Contributor: Gary Clifton

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Freddy and Jimmie Bob sat on Freddy's back porch, chugging shots of shine, chasing it with Budweiser. The air at dusk was still sticky with humidity, but the temperature had dropped and mosquitoes weren't bad yet. The old man shuffled up through the trees in the fading light.
"Hey, Arthur," Freddy said. "Meet my brother Jimmie Bob...plumber up in Hot Springs, drove down to visit." Freddie circled his ear with a finger and pointed his chin at Arthur. Jimmie Bob nodded understanding.
"Hot Springs," the old man struggled up the steps. Ancient, with a permanent forward stoop, his bushy hair and scraggly beard had dodged the comb for months. "Must be sixty mile."
"More like 97...this far into Louisiana here," Jimmie Bob scratched his nose with the back of a hand and took a hit of shine.
Freddy, with more tattoos than teeth, grunted over his huge gut as he reached into a cooler at his feet. He handed old Arthur a Budweiser and pointed to a wicker chair.
"Plumber, huh," Arthur slumped in the seat. "Gotta leak in my kitchen. You fix it, I could pay...maybe later." The old man filled his mouth with beer.
"Got no tools...on vacation." Jimmie Bob swatted an insect and drunkenly spilled shine in his lap.
"Maybe come back tomorrow?" The old man looked over half glasses perched on his nose.
"Told ya. Crazy as hell," Freddy whispered.
"Whut's that? Gettin' crazier 'n hell?" Arthur echoed, his belly laugh like tearing cardboard. "Cain't hardly hear a damned thing.” He cupped a hand to his left ear.
"Brain's prolly pickled." Jimmie Bob tossed a dead soldier into the darkness. "You 'member how nuts grandpa Chadsey got?"
"Maybe oughta to be in a home," Freddie said He glanced at Arthur out of the side of his eye.
"Home? Gotta leak in my home. Iffen you come fix it, I'd pay you when I get my check," Arthur said. "You maybe come back down from Little Rock?"
"Oh for God's sake," Freddy roared. His beer-belly quivered like jello. "Looney old fool. Jimmie Bob's on vacation. He ain't gonna do no plumbin' on vacation...an' he livin' up in Hot Springs...not no Little Rock"
Arthur drained his beer and flipped the can into the weeds. He peered wistfully at Freddy's cooler. "Did I ast if y'all knowed a plumber?" Arthur cackled. The vacant eyes didn't match his lively laugh.
"Damnation, old man, lemme see what kinda tools I got in the truck." Jimmy Bob stood. Unsteady, he leaned on the frail porch railing. "You got any pliers, Freddy?" Tall and skinny, he slugged down a double shot of shine. Excess whiskey dripped off his thin goatee.
“Dammit, Jimmy Bob, you got no need to…”
“Aw hell, he sorta makes me think of Uncle Chadsey. You live long ‘nough, you gonna get old too.” He moved down the steps and turned toward his old pickup.
Arthur, grinning, shuffled over and snagged another beer.


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

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Author: Gary Clifton

Contributor: P.M. Brandvold

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My mother and father met on New Year’s Eve at an office party. They were drunk and lonely, which is almost certainly a requirement for attending such a party. Mother was 27, and the receptionist of some CEO on the top floor. Father was a 29 year old accountant on the fifteenth floor. By all laws of the universe they should never have met. But fate was with me as I tried to enter the world.

My recipe: an empty office, a desk cleared in haste, and a lot of tequila. My mother found out soon after. My father knew shortly after that. He wasn’t happy. He never really was happy, though I think he just hated his job because, let’s face it, nobody wants to get with an accountant. They might catch boring.

There were fights after that. They were constantly yelling, though they avoided each other for the most part. But when they were together, it was a storm of persuasive tones turned to angry shouts. Father didn’t want me, and Mother didn’t know what she wanted. She couldn’t be a single mother on her receptionist salary. She didn’t know if she could even handle motherhood. Father won her over.

My curse is that I existed when I should not have. The punishment for my crime is watching the world from without, never entering it. I can see my ghost. My future echoes show me what I could be, but none of it will happen. I watch, a child born of the short spark of lust.


