Contributor: Gary Clifton

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Neighbors called it in. They hadn't seen the old woman in the faded house at the end of the street for several days. Dispatch said her granddaughter, Ida, ten, lived with her.
When nobody answered the doors, Jackson, a graying old-timer, slipped the front lock with a Visa and stepped in. Forelli, a rookie, followed, pistol in hand. He motioned her to holster it. The house smelled of mildewed clothing and rotten potatoes. Jackson had a rep - elephant hide tough and never flustered by someone else's suffering. He could handle anything.
Ida, pale and perhaps forty pounds, with sunken, morose eyes which appeared incapable of smiling, sat beside Grandma's bed, reading aloud haltingly from a Bible. "She's tuck sick," the child looked up. "Cain't eat." Forelli coaxed Ida out of the room. She clutched a filthy, rag doll in her grimy little hands.
"Deader 'n hell...several days," the E.M.T. said, matter of factly. "Mummified sorta...stinks, but not as bad as usual."
Jackson scribbled in his notebook.
"Morgue's next to the County Home," the E.M.T. looked up earnestly. "Want we should dump the kid off? Save y'all a trip. She could take her last ride with granny in the back of our bus," he pointed his chin at the shriveled corpse.
Jackson glanced toward the hallway where Forelli was talking with the kid. "Man, some days..." He lowered his notebook. "No, leave her be. I'll buy her an ice cream cone on the way to the Home." His tears caught him totally off guard.
The E.M.T. turned away. Maybe Jackson wasn't so tough after all. But he sure as hell wasn't about to say so.


