Linguistic Erosion is a fiction journal and part of Thunderune Publishing's free fiction lineup.

Though this magazine is currently closed to submissions, you can still read some great stories in the archives by picking an author name from the drop down menu on the right or by picking a date from the menu (also on the right.)




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Contributor: Chris Sharp

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Melanie was the sixth woman Tony took seriously enough to introduce to Mother.  Tony reminded himself that these select maternal meetings never came close to representing his active social life. He would date dozens of women in a year before a “mother meeting” came up.
Tony reminded himself that Melanie differed from the other demure women he introduced to Mother.  Melanie was playful.  Mother extended her serious greeting hand, and Melanie prance-stepped toward it.  There had also been the feeling of a bounce in Melanie’s step earlier that afternoon, when Tony had taken her to Yankee Stadium to watch the Yankees.  She wanted to twice go to the Stadium canteen for more Pepsi and hot dogs so Tony could watch her bubbling up the steps.  When the fans leaving the stadium crowded them into a standstill, Melanie took an assortment of steps running in place.
“People don’t exercise when they have the chance,” she said to explain the stationary running.  “I do this in elevators, and it does make them bounce.”
It was their first date, as was about 90 percent of the evenings Tony spent with young women.  Melanie wasn’t as young as the rest.  She had been a classmate with Tony in their middle school, so she was about the same age by a few younger months.  But her original youthfulness lingered in her like a remainder out of a ratio.
Tony took her hand to help navigate her through the swirling crowd at the Yankee Stadium gates, and even there her fingers were playfully moving among his. Somehow her buoyant ways had introduced a remarkable thought, that he should ask her to marry him.  With all of Tony’s dating, he had never asked that question to anyone, although he was in his middle thirties and a multi-millionaire already.
Tony fought off the question of marriage as long as he could, for about fifteen minutes, by his count.  He started the subject up as he ignited his pearl BMW through the Stadium parking lot.
“My earliest memory of you,” he said, “was me standing in front of my radio, me with a phone in my ear, calling you, the radio so loud you couldn’t hear what I was saying.”
“Why did you have the music on so loud?”
“Because I worried I was so boring.  I thought the music would save the day.”
He asked Melanie to marry him repeatedly as he drove her to his mother apartment in the borough of Queens.
“Okay,” she said.
“Okay what?”
“Okay, Tony, I’ll marry you.”
He didn’t trust it.  The process was too easy to trust.
“Will you really marry me, Melanie?  I’ll give you everything I have and I’ll never deal with all my big toys again because I just want to spend all my time dealing with you.”
“What do you mean?”
“You can take my Corvette.”
“I don’t like Corvettes. How can you feel comfortable in one?”
“I’ll give you my boat. It’s yours.”
“I wouldn’t be spending that much time in any boat.”
When they arrived at his mother’s apartment in Queens, he was asking Melanie to marry him again while she was telling him that she now decided “no” if he insisted on dumping all this “stuff” on her.  This was still happening as he woke up.
Reluctantly he collected himself as he accepted that he was only having a very odd time in his sleep.
The time was almost 8:30, late enough for him to contact the serious people that he felt were worth seeking.  On the day before, he had received the contact book for his 20-year high school reunion. Then in a couple of weeks, the event would be over, and his former classmates would have renewed themselves as remade 38-year-olds.
Tony had drawn instant gratification that Melanie’s name in the contact book had no accompanying spouse listed. 
The classification put Melanie in the same boat as Tony as well as practically half the alumni, the people who had never married or were divorced.
“Melanie?” he said on his phone, as soon as he found her name.
It took a couple of minutes for Tony to establish to Melanie who he was.
“Melanie, I was the one who had his radio on so loud when I called you in middle school.”
“I’m sorry. I’m not the contact for the reunion.”
“I understand,” Tony said. 
“This has been a crazy morning.”
“Why would it be so crazy, Melanie?”
“Because I just came in from outside, and I have no idea or memory of what I was doing suddenly out on my front porch this morning.  I should be in bed waking up.”
“What?”
“Could it be that I’m having some kind of stroke?  But I feel fine. I feel very, very good.”
“Can I do my best to answer your question, Melanie?”
“It’s not a stroke, you think?”
“It’s because you were in my dream, this morning.”
“Heavens.”
“That’s why I called you, Melanie.  That’s where you’ve been, in my dreaming head this morning.”
“Please don’t dream about me again.  If you do, wake yourself up.”
“I will.”
“Because it’s exhausting. Being in your dream has totally exhausted me this morning, that’s what. I just don’t want to talk now.  If you want we’ll get a table at the reunion and we’ll talk about it then.”
“Okay, Melanie.  Okay.”
“Goodbye, Tony.”
“Goodbye.”
When Tony hung up, he began to get into his clothes that day at about twice as fast as his usual speed.  The rate got more intense as he pulled the car out of his driveway.
“She was in my dream,” he said to himself, to make sure of everything. “But then she left all this energy in it.”
Throughout the day Tony carried the thought that if he moved a little faster, as quickly as he could, the date of this wonderful talk at this reunion party table would move even closer.


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Chris Sharp’s latest book on Amazon is “How to Like a Human Being.” He lives with his wife Debbie in Menifee, California.

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Author: Chris Sharp

Contributor: Rebecca Welch

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Rain tapped on the windshield, provoking the wipers to come alive. The persistent swoosh of the blades, combined with the beads of water falling in rhythm, created a song. I allowed nature's music to enter my thoughts and let it attempt to soothe the confusion I felt inside. Why was that car in front of our house? Why do we have to stay somewhere else tonight? From the back seat, I looked up into the rearview mirror at my mother's face. She smiled but lines of worry and fear were etched along her eyes. I knew something was wrong. I just couldn’t figure out what it could possibly be or who.

“Mom, where are we going?” I asked.

“Honey, don’t be afraid, ok? We’re just going to stay with Uncle Mike tonight, that’s all,” she replied.

Uncle Mike lived just outside of town in a rundown two-bedroom house. He lived alone, but you couldn’t tell it with all of the stuff he had sitting around. Though it was dark when we pulled into his driveway, I could clearly see all of his so called 'lawn ornaments' in the beam of our headlights. Mike was standing on his front porch waiting for our arrival. It was difficult to tell from the car, but an object in his hand caught the moonlight and gave me a shiver.

“Mom, why does Uncle Mike have a gun in his hand?” I asked.

“You know your uncle, always paranoid about something!” she said.

It was true, Mike always had a new crazy theory to talk about. This time I had a feeling that wasn’t the case. This time, I knew it had something to do with that car we saw.

We got out and quickly carried our bags inside out of the rain. In the house, the pouring rain added an ominous feel to the overstuffed living room.

“Honey, it’s been a long day, why don’t you go ahead and get some sleep. You can have the spare room upstairs, ok?” Mom said.

With that, I carried my stuff upstairs and tried to calm my nerves. Dust puffed off the bed as I heaved my bag down. This room had clearly been unoccupied for a long time. Attempting to settle in, I laid as quiet as possible trying to register any noise downstairs.

“Mabel, you ok?” Mike said to my mother.

“Just a little shaken up. I don’t understand how he found us. This is why we moved in the first place, to get away from him,” mom replied.

I leaned over the dusty mattress towards the floor, trying to be sure I didn’t miss anything.

“Well, you know I could go take care of him right now. I’m not afraid and besides, it’d be self defense, I’d make sure of it,” Mike said.

“Mike, I don’t need you getting hurt. You know how dangerous he can be. Besides, we have a restraining order, I just need to call the cops and let them handle it,” mom answered.

“Whatever you say Mae, I’m just saying I could handle him once and for all.”

I scooted back to the middle of the bed, mind racing. It was my father. We moved a few years back. Mom said because she wanted to be closer to her brother, but I knew then there were other motives, I just wasn’t sure exactly what. My father was in our house.

He was looking for us.

At some point, I guess I drifted off to sleep, because I woke to a loud banging on the door. My mother ran into my room and slammed the door shut. She drug the rickety dresser out from the corner and used it to block the door.

With a quiver in her voice my mom said, “Hadley, I need you to stay quiet and still, ok? Your father is here, but Uncle Mike is taking care of it.”

There were three loud bangs. I held my breath; a tear collected in the corner of my eye. My mother clung to me, wrapping me within her like a blanket of protection. Silent sobs racked her chest and shoulders as she rocked me back and forth.

I could feel her warm tears falling into my hair as she whispered, “It’s going to be ok…” whether it was directed towards herself, or me I don’t know.

All I did know was, it was done.


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Author: Rebecca Welch

Contributor: Christopher W. Trotter

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I lived above all, illuminating the darkness. I provided the gift of sight, but sight alone. I held off the shadows that pushed people down the stairs, saving them from pain and embarrassment. For a year I worked in secret. I guided each stranger that passed under me in the small stairwell.
I served from morning to dusk. I would get so hot that I’d burn you on touch, but I would labor on. Only at dusk would I be given the right to sleep, a short time to cool off before starting the cycle again.
No one asked if I wanted that job. I was simply born for the job, cursed from the beginning to work for others. No one told me what the job was. I just got screwed into the ceiling and was left there. Who would have chosen this? I was never thanked for my work. Most never knew I existed. One year a slave will be the name of my life story.
I remember my final morning with mixed emotions. The electricity that normally surged smoothly through my body was met with resistance. I flickered in pain and my master cursed at me. He reacted like I was intentionally resisting the electricity. I felt fear. I had no idea what would happen to me. That afternoon my fear was replaced with hope. Should I be unable to light the stairwell I would be set free.
That day people took notice of me. They looked as I strained myself harder and harder. I flickered and blinked, hissed and buzzed. Most of the strangers acted like my master, blaming me for my poor condition. I wasn’t deterred. I willed myself to be free, enduring the pain I knew to be temporary. Finally, at the end of the day, after the strangers had left, I felt a snap inside of me. Relief coursed throughout my body. No more pain tortured my old bones. I sighed one final sputter, as I grew dim. Dim at my choosing.
After that moment, everything grew cloudy, like I was looking through a thick fog, like I would normally see outside my window. I heard my master walk down the stairwell. After a moment, I was being spun around. The stairwell became a dizzy blur as my master released me from my prison and dropped me into a plastic bin.
And here I rest, free.
It’s already the next morning and I don’t have to shine. I don’t have to work to a boiling heat. I’m free. But, the haze has only gotten thicker, the world fainter. I hear the voices of the strangers as if from the other side of the building, though I know they’re in the stairwell because they are glad that I have been replaced.


