Contributor: Jerry Guarino

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    Times change and we change with them.  Television, movies, clothing, food; you could probably name your own list.  Technology has probably been the most significant catalyst of change.  Think about the cell phone, digital camera and the Internet.  Joey was one of those people who resisted change, someone still looking for phone booths and mailboxes in 2013.
    “I’d like a roll of stamps please,” said Joey.
    “Sorry, we don’t sell stamps anymore” replied the pretty teenager.
    “But it’s Sunday.  The post office is closed.”
    “You can always email,” said the grocery store clerk.
    “I don’t have a computer,” said Joey.  The girl just shrugged a little, not knowing what to say.
    Guess I’ll just go to the library.  Tony figured he could get a book to spend time with.  As he drove into the library parking lot, he noticed designated spaces for fuel-efficient vehicles, school vans and compact cars along the front entrance.  His 1978 Cadillac didn’t fit any of these categories, so he parked in the back and walked up.
    When he arrived, he saw the modern, grey Formica desks in neat rows, at least 50 of them, with black computer keyboards and monitors.  No computer boxes, just thin coated wires running into the floor.  He looked for the library card catalog, but he didn’t see it, not even a Dewey Decimal system sign to direct him to the non-fiction history titles he liked to read.  Hmm.  How about that?
    He walked up to the checkout counter, but no one was there.  What kind of library is this?  He saw people checking out their books by scanning their cell phone over the bar code.  Joey didn’t have a cell phone; in fact he still had a rotary dial phone at home.  Guess I’m just a dinosaur.  The woman walked up to the checkout counter.
    “May I help you?”
    “Yes, I’m looking for books on The Civil War.  I didn’t see the card catalog.”
    “No, sorry.  We replaced those years ago.  You can use the terminals over there.”
    “I don’t know how.  Can you just point me to the right aisle please?”
    “C’mon.  I’ll walk you over to it.  We don’t have many people looking for American history anymore.  It’s good to know someone does.”  The Asian beauty didn’t look like any librarian he remembered.  “Here we are.  Civil War books are on this shelf here.”
    “Thank you” and he watched her walk away.  The books were older, some with broken spines and several with dust on them.  Oh, let’s see.  ‘The Red Badge of Courage’ by Stephen Crane.  I’ve read that.  Maybe something about Lincoln.  What’s this one?   ‘Abraham Lincoln and Civil War America’.  Joey took the book out, hoping the librarian was back at the check out counter.
    She was.  “Hey, you found one.  Yes, this is a very good book.  Give me your library card.”  Joey handed her the card and the librarian quickly scanned the book.  “Here you go.  It’s due in three weeks.”
    “Thank you again,” said Joey.  He walked out of the library, admiring his new book.  
    Turning the corner, he heard a loud honk.  He looked up just as a motorcycle hit him.  Joey fell hard and hit his head.  The next sound he heard was an ambulance siren.
    “Just lie still sir; don’t try to get up,” said an EMT.  He scanned Joey’s head with some space age gadget.  Joey heard beeps and other sounds.  “You’re going to be fine sir.  But we’re going to take you to the hospital to make sure.”
    Joey went in and out of consciousness during the ride in the ambulance.  Meanwhile the EMT monitored his blood pressure and breathing.  He slipped away again as they rolled him into the emergency room.
    A nurse attached an IV bag of fluids to his arm and an oxygen clip to his index finger.  The doctor examined his eyes, pulse rate and other vital signs.  “Do a CBC and keep salts and fluids in him.  His breathing is fine, but let him rest.  Call me when you get the blood count.”  
    The nurse stayed with Joey as he slept, monitoring the heart rate and oxygen levels.  Another nurse returned with the doctor as he scanned the blood count numbers.  He walked over to Joey, just as he was waking up.
    “Mr. Wilson, I’m doctor Rivera.  You were lucky it was a motorcycle.  Otherwise you might be looking at broken bones or worse.  It looks like you just have a concussion, and we’re going to keep you here overnight for observation.  If everything is OK in the morning, we’ll release you and you can rest at home.”
    Joey looked up, trying to focus his eyes on the doctor, still hazy from the bump on his head.  His speech was soft but understandable.  

“Do you sell stamps?”

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Jerry Guarino’s short stories have been published by dozens of magazines in the United States, Canada, Australia and Great Britain. His latest book, "50 Italian Pastries", is available on amazon.com and as a kindle ebook. Please visit his website at http://cafestories.net

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Author: Jerry Guarino

Contributor: Jeremy Levine

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Jeb was puttering along, sitting atop his tractor, its rattling vibrations shaking his gritted teeth. He turned his head skyward, observing a hawk glide across the cloudless sky in effortless circles. While his gaze was distracted, there was a crashing and a clunking, a rumbling under his vehicle.

“Tarnation!”

