Contributor: Jon Wesick

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“Your death is the only thing you own,” the old woman began.

She was fat, so fat she took up the whole couch. Layers of flab coated her arms so they were as thick as a normal person’s legs. The blue skirt she wore was big enough to shelter a whole troop of Boy Scouts from the rain and her white blouse was stained from greasy fingers. The house stank of rotten food no doubt from the bones of several chicken roasts on the table. She would have eaten the whole world if only she could have found a way to make it hold still.

Neither I nor the others sitting on the dirty carpet in front of her wanted to be there, not Joe nor Dave nor Ray nor Lisa. We had only one thing in common. We were fifteen years old, the age our elders told us we had to complete this rite of passage.

Technically no one has to undertake the Runge Kutta initiation. I could have been like Randy Sullivan who endured whispers of “Randy the Pansy” and having his locker stuffed with dog crap all through high school. Indeed my harassment already started by none other than Principal Walters all big belly and skinny legs of him. The other week he walked right past Missy Oliver and Frank Dolan, who were practically giving each other hand jobs, to yank my arm off Wendy Rogers’ shoulder. It was clear that to have anything like a normal life I’d need to submit to the stupid ritual – the week-long fast, white robes, and gift of food to the witch sitting on the couch.

The old woman placed a pinch of powdered incense on a burning charcoal and waved her hands while reciting some gibberish in a language none of us understood. This went on for some time. How long I’m not sure since I was pretty light headed from fasting. At some point Ray giggled until Dave elbowed him in the ribs and told him to shut up. While the old woman sang, I pictured the meal I’d have as soon as this was done. A cheeseburger would be nice as would a big plate of spaghetti. Hell, even a grilled cheese sandwich would do just fine.

Finally the old woman’s eyes rolled back in her head and she slumped forward. When she straightened up, she seemed to be in some kind of trance.

“Who will be the first to accept your gift, your gift and your duty?” Her voice sounded different like a Russian in a bad movie.

Mouth in a smirk Ray moved forward and knelt before the woman.

“At fifty-four years old you will die of a sudden heart attack. You will feel no pain.”

Ray shook his head and returned to his place. Dave was next.

“In less than a year a robber will shoot you in the head and you will choke on your own vomit in the hospital.”

The old woman was on a roll. She told Joe he’d come down with dementia and die confused and alone while Lisa would have her throat slit after being gang raped by a bunch of meth-crazed bikers.

My turn. I moved close enough to count the black hairs on the old witch’s upper lip.

“An artistic death. Your body will be racked with cancer and you will not be sure if the disease or treatments is worse. You will die lying in your own filth.”

While the old woman chanted her final mumbo jumbo, I pictured myself bald and puking with a full colostomy bag swinging from my belly. After the ceremony was done, Lisa, Joe, Dave, Ray, and I gathered on the front porch. Everyone but Ray looked like they’d swallowed live sea urchins.

“Awe, you don’t believe that old witch. Do you?” Ray lifted his robe, dropped his pants, and pressed his butt cheeks to the old woman’s picture window. “Now, who wants to go to Artie’s and get a burger?”

Lisa, Joe, and Dave made lame excuses and left. I should have gone home like the rest of them. After all, my parents had plans for me now that I knew my fate. There was supposed to be a party with my mom’s friends and dad’s business partners. I could almost imagine the parents bragging about their kids and the long-winded lectures about hard work, responsibility, and the good grades needed to get into some MBA program. The thought of making small talk with all those hypocrites who wanted to know what I thought of the ceremony (but really didn’t) made me want to puke. Yeah, I should have gone home but didn’t. My parents’ plans could wait.


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Host of the Gelato Poetry Series, instigator of the San Diego Poetry Un-Slam, and an editor of the San Diego Poetry Annual, Jon Wesick has published more than fifty short stories in journals such as Space and Time, Zahir, Tales of the Talisman, Blazing Adventures, and Metal Scratches. He has also published over two hundred fifty poems.

