Contributor: Donal Mahoney

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Anyone who has had poetry published by an editor over the years has a relationship with that editor whether one knows it or not.

Sometimes the relationship is lukewarm, other times bordering on friendship, occasionally deep. Over time, writer and the editor notice mannerisms in each other that are often never discussed since these insights have nothing to do with the work and time may be important to one or both. That's happened to me with editors over the years but never with such impact as happened in an incident that occurred not long ago.

This editor has accepted my work on a regular basis and has kept his distance, a safe place to be for anyone dealing with writers, most of whom know how good they are. Every once in awhile, however, he would tell me that my writing reminded him of some author I had never read. I had always heard of the authors, some of them alive, others recently dead, all very good writers by the standards of this era. He would usually recommend a book or two by each author that he would say I should read. This was the only time he would border on the imperative. Otherwise he would sound as if he had been reading The New Yorker since birth.

This kind of response from an otherwise detached but intelligent editor is invigorating. To be compared to a good writer one has never read has a double benefit: One must be writing some things well. And one must not be subliminally plagiarizing the style of the author mentioned since he has never read him or her.

In the last couple of months, however, this meticulous editor hasn't published a new issue, something he has done every month in the years since I first encountered his site. I had no idea what might be the matter. Stranger still, I had heard nothing from him and he was always one to respond.

I began thinking that maybe his failure to write might have had something to do with the last two pieces I had sent him. The content of both would be politically incorrect in his eyes but not in mine. I sent the pieces because it's good at times to get a reaction from someone whose taste you admire but who may not agree with you on the issues of the day or on the bigger issues of life.

Not hearing from him on the controversial pieces, I decided to send him a short story and a poem I thought he would like. Not too hot, not too cold, perhaps just right. Maybe he needed copy. Maybe for some odd reason submissions to his site were down.

A week later he wrote back and apologized for the delay in getting back to me. He said he liked the work I had just sent, did not mention the controversial pieces, and added that he would be putting his site on hiatus till "after the first of the year." Then he said, almost as a casual afterword, that he could not recall if he had told me that he has Stage 4 cancer. The email ended on that note.

No, he had not told me that tremulous fact and I mentioned that in my reply. I took a chance and said that if he ever simply wanted to sound off about something, I'd be happy to hear from him. I knew nothing about him or his life so I might be a safe place, I thought, for him to air whatever goes through the mind of someone with Stage 4 cancer.

So far he has not written back.

It will be hard waiting for the "after" that I hope comes "after the first of the year."


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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: April Winters

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What a drag.

"Can I play?” Debbie wears a hopeful expression. She’s thinking maybe this time her brother and his pal will let her join them, seeing as how her only friend, Linda, just moved away and all.

“Go home, stupid! Even idiots know girls can’t play Cowboys and Indians,” her brother says. She knows Joey’s favorite television show is Wagon Train, but she doesn’t get it; some of those western television programs Joey likes so much have women shooting at Indians, too, so why can’t she play?

“Yeah!” Billy glares at Debbie, his face mirroring Joey’s contempt.

Chin quivering, Joey’s little sister turns toward home.

Debbie turns back and watches the boys disappear behind a cluster of trees where they’ll meet more friends to play guns and arrows with. She wonders why Joey is always so mean – like how he says she has a face only a mother could love and how, when Mama can’t hear, he calls her “horse’s ass mouth.” How does he even know? Did he see the Tucker’s horse lift its tail then say, “Whoa . . . Shadow, your butthole looks just like Debbie’s mouth!?”

Opening the front door, the aroma of chocolate temporarily makes her forget she has no one to play with. Debbie reaches for one of the warm cookies, but Mama stops her. “You’ll spoil your dinner, honey.”

Shoulders slumped Debbie hangs her head and walks to her room. During this morning’s thunderstorm, she finished reading her last Nancy Drew mystery. “This stinks,” Debbie says to no one. “The dumb Book Mobile won’t be here till next week . . . and it’s no fun to play Barbie all by myself.” A sigh escapes as she sprawls on her bed, a hot tear sliding out of one eye. “My only friend’s gone . . . I miss her so much!” Burying her face in the pillowcase, Debbie cries herself to sleep.

Later she is awakened by her mother, who holds out a fishing pole made from a stick, string and a safety pin. The girl hugs her mom then races the short distance to the creek. Shinnying out onto the tree trunk that overhangs the shallow water, Debbie clutches her gift. Securing the pole with her thigh, she pulls a bit of raw bacon out of the foil wrapping Mama gave her and sticks it on the open safety pin.

Not long afterward, Debbie tosses her fishing pole onto the still-damp ground in her front yard and thinks maybe fish don’t like bacon. She clicks her tongue. “Nah, Linda would’ve caught six fish, but stupid me can’t even catch one! Maybe Joey’s right… maybe I really am a dumb-dumb.”

A honey bee buzzes past as Debbie sits on the damp ground. She sees a caterpillar near her grass-stained tennis shoe and lays her finger on the sneaker. The fuzzy, multi-colored creature climbs aboard. Pulling her hand close to her face, Debbie says, “Looks like you don’t have anybody to play with, either, little guy.” With the sun’s warmth caressing her, Debbie gently picks the insect up with her other hand and places it on a patch of clover.

The drone of an airplane draws her attention. Shielding her eyes, she lies down and watches the speck inch its way across the summer sky. A lump fills her throat. “Linda rode a plane all the way to California. Wish I could have gone with her.”

She sniffs then pulls the elastic of her candy necklace to her mouth. Biting a pastel sweet, she crunches it and wonders momentarily if Linda will find new friends. “Heck, she’ll have lots of friends; and they’ll get to stay outside and play a long time because it’s so warm there.” Then Debbie remembers Mama said the winters in California only get down into the sixties, and Debbie has a horrible thought: does that mean Linda’s never going to see snow again? Eyes widening, Debbie bolts upright and sucks in her breath. “But she has to have snow to have a white Christmas!”

“Hey stupid, who ya talking to?” Billy smacks Joey’s arm and sniggers as the boys walk up behind Debbie.

“She better be talking to God,” Joey says, “praying Mama doesn’t beat the shit out of her for getting her clothes all wet!”

The screen door slams. From the porch, Mama yells, “Joseph Adam Robertson, I heard that. Come here this instant, young man!”

Joey hangs his head and slowly walks toward the house. Billy turns to Debbie. “Man, he’s in big trouble; did you see how mad she was? He’s not gonna get the belt is he?”

Debbie glances down at her tennis shoe. She wants to feel sorry for her brother, but he shouldn’t be so darned mean. She wonders if he’s going to get a whipping as a smile tugs at the corners of her mouth.


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April Winters hopes to help people forget their troubles through her stories, even if it’s 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: Krystina Balogh

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The old Victorian house loomed ahead, its windows a dark reflection of the pending autumn storm. Sasha pulled her thin jacket closed and quickened her pace. She didn’t like the house. It was eerie with its unkempt garden and peeling trim.

“Can you help me, please? Excuse me? Can you help me?”

Surprised, Sasha looked around and saw the little girl standing on the porch steps, her dress straight out of the 19th century.

That’s odd, she thought. I didn’t think anyone lived here. I guess someone finally bought the old place.

“Excuse me,” the little girl said once more, coming down the steps towards Sasha. “Please, I need help.”

“What’s wrong, sweetie?” Sasha asked, rubbing her hands together to keep warm in the chill air. She should have worn her heavier jacket.

“It’s my father,” the little girl said. “He’s fallen and I can’t wake him up. Please, help him.” The little girl turned and moved quickly up the porch steps.
Sasha started to follow and then remembered her cell phone in her pocket.

“Did you call 911?” she asked as she pulled it out. “You should call 911 before you do anything when someone is hurt, you know.”

The little girl stopped near the top of the steps and replied, “The telephone isn’t connected yet.”

“That’s ok, I’ve got my cell. I’ll call 911…” Sasha said as she started to dial. Before she was able to finish dialing, the little girl bolted down the stairs, grabbed her free hand, and tugged her up the stairs. The force of the tug sent the cell phone flying out of her hand and onto the sidewalk. Sasha tried to retrieve it but the little girl wouldn’t let go.

