Contributor: Joe Forrest

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Deano looked out the window as the old sedan pulled up. After all his years on the planet, he still appreciated a good car. His eyes weren’t as good anymore, but he knew a classic. When the young man stepped out of the car however, his stomach turned.

The man stood and stretched. He looked like he’d just walked off the set of Rebel Without a Cause. His hair was greased back just like when they were kids. He pulled on an old jacket. Deano could almost hear the creak of the leather. The man ran a hand through his hair, followed by a comb. Then he looked straight at Deano. His eyes were cold, his skin pale, and you could tell he was full of ill intent. A real bad mama jama as they used to say. He made his way for the front door.

Deano waited for the knock he knew would come. He wasn’t in a hurry to answer it when it did. Three knocks that reminded him of heartbeats. Deano didn’t move. Three more knocks, each hitting him in the chest like a hollow-point slug.

Not knowing if he could take another three knocks, Deano pulled his old, creaky bones from the chair. He opened the door and just like he’d thought, what he saw was impossible. Ernie, that rat bastard, young as he was the day he died.

“Ya ain’t gonna invite me in, old man?” asked Ernie.

Deano's mouth felt like it was full of cotton. “S-sure, Ernie. Come on in.”

Ernie smiled and pushed by him. He made a show of looking around the living room. He pulled a pack of Pall Mall’s, no filter, from his coat pocket.

“Mind if I blow smoke, old man?”

“Um…”

Ernie rolled his eyes dismissively. “Not like it really matters to ya, huh? All eat up with cancer like ya are.”

He lit one of the cigarettes and took a long drag. One of the pictures on the mantle caught his eye. He picked it up and examined it. A man, a woman, and two kids looking happy at a picnic. Ernie paid particular attention to the woman.

“Damn, Deano. She’s a hot little number, ain’t she?”

Deano went from scared to angry. “Put the picture down, Ernie,” he said.

Ernie smiled again. “Yeah, yeah, Deano. Cool ya jets. I was just pokin’ fun. Ain’t got a need for her kind no more.” He took a drag of the cigarette. “Have a seat, buddy. We need to talk.”

Deano was reluctant, but did as he was told. He sat down in the old recliner, the one his wife had bought him so long ago. It conformed to his body and made him comfortable. Tonight though, tonight it wasn’t so comfortable.

Ernie sat down on the flower print couch opposite of him. He kicked his feet up. That smile was still on his face and every fiber of Deano’s being screamed in fear.

“Best remain calm, old fella,” said Ernie, all nonchalant. “Wouldn’t want the ticker to give this late in the game, now would ya?”

Ernie took another drag as he stared at Deano. The silence in the room was deafening.

“What do you want, Ernie?”

Ernie leapt to his feet. “Bingo, bango, bongo! Now that’s the million dollar question ain’t it?”

“You’ve been dead going on forty years, Ernie. I killed you myself.”

“There it is,” said Ernie. “There’s that realization. No foolin’ you, huh, Deano? You’re talkin’ to a dead man, the man you killed, and ya tremblin’ like a babe. You’re one cool cat, huh?”

The .38 special was in Deano’s hand and firing before he even thought about it, old habits being what they are. Three bullets ripped through the space between them, slamming into the other man’s chest. They pushed him back a bit, but he was otherwise unmoved by the action. Three holes in the t-shirt was all that marked the passing of the bullets. Not a drop of blood was in sight.

Ernie laughed. “You really didn’t think that was gonna do nuthin’, did ya?”

“I suppose not,” said Deano, lowering the gun, defeated.

“Now, you’re a smart man, Deano,” said Ernie. “I always said ya was smart. Ya was even smart the way ya got rid of my body. No one ever knew.”

Ernie crept towards Deano. There was no longer anything human in his movements. He was like a shadow, liquid and smooth.

“Ya had to know your sins would catch up,” he said.

“You’re not Ernie,” said Deano.

The smile left the other man’s face. “No, no I’m not.” His voice was flat now, no longer belonging to Ernie.

“Who are you then?”

The other man considered this for a moment. “I’ve gone by many names. Old Bones. The Shadow Walker. The Pale Man. Tonight I’m the Black Racer. Humans always have a name for me. My real name is what I am though. You know it. I know it.”

A fire seemed to light deep in the other man’s eyes. Deano was afraid. It was like looking into two tiny supernovae. It was like staring into creation and…and…

“Say it, Deano,” said the Black Racer. “Say my name.”

It came out a whisper. “Death.”


- - -
Joe Forrest lives in Phoenix, AZ where he holds down a boring old job. At night, he comes up with crazy stories in the hopes that one day he can do it for a living. He also drinks copious amounts of alcohol.