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About Christopher W. Trotter:
Christopher is a student at Full Sail University. He is in the Creative Writing for Entertainment Bachelors degree program. He has written several flash fiction stories. Christopher's interests are: writing, reading, playing video games, and photography.

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Author: Christopher W. Trotter

Contributor: Blake Hulsey

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Lucifer stepped into Yahweh's court escorted by an angel. As he reached the throne room, Lucifer eyed his associate. "I have a proposal for you, Yahweh."
Yahweh shifted on his throne. "Go on, Lucifer. What possible proposal do you have to give me?"
Lucifer gave a ghoulish smile. "Been checking out your follower, Job. Pretty cool guy. He sticks close to your commandments and never falters in prayer."
Yahweh bowed his head. "He is the best servant I have in my name. Why do you keep such watch on him?"
"You ever wonder if he only worships you because he has it so good? You have him spoiled, dear Father. You really think he would worship you if tragedy had befallen him?"
Yahweh pondered for a moment. "I suppose he would. I don't think he would turn from my grace."
"Wanna make a bet?"
"What are your terms, Lucifer?"
"I torture him. You let me. We test your vessel, see how strong his love for you really runs. If he renounces you, I get him for my army. If he praises you even in tragedy, then you can keep him and I will never make a deal such as this again." Lucifer spoke these words but the truth in him was that he wanted to see how much torture his dear king would allow on his servants. Contrary to belief, Lucifer thought Yahweh had lost his path long ago, even before the fall. This was a test for him. Lucifer wanted to see just how far Yahweh had fallen from grace.
Yahweh put a hand on his chin. "You're on, Lucifer. I win, you leave and never try this again. You win, you keep Job. You'll be one step closer to thinking you have a chance against me." Yahweh gave a condescending smile.
Lucifer smiled back. "Deal." Lucifer headed down to earth and sent a group of raiders to burn his crops and slaughter his cattle. Lucifer reappeared before Yahweh.
"You really think he will just forget this happened? You think he will continue to praise your name? He's just a fickle human, only around because things are going good for him." As he said this, he heard praises from earth, Job and his family singing in Yahweh's name. Lucifer hid a frown through a sarcastic smile.

Yahweh smiled at Lucifer. "My creation wins this round Lucifer. What say you?"
Lucifer's mouth twitched. "He only worships you for his and his family's spared life. Allow me to hurt the family and he will curse you."
Yahweh's heart broke. How could he allow this to continue? Lucifer was simply getting enjoyment from torture. This could not continue.
"Lucifer, we can't-"
"Or are you afraid of the proof that I will bring? You're scared that I am correct?"
Yahweh laughed to himself. "Fine, do what you want to Job's family, but don't hurt him." Yahweh turned to hide a tear in his eye.
Lucifer vanished.
Yahweh placed his head in his hands. "What have I done?"
Lucifer returned a while later, his garments covered in blood. "So I took care of his family. They are no longer with him. Passed 'em by on the way in, though."
Yahweh stared in shock. "And yet my vessel remains vigilant. He has torn his clothes and screamed in torment, and yet he still praises me for my works." Yahweh's chest tightened as the screams arose.
"Oh, and I left a little present just for that." Lucifer snapped his fingers. Boils formed along Job's body, head to toe. He screamed in agony as the pain engulfed him. Yahweh turned his head and closed his eyes.
"Hey, at least I didn't kill him." Yahweh's stomach churned as Lucifer tortured his beloved servant.
Job got on his knees and screamed to the heavens a song of praise for Yahweh. Yahweh smiled at Lucifer to hide the heavy pain he felt for his servant. "It seems you have lost, Lucifer. I win. Return to hell. When you have gathered your army, then you can challenge me.
Lucifer bowed before him. "As you command, my lord." Lucifer stepped out of the court and through his portal.
When Lucifer had disappeared from sight, Yahweh stood from his throne and walked out to the garden of Eden. He ran a hand along the large Tree of Knowledge, and as he did, he dropped to his knees and cried.



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Author: Blake Hulsey

Contributor: John Laneri

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Luigi’s is a small, romantic restaurant, featuring candlelight and good food. I live only a few blocks away in North Beach. And tonight, I’m meeting Maria.

While waiting, I order a bottle of wine, and soon, I see her step inside the door. She hurries to me. We embrace warmly, her body pressing mine. It's her way of saying that she's already feeling romantic.

Once seated, we catch up on the previous weeks, glad to be together. I tell her about my work collecting money for the family. She talks about her job at the bank. And soon, she begins to relate happy stories about her nieces and nephews, their schools and activities.

But then for no reason, I see her start fidgeting like a schoolgirl, her fingers rearranging the silverware – put the fork here, move the knife there. So, I begin to think that maybe she's not so interested, maybe she's troubled.

“Is everything okay?” I ask, concerned.

“I’m fine… just a number of confusing thoughts.”

"Like what?"

'Nothing important," she says, as her fingers return to the silverware.

Her words surprise me. She phoned only last night and said she wanted to see me – that she needed more romance. Now, I'm confused.

Nonetheless, Maria is a charming woman. Her hair is dark and her eyes bright. The rest of her is natural – soft face, modest stature, a good all round look.

She’s fourth-generation like me. And like most Italians, our families go back – a few marriages here, lots of cousins there. We didn’t really get to know each other until we discovered sex in the sixth grade.

I pour her some wine. “Drink more vino. It helps to mellow the mood."

She takes another sip and smiles, as her eyes regain their sparkle.

For the next hour, we make light chitchat while we work our way through the antipasto followed by an artichoke appetizer. Once we get to the pasta, she starts to talk about our times together – the weekends in the mountains, our days on the beach even my cousin’s wedding when we drank too much champagne and fell asleep in the bushes behind the church, our bodies curled into one.

Looking away, I watch the candlelight cast flickering shadows across our table. It’s supposed to be romantic, but for some reason, my thoughts keep turning to Maria.

I truly love her, and I don’t ever want to ever lose her. But, I also do not want to be married while my youth is still alive.

When we start on the veal, she says, "Being with you makes me so happy."

"And, I'm happy when I'm with you," I reply honestly. "I always am."

When we finish eating, I pour her more wine. She takes another sip then sighs deeply and slips off a shoe. We continue to bask while we finish the wine, our eyes directed to one another, her foot resting on my leg.

Soon, I see that look on her face – the one that tells me she’s beginning to have romantic thoughts.

“What are you thinking?” I ask quietly, hoping to move her along.

She sips the wine again, then says. "We rarely see each other. It's been weeks. Don’t you want to be with me everyday so we can share our lives together? I would like to start a family.”

“But, I’m too young to be married!" I say much too loudly. "We should wait another year... give our friendship more time to mature!”

Suddenly, her eyes flare, and before I can open my mouth, she gives my leg a shove and reaches for her purse. "We are already in our thirties. I'll be old and gray by the time you're ready for me."

Under the table, I feel her foot searching for the shoe. “It’s getting late," she says, "Will you walk me to the door, so I can catch a taxi?”

“But, tomorrow is a Sunday. We can still go to my apartment like we always do. Have good fun. Then in the morning, we can read the newspaper in bed and eat biscotti with strong coffee. Have more fun. I’ll even make your favorite cappuccino.”

“You have your own life," she says. "I can't take away your freedom unless you truly want me forever.”

Reluctantly, my eyes return to the candle. Deep inside, I know what she says is true. I've known it for years.

"We’ve waited far too long." she continues softly. "The romance has been wonderful, but it's time for us to make a serious commitment to each other or go our separate ways."

Ashamed of myself, I look into her eyes, knowing that I have wasted our years together. Then gently, I tell her of my love, my words spoken with the truth and sincerity that only comes from the heart.

“I have always loved you too,” she whispers quietly.

I extend my hand.

She smiles and accepts it. I kiss her finger tips. And then, we get up from the table and walk to the door, our eyes searching one another, wondering if our love is real or just the romance inspired by another Saturday at Luigi's.


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John's writing focuses on short stories and flash. Publications to his credit have appeared in several professional journals as well as a number of internet sites and short story periodicals.

