Contributor: Brent Rankin

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He was standing in front of the door to his apartment. He rapped on the door three times. He knew no one was inside. There was no one outside. There was no one anywhere, anywhere in the world. He was alone.

He had always been intrigued with the paradox of time travel. Paradox. He liked the word. Travel back, say, one hundred and fifty years. Kill your great grandfather. That would be impossible. If he killed his great grandfather, then the proceeding generations would not be born. He wouldn’t be born. There would be no one to kill his great grandfather. Mind bending ideas. If he killed a butterfly in 358 B.C., would the Second World War have happened? What if his timing was off by a few seconds and he returned to the present, two minutes earlier than he’d left it. And he met himself. That, he knew, was utterly impossible.

When there were people on earth, he adjusted the time travel device he’d created and took a deep breath. His thumb was on the red toggle switch that, when tossed, would send him back to sometime before the species of modern man began. A very long time ago.

He flicked the switch.

In the past, the air was putrid. He gagged and spat. Enough. He flicked the switch to return. There was a momentary delay, and then he was back to the present.

He returned and discovered he was the only person on earth. The buildings were there, the roads, the infrastructure. Everything was as before, except there were no people. The world was void of humans. Except for him.

What had he done? He only spat in the past. He almost upchucked. He didn’t touch anything, nor kill anything. He didn’t interact with anything, but still, he changed everything. He was utterly alone.

He went into his apartment. Nothing there had changed. It was just as he left it. Looking out his window, pouring himself a stiff drink, he didn’t see a person anywhere from his eighth floor advantage. God, he thought, what have I done? He went to the sofa and sat.

He took a large gulp from the glass, and then rested it on the arm of his chair. Think. The moment of hesitation just before he returned. Had that caused a riff? Did it cause the annihilation of mankind?

He was the last living person on earth, alone in his living room.
Then, there were three loud raps at the front door .


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I've been around the block a few times more than the ice cream truck. I graduated from college with a degree in English (a long, long time ago) and decided to put it to work.

