Contributor: Beth J. Whiting

- -
Claire had lost her brain. She only had enough cognitive ability left to get it back. She lost her brain during an accident and her life was hard to live without it. She could barely get through the simple routines of her job and her day.
She had an investigator look into it.
Claire explained the situation, “I lost my brain in an accident. I need to get it back.”
The woman, who wore thick glasses and had her hair in a French braid said, “I understood that you had a mental illness.”
“Yes.”
“Which one?”
Claire didn’t like the way the woman stated it. She treated mental illnesses like they were ice cream flavors to choose from.
“OCD.”
“We can find you a brain. A better brain. A brain without disease or even a smarter one if you prefer.”
“No thanks. I just want mine back.”
She wouldn’t be herself without her own brain. However, at the same time Claire was getting desperate. Another brain would do. Besides, maybe it would be better to have another one to choose from. She could pick a more equipped brain and definitely one that didn’t have any disadvantages to it. At the moment though Claire was sticking with her own.
“We’ll have to search for yours then. There are a variety of places to choose from. We’ll have to show you around where the brains hang out. Then if they aren’t there we will personally look through the harder places. Usually lost brains tend to stay in the easier to find lost and founds.”
Claire hoped hers was being patient like that.
Claire was a tall skinny thing with long blonde hair and brown eyes. She was a first grade teacher of average intelligence. You definitely needed that, at least patience.
She walked into the restaurant wearing a long black skirt and white pants. The secretary was behind her wearing a gray business suit. Claire noticed that she had a twisted nose.
“This is one place where the brains meet. It’s a restaurant called The More.”
It looked like an Italian restaurant. It was painted red. There were small framed still-life paintings of fruit on the walls. Brains were all seated around eating spaghetti. They had napkins at the end of their brains.
Claire found one brain with a fork stuck in it. She asked the secretary about that one.
“That one just got a bit frustrated. Some wait so long for their owners they just go berserk.”
“Well they look like they have appetites, but none of them look like mine.”
Claire didn’t know how she knew. It was just intuition. She didn’t know what her brain looked like. However Claire was sure that she would know when she came upon her brain.
They went through the soup kitchen, through shelters to find her brain. The secretary almost gave up on Claire. But one day while walking through a dark cold alley Claire found her brain in a slimy dumpster. It was covered in ice. It looked sad and cold.
Claire took it in her arms and wrapped it in her sweater.
“I’m so glad to find you.”


- - -
I was born in 1983 to a family of brainy eccentrics. I write stories about outcasts in unique situations. I live in Mesa, AZ.

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Author: Beth J. Whiting

Contributor: John Laneri

- -
Tyrone Freeman walked into my office on a Friday afternoon just as I was ready to leave with my wife, Carrie, who by the way works my front desk.

Right off, the man pissed me off. He was mid-thirties, loaded with jewelry, and arrogant as hell. From his manner, I suspected that he was living on the edge, perhaps even dealing drugs. I disliked him immediately.

“Hey dude, that's a cute chick you got working out front.”

“That 'chick' is my wife,” I replied, as I pointed to a chair, noting that my relationship didn't seem to faze him in the least.

After five minutes of rambling on about nice looking women, he went on to say, “Some girl accused me of rape... said if I didn't pay her five thousand, she'll file charges. Claims she has a doctor's report.”

“That could be a serious charge.”

“But, I'm innocent. Well... innocent enough.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

He looked around the office. “Impressive place... probably cost some real scratch.” Turning back to me, he asked, “What kind of money you charge.”

In an effort to hear his story, I replied, “Whatever it takes to have a jury declare you innocent. That is – if I decide to take your case.”

“Money's not a problem. I have a big house and plenty of play money.”

“Then, tell me why you're... 'innocent enough'.”

From there, he went on to elaborate a typical account of boy meets girl in a bar, and then ultimately ends up being accused of rape – typical for meat heads like Tyrone.

Interrupting him, I asked, “Did you know the girl?”

Tyrone cleared his throat then said, “ I'd seen her around. But you have to believe me when I say, I'm innocent. She was all over me from the minute we met... couldn't wait. Personally, I like to go slow, build up the romance – know what I mean?”

