Contributor: Ali Banner

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Daggitt cursed the Company protocol that tethered him to his partner. They swam into an underwater cave, separated by only ten feet of cord that attached to each of their suits through a special harness. Eleven dives and the Company decided he still needed a guide.

“Keep your eyes peeled, Daggitt.” Roberts’s voice infiltrated his helmet. “Don’t wanna miss the tunnel.”

He swam faster and harder than the rest of the crew and his knowledge of ancient artifacts was essential to the Company’s success, but Daggitt was better known for getting lost between the pub and the motel next door. “Just do your job so I can get the hell out of here.”

Roberts smirked. Daggitt imagined the cord around his neck. Soon.

The walls closed in, jutting masses of rock that threatened to crush them as they headed for an even narrower channel. In the past, Daggitt ignored his surroundings; the formations blended in the background and made for a pretty scene but meant nothing. Now they were waypoints to guide his return. He memorized each smooth contour, each jagged edge. Even the plant life sprouting through the cave floor highlighted his escape route.

“Here we are,” said Roberts. The tunnel opened into a small grotto with a marble statue erected in the center and rough nooks carved into the surrounding walls. “The Shrine of Amondeen.”

Amondeen watched as they swam over to the hollowed spaces, the two divers peering inside each tiny cave. Most of them stood bare, no doubt looted by plunderers who had visited in the centuries since the fall of Amondeen’s palace, yet some offerings to the ancient god still remained. Daggitt turned over a bronze chalice inlaid with smooth rubies and estimated its value; years of experience hadn’t tamed his greed.

“Remember what we’re here for,” Roberts warned.

“Of course. The Company sent me to find Amondeen’s Scepter, and that’s what I’ll do.”

“It will be an invaluable addition to the Museum.”

Not if I can help it. Eleven dives with the Company and Daggitt hadn’t seen a single penny. He set the chalice back in the shelf. He would return for it later, now that he knew the way.

Roberts motioned and Daggitt followed him to a dark corner of the grotto. A flat boulder leaned against the wall, and Daggitt pressed his fingers along a ridge where the two masses collided. He pulled back, testing for motion; the boulder gave way but fell back into position as Daggitt lost his grip.

“And word in the Company is you’re the strong one.”

Idiot. “Shut up and help.”

Together they rolled the rock aside and uncovered a narrow cavern with a deep trench in the floor of the grotto. Daggitt knelt to the ground and aimed his flashlight at the bottom. “Bingo.”

Amondeen’s Scepter lay in the trench, centuries of dirt and grime encrusting the solid gold staff. Hundreds of small sapphires, amethysts, and emeralds spiraled around the rod from end to end, and a large eagle sat on top clutching a pearl. Even covered in soil its worth was immeasurable. Daggitt’s heart pounded in his ears.

“That it?”

“Yep.”

“Nice.”

Daggitt examined his guide. “You’re smaller. You should jump down and pass it up to me.”

“Afraid of getting lost, are ya?” He snickered and lowered himself into the trench. His feet scuffed the walls and landed on either side of the scepter.

As Roberts crouched down to dislodge the staff, Daggitt pulled a switchblade from his utility belt. He released the catch and flipped out the knife. His garbled reflection stared back at him.

“Man, this mother is heavy! Ya sure you’ll be able to carry it back?”

“Oh, I’m sure.”

Roberts hoisted the scepter to shoulder level and Daggitt used his free hand to drag it along the ground, pulling it out of reach. He pointed his knife at his partner. “I suggest you stay down there.”

Roberts held up his hands. “Whoa, is this because I joked about you getting lost? Lighten up, man!”

Daggitt laughed. “Did you really think I’d let the Company take one of the world’s most valuable artifacts and let it rot in a museum? Eleven times I’ve been down here. Twelve, now. And what do I have to show for it? Nothing! Well, twelve is my lucky number. It’s time for me to collect!”

“So what are you gonna do? Leave me in this ditch? You can’t find your way back.”

“Ha! I paid attention this time. I don’t need you, or the Company, or this damned tether!” He lowered the knife to the cord between them.

“Ya sure you want to do that?”

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to choke you with this.”

“Suit yourself.”

Daggitt sawed at the tether until it snapped in two, finally freeing himself. He swam toward Roberts to finish the job but halted halfway. He could feel water trickling into his helmet. “What the hell?” He locked eyes with Roberts, who wore a knowing smile.

“Just remember, you’re the one who cut the tether. Company special issue.”

Terror seized him as realization settled in, but he was too frightened to scream. The water kept coming. He searched for the tunnel but its opening evaded him. He fought and struggled until the water filled up his lungs and he could no longer breathe.

After Daggitt’s body stilled, Roberts switched the channel on his communicator. “Do you read me, Home Base? Yeah, Daggitt turned. I told you he would.” He paused for a moment to listen. “You’re welcome, Home Base. I knew my design was flawless.”


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Ali Banner is a former English teacher who spent two years teaching in Handan City, China. She is currently a Creative Writing student at Full Sail University. She lives at home in West Virginia with her roommate, Emily, and her dog, Sparky.

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Author: Ali Banner

Contributor: Katie Ashworth

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I stared out the window at the beat-up black clunker parked on my curb. Usually I could keep my emotions in check, but this time the tears spilled without much warning. Before my eyes the car transformed into the shiny, grand vehicle it had been in years long past. The street was no longer illuminated by flickering streetlights, but it was bathed in the sunlight of a summer day.
The strength of the memory overwhelmed me. I grew 20 years younger. I was no longer looking out my window at the car, but bouncing next to it excitedly. My father was taking me for a drive. There was no planned destination, but I wore my prettiest dress and had my mother tie pink ribbons around my braids. As far as I was concerned, this was a very special occasion.
My father opened the door for me, helped me up, and buckled me in. The car seemed enormous and powerful. I swung my feet in the air over the edge of the seat out of pure joy. I heard the engine crank up, and we were off. I don’t remember anywhere we went. I only remember looking at my father for almost the whole drive. The sun threw crazy shadows on his face, but it didn’t keep me from thinking he looked like a superhero. In my five-year-old eyes, he could do no wrong.
I was a princess in my finest dress, and the king was taking me out and showing me off to the kingdom. Surely our subjects adored us. Even the sun was shining his approval and appreciation over us. The clouds had another idea. I filled with anger as they began to conceal the sun. I heard a distant rumble of thunder. My anger subsided, because even a thunderstorm wouldn’t ruin this moment. I was scared, but Super Dad would certainly protect me.
The sky grew darker as the clouds continued to roll in. Huge raindrops, some of the biggest I’ve seen to this day, splattered the windshield of our mighty carriage. Lightning streaked across the sky and snapped me out of my trance. My eyes adjusted to the darkness as I stared back at the banged-up car of the present.
Tears were still falling from my eyes. I didn’t cry for my missed memories or myself. My heart broke for my father and his similarity to that old car. My super hero father, once in his shiny glory days, had been dented and dinged by life just as that car had. The roads he chose to take took a toll on him that couldn’t be salvaged, and as I glanced at the FOR SALE sign in the car’s rear window I realized that soon it would be taken away where I would never see it again, just like my father.
I stayed fixed to that spot all through the night, unable to hold back the emotions that I worked so hard to conceal. Morning would bring the buyer, but for now I was finally able to grieve.


