Contributor: Gary Clifton

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Survival...Hell, that's all it ever was, really. The dirtbag and I were the only guys within six blocks of Boystown who weren't gay. I'd bought the shit, handed over the cash, then attempted a simple buy-bust. He pulled a pistol and in the struggle shot himself in the ankle. He lost a foot, got ten years, and DEA transferred me from Chicago to Dallas. I asked IAD if he'd shot off his balls, would it have been Detroit? Nobody laughed.
I'm on the job five years, but when an agent is transferred, they put him to riding with somebody knows the streets for a month or so. I drew a guy like a toad with wings - totally useless. Ol' Hogan chewed this black-crap. When he drove, he spat regularly, coating the driver's side with a layer of black-crap residue. And he never heard a damned word said.
He insisted on driving - never more than 27 miles per hour. Fifth day, we headed out Irving Boulevard, lined with greasy spoons, fine cuisine and heartburn guaranteed. "Stop for some Mexican, Hogan?" I pointed at Los Niño's. "Gotta spit out that black-crap."
"Say which?" He pulled over.
The joint was cafeteria-style, a five foot brick wall dividing a walkway to the serving line. Halfway down, two gunshots cracked outside the front door. A stringy, acne-scarred punk, arms decorated with penitentiary tattoos, stumbled into the lobby. Waving a revolver, he grabbed a teenage, female hostage by the boobs and stood behind her, pistol at her temple.
"Heads up, Hogan," I said.
"Say which?"
A uniformed cop burst in the door, pistol in hand, held at bay by the toad with the hostage. "Put it down, kid," the cop said softly, leveling his pistol. The kid backed toward us on the opposite side of the brick wall.
We were dressed casually - shirttails over our pistols, trying not to look like the law. "Say which?" Ol' Hogan asked.
Snake-bit from Chicago, I sure as hell wasn't going to shoot first and check the target later. Ol' Hogan casually pulled a .357 magnum from under his shirt, rested it on the wall, and cranked off a round at the assailant from thirty feet. I hadn't realized he even had a pistol, let enough sense to use it. A hand's width from the hostage's face, the round caught the kid in the left ear, blew a messy gush of head innards out the other side, then plunked out a front window.
"Hope they weren't making a movie," I said.
"Say which?"
The kid hit the floor partly decapitated in a puddle of brains, the hostage fainted, and the uniform stood, stunned.
"Federal Officers," I waved my badge like a birthday surprise. "Don't shoot."
"Bastard busted two caps at me outside," the officer blurted.
"Say which?" Ol' Hogan slipped the magnum in his rear waistband.
"Hogan, I'm now eligible for the sub-shit-list," I said. "I hope to hell my next stop isn't somewhere without a zip code."
"Say which?" Ol' Hogan turned back to the lunch line.


- - -
Gary Clifton, forty years a cop, has over thirty short fiction pieces published or pending with online sites. Clifton has been shot at, shot, stabbed, sued and misunderstood and is now retired.

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Author: Gary Clifton

Contributor: John Laneri

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The summer after my tenth birthday was a turning point in my life. It happened on one of those warm summer nights when I realized that GI Joe represented the ultimate military man.

For two nights, Billy and I had been trying to glimpse the new girls in the house next to his. Finally, after spending the entire day studying GI Joe comics, we were ready. The girls would not escape our mission.

“Can you hear what they’re saying?” Billy asked, as he glanced over the bushes.

“I’m not sure... hand me the binoculars.”

I took them then crept to another bush, just as I had seen GI Joe do in, “Search for the Missing Platoon”.

“What do you see?” Billy asked, as he edged beside me.

“I don’t know. Everything looks black. I can't see squat.”

In the distance, I could hear voices coming from their house. Through the foliage, I could make out two silhouettes on the back porch in the adjacent yard. I was certain the girls were unaware of our presence.

I nudged Billy. “We need to approach them through the woods then sweep along the side of the fence and strike from the flank.”

“What happens if we get caught?” Billy asked.

“We won’t get caught,” I said confidently.

“But, my parents…”

“Follow me private,” I said, as I darted into the shadows and began making my way toward their house, crawling silently from tree to tree.

I stopped behind an oak to survey the area.

“See anything?” Billy asked, moving beside me.

I pointed ahead. “I think their room’s at the end of the house in front of us.”

