Contributor: John Laneri

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A September moon was just beginning to appear when Jarvis Thornton, a quiet, little man, stepped away from the food table and started across the town square. In the air, a hint of fall made the night perfect for an old-fashioned election rally.

Smiling broadly, he worked his way through a crowd of people, acknowledging friends and acquaintances. In just two short months, he hoped to be the next mayor of Baxterville, a small community near Waco.

From all indications, his candidacy was pulling ahead, especially after the town council had refused to endorse Big Al Slocum, the current mayor and local Chevrolet Dealer.

“Howdy folks. How y’all tonight,” he said comfortably, his voice inspired with power.

“You’re lookin’ good,” a voice screamed from the crowd.

Once on the grass away from the crowd, Jarvis relaxed, glad to be away from the scrutiny of voters, and lifted his dinner plate close to his nose. To him, the aroma of fried chicken was hard to resist.

“Hi Jarvis.”

Startled, he lowered the plate, his pulse quickening.

The voice of Miss Suzy Blaze, one of several young girls that worked the motel row along the highway, started the bells of disaster to ringing.

“Would you like to dance with me tonight?” she asked merrily, as she hurried to his side.

“I don’t dance,” he replied, as he moved quickly away. “Now, get going. Folks might see us talking.”

“But, you promised.”

“I only said I’d think about asking you to dance and that was a long time ago – too long to remember.” He continued on, forcing a smile with each step.

“I’ve been practicing the two-step.”

“I’m not interested in dancing. I’m here to eat fried chicken. And besides, my little lady might see us talking – not to mention what the voters might think. They’re already looking in our direction.”

“But, you told me you liked to dance.”

“Forget I ever said that. I was sippin’ whiskey at the time.”

She lifted her skirt. “Can I show you what I’ve learned? I’m getting’ good at slow dancing.”

Jarvis stopped and forced another smile. “Go ahead and show me, but be quick about it. I’ve got serious campaigning to do.”

She inched her skirt higher and began slowly dancing in place.

“Your legs sure are pretty,” Jarvis said. “But with the mayor’s election, I need to maintain discretion.”

“What’s discretion?”

“It means you have to act like you don’t know me.”

“I don’t understand. On Wednesdays, you say you love me.”

“Wednesdays are different. That’s when….”

Suddenly, he gasped. “There’s Margaret, my little lady. Oh my God, she’s moving in our direction. You need to go. She’s worse than Big Al. She always brings trouble.”

“Who’s that girl?” the wife growled, when she arrived beside him.

“Oh her... she’s some young kid trying to dance. I was tellin’ her how to vote.” He loosened his collar and looked about. “The fried chicken sure smells good. Where’re we sittin’?”

The wife looked away to watch Suzy twirl in circles, her attention going to shapely legs and a colorful skirt flowing to the sounds of fiddle music. “Have you been admiring at that girl’s legs?”

Jarvis took a deep breath, his lips quivering. “The only legs I see are the drumsticks on my plate.”

Suzy stopped dancing. “My legs are pretty. They’re not drumsticks!”

Shaken, he turned to her. “I’m not calling your legs, drumsticks. I’m talking to my wife – if you don’t mind. So, please keep quiet.”

“But, you always say my legs are pretty. Now, you’re calling them, drumsticks. That’s rude.”

“I was only talking about the chicken legs on my plate,” he replied, his shoulders beginning to slump.

Margaret looked from Jarvis to Suzy, her eyes narrowed. “Tell me something mister, how would you know what her legs look like?”

Cautiously, Jarvis glanced about. “I'm a people watcher and sometimes I see legs. Right now,I see people watching so keep your voice down. We could be living in the Governor’s mansion next year.”

Margaret considered the situation, then grabbed his ear. “You come with me Mr. Thornton. We need to have a serious talk.”

Suzy watched Jarvis stumble away, his candidacy ended.

A short time later, as she was making her way around the crowd, Big Al Slocum stepped from the shadows.

“Did I do good?” she asked, turning to him.

“You did very good, Little Lady. We’ll have to take another ride in one of my Chevrolet's.”