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Author: Jon Wesick

Contributor: Malika Manai

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"They think me a dancer of sorts.
My movement through time and space inspired them to new beliefs.
I awake, after a short century-timed period of rest. I lounge as I acknowledge the new reality and review my territory. The changes they made will not detract me from performing.
Keep moving my feet on the black wooden boards; keep my poise straight and my head high. The short days I live lazily and the long starry nights I adore. To me the elegance of the night belongs; to me, the dark shadows and their poetry.
My back aches from the sudden movements I need to make to test my equilibrium. I remember how sometimes I start to feel lead-heavy by the end of the performance and the rest I need to take prolongs under the hours of the sun. But I can never give it up.
The night smells of fear as I prepare my dance.
My head, inclined to the left, still rests blissfully, my eyes closed as I consider carefully the choreography and envision the opening scenes.
The bluest blue of my eyes blinks in the awakening moments. Under the darkest sky, my ears twitch as they hear the tiniest moth flap her wings a thousand steps away.
Remembrance becomes even more vivid as I recall how, admiring my agility and my strength, some had named even gods after me.
But simplicity defines me. I have but a wish, but one thought – I live by the cruelest of laws – I only want to survive.
Time has had its dues paid by them, but not me. My perpetual travel can’t cease, my perpetual needs do not falter.
The striped shades, of dark gray and black on my fur, ripple like velvet under the gentle wind. I’ve wiped clean my whiskers and now they tingle with anticipation.
My mask falls, my entirety revealed to the light of the moon, in the man-made citadel I will survive still.
Hear me roar, humans, and watch as the dance begins."


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"I've enjoyed writing since I was about ten. Growing up, I got to fly around the world, aboard a well known Arabian airline. I love SF and Fantasy literature and movies, and spend my free time learning how to become a professional writer."

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Author: Malika Manai

Contributor: Jackie Macintosh

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“This’ll do, there’s no-none about. Slow down but don’t bother stopping. Serves the little bugger right”

The shabby, rusty old Ford pulled into the lay-by, the rear nearside door swung open, and a brown object was hastily tossed into the hedgerow. The car gathered speed as the door was slammed shut from the inside, and it sped off into the night.

A small brown dog, ragged and unkempt with feet two sizes too big for his body, leapt to his feet and started to race after the car. He ran, barking, for a couple of miles before realising that there was no further scent trail or sound to follow. He slowed to a trot, his feet sore from the tarmac and the unaccustomed exercise. His stomach groaned even more than usual. He lapped eagerly from a roadside puddle and stood, whimpering and scared.

He heard the sound of an approaching vehicle and his ears pricked eagerly, but it rushed past, alarmingly close. He retreated to the verge bushes and curled up, tucking his nose under his tail and slept.

He awoke with the dawn, stood up and stretched his aching limbs and looked about. The lane beside him was little used now that a bypass had opened. However, it was still a fast road and he was nervous after the previous evening’s close encounter. He sniffed along the verge hoping to find something to ease the ache in his stomach. He was eventually rewarded with a couple of soggy chips which he tore from a polystyrene box. They had a sharp, unpleasant tang but he was past caring; it was food. He licked out some crumbs from a triangular carton which had a magical fish scent still lingering on the cellophane.

He spent that day and the following one mooching along the lane sniffing for cast out leftovers but finding little. Several cars swept past and he soon learnt to cower into the hedgerow but, even so, was often subjected to a prolonged blast from a horn and the occasional shout. That was normal; in his short life he was used to being shouted at.

On the fourth day, his energy levels waning, he was lucky enough to find the squashed remains of a young rabbit. It had been mostly picked clean by crows but provided some sustenance for his frail frame.

That night, however, menacing blue-black clouds gathered and the winds increased to become a gale which brought in the storm. Terrified by the unknown rumbling enemy and the streaks of yellow light flashing across the dark sky, he tried to find shelter in the undergrowth but the rain soaked through and his matted, wispy fur gave him little protection from the cold. He lay curled up all night and throughout the next day; a bundle of misery and despair, his will to live gone. He could fight no more.

+ + + +

“Has Grandma made us a chocolate cake?”

Eddie looked across at his daughter in the passenger seat. He detected some enthusiasm and anticipation in her voice, which was a rarity nowadays.

“Yes,” he replied, “she knows how much you like them.”

“It won’t be the same without Mummy or Abbie to share it.”

“No, it won’t but Grandma will want you to enjoy it for them as well.”

Eddie gripped the wheel, his knuckles were white and he took several deep breaths to help maintain his composure. For months he had had to contain his own grief to help Susie – well both of them – come to terms with the consequences of a hit and run driver. They only had each other now; the days had been and still were long, lonely and dark. They wept together, held each other for comfort and struggled in the gaping void left by the loss of his wife and daughter; Susie’s mother, her twin and not forgetting their dog, Coffee.

Eddie reached across and squeezed Susie’s hand. She was so brave; he knew how she felt uneasy in the car now but a change of scene would do them both good.

