Contributor: Jessica Morrow

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There’s a scream, a shudder and a quick jolt.

She’s in trouble, and my only thought is that I have to help her. But where is she? She can’t be gone too far. I’d only seen her half an hour ago.

I wish my dad was here, or my friends from school. They’d be far more useful than me right now. I’m worthless. I have to be. How else can I not be able to help her?

I try to make my way through the darkness, wishing for the clarity so many people took for granted. I would do anything for it. I'd be able to save her!

But here I am, as useless as ever.

The screams begin again. This time it’s closer, and my heart begins to pound.

I find myself leaning down, not by my own control. I feel excitement, and I’m confused as to why I feel it. I’m scared! I want her to be safe, free from the evil in this house, but here I am, excited. What was going on?

With my knees sinking down onto what feels like carpet, I place my hands in front of me and feel through the air.

After a moment, they touch something solid.

My heartbeat dies instantly, but I feel myself continuing to breathe, excitedly, jaggedly.

She gives a choked whimper as I touch her lightly.

That’s the moment I realise something is up. Why am I not trying to save her?

Why am I moving in such slow motion? I’m taking an eon, an eternity, to move closer to her. I try to hurry up, but I can’t. It’s like I’m not even controlling my own body, like this is some sort of sick dream.

And I can’t even save her.

I lean down, and her breath fans into my face. I try to scream to her, 'I’m here to save you, mum', but no words come out.

I’m confused.

My own breath becomes ragged, and her breathing dies down. She begins to shake, but I find myself holding her in place. I wonder why on earth I did that. I’d never want to hurt her. Why was this…?

Mum? I try to ask again, but yet again, my voice escapes me. A barrage of thoughts assaults my mind, and I’m taken aback. It’s like it isn’t even me thinking anymore…

At the thought of that, a few things click into place.

What, I think nervously, irrationally. What if it actually isn’t…?

There’s a sudden flash of light, and I’ve grabbed something previously unthought-of out of my pocket. I’m about to place it – 'no, mum, I don’t want to hurt you, I just want to hurt you' - when suddenly a voice screams out, as light floods through the room. It’s oddly familiar, far too familiar.

“Mum!” the voice of the boy screams as he leaps towards me.

I lose my grip on reality. That boy, he can’t be, it can’t possibly be.

He pushes her – mum – to the side as he makes his way for… No way, it can’t be true, this can’t be happening.

I’ve never been hurt before, not seriously. Once, I almost broke my knee climbing a tree at my uncle’s place when I was four, but nothing like this.
I’m the man, I’m the child. It doesn't matter to me. I’m both. And I’m saving her.

I’m not as useless as I thought.

I don’t even know if I’ll survive, but at least I’m saving her.

That ought to count for something, right?

“Eli, son?” she whispers, as darkness overcomes me.


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Jessica Morrow is an emerging writer and second year Bachelor of Arts (Professional and Creative Writing) student at Deakin University in Geelong, Australia. Inspired by the works of authors such as Suzanne Collins and George Orwell, Jessica likes to strike a balance between literary and genre fiction in her writing. Hopefully, this inspires more people to read.

