Contributor: John Laneri

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Sheriff Matt Carson paused to let a horse drawn wagon clatter past then continued on, his steps taking him toward Aunt Jillie’s Boarding House, the finest establishment in North Texas.

“From the way you’re walking, it must be time for lunch.”

The Sheriff recognized the voice as that of Roscoe Sayers, editor of the Brazos River Weekly.

Turning in Roscoe’s direction, he headed toward the boardwalk, saying, “I didn’t know my hunger was so obvious. I must have been thinking about the fried chicken at Jillie’s. Today’s Wednesday, my day for chicken.”

In appearance, Roscoe was a skinny, little man with a balding head and bulging eyes.

“I've always liked fried chicken,” Roscoe said. “But, the little lady prefers I take my noon meal at home – says it’s good for my digestion.”

“There’s nothing better than fried chicken to soothe the digestion. In my opinion, Jillie serves the best southern fried in these parts. Her chicken’s hard to resist.”

Roscoe lifted an eyebrow. “I figured Jillie only served meals to her social customers.”

The Sheriff grinned. “Naturally, she likes to reward her patrons with a small lunch as a gesture of goodwill. But, she encourages everyone to visit… only charges two bits if you’re eating with your boots on.”

“Only two bits?”

“Yup… two bits. Noon timers cost two dollars more. If you’re hungry for southern fried, I’ll buy you a good meal.”

“Do you think my little lady will mind?”

“Not if you consider it an opportunity to do a story about good eating places around the county.”

A few minutes later, they stepped inside the boarding house and edged past a cowboy groping to a cute little lady then headed toward the dining room, a spacious area decorated Victorian style and set to the side of the foyer. Several gentlemen were already eating.

Once seated, Jillie moved toward them, smiling brightly. She was an attractive woman with green eyes, soft powdered skin and red hair cascading to her shoulders.

“Afternoon Sheriff,” she said with a flourish. “I bet you're in the mood for some of my chicken.”

“I’m always ready for your chicken,” he replied, reaching for a napkin.

She turned to Roscoe and cocked her head inquisitively. “I’m mighty proud to have a newspaperman visit my house. What brings you here Mr. Sayers?”

The Sheriff spoke up. “Roscoe’s planning a story.”

She moved close to Roscoe and nuzzled his ear. “You’ll find my house to be the finest in Texas. I like servin’ gents in a high-spirited manner.” She pointed across the room. “See that young girl with the yellow ribbon in her hair….”

The Sheriff quickly spoke up. “Roscoe’s not interested in your house as a house. He’s interested in your food.”

Jillie forced a smile. “Well, that’s different. Most fellows think my food is the finest they ever tasted. And, I offer desert, if you have a mind to get the sparks to flying.”

“Roscoe’s not here for the desert,” the Sheriff said. “He wants to sample the chicken.”

“That’s why I’m here,” Roscoe said eagerly. “I’m planning to do a story about good eating places around the county.”

He reached for a drumstick.

Jillie touched his hand. “Then, you’d best be reaching for a breast. They’re my specialty. I offer them, big and juicy.”

Roscoe smiled politely. “I like breasts too. But, I prefer startin’ with a leg.” He looked away to begin eating.

“You work the pieces however you see fit,” she said, pointing to the chicken. “But, fellows I know prefer to move in a particular order.”

“How’s that?” Roscoe asked, glancing in her direction.

“For starters,” she said, “Most gentlemen like to run their lips over a neck then ease toward a breast before movin’ on to the legs and thighs.”

“I prefer the legs first.”

“That fine,” Jillie replied. “Some fellows do prefer to move straight to the legs then head for the thighs, especially if they’re in a big hurry. But, they tend to miss some spicy parts by being too eager. In my opinion, the best way….”

The Sheriff spoke-up, “Jillie, leave the man alone. He knows how to eat chicken!”

She laughed softly. “I guess you’re right. I shouldn’t tell a man how to his chicken. Sometimes, I get too worked up.” She tapped Roscoe on the shoulder. “But, don’t forget my breasts. They’re much better than those dried-out kinds some people offer.”

Roscoe watched her move away then turned to the Sheriff. “Was she talkin’ about fried chicken?”

“Hell if I know,” the Sheriff replied. Jillie likes to keep people guessing. So… what do you think of the food?”