He reached into his jacket pocket and passed her his mobile.

“Have a go at Angry Birds,” he said, “see if you can beat my score.”

He pushed play on his IPod and drove on.

“Dad, I’m hungry. Are we there yet?”

“No, open the glove compartment; there is a drink and some sweets in there, but put away my phone first.”

Susie munched contentedly and even fed her Father an occasional Harribo.

“Dad, I need a pee.”

“Oh Susie, we’ve just passed the services. I should have stopped. Never mind, I’ll come off at the next exit and we’ll stop in a quiet lay-by. Can you hold on?”

+ + + +



Near to death, the dog was awoken by the rattle of tyres on gravel as a car swung unexpectedly to a halt. The doors opened and footsteps crunched towards him. The man turned away and stood for a few moments facing the hedge but the small girl came towards him and crouched down. He lifted his head slightly and whimpered quietly.

“Daddy, Daddy, come here. I’ve found something.”

Zipping up his trousers, Eddie turned and went across to Susie. She stood pointing into the overhanging branches and tangled wayside grass. He peered in and just made out the partly covered form of the puppy.

“He’s alive Daddy, I heard him cry.”

She reached forward.

“Get back, he may bite. Let me see.”

Eddie bent down to assess the animal.

“He’s very weak, he may not live.”

“Please help, Daddy, please. He’s alone and scared. Don’t let him die too.”

It was a plea from the heart.

“Get the car rug,” he said.

Eddie spread out the rug and gently lifted the unresisting animal onto it and wrapped him up. He could see no obvious injuries.

“He must be hungry. Do you think that he would like my chocolate milk shake?”

Eddie fashioned a saucer out of a discarded polythene bag and placed some milk by the dog’s nose. A dry tongue tested the offering cautiously then greedily lapped up the rest.

“That’s enough for now; let’s get him into the car.”

“On my lap, Daddy, he’s so cold,” said Susie, scrambling back into her seat.

Eddie put the bundled dog on his daughter’s lap and got back in himself.

“We’ll need to find a vet quickly,” he said, pushing speed dial for his parents and passing the phone to Susie. “Tell Grandma or Granddad what’s happened and ask them to make an emergency appointment.”

They drove on, Susie cradling the dog and stroking his head gently. He looked up at her from mournful brown eyes, quiet and accepting.

“I’m going to call him Rolo because he likes chocolate and he will be my best friend.” She said determinedly.

Eddie had no doubt that she was right. He listened as Susie chatted animatedly about what they would need to buy for Rolo to help him recover. The list was extensive and grew as she excitedly envisaged their future: she started with essentials such as food, bedding and a lead, then progressed to various toys and treats which she thought he might like. Her world had a new focal point.

They neared his parents’ house, their journey almost over, but the road to recovery had just crested a major hill and was starting to look like an easier ride for all three of them. Eddie sighed with relief: for the first time in months he, too, had something to look forward to.


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I live in Bere Regis, Dorset and have been with our local writing group since it was formed last autumn. I am 60 years of age and enjoy this new challenge.

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Author: Jackie Macintosh

Contributor: Hollis Whitlock

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An old man is sitting next to a fire, with a cup of steaming tea, staring into the blue eyes of a young woman. Her gaze entrances him in streaming tears for an hour, reminiscing on romantic strolls, warm nights and lustful passion, but winter's chill is whistling in gusts of crystallized white and blackening the smoldering red embers into wafting clouds of gray smoke. Even the tea has cooled to a distasteful bitterness.

He treks along a path, across a field, through knee deep snow toward a pile of wood stacked next to a fence. Exhaling vapor fogs through frosty swirls of blinding white in the darkening dusk of grayness.

Memory guides to the entrance of a vacant stable where cavalry once flourished. The haunting war ingrained in the subconscious, shifts subtly between dimensions in an overlapping transformation of vivid apparitions.

The shelter becomes an outpost upon the onslaught of invasion. Cleared pathways resemble a maze of trenches. Fortified fences of barbed wire suffice as barriers from charging soldiers. Rumbling vibrations from above spew a haze of exhaust, darker than the blackening skyline, toward the woodland meadow by the lake.

Imagery of gliding sensually on the ice above the frigid waters, with love in arm evokes mournful regret. Shattering thin ice plunges dreams into a dark icy abyss. Terror searches frantically for enchanted blue eyes, but a thunderous crash resonating from the forest's glen awakens the old man to the plight of another.

