Contributor: Gary Clifton

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Look up "no good scumbag" in Webster's and John Ralph Dupree's photo would appear. He laid around his aunt Mildred's house in south San Antonio, swilling sweet apple wine and sleeping most of the day. The neighbor's Basset Hound barked long and often, disturbing John Ralph's slumber. Not the sharpest of minds, he bragged around the neighborhood he was "gonna shoot the dog and blow hell out of the neighbor's house." He did both - dog and neighbor ended up deader than good manners.
The cops sent out Chris Alvarez, eight years in Homicide and Polly Klevis, in the murder squad two months. Alvarez was big, tough, and thought himself to be quite an amateur comedian. Polly, naturally anxious to prove herself in a male dominated business, had been a quarter-miler at Baylor and could outrun anybody in San Antonio.
Witnesses repeated dimwit John Ralph's threats and the two cops had a warrant for his arrest in three hours. Aunt Mildred said he'd fled to his father's place In Louisiana. The next morning, Alvarez and Polly de-planed in Baton Rouge and were humming east along Interstate 12 in a rented Dodge.
"John Ralph's ol' Daddy is a country preacher with seventeen kids still at home, most not potty trained," the local sheriff declared.
They found the place, north of Lake Pontchartrain propped haphazardly on a third acre of ground grudgingly given up a foot or so by the surrounding swamp with the aid of a bulldozer and many big rocks. Alvarez asked Polly to scout the rear while he spoke with Daddy.
Polly's scream drifted for miles across the soggy bayou. She came on the Baylor run around the corner, eyes wide as silver dollars. Alvarez, pistol drawn, charged to the rescue. "It's the Loch Ness Monster!" Polly screamed before she skidded headlong into a mud-sink puddle.
Alvarez found Big Willie, neck-chained to a magnolia tree at swamp's edge. He was big and tough, too. Willie was surprisingly calm. He sat in placid splendor, munching one of Polly's shoes. "Drop it fella," Alvarez ordered.
"Burp," Big Willie replied, wistfully eyeing the second shoe, just out of chain-reach. Brown Bears are like that.
John Ralph did his bit for justice by dashing from a battered shed up by the house. "Polly!" Alvarez pointed. Minus shoes, muddy as the tar boy, she had John Ralph in a hundred paces. Alvarez lumbered up, cuffed the sobbing, pathetic little screw-up, surrounded by a regiment of smelly kids.
When they checked John Ralph into the Baton Rouge Parrish Jail for overnight holding, the officers on duty inspected Polly's muddy, bedraggled state and single shoe. She managed to hide partially behind Alvarez.
"My demented sister," Alvarez seized the stage. "They sent me down to grab John Ralph here, but I knew she was hiding around here somewhere. Give her shoes and she'll bolt sure as hell." The jailers, journeymen in a silent trade, nodded sympathetically. John Ralph went to the slammer wailing like a scalded dog.
Motel shopping, Alvarez drove Polly down Government Street. A red light stopped them beside a Baton Rouge squad-car, blue lights flashing. The uniformed officer stood, shaking a finger at slender young man. The scruffy kid sported a stringy mustache, with penitentiary tattoos on both forearms.
Suddenly, the kid broke and ran. Polly, already mad as hell, bailed out in full chase mode. Astounded, Alvarez followed in the Dodge. The officer, more astounded, followed Alvarez. Polly was gaining.
At the brightly lit Capitol Inn, the fugitive veered through the lobby, danced across the dining room, knocked over three tables, then plunged over a railing into the indoor pool. Polly followed. When Alvarez and the uniformed officer arrived, she had the man in a standard choke hold. "I got him, Officer," she said upward.
The cop inspected Alvarez's credentials. "I just told this mope if he wasn't off my beat in sixty seconds, I'd run him in," he studied the scene. "But what the hell, he's still here. Kid, you're under arrest." The officer handcuffed the crestfallen punk and winked professional courtesy to Alvarez. "We'll find a charge," his smile was good ol' boy subtle.
The Capitol Inn desk clerk whose name tag ID'd him as Norbert, had been in the john and missed the chase. He stood behind the counter, a paragon of professional motel-clerk-ism. Norbert leaned over to inspect Polly's dilapidated condition. "Hit by a bus?"
"My sister. She's a little off," Alvarez said soberly. "Taking her to the Institution tomorrow. Give her shoes and she'll run sure as Sunday."
Norbert's face was grim understanding. "We have insanity in the family too, Sir. It's too bad you can't just put them to sleep."
A policeman burst in, out of breath. "Where's the lady who just whupped the guy in the swimming pool?" he blurted.
"Rook, it's the jailhouse for you. Guy musta died," Alvarez grinned again.
"No, no," the cop, out of breath, continued. "That clown was wanted for eighteen rapes. Ma'am you're gonna get a medal."
"I don't understand." said Norbert.
Polly drew her pistol. "Alvarez, you overgrown chunk of not funny monkey shit, I'm gonna shoot off your 'nads, if you have any. That oughta get a laugh."
"Oh my," Norbert exclaimed.
"Me, too, Norbert," Alvarez echoed.