He looked her over, his eyes running her length. “From what I see, I’m thinkin’ real soon.” He handed her a hundred dollar bill and started away. “But now, I have some serious politicking to do, so I’ll get back to you later.”

She took the money and followed after him. “Can I ask you one question?”

Big Al looked around uncertain. “You can ask, but be quick about it. The voters are always watching.”

Suzy raised her skirt. “Do my legs look like drumsticks? That other gentleman made some derogatory remarks that hurt my feelings.” She raised the skirt higher. “You always say my legs are pretty when we're in the backseat of your new cars.”

Big Al again glanced about, hearing those same bells of disaster. He started to speak. By then, the crowd around him was already applauding in laughter.

Still thinking about pretty legs, Suzy Blaze drifted away, unaware that she had left behind two fellows – fried chickens so to speak – cooked to a sizzling, well done.


- - -
John is a native born Texan living near Houston. His writing focuses on short stories and flash. Publications to his credit have appeared in several scientific journals as well as a number of internet blogs and short story print editions.

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Author: John Laneri

Contributor: Taylor Dibbert

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String hoppers, chili paste, dahl, gravy, chicken, a fried egg, greens, an array of curries, a bit of arrack and copy of Boomerang by Michael Lewis. If Lewis is not doing the trick I will switch to fiction; I have been meaning to get to Sons and Lovers for months. Maybe tonight will be the night. Why would my phone be ringing? Nobody ever calls me after 9PM. (Nobody ever calls me before 9PM either).

“Hello. Is this Siva?”

“No, this is not Siva.”

“Okay, thanks.”

My phone is ringing again.

“Hello, Siva…”

“Sorry, I am still not Siva. You have the wrong number. This is Mr. Mark.”

“Are you Sri Lankan?”

“Do I sound like I’m Sri Lankan?”

“No.”

“You would be correct.”

“Well, are you alone then?”

“Yes. I’m alone.”

“What do you do for fun? Aren’t you lonely?”

“I read. I write. I walk. But, most of all, I wonder what I am doing here. I wonder why I don’t just move to a beach town in Mexico and look for my wife because she certainly is not here.”

“I like the sound of your voice.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“No. It’s nice, different and soothing. Are you really alone?”

“Always,” I tell her.

“I was being serious.”

“So was I.”

Even though it’s only a phone call, now I am wishing that I’d had a bit more to drink.

*

I’m at Lemon, a rooftop bar in Cinnamon Gardens. I haven’t been here since the time Sonali was in Colombo. It’s a good spot, but I’ve come entirely too early. I’m already working on my third drink by the time she shows up.

“Hi there. Mark…right?”

“Tania. You are on time. Are you sure you are Sri Lankan?”

“Pretty sure.”

I was planning on grabbing something to eat; I quickly forgot about dinner and a lot of other things.

*

I wake up with a splitting headache and in need of more sleep. Evidently that is not an option.

“You need to get out of there. He will be coming back soon.”

“Alright, I heard you the tenth time.”

“Also, don’t call my phone today. You can text me if you want.”

I can’t find my other sandal. Vodka is still on my breath. There are all kinds of stains on my pants. I have no idea what that stuff could be; they don’t appear to be bodily fluids. (I hope.)

*

I’m now onto Duplication Road. No taxis are available. I’d rather walk back to Bambalipitiya. I need some lunch, an IV and a nap. I’ve got to go back to Delhi tomorrow morning. I will be riding the L train into Manhattan before I know it.
I burned a lot of money last night and I don’t care. Again I woke up to a wad of crumpled bills and a general sense of uneasiness, yet for once I wasn’t alone.

After all, even the loners long for the touch of a woman.


- - -
Taylor Dibbert has been published in Slow Trains Literary Journal, Foreign Policy Journal, Foreign Policy in Focus and elsewhere. He is a columnist for International Policy Digest and the author of the book Fiesta of Sunset: The Peace Corps, Guatemala and a Search for Truth.

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Author: Taylor Dibbert

Contributor: John Laneri

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Sheriff Matt Carson first noticed the bicycle when he saw it roll past the town square and turn down a dirt road toward the church.