Suddenly, I saw a shadow move past a window.

“What was that?” Billy asked, his voice on edge.

“They’re headed to the bedroom. Let's get closer.”

I crept to the next tree. Billy followed. And soon, we were outside their window hidden in the shadows, our nerves on end.

“Lets go back,” Billy whispered. “We might get caught.”

Ignoring him, I eased closer to the window and chanced a look. At first, the room appeared dark. Then suddenly the bedroom door opened, and I saw two girls come skipping into the room.

Quickly, I dropped out of sight and hurried back to Billy.

“What did you see?” he asked.

“I’m not sure,” I replied. “They looked different.

“Different?” he asked.

“They didn’t look like the girls at school.”

“Were they monsters?”

“No, they’re full grown women. I think they’re fifteen or sixteen years old.”

“I want to see,” Billy said, coming to his feet.

“They might spot you.” I reached to draw him to cover. “You need to whisper. We’re on an important mission. We don't want to be discovered.” My attention returned to the darkened window. “We know they’re in the room, so we’ll wait. That’s what Joe would do.”

I remained crouched in the darkness, daring to breathe, my ears straining to hear the girls. In the distance, I heard an owl calling in the night – it’s sound sending a chill snaking along my spine.

Soon, I began to grow uneasy. The girls were too quiet.

“Lets move closer,” I whispered. “Something is wrong.”

We edged toward the window, moving carefully along the side of the house. Then together, we looked over the windowsill.

At first, I only saw darkness. But as the minutes passed, I began to sense an eerie, creepy presence almost as if something was watching, waiting.

Then suddenly – like monsters in a nightmare – two hideous faces with sharp teeth popped up on the other side of the window and began screaming.

Springing away from the window, Billy and I hit the ground together, jumped to our feet and sprinted away, fleeing for our lives. Once safely in his yard, we ducked behind a bush to make sense of what had just happened.

“Were those things girls?” Billy asked, his voice trembling.

“I think so,” I replied, chancing a glance over the bushes.

“They were the ugliest girls I’ve ever seen.”

“No stupid, the girls were wearing monster faces.”

Deep inside, I knew they had fooled us. In the background, I could hear them giggling, celebrating their victory.

By then though, I was already planning another strike. I was GI Joe, and I intended to accomplish my mission even if it took all summer.

Truth be told, I got my eyes full the next week when the girls were showering. And, the best part of all – they knew I was watching.


- - -
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: Bruce Costello

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Douglas the black cat watches. With unblinking eyes and twitching nostrils, he probes the atmosphere around the meal table. His dear Shona has invited a perfumed woman to dinner. And Douglas is a very intuitive cat.
On the mantelpiece a wisp of incense curls from a burner.
“Will you ever try again?” Missy asks, leaning forward, blue eyes smiling beneath dark eyelashes
Shona screws up her face.
“I’ve tried enough,” she murmurs, gesturing with open palms. “Each time I hold a bit more back.”
“Men hurt us,” Missy sighs. “But sometimes you have to take a risk in love.”
“But not too soon?”
“Of course not. When you’re ready.”
Shona closes her eyes, wrinkles her brow, and shakes her head. A few minutes pass. Neither speaks. Celine Dion stops singing.
“Shall I put the CD back on?”
“Ok.”
Missy stands and crosses the room.
“All right then!”
Missy spins around. Shona’s hands are gripping the table as she pushes herself back in her chair.
“Okay! If I thought a man loved me and didn’t want to just use me, I wouldn’t hold anything back. I would take the risk!” Douglas stirs and mutters to himself.
Missy returns to the table and sits without a word. Her hands press hard on the arms of the chair, her fingers showing white against her scarlet nail polish.
She blinks, sniffs and turns away, with a glance towards Douglas, who is staring at her, eyes wide with suspicion.
“What on earth’s wrong?” asks Shona.
“I’m sorry, my dear,” Missy breathes, clutching her breasts, looking up through tears. “I went to a specialist yesterday. He gave me a diagnosis. And a prognosis.” “Not.....?”
“Ohhhh....”
Shona tiptoes around the table, kneels beside Missy’s chair, takes her hands, holds them to her cheeks and cries.
Douglas springs into the air. “She’s on heat! It’s a trick!”
“Stupid cat’s gone demented,” says Missy.
“I’ll put him outside.”
...
A panic attack jolts Shona awake. ‘Deep, slow breaths,’ the therapist had said. ‘Remember your dreams. We must explore your unconscious fears.’
It’s three AM. Shona creeps out of bed and changes her sweat-drenched nightie. She goes for a pee, and then to the kitchen, makes a cup of black tea, and sits at the table. The dream has vanished.
And that other thing the therapist said, what was it, you want something real bad but you’re scared what’ll happen if you get it, so you settle for something else, a compromise solution? What was that all about?
Shona returns to the bedroom, slips into bed, and wakes later to a stroking on the back of her neck.
How nice. How lovely.
The city is dawning, cars honking, sparrows farting. Visions of the everyday leap into Shona’s mind - traffic, the checkout, endless grumpy shoppers.
Anxiety rises, like reflux. She turns, pulls the other to her, touches her shyly down there, marvelling at the response, then feels profoundly content as the woman raises herself on an elbow and smiles down at her.
“We’ll be fine together, my darling,” whispers Missy.
***