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Gary Clifton, forty years a cop has short fiction picecs published or pending with over sixty online sites. Now retired, he has an M.S. from Abilene Christian University

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Author: Gary Clifton

Contributor: Brandi Gaspard

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We were both dealing with a lot of things that summer.

There were the physical things, like:

1) how your missing left hand made you hide in long sleeves, even though they stuck to your skin so heavily in this southern heat.
This wasn’t too much of an issue, though, because we spent most of our time sleeping, or watching your collection of tapes.
The blinds were always closed.

2) how my own hand lacked any sense of tact, even with the best intentions in mind.
The first time we shared sleep, I could tell that you were uncomfortable by the way you forced your breathing to be still, and quiet, and so I traced my fingers down your arm to make you feel better. But it was late, and dark, and I moved too close to what we didn’t want to acknowledge as gone, and I felt your chest sink. So I asked if we should switch sides.
 I would sleep closest to the wall that summer.

3) how after that night, you always walked right by my left side.
I couldn’t bring myself to ask what happened to make you feel that way. Or what happened that left you without a hand in the first place.
All I knew was what I could see—your left side always strived for the shadows.

4) how we both got to the point where, if we could drag ourselves out of bed, neither of us would leave without sunglasses.
Yours were a veil to avoid accidental eye contact with others. They saved you from becoming a public display of biological abnormality, and they saved others from the sympathy they might feel obliged to give if the long sleeves and slouched posture weren’t enough to distract from the absent.
Mine were there to uphold the idea that there was something worth obscuring behind those dark lenses, when really, all I could say about myself is that I couldn’t bear the sun.

5) how we had to find ways to keep this overbearing sun and the city’s decaying buildings out of view from our apartment windows.
The unavoidable daylight illuminated the city’s failures and their reflections still creeped through the cracks, no matter how hard we pulled on the cords of the blinds.
Downtown kept decayed buildings as keepsakes of what could have been, but never was.
These rotting mementos and trash-lined streets were flaunted by the city to give the illusion of big city living at a discounted price.
Sometimes, the city would sense that people were catching on to this construction, so they’d make improvements to keep the disillusion at bay.
Last year, they paved the streets with new, antiquated cobblestone, but they tried too hard, and so the roads became too rough to pass.
They installed giant signs with flashing letters that signal: it will not be easy.
We did what we could to hide from this glare of orange, along with the glare of the sun and the surrounding buildings, with layered sheets nailed above the window frames and a cool climate we could keep through adjustments of the thermostat.
And then there were things that couldn’t be cured with dark shades or cloths or the cold, such as:

1) how the city’s weight smothered us in a way much like gravity, always there, but only noticed in rare moments of consciousness, like when we would walk to the corner store to pick up cigarettes and sweet tea and the only other people we saw were the nine-to-five suits rushing to return from their lunch break and the vagabonds resting in the central plaza.

2) how we didn’t want to be conscious, to be reminded that we had nowhere else to go.
So we mostly spent our days inside of those blanket-pinned windows, filling ourselves with smoke and sleep to blur the movement of time and to blot out the city’s black hole ambiance.
There wasn’t much said in between exhales and yawns.

3) how we grew tired of nothing, and on those days we desired something, we’d wait until the sun lowered to leave our shrouded living behind.
It was at night when downtown seemed most alive.
Even less bodies wandered the streets in the absence of sunlight, but with the city’s upheld promise of hollow metropolis reveries, every building that remained lifeless by day was revived by the grace of glowing neon at the onset of darkness.
Their skeletal infrastructures were outlined in cool-tinted glows of blues and greens.
The warmer colors were reserved for the bridge, the only entrance and exit to the urban corrosion.
The florescence read: THE DARING NEW CITY.
We would walk to the center of the bridge and lie beneath the sign and stare until we could see the neon saying with eyes shut.
These nighttime walks to the bridge were the only time you’d let me stay at your left side. In the afterglow of this expired city, we didn’t need sheets keep the light out. Or dark shades to shield from the sun. Or long sleeves to cover what was missing. Or smoke to distort our dwindling time.

