Contributor: Jerry Guarino

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They say opposites attract. Well, not in all situations. Sometimes people from diverse backgrounds are attracted to each other, only to find their differences leading to incompatibility. It’s like foods. Mashed potatoes and marinara sauce are great ingredients, but together they just don’t mix.

Kelly Johnson grew up in the Midwest on a farm. Yes, she was a farmer’s daughter, but she left that life behind for college in Boston. Kelly and some of her girlfriends were in the North End for lunch one Saturday.

“Oh Kelly, you have to try the pizza here, like nothing you ever had in Wisconsin” said her best friend Angela.

“I’m ready. We have the good cheese, just not the sauce. I guess the sauce makes all the difference” Kelly replied. The young waiter walked toward their table as the foursome looked up.

“Just like men” said Angela. The girls giggled.

“Posso aiutarvi belle signore. May I help you beautiful ladies?”

They all noticed Kelly locked on to the waiter’s eyes. Angela smiled and whispered to Susan. “I think Kelly just fell in love.”

“My friends tell me we have to try the pizza,” said Kelly. “What do you think?”

“Very good choice. We won ‘Best in Boston’ the last three years,” said Vincent.

“Well, then bring us the best one you have and a bottle of Chianti. And what is your name?”

“My name is Vincent. I’ll be back with your drinks presto, shortly.”

Susan and Angela answered together. “Thanks Vincent” and then looked at Kelly.

“What?” as she gave them a look.

“We saw you looking at him. No one like that in the heartland?”

Susan walked over to the jukebox and made a choice. The song filled the air. “When the moon hits your eye, like a big pizza pie, that’s Amore.” The girls laughed while pointing to Kelly.

“All right. Let’s not get carried away. I think he’s nice, that’s all.”

“Yeah, nice. We know what that means.” The girls kidded Kelly for the next half hour as they ate. Eventually, they let her off the hook. “OK, Kelly we know you’re only discovering something they didn’t have back home, a genuine Italian boy.”

“Be nice or I’ll marry him just to spite you. And you’ll have bridesmaid dresses that look like that.” She pointed to the green, white and red Italian flag in the corner next to a soccer team picture.

Vincent put the check on the table, smiling at Kelly, and thanked them for their business. “una splendida giornata, Have a wonderful day.”

Kelly took the check, insisting she pay for everyone. “You opened my eyes to wonderful Italian food. Let me pay this time.” There was no argument from her friends, college students living on a budget. They didn’t even notice when Kelly wrote her name and phone number on the bill.

That night Vincent called Kelly. She suggested a night at the Faneuil Hall Marketplace across from the North End. They quickly got acquainted, this town boy and the preppy coed from the heartland. By the end of the night, they were walking hand in hand and talking about their next date.

Unknown to her friends, Kelly started seeing Vincent on weekends after he got off from work. She knew they were an odd couple, but it was a nice diversion from the grind of papers and lecture halls, something to get through sophomore year with. She had time to find a suitable husband next year. For now, she just wanted to have fun. It had been months of meeting him in Boston when Vincent arranged an alternative place for dinner.

He met Kelly at the Harvard Square red line stop. They walked past the Harvard Coop and the famous newsstand. “Where are we going?” she said.

“I know a place on Dunster Street, around the corner. You’ll like it.” They walked up to a large yellow house with a crest and signet ring surrounding a nettle.

“This isn’t a restaurant Vincent. It’s some sort of Frat house.” Kelly was puzzled.

“Actually, it’s a coed final club. This is where I live.” Vincent saw Kelly’s face change from confusion to adoration.

“You go to Harvard? You never told me you went to Harvard.”

“Well, I wanted to make sure you liked me for the right reasons, not because my family owned a restaurant in Boston.”

It wasn’t until the wedding after graduation that Vincent found out her family owned the company that supplied pizza dough to his parent’s restaurant.

“Oops,” Kelly said to Vincent when he found out.

They lived happily ever after.

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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: Donal Mahoney

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"You need help in your garden, Grandpa?"

Jack's only ten and eager to help so I have to say yes. He looks like Tom Sawyer. Sometimes I think his mother, my daughter, married Huckleberry Finn, when I look at my grandson. Yet she keeps telling me he looks like me. I seen no resemblance except for the red hair and the cowlicks. Years ago my hair was red. I still got the cowlicks.

"I heard you got moles and voles so I came over to help. When moles get hungry, Grandpa, they tunnel for worms. That's how they kill your roots and bulbs."