Jeb tuned off the tractor and jumped down from it, stumbling as he landed on the soft earth. He spotted a flash of red on the brown dirt by the front tire. He rushed forward and knelt down. Sheriff was there, crushed under the wheel, stone dead.

“Ma! I need you!”

Jeb pivoted in his squat, his eye on his home. After a few seconds, Jebʼs wife, Henrietta, was out in the field, her apron billowing in the dusty wind.

“Whatcha need, honey?”

“The dog, Ma, the dog!” Jeb said, a shaking finger pointing at the deceased
canine.

“Oh Lord in heaven, did you do that?”

“I know Ma, itʼs bad. Itʼs bad. I need you to break it to Betsy. Sheʼs a-gonna be home any minute.”

“Why me?”

“”Cuz Iʼmma run across to the Bakers. They just had a litter.”

“So this puppy that youʼre gonna steal was supposedly Sheriffʼs?”

“I donʼt know, Ma, I guess.”

“And Iʼm supposed to tell her that you hit Sheriff with a tractor?”

“No!”

“Then what do I tell her?”

“Make something up,” he said, walking away towards the Baker home.

“Right,” Henrietta grumbled to herself, her head spinning with semi-believable explanatory fictions. “Just leave me to deal with this one.”

There was a mechanical roaring behind her as the school bus kicked up a storm of dust out in the street. The muted pounding of the small, excited footsteps of a Friday afternoon were getting closer.

Henrietta left the field timidly in response to Betsyʼs two note whistle.

“Sheriff!” she called.

Clap. Clap.

“Sheriff!”

“Hi, honey,” Henrietta said, unhitching their squeaky picket gate and kneeling
down to give Betsy a hug.

“Hi Ma! Whereʼs Sheriff?”

“Honey, come on inside, thereʼs something I want to tell you.”

“Ma, whereʼs Sheriff?”

Henrietta opened the aluminum front door, ushering Betsy inside.


“Here, you want some cider?”

The kitchen was a dimly lit room with wooden tables and countertops. Squeaky clean dishes were arranged neatly cabinets with glass windows. Henrietta reached over the barometer for a ladle and began scooping helpings of apple cider into a a pair of glasses. Betsy plopped into a wobbly kitchen chair.

“Honey, I need to tell you something.”

Henrietta placed the two glasses on the faded green tablecloth and sat opposite her daughter.

“Betsy, you know that puppies donʼt always make it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, when a puppy is born, it might get sick and die, which is a really sad thing.”

“Uh huh.”

“Well, the good news is that Sheriff had a baby puppy, and we kept him a secret from you just in case he didnʼt make it.”

“Because I would be sad?”

“Right.”

“But now heʼs gonna be fine?”

“Yes.”

“Yay!” Betsy jumped out of her seat and was dancing around the kitchen. “Now me and Sheriff and... and... and... Deputy! Thatʼs his name! Deputy! Me and Sheriff and Deputy can run around and play together and have so much fun!”

Henrietta got up and wrung her hands, reaching out to Betsy.

“Well, Betsy, actually, thereʼs something else that I have to tell you. You see--”

But Betsy was having none of it, gallivanting around the kitchen, rambling. “We can play fetch and weʼll train Deputy. Sheriff can help because Sheriff is already trained. I wonder if we have enough food. Ma, can we go get some more food? I donʼt want them to get hungry when we have so much to do.”

Henrietta stood up and walked to Betsy, gingerly placing a hand on her shoulder.

“Betsy, you see, there was a problem. We were keeping Deputy at the Bakerʼs house for a few days while we made sure he was healthy. When they were on their way here, a wolf came.”

“A wolf?”

“Yes. You know theyʼve been around the area lately. Sheriff got in front of Deputy, to protect him. The wolf attacked and Sheriff kept him off long enough for Deputy to run away back to the Bakers, but Sheriff didnʼt make it. Iʼm sorry, Betsy.”

“What do you mean, didnʼt make it?”

“The wolf, uh, got him.”

“Is he dead?”

“Yes.”

Betsyʼs lip quivered. Henrietta got up and walked the length of the table, half-
squatting to rub her daughterʼs back. “Shhh, Betsy, itʼs okay to cry. She died doing a good thing, protecting her baby. Thatʼs what a mama always wants to do. And now I donʼt want to see my baby all sad. Come here.”

Betsy buried her head in Henrietta's breast, sobbing into her apron. “Shh, shh, itʼs
okay, itʼs okay.”

The storm door banged open and a clawed scurrying was heard on the wooden floor. Deputy rocketed around the house, crashing into cabinets and walls.

“Hello ladies,” Jeb said, “I brought your puppy home.”

Betsy peeked through a gap between her motherʼs arm and her body to watch the dog bounce around the home. She smiled. Henrietta loosened her hug and Betsy jumped down from her chair and scampered off with the puppy. It jumped up and licked her face.

Henrietta got up and stood alongside her husband.

