Contributor: John Laneri

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Once a month, Jane, and I gather with family for a relaxed evening at the country club. The affairs are comfortable events that feature good food and stimulating conversation.

While dressing for last night’s occasion, I recall asking Jane, “Should I wear my red golf shirt?”

”The blue and white you bought at Pebble Beach would look great.”

“But, it's my favorite shirt. I’d hate to get blood on it.”

She looked at me, frowning. “I’ll never understand what it is between doctors and lawyers. You people have no respect for one another. Just try to endure her. She’s actually a very nice person.”

Jane might be right, but with Mary Ellen being the lawyer in the family, I have a personal obligation to protect my ego from her acid tongue. Not only does the woman irritate the hell out of me, she turns simple conversations into courtroom dramas, which unfortunately leave me with monstrous headaches. She’s also Jane’s younger sister – a relationship that places me in a delicate position.

As expected, Mary Ellen was waiting when we arrived at the club.

She took my arm and pointed me toward the bar, her brown eyes alive with energy. “I have an interesting case I need to discuss with you.”

Once cornered, I soon learned her client was a man in trouble with the law. Reluctantly, I listened while she spelled out the details, taking me step by step on his travels, as he moved from one pasture to another, his inclinations directed toward domesticated farm animals.

“Do you think my client is mentally incompetent?” she asked finally.

Side-stepping her question, I replied, “I wouldn’t know… it’s possible.”

Her mouth twitched a fraction. “As I frequently point out in court, your answer is evasive.”

I looked away and motioned to the bartender, certain that I would need plenty of scotch to last out the evening. Then, I voiced another opinion in hopes of shutting her up. “Professionally speaking, I’d say that your man needs a psychiatrist. He definitely has an abnormal attraction to farm animals.”

She exhaled a breath of frustration then said, “I asked a simple question. All I want is an honest yes or no answer from a neutral physician. So I’ll ask again, is he or isn’t he competent?”

Trying to remain calm, I replied, “Mary Ellen, I do urology for a living. I work on bladders and prostates. I don’t probe psyches, and I don’t have an opinion. But, if you want to know what I think, then I’d say, he's probably crazy as hell!”

I slid off my stool, forgetting about ever getting a drink, and started searching for the cheese dip. I needed a distraction from the woman’s constant questions.

She followed close on my heels. “You probably want money like most doctors, so tell me, what do you know about domesticated farm animals?”

I turned to her and smiled. “I don’t remember learning anything about farm animals. It wasn’t part of the medical school curriculum. You'll have to ask a veterinarian.”

Pausing, she pushed a strand of hair away from her face. “Can I ask you another question?”

I relaxed and reached for a chip. “Sure, why not?”

“Then please help me understand what you've said. You stated that you learned nothing in medical school. Am I correct?”

“That's correct.” I replied, as I eased the chip into a cheese dip.

“Did you or did you not graduate from medical school?” she asked suddenly, her intensity causing me to spill the dip across my shirt.

Growing more annoyed, I brushed away a glob stuck to the logo and indicated yes to her question.

Continuing, she said, “As I understand it, you say that you graduated from medical school, yet you have no recollection of learning anything? Can you explain that?”

“You’re twisting my words. I learned how to diagnose and treat human diseases. That's what doctors do.”

She considered my answer. “I’ll rephrase my question and ask you again from another perspective. If, as you state, you know nothing about domesticated farm animals, how can you have an opinion regarding the people that prefer to engage those animals for their intimate pleasures?”

And so it went. She continued to pound me over and over with questions about domestic farm animals and deranged psyches. By then, my only alternative was to move my head from side to side in continual bewilderment.

Finally, I reached over the bar for a bottle of scotch, found a glass and filled it to the top.

She stopped the interrogation and pointed to the glass. “You just drank four ounces of whiskey… that’s suicidal. Am I not correct?”

I knew her question was rhetorical. It sounded too open ended. By then, I wasn’t sure that moving my head in circles would make much difference as to the outcome of our conversation, so I tipped the bottle to again refill the glass.

“You’re going to drink another full glass of whiskey!” she said, her voice striking a high note. “Are you trying to kill yourself?”

I continued to ignore her. And soon, she seemed to mellow, her imposing style of pain and suffering no longer a problem.

