Contributor: Sean Crose

- -
Five minutes after we got off the boat we were back on the bus heading towards the hotel. Our last night in Paris, the city of light.
“Beautiful,” she said.
I nodded.
“It really is impressive.”
“I've never seen anything like it.”
“Washington D.C. is similar.”
“Is it?”
“Sort of,” I shrugged. “Each town has its own distinct personality, though.”
We had been on tour together the whole week. I was in my twenties at the time, she her fifties. She had a husband back home in New Zealand.
“I'll miss France,” she said.
“I'm going to miss it, too. Still, it will be good to see my family.”
“I've been missing my husband and dogs,” she smiled.
“You won't be missing them much longer.”
We drove under the Arc de Triomphe and progressed through the Champs-Élysées. People on the tour bus were snapping pictures, soaking in the city for the last time before heading to home to wherever it might be home was.
“I like traveling,” I exclaimed. “It makes the world seem that much bigger.”
She didn't respond. In fact, she didn't say a word for a good ten minutes. She just stared out the window.
“There's Montparnasse in the distance,” I exclaimed.
She still remained silent.
Fifteen minutes later we were back in La Defense, back at the hotel. I wondered if the Vietnamese joint across the plaza was still open.
“Oh Kurt,” she said suddenly, “I have cancer.”
Since that moment I've been wondering how one is to respond to such an abrupt, grave statement.
“I'm so sorry to hear that.”
“I shouldn't have brought it up.”
“Why wouldn't you?”
She shrugged.
“I'm sure it's being treated,” I offered.
She nodded.
“There's hope, then.”
She shrugged once more.
“It doesn't look good.”
“Hang in there,” I said. “Keep fighting the good fight.”
Our rooms were on the same floor. Donald Fagan sang through the speakers of the elevator as we made our way up. The two of us stood there in silence until the doors opened. I now understood why her hair was so short.
“Well,” she abruptly chirped as we stepped into the hallway, “I guess this is it.”
I wanted to say that it's never “it,” at least one should never admit to that fact. I opted, though, to nod silently.
“Take care, then,” she said.
“Have a great flight back,” I replied.
She turned and made her way down the hall. I wondered if I should call out and ask for her email address, her phone number, anything that would allow me to be kept abreast. I decided not to, though, why, I don't know.


- - -

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Author: Sean Crose

Contributor: James Higgins

- -
Another Friday night at the railroad yard. When the last brown bottle was empty I punched the clock with my fist and walked out the door. A beautiful warm summer night. I picked Susie up behind the general store. She was shy at first, but gave in when I sang to her. We went back to my home and I fell through the screen door into the kitchen.
Inside the living room was Mabel. Mabel was old, boring and asleep on the couch in front of the radio, as usual. She looked up from her dirty afghan. Susie and I crept across the floor through the dim glow of the lantern. Mabel lowered her eyes and disapproved but remained silent, as usual. Susie slept in my bed but I woke up alone, as usual. It was three weeks before I saw her again.
I brought Susie home for good and chained her to the wall. "It's better this way." Susie didn't fight. Sometimes she would cry at night and sometimes she would smile.
We've lived together for seven years. I talk about work and Susie is a great listener. We sleep a lot. We eat a lot. We listen to the radio. We go for walks at sundown.
Today her four legs couldn't carry her down the stairs so I shot her in the back of the head. I buried her in the yard next to Mabel.


- - -
James Higgins is a teacher in Detroit. He writes fiction and non-fiction.

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Author: James Higgins

Contributor: Jeff Hill

- -
He walked into the very poorly lit bar and took the stool right next to me, even though there were literally dozens of other available seats to choose from. I politely smiled and raised my glass to his arrival, but the look he gave me sent chills right down to my core. He glared at me. He hated me.
But screw him. He was the one who chose to sit by me. Obviously he had something on his mind. He had to. Why else would he have sat next to a complete stranger in an almost empty bar?
I opened my mouth to make a comment on the latest game or the weather, I’m not really sure which, when he put up his hand and stopped me. “Don’t,” he said. “Just… Don’t.”
So I didn’t.
Instead, I picked up my drink and walked to the other end of the bar. Disgusted and a little confused, I finished my drink and signaled the bartender. He walked right past the strange, rude little man and asked me if I’d like another or to close out my tab.
I considered my options. I asked for my tab.
The strange little man across the bar started fidgeting around in his pocket and looked at me nervously. Pulling out his cell phone, he nonchalantly pointed it at the bartender and took a photo, sending it in a text message to god knows who. The bartender didn’t notice, so I paid him and started to summon up the courage to leave.
The other man’s phone vibrated, shaking the whole bar. He checked it. he glanced at me. He nodded at the bartender. And then pulled his gun and badge and arrested the man who had been serving me all night long.