“How much did the want for the dog?”

“They had too many. There were just giving em away.”

The parents watched their daughter for a content moment, grateful that she
daughter had found another friend.

“I should probably move the tractor.”

“Yeah, probably.”


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Jeremy Levine is a sophomore at Clark University in Worcester, Massachusetts, where he is the Editor-In-Chief of the student newspaper, The Scarlet. He is originally from Long Island, New York.

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Author: Jeremy Levine

Contributor: Victoria Slotover

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I feel like Chicken Licken waiting for the sky to fall down; the unsayable unsaid is heavy in the air about to plummet.

They’ve been busying me into forgetting, or at least trying to. We’ve fed the ducks, been to the shops, baked cakes, but I know it could crash down on my head at any minute and there’s nothing any of us can do to stop it. I hold my breath all day waiting for it to happen, a part of me
wishes it would just so I can stop wondering when it will, but that’s only a tiny part, and at night however much I beg sleep to come and take the worry away, it’s my dreams that stay away instead.

There’s an empty space on my cheek where her kiss should be and I touch my fingers to it as I listen to Grandma and Grandpa shuffling about, going to the bathroom, going to bed. Sometimes I hear one of them get up in the night and boil the kettle. They seem to do that a lot. Boil the kettle. It must be magic or something because it seems to help them stay awake, and get to sleep. I wish I had a magic kettle, then maybe I’d be able to change things, to make everything alright again, to make her
better.

I finally fall asleep dreaming of magic and her and for a brief moment when I open my eyes the spell is intact but then I remember and it breaks. I hear Grandma in the kitchen making tea. Why does it work for her and not for me?

They’ve tried to talk to me, looking at each other not sure who should go first. It’s usually Grandpa. ‘Your mother,’ he says. I run from the room to the bed I can’t sleep in and let go of my tears. For a while as I listen to the sounds of my sobs I stop hearing the thud of my thoughts.

Daddy hasn’t been to see me. He’s been with her. He calls Grandma and Grandpa every evening with updates. That’s what grown-ups call, news. Not the sort of news we write in our weekend diaries at school. That’s good news. This isn’t. This news normally makes the person listening say things like, ‘Ah, I see’ rather than, ‘Oh, how lovely’. He’s tried to speak to me but I won’t listen, I don’t want to hear his news. So each time Grandma tries to pass me the phone I clamp my hands over my ears
and scream.

Daddy hasn’t phoned this evening. I stir the bath bubbles and wonder if no news is better than bad news. I hear Grandpa open the door and then two under water voices in the hall. Getting closer. I cover my ears and start to shriek as Daddy opens the door to tell me that my mother’s dead, but he gets it wrong and says over and over again until I can’t help hearing- I have a new baby brother.


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I write fiction for Mumsense Magazine, and my short stories have been published on The Writer’s Hub and the Short Fiction Collective as well as in the Ham & High. They have been accepted for publication by Smashed Cat Magazine, Bartleby Snopes and Families Magazine.

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Author: Victoria Slotover

Contributor: Ryan Stevens

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Phillie’s used to be the place. There used to be crowds here every night of the week, packed in here like sardines. Used to be, like I said. Now I’m sittin on a barstool by my lonesome, while Phillie himself shines the mugs and makes nice with some wiseguy and his lady all dolled up in red. I wonder what it’d be like to have the old days, the salad days of this place come back again. It’d be different, sure. The patrons have all aged a little, we’re not as lively as we used to be, yeah, but still, what a sight it would be to have the old crowd back in here, even with the extra gray hairs.

It’s so bright in here. Ol’ Phillie’s has these damn fluorescent bulbs that throw fake light all over the place, blasting this harsh glow on every square inch of the place. They bombard the surfaces, hemming in all the shadows to the smallest possible specks of darkness. Behind the counter, low to the ground, there’s a rim of shadow that is completely safe from the lights. Out on the customers’ side of things there’s nowhere for our shadows to hide. Even us non-shadows kind of suffer from these lights. They glint and gleam off of every reflective surface in the damn place. It ain’t so bad in the daytime, when the natural light pouring in from the big windows covering two of the three walls in the place. At night, thought, the transition from natural darkness (even at dusk when there’s still natural light out, just dimmed is all) to this store-bought light is absolute hell on the senses. Not just the eyes. Yeah, your eyes sting with whiplash and you’ve got to do a few blinks to adjust, but it’s more than that. Your ears perk and readjust to the air pressure of the tiny room. Your nose crinkles when you squint in the new light and as a result you get an even bigger whiff of the cigar smoke and the coffee. From that your brain sends a pulse to your mouth, guessing how everything tastes, all because of the lights. And the last sense, touch, that one feels the lights just as much as your eyes do. The hairs twitch, your hair goes ever-so-slightly taut with the tension of transitioning from the real, natural world of shadows and dusk and crowds to this place, all linoleum floors and chrome coffee makers.

