Contributor: Anthony Mullinix

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“General, Sir, I believe we may have a problem,” he said.

“What kind of problem, Lieutenant?” I asked.

“The kind that will need some sort of clean-up crew, Sir.”

What a smart-ass. Why else would my Command and Control center call me at this hour? Looking up at the monitors revealed the truth to his statements. The man that found it looked pudgy and unkempt. Our instruments are light-years ahead of his, but that didn’t really matter since he somehow managed to find it.

This isn’t the kind of wake-up I expected.

“Who do we have available?”

“I asked who was available, not who wasn’t. Don’t waste my time. Understood?”

“Understood Sir. We only have one team,” he said, stacking his initial set of papers off to side leaving a singular piece for me to view.

No. Not the kind of wake-up call I expected.

“Not much of a team is it?” I asked.

“Not at all Sir. Despite him being a singular person, it appears he is able to perform jobs that normally require teams, at roughly the same output,” the Lieutenant responded.

“I’m aware of him son. We’ve worked together before. Call him up,” I said.

Watching the Lieutenant was like watching a baby learn how to walk. He had no idea who he was calling, and less of an idea as to why. His uniform was crisp and clean; his demeanor was soft and malleable. I don’t expect this to be anything less than amusing. Unfortunately, I wasn’t going to be standing around listening to it.

The pudgy man on the screen found one of our favorite toys, and we need to do something about it.

“Captain Jacobsen, with me,” I said to one of the other officers in the room. She nodded and grabbed her cover.

“No, you won’t need that. You will, however, need a paper and pencil. Or pen, if you so choose,” I said.

She nodded again and grabbed the nearest pad and pen as we left the room. I needed to have someone in control of the situation. Someone who could command the clean-up crew, while still keeping their cool. Captain Jacobsen was exactly that. Her uniform was natural on her; no crispness, because it didn’t need that. Her attitude was firm, stern, and immovable. Exactly what we needed.

“Captain, I assume you are aware of the importance with this situation. I feel you may have been misled on exactly how important it is, and how it plays into our mission here. Do you know how it plays into our mission here?” I asked.

“Sir, our mission is to study any artifact, foreign or domestic, for the purposes of science, economic growth and military superiority,” she responded. A little too rehearsed.

“Do you believe in that mission statement?” I asked.

“I do Sir.”

“I’m not asking if you want its hand in marriage. I’m asking if you believe in it. Do you believe in it?” I asked again.

“I believe we should be researching and applying what we learn for defense, but more so for prosperity. Having the upper hand doesn’t mean we win. Sir.”

“Well said. That’s why you and I are stopping here,” I said, motioning for her to step through the door.

The other side of the door held a myriad of diplomats’ aids; protocol when this sort of thing happens. They ranged from Chinese to Saudi, and from South American to the Congo. They were all sitting, or standing, around a large circular table. They all stood as I entered.

“Please. Formalities aside for now. What do we have?” I asked the group.

An aid in a heavy British accent answered first, “A big damn problem General. Type A wasn’t supposed to be found. We could handle any of the others’ locations being forfeit. But this bullocks is beyond what we anticipated.”

“I asked what we have, not what the issue is,” I answered back. Looking to the Captain I said, “Is there a rash of stubbornness going through the facility?”

I could tell she had no idea how to react. Candidness isn’t something Officer Candidate School teaches when dealing with superiors. I’ll have a talk with her, and the rest of the officers, tonight at chow about that.

“One of my guys is already on the phone with a team. My question now is exactly what do we want that team doing? What type of clean-up is needed here?” I asked.

They all looked around like I was out of my mind. Could I have asked the dumbest question? To them, most likely. That is why, however, I brought my Ace.

“Sir…” she said, forcing everyone to turn and stare at her, “we need divers. We need divers, underwater welding tools, and roughly three days.”

“What do you have in mind, Captain?” I asked.

“Divers can be used to remove certain pieces of Type A, then bring them back here for safe keeping and further study. The trail left by the craft can be positioned to look more like sediment residue from underwater rivers moving against the object. Once the divers come back with the pieces, we wait.”

Some of the aids didn’t really like this idea at first. A stare from me quieted them down. Still, one got through, “What of the rest of Type A? Exactly how would we explain that, Captain?” he said.

I wasn’t too keen on his tone there.

“That is the easiest part. We let the public find it. It’s too far down for their equipment to really reach anyway. Not in any suitable fashion at least. What’s the harm in letting them discover something new? We will have all the important parts. Let someone else have some fun for a change. Sir.”

I had to chuckle. Simplicity. I knew she was the one I would need.


- - -
Spent nine years in the military and am finally able to pursue the field of my dreams. I enjoy writing, video games, commentaries, and the fantasy (or science fiction) world. I have a loving, supportive wife, and a son on the way.

