Contributor: Dr. T. Michael Roberts

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Dear Pius XII,
I need your advice on something weird. For the last 12 months random things have being disappearing from my house, toilet paper, toothpaste, laundry liquid, chicken fillets and even money. There have been no break ins, no one has a spare key and yet these things are vanishing from one day to the next. Do I have a Demon or a poltergeist and if so how do I get rid of it?
Yours Truly,
Uncle Joe Stalin


Uncle Joe,
I have your stuff. It has been appearing without rhyme or reason on the big screened porch on the back of my house for the last year. I'm sorry about the raccoon. A critter with an electric blue strip running down his back and continuing in the same shade in a barber pole configuration around the tail is certainly distinctive. But, this gave me no clue who to call when the distressed yawls of my cat signaled me that something unusual, which turned out to be your critter's mysterious and unexpected arrival, was occurring out in the sun-room.

I don't think Kristoff would be alive today if I had not realized instantly that what he was complaining bitterly about was the unreasonable way your guy defined him as prey at first glance without even asking where he went to church or how he voted. That is considered at best rude and, at worst, cop-like behavior where we come from. You don't just decide to kill a fellow creature just for shits and giggles without, at very least, making sure you do not have friends in common first. For all your guy knew, Kristoff could have been a Mason. We were both fine with letting him set up shop out in the back yard. There was even a dog or two that comes around that we were hoping he would take care of for us in response to our kind-hearted hospitality.

Your guy hung around for a week or so living high on the hog in our spacious and well-provisioned suburban garbage can. According to the Brookfield Zoo, there are, at present, several times as many raccoon {as with “moose” singular and plural are the same} in North America as there were when Columbus opened up a lively trade in infectious diseases that made life more exciting on both sides of the water. Also according to BZ, The preferred contemporary habitat of a race grown more cosmopolitan and civilized as they have grown more numerous is the suburban garbage can, so your guy was treated as he deserved until he decided, with absolutely no encouragement from us, to take himself elsewhere, without, I might add, doing anything about those dogs. I hope for your sake that he got bored and came home but I really would not know.

Anyway, send me your address, $300 for shipping and handling and another $300 for one year's storage and I will get your stuff back to you. This is a message from God but you will need the decoder ring to get much benefit from it. I'll slip that in for free just so you will not spend your life wandering around all troubled and perplexed by life's mysteries.
Sure Hope this Cheers You Up,
Pius XII


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Dr. T. Michael Roberts, rumored to be guilty of virtual ethnography, writes and teaches from an undisclosed location in order to have no face. He needs readers like heroin and seldom interacts except in a somewhat distant and cryptic manner.

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Author: Dr. T. Michael Roberts

Contributor: Adrian Fort

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He pulled the slack end of the tie once, twice, then it was just a string of fabric with a knot in it. So he pulled the thick end through and smoothed the fabric. Hung it back on the tie rack.
Wished he hadn’t brushed his teeth.
His breath was never great anyway, she made sure he knew that.
Two quick jerks and the shirt tails were out of his pants, then the rest of the hem, and he started unbuttoning the shirt at the bottom. The neck button was always a pain in the ass, he’d picked up some weight. She’d taken it harder with the baby, with Eli, they had already named it even. But he always said “baby” then she gave him that look.
He hung the shirt back up but didn’t fold the undershirt, just threw it in the drawer.
He shouldn’t have yelled at her.
There were several worn holes in the belt and he wondered if he would make a new hole when the time came, or if he would just buy a new belt. He coiled it up on top of his dresser.
Everything. He’d said she ruined everything. Yelled it. It was her responsibility to get up and get the tickets, that was true. But maybe he could have stopped and got them on the way to work Friday. Or been late and taken the write-up.
Instead, she slept through her alarm, which went off an hour after his, and the box-office sold out. No Saturday through Sunday art auction. It was her idea, too.
He unbuttoned his pants and wondered when the button would pop off, she’d curse him while sewing it back on. He folded them and sat them next to the belt.
Slipped the underwear to the floor, hooked the elastic band with his big toe and kicked them up to himself. Caught them, put them back in the drawer and closed it gently.
One step by one step he walked gently back toward the bed. He knew around where the creaky board was so he took a long open step, spread himself wide to avoid it. Got his front foot on the ground and pressed his back foot off of the soft carpet and arched it over like a cat and when it landed back on the soft carpet the floorboard creaked.
He stopped.
She snored lightly. And again. And again.
He moved each foot slightly in front of the other until he was at the side of the bed.
The sheets were cool against his fingers and he was sweating. He tugged the sheet and held his breath as he lifted his leg up onto the bed. He sat his leg on the bed and a little bit at a time he let his weight down on the bed until his standing leg cramped and he collapsed onto the bed.
He nestled back into her warmth. Little spoon because she liked to be the big spoon. He was sweating and he thought about how sad that really was and that he’d get a gym membership soon. And he hoped that sweat would dry before she woke up. And he wasn’t sure how much time he had left. But thinking like that just made him sweat more, so he tried to relax.
He shouldn’t have yelled at her.
If he tried hard enough, maybe he could actually fall back asleep.
No, that didn’t even make sense. He’d just lay there and feel her.
Eventually the alarm went off and she waited a few seconds before she pretended to wake up.