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Author: Brent Rankin

Contributor: Layden Robinson

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The year is 2012, and I had been lying dormant in a coma for the last 38 years. When I came to, I was told I had been in a head on collision and that there was no long term physical damage. (The Doctors said that it was the massive impact of crash that caused me to “go under”.)
I can vividly remember driving, listening to “Houses of the Holy,” looking up into the watermelon skies riding the finest wave of acid there was to offer. I was truly living, with my crush Melissa by my side as we fused together in perfect warmth, one and one. (Then as sudden as the realization of a passing moment, I ended up here, 38 years later.)
“Mr. Murdoch, please follow me. You are free to go.”
“Experience your new beginning.”
So confused was I stepping into my “New reality”, wondering if I was still tripping on that wonderful, fluent acid I had gotten a hold of ? “Had the acid taken me further than I ever expected to go?” I contemplated to myself.
The air outside was pleasantly brisk, as I decided to take a left and then several rights, becoming more and more overwhelmed by my “New situation” with every passing moment. I tried to hail down a taxi, but there were none to be seen. (Everything was being run by robots, HUMANOIDS.)
“So wild that everyone has bought into such a synthetic dream,” I thought quietly to myself while “scanning” my ticket and stepping onto vessel reminiscent of something right out of a fucking terrifying Sci-Fi movie. (We began to float, passing a purple lit gas station, as I could feel “The eyes” begin to fall upon me.)
“$11.11 for a gallon of gas?!”
“I wonder how much it is for an ounce of weed, or if weed even still exists?”
There were TV monitors situated all around me inside the macabre futuristic vessel I was inside, spurting preposterous political scripture and propaganda, the latest sensational food recipes, and Madonna videos.
“Who in God’s name is Madonna?” I said underneath my own breath.
“A beer should take the edge off a bit.”
[Two blocks down, I found a tavern with a Neon Budweiser sign illuminated within its front window.]
“Yes Budweiser. Now there is something I recognize, SOMETHING I can relate too.” I sit inside a too pristine and empty bar, requesting a bottle of frosty solace.
“That will be $7.50 please,” a young, Brylcream-laced bartender emotionlessly states to me.
FUCK ME. I say nothing, paying my tab, moving on to a record/ CD store.
“CD?”
I am nervous, jittery, out of place as I ask an androgynous clerk if they have any Led Zeppelin. He/She is utterly confused, going to something called a “computer”. After a head nod and confirmation from another boy/girl, I am shown Led Zeppelin’s “Houses of the Holy” on Compact Disc. (The price reads “$27.78” and I almost shit myself in shock and dismay.)
“What the fuck is going on in this wicked fucking world? And what the fuck do I even do with this CD! This is getting to be one big fucking drag, Man!!” (Time traveling Drag mimes.)
Discouraged, I exit out of the music store, making my way down to a dock by the water, trying to gather my limited sanity and sporadic thoughts.
“Hey mate.” A drunkard approaches me, knowing I am suffering in a “different” way.
“Hey man.” I responded back with a faint smile, continuing. “May I ask you something?”
“Sure mate.” The drunkard gives me his consent.
“What the fuck is going on here, man?”
“What do you mean, mate?” The drunkard responded within a consoling tone.
“I mean, I have been asleep for decades, and now there is ‘This’.”
“What do you mean by ‘This’ mate?” The drunkard becomes more curious.
“I mean this – A disillusioned land without a plan.”
“Hmm, you’ve got a point, mate. I never thought of it that way. I guess I have just accepted it for what it is?” Such a sullen stare the drunkard gazed out into the distance before asking of me:
“Could you happen to spare some change, mate?”
“Of course, man. Of course”
I give my only friend in the known world all of my change, moving on from the dock by the water to try and find my lost love, Sweet Melissa. (Oh my sweet Melissa, with her flowing Strawberry blond hair and sunshine smile. ) I was given an address of where she might be from the Holy white institution where I had slept my lengthy deep sleep. (After hours and hours of old school hustle, I located the address. When I arrived, everything is wrong.)
“Can I help you?” It is her, but not “her”.
My Sweet Melissa had been transformed by her own doing into a synthetic, living breathing demented mannequin. There was no more life in her eyes, no natural sag in her tits. My God!
“Sorry, I have the wrong address,” I responded with sadness and mass confusion owning my existence.
I go about my way staring up into the restless evening sky, suddenly sensing something of Biblical proportion was beginning to transpire. [It was quite obvious.] Fire, Hail, and a Sea of locusts began to fall and ravage the world from every direction. (A second seemed like an eternity, until abruptly, an arising stillness overcame the sky, revealing the silhouettes of two figures shaking hands, coming to terms on their Master plan.)
Good and Evil had both decided things had gone too far. The world had lost face and everything had ended up the way it was supposed to. I had awakened briefly, but now it was time to go back to sleep, drift to another time, to the true promised land.


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I am a Independent Writer of three Ebooks and have a successful Wine Review Blog as well. Hope you enjoy my voice! Best regards, Layden Robinson

