Contributor: Jeremy Jones

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As the painfully burning liquid flows over my skin, I reflect on my life. I see how I ruined my own childhood and blamed others. I see the father I left to rot in a hospital and to die alone. I see the mother I drove away and the brothers I shut out. I see the loving wife I destroyed and drove to adultery. I see the pain I caused all my loved ones. I see all the Marines I fucked over. I see all the lives I took, all the souls I sent to hell, all the futures I erased. I still see their eyes and hear their screams when I sleep. I can see everything I have ever done in my life when this liquid rushes over my flesh, burning me as it goes. I try to think of the good but cannot. The worst part is I see my children. Poor bastards that never deserved to be around a prick like me. My sweet angels will forever be changed by my actions and how I wronged them. For that I cannot allow myself to live. I tear my eyes open to see the flowers all around me. The roses have just come into bloom. The night air is filled with a gentle breeze that is carrying the sweet smell from the roses. With my arms raised above my head, I finish dumping the liquid on my head. I gag at the choking smell from the gasoline. Not even the heaven of these amazing flowers can shut that away. I suddenly regret that the flames will destroy them as well. I pull out the Zippo that has my cherished EGA engraved on it next to the words my lover put on there, “Life would not be worth living, without you in it.” I think it’s only fitting to kill myself with it.

Narrative:

Gunnery Sergeant Zack McNeil slams the lighter open; the sound reminds him of racking a round. Slowly he brings the lighter to life and watches the flames dance to the left and right. Zack thinks one last time of his girls and how he would beat and molested them. Seeing their sad, hollow eyes helps to resolve his will. He drops the lighter and is consumed by flames. You can almost hear the flames laughing as they devour him, eating him alive. His screams are instant and loud. The pain brought on by burning to death does not compare to the anguish in his soul. His screams reflect his torment and agony escaping his body. The torture is almost orgasmic, knowing that his twisted soul is going to feel this for all eternity; knowing that his living form is being destroyed. GySgt McNeil’s body is found the next day still on his knees clutching what looks like a picture frame.


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Prior Sergeant of Marines, never been published. I started writing about 6 months ago, and I was told I should post my stuff. I like to write flash fiction and prose poems, but am trying to broaden my horizon.

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Author: Jeremy Jones

Contributor: Brian Barbeito

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Summer rains and purple cotton, where the cool women go, or the fantastic plastic horse from so many years and days and nights ago that it is a miracle to think existence can bring you so far. Dreams of police with the faces of pigs, because someone mentioned they were such, and the old man J-walked and got hit by cars by the grocery store afternoon. The grand church, and the ceilings with saints, where the Madonna will crush the snake with her feet, where the bleached blond knowing one will survey the scene, and the cross-town market is there with nooks and crannies- people old and in heavy suits. The world there and in other places was full of electrical tape, splinters, needle nose pliers, silver watches, cords, small Christmas Trees for the faithful, diligent crates of candies waiting, close angels whispering in the ear, other spirits too, and night terrors, visions, a ringing in the ear, an intensity indescribable, and some kind of hope or chance. But it was also laden with dust and the idea of things that were past their time and only the poor might really want them. If the autumnal leaves swept through the town like a loud racket it would be good, or if winter came and painted everything with snow...or even spring and her flowers trying to survive by the roadside or in an old grandmother’s garden...but it was the summer rains, where the cool women go, and those women are not humble, generous, or wise. The world flashes on and off, and someone tries to remember a dream while another on the other side of the earth tries to dream a dream. The whole thing is sometimes muddied, and sometimes clear, but all the time sacrosanct in the end, though we can’t see it right now, blocked as we are by summer rains and the way of things.


