Contributor: Catherine Weiss

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Edna had bagged groceries for the people of Sockville, Oregon for almost a decade. Once a nurse at the local hospital, she had retired only to find a life of pure leisure to be dull and unfulfilling. Instead, she filled bags of groceries for 9 dollars an hour and that seemed to be enough. She liked the apron, and the uniform that went under it. She liked her black New Balance sneakers and the gel-filled mats she got to stand on that made the job a little easier on her ankles and knees. She liked saying hello to the townspeople and she liked knowing who was eating potato chips again after swearing they'd diet all summer. But most of all she liked the swish of a plastic bag being opened and filled.
One warm spring afternoon, Edna was walking home through town--she always walked unless it was cold, which it usually wasn't--when her route led her past a young man in a bright yellow work-vest. He was tall and handsome, in his early twenties. His tidy dark beard indicated he was a progressive, yet there a wholesome quality too, maybe it was that twinkle in the eye, which made him seem trustworthy. Edna disliked him at once.
"Spare a minute for the environment?" the young man said as Edna approached. He held a clipboard in one hand and a silver pen in the other. He clicked the pen several times, it flashed in the sunlight. Clickity click clickity click.
"Well, not really, I have to--"
"My name is Sean. We just got into town and we're raising support for legislation that would ban plastic bags. They're really bad for the environment." Sean smiled dazzlingly. So many teeth, thought Edna. Like a shark. Clickity click.
"Bad how?"
"Well, ma'am, they don't biodegrade too well and they also encourage waste. We hope that one day everyone will bring reusable bags to the grocery store. Until then, paper bags are much better."
"But what about the trees?"
Sean smiled at her with blank eyes, and Edna was vaguely reminded of when she used a computer at the library and the curser turned into a little spinning beach ball icon when she ran too many programs at once.
"We will encourage reusable bags. Will you sign this petition and join us?" He clicked the pen out again—clickity—and held it out to her.
“No… Um. No I don’t think so. Sorry.” Edna hurried away. Half a block past Sean she looked over her shoulder and saw him watching her, a terrible grin on his face.
Edna knew about paper and reusable bags. Paper bags sometimes cut her fingers and left her hands dry and uncomfortable. Reusable bags were all right, but the people who brought them were often rude and pushy. The simple truth was that Edna liked her job with plastic bags. If that changed, she didn’t know what she would do.
There was something off about that Sean, Edna decided. She didn’t have work the next morning and would normally have spent the time puttering around her small flowerbed but she decided to take a walk through town instead to see what the bearded young man was up to.

***

Edna found Sean on a corner near the local drug store. A small crowd surrounded him. As Edna shuffled past, ears straining to hear what he was saying, Sean caught her eye and smirked. Edna looked away quickly, face burning. All she could hear was the clickity click clickity click of the pen.
At work, Edna noticed an uptick in the frequency shoppers asked for paper bags. Sure enough, she had two cuts by her break. When Dr. Smitt, a man Edna knew from her days at the hospital, checked out and passed Edna three stiff new canvas bags, she was taken aback. Dr. Smitt had always asked for extra plastic bags because he used them to clean up after his poodle Skippy.
“Canvas, Doctor?” Edna asked him as she struggled to fit a box of Cheerios into the floppy unsupported fabric bag.
“That young man in town convinced me the error of my ways this morning. No more plastic bags for me,” he replied.
“What about Skippy?”
“Poor thing. Have to put him down this afternoon.” And with a vacant smile, Dr. Smitt took his canvas bags and went.
By the end of the week, almost every person of Sockville either used paper bags or canvas. Edna was miserable. She rubbed balm on her hands but the cuts stung anyway.

***

One morning as Edna was pulling on her apron, a young cashier approached her.
“Did you hear? So awful.”
“No, what?”
“There was a murder. Right here in Sockville by the train tracks.”
“Oh my. Who was the victim? Have they any idea who did it?”
“They don’t know who killed him. The guy on the sidewalk downtown all the time getting signatures. I think his name was Shane.”
“Sean,” Edna corrected absently. “How did he die?”
“My cousin is an EMT and he said they found him dead, hit on the head with a shovel or something, and then suffocated with a plastic bag tied around his neck.”
“That’s awful,” said Edna. “But I really should get to work.”
After a few months, customers began to forget their canvas bags in their cars or their homes, and by July, only weird old Tim Goggins asked for paper bags and nobody minded him too much.
A cheerful Thursday morning found Edna on her hands and knees in her garden. Grateful to spend some time in her flowerbed, she watering the zinnias when she heard something that made a shiver race down her spine. Edna set down her watering can very gently in the dirt next to her trusty old spade. It was coming from under the soil. It was quiet, but unmistakable. Clickity click. Clickity click. Clickity click.