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Author: Katie Ashworth

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

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When ancient Elmer was young and dashing and on the prowl, he would wait for a phone call about love or anger from someone important to him at the time. Over the years more than a few women had reason to call. Some were happy with Elmer and some were not.

According to Elmer, more than a few of those women today, five or six decades later, take advantage of the new technology and Google his name in an effort to find him. Many want to confront him for past promises not kept. Some want to see him again if he's single, widowed or divorced. Others just want to see him again, whatever his marital status.

The vote on him, Elmer says, is split down the middle. He fooled some of the women some of the time but the others never forgot. At age 80 he wishes most of them--but not all of them--would.

"What can I tell you," Elmer says. "Besides drinking, the only thing I was good at in life was talking to women until they caught on. I may be old but I can still talk nice to a lady. I specialize in buncombe and balderdash. But I can't run any more from the angry ones. The legs are gone.

"And that damn Google can be a real problem. I guess my address and phone number got on the Internet somehow and some ladies who are still able to get around have come looking for me. It's happened more than once. I wouldn't be surprised to answer the door some day and find one of them in an electric wheel chair. But all of them, good and not so good, had energy and spunk."

His many children are now adults, he says, but they wasted his money in college. Instead of applying themselves to their studies, they would wait for an email about love or anger from someone important to them for that semester. The following semester, he says, they would wait for an email from a new love interest. This would go on every semester until they flunked out or managed to graduate. Email in the lives of his children was not a positive thing when they were in college.

"I have 12 kids," Elmer says. "Six have degrees and six flunked out. More of the flunkers have jobs than the graduates. What does that tell you about this economy? And what does that tell you about my kids? The apples, I guess, fell close to the tree."

Elmer also has quite a few grandchildren, most of them adolescents. They waste time in school, he says, waiting for a text message about love or anger from someone important to them for a day or a week or over spring break. Texting is not a good thing, Elmer says, in the lives of his grandchildren. And it won't be a good thing for any of them able to get into college.

"Kids today," he says, "are on a carousel, especially the girls because they trust boys and most teen-age boys are louts. I can tell you that from personal experience because I was a teen-age lout for several wonderful years," Elmer says.

"As a teen-ager, if I ever told a girl the truth I must have been drinking beer in back of the Masonic Lodge earlier that night. We had no dope back in those days. Never even saw the stuff. Wouldn't touch it if I did. But we drank a lot of beer on the weekends and maybe a little vodka and Squirt on Sundays. After church, of course. Times were different back then. You could meet a lot of nice girls at church."

Now in his dotage, and feeling the effects in his joints and muscles, Elmer still maintains that love or anger shouldn't arrive by phone, text message or email. It should arrive in person, smiling or spitting with rage. He's had it happen both ways. And he's ready for more if time permits.

Elmer doesn't have a computer or cell phone so emails and text messages never ruin his day. He has a land-line phone to make outgoing calls but he adjusted it so he cannot hear the ring of incoming calls. He did that two months ago after Bertha, a woman he took to her prom more than 60 years ago, found his phone number on the Internet. She called twice a day for a week until Elmer turned off the ringer, as he calls it. He never turned it back on. Now he calls out once a week for a large meat-lover's pizza and two quarts of beer. He'd make the same order more often, he says, but he has to watch his cholesterol.

Elmer, however, would not be disturbed if Bertha--or any other woman from his youth--came knocking on his door. He has always believed that love or anger should pound on the door with great emphasis--like the baton of a policeman at midnight yelling the music's too loud, stop the party or everyone's going to jail.

The pounding would have to be loud enough, Elmer says, for him to hear it--and even louder at night to roust him from his bed in his nightshirt to search for his teeth and toupee before he answered the door. He wouldn't care who's pounding as long as it was love or anger and not some guy in a ball cap selling aluminum siding.

"Every man, no matter how old, deep in his heart wants to hear one more coo or even a gripe from a woman," Elmer says. "In fact I'd like to hear both before I go--and I won't go quietly--into what Dylan Thomas called that good night. Did you ever read his poems? I did and I thought if I'd had a brother, it should have been Dylan Thomas. Or Salvador Dali. Did you ever see his paintings? I see life the way he painted it. "


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

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Author: Donal Mahoney

Contributor: John Laneri

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Last night, my wife and I competed in a dance contest at the Grey Horse Pavilion. The event was one of those happy affairs in which we danced our hearts out before a panel of judges. The grand prize – now listen to this – was a whopping expense paid weekend to San Antonio along the River Walk.

Jane was eager, her manner alive with energy as the sound of music greeted our arrival. We hurried inside, knowing that Jake the fiddle man was already performing his magic – the strings of his violin vibrating the best foot stomping music in all of West Texas.

Once registered, we slid onto the dance floor and turned a couple of circles before settling into a slow waltz to draw us into harmony.

“Your cologne smells great,” I said, as I pulled her close and nuzzled her neck.

She chuckled softly, her face blushing a shade. “I wore it especially for you.”

“That's why I love you so much,” I said, as we executed a perfect quick step.

As we slid past the bandstand, I shouted, “Hey Jake, give us something lively. This little lady’s in the mood for some real foot stompin’ music.”

He replied with a nod and directed his band to step up the tempo.

From there, we started into a spirited routine, a two-step that took us around the dance floor – our feet moving as if they were tuned to the strings of his fiddle.

“You’ve always been a lively dancing man,” she said happily, her steps moving in rhythm with mine.

“Dancing just comes natural. I can almost feel the music fly from my feet.”

We started a spin and followed it with a skip step. The crowd applauded. Then we were into our favorite, a routine that featured a series of sensual bumps meant to show the love we have for each other.

Another applause. By then, the crowd was going wild.

Following a twirl with an emphasis on form, I felt her miss a step then smoothly right herself with a double to maintain the rhythm then we continued without a hitch, executing a series of perfect jump steps, as our bodies again became one.

“Your feet may be musical,” she whispered, as her eyes swept the dance floor. “But, they feel like lead weights when they land on my toes. Be careful, you’re embarrassing me.”

“Most women consider me the best dancing man in the county. So please consider my boots innocent of any mischief.” I gave her a another smile and started spin – a lively one that sent her skirt flowing to the side.

We circled the floor, but as we came out of a second spin she stumbled again, her eyes turning to mine in surprise.

“My feet are beginning to wonder about your boots – that really hurt. Are you trying to make me look bad?”

“Tell your feet to pay attention. My boots are wired to the music. And, they’re still planning to dance us straight to San Antonio.”

She followed me into a final series of crossovers then we finished with a twirl and a bow to the judges, our routine complete.

Afterward, we remained on the dance floor mingling with the other contestants while we discussed our mistakes. Once the judges made their decision, we were selected for the next stage of the competition.

