Contributor: Ryan Stevens

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Loud, crass punk rock music rudely awoke Bill Poore on Monday morning. His anarchist neighbors in the next apartment, a bunch of cokehead 20-somethings trying to make it big as a punk-rock stars, were starting practice earlier and earlier it seemed. Bill hated them. He didn’t know any of their names, but he knew their faces, pale and tattooed and pierced with hair colors alternating neon greens and dismal blacks. As much as he hated their music, he hoped they stuck to it. He hoped they stuck to it, went nowhere with it, and all died from heroin overdoses.

These thoughts floated in Bill’s head as he made breakfast in his robe and slippers. He worked nights as a security guard at the local Wal-Mart, and his open eyes were a deep rouge from sleep deprivation, but once awoken he had been unable to ignore the clanging symbols and belching bass and had given up to sleeping.

He took his pot of coffee and began to pour into his I Hate Mondays mug, but drowsiness caused him to misjudge the distance and scald his hand. His mug fell as his hand recoiled, shattering on the ground. He stared at the debris in numb disbelief. He wasn’t yet fully awake, and refused to accept his luck. His posture slumped and the arm holding the coffeepot dipped, spilling brown magma on the linoleum. Hissing droplets splashed up and nipped Bill’s ankles while the creeping, steaming puddle threatened to eat through his slippers. He decided he didn’t particularly want any caffeine.

Bill sighed mournfully and prepared some toast and jam in silence as the Satanist Minstrel Militia next door strummed, slammed, and screamed out a spot-on impersonation of a garbage disposal.

Eight months, he’d been subject to the malcontents’ ever-shifting practice schedule, though he would swear mental scars of this magnitude could only come from years of trauma. He couldn’t remember his last good night’s sleep. He never had anywhere to escape to except for work, meaning his life was either painted-on pleasantries with moronic sheeple or wave after wave of discordant auditory rape.

His templed throbbed in rhythm with the grunting sludge in the air. He found that he had chewed his mouthful of toast and jam into a paste, but was unable to swallow, unable to relax any part of his body.

Like a dim bulb in a cellar, the memory of an old Louisville Slugger bat stuffed in his closet flickered into Bill’s mind. At the same time a voice in his head scolded him for the notion. Yes the punks were annoying, but murder was unconscionable. He’d lose his job, his apartment...

Bill decided he would go over next door with the bat, just to ruffle the youngsters and quiet them up, nothing serious. At least, that’s what he told himself his plan was. Whatever happened in the heat of the moment, he couldn’t predict. He rose to his feet, feeling the dampness in his slippers, and prepared to fish out the old baseball bat.

Suddenly the world went sideways as the floor under Bill’s feet, slick with lukewarm coffee, gave way and he slipped, falling rapidly backwards. Before he knew it he was lying splayed on his back in a puddle of coffee, a few shards of shattered coffee-mug porcelain embedded in the back of his head and neck.

Bill stared at his dull gray ceiling, vaguely aware of some sort of music coming from somewhere far away.


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Ryan Stevens was born and raised on a farm in South Carolina. He found this boring, so now he writes.