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Author: Anthony Mullinix

Contributor: Brandon Mc Ivor

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"People live in Port-of-Spain all their lives—maybe they go Maracas on weekends—and they think they know Trinidad," says my father.
The groundskeeper laughs as he puts the $20 bill my father slipped him into his back pocket.
"They don't know Trinidad," he says, "This is Trinidad."
We are standing on a mountaintop in Tortuga Village. Behind us, Our Lady of Montserrat is cradling her child and looking out into the distance. The sun is sinking into a sea of rolling elephant grass on the Gulf of Paria.
"Trinidad small," says the groundskeeper, "But some people feel it tiny—like it have nothing here at all."
"But it have this, though," I say.
The groundskeeper smiles, bows his head. He turns away from us and brushes a cobweb from his statue’s shawl.
"He leaving for America," says my father, gesturing towards me, "So I say I would show him Trinidad before he leave."
"You live in the States?" the groundskeeper asks.
"No," I say, "I only going there for school."
"So where you live, then?"
"Port-of-Spain"
The groundskeeper nods. Cars, down on the Solomon Hochoy Highway, pass one another—going to San Fernando, coming from Mount Hope, going to Chaguanas.
"So,” he says, “When you leaving?"
"In a week. I have some time."
The groundskeeper shakes his head.
"You could live Trinidad your whole life and you wouldn't have time. You must feel Trinidad small too, eh?"
"No—" I start.
"So why you leaving, then?"
My father has walked over to the grotto and I can see him thumbing his rosary, saying quiet prayers for me.
"I get a scholarship—"
There is a lump in my throat, which I nearly choke on, but I manage to swallow it.
“—from the government," I say.
The groundskeeper takes his cap off and he runs his hands through his hair. His fingers are shining, and I can smell the sticky-sweetness of coconut oil.
"Well," he says, loudly enough for my father to hear, "That's all it really have to show here—just the church. Allyuh through?"
My father raises his hand, mouthing the last few verses of the prayer he is saying.
"Give us a little more time," he says.
The groundskeeper nods, and he walks off, back to his hut.
"Lock the door when you leave," he says.
But he had never opened it. I call out to him, but my father waves me off.
"It's alright," he says.
We walk around the church and find a spot to sit—just the two of us.
The sun has gone down, and Trinidad is all shadows now. Little lights are burning on the mountainside and the stars have come out. Behind us, Our Lady of Montserrat, the black virgin, is cradling her child and she is looking out over our island and into the Gulf.


- - -
Brandon was born and raised in Trinidad and Tobago. He came to New York City to study English in 2009. He will likely spend the rest of his life coming and going between those two places.

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Author: Brandon Mc Ivor

Contributor: Jerry Guarino

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Hannah could have had an easy life. She could have spent her days with charitable causes or artistic pursuits. She could have been free to write or paint. If only she had chosen Richard or Ben. Their devotion and money was the type of temptation that many women would be satisfied with, but Hannah was less conventional.

A modern flower girl in looks and dress, with a contemporary liberal arts education, she had borrowed her parent’s idealism and combined it with her grandparent’s pragmatism. She was everything an accomplished man might want as his mate, a partner with values, intelligence and beauty.

But we all know that it isn’t the man who chooses the woman. Richard didn’t know that. Neither did Ben. As successful as they were, there was one area of life, they couldn’t control. Finding a mate.

Richard was a financial analyst. His rise from Harvard business school to a seven-figure income on Wall Street was typical of the privilege that comes from wealth. His path was as sure as his parents had designed, laying out the ladders from a private grammar school to elite prep school to the Ivy League. One ladder led to him to sailing camp on Martha’s Vineyard, another to meeting debutantes in cotillion balls and another to a summer job working at the stock exchange for family friends. With his family connections, wealth and resources, it would have been surprising if he hadn’t been successful. Like many in his social circle, he attributed his success to providence, while ignoring the more demanding requirements of responsibility that privilege may owe back to others.

Ben was a brilliant software engineer. Unlike Richard, Ben didn’t grow up surrounded by wealth and family connections. His path was more pragmatic, hard work in public schools and an academic scholarship to a top public university to study computer science and engineering. These EECS, as they were called, were pursued by the power companies in Silicon Valley, recruited almost as soon as they were admitted to school and followed until they graduated, with summer internships along the way. Starting work two weeks after graduation for $140k, Ben launched a successful career in a short time. Ben didn’t take his good fortune as fate. He had compartmentalized his life into boxes, boxes for education, for work, for hobbies and even for people. He even grouped his friends and family into an online program showing their relationships so he could understand his social world.

David had been born to teachers in a small New England town outside Boston. He lived comfortably but not lavishly. He didn’t have Richard’s family connections or Ben’s engineering mind, but David was given freedom to follow his own path. He took this freedom seriously, excelling in school and playing town soccer, without the anxiety or expectations of other parents. This allowed David to find his way, in spite of his parent’s divorce when he was 14. His inner strength persisted through a trip across country to live with his father, leaving his mother on the East coast. This made his journey even more remarkable and admirable than either Richard or Ben’s life. David could have put his considerable intellect and personality into making money, but he had an idealistic, almost hippy like temperament for public service.

Although Richard used ladders and Ben used boxes, they both had one thing in common. They were both about to fall in love with Hannah.

