Contributor: John Laneri

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Dominique Episode - 2


Moments after walking into the Ritz, I spotted Dominique seated at a table with a group of people, all of whom seemed to be enjoying themselves.

From what I could see, she appeared just as beautiful as I remembered. Only this time rather than a diamond about her neck, I noticed a emerald necklace in its place. As best I could tell, it appeared to be an exquisite piece, featuring a series of stones that blended perfectly with her Parisian flair.

At the time, I was in Paris on business, staying at the same hotel where she and I had once indulged in an explosive twenty-four hour weekend.

Back then, I actually thought that I had met someone special until I later learned that she had exploited our relationship and used me to unknowingly transport a cache of diamonds through customs at New York Kennedy.

Fortunately, I survived the ordeal with only a battered ego.

Finally, after waiting a few minutes, I noticed her move away from the table.

Approaching her, I said, “Dominique.”

She turned about, her features registering a brief moment of recognition before saying, “Oui Monsieur?”

Certain she recognized me, I continued, “It's been a long time.”

“And, you are?” she asked.

“You know who I am.”

“Perhaps, you're mistaking me for another person.”

Determined, I pressed on. “I've wondered if we'd ever meet again.”

She started to take a step away then stopped and turned to me. “It would be best to forget we ever happened.”

“True... but we did happen.”

She took another step then again stopped, her green eyes directed to mine. “I shouldn't have used you like I did.”

“No... you shouldn't have.”

Moments later, she hurried to me and threw her arms about my neck. “I've missed you so very much. Please forgive me,” she said, as her lips eagerly sought mine.

Before long, we were seated in a quiet place, unsure as to why our attraction remained so intense. Once the wine arrived, we spent the next hour talking about anything and everything.

Eventually, I asked, “Do you still work for your uncle?”

“I continue to oversee many of his business interests. Why do you ask?”

“Just curious.”

She reached for her wine and took a small sip. “Please believe me when I say, he forced me to use you as a favor to him. After all, I am a member of his family.”

“Do you still smuggle precious stones for him?”

Surprised by my directness, she replied, “Never... You were the one and only time. He was in a bind, and he threatened me.”

“You do understand that I could have been imprisoned.”

She touched my hand, letting her fingers intertwine mine. “He manipulated me too... he always does. It's his way. What I did was awful, but saying I'm sorry is not enough. How can I make it up to you?”

“By answering an honest question about us.”

She again reached for her wine, letting the glass linger near her lips. “I take it that you want to know why we have such an intense attraction to one another.”

“That would be a good start. We seem to experience something very special whenever we're together.”

“To me, our feelings are real and the intensity almost frightening. Perhaps, we should move slowly.”

She did have a point, so I reached for a menu and changed the subject.

After dinner, we explored the streets of Paris, stopping at various places where we immersed ourselves in fine wines and colorful people. At one point, I even bought her a simple gold necklace at a small shop.

Later that night, we came together like never before. The experience, I have to say, was pure, uninhabited ecstasy. It was as if our spirits had once again reunited into one.

The following morning at breakfast, she settled across from me and reached for a croissant. “You're still quite a man.”

Smiling, I said, “And, you continue to bring out the best in me.”

She laughed pleasantly. “I've been thinking.”

“About what?”

“About us,” she replied, as she leaned closer and kissed my lips. “I don't ever want to be apart again. When your work here is finished, I want to go to New York with you.”

“I'd like that.”

She kissed me again and said, “Just being with you makes me so happy.”

For the remainder of the week, we were seldom apart, our passions constantly igniting at the slightest provocation. It was as if we could not get enough of one another to satisfy the lust we shared together.

On returning to the States, we hurried off the plane, eager to begin our life together. Once we reached baggage though, I soon discovered that my suitcase had disappeared somewhere in transit.

At first, Dominique seemed annoyed. I accepted her response as a normal reaction to travel fatigue. A week later, she grew more agitated, her manner leading me to wonder if she had again used me to carry something of value through customs. I confronted her. She tried to deflect the issue by using the word, 'love' for distraction. We argued, and that was it.

My luggage did eventually arrive after traveling to places unknown and eventually spending several months at a storage warehouse in Brooklyn. By then, Dominique had already returned to Paris.

In the end though, when I unpacked the suitcase, expecting to find several packets of high quality stones, I discovered that everything was exactly as it had been when I departed Paris.

To this day, I still miss the intense attraction we shared together. And, I truly regret letting my suspicions control my emotions, but knowing Dominique, I suspect that she simply moved on and resumed living life in her own spirited way.


