Contributor: Donal Mahoney

- -
Paddy didn't want to go to his wife's family reunion. He told her that in the same nice way he had told her in years past so as to avoid other reunions over the many years they had been married. Hilda had always given him a pass, telling her relatives his job required that he stay home. After he retired she'd tell them he wasn't up to the trip--a case of the flu or something. No one ever believed her but many were happy not to have Paddy there. It wasn't that he caused a problem. He just stuck out among the Ottos and Hanses. He would forever be an Irish interloper at a German family reunion. But this time Hilda was adamant about Paddy going with her.

"Everyone's getting older," Hilda said, "and we should see them before someone else dies."

Hilda was right, of course, Paddy had to admit, as she usually was. He was part of the family whether they liked him or not.

"I grew up with those people, Paddy, and I may be seeing some of them for the last time. They may be boring to you but they're my family."

Unlike Hilda's relatives, Paddy's relatives, the ones already dead and the ones still alive, didn't hold family reunions, confining contact to cards at Christmas with signatures only, free of any personal messages unless someone had died, and that was just as well, Paddy thought.

At any gathering of his people, the angry ones, and most of them had been angry since birth, would, after a few drinks, start picking scabs off old problems and fresh blood would flow. Hilda's folks did the same thing but with more discretion. You'd be bleeding and didn't know why.

There was a real din the last time Paddy's family had a reunion and that was 30 years ago.

"It was a catastrophe lost in cacophony," Paddy told Hilda as he tried to recapture the ambience. Nevertheless, Paddy still saw his relatives at wakes. And the wakes were more frequent in recent years.

"Hilda, the odd thing is the angriest ones look the most peaceful in a casket with or without a boutonniere or corsage."

A few in his family, however, still hoped there would be one more family reunion despite the debacle at the last one. They hoped that Paddy's cousin, Margaret Mary O'Mara, who'd been going to Mass every day since puberty, and was once a contemplative nun, would hold a final family reunion.

"Everybody likes her corned beef and cabbage," Paddy told Hilda, who was wondering why anyone in Paddy's family would want another reunion after the last fracas 30 years ago.

"Hilda, the problem at the last one was Timmy served tankards of Guinness before, after and during the meal and the Guinness prompted inevitable arguments about the past. Liquor and grudges are a bad mix. One of my cousins knocked another one out with one punch. We were lucky another cousin didn't count him out. He was once a boxing referee."

Hilda's people, however, weren't like his loud Irish relatives. Paddy had to grant them that. They were somber Germans who drank as much as Paddy's people did but they were steady drinkers, not given to jokes and laughter. They were quiet even when drunk, so Paddy couldn't tell which one of them would rip the first scab off the past and that was always a problem.

He knew from the start Hilda's family didn't want her to marry him, an Irish Catholic from the wrong side of the theological tracks. He never fit in well with their German Lutheran culture beyond liking some of the food. They were serious, pious people not given to the frivolous, everything Paddy's family was not. In the beginning Paddy had tried to fit in but he had enough trouble keeping up with his own faith, never mind trying to understand everything Lutheran.

This time, however, Paddy silently decided he would go to his wife's reunion unless one of her kin died beforehand and everyone would go to the wake instead. It had happened before and could happen again but it's not the kind of thing Paddy would pray for. That would be bad form. Besides Germans take death seriously. None of the uproar and laughter that can occur at an Irish wake, especially if there were a tavern next door to the funeral home, which in Paddy's experience there always seemed to be.

Truth be told, both families were moving closer and closer to the end of their life span and the lines on both sides were getting shorter. Every year it seemed someone else would drop out.

"All right, Hilda, I'll go," Paddy announced. "But I'll never go to another one even if all your people die first."

Hilda thought something didn't sound right about that. Why would there be another family reunion if all of her relatives died first? But as long as Paddy was willing to go to this one, she thought she'd be wise to say nothing and leave well enough alone.

"How about a nice dish of pickled pigs feet for supper, Paddy," she said with a smile. "I remember that was one of the few things you liked when you went with me to the other family reunion. And you said the bratwurst and kraut weren't that bad, either."


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

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Author: Donal Mahoney

Contributor: Robert Forehand

- -
The light blinds me. It always does.

I wait for the accompanying migraine to stop before I blink open my eyes.

Mattress. Pillow. A bed. I'm under the sheets.

I swing my unfamiliar legs out and to the floor.

Painted toenails touch the carpet fibers.