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Brian Michael Barbeito writes impressionistic vignettes, flash fiction, short stories, prose poetry, experimental novels, book and film reviews. His work has appeared at Glossolalia, Subtle Fiction, Mudjob, Six Sentences, Thinking Ten, American Chronicle, Our Echo, Ezine Authors, Author Nation, A Million Stores, Crimson Highway, Paragraph Planet, Useless-Knowledge Magazine, Exclusive Conclave of Delights Magazine, and Lunatics Folly. His work is forthcoming in the Contemporary Literary Horizons Journal, and in Kurungabaa Magazine. He is the author of ‘postprandial,’ an experimental novel, and a compilation of his work, ‘Vignettes,’ is being compiled. Brian resides in Ontario, Canada

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Author: Brian Barbeito

Contributor: Danica Green

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Mama kept chickens in the yard all through my childhood. Every few days she and I would go out together and collect the eggs, feed the chickens, check the cage wires, and I would say hello to each chicken individually. Mrs. Cluck was my favourite, we adopted her from a shelter and she'd been the only survivor of a fox attack on the coop she lived in as a chick. It had left her mother and siblings dead and her wings torn off so she looked a bit like one of those New Zealand kiwi birds. It never phased her though, she produced just as many eggs as her coop-mates, ate fine, slept well. Plucky Mrs. Cluck.

Since papa left the house two years earlier, money had been tight. I'd often go without fancy birthday gifts so that we could feed the chickens and I didn't mind it at all. Who'd want a stupid cassette player when they could have walking, talking toys, right? One Christmas I spent the morning playing with my paltry gifts and watching tv before mama called me to the kitchen. I loved Christmas lunch and it was always fair, I liked the legs, mama liked the wings and we'd share the rest between us, so when I saw her reaching for one of my drumsticks I got pretty annoyed and went to snatch it out of her hand. That's when I looked down and saw the wingless chicken carcass on the table. Mama stared down at her plate. I let go of the drumstick and did the same.


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Danica Green is a UK-based writer of things that make no sense. She hopes to burn your eyeballs out with her words, or at the very least, make you smile awkwardly.

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Author: Danica Green

Contributor: Michael Albani

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“Johnny,” said the younger runaway, “I really don’t think we should be hanging out around here.”

“Carmine, don’t be such a freakin’ baby,” Johnny ordered. “I mean, where’s your sense of adventure? We could never find a place this sweet back in Philly.”

Johnny and Carmine were brothers. Johnny was 16. Carmine was 14. They had both run away from home and were travelling together across the country.

Well, perhaps “run away from home” is not the right phrase. After all, “home” is an abstract concept, a warm and comforting state of mind. There was nothing warm or comforting about the run-down house in Philadelphia that Johnny and Carmine came from.

Johnny and Carmine were raised by a drunkard father who could not hold down a steady job. He was a mean drunk who took out his frustrations on them before slithering back into his bottle. They both knew they had to escape from that Hell hole.

The latest stop on their tour across America was an abandoned carnival. The sun was setting and the whole place was cloaked in dusk. It was a dirty place, littered with half-torn tents and ancient popcorn bags. There were rotting game stands with headless stuffed animals resting on the shelves. A rusty Ferris wheel and other rides enveloped in overgrown foliage dotted the landscape.

“Johnny, how could you think a place this creepy is sweet?”

“Aw, whatsa madder?” Johnny asked in baby talk. “Is my baby bwudder ascared?”

“No!” Carmine yelled. “I just don’t think we should be hanging around a place like this at night.”

“Ha! You’re scared.”

“Am not!”

“Are too.”

“Am not!”

“Are…”

“And what’s wrong with being scared, my boy?” someone interjected.

Startled, the brothers turned around. An old man was standing a few yards away from them, and a strange old man at that. The abandoned carnival was in the middle of nowhere, but this old man was dressed to kill. He wore an immaculate white suit with a matching shirt, tie, and shoes. In his right hand, he clutched a stunning ivory cane with a silver head. A black mourning band was affixed to his left arm.

“What was that, mister?” asked a bewildered Johnny.

With a sinister smile on his face, the old man slowly approached the brothers, speaking as he walked. “Well, my boys, I just said there’s nothing wrong with being scared, especially in this place.”

“Who are you, mister?” asked Carmine.

The old man laughed. “That’s not important. What is important is that you boys should be getting home. The stars will be out soon and so will Salazar the Snake Eater.”

The brothers both looked confused.

“You boys don’t know about Salazar the Snake Eater?” asked the old man.

The brothers both shook their heads.

The old man tightened his grip on his cane. “You boys must not be from around here. Everyone around here knows the legend of Salazar the Snake Eater. Sit down. I’ll tell you the story.”

The old man disturbed the brothers, but he did not appear dangerous. They decided to do as they were told and took a seat on the grass.

