Contributor: Mel S.

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“I just don’t understand, Bill. Why can’t I come with you?”
“Ellie, please understand. You can’t ask me any more questions. I’m only authorized to tell you that the President has requested a team to investigate certain Communist threats and I’ve been chosen as part of that team. I have to move to Sacramento today. Alone.”
Ellie swirled the last of her scotch and soda, listening to the tinkling of ice against the glass, and demurely crossed her legs. She risked a furtive glance into his eyes to determine if there was another reason for him to abandon her. She only saw concern and sadness in his baby blues. She selfishly wanted him to tell her everything, to defy his superiors and take her with him. Or at least tell her what he was getting himself into and why she couldn’t help. She had the distinct feeling that this would be the last time they would see each other. She wanted to leap across the cheap hotel table and hug him close, to breathe in his smell, and beg him not to leave. But her legs would not move. They both sat silent, avoiding each other’s eyes, the sound of the swirling ice breaking the silence.
“How will I know that you’re okay?” She kept her eyes downcast, the tears threatening to spill down her perfectly powdered cheeks.
“The room has been paid for a month in advance. I’ll call you as often as I can. You’ll know it’s me when I say ‘tulips make your eyes smile’. Will you remember?”
The tears spilled then. Coursing down her cheeks in hot streams.
“Of course I’ll remember. That’s the first thing you ever said to me.”
The Santa Monica winds whistled through the fence as they sat in vacillating silence. They had only been married a year, still getting to know each other. Bill knew that Ellie loved him. Not as deeply as he loved her but he’d had a head start. He was a patient man and knew that she would come around—if they only had more time. Now, it seemed they might never get the chance to grow into the love they were capable of. Bill involuntarily reached for Ellie’s hand and then withdrew it just as quickly. She hadn’t noticed, lost in her own thoughts.
“My bus leaves in 20 minutes,” he said. His insides felt like they had turned to stone. His guts churned, burning him up with worry, regret, and wistfulness for the fleeting love of his life. He stood, slowly leaned into her, and kissed her softly on the forehead.
“I love you, Elisabeth,” he whispered.
Her hands trembled, the ice clattering in her tumbler. She did not lift her head as he padded softly across the tiny room. She did not look at him as he stuffed his cigarettes into his trousers. She did not stand as he picked up his satchel. She did not say a word as he exited the room, looking back over his shoulder to capture one last look at his wife. The door clicked shut behind him.
“I’m pregnant,” she whispered and drained the last of her scotch.


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Author: Mel S.

Contributor: Maggie Giles

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That heart shaped lock hangs on my door, reminding me of better times. It makes me think of you. The heart shaped lock hangs on my door, whispering forgotten memories. Accusing, pleading, crying, begging. That heart shaped lock upon my door.
The key is long lost; it went missing almost five years back, but it didn’t matter then. I didn’t want to remove it. I still remember the day your strong hands took my small ones and held them tightly while we closed the lock together.
“A symbol of our love,” you swore. “We will never be apart.”
My eyes fluttered shut as you kissed me. Your lips were always warm and soft. I never knew how your touch could always be so perfect. But it was.
That heart shape lock still hangs on my door. Whispering, haunting, mourning.
The day you left, my heart went cold, hard and metal like that lock. You swore it wouldn’t be long. You swore you would come back.
“You are my everything,” you told me. “We will never be apart.”
Your hand caressed my cheek as the soft breeze from the open window tousled your messy brown hair. We swayed in the warm sunlight, dancing to the sound of the blue bird’s song. We stood in the middle of the room and you told me you loved me. But love was never enough.
Then you squeezed that lock and smiled at me. “Good thing we lost the key. Now you will have to hold onto me forever.”
The twinkle in your eye told me you meant it as a joke, a loving memory. But that didn’t last. It became a burden I didn’t know how to lose. But it was also one I didn’t want to.
You never did come back, even though you said you would. You never said Goodbye; you said you didn’t need to. Instead you touched my heart, saying you’d always be there. At the time it meant everything, now I can barely feel that touch.
Sometimes I curse your stubbornness, looking back now and asking myself what I would have said, what I could have done. Maybe I would have stopped you. But I couldn’t stop you. Neither of us had a choice. When you’re fifteen, nobody takes your love seriously. Adults don’t understand.
I stand from the small box that I am sitting on. My room is completely packed, my life ready to be moved away. Except the lock. My delicate fingers wrap around the cool metal and pull. It doesn’t budge. It never does. You swore it would stay as strong as our love. I take comfort in this.
I flop back down on the cardboard box, filled with my high school memories. My family and I are leaving my childhood home. We are moving north, to another city. I was accepted to attend a university and my parents wanted to follow me. I wish you would follow me too. I wish you could see how things have changed.
I searched my room as I cleaned and packed, hoping I would find the lost key, hoping I could take our heart with me. But it was in vain. The key is lost, as you wanted it to be, and now, three years after you left me behind, I finally have to say goodbye.
I study the lock for some time before walking back to the door and holding it in my hand once more. The once cool metal feels warm to my touch, like your love is radiating through.
Tears spill out of my eyes and roll down my cheeks, I wish I could take this part of you with me, but I know it is time. I lean in and press my lips to the warm metal.
“I love you,” I whisper. “I’m sorry I never got to say Goodbye.”