“Please, there is no time,” the little girl pleaded. “He’s badly hurt. You must help him!”

Sasha saw how frantic she was and heard the panic in the little girl’s voice. She decided it wouldn’t hurt to check on her father first and then come back for the cell phone. No one would bother it and she was the only help in sight; the neighborhood was practically abandoned.

Sasha let the little girl pull her up the porch steps and into the foyer. It was dark inside. There were heavy velvet curtains covering the windows and no lights were on. She noticed a switch on the wall near the front door and pushed it. Nothing happened. “No electricity?” she asked the little girl.

“Yes, but the fuse blew. Father was going down to replace it when he fell,” she replied. The little girl picked up a candle stub from the foyer table, lit it, and motioned for Sasha to follow. They moved quickly through the gloom, the candle providing the only light.

The little girl stopped at a nondescript door just outside the kitchen. “Father is down there, at the bottom of the cellar stairs,” she explained as she pulled a key from her pocket. The lock softly clicked in the quiet hallway.

Suddenly, Sasha did not want to open the door. She did not want to see what was on the other side. Stop being silly, she told herself. There’s nothing on the other side except some stairs, the cellar, and an injured man. She took a deep breath, gathered her courage, and reached for the doorknob. She slowly opened the door. She let loose a nervous giggle when nothing gruesome jumped out.

Sasha moved to the top of the stairs and peered into the darkness below.

She couldn’t see anything, not even the little girl’s father. “Do you have a flashlight I could use?” she asked.

“Father had the only flashlight. It’s down there, now,” the little girl replied as she pointed down the cellar stairs.

“A candle?”

“This is the only one I have and I don’t want to be left in the dark.”

A soft scratching noise rose from the cellar. Sasha looked down the stairs, willing herself to see through the darkness with no luck.

“What exactly happened to your father?” she asked. “You never said.”

The little girl looked anxious. “We were in the kitchen when the fuse blew. Father was in a hurry and didn’t watch where he was going. He missed a step and fell down the stairs. I tried to help him but I couldn’t get him to wake up.”

“You saw the flashlight next to him?” Sasha was hesitant. She really did not want to go down the stairs into that thick, impenetrable darkness. Something wasn’t right.

“Yes, it was on the floor next to him. Please, go down and make sure he’s ok. I couldn’t get him to wake up,” the little girl sobbed. “Please!”

Sasha sighed and turned towards the stairs. As she picked up her foot to navigate the first step she felt a hard shove from behind and lost her footing. She tumbled head over heels down the stairs to the floor below, hitting her head hard. The last thing she heard before she lost consciousness was the door closing and the key turning in the lock. The last thing she saw was that she was alone at the bottom of the stairs.

In the hallway the little girl removed the key from the lock and put it back in her pocket. A small, wicked smile played across her lips. That should keep them occupied and well-fed for a while, she thought.


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Krystina Balogh is a freelance writer that haunts the mid-Atlantic region of the USA. She dabbles in the horror, science fiction, and fantasy genres and is the author of numerous short stories. When she is not busy writing, she indulges her love for the supernatural and video games.

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Author: Krystina Balogh

Contributor: Karen Lindsey

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Sheila had no particular fondness for statues, holy pictures, or other renditions of Jesus. Baby Jesus always looked so snarkily cute she found him wholly without charm. The handsome young white hippy looked smug, even when he was interacting with children: she had a sneaky feeling he was giving them bars of healthy snacks. Worst was the morbid near-corpse nailed to the cross, its sparse right ribs bleeding heavily.

Raised by vaguely Christian parents, she had a slight belief in God and the afterlife. When her kids were young she had a Christmas tree and an Easter egg hunt. When they grew up and left home, she abandoned the practices comfortably. Nor did she ever go to church, unless weddings or funerals required it. On the whole, she preferred the funerals: they were less noisy and the food was less ostentatious.

But the year her husband left her for a younger woman, her friends decided to make her holidays bright, whether she wanted them to be or not. “Sheila,” they’d say warmly, “holidays are always rough the first year.” In fact, they weren’t especially rough for her; neither she nor Ralph had cared much about them. She enjoyed them as days off work, allowing her to sit and read or watch old films on television. She was not even that devastated by the end of a marriage that had long since gone sour. But her friends meant well, so she tagged along with several of them to midnight mass at a small Catholic church nearby. At least the music would be good, she told herself.

The music was indeed good, played by a small but highly competent orchestra and a well-trained soprano and tenor. Jesus, of course, was inescapable, in all his baby-through-crucifix manifestations, but she was prepared to ignore them.

Looking around the church she noticed one quiet, unpeopled corner that harbored a large box of toys—evidently some day-care center worked here during the week. There were dolls and plush toys, some small dinosaurs and a few of the less violent action figures. (It amused her to see Jane Austin among them.) Inevitably there was the little kiddy crèche, with its sadly smiling velcro-ed Virgin and its rather grim Joseph, plus assorted angels, shepherds, and barnyard animals. But it was the toy on the shelf above the crèche that grabbed her attention. This was the oddest Jesus figure she’d ever seen—a ragdoll that, dressed and coiffed differently, could easily be a Raggedy Andy, like the one she’d had as a kid. But this fellow had brown, shoulder length hair and a beard; he wore sandals and an Arab-y sort of robe, and his painted eyes had the saddest expression she’d ever seen.

He was totally incongruous. The size of a living baby, he would have looked perfect in the church’s crèche, except that he was clearly no infant. Yet there was nothing of pedant or martyr about him. It seemed that the cloth artist had captured the various images of Jesus in one piece; this God was his own trinity, at one with all human pain, from the cry of the soggy-diapered baby to the abandonment of a lover and on through the ultimate agony of death. The eyes could weep in a crib or in Gethsemane; yet the mouth, covered by its mustache, was nearly smiling. She could not look away from the creature.

As the mass ended, and people walked out of various aisles to speak with the priest or collect their altar boys or gather chatting in little groups, Sheila slipped away from her friends toward the dark corner of the play area. With her arm beneath its neck, she lifted the ragdoll as tenderly as if it were a newborn infant, and cradled it in her arms for a few minutes. Around her, some children were singing an old hymn, whose lyrics she ignored but whose soft sound she picked up—-“Holy God We Praise Thy Name,” she thought it was called. The music combined lullaby and dirge with a small touch of solemn pleasure, and she hummed it to the ragdoll in her arms. Quietly then she put him down and rejoined her friends. She would come back here: perhaps at Easter, perhaps not until next Christmas. She knew the Jesus doll would be waiting for her. As she left the church, she wondered if there would be any places selling Christmas trees open.


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Old writer trying genres new to me

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Author: Karen Lindsey

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

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It's Christmas Eve and Paddy Kelly is on his way home from work at the Post Office. He stops at Rosen's Deli and orders a brisket of beef sandwich on pumpernickel rye with a smear of horseradish and a "new" kosher pickle on the side.

Ever since he came from Ireland to Chicago years ago, Paddy has preferred the "new" kosher pickle to the standard kosher pickle because it's crunchier, he says. It's more like a cucumber, he told his wife, because it isn't cured as long as the standard kosher pickle. He loves the sound as he bites into one, a sound he magnifies whenever he brings his wife to Rosen's. Maggie Kelly likes the new pickle but doesn't like the sound of Paddy chomping on it in public.

"I'll take a potato latke, too, Sol," Paddy says to Mr. Rosen, the proprietor of the deli and eldest son of a rabbi killed at the Treblinka Concentration Camp by the Nazis during World War II. Sol was the only survivor in his family. His parents and four siblings were gassed at Treblinka. At 76 Sol has now almost come to grips with the murders except on Jewish holidays when everything about the Treblinka camp dashes back into his mind. If it weren't for the American soldiers getting there on time, he would have gone to the gas chamber as well.