Roscoe shifted in his seat. “It’s not spicy enough for me.”

“Sometimes the spice is hard to detect,” the Sheriff said, as he indicated across the room to where Jillie had stopped to lift her skirt and adjust a garter. “Check out her legs.”

Roscoe looked away to study Jillie's legs. After some time, he turned back to the Sheriff. “They remind me of drumsticks attached to nice thighs.”

“Like I was saying,” the Sheriff replied, smiling happily. “Wednesday's my day for chicken.”


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John is a native born Texan living near Houston. His writing focuses on short stories and flash. Publications to his credit can be found on the internet and in several print edition periodicals.

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Author: John Laneri

Contributor: David Macpherson

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On the edge of the beginning, Moss Child crawled to the pickling fields for something to eat. This land was owned by the creators. The storytellers and cloth-spinners that chose to create this world, this beginning. They would not want her eating what was theirs, but Moss Child was hungry and hunger didn’t stand on polite expectations.

With soft green fingers, she dug out the first jar that gravity and divine edict nestled under the earth. The jar was cast from the hide of old Gods. It was brittle and broke to the touch.

She took out the second jar. It was made from black ink. Inside she found a giant ossified heart. She gnawed at that organ for two days and stopped only when she thought she might tire.

She took out the third jar, made from the caul of infant stars. Inside were people, the we. She put one in her mouth, found it bitter and spit it out. She upended the jar and all the people tumbled out.

To their fleeing forms she shouted blessing, "Be free you bad food. Ruin the taste buds of those who should never have harvested you. Worship them, but never forget to get a decent wage for the adulation. Never be satisfied. When that happens, your flesh will mellow and taste sweet and they will greet you with smile and fork."

Moss Child found the other jars empty and went looking onto the next page for something new to please her.


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Author: David Macpherson

Contributor: John Laneri

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Webster Nightingale trudged on, feeling another gust of winter wind blow against his neck. He needed sustenance – anything to warm the fibers deep within his being.

The storm raging about him was a severe blast, one reminiscent of the blizzard of 1887 when the Brazos froze from bank to bank. Now, only a few years later, he, along with most of the people in Neverton, a small town on the cattle trail to Fort Worth, were indeed feeling its fury.

Grumbling, he lifted his collar, determined to make his way to Aunt Jillie’s Boarding House, the finest establishment in North Texas. Near the town square, he looked up and spotted Roscoe Sayers standing in front of his newspaper office leaning against a post. Curious, he turned in Roscoe’s direction and made his way across the street.

“Mighty cold morning,” he said, when he reached the boardwalk.

Roscoe looked his way, his eyes lifting weakly. “I’ve been standing here since dawn, hoping the cold air might give me some relief.”

Webster spoke out, his voice bellowing against the wind. “I thought you promised the Good Lord that you’d stay away from Mexican beans. Most folks consider ‘em powerful enough to prime cannons.”

“It’s not the beans. It’s my tooth,” Roscoe replied, as he turned away from another gust of wind.

Webster scratched at his whiskers and reached for a back pocket, his eyes settling on Roscoe’s bulging jaw. “I remember one year when I was workin’ cattle on the high plains in the Panhandle....”

“I don’t need another of your long-winded stories. My tooth hurts too much to listen.”

“I wasn’t talkin’ to your tooth.

“Maybe so, but, my tooth has ears. It hears you just the same, and it says, talk softer ‘cause it feels the words.”

Webster took a draw from his flask. “You may be right, but like I was sayin’, a good drink of whiskey works magic for easing tooth pain. There’s no a finer remedy known to man.”

“My little lady frowns on whiskey -- claims it’s the fastest way to get possessed by the devil.”

Webster lifted the flask and downed a shot, smacking his lips. “But, it’s a mighty fine way to get possessed, leads to all kinds of interesting possibilities.”

“Like what?” Roscoe asked.

“Like getting acquainted with one of those pretty young girls over at Aunt Jillie’s Boarding House. There’s a world of pleasure waitin’ at her establishment.”

Turning away from another flurry of snow, Roscoe replied, “I don’t step around. And besides, it’s too cold.”

Webster did a double take and looked directly into Roscoe’s eyes. “It’s never too cold for a good tossing. As a newspaperman, you should know that. A little lovin’ keeps the world warm when the snows ‘a falling… might help your tooth too.”