From there, my memory gets fuzzy. I think Jane drove me home. The only thing I know for sure is that I again have another of my typical, Mary Ellen Abernathy headaches, and for what it’s worth, the aspirin bottle is empty.


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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: G.A. Rozen

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Never show your cards. Standard maxim, and everyone who knows better keeps it holy. Unless, of course, there's the tilt factor.
Before I even look at my cards, I know this is the hand to take him. I've had this guy on the hook for hours, and outside the casino, I have the feeling the sun might just be poking up from behind the mountains. Some people have work weeks, work hours, work seasons. I work when the right fish comes along and starts taking nibbles.
Jack seven, off-suit. Garbage. Excellent.
He's a math geek, a scientist from one of those countries that might as well be Russia. “Didn't even start playing til' I'm forty,” he'd said, back when he was still talking. He's short, fat, and has one of those god awful haircuts you'd swear was a bad piece. I've played his type before. Lovers of the order hidden in the chaos.
He checks, never moving, his eyes darting from me, to his cards, to his chips. Pocket queens or tens, maybe. Something dangerous. He wants to see how strong I am. I throw out a small raise. He holds perfectly still, so still I know he's straining not to move. Excited. Perfect.
Mr Ed, I call him that because he's big, snorts, and is constantly stamping his feet like a hoof, stands over my shoulder. He's a proxy for my bank roll, an older gentleman I met in Atlantic City. There's a small yellow note-pad in his hand, and he scribbles every bet as it's made. Pointless, really. Never had to cheat anyone. I can win the old fashioned way. I notice he's wearing the same shirt and tie as the day before and smile brightly.
The flop comes up king, queen, nine, and the geek checks again. He wants me committed, so I check him right back, waving down the drink girl. I could feel his stillness, his intense focus. I ordered a whiskey-coke, watching his reflection in a mirrored wall over the girl's shoulder.
Once, when I was a kid, I played a cash game in Chicago. It was a real wise-guy scene, all cigar smoke and suspicion, and when I took one of the gentlemen for fifteen, I felt like I had conquered the world. It all seemed so easy; I'd made in a night what my pops had used to make in a year. It didn't feel so easy when I left the place and the same gentleman jumped me in the alley. He broke three of my ribs, kicking me while I curled into a ball on the dirty, wet asphalt.
“Worth it,” was all he said before walking away. He didn't even take his money back. That wasn't the point. It's never the point. Tilt is blind.
The turn's a jack, giving me a shit pair, but also putting a gut-shot on the table. A ten takes the board. A ten I know he doesn't have. I forget my cards. Reality is created anew. Now I have a straight. I know this like I know the alphabet. It's not a bluff. It's not a lie. It is a message scrawled across my brain in neon spray-paint. You are in control.
He pushes stacks forward. Thousands. There's plenty more behind them, I know, and he wants to throw his weight around. I never show off. I want'm thinking I'm short-stacked from the beginning. Assholes like to pick on the weak. They also tend to have money.
He's got paint. Now I'm sure. Kings or queens, doesn't really matter which.
He furrows his brow. To me it's a scream. A tortured bellow.
“All of it,” I say, sliding my technicolor stacks towards the center of the table. All balls, no hesitation. No weakness.
I lean back, and I can feel him staring. The waitress arrives with my drink, and I tip her with one of the twenty-fives in my pocket. I sip my drink through the tiny straw with a grin, returning his stare. The look he gives me is the same as the suit who broke my ribs, and I know I have him.
Never show your cards. That's what they say. Unless there's the tilt factor. If you know it'll send your mark into full-on, raging tilt.
Fold. The pot is mine.
When he tosses his cards to the center with an agitated grumble, I chuckle so he can hear. I flip my jack seven in triumph, not saying a word.
When he finally calmed down, when he finally returned to his seat at the table, he bought another twenty thousand chips.
Yeah. That was a good night.