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

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Author: Gary Clifton

Contributor: Stephen Hernandez

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I was diagnosed with liver cancer on Monday 7th July 2002 at 4.45 in the afternoon. I looked out the surgery window as the Doctor gave me the news. It was cloudless and sunny outside. People were walking past the hospital in shorts and Hawaiian shirts, happy to feel the sun on their backs, whilst this man in a tailored suit was quietly telling me the reasons for my death sentence – hepatocellular carcinoma, HCC or liver cancer to you and me – the Big C. I had three months.
Afterwards, a male nurse escorted me to a ward where I was to spend four days undergoing fitness tests to see if I would survive a liver transplant. A long shot I was told, but my only chance of survival if there was one. After four days they decided I was. I wasn’t particularly surprised at that, after all, keeping in shape was necessary in my line of work. I was put on the liver transplant waiting list and I went home.
My job was of course severely compromised. Not that I really do what would be termed a normal job with normal hours. You see I’m a collector of sorts, I collect money. More specifically I collect money from people who owe money to the wrong people.
Unfortunately for me given my present situation the working hours are extremely irregular and I’m expected to collect said owed dosh in a very short space of time, usually in fact, straight away. The people I work for are not in the habit of sending polite reminders. I am given a name and an address and off I am expected to bloody well trot and bring back the necessary. Being on a twenty-four hour transplant waiting list for a new liver with fifteen minutes notice to prepare yourself to be picked up by an ambulance and rushed to hospital severely compromised my ability to carry out said task to the satisfaction of my employers. They were not known for being sympathetic to organ failure of any kind unless the organ failure had happened after and not before they had been successfully reimbursed by the owner. And you see I also unfortunately owed them money myself. Luckily in my case a compromise had been reached some time ago in which I agreed to collect what was owed to them by other unfortunate mugs and they in turn agreed to knock five per cent of the money I collared off of my debt.
I asked as humbly and politely as I knew how for a year’s leave of absence so that I could remain at home as much as possible in the hope that I would receive the call from the hospital which would mean my salvation. I didn’t tell them about the cancer and that I had been given just three months to live. In their eyes this would have made me a financial liability and they would have dealt with me accordingly; Instead I told them I needed a bit of a rest to sort my head out as the job was getting to me. So they gave me a compromise. If I didn’t choose to collect the money from the person who owed it there and then when I was told to I could instead provide the money they owed myself. I suppose it was fair enough. After all, it did give me more of an incentive to collect the money.
I still had some years left to pay off my own debt and I was lucky because they had left me with all my limbs intact and my organs in the places they were meant to be, that is - still inside my body. What it meant though was that just a few unrecovered debts added to my own and I would be working for them for the rest of my life or what little was left of it. My own debt was the last thing I had on my mind though. It was time that was paramount to me. When you have been told you have X amount of time to live time itself takes on a solemn weight and the ticking clock and the second hand on your watch become your enemies, remorselessly counting down the minutes and seconds you have remaining on the planet.
The waiting list for livers worked in a strange kind of way based around blood types and body weights and naturally subject to availability. So, you would think that having a common blood group like mine (O positive), would be an advantage as there would be more livers available, but no, it worked the other way around; because it was a common blood type it meant there were more people on that particular list. In fact the list I was on meant that at the current rate of transplants for O positive patients I would be looking at a wait of one and a half years. And I only had months not years. The cancer was spreading at an alarming rate. Evidently cancer tumours need a rich blood supply and having made their bed in my liver the tumours were reproducing so fast they could roll over, re-arrange the pillows and smoke a cigarette.
It felt like I was in a no win scenario playing out my own personal end game – all very depressing. But I have never been a quitter and as the saying goes: ‘when the going gets tough the tough get going’ or in my case they get a liver. So I looked for a solution. There had to be an answer, there always is. If I couldn’t get a transplant straight away then the obvious thing to do was to improve my chances as much as possible. As I may have mentioned previously my employers were not particularly concerned about the physical condition of the payee once they had paid back their dept. And in some cases they positively welcomed mortality as this usually acted as a form of encouragement to others to settle their debts promptly. It occurred to me that I could kill two birds with one stone – quite literally in fact. Get the money for my employers and improve my chances of getting a transplant by supplying fresh organs.
I would have to make sure the subject was not too damaged in the abdominal region. The liver had to remain intact. Hopefully this would greatly improve my chances on the waiting list. The debtor would have to meet certain criteria of course. About the same weight as me, obviously the same blood type and not have subjected their liver to substance abuse which was quite common in some of the wasters I collected from. The main thing of course was that the person would have to be dead but that, as they say, could be arranged. I drew up a list of qualities that in my opinion would constitute a good donor and meet my own particular requirements.
It was a while before a suitable candidate showed up. Most of the others were addicts of some sort or another and I didn’t like to think what state their livers might be in. But my fourth client looked good. He was young and buff and I was pleased to note a non-smoker. I roughed him up a bit first of course, just to let him know I meant business and then waited patiently whist he rang his friends desperately pleading for funds. He managed to get it all together in the end, they usually do; after all, the alternative is not pleasant and in between my persuasive fists and boot I was giving him plenty to ponder about what the future might hold if he didn’t come up with the goods.
We finally ended up back in his flat after collecting all the dosh. A well-furnished bachelor pad in Chepstow, which coincidentally was also quite near the hospital in charge of my transplant. It wasn’t going to get better than this. After I had put all the cash safely in my briefcase I got out my donor questionnaire. Understandably the guy was a bit taken aback by this. I suppose he thought our business completed I should be on my way and not asking punters to fill in questionnaires. But I made him complete it despite his protests and enquiries into my mental condition; people as a rule don’t argue with me. There was one point he was not clear on and that was his blood type. Considering the amount of it he had lost over the past hours you would have thought this was something he really ought to have known. I just gambled that he was O positive the same as me. It was the most popular blood type and it’s usually only people with rare blood types that know them anyway.
It didn’t take much to finish him off. I had made sure during the whole softening up process to avoid any direct blows to the liver area. Now it was a question of getting the cadaver to the hospital as quick as possible. Time was of the essence. I put him near his front door so it would be easier for the ambulance crew and with the organ donation form I had made him sign clearly visible in his top pocket.
I phoned the ambulance service and waited nearby to watch the results. It was some time before the corpse was carted off because the police arrived soon after and promptly cordoned the area off. I went back home and waited patiently by the phone. But there was no call. It could of course have been down to several factors but the one poignant factor I realised is that the police would consider the death suspicious and probably wanted an autopsy.
I decided that the best way forward to speed up the whole thing was just leaving the torso next time. Then the police wouldn’t have to worry themselves about identifying the corpse. On the next job I decided I would take a freezer box, an apron and a good collection of butchers’ knives. Over the next few weeks I was lucky enough to get quite a few decent subjects one after another. It was much messier work than I thought it would be. Who would have thought the human body held so much blood and also the amount of flesh increased exponentially when it was chopped up.
Unfortunately the torsos were ignored just as much as my first job was and I only succeeded in terrifying half of London into believing that a mad serial killer was on the loose inevitably nicknamed by the tabloids as, ‘The Torso Terror’.
I had disposed of the limbs in one of the Firm’s furnaces designed for just such purposes. But the tabloids seized on the fact that none of the limbs or the head of the victims had been found and got the idea that the ‘Torso Terror’ was in fact a cannibal and painted vivid pictures of how he might be preparing and eating his victims. One paper had even gone so far as to ask readers to send in their cooking ideas.
The fuzz were getting pretty hot though so I eased up for a while. In the end they arrested some poor loony who confessed to all of the crimes and a few others that the Old Bill hadn’t solved.
A month and a half had gone past and I still hadn’t got the call from the hospital. I did however get a call from my employers. They were pleased with the results I was getting but were concerned that I might be becoming a bit over zealous in my work. The debt money was being repaid faster than ever so they didn’t complain too much. Word had got around that the killings were connected and the Firm were cracking down in a not uncertain manner so people were paying up double quick.
What I needed was a good old-fashioned disaster. A train accident or a motorway pile-up would be just the job. I stopped short of wholesale mass murder though. It didn’t seem right a load of innocent people dying like that. But I knew time was running out and if the worst came to the worst…
I racked my brains for days. And then I struck gold. I’d been watching an old re-run of West Side Story and it came to me - I’d start a turf war. It just shows how stressed I’d become that it hadn’t occurred to me earlier. It was bound to supply plenty of corpses and moreover corpses of people who probably deserved to be dead. I felt practically philanthropical. There was even a bonus supplied by modern technology which directly benefitted me. Lately the gangs had been opting for headshots due to the unsporting behaviour of some criminals who insisted on wearing bulletproof vests. This of course nicely protected most of their valuable organs, at least the ones that were valuable to me. I made a point of telling all my associates what a good thing they were and that wearing one on the street should be a matter of course, a bit like putting your safety belt on when driving a car.
It wasn’t difficult to get the gangs at each other’s throats. Most of them hated each never mind the other gangs. I waited in a dark alley and beat John ‘the Baptist’ Jacob’s (so called because of his habit of torturing people in a bucket full of water) brains out with a baseball bat. It was well known that this was ‘Mad’ Mick McCarthy’s weapon of choice and that he had a grudge against John. It wasn’t long before a full scale war had broken out and London’s streets were awash with the injured and dying bodies of villains and of course lots of fresh livers. By carefully and surreptitiously bumping off the odd popular villain I managed to escalate the turf war into a full scale Armageddon between those South and North of the river. It was like the Krays and Richardson’s feud all over again.
Inevitably it dragged in my own employers. They met their deaths by being force fed their ledger books. A brilliant innovation of sublime poetic justice. By a happy coincidence it also meant that with the demise of my employers and their books (which no one cared to retrieve,) I was no longer in debt when I did finally get my liver.
I was of course doubly pleased because it was obvious to me by then that my body was predisposed to only receive a villain’s liver.

