Contributor: Foster Trecost

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Alone on the platform, I waited for a train. I stared down the rails until they ran together and wondered what I'd say. Shuffling sounds broke my trance and I turned to see a familiar face. The name Carl Timmons came to mind, along with a hidden cringe.

He kept his distance and I wasn't sure if he remembered me. English teacher at some girls prep. Preppie himself. My hidden cringe was beginning to show.

Jenny was coming home for the holidays; Christmas closed in and I looked forward to spending it alone. I just had to find a way to tell her. The train came and she stepped down wearing that cream-colored beret, of course, and I thought it wouldn't be so hard. I asked if she was hungry.

She fidgeted, looked around, shrugged shoulders.

“There's a place around the corner.” A last meal, I thought.

She noticed me struggling with her suitcase offered to get a cab, even offered to pay--and that was my first clue. Never before had she offered to pay for anything, neither movie nor meal, and certainly not a taxi. “Tell you what,” I said, “you buy lunch and we'll call it even.” I didn't expect her to buy lunch, I just wanted to start a fight. I thought it'd be easier if we were fighting, but she said sure and for the second time, I wondered who I walked with. I'd wait no later than dessert.

She asked for a table in the front, but the hostess took us to the back. After we were seated, she reached to brush away the skeleton of a leaf clinging my collar; her hand grazed my cheek and she jerked it back. She asked about my parents, asked if I was ready for Christmas. Small talk. She knew what was coming, of course she knew. How could she not?

Finally she took off that silly hat and her hazel eyes seemed different. Her turtleneck sweater looked warm and made me feel warm. “I really like school,” she said. “I've got a lot of friends, but it's good to be home.”

And I felt the change. If she'd just put the hat back on; I hated that hat, it allowed me to hate her. But she didn't. Four days till Christmas, plenty time to buy a present, something nice...

A waitress appeared, but Jenny looked toward the window and said she wasn't hungry. I offered a drink, but she asked only for water. She was upset, she'd lost her appetite, so I reached to grab her hand, hoping the gesture might ease her mind, but she lowered them both to her lap and asked if I planned to finish college.

That's when I saw it, an old picture of a man holding a fishing pole in one hand, a big fish in the other. He was proud of that fish and I wondered who he was and if he knew his picture hung in a restaurant, or if he'd gone to college.

“Maybe next year we can take a class,” I said. She lowered her head and I asked, “Aren't you going to college?”

“I can't see you anymore.”

“What?” I asked. “You're breaking up with me?”

“I got accepted to a college in California. Carl-,” she cut herself short, “I mean my English teacher pushed me to apply and I got accepted.”

Carl?

“But it's Christmas. How can you do this at Christmas?”

“I've got to go. Say hi to your parents.” She pulled from her coat pocket the cream-colored beret, styling it down just a bit further on one side. She looked beautiful. This time, when she looked toward the front window, I looked with her and standing there was Carl Timmons. Everything made sense. “Oh, I almost forgot, this is my treat.” She fished a twenty from her pocketbook, laid the bill on the table and tapped it twice. “Merry Christmas.” She grabbed her bag and left.


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Foster Trecost is from New Orleans, but he lives in Germany. His stories have appeared in Elimae, Corium and Metazen, among other places.