- - -
Phillip Brandvold is a writer and musician based out of St. Paul, MN. He is currently attending school at Concordia University, St. Paul.

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Author: P.M. Brandvold

Contributor: Beth J. Whiting

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Mr. Sawyer needed to rest his body so he took his brain out on the front porch. After resting he went to the front porch to get his brain back and he saw that it had disappeared.
He asked the neighbor across the street if she saw anything.
The neighbor was an elderly person like himself. She was rocking in her chair, crocheting.
“I saw some kids who were playing soccer take it with them. They were kicking it around.”
“WHAT?” He yelled.
“Yeah they were kicking it like a ball.”
He was nervous and fidgeting.
“Did you see where they went?”
“They went to play out in the park.”
The park was only a block away. Mr. Sawyer anxiously walked to the park, cursing the boys.
The park was large and green. He saw two boys there. He knew it must have been them so he yelled to the boys.
“Where did you put my brain?”
“Oh that. We got tired of it. It’s by the tree in the shade.”
He walked across the field to the tree in the corner. He found his brain and it was covered with ants.
He wanted to yell at the kids but decided it would be useless. If they were willing to play with someone’s brain, they wouldn’t learn anything from a lecture.
He looked at it. Mr. Sawyer sighed. He would have to take it to the brain doctor tomorrow to get it cleaned and polished


- - -
I was born in 1983. I live in Mesa, AZ. I was born to a family of brainy eccentrics.

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Author: Beth J. Whiting

Contributor: Jade Kolbo

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The service was nice. An old man with a wrinkled tie had read the eulogy. In the front of the tiny chapel, old ladies had patted their eyes with handkerchiefs, careful not to mess up that cheap red lipstick and blue eye shadow. Most people paying their respects had left their children at home, much to the relief of the grieving family who had ached for some peace. There had been no coffin or urn in front of the altar. They had to go without saying their goodbyes to something they could physically see.

Mutterings of the latest news in the investigation had circulated throughout the dim room by the end of the service. Some people had made comments saying that the family should have waited for the body to be found before planning a major service. Others had mentioned that the family needed some kind of closure and had every right. A select number of people had said at least some of the family members must have been the ones responsible since no other suspects had been found.

The grief-stricken family seemed like they had tried to ignore any gossip that had been making its way throughout the room. The father had tapped his foot in a clear state of agitation. The mother had held on to the sobbing kids. At the end of the service they had revealed the headstone that would mark the empty grave. "He doesn't lie here, but we loved him anyway."


- - -
Jade Kolbo studies Journalism at Concordia University, St. Paul.

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Author: Jade Kolbo

Contributor: Kristina England

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Mary turned the corner onto Contel Street. Her feet hit the pavement in careful strides. Every few minutes, she winced.

After 5 miles, she stopped and leaned against a street sign. She bent over and massaged her left leg.

"Come on, baby. You can do it."

The truth was that Lefty wasn't a baby. She was more like a worn-out house wife. If she could talk, she would have told Mary to go take a walk, but not in the literal sense.

Lefty let out a tired sigh that ran along Mary's nerves.

Mary winced again.

"Okay, that's enough for today."

Lefty sighed again. She could feel herself giving out, the fall that came with it. She didn't bother to warn Mary. They had been here too many times before.

Nothing Lefty did could stop Mary, short of going limp for good. And Lefty really didn't care for that option, but what choice did she have?


- - -
Kristina England resides in Worcester, MA. Her writing is published or forthcoming at Extract(s), Gargoyle, The Story Shack, and other magazines.

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Author: Kristina England

Contributor: Chris Sharp

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Ten years ago, they had each been on the high school state championship wrestling team. The three of them agreed to have a lunch a month before their momentous tenth high school anniversary. It was Anthony who said that the lunch would serve as an elixir of youth for them, since even though they were each only 28 years old, they were already missing some of the irresponsibility that went with their high school years.

