Contributor: Sean Crose

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In truth you prefer the dry harvest to its more colorful counterpart. Who wants to work with water outdoors in November? Besides, the dry harvest allows you to mostly work alone. It's just you, nature, the gas-powered picker, and the cranberries.
Naturally such solitary manual labor causes one's mind to wander. You tend to think of two things as you work your way across the rows of hard earth: the past and your ambitions.
In a distinct way you see them both as being connected, since you never actually fulfilled the promises you made to yourself back in the day. You wonder what some of your peers would say if they saw you now, toiling in soiled jeans at six-thirty in the morning.
Would they be embarrassed or would they simply turn to one another with “I told you so” looks? Of course you'd tell them that you love the work and are still planning on attending law school. Yet, being almost forty, that bold proclamation doesn't carry that much weight. You wonder if you even have the ambition to attend night classes anymore.
And so you continue on with your dry harvest, toiling under the awareness that others are thriving. On some mornings you find yourself wondering if your endless youth has finally morphed into belated adulthood. You've yet to come up with an answer to that question. You know only that all dry harvests come to an end.


- - -
My work has appeared in such publications as FICTION 365, CRACK THE SPINE, THE COPPERFIELD REVIEW and, of course, LINGUISTIC EROSION. I live in Connecticut with my wife, Jen, and Cody, the world's greatest cat.

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Author: Sean Crose

Contributor: Christopher Grey
- -


The heat seemed worst after dusk, as if the layers of summer piled on top of each other under a thick, humid, blanket. That is why he sat on the roof of his building, enjoying a cigarette and flipping through a magazine. The last of his beer was consumed half an hour ago and so he was thirsty, drowsy and fighting a headache.

Still, it was cooler up there.

He heard sirens below and rose to look out over the street, but stopped. There was lavender in the air and so he knew she was there.

"The girl I can't forget," he said without turning.

She didn't respond.

"Do you remember our song?"

His mind fluttered away for a moment, recalling their time in Madrid. Candlelight hovering above the plaza. Red wine. The scent of lavender.

"The melody only," he lied.

He felt her breath behind him and gentle fingers squeezing his arm, running down to his hand and to the tips of his fingers.

She began humming softly, the music entering from deep inside conjuring it all. The war. The lost battle on the mountain. The scimitar driving past the breastplate and icy pain splinters piercing into his core. He remembered seeing the red cross on white flags above the horizon, collapsing underneath smoke and fire.

"Why New York?" She asked quietly.

"So I'll forget."

"But you can't."

He turned to her. She had the same radiance she did three centuries years ago. Dark skin and green eyes. Improbable perfection in her eastern face.

"How did you find me?" He asked, but didn't need to. She always found him. Even before Spain, before Gaul. When Iberia was a colony and the ships arrived in their majesty from the Atlantic continent. She found him then. She found him in Athens. And in Thebes. In Alexandria and in the wastes of the Bavarian winter.

"I can see your heart," she said.

"Then you know I am lost."

"It's the saddest it has ever been," her voice was just above a whisper.

He held her hands and brought her close.

"You have to take me to him?" He asked, but didn't need to. She didn't answer, only took his lips with hers. Lavender spilled into him and for a moment he could feel nothing else.

When they released her eyes softened and she said, "It is time."

Behind her, he saw the masked man, dark overcoat whipping and cracking in a wind that didn't exist.

"Where will I be the next time?"

She lead him to the masked man, gently holding his hand.

"We don't know if there will be a next time."

He stayed silent, understanding. It was all coming to an end. His role was finished. He was unnecessary. As lost as he thought he was. When he closed his eyes, he pictured rising through the light, swimming through the sea of fire that created the light, and dissolving into the dark abyss that separates mankind from God.

The masked man was cold and quiet, as he always was. He held a revolver in a gloved hand. A far cry from the old days when he carried a scythe or trident.

She was quiet too, unable to look him in the eyes. Even in the dark heat of the New York summer, she was beautiful. He would have said "I love you" before the masked man shot him, but he didn't need to.

His lifelong trial was at last over and he rose through the light, swam through the sea of fire and dissolved into the abyss before God.