I am well.


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Author: Stephen Hernandez

Contributor: April Winters

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The first man I adored was a wonderful lover. Tim caressed my face, stared deep into my eyes and told me I was the only one for him. What female doesn’t want to hear that? We had a glorious life together. At least that’s what I thought. I found out how wrong I was the day we took a long trip, and we pulled into a mall. Tim opened my door, as was his custom. I thought he’d stopped to show me a bush covered with beautiful butterflies, but when I went to take a closer look, he slammed the door and sped away.
There I stood, abandoned far from our home with no idea where to find food and shelter. I was devastated.
It felt like ages before Ben ran into me. Literally ran into me. I was crossing the street and wham! Next thing I knew, I was kissing his fender. I ended up sprawled on the pavement sporting a broken leg. Ben freaked out. He started crying and kept saying, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” I’d never seen a man cry before.
Since I wasn’t on death’s door, he drove me to the hospital, once he’d calmed down. On the way there, he commented on how skinny I was, saying he could see my ribs. He wondered aloud how long it had been since I’d had a good meal. Honestly, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had what could be called a meal, good or otherwise.
The doctor fixed me up, but I still don’t know why he put that microchip in my head. He said I was good to go, so Ben and I left.
I suppose it was obvious to Ben that I didn’t have a home. He insisted I stay at his place until I was back on my feet. As soon as we got there, he fixed me a fancy feast, which was absolutely scrumptious, and promised to give me the same every day. Sweet talker! But I’d been burned before.
Eventually my leg healed, and the doctor removed my cast. By that time, Ben had won me over with his attentive, sweet ways. I adored it when he’d pull me into his lap and tell me how much he loved me, massaging my neck and shoulders as he’d croon. My pleasure was evident by my soft sighs.
Wouldn’t you know it? Now that I’ve let my guard down and have given my heart and soul to Ben, I’ve discovered he’s cheating. A few months ago he changed jobs. He’s been chipper since then, saying working at the animal shelter is where he belongs. He keeps talking about a female he calls Daisy. Ben better not introduce me to her, or I may have to scratch her eyes out. He says she’s a calico – not my color, so that’s got to be her fur on his pant leg. The unfaithful bastard!


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April Winters has stories in both the Romance and Flash Fiction sections of Short-Story.Me and two stories at The Short Humour Site.

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Author: April Winters

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