“I don't care if you are innocent or guilty. My job, as an attorney, is to clear the matter before she changes her mind. Maybe, she's playing you for money, maybe not. Maybe she just wanted sex. Maybe you pissed her off. Maybe you really did rape her. But, you need to know that I run the show. And, if I decide to take your case, consider yourself a paying bystander that keeps his mouth shut.”

He pondered that point and said, “You're a heavy dude, but here's what I'll agree too.”

“Lay it out,” I replied, just as Carrie stuck her head in the door and asked if she could leave early. I indicated yes and turned back to Tyrone. “Now tell me, what you'll agree too.”

I noticed Tyrone glance over his shoulder and run Carrie's length before saying, “You can handle the show. But, I'll plan the strategy. I've got friends that'll vouch for my whereabouts on the night in question.”

“I don't work that way, but I'll give it some thought. What's the girl's name?”

“Shirleen Parker... she lives in the Longwood Apartments.”

He handed me a slip of paper with her details then stood to leave.

“Sit down,” I directed, pointing to the chair. “If I decide to take your case, you have papers to sign as well as put up a ten thousand dollar retainer for preliminary work.”

Tyrone exhaled a deep breath. “That's a steep number. I'll have to think it over before signing anything. Maybe, I need to talk to her, try convincing her it wasn't rape.”

“My professional advice is to stay away from her. If you're lucky, she'll still settle for five thousand. When done properly, consider it a bargain compared to the alternatives.”

The following morning, I asked an investigator to check out his story. After learning the facts, I decided not to get involved. The physician's report from a local ER indicated that the girl had displayed marked physical abuse including several superficial knife wounds as well as perineal trauma suggestive of a rape. It also stated that DNA samples were pending at a private laboratory.

In my opinion, Tyrone needed to be dealt with by a heavy handed prosecutor.

A few days later, Carrie mentioned that someone had rummaged through her desk during the night. I suggested that we keep closer tabs on security; however, that evening while I was working late, she frantically phoned and indicated that she had seen a prowler in our backyard.

“Lock the doors, and try to stay calm. I'll call the police then head your way. ”

Red lights were already parked in front of the house when I screeched to a stop against the curb.

When Carrie saw me she hurried my way, her blouse hanging in shreds. “It was that Tyrone person,” she said, tears filling her eyes. “He kicked in the door and threatened me with a knife. An officer killed him when he pulled a gun. They say he's a big-time drug dealer.”

I took her in my arms and held her for many minutes thankful that she had not been harmed.

Several days later, as my fury began to subside, I met with Shirleen Parker and suggested that she file a civil suit against Tyrone's remaining estate. With the doctor's report, and a potential DNA match, she might just have a case.

She agreed. We went to court, and she eventually received her five thousand with two additional zeros added to it for pain and suffering – less of course, my forty percent for the effort.

The best part of all, Carrie quickly put the incident behind her, and a few months later, we were cruising the Mediterranean and living it up – thanks to Tyrone's play money.


- - -
John is a native born Texan living near Houston. His writing focuses on short stories and flash. Publications to his credit have appeared in several scientific journals as well as a number of internet sites and short story periodicals.

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Author: John Laneri

Contributor: Harry Noussias

- -
How long were they pounding on the door?

Lately I have been falling into these very deep and disturbing sleeps. I was not lying in bed when I heard the pounding. I wish I was. I was on the floor. How I got there I don’t know. All I know is that when I awake from these sleeps I can’t remember anything.

I did not want to answer the door because I knew what those on the other side would have to say – that I was chosen.

At least sleep allowed me, if only for a little while, to escape the horrifying events that were taking place around the village.

But, why me? I’m not an investigator. And, I’m surely not a hunter. Besides, I don’t even know what to believe about what was happening.

It didn’t really matter to anyone what I thought or felt or believed. The village council voted and I was chosen.

So, I went out as instructed into the woods. And in the very early eerie hours of the morn, when nothing stirred and even the silence was silent, I sat motionless moving not a single muscle as the mist of the fog drifted and swirled and thickened and settled and finally engulfed me.

I did not know fear nor feared what I did not know of those tales of attacks and of a dreadfully frightening howl or of piercing evil eyes that glow in the dark.

Glowing eyes, they all saw glowing eyes.

I came armed only with my disbelief. Perhaps that is why I was chosen.

But the endless wait weighed heavily upon my eyes and soon sleep was beckoning me. No longer did I peer into the vast darkness. No longer did I hear the endless silence.