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Adrian Fort is a writer from Kansas City, Missouri, his work has appeared in Existere, decomP, The Bluest Aye, Bareback, and upcoming issues of Chrome Baby, Eunoia Review, and Gadfly ONLINE. Follow him on twitter @adriananyway

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Author: Adrian Fort

Contributor: Angeltopia

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Penelope stood in front of the mirror perplexed. Her life was a beautiful mess. Her bedroom was a circus of confetti-filled photos that seemed to drape every part of the room. She searched photo after photo of her mother’s first husband, Dale, and her second husband, Scoot for similarities in appearance. Ashley, Scoot's sister, was the culprit. She had intrigued her with the irresistible curiosity of searching for her true identity.

She held the photo of her and her stepdad Scoot that Ashley had given her. She clutched it in confusion and frustration. Scoot was sitting in his chair at the home office and she stood behind him crouching over him, hugging him, and remembering the bittersweet moments of their unspoken bond. Caressing the photo of his face comforted her. She mumbled to herself over and over again in confusion and then looked at herself in the mirror for reassurance as if her reflection was another person.

“Could this really be my dad, my biological father? Why didn’t mom tell me?”

She pulled on her cheeks and lifted the center of her eyebrows in curiosity. She pulled her bottom lip down to look at her teeth, the crooked ones and admired the contours of her nose, neck, and shoulders as her fingers stroked every crevice. Searching for some reassured semblance, she hurriedly searched through the piles of photos on the floor, desperate to find anything that provided some evidence.

She heard her mother’s footsteps approach her bedroom door. The clapping sound of her sandals sounded louder than usual as she walked in her direction. Penelope’s heart raced. She wondered what mood her mother would possess seeing her room in disarray. The bright and early morning sun overtook the room as she opened the door with her usual unpleasant and abrupt demeanor.

“Penelope, I need to go shopping for some linen, let’s go!”

Seeing her daughter teary-eyed in front of the mirror only seemed to irritate her.

She tried to act concerned and superficially asked, “What’s wrong?” in an apathetic tone.

She mustered up a response with self-pity, “Scoot’s sister, Ashley, and I have been talking a lot lately and she mentioned something that confused me.”

Stuttering she replied, “Why are you talking to her? You know I don’t like Scoot’s family and they don’t like you either.”

“Well, we missed each other and were out of contact far too long, is this a problem?” she asked in a respectful tone.

Her mother nodded in disfavor opposing the question and the insistence of their communication. Her stance and voice remained rigid although her words were slow.

“I just don’t understand why you would want to communicate with them. They excluded us from all their family functions when Scoot was alive,” she said, frantically embracing her elbows.

Penelope looked in the mirror and then at her mother. She wondered if her mother even knew who her real father was. Her hands shook with tension as she held the picture in her left hand. She took a deep breath and walked toward her mother putting her hands on her shoulders.

In a soft but firm voice she asked, “Was Scoot my father? Please tell me, I need to know the truth!”

Her mother’s eyes paced back and forth with resentment refusing to look her in the eyes. Her shoulders shrugged, her hands clapped against the side of her thighs sighing with irritation. Her eyebrows clashed with a silent roar as they collided in shame as she nodded.

She hesitatingly answered, “I don’t . . . know!”

Her mother’s attempts to detach herself from any emotion were feeble and she stomped out of the room as if she were stepping on land mines.

Penelope felt dejected but couldn’t stop thinking about the idea of an official confirmation. She scrambled through her photos and grabbed the DNA test kit and tried to get Ashley on the phone before she changed her mind. Her calls went straight to voicemail.

The very next day, Penelope drove to her house but to no avail. She sat in the car pacing her thoughts in eagerness to complete the DNA kit and send it off. Waiting only irritated her, so she went home to check her messages. Her mother sat at the kitchen table reading the newspaper and scornfully flipped through the pages. As Penelope entered the room, her mother derisively read Ashley’s obituary. Penelope was overcome with emotion over the horrifying news. She drowned herself in sorrow for two weeks.