All four of them met one evening at a benefit fundraiser for homeless healthcare in the Bay Area. Richard was there looking for West coast financial connections. Ben was there representing one of the tech companies, meeting investors. David was there as a member of the coalition that distributed funds to free clinics in Oakland and San Francisco. And Hannah. Hannah was with the catering group, although she was as lovely and educated as any of the junior league women who organized these charitable benefits, there to find a wealthy husband for their continued lifestyle of leisure. They too were ladder climbers, although their ultimate goal wasn’t the working world, but as the proper social family director, raising good children to continue the legacy.

If you observed carefully, you could tell what line of work people were in. Ben was dressed in a sports jacket, button down blue shirt, matching tie and khaki pants so typical of tech managers. Richard had an Amosu suit, Eton shirt, Ferragamo tie, platinum cuff links, and Italian shoes, easily a $5000 outfit. No secret who the women were tracking, Richard, not Ben. David was virtually invisible, looking more like a graduate student than a key figure at the benefit.

But Hannah noticed him. “Who is that?” she asked her boss.

“That’s David Wilson. He’s the project manager for the company distributing funds to the free clinics.”

“Are you sure? He isn’t dressed up, just a casual shirt and pants.”

“That’s his way Hannah. Very understated. Look him up on Google and you’ll see.”

“I might just do that.”

“But if you want rich, there are plenty here to choose from. But don’t get engaged too soon. I’ve lost too many staff at these events already.”

Hannah laughed. “I’m not here to find a husband. Just here to make some money while I figure out what to do with a degree in English literature.”

“That’s not very reassuring dear,” said her boss. “My last two girls were liberal arts major seeking their destiny and now they live in Atherton. You will remember to have me cater your events when you get there, won’t you?”

“Too isolated for me. I’m more of a Berkeley girl,” said Hannah.

“Yes, and the two girls in Atherton both went to Cal.”

Ben was the first to notice Hannah in her white chef jacket. “Excuse me. Do you have any more of these shrimp puffs?”

Hannah looked up. “Sorry, I don’t know. I’ll go into the kitchen and check.”

“No wait” he said awkwardly. “I don’t really want the shrimp puffs.”

Hannah looked confused. “All right. Some other pastry perhaps?”

Ben blushed. “I just wanted to meet you. I’m Ben.”

“Thank you Ben, but I really shouldn’t be socializing with the guests. May I ask why you wanted to talk to me?”

Ben wiped away sweat from his brow, realizing this wasn’t going well. “These charity women aren’t my type. I’m more comfortable with regular people.”

“Regular people?” said Hannah.

“That’s not derogatory. I’ve been analyzing relationships and it says that I would be suited with someone in the restaurant or catering field.” Ben realized how lame that sounded.

“A program told you to find a relationship with someone in the food industry?”

“Actually, it was my own program. I have these groups and assign everyone I meet into them, like boxes. Seems the people I’m interested in all work in restaurants.”

“You put people in boxes?” Hannah put her tray in front of her body as she took a step back.

“No, I don’t put people in boxes. I put their traits, their qualities, aspects of their personality into boxes, then I quantify which ones would appeal to me most.”

“So you put people in boxes?”

Ben was crestfallen. “Yes, I suppose so. But it works for most parts of my life; shouldn’t it work for relationships?”

“It was nice to meet you Ben. I have to get back to work.” Hannah made a beeline for the kitchen when Richard blocked her path.

“Hi.”

“May I help you sir?”

“Call me Richard.”

“All right Richard. What would you like?”

“I don’t usually do this but I couldn’t help notice how beautiful you are.”

“I’m flattered Richard, but I am afraid you’re not my type. Besides I have to work. Sorry.” She turned to walk away.

“Not her type,” he muttered to himself. “A common shop girl. I don’t understand.” As he walked away, several of the junior league girls went to consol him.

Hannah came back from the kitchen and set out more food. Then she felt a tap on her shoulder. “Oh no...which one of these two is it now?” She sighed and turned around.

“Miss. I just wanted to thank you. Your service and professionalism has helped make this fundraiser a success. Please thank the others for me.” He turned to leave.

“Wait. You’re David Wilson. Can you tell me more about your organization?”

“Well, would you really like to know? Don’t you have to work?”

Hannah turned to see her boss, gesturing to her to go ahead. “It’s my break. Why don’t we go out on the balcony?”

***

Hannah finished packing her belongings into the boxes. Everything was ready to go, except for some things above the closet, under the high ceiling. She couldn’t reach them from a chair. “Honey, can you get these up here?”

David looked at Hannah. “Looks like we’re going to need a ladder.”

Hannah smiled and put a finger to her cheek. “I don’t have one, do you?”

David smiled back at his new fiancé. “Nope, never had the need for one.”