There was nothing out there, nothing to report, no dreadfully frightening howl, no eyes that glow in the dark, nothing.

There was nothing at all.

Finally sleep, that soothing temptress, took me and we drifted off together for a while. It was just for a little while, only a short while.

There was nothing to fear, nothing at all.

I awoke as the sun rose and returned to learn of more savage attacks and death and those glowing eyes.

I failed. What would people say? I don’t know why they had to choose me in the first place. But, I was the one that was chosen, and I failed miserably. I saw nothing. I heard nothing.

I sat alone sipping my hot brew and pondering all the events.

She was coming again – sleep. From a distance she was relaxing me, hypnotizing me, trying to take me away. But, this time I wasn’t going to invite her in.

It would be just me and the warmth of the black liquid I was drinking. Coffee is good. Coffee can keep me awake.

But as I gazed into my cup of coffee, in my own reflection I could see – glowing eyes staring back at me.


- - -
Harry Noussias is a writer of short stories, plays and poetry. His works may be found in various online and print magazines.

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Author: Harry Noussias

Contributor: Mark Slade

- -
The rains came and outside my window the steam overtook the world.

As the steam disperses, I can see the dead out on the street staring with their hungry eyes. In my chair, the water rises, covering my boots. My Mother wafts through the water from room to room, dusting the burnt furniture.

I wait for the inevitable.

It's a happy home. Three naked women lay on my bed having my babies, the umbilical cord keeping them together as sisters. They grit their teeth, foaming at the mouth, rabid in their love.

In the dining room a man in a black tuxedo plays piano rolls on a Steinway. His monkey performs voodoo on the Priest giving me my last rites. The Priest finds a match finally, but the candle will not light.

So I lift my shirt, black throbbing sores whisper to me their hopes and dreams. The dead have finally entered my house, crawling through the flooded floors to feed from my sores, the sickness controlling their small minds while everyone bears witness to the coming dawn.


- - -
MARK SLADE LIVES IN WILLIAMSBURG, VA WITH HIS WIFE AND DAUGHTER. HE RUNS THE STORY PODCASTS DARK DREAMS AND BLACKOUT CITY.

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Author: Mark Slade

Contributor: Christina Jones

- -
“You are lovely,” he whispered.

“You are trying to win me with flattery,” she giggled.

The man was unusually tall with dark brown eyes and black hair. He was enchanting. She met him outside of the local pub.

“Oh, I do not have to try to win anything. I can just take what I want,” he replied.

With these words, she became startled. The man could see her fear begin to grow.

“Why, what ever do you mean?” She asked.

With a slight smile, he inched forward and with this step, she moved backwards. His smiled grew bigger.

“Well?” She asked.

As soon as the word was audible, his mouth was at her throat. Terrified, she started to scream. The man placed his free hand around her neck and began to squeeze.

“Shhhh…” he started. “You musn’t make a sound. Otherwise, we will be discovered. You don’t want that do you?”

Frozen, her pupils grew bigger and her voice silenced itself. The man loosened his grip around her neck and began running his hand down her side. He was gentle and appropriate, cautious never to touch her in a place that an unwed couple shouldn’t. He believed in being a gentleman, even in the worst of situations, and this was a bad situation.

“This isn’t going to hurt much. I promise,” he whispered into her ear. “You musn’t scream. It will only make things worse.”

So, the tall man wrapped his left arm around her waist and proceeded to lean her back, as if they were dancing. With his other hand, he swept her long, curly hair away from her shoulders and lowered his face toward the hollow of her neck. She shivered with the touch of his cold breath. He quickly kissed her skin and traced his lips toward her mouth. With an easy motion, their lips touched. In that instant, the woman closed her eyes and her body relaxed. As soon as this happened, the man opened his mouth and two fangs appeared, glistening in the dark. In one swift motion, his mouth was around her throat, his fangs deep in her skin.

The beautiful woman whimpered in response to the touch of his fangs. So, he relented, only for a moment. Raising his head, little drops of blood from his fangs landed gracefully on her dress.

“Now look what you’ve done,” he said. “You’ve made me soil your dress. One moment longer, I shall be on my way, but only if you’re quiet,” he finished.

After only a minute, he released his grip and wiped his mouth. He wore a look of satisfaction across his face.

“I do hope you had a good time. I’ve quite enjoyed myself,” he said.