- - -
Catherine Weiss is a poet and author living in Northampton, MA with her dog, cat, and boyfriend. She has recently published a book called Haiku for Ex-Boyfriends (haikuforexboyfriends.com) and edits a literary journal online called Rogue Particles Magazine (rogueparticles.com)

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Author: Catherine Weiss

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

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Marvin, an inveterate schlepper since birth, is a man who has never done anything he didn't have to do. One day, however, much to the delight of his wife, Miriam, he suddenly became remarkably useful around the house.

Miriam noticed the difference and she couldn't believe his sudden burst of activity. But she was afraid to say anything since Marvin didn't suffer compliments gladly. Yet she felt she must say something to this new man in her marriage after all those decades of lethargic years.

After all, Marvin was now a whirlwind, morning and night, making wonderful meals, doing the dishes and laundry, vacuuming carpets, performing with grace and without complaint all the household tasks Miriam had done without help for more than 40 years.

Marvin even walked Chelsea, her ancient Shih Tzu, three times a day. Chelsea used to dive under the bed when Marvin came home from work. Over time, the dog got used to him after he retired. In the parlor at night it was hard to tell which one was snoring.

One recent evening, after another sumptuous dinner and elegant desert that Julia Child would have loved, Miriam decided to compliment Marvin on his cooking while he was loading the dishwasher. He was putting the dishes in carefully, one at a time, so as not to break her best china.

"Marvin, I'm astounded at all that you are doing around the house. I'm so appreciative. I thank you from the bottom of my heart."

Marvin scratched his head and kept loading the dishwasher. Finally he cleared his throat and said,

"Miriam, my sudden energy is a temporary thing. If you hadn't had that car accident, I wouldn't be doing any of this. But somebody has to do it until you get your new legs. Once you're back on your feet, I'm going back to my recliner for the rest of my life. Except for bathroom breaks. And I don't want to be disturbed."

Miriam smiled. She was pleased to know that once her new prostheses had arrived she would get her old Marvin back, the same churl she had always loved beyond belief. She wanted to please him again.

"I'm sorry, Marvin, that my first set of legs had one shorter than the other," said Miriam, almost in tears. "I didn't mind limping but I could tell you were upset."

Marvin told her not to worry, still being careful with the dishes.

"Your new legs should be here in time for the holidays. You can roast the turkey. Feel free to wake me when it's ready. I can't wait for things to get back to normal. All this commotion is nerve-wracking."

Now Miriam knew for certain her old Marvin had never left. He was just doing his best to be nice, something he hadn't done since they were courting after World War II. He even knelt down in the snow to propose, with her ring in his hand. It is a day Miriam will never forget and Marvin, quite likely, will never remember.


- - -
Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.

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Author: Donal Mahoney

Contributor: Jeffrey Albright

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The soft glow and continuous sounds of medical equipment emanated from the rooms lining the ICU. Percy Baggett, an awkwardly skinny man, cleaned with purpose in his neatly pressed janitorial whites taking care not to wake the patients. Working the evening shift at Mercy General, Percy was consumed with anxiety as the clock neared eleven. It was almost time to go home. Percy lived in one of the oldest houses in Fremont; just a few bus transfers away. Percy lived alone with his mother.

After stopping at the pharmacy for a few of mother’s many prescriptions, Percy arrived home and entered through the kitchen, being as quiet as possible. Mother’s apnea was music to Percy’s ears. Percy left the paper bag of prescriptions near the sink and retreated to his bedroom, not making a sound.

Quickly disrobing, Percy headed to his closet and retrieved an old dress. He held it against himself as he advanced towards a full-length antique mirror. In harmony with mother’s toothless snore, Percy’s fingers ran up and down the blue velveteen held tight against his tall naked body. That tingling sensation between his legs was back; this annoyed Percy. As the dress fell to the floor, Percy refused to acknowledge his penis in the reflection. Without a glance, Percy tucked his naughty part between his legs and was again admiring the reflection in the mirror. A long red-haired Leona stared back tenderly swinging her arms, wearing only a sheepish smile. Leona’s smile turned to revulsion as she was interrupted by mother’s nasal assault.

“I tell ya, Percy, you better shut that old goat up before I do. Can we not enjoy the silence?”

Leona was now admiring her skinny backside as she kicked at the old blue dress lying in a pile at her feet.