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G.A. Rozen is an MFA candidate in Fiction at Columbia College in Chicago. His work has appeared at Hogglepot.com, HalfwayDowntheStairs.net, and the Rain Taxi Review of Books. He is slovenly, unpleasant, and bitingly sarcastic, all of which are made painfully clear by his experimental satire blog, thePastisStupid.wordpress.com

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Author: G.A. Rozen

Contributor: Zach Smith

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“It doesn’t matter what you say, it doesn’t matter how you say it, as long as you say it with a pipe in your mouth, you will look intelligent.” he said with a pipe in hand being prepared to smoke.
He scooped up the tobacco, and pressed it in, but not too firm, testing the firmness by giving a few unlit puffs on the stem to make sure there was proper draw. If the pipe was packed too firmly, then keeping it lit would require much more effort and ergo less enjoyment, if the tobacco was not in firm enough then the smoke would likely get too hot and scald ones mouth, like a hot cup of coffee drunk too fast. He flicked the Zippo, they say you are supposed to use a wooden match with a pipe, but he played by his own rules. How many college guys do you see smoking a pipe around campus anyway, a tobacco pipe that is? He had only ever seen one at the college, and that was himself. He took a few quick puffs as he held the flame over the bowl to get a nice burn going on it, then it was ready, he could keep it lit with minimal effort, and still be able to converse, so long as the phrases were kept relatively short. His two friends inhaled deeply through their noses, they loved the smell of the birthday cake blend tobacco. He didn’t have the heart to tell them it tasted awful.
“Why does smoking a pipe make you look more intelligent?” asked Dean.
“Do you disagree?” he replied.
“No I don’t, but it seems like there should be a reason for it.”
He held the stem of the pipe in the middle of his mouth, hand on the bowl, and blew smoke out of both sides simultaneously, smiling in a way.
“You’re right, there is a reason, but it’s fairly long and complex.”
His friends indicated for him to continue.
“Very well,” he took a few quick puffs to keep a nice burn going for the explanation. As he spoke he would take a puff between each sentence to keep the pipe lit.
“A cigarette will stay lit without effort since the burning element [puff] or the cherry is exposed to the air [puff]. The burning element in a pipe is blocked from the air [puff]. If air is not continually drawn to the cherry by puffing [puff], it will extinguish itself [puff]. In order to smoke a pipe and converse [puff], a pipe smoker will have to keep his phrases short [puff]. This has the effect of sounding intelligent [puff], since long meandering sentences give the impression that the speaker is talking out of other body parts rather then their brain [puff] [puff] [puff]. The pipe smoker says the short sentence [puff], and then takes a puff [puff]. If the pipe smoker says a long sentence [puff], he has to puff a few times when he is finished to keep it lit [puff] [puff]. This allows for the listener to fully absorb what the pipe smoker has said [puff]. When combined [puff], these two speaking elements give the impression of intelligence and wisdom [puff]. However these effects are merely incidental [puff], really all the pipe smoker is doing is trying to keep the pipe lit [puff].”
“So it’s all an illusion then?” asked Dean.
“Precisely.”
“And it’s coincidental at that too,” said Nick.
“Quite,” he said.
“So you really aren’t that smart then are you?” asked Dean.
He took a long draw and held the pipe in his hand, then blew smoke out through his nose.
“Nice try,” he said.


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I am a graduate of Chestnut Hill College. I have been writing for about seven years. I also have severe dyslexia, which has hindered me in my creative endeavors, but has also inspired me to work harder to succeed as a writer.