In a tearful rush, the removal of a glove, to turn a key, pierces painfully into numbing fingertips. Club like boots sweep soft powder from around the base of the entrance. Creaking heaves, on the rusted hinges of the door, reveal a vehicle. The bucket can hold seven days of fuel. Usually, forethought makes four trips. Today, there can only be one.

The glow plug counts from ten to one like the final gasps for air between the thin layer of ice and water. An axe, flashlight and medical kit, lying in the passenger seat, reminds of the failed rescue. Sputtering and wheezing becomes a rumbling cough, leaving the faint hope of salvation. Smoke rises from afar through the thick haze, above the barren trees that gleam with crystallized ice.

A familiar voice seems to be calling, through the internal storm, in a tone so familiar that further hallucinations of love form ghostly pale images in the falling sky. The stark whiteness drained of life looks helpless, as tears peer from above with no means to aid. Desperation cries into the forest's echo, hoping help is listening, but only a bluster replies.

The need to redeem the failure inspired years of medical training in an institution where retribution remained studious to the practice of medicine. Waiting in depression after graduation for the opportunity to make amends finally happened during the global intrusion.

Stationed at an outpost, working methodically through all hours of the day and night, earned numerous medallions for heroic bravery in battle, but none of this mended the heart that bled from within. The wound would not coagulate and continued to linger long after the loss.

Each waking hour, torment reenacted the event, hoping a miracle would resuscitate the motionless face of love. Gratitude and thanks were in abundance from the mortals who lingered in the spirit world for days on end before becoming animate.

Now lost in an enveloping camouflage, magnetic guidance directs through the darkening blizzard along plowed pathways to the vanishing plea for help. Two beams illuminate the dire circumstances of the catastrophe, as dark ashes speckle drifting streams of crystals in a fluorescent spotlight of the sun's fading light.

The pathway ends in a jolting halt, transgressing morals to the strife of a life at war. Trapped in a standoff behind enemy lines, the bucket methodically digs a trench closer to redemption, until a marching line of hedging stands fortified like a frozen barrier without conscience or remorse.

Surrounded in a whirlwind of blackening white, determination steps from the comforts of the enclosure, into an oncoming squall of hail. With blade on shoulder and red cross in hand, a yellow beam reflects a halo of hope for the helpless waiting to parish in the barren wastelands.

Trudging onward into the forth dimension, via mental regression to a day more vivid than the present, brings sight in the blinding darkness of the night's storm. Guided by the vision of saving another, self-sacrifice strives onward through the onslaught of nature's cruelty believing that atonement will rectify the previous failure.

Engrossed in the hallucination of a time prior to the present, objects in the current space become unseen barriers that entangle in sharp tearing punctures. The reality of pain warps the timeframe to a latter date of war. Fighting for redemption, hoping that life still lingers in the fading cries for help, slashing blows cut the barbs that bind.

In the distance surrounding the lake, beauty lies on a pond of melting ice entrapped in a circle of flames. Invigorated with a youthful insurgence, from an adrenaline rush evoked by the sight of love lingering between life and death, perseverance surges toward the hallucination determined to change the past.

With tears dripping from the tips of branches, beside the warmth of the smoldering wreckage, the old man walks cautiously onto the slippery surface toward the young woman who is sprawled partially above and beneath the ice. Blood leaks in a fine stream from a laceration on the forehead to a crimson pool, swirling gracefully along a thin fracture in the ice toward salvation.

A murmur of consciousness rustles from red lips in an inaudible indication of delirium induced from the chilling of icy waters, wretched winds and ghostly shadows of barren branches twisting in firelight. Without concern or fear of plunging into the abyss, anguish glides gracefully along the luring trail of life giving fluid to the bare palms of a love so intense that all fear for self-being vanishes into the surrounding flames.

Time regresses to the day of remorse when love was taken to another realm. Blue eyes peer upward, with a feverish sweat of running rouge droplets, pleading for life. The old man kneels before the young woman and clasps both hands in prayer, begging for the chance to resurrect love. Years of devotion to the craft of healing grant his life long wish and resuscitate life. The old man finds peace and lies down to rest.


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Hollis Whitlock is an insane writer, hoping to one day live out his idiotic thoughts.

