Contributor: Jheri Brown

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The chill of the night was evident with each breath. Her dark eyes shifted back and forth, nervously -- frantically, even. She sat watching, waiting. The bile in her throat felt like it was burning a hole through her esophagus. Her stomach churned and knotted under the pressure of her nerves.
Jacob slid out of his vehicle and, as most people do, shoved his keys and phone into his pockets. There was no real reason for him to leave his phone out anyway. He was exactly where he intended on being. He’d made a ritual of it. Every Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday evening, he would call Elyssa and tell her of the busyness at the office and tell her not to worry about fixing him a dinner plate. And every time he did, her heart would almost curl in on itself with each beat and her breath would catch, seized right in her throat.
Elyssa shifted in the seat of the car as Jacob neared the door of the hotel. Her hand shot out for the mini trashcan sitting next to her when the door was opened. The man on the other side was tall like her husband -- handsome, too. His hair was blond, a stark contrast to Jacob’s black, but very similar to her own. The bile that seemed to be resting, waiting as she was, pooled on her tongue the second her husband’s lips met the other man’s.
She tucked the garbage can to her chest, trying carefully to neither look any longer nor set off the horn. Not to mention the fact that she had to be extremely careful not to knock the gun laying on her lap around.
Elyssa knew precious little about handguns, much less how to shoot them. But after several months of the constant lies dripping from Jacob’s lips, she did as any woman would.
She bought one.
The clock ticked. Minutes turned to hours and her anxious wakefulness quickly turned to tiredness. She checked her phone for the umpteenth time and replied to yet another message from Jacob. The first one he sent was asking if she’d need anything before he came home. Of course, she replied with a simple ‘no.’ The next message, twenty or so minutes later, was him expressing his love for her. She replied almost mechanically. His words no longer made her feel like she was precious. She knew better.
The crack in her window allowed her to faintly hear the hotel door crack open again. She steadied the gun in her hand, easing the window down even further. Elyssa didn’t care if she missed, if she simply maimed Jacob, she just wanted to get her point across.
As she lifted her shaky hands and rested them against the car door’s ledge, something scratched against the vehicle. She jumped, completely startled. Her heart raced and she wondered if she’d been caught.
But it didn’t take long for her to figure it out. Just when she quickly put the gun down, attempting to hide it from anyone’s sight, she felt the cool metal of another gun. The barrel pressed hard against her temple. She gasped, but it was too late to say anything.
“You shouldn’t have meddled,” he said. The man’s voice was deep, much like Jacob’s. “You just shouldn’t have meddled.” The words fell from his lips like poison from a snake’s fangs just as the parking lot echoed with the sound of a gunshot.


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Jheri Brown is currently a full-time student and spends her down time filling sticky notes with the non-stop film reel that's called her mind.

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Author: Jheri Brown

Contributor: Dave Riese

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A man in the gay fathers’ group is obsessed with Sully.
“What man?” I ask.
“Harold. You don’t know him.”
Apparently Harold joined the group after I stopped going. I don’t recognize the name. He’s in his fifties and came out when he divorced his wife. Sully, in his late twenties, thinks fifty is old. At least I have three years to go.
“He sits next to me at every meeting. Touches me whenever he has the chance. He’s not obnoxious about it. Barely brushes against me, little pats on my knee. And everything I say is the most interesting thing he’s ever heard.”
Sounds like my ex-lover Karl at his smarmiest, I think.
“And he kept asking me to come for dinner—”
Obviously Harold recognizes a weakness when he sees one. Sully enjoys eating more than anything else. Even sex, I sometimes think. Just ask his waistline. Not that Sully’s fat really, but he has a chubby, cherubic look about the face.
“You didn’t go, did you?” My futile hope to change history.
He shrugs his shoulders as if he’d had no choice. “Last Friday.”
“Sully, you have to learn to say no. Dinner was only a pretext.”
“I had an excuse to leave right after dinner. Instead the kitchen caught fire.”
“My God, what happened?”
“Not the whole kitchen. Just the curtains over the sink and some wallpaper but it was scary all the same. It wasn’t really my fault.”
As Sully tells it, Harold did all the cooking when he was married and loves to prepare elaborate meals. After his divorce, he hated going to all that trouble just for himself. “He said, if I came for dinner, he’d make a fantastic meal.” Sully planned to tell Harold the moment he arrived that he had to pick up his son at a neighbor’s house right after dinner.
“Kids are a great excuse,” I say, “until they get their license.”
“He met me at the door wearing a cravat and smoking jacket for God’s sake.”
“And you in your jeans.” Sully wore jeans, ripped in all the right places, everywhere.
“I wasn’t even in the door before he gave me a big hug, pushing his pelvis against my crotch.”
“I hate that.”
“And he was hard, let me tell you. Said how good it felt to hold me. And he smelled like he’d taken a bath in Old Spice.”
“Sounds like sexual assault to me,” I said. Harold could be Karl’s doppelgänger. Does something snap in a man’s brain when he turns fifty?
“Harold said dinner would be ready in half an hour. ‘In the meantime let me give you a tour of my apartment,’ he says. Like it’s a forty-room mansion for fuck’s sake! I could see most of it from the entry hall.”
“I’ll bet everything was immaculate. Like he licked every corner.”
“When we got to the boudoir, as he called it, Harold said he wanted to tell me his fantasy about what will happen after dinner. I must have turned beet red because he quickly said his description could wait until dessert.”
“Yah. You were dessert! When did the fire start?” Sully can never tell a short story.
“That was later. The main dish was coq au vin. Fabulously mouthwatering. Meanwhile all through dinner I prayed one of us would choke on a bone and be rushed to the hospital.”
“You could have pretended.”
“Yah, right. The last place I wanted Harold was behind me doing that Heimlich thing. After dinner, I offered to do the dishes before dessert, but he wouldn’t hear of it. He’d gone to a lot of trouble with dessert and couldn’t wait to unveil his pièce de résistance.” Sully took French in college so he can trill these phrases off his tongue.
“He’d made Bananas Foster. Something like that. I was in charge of the matches while he poured rum over it. I don’t know what went wrong but when I struck the match the dessert went off like a blow torch. What a stink those curtains made! Every smoke detector started honking.”
“Jeez. Now that’s a flaming queen.” Sully ignores my joke. Okay it wasn’t that funny. “He never interfered with you?”
“Oh, no. Not even close.”
“And you made your escape.” A dramatic end to the story.
“I did. He was happy to see me go actually.”
I lean across the sofa and put my arms around Sully. I’m happy Harold didn’t have his way with him. “You learned a valuable lesson, young man.”
“Yah?”
“When on a date: always carry a Molotov cocktail for emergencies.”
Sully laughs, already putting the mishap out of his mind. But I can’t dismiss it so quickly. Oh God, I pray, don’t let me become a Harold or a Karl.