- - -
Bruce Costello retired recently and took up writing as a pastime. So far, he's had modest success and lots of fun

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Author: Bruce Costello

Contributor: Jack Hill

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Vanessa and I sat in Taco Bell, a tray of chicken burritos and tacos in front of us, two diet pepsis and a pile of napkins and hot sauce packets - fire sauce. Vanessa stuffed a wad of brown paper napkins into her purse and smiled. I unwrapped a burrito and ripped the hot sauce packet open with my teeth.
The brown sauce dripped down the side of the chicken burrito and over my hand and knuckles and Vanessa said she had to use the bathroom. She slid out of the booth and stumbled and knocked her soda over and the cup rolled off the table and exploded on the tile floor. Brown soda screaming everywhere, down the grooves, between the tiles.
"Fuck!" Vanessa shouted. "Fuck! Fuck! God dammit!"
"It's okay," I said. "They'll clean it up."
Vanessa walked to the condiment bar and grabbed another fistful of napkins and bent over and soaked up soda.
"You're wasting napkins. They'll clean it up. Mop it up."
I stuffed the last third of the burrito into my mouth.
"I got it," she said and dropped another stack of napkins onto the puddle. She used her foot to push the paper pile around over the soda.
A Taco Bell employee - a woman about 50 years old - walked out from behind the counter and said she would grab a mop.
Vanessa nodded and said she was going to the bathroom. I heard her cuss under her breath and I watched her ass shake in her blue yoga pants as she walked away. The small mountain of napkins sat on the floor in the middle of the soda puddle like a volcanic island.


- - -
Jack Hill works in litter abatement, edits Crossed Out Magazine, and lives in Northern California.

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Author: Jack Hill

Contributor: C.J. Johnson

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He left his damp, small home and stood blinking in the morning sunlight. The forest was quiet and still , its calmness disturbed only by the chorus of birds and insects. It was so peaceful, yet dread and fear stirred within him at the journey he and his family had to take today.

He raised his big arms overhead and stretched, growling as his stiff limbs burned painfully, the consequences of sleeping in cramped quarters. He tried to ignore his fear and enjoy the morning when his children suddenly came bursting out of their home, their loud chatter instantly shattering the peace and quiet. The boy was cringing and protecting his face as the girl held her fist up, her expression thunderous. He turned his back on them and mapped out the safest route for he and his family to take in his mind.

It really didn't matter what route they took, either way, it was incredibly dangerous.

A sudden thud and startled cry rang out from behind and he turned slowly, his temper rising. He found the girl sprawled on her back, her arms splayed as she scowled at her brother. The boy looked surprised, as was he. Smaller than his sister, it was always she that pushed him around. As pleased as he was to see the boy sticking up for himself, he did not need their nonsense - not today. He grunted a warning to them and both children immediately startled at his tone.

Behave!

The children faced him, their heads bowed, arms behind their back. He immediately felt guilty; it was not their fault that he felt physically sick with worry. He rubbed both of their heads affectionately and each child nuzzled into him. He picked each up in one arm and swung them around, their squeals of delight echoing round the forest. This is where he was happiest, right here with his family, away from trouble and bother. No fear accompanied them on a regular basis, no danger to hide from, no worries.