“Percy, this stingy blue dress again? I want something really lovely to wear! Did you snatch that old corpse’s dangly silver earrings yet? I don’t know why you are so afraid of her. Why won’t she just die already?”

Disregarding Leona’s remarks, Percy grabbed a moth-eaten terry cloth robe hanging near the door and threw it on.

“Jesus, Percy, why do you dress me in such ugly garments? Terry cloth, Percy? Of all things!”

“You must keep it down, Leona.”

He opened the door and stood for a moment…listening. Percy knew his mother had taken two pills by the intensity of her snore. Mother should not be bothering anyone tonight. As Percy made his way across his large bedroom, he was careful not to make a peep. The wood floors were always ready to alert mother, no matter how hard she slept. Slipping into the bathroom, Percy turned on the shower.

As steam surrounded Percy, he used a shiny straight razor to remove any signs of body hair. Percy froze when he heard the wooden floor creak.

“Well, I’ll be damned!” roared Percy’s mother.

“Little Percy Baggett, momma’s little faggot!” Mother chimed as she entered the bathroom with the velveteen dress in hand.

Mother snatched the curtain open, causing Percy additional humiliation. Percy swung at his mother, something he had never done. Mother stood staring at Percy in stunned silence. Percy noticed the razor in his hand dripping with blood. Mother’s white flannel gown, taking on multiple shades of red as the slice across her neck became apparent. Mother fell to the floor with a wet thud.

“Mother?” questioned Percy as if expecting a response.

Through the reflection in the bathroom mirror Leona laughed, then Percy let out a nervous giggle.

“You did it, Percy! Get that heifer in the tub before she makes a bigger mess.”

Percy did as Leona instructed.

Moments later, Percy was sitting in front of his pride and joy, an old Edwardian vanity table. The carved pilasters and decorative top were massive. The slide curtain, designed in damask and untouched by time, concealed a mirror. As Percy slid open the curtain, two small oval lights were activated enhancing his reflection. Leona stared back and smiled.

“Now, was that so hard?”

Percy, carefully clipped a dangly silver earring to each ear.

“Don’t momma’s earrings look pretty?”


- - -

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Author: Jeffrey Albright

Contributor: Taylor Saulsbury

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I walk into the sandwich shop with a one-track mind: turkey on wheat, no cheese. Some lettuce to add crunch. Maybe a little chipotle mayo to spice things up. No. Light mayonnaise. I need to watch my figure. I’ve been craving this damn sandwich all day and without a lunch break, I’m a bit peckish. One may even describe me as slightly irritable. My mood is not the point.
The line finally dies down and it’s my turn to order. A pretty, young blonde stands at the register, ready to take my order. Without a second of hesitation, I begin to rattle it off.
“I’ll have a turkey sandwich on wheat bread. Multi-grain, if you have it…No actually, wheat is good. I’d like some romaine lettuce and a light sprinkle of salt, pepper, and oregano.”
I haven’t even made it to the light mayo before the girl walks away from the register without a single word. A simple ‘excuse me for a moment’ certainly would not have hurt.
I’ve practically lost my voice before I hear a toilet flush and a skeleton, or rather; an old woman lurks over to the register to take my order. I can’t help but notice the sores on the side of her face. They should probably be bandaged. I rattle it off for the second time, slightly perturbed. Skeletor stands; pencil in hand, mouth quivering. She gawks at me, her sunken in, crows footed eyes showing not an ounce of comprehension. I glance down to see if she’s even written my order down. Blank paper. Her bony hand shakes and the thin, sagging skin jiggles a little with each vibration of her shaking hand. She better wear gloves.
Skeletor hasn’t made a single bit of progress in the production of my sandwich, so I assume she didn’t hear me. What with being an ancient relic and all, I’d imagine her hearing isn’t quite up to par. I repeat my order, raising my voice to a volume that could be heard from her tomb. Grandma Death just continues to stare. She must have noticed the steam coming from my ears because she slides the pencil and note pad over to me with a shaking, paper-thin hand. I grab the pencil, cringing as her liver spotted, bony little finger grazes my own. I write my order on the paper in large font and slide it back to her. She holds it about three inches from her face, hands shaking violently. She puts it down, nods, and shuffles to the counter to begin making my sandwich.
I watch her like a hawk. The sandwich seems to come together nicely and she rings my order up on the register. I thank her and leave the shop, finally satisfied. After a thirty minute transit ride to my apartment, a broken elevator, a thirteen story climb up a stairwell, and a sticky door, I sit at my dining room table, finally ready to gorge. I unwrap the sandwich, slowly. I smile menacingly at the sandwich, before taking a sizable bite. I chew it slowly, savoring the flavor. I gulp.
That’s when I notice something foreign, slithering down my throat. I reach into my mouth, feeling around for the intruder. I grab the strand and yank. I can feel the sting as it slides up from the back of my throat, scraping against my tonsils. At this, I am red-faced and dry heaving. I’ve gotten the hair almost entirely out of my mouth. With one final pull I stare at it, wide-eyed. The snow-white, hair of a corpse stares back at me, coated in saliva and chewed turkey.