- - -
While enjoying retirement, I am writing a novel which I hope to finish this year. Travelling, reading, gardening and visiting grandchildren are much more fun than working.

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Author: Dave Riese

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

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It's a disgusting thing but Paddy Gilhooley, who knew better as a child, had begun farting in church very early in life. He started in grammar school, many decades ago, long before the nuns selected him in fourth grade to be an altar boy to serve Mass.

The Mass was then said in Latin with the altar boys' responses also said in Latin. The nuns picked Paddy because he was tall and was able to memorize things rapidly. By training him in fourth grade, the nuns believed Paddy would be able to serve Mass for the next four years till he graduated from grammar school.

Paddy was less than thrilled to be singled out for this honor. He had nothing against God or the Mass but he knew that fourth-grade altar boys were always assigned to serve the Mass at 6:30 a.m., way too early in the day for Paddy.

Being selected to be an altar boy, however, helped Paddy's grades even if more than once the nuns had to summon his father to the school about some aspect of his behavior that did not live up to the code at St. Nicholas of Tolentine School.

St. Nick's was a fine school whose mission was to educate the children of immigrants whose fathers had jobs good enough to buy small bungalows in the neighborhood known as Chicago Lawn. This was back in the 1940s when food was cheap, houses were cheap and salaries were commensurately low.

Most of the immigrants were from European countries--Germany, Poland, Lithuania, Italy and Ireland. Parents were interested in their children getting an education good enough for them to pass the entrance exam at one of the parochial high schools in Chicago. These high schools were renowned for offering college preparatory curricula. Tuition was around $250 a year. That was a big sum in those days but Paddy Gilhooley's father, an electrician, and a non-drinking Irishman, had already saved the $1,000 required for Paddy's four years of high school. Now Mr. Gilhooley was saving to send Paddy to college.

Paddy's father wanted the best for his son. Once he had enough money put aside for Paddy's college education, he planned to save more money to put him through law school. Mr. Gilhooley didn't emigrate from Ireland to have his son work with his hands. No sir, his son would go to law school and work with his mind. That much was settled.

Paddy, however, was a bit of a scamp when no one was looking. He discovered early on, for example, that one way to square the score with the nuns who required good behavior at all times was to fart in church, preferably in serial fashion, one missile after another, silent but, as his classmates aways said, deadly.

He started doing this in first grade when he had to sit with his classmates in one of the first three rows in church. These were the pews reserved for the first-graders at the Children's Mass. Right behind the first graders were three rows of second graders. And behind them, three rows of third graders--and so on. The procession continued, three rows at a time, all the way back to the eighth graders who occupied their own three rows in the rear.

The eighth graders were monitored carefully by the nuns. One false move and any miscreant child would be led by the ear out into the foyer of the church, where he--and it was always a boy--was dealt with summarily by the principal, usually the toughest nun in the convent at the time and always an immigrant from Ireland. In fact, the whole convent consisted of 16 nuns imported from Ireland to deal with these children of immigrants who were not, by any means, a refined group. Quite the contrary.

Paddy realized the nuns were only doing their job--trying to maintain order in God's House. But he enjoyed getting involved in devilment and looked forward to being in eighth grade when he'd be able to sit in the rear of the church where the nuns kept a close eye on boys like Paddy, most of them feisty to a fault, ready to do anything at times to create a little commotion.

In first grade Paddy learned early on that farting in church was especially troublesome to his classmates, especially the girls who seldom if ever misbehaved. It took awhile for the nuns to identify which child was stinking up the first three pews at the Children's Mass. But when several little girls sitting behind Paddy began pointing at him, the jig, so to speak, was up. Sister Mary Lorraine led Paddy down the aisle by the ear and placed him in the custody of the principal, Sister Marie Patrick, a stout bullet of a woman who did not suffer misbehavior happily.

"Why did you do that, Paddy, at Mass, especially? Surely, you must know better. Your parents will not be happy when I tell them."

Paddy, though only seven years old, had learned to keep a straight face and deny anything he was accused of. But it didn't help that despite great efforts by his mother, there was no way to comb his hair since it featured seven cowlicks--the barber had counted them for his curious mother. She had tried gobs of the most popular hair tonic of the day, Wildroot Creme Oil, but the cowlicks always popped up, often in the middle of Mass and just about the time Paddy would let the first of several farts fly.

"Sister, I didn't do nothin' at all," Paddy finally said. "I think it must have been Stanley. He eats Polish sausage and sauerkraut. Ask him."

But Sister Marie Patrick knew better so she led Paddy into the little office in the back of the church until Mass was over. Then she waited by the doorway to see Paddy's parents after Mass so she could discuss the problem with them. She really didn't know what to say to them but she figured it out by the time Mass was over.

Upon hearing of the charge against Paddy, Mr. Gilhooley, in his best suit and tie, was outraged. How could anyone, especially a nun from Ireland, say a thing like that about Paddy, who was going to law school in a few years.

