Contributor: Jake A. Strife

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I’m on my psychiatrist’s couch. He looks at me, tapping his fork on his plate. He always seems to be eating breakfast when I come in on Friday mornings. Normally he would eat a bacon, egg and cheese sandwich. Today, I can smell sausage. I can’t help but wonder why, as he leads the guided meditation.

“You have not seen monsters.” He begins, “The injury did not come from an ‘alligator mutant’.”

I listen intently, wanting to believe him, but I know what I have seen and I can once again feel the claws that sank deep into my arm.

“You are going deep within my friend. Look inside your soul. You see your father. He abused you, did he not? This was no different. This is where the injury on your arm came from.”

Why is he telling me this? I expect him to be telling me something more positive. Before I can wonder further I am standing before a dark tower.

“What?” I whisper.

It doesn’t make sense. I can’t hear his dry, raspy voice anymore. A prank. It has to be a prank. We have done guided meditation before, but never once has he brought me to a place like this.

Lightning flashes overhead and a downpour begins. I can feel the cold rain stinging my bare arms. I am not dressed for stormy weather. The only place for shelter is the large wooden door of the tower. I run and yank it open.

Inside torches light the hollow center and an old stone staircase spirals up toward the top. I take a step forward and my foot crunches down onto something. I jerk back and stare down at a long bleach white bone. Dread fills me and I stumble backward into a bookcase. Books fall to the floor, flapping open. The feeling of dread multiplies. I have damaged a book.

“We do not lend books!” I hear the baleful, evil voice from my nightmares once again.

The tower shakes with thundering footfalls. It is coming for me. Once again, it is coming for me. I turn and try to pull the wooden door open again, but it is locked.

“Doctor.” I say, “Get me out of here. This is a prank right? Please, this isn’t funny!”

Then in a flash of bright light it is before me. The eight foot tall alligator girl with the sagging flesh, and the gouged out eyes. A clawed hand lashes out and I feel the same sudden numbness in my arm. I look down and a chunk is missing, just like before. I scream, and hear myself from far away.

“Wake up.” My psychiatrist’s voice. The moment I hear it my eyes fly open.

“Doc?” I ask, seeing my arm is still intact.

“You did better this time,” He says, “See you next week.”

I leave, thinking it better to stay out of therapy from now on.


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I'm Jake A. Strife an author of Young Adult Fiction, Sci-fi/Fantasy, Flash Fiction, Screenplays and video game-to-book adaptations. I live in Los Angeles, California and plan to keep on writing till the day my hands fall off!

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Author: Jake A. Strife

Contributor: Jenne Lee

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The sun was just peaking over the horizon of the Baltic Sea, glistening off the necklace Anna wore around her neck as her and Paul stepped out from the dark alley. The early morning breeze had the Swedish fishermen bundled up in winter clothing, yet the pair was dressed in thin material with bare arms revealing their pale grayish skin as they walked in the direction of the sea.

Anna’s large dark eyes shifted from person to person as they hurried down the dock, her high heeled boots clanking against the wood. All eyes were on them as her brittle fingers pushed an errant strand of wig hair out of her face. The annoying material aggravated her, but removing it would only cause more suspicion. She smiled at the fishermen while her free hand clutched a charm that hung from the gold chain.

Paul tugged on her arm forcing her to lean down toward the short slender man. “Stop fidgeting,” he said.

“But the humans are staring. They know we are different.”

“They look at you because you don’t stay still,” replied Paul. “Now stop.”

She obeyed, standing up straight and released the charm before continuing their way to the end of the dock where a man was waiting.

“Mr. and Mrs. Avari,” said the man. He was dressed in warm clothing, his round face hidden by a pale beard. “I was afraid you weren’t going to make it.”

“I’m sorry for our tardiness,” Anna replied. It was obvious that English was not her first language. “Our flight was, delayed. I’m Anna and this is my husband, Paul.”

The captain held out his hand. “Odin,” he said. He gave the two a once over, noticing their choice of clothing. “Are you going to be warm enough? It gets a bit chilly down there.”

“We’ll be fine,” Paul said. He spoke slower than his wife and in a thicker accent that was more difficult to understand.

“That’s a lovely accent you have. Where did you say you were from again?”

Paul replied, “We didn’t.”

Odin nodded and gestured towards his submarine. “Right this way.”

Anna stared at the tiny contraption while her fingers tangled in the small charm around her neck. The vessel was smaller than other ships she had traveled in. The material looked weak. The craftsmanship seemed amateur. The portholes appeared to be too thin. Humans had built it after all.

“Everything alright, Anna?” Odin asked.

She replied, “Are those windows strong enough to withstand the pressure?”

Odin nodded. “Of course. Please don’t be afraid. I’ve done this many times, Anna. You’re in good hands.”

Anna smiled and allowed him to help her into the vessel. As she climbed down the ladder, she looked around in amazement. It was much larger on the inside. There were several seats lined up along the many portholes. She took a seat gazing through the thick glass tinted blue by the sea. A school of fish swam by in a swirl of color. She smiled at Paul who took a seat beside her. She pointed out a particularly bright yellow fish. Paul grunted, but showed no emotion as he sat back crossing his arms over his chest.

Odin sealed the hatch and climbed down the ladder. He asked, “Are you two treasure hunters? Adventure seekers? UFO enthusiast?”

Anna’s fingers found her charm. “Why do you ask?”

“Always curious about the people who pay for a private tour of the shipwrecks,” Odin replied. He noticed her necklace. “That symbol. I’ve seen it before.”

Anna stopped fidgeting and dropped the charm down the front of her shirt. “It’s just a silly design.”

Odin opened up a cabinet overhead and took out a book. “It looks like an Egyptian hieroglyph,” he said. He flipped through the pages to show her a black and white photo of symbols that resembled her charm. To anyone else they would look like gibberish, but to Anna they were like reading a piece of history. She bit her lip as her eyes scanned the ancient symbols. “In fact,” Odin continued, “I’ve seen these same symbols on the mystery shipwreck that everyone’s calling a UFO. You two are UFO enthusiasts aren’t you?”

Anna’s hand reached for the charm again, but Paul’s hand stopped her. “Yes we are,” said Paul. “We like UFOs. You take us to see underwater UFO?”

Odin’s eyes lit up with excitement. He jumped into his captain’s seat and fired up the submarine. Its engine purred to life as bubbles blanketed the windows.

Time passed as Anna stared in wonder at the unknown world hidden beneath the alien planet. It was far more beautiful than the surface world and untouched by human hands. She felt as if she were traveling home through space, only the stars were these remarkable creatures she had never seen before. Tears welled up in her eyes as she recalled the real reason her and Paul were making this journey.

Anna’s eyes widen as Odin directed the floodlights towards a massive object that loomed in the distance. With a slight jerk, the engines cut off and the vessel came to a slow stop a few feet from the object.

Odin sat down beside her. “There she is.”

Anna clutched her necklace tighter to her chest, pressing her nose to the glass while Paul sat staring in awe at the sunken craft.

Odin smirked. His eyes traveled from the craft to Anna, the golden charm glimmering from the few lights overhead. “That symbol,” he said pointing to the charm. “It’s the same as the one on the craft.”

Anna closed her eyes unable to hide the truth any longer. “It’s the name of the ship,” she answered. “It was my son’s. This is his grave.”