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Author: Zach Smith

Contributor: Lacy Lalonde

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It was not that Sara wanted to be different, even though she really did. And it wasn’t like she wanted people to notice how different she was, even though she really did. It was just that she wanted to do things in a way that nobody else did, and she never liked to do the same thing the same way twice. She always took a different route home, even if it meant just walking on the opposite side of the street, it was still different. She was still seeing it from a different angle. She was still walking on new ground.
It all had to do with a poem, that Robert Frost poem, The Road Not Taken.
It is a poignant poem. It is a dangerous poem. It changed her life.
History has shown us the power literature can have on the human mind. There are countless examples of this, Plato’s Republic, the Communist Manifesto, Uncle Tom’s Cabin, Mein Kampf, just to name a few. Society not only subjects their most fragile and temperamental young minds to explore the vast wonders of literature, but also forces them to understand it, analyze it, and then grades them on how well they best understood the overall message behind Tolstoy’s reasoning of death and what it means to truly live via the fictional manifestation of Ivan Ilyich.
It was one of those assigned readings that you have to do in school, and Sara was only 13 when she first read the poem. She had no idea what she was getting herself into. Nobody seems to truly believe that literature can indeed change a life. All books and poems and plays and essays should come with a warning label. WARNING: READING THIS MAY FILL YOUR MIND WITH NEW IDEAS AND NOTIONS YOU NEVER THOUGHT POSSIBLE.
Well, for Sara, the ramifications of reading literature were immediate and life altering. She was never the same after reading The Road Not Taken one Monday afternoon.
First she read the poem at home in her room, speaking the words only in her head.
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
She liked that it rhymed and didn’t go on forever like those poems by Anne Askew. She had learned in class that poetry was a living thing that needed to be given a voice and an audience. And then she read it out loud because she remembered that is how poetry is supposed to be read.
She spoke it quietly at first, whispering the words out.
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
But as she continued the words churned something inside of her, a sort of self-revelation, and her voice grew louder until by the last stanza she was shouting out
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
Her parents rushed into her room with worry on their faces. Why was she shouting, they wanted to know. Sara, with tears in her eyes, read aloud the poem once again but this time for an audience. She held onto the small book with one hand while her other waved itself around in tune with the words.
She learned the words by heart and then took them to her heart and kept them there forever. She strived to do things differently than they were used to being done. She read her books frontwards and then backwards. She would have an orgasm and then make love. She wore glasses with varying prescriptions so she could see the world in different ways. She hated when it didn’t feel right. She loved when it didn’t feel right. She stayed. She left. She ran. She walked.
She lived her interpretation of those words in every aspect of her life: You only have one life but there are different roads. Why not take as many as you can?


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Lacy Lalonde is a 25 year old masters student living in Montreal. She loves to write fiction and secretly hopes it makes her famous one day. She has published a handful of her short stories, consisting of both genre and non-genre fiction.

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Author: Lacy Lalonde

Contributor: Miles Gough

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"Why are you not doing mating rituals?" the Grand Fiend asked one evening. "You are just cloistered away with such a doddering old monster such as myself. Shouldn't you try to find a mate, a companion, or at least some late-night hook-up?"

I told him that I only meet with him once a week, and I enjoyed our time together and our talks. I also mentioned that dating was never a comfortable thing for me. That was one of the reasons I enjoyed the research I was conducting. Talking with blood thirsty monsters once a week was more satisfying and safe then a blind date excursion to a TGIFridays.

"But what about dancing?" he asked. "How can you live without dancing? A little Inuit woman told me once that if you do not dance you rust. What fine advice. I was greatly affected by her wisdom and made sure to eat her slowly and with relish; one should not gobble down such treasures, but savor them."

"Dancing scares me more than anything," I said. "I feel like I have several poorly assembled left feet."

"Nonsense. I have seen a 12 foot long bi-forcated centipede beast do a soft shoe to Putting on the Ritz quite handily. Why should you feel impeded if it did not? Perhaps monsters are the only ones who can truly appreciate the joy of dancing. The opportunity of a spotlight that you do not need to shy away from.

"Werewolves are quite beautiful when dancing, though quite ostentatious. They like to go for a large ballet routine. I saw one start dancing in human form and take a huge leap into the air just as the moon emerged and landed gracefully as a wolf. I would like to see Barishnikov try to do something so elegant.

"And you would weep to watch zombies do the salsa. Zombies are wonderful in appropriating latin rhythms into their shambling walk. Actually, all the shambling creatures are keen to do a cha-cha.

"The finest dance I ever saw was done by a ghoul who found itself in a kitchenalia store on a summer's evening. The place was packed with purchasers of gourmet cookwear. The sound system played a salsa CD and the ghoul was compelled to dance cha-cha. One, two, cha-cha-cha. The ghoul was loving the music, the movement and the attention. The whole store stopped and witnessed his graceful display of the moment. He took one young lady and swung her around and partnered with her for a few steps. People were cheering and clapping along and the ghoul kept on dancing. When the song was over the place shook with applause. The ghoul took a low respectful bow.

"Of course, there were no survivors."

After saying this, the Grand Fiend was silent for some time. He then announced the evening over and sent me out to go dancing. I went home instead. While walking down the street, I found my step lighter, supple and daring.