Continuing on, he made his way past storefronts and along quiet tree lined streets. Morning walks were a part of his routine, the activity just another of the many duties that kept him familiar with the happenings in Neverton, a small community along the cattle trail to Fort Worth.

Near the church, he spotted the Reverend Armsworth walking aimlessly about the churchyard, reading from a Bible.

“I see you’ve got a new protegee,” the Sheriff said, as he stepped in the minister’s direction.

The good Reverend adjusted his glasses and looked up. “I hope the boy isn’t causing trouble.”

“No, No” the Sheriff replied. “I noticed a young man on a bicycle near the town square. I figured he belonged to you.”

“It was probably him. He takes a fancy to that contraption.”

To the Sheriff’s eye, the Reverend Armsworth was stately man, wearing a starched clerical collar and black coat – customary attire for devout Texas Ministers.

The Reverend looked about, his eyes peering over his glasses. “I’d like to have you meet him. I saw him peddling by a short while ago.”

The Sheriff looked back and forth along the road, his eyes squinting against the sun.

Suddenly, he spotted a bicycle parked in the shadows directly across the road at Aunt Jillie’s Boarding House, the finest establishment along the Brazos River – definitely, not a place for the Reverend's new protegee.

Realizing the consequences, he quickly turned about and pointed in the opposite direction. “Maybe, the boy is still peddling about the town square.”

The preacher followed his lead, his neck craning to look. “He could be at the candy store. He does like sweets.”

Nodding, the Sheriff replied. “That’s a likely possibility. Most boys his age like to indulge a piece of candy from time to time.”

“Some boys do get a lust for candy.”

The two men agreed. And, for some time, they remained in the churchyard gazing toward town, that is, until the Reverend’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Candy, you say.”

Quickly, he turned to look toward the boarding house. “Hell fire, the boy’s already sinning.” He pointed across the street. “His bicycle’s parked at Aunt Jillie's.”

The Sheriff turned to follow his direction. “Maybe, he’s converting the girls to religion.”

“He’s a mite too young to convert Aunt Jillie and her girls over to much of anything.” Turning away, the Reverend began pacing back and forth. Finally, he stopped and said, “But then again, he’s not too young to be taught the wild side of living.

“What do you want me to do?”

The Reverend walked to the edge of the churchyard where he remained for some time quietly studying the house, his bible tucked under an arm. “I don’t see much activity about the place. Most of the curtains are drawn tight.”

“The window curtains stay closed on the second floor. That's where the girls work. He’s probably sitting in the kitchen, preaching the good book and having a bite to eat. I understand Aunt Jillie keeps plenty of food about … helps fellows keep their energy up.”

“I hear her apple pie is mighty tasty too,” the Reverend said, turning to him, grinning.

“It’s the best in these parts.”

“That’s good to know,” the preacher said. “But still, his mother insisted that I keep him pure while he’s under my tutelage. You need to do something to get him out of that place.”

The Sheriff cleared his throat. “He probably won’t leave without puttin’ up a commotion.”

“That’s what worries me,” the Reverend replied. “Maybe, we should walk over and sample some of her apple pie. Then, you can snoop around while I try converting those girls to the ways of the Lord.”

The Sheriff looked at the preacher, his eyes expressing doubt. “Jillie might not be too happy if I poke my head into each her rooms.”

“How so?” the Reverend asked, turning to him.

“Cause, you're talking sacred ground. Even the Good Lord would think twice. In fact, I’m not sure He’d consider it – being the practical man that He is.”

“You do have a point,” the preacher said quietly.

In the distance, the Sheriff spotted a bicycle moving in their direction. He nudged the preacher and pointed toward the end of the road. “Is that your boy peddling our way?”

The Reverend again adjusted his glasses then let out a sigh of relief. “Thank the Lord… That’s him. I recognize the cowlick on top his head. Now, I’m a mite disappointed.”

“Disappointed?” the Sheriff asked.

“Of course,” the good Reverend replied. “I keep needing a reason to visit her house. I've been hankering’ to sample that apple pie for years.”


