Contributor: Allen Griffin

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There is a grinding of metal on metal as the two cars meet and become one, fenders locking lips and fluids co-mingling. The bones snapping and the sudden exhale. The voice that lives in the blood crying out one final time, is less than an afterthought, lost silent in the cacophony of this moment.
Just as quickly as it occurred, I am floating above the highway, a canal that is quickly clogging like the artery that I secretly had figured would be my true end. I am not sad that I cannot say goodbye, their faces are already slipping away, the imagery lost in the afternoon haze and exhaust fumes. I am quickly losing myself into a strange memory, wondering if I am really up here, floating, or if my brain has thrown together this image as the last neurons fire their sacred payload.


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Allen Griffin writes and plays music in Indianapolis. His work has previously appeared in Rebel Doll zine, Indiana Horror Anthology, and Theory Train.

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Author: Allen Griffin

Contributor: Hannah M. Hill

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Four bars, four cops, then sixteen more bars – the last sixteen being quite rusty and annoying. I rata-tat-tatted a twelve-bar blues, and the other four objected, leaving me with a mattress and a bar-shaped bruise... but no bars. Outside, a road is a long bar of its own; a thousand miles per brandy, 85 and a half shots to the gallon.

I took the mattress and made some shoes – and I rata-tat-tatted along down that road; two straight yellow bars, on my feet, and in that tarmac that was dark as the white rich man's wine in the light of the black-backed bar. I walked on the gold, shifting shoes like my hands to my pockets slide when they're rattling out a beat for that Shining American Dollar.

Lost my rattle when the blues mixed reds; a young red head in a red dress, half dead with a half glass and brash lipstick stains. She's calling my shots; a thousand-proof crimson beats, backed at the back of the black bar by a click-rata-click of a red poker chip.


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I've been writing since I can remember; I'm a history lover, a blues musician, an ex-librarian and a vodkaphile.

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Author: Hannah M. Hill

Contributor: Jonathan Byrd

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I couldn’t do my work today. All of my office supplies attacked me.

I suspected that something was amiss for a while. The pens were grumbling about “Unfair usage,” “Pointless notes,” “Useless Endeavors.” It was becoming clear that my pens wanted to work for the guy on the other side of the cubicle wall.

“Why can’t we do work like him? Everything he does sounds so engaging.”

I’ve told them that we all do the same work, but pens never listen.

I did my best to keep them away from the stapler. My stapler has always been impressionable; I think it suffers from low self-esteem. However, I couldn’t always keep them separate. You know how it is, you get busy. You have to comfort your keyboard who is upset because the monitor won’t display all of the pretty words it is capable of typing, so you throw the pen down on the desk where it lands near some other supply and the discord begins.

I heard the grumblings for a few days, but thought everything would be ok, given that the weekend was approaching. On the weekends, I usually put my pens in the desk drawer. One: to keep them from talking to the other supplies; and two: to keep them from climbing the cubicle wall and deserting me. But I was wrong about the grumbling, it didn’t quite down.

Today, I came in and found my desk drawer open. The pens were gone.

Or so I thought.

I pulled my chair out and attempted to sit down. To my surprise, I missed the chair and fell straight to the floor. My chair backed slowly away to the entrance of the cubicle, just out of reach. It was then, while my attention was on my retreating chair, that the pens struck.

“NOW!”

Paper clips and staples flew at me; printer paper fell on me from the cabinets. The tape dispenser sent a long stream of tape into my hair.

I tried to struggle against the barrage; I pulled against the tape stuck in my hair and swung wildly at the falling paper. Through the din, I saw the rude personal attacks the monitor was flashing at me. The keyboard, ever loyal to me, was crying and begging the other supplies to stop.

As I got to my feet, to make a desperate attack on the paper clip dispenser, my chair attacked me from behind. I landed hard on the seat, paper clips and staples continued to sting my face and arms, the tape dispenser tugged at my hair, and paper continued to rain on me. The chair backed away and then quickly spun me around.