4) How some things are better left unsaid.


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Author: Brandi Gaspard

Contributor: David Elliott

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Jacqueline could remember the moment of her birth. . .

Unlike every other member of the human race, she could remember being torn away from the womb, moving from darkness into blinding light; a recollection as vivid as it was horrific. She could recall her eyes adjusting to the new environment, seeing the woman bathed in blood, and having the immediate insight, despite being only a few minutes old, that she had suffered, that she had died giving her life, that she was her mother.

Other people, to Jacqueline’s surprise, seemed to have the luxury of permanent amnesia when it came to birth; a heavy veil drawn across their subconscious, shrouding the memories in darkness, preserving their sanity, perhaps, for the somewhat less traumatic life event of death. But not Jacqueline. Her memories were as sharp as the tools in her Father’s surgical kit; those fascinating tools that preserved life, but also brought death; tools that had kept hearts beating within the breasts of royalty, circulating blue blood throughout the regal veins, but were somehow unable to save her mother. Her poor, unfortunate, beautiful mother. . .

Sleep was no longer a part of Jacqueline’s life. Sleep brought dreams, and the dreams were disturbing. It was better to walk, better to wander through the dimly lit streets and try to outpace the memories, try not to remember the event she’d never be able to forget. Despite the crime, despite the sights, sounds, and smells she’d encounter during these hours, it was always better than the alternative. Nothing could be as terrifying as sleep. It was a thing of the past, a childish habit she’d had to overcome. She was constantly nauseous, hallucinating with alarming regularity, but that was nothing. It was a small price to pay, to keep the dreams away. Without the dreams, she would keep her sanity. Without the sleep, Jacqueline’s grip on reality would hold. If she kept on walking, everything would be fine.

She could even cope with the other women abroad at that time, impure women, sinful women, women who weren’t deserving of the gift of life, who had squandered that gift, made a mockery of it. But her mother had died. She’d died, while whores continued to live. Her beautiful mother, her body a mass of mutilations; a mother she’d never know, lying perfectly still, body frozen in a rigor of agony; her flesh cut away, her organs defiled, her belly ripped open so that Jacqueline might live. She was an angel, far above any of these earth bound demons.

And, as she walked she would hear her mother’s voice. Mummy would speak to her, call her by name. Not Jacqueline, of course. Mummy would call her the other name, the name she should have had, an appropriate name, according to her father, for the sex she should have been.

‘Jack.’ Mummy would whisper in her ear. ‘I love you, Jack.’

Yes, if she kept on walking everything would be fine. And, in its own way, Whitechapel could be quite beautiful at night.


- - -
David Elliott is a writer and musician, living in Cheshire, UK. His short fiction has appeared in Twisted Tongue, MicroHorror, Flashes in the Dark, Whispers of Wickedness, and Delivered.

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Author: David Elliott

Contributor: Martin Goulding

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Google Drone View promised to end all earth bound mysteries. It was way passed Google Street View; this technology mapped and recorded every point it passed. The drones with Nano-cameras and nanotechnology quickly covered every square inch of the planet. There were a few restricted areas such as The White House and the Queen of England’s bathroom but other than that it was open slather.

Initially strong privacy concerns were raised, then the voices of science and progress at any price, saw the great opportunity presented and championed Google Drone View, worldwide.

Already underwater mysteries have been debunked with the tiny Google Drone-Marines—no Atlantis, no Lemuria, as expected; just rocky formations that only at first glance seemed to support the possibility of man’s hand.
On land, all forests, caves and deserts went onto Google Drone Maps for all to see. A viewer could go to the deepest recess of the Amazon in nanoseconds.

The Silicon Valley Google whiz kids came up with more ideas for the drones while getting their daily massages and shoulder rubs. Every inch of the sky was quickly mapped and guess what? No UFOs, not one was ever detected. The only silver cigar shaped objects in the sky were other drones.

A metaphysical and philosophical arm of Google was created called Google God Reach. The Google faux-hipsters in their creative time debated how if they could just get the right team, specifically a blend of quantum physicists and metaphysical minds, they may be able to send astral drones into other dimensions. The funny guys at Google even began wearing T-shirts with God we’re after YOU with a small white bearded guy cowering underneath.