Soon, I saw Jake reach for his fiddle. “Are you ready? We can win this thing if we give it our best shot.”

“I’ll try,” she said, as she held on to my arm took a cautious step.

We labored through another dance. By then, she could barely walk, and I knew we were finished.

The next day, I kept my distance because she was wearing a cast and hobbling on crutches, claiming of all things that I was to blame.

I tried to lift her spirits by saying something sweet. That's when she indicated I could go straight to hell.

When she settles down and her foot heals, I'm confident that we'll make it to San Antonio – that is, if she doesn’t break another bone, trying to keep up with the musical feet of the best dancing man in all of West Texas.


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

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Author: John Laneri

Contributor: Michael Fontana

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The wasp flew outside our door, his little pinprick legs hauling in mud for construction of a nest. I responded by breaking out the broom and attacking his pile of mud with the bristles, breaking it out of the crevice in our fireplace, scattering it to the ground and then spraying it with wasp killer for good measure.

He then flew up into my face, extending a leg forward as if for a handshake before speaking. His voice was all gravel like he smoked a pack a day. “Charlie the Wasp, Mike. You don’t mind if I call you Mike, right?”

“I suppose not. I let the kid at the deli do it. You’re no more offensive than him.”

“Where you get off wrecking my house, Mike?” He was a lanky purple sucker, his wings whirling to keep him afloat in front of my nose.

“What do you mean?” I asked. I was in my 40s, lanky and lean, dressed in a polo and jorts for the day. It was like to break 100 out so my brown hair was in a soak from sweat.

“You got this nice suburban ranch home going there, Mike,” he said. “You and your wife got it really cozy. Just think a minute was I to bring along a tree trunk and starting pounding away at your bricks and mortar. You wouldn’t take a shine to that now would you?”
“You don’t have the wherewithal to pick up a tree trunk,” I said. “The whole comparison is absurd.”

Obviously tiring at beating his wings, he took a rest on the edge of our porch railing. “You got a bad attitude toward us insects, Mike,” he said. “It’s downright discriminatory.”

“How you mean?”

“Listen, Mike, I got my function on the planet just like you. You got your job, I got mine, just let me be, okay?”

“Can’t do that,” I said. “You’d sting my wife’s ass just as sure as I dig bread pudding.”

He hoisted one of his spindly front legs like a Boy Scout. “Swear I never do such a thing.”

“Uh-huh. That’s the nice thing about bees. They sting you once and it’s suicide for them. You little pricks sting over and over without consequence.”

“You think I got no remorse for giving up the sting? Let me tell you, Mike, it’s hard work having a human flail at you with his hands like to smash you into oblivion. It’s all self-defense, kind of like the way you idiots all shoot each other and blame the pistol for it.”

“Different scenario entirely,” I said, thinking about the Glock I had locked away in a desk drawer for safe keeping. “We have property and life to think about. You got bitty little eggs and a clump of mud to consider.”

“I don’t kill people though, Mike. Your type does. On a regular basis.”

“What if someone has an allergy to you?” I asked. “It’s pretty lethal then.”

“Rare aspect,” Charlie said. “I often fly around the head of the corpse afterward or tap at the window of the funeral home to level my apologies.”

“Wasps don’t have remorse.”

“You don’t know wasps.

I considered this with a finger to my chin. “I suppose you’re right.”

“Now see, Mike, we are an oppressed creature from time immortal. Always viewed as evil, always viewed as bane despite our industriousness. We help the ecological plan along.” He took a thoughtful pause. “You do support the ecology, don’t you Mike?”

I perked up. “We recycle.”
“Good man, Mike. See, we help that along. There’s a chain of interaction involved in all of this, Mike, and the wasp has just as much a role in it as your kind.”

“I’m still not letting you build your nest on the outside of my fireplace.”

“Where am I supposed to build, Mike? Your neighbors don’t want me any more than you do. I thought we had an understanding brewing here.”

“I understand. I just don’t want you sharing quarters with my family.”

“You’re a real piss, Mike, you know that? I take you for a stand-up rational guy and you turn out to be etched of the same flickering flame of miscreation that all you people are.”

“Now who’s stereotyping?”

“I got my sweet recompense though, Mike.” I could have sworn he smiled on that pinpoint purple face of his. He flew at me in a hustle and stung my neck and ear before taking flight into the distance. In the midst of all my cursing I hurled the mud of his would-be nest into the air after him.

My wife came out to scope the situation. She was a heavyset bundle of beauty that knew me better than I knew myself. “You’ve been arguing with the insects again, haven’t you?”

I nodded, cringing in pain from the stings, a hand to the back of the neck and to the ear.

“Inside with you,” she said, guiding me with a loving palm to the small of my back.

Before the door closed completely, Charlie the Wasp returned to fly up to her. “Give him what-for,” he said to her. “He’s a real dip.”

“Try living with him,” she said.

They both chuckled as I ministered to my wounds.


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Michael Fontana lives and writes in beautiful Bella Vista, Arkansas.

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Author: Michael Fontana

Contributor: Taran Washington

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To the new people we meet in our lives, we are all shadows. I understand that may be an unclear statement, allow me to shed light on it. . . no pun intended. When you first meet someone, you see their appearance of course. Hair, eyes, race, gender and so on; that is not what I mean though. The shadow I’m talking about is a mental shadow, a soul shadow. Simply put, the more you learn about someone, the clearer you can see them. Like someone in the dark who steps ever slowly into a defining light.

Relationships grow, falter, and fade depending on how much you truly see one another. Has someone who you believed to know with fondness or disdain ever surprised you? For better or for worse your view has changed, their image, their shadow has faltered. That being said almost no one truly knows anyone else. How much do you know your partner, your spouse, your best friend?

Anyone and everyone can change; that person you knew has the capability to alter. What would you do then? What would you do when that person has once again become shrouded in the indiscernible blackness of shadow? Do the dance and try to find them again in the uncertainty or would you rather preserve them as they were?


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My name is Taran Washington, I'm a college student studying Management Information Systems. I elected to take a couple fiction writing courses and found myself with a new hobby. Now I write some flash fiction from time to time and I thought I would try my hand at submitting!

