Contributor: Alex Grover

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He was a prominent clarinetist of the 1940s, and in another life and time he was as famous as Elvis.
Jim, eighteen-years-old in 1943, loved what people called “McClough jazz,” elevated songs that stayed sincere with simple grace. Jim wasn’t rare; Jarret McClough was a household name. His music helped people through the war when their sons and fathers had died in combat. When the war ended, people remembered how McClough had gotten them through and they celebrated him and his music for the next ten years.
But, in the nature of celebrity, McClough’s fireworks banged and gumble-hoed; by 1960, he was a name only. Although living, Jarret McClough was forgotten. Jim, thirty five by then, married, working at an office in Wilmington, had forgotten him too—until he found McClough playing in his closet in the middle of the night.
At first Jim thought it was a joke, that his wife Tori had set up a record player in the bedroom closet to spark some old memories. But the music was live, and when Jim opened the closet door, he found Jarret McClough, donned in a suit and tie, wailing on his legendary clarinet.
“What the hell?” Jim gasped. “Mr. McClough? What are you doing here?”
The clarinetist gave no reply and continued to play.
Jim had been a dreamer when he was a kid, but the office had dulled his imagination. He was sullen most times, bored, tired: he was the embodiment of disaster to be. However, in those moments of discovery, Jim became happy again, to see the war-hero clarinetist in his closet playing for him, playing almost for remembrance. The couple didn’t bother to call their neighbors with the news; who would believe them? Not to mention if the neighbors did believe them, why share such a miracle?
That night, Tori hadn’t seen him smile so much since their wedding two years before. The music was beautiful.
It was like this the second night too.
And the third night as well.
The fourth night was a little different. The music was giving Jim a headache, despite its beauty, and he kindly asked this form of Jarret McClough to stop. But he wouldn’t. He continued playing. Jim wanted the clarinetist out, but Tori insisted that McClough would fade away, as all things do.
They slept in the living room for the next week, and every night, though Tori assured otherwise, McClough kept at his clarinet.
At the end of the week, Jim was furious.
“I’m sick of him! I’ll call Ted and Jan to see what they think.” Ted and Jan were normal people, and Jim considered their opinions with high regard. So he called, and Jan picked up.
“There’s something odd in our closet,” Jim said.
“Oh no,” Jan replied. “You too?”
Jim walked over with Tori, and found Jan with Ted attempting to escort another Jarret McClough out of their closet.
“We’ve tried this several times,” Ted said. “He keeps reappearing.” As soon as Ted had taken Mr. McClough out of the room, his body disintegrated and magically teleported back into the closet. And, of course, he was still playing.
After several bouts of telephone calls, the two couples realized that Jarret McClough was in the closets of the other neighbors as well. Ted called Mayor Bumbridge and he, too, reluctantly admitted that McClough was in his closet. He said he didn’t want to know how the public—or the press—would react.
It turns out that the whole nation had been too nervous to talk about their “McClough epidemic” as the masses called it. The next morning it hit the papers. Community support groups branched all over the country. Anti-McClough Censor Bureau arose to banish the music. It was a strange time in that America.
Months after the epidemic hit the nation (and it only hit the United States—no one else in the world cared about Jarret McClough, let alone heard of him), no one knew what to do. Some argued that the Soviets had somehow secretly installed high-tech gizmos that terrorized the good American people. McClough, having helped Americans in World War II, was now going to be the cause of World War III. Tori, pregnant, cried every night listening to the perpetual clarinet, knowing that the jazzman had cometh and was to reap her country dry.
One day in 1960, the real Jarret McClough, old, eons old, came out of hiding, called the president, and planned a televised speech on Washington. The McClough Speech drew thousands to D.C. to hear what the ancient clarinetist had to say about the plague of himself.
For an hour, Jarret went on in a low and raspy voice about his life. He told them about his rise in fame and his inevitable, bitter decline. He told them about his wonderful marriage and about his wife’s death and his ongoing legacy through his five children. He told them what the average day entailed for Jarret McClough, that sometimes he listened to his records. At the end of that hour, he told the audience he was sad they were miserable because of him, and that he had a solution: he told the crowd (and the rest of the nation that watched) that because they finally knew the tiniest details about him, knew him for what he was, their misconceptions and idealistic imaginings would disappear. And, almost instantly after the speech, almost all of the Jarret McCloughs went away, and the nation rejoiced McClough’s name once more.
Jim and Tori successfully had their son, enjoying a nice life with Ted, Jan, and the other neighbors in finally quiet suburbia.
Yet, there was one McClough double left—though this was nothing new. He tirelessly performed every night, every waking moment, for an old man with old musician’s hands, who had heard himself in his own closet ever since he learned the clarinet, who had watched his aspirations linger there even after his prime, whose double would never disappear.