Sexual Privacy issues were addressed by stripping all “bedroom scenes” from the feed. However, a group called Julian Assange for President hacked the live feed and posted thousands and thousands of juicy bedroom scenes on YouTube creating quite a stir.

Another bunch of hackers put up a website called The World’s Funniest, Fattest, Most Retarded and Ugliest People and they released compiled video footage taken from Google Drone View; it reported 38 billion hits on their first day of broadcasting, these and many other spin offs led to it being widely accepted.

Not everyone was happy or compliant about Google Drones; I belong to a world wide body of neo-Luddites called “No Google Drone View”. We wear T-shirts with Google we’re after YOU. below which is the image of cigar shaped drone being blown away with a shotgun.

We have seek and destroy missions, one of our members built a drone detector from 1950 Ham Radio parts and this technology, which incredibly, still uses valves, has spread like wildfire. If you saw the 80s Alien series of movies, you may remember that neat little Alien detector. It started with one “beep”, and then progressed to increasingly frequent beeps when enemy were detected. Same with this one, it’s a little clunkier and heavier, it does take our strongest neo-Luddite to carry it. But accurate it is.

The drones are 23 centimeters long and 3.78 centimeters in circumference. After many successful search and destroy missions Google started making armor plated models and began using neo-Luddite detectors. They have all known members in a data base and used iris scanning software. As if that was not the easiest strategy to overcome! We wear air-ace style goggles still available from army disposal stores. Hop Harrrigan, one of our leading neo-Luddites, pioneered the two pronged attack: First, after detection we netted the drone, then held it down, diamond drill bit penetration, and filled it with water. End of drone.

The future is not so bright, our members are being persecuted, remember Google’s universal message they vowed never to break—Do No Harm. Well that is all well in the past. It’s getting closer to all out warfare, Google started it and our neo-Luddite brethren will finish it.


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Martin Goulding is an Australian writer who enjoys creating odd, strange and unexpected stories.

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Author: Martin Goulding

Contributor: Marc A. Donis

- -
Og moved slowly along his morning commute. He was lost in thought.

"Good morning, Og!" cried Ug, who had spotted him coming along the path.

"Morning," muttered Og as they joined paths.

"Sleep OK? You seem tired."

"Nah, I was up all night. Couldn't get a wink."

"I know a guy who's got this root. It might help you. You should really see him."

"You mean Oog? That guy's a quack. No, thanks."

"Have it your way," shrugged Ug. The two walked together quietly for a few minutes.

"You know, I was just thinking..." started Og.

"Not again!" sighed Ug.

"Just listen. You know how you need a woman and a man to make a baby?"

"Yeah... I heard some of the guys talking about that the other day. It's like they can't do it without our help."

"Right! Well, I was just thinking... maybe it's the same for the beasts."

"Really? OK, so what?"

"Well, I was just thinking, maybe, if you got a man beast and a woman beast, and put them together for a while, then you could have a lot of baby beasts."

"That's a fine idea," said Ug, "but finding them isn't really the hard part. It's all the chasing."

"Right... Well, what if we had a sort of... thing... to keep them in a smaller area, so we don't have to chase them so much?"

"OK, I'll bite. What sort of 'thing' did you have in mind."

"I don't know. I've never seen anything like it before. It would be like a lot of trees lined up in a row, but in a big circle. Let's call it a fence."

Ug furrowed his brow. "That's a funny word for it."

"Anyway, so we put the beasts inside the fence and let them make baby beasts. Then, we eat them!"

"Huh. This all sounds like a lot of work." Ug was somewhat skeptical of this idea.

"You're right. We would need help." The conversation fell silent for a few minutes while the two considered the problem.

"I've got it!" cried Og. "We share the meat!"

"With the others who help make your... funce thing! Interesting..." Ug was starting to see the point.

"It's called a fence, and yes! Oh but wait... there is no meat. There are just baby beasts, and also the man beast and the woman beast, but we can't eat them. We need them to make the baby beasts."

"OK, so we share the promise of future meat with the ones who help build the fence," thought Ug.

Og knew that Ug was on to something. He started to become agitated. "Yes! The promise of future meat! We will give them small rocks instead, and call it... money!"

"That's a weird word. I don't like it," scowled Ug.

"Too bad. It's my word."

"But... what happens if some people get more of the nummy than others? Won't they be jealous and make trouble?"

"It's pronounced money, and yes, I suppose you're right. OK, so we'll need a safe place for people to keep it. I'll call it a bank."