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Author: John Laneri

Contributor: Amanda Cuevas Arrubarena

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A week ago, Sylvia called to tell me Frank Heisenberg passed away.
“I knew you were friends,” she said, “so I thought you should know.”
I didn’t tell her that I already knew, that I waved goodbye to him that very morning. Instead, I asked, “How did it happen?”
“Heart attack. The police say he didn’t even feel it,” Sylvia said. “Surprisingly, nothing happened to the car.”
“Yeah, nothing ever happens to that car,” I said, walking toward the bedroom window.
I pushed the plastic blinds away and peeked outside, where that old Cadillac waited in front of Frank’s house. That’s where I saw him this morning, standing as proud as always beside his car. He waved goodbye before getting in the Cadillac, but the engines never roared and the car remained empty inside.
“He left it to you, you know?” Sylvia said.
I really wish he hadn’t.
The Cadillac still sat there, gathering dust and orange leaves that fell from the drying trees. The Prussian blue paint no longer shimmered under the sun.
Frank had been preparing for a long awaited trip since I moved to this neighborhood. He packed and unpacked many bags, and always kept his car in top shape.
“You know, Anne,” he would say, “one day I’ll go back to Moonshine Peak. Me an’ good ol’ Daisy here.” He would pat his Cadillac as he said this.
He took too long to get ready and passed away before he attempted the five-hour trip. Even so, he refused to depart from this world. He visited almost every morning and smiled up at me when I opened my blinds, always next to good ol’ Daisy who got left behind.
I saw him again today.
My window frosted in direct sunlight and goose bumps covered my arms. He didn’t move or attempt to speak - just smiled. Then, a difference: the smallest tilt of his head toward the old Cadillac. He decided it was time to leave again.
I could only nod in reply.
I stumbled down my driveway in my sunflower dress clutching Frank’s keys. The Cadillac sparked back to life with a sweet beep the moment I unlocked it and the frigid leather made me shiver when I sat on the driver’s seat. The woody accents of Frank’s cologne still permeated the dusty car, tickling my nose with their familiarity.
Turning the ignition, I revered in the soft purr of the engine and caressed the wheel. It wasn’t long before I shifted gears, speeding down the street.
“Daisy is as gentle as ever,” I said, throwing a quick look at the rear view mirror. Frank’s blue eyes met my gaze. They wrinkled as he laughed soundlessly.
He never spoke through the whole five-hour drive, but I didn’t expect him to. We arrived at Moonshine Peak when the sun was setting and were pleased to discover it was empty. This was where Frank proposed to his late wife almost 60 years ago and now he was finally back. We admired the waves crashing violently against the risk and witnessed the sun drowning in the ocean. Then, I got to work. I drove the Cadillac to the very edge of the Peak and stepped back to send a proud glance at my old friend and neighbor.
“See? This way Daisy won’t get left behind again. She’ll follow you wherever you go,” I said.
Frank smiled in agreement before he looked up at the waking stars. He could finally move on.
“Goodbye, Frank.”
I never got to hear the sound of the Cadillac crashing against the sea. The roaring of the waves deafened me as they created Daisy’s grave. I smiled at the sky one last time before I turned away from the ocean and trekked down to the closest bus station.


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Amanda Cuevas Arrubarena studies in the Creative Writing For Entertainment BFA program at Full Sail University. She aims to become a Story Editor and currently accepts proofreading and editing requests in her free time. To contact Amanda Cuevas Arrubarena, please email amandacuevas@fullsail.edu

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Author: Amanda Cuevas Arrubarena

Contributor: Adam Dorey

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Bold. Dark. Sleek. Those were the words that described a legend on my block. The lone, black Cadillac—the panther on four wheels—the king of the street—these were the legend’s many names. But those who truly knew him called him Ashwin. While other children grew up hearing stories about Goldilocks and beanstalks, I fell asleep to the spellbinding tales of Ashwin and his selfless battles to clean the streets. His roar could turn the hardest of men into a bedwetting infant.
As a child, I had never met the owner of Ashwin but had heard he was some kind of freak—a bloodthirsty vampire. The locals called him a mutant vigilante—claiming that he was the product of some failed experiment that left him fused to the car. His heart was said to have powered the death machine through his blackened veins, feeding it his ravaged soul to burn as fuel.
As bad as things were, even the cops steered clear of my block. But if you were a regular kid, like I was, you had little worries. Ashwin stood for good—justice—sanctuary. And more importantly, he was always watching. If not for him, the block would have been a hopeless stretch of despair—a soiled landscape of senseless violence. I would have been lucky to see graduation.
I heard a story once, from a boy named Donavan White, about his encounter with Ashwin. He was attacked one night, while walking home from a high school football game. The attackers had him at gunpoint and were demanding his wallet, when the roar of a massive engine caught them off-guard. As the grumble of the engine rolled in, like a violent storm, and headlights pierced the darkness, the attackers fled down an alley with Donavan’s wallet. When all was said and done, the dark silhouette of Ashwin’s owner stood towering over him, headlights blaring at his back—extending his hand to return the wallet, without a single word. He said that, once he wrapped his hand around the wallet, the man and Ashwin disappeared into the night.
I am much older now than I was then. At the age of forty-three, I have five published novels, a loving family, and a house in a suburban neighborhood. I attribute all of my success to Ashwin. My first successful book was the story of how he saved my life. I had tracked down his last known whereabouts and tried to get an interview with the man behind the windshield, finding that he had died a few months after I had left the block. It was as if his job was done, once I had made it out. I met his daughter, who described him as a proud and patriotic man. After being diagnosed with inoperable lung cancer, he spent his dying days cleaning the streets of filth. His daughter claimed to have only known of his actions through a letter left for her, after his death.
I remember staring blankly at his photos, studying the face of the man who drove the legend—realizing he was not a freak or a mutant, but a man. She took me to the curb, where Ashwin sat—still glossed and gleaming, beads of raindrops speckled across the hood. Ashwin, though stunning as ever, looked empty and alone. Without the fuel of his owner’s fury, he was nothing more than a lifeless heap of shining metal—a legend in the minds of the children he had saved.


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Author: Adam Dorey

Contributor: Adi Bracken

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Turkey.
There’s a rumor going around that turkey puts you to sleep. Well, maybe not a rumor. More like a medically proven side effect of the turkey. It has something in it, a chemical I can’t remember the name of, that knocks you out. One minute, stuffing your face with sweet potato pie, the next a narcoleptic heap. Your face literally shoved into your plate, inhaling and exhaling mashed potato particles.
I have almost fallen victim to the Reaper’s turkey slumber when my grandmother says, “I can’t tell whether that Lady Gaga person is a man or a woman.”
My father shakes his head in irritation, amusement absent from his expression. He shifts between youthful 40’s and midlife crisis too often to guess which one will show next.
“Mom, I’m pretty sure she’s a woman,” he says. More like, he booms. A younger generation shouting over the previous one’s confusion and loss in modern times.
My grandmother pauses. “I guess she’d have to have a penis to be a man.”
I choke on the canned cranberry sauce shooting down my windpipe.
Dad gives me a dirty look, as if to say, don’t encourage her.
But I can’t help laughing at a 76-year-old woman questioning the anatomy of a pop star.

Turkey.
I’d rather be asleep now. I could be dreaming of all the weird shit my grandmother’s said on the holidays. I could reminisce about the time she asked the waiter at Denny’s what busting a cap in someone’s you-know-where meant. I’d giggle into my dessert plate, spit pie on the table. And that would make her laugh too.
I find myself lost in these memories at the same table. Same ancient, scratched surface, same ugly carvings up the wooden legs.
I’m laughing, but my eyes aren’t crinkling up. My brother’s not pointing at me, making inappropriate Asian jokes about how small they are when I cackle and can’t stop.
My father’s laughing. He’s a Cheshire cat.
My mother’s laughing. Something about green beans being too flimsy.
I glance at the empty chair across from me. I picture her there, talking about the gay men that hit on her before she started dating my grandpa. And for a solitary second, the corners of my eyes crinkle.


- - -
Adi Bracken aspires to become a professor of the written word. She has been published in Eye Contact and the Setonian.

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Author: Adi Bracken

Contributor: Jordan Helsley

- -
The sound of the unlocking door was music to their ears. As the key slid out, John swung the door into the wall. When it hit the stopper his face grimaced. He escorted a woman with straight blonde hair into the room and shut the door with care. The room was pristine, and there was a chill in the air. The air conditioner was emitting a low hum that greeted them as soon as the door opened. The shades were drawn up over the window, letting the harsh beams of sunlight litter the room. The woman had already seated herself on the far bed with her legs crossed by the time he had turned to face her.
“I love it here,” she said.
A smile formed on John’s face, but his teeth remained hidden. He began to loosen his tie as the woman pulled a notepad out of her handbag and searched for a pen. With his tie hung on the doorknob, John pulled a pen out of his shirt pocket and handed it to her. She smiled a “thank you.” The smile had fled from John’s face, but he forced one in that in moment. Before he turned away, the corners of his mouth dipped down a little too far for the woman’s liking.
“Okay, what’s wrong, John?”
John sat on the second bed with his back to her and slipped off a shoe. “I’ve just spent so much of my life in rooms just like this,” he said. He pressed his chin to his chest as he closed his eyes for a moment. He had slid off the other shoe before he opened them again.
The woman lost her smile as well as she nodded. “I understand,” she said, “but there’s no shame in that.”
“No, not shame.” John was spinning the wedding ring around his finger, still hanging his head.
“Are you trying to unscrew it or screw it on tighter?”
The woman got up to lower the blinds over the window. A shadow covered the room from head to toe.
“I don’t even know anymore,” John said as he rubbed his forehead with his hand. He pushed his hair back and turned his body to rest his head on the pillow. The ceiling was pearly white with a small crack tracing a lightning bolt away from the wall.
The woman set her notebook and pen on the bed next to John. “Take your time. I’ll be right back, then I’m not going anywhere any time soon.” She walked into the bathroom and shut the door most of the way.
John could hear the faucet running for the entirety of her absence. He put both hands over his eyes and let out a few heavy breaths as he sat up on the side of his bed, facing the other one. His throat growled as he cleared any obstruction. “Do you think I’m wasting my time here?”
The woman entered from the other room with her hair in an elaborate braid. “No, I don’t,” the woman said as she sat next to him. “I think you’re doing the right thing. Your wife will understand. Besides, it’s almost over.”
“You’re right, I guess I just need to get the story of this bullshit out before it’s too late. ”
“You’re not dead yet, John. It’s not about the disease, though. Let’s tell your story,” the woman said as he put her hand on his shoulder. “Your family deserves to hear it all.”
“There’s so much to say, where did we leave off?”
“We’re close, about two years ago.”
John told the remainder of his story to the woman as she scribbled away in her notebook. A few hours later, he uttered the final words, which included the present day. Once he finished, he pulled out a napkin cluttered with his handwriting in multiple different colors. “Next week we will cover the epilogue.”
“You got it John,” the woman said as she gave him a hug. “Meet you here next week.”
“My home away from home,” John said as he departed.
When he arrived home, John told his wife all about the memoirs he had been working on and broke the news of the terminal state of his disease. He stayed awake with her all night as she cried on his shoulder. He did not arrive at the next weekly meeting.


- - -
Jordan Helsley began writing at age 22, when he briefly wrote freelance articles for the video game website unigamesity.com. Shortly after, he enrolling in school to refine his writing skills and obtain a writing degree.