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Author: Jessica Morrow

Contributor: Alessandro Cusimano

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Wendy's obsession with Hollywood was born in a motley bungalow, where all the plans begin to jell. In the still of the night, Wendy get up with a jerk, dreaming of a trip to Temptation, odds and ends, jeopardies, jests, strait jackets and phony excuses! Wendy took off a little time this summer, but her vacays didn’t exactly resemble the exotic escapes of Hollywood films: because she never managed to get perfectly tousled beach hair.
Obsessive thoughts make Wendy feel nervous and afraid. She tries to get rid of these feelings by performing certain behaviors. Due to these thoughts, Wendy may, for example, wash her hair repeatedly. Performing these behaviors usually only makes her nervous feelings go away for a short time. When the fear and nervousness return, she repeats the routine all over again. Her recurrent and persistent obsessions cause marked anxiety and distress. Wendy attempts to ignore or suppress such impulses, or images, or to neutralize them with some other thought or action. Watching her favorite Hollywood stars in films and on television also gives her the mistaken impression that she knows what a person is like. Wendy feels a sort of camaraderie to certain actors. However, in reality, movie stars have private lives as well as she really doesn't know what they could be like on a personal level, no matter how many interviews of them she has seen.
We all have habits and routines in our daily lives, such as brushing our teeth before bed. However, for Wendy, patterns of behavior get in the way of her daily life. She knows that her obsessions make no sense, but she can't ignore or stop them. Ideas, images and impulses run, uninterrupted, through the Wendy's mind. While they are disturbing, she can't control them. Sometimes these thoughts come just once in a while and are only mildly annoying. Other times, Wendy has her obsessions all the time!
She lives in Queer Street, dressed in a persuasive crocodile kimono. Wendy is photogenic! Wendy is pyromaniac! Wendy has the nerve of a squeezed orange!
Hitting big time in Hollywood is based on good luck and pure timing. As a Hollywood actress to get herself meaty roles she has to know the right people and be in the right place at the right time. Dazzling good looks will also go far in getting her noticed!
Next to the rose gardens, Wendy is the lover of the betrayals! With the intent to entertain radio stars, movie makers, fumy outlines, Rams and Raiders! Speaking into a wonky microphone, chasing a nine days' wonder, the crucial romance. Confusional states of America!
As a possible Hollywood star, Wendy loves the attention she get from her fans and from the press. However, there is a downside to all this publicity. Star stalking is rather common and can be very dangerous. Drunk, Wendy is the perfect woman of straw, along with a braggart in a jammy loft, or the rakehell of the day!
Because of her mental disabilities, Wendy often fixates on Hollywood stars and creates fantasy lives where she thinks she knows the star personally. Much of this has to do with looks and public relations skills. Wendy is prepped and preened before any public appearances. She looks flawless. Everything, from her hair styles to the makeup she wears. It all makes many people feel inferior and in awe of the rich and famous. Wendy has things that they could never dream of owning!
And yet, she is unable to recognize that the obsessional images are not only a product of her own mind, but also imposed from without, as in thought insertion. Repetitive behaviors such as hair washing, ordering, checking or mental acts like praying, repeating words silently, are aimed at preventing or reducing distress or preventing some dreaded event or situation; however, these behaviors or mental acts either are not connected in a realistic way with what they are designed to neutralize or prevent or are clearly excessive. Moreover the obsessions significantly interfere with the Wendy's normal routine, occupational, functioning, or usual social activities or relationships. Wendy buys all the popular fashion magazines featuring movie stars on the cover: she sees movie stars and celebrities everywhere.
Unfortunately, Wendy continues to be bothered by thoughts or images that repeatedly enter her mind, such as concerns with gaining weight, choosing the wrong lipstick or keeping shoes in perfect order or arranged exactly. Images of porno movies or horrible events. She worries a lot about terrible things happening, such as being on the set and forget her lines. Senseless urge or impulse, such as pushing a competitor, for the part in a movie, in front of a bus, steering her car into oncoming traffic or poisoning dinner guests. She feels driven to perform certain acts over and over again, such as excessive or ritualized laughing, jogging, or sleeping. Repeating routine actions: in/out of chair, going through doorway, re-lighting cigarette. Unnecessary re-reading or re-writing. Avoiding colors: red means blood! Numbers: 13 is unlucky. Or names: those that start with F signify flop! That are associated with dreaded events or unpleasant thoughts. Needing to confess or repeatedly asking for reassurance that she said or did something correctly!
To make matters worse, Wendy suffers from another strange mental disorder. She has a strong need to count her actions or objects in her surroundings. Wendy may for instance feel compelled to count the steps while ascending or descending a flight of stairs or to count the number of letters in words. She often feels it is necessary to perform an action a certain number of times to prevent alleged calamities. All of this develops into a complex system in which Wendy assigns values or numbers to people, objects and events in order to deduce their coherence. At times she counts aloud, at times silently. She is still unsure if it is a blessing or a curse. She always thought it was just the way her brain works. Surely, nobody else would really be able to comprehend what her brain does on it’s free time.
She doesn’t actually count the number of objects. She counts the angles, sides, corners of each star. Not the sum. Here’s a highly simplified example of what her brain does: picture a pink painted star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. It is flat, so it has no dimension to it. There are ten sides and five corners. Each side has two terminals, where the line ends at the corner. She tends to count those terminals on each corner. So in this example, each corner would have a value of “2″. So she would go around the painted star, counting 2, 4, 6, 8. Not too difficult. Now, picture doing that to every single painted star on Hollywood Boulevard and Vine Street while driving at 50 mph! Now imagine applying that habit to a three-dimensional star! Now, put yourself into a room that has stars of all different shapes, sizes and thicknesses! Hollywood rules everything around her!
The other day Wendy thought about one thing: a few years ago, before leaving Illinois, to go to live in Los Angeles, she decided to install an aquarium in her home. She got everything you need, and after creating the ideal habitat put some fishes in the aquarium. Very nice to watch the fishes and plants that grew and multiplied. Wendy noticed that the fishes did not like too much her and then she had to observe them better hidden. After an initial period, where Wendy had to intervene frequently to maintain the ideal habitat stable, she let it all live on their own. Everything worked perfectly until she introduced a particular species within the aquarium. The California crab! At first all is well. It grew quiet and seemed to adapt to the environment. Then it started to destroy everything and everyone. Ate the plants and kill other fish. The possibilities were two. Step in and remove the intruder destroyer or let nature take its course. For a split second Wendy felt God! Intervened! She removed the crab from the aquarium and everything slowly returned to normal.