It sounds like his mother has been coaching him. She probably sent him over here so she can take a nap. Sometimes it's nice having them live nearby. Other times not so good. For all his good intentions, I know the boy can't help me with the moles and voles. He even brought his own shovel.

I've been dealing with these pests for months. I think I'll have to call in a professional. I'm just afraid the PETA people will show up some night and steal the traps. Or maybe picket my house. The wife might join 'em. She thinks the same way as her daughter. They recycle everything. Sometimes I think I might be the next to go in a bin.

My grandson is on a roll now. He tells me I should send "that stuff over there back to Monsanto. I'll dig up the moles and maybe some voles, too, Grandpa."

I had some weedkiller sitting around the garage for the longest time but I had no plans to try it on the moles and voles. His mother must have seen it when she was here the other day. She hates all chemicals and pesticides. I'm a little more tolerant. She probably told Jack to get on me about the weedkiller.

"You don't need anything from Monsanto, Grandpa. They made Agent Orange. It's not for gardens. It kills people."

I tell him I have weedkiller, not Agent Orange. I haven't heard anybody talking about Agent Orange for years. Bad stuff, but that was a long time ago.

Then, with eyes like stars, Jack announces, "Right now, Grandpa, there are kids in Viet Nam who can't smile like you and me. They're sick to death and they ain't gonna get any better, thanks to that Agent Orange stuff. I saw a program about it on television. Ask my mom. She saw it, too."

So I tell him, "Jack, you can start digging over here. Maybe you'll find a mole. I'll be right back. I'm gonna take the weedkiller back to the hardware store. Maybe they'll give me my money back. You work hard and we'll go to McDonald's. Just don't tell your mother. She doesn't like cheeseburgers and French Fries, either."


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Donal Mahoney has had work published in various print and electronic publications in North America, Europe, Asia and Africa. Some of his earliest work can be found at http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com/

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Author: Donal Mahoney

Contributor: Adam Mac

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Nguyen, known as Win, had lived in a small town on the outskirts of Halifax for nearly two years. He had work in the city, friends, and life was pretty good. His English, however, was still poor, he felt—native fluency being his standard. So, he took advantage of every opportunity to improve his English, and being a gregarious person, there were lots.

Early on, some of the locals sniggered. Win wasn't stupid, and he knew he was the butt of many silly jokes, but he didn't care. Over time, his persistence won over even the surliest, old postmaster Ferguson, and the burliest, Chief Taggert. A quick study, Win got to where he could verbally diagram sentences during conversations, and this impressed a few, then intimidated some more, and ultimately annoyed everyone. He kept on doing it but only in his head.

At the office, one of the favourite topics to bitch about was telemarketers. Hang-ups and call screening were the common solutions. Win used to be polite, but now he hung up, too. Tony had tried bullying, but it took a lot more effort than he'd imagined, so he gave up. Ian had just set up a business line with a pay-per-call service and was collecting 10 cents a minute for telemarketing calls. Shelagh, the English expert with a Master's from Dalhousie, exasperated at playing thesaurus, got the messianic idea that Win should practice on telemarketers.

It was genius! In the evening, Win set up a dummy online account with a luring marketing profile—a St. Mary's undergrad working two jobs—and waited … but not long.

"Good evening, is Mr. N-GOO-YEN there?"

"Call me Win."

"Thank you, Mr. Win. We understand you have an excellent credit rating, and you're just the type of individual that qualifies for our new platinum double plus card."

"You mean 'who?'"

"'Who?' I'm sorry sir, I don't follow."

"You said 'the type of individual that.' Shouldn't it be 'the type of individual who?'"

"Sure. If you like. But you do know what I meant, right?"

"With that ... uh, what's the word ... oh yeah, clarification. With that clarification, I get it. Can I phrase it that way?"

"Yes, you may Mr. Win, but—"

"Wouldn't 'subject to that clarification' sound better?"

"Absolutely sir, but I'd like to get back to the—"

"Excuse me, please. I have one more question. What does this 'double plus' mean?"

"It means the highest level."

"Excuse me. Just one more question, please. Wouldn't it be clearer—or is it 'more clear'?—“

"Either way, sir."

"—to say 'peak platinum' or 'pinnacle platinum' instead of 'platinum double plus'?"

"It's just a name, eh?"

"Ah, okay. So, is this card better than a Visa gold card? Or, an MNBA or MNFL card? And platinum, is that really the best card, because platinum isn't the most expensive—"

"Sir, I really don't know. But sir—uh, Mr. Win—I'm running out of time for this call, so if you don't mind I'd really like to get back to the reason I called."