- - -

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Author: Christopher Grey

Contributor: Ray Daley
- -


I'm sitting there alone on a park bench with nothing but the fading remnants of my thoughts and dreams for company when the bomb finally goes off. There are children who are still playing on the swings, people are walking their dogs too. A little way down the path a couple are walking, holding hands, probably on their first date.

On the pond, ducks and swans are competing for space with the model boat enthusiasts. Underneath the shady Oak trees a family is bonding over a picnic lunch.

And this is the way the world ends.

No countdown timer, no ticking clock, nothing visible to defuse. It's the ultimate weapon.

You can't disarm what you can't see.

When it happens it's the biggest bang since the first one.

***

And yet all around me they carry on with their lives as though nothing has changed for them, the kids swinging higher; determined to get over the top, sandwiches being passed around amongst friends and family, dogs refusing to let go of interesting sticks and ducks glaring at model yachts.

Because this is how my world ends.

Not with a bang, nor a whimper. The only victim of the fallout is me.

I sit alone on the bench where she just walked away, still holding the ring after she said no.

The bomb was dropped.

No.

The emotional time-bomb exploded. And this is how my world ends.

Wounded by rejection, death by broken heart.


- - -
Ray Daley was born in Coventry & still lives there. He served 6 yrs in the RAF as a clerk & spent most of his time in a Hobbit hole in High Wycombe. He is a published poet & has been writing stories since he was 10. His current dream is to eventually finish the Hitch Hikers fanfic novel he's been writing since 1986.

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Author: Ray Daley

Contributor: Portia Dawn

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It has happened again. The species of Earth has once again come to its turning point. Humans, animals, and plants. They all think they have what it takes to survive. But nobody can escape the inevitable. All things must come to an end.
But how have things survived so long? Because of women like us. The Mothers of Nature. There used to be hundreds of us.
Each time humanity needed us, one would step up to save them. In order for them to live, one of us must die.
I am the last one of many. Humanity has been given too many chances. I'm not going to fie for them.
I'm not afraid of death. They just keep making mistakes they can't fix. Polluting water, waging wars, and making even more decisions that could kill them all. After this last one, who knows if they'll survive without my help.
So I have only a little advice for humanity " Adapt or die."


- - -
I enjoy books.
I love to write.
I would love to meet all my heroes.

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Author: Portia Dawn

Contributor: Marian Brooks

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Every time Clara wears her black leather jacket she thinks of Joe Grimaldi. He purchased this jacket for her fifteen years ago. It’s missing a button now but otherwise, still wears well.

Clara graduated from an Ivy League university with a degree in English Literature. She loved ballroom dancing. She was quite tall, not really glamorous but classy and fashionable. She twisted her blonde hair neatly into a bun at the nape of her neck. Joe liked to kiss her there. It tingled for a long while afterward.

Clara categorized Joe as her first and only “true grit” boyfriend after the divorce. She was tired of academics and thought she might be missing something by limiting her mate selection to college graduates. Joe never finished high school, lived with his sister and sometimes drove a green taxi with several hefty dings on the passenger side. His grammar was deplorable. He took on construction work from time to time just to buy small trinkets for Clara. Joe had a blue lightning bolt tattooed on his right forearm. She’d never once dated anyone with a tattoo.

Joe loved to dance. In fact, that’s how they met, at the Summit Ballroom in New Jersey. It was an elegant venue with fine table linen and the customary mirrored ball rotating from the ceiling. Sometimes Joe would just jump up in mid-air during a swing number without any warning and land on the floor in a split. Clara laughed until she could no longer breathe. There was a glow on her face when they waltzed or tangoed. He made Italian spaghetti sauce from scratch. Joe thought Clara was beautiful. She was his “Uptown Girl.”

It took several months for the grammatical errors and lack of good manners to begin to grate on Clara’s sensibilities. He embarrassed her by greeting her friends with “Yo” and “Whazzup?” Eventually, all things conspired to reach the inevitable conclusion. She began making excuses for not being available and he began following her whenever he had the opportunity. He called Clara five times a day and parked his taxi outside of her upscale, high-rise condo, waiting and hoping. Ultimately, he gave up in frustration and, after a few choice expletives, drove away for the last time dragging his tailpipe.

