Contributor: Miles Gough

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My number one, huge ass, disappointment this week was the show Cupcake Wars. I heard the title and liked the possibility. I was point six on the stoked meter. I even told the fellas working the line with me that I couldn’t go out to have some brews, no I was going home to watch Cupcake Wars.

Then I watched the dunderheaded thing. The hell. Teams battle to be chosen to make a thousand cupcakes for some made-up party. And the loser? They still have to make the thousand cupcakes and only then told that oh yeah, you suck hard wind. Its like, I’m sorry, but though you did discover a cure for cancer, its just not as sexy as Team B’s cure for cancer, so here’s your complimentary t-shirt and get the hell out of my studio.

And the worst part is, the cupcakes they make are just cupcakes. They totally reneged on the opportunity of the concept. It’s called Cupcake Wars, so why are they not making armaments out of them? Am I the only one to see this as the killer pitch?

Follow me. Your assignment, make the tastiest poisoned cupcake ever. A cupcake so delectable, you would eat two or three of them even after you knew they were lethal. Now that’s some tasty shit. I call that the Borgias Challenge.

Or you can go the full Mission Impossible and have a grenade challenge. Make a cupcake that can be eaten just as you please, but flip a chocolate chip on the frosting and that baby is armed. To win, it must be delicious and blow a hole in a half inch steel plate.

My favorite is the Voltron Challenge. Create five individual cupcakes that with a cue will fuse together into one giant sword wielding uber cupcake. Body count baked goods, that’s what this show should be about.

It could get wonderfully out of hand. Each contestant upping the ante with deadlier cupcakes. Pastry proliferation would occur. Machine gun cupcakes go to smart bomb cupcakes to dirty bomb cupcakes with fresh strawberry topping and up and up until there are nuclear cupcakes with Three Mile Island frosting.

There would be stale mate. Each contestant with atomic ingredients and no one willing to bake. A game of chicken. No one wins because if someone did, that would be the end of everything. Mass annihilation and butter cream. That’s what this should be. Ought to be. But of course not. They wimped out.

Not me. I believe in the vision. That’s why I’m moving ahead to phase two. Oh hey. There’s the oven timer. My first batch is ready. I got to go. I need to focus on taking them out. It took a while, but I found a pair of lead lined oven mitts. If we ain’t a blasted out radioactive rubble in five minutes, come on over and help me taste test these bad boys.


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Author: Miles Gough

Contributor: E.K. Smith

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“So, I’ve called you in here today to let you know that… well, there’s really no easy way to say this, so I guess I’ll just say it--- we’re going to have to let you go. I wish we had another option, but we don’t.”

Clinton sat across from his boss of ten years in a stuffy, cramped office on the twelfth floor of a high rise built in the 1970s. As soon as he heard the voice stop emanating from his boss’s gingivitis-ridden mouth, he closed his eyes to allow each word to sink in--- one by one--- into the utter chaos that constituted his fatigued, painfully mediocre brain. Just as he was starting to process the meaning behind the string of words, a brisk banging sound shoved its way into his ears. It came from behind him.

A morbidly obese, blonde man in a skin-tight button up shirt turned the doorknob and stuffed himself into the tiny room. “Uhh… Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Jonsen, but I just wanted to know if you and your staff might be interested in joining this ‘water club’ I just started down on the eleventh floor.” He gasped for air and continued without any concern for the fact that Mr. Jonsen was staring at him as if he were an old whore standing in the middle of the street wearing nothing but Christmas lights and Clinton’s eyes were still firmly shut. “Basically, the way it works is that each person contributes $1 per month and then we get water delivered for one of those big dispensers that everyone can share.”

Clinton opened his eyes when he heard the word “share,” precisely on time to see a large, grey pigeon fly into the window above Mr. Jonsen’s head.