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Author: Miles Gough

Contributor: Matt Shaner

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I stand at the entrance of the room holding a clipboard with our standard sheet of paper; blank lines and spaces for demographics as if you could narrow down a life to bullet points.
The man is on the stretcher, tubes running from his arms. A younger man leans at his side.
“Matt, is that you?” the man asks.
“It is dad. I’m here.”
“I’m so glad you’re here. Thank god you’re here.”
His wife fills out the paper. Her hand is red around the pen, going white with force.
“I want to go. I can’t take this anymore.”
“I know dad.”
“We had our differences but I love you.”
She keeps writing.
“He wants to go,” she says.
Before I walked in, the nurse told her he would be admitted. His information said he swallowed pills and whiskey. It said he was ranting about returning to Vietnam. The man has a ring of white hair and a white mustache. His voice bellows.
“Help me.”
“They are helping you dad.”
His wife hands me the paper.
“The admission person will be back to talk to you later.” I say this and look at her. She is well dressed.
“Thank you for your help,” she says.
“I can’t do it,” he yells.
“You’re welcome,” I tell her.
“It will be okay dad,” the younger man says.
I walk out of the room, think of their faces, their moment in reality, and wonder do we ever really win?


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I am a writer from outside Reading, PA. I have nineteen stories published online or in print including a novel and novella from Eternal Press. I work part time at a hospital emergency room and full time as a dad and husband while chasing the dream of writing.

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Author: Matt Shaner

Contributor: John Laneri

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It was a Sunday morning when Sheriff Matt Carson arrived at the Judge's house – a large Victorian located on a hilltop overlooking Neverton, a small community along the cattle trail to Fort Worth.

The Judge was none other than the Honorable Theodore Busard, a man that controlled the countryside with a firm hand, a powerful will and a rope that fit readily around many a neck.

Hurrying to the Judge’s office, the Sheriff – usually a relaxed, confident man – was justifiably tense, unsure of the Judge's intentions.

The old man looked up, peering over half glasses. “Take a seat Sheriff. We need to talk.” He pointed a gnarled finger to a stool then returned to his telescope, a newer model that kept him abreast of the happenings in his domain.

To the Sheriff’s eye, the Judge was an frightful man with a skeletal body residing in a wheelchair. Over his ears, tufts of hair sprang from either side of his skull, a characteristic that some said, hid the horns of the devil.

Pushing the telescope aside, the Judge turned to the Sheriff. “I need you to arrange a rendezvous with Aunt Jillie.”

“What kind of rendezvous did you have in mind?” the Sheriff asked carefully, certain the man was referring to Aunt Jillie, the attractive, fun loving proprietress of the finest establishment in Texas.

The Judge sat upright and screamed, “You know exactly what kind of rendezvous I’m referring too, so watch your tongue, young fellow.”

The Sheriff shifted uncomfortably, knowing the old man could be vicious.

“As I was saying,” the Judge continued, “You tell Aunt Jillie that I need a couple of her girls for the afternoon. It’s about time I get reacquainted with some of the finer young women in my town. And tell her, I'll provide some whiskey and a few choice steaks for her effort, so be here at three o'clock sharp.”

With that said, he returned to his telescope, indicating their conversation had concluded.

On returning to town, the Sheriff stopped at the boarding house to convey the news to Jillie. She met him at the door, smiling pleasantly until he related the Judges orders.

Naturally, she was reluctant to accept the Judge's demands until the Sheriff said, “Don't forget, the Judge likes to hang women. He enjoys watching their toes twitch. On the other hand, your girls might be just what it takes to put the old buzzard to rest for good.”

Jillie agreed, so at three o’clock that afternoon, they arrived at the Judge's house where they found him sitting in his wheelchair on the patio, a manicured area which overlooked a rocky hillside and the town three quarters of a mile in the distance.

The Judge opened an eye.

Hesitantly, Jillie stepped forward, her red hair glowing in the sunlight. “Your honor, I’d like to introduce two of my finest young ladies. They're like daughters to me.”

The Judge lifted his glasses and extended a hand to the first girl. “Come here little lady. I need to see your charming characteristics.”

She edged toward him, her cheeks blushing. “Pleased to meet you Mr. Judge.”

“You look delectable. What’s your name?”

“People call me Sally May. I'm good with spurs, but I can get a hand gun to firing like a Winchester rifle.”

The Judge’s mouth flew open just as a cough began to heave from deep within his chest. “You’re a mighty tempting young filly,” he sputtered, as he turned away to cast a wad of phloem to the side.