Several months later, he discovered Sandy, a petite redhead, with a wild history. She helped him forget about Clara who was happy for them both and relieved for herself.

Clara met Ethan Granger, II at an art exhibit and, after a short courtship, married him. He knew when to applaud at concerts and could quote many Shakespearean sonnets. He often did just that. Ethan was grounded, handsome and refined, a gentleman whose decorum Clara could count on even though he had a weakness for outlandish bow ties. But he rarely kissed Clara and disliked dancing of any sort.

Two weeks ago, Clara’s friend called with the dreadful news that there had been an accident. Joe was dead. He had electrocuted himself at a hotel construction site. Although Clara had not seen Joe for over ten years, she felt an overpowering compulsion to visit his grave site. His tombstone read, “Joseph Grimaldi danced his way into this world on March 6, 1948 and split on June 12, 2004.” Clara reached for a tissue in the pocket of her black leather jacket and began to weep.


- - -
Recently retired, Marian Brooks has begun to write some short fiction. Her work has appeared in Curly Red Stories, Linnet's Wings, First Stop Fiction and others.

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Author: Marian Brooks

Contributor: Ray Daley

- -
A man comes to your house, he is wearing a grey suit. He pulls at his tie nervously as he speaks to your mother. She asks his name, "William Gibson" he replies. You later discover that he calls himself Twelve Bears, he is of the Navaho Nation. It is not a traditional name, he has not been named in the traditional First Nation way.

He was not named for the first thing his mother saw after giving birth to him.
He jokingly says "Otherwise my name would be Hospital Ceiling."

There are many other possible reasons why he calls himself this name. He may have seen twelve bears, he may have killed twelve bears. He may have even owned twelve bears at some point in his life.

You will later discover that none of these reasons are the correct one.

"My mother was a good woman" he tells your mother. He insists on speaking to you in person but you refuse to come down the stairs, he looks very scary, afterwards you can remember telling your mother that. "It doesn't really matter, there will be another day." he says to your mother and excuses himself, leaving your home as quickly as he had entered it.

The following week you see on television that he has been arrested by officers of the Oak Ridge Police Department for the crime of murder. He has killed a boy the same age as you, leaving his mother as the only witness that he "had to kill Baby Bear". He is still being called William Gibson by the news reporters. Only this time he is calling himself Thirteen Bears.

You will remember this forever.


- - -
Ray Daley was born in Coventry & still lives there. He served 6 yrs in the RAF as a clerk & spent most of his time in a Hobbit hole in High Wycombe. He is a published poet & has been writing stories since he was 10. His current dream is to eventually finish the Hitch Hikers fanfic novel he's been writing since 1986.