After some time, she desperately searched for the DNA kit. She began to rip it apart and threw it at her mirrored reflection. She was overtaken by anger. She began to grab all the photos that surrounded her and attempted to rip them in bundles. As she frantically cried, she picked up the picture Ashley had given her from among the piles. At that moment, she got up and slowly walked to the mirror. For a moment, she just looked at herself blankly. She took the picture and held it toward the mirror wanting to finally rid herself of it. She wanted the mystery to stop torturing her.

Then suddenly, she squinted at the mirror. She leaned in closer and saw faded letters. It looked like handwriting and she immediately turned it over to make it out. Then all of a sudden, she heard a piercing sound, almost deafening. It was the sound of her alarm clock and she was abruptly awakened by it. After turning it off, she immediately grabbed the picture and quickly approached the mirror. Slowly turning it over, she took a deep breath. She looked for the faded letters, but what she found was a faded watermark stain. At that very moment, Penelope realized that she had set her alarm a second too soon. She somehow knew that her next dream would bring her one step closer to the truth. It was just a matter of time.


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Disciplined and skilled in the acquisition of analysis and critical thinking in literature, film, and music. Propitious screenwriter. I am brave enough to be different, smart enough to be humble, and short enough to take leaps and bounds.

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Author: Angeltopia

Contributor: Eric Suhem

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“Howard, get me some water!” ordered Manager #5 to one of his subordinates, as the management team of Acme MegaCorp gathered in the conference room to explore ideas designed to improve employee productivity and morale. “I suggest we add a mood-enhancing substance to the company’s drinking water. A number of drugs have been very effective in experiments on dogs, cats and pigs,” said Manager #5, staring moodily into his coffee mug. The management team approved the proposal for altered tap water.

Two days later, Howard was called into his manager’s office. “Howard, we’d like you to be the point man for a new company-wide high-profile project. In fact, you’ll be our guinea pig,” said Manager #5, handing him a plastic cup of enhanced water. “Now drink this, and give me a report later.”

“Yes, sir!” said Howard, grateful to be chosen for an important project. He’d always been a good team player. Maybe now it would pay off.

Back at his desk, arranging memos and paper clips into a geometric order that felt pleasing, Howard had a vision of a large guinea pig, sitting in the chair across from him, pounding its paw on the desk, “Let’s close the deal now, H.B.! And I won’t take ‘No’ for an answer!” The guinea pig threw its head back and laughed, pulling a scythe out from under the table.

Wielding the scythe given to him by the guinea pig, Howard went to the lobby and sliced up various artificial plants and topiary efforts, hacking rhythmically as a secretary looked on in horror. Later that day, Manager #5 called him into his office. “Howard, we need to discuss your behavior, upper management has taken an interest in your cutting of the welcoming area’s greenery,” said Manager #5, starting right in on an assessment of Howard’s workplace conduct, using the word ‘failure’ 12 times, Howard’s smile brightening each time he heard the word.

“I think it’s great!” said Howard in a good mood after drinking the enhanced water.

“Look Howard, we’re going to install a training wheel in your cubicle. “It will help you work off that energy in less destructive ways. You know, like a hamster or a guinea pig,” said Manager #5.

As the days went by, the drugged water increased Howard’s productivity and morale, which pleased the management team. Howard exercised vigorously on his little wheel, and some of the secretaries walked by his cubicle to feed him shredded lettuce.

One morning in his cubicle, Howard found the large guinea pig sitting in his chair. “Howard, we have to talk,” whispered the guinea pig, beckoning Howard to have a seat on the training wheel. “Howard, you don’t like this job, do you? It’s demeaning and humiliating. You’ve played by the rules for your entire career, and look where it’s gotten you.”

Sitting on the training wheel, chewing shredded lettuce from his little bowl that was adorned with pictures of rodents at play, Howard felt something open up in his imagination. He’d always felt trapped in his job, and he hadn’t been able to visualize himself doing anything else. But staring at the guinea pig, ideas began to flow: maybe he could join an organization that cares for and protects guinea pigs….maybe he could start a business building guinea pig cages…maybe become a chef that cooks guinea pigs in Cusco, Peru, near Machu Picchu. He wasn’t sure if it was due to the water, but for the first time he felt free, aware of options he hadn’t realized.

Howard went to his manager’s office to resign, bringing the scythe with him.


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Eric Suhem lives in the orange hallway.

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Author: Eric Suhem

Contributor: John Laneri

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Friends call me Rick. It's a nickname for Richard Harrison, art dealer, speculator and connoisseur of fine living.

My story began with Vickie, an attractive woman who visited my gallery one morning while I was preparing a exhibit for several local artists. At the time, I noticed her glance my way and maintain a moment of eye contact – a move that suggested we get acquainted.

The lady appeared early thirties and was stylishly dressed. I noted dark hair and a smile that seemed to project a mischievous yet confident attitude.