"You want coffee now Paddy?" Sol says, stationed in his white apron at the big silver urn, cup in hand. The apron is a patchwork of all the condiments Sol has dispensed during his long day. Mustard stains are particularly hard to get out, according to Mrs. Rosen, a tiny woman, who reminds Sol of that whenever she's behind the counter helping out.

"Coffee later, Sol, with a piece of cheesecake. No dinner tonight. Maggie's not feeling well. I'll eat here and take noodle soup to go. I hope she'll feel better in the morning. She'd never forgive herself if she's too sick to go to Mass on Christmas Day."

It's always quiet on Christmas Eve at Rosen's Deli but this time it's quieter than usual. Two regulars, Ruben Cohen and Ruben Goldberg, are the only other customers They are sitting on their usual thrones at the counter, with an empty throne between them, facing each other in almost matching fedoras and arguing as always about the definition of certain Yiddish words.

Cohen and Goldberg have been arguing about the fine points--and not so fine points--of the Yiddish language for years with no sign of detente. Right now, the argument is over whether "kunilemel" and "shmendreck" are Yiddish synonyms--or not. Ruben Cohen says it's worse to be called a shmendreck than a kunilemel and Ruben Goldberg maintains that is not accurate.

"They're both the same, Cohen!" Goldberg proclaims, prior to a slurp of coffee.

"Are you telling me you'd just as soon be called a shmendreck as a kunilemel," Cohen yells at Goldberg.

If a selection had to be made, Goldberg would probably be judged the scholar of the two in that he usually completes the crossword puzzle in the Chicago Sun-Times in half an hour. Cohen, on the other hand, is currently a cab driver with a degree in accounting. He's between jobs, which is usually the case for Ruben Cohen, and he hasn't got time for crossword puzzles. But he'll do your taxes accurately for a lot less than H&R Block.

"Time is money," Cohen says to Goldberg as he heads for the door. "I got no time for crossword puzzles on Christmas Eve. I'll be getting quite a few fares for Midnight Mass. It's tough for the old-timers to walk a few blocks. Ask Kelly over there. He'll tell you that's the truth.

Paddy Kelly, in the meantime, is lost in thought as he finishes his cheesecake and coffee and walks up to pay his tab at the front of the store. Once again Sol is there wrestling with his ancient register. Some days it works and some days it doesn't. Sol shakes it at least three times before putting in a call to the repairman. On Christmas Eve, the charge would be higher and it's high enough, Sol says, on regular days.

"How's Mrs. Rosen, Sol?," Paddy asks. "Haven't seen her in weeks."

"Cancer, Paddy," Sol says. "They operate next week. Things don't look good. The docs say everything depends on what they find. Up until now she's had good health for a woman her age."

Paddy has no idea what to say. He knows Minerva Rosen better than Sol. Years ago it was Minerva Rosen who handed him his first new pickle. And then she gave him his first knish. Two days after that, she brought over his first steaming bowl of sweet and sour cabbage soup.

Paddy had eaten a lot of cabbage in Ireland but nothing as delicious as Mrs. Rosen's sweet and sour cabbage soup. He always comes in for a bowl on St. Patrick's Day before heading to the party at the Knights of Columbus Hall.

The Rosens cater that event every year. For weeks afterward arguments continue among the guests, most of them immigrants from Ireland, as to which corned beef is better--Rosen's kosher corned beef or the version they ate on holidays back in Ireland, provided their families could afford it. Otherwise they ate boiled cabbage and potatoes with a piece of pork tossed in for flavoring.

Paddy has always preferred Rosen's corned beef but he would never risk his life by saying so in front of the other Knights.

"Sol, at church tomorrow, Maggie and I will pray hard for Mrs. Rosen. I hope to God the surgery works. Sometimes praying is all that anyone can do."

"I know," Sol says as the register finally springs open. "You have a good Christmas, Paddy, and we'll see what the doctors say next week. The best to you and Maggie."


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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: Alexander Ziperovich

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I went out for a smoke and there was a long, used syringe standing upright in the gravel inside the crowded dog park in front of my building. I went up to the gate and started yelling but the hundred barking dogs drowned me out. As I stood there shouting I watched a Doberman whose curiosity had been piqued by the shiny object walk up. The big dog stooped and sniffed around, tilting its head to the side in a final consideration before wandering off. Then a young, ebullient poodle came bounding up and greedily fastened its jaws down on the needle. The stunned dog stopped moving for a moment, its tail limp, before letting out a high-pitched scream. It staggered around wildly, blood pouring from its snout as the needle dangled from the roof of its gaping mouth before falling back down to the gravel.

That was the morning that preceded the night that I met Annie. I found this girl with blood-red hair at a bar in Capitol Hill and we ended up at this beautiful condo her parents had bought her up the block. We fucked everywhere, except on the little Juliet balcony; it was too small for two people. After we finished having sex she started with the Shakespeare shit.

“Michael, you’ve read Romeo and Juliet, right?” She was standing above me in this tiny silk negligée watching me pour scotch into a cut-glass tumbler from a crystal decanter. We had just finished fucking for the third time and little beads of sweat were drying on my naked body as I sat there at this beautifully polished mahogany table, my bare ass in her expensive leather chair and the glass of scotch in my hand.

“I hate Shakespeare.” I got into telling her how he wasn’t even real, how Shakespeare was just an amalgamation of peasant ghost writers who got fucked out of there writing bylines by a couple of greedy assholes from the nobility because they had this idea that you had to have blue blood to write in those days.

“But haven’t you read Romeo and Juliet? Don’t you think it would be divine to fall so madly in love that you would rather die than be without your lover?” This strange, yearning came through her voice. “No,” I carefully said, “I think it’s melodramatic bullshit.”

“I think it’s the most pure expression of love in the world.” She gazed out her fifth story window at the lights of the city below. I shuddered, thinking, “Death is the most beautiful expression of love?” I had another drink and left.

I saw Annie from time to time around town and we even fucked again, at my place. The same thing happened, too. We were in my bed sharing a cigarette after some particularly loveless sex. “God,” She started, “Romeo and Juliet really are the epitome of love,” She stared up dreamily watching the tendrils of smoke curl up into the ceiling. “They are love.” She said it breathlessly, the corners of her mouth tipped up like little hooks as she sat there with her eyes closed, opiated with the idea. I just sat there saying nothing.

Some months went by and I started seeing her with this guy I knew, Ryan, this depressed artist kid with perpetual circles under his eyes. He walked around with her with those big black circles under his eyes looking vacant all the time and every time I saw them they were together and it was like she was hard at work casting a spell on him. She’d be talking up at him as he sort of stood there swaying, just taking it all in looking hypnotized. She was clearly moving something around inside of him.

I was walking down the street where she lived one night and it was a scene, ambulances and cop cars, even a fire truck. There were paramedics and firefighters and cops everywhere, standing around a large mass under a sheet. I said to myself, “Fuck, she did it. They killed themselves. They jumped.”

That’s when I saw her sitting on a curb across the street with one of those white blankets you see medics give people after they’re rescued from fires or car accidents draped over her shoulders. She sat there alone on the curb silently staring up into space. I asked her what happened and she slowly shook her head at me as if awakening from some private reverie and looked at me and said, “Love. Love happened.” Then she yawned.


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Alexander Ziperovich is a writer living in Seattle with his girlfriend Soph. He paints for fun and even sells art once in awhile, but his first love is the written word. Find more of him at www.everythingsings.org.