But today, today was not one of those peaceful days.

The children's mother came out of their home and joined them, the fear evident on her face that she didn't even try to mask. He rubbed her face in reassurance, but she refused to look at him, looking at the children with horror in her eyes. She was picturing awful things happening to them, and he would have given anything at that moment to erase the dark thoughts from her mind.

But he couldn't, for the same dark thoughts tormented his mind also.

The children's mother carried the sack in which they would bring their food back in, as much as they could carry so that this journey would not have to be repeated for some time. The family took off as one, the children excited and happy at first, pleased to be out of familiar surroundings. They soon grew quiet and fearful however as the family ventured further into unknown territory.

Many miles they walked, each alert for any signs of danger. As they neared the place where they gathered their food, a noise reached his ears. He knew the animals of the forest, knew the individual noises they made - this noise, he had never heard before. More sounds reached the terror-stricken family.

Whatever animal it was, there was more than one of it.

He followed the sound quietly, his curiosity aroused in spite of his fear. A large opening of flat land lay just ahead, and he slowly parted the bushes to see through.

He immediately wished he had not.

Terror and disbelief gripped him as he stared at the large group of animals. He had heard stories of one being seen, but never a whole group like this. He had never seen one before, but his father had. The strange being that walked upright through the woods. The being that resembled he and his family, but yet was completely different and alien. He observed the hair on the creature's bodies as they walked around, making unusual sounds and gestures as they communicated with each other. Something brushed his leg and he looked down. The girl clung to him tenaciously, her eyes looking up at him full of fear and awe.

He had to get his family away.

He took one last look at the strange creatures, their hair fascinating him. It was so sparse, only really confined to their heads. The texture and colour of the hair on their bodies baffled him. It differed greatly to any animal hair that he had ever seen.

Backing away slowly, the family turned and walked back the way they came, leaving Bigfoot- prints in the sticky mud behind them.


- - -
My name is C.J. Johnson and I'm 30 years old. My first horror novel entitled Female of the Species will be released shortly in digital format and I'm currently writing my second novel, which is a thriller. I can be 'Liked' on Facebook for anyone interested in my work.

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Author: C.J. Johnson

Contributor: Hanson Hovell Holladay

- -
    Hazy creatures stroll across the white walls of Norman’s vision. Like the conclusion of a masterful drama, each one-steps with slow, gentle grace – a faint beauty of hymns and choirs releasing through the silence. The creatures are like angels: mystical, guardian observers from the world of Humankind’s mythology and fantasy; pure peace.
    Norman feels the eyes upon him. He can feel their healing, relaxing gazes over his mind and body. Their intention must be good, that he is certain of. Yet, he does not know these creatures. They move before him as enigmas, as mysterious entities unknown to time and space. Their presence and gaze inject pure bliss into his very being; and it is from this bliss that he begins:
   
    Above, below, and to his sides, the stars dot the black skyscape before Norman, each no more than a micrometer apart from its neighbor. They’re everywhere – they’re infinite, never-ending in all directions, all of them a life-sponsor to the offspring worlds surrounding. To count these stars, and to explore these stars: impossible, by human standards.
   


    Adjusting his view, deep within ecstasy, there is an object: a large rock-like body – a moon. Its shape is unorthodox – that is, in comparison to the custom Moon. Focusing his line of vision, Norman begins to see the grey lunarscapes, and the much darker craters throughout. Like the stars, each would be far too difficult to count. Slowly, the moon rotates.
    Norman feels himself approaching the moon, becoming closer and closer. Its craters appear in much greater detail, shapes and characteristics of numerous types growing by the hundreds. My God. He begins to mumble monologue within, his words somehow in separation from normal speaking prose. Not my Moon. No, not my Moon at all. Yet, such a beautiful moon.
    Again, he feels himself adjust without the motor functions of normality. The moon begins to vanish, fading away into the bottom left corner of his vision. For several moments only the stars are visible again, following the dissolve pattern of the moon, almost appearing to be shooting stars in a clear, northern sky of pure clarity.
    Before him now, large and immense – no, far beyond that – an indiscernible mass of lime and lemon of flavorful orchids – yellow and green colors, together in a combination of sensual beauty, along with a touch of light royal blue and orange magnificence, rests a world – a world of heavenliness.
   



