Contributor: Tony Rauch

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I move to the south side. Mostly to try and get something done for once. Everyone I know hovers around the north side. When I lived up there, people used to stop by every now and then, which was nice, but eventually it impeded my progress. I couldn’t get anything done. I vowed to change, but eventually I had to move. I guess, for me, it just got to be too much of the same ol’ thing up there. I needed an infusion of newness.

Unfortunately, after some time on the south side things began to get lonely. Sure I was getting things done for a change, but it wasn’t the same. Life didn’t seem to have that spark and flash to it. Colors seemed to fade.

I thought about this a lot, finally deciding to get involved with things on the outside more, so I started a music club, that is a group of people who get together and listen and talk about music. I figured this was a good way to expose myself to professional appreciators like myself, to music I may not otherwise happen across, and to stay connected to the outside world.

Every other week we get together, each member bringing in a song or three that excites them, makes them happy or sad or sleepy or whatever. This week we’re meeting at Dade’s, but when I show up no one is listening to music. They’re all sitting around watching Hockey Night In Canada [a news show that reports on all things hockey, from the low juniors to the majors, including the European leagues, but basically the news is just an excuse to showcase the fights of the day, which are always dismissed by Donnie, the amiable host, merely as squabbles, spats, tiffs, and the like]. Now I like watching Hockey Night too, but it was time to appreciate music, not time to appreciate hockey fights.

“Why no music?” I ask, concerned, thinking maybe someone passed away.

“We can do that another time,” someone mentions absentmindedly, without taking their eyes from the television.

“But . . it’s music time. Not . . not hockey time. . .” I stammer to myself.

Everyone else sits there watching hockey highlights.

“I like watching hockey too,” I finally say, “But when are we going to rock-out? And with wild abandon?”

“Maybe later,” Ray Ray utters unconvincingly, stuck in a hockey highlight trance.

“Well, did they change the time for Hockey Night?” I look around, concerned.

“It’s on much earlier now,” someone stares at the television, swirls of color and action circling the screen.

I look around and sigh, “That’s disruptive.”

“Gotta roll with the changes, guy,” someone yawns, staring, mesmerized.

The TV hisses a bad apartment fizz: “. . inching Moose Jaw up two points in the Prince Albert Conference. And now onto Quebec City, where it seems Tommy Luc Quey is involved in a minor disagreement with Hamilton’s Pauly Pierre.” The announcer, a hearty little man named Donnie Cheety, who appears as if an effeminately dressed cartoon Leprechaun complete with compressed wiry frame, red face, bright orange hair, tidy beard, green plaid velvet suit (complete with little vest), and little pink bow tie. Donnie is, shall we say, the excitable type, but very serious and dour when it comes to the fisticuffs, as if each daily dust-up is somehow holding society together, as if poetic metaphors representing our own struggles, as if cathartic releases of our existential angst or ennui, as if mini operas dramatizing the human condition - man fighting himself, man fighting against his own limitations in an indifferent world, man struggling against the confinements of society - as if each tiff worked to excise our struggles of the day. The news of the day was just a frame to build tension and suspense, to put a context around the fighting, the existential release of incomprehensible forces.

So the action switches from Donnie in the studio to two grown men whaling away on one another, arms a blur, heads snapping, sweat flying, a tooth being dislodged. And the fight goes on for a while, a mechanical whirl of extremities in a pair of windmill blurs, Donnie muttering in a fatherly tone: “Now now boys,” although it is not clear to me what that comment is in reference to. Then towards the end of the fight, when the referees finally manage to work their way in to break it up, when the combatants are spent and noodley, the show switches back to the studio where Donnie is turned to the side, looking down at a monitor beside him with a grave look of concern. Finally he swivels to face the camera, “While in New Brunswick, new commissioner of the Royal Academy . . .”

“What about dinner?” I finally mutter, looking around as the action subsides to the business affairs of running leagues and drafting junior players.

“We don’t have to hang out every night, you know,” Ray Ray yawns, which pretty much stops me right in my tracks.

“We haven’t met in, like, three weeks,” I sigh, disappointed and confused.

“Have a seat,” someone walks past me, someone I’ve never seen before, “Apparently there’s some good action tonight.”

“We gonna listen to music after?” I look around hopefully, “I brought demo versions of . . .” I trail off, a little hurt.

