Author: Editor, Witcraft

by C. A. Broadribb

A naked winged man crouches underneath a giant mushroom, playing a flute.  Odd enough in itself, but then there’s the audience:  a polar bear, rhinoceros and elephant.  They’re huddled underneath an even taller, broader mushroom.  Both fungi are dark pink with white speckles.  Are they poisonous, you wonder.

“Excuse me,” you say.

The young man is tanned and has short dark hair.  He looks up at you with an annoyed expression.

“Do you mind?” he says.  “It’s very tiring crouching here.  I don’t need interruptions.  I’m trying to get through this flute solo.”

“But what for?”

“To calm the animals, of course.  It’s the standard way.”

He resumes his merry little tune.  The animals watch and listen intently.

You wonder if you’re dreaming, but you can’t seem to wake up. 

Remembering something, you reach up and break off a piece of the young man’s mushroom, then tiptoe over to collect a piece of the animals’ mushroom too, being careful to avoid disturbing  the polar bear, who has very sharp-looking teeth and claws.  The fungi pieces are filthy.  You brush off dirt and then cautiously nibble at them. 

Nothing happens.

The naked man stops playing his flute and laughs at you.  “You’ve been reading too many Alice books.  You’re stuck here, buddy!”

Bio:
C. A. Broadribb has an MA in Professional Writing and a Graduate Diploma in Journalism. Her website is http://www.wildthoughts.com.au

by Steve Hodge

For those fatty, indulgent cuts of beef for which you might lack affinity,

Layer them in the bottom of your oldest, blackened, favorite pan.

Smother these unappreciated step children

With aromatics pressed down hard with your hand.

This coddles and comforts your little bottom dwellers.

Now make a layer of your ladies in waiting, your rooty-tooty friends,

Carrots, turnips, parsnips,

 Along with balding onions faire,

A full stick of Irish butter, a quart of Alsatian beef stock

And an Andalusian ham hock.

Himalayan salt and Madagascan pepper to taste.

I’m sure that you’ll find that these accoutrements ensure an enviable dish.

Quite delish!

Then continue with your ingredient list.

Pommes de Terre sliced thin with a mandoline

Will fall like heads of royalty with a flair.

But be careful not to catch your hair!

Add some more of our patrician flesh if you dare.

Simmer in a ’61 St. Julian Bordeaux, a kingly wine.

Smack your lips, mighty fine.

Your dish at medium high will at first be angry,

Boiling with rage.

But soon after turning to medium low,

Your dish will calm and settle down.

Then you’ll be going to town.

It sits for five hours swimming in sin,

Not exactly a soufflé.

So, get comfy;

Watch reruns of Bobby Flay.

When done, your delightful French Country Cooking

Will be ready to share with invited friends.

But before serving,

Take care and make amends;

Then, you, the epicurean grand dame,

The Queen of the Somme,

Will pull the bay leaf from the cauldron

And affix it to your hair.

Bio:
Steve Hodge is a retired college professor. He is a published composer and is known for his contributions to the world of choral music. 

by Tessa Kjeldsdottir

A middle aged man with a bad comb-over of fading blond hair, dressed in khaki pants, a short-sleeve shirt, and dark brown man-sandals, rambles down a suburban street. He bends to pluck dollar bills from the sidewalk directly in front of him, and stuffs them in his pants pockets, front and back, as he shambles along.

[Announcer: Dick spends his entire life chasing the all-mighty dollar]

Jaunty music plays as Dick picks up speed, running young mothers in yoga pants and their double strollers off the sidewalk. Crossing peoples’ lawns and tripping over garden hoses, he traverses scores of unfenced backyards to interrupt lawn parties that feature badminton, croquet, and cocktails. In hot pursuit, he tips over a black Weber grill — all fired up and stacked with butterfly lamb chops and sweet corn in the husk — sweeping up dollar bill after dollar bill.

[Announcer: All work and no play makes Dick a very dull boy]

His capacious pants pockets fill to overflowing, but Dick keeps on going, continuing to collect and stuff bills in his oversized and stretchy button-up shirt, slowing only once to tuck said shirt into his pants. In fact, he marches in place as he tucks and scans his surroundings. At that moment, mouth open in wonder, he spies a dollar materializing in mid-air, spiraling down over a swimming pool.