Paddy himself, standing off to the side and watching the proceedings, enjoyed everything immensely but kept a stoic face. Even at this age, with his spectacles always slightly askew, he looked a little like a very young James Joyce or maybe George Bernard Shaw.

He never smiled or laughed when he was in the vicinity of people of authority, especially his father or the nuns. His mother had seen him smile several times and had told his father that Paddy was not as serious a child as his father thought a lawyer-to-be should be.

Finally, however, Sr. Marie Patrick, after mentioning to Mr. Gilhooley that she was from the same county in Ireland that he was, convinced him that indeed Paddy had been stinking up the front of the church during Mass.

"Where did he learn such behavior," Sister asked Mr. Gilhooley, who said he had no idea and looked at Mrs. Gilhooley, who knew full well that young Paddy had grown up in a home where his father not only farted with bravado but also used to sing, after each fart, an old ditty that was famous in the neighborhood:

"Beans, beans, the musical fruit. The more you eat, the more you toot."

Mr. Gilhooley was especially apt to fart and sing on Saturday afternoons while listening to the radio as Notre Dame stomped on some lesser foe in a football game. The more points Notre Dame would score, the more Mr. Gihooley would fart and sing.

And when Paddy's mother would complain that her husband was setting a bad example for Paddy, Mr. Gilhooley would explain once again how many farting matches he had won as a young man in Ireland. As the story would have it, Mr. Gilhooley would show up at the pub for the matches held late on a Saturday night. His presence was frowned upon because he didn't drink anything stronger than ginger ale.

Finally, Mr. Gilhooley decided to agree with Sr. Marie Patrick that young Paddy was guilty of what might not be a mortal sin but certainly qualified as a venial sin at the very least. He was also afraid his wife, an innocent woman if ever there was one, might pipe up and say Paddy had learned to fart from his father while they listened to Notre Dame games on the big console radio in the living room.

"Sister, I tell you this," Mr. Gihooley said. "If Paddy ever farts in church again, you smack him with that ruler of yours right across his keister and don't stop till the little bugger starts crying. Then you call me about it and when he gets home, I'll wallop him again. You and I will put a stop to this once and for all. Paddy is going to be a lawyer and no Irish lawyer farts in church."

Sr. Marie Patrick appeared mollified and released Paddy to his parents. His father led him out of the church by the ear for the long walk home. Paddy knew what he was in for once they got there. His father would take him to the attic door and open it and show him the big black belt that hung drooping from a hook. Mr. Gilhooley had even spliced the end of the belt so it would look like a serpent's tongue.

Whenever Paddy acted up around the house, Mr. Gilhooley would take the belt off the hook, wrap it around his fist and smack the tongue of the belt against his palm while telling Paddy if he ever did it again--whatever it was the boy had done on that occasion--the belt would be applied to his keister till he couldn't sit for a month. Paddy would immediately show sheer terror and say that he would never do whatever it was again.

Years later, Paddy, now a retired attorney, could laugh about all this as he told the story to his grandchildren. It was especially funny to Paddy because his father never hit him with the belt even though Sr. Marie Patrick had called his father several times to report that Paddy had continued to fart, albeit in the classroom and not in church.

Notre Dame in those years won several national football championships. As a result, Mr. Gilhooley continued to fart proudly and sing his heart out on many Saturday afternoons in autumn.

In eighth grade, Paddy was allowed to join in the farting himself but he would never join in the singing. His mother would never have allowed it. The poor woman couldn't tell one fart from another so she knew nothing about Paddy's participation at that level. But she always told neighbors that when you compared Paddy and his father, the apple didn't fall far from the tree.