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Maggie Giles is a 20 something Canadian author working full time as a marketing associate for an industrial gasket manufacturer. When backpacking through Europe, she developed an interest in writing and began writing historical fictions from the Tudor era in England, but her writing interests span larger. She has also dabbled in thrillers, scifi, horror and more recently starting a fantasy series.

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Author: Maggie Giles

Contributor: Joshua L Hawkins

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“Come on, come on.” Eli said and twisted the key in the ignition again. The engine of the old car sputtered and died like a sneeze cut off in the throat. A soft cloud of steam rose from the hood of the car in the frigid night.
“You have got to be kidding me.” Julia said from the passenger seat. She pulled her large coat tighter around herself to try to keep warm.
“I swear, every single time I think I have this thing fixed it goes and screws up again.” Eli said and slammed the heel of his hand into the outer edge of the steering wheel.
“So, what do we do now? Julia asked. She pulled a cigarette from her purse and lit it.
Eli gave her a stare from across the car. “Smoking? Seriously Jules?”
“Yes seriously you moron. It’s midnight, and I’m stuck in the freezing cold because my boyfriend’s piece of shit car won’t start. Who cares if your precious car gets smoke smell in it, I don’t.”
Eli reached over, and snatched the cigarette from her lips. “I don’t care about the car.” He said, and looked at her abdomen. “I care about the baby.”
Julia sighed. “I’ve already told you what I’m doing with the baby.” She said, and withdrew another cigarette.
“So that’s it then? I don’t get any say so in whether our child is born or not?” He shifted in his seat so he was facing her more than before.
“You aren’t the one who has to get fat, and walk around with a five to ten pound lump in your stomach for nine months. Damn right you don’t have a say so.” She said, and then with a grunt of disdain she lit a second cigarette.
Eli looked over at her baffled as she took a few long drags on the cigarette.
“What?” She asked, and held up her hands. “You want me to be a house wife, or something Eli? You want us to get married, and move in together, and take care of this baby? No Eli. That isn’t what I’m going to do, get that through your head. I don’t care how nice of a guy you are, marriage is out of the question.”
“At least think about it Jules, I mean we could raise this baby together.”
“No.” She said, and took another drag of the cigarette. “I’m only twenty-two years old Eli. I haven’t had my share of fun. If I have this baby now I get to kiss all that away.”
“So?” He asked. “What is a few years of getting yourself hopelessly drunk, and sleeping with three dozen guys you’ll never remember, compared to raising a child. A child Jules, a child that we brought into this world and that we should be responsible for. I don’t want you to get rid of it. Keep it, please.”
She finished her cigarette, and looked over at him. Their eyes met for a moment before she turned away, and sighed. “I can’t Eli. I just can’t do it. I’m not ready for this kind of thing. I know that has to be the most clichéd response to getting pregnant, but I’m just not ready for this.” She wiped at her eyes before the tears could spill down.
“At least think about it, okay? I mean you don’t have to make a decision right now do you?” Eli asked.
She shook her head and pulled her bundled coats closer. “I’m sorry Eli. The decision has been made.” Her hand grasped at the door handle for a moment and then without another hesitation she opened the door and climbed from the car. The lone streetlight above them bathed her in bright yellow light.
“You don’t have to do this alone Jules.” Eli said from the driver’s seat.
“It may have taken two of us to make this baby.” She said, and leaned down to look at him once more. “But it only takes one of us to fix the mistake.” She stood straight, and let the door swing closed in front of her with a loud clang. Taking a deep freezing breath she backed away from the car, and turned towards the vehicle’s rear. Then she started walking, tiny puffs of steam emitting from her lips as she breathed in the dark cold night. Behind her Eli stared through the icy rear window of the old beat up car.
“Nothing is a mistake if you can love it.” He said to the empty cab, and then he turned back to the front of the car, and tried the ignition again. It turned over once more before dying in a gargling wheeze of smoke, and then the silence of the dark cold night fell upon him.