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Author: Joe Forrest

Contributor: Briauna McKizzie

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Sitting at gate D18, Maggie tried to keep her hands from shaking. She was breathing heavily and beads of sweat had formed at her temples. Suddenly, a woman with the voice of a rusting automaton placed a loudspeaker to her lips.
“We apologize for the inconvenience, but Flight 388 has been delayed due to thunderstorms. However, the forecast promises clear skies soon, and we hope to have you landing at DFW no later than 2:15am. We appreciate your patience. Thank you for choosing Southwest Airlines.”
The individuals waiting at the gate had varied responses. Some people rolled their eyes and voiced their disapproval of the airline’s inability to control the weather. The parents in the group quickly created makeshift beds on the seats around them and encouraged their little ones to rest. Meanwhile, members of Generation Y took the opportunity to take an uninhibited amount of “selfies”.
However, the only person who actually smiled at the turn of events was Maggie. Glancing at her watch, she looked around for a moment before leaving the waiting area and walking down the terminal toward the shopping and dining area.
It was nearing 10 ‘O clock and all was quiet. Janitors were walking slowly from bathroom to bathroom, and small groups of people were waiting at various gates. Only one restaurant was still open. A bar and grill with more than six TVs, each playing a different program.
Standing outside the entrance, Maggie fiddled with her hand before walking inside of the bar. She sat on a red stool next to a man wearing a silver Rolex. He didn’t even look up when the pretty woman sat next to him. He only continued to stare at his iPad that was resting on the counter. The muscles near the left corner of her mouth contracted upward as she looked down at the web page the man was on. His fingers were slowly scrolling down the web page for Rolex. He had just stopped to look at a gold one with a green face, when the bartender with the name “Alex” stitched into his shirt came up to Maggie.
“Would you like something to drink?” He asked her.
Maggie looked up quickly. “Um, I’m not a big drinker. What should I get?”
The bartender shrugged. “Most girls like vodka cranberries.”
“Well, that sounds perfect. Vodka cranberry it is.” Maggie grinned like a child with a treat.
“Okay…” The bartender stared at her raising an eyebrow. “Can I see your ID first?”
His eyebrow remained skeptical, as he examined the Texas driver’s license.
“Thanks.” He said handing back the license.
When he came back with her drink, Maggie had stopped spying on her neighbor and was staring at the TV instead. The Weather Channel showed the billowing storm that kept Flight 388 grounded.
“Here’s your drink.” He handed it to her and their fingers touched for a moment longer than necessary. She looked down and smiled as he finally released the glass.
“Thank you.” She said.
Alex looked around the bar. Most of the occupants were either deep in conversation or gathering their things to leave. He leaned against the counter clearing his throat, which caused Mr. Rolex to glance up, assess the situation, and move to a cluster of lounge chairs deeper within the bar.
“Are you headed home?” Alex asked politely.
“Mhmm. I was here for a business trip. I’m a marketing advisor.” She brought the drink to her lips while keeping an eye on the stranger.
“Do you enjoy that?”
“You know I actually don’t care for cranberries, but I needed the liquor.” She set the glass down, empty.
He smiled, “I meant your job.”
“Well, I’ll put it this way. Do you enjoy your job?” She returned.
He hesitated before answering, “Only on nights like this one.” Before she could make any type of response, he barreled on, “So…Texas, huh?”
“Yeah. Texas.”
“Do you like it there?”
“I like it about as much as I like my job.”
“Why don’t you move, go exploring…follow your dreams?”
“I’m 35 years old.”
“Exactly…” a brief silence ensued. He continued, “Well, it sounds like you need break from your life. Let me get you another drink on the house.”
Three rounds of drinks and several jokes later, a stoic announcement interrupted the short-lived flirtation.
“Attention passengers of flight 388, please come to gate D18 to begin boarding.”
Maggie bit her lip and opened her mouth as if to speak, but the words remained inside her.
“That’s you isn’t it?” He asked.
“Yeah, that’s me.”
“Well, it was nice talking to you.” The word “nice” hung like a vapor over the room.
Maggie stood up, reaching down for her bag. She placed the brown leather strap over her shoulder and her body sagged in response to the weight.
“Goodbye.” She reached down and touched his hand.
“Goodbye.”
Maggie turned and walked away. Reaching the gate, she pulled out her phone as she waited for her group to begin boarding. There were seven notifications for missed messages.
“Shit,” she whispered. Maggie began to type a response to the messages but stopped suddenly to reach back into her pocket. She pulled out a simple gold band and put it on her ring finger. Exhaling, she typed a response.
“Sorry, honey, it’s been crazy and my flight was delayed. Don’t wait up. I’ll see you and the kids in the morning. Love you.”
By the time her section was allowed to board, only the middle seats were open. Tired, Maggie chose the first vacant seat available.
“Hello.” A man’s voice greeted.
Maggie looked up startled. It was Mr. Rolex. She smiled in response, and the wedding ring burned like a brand on her slender finger. Yet, Mr. Rolex didn’t seem to mind the jewelry… he already knew it wouldn’t be an issue.


- - -
Growing up in more than seven states, I have become a woman with a lot of stories in her soul. My goal is to tell authentic stories that will make readers laugh, cry, and think.

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Author: Briauna McKizzie

Contributor: Anthony Merklinger

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But sleep won’t come the whole night through...

There is a rapping at the door.

She turns her head from the bathroom mirror and listens as each knock fills the void in her apartment.

“Marra!” calls a voice from behind the door.

She refocuses her attention to the mirror. Behind the lipstick stains and fingerprints, there’s a beautiful young woman.

The rapping continues.

She picks up a stick of black eyeliner from beside the faucet and removes the cap. She inhales and tightens her face.

“Marra,” says the voice again, “I know you’re in there.”

She tilts her head and applies the liner.

The rapping continues.

She closes the cap and places the liner back on the sink. She reviews herself in the glass.

When tears come down like fallin’ rain…

She walks into the living room and lifts the needle from the turntable.

“Marra,” says the voice.

She puts on a pajama robe and tightens the belt around her waist.

“Mar-”

She opens the door.

“Thank you,” the man says, lowering his clenched fingers to his side. He stands back and reviews her.

“Well?” she says.

“I, uh… I need your rent money.”

She tilts her head. “I thought...”

“Not this time.”

“You say that every time,” she says, running a finger up his torso.