It heads right for an air mattress, on which lounges a bikini-clad brunette with cat’s-eye sunglasses. She smiles at Dick, her flesh glistening with tanning oil, a drink with a bright paper parasol in one elegant, scarlet-nailed hand. Lowering her sunglasses with the other hand, she arches her eyebrow over a cool blue and heavily mascaraed eye.

[Announcer: He’s tried the stock market, invested in Bitcoin, but they’re awfully high-risk]

Without a moment’s hesitation, Dick steps into the water and topples the woman, grabbing the dollar bill before it lands and becomes drenched. Dog-paddling to the other side of the pool, he hauls himself out, water streaming from his pockets and pale hair, which has grown unaccountably more gray as this story unfolds.

He doesn’t notice that over half his money has been left soaking and bobbing in the pool, because the next free dollar is up ahead at the yard’s edge. He jogs and scoops up the bill, stuffing it into his barely buttoned shirt front.

[Announcer: And with each loss, he keeps doing the same thing, over and over again, trying to ensure a comfortable retirement]  

Rounding the corner of the house, he again bends, snatching up a single dollar, and scurrying off to the next. A fierce miniature schnauzer has planted herself, yapping, between Dick and the dollar. He delivers a quick kick. The dog yelps and snaps, flung to the end of her chain, but Dick is intent on grabbing up that dollar and hustling for the next.

[Announcer: There are other investment choices out there. Less dramatic returns, true, but lower risk. Ensure your future today by calling the number on your screen]

Dicks reaches a busy intersection, and spies a single dollar twinkling and flapping seductively in the center of the hot pavement. Ignoring the red stoplight, he makes a beeline for the bill. Just as he reaches down to grab it…(Truck horn blaring, tires screeching, the thump of impact.)

[Announcer: Don’t be a Dick. Invest in our safe government-issue bonds. Call 1-888-XXX-8888, and change your future today! That’s 1-888-XXX-8888]

Bio:
Tessa Kjeldsdottir is a Midwest dabbler in fiction, folk and fairy tales, and poetry. Her work can be found in the occasional chapbook/anthology, but mostly on her flash blog and sketchbook — Valley of The Trolls dot blog — under the pseudonym Liz Husebye Hartmann.

by Margo Griffin

The man pulled the scally cap off of the top of his head and his entire scalp came off with it.

“It’s an idea receptacle,” he explained quickly after noting my reaction.

“But…”                                                                  

“I carry refills in my bag,” he said, and reached into his backpack, pulling out a glass jar filled with various images and words.

“How…”

“A twelve-month supply of fresh ideas is included with the surgery,” he interrupted, and screwed the top off of the jar. Then he pulled a small plastic scoop out of his bag, the kind one might use for measuring out the exact amount of coffee grinds, and scooped up some ideas.

“Why…”

“Nasty case of writer’s block,” he said. “I hadn’t had a good story in months and the lack of creativity ate at my confidence, setting in motion a vicious cycle of unproductivity and low self-esteem.”

“Well…”

“Here, let me show you,” he interrupted again, and dumped the ideas into the opening at the top of his head.

I observed for signs of change, excited by the prospect, and in seconds, the man’s bright eyes flickered about like fireflies around a campfire, his cheeks hot as embers. And then he returned his cap and scalp over the top of his head.

“Eureka!” the man yelled and pulled out his laptop, banging furiously at the keyboard.

“I’m a writer, too,” I said hopefully, thinking of the bare-limbed, hollow oak tree that splintered in my brain a few months back, blocking all paths to my creativity.

Suddenly, the man slitted his eyes as he inspected me.

“What genre?” he asked.

“Flash Fiction.”

Humph. “Is that so?” he said, now shielding his computer screen with his hands and body.

“Are you seriously blocking your screen?”

“Well, duh! It’s Flash Fiction competition season,” he replied and rolled his eyes, tossing them like dice, deciding if this would be my lucky day.