- - -
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: Gary Hewitt

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There is no possibility of return. A hypnotic refulgent light dances ever closer.

‘Keep looking ahead.’

A burning flavour escapes nearby. The head remains still and eyes are wide open. Several clicking sounds begin and white fire pulses into the line of sight. Hands tighten. No sense of pain, yet nausea rises.

‘You’re doing well. Just keep staring ahead.’

Liquid is dashed into the eyeball. Blinking is impossible. The eyelids are fastened. A figure in a green mask peers inside. A swab follows and scrapes across the pupil.

‘Try not to look away.’

The Arabic voice reassures. A black bulkhead is removed and jettisoned to the left side of the face.

‘We’re half way through the first procedure. Now just like before, keep looking ahead.’

Teeth clench. Star Wars begins again. The same words mirror those of moments before. Everything is aflame.

‘Fantastic. You’ve done ever so well. All we need to do now is to seal up the flaps.’

The paid victim swivels to the right and gazes into an orange glow. He can smell a foul aroma and the flashing continues.

‘Don’t look away.’

The voice is insistent. The mind drifts to the three hour wait before. Those hours seem much shorter than the ten minutes inside the theatre.

‘Right, we’re on the last stretch now. A few moments and it’ll be over.’

The vision is blurred by the unpleasant pressure of saline and swabs. Dr Hussein nods whilst inspecting his work.

‘Marvellous, I do believe we’re finished.’

Slender female fingers prise off a hairnet. Eye clamps are eased away.

‘Well done Mr Case. We’ll take you through to the dark room. You may find yourself feeling rather strange for a short while.’

The client blunders to his feet. He reaches for his redundant glasses and tucks them into a jacket pocket. The sterile world appears bright yet blurry. Disorientated, he follows the young woman into a cell with no light. His vision is dazzling.

‘You can relax now, Mr Case. Here, take these drops. There are clear instructions for you to follow but you will certainly need the anaesthetic ones in a while.’

The patient reclines and tilts his head back. He is seized by panic. Ahead, a poster promotes the advantages of the laser yet he cannot focus.

‘Hi, how did you find the operation?’

He glances left and a raven haired woman stares back with a tissue implanted beneath her eyes.

‘Weird, I’m a bit worried though. I paid all this money and everything seems blurry.’

‘I know exactly what you mean. They told me these effects are quite normal. By the way I’m Karen.’

Mr Case relaxes.

‘I’m Ray. I imagined it’d be more painful.’

Karen nods.

‘Trust me it is. My eye’s are on fire and these tears never stop. Believe me; you’ll need your tissue and those drop soon enough.’

‘I thought for a moment I got away with it. What procedure did you have done? My one was the expensive one.’

‘Me too, I can’t get used to being without wearing glasses though. Did you travel far to get here?’

Ray straightens his back and inspects his unexpected acquaintance. She warms to his happy eyes.

‘Oh, twenty minute drive down the motorway. My brother took me. How about you?’

‘I’m a local girl, but a friend helped.’

‘You mean your boyfriend?’

Karen leans her head forward. She catches the scent of cologne.

‘No, I’m single; I’m still waiting for Prince Charming to carry me away.’

Ray flushes. His skull begins to blaze with growing pain.

‘I’m not Prince Charming, Karen. However, I’d be delighted to help a beautiful woman escape from the eye doctors.’

‘Careful Ray, you might get more than you bargained for. Oh, I think you need your tissue.’

Ray stems a deluge of tears and cranes his head back.

‘Typical, here I am happy as I can be and I’m crying.’

He stabs eyeballs with cold liquid. Relief soon follows.

‘This is for you.’

Ray’s palm is filled with a small note. Delicate fingers linger for the tiniest moment on the top of his hand.

‘I can’t read just now. What have you wrote down?’

‘I’m sure you can work out the words and numbers.’

The chamber bursts with amber light.

‘You ready to go, Karen.’

‘I think so, Helen. Good luck, Ray. I’ve really enjoyed meeting you.’

‘And you Karen. See you.’

‘You can count on that. Bye.’