He tightens his posture. “No. I need the money.”

“I don’t have it.”

“What do you mean?”

She loosens her belt.

“Look, Melissa…”

She wraps her left hand gently around the back of his neck. Her fingertips nestle in his hair.

“Melissa…” he says.

She presses herself against him.

“Stop!”

He pushes her against the doorframe. “That’s it. I can’t do this anymore. You have a week to clear out.” He wipes his mouth and walks down the hallway.

She looks up at the ceiling and exhales like a teapot ejecting steam. She runs her tongue against the inside of her cheek and walks into the room.

A gust of wind surges through the hallway and slams her door shut. The needle on the turntable falls.

You’ll walk the floor, the way I do…

She walks to the turntable and snaps the needle off.

Static fills the void in her apartment.

She removes her robe and collapses onto the air mattress. Her body fills the sweat-stained sheets.

A pigeon flies onto her windowsill.

She stands up and overturns the mattress. She grabs her pillow and swings it across the coffee table, knocking capsules of lipstick and fashion magazines across the room.

She stumbles and breathes heavily.

A second pigeon flies onto her windowsill.

She walks into her kitchenette and opens a box of cereal. She tilts the box and a wave of Cheerios crashes against her face. She opens the fridge and empties the remnants of a carton of milk into her mouth.

She stumbles around. Her feet crush the cereal against the floor, and milk trickles down her legs.

A third pigeon flies onto her windowsill.

She takes a vase of flowers and throws it against the wall. The glass shatters and the flowers spill onto the floor.

There is a rapping at the window.


- - -
Anthony Merklinger is a full-time undergraduate student pursuing a Bachelor of Fine Arts degree at Full Sail University in Creative Writing for Entertainment.

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Author: Anthony Merklinger

Contributor: Robert Bates

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“Mark wants to beat your ass,” Julian had warned me at the beginning of the school day.

More like Mark is going to beat my ass. Everyone knows I can’t fight. I sit in my seat wondering what will happen next.

Julian sees my worried face and says, “Relax, I got your back.”

The teacher walks out and I can feel Mark watching me.

Rachel whispers, “It’ll be really funny if you win,” into my ear from her seat beside me.

I turn and Mark is in my face. He pushes me and I instinctively push him back.

He hits me. Then I’m on the ground. Completely disoriented.

I wait for another punch to come but it never does. I finally regain my senses and get up to see Julian holding Mark with his arms pinned behind his back.

“If you are going to do something, do it now,” he says, struggling to hold him.

I hit Mark three times with my left hand then he elbows Julian and breaks free. He charges at me and before I can react his fist connects with my jaw.

I wake up with Rachel in my face.

“That was pretty funny too.”


- - -

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Author: Robert Bates

Contributor: Stephen V. Ramey

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It was on the anniversary of my son's death that I set out to right the wrongs in this world. I freed prisoners wrongly convicted like my son, for justice is the heat that burns my arteries. I shot the payday loan shark who collected interest on his interest, for fairness is the blue that floods my veins. I tore out the tongue of the liar who turned on him at trial, for truth is the beating heart that fuels a man.

And now I lay myself upon Your mercy, Lord. Is it truly wrong, what I have done, what I mean to do? One bullet in the chamber, one wrongdoer left unresolved. Please, Lord, tell me that this is not a sin. Did You not see Your only son unjustly crucified? Did he not weep and beg you to intervene?

Here, I'll spin the cylinder. Now it's truly up to You.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Please, God, show me a sign. Anyth--


- - -
I live in beautiful New Castle, Pennsylvania and my work has appeared in various places, including Apocrypha and Abstractions, Prick of the Spindle, Gone Lawn, and others.

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Author: Stephen V. Ramey

Contributor: Yonathan Teferi

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The journey back home would be dreadful, for only I knew the ventures that awaited me. As a common worker, it was my sole purpose to fulfill my Queen’s commands, and this journey would serve as just that. Even if it was my first time away from the colony, I knew what needed to be done.

I left the foreign tree, carrying the would-be final piece of a new parent colony. The responsibility weighed my body down, but us common workers have always carried the burden of our hierarchy.

While heading back to the colony, I noticed a frail creature. Long legged, with a body smaller than mine, it headed in my direction. Eye contact was difficult, considering I had two and it eight. That foreign beast wouldn’t get a word out of me. My eyes betrayed my mind, and for a split moment, I felt lost in this world.

My tree was my world. It was rare for my kind to travel alone, but this mission only required a single worker. Although it was only a single item that was asked to be retrieved, I could’ve benefited from an accomplice. The world was larger than my colony, and only in the face of conflict could I come to terms with that.

Approaching the tree, I headed to the base where my colony was located. The colony was massive, divided into multiple satellite-colonies, with a governing parent colony where my Queen was located. I headed down a gallery that I personally carved out, to the parent colony. The gallery, which was usually dense with worker ants, was as vacant as the neighboring nests that housed the eggs.

I held a key piece that was required for our colony to completely flourish, but upon my return, there wasn’t a single worker around. The missing piece to an extension of our vanished society, carried by me, a common worker. I was a single worker, alone in an empty colony, exposed to any threat called upon me. Fear struck my core and rattled my senses, causing an unexpected panic attack.

The moment I exited the colony, I knew what had happened. Occasionally, meaning every few years, the colony would become threatened by a foreign beast. I couldn’t help but imagine that eight-eyed creature reeking havoc on my home, on my people.