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Author: Taran Washington

Contributor: Jessica Knauss

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“Good girl,” said Shelley, patting a Javan rhinoceros on her round rump.
She pulled on long gloves, grasped the cartridge-sized ultrasound camera, and inserted her arm into Kunthi’s rectum. Kunthi had behaved just as patiently during the painstaking ultrasound and insemination attempt three days before, which had used up the last of their supply of male Javan DNA. Kunthi was twenty-two, about two-thirds the maximum estimated age of her wild counterparts, and had never given birth.
Kunthi’s name, meaning “motherly” in Indonesian, had been an act of optimism that looked more pathetic every day. The Javan rhinoceros was the world’s rarest large land mammal. Pushed down by poaching, palm oil crops, and human settlement, after millions of years on Earth, Kunthi’s wild relatives numbered only thirty. She had been one of five brought to the swamps of Mississippi in a special captive breeding program designed to combat the Javans’ historical inability to survive an enclosed existence. When they set her free from checkups like this one, Kunthi roamed a million-acre preserve that had many of the same characteristics as her native tropical lowland habitat on the Ujung Kulon Peninsula and even went for a daily swim. In spite of everything, Kunthi’s travel companions seemed to know they were captive and passed away before reaching half the age of their wild counterparts. This rhino and that last insemination were the species’ single greatest hope.
Shelley peered at the monitor her assistant held at face level, practically on the rhino’s back. The ultrasound camera traveled a long, twisting tunnel as Shelley eased deeper and deeper.
Years of schooling and student loans, scores of failed relationships, utter dedication to bringing the Javans back from the brink, Shelley’s agonizing decision to move to Mississippi — a whole, complex life, and it always seemed to end up in the same either/or. Their efforts worked, or they failed; the species continued, or it died out.
Easing its way past a final narrowing, the camera reported bulky blurs to the monitor. There was the uterus, and there, the ovary that had appeared ready to burst forth three days ago. The tiny mass that looked like a ball of dryer lint on the screen was still attached to the ovary.
Shelley’s arm was shoulder-deep when she had to give the news.
“She didn’t ovulate.”
A collective sigh erupted among the other rhino keepers. “No,” moaned the intern. The assistant set down the monitor and petted Kunthi’s smooth nose while Shelley eased the equipment out, then peeled off the glove and threw it down.
“Forty-two days. We’ve got to plan for the next cycle,” said one of the keepers.
“But where are we going to get more semen?” the intern cried. Kunthi balked at the noise, throwing the assistant against the table, and hurried back amongst the fronds.
Shelley longed to follow Kunthi, to join in whatever childless destiny she determined for herself.


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Born and raised in Northern California, Jessica Knauss is a New Englander by design. She co-founded Loose Leaves Publishing and has published fiction, poetry, and nonfiction in numerous venues, including Bewildering Stories, Do Not Look at the Sun, (Short) Fiction Collective, Full of Crow Quarterly Fiction, Metazen, and Short, Fast, and Deadly. Her non-literary goal is to save all five species of rhinoceros from extinction.

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Author: Jessica Knauss

Contributor: C.L. Manion

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He had ink on his hands. I remember the way it crept through the grooves of his skin. The roots of weeds. It was just small spots, but unmistakable. And a loose-wrinkled shirt. Yellow or faded or not. It was a long time ago.

The kettle screams on the stove. Tea leaves swirl in the chipped-china pot. An afternoon at home. Jenny asks if she can go play in the garden. Barely twelve. A tomboy. No interest in boys but that'll come soon enough. Go and play. Ma won't mind, Granny says it’s ok.

Just like her mother, Jenny. All sports and bare knees. Jarred frogs and adventures. Comes from somewhere, I guess, but not me. I was never. But maybe that would have been better.

He would ask me where things were. In my first real job as a library clerk I was full of poorly trained self-importance. Had I been a little wiser, I would have realized he wasn't actually trying to find anything. He just enjoyed watching me bumble about, earnestly chasing wild geese. A game of obscure titles and fictional subjects. Or flirting.

Jeremy the cat jumps up on the table. Strutting about, poking his head into cups. He adopted himself into the family three years ago. As if we had any say in the matter. I just wish he wasn't naked. Perhaps I'll knit him a sweater. Perhaps I'll learn to knit. For now I'll just pet his bald little head. An elderly man-cat. Two old farts and tea.

He plucked a gray hair from my head once. I was nineteen. Came right up and pulled the strand straight out of my head. I must have blushed pools of blood. Wide eyed and incapable of saying anything. He just laughed and walked away. So damn clever. Sent me into a panic. I spent the evening glued to the mirror, looking for the first shoots of an old hag. Silly girl.

I let the tea sit too long, it’s gone all bitter. Never mind, milk and sugar. Jenny giggles in the yard. To be so young. And always in a hurry to grow up. Like her mother. Like me. Not my favorite legacy.
 
Coming from a town too small for maps, a graduate student seemed like a wildly exotic creature. Irrevocably tied to visions of bohemian genius. And my impressions were knowingly reinforced. He was wit and mischief hung on bones. I did everything I could to make myself appealing. I did everything I could to hide.

I didn't learn his name until months after we met. Certainly not bold enough to ask, not in those days. I thought he must have an adventuring, romantic name. He didn't. And he called me all sorts of things. Sweet things. Sugary nicknames and French endearments I couldn't understand. I don't think he ever called me by name. I don't think he remembered. I don't think I cared.

Jeremy sprawls out on the table, I rub his belly. Our innumerable wrinkles. He sounds like a motorbike. That went to a party. In someone else's flat.

A nice cashmere sweater is not always suitable for a party. A calcified square caught in music made for shaking. He introduced me to his friends. Blue haze and bottles. Words I had only read, and mentally mispronounced. I just sipped my drink and smiled. Prayed to God no one would ask me a question. Thrilled just to be there. On the way home he -

Jenny calls from the garden. Touch the phone, talisman. No emergency, just a bird’s nest. That's wonderful dear. Put it back.

Those days fall together. Fused. Stretched and condensed through time. I was blissfully thoughtless, a fanatic for attentions. And he paid them. Sometimes miserly, sometimes generous. I told all my girlfriends. What a wonderful hero-saint-genius I had. Hours spent listening to drivelsome coffee-jabber and tracing the weeds of ink.

The stains came from a pen. A hand-me-down from someone I pretended to have heard of. A beautiful fountain antique prone to leaking. He was going to change the world and write something brilliant. So I believed and believed. Through reams of paper. Sheets and sheets. And sheets.

My cup has gone cold. The phone rings and jitters. Here in half an hour to pick up Jenny. Lovely. Press twelve different buttons to hang up. My kingdom for a landline.

Three weeks of silence. Months too close, then three weeks. Young eternity. I drove my body to ache, willing the phone to ring. And nothing. And nothing. I call, and nothing. Sleepless, eatless, and bent. Rotten. Dead. Then all the sudden. Come again like nothing happened. I should have been furious, but was elated instead. Joyous mistakes.

When I told him we had a secret, he didn't react. Just carried on. I repeated myself, thinking he hadn't heard. He assured me he had. I started in on questions, but got nowhere. A row ignited, storms have less thunder. Terrible, brash things inflated with irrelevancies. Stomps. Strikes to walls and tables.

And the whole thing broke.

A crash. Jenny apologizes, almost sobbing. It's alright dear, I never really cared for that anyway. She cut her hand, slight as an eyelash. Band-Aids and kisses. Dry your eyes. Granny can fix it. Ma will be here soon.

I gave her. For better chances. Three counties over, I met them once. Good people. I was wretched a long time after.

The door opens. Jeremy scoots to quieter places, Jenny wriggles away. Ma's here! Looks just like her father. The gawky waiter in a lousy Italian restaurant when we were first introduced. My saving grace. I should bring him flowers tomorrow. Not really a man for flowers. But it's not like he'll see them through all that dirt.