- - -
Jeff Hill is a writer/teacher who graduated from the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. A proud alumnus of Phi Delta Theta Fraternity and regular participant of the National Novel Writing Month, Script Frenzy, and the Clarion West Write-a-Thon, he is also a past participant in the Nebraska Summer Writers Conference and the Sarah Lawrence College Summer Seminar for Writers in New York. His fiction has appeared in Weirdyear, Cuento Magazine, Weekly Artist, Writing Raw, Microhorror, Fiction 365, Flashes in the Dark, Postcard Shorts, Static Movement, Eunoia Review, and The Cynic Online Magazine and is forthcoming in Apocrypha and Abstractions.

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Author: Jeff Hill

Contributor: Gary Clifton

- -
DEA tried a dozen ways to make a buy off this dealer "Red Fred" - white guy who operated around Grand Avenue east of Fair Park. A skinny lunk with scruffy red hair, he wore a bullet scar through his face - a little round circle on each cheek.
Boss was up my ass to bust the guy. My snitch, Willie One Nut said Red Fred hung around a crap game in a house just off R.L. Thornton Freeway. "Jes' walk in with me, toss some bread on the table, and bingo...two honkys playing like old buds. And Home, I'm gonna split, soon as you touch them dice."
Hell, piece of cake. Besides Red Fred and Me, there were five other shooters and two or three more spectators leaning on walls. Nobody seemed concerned about two white guys playing. Flash my roll, convince him I was fiendin', see if he would offer up any crank he might be holding - Red Fred's ass was about to be mine.
They kept a "good-eye" on the front door. His job was to jigger if the cops showed, not security - every guy there had at least one pistol. The good-eye flew backwards through the door, knocking two crap shooters flat. Everybody clawed for pistols.
This clone of Frankenstein, African American version, eyes stoned two days deep, wearing a brilliant tan, leather suit and waving a metal pipe materialized in the doorway. He started around the table, his eyes lasered on a skinny little dude next to me. "Sucker," he lunged for the little guy, "...I swam an ocean of shit to pay my debts and now you gonna pay yours."
Little Dude came out with a chrome plated .32 revolver, pointed it the general direction of Leather Suit and fired. Leather Suit grabbed his thigh. "That ain't shit," he continued advancing. The shooter let fly again. Leather Suit grabbed his shoulder. "That ain't shit." On he came. Little Guy held the .32 in both hands and at arms length put one in the center of Leather Suit's chest. "Oh shit," Leather Suit groaned and fell on the floor, deader than last Thanksgiving's turkey.
Half the Dallas Police Department showed up, then some DEA people. "Why didn't you draw your weapon and intercede?" the DEA honcho asked..
"Did...hid beneath the table, got out my piece and saw everyone else down there all holding at least one pistol. I opted to stay alive to tell this interesting story."
Turned out the dead guy was called "Rain". He was wearing a brand new nine hundred dollar, moleskin suit, whatever that is. The morgue found the receipt in his pocket. Should have used the cash to buy a pistol - better range than a chunk of pipe in a gunfight. They funeralized Rain in his moleskin suit - must have found brilliant tan tape to cover the holes.
Two nights later, they found Red Fred in an alley down the street - his head beat in with a tire iron. Nope, I didn't do it. Turned out his name was Sylvester Crabbepool. That's reason enough to kill that rascal.


- - -
Gary Clifton, forty years a cop has about forty short fiction pieces published or pending with online sites. He's now out to pasture on a dusty north Texas ranch.

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Author: Gary Clifton

Contributor: Acquanetta M. Sproule

- -
Peterboro had come to the wrong side of town to play.

His Rescuer whistled for a cab.

For some reason, the closest cab driver sped up and kept driving.

The Rescuer pulled a pistol from his back waist-band, shot out two of
the taxi's tires and whistled for another cab.

This one stopped.

The Rescuer settled Peterboro into the back seat and handed the driver
a C-note.

He winked at Peterboro, then returned to the alley where he'd just saved
Peterboro's butt from three muggers.

What sounded like three gunshots scattered the lookee-lous and spurred
Peterboro's driver into traffic.

Peterboro didn't feel as embarrassed as he might've.

From the smell, the driver was gonna have to clean the front seat as well
as the back…


- - -
I write weird stuff.