I ventured away from the colony, in search of the others. I still carried the key item on my back, in hopes of still pleasing my Queen. If that opportunity still awaited me.

I felt a drop of water on my antennae. The velocity of the impact informed it was rain. Without a proper colony for shelter, I was as vulnerable as the tall grass protecting the dirt underneath.

In the distance, I could see the eight-eyed beast. He was up in a foreign tree, spinning something together. Whatever it was, it stopped the incoming rain. I crawled up the tree cautiously, for I knew what monstrosity these foreign creatures could cause.

I approached, slowly edging myself under the creature’s contraption. It worked as well as I observed. The creature fixed himself next to me, all eight eyes examining my fragile exoskeleton.

“Get away from me, you foreign beast,” he said.


- - -
Yonathan Teferi is a writer that is currently enrolled at Full Sail University. Originally from Buffalo, NY, he currently resides in Orlando, Fl.

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Author: Yonathan Teferi

Contributor: Kristina England

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Danny and Joe hiked up the mountain trail. Danny nervously balanced from one rock to the next.

Joe shook his head. "Pick up the pace, man."

"Listen, I am accident prone and have asthma. I warned you ahead of time. Go ahead without me. I'll catch up."

"No, you never leave another hiker behind. Besides, you aren't supposed to hike by yourself."

"Says who?"

"Says the official hiking association. Although, I suppose people do it."

"I'd say so. Thoreau would have never written Walden Pond if he brought along a friend. It's the only way you get real peace and quiet."

Joe sighed. "You know, I'm beginning to see Thoreau's reasoning."

Danny stopped. "I have to take my inhaler. Wait, what was that? Oh my God, is that a bee! I'm allergic to bees. Well, I don't know if I am but I hear if you are allergic to dust..."

Joe held his head. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something move.

"A baby armadillo!"

Danny was sucking at his inhaler and flailing one arm at a mosquito. He exhaled and stopped moving.

"What do we do?"

"What do you mean? I'm going to pick him up."

"You're what?!"

Joe looked at the armadillo, which returned the same curious look. Joe walked slowly over clucking his tongue. Before the baby armadillo could prepare itself, Joe reached down and picked it up. That's when the poor thing let out a scream.

"Rrau! Rrau!"

The screaming got louder as the animal twisted and turned in his hand, fearing an impending doom.

"Oh, I'm sorry, honey," he said putting down the scared animal.

He heard the sound of tree branches snapping and turned around. Somewhere in the distance he saw Danny flailing down the mountain.

He sighed. "Hope he looks out for snakes."

The armadillo grunted, then shuffled away into the woods.


- - -
Kristina England resides in Worcester, Massachusetts. Her poetry and fiction has been published in Gargoyle, New Verse News, Linguistic Erosion, The Story Shack, and other magazines.

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Author: Kristina England

Contributor: João Cerqueira

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When Jesus and Magdalene began to cross the sunflower field they met a group of boys, squatting before a rocky outcrop. Covered with lichen and moss, the rock gave off a greenish hue that contrasted with the garnet sweater of one of the boys. Magdalene guessed they were between ten and fourteen years old.
“Look, these country kids can explore nature at their will. City kids know nothing of this fun and games in the open air,” she said tenderly.
Jesus said nothing, but left the path to go to them.
Eager to establish contact with healthy youngsters who didn’t need Playstations to have fun, Magdalene followed him. She could now tell that this was lively play, because she could hear laughter. As she approached, the guffaws increased. At that instant Magdalene wanted to be a child again, to join this group and twirl in the pine needles, to climb trees and explore caves.
Finally they reached the jokers, who, engrossed in their play, didn’t notice their arrival. Magdalene then peered over their heads and saw the reason for their hilarity: The adolescents had caught a frog and had placed a lit cigarette in its mouth, hoping that the creature would burst like a balloon. After stealing eggs from birds’ nests and catching bees in a bucket, they were now amusing themselves with a frog. As the frog had puffed up in defense—not because of the smoke—the boys were now convinced the creature was going to burst at any moment. And if it didn’t burst from the smoke, it would burst under a hail of stones.
Magdalene got ready to give the boy closest to her a couple of slaps when Jesus placed a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t do that.” Her arm didn’t even lift and her muscles relaxed.
At this moment the adolescents noted their presence and disbanded, fleeing through the sunflower field. They laughed again, as amused now as they were before they had been caught. The eldest, believing he was a safe distance away, turned and made an obscene gesture at them with his middle finger. “Screw you!”
When Magdalene looked back to see where the frog was, all she found was the extinguished cigarette. It has vanished in a puff of smoke. The mixed aroma of tobacco and moss made her nauseous.
Seeing her distress, Jesus embraced her. “Forgive them; for they know not what they do.”
Then, some sunflowers began to move towards the east.


- - -
João Cerqueira has a PhD in History of Art from the University of Oporto. He is the author of seven books.
The Tragedy of Fidel Castro won the USA Best Book Awards 2013 and the Beverly Hills Book Awards 2014.

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Author: João Cerqueira

Contributor: Bruce Costello

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Another sleepless winter night. The sky is huge from my veranda, the stars luminous, the moon near and motionless. The trees are buried in slumber, not a movement, not a sound. The fields, bathed in silver, stretch to the hills with here and there the gleam of a pond.

It’s hard to believe that nature can be so still. The stars gaze down with tenderness, as if there’s no unhappiness and all’s well in the world.

They say you should close the clinic door and switch off to the voices of the day.