Intrigued, I suggested a nearby coffee shop. She accepted, and before long, we were splurging calories on two fresh mochas. For the next hour, we mostly talked art, but I did learn that she worked in sales, traveling throughout much of the country.

Over the next few days, we became regulars, so I invited her to my condo in an effort to get better acquainted.

That evening, as I was opening a bottle of wine, she arrived wearing a chic outfit punctuated by a revealing silk top.

We conversed briefly near the bar then she reached for her wine glass and started a casual sweep around my living room. I followed her, pointing to a painting that dominated the wall over my couch.

“You're looking at a Stanley Brown original that I recently acquired at an estate auction.”

“It's impressive,” she replied, “very impressive.”

We studied the painting for several minutes, enjoying its full effect, then I said, “It's by far my most favorite purchase.”

“I can understand why his landscapes are top dollar items. The colors are so vivid, ” she said, as she continued looking about, admiring my other pieces.

After a simple dinner on the balcony, we watched a colorful sunset fade into night then we opened a fresh bottle of wine, our eyes rarely leaving one another.

Soon, she began to quietly communicate her desires. Encouraged, I approached her and ran my hands across the shoulders of her silk blouse. “Your outfit is interesting. I like by the way it reveals your beauty.”

Smiling pleasantly, she pressed her body against mine, letting her warmth linger seductively. Then taking my wine glass, she refreshed it and eased onto the couch, saying, “Wine too has a pleasant way of releasing beauty.”

With that said, I downed the remains in my wine glass, set it aside and headed to the couch. Once there, I reached for her feeling in return an eager, passionate response that lasted only minutes until everything around me slowly began to turn hazy. At first, I tried to ignore the sensation, but then my head began to spin.

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

I tried to reply, but suddenly, my world dropped into a confusing matrix, filled with twists and turns, distorted colors, crazy smiles – all infusing my senses at once.

The following day, I awoke on the floor and subsequently ended up in the hospital. I later learned that I had been drugged with a substance that produces marked sedation when mixed with alcohol. It's effect, the doctor indicated, was similar to a so called, date rape drug.

Naturally, I laughed that off wondering -- why me?

Later that afternoon, I had my answer when I returned home and found an empty wall in place of my Stanley Brown original along with several other items of significant value.

The police investigator, a pleasant appearing, self-assured woman, listened quietly while I related my story.

“I'll have the forensic people check for prints,” she said evenly. “But, the lady had plenty of time to clean the scene, so it's unlikely we'll learn much.”

Still confused, I asked, “Why didn't she just steal the painting during the day while I was at work?”

The investigator smiled compassionately, her manner easy and relaxed. “By inviting her to dinner, you allowed her to sidestep your alarm system. Based on the drug she administered, consider the theft a sophisticated variation of date rape. It's common with financially secure men. Expensive watches, cash, credit cards, firearms, you name it. Gone in an instant. I suspect your friend has already moved to another city to find a new target.”

To my thinking, her take on the incident seemed about as reasonable as any.

Nonetheless, something intriguing happened while I was walking her to the door. Maybe it was the softness of her features or the sincerity of her manner that drew me to her, but I immediately liked her.

In no time, we were conversing like old friends.

That night, we had dinner at a quiet restaurant. The following night we attended a showing for a new artist, and before long we were inseparable, our hearts drawn to one another in a passionate, whirlwind romance which incidentally still continues today.

For us, that chance encounter was the ember that ignited our lives, thanks in part to the loss of my Stanley Brown original.

Now, her time is spent running the gallery as well as our home while I continue to work the markets buying and selling other pieces of art.

As to my Stanley Brown, it's yet to resurface even after ten years. If it did, I would let it pass simply because I already have the finest work of art ever created and her name is Suzy – my nickname for Susan Harrison, wife, mother and love of my life.


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John's 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: Chris Milam

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She could handle a fork. The woman sat in a booth underneath a painting of a lighthouse emitting a dim glow. She wore yoga pants and a black V-neck and she looked glorious, alluring and edible. She consumed the pecan pie in delicate bites, the fork like a pendulum arcing from plate to mouth. After every swallow she smiled, which caused me to smile and we shared a moment, but she wasn’t aware that we shared a moment. She slid a pink and flirty tongue out and used a reptilian curl to cleanse residue from her upper lip. She caught me staring and used that same inviting tongue to brush across her luminous teeth while her eyes stayed on mine and we shared a moment that she had engineered. She emptied her plate and walked out of the restaurant. I caught an aroma of something tropical, evasive, and lonely and all I wanted was to bottle it and spray it on my walls.