They settled on the Islands restaurant in Old Town Pasadena for their meeting. It was the one restaurant to assure Anthony that the waiters and waitresses would wear shorts and talk to them like they were the place’s party hosts. As expected, Anthony was the first to be at the scene. He was also the first one to secure the alumni directory to get the right phone numbers

Anthony had been the only one among the party to reach the semi-finals of his weight division in the state wrestling championship. His friend Chuck had reached the quarter-finals, and that had been no surprise. The big surprise was Jeff reaching the quarter-finals. No one on the team had predicted this, not even the generally optimistic coach. And yet with the greatest wrestling match of his life, Jeff had piled up enough points for his high school to win the state trophy.

After Jeff arrived last to the table, they all ordered the same hamburgers and fries. Then Anthony picked on Chuck’s left ring finger and said, “Oh a ring of despair, caught in the marital lair.” Chuck pointed to Anthony’s ring as well. “You must be talking about marriage for everyone else,” Chuck said.

They both had to look at Jeff’s ring finger next, with its suddenly glaring lack of a wedding ring. “But Jeff’s holding out on us,” said Anthony.

Jeff laughed as if that were a way of saying something back.

After that moment, Jeff believed he had somehow conjured up a fence between him and his companions. Inside that fence, the lunch was taking place, but then nothing was happening around Jeff. He sat there, alone.

Anthony was talking about his new job as an instructor of biology at a state university. Then Chuck spoke of his recent days as an associate district attorney in the county.

“So where are you these days, Jeff?” Anthony said, looking at Jeff abruptly.

From the beginning, Jeff was aware that this issue would come up sooner or later, and he was happy that it came this early.

“To tell you the truth, I’ve been in and out of mental wards,” he said.

“What?” said Chuck?

“You have become a psychologist?” said Anthony.

“No. I’ve become a certified psychotic.”

Then the other faces froze, but there was coolness in the freezing. There were dimples on the other men’s faces that stayed on hold for the rest of the presumed joke.

Jeff decided to get out the reality of his issue with a few sobering details.

“When I was a freshman at UCLA, I took on a coveted campus job right in the middle of the administration building. Then I signed on for too many classes my very first semester. I should have seen what was happening when I couldn’t sleep at night, but I chose denial. When I heard voices in my head in the middle of a class I told myself it was just being half-asleep with rapid-eye-movement dreaming. That was the beginning of my first nervous breakdown.”

Anthony visibly lost some of his coolness to replace it with clear irritation over what was happening to the lunch. “That isn’t like the Jeff I knew,” he said at last.

“No, Anthony, that isn’t the Jeff you knew. You only knew my little boy.”

“What’s this now? You have a little son now?’

“I had a little boy, the one you knew in high school and you’re confusing me with him. He did things I could never do myself. But on the other hand we had some key things in common.”

“Wait, wait, wait. You’re seeing the Jeff you were ten years ago as your little son or your little boy now. Is that part of your psychosis? Or is that word ‘psychosis’ really the one you want to use, Jeff, in order to tell us that guy who won that state championship for us wasn’t you.”

“Of course it wasn’t me. All I can do these days is go in and out of psychotic episodes.”

Jeff was starting to feel badly now, not only for himself but because he was clearly slowing down everyone else’s celebration. Then Anthony and Chuck changed the subject, bringing up others they had gone to school with a decade ago. Jeff decided to hide himself behind his food and drink until the lunch was over.

“Goodbye,” he said to Anthony and Chuck.

He went back to the same house where the little Jeff had lived when he had become a local wrestling star. On a table in the boy’s bedroom the old high school yearbook sat in the place of prominence. Immediately Jeff turned to the pages about the wrestling season where the little Jeff by consensus of the team held up the state trophy.

“Just because I’m so proud of you, Jeff,” he said, purposefully aloud, “it doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks of me.”


- - -
Chris Sharp has numbers of flash-fiction short stories in Linguistic Erosion, Yesteryear Fiction, Weirdyear, and Daily Love as well as longer fiction listed by Google under “Short stories by Chris Sharp.” His book “Dangerous Learning” is being distributed by Barnes & Noble.

