Contributor: Chad Stroup

- -
Do not attend class; it is a construct.
Cross the revolving threshold with a malleable mind.
What you absorb may or may not affect you profoundly.
You may think the man next to you is corporeal.
Caress his well-worn sweater.
It is the dressing of a corpse.
You may know in your mind's eye that the woman across the room is breathing.
Crumple a piece of paper and softly toss it at her.
It will bounce off her face as if she were made of wax.
You may believe that your professor is planting seeds in your mind.
He or she is digging shallow graves.
Determine for yourself what will be engraved in your headstone.


- - -
I am an MFA Creative Writing Student with a focus in fiction at San Diego State University. I enjoy twisting the possibilities of the darker side of fiction. I also run a blog at http://subvertbia.blogspot.com/

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: Chad Stroup

Contributor: Ward Webb

- -
The gash in my forehead stung like a bitch. If it wasn’t so dark I’d be able to check my fingers to see how bloody it is; but it’s too dark in here. Dark and stale and hard to breathe. I don’t feel a lot of wetness on my fingers – so the cut shouldn’t be that bad.

The tire iron is wedged under my ribs – pressing into my side with each bump we hit. He was on paved asphalt for the longest time, but somewhere in the last five minutes he must have turned off. Now it feels like we’re on some kind of unpaved dirt road - one with an obnoxious amount of potholes. His speed is reckless. I can tell from the roaring thunder surrounding me. If only it wasn’t so dark...

I never saw him approach me. June and I had just checked out and were heading back to the car when she told me she’d forgotten to pick up her pads (the whole reason we’d even gone to the convenience store in the first place – I was always forgetting things, so was she – that’s why we were meant for each other). I climbed behind the steering wheel and gulped away at my Slushee. The tiny rocks of ice peppered my teeth and almost hurt with the chilled bite. I watched through the window as June thoughtfully selected the proper size, and made her way to the bored looking cashier. He never even looked up at her while he rang her up. I just sat in the car and watched and worked on my Shushee, as happy as an eight year old.

I never heard the breathing. I never even thought to turn around and check the backseat like they warn old ladies to do. I guess I should have, but it’s a little late now. If I ever escape from this guy, I’ll check my backseats from now on. I swear.

A particularly large dip in the road sent the iron tools below me clanking together. I gasped; the jolt had rocked the air from my lungs and sent it exploding out into the darkness like a sour burp. He couldn’t hear me. He couldn’t hear anything over that music. How someone can listen to German marching songs at full blast while driving down the interstate is beyond me. All of the tracks sounded the same to me. Heavy, driving drums and cheers in a foreign language where every word sounded hostile. I closed my eyes and tried not to panic as the car purred around me.

The thin, coarse carpeting mashed into my face and left an itchy imprint. The smell of oil and antifreeze was suffocating, but I kept quiet and thought about my next move.

There was nothing I could do lying here in the dark listening to the gravel of the road crunch a foot beneath where my head was positioned. I had to move fast when the trunk opened – I knew that much. He had not had the foresight to tie me up, which was my one and only hope. Knocking me unconscious hadn’t done anything to render his plan effective. I was crafty and as soon as that lid popped up, I’d be ready. Somehow.

I picked and pulled at the tiny, curling lip of carpet. I struggled to get it loose. Held in place and glued down by years of accumulated spills and pinned against the ground by the weight of my body – I tore and pulled as hard as I could and finally a tiny strip came loose. Being blind made things much harder.

Finally I felt the car bank to the right and then swoop off to the left. The sound of gravel disappeared. There was suddenly no sound at all – but I still felt the car moving, so we must be on grass. I struggled to find something to use as a weapon as we slowed down. The marching tunes died. The only sound was my breath.

The engine cut off like a roaring lion being shot in the face. Instantly the silence was overwhelming as I lay there listening to the muffled sound of footsteps coming my way.

The jingling of keys came through the heavy steel lid, one grinded its way into the lock and a tiny sliver of night peeked through. I’d had no time to pry the tire iron from under my ribs. I thought I had more time. I had to get up. I had to spring now, as soon as the lock released.