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Jenne is currently a creative writing major at Full Sail University where she hopes to gain the skills and tools necessary for reaching her goals of becoming a published author. When she is not writing, she is usually lost between the pages of a book, far beyond the reaches of reality.

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Author: Jenne Lee

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

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In 1948 Booger McNulty's coal yard stirred constant gossip among the citizens who lived in the little bungalows on the narrow blocks in my far corner of Chicago. That was more than 60 years ago, a time when families took Sunday walks and went back home in time to hear Jack Benny on the radio. A Sunday walk didn't cost a cent, a price my parents could afford.

My sister and I always had to tag along when my parents took their Sunday walk, and every time we'd pass Booger's place, I'd hear my mother ask my father what could possibly be on the other side of Booger's 10-foot fence. Hoping to avoid a conversation, my father would always say he didn't know but he believed it couldn't just be coal.

Back then, every kid in the neighborhood wanted to climb that fence and look around. But Booger didn't tolerate visitors. According to the boy whose buttocks caught a chunk of coal from Booger's slingshot, there was nothing on the other side of that tall fence except for pigeons and a lot of coal.

In the bungalows surrounding Booger's place, immigrants from everywhere slept off beer and garlic when they weren't working, which was pretty often, according to my mother. My father always worked, digging graves with the other men, most of them, like him, from Ireland. He dug graves because in his previous profession some big Bulgarian broke his nose, after which my mother ruled no more boxing. He'd been undefeated until then.

I was ten in 1948 and I'd climb Booger's fence whenever I was certain he was gone for the night. Once inside the yard I'd climb the piles of coal until I got tired and then I'd go home and take a bath before my father saw me. My mother never let my father see me cloaked in the soot of Booger's coal and she always made me promise never to go back to Booger's again.

But on Easter Sunday in 1948, I went over Booger's fence a final time. My mother had taken pains that morning to get me dressed for the Children's Mass and sent me off with a caution to be good. I always went to Mass, every Sunday, and I would pray and sing the hymns and usually I was good. This time the weather was so nice I decided to go to Booger's instead. He wouldn't be there on Easter. It would just be the pigeons and me. I was gone for hours that day, and since no one knew where I was, a family furor flared.

At school on Monday, Timmy Duffy, unlike me a favorite of the nuns who taught us, told me that every other boy in our class had made it to the Children's Mass on Easter.

"And where were you?" he asked. I told him I'd been sick and that I figured with all the polio going around, I didn't want to cripple anyone on Easter. Timmy accepted my explanation because we were all still praying in school for our classmate Mickey Kane, who had spent a year, so far, in an Iron Lung.

"And so," said Timmy, "even though you weren't there to help, we sang as loud as we could on Easter," but that was something our class always did to keep the nuns in the aisle from paying us a visit.

I may have sung no hymns that Easter but I probably looked pretty spiffy scrambling over Booger's fence in my new blue suit, white shirt and tie. I had a wonderful time in the sun with the pigeons careening in the air and my imagination soaring up there with them.

I was free to climb my favorite pile of coal, toboggan down on my duff, and then climb a different pile and toboggan down again, far more fun than any sled in winter. Hours later when I got hungry, I went back over the fence and headed home for dinner.

Every Easter Sunday that I can remember, we'd have ham and yams, Brussels sprouts and rutabaga, favorites of my father from his youth in Ireland. But when I got home that day, we didn't eat right away after my father saw me. As I recall, his reaction was more Neanderthal than usual.

"Molly," he roared to my mother, with his hand gripping the back of my neck, "the little bastid says he went to Booger's! He never went to Mass!"

And then, despite my mother's protests, he grabbed a belt from behind the attic door that had been hanging there for years, waiting for a felony like mine to occur. I knew right away what I had to do and so I dropped my pants and bent over at the waist as far as possible. Without a word, he stropped my arse.

I didn't cry, gosh no, since tears would have brought additional licks. We were Irish, don'tcha know, so we didn't cry and we didn't watch English movies on TV, either. The accents of the actors would remind my father of the Black and Tans, the English soldiers sent to fight in Ireland after the uprising. They imprisoned him on Spike Island, off the coast of Ireland, when he was just 16. They grabbed him barefoot in a stream sneaking guns to the IRA. In 1920, Irish boys ran guns for the IRA barefoot through the bogs and streams, provided they were big enough to carry them.

Decades later in Chicago, a stranger, dressed like a Mormon on an urban mission, rang our bell and told my father he was from the IRA and had a medal for him in honor of his service 40 years earlier. The man said "It took a while for us to find you."

My father hung the medal in his closet next to the tan fedora he wore to Irish wakes. He always went to Irish wakes, even if he didn’t know the deceased, hoping to meet someone "from home."

So there I was that Easter Sunday, standing in our tiny parlor with my pants napping at my ankles, bent over at the waist and with my arse in the air, like a small zeppelin at moor. My predicament was the result of a wonderful morning at Booger's and a terrible afternoon at home. Now, 60 years later, when that Easter Sunday comes to mind, no matter where I am, I whisper, just in case he still can hear me, "Pops, I haven't missed a Mass on Sunday since I got that Easter stropping. I guess I learned my lesson."

And then I tell him, as politely as I can, that if he can get a pass from wherever the Lord has stored him, he can verify my Mass attendance with my wife and kids, the last of whom, a son, moved out on us last Christmas Eve, 2010, even though the boy had promised his mother and me a ride to Midnight Mass in his new Hummer. Two feet of snow we got that evening.

My father would have loved that snow. Back in '67, when we got 30 inches of it, some of it in drifts as high as Booger's coal, he was just delighted by the winter scene, so much so that he had the two of us shovel frantically for hours, albeit in our usual Trappist silence.

When we got back in the house, he told my mother, with more than a dollop of flair, that the hairs in his nose were frozen. Thank God my mother had his tea ready, steaming hot, as it should be, in its cozy next to his favorite chair. And she gave me lots of cocoa, swirling hot with a zillion marshmallows floating on the top.

Now every New Year's Eve at midnight (and this has been going on for years), I can see in the labyrinth of my mind those same marshmallows swirling when it's time for me to raise my glass and toast the past--Holy Week 1948, the week my butt survived Booger's slingshot and my father's belt.

"Praise the Lord," I shout, "and pass the ammunition."

As the years go by, fewer guests know what I mean when I offer my toast. But most of them never had a chance to hear Jack Benny on the radio. The young ones always ask where I got my old fedora. A couple of them have even said I should have it cleaned and blocked. But most of them, I'm certain, even though they went to college, never saw a relic. They think this old fedora is just a hat.


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Donal Mahoney has had work published in various print and electronic publications in North America, Europe, Asia and Africa. Some of his earliest work can be found at http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com/

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Author: Donal Mahoney

Contributor: Jerry Guarino

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There is no actual proof that there are more white Prius cars than any other model in California. Some estimates put the number at over two million. The hybrid car became so popular that Toyota began making personalized versions to match owner’s particular interests. There were models to match your college colors, cars with artwork laminate and even a baby blue and pink model to celebrate newborns.

Tony and Barbara sat in the first table at the wedding of their son Jim. You might remember Jim from the time he took his shotgun trying to excavate that pesky rooster from his parents home. Now, he was betrothed to Dianne, the girl he first met in Sunday school, fifteen years earlier. They were a striking couple, Jim’s rugged good looks and Dianne’s classic beauty like the French statue she was named for. Surely the children would be just as handsome or beautiful as they were.