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Alex Grover is a third-year student at Rowan University, having been published in Outrageous Fortune, Postcard Shorts, Trapeze Magazine, and 50 Word Stories. He is editor-in-chief of Avant, Rowan's literary magazine, as well as Yorick Magazine, an online venture he began with Cody Steinhauer in 2011. www.yorickmagazine.com

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Author: Alex Grover

Contributor: Thomas Pitre

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Amazing Francis was married to Wyoming. Francis was a magician that worked a small, private club. His charm was strange and dangerous. His quest for the bizarre, the unique and anything intellectually stimulating occupied all of his off-stage and spare time. Francis believed that a single conversation with a wise man was better than ten years of study, so he sought out the wisest man in Wyoming.

He put an ad in the biggest paper in Wyoming. It read: “Seeking the Wisest Person in Wyoming.” “100 dollars reward to the party that introduces me to the wisest person in Wyoming.” He placed the ad and waited. Nothing. Two weeks passed and an email arrived that stated that the writer knew the wisest person in the state. He left instructions how to reach the man, and Francis called him. They agreed to meet at a café in Cheyenne on the following Wednesday. Francis told the man he wanted to buy an hour of his time, up to $300, but that was the limit, as he had a modest income.

Wednesday came around, and Francis left his hotel room to head for the rendezvous. They met at The Paramount Café at ten a.m. Francis walked in, looked around, and spotted a little man sitting by himself in a booth in back. Francis approached him and asked if he was Mehdi. He said he was, and gestured for Francis to sit across from him. Francis said he would keep track of the time, and he pulled a wad of twenties out of his pocket and put it on the table, under his water glass.

Francis asked Mehdi if he was going to order. “No. I had a yogurt and some toast about an hour ago. I’ll just have some tea. Francis began asking the questions he had prepared. “What do you do, Mehdi?” Mehdi said he was retired, but he used to be a teacher. He said he taught philosophy and coached the chess club. He admitted that his I.Q. was not particularly high, but he did read a lot, and he spent a lot of his time with his dog at the park, reading the papers, walking his dog, and people-watching. He learned more watching and listening to people than anything else. He said he had learned nothing in public school, and even less when he went to college. He learned to observe things, and if something intrigued him, he would study it…often to the point of taking it apart to see how it was made or what was inside. As a child, his father gave him old watches and radios to dismantle. Doing this, Mehdi had drawn conclusions about how careless and thoughtless the design process was. He discovered scores of design flaws in what he dismantled, but he never gave it another thought, other than to think that objects could serve man better and longer if a little more care went into their design. He picked up the napkin dispenser and demonstrated how the napkins were torn when removing one if the dispenser were too full. He pointed out the relatively sharp edges of the holder and how they might scrape the hand of the waitperson that refilled them. He showed Francis how the sugar caked in the corner of the little flap on the top of the dispenser, keeping the flap open and allowing too much sugar to be poured or requiring the user to shut it after pouring. Mehdi said that design extended so far into our lives that ordinary, personal communication carried as many design flaws as the objects surrounding us. He had learned a long time ago, that folks don’t know how to listen. They would rather get their own thoughts out before they lost their train of thought, and too bad if the other person had something to say or ask. Mehdi had made it a point not to speak for a full year after he retired. He pretended he was mute, so he carried a little magnetic powder board, similar to an Etch-a-Sketch, to write on. He learned so much by listening, and only writing brief, but essential things on his “notepad”.

He paused for a second and took a little notebook from his pocket and scribbled a few things. Francis asked him what he had written. Mehdi said he made a note to himself to buy another magnetic powder board next time he saw one, since they were getting harder to find. He wanted one for his friend, Art, who had a hard time listening. He was going to suggest that Art just stop talking and listen for a year.

The hour was nearing a close, and Francis asked Mehdi how he thought he had gained his wisdom, or what influence bore on him to the greatest extent. Mehdi believed it was because of his nervous breakdown. He professed that he had come out of his breakdown with a new and powerful kind of wisdom he had not experienced before. Mehdi said that he had returned from his journey of madness with important insights, and he became a wiser and more grounded person as a result.