Ug rolled his eyes and sat down. He knew that, once Og was on a roll, there was no point in trying to stop him. He settled in for a long ride.

"Banks can let other people borrow the money so that they can make their own fences and beasts and maybe even other things. For this service, banks can charge... interest! This interest will need to be computed. Maybe somebody can invent a machine that will do that. And lots of other machines, to do all sorts of things, too!"

"A what?!" interrupted Ug.

"I don't know, I just made it up. Work with me, here."

"Fine..." sighed Ug.

"People will want to own a piece of the beast farm. Maybe they could use their money to buy little pieces of it. I'll call that equity. Of course, there will be risk involved. So we'll need something else... I'll call this a derivative. And we'll need all sorts of things like binary options, exchange-traded derivative contracts, credit default swaps, and mortgage backed securities to make it all go."

"This is all getting quite complicated. Are you sure you know what you're talking about?"

"Sure... It's fine. It's just math. People will love this. You'll see."

"Well, I admit, I like it a lot better than your last idea about the tiny invisible bugs that make us sick."

"... and naked shorts, and synthetic collateralized debt obligations, and -- who the hell are you?!"

Og stopped in amazement as he beheld the small man before him who was wearing a white garment made of some sort of leather.

"Look, I couldn't help overhearing your conversation," said the little man. "I think you two are getting a bit ahead of yourselves."

He raised a smallish object which he pointed in their direction.

"Hey! I saw a thing like that in my dream last night. I called it a gu --"

But before Og could finish his sentence, he had forgotten what he was going to say. In fact, he had forgotten almost everything.

"Me... Og," said Og.

"Me Ug," said Ug.

"Good day, gentlemen," said the man. Og and Ug watched as he walked into a very strange sort of flying cave, and was gone.


- - -
Marc is a Franco-Floridian IT contractor who has been living and working in Luxembourg for much too long. He enjoys writing things like short fiction, lines of code for banking software, and even the occasional email. He often wonders from which planet his two perfect children came, who clearly don't belong to this very imperfect one.

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Author: Marc A. Donis

Contributor: Amaranta DeBrefny

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I have seen unspeakable things in my life. Darkness, depravity, injustice—the list goes on. But not today; today is about the light, about fulfilling a dream, and maybe about getting some of my own back. Well, not so much the last part. The straw of my Mai Tai is a tiny thing, and I push it aside as I toss the little umbrella onto the table. Pulling my sunglasses down and leaning back in my sun chair, I’m committed to simply living today.

            At least that was the plan. A shadow blocks out the heat of the tropical island sun, and knowing that a certain six-foot, bronzed someone is about to quash my plans, I sigh and slowly open my eyes.

            “And here I was thinking you, Melanie Justice, never went on vacation. You know, crime never sleeps and all that.”

            Even if I hadn’t opened my eyes, his voice would have given him away. Andy Lí stands before me larger than life. His tousled hair holds little grains of sand, and, as he gives me a once-over, drips water down his face as if he’s just been for a dip in the ocean. Sunkissed and carefree, he looks good.

“Nice to see you too.” If he’s going to ruin my plans and mysteriously show up on the island, I feel a little sarcasm is the least I can offer.

            “Aw, don’t be like that, Mel. Just think, we can spend every day together.” Andy winks conspiratorially.

            Sitting up, I wrap my towel around myself. “Did it ever occur to you that maybe I was after...oh, let’s see...a vacation? As in time away from the likes of...”

            “Me?” The hurt is evident in his dark eyes.

            I always put my foot in it around Andy. He’s been a PI as long as I have and we’ve managed to run in the same crowds for years—a few cops here, some journalists there. Neither one of us is much of a social player or has a family to go to. Come to think of it, he’s about as socially pathetic as I am. I think that’s why I’ve always liked him.

            “No. Just work. I don’t want to think about work. And why are you here, anyway?” My voice is snarkier than I’d intended, but it’s too late to backtrack.

            “Same as you. I just needed some time away from it all.” Andy offers a small smile. He runs his hands through his hair and turns his face away. “So I guess I’ll see you around.” He’s off before I can call him back to apologize. Not that I would. My work’s taught me never to make myself vulnerable. Sorry isn’t really in my vocabulary. I watch him walk away and wonder when we’re going to end this non-thing between us.