I could be eavesdropping on Little Miss Red and Bogart jr.’s conversations over there, every now and then extending to include Phillie, if I wanted to. I don’t want to. I just want to finish my coffee and go home. This place, it really did used to be something. I’m here more than I really should be, and it’s not like I ever plan to come here when I wake up. But over the course of the day I get all misty-eyed and start thinking about those old days when there were more people to talk to besides Phillie himself and Miss Scarlet and her Sharkskin boyfriend, people that were interesting and going places and fun to talk to.

Like I said, I don’t want to listen to that vapid tube of lipstick and Sinatra jr.’s conversation. But in a place this small, with sound bouncing off the three walls mercilessly, no cup of Joe or Sports Page or even a pair of steel wool earmuffs could blot out everything. she says something about “hitting up that new jazz place” and I can see Phillie wilt ever so slightly. I can’t blame the poor guy; that tart just flat out said she wanted to leave this place to go somewhere else, right in front of the owner! No tact, these people.

Not that I can fairly blame her, not really. It is dead in here, tonight and every night the same for God knows how long. At least, that’s how it’s been the nights I’ve been here.

I think about all those old times and I feel like they’re coming back. I really do. I genuinely trick myself, damn near hypnotize my own mind, into thinking that tonight, tonight, Phillie’s comes back. Or rather, people come back to Phillie’s. So I come by, expecting to actually have to wait in line (a problem no one has encountered at Phillie’s in a long time). And that’s never the case. I’ll sit, drink some coffee and read the Sports Page. Phillie’ll polish his mugs near me and we’ll shoot the breeze if it’s an extra slow day, but if someone new strolls in, he latches on like a tick, hoping to convert looky-loos into new regulars. I’m not mad, honestly. If I was him, I’d be doing the exact same thing. After all, for me this is just the hollow shell of a good time. For Phillie it’s the hollow shell of his source of income. Poor fella, nothing by way of legacy but a three-corner shack on a street corner in a past-its-prime part of town. I can’t even imagine that kind of life.


- - -
Ryan Stevens was born and raised on a farm in South Carolina. He found this boring, so now he writes.

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Author: Ryan Stevens

Contributor: Jerry Guarino

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Joey and Sam were watching his sister Susan through the window of Sam’s house next door. They used the telescope Sam got for Christmas; Susan left the window shade open to get some natural light as she got ready for a date.

“What’s she doing now Joey?”
“I don’t know. Putting some kind of cream on her face.”
“I thought she already did that.”
“This is makeup, I think. It’s different.”
“How long does it take?”
“Once last year during prom it took two hours.”
“Two hours! Impossible.”
“I swear it Sam. On my baseball card collection.”
“Well, where is she going?”
“Some dance at the college.”
“The college? But she’s still in high school.”
“What can I tell you? Some guy saw her studying at their library. I don’t think he knows she’s in high school.”
“Do your parents know?”
“No, they think she’s going out with her friends to the high school dance tonight. They would never let her go to the college with a guy. They’re afraid…”
“Afraid of what?”
“You know.”
“No, what?”
“Remember what your Dad told you about how babies are made?”
“Ew! That. Think she wants to do that?”
“I don’t know. It seems that’s what college guys do with college girls.”
“But Susan’s seventeen. Isn’t that against the law?”
“Not if she wants to. I think. How should I know? I’m eleven.”
“Wait, she’s left the room. Probably to get dressed.”
“Sam, you have that Playboy, the one with the college girls?”
“Yeah Joey. It’s under my bed. Why?”
“Those girls, you know. They do it. Let’s see what they wear.”
“That’s some funny underwear. Why is it shiny?”
“I guess that’s so the boy can find them in the dark. What’s that thing?”
“I don’t know. Looks like a dog collar. Why does a girl need that?”
“Beats me. Has a nice pin in the middle, but no way it would hold a dog. It looks more like ribbon.”
“Look, see here. That’s the same dog collar, black with a white pin in the middle. Oh, now I get it.”
“What?”
“Never mind. I thought it was something to hold on a cape, but here’s a girl with just the collar and underpants on.”
“Man. You’re right. Wait, she’s wearing shoes too.”
“Oh, yeah. OK. I didn’t see that. Don’t look like shoes I’ve ever seen before, more like something from a fairy tale.”
“Yeah, like Cinderella. Don’t look comfortable though. Too high off the ground.”
“Hey, your sister’s coming back into the bathroom. Whoa!”
“What, let me look.”
“She’s wearing shiny underwear and one of those collar things. Now she’s putting on a red dress.”
“My turn. Give me the telescope. Oh. This isn’t good.”
“What?”
“She put the collar in her purse. Guess she doesn’t want your parents to see it.”
“Wow. That’s some dress.
“Let me see. Uh oh. That’s the red dress she wore at junior prom, the night she got in trouble for staying out too late.”
“Did she wear shiny underwear that night?”
“How do I know? We were camping in the backyard that day, remember? And we didn’t have the telescope.”
“Yeah, the telescope was a great Christmas present that year.”
“Yeah.”
“So, is she done getting ready?”
“Nope. Now she has to do something with her hair.”
“Her hair is already dry. I saw the hair dryer.”
“Yeah, but now she curls it with some hot thing and some spray.”
“How long does that take?”
“Another half hour. I timed it.”
“No wonder she started at five. It’s six now. When will she leave?”
“Probably not until seven. After she gets dressed, she talks on the phone with her friends. They talk about what they’re wearing and boys and other stuff. I don’t listen too well.”
“And what time is she supposed to be home?”
“Eleven o’clock, a half hour after the dance ends.”
“But she’s not going to the dance. She’s going to the college.”
“I know. But she would be foolish to be out too late, not after prom last year.”
“I’m going to get dinner. You want to come over? We can see her up close when she leaves.”
“OK. Let me hide the magazine first. Mom doesn’t know I have it.”
“Yeah, they never look under the bed.”
“If she did, she would have talked to me about it.”
“All right. I’m going home. Tell your mom you’re coming over to my house for dinner.”
“Hey! If I ask her to sleep over, we can wait till your sister comes home.”
“That’s great. Yeah. Maybe you should bring the magazine, you know, in case we get bored.”
“Yeah. I’ll roll it up in my sleeping bag.”
“Bring two, OK?”
“Yeah, two.”