With my free legs I kicked against the bottom lid of the trunk as hard as I could and the sheet of metal flew up. Instantly I saw what lay in store for me. Framed by the edges of the car’s trunk, four men waited quietly behind the man that had appeared in my back seat. Standing there grinning and looking ominous; I’d seen enough of their faces in that fleeting glimpse to know I was in trouble.

My kidnapper stood there looking down on me like I was a particularly nice stuffed animal he had won at the fair.

“Told you I’d find us a nice ‘un,” he said over his shoulders to the others. “Now hand me the rope. We gone show this here boy how we do things down South.”

A triumphant murmur escaped the onlookers as the one furthest from the car tossed an old, dried bundle of rope to the man from the backseat. It landed at his feet with a thud but he never took his eyes off of me. Squinting and mouthing words I couldn’t hear, he sneered and his broken teeth glistened in the moonlight.

Suddenly I realized this wasn’t a game. It wasn’t some hate-crime-prank carried out by the local frat boys – this was serious. I saw the men behind him clearer again. My bloodshot eyes searched around looking for any chance I could cling to for hope – but there was none. Parked alone miles off the road in an abandoned, fallow field I was all alone. I was outnumbered. I was blocked from leaping from the trunk. If I tried to run, they could just overtake me in the car. There was no hope.

He ushered me out of the trunk by my throat with another ignorant slam about my religion spewing from his whiskey-cracked lips. As I stepped over the rim of the car’s boot – I looked off across the field. Plowed lines lay parallel, tilled and churned and ready to take the seed of another year, they covered the ground like corduroy in every direction.

I turned and faced my five attackers. I didn’t see men, I saw only the weapons they carried. As I pulled my right leg out of the trunk and stood up – the only thing I saw coming was the rope, a crowbar, a baseball bat, a short-stubby carving knife and a dirty old pistol.

The land shimmered in front of me and my feet suddenly felt like lead. I panted. Air choked off in my throat and tiny blue fish swam around everywhere, toying with my vision. I fainted and landed face down in the cool earth.

The last sound I heard were the footsteps approaching; and that heavy, lustful breathing from the five men.


- - -
Some of my other work has appeared in Deep South Magazine as well as Dew On The Kudzu.

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

1 comment

Author: Ward Webb

Contributor: Chris Leek

- -
People didn’t come from Las Vegas, not in the same way as people came from Baltimore or Jonesboro County, Idaho. Joe had decided Las Vegas was a place to go to, not come from.
He sat swilling coffee from a fresh white china mug and idly surveyed the casino's gaming floor. The slots restless and chattering even at this late – or was it early – hour. He watched a plump woman at the nearest machine relentlessly feeding in quarters. Her ample backside attempting to swallow the stool on which she perched. Time and again she yanked on the lever and stared intently as the reels spun, clunking to a halt one by one. At last a bell rang, a light flashed and the machine spat out a tray full of change. She didn’t break stride, just fished again in her blue plastic cup and continued to worship at the temple of the slot.
Beyond her, a lone black jack player rapped on the table and cried “Hit me again Dougie!” The weary dealer flipped him a card along with a look that said he hated the guy just for being born.
A waitress breezed past Joe, handing him a flyer that showed the variety and delights of breakfast cocktails. Two weeks ago it had never occurred to him that such a thing as a breakfast cocktail could exist let alone entertain the thought that he might order such a thing. He felt his stomach would probably handle one but he wasn’t sure that his conscience could. He was a new fish; road dust fresh on his shoes. A Bloody Mary or a Palmango Mimosa at 6.30am was still in his future, he didn’t doubt for a moment that he would get to it, just not quite yet.
He spun lazily round to face the bar and wordlessly indicated his need of a refill. The bar tender broke off from studying form at the track and slid over, seamless in his retrieval of the coffee pot on route. Joe nodded his thanks and sipped gratefully at the black-brown sludge, marveling again at its restorative powers.
From what he had seen everyone in Vegas was a gambler of sorts; they all played the game. The hooker out on the strip rolling a dice on every trick, hoping for a clean one, an easy one, one that wouldn’t knock her around. The not-so-high roller at the tables nursing his desperate, diminishing pile of chips (hit me again Dougie!) And Joe himself, still not sure what game would be his or how big to bet, but like cocktails for breakfast he would get to it soon enough.