“It won’t be long before you’re a grandmother dear” said Tony to his wife.

“Oh, I can’t wait. I’ve already started picking out patterns for baby clothing and blankets.”

“Baby blue?”

“Probably. You know Jim. He’ll want a boy”

“I’m going to say they’ll have a girl, so better buy some pink too.”

It was a flawless wedding. No drama or problems. All the couple’s friends and family were there and the youngsters partied long into the night.

***

Jim was a type A force while Dianne was more reserved, but together they blended well. Like many young couples, they spent a lot of time out, visiting wineries, going camping and having friends over for dinner. Most of their friends were married the same year they were, so there were a lot of weddings to attend. Dianne’s sorority sisters were all ready to set up families of their own.

A short year later, Jim was able to buy out the motorcycle shop he worked for. After another year, they had saved enough money to make a down payment on a house. At the housewarming party, many expected this couple to announce the third grand surprise, a baby.

“Tony, you still driving that antique car?” Jim loved to make fun of Tony’s Prius.

“Yes, still getting 50 miles to a gallon too. How about that truck of yours? You’ll have to get rid of it when you have a family. Need a good four door with good mileage.”

“Tony, did you hear that Toyota is recalling the Prius with a brake problem? But don’t worry, Prius cars don’t go fast enough to need brakes.”

“Good one Jim. Remind me that when you’re paying $80 to fill your tank.” Tony and Jim had this sort of friendly joking about Jim’s high-powered truck and motorcycles and Tony’s practical hybrid car. Dianne even chimed in. “Jim was having a nightmare and I could distinctly hear him say, no, not another Prius.” Tony and Barbara enjoyed this ribbing.

Barbara took Tony aside and asked in a whisper. “How long before you think Dianne will be pregnant?” she said.

“Actually, she looks quite content today. I wouldn’t be surprised if she was already there. Did you notice she hasn’t had any wine today?”

“You’re right. I didn’t catch that.”

So Tony asked Dianne’s father what he thought. “Say you’re right. She usually has had a glass of wine by now. Should we start a pool on the birth date?”

Tony’s prediction was confirmed the following week when the couple visited them on a Sunday afternoon. Dianne gave Barbara a card with a picture of two motorcycles and three helmets, one obviously too small. The caption read:

Looks like we’re going to need that sidecar!

“But the helmet is blue” said Barbara to Jim. Do you know that it’s a boy?”

Jim and Dianne shook their heads. “No, but we have a good feeling; we’re not going to find out until the birth.”

“A surprise is nice,” said Barbara. “So long as the baby is healthy.”

“All our friends think it’s going to be a boy.”

“Then plan on a girl” said Tony. “That’s just the way life works.”

***

Dianne went into labor two weeks early. Jim was stuck at work helping one of his employees who was injured by an exhaust pipe. By the time he got the phone call, there was a pileup on 880 from an accident. He tried to keep Dianne calm on the cell phone.

“Don’t worry honey, I’ll be there in time to help you. Are your parents there?”

“Only Barbara and Tony. My parents should be here soon though. Jim, I love you.”

“I love you too sweetheart. I’ll get there as soon as possible.”

The pain got so strong that the doctors gave Dianne something to relax her, and then rushed her into the delivery room. As Dianne relaxed, she mumbled something to the nurse.

“OK, I got it. You just relax mom. We’re going to do a C-section.”

Jim rushed into the hospital in time to see the nurse gently placing his new daughter into one of the cribs in the nursery room. He was overcome with emotion, shedding more than a few tears. He motioned to the nurse to bring her over to the glass divider.

“Can you bring her over to me?”

The nurse carried the pink bundle over to her new father. She had blue eyes, blonde hair and an adorable button nose. This was the greatest moment of his life, even trumping his wedding day. He had so many plans for her; to give her everything she needed until the day he would walk her down the aisle at her wedding. Jim stood there smiling and crying at the same time. Then he noticed the little ankle tag around her leg.

Prius Elizabeth Mariani, 6 lbs. 4 oz., born on April 15, 2013 at 4:24pm.

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO” he screamed and ran to his wife’s recovery room.

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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: Eric White

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Michael was sitting on the living room floor propped against his over-sized stuffed dog, Floppy. It was Saturday morning so he was able to watch cartoons if he twisted the antennae just right. The bowl of stale fruit-loops sat undisturbed next to him when there was a loud knock on the front door of the trailer.
Michael knew better than to answer the door. KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK. The visitor wasn’t going away.
Michael tiptoed to his father’s room. His dad was passed out on the floor with the belt still around his forearm.
Michael knew that it would be futile to attempt to wake his father. So he went back to the living room floor with Floppy and his stale fruit-loops. Just when he thought the visitors were gone there was a violent crash at the door, and all of a sudden three men stood in the door way. Two of them barged in and began tossing their stuff out the door, while the third man went into Michael’s father’s room yelling about the rent. They didn’t so much as glance at Michael.
Michael never made a sound. He clung to Floppy, and he watched the men throw away the little bit he and his father had. Eventually the men made their way over to Michael. One grabbed Floppy right out of Michael’s arms and tossed the dog outside into the mud. Michael ran to follow. He picked Floppy out of the mud in time to see his father’s unconscious body hurled from the doorway as well.
There was nothing to do, but watch with tears of confusion running down his face. Eventually, an ambulance came and took his dad away. During that time a woman in a nice pants suit appeared. She told Michael that she would make things better for him, and that she was going to make sure he was taken care of for now on.
The woman smelled like flowers, and Michael liked her right away. She took him by the hand and led him to the back seat of her car. After she took her place in the driver’s seat Michael had a terrible realization and began to cry at the top of his lungs.
The woman turned around and softly said, “I know you’ll miss your daddy, Michael, but this is the best thing for you. I promise.”
“No, it’s not that,” said Michael. “ I don’t care about him, but I left Floppy in the yard. Please, let me keep him. Please, please!”
The woman smiled warmly at Michael, then she went back for Floppy. She brushed some dirt off of him, and she secured the stuffed dog next to Michael in the backseat. They left the sad and empty trailer, and Michael never looked back.


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I am a current student at Full Sail University. My long term goal is to write for entertainment.

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Author: Eric White

Contributor: Malia Taylor

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Josh slammed the door to his truck, catching the tail of his shirt in it in the process. “Shit,” he muttered, quickly unlocking it and opening the door to release his shirt. Butterflies fluttered in his stomach as he neared the scuffed, wooden door. He could already hear the jukebox playing some old song by Journey, and smell the fried food and stale beer. Danny’s Pub was not a high-class joint by any stretch of the imagination, but it was where he’d first seen her. It’s where she hangs out, where he hoped she would be tonight. He cursed himself for taking so long to get ready – she usually went home before 11 o’clock and it was nearly that now, but he couldn’t show up looking like he’d just come from a construction site. Not tonight. Tonight was the night he would grow a pair and finally get her number.

The smells and sounds intensified as he entered the bar. As is customary, all eyes turned his way at the loud squeak of the old wooden door.

“Josh!” one of the regulars hollered before going back to his pool game. Josh nodded distractedly, eyes scanning the place. He focused on her usual table but there was a waitress in the way.

