Contributor: Christopher W. Trotter

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I lived above all, illuminating the darkness. I provided the gift of sight, but sight alone. I held off the shadows that pushed people down the stairs, saving them from pain and embarrassment. For a year I worked in secret. I guided each stranger that passed under me in the small stairwell.
I served from morning to dusk. I would get so hot that I’d burn you on touch, but I would labor on. Only at dusk would I be given the right to sleep, a short time to cool off before starting the cycle again.
No one asked if I wanted that job. I was simply born for the job, cursed from the beginning to work for others. No one told me what the job was. I just got screwed into the ceiling and was left there. Who would have chosen this? I was never thanked for my work. Most never knew I existed. One year a slave will be the name of my life story.
I remember my final morning with mixed emotions. The electricity that normally surged smoothly through my body was met with resistance. I flickered in pain and my master cursed at me. He reacted like I was intentionally resisting the electricity. I felt fear. I had no idea what would happen to me. That afternoon my fear was replaced with hope. Should I be unable to light the stairwell I would be set free.
That day people took notice of me. They looked as I strained myself harder and harder. I flickered and blinked, hissed and buzzed. Most of the strangers acted like my master, blaming me for my poor condition. I wasn’t deterred. I willed myself to be free, enduring the pain I knew to be temporary. Finally, at the end of the day, after the strangers had left, I felt a snap inside of me. Relief coursed throughout my body. No more pain tortured my old bones. I sighed one final sputter, as I grew dim. Dim at my choosing.
After that moment, everything grew cloudy, like I was looking through a thick fog, like I would normally see outside my window. I heard my master walk down the stairwell. After a moment, I was being spun around. The stairwell became a dizzy blur as my master released me from my prison and dropped me into a plastic bin.
And here I rest, free.
It’s already the next morning and I don’t have to shine. I don’t have to work to a boiling heat. I’m free. But, the haze has only gotten thicker, the world fainter. I hear the voices of the strangers as if from the other side of the building, though I know they’re in the stairwell because they are glad that I have been replaced.


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About Christopher W. Trotter:
Christopher is a student at Full Sail University. He is in the Creative Writing for Entertainment Bachelors degree program. He has written several flash fiction stories. Christopher's interests are: writing, reading, playing video games, and photography.

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Author: Christopher W. Trotter

Contributor: Blake Hulsey

- -
Lucifer stepped into Yahweh's court escorted by an angel. As he reached the throne room, Lucifer eyed his associate. "I have a proposal for you, Yahweh."
Yahweh shifted on his throne. "Go on, Lucifer. What possible proposal do you have to give me?"
Lucifer gave a ghoulish smile. "Been checking out your follower, Job. Pretty cool guy. He sticks close to your commandments and never falters in prayer."
Yahweh bowed his head. "He is the best servant I have in my name. Why do you keep such watch on him?"
"You ever wonder if he only worships you because he has it so good? You have him spoiled, dear Father. You really think he would worship you if tragedy had befallen him?"
Yahweh pondered for a moment. "I suppose he would. I don't think he would turn from my grace."
"Wanna make a bet?"
"What are your terms, Lucifer?"
"I torture him. You let me. We test your vessel, see how strong his love for you really runs. If he renounces you, I get him for my army. If he praises you even in tragedy, then you can keep him and I will never make a deal such as this again." Lucifer spoke these words but the truth in him was that he wanted to see how much torture his dear king would allow on his servants. Contrary to belief, Lucifer thought Yahweh had lost his path long ago, even before the fall. This was a test for him. Lucifer wanted to see just how far Yahweh had fallen from grace.
Yahweh put a hand on his chin. "You're on, Lucifer. I win, you leave and never try this again. You win, you keep Job. You'll be one step closer to thinking you have a chance against me." Yahweh gave a condescending smile.
Lucifer smiled back. "Deal." Lucifer headed down to earth and sent a group of raiders to burn his crops and slaughter his cattle. Lucifer reappeared before Yahweh.
"You really think he will just forget this happened? You think he will continue to praise your name? He's just a fickle human, only around because things are going good for him." As he said this, he heard praises from earth, Job and his family singing in Yahweh's name. Lucifer hid a frown through a sarcastic smile.