I was a high flying psychotherapist, well-known and in demand. I thought I was forever. But my brain became a sponge for the pain of troubled people. Day after day with patients, night after night with a troubled husband whose needs I failed to satisfy, whose constant, punishing putdowns were badgering me into becoming what he accused me of being.

My mother died. One straw too many. I gave away my practice, left my husband, fled the city and came to live in this ramshackle cottage that I bought over the internet one sleepless night.

Here there are no discordant voices. The dishes sit on the bench and dry themselves. There is no carpet to vacuum and no lawn to mow. I see few people. I have no telephone.

I took up writing. My computer and I created a new world of fictional people that I can change or eliminate with one stroke of a finger. Back space or delete key, my choice.

Each morning I make syrup for the birdfeeder. Some days I sit for hours watching and listening:- blackbirds, thrushes and waxeyes, in tune with their world as I have never been with mine.

A black dog visits. He rolls onto his back, stretches out his legs, so big he fills the room, wall to wall. I rub his tummy. He licks my hand.

Yesterday, a woman called Lynette knocked on my door. Said she’d heard about me and wondered if I’d like to serve on some committee. For the community. No thank you, I said, as I hurried her down the garden path.

From my veranda I watch as the stars dim and the sun rises. Over the river hovers a haze. A streak of sun touches the trees on its bank and races to the far-off hills. I see a grassy meadow. I would like to lie on it or touch it with my hands. Today I will walk there.

*

Summer arrives and I am starting to feel human again.

On a stroll one day, I came across that woman, Lynette. She was gazing up into a tree, while her dog on a pink leash was peeing against a gatepost.

“Hello,” I breezed. “Look, I’m really sorry about how rude I was that time you called around, you remember?”

Lynette stared at me.

She was about my age with blonde hair and intelligent blue eyes. It was early in the day and we were on a country lane, miles from anywhere, but she was smartly dressed, and her breasts stood out perky and attractive in a tight, red sweater.

I had been slopping around without a bra for months.

“Oh, it’s you, Jennifer,” she said, pointing to a pair of pigeons flapping up from a branch. “I was just watching those birds.”

“Lovely, aren’t they!” I answered, and we began to talk.

In the weeks that followed, Lynette and I became friends. She was a gentle soul, the first person I’d felt safe with since my burn-out. We shared meals and went on walks. She loved to read the stories that I wrote. Her comments were perceptive and encouraging.

Lynette had separated from her husband after twenty years of marriage. It took her that long, she told me, to figure out that no amount of love and forgiveness was ever going to make him better or stop him abusing her.

She studied for a teaching degree, then landed a job as a college English teacher. After three years she suffered a major depressive episode. She went onto an invalid’s benefit, left the city and bought a country cottage, close to mine.

Lynette took charge of her own recovery. She kept herself busy in the garden and in community affairs. To maintain morale, she told me, she liked to dress well. She walked lots, both for health and for the sake of her figure. Her cottage garden was a wonder.

“It would’ve been so easy,” she told me one day, when we were strolling through the forest, looking for mushrooms, “to let myself go and turn into a frumpy hermit.”

“Like me?” I said to her.

Lynette laughed and whacked me on the backside. She was fun like that.

*

We were on my veranda one evening, sipping red wine, watching the sky as the peace of night enveloped the earth around us. The conversation had lapsed into cosy silence. A bird called out as it flew low overhead.

“Do you recall,” I said, “that first time we met, months ago, when you came to my door, and I chased you away?”

Lynette nodded.

“Was that very upsetting for you?” I asked.

She glanced at me, then looked down and turned away. I moved across to her, took her hands and pulled her to her feet. We hugged.

“I’m so sorry,” I said, my voice breaking.

Lynette sighed. We held each other. For the first time since mother died, I experienced the soft intimacy of another woman.

The moon smiled and the stars gazed down tenderly on our world.


- - -
New Zealander Bruce Costello semi-retired from his profession in 2010, retreated from city to seaside, and has now had forty stories published in literary journals and popular magazines in five countries.

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Author: Bruce Costello

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

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Paddy didn't want to go to his wife's family reunion. He told her that in the same nice way he had told her in years past so as to avoid other reunions over the many years they had been married. Hilda had always given him a pass, telling her relatives his job required that he stay home. After he retired she'd tell them he wasn't up to the trip--a case of the flu or something. No one ever believed her but many were happy not to have Paddy there. It wasn't that he caused a problem. He just stuck out among the Ottos and Hanses. He would forever be an Irish interloper at a German family reunion. But this time Hilda was adamant about Paddy going with her.

"Everyone's getting older," Hilda said, "and we should see them before someone else dies."

Hilda was right, of course, Paddy had to admit, as she usually was. He was part of the family whether they liked him or not.

"I grew up with those people, Paddy, and I may be seeing some of them for the last time. They may be boring to you but they're my family."

Unlike Hilda's relatives, Paddy's relatives, the ones already dead and the ones still alive, didn't hold family reunions, confining contact to cards at Christmas with signatures only, free of any personal messages unless someone had died, and that was just as well, Paddy thought.

At any gathering of his people, the angry ones, and most of them had been angry since birth, would, after a few drinks, start picking scabs off old problems and fresh blood would flow. Hilda's folks did the same thing but with more discretion. You'd be bleeding and didn't know why.

There was a real din the last time Paddy's family had a reunion and that was 30 years ago.

"It was a catastrophe lost in cacophony," Paddy told Hilda as he tried to recapture the ambience. Nevertheless, Paddy still saw his relatives at wakes. And the wakes were more frequent in recent years.