- - -
Jerry Guarino’s short stories have been published by dozens of magazines in the United States, Canada, Australia and Great Britain. His latest book, "50 Italian Pastries", is available on Amazon.com and as a Kindle eBook. Please visit his website at http://cafestories.net

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Author: Jerry Guarino

Contributor: Taylor Gibbs

- -
Well you see, it all started with that campy pop-rock song “Drops of Jupiter,” by that corny pop-rock band Train, I believe they are called. Something quite mystical transpired. I was listening to the starry entrancing lyrics when the world began to slip into an unreality. A hazy floating daze swept me off the computer chair where I was checking bus times to a stop seldom used by myself. I realized time was of the essence and I had to get moving if I wanted to catch the bus, on account of the fair walk ahead of me to that near stop.
I began my journey home from work at a slightly less than frantic pace toward the aforementioned bus stop. I was getting near to it when all the street lights began to dim. A blank bus appeared out of the darkness, off in the distance, heading toward me. Desperately I picked up my pace in order to get to the stop on time. In my panic run I hadn’t paid attention to the lights or the bus that arrived at the stop at the same time as I did, until the doors slowly opened. I looked up only to notice where it should have said the route and number, read “Out of Service.” Oddly enough the bus had stopped regardless, and the doors were open, an inviting embrace to the soft ambient glow of its interior. I got on and swiped my card staring at the middle-aged female driver who only gave a vague nod and said no words. Her mouth closed in a thin white line as if it had been glued shut.
The bus was completely empty. I was the only passenger riding this mystery bus into the under lit depths of the city of Guelph.
As the bus traversed the streets I noticed that the city was empty and completely dark. The bus began a long and winding path into an abyss unseen, and in an eerie silence.
It glided through the streets like a boat on smooth, glass lake, fluid and agile.
It preambled so far off the path into deeper darkness that I no longer recognized or could describe anything outside the windows. The bus, however, was so quick to reach places I did recognize that it was as if the driver not only steered the great monolithic bus, but folded space in half and reached further destinations without actually traveling to them.
As it approached the downtown station the silence was oppressive. Where normally all the buses arrive with a practiced synchronicity; there were none to be found. We were the sole accompaniment. I nervously decided to unload myself quickly, allowing the driver a “good night,” to which she responded again with that vague (this time “knowing”) wordless nod.
I exited the bus onto the platform. Under the orange-yellow glow of the arc lights, silhouettes of people were milling about. Not quite substantial people, with many goals and things to find, none seeming to know exactly what they were looking for.
Lost obsidian souls in the ceaseless night.
I traversed this strange desolation with the stealth and cunning of a cat to an empty Subway restaurant for a sandwich, only to find no one would acknowledge my presence and serve me. I was invisible – a greyish specter of myself. So I left bereft, paranoid, and confused and headed home alone in the solitude of the night.
My building when I arrived was like a deprivation chamber. There were faint sounds and lights but everything seemed distant and unreachable.
I got into my room closed the door to be alone and try to piece my thoughts and rationale together, assimilate what it all meant. All I could focus on was the comforting song my roommate sang, drifting to me muffled through the wood of our closed doors.


- - -
My name is Taylor Gibbs, I am a twenty nine year old Support Worker and full time student at York University in English Literature. I have been writing for a few years as a hobby and only recently worked up the nerve to begin submitting for publication. I have a few poems that will be published in Leaves of Ink and The Wilderness House Literary Review come October.

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Author: Taylor Gibbs

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

- -
"Throw me down the stairs a sandwich, Ollie, I'm hungry," said Dr. Olga Sumvitch, hollering up to me from Hell again in her best fractured English.

Although she had spent the last 30 years of her life in the United States working for Monsanto, Dr. Sumvitch still speaks English with a thick accent. I'm one of the few Americans who can always understand her. She has trouble pronouncing my first name, Oliver. But she can always say Ollie, and I have no problem answering to that.

Years ago, Dr. Sumvitch emigrated from Moldova to the United States after being hired by Monsanto to fine-tune the formula for Agent Orange. There were some problems in its effectiveness and she had the expertise to work them out.

The day the government finally approved the formula for use in Viet Nam, Dr. Sumvitch had gotten hit by a bus coming back to work after a sumptuous lunch with her celebrating co-workers.

The injuries were bad. She suffered seizures in the hospital for several days and foamed at the mouth intermittently. The night nurse needed towels to sop it all up. She died at midnight on Good Friday with a groan that woke everyone in her ward. After her last groan, a deaf patient on her floor said that he could hear again on Easter morning.

Dr. Sumvitch and I were chemists by trade. We became friends at professional meetings. In the beginning I knew nothing about her work. In fact, I had declined a job at Monsanto right after getting my doctorate from the University of California at Berkeley, and I had always wondered if I had made a mistake in turning that job down. The pay and the benefits were excellent. And Monsanto had a great reputation for quality in their products.

Dr. Sumvitch trusted me not to talk about her work, saying it was top-secret, hush-hush by order of the government. It was the government, after all, that had underwritten the years of research and development that made Agent Orange possible.

Without millions in taxpayer money funneled through the government back to Monsanto, Agent Orange might never have been produced. I promised her I would never say a word about her work. That would have been hard for me to do even if I had wanted to because I honestly didn't quite understand the true nature of the product at the time.