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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 professional journals as well as a number of internet sites and short story periodicals.

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Author: John Laneri

Contributor: John Laneri

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Dominique Episode - 1


I initially met Dominique at a party hosted by a business acquaintance. At the time, she was standing across the room conversing with a group of women, the sparkle in her eyes as brilliant as the diamond adorning her neck.

She was wearing designer pants, colorful heels and a stylish silk top, all of which made for a classy presentation. Once she looked my way, I tossed her one of my better smiles and watched her politely ignore it, so I waited.

Moments later, as I had hoped, she glanced back in my direction and acknowledged my presence with a slight tilt of her head, an indication to me that the door between us was beginning to inch open.

Soon, she again looked my way and smiled. And before I knew it, we were looking into each others eyes, our attraction immediate. For most of the next hour, we talked non-stop, pausing only long enough to wonder where we were going next.

Eventually, she said, “As much as I'd like to stay, I really need to leave. I'm due to meet friends at another party. Would you like to walk me to the door?”

Before parting, I suggested dinner. She smiled and asked, “Do you like Paris?”

“I've never been there, but it's on my bucket list.”

Six hours later, I was at thirty-five thousand feet, sitting in first class eating dinner, all on her platinum card. Naturally by then, I was beginning to wonder what I was getting myself into.

For starters, she checked us into the Ritz and headed straight to a suite on an upper floor. Once settled in, she kicked off her shoes, and then playfully signaled that it was time to consummate our friendship.

Later, we went to a bistro on the West Bank that appeared nondescript until we stepped inside and were immediately surrounded by old world elegance and fashionably dressed people, all talking at once.

“Interesting setting,” I remarked, looking about, my senses tuned to the smell of great wines.

She took my arm and directed me to a table. “Their collection is excellent. Feel free to indulge. I need to spend time with Charles while I'm here.”

“I hope Charles isn't your husband.”

She laughed quietly and pointed across the room. “Don't worry. He's my uncle and he's harmless.”

In appearance, her uncle was a smartly dressed, but shriveled, little man who was leaning heavily into a walker, as he slowly shuffled toward a table on the far side of the room.

She touched my arm. “I'll only be a minute.”

Her minute turned into an hour, during which I noticed Charles frequently glance my way as if he was critically passing judgment on my presence. Ignoring him, I ordered a bottle of Margaux and sat back to enjoy the place.

On returning, she settled in beside me and reached for my wine. “Oh, wonderful selection... you do know your wines.” She indicated across the room. “If you're wondering about Charles, he took me in as a child after my parents died. Now, I help him manage his affairs from time to time.”

From there, we dined at a four-star restaurant where we ate dinner as ravenously as we made love. Later, we strolled hand in hand along the streets of Paris, our steps taking us wherever we wanted. By then, I was mellow enough not to ask questions. Perhaps, I was even falling in love.

On returning to the hotel, we promptly resumed where we had left off that afternoon. The experience, I have to say, lasted until dawn and ended up being one for the books.

In all, that was my night in Paris – no Eiffel Tower, no Champs Elysees. Essentially, I spent twenty-four hours indulging food, wine and sex – not a bad combination unless you're into churches, museums and parks.

The next day, she left for Geneva indicating that she needed to attend a business meeting for her Uncle Charles. Feeling lost without her, I returned home late that afternoon. By then, I was exhausted but happy. And, most of all, I looked forward to seeing her again.

The following morning while unpacking, I found one of her make up purses in my suitcase and assumed that it had been left there by accident. Setting it aside, I made a mental note to take it to her when she returned from Europe. Later that evening, and for no particular reason, I opened it, my curiosity eventually getting the best of me.

At first, as my fingers roamed about through her various cosmetic items, I felt foolish until I suddenly spotted several nondescript packets tucked neatly into a side pocket of the purse. Looking closer, I soon realized that each packet contained cut diamonds, which I suspected were of high enough quality to necessitate letting some unsuspecting person like me carry through customs.

By the time she phoned to retrieve the purse, I was torn between confronting her or letting the matter pass. Emotionally, I wanted to believe that we actually shared something special.

We met for coffee. “How was Geneva?”

“Very lonely,” she replied, as she sighed deeply. “I missed being with you.” She touched my hand, letting her fingers linger warmly. “You're quite a man. I've never been so exhausted.”

“You have a remarkable way of bringing out the best in me.”

Smiling sweetly, she asked casually, “Did you remember to bring my make up purse?”