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Author: Ryan Stevens

Contributor: Darlene Campos

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Mondays at the Ennis Washateria were always empty. Samuel ‘Suds’ Ennis, the boss and big bellied man behind the register was giving spare change to Miss Johnson. Unlike the rest of Elgin Avenue, Miss Johnson did laundry on Monday mornings. Suds thought she was peculiar with her tiny loads, never having quarters, and that awful purse she carried around. She was close to his age, around 55 or so, with grown kids and a long dead husband, but still the weirdest woman on the block. Suds gave her enough change for one load, her usual, but this time she said she only had half a load.
“Half a load?” Suds exclaimed. “Where’d you get them clothes? A half off sale?”
“Very funny, Suds,” she said and strolled her cart away to washer #2. Suds locked the register and dragged himself to outside for a quick cigar smoke. He had a leather office chair chained to the ground which he called ‘the CEO throne.’ Suds had been chaining down chairs for over 23 years and not once did he have a stolen CEO throne.
“Gotta love that ol’ chain,” he said to nobody as he sat down in his beloved chair. He lit up his cigar, reclining, when a shiny BMW pulled over next to him. The window rolled down and a man stuck his head out saying, “You seen a Miss Johnson?”
“Yes I have, young man. Why you ask?”
“No reason, give her this,” the man muttered, slipping a $100 bill into Suds’ palm.
“Hot cakes!” Suds cried out. The man waved a goodbye and drove off. He finished his cigar before heaving up to his feet back to his washateria.
“This here’s for you, baby,” Suds smiled, handing her the money. She asked who it was from and he answered that Jesus must drive a BMW because miracles like that didn’t happen on Elgin Avenue. Miss Johnson’s clothes were toasty dry by 10 am and she left hastily. See, Miss Johnson was going to ‘college’ and working the night shift at Fry’s Burger Hut, so he heard. She was different than the rest of Elgin Avenue. Elgin Avenue was a high school dropout sundae with poverty whipped topping.
That Monday, Suds closed late. For some strange reason, he didn’t feel like going home. His wife, Francine, called and told him to come home before she beat him on the head with detergent bottles. Suds told Francine he’d be in soon, so he had to get going before she got those detergent bottles out again. Within five minutes, he was heading down the crooked sidewalk. Soon out of breath, he sat down on the curb in front of the Fishing Man Market. Miss Johnson bolted past him, dropping that old sack of nothing.
“Now hold on, Miss J, you dropped your sa-, purse!” he called after her. She turned around, grabbed it, only to drop it again. Suds was confused by her behavior. First she had half a load and now she was dropping more things than a bomber plane.
“You doing okay?” he asked her.
“Get on back to your bubbles,” she snapped at him. She scurried down the street, disappearing. Suds hopped on home to Beulah Street where Francine was on the porch, trying to fix the shattered windows for the millionth time.
“Don’t you mess with those windows again, my lady. Not like we got anything worth stealing in the first place,” Suds said.
“We got detergent bottles!” she shouted.
“What them burglars gonna do then? They’s gonna break in the house, get our detergent bottles and then you know what else they’s gonna do? Wash their clothes at the washateria and give us mo’ business!” he laughed.
“You so funny,” Francine said as she taped a strip of duct tape across a crack in the left window. “Now get your butt in the house.”
Not too long after dinner, there came a knock on the door. Suds hopped over and swung the door open. It was a police officer with a badge shining his name.
“Hold on sir, I ain’t done nothing bad, I own a washateria, that’s it! My wife is innocent too!” Suds blurted. The officer shook his head and asked if he knew a Miss Johnson. Suds said of course he did. He asked if he gave her a $100 bill earlier that day and Suds said of course again. Miss Johnson, according to him, was an illegal prostitute.
“Hot cakes! That’s impossible! You seen that sack she carries? She got a sack of sorry and you telling me she’s a hooker? She’s 55 years old too! If she’s a hooker, then my pants are waist 34!”
“Mr. Ennis, I was given a tip that she provides, service, in your washateria at night,” the cop admitted. “Anything you know about Miss Johnson would be very helpful to the investigation.”
“Baby,” Francine said from the living room. “She is.” Suds hung his head low and asked the cop what he wanted to know.
Miss Johnson wasn’t arrested but rather fined for her actions. She became the laughingstock of Elgin and at the same time, Suds tried to save his washateria’s reputation. She still came in on Monday with her sack of sorry, half loads, and no change. Despite the laughs, she kept going out, using the washateria at night. She needed the money if she wanted to go through ‘college.’ Suds handed her five quarters for the day. He then walked outside and sat in the CEO throne, chained to Elgin Avenue as Miss Johnson did her laundry. The BMW stopped by again, this time with $300 for her. Every Monday, she was washing more than clothes.


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Darlene Campos is an undergraduate at the University of Houston's Creative Writing Program and minor in Medicine. Her work has appeared in A Celebration of Young Poets, The Four Cornered Universe, The Collegiate Scholar, and in The Aletheia. She currently works as a writer for The Daily Cougar newspaper and Kesta Happening DC magazine.

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Author: Darlene Campos

Contributor: John Laneri

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Bernard stepped toward the flower garden, his movements slow and measured. It was time for his customary morning walk through the flower garden.