He hears the door close and dabs away the tears before opening his eyes. He glances towards Karen’s empty seat before inspecting the small piece of paper. He finds his mobile and adds a new contact. He’s sure his brother won’t mind being a minicab for a week or two.


- - -
Gary Hewitt is a writer from a small village in Kent, England. He has a unique style and has had several stories published including Morpheus Tales, M-Brane to name but a few. He is also a member of the Hazlitt Arts Centre Writers' Group.

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Author: Gary Hewitt

Contributor: Amin Hosseinioun
- -


You were shutting the door behind you when I told you to stop. I told you I still loved you. Told you how your departure crushes me; but you went anyway and that's ok. It is your life and I couldn’t make you stay. I am just telling you in this letter one thing. Don’t ever come back, because if you do so, I will throw you into my grinder.

Your appearance in my life made me so happy. You were the best thing that ever happened to me. But I didn't force you to come, you came all by yourself and now you left me for someone else. I am sure you are making him happy too. I am sure you have turned his life over too. You know why? He is a friend of mine. It is all good, but I know something. If you ever come to my way, if I ever see you, I will grind you both; you and your lousy partner. Or maybe I just Kebab you both and start a charity dinner for all town.

Don’t be surprised. I am still the same guy kind and gentle. I still look at your photos while tears are in my eyes. You know, I still have your picture on the bookshelf. I cherish all those good memories. I even bought this house just for you to relax. You know, I am a true liberal and I care for you, so please: don’t come back.

My grinder is really big, almost as big as a closet or a fridge. I've read through its manual as well. It says undress your person in use and put him/her down onto the grinder. Yes you'll go in by your legs. It has a very nature friendly design too. It doesn’t use electricity. It has pedals. So as I hold your naked body over the grinder I can set the speed with those pedals. I promise you I will grind you so slowly that it feels like a lifetime.

Let me ask you something. Has a piece of your body ever been cut off? Have you ever been bitten by a wolf or shark? Of course not, you are too spoiled for that kind of action. Isn’t it great that your last life experience would be the most exciting one? I think you'll fall in love with my grinder. You always said you enjoyed violence. Is my friend more violent? Is that why you left me for him? Or maybe you just left me because you wanted to be grinded? Well, now that we both want the same thing, and if you ever come back you'll prove that I am right. I have no other ways but grinding you slowly by your legs. And proudly watch those pretty legs, belly, and breasts cutting into pieces, oh what a scene!


- - -
I am a published writer in Farsi, in Iran, I have published two gothic novellas and many essays on literature and other narrative forms.

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Author: Amin Hosseinioun

Contributor: Zachary Zuccaro

- -
Looking through the binoculars, Samuel Malato could faintly see his own
brain. To his horror, there was a cockroach in the very center slowly eating its
way out.

There was only one thing to be done – he ran to his bathroom and grabbed a pair of tweezers which he pushed into his ear. Pain shot through his head, blood dripped from his earlobes, but he knew that he had to remove the cockroach at any cost. With a final shove he pushed the tweezers deep into his brain.

The entire community was stunned and appalled that such a wealthy, respected, and friendly man committed suicide with a pair of tweezers. It was beyond comprehension.


- - -
Zachary Zuccaro was born November 9, 1989 and grew up in Lynchburg, TN. He is currently studying mathematics at the University of Pittsburgh.

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Author: Zachary Zuccaro

Contributor: D. Robert Grixti

- -
It had seemed like nothing but a mundane bedroom.

“Is this it?” Haversham asked, producing a notepad from within his coat.
“Yup, that’s the one,” the proprietor said cheerfully, gesticulating with his arm as if he was a game show host revealing the grand prize. “Now, don’t be fooled by how it looks. We keep it maintained ‘cause of hotel standards an’ all, but it’s definitely haunted.”

“Right,” Haversham said, consulting his notebook. “Well, we’ll soon see, I guess.”

He stepped into the room and surveyed it. It was adorned with the typical fixtures of a motel room: a standard double bed; two cheap bedside tables beside it; a small black and white television sitting on a cabinet opposite. There was a door in a corner that opened into an adjoining bathroom. It was all well kept, and aside from the fact that the blinds were drawn on the single bay window above the bed, which cast a thick blanket of shadow over the room, it was perfectly ordinary.