“Damn,” he muttered, gaining a strange look from a nearby barfly. Josh realized he was still standing in the middle of the entrance, looking like an idiot, so he casually sauntered over to the bar and ordered a drink.

“The usual, Tom.” Tom grunted and slid the mug of beer, which stopped just short of him on the sticky bar top. Josh took a long pull of the warm, cheap brew; trying hard not to think about the filthy rag he knew Tom used to wipe the glasses with. The tinkle of female laughter caught his ear and he turned. His heart thudded. There she was, the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen and she was sitting across from…Mike?

“That traitorous son of a--”

“Hey, Josh. Lookin’ good baby. Why so dressed up, you got a date?” a throaty voice said in his ear. He cringed.

“Oh, hi, Rhonda.” This could be trouble. Rhonda always picked a victim early in the night and then stuck like glue.

“Excuse me.” Josh made his escape to the men’s room. He shook his head. Mike, his buddy and co-worker had listened to him go on and on about her, witnessed multiple failed attempts to talk to her. No way was he gonna let that snake-in-the-grass get the girl. His girl. Josh washed his hands, giving himself a pep talk in the dingy mirror.

“Come on, you got this. Time to shit or get off the pot. ”

“You talkin’ to me, man?” a voice called from the stall.

“Uh, no. Sorry.”

When Josh emerged from the back of the bar, Mike was no longer at her table, he was sitting at the bar, looking pissed. Good, Josh thought, now I can make my move. Her beauty; her long, dark wavy hair, the way she wore a pair of Levi’s struck him again as he saw her standing at the juke box, swaying to the music she’d chosen. Josh started forward. The old wooden door creaked and all eyes except his turned toward it.

“Tito!”

Josh froze and looked at the newest patron. Shit, Tito? That asshole owed him $500. Josh knew it was only a matter of time before Tito saw him and split, again. Tito had been avoiding him for months and he needed that money, construction was slow and he had bills overdue. He dithered for a moment, wondering if he had time to confront Tito before she left for the night.

She sat back at her table, smiling and laughing and Josh forgot all about Tito and the $500 – hell, he would eat ramen noodles for the next two months. He believed this woman was the love of his life, or she would be if he could ever get her number. Something always seemed to get in the way but tonight was his night, dammit. He wasn’t leaving without her name and her digits.

Josh did a quick breath check, then put one foot in front of the other and focused on her dark eyes and full rosy lips. He was just thinking about how those lips might feel pressed against his and didn’t notice the end of the pool cue, as it swung back, wielded by a large, drunk biker.

“Ah, watch it, man!” Josh said, cradling his watering eye.

“Oops,” the biker sneered before turning back to his game.

Jesus, now he had to go over there half-blind. He shook it off, single-mindedly focused on her and what he would say…shit. In all the time he’d spent planning, he realized he’d never decided what he would actually say to her. Any old line wouldn’t do, not with someone like her. He mentally scrolled through his best lines, rejecting them all. Maybe he’d do it like they did in old movies, grab her up in his arms and kiss her. Kiss…he thought of his 7th grade math teacher’s formula for success-K.I.S.S. –Keep It Simple Stupid. He took a deep breath, sidestepped two drunken rednecks on the verge of a brawl, and stopped in front of her table.

“Hello, I’m Josh, and quite honestly ma’am, I think you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.” She smiled up at him and sighed.
“Josh, I’m Rita. What took you so long? Have a seat.”
Rita looked past him at a man walking by as Josh sat in the chair next to her.

“Hey, cousin Tito!”

“Rita, hey.”

“Tito, you remember my friend Tracy, and this,” she paused with a shy smile, “this is Josh.” Tito swallowed hard and Josh grinned. Damn straight tonight was his night.


- - -

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Author: Malia Taylor

Contributor: Nicholas Slade

- -
I went into work to this circus that I’ve been at for over a year now. You see, I’m a kinker, or performer in circus talk, and I had pretty much done it all here. I’ve been a clown, a horseback rider, and even an acrobat. Our boss is Mr. Jerry Gorman, a veteran of the circus business. He’s as greedy as they come and a complete lunatic to boot. Always trying to be innovative, he’d ask me to do the craziest jobs. I never turned them down though, as they always seemed like a good challenge and luckily my skills always came in handy. Little did I know what he had cooked up for me that day when he called me into his office.

I walked in to see Mr. Gorman with a big smile on his face. He seemed very pleased with himself.

“Jean, I came up with a brilliant idea for tonight’s show,” he told me.

“And what’s that?”

“Bullfighting. The audience will love it. And you, my boy, shall be our matador.”

“Yeah, I don’t think so.”

“Why not? You’ve never turned down a performance from me before.”

“None of those performances involved me being gored by a two ton animal.”

“Now, it doesn’t weight that much.”

“Ah, can it. Besides, I have absolutely no interest in harming a bull, it would completely go against my standards.”

“You don’t have to hurt it, just give the audience a good show.”

“My answer is no.”

He stared at me for a moment as I turned to walk out. “Hey, how’s your friend Rick doing? I know he’s such a hard worker here. You know, it would be a real shame if he, I don’t know, suddenly lost his job or something.”

I closed my eyes. “Damn.”

So there I was, standing in the center of the ring, wearing a ridiculous looking jacket, holding up a red cape made out of old scarves, and looking at a large, angry looking beast. “That’s it, I’m dead.” The bull charged at me with full force. I instinctively used my acrobatic skills to jump onto the bull’s back.

My friend Rick, who was acting as my assistant, followed me on horseback. “What are you doing?” he yelled out.

“I don’t know,” I yelled back.

“Why did you jump on it’s back?”

“It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

I looked down at the bull’s neck: it was covered in scars. This bull must have been through many fights in the past. With nothing left to lose, I tried talking to the bull. “Hey now, calm down, no one’s going to hurt you.” The bull looked up at me. Does this thing really understand me? I thought. “I promise, you’ll never have to fight again, now please stop.”

On cue, the beast stopped, throwing me to the ground. I looked up at the bull and it licked me with its large tongue. I guess I can add bull whispering to my list of skills. I stood up and patted the bull on the head. My boss ran into the ring. “What the hell is this,” he yelled. “I told you to fight this bull, now do it.”

I looked at the bull and, like it understood me, it proceeded to chase Mr. Gorman around the ring. “Help me,” he yelled.

Rick rode up next to me. “What’s going on?”

“Oh nothing, just doing what our boss asked, giving the audience a good show.”


- - -
Nicholas Slade is a writer currently living in Florida. Originally from Mississippi, he moved to Florida in 2012 and is currently studying for his Bachelor of Fine Arts degree in Creative Writing. He has previously been published in Farther Star Than These and Yesteryear Fiction.

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Author: Nicholas Slade

Contributor: April Winters

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I saw what took place the day four-year-old Katy Lynn Jamison disappeared. The sky a cloudless blue, spring had officially sprung on that still-crisp day. The little girl played alone in her front yard while the new babysitter and her boyfriend did who knew what inside the yellow house with the closed white door.
On the fateful day, I watched as the green car slowed and turned onto Katy Lynn’s street, just as it did every day around the same time. But on that day it crept past the child’s yard before turning into the garage two doors down. The man got out, left his garage door open, and walked to the end of the driveway. He looked long and hard up both sides of the street, but it being a weekday, everyone was either at work or school. No one was about – except Katy Lynn.
The man threw his cigarette onto the pavement, then turned and went back to his automobile. He pulled a box out of the back seat and put it up on the trunk. Reaching inside, he lifted out a black and white, wiggling puppy that joyfully licked the man’s face. The eager, full-of-life pup lured innocent, trusting Katy Lynn out of her front yard and into the man’s garage. She was never seen again.