Near a gazebo, he spotted Millie Boyd sitting on a bench beside a red hibiscus. He waved to her and continued on, his attention going to a line of roses along the quiet secluded paths.

To him, Millie was an old friend, another elderly resident at the Happy Years Retirement Home.

“Bernard, darling. Could you come here a minute?”

Never one to deny Millie, Bernard turned away from the flowers and ambled toward the gazebo where she sat with a friend.

“You’re looking quite lovely, Widow Boyd.”

“Why thank you, Bernard.” She indicated the woman beside her. “Have you met, Georgia?”

Bernard cocked his head to the side and bowed. “I haven’t had the pleasure.” He studied Georgia a moment, his eyes searching hers. “You remind me of a woman I met during the last war.”

Georgia smiled brightly. “Was she beautiful?”

“She was,“ Bernard replied, looking away distantly. “Her hair flowed to her shoulders. And, her eyes were as blue as the sky.”

Millie touched his arm. “We have a secret to confess.”

“And, what is that?” Bernard asked on returning to her.

“Georgia and I were discussing you only a moment ago.”

“You were discussing me?”

“Yes dear, we were discussing you. We were wondering how old you are? Your body is so masculine and so, so….” She turned to Georgia.

“So, erect,” Georgia added, with a smile.

Bernard blushed, his cheeks turning a bright red. “Most women are fooled by my age. I’m older than I look.” He stepped back to dance a little shuffle. “But, there’s still plenty of punch in this old body. I bet you can’t guess my age.”

Georgia reached for her purse and placed it in her lap. “I have a dollar. I’m good at guessing ages.”

“You’re wasting your money,” he said with a twinkle. “My age is a well kept secret.”

“I’d like to try… just for fun,” Georgia said. “Can I see your hands? I can always judge a person’s age by the skin on their hands.”

Confidently, Bernard extended a hand and held it poised in front of her face.

Georgia adjusted her glasses. “Interesting,” she said turning to Millie. “That odd color around the knuckles. What do you think? Your eyes are better than mine.”

Millie took the hand and began examining it, turning it from side to side studying every detail. “I see what you mean. The little lines and the way the skin….”

“Is something wrong?” Bernard asked, withdrawing his hand to look it over.

“No… No,” Millie said. “Your hands are fine.”

“Then you can’t guess my age. I win a dollar.”

Millie continued. “Bernard darling, your hands are only a part of guessing your age.”

“What more do you want?”

She smiled softly then said, “The only way to truly judge a man’s age, especially one who’s lived through so many wars, is to see everything.”

Bernard hesitated. “But, I might get into trouble with the nurses.”

“Bernard, darling,” Millie purred, “All I’m asking is for one little look.”

Bernard thought a moment. “Only one look?”

“Just one teeny-weeny look.”

Bernard again glanced about the garden searching for nurses then reached for his belt and let his pants drop to his ankles.

The two elderly women sat there for some time staring straight ahead, their mouths agape. Eventually, Millie spoke up. “Can you turn around a couple of times?”

“Turn around?”

“Yes dear, you need to turn in little circles so we can see everything. We’re trying to guess your age.”

Bernard turned a couple of circles then stopped. “How’s that?”

“You need to remove your shorts too,” she continued, pointing to his underwear. “It’s easier with the shorts off.”

“My shorts?” Bernard asked, confused.

“The shorts please… and the shirt too.”

After some time, Bernard finally spoke up. “Have you seen enough? I’m getting cold.”

“I’ve seen all that I need to see,” Georgia said, turning to Millie. “Truthfully, I think he’s older than he looks.”

Millie touched Bernard on the arm. “You can get dressed dear. We’ve seen enough.”

With his pants in place, Bernard asked, “How old am I?”

The ladies looked to one another. Then, Millie replied, “You’re ninety-eight years old.”

Surprised, Bernard did a double take, his head bobbing up and down. “How’d you know?”

Millie chuckled, her cheeks brightening in pleasure. “You told us yesterday, dear. We were just wondering if you remembered.”