- - -
Jerry Guarino’s short stories have been published by dozens of magazines in the United States, Canada, Australia and Great Britain. His latest book, "50 Italian Pastries", is available on amazon.com and as a kindle ebook. Please visit his website at http://cafestories.net

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Author: Jerry Guarino

Contributor: Peter McMillan

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Day 1
There was a different guy on the corner. I wondered what happened to the old man.

Day 5
On the second day, the new guy greeted us pedestrians by humming loudly, "Hi ho, hi ho, it's off to work we go!" At first, it was funny, especially for the morning rush, but you were still torn between chuckling and wanting to throttle the mockingbird.

In passing, something about the new guy—I called him Panhandler Pete—reminded me of a homeless guy I met when I was in college. I was visiting D.C. It was on the Mall and we happened to be sharing a bench. He told me his life story, at length and without any prompting. He'd been a psychoanalyst before getting blacklisted. He said he had no regrets though, not of any duration anyway, because he got rid of them by shouting through the fence at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. This, he said, served the additional purpose of securing short-term food and lodging. I dropped a couple of bills in Pete's coffee cup.

Day 6
Monday morning—worst time of day on the worst day of the week—and again we're serenaded past like Disney drones. Not really thoughtful, this new guy. Quite insensitive really. “No money today,” I shouted as I ran past. He had to learn the rules.

Day 26
After a brief settling in period, Monday mornings began to look less miserable and gray. Panhandler Pete's "Hi ho, hi ho" thing didn't vex any more. And he'd taken to entertaining. Last week, he introduced magic tricks. At first nobody stopped, but day by day we got more curious, and we moved closer. By week's end, some of us stood and watched, mesmerized by Pete's show. Meanwhile the traffic light changed again and again. I was late for work three days and missed my performance review ... twice. “Train delays,” I said.

Day 31
Pete showed off a new set of tricks ... making stock picks. He would run through 10 stocks and give his buy, sell, and hold opinions. A beggar predicting the market? It was laughable, except that as he spoke, the language of the Street fell so fluently and melodiously from his lips, he had to be in the know. I couldn't swear it was him, since we'd only ever talked over the phone, but listening to Pete evoked images of my former stockbroker, the fellow who helped me see the need for a second mortgage and a moonlighting job. However, even if it was him, I couldn't exactly beat up a homeless guy. It would be me that got mobbed. Instead, I approached Pete and whispered, “It’s good to see you again.” He smiled.

Day 40
It was brutally cold. I don't know how these people do it, but there he was day like the postman ... of yesteryear. I hadn't forgotten about our possible history, so when I dropped change in his cup, I greeted him by name. The first couple of times he was taken aback, but he got used to it, likely judging me to be no real threat. However, he did stop picking stocks. The magic tricks were out, too. Come to think of it, it might have just been the cold. Now, he was shrunk into a ball to give the wind less to cut into. You couldn't see flesh. It was all tucked away into this snow-encrusted human ball. As I came closer to drop my coins into the coffee cup, which was nearly hidden in the snow, I saw a yellowish stain on the ground. My god! All of a sudden, I forgot everything about why I thought I should hate this man. I reached down and asked whether I could take him someplace warm. He raised his head slowly and choked out words to the effect that I should smile, because it wasn't as bad as it looked.