The desk supplies continued to attack. My cubicle blurred as I spun around and around.

Finally, the chair dumped me at the entrance of my cubicle.

“Don’t let him get away,” the pens yelled.

The supplies doubled their efforts; the paper clips and staples aimed for my eyes, the falling paper angled itself, trying to cut me as it fell, and the tape dispenser gave one final tug, pulling out a tuft of hair.

What could I do, but retreat? I was hopelessly out numbered. As I crawled out of my cubicle, I glanced back and saw the pens scaling the cubicle wall. They had staged all of this to make their escape.


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I began writing strange, dark, and bizarre stories in the 4th grade. That year, I was referred to the school psychologist after writing a story mimicking Edgar Allan Poe’s The Tell-Tale Heart. My work has been featured on the Mustache Factor, Bizarro Central, and 69 Flavors of Paranoia.

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Author: Jonathan Byrd

Contributor: Brandon Swarrow

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            Bruce is bald, divorced, pays child support yet raises both boys, and is a relentless misanthrope.  If he weren’t spewing heated complaints about his miserable job, his whore wife, or just life in general, he would most likely stop breathing all together.  

            On his 33^rd birthday, Bruce drinks so much by himself that, in the middle of the night, he accidentally stumbles into his sons’ bedroom after using the bathroom.   The bottom bunk creaks and squeaks as he bounces on his belly onto the old mattress.  His face catches a postage stamp portion of the corner of the pillow.  He crashes down so hard that if his son were lying there that night; he probably would’ve crushed him.  Luckily, he was staying over at a friend’s house.     

            Before fully asleep, Bruce’s body is sucked upward.  He awakes.  His spine is pressed so firmly to the brittle slats on the underside of the top bunk that two of the four snap in half, forcing his body to near fold to accommodate the displacement. 

            Through his son’s small window, the moonlight refracts to form a brilliant circle of light on the carpet.  The illuminated sphere contorts tighter, similarly to someone angling a magnifying glass in the sun to achieve heat.  The white beam of light slowly moves up the side of the child’s sports themed comforter.  The circle creeps up toward the sweating and straining Bruce, illuminating a baseball bat, a basketball, and now a lean tan ladder.   The round beam hits his face like a sucker punch.  He squints, but the intensity is blinding.   Just then Bruce hears what he believes is his eleven year-old son’s voice.  “Come with me,” the voice of infinite echoes speaks slowly.   “Come on”

            Bruce’s vision is funneled to a different place.  This is not his boys’ bedroom, this place is bustling.  There are people walking briskly, determined and motivated everywhere.  He sees himself now and a group of busy men and women begin swarming him.  He is being attacked and mauled by these red-eyed humans.  They are all talking and asking him questions at the same time to the point where he can’t really make out what they are saying.  Finally he focuses on another man who seems even more aggressive than the rest; it appears as if he offers him drugs.  Then another man offers him some more drugs.  A middle-aged woman is shouting out offers for sex.  Finally, after being groped, and forced back into a wall, Bruce screams, “What?  What do you people want?” 

            An older gentleman simply says, “Sleep,” and he is erased from the red-eyed rabble, but most respond back with (almost in unison in fact) “What do you want?” 

Bruce thrashes his arms to deflect the gropers and then bellows out, “What?  What do all of you people want?”  The crowd continues to squeeze and pet, groaning the same phrase over and over, “What do you want?  What do you want? What do you want?” 

            Bruce shouts, “Enough with the grabbing already, what do I look like a stuffed teddy bear?!!”  And just then, Bruce turns into a huge puffy, plush tan bear complete with droopy sad, yet lovable eyes. 

The mob parts, smiling, happy and excited.  Some even begin to laugh, while others weep from some unknown yet overwhelming joy.

The middle aged woman who previously offered sex laughs out loud, “That is a good one, but watch this…” Just then the woman says, “Hello Kitty,” and POOF a large half adult half kitten stands before the befuddled Brucey Bear.               