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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: Bob Skoggins

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The bus creaked forward, people still shuffling in to fill the empty seats. Some were in suits. Some were in hoodies. Some were wearing shorts, their skin bumpy from the cold. It was crowded and loud and warm on the city bus. It traveled from Jarvis to Dan Ryan on the south side of Chicago. It carried all kinds of people.
A young couple sat in the back. The girl was wearing a backpack, having gotten out of a class at Harold Washington College. Her husband was in a suit. A struggling realtor. They lived on Garfield.
“We should have walked. This is taking too long,” he said.
“I’m not getting off.” She scooted away from him.
“Or taken the L,” he said. “But I hate the L. I hate the bus.”
“I’m moving,” she said.
“You know I didn’t mean anything by it,” he said. “You talk to him too much. I want you to stop. That’s all I was saying.”
“Goodbye.” The girl picked up her backpack, looking at an empty seat next to a handsome Asian. It would bother her husband if she sat next to him. “I can talk to who I want. I can sit where I want. I’m moving.”
Her husband touched her arm and she lowered herself back onto the seat and looked at him. “You’re embarrassing me,” he said.
She raised her voice. “I’m not getting off because my husband is a pig.”
Some people turned their heads and the husband smiled, nodding at them. The lady in front of them laughed.
“They are listening,” he said.
“I don’t care. Let them.”
“Stop.”
“Or what? You won’t do anything here.”
“I might.”
The girl ignored him as he stared at her. “I’ll drag you if I have to,” he said.
She laughed. He leaned in closer. “If you don’t stop this, you know what I’ll do.”
“You won’t do anything.”
“When we get home.” He bit his tongue and shook his head. “Woman,” he said. “I’ll kill you. You know I will do it.”
“Go ahead. I’m not getting off.” Her voice grew louder again. “My husband is going to drag me off of this bus and when we get home he is going to kill me.”
People shifted in their seats and the lady in front of them laughed again. The husband smiled and nodded again, but only with his teeth, his eyes serious and wide. “Don’t make a scene,” he said.
“You’re making the scene,” she said. “I can talk to who I want to.”
“Not the way you two talk.”
“He’s a friend.”
“It’s more than that.”
“You’re paranoid.”
The bus stopped and the driver said over the speaker, “Forty-seventh.” The handsome Asian got off and the bus started moving again.
“Our stop is next,” said the man. He pulled the wire running along the bus windows and a bell rang. “Let’s get off.”
“I’m not going to.”
“I’ll drag you. These people won’t remember us.”
“They already remember us.”
He grabbed her arm. “You’re getting off.”
She jerked away from him. “You don’t have the guts to drag me here.”
The husband lifted a hand to slap her and she flinched and stood up. “I’m not the one going to get killed when we get home,” she said. “I’m calling my brother.”
And then the man slapped her. He had never done it before. The girl looked at him in shock as the bus slowed down and stopped, and the folding doors swung open. She got up after her husband and the couple walked up the aisle and got off.
A new group shuffled in and the bus creaked forward.


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Author: Bob Skoggins

Contributor: Gary Clifton

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In 1952, money in the neighborhood was tighter than wet underwear. Mom couldn't get many shifts in the chicken plant and we hadn't seen the old man since he ran off with that waitress from Omaha the year before. Any work was good work.
The smoking old truck sputtered up at 4:30 A.M. This was a strawberry day - pickers needed. I was nine that Summer and they wouldn't let a kid that young on the truck unless they were with an adult. I'd been climbing the side over the stock racks, but somebody snitched. Now the driver watched. Most of the adults were African American females - many with a string of kids attached. I asked Miz Wilson if I could follow her bunch as one of her kids.
She was old, maybe thirty-five, with multiple stomachs and a beautiful ebony face that couldn't stop smiling. "Squeeze between Isaac and Leroy. Nobody gon' see you a white boy in this dark, Paulie."
That day, the field had probably fifty workers - mostly women and kids. We got individual chits for pickings. By mid day, I'd turned in enough berries to have nearly a dollar. A kid worked good all day might make $2.50, if he could hustle and handle twelve hours bent over in the sun.
Unusual, a man was working that day - a skinny, wiry little dude with two days whiskers and penitentiary tattoos on both arms. I didn't think he rode in on the truck. I was careful looking at him lest he catch me with those cold, piercing blue eyes. Working two rows over, he whistled continuously - a monotone with no melody.
Zuber, a hired flunky was the supervisor - they called him "Row Boss". A big, mean bully with angry black eyes, he swatted me once for not working fast enough. He strutted up and down rows, feeling important - scared hell out of me. He straddled the row above the whistler. "Knock off that damned whistling."
"Why?" the slender man said upward, the blue eyes surprised.
Zuber bully-kicked him in the chest. Then the bloodbath. The little guy, probably a hundred pounds lighter, instantly had Zuber on his back, killing him. In a field with only a few women, no men, and a gaggle of kids, one man beating another to death was a full load.
The little guy was probably ready to quit on his own when Miz Wilson, two or three other ladies, and some older kids pulled him off. Zuber wasn't moving, his face, raw meat. Back in the neighborhood, I'd seen men shot and cut, but never saw one's face torn off.
The little guy ran across the field, stole a truck, and split. The Sheriff showed up, then an ambulance, and I only made $1.55 that day.
Next day, they had a new row boss. Two more years working that field and we never saw Zuber again. Everyone figured he died, but nobody cared enough to ask. I never told a soul, but the thought of Zuber in Hell had a certain ring to it. Wherever he was, I always figured he'd think twice before kicking a guy for whistling. If they ever caught that little guy, I never heard about it.
A lifetime later, someone whistles, I see Zuber's bloody face.