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Author: Foster Trecost

Contributor: Judy Hall

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The worst part? I know who I am but I don’t know when I am.
There I am. I am twelve years old, my calico hair cut short. I am hiding in the backyard, in what we call the Children’s Forest and there are birds singing lullabies and if I didn’t know that Daddy is hunting me and he’s more than just angry I would think it is beautiful. But beauty doesn’t enter here. Daddy’s more than furious. There is no word in my vocabulary for what Daddy is except Daddy. Not the good Daddy who is funny and plays pinochle. Not the Daddy who takes us to Sunrise Mall and buys us bandannas from Spencers’ and shakes from Orange Julius. This Daddy is too scary for words and I have made him angry – again – and I have escaped, the quivering but resolute prey, and am hiding in places so obvious he would never look.
I am under a wild cherry tree at the edge of the Children’s Forest. I am wearing a Pac-Man t-shirt and pink panties and it is cold so I cover myself in leaves and dirt and lie down, a death design, only I am listening for the sound of Daddy calming so I can come in again, to find him smiling and asking me to play pinochle or just ignoring me while watching a Mets game. It is the sound of naught or the soft cadence of the TV and running water. My sister pacifies him after I infuriate him. He has said cruel things to her – slut and whore and lazy and useless – that I can’t allow so I bait him and he comes after me, his fists like anvils and his reach so, so long and I run. Then, when he can’t find me to batter me, to pummel me anymore, then my sister says sweet, soothing words and fixes him a drink in a Big Green Glass and then sits looking at her feet until he calms down.
That’s what I imagine. I don’t know. Maybe she hides too. I never asked her. But he always has a Big Green Glass when I come back and she is always there.
I make up stories to pass the time in the Children’s Forest, named this by my sister and me in the time before time, before we can remember because now that’s the name of this quarter of the huge yard, almost an acre, and this part is all trees and furry animals and bugs. My favorite story is about Now.
Now I am a grown up.
Now I am married and I am the Mama but I am alive.
Now I live with my husband and kids in a house which is clean in that way where you know people live there and have fun; not so clean so you think no one ever does anything in this house but clean in the way you know people care and social workers never show up to yell at you for the house being a pigsty.
Now I have a car, a red car which is mine and which works and at any moment I can go to my car and get in it and go away if I want.
Now my husband loves me and would not hurt me or our children.
Now I am part of we and we are a normalish family with bed times and meal times and homework times.
My stories are so real in the Children’s Forest, so real I sense them. They feel like the fading of the scars on my arms from the cigarette burns and the soothing of the ache from my shoulder wrenched too often and hugs which are frank and not I’m sorry for you hugs. They smell like clean laundry and strawberries plucked off the vine in the sun and mown grass early Saturday morning through the open bedroom window. They taste like chocolate, milky and melty, and sweet Mama kisses and bubble gum before it loses its flavor. And I smile thinking of the Now that will someday come if I can wait and grow up and get away, if I can get away alive everything will be okay and no one will beat me and I will be safe when it is Now.
There I am. I think I am about forty. I have long hair the color of autumn. I have a fire-engine red car and a tender husband and children who have never known terror or deprivation or flight. Something happens – some thing which scares me and makes me need to escape. I want to run to the Children’s Forest but I can’t find it.
I’m not on Long Island.
I am on Long Island.
I’m not twelve.
I am twelve.
I check my arms and there are scars, but the scars are faded.
I see the red car. But I can’t tell if it’s real. Is that my red car?
And now I’m being hunted again. I’m (un)sure it’s real and I don’t know what to do or where to hide because this isn’t my house. This place is unfamiliar. It smells wrong, it tastes wrong, it feels like another world where I can’t be safe. It looks like my house but I know it can’t be my house; it is my house in another dimension with an alternate me. I look but I can’t find the Children’s Forest and my sister is missing and there is a monstrous game of hide but don’t seek and all I know is that I must try to save myself
and I never remember what happens next.


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Judy Hall is a teacher of English both at the high school and college level. She's been previously published in Outsider Ink. She lives in New Jersey with her husband, three children, one stupid cat and one evil cat.