“What in God’s name…” Jonsen started, but his voice trailed off as he saw Clinton rise abruptly from his seat. For an awkward twenty-three seconds, Clinton stared at a $55 fountain pen that was collecting dust on Jonsen’s desk. Then he pushed his way past the doughy mounds of the water club guy’s belly and ran down the hallway. He flung the stairwell door open and bounded down twelve flights of stairs at his top speed, almost tripping a couple times. As soon as he was outside the building, he looked up, fighting the urge to close his eyes against the stinging sun. It was easy to assess where the window was. As he walked anxiously toward the bird that was laying on the blazing hot concrete, he saw its ratty wing twitch slightly. A wave of pure joy flushed over him. He knelt slowly, scooping up the bird in both palms and lifting it to his face. With his cheeks starting to burn in the heat, he whispered gently, “It’s just you and me.”


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E.K. Smith's work has appeared in Misfit's Miscellany. She is a new writer.

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Author: E.K. Smith

Contributor: Michael A. Withell

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I'm tired and I can't remember why they didn't bring me my tablets. I have my tablets every morning at six, it's strange that no-one brought them to me. The lady walks over to my bed, touches me on the face.

Not too hard.

And she gives the small cup to my tired hand. They always taste like the cold; bitter and metallic like the robot that they intend to turn me into. I wonder if a robot can feel the cold?

Cold; it's cold in here. The Sun seems to be on the other side of the corridor and it's dark. I can even begin to see my breath in front of my eyes, dancing in the remnants of the morning light.

You shouldn't smoke in here, they'd say to me; but I'm not smoking.

It's the cold, I'd say, A picture painted by my very lungs.

The door in front of me is open and my breath quickens in apprehension of the threshold. I wonder why they don't lock it? I thought they always locked it? Something faceless is on the small television screen, I can't make out what it is. All I see is the flowers sitting on the desk, relaxing in the glare of the morning Sun.

They look comfortable.

The man on the desk smiles past me, not making contact with my dancing eyes. I wonder if he knows why the woman didn't bring me my pills? But I can't ask him, I don't want him to look inside my head.

The front door lets me walk through it. I thank it for its courtesy and let it close and rest; I wonder if it ever gets tired? I can't imagine how a life like that can be much fun.

Open, close, open, close, open, close.

It's closed now and I can smell the flowers, they look pretty in their various states and positions. I can see the Sun now, bright and proud on its large pedestal; even when I close my eyes I can feel it touching my face.

Not too hard.

And she gives the small cup to my tired hand. They always taste like the cold; bitter and metallic like the robot that they intend to turn me into. I wonder if a robot can feel the cold?

I am not cold now, the Sun and flowers make sure of that. There are other people walking around the flowers, I don't recognise them. They are wearing green and appear to be cutting the heads of the flowers. Why are they hurting the flowers?

I lurch, move to say something, but they can't see me; I don't want them to see me.

The main gate is closed but the adjacent tunnels through the wall aren't, they are open to the elements and open to travel. I can't see anybody near the tunnel, only standing on top of the wall with their metallic grins and fingers. The light appears to be bouncing off their hands, like a tracer hurtling out of the barrel of a gun. They can't see me from there, their eyes don't stretch that far from their head.

The tunnel is cold, sheltered; I can feel the droplets taking residence on my cheeks. My cheeks must be warmer than where they usually sleep, under the tunnel; under the tunnel under the wall. I wonder why they didn't bring me my tablets?

I can hear an alarm, I wonder who got out? I hope they catch them, you're not allowed to escape.


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Michael A. Withell is a British law graduate from Hull, England. He mostly writes science-fiction, and has recently had short stories published in 'Mossyhearth Magazine' and 'Farther Stars Than These'.

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Author: Michael A. Withell

Contributor: Janet Yung

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The old, light blue, faded mini-van moved slowly down the street, pausing for a moment in front of the house. Emily wouldn’t have noticed except she was in the yard adjusting the sprinkler set up to water the newly laid sod.