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Joshua Hawkins began writing in ninth grade during a creative writing class. His love for expression through words spread throughout the rest of his schooling and now he attends Full Sail University for his Bachelor's in Creative Writing for Entertainment.

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Author: Joshua L Hawkins

Contributor: Ali Banner

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Daggitt cursed the Company protocol that tethered him to his partner. They swam into an underwater cave, separated by only ten feet of cord that attached to each of their suits through a special harness. Eleven dives and the Company decided he still needed a guide.

“Keep your eyes peeled, Daggitt.” Roberts’s voice infiltrated his helmet. “Don’t wanna miss the tunnel.”

He swam faster and harder than the rest of the crew and his knowledge of ancient artifacts was essential to the Company’s success, but Daggitt was better known for getting lost between the pub and the motel next door. “Just do your job so I can get the hell out of here.”

Roberts smirked. Daggitt imagined the cord around his neck. Soon.

The walls closed in, jutting masses of rock that threatened to crush them as they headed for an even narrower channel. In the past, Daggitt ignored his surroundings; the formations blended in the background and made for a pretty scene but meant nothing. Now they were waypoints to guide his return. He memorized each smooth contour, each jagged edge. Even the plant life sprouting through the cave floor highlighted his escape route.

“Here we are,” said Roberts. The tunnel opened into a small grotto with a marble statue erected in the center and rough nooks carved into the surrounding walls. “The Shrine of Amondeen.”

Amondeen watched as they swam over to the hollowed spaces, the two divers peering inside each tiny cave. Most of them stood bare, no doubt looted by plunderers who had visited in the centuries since the fall of Amondeen’s palace, yet some offerings to the ancient god still remained. Daggitt turned over a bronze chalice inlaid with smooth rubies and estimated its value; years of experience hadn’t tamed his greed.

“Remember what we’re here for,” Roberts warned.

“Of course. The Company sent me to find Amondeen’s Scepter, and that’s what I’ll do.”

“It will be an invaluable addition to the Museum.”

Not if I can help it. Eleven dives with the Company and Daggitt hadn’t seen a single penny. He set the chalice back in the shelf. He would return for it later, now that he knew the way.

Roberts motioned and Daggitt followed him to a dark corner of the grotto. A flat boulder leaned against the wall, and Daggitt pressed his fingers along a ridge where the two masses collided. He pulled back, testing for motion; the boulder gave way but fell back into position as Daggitt lost his grip.

“And word in the Company is you’re the strong one.”

Idiot. “Shut up and help.”

Together they rolled the rock aside and uncovered a narrow cavern with a deep trench in the floor of the grotto. Daggitt knelt to the ground and aimed his flashlight at the bottom. “Bingo.”

Amondeen’s Scepter lay in the trench, centuries of dirt and grime encrusting the solid gold staff. Hundreds of small sapphires, amethysts, and emeralds spiraled around the rod from end to end, and a large eagle sat on top clutching a pearl. Even covered in soil its worth was immeasurable. Daggitt’s heart pounded in his ears.

“That it?”

“Yep.”

“Nice.”