Yahweh smiled at Lucifer. "My creation wins this round Lucifer. What say you?"
Lucifer's mouth twitched. "He only worships you for his and his family's spared life. Allow me to hurt the family and he will curse you."
Yahweh's heart broke. How could he allow this to continue? Lucifer was simply getting enjoyment from torture. This could not continue.
"Lucifer, we can't-"
"Or are you afraid of the proof that I will bring? You're scared that I am correct?"
Yahweh laughed to himself. "Fine, do what you want to Job's family, but don't hurt him." Yahweh turned to hide a tear in his eye.
Lucifer vanished.
Yahweh placed his head in his hands. "What have I done?"
Lucifer returned a while later, his garments covered in blood. "So I took care of his family. They are no longer with him. Passed 'em by on the way in, though."
Yahweh stared in shock. "And yet my vessel remains vigilant. He has torn his clothes and screamed in torment, and yet he still praises me for my works." Yahweh's chest tightened as the screams arose.
"Oh, and I left a little present just for that." Lucifer snapped his fingers. Boils formed along Job's body, head to toe. He screamed in agony as the pain engulfed him. Yahweh turned his head and closed his eyes.
"Hey, at least I didn't kill him." Yahweh's stomach churned as Lucifer tortured his beloved servant.
Job got on his knees and screamed to the heavens a song of praise for Yahweh. Yahweh smiled at Lucifer to hide the heavy pain he felt for his servant. "It seems you have lost, Lucifer. I win. Return to hell. When you have gathered your army, then you can challenge me.
Lucifer bowed before him. "As you command, my lord." Lucifer stepped out of the court and through his portal.
When Lucifer had disappeared from sight, Yahweh stood from his throne and walked out to the garden of Eden. He ran a hand along the large Tree of Knowledge, and as he did, he dropped to his knees and cried.



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Author: Blake Hulsey

Contributor: John Laneri

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Luigi’s is a small, romantic restaurant, featuring candlelight and good food. I live only a few blocks away in North Beach. And tonight, I’m meeting Maria.

While waiting, I order a bottle of wine, and soon, I see her step inside the door. She hurries to me. We embrace warmly, her body pressing mine. It's her way of saying that she's already feeling romantic.

Once seated, we catch up on the previous weeks, glad to be together. I tell her about my work collecting money for the family. She talks about her job at the bank. And soon, she begins to relate happy stories about her nieces and nephews, their schools and activities.

But then for no reason, I see her start fidgeting like a schoolgirl, her fingers rearranging the silverware – put the fork here, move the knife there. So, I begin to think that maybe she's not so interested, maybe she's troubled.

“Is everything okay?” I ask, concerned.

“I’m fine… just a number of confusing thoughts.”

"Like what?"

'Nothing important," she says, as her fingers return to the silverware.

Her words surprise me. She phoned only last night and said she wanted to see me – that she needed more romance. Now, I'm confused.

Nonetheless, Maria is a charming woman. Her hair is dark and her eyes bright. The rest of her is natural – soft face, modest stature, a good all round look.

She’s fourth-generation like me. And like most Italians, our families go back – a few marriages here, lots of cousins there. We didn’t really get to know each other until we discovered sex in the sixth grade.

I pour her some wine. “Drink more vino. It helps to mellow the mood."

She takes another sip and smiles, as her eyes regain their sparkle.

For the next hour, we make light chitchat while we work our way through the antipasto followed by an artichoke appetizer. Once we get to the pasta, she starts to talk about our times together – the weekends in the mountains, our days on the beach even my cousin’s wedding when we drank too much champagne and fell asleep in the bushes behind the church, our bodies curled into one.

Looking away, I watch the candlelight cast flickering shadows across our table. It’s supposed to be romantic, but for some reason, my thoughts keep turning to Maria.

I truly love her, and I don’t ever want to ever lose her. But, I also do not want to be married while my youth is still alive.

When we start on the veal, she says, "Being with you makes me so happy."

"And, I'm happy when I'm with you," I reply honestly. "I always am."

When we finish eating, I pour her more wine. She takes another sip then sighs deeply and slips off a shoe. We continue to bask while we finish the wine, our eyes directed to one another, her foot resting on my leg.

Soon, I see that look on her face – the one that tells me she’s beginning to have romantic thoughts.

“What are you thinking?” I ask quietly, hoping to move her along.

She sips the wine again, then says. "We rarely see each other. It's been weeks. Don’t you want to be with me everyday so we can share our lives together? I would like to start a family.”

“But, I’m too young to be married!" I say much too loudly. "We should wait another year... give our friendship more time to mature!”