Roscoe lifted an eyebrow. “Fooling around with young girls won’t help my tooth.”

“Maybe so, but they did me some good when my rheumatism was acting up.”

Roscoe cocked his head in Webster's direction, his eyes brightening. “As I recall, you were laid up in bed for quite a spell.”

“I was until I visited Aunt Jillie’s and met a cute, little filly with flame red hair. Afterward, I came out feeling like a new man. Yes sir, a good tossing has a remarkable way of curing most maladies.”

Webster handed the flask to Roscoe. “Take a couple of swigs. Then we’ll head over to her place and get out of the cold. The girls are always happy to have visitors.”

Hesitantly, Roscoe took the flask in his hands and turned a portion, his face contorting in various directions. “Your whiskey tastes terrible.”

“Take another shot. It might do you some good.”

Roscoe again tipped the flask and took a healthy pull. “You’re right, it does make my tooth feel better.”

Webster chuckled. “After a while, it makes the girls look pretty too.”

For some time, they passed the flask back and forth while they continued to discuss Aunt Jillie and her girls at the boarding house. Finally, the sound of groaning caused Webster to lower his flask and glance in Roscoe’s direction.

Seconds later, Roscoe pitched forward and bounced off a hitching post, his face plowing into the snow.

Hurrying to his side, Webster helped him to his feet. “You needn’t be in such a hurry. Most of the girls sleep ‘til noon.”

“I wasn’t headed to the boarding house. I was trying to lean against a post and rest my tooth. I so happened to miss the post.”

Webster downed another shot while he watched Roscoe stagger about with his fingers in his mouth. “Is something bothering you? It looks to me like you’re trying to eat your fingers.”

“I got it... Look here,” Roscoe said, as he shoved a hand at Webster's face. “My tooth came out when I fell in the street.”

Webster lowered the flask. “By golly, that does look like a tooth. Now, I’m disappointed.”

“Why are you disappointed? I’m cured. The Good Lord saved me from going to the boarding house and sinning.”

Webster grunted. “He only saved you from suffering a toothache. I’m confident He expected us to walk over to Aunt Jillie’s and spend some time with the girls.”

“But, I made the right choice. You can still go to the boarding house. No one’s stopping you.”

“I would,” Webster replied, as he stumbled into a snowdrift. “The problem is, I’m too drunk to walk by myself.”


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John is a native born Texan living near Houston. His writing focuses on short stories and flash. Publications to his credit can be found on the internet and in several print edition periodicals.

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Author: John Laneri

Contributor: Henry Lu

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Author’s note: this tale is reconstructed from a bunch of recently unearthed Han Dynasty scripts in Anhui Province, China. They are ink on woods and ink rubbing on hemp papers and are by the hand of Prince An Liu (179 BC – 122 BC).

After a breakfast of millet pancakes with tofu, Prince An Liu practices calligraphy. Today he writes down his favorite Confucius motto: “I would rather subsist on a diet without meat than downsize to a dwelling without a bamboo grove.” His handwriting, though meticulous and beautiful, lacks something of his own craving. Like all his elixir concoction hitherto, it’s missing the magic of immortality. “Send it to Regent Ho,” he instructs his royal butler, “as a token of gratitude for his supply of rare herbs, metals and minerals to my alchemy lab.”

The most recent shipment from the Regent has included gypsum which, the Prince has discovered via a sheer “what-the-heck” trial, can coagulate soybean milk into something he has christened as “tofu”(“bean curd”). Overnight, tofu has become a national sensation. The Prince, forever self-deprecating, dismisses his popularity as “15 minutes of fame”, not knowing that his phrase will be recycled some twenty centuries later into the parlance of time. His nephew, Emperor Wu, is fully aware of the Prince’s sway on the national sentiment. The Prince’s friends, including Premier Tien, have cautioned him about the Emperor’s unease. “Blood is thicker than water,” they tell the Prince, “but not thick enough to form indemnity against political purge.”

The Prince considers a coup d'état – as some of his advisers suggest – utterly unobtainable. He must come up with the elixir as quickly as possible. Then he can retire from politics and live as a recluse – but forever – in a Taoist temple, and wait for his nephew to die. Time is running out and everyday he must get a step closer to his goal. Today, he plans to mix an egg (the symbol of life) with some gold powder (the symbol of permanence) and see what happens.