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Alessandro Cusimano was born in Palermo in 1967. Son of a painter and a teacher, he moves to Rome where he attends the classics. Poet, writer, playwright, since the age of 21, his life is marked by recurrent and painful bouts of depression, by the use of alcohol and drugs. None of this, however, distracts him from the research and the study of his expression ideals, his narrative technique, his poetic style, along with a a special focus on visual arts, from painting to cinema, from photography to theatre.

Appeared recently on the international literary stage, some of his writings have been published by The Cynic Online Magazine, RED OCHRE Lit, Decanto Magazine, Weirdyear, Streetcake Magazine, Anotherealm, Numinous Magazine, Parting Gifts, Eratio Poetry Journal, EPIPHANY Magazine, Deadman’s Tome, Black Cat Poems, Orion’s Child Magazine, Bewildering Stories, FOLLY Magazine, Exercise Bowler, Emerging Visions, Write This and Linguistic Erosion.

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Author: Alessandro Cusimano

Contributor: Matt Micheli

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The cigarette smoke. The pile of dishes in the sink and atop the surrounding counters—stacks of them. The empty and half-empty beer bottles scattered throughout the house—I count one, two, three, four, and so on, until I lose count after thirty or so. The warm breeze from the outside sneaks through the tiny holes in the front screen door that probably should be closed but never is. I try and imagine the sound of small birds chirping outside, bathing in the morning’s golden sunlight, but I can’t. The TV’s volume is turned up as loud as it’ll go and is still muffled by the yelling, the crying, the words, “Fuck You” and “I’m gonna leave your ass,” and “You’re nothing but a whore,” and “Go ahead,” and “I dare you,” and “You won’t,” and “You don’t have the fucking balls,”—all the typical terms I’ve gotten used to in this house.

I walk right into the line of fire—through the battleground, through the war-zone, through the flying debris, through the hatred—going unnoticed and push the screen door open to the outside. The sun hits my face, and my eyes squint as I step down onto the worn wooden porch, feeling the heads of nails trying to make their way back up. The door springs shut behind me, and I stand there and look as far away as I can down the street to another distant land far, far away from here; from them. I step down onto the grass—still cool and wet from the nightly dew—and make my way to the street. The asphalt is hot, but my feet have gotten used to it, burnt black and calloused over. This time, I know I’ll be able to go even farther than I had last time. Really far this time, maybe even far enough.

“Fuck you!”

“I’ll fucking do it! I’ll do it!”

I can’t tell if the yelling and cursing is following me or just embedded in my head from repeated assaults. I continue on. Over the yelling, I am able to hear those small birds I tried to imagine earlier, chirping, and this is nice. Walking down the street, away from there, away from them, there’s a soft breeze on my back, helping me along the way, the further I get, the better I start to feel; the less lonely I become. It seems like hours have gone by, and where I am, I don’t recognize. There’s no one here. Just me and woods to either side and this street that leads somewhere, anywhere. The sun has moved higher into the sky and the asphalt is hotter now then when I had left, but I can do it. I can make it.