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Author: Alexander Ziperovich

Contributor: Sean Crose

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By December's end, it was all over. After drinking your way through New Year's weekend up in Boston, you awoke to the dullness of a wintry wasteland and a complete, total, lack of direction.
“Where to from here?” was the question much on your mind that January.
Unfortunately, you couldn't find an answer. Not in the ten songs you and the guys had recorded. Not in your mother's nagging. Not in your new job at the bakery. Nowhere.
“I'm at a crossroads,” you had uttered to Mom one day during one of your unending stream of arguments.
“You're always at a crossroads,” she replied.
She was right and you knew it. Still, you were helpless to change your situation. You'd have taken the road less traveled, but that road wasn't presenting itself to you. No road was.
Fortunately you got around to finishing the book Jody had let you borrow that night just before Christmas. Remember that night? How it was snowing like hell up there in Springfield and you thought you were going to die from alcohol poisoning?
Funny how you sat there in Jody's kitchen not really caring if you lived or died. Not funny, actually. Scary. There you were, pale, on the verge of dying from drink, and not giving a damn.
That was truly your furthest point away from God.
Yet you somehow remembered to take the book with you once the snow stopped and you figured you were actually going to live to drink another day. When you got around to finishing the book a full month later, you felt like a door had finally opened.
“So this is what I'm going to do,” you said to Mom that Sunday afternoon, minutes after you had read the last sentence.
“Sounds good.”
The fact that her “sounds good” actually came across as genuine pleased you. Let's face it, those words, or , rather, the tone in which they were spoken, made you truly feel like you were on to something.
And so you began the adventure of writing your story, just as the author of your new favorite book had done. Your life was heading in an exciting new direction. The previous year's adventure was over, but so was your old life.
Or so you thought.
Amidst all the preparation and hard work that went into penning an entire book on your rather unusual experiences, a book dealing with hospitals, specialists and brain scans, you were still pretty much yourself.
Oh, you could now go on and on about how nonfiction was the new fiction. You could also walk around serenely confident that you had both the talent and the unusual back story to make yourself interesting to a publisher. Yet you were you.
All that changed, really, were your thoughts. And by thoughts I mean those drunken reveries you'd have down in the den at three in the morning, when the television was off and all was quiet. The subject of the reveries may have changed, but the cause of them remained the same.
Still, the work and new direction served as bricks that would eventually become a rather lengthy wall. For some chosen roads, be they more or less well traveled, extend farther than originally thought.


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Sean Crose is a writer and teacher. He lives in Connecticut with his wife Jen, and Cody, the world's greatest cat.

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Author: Sean Crose

Contributor: Ryan Priest

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His breath is hot against my face which is funny because his words are lighting a fire in my mind. He’s so animated and passionate that I don’t care that I don’t know what he’s talking about, don’t really know what I’m nodding along with. I’m just so happy to have his attention.
I can’t help but to hang on every word, every delicate detail of this encounter. He’s got that thing, charisma.
It’s like a magnet in his smile and you can’t help but to be drawn in. You simply like him and have a desperate need for him to like you back. You always want more of him. It’s not about sex but he is sexy. You’re not gay but you would be for him. If he asked you. You’d do anything to make him like you. This is charisma and I know this. I recognize it easily but still I am powerless against it. More power than any one man should have, yet he’s got it in spades.
He’s gone on for longer than ever before. I’ve followed him, taken his picture a thousand times, in a thousand ways. At every premiere I’ve been there. I gave him five once as he was on his way out of a club. I didn’t wash my hand for a week. And now finally here he is one on one with me talking, sharing with me as if I was a real person to him. This magnanimity humbles me even more.
I quake in his presence but I don’t want it to end. Ever. I can’t even fully enjoy this moment because I can feel its inevitable end coming quick. Another star will walk into the bar and he’ll be gone. Or his agent will call and he’ll tell me, “Sorry, got to take this,” as he casually turns his perfectly contoured back to me.
The sun will set on this short gift and then life will be all downhill from there. There’s not going to be any topping this, beers with a superstar. I could follow him for another five years and never again this close, this candid, this personal.
I can tell by the rhythm of his speech he wants to wind this down. And why shouldn’t he? He’s got glorious places to go and magnificent things to do. At this moment I’m glad I always carry a gun. I’m glad because in a sense I can make this moment last forever. That is to say at least things won’t have to get any worse. Go out on a high.
I’m smiling so hard I’m crying. Either that or I’m crying so hard it’s making me laugh. The gun’s out now wiggling at him almost out of my control. I can’t hold still but it doesn’t matter at this range. His blood tastes of syrup and iron.
In a day I’ll be famous too. Not a star but famous none the less. They’ll never be able to tell his story without mentioning my name. I’ll have my own Wikipedia page and it’ll be linked to his for as long as there’s an internet.
Even in death he looks like a god. His body fallen over in its chair like a perfect pose. Like an artist would depict a murder.
The muzzle’s a lot hotter than I figured. It burns the soft underside of my chin. Notoriety is just a different kind of fame. The click of the hammer sends a sharp vibration rattling through my jaw.
This is worth dying for. This is worth the bullet that’s about to spin its way out of the barrel and through my brain. This isn’t what I dreamed about as a child but neither is it the worst way it could have gone. Being a somebody, anybody beats being a nobody. Especially if you weren’t lucky enough to be endowed with any charisma of your own.


- - -
Ryan Priest is a screenwriter who lives in Hollywood. His newest project "Top Flight Security" just premiered on Youtube as a web series.

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Author: Ryan Priest

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

- -
Barney, I'm pro-life so I can't kill Rosie, no matter that I caught her in bed with Wilbur. I'm a Catholic so if I were to kill her, I'd go straight to Hell if I were to die before going to confession.

And even if I go to confession, and Jesus Christ forgives my sin, imagine how long I'd be in Purgatory. It would take years to strip away the stain--not the guilt--of that sin from my soul. Christ's death on the cross took care of the guilt but I'd still have the stain.

I know you Baptists don't believe in Purgatory but I'm reserving seats for both us in advance.

You see, killing Rosie would be a little like setting my neighbor's house on fire and it burns to the ground. My neighbor might forgive me in time but I'd still have to pay for the damages. Worse, I'd spend years in jail. Sins can be forgiven but they leave a stain. And no stained soul is suitable for heaven. Purgatory purifies a stained soul. That's how us mackerel snappers see it.

Some folks think Catholics think they can commit any sin at all, go to confession, receive absolution, die and go straight to Heaven. Even the dumbest Catholics don't believe that--and let me tell you we're not all Rhodes Scholars.

You and I argue about this stuff every time I get a haircut. For 30 odd years, you've been telling me I'm one of the few Catholics you know who's saved--that I'll go straight to heaven because I accept Jesus as my Lord and Savior. Rumors to the contrary, Barney, every Catholic accepts Jesus as his Lord and Savior. There is no one else. We just say it in a different way.

At the same time, Catholics don't believe they're going straight to heaven simply because they believe in Jesus. They believe Jesus expects us to behave as though we believe. We're not talking about good works here. We're talking about the Ten Commandments--not the ten suggestions.

So, Barney, it boils down to this: Even if I'm saved as you maintain, I can't kill Rosie because that would make Jesus unhappy. And you and I agree, we don't want to make Jesus unhappy. Besides, He'd probably tell me to find a decent girl, marry her, settle down and raise a nice family.

What's almost as bad, Barney, is my faith says I have to forgive Rosie. That's almost as tough as not killing her since I know she'll do it again. She'll cheat on some other guy who has yet to catch on to her.

Barney, ol' buddy, take it from me. It's inconvenient at times being a pro-life Catholic, saved or otherwise.

I'll see you in three weeks when I need another haircut. And stop eating those stuffed pork chops. Too much cholesterol. Purgatory will be there soon enough when we need it.


- - -
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

- -

    “But it’s not really my fault, then is it?”  Joseph was confessing to the psychiatrist.  “I mean, we can’t really control our thoughts, can we?

    “Is that what you believe?”

    “I’m looking for an answer.  You’re the expert.  Can anyone really control their thoughts?”

    “Joseph.  The mind is a very complex entity.  Are you looking for a medical answer or a religious one?”

    “I didn’t think there was a difference.  I want to know whether my thinking has implications for my actions.”

    “Ah.  Then that’s a medical question.  Strictly speaking, this is a question that has been going on for ages.  Will you be an astronaut or an astronomer?  Do you prefer action or observation?  People tend to lean one-way or the other.  From our discussions, I think you are more of an astronomer, someone who observes more than acts.”

    “Yes, I suppose so.  Is that wrong?”