“Please,” I begged, kneeling down before him.

“There’s always Smoke Long Quarterly Fitness or a Kathy Fish work…”

“I promise I’ll stay away from the Bath and Flood competitions!” I interjected.

Sigh. The man looked around cautiously, ensuring no one could see him and pulled out a small hand drill from his pocket, gesturing for me to bow my head. The tool turned and spun, causing much discomfort, but no worse than a blank screen with an hour left before deadline.

“I’m not a trained professional, but I watched a DIY video on YouTube after my surgery,” he said, as he burrowed into the top of my skull. “Ready?” he asked.

“Yes!”

The man took out his jar, screwed off the cover and scooped up some fresh ideas for me, siphoning them into my head. After a minute or two, my brain fired up and intriguing and fantastical ideas flooded my mind all at once. Before I knew it, I pulled out my phone, opened the Notes app, and pounded my tiny keyboard, with my fingertips writing what I once thought was an impossible opening line:

A man pulled the scally cap off of the top of his head and his entire scalp came off with it.

Bio:
Margo Griffin’s work has appeared in Bending Genres, Wild Roof Journal, Maudlin House, Dillydoun Review, MER, HAD, and Roi Fainéant Press. You can find her on Twitter @67MGriffin

by Stephanie Reddoch

Andy is well into his cups when he begins to growl and curse in the Cock and Crown. The telly barks out stats as players run out onto the pitch for the second half. “Come on, boys! Set them straight!” He taps his near-empty glass of bitter catching Sally’s eye who’s pouring at the pumps, then fastens on the screen above him. When those wankers score, Andy raises his fist. “Bollocks!”

Two Watford weasels sitting at the end of the bar clink glasses, their maws flapping and guzzling. Andy stumbles out for a smoke and joins other locals roosting on the stone wall near the entrance. They flash their colours and grin wildly as hens walk by. Andy cocks his head as cheers erupt from the inside.

By the time he finds his stool, the score’s tied. What luck! He rips a burp with a seasoned vibrato then orders another. With ten seconds to go, Andy cradles his ale with sweaty palms. The referee awards his lads a penalty kick. Striker Denney cocks his leg; Andy holds his breath–says a quick prayer to the pub Gods. The keeper goes left, the ball goes right.

The pub explodes into chanting and strutting. Scarves swinging. Andy leans on the lad beside him, puffs his chest. Cock-a-doodle-doo. Just loud enough to ruffle feathers at the end of the bar. Andy waves to Sally and orders another.

Bio:
Stephanie Reddoch is a retired educator. She lives in rural Eastern Ontario with her husband and menagerie of rescued animals. She’s published in Prairie Fire, Ekphrastic Review, Emerge Literary, Sweet Literary, White Wall Review, and forthcoming in Grain Magazine. You can find Stephanie on X at @brut11.

by Nancy P Hesting

I found my blind date to be more than acceptable when I arrived at the restaurant where we agreed to meet for dinner. He was tall, trim, and athletic-looking just as I like it. He began to tell me about himself – where he worked and what he did for a living, about his two young children by his first marriage, his interests, but all I could concentrate on was what looked like a lash on his left cheek. A lash from the most beautiful set of eyelashes any woman would kill for. He told me how he was widowed two years ago and the struggles he had raising his children alone. How he finally decided to move on and to begin living again. And all I could think about, however, was THE LASH.

            What does one do in a situation such as this?

            Should I just reach over and brush it off?

            Would he think I was being a little presumptuous?

            Pushy? Too intimate?

            Or should I just try to ignore it?

            I gave him my best smile and decided to say nothing. He cleared his throat and said to me, “Do you know you have some green stuff stuck in your teeth?”

Bio:
Nancy Hesting is a published writer and poet who lives with her husband in Michigan’s Manistee National Forest where she can be found shoveling snow, picking up pine cones, or hunting for mushrooms. Her work has appeared in Ad Hoc Fiction, The Pangolin Review, The Passionfruit Review, Witcraft, and Chicken Soup for the Soul: Lessons Learned from My Dog.

by Ellis A Finnie

Having her employment terminated is one of my cousin Daisy’s many talents. I try not to judge her too harshly, since she’s only twenty and belongs to my dad’s side of the family, so she wasn’t blessed with many of the functioning brain cells that I take for granted. But she’s held five jobs in her life and has so far been unceremoniously fired from all of them.