Day 41
All weekend I hadn't been able to get the image of Panhandler Pete out of my head. I brought a blanket, and not wanting to humiliate him, I gave it to the little girl in the private school uniform I'd seen watching the magic shows. I asked her to give it to him, and when she took it over to him, he turned his head graciously towards her, and I was speechless. It wasn't Pete.

I shuffled over through the snow, and asked what had happened to Pete, and the old man said that Pete was just temporary. The old man had collected a lot of money—he wouldn't say how much—just to give up his spot for 40 days. Pete, he said, had a bet on with some hustlers at the Exchange.

All that was left of Pete's turn on the street was a half-empty Lemon Gatorade bottle.


- - -
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 his first book, Flash! Fiction.

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Author: Peter McMillan

Contributor: Jessica Schmitt

- -
He cracked his knuckles like an instrument. The muffled pops of individual releases was void here. His efficiency culminated in both hands simultaneously flicking away the tensions built in the minutia of his joints. He had that accuracy and efficiency in all that he did with his hands. Today these hands played chess across the room from her. Her knuckles were thin, curved in the bony way that lacks comfort. Not a motherly hand. She clearly played the piano, long fingers like that, it had to be. They didn’t appear to go together and yet they had. Married couples seem to fit after a while. Not in a puzzle piece way but in the way that Sunday afternoons and reruns of your favorite comedy go together. It just fits. You can inhale the comfort, the knowing closeness of two people so in sync.

The first kiss was unexpected. They loved each other that much they knew yet neither could grasp their togetherness. The idea of marrying this person or even being with them seemed foreign and still it happened. Warmth from that authoritative first press of his lips warmed her from her hips up through her shoulders. The core of her being felt solid and bold while her skin became alert to every move his fingers made. The weight of his presence meant more to her than his actual touch. She reached around for him, she had him but it wasn’t nearly as good as when he had her. She thought he could have her forever and really should.

She lay there in the still morning across from his eyes. He looked so different to her lying there. It was as if he was a different creation, one that wanted her no matter how different he looked at seven in the morning with beams of the October sun kissing his nose in much the same way she had done the night before. He couldn’t really know that he had changed in her eyes even though she had done the same in his. It was what he had wanted for as long as he could remember. He chose her long before she knew she had been chosen. This clarity of mind he employed resided kindly in her conscience allowing her to peacefully exist in what he was.

She married him in the rain. That late August storm was ominous. Steel toned skies guarded the heavens against them. Nature disapproved of their union; still they danced in the park. Incompatibility was not their problem. The tension of so much connection scared the natural order of life. When she said yes he grinned. When he said yes she chuckled silently to herself. It was never supposed to be him and yet there she stood having made an agreement with someone she couldn’t not be attached to. Sure there were better matches but none elicited the love that wishes to provide copious amount of unsolicited affirmation to another for eternity.

He looked at her across the car. She was angry with him. He could tell by the way her chin wrinkled that this was anger, a deep and hurting anger. When she was disappointed her eyes sunk deeper into her face than usual and frustration led to a quick darting look followed by quickly raised and lowered eyebrows. A wrinkled chin could not be repaired with a kiss of his, in spite of her fondness for those. She fixed her eyes on the yellow line of the road as each section slipped underneath the wheels. Those wheels gave them another four minutes and seventeen seconds of each other.

He buried her in the sunshine. He had made all the arrangements for that sunny Wednesday as if it was a staff meeting complete with bagels and coffee. On that day he didn’t bother to ask why she was taken from him. She liked little moments. The ones so full of everything that they pulsed in anticipation waiting to combust. He would allow those moments to be her, now that her legs would no longer carry her from their bed to their coffee machine. Her hands would no longer tap out memorized melodies or be thrown up in exasperation with his forgetfulness. Her voice would no longer squeak at the idea of finally taking that trip they had been saving for or murmur kindly over his ear while he avoided leaving their bed to go to work.
He felt it; the feeling of sharing the same coffee mug, not caring that someone else’s lip had touched it. He had already had that lip in all sorts of ways. Scanning that mug for the remnants, the touch of that familiar feeling as if all the ways in which she had loved him would come rushing back to him with the steam. She didn’t come back to him, of course she couldn’t.

He started sleeping on the couch. He thought about the kids they couldn’t have, how just one fraction of her breathing into this world would still make it a worthy place to exist. He waited at the dining room table like a dog waits at the door waiting for the return of someone so necessary to the balance of the world. He wanted the world to turn faster as if going faster could bring them any closer. He wondered if she was somewhere wandering about looking for him in some distant afterlife. Some other dimension where they still existed together is what he hoped for during the day. During the nights she was there. He would hold her memory in his arms and smell her drugstore shampoo on her pillow.


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Jessica Schmitt lives in St. Paul, Minnesota. She currently studies at Concordia University as a double major in Interdisciplinary Studies and English Literature.