“Which ones?” someone mutters unenthusiastically, slumping low on the couch, staring at the television, nibbling on Chex Mix from a bowl in his lap.

I look down at my satchel, hanging from my arm. “Ah, ‘Nobody Knows’ by Destroy All Monsters. And, ah, Sissy Bar’s cover of ‘Gin and Juice’. And, of course, the biggie: Sonic's Rendezvous Band’s epic ‘City Slang’.”

“That all?” the Chex Mix guy, another person I’ve never seen before, again mutters unenthusiastically, “Got any metal?”

“Ah, only some Hellhammer,” I shrug, “‘Ready For Slaughter’. All three-and-a-half minutes,” I report.

“Nothing longer, huh?” the guy on the couch manages to seem disappointed and uninterested (or unimpressed) at the same time.

“I think there’s an epic eight minute version out there. Maybe what I have is edited from some original longer version,” I sigh, thinking they won’t care anyway.

There’s a pause, then the guy on the couch with the snacks comments, “Hellhammer. Yeah, Hellhammer’s good,” he looks away to consider this a minute, “‘Ready For Slaughter’. . . Haven’t heard that in a while,” he nods to himself, thinking. “Ready For Slaughter.”

“All three-and-a-half minutes,” I nod.

The guy on the couch looks back over his shoulder and smirks, repeating, “That all, huh?”

“Yeah. Really,” I squint and shrug, “Wouldn’t a very brief song illustrate just how ready you are for slaughter? As apposed to a filibuster?” I gesture, “Because, to me, I’m not convinced. No. I don’t buy it. That statement strains credulity. I’m incredulous,” I announce to no one in particular, as if thinking out loud.

The guy on the couch looks away and nods again, “I know what you mean. It doesn’t seem like they’re ready for slaughter at all.”

“If anything, it sounds like they’re stalling,” I shrug.

“Really,” the guy on the couch thinks, turning back to the television, “Come on guys, get off your asses and get on with it already. Geez. . . Sounds like maybe their heart’s not really into it.”

“And if you’re not quite ready for slaughter just yet, then fine, take your time, we can wait,” I look over to the television, “Misplaced your keys. Your girlfriend’s annoying, unorganized friend needs a ride to the airport. You’re stricken with the ol’ ennui. Broke a shoelace. Forgot to set the alarm. Your boss flaked and you had to work late. We’ve been there. We understand. No hurry guys. Really. Anytime. Whenever you’re ready for slaughter, we’ll be right here,” I shrug.

“You know, I’m just not feelin’ it tonight,” Dade walks past me to the television, yawns, stretches, stopping at the television, then turns and wanders into the next room.

Finally the announcer on the television looks back into the camera, “Let’s check back to Quebec City, in on how Tommy and Paulie are hashing things out between themselves.” And the drama resumes with Tommy and Paulie twisting free of the referees’ grips and meeting to flail away at one another again, finally losing their balances, slipping to their knees, bear hugging one another to the ground, then laying on the ice, side by side, taking turns punching one another.

“A nice way to resolve their little issue,” Donnie chimes in boastfully as the referees grab Tommy’s and Paulie’s legs and drag them away from one another, bloody, sweat soaked, and spent. “Now, doesn’t that feel much better?” coos a supportive Donnie, “Nice to have that off your chest and out of your system, now isn’t it?”

Tommy and Paulie slowly sit up, then stand, the referees holding them up and ushering them away from one another. Again, Tommy catches his breath, twists to break away from the refs who are holding him, and goes after Paulie.

“That’s the way, Tommy,” Donnie comments, almost egging them on, as if within each fight could be found a little life lesson, “No reason to give up so easily. Can’t get anywhere if you just give up. . . Wheeeeeeere does giving up ever get you?”

The refs grab Tommy and try to pull him back, eventually one jumps on his back, slowing him down. They work him to his knees, twisting him away, then raising him and leading him off as he struggles to get free.

“You’ll all live much longer with that out of your system,” Donnie reasons heartily, “No need to keep things bottled up and festering.”

The scene shifts back to the studio where once again Donnie is turned to the side, gazing longingly into a monitor, as if reliving a cherished memory of youth. He has his fingers to his chin as if considering some mythic riddle of existence. Then he slowly moves his gaze back to the studio camera, “Nothing wrong with a hockey fight,” everyone repeats, including myself and Donnie, Donnie reporting sternly in his thick Canadian accent, his eyes aglow as the station fades to a commercial, but the rest of us repeat it as if some contemplative mantra, not as in a monotoned relaxation technique or philosophy, but more as if from an ingrained gene.