    “Joseph.  There is no right or wrong, only choices.  Your life is guided by your choices.”

    “Yes, yes.  I know.  But how can choices be neutral?  Don’t all choices point one way or the other?”

    “One way or the other?  Your choices are based on your beliefs.  Your beliefs are based on your values.  Are we moving back to the religious implications?”

    “I guess.  So choices are neither good nor bad, just what you believe, what you value?”

    “Yes Joseph.  I think that’s a good way to look at it.  I suspect that you are worried about some choices you have made.  Is that it?”

    “Are my beliefs reliable?  Are my values in line with society?  What happens if my thoughts are not in line with my values?”

    “Then what you have is a conflict, a most common part of thinking.  Everyone has these every day.  Absolutely normal.  It seems, Joseph, that you are worried about the moral dilemma, to align your actions with your values.  I think that meeting with your pastor will help there.”

    “OK.  Are you saying I don’t need therapy?”

    “Well no.  I’m trying to tell you that religious questions should be discussed with someone else.  I can only advise you on medical questions, the examination of your life in less theological terms.  I believe people should have counsel from the right expert.  Your pastor wouldn’t give you advice on treating a medical condition; you would go to your doctor.  You see.  Coincidentally, that’s all the time we have for today.”

    “All right doctor.  I’ll see you again next week.”

***

    Joseph was still upset.  He decided to meet with his pastor, to get that religious perspective his therapist recommended.  

    “So you see pastor.  I’m conflicted.  My thoughts aren’t lining up with my beliefs, my values.”

    “Joseph, this happens to everyone.  Why are you so worried?”

    “Well, I worry that I have improper thoughts and I don’t dismiss them immediately.”

    “What kind of improper thoughts?”

    “Well, you know.  Mostly sexual.  Improper sexual thoughts.”

    “You can tell me Joseph.  Are you considering infidelity, an affair?

    “This is confidential, isn’t it?”

    “Of course.  Unless you are planning on committing a serious crime.”

    “No, nothing illegal pastor.  Just extramarital fantasies.”

    “Only fantasies?  You haven’t acted on these feelings yet?”

    “No.  Just thoughts.”

    “Are you unhappy in your marriage?”

    “That’s just it.  I’m very happy.  Linda is a wonderful wife, best friend and a great mother.”

    “And as a lover?”  This direct question startled Joseph.

    “It’s good.  I just imagine it being better.  More exciting.”

    “Are these thoughts related to lovemaking with Linda or the desire to be with another woman?”

    “Well, another woman, of course.”

    “So what you are saying is that your wife is incapable of satisfying your sexual desires?”

    “Well, I don’t know.  She hasn’t yet.”

    “You need to decide whether it is because of your sexual desires or a need for a different lover.  There’s quite a difference.  Obviously it is all right to want different sexual experiences with your wife, but quite wrong to get them outside your marriage.”

    “Yes, I can see that.  But are the fantasies, the desires morally wrong?”

    “What do you think?”

    “I don’t know.  I guess it’s wrong, but I can’t seem to help it.  Even though I enjoy the fantasies, I feel guilty immediately afterward, if you know what I mean.”

    “Well fantasies are normal.  It’s part of our sinful nature.  But acting on those fantasies is a more serious matter.”

    “So fantasies are all right?”

    “Anything that distracts us from God is sinful, so fantasies are not all right.  The trouble with fantasies is that they eventually replace your desire to seek God, to follow his path for you.  Just as the love of money is a sin, so are immoral fantasies.”

    “But why would God allow me to have these thoughts if it’s sinful?”

    “God gave us free will.  It is our responsibility to use it wisely.”

    “What if I never do anything more than fantasize, never act on my desires?”

    “It is still sin Joseph, but better than acting out.  It seems you want me to tell you that fantasizing is morally all right.  I can’t do that.  But I’m glad you haven’t acted upon those thoughts.  Have you discussed this with your wife?”

    “Heavens no!  I could never tell her that.  She would hate me.”

    “It might be a way to get over the guilt you’re feeling for having them.  She might be able to bring your focus back to her.  She may even be having similar thoughts.”

    “You think so?”

    “It’s possible.  Especially if you’re not giving her what she needs.”

    “I never thought of that.”

    “I didn’t think so.  If you want, you can both come in and talk with me or your therapist, someone who can guide the discussion and support both of you.”

    “That wasn’t my thinking when I came in here.”

    “Yes Joseph.  You were hoping I would tell you fantasizing was normal and acceptable to God.  Sorry I can’t do that.”

    “Thanks pastor.  I’ll think about it.”

    “I’ll pray for you Joseph.  Come back and see me again.”

***

    Joseph was still conflicted.  His therapist said his fantasies were normal and his pastor said they were sinful.  Both said it wasn’t appropriate to act on the fantasies.  Why would God allow me to have these thoughts if it was sinful?  Free will.  So I can’t blame God.  I want to have these thoughts.

    As Joseph was driving home, he saw the lovely young women leaving from work, off to the gym, to meet their boyfriend or for drinks with girl friends.  The twenty something’s were all so fit, with long hair and clothing that invited watching.  They walked lightly in their shoes, some high heels, some flats, some with sneakers.  He wished he were twenty something again himself.  He drove around for another half hour watching, then headed for home.

    “I’m home dear.”  He saw his wife, pretty enough for someone in their 50s.

    “Hi Joe.  How was your day?”

    “Oh, fine.  Nothing unusual.”  He walked over to his wife, put his arms around her and kissed her.  “I love you.”

    “I love you too dear.”

- - -
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: Cezarija Abartis

- -
They had courted under the branches of the oak tree sixty years earlier, and she wanted to bury him in its roots. But there were city regulations about burials, and in the end she obeyed. She even wished they had made love in the cemetery the way the other high school kids boasted they did. She and Hank held hands and walked to the library and back–hardly models of steaming romance.

Hank brought her a copy of Romeo and Juliet for her seventeenth birthday. “Well, your name is Julie.” He drew a circle in the dirt with the toe of his shoe.

“Does that make you Romeo?” she had asked, knowing he would be embarrassed.

“I didn’t mean...” He sighed. “I only wanted to give you the book.”

She patted the cover. “I’ll keep this always.” She held the book to her chest and kissed him on the cheek.

The book sat on the shelf between their photo album and the first novel he published. She became a high school teacher and he a mid-list novelist. He was at his computer when he slumped over at the desk.

She dusted the monitor. He’d been writing a mystery:

“The detective feared going back to his apartment. When he unlocked the door, he smelled the cordite in the air. His heart thumped. The kitten meowed piteously. He almost tramped on the fallen body sprawled on the floor. The kitten meowed again. He turned over the body and recognized his best friend.”

She read the first page: “To my wife, my muse, my sine qua non.” He had dedicated all seven of his books to her. Their children were not much interested in mysteries, though they politely accepted his gifts of books and displayed them prominently on their mantels. Susan practiced law and Ricky sold corporate real estate.

Her neighbor told her about the stages of grief, and that people do come to acceptance. Julie shook her head. Her neighbor said she was almost relieved when her Reynold died after the long illness.

“That was hard,” Julie said. She caressed Dolores’s shoulder, and Dolores burst into tears.

“I guess it’s never over,” Dolores said. “It’s been three years, and I’m still crying.”

The curtains fluttered at the open window and the September breeze. She still thought of September as the real beginning of the year–all those years teaching school and welcoming the students back. The curtains seemed ghostly. Their old kitty, Agnes, jumped on the window sill and watched the squirrels scampering down the oak tree and the cars turning at the corner.

Julie picked up Agnes and held her like a baby in her arms. She was now a skinny cat. The bones of her haunches made her like a halloween cat. Agnes nuzzled her upper arm.

“I remember her as a kitten,” Dolores said. “She tore up my garden once.”

“She’s better behaved now. Hank chose her at the Humane Shelter--the friskiest one in the litter.” Julie hugged Agnes to her chest. “Hank lavished love on this one.” The fur was scraggly. Julie petted her and petted her. She would groom her later.