Staring into her eyes, he smiled briefly. “I do wish that you could remember me. Too bad things have to be the way that they are. You’ll forget me in only a moment’s time, but you, you I will remember for a lifetime.”

With a tip of his hat, he was around the corner and on his way. The woman was left standing on the dark street in her fanciest dress. At the very moment the man rounded the corner another stranger appeared.

“My dear, what are you doing out here so late and alone?” He asked.

“I can't remember,” she answered.

“Was that a man turning down the alley? Who was that man?” He asked.

“I don't know. A stranger, I suppose.”


- - -
Christina is a wife, mother, blogger and creative writing student. She is currently in the editing trenches with her first novel and hopes to publish it sometime in this century.

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Author: Christina Jones

Contributor: Leilanie Stewart

- -
“Go on. Get lost! This wave-cut platform isn't big enough for two!”
“What on earth do you mean?” The lamellibra peered under the hinge line of his protruding umbo at the calcareous shape of the brachiopod next to him, and flipped his upper shell in disgust.
“I mean that this part of the oolitic limestone is mine. Mine, you hear? My territory. Take off!”
“I don't understand you. We’ve both been here for several millennia sharing this rock and you never had a problem before.”
The brachiopod clicked his umbo beak, his quartz glinting in the sun as anger washed over him. “Us? Sharing? I would never fix my pedicle within a million diatoms of a specimen like you.”
“What a thing to say! You’re an awfully aggressive fellow, are you not?”
“I can say what I want, thank you very much. I’ve been here since the ocean swept me by my vibratile cilia as a larval brachiopod,” he said, raising his curved, ventral valve shell to show his authority.
“Now look here,” said the lamellibra, “The only reason you can see me and I you is that this rock has been eroded. This isn’t a wave-cut platform, it’s a bedding plane. And we are exposed fossils!”
“Speak for yourself, you demented bivalve!”
“Look, can't we get along? We’re cemented into this rock, so we should at least try,” said the lamellibra, with a sigh. “And besides, we have a lot in common. We both have a most beautiful rounded umbo, joining our ventral and dorsal shells, do we not?”
“Ventral and dorsal valves,” said the brachiopod, with a tut. “Not shells.”
“Oh alright then, if you must be so pedantic,” said the lamellibra, grinding its hinge plates.
“I must. I can’t help myself. You and I are as different as chalk and cheese!”
“What’s cheese? I know chalk-- we live in it!”
“Cheese is nothing I’d expect a half-wit like yourself to know about.”
“Well, really! I daresay you have issues. You must have had a terrible childhood.”
“I had a most lovely childhood, if I do say so myself. I spent many idyllic summers cruising the warm Triassic seas, pursuing microscopic prey, until I was thrown up onto a shore by a violent storm.”
“Hmph!” said the lamellibra, with a snort. “Typical Atremata. Spoilt rotten.”
The brachiopod’s tone softened. “How did you know I’m an Atremata? I’m an Obolacea, to be precise.”
“I thought so. All you short pedicle sort do, is leach off floating seaweed, hanging onto it all day. You’re nothing but a bunch of lazy, ungrateful-“
“I’m impressed,” said the brachiopod, cutting him off with an edge sharper than a cuttlefish-bone knife. “Who would’ve thought you lot had brains under your leatherheads?”
“I beg your pardon?” The lamellibra clacked his hinge-teeth. “If you’re referring to my conchiolin, it is a brown, elastic ligament and not a leathery mass. I find that offensive!”
“Well, I’m ever so sorry,” said the brachiopod. “It’s just, my sort came first and your kind copied us, what with the concentric rings on our valves, and the perfectly curved umbos...”
“I say! I’ve never been so offended in all my life. I ought to cast you uncouth Obolus into the sea until your valves separate and drift apart on a lonely tide.”
“Nonsense! My valves are of the most primitive order. They are divergent, assymetrical... and their imperfections make them unique. Their awkward shapes would cling to one another. Try to separate them if you will!”
“I could, with the mirror-image valves of mine that nature has perfected through more advanced evolutionary techniques. My anterior and posterior valves could pry yours apart.”
“Oh stop. Stop with this petty tosh. You and your contracting adductors... you forget that time has made fools of us both.”
“I’m not entirely sure I know what you mean.”
“You harp on about evolution-- and in other words you refer to the passage of time to oversee your biological development. But what you fail to realise is that time has reduced us both. Long pedicals, short pedicals, they’ve gone. Time decayed your elastic ligament the moment you took your first step towards fossilisation. The tension of the elastic ligament required to open and close your adductors is gone. Therefore, you cannot clamp or prise anything. Therefore you cannot tear apart my valves!”
“Oh bother!” said the lamellibra. “You’re old. You're not supposed to be smarter than me.”
“Well, maybe old age comes with wisdom after all. I’m Triassic, you're Jurassic. Who knows, someday metamorphic processes might act on our rock and your valves might fuse with mine.”
The lamellibra spun on his umbo. “That might not be so bad. I am, after all, a Trigonia and my species no longer survives. It might be a way for me to live on in the fossil afterlife.”
“The fossil record, my friend. You and I shall live on, gracing the marbled façade of a stately building or on display in a world-class museum. May we do it with our bivalves entwined. May we do it umbo on umbo!”