"Yes. Yes. But could, uh, would you first give me some feedback? You see I'm practicing my English— my conversational English—and I'd appreciate— Hello?"


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Author: Adam Mac

Contibutor: Amanda Dolan


Look at her, sitting outside talking to another client. What does that even mean? I can’t even focus on my video game, because she’s on the patio laughing at his stupid jokes. I’m unsure why we’ve been here for the past week; this is the longest we’ve stayed in a place like this. I hate it. This isn't home. This is one of Nanny's many rooms.

We used to live in Calabasas. I had a playroom and toys that kept me busy while Nanny had work meetings with men. That little green room was my own personal space. Now, I stay in a new bed every few days. Nanny says we’re traveling to save money for a new house. She says the old house had too many problems, but I’m starting to think there’s more to the story than she’s telling me.

I trust Nanny; I do. I know she cares about me. After all, she told me she would buy me an Xbox for my birthday. That’s why I didn’t feel bad about her selling all of my Star Wars figures. She told me she needed the money to save for a new house with a bigger playroom.

On the bright side, Nanny told me school ended early this year. It’s weird, though; I see the school bus in the neighborhood every morning and afternoon. I’d be real pissed if I had to go to school during break, like they do. I always thought school ended in June. It’s March now, but I’ll take it. She told me not to tell anyone about the early break. I guess she doesn’t want me to make them jealous. This break has been really boring though. I’m sick of being left alone while Nanny goes on business dinners. I’m sick of getting locked out of the room each time she asks me to go get some ice on the third floor. I swear, I’ll knock a million times before she finally answers the door with her client.

This life is getting old. I’m 10. I shouldn’t be locked in a hotel room all day while Nanny cries on the phone to her mother. She cries all the time now. I used to think it was because she hurt her arms, because they’re always bleeding. I’ll ask her a few times a day about it. I don’t know why she’s scratching her arms so much. It’s usually when she’s in a bad mood.

“Nanny just has a rash,” she says. “I’m alright, Jimmy.”

I don’t know what to think anymore. I do know that I hate when she calls me Jimmy. My name is James.

Today, Nanny told me that she thinks she’ll make a lot of money. Maybe we will be switching hotels tonight. Anything is better than sleeping in the car again. The seats in that car anger me. They’re way too hard for my liking. Mom left the car for Nanny when she moved to London last year. She said she needed to get away. I miss her sometimes, but we’re both well aware that she’s a shitty mother. Anyway, a tow truck dragged the car away last week. Nanny said it’s because she parked in a wrong spot, but something tells me that’s not true. I hear the way the hotel lobby staff talks about her. She’s lying to me.

My mom may not be around, but I know my dad loves me. He’s probably missing me right now. He moved to Florida in a hurry. I don’t blame him—Mom sent him packing. She tried to keep me from him. She told me he couldn’t take care of me the way Nanny could. I believed that at first, but now I’m realizing how far from the truth that is. This hotel isn’t my home. These green-striped bed sheets would never be my first pick. Living out of my Star Wars suitcase pisses me off. I want my toys back. I want food that doesn’t pass through a fast food window. I can’t do this anymore. If that phone didn’t charge us every time we picked it up, I would call right now and tell him to come get me.

You know what? I don’t care. Nanny’s too busy giggling on the patio again. She wouldn’t notice the dollar charged on her account until she tries to checkout anyway. I think it’s worth a shot. I need to start living.

Let’s see what Dad can do.


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Amanda Dolan is a single mother from Pembroke Pines, FL. She is currently a studying Creative Writing for Entertainment at Full Sail University in Winter Park, FL.

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Author: Amanda Dolan

Contributor: Dustin Pinney

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All of it was in his head. Everything he’d ever seen, read, smelled, touched, tasted, heard, learned, remembered, forgotten, created, ignored, obsessed over, loved, loathed was there. All stuck in his head. Expanding, rubbing against the inside of his skull, it wanted out.

He tried to tell everyone. Speaking was useless. Writing any of it down didn’t work. Any kind of art failed miserably. His entire life was stuffed into his head and he couldn’t share it.

A migraine started thumping along his nervous system. The tiniest motion sent the world around him into a cyclone. That agony intensified to such a point that he was sure death was imminent.

The day came when finally his life wore through the bone, punctured his scalp and oozed through to the real world. As it flowed, the opening spread. Light, shadows, magic, chaos, love, hate, spilled out. He started screaming.

An essence of self at last emerged as a brilliant glow. It swelled to a solid blinding beam.

When his life had finally bled out of him, he sat empty in the quit, his scream frozen in place.