Ma greets her girl, me. Jenny clings her waist. On my hand? Nothing. Just ink. I was writing a letter earlier. It creeps through the grooves. The roots of weeds.


- - -
C.L. Manion is a writer living in Madison, WI.

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Author: C.L. Manion

Contributor: Ali Banner

- -
Hotel 14 wasn’t the classiest of places, but they kept the rooms neat and tidy and didn’t bother you unless you requested service at the front desk. Dinah liked that about them. They also didn’t ask questions, so it was a popular place for lovers to meet in secret. Hotel 14 washed their hands of anything that went on behind closed doors. Dinah liked that, too.

At half past midnight, Dinah slipped down the east hallway hand in hand with Truman, both of their heads still swimming from the evening’s free-flowing champagne. They stopped in front of Room 108 and Dinah pulled the plastic keycard from her handbag. She handed the card to Truman, who swiped it through the scanner until the machine beeped in approval. Grinning, he took her by the hand and led her into the room.

“Hell of a party, wasn’t it?” He loosened his tie and kicked off his shoes by the door. Static sparked between his socks and the shaggy carpet as he walked over to the identical pair of full size hotel beds. Swans made from hand towels relaxed near the pillows of each bed.

Dinah peeled off her shawl, draping it across the back of a wooden chair.

“Best one of the year. Paisley never fails to impress.”

“You, my dear, were the most impressive one in the room.”

A flatterer. Figures. She walked across the room to the sliding doors that led to their private porch, picking up the swan on the bed closest to the door. She bent down, unfastened her high heels, and stepped onto the concrete.

“Come out here and join me.” She winked and crooked her finger. She turned her back to him and tilted her face up to the moonlight.

The night air was cool, but not unpleasant. The breeze tiptoed across her naked shoulders and seeped through the sheer silk of her evening dress.
She shuddered, though whether from the temperature or her excitement she could not say. Truman came up behind her and rested his hands at her waist. He bent forward to nuzzle her neck, placing light kisses on her smooth skin.

She giggled and moved to the small table off to the side. “Let’s talk a bit. I’m still a bit tipsy.” He pulled out a chair for her and waited for her to sit before taking a place for himself. At least he’s a gentleman. But then, they all are when they want something.

“So, tell me about yourself then,” he said.

She brushed her hair out of her eyes. “What would you like to know?”

“How did a beautiful woman like yourself end up at Paisley’s party without a date?”

Again with the flattery. “Oh, I had one, but he ditched me last minute. I’d already bought the dress and wanted to wear it so I came anyway.”

“You wear it well, my dear.”

Gag me. “And how about yourself?”

“I always fly solo. You can’t tie a wild horse down.” He smiled. “Well, maybe you can. . .”

“So, you’re single then?”

“For now. That might change by morning.”

“Oh? You sound pretty sure of yourself.” Arrogant ass. “You think you can handle me?”

“Positive.” His grin oozed with charm.

Dinah let him take her hand again and followed him back into the room. He shut the door and slid the curtains over the glass, blocking the moonlight and any prying eyes. The vertical stripes of the comforter crinkled up as he pushed her down onto the nearest bed and pulled off his jacket. She grabbed his tie and scooted back to the headboard, tugging him along until only inches separated the two of them. His mouth devoured hers in a hard, hungry kiss.

Dinah shuddered again, this time her excitement was clear. She felt Truman’s arm slip behind her back and lift her up as he rotated their positions until she was on top. His hands grazed her thighs as he moved to take off her dress. Up and up his hands traveled until they came to rest on the knife she had holstered to her hip. His hand froze as he realized his discovery. Before he had time to register what was happening, Dinah reached into the side drawer and grabbed two sets of handcuffs, securing him to the bedposts in seconds.

“Wh-what?”

She slapped him in the face. “Single, my ass! You might have taken the ring off, but I can still see a tan line where it sits, thin and faint as it might be. Tell me, how long was it after the honeymoon before you started cheating?”

“You knew?” It was an accusation, not a question.

“Of course I knew. Do you really think a sleazeball like you could land someone like me? Hilarious.”

“But then—”

“Your wife found me. Came to me, brokenhearted. Told me about your infidelities. Said it felt like her heart was being cut into a million tiny pieces. I offered to help you understand her feelings.” She pulled the knife from her holster and admired its blade.

“Who the hell are you?”

“Just someone who believes in something.” Dinah leaned over and picked up the swan decoration from the spare bed, petting its head as she talked. “Did you know that swans mate for life? Their loyalty is so well known that the image of two swans with their necks wrapped around each other in the shape of a heart has become a symbol of love in many different cultures around the world. But, I wouldn’t really expect you to know anything about that.”

“You’re a fucking psycho. Let me go!” He pulled at the handcuffs and tried to throw her off by bucking his hips.

“No, Truman. Men like you need to learn how it feels to be cut into pieces.”

His eyes widened as she stuffed the swan in his mouth to muffle his screams. Hotel 14 didn’t notice as she carved into him.


- - -
Ali Banner is a former English teacher who spent two years teaching in Handan City, China. She is currently a Creative Writing student at Full Sail University. She lives at home in West Virginia with her roommate, Emily, and her dog, Sparky.

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Author: Ali Banner

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

- -
"Sometimes Jesus walked around with a big staff, just like me," Mrs. Day says to herself as she looks at the frayed picture on her kitchen wall just above the little kitchen table. She cut that picture out of a magazine 50 years ago when she subscribed to Life and Look and Colliers magazines.

"Jesus doesn't need that staff," Mrs. Day tells herself. "It was a sunny day in Jericho, the article said. I'll bet He used that staff to go up in the hills to pray. The Bible says He often left the apostles behind to go away and pray. I'd have kept an eye on Him if I was there."

At 80 Mrs. Day is legally blind with one good leg. She has a staff of her own to help her walk to stores and then back to her little house. The staff is at least a foot taller than she is. It was a gift from a dead neighbor who was handy with tools and liked to carve and whittle. Mrs. Day needs that staff this Thanksgiving Day as she makes her way through drifts of snow, an unusual amount for this first big winter holiday.

With nothing in the fridge except old bread and prunes, Mrs. Day hopes to find a diner open. Even Jack in the Box is closed for Thanksgiving so there will be no coffee with a Breakfast Jack to go but Mrs. Day has time today to find a place that is open. And she knows that place will probably be Vijay's Diner, where she's a customer on days when every other place is closed.

Vijay came to the United States long ago when Mumbai was still Bombay. He cooks for everyone every day of the year, whatever God they worship or ignore. He makes fine Indian dishes for customers who emigrated from India as he did. And he makes fine American cuisine for people from the neighborhood, most of whom have yet to adjust to Indian dishes and their redolent spices.

"I have a nice turkey leg, Mrs. Day, if you'd like that," he says, but all she wants is coffee, two sugars and a muffin to go.

"I'm on a diet," she tells him.

Vijay puts her items in a small brown bag and adds a free candy bar, a Baby Ruth bar, a big one, for later tonight. Mrs. Day will be angry when she gets home and finds it but that's okay. She can't come out at night to look for something to eat. It's tough enough for her to get around in sunlight.