Even now, more than 40 years later, I have to ask myself why would our government be interested in producing a product that would silently decimate land and crops as well as the people who depend on both for their livelihood.

It sounds a lot like chemical warfare to me, and I didn't think my country would ever engage in such a thing.

Right now, America is all worked up about what's going on in Syria--poisonous gases of one kind or other. I'm happy that I'm an expert in formulating new toothpastes. It's my job to make people smile brighter and whiter--not kill them--over a period of time.

Dr. Sumvitch went to Hell immediately but stayed in touch with me after she died. I was afraid to tell anybody about that for fear they would think I was hallucinating after too many years experimenting with toothpaste. Once a month or so, however, she hollers up from Hell when she gets real hungry.

"Food is scarce down here," she told me, "unless one has no objection to cannibalism."

On Earth, and in Moldova especially, she had developed a taste for organ meats--gizzards and livers and hearts--provided they had been harvested from beasts, not human beings.

Chicken gizzards piled on a mountain of rice were her favorite, although turkey hearts, if they were big enough, were almost as good.

Whenever Dr. Sumvitch hollers, and lately she's been doing it more frequently, I wake up and get out of bed and head for the kitchen. I always make her a fine sandwich. I stack beef or pork, whatever I have in the fridge, on marble rye with a slice of onion and a dollop of Tabasco sauce. I top it off with a slice of Kosher pickle, wrap it in Saran Wrap and toss it down the stairs to Hell. It takes around an hour for it to arrive so I hang around in the kitchen till I hear from her.

"Thank you," she yells, when the sandwich finally gets there.

"Believe me, Ollie, I'd ask someone else for help but no one believes in Hell any more except me and my co-workers down here. It's like a big Monsanto reunion from decades ago. There are thousands of us.

"Sandwiches like yours are impossible to come by. Eyeballs, armpits and feet are plentiful, if you like your meat well done.

"You can always see what you're eating because of the bright light, and that can ruin one's appetite. Agent Orange burns night and day. It's always High Noon down here. No one gets any sleep."


- - -
Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.

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Author: Donal Mahoney

Contributor: April Winters

- -
The day she walked into the high school cafeteria, Michael fell in love for the first time. Tall, naturally blonde, and blue-eyed, the girl was a knock-out in Michael’s eyes. I wonder what grade she’s in, he thought.

He found out soon enough when she strode into his tenth grade Geography class well after the bell rang. She handed Mr. Jacobs a piece of paper. He glanced at it then placed it on his desk. “Boys and girls,” he said, “this is our new student, Tammy Remington. Her family’s been stationed here for a while; her father’s a military man.” Then he told Tammy to take the seat behind Joe Raver. Michael cursed the fact that his last name was Connors, wishing it was something with an ‘R’ that would have let her sit in front of him.

Michael, quiet and shy, developed into the class clown. He’d do silly stuff to get Tammy’s attention, like pretending to trip then bumping into a nearby student. Or throwing his hand in the air and asking ridiculous questions when Mr. Jacobs called on him. Most of the girls clicked their tongues, but Tammy giggled. Michael loved her even more.

Tammy was in town almost a month when the kids buzzed about the dance, coming up the following Friday. Heart pounding, Michael mustered the nerve to ask her to go with him. She said yes. It took days before the silly grin disappeared from his face.

At the dance, they laughed and talked a lot. After the dance, he asked her to go steady with him and, again, she said yes. The grin reappeared.

The more time they spent together, the more Michael realized Tammy was not only beautiful, but she was what his mother would call ‘cultured’. Tammy had spent part of her life in Japan, Italy, and Germany, thanks to her father’s career choice. Michael was fascinated and wanted to know what each of those countries were like. Born and raised in Columbus, Ohio, he’d never left the state. Tammy didn’t see the glamour in foreign life like Michael did. She explained how difficult it was to live in countries where she didn’t speak or understand the language and where she was so different from the other kids. She said she didn’t care for being an outcast.

When Michael and Tammy weren’t together at school, they were on the phone for hours each night. Everything was roses and rainbows for over a year, during which time Michael told Tammy he loved her and planned to marry her. “Gee, I don’t know, Michael,” she said. “I mean, I don’t want to hurt your feelings or anything, but we’ve never dated anybody except each other. I’m not sure we should tie ourselves down; I mean, we’re both still so young and all. Besides, my father would have a hissy fit if I told him we were engaged. I’m not even seventeen yet!”

“Well, yeah, but you’ll be seventeen soon; same as me. I don’t see what’s wrong with planning our future. Besides, I don’t mean we’ll get married tomorrow.”

“You’re right, Michael; I suppose there’s nothing wrong with it. It’s just that my mother has told me as long as I can remember not to get married until I’m well into my twenties. She says marrying too young can cause lots of problems, and she doesn’t want me to ruin my life like she ruined hers.”

Within a week, Tammy broke the news that her father had been transferred to Arizona. She’d be gone very soon. Michael didn’t know how on earth he’d be able to say goodbye.