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Author: Hollis Whitlock

Contributor: Jacob Christensen

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The ominous jingle of the bell hanging off of the ramen-vendor door was the last sound Kyo was able to catch. There was a violent downpour swallowing up Tokyo for the past week and a half. Inches of rain began to pile up on the nightly weather forecasts during the news. It was the kind of perpetual rain that seemed to defy logic and challenged nature itself. Some would even say it was a storm that only gods could conjure up. To Kyo, however, this storm was a sight for his sore eyes. Kyo was always fond of the rain, even as a child. He would casually arouse himself from his bed to rub his stiff eyelids and throw his legs over the side of his bed where his toes would fall just short of touching the hard, cold wood flooring. The first sense that would come to him would be the sound coming from outside his stuffy room. The crescendo of raindrops pelting his window panes caused Kyo's heart to pump warm blood furiously through his veins as if his body were preparing itself for battle. To Kyo, the sound of rain was his own personal drums of war. It was a symphony that was beautiful and bitter sweet; the kind of song that not everyone could appreciate and cherish, but to the people who did, it was the sound of indulgence.

Young Kyo would jolt like a lightning bolt out of his bed and begin to sprint through his small, cramped apartment where he lived with his single mother. She would call out to him worriedly as he began to dart out into the rain; unabashed by his mother's warnings of catching pneumonia. His mother's screeching pleas were completed blanketed by the sound of the storm while Kyo descended the apartment complex's stale, concrete stairs. To him, nothing else in this world mattered but precipitation. It was as if they were the tears that rained from the clouds like mourners of some monumental death, solemnly shepherding a casket to its final resting place. As far back as he could remember, Kyo would run out into the deserted street which resembled a chaotic lake and he would tilt his head as far back as he could. He would then open his mouth wide to accept the tears from the swollen, black clouds. This was something he felt akin to his soul, something he had to do and something that required his being to be completely synchronized with earth.

Kyo reminisced about these days long past before the jingling of the shop's bells pulled him slowly out of the blanket of nostalgia. There was a bone-chilling cold that instantly greeted him at the open door and Kyo tugged his collar tightly around his neck to insulate his precious body heat. He then slipped his hand into one of the many pockets of his ragged leather jacket. His hand swam in there until it finally caught hold of his most prized possession; a small, silver lighter engraved with the number, '0'. Kyo didn’t have the faintest clue where this eccentric lighter wound up into his possession, but he felt that the question was unnecessary so long as he was able to use it.

He then fished for his Lucky Seven cigarettes and pulled one out which was sort of bent from being thrown around into his jeans. He pursed his lips tightly and placed the end of the cigarette gently between them. He then pulled the lighter closer and lit the cigarette while using his other hand to conceal the flame from the humid and harsh wind outside. He took a long puff, heavily inhaling the smoke deep into his lungs like a vacuum. Kyo put the shiny lighter and package of cigarettes back into his jacket. He exhaled the smoke through his nostrils which flared like the smokestacks of a steam locomotive. He then prepared himself and ventured outside.

Rain pelted his jacket and the sound left his ears deafened. Trying to hear anything else was out of the question. The rain wanted to receive all attention of his undivided attention and was aggressively forcing all other noises out. That's when the voices began to start. Kyo heard them although he thought it was his imagination at first. But no, this was not his imagination; this was something he had grown accustomed to. They started echoing in his head, barely audible at first. They were subtle and faceless, but steadily they rose in volume until they were blaring throughout his skull, each unique and distinct voice reverberating around the insides of Kyo's skull. He felt as if his brain would be pummeled to mush from the sheer intensity of these voices each time this happened. However, this was something he had accepted; a necessary curse for the responsibility and privilege of Kyo's power. He winced; his eyebrows pulled close like two worms trying to sniff the other out and began his journey into the black abyss that used to be Tokyo. For as long as Kyo could remember, he was able to hear people's voices in his head when it rained...


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I enjoy adjective pornography as I have an unyielding hunger to create an atmospheric presence in my writing. I am an amateur at best but I am a hopeful wielder of fiction and prose. I hope to leave something behind; a memoir or rather, a defining moment whether that be fictional or not to show who I was through the process of painting what I saw. Thank you for your time!

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Author: Jacob Christensen

Contributor: E.S. Wynn

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These caves go on forever.

Be seated among the brethren, the memory of an absent light breathes, speaks in eldritch whispers which presuppose that God is not dead.

Be seated. We are at rest.

I avoid the caverns that scream, the caverns that lurk, the caverns that step through the darkness, hunting, waiting just beyond reach, waiting like sharks until a stumble, a blind groping. When they come, they come with teeth. They come to swallow. I flirt with the death therein, touch it, dance away.