Shapely, shaved legs.

Wearing panties. Nothing else.

Breasts. I'm a woman this time.

I flex my thin fingers. Glossy, acrylic nails glint in the morning light slipping through the curtains. An evening dress lies crumpled on the floor.

I glance into the mirror upon the dresser. A beautiful stranger stares back at me. Lush, black hair. Captivating auburn eyes. She takes care of herself, this one. Not a bad looking body to wake up in.


A soft snore catches my attention.

A man lies next to me in bed. Sleeping.

Judging by his clothes lying scattered throughout the room, looks like these two had some personal relations last night.

I recognize who he is.

My next target.

Take in the scene.

Bed. Adjoining bathroom. Sink. Ice bucket. Landline phone. Desk. TV. Stock paintings on the wall. We're in a hotel room.

No weapons.

Sharp objects?

A pen?

No. I prefer to work with my hands.

Soft skin. No calluses. Prim and proper upkeep of the female variety. With these hands, I'm guessing this woman has no combat training. But that doesn't matter.

I do.

I slam my fist into the man's throat, closing his windpipe.

Most people try to choke their victims with their hands. It's far more effective to crush the esophagus in a single blow.

He wakes up in panicked confusion, unable to draw breath.

He stares at me with terrified eyes. Stares at the woman he bedded last night. His lover. Well, she's not here anymore. It's me. Your assassin.

He falls out of bed, attempting to find something, someone to help him. His balance, his foundation, fails.

A strike to the temple causes the entire building to crumble.

His shocked face buries itself into the carpet.

Blank eyes stare at nothing as his final breath is unable to leave his body.

I watch the man grow cold.

How many does this make now?

Hell if I know.

I can't even remember...

The woman in the mirror stares at me.

I wonder what her name is.

This process always leaves my mind scattered. Perhaps I've done this too many times. At least I remember my objective. For now.

I can only imagine the surprise and horror this woman will find when she wakes up. She'll tell the police that she blacked out. That she doesn't remember anything. And they won't believe her. They never do.

Though maybe she'll escape. Take her things, any evidence, run out the door. Try to forget what she doesn't remember. It doesn't matter. Not to me.

Time to go.

I can always tell by the migraine crescendo building up.

A thousand needles stabbing my eyes.

Sinuses ripping out of my skull with a sharp fishhook.

Tearing my consciousness out.

The device from another plane of existence forcing me to go somewhere else.

A new target.

I wonder who I'll kill next?

It doesn't matter.

The light blinds me. It always does.


- - -

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Author: Robert Forehand

Contributor: Marc André McAllister

- -
I could not see her, though I knew she was near.
Come closer, I pleaded.
You will have to come for me, she answered.
You know I can’t. Please come to me.
She was silent.
Please. I need you now. I’m so empty.
I sensed her move closer. I felt her all around me. Her warmth without and within. Soothing me.
Is this what you wanted? She asked.
Yes. But you’re not real.
No, I am not.
And then she was gone.
I was alone again in the darkness.


- - -
Marc André McAllister is a French-American author currently living in Northern California where he is completing a B.A. in Philosophy. He relies largely the cross-cultural experiences of his youth as inspiration for his fiction. He keeps two blogs, one featuring artwork at lookingglassscene.blogspot.com, and another that deals with the ethics of Transhumanism at babelsingularity.blogspot.com (to be launched in September of 2014).

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Author: Marc André McAllister