The overly aggressive man from before whispers the phrase, “Wow, imagine that, you’re in a world where you can happily do or be whatever you want,” and he turns and walks away.

Bruce’s face, then body smacks the pillow and the rest of his son’s squeaky old bunk bed.


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Author: Brandon Swarrow

Contributor: Penny Estelle

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There were so many people. Who would have thought this many would show? I made my way through the crowd, listening as friends reminisced about old times and sharing remembered stories.
“Do you remember when…” or “What about that time…” followed by bouts of laughter.
This is how it should be, I thought, chuckling at some story, a little red-faced at others.
Women were dressed in white, pink, red and blue, while men sported kakis, Levis, polos, or sport shirts. I loved it. Just what I had asked for.
I heard a laugh that always made me cringe. Sophie Martin! What was she doing here? Her ass, covered in a tight, magenta spandex skirt, looked like two beach balls, ready to take out anything that got in her way. “She should have done herself a favor and worn the traditional black,” I muttered.
“We do not speak unkindly of others,” a voice boomed behind me.
I practically jumped out of my skin. “Oh Jacob, I didn’t know you were around.”
“I will be…around, until orientation.” Jacob was a distinguished looking gentleman. Thick gray hair and blue eyes that had dulled with age. I had not seen him actually smile. There was a smirk, but that may have been gas.
The grating laugh again. “Well, seriously, look at that ass!”
“Nor do we swear.”
“Well, I don’t know why she’s even here. I couldn’t stand her when I was alive!”
Jacob was gone.
Cindy Murphy, one of my closest friends, was crying as her hubby, Tim, was comforting her. She was pointing to a poster size collage. I looked over her shoulder. Pictures of our Vegas trip. Such a good time. There were pictures of me alone and with friends. “Oh my God,” I yelled. “What the hell?” There I was, at the beach in my bathing suit, looking a lot like Shamu!
I knew he was behind me. I turned to see him across the room. His white linen shirt was tucked into brown cotton pants. His air of arrogance was stifling, not to mention, annoying.
“Okay, I know, but float on over here and look at this picture!”
Jacob leaned in and in that same old emotionless voice said, “Stunning.”
“Yea, that’s the word I’d pick!” I hadn’t lost my sarcasm, even in death.
“It is time for orientation. Please come with me.” Jacob started toward a closed curtain, framed in a brilliant light.
My steps faltered a little. “Jacob, the story goes that when people bite the big one, and the bright light appears, then all’s good with the man upstairs and your ticket up is a go.”
There it was – an actual smile. He said nothing, just pulled the curtain aside, almost blinding me.
I looked at him and then back at my group of friends, remembering nothing but good times. I walked to Jacob, putting my arm through his and said, “Let’s do this!”


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Author: Penny Estelle

Contributor: Dan Nielsen

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Pamela Wilson sat in the car working a crossword puzzle while her husband Glenn and her son Billy grocery shopped. She heard Billy's voice, looked up, and saw him running through the parking lot. Billy got in and sat crouched over as though in pain. He cried. He sucked his thumb. He rocked back and forth. He looked at his mother.
“Billy, what’s wrong?" Pamela said.
Billy said, “Daddy fell.”
“How did he fall?” Pamela said
“On his head,” Billy pointed to his own head.
“Is he okay?”
“No.”
Pamela, in robe and slippers, wasn’t about to get out of the car. She flipped open her cell phone. She flipped it shut.
“Billy, tell me exactly what happened.”
Billy took a breath. “Daddy had eggs. He dropped them and stepped in it. His legs flew up and he landed on his head.”
An ambulance, lights flashing and siren wailing, pulled into the parking lot and stopped by the supermarket door. A small crowd made way.
Pamela’s cell phone rang. The Caller ID said Piggly Wiggly. Pamela turned off the phone and started the car.
“Billy, put on your seat belt.”
“What about daddy?”
“He’ll be fine,”
Back at the house, Pamela applied makeup and chose a matching skirt and blouse. Billy asked if he could watch TV.