“Well,” began the old man, “many years ago the abandoned grounds over there were the site of a thriving carnival. This carnival had a Freak Show. Its star was Salazar the Snake Eater.

“Salazar had a very strange act. He would bite the heads off of live cobras and suck out their venomous blood.”

Upon hearing this, the brothers’ stomachs churned.

“Some people loved this act,” continued the old man. “But many more were disgusted by it. They called Salazar an abomination, a monster. This made Salazar very sad and very angry.

“One night, Salazar wished upon a star for a way to get revenge on all those people who looked on with revulsion. The star he wished upon was called ‘the backbone of the Serpent’ by ancient peoples. In fact, there it is right now.” The old man pointed a single bony finger into the air. The sun had set and a solitary star shined dimly in the sky.

“Well,” the old man continued, “when Salazar woke up the next morning, he discovered he had grown three times his size! This made him very happy. Some say he still lives on the carnival grounds, waiting to bite the heads off of any snakes that would dare call him a monster.”

For a moment, the brothers were speechless. “Well,” Johnny finally said, “thanks for the story, but I think it’s time for us to go.”

The old man smiled sinisterly. “Alright. You boys just remember my story.” The old man turned and walked away, disappearing into the trees.

“That was really creepy,” said Carmine.

“Yeah,” agreed Johnny. “So, you ready to turn in for the night?”

“Turn in for the night? Here?”

“Why not? I’ve always wanted to sleep under the stars.”

“But that old man…”

“Aw, is my baby bwudder ascared of some old man and his fairy tales?”

“Stop it! Fine, you win. We’ll turn in here tonight.”

After a few hours of sleep under the stars, Johnny felt a few drops of rain falling on his head. He turned over in his sleeping bag to shake Carmine awake. “Wake up, Carmine. It’s starting to…

Johnny stopped. His brother was not in his sleeping bag. Instead, there was a corpse with a bloody stub where the head should have been.

“You really should have listened to me,” someone said.

Johnny jerked around to see the old man lying next to him with his signature sinister smile on his face. More rain fell on Johnny’s head. He looked upward and was horrified to find that it was not rain that was falling on him. It was drool.


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My name is Michael Albani and I am a native Michigander and a student at Albion College. I am the founder and editor of the new online environmental fiction zine Appalachia Fiction and Fact and I have previously been published for my horror fiction in Flashes in the Dark and Deadman's Tome.

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Author: Michael Albani

Contributor: Tahni J. Nikitins

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Mysterious Mr. D is not a tall man - no. He is, perhaps, five-seven - five-eight. He is not a man heavily built - quite the contrary. He is lanky - quite wiry. He is not attractive as you might expect him to be, with shaved head, pale eyebrows and lashes, dense freckles, and ruddy skin. Perhaps, if you were to wager a guess, you might say he was of Irish or Scottish descent. Then again, maybe not.

He may not be tall or powerful in build - he may not be handsome as your daydream, but his eyes are the color of warm amber. And he knows much about you, it seems, while you know nothing about him save for his interest in astrology - and that he recognized the pendant on your neck.

There is his laugh, as well. His laugh is abrupt. It shocks you some, leaves you reeling. It takes you a moment to catch up; a second to be let in on the joke. And when he laughs, the corners of his eyes crinkle. Perhaps you didn't notice the fine lines there before, but you do when he laughs - just as you didn't notice the lines at the corners of his mouth until the smile broke.

Oh, Mysterious Mr. D...if you're lucky, perhaps you'll see him again. You chose your clothes carefully - just in case. And then you laugh uneasily because you feel silly, but also because you know you recognize him from somewhere but you just can't recall...

Well, it's only fitting...to know him not at all.


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Tahni has been writing since she could hold a pen, filling journal after journal with stories which, more often than not, made little to no sense. Since then, however, some of her writings have been featured at Eternal Haunted Summer (eternalhauntedsummer.com) and in Anya Kless's devotional anthology Lilith: Queen of the Desert.

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Author: Tahni J. Nikitins

Contributor: Jerry Guarino

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It was one of the most disturbing images Tony had ever seen, if only for a few seconds. Along a highway on the seedier side of the city, a man dressed in plain clothing, an old, wrinkled grey jacket and worn, work boots was kneeling in front of a large industrial building with huge, glass windowpanes. Standing around him were two men with black suits, sunglasses and shining black shoes, looking very much like the men in black. He was driving too fast to hear what the men were saying, but their expressions painted a picture of a sober and terrifying incident about to happen.