The Prince punctures an egg with a pin and carefully enlarges the hole to the size that allows free flow of egg white but still small enough to retain the yolk inside the shell. The Prince sprinkles gold powder into the bowl of egg white, along with a potion of proving vitality-enhancing property. He sends it to his focus group consisting of the nation’s leading Taoist and Confucianist scholars. While waiting for their feedbacks, he orders an early lunch with some of his own aphrodisiac condiments – a slice of slow-stewed deer antlers and a handful of pickled caterpillar fungi. Before long, sensing he is about to pop a chubby, he sends for Lady Forsythia, the latest acquisition of his harem, and returns to his bedroom for a recess.

The romp in the bedroom lasts for three hours, ending with Lady Forsythia’s impromptu lap-dance accompanied by the Prince on the ocarina. Both of them indulge in generous amount of warm sake. Struck by a literary lightning conceived in the tryst of Muse and Dionysus, the Prince takes sudden leave of Lady Forsythia and goes to his study. There, he sits down and writes a twisted fable of a village elder whose horse one day defects to the Huns’ camp, only to return again on his own, bringing along a herd of the Huns’ horses. Thrilled with the sudden windfall, the elder’s son rejoices in riding the stallion every day till he breaks his femur in a freak accident. The Huns soon pour over the Great Wall and invade China. Every young man in the village is conscripted and dies in the battles except the cripple. At every turn of events, a fortune disguises itself as a misfortune while giving birth to a real misfortune in the end. The Prince orders to have the story gift-bounded and donated to the royal library. He does not know yet that the gist of it will become the most popular proverb in the Sinosphere, serving as the Eastern version of “every cloud has its silver lining”.

The Prince then goes to the opera stage in the garden, hours late for an appointment with a group of martial art masters. For their divine patience, he rewards them with a demonstration of Tai Chi, a slow motion version of Kung Fu he has invented, inspired by the graceful, slow demeanor of a turtle, a long-living species the Prince regards as role model.

After that he returns to his lab, where on his desk lie the glowing feedback from the focus group. Understandably, the purported life-prolonging effect is yet to be seen but the flavor and color is palatable and welcoming, with no ill side effect. Smiling, the Prince watches the sunset and listens to the frogs croak, drifting deeper and deeper in thoughts. Suddenly, he picks up the egg shell with the yolk still inside and studies it for a long time, as if admiring the perfect drilling he has done to it. He puts it down atop a mini hibachi grill, with the hole facing straight up, and lights the charcoal. The yolk sizzles and emits a disagreeable sulfurous smell; within a couple of minutes, hot, smoky air gushes out like a geyser through the tiny hole in the egg shell. With a pair of chopsticks, the Prince turns the hot egg shell so that the air hole faces straight down. The instance he relaxes his grip on the chopsticks the egg floats up in the air. It manages afloat for a while, a little wobbly, like a baby bird learning to fly and eventually crashes onto the floor when the hot air runs out. The Prince cries with joy. He has just created the world’s very first hot air balloon. Subconsciously, the Prince knows he will not live long enough to discover the magic of immortality. But there are days when he gets closer. Today is not a bad day.

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Henry Lu is a computer programmer by day, a painter and writer by night. Some of his paintings are installed in certain Federal Government buildings in DC. His fictions have appeared, or are forthcoming, on Postcard Shorts, Nanoism and Absinthe Revival Press' Summertime Anthology.