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Author: Acquanetta M. Sproule

Contributor: Anant Hariharan

- -

The only noise that filtered through the gently shimmering mist of snowflakes was the throbbing beat of dark, pristinely laced shoes against the sidewalk. 

You can do this, Will-

The teenager twisted his head towards the nearest house; the blaze of luminescence emanating from the dwelling surpassed the pitiful glow of all the streetlights that adorned the narrow road. It was flanked by an array of vehicles that included a five-wheeled motorbike acrimoniously letting out slow, grating rumbles, as well as an exhibition of sports cars and a single mini blissfully parked several meters away from the rest of its loud-mouthed relatives.

-Just go over there and say hi.

Will took two quivering steps; past two boys slumped against a patch of broken shrubbery like beaten scarecrows, their sweaty arms fastened tightly around each other’s necks. 

Up the six creaky steps and the moth-eaten wooden railing; onto the panels that wove bent lines of darkness through the oak flooring. 

Three knocks on the hard door; two confident, the last one uncertain. Feeling the pulse of the music that wove through the house depart his body as he withdrew his palm from the doorknob, Will stood apprehensively, his arms pressed to his sides. 

The wall of wood swung open to reveal a sweaty-faced, handsome teenager sporting a leather jacket and a mildly annoyed expression.

“Hi, Benjamin!” Will burst out, a little over-enthusiastically.

A strand of hair plastered to the boy’s forehead broke free of its restraints and sprung into the dry night air. He looked Will up and down, his eyes hovering over the other boy’s raised shoulders and faintly quivering legs. 

He shook his head from side to side with just the barest hint of condescension. 

“Sorry, kid. The party’s winding down already-” He began, a burst of electronic music and an accompanying chorus of yells drowning out the rest of his sentence. 

“I mean, um-” He rubbed the back of his head embarrassedly. 

“Look, there’re plenty of good places to be tonight, y’know?” He said, smiling sheepishly at Will and taking a slight step backwards.

“Wait, Benjamin. I’m Will, remember? We were friends in grade nine!” Will burst out desperately, flicking away the hood that obscured his weedy brown hair.

“-and grade eight and seven, and, um, six and five...” He added awkwardly, his hands flopping uselessly at his sides.

Benjamin raised his eyebrows. 

“Of course. You’re...Will?” He asked, not troubling to keep the surprise out of his voice. 

“Yeah. Maybe we could talk or something... in there?” Will asked, jerking his head towards the doorway blocked by the other boy’s large frame. 

Benjamin looked at Will confusedly, as if unsure of what to do. Then he smiled.

“It’s been, I don’t know, nearly a year since-” He began, as a girl emerged from inside the house into the constricted space. Leaning against Benjamin, she draped her arms across the boy’s shoulders and flipped a long curtain of smooth golden hair back down her neck.

“Hey, Ben.” She purred into his ear.

“What’s going on?” She paused, looking at Will.

“And who’s this midget?” She added.

“Um, I’m Will. Hi.” He said confidently, thrusting his hand forwards and gallantly ignoring the jibe.

The girl shrugged her shoulders and turned away, drawing both boys’ glances until she had faded into the murky fumes of club music that seemed to tantalizingly swirl a few meters past the doorway.

Benjamin blinked twice. 

“Yeah, well, Will. It was cool to see you again, yeah? I’ll keep an eye out for you, then.” Benjamin said, turning around with an unconcerned expression on his face.

“Uh-hey, wai-!”

The door slammed shut with a menacing growl of wood. 

***

Will raised the glass to his lips and drank deeply; the liquid seared his throat, making him cough a little. As vile as it was, Will couldn’t quite shake off the feeling that the world seemed to make more sense when seen through the warped exterior of the glass.

“Tough break, huh?” Came a sympathetic voice to his right. Will ceased staring through his glass. 

A short, middle-aged man behind the counter was looking at him. Single-handedly cleaning a glass with a ragged cloth, he held Will’s gaze. 

“...Yeah.” Will said morosely, holding the now empty glass upside-down by its handle. 

“Wanna talk about it, kid?” 

“No. It’s just-”

The barman gently put his glass down, turning both his eyes on the boy.

“I guess I didn’t realize how much people change.” Will blurted out, his voice so squeaky one might think the man had just scrubbed it clean.

“One day they’re your friend, and when you come back after a year- they’re, bigger, and d-d-.” The words seemed to drain out of his mouth.

“Different?” The man supplied, looking at Will knowingly. 

“Yeh.” Will put in. 

The barman let out a short sigh. 

“Don’t worry about it, kid. If it’s any consolation, things’ll get better. They always do.”