I hear the yelling but then the birds again. Then I hear the siren round once and gravel crunch as a car pulls off to the side of the road behind me. The car door opens, then come the words, “Johnny, it’s time to go home.”

On the way home, I dream about next time and wonder how far I’ll get, and Officer Tate gives me advice, as he always does on our rides back. I stare out the window, the warm sun feels good on my face, and as he talks, all I can hear are birds chirping, and this is nice.


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Matt Micheli is a transgressive fiction writer out of Austin, TX, author of MEMOIRS OF A VIOLENT SLEEPER: A BEDTIME STORY. His analytical, sometimes satirical, and often times blunt views of love, loss, life, and beyond are expressed through his writing. For him, writing is an escape from the everyday confines of what the rest of us call normal.

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Author: Matt Micheli

Contributor: Zachary Zuccaro

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Lauren's dream had always been to visit the Library of Congress. She loved books – their appearance, their odor, their covers, the sounds of the pages turning. Of course Lauren had been to libraries before – she cherished the quiet atmosphere, the rows and columns of books, the veritable temples of human knowledge and imagination.

Then one day Lauren's dream became a reality, she finally got an opportunity to visit the Library of Congress – the largest library in the world. The tour guide led her into an 8'x8' prison cell. A laptop lay on a small desk in the center of the room.

“What is this!” Lauren exclaimed, appalled.

“Oh, you didn't hear?” the tour guide replied, “The library was renovated – this was deemed more efficient than the old system so the library was moved here – isn't it amazing?”

Lauren said nothing; she walked to the center of the cell, grabbed the computer, and smashed it on the floor.


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I was born in Lynchburg, Tennessee and am now studying mathematics at the University of Pittsburgh. Some of my hobbies include reading, writing, playing in chess tournaments, going mushroom hunting, and listening to classical music.

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Author: Zachary Zuccaro

Contributor: Scott Harmon

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The business meeting was going great. Everyone along the shiny black table had gotten along and it looked as though we were all going to be billionaires. There was one man however that hadn’t said a word. He was the new guy. I hired him out of a Burger King because I thought he was brilliant. Call it one of those hunch things. In his short career he had said very little. He seemed to always have a steely intensity in his eyes. I was having some doubts about him.
Anyways, Mr. Johnson had just made a side splitting joke. We were all in riotous laughter. After it died down, there was a moment of silence.
That’s when it happened. The new guy spoke. He raised his hand shyly and said “Uh I know this doesn’t have much to do with the meeting, but I was thinking we should start a new Mexican restaurant chain called The Aburrido Burrito.” Everyone kind of stared at him blankly, confused. He quickly elaborated and said “You see, aburrido in Spanish means boring.”
Vice President Haskins was clearly annoyed and sputtered, “Wait, why would anyone want to go to the boring burrito?!”
The new guy sat perplexed for a moment or two admitting to himself that he never thought of this. He finally answered, “Because it sounds cool?”
Now I was angry. I really let him have it. I said “Look man, we don’t hire fools like you to come up with crap like this!” I was fuming. I let myself burn for a few seconds, then I erupted. “I should have let you die at that Burger King! Your idea, it’s worthless! Take your junk and hit the road!” And that was that.
I expected him to be offended and storm out. Instead he let out an evil cackle that lasted so long it gave everyone the chills. He finally spoke maniacally. “You fools! You’re all fools! You think I’m stupid. Well guess what?! I’ve done all the secret paper work. When your backs were turned! I own this company! The Aburrido Burrito will be the ultimate empire!” He let out another cackle.
We all thought he had lost his marbles until the armed guards barged in and carried us away. I had no idea where they were taking us until I saw a giant door with a sign saying “The Aburrido Burrito Training Camp.” I knew I was in biiiig trouble. . .


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I'm 31 and I have been actively writing since 2005. I started out doing micro fiction(although not realizing it until later) and poetry. I progressed into longer short stories. I spend most of my time writing screenplays or comic books. I have a feature length written and other shorts, but right now I am outside of the actual business.