In the years I’ve been rooted to this spot, I’ve observed much pain and suffering. It’s difficult to endure my existence as quiet observer when I see the horror humanity inflicts on its own kind. But when a child is harmed, I, too, feel grief. The day Katy Lynn’s father tacked the flyer about his missing daughter to my trunk then leaned against me and quietly wept, my leaves sagged around him and I mourned for his loss.


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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: Jerry Guarino

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They say opposites attract. Well, not in all situations. Sometimes people from diverse backgrounds are attracted to each other, only to find their differences leading to incompatibility. It’s like foods. Mashed potatoes and marinara sauce are great ingredients, but together they just don’t mix.

Kelly Johnson grew up in the Midwest on a farm. Yes, she was a farmer’s daughter, but she left that life behind for college in Boston. Kelly and some of her girlfriends were in the North End for lunch one Saturday.

“Oh Kelly, you have to try the pizza here, like nothing you ever had in Wisconsin” said her best friend Angela.

“I’m ready. We have the good cheese, just not the sauce. I guess the sauce makes all the difference” Kelly replied. The young waiter walked toward their table as the foursome looked up.

“Just like men” said Angela. The girls giggled.

“Posso aiutarvi belle signore. May I help you beautiful ladies?”

They all noticed Kelly locked on to the waiter’s eyes. Angela smiled and whispered to Susan. “I think Kelly just fell in love.”

“My friends tell me we have to try the pizza,” said Kelly. “What do you think?”

“Very good choice. We won ‘Best in Boston’ the last three years,” said Vincent.

“Well, then bring us the best one you have and a bottle of Chianti. And what is your name?”

“My name is Vincent. I’ll be back with your drinks presto, shortly.”

Susan and Angela answered together. “Thanks Vincent” and then looked at Kelly.

“What?” as she gave them a look.

“We saw you looking at him. No one like that in the heartland?”

Susan walked over to the jukebox and made a choice. The song filled the air. “When the moon hits your eye, like a big pizza pie, that’s Amore.” The girls laughed while pointing to Kelly.

“All right. Let’s not get carried away. I think he’s nice, that’s all.”

“Yeah, nice. We know what that means.” The girls kidded Kelly for the next half hour as they ate. Eventually, they let her off the hook. “OK, Kelly we know you’re only discovering something they didn’t have back home, a genuine Italian boy.”

“Be nice or I’ll marry him just to spite you. And you’ll have bridesmaid dresses that look like that.” She pointed to the green, white and red Italian flag in the corner next to a soccer team picture.

Vincent put the check on the table, smiling at Kelly, and thanked them for their business. “una splendida giornata, Have a wonderful day.”

Kelly took the check, insisting she pay for everyone. “You opened my eyes to wonderful Italian food. Let me pay this time.” There was no argument from her friends, college students living on a budget. They didn’t even notice when Kelly wrote her name and phone number on the bill.

That night Vincent called Kelly. She suggested a night at the Faneuil Hall Marketplace across from the North End. They quickly got acquainted, this town boy and the preppy coed from the heartland. By the end of the night, they were walking hand in hand and talking about their next date.

Unknown to her friends, Kelly started seeing Vincent on weekends after he got off from work. She knew they were an odd couple, but it was a nice diversion from the grind of papers and lecture halls, something to get through sophomore year with. She had time to find a suitable husband next year. For now, she just wanted to have fun. It had been months of meeting him in Boston when Vincent arranged an alternative place for dinner.

He met Kelly at the Harvard Square red line stop. They walked past the Harvard Coop and the famous newsstand. “Where are we going?” she said.

“I know a place on Dunster Street, around the corner. You’ll like it.” They walked up to a large yellow house with a crest and signet ring surrounding a nettle.

“This isn’t a restaurant Vincent. It’s some sort of Frat house.” Kelly was puzzled.

“Actually, it’s a coed final club. This is where I live.” Vincent saw Kelly’s face change from confusion to adoration.

“You go to Harvard? You never told me you went to Harvard.”

“Well, I wanted to make sure you liked me for the right reasons, not because my family owned a restaurant in Boston.”

It wasn’t until the wedding after graduation that Vincent found out her family owned the company that supplied pizza dough to his parent’s restaurant.

“Oops,” Kelly said to Vincent when he found out.

They lived happily ever after.

- - -
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: Donal Mahoney

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"You need help in your garden, Grandpa?"

Jack's only ten and eager to help so I have to say yes. He looks like Tom Sawyer. Sometimes I think his mother, my daughter, married Huckleberry Finn, when I look at my grandson. Yet she keeps telling me he looks like me. I seen no resemblance except for the red hair and the cowlicks. Years ago my hair was red. I still got the cowlicks.

"I heard you got moles and voles so I came over to help. When moles get hungry, Grandpa, they tunnel for worms. That's how they kill your roots and bulbs."

It sounds like his mother has been coaching him. She probably sent him over here so she can take a nap. Sometimes it's nice having them live nearby. Other times not so good. For all his good intentions, I know the boy can't help me with the moles and voles. He even brought his own shovel.

I've been dealing with these pests for months. I think I'll have to call in a professional. I'm just afraid the PETA people will show up some night and steal the traps. Or maybe picket my house. The wife might join 'em. She thinks the same way as her daughter. They recycle everything. Sometimes I think I might be the next to go in a bin.

My grandson is on a roll now. He tells me I should send "that stuff over there back to Monsanto. I'll dig up the moles and maybe some voles, too, Grandpa."

I had some weedkiller sitting around the garage for the longest time but I had no plans to try it on the moles and voles. His mother must have seen it when she was here the other day. She hates all chemicals and pesticides. I'm a little more tolerant. She probably told Jack to get on me about the weedkiller.

"You don't need anything from Monsanto, Grandpa. They made Agent Orange. It's not for gardens. It kills people."

I tell him I have weedkiller, not Agent Orange. I haven't heard anybody talking about Agent Orange for years. Bad stuff, but that was a long time ago.

Then, with eyes like stars, Jack announces, "Right now, Grandpa, there are kids in Viet Nam who can't smile like you and me. They're sick to death and they ain't gonna get any better, thanks to that Agent Orange stuff. I saw a program about it on television. Ask my mom. She saw it, too."

So I tell him, "Jack, you can start digging over here. Maybe you'll find a mole. I'll be right back. I'm gonna take the weedkiller back to the hardware store. Maybe they'll give me my money back. You work hard and we'll go to McDonald's. Just don't tell your mother. She doesn't like cheeseburgers and French Fries, either."


- - -
Donal Mahoney has had work published in various print and electronic publications in North America, Europe, Asia and Africa. Some of his earliest work can be found at http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com/

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Author: Donal Mahoney

Contributor: Adam Mac

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Nguyen, known as Win, had lived in a small town on the outskirts of Halifax for nearly two years. He had work in the city, friends, and life was pretty good. His English, however, was still poor, he felt—native fluency being his standard. So, he took advantage of every opportunity to improve his English, and being a gregarious person, there were lots.