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Author: Jordan Helsley

Contributor: Jeri Leininger

- -
We had packed and loaded our entire house in less than a day. There was no other way. If he knew we were leaving the police would have had to be there. No way he was going to let her go without a fight. My mom got the hotel room to let her new future husband rest before turning around and driving another 1,100 miles back to Indiana. So there we sat. My sisters and I all sat together, hugging like we were going to be ripped apart. We were. I had hit 18 and there was no room for me where they were going. That would be the last time I saw my family for a long time. So we sat there, hugging, on one bed as my new future stepdad lay on the other bed watching the local news. Mom was on the patio smoking with a friend.
When it was time for them to leave I lost it. I knew that letting them go was going to be hard but I had no idea it would be this bad. Those were my babies. I had raised them now she was taking them away from me. I began begging her to let them stay with me, that I would do right by them and keep them safe. She cried and said no. They picked up their few things and walked out the door. My girls were gone.
I sat back on the bed feeling defeated. I had lost them. There was no way any court would give them to me even if I tried to fight her. It was the emptiest feeling I had ever felt. I was hollow without them. I stayed there for the rest of the night and well into the next day, I couldn’t will myself to move long enough to sit upright or change the television station. My body ached form crying so hard. I wanted my girls back more than anything. I hoped they wouldn’t forget how much they meant to me.
It has been ten years since that day. All seemed to be well. My life had some ups and downs, as had theirs, but nothing ever came between us. Our mutual dislike for her brought us together and always kept me in the mother role for them. They were still my babies. We talk weekly. Some conversations are deeper than others, depending on how the kids are behaving. But I always sensed that they weren’t telling me everything. Something felt off. Now I find that their lives are falling apart just like hers did when she lived there before. I stayed and my life is good. They were forced back to that town where she grew up and can’t break the cycle. Nothing good ever comes from staying in that town. It was just as I always suspected. My heart aches for them but there isn’t anything I can do other than be the best big sister I can every day.
If only I had tried harder that night in the hotel room.


- - -
Jeri Leininger is a Creative Writing BS student at Full Sail University who has always had a passion for writing. She has worked for Burger King, serving customers and training employees, for the past 3 years. This path helped her achieve numerous Human Resources and Customer Service awards and recognitions. Leininger lives in Florida with her boyfriend and two daughters.

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Author: Jeri Leininger

Contributor: Paul Tristram

- -
Seek not the tempting fruit of outcast lovers.
Their eyes are alive, yes! But they are not alive with freedom and fire, oh no! They are alive with hunger, a desperate hunger to get back into the same kind of normality which they have been ostracized from. Beware the eyes can trick, easier and more
convincing than any magician's trick.
I have just opened the window and let the darkness in. It stood in the centre of my room for a few seconds, letting its
sad and weary eyes get accustomed to the light, then it wrapped itself around me like a lover angered by something that
I had suggested on a picnic in Margam Park three years previous.
We softly made up after first fighting with the ferocity of disappointed understanding, while remembering days of crimson rapture when we were perfect in our mutual appreciation of Nature’s true meaning.
The trampoline of midnight is heavy with my self doubts as I never-the-less bounce like a man possessed, trying to break free the chains which hold me to this anti-artistic society of factory bullshit.
Where are the wings, where are my wings?
I want more than thoughts, colours and rhymes of beauty, I need to enter each foreign landscape personally, with the innocence and rapture of a child but with the knowledge to approve and appreciate, as does the hooded crow look down with sober eyes upon the roadside carrion, unable to know why, yet able to know how to connect the image before itself with the shamanic bones of its Grandfather’s Tailfeathers.
I will let you lead me on, if you let me go at my own speed? Never forget where you are from. You are from yourself, not from
your mother or father or ancestry, but from yourself. Nobody has created you, for you have not yet finished being created (by
yourself and what you choose to put yourself through?) If you let people weed and trim you, you will end up merely
a plant in their garden, owning no individuality, owning nothing in fact but what they want to see (don’t Let Them!)
Just because one person seems to know more about one subject than you do, do not think that they are better than you are. No! Simply take the knowledge off them that you yourself need, then seek out someone else and do the same to them until you
eventually out-master your teachers on general knowledge and other various subject matters (you know what I mean? and
remember you fucking speak up if something is wrong. It will not be appreciated although it will be respected, even if it is only
silently!)

Clichés are crap, for I learn far more from other peoples mistakes than I do from my own, for with other peoples mistakes I have no shame or guilt to deal with, which leaves my conscience free to study the problem clearly.

Don’t reach for death at the end of a candle, reach for another candle, there’s always another day for thoughts of stupidity.

The bleak shadow which you sit looking at is only bleak because you look at it. Shake off all foundations, only buildings need
foundations, people need none, it matters not where you are from or where you are, but only where you intend on going.
If I could play the Welsh harp, I would not be sat here typing this. Oh No! I’d be out there on top of some hill somewhere
playing to this strange June rain, composing songs and leaping and dancing like I should be, intoxicated yet free.


- - -
Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet. You can read his poems and stories here! http://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/

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Author: Paul Tristram

Contributor: Eli James Yanna

- -
We bounced down the rutted two-track. My truck slammed into the sand at he end of the trail. Sounds of slamming surf beat against the sugar sand like a thunderous chorus. Above the capping waves and just beyond the tree line, hung a massive orange-red moon that bathed the landscape in a sepia tint.
Point Solitude was isolated and rarely entertained evening visitors. It was inhospitable terrain just to get there. To get here you needed two things—a tricked out truck like mine or a big set of balls. And there have been many who have bowed to both.
My rig was like no other. Metallic purple graced by pearl ghost flames from nose to tail and just enough lift to give plenty of room for a set of fat Mickey Thompsons to ride on. Christened “The Purple-Headed Monster”, this old Chevy was a labor of love that only served two purposes—impress the ladies and embarrass the boys.
The Point was perfect for intoxicated lovers like us, or the occasional hormone enraged teenagers looking to unleash animalistic urges in private. Out here, no one will hear the screams, wails and howls of ecstasy over the thunder of the surf.
Beside me tonight was Elle, a girl who spent the last few hours twirling her shoulder-length brown hair while occasionally lifting her turquoise eyes with a coy glance as we made small talk at the bar.
I parked my truck where the trail spilled onto the open beach. I whipped the tail end hard to make sure the tailgate faced the water. Any closer and my night of fun could be a long night trying to dig free of the beach sands, even with my bad ass rig.
Meek young Elle was so lovely. She was perched by the only window in the bar, staring into the empty night street and trying to drink away some sorrow stabbing at her tender heart. Being a man of opportunity, I did not hesitate to charm my way into the seat across from her. A few cocktails and some much-needed flattery dissolved her inhibition enough to get her into my truck.
Shy at first, she was now naked and running toward the water, leaving a trail of clothing in the sand along the way. All that remained on her person was that mesmerizing heirloom butterfly clip holding strands of straight auburn hair from her eyes. Her bare skin was so lovely, as it shimmered with glowing wet drops of moonlight as she splashed and danced in the orange luminescence of the rolling surf.
It was exciting to watch Elle’s sensual ballet with the water. It made my heart race and maintaining my composure was quickly getting to be difficult. Her laughter could be heard, defiant against the roaring waves. Seductive body language invited me to join in the watery frolic. Drawn in by temptation, I slipped out of my worn boots, stuffing the socks inside and placed them in the truck bed. My clothes were next, folded neat before placing them beside the boots.
I turned to join Elle, only to jump in surprise as I found her silently behind me, gazing with angelic eyes and grinning with a devilish pout that made my heart race double time.
Being a consummate gentleman, I greeted her supple wet form with a towel and we sat on the tailgate together; an arm around her as she pressed her soaked hair against my chest. That beautiful butterfly clip scraped against my cheek, still perfectly placed. Elle, looking down, giggled at my visible excitement before lifting her head and pressing those sensuous lips against mine. A touch of her hand aroused me more.
I slid off the tailgate and onto my feet, trying not to break the passionate kiss, stumbling to position myself in front of her. Those supple legs wrapped around my body and the towel fell away, exposing Elle’s entire body.
Caught up in the intense passion, I failed to notice her slight of hand that removed the ornate butterfly clip from her wet dark hair. A swift caress from Elle’s hand across my neck followed the sensation of warm fluid running down my chest. My head began to swim with confusion and nausea punched me in the stomach. Before fading into the blackness, a vision of that butterfly clip in her hand, blood covered razor-edge wings and that deceiving smile—so lovely.


- - -
Eli James Yanna is a student at Full Sail University studying Creative Writing for Entertainment online. He is a retired culinary professional who now spends his time writing works of fiction from home where he resides in Northeast Michigan with his wife and four children.

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Author: Eli James Yanna

Contributor: Sean Crose

- -
You’ve thought about it for a bit and have decided to finally go back up to the “House of Pleasure” to see how your new acquaintance is doing. It’s true that you’re not a big supporter of the man, even now that he’s sick and dying. For he’s mocked your faith, your very existence, for that matter, ever since he arrived here at Hiva Oa.

Truth be told you were stunned when you first received the message from him, the one informing you that he wanted to see you, that he was so sick he could no longer walk. Indeed the man has been a horrendous sight for quite some time now. Nearly blind and crippled, he could be spotted these past few months hobbling around Atuona, covered in sores.

At one time his scandalous liaisons with young girls made you sick inside, even more sick than his degenerate paintings and sculptures did. Now, however, he is avoided by most on the island. The authorities, of course, are the exception. They’ve been eager to have this wily Frenchman in their clutches. Indeed, he’s soon supposed to start a prison sentence for his opposition to the European authorities. You realize, however, that he simply won’t live long enough to begin his short term.

Which, of course, is why you’re on your way to see him now. Admittedly, your first conversation with the man didn’t go well. At least it didn’t for you. He seemed to enjoy himself, though, as he talked at length about the Tahitian social hierarchy. Yet you had gone to his squalid abode to treat his sores and to try to help him see the light, not to talk about Tahiti. While it’s true he ultimately admitted to you his belief in God, he wasn’t willing to budge further.