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Author: Scott Harmon

Contributor: Tim Gerstmar

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It was really awful what happened to her, wasn't it? I mean, if you could have seen it. If you could have seen what had been done to her. That was Cherrie though, and she had a right to do whatever she wanted. That was just the way she was, and if she liked living the way she did, then that was her business. I'm not about to get on her case.

Anyway, I can outline the whole thing for you a bit, at least what I understand about it. It needs the right approach. I really cared about Cherrie in my own way, and I want to get across how horrible it was what was done to her.

Picture a girl alone on the elevator. There is the cold hum of the building, all those apartments, all those people, and yet so much isolation. The lights flicker in the elevator, and then it stops on the fifth floor. The key turns in the lock of the door, and she turns the knob.

She was such a nice girl. At this point in the story, there were only about five minutes left in her life, and only one minute that wasn't sheer pain. It was in the shower, or that's what I recall anyway. It's all so distant, and I can't even sleep anymore, and I can no longer go into cities, for the very cement reminds me of it.

The apartment was dead silent when she stepped inside and shut the door. She never saw what happened, but she did hear the rustle of its black skirts flowing behind it like curtains in the breeze. Then there was only the darkness and the feeling of force.

It wasn't like I ever saw it, you understand. There was only the sheer sensation that something had gone on there. Everyone meets their lover in the end, even young girls on elevators with flickering lights. Voyages end, and we sleep the deep sleep of dreams.

You know, you look at those curtains, and you think to yourself, those are probably the same curtains that were hanging in there when she died. I never even saw Cherie. I didn't even know who she was. Cherie Beaumont was her name. I could picture her. I could see her blond hair, kind of wavy, and that listless smile on her face. She was a girl who liked summer dresses and being lazy while she shopped. She was happy.

Then I looked out that window at the view that she must have seen everyday while she stood there drinking coffee. I was hearing what she heard. I was walking where she walked. I was sitting where she made love and ate and laughed.

I see Cherie every night in my dreams, except I don't see her. I just see wallpaper with a mesmerizing pattern on it, and I can hear the pulsations like a ships boiler, and I can tell she's coming.

Even as I walk through the city, my eyes are always drawn to the window of that condo. The shades are always drawn, but sometimes I can see shadows moving behind it. Sometimes I wake up in there. When I do, I think about how cold I am, and I start to tremble. I stay awake late and wander the streets, but in every alleyway and every porno theatre I see her. Cherie stands out, her face lighted by the awful neon and the sweating pavement.

I had to finally have it out with her. I had to release Cherie, because you know, I think that’s what she wanted. I called out to her, and she didn't answer, only the room answered. Only the room. It talked to me through the hum of the walls and the gurgling of the pipes. It was the horrifying sound of my dreams, but I was awake. I searched for her in there. I pulled apart the sofa and scoured the corners for some trace of her, some left over remnant of her being, but there was nothing. There was something else in that room with me. The place became ice cold. I shivered and slumped into a corner. Then I noticed that the closet door was just slightly ajar. However, I could swear it had not been when I entered. Slowly, with agonizing speed it began to open, and I heard the dull thundering in the walls, masked by the gurgling and the incessant hum. I became tired, as though I had taken an entire bottle of sleeping pills. Then came the voice, "The pattern on the wallpaper," it said, whispering to me a clue to the mystery that I would never solve. "Cherie, I am here for you baby. I've come to help you." The door of the closet swung open and slammed into the wall. An impenetrable darkness beckoned to me. I heard the slow tread of heavy footsteps, and it was then that I learned that not all spirits want release.


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Born in 1972, Tim Gerstmar came to writing later in life. He has been an illustrator, teacher, film actor, shoe salesman, and he even spent time in the U.S. Navy. He now works as a high school teacher in Bangkok, Thailand.

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Author: Tim Gerstmar

Contributor: John Laneri

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Several years ago, I inadvertently contributed to the murder of a man named Jason Stone.

My involvement started with a phone call. It was the urgency of Jason’s tone that compelled me to get out of bed and tackle the weather on a dreary winter night.