***

A little after nine I close the file I’ve been going through and remind myself I’m here to have fun. All work and no play makes Melanie a cranky woman. At least according to Andy. He mentioned this resort to me months ago, so I shouldn’t be surprised he’s turned up here. Especially after what we’d been through last month. Henderson, my client, was the misogynistic type who couldn’t fully trust a woman. He’d hired Andy for the same case, and when it went bad—and I mean really bad—Andy had paid dearly, just as I had. Time, I was learning, was the only healer.

            A sudden rap at my door raises my hackles. Laughing it off, I rise from the bed. “Andy, can’t you take a hint?”

            The cool silver of the doorhandle is smooth, distracting, against my palm, and as I open the door, the smile falls from my face.

            “Told you you’d see me again.”

            Henderson’s gloved hands form a sinister backdrop for the glinting metal peeking out of a concealed holster. Rattling off a silent remonstrance of I knew I shouldn’t have come here, I search around for anything to ward off my impending doom. Nothing. The room, with its cheerful floral accents and vases of exotic tropical flowers, provides nothing. I know I could jump for the phone. But he’d be too quick. Our eyes meet.

            “You don’t have to do this.” To my ears my voice sounds little more than a whimper. Something inside me snaps—I am not vulnerable, I think. I’m Melanie Justice. I am strong. I will go down fighting.

And then, taking a breath, I lunge at Henderson.

            The beat of canned island music pours through the hotel windows. The corridor is empty except for Henderson and me as we struggle. I could call for help, but I know everyone is out watching the last vestiges of the orange-hued sunset. They’ll lie back with a cool drink in hand, maybe sway to the beat of the music. And I’ll be here. Someone will find me, alone in the corridor. It’ll be a pro job. No one will ever know what happened...except for Andy. Wrenching Henderson’s grip from me, I shake my head sadly. I don’t want Andy to be the one to find me this way.

            “Playing hard to get, Justice?” Henderson’s rank breath washes over my face. He laughs, and sensing a split second of vulnerability, I take my shot. Monopolising a few choice self-defence moves, he weakens and stumbles back. He’s on his back, and before he can rise, I reach forward and grab the stun gun from his holster.

            It’s now or never.

            Six hundred thousand volts, and Henderson’s down. He convulses violently and then, finally, splays out on the carpeted floor.

            “Nice work.”

The voice is from behind me. I turn. “Andy! You could’ve helped me, you know!”

            He takes the stun gun from my shaking hands. “You, Mel, can take care of yourself. I always knew it. Now you’ve proved it.”

            “I guess I can.”

            Andy smirks. “Just not too often, I hope.”

            “Never again,” I reply. “As of tonight, I quit!”


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Author: Amaranta DeBrefny

Contributor: Eric Suhem

- -
Alma sat in the kitchen at the rickety Formica table, wearing a faded pink bathrobe, flicking ashes from her cigarette into a cracked cup of cold coffee, the crack running through a scenic mountain panorama on the cup. The clock said 5:38 a.m. and the crossword was half done as she stared at the tattered curtains. In a couple of hours, she and Mel would go to the coffee shop, as they did every morning. The coffee shop had a large lit cup of coffee situated above its roof, though cracked and fading bulbs gave it an odd, decaying appearance. In the torn plastic booths, she and Mel would make their breakfast orders: a poached egg, coffee, and toast for Alma; pancakes, bacon and coffee for Mel.

Alma and Mel lived in an apartment on the 2nd floor of the Palm Vista Village on a slightly seedy, wilted-palm tree street in Los Angeles. Alma griped about the neighborhood, but Mel would just smile, saying “One day we’ll go on that vacation you want!” before heading off to work at one of the El Segundo aircraft factories. Only four more years to retirement.

On a hot, sweltering Tuesday morning, Mel had a hunch. He entered the bank as soon as it opened, requesting a withdrawal of his life’s savings. After a considerable delay of paperwork, Mel left the bank with the money. He arrived at their apartment, where Alma was vacuuming the worn, faded carpeting while watching television. “C’mon honey, we’re going to the track!” yelled Mel, changing into his lucky Hawaiian shirt. Alma looked up from her vacuum, annoyed. “I got a hunch,” said Mel, giving her that light wink of the eye that she loved. He showed her the travel pamphlet he’d been reading.

They got into their battered Toyota Camry and drove out to Hollywood Park. Alma looked askance at the burlap bag Mel clutched as they walked to the ticket window. “Number 7 to win in the 5th race,” said Mel, pouring all of their money out of the burlap bag onto the scratched steel counter. The man at the window squinted briefly and gave Mel his ticket.