The only words spoken by the ones who found him were, “What a waste.”


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Dustin Pinney is back living and writing in a town just outside the city where he grew up. His other stories have been featured in the anthologies "31 More Nights of Halloween," "New Dawn Fades", and "Nickel City Nights" as well as a number of online venues. He also writes an awful lot about Doctor Who for Letusnerd.com.

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Author: Dustin Pinney

Contributor: Jerry Guarino

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October 23^rd, 1976 (New Brunswick, NJ) - Tony finished his set at WRSU around 7pm. He would grab a quick dinner, then head over to the dorm for his gig as DJ to their party. Playing for college dances was better than being on the air; you don’t have much interaction when you’re alone in the radio booth. Here he could see coeds dancing and if he was lucky pick up a date.

“Are you the DJ?” said the house manager as he extended his hand.

“Hi, yes, I’m Tony, from the radio station. Good to meet you.”

“You too. I’m George. You can set up on that small stage; we use the dining area for dancing.”

“OK George. We’re going to start around 8?”

“8 is good Tony. The music will signal people to come down from their rooms. But you’re going until midnight, right?”

“Yes, usually, unless the crowd disappears.”

Most of the sororities and fraternities would be partying tonight, especially after the football team won. Tony knew everyone would be in a good mood. After setting up his equipment, records and speakers, he ran a sound test and found a comfortable stool. By 8 o’clock he was setting the mood with music from the early 70s. Sly and the Family Stone, The Hollies, Elton John and Three Dog Night. Just hits.

A brunette with frayed, bell-bottom jeans and a tie-dyed shirt came over to him. “You’re gonna play some Clapton, aren’t ya?”

“Derek and the Dominos or Cream?” said Tony.

“Do you have Layla?”

“You got it next.”

The girl smiled and skipped away as residents started to fill the room. It was a coed dorm, not part of the Greek system, so this was pleasant company, not the drunken frat boys around the corner. Within an hour, the dance floor was filled; beers were everywhere and the usual pairing off had begun.

“Wow. 9 o’clock and we already have couples leaving for the rooms upstairs. This might be an early night,” Tony said to himself. Then he saw her, a cheerleader still in uniform with some friends coming through the kitchen. He knew her name, Karen, but she didn’t know him. Back then all the guys knew the cheerleaders by name, even though they never met.

Tony knew what he had to do. K.C. and the Sunshine Band, Earth, Wind and Fire and The Doobie Brothers. Dance music will get her on the floor. As Get Down Tonight started, Tony pushed the volume up until it ended all normal conversations. Sure enough, Karen and her friends started to dance.

“Hmm. Her boyfriend’s not here. All the cheerleaders had boyfriends, maybe a lineman from the team. But they were probably partying at the football frat; surely Karen would be there if she wanted to be. Maybe he’ll show up here or she’ll leave.” Tony would just have to wait and see.

A coed came over to him with some chicken wings and French fries. She was pretty enough, but Tony was otherwise occupied. “You must be getting hungry; I made you a plate.”

“Oh, thanks” he said to the cute girl in a red Danskin and corduroy pants. As she walked away, she turned to smile at Tony. He gave her a wave and a more genuine smile, then his attention returned to Karen. But he didn’t see her.

“Damn.” Tony scanned the dance floor. “What if she stepped out? I should have talked to her.” Before long, it was 11:00pm and the crowd was thinning out, couples off for the night and singles leaving, only about 30 people left now. He lowered the volume of the music and made an announcement.

“You’ve been a great audience tonight. We’re going to wrap it up in about ten minutes.” Some mild disappointment from the crowd, so he decided to end the night with some power songs. Boogie Wonderland by Earth Wind and Fire, That’s the Way I Like It by KC and the Sunshine Band and Play That Funky Music White Boy by Wild Cherry. He turned the music up.

“Excuse me.” A lyrical voice called him, accompanied by a hand on his shoulder. He looked up and saw Karen. Suddenly his whole night was back in synch. She was smiling. “I love these songs. Too bad you have to stop.”

“I can stay a little longer. My name’s Tony.”

“I’m Karen.”

“Nice to meet you Karen. So you came right from the game?”

“Yeah, my girlfriends took me out to dinner for my birthday, then brought me here.”

Tony had a clue. “She should be with her boyfriend on her birthday. Maybe she broke up with him.”

“Well, happy birthday. Tell you what. I’ll play as long as you like.” Tony thought that was a smooth line.

“Oh, thank you” Karen said and gave him a little hug. She walked back to the dance floor with her friends. Tony watched her dance for the next hour. That cheerleading uniform was more than he could resist. He just hoped she would stick around after and talk to him. His head in the clouds, it was midnight before he realized.