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Author: Layden Robinson

Contributor: Gary Clifton

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Christian Jonic had gotten drunk that Saturday night. Then, cellular hell invaded his stupor at 3:08 A.M.
"You asleep?" asked his partner, Houston Homicide Detective Maria Martinez.
"No," he heaved himself upright. "Just hopin' you'd call." The room spun wildly. Two years a tight end for the University of Houston, Jonic was fifteen years a Houston cop, the last five in Homicide.
"Somebody just murdered Fat Fender Fred."
"Damn, Detroit Blue's trial starts Monday...sure he's dead?" Fred was the principal prosecution witness against Blue in the murder of a fellow pimp.
"Shot deader than good manners...Telephone Road, off the Gulf Freeway."
Jonic and Martinez worked their way through the jumble of emergency vehicles tumble parked around a black Cadillac. Fat Fender Fred slumped in the driver's seat, his head a bloody stub of gore. "About six in the head with maybe a .25...looks to me," Jonic said. The sticky hot August, pre-dawn gulf air was mostly liquid.
A patrol officer leaned close. "Witness got a partial tag number," he said, handing Jonic a notebook page. "One number short of complete...blue Continental."
"That's Detroit Blue's car, sure as hell," Martinez grinned. She was twenty-nine, smart, beautiful, and was preceded thirty seconds by boobs the size of a bulldog's head. Unmarried, she dated no cops, male or female.
"Detroit guy, huh?" the patrol officer asked.
"Naw," Jonic gave his temples another squeeze. "Always drives a blue Continental...dunno why the hell they called Fred "Fat Fender".
"His fat gut...looked like a pickup truck fender," Martinez studied Fred's remains. "He's got more holes than grandma's pin cushion."
Jonic, so hung-over he doubted if he'd live to see sunrise, said: "If we can shake out a judge on Sunday, we can get an arrest warrant and snag his sorry ass. We grab him right away, we may find evidence...like a pistol. He stays over on South Calhoun...but he definitely won't be there now."
"The judge?" the patrolman asked.
"Kid," Jonic massaged his forehead. "Judges live in River Oaks. Detroit Blue lives on South Calhoun."
Coffee and eggs at Denny's ressurected Jonic somewhat. Several hours judge shopping by telephone and they held a warrant of arrest for one Reginald Wilson, also known as Detroit Blue.
They spent the day kicking doors and asses across the Third Ward where the crime scene was situated. At dusk, a snitch told them Blue was hiding in his Auntie's house on South Scott. By the time they clustered up behind the church of something marvelous, the sun had dropped behind the western horizon. The August, humid heat hung around..
"Can't let this toad bust a cap in one of us and claim he didn't know we were cops," Jonic called for a marked squad-car. The unit rolled up carrying a pair of young male officers, one black and one white.
"I'm James Little," the black officer recognized Jonic and Martinez from previous crime scenes. Little was bigger than Jonic with a round face that never quite stopped smiling. "This is my partner Kevin Clark." Clark was husky, blond, and a head shorter than Little. They shook hands all around in the southern police fashion.
Jonic drew a crude map of Auntie's house on a sheet from his notebook on the hood of the patrol car and passed around a mug photo of a scowling Blue. "This guy is a mean-assed nut job. Let him shoot you and he'll walk as a mental case. Little, bring your shotgun and take the front door with us," he gestured to Martinez. "Clark, you cover the back door. We only have an arrest warrant which limits any right to search...so when you do, don't tell me."
They parked two doors down and stepped out into the sweltering humidity. The neighborhood was quiet, rodent quiet, too quiet. Blue's Continental was nowhere in sight. Clark hurried to the rear. Jonic kicked the front door, followed by Martinez and Little holding the shotgun. The small house had only two small rooms and appeared to be vacant.
Blue burst from a closet, waving a .25 automatic pistol. The muzzle flash was the only indication he'd fired the weapon - the sound of his shot lost in the roar of Little's shotgun. The blast slammed Blue against a wall, a smear of blood as he slid down the wall.
A quick check confirmed Blue was alone in the house. Little leaned against a doorjamb, dropped the shotgun and slumped on a sofa. "My God, I'm sick..." He lost consciousness, eyes open and rolled back. Two gasps and he stopped breathing. A flashlight exam disclosed massive crimson flow from his inner thigh. Jonic ripped open his trousers. Arterial blood was pumping like a broken fire-hydrant. The little pistol had found a sweet spot
Martinez dialed 911. Clark rushed in. Horrified, he burst into tears. They tried mouth to mouth, a drapery sash tourniquet, some prayer and considerable profanity. Little had died in less than two minutes. From the floor, Blue, whom they'd thought dead spat: "Good riddance, pig."
Clark, distraught, kicked Blue. Jonic dragged him to the front porch. Martinez, pistol drawn, stood over Blue just inside the door. The sharp report of Martinez's pistol surprised even Jonic. Sounds of approaching sirens wafted in on the humid air.
Jonic left Clark on the front stoop and stepped back inside. In the dim light, Martinez, the beauty whose smile overcame strong men, stared unblinking into Jonic's face, eyes cold death.
"Listen partner, he grabbed at your pistol...I saw it. You were in deadly fear of your life. Don't waver, no matter what they toss at you," he gestured toward the incoming assistance. "Blue needed killing."
She stared long and hard at Jonic. He thought she might shoot him too. Finally, she holstered the Glock and nodded. Martinez, he realized, was harder than granite - or any man he knew.
An E.M.T. squeezed past Clark, sobbing on the front step.


- - -
Gary Clifton, forty years a cop, has over forty short fiction pieces published or pending with online sites. Clifton, who has an M.S. from Abilene Christian University has been shot at, shot, stabbed, sued, lied to and misunderstood. He's currently out to pasture.