- - -

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

1 comment

Author: Chris Leek

Contributor: George S. Karagiannis

- -
Of vital significance for your narrative is and will always be the way you visualize the futuristic and utopian or dystopian world where real action is taking place, along with its very details. Just to toy with the idea you are on the safe side, you may describe ‘your world’ as a philip dickish setting with post-apocalyptic, totalitarian surroundings or with humanity drawn to its endmost humiliation suppressing any specified freedom all along. The philip dickish environments render flexible access to shifted realities, sociopolitical hysterias, religious inconsistencies and paradoxical behaviors by authority-doubted human entities, thus yielding a user-friendly framework to build up the most non-comprehensive, deteriorated, knotty or psychopathic character you’ve ever imagined.

Of course, there could be numerous alternatives in the world you might envision for your story. For instance, you may purely formulate it as peter hamiltonish if you tend to describe events with their consequences in large scale impact; however in this case, avoid generating dramatis personae of more than two-hundred characters, should you wish your audience being able to follow you through your warily-crafted, space opera pages. In yet other cases, you might seek for a brian aldissish surrogate world, whereby you describe strange prospective fates for humanity, with human leftovers typically struggling for survival in a hostile plant- or insect-dominated planet; however in this case, avoid establishing cliché tribal organizations living in caves –or obsolete nuclear stations they are unaware of– and deploying cliché myths and prophecies that one divinely chosen man –usually naming him or her as ‘the light-bringer’, ‘the plague-hunter’, ‘the child of the dawn’ or something relevant– will bring an end to this wretchedness. Also, unless you keep in possession a far better idea than internet obtaining some level of self-consciousness, artificial intelligence coming into conflict with human neuroethics, and virtual realities intermixing with the present so-called human realities in a Matrix fashion, do not attempt to give your story a william gibsonish or tony ballantyneish tone. Finally, unless your mind shovels up a fascinating medical thriller, or at least a thought-provoking and dogma-challenging biological premise –almost to the level of integrating Darwin’s evolutionary theories with genetic bioengineering– it wouldn’t be advised to adopt a robin cookish, greg bearish or nancy kressish technique.

Improper character development that would not serve the purpose of your story would be an added constraint for a successful outcome; therefore, implementing the finest characters in your given world should not be circumstantial at all, but thoroughly designed. To avoid stereotypic ‘implants’ in your story, you may have to create characters that will question the unquestionable on a –preferably– paragon bureaucratic State, haunted from the ghosts of a previous or potential socioeconomic rupture or perhaps female characters seeking for their sexual orientation in a philosophical perspective; in such case you should concentrate on an ursula le guinish pattern. Upon wishing to involve characters that will deal with a crisis or dilemma in your story, guided by scientific rationales, research-based hypotheses and address the questions as reasoning-oriented puzzles –who are most probably also involved in academia– then an isaac asimovish character profiling is the most suitable fit. But, unless you have to offer a fresh challenge for the three laws of robotics, do not even bother to consider a robot character encompassed by bioethical issues. If your character personalities are tailored as interstellar spies, mercenaries, detectives or even lovers, then a lois mcmaster bujoldish style could efficiently do the job for you. If you are inclined to develop charismatic leaders followed by slavish human cohorts, then a frank herbertish milieu could easily be applied to your character panel; however, in this case, try to avoid positioning these leaders in deserted dune-resembling planets with lack of water, because you will end up repeating the story all over again. Finally, are you in need of a superhero for your story? Just bring into play the orson scott cardish spirit, as long as it is at least an adult one this time!

If the perspective of your story will be first-person, then it should always follow a gene wolfeish method of development, for it will be safeguarding reader’s suspense throughout. For the rest narrative modes or in cases of attempted literary experimentation, you should always keep to the robert heinleinish and theodore sturgeonish paradigms as they have fairly defined the existing standards for the science fiction school.