“Well, that’s it folks. You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here. Well, unless you live here.” Tony tried to make a joke, but it bombed. He started packing up the equipment. Karen walked over to him.

“Thank you so much. I was feeling a little down tonight. Will you be here long?”

Tony was hoping for the best. “No, I just have to secure this in that closet. The techs will bring it back to the station tomorrow. Do you need a ride home?”

“That would be nice” and she smiled. Tony wasn’t expecting this, but recovered quickly.

“I’ll take you. Just give me ten minutes.”

“OK. I’ll tell my friends goodbye.”

“Wow. She’s leaving her friends to be with me. I must have played the right notes tonight.”

Karen was quiet on their ride back to her dorm, but you could sense the conversation between them, going on in their heads.

Tony: I wish we were heading to my apartment instead of her dorm.

Karen: I wish he would ask me to his apartment instead of taking me home.

Tony: What do I say?

Karen: I wish he would say something, anything.

“So, you made my night a little brighter too Karen. I didn’t expect a pretty cheerleader to even notice me.”

Karen slid over to Tony’s side and held his hand. “You’re not so bad looking yourself. Did you think dating a cheerleader was out of your league?”

Tony’s life quickly passed through his brain. “She said dating a cheerleader!” It’s a dream come true, unless she is already with a player from the football team. It’s worse than having an affair. If he found out, he could punish you on a regular basis. You couldn’t just disappear, especially once they got your class schedule and address. Worse yet, he had 60 or 70 teammates you could run into, literally!

“Tell you the truth. No, I never considered it a possibility.” Tony hoped Karen would give him one more sign to proceed. At the stop sign in front of her dorm, she leaned over and kissed him. “My roommate went home for the weekend. Aren’t you going to come in?” and she closed the door and ran to the door.

That was the sign. Tony parked quickly and ran to catch up with her. They made love for the next hours, aided by some champagne she just happened to have in her fridge. Low lights and soft music from her stereo intensified the mood. Tony gave her a massage while he recovered, hoping the night would never end.

Then there was a knock on the door, a pounding! Karen looked at him, threw on her robe and went to look out the security hole to see who was there. Tony’s heart and imagination were racing to what could be an ignominious finish of a glorious night. He could make out some muffled sound from the door.

“Oh.” She turned to Tony. “It’s only my roommate; she forgot her house key.”

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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: Donal Mahoney

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It may have been the devil himself who prompted the kids in my schoolyard back in 1947 to chant "Patsy Foley's roly-poly from eating too much ravioli."

At first, no one could remember who started the chant. Patsy, a sweet and ample child, was in the third grade. As happenstance would have it, I was in that same third grade, infamous already as the only boy wearing spectacles in our class. After I got the glasses, I had three schoolyard fights in three days to prove to Larry Moore, Billy Gallagher and Fred Ham that I hadn't changed a bit. You would think I would have forgotten their names by now. Not a chance. I didn't like being messed with in third grade.

Since the chant would often begin and gather volume during recess, the nuns who ran the school eventually heard it and did their best to put a stop to it. This was a time when nuns, God bless them, were empowered by parents to swat the butts of little miscreants if any of them interrupted the educational process. Despite their voluminous habits, the nuns were adept at administering discipline, let me tell you, as my butt, on more than one occasion, could attest.

Now, 65 years later, when the chant pops into my mind, I begin to wonder what prompted me to say it. Early on, I certainly loved to hear the sound of words bouncing off each other--as if words were pool balls scattered by a cue. Later on I would use words to earn a living. They were the only tools I was any good with.

As I remember it now, the chant started one day after a school practice in church involving Gregorian chant. Some of the other kids later alleged that they had heard me, of all people, on the way back to class, chanting "Patsy Foley's roly-poly from eating too much ravioli."

I probably had some idea of the problem my chant might cause. But I loved the sound of it too much to stop.

If Dick Clark had been on American Bandstand back in 1947, he might have said the chant had "a nice beat" to it, but kids weren't dancing much in 1947. World War II had just ended and school was a serious matter. Even kids who didn't like books usually tried their best.

Since I was only in third grade, one might think that I might have had some emotional or mental problem that caused me to chant that phrase over and over. That could be. If a child did something like that today, he or she might be examined for Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD). Maybe I had something like that. But in my mind the reason I chanted about Patsy Foley is that I liked the sound. It didn't hurt that my father was always saying things at home that had a bit of a turn to them. I remember how I used to enjoy the cadence of what he said and repeating it when he wasn't around. He used words differently than other fathers in the neighborhood and he delivered them in a melodic Irish brogue.