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Author: Chris Sharp

Contributor: Jennifer Pauk

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The camera slowly moved in on her face, capturing the raw emotion. The tall, gorgeous blonde was now the focus of the camera. The tears fell freely from her face as she stared off into the distance. Her eyes were red and puffy, her face a mask of pain. This was the moment where everyone got close to her. They felt the pain as she was feeling it and they were a part of her. They knew her. The camera stayed on her face for a few more moments as a flicker of determination appeared in her eyes. The tears slowed and her face focused, fully determined now.
“Cut! That was good, everybody take five,” a male voice yelled.
The actress’s face abruptly changed. Her previously tear-streaked face now merely appeared bored. She stalked off the set toward me, and without even looking me in the eye she demanded, “Get me a water, now! Make yourself useful, you are supposed to be my assistant.” She continued walking and plopped down on a couch fanning herself with her hand, her head held high and nose in the air.
My eyes followed her, but not in admiration like many of her fans. I turned only to glare at her, but she never saw it because her head was too far up in the clouds and I wasn’t worth a glance.
In filmmaking, a close-up shows intense detail. It is often used on a person’s face, the camera gets really close at the same time as the audience gets close. The audience gets to truly see the person and experience emotions with them. The audience gets an accurate picture of the person’s life. The close-up takes the audience into the mind of the character.
The thing is, people don’t really get an accurate view. They don’t see the spoiled actress, demanding things from everyone. They don’t see her showing up late and hung-over every day and me getting blamed for it. They don’t see me picking her up at least three times a week from some random bar or party so slobbering drunk her eighteen-year-old self can barely stand, much less walk in her expensive, designer, skin-tight outfit, and three inch heels. They don’t see the people, like me, working constantly to cover-up her actions that could cause bad publicity.
If I was a filmmaker, I would show it all. Such as, her currently yelling at the director, right up in his face, demanding he work around her schedule and do things she wants to do, when she wants to do them because if he doesn’t he will lose his actress. Or last week, when she threw a steaming hot cup of coffee on one of the camera men because he accidentally bumped her with the equipment he was carrying. I would show the things people don’t see because they should see them. People think they are seeing reality, but they are seeing a fake image. That fake image is what they base their image and their lives on—a false reality.
“Alright, everyone let’s take the close-up again.” The director called, “Remember, we really want to get a good view of the emotion she is going through—we want to see the real her.”
If I were a filmmaker, the close-up I would show is the real her: her sighing and rolling her eyes with her arms crossed, refusing to get up and start the scene.
I slowly approached her and handed her a glass a water, then turned to go before she could complain. I had no desire to be close to her—I would let my camera do that.


- - -
I am a student a the University of Northern Iowa. I love reading, writing, playing sports, and watching movies.

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Author: Jennifer Pauk

Contributor: Beth J. Whiting

- -
Claire had lost her brain. She only had enough cognitive ability left to get it back. She lost her brain during an accident and her life was hard to live without it. She could barely get through the simple routines of her job and her day.
She had an investigator look into it.
Claire explained the situation, “I lost my brain in an accident. I need to get it back.”
The woman, who wore thick glasses and had her hair in a French braid said, “I understood that you had a mental illness.”
“Yes.”
“Which one?”
Claire didn’t like the way the woman stated it. She treated mental illnesses like they were ice cream flavors to choose from.
“OCD.”
“We can find you a brain. A better brain. A brain without disease or even a smarter one if you prefer.”
“No thanks. I just want mine back.”
She wouldn’t be herself without her own brain. However, at the same time Claire was getting desperate. Another brain would do. Besides, maybe it would be better to have another one to choose from. She could pick a more equipped brain and definitely one that didn’t have any disadvantages to it. At the moment though Claire was sticking with her own.
“We’ll have to search for yours then. There are a variety of places to choose from. We’ll have to show you around where the brains hang out. Then if they aren’t there we will personally look through the harder places. Usually lost brains tend to stay in the easier to find lost and founds.”
Claire hoped hers was being patient like that.
Claire was a tall skinny thing with long blonde hair and brown eyes. She was a first grade teacher of average intelligence. You definitely needed that, at least patience.
She walked into the restaurant wearing a long black skirt and white pants. The secretary was behind her wearing a gray business suit. Claire noticed that she had a twisted nose.
“This is one place where the brains meet. It’s a restaurant called The More.”
It looked like an Italian restaurant. It was painted red. There were small framed still-life paintings of fruit on the walls. Brains were all seated around eating spaghetti. They had napkins at the end of their brains.
Claire found one brain with a fork stuck in it. She asked the secretary about that one.
“That one just got a bit frustrated. Some wait so long for their owners they just go berserk.”
“Well they look like they have appetites, but none of them look like mine.”
Claire didn’t know how she knew. It was just intuition. She didn’t know what her brain looked like. However Claire was sure that she would know when she came upon her brain.
They went through the soup kitchen, through shelters to find her brain. The secretary almost gave up on Claire. But one day while walking through a dark cold alley Claire found her brain in a slimy dumpster. It was covered in ice. It looked sad and cold.
Claire took it in her arms and wrapped it in her sweater.
“I’m so glad to find you.”