Finally, through the confusion, pain, disillusionment and hurt, I say, “What if you don’t know what your place in life is? . . What if you . . . don’t fit in anywhere?”

“Don’t worry,” Dade calls from another room, “Donnie just signed a new three year contract. . . He’ll be fine. . . Really.”

“Bad case of nostalgia acting up?” someone asks in a reporter’s monotone, as if mimicking Donnie, then hitting the mute button on the remote to turn off the sound as a laxative commercial comes on.

“Guess I was looking forward to . . .” I trail off, as if thinking, adjusting my satchel on my shoulder.

“Let’s hear that Hellhammer,” the guy on the couch shrugs, “Break it out, man. It’s only a commercial,” he nods to the television which glows patiently, staring like a devil’s eye.

“Apocalyptic Raids or Demon Entrails?” someone asks, referring to which album the song is from.

“Yeah, I could maybe use a good jolt. A short dose of Celtic Frost, or Discharge might hit the spot right about now,” someone looks off to the distance, thinking.

This perks me up a little. I smile, “Yeah. Yeah,” and step forward, as if to indicate ‘that might work’. “I’m not sure what it’s from though,” I turn to the stereo.

“Bad day, huh?” the guy on the couch asks as I step to the stereo, bend, and remove the compact disk from my satchel.

“Bad week,” I report. “Bad month. . . How’d you know?” I poke the buttons to activate the rockage, but the guy doesn’t answer. The music comes on, the operatic opening chords churning to gain a chugging momentum to gallop around the entire room. I stare at the floor to consider the artistry on display.

“Hey,” Dade calls from beyond, “What is that? . . Hey, . . turn that up.”


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Tony Rauch has three books of short stories published – “I’m right here” (spout press), “Laredo” (Eraserhead Press), “Eyeballs growing all over me . . . again” (Eraserhead Press). He has additional titles forthcoming in the next few months.

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Author: Tony Rauch

Contributor: Tim Gerstmar

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The nitre oozes from the cracks of the crumbling stone. The water drips and runs along the grooves of the epitaph, life reduced to a few Roman letters and dates. The water rolls along the stone and falls into the deep puddles that drown the grass. The limestone dissolves slowly, minute by minute, hour by hour, as time has wanted it to do. Out of the cracks unnameable things crawl, slithering and sliding as the storm clouds thunder above and send the rain, renewing the land. They are the eaters of the dead, tearing off bits of flesh with their serrated mouths. However, they can only ingest solids, energy is another matter, in this case the energy of love.

A woman stands before the grave. Her long cold hands tremble. It's been fifteen years, and yet still she comes. She places the bundle of red roses wrapped in wet newspaper at the foot of the stone. She does not cry, and she never has.

The birds sit on a wet branch above her. They shake their feathery bodies and think about food and safety, and the young. They don't know about death, only birth. Such a small thing, and yet it can survive the elements, the harsh cold, and the damp that cuts and kills. To them there is only each and every agonizing moment.

Deep beneath the soil, past the roots and the stones, and the tunnels of earthworms, inside the wooden casket, pregnant with moisture, the parasites go about their noiseless patient task. A large drop of water forms on the inside of the lid and falls on the skeletal brow. It splashes right between the eyes, the space of sight, of the third eye, of remembrance and longing.

She cannot stand in front of the grave for too long, because then the real memory comes back, of passionate nights, of the thrill as they put him to rest permanently. Then they held each other, her and her lover, in the embrace of youth with the dampness of sweat all over them. They had finished him for good. They lay together in lust, fresh from the barbaric savagery and the pleading of her now murdered husband. The pain is too much now, and she turns away.

She walks down the long lonely overgrown path, back to her car. The wet autumn leaves stick to her cold bare ankles. A branch breaks above the woman, and some drops of water fall on her, sending a chill through her as they splash on her neck. The flap of wings and a black bird takes to the air, cutting a dark wedge shape in the sky, the branches of bare trees like veins against the clouds. Then there is something else, a cracking sound and the thump of something heavy hitting the ground.