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Author: Ray Daley

Contributor: Matthew H Emma

- -
Over the last two years, Tim Emmer had seen 80 short stories and two novels in printed works that sold seven million copies. Success brought him critical notoriety, but also social duties. Eloise Branberry, Tim’s publisher and CEO of Year of the Tiger Books expected him to attend various Upper East Side social events.
Eloise somehow convinced Tim to host a soiree celebrating the signing of author Michael Stevens inside his Manhattan apartment. The gong show took place September 14, 2012. Beginning at seven o’clock, Branberry and her cronies descended. One complained about having to “rough it” by driving her Porsche because the Bentley was being serviced. Another bitched the Brie cheese was too strong for his palette.
He shook hands, pretended to be grateful for their half-assed praise and tried to smile while grinding his teeth. Finally, at a quarter-past eight, Belgian Countess Brigitte Vonyckx walked through the door. Revelers knew her, but not as Tim’s girlfriend. Brigitte was polite, extending her respects to all who approached. Tim waited 20 minutes before texting her.
“Hi,” he wrote.
“Be right there,” Brigitte typed back.
Tim let Brigitte work the room. He got up, went to the bar and downed a couple Heinekens. Ninety minutes later, his phoned beeped.
“Help me,” Brigitte jokingly declared in her message.
He glanced over and saw his better half speaking with Eloise, Michael and a few people he didn’t know. They made eye contact and waved to each other. Tim got an idea and grabbed his phone.
“You look so damn hot tonight,” he texted Brigitte. “I’m going to our room. If you love me, meet me there in 10.”
Tim left the bar and darted towards the master suite. He walked in and began to pace, while nervously hoping Brigitte would follow. Sure enough, exactly 10 minutes later, his wish came true.
“Did anyone see you?” Tim asked her, as she closed the door.
“I don’t think so,” Brigitte answered.
“Shit,” Tim said. “I wanted every last one of them to see you walk in here with me.”
“Tim,” Brigitte said. “We really shouldn’t do this. You’re the host.”
“Hon,” Tim responded. “Not one of them means a thing to me. Only you do. I am so madly in love and want you right now. If anyone notices, who cares? Please, just one hour. They have booze, fancy food and their shallow conversations to keep them entertained.”
“The writer again proves he has a way with words,” Brigitte said. “You persuaded me.”
They undressed quickly and made torrid love for an hour, first on the floor and then in the shower. After completing their tryst, the pair re-emerged.
Jane Litchfield, Tim’s publicist gave him a look and grinned.
“Did you do what I think you did?” she inquired.
“Absolutely,” Tim responded.
“Alright,” Jane said, as she high-fived Tim.
“Jane,” Tim said. “Tell me the truth. Did anyone notice?”
“Everyone saw Brigitte follow you into your bedroom,” she answered. “That is what you’re wondering I take it?”
“That’s all I needed to know,” Tim replied.


- - -
Matthew H Emma is a freelance writer currently pursuing a career as a fiction author. His short story "Mutual Satisfaction" was published in the December 2012 issue of Skive Magazine. Mr. Emma resides in Valley Cottage, NY.

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Author: Matthew H Emma

Contributor: Joshua Dobson

- -
"What do you do?" the bar slut asked in an absurdly affected doll voice.

The question used to make me wince and gnash my teeth, that dismal afternoon in the dingy dive bar it made me giggle dementedly. The sound of my desiccated cackle disturbed even my jaded self, the bar slut was so stunned she stopped prosti-jecting, the flawless porcelain of her carefully controlled facade cracked for the briefest of seconds and she regarded me with utter revulsion in her dead doll eyes. She caught herself slipping and jerked immediately back into "sell" mode, twinkling her dead doll eyes twice as hard.

"I am a waiter," I said hollowly.

"Oh really, that's kewl. Where at?" she asked, back on script, but noticeably creeped out by me.

"Near here . . . the big black glass domes down by the highway."

"I didn't even know that was a restaurant and I love eating out . . . tee hee," she tinkled.

"No," I said, "I am not a restaurant server, I used to be, but now I am a waiter. I made the same mistake when I first read the ad headlined, Waiters Wanted. But when I interviewed with the man who is now my superior, a nondescript black man named Mr. Blackman, I learned that the opening the Black Dome Limited Liability Corporation sought to fill was that of Waiter, whose job description is nothing more nor less than sitting motionless, though an exception is made for blinking, yawning and the occasionally involuntary twitch, in a black chair, in near total darkness under one of the seven identical black domes for seven hours a day. I thought the whole thing sounded absurd, but when Mr. Blackman told me what the Black Dome Limited Liability Corporation paid Waiters, I . . . "

"What does it pay?" she demanded in her real voice, which didn’t sound the least bit like a cartoon bunny.

I told her.

"Wow! That is crazy. So you get paid for doin' nothing?" she asked incredulously.

"Essentially,” I said, “I get paid to wait."

"For what?" she asked.

"I don't know, and I don't think any of the other Waiters know either, though I can't be sure as we aren't allowed to fraternize or even speak to one another, however when I occasionally lock leprous eyes with another Waiter, they seem as clueless as me. But I do know that I will recognize that which we waiters await when it comes," I said.

"Must get pretty boring," she said.

"It gives me time to think." I gulped down my shot of rotgut. "There are things I think about only in my black chair, #327, one of seven-hundred-sixty-five identical black chairs in black Dome #7."