"Hilda, the odd thing is the angriest ones look the most peaceful in a casket with or without a boutonniere or corsage."

A few in his family, however, still hoped there would be one more family reunion despite the debacle at the last one. They hoped that Paddy's cousin, Margaret Mary O'Mara, who'd been going to Mass every day since puberty, and was once a contemplative nun, would hold a final family reunion.

"Everybody likes her corned beef and cabbage," Paddy told Hilda, who was wondering why anyone in Paddy's family would want another reunion after the last fracas 30 years ago.

"Hilda, the problem at the last one was Timmy served tankards of Guinness before, after and during the meal and the Guinness prompted inevitable arguments about the past. Liquor and grudges are a bad mix. One of my cousins knocked another one out with one punch. We were lucky another cousin didn't count him out. He was once a boxing referee."

Hilda's people, however, weren't like his loud Irish relatives. Paddy had to grant them that. They were somber Germans who drank as much as Paddy's people did but they were steady drinkers, not given to jokes and laughter. They were quiet even when drunk, so Paddy couldn't tell which one of them would rip the first scab off the past and that was always a problem.

He knew from the start Hilda's family didn't want her to marry him, an Irish Catholic from the wrong side of the theological tracks. He never fit in well with their German Lutheran culture beyond liking some of the food. They were serious, pious people not given to the frivolous, everything Paddy's family was not. In the beginning Paddy had tried to fit in but he had enough trouble keeping up with his own faith, never mind trying to understand everything Lutheran.

This time, however, Paddy silently decided he would go to his wife's reunion unless one of her kin died beforehand and everyone would go to the wake instead. It had happened before and could happen again but it's not the kind of thing Paddy would pray for. That would be bad form. Besides Germans take death seriously. None of the uproar and laughter that can occur at an Irish wake, especially if there were a tavern next door to the funeral home, which in Paddy's experience there always seemed to be.

Truth be told, both families were moving closer and closer to the end of their life span and the lines on both sides were getting shorter. Every year it seemed someone else would drop out.

"All right, Hilda, I'll go," Paddy announced. "But I'll never go to another one even if all your people die first."

Hilda thought something didn't sound right about that. Why would there be another family reunion if all of her relatives died first? But as long as Paddy was willing to go to this one, she thought she'd be wise to say nothing and leave well enough alone.

"How about a nice dish of pickled pigs feet for supper, Paddy," she said with a smile. "I remember that was one of the few things you liked when you went with me to the other family reunion. And you said the bratwurst and kraut weren't that bad, either."


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Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.

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Author: Donal Mahoney

Contributor: Robert Forehand

- -
The light blinds me. It always does.

I wait for the accompanying migraine to stop before I blink open my eyes.

Mattress. Pillow. A bed. I'm under the sheets.

I swing my unfamiliar legs out and to the floor.

Painted toenails touch the carpet fibers.

Shapely, shaved legs.

Wearing panties. Nothing else.

Breasts. I'm a woman this time.

I flex my thin fingers. Glossy, acrylic nails glint in the morning light slipping through the curtains. An evening dress lies crumpled on the floor.

I glance into the mirror upon the dresser. A beautiful stranger stares back at me. Lush, black hair. Captivating auburn eyes. She takes care of herself, this one. Not a bad looking body to wake up in.


A soft snore catches my attention.

A man lies next to me in bed. Sleeping.

Judging by his clothes lying scattered throughout the room, looks like these two had some personal relations last night.

I recognize who he is.

My next target.

Take in the scene.

Bed. Adjoining bathroom. Sink. Ice bucket. Landline phone. Desk. TV. Stock paintings on the wall. We're in a hotel room.

No weapons.

Sharp objects?

A pen?

No. I prefer to work with my hands.

Soft skin. No calluses. Prim and proper upkeep of the female variety. With these hands, I'm guessing this woman has no combat training. But that doesn't matter.

I do.

I slam my fist into the man's throat, closing his windpipe.

Most people try to choke their victims with their hands. It's far more effective to crush the esophagus in a single blow.

He wakes up in panicked confusion, unable to draw breath.

He stares at me with terrified eyes. Stares at the woman he bedded last night. His lover. Well, she's not here anymore. It's me. Your assassin.

He falls out of bed, attempting to find something, someone to help him. His balance, his foundation, fails.

A strike to the temple causes the entire building to crumble.

His shocked face buries itself into the carpet.

Blank eyes stare at nothing as his final breath is unable to leave his body.

I watch the man grow cold.

How many does this make now?

Hell if I know.

I can't even remember...

The woman in the mirror stares at me.

I wonder what her name is.

This process always leaves my mind scattered. Perhaps I've done this too many times. At least I remember my objective. For now.

I can only imagine the surprise and horror this woman will find when she wakes up. She'll tell the police that she blacked out. That she doesn't remember anything. And they won't believe her. They never do.

Though maybe she'll escape. Take her things, any evidence, run out the door. Try to forget what she doesn't remember. It doesn't matter. Not to me.

Time to go.

I can always tell by the migraine crescendo building up.

A thousand needles stabbing my eyes.

Sinuses ripping out of my skull with a sharp fishhook.

Tearing my consciousness out.

The device from another plane of existence forcing me to go somewhere else.

A new target.

I wonder who I'll kill next?

It doesn't matter.

The light blinds me. It always does.