I handed it to her. “You should have told me.”

Her eyes turned to mine where they remained for many long moments until they slowly began to lose their luster. Turning away, she took the purse and looked inside, saying quietly, “You wouldn't have agreed.”

I started to reply, but she stood, kissed me softly then walked away, saying only, “Au revior mon amour".


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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 professional journals as well as a number of internet sites and short story periodicals.

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Author: John Laneri

Contributor: Kelly Kusumoto

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“Here they come,” Keiko said. She was peeking through the curtains.

“Oh no.” June whispered, afraid that they might hear her.

“They’re parked in front of Michiko’s house.”

“What are they doing?”

“I can’t see too good,” Keiko said. “Go get my glasses would you?”

June crawled into the kitchen. The linoleum was cold and unforgiving compared to the beige, berber carpet of the living room. On her hands and knees, she could not see the surface of the table. She raised one arm and searched for Keiko’s glasses. As she scanned the table top blindly with her hand, she knocked down a glass of water and it shattered onto the floor.

“What are you doing?” Keiko asked.

June felt a piece of paper and then Keiko’s glasses on top of it. She pulled both of them down in her grip and crawled back to the living room.

“What’s Executive Order Nine-One-Oh-Two?” June asked as she read the heading on the paper.

Keiko put her glasses on. “It’s the law that says they can come and take us away.”

“But I don’t want to go anywhere,” June said.

“Neither do I,” said Keiko. She peeked through the curtains again. The big, green truck was blocking the front of Michiko’s house so that she couldn’t see what was going on. Suddenly, another truck pulled around the corner and was heading towards their house.

“What’s happening, Keiko?”

“Here comes another one,” she said.

“I’m so scared.”

“Me too.”

June dropped the paper and held onto Keiko’s arm. She was shaking.

They heard the sound of screeching tires and men yelling incoherently. Keiko wanted to look out the window but was too afraid. She was unfamiliar with the sound of machine guns being cocked and loaded, but the tools of war were clanking around as the men hopped out of the truck and onto the lawn.

June was petrified. She was stuck to Keiko’s arm like a leech and shaking violently as if in a trance. The hot smell of urine wafted through the room. Just then, Keiko let out a horrific shriek as she involuntarily opened the curtains. A man was standing on the other side of the window, just inches away.

“Japs!” the soldier said. “Over here!”

Two more men carrying a battering ram ran over to the door. A loud crash followed and the muffled cries of the whole neighborhood came rushing into the house. The three soldiers grabbed Keiko and June and carried them to the truck as their futile screams joined the laments of their neighbors.

In the back of the truck, wedged in with the other captives, June and Keiko cried for their mother. How she heard them above the collection of wails and caterwauling, only a mother could say. She inched her way over to them and they embraced.

“They took father and me at work. He is in a truck with all the other men,” she said. “They’re taking us to Heart Mountain. We couldn’t even pack a bag.”

“At least...” Keiko said, shaking with fear, “...we are all together.”

Their mother began to cry. Then all three of them were crying. As the truck drove down the road, their cries mixed in with everyone else’s. They would continue to cry for generations to come.


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Since falling in love with writing at the age of 12, Kelly Kusumoto has written for local entertainment newspapers and magazines and is currently pursuing his Bachelor's at Full Sail University while writing various forms of fiction in the Brooklyn, NY area.

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Author: Kelly Kusumoto

Contributor: Francis Harrison

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If you’ve ever taken Chicago Public Transportation, or any public transportation for that matter, you must know that there are some real characters. People with peculiar colored hair and people that are so interesting they carry conversations with themselves seem to be littered throughout public transportation systems. Now I have nothing against these people and actually enjoy their company; they add something different to life. On the El to the appoet holiday party, I should have noticed the foreshadowing that a blue and green haired elderly woman would give.

The party itself wasn’t so strange. Good friends and colleagues meeting for the first time without a computer screen as a barrier was an uplifting experience. It really made all the team that works so hard to make appoet what it is, realize that we aren’t just doing it for our followers and ourselves, but for each other. Drinks were emptied and stories shared until it came time for myself, TJ Vanek, another staff writer, and a friend of ours to head home to the suburbs.

The El at this time was barren and we shared the entire car with two other individuals who obviously had partaken in certain activities like ourselves. After waiting a short time for the red line traveling north, we got off to transfer lines. Waiting more than twenty minutes is incredibly uncommon and I soon come to the sobering thought that all the trains had stopped running. We were stranded.