Some firings were warranted – we all shudder to remember her time at McDonalds, when she attempted to juggle frozen hash browns and ended up dropping them on a toddler’s head – and others were just unfortunate. But it led to the two of us lying on her bed, scrolling through Gumtree listings in search of quick cash. 

“Nanny?”

“No.”

“How about gardening?”

“Would you trust me with secateurs?” 

Finally, Daisy landed on one that she thought might suit her. 

“Look here,” she said. “Small business owner seeks cleaner for shop front. Female applicants only. See? That’s so feminist.” 

“You would be remarkably easy to lure into an unmarked white van” I said.

She rolled her eyes at me. “It’s probably not a sex thing.” 

“Daisy, you don’t even clean your own house.”

She shrugged. “No one here pays me to do it.” 

I couldn’t deny that the money was good. Since she seemed determined to go for it, I told her I’d only let her do it if I could drive her there and wait in the car. When I pulled up to collect her on the agreed afternoon, I was startled to find her dressed in a frilly maid’s outfit, complete with feather duster. 

“What the hell are you wearing?” 

Daisy looked down at herself. “It’s my cleaning outfit, duh. Those job search sites are always telling you to dress appropriately for work.” 

“I’m sure they didn’t mean ‘dress like Magenta from The Rocky Horror Picture Show.’”

The address she was given led us to a juice bar, with the bizarre name of The Vitamin C Section. The shutters were rolled down, and there was a ‘closed’ sign on the front door. Daisy strolled up and knocked sharply.

The man who answered the door looked extraordinarily like David Bowie if he’d stapled a couple of ferrets to his chest. He was slender and gangly, with hair exploding from every pore that wasn’t covered by his vest. When he saw Daisy, he got a look on his face like all his birthdays had come at once. 

“G’day” he said, “you must be Daisy. I’m Peter.” 

He flashed a toothy smile and led us inside, and pointed to an assortment of cleaning supplies that were sitting by the counter. “It’s very straightforward,” he said. “I just need someone to give the shop a quick once over. Mop the floor, wipe down the juice bar, you know.”

Daisy nodded. “I can do that.” 

He beamed at her. “It’s great that you’ve come so prepared for the job. Love the apron.” 

Daisy shot me a triumphant ‘I told you so’ look. I bit the inside of my cheek.  

“Just text me if you need me, alright?” I said, then turned to Peter. “If she’s not out in an hour I’m coming in to get her.” 

I went back to the car, and took my little brother’s cricket bat out of the boot. I’d borrowed it that morning, as a ‘just in case.’ But as the afternoon dragged on, nothing alarming happened. After a while I began to get bored and spent a good chunk of time scrolling on my phone. 

That was until, shortly before the hour was up, Daisy suddenly burst out the door of the shop, looking frantic. I sat up straighter, and grabbed the bat. The door swung open again and Peter emerged, his face a vicious shade of red.

Sizing up the situation immediately, I leapt from the car brandishing the bat. Faintly, from somewhere behind me, I heard Daisy shriek ‘no don’t–!’

But it was too late. With a magnificent thwack I’d knocked Peter for six and sent him sprawling to the pavement. He lay there, groaning and rubbing his head, and Daisy grabbed my arm. 

“Are you alright?” I asked. 

“No!” she wailed, “why did you hit him?!”

I stared at her, bewildered. “Because he was chasing you!”

“No he wasn’t!” Daisy’s voice had risen to a shriek, and a sizeable crowd of passers-by had gathered around to gawp at us. 

It was then that I heard the sirens, and saw the flashing lights up the road. “Daisy,” I said slowly, “what did you do?”

Daisy sank down on the curb and wrapped her arms around knees. “I just wanted to make sure it was extra clean,” she sobbed, as the first fire truck pulled up in front of the shop. 