That angered you, naturally, which is why you’ve been avoiding him since that first meeting. Now, however, word has arrived that his time is short. What’s more, you’re wondering if you possibly made an impact during that first visit, if you somehow began the slow opening of the man’s eyes. Walking up from the beach, you became determined to find out.

As you near the “House of Pleasure,” you become aware of your surroundings: the lush flora, the clear sky, the luscious blue water beyond the shoreline. How strange it is that he’s made Hiva Oa appear so unnatural in his art. He claims it’s how he sees nature. Fair enough. If only, you think, if only he could now somehow see other matters as you do.

That, you realize, is what’s leading you back to the “House of Pleasure,” a place which, in reality, is a small, filthy hut done in a long forgotten native style. You’re not being driven by responsibility at the moment, you’re being driven by hope, hope that the man known in decent company as a degenerate has finally, belatedly, changed his ways.

“The white is dead.”

These words, which come from a young Polynesian man who has just stepped out of hut, hit you hard.

“Monsieur Gauguin?” you ask, somehow feeling the need for comprehension.

The young man nods.

“Oui.”

You slowly step inside the abode. He may have called it the “House of Pleasure,” but the stench and darkness make it clear that, in the end at least, it was truly a house of pain. Lying lifelessly on the bed, he is surrounded by the art he created, the art which carried with it so much controversy and scandal.

“He was fifty-four years old,” the young man tells you.

“Fifty-four,” you say, understanding that your question has been answered, but that you will never know what that answer is.


- - -
Sean Crose teaches writing at Post University and Philadelphia University. He's also a columnist for Boxing Insider. He lives with his wife, Jennifer, and Cody, the World's Greatest Cat.

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Author: Sean Crose

Contributor: John Laneri

- -
I arrived in Santa Fe by stagecoach, the trip marked by sweltering heat, constant breakdowns and potholes deep enough to swallow a man whole. All of which prompted me to rest up for a few days before continuing on to Texas where a job offer awaited me in Fort Worth.

Laura came into my life on the second day while I was having dinner at a local cafe. Our mutual attraction had been immediate.

In appearance, she was a pleasant looking woman with reddish-brown hair highlighted by a captivating smile. She was also the reason why I had extended my stay for another few days when I realized that I had never met a woman who enraptured me so completely.

Several days later, while waiting for her near the town square, I saw her hurry in front of a horse drawn wagon then step quickly in my direction. She appeared shaken, her blouse torn and her hair tossed about as if blown by a strong wind.

In her right hand, partially hidden between the folds of her skirt, I noticed a Colt forty-four revolver.

What are you doing with that thing?” I asked, as I stepped in front of her and reached to take it away.

She released the weapon then cautiously looked about saying, “I just shot a man.”

“Who... why?” I asked quickly, my surprise obvious.

“One of the local troublemakers.”

“Where....”

“One street over, in a side alley.”

I started her away. “Was he someone you knew?”

“No...” she replied, as we moved out of sight between two buildings. “He was some bully that's been annoying me for weeks, making suggestive remarks. A few minutes ago, he threatened me with a knife. He wanted to take me.”

She pointed to her torn blouse, tears filling her eyes. “I can still feel his dirty hands groping my body touching everything.”

“Is this his gun?” I asked, turning the thing over in my hand.

She paused to dry the tears then said, “He was too busy pawing my breasts to notice me take it. At first, he backed away, but then suddenly, he came toward me like a mad man and grabbed my hair. That's when I hammered the thing then pulled the trigger and shot him in the chest. You have to understand, I was fighting for my life.”

She turned away. “The smell of liquor on his breath still makes me sick.”

“We need to keep moving,” I indicated, as I nudged her further along.

Once safely in the shadows on another street, we stopped to catch a breath.

She glanced my way, “My heart's still pounding. I've never shot a man.”

“Take a moment to relax. You'll get over it.”

Once calmed, her eyes steadied on mine. “Yesterday, I mentioned that I wanted to ride with you.”

“I remember.”

“Now, I need to ride with you.”

“I told you that I don't travel with women. The trail through Texas is too dangerous. The Comanche are everywhere.”

“So they say.”

“You need to listen up and understand that white women are much desired by the Indians. The plains are teeming with raiding parties looking for trouble.”

She touched my hand, her tone softening. “I can't stay in this town after what's just happened. The man had friends that are just as mean and nasty as him. Take me with you. I'm easy to please.”

I reconsidered the dangers and said. “You'll need a horse.”

“We can easily buy a horse and put together enough provisions to last a few days – something to get us started.”

“Did anyone see you shoot him?”

She paused to think back. “I'm not sure. I remember one of his friends was across the street in front of the saloon.”

“Did he make a move toward you or indicate that he knew something had happened?”

“He looked to be asleep. I think he was too far away to see anything. The alley was out of his direct line of sight and no one was nearby to witness the shooting. And besides, gunshots are common in this town. I hear several everyday.”

I knew the odds of making a long journey through Indian territory with a woman would be difficult, but I had no choice if I was to keep Laura in my life as well as protect her from people that would eventually seek retribution for the loss of their friend.

Finally after several minutes, I relented, “We'll leave tonight when the air is cool and pray for the best.”

She hurried to me and threw her arms about my neck, pressing her body freely against mine. “I'm so grateful,” she whispered, as her lips went to mine, her warmth penetrating my core, melting my concerns.

Once on the trail, our days passed easily. For entertainment, we sang melodies and related stories of people and places we had known. At other times, I taught her how to watch for signs that would indicate the presence of Indians.

Our happiest times were the conversations we shared when we talked of our dreams for the future. At night, we slept under the stars, sharing our love, our bodies curled into one.

To us, the world had became a joy until that day a raiding party attacked and left me for dead, hopelessly pinned beneath a dead horse with an arrow in my back and my confidence broken.

To this day, I still remember laying in the dirt feeling the agony of loss cut through me like a ragged blade, as I watched a band of renegades ride her away, their shouts of jubilation sending chills along my spine.

From that moment on, I knew that I would never again see her or feel her or taste her sweetness, for I understood the way of the Comanche and the fate that was surely hers.


- - -
John's writing focuses on short stories and flash. Publications to his credit have appeared in several professional journals as well as a number of internet sites and short story periodicals.

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Author: John Laneri

Contributor: Dr. T. Michael Roberts

- -
Dear Pius XII,
I need your advice on something weird. For the last 12 months random things have being disappearing from my house, toilet paper, toothpaste, laundry liquid, chicken fillets and even money. There have been no break ins, no one has a spare key and yet these things are vanishing from one day to the next. Do I have a Demon or a poltergeist and if so how do I get rid of it?
Yours Truly,
Uncle Joe Stalin


Uncle Joe,
I have your stuff. It has been appearing without rhyme or reason on the big screened porch on the back of my house for the last year. I'm sorry about the raccoon. A critter with an electric blue strip running down his back and continuing in the same shade in a barber pole configuration around the tail is certainly distinctive. But, this gave me no clue who to call when the distressed yawls of my cat signaled me that something unusual, which turned out to be your critter's mysterious and unexpected arrival, was occurring out in the sun-room.

I don't think Kristoff would be alive today if I had not realized instantly that what he was complaining bitterly about was the unreasonable way your guy defined him as prey at first glance without even asking where he went to church or how he voted. That is considered at best rude and, at worst, cop-like behavior where we come from. You don't just decide to kill a fellow creature just for shits and giggles without, at very least, making sure you do not have friends in common first. For all your guy knew, Kristoff could have been a Mason. We were both fine with letting him set up shop out in the back yard. There was even a dog or two that comes around that we were hoping he would take care of for us in response to our kind-hearted hospitality.

Your guy hung around for a week or so living high on the hog in our spacious and well-provisioned suburban garbage can. According to the Brookfield Zoo, there are, at present, several times as many raccoon {as with “moose” singular and plural are the same} in North America as there were when Columbus opened up a lively trade in infectious diseases that made life more exciting on both sides of the water. Also according to BZ, The preferred contemporary habitat of a race grown more cosmopolitan and civilized as they have grown more numerous is the suburban garbage can, so your guy was treated as he deserved until he decided, with absolutely no encouragement from us, to take himself elsewhere, without, I might add, doing anything about those dogs. I hope for your sake that he got bored and came home but I really would not know.

Anyway, send me your address, $300 for shipping and handling and another $300 for one year's storage and I will get your stuff back to you. This is a message from God but you will need the decoder ring to get much benefit from it. I'll slip that in for free just so you will not spend your life wandering around all troubled and perplexed by life's mysteries.
Sure Hope this Cheers You Up,
Pius XII


- - -
Dr. T. Michael Roberts, rumored to be guilty of virtual ethnography, writes and teaches from an undisclosed location in order to have no face. He needs readers like heroin and seldom interacts except in a somewhat distant and cryptic manner.