We called relatives and called friends but no one answered us at 2 a.m. and we quickly realized we needed a cab. But as the destination was still about a forty minute car journey and we’re all broke college students, it proved an issue. We talked and pleaded with three or four cab drivers to make the trek. Each driver in the taxi rank was to charge us an insane amount or simple denied us any service. That is all the drivers except the last car.

He wore a tattered hat and was scarfing down a subway sandwich that made the three of us drool. He told us he didn’t want to but after some persistent badgering, he relented. Not only did he offer us a much cheaper ride than his counterparts, but offered us one of the best taxi journey’s I’ve had the pleasure of taking. I took my seat in the front and shook the man’s hand. It pains me to see so many people just hop in the back and pretend like the cab driver is robotic, incapable of human interaction.

His name was Moses and he asked us what we were doing in Chicago. We explained a bit about appoet and he promised to check it out; so I started asking him questions. I asked him about his life, his marriage and his two children. He was more than happy to talk and tell us how he and his wife met and even shed some of his elderly wisdom on love to a drunken college student talking about how he wanted to text his ex. It was really quite wonderful.

The ride was filled with laughter, jokes and even banter as the three of us felt we had known Moses for years; that he wasn’t just a cab driver but a friend, a colleague. If Moses hasn’t been there to drive us back to the suburbs, we still would be walking back right now. I don’t know whether I enjoyed that ride because I was in high spirits after spirits, whether I was relieved to be going home, or if it was the fact that Moses reminded me that there are good people out there. He saw a group of individuals in need and made it his goal to fix that need. The world needs more people like Moses. I can only hope the three of us entertained him enough so that he was glad he drove us. I think we did.


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Author: Francis Harrison

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

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Harry Tompkins hadn't been to church for many years. He still believed in God but going to church didn't interest him. Then on a warm Saturday afternoon in August, he met Jayne, a lovely woman, at a company picnic. He liked Jayne a great deal and he thought he might improve his chances with her if he accepted her invitation to go to church on Sunday morning. Jayne had a way about her that Harry liked. Besides she looked like a woman who would bear good children.

"What time should I pick you up?" he asked her. She told him 9:30 would be fine. "That will give us plenty of time to get to the ten o'clock Mass."

The priest's sermon, it turned out, was about the importance of forgiveness and that was a topic Harry knew something about. He had not made a lot of enemies in life but the ones he had made, he cherished even if their infractions had occurred decades ago. Forgiving them would never enter his mind. Enemies are enemies, Harry thought, but he could understand where the priest was coming from.

Harry had spent many years of a considerable education in Catholic schools. And one of the basic mottoes in those schools was to forgive your enemies as you would want Jesus to forgive you. He didn't want to be disrespectful to the Son of God but Jesus had grown up in Nazareth, after all, which was quite a bit different than Harry's neighborhood in Chicago back in the 1950s. In Harry's youth, fights were not a daily occurrence but a week seldom went by without at least one good fight occurring. Fights were always fair back then because to fight dirty was the lowest thing someone could do. You would be branded for life as a dirty fighter. If you couldn't get the job done with your fists, then don't fight is the way Harry looked at it.

Chief among Harry's enemies from the old neighborhood were Elmer and John. They were two boys, older than Harry by a couple of years. Decades ago they beat the Hades out of him in an alley in Chicago. Harry at that time was in the 8th grade and he was going home from school when he got jumped. The nun had been happy with Harry that day, even if that was a rare occurrence, because he had won the all-school 8th grade spelling bee, no small feat in a class where verbal skills outdistanced math skills. Besides, it was usually a girl who won the spelling bees. But Harry could always spell. He'd look at a word once and it was memorized. This time he won because he could spell "ukulele" and Barbara O'Brien, "Miss Goody Two Shoes," couldn't even come close and had to settle for second.

His enemies Elmer and John were high school sophomores the day they pounded Harry, who though big for his age was still only an 8th grader. Elmer and John were small for sophomores but the two of them together were more than Harry at the time could handle. It was a beating Harry never forgot, perhaps because he had won all the other fights he had ever had in grammar school and would have later on in high school. Besides, it sure wasn't easy explaining to his parents that night how he had managed to get a black eye and split lip coming home from school.

"I pay the nuns at St. Nick's good tuition," his father had said, "to make sure you grow up right." He wanted to go down to the school and discuss the matter with the nuns but Harry somehow talked him out of it. He explained that the kids who beat him up didn't go to St. Nick's. In fact, Harry said, they looked like Lutherans. His father said to tell him if Harry ever saw the boys again.