With that, Francis pushed the money towards Mehdi, saying the hour was up, and that he appreciated all of Mehdi’s time and for agreeing to meet with him. Mehdi pushed the money back toward Francis, and said that he enjoyed the meeting and if Francis would buy his tea, he would consider it full payment. He excused himself, and left quietly, looking back, once, and smiling at Francis. He was a wise man, indeed.


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A retired educator, living on the Olympic Peninsula, Washington State. LIving and consulting quietly with my furry children, riding mower and paint box.

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Author: Thomas Pitre

Contributor: Gary Clifton

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L.C. Clark had operated the joint for 27 years. Like gory scarecrows, the photos of men who'd tried to rob the old man were taped in the front windows. He'd shot ever mother's son of them deader than good manners. The place was called a restaurant, but Clark only sold dope, booze after hours, and sex with some of the butt-ugliest whores you ever saw.

McCoy had played a year at linebacker for SMU before the grade-monster caught up with him. Harper had kicked more asses than any human alive. But being tough old boys didn't close the deal. Both McCoy and Harper needed snitches like Clark, as sure as the old man needed his hookers - hard to do business without them.

"No, hell no, McCoy, of all them sumbitches I offed," he gestured to the photos. "I never let the hammer down on a white man, but I could if I hadta," he leaned back against the bar in a reasonable Wyatt Earp impersonation. Pudgy, with one gold tooth and drugstore half-glasses on his nose, his ample stomach showed that even if the Rosie Mack didn't sell food, he ate good someplace.

The next night, a wild-eyed-asshole redneck barged in waving a pistol. Clark gave up the register, but opened fire as the guy cleared the door. When McCoy and Harper got down there, the toad lay dead on the sidewalk, his head splattered in the center of a yard wide circle of crimson brains and gore.

"Biker...from his clothes," McCoy said. "Deader n' hell."

"Said I could kill a white man if I had too, McCoy," old Clark sat on a battered barstool and puffed on a menthol filter tip.

Harper knelt and poked at the body. "You ain't killed one yet, Clark. No bullet holes in this carcass. This guy died from a crushed skull. Ran headfirst into a utility pole. Hell, dude, you scared him to death."


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Clifton, forty years a cop, has an M.S. from Abilene Christian University and has short fiction pieces published or pending on several online sites.

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Author: Gary Clifton

Contributor: Christopher E. Long

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Pete lies atop a plastic mattress cover on a bed. He’s in a fetal position and the flap is open in the back of his hospital gown. His body is deflated like a balloon, and he has dark circles around his bloodshot eyes. There’s a four-leaf clover tattoo on his neck, which is pretty ironic because Pete feels like the unluckiest person alive.

The only light in the room comes from under the door, illuminating the drain in the middle of the tiled floor where human fluids are washed away.

“You look like shit.”

Pete turns his head toward the steel door, but nobody is there. His arms strain under his weight as he pushes himself up. “Hello?”

A teen-ager steps out of the darkness, wearing ripped jeans, a flannel shirt, and a patch of peach fuzz on his chubby face. “You’re a mess.”

Mustering all his strength, Pete plants his feet on the cold floor. “Can I help you?”

“It’s a little late for that.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m you.” The boy steps closer, and says, “ten years ago, when you were nineteen.”

Pete squints and looks closely at the boy hovering over the bed. He looks vaguely familiar, like a shadow from the past. There’s something about him that tugs at his memory. “I don’t remember being that fat.”

“The pounds melt away once we start smoking heroin,” the boy says. “Guess that means I have something to look forward to. Thanks.”

Pete rubs his face, and says, “Oh, that’s just great. I get all the blame.”

“I’ve never done heroin, have I?”

“You’re too busy taking horse tranquilizers.”

“I’m thinking about becoming a veterinarian,” the boy says, looking around the dark room with a disapproving stare. “This place is a dump. Can't we afford to go to a better rehab?”

Pete tries to stand up, but falls back onto the bed. “With what we make? I don’t think so.”

“How much is that?”

“Nineteen grand.”

“A month.”

“A year.”

“Jesus Christ!” the boy says. “What do we do for a living?”

“Deliver flowers.”

“We went to college, right?”

“Got a degree in English,” Pete says. “But it’s hard to hold down a good job when we’re scoring drugs full time.”

The boy moves toward the bed, and says, “Scoot over. I’m depressed as hell.”

Pete slides over and allows the boy to plop down next to him. “Are we still dating Stacy?”

“I broke up with her last week,” the boy says.

“We regret that all through our twenties.”

A man wearing designer jeans and shirt, expensive shoes, and a silk scarf wrapped around his neck appears out of nowhere.

“And who the hell are you?” Pete asks.