Finally, he turned to the other girl and studied her, saying, “Your green eyes remind me of my first wife... well maybe that was the other wife, the one I had to hang by the neck.”

Noticing Jillie and the Sheriff standing to the side, he turned to them. “You two get out of here. Go toss some horseshoes.”

As instructed, they drifted toward the horseshoe pit where they settled back to wait while the girls attempted to wake His Honor's honor.

The Sheriff said to Jillie, “I hope your girls know what they’re doing. The Judge can get mighty ornery.”

Give them time. They’re my best,” she replied, as she glanced about. “Care to pitch horseshoes while the steaks cook?”

“It's my favorite game,” he replied, knowing she always lost.

After haggling for awhile over a one dollar bet, Jillie eventually grabbed a shoe, aligned her sights, and launched the first one, a beauty that flipped end over end, coming to rest with a solid clang exactly where she intended – a perfect ringer.

She turned to him. “That was a nice toss for a lady.”

“Take another try. The contest is not over 'til it's over.”

Again, Jillie aligned her sights and launched a perfectly arched fling, one that looked good until it grazed the pole by the slightest fraction and began rolling toward the patio.

At the time, the girls were standing to the side discussing their next tactic. Unfortunately, they didn’t see the shoe flip onto the patio and give the wheelchair a gentle nudge. They also failed to see the chair gradually start moving toward the side of the hill.

By the time they missed the old Judge, he was well on its way to Neverton, rolling straight down the rocky incline directly toward the main street of town and a particularly large bolder about half way down.

On their way back to town, the Sheriff said, “I hope to remember today forever.”

“Why's that?” Jillie asked. “I'd like to forget about the Judge.”

“Me too,” he replied. “But, I need to remember not to toss horseshoes with you, if I start to get cranky in my old age.”


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John is a native born Texan living near Houston. His writing focuses on short stories and flash. Publications to his credit have appeared in several scientific journals as well as a number of internet blogs and short story print editions.

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Author: John Laneri

Contributor: Daniel Rosales

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Martin Clark is not a man unlike most, he requires and breathes oxygen, eats and secretes feces like the best of us, and by that I mean people such as presidents and celebrities. However, upon medical examination of said waste you would find the difference between a Herbert Hoover deuce and of fools making some claim to fame; and that of our inadequate narrator’s eating habits and disparaging quality of subsistence. The reader could even determine Clark is malnourished by the coloring of said deuce, but we aren’t here to discuss the fecal matter of someone belonging to the lowest strata of society. Instead this is the tale that begins and ends with Martin Clark. A former prominent Congressman turned destitute bum; looked down upon by former colleagues, and even other beggars. He felt so lowly that it often crossed his mind that if the feral and unwanted meandering cats and dogs were able to talk they would snicker and berate him as well.
But let’s start from this tale’s exposition, the beginning of our narrator’s career: when he proudly and arrogantly paced the halls and chamber of Capitol Hill; slowly and indiscriminately making enemies with rival party members and those of his own party alike.
Clark was hated by members of the opposition because he took delight in thwarting any of their attempts to pass legislation in favor of destroying the tyranny of the majority while preventing the rule of the minority as well.
In time he grew greedy and hell bent on gaining higher office, making him wary of those members of his own party he saw as competition. With avarice and grandiose delusions in the depths of him, he set out to do whatever was necessary in order to gain the power he desired. Clark, through ill advice from his greed began dealing with the wrong type of people -murderous thugs, whose only loyalties were to money and themselves. Clark then proceeded to place a bounty on several of his own party’s leaders, removing any and all that stood in his way. In his dealings with these fearsome murderers he became part of something he had never intended. Never intending on getting caught, losing his job, the death of his wife and kids; no he never could have predicted such calamity, but life always deals in the unknown and unpredictable fashion.
As it turns out, the hit men he hired were being tapped and followed by the FBI, and all his happenings were being reported straight to the Attorney General. Who let it play out longer than he should have in effort to gather enough evidence on both men and arrest them. However life has its own plan and doesn’t concern itself with the will of men.
In what should have been a successful hit the hired guns realized that they were being followed, and perhaps their new client was to blame. Upon realizing this, they decided to make a statement and turn on their employer.
His family became the hit.
In what Martin thought was his moment of glory; life dealt him an agonizing hand. When he expected the hit to be happening in a place far away, it was happening in his own backyard so to speak. The men crept in like vermin in the dead of night. In a blinding flash and deafening bang two things occurred, the death of his beloved wife, and a rude awakening. In the face of his assailants he begged for his life and children to no avail, they were there to show him who he was dealing with.
After the fact Clark pieced together what had happened, and what had gone awry. He couldn’t say how but he knew that he too was being followed and tapped. In light of this information he did the only sensible thing and left; ran far away, away from the grasp of his assailants, and the justice of the law. He dove into the lowest depths of society, sharing the life of those he once denied escape from their poverty; forced to live on the scraps of the scraps of vagabonds.
It turns out dear reader, that, that vagabond is none other than I, your deplorable narrator -Martin Clark.
No longer able to live in these conditions, emotionally maimed by the loss of my family and status, I no longer can face the dawning of a new day or the twilight of another night; hunted by my thoughts and guilt.
With these, my last words filled with remorse and regret I beg forgiveness though expect none. I apologize from the bottom of my heart and depths of my soul.