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Author: Judy Hall

Contributor: Burt Baum

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“I need you to get some fruit and vegetables,” my wife said. We were having people to dinner the next evening and from her voice, her pallor and her glassy eyes I realized that she was in a state somewhere between high anxiety and complete panic. Now I’d rather subject myself to a colonoscopy than shop, but I agreed. I needed to get far away before she began her “you never do anything to help me” diatribe, invariably accompanied by her imitation of Mount Vesuvius.
She told me to go to the Pharmer’s Market. This is a new “cutesy” store and it’s not that its owners can’t spell. The name is meant to show that they sell fresh produce (mainly organic) as well as a variety of herbs, supplements, vitamins (from A to Z) and non-prescription lotions and pills that will cure anything from hangnails to halitosis. They even have a guy in a white coat called Herb, the Herbalist, who recommends botanicals for all occasions. And remember all those guys with ponytails from the 60’s and 70’s? Well, they’re working in this store. They’re just grayer, balder and paunchier.
I drove to the market and parked in a spot up front. I didn’t want to do any unnecessary walking since I knew once I went through those sliding doors I'd be wandering around. I never know where anything is, and I become completely disoriented by the bright lights, the big garish signs and the scurrying customers. What I generally do is grab one of everything in sight, take it all to the cashier and hand him my wallet. This time, however, my wife gave me a shopping list, and, to make sure that I got the most out of the experience, she included all the things she needed for a week.
Once I was in the market I noticed that, while I was wearing tennis shoes and jeans, everybody else seemed to be in sandals and shorts with thin volumes of haiku sticking out of their back pockets.
The first place I went to was the produce section. All the fruit was piled high in pyramids and I felt as if I were in Egypt, strolling along the Nile. Each piece of fruit shined, and the glare was so strong that I put on my sunglasses.
After about fifteen minutes of roaming, I found the first item on my list, navel oranges, on sale at three for a dollar. (I haven’t the slightest idea why they have that name, because no matter how carefully I inspected them I couldn’t find any that looked like any belly button I’d ever seen.) The oranges appeared to be the right color so I began to drop them into a plastic bag that I ripped off a roller hanging nearby and had a hell of a time opening. Just then I heard a feminine voice.
“How are the oranges?”
I started to say that I didn’t know the first thing about oranges when I turned to see a woman without any clothes standing right next to me. I mean not a stitch--she was completely naked. I looked for the cameras like on Candid Camera, but I didn’t see any.
Being quick on the draw, I dropped my oranges and said, “Uh…okay.”
The woman started putting oranges in her plastic bag and seemed no longer interested in conversation.
I grabbed a quick glance. She was fortyish, dark haired all over, and a little on the chunky side. She was no Playmate of the Month, but her figure was acceptable and everything appeared to be authentic. I went back to staring at the oranges, pretending to be more engrossed in their navels than in hers, but my insides felt like a disco on Saturday night. Maybe this was all a dream but I hadn’t dreamt about a nude woman since I was a teenager.
I looked around. Everything appeared normal. Customers were scrambling, clerks restocking and checkout lines moving.
The lady in question was now walking toward the barrels of cereal, where I was going to go next to get the steel cut oatmeal. (What exactly does steel cut mean? Is every oat cut with a knife?) I figured one encounter was enough for that day. I grabbed my bag of oranges and headed for the checkout.
I went to the line with the male cashier. He was young with short, neatly combed hair so I couldn’t figure out how he got a job there.
“Is that all for today, sir?” he said. I really hate it when someone calls me “sir”--like I remind them of their grandfather.
“Yeah, that’s it. By the way,” I said, trying to sound casual, “I noticed a woman shopping without any clothes on.”
“Oh, that’s Mrs. Jamieson. You know how some women like to clean house in the nude? Well, with her it’s shopping in the nude.”
I looked at him, not sure I was hearing right. I handed him my credit card, and I said, still casual-like, “You mean she does this all the time?”
“No, just on Wednesdays--that’s the double special day.”
“Doesn’t it upset some of the customers?”
“No, they’re too busy picking through the produce to notice.”
When I got home, before my wife could ask how the shopping went, I said: “Same old story--they were out of almost everything.”
“I knew it. I just knew you’d come back with nothing. You did it on purpose so I wouldn’t send you anymore.”
“No, it’s not like that, at all,” I said. “In fact I’ll go back tomorrow morning and make sure I get everything, even if I have to speak to the manager. Not only that, I’m willing to go there every Wednesday, and get all those specials.”
She smiled, hugged me and gave me a big wet kiss. “Oh, that’s just great, honey. I know that deep inside you're really a sweetheart.”


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Burt Baum is a former industrial research chemist who has been writing stories ever since he retired fifteen years ago. His work has appeared in a number of online and print publications.

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Author: Burt Baum

Contributor: J. Figueroa

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(Shots fired) my love, my hustler, my protector is gone. I hide under my bed as far away from my window. Momma is a crack head so I don’t think she paid it any attention. Dad was never around so I’m afraid. Who will protect me? I am only 19 years old. Who do I run to? There is nobody around just him. The man I am always staring at pass by my window everyday. He looks so confident. I am sure I will never be afraid if I were wrapped in his arms; and his money, oh God he must have lots of it. Someone like him I would love, not a crack head who would not even notice if I were gone; or a person who forgot I even exist. He stares back at me and I like that. He is always outside making his money but I hate that he always has to run. Cops are always after him and men are always looking to scare him but he is the street’s most dangerous hustler I am sure he can protect me as he protects himself.

