Contributor: Leonard Treman

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The fortune cookie read, “First, the unthinkable will happen. Then there will be world peace. Then a lobster will ask your hand in marriage. Then the world will end.”

Clara began to laugh hysterically. That fortune cookie was awful. She looked at her fiancé and said, “Have you ever seen anything like that in a fortune cookie before?”

Her husband to be, Bill looked her in the face and said, “No.”

His nose twitched, his nose always twitched when he lied.

“Can’t you ever tell the truth?” Clara asked.

“Of course I can,” Bill said.

Clara sighed and let it go; it was not worth a fight.

The next morning she drove to work. She was a teacher at cobblestone elementary, but more than that, she was a kindergarten teacher. She started her day and noticed that the teacher’s assistant had given them all Sippy cups. It looked to be apple juice in each one.

Later that day, Clara looked down at all the little angels and smiled. For once, they were all doing what they were supposed to do and not running amuck.

Clara thought, I always thought the day the kids all behave is the day the world ends.

Clara had a brief suspicion and turned on the class radio for a moment. “, and in a historic movement the US senate and house have universally voted to become one with the super nation called the United Nation in desperation to try to com-,” Clara shut off the radio. She had a suspicion what was going on.

Clara thought warmly, Bill is such an idiot.

A tapping came at the window. Clara looked over and saw a giant lobster. Her first inclination would have been to scream or go to the doctor, but she had some idea who the lobster was and what he wanted.

She opened the window to the fake looking lobster costume. It was wearing khakis on some very human looking legs. The lobster suit tail hung from the back of the suit which seemed to drape over her fiancé’s shoulders.

The giant red claw held out a diamond engagement ring into the window.

“Bill, are you serious? Do you know how long I’ve waited for this?” Clara asked.

Bill stood there silent staring at her.

Clara smiled, “You are so weird, but yes! I will marry you,” she leaned forward and gave the mask a kiss when a sudden pounding came at the door.

Clara broke from the kiss and grabbed the box from the lobster claw and walked to the door.

When she opened the thick wood door, Bill fell inside. He was missing an arm that’s stub was covered in blood.

“They’ve drugged the water supply,” Bill said lying on the floor coughing up blood.

Clara looked over at the kids who were as complacent as vegetables.

He began to convulse violently and he grabbed Clara’s arm and looked up at her.

“Whatever you do, don’t say no,” Bill said.

He fell over, and passed out from blood loss.

Clara blinked a couple times to make sure she wasn’t dreaming.

She wasn’t.


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Leonard Treman is a 23 year old author who lives in Michigan, USA. He's been published 5 times so far and hopes to one day go pro.

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Author: Leonard Treman

Contributor: Acquanetta M. Sproule

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"Blurrrpulrr'rr?" Wwurrburrlurrbela asked it's partner in crime -- for the third time.

Kerrplukkerrlurrkle gurgled it's amusement, "You worry too much, old friend! If these things are as unusual as you've said, I wouldn't miss perceiving them for anything. Besides, what could possibly happen that we two couldn't handle?"

"Very Well," Wwurrburrlurrbela glurmbled discontentedly, "I just hope that I won't be sorry for having mentioned it."

Kerrplukkerrlurrkle, demonstrating its confidence, oozed ahead even faster through and out of the porous rock, collecting itself into a handsome, brown puddle on the sandy beach. It jiggled with delight as Wwurrburrlurrbela struggled to catch up.

"Keep to the darker areas," Wwurrburrlurrbela warned, "the brighter ones hurt and make you dry out too fast."

Kerrplukkerrlurrkle obediently withdrew its fringes under the rocky shelf.

"Yes," it admitted, "that does feel a lot better."

Kerrplukkerrlurrkle began discerning the alien landscape, its most disconcerting aspect being that the walls of this place didn't go all the way up to the bright blue ceiling with its moving whiteness!

"How can you catch the meat up there?" asked Kerrplukkerrlurrkle, extending a pseudopod to point at the noisy creatures wheeling above and occasionally diving down into the water.

"I've never been able to," admitted Wwurrburrlurrbela, "except when they come down to stone."

"What do they taste like?"

"Like fish and not like fish."

"Not much of an answer," glumbered Kerrplukkerrlurrkle.

"Best I can do. Maybe we'll hunt a bit, later, and see if you're as good as you think you are ..." challenged Wwurrburrlurrbela.

"Glurplur'kl!" scoffed Kerrplukkerrlurrkle.

Ensconced beneath the rocky overhang, they jiggled so much they were both nearly foaming. It was a while before they got themselves back under control.

"Now, where," gurgled Kerrplukkerrlurrkle, "are those things that've been keeping you so preoccupied recently?"

"Follow -- if you can!"