She arched an eyebrow as if intrigued.

"While I wait in the darkness, I have extremely vivid daydreams about faceless grey humanoids with no genitalia building some sort of huge irregular tower of ashy grey volcanic rock, it's getting bigger and bigger, stretching higher and higher into a grey sky that grows slightly darker with every block that is added. There are millions of the faceless grey things crawling all over each other like writhing maggots. They smash themselves between the rocks to make the mortar for their chaotically designless tower. They’re full of grey sludge inside. There’s something inside the crooked tower, something living and horrible, and it’s growing bigger with each second that passes."

"That's pretty weird, but it still sounds better than this," she said wearily in her real voice.

"What is this?" I asked disinterestedly.

"Oh, I'm not supposed to say . . ."

"What is this?" I asked disinterestedly.

"Okay, I guess I can tell you, but don't tell anyone," she said, glancing over both shoulders to see if anyone was listening. "I work here, well, not just here, but all kinds of dives like this. I work for Pine Barrens Vodka; they pay me to flirt with losers . . . no offense, in dumps like this to sell their shitty booze."

As my buzz was sufficient to clock in and start my shift in chair #327 under black Dome #7, I donned my sunglasses and made to take my leave from the gloomy confines of the dingy dive bar, but before I did, I set on the bar before the weary professional bar slut a black business card that read in red:

Mr. Blackman

Server

The Black Dome Limited Liability Corporation

- - -
Joshua Dobson likes to make his own fun.

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Author: Joshua Dobson

Contributor: David Elliott

- -
‘One year.’ He’d clicked on the link, entering the website for the first time in his life. ‘One year, and it’s come to this.’

Three-hundred-and-sixty-five days ago, Brian had come up with a plan. He’d decided to spend the rest of his life online; no more human interaction, no more disastrous relationships, no more work, no more physical activities. Brian was going to become a fully-fledged virtual person, a cyber-hermit, and how wonderful it might have been, if anything about his plan, his scheme, his anxiety-avoiding blueprint for a better way of life, had actually worked.
     

And maybe it could have worked, if circumstances had been different; if he hadn’t accidentally stumbled upon lonelysouls.com.
     

Brian wasn’t a lonely soul, of course. The idea was completely absurd. How could people assume such a thing? Just because Brian happened to have a less stimulating sex life than Pope Benedict the Sixteenth, did that automatically classify him as being a lonely soul? No, it did not. He was insulted by the Google adverts inference that he would be even mildly interested in that kind of service.   

His index finger was still trembling with suppressed rage, as he clicked the link.
     

Why did I ever click that link? Why, God? Why?
     

He’d met a girl on lonely-souls.com. Hot-lips 22. At first, they simply chatted. After a few days, their chatting had developed into laughing-out-loud. Before long, they were rolling-on-the-floor-laughing. Eventually, they were laughing-their-fucking-asses-off, and occasionally, to Brian’s delight, even pissing themselves laughing.
     

It was a match made in cyber-heaven.
     

Despite only knowing each other for a short while, they decided to dispense with the cyber-courting, throw caution to the wind, and become E-man and  E-wife. Hot-lips 22 accepted Brian’s proposal, and after a brief virtual engagement, they were cyber-married. A beautiful old virtual chapel, StAndrews.com, was booked for the big day, and everything went off without a hitch. The cyber-caterers were the very height of professionalism, the virtual band had all of their cyber-friends boogying until the early hours, and the cyber-minister, Reverend Meat Rocket 37, brought a much-needed touch of gravity to the event.
     

For Brian, it was a perfect but unexpected start to his new life. He was thrown out of the library for spilling champagne over their only internet computer, but otherwise, everything went swimmingly.
     

But, as with many modern marriages, after the initial excitement had faded away, things started to unravel.
     