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Author: Henry Lu

Contributor: Frank Holland

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      Mrs. Perkins asked her friend Jeanette, “Is that normal, for a man to give it a name?”
      “Give what a name?”
      “You know: it.”
      From Mrs. Perkins' timid manner Jeanette understood what she referred to; but, to make sure, she asked, “It?”
      “Yes, his-- ”  Mrs. Perkins's eyes closed modestly.  “ --manhood.” Then she reopened them.  “Do men do that -- call it by name, like it's human, like it has a life of its own?”
      “Well, sometimes it does.”
      “What?”
      “Have a life-- ”  She hesitated.  Although still in her forties, Jeanette was much more knowledgeable about contemporary life than Mrs. Perkins was.  “What does Cal call it?”
      “George.  I just wish he would meet some nice religious girl and get married.  I want to have grandchildren before I die.”
      “If you want him to move into a place of his own, why don't you suggest it?”
      “Oh, I don't like to be pushy.  I don't want him to think he's not welcome here.”
      “I think he might even like that, living on his own.  But he thinks you need him here at the house.  And he doesn't want you to live alone.”
      “Or for that matter, I could move in with them.”
      “Them?  Him and George, you mean?”
      “No, him and his wife.  George, well, he goes along with him, of course.”
      Jeanette asked, “How long has he called it George?  All of his life?”
      “Oh, no, just recent, like he only took notice of him -- it.  Only in the past couple of weeks.”
      “That's odd.”
      “That's why I asked.  Isn't it sort of odd to give it a name?”
      “Not really.  I've heard of people giving names to, well, different parts of their bodies.  It's not really unheard of, no.”  Jeanette could have elaborated, but she didn't.
      Both women startled as the back door opened and Mrs. Perkins' son walked in.
      Jeanette nodded.  “Hello, Cal.”  He nodded back.
      Mrs. Perkins said, “Cal, look at these lovely tomatoes that nice young girl across the alley brought over.  Wasn't that sweet of her?”
      Cal gave them a perfunctory glance as he washed his hands in the sink.  “Yeah.”
      Mrs. Perkins continued: “So I invited her over for dinner tonight.”
      “What?  Why?  For five tomatoes?”
      “Because she's so nice and so kind.  She's such a joy to be around.”
      “Well, you be with her then; I'll eat early.  I don't want to see her.”
      “But she likes you.”
      “It's not mutual.”
      “But that's why I asked her over.  For you.”
      “For me?  To spite me?  And spoil my appetite?”
      “Because I know you like her too.”
      “I told you the other day, I do not like her!  She's a nuisance, annoyance.  I -- don't like her at all.”
      Smiling, Mrs. Perkins shook her head.  “That's not how I heard it.  I know different.  You like her in spite of yourself; you just won't admit it.”
  “What don't you understand about 'I-do-not-like-her-at-all!'?”
      “Well, part of you does.”
      “Well, it must be a part of me I'm not aware of.”
      “That may very well be.”
      “Last week when you asked me didn't I think she was sweet, don't you remember what I said?”
      “I remember exactly what you said.”
      “I asked you, why does she come over here all the time, what do you let her in for!  And   -- and -- I said she is a colossal pain in the ass!  She revolts me!  She makes my gorge rise!  So if she comes over tonight, you eat with her!  Not me!  You!  Because I won't!”  He slammed the damp paper towel into the trash and went upstairs to his room.
      Mrs. Perkins continued smiling with self-confidence.  “Jeanette, you heard what he said, didn't you?  The poor boy don't realize it himself, but he admitted it right out: she makes his George rise.”
      For a moment Jeanette considered correcting Mrs. Perkins, but she decided not to go there.


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I have had short stories published by several (over 20) publications, including Cicada, The MacGuffin, Oyez Review and Pleiades.

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Author: Frank Holland

Contributor: Lewis Gesner

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My wife and I go into 7-11 yesterday in our village near Kaouhsiung. We buy rice balls or something and sit at their stools. There is a sound of a scooter outside, then, a second engine; a woman is spraying a cloud of disinfectant from a machine down a grating outside. My wife says, in a moment the cockroaches will come out. Sure enough, first one, then another, then, many many many - crawling over the steps, and onto the window of 7-11 - a man sits outside, we see cockroaches crawl on his foot. It is terrifying - we leave before they come inside. Later in church, we hear the scooter outside again, and then the sound of the second engine...


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Lewis Gesner is a writer and artist living in Taiwan. He publishers, exhibits and performs internationally, and is a member of Mobius artist group, from Boston, MA USA, currently on leave.

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Author: Lewis Gesner

Contributor: John Laneri

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The first time I visited Doc Merriman’s office was the day I took Lyle Winters in for a tooth extraction. At the time, I was living in Possum Hollow, residing in a double wide near the bayou.

Lyle, as I remember, was a fishing buddy – a fellow with a real knack for making the best of most situations. The Doc was also one of the good guys, a through and through professional. Besides providing the community with dental services, he operated the only funeral parlor in the parish.

Just for fun, my girl friend Betty Lou tagged along, saying she wanted to see a tooth pulled from a man’s head.