I walk the dusty caverns. I pick the depths that open without footsteps, that offer unpolished stone and a gathering of shadows. On and on, these caverns roam, deeper and deeper, dropping into vistas, cities unlike anything on the surface, the sunlit structures that crumble with the slightest glance, prodding touch. There is more to see and understand in the depths than any one man could paw through in a lifetime. There is more in the depths than one mind could hope to hold, but all the cities hold the same statues, the same heroes. I give myself a glance at each, move on.

Occasionally, I find a box shuffled away in a crack, a fissure in the stone walls, and my hope surges. Most are empty. None of them hold water. None of them hold the water I need. None of them bring the manna I hunger for.

In the dark, I shape stones as I walk, drop them when they dull. In my mind, I draw pictures of caverns as they might progress, as they might meander, drop them when they turn to dust at the touch of shadow. Still I walk, still I hope, study, create, ignore the voices that whisper louder and louder with each passing day: you are a fool. Die, fool.

Die, fool!

Alone, I carve my wooden pocket-wand. I shape it as my soul tells me to, cut it and bind it and burn it and etch it until there is nothing left but the wand I see in my mind. Chaos lives here, it whispers to me, and I know that the void which echoes in its voice is the darkness I must rise to avoid. Chaos lives here, it whispers, and I know that the void in its voice is the womb of creation, that birth lies in the hands of annihilation. All around me, the caverns yawn, open. To them, this is ancient knowledge. To them, it is a realization long past.

To me, the past is just beginning. The now is my forgotten sepia photograph.


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E.S. Wynn is the author of over thirty books and chief editor of Thunderune Publishing. Find out more by visiting www.eswynn.com

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Author: E.S. Wynn

Contributor: Okey Fitz

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“I am a down to Earth girl. I know that money doesn’t grow on trees and that in order to have something in your life you need to work hard to get it. I know that you get a job and then get fired from it after twenty years of dedicating work. I know that people meet, fall in love, fall out of love and then meet someone else and everything starts all over again. I know that marriages fall apart and Happily Ever After is for five year olds. I know that people are born, grow, get old and die. They also poop, fart, burp and masturbate. No one is perfect. A lot of them try to be but fail. Because we are weak and we always have someone else to blame. We see sins of others but never notice our own. We go to Church and pray every day, calling ourselves Christians but then limit our children and judge everyone else who is different. I don’t ask God to make me a good person, I do everything possible to be one. I don’t like when people pretend to be my friends and then talk behind my back. I don’t need the appreciation of the whole world. I am who I am and I feel good about it. I am a realist. And reality comforts me because I am always ready for the worst”.
I sat back in my chair, holding onto the glass of Red I had in my hand. I took a sip, let it sit in my mouth for a few seconds and then swallowed it. I wish I was smoking. I bet the combination of wine and cigarettes feels great. Making your body relax to the point where the thoughts and emotions you never thought you had before are coming out and forming this magnificent circle and dancing, dancing, dancing. Oh, wait, no, it’s when you smoke weed. My bad. I sure do miss smoking weed sometimes. Having a pothead boyfriend had one advantage – I got to smoke whenever I wanted and for free. But I am glad I got rid of him. He wasn’t a good influence. He made me wear hills.
I looked at the computer screen where I just typed a short description of myself for this interview I am having on Thursday. I read it again, and then again. It is not how you write cover letters. I shouldn’t be sending that if I want to get the job, I thought. From my own experience, there are not a lot of people out there with any kind of humor. I am not even talking about a good one. I kind of like it, though. It is a perfect two hundred and thirty five word picture of real me. Most of the time, I try to be considerate because it is another downside of being a realist. I have to understand that I live in a society of approximately seven billion people and I need to be nice to get what I want. And in order to get this job I better write something like “I look forward to contribute my ability and experience in your company”.
“Tell them what they want to hear, smile and be nice” - I can still hear the voice of my mom. Poor Mother, she already gave up the idea of me getting married and having babies. “The last thing you owe me is to show that you can take care of yourself” – same voice again. I guess she is right. I am such a disappointment. I never did anything right, or at least not the way she wanted me to. Some of it because I did what I thought was right for me and some of it is to piss her off. Mostly, piss her off. Christian to the marrow of her bones, she was trying to make this ladylike brainless manikin of me for a future husband to “love, and care, and bring home money”. Not so fast, dear Mother. I think Jesus understood way before you did my real intentions. I wanted to write books, publish them, get famous and travel. But until my future bestsellers are published I need to feed myself, and pay rent, and afford gas. And that’s why I am about to write something sweet and wonderful for my employer so he can hire me.
I suddenly started feeling the positive energy coming through me. It felt very good and refreshing to have something to hope for. I got so excited I smacked my right hand palm against the desk, and my left hand shook and wine from the top of my glass got spilled on the keyboard. I said “shit” multiple times and tried to wipe it off with the tissues I usually keep on my desk but today they somehow traveled all the way to the nightstand beside my bed. So I pulled the bottom of my T-shirt and started cleaning the buttons one by one to catch as much liquid as I could. I stopped after five minutes and realized two things. First – I will have to buy a new keyboard and second – I accidentally hit the Enter button while flipping out about the spill. I felt this unexplainable shivering down my spine. It was the only interview I got out of fourteen applications I submitted for the past two months. I wanted to scream and cry. I wanted to break something. But the only thing I could do was to sit down and breathe. Breathe in, breathe out. Oh well, I thought, at least I wrote “Sincerely yours”.