Vijay waits for Mrs. Day to dig in her big purse and put all of her change on the counter. Then they count aloud together each coin that he picks up one at a time. Finally they agree he has the right amount even though Mrs. Day has trouble seeing the coins. Usually she can tell which are which by the feel of them. Now Vijay smiles at Mrs. Day, his customer on the holidays only.

"Happy Thanksgiving, Mrs. Day," he says. "I hope you'll come again. We'll have leg of lamb on Christmas. And ham and yams on New Year's Eve. I'll make you a nice big sandwich. I know you'll like it. You can skip the diet for one day."


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

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Author: Donal Mahoney

Contributor: Kristina England

- -
Jerry walked into the Midnight Boulevard Diner and sat down. 100 miles of road now between him and the past, he finally realized how hungry he'd been.

A waitress came over and smiled at him. "You look like you need the chef's special today."

He looked up and shrugged. He knew better than to smile. Smiling led to talking, perhaps friendship and, before you knew it, three kids your wife said she never wanted.

The waitress nodded and handed him a menu. She went on to the next customer, her face more formal and reserved.

Jerry looked at the menu, then blinked. He turned and beckoned for the waitress. She waved a "one moment" finger at him and took the other customer's order. Then she returned to his booth.

"Yes?"

"There's only one item on this menu."

"Yes, that's our special."

"But where's your regular menu?"

"Out of order."

His eyes scanned her face to see if she was being wise, but the face was now stone, almost as stiff as rock. He felt an urge to reach up and touch it. There was something so familiar about that face.

Jerry pulled himself together, the grumble of his stomach reminding him why he was there.

"I'll take the special."

The mouth thanked him. The hand took his menu. The skirt swiveled away.

Jerry looked out the window, but all he saw was his own refection. He heard a clanking sound and turned to find a bowl in front of him.

Cactus soup. That's how he met Dee. Over a bowl of cactus soup. Not the bowl specifically but the conversation on how odd it was to find a menu item like that in a diner. He wondered if this was the same diner they had both happened upon one snowy night? Were there other menu items then? Were there different waitresses? Did their emotions change with his as the whole diner seemed to dim with his mood right now?

He was happier then. He was sure he smiled.

Of course, that was back before he and Dee became a them. Back before reality became jobs and crying babies. It was long before he realized she wasn't fit for the role of wife. Long before he learned the third kid wasn't his.

That reality struck him only a week ago, filling the next seven days with yelling and tears. It left him packing, running out the door, the hardened look of his eldest daughter the last memory he had of home.

The cactus soup warmed him. It rehydrated his heart. He stumbled to his feet, digging for change.

"Soup's on me," said the waitress.

He smiled, thanked her, and ran out the door. He spun out of the parking lot in the same direction he had come, all the while thinking of his daughters and how he should make them each a cup of cactus soup.

Jerry turned his head to give the diner one last glance, but all he saw behind him were cacti and the long stretch of an open desert.


- - -
Kristina England resides in Worcester, Massachusetts. Her poetry and fiction is published or forthcoming in Extract(s), Gargoyle, New Verse News, The Story Shack, The Quotable, and other journals. Her first collection of short stories, "Stanley Stanley's Investigative Services and Other Mysteries," will be published in the 2014 Poet's Haven Author Series.

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Author: Kristina England

Contributor: John Laneri

- -
At this particular moment, I’m standing in the kitchen near the stove over a large pot of water, feeling my emotions reach the boiling point.

“That’s ridiculous,” I say to her a bit too passionately.

“What’s wrong with moving home and living with my mother,” she says, as her
eyes flare with anger. “She doesn’t yell at me when the pasta pot boils over.”

Maria’s a strong willed woman. It’s in her blood. She’s of Italian-American descent like me. And yes, we’re having an argument.

In truth, Maria’s a good person – short, bouncy and usually fun, except when we’re in the kitchen together. That’s when she turns into a different animal.

Me… I’m Mario, Maria’s husband – the most frustrated person in the world.

Today, I’m trying to teach her to cook. I’ve been at it for months, and she still doesn’t have a clue – not even close.

At first, after we were married, I thought she would learn to prepare a few simple things like pasta with a marinara sauce spiced with basil and a pinch of oregano for Sicilian flavor. I soon learned she had other ideas, so I continue to do all of the cooking.

Even now, when I work with her in our apartment, I watch her fumble around in the kitchen banging pots, trying to act interested. She still doesn't know how to make a cheese sandwich much less dip a scoop of ice cream from a container.

Maria doesn’t cook. She likes salads. And, she hates pasta, saying that it makes her hips too fat. I won’t even mention the one time we talked about doing a pizza in the oven.

“What’s so hard about cooking?” I say to her. “All Italian women know how to cook. Most of them keep something on the stove simmering just to make the house smell good. If it wasn’t for my mother – God Bless her heart – I’d be begging for good food.”

Maria merely shrugs and looks away. “Then move home with your mother.”

“She’ll drive me crazy,” I say in frustration.

In the past, I’ve tried telling Maria that pasta is good for the soul – that it strengthens the spirit for love. When I say these things, she only laughs, telling me there’s nothing wrong with her lovemaking – that she has plenty of spirit.

I think she misses the point.

Finally, I step beside her, feeling remorse for yelling then softly caress her shoulder, my lips making playful circles at the top of her blouse.

“When the pasta pot starts to boil over,” I say gently. “You need to remove some of the water. If it spills into your sauce, you have to start again.”

She turns to me and asks, “How do I know when the water is ready to boil over?”

“When the water begins to foam near the top of the pot, it’s ready to boil over. It’s just something you know deep inside. It's like knowing when your love juices are bubbling and ready to explode.”

She turns to me, and soon, a smile forms on her lips as a sparkle of light spreads across her face.

“I’m beginning to feel a few bubbles now,” she says.

“Then, keep stirring the water.”

“No, not those… I mean the playful bubbles.” She glances at me and giggles softly. “Do you mind kissing my other shoulder? It needs your attention too. I’m beginning to like cooking pasta.”

Our eyes meet. Then like magic, that special something again passes between us, and we return our attention to the water, confident in knowing that pasta truly is the food of love.


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

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Author: John Laneri

Contributor: Ali Banner

- -
Flying always made her nervous. It wasn’t so much the soaring through the clouds thousands of miles above the surface of the planet as it was the rough takeoffs and even rougher landings, especially with the ever-looming possibility of crashing into desolation, miles away from help or hope. Either way, she preferred to travel on land despite death-by-automobile being statistically more likely than a nosedive into a remote mountainside with nothing but the airplane tail jutting from rocks in a cloud of billowing smoke. Her lacework was the only thing that soothed her nerves and took her mind off what was sure to be certain doom.