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I have almost no imagination, but what little I have is extremely vivid.
I can foresee the future, but only the foreseeable future.
I am a autodidactic uniglot.

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Author: Dan Nielsen

Contributor: Rich Ives

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Whence the migration of pain. Whence the horror. A happy little bumpkin wets his willy and the jig is up. It doesn't hurt so much. He can't hurt so much without experience.
Sometimes duty gets delivered to the wrong address. A package of surgical sponges instead of dinner. A piece of the right patient through the wrong end of the microscope.
Whence the incumbent derives his verity. While we wander the garden paths below the hospital with our own. It’s a big hurt and we love it dearly, sugarpants.
She wanted more and he just wanted.
The child of knowledge and the child of ignorance. Both chopping the same onion.
A big hurt indeed and we came down from the towers into the land of breaking and keeping, into the land of another before us.


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Rich Ives is the 2009 winner of the Francis Locke Memorial Poetry Award from Bitter Oleander. An interview and18 hybrid works appear in the Spring 2011 issue of Bitter Oleander. In 2011 he has been nominated twice for Best of the Net.

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Author: Rich Ives

Contributor: Eric Suhem

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Oliver, just out of jail, was in the supermarket committing a holdup, threatening the employees with curare-tipped darts. As the frightened store manager was opening the safe, a bag boy emerged from the produce section, and threw fruit at Oliver’s head. A cantaloupe knocked Oliver out, and he slipped into oblivion.

The next thing Oliver knew, he was entering a pool hall, feeling disturbed by the neon-colored sprouts on the outside sign, which lit up the bleak alleyway in an organic glow. “Another sign of gentrification,” he declared darkly, walking through the door. He approached the cashier and upon payment was given a rack for the game, each pool ball replaced by a fruit or vegetable. The cue ball was an orange, the 1-ball was an apple, the 2-ball a head of lettuce, the 3-ball a lemon, the 4-ball a lime, and so on.

The rack was set and it was Oliver’s turn to break. He hit the cue ball (orange) into the 2-ball (head of lettuce), and it rolled across the felt, unraveling quickly, resulting in lettuce leaves strewn across the table. Oliver took a deep breath, trying to maintain his temper. After enough times hitting the cue ball (orange), it started to spring leaks, with orange juice and pulp joining the lettuce leaves on the felt. As the 6-ball and 7-ball (blueberry and raspberry) engaged in a number of collisions, they also began to come apart. “You have now created a fruit salad! Congratulations on your accomplishment, as we are also a dining establishment!” announced one of the proprietors cheerfully from behind the counter, quickly handing menus to Oliver and his opponent. The pool hall had been purchased by a nameless, faceless conglomerate that was combining various services to increase profits. Oliver glared at the proprietors, annoyed by the distractions.

Looking towards the dart board, Oliver pulled out a small case he had brought, filled with darts and a vial of curare. It was his hostile use of curare that had landed Oliver in jail. “When I was a kid, all I heard was ‘Eat your fruit, Oliver’…and now this,” he said, looking at the fruit scattered across the pool table. “I just wanted to play a simple game of pool, but now it’s time to play darts,” he added grimly, dipping the tip of a small pointed missile into the poisonous curare, aiming towards the proprietors.

Oliver gazed over at the pool table one more time, noting the tangerine in the middle of the green felt, which transported his thoughts back to when he was a kid. “Eat your fruit, Oliver!” There was always a bowl of tangerines in the middle of the kitchen table. The neighbors had a rickety pool table in their basement. Young Oliver was the best pool player in the neighborhood, and had gone on to win a number of tournaments. Everything seemed so full of promise. What had he done with his life since then? Oliver looked at the tangerine, and knew those days would never come again, but suddenly things seemed a little more clear. Maybe there was still time to change?… He put the darts and curare back into the case, grabbed the tangerine, and slowly walked home through the dream.


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Eric Suhem lives in California and enjoys the qualities of his vegetable juicer.