We managed to get the whole story out of her later, once the firefighters had given the all clear and I finished giving my statement to a very bemused police officer. When Peter recovered his senses (and his right incisor, which I’d managed to knock clean loose), he groggily explained that he’d left her alone for five minutes to wipe down the kitchen, and came back to find her cheerfully tipping bleach and drain cleaner into a bucket. Despite her lack of experience in cleaning, Daisy was so determined to do a good job that she thought she’d cut her working time in half and leave the place shining.

Which is how, in one afternoon of work, my cousin Daisy managed to violate the Geneva Convention by accidently creating noxious gas in the kitchen sink. She’s now looking for her sixth job, though I’ve recently received an offer of my own. When word got out about our misadventure, I was asked if I’d be interested in coaching the Under 10s cricket team. 

Bio:
Ellis Austin Finnie is a writer and theatre-maker based in Naarm / Melbourne, Australia. She frequently produces plays for fringe and comedy festivals, and you can find a portfolio of her work over at http://www.ellisaustinfinnie.com.

by Clark

The waiting room was small, but not so small that John could reach out his hand and touch the opposite wall. Not that he had particularly long arms, but he also didn’t have particularly short arms. That is to say, he had perfectly average arms and his fingertips couldn’t brush the wall if he sat at the edge of his seat and stretched, so that had to count for something. The room was small enough, though, that, if he stood up, he’d have to tilt his head to keep it from going through the ceiling, but that was easy to deal with. He just wouldn’t stand up.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been sitting. He’d forgotten his watch in the rush to get to this appointment, and there weren’t any windows in the room to help him guess the time of day. But it couldn’t have been too long. His legs always started to cramp when he sat down for too long, and they hadn’t started hurting yet.

He twiddled his thumbs. He tapped his foot on the gray-flecked floor which bordered gray-flecked walls which rested on gray-flecked air. He sat for an eternity, or maybe a minute.

A door on the right hand wall swung open. John stood up and hit his head on the ceiling.

An orderly in scrubs the color of chewed mint gum stepped partially into the room. They barely looked up from their clipboard, and didn’t seem to notice John, who was rubbing his head.

”John?” they asked, a question that was actually a statement. John was the only person in the room.

John nodded and hit his head on the ceiling again.

The orderly gestured towards the open door. “Right this way, please.” They walked through the door without waiting to see if John would follow. He did.

The next room was taller, so John didn’t hit his head on the ceiling. In fact, he was pretty sure that if he stood up to his proper height and stretched his arms as high as they could go, he still wouldn’t touch it. He almost wanted to try it, just to see if he was right. But he was already sitting, so he didn’t.

John started counting in his head. He lost count somewhere in the thousands the first time, and was in the hundred thousands when an orderly in pale yellow scrubs stepped in.

”John?” they asked. A nod. “ Right this way, please.”

The next room had tan carpet that stretched across the floor. There was another smaller carpet on top of it that was almost the same shade of tan, and John busied himself by trying to figure out if there was any difference between the two. He didn’t think there was.

The next room was done up in shades of sticky burnt orange. The chairs here were upholstered but uncomfortable. John watched the next door with quiet anticipation.

To pass the time, he started humming, tunelessly, because he had heard somewhere that humming makes you feel better, but the walls ate the sound and made the room feel emptier. He stopped humming.

Another door opened and another orderly stepped through, this one wearing watery blue scrubs. They opened their mouth as if to speak, but John beat them to it.

“Hello, yes, I’m John, are they ready for me?”

The orderly only responded, “John? Right this way, please.”

The orderly went through the door and John followed.

The next room had a fish tank pushed up against one wall, except there were no fish in the tank, and the glass had turned a cloudy green, though the water filter burbled on. There was no rhythm in its gurgle, and John tried to turn it off but couldn’t find the plug.

The next room was an airy cornflower blue, and John thought he might not mind waiting here, but an orderly in dusty red scrubs walked in as soon as he sat down.

The next room had a single issue of LIFE Magazine on a coffee table, but, when he picked it up, John found that the pages between the covers had been torn out.