This flight was more nerve-wracking than usual. Not only was the weather deteriorating by the minute, a dense cloud that threatened snow hanging thicker and thicker, but she was traveling to meet him, her Achilles’ heel, the one man who had all the power to weaken her resolve and lead her to her demise. It had been years since they’d seen or spoken to each other. Now she sat in a plane guiding her tatting shuttle around strands of black thread, lacing knots to keep her mind occupied. She should have refused his invitation. Said no when he offered to transport her, all expenses paid, three hundred miles from northeastern Iowa to northwestern Minnesota. Kept her feet on the ground when she felt it quaking beneath her. It had all happened so fast. That phone call, that invitation, that velvety voice she could never refuse.

“Hello, Baby.” It echoed in her mind, over and over. “You know what I like.”

The plane hit a violent patch of turbulence moments after gaining altitude and leveling off. A pair of pretty stewardesses, lips painted red and blonde hair in bobs, braced themselves near the service station as the seatbelt light switched on. Over and under, under and over, the worn ivory shuttle passed between twin strands of thread, two anxious hands gripping and guiding the knots into place, thirty thousand feet high in the air.

“This is your captain speaking...”

Over and under, under and over. Transfer the stitches, then turn and repeat. Drops of sweat beaded her forehead and the cabin jerked back and forth, but her practiced hands never faltered, completing every knot with compulsory ease. The plane began to plummet, unsecured baggage and carry-on luggage following suit. Screams filled the cabin and the stewardesses begged for order. All around her chaos struck, but her hands never broke rhythm.

The pressure dipped and oxygen masks dropped from their compartments above. Bound thread unraveled from her fingers with each double stitch, each intricate loop. She felt two hands slick with sweat pulling a mask down her face to secure it over her nose and mouth. She inhaled the sweet oxygen. Over and under, under and over. The pattern she’d started was almost complete.

Down and down, the plane hurtled toward an abandoned cornfield, once arid farmland now forgotten and barren. The pilots battled the elements and the passengers prayed to every deity they thought to invoke.

Over and under, under and over. “Hello, Baby. You know what I like.”

She closed the last stitch and examined her handiwork, running the black mourning veil over her hands before placing it on her head and covering her tear-stricken face. Her final thought was the sound of his voice tugging at her will as the plane crashed into the empty field.


- - -
Ali Banner is a former English teacher who spent two years teaching in Handan City, China. She is currently a Creative Writing student at Full Sail University. She lives at home in West Virginia with her roommate, Emily, and her dog, Sparky.

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Author: Ali Banner

Contributor: Eric White

- -
“You can’t do this,” said the wiry man across from me. He spoke in Russian. It was sloppy, and his accent was almost comical.
“Please, Mr. Oswald, let us speak in English. It is, after all, your native tongue,” I said, and poured myself a drink.
“I’ve already told you. I’m more than willing to denounce my American citizenship. I can help you,” he said in English.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Oswald. That is just not true.”
The man was taken aback, but he knew better than to raise his voice. All he did was squirm in his seat, and glance around the mahogany office.
“I’ve already proven that I could be one of your agents. I’m the perfect spy.”
I nearly choked on my drink.
“What’s so funny? I’ve taken all the tests. I’ve proven I’m more than capable.”
“Why do you want to be a spy for the Soviet Union, Mr. Oswald?”
“What?”
“Answer the question, Mr. Oswald,” I said.
“I want to help the Soviet Union. I want to take down tyrannical capitalist governments. I want to — “
“You want to be a celebrity. You want undying fame and glory. It’s really quite easy to see.”
“What? That’s not true. I don’t know what you’ve heard, but—“
“I’ve heard plenty, Mr. Oswald. I’ve had plenty of reports from the town. You claim to denounce your homeland, but you use your status as an American to gain local fame. A spy that wants to be famous is no use to me.”
“That’s not what I’ve been doing. I have just been trying to—“
“Yes, I’ve heard about how the girls love the American turned Soviet spy. You have even been heard comparing yourself to the likes of Vasily Zaytsev with a rifle.”
“It was harmless fun. The locals don’t know anything.”
“You insult my people, Mr.Oswald. Everything that has happened since you’ve arrived on our base has been part of an assesment. You have been in contact with no less than twelve of my agents in the last month. You have been assessed and determined to be of no use to the Soviet Union, or anyone else.”
“Please, Mr. Chardov. I can still help. Maybe not as a spy, but I could be a translator or monitor American news or I could—“
“Mr. Oswald, you can barely read or write your native language. Do you take us for fools?” I said, taking another sip of my beverage.
He was sweating profusely as he rubbed his hands together.
“No, sir. Never.”
“Then why do you think I have any use for a dropout with no special skills whatsoever? A dropout who can barely read his own language. “
“Well, what about my citizenship? If your government approves it, I can still make a living. I can be a Russian. I could stay in the town, off base, and never bother anyone.”
“That will not be happening either,” I said. “You will be leaving the Soviet Union tonight on a flight back to the United States.”
“What? No. Please, no. Why?”
“Mr. Oswald, you are a sniveling and pitiful creature. My country has no use for incapable cowards. And that’s what you are, Mr. Oswald. A coward.”
“I can’t go back. What if they find out? I could be thrown in prison. I can’t. I can’t risk it.”
“Don’t worry about any of that. We have fabricated a story for your last year and a half in the Soviet Union and your last month on this base. You will comply with our fabrication, or you will be killed. That’s how I know you will agree to our terms.”
“Why are you just letting me go? Aren’t I a liability or something?`”
“No, Mr. Oswald. You are not,” I drank down the last of my glass. “You are of no threat whatsoever.”


- - -

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Author: Eric White

Contributor: Meagan Lindsay

- -
It is the end of winter once again. I do not want to go back again. I have come to dread the months that I spend with my mother, Demeter, surrounded by the verdant greens of spring and summer. I pat Cerberus on the head as I pass him, heading through his gate and up the stairs back into the mortal world. It is a long and torturous climb, made to ensure that no mortals escape death's clutches.

I find myself thinking of my husband, almost wishing he could come with me. Even if he could just join me on this climb, it would make things more bearable. He may be arrogant, often cold, and some would say greedy (I say confident in his abilities to get what he wants), but when he is with me, he is also fiercely passionate and extravagant with his affections.

I remember the first time I saw him. It was at the birth celebration of one of the lesser deities, I cannot remember whose. I only remember seeing him there across the room, watching me. He was dark and brooding, certainly. That burning stare of his and the small symbol tattooed on his wrist were the only clues I needed as to his identity. This was Hades, god of the underworld, the one god everyone respected.

Hades' dark hair curled at the nape of his neck; it was charcoal colored but caught the light with hints of flame. It seemed alive and I could scarcely tear my eyes away from it to study the rest of his face. His lips were luscious red, framed by just a bit of scruffy beard, and accentuated by a piercing. His nose was pierced, as well as his ears. At last, I met his eyes. Those eyes! They were like burning steel kissed by morning dew, and piercing as he watched me unabashedly. I raised my brow in a challenge to his stare.

I knew he would not come forward to speak with me, no man (immortal or not) dared. My mother kept far too tight a reign on my life. Other, lesser, men had tried and quickly been put in their place. But I let myself hope that Hades would rescue me, somehow, with some half-baked, yet inescapable plan. It became my fantasy over the next few weeks.