Two years later, when Harry was a sophomore in high school, Elmer and John were seniors at a different high school. Harry was now 6'1" and about 180 lbs. He'd been lifting weights on a regular basis, hoping to gain weight for the football team. Elmer and John, on the other hand, were still relative runts, perhaps 5'6" or 5'7" and maybe 140 lbs at best. Harry hadn't seen either one of the boys since his throttling. But he had always remembered the beating and he assured himself that if he ever had a chance to make things right, he would do so.

It so happened that around that time Harry met a nice girl at a school dance and it turned out that meeting her led to renewing old acquaintances with Elmer. The girl's name was Margaret Mary and she lived in a wealthy neighborhood. She invited him to a graduation party that her parents had arranged. She didn't know that Harry was only a sophomore.

Harry decided to go to the party because he liked the girl despite her living in a fancy neighborhood, one that he had visited only once before when his high school basketball team had defeated the team from Margaret Mary's school. Besides, Harry remembered that Margaret Mary had said her parents had hired a caterer to provide the food. That sure beat hot dogs, the main fare at any party in his neighborhood.

There were a lot of kids at the party that Saturday night and they were all from different neighborhoods. At first, Harry saw no one he knew, certainly no one from his blue-collar neighborhood, which was just as well because with him in a suit and tie he would have had to take a lot of razzing if any of his friends spotted him. Later in the evening, however, Elmer walked in, still short and skinny but decked out in a nice seersucker suit.

Harry recognized Elmer immediately but Elmer did not recognize him. When Elmer decided to go outside to have a cigarette, Harry followed him. He let Elmer take a few drags before he walked up and asked Elmer how life was treating him now that graduation was near.

"You going to college, Elmer?"

Elmer still didn't recognize Harry. It was no wonder, then, that he never saw the uppercut coming. Down went Elmer with Harry on top of him. Many punches later, one of Elmer's teeth lay on the sidewalk and he was gushing blood from his left eye. The other kids heard the ruckus and came poring out of the party but Harry, by that time, had taken off. Elmer had gotten his, Harry figured. There was no need to hang around and complicate matters.

Besides, Harry figured the cops would be scouring the neighborhood looking for a kid that fit his description so he spent the five bucks his mother had given him to take a cab home. He had never told Margaret Mary his real name, just that his nickname was "Skip." She wouldn't have been able to tell the cops where to find him. And he didn't think Elmer would remember who he was.

And so that was one reason why in church that Sunday with the lovely Jayne--at least thirty years after pummeling Elmer--Harry found the priest's sermon on forgiveness resonating. At age 46, he had acquired a couple of college degrees, had held a good job for many years, but had never met a woman he wanted to marry. It wasn't that he hadn't met some lovely women over the years. He had met a number of them and enjoyed them all but found them disposable.

"Most women are like Kleenex," he'd once told a friend who had inquired why he had never married. But Jayne seemed different. He thought right way she'd make a good wife.

So Harry listened to the sermon and even prayed a little. He remembered all the words to the Lord's Prayer. Having been raised Catholic, he knew when to kneel, stand and sit which can be confusing to someone not Catholic attending a Mass. He also thought his prayerfulness might impress Jayne, who was obviously a very spiritual person. But he didn't join her in going up the aisle for Holy Communion because he had been living in mortal sin for years and as a Catholic he knew he should not receive Holy Communion in the state of mortal sin. He might be a sinner, Harry thought, but he wasn't about to commit a sacrilege to impress Jayne. A few rules even Harry wouldn't break.

After Mass, Harry and Jayne went to a nice restaurant for brunch. She took the opportunity to ask him how he liked the Mass and the sermon--or as she called it, "the homily."

Harry said he liked the Mass in that it brought back memories of his younger years in Catholic schools but the sermon, he said, had upset him a little.

"Why," Jayne asked.

Harry then told her in great detail the whole story about Elmer and John beating him up when he was in grammar school. He also told her how he had managed two years later to pay Elmer back with a good thrashing at an otherwise nice party.

That's when Jayne asked him if thumping Elmer wasn't enough. Couldn't he now forgive Elmer and John for beating him up?

Harry said that maybe, just maybe, he could forgive Elmer at some point in his life but not now, even though it was 30 years later. Besides he still hadn't found John. He had even thought about hiring a private detective to get his address. Harry didn't care what city John lived in because that's why they have planes and trains. And as he told Jayne over their last cup of coffee, when he did find John he would beat the hell out of him, worse than he had beaten Elmer at that party.