- - -
Cezarija Abartis' Nice Girls and Other Stories was published by New Rivers Press. Her stories have appeared in Per Contra, Pure Slush, Waccamaw, and New York Tyrant, among others. Her flash, “The Writer,” was selected by Dan Chaon for Wigleaf’s Top 50 online Fictions of 2012.“The Argument,” was chosen by Beate Sigriddaughter as a runner-up for the Fourteenth Glass Woman Prize. Recently she completed a novel, a thriller. She teaches at St. Cloud State University. Her website is http://magicmasterminds.com/cezarija/

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Author: Cezarija Abartis

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

- -
Two new crutches and two double shots of Bushmills Irish Whiskey enabled Joe Faherty to move from the back seat of Moira Murphy's 1976 Buick into Eagan's Funeral Home for Tim McGillicuddy's wake. At 87, Joe was in bad shape, only a tad better than McGillicuddy who looked splendid in a rococo casket.

The way the funeral home had painted McGillicuddy's face, he looked better than most of the folks who had come to say good-bye. Many of them were in their eighties. Even Moira, who still had her driver's license, was creaky at 75.

McGillicuddy was 90 when he fell off his horse out in the country. Until that moment he hadn't been sick a day in his life. Never drank and never smoked. Women were his passion. He was calling on a couple until the day he died.

Few folks knew that McGillicuddy had been expelled from Ireland by the British in 1920. He was 18. He had been captured at 16 bringing guns to older IRA rebels who were fighting the British. A few rebels with rifles caused the British occupiers a lot of problems.

For two years they kept McGillicudy in prison. They finally agreed to let him go to America. Why not, McGillicuddy thought. Life in America had to be better than prison.

In the funeral home, however, much to the disgust of Joe Faherty, the priest had come to the wake early. This meant Joe didn't have time to grab his crutches and get to the bar next door before the priest started the rosary. The custom at Irish wakes was that the priest would arrive at 6:30 p.m. and all the men would have made it to the bar by then. The women would say the rosary with the priest.

But this was a new priest and there he was in front of the casket saying 15 decades of the rosary. Not the traditional five, as was the case at Polish wakes.

Joe figured it would take the priest an hour to finish. Then he'd ask Moira to take him home. He was too tired to go to the bar. Besides, he had had more than the two double shots of Bushmills he had mentioned to Moira.

Moira drove Joe home. She waited until he was inside the house. She wanted to make certain his new crutches wouldn't result in a fall. Joe waved good-bye to Moira and shut the door but didn't lock it. He had to let the dog out.

Although he hated to turn on a light--he lived on Social Security--he turned on just one because it was as dark inside as it was outside. He planned to buy some candles.

As soon as Joe turned on the light, he saw McGillicuddy in his favorite recliner wearing the same fancy suit he had on in the casket.

"What the hell are you doing here," Faherty asked. "Why didn't you stay where you were. We got through the rosary so why do this. They'll come here first, considering all the years we've been friends."

McGillicuddy didn't say a word.

"Well," said Faherty, "if you aren't in the mood to talk, I'll have another Bushmills till you decide to say something. You don't look dead. In fact, you never looked better."

McGillicuddy maintained his silence.

"It's too bad you don't drink. You could join me in some Bushmills. It's as good today as it was back in Ireland."

Down deep Faherty didn't know what to do with dead McGillicuddy in his favorite recliner. How long, he wondered, would McGillicuddy stay. He wanted to be friendly but there was a limit to his hospitality.

"Let's watch the news on television," Faherty said, turning on the set. "Maybe they'll explain how I've come to enjoy your company.

"You didn't drive, did you? If you need a lift I'm sure Moira will come pick you up. After all, you two almost got married. I think she's still fond of you.

Still, not a word out of McGillicuddy.

"I'm going in the kitchen and call Moira," Joe said. "I'll be right back. We can talk about which way you're going, up or down, if you know what I mean.

"The bets were about even on you. I told everyone you'd be in heaven before they embalmed you. Except for the women, you probably didn't commit another mortal sin in your life. Of course, you were dead when the priest gave you the Last Rites. Don't know if they work on a dead person. Let's hope they do."

Faherty hoisted himself out of the guest chair, got on his crutches and headed for the kitchen to call Moira. He stumbled a bit on the rug because he wasn't used to the crutches or all that Bushmills.

"Hello, Moira," Faherty said when she answered the phone. "Could you drop back here for a minute. I've got an unexpected guest who needs a lift. I think you'll be happy to see him. I have to go to bed. We've got McGillicuddy's funeral Mass tomorrow. Wouldn't want to miss that."

Moira said she'd be right over. Faherty, heading back to the parlor, tripped over his dachshund. The dog had slept through all the commotion with McGillicuddy. Joe landed with a thud on his forehead. He never moved.

The next day Moira blamed Joe's death on his crutches and indeed that was part of the problem. No mention was made of the Bushmills, however. Moira, who had found the body, found the half empty bottle and took it home.

As Joe's driver for three years Moira thought she deserved the liquor. But she wondered who the guest was that Joe had called about. When she got to his house, there was only the dachshund snoring next to the body.


- - -
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: Kristina England

- -
Jenny pulled her hair in a ponytail and smiled at herself in the mirror. She fixed her dress, pushing one last wrinkle out of it.

Then she left for work.

***

Jenny had been through a tough year. Unexpected weight loss and cramping had led to tests and medical bills.

Then there was her attitude. She was having constant mood swings. This ongoing shift in emotions had impacted her relationship with her husband, her coworkers, even her twin sister.

"I can't do this anymore. I'm not happy," she said to her boss, crying in his office.

"I don't understand. What changed, Jenny? What is it?"

"I don't know."

Tears were always followed by a too-straight-faced posture, denial, and the inability to seek help.

The weight loss got worse.

She had colitis, so she went to the GI doctor insisting it was a bout.

Blood work showed nothing.

Her primary doctor sent her for thyroid and cancer tests.

Again, nothing.

She didn't mentioning the mood swings to the doctors. Why should she?

Her husband and others said, "Go to a therapist."

Of course, she saw the therapist during one of her "normal" phases.

"You don't need therapy. It sounds like you're just under appreciated."

She had been in the same job position for years, hadn't succeeded in her afterwork initiatives, but the truth is she was the one holding herself back, timid, afraid of failure, and unable to stand up to aggressive personalities.

Nor did she deal well with the coworker who had physically hit her.

She had told the therapist none of this. She had held back when her boss, her husband or the therapist questioned her.

She was the classic definition of passive aggressive.

Maybe the capped bottle inside her had started to leak.

Her boss had no choice but to involve HR. Her husband had no choice but to move out.

She felt the leaking fluids festering inside of her, the skittering of a cockroach across her heart.

She knew everyone else couldn't see what was going on but how could they when she was baffled herself.

Her job, her husband, her life, her body was infested with cockroaches. And by trying to fix it all with answers, she was just spreading the bugs.

"I think it's how so-and-so treats me."

"I think it's because I don't know where I'm going."

"I think... I think... I think..."

"I wish you could hear yourself. The answer's different every time."

"I may have to fire you. Do you understand that? Figure it out."

That's when the GI doctor called.

"Listen, you've been colitis free for seven years. I'm taking you off the medicine for now. We'll see how it goes. I just don't think you need it at the moment."

She burst out crying, hung up on the old man. She was scared to say she was scared. She picked up the phone, dialed employee assistance, and set up an appointment with a new therapist.

She then dumped the last of her colon pills in the toilet and flushed.

***

Two weeks later, she sat in front of the therapist.

"When was the last time you cried?"

"A week ago."

"Why?"

"I don't know."

"Let's start from the beginning."

***

Two months later, here she was leaving the house with her husband still asleep in the bed upstairs.

She had gained back twenty pounds, no longer looking like the "scarecrow" her sister had lovingly and worriedly nicknamed her.

The cramping had gone away as well.

But more importantly, the depression was gone.

Her boss was elated. "Whatever you're doing is working."