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

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Author: Donal Mahoney

Contributor: Jennifer McBroom

- -
Elsa leaps and lets out a peep of a squeal only loud enough to share with herself as she exits the Department of Public Safety, a shiny piece of colorful plastic in hand. She skips to the pale blue coupe that awaits her, engine still running, ready to go for a ride.
Elsa drops into the driver’s seat and soaks in the moment, reading aloud the words along the top of the card, “Texas Driver License.” Sixteen today, the green-eyed, curly- headed brunette glances over to the passenger seat and shoots a look at her burly, broad- shouldered jock of an older brother sporting a grin from ear to ear. Elsa knows that look. She knows it means he is up to no good.
“I know what you’re thinking Leo! It’s not gonna happen! No way, no how!”
“Just this one time Elsa......please? We don’t have to tell mom. Come on, it’s your big sixteen!”
“I love that YOU have to beg ME now, since this is my car and I’M driving.”
She brandishes her newly attained license a little too close to Leo’s face and with the same mischievous grin, Elsa throws the shifter in reverse, narrowly missing an elderly couple walking behind her car, and speeds out of the parking lot. As the two are blasting the Foo Fighters on the tuner and blazing down the freeway, distracted by their karaoke concert they are carrying on with, Elsa fails to notice the sea of red lights in the short distance ahead. In somewhat of a panic, she slams on her brakes, skidding down her lane. Smoke engulfs the car when a loud pop rings out and their four-wheeled friend begins to limp desperately.
“Get over Elsa! Move to the shoulder! Hurry! We’re gonna miss the damn game if I don’t get your tire changed!”
“I’m moving Leo! Jesus.......quit yelling at me! I’ve never done this stuff before, in case you have forgotten!”
Finally making it over to the shoulder, Leo leaps out of the passenger door with the tire iron in hand before “Old Blue” even comes to a dead rest. He fights for a minute to get the lug nuts loose enough, and then changes the tire like he’s going out for a Nascar pit crew. Fifteen minutes later, he springs back into his seat and slams the door.
“Go Elsa! What the hell are you waiting for?”
“Leo!.....stop yelling at me! You’re making me crazy!”
“If you don’t go now Elsa, we’ll be late and get crappy seats, if we get any seats at all!”
Elsa growls at Leo then steps on the accelerator a little too hard and her car leaps into the lane cutting off a redneck in a bright red, over-sized pick-up with a rebel flag painted on the rear window and a loaded gun rack hanging inside. The resounding trumpet from the monstrosity makes the two of them damn near jump out of their skin. Elsa weaves in and out of the traffic doing what she can to garner some distance between them and the cursing cowboy yelling obscenities out of his window. Once she can no longer see his pumping fist in her rearview mirror, her and Leo can breathe again.
Their excitement peaks as they finally approach their destination. The interstate rounding the coliseum is teeming with vehicles behaving like school-aged children cutting in the cafeteria line. Finally inside the event parking lot, Elsa whips around from row to row scanning for any empty space she can find.
“Right there, Elsa. Pull into that spot right there!.........Go, go, go...now!”
“I’m going, Leo, geez! So bossy.”
She whips into the space and they bail out of the car, almost leaving it running. It is a competition between the two to get to the ticket booth, tripping over their own hooves.
“Two general admission seats, please.” As Elsa turns to Leo, “Give me some money.”
“Why am I paying?”
“Because I got to the booth first......AND it’s my birthday......remember?”
Like children, they have a quick exchange of sticking their tongues out and making faces at each other.
Popcorn and soda in hand, the two find their seats and get comfortable, anxiously awaiting the puck drop. The thrill in the air is building and insanity strikes when the players begin skating out onto the rink. Heckling commences instantly, and it isn’t long into the first period before Elsa is heading back to concessions for more popcorn since most of theirs found its final resting place on the floor at the foot of the plexiglass walls aligning the rink.
Eight boxes of popcorn later (between the both of them), three appearances on the jumbotron, a fisticuff with the referee (Leo almost getting ejected from the stands) and a winning score for their team of 4-1, it has been a bonding afternoon of celebration. After a couple high-fives with some of the team members, they push their way through the masses to flee the sportsplex.
“What a Gongshow! Leo.......you’re like the chillest big bro to ever live!”
“Anything for my baby sis on her big sixteenth. Our little secret, yea?”
“Yea.”
Leo wraps his arm around Elsa’s shoulder as they laugh and joke through the parking lot to their space in section H4. But on approach, the space in section H4 is bare. Confused, the two look around, chase the empty air in circles then gaze at each other in horror. Breathing heavily, Elsa doubles over and starts freaking out then looks up at Leo who’s leaned himself against a concrete light pole as he heaves in oxygen.
“My car! I’ve had my freaking license to drive for like four hours! What the hell! Well Leo, Mom’s gonna know now!”
“Shit!”


- - -
I am a recent BS Film grad from Full Sail University (after spending 18 years in the insurance industry), and am currently pursuing my MFA in Creative Writing. A born and raised Texan, I currently reside with my husband and two dogs in the Austin area.

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Author: Jennifer McBroom

Contributor: Jeff Hill

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This morning:

You woke up on the wrong side of the bed. Your alarm doesn't go off for another ten minutes. But your father called. Upset. And now you're up. Why don't you tell him to shove it? Why don't you just take a sick day? Perhaps tomorrow I'll build up the courage to tell you it gets better.

Work really drains you today. But you still look radiant. You try your best to make others happy, yet never make time for yourself. Why don't you leave that dreadful job? Why don't you believe in yourself the way I do? Perhaps tomorrow I'll build up the courage to give you that much-deserved pep talk.

Later tonight:

You make it seem so easy. Talking to guy after guy. Just to hurt me. It's like you're a different person. Completely. Why don't you act like this at work? Why don't you act like this all the time? Watching you sleep makes me want to hold you. But I know you're not ready. You wouldn't understand. Even though I hope you're different from the others. Why don't you ever see me? Why don't you ever prove me wrong?

Perhaps tomorrow I'll build up the courage to introduce myself.


- - -
Jeff Hill is a moderately reformed frat boy turned writer/teacher living the dream in Lincoln, Nebraska. He does freelance work and writes fiction, none of which is about corn or the husking of corn. His work has appeared in over a dozen publications and his mom has a binder full of printed copies for any doubters.

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Author: Jeff Hill

Contributor: Reese Scott

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He was surprised by the people that came to his funeral. It didn't make sense to him. He hadn’t spoken to anyone in some time and here they were. Since he had been dead, Jimmy had not been depressed or feeling the familiar wave of fear running through his body. In fact, since he had been dead, he was finally sleeping again. He finally realized that his inability to sleep was part of the reason he was so depressed. One of the pluses of being dead.

At the same time, he still had a sharp pain somewhere in his body. The pain would change into another form of pain, until it would finally disappear into a nice, quiet, peaceful feeling.

Jimmy looked around the church. He was surprised that he didn’t feel uncomfortable. He had never liked churches. Jimmy walked outside for a cigarette. It was nice now that he could legally steal cigarettes. One of the pluses of being dead. That and living anywhere you want, having the best stereo, HD Projector, TV, all the cable channels, computers for each room. And he loved the fact that no one was in love when they’re dead. Everyone was equal.

He had asked the Old Man about that. Jimmy was curious as to why love was not allowed. The Old Man told him love was allowed.
“Then why is no one in love?”
“Because it’s quieter like this. And it needs to be quiet.”
“Why?”
“Because it was too loud before. We can’t have people dying twice.”
“What do you mean?”
“Nobody told you?”
“No.”
“Really. Well before…”
“When was this?”
“Some time ago.”
“When is that?”
“Do you know what time it is?”
“No.”
“Why”
“There isn’t a clock.”
“May I continue?”
“Of course. Sorry.”
“When no one is in love no one needs to be sorry.”
“Why?”
“How do you feel right now?”
“Good.”
“Does it matter why?”
“No.”
“You see sometimes the things that make the difference are not different at all. My stomach hurts will you excuse me?”


- - -
Reese Scott is from New York. Currently resides in California.