Daggitt examined his guide. “You’re smaller. You should jump down and pass it up to me.”

“Afraid of getting lost, are ya?” He snickered and lowered himself into the trench. His feet scuffed the walls and landed on either side of the scepter.

As Roberts crouched down to dislodge the staff, Daggitt pulled a switchblade from his utility belt. He released the catch and flipped out the knife. His garbled reflection stared back at him.

“Man, this mother is heavy! Ya sure you’ll be able to carry it back?”

“Oh, I’m sure.”

Roberts hoisted the scepter to shoulder level and Daggitt used his free hand to drag it along the ground, pulling it out of reach. He pointed his knife at his partner. “I suggest you stay down there.”

Roberts held up his hands. “Whoa, is this because I joked about you getting lost? Lighten up, man!”

Daggitt laughed. “Did you really think I’d let the Company take one of the world’s most valuable artifacts and let it rot in a museum? Eleven times I’ve been down here. Twelve, now. And what do I have to show for it? Nothing! Well, twelve is my lucky number. It’s time for me to collect!”

“So what are you gonna do? Leave me in this ditch? You can’t find your way back.”

“Ha! I paid attention this time. I don’t need you, or the Company, or this damned tether!” He lowered the knife to the cord between them.

“Ya sure you want to do that?”

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to choke you with this.”

“Suit yourself.”

Daggitt sawed at the tether until it snapped in two, finally freeing himself. He swam toward Roberts to finish the job but halted halfway. He could feel water trickling into his helmet. “What the hell?” He locked eyes with Roberts, who wore a knowing smile.

“Just remember, you’re the one who cut the tether. Company special issue.”

Terror seized him as realization settled in, but he was too frightened to scream. The water kept coming. He searched for the tunnel but its opening evaded him. He fought and struggled until the water filled up his lungs and he could no longer breathe.

After Daggitt’s body stilled, Roberts switched the channel on his communicator. “Do you read me, Home Base? Yeah, Daggitt turned. I told you he would.” He paused for a moment to listen. “You’re welcome, Home Base. I knew my design was flawless.”


- - -
Ali Banner is a former English teacher who spent two years teaching in Handan City, China. She is currently a Creative Writing student at Full Sail University. She lives at home in West Virginia with her roommate, Emily, and her dog, Sparky.

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Author: Ali Banner

Contributor: Katie Ashworth

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I stared out the window at the beat-up black clunker parked on my curb. Usually I could keep my emotions in check, but this time the tears spilled without much warning. Before my eyes the car transformed into the shiny, grand vehicle it had been in years long past. The street was no longer illuminated by flickering streetlights, but it was bathed in the sunlight of a summer day.
The strength of the memory overwhelmed me. I grew 20 years younger. I was no longer looking out my window at the car, but bouncing next to it excitedly. My father was taking me for a drive. There was no planned destination, but I wore my prettiest dress and had my mother tie pink ribbons around my braids. As far as I was concerned, this was a very special occasion.
My father opened the door for me, helped me up, and buckled me in. The car seemed enormous and powerful. I swung my feet in the air over the edge of the seat out of pure joy. I heard the engine crank up, and we were off. I don’t remember anywhere we went. I only remember looking at my father for almost the whole drive. The sun threw crazy shadows on his face, but it didn’t keep me from thinking he looked like a superhero. In my five-year-old eyes, he could do no wrong.
I was a princess in my finest dress, and the king was taking me out and showing me off to the kingdom. Surely our subjects adored us. Even the sun was shining his approval and appreciation over us. The clouds had another idea. I filled with anger as they began to conceal the sun. I heard a distant rumble of thunder. My anger subsided, because even a thunderstorm wouldn’t ruin this moment. I was scared, but Super Dad would certainly protect me.
The sky grew darker as the clouds continued to roll in. Huge raindrops, some of the biggest I’ve seen to this day, splattered the windshield of our mighty carriage. Lightning streaked across the sky and snapped me out of my trance. My eyes adjusted to the darkness as I stared back at the banged-up car of the present.
Tears were still falling from my eyes. I didn’t cry for my missed memories or myself. My heart broke for my father and his similarity to that old car. My super hero father, once in his shiny glory days, had been dented and dinged by life just as that car had. The roads he chose to take took a toll on him that couldn’t be salvaged, and as I glanced at the FOR SALE sign in the car’s rear window I realized that soon it would be taken away where I would never see it again, just like my father.
I stayed fixed to that spot all through the night, unable to hold back the emotions that I worked so hard to conceal. Morning would bring the buyer, but for now I was finally able to grieve.