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I was born in Western Ukraine. Grew to love mountains and Ukrainian culture. Came to America in 2010 and slowly building my life here, secretly missing home. I have a wonderful ten month old daughter and a husband who is also my best friend:)

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Author: Okey Fitz

Contributor: Alina Yudkevich

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“Huh. How ‘bout that,” he said, turning off the weather report. “Grandma dies, and a month later we get Tropical Storm Josephine.”

“That crazy bat would share a name with a natural disaster,” his fiancée said, quickly adding, “Sorry. She hated me.”

A week later, the storm raged on. On the day of their wedding, its status was upgraded to hurricane.

The garden arch blew over and fell neatly around the minister, whose shriek wasn’t heard over the roaring wind. The guests swarmed the gazebos when the torrential downpour started.

Weighed down by her waterlogged gown, the bride plodded slowly behind, sniffling.

The hanging church signs flapped violently, hurling letters and wooden debris in all directions.
A bronze P knocked the bouquet clean out the bride’s hands, and what remained of HOPE sideswiped her seconds later.

“Classic Granny Jo!” yelled the groom. The flower girl howled with laughter.


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Alina Yudkevich is a 17th grader at the University of Georgia, studying English and Film Studies and working part-time at a particle accelerator lab. She enjoys pugs, video editing, running, b-horror, and exploring the unknown via Google street view.

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Author: Alina Yudkevich

Contributor: John Laneri

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Hours after the fire, people continued to wander the ruins – their thoughts lost in the swirling wisps of smoke drifting from blackened rubble and scattered debris. They were in Neverton, a small community along the cattle trail to Fort Worth and each of them knew that life was about to change in their town.

In the saloon, Vernon Carter's eyebrows lifted heavily. “As mayor, I’m tellin’ you gents we have a serious problem confronting us. We need to get our brains together and think out a solution.”

He paused a moment, his eyes moving from face to face, studying the other two men on the town council.

“In fact,” he continued, his voice barely above a whisper, “Our town will dry up to nothing unless we come up with some serious thoughts. As I see it, things are about to change faster than a fellow can spit.”

Across from him, Roscoe Sayers, the newspaper editor, looked up, his lips quivering. He was a skinny, little man with bulging eyes and a balding head. “The community may never recover from the loss. It's a calamity that perverts the goodness in nature.” He turned away, his features grim.

To Roscoe’s side, Sheriff Matt Carson sat slumped with his head bowed and his boots propped on the back of a chair. Ordinarily, he was an easy man with a confident attitude. He opened an eye. “I feel like the world’s coming to an end. The Lord has truly forsaken us.”

“I hear what you’re sayin’,” Vernon replied, as he reached for a bottle of whiskey then poured a shot. “I haven’t eaten all day – no appetite. With her house gone, she doesn’t have reason to stay in our town... says she’s taking the girls and movin’ on.”

“Taking the girls!” the Sheriff said, coming to his feet and kicking the chair aside. “My God... it's worse than I thought. If we lose the girls, our community's doomed. We’ll see more brawling about town, certainly more gun fighting. Hell fire, we’re talking about Aunt Jillie's Boarding House, the finest establishment west of Fort Worth. Fellows can get powerfully restless when faced with a dry spell.”

With those words, a lengthy silence followed as each man searched for direction – anything to lift the weight of reality from their shoulders. Life, as they knew it, might never return to normal.

Finally after several minutes, Roscoe cleared his throat and edged forward, his eyes beginning to dance with that spark of energy only seen at Aunt Jillie's. “As reasonably intelligent men, we might consider other alternatives.”