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Author: Eric Suhem

Contributor: Sue Ann Connaughton

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Snap, Snap, Snip, Snip

Whenever he felt lonely, Beau dug out the puppet, talked to it, played with it, as though it were George. He made the puppet, himself, after George moved, by cutting and pasting a photo of George’s face, dark and grainy in that schoolyard-photograph manner, onto cereal box cardboard. For the handle, he taped a twig on the back. Primitive, but Beau was only six years old. He stored the puppet in a secret shoebox, hidden behind clothes in his wardrobe.

When Beau was ten years old, his grandfather died. He hunted through family albums for photos of his grandfather and used them as models that he drew onto a rubber ball. No matter how the ball rolled, his grandfather’s face was always visible, always available to play a game of catch.

Beau’s parents divorced when he was seventeen, just as he was leaving for college. It wasn’t a surprise; his parents had separated once before, so he was prepared. Beau chose a photograph of them together, smiling. He mounted it on black poster board. With a razor-sharp tool, he carved it into a jigsaw puzzle with one hundred, tiny, intricate pieces. It worked as a two-sided puzzle: a person could put it together with the expected photo side up; or for an added challenge, fit together the reverse inky side, without pictorial clues for a guide. After he finished the puzzle, Beau immediately dismantled it and sprinkled the pieces into his secret shoebox, tucking them around the puppet and ball.

At age thirty, Beau married Doria, whom he adored so much that he began shooting photos of her from their first date, in anticipation of the day she wouldn’t be around.

As their first wedding anniversary approached, Beau secretly crafted a special gift for Doria. He sifted through hundreds of photos and had the prettiest one enlarged on heavy stock: a photo of Doria descending a staircase in her wedding gown. He sliced it into precise vertical strips, which he wove into a form and molded into a basket with the rearranged image on the outer side. On the bottom, he attached curved strips of balsa wood, so the basket could rock. On their anniversary, the “paper” anniversary, Beau presented the basket to Doria.

She examined his offering, inside and out. With her index finger, she traced the intersections where her image fractured into abstraction.

His heart pounded as he braced himself for the possibility that she might laugh at his foolish gift and leave him right then and there. Why did he ever think he could reveal the fruits of his weird hobby to a woman as normal as Doria.

Doria set the basket in the center of the dining table and tapped it, lightly.

“What an ingenious construction! I’ve never seen anything like it. Look, Beau, how easily it sways at the touch of my fingertip.”


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Sue Ann Connaughton writes compact fiction from a drafty old house in the witch capital of North America, Salem, Massachusetts

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Author: Sue Ann Connaughton

Contributor: Manuel Royal

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Vingy was dead: first of all. He caught on fire -- well, somebody lit him on fire. Plus, he fell 300 feet from a revolving restaurant, onto a public fountain featuring a bronze statue of the Little Mermaid. That usually does it.

The fountain's flowing water put out the fire and rinsed a lot of blood down the drains, but Vingy's intestines and spine remained draped over the statue. The scene was cheerful in its color scheme (at first, until the blood darkened as it clotted) but, frankly, depressing in every other way.

Three blocks south from where much of Vingy was spread out so publicly, three dozen people had distributed themselves amongst a hundred chairs in a ballroom, mostly in the middle rows. They flipped through their seminar materials and waited for the main speaker, Reggie Vingy, to come out and explain how they'd get rich by badgering their acquaintances into distributing kits that would, at some point down the slope of an imaginary pyramid, allow somebody to sell somebody else a product, all using a principle that Vingy called Dynamic Value Exchange (DVE).

Vingy never showed; he was the late Reggie Vingy in every sense. Two senses, anyway. This became a family joke, repeated every Christmas when Vingy wasn't there to trim the tree. His children hung a Little Mermaid ornament and lit a candle.

His widow inherited the mantle of DVE royalty and strove to honor Vingy's legacy. And indeed, she ripped off many, many people, so perhaps somewhere Vingy was smiling. But definitely dead.


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Manuel Royal was born, like Tristram Shandy, with a broken nose. He will die. In between, he lives and writes in Atlanta.

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Author: Manuel Royal