Will glared hazily at the barman through a fog of frustration.

“What do you know?”

The barman let out a grating, harsh laugh. 

“What do I know, he asks.” He muttered in a dark undertone. 

“Hey!” The man let out a hoarse yell.

In an instant, silence rippled through the space as heads twisted towards the source of the noise.

“How many of you guys’ve been right where the kid is now?” The barman asked, pointing at Will. 

Around the boy, a host of hands burst into the air; hands clutching beer mugs, hands stained with grime, and hands balled into fists so tight that thin bones seemed ready to burst out of their skin. Wads of crinkled playing cards and empty cigarette lighters clattered to the floor as nearly everyone in the bar thrust their palms into the heady air.

Will was transfixed by the worn figures now looking expressionlessly back at him; their tired hands seemed to beckon him over to them.

- - -
I'm an avid sixteen-year old writer who writes novels, short stories, and poetry. I'm currently attempting to enjoy my final years of high school.

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Author: Anant Hariharan

Contributor: Acquanetta M. Sproule

- -
“Please! Don’t do this!”

(...tired...so tired...)

“We love you!”

(...yeah, right...like pizza or cookies or various types of chocolate...)

“Please come out...”

(...I think that I shall miss butterflies most...)

“...let’s talk about things!”

(...but then, butterflies are eaten, too.)

“NO!!!!!...oh no...”


- - -

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Author: Acquanetta M. Sproule

Contributor: Jim Clinch

- -
Betty lived alone. It was how she liked it, and one of the few positive contributions she made to the world.

She watched the soap opera network at high volume because her hearing was going. She chain smoked long, filtered lady cigarettes and had a cat named Bob until one night he didn’t come back in large part because he was sick of the loud TV, her secondhand smoke and the crummy table scraps.

Leon broke in to the old single-wide because he thought no one was home. The blaring TV might have suggested otherwise, but he’d heard somewhere that old people sometimes leave the TV on while they are away to make burglars think someone’s home. Leon thought he was pretty smart not to fall for that trick. Leon had an IQ that bordered on the mentally disabled range.

When he saw Betty in her dirty recliner he gasped, not because he was shocked to find someone home but because he thought she was dead. Her pail, bony frame clad in a worn housecoat looked like a withered corpse, the big chair like her coffin. She wasn’t dead, though. Her head turned quickly in his direction and her eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed to squinty slits as she regarded the young man in her tiny living room. The flickering lights from the TV were the only illumination and they made the shadows dance around the edges of the dim tableau.

“Waddaya want!” she barked, her voice a low and husky pre-cancerous rasp. A cigarette burned among a dozen dead compadres in a fifty-year-old ashtray that said “Stolen From Ernie’s BBQ, Racine, WS” somewhere beneath the soot and stubs.

“Ahh . . . Ahh . . . I got a gun! Leon yelled, louder than he needed to.

“The fuck you do!” Betty growled. “'I got a gun.’ Bullshit! Show me!”

Leon appreciated the suggestion and wished he’d thought of it himself. He pulled the small pistol from the back of his waistband and held it sideways like the gangstas he’d seen in music videos. Betty laughed at him. It was not only humiliating, it was one of the weirdest sounds Leon had ever heard. Her laugh soon devolved into a spasm of coughing. When she finished she picked up the cigarette and took a long drag.

“Gimme your shit, lady,” Leon demanded. He thought he sounded tough.

“Fuck you!” Betty said.

Leon was taken aback. Old ladies were not supposed to talk like that. Leon’s grandmother would never do that and had, in fact, once made Leon eat a tablespoon of hot sauce for using the “F” word. It made his eyes water just thinking about it.

“I got a gun!” he said again.

“Me, too,” Betty said. “Right here in my chair. Now get outa here ‘fore I shoot you!”

Leon thought for a moment. He kept his weapon on the old woman while looking around the room. Man, what was he thinking breaking into a place like this? He should be robbing rich folks. This old bitch had nothing to steal. He would be seriously laughed at by his friends. Again.

Leon lowered the gun and looked at Betty, frowning. “You got pills?” he demanded. “Per-scriptions?”

“Healthy as an ox,” she replied. “So, smart guy, what-cha gonna take? Soup? Saltine crackers? My smokes? Oh, wait, how ‘bout that cat clock on the wall? See? The tail goes back an’ forth and the eyes move. Really spruce up your ‘crib.’”

Leon put the gun back in the waist of his sweatpants. He felt embarrassed. He thought about his grandmother again. He felt ashamed.

“So, you want some cocoa?” Betty asked in her raspy, croaking voice.