Contributor: Matt Pearce

- -
I woke to the screaming. My mother’s pleading in answer to my father’s shouting. They were at it again. I knew it was hopeless to try to sleep. Every angry word by my father reverberated through the house. I sometimes could see the rafters shake with each rise in pitch. I could imagine the spittle being sprayed out by his screaming throat hitting my Mother’s face, sticking to her like evil ooze. Dribble she could not wipe away without facing further abuse.
Ever since he lost his job last month at the car factory, spending any kind of money turned him into an unstoppable monster. Last week, the sink clogged and my father was forced to call a repairman. For the last few days he had been repeating, “We can’t afford it,” and when he looked at me as he said it, I could imagine his hands squeezing my throat in blame.
The previous morning, as I sat next to him at the breakfast table sipping on orange juice and trying to choke down the pasty oatmeal my mother made me, I almost considered asking him if I could go on a field trip with my class to the Natural History Museum. The cost was a minimal five dollars, but as he read his paper, he found something in it that caused him to explode, “Damn it to Hell! For that price we could have gotten a new sink!” I quickly swallowed the question, deciding I wouldn’t join my classmates, but stay at the school in a room by myself being babysat by the weird, P.E. teacher, Mr. Jones.
I got out of bed and tiptoed to my door. I peeked out and could see my parents’ shadows doing an angry tango in the kitchen. I eased out and headed to Tommy’s room. When he wasn’t in his bed, I knew where he would be. I inched towards his closet and pulled on it gently, knowing if I did it too hard, it would send a loud creak throughout the house, alerting our father to us being awake.
Tommy sat on the floor with a bag of jellybeans in his lap, his fingers in his ears, and his head bowed with his eyes closed as if saying a prayer. I nudged him with my foot and he jolted in fear. His eyes relaxed as he saw me and I took my seat next to him.
“Hi Jimmy,” he mumbled. His eyes were puffy and red from crying. He offered me the bag of jellybeans. “Want one?”
“No,” I replied.
“Jellybeans are a fruit,” he said. “That’s what Mommy always says.”
I smiled. Our mother always had jellybeans with her and always used this little joke to make us laugh and to pacify us every time me or Tommy were upset about something.
“How long do you think it’s going to be this time?” Tommy asked.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“Do you think they’re going to get divorced?” he asked with his voice etched with concern.
“I don’t know,” I said again.
“If they did, do you think they would split us up? One of us living with Daddy and the other with Mommy?”
“I don’t think it will come to that,” I said. “They’ll work through it. They always do,” I said without any conviction. However, it was enough to convince the young mind of my little brother.
“I don’t know what I would do without you Jimmy,” he said and I could hear the tears coming back in his voice.
I put my arm around him trying to soothe him when I noticed how quiet it had become. “Do you hear that?” I asked him.
“What?” he asked sitting up and looking around. “I don’t hear anything.”
“Exactly,” I replied. “They’re not fighting anymore.”
The door to the closet opened and both of us leaned back looking for a place to hide from the violent hurricane that was our father.
“There you two are,” we heard the sweet voice of our mother say. “I should have guessed you two would be in here.”
I studied my mother and noticed a fresh bruise on the side of one of her cheeks. When she saw me staring, she covered it with one hand. With a forced smile she said, “Let’s get you two back in bed.”
“Mommy, what’s wrong?” Tommy asked.
“It’s nothing,” she said as she helped Tommy get back in bed. I stood back as she tucked him in.
“Is Daddy always going to be mad at you?”
“No sweetie,” she said and I could hear her choking on her words. “Someday, everything will be perfect. Someday, life will be wonderful.”
She looked to me for confirmation. “Isn’t that right Jimmy?”
“Yeah,” I shot back knowing it was all for Tommy’s sake.


- - -
Matt Pearce was born and raised in Chickasha, OK. For the last few years he has been living in Central Florida with his wife and kids. He holds a BA in English: Creative Writing from the University of Central Florida and is currently pursuing and MFA in Creative Writing from Full Sail University.

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Author: Matt Pearce

Contributor: Tod Connor

- -
"Let's make love, Rebecca."

"I will not. You don't dip into the honeypot by simply asking, that isn't the way the game is played. You must complete the stages, and the first one is eye lock."

"I thought it was hard cock."

"Not in my book. If you don't qualify for some good eye lock then the game ends then and there."

"And there are other stages?"

"Of course. The next stage I call moved by sound. Your lips must make noises that please my warm places or you're outta here."

"Is that it?"

"Of course not. The final stage, and the most important I might add, is mystery. Your eye lock, combined with your noises must create movement without pattern, endless potential that stimulates like a wild garden."

"And then, after I succeed in completing these three stages, then you will invite me into the sacred temple?"

"Not necessarily, but your chances will have improved considerably."

Head drops, voice lowers, mumbles are let loose. "Hard, it's always hard."

"It's hard because you're a randy prankster, a stud without a hot, sweaty filly in your stable." She laughs.

"True enough, but I'm not talking about that, I'm talking about the stages you've defined with such precision."

"They're not hard. They constitute a shining path blazing its way into the world of coupling."

"And this ocean of yours, this vast, churning white froth, is it worth that much effort?"

"You decide. That's the beauty of it, the freedom of it, you decide. Now, stir the sand soup before it burns the bottom. "

"Stone soup, not sand soup."

"Whatever..."