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Author: Reese Scott

Contributor: Amanda Rae

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They laughed and reached across the beds to touch fingers. Noah smiled warmly at Robbie which sent him into a fit of giggles. "Can you believe that couples use to sleep in different beds?" asked Noah.
"No, I can't. It's super weird. My father told me that his grandparent's grandparents slept in different rooms. I couldn't imagine not waking up to you every morning." said Robbie. They both swung their legs over the side of the bed and met in the middle for a kiss. They had traveled a long way to stay at an old hotel that had recently been restored. It was very costly but with Robbie and Noah inviting another couple along Robbie could cover their half of the cost. The other couple was outside sitting at a patio table and chatting happily.
"I am glad that we came here, however. I had to sell my soul to get us the room but I think it is worth it." said Noah.
"Babe, I appreciate the thought...and the needed vacation but I don't get your infatuation with history and a past that didn't accept our love or us as people. I would be glad if it was all gone, honestly." Robbie regretted saying this as soon as it came out. They stared at each other in silence for many moments.
"Robbie, without the mistakes of the past how could we have ever learned any better?" asked Noah. Robbie pushed himself away from his boyfriend and pondered the thought for a few moments.
"Well Noah, if you must ask I think we would be better off. When we have children of our own they won't ever have to know any differently. They won't know that anybody ever hated anyone and the next generation will grow up without hate clouding their judgment of people. They will judge people off of their personality and not the color of their skin or who they love." Noah grabbed Robbie's hand and kissed it softly. Noah wanted to explain to Robbie the importance of the past but had a hard time getting the right words out. His boyfriend was sensitive about his sexuality even though nobody had ever changed it or saw any weirdness in it. He had only saw it in old books. Instead of calling Robbie out on it Noah crossed the room and touched an old dresser.
"Do you want to know why this dresser is so profoundly beautiful?" His fingers caressed the dresser lightly and her turned back to look at Robbie. Robbie propped himself up with one arm and sighed.
"Why is the dresser so beautiful?"
"The dresser is so beautiful because is was once a beautiful tree. The beautiful tree was cut down and maybe that makes you feel angry. How could anyone cut down something so beautiful? It sucks but the tree's life does not end there. Someone else takes the remains of the tree and builds it into something even more beautiful and useful. The craftsmen sands down and makes smooth the remains of the tree and stains it and covers it with a thick coat of lacquer to protect it. The dresser is taken by someone who needs and will use it for what it's intended for." Robbie shakes his head and crosses the room with a smile on his face. He wraps his hands around his boyfriend.
" I see what you are saying, my love. I wouldn't want to be cut down and turned into a dresser but I guess without people getting cut down we could have never been built back up and have been made stronger. Maybe we wouldn't have this new world of equality and freedom without war and heartache. I'm just saying that when we have kids of our own can we just hold off on the 'tree' talk?"
"Oh, come on! I pulled that one out of nowhere! You didn't even see it coming!"
"Agree to disagree?"
"I love you."
"I love you, too."


- - -
I am a student at Full Sail University trying to better my writing. I'm kind of ridiculous.

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Author: Amanda Rae

Contributor: Jackson Brock

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A ‘67 Ford Galaxie 500, that was my very first car. I still remember the day I got it. Our family wasn’t poor, but we weren’t wealthy either. Dad worked two jobs, being both a mechanic and an after hours janitor at the high school so I didn’t get to spend much time with him. One day I came home though, and Mom and Dad met me at the door, smiles on their faces. Dad was standing tall and proud, shoulders back, chest out, he looked like a super hero. Mom was beaming; she was so bright I am pretty sure the sun was jealous.
They took me inside and sat me down; they told me that Dad had gotten a promotion. He was going to be the head mechanic and practically run the garage from now on. He could quit his job as a janitor and spend more time with us. I was so excited I didn’t see Dad get his car keys from his pocket until he threw them at me. I barely caught them before they hit my face. He could see the confusion on my face, but just beckoned me to follow him outside.
Once outside, he headed straight for our old junk car, a Nash Metropolitan. He got in the passenger seat and motioned me toward the driver seat. This would be the first time I had driven since I got my drivers license and I was even more excited than I was a few moments earlier. As we drove Dad barely spoke aside from giving directions and saying it was a surprise when I asked where we were going. I gave up after a few times asking and just focused on driving and trying to guess where we were headed.
I almost hit the brakes when he said turn left and I realized we were turning into a Ford Dealership. We had driven all the way in and parked before I was able to speak.
“Dad are we buying a car,” I asked. He smiled at me, patted me on the back and said, “No, we are buying you a car.” My jaw dropped and I’m sure my eyes almost rolled out of my head. Dad laughed then pointed to the lot.
“Go find your car, son.”
I headed off into the lot barely aware that Dad was following me as I nearly ran up and down the rows of cars. Then, I spotted it. A deep, dark, but still somehow vibrant hunter green caught my eye. I went up to this magnificent vehicle not even knowing what it was. Over and under headlights, a long front and short back, roof was low and slanted toward the trunk instead of having a boxy look to it. The front end came to three points, one at each headlight and one in the middle. Just looking at it I could see the wind blowing easily over it as I drove down the road. I looked inside and saw wood accented dash and steering, and real tan colored leather seats.
I heard Dad whistle his approval behind me, like a catcall after a beautiful woman. I smiled as he approached and asked, “what is it?”
“It’s a Ford Galaxie 500 Fastback. That’s a good pick, Son.”
I just stared in awe for a few moments…
“This is the one Dad, this is my car.” I never broke my gaze from this beautiful machine.
“Now Son, this one is a little more expensive than I intended.” He paused for a bit, “but if you promise to do good in school the rest of the year I will think about it.” I heard what he said and thought to myself; I can do better than that.
“I promise I will, but why don’t I get a job and help you pay for the extra? This IS my car Dad.” He let out a hearty laugh and hugged me before leaving to go inside the dealership. I drove my car home that afternoon. I remember cranking it the first time, and feeling the engine rumble, like when trains go by, or a plane flies too low. The smell of new leather became a smell I will always love. The feel of the wood accented steering wheel in my hands, the power I could feel under my foot when I hit the gas. These are all things I will never forget.
“That’s a great story about you and grandpa, dad, but where are we going?” I smiled at my own son as I said…
“Turn left.”