He wrote Tammy letters every day, but she stopped answering after the first six weeks or so. Heartbroken, Michael moped for months. Then his luck changed. His father’s health demanded a drier climate which made Michael happy because they were moving to a town in Arizona that was just twenty miles from where Tammy lived.

His mom and dad drove Michael to Tammy’s house a few days after the Connor’s settled into their new home. Michael thought Tammy would be thrilled to see him. He couldn’t have been more wrong.


- - -
April Winters hopes to help people forget their troubles through her stories, even if only for a little while. Her other works can be read at The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, Short-Story.Me, The Short Humour Site, and here at Linguistic Erosion.

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Author: April Winters

Contributor: W.M. Dufresne

- -
There is a desolate barbershop still limping along on Terrier St., but you wouldn’t know it unless somebody told you. It smells like turpentine and all the equipment is really old and what most would consider crappy. But Bob is still cutting hair and making good conversation there.

When I first visited Bob, he was trimming sideburns with surgeon’s precision while Dr. Phil babbled on the TV. Some inanimate booger green chairs sat in the middle of the room. From the very get-go I could tell that he was honing in on every individual hair follicle, sniping them joyously with his battered old clippers.
I sat there for awhile and watched Bob like a gardener tending to his anthropoid flowers. A black African American man outside dressed as the Statue of Liberty was shrieking obnoxiously about taxes and tax preparation and discounts while holding a red body-sized cardboard arrow. People stuck in traffic tried not to make eye contact with him. He was pointing his arrow every which way and playing it like an air guitar. It was simultaneously absurd and enchanting. I immediately wanted to do my taxes.

Some effeminate doctor in blue fatigues opened the door to the place and the once hum street murmur came blasting in saxophone style. Bob seemed to have liked this gentleman, this doctor. They had known each other from haircuts long past; sideburns long trimmed.

On that day, Bob was a master of razors and the blades. He was mythological, almost. A folk hero in my mind.

Old Mrs. Westwood confirmed this to be true. She popped in through the doorway in a sudden and spry manner just as the blue fatigued doctor was leaving. You could tell she was eager to see Bob. On the TV the nightly nightmare called the news started sounding off.

I was now positioned to be Bob’s final haircut of the day.

The razors were increasingly loud and throbbed hot about my ears. 80-year-old Mrs. Westood sat in the audience. She came just for the conversation. At least she was honest.

She had known Bob since he was a little chap. I remember her saying something about how she helped him get through Boy Scouts. His nickname had been Greyfoot back then and in her exchange with him, she referred to him as such.
Bob was buzzing about my head with a great deal of mental equipoise and skill of the blade. Through the hot scrap of the tiny microblades, I could still hear the emasculated Statue of Liberty sounding off and carnival barking outside.
When Bob took out his straight blade razor to clean up my neck I saw it immediately as a relic of the past; something to be revered. It had such impressive intrinsic value. It took skill to whip it around, sharpen the blade, and put it to someone’s neck.

When he was done I felt so smooth that when I walked out onto Terrier Street I felt like I was walking into an Artic wind tunnel. For a moment I forgot all about him and Mrs. Westwood and the blue fatigued doctor and the state of the world as evidenced by the nightly news and that dingleberry Dr. Phil. The cold air dizzied my epidermis and pulled it tight like the membrane on a snare drum.

I crawled into the driver side with the utmost caution. Ever since I was a kid and my big cheese schoolbus ripped a door off a parked car, I’ve had this idea that if I timed my entry incorrectly I might lose my head or at least a limb to another sideswiping car. My worthy vessel was ready for voyage. In the rear-view mirror I caught that damn Statue of Liberty twirling his giant arrow like a baton over and over.


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William Michael Dufresne is a writer living and working in Pittsburgh, PA. His work has been found in a number of online literary publications including the Compendium Review and Bulletproof Glass. He is currently working on a book called Souvenir about mania in big cities.

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Author: W.M. Dufresne

Contributor: Jerry Guarino

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“Who is this person?” Said Armen, the owner of the new bakery. Armen looked around at his customers, sitting at café tables, drinking tea or coffee and eating desserts.

Meanwhile, John was on his computer in the second floor apartment next door. He was playing a game of hide and seek with Armen.

“Guess it’s time to make another appearance” said John. Whenever the café was busy, John came in, bought a cookie, hung out a while and checked in, but since he also checked in from his apartment, Armen had no idea whom the Duke of Yelp was.

The modern coffee house was not a bohemian or flower child flophouse. Instead of a bearded man playing a guitar, there was jazz and spa music coming out of ceiling speakers. Tie-dye cloth and beanbag chairs gave way to expensive leather furnishings expertly matched to create an ambience of warmth and relaxation. At least a dozen people were connected by phone, laptop or iPad, tapping away while talking with companions; heads bobbed and eyes darted up and down. Although Armen was playing catch up, it seemed all young people were skilled in tech use. He just hoped none of them were hacking into his computer to get credit card information.

“Great shortbread,” John said to the cashier. “I’ll take four.”