I remember being afraid to go outside. I always felt so alone. Mom was more focused on her drugs I cant remember the last time she asked how my day went in school. Dad used to come home from work and leave again. He always argued with my mom about being a crack head. She did not dress up any more. She never cooked or cleaned. My house was always a big mess. Daddy stopped coming back. I think he left us for someone else. Family nights only consisted of myself. I used to look out the window hoping that someday I would not be afraid anymore. The hustlers were always looking out for everyone especially one in particular. He was so fine. His confidence was amazing. His body was sent from heaven and he dressed in the most expensive fashion and jewelry that shined like stars. I always admired him. He was everything I dreamed for and I knew I would never have to be afraid again if I had him.

I wake up for school but I am staying in today to admire him. He has not looked at me yet but I know soon he will. He doesn’t seem like himself today. I wonder what is wrong. The neighborhood seems quiet I guess because everyone is in school. I make myself something to eat with the little we have at home but all I care about is admiring him. He has me caught up in a love spell. A spell of protection that he does not even know about but he hasn’t looked at me yet and it bothers me. I run to shower and get dolled up maybe then he will notice me. Black V-neck tank top to show off my caramel chest, I put my hair up so my neck can be exposed and some red lipstick so my lips can stand out, and some shorts to finish. I run to the window once I’m done maybe now he will notice me. What is going on? A drive by? I begin to worry. I don’t see him anymore. He has not looked at me yet. Where could he be? My love, my hustler, my protector, I want him. I need him but everyone wants him gone. Did they hurt him? Did the cops take him in? People want his money. They don’t want him in the game. Did they rob him? I need him to walk by once more. I want to keep admiring him. Where is he? He is my confidant man. I need his protection. I need him to notice me. Did anyone protect him? Where is he? My protector is gone.


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"J.Figueroa, a mother of three; building her career as a writer. She is currently a Full Sail University 'Creative writing for entertainment' student."
Hope my work inspires you as it has me.

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Author: J. Figueroa

Contributor: Nicole Chapman

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The night before, my mother extracted the box of ashes from the back of my grandmother’s minivan where it had been resting for three days. I expected an ornate vase, a velvet drawstring bag, or a porcelain jar, something (anything) other than a plain cardboard box sealed with packing tape. The box sat on the dining room table overnight. I crawled out of bed and tiptoed through the house by the glow of the hallway nightlight to check to see if it had shifted.

In the morning, the box was gone and so was my family. I searched the house and then found them, sad silhouettes performing a ceremony in the early morning sun. The sliding glass door felt cool on my cheek. With one hand on the smooth, black door handle and the other clutching my grandmother’s beige, lace curtains, I watched through the glass as my mother and sister struggled to open the box under the evergreen pines. My grandmother sat beside them, observing their antics from a beach chair, sun hat on, folded crossword puzzle in lap, half-melted gin and tonic in hand.

My mother broke through the packing tape with a quick slice from my grandfather’s pocketknife. The cardboard flaps flew open in the breeze as if to let something inside escape. I was afraid the ashes would be carried away by the wind. Could a gust steal them from their rightful resting place in the rose bushes and deposit them instead in the neighbor’s lawn where the dog pees? I stole a quick breath of air and clutched the curtains tighter, as if I had the power to still the wind.

You’re being silly. Just go out there.

I slid the door open and stepped on to the water-worn deck. Leaning against the wooden rail, I squinted to see my family awkwardly shake dust into dust. The rose bushes were blooming with new buds, and I imagined for a moment that the flowers were a deeper pink, a purer white, a stronger red – all the colors I wanted them to be. But, I knew they would wilt at the start of next week’s cold front. My mother waved me over, but I stayed up on the deck, not wanting to walk through the grass in bare feet.


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Nicole Chapman is a Creative Writing MFA student, poet, and screenwriter at Full Sail University in Orlando, FL.