Suddenly, her eyes flare, and before I can open my mouth, she gives my leg a shove and reaches for her purse. "We are already in our thirties. I'll be old and gray by the time you're ready for me."

Under the table, I feel her foot searching for the shoe. “It’s getting late," she says, "Will you walk me to the door, so I can catch a taxi?”

“But, tomorrow is a Sunday. We can still go to my apartment like we always do. Have good fun. Then in the morning, we can read the newspaper in bed and eat biscotti with strong coffee. Have more fun. I’ll even make your favorite cappuccino.”

“You have your own life," she says. "I can't take away your freedom unless you truly want me forever.”

Reluctantly, my eyes return to the candle. Deep inside, I know what she says is true. I've known it for years.

"We’ve waited far too long." she continues softly. "The romance has been wonderful, but it's time for us to make a serious commitment to each other or go our separate ways."

Ashamed of myself, I look into her eyes, knowing that I have wasted our years together. Then gently, I tell her of my love, my words spoken with the truth and sincerity that only comes from the heart.

“I have always loved you too,” she whispers quietly.

I extend my hand.

She smiles and accepts it. I kiss her finger tips. And then, we get up from the table and walk to the door, our eyes searching one another, wondering if our love is real or just the romance inspired by another Saturday at Luigi's.


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John's writing focuses on short stories and flash. Publications to his credit have appeared in several professional journals as well as a number of internet sites and short story periodicals.

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Author: John Laneri

Contributor: Amanda Cuevas Arrubarena

- -
A week ago, Sylvia called to tell me Frank Heisenberg passed away.
“I knew you were friends,” she said, “so I thought you should know.”
I didn’t tell her that I already knew, that I waved goodbye to him that very morning. Instead, I asked, “How did it happen?”
“Heart attack. The police say he didn’t even feel it,” Sylvia said. “Surprisingly, nothing happened to the car.”
“Yeah, nothing ever happens to that car,” I said, walking toward the bedroom window.
I pushed the plastic blinds away and peeked outside, where that old Cadillac waited in front of Frank’s house. That’s where I saw him this morning, standing as proud as always beside his car. He waved goodbye before getting in the Cadillac, but the engines never roared and the car remained empty inside.
“He left it to you, you know?” Sylvia said.
I really wish he hadn’t.
The Cadillac still sat there, gathering dust and orange leaves that fell from the drying trees. The Prussian blue paint no longer shimmered under the sun.
Frank had been preparing for a long awaited trip since I moved to this neighborhood. He packed and unpacked many bags, and always kept his car in top shape.
“You know, Anne,” he would say, “one day I’ll go back to Moonshine Peak. Me an’ good ol’ Daisy here.” He would pat his Cadillac as he said this.
He took too long to get ready and passed away before he attempted the five-hour trip. Even so, he refused to depart from this world. He visited almost every morning and smiled up at me when I opened my blinds, always next to good ol’ Daisy who got left behind.
I saw him again today.
My window frosted in direct sunlight and goose bumps covered my arms. He didn’t move or attempt to speak - just smiled. Then, a difference: the smallest tilt of his head toward the old Cadillac. He decided it was time to leave again.
I could only nod in reply.
I stumbled down my driveway in my sunflower dress clutching Frank’s keys. The Cadillac sparked back to life with a sweet beep the moment I unlocked it and the frigid leather made me shiver when I sat on the driver’s seat. The woody accents of Frank’s cologne still permeated the dusty car, tickling my nose with their familiarity.
Turning the ignition, I revered in the soft purr of the engine and caressed the wheel. It wasn’t long before I shifted gears, speeding down the street.
“Daisy is as gentle as ever,” I said, throwing a quick look at the rear view mirror. Frank’s blue eyes met my gaze. They wrinkled as he laughed soundlessly.
He never spoke through the whole five-hour drive, but I didn’t expect him to. We arrived at Moonshine Peak when the sun was setting and were pleased to discover it was empty. This was where Frank proposed to his late wife almost 60 years ago and now he was finally back. We admired the waves crashing violently against the risk and witnessed the sun drowning in the ocean. Then, I got to work. I drove the Cadillac to the very edge of the Peak and stepped back to send a proud glance at my old friend and neighbor.
“See? This way Daisy won’t get left behind again. She’ll follow you wherever you go,” I said.
Frank smiled in agreement before he looked up at the waking stars. He could finally move on.
“Goodbye, Frank.”
I never got to hear the sound of the Cadillac crashing against the sea. The roaring of the waves deafened me as they created Daisy’s grave. I smiled at the sky one last time before I turned away from the ocean and trekked down to the closest bus station.