A creaking, rusting hulk built in the late 1950’s. The last either of them remembered was lounging on the main deck, each drinking a ‘yellow canary’, the specialty of the ship’s bar. The horse they had bet on days ago, Number 7 in the 5th race, had won, and they’d collected the winnings quickly. They’d celebrated with a couple of chili dogs at a food stand, Mel staining his Hawaiian shirt. Mel and Alma had followed the directions on the vacation pamphlet, and boarded the majestic boat in San Pedro, ready for the “vacation of a lifetime”.

Mel thought he remembered a couple of dark figures approaching him on the deck and holding a chloroform-soaked cloth to his face, but he wasn’t sure. He and Alma both awoke on the ice floe, the ship nowhere in sight. As the large chunk of ice approached land, Alma and Mel saw dozens of television screens, some affixed to the sides of buildings, some lodged in hillsides, some floating in the water near the shore. All of the television screens displayed large eyeballs staring back at Mel and Alma. The ice floe drifted to the shore. A man in a dark sweater and goggles was digging in the sand when he saw the ice approaching, he threw up his hands and yelled “Hallelujah!” He ran toward Mel and Alma as the floe slid onto the sand. “Our leaders have arrived!”

“Where are we?” asked Alma, dazed and staring at an eyeball on the television screen at the end of the beach. As Mel and Alma looked further at the hills beyond the beach, they saw numerous television screens lodged into the dirt, each screen displaying an eyeball. Mel bit his lip, thinking about the vacation they could have had, described in that other pamphlet. Alma stared into the eyeball, entranced.


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Eric Suhem lives in California and has spent a lot of time in El Segundo.

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Author: Eric Suhem

Contributor: Brent Rankin

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This was hell. The crumpled rejection slips he held were hell. How many times he’d submitted the same story to this ungrateful magazine? Twenty? Thirty times? “Your story doesn’t fit our motif…” “Too risqué…” “Too short…” Too long…” Every conceivable reason for turning down his story. All this humiliation for four cent a word.

But they would publish it. He’d change a word here, a phase there. He’d mail it off, again. They had to publish it!

“Please quit sending us this drivel. We’ve rejected it numerous times for numerous reasons…”

Another change here. Delete a sentence there. He sent it off again.

“Sir, enough is enough. We will publish this trash when hell freezes over!” Curt, to the point, abrupt, but wrong. He knew they were wrong.

So, sitting at his keyboard, he wrote. And wrote. He wrote some more. Changed a noun here, a verb there. Same story, same theme. When his landlady knocked at his door, asking if he had his rent, he growled. “Tomorrow! Tomorrow!” He clattered at the keyboard.

“When Hell Freezes Over. This is our final reply!”

He was so livid that he hadn’t noticed summer becoming fall. He ate rarely, drank only when thirsty, and it was rum on the rocks when he did.

That one word, one sentence. He’d find it, write it, and be published. He sent it off again.

Fall had become a brutal winter when the Editor scanned his latest manuscript. He oh-hummed…

Wait. He read it again. He hadn’t noticed that one tickling phase that tied everything together. Why, this story was amazing! The characters were maudlin and the plot trite, but there was that something that worked. The story was…beautiful! Why, of course, he’d publish it. And so, he dashed off a letter of acceptance to the writer, with an enclosed check for four cents a word.

It was a very brutal winter. When the landlady found the writer’s frozen carcass sitting at the keyboard, she grimaced at the icy grin the writer had, his frozen fist gripping the letter of acceptance and the check for four cents a word.


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"It's what writers do."

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Author: Brent Rankin

Contributor: Martin Goulding

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Claus got a text message from a botany associate that something had been eating the wild orchids on Mount Hedlow. He kept a close eye on anything to do with this area, so even this got his attention and impelled him to a quick climb to see what was going on.

A bit of background: Claus had been studying The Epic of Gilgamesh since the 1970s and after many years of research, felt he had located where the events depicted in the mythological tale had occurred. He’d recently published a paper on it, and as expected, it was rejected by almost all his peers. Claus was generally seen as a nutter and a holocaust denier.

The Epic of Gilgamesh has two themes: The fact that all mortals die and a universal and ancient flood. Most people would have no problem with either of these possibilities. Claus disputation was where the events depicted, occurred. All scholars posit the area associated with the fable to be Middle East; whereas Claus is emphatic it was on Mt Hedlow, in Upper stony. Upper Stony is exactly 1000 miles from Anywhere, the nearest town.