John’s legs started to cramp.

The next orderly had sickly yellow scrubs. The orderly after that had muddy brown ones. One of them had gray scrubs. Each orderly, each room, perfectly unique, and all exactly the same.

The next room was a study in beige, and John was staring at the walls when an orderly in salmon scrubs walked in. John stood without prompting, waiting, patiently, for the orderly to ask him his name.

”John?” the orderly asked. John did not nod of his own volition, but his head moved up and down regardless. He waited to be told to move right this way.

”You’re John?” the orderly asked again. That was new.

”Yes, I’m John, I’ve been waiting for my appointment. Should I go to the next waiting room?” John rasped. He wasn’t sure when he had last used his voice, but he was sure how this went. He waited.

The orderly blinked. “Oh, there’s not another waiting room,” they said. “This is the last one.”

            John didn’t move. He kept waiting.

            The orderly blinked again. “John,” they asked, “Did you hear me? This is the last waiting room, they’re ready for you now.”

            A crease appeared on John’s forehead. He just kept looking at the orderly.

            The orderly started to fidget. “John, could you please follow me?”

            The crease disappeared, and John’s eyes lit up. “To the next waiting room?” he asked, hopefully.

            The orderly started. “No,” they said, “there’s no more waiting rooms, it’s time-“

            But John had stopped listening at “no.” He put on a placid smile. “That’s alright,” he said. “You can come back and get me when it’s time to go to the next waiting room.”

            ”But-“ the orderly began, but John had already sat down. He waited. To pass the time, he tried to touch his tongue to his nose.

Bio:
Clark is a college student from Santa Clara University who likes theater, books, and power tools that go fast.

by Elizabeth Bird

If you’re of a certain age, or versed in the world of Harry Potter, you know the British school scarf. The colors vary, but the stripes are consistent. My brown and yellow version is all that remains of an elaborate ensemble long since vanished. Tucked in a box in my sister’s attic, it came to me when she died, my name tag still sewn into the wool.

Its emergence sent me back 60 years, to a place I’d sooner forget, and a skinny girl who made one moment unforgettable. 

In 1960s Britain, school uniforms were serious business. My all-girl day school had an official outfitter – no exceptions. Think Diagon Alley, sadly without the wands. With their daughter’s admittance, parents were issued a comprehensive list, designed to address every eventuality of the school day. While neighboring schools favored navy blue or green, at Central High we endured chocolate brown, with an occasional splash of mustard yellow or a dab of cream:  

Outerwear: Flannel blazer, with embroidered school crest, brown with yellow piping. Brown gaberdine raincoat for inclement weather. Hats: One brown felt (Autumn/Winter); one cream straw Panama (Spring/Summer). Brown hatband with school crest. Scarf; more later.

Daywear: Cream blouse, with brown gymslip and knee-length socks until Fifth Form (10^th grade), thereafter with brown skirt (no more than 4 inches above the knee), sheer tights (no darker than tan), tie (brown and yellow). Brown wool cardigan and/or brown V-neck sweater. (Fall/Winter). Cotton shirtwaist dress, brown and yellow check. White socks (Spring/Summer).

Shoes: Leather, single strap (indoor). Leather lace-ups (outdoor). Canvas lace-ups (gym). Boots (hockey). All brown.

Sports: Yellow mesh shirt, brown flannel culottes (outdoor). Same shirt, paired with voluminous brown underpants (indoor). One piece swimsuit – brown.

All items to be identified with a sew-in name tag, conveniently available to order at the outfitter.

Pre-puberty, no one really minded the uniform; it saved the hassle of daily outfit planning, while leaving us permanently allergic to brown. But as hormones stirred, tiny rebellions rippled. Skirts were a battleground; this was the heyday of swinging London and the mini skirt. The four-inch rule could be flouted by repeatedly folding over the waistband – not a great option for the chubby amongst us, compressing our plumpness in all the wrong ways. Hats were beaten and battered into unrecognizable but undoubtedly cool shapes; buttons were undone to reveal teenage cleavage; dark, exotic tights were donned between classes. Anything to stand out, and to prepare for the end-of-day parade past the boys’ school across the street. For mysterious reasons, home-knitted scarves (in correct colors) were acceptable alternatives to the outfitter’s version. Invention flourished, with 6-foot scarves draped in infinitely creative styles, fondly imagined to be seductive. Only outdoors, of course.     