Early on, some of the locals sniggered. Win wasn't stupid, and he knew he was the butt of many silly jokes, but he didn't care. Over time, his persistence won over even the surliest, old postmaster Ferguson, and the burliest, Chief Taggert. A quick study, Win got to where he could verbally diagram sentences during conversations, and this impressed a few, then intimidated some more, and ultimately annoyed everyone. He kept on doing it but only in his head.

At the office, one of the favourite topics to bitch about was telemarketers. Hang-ups and call screening were the common solutions. Win used to be polite, but now he hung up, too. Tony had tried bullying, but it took a lot more effort than he'd imagined, so he gave up. Ian had just set up a business line with a pay-per-call service and was collecting 10 cents a minute for telemarketing calls. Shelagh, the English expert with a Master's from Dalhousie, exasperated at playing thesaurus, got the messianic idea that Win should practice on telemarketers.

It was genius! In the evening, Win set up a dummy online account with a luring marketing profile—a St. Mary's undergrad working two jobs—and waited … but not long.

"Good evening, is Mr. N-GOO-YEN there?"

"Call me Win."

"Thank you, Mr. Win. We understand you have an excellent credit rating, and you're just the type of individual that qualifies for our new platinum double plus card."

"You mean 'who?'"

"'Who?' I'm sorry sir, I don't follow."

"You said 'the type of individual that.' Shouldn't it be 'the type of individual who?'"

"Sure. If you like. But you do know what I meant, right?"

"With that ... uh, what's the word ... oh yeah, clarification. With that clarification, I get it. Can I phrase it that way?"

"Yes, you may Mr. Win, but—"

"Wouldn't 'subject to that clarification' sound better?"

"Absolutely sir, but I'd like to get back to the—"

"Excuse me, please. I have one more question. What does this 'double plus' mean?"

"It means the highest level."

"Excuse me. Just one more question, please. Wouldn't it be clearer—or is it 'more clear'?—“

"Either way, sir."

"—to say 'peak platinum' or 'pinnacle platinum' instead of 'platinum double plus'?"

"It's just a name, eh?"

"Ah, okay. So, is this card better than a Visa gold card? Or, an MNBA or MNFL card? And platinum, is that really the best card, because platinum isn't the most expensive—"

"Sir, I really don't know. But sir—uh, Mr. Win—I'm running out of time for this call, so if you don't mind I'd really like to get back to the reason I called."

"Yes. Yes. But could, uh, would you first give me some feedback? You see I'm practicing my English— my conversational English—and I'd appreciate— Hello?"


- - -

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Author: Adam Mac

Contibutor: Amanda Dolan


Look at her, sitting outside talking to another client. What does that even mean? I can’t even focus on my video game, because she’s on the patio laughing at his stupid jokes. I’m unsure why we’ve been here for the past week; this is the longest we’ve stayed in a place like this. I hate it. This isn't home. This is one of Nanny's many rooms.

We used to live in Calabasas. I had a playroom and toys that kept me busy while Nanny had work meetings with men. That little green room was my own personal space. Now, I stay in a new bed every few days. Nanny says we’re traveling to save money for a new house. She says the old house had too many problems, but I’m starting to think there’s more to the story than she’s telling me.

I trust Nanny; I do. I know she cares about me. After all, she told me she would buy me an Xbox for my birthday. That’s why I didn’t feel bad about her selling all of my Star Wars figures. She told me she needed the money to save for a new house with a bigger playroom.

On the bright side, Nanny told me school ended early this year. It’s weird, though; I see the school bus in the neighborhood every morning and afternoon. I’d be real pissed if I had to go to school during break, like they do. I always thought school ended in June. It’s March now, but I’ll take it. She told me not to tell anyone about the early break. I guess she doesn’t want me to make them jealous. This break has been really boring though. I’m sick of being left alone while Nanny goes on business dinners. I’m sick of getting locked out of the room each time she asks me to go get some ice on the third floor. I swear, I’ll knock a million times before she finally answers the door with her client.

This life is getting old. I’m 10. I shouldn’t be locked in a hotel room all day while Nanny cries on the phone to her mother. She cries all the time now. I used to think it was because she hurt her arms, because they’re always bleeding. I’ll ask her a few times a day about it. I don’t know why she’s scratching her arms so much. It’s usually when she’s in a bad mood.

“Nanny just has a rash,” she says. “I’m alright, Jimmy.”

I don’t know what to think anymore. I do know that I hate when she calls me Jimmy. My name is James.

Today, Nanny told me that she thinks she’ll make a lot of money. Maybe we will be switching hotels tonight. Anything is better than sleeping in the car again. The seats in that car anger me. They’re way too hard for my liking. Mom left the car for Nanny when she moved to London last year. She said she needed to get away. I miss her sometimes, but we’re both well aware that she’s a shitty mother. Anyway, a tow truck dragged the car away last week. Nanny said it’s because she parked in a wrong spot, but something tells me that’s not true. I hear the way the hotel lobby staff talks about her. She’s lying to me.

My mom may not be around, but I know my dad loves me. He’s probably missing me right now. He moved to Florida in a hurry. I don’t blame him—Mom sent him packing. She tried to keep me from him. She told me he couldn’t take care of me the way Nanny could. I believed that at first, but now I’m realizing how far from the truth that is. This hotel isn’t my home. These green-striped bed sheets would never be my first pick. Living out of my Star Wars suitcase pisses me off. I want my toys back. I want food that doesn’t pass through a fast food window. I can’t do this anymore. If that phone didn’t charge us every time we picked it up, I would call right now and tell him to come get me.

You know what? I don’t care. Nanny’s too busy giggling on the patio again. She wouldn’t notice the dollar charged on her account until she tries to checkout anyway. I think it’s worth a shot. I need to start living.

Let’s see what Dad can do.


- - -
Amanda Dolan is a single mother from Pembroke Pines, FL. She is currently a studying Creative Writing for Entertainment at Full Sail University in Winter Park, FL.

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Author: Amanda Dolan

Contributor: Dustin Pinney

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All of it was in his head. Everything he’d ever seen, read, smelled, touched, tasted, heard, learned, remembered, forgotten, created, ignored, obsessed over, loved, loathed was there. All stuck in his head. Expanding, rubbing against the inside of his skull, it wanted out.

He tried to tell everyone. Speaking was useless. Writing any of it down didn’t work. Any kind of art failed miserably. His entire life was stuffed into his head and he couldn’t share it.

A migraine started thumping along his nervous system. The tiniest motion sent the world around him into a cyclone. That agony intensified to such a point that he was sure death was imminent.

The day came when finally his life wore through the bone, punctured his scalp and oozed through to the real world. As it flowed, the opening spread. Light, shadows, magic, chaos, love, hate, spilled out. He started screaming.

An essence of self at last emerged as a brilliant glow. It swelled to a solid blinding beam.

When his life had finally bled out of him, he sat empty in the quit, his scream frozen in place.

The only words spoken by the ones who found him were, “What a waste.”


- - -
Dustin Pinney is back living and writing in a town just outside the city where he grew up. His other stories have been featured in the anthologies "31 More Nights of Halloween," "New Dawn Fades", and "Nickel City Nights" as well as a number of online venues. He also writes an awful lot about Doctor Who for Letusnerd.com.