The woman in white cotton shorts sat in a booth underneath a picture of a boat listing in a harbor. She ordered chocolate cream pie and took monstrous bites. She couldn’t handle a fork, she was graceless and erratic. Amateurish. She unfurled a gritty, bovine-like tongue to slurp cream from her lower lip. She didn’t respect the luscious pie, it was just a dessert to her, a wedge of calories and gluttony. I glared at her because she didn’t understand the rules, she didn’t belong in this house of fixation. We did not share a moment. I paid my tab and headed to the diner on Jackson that catered to a more deviant brand of clientele. They made a decadent strawberry cheesecake that would require a cultured hand to properly maneuver a fork into its velvety heart.

I sat in a booth underneath a print of Botticelli’s Map of Hell. My stepmother emerged from the kitchen wearing her tangerine uniform and carrying one of her irresistible creations. She nestled a fork against her elegant forefinger, carved a pristine slice and guided it to my quivering lips. She let it dangle and tease for a beat before she plunged it deep into my mouth. The strawberry glaze was orgasmic and succulent on my carnal tongue and we both smiled and a shared a moment that we’ve been sharing for years. Miranda could always handle a fork and she knew that I had no willpower, that I could never resist the temptation of her creamy pie, her wedge of edible love.


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Chris Milam resides in Hamilton, Ohio. He is a voracious reader, a baseball junkie, and a consumer of processed foods.

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Author: Chris Milam

Contributor: Ryan James Black

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“I’ll see your hundred,” snarled Wolfman. “And raise you another.” He pawed a chip onto the pile, accidentally cleaving a jagged gash in the green felt table top.

“Hey,” whined Louis. “Be careful wouldja? I just had this resurfaced.”

Wolfman glared at Louis, the way Wolfman glares at rabbits. A muscle car idled deep in his throat. He ashed his stogie, purposefully missing the ashtray.
Louis huffed. He rolled his eyes. He looked like he wanted to say something, but instead crammed his mouth full of pretzels.

“Okay, okay, you two,” Dracula chuckled. He took a swig of his Romanian microbrew and turned to his right. “Bets to you Frank.”

“Frankenstein,” groaned Frankenstein. “Bet.” With a green bratwurst finger, he inched forward a ten dollar chip.

“Okay, two things Frank,” Dr.Jekyll said irritably. “One. I can totally see your cards.”

Frankenstein held three mismatched cards, a coaster, and what appeared to be a grocery list.

“And two. Wolfenstein just raised, big guy. It’s two hundred to play.”

Frankenstein moaned. He retrieved his ten dollar chip, inadvertently crushing it like the top of an Oreo cookie.

“Frankenstein,” groaned Frankenstein. “Fold.”

“Alright,” said Dracula around a mouthful of potato chips. “Frank and Mummy are out,”

“Ma…neme…izzz…Ram-zees,” mumbled Mummy from across the table. He struggled to find an opening in his face bandages for his Pharaoh Lager. No luck.

“Whatever,” said Dracula. “That leaves me, the wolfster, Louis, and to start us off, betting goes to you Doc….Oh, excuse me. Mr. Hyde.”

Mr. Hyde laughed maniacally, and for reasons known only to him, yanked out a tuft of his hair. Tatters of Dr.Jekyll’s lab coat had fallen into his mug of beer. He gulped it down anyway, splashing more of it on the rug than into his mouth.

“Hyde!” Louis sniveled. “Come on, man. You know Francine and I got this rug as a wedding gift.” He waddled away into the next room, returning an instant later with a spritz bottle and rag. Dropping to the knees of his khaki’s, rolling up the sleeves of his peach cardigan, he went to work, scrubbing the rug around Mr. Hyde’s Sasquatch foot. What remained of the giant’s shoe looked like a spent firework.

“Can we just play cards already?” Wolfman growled.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Mr. Hyde boomed like thunder. He materialized a bowler hat out of the shadows and plopped it on to his head. “Soon as you give me one of them cigars.”

“No!” Louis snapped. “No, no, no. No more smoking in the house.” He stood up, smoothed down his cowlick and pushed up his eye glasses. He was breathing heavy, his face was flushed “As a matter of fact, Wolfman, you put that out. Come on you guys? If Francine finds out you were smoking in here she’s gonna kill me.”

Awkward silence.

Dracula made a sound like a whip crack.

Everyone laughed. Everyone but Louis.

“Ha, ha, ha,” said Louis dryly as he took his seat. “Very funny.”

“Relax Louis,” chuckled Wolfman. “Look, you want my stogie gone. It’s gone.”

Wolfman mashed his cigar into Mummy’s forearm, igniting the bandages like dry leaves. Mummy let out a muffled shriek and in an absolute panic, extinguished himself with foamy Pharaoh Lager. Most of it went on the rug. Everyone laughed. Everyone but Louis.

“Okay,” Dracula sighed, wiping a laugh tear off his bone white cheek. “At this rate were gonna be here till sunrise. Let’s play already. Hyde, what are you gonna do?”