He’d seen creepier.

“Guy hung himself in the bathroom,” the proprietor said casually as he followed Haversham into the room. “Usually, we keep it locked ‘cause the staff don’t like going in there.”

“Who was he?” Haversham asked.

“Just some nutcase. I remember when he checked in – said his wife had left him or something. Poor janitor found him next morning, when he came to refill the shampoo.”
“And that’s when the haunting started?”

“Yup, started happening right after. Whatever it is – ghost or what you want to call it – comes out just after midnight. Vanishes an hour later.”

Haversham scribbled something in the notepad.

“Any of the guests see it?”

“Yeah, several. On three separate nights. Thing must be scary as Hell – they all ran for it in the middle of the night. Didn’t even bother checking out.”

“Well, I’ll see what I can do,” Haversham said, bored, returning the notepad to his pocket and sitting down at the foot of the bed. “Seems like a straight forward case to me.”

The proprietor chuckled morbidly.

“You shouldn’t say that, buddy. Ever seen a horror movie?”

*

Haversham lay in the damp bed, awakened by the alarm on his cell phone. He’d taken a moment to muster the strength to turn onto his side and turn it off. As he touched it, the time – 11:45pm, the time he’d set for the alarm before going to sleep – flickered into existence on the screen, and eerie white light that both illuminated and obscured filled the room.

He’d spent the day outfitting the small room with equipment. He’d set up infrared cameras overlooking the bed and the entrance to the bathroom. He’d even taken the time to set up an extra camera above the grimy shower cubicle, along with a handheld tape recorder, though a strange feeling of being watched had bothered him the entire time he’d been in the bathroom.

After he retired to the motel room proper, he recorded a minute of test footage to make sure the cameras were working, then sat down to rest, and wait.

He turned on the television; it only played static, no matter how he adjusted the aerial. After twenty minutes, all he’d managed to get was a snatch of distorted conversation – “please, don’t leave me” – from a local station, interspersed with the white noise, so he turned it off and decided to get a few hours of sleep.

The bed was damp and the springs were worn out. It had taken him a conscious effort to fall asleep, and now he regretted it: his back was aching and he felt like he’d sunk so low into the mattress that he was almost touching the floor.

A sliver of movement on the edge of his vision disturbed his thoughts and returned him to full wakefulness.

He sat up against the wall and watched curiously as a slender figure, seemingly composed of darkness, glided silently out of the bathroom, stood at the end of the bed, and stared.

He leaned forward cautiously to get a better look. It didn’t respond to his movement, continuing to hover, motionless, in front of him. If it had facial features, they were invisible in the darkness, though shining white orbs glimmered where its eyes would be. What appeared to be spindly arms hung at its sides, though they were as long as its body – if it was indeed a body.

“What are you?” Haversham asked, pressing the record button on the tape player beside his hand.

The being bowed its head.

“You came back,” it said, in a forlorn whisper. “I was waiting for you.”

“You aren’t supposed to be here,” Haversham said firmly. “You have to move on.”

“But I don’t have to leave,” the being said, reaching towards him with its long arms. “Now that you’ve come back to me. I was waiting for you. Now I don’t have to be alone.”

Haversham edged backwards, the tip of his fingers fumbling for the revolver he stored under the pillow.

“I’m not here to stay. I’m here to make you leave.”

“No,” said the creature, slowly gliding towards him. “We can stay here together. Forever.”

It began to advance faster. The glowing orbs turned bright red.

“I love you.”

*

The check out time was 10 in the morning. When Haversham failed to meet it, the proprietor and the head janitor went to his room to remind him.

They found the room empty. The bed was unmade, and the cameras were still rolling.

“I guess he couldn’t take it,” the janitor said, making the bed. “Too scary, even for a ghost hunter.”

The proprietor smiled a knowing smile, and nodded.

“He’s probably halfway to Clement Cove by now.”

The janitor had finished cleaning by lunch time. He decided to go out for burgers. As he fished his car keys out of his pocket, something occurred to him: Haversham’s car was still parked in the guest bay.