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Author: Katie Ashworth

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

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When ancient Elmer was young and dashing and on the prowl, he would wait for a phone call about love or anger from someone important to him at the time. Over the years more than a few women had reason to call. Some were happy with Elmer and some were not.

According to Elmer, more than a few of those women today, five or six decades later, take advantage of the new technology and Google his name in an effort to find him. Many want to confront him for past promises not kept. Some want to see him again if he's single, widowed or divorced. Others just want to see him again, whatever his marital status.

The vote on him, Elmer says, is split down the middle. He fooled some of the women some of the time but the others never forgot. At age 80 he wishes most of them--but not all of them--would.

"What can I tell you," Elmer says. "Besides drinking, the only thing I was good at in life was talking to women until they caught on. I may be old but I can still talk nice to a lady. I specialize in buncombe and balderdash. But I can't run any more from the angry ones. The legs are gone.

"And that damn Google can be a real problem. I guess my address and phone number got on the Internet somehow and some ladies who are still able to get around have come looking for me. It's happened more than once. I wouldn't be surprised to answer the door some day and find one of them in an electric wheel chair. But all of them, good and not so good, had energy and spunk."

His many children are now adults, he says, but they wasted his money in college. Instead of applying themselves to their studies, they would wait for an email about love or anger from someone important to them for that semester. The following semester, he says, they would wait for an email from a new love interest. This would go on every semester until they flunked out or managed to graduate. Email in the lives of his children was not a positive thing when they were in college.

"I have 12 kids," Elmer says. "Six have degrees and six flunked out. More of the flunkers have jobs than the graduates. What does that tell you about this economy? And what does that tell you about my kids? The apples, I guess, fell close to the tree."

Elmer also has quite a few grandchildren, most of them adolescents. They waste time in school, he says, waiting for a text message about love or anger from someone important to them for a day or a week or over spring break. Texting is not a good thing, Elmer says, in the lives of his grandchildren. And it won't be a good thing for any of them able to get into college.

"Kids today," he says, "are on a carousel, especially the girls because they trust boys and most teen-age boys are louts. I can tell you that from personal experience because I was a teen-age lout for several wonderful years," Elmer says.

"As a teen-ager, if I ever told a girl the truth I must have been drinking beer in back of the Masonic Lodge earlier that night. We had no dope back in those days. Never even saw the stuff. Wouldn't touch it if I did. But we drank a lot of beer on the weekends and maybe a little vodka and Squirt on Sundays. After church, of course. Times were different back then. You could meet a lot of nice girls at church."

Now in his dotage, and feeling the effects in his joints and muscles, Elmer still maintains that love or anger shouldn't arrive by phone, text message or email. It should arrive in person, smiling or spitting with rage. He's had it happen both ways. And he's ready for more if time permits.

Elmer doesn't have a computer or cell phone so emails and text messages never ruin his day. He has a land-line phone to make outgoing calls but he adjusted it so he cannot hear the ring of incoming calls. He did that two months ago after Bertha, a woman he took to her prom more than 60 years ago, found his phone number on the Internet. She called twice a day for a week until Elmer turned off the ringer, as he calls it. He never turned it back on. Now he calls out once a week for a large meat-lover's pizza and two quarts of beer. He'd make the same order more often, he says, but he has to watch his cholesterol.

Elmer, however, would not be disturbed if Bertha--or any other woman from his youth--came knocking on his door. He has always believed that love or anger should pound on the door with great emphasis--like the baton of a policeman at midnight yelling the music's too loud, stop the party or everyone's going to jail.