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Author: Robert Forehand

Contributor: Marc André McAllister

- -
I could not see her, though I knew she was near.
Come closer, I pleaded.
You will have to come for me, she answered.
You know I can’t. Please come to me.
She was silent.
Please. I need you now. I’m so empty.
I sensed her move closer. I felt her all around me. Her warmth without and within. Soothing me.
Is this what you wanted? She asked.
Yes. But you’re not real.
No, I am not.
And then she was gone.
I was alone again in the darkness.


- - -
Marc André McAllister is a French-American author currently living in Northern California where he is completing a B.A. in Philosophy. He relies largely the cross-cultural experiences of his youth as inspiration for his fiction. He keeps two blogs, one featuring artwork at lookingglassscene.blogspot.com, and another that deals with the ethics of Transhumanism at babelsingularity.blogspot.com (to be launched in September of 2014).

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Author: Marc André McAllister

Contributor: Matt Pearce

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I woke to the screaming. My mother’s pleading in answer to my father’s shouting. They were at it again. I knew it was hopeless to try to sleep. Every angry word by my father reverberated through the house. I sometimes could see the rafters shake with each rise in pitch. I could imagine the spittle being sprayed out by his screaming throat hitting my Mother’s face, sticking to her like evil ooze. Dribble she could not wipe away without facing further abuse.
Ever since he lost his job last month at the car factory, spending any kind of money turned him into an unstoppable monster. Last week, the sink clogged and my father was forced to call a repairman. For the last few days he had been repeating, “We can’t afford it,” and when he looked at me as he said it, I could imagine his hands squeezing my throat in blame.
The previous morning, as I sat next to him at the breakfast table sipping on orange juice and trying to choke down the pasty oatmeal my mother made me, I almost considered asking him if I could go on a field trip with my class to the Natural History Museum. The cost was a minimal five dollars, but as he read his paper, he found something in it that caused him to explode, “Damn it to Hell! For that price we could have gotten a new sink!” I quickly swallowed the question, deciding I wouldn’t join my classmates, but stay at the school in a room by myself being babysat by the weird, P.E. teacher, Mr. Jones.
I got out of bed and tiptoed to my door. I peeked out and could see my parents’ shadows doing an angry tango in the kitchen. I eased out and headed to Tommy’s room. When he wasn’t in his bed, I knew where he would be. I inched towards his closet and pulled on it gently, knowing if I did it too hard, it would send a loud creak throughout the house, alerting our father to us being awake.
Tommy sat on the floor with a bag of jellybeans in his lap, his fingers in his ears, and his head bowed with his eyes closed as if saying a prayer. I nudged him with my foot and he jolted in fear. His eyes relaxed as he saw me and I took my seat next to him.
“Hi Jimmy,” he mumbled. His eyes were puffy and red from crying. He offered me the bag of jellybeans. “Want one?”
“No,” I replied.
“Jellybeans are a fruit,” he said. “That’s what Mommy always says.”
I smiled. Our mother always had jellybeans with her and always used this little joke to make us laugh and to pacify us every time me or Tommy were upset about something.
“How long do you think it’s going to be this time?” Tommy asked.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“Do you think they’re going to get divorced?” he asked with his voice etched with concern.
“I don’t know,” I said again.
“If they did, do you think they would split us up? One of us living with Daddy and the other with Mommy?”
“I don’t think it will come to that,” I said. “They’ll work through it. They always do,” I said without any conviction. However, it was enough to convince the young mind of my little brother.
“I don’t know what I would do without you Jimmy,” he said and I could hear the tears coming back in his voice.
I put my arm around him trying to soothe him when I noticed how quiet it had become. “Do you hear that?” I asked him.
“What?” he asked sitting up and looking around. “I don’t hear anything.”
“Exactly,” I replied. “They’re not fighting anymore.”
The door to the closet opened and both of us leaned back looking for a place to hide from the violent hurricane that was our father.
“There you two are,” we heard the sweet voice of our mother say. “I should have guessed you two would be in here.”
I studied my mother and noticed a fresh bruise on the side of one of her cheeks. When she saw me staring, she covered it with one hand. With a forced smile she said, “Let’s get you two back in bed.”
“Mommy, what’s wrong?” Tommy asked.
“It’s nothing,” she said as she helped Tommy get back in bed. I stood back as she tucked him in.
“Is Daddy always going to be mad at you?”
“No sweetie,” she said and I could hear her choking on her words. “Someday, everything will be perfect. Someday, life will be wonderful.”
She looked to me for confirmation. “Isn’t that right Jimmy?”
“Yeah,” I shot back knowing it was all for Tommy’s sake.


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Matt Pearce was born and raised in Chickasha, OK. For the last few years he has been living in Central Florida with his wife and kids. He holds a BA in English: Creative Writing from the University of Central Florida and is currently pursuing and MFA in Creative Writing from Full Sail University.

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Author: Matt Pearce

Contributor: Tod Connor

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"Let's make love, Rebecca."

"I will not. You don't dip into the honeypot by simply asking, that isn't the way the game is played. You must complete the stages, and the first one is eye lock."

"I thought it was hard cock."

"Not in my book. If you don't qualify for some good eye lock then the game ends then and there."

"And there are other stages?"

"Of course. The next stage I call moved by sound. Your lips must make noises that please my warm places or you're outta here."

"Is that it?"

"Of course not. The final stage, and the most important I might add, is mystery. Your eye lock, combined with your noises must create movement without pattern, endless potential that stimulates like a wild garden."

"And then, after I succeed in completing these three stages, then you will invite me into the sacred temple?"

"Not necessarily, but your chances will have improved considerably."

Head drops, voice lowers, mumbles are let loose. "Hard, it's always hard."