“I’m you in ten years,” the man says.

The boy looks at Pete, then the man. “Bullshit.”

The man unwraps the scarf from his neck, revealing the four-leaf clover tattoo. “See.”

Pete stares at the well-dressed man with admiration, like a proud parent. “We certainly clean up well, don’t we?”

“If you stay sober, things get better,” the man says. “We end up owning the Hoopla Flower Shop.”

“A flower shop,” the boy says, shaking his head.

“And if you lay off the gluten,” the man continues, motioning toward the boy, “you won’t balloon up like tubby there.”

“Watch it,” the boy says.

The man leans in next to Pete. “Do you still live next to David?”

“Yeah.”

“When you start dating, don’t do anything to screw it up, okay?”

“What? We’re not gay,” Pete says.

The man winks, and says, “Not yet anyway.”

The boy jumps on the man and forces him to the ground, repeatedly punching him in the face. “I’m no queer!” He continues to beat the man until his face is unrecognizable. Breathing heavily, the boy leans over the lifeless body and inspects it. “He’s dead.”

Suddenly, the bleeding man pulls pruning shears from his pocket, plunging it deep into the soft flesh of the boy’s neck. Blood falls to the floor like crimson rain. The dead boy falls on top of the man, their lifeless bodies piled on top of each other.

Pete stares at the bodies, shakes his head and says, “Kicking dope sucks.”


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My publication credits include numerous articles and short stories in magazines, including Flaunt, 30 Days of Night: Bloodsucker Tales, and Thuglit. My writing for comic books has been published by a variety of publishers, including Marvel Comics, DC Comics, IDW Publishing and Image Comics.

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Author: Christopher E. Long

Contributor: Allie Coker-Schwimmer

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“Well, Ms. Havenscope you certainly do look good for a woman your age! You look good for a woman half your age. What brings you to my office?”

“Hi, Dr. Peters. Oh, just general upkeep. You can’t have a show vehicle if it starts to rust, can you?”

“Ha, no I suppose you are right. Ok, let’s just go over your history. Excellent breasts by the way.”

“Why thank you, they’re Dr. Masterson’s.”

“Mhm. He’s a real professional. And your lips look quite plump and radiant.”

“Dr. Shanju.”

“Ok, let’s see here….stomach. And a flat one at that!”

“That would be Dr. Rassner, no wait…it was Dr. Rassner the first time….was it Dr. Gene? You might want to check on that one- I’m not all too sure.”

“Ok, I can do that. I’ll just make note of it here. How about…thighs?”

“Oh yes! Dr. Forten. Don’t you just love Dr. Forten? The man is an absolute miracle worker! He’s so wonderful.”

“Dr. Forten is quite the magic worker. So I take it this leaves…”

“Yes, correct.”

“Ok, well let’s get you prepped for the procedure. Soon you’ll be able to say your face is Dr. Peters! As for taking your surgical history down, I’m done with you.”


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Currently, I am obtaining my MFA in Creative Writing from Queens University in Charlotte and live with my husband in Durham, NC. I also wrote a book which is due to be published later this year.

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Author: Allie Coker-Schwimmer

Contributor: John Laneri

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My nemesis had always been the sixth hole at Hickory Hollow. It’s a dogleg left bordered by trees on the right – a setup that does not play well to a slice.

Naturally, I put my drive into the woods, watching it fly the canopy and disappear from view. All told, I took nine strokes to complete the easiest par four on the course.

But then, as I was reaching to take my ball out of the cup, I noticed a smoky haze begin to rise around my hand. Stepping back, I watched it slide up my arm and swirl around my head. I started to scream, but then, it coalesced into a man about the size of an elf wearing an old-fashioned green golf hat.

“Don’t be alarmed,” he said bowing. “I’m Wilson, the Genie of the golf course.”

“Yeah, right,” I replied, as I turned to leave.

Hurrying beside me, he continued, “I’m here to grant you one wish for an entire year, if you accept my offer.”

His voice was remarkably deep for a little fellow.

For fun, I looked him in the eye. “Put me down for par golf. I’m ready to play like the pros.”

I started toward the next hole. Genies on a golf course – what bunk.

He followed me, his smoky trail swirling in the wind. “I’m privileged to offer more, if you want.”

I stopped and turned to him. “I’d be satisfied with shooting par.”

“That’s a common wish,” he said, as he reclined against his cloud and crossed his legs while considering my response. “But, it may not be the best choice.”

“What’s wrong with making par on every hole?”

“One needs to weigh the trade offs,” he said, as his lips curled into a smile.