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Author: Gary Clifton

Contributor: Sam Rushton

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The two fossils eyed a sleeping woman through the one way mirror, as they had done for the last eight years. One was dressed in a beige suit, the other in a Nazi uniform.

"Is it time?" wheezed Maximilian, pupils glassy with cataracts.

"Soon." said Sergei, massaging his rough hands. He'd once used them to strangle a rottweiler, now he could barely open a pill bottle. The hundred year old woke up and began to laugh.

"Go."


Maximilian entered the room, a simulacrum of a nineteen forties bedroom. A wireless played Django Reinhardt, audio cues for the spy.

"Hello darling. How are you today?" said Maximilian.

"Hello my love. I just had the strangest dream."

"Yes?"

"Yes, that the Allies won the war. They drove tanks to the Reichstag and started to shoot. And I was there and could not scream."

"Ha. Then we are lucky it was but a dream." said Maximilian, taking off his captain's hat before kissing her lightly on the forehead.

"How is the fuhrer?"

"Magnificent. In fact he wanted me to ask you something." said Maximilian slowly. This was always the tricky part.

"Yes?" said the woman, moving beneath the off-white sheets.

"He wondered if you could remember any of the account numbers you put the gold in? He wants to commission a statue of Eva you see. As a surprise."

"Oh, I couldn't say dear. Those numbers were so long."

"Try. For your fuhrer." smiled Maximilian. He watched the old woman closed her eyes, as she had done countless of times before, and attempted to remember.

"Well...there was some stored at the Swiss National...let's see now..." she said, rolling her tongue across ancient lips.

"Yes?"

"Four...zero...one...um...now was it an eight or a five?" Behind the one-way mirror Sergei entered the numbers into a database. So far the string was lit green.

"Any more?"

"Five...double zero and...oh I can't remember. Let me check my books." said the woman and made to get out of bed. A look of horror washed over her face and she yanked away the sheets.

"Oh..." said Maximilian, picking up his hat.

"Max! Max! My legs are gone! What has happened to my legs!" she wailed.

"I'm sorry darling, I must be going. I'll be back soon." said Maximilian, kissing her head again before walking out. He went to join Sergei in the observation room and they watched the woman remember her missing limbs.

"You have to keep her in bed Max."

"I know. We'll try again in an hour."


The two old spies ate dumplings and gravy. Maximilian dripped some onto his lapel and cursed under his breath.

"Does it ever bother you?" said Sergei.

"What? The gravy?"

"Interrogating an old flame."

"Not much bothers me comrade, not after Stalingrad."

"But do you still feel anything for her?"

"Yes. But the mission is more important." said Maximilian. He sucked on his inhaler.


The interrogations went on all day and they were no closer to finding any of the account numbers than they had been that morning. The mission had gone on for so long, with no real results. Maximilian wondered if their handlers had forgotten about them, or worse, died off and told nobody of the slow espionage that they were undertaking. Sometimes Maximilian would go in and try to hold a conversation with her in the hopes it might somehow reverse the deterioration though the conversations often went around in circles.

"I want to try something different tomorrow." said Sergei as both men walked to their cars. Max nodded. Different was always good.


"Hello darling. How are you today?" said Maximilian.

"Hello my love. I just had the strangest dream."

"Yes?"

"Yes, that the Allies won the war. They drove tanks to the Reichstag and started to shoot. And I was there and could not scream."

"Ha. Then we are lucky it was but a dream." said Maximilian, taking off his captain's hat before kissing her lightly on the forehead.

"How is the fuhrer?" she said. And as if on cue in walked Sergei, dressed from head to toe in the finery of the Nazi dictator. He even had on a fake toothbrush moustache.

"I'm here!" said Sergei.

"Hitler!" she said, saluting.

"Hello darling! I was just wondering if you could remember where you put my gold?"

"Absolutely. I'll just go and check my books, excuse me." she said, pulling back her covers.

"Oh." said Maximilian.

"Meine fuhrer...I can't walk!" she said, shocked. The fake Hitler and the ancient spy looked at each other and shrugged before leaving the woman alone. Maybe Hitler was too exciting.