“Twice a day, one hour each for two weeks till it takes,” the landscaper who’d installed it the previous week advised. Emily stuck to the regimen in spite of the slightly water logged appearance it was taking on. “It’s doing okay,” the landscaper said in response to Emily’s frantic call regarding it’s condition.

Stooped by the faucet behind the shrubs, she glanced up as the van crept by. The water sprayed droplets on the driver’s side with the sign advertising yard clean ups specializing in scooping poop.

It could’ve been any old van, similar to the ones that trolled the alleys for junk. Emily would’ve thought that was the case or, she’d imagined the whole thing, except for the sign.

She crouched lower and hoped she hadn’t been spotted. The van moved on when a woman in a S.U.V. suddenly appeared from nowhere and honked her horn.

Emily anxiously waited and tried to focus on the sprinkler’s range as she contemplated the possibility the van had turned left at the end of the street to circle the block and make another pass by. When no vehicles materialized, she sprinted along the lawn as the spray moved away from her.

Inside the security of the house, she pressed her back against the door. What would she do? If she’d been at work, she wouldn’t have seen the van. Her mind raced at the prospect it wasn’t the first time it had cruised by and, suddenly, she realized how vulnerable she was.

She set the timer on the kitchen stove for an hour and stood in the familiar space. Emily remembered the sense of relief when the driver and van had disappeared from her life for what she hoped would be forever. Looking back, the events that led up to the departure were still fresh in her memory.

As the minutes ticked by, she alternated between eating cookies, digging through the freezer for a lost pint of ice cream and peeking through the front window, convinced the van would be waiting at the curb, relieved when it wasn‘t.

The longer she waited, the more she was able to convince herself the incident had been nothing more than the by-product of her over active imagination and erstwhile anxieties. She jumped at the sound of the buzzer going off and took one last look before going outside. The street remained empty and quiet.

It didn’t seem possible after all this time he had returned, but as she bent over to retrieve the sprinkler and wind up the hose, she caught a flash of light blue and knew her fears were not ungrounded and couldn’t be ignored.


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Janet Yung lives and writes in St. Louis, MO. Short fiction has appeared in several on-line publications. Most recently “Epiphany Magazine On-Line“ and “The Feathered Flounder”.

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Author: Janet Yung

Contributor: George Sparling

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Two ugly lizards climb my wall to eat sow bugs, flies, and cockroaches. I can direct these glaucous reptiles back into their home, a terrarium, with my pineal gland. I eat human placenta whenever I can to boost my immune system. Red peppers, beets, turnips, dandelion leaves, and fetus-food I mix in a cast iron skillet cooked on a wood-burning stove. My teeth, serrated from too much port wine and bad horse while living in Oakland, yet my words are fluent, so others tell me, thoughts spilled loose from my lips, doves escaping their cage.

It was in the hole in prison that I understood I was a shaman, one who knows. The hole was midnight black, with a concrete floor, a small opening to piss and shit, and I was always naked. Where else would you expect to find a man convicted of second-degree murder? Unceremoniously, without mysticism, spirits tore me apart to count my bones. For countless hours I slept in a half-dream as they meticulously counted all my bones. I had that extra bone. Otherwise, the spirits would’ve killed me.

My body, for a while, was a single diamond, quartz crystals filling my intestines, making me adamantine. When the guard delivered slop to me, and said, “Here’s your food, beast,” I knew I had changed, and I was human.

A saddle-billed stork and three cassowary birds lit up the darkness. The stork had a red beak that burned and suffused the hole with light, while the cassowary birds’ necks, glowing blue, red and blue sheen kept me alive in the pit. I saw the earth held up by a giant mammoth and growing from it was the Navel of the World from which the Cosmic Tree grew. I sang like a bull, and talked to yellow lemurs and dark bison. When they finally released me, I told the guards that I lived in the Tree and played on a drum made out of antelope skin. The men howled derisively, and taser-fired electric currents into me but I clung to that Tree and they looked startled because I hadn’t fallen. They stopped the torture.