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Amanda Cuevas Arrubarena studies in the Creative Writing For Entertainment BFA program at Full Sail University. She aims to become a Story Editor and currently accepts proofreading and editing requests in her free time. To contact Amanda Cuevas Arrubarena, please email amandacuevas@fullsail.edu

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Author: Amanda Cuevas Arrubarena

Contributor: Adam Dorey

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Bold. Dark. Sleek. Those were the words that described a legend on my block. The lone, black Cadillac—the panther on four wheels—the king of the street—these were the legend’s many names. But those who truly knew him called him Ashwin. While other children grew up hearing stories about Goldilocks and beanstalks, I fell asleep to the spellbinding tales of Ashwin and his selfless battles to clean the streets. His roar could turn the hardest of men into a bedwetting infant.
As a child, I had never met the owner of Ashwin but had heard he was some kind of freak—a bloodthirsty vampire. The locals called him a mutant vigilante—claiming that he was the product of some failed experiment that left him fused to the car. His heart was said to have powered the death machine through his blackened veins, feeding it his ravaged soul to burn as fuel.
As bad as things were, even the cops steered clear of my block. But if you were a regular kid, like I was, you had little worries. Ashwin stood for good—justice—sanctuary. And more importantly, he was always watching. If not for him, the block would have been a hopeless stretch of despair—a soiled landscape of senseless violence. I would have been lucky to see graduation.
I heard a story once, from a boy named Donavan White, about his encounter with Ashwin. He was attacked one night, while walking home from a high school football game. The attackers had him at gunpoint and were demanding his wallet, when the roar of a massive engine caught them off-guard. As the grumble of the engine rolled in, like a violent storm, and headlights pierced the darkness, the attackers fled down an alley with Donavan’s wallet. When all was said and done, the dark silhouette of Ashwin’s owner stood towering over him, headlights blaring at his back—extending his hand to return the wallet, without a single word. He said that, once he wrapped his hand around the wallet, the man and Ashwin disappeared into the night.
I am much older now than I was then. At the age of forty-three, I have five published novels, a loving family, and a house in a suburban neighborhood. I attribute all of my success to Ashwin. My first successful book was the story of how he saved my life. I had tracked down his last known whereabouts and tried to get an interview with the man behind the windshield, finding that he had died a few months after I had left the block. It was as if his job was done, once I had made it out. I met his daughter, who described him as a proud and patriotic man. After being diagnosed with inoperable lung cancer, he spent his dying days cleaning the streets of filth. His daughter claimed to have only known of his actions through a letter left for her, after his death.
I remember staring blankly at his photos, studying the face of the man who drove the legend—realizing he was not a freak or a mutant, but a man. She took me to the curb, where Ashwin sat—still glossed and gleaming, beads of raindrops speckled across the hood. Ashwin, though stunning as ever, looked empty and alone. Without the fuel of his owner’s fury, he was nothing more than a lifeless heap of shining metal—a legend in the minds of the children he had saved.


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Author: Adam Dorey

Contributor: Adi Bracken

- -
Turkey.
There’s a rumor going around that turkey puts you to sleep. Well, maybe not a rumor. More like a medically proven side effect of the turkey. It has something in it, a chemical I can’t remember the name of, that knocks you out. One minute, stuffing your face with sweet potato pie, the next a narcoleptic heap. Your face literally shoved into your plate, inhaling and exhaling mashed potato particles.
I have almost fallen victim to the Reaper’s turkey slumber when my grandmother says, “I can’t tell whether that Lady Gaga person is a man or a woman.”
My father shakes his head in irritation, amusement absent from his expression. He shifts between youthful 40’s and midlife crisis too often to guess which one will show next.
“Mom, I’m pretty sure she’s a woman,” he says. More like, he booms. A younger generation shouting over the previous one’s confusion and loss in modern times.
My grandmother pauses. “I guess she’d have to have a penis to be a man.”
I choke on the canned cranberry sauce shooting down my windpipe.
Dad gives me a dirty look, as if to say, don’t encourage her.
But I can’t help laughing at a 76-year-old woman questioning the anatomy of a pop star.