Hyde looked at his cards. He snorted.

“I don’t know what Jekyll was thinkin,” he barked. He threw his cards in the air. “I fold.”

“Well, I believe I am going to raise,” Dracula said with a hungry shark smile. “Five hundred.” He pushed his chips forward with the tip of a sharp, glossy nail. “Louis?”

Louis stared at his cards. A bead of sweat tracked down his pink cheek, coming to rest on the second of his three chins. He pushed up his glasses and cleared his throat.
“You know what?” He bulldozed all his chips into the center of the table. “I’m all in.”

Wolfman snarled.

Mr. Hyde laughed.

Dracula bared his fangs.

Mummy mumbled, gingerly poking his soggy, blackened arm.

Frankenstein groaned “Frankenstein.”

Louis leaned back, clasping his hands behind his head. He smiled.

“You’re bluffing!” Sneered Dracula.

“Am I?” asked Louis.

All eyes fell on Wolfman. White foam was collecting around his snout, dripping onto the table. It wasn’t from his beer.

“Fold,” he barked, tossing his cards. He howled in frustration.

Louis smiled wider.

“Count?’ Louis said softly. “Your move. You in, or out?”

Dracula stared from his cards, to Louis, and back again. His eyes glowed red, deep set fiery embers.

“Fold,” he said calmly.

A chorus of snorts and grumbles went up from around the table. Louis bear hugged his winnings and dragged them across the table towards him. He began to hum a happy tune as he stacked the colorful chips into wobbly towers.

“You know, Louis,” Dracula said coldly. “You’re the only mortal at this table. You may want to consider playing a little more tactfully. You wouldn’t want to make any of us angry would you?”

Wolfman scratched his jagged, yellow claws across the green felt.

Mr. Hyde nodded vehemently and began eating his bowler hat.

Frankenstein groaned “Frankenstein,” with hostility.

Mummy pounded his fist into his open palm. It might have been intimidating had he not been looking in the wrong direction, across the room, at Louis’ sleeping cat.

“I don’t know,” Louis said disinterestedly as he counted out his winnings. “There’s only one person I really don’t want mad at me.”

As if on cue, the door at the top of the stairs smashed open.

A fat, black tentacle snaked its way halfway down the stairs, dripping with tar-like ooze, covered with blinking eyes and barbs the size of tyrannosaur teeth. The monstrosity the tentacle was attached to would have made a Kraken look like a house cat by comparison.

“YOU BOYS WANT ME TO FIX YOU SOME SANDWICHES?”

The voice was like a thunderclap full of broken glass, terrifying, impossibly loud, and just a tiny bit feminine.

“No thanks Francine,” Louis called out. “We have plenty of snacks. You’re a sweetheart for asking though.”

The nightmare oozed back upstairs and shut the door.

Dracula un-bared his fangs.

Mr. Hyde shriveled back into Dr. Jekyll.

Wolfman attempted to hide the shredded table top with a couple of strategically placed coasters.

Frankenstein groaned “Frankenstein,” apologetically.

Mummy mumbled something that sounded like “Has Francine lost weight?”

Louis sighed, then chuckled.

"Like I was saying," he said between pretzel chomps. He shuffled the cards like a man with ten thumbs. "Happy wife, happy life."


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Author: Ryan James Black

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

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Buford was a big man, at least 300 pounds, with a heart of silver if not of gold. No one messed with Buford. He had a limp and for years he had used a cane too short. Neighbors feared some day he might fall and sure enough one day he did fall in his backyard. He was going out to his dump truck. The only good thing that came out of that fall is that I got a chance to talk to an ambulance driver in Beijing, China. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

When Buford fell, he disappeared and left a massive hole in his wake. Dirt rose like a volcano eruption for minutes after he was gone. I lived across the street from Buford so I climbed over his fence to see if I could help in any way. I knew I would not be able to pull him out of the hole by myself. It would take a crane, I figured, to get him back on solid ground.

But when I looked down the hole, I could see nothing but darkness so I went home and got a flashlight and then went back. Now I was able to see far down, apparently miles and miles away, and I saw a group of Chinese emergency medical technicians working feverishly to revive Buford. But he didn’t move. He was lying on his stomach and looked a little like a whale (of the beached variety).

The EMTs were short in stature but obviously industrious, caring people who may never have seen anyone as big as Buford, never mind trying to revive or treat someone that size. They looked like ants trying to get an angle on a giant carcass. They kept prodding and moving around him in a circle but he still didn’t move. They took turns yelling to him in Chinese but even if he could have heard them, Buford didn’t speak a word of Chinese. He was a deaf mute and used only American Sign Language, which only one of his neighbors understood. She was deaf too but spoke very well.