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Passionate about writing, but new to it.

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Author: Jackson Brock

Contributor: John Laneri

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Laura and I are in bed, listening to the sounds of classical music. We’ve made love once this morning, the intensity almost magical.

Ordinarily on a Wednesday, I would be at the country club working through a bucket of balls, enjoying the out of doors while I prepare for my afternoon round of golf.

After meeting Laura, I stopped playing golf.

It was a difficult decision at first, probably one of the hardest choices I've ever made. But, I soon realized that being with her brought the joy of intimacy back into my life.

She rolls close to me, her leg touching mine. “I love the way you indulge me.”

“Only because you're so amazing,” I reply smiling. “That's one of the reasons I love you.”

She laughs softly and settles her head into the pillow, her eyes turning to mine.” Did your wife like to be indulged?”

“Overly-indulged,” I reply quietly. “She spent everything... most of it on shopping. That's one of the reasons we divorced.”

Laura snuggles closer, her lips touching mine. “After we're married, you can indulge me by making love every minute of every day.”

“That would be a pleasure,” I reply, as I peck her lips with a simple kiss, wondering why she mentioned marriage.

Nonetheless, Laura is a wonderful person. She's only a few years younger than me. She’s petite, pleasantly attractive and very devoted to her children, who by the way, live charmed adult lives – thanks to her generosity.

She moves closer, and soon we come together with that same eagerness that began a few days after we met at a church social. At the time, she was busy ending a thirty year marriage to Charles, a wealthy but physically abusive man who drank heavily.

Since her divorce, we've lived together in her home, a large, comfortable house in the suburbs. She sees me as a loving, successful businessman with my own insurance agency. In turn, I satisfy her need for intimacy while enjoying both her sexual pleasures and a respectable part of her huge spousal support payment.

Rolling away, thoroughly spent, I leave her sprawled across the bed, basking in another mid-life afterglow, while I pad to the bathroom, wondering if I actually love the woman.

“Don’t take long,” she calls from the bedroom. “I want you again before I leave for the mall.”

Forcing myself not to hear the word, 'mall', I down another Viagra then run a comb through my hair, thankful for the wonders of modern medicine.

On returning to bed, I notice her eyes closed, so I quietly slip beside her and let my thoughts drift.

As always, they return to my prior love – the game of golf.

Deep in my heart, I continue to remember the friendships and the laughter, as well as the challenging pars and birdies – things that also brought joy and fulfillment to my life. For some reason, the sport continues to call me back, begging me to return to the pleasures I once knew.

Laura rolls against me, interrupting my thoughts. “I can’t wait to tell the children we're getting married. They’ll be so happy.”

Turning to her, I say, “Remember... if we get married, you lose your spousal support.”

“No, sweetheart,” she says softly, as she laps a leg over mine. “I'm saying, the children will be happy I have you.”

Turning to her, I ask, “What do you mean?”

“It's a tedious story,” she says, as she looks away, her eyes growing misty, “But Charles lost everything in the real estate market. He has nothing, and I mean, nothing.”

Suddenly, my heart skips several irregular beats. “Can he recover?”

“It's doubtful. He's under investigation for fraud. People close to him say, he's going to prison, maybe for the rest of his life.” She wipes a tear away then snuggles closer. “It was a shock at first when the monthly support stopped.”

“But, without the payments, you'll have to curtail your shopping habits and quit supporting your children, maybe even sell the house.”

“I'm not concerned about the money,” she continues comfortably. “I have you. Now, we can be married. I'd love to plan another large wedding.”

“A large wedding!” I almost shout, as I push her leg away, my thoughts swirling with contradictions.

Sure, the sex is great, but golf is great too. And, best of all, it's uncomplicated.

She looks at me, her features expressing concern. “Is something wrong, dear? Your face is so flushed. Are you having a heart attack?”

Ignoring her, I calmly call the club to schedule an tee time, then head for the door, relieved to finally accept the fact that golf, even with its frustrations and challenges, is... and always will be, my only true love


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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: Donal Mahoney

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He's out there again, my neighbor, the doctor, waiting for the snow plow to pass so he can jog on a clean street.

It's 5 a.m. and we've had three inches of snow and it's still coming down but nothing can stop him.

Doc jogs every morning, good weather or bad.

This morning we meet because I'm out spelunking in the snow and the dark for my morning paper.

Going through his warm-ups, he invites me once again to join him for a jog, an invitation he extends when we meet on dark mornings.

As I have told him before, I tell him once again that I'll arrive soon enough in Cadaverville and have no desire to get there faster.

Months ago, I told him about articles in the paper, three or four times a year, indicating that another otherwise healthy man had dropped dead while jogging.

I tell him that's not a good thing.

One of the deceased, I mention, was a cardiologist like him. Can't remember his name, I tell him, but he was also young, with kids.

I go on to explain that I am a believer in Recliner Therapy, something I find very beneficial.

I add that I've never heard of a soul dropping dead in a recliner. I admit, however, that could happen but so far I have seen no mention of such a tragedy in the paper.

Thirty years my junior at least, this young doctor who jogs asks what I do for exercise as he puffs through his warm-ups.

I tell him I push all the way back in my humongous recliner at least three times a day and wiggle my toes, grab a Kleenex and blow my nose.

I tell him I believe in a holistic, head-to-toe approach to exercise.

The snow plow finally passes and the young doctor chuckles, hikes up his sweat pants and jogs off, arms swinging, through flakes of snow.


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Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.