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Author: Dr. T. Michael Roberts

Contributor: Adrian Fort

- -
He pulled the slack end of the tie once, twice, then it was just a string of fabric with a knot in it. So he pulled the thick end through and smoothed the fabric. Hung it back on the tie rack.
Wished he hadn’t brushed his teeth.
His breath was never great anyway, she made sure he knew that.
Two quick jerks and the shirt tails were out of his pants, then the rest of the hem, and he started unbuttoning the shirt at the bottom. The neck button was always a pain in the ass, he’d picked up some weight. She’d taken it harder with the baby, with Eli, they had already named it even. But he always said “baby” then she gave him that look.
He hung the shirt back up but didn’t fold the undershirt, just threw it in the drawer.
He shouldn’t have yelled at her.
There were several worn holes in the belt and he wondered if he would make a new hole when the time came, or if he would just buy a new belt. He coiled it up on top of his dresser.
Everything. He’d said she ruined everything. Yelled it. It was her responsibility to get up and get the tickets, that was true. But maybe he could have stopped and got them on the way to work Friday. Or been late and taken the write-up.
Instead, she slept through her alarm, which went off an hour after his, and the box-office sold out. No Saturday through Sunday art auction. It was her idea, too.
He unbuttoned his pants and wondered when the button would pop off, she’d curse him while sewing it back on. He folded them and sat them next to the belt.
Slipped the underwear to the floor, hooked the elastic band with his big toe and kicked them up to himself. Caught them, put them back in the drawer and closed it gently.
One step by one step he walked gently back toward the bed. He knew around where the creaky board was so he took a long open step, spread himself wide to avoid it. Got his front foot on the ground and pressed his back foot off of the soft carpet and arched it over like a cat and when it landed back on the soft carpet the floorboard creaked.
He stopped.
She snored lightly. And again. And again.
He moved each foot slightly in front of the other until he was at the side of the bed.
The sheets were cool against his fingers and he was sweating. He tugged the sheet and held his breath as he lifted his leg up onto the bed. He sat his leg on the bed and a little bit at a time he let his weight down on the bed until his standing leg cramped and he collapsed onto the bed.
He nestled back into her warmth. Little spoon because she liked to be the big spoon. He was sweating and he thought about how sad that really was and that he’d get a gym membership soon. And he hoped that sweat would dry before she woke up. And he wasn’t sure how much time he had left. But thinking like that just made him sweat more, so he tried to relax.
He shouldn’t have yelled at her.
If he tried hard enough, maybe he could actually fall back asleep.
No, that didn’t even make sense. He’d just lay there and feel her.
Eventually the alarm went off and she waited a few seconds before she pretended to wake up.


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Adrian Fort is a writer from Kansas City, Missouri, his work has appeared in Existere, decomP, The Bluest Aye, Bareback, and upcoming issues of Chrome Baby, Eunoia Review, and Gadfly ONLINE. Follow him on twitter @adriananyway

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Author: Adrian Fort

Contributor: Angeltopia

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Penelope stood in front of the mirror perplexed. Her life was a beautiful mess. Her bedroom was a circus of confetti-filled photos that seemed to drape every part of the room. She searched photo after photo of her mother’s first husband, Dale, and her second husband, Scoot for similarities in appearance. Ashley, Scoot's sister, was the culprit. She had intrigued her with the irresistible curiosity of searching for her true identity.

She held the photo of her and her stepdad Scoot that Ashley had given her. She clutched it in confusion and frustration. Scoot was sitting in his chair at the home office and she stood behind him crouching over him, hugging him, and remembering the bittersweet moments of their unspoken bond. Caressing the photo of his face comforted her. She mumbled to herself over and over again in confusion and then looked at herself in the mirror for reassurance as if her reflection was another person.

“Could this really be my dad, my biological father? Why didn’t mom tell me?”

She pulled on her cheeks and lifted the center of her eyebrows in curiosity. She pulled her bottom lip down to look at her teeth, the crooked ones and admired the contours of her nose, neck, and shoulders as her fingers stroked every crevice. Searching for some reassured semblance, she hurriedly searched through the piles of photos on the floor, desperate to find anything that provided some evidence.

She heard her mother’s footsteps approach her bedroom door. The clapping sound of her sandals sounded louder than usual as she walked in her direction. Penelope’s heart raced. She wondered what mood her mother would possess seeing her room in disarray. The bright and early morning sun overtook the room as she opened the door with her usual unpleasant and abrupt demeanor.

“Penelope, I need to go shopping for some linen, let’s go!”

Seeing her daughter teary-eyed in front of the mirror only seemed to irritate her.

She tried to act concerned and superficially asked, “What’s wrong?” in an apathetic tone.

She mustered up a response with self-pity, “Scoot’s sister, Ashley, and I have been talking a lot lately and she mentioned something that confused me.”

Stuttering she replied, “Why are you talking to her? You know I don’t like Scoot’s family and they don’t like you either.”

“Well, we missed each other and were out of contact far too long, is this a problem?” she asked in a respectful tone.

Her mother nodded in disfavor opposing the question and the insistence of their communication. Her stance and voice remained rigid although her words were slow.

“I just don’t understand why you would want to communicate with them. They excluded us from all their family functions when Scoot was alive,” she said, frantically embracing her elbows.

Penelope looked in the mirror and then at her mother. She wondered if her mother even knew who her real father was. Her hands shook with tension as she held the picture in her left hand. She took a deep breath and walked toward her mother putting her hands on her shoulders.

In a soft but firm voice she asked, “Was Scoot my father? Please tell me, I need to know the truth!”

Her mother’s eyes paced back and forth with resentment refusing to look her in the eyes. Her shoulders shrugged, her hands clapped against the side of her thighs sighing with irritation. Her eyebrows clashed with a silent roar as they collided in shame as she nodded.

She hesitatingly answered, “I don’t . . . know!”

Her mother’s attempts to detach herself from any emotion were feeble and she stomped out of the room as if she were stepping on land mines.

Penelope felt dejected but couldn’t stop thinking about the idea of an official confirmation. She scrambled through her photos and grabbed the DNA test kit and tried to get Ashley on the phone before she changed her mind. Her calls went straight to voicemail.

The very next day, Penelope drove to her house but to no avail. She sat in the car pacing her thoughts in eagerness to complete the DNA kit and send it off. Waiting only irritated her, so she went home to check her messages. Her mother sat at the kitchen table reading the newspaper and scornfully flipped through the pages. As Penelope entered the room, her mother derisively read Ashley’s obituary. Penelope was overcome with emotion over the horrifying news. She drowned herself in sorrow for two weeks.

After some time, she desperately searched for the DNA kit. She began to rip it apart and threw it at her mirrored reflection. She was overtaken by anger. She began to grab all the photos that surrounded her and attempted to rip them in bundles. As she frantically cried, she picked up the picture Ashley had given her from among the piles. At that moment, she got up and slowly walked to the mirror. For a moment, she just looked at herself blankly. She took the picture and held it toward the mirror wanting to finally rid herself of it. She wanted the mystery to stop torturing her.

Then suddenly, she squinted at the mirror. She leaned in closer and saw faded letters. It looked like handwriting and she immediately turned it over to make it out. Then all of a sudden, she heard a piercing sound, almost deafening. It was the sound of her alarm clock and she was abruptly awakened by it. After turning it off, she immediately grabbed the picture and quickly approached the mirror. Slowly turning it over, she took a deep breath. She looked for the faded letters, but what she found was a faded watermark stain. At that very moment, Penelope realized that she had set her alarm a second too soon. She somehow knew that her next dream would bring her one step closer to the truth. It was just a matter of time.


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Disciplined and skilled in the acquisition of analysis and critical thinking in literature, film, and music. Propitious screenwriter. I am brave enough to be different, smart enough to be humble, and short enough to take leaps and bounds.

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Author: Angeltopia

Contributor: Eric Suhem

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“Howard, get me some water!” ordered Manager #5 to one of his subordinates, as the management team of Acme MegaCorp gathered in the conference room to explore ideas designed to improve employee productivity and morale. “I suggest we add a mood-enhancing substance to the company’s drinking water. A number of drugs have been very effective in experiments on dogs, cats and pigs,” said Manager #5, staring moodily into his coffee mug. The management team approved the proposal for altered tap water.

Two days later, Howard was called into his manager’s office. “Howard, we’d like you to be the point man for a new company-wide high-profile project. In fact, you’ll be our guinea pig,” said Manager #5, handing him a plastic cup of enhanced water. “Now drink this, and give me a report later.”

“Yes, sir!” said Howard, grateful to be chosen for an important project. He’d always been a good team player. Maybe now it would pay off.

Back at his desk, arranging memos and paper clips into a geometric order that felt pleasing, Howard had a vision of a large guinea pig, sitting in the chair across from him, pounding its paw on the desk, “Let’s close the deal now, H.B.! And I won’t take ‘No’ for an answer!” The guinea pig threw its head back and laughed, pulling a scythe out from under the table.

Wielding the scythe given to him by the guinea pig, Howard went to the lobby and sliced up various artificial plants and topiary efforts, hacking rhythmically as a secretary looked on in horror. Later that day, Manager #5 called him into his office. “Howard, we need to discuss your behavior, upper management has taken an interest in your cutting of the welcoming area’s greenery,” said Manager #5, starting right in on an assessment of Howard’s workplace conduct, using the word ‘failure’ 12 times, Howard’s smile brightening each time he heard the word.

“I think it’s great!” said Howard in a good mood after drinking the enhanced water.

“Look Howard, we’re going to install a training wheel in your cubicle. “It will help you work off that energy in less destructive ways. You know, like a hamster or a guinea pig,” said Manager #5.

As the days went by, the drugged water increased Howard’s productivity and morale, which pleased the management team. Howard exercised vigorously on his little wheel, and some of the secretaries walked by his cubicle to feed him shredded lettuce.

One morning in his cubicle, Howard found the large guinea pig sitting in his chair. “Howard, we have to talk,” whispered the guinea pig, beckoning Howard to have a seat on the training wheel. “Howard, you don’t like this job, do you? It’s demeaning and humiliating. You’ve played by the rules for your entire career, and look where it’s gotten you.”

Sitting on the training wheel, chewing shredded lettuce from his little bowl that was adorned with pictures of rodents at play, Howard felt something open up in his imagination. He’d always felt trapped in his job, and he hadn’t been able to visualize himself doing anything else. But staring at the guinea pig, ideas began to flow: maybe he could join an organization that cares for and protects guinea pigs….maybe he could start a business building guinea pig cages…maybe become a chef that cooks guinea pigs in Cusco, Peru, near Machu Picchu. He wasn’t sure if it was due to the water, but for the first time he felt free, aware of options he hadn’t realized.

Howard went to his manager’s office to resign, bringing the scythe with him.


- - -
Eric Suhem lives in the orange hallway.

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Author: Eric Suhem

Contributor: John Laneri

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Friends call me Rick. It's a nickname for Richard Harrison, art dealer, speculator and connoisseur of fine living.

My story began with Vickie, an attractive woman who visited my gallery one morning while I was preparing a exhibit for several local artists. At the time, I noticed her glance my way and maintain a moment of eye contact – a move that suggested we get acquainted.