Actually, I had never met the man, but his wife had been a longtime patient of mine. And, from what I could determine, she was having a severe anxiety attack associated with palpitations and hyperventilation.

For no particular reason, I elected to make a house call. It seemed an easy enough task – an hour or two of work then back to bed. Hysterical people, I knew, were often difficult to control and getting her to an emergency room could become an impossible task, especially in the dead of night.

My situation started when I turned onto his street and drove into a solid wall of fog. To my surprise, the house numbers were impossible to see.

Slowly, I cruised from house to house, trying to make out lights. Finally, I picked the most likely place based on Jason's hasty description and headed to the front door.

I rang the doorbell and waited.

“Who’s there?” a woman’s voice asked. “It’s two o’clock in the morning.”

“Jason...?”

I heard a gasp come from the other side of the door.

“Go away. And, please leave me alone.”

“Let me in,” I said, as I reached to jiggle the door handle, thinking something was wrong.

I heard footsteps shuffle away from the door. Then nothing.

I knocked again.

After failing to get any further response, I backed away and looked up and down the street, wondering.

Two doors away, I spotted a man moving in my direction.

“You’re at the wrong house,” he said breathlessly. “Hurry, my wife is completely out of control.”

I followed him across the lawn, mumbling something about scaring his neighbor to death.

He promised to convey my apologies, pausing only to tell me that she was an attractive woman that lived alone.

After treating his wife's anxiety with a intravenous sedative and listening to her ramble incoherently, I returned home and back to sleep. The next day, I called her house and left several messages on her voice mail. When she failed to respond to any of my phone calls, I soon forgot the matter.

Several weeks later, I heard on the news that the wife had shot and killed Jason Stone.

What I didn’t know at the time of my house call was that the woman at the door and Jason had been engaged in a neighborhood affair that was beginning to unravel once the demands of their activities began to complicate their lives.

Based on testimony at the trial, the wife stated that she had first learned of the relationship the very night of my house call – thus the reason for her anxiety reaction.

Unfortunately, by going to the wrong house, I initiated a series of complex interactions between all parties. My mistake, as benign as it seems, resulted in an angry confrontation, which ultimately resulted in a violent death.

Had I been able to decipher the wife's ramblings, then maybe Jason Stone would be alive, and his wife would not be in prison for putting a bullet in his head.


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John is a native born Texan living near Houston. His writing focuses on short stories and flash. Publications to his credit can be found on the internet and in several print edition periodicals.

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Author: John Laneri

Contributor: Scott Harmon

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It was then and there. We waited, as if perched on a cliff. Our entire existence was on the line. Then we heard it. A sound... To most beings it was barely a hiss of nothing. But to us, it was the most beautiful thing we'd ever heard. Our bodies of cement, brick, wood and shingles began to swirl. Our substance and tangibility started to sift like sand. No longer were we to be chained down to our cement foundations. It was over.
Before all this, we watched day after day as our free floating neighbors went off to explore the world. Always returning some day to spout their adventurous tales. We had grown angry....restless. It was useless to complain. Everyone told us it was impossible. How could a house roam the planet like a bird or a speck of dirt? It was not reasonable. Of course we knew that. As a house, there is nothing else to do than think. Finally we came to a realization that the modern world was too logical. Most of the houses today had been built into a scientific age. We all watched little boys and girls grow up in our bodies. Small children who at a young age were full of fanciful, impossible ideas. Then, as they grew up, the notions slowly get squeezed out of them, like someone wringing out a wet rag. Those whimsical ideas filed away as fiction.
Silently, we challenged these beliefs. We were tired of being put in our place. I think most beings underestimate our intelligence. When our frustration was at its highest, we held a global mind communion. We decided that if we could create a psychokinetic signal with enough force to travel to the other side of the galaxy, perhaps we could reach a civilization not based on science. Someone with the power to set us free.
And thus the story is told. As I said before, our man made structures began to swirl. The wind rushes through and around my body, scattering it like dust. The tiny sound that emanated from across the cosmos set us free. We're leaving now, our first destination will be that spot in the galaxy to thank our liberators. We feel no remorse about leaving our inhabitants behind. We are free, and nothing will stop us now. I feel so happy. The future is bright. Farewell Earth, at least for now. Signed,

       The Houses


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I'm 31 and I have been actively writing since 2005. I started out doing micro fiction(although not realizing it until later) and poetry. I progressed into longer short stories. I spend most of my time writing screenplays or comic books. I have a feature length written and other shorts, but right now I am outside of the actual business.