He watches her, bustling with confidence, trimmed like a holy candle. She's left him shackled, chewing on the meat of this rejection.

She turns to him. "Do you know your essence?" she asks.

"I've always seen myself as a rebel, a bad boy lost in the search for oblivion. I only want to jump and fly above the fray where the angels pump their wings and make their way from soul to soul like butterflies sniffing at purple flowers in the sunshine."

"Not true... You're a procrastinator, putting off that moment when everything, for as far as the eye can see, is smoldering in the wreckage of searing clear consciousness."

"So that's your game?"

"Take it or leave it."


- - -
Tod Connor's work has appeared in various publications, including Talon Magazine, Ohio Views, Raphael’s Village, Apropos Literary Journal, Ink, Sweat and Tears, Smashed Cat, Out of the Gutter, Christianity Today and others.

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Author: Tod Connor

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

- -
Tim Murnane had been lying in bed and staring at the ceiling of his hospital room when a strange woman suddenly walked in. A mature, nice-looking lady, she wasn't a doctor or nurse. She was dressed in her Sunday best--a voluminous skirt, puffy white blouse he could almost see through, and a pill box hat. He hadn't seen a pill box hat on a woman since Jackie Kennedy was in the White House back when he was a young man. This woman, however, was carrying a Bible, not an elegant purse.

"Mr. Murnane, my name is Ophelia Barnes and I wonder if you might be willing to give me a few minutes of your time. I understand you recently had an operation."

"I did indeed," said Tim. "They took out my appendix and my gallbladder, too, when they found it was bad. I'll be here awhile longer while they run some other tests. At my age, things can go wrong, you know, and they want to see if they can find anything else."

"Very true, Mr. Murnane. Folks I know have been dying at a faster rate than usual in recent years. It can be frightening but it happens to all of us. If you don't mind, Mr. Murnane, please tell me where you think you would go if you died tonight."

"Well," said Tim, beginning to get the direction of the conversation, "I'd probably go to Egan's Funeral Home up on 63rd Street. I went through pre-arrangement counseling there and paid for everything--the box and the plot. I took care of all that for myself when I had to bury the wife a few years back. Got nice discount. In fact, the plot's in St. Adalbert's Cemetery, just up the road, not far from here."

All of that was true. Tim Murnane had made all the arrangements to be "salted away," as he had told his seven kids, who were now all busy raising families of their own in different cities. But he figured if he told this woman he was going to Eagan's and then to St. Adalbert's, she'd know he was Catholic and perhaps not ripe for harvesting for whatever well-meaning Christian church she represented.

"Mr. Murnane, I meant if you died tonight, would you go to Heaven or Hell?"

"That's an excellent question, Mrs. Barnes. If I had a chance to go to confession before I died, I wouldn't go to Hell, God forbid, but probably not right to Heaven either. I'd probably have to spend several centuries in Purgatory, burning off the stains of a very sinful life. And I have no objection to that. I will have earned my entire stay. I don't drink and I don't smoke but over the years I've always found women attractive, if you know what I mean."

Mrs. Barnes didn't really grasp that Old Tim, although a lapsed Catholic for decades, was not about to switch denominations this close to the finish line. He had been a White Sox fan his entire life and would die cheering them as well, never the Cubs. So she was ready to press on when Tim, warming to the challenge, asked a question.

"Mrs. Barnes, if I joined your church right now, what are the chances you'd visit my grave? All my kids live out of town and I'd rather not disturb them."

"Mr. Murnane, If you accept Jesus Christ as your Savior right now, I promise I will visit your grave. You could even be buried by our church. It would be a beautiful ceremony. We'd love to have you, dead or alive."

"Mrs. Barnes, I do accept Jesus as my Lord and Savior. I always have, ever since grammar school. I'd have never graduated if I hadn't learned about Jesus dying for my sins from all those nuns, God bless 'em. They taught me from first grade on that if I had been the only human being on Earth, Jesus would have died for me alone. Of course, they let me know too that I had to keep his commandments as well as believe in him. There were only a couple of commandments I've had trouble with. I mean, I never stole anything or killed anyone."

"You'e right, Mr. Murnane. Jesus would have died for you alone. And if you decide to join my church, I promise I will visit your grave."

"You wouldn't have to bring any flowers or anything, Mrs. Barnes. Just walk right up on the gravesite and stand next to my tombstone."

"Stand next to your tombstone? Why would I do that, Mr. Murnane?"