"I'll bounce his filthy skull off the concrete," Harry told Jayne, wiping the corners of his mouth with his napkin, "if the opportunity presents itself. And I'm pretty sure that some day it will. What goes around comes around. Even Hitler found that out."

He wouldn't kill John, Harry assured Jayne, when she finally came back from the lady's room. "But if possible I'll leave the schmuck laying there in a puddle of blood, wishing he were dead."

Schmuck was a Yiddish word, of course, and he wasn't sure if Jayne knew what it meant. It would be just as well if she didn't. Harry seldom used the word but if he started to get riled up about something, it sometimes fell out of his mouth.

If he got the chance to meet John again and settle matters, Harry told Jayne, then afterward it might be time to talk about forgiving him and Elmer but he'd have to give it some thought. He didn't like to make commitments if he wasn't sure he could keep them. Then Harry drove Jayne home and told her he'd like to see her again. Jayne smiled but didn't really say anything except good-bye when she got out of the car.

As time went on, Harry never saw Jayne again even though he continued to call her for several months. She was never at home, it seemed, or maybe she was a hard sleeper.

Finally Harry quit calling her and started going out again with different women.

"The flavor of the month," as he told another friend.

He never found another woman like Jayne but as Harry liked to say, "any port in a storm."


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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: Kathryn Broussard

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Her house looked like a butterfly.
That was all she could think as she stood in front of the only home she had ever known. Bright, unnaturally blue flames licked the clouds scudding through the night sky overhead. They blackened the stone, burnt the wood paneling, singed the moon. The air was filled with an acrid scent that reminded her faintly of sour milk and campfires. And there was that other scent, that metallic scent which brought to mind visions of dark alleys and shadows, claws and red eyes. The smell of blood.
Normally one would not notice the faint tinge, what with the roaring flames and the campfire smell. But she knew the scent well. It had haunted her life since she was a toddler. It made her stomach churn and her knees tremble. It was a bad smell. It was the smell of despair.
Sparks flew into the sky as a burning wall fell with a giant roar into the glowing wreckage at the center of the fire. She grasped the hem of her shirt as she watched her life burn. Where was the blood? There were no bodies. There was no death, except for the great burning butterfly before her. Her eyes flitted across the dark grass. Nothing. Was she hurt? She couldn't tell. The sight before her and the smells bombarding her nose were combining to form a swirling black pit in her mind, spinning around and around and releasing nothing that passed by. So there was no pain, no emotion, no thought. Just the butterfly, and the blood.


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Kathryn is a college-bound high school senior living in Texas. In her spare time she enjoys reading anything she can get her hands on, and when she runs out of things to read she turns to caring for her small community of hermit crabs.