My mother, who was bereft of verbal rhythm, would sometimes ask my father a serious question when he was fresh home from a hard day's work, climbing alley poles as an electrician. Usually her question would pertain to some family matter that she had been fretting about all day. And my father, sitting on a chair in our little kitchen while stripping off his gear, might say in response, "And what would Mary Supple say to that?"

It's a shame that over the years my mother, sister and I never found out who Mary Supple was because her name was frequently invoked. Nor did we ever find out who John Godley was, either, even though my father would sometimes substitute John Godley for Mary Supple in that same response. He never said these things in anger, although he did have a terrific temper. He could erupt at any time and you didn't want to get in the way of the lava.

At other times, when my father was asked a question by my mother at an inconvenient time, he might look her in the eye and say, "Ten thousand Swedes ran through the weeds chased by one Norwegian," a line that did not originate with him but was one that he repeated with a special flair. The words certainly sounded good to me, whatever they meant. We didn't know any Swedes or Norwegians and had no idea if there might be some conflict going on between them. True, World War II had just ended but we didn't think the Swedes and Norwegians had been actively involved.

Sometimes my mother on a Sunday morning would ask my father if he was going to get dressed for church. He might have been taking a sip of his fifth cup of tea at the time. He wouldn't get angry but he sometimes would lean back and sonorously intone one of the many Burma Shave billboard slogans that dotted highways in that era: "Whiskers tough old Adam had 'em. Does your husband have whiskers like Adam, Madam?" I liked the sound of that slogan as well. Today, it still pops into my mind during arid moments. And as my wife will attest, she has heard it frequently over the years.

I think it's pretty easy to see, then, why I, as a third-grader, instead of concentrating on multiplication and division, preferred to chant "Patsy Foley's roly-poly from eating too much ravioli." I am glad, however, that the nuns took it upon themselves to discipline me and did not call my parents instead. After all, my father was paying tuition to send me to that fine school to get a good education. He did not send me there to engage in tom-foolery, a pursuit that he, of course, would have known nothing about even if his legacy among relatives said otherwise.

Besides, in my mind, no nun, no matter how mountainous she may have been, was a match for my father. He had been a boxer after he had emigrated to America from Ireland, a relocation occasioned by the British army after they had imprisoned him as a young man for activities in the Irish Republican Army. My mother said he loved boxing and had won eight straight matches before "some big black guy" broke his nose. After that, he never boxed again, she said, because he "didn't want to lose his good looks." He was a handsome man indeed, despite a nose that looked as though at any moment it might call geese to fly lower.

Years later, some neighbor ladies at a block party made some nice comments to my mother about my father's appearance. When she came home, she told my sister what they had said and forewarned her that "handsome is as handsome does." In many ways, that's quite true, even though that line didn't originate with my mother. Come to think of it, though, I like the sound of that line as well and might have chanted it more than once had I heard it in third grade.


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Donal Mahoney has had work published in various print and electronic publications in North America, Europe, Asia and Africa. Some of his earliest work can be found at http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com/

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Author: Donal Mahoney

Contributor: Andrew Stancek

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The greengrocer has taped photos of the new supermodel Twiggy, ripped from a fashion magazine, to his store window. My train leaves in forty minutes; my suitcase bulges. I stop to catch a breath, to admire the glossy beauty and peering inside the store through the grimy window I see a mound of oranges, not seen in Bratislava in months. The greengrocer must still be spreading the word to his cronies after a middle of the night delivery but they’ll be gone before the store opens at eight. I rap on the window, rattle it hard. My knuckles hurt but I don’t stop till a beer-bellied man with a three-day beard opens the door a crack and growls, “Closed, can’t you see we’re closed. Stop the goddamn racket.”

“I’ll take five kilos of the oranges,” I say, thrusting a hundred-crown note at him. He steps back.

“No oranges. Only potatoes and beets.”

I take another hundred-crown note out of my wallet, point at the pile. “These invisible oranges. I’ll take five kilos.”

“Every single one is spoken for, sefko. My blasted daughter didn’t pull the shutters closed last night. No oranges by opening time. You aren’t seeing them.”

If I had oranges to give to Dasa, I wouldn’t have to catch the 8:02 train. I wouldn’t have to knock on the door of a brother I haven’t seen in twelve years, with an unspoken plea. If I have to keep arguing with this bastard, I might not catch the train. But if I trundle back up the stairs with a bagful, she might soften like ripe cheese, take me back. She didn’t mean it when she said I’m a useless provider on top of being a goddamn drunk and a cheat. If I have an orange I can take a sharp knife, cut the orange into thirds, feed a third to little Palko, feed a third to her and she’ll take the last third and...