"Well, if I start feelin' a little better, I'd like look up your skirt."

Mrs. Barnes didn't faint but she did walk out of the room without saying a word.

And Tim Murnane pushed the buzzer for the nurse. He wanted to see if she would ask the next priest she saw making rounds to stop by his room. A couple of priests had stopped in already but Tim hadn't been ready for anything serious. Thanks to Mrs. Barnes, however, he knew now that he'd like to give any priest a real earful. It had been 30 years since his last confession and he had plenty to talk about. At 74, he wanted to be ready before going to Eagan's.


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

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Author: Donal Mahoney

Contributor: Reese Scott

- -
He painted green lights all over his room. But it did no good. So instead he went to the corners of the street late at night and climbed up a ladder until he was able to remove the red, yellow and green lights. After he had gotten the green light out, he climbed back up the ladder and put back the red and yellow lights. He figured nobody would tell the difference and sadly he was right.

Each night and each morning he stared at the blinking green light. It controlled him. He had read every self help book. Seen all the therapists in the yellow pages. Tried every type of drug the doctors offered. But nothing changed.

Each morning he would hear the same voice:

“You fucking pussy get out of bed!”

“And stop looking at that stupid green light for Christ sakes. Green isn’t even a nice color.”

But the green light had very little do with the color green. It had something to do with something he was unable to get in touch with. He had gone through a list of traumatic events in a psychology book. He wasn’t molested. If he were it would have been by someone green. And he didn’t want to start entreating alien probes. He was never been beaten up by dollar bills or dressed in only green clothes. The bread he ate growing up did not have spots of green from being old.

In fact he could find nothing wrong at all. As far as he could tell he had nothing to complain about. He had grown up in a middle to upper middle class. Had never known poverty. Grew up in a house with a garage. A Mother and Father. There was nothing there.

Except that green light that he stared at, watching it blink on and off. He tried to think of something positive about having a green light in his room. But he couldn’t think of anything. For a moment he thought maybe if he were Irish that would mean something. But if he were Irish it wouldn’t make any difference. He had read up on Irish history and there was nothing on green street lights.

He had an enormous pile of books stacked up against the wall that he had taken out of the library. He had taken so many out he wasn’t allowed back again. The librarian told him he was the first person she had blackballed from a public library.

“Why?” he asked

“You just answered your own question.”

He walked out feeling better until he realized he didn’t have a clue what she meant.

One morning, when he had read all the books he had taken from the library, he decided to return them all and see if he was allowed in the library. His apartment was a twenty minute walk to the library. Carrying a large amount of hard covered books wasn’t easy. He was able to put some in his backpack. Some in a small luggage bag and the remaining books he held in his arms. He felt like one of those models who is supposed to learn to walk right by putting a book on his head. Even though he knew this made no sense. Walking down the side walk he noticed the sky looked like it wasn’t going to rain. There weren’t many cars on the street. And there was a nice quiet scent in the air. He saw a dog on the other side of the street.

He waited at the sidewalk for the sign to turn to walk. When it turned he began to walk across the street. He saw the dog look up at him. It had a strange expression on his face. He didn’t hear anything after that. All he knew was he was on the concrete. A car was on top of him. He wasn’t able to move his legs or arms. He was unable to hear. The only thing he could see was the dog’s face, the blood flowing from his ears and the street light blinking green.


- - -
Reese Scott is from New York. He is currently living in California.