The pounding would have to be loud enough, Elmer says, for him to hear it--and even louder at night to roust him from his bed in his nightshirt to search for his teeth and toupee before he answered the door. He wouldn't care who's pounding as long as it was love or anger and not some guy in a ball cap selling aluminum siding.

"Every man, no matter how old, deep in his heart wants to hear one more coo or even a gripe from a woman," Elmer says. "In fact I'd like to hear both before I go--and I won't go quietly--into what Dylan Thomas called that good night. Did you ever read his poems? I did and I thought if I'd had a brother, it should have been Dylan Thomas. Or Salvador Dali. Did you ever see his paintings? I see life the way he painted it. "


- - -
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: John Laneri

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Last night, my wife and I competed in a dance contest at the Grey Horse Pavilion. The event was one of those happy affairs in which we danced our hearts out before a panel of judges. The grand prize – now listen to this – was a whopping expense paid weekend to San Antonio along the River Walk.

Jane was eager, her manner alive with energy as the sound of music greeted our arrival. We hurried inside, knowing that Jake the fiddle man was already performing his magic – the strings of his violin vibrating the best foot stomping music in all of West Texas.

Once registered, we slid onto the dance floor and turned a couple of circles before settling into a slow waltz to draw us into harmony.

“Your cologne smells great,” I said, as I pulled her close and nuzzled her neck.

She chuckled softly, her face blushing a shade. “I wore it especially for you.”

“That's why I love you so much,” I said, as we executed a perfect quick step.

As we slid past the bandstand, I shouted, “Hey Jake, give us something lively. This little lady’s in the mood for some real foot stompin’ music.”

He replied with a nod and directed his band to step up the tempo.

From there, we started into a spirited routine, a two-step that took us around the dance floor – our feet moving as if they were tuned to the strings of his fiddle.

“You’ve always been a lively dancing man,” she said happily, her steps moving in rhythm with mine.

“Dancing just comes natural. I can almost feel the music fly from my feet.”

We started a spin and followed it with a skip step. The crowd applauded. Then we were into our favorite, a routine that featured a series of sensual bumps meant to show the love we have for each other.

Another applause. By then, the crowd was going wild.

Following a twirl with an emphasis on form, I felt her miss a step then smoothly right herself with a double to maintain the rhythm then we continued without a hitch, executing a series of perfect jump steps, as our bodies again became one.

“Your feet may be musical,” she whispered, as her eyes swept the dance floor. “But, they feel like lead weights when they land on my toes. Be careful, you’re embarrassing me.”

“Most women consider me the best dancing man in the county. So please consider my boots innocent of any mischief.” I gave her a another smile and started spin – a lively one that sent her skirt flowing to the side.

We circled the floor, but as we came out of a second spin she stumbled again, her eyes turning to mine in surprise.

“My feet are beginning to wonder about your boots – that really hurt. Are you trying to make me look bad?”

“Tell your feet to pay attention. My boots are wired to the music. And, they’re still planning to dance us straight to San Antonio.”

She followed me into a final series of crossovers then we finished with a twirl and a bow to the judges, our routine complete.

Afterward, we remained on the dance floor mingling with the other contestants while we discussed our mistakes. Once the judges made their decision, we were selected for the next stage of the competition.

Soon, I saw Jake reach for his fiddle. “Are you ready? We can win this thing if we give it our best shot.”

“I’ll try,” she said, as she held on to my arm took a cautious step.

We labored through another dance. By then, she could barely walk, and I knew we were finished.

The next day, I kept my distance because she was wearing a cast and hobbling on crutches, claiming of all things that I was to blame.

I tried to lift her spirits by saying something sweet. That's when she indicated I could go straight to hell.

When she settles down and her foot heals, I'm confident that we'll make it to San Antonio – that is, if she doesn’t break another bone, trying to keep up with the musical feet of the best dancing man in all of West Texas.


- - -
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: Michael Fontana

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The wasp flew outside our door, his little pinprick legs hauling in mud for construction of a nest. I responded by breaking out the broom and attacking his pile of mud with the bristles, breaking it out of the crevice in our fireplace, scattering it to the ground and then spraying it with wasp killer for good measure.