Salt and pepper is an essential evil for a good science fiction story! So, never ever forget to also introduce diminutive amounts of douglas adamish elements, since spicy or satiric humor is always highly-appreciated in a broad sci-fi readership. It is not highly-recommended, but upon your own volition of spreading an aura of bizarro in your story, you may attempt to provide a carlton melick IIIish texture in it; however, you should steer clear of the Satan’s successful attempts of conquering Earth, Jesus figures participating in porn movies, excessive descriptions of sexual orgies ending up in abdominal penetrations with splatter-like consequences, and attacks of highly-intelligent zombies flying with helicopters and jumping out of them with parachutes in case of an imminent crash.

Last but not least, you should always bear in mind to bring into context a personal signature in your work –in my case to allow for a george karagiannisish color to be penciled all over my novel– or else your story will be accused of being in fact non-authentic or even worse a stolen concept. And as an amateur author, you wouldn’t want that happening, now, would you?


- - -
George S. Karagiannis was born in Thessaloniki, Greece at 1984. He finished the School of Veterinary Medicine and is currently a PhD student at the University of Toronto in Canada, studying the molecular mechanisms of cancer metastasis. He enjoys writing science fiction, mainly in the sub-genres of (1) hard science fiction, (2) bizarro and horror sci-fi and (3) apocalyptic/post-apocalyptic, but more often blending all those, together! His favorite science fiction author is Philip K. Dick, whom he has been reading since he was introduced in the field. He is also an abstractionist/surreal artist and his blog can be found here: http://abstractsur.blogspot.com/

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: George S. Karagiannis

Contributor: Jerry Guarino

- -
    “I’ll take a Venti hot chocolate, raspberry scone and one of those new holiday cups,” said the man as he flirted with the beautiful girl behind the counter.  The Latina barista took his money, winked and prepared his order.  Meanwhile, the line was back out to the doorway, not uncommon at this time of the morning.  

California coffee houses were a little different than those back east.  Sure, they still have their share of serious bankers, lawyers and business professionals, but you can tell by the way they order.  On Wall Street, it’s a lot of black coffee, maybe with a Danish.  In D.C. it’s a croissant and latte and in Boston, it’s black tea and “that’s all thanks…I have my Dunkin Donut.”  

    But the prices were still high.  $3.25 for a hot drink, more if you wanted anything special.  Not that any coffee shop is taking change anymore.  More likely, people are scanning their debit card across a laser, totaling $11.25 or more.  But it’s a new day.  Coffee houses are as important as showers for the fortunate few and almost as much for the 99%.  Thank goodness for debit cards.


    Fortified with coffee and a superior scone, they go off to conquer the world, knowing that the working Joe can’t compete with his home brew and store bought donut.  The right breakfast separates the haves and the have-nots and creates confidence.  If you’re sitting down to a $39 breakfast buffet, you’ve already impressed your potential client.  He/She will go along (thanks to expense accounts), ignoring the cost, demonstrating that they are as comfortable in this venue as the mechanic getting his meal at McDonalds.


    That’s why this latest trend will catch on.  It’s a natural marriage, the combination of all that is required in today’s society with the convenience of starting the day off right.


    The Latina barista took off her apron and walked over to the man she had served.  “Well, it’s almost 9:00am, time I got to my day job.”  She kissed her husband, coming on for the day shift at the cafe and walked across the floor to take her place behind the bulletproof glass.  An older woman with a cane walked up to her, handed her a paper and smiled.  “Dear, can you put this social security check in my savings account?”  The Latina looked as beautiful behind the teller counter as she did at the café inside the bank.  “Certainly, Mrs. Wilson.  When you’re finished, you should try the Italian roast today.  It’s very good.” 


- - -
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.

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: Jerry Guarino

Contributor: Samuel Cole

- -
Tires crush gravel beneath me until brakes squeal and a muffler vibrates wildly. Power windows buzz down, up, down, up, down; soulful whispers of acknowledgment pierce my well-polished ears and mended face, permanently smiling at a giant rose blooming before my marble-threatened eyes.

Hands clutched across my heart as if hovering for surprise, the clock inside my head ticks on and on and on. I can’t see my fingernails, but I trust they’re not painted bright red like some third rate whore, but French-tip-pink like a woman of good-standing means.