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Author: Dustin Pinney

Contributor: Jerry Guarino

- -

October 23^rd, 1976 (New Brunswick, NJ) - Tony finished his set at WRSU around 7pm. He would grab a quick dinner, then head over to the dorm for his gig as DJ to their party. Playing for college dances was better than being on the air; you don’t have much interaction when you’re alone in the radio booth. Here he could see coeds dancing and if he was lucky pick up a date.

“Are you the DJ?” said the house manager as he extended his hand.

“Hi, yes, I’m Tony, from the radio station. Good to meet you.”

“You too. I’m George. You can set up on that small stage; we use the dining area for dancing.”

“OK George. We’re going to start around 8?”

“8 is good Tony. The music will signal people to come down from their rooms. But you’re going until midnight, right?”

“Yes, usually, unless the crowd disappears.”

Most of the sororities and fraternities would be partying tonight, especially after the football team won. Tony knew everyone would be in a good mood. After setting up his equipment, records and speakers, he ran a sound test and found a comfortable stool. By 8 o’clock he was setting the mood with music from the early 70s. Sly and the Family Stone, The Hollies, Elton John and Three Dog Night. Just hits.

A brunette with frayed, bell-bottom jeans and a tie-dyed shirt came over to him. “You’re gonna play some Clapton, aren’t ya?”

“Derek and the Dominos or Cream?” said Tony.

“Do you have Layla?”

“You got it next.”

The girl smiled and skipped away as residents started to fill the room. It was a coed dorm, not part of the Greek system, so this was pleasant company, not the drunken frat boys around the corner. Within an hour, the dance floor was filled; beers were everywhere and the usual pairing off had begun.

“Wow. 9 o’clock and we already have couples leaving for the rooms upstairs. This might be an early night,” Tony said to himself. Then he saw her, a cheerleader still in uniform with some friends coming through the kitchen. He knew her name, Karen, but she didn’t know him. Back then all the guys knew the cheerleaders by name, even though they never met.

Tony knew what he had to do. K.C. and the Sunshine Band, Earth, Wind and Fire and The Doobie Brothers. Dance music will get her on the floor. As Get Down Tonight started, Tony pushed the volume up until it ended all normal conversations. Sure enough, Karen and her friends started to dance.

“Hmm. Her boyfriend’s not here. All the cheerleaders had boyfriends, maybe a lineman from the team. But they were probably partying at the football frat; surely Karen would be there if she wanted to be. Maybe he’ll show up here or she’ll leave.” Tony would just have to wait and see.

A coed came over to him with some chicken wings and French fries. She was pretty enough, but Tony was otherwise occupied. “You must be getting hungry; I made you a plate.”

“Oh, thanks” he said to the cute girl in a red Danskin and corduroy pants. As she walked away, she turned to smile at Tony. He gave her a wave and a more genuine smile, then his attention returned to Karen. But he didn’t see her.

“Damn.” Tony scanned the dance floor. “What if she stepped out? I should have talked to her.” Before long, it was 11:00pm and the crowd was thinning out, couples off for the night and singles leaving, only about 30 people left now. He lowered the volume of the music and made an announcement.

“You’ve been a great audience tonight. We’re going to wrap it up in about ten minutes.” Some mild disappointment from the crowd, so he decided to end the night with some power songs. Boogie Wonderland by Earth Wind and Fire, That’s the Way I Like It by KC and the Sunshine Band and Play That Funky Music White Boy by Wild Cherry. He turned the music up.

“Excuse me.” A lyrical voice called him, accompanied by a hand on his shoulder. He looked up and saw Karen. Suddenly his whole night was back in synch. She was smiling. “I love these songs. Too bad you have to stop.”

“I can stay a little longer. My name’s Tony.”

“I’m Karen.”

“Nice to meet you Karen. So you came right from the game?”

“Yeah, my girlfriends took me out to dinner for my birthday, then brought me here.”

Tony had a clue. “She should be with her boyfriend on her birthday. Maybe she broke up with him.”

“Well, happy birthday. Tell you what. I’ll play as long as you like.” Tony thought that was a smooth line.

“Oh, thank you” Karen said and gave him a little hug. She walked back to the dance floor with her friends. Tony watched her dance for the next hour. That cheerleading uniform was more than he could resist. He just hoped she would stick around after and talk to him. His head in the clouds, it was midnight before he realized.

“Well, that’s it folks. You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here. Well, unless you live here.” Tony tried to make a joke, but it bombed. He started packing up the equipment. Karen walked over to him.

“Thank you so much. I was feeling a little down tonight. Will you be here long?”

Tony was hoping for the best. “No, I just have to secure this in that closet. The techs will bring it back to the station tomorrow. Do you need a ride home?”

“That would be nice” and she smiled. Tony wasn’t expecting this, but recovered quickly.

“I’ll take you. Just give me ten minutes.”

“OK. I’ll tell my friends goodbye.”

“Wow. She’s leaving her friends to be with me. I must have played the right notes tonight.”

Karen was quiet on their ride back to her dorm, but you could sense the conversation between them, going on in their heads.

Tony: I wish we were heading to my apartment instead of her dorm.

Karen: I wish he would ask me to his apartment instead of taking me home.

Tony: What do I say?

Karen: I wish he would say something, anything.

“So, you made my night a little brighter too Karen. I didn’t expect a pretty cheerleader to even notice me.”

Karen slid over to Tony’s side and held his hand. “You’re not so bad looking yourself. Did you think dating a cheerleader was out of your league?”

Tony’s life quickly passed through his brain. “She said dating a cheerleader!” It’s a dream come true, unless she is already with a player from the football team. It’s worse than having an affair. If he found out, he could punish you on a regular basis. You couldn’t just disappear, especially once they got your class schedule and address. Worse yet, he had 60 or 70 teammates you could run into, literally!

“Tell you the truth. No, I never considered it a possibility.” Tony hoped Karen would give him one more sign to proceed. At the stop sign in front of her dorm, she leaned over and kissed him. “My roommate went home for the weekend. Aren’t you going to come in?” and she closed the door and ran to the door.

That was the sign. Tony parked quickly and ran to catch up with her. They made love for the next hours, aided by some champagne she just happened to have in her fridge. Low lights and soft music from her stereo intensified the mood. Tony gave her a massage while he recovered, hoping the night would never end.

Then there was a knock on the door, a pounding! Karen looked at him, threw on her robe and went to look out the security hole to see who was there. Tony’s heart and imagination were racing to what could be an ignominious finish of a glorious night. He could make out some muffled sound from the door.

“Oh.” She turned to Tony. “It’s only my roommate; she forgot her house key.”

- - -
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: Donal Mahoney

- -
It may have been the devil himself who prompted the kids in my schoolyard back in 1947 to chant "Patsy Foley's roly-poly from eating too much ravioli."

At first, no one could remember who started the chant. Patsy, a sweet and ample child, was in the third grade. As happenstance would have it, I was in that same third grade, infamous already as the only boy wearing spectacles in our class. After I got the glasses, I had three schoolyard fights in three days to prove to Larry Moore, Billy Gallagher and Fred Ham that I hadn't changed a bit. You would think I would have forgotten their names by now. Not a chance. I didn't like being messed with in third grade.