It's amazing how unreal and distant it all seems now. She and her lover planned it out well enough. Her lover. Then he left her suddenly. She recalls the twisted wreck of the car and the police lights, the gleam of wet pavement. Then there was the horror as she saw him there, twisted and lifeless. How could he leave her like this? How could he let her suffer the guilt alone? She tells herself that she will be home soon, and that she will be warm in her own living room with the television playing low. She tells herself many fictions. She also tells herself that she doesn't hear the slow agonizing tread of footsteps on the trail behind her.


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Tim Gerstmar has been an ESL teacher for twelve years. He has traveled extensively through Asia and worked in Korea and Thailand. During his free time he enjoys writing short horror and science fiction stories.

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Author: Tim Gerstmar

Contributor: Tony Rauch

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I run up to our house. There are some strangers on the lawn and my father is handing them some of our belongings. “What’s going on here?” I huff out of breath, “Why‘re you givin’ ‘em our dining room chairs and grandfather clock?”

My dad looks down to me, “The entire village has to pitch in, not just us, honey,” he holds one end of the long ornate wooden clock and helps walk it down to a waiting horse drawn wagon on the road, “We lost at something and so we have to give some things up, that’s all sweetie,” he shuffles his feet to position himself as the strangers load the chairs into the long wooden wagon, “We can get by with out ‘em,” he helps to shove the heavy clock onto a blanket in the wagon. There are some other objects in the wagon - an end table, a cupboard, a butter churn – but none of them were ours. Another wagon shakes by full of other people’s belongings and passes to clomp its way out of town. Several men sit on the furniture in that wagon. The horses are galloping as if they are in a hurry to get out of here. “Maybe next time,” one of them calls.

“What did we lose at?” I ask in confusion.

The strangers climb aboard the wagon and lurch forward.

“A contest, dear. Just a contest. . . A thing we have from time to time,” he watches the wagon pull ahead and wobble on down the road and out of town, not letting on as to what exactly the contest was that the town lost. He has a strange leather glove on one hand, a big fat one, and bends to pick up a long piece of rounded wood from the grass at the side of the road. It looks like a smooth spoke from a wagon wheel, only a little longer.

My mom walks down to us, “Dang contests,” she spits in annoyance and shakes her head, her arms sternly on her hips.

“Hey, don’t feel too bad,” my dad chuckles. “We’ll get ‘em next time,” he looks down at me, then over to my mother and smirks, “How do you think I got this house.”


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Tony Rauch has three books of short stories published – “I’m right here” (spout press), “Laredo” (Eraserhead Press), “Eyeballs growing all over me . . . again” (Eraserhead Press). He has additional titles forthcoming in the next few months.

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Author: Tony Rauch

Contributor: Don A. Gerred

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The horizon grew dark. Across the intersection of an empty access road, in front of a lifeless shopping center, barren trees of late autumn formed a wall of black shadows against the fading colors of an early sunset. Streetlights buzzed, signaling their intent to flicker to life.

All was quiet. No engine noise, no music, no voices; silence except for an occasional chirp from a bird with no plans for winter migration.

The horse-shoe shaped shopping center faced an enormous parking lot filled with cars precisely parked between yellow lines. Abandoned, the smashed, deserted vehicles disintegrated in the parking spaces. The burned-out shell of a late 80’s Honda Accord landed upside-down; roof on the sidewalk, wheels in the air. The beaten and battered hulk blocked access to a lane of neatly nested shopping carts.

The stores were dark except where faint light seeped from a few anemic signs. An ice cream store’s neon sign spelled “CAR.” “VEL” burned out long ago.

Thick layers of dirt covered everything, windows, sidewalks and cars. Safety glassed windows were cracked and shattered as though someone, or something, had attacked them with a car jack or a baseball bat.

Long ago, the door to a jewelry store window imploded. Gold, silver, Rolex watches, diamond rings, rare gemstones and glass shards intermingling on worn black velvet. Once beautiful baubles scattered among the debris, treasures too dirty to glitter and gleam any longer.

A boy limped passed the broken door, oblivious to his surroundings. In the darkening sky, he looked to be about sixteen, a teenager. He was tall and skinny, thick, curly black hair hung in his face, obstructing his vision. He shuffled along carrying some kind of long flat thing. His right hand pinned it tightly against his scrawny thigh.