“I don’t need five kilos. I’ll take three. Give me three oranges. Whatever they’re paying you, the goddamn smrady in the council office, I’ll top their price. Look, three hundred crowns for three stinking oranges. You can tell the burzujs you got shorted, that you don’t have as many as you thought. No one will ever know.”

He stares at the banknotes in my hand, greed pulsing a vein in his forehead. He snatches them, motions me into the store. “Three, that’s all you get. Pick them quickly and get out.”

They smell of warm soil and full-throated laughter and I already feel their sunshine spreading on Dasa’s tongue as she tells me “Forever, we’ll be together forever.”

I caress the fragrant skin, juggle one-two-three in the face of the glaring store-keeper. Wings sprout out of my shoulder blades. “I’ll come back later for my suitcase,” I say and fly, fly home, clutching my gift.


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Andrew Stancek’s stories can be found in Tin House, Flash Fiction Chronicles, The Linnet’s Wings, fwriction, Every Day Fiction, Gemini Magazine (Grand Prize Winner), THIS Literary Magazine, LA Review and Windsor Review.

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Author: Andrew Stancek

Contributor: Jenne Lee

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Cheyenne twisted the golden band around her finger, its emerald jewel glistening under the florescent lights of the freezing cold morgue. The sterile sent of cleaning supplies lingered with the metallic taste of blood as Stephanie continued scrubbing the metal counters while Declan sewed up their latest project.

“I finished closing up the John Doe,” said Declan after he scrubbed his hands at the sink. “Is there anything else, Dr. Osiris?”

Cheyenne shook her dark curls. “No, Declan. That’s all for tonight.”

“Are you sure you don’t need any more help with the exhumed body?” Stephanie asked.

The doctor looked across the room at the corpse covered by the white sheet. It was a special request by a private client. She wanted to handle this on her own. “I’ll be fine.” She gave her medical assistants a smile before sending them on their way.

When she was alone, Cheyenne approached the body lying on the cold hard slab. She sat down in a chair beside it, crossing her legs as she studied the emerald gem. The morgue was silent except for the hum of the florescent lights and the fan from the freezers. The air was still, but her occasional glance towards the clock on the wall and the breath she breathed. She was alone other than the dead laying in the refrigerated storage lining the wall behind her and the corpse lifeless beneath the sheet in front of her. With a sigh, she gave the stone a quick twist.

There was a change in the air. The lights flickered around her, but Cheyenne didn’t flinch. Her brown eyes focused on the white sheet as it began to rise. The sheet fell away as the corpse sat up, revealing the pale torso of a blue-eyed brunette teenager. The boy sat staring at the doctor with fear and confusion in his sapphire eyes.

“Where am I?” he asked.

Cheyenne replied, “Do you know who you are?”

“I’m Jaxon Oliver. I’m the guitarist in a band.”

“You are,” the doctor agreed. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

Jaxon narrowed his eyes. “It was dark and cold. It was snowing really hard. My band and I were on a private plane heading for Montana.”

“That’s right,” said Cheyenne. “Do you remember what happened after that?”

Jaxon nodded scratching the back of his head. “The pilot said something about being lost. The storm was too heavy and the instruments were malfunctioning. We shouldn’t have been flying through the storm.” He closed his eyes and shook his head, burying his face into his cold hands before pulling his hands back and studying them. They were pale with a greenish tint and dirt under his long yellowing fingernails. He raised a hand to his chest as he glanced around the unfamiliar room before looking up at Cheyenne. His sapphire eyes were wide with horror. “Am I dead?”

“You are.” Cheyenne was calm. She had given this answer many times over the years. This wasn’t her first talking corpse. “I’m sorry Jaxon, but you didn’t survive the plane crash.”

“My friends? What about my band? Did they?”

“I’m sorry, but there were no survivors,” replied the doctor.

Jaxon was silent. His eyes were wide as he stared at the floor. The doctor gave him a moment for it all to sink in. Finally he responded. “We crashed, didn’t we?”

“It happened a few years ago. You crashed into a corn field,” Cheyenne explained.

The musician raised a bushy eyebrow. “A few years ago? Did it take that long to find us?”

Cheyenne shook her head. “No. A farmer heard the crash and found you right away,” she explained. “You were buried, but your family had you exhumed. There were some unanswered questions surrounding your death.”