- - -
Gary Clifton, forty years a cop, has short fiction pieces published or pending on over thirty online sites. He is retired, and has an M.S. from Abilene Christian University

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Author: Gary Clifton

Contributor: S Marston

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Splitting the seventh outside Reno; passing wind when you have diarrhoea; Making drunken phone calls to exes; the matrix sequels; experimenting with PCP; having a child to cement a failing marriage; taking one last Long Island for the road; selling Alaska; letting the kids stay over at uncle Mike’s; not signing a prenup; timeshare; electing bush; buying poodles; replying to spam; speedos; upsetting the sacker of cities then taking on Illium; re-electing bush; not scouting Isandlwana; arguing religion; eating pink pork; invading Russia in winter; following Lost.

Everyone makes mistakes. Mine was fucking you.


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Author: S Marston

Contributor: Pranas Perkunas

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I had some darkness for breakfast and some light for lunch, then J.S. Bach came knocking and told me about this strip club where they didn’t take dollars, but you could pay the door and the dancers with poems. I scooped up a fistful of sappy sonnets from the kitty-littered floor, and Bach showed me the horrible haikus he wrote about a Korean cutie he friended on Facebook. (He was friend number 4,147.) Then away we sped in the Bachmobile!

The place was packed with pimply-faced poets while the dancers were literate and lovely. As I pulled back a glittery garter to insert a poem, my youth was magically restored, and I looked just like Justin Bieber again! Bach and a dazzling dime just out of high school shared a Kool-Aid with two Krazy straws. Her stage name was Baby Gaga, and they went on to make some quite strange music together.


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Pranas Perkunas (pen name) rejects everything you probably believe in. He fervently hopes that a new reality exists somewhere or sometime which is not predicated upon the premise of a food chain. If this is the only current reality, then God created surrealists as a kind of collective think tank.

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Author: Pranas Perkunas

Contributor: Alyanna Diavane

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At first, we didn't care.
We're just too different,
Or maybe just indifferent
To each other's existence.

I can still remember the time when you were just standing there, minding your own business while everyone was rushing to meet you, to get a hold of you, to get close to you. You just didn't care, did you? Too caught up in your mind's devices, never seeing the horde of women wanting, struggling, to be near you, to be recognized by you. It was ironic, really, how we ended up as part of each other's pseudo-family. We never cared for those kinds of things. We had our lives to live, and that's that. I was too preoccupied with my studies while you, you with the piercing stare, was too busy with your mind's abyss. I was useless as your pseudo-sister. We didn't even talk, meet or anything in particular. Then again, you weren't exactly the ideal pseudo-brother either. You never needed the help anyway. You got by with what you already have, even with the knowledge that everyone's more than willing to help you out.

Or you were just too aware.
Silently observing,
With feigned innocence,
As everything transpired.