- - -
Taylor is a comedy writer, with a primary focus in sketch comedy. She is working on her BFA in Creative Writing for Entertainment. Originally from a small town on the Chesapeake Bay, she now resides in Orlando, Florida.

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Author: Taylor Saulsbury

Contributor: Chris Sharp

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I am living in a senior housing community with many old timers. Apparently, they all remember Elvis Presley vividly. The truth is, I am not young myself, but at age 55 I am old enough to qualify for this season’s low-cost senior colonies. So after being here for over a half a year, I developed the idea that the only reason why these people are not dying off like old flies is because of the rejuvenating way they have redecorated their old histories.
My next door neighbor has told me she has recently been visited by Elvis himself. He has arrived in her dreams at night, and like a side-burned vampire he disappeared at sunrise. But then Elvis returned the next night. My neighbor wants to tell the world about this. She is not the most computer literate person in the world, so when I offered to release her story to the “World Wide Web,” she reacted as if I were performing a miracle... Now she is so grateful to me she has given me the use of her garage – since she owns no car herself – for the use of any of my friends who might come driving in to visit me.
So here she is – the woman who so loves the King so much she has given up her garage for his sake (and for my sake).

******

My name is Melanie, and no one had ever called me “Mellie” but Elvis Presley visited me and the first thing he did was call me “Mellie.”
He apologized that he had arrived in the form of a common dream. “You have to put up with so much useless junk in dreams. Mellie, I used to dream an awful lot in my life,” he explained to me softly. He had those big lips that animated themselves with each word he spoke, like lips had little lives of their own.
He was dressed the way I had seen him in magazines, in tight pants and silver all around him, from his ankles to his neck. All his sequins and womanly taffeta were sitting in the plain old chair I was thinking of taking out of my bedroom because no one ever sat in it. But at that point Elvis had given this chair a royal crown just by plopping on it.
“I want to want to thank you, Mellie, for being a fan of mine.”
“How could I not be a fan of yours?” I said, and then I smacked my mouth when I realized I had interrupted him.
“There are so many good fans, and now I know them all. You see, to understand my music, you have to be a good person.”
“Are you a ghost, Elvis?”
He smiled at me, with those sweet long teeth of his.
“I am in Heaven now,” he said, proud as a boy. “I was one messed up dude, so it surprised me that the Old Guy thought of me as Heavenly material. But he explained it to me.”
“Is the Old Guy ‘God?’”

He nodded and went right on.
“It turned out that my music changed the face of America, in a way that pleased the Old Guy. You see all my music came from African-American roots. What I did was put the black music in my white body and pass it out again.”
“And then there flowed the integration of all the races in America,” I pitched in. “Marvelous, Elvis.”
That Elvis was pleased I understood. Then he was delighted I knew what he was talking about by the old black rock’n rollers Chuck Berry and Little Richard and how they influenced his own early music. At last he stood and swayed a little, like the old concert energy was getting to him.
“May I ask a little favor, Mellie?”
He stepped toward me until those hound-dog eyes were inches from mine. “I want you to buy up the old Little Richard music, Mellie, and play it when you sleep.”
I repeated what he said, but even then it didn’t make sense to me.
He explained that by my fulfilling his wish, he would glean this music into his consciousness again. “Little Richard isn’t played much in Heaven, not like my music anyway. But my own music depends on how his inspires me.”
“You’re coming back?”

“Mellie, I need my man’s Little Richard sound again, if my own sound is going be fresh.”
So I started buying up Little Richard’s music wherever I could find it. Then I played it all day and night, until the music started the movements going in my dreams. In those dreams I kept seeing Elvis in that chair, clapping his hands, snapping his fingers, bobbing his head while his shaggy hair flew around.
This lasted about a month. About that time I got so tired of Little Richard that I listened to the Beatles to erase that other lingering sound.
Then the other day I was at a restaurant to treat myself to lunch. It was a habit of mine to splurge myself on the day I receive my monthly check. But this lunch was different. The cashier up front wouldn’t take my payment.
“A young man has paid for your lunch,” she told me.
I looked around everywhere. “Where is he?” I asked. “What does he look like?”
“Tell you the truth, he looked exactly Elvis Presley.”
Meanwhile, the cashier looked like she was just having another day.