He then flew up into my face, extending a leg forward as if for a handshake before speaking. His voice was all gravel like he smoked a pack a day. “Charlie the Wasp, Mike. You don’t mind if I call you Mike, right?”

“I suppose not. I let the kid at the deli do it. You’re no more offensive than him.”

“Where you get off wrecking my house, Mike?” He was a lanky purple sucker, his wings whirling to keep him afloat in front of my nose.

“What do you mean?” I asked. I was in my 40s, lanky and lean, dressed in a polo and jorts for the day. It was like to break 100 out so my brown hair was in a soak from sweat.

“You got this nice suburban ranch home going there, Mike,” he said. “You and your wife got it really cozy. Just think a minute was I to bring along a tree trunk and starting pounding away at your bricks and mortar. You wouldn’t take a shine to that now would you?”
“You don’t have the wherewithal to pick up a tree trunk,” I said. “The whole comparison is absurd.”

Obviously tiring at beating his wings, he took a rest on the edge of our porch railing. “You got a bad attitude toward us insects, Mike,” he said. “It’s downright discriminatory.”

“How you mean?”

“Listen, Mike, I got my function on the planet just like you. You got your job, I got mine, just let me be, okay?”

“Can’t do that,” I said. “You’d sting my wife’s ass just as sure as I dig bread pudding.”

He hoisted one of his spindly front legs like a Boy Scout. “Swear I never do such a thing.”

“Uh-huh. That’s the nice thing about bees. They sting you once and it’s suicide for them. You little pricks sting over and over without consequence.”

“You think I got no remorse for giving up the sting? Let me tell you, Mike, it’s hard work having a human flail at you with his hands like to smash you into oblivion. It’s all self-defense, kind of like the way you idiots all shoot each other and blame the pistol for it.”

“Different scenario entirely,” I said, thinking about the Glock I had locked away in a desk drawer for safe keeping. “We have property and life to think about. You got bitty little eggs and a clump of mud to consider.”

“I don’t kill people though, Mike. Your type does. On a regular basis.”

“What if someone has an allergy to you?” I asked. “It’s pretty lethal then.”

“Rare aspect,” Charlie said. “I often fly around the head of the corpse afterward or tap at the window of the funeral home to level my apologies.”

“Wasps don’t have remorse.”

“You don’t know wasps.

I considered this with a finger to my chin. “I suppose you’re right.”

“Now see, Mike, we are an oppressed creature from time immortal. Always viewed as evil, always viewed as bane despite our industriousness. We help the ecological plan along.” He took a thoughtful pause. “You do support the ecology, don’t you Mike?”

I perked up. “We recycle.”
“Good man, Mike. See, we help that along. There’s a chain of interaction involved in all of this, Mike, and the wasp has just as much a role in it as your kind.”

“I’m still not letting you build your nest on the outside of my fireplace.”

“Where am I supposed to build, Mike? Your neighbors don’t want me any more than you do. I thought we had an understanding brewing here.”

“I understand. I just don’t want you sharing quarters with my family.”

“You’re a real piss, Mike, you know that? I take you for a stand-up rational guy and you turn out to be etched of the same flickering flame of miscreation that all you people are.”

“Now who’s stereotyping?”

“I got my sweet recompense though, Mike.” I could have sworn he smiled on that pinpoint purple face of his. He flew at me in a hustle and stung my neck and ear before taking flight into the distance. In the midst of all my cursing I hurled the mud of his would-be nest into the air after him.

My wife came out to scope the situation. She was a heavyset bundle of beauty that knew me better than I knew myself. “You’ve been arguing with the insects again, haven’t you?”

I nodded, cringing in pain from the stings, a hand to the back of the neck and to the ear.

“Inside with you,” she said, guiding me with a loving palm to the small of my back.

Before the door closed completely, Charlie the Wasp returned to fly up to her. “Give him what-for,” he said to her. “He’s a real dip.”

“Try living with him,” she said.

They both chuckled as I ministered to my wounds.


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Michael Fontana lives and writes in beautiful Bella Vista, Arkansas.