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Author: Donal Mahoney

Contributor: Taran Washington

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I walk around my apartment, trying to do anything to keep my body from sleeping. I haven’t slept for three consecutive days, and if I was about to doze off I would force myself to remain awake. The exhaustion is worth it though, anything physical is better in comparison to what lies in my mind. Night terrors have haunted me since I was a child, years of therapy and various medicines had helped keep them at bay.

Something changed though, the therapy stopped soothing, the medicine stopped having its effect. The doctors told me that my body had adapted to the drug and they would look for a substitute. That was six days ago, and the terrors were back to an unbearable level, making me wake up thrashing and screaming, drenched in cold sweat. Dreams always start out normal, say I would be flying, the next moment I lay in a field of bone, and the next moment I’d be running from a pursuer, all under watch of a blood red sky.

When I awake my vision is obscured by white and red pixelated lights and all my body acts on is the primal urge of escape. Three days ago, my last attempt at sleep gauged my worst reaction. My body woke, but my mind was still in the hell, my body ran through my room resulting in me crashing into and unhinging both my bedroom door and my nerve.

So here I am still after 72 hours, doing all in my power to remain awake and sane. Fidgeting at every sound, my heart jumps into my throat as I hear a knock at my door.

“Y-yes…w-who is it?” I ask shakily as I walk forward.

As I reach the door, there comes a crash as a hand holding a knife protrudes through a hole in my door. I fall back onto the floor screaming, but as I face the door again the knife, hand, and hole in my door are gone. I curl up into a ball shaking and crying, I grab my head and yell.

“What the hell is happening to me?!”


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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: Robert Bates

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I've waited my whole life for this. It's the state championship game and we are down by one point. I dribble past the midcourt line while the crowd is counting down the seconds.

“Five! Four!"

Sweat drips in my eye but I can still see Devon open and waving for the pass. He's supposed to take the last shot, but he doesn’t understand. This is my moment. I can already see that championship ring on my finger.

"Three! Two!"

This is it. I jab step and drive, successfully getting around the defender. With a victorious smirk on my face, I jump in the air, raise my elbow, and release at the top of my jump just like coach taught me. The ball begins its perfect arc towards the rim and I can feel the whole gym watching me in my moment of glory.

I miss.


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Robert Bates is currently studying General Business at Louisiana College. He enjoys, reading, writing, chocolate ice cream and Christopher Nolan movies. He has no idea what he is going to do once he graduates college, but he hopes it will be interesting.

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Author: Robert Bates

Contributor: Mel S.

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“I just don’t understand, Bill. Why can’t I come with you?”
“Ellie, please understand. You can’t ask me any more questions. I’m only authorized to tell you that the President has requested a team to investigate certain Communist threats and I’ve been chosen as part of that team. I have to move to Sacramento today. Alone.”
Ellie swirled the last of her scotch and soda, listening to the tinkling of ice against the glass, and demurely crossed her legs. She risked a furtive glance into his eyes to determine if there was another reason for him to abandon her. She only saw concern and sadness in his baby blues. She selfishly wanted him to tell her everything, to defy his superiors and take her with him. Or at least tell her what he was getting himself into and why she couldn’t help. She had the distinct feeling that this would be the last time they would see each other. She wanted to leap across the cheap hotel table and hug him close, to breathe in his smell, and beg him not to leave. But her legs would not move. They both sat silent, avoiding each other’s eyes, the sound of the swirling ice breaking the silence.
“How will I know that you’re okay?” She kept her eyes downcast, the tears threatening to spill down her perfectly powdered cheeks.
“The room has been paid for a month in advance. I’ll call you as often as I can. You’ll know it’s me when I say ‘tulips make your eyes smile’. Will you remember?”
The tears spilled then. Coursing down her cheeks in hot streams.
“Of course I’ll remember. That’s the first thing you ever said to me.”
The Santa Monica winds whistled through the fence as they sat in vacillating silence. They had only been married a year, still getting to know each other. Bill knew that Ellie loved him. Not as deeply as he loved her but he’d had a head start. He was a patient man and knew that she would come around—if they only had more time. Now, it seemed they might never get the chance to grow into the love they were capable of. Bill involuntarily reached for Ellie’s hand and then withdrew it just as quickly. She hadn’t noticed, lost in her own thoughts.
“My bus leaves in 20 minutes,” he said. His insides felt like they had turned to stone. His guts churned, burning him up with worry, regret, and wistfulness for the fleeting love of his life. He stood, slowly leaned into her, and kissed her softly on the forehead.
“I love you, Elisabeth,” he whispered.
Her hands trembled, the ice clattering in her tumbler. She did not lift her head as he padded softly across the tiny room. She did not look at him as he stuffed his cigarettes into his trousers. She did not stand as he picked up his satchel. She did not say a word as he exited the room, looking back over his shoulder to capture one last look at his wife. The door clicked shut behind him.
“I’m pregnant,” she whispered and drained the last of her scotch.


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Author: Mel S.