- - -
I was born in 1983 to a family of brainy eccentrics. I write stories about outcasts in unique situations. I live in Mesa, AZ.

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Author: Beth J. Whiting

Contributor: John Laneri

- -
Tyrone Freeman walked into my office on a Friday afternoon just as I was ready to leave with my wife, Carrie, who by the way works my front desk.

Right off, the man pissed me off. He was mid-thirties, loaded with jewelry, and arrogant as hell. From his manner, I suspected that he was living on the edge, perhaps even dealing drugs. I disliked him immediately.

“Hey dude, that's a cute chick you got working out front.”

“That 'chick' is my wife,” I replied, as I pointed to a chair, noting that my relationship didn't seem to faze him in the least.

After five minutes of rambling on about nice looking women, he went on to say, “Some girl accused me of rape... said if I didn't pay her five thousand, she'll file charges. Claims she has a doctor's report.”

“That could be a serious charge.”

“But, I'm innocent. Well... innocent enough.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

He looked around the office. “Impressive place... probably cost some real scratch.” Turning back to me, he asked, “What kind of money you charge.”

In an effort to hear his story, I replied, “Whatever it takes to have a jury declare you innocent. That is – if I decide to take your case.”

“Money's not a problem. I have a big house and plenty of play money.”

“Then, tell me why you're... 'innocent enough'.”

From there, he went on to elaborate a typical account of boy meets girl in a bar, and then ultimately ends up being accused of rape – typical for meat heads like Tyrone.

Interrupting him, I asked, “Did you know the girl?”

Tyrone cleared his throat then said, “ I'd seen her around. But you have to believe me when I say, I'm innocent. She was all over me from the minute we met... couldn't wait. Personally, I like to go slow, build up the romance – know what I mean?”

“I don't care if you are innocent or guilty. My job, as an attorney, is to clear the matter before she changes her mind. Maybe, she's playing you for money, maybe not. Maybe she just wanted sex. Maybe you pissed her off. Maybe you really did rape her. But, you need to know that I run the show. And, if I decide to take your case, consider yourself a paying bystander that keeps his mouth shut.”

He pondered that point and said, “You're a heavy dude, but here's what I'll agree too.”

“Lay it out,” I replied, just as Carrie stuck her head in the door and asked if she could leave early. I indicated yes and turned back to Tyrone. “Now tell me, what you'll agree too.”

I noticed Tyrone glance over his shoulder and run Carrie's length before saying, “You can handle the show. But, I'll plan the strategy. I've got friends that'll vouch for my whereabouts on the night in question.”

“I don't work that way, but I'll give it some thought. What's the girl's name?”

“Shirleen Parker... she lives in the Longwood Apartments.”

He handed me a slip of paper with her details then stood to leave.

“Sit down,” I directed, pointing to the chair. “If I decide to take your case, you have papers to sign as well as put up a ten thousand dollar retainer for preliminary work.”

Tyrone exhaled a deep breath. “That's a steep number. I'll have to think it over before signing anything. Maybe, I need to talk to her, try convincing her it wasn't rape.”

“My professional advice is to stay away from her. If you're lucky, she'll still settle for five thousand. When done properly, consider it a bargain compared to the alternatives.”