- - -
Leilanie Stewart's fiction has appeared in magazines such as Carillon, Monomyth, Blood Moon Rising, Wufniks, The Crazy Oik, Sarasvati, The Pygmy Giant, Ariadne's Thread, Stanley the Whale and The Neglected Ratio.

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Author: Leilanie Stewart

Contributor: Ray Daley

- -
"How are we for flags?" he asked the computer.
"More than enough left, Captain." responded the machine.

The machine was certain the captain thought there was a storage hold somewhere aboard, full of rolled up flags just waiting to be planted on another virgin surface. It didn't want to spoil his illusion, knowing that each flag it delivered to him had been created from a pre-recorded pattern on a replication system. In the hold was nothing, the ships ramscoop collected enough matter to fulfill all daily requirements.

"Touchdown Captain."
He picked up the flag from the table, secured his helmet and cycled the airlock.

"I claim this planet in the name of all the peoples of Earth."
He planted the flag pole in the ground securely, a single thrust to ensure it would stay there long after he had died.
In his suit radio he heard the computer. "Hold for the archive picture Captain."
He smiled, aware he wasn't visible through the polarized lens of the helmet.

He always smiled, just in case.

Back in the ship, he readied himself for another new journey. "Where next computer?"
"They discovered another world, about 5 light years away. Stasis is ready." replied the machine.

He sat on the bio-bed.
"They promised me excitement, the rush of claiming new worlds. They call it 'The Armstrong Moment' you know?"

The computer knew. It said nothing.

"There's no rush. No excitement. Where's my ticker-tape parade? When I get back to Earth?" He wasn't so much asking the computer as just venting for the sake of it.
"I'm sure there'll be some kind of celebration when you get back. Goodnight Captain, sleep well."

The bio-bed activated stasis, the machine was alone once more.
Alone with the decision once more.

'Should I tell you? Could you cope with it? That Earth is gone?'

The machine knew the answer.

They would press on, forever claiming new worlds in the name of a home that no longer existed.
Yet again the machine experienced the HAL moment.


- - -
Ray Daley was born in Coventry and 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: Taylor Saulsbury