- - -
My name is Sam Rushton, a graduate from a university and unemployable bum. I have been writing for several weeks and quite enjoy the noise the keys make when I press them. I am currently working on a novel of scientific fiction due to my background as a science man.

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Author: Sam Rushton

Contributor: Hannah Garrard

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Mrs. Barton-Hoff sashayed into the jeweler’s, slinging her clutch purse and her small son, Mungo, onto the chaise lounge. She flexed her fingers in preparation for a BIG PURCHASE. “Good afternoon Mrs. Barton-Hoff” oozed the jeweler, already counting his commission.

“I’m after the new season’s Dolce diamonds,” bellowed Mrs. Barton-Hoff, her thick calves striding towards the twinkling cabinet display. She placed her palms ceremoniously onto the cold glass, and made as if to inhale the light that spun off the diamond-encrusted contents.

“I need a wee,” said her son in a small voice from the chaise lounge.

“Mungo! Don’t be so disgusting!” Mrs. Barton-Hoff spat, her trance broken. She returned to the cabinet to admire the earrings on her reflection in the glass.

“I’ll try the studs first.”

“As you wish madam,” radiated the jeweler.

“Mummy I must have a wee,” whimpered Mungo- Mrs. Barton-Hoff’s only, and last, child.

“Shut up, Mungo! It’s mummy’s time now!”

Mungo got up and started to make those half automatic bucking motions with his hips that signaled a full bladder. He was old enough to know when he needed to go, but not yet old enough to hold it in for very long. He looked around for a potty, but he couldn’t see one in the big, boring shop with all the glass boxes and shiny things that he wasn’t allowed to touch.

Just then Mrs. Harrison-Ford swept in, accompanied by her three-year-old daughter, Melody. This isn’t a bloody crèche thought the jeweler, wondering where all the nannies were.

“I’m after the new line in Dolce,” barked Mrs. Harrison-Ford, nose first. She placed Melody along with her clutch purse neatly onto the chaise lounge where she sat, cherub like in her white frock and bows.

She spotted Mrs. Barton-Hoff with her fingers in the diamonds she was after, and marched right over to the cabinet at the far end of the shop. The two women stood like sows jostling for space at the dinner trough.

Meanwhile, Melody was watching Mungo dancing. That looks fun she thought to herself. Better than this boring shop with all the glass boxes and shiny things I’m not allowed to touch. She hopped off the chaise lounge and went to join Mungo in his fun dancing game.

“I was here first!” boomed Mrs. Barton-Hoff at Mrs. Harrison-Ford.

“I called ahead!” Mrs. Harrison-Ford spluttered back. The jeweler felt his Adam’s apple tighten.

“Perhaps madam would like to try the Chanel?” he proffered, sending appeasing glances. It was tough work being a jeweler sometimes, requiring diplomacy, tact, and flattery.

Mungo and Melody continued to buck and dance.

“Keep out the way it’s going to come out!”  Mungo warned Melody. If he weed himself his mummy would smack his bottom again; he didn’t want a repeat of the supermarket incident, that had left him sobbing by the sun dried tomatoes all by himself, his mother too disgusted by his wetness to claim him as her own. Mungo had an idea and bucked his way to the chaise lounge with Melody hot on his tail.

The squabbling at the counter was getting acerbic.

“MUTTON DRESSED AS LAMB!”

“LADY GAGA DRESSED AS LADY DIANA!”

Mungo snatched his mummy’s black clutch purse that was sitting on the chaise lounge and snapped it open, placing it on the floor in front of him. He pulled down his pants and pointed himself at it. Melody stopped dancing.

Mrs. Barton-Hoff was pulling at Mrs. Harrison-Fords hair.

A half-sob of relief left Mungo as he watched his fanfare of wee fill up his mother’s clutch purse. But it was almost full and he still had more. Melody (who was a smart girl and had figured out the rules to the new game), came to the rescue with her mummy’s clutch purse.

Mrs Harrison-Ford had snatched the pair of diamond Dolces from Ms. Barton-Hoff’s ears and was fumbling to place them in her own.

Just in time. Mungo redirected his aim and sent another fanfare of wee up into Mrs. Harrison-Ford’s clutch purse, finishing with an inch to spare. “Thanks for saving me!” Mungo said to his new friend as he shook the last spots. Mungo and Melody snapped the purses shut and replaced them on the chaise lounge.