The funny part - for the last two months, she had no clue what was different. It was only last night, at a colitis support group where she had the revelation.

A young woman named Samantha was recounting a similar episode.

"What happened to you?"

"My body rejected the drugs. I lost hair, started having headaches, all kinds of problems. Did you know that stuff can mess with emotions? I didn't have that part, but it was scary," Samantha said.

Jenny immediately went home and looked up reactions to her medication. Weight loss, cramping, and mood swings were among the potential reactions. Her GI doctor has always said there was a risk of rejection, that the drug could damage your liver. But she had never bothered to look at the other symptoms.

Her therapist kept telling her that although she was an anxious over-thinker, he couldn't make sense of the depression, anger, and occasional paranoia that had led her to him.

Now it all made sense.

She wondered if the new woman in the mirror - the risk taker her therapist was developing - would have been possible without her GI doctor's random decision.

Maybe everything was about timing. Even the cockroach. She wouldn't have become this new and admired woman without that damn skittering cockroach.


- - -
Kristina England is a Virgo residing in Worcester, Massachusetts. Her poetry and fiction is published or forthcoming in Extract(s), Gargoyle, New Verse News, The Story Shack, The Quotable, Tipton Poetry Journal, and other magazines.

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Author: Kristina England

Contributor: John Laneri

- -
It was a Saturday night, and a group of us from the Double T were celebrating at the Dead Horse, a saloon on the outskirts of San Angelo. We had just ordered beers when a cute little lady wearing jeans and a red tank top started circling our table.

“I’m selling kisses for five dollars”, she said in a friendly voice.

I tossed her a smile. “Cowboys don’t kiss. It ain’t’ natural.”

“And, why not?” she asked, as she settled onto my lap and draped an arm about my neck. “I bet cowboys are good kissers.”

“We are, but we only kiss when we have good reason.”

She fluffed her hair and offered me another smile. “I’ve always liked rugged men with happy faces.” She paused to look me over, her eyes going from my curly hair to my freshly polished boots. “You're exactly my type.”

“That’s good enough for me,” I said, as I pulled five from my pocket and proceeded to lay a big one on her lips.

She sighed deeply, her softness pressing me close.

Coming up for air, I said, “Wow… that was great.”

“Was it your best ever?" she asked playfully.

“I need another kiss before sayin' for sure. But, you’re better than Mildred.”

Her eyes searched mine. “Who’s Mildred, your wife?”

“No ma’am,” I replied laughing. “I’m not married. Mildred’s my horse.”

She smiled politely, as if she had expected to hear something more lasting, then she came to her feet and headed toward Charlie, one of my friends from the ranch.

I settled back to work my beer, watching while she moved around the table, going from person to person presenting them her lips. By then, I was beginning see her in a different light, and I liked what I saw.

From time to time, I noticed her look my way, and soon, we were communicating something special between us. It was as if we had been friends forever and were ready for some serious re-acquainting.

Finally, she returned to my lap and quietly settled her head against my shoulder, her eyes going to mine. “I've never known a man like you. You make me feel so hot. I could kiss on you all night long.”

I sought her lips. She responded eagerly, the warmth of her caress overwhelming me with pleasure – that is, until the thud of boots stopped beside us.

“What the hell are you doing with my girl?”

Suddenly, she went flying off my lap like someone shot from a cannon. I came to my feet trying to explain her little game and found myself confronting fiery eyes and a bull neck. It wasn’t long before I was on the floor kissing a size twelve boot.

“Don’t hurt him, Big Jake…please. He's a good man. I was only selling play kisses.” She reached into her pocket and shoved a hand full of money toward him. “I’ve already turned twenty-five dollars – just what you wanted.”

He eased off the boot, and grabbed the money. “Twenty-five dollars! That ain’t enough. I told you to charge these yahoos ten bucks a head.” He returned to me. “The lady’s worth more. How much you got, cowboy?”

I mumbled something unintelligible.

He gave the boot another nudge and growled, “I asked you a question, and I don’t have time to stand around.”

“Probably about twenty,” I replied quickly, using the side of my mouth to talk.

“Then, hand it to her – you underpaid.”

I did as he asked and felt the boot ease away. Soon, I watched him stomp out the door with her in tow.

Feeling a bit dazed from the ruckus, I lifted my head and turned to my friends, “Why are you fellows grinning like that? She liked me.”

Charlie slapped his leg in laughter. “I've never seen a girl jump so high. I’m bettin’ you tasted like Mildred; otherwise, she’a stayed in your lap and finished that last kiss.”


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John is a native born Texan living near Houston. His writing focuses on short stories and flash. Publications to his credit have appeared in several scientific journals as well as a number of internet sites and short story periodicals.

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Author: John Laneri

Contributor: Eric White

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“It was a beautiful service. I think it would have made him smile,” Ryan said to his mother.
“Yes…it was. He would have been shocked that so many people showed up. It would have definitely brought a tear to his eye,” his mother replied.
“You think so?” asked Ryan, “I don’t think I ever saw dad cry. He always told us he loved us and always showed it, but he was so strong. He was always in such control. I don’t think things got to him the way they did to us.”
“Come sit by me honey, I want to tell you something,” said his mother. “Now, how many times have you seen me and your father sitting where we’re sitting now?”
“I don’t know. Hundreds maybe…maybe more…you guys spent our whole childhood on this porch swing.”
“That’s right, all them times you kids played in the yard, we’d sit here and watch you. We saw every laugh, scraped knee, personal victory, and hurt feeling. So many moments of your childhoods took place in that yard right there.”
“I know, mom,” replied Ryan, “He loved this porch, and he loved watching us grow up from it.”
“Me and your father used to sit out here at almost every night and look at the stars, and I know you remember the rain storms. He loved them. We always sat out on this porch swing when it rained like this. He loved the way the rain made the grass and trees look, and we both loved the strong cool winds.”
“Yea, I remember, I didn’t know you two came out here that often though,” replied Ryan.
“Well baby, we did, and your father cried on a few of those starry nights. He cried when you got cut from the baseball team. He cried when your little brother had that surgery, and he cried when your sister’s first boyfriend broke up with her. He cried after every one of y’alls graduations too. Honey, him and I both cried several times out here.”
“I didn’t know…” Ryan said.
“And he never wanted you to,” replied his mother. “That’s why we always waited till you kids were sound asleep. Then the two of us came out here and talked about our hopes and dreams for you kids, and we talked about our worries and fears.“
“There were times when you kids were hurting, and you all went through some personal battles. You kids also made us so proud too. That’s when your father cried. He cried when he couldn’t do anything for you, because it hurt him to see y’all hurt. He cried when he was proud, because he loved seeing you kids happy. He loved y’all so much, but he always wanted to be strong for you. He just never wanted you kids to see that side.”
“I…I never knew that. I always knew he cared, but I never knew that you two were out here crying over us. I wish you guys had told us...”
“Now don’t go thinking we were out here flooding the Mississippi every night,” his mother chuckled. “We had some nights where you kids had us madder than we have ever been in our lives, but we always cared. We always had this porch.”
“Well, I know I shed some tears today myself.” Ryan said.
“I know, baby, but your father would be happy right now. He’s at finally at peace, and you kids turned out so wonderful. He’s smiling right now, Ryan.”
“Are you sure?” asked Ryan.
“Even through the rough times, we always smiled when it rained. It was our favorite, and it made him so happy. You see that rain out there?” asked his mother.
“Yes ma’am.” Ryan answered.
“That’s how I know your father is up there smiling at us now. He might have a tear in his eye, but trust me, Ryan. He’s up there smiling. Now just sit out here with me, and lets smile back at him.”


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I'm a current student at Full Sail University. I have been writing all my life, and I am hoping to write for television and animation. However, I enjoy writing in any form.