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Author: Nicole Chapman

Contributor: Caroline Kepnes

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It was such a mistake to start menstruating at a coffee shop in Silver Lake.Wrong, wrong, wrong. The only thing stupider would be menstruating in Santa Monica because then you'd have to find somewhere to throw stuff away. I should have gone to Hollywood to bleed. People get shot there. It's cool.
This cushy sea-foam green vinyl chair probably costs five grand and nobody else in here started the day with a Midol and a donut at 7-11, except maybe the girl washing dishes in the back. They're all so skinny. Even their skin is skinny. They look hydrated. Yet they're not drinking water. WTF? And the clothes, wow, these people don't just leaf through Lucky Magazine. They mark their favorite products with those freebie post-its and go out and actually buy the red pants.
Naturally, because I'm a day early, Scott Speedman is here—as in Ben from “Felicity”, not Noel. He is so serious, reading a script and listening to music made by musicians who probably grew up going to shows at The Greek and were careful to never get jazzed up about the shows, no matter how good they were. Excitement isn't something you display in Silver Lake. Excitement is for those sad sacks in the Valley.
Meanwhile, the guy who played Noel is probably fist-pumping and stoked in North Hollywood with lots of affable date rapists who prefer Starbucks. The Valley is prime for menstruating: more fat people, less lettuce, bigger trash cans. I would feel fine about bleeding near Noel. He was always so puffy and unsure of himself, nothing like these two self-proclaimed “women in film” (AKA pretend filmmaker and actress who had a line on “90210” three seasons ago) performing conversation for Speedman. They’re not on the rag. No way.
The actress looks too wan to get PMS and watch Beaches and the "filmmaker" looks like she lives in Los Feliz adjacent and over-thought her burgundy lipstick. The actress probably flaked on her last week, which was good timing because last week she was licking her fingers (Cool Ranch Doritos) and reading about Miley Cyrus' relationship. These are not things you can do right before you go to Silver Lake.
New people. Also not menstruating. A slave/nanny in too tight irregular exercise clothes she got at TJ Maxx holds the hand of a four year-old girl with cool accessories. The nanny is in her thirties and you can actually see her giving up on acting/writing/happiness. She looks like she has long heavy periods and knows the words to "Party in the USA" and owns a VHS box set of "Felicity". She speaks: "Claire, combining blueberries and cinnamon might alarm your pallet."
Poor nanny. She is so warped in the head from working and menstruating in Silver Lake that she's actually trying to do a great job cultivating Silver Lake's top export:
Snobs!
These pre-bleeding years matter a lot when it comes to raising superior beings. The nanny is killing it. You can tell by Claire's adultish eyes and non-laughing face and striped socks and penchant for scones that Claire is going to be a solid, dazzling nightmare of a human being one day. Her freshman roommate at Barnard will be on financial aid and eat Lean Cuisines and use Always pads with wings and Claire will make her feel so bad about herself just by looking at her. And you know what Claire's mom will put in the care package with non-toxic tampons and laxatives and satchels of scented flowers and shit?
Bags of coffee from this place, because unfortunately, it really is the best coffee in the world, so Claire will be right when she schools her financial aid receiving roommate. Bitches like Claire are right about a lot, damn it.
The nanny leans in: “Excuse me, I feel so bad, but do you have a tampon?”


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I was born and raised on Cape Cod and pretty much always liked writing stories. I live in Los Angeles and write about TV for Yahoo. My short film "Miles Away" will be premiering at a film festival possibly somewhere near you within the next few months.