The lady appeared early thirties and was stylishly dressed. I noted dark hair and a smile that seemed to project a mischievous yet confident attitude.

Intrigued, I suggested a nearby coffee shop. She accepted, and before long, we were splurging calories on two fresh mochas. For the next hour, we mostly talked art, but I did learn that she worked in sales, traveling throughout much of the country.

Over the next few days, we became regulars, so I invited her to my condo in an effort to get better acquainted.

That evening, as I was opening a bottle of wine, she arrived wearing a chic outfit punctuated by a revealing silk top.

We conversed briefly near the bar then she reached for her wine glass and started a casual sweep around my living room. I followed her, pointing to a painting that dominated the wall over my couch.

“You're looking at a Stanley Brown original that I recently acquired at an estate auction.”

“It's impressive,” she replied, “very impressive.”

We studied the painting for several minutes, enjoying its full effect, then I said, “It's by far my most favorite purchase.”

“I can understand why his landscapes are top dollar items. The colors are so vivid, ” she said, as she continued looking about, admiring my other pieces.

After a simple dinner on the balcony, we watched a colorful sunset fade into night then we opened a fresh bottle of wine, our eyes rarely leaving one another.

Soon, she began to quietly communicate her desires. Encouraged, I approached her and ran my hands across the shoulders of her silk blouse. “Your outfit is interesting. I like by the way it reveals your beauty.”

Smiling pleasantly, she pressed her body against mine, letting her warmth linger seductively. Then taking my wine glass, she refreshed it and eased onto the couch, saying, “Wine too has a pleasant way of releasing beauty.”

With that said, I downed the remains in my wine glass, set it aside and headed to the couch. Once there, I reached for her feeling in return an eager, passionate response that lasted only minutes until everything around me slowly began to turn hazy. At first, I tried to ignore the sensation, but then my head began to spin.

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

I tried to reply, but suddenly, my world dropped into a confusing matrix, filled with twists and turns, distorted colors, crazy smiles – all infusing my senses at once.

The following day, I awoke on the floor and subsequently ended up in the hospital. I later learned that I had been drugged with a substance that produces marked sedation when mixed with alcohol. It's effect, the doctor indicated, was similar to a so called, date rape drug.

Naturally, I laughed that off wondering -- why me?

Later that afternoon, I had my answer when I returned home and found an empty wall in place of my Stanley Brown original along with several other items of significant value.

The police investigator, a pleasant appearing, self-assured woman, listened quietly while I related my story.

“I'll have the forensic people check for prints,” she said evenly. “But, the lady had plenty of time to clean the scene, so it's unlikely we'll learn much.”

Still confused, I asked, “Why didn't she just steal the painting during the day while I was at work?”

The investigator smiled compassionately, her manner easy and relaxed. “By inviting her to dinner, you allowed her to sidestep your alarm system. Based on the drug she administered, consider the theft a sophisticated variation of date rape. It's common with financially secure men. Expensive watches, cash, credit cards, firearms, you name it. Gone in an instant. I suspect your friend has already moved to another city to find a new target.”

To my thinking, her take on the incident seemed about as reasonable as any.

Nonetheless, something intriguing happened while I was walking her to the door. Maybe it was the softness of her features or the sincerity of her manner that drew me to her, but I immediately liked her.

In no time, we were conversing like old friends.

That night, we had dinner at a quiet restaurant. The following night we attended a showing for a new artist, and before long we were inseparable, our hearts drawn to one another in a passionate, whirlwind romance which incidentally still continues today.

For us, that chance encounter was the ember that ignited our lives, thanks in part to the loss of my Stanley Brown original.

Now, her time is spent running the gallery as well as our home while I continue to work the markets buying and selling other pieces of art.

As to my Stanley Brown, it's yet to resurface even after ten years. If it did, I would let it pass simply because I already have the finest work of art ever created and her name is Suzy – my nickname for Susan Harrison, wife, mother and love of my life.


- - -
John's writing focuses on short stories and flash. Publications to his credit have appeared in several professional journals as well as a number of internet sites and short story periodicals.

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Author: John Laneri

Contributor: Chris Milam

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She could handle a fork. The woman sat in a booth underneath a painting of a lighthouse emitting a dim glow. She wore yoga pants and a black V-neck and she looked glorious, alluring and edible. She consumed the pecan pie in delicate bites, the fork like a pendulum arcing from plate to mouth. After every swallow she smiled, which caused me to smile and we shared a moment, but she wasn’t aware that we shared a moment. She slid a pink and flirty tongue out and used a reptilian curl to cleanse residue from her upper lip. She caught me staring and used that same inviting tongue to brush across her luminous teeth while her eyes stayed on mine and we shared a moment that she had engineered. She emptied her plate and walked out of the restaurant. I caught an aroma of something tropical, evasive, and lonely and all I wanted was to bottle it and spray it on my walls.

The woman in white cotton shorts sat in a booth underneath a picture of a boat listing in a harbor. She ordered chocolate cream pie and took monstrous bites. She couldn’t handle a fork, she was graceless and erratic. Amateurish. She unfurled a gritty, bovine-like tongue to slurp cream from her lower lip. She didn’t respect the luscious pie, it was just a dessert to her, a wedge of calories and gluttony. I glared at her because she didn’t understand the rules, she didn’t belong in this house of fixation. We did not share a moment. I paid my tab and headed to the diner on Jackson that catered to a more deviant brand of clientele. They made a decadent strawberry cheesecake that would require a cultured hand to properly maneuver a fork into its velvety heart.

I sat in a booth underneath a print of Botticelli’s Map of Hell. My stepmother emerged from the kitchen wearing her tangerine uniform and carrying one of her irresistible creations. She nestled a fork against her elegant forefinger, carved a pristine slice and guided it to my quivering lips. She let it dangle and tease for a beat before she plunged it deep into my mouth. The strawberry glaze was orgasmic and succulent on my carnal tongue and we both smiled and a shared a moment that we’ve been sharing for years. Miranda could always handle a fork and she knew that I had no willpower, that I could never resist the temptation of her creamy pie, her wedge of edible love.


- - -
Chris Milam resides in Hamilton, Ohio. He is a voracious reader, a baseball junkie, and a consumer of processed foods.

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Author: Chris Milam

Contributor: Ryan James Black

- -
“I’ll see your hundred,” snarled Wolfman. “And raise you another.” He pawed a chip onto the pile, accidentally cleaving a jagged gash in the green felt table top.

“Hey,” whined Louis. “Be careful wouldja? I just had this resurfaced.”

Wolfman glared at Louis, the way Wolfman glares at rabbits. A muscle car idled deep in his throat. He ashed his stogie, purposefully missing the ashtray.
Louis huffed. He rolled his eyes. He looked like he wanted to say something, but instead crammed his mouth full of pretzels.

“Okay, okay, you two,” Dracula chuckled. He took a swig of his Romanian microbrew and turned to his right. “Bets to you Frank.”

“Frankenstein,” groaned Frankenstein. “Bet.” With a green bratwurst finger, he inched forward a ten dollar chip.

“Okay, two things Frank,” Dr.Jekyll said irritably. “One. I can totally see your cards.”

Frankenstein held three mismatched cards, a coaster, and what appeared to be a grocery list.

“And two. Wolfenstein just raised, big guy. It’s two hundred to play.”

Frankenstein moaned. He retrieved his ten dollar chip, inadvertently crushing it like the top of an Oreo cookie.

“Frankenstein,” groaned Frankenstein. “Fold.”

“Alright,” said Dracula around a mouthful of potato chips. “Frank and Mummy are out,”

“Ma…neme…izzz…Ram-zees,” mumbled Mummy from across the table. He struggled to find an opening in his face bandages for his Pharaoh Lager. No luck.

“Whatever,” said Dracula. “That leaves me, the wolfster, Louis, and to start us off, betting goes to you Doc….Oh, excuse me. Mr. Hyde.”

Mr. Hyde laughed maniacally, and for reasons known only to him, yanked out a tuft of his hair. Tatters of Dr.Jekyll’s lab coat had fallen into his mug of beer. He gulped it down anyway, splashing more of it on the rug than into his mouth.

“Hyde!” Louis sniveled. “Come on, man. You know Francine and I got this rug as a wedding gift.” He waddled away into the next room, returning an instant later with a spritz bottle and rag. Dropping to the knees of his khaki’s, rolling up the sleeves of his peach cardigan, he went to work, scrubbing the rug around Mr. Hyde’s Sasquatch foot. What remained of the giant’s shoe looked like a spent firework.

“Can we just play cards already?” Wolfman growled.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Mr. Hyde boomed like thunder. He materialized a bowler hat out of the shadows and plopped it on to his head. “Soon as you give me one of them cigars.”

“No!” Louis snapped. “No, no, no. No more smoking in the house.” He stood up, smoothed down his cowlick and pushed up his eye glasses. He was breathing heavy, his face was flushed “As a matter of fact, Wolfman, you put that out. Come on you guys? If Francine finds out you were smoking in here she’s gonna kill me.”

Awkward silence.

Dracula made a sound like a whip crack.

Everyone laughed. Everyone but Louis.

“Ha, ha, ha,” said Louis dryly as he took his seat. “Very funny.”

“Relax Louis,” chuckled Wolfman. “Look, you want my stogie gone. It’s gone.”

Wolfman mashed his cigar into Mummy’s forearm, igniting the bandages like dry leaves. Mummy let out a muffled shriek and in an absolute panic, extinguished himself with foamy Pharaoh Lager. Most of it went on the rug. Everyone laughed. Everyone but Louis.

“Okay,” Dracula sighed, wiping a laugh tear off his bone white cheek. “At this rate were gonna be here till sunrise. Let’s play already. Hyde, what are you gonna do?”

Hyde looked at his cards. He snorted.

“I don’t know what Jekyll was thinkin,” he barked. He threw his cards in the air. “I fold.”

“Well, I believe I am going to raise,” Dracula said with a hungry shark smile. “Five hundred.” He pushed his chips forward with the tip of a sharp, glossy nail. “Louis?”