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Author: Eric White

Contributor: Jerry Guarino

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Joseph Bosco looked down at the sidewalk, after hearing the bird whistle in the tree overhead. That’s when he saw the worn, twenty-dollar bill caught in the stray roots breaking through the sidewalk. “Hmm. How about that?” and he put the bill in his pocket. Joe learned one important lesson growing up. He didn’t believe in luck but whenever fortune passed his way, he would say ‘it was God’s will’ and accept it. In fact, Joe attributed everything that happened to him to God’s will, good or bad. “Much less stress” he used to say, “much less disappointment too.”

Most everyone accepted Joe’s philosophy of life. His friends liked the fact that he was so even tempered, never too high or too low. At holiday gatherings, he could be counted on to balance out the histrionics and emotional outbursts of his Sicilian family. At work, he would be the voice of reason when an argument ensued. His matter of fact personality worked just about everywhere, except when he was dating.

***

When Joe was a boy back in 1995, he had his first crush on Sorana Antonelli, a pretty eighth grader in his English class. They were sitting in the movie theater, sharing a box of popcorn. Sorana, like Joe, was from the poor side of town, but that doesn’t matter.

“I like your dress Sorana.”

“Thanks Joe.” Sorana blushed. “I like your shirt.”

Joe and Sorana’s first date was everything it should have been. Their infatuation continued for two years, until Sorana’s parents moved out of state. As it is with young love, both of them were heartbroken. They tried to keep in touch but high school pressures and other interests gradually pulled them apart. Later in life, he wished he had been more persistent and not just accepted their breakup.

***

“Thank Senator.” George took the papers from him and filed them into the briefcase. “We have a vote coming up at 2:00pm, so I will pick you up after lunch.”

“Get me something at the deli George. I’d like to do some reading. I’ll be in my office.”

“Corned beef on rye?”

“You know it George.”

Senator Joseph Bosco sat in his office reading the paper and eating his lunch when his secretary interrupted him.

“Excuse me senator. You have a visitor.”

“Who is it, Hannah?”

“Her name is Sorana Antonelli. She says she’s an old friend.”

Joe stood up, smiled and gestured her to let Sorana in. He got up to greet her at the door. As Sorana entered, she saw Joe with open arms.

“Senator Bosco, do you remember me?”

“Sorana, you’re not allowed to call me senator. How are you?” He gave her a long hug, and then pushed her back while holding on to look at her. “I can’t believe it. What’s going on with you now?”

“My parents are retired down the shore. The Midwest winters were too much for them now. I came back to visit.”

“But they’re in good health?”

“Oh, they’re fine. Just spending their days walking on the boardwalk and nights watching TV.”

“Sit down please. Hannah, get us some snacks and soft drinks please.”

“Right away senator. Fruit and vegetable plate and iced tea?” Joe glanced at Sorana for approval, and then gave Hannah the thumbs up. They sat at the round table in the private room adjoining his office.

They each noticed the other’s ring finger, naked, providing an answer to one question. “The life of a senator; don’t you have anyone special in your life?”

“I was married for a few years, but she died from cancer in 2009.”

“I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“No Sorana. I’m glad you did. It’s time I moved on.”

“So you didn’t have any children?”

“No, that was a mixed blessing. I wanted a family. What about you?”

“Well, I was engaged for two years, but he cheated on me so we called it off. At least I didn’t marry someone who would be unfaithful. But at our age, I’m wondering if I’ll ever find love.”

“Our age? You’re only 31 dear. I’m sure any man would be lucky to have a beautiful and intelligent woman like you.”

Sorana blushed. “Well, several have made offers, but after the engagement, I’m hesitant to trust.”

Joe took Sorana’s hand and looked at her with a gentle smile. “You could always trust me.” Sorana put her other hand on top of Joe’s, more than just flirting.

“Yes. You were my first and best love.”

Hannah noticed the intimate moment and knocked gently on the door. “May I bring this in now?” The senator took his hands away and gestured her in. “Thank you Hannah. That looks perfect.” Sorana agreed. Hannah closed the door behind her as she left. Joe and Sorana had an intimate and joyful lunch together.

George knocked on the door. “Senator, it’s time for that vote.” Joe looked at his watch.

“Thank you George. Is that the only vote this afternoon?”

“Yes senator. You have a rare afternoon off.”

“Perfect. Sorana. I have to be away for about an hour, then I’d love to spend the rest of the day with you. Are you free?”

Sorana made a tongue in cheek pretense of propriety. “Yes, senator Bosco. I would like that very much” and shook his hand. Joe rolled his eyes.

“It’s Joe, dear, remember? Hannah, would you please help Sorana for the next hour and I’ll meet her back here at 3:00.”

“Of course senator. Sorana, would you like to go to the Smithsonian for a bit. I can have the senator meet you there.”

“Oh, that sounds lovely. Is that OK?”

Joe gave Hannah thumbs up, and then said to Sorana. “Of course, much better. Now you know why I hired Hannah. Have my driver bring her to the museum and I’ll meet her there at 3:00.”

“Very good senator.” Hannah nodded to Joe, then whispered to Sorana. “Sometimes these votes go longer so don’t worry if he’s a little late.”

Joe and George hurried out to make the vote.

Sorana walked leisurely through the museum, admiring the marvels of flight, from daVinci’s flying machine to the space shuttle. She was every bit as lovely as Joe had thought when they were kids, but now she was a striking, mature woman. Her pleated grey skirt over cranberry knee socks, L.L. Bean blouse and cardigan indicated her New England education. She had gone to Boston College, just a few miles from Harvard where Joe went to school. But they never ran into each other there.

Several men made extended glances at her while she walked; Sorana smiled back at them but didn’t encourage any more. She was secretly glad that Joe was ready and able for a relationship and she still felt that initial chemistry they had as youngsters.

The senator found her at the museum. He came up behind her and gave her a friendly hug and kiss on the cheek; others noticed this public display of affection. “Isn’t that senator Bosco?” said a man who was admiring Sorana.

“I’m afraid so, Bob” said his friend. “Women like that aren’t available very long. Looks like the senator has a new love or a mistress.”

“Oh, Joe. You made it on time.”

Joe took her hand and walked her away from the others. “So, what would you like to do now?”

Sorana squeezed his hand, acknowledging his gesture. “I like the museum but maybe we could go somewhere a little quieter to talk.”

As a senator in Washington, D.C., Joe knew all the best places for quiet conversation, whether it was for behind the scenes deal making or for greeting a constituent visiting from New Jersey. They went to one of his favorite cafés and found a table for a glass of wine. They sat in a corner booth, but not completely in private; several people noticed their body language but couldn’t hear their conversation. He was not ashamed to be seen in public with a beautiful woman.

“I didn’t think I would see you again. Thank you for coming to visit me.”

“To be honest, I was hoping it would turn out this way. I have been so blessed except for having someone to share with. That’s when I remembered how happy we were as kids. I guess that sounds a little desperate.” She lowered her head.

Joe held her hand. “Sorana. You know what I always say. Everything happens for a reason. We were meant to meet again. You are not desperate; you need the right person in your life. So do I. Maybe that’s why I haven’t moved on.”

Sorana felt relaxed and gave Joe a smile that let him know how happy she was. “Is it a problem if we spend time together? I wouldn’t want to complicate your public image.”

“My image will probably improve being seen with you. My colleagues are always trying to set me up with a lawyer clerking at the court or one of their staff interns. That’s not what I’m looking for.”

“Well, I’ll let you decide how much time you can give me. What hotel would you recommend here?” Her coy question suggested a lot more than a recommendation. Both of them knew where this was going.

“A hotel? Nonsense. You can stay at my townhouse in Georgetown. Where is your baggage?”

“At Union Station in a locker. I took the train from New Jersey.”

Joe confirmed his feelings with a hand on Sorana’s arm. “That’s fine. After our drink, I’ll call my driver and we can pick it up. Then we can go freshen up before dinner.”

They went to Union Station. Joe went inside while Sorana stayed in the limo. A bird whistled in a tree just outside the entrance. A homeless man sat near the lockers holding a sign that read ‘can you spare some love?’ Joe reached into his pocket and took out the twenty-dollar bill he had found that morning.

“Here you go friend.”

The circle was completed. It wasn’t luck, just the way it was supposed to be.

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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