Turkey.
I’d rather be asleep now. I could be dreaming of all the weird shit my grandmother’s said on the holidays. I could reminisce about the time she asked the waiter at Denny’s what busting a cap in someone’s you-know-where meant. I’d giggle into my dessert plate, spit pie on the table. And that would make her laugh too.
I find myself lost in these memories at the same table. Same ancient, scratched surface, same ugly carvings up the wooden legs.
I’m laughing, but my eyes aren’t crinkling up. My brother’s not pointing at me, making inappropriate Asian jokes about how small they are when I cackle and can’t stop.
My father’s laughing. He’s a Cheshire cat.
My mother’s laughing. Something about green beans being too flimsy.
I glance at the empty chair across from me. I picture her there, talking about the gay men that hit on her before she started dating my grandpa. And for a solitary second, the corners of my eyes crinkle.


- - -
Adi Bracken aspires to become a professor of the written word. She has been published in Eye Contact and the Setonian.

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Author: Adi Bracken

Contributor: Jordan Helsley

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The sound of the unlocking door was music to their ears. As the key slid out, John swung the door into the wall. When it hit the stopper his face grimaced. He escorted a woman with straight blonde hair into the room and shut the door with care. The room was pristine, and there was a chill in the air. The air conditioner was emitting a low hum that greeted them as soon as the door opened. The shades were drawn up over the window, letting the harsh beams of sunlight litter the room. The woman had already seated herself on the far bed with her legs crossed by the time he had turned to face her.
“I love it here,” she said.
A smile formed on John’s face, but his teeth remained hidden. He began to loosen his tie as the woman pulled a notepad out of her handbag and searched for a pen. With his tie hung on the doorknob, John pulled a pen out of his shirt pocket and handed it to her. She smiled a “thank you.” The smile had fled from John’s face, but he forced one in that in moment. Before he turned away, the corners of his mouth dipped down a little too far for the woman’s liking.
“Okay, what’s wrong, John?”
John sat on the second bed with his back to her and slipped off a shoe. “I’ve just spent so much of my life in rooms just like this,” he said. He pressed his chin to his chest as he closed his eyes for a moment. He had slid off the other shoe before he opened them again.
The woman lost her smile as well as she nodded. “I understand,” she said, “but there’s no shame in that.”
“No, not shame.” John was spinning the wedding ring around his finger, still hanging his head.
“Are you trying to unscrew it or screw it on tighter?”
The woman got up to lower the blinds over the window. A shadow covered the room from head to toe.
“I don’t even know anymore,” John said as he rubbed his forehead with his hand. He pushed his hair back and turned his body to rest his head on the pillow. The ceiling was pearly white with a small crack tracing a lightning bolt away from the wall.
The woman set her notebook and pen on the bed next to John. “Take your time. I’ll be right back, then I’m not going anywhere any time soon.” She walked into the bathroom and shut the door most of the way.
John could hear the faucet running for the entirety of her absence. He put both hands over his eyes and let out a few heavy breaths as he sat up on the side of his bed, facing the other one. His throat growled as he cleared any obstruction. “Do you think I’m wasting my time here?”
The woman entered from the other room with her hair in an elaborate braid. “No, I don’t,” the woman said as she sat next to him. “I think you’re doing the right thing. Your wife will understand. Besides, it’s almost over.”
“You’re right, I guess I just need to get the story of this bullshit out before it’s too late. ”
“You’re not dead yet, John. It’s not about the disease, though. Let’s tell your story,” the woman said as he put her hand on his shoulder. “Your family deserves to hear it all.”
“There’s so much to say, where did we leave off?”
“We’re close, about two years ago.”
John told the remainder of his story to the woman as she scribbled away in her notebook. A few hours later, he uttered the final words, which included the present day. Once he finished, he pulled out a napkin cluttered with his handwriting in multiple different colors. “Next week we will cover the epilogue.”
“You got it John,” the woman said as she gave him a hug. “Meet you here next week.”
“My home away from home,” John said as he departed.
When he arrived home, John told his wife all about the memoirs he had been working on and broke the news of the terminal state of his disease. He stayed awake with her all night as she cried on his shoulder. He did not arrive at the next weekly meeting.


- - -
Jordan Helsley began writing at age 22, when he briefly wrote freelance articles for the video game website unigamesity.com. Shortly after, he enrolling in school to refine his writing skills and obtain a writing degree.