After I served my sentence, I went back to my cabin in the wilderness where I wore an antler crown on my head, two stitched bear legs wrapped round my waist. I painted deer’s blood on a shirt: frogs, lizards, snakes, and birds, all crimson, life jittered on my torso. My misshapen past I cast aside, unsheathing my criminal skin. The tranquility of the creek danced through my hands, a counterpoise to the violence calcified to my bones as if to dark impermeable granite.

Dressed in street clothes, the next day I went to a bar to shoot some pool. Within ten minutes, a guy slashed me with a long black knife. “Just a quarter-inch more and you would’ve slashed my jugular,” I said to the idiot, my eyes drowning in hate, But after I got stitched up, my eyes reverted to what they were when the tasers struck me: indomitable. Don’t doubt me, you weren’t buried alive in my soul. Home, I laughed, a delirious, ludicrous roar banged against the walls. The knife reminded me of a silver salmon flashing in a ripple of water.

Now, a beard covers the scar like tough, recalcitrant black moss: unafraid eyes, my fierce beauty I stare at in the reflection of a chipped, cracked mirror. But, that wild thing plays in my being’s jazz, its storm and peace, which makes my life a dream of dance, of blood, love, death. Even murder.


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Author: George Sparling

Contributor: Gary Clifton

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The ear-splitting music in the kitchen distracted the undercover cop. As Pablo stepped away to get the dope, the huge dog materialized, intent on a bite of Narc crotch.

Pablo returned. "Damn Bozo, sleeping on the job again." Stoned, he didn't notice the dent in the skillet on the stovetop.


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Gary Clifton, forty years a cop, published a novel in national paperback and has published or has pending articles in several online magazine sites

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Author: Gary Clifton

Contributor: Lewis Gesner

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Dad told me not to talk with other children, or even to the teachers but to answer questions as short as I could. He told me, there is nothing for me to gain from them. Go to school and come home. I always tried to do as he told. I don’t go out to recess and I sit alone at lunch. The others are mostly boring to me, and I am not good at playing and running and jumping and other physical things. But I can move a pencil good. I mean, draw pictures. Dad doesn’t even know about that.

I draw alot, when I don’t go out to recess. Actually, I feel a little lonely. I want to talk sometimes, but I don’t. I want to talk about pictures. I don’t like the school. So, when I draw, I am drawing the things I like to be around, and things that I remember from home, and I don’t feel so lonely. My desk top has a couple of ruts in it, but I line up my drawing so, if I am drawing a cut, it lines up to the rut in the desk, and the desk kind of helps me draw the cut. I have a stack of paper in my desk, of all the drawings I made from the first day of school. Someday I think, maybe I will put them on a wall in a fancy place.

Today is PTA day they call it. The parents can come in and watch us, what the teachers do with us, and like that. All these ladies, most look at us and put on some kind of smile. But I have seen the smile before, it is fake. Women that smile cannot be trusted, dad said. Mom used to smile. I think of her now, drawing. Maybe I will… her the lady comes, the one who has been watching me, inside, while other children are outside playing. I already know her question.

“Why aren’t you outside with the other children, playing?” she asks me, then, she smiles, but I hear the twist in her question. It is like a hook.

“I don’t feel good today,” I say. “So I stay inside and draw pictures.”

“Well, there's nothing wrong with drawing I guess…” she seems a little critical to me. “So, you are a little artist!” Again, the smile. I think she has dentures.

Honest, I am a little bit happy. Yes, I feel like I am an artist. “I draw alot!” I say. “But I just started this one.” There was just the first line crossing sharply over the page.

“Well I’m sure it will be a lovely drawing. What will it be of?”

I feel my face crack a smile, though I try to stop it. “My Mom.” I say.

“Well, isn’t that sweet,” she says. “I wish I could see a finished drawing of her.”

I am hooked. “I have alot of drawings in my desk!” I flip the top open and take out a stack almost as thick as the paper is wide. “Here!” I have an audience!