    Possessing a feeling of weightlessness, happiness, and peace, he feels his eyes and grin widening, yet still breathing air with a wonderful, clean cotton-like aroma. The world before him is one of a visionary, and one of fantasy. What’s below? He asks himself, the world rotating just as the moon. Without possession of a rightful expression to the beauty, Norman gratifies with what words he holds: To my God: in all of Your creation, what am I seeing? What is it that exists before me?
    Without an answer, he continues to gaze at the world before him, becoming more in focus with every passing moment. Further clarity quickly emerges, and Norman can see before him, surrounding the magnificent world, a series of divine, celestial rings of several layers. In the name of Your creation, and by the survivors of Noah, what is this beauty before me? The world continues to rotate, its rings of beauty surrounding.
    Norman stares into the world before him. He feels that he can stare forever – no, for all eternity. It moves and exists, just as a beautiful woman in her evening gown at the closing of a perfect day. To know what I see – to give this beauty a name… How can I? How can I without Your help?
    Saturn. He quickly comes to an understanding of the rings and colors. Yes, Saturn. Saturn is a planet of the… For a moment he thinks, tracing back to his days of fascination with such things. Yes, Saturn is a planet of the Jovian type: a gas giant. It’s the planet after Jupiter, and before Uranus.
    Norman begins to feel his memory re-emerge. Slowly, with an easy pace, he feels his knowledge begin to return. I know this world. Yes, I know it – I’ve looked into it in the past.
    The gases and indescribable colors continue to shine and possess his fascination. How is it that I’m so close? Only Voyager has ventured out this far. How is it that I am here? Am I the first – but how?
    His racing thoughts go silent. Looking into the atmosphere below, he shifts to the rings enclosing the world. The rings consist of layers, this he already knows, that stretch from the planet out into the cosmos. Each almost appears artificial, perhaps created long ago to portray the world’s true beauty for all the System to see in amazement. Maybe, just maybe, in a distant, almost faint recollection of past inspiration, the words of Lear are true: that civilizations flourish beneath the magnificent rings and colors.
    What? He can see something below, driving through the thickest layer of the rings. Slowly – far more slowly than the world’s rotation, an object moves with great ease like a gentle bird migrating through calm skies, leaving behind traces of a trailing gleam, coming into view only because of the distant Sun and its reflection off the atmosphere. What do I see? What are you? The object continues to move slowly, delivering its sign of artificiality. Good God.
    The object is of immense size, but moves with the pace of a deteriorating ocean vessel. However, it does move – it does exist. Moment after moment – minute after minute, Norman stares at this object streaming in a pattern through one of the outer layers of Saturn’s rings. At times he questions himself, only to notice the slow, continuous movement: What – What do I see? Am I seeing You?
   

    Before him moves something unknown. Just as the figures in the room, this anomaly is an enigma, moving mysteriously without explanation. However, it does move, and, therefore, it exists. God, can You tell me what moves within the rings? I know of us – of Earth’s accomplishments, and what I see cannot exist. What is it? Who are they?
    There is no reply to Norman’s question, only a stream of silence within his mind. Yet, the lack of a response does not frighten him; he only stares in amazement at the movement before him. Despite the absence of guidance, he feels within a state of comfort – of knowing that something other than man exists in such a stage of advancement.
    Miraculous, pure and exquisite. He questions as to whether or not he is the first to see such a thing: the existence of the unknown. How can I reveal such cosmic beauty to the world? Please tell me – I beg of You – how can I do it without destroying Your grace and message? I am a Christian, but the universe exists – it exists, and it’s infinite. Surely, I am not the only one to know that.
    Like a great whale synchronized with an ocean’s current, swimming in harmony, the object glides gracefully as though the rings are its natural home.  Are you of the living? Is it possible that You…
    Norman’s mind comes to a halt. He continues to stare into the rings of Saturn, watching the majestic object cruise with ease, leaving behind a contrail of shining beauty. Questions and theories begin to race through his mind, one after the other, each more unanswerable than the previous; a victim of racing thoughts.
   