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Author: Scott Harmon

Contributor: John Laneri

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The first time I saw a flying saucer was the morning I arrived at my putt-putt in hopes of playing a few rounds of golf before the day got hot.

I called the place, Justin’s Fabulous Putt-Putt. And, it truly was a challenging, eighteen hole, miniature golf course that featured water falls, windmills and the only singing parrot in the community of Possum Hollow.

Naturally, my girlfriend Becky tagged along, nagging me as usual about getting married. She immediately spotted the saucer.

“A flying saucer,” she said excitedly, running to it – her shoes, flip-flopping ahead of me. She was a cute little thing with a nice smile and skinny legs.

At first, I couldn’t believe my eyes. The thing was just sitting in the middle of the sand trap on the eighth hole streaming whips of vapor from both sides.

Right off, I realized the experts were wrong. The shape was elliptical and not circular like popular concept. It featured a bright green paint job and looked to be about six feet wide by three feet high. And best of all, it was resting on skinny legs that were splayed at the bottom like chicken feet.

“Where’d the flying saucer come from?” I asked Gordon, my assistant, as I hurried toward him. By then, I was beginning to wonder how to incorporate it into the putt-putt.

At the time, he was poking around the bottom with a crowbar, trying to pry it apart.

“It must have landed here during the night,” he replied, as he moved to another site. “I’ve been trying to get it open all morning.”

“Woe-e,” Becky said. “Another flying saucer.” She walked over and kissed the side. “Today’s my lucky day.”

“Don't touch it,” I warned her. “You could be hurt.”

“No, I won’t,” she replied. “I’m familiar with flying saucers.”

She continued walking around the thing, her eyes aglow.

Finally, she glanced at me and smiled. “For your information, I rode in one a year ago. That was the day I almost got married. But... I decided to wait for you.”

Cringing at the thought, I watched her continue around it, her fingers skimming over the surface. Suddenly, the hiss of air startled me, and then to my surprise, a door popped opened on the top.

Gordon jumped to his feet, “What the ….”

“Don’t be scared,” Becky said. “That’s how we get inside.”

I backed away a step. “I’m not getting inside that thing – no way.”

“Why not?” she asked. “The Captain performs marriage ceremonies every hour on the hour Afterward, Elvis serenades the bride and groom with a vocal tribute.”

“I’m to young to be married,” I replied quickly.

She scrambled on board and scooted toward the opening, her excitement almost contagious.

Gordon followed her saying, “Let me see. I’ve always wanted to look inside a flying saucer.”

She extended a hand in my direction. “Come with me, honey. Gordon can be our best man.”

I watched him scurry to the hatch and drop inside without a second thought – possibly lost forever.

Becky swung her legs into the opening. “I’ll meet you at the alter. It’s on the promenade deck close to the honeymoon suites. This is going to be a dream come true.”

“I’ll be right behind you,” I replied, as I watched her drop away and disappear from sight.

Carefully, I edged close to the opening and ventured a look inside, seeing what appeared to be a smoky abyss overlaid with a faint smell of noxious gas.

I waited around for about thirty minutes, figuring that Gordon and Becky had lost track of time. Eventually, I gave up and headed over to the putt-putt office to begin preliminary sketches in hopes of making the thing my feature attraction. I knew it would draw crowds.

Later that morning, I returned to the eighth hole with my tape measure. I needed to get exact specifications, certain that my life was about to change. To my surprise though, the saucer was nowhere to be seen.

I walked around the area for some time, studying the site. Finally, I tossed my sketches aside, dropped a ball on the ground and launched a shot on the number seven – my most difficult hole. I carded a hole-in-one too, the ball doing a loop-d-loop before dropping into the cup. The shot was my very first ace on the seventh hole.

Like Becky, I was also having a lucky day.

About a year later, I read in the National Enquirer that the saucer driver had let Becky and Gordon out near Baton Rouge where they had moved into an apartment and were living as husband and wife.