- - -
Chris Sharp has many stories in Linguistic Erosion, Yesteryear Fiction and Weirdyear. His current stories most hit on the Internet by readers are under Google: “Short stories by Chris Sharp.”

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Author: Chris Sharp

Contributor: Anneka Winder

- -
Two men sat at the edge of a particularly large and craggy cliff in the middle of a place where civilization had not yet encroached upon. It mattered not who they were in human society-- that their khakis dangling over the edge had been featured on a vast number of travel magazines and their rugged looks exploited in the feminine side of society. Here they were but a human intermingled with the wild.

The first man curled himself into a ball, pinning his legs above the sharp rocks; he did not appear distinctly different from the other (despite what news rags claimed), but for all storytelling purposes, he is separate in his name: Ricky. Said Ricky to the other with a shudder, "Can we go now? I don't like putting ourselves in harm's way like this-- without a harness or anything. I feel vulnerable... do you, Mattias?"

Mattias kept his legs draped over the incline without much thought. His face was grim as he stared ahead. After some time, he said, "No, Ricky... I'm afraid I haven't felt that in a long time. I thought that if I wrung my legs over the edge, maybe I'd indulge in a little fear for once, but I..." He inhaled sharply. "I don't."

The wind whipped-- not cold, but pressing. Ricky yelped, as when he wriggled against it, he felt unsteady. Unwieldy. Even as an explorer, he tended to stay away from breakneck situations like this... where the cameramen refused to follow... where Mattias fell into his daredevil moves as if he wished to die-- somehow, they'd been so lucky as to live and see this red rock cliff where again... they risked their life.

"Perhaps," said Ricky in a strained voice, "it is not our time."

A rock shifted below and kicked its way to the inevitable ground. Twenty seconds passed before it gave its last shout (with silence following). Twenty seconds the pressure built in Mattias's head.
Ricky pretended not to notice.

"Ricky, do you..." Mattias's eyes flashed as he peered over the edge. "Do you ever feel that we're immortal?"

"No, not in this occupation," said Ricky immediately-- but then he backtracked with a quick, "You?"

"We've... we've never died on any of our ordeals when another man very well should have. I find that strange, Ricky, and... maybe rightfully so. Here. Let me explain." Mattias stood up as straight as he could without Ricky chiding his imbalance. "We've been in dangerous spots across the world-- do you agree?"

Ricky nodded, for it was so.

"Cannibal's island, leper's quarantine, the Mariana Trench... everywhere our watchers wouldn't dare go, and for good reason. They're instant killers-- for heaven's sake, the title of our show is called 'Death Trap!' " His breathing quickened, but at Ricky's inquiry, he held up his hand. "We should have died long ago-- from the first episode. From the pilot." His eyes flickered. "It makes a man wonder if he's not able to-- to--" He grabbed his hands. "To hurt."

"You've been in the hospital," said Ricky, but even as he spoke it, he knew it a lie. He shuddered as Mattias studied him to the point that he he nearly jumped over the cliff himself. He said, "What do you suggest to test your theory?"

"That's simple." Ignoring Ricky's cries in protest, Mattias stood androcked back and forwards, unable to decide which way to fall. Gravel stunted his control and sprayed in Ricky's face. Mattias grinned. "We jump."

Ricky squealed and tried to pull Mattias down, but he could not without flinging both of them off the cliff. "Mattias!" he bellowed, voice hoarse against the wind-- which whispered about the same things, but much quieter. He tugged again, and stopped to support himself. "You're going to kill yourself!"

"But I won't. I'm much more important than that." Mattias bent his knees, preparing for a dive. "If fate wanted to have killed me, she'd done it on live television. I never..." He bit his lip. "I mean I can't..." He stopped, and smiled at the expanse of space below him. He spread out his hands. "If I jump right now, I won't even fall. I'll... I'll float."

"Mattias--"

"We won't have to tell-- anyone," he continued as if babbling would stay Ricky's cries. The wind wavered and had its way with his body. "We can walk away after and continue with the show. The cameramen won't capture it for the screen. It will be our secret."

"There is no secret, Mattias." Ricky's voice broke. "Come down, come down-- oh!"