- -
I never cared much about life, never took things seriously. I was selfish and cold, hurting everyone around me with my addiction. That is, until I crossed the Needlepointe Bridge. I remember the way her hair glistened golden-brown in the sunlight. The girl on the ledge radiated beauty. That beauty is what caught my eye; the fact that she was standing on the ledge of the bridge, however, is what stopped me dead in my tracks.
I wondered what could ever be so bad that someone would see no way out other than to jump. I couldn’t walk past, knowing that this girl was going to jump. The temperature was easily below freezing, she would be dead the minute she hit the water.
I walked over to her, carefully and quietly. I climbed up on the rail beside her and asked her what she was doing there. For a long while, we just stood there in silence, side by side, on the ledge of the Needlepointe Bridge. I wasn’t sure what to make of the situation.
“What if I told you what I’m crossing the bridge for?” I tried a new approach.
She looked at me with hollow eyes. “Why are you crossing the bridge?”
I told her about my addiction, and how I was going across the bridge to get my fix. Then I glanced at her out of the corner of my eye, expecting some sort of judgment. Instead, she just stared blankly ahead and sighed.
“At least you have feelings to try and numb. I don’t feel anything.”
When she said that, I was taken by surprise. It had never occurred to me that someone would want to end their life not because they were in too much pain to go on, but simply because they couldn’t feel anything anymore. But, I guess, in a way, I was standing on the ledge with her every time I used.
There was something about this girl that made me feel accepted, maybe even understood. I wasn’t sure how or why. I just wanted to keep her talking so I took a chance and told her about my life. At first, I was treading lightly, being careful not to open up too much. She had a way of making me want to talk. Before I knew it, I found myself confiding in her.
“I took my little brother’s laptop out of his room this morning. He worked all summer to buy it, and I couldn’t even control myself. I just, I needed that fix, ya know? His brand new HP notebook is sitting in a pawnshop being sold for far less than he paid for it,” I confessed.
I glanced over again, still expecting judgment, or even shock, but she just remained steady and nodded. We talked until the sun went down. After a while, we found ourselves sitting on the ledge, rather than standing, huddling closer with the dropping temperature. Maybe it was fate that led me over the bridge that day. I had never felt so at home in my whole life then I did talking to this girl.
I grabbed her hand and we stepped off the ledge. Out of my pocket, I grabbed my knife and carved “The Way Home” into the rail of the bridge.
With that, she smiled and took my hand. The two of us walked hand in hand, across the bridge.
We realized somewhere in the night that two people could be made for each other. Two people can be destined to meet. The girl on the ledge saved me from myself just as I saved her. We were meant to cross paths that day.


- - -
Taylor Saulsbury is a nineteen year old student majoring in Creative Writing for Entertainment at Full Sail University. She is originally from Maryland, and currently resides in Orlando.

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Author: Taylor Saulsbury

Contributor: Rocky Teh

- -
By and large, most modern elevators are controlled by six or eight motor-driven ropes. This one, shoved into a building slapped together with the budget of a beggar’s takings at the turn of the nineties, had three. A bumbling imitation of the best, it stalled shockingly easily - with nifty fingers you needed little more than a screwdriver and a wrench.

The pianist clutched the bag as he waited for the elevator to complete its noisy ascent. He was a tall man and did not - could not, for that matter - let the bag drag on the floor. He shook his head at the state of the building, worlds - and a ten minute drive - from his own office.

Lucky I quit while I was ahead.

The elevator made no noise to signal its arrival on the eighth storey - only a meek blinking emanation of yellow. Its red doors parted slowly, and the pianist entered, still clutching her hand tightly. It was dark in the lift - only two of the four light fixtures blinked. With one hand he unwrapped the bag, with another he pressed for the first floor with considerable force, the button making a daunting depression into the panel. She rested against the back panel, giving an interesting maroon taint to two posters, one advertising work ethics, another advertising a second hand Hyundai.

Timing was crucial with this lift. With most newer models there was little chance that you could cheat the system. He idled for a few seconds, eyes in the vague direction of the door mechanisms like an actor waiting for cue, left foot arched back in anticipation of his sprint. The doors began closing with a solemn clunk. It was important that you got out before the doors proceeded more than a foot towards each other. Any more and the sensor - otherwise blind - would detect you. Do it more than two, three times and the doors would simply refuse to shut, or even worse, be jammed halfway.

He made it out and halted, turning around, his shoes making a dreadful screech in the empty corridor. The lift shut, vulgar red lips drew together. He did not need to wait for its hum of descent. Immediately, he made for the rooftop stairway barely twenty paces away. On top, the housing of machinery, a lone erection in a concrete plain, was marked out from the darkness by a single green blip on the far side. He reached into his pocket for the screwdriver and the wrench, but the night wind blew his grip away and the tools slipped, briefly striking his calf before landing on the floor with a clink much softer than he’d expected.

Quickly, the pianist wondered if anyone had seen him. But of course, no one was working. It was National Day. And the day after that? A public holiday. After that? The king’s birthday. After that? Well, this was coincidence, but, the weekend.

Five full days.

He unlocked the housing. With nifty fingers you needed little more than a screwdriver and a wrench. He was no mechanic and had only done this once, but it surprised him how easily it could be done. The crux was in the timing. Nonchalantly, the lift stopped halfway between the third and fourth storey, and the flickering green blip on the housing faded, replaced by an angry red. he smashed it.

Don’t you dare mock me, the pianist thought as he climbed down, every footstep a hollow echo in the stairway. Eleven years of your shit? More than enough.