The Doc went straight to work. He situated Lyle in a dental chair and reached for a shot of local anesthetic. Being hard headed, Lyle immediately sat upright in the chair and flatly refused the painkiller, preferring instead several shots of whiskey to numb his senses. Before long, he was so drunk the Doc began to look worried.

“Is something wrong with Lyle?” I asked.

The Doc scratched his head. “He’s not breathing well. Maybe, I gave him too much whiskey or maybe….”

I interrupted him right off. “Doc, Lyle’s been drinking whiskey since sunrise. I thought you knew. He’s turned at least a half a gallon to ease the pain.”

The Doc cleared his throat. “That’s not good. A man can swallow his tongue during a tooth extraction.”

I noticed Betty Lou lift an eye. “Please don’t let him die. He’s such a wonderful man.”

The Doc turned to her. “He won’t die, honey. He's fine. But, he’ll need some sobering time before I can safely pull that tooth.”

The three of us looked at each other unsure of what to do until the Doc suggested that we move him to a comfortable place. So, in around about way that’s how Lyle ended up in the funeral parlor resting inside a casket with the three of us watching over him.

We must have stood there for thirty minutes not speaking a word just looking down at his immobile form – head resting on a pillow, toes pointed to the sky, hands folded across his chest.

Soon, I began to feel a creepy sensation edge along my neck. I glanced around the room then down at the casket and back over to the Doc. “This place is spooky. I don't like being around coffins. You’ve got them stacked everywhere.”

Betty Lou moved close to me and whispered, “I’m getting goose bumps just standing here.”

Doc simply chuckled. “Coffins won’t hurt you unless you drop one on your foot.”

He did have a point, so we returned to watching Lyle.

Before long though, I started to get bored from standing in one place. I looked over at the Doc. “Some fortification would be good about now. Don’t you think?”

The Doc cocked his head to study me, and then his eyes lighted like they were rigged to one hundred watt light bulbs. He hurried away and returned with his bottle of whiskey and a couple of glasses.

Finally, after another hour of sitting in the funeral parlor, during which time the Doc and I sampled the whiskey and engaged in friendly talk, I noticed Betty Lou ease near the coffin.

“Is he still breathing?” I asked her.

“I’m checking him now.”

I reached for the bottle and poured Doc another shot then glanced back at Betty Lou and saw her lean over Lyle and place an ear to his chest.

“Hear anything?” I asked,chuckling.

“I’m not sure,” she replied distantly. “He looks too serene. And, I don’t like the way his lips are curled.”

She bent closer.

I started to say something, but then, I noticed her fanny pointed straight up in the air exposing bright red underwear. Unable to resist the temptation, I reached over and gave the elastic a playful snap.

She shrieked and suddenly tumbled into the casket, her body landing on top of Lyle – totally surprising me. Behind her, the coffin lid slammed shut with a solid thud.

Surprised, the Doc and I came to our feet and hurried to the coffin, laughing all the way.

Sometime later, after listening to a lengthy duet of muffled screams and curses as well as a good bit of fumbling about, we finally managed to get the coffin lid raised and were back to offering toasts to teeth.

By then, Lyle and Betty Lou were sitting across from us on top of the casket, admiring his tooth.

Betty Lou turned to Lyle, “I’ll never understand how my panties got hooked around your tooth. One minute, I was listening to your chest. And before I knew it, we were squirming about in the dark groping each other. I didn’t know which end was up.”

Rubbing his jaw, Lyle replied, “I’m just happy you snagged my tooth.” He gave her a smile and turned serious, his year in college showing. “Your panties do good work.”

She smiled playfully. “You can touch 'em as much as you like.”

Lyle didn’t hesitate. And before I knew it, they were headed out the door walking hand in hand toward her place.

In all, I wasn’t happy about losing Betty Lou. But, a couple of weeks later, I got to know her sister Lillie, which was just as well because she didn’t bother with panties at all.


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John is a native born Texan living near Houston. His writing focuses on short stories and flash. Publications to his credit can be found on the internet and in several print edition periodicals.

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Author: John Laneri

Contributor: JC Piech

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Her eyes try and fail to focus on the pair of spectacles that sprawl, all cracked glass and twisted metal, on the coffee table. She gives up and looks down at the beige and brown carpet instead. It needs vacuuming; she can feel little bits on the soles of her bare feet. Sticky little bits. Like they’re trying to keep her here.