She holds them low, so I can see them with her, and I see her face change from the smile to maybe how she really is inside. Her hands begin to shake a little bit holding the first drawing. She places it down on the desk in front of us.

“Oh, that’s not my mom,” I say. “That’s grandma.” The woman’s mouth opened a little like she wanted to speak, but nothing came out. “And that’s the mice, they made a nest where her stomach used to be.” I had spent alot of time on that drawing, even used some crayon for colors. Grandma’s skin was brown now, and she had no eyes left. The bones stuck through here and there, and her dress was eaten away where the mice lived now. After awhile it seems the woman is frozen, so I prompt her. “The next ones is my mom and my dad.” She turns over the next page in the stack, which is upside down. I think I hear her make a little sound. But it is a choked sound. I’ve heard that one before.

I wait for her to talk, to be polite. But she says nothing, so I talk instead. “That drawing in your hand, that’s Dad, he’s leaning over. That’s our bathtub. That’s my Mom’s neck sticking up. And that’s her head, sitting in the pan on the floor beside my Dad’s foot.” The woman starts to rush through my drawings. I feel like I should talk very fast, to tell her all of what see’s looking at. “There’s Dad after he comed home with a new chain saw. That’s him kneeling on the floor, and that’s Mom, on the plastic sheets … those are the suit cases he bought used. Some of Mom’s inside…”

She drops my drawing suddenly on the desk and runs out of the room. I feel annoyed. She may have easily dropped my drawings on the floor. Dad was right about women I think. I will just continue now. Recess is almost over. Hmm, here come some policemen. Maybe they will be nicer than her. Oh, there she is again, and the teacher too. Well, I actually like the attention. If they come over here, maybe I can show them what I have in my pocket.


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Lewis Gesner is a writer and artist living in Taiwan. He publishes and exhibits internationally, and is a member of Mobius artist group, out of Boston, MA, USA. He has several books of experimental writing available from White Sky Books.

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Author: Lewis Gesner

Contributor: John Laneri

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Sheriff Matt Carson first noticed the bee when it flew from a prickly pear to the wooden casket containing the remains of the Honorable Theodore Busard, a man originally from Kentucky.

At the time, the Sheriff was standing with a group of people at the cemetery, wiping sweat from his brow and reflecting on the final minutes of the Judge’s career, which so the story goes, ended with a smile during his last visit to Aunt Jillie’s Boarding House, the finest establishment along the cattle trail to Fort Worth.

Curious, he followed the bee, watching it explore a handful of flowers as it worked its way from bloom to bloom, oblivious to the people at the graveside. Soon, he saw it dart to the preacher’s shoulder where it dawdled quietly close to the man's collar.

The good Reverend casually flicked it away, his voice rambling on, preaching words of gospel interrupted by mind-numbing oracles attributable to the late Judge.

The Sheriff followed it to his right, watching it buzz the fashionable Jillie Marbley, a lady known throughout much of Texas as, ‘Aunt Jillie’ – the belle of boarding house fame. To his delight, she was wearing a bright red dress, the likes of which attracted many an eye.

Looking away, he glanced to the side and noticed Vernon Carter, the Mayor of Neverton, gazing into the distance. Drifting beside him, he whispered, “What are you looking at, Mr. Mayor?”

Vernon cleared his throat, his sleepy eyes lifting a fraction. “I was just counting those turkey buzzards circling across the way.”

“I see a bunch of ‘em – nasty creatures. I wonder what they’re watching.”

Vernon scratched at his beard then reached for a back pocket. “They’re probably keeping an eye on the Judge. I doubt they’ll let him lie still for long – probably been watching him for years.”

The Sheriff laughed quietly. “Not many folks cared for the man – that’s a fact.”

“It’s not hard to blame ‘em,” Vernon said, as he uncorked a flask of whiskey and glanced toward the preacher. “The Judge was a harsh man.” He took a shot then offered it to the Sheriff. “Care for some refreshment?”