Finally I yelled to the workers and asked if Buford was alive. One of the EMTs looked up and said something in Chinese but I don’t speak Chinese and I don’t know American Sign Language either. I could see they had brought a crane to the scene and were using it to attach leather straps all over Buford’s body. It appeared they were planning to drag him away since they may not have had an ambulance big enough to accommodate him.

The last thing I saw down the hole was the disappearance of Buford’s feet. The rest of him had been dragged out of the frame, so to speak. He had one shoe on and the other was gone. No socks. Buford only wore socks in the winter and this was fall, not cold enough for socks in our country.

I hollered down the hole one more time, and the last EMT visible to me hollered something back but again it was in Chinese. After that I saw nothing except what looked like a crater dent in a paved parking lot where Buford had apparently landed. Even with all that momentum behind him, Buford had not crashed through the pavement. Going back home I realized that if he had fallen through the parking lot, and then through the Chinese ground beneath it, he would probably be floating like a zeppelin somewhere in space. If he were still alive, I figured he was much better off having to learn Chinese Sign Language than knocking over stars and planets.


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Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.

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Author: Donal Mahoney

Contributor: John Laneri

- -
It was another lazy summer day when I started toward Aunt Jillie’s Boarding House, a place most Texans refer to as the finest establishment in Neverton, a small community along the cattle trail to Fort Worth.

As I neared her front gate, I noticed a bicycle parked against a picket fence. Curious, I stopped to check it out.

“Why Sheriff Carson, you look like a young boy admiring a new toy.”

Turning about, I saw Jillie coming my way, her red hair glowing in the sunlight. She was undoubtedly the most beautiful woman I had ever known. I'd probably loved her since the first day we met some twenty years ago.

“I couldn’t resist the opportunity to look at a bicycle.”

She eased beside me and took my arm. “Then, take your time. We can look together.”

“These contraptions are interesting. I've been wanting to see how one works.”

She smiled easily, her voice purring like a kitten. “Is that all you wanted?”

Clearing my throat, I said, “ What I really wanted was some of your lemonade.”

She smiled, her green eyes sparkling playfully. “Some fellow drank all of the lemonade… said he pedaled that thing from Fort Worth.”

“But, that’s over fifty miles along wagon ruts and cow trails.”

“Claims he was thirsty.”

“What’s he doin’ now?”

She chuckled, her green eyes smiling with delight. “He’s splashing in my bathtub with one of the girls.”

I took a deep breath. “That’s mighty unsociable. I’ve spent most of my day thinkin’ about crawling into that tub with a glass of lemonade in one hand and you in the other.”

“We can splash together later,” she replied. “But that fellow represents money in my pocket.”

I had to appreciate her point of view, so I returned my attention to the bicycle and realized that I was admiring a world renowned, Saint Louis Flier.

I pulled it away from the fence. “Did you know this is one of the finest bicycles ever built? I read about it in a magazine.”

Jillie moved closer and ran a hand along the bars. ““This thing looks like a fun way to go places.”

I swung a leg over the seat and bounced up and down, my excitement growing. “Get on top. We’ll see if bicycle riding is worth the pedaling effort.”

She lifted her dress above her knees and settled on the handlebars. And, before long, we were moving toward the road, feeling a breeze blow in our faces.

Once at a comfortable speed, she glanced over her shoulder. “Where’re we going, Honey?”

“I was thinkin’ of peddlin’ in the direction of the river. It’s mostly downhill.”

I rumbled over a series of wagon ruts, feeling the bicycle jostle about. But, once it settled down, I increased my speed.

“Don’t go too fast,” she said, tugging her dress higher. “I don’t want a broken leg for having fun.”

“You needn’t worry. Bicycle riding is easier than I figured.”

Soon, my boots were pumping furiously – moving us from one side of the road to the other. At the bottom of the hill, we started into the woods, bouncing along a narrow footpath that followed the river.

She glanced at me, concerned. “I hope you know how to control this thing. We’re going too fast.”

I brushed her hair from my face and continued on, pushing the bicycle for all it was worth. “Keep your eyes on the trail and, tell me what you see. I know what I’m doing.”

She pointed to the side, her finger moving wildly. “Follow that path to the right. It goes away from the river.”

“I’m trying, but this thing won’t turn.”

“Then you need to stop.”

“Stop…how do I stop?”

Moments later, I was sitting in water up to my neck, spittin’ out a nasty mouthful of river and looking around for my hat. That’s when, I noticed Jillie glaring in my direction.

“One thing for sure,” she said, as she came to her feet and took a step. “You’ve ruined a perfectly good dress.” She took another step and slipped, her head plunging below the water. Struggling, she tried to stand. “And, you certainly don’t know how to entertain a lady. My hair is ruined too.”