He moved off toward the rear corner of the parking lot toward a steep concrete ramp. He paused at the top. A faded ‘wheelchair accessible’ sign dangled from a steel rail. His baggy, tattered three button Italian suit might have been an olive color once, now it was dirty gray. Both knees poked through the torn pants. His loose necktie was knotted with a Windsor knot; the color faded and the pattern indecipherable.

The thing he carried was a skateboard. He flipped the board upside down with an awkward jerk. The board was grubby and the wheels rusty. It looked like a kid had forgotten it in the front yard for an entire year. The current owner spun each wheel, one at a time, watching each until they stopped. As the teenager watched each wheel revolving freely, he muttered to himself in a barely audible raspy voice, “Good.”

Deliberately, he set the skateboard on the level, flat concrete at the top of the ramp. The board surface revealed a faded skull and crossbones emblazoned around the word ‘FLIP’ in its center. His movements were painfully slow. He stood erect. It took two attempts to get his left foot on the front of the board, even as his right hand clutched the steel handrail running parallel to the sides of the ramp. He paused and gazed intently across the street at the parking lot.

There was not a living soul in sight. He stood for a long time and gave the impression of searching for an image from a long lost memory.

His stiff right foot rose and rested firmly on the back of the board. He gingerly pushed himself backward and shoved himself down the ramp.

He was rigid, unable to bend his back or his knees, and unaware of the need. Gravity took over. Somehow, he balanced on the board as it accelerated forward, crossing the seams in the sidewalk with a quiet clack-clack, clack-clack.

The board went in a perfectly straight line. It was a little short of its maximum speed when the board intersected the steel rail at a corner point. There the ramp swapped directions to complete the route from sidewalk to the parking lot.

The rail caught the teen’s body at waist level. He was flipped off the board in a judo movement. The board rolled faster under its lightened load.

The boy hit the pavement face first. A thick black oily substance splattered on the concrete. His head bounced like a melon into the street, the rest of his body tumbled behind him.

The skateboard held its steady course. It passed under the railing, and under an Econoline van. I was halted mid-trip by smashing into a pile of rusty, power tools. The impact flipped the board onto its back. The racing wheels slowed and finally stopped. The board was lifeless once again.

The boy lifted his head off the ground high enough to look for the skateboard. A streetlight flickered above. He pulled himself off the ground in the same slow and deliberate manner he used to cue up the board.

His face had gravel and stones embedded in it, minor mutilations compared to his grotesquely, broken nose. His nose lay smashed flat against his upper lip. Not one drop of blood flowed from the shattered nose, just that black, oily stuff. He managed to get to his feet. He walked forward looking for the place where the skateboard crashed to a stop. Suddenly, he stopped. He either sensed or felt the injuries to his face.

He used his hands and fingers like a vise to squeeze the bridge of his nose. The cartilage cracked as he adjusted it. That facial feature was still crooked but no longer flat.

He looked around for the board, but couldn’t find it. Losing interest, he started shuffling away. Bright street lighting revealed the ripped back of his coat, and the grungy shirt underneath. Three large holes punctuated his upper back, exit wounds from a .357 Magnum. The wounds were open and oozing but not bleeding. Holes through his heart and lungs made it difficult to believe he could remain standing, let alone ride a skateboard. Impossible in fact. But then again, Zombies aren’t really alive, are they?


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I have a wife, three daughters and a female cat. It is hard to find time to write more than my signature on a check or a credit card slip!

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Author: Don A. Gerred

Contributor: Cheryl Anne Gardner

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Before the killer cheeseburgers and sex toys, I was a free man, listening to my own love dirge in the wee dark hours with fatal abandon. Then it all caved in around me: crystal wine glasses, decadent desserts, and dirty pool water. That's how these things happen in the real world. It's a party -- no extra legroom and the incandescent lighting's a little weak. Glen, my best friend, wanted revenge, domination in a single drop of sweat. She'd never been his girlfriend. She had hits in the millions. She was a ghost, a construct, bountiful acres of flesh he hadn't had the sense to manhandle the way he'd wanted to. He said she was ugly, pixilated, but I didn't think so. She had small hands and big dreams. Now she was my baby strange pushing the hard edge in the periphery. Our romance was a brief and righteous act of lust and longing, not a snot-palmed-purplish song of internet dating desperation, I can tell you that. She was mine, in real life. I was in the back of the room; she at the bar, and I watched her squeezebox a penny in those lacy little capris with her ankles bare and her warm lips crusin’ the cocktail rind at ten seconds to midnight. Five, four, three, two, one ...