The dark haired girl with Mediterranean looks selected four unbroken cookies and put them in a bag. “Will that be all?” she said smiling.

“And a coffee,” said John as he selected a large take-out cup and lid, then filled it from the self-service decanter. While John was waiting for his change, he tapped on his iPhone, checking in to the location.

Armen heard a ping from his computer and looked around the room. He walked over to his computer, set to the Yelp page that showed his bakery/café. “This one person keeps checking in with the name Pat27. Hmmm. Could be a man or a woman. No picture.” He needed another way to find him or her.

A 20-something Asian woman with faded jeans, soft, brown boots and a pink cotton sweater walked in; John’s head came to a stop as he saw her. He watched as she bought a tea and raspberry scone, sitting at the corner table and opening her kindle to read. Normally not one to take chances, John decided this was worth the risk. He walked over to her table, paused, presented his bag and said, “Have you tried the shortbread?”

The woman gestured for John to sit down, “No, I would like that. I’m Amy.”

John smiled. “John” and he sat down next to her.

“I don’t normally take desserts from strangers” she said.

“I don’t normally offer them,” said John. “Are you from the Mission?” John asked.

“No, the Sunset. My friend is in the wine bar next door.”

Armen walked around the seating area, glancing at screens. People continued to come and go. He decided to secretly take snapshots of them with his phone.

John wondered if her friend was male or not; he hoped she would offer this information. “Yes, it looks like a fine place, a little upscale for this neighborhood though.”

Amy broke off a nibble of shortbread and swallowed. “Well, that’s my friend’s way of meeting rich guys.”

John put his hand on the table. “And you?”

Amy took a sip of her tea, and then put her hand on the table closer to John. “Money comes and goes. I don’t waste it, so I don’t need much.”

John was feeling comfortable now. “Yeah, me too. But I guess you can tell by the way I dress.”

Amy looked John over. “You look fine, do you mean the plaid, flannel shirt?”

John nodded. “Holdover from winters in Berkeley. You?”

Amy leaned forward. “UCLA, but I grew up here. You’re not from here, are you?”

How would she know that? John had no discernible accent. “No, Boston. How did you know?” he asked.

“You speak more slowly than natives.” After about an hour of social dancing, John and Amy walked out, went up to his apartment and made love.

Back in the bakery, Armen looked at the customer pictures he had on his phone. It was 10:00pm, closing time when a man in a mask came up to the register, pointed a gun at Armen and demanded the money. The gunman tapped something into his phone. “Ping.” The dark haired girl took the money out and handed it to the gunman.

You could almost make out a smile from the robber as he turned to leave. “Remember the Duke!”

When the police arrived, Armen showed them John’s picture. “This is the guy who’s been casing my place.”

John escorted Amy back to the wine bar. “Who is this?” said Jenny as she saw John with Amy.

John extended his hand. “John, this is Jenny, a sorority sister visiting from L.A.”

Jenny could tell where Amy had been. “So, John what do you do?”

Amy gave her a nudge. “Hands off girl, I saw him first.”

John was flattered with the attention of these two beautiful women. “Would you ladies like a drink?”

Amy and Jenny said in unison “champagne please.”

In his peripheral vision, John caught them whispering to each other as he walked to the bar. “Three champagnes please, but let’s keep it under $25.00.”

A waitress from the wine bar pointed out John to a policeman, who was letting them know about the robbery next door. “OK, I see him.”

As John and the women were toasting, John pulled out his phone and checked in to the bakery one last time, after they had closed. This would give Armen a laugh when he got in next day; it was just harmless fun.

The policeman, seeing John posting on his phone, confiscated it, looked at the posting for the bakery. “Turn around Pat27, we got you” and led him out the door in handcuffs. “Or should I call you Duke?”

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Jerry Guarino’s short stories have been published by dozens of magazines in the United States, Canada, Australia and Great Britain. His latest book, "50 Italian Pastries", is available on Amazon.com and as a Kindle eBook. Please visit his website at http://cafestories.net

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Author: Jerry Guarino

Contributor: Sarah S. Cain

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Margaret thought it would be fun to take the train to Boston, but now it seemed like an ordeal. Brian bounced in his window seat though there was little enough to see in the dark. He made faces at himself and stuck out his tongue. Soon though she could give him his medicine, and he'd calm down.

“Mom, Mom, Mom, Mo--”

“What is it, Brian?”

“Look! There’s a man with a purple tie!” He pointed across the aisle to the slim blond man in the gray suit who indeed wore a bright purple tie. He didn’t glance up when Brian pointed him out, though he must have heard his voice. He was youngish. Thirties, Margaret thought.

“Yes, Brian. There’s a man with a purple tie. Keep your voice down.”

Sometimes Margaret wished she could wear earphones when she was with Brian. She listened to the train clack over the rails. It didn't drown out his voice.

“Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom--”

“Yes, Brian?”

“The man with the purple tie has an iPad.”

“I can see that, dear.”