Contributor: Maggie Giles

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That heart shaped lock hangs on my door, reminding me of better times. It makes me think of you. The heart shaped lock hangs on my door, whispering forgotten memories. Accusing, pleading, crying, begging. That heart shaped lock upon my door.
The key is long lost; it went missing almost five years back, but it didn’t matter then. I didn’t want to remove it. I still remember the day your strong hands took my small ones and held them tightly while we closed the lock together.
“A symbol of our love,” you swore. “We will never be apart.”
My eyes fluttered shut as you kissed me. Your lips were always warm and soft. I never knew how your touch could always be so perfect. But it was.
That heart shape lock still hangs on my door. Whispering, haunting, mourning.
The day you left, my heart went cold, hard and metal like that lock. You swore it wouldn’t be long. You swore you would come back.
“You are my everything,” you told me. “We will never be apart.”
Your hand caressed my cheek as the soft breeze from the open window tousled your messy brown hair. We swayed in the warm sunlight, dancing to the sound of the blue bird’s song. We stood in the middle of the room and you told me you loved me. But love was never enough.
Then you squeezed that lock and smiled at me. “Good thing we lost the key. Now you will have to hold onto me forever.”
The twinkle in your eye told me you meant it as a joke, a loving memory. But that didn’t last. It became a burden I didn’t know how to lose. But it was also one I didn’t want to.
You never did come back, even though you said you would. You never said Goodbye; you said you didn’t need to. Instead you touched my heart, saying you’d always be there. At the time it meant everything, now I can barely feel that touch.
Sometimes I curse your stubbornness, looking back now and asking myself what I would have said, what I could have done. Maybe I would have stopped you. But I couldn’t stop you. Neither of us had a choice. When you’re fifteen, nobody takes your love seriously. Adults don’t understand.
I stand from the small box that I am sitting on. My room is completely packed, my life ready to be moved away. Except the lock. My delicate fingers wrap around the cool metal and pull. It doesn’t budge. It never does. You swore it would stay as strong as our love. I take comfort in this.
I flop back down on the cardboard box, filled with my high school memories. My family and I are leaving my childhood home. We are moving north, to another city. I was accepted to attend a university and my parents wanted to follow me. I wish you would follow me too. I wish you could see how things have changed.
I searched my room as I cleaned and packed, hoping I would find the lost key, hoping I could take our heart with me. But it was in vain. The key is lost, as you wanted it to be, and now, three years after you left me behind, I finally have to say goodbye.
I study the lock for some time before walking back to the door and holding it in my hand once more. The once cool metal feels warm to my touch, like your love is radiating through.
Tears spill out of my eyes and roll down my cheeks, I wish I could take this part of you with me, but I know it is time. I lean in and press my lips to the warm metal.
“I love you,” I whisper. “I’m sorry I never got to say Goodbye.”


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Maggie Giles is a 20 something Canadian author working full time as a marketing associate for an industrial gasket manufacturer. When backpacking through Europe, she developed an interest in writing and began writing historical fictions from the Tudor era in England, but her writing interests span larger. She has also dabbled in thrillers, scifi, horror and more recently starting a fantasy series.

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Author: Maggie Giles

Contributor: Joshua L Hawkins

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“Come on, come on.” Eli said and twisted the key in the ignition again. The engine of the old car sputtered and died like a sneeze cut off in the throat. A soft cloud of steam rose from the hood of the car in the frigid night.
“You have got to be kidding me.” Julia said from the passenger seat. She pulled her large coat tighter around herself to try to keep warm.
“I swear, every single time I think I have this thing fixed it goes and screws up again.” Eli said and slammed the heel of his hand into the outer edge of the steering wheel.
“So, what do we do now? Julia asked. She pulled a cigarette from her purse and lit it.
Eli gave her a stare from across the car. “Smoking? Seriously Jules?”
“Yes seriously you moron. It’s midnight, and I’m stuck in the freezing cold because my boyfriend’s piece of shit car won’t start. Who cares if your precious car gets smoke smell in it, I don’t.”
Eli reached over, and snatched the cigarette from her lips. “I don’t care about the car.” He said, and looked at her abdomen. “I care about the baby.”
Julia sighed. “I’ve already told you what I’m doing with the baby.” She said, and withdrew another cigarette.
“So that’s it then? I don’t get any say so in whether our child is born or not?” He shifted in his seat so he was facing her more than before.
“You aren’t the one who has to get fat, and walk around with a five to ten pound lump in your stomach for nine months. Damn right you don’t have a say so.” She said, and then with a grunt of disdain she lit a second cigarette.
Eli looked over at her baffled as she took a few long drags on the cigarette.
“What?” She asked, and held up her hands. “You want me to be a house wife, or something Eli? You want us to get married, and move in together, and take care of this baby? No Eli. That isn’t what I’m going to do, get that through your head. I don’t care how nice of a guy you are, marriage is out of the question.”
“At least think about it Jules, I mean we could raise this baby together.”
“No.” She said, and took another drag of the cigarette. “I’m only twenty-two years old Eli. I haven’t had my share of fun. If I have this baby now I get to kiss all that away.”
“So?” He asked. “What is a few years of getting yourself hopelessly drunk, and sleeping with three dozen guys you’ll never remember, compared to raising a child. A child Jules, a child that we brought into this world and that we should be responsible for. I don’t want you to get rid of it. Keep it, please.”
She finished her cigarette, and looked over at him. Their eyes met for a moment before she turned away, and sighed. “I can’t Eli. I just can’t do it. I’m not ready for this kind of thing. I know that has to be the most clichéd response to getting pregnant, but I’m just not ready for this.” She wiped at her eyes before the tears could spill down.
“At least think about it, okay? I mean you don’t have to make a decision right now do you?” Eli asked.
She shook her head and pulled her bundled coats closer. “I’m sorry Eli. The decision has been made.” Her hand grasped at the door handle for a moment and then without another hesitation she opened the door and climbed from the car. The lone streetlight above them bathed her in bright yellow light.
“You don’t have to do this alone Jules.” Eli said from the driver’s seat.
“It may have taken two of us to make this baby.” She said, and leaned down to look at him once more. “But it only takes one of us to fix the mistake.” She stood straight, and let the door swing closed in front of her with a loud clang. Taking a deep freezing breath she backed away from the car, and turned towards the vehicle’s rear. Then she started walking, tiny puffs of steam emitting from her lips as she breathed in the dark cold night. Behind her Eli stared through the icy rear window of the old beat up car.
“Nothing is a mistake if you can love it.” He said to the empty cab, and then he turned back to the front of the car, and tried the ignition again. It turned over once more before dying in a gargling wheeze of smoke, and then the silence of the dark cold night fell upon him.


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Joshua Hawkins began writing in ninth grade during a creative writing class. His love for expression through words spread throughout the rest of his schooling and now he attends Full Sail University for his Bachelor's in Creative Writing for Entertainment.

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Author: Joshua L Hawkins