Somewhere my daughter is biting the corners of her fingernails; my cousins, damn moochers, likely licking their chops; my two sisters shaking their hands and heads complaining, oh, it’s so hot out, oh, that boring service, oh how long, how very very long; my grandson sticking his fingers between his armpits making that funny whoopee cushion noise; my granddaughter waving her hand over her nose, no doubt scowling at the farm yard smells of this eerie calm place called Reflections II. Believe it or not, even I can smell it. Reflections I, across the street, my first choice, filled up six year ago. Reflections III, beside the pond, begins construction next April, but I couldn’t wait that long.


Suddenly, my mother’s auburn-flip-style-hairdo and see-through-me-eyes find me in the dark, her pucker skin floating above me like a shadowy screen, her bile index finger pointing deep into my chest until my heart implodes. She pokes fun at my weakness, as she knows I have nowhere else to run and hide.



--Where have you been? she screams, judging me, like before, like now, like forever.

But I can’t close my eyes or dream her away.

--I have been here waiting, she screams even louder. --I have kept my word, my promise, my end of the bargain.



I hear men breathing, marching toward my cold, marble slab. The wind shifts me to the right, left, hands down, spectacles falling between my nose and upper lip. My back is breaking, but I can’t resist one final stretch.

--I’m right here. I yell. --I am lying right here. I lose a finger; two toes; the end of my tongue.

She seems pleased. Like a smile before gutting an enemy.

Oh, how her darkness admires me now, to bully, allot, damn, razor.

I am hers.

Hers.

Her.


- - -
Samuel Cole lives in Woodbury, MN. He loves to run, STEP, photograph bowls, hang with friends, boo bad movies, and of course, write.

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: Samuel Cole

Contributor: T. M. Black

- -
Santa loaded the ammo belt of candy canes into the machine gun and cocked it. After a long night delivering presents, he hated the idea of facing the forgotten presents, but like every year they waited for his return, and so he readied for the frenzy.

The full moon sprayed enough light over the barn-style workshop to reveal the wooden doors were open, revealing a gaping, black mouth. While no alien toys were built by the elves that year, or mad hatter tea party sets, any toy was capable of brutal attacks. He knew that well, and rubbed the scar on his hip through his red suit.

The night had flown by without a hitch, and he thanked the cloudless skies. Even when they hit England, where a gale tugged at the sleigh, the reindeers didn’t grumble. But once he landed the sleigh, things felt very wrong. Someone was watching him.

He stepped closer to the shed, snow crunching beneath his boots, and stopped when a white teddy bear, sporting a red bow around his neck, spilled out from within the darkness. In one hand, the plush toy gripped a whip and in the other a whistle. The bear cracked the whip by its side, causing a puff of snow to loop about its feet. The toy pressed its hand to its mouth and a high-pitched shrill screamed through the silent night.

Santa’s finger twitched from the sudden sound, and released a round of candy canes into the bear. Bam, bam. The toy’s body was thrown backward into the blackened shadows of the workshop.

“Ho Ho, to you too, little bear.” Santa lowered the weapon.

The repetitive thudding from within the barn made Santa tense. Tens, if not hundreds of teddy bears, in a rainbow of colors, dressed in every manner of costume from a catsuit to a Spiderman outfit and even a blonde Marilyn Monroe bear, poured out from the building. They were all newbies. Santa would never leave behind so many toys. He stumbled backward.

Unlatching a mistletoe grenade from his belt, he pulled the ring and threw it into the mass of bears. A pop sounded, and a thin layer of green vapor enveloped the toys. Bears stopped their march and instead turned to a nearby toy, kisses each other, over and over.

But when another throng of bears emerged from the workshop, Santa gasped aloud and pulled the trigger, projecting a shower of candy canes into the toys. That did little to stop them. He recoiled, and hit the wall of the reindeer stables, fumbling with a new ammo cartridge. But the bears poured around him too fast.

They tugged at the hems of his red pants, climbing up his legs. Their tiny sharp teeth found skin. He kicked, whacked them with his gun, shouted, but nothing helped.

Then he spotted Rudolf sauntering from the workshop, his chin high in the air.