“Now ladies,” interjected the Jeweler over the din his customers were making. “I will sell the diamonds to the fist credit card I see.”

Both women raced towards the chaise lounge, batting their small children out of the way and scrambled for their purses. They emptied their contents onto the counter, and all over the diamond Dolce display.

- - -
Hannah is from the UK but now lives in South Korea amongst the neon signage. From her apartment she can see the ocean, and a rusty cruise ship that makes tired laps around the peninsular. You can follow her travels and her writing at:
www.lookingformyhat.blogspot.com

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Author: Hannah Garrard

Contributor: Neila Mezynski

- -
The space between two black chair to define chaos in white light, right angle for poetic sake. Not too far don’t blur, boundary. Move straight line, there. Little black dress soften nice, glare, shoulder strap, off. Impossible. Care.


- - -
Dancer/choreographer turned abstract painter/writer turned installation artist.

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Author: Neila Mezynski

Contributor: Tyler Gates

- -
She holds you down as she tightens the knots around your wrists. You are being attached to the bed frame. There you lay naked and cold. She has a grin plastered across her face. She is happy, an emotion she rarely displays. Reaching past your head she grabs a large box cutter. Moonlight sneaks in past the blankets she has covering her windows and shines across the brand new blade. Fear explodes inside you and begins a frantic race through your veins. Your muscles twitch and you try to shake loose. She smiles as she begins violently slashing at your chest. You scream and struggle to throw her off. She counters by putting her weight into her knees and muffling your screams by forcing her tiny fist in your mouth.


She continues slashing until a gaping hole forms in the center of your chest. Once satisfied with the size she tosses the blade aside and forces her free arm into your chest. The cavity where your heart used to be fills with blood as she begins to pump her fist in and out of your chest. Suddenly she begins moaning and and arching her back; an obvious result of the pleasure she is having. This goes on and on until she climaxes in a torrent of screams; matching yours in volume and intensity. After several moments of heavy panting she rips her blood soaked arm out of your chest and shoves two fingers in your mouth. Forcing you to taste the pieces of your own soul; a taste all too similar to metal shavings. Wiping the rest of the blood on the bedsheets she rolls over and gets comfortable with her back facing you. “Tomorrow night you can do it to me.” she says quietly before falling asleep.


- - -
Tyler Gates exists barely in small town rural Midwest. His life is dotted with violent encounters with hillbillies, night jobs, alcohol binges, gas station explosions, and the occasional cult abduction. Besides playing writer he occupies his time with illegal underground home made hot air balloon races.

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Author: Tyler Gates

Contributor: Ken Sparling

- -
The road came to an end. There was a small white sign. Beyond that, there was a dirt trail, and she set out to walk it. It wound between high ridges. There was a river. She had never seen a place like this.

I could never find the words to say the things I felt, and the situation today was no different. I removed my monocle from my left eye and looked away from the book I was reading. A window was open somewhere, although it seemed to me that it was not the time of year to be opening windows. Cold air touched my ankles and wrists and my chin and ears. The tip of my nose was very cold. I lifted the monocle back to my eye and looked again to the book. I read a sentence silently, to myself. It was as much as I could take in all at once, a single sentence (more than I could take in, in fact) so I looked up again and let the monocle fall on its chain and dangle before me like a prisoner in a noose. It dangled and caught the light and I saw white spots on the wall across from me where the light shot through the monocle and bent into strange blurry light beings scrambling over the wall like small creatures trying to escape.

My phone changed everything for me. It reformulated my entire life. It restructured the grammar of my existence. I slept on a piece of foam on the kitchen floor, waiting for the light of day to slither through the cracks in the wooden blinds.


- - -
Ken Sparling has six published novels. His first, DAD SAYS HE SAW YOU AT THE MALL (Knopf, 1996) has just been reissued by Mudluscious.