Feeling responsible, I went to her, took her in my arms and carried her to shore, feeling my boots slog through the water. “Accidents happen, but we did get our splash together.”

I tried a smile, hoping to calm her mood.

She ignored it and looked away. “For your information, falling into the river is not the same as splashing in my bathtub. Don’t you know anything?”

“Probably not,” I said, as I eased her to the ground in the tall grass and settled nearby unsure of what to say.

For some time, I left her alone and simply reclined in the weeds, feeling the warmth of the sun cover me like a friend. By then, I was laughing to myself and enjoying the moment.

Finally, I turned to her. ”I do know one thing.”

“And what's that?” she asked, her voice on edge.

“I know you, and that’s plenty important.”

She remained quiet for some time. Then, she turned to me. “You always say the sweetest things. That's why I love you so much.”

“When I'm with you, I always speak from the heart.”

She rolled beside me and settled her head against my chest, her eyes going to mine. “Then, snuggle closer and kiss me like you mean it.”


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John's writing focuses on short stories and flash. Other 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: James Tressel

- -
She stands on the sidewalk and cranes her neck to see the third floor window where light flashes and stutters across begrimed glass. Shadows pulse to a dull beat there, but the people throwing them seem stilled.

She walks toward the front door through a colonnade of inky cypress. Tree to tree, a low shuddering darkness passes, and the trees shrink to shrubs. When she reaches the front door, she finds it much too small for her body. She retreats and begins to circle the building. Her eyes flicker over the graffiti gouged into its sandstone: names and accusations, the names of lovers crowding into each other.

Rounding a corner of the building, she catches an artist in the act: a little girl, braids like lengths of old rope, jaw wired shut. The girl drops her nail file to the pavement and runs. Our heroine examines what the girl had been writing. It’s another language – Letters like smashed bugs. She picks up the metal nail file. The warmth of the girl’s hand transfers to hers and, along with it, a sort of high-pitched vibration that filters through her hand like a flux of meal worms.

On her second approach to the door, our heroine finds herself crowded out: Footsteps coming closer, warm bodies approaching, low laughter, whispers. Many footsteps – warm bodies parting around her an unceasing flow of bodies parting around her as they amass on the front steps. They push her backward until she has to step down one two three steps she is no longer near the door. A pale hand reaches up and presses the buzzer.

A metallic hello comes from the speaker near the pressed button. A whispered response from the button-pusher. She faces a wall of hair – the backs of heads rise above woolen collars, long coats – those assembled on the front steps. Long lapse before the buzz. Long lapse before the click. Long lapse for her to face every one of those head backs. Noses and mouths grow from the hair. Eye caverns regard her. The smell of curling irons and alcohol and lavender. The door clicks. They pull it open and begin to flow through it. She presses towards it, but they press back crowding her out as more and more arrive, an endless stream with no place for her in it. As this progresses, the thump – thump – thump-y music billows out and buffets her ears.

She retreats again, finds a bar a few blocks away. It’s empty. Light from flaming sconces wavers on vaulted ceilings. The light is warm, but the air is cold. She draws into her coat, tries to gather nerve. No bartender to be seen at the bar, so she waits patiently, blowing on her hands. Strange place: no windows, oblong, hexagonal tables made of mahogany set in recesses around the room. All is quiet, or is it? A dim rustle of voices, whispers maybe. While she waits, she takes out the nail file and begins to gouge shapes into the pristine surface of the bar, shapes like smashed bugs. Presently, she hears footsteps approaching.

The little vandal with the wired-shut jaw appears. She’s carrying a pewter tray full of goblets of opaque, verdigris-colored liquid. She steps into one of the recesses and fumbles with the edge of the table. The top hinges up. The rattle of bones and the rip of cloth. She places a goblet into skeletal grasping fingers. Our heroine shivers and notices, for the first time, a phonograph set on the surface of the bar. Its needle bumbles about the slick space between the last track and the label at the center, a label emblazoned with a chitinous alphabet.

She runs back to the building and looks up at the window. Same oddly pulsating light, same motionless figures. Darkness smokes her approach, but she swims through it, finds the door, bores in on the button.

“Hello?” Snaps of thumping through the static. She says her name, but the door is already buzzing, breaking open. She is IN! The warmth of the hallway. Tasteful dim lighting. Heart-patterned wallpaper (crimson on gold). She walks up staircase to the second floor landing, and sees her shadow pulse as the thumping grows louder. She grips the nail file until her knuckles glow white. She is walking up the stairway to the third floor, toward the thump – thump – thump, cutting the space before her, laying a groove.


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James Tressel is the author of FURNACE (Turtleneck Press, 2011). He lives in Philadelphia and is an aficionado of weird fiction.

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Author: James Tressel