Mattias flung himself off the cliff to tempt the wind itself (the very wind that had warned him, though he had not heard it). For a moment, he froze, aloft in the invisible waves. He grinned at Ricky, who shook his head in astonishment for it did look as if his companion had mastered the air, as if he were floating-- but then, suddenly, the man's grin disappeared into the dead man's gape.

He dropped. Like a rock. And without so much as a whisper of the wind, he departed from Ricky's view.

Twenty seconds later, there was a crash-- silence following.


- - -
Anneka Winder's greatest assets are her inconsistencies. Especially when making biographies. Don't listen to what you heard in her other ones--they're liars.

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Author: Anneka Winder

Contributor: Robert Bates

- -
Did that kid’s shoes just fly off?” I ask, looking up at the boy whirling around on the Space Noodle ride.

“Yes, they did. We should go pick them up,” says James.

Like the gentlemen we are, we go and retrieve the kid’s shoes.

“Hey, losers! Give me back my shoes!” the kid shouts furiously.

“We went and got them for you,” I try to explain.

“Stop stealing my shoes! Thieves! Scoundrels! I’m going to punch you scallywags in the face!”

“This kid has quite the vocabulary. Let’s go hide his shoes,” I say deviously.

We throw the shoes under a tent and go on about our teenage business.

“Are you kidding me? That kid is on a golf cart with the chief of police!” says James, pointing out into the distance.

But before either of us can get away, the two drive up to us at the supersonic speed of five miles per hour.

“So, he tells me you two boys stole his shoes,” the bald police officer says with a thick southern accent.

“We picked them up to give them back to him but he started threatening us so we threw them under a tent over there. He hurt my feelings,” James says.

“Look guys, he is six, I’m pretty sure he can’t hurt you. Let’s just act like this never happened, no big deal.”

I go home shortly after that and speak to my father.

“Anything exciting happen at the fair?”

“Nope, just the usual stuff.”

“The police chief had an interesting night. Apparently two outlaws stole his grandson’s shoes.”


- - -

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Author: Robert Bates

Contributor: Krysha Thayer

- -
The smell of booze and sex had settled on him long before he decided to call it a night and stumble next door and up the stairs to his second floor flat. Living next door to a bar had certainly changed his life for the better since moving to this small town and he enjoyed the nightly visits from women. The bar owner, only a few years older than he was, even allowed him the use of his office occasionally so he didn’t have to bring them upstairs and have them spend the night. Tonight had been a good one, as Ladies’ Nights always are, and he had stayed until the place closed.
He didn’t even bother with a shower, he just pushed the cat out of her favorite spot on the bed and cursed her when she hissed at him. He never liked her anyway. He had let someone stay with him and when they left, they left the cat behind. “You know, it’s been six months. I don’t think they’re coming back for your scrawny ass. I should sell you for booze money.” He laughed at his own joke but stopped when he realized that maybe she was so scrawny because he didn’t feed her enough and maybe he could go to jail for that. He fell into an alcohol-induced sleep almost as soon as he fell into the bed.
The smell of smoke woke him up as daylight was just starting to show through the curtains. He walked down the short hall but the flames were already coming up the stairwell so he ran back to his room and closed the door behind him to shut out the heat and smoke. He searched for his cell on the nightstand but it wasn’t there. “Shit!” He fumbled through his pants pockets and found it, quickly calling 911 as he got into an old pair of sneakers.
“911, where is your emergency?” Her voice was deep and throaty. She was a smoker.
“32 Second Street. I’m on the second floor.” He grabbed a jacket off the chair in the corner, then got dizzy so he sat down. “I must still be a little drunk,” he said, to no one in particular.
“Is that your emergency, Sir?” She sounded like she was smiling.
“No. My apartment building, it’s on fire. I can’t get down from here.” He was starting to get a little more nervous now. The alcohol was wearing off. He coughed as the room began to fill with thick smoke.
“Is there anyone in the building with you, Sir?”
He needed a minute to think. “No... No, I don’t think so. The apartment below me is empty.” At least it was the last time he talked to his landlord. When was that? Two weeks ago?
“Where is the room you’re in? Give me directions from the outside of the building.” Her voice was staying calm, focused on the objective. He needed that right now, he was starting to panic a little. What if he died in this tiny little town in the middle of nowhere?
“If you’re looking at the building from the outside, I’m in the room on the right. Light blue curtains in the window.” He got up from his chair and paced the room as his eyes started to water. He followed the operator’s instructions: test the door for heat, look for smoke underneath it, put a cloth in front of his face. It wasn’t long before there were flashing lights in front of his apartment.
Jets of water beat against the house, breaking through the windows that hadn’t already been broken by the heat of the flames. They extended the ladder on a fire truck toward his window and a firefighter climbed up it carefully.
Even though he was watching the firefighter, he was still startled by the knock on the window. He opened it and the firefighter climbed into the room. “You’re sure there’s no one here with you?”
“Yes, I’m sure.” The name on his gear said Owens. “Oh, wait! My cat! I can’t leave my cat!” He began his search under the bed, and then went to the closet, but couldn’t find her.
“Sir,” the firefighter took him by the shoulder, “I’ll find your cat. What’s its name?”
He had to think for a minute. The smoke was starting to get thicker in the room. He started coughing. “Jasmine. Her name’s Jasmine.” It came out more like a cough than actual words. The firefighter walked him to the window and helped him onto the ladder until he was walking down it himself. At the bottom, there was another firefighter to help him off of it. “Owens is going to find my cat, right?”
“He will, if it’s the last thing he does.” This firefighter’s name was Fullmer.
He didn’t even remember he had a cat until thirty seconds ago and here Owens was risking his life to save hers. He kicked the pavement hard with the toe of his sneaker. Then Owens emerged from the window, the calico cat curled in his arm. Another firefighter wrapped a blanket around his shoulders, but then the bar caught the flames of the apartment fire and the alcohol went up in a bright flash as Owens was descending the ladder and someone pushed him back behind a truck so he couldn’t see Owens or Jasmine.
He peeked around the corner and held his breath until Owens started descending the ladder again with his cat. He ran over to meet him at the ladder and took Jasmine. “Come with me. Let’s get you guys some oxygen.”
Back at the ambulance, they sat on the bumper with oxygen masks on and he held a small animal mask to Jasmine. The firefighter’s face was covered in soot while the top of his head was clean, accentuating his balding, graying head.
“Thank you for saving my cat.” His voice was shaky.
“Not a problem, kid.”