She didn't kiss anyone, so I texted her site, hoping she was still mine.


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When she isn't writing, Cheryl Anne Gardner likes to chase marbles on a glass floor, eat lint, play with sharp objects, and make taxidermy dioramas with dead flies. She writes art-house novellas and abstract flash fiction, some published, some not.

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Author: Cheryl Anne Gardner

Contributor: Matthew Vaughn

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Fred pushed his lawn mower while the afternoon sun beat down on him. He was sweating profusely, he had to constantly wipe at his eyes to keep them from stinging. Maintaining his yard was hard work, but Fred didn’t mind, he loved to look out at the fiery orange fur that covered his lawn.

As he pushed the mower across the length of his yard from one end of his house to the other he couldn’t help but contemplate a break. Part of him thought about how nice it would be to sit on his porch swing and sip on a nice cool glass of liquefied goat meat, it was his favorite. But he wouldn’t do that, he didn’t have time to take a break, his yard needed him.

Having just completed a row and reaching his driveway he did let off the handle of the mower, but not to take a break. Fred pulled his small ruler from his back pocket and knelt down to the fur. He placed his ruler straight up and down to measure the height of the orange fur, it read three and a half inches, just like it was supposed to.

Standing up Fred stretched out his back, it was hurting pretty bad today. Before starting his mower back up he decided to throw a little more fertilizer in it. He walked around the side of his house and chose the body of a nice fat man. Hefting up the dead bodies was probably the hardest part of keeping his lawn looking superb, but Fred thought it was a small price to pay.

Fred carried the fat body to his mower and threw it in. As he grabbed the handle to restart the mower he looked over to his neighbor Marty’s house. Marty was his only competition for best lawn on the street, even though he could never truly beat Fred.

“What the hell?” Fred said. Marty had his mower out and was preparing to start on his lawn. He came around the corner pushing a wheel barrel full of hot dead blonde women. “That son of a bitch, where did he get the cash for that?”

Fred was very unhappy about this, he knew that beautiful blonde women, especially some as well endowed as what Marty had, fertilized a fur lawn like nothing else. There wasn’t much Fred could do about it other than get back to work on his own lawn. He squeezed the handle, cut a chunk of flesh from his arm and dropped it into the mower to bring the machine to life with a roar.

Turning away from Marty helped Fred quite a bit, he smiled at the bright orange of his lawn as he mowed row after row up towards his house. He stopped a time or two to refill his mower with bodies, none quite as nice as Marty’s hot blondes though. He had a couple nicely fat men, but the rest were barely over weight at all. It was almost embarrassing to be seen tossing an average size dead body into his mower.

Reaching his house Fred glanced up to look at Marty’s progress and his neighbor saw him looking. Marty’s mouth grew into a big goofy grin as he threw his scrawny arm into the air and waved.

“I hope you have a stroke out here you dumb bastard.” Fred said to himself as he half heartily waved back. He pushed his mower up onto the front of his house and continued his rows across the front face of his house.

Once he reached the roof he let go of the handle on the mower letting it die. Fred pulled out his little ruler and knelt down onto the roof. He checked the height of his orange fur, three and a half inches, just like it was supposed to be. Fred smiled as he cut a chunk of flesh off his arm and started the mower up again. There was no way Marty was going to have the best lawn on the street, no way.


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Matthew Vaughn fixes machines in an Injection Molding facility. When he is not working with robots plotting world domination his enjoys writing bizarre stories. You can follow his ramblings on twitter @ https://twitter.com/edkemper or at his site http://mcvaughn.wordpress.com/

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Author: Matthew Vaughn

Contributor: Douglas Polk

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November 3, 1989 was the day I was born. My Dad had three car wrecks that same day, all with the same pimply faced kid. The day was a Friday, and the next day, the Nebraska Cornhuskers lost to the Colorado Buffaloes 27-21 at Boulder, for only the second time in 22 years. That is the way my Dad remembers my birth was a Friday, because his beloved Huskers lost a football game the next day. It was the only loss of the regular college season for the Cornhuskers. Colorado was the ranked second in the polls and Nebraska was ranked third before losing to the Buffaloes. The Huskers later lost in the Fiesta Bowl to Florida State 41-17 to finish the season 10-2.

