obsessive, jealous, and paranoid. You said I killed that woman, because I thought you were sleeping with her. Why?”

Gabby’s lips were dry, cracked husks. Her tongue no longer sweet; I doubted she tasted like sunshine.

“Tell me the truth.”

“Gabby, you’re not well. Let me call the hospital.” This was not the Gabby I knew; this was a thin whimper of a woman, but she still smelled of honeysuckle. The scent drifted through the air, dripped from the walls, and clung to the carpet.

“You were sleeping with her.”

The scent of honeysuckle strangled my senses; I nodded.

“You killed her and made it look like I did it.”

It would have been better if Gabby had an institutionalized smell, a stringent mix of Clorox and ammonia, but she was sugar-soaked. “Gabby, I didn’t love her.”

“You didn’t love me either.”

Gabby pulled the trigger. Heat poked into my chest. I buckled, knocked my head on the corner of the kitchen table, and then spiraled onto the floor. Blood gushed. I couldn’t keep air in my lungs, but it was that sugar-soaked scent of honeysuckle that killed me.

I used to love that scent. I used to love Gabby. I loved the others too, but never long enough.


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Author: Marla Johnson