The Sheriff turned a portion and returned the flask to Vernon. “The Judge was too hard in my opinion, especially with his use of the hangin’ rope. Lots of people got their toes twitched for no reason.”

“The rope will likely be his legacy,” Vernon replied. “Personally, I hope he chokes on it. The old buzzard didn’t have any friends to speak of. He sure as hell kept my stomach burning. I’m surprised people came to his funeral. ”

The Sheriff again glanced toward the preacher then gestured about. “I suspect most folks are here so they won’t be looked upon in the same light.”

“You’re probably right. Most of us perform our duties without much question.”

Aunt Jillie edged beside them, her red hair glowing in the sunlight. Whispering, she asked, “Would either of you gentlemen care to share some whiskey? I don’t remember much goodness in the Judge. I always thought of him as a cranky, old buzzard.”

Vernon handed her the flask, his eyes running her length. “There wasn't any goodness,” he replied, as he looked again, his eyes lifting a fraction. “You’re lookin’ mighty pretty today, Miss Jillie. I truly admire that dress.”

She turned a shot. “I appreciate the compliment. The dress was the Judge’s favorite. As I recall, he liked to wear it after splashing in my bathtub.” She took another swallow then returned the flask to Vernon and drifted away.

The Sheriff glanced at the preacher then turned to Vernon. “I wonder if the Judge was wearing the dress when he died.”

“I wouldn't be surprised. He was a mighty despicable character. But, then again, I'd like to be splashing in Jillie's bathtub about now – anything to get out of this heat.”

Laughing, the Sheriff flicked away another bead of sweat. ”I have to agree. Splashing with her has always been my favorite way to forget the Judge for a couple of hours.”

Looking away, he returned to the front and saw the bee circle the preacher’s head then land on his opposite shoulder. A few seconds later, he watched it move to the man's collar then disappear from view.

He nudged Vernon. “Watch the preacher. He's getting ready to start dancing.”

“Hell fire,” the preacher suddenly screamed. “A bee just stung me. Damn pesky critters, they’re just like the Judge – always circling around disrupting the harmony of life.”

The mourners let out a collective sigh as they watched him jump about, swatting at his collar, his efforts directed to squashing the bee.

Then calmly, as if a Divine hand had reached out to touch him, the good Reverend stopped dancing and spoke out, the bass in his voice rising to a resounding crescendo. “But, as the scriptures say: Fear not the bees for they pollinate the fields and provide us our daily sustenance.”

With those words, the Sheriff again nudged Vernon and said, “I'm about ready for some of that sustenance in liquid form. Care to join me at the saloon?”

“Don't mind if I do,” Vernon replied, his eyes finally coming to life. “I've been wantin' to try that new whiskey from Kentucky.”

“A new whiskey, you say?”

“Yep... It's called Buzzards Blend.”

Laughing, the Sheriff said, “With a name like that, I bet it gets the stomach to burning.”

Vernon glanced his way, his interest waning. “You're probably right. Maybe, I'll just settle for a beer. I don't need to be reminded of the Judge.”


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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: Justine M Dunn

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My wife and I sat by the river drinking beer, as we often did on a Saturday afternoon. The streets were busy, the sunshine a welcome visitor after a week of sporadic weather. We watched the pedestrians flow past in their hundreds; some dressed for dinner others looked ready for the beach.