My birth was an emergency c-section and I went right from the delivery room to the intensive care nursery. After nine days I was finally able to come home. The next day my Mom went back into the hospital for a week with a dangerous infection. It wasn’t until almost three weeks after I was born before my family was able to be home together. My Mom seemed to take this to be some kind of omen.

A toy is directly in front of me. Red and white and looks like a clown but is a rattle. Stretching I reach with my left hand and try to grab it, but my Dad stops me. He grabs the rattle and places on my right side. Leaning to the right, I once again reach with my left hand, but again my Dad stops me. He places the rattle next to my body, on my right side, but has tied my left arm to my side. Looking at the toy, I begin to rock until I tumble onto my right side. I roll myself around until my face is next to the toy, then I grab it in my mouth. My Dad and Mom clap and tell me what a smart boy I am. My Dad unties my arm and then waves my hand in front of my face, then he waves another hand in front of my face. A hand so similar to my own, if I didn’t know better, I would have thought it was my own.

My parents realize within the first three months of my life, that my development is different than other babies. My Dad was the second youngest of seven children, and had babysat for most of his 19 nieces and nephews, one time or another, before I was born. Taking me to the doctors and questioning my development, it was decided my development was being affected by “new born stress”. Since my birth was an emergency and was so difficult for both I and my Mom , it became the justification for me not wanting to use my right hand. No one at the time realized, I didn’t even know I had a right hand.


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Author: Douglas Polk

Contributor: David Macpherson

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The knuckles crash my cheek and one of my teeth loosens. Later, I will spit blood. But now I swing from my side and connect with somebody’s ear. My shoulder twinges from the compression of the impact. I hope I didn’t hit one of my own. My bros: Joey, Mac and the other guy. The guy whose name I don’t know. He sits by himself most nights at the end of the bar. But when the swinging starts, he usually swings for us.

Mac clobbers the bearded dude with the frosted beer mug, clubbing him on the top of the head. Joey takes an elbow to the chin. We are all backing up to the fire exit. We’re not surrendering, its just that we can see the bouncer heading our way and its best to take it outside then to be taken.

I aim my foot for the little guy’s knee and I get nothing but air. I can’t do any of that karate shit. I grab the front of his collar and swing him to the side, hitting the broken bowling game. I step outside to the alley and now I’m doubled over from a shot to my gut from some fist.

The assholes run. The only one left is the one we’re all kicking on the ground. The one that stumbled. He moans long and low like a fog warning. We step back and I guess he crawls away. I don’t know the assholes we swung at. I just saw Mac moving hard and jumped in.

The bouncer pours into the fire exit door. “This shit keeps happening and you’ll be out for good. Not just the night.”

“Fuckers started it,” Mac says.

“They always do,” the bouncer says.

“We can’t help it,” the guy whose name I don’t know says. “It’s part of the DNA of every bar goer. It’s a royal tradition. Hell, a king of England died in a bar fight. King Edmund the Magnificent died in a pub fight in 943 in Pucklechurch. This thief Leofa was giving one the King’s bros some shit and wouldn’t leave and they had at it. Leofa knifed Edmund. But at least the King’s men got Leofa too, Evens it out. If it’s good enough for kings, who the hell are we to stop?” He wipes the blood from his lip.

I don’t know what he’s talking about, but I know he’s right. The way I feel now, the pulsing of the blood in my veins, it’s not just my blood, I feel all my bros and all the bros before me, like a line going way down the years.

The bouncer thinks its funny. He almost smiles as he shakes his head and steps back to close the door on us, leaving us heaving for breath in the alley. The click of the door’s lock telling that we’re exiled again.


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Author: David Macpherson

Contributor: Matthew Vaughn

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I walked into my local Marketplace and stopped near the entrance to look at the DVD’s in the DVD Machine. I had been dying to see that new Johnny Depp movie, but the last three times I looked for it, they didn’t have it. Scanning through the available movies it seemed this time was no different.

I thought about kicking the machine, but I knew that wouldn’t get me the stupid movie, if anything it would probably just hurt my foot. I tried cussing at the machine a little, but all that got me was some funny looks from people passing by.

But then, like being open handed smacked in the face, an idea popped into my head. I decided I would climb into the DVD Machine and just wait for somebody to return a copy of the movie.

It was a perfect plan, but squeezing myself into that little slot the DVD’s slid through proved to be harder than I hoped. With a little wiggling and some sweet contorting skills I managed to get in there.