Tony was forced to drive past them, on a highway without any place to pull over. As he sped by, he looked for a way to turn around, but the nearest break in the median was a mile away. He couldn’t leave without trying to help the man, so he made a u-turn and drove back to the scene on the opposite side of the highway. Tony honked his horn as he went by, but the men didn’t respond; he only angered the drivers in front of him. “I’m not honking at you,” Tony yelled out his window. A busy intersection ahead gave him an opportunity to make another u-turn, but no place to park.

So Tony drove past the men again, unable to stop, honking his horn and yelling out the passenger side window. “Hey, leave him alone.” But his cries fell on deaf ears. Tony decided to pull into the nearest side street and run back to the group, hoping he would arrive before the man was shot or beat up. “How am I going to stop this? Those men obviously have guns and outweigh me by fifty pounds.” His sense of right and wrong neutralized his fear. Adrenalin rushed through his limbs as he raced towards the men. He didn’t know what he was going to do, but he was going to do something.

One hundred yards away now, he saw the sun glaring off the windowpanes, creating those rays you often see breaking through clouds. But this was not the peaceful image of a church or sunset. It was very likely an eminent crime scene. Tony ran faster and he could feel his heart thumping in his chest. “This is crazy. I could get killed.” Tony could see the man pleading for his life, his hands interlaced and tears running down his face. He also saw something black in the hand of the aggressor, pointing towards the victim. One last time, his principles gave him strength, overriding all common reason and sense of self-preservation.

He turned his ears on high, hoping to hear something he could use to placate the aggressors. His back up plan was to dive headlong into the men, praying for some help from above; it wasn’t a good plan B. Just before he leapt into the air, he could make out the determined words of the man with the black object in his hand, now holding it above the head of the kneeling man.

“Do you now affirm your willingness to turn over your life to Christ Jesus, to follow his path and to spread his gospel to the world?” The man raised his hands towards the sky, lifted his head and face up and responded.

“I do so swear. Jesus, I turn my life over to you.”

The men in the sunglasses turned to face Tony with dispassionate expressions. “Son, have you heard the good news?”


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Jerry Guarino’s short stories have been published by dozens of literary magazines in the United States, Canada, Australia and Great Britain. His first collection of twenty-six critically acclaimed stories, Cafe Stories, was released in October, 2011. It is available as a paperback on amazon.com and as an e-book on kindle.

Watch for his new story, The Chess Table at the Twenty or Less Press website.

He is currently working on a murder mystery for the stage.

Please visit his website at http://cafestories.net
jguarino.author@gmail.com
twitter: @cafestories

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Author: Jerry Guarino

Contributor: Eric Suhem

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Alfred was a somnambulist. As a somnambulist, he would walk about the house in the middle of the night, deep in slumber, sitting in different chairs, turning on and off various faucets, eventually winding up back in bed. His family had become accustomed to his nocturnal ramblings. One morning, after falling asleep in bed the night before, he woke up in a brightly colored lawn chair out in his vegetable garden. The morning after that, he woke up in a neighbor’s yard, and the next morning in another neighbor’s yard. Each morning Alfred would wake up in the brightly colored lawn chair, closer and closer to the nearby freeway, until he woke up 10 feet away from the road’s speeding cars. At this rate, he would wake up on Lane 1 of the freeway.

Two mornings later, after the usual nighttime ambling, he did wake up in a brightly colored lawn chair on the freeway, but saw that 78 other people were either asleep or awake in brightly colored lawn chairs on the freeway, so everybody got out of their stopped cars and had a picnic. While chewing on a blood orange, one of the lawn chair occupants asked Alfred, “Who are you?” Alfred was about to describe his dead-end job at the orange grove, packing crates, preparing invoices, and sweeping up orange peels, when, in an epiphany, he suddenly visualized his new career, saying, “I’m Alfred Lindquist, I sell lawn chairs.”

The person chewing the blood orange looked at Alfred strangely, and cryptically muttered, “Through the miles of desert in the blazing sun…on the arid, parched, barren ground…ants and worms crawling amidst wayward oranges…wind howling through the empty canyons…in the middle of the silence sits a wooden coffee table…on it pumps a heart…veins, arteries, aorta, valves, pulp, peels…blood and soul spread out on the dirt…it’s the heart you’ll never know.” He then handed Alfred an orange.