With sincere regret,
Martin Clark.


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Author: Daniel Rosales

Contributor: Holly Day

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I pick up the newspaper and I see her picture on the front page. Every morning, across the aisle from me on the bus, she sits there with her swollen eyes and her chipped teeth and her layers of pancake makeup, trying to hide the destruction of the night before.
For weeks, I’ve tried to work up the nerve to ask her where the bruises come from, who hurts her, why she puts up with it. For weeks, I’ve made plans to become her friend, only chickening out at the last minute. I don’t want to get involved in something I can’t handle. I don’t know how to do these things.
I’ve convinced myself she’s a boxer, a wrestler, a rodeo clown, a personal trainer. Of course, I know all these things aren’t true, because she’s so small, too small, and women who do those things usually have muscle tone, height, an aura of self-possession, self-confidence, excessive body hair. She has none of these things. She is so small. One more punch in the face and she’s done for.
I see her picture on the front page of the newspaper, down at the bottom half, just after the fold. Someone punched her in the face one too many times. Her body was found half-submerged in water, under the bridge. Her clothes were ripped as though they had caught on something on the way down. Someone had thrown her off the bridge, probably after she was dead. I don’t even know her name. The newspaper says the police don’t know her name.
If I had talked to her, just once, I might have known her name. I might have known something about her, something I could tell the police. I could help them find who did this to her. I can’t help them. I clear my throat and work loose the knot growing in my chest. My husband looks over the table at me and asks if anything’s wrong.
“No. It’s nothing,” I say, and pour myself another bowl of cereal. I turn the page. The woman goes away.


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Holly Day is a housewife and mother of two living in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Her poetry and fiction has recently appeared in Hawai’i Pacific Review, The Oxford American, and Slipstream.

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Author: Holly Day

Contributor: Patricia Crandall

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The Sipperly family of Virginia were anxious to move into an old homestead they had acquired in upstate New York. The front of the house faced a little stream of water poetically called Plakapots Killitie by early Dutch Settlers. In back, ran the Hudson River.

When they arrived to claim their new home, a Husky lay possessively across the threshold. Assuming he was lost, or left by the previous owner, the family adopted him. The dog came and went regularly, being of no trouble at all. Etched into the wood panel of the upstairs mantelpiece in the large old-fashioned parlor, were the words; La Vita Comincia Domam.*

The Sipperlys were presently incorporating the original fireplace bricks to renovate the upstairs fireplace.

Ada Sipperly was shocked beyond belief when her husband, Tom, discovered the hearth had been the gravestone of Cornelius and Henrietta Yates’ daughter, Sarah, who died April 20, 1842, at the age of eleven. Ada pleaded with Tom to return the gravestone to the family burial plot located on a hill one-half mile beyond the house.

Tom looked pensively at the stone and decided he would use the slab for the new hearth.

Ada vehemently protested even to the point where she vowed she would not step foot into the room if her husband proceeded with the original plan.

Tom relented to his wife’s wishes and the fireplace was built using local granite for the hearth. The day after he returned the original gravestone, setting it in place in the wooded family plot, the Husky howled continuously and paced up and down the road. Just as suddenly, he disappeared…never to be seen or heard from again.

*Life Begins At Home


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Author: Patricia Crandall