    Is it You that moves before me? Is it You that I see in the colorful rings? Ever so slowly, it moves like a gentle giant amongst microscopic mortals. It does not appear to seek pure praise and glory, but only to be known – to be in view as an entity of reality. Is it possible?
    Norman takes closer notice of the derelict, free-flowing magnificent entity. It appears aged, and in possession of great experience. The hull appears like that of an old man, one who has lived a life of happiness and success. Now, alone, it seems to live solely off the memories of times past, cherishing every last one of them, each more magnificent than the last.

    The hazy creatures move about in slow motion, each one nearly identical to the other. The figures are out-of-focus, and their voices, though extremely faint, are like the gentle white noise of an off-air broadcast. The hum flows into his thoughts, and, with the visions before him, creates an ambient scene of pure relaxation. The sounds continue, both gentle and peaceful, releasing the ecstasy even further.  
    The drugs they insert into his vein make the world a place of perfection – a utopia. With their aid there exists no worries, no fears, no problems, and no hate: a pure, and absolute heaven on Earth; something of absolute non-sense and unreality. Yet, to Norman, it is in fact pure, and absolute reality.
    “Your son’s condition has worsened, I’m afraid,” Says the physician in a soft whisper to the elder man beside Norman. “Over the hours he has submerged further into the coma, and, it appears, his kidneys and pancreas are failing.”
    The hazy figures begin to draw close to one another, each with gazing eyes upon Norman. They are in shock – deep in confusion and anger. “What do you mean?” They all seem to utter.
    Norman can see the figures before him, noticing their movements and faint speeches of strangeness. He continues to gaze, his eyes growing heavier by the second.
    Was it You – was it You that I saw?


- - -
Raised in the city of Monroe, Louisiana, Hanson now attends Full Sail University, working to obtain a degree within the Creative Writing for Entertainment Program in Orlando, Florida. His passion for writing emerged in 2007 while taking a creative writing course. Seeking nothing more than exposure, he continues to write both in and out of the classroom, using the works of authors of lunar anomalies and space oddities as inspiration.

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Author: Hanson Hovell Holladay

Contributor: Miles Gough

- -
Can you believe it, I was a out getting fresh air. I know. I went out and didn’t even light up my smokes. I needed to cleanse my nostrils. I am the kind of guy that only sees the outdoors as a place to run through to get to the liquor store. As far as I can see, the natural environment is a placeholder until we can zone a few more cigar bars and mini-marts. But I have been working in the dangerous world of weaponized gasses and I just had to go out. It wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. The birds need to shut the fuck up, but the outdoors is okay for a change of pace. Wouldn’t want it to do it that often, you know camping is not a four letter word, but its still pretty obscene.

Yeah, I’ve been working in natural gas, but in a valid way. I ain’t helping the environment, I’m causing havoc, or at least trying to. Couple weeks back Nolan, the sommelier at the Cavendish Club, came to me with an idea. You know how he is this crazy movie nerd. He pairs wines to Jean Claude Van Damme movies. He tried to pair reds with Steven Segal movies but it turns out that the only things goes well with those masterpieces is Schlitz in a can.

Nolan came to me and said he had a way to make some money selling weaponry. He showed me this French movie to explain his idea and I’m in hell, because this shit has subtitles and middle aged guys in a big house. The plot is they came to this house to eat themselves to death with fine French bullshit food. Whatever. Why kill yourself on foie gras and truffles when Big Macs and super sized fries are so easy to get? Anyway, I’m being tortured by culture and finally the movie gets to the end and one the guys farts and farts and farts, like for two minutes he’s farting and then he keels over and is dead.

Nolan was like, “That’s it, That’s what we need to do. We need to make a food that will make you fart to death. We can package it as Silent But Deadly Cuisine and sell it to folks who want to do a little nefariousness and get away with it. No matter how nasty the fart is, the evidence will be cleared by a good breeze. The medical examiners will look for poison in the food, but there is no poison, it’s just plain food.” He told me I was the guy to make up a dish that could fart a man to death.

This was stupid, so yeah, I had to do it. I did my research, looked into what could make a guy fart so long their whole system would shut down. I used some special skills with it, the kind I know. I had to create food that was hard to digest and it would be stuck in the colon making bacteria. I pan seared a small cut of prime rib. I made a sauce for it using five different beans and cream. I sweetened it with sorbitol and some other fructose. I placed it all on a bed of au gratin potatoes. I also got my hand on an enzyme that slowed digestion of food so that it this packet will wind up in the colon almost undigested.