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Author: Reese Scott

Contributor: André-Naquian Wheeler

- -
We were wrestling in Joshua's backyard and Joshua was on top of me, winning as usual, when I sat up suddenly. I wanted to taste the smoothness of his oatmeal colored skin. I leaned in to kiss him and allowed my love to fall either on a pair of receptive lips or on the cold hard ground of shame. Luckily, I felt the squishiness of his lips battling with mine and I closed my eyes and enjoyed the pomegranate chap-stick taste of his bean-bag lips. I swear to you I could feel him smiling. He was smiling I tell you and that’s how I’ll be able to sleep tonight after all of this. Knowing that during that one moment in time that he was breaking hours of temple and Torah studies to swim naked in love, Joshua was happy.
When we broke away from each other we didn’t say or do anything. We just stared at each other and allowed what had just taken place to sink inside of our minds. Then, suddenly, Joshua pushed me to the ground with a cold, hard thrust and knocked the wind, and happiness, out of me. Then he got off of me and crawled a few feet away and began to pray feverishly.
“Please forgive me, please forgive me, please forgive me, please forgive me...” Joshua repeated over and over again. “Please forgive me, please forgive me, please forgive me…”
I crawled over to him and placed my hand on his shaking back, “Joshua I’m sorry I just-”
He turned around violently and screamed in an agony so loud I’m sure that blood had to be swimming inside of his throat. “Don’t touch me faggot!”
“Joshua I’m-”
“You’ve ruined me!” He screamed and began to claw at himself madly. On his chiseled arm in thick deep red lines he carved in “D-E-A-T-H” with his nails and I sat by helplessly and foolishly in awe at the power of my tainted love.
I knew that this was a problem bigger than me so I ran out of Joshua's backyard and over to the temple next door. I ran inside, interrupting the service in progress, and yelled out to the Rabbi: “Joshua is going to kill himself! Joshua is going to kill himself!” I don’t know where those words came from or who thought of them because up until that moment I had been telling myself that this was all just Joshua being a Jewish coward again. That he would get over this. That he had to get over it. But as I stood inside of that packed temple and thought back on the red fury that had been swimming inside of Joshua's eyes I guess I knew then that he was going to do to himself what I had been too chicken to do to myself countless times before.
The Rabbi and the congregation followed me out of the temple and over to Joshua's backyard. Joshua had taken to slamming his head against an oak tree repeatedly, passionate red blood stains now sliding down the tree’s bark.
“Look Joshua!” I said pointing to the crowd of people behind me. “They said it’s alright! It’s alright for you to love me!”
“No it’s not! No it’s not!” He wailed rocking himself back and forth. “It’ll never be okay to God!” He pulled out the hunting gun from the tool shed his Dad had believed Joshua didn’t know the combination to. “It’ll never be okay.” He said grimly resolute.
The crowd began to shriek and run around in fear but I stayed where I was. I wasn’t scared. Even if he didn’t want to admit it to himself I knew that he loved me too much to ever think about hurting me. At least on purpose that is.
At that point the police showed up and I thought that it would be a good idea to call Joshua's parents and let them know that their son was about to kill himself because of their stupid rules but no one answered. They were at temple. The other temple two towns over that they walked half an hour to specifically because it said that Joshua and me were not okay.
Of course then the news showed up with their bright lights and cameras. The crowd now a safe distance away had come up with a catchy chant of “It gets better! It gets better!” and for a second the lies appeared to be working on Joshua. Instead of screaming in constant agony he had taken to silently weeping.
“Joshua…” I pushed out of my throat, determined to be the stronger one for once. “It’s going to be okay. God’s not mad. Look,” I said gesturing to the crowd of us trying hard to undo years of fundamentalist propaganda residing inside of Joshua with our very own. “It’s okay.”
Joshua stopped crying, stopped shaking and stared up at me with his powerful Neptune blue eyes and mouthed “I love you.” The snot and spit on his lips stretched out into thin long lines as he created the words. And then he did it. He killed himself.
The only person I had been brave enough to throw my love onto had been bought down by it.


- - -
André-Naquian Wheeler is a 19-year-old Texas native currently studying Journalism at New York University. His work has been featured on Mr. Beller's Neighborhood. You can find him on twitter @andre_daren or on tumblr @andrenaquian. He spends his free time reading, dancing to Beyonce, and chasing his dreams.

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Author: André-Naquian Wheeler

Contributor: Eve Francis

- -
“Do you ever feel like you’re a character in a book?” Will asks.

Greg looks up from the grass, using the back of his large palm to shield his eye from the sun. More people, tiny specs of color, move towards them on the field. Greg grabs the blanket from his backpack and lays it on the ground.

“Why on earth would you think that, Will?”

“I don’t know.” Will sticks his hands in his pockets. “It just feels like everything we do isn’t as personal as it used to be. It feels like we’re being watched half the time, like someone is looking over our every move and analyzing the good parts. It feels like we always have words to say, and the actions that happen are beyond our control. I don’t know…”

The people across the field move closer, holding more blankets and backpacks like Greg’s. Will knows he should be helping set up. Greg digs through the bag, discards an item, and then goes back for something else. Nothing seems to be what he’s after.

“Did that scene take a turn for the worst, Will? You never finished your thought. I don’t think these characters are well thought out or written.”

Greg grabs one of the folding lawn chairs and sets it up to the side.

Will looks at his shoes. Over across the field, other people set up their lawn chairs, too.