And when it happened, I played my part well. I was truly startled, by his rising from the earth, and so I screamed and fought. I thought I must be in a dream, for how else would he have known to come and save me from my boring existence? It was only later that I realized how my struggle added to my performance.

Once we were in his kingdom, I realized that I could not be asleep. No place in my imagination could have possibly matched this dark haunted place. We travelled past a giant dog with three heads, across a river, and down many gray pathways until coming to a stop in front of a modest sized shining black palace. I stepped out of his chariot and into his arms, collapsing into sobs.

It is true, I was terrified. It is also true that I was mesmerized. I didn't understand what this imposing god could possibly want with me (plain, straight brown hair, average figure, boring brown eyes). I was partly afraid that he would send me back to my mother, and partly afraid that he would never let me see her again. I spent days wavering between these two extremes. Terrified, grateful, but most of all, curious.

I wanted to learn everything about my kidnapper, my new husband. He was gentle and kind with me, giving me anything I desired. I didn't ask for much. Each new thing I learned about him was enough. I learned the names of the river nymphs, and attempted to teach Cerberus to fetch (It was a failed endeavor, as all three of the heads would want to go after the stick, but only one could pick it up).

Eventually, though, Hermes came for me. My husband had a private conference with him, and then told me of my mother's sorrowful search for me. I did not want to return to the mortal world forever. And this is the part of my story that people often forget: I did not have to eat or drink. I chose to do so. I chose my new life, my new role as Queen of the Underworld, over my grieving mother and the human world.

Yes, it was selfish. But after tasting the passionate world that I had been offered... How could I go back? Hermes tried to stop me, but I would not listen. So, he went back to Zeus, certain he was going to get disintegrated. Instead, my father came up with a compromise. And so, every spring I return to my mother, to suffer her complaints and protest that my husband treats me wonderfully. It is the same, year after year.

Finally I have reached the gaping chasm in the earth where the Underworld meets the mortal world. I climb up to the surface, flopping onto my back on the ice-covered dead crust. As I lay there, my hair shielding my face from the sun, the ice melts away and soft green grass springs up beneath me. My mother knows I'm back, and I have awakened spring once again. Winter cannot come soon enough.


- - -
Meagan Lindsay is a receptionist by day, but by night, she writes books about terrible things and kissing, but hopefully never terrible kissing. Meagan has had work featured in Every Day Other Things and Daily Love, and hopes to continue writing well on into the future. In fact, she doesn't know what she would do if she didn't write, though her mom has always said she was born to be a Disney Princess, so maybe that.

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Author: Meagan Lindsay

Contributor: Matthew Luhrman

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The wind chime above the front door didn’t work. If I’m honest, none of the furnishings I placed in the crooked craftsman on Eagle Street could chase the gloom away. I remember buying the chime. I’d seen them dangling above the neighborhood porches, decorating the homes of lifers with blooming families. Weren’t the soothing chords supposed to create a sonic seal around my home, a protection from ghouls, inner demons, or familiar ghosts? Meredith was one of those ghosts. Even the memory of that light pigeon laugh always humming behind her teeth still poked at me. She always made quick decisions, and although we had picked the house together, I didn’t get a good enough look. Sure I did the customary walk through, but I didn’t really look. If I had, I might have seen that the house was a stranger that would prove impossible to befriend. Shortly after Meredith left, the house tried to cast me out too. But if I am one thing it’s stubborn. Last night was cold. Tonight would be even colder. It was finally time.

I used a space heater, placed it near the living room curtains with a glossy magazine on top and set it to full blast. I sank into my cherry wood Eames lounger as the fire began to flicker and pour across the shag rug. Every contour of the lounger cradled me like a lover. You understand, don’t you? When you sit in exceptional furniture for the first time, there’s that brief moment of surprise, of genuine shock. Wow, I never knew. I wasn’t being held right before. I feel so much better now. And just like a classical instrument, a home can be tuned. Harmony engineered. Say you hate your job, or even just a co-worker. If that feeling follows you home then swap in a glass coffee table with a nickel-plated base, maybe keep the leather recliner but add an ultra-suede ottoman. You have to think of it as self-preservation. Because great furniture can actually heal you, and sometimes it can even care for you. This is what I told myself anyway.

I was sleeping when the fire started, that had to be my story: “an accident.” I’d wait for my neighbors to see the smoke and call. The fire department was only blocks away. I’d be rescued in time. And when the insurance payout came I could start again.

A shrill noise woke me, and I was surprised I had drifted off. The phone rang from somewhere in the smoldering house. I found some oven mitts in the kitchen, slipped them on to open the living room door. Tremendous heat.
Wood crackled and thick smoke stung my eyes. Where was everyone, anyone? Melting veneers and simmering varnishes. Sweet fumes filled me as I watched the Danish coffee table buckle and blister. I loved that table.
The importance of the furniture (and its placement) had grown steadily after the breakup. I had some success at first, mixing and matching woods and synthetics, heights and patterns, aligning all of the distances, perfecting my fortress. Until one day, my money was all gone, and the house was full, but somehow empty too. I needed a clean start, some traction.

The phone still rang. Where was it?

My head wobbled, vision distorting as hallways shrank. The springs in the couch shot across the room as the frame split free like a shattered ribcage. I finally found the phone half melted - plastic pooling onto the floor - an impossible ring somehow gurgling from it. I jabbed my padded finger at the speaker icon.
“Hello,” I yelled.
“Can we talk?”
It sounded exactly like Meredith.
“Sure,” I said, holding back a cough.
“I was just thinking about that one time we went camping, when we ran out of food.”
I knew which trip she meant, and I’ll admit, I hated sleeping outside. It always made me overeat.
“Do you remember when we finally saw that other family and we really needed food and water?”
“Why are we talking about this,” I asked.
“Because you laughed at me,” she said. “I was thirsty. So were you. So very thirsty. Why didn’t you just ask them for a drink?”
“You still don’t know,” I grumbled. “That would have been begging.”

Now it's hard to breath. I lost time, lost the phone, forgot if I had said goodbye. I imagine if I could escape the house what I would see. My neighbors stand on their lawns, wrapped in nightgowns, holding their children’s hands as they watch my house burn. Maybe they all assume that the fire department is on its way. Maybe they face their own homes, homes that burn too. That makes me smile.

With a groan, the floor gives way, and I sink into embers. Swarmed by heat and swirling ash I reach for the front lawn. The grass is cold and dewed, and I’d love to collapse onto it, but it is beyond me.

Then I can see something else outlined in the dark, emerging. The new house grows clearer. It’s smaller but has an improved floor plan. And I can see the furnishings, the layout. Oh yes, this one is much better. The smoke keeps clearing and colors reach my eyes. Now I see the roof, the walls, a clearer flow, much more durable materials. A new home. The one I chose myself. It waits to pleasure me.


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Matthew Luhrman is a way too busy editor of popular reality television, who somehow manages to write the occasional story while taking the train into New York City.

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Author: Matthew Luhrman