This seemed like the ticket, but shit, I wasn’t going to test it. Nolan had a guinea pig in mind. There was this asshole who always ate at the Cavendish who was rude and nasty. So Nolan gave him my dish as a treat for being such a great customer. The asshole acted like of course he deserved this special treat. I tell you. Why we cooks haven’t killed all our customers already in one big hibachi massacre is beyond me.

Nolan served it to this asshole and he sucked it up but fast, and you know, he didn’t die. Did he fart? He farted. Ever been to the elephant house at the zoo? Kind of like that he farted. But he didn’t even complain of cramps or discomfort. And the worst part, he loved the food. Told everyone to order it, that it was a wonderfully earthy dish every gourmand should eat.

I went over to the Cavendish today to check on Nolan. Is he pissed at me. He asked me why I couldn’t fail and make a shitty dish? He’s in hell; the place stinks like you never sniffed. And everyone is ordering my dish as a special. All I can tell you buddy, don’t go to that neighborhood and light a match. Something might explode.

Wait. Maybe something will explode. Okay, so I can’t kill someone by farting, but what if they can flame throw those farts? We can have ourselves a decent weapon that no one can frisk you about. Yeah, that’s the way I’ll go with it. You know me, making lemonade out of lemons. Foul stinky ass lemonade, but still lemonade, brother. Got to go, I got to find an igniter that can fit comfortable in a fella’s underpants.


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Author: Miles Gough

Contributor: Julie Lye

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The house had stood empty for years. It had once been a bright yellow house full of laughter and love, always busy with music or cooking smells wafting out of it, anyone was welcome, it was that kind of house, but that was many years ago now. Annie could tell you about the house, she had been a small girl when it was built and even though she was now one hundred and two years old she could recall it as if it were yesterday.
Annie must have been about five or six when the men began to build the yellow house. She could still remember how very excited she’d felt and recalled how she would sit on the steps of her parents porch chin in hands watching with amazement. She’d never seen a castle being built and the workmen were always friendly, she often saw her Grandpa talking to them and very often they’d drop some sweeties off for her.
The house grew very slowly to begin with, there was the floor to put down first but then after the first two or three months day by day the house began to grow. Before going in for her dinner each evening Annie would stare at the house almost willing it to grow. It grew and grew; it had three storeys and a big drive, a huge wooden front door, a very odd squiggly roof and lots and lots of windows.
Annie was at school the day it was painted and still remembers how bright the house looked when walking home that day with her mother. Her father had called it an over ugly giant bird box, but she didn’t agree. It was huge yes but it was also amazing and vibrant, it almost smiled at you and it seemed to shout come and play. It was magic and to little Annie it was nothing less than a fantastic and colourful castle.
Eventually on a Saturday morning as she recalled, the big removal truck arrived with three stocky men in brown uniforms declaring they were ‘removals’. The whole street had either been out in their picket fenced gardens or peeping from behind twitching curtains. Annie had of course taken up her residence on the steps of their small yet clean porch. The usual type of big furniture had been carried in, sofas, beds, dressers and a huge dark dining table.
It was all very exciting and to this day she remembers how her skin had tingled with curiosity and how tiny goosey bumps had appeared on her arms. She had run into tell her mother all about it but had been told to be a good girl and try not to be too nosey. Her mother was like that, she wasn’t interested in what was going on elsewhere, she was only ever interested in her father, her brother and of course herself. Annie loved her mum lots and lots.
As we talked a tear ran down Annie’s face as the memory of being a little girl and of her mother washed over her.
After a big hug and a cookie Annie returned to her post and continued her vigil. It was soon to be rewarded for a large black car pulled up and out from it climbed a giant!
Her hands involuntarily clasped over her mouth in a gasp, as they must have done on that day.
A giant, how can that be, weren’t they only true in fairy tales? They weren’t real were they? So many questions ran through her head, but Annie, being a good girl, stayed sat in her usual position, eyes agog as she watched the giant walk around the car and open the door for the most beautiful lady that she had ever seen. It was like a fairy tale, there was a giant and a beautiful princess, Annie couldn’t believe her luck, they’d come to live here in the big yellow castle! A few moments later three children emerged from the big black car, two boys and a girl. They began running around the car skipping and singing, could they be new friends or were they all ogres and want to eat her?
Annie became scared and ran indoors bumping straight into Grandpa who caught her and spun her round in the air, she loved flying with Grandpa it made her tummy giggle inside.
Annie grew tired and I knew our interview was over for the day. I thanked her for her hospitality and asked if I could come again, I had a feeling there were a lot more stories to listen to from Annie. She said I could come back the same time next week if I’d like to but could I please bring some Jelly Babies.