We chewed our courtesy peanuts as we chatted and I waved the waitress for another round of beers. Just as my arm reached its resting position on my thigh, my wife gasped and stared at me wide eyed.
“What happened to you just then?” She said, snatching her sunglasses away from her face.
“What do you mean?”
“You vanished. I blinked, and then for a tiny, tiny second you weren’t there.”
“Um, I haven’t gone anywhere.” I replied, confused at her sudden outburst and slightly embarrassed by the flutter of attention by the couple on the next table.
She sat bolt upright in her chair, her hands clutching the armrests whilst the thumb of her right hand pinched hold of the arm of her shades.
“You vanished.” She said, deadly seriously.
“Shh, calm down.” I touched her lightly on her knee, she watched my hand as it returned to my lap once again. “You must have just done a funny blink and it looked like I wasn’t here.”
“A funny blink?”
“I don’t know, maybe you’re eye rolled around a bit and didn’t quite focus properly when you opened it.” I was clutching at straws but had little else to offer. I hadn’t gone anywhere, but the look on her face told me she thought differently.
“I swear to God, for a moment, just like a flash, you weren’t there.” She put her sunglasses on the table and looked at her hand. “Look, I’m shaking.”
I took hold of her hand and squeezed it.
“You think I imagined it don’t you?” She was getting upset now.
“No, but I don’t really have an explanation for you. As far as I’m aware I have just been sitting here the whole time so I don’t think there’s much I can say.”
“Well that was only our second beer, I’m far from drunk.” She was chewing her nail now, a sure sign she was upset.
“Look, let’s just forget about it.” I suggested, hoping she would calm down a little.
“Forget about it?”
“I really don’t know what else we can do.”
“You don’t believe me do you?”
One of the things I love most about my wife, and I have done since our very early days, is that what’s written on her face reflects exactly what she’s feeling inside. She has an honestly so pure I swear she is heaven sent. She is unable to even tell the smallest of fibs; even acceptable ones when it’s Christmas or a friends birthday. Her face reveals what her soul is feeling and as I looked at her then, I knew without a doubt that she believed what she was saying. Even so, I still had no explanation for it.
“Of course I believe you, but...” My sentence trailed off and became little more than a sigh.
She pushed her chair back and stood up, said she was going to the toilet. I watched her leave, wishing I had some form of answer for her.

I took another sip of my beer and tried to make sense of the last sixty seconds. I watched the people as they passed by in their summer clothing, hats and flip flops. I just wearing a snow jacket? The thought entered my mind from nowhere. And, wasn’t I in a place without many people around? Indoors, there were only a few of us, all cold and confused? Thoughts and questions were flooding into my mind now, the more that came the more that followed. We were left alone for hours, tired and hungry. I reached for my beer, now it was my turn to have the shakes. It remained on the table while I clenched my fists. The waitress brought over the next round, I told her I had finished with the previous one. I sat forward and lifted the fresh pint with both hands, bringing the glass to my mouth like a child.

As I sat by the river in the city, the church bells chimed. Out of tune but reliable, they chimed to announce that it was three o’clock in the afternoon, we had left our home just one hour ago. I glanced down at my wrist; it was a habit of mine to check the time against that of my Rolex, though its reliability never failed me. According to my watch eight hours had passed since we left the house.


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British born and currently living in Slovenia. Writes flash fiction and has recently completed her first novel.

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Author: Justine M Dunn

Contributor: Leonard Treman

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They traveled through the woods and headed to the next town in Mississippi. The two had been friends since childhood. Jordan was black, Michel was white and together they had raised money to see the MBA finals and meet their all-time favorite player. An amount that had taken them nearly a year to raise. An interview with Michael Jordan was not cheap.

"Man, don't stop here," Jordan said.

"Why, it's just a gas station," Michel replied.

"It's a red-neck gas station," Jordan voiced with a bit of concern.

"What's wrong with red necks?" asked Michel innocently.

"They don't like my people," Jordan said dryly.

"Says who?" Michel asked slightly offended.

For a moment they were both silent then out of nowhere Jordan said, "Don't you remember when we drove through Detroit. You didn't want to stop at the gas station and I thought it was silly," Jordan said.

"Yes, you waited to for a whole hour to take that shit," Michel said.

"Well it's payback time brother," Jordan said.

"Well said sir," Michel responded and they drove on past the red-neck gas station.


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Leonard Treman is a 23 year old author who has been published four times so far in his short career. Once with the platinum page and three times with anthologies with phillisscott publishing.

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Author: Leonard Treman