Hot-lips 22 gradually lost interest in cyber-sex, and began filling up her time with various Brian-excluding activities; cyber-shopping, cyber-tupperware parties, cyber-Zumba, anything to avoid online contact with her new virtual spouse. Without the love of his life, Brian went into a downwards spiral. He withdrew from cyber society, sometimes hardly going online at all, and once, during a particularly low month, even started to interact with the real world again; engaging in small talk with other human beings, walking to the local shops, making phone calls, sending letters, a collection of bizarre activities usually only associated with the diseased mind.
     

Rumours of his eccentric behaviour finally made their way to Hot-lips 22, who, after much online soul searching, decided to file for cyber-divorce. It was this that, inevitably, led to Brian’s cyber-depression, cyber-self-loathing, and cyber-eating-disorder. Hotlips 22’s virtual lawyer, Scumbag 52, bled him dry. She gained possession of the cyber-cottage, the cyber-car, and was awarded full custody of the cyber kids.
     

Brian was alone. Within a year, his online life had been completed then destroyed, like the creation of a temperamental artist.
     

And then, one night, this very night, on the anniversary of their first meeting, Brian, in a fit of despair, had logged on to slash-your-wrists.com, with the intention of committing cyber-suicide.
     

‘One year,’ he said. ‘One stupid year.’
     

Brian browsed through the catalogue of virtual destruction, chose an appropriate method for his cyber-execution, clicked the ‘Yes’ tab under the legend: ‘Are you sure?’, and erased himself from the cyber-world.
     

Brian no longer exists …


- - -
David Elliott is a writer and musician, living in Cheshire UK. His short fiction has appeared in Linguistic Erosion, MicroHorror, Flashes in the Dark, Twisted Tongue, Whispers of Wickedness and Delivered.

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Author: David Elliott

Contributor: Marian Brooks

- -
Joyce watched her mother disappear, slowly.

Now she’s doing the same thing. She is certain of it.

When she walks down the street, no one even notices her or nods Sometimes people bump into her without so much as an “excuse me.” At one time her appearance was dramatic. Joyce loved exotic hats, expensive shoes and colorful, tailored clothing, always in good taste. Now she feels invisible. Men stare right through her, eyes like lasers, scanning the field for young, healthy women. Her reproductive equipment is thirty years past providing a viable home for anyone.

When she looks in the mirror, she sees someone who “cannot possibly” be her. She sees a woman with jowls and frown lines. Joyce notices age spots and gray hair and wrinkles at the corners of her blue eyes. Her skin is dry; it flakes and floats in the air when she brushes against it.

Sometimes she thinks her own children forget who she is. In their defense, she’s not the mother they once knew who could jump out of a chair in a fraction of a second to catch them before they fell. She’s perplexed when it comes to electronic correspondence. Joyce neither tweets nor twerps nor texts. She does have a Facebook account to keep track of the children’s comings and goings and to see photos of her grandchildren, Ben and Sally, along with their menagerie of dogs, cats and birds. She doesn’t think her cellular phone has any “aps” at all.

Sometimes Joyce and her husband, Bradley, don’t exchange more than four hundred words in a day. They lead parallel lives, reading, walking and sleeping. She does the laundry. He vacuums. She wonders if they really see each other after all of this time. She asks Brad about this. He’s half asleep in the recliner and waves his hand dismissively. “You worry too much, Joyce. We love each other, the kids are fine and we’re healthy. Isn’t that enough?” He drops his bifocals from the top of his head, grabs a pencil and turns his attention to the daily crossword puzzle.

They watch the talking heads on CNN and disagree about politics. On those days, their total word count might be five hundred, some of those words, heated for a change.

Her friends are disappearing too. Some have died. Others have too many doctors’ appointments to schedule lunch or husbands with broken hips and heart attacks to care for. When they do meet, their discussions revolve around diabetes, cholesterol and back surgeries. It’s been some time since they talked about men and sex and career aspirations. They’re not even sure what the “glass ceiling” is all about. It sounds like something that might be striking but difficult to clean.

Joyce is disappearing, melting like an ice sculpture, but slowly. It’s OK because no one’s watching.


- - -
Marian Brooks lives in Pennsylvania with her husband. Her work has appeared in Curly Red Stories, Short Humour, Linnet's Wings and elsewhere.

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Author: Marian Brooks