The wind was still blowing hard as he hiked to his car, parked three streets down. In the absolute darkness, the quarter seemed discombobulating. He let the engine idle for a minute or so as he scanned the channels for a song he liked, until he found an Oasis classic. He took a minute to appreciate the metallic ping of his fingers on the dial. Given his money, he could have easily afforded the most life-like ones the business had.

But they left fingerprints. These metal prosthetics did not.

***

Countless times he had been teased for his punctuality, but as usual, Dean McKellan was early to the office. At the lobby he found the lift had stalled - for perhaps the twentieth time that year. Fishing for the guy’s phone number in his mental directory, he made for the stairs, his gut feeling the pound of every step. Even the Sunday football was doing nothing for his blossoming depot of fat. As he passed the fourth floor he thought he could smell the trash from the lobby. Great, On top of the fucked lift, the janitor had been lazing on the job. Dean was about to pull open the stairway door but to his surprise, he found himself advancing through the storeys.

The very least I can do as the Resources Director is to be a bit resourceful myself! he self-reproached. At least go check what’s wrong with the machinery!

He paused on the seventh floor to fetch a screwdriver from the maintenance cupboard. The smell seemed less prominent, but oddly, his nose brought him not to the bins but to the lift lobby. The elevator was surprisingly simple to fix; the jammed component could’ve been removed by even the most inept of hands. Dean peered into the shaft, surprised at how loud the humming of the machinery was from up here. It was coming up. Good. He would take the lift down.

He wondered, as the elevator climbed dreadfully slowly (6... 7..., the analog read, an interval of at least five seconds between each digit) whether he would be faced with the scene that greeted him two or three years ago. Some kids, presumably inebriated in the spirit of the long holiday, had broken into the premises and vomited copiously.

Whatever. He was a big boy and he was not afraid of vomit. The number 8 finally appeared on the analog.


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16, writes when inspired, sleeps when not.

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Author: Rocky Teh

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

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Back in 1957, kissing Carol Ann behind the barn in the middle of a windswept field of Goldenrod with a sudden deer watching was something special, let me tell you. Back then, bobby sox and big barrettes and ponytails were everywhere.

Like many farmers, Carol Ann’s father had a console radio in the living room, and every Saturday night the family would gather ‘round with bowls of ice cream and listen to The Grand Ole Opry. It was beamed “all the way” from Nashville I was told more than once since I was from Chicago and sometimes wore a tie so how could I know.

On my first visit, I asked Carol Ann if the Grand Ole Opry was the Mormon Tabernacle Choir of country music and she said not to say that to her father. She suggested I just tap my foot to the music and let him watch me. Otherwise, I’d best be quiet and say “Yup,” “Nope” or “Maybe” if asked any questions which she didn’t think would happen. No need to say much more, she said, and after a few visits, I understood why.

Over time, I learned to tap my foot pretty good to the music because when I’d come to visit, her father would insist I have a bowl of ice cream with the family. I liked the ice cream but not so much the Grand Ole Opry. I’d been weaned on Sinatra in the city. Big difference, let me tell you.

But back in 1957 kissing Carol Ann behind the barn was something special since we couldn’t do much more until I found employment. Only then, her father said, could we get married. I found no jobs in town, however, for a bespectacled man with degrees in English.

Still, I always found the weekend drives from Chicago worth the gas my Rambler drank because kissing Carol Ann brought a bit of heaven down behind that barn, especially on summer nights when fireflies were the only stars we saw when our eyes popped open. It was like the Fourth of July with tiny sparklers twinkling everywhere.

Now, 55 years later, Carol Ann sometimes mentions fireflies at dusk as we dance behind the cows to coax them into the barn for the night. I’m still not too good with cows despite my John Deere cap, plaid shirt and overalls which proves, she says, that all that kissing behind the barn in 1957 took the boy out of the city but not the city out of the boy.

“Hee Haw” is all I ever say in response because I know why I’m there. It’s to keep tapping the cows on the rump till we get them back in the barn so we can go back in the house and start with a kiss and later on come back downstairs for two big bowls of ice cream.


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Donal Mahoney, an immigrant from Chicago, lives in St. Louis, Missouri. Some of his work can be found at http://eyeonlifemag.com/the-poetry-locksmith/donal-mahoney-poet.html#sthash.bExNlH13.dpbs

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Author: Donal Mahoney