“What kind of trade offs are you talking about,” I asked cautiously, as I began to have second thoughts in my rush to brush him off. I stepped closer to his cloud, my concern growing.

He reached for a notepad, his finger thumbing through several pages. “Golf: country club…No, that's not it. Resort… Tour.” He flipped back a couple of pages.

“Hurry up,” I said, “I’m here to play golf. The next hole is waiting.”

He looked up with a toothy grin. “Here it is… par golf.”

I listened to him spell out the requirements of the wish, my courage turning cold when he informed me of the imposed penalty.

He looked up and began laughing. “I’m afraid your sex life will go to the wayside for a full year.”

“I’m not interested in sacrificing my sex life,” I said firmly, taking another step to leave.

“Don’t be in too big a hurry. I’m offering you the opportunity of a lifetime.” He settled back to examine his fingernails. “Just think, you’ll be the world’s finest golfer for one entire year, even better than Tiger Woods.”

I considered my choices, knowing that beyond a doubt, golf was my greatest love in life. But, could I abstain for a year… even a couple of months?

Finally after a good bit of soul searching and introspection, I said, “I’ll do whatever it takes to shoot par golf.”

“Good choice,” he replied, as he tipped his hat and disappeared in a puff of smoke.

I stepped closer to the hole and ventured a look inside. From what I could see, the cup looked normal. I felt around the inside and then checked the grass near the edge. Wilson was nowhere to be seen.

Coming to my feet, I continuing on, feeling a bit confused by the whole encounter.

On the next hole, I teed my ball and cracked a booming drive, which set up a birdie. All in all, I finished the round one stroke under par.

And, that's how my year went. I won several local tournaments… made quite a bit of money too.

Then, one day last month, I again encountered that swirl of smoke rising out of the cup on the sixth hole.

“How’d your year go?” Wilson asked, as he stood to the side, brushing a swirl of eddies from his tunic.

“Good,” I replied. “Very good… my golf was spectacular.”

“I bet the sex was terrible.” He laughed aloud, slapping a hand against his leg. “I’m always amazed at what folks do to play good golf. People are so wrapped up in their sex lives. Personally, I find it a bit nauseating.”

I shrugged. “The sex was not all that bad... pretty good actually.”

“Not all that bad?” he asked in surprise, his green eyes searching mine. “Most of my customers go crazy when they’re forced to abstain for a year. I’ve got quite a few ex-clients living in insane asylums.”

Smiling, I went on to describe some of my better shots, including a detailed description of several holes-in-one, then I returned to the sex. “Well, I have to admit the sex was not as good as most years. Maybe, I was too busy playing golf.”

Still confused, he looked me in the eye. “How many time did you have sex – out of curiosity, of course?”

“I’d guess about once or twice,” I replied comfortably. “I don’t usually keep count.”

He began laughing. “One or two times… that’s terrible.”

Feeling a bit miffed, I waited for him to calm down then replied as best I could. “Maybe for some people that’s nothing. But, for an eighty-seven year old residing in a small town – no car, no teeth – that's like scoring a hole-in-one over water using the back side of a putter.”


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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: Miles Gough

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We were talking very innocently, one evening, over the preference of man-eating mutant octopi for the flesh of baseball players, when with no connection, the Grand Fiend slammed an angry claw down and stated with hissing insistence, “I just don’t understand why putting human brains into gorillas was ever a popular fad!”

It took me a moment to catch the swing in the conversation and then asked, “I am sorry, but I don’t recall it ever being a fad. Pet rocks, I recall, but not Gorillas with the brains of humans.”

“How could you not recall it? It seemed to be everywhere for a while. You would go in for a kill, hungry and hot, and there distracting your victim was a gorilla wildly genuflecting for freedom from its current predicament. Oh it was an epidemic. Some of the gorilla men were angry and took it out on the population, which ruined the market for us regular monsters. We would go into a new neighborhood and find security heightened due to the gorilla problem. A few gorilla men used their new agility to rob jewelry stores, which seemed like a logical use of their new skill sets, but mostly they tried to round up other apes and take over the world. If we nether creatures cannot seem to dominate the world, do you think a small band of intelligent oversized monkeys can do it. I think not. They would be round up and put into labs or the unfortunate zoo. Even now, if you go to a zoo and marvel at how intelligent the gorilla behind the bars appears to be, it most probably because he has the brain of a man. Less of them are around, this was a fad of the fifties and sixties.”

I had no idea that such a thing was the case and I told the Grand Fiend such.