You were always the mysterious one. Always had that observing vibe with you everywhere you go. It's as if you're just waiting for someone to fall from grace. I didn't mind, at first. I mean, why would I? We weren't close or anything to that extent. We didn't even acknowledge each other's presence. As the days went idly by, we were gradually finding ourselves entwined to each other's lives. Who knew? But we weren't together because of the pseudo-family status. We were just (un)fortunate enough to wind up in the same circle of people. Or maybe I was just too persistent in forcing myself in yours, I don't know. Something happened. Or, maybe, someone happened. You know this more than anyone else. You saw what happened, didn't you? And, even then, you were feigning innocence, waiting for me to spill all those emotions I strove so hard to keep for myself. But, you listened. You, actually, listened to all the gruesome details as if you didn't care. And, honestly, it helped.

Until that night, of course,
How could I ever forget?
The cold mask shattered
And all I saw beneath was regret.

Normally, I was the only one whose mask would slip away. You were always the mature one, weren't you? But... that night happened. I won't sink into details. You know that night just as well as I do. And, besides, we really don't want to go back to that time, now do we? Since then, this idea intrigued me: "What will happen if your masked shattered, to the point of no return?" It's sick, I know. Wanting to destroy the thing that made you so unique in the first place. That chivalry, it's sickeningly ideal.

It was something different
And it made me cling to
An impossible dream
Of seeing you lose control.

You always said that you despised men who took women for granted. That you would never, ever, turn into someone like... him. You know who he is, don't you? He's the reason why we became somewhat close to begin with. So, I thought: "What if the 'using someone' part was mutual?" That way, it wouldn't look like we're using each other. Just some agreement that entailed no emotions whatsoever. Since then, I did my best to join the various gimmicks you're going to. Silly, I know. It's like something a preschooler would do, yes, I know that too. Don't worry, I don't like you, not like that. Not that way, anyway.


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Innocent enough to love. Knowledgeable enough to think things through. "Be warned. I'm a disaster in the making." is what she'd normally say but now it's just "This has tragedy written all over it."

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Author: Alyanna Diavane

Contributor: Amy Pollard

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Adamson College would unravel. Nadine just knew it. Adamson College would unravel and she would be the first to go. Biting into her lunch, Nadine grimaced and wiped her lips with a napkin. Nothing would ever be right again. A sour, tangy mayonnaise ground against the edges of her teeth, already lathered with viscous mustard. The slimy, paper-thin lettuce smudged against the roof of her mouth, washed down her throat only by a long sip of thick, goopy root beer. Cheap concession stand, she groused, glancing around the plaza as she wiped her lips again.

Named after some heck-of-a-rich professor, Adamson Plaza attracted many visitors from outside of the university. Smiley, gray-haired couples would often stroll the grounds with their yappy toy dogs, restrained by a mere thread. Accountants from other offices often came during their lunch hours to sit and gaze at the fountain or, as Nadine was, to eat their deli sandwiches on one of the stone benches.
Nadine groaned. Birds squawked around the prim birdbaths by the gazebo, where ignorant little girls and boys were teasing them with crumbs. The workers at the concession stand were laughing amid the clatter of banging dishes. Stroller wheels clacked alongside black, bushy-tailed squirrels pitter-pattering as they scrounged for leftovers. A flicker of stress shot through Nadine as she felt the yellow string tied around her forefinger give a tug. Oh yes, she thought. How silly of me. The files, of course, the files! She had forgotten to put new labels on them. Nadine shuddered beneath her cobalt-blue skirt, cobalt-blue coat and cobalt-blue tie. Lifting her sticky bangs off her forehead, she paused and listened. Was that an e flat hurdling through the bushes? Yes—yes, of course, it was! Nadine sat up straighter and leaned forward. The note was coming from the open stage a block away—the same stage upon which she had performed elaborate cello pieces. A giddy, girlish excitement seized her. The unlabeled files and her sweaty work clothes faded to the back of her mind as she remembered her first-ever cello recital, at the old, torn-down middle school. The audience was silent and the auditorium lights were dimmed. The stage lights, however, breathed fire upon her stretched fingers as they jerked the bow across the strings. Nadine remembered her cello instructor, telling her exactly which strings to press and the precise angle at which she should hold the bow. Every pulse of the melody, every whine of the bow and every thump in her chest seemed to mix into one beautiful blur of depth and color, as she listened to the music from the open stage.