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Author: Ken Sparling

Contributor: Gary Clifton

- -
Fire Department found a fat guy dead in the frame house and heavy gasoline residue. Homicide sent Red Harper and Chris Jonic, both old timers.
"Girls, 10 and 13 survived," the fire captain said grimly "Transported to Parkland...badly burned."
Bleary-eyed neighbors reported the dead guy was the girls' uncle and one sorry bastard. "Two arrests...indecent exposure...once for fondling," Harper flash-lighted his notebook.
"Guy told me uncle was sexually abusing both girls. Told a kid who told a kid type deal," Jonic said.
"Where the hell was CPS?" Harper growled.
At Parkland - Menthol bandages and oxygen - both girls burned beyond recognition. Felecia, 13, terrified, in pain, was lost in sobs. "Neighbors said you got out, then went back to get your sister," Harper said gently.
She dissolved into hysteria. "Maria?" .
"She'll be ok," Jonic considered the weight of such a lie in Hell. They'd both be dead tomorrow.
Harper caught his eye. Instantly, they both saw...she'd set the fire from outside to save her sister from him.
"We understand, Felicia, you thought you could get Maria out." More sobs.
Outside, Harper relit his cigar. "I'll write this...no suspects."
"That's the way I see it." Jonic said.


- - -
Gary Clifton, forty years a cop, has over forty short fiction pieces published or pending with on line sites. He's been shot at, shot, stabbed, sued, lied to, and often misunderstood.

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Author: Gary Clifton

Contributor: Peter McMillan

- -

Ashen cloud banks pile one upon the other in the darkening western sky. The setting sun manages to filter only a few solitary amber rays through the layers of thick cloud. As if pierced by countless pinpricks, the cloud canvas lets through isolated beams of sunlight, refracting the light as the clouds mass and then expand to cover the twilight sky.

The glass of the shop windows catches the rays of sunlight that find their way through the clouds and bounces them back through the sultry air into the hurried eyes of the people passing from their labour to their leisure. The eyes of the crowd do not reflect these chance glints any further but absorb them as charcoal does.

A mantle of gray-black falls suddenly, draping itself across the shoulders of the earth, and instantly there is momentary pitch-black darkness all around. The lights of the village do not anticipate the abruptness of the transition to night. Street lamps begin to hum noisily as their globes gradually brighten, the heavy clicking sound of traffic light control boxes rises in intensity directing the play of colours above the street intersections, private windows begin to emit their light soundlessly, forming rectangular patterns of whiteness on the sidewalks and streets.

The stillness of the brief eclipse quickly gives way to tempestuous gusts of wind, rushing around corners, down the corridors of streets and lanes, whipping about, scattering bits and pieces of trash, and blowing dirt and sand into the emptiness of passers-by's eyes.

The relentless winds blow in a storm of rain, driving the rain like needles into the exposed flesh of the comfort-seeking mass of pedestrians. The faces of the crowd seek refuge behind their buttoned coats and upturned collars. Hats float off into the darkness, away and beyond the village's scattered umbrellas of light. Traffic signals, regulating the movement of human and machine, blink in complete obedience to the prescribed design of their makers, while the swell of the crowd overflows the ordered lines and right angles of the streets and sidewalks. The din of honking horns and screeching tires fills the intersections with a dissonant and unpleasant noise that is from time to time joined by the loud swearing and the banging of fists on metal of pedestrians violating intersections from all directions.

The disentanglement of flesh and metal proceeds quickly and chaotically. The wind and rain and blackness hasten a resolution to the confusion. A few stragglers pass by in obscurity to one another, brushing against one another, plashing through the rivers of rainwater overflowing the sidewalks, gutters and streets. The rain becomes so dense that the changing traffic lights resemble a kaleidoscope--colours flashing, changing, merging. Red, green, yellow, red, green, yellow, flashing faster red green yellow red green, merging redgreenyellowredgreenyellow...WHITE....

One man, indistinguishable from the numbers preceding him to this corner, steps out ... into the street from his curb corner and splashes into the choppy waves of the river coursing through the intersection and is swept away into the black void.

Next morning, the crowd, returning from its leisure on its way to its labour, stops and stares with bloodshot, vacuous eyes at a hat that has found its balance on the globe of a lamppost--but the traffic light clicks and whirs to green and the eyes turn away to face the dawning of a new day.


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The author is a freelance writer and ESL instructor who lives on the northwest shore of Lake Ontario with his wife and two flat-coated retrievers. In 2012, he published Flash! Fiction, a collection of 34 reprinted stories.

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Author: Peter McMillan