- - -
D. Robert Grixti is a speculative and horror fiction writer from Melbourne, Australia. His influences include Stephen King, John Wyndham and H.P Lovecraft.

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Author: D. Robert Grixti

Contributor: Tyler Fleck

- -
I woke up on the asphalt. Through groggy eyes I noticed the small neon droplets falling and bursting as they hit my body. I rolled over onto my back and looked up at the liquid sky that stretched out above me, it was like an infinite explosion of lava lamps looming above, raining down on the planet in an ugly way.

The earth had been sucked into a great glory hole in the sky, the streets ran rampant with cross dressing fortune tellers and drag queen virgins of the night. The prostitutes and proud practitioners of paralyzed lives sharing the corners with yesterdays youth, panhandling nostalgia to fill a pez dispenser prescription.

This was the new earth.

I struggled back onto my stomach, with tear ducts flooding from the luminescent smog polluting my pores. I pulled a piece of black tarp over my body to shelter me from the lava lamp rain. I remembered a satellite had fallen from orbit some time earlier, had came crashing down to meet the earth not far from where my apartment building had been, I didn't remember when. . . days ago probably. I didn't care. I was nodding off, and for the first time in years, looking forward to dreaming.


- - -
A previously unpublished writer from Nova Scotia, Canada. I enjoy bringing to life different worlds through my words.

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Author: Tyler Fleck

Contributor: Chris Wilkensen

- -
I was standing in front of twelve Korean teenagers. I was their writing teacher, but their behavior made it seem like no adult was in the room. Most of the kids were talking to each other in their native tongue, except for one. He never talked. Then, he asked me a question.

Just before, I was trying my hardest to quiet the students down. I wanted them to like me, so I didn’t yell at them. Sometimes, I felt more like a guidance counselor than an English instructor. Reading essays about poor kids getting belted for bad grades. I couldn’t find it in me to yell at these students.

If the students weren’t chatting, they were asleep. They would tell me they were too tired to study. I could understand. School was seven hours a day. After-school learning institutions were nearly three hours a day. And they had homework from both.

Handsome. Kind. They would use these words whenever I cleared my throat or spoke in a lower voice. I didn’t hear compliments about my looks often. And I couldn’t prove them wrong about being nice. Most of them were thankful for the freedom I gave them.

“Did you ever want to die?” It was the first time the boy spoke in the semester without being asked something. I chuckled at his query.

“You’re going to kill me?” I heard all those jokes before. The academy would be set on fire, all the teachers would be ablaze. Then, the children could finally be true children and not studying machines.

“No.” He gazed into my eyes. Meanwhile, the class was still lost in conversations.

“Why would you ask that?”

“Because I want to die.”

Leaving the room and sprinting through the halls to find the institute’s director, my boss, I heard the fire alarm go off. All the classrooms scattered into the hall in moments.

Afterward, I told my boss about the conversation. He didn’t believe me. The next time I lost control of my class, I would be on a plane back to America.

The boy sat in his usual desk two days later. He sat in the corner by the door, away from everyone else. The rest of the class was either talking or playing cell-phone games.

“Why’d you do it?”

“I’m sorry, teacher.”

“It’s okay. But why?”

“I wanted everyone to listen to me.”

“I can listen to you.”

I wrote my e-mail address on his desk, and he copied it into his notebook. It was safer. My phone number would probably change, especially since I was one mistake away from America.

We high-fived. Then, I walked to the door, opened and slammed it. The kids were tranquilized.

“Less talking and more writing.” I folded my arms and grunted. “Now.” Almost everyone sighed.

The boy looked up at me and smirked his lips to one side of his mouth, his happiest countenance yet. As time allowed, I would be his real teacher and his unofficial guidance counselor.


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Chris is a scribe from Chicago who teaches English as a Second Language in Daegu, South Korea. After graduating college amidst a recession, he stopped stalking the American dream of a white-collar career and headed to Korea, where people wanted to flee to his homeland. His work has appeared in The Stone Hobo, Pulp Metal Magazine, Curbstone Collective and Combat! Chicago.