"It's hard because you're a randy prankster, a stud without a hot, sweaty filly in your stable." She laughs.

"True enough, but I'm not talking about that, I'm talking about the stages you've defined with such precision."

"They're not hard. They constitute a shining path blazing its way into the world of coupling."

"And this ocean of yours, this vast, churning white froth, is it worth that much effort?"

"You decide. That's the beauty of it, the freedom of it, you decide. Now, stir the sand soup before it burns the bottom. "

"Stone soup, not sand soup."

"Whatever..."

He watches her, bustling with confidence, trimmed like a holy candle. She's left him shackled, chewing on the meat of this rejection.

She turns to him. "Do you know your essence?" she asks.

"I've always seen myself as a rebel, a bad boy lost in the search for oblivion. I only want to jump and fly above the fray where the angels pump their wings and make their way from soul to soul like butterflies sniffing at purple flowers in the sunshine."

"Not true... You're a procrastinator, putting off that moment when everything, for as far as the eye can see, is smoldering in the wreckage of searing clear consciousness."

"So that's your game?"

"Take it or leave it."


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Tod Connor's work has appeared in various publications, including Talon Magazine, Ohio Views, Raphael’s Village, Apropos Literary Journal, Ink, Sweat and Tears, Smashed Cat, Out of the Gutter, Christianity Today and others.

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Author: Tod Connor

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

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Tim Murnane had been lying in bed and staring at the ceiling of his hospital room when a strange woman suddenly walked in. A mature, nice-looking lady, she wasn't a doctor or nurse. She was dressed in her Sunday best--a voluminous skirt, puffy white blouse he could almost see through, and a pill box hat. He hadn't seen a pill box hat on a woman since Jackie Kennedy was in the White House back when he was a young man. This woman, however, was carrying a Bible, not an elegant purse.

"Mr. Murnane, my name is Ophelia Barnes and I wonder if you might be willing to give me a few minutes of your time. I understand you recently had an operation."

"I did indeed," said Tim. "They took out my appendix and my gallbladder, too, when they found it was bad. I'll be here awhile longer while they run some other tests. At my age, things can go wrong, you know, and they want to see if they can find anything else."

"Very true, Mr. Murnane. Folks I know have been dying at a faster rate than usual in recent years. It can be frightening but it happens to all of us. If you don't mind, Mr. Murnane, please tell me where you think you would go if you died tonight."

"Well," said Tim, beginning to get the direction of the conversation, "I'd probably go to Egan's Funeral Home up on 63rd Street. I went through pre-arrangement counseling there and paid for everything--the box and the plot. I took care of all that for myself when I had to bury the wife a few years back. Got nice discount. In fact, the plot's in St. Adalbert's Cemetery, just up the road, not far from here."

All of that was true. Tim Murnane had made all the arrangements to be "salted away," as he had told his seven kids, who were now all busy raising families of their own in different cities. But he figured if he told this woman he was going to Eagan's and then to St. Adalbert's, she'd know he was Catholic and perhaps not ripe for harvesting for whatever well-meaning Christian church she represented.

"Mr. Murnane, I meant if you died tonight, would you go to Heaven or Hell?"

"That's an excellent question, Mrs. Barnes. If I had a chance to go to confession before I died, I wouldn't go to Hell, God forbid, but probably not right to Heaven either. I'd probably have to spend several centuries in Purgatory, burning off the stains of a very sinful life. And I have no objection to that. I will have earned my entire stay. I don't drink and I don't smoke but over the years I've always found women attractive, if you know what I mean."

Mrs. Barnes didn't really grasp that Old Tim, although a lapsed Catholic for decades, was not about to switch denominations this close to the finish line. He had been a White Sox fan his entire life and would die cheering them as well, never the Cubs. So she was ready to press on when Tim, warming to the challenge, asked a question.

"Mrs. Barnes, if I joined your church right now, what are the chances you'd visit my grave? All my kids live out of town and I'd rather not disturb them."

"Mr. Murnane, If you accept Jesus Christ as your Savior right now, I promise I will visit your grave. You could even be buried by our church. It would be a beautiful ceremony. We'd love to have you, dead or alive."

"Mrs. Barnes, I do accept Jesus as my Lord and Savior. I always have, ever since grammar school. I'd have never graduated if I hadn't learned about Jesus dying for my sins from all those nuns, God bless 'em. They taught me from first grade on that if I had been the only human being on Earth, Jesus would have died for me alone. Of course, they let me know too that I had to keep his commandments as well as believe in him. There were only a couple of commandments I've had trouble with. I mean, I never stole anything or killed anyone."

"You'e right, Mr. Murnane. Jesus would have died for you alone. And if you decide to join my church, I promise I will visit your grave."

"You wouldn't have to bring any flowers or anything, Mrs. Barnes. Just walk right up on the gravesite and stand next to my tombstone."

"Stand next to your tombstone? Why would I do that, Mr. Murnane?"

"Well, if I start feelin' a little better, I'd like look up your skirt."

Mrs. Barnes didn't faint but she did walk out of the room without saying a word.

And Tim Murnane pushed the buzzer for the nurse. He wanted to see if she would ask the next priest she saw making rounds to stop by his room. A couple of priests had stopped in already but Tim hadn't been ready for anything serious. Thanks to Mrs. Barnes, however, he knew now that he'd like to give any priest a real earful. It had been 30 years since his last confession and he had plenty to talk about. At 74, he wanted to be ready before going to Eagan's.


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

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Author: Donal Mahoney