To this day, I still miss Gordon. We shared a similar vision for exciting putt-putt golf courses. Losing Becky, I have to confess, was the best thing that ever happened to me because a few weeks later, I met Ronda Maples – a charming lady, who after five marriages, knew better.


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John is a native born Texan living near Houston. His writing focuses on short stories and flash. Publications to his credit can be found on the internet and in several print edition periodicals.

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Author: John Laneri

Contributor: Brian J. Smith

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TOMMY GIBBS WAITED UNTIL THE BLUE FORD ESCORT EASED OUT OF THE driveway before creeping down the hallway into Bridget’s bedroom. There was no room for failure this time; no slip-ups like last time when she caught him two nights ago and screamed for Daddy as he bolted out of the bedroom. Outside, the rich blue sky was vibrant with sunlight and streaked with clouds shaped like joints. Across the street, a two story house had been ate by fire, its rough brick exterior and large windows smudged by soot. The joyful sound of afternoon play from the neighborhood kids echoed up and down the street.

He knelt down before her bedside table, moved the four Twilight novels aside and came up empty. He was setting them back up when his eyes drifted over to the small pink object jutting out from between the mattress and box-spring. He pinched it between thumb and forefinger, slid the diary out of hiding and set it on the bed. She always did have a nice bedroom, so white and clean and so many boy-band posters up on the walls, even a few people from the actual Twilight movies. When he turned the little conjoined key, the clasp snapped apart and the book opened, pages slowly fluttering back and forth.

Each page smelled like some flowery perfume and lightly dusted with glitter. He thought it was funny and sat down on the edge of the bed to read the page he found. His laughter ceased and the gaiety he felt when he obtained the precious journal drained away from him like the color from his face. His fingers slowly glided down the page, over the neatly scrawled script and shook his head. He couldn’t bring himself to read it, just couldn’t, and before he knew it he was holding the book up to his face and reading every bit of it word for word.


July 11, 2012

Dear Diary,

My mother woke me up last night to tell me the house across the street caught fire and that no one inside had made it out alive. I ran upstairs and fell onto my bed, crying and I stared out the window and stared at the house all black and burnt down and thought about Tommy Gibbs all over again and how he never had any real friends and never got to play outside because his parents always kept him inside and have parties at all hours of the day and night. He always waved at me from his bedroom window and let me know he was okay even though his father was constantly drunk and beat him and his mother was too busy smoking pot (I could smell it from their front porch one day when I was walking by to go to school) to even care about him but he always let me know he was okay. The paper says the fire was started by faulty wiring but I think I know better. I think Tommy did it because he—.”

He followed the arrow and turned to the next page. Tears slid down Tommy’s cheeks.

“knew the only way to free himself from that prison was death and if it meant taking everyone with him then he was fine with it, too. He was like a little brother to me and even thought he scares me when he comes in here at night to read my diary I would never get angry about it. I think I might leave a candle on my dresser and leave the book open for him tonight. Let him know everything he’s ever wanted to know about me."

Feeling the diary slide out of his hands and back onto the bed, Tommy sobbed uncontrollably and, at the sound of footsteps pounding up the staircase, carried his sadness long into the farthest reaches of the Unknown.

“Eavesdroppers never hear
anything good about themselves.”
—Old Saying


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Brian J. Smith has been featured in numerous anthologies such as Living Dead Press’ E-Mails of the Dead and Book Of Cannibals 2: The Hunger, Pill Hill Press’ 365 Days of Flesh Fiction, Metahuman Press’ The Dead Walk Again and And The Nightmare Begins...Vol.1: The Horror Zine. He’s also been seen in such magazines as Dark Gothic Resurrected Magazine and New Voices In Fiction and such e-zines as The Horror Zine, Postcard Shorts, Thrillers Killers and Chillers, The Carnage Conservatory and The New Flesh and The Flash Fiction Offensive. He’s an avid fan of the horror and mystery suspense genre and a hardcore fan of both The Ohio State Buckeyes and The Cleveland Browns; he currently resides in Chauncey, Ohio with his mother, his brother the writer J.R. Smith and six dogs.

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Author: Brian J. Smith