“Rudy, buddy, help me.” He threw a zebra-colored bear off him.

The reindeer grunted and flashed his white teeth. “Maybe you shouldn’t have left me at home on the most important day of the year.”


- - -
I am a marketer by day and storyteller by night, which means I make up a lot of things. When not with my family, I’m writing or reading.

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: T. M. Black

Contributor: Sydney Boles

- -
Ngöbe girls don’t wear shoes, Mama tells her.
What do we wear, then, Mama?
We walk the way our ancestors walked, with their dust between our toes.
Mama strokes the girl’s dark hair, runs a finger down the wide, dark flank of her nose.

Ngöbe girls don’t speak to White Men, Mama chides with her finger.
What if it’s important?
Don’t play their game, Little One.
But what if a White Man speaks to me?
They came to our land and took everything, Little One. Don’t let them take your voice, too.
Mama smiles at the little girl’s wide lips: my mother’s lips, she thinks. My mother’s full-moon eyes.

Ngöbe girls weave rope bags out of plant fibers.
But Mama, did I tell you about this white girl I saw with this pretty blue bag?
Hush. Our way is the way it has always been.
Mama guides the girl’s fine-boned fingers through the ancient process.

The parade is coming!
The little girl flaps out of the mud town and slogs through the formerly-a-river and crosses that cranky old man’s farm and hurries into the White Man’s City. Cars here, and sidewalks, and telephone poles, and advertisements for bottled iced tea. Buen es Bien, Muy Bien es Mejor. The little girl can’t read. Everybody must be so smart, with all those signs and information everywhere.
The parade is coming!
The music! The drums! The people! Everybody is wearing beautiful tight clothes. So many pretty shoes! So many wonderful hats and bags! Vendors sell freshly cooked meats, shaved ice, even cotton candy! The little girl wonders if you can beg for cotton candy like you can beg for coins.


But there, coming into view, are the white girls, their hair clean and curled, lips darkened, cheeks rouged, skin smooth and clean, no pimples, no scars, eyebrows like birds silhouetted on the heavens, matching white outfits, hips tipping, inviting, youthful breasts thrust out, feet arched like swans in shiny high heels, batons twirling. Here they are, these paragons of youth, these bright lights of our future, Panama’s joys, these glistening, smiling, perfect little ladies, march on! Dance on our streets and bless them with your presence, you queens of tomorrow, let us clap and cheer for you as your pass in your elegant heels.
The little girl smooths her dirty hand-made tunic.
But look! How lovely the Panamanian girls, watch them! Lust after them, men, their small waists, their thighs, even their youthful, noticeable knees. Lust after Panama, because these white-clad girls and their batons, they are Panama!
The little girl licks her fingers and scrubs dirt from her dark-skinned cheek.
Their glistening cheeks, men, their shining eyes! Do you see how proud we are of Panama?

Ngöbe girls don’t wear their hair like that, Mama scolds.
But Mama, how will I ever be beautiful?


- - -

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: Sydney Boles

Contributor: Peter Andrews

- -
“Everything is a balance,” Priest says. Sat across from me, imagine a priest in a movie, you won’t go far wrong. Imagine him sat in an interrogation room, you get the idea.
Small clear packet in my hand, two red pills inside. Does he recognize these? Yes, he does, a little nod.
“Red Devils,” I say. “They don’t even have any aliases yet that I know of.”
Priest shrugs: What you don’t know…
Then he says: “Evil Nicks.”
Did he come up with that one himself? He nods. I sigh, plenty of theatre in it, sit back in the plastic chair, hand through the hair. Am I tired or getting pissed off? he should be wondering. By the look of him, he isn’t.
I took him at the church. A big one, angels and stained glass, all that stuff. This one had a basement and a fuck-off utility bill.
“The factory,” I say. “Pretty slick operation. Who was the know-how?”
He doesn’t want to talk, nothing that implicates anyone else anyway.
I lean forward, eye contact. I might be sympathising, poor gullible priest led astray by some narco ring, manipulated. Priest doesn’t look like he gives a shit about my sympathies.
Motive. “Money?” I say.
No, not money. What then? He shrugs; it’s working for him so he does it again.
“These,” I wave the baggie again, “turn people into…” dramatic pause. Touch of outrage: “Have you seen what they do? Those eyes, slithering movements, you know what I mean? Like they’re on slow-mo or something. That gaping grin thing they do, drooling. Mania, psychosis. Trapped like that for. fucking. ever.” Hammering the words with my fist on the table.
“A balance,” Priest says. I blow air out of my cheeks. Care to elaborate? The grin says maybe he will.
“Bring the Devil to this world,” he says, “and control him.”
“Doesn’t sound like a balance.”
“But there will be, there must always be. The pills take you to Hell. Come back, you’re a demon, a manifestation of damnation.”
“And what? Send in the angels?”
A nod.
“Well they’re not here yet,” I say.