“Look at me, bitch,” he says, his voice hoarse from too much cussing and too much smoking.

“Maybe ah wud if ah cud see!” Her voice quivers.

“Jesus Christ,” he says, “d’ya always hafta fuckin’ cry at evrythang? S’only a pair o’ glasses.”

“No, it ain’t jus’ a pair o’ glasses! You end up breakin’ evrythang. When’re you gonna stop havin’ your li’l boy tantrums ‘n start actin’ like a man? A real man? Like Johnny… Yeah, that’s right, ya heard me. Ah’m in love with Johnny ‘n ah’m leavin’ your sorry ass. He’s somethin’ o’ mine you won’t never get to break. He’s bigger ‘n stronger than you, ‘n he’s even more pissed about what you’ve dun t’me than ah am…” she thinks to herself as she hangs her head, watching tears drop out of focus onto the dirty carpet. She loved those spectacles. “Th’ only reason Johnny ain’t already gutted you like a slimy li’l fish,” she thinks, “is cause I told him not to. Well… its full moon tonight ‘n I’m done tellin’ him to hold back. When that moonlight shines on him ah'm not sure he even can.”

For the first time in her life she feels strong enough to leave. She stands up and heads for the door. Outside, the sun has baked the ground dry and hard and cracked. She doesn’t need shoes: Johnny lives just two doors down the dirt track. She’s not going to waste time packing bags, Johnny can buy her some new shoes and some new dresses.

“It’s about damn time ah had sumthin’ new t’ wear,” she thinks as she opens the door. “Maybe a bright red dress for th’ summer, t’ sit out in Johnny’s backyard in. And a pair o’ heels to match, for his little werepups to run around at. And a new pair o' spectacles too."

“Where d’ya think you’re goin’?” says her husband, a man made up of hair and short temper. He’s the only thing of hers that hasn't been broken. Yet.

Heading out into the last of the days sun and turning her bare heels on him, she says, “Why don’t ya follow me ‘n find out?”


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JC Piech lives in south-east England with her lovely and patient husband, and her writing forms a pretty mixed bag. Perhaps it’s because she’s a Gemini? Or perhaps she’s just a weirdo.

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Author: JC Piech

Contributor: Craig M. Workman

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            I came in and slid the grocery bag down my thigh until the bottom tapped the linoleum. For some reason, it seemed a bit too quiet today.  Hey!  I’m home!  Anybody home? I said.  Where the hell was my dog?  Mr. Snowball always licked my hand the moment I got home, but was nowhere to be seen.  Ever since he’d been a puppy, he had always had this thing with licking the floor and chewing the chair leg.  He’d lick the computer desk and chew on the carpet.  Where the hell was he?  I suddenly remembered the need to send my online pals a reminder that I was going to be out of town for the computer gamers’ conference until Wednesday.  The back room had become my de facto study, and I kept my computer and everything else worth considering there.  I walked on back, and there sat Mr. Snowball in my Retune gel office-chair, his head bobbing up and down over the keyboard.  Hey there puppy I said.  Hey there puppy what’s…what…the fuck?  I moved closer and noticed he had a pencil clamped in his mouth, and was punching at the keys with the mealy pink eraser.  And guess what?  No, he wasn’t eating the pencil or screwing up the keyboard.  He hadn’t pissed on my chair.  He had shed a fair amount of his signature whitish-fur all over the backrest, but that doesn’t bother me.  This is the part of the story that gets weird.  There, on the screen, Mr. Snowball was typing something.  It said:

Rjrsdityo can youseeeee it turirueoyi  ittt—o

In the space of a moment, I realized that this was it.  This was the moment I’d been waiting for my whole life.  Mr. Snowball looked up at me looking down at him, pencil  wedged in his mouth.  Oh God!  Oh, good boy.  Keep typing!  Keep…do it!  Keep doing it, boy!  It occurred to me later that this was something of a dumb thing to say to a dog but he was just doing such a great job, and I didn’t want to ruin the moment.  The moment, nonetheless, was ruined.  He dropped the pencil and walked into the kitchen. 