“Just so. Even the ones that caused havoc should not be seen as a nether creature. They were victims, though highly odorous ones. This was all the faults of those mad dabblers, the scientists with endowments who decided that they should try to be bend nature itself and put a human brain in any old thing they had lying about the laboratory. Why so many of them had spare gorilla carcasses handy is a mystery beyond my capability. My theory is that one mad dabbler created one on a whim and wrote about it in a magazine, something like Popular Vivisectionist Magazine, including plans and schematics and all the subscribers had to do the same. Monkey see, monkey do, if you will forgive the obvious idiom.”

This was all fascinating, but I squashed anymore discussion with my next question, “So would you consider these scientists, these mad dabblers, monsters? Would they be the human equivalent to your nether creatures?”

The Grand Fiend was obviously upset with this question. After a long pause he simply said, “They are not even worthy of being a late night snack and we would have eaten them all long ago if they didn’t have a foul aftertaste.” He grumbled that it was getting late and all my apologies did not change his mood.

As I was leaving, he did seem to regain his regular demeanor. In parting he said, “But speaking of fads, you mentioned pet rocks and if you remind me, I will tell you the true origin of the Pet Rock and the great destruction it left in its way.” I did bring that up to him later and the story was a fine one, which might be told in these pages on another occasion.


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Author: Miles Gough

Contributor: George Sparling

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The Man first entered through my nose after he had waited outside the doctor’s office in his truck. I had seen him from the waiting room’s window for 30 minutes, then had a procedure done, and 60 minutes later, The Man’s truck was still parked outside. Clearly, as I soon found out, he was the culmination of extensive surveillance developments, a thug utilizing advances in neuro-technology. My paranoia proved true.

I walked past his empty truck and found him smoking on the sidewalk. The Man, scrawny, in his mid-fifties, casually sucked nicotine, then blew it my way as I jabbed my four-pronged aluminum cane at him. “Get the hell away from me. I’ve had enough of you working-class chumps thinking you’re civic-minded now that you get paid by the cops to track me.” The Man said, “I’m only doing my job.” I wanted to walk to the bus stop but I couldn’t, and stood still like a frozen computer. I stopped operating and would never go through the steps to restart.

The Man’s proboscis, the olfactory nerves traveled from his nose to mine, and I hadn’t power to stop it, his nose goblins, boogers, thickened mucous crept into my nasal passage. I inhaled the odor of hamburger and onion rings he had eaten behind the wheel of the truck. Call it olfactory memory. I now lost my own sensory neurons, my life’s worth of smell erased, The Man replaced it. I saw him waft fetid sulphur to his nose, like the Devil, meaning my nose also. Bright sunshine, blue skies, yet there stood the Prince of Darkness.

Traffic played discordant death metal on the street inches away from us. The Man then raped my mouth, his tobacco, liquor, cunnilingus stench, chewing gum, foul gases and the like disappeared my tongue, teeth, soft and hard palates as he quickly ground down my nubbins and inserted everything of his mouth into my mine. Worse than replacing my teeth with his was that my tongue began to form the very words he spoke to me. “Bret Trumbo’s shit,” I said, that my name. His digitalized voice, sounding as an owl’s call but it was just another surveillance technique I previously heard that bounced off houses, telephone poles, trees, the air in my town 7 miles north…I had become my worst enemy. “What an ugly puss, take a look at him,” I said, mimicking the mimickers who derided me, even the minutest, trivial things I did within my house these terrorists’ voices harangued me.

The Man smirked, his insolence, contempt and mockery towards me shaped his sneer as it wiped across my lips. Though I tried hard to maintain my wrath towards The Man, I hated myself for miming his lips’ expression, its sphincters shaped just as his.

I heard a loud engine pass me, my bus’s noise so fierce as if I wore headphones with the volume turned to 100%, the blare traveling through my brain. The Man had transferred his nerve impulses from both his ears through a cranial nerve and into the temporal lobe in my cerebral cortex. His hearing was as good as an owl’s. I also heard from The Man’s tiny implanted device, now embed in my ear, receiving another’s words, instructions about how best to complete replacement, technical jargon, instructions to complete the steps. It was the 21st century’s version of hanged, drawn and quartered, the medieval victim disemboweled, watching (I believed the dead can feel pain greater than the living.) his entrails burn.

Next: the infiltration of my eyes. That tiny accessory I now heard signaled my coming destruction. My hazel irises now colored gray, his eyes. “The eye sees more than the heart knows,” wrote William Blake: he was partly right, but my heart knew, too. I saw through The Man’s eyes and penetrated his clothes, finding a small caliber handgun concealed in a shoulder holster. I wanted to grab the machete from my backpack and mutilate him, but that was so old fashioned. “It is the human that is the alien,” wrote Wallace Stevens, literally, not philosophically.