Walking around all the different movies was kind of boring at first, but then something weird happened, I wasn’t the only person in there. Taking a left around the newest romantic comedy starring Justin Timberlake I almost ran into another person.

“Oh, excuse me.” I said. Then I realized it wasn’t a person. It was a large collection of dirt and debris shaped like a rabbit. It was an Evil Dust Bunny.

“Oh crap, its an Evil Dust Bunny.” I said aloud.

It frowned at me and then started punching me in the jeans. I wasn’t really sure why It was doing that but I didn’t like it.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean anything by it, please stop.” I said to It. The Dust Bunny looked at me and smiled, I took that as a good sign. Then It smacked me over the head with the latest Hostel movie, uncool.

I didn’t waste any more time trying to talk to this thing, instead I pulled a Sponge Bob Christmas special down in-between us and took off running.

I decided to head for the slot that I originally came through. As I was running I looked back over my shoulder. The Dust Bunny was surrounded by movies starring Ryan Reynolds, Jack Black, Chris Evans, and Simmon Pegg, and they were all laughing at me.

I finally reached the slot and tried to go back through exactly opposite from the way I came in. After I got my whole body out of the slot my head got stuck, I looked back just in time to see the cover of Kung Fu Panda 2 come flying at my face. It was solid hit, and it was enough to push my big noggin through.

Standing in front of the DVD Machine I straightened myself up and flipped off the machine. I promptly turned and left the store, stupid Johnny Depp and his good movies.


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Matthew Vaughn fixes machines in an Injection Molding facility. When he is not working with robots plotting world domination his enjoys writing bizarre stories. You can follow his ramblings on twitter @ https://twitter.com/edkemper or at his site http://mcvaughn.wordpress.com/

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Author: Matthew Vaughn

Contributor: Chris Griglack

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His shadow stalks swiftly from tree to tree, though the man is little more than shadow himself. The dark cloak weighs heavily on his shoulders, bound with a duty black as night.

They scream when he cuts them, but this is good. A silent harvest is a poor one. He whistles a tune as he works, and the wind whistles through their branches with him, a tune of cold, slow, remorse that no words can convey.

His sickle flashes, and for a moment the wind stills as the willow's hoarse, ethereal scream fills the air. He gathers the freshly cut boughs and moves along the river bank to the next tree, whistling the song of lament known only in that grove.

The moon hides her face from his work, but the stars look on with interest. Too distant to hear the screams, too cold to care. He continues harvesting as they watch, winking down at him as if they understand and share in the secrets of his work.

But they don't even know the song.

He waits for the wind to draw a veil of clouds across their peeping eyes before he tends to the seedlings. Each one so delicately balanced on the cusp of existence. No light can see them until they are rooted. Even the tiny glint lost in the dark depths of his eyes could be enough to wither their fragile shoots.

His shrill whistle becomes a low, rumbling hum to soothe the earth as their roots invade her. She trembles as they lap up her moisture, the sole comfort she can offer to these sad, tender lives. They drink greedily to ease their fears and quell their confusion, sating themselves on the tears of their elders.

The most ancient willows weep to see their children so, and the river swells with their sorrow. They rattle their branches in a howl which the wind echoes, dropping the veil in which the stars are tangled.

In the light of their curious glances the river glows. Individual streaks of silver tears gleam brilliantly for a moment before they are briskly swept away by the current.

One by one the trees grow silent as a different light moves among them. This light is dampened by the darkness with which it is imbued, a terrifying darkness with which they are all too familiar. It is accompanied by a shrill whistling which they shudder to hear.

He touches each one with the shining sickle before moving on. They shiver at its icy touch, squirming beneath the bark which imprisons them before stiffening in silence.

When dawn breaks the grove is silent but for the slow whistling of a man with no past. He vanishes as he walks amongst the trees, merging with their shadows which writhe in the sunlight though their pale bodies remain still.

The reaper fades from the ancient grove, but his song lingers in the air. A haunting echo of a man that only the earth and wind know.


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My name is Chris Griglack and I'm a senior English major at UMASS Dartmouth. I prefer to heavily blend genres when I write in order to create unique works, but I occasionally write straightforward horror, fantasy, and sci-fi, as well as poetry, reviews, and non-fiction opinion pieces.

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Author: Chris Griglack