“Where’s Beckett?” Greg asks. His voice takes on a concerned tone, rather than his patronizing laugh from before. He blocks the sun with his arm and looks around. “Is Beckett coming?”

“I don’t know. He said he was,” Will says. Greg unfolds the other chair. He digs through his pack and retrieves his sunglasses. With a smile, he motions Will towards the empty seat.

“Maybe what I’m feeling is something religious,” Will says. “Maybe I’m talking about God right now and I’m just committing blasphemy for thinking outside the box.”

Will looks at the sky, and then to Greg. Greg hums.

Will shrugs. “I’m probably completely wrong.”

“Not completely. At least, give yourself some credit.”

A breeze catches both men, making them shiver. The sun in the sky disappears and fades into night. Sunrises and sunsets happen in the blink of an eye now. With the explosions happening more than ever, there’s nothing anyone can do to control the weather. Beckett said he’d help them find the answers to prevent the world from ending. More people with survival packs and lawn chairs join the two men in the field until it fills up. Beckett’s promises become as ubiquitous as myth.

Will shivers again.

“C’mon, Will. I don’t think you’re wrong. I just pictured us in a movie instead. Now,” Greg states, leaning back. “Let’s get ready.”

After a moment, Will follows in suit. The two men wait for the scene to unfold in front of them, murmurs of “Beckett” on everyone’s lips.


- - -
EVE FRANCIS has appeared in The Fieldstone Review, Hyacinth Noir, Plunge Magazine, and Gay Flash Fiction. She has a forthcoming sci-fi series on on JMS Books entitled Metal and Dust. She lives in Canada and can be found at http://evefrancis.wordpress.com/

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Author: Eve Francis

Contributor: ES Cooper

- -
She could hear him muttering under his breath. Complaining about her clothes on the floor, the cups she left out, and whatever else he could think of.
"If I drive you so crazy, why don't you just leave?" She suggested as she rolled over in the bed.
"It's that easy for you, then?" He asked; his voice clearly pained.
"I'm not saying it's easy, but all you ever do is piss and moan about what I do wrong. What are we doing then?"
"Those are just annoyances," he dismissed her. "I love you in spite of them."
"You sound miserable."
She felt the weight of him as he sat down on the bed with her. "I can't leave. Not yet."
"So, we just have an expiration date then? How romantic."
She fell asleep to the sound of him sighing and murmuring to himself.

#

She awoke to the sound of dishes slamming in the kitchen. It sounded like he was breaking every dish they owned.
"I will clean it eventually!" she yelled at him. She heard the sound of glass breaking. She rubbed her temples. He always had such a temper.
"Okay, break them then. I didn't want to clean them any-freaking-way." She yelled. Still he didn't reply just more slamming cabinets and clanking dishes. She sighed. It was getting to the point that she couldn't really remember the times when they didn't fight. She knew at one point they had been happy, but it seemed so distant now. Now they were just stuck at an impasse. And every day they resented each other a little more.
He didn't want to end it though, and she could admit to herself that she didn't really either. She couldn't remember much about what her life had been like before him. It was scary to think of her life without him, but as the slamming in the kitchen continued, she realized that it was becoming scary to think of her life with him.

#

The next time she woke up she could hear him crying. It was almost too quiet to hear, but she could hear it. She sat up to see his head in his hands and her picture in his lap.
"What is wrong?" she asked him.
"It's over. I know that it's over." He sobbed.
She wrapped her arms around him, "But I still love you."
"It's too hard."
"We can get through this. We can get through anything remember? It's just a phase. I'll do better." She found herself pleading with him.
"Not this," he whispered. He lowered his hands and touched her picture. She realized then that all of her stuff was gone. Nothing that belonged to her was anywhere to be found.
And then she saw boxes and suitcases by the door.
"You're kicking me out?!" she screamed at him.
"I'm so sorry."
She felt the tears welling up in her eyes, but she couldn't fight it anymore. Maybe it really was over. She stood up and walked to the door. She wasn't sure how long she stood in the doorway before she said, "I guess this is goodbye?"
When he didn't say anything she turned and walked out the door with nothing but the clothes on her back. She supposed if she was gonna start a life without him, she was going to start it from scratch. Her heart felt heavy, though.

#

He traced the outline of her face in the picture frame. He tore his eyes from the picture then and looked at the urn beside him. He wanted her to be free, but he hadn't been able to let her go until today.


- - -

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Author: ES Cooper