“Do you think I was murdered?”

“Of course not, sweetie.” The doctor remained calm. “The farmer who found the plane claims that you survived the crash and that you were out walking around. He ran back to the house to call for help. By the time the emergency vehicles arrived, you were…”

Jaxon bit his lip in concentration. It wasn’t easy remembering the exact moment of when you died. Everything became dark and cold. You felt alone. Everything about that crash felt that way. He could remember the way the snow crunched beneath his bare feet. How his body shivered from the frigid temperature or it could have been the fear and the shock of the event that he had been through, he wasn’t sure. Worst of all, he remembered their faces and the guilt he felt each time the icy air filled his lungs.

“How did you do it?” Cheyenne asked pulling him back to the present. “I’ve examined you from head to toe. You had a few fractures, but nothing life threatening. Your organs were not damaged. Your head was fine. I found no trace of gun shot wounds like some theories suggest. The toxicology reports were negative. You weren’t out there long enough for hypothermia to set in. How did you stop your guilt from consuming you?”

Jaxon shrugged. “How did you bring me back from the dead?”

The doctor twisted the golden band around her ring finger. “No one has ever asked me that before.”

“No one has ever brought me back from the dead before.”

“It’s an old family secret.”

“Then I guess I died in a plane crash.”

Cheyenne smiled. “Have a nice afterlife then.” Before the musician could say anymore, she turned the stone counter-clockwise. The corpse landed back onto the cold slap with a lifeless thump. The doctor stood from her chair and reached for the sheet. She pulled it up to cover the teen before wheeling the gurney over to the storage wall. She chose a pre-marked door, opened it and slid the gurney into the narrow compartment. “Rest in peace, Jaxon Oliver.”


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Jenne is currently a creative writing major at Full Sail University where she hopes to gain the skills and tools necessary for reaching her goals of becoming a published author. When she is not writing, she is usually lost between the pages of a book, far beyond the reaches of reality.

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Author: Jenne Lee

Contributor: Brian Armour

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`In the brevity, was there capacity for colour, detail, familiarity, understanding or warmth in the progress, the structure, the bones - the necessities of function that need remain?’ considered Dr Eric Siedbet walking down the empty underground platform. He surveyed the grime besmirched cavern-like walls against which his steps echoed.
Screaming, twisted metal heralded the contorted misshapen first carriage filling the tunnel entry propelled by derailed carriages behind. Freed of the restrictions of the tunnel, a carriage leapt, side onto the platform and jammed against the wall wiped it clean, of advertising, furniture, signage, some grime, some soot and Eric Siedbet.
On the opposite platform, Jason saw events unfolding and dived for cover inside a stairway as metal and glass exploded into the space. He covered his head while the deafening steel and concrete argument continued, until gravity with an eternal groan, replaced momentum. The reverberating cries of the injured wove their way through smoke and broken, upended carriages to fill his ears. Though the ground beneath him ceased shaking, he had not. Broken glass fell from his back as he stood, knees buckling. Across from the opening was the top of a carriage, roof torn open, squashed beneath another carriage broken in two and compressed into the ceiling of the underground station. Jason climbed onto the wreckage to aid the injured wondering what the man on the other platform meant. He was sure he heard his thoughts. Kicking away the remaining glass of a window, he wondered about that too.
Jason lowered himself down through the opening into the carriage. He placed a foot carefully alongside an inert body under the frame of a seat torn loose, stomach down on a sea of smashed glass. To his right a twisted avalanche of metal fittings, seats, bodies, newspaper, bags and personal possessions formed a wall of compressed confusion and irretrievable misery. He turned away, the moans and cries of survivors coming from his left.
He knelt down beside a man in a suit whose leg was bent back so the heel of his shoe was behind his ear. From under his contorted body spread a growing puddle of blood.
"Hey there, mate.” He put his hand on the man’s shoulder. The man grabbed it. Jason felt him trying to contain waves of indescribable pain. “It’ll be okay. Hang on. The medico’s will be here soon.”
Leaving the man he looked down the interior of the mangled carriage. Midst a tangle of seats, he saw a woman lying by the windows rolling her head back and forth in pain. The entire right side of her face appeared ripped off, but there was so much blood he could not be sure. He wrenched away a pile of debris to get to her.
“It’s okay, you’re alive. It’s over now. Help will be here soon.” Pulling off his shirt, he wadded it up and held it against the side of her face.
“Wha . . . ap . . . n?”


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Brian lives south of Sydney, Australia and is preparing another novel and a book of short stories for publication.

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Author: Brian Armour