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Author: Jordan Helsley

Contributor: Jeri Leininger

- -
We had packed and loaded our entire house in less than a day. There was no other way. If he knew we were leaving the police would have had to be there. No way he was going to let her go without a fight. My mom got the hotel room to let her new future husband rest before turning around and driving another 1,100 miles back to Indiana. So there we sat. My sisters and I all sat together, hugging like we were going to be ripped apart. We were. I had hit 18 and there was no room for me where they were going. That would be the last time I saw my family for a long time. So we sat there, hugging, on one bed as my new future stepdad lay on the other bed watching the local news. Mom was on the patio smoking with a friend.
When it was time for them to leave I lost it. I knew that letting them go was going to be hard but I had no idea it would be this bad. Those were my babies. I had raised them now she was taking them away from me. I began begging her to let them stay with me, that I would do right by them and keep them safe. She cried and said no. They picked up their few things and walked out the door. My girls were gone.
I sat back on the bed feeling defeated. I had lost them. There was no way any court would give them to me even if I tried to fight her. It was the emptiest feeling I had ever felt. I was hollow without them. I stayed there for the rest of the night and well into the next day, I couldn’t will myself to move long enough to sit upright or change the television station. My body ached form crying so hard. I wanted my girls back more than anything. I hoped they wouldn’t forget how much they meant to me.
It has been ten years since that day. All seemed to be well. My life had some ups and downs, as had theirs, but nothing ever came between us. Our mutual dislike for her brought us together and always kept me in the mother role for them. They were still my babies. We talk weekly. Some conversations are deeper than others, depending on how the kids are behaving. But I always sensed that they weren’t telling me everything. Something felt off. Now I find that their lives are falling apart just like hers did when she lived there before. I stayed and my life is good. They were forced back to that town where she grew up and can’t break the cycle. Nothing good ever comes from staying in that town. It was just as I always suspected. My heart aches for them but there isn’t anything I can do other than be the best big sister I can every day.
If only I had tried harder that night in the hotel room.


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Jeri Leininger is a Creative Writing BS student at Full Sail University who has always had a passion for writing. She has worked for Burger King, serving customers and training employees, for the past 3 years. This path helped her achieve numerous Human Resources and Customer Service awards and recognitions. Leininger lives in Florida with her boyfriend and two daughters.

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Author: Jeri Leininger

Contributor: Paul Tristram

- -
Seek not the tempting fruit of outcast lovers.
Their eyes are alive, yes! But they are not alive with freedom and fire, oh no! They are alive with hunger, a desperate hunger to get back into the same kind of normality which they have been ostracized from. Beware the eyes can trick, easier and more
convincing than any magician's trick.
I have just opened the window and let the darkness in. It stood in the centre of my room for a few seconds, letting its
sad and weary eyes get accustomed to the light, then it wrapped itself around me like a lover angered by something that
I had suggested on a picnic in Margam Park three years previous.
We softly made up after first fighting with the ferocity of disappointed understanding, while remembering days of crimson rapture when we were perfect in our mutual appreciation of Nature’s true meaning.
The trampoline of midnight is heavy with my self doubts as I never-the-less bounce like a man possessed, trying to break free the chains which hold me to this anti-artistic society of factory bullshit.
Where are the wings, where are my wings?
I want more than thoughts, colours and rhymes of beauty, I need to enter each foreign landscape personally, with the innocence and rapture of a child but with the knowledge to approve and appreciate, as does the hooded crow look down with sober eyes upon the roadside carrion, unable to know why, yet able to know how to connect the image before itself with the shamanic bones of its Grandfather’s Tailfeathers.
I will let you lead me on, if you let me go at my own speed? Never forget where you are from. You are from yourself, not from
your mother or father or ancestry, but from yourself. Nobody has created you, for you have not yet finished being created (by
yourself and what you choose to put yourself through?) If you let people weed and trim you, you will end up merely
a plant in their garden, owning no individuality, owning nothing in fact but what they want to see (don’t Let Them!)
Just because one person seems to know more about one subject than you do, do not think that they are better than you are. No! Simply take the knowledge off them that you yourself need, then seek out someone else and do the same to them until you
eventually out-master your teachers on general knowledge and other various subject matters (you know what I mean? and
remember you fucking speak up if something is wrong. It will not be appreciated although it will be respected, even if it is only
silently!)

Clichés are crap, for I learn far more from other peoples mistakes than I do from my own, for with other peoples mistakes I have no shame or guilt to deal with, which leaves my conscience free to study the problem clearly.