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Krysha Thayer lives in Vermont with her husband, Quay, and their dog, Kasey. She will graduate from Southern New Hampshire University's English/Creative Writing program (with a concentration in Fiction) in May of 2015. Krysha enjoys writing short fiction as well as longer and is currently working on several projects of varying length.

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Author: Krysha Thayer

Contributor: Reese Scott

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When he was born he didn’t sleep. His mother went insane and slept under the neighbors cars and slept with the elderly, the dying and the children. After she died he began to sleep. And inside his sleep he had wonderful dreams where he flew, swam, rode big wheels and found friends just like him.

When he woke up all he wished was he could go back to sleep. In bed the clouds and bad dreams stayed away. But when awake there was nothing but earthquakes and horror. There was nothing he could control.

Eventually after his father passed away one night in front of the television he was free to sleep for as long as he wanted. He could stay in bed when he was awake and wait for himself to fall asleep again.

He painted the house the colors he saw inside his dreams. Bright blue, a shy white that removed all the leftover noise from the house. While asleep he ate hamburgers, hotdogs, pizza and milkshakes. Each channel on the TV played his favorite show and there was nothing loud, rough or ugly. In fact when he slept it was the only time he could feel the covers and blankets that covered him from the days that were too strong and alive.

As he grew older his body began to atrophy. His legs grew thin. His arms were now wrists and his face looked like it had been cut in half. But asleep all he saw was the beautiful young man whose body was filled muscles, intelligence, and friends.

When he began to read that is when things began to change.

The first book he read was Charlotte’s Web. The second book he read was The Lemming Condition. When he slept the streets were empty, there were no cars, only candy corn and chewing gum. The third book he read he could never remember the title. But he remembered everything else. This was the book that he said “made him like everyone else”

After he read this book he was no longer able to sleep. And now that he was always awake he understood what nightmares were. Late at night he would take walks back and forth along the dead end street he lived on. He would see bicycles without seats, cars without tires and dogs with tails. Then there was the noise. It came from everywhere. Even at the quietest time in the morning when everyone was sleeping. The sky would turn into colors that hurt his eyes and the animals in the trees made noises that made his ears bleed.

He would run home and lie underneath his sheets and try to remember what it was like when he slept. Until eventually he could no longer remember what it was like to sleep. Now he was left with nothing but shoes, socks, a shirt and a pair of jeans. More than he needed but not enough to let him go home.


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Reese Scott is from New York. He is currently living in California.

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Author: Reese Scott

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

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One of many problems Marjorie has had in life is poor banana management. She has always purchased too many bananas and half of them rot on her kitchen table before she can eat them. Only fruit flies in summer prompt her to throw the rotten ones out. But since she hates to throw anything away, there are bananas, in different places, all over the house.