Wwurrburrlurrbela kerplunked on to the hot sands, drew itself into a flap flopping cylinder, and raced around the rocky base.

"HA!" answered Kerrplukkerrlurrkle. With a pop, it puffed itself into a sphere and dashed into the lead.

"Do you know where you're going?" Wwurrburrlurrbela teased.

"Perhaps not! But I'll get there before you!"

Knowing what lay ahead, Wwurrburrlurrbela flopped to a stop and waited as Kerrplukkerrlurrkle barrelled 'round this particular bend.

SPLOOSH!

"Arrrgh!"

Wwurrburrlurrbela unrolled itself and crept, bubbling uproariously, along the rock face. There Kerrplukkerrlurrkle deflated noisily, mired in some sticky glop that shrouded the sand and rocks, and water and assorted creatures. The stuff very much resembled one of Kerrplukkerrlurrkle's and Wwurrburrlurrbela's People, IF it was long dead and decaying and very, very, VERY big.

"You really should try to be less impulsive!" gurgled the still bubbling Wwurrburrlurrbela.

"You knew this would happen!" accused Kerrplukkerrlurrkle.

"Not really. But knowing you, it was a safe bet!"

"Are you going to hang there foaming, or are you going to help me out?"

Anchoring itself securely, (Wwurrburrlurrbela had much experience in the types of tricks Kerrplukkerrlurrkle was inclined to pull), Wwurrburrlurrbela cautiously exuded a pseudopod out to Kerrplukkerrlurrkle, who twined a temporary tentacle around Wwurrburrlurrbela's, then gave two quick tugs.

"If you don't behave yourself, I'll let you try and haul your own self out," warned Wwurrburrlurrbela.

"Just making sure you had a good grip."

"Right."

"Wouldn't want you ending up down here in the muck with me."

"'Course not. You ready yet?"

"Ready!" gurgled Kerrplukkerrlurrkle.

Wwurrburrlurrbela retracted itself, reeling in Kerrplukkerrlurrkle until, with a sucking splurp, it broke free, somersaulted over Wwurrburrlurrbela and splatted safely on the rock face.

"You should have warned me about that stuff!"

"You're welcome. Come on, and be more careful!"

Wwurrburrlurrbela slithered carefully around the rocks. Kerrplukkerrlurrkle followed close on Wwurrburrlurrbela's fringes.

"There!" exclaimed Wwurrburrlurrbela.

It pointed toward the sludge speckled sands. Running and bouncing to and fro among narrower, taller form locked creatures that seemed to be trying to scrub the sticky, black glop from struggling meat, were the reasons for their upward quest. The things were a deep stone gray, flat surfaced and put together with many angles. Hanging between four obscenely stiff and truncated tentacles were transparent sacs, filled to different levels with the glop and sand and various other incidentals.

"Disgusting!" proclaimed Kerrplukkerrlurrkle.

"Yes, but watch this!" Wwurrburrlurrbela extended and flattened out a small section of itself and folded its end over, leaving a little space surrounded by loose membrane. It whirled this overbody, producing a thin whistling sound.

"You should do that during the next Festival," advised Kerrplukkerrlurrkle, admiringly.

Wwurrburrlurrbela continued signalling until several of the things ambled over to investigate.

"Now, remember," cautioned Wwurrburrlurrbela, "don't get too close to the sucking ends, keep a tight grip on the rock, don't let your ..."

"Yes, yes," interrupted Kerrplukkerrlurrkle, "you lectured me all the way up, Wwurrburrlurrbela! I remember, I remember! ..."

Wwurrburrlurrbela eased upward along the rock face.

"... You really are much too young to be such a nag!" continued Kerrplukkerrlurrkle.

Wwurrburrlurrbela oozed back into the rock's cavities.

"Where are you going, now?"

"Someone has to deliver the sad news."

"WHAT sad news?"

"The sad news about what happened to you," Wwurrburrlurrbela explained from the safety of the rocky pores.

"Wha ... !?!"

SLURP!!

Trembling, Wwurrburrlurrbela compressed against the walls of its hiding places until the snuffling sounds from outside moved away.

Then, continued waiting, for a long, long time.

Finally, cautiously, it telescoped out a pseudopod. The things had returned to suctioning the glop from the sand. Some, with bloated belly compartments, trotted over to a cavernous container, spewing their loads into it, then resumed their cleaning.

Even from this distance, Wwurrburrlurrbela perceived that one of the things had a belly bulging full of a handsome, brown puddle.

"Thank you, thing," Wwurrburrlurrbela gurgled quietly. It retracted and began its long trek home.

Above, of its churning brown belly, some thing queried: "Bark?"


- - -

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Author: Acquanetta M. Sproule

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.


- - -
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.”


- - -
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

- -
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

- -
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.


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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