- - -
Peter Andrews is an aspiring writer, which means he thinks about it a lot and then plays video games. Once in a while he does do some work, though, and has most recently been shortlisted for the Cheshire Prize for Literature. He lives in Chester, UK, with his wife and daughter.

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: Peter Andrews

Contributor: Jane Hertenstein

- -
I remember when we used to take things for granted. When we threw away the heels of bread, left lights burning all night long, and traded in for a new car every four years.

Before the terrorists hit.

I remember when recycling was cool, when reusing a bag was simply being green, when it was trendy to bike to the coffee shop and request the china mug instead of the disposable paper cup.

Before the crash.

We thought about having kids.

Before you lost your job and I lost mine.

We started saving things like old toothbrushes to use for cleaning; we made our own laundry detergent from an on-line recipe. I used the Swifter cleaning clothes multiple times, front and back. Those slivers of soap—I microwaved them and pressed them together to make a new bar.

Before when the going got tough, the tough got going.

We kept the car parked and walked. On long road trips you set the cruise-control and avoided quick starts. You made sure the tires were inflated to the proper psi in order not to waste gas.

Before gas prices spiked—and stayed there.

We had already cut back on our meat consumption. We bought in bulk, ate in instead of eating out, and made more soups and hearty stews that stuck to the ribs. Cigarettes were our only splurge.

Before food prices went through the roof.

We planted a garden, after which we pickled, smoked, dried, and canned most of what we grew. One summer I put up fifty-two quart-size jars of tomatoes.

Before the bad storms came.

Nothing got tossed. Sour milk was used for biscuits and hot cakes. If the apple cider turned then it became vinegar. Bread crumbs were saved. With the extra egg yolk, we made mayonnaise.

Before the house got taken.

I began to darn our socks. I salvaged zippers, buttons, and snaps, every scrap, to use later. We patched our jeans over and over. Old clothes got made over.

Before we moved in with your parents.

We shopped at thrift stores. Got stuff for free off Craigslist. We bartered, traded, and clipped coupons.

Before our bank went under.

We got into the habit of unplugging our electronics and waited until we absolutely had to before turning on the air conditioner.

Before the power disruptions.

I remember when we used to flush the toilet after every use or squandered water, letting it run while brushing our teeth. We watered the grass, for Pete’s sake!

Before water was rationed.

I saved vegetable peelings. Sometimes I boiled them to make a kind of broth. I foraged edible weeds to make a salad.

Before the harvests failed.

We had already sold the car for parts. In a pinch we hitched.

Before travel was restricted.

I remember when people didn’t have to strip old houses for metal or sleep outside. Now we salvage large pieces of plastic sheeting, search for junk wood, extracting the nails and straightening them out, like licking bones clean, bones split open in order to suck the marrow. We fight over carrier bags, weaving them into sleeping mats.

Before the wars.

We’d sit around a wood fire, staring into the flames, trying hard not to remember how things used to be.

Before darkness descended.

Trouble used to be measured by inconvenience. Waiting measured in minutes. Now time has no limit. Catastrophe can visit both the living and the dead.

Before the end.


- - -
My short stories have appeared or are forthcoming in: Foliate Oak, Cantaraville, Rosebud, Word Riot, Flashquake, Steam Ticket, Greensilk Journal, Fiction Fix, Six Minute Magazine, The Write Room, Frostwriting, Hunger Mountain, and Tonopah Review.

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: Jane Hertenstein