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Author: Jessica Schmitt

Contributor: Samantha Seto

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Water brushed the current, greenery invaded my imagination, the sky had perfect clouds, soaring. Sunshine glazed overhead, pond water was murky, diluted filled with colorful fish and spiders. A white heron stood on drifting grass patches, explorers came to gaze down the water, looking for tadpoles. Quietness of pine trees and willows rustled in leaves, cold wind hit my skin. Shadows lined the dock, I could see my reflection in the water, traced the outlines, blueness in my eyes. Sunbathe burned, warmth to soul, frogs croaked, blowing bubbles in gentle blueness. Listening to wind chimes, wooden dock swiftly rocked back-and-forth, like a baby cradle.

The moon caved in. The earth grew dark and dirt flew everywhere. My first instinct: I thought it was a natural disaster. But then people started to disappear into thin air as their bodies evaporated. I ran to seek shelter. Soon enough, I found myself drifting away.

All I could hear was chaos. I reached into my pocket for an Advil but my bare skin had bloodstains. The world was crumbling before my eyes.

The dark cold wind outside almost whipped across my face and burned my eyes. I was crossing a gray-stoned bridge and the dark waters below became frightening. My hair grew dark and wet in the rain. My clothes sunk into my skin. I could barely see the direction the road was taking me.

Streaming white light burst in my eyes before I was gone. Spun out of control. Blackout.

The Mayan calendar never predicted this day.


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Samantha Seto is a writer. She has been published in various anthologies including Ceremony, Soul Fountain, Nostrovia Poetry, Coffee Table Poetry, The Screech Owl, and Black Magnolias Journal. Samantha studies creative writing. She is a third prize poet of the Whispering Prairie Press.

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Author: Samantha Seto

Contributor: Lauren Erath

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Two bells and a pearly button on a purple ribbon, the clinking of such has always given me grief. Even so, Katarina insists that her bracelet is more bearable than my biscuits. Yet no guest has bemoaned my breakfasts, unlike the patter of this impatient pest, the trauma of which proves permanent.
“They’re too soft, like Pirouette, and who would crave a kitten like that?” she asks, analyzing the bread as an artist would a brush’s end.
Bored, Katarina places her thimble on her pinky, with which she clanks the candlestick holders. Her twinkly eyes wander about the worn table cloth. Meanwhile, Pirouette parades atop her shoulder.
“Eternal child, take that cat from your shoulder and don’t tamper with the candlestick holders any longer. We can’t afford another catastrophe like last April,” I shrill amidst my clinking dentures.
“How can someone be troubled by something so silly and simple?” Katarina asks, placing Pirouette on an apple.
The pet poses as if such an action were subtle, while Katarina plays with its purple bow. It matches Katarina’s dress in tone.
“What seems simple and silly to you is nothing less than horrific and cruel to everyone else. Have you forgotten the near forfeit of Ms. Erica’s pulse?” I inquire, wishing I’d have hired that ‘antique collector’ after all.
I snatch Pirouette’s new pedestal, polishing and returning it to the table.
“I can’t recall that incident,” Katarina says, fixing her frills and stroking her wit, “common sense states Pirouette and I couldn’t have been there, which Ms. Erica made most clear.”
“Oh, certainly! Certainly! How much longer must such humor haunt my scant guests and me?” I demand, knowing Katarina will reply gaily,
“It will continue until I’m undoubtedly dead.”
Katarina, bold as ever, chances another clank against a candlestick holder, chuckling as the candle crashes into the crepes.
I sigh, apprehending a cloth from my apron with an arthritic hand, muttering “Your naughtiness is why I won’t light its neglected end.”
The doorbell decrees that raw guests wish to request our residency.
“I’ll get it!” Katarina insists as she masquerades into the main hall with mocking innocence.
“Stop your stomping and sit. I’ll greet our guests!” I say, crossing the room as the clock cries noon instead of nine. “Must you meddle with the hour hand?” I ask my little madam as I clasp the door knob.
“Oh my, come in!” I exclaim, letting in a grim, sickly man stricken by rain.
Hopefully, this one’s mundane.
“May Pirouette and I play in the puddles?” Katarina asks, peering through the shutters, “Perhaps our guest should retire in a relaxing atmosphere. Should we remain he may claim we’re...”
“Yes, before your impatience is more severe,” I whisper, wrapping my sweater on the sneezing sir.
“What was that?” he asks, extracting the sweater and seizing a cask from his coat.
“Oh you mustn’t mind,” I entreat, ushering him upstairs to our handsomest of suites. “I converse with myself from time to time. Since I lost Herald to a tuberculous spine I…”
“Hear that?” my guest mutters, concealing a mucid cough.
“Pa-pardon?” I sputter, aloft the aged staircase, cursing Katarina and her childish haste.
“The screeching. How strange,” he replies, straining his rosen ears, “Too strong and rigid to be mice, I fear. Storm-caused? How odd. Should have picked a sturdier stay I suppose.”
“That’s those blabbering demon-birds. You know, they crowd the courtyard in droves,” I assure, snatching his abhorrent liquor. “Now come along and change your clothes.”
“This room’s air is rather stale,” he states, sulking about the suite like a lake-less loon. “Rather like a tomb…”
“Lone chambers are quite lamentable. Surely your wife would make such solemnness less tangible,” I say, dividing the drapes.
“I’m a bachelor,” he barks, “and will bald before I marry, I swear. This mare isn’t fit for matrimony’s reigns. Besides, women are wearisome as an ink stain. Once they appear, there’s no thwarting them.”
“Oh my!” I exclaim, clutching my chest at what I witness beyond the window. “What the screeching is, you’ll never guess! Surely it isn’t the crows!”
“Stop fretting, such frivolity’s grotesque…by God!” he gawps, galloping off, moaning “Demonry! That damned swing is possessed!” while the stairs shudder at his departure.
“I’d rather ingest every screech of someone who is troublesome and sweet than bear the blatant pounding of a presumptuous, drunken poltergeist!” I cry, gazing out the glass and echoing her laughs as thunder blares and bold lighting shows the impossible to and fro of that phantasmal child, forever known as my darling Katarina.