Other points of entry: anus and penis. My rectum’s memory ( Don’t all parts of the body have consciousness, recollection and retention? ), now his. I felt all the butt-shafting by convicts while he did time for child molestation. Damn, it hurt. Blood seeped from my underpants and down my thigh. His cock, smaller than mine but with larger balls, had had intercourse with many females and males. The Man psychically castrated me, replacing my genitalia with his. Quite a few Filipino “psychic surgeons” performed operations. Perhaps The Man trained there and equipped himself with better ways to thwart my life, make it unbearable and impossible, my enemies’ by-any-means-necessary policy of murder. A cleaner death awaited me rather than bullets, surveillers selecting The Man to rid the community and the world of me.

He pushed himself forward and grasped his arms around me, all points of his body touched mine, then the final touch, he scooched closer, tighter, and drove himself into me and my mind nearly clicked off, except for my final utterance, “Cops eat shit”: 3 of the most inconsequential words in the history of language. The Man walloped my skull with a sledgehammer, then, groping until he found my amygdala, squeezed it as I released a screamless scream, and I was gone. The Man entered all the hollows and crevices of my body and brain until I no longer existed.


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Author: George Sparling

Contributor: Justine M Dunn

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I stop off at the little cafe on my way to work, they make the best coffee in town and without doubt always have the best selection of cakes. At that time of the morning you can smell the scones baking, I have to use all my willpower not to take anything away other than a coffee. But I know I will resist buying one today.

There is just one lady ahead of me, she is already being served. As I stand in line the sound of a motorbike breaks the silence of the quiet high street. I look out the window to see the rider, dressed in leathers, just swinging his leg over to dismount his huge road machine. He pulls his gloves off and rests them on the seat, then takes off his helmet and shakes his head. His sandy coloured curls spring into life. He runs his fingers through his hair; giving his scalp an invigorating rub. He’s talking to someone out of sight, he picks up his gloves and gestures towards the cafe - and just a moment later, he’s on the same side of the door as me.

There is something familiar about this handsome young man that has just entered the shop, but I can’t put my finger on it. I watch him as he flirts with the girl as she works; clearly, she finds him enchanting. Her cheeks flush as she looks up at him from under her mascara-clad eyelashes. I wish it were me, twenty years younger and standing on that side of the counter.

The lady in front pays up and gathers her things, then it’s my turn to order. I request my usual coffee; no milk or sugar, just a shot of caramel syrup.

The young biker says he is in a hurry, and asks if I mind him being served first; he only wants a can of coke. I say I don’t mind, step aside and suspect that the drink in his hand isn’t the only reason he’s here. The young girl takes his money and gives him his change, their eyes meet and they hold each others gaze for a few seconds. I turn away, slightly embarrassed by the sexual tension in the air.

He says goodbye and leaves the shop, the girl goes about making my coffee. Only when I look up again I notice that he has left his gloves on the counter. Without thinking I pick them up and take them outside, he is just revving up his engine ready to pull away. I call out to him but he doesn’t hear me. Rushing up to him I tap him on the arm. At that precise moment a strange feeling of deja vu washes over me; I have done this before, I feel. Only as we each go about our movements I can predict what is about to happen next. But just one nanosecond in advance, not enough time to change anything.

He will turn and face me, I will speak, but again, the engine will drown out my voice. I will hold up his gloves, he will look at them and turn his front wheel back to centre. All of this I know. He will take them from me and thank me - unsure how he’s managed to leave them behind. I will smile, shrug my shoulders and go back inside the shop feeling pleased with myself for helping. He will put on his gloves, turn his front wheel and accelerate out onto the road. I will turn at this point and look at him through the window of the cafe. Just in time to see him parted from his bike by a large white truck, and thrown fifteen feet through the air like a rag doll. The girl will drop my coffee, scream and run outside. I will stay exactly where I am; pinned to floor, unable to move, wishing I had left him alone.


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Justine Dunn is British and currently living in Slovenia, she writes flash fiction, adult humour, and has recently finished writing her first book, Beach Lanes. She blogs, tweets and generally avoids the real world.