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Author: Caroline Kepnes

Contributor: Chris Griglack

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He stands still in quiet contemplation as the heavens empty themselves around him. His mind wanders and his feet long to do the same, but they are still as the rain continues to fall.
Warm droplets soak into the tightly woven fibers of his suit, pressing close to flesh, running ever onward to some new place. He stands still as it washes over him and allows it to take him elsewhere.
The man in the suit remembers a different rain, or perhaps the same rain in a different place. The rain he remembers is lighter, a mist which hangs in the air like a fine net, waiting to ensnare any who might dare stride through it.
One child dares, though he is not snared by the mist's presence. He is energized by it, leaping from puddle to puddle and through its shimmering presence in the air. It sticks to his face as he runs, like sweat, a spiderweb, and a puppy's kisses all in one. The rain is his playground, his toy, his friend.
He remembers another rain, this one sharp and cold as ice. A rain which falls like knives against him as he walks a deserted highway. Raindrops which appear like bullets in the twin gaze of the headlights of the truck wrecked three miles back.
He wears a coat, but it is heavy and stiff from the freezing rain. Unrelenting it continues to acquaint itself with the top of his head, seeping ever downward, seeming to seek the very core of his being through eroding the outer layers of his self. He cries as he walks down that road, and the rain sweeps his tears away to new lands, estranged brothers at last reunited.
He remembers a rain which is not really a rain, yet borrows all its sensations. A crash of thunder lights a cluster of clouds far above, yet no water falls from their vaporous bodies. The smell of ozone is thick in the air, and the local flora stretch for the sky and gape their pores in anticipation, but they are to be disappointed.
The sweat rolls down his face in rivulets which form streams at his neck, pool where his thin shirt meets the waistband of his shorts, each movement spilling more through that seal until his legs feel submerged. The jungle is hot, but worse, it is humid. So humid that each breath threatens to drown him. The rain is tangible, as if it can be drawn forth from the air by hand. But there is no rain. Only thunder, sweat, and a tantalizing promise.
Each memory rises to the surface of the man in the suit like the earthworms rise at his presence. One after the other they surface and are swept away by the peaceful torrent which surrounds him.
He stays until he feels it is time to go. The rains lighten behind him as he walks where the wind blows. When he is hours gone the sun emerges and delivers back to him some of his waters. Droplets which have fallen for billions of years across the world delivered back to him as he continues his endless journey.
For it never really stops raining.
It just rains elsewhere.


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Chris Griglack is a lifelong Massachusetts resident with a degree in writing from UMASS Dartmouth. His original stories have been featured in Fear and Trembling, Microhorror, and Linguistic Erosion.

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Author: Chris Griglack

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

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As I've told my wife too many times, the meaning of any poem hides in the marriage of cadence and sound. Vowels on a carousel, consonants on a calliope, whistles and bells, we need them all if a poem is to tickle our ears. Otherwise, the lines are gristle and fat, no meat.
Is it any wonder, then, my wife has had a problem, for decades now, with any poem I've given her to read for a second opinion. This is especially true when we both know the poem has no message and I simply want to hear the music, assuming there is some. Miles Davis made a living doing the same thing in jazz clubs. Why can't I have a little fun and give it a try even if my instrument is words?
The other night in bed I gave my wife my latest poem to read. I said it was fetal, not final. Afterward she said that reading this poem was no different than reading all the others I had given her over the years. She had thought I'd improve by now. Maybe I should switch to fiction or the essay, she suggested, or else stick with editing the manuscripts of others since I had made a decent living as an editor for many years.
"You've been writing poetry for decades," she said, "but reading a poem like this is like looking through a kaleidoscope while listening to a harpsichord."
Point well taken, I thought, point well said. The nuns for whom I toiled all those years in grammar school would have liked my wife. They might have even recruited her to join their order.
Then I asked her what a man should do if he has careened for years through the caves of his mind spelunking for the right line for a poem only to hear his wife say that reading his poem was like "looking through kaleidoscope while listening to a harpsichord."
Should I quit writing? Start drinking? After all I quit drinking when I started writing and I discovered that the hangovers from both were equally debilitating.
The following morning she said, "You should never quit writing."
At that moment, she was enthroned at the kitchen table, as regal as ever in her fluttery gown and buttering her English muffin with long, languorous strokes Van Gogh would envy.
"You should write even more,” she said, “all day and all night, if need be. After all, my line about the 'kaleidoscope and harpsichord' needs a poem of its own. It's all meat, no gristle, no fat."


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Nominated for Best of the Net and Pushcart prizes, Donal Mahoney has had work appear in Linguistic Erosion and other publications in North America, Europe, Asia and Africa. Some of his work can be found at http://eyeonlifemag.com/the-poetry-locksmith/donal-mahoney-poet.html

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Author: Donal Mahoney

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.


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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.


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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