Louis stared at his cards. A bead of sweat tracked down his pink cheek, coming to rest on the second of his three chins. He pushed up his glasses and cleared his throat.
“You know what?” He bulldozed all his chips into the center of the table. “I’m all in.”

Wolfman snarled.

Mr. Hyde laughed.

Dracula bared his fangs.

Mummy mumbled, gingerly poking his soggy, blackened arm.

Frankenstein groaned “Frankenstein.”

Louis leaned back, clasping his hands behind his head. He smiled.

“You’re bluffing!” Sneered Dracula.

“Am I?” asked Louis.

All eyes fell on Wolfman. White foam was collecting around his snout, dripping onto the table. It wasn’t from his beer.

“Fold,” he barked, tossing his cards. He howled in frustration.

Louis smiled wider.

“Count?’ Louis said softly. “Your move. You in, or out?”

Dracula stared from his cards, to Louis, and back again. His eyes glowed red, deep set fiery embers.

“Fold,” he said calmly.

A chorus of snorts and grumbles went up from around the table. Louis bear hugged his winnings and dragged them across the table towards him. He began to hum a happy tune as he stacked the colorful chips into wobbly towers.

“You know, Louis,” Dracula said coldly. “You’re the only mortal at this table. You may want to consider playing a little more tactfully. You wouldn’t want to make any of us angry would you?”

Wolfman scratched his jagged, yellow claws across the green felt.

Mr. Hyde nodded vehemently and began eating his bowler hat.

Frankenstein groaned “Frankenstein,” with hostility.

Mummy pounded his fist into his open palm. It might have been intimidating had he not been looking in the wrong direction, across the room, at Louis’ sleeping cat.

“I don’t know,” Louis said disinterestedly as he counted out his winnings. “There’s only one person I really don’t want mad at me.”

As if on cue, the door at the top of the stairs smashed open.

A fat, black tentacle snaked its way halfway down the stairs, dripping with tar-like ooze, covered with blinking eyes and barbs the size of tyrannosaur teeth. The monstrosity the tentacle was attached to would have made a Kraken look like a house cat by comparison.

“YOU BOYS WANT ME TO FIX YOU SOME SANDWICHES?”

The voice was like a thunderclap full of broken glass, terrifying, impossibly loud, and just a tiny bit feminine.

“No thanks Francine,” Louis called out. “We have plenty of snacks. You’re a sweetheart for asking though.”

The nightmare oozed back upstairs and shut the door.

Dracula un-bared his fangs.

Mr. Hyde shriveled back into Dr. Jekyll.

Wolfman attempted to hide the shredded table top with a couple of strategically placed coasters.

Frankenstein groaned “Frankenstein,” apologetically.

Mummy mumbled something that sounded like “Has Francine lost weight?”

Louis sighed, then chuckled.

"Like I was saying," he said between pretzel chomps. He shuffled the cards like a man with ten thumbs. "Happy wife, happy life."


- - -

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Author: Ryan James Black

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

- -
Buford was a big man, at least 300 pounds, with a heart of silver if not of gold. No one messed with Buford. He had a limp and for years he had used a cane too short. Neighbors feared some day he might fall and sure enough one day he did fall in his backyard. He was going out to his dump truck. The only good thing that came out of that fall is that I got a chance to talk to an ambulance driver in Beijing, China. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

When Buford fell, he disappeared and left a massive hole in his wake. Dirt rose like a volcano eruption for minutes after he was gone. I lived across the street from Buford so I climbed over his fence to see if I could help in any way. I knew I would not be able to pull him out of the hole by myself. It would take a crane, I figured, to get him back on solid ground.

But when I looked down the hole, I could see nothing but darkness so I went home and got a flashlight and then went back. Now I was able to see far down, apparently miles and miles away, and I saw a group of Chinese emergency medical technicians working feverishly to revive Buford. But he didn’t move. He was lying on his stomach and looked a little like a whale (of the beached variety).

The EMTs were short in stature but obviously industrious, caring people who may never have seen anyone as big as Buford, never mind trying to revive or treat someone that size. They looked like ants trying to get an angle on a giant carcass. They kept prodding and moving around him in a circle but he still didn’t move. They took turns yelling to him in Chinese but even if he could have heard them, Buford didn’t speak a word of Chinese. He was a deaf mute and used only American Sign Language, which only one of his neighbors understood. She was deaf too but spoke very well.

Finally I yelled to the workers and asked if Buford was alive. One of the EMTs looked up and said something in Chinese but I don’t speak Chinese and I don’t know American Sign Language either. I could see they had brought a crane to the scene and were using it to attach leather straps all over Buford’s body. It appeared they were planning to drag him away since they may not have had an ambulance big enough to accommodate him.

The last thing I saw down the hole was the disappearance of Buford’s feet. The rest of him had been dragged out of the frame, so to speak. He had one shoe on and the other was gone. No socks. Buford only wore socks in the winter and this was fall, not cold enough for socks in our country.

I hollered down the hole one more time, and the last EMT visible to me hollered something back but again it was in Chinese. After that I saw nothing except what looked like a crater dent in a paved parking lot where Buford had apparently landed. Even with all that momentum behind him, Buford had not crashed through the pavement. Going back home I realized that if he had fallen through the parking lot, and then through the Chinese ground beneath it, he would probably be floating like a zeppelin somewhere in space. If he were still alive, I figured he was much better off having to learn Chinese Sign Language than knocking over stars and planets.


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

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Author: Donal Mahoney

Contributor: John Laneri

- -
It was another lazy summer day when I started toward Aunt Jillie’s Boarding House, a place most Texans refer to as the finest establishment in Neverton, a small community along the cattle trail to Fort Worth.

As I neared her front gate, I noticed a bicycle parked against a picket fence. Curious, I stopped to check it out.

“Why Sheriff Carson, you look like a young boy admiring a new toy.”

Turning about, I saw Jillie coming my way, her red hair glowing in the sunlight. She was undoubtedly the most beautiful woman I had ever known. I'd probably loved her since the first day we met some twenty years ago.

“I couldn’t resist the opportunity to look at a bicycle.”

She eased beside me and took my arm. “Then, take your time. We can look together.”

“These contraptions are interesting. I've been wanting to see how one works.”

She smiled easily, her voice purring like a kitten. “Is that all you wanted?”

Clearing my throat, I said, “ What I really wanted was some of your lemonade.”

She smiled, her green eyes sparkling playfully. “Some fellow drank all of the lemonade… said he pedaled that thing from Fort Worth.”

“But, that’s over fifty miles along wagon ruts and cow trails.”

“Claims he was thirsty.”

“What’s he doin’ now?”

She chuckled, her green eyes smiling with delight. “He’s splashing in my bathtub with one of the girls.”

I took a deep breath. “That’s mighty unsociable. I’ve spent most of my day thinkin’ about crawling into that tub with a glass of lemonade in one hand and you in the other.”

“We can splash together later,” she replied. “But that fellow represents money in my pocket.”

I had to appreciate her point of view, so I returned my attention to the bicycle and realized that I was admiring a world renowned, Saint Louis Flier.

I pulled it away from the fence. “Did you know this is one of the finest bicycles ever built? I read about it in a magazine.”

Jillie moved closer and ran a hand along the bars. ““This thing looks like a fun way to go places.”

I swung a leg over the seat and bounced up and down, my excitement growing. “Get on top. We’ll see if bicycle riding is worth the pedaling effort.”

She lifted her dress above her knees and settled on the handlebars. And, before long, we were moving toward the road, feeling a breeze blow in our faces.

Once at a comfortable speed, she glanced over her shoulder. “Where’re we going, Honey?”

“I was thinkin’ of peddlin’ in the direction of the river. It’s mostly downhill.”

I rumbled over a series of wagon ruts, feeling the bicycle jostle about. But, once it settled down, I increased my speed.

“Don’t go too fast,” she said, tugging her dress higher. “I don’t want a broken leg for having fun.”

“You needn’t worry. Bicycle riding is easier than I figured.”

Soon, my boots were pumping furiously – moving us from one side of the road to the other. At the bottom of the hill, we started into the woods, bouncing along a narrow footpath that followed the river.

She glanced at me, concerned. “I hope you know how to control this thing. We’re going too fast.”

I brushed her hair from my face and continued on, pushing the bicycle for all it was worth. “Keep your eyes on the trail and, tell me what you see. I know what I’m doing.”

She pointed to the side, her finger moving wildly. “Follow that path to the right. It goes away from the river.”

“I’m trying, but this thing won’t turn.”

“Then you need to stop.”

“Stop…how do I stop?”

Moments later, I was sitting in water up to my neck, spittin’ out a nasty mouthful of river and looking around for my hat. That’s when, I noticed Jillie glaring in my direction.

“One thing for sure,” she said, as she came to her feet and took a step. “You’ve ruined a perfectly good dress.” She took another step and slipped, her head plunging below the water. Struggling, she tried to stand. “And, you certainly don’t know how to entertain a lady. My hair is ruined too.”

Feeling responsible, I went to her, took her in my arms and carried her to shore, feeling my boots slog through the water. “Accidents happen, but we did get our splash together.”

I tried a smile, hoping to calm her mood.

She ignored it and looked away. “For your information, falling into the river is not the same as splashing in my bathtub. Don’t you know anything?”

“Probably not,” I said, as I eased her to the ground in the tall grass and settled nearby unsure of what to say.

For some time, I left her alone and simply reclined in the weeds, feeling the warmth of the sun cover me like a friend. By then, I was laughing to myself and enjoying the moment.

Finally, I turned to her. ”I do know one thing.”

“And what's that?” she asked, her voice on edge.

“I know you, and that’s plenty important.”

She remained quiet for some time. Then, she turned to me. “You always say the sweetest things. That's why I love you so much.”

“When I'm with you, I always speak from the heart.”

She rolled beside me and settled her head against my chest, her eyes going to mine. “Then, snuggle closer and kiss me like you mean it.”


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John's writing focuses on short stories and flash. Other publications to his credit have appeared in several professional journals as well as a number of internet sites and short story periodicals.

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Author: John Laneri