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Lauren Erath studies Creative Writing at Concordia University Saint Paul. She enjoys writing fiction, creative nonfiction, and poetry

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Author: Lauren Erath

Contributor: Nick Keller

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If ole J.C. could handle getting spiked to a tree, I guess I can handle sitting in this cell for a few years. They say he did it for us. Even for me. Sacrificed himself to save our dumb asses. I never really felt all the redemption I was supposed to feel from that day, though. Oh well, maybe it’ll be different for my brother. After all, I’m sitting in here for him. But that’s our little secret.

He was always the smart one. Real clean cut guy. Went to college, got a degree, snapped up a job making some heavy dough, got himself a little wifey. Hot piece of poon, too. Good for him. Now they got a big home and two little girls. Real slice of the American pie, my brother.

But me — shit, I’m the drop out. Rough around the edges. Tough as rust and don’t take no shit. A little stupid, I guess. Suffer from chronic unemployment, too. Growing up people called us identical. But today, hell, we ain’t nothing alike.

So when I saw Candy approach him at the bar my balls shriveled. That bitch was trouble. And we all knew it. But Ted was new to the place. High class guys like him don’t ever go to Barney’s. Only reason he was here was to meet his brother for a few pints. Why he left with her, I couldn’t tell you. It’s amazing what a little cleavage and micro-brew can do.

We all knew her reputation. Candy was one of those rough-riding types. She didn’t look it, but get her in the sack and she’ll hump like a gorilla. Serious. She liked being pinned and cuffed, too, or smacked around, even whipped with a belt. When she orgasmed she liked being choked out to the point of asphyxiation. Had a fetish for bruises, I guess. Made her feel like an animal. Damn, this end of the world burps up some real psycho-bitches, man. And Candy — she was one.

So after my brother’s tussle with her, all the evidence was there. At first it was just blackmail. But then came the threats. Ted did everything he could to cut it off with her. Changed his numbers. Had a P.I. track her in case she ever found out where he lived, which she did. He had to hustle home from work a time or two to intercept her. I watched his whole life become a series of lies. He was on the verge of losing it all. Shoot, it was his fault. Maybe he deserved it. But my brother was always one for learning his lessons. I knew my sacrifice would be worth something.

So I rented a suit with my last dollar, cut my hair, shaved my face; made myself look like an upstanding milk-toast A-hole, just like Ted. And I met her clean. She was happy to see me, even called me by his name. I told her I’d give her what she wanted. She was all-too-happy to oblige. And boy, I gave her what she wanted. When I strangled her, I strangled her.

I was charged with 1st degree murder. But everyone at Barney’s testified on my behalf. Hell, they all knew her. Painted her up to be a violent lover. Almost insane. A real sadomasochist. But me, I mournfully claimed it was an accidental death. I only wanted to love her the way she wanted me too, I said. Didn’t know it would kill her.

The charges got busted down to 2nd degree manslaughter. When my brother came to visit me in prison that first time, I had a gift for him. The Holy Bible. I told him to read it and give me the full report. Especially about ole J.C. I was curious.

Man, it’s a real bitch being the bad twin. Or maybe I’m the good one. Who knows? I will say this, though. I sure saved his dumb ass.


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Nick has been slinging short fiction for two years, though he's been dreaming about it for much longer. In that time he's nabbed a number of publications as well as several, "Hell no"s. He's a graduate of UNT's film school, has a son that's about to go to UNT's music school, plays the hell out of air hockey and loves a good cheeseburger. He lives in Dallas.

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Author: Nick Keller