As the memories began to fade away, note by note, chord by chord, a bitter numbness struck Nadine’s chest. Her hand itched to grasp the cello bow again, to retrace its fragile dance across the delicate yet resilient strings. Her ears craved the harsh, metallic thump of the music stand and the persistent whining of the notes coming to life on the sheet. But most of all, her soul longed to feel the music, just once more, as it throbbed through her, scraping against the roof of her mouth in a cold rush of wine, gushing into her bloodstream like a fey, tingling caress and, finally, echoing the drum of her heart, fathomless and true. Nadine shifted on the bench as the stage music swelled in a wistful seventh, almost resolved, almost whole, blurring the squawks of the birds, the clatter of the concession stand, the clacking of the stroller wheels and the pitter-pattering of the squirrels into one melodious torrent. Nadine felt a sigh escaping her; there had never been music like this. Music that could merge soul and body as it extolled legatos and fermatas, and all of the eternity that notes on a scale had to offer. Brushing the crumbs off her clothes, Nadine rose to her feet. The stage was not far, only one block away. Surely she could go, if only for five minutes, and inhale the perfection of that music.

Crumpling up the remains of her sandwich, Nadine started forward only to stop and wince at the slight tug on her finger. Why, of course, the string. About the undo the knot and toss it in the garbage can along with the ruins of her lunch, she paused and frowned. The files…oh yes, the files. The files must be labeled. More than that, the checks must be compiled and organized and all the old receipts must be sorted and shredded. Otherwise, Adamson College would unravel. Nadine just knew it. Adamson College would unravel and she would be the first to go. Tossing her wadded-up lunch into the garbage can, she gulped and hurried out of the park.


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Amy Pollard is a poet, writer and student. She maintains a book review blog at http://cafereads.blogspot.com/. Her poetry has appeared (or is forthcoming) in Emerge Literary Journal, Eunoia Review and The Copperfield Review.

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Author: Amy Pollard

Contributor: Gary Clifton

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"George, you know them darkies ain't allowed in here." George stood on Turner's Drugstore stoop in the sweltering August sun. James and Early Dee behind, stared at their bare feet on the brick sidewalk, their faded jeans, nearly white from years of harsh washing and sun-bleaching on a hot clothesline, gapped six inches above the ankles.

"Made a nickel apiece rakin' Miz Evan's leaves. Jes' wanted to buy some candy." In 1952, a nine year old had good reason to be afraid of a big man in the Alabama Klan like Willis Turner. Turner was heavily into "The Cause" of white superiority.

"Get your white trash ass in here and buy for them."

George picked out a meager selection while James and Early Dee stood, noses pressed against the window glass. Turner took his money easily enough. "Keep runnin' with them coloreds out there," he gestured, "and your mama's shack likely gonna have a fire, George," Turner said, eyes radiating hatred. He was fiftyish, roundish, with yellow teeth and a thin comb-over. "And don't sit out there on my curb." He stepped out and kicked at Early Dee's backside, but missed.

That night, Turner's Drugstore burned smooth to the ground. The "cause" here was definitely arson by gasoline. Townspeople spread the word ol' Turner was up to insurance fraud.

Sheriff Roberts agreed, because he slapped Turner in jail. But one of the Klan was a judge and sprung him. It would have been Turner's ass, the sheriff said, if only he could find the gas can.

The insurance company wouldn't pay and Turner ended up sitting on the curb in front of a pile of burn debris - until the bank repossessed the property. Seems the banker, a vocal Klan brother, wasn't quite as imbued with the Klan "cause" as Willis Turner when dollars were the bottom line.

An old wino was said to have drunkenly slurred more than once he'd seen George, James, and Early Dee toss a gas can into a passing boxcar. He guzzled so much wine he died of cirrhosis not long after. Who'd believe three kids from skidsville had enough sense to burn down a drugstore anyway?

Nobody ever did try to set fire to George's shanty. Not enough fervent "cause" by the bigots to muster the courage to attempt the deed, you might suppose


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Gary Clifton, forty years a cop has over thirty short fiction pieces published or pending with online sites. He has an M.S. from Abilene Christian University.

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Author: Gary Clifton