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Author: Kathryn Broussard

Contributor: Elizabeth Brown

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I couldn’t resist, so we broke the rules. I seduced my wife, and they seized my family.
“We must be cursed,” I said. “It’s the end of us.” In one single moment, my life was teetering downhill, fast, faster— unhinged like a wagon let loose or a bike with no brakes.
“Why do you talk like that, Eliot? We are certainly not cursed.”
“We did it to ourselves and our future generations.” I feigned confidence. Inside I shook with trepidation, sadness—all of it wrapped into one volatile mess. My heart pumped, temples pulsated. Time was short.
“You’re not making sense, Eliot. We have each other, a beautiful baby, food, shelter.”
“We are not free, Mona. Don’t you want your freedom? What good is any of this without freedom? Department of Environmental Factions, DEF, controls us. Don’t you see that?”
She ignored me, kissed my chest, her tongue licking parts that made me forget about freedom. She reached up and put her hand against my mouth. I pushed her away. No, not again. The clock was ticking.
“Let’s do it. Please, Mona. Let’s escape!”
“Just stop, Eliot. You’re scaring me with this kind of talk.”
“I’ve been reading, Mona, I’ve been reading a lot. I found these old magazines from over half a century ago in a box in the attic.”
“Always so full of drama aren’t you? What do you want me to say, Eliot? It’s the past, gone. We have to think of the present. How can you be so foolish? How dare you risk our lives?”
“What lives? What about democracy and freedom? We have no life, no liberty here. We are prisoners. What we just did—it’s the end of us, Mona. Don’t you know that? DEF holds unlimited power; they can seize you at any moment.”
“Stop, Eliot. Stop, please. There’s no point to it. Others have gotten away with it. We’ll be fine.”
“We are not fine. We need to get out of here now, Mona.”
“Are you sure? Maybe you want us to be caught like Shirley’s husband. Maybe that’s it. She knew. She told me he was going to get rid of her. He made sure the devices were on and she was gone the next morning. How convenient. How convenient for all you bored husbands. Now he’s got himself a new wife, ten years his junior. She sank down into the bed, covered her face in her hands. “Help me, Eliot. I feel ill. Is it worth it? Is she worth it? I thought you loved us.”
I loathed the sight of my wife. She was brainwashed; she would never get it. She was the new society, weakened, subjugated, ruled by fear--it knocked us out; we lost our minds, teetered on the edge of insanity.
Not me. Not anymore. I slipped out my shell, had an epiphany. I caught a glimpse in the attic, in the books and magazines. I wanted more.
Ten years since Esther, the big one, the storm that altered our world. The moon, the one constant, cast a blue pall over our bodies.
“What have we done? I love you, Jesus, I love you.” Mona, her nakedness, her breath, finger tips up and down my arm. Elise stirred and whimpered in the bassinet.
“Sh. I love you, too, Eliot. We love each other. That’s all. How could that be a crime? I think you want to leave me. I think you’re tired of me. I don’t know anymore. I can’t trust anyone, not even my husband.”
“We made love, Mona. That’s okay in a normal world. We don’t live in a normal world. They can see us right now. DEF—they are outside the window and on the ceiling and in the fucking walls! Believe me. For God’s sake, Mona, they’re going to seize you and our baby. I don’t know when.” I was sobbing, a pitiful animal. The truth stuck like knives in my chest. She stared at me, blankly—eyes like black dots, unaffected, programmed. Her complexion was ghostly, ashen, her aura a flimsy veil of misty coral—morose, displaced.
“You’re lying. It’s a ploy. You don’t want me anymore. Just say it, damn you. Just tell me the truth, for once. Don’t do this to me, Eliot. Don’t do this to your baby. It makes no sense, no sense at all. You’re a viper—a monster, to do this to your wife and baby.”
She was in a deep, dark denial. She’d never get it until she was seized and our baby was ripped out of her arms. And then it would be too late. I couldn’t reach her—so many were unreachable. Maybe DEF was tainting the food or water supply. Maybe we were all being poisoned.
“Mona, it is a crime. You know it. I know it. Passion is a crime.”
A siren sounded outside. Mona froze.
“What now?” I felt my pulse quicken, my throat tighten. This was it. “What do we do now, Mona?”
“Sh. Keep your voice down. You’ve done it this time. Go ahead. Go to your bitch. I feed Elise, that’s what I do. I’m her mother.”
I watched her pull away, reach for the baby. Her long sleek body stretched across the bed like a sun spreading over the horizon. And it hit me like a rogue wave, pulling me down to the deepest, darkest region, the stygian depths. I gasped, panicked, grabbed her arm like a drowning swimmer, pressed her into me. “I’m sorry, Mona. I’m so sorry.” My voice cracked, pained, broken. I wanted air, death.
Mona cradled my head with one arm and held Elise to her breast with the other. “Please don’t leave me, Eliot.”
I swore I’d never fall asleep. I swore it.
I woke to an empty bed. The last thing I remember was the sound of Elise’s suckling.
They did it— drugged me so I slept.
That’s how they did it.


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Elizabeth Brown is a native of Connecticut. Her short fiction is published or forthcoming in BareBack Magazine, Empty Sink Publishing, TreeHouse, Bartleby Snopes, Contraposition, and Sleet Magazine's spring edition (2014). She studied writing at the University of Connecticut under Wally Lamb and Joan Joffe Hall and is a two time recipient of the1997 and 1998 Jennie Hackman Memorial Award for Short Fiction.

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Author: Elizabeth Brown

Contributor: Dov Lieber

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Some start with a light shining ‘round them. Deeply you know this light will dim. Then there are those who earn their light, ‘round whom one day you look upon them expecting the usual grey, and they’re enwrapped with a lovely glow. An unfathomable universe squeezed into a warm body. Whence comes this light? You’ve been a blind fool. Destiny is revealed. Here, within earned light, not of sun but soul, you find her.

Just the image of her dancing shadow, and you’re made dizzy. The outline, it’s rippling curves, the grace of her long auburn hair. You hear her voice, soft like rain. You ache with pain. You feel she will never love you in this way. How could she? You are the coal and she the fire. But you’ve always thought yourself this way: whomever you love must be better than you.