This is not the kind of problem a renowned artist like Marjorie should have. Not only are her paintings on display at major modern art museums but she also holds a doctorate with high honors in philosophy from Yale. She is an accomplished woman, still attractive despite the passing years, the kind of woman a distinguished widower might turn to for companionship after a graceful mourning period had been observed.

Banana management, however, is not Marjorie's only problem in the real world, as she calls life outside her studio and classroom. Marjorie also has a problem putting gas in her car. Putting the hose in the tank evokes thoughts of rape, even though she herself has never come close to being raped.

After many years Marjorie knows certain things are too much for her. Banana management and filling gas tanks are but a few of the many things she fears. These things, however, continue to grow in number and threaten her mental and emotional balance in a serious way.

She knows she needs professional help but has yet to pick a therapist to consult. In a small university town, everyone knows everyone. Marjorie is a respected woman as indeed she deserves to be. No one, except for me, has any notion of her problem.

I know about the problem because she explained it to me at great length one day in the break room. We have been teaching at the same small but prestigious university for many years. Although in different disciplines, we know something about each other's work and often talk about our experiences, both good and bad.

As a zoologist, I work with hamsters, and for the last decade that work has been rewarding but at the same time very frustrating and I have shared my frustrations with Marjorie many times. She is a good listener.

She knows that hamsters do well on a treadmill but otherwise there's no predicting what they may do. And there's no shortage of them, either, in my laboratory. I have cages and cages of them. They reproduce almost as fast as the rabbits I worked with in preparing my dissertation.

I am no longer involved with rabbits, however, since losing my position at another university when an animal shelter came to my laboratory and took my rabbits away. Hamsters have been the focus of my research since finishing my doctorate. So far no one has called an animal shelter to check on my hamsters but the cost of food alone is killing me.

With regard to Marjorie, however, I suppose one reason she took me into her confidence is that decades ago we had courted and even talked of marriage. No wedding came to pass, however. Marjorie never married and I married someone else a few years later. Marjorie didn't seem to mind.

I listened carefully to everything Marjorie had to say that day in the break room. I knew about her banana management problem but her gas tank situation was new to me. After bringing her up to date on my hamster research, I thought it might help if I told Marjorie that Pablo Picasso once said "there is no abstract art. You must always start with something. Afterward you can remove all traces of reality."

I suggested to Marjorie that Picasso's idea, properly applied, might help her adjust to things in the real world. I suggested that she reverse his approach and deal with things first in the abstract--as a philosopher to get to the essence of things that bother her. And then as an artist she might commit those same things to canvas in a way she would not find intimidating. The process might help her, I said, come to grips with things as they are and not as she now found them to be. Perhaps she could remove the terror involved in throwing out rotten bananas.

For example, she might start with green bananas, first in the abstract and then on canvas, and then graduate to bananas rotting on her kitchen table. I did not tell her, however, that decades ago when we were talking about marriage the reason I backed out was her ineptitude in banana management. Dinner at her house was intolerable immersed as I found myself in the stench of bananas in various stages of decay.

I did not tell her either that the woman I married has never once in 40 years let a banana rot in our home. I had told my wife-to-be before we got married that if she wanted to buy bananas, good for her, but not to expect me to provide any help in eating them. I also told her that if I ever saw a banana rotting anywhere in our house I would leave her for another woman, one with no history of eating bananas.

I have had a wonderful marriage. This underscores for me the importance of good banana management in any marriage. Of course, from my point of view, the best banana management is no bananas.

After our talk in the break room, I told Marjorie that if I could be of any help in the future in resolving her difficulties not to hesitate to call on me. After all, she once adopted several of my older hamsters and gave them a home even though I told her they had no history of eating bananas.

I simply wanted to return the favor and listen to whatever else Marjorie might want to say. After all we have been through together, I might have some insight, however serendipitous, into the problems she is living with on a daily basis. I was there at the start, I reminded her, when the bananas first became a problem.

Marjorie thanked me for my kindness in listening and then asked if I could give her a lift home. She had run out of gas. Her car would be fine in the faculty parking lot, she said, and she would call the auto club tomorrow to bring another can of gas.

In the meantime, she said it might be nice to make a big bowl of banana pudding. She admitted she always has a taste for banana pudding but usually forgets to make it in time. I said that might be a good idea but politely declined her kind offer to make an extra bowl for me.


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Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.

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Author: Donal Mahoney