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Author: Justine M Dunn

Contributor: Joyce Chong

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“Slide Brothers Circus Presents: The Great Landon Winnsfield at Blue Valley Falls”

Dmitri Petrovsky adjusted his horn-rimmed glasses as he peeked out from behind the curtain and examined the large banner strung across the fairground entrance. A whispering crowd of onlookers stood before the outdoor stage, clapping as the animal trainers made their exit. Dmitri ducked backstage where Sandra was rushing to and fro, tools in hand. A mechanical vest sat on the table, the secret behind most of Landon's stage performances. Her blonde hair was tied up in a messy bun that jostled each time she shifted her head, Dmitri smiled at the sight of his wife hard at work. She called her husband over, tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear.

“Can you tell me where the spring is? I need it for the confetti finale.”

“Bottom pocket in the suitcase.”

“Thanks, honey.” She paused, giving her husband a concerned look,“You don't have to help, I know how to do set-up on my own.”

Dmitri nodded, jaw clenched. Sandra's brow knit in concern and she stepped close to him, whispering.

“We should leave this stupid circus troupe. You can't work for a lowlife like him. We'll find work somewhere else.”

“It's fine.” said Dmitri.

Sandra's voice was low this time, full of danger, “It's not fine. He's a fake! What kind of magician uses another man's work? Look, just go. I'll take care of it.”

Dmitri nodded, stepping outside for a smoke. He watched as mist floated up from the Blue Valley Falls and stiffened when he heard steps behind him. His two seconds of peace were up.

“Hiding again? You always were a worthless performer. That's why I'm the one on stage.”

Landon wore his stage costume, an old tattered hat and a suit thick enough to hide his trick gear underneath. Dmitri took a deep drag of his cigarette, watching with eyes narrowed at the man who had used his inventions for the past six months, propelling him into an absurd spotlight of attention and fame. Landon's grin seemed to grow with the silence.

“I'm just thinking, we don't really need you anymore. Your pretty wife can stay, though, I like having her as my assistant.”

Landon's snide grin was brief because in one movement, Dmitri had punched him in the face. Cigarette still crushed between his fingers, it burned against skin. Landon screamed and clawed at Dmitri. The man's snarl was beastly, grotesque.

“Get out. You're not coming back, tricks or not. Get out of here!”

Dmitri finished his pack, inhaling mist with his bitter smoke as he leaned against the railing, bordering onto the Falls. He would tell Sandra after the show; at least he'd get the opportunity to see his wife on stage. Dmitri laughed to himself when Landon appeared, his left cheek patched up. Sandra wore a sparkling silver dress and had her hair down, smiling to the audience, glaring to Landon's back.

When the grand finale approached. Dmitri knew where to look. Landon tripped mid-show, and sure enough, it was Sandra who stood back up, dressed in a man's suit. She bowed to raucous applause, then the stage lights shut off. A spotlight cut through the dimness, and there was Landon, standing on a platform above the Falls. Dmitri had seen this routine practised, so when the man threw his arms out for the grand finale, the last thing he expected was a gush of blood. The confetti still shot out, though.

Landon was frozen in shock, crimson seeping rapidly down his shirt from the base of his neck. The blood soaked his suit and revealed the mechanical gear beneath, of which a sharp piece had stuck itself into the magician's neck. There was a brief moment where Dmitri saw the man's face, blank with terror, before the coloured paper pieces obscured his view. Landon fell back as the crowd's cheers began to dim, and before the confetti could settle, he was lost to the misty waterfall and the currents below.

On stage, Sandra screamed, but the sound was dulled by everyone's cheering. She was on her knees, and when Dmitri saw her, he sprinted onto the stage and took her away. There was the chaotic sound of shouts and whispers, clashing against each other. Everyone struggled to understand what had happened and brief, discernible bits of conversation cut through to Dmitri from the cacophany.

“Is that for real?.......that thing under his suit.....he's a fraud...........Is he dead?”

Sandra buried her face in Dmitri's shoulder, sobbing quietly. The crew watched with eyes wide as they approached.

“I'm taking her to our trailer,” whispered Dmitri to the crew, who nodded, still in shock.

Sandra sat down as soon as they were back in their trailer. Dmitri sighed, unsure of what to do or what to say. Then she looked him right in the eyes and smiled.

“Honey, that was one of the best shows I've ever seen.”

Dmitri was perplexed. That had hardly been a success. “What are you talking about?”

”I told you I could set up his gear on my own. It's about time you saw one of my tricks.”

Sandra smiled and gave Dmitri a quick kiss on the cheek. He suspected that she really did love him.

“So, what was the trick?”

“Make Landon Winnsfield disappear.”


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Joyce Chong is a hobby writer, currently studying health sciences in Ontario, Canada.

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Author: Joyce Chong