Claus moved quickly up the rutted path toward the summit of Mt Hedlow and easily found the culprit; it was Happy Hammond, the only steer to ever escape from the Hard Knocks Slaughterhouse. Claus did not know the steer was a cult hero, a creature of great intelligence and courage. He just saw him as an environmental vandal, eating wild orchids on Mt Hedlow.

Before either of them could enter into dialogue, a massive roar began in the distance, it grew immensely loud and both Happy and Claus looked to the horizon. A Tsunami wave had hit the coast and was moving inland. At that moment Claus’s phone played his text message alert. It said:

[Warning]Tsunami wave up to 800 meters seek high ground urgently]

Claus did the math and checked his altimeter phone application. It indicated an altitude of 750 meters, 50 meters short and he didn’t like getting wet.

He estimated from the speed of the wave, Happy and he had around 60 seconds to gain 50 meters in height, presently they were just below the mountain ridge.

Claus decided on immediate an drastic action, he pulled the #3 small dog taser from his black army disposal shoulder bag and instantly thrust himself into the air and onto Happy’s bony back, hitting his rump with the charged taser. The startled steer bucked and flew up the mountain path at remarkable speed. Claus clung to his neck and hairy back and rode it out.

The Tsunami was nearly upon them and deafening, they had gained over 100 meters in altitude by the power of Happy Hammond’s speed and dexterity. From the safety of Happy’s back he watched the massive wave approach, incredibly two surfers were visible riding the wave, he grabbed his binoculars and zoomed in; both of them had black T-shirts on with “Wipe Out IS Death” written, with a white skull and crossbones underneath.

Claus instantly recognized these guys; they were the post-modern and true heroes of Gilgamesh. They were god like figures with courage and power as great as the original and ancient ones. They were hooting and screaming with awesome bravado, just audible above the roar. 

Claus wept at the sight of them; he had seen true mythic figures with his own eyes. In an instant they were gone, the wave passed and the great flood followed and remained for two weeks. Claus was forced to eat wild orchids with Happy Hammond. He recorded the events by chiseling them into stone tablets, leaving them on the summit for posterity to find.

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Martin Goulding is Australian writer who enjoys creating the unusual to the bizarre (but always entertaining).He is in the process of writing enough material for a collection in the next 12 months. That's the plan.

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Author: Martin Goulding

Contributor: Saul Jennings

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The thin tin melody of the van rang around the village sending a musical invite into all the people's houses. In those very houses the grown-ups faces shone in joy; they looked wide eyed at each other and then imploringly at the children “Can we, can we?”.

"Go on then", sighed all the children, with eyes raised to the heavens in mock despair. The little rounded van stopped on the street corner, slid open its window at the side of the van and the grown-ups all queued up.

From inside a large happy man appeared, dressed in white with a big bushy beard and a crisp, clean hat at an unusual angle.

"What can I get you", he boomed at the woman at the front of the queue, whose long grey hair was scraped tight in a bun.

"I'd like the first ice cream of summer", she said coyly and the man passed her an ice cream. She took hold of the ice cream and

the sun was so warm but the grass was cool under her toes which were wet from the paddling pool and the ice cream was melting as fast as she could lick it but she didn't mind as it was funny not sad and she was laughing and the grown ups were laughing too and her sides ached at the fun of it all

"And how about you", said the bearded man to the next in line, a man in an aging suit, long, long out of fashion.

"I'd like my birthday party", said the tired looking suit and he was passed a balloon. He took hold of the balloon and

there had been games and cake and now running in the garden and all his friends were all here all at once and he had been the special boy and there was the new spaceship he’d got this morning and he had not even played with yet and he ran around shouting at the top of his voice at the joy of it all

"And you then", said the voice from the van and the next in line looked around then at his feet, started to speak and stopped. Then he said quietly "I'd like a nice sunny day".

"Really", said the man in the van warmly, "or did you want something else?"

The nervous man leaned in to the van and hissed quietly "I want the spider" and so he was given a jar. He took hold of the jar and

the spider had been caught quickly like he was a great hunter and he saw one leg was gone already so he pulled another off and looked to make sure no-one was watching because it was bad and the spider probably hurt but he pulled off more and more legs and his heart pounded at the horror of it all

The queue was long but so was the day and everyone patiently waited their turn. So all the grown-ups got a special memory and everyone had a most wonderful afternoon.


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My name is mostly Saul Jennings. I live in Greece and work throughout Europe and write Weird Fiction.

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Author: Saul Jennings