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I have always loved reading and recently discovered how much I enjoy writing when I joined the local writers group.

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Author: Julie Lye

Contributor: Bruce Costello

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Once upon a time during the Nixon reign, two men stood side by side at a country bus stop. One was young with an ugly scarlet scar and a dreamy look on his face. The other was old and bald, wearing a scruffy ex-army coat and an intriguing hook where most people have a right hand.
The young man with the scar, a history student, while continuing to face straight ahead, was twisting his eyes sideways and downwards, examining the hook as discreetly as he could. It was grey and fierce-looking, reminding him of an illustration from a favourite boyhood book: Captain Hook in a vivid red and blue pirate’s coat, wearing a black cocked hat with white skull and crossbones, holding an evil sword in his left hand while thrusting at Peter Pan with his horrible hook.
The hook’s owner seemed about 70, unkempt, unshaven, and probably unloved, too, thought the student. But, who knows, he could have been a dashing soldier once, wounded in battle. Perhaps a booby-trapped cigarette case left by the retreating Germans in Italy. A sniper’s bullet in Normandy? Shrapnel on Guadalcanal?
Pretending to look down the road for the bus, the student now stares directly at the old chap, and sees a young soldier in war-torn battledress running crouched across a jungle clearing through bursting shells towards a crashed and burning aircraft. The pilot is still alive. The soldier hears his screams through the smashed perspex and sees him, panic-stricken, struggling to free himself from the leaping flames. The soldier reaches the scene, leaps heroically onto the burning wreck and pulls the pilot free, as the shells burst close, closer, ahhh! too close! The soldier falls. Blood spurts onto the jungle floor.
The bus pulled up with a squeal. The student stood back to let the other board first. The old man stopped in the doorway and began to fumble for money in his coat pocket, but the driver waved him on with a grin. He shuffled to the back of the bus as the student bought his ticket.
“Do you know that old guy?” said the student to the bus driver, who seemed a friendly sort.
The driver laughed. “Simple Sam? Everyone round here knows Simple Sam.”
“Simple? But what happened to his hand? Did he lose it in the war?”
The bus driver laughed again. “That’ll be the day. He lost it in the river, mate, when he was a lad. Him and his brother, fishing with dynamite.”
The student thanked the driver, found a seat near the front and settled back with his eyes closed, but the scene from the jungle had faded. He smiled to himself, then opened his eyes and, looking up, saw the man with the hook standing there, staring down at him.
“Pardon me for staring,” said the old man politely. “I seen your scar back at the bus stop and I been wondering. Was you in Vietnam?”
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Bruce Costello recently retired and took up writing to keep his brain ticking over. So far it's working, although there are signs of surface rust appearing behind his left ear.

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Author: Bruce Costello

Contributor: Jack Hill

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Heat rash burned in my ass crack. Thirsty for a diet soda and cigarette. I offered to buy a cigarette from three smokers at three street corners. Pity from being shot down sloshed in until I knotted my fists and stomped the eight blocks home. Black holes for eyes watched me step, knee bones popping.
The coffee can in the kitchen lashed back at me, cutting open my thumb knuckle, when I jerked out a ten dollar bill. Aluminum molasses collapsed under my shoe after five or six attempts. The kicked remains clanked against the stove bottom.
Sold out, the cashier said when I asked for Camel Wides.
Camel lights, I asked her.
Sold out, the cashier said.
All the cigarettes are sold out for you, the cashier said.
What, I asked her.
I know you stole a six pack last week, she said.
I shook my head.
Leave my store, she said.
You have me confused with someone else, I said.
Leave my store, she said.
It wasn't me, I said.
I remember your face, she said.
I wouldn't steal from this store, ever, I said.
You will never buy cigarettes here again, she said.
I would never steal here – this store is in my neighborhood, I said.


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Jack Hill works in litter abatement, edits Crossed Out Magazine, and lives in Northern California.

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Author: Jack Hill