Since the chant would often begin and gather volume during recess, the nuns who ran the school eventually heard it and did their best to put a stop to it. This was a time when nuns, God bless them, were empowered by parents to swat the butts of little miscreants if any of them interrupted the educational process. Despite their voluminous habits, the nuns were adept at administering discipline, let me tell you, as my butt, on more than one occasion, could attest.

Now, 65 years later, when the chant pops into my mind, I begin to wonder what prompted me to say it. Early on, I certainly loved to hear the sound of words bouncing off each other--as if words were pool balls scattered by a cue. Later on I would use words to earn a living. They were the only tools I was any good with.

As I remember it now, the chant started one day after a school practice in church involving Gregorian chant. Some of the other kids later alleged that they had heard me, of all people, on the way back to class, chanting "Patsy Foley's roly-poly from eating too much ravioli."

I probably had some idea of the problem my chant might cause. But I loved the sound of it too much to stop.

If Dick Clark had been on American Bandstand back in 1947, he might have said the chant had "a nice beat" to it, but kids weren't dancing much in 1947. World War II had just ended and school was a serious matter. Even kids who didn't like books usually tried their best.

Since I was only in third grade, one might think that I might have had some emotional or mental problem that caused me to chant that phrase over and over. That could be. If a child did something like that today, he or she might be examined for Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD). Maybe I had something like that. But in my mind the reason I chanted about Patsy Foley is that I liked the sound. It didn't hurt that my father was always saying things at home that had a bit of a turn to them. I remember how I used to enjoy the cadence of what he said and repeating it when he wasn't around. He used words differently than other fathers in the neighborhood and he delivered them in a melodic Irish brogue.

My mother, who was bereft of verbal rhythm, would sometimes ask my father a serious question when he was fresh home from a hard day's work, climbing alley poles as an electrician. Usually her question would pertain to some family matter that she had been fretting about all day. And my father, sitting on a chair in our little kitchen while stripping off his gear, might say in response, "And what would Mary Supple say to that?"

It's a shame that over the years my mother, sister and I never found out who Mary Supple was because her name was frequently invoked. Nor did we ever find out who John Godley was, either, even though my father would sometimes substitute John Godley for Mary Supple in that same response. He never said these things in anger, although he did have a terrific temper. He could erupt at any time and you didn't want to get in the way of the lava.

At other times, when my father was asked a question by my mother at an inconvenient time, he might look her in the eye and say, "Ten thousand Swedes ran through the weeds chased by one Norwegian," a line that did not originate with him but was one that he repeated with a special flair. The words certainly sounded good to me, whatever they meant. We didn't know any Swedes or Norwegians and had no idea if there might be some conflict going on between them. True, World War II had just ended but we didn't think the Swedes and Norwegians had been actively involved.

Sometimes my mother on a Sunday morning would ask my father if he was going to get dressed for church. He might have been taking a sip of his fifth cup of tea at the time. He wouldn't get angry but he sometimes would lean back and sonorously intone one of the many Burma Shave billboard slogans that dotted highways in that era: "Whiskers tough old Adam had 'em. Does your husband have whiskers like Adam, Madam?" I liked the sound of that slogan as well. Today, it still pops into my mind during arid moments. And as my wife will attest, she has heard it frequently over the years.

I think it's pretty easy to see, then, why I, as a third-grader, instead of concentrating on multiplication and division, preferred to chant "Patsy Foley's roly-poly from eating too much ravioli." I am glad, however, that the nuns took it upon themselves to discipline me and did not call my parents instead. After all, my father was paying tuition to send me to that fine school to get a good education. He did not send me there to engage in tom-foolery, a pursuit that he, of course, would have known nothing about even if his legacy among relatives said otherwise.

Besides, in my mind, no nun, no matter how mountainous she may have been, was a match for my father. He had been a boxer after he had emigrated to America from Ireland, a relocation occasioned by the British army after they had imprisoned him as a young man for activities in the Irish Republican Army. My mother said he loved boxing and had won eight straight matches before "some big black guy" broke his nose. After that, he never boxed again, she said, because he "didn't want to lose his good looks." He was a handsome man indeed, despite a nose that looked as though at any moment it might call geese to fly lower.

Years later, some neighbor ladies at a block party made some nice comments to my mother about my father's appearance. When she came home, she told my sister what they had said and forewarned her that "handsome is as handsome does." In many ways, that's quite true, even though that line didn't originate with my mother. Come to think of it, though, I like the sound of that line as well and might have chanted it more than once had I heard it in third grade.


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Donal Mahoney has had work published in various print and electronic publications in North America, Europe, Asia and Africa. Some of his earliest work can be found at http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com/

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Author: Donal Mahoney

Contributor: Andrew Stancek

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The greengrocer has taped photos of the new supermodel Twiggy, ripped from a fashion magazine, to his store window. My train leaves in forty minutes; my suitcase bulges. I stop to catch a breath, to admire the glossy beauty and peering inside the store through the grimy window I see a mound of oranges, not seen in Bratislava in months. The greengrocer must still be spreading the word to his cronies after a middle of the night delivery but they’ll be gone before the store opens at eight. I rap on the window, rattle it hard. My knuckles hurt but I don’t stop till a beer-bellied man with a three-day beard opens the door a crack and growls, “Closed, can’t you see we’re closed. Stop the goddamn racket.”

“I’ll take five kilos of the oranges,” I say, thrusting a hundred-crown note at him. He steps back.

“No oranges. Only potatoes and beets.”

I take another hundred-crown note out of my wallet, point at the pile. “These invisible oranges. I’ll take five kilos.”

“Every single one is spoken for, sefko. My blasted daughter didn’t pull the shutters closed last night. No oranges by opening time. You aren’t seeing them.”

If I had oranges to give to Dasa, I wouldn’t have to catch the 8:02 train. I wouldn’t have to knock on the door of a brother I haven’t seen in twelve years, with an unspoken plea. If I have to keep arguing with this bastard, I might not catch the train. But if I trundle back up the stairs with a bagful, she might soften like ripe cheese, take me back. She didn’t mean it when she said I’m a useless provider on top of being a goddamn drunk and a cheat. If I have an orange I can take a sharp knife, cut the orange into thirds, feed a third to little Palko, feed a third to her and she’ll take the last third and...

“I don’t need five kilos. I’ll take three. Give me three oranges. Whatever they’re paying you, the goddamn smrady in the council office, I’ll top their price. Look, three hundred crowns for three stinking oranges. You can tell the burzujs you got shorted, that you don’t have as many as you thought. No one will ever know.”

He stares at the banknotes in my hand, greed pulsing a vein in his forehead. He snatches them, motions me into the store. “Three, that’s all you get. Pick them quickly and get out.”

They smell of warm soil and full-throated laughter and I already feel their sunshine spreading on Dasa’s tongue as she tells me “Forever, we’ll be together forever.”

I caress the fragrant skin, juggle one-two-three in the face of the glaring store-keeper. Wings sprout out of my shoulder blades. “I’ll come back later for my suitcase,” I say and fly, fly home, clutching my gift.


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Andrew Stancek’s stories can be found in Tin House, Flash Fiction Chronicles, The Linnet’s Wings, fwriction, Every Day Fiction, Gemini Magazine (Grand Prize Winner), THIS Literary Magazine, LA Review and Windsor Review.

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Author: Andrew Stancek