“Um . . . no . . .”

“Some tea maybe?”

“Um . . . no . . .”

“Good!” Betty barked. “I got none ‘a that shit anyway. So, make yourself useful and get me a beer before you go.”

Leon looked down at the skinny, wrinkled old woman in the big chair. He didn’t know what to do. This had not gone at all like he had imagined. Stuff just never did for Leon.

He sighed and, without a word, walked a few paces to the refrigerator in the tiny kitchen area. He opened the door and heard a pop, then two more. He fell to the yellowed linoleum, on his back, looking up at an old woman, her face hard and creased and utterly remorseless in the light from the open refrigerator door. She reached down toward his face, a tiny wisp of smoke curling from the barrel of the five-shot .38 and put a final round in his head.

Betty lived alone. She liked it that way.


- - -
I am a Florida author living in a small town on the Gulf coast. I am also a singer/songwriter, and I enjoy writing humorous songs poking fun at the bellicose and pompous. It is a target rich environment.

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Author: Jim Clinch

Contributor: Anton Gunasingam

- -
"There's a monk at our front door," I told my sister.

She was in bed reading a book. “What does he want?”

“He won’t say. He’s just standing there and grinning.”

She didn't look up. "Tell mom."

"I already did."

"And..."

"She's busy emailing someone. She said she'll speak to him in a minute."

"Did you ask him in? Mom will say you didn't show him any respect. And she'll be mad."

"Already did. But like I told you he isn’t replying."

"Is he one of those foreign guys who can't speak English?"

"No. He looks like us. But he's got a bowl under his arm."

"A bowl?" My sister was interested. "What kind of a bowl?"

I shrugged. "I don't know. But it’s a pretty big one. Like those bowls you put fish in."

My sister shut her book. "Let's go have a look."

He didn't see us check him out from the upstairs window. And from where we stood, we couldn't see much of him either. Just the top his head and it was all white and gleaming as if he'd massaged it with a load of grease.

My sister stared at him for a long while without speaking. When she finally turned and looked at me, she had a worried look on her face.

"What's the matter?" I asked her.

She said, "I think he's come for your Ferrari."

I said, "What are you saying?"

She said, "Didn't you see what dad was reading the other day?"

I shook my head. She said, "It's a book called The Monk Who Sold His Ferrari."

I stared at her puzzled. "What does that have to do with this guy who's on our doorstep?"

She said, "Don't you get it, Dumbo?"

I shook my head.

She said, "The monk sold his Ferrari, so now he's come for yours."

Of all the cars I owned, the Ferrari was my prized possesson. It was what I dreamt about when I slept. So naturally, I hoped she was wrong. I said, "The guy on the cover of dad's book, he looks different. It can't be him."

She disagreed. "Then, why is he carrying a bowl?" she asked. When I didn't reply, she gave me the answer. "It’s to put your Ferrari in, Dumbo."

"Well, he's not taking it away. I'm not giving it to him," I said firmly.

Sister gave me a sad look. "You don't have a choice, Dumbo. If he asks, mom won't refuse. She'll never turn a monk down." She seemed so certain of what she was saying that it had me worried. "But it's my Ferrari," I protested. "She can't give away my things without asking me."

Sister shrugged. "Who bought it for you?"

"Dad."

"And?"

"Mom."

"So she can give it away," she said.

"But it's mine. They gave it to me."

My sister sighed. "I know that. You know that. And mom and dad know that. But when a monk appears and asks for your Ferrari, how can they refuse? Think of what'll happen if they do. They’ll get landed with bad
karma."

"But it's not fair," I wailed. Sister put her finger to her lips. "Shush. He might hear you. And that will be worse."

"I said, "I don't care. It's my car. And I want it."

Then, we heard mom at the door. She spoke to the monk. My sister bit her hand. "It's bye-bye time for your Ferrari, brother."

Mom went into the kitchen. When she came out she headed straight back to the open door. There was more conversation. We heard a rustling. Mom put something into the monk's bowl. Then, he was gone and she
shut the door.

"Mom," I called out.

"Yes, dear?"

"What did the monk want?"

"Some food, dear," Mom said.

Next to me, my sister shook her head. Her twelve-year-old eyes were wider than usual. "She's lying, brother," she whispered. "Don't believe her. She's lying. How can she tell you the truth about your car? Better go check for yourself. The last time, I saw it, it was on the floor next to my Barbie."


- - -
I have a BA in Mass Communications and I write features for 'The Sunday Island'

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Author: Anton Gunasingam

Contributor: Leonard Treman

- -
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.


- - -
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