Alfred started a new business selling yard furniture, and the sleepwalking stopped, much to his family’s relief. One night, after the business day had ended, Alfred sat down to fill out some paperwork that had been piling up. The plastic blinds of the window were open, filtering the glare of the streetlights onto the imitation wood paneling of his office. The first item in his inbox was a refund request for one of the lawn chairs he’d sold the previous week. This particular lawn chair included the wide orange ‘Happy Face’ on its seat. Unfortunately, customers of this product had reported skin rashes, and more severe epidermis disturbances. It was soon discovered that some fibers in the ‘Happy Face’ symbol on the lawn chair, derived from an obscure toxic plant, were creating itching, and much worse. Hostile litigation would undoubtedly flow in, and further tests indicated that an increase in degree of the smile caused more skin rashes, as more of the toxic threads of the wide smile were directly under customers’ legs on the chair. One of these chairs was in Alfred’s office, and he looked at it, the ‘Happy Face’ seeming to word, “Who are you?”

The next item in his inbox was an invoice for another lawn chair he had sold that week. Alfred needed to sign his name on the invoice, but for some reason, no matter how hard he tried, could not remember his name for the signature. He set the invoice aside, and picked up the next piece of paper, a memo from the orange grove, having to do with his some minor job severance insurance issues. His name popped instantly into his head and he was able to sign his name: Alfred Lindquist. He picked up the lawn chair invoice again, and stared at the signature line, unable to sign. The somnambulism returned.

The next morning, after a night of sleepwalking, he woke up in a lawn chair under orange trees in the orchard where he used to work. In his lap was the orange that the strange person had given to him on the freeway weeks ago. The orange had a little “d” imprinted on its side, and it was ticking, like a bomb. A year ago, Alfred had seen another orange with a “d” imprint, which had been an advertising stunt from a fruit juice stand, extolling the benefits of Vitamin D, but this time he realized that the “d” stood for “decide”. He stood up, threw down the lawn chair, and went to the orchard manager’s office, where he got his job back. The orange stopped ticking, and later became a refreshing mid-afternoon snack for a passerby.


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Author: Eric Suhem

Contributor: Rebecca Buchanan

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He was awakened at dawn by a terrific crash, a bunch of smaller crashes, and the shriek of his car alarm. Muttering, he pulled on his robe, grabbed his keys, and staggered down the stairs. The old bat in 3C was already whining about her beauty sleep.

The roof of his Corolla was completely caved in, a large chunk of scaly rock in its center. Smaller bits of rock were scattered around. His toe bumped something that might have been a claw or horn. He stabbed at the key chain a few times. The pretty girl from 4G, her earbuds belching Ozzy, shrugged as she jogged passed him. The alarm squeaked and abruptly cut off. He sighed, wondering what the chances were of reaching his insurance guy on a Sunday morning.

The old bat was leaning out her window now, yelling down at him. He looked up to yell back. And kept looking up. The rest of the flock was perched on the fifth-floor ledge. A couple of them were covering their eyes, wings curled tight. A third leaned down, reaching, eyes and mouth wide: horror and despair petrified for all the daylit world to see.


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Rebecca Buchanan is the editor of Eternal Haunted Summer, a Pagan literary ezine. She has been previously published in Luna Station Quarterly, Bards and Sages Quarterly, Cliterature and Hex Magazine.

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Author: Rebecca Buchanan

Contributor: P.A.Levy

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the great outdoors isn’t that great if the outdoors is a council estate a bomb city with some of its glass panes still intact where grey scratches on the grey landscape to form into rectangular outlines of washing machines left to get a rinse in the dirty acid rot not trip rain and under an orange glow of city echoes fridges are left out freezing their nuts off in the cold as creeping rust begins to accumulate and spread across the incinerated carcasses of exhausted cars whose final act of exploding into flames provided entertainment for several minutes of wild jubilation as if worshipping some heathen god to free the world of boredom and the bass and drum of drum&bass mashed with dubstep follows you like radar trace orchestrates skank in yer gait shuffling in the shadow of a high rise where the junkies crash on the top floor getting as close to heaven as they dare YOU DON’T GO ON THE TOP FLOOR in fact don’t go near the underground car park either STAY IN THE OPEN STAY IN THE LIGHT but don’t take that as a metaphor for god ‘cos it ain’t it’s survival tagged on the shuttered shops of the cctv parade like a holy scripture for an underclass but then being as low as that the only way is up lifts are smashed plod each stair until yer muscles ache too far to turn back now straight up darkside with the top floor about to greet you