Brian shifted and squirmed. Thank goodness the train wasn’t crowded. Two seats up, a woman in a black suit pulled out a pair of headphones, slipped them into her ears and plugged them into her computer. She shot Margaret a look--something between pity and impatience. An older man snapped his paper with impatience.

Margaret searched through her bag for her phone. Brian could play a computer game or two on it. She didn’t want to drag out the computer, but if he kept it up, she would.

“Newark," wheezd the intercom.

“Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom! Is this our stop?"

“No, dear. We’re going on to Boston. To see Gammy and Papa.”

She handed him her phone and a pair of headphones. Brian played in relative quiet through the Newark stop, but once the train started up, he grew bored.

“Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom, M--”

“What, Brian?” Margaret felt a headache forming between her eyes. They had at least six hours to go, depending on the layover in New York. She hated driving with Brian because it always took forever. They had to stop at every rest stop along the way, and flying was worse. He’d kick the seats and squirm and ask the flight attendants every five minutes if the plane might crash. Once when they flew through bad weather, he’d shrieked for the entire flight.

Now that they sat on the train, Margaret knew she’d made a dreadful mistake. She should have driven. She could bear Brian’s quirks alone; she’d done so since Henry left them three years ago.

“Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom, M—“

“Yes, Brian.” Perhaps a Valium would calm him, except it would probably react with his other medications then she would be to blame.

“The man with the purple tie looks like the guy from TV. He's a bad man.”

Margaret felt embarrassed. This might be some celebrity, and here was Brian making a fuss. “Brian, please stop talking about that man. He might get offended. He might think you’re a rude little boy.”

“New York.”

She watched the man place his iPad in a sleeve, stand, and slip into a black raincoat. He started to exit before turning back to them. He leaned over and smiled, his blond hair sweeping down over his brow. Margaret thought his teeth were very white, and his blue eyes had flecks of silver.

“Listen to your mother, Brian,” he said in a voice just above a whisper. “You never know who people are. Sometimes they’re nice, but sometimes they like to stick sharp objects into soft little necks.”

He straightened and walked to the door, his step jaunty. Margaret felt her heart thud; when she looked at Brian his mouth hung open. She wanted to call the conductor, but she couldn't force out a sound. The man melted into the crowd at Penn Station.

Brian was quiet all the way to Boston.


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Writing is my obsession. A lover of all genres of fiction, I lean to the dark and twisted, though I love well done humor. My micro fiction story, The Offering, recently first place on Flash! Fridays Online Fiction, and my short story Amsterdam will be published in the upcoming anthology, Voices of the Main Line.

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Author: Sarah S. Cain

Contributor: Chico Mahalo

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So now they’re all holding rallies, thinking they’re going to be the ones to set this country on fire again. But who’s kidding whom? What do they really want? What does anybody really want? Love? Sex? Respect? Money? Power? Egos stroked until their Ids come all over their superegos? It’s a simple question. Costs a hell of a lot more than $64,000 these days, but I think you’ll find the answer is reasonably priced. In fact it might even be on sale. For the right asking price. Just call up your friendly neighborhood lobbyist; they’re the ones hanging out in the lobby of the Ritz Carlton reading the Financial Times and having green tea and pastries.

And then the scene suddenly dissolves. But where are the network cameras? Out of focus again. But if you squint real hard you can see where the unemployment lines meet the coke lines and then you can watch them go to the after party with the thugs who can’t be identified in a lineup because they have diplomatic immunity.

Where is America? Where is Miss America? Being raped by Captain America, of course. And once again our judicial system has turned a blind eye to Lady Justice, who’s grown tired of being in the dark and has removed her blindfold and replaced it with shades of gray.

All those cancerous witches and warlocks pretending to race for the cure by filling out their pledge forms; but they don’t want to cure this disease. They want the disease to spread. They want to create a pandemic that is voter-resistant. What rhetoric! What spin! What a disenchanted forest we've wandered into again. Waiting for Supermen like Zuckerberg and Gates to be the saviors of our public schools because all those demagogic demigods on our school boards are more concerned with rewriting the history of the world by filling our children’s textbooks with ideological battles between Darwin and Christ.

“And, by the way, where is Christ in all this?” says the Atheist to the Evangelical.

“Living in you,” says the Evangelical.

“No, He’s not,” says the Atheist. “He’s with all those other ubermensches who always seem to be reaching toward thrilling ideas only to suddenly abandon them.”

And ’round and ’round the burning bush they go and where they stop, nobody knows; not even the shadow government knows what evil lurks inside the hearts and minds of the men and women of the Mad Tea Party who insist on seizing upon our differences and apprehensions rather than trying to grasp the reasons why the merry-go-round has collapsed mid-season.


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Chico Mahalo is a subtly charming writer, alcohol maven, passionate communicator, and hipster-friendly troublemaker with a strong interest in researching tattoos in Minneapolis, MN. He spent 2001-2005 donating Easter candy in Ocean City, NJ. He currently lives with a woman who puts you in mind of an unstoppable storm, whose luxurious, wavy, black hair is worn in a style that reminds you of a bale of hay.

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Author: Chico Mahalo