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Author: Chris Wilkensen

Contributor: John Laneri

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Sheriff Matt Carson was into page two of the Brazos River Weekly when his Deputy, Jasper Martin, a young man with light hair and a freckled face, returned to the jail house, his lanky body dropping casually into a chair.

“The main street looks quiet,” Jasper said, as he swatted at a fly. “Not much happening – just a couple of scrawny girls standing in front of the saloon.”

“Lets hope it stays quiet,” the Sheriff replied. “I’d like to enjoy the newspaper.”

Jasper watched the Sheriff turn a page. “What are you reading?”

The Sheriff glanced his way. “It's an editorial about the dangers of carrying hand guns. Makes some interesting points about irresponsible people.”

“Ain’t nobody gonna take my forty-five!” Jasper said quickly, his eyes bulging.

“Relax... nobody’s talking about taking away your hand gun. The writer is simply voicing an opinion about too many guns being in irresponsible hands. As bad as you shoot, folks needn’t be too worried.”

Jasper scrunched his face then reached for a fly swatter and swished it about.
”These flies are driving me nutty. I think we need more flypaper.”

The Sheriff looked up. “Tending to flypaper and sweeping cells is your job. As a matter of fact, this place is a mite dusty.”

“I’m serious, Sheriff. We need to do something about these flies.” He lifted the swatter and smacked at a couple of laggards. “Flies are everywhere. I even feel ‘em in my clothes.”

The Sheriff settled his other boot on the desk and glanced as Jasper. “If the flies are bothering you so much then try taking a bath once a week.”

“You’re funny, Sheriff… real funny.”

Laughing the Sheriff continued, “We’ll get some relief whenever that herd of cattle moves past. We always get flies when they drive cattle to market north of here.”

Jasper set the fly swatter aside and removed his forty-five from its holster. “Do you think we’ll get much trouble with the cowpunchers coming to town?” He spun the cylinder, listening to it click past the chambers.

Turning another page, the Sheriff looked up. “If we do, then we’ll jail ‘em overnight and charge a fine of two dollars for disturbing the peace.”

“One thing for sure, the girls at the saloon make a pile of money.”

The Sheriff glanced over his newspaper. “Cowboys do like girls, that’s a fact.”

Jasper jumped to his feet and slapped off a couple of draws. “I’m getting fast in front of a mirror.”

The Sheriff again lowered his newspaper. “Cowboys don’t gunfight. They’re into herding cattle and buying whores, so you’d best be leaving your six-shooting for varmints in your backyard. And, put that blasted gun away. We don’t need holes in the walls.”

“What ever you say, Sheriff. But, I’m still planning to practice my draw.”

Finally, the Sheriff set his newspaper aside and came to his feet. “Think I’ll head over to the cafe. I’ve been looking forward to fried steak for lunch. And while I’m gone, get over to the hardware store and round up more flypaper.”

“But Sheriff, hanging flypaper causes my shootin’ finger to get sticky.”

Squaring his hat, the Sheriff started for the door. “Just do what you’re told and quit playing with that gun. You might hurt somebody.”

The noise was as a deafening explosion, one that sent the sound of disaster reverberating throughout the room. As his hat went flying, the Sheriff dove to the side. Behind him, splinters flew from his desktop sending pieces of newspaper fluttering about the room.

The Sheriff sprang to his feet. “Are you okay boy? I told you not to be playing with that gun.”

“I’m fine, Sheriff,” Jasper mumbled, his eyes wide. “The thing just went off for no reason.”

The Sheriff grunted then took a step toward the desk.

“Hum…” he said, as his fingers probed along the edge of the hole. Reaching for his glasses, he looked closer, his eyes squinting.

“What do you see,” Jasper asked, as he stepped beside him.

“You ruined my desktop, but I think you got it – fairly clean shot too.”

“Got what,” Jasper asked, curiously.

“Got that fly. Now, get the hell out of here and get more flypaper like I told you. And, keep that gun holstered. Otherwise, you might shoot off something important.”

“Like what?” Jasper asked.

“Like something you’ll be needing when the girls stop looking scrawny.”


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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