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Born East London but now residing amongst the hedge mumblers of rural Suffolk, P.A.Levy has been published in many magazines, both on line and in print, from ‘A cappella Zoo’ to ‘Zygote In My Coffee’. He is also a founding member of the Clueless Collective.

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Author: P.A.Levy

Contributor: Simay Yildiz

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''Fuck off,'' I hiss between my clenched teeth, staring inside the eyes of the boy who came up from behind me and is still holding a supposedly-dead, plastic mouse in front of my face. As I stare and state into his eyes grinding my teeth, I can hear the other boys whispering, “She’s not scared…” My stare-boy turns away when I pull the toy from his hand in full force. Facing his friends, ''She's a witch,'' he shrieks with his hands up in the air, and with the blink of an eye, there are no more boys in sight. I throw the mouse into my coat pocket and check the time on my cell phone: I don’t need this on an empty stomach…

The food is an hour away from where I get on the bus, so once I find an empty seat, I sit down and open the book I've been trying to read for a week. The driver's deep, loud voice distracts me. “You again? Once again you don't have any money, do you? Why you always gotta pick MY vehicle?” I sit up, thinking there'll be a fight and I'll have to spend the night with this leather seat grabbing my ass. As I think about the burgers and the beer I could be filling my stomach with, I turn to see who the money-less person is.

The bus starts moving again, and the driver is giggling: it's a 15-year-old boy with the biggest and warmest smile I've ever seen. It takes me quite a while because he looks very different under the lights, but when I realize it’s the same boy who pulled the plastic mouse trick on me, I listen in closer: he never could learn how to read ''all the confusing'' letters, but he's good at counting money when he has it. He has his dead mother's ability to shape unshapely things, so his father found him a job at a barbershop.

Thinking to myself what someone might call a cute face like that, I try to catch his name. As I listen more, staring at my hands, I realize I really just want to pinch his cheeks and squeeze him until he giggles so hard he can’t breathe. I laugh a satisfied laugh, the booze I haven’t yet consumed already kicking in.

''Whatcha laughin’ at?'' asks barber-boy as he sits next to me. ''Nothing,'' I say and turn to him, which makes him jump out of the seat and get on his knees: ''Oh, please, the beautiful witch of the town,'' he says, ''please kiss me and make me immortal – I beg you.'' I catch the driver's eyes on his mirror, and I mouth WHAT THE FUCK? ''Never mind him,'' he says, ''he's got a few loose screws.''

Whenever the bus stops to pick someone up, the driver threatens my barber-boy, saying he'll throw him out for not having the fare. He's joking, but barber-boy doesn't understand; he gets on his knees, trying to hold onto the side of the vehicle, ready to cry. This happens a few times, and I can't take it anymore. ''Quit it,'' I say to the driver as I walk up and throw at him whatever change I have in my coat pocket.

With the change flies out the supposedly-dead, plastic mouse and the lady sitting in the front starts screaming as if she saw her dead husband’s ghost. The bus stops all of a sudden; I can't catch the railing on time and fall on the screaming lady. When I hear barber-boy laughing his ass off, I can't help but join in. ''GET THE HELL OUT," yells the driver, "BOTH OF YOU – NOW!" We jump off, still laughing, and the screaming lady throws the mouse at me, but I catch it before it hits my face, which makes barber-boy go, "Woooooooow!"

"Guess ya gotta go naw," says barber-boy when we cool down. I motion him to get closer and give him a kiss on the cheek. Holding my palm in front of his face, "You're immortal now," I whisper, and watch him skip as he walks down the side street. "What's your name," I yell after him, but he's already lost in the dark.


- - -
Simay lives and works as a copywriter in Istanbul. She likes reading thankyous in CD booklets, dancing in the rain and staying up all night to read. She might burst into song at random times.

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Author: Simay Yildiz