            I had so much to do now!  So many people to contact!  So many others needed to know how special my dog was, and how special I was by proxy.  I saved Mr. Snowball’s document as Mr. Snowball’s Miracle in a folder called Special Documents, which I’d created some time ago for situations just like these.  I got online and sent out a mass email to everyone I knew praising my brilliant Mr. Snowball, and that they had to come see when the time was right.  I alerted the media; this was pretty difficult actually, partly because in the movies when they say “ALERT THE MEDIA” you don’t really understand that there isn’t one phone number that alerts the media.  It took a while to call the media, and even longer to convince them to believe me and come on out to this house of knowledge and miraculous typing.  Oh, this was it.  This was my time.  Finally, no more frozen dinners and frozen hamburger patties, cold cardboard pizzas from the shitty delivery joint down the street.  I was going to be famous.  Beyond famous.  Everyone was going to want to know about Mr. Snowball and about me.  Endorsement contracts, amazing weed, and chicks.  I was going to have sex with large-chested, fake, overly made-up women in droves.  Every day is a gift, but at least one day wasn’t going to be a necktie from my grandmother.

            Yesterday, the small backroom was so cramped with cameras, reporters, and all my online friends, there was barely room for Mr. Snowball to perform his work.  He sat in the office chair, the staccato pulse of flashing cameras and reporters’ voices droning in unison to their respective stations.  Then Katharine McNamara, the Voice of Austin Action Four nodded.   It was time.   Solemnly I wedged between two reporters and placed the old pencil in Mr. Snowball’s mouth so that the eraser stuck out.  I scratched him behind the ears, and he began to peck away like a furry chicken.  The video cameras whirred.  This was it.  There was no going back now.  It was time.  Chuck, chuck, chuck went the keys.  Mr. Snowball dropped the pencil.  He had finished for the day.  And what was his masterpiece? 

,,,,,,,,,,,w

Fucking dog.

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Craig M. Workman is currently an adjunct professor of english at the University of Missouri-Kansas City, as well as an I-PhD student there. His work has appeared in Kerouac's Dog, Midwest Literary Magazine and Literary Juice. His dog cannot type.

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Author: Craig M. Workman

Contributor: Samantha Memi

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I was born into an ordinary family in Berlin in 1938. My father was a stick of celery, my mother, a tomato. I was a grapefruit. My father sometimes queried the origin of my birth. My mother never answered.
‘Never had a grapefruit in the family,’ he would say. She stayed silent.
I went through the state education system and more by luck than talent I arrived at university to study Vegetable Bake for Amateur Cooks. I wasn't happy, I couldn't understand why anyone would want to treat vegetables so cruelly. I left during the first year. I drifted, hung around in grocery shops, got in with a bad lot of spinach. It looked like my life would turn out bad. Then I met a gorgeous Maris Piper potato, He was new but, despite that, could find his way round the supermarket shelf. We married, had a baby carrot, I was so pleased.
Then one day we heard marching bands. We looked out the window and saw what we later learned were stormtroopers. Two weeks later the door was smashed in and my husband was arrested. I heard later he'd been boiled and mashed. Didn't they have souls, these people? he was a frying potato.
I was alone with my baby carrot. Everyone stared at me in the street. I realised it was because I was fruit and my daughter was vegetable. What gave them the right to judge me.
Then we were put in a camp where I was forced to chop up leeks and cauliflower for swarthy arrogant soldiers. It was a horrible job and I was warned that my daughter, who was too young to work, would be old enough to bake in a pie. I met a leek from the escape committee, he said they could help my daughter escape. They couldn’t help me, they only worked with the vegetable community. It was heartbreaking to say goodbye to my little carrot.
‘Mummy,’ she cried, ‘don't leave me.
You'll be safe where you're going I said and stroked her topsy-turvy leaves, and then she was gone, driven off in a van painted as an ambulance but full of veg.
I was distraught. Friends said I had to continue working otherwise I'd be steamed. But I was so depressed I thought a good steaming might be better than the miserable existence I had.
Then other soldiers arrived. They killed our captors, and freed all the fresh veg. Some of the elderly couldn't be saved, but at least I was free. We had a party. I got sliced into segments and tipped into a fruit salad. A melon pip told me my daughter had married a handsome young cucumber. I hope she is well.


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Samantha Memi is a patisserie chef in London. Her recipes for a happy life can be found at http://samanthamemi.weebly.com/

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Author: Samantha Memi