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Author: Michael Fontana

Contributor: Taran Washington

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To the new people we meet in our lives, we are all shadows. I understand that may be an unclear statement, allow me to shed light on it. . . no pun intended. When you first meet someone, you see their appearance of course. Hair, eyes, race, gender and so on; that is not what I mean though. The shadow I’m talking about is a mental shadow, a soul shadow. Simply put, the more you learn about someone, the clearer you can see them. Like someone in the dark who steps ever slowly into a defining light.

Relationships grow, falter, and fade depending on how much you truly see one another. Has someone who you believed to know with fondness or disdain ever surprised you? For better or for worse your view has changed, their image, their shadow has faltered. That being said almost no one truly knows anyone else. How much do you know your partner, your spouse, your best friend?

Anyone and everyone can change; that person you knew has the capability to alter. What would you do then? What would you do when that person has once again become shrouded in the indiscernible blackness of shadow? Do the dance and try to find them again in the uncertainty or would you rather preserve them as they were?


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My name is Taran Washington, I'm a college student studying Management Information Systems. I elected to take a couple fiction writing courses and found myself with a new hobby. Now I write some flash fiction from time to time and I thought I would try my hand at submitting!

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Author: Taran Washington

Contributor: Jessica Knauss

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“Good girl,” said Shelley, patting a Javan rhinoceros on her round rump.
She pulled on long gloves, grasped the cartridge-sized ultrasound camera, and inserted her arm into Kunthi’s rectum. Kunthi had behaved just as patiently during the painstaking ultrasound and insemination attempt three days before, which had used up the last of their supply of male Javan DNA. Kunthi was twenty-two, about two-thirds the maximum estimated age of her wild counterparts, and had never given birth.
Kunthi’s name, meaning “motherly” in Indonesian, had been an act of optimism that looked more pathetic every day. The Javan rhinoceros was the world’s rarest large land mammal. Pushed down by poaching, palm oil crops, and human settlement, after millions of years on Earth, Kunthi’s wild relatives numbered only thirty. She had been one of five brought to the swamps of Mississippi in a special captive breeding program designed to combat the Javans’ historical inability to survive an enclosed existence. When they set her free from checkups like this one, Kunthi roamed a million-acre preserve that had many of the same characteristics as her native tropical lowland habitat on the Ujung Kulon Peninsula and even went for a daily swim. In spite of everything, Kunthi’s travel companions seemed to know they were captive and passed away before reaching half the age of their wild counterparts. This rhino and that last insemination were the species’ single greatest hope.
Shelley peered at the monitor her assistant held at face level, practically on the rhino’s back. The ultrasound camera traveled a long, twisting tunnel as Shelley eased deeper and deeper.
Years of schooling and student loans, scores of failed relationships, utter dedication to bringing the Javans back from the brink, Shelley’s agonizing decision to move to Mississippi — a whole, complex life, and it always seemed to end up in the same either/or. Their efforts worked, or they failed; the species continued, or it died out.
Easing its way past a final narrowing, the camera reported bulky blurs to the monitor. There was the uterus, and there, the ovary that had appeared ready to burst forth three days ago. The tiny mass that looked like a ball of dryer lint on the screen was still attached to the ovary.
Shelley’s arm was shoulder-deep when she had to give the news.
“She didn’t ovulate.”
A collective sigh erupted among the other rhino keepers. “No,” moaned the intern. The assistant set down the monitor and petted Kunthi’s smooth nose while Shelley eased the equipment out, then peeled off the glove and threw it down.
“Forty-two days. We’ve got to plan for the next cycle,” said one of the keepers.
“But where are we going to get more semen?” the intern cried. Kunthi balked at the noise, throwing the assistant against the table, and hurried back amongst the fronds.
Shelley longed to follow Kunthi, to join in whatever childless destiny she determined for herself.


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Born and raised in Northern California, Jessica Knauss is a New Englander by design. She co-founded Loose Leaves Publishing and has published fiction, poetry, and nonfiction in numerous venues, including Bewildering Stories, Do Not Look at the Sun, (Short) Fiction Collective, Full of Crow Quarterly Fiction, Metazen, and Short, Fast, and Deadly. Her non-literary goal is to save all five species of rhinoceros from extinction.

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Author: Jessica Knauss