Don’t reach for death at the end of a candle, reach for another candle, there’s always another day for thoughts of stupidity.

The bleak shadow which you sit looking at is only bleak because you look at it. Shake off all foundations, only buildings need
foundations, people need none, it matters not where you are from or where you are, but only where you intend on going.
If I could play the Welsh harp, I would not be sat here typing this. Oh No! I’d be out there on top of some hill somewhere
playing to this strange June rain, composing songs and leaping and dancing like I should be, intoxicated yet free.


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Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet. You can read his poems and stories here! http://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/

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Author: Paul Tristram

Contributor: Eli James Yanna

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We bounced down the rutted two-track. My truck slammed into the sand at he end of the trail. Sounds of slamming surf beat against the sugar sand like a thunderous chorus. Above the capping waves and just beyond the tree line, hung a massive orange-red moon that bathed the landscape in a sepia tint.
Point Solitude was isolated and rarely entertained evening visitors. It was inhospitable terrain just to get there. To get here you needed two things—a tricked out truck like mine or a big set of balls. And there have been many who have bowed to both.
My rig was like no other. Metallic purple graced by pearl ghost flames from nose to tail and just enough lift to give plenty of room for a set of fat Mickey Thompsons to ride on. Christened “The Purple-Headed Monster”, this old Chevy was a labor of love that only served two purposes—impress the ladies and embarrass the boys.
The Point was perfect for intoxicated lovers like us, or the occasional hormone enraged teenagers looking to unleash animalistic urges in private. Out here, no one will hear the screams, wails and howls of ecstasy over the thunder of the surf.
Beside me tonight was Elle, a girl who spent the last few hours twirling her shoulder-length brown hair while occasionally lifting her turquoise eyes with a coy glance as we made small talk at the bar.
I parked my truck where the trail spilled onto the open beach. I whipped the tail end hard to make sure the tailgate faced the water. Any closer and my night of fun could be a long night trying to dig free of the beach sands, even with my bad ass rig.
Meek young Elle was so lovely. She was perched by the only window in the bar, staring into the empty night street and trying to drink away some sorrow stabbing at her tender heart. Being a man of opportunity, I did not hesitate to charm my way into the seat across from her. A few cocktails and some much-needed flattery dissolved her inhibition enough to get her into my truck.
Shy at first, she was now naked and running toward the water, leaving a trail of clothing in the sand along the way. All that remained on her person was that mesmerizing heirloom butterfly clip holding strands of straight auburn hair from her eyes. Her bare skin was so lovely, as it shimmered with glowing wet drops of moonlight as she splashed and danced in the orange luminescence of the rolling surf.
It was exciting to watch Elle’s sensual ballet with the water. It made my heart race and maintaining my composure was quickly getting to be difficult. Her laughter could be heard, defiant against the roaring waves. Seductive body language invited me to join in the watery frolic. Drawn in by temptation, I slipped out of my worn boots, stuffing the socks inside and placed them in the truck bed. My clothes were next, folded neat before placing them beside the boots.
I turned to join Elle, only to jump in surprise as I found her silently behind me, gazing with angelic eyes and grinning with a devilish pout that made my heart race double time.
Being a consummate gentleman, I greeted her supple wet form with a towel and we sat on the tailgate together; an arm around her as she pressed her soaked hair against my chest. That beautiful butterfly clip scraped against my cheek, still perfectly placed. Elle, looking down, giggled at my visible excitement before lifting her head and pressing those sensuous lips against mine. A touch of her hand aroused me more.
I slid off the tailgate and onto my feet, trying not to break the passionate kiss, stumbling to position myself in front of her. Those supple legs wrapped around my body and the towel fell away, exposing Elle’s entire body.
Caught up in the intense passion, I failed to notice her slight of hand that removed the ornate butterfly clip from her wet dark hair. A swift caress from Elle’s hand across my neck followed the sensation of warm fluid running down my chest. My head began to swim with confusion and nausea punched me in the stomach. Before fading into the blackness, a vision of that butterfly clip in her hand, blood covered razor-edge wings and that deceiving smile—so lovely.


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Eli James Yanna is a student at Full Sail University studying Creative Writing for Entertainment online. He is a retired culinary professional who now spends his time writing works of fiction from home where he resides in Northeast Michigan with his wife and four children.

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Author: Eli James Yanna