“Like what?” the Sheriff asked, turning to him. “Most of your ideas are about as far fetched as using dynamite to clean outhouses.”

Roscoe glanced about, his manner turning cautious. “Maybe they are, but I’m of the opinion that we need to put some of the money from our Courthouse Building Fund to good use. It’s just sittin’ in the bank doing nothing."

The Sheriff returned to the table and lowered his voice, his words directed to Roscoe. “Are you talkin’ about using the town's tax money to build a new establishment for Jillie and the girls?”

“That seems the reasonable approach. We live in the present. The future can take care of itself.”

“Won’t the town people object?” Vernon asked, as he stepped into the conversation, his neck coloring. “You fellows are talking about taking money from the community coffers and using it for your own. That's almost criminal.”

The Sheriff turned to him. “Hold on a minute, if we take a positive attitude, the people won’t question our motives – they never do. And like Roscoe was sayin', the money's just sitting in the bank collecting cobwebs. For what it's worth, a courthouse isn’t all that important. What we need is a wholesome place offering the kind of services fellows appreciate – something to make life worth living.”

Vernon tapped his whiskey bottle on the table. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but what I’m hearin’ from you gents is that you want the community to provide the money to build a new establishment where Aunt Jillie and her girls can continue to enlighten fellows in a proper manner.”

The Sheriff and Roscoe looked toward one another and nodded their heads in agreement.

“Then as mayor, I'll make it an official. Our town needs to move forward. And, for the record, my two boys can build exactly what you fellows have in mind, provided of course, the town pays them a healthy price.”

“They're hired. We'll pay 'em full fee. And for your information, I’m already startin’ to feel like a new man. Dodging bullets is not my idea of clean livin'. What do you think, Roscoe?”

“I’m getting happier by the minute. Now, I’ll still have a place to sleep when the little lady throws me out in the streets.”

Vernon reached for the whiskey bottle and poured another shot. “You fellow make me proud to be a part of this town. For awhile though, you had me worried... thought maybe I'd have to go back to sleepin' with the missus. And, let me tell you, waking up to her is a mighty cruel way to face the day.


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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: E.S. Wynn

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“Doctor Williams!”

Gerald glances up from the ragged chunk of glassy-smooth sediment in his hand, lets it fall, unremembered. Eyes rise through the bioplastic of his helmet, focus on the distant silhouette of a figure waving arms where a dip, perhaps a crater, breaks the monotony of the stone-scattered wasteland.

“What is it, Dinsmore?”

“Something interesting,” comes the vague response.

“There's nothing interesting on this rock.” Williams grumbles, unwilling to budge. “Nano-survey said there would be fossils. All I see is a lot of pyroclastic breccia.”

“This is way more interesting than fossils.” Dinsmore persists, and the sound of the grin in his voice makes Williams squint. Briefly, Williams considers calling up to the orbiting ship, requesting a Q-anchor to portal them back to the gate-bay. Childlike curiosity keeps his finger hesitating at the panel on his hip, unwilling to tab the comm key.

“I'll bet you a hundred Creativity Units this is going to amaze you.”

A hundred CUs? Williams considers. Half a month's allotment. Enough to print the paint, brushes and vellum canvases he's been putting off in favor of bioprobes and testing rigs.

Bioprobes and testing rigs ultimately wasted on too many dead planets.

Williams lets his eyes fall to the ground. 100 CUs is enough to keep him sitting in orbit of KP-1138, playing chess against Dinsmore for sixteen more standard planetary rotations if he loses the bet.

In the end, he says nothing. KP-1138's weak gravity gives him a drifting, skipping gait as he crosses the wasteland to Dinsmore's dip. Overhead, one of the planet's twin moons races across the sun, drops a shadow over everything that leaves as quickly as it comes.

And then Williams sees it. He sees it, and his irritated features open in wonder. Dinsmore's laugh comes choppy, static-laced over the comm channel.

“Dismore. . .” Williams breathes, crouches where the dip drops away suddenly into sprawling, cavernous depths. Almost immediately his eyes find the glass spires, the glittering meshwork towers, the crystalline domes stretching endlessly into the darkness, impossibly huge, all glowing, all lit from within by some internal light source.

A city, Williams thinks. No, a nation.

A civilization.

A civilization, just beneath the surface.


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E.S. Wynn is the author of over thirty books and chief editor of Thunderune Publishing. Find out more by visiting www.eswynn.com

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Author: E.S. Wynn