So you sit down in the circle by the fire across from her. You smile to an at-best-acquaintance. You burn with one desire. You look up and see the flame illuminating her face. You ask: How does her beauty ever-increase? It’s a stupid question. It’s not her but you. You turn from the fire to the stars. They twinkle and you shudder. Yes you’re afraid but that doesn’t mean you need to be a coward. Brother, there is time. Stiffen your neck. Walk ‘round the bonfire. Careful not to fall. Now, now is the time. Strike now, while the iron is hot and before the wood is cold wet ash, and while her heart is softened by song and wine. Don’t panic because there is no room next to her. You can move mountains for her, and now all you need to do is move one person. Tell him that he's being asked for by the cute girl in jean overalls standing alone on the other side. Don’t let him question it. Help him up. It happened fast. Now there is a small space by her. The smooth skin of her thigh is exposed and you’re afraid to touch it with your own. Sit. Just don’t sit and say nothing. But don’t start to talk immediately. Open up a small mystery between you. Stay your hand. Fight the gravity of your feelings. I know you want to slip your fingers into hers. For your fingers to click, first your hearts must.

She shuffles her feet and you haven’t said a word yet. Will she leave you to wallow in the dust and heat? You consider sacrificing yourself to any of the 35 fire gods. Out of despair you consider commenting on the moon’s beauty. Don’t say anything about the moon. The moon’s implied. Instead speak of the desert. It doesn’t matter that you don’t know anything about the desert. It contains all.

And with a bowed head as if talking to dirt, you say, ‘Good night for a bonfire, don’t ya think?”


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Dov Lieber was born and raised in Boca Raton, Florida. After studying the history of the Middle East and English literature at the University of Maryland, and a brief stint working as a journalist in New York city, he moved his life to the state of Israel. He currently serves in the Israel Defense Forces.

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Author: Dov Lieber

Contributor: Kristina England

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Darlene looked up at the bird house, then at the ground.

Ten very dead birds were piled at its base.

Her mouth stayed downward drawn as her husband joined her.

"Honey, he didn't know," Sam said, pulling his gardening gloves on.

"He's fifteen. How the heck didn't he know?"

"No one ever told him."

"It's common knowledge."

"Oh please. Remember that story you told me?" Sam said with a wry smile.

"What story?"

"About your attempt at making chocolate pudding at sixteen."

Darlene bit her lip.

"Remind me again what happened?"

"I used water instead of milk. But I didn't kill anything."

"Yeah, but you had instructions on the back of the box. Rice doesn't come with a label that says, 'Warning: Kills birds.'"

"Why do you have to be so... so..."

"Logical?"

"Yes."

"Well, someone has to," he said with a wink. "Now how about you put on some gloves and help me bury these poor things?"


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Kristina England is a Virgo residing in Worcester, Massachusetts. Her poetry and fiction is published or forthcoming in Extract(s), Gargoyle, New Verse News, The Story Shack, The Quotable, Tipton Poetry Journal, and other magazines.

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Author: Kristina England

Contributor: Samantha Eaton

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It’s something you say thousands of times in the course of your life, but most of the time you don’t really mean it.

You didn’t mean it when you spilt your coffee all over the nice white table cloth at lunch. You didn’t mean it when you ran into that lady with her arms full of files. You didn’t mean it when you stepped on your friend’s foot.

However, you do mean it when you say it now. You look to your right and you look back behind you at the three sets of wide eyes that belong to your friends.

You all brace yourselves as you feel the car move on its own accord, or maybe the ice beneath was pushing the car off the road. The slim shoulder isn’t enough to stop you, your friends, and your car from tipping over the edge. Then you are in free fall, and you have never felt so trapped in all your life. Through the windshield, you watch the sky and the icy mountain stuck in an endless spin-cycle.

It could have been hours or it could have been seconds that you were tumbling, but it doesn’t matter because, though it really isn’t your fault, it is.

Are the lives’ of your friends replaying before their eyes? Did you remember to check if everyone was securely fastened in their seats before you took the car out of park?

Suddenly, the car crashes to a stop, tire-side down. You don’t yet feel the cold slowly seeping into the car because you are still wondering if you are alive.

You turn and check for the well-being of your friends before you check yourself. You can’t hear anything but a slow ringing in your ears. Or maybe you cannot hear because someone was screaming too loud.

Through the newly broken windshield, you look out and notice that the snow is still gently falling, as if nothing had happened at all.


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I am an undergraduate student at the University of Northern Iowa. I love both reading and writing. I like sharing my work with others in hopes that they enjoy it as much as I do.

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Author: Samantha Eaton