The following morning, I asked an investigator to check out his story. After learning the facts, I decided not to get involved. The physician's report from a local ER indicated that the girl had displayed marked physical abuse including several superficial knife wounds as well as perineal trauma suggestive of a rape. It also stated that DNA samples were pending at a private laboratory.

In my opinion, Tyrone needed to be dealt with by a heavy handed prosecutor.

A few days later, Carrie mentioned that someone had rummaged through her desk during the night. I suggested that we keep closer tabs on security; however, that evening while I was working late, she frantically phoned and indicated that she had seen a prowler in our backyard.

“Lock the doors, and try to stay calm. I'll call the police then head your way. ”

Red lights were already parked in front of the house when I screeched to a stop against the curb.

When Carrie saw me she hurried my way, her blouse hanging in shreds. “It was that Tyrone person,” she said, tears filling her eyes. “He kicked in the door and threatened me with a knife. An officer killed him when he pulled a gun. They say he's a big-time drug dealer.”

I took her in my arms and held her for many minutes thankful that she had not been harmed.

Several days later, as my fury began to subside, I met with Shirleen Parker and suggested that she file a civil suit against Tyrone's remaining estate. With the doctor's report, and a potential DNA match, she might just have a case.

She agreed. We went to court, and she eventually received her five thousand with two additional zeros added to it for pain and suffering – less of course, my forty percent for the effort.

The best part of all, Carrie quickly put the incident behind her, and a few months later, we were cruising the Mediterranean and living it up – thanks to Tyrone's play money.


- - -
John is a native born Texan living near Houston. His writing focuses on short stories and flash. Publications to his credit have appeared in several scientific journals as well as a number of internet sites and short story periodicals.

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Author: John Laneri

Contributor: Harry Noussias

- -
How long were they pounding on the door?

Lately I have been falling into these very deep and disturbing sleeps. I was not lying in bed when I heard the pounding. I wish I was. I was on the floor. How I got there I don’t know. All I know is that when I awake from these sleeps I can’t remember anything.

I did not want to answer the door because I knew what those on the other side would have to say – that I was chosen.

At least sleep allowed me, if only for a little while, to escape the horrifying events that were taking place around the village.

But, why me? I’m not an investigator. And, I’m surely not a hunter. Besides, I don’t even know what to believe about what was happening.

It didn’t really matter to anyone what I thought or felt or believed. The village council voted and I was chosen.

So, I went out as instructed into the woods. And in the very early eerie hours of the morn, when nothing stirred and even the silence was silent, I sat motionless moving not a single muscle as the mist of the fog drifted and swirled and thickened and settled and finally engulfed me.

I did not know fear nor feared what I did not know of those tales of attacks and of a dreadfully frightening howl or of piercing evil eyes that glow in the dark.

Glowing eyes, they all saw glowing eyes.

I came armed only with my disbelief. Perhaps that is why I was chosen.

But the endless wait weighed heavily upon my eyes and soon sleep was beckoning me. No longer did I peer into the vast darkness. No longer did I hear the endless silence.

There was nothing out there, nothing to report, no dreadfully frightening howl, no eyes that glow in the dark, nothing.

There was nothing at all.

Finally sleep, that soothing temptress, took me and we drifted off together for a while. It was just for a little while, only a short while.

There was nothing to fear, nothing at all.

I awoke as the sun rose and returned to learn of more savage attacks and death and those glowing eyes.

I failed. What would people say? I don’t know why they had to choose me in the first place. But, I was the one that was chosen, and I failed miserably. I saw nothing. I heard nothing.

I sat alone sipping my hot brew and pondering all the events.

She was coming again – sleep. From a distance she was relaxing me, hypnotizing me, trying to take me away. But, this time I wasn’t going to invite her in.

It would be just me and the warmth of the black liquid I was drinking. Coffee is good. Coffee can keep me awake.

But as I gazed into my cup of coffee, in my own reflection I could see – glowing eyes staring back at me.


- - -
Harry Noussias is a writer of short stories, plays and poetry. His works may be found in various online and print magazines.

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Author: Harry Noussias