***

Our classroom routine was broken occasionally by the drama club’s stagings of classic plays, a chance for the brave to wear well-worn but glamorous costumes and the tall to swashbuckle in male roles.  But nothing beat the buzz of our inaugural Talent Show, perhaps some young teacher’s attempt to drag us into the 20^th century. We eagerly assembled to watch our bolder class-mates strum folk songs, recite Shakespeare, and give other courageous but less than memorable performances. The show closed with a group of fifth formers and their “Fashion Runway,” raising our hopes as they sashayed across the stage in uniforms tweaked in entertaining, but ultimately predictable ways.

Until the finale, when Bridget strutted into view in her misshapen felt hat and wasp-striped scarf.  And nothing else.

Bridget had knitted her reimagined scarf as a tube, fringed as it should be, but open at the ends.  Built like Twiggy, the supermodel of the day, she had wriggled into it, apparently unencumbered by underwear. It started just above her perky boobs and ended eye-popping inches above her knees. You’d probably see more skin in any Florida high school today, but chilly, mid-sixties Newcastle was no Miami. Stunned silence was followed by rapturous applause, as she speedily disappeared into the wings. For a moment, magic shimmered above the haze of brown.

Three hundred pairs of eyes swiveled nervously to the stony face of our fearsome Headmistress, Miss Russell. Undoubtedly our first and last talent show.

I never knew what punishment befell the fearless Bridget. I was a lowly fourth-former, and not even close to her orbit. But I bet it was worth it.    

Bio:
A retired Anthropology Professor, Elizabeth Bird has published seven books (most recently “Surviving Biafra: A Nigerwife’s Story”), and now writes creative non-fiction. Her work appears in Under the Sun (winner, Readers’ Choice Award 2022), Tangled Locks, Biostories, Streetlight, Dorothy Parker’s Ashes, HerStry, The Guardian, Mutha Magazine, 3Elements Review, Heimat Review, and elsewhere. Her essay “Interlude: 1941,” was named a Notable in Best American Essays 2023. Her website is: http://www.lizbirdwrites.com.

by Lucy Brighton

Today is my hundredth birthday and I’ve started seeing ghosts.

Not in the flesh, or the spirit or whatever. Not yet anyway. Online. It’s my husband, Michael. On Tinder.

I mean, it was that young girl who does my meals on wheels, Anastasia, that’s her name, has an earring in her nose, can you fathom? Anyway, she said that my getting old didn’t mean I should be lonely, so she set me up on this dating app. Every night after Coronation Street, I fire up the iPhone and swipe here and there to pass the time.

Well, today of all days, I’m busy ordering some bits from Amazon, when a ping comes in: Michael Fisher has swiped right on you – see your match. So, with a trembling finger, I click. 

There he is. Looking much like he probably would have if he’d lived, rather than dying fifty years ago. 

Ours was a story for the ages. You know the one, girl meets boy, boy turns out to be a twat. 

So, I spent my twenties making his dinner and trying to placate him. 

“Fancy a cuppa, Mike?”

“Let me get that for you dear.”

“No, you weren’t being unreasonable shouting at the postman.”

“I’m sure it didn’t hurt when you kicked the dog.”

Then came my thirties, and I’d tried it all. So, I left him. Caught two busses to my Mam’s. 

“I’m not going back,” I said, throwing my hold-all on the kitchen table and flopping into the rocking chair that was older than me. She listened, nodded in the appropriate places, made cups of tea and then told me to get home to my husband because I’d made my bed. 

My forties brought some light relief as he spent much of that with his girlfriend. I wanted to seek her out and tell her a thousand times thank you and please please please take him. Instead, I inhaled her perfume, washed the dried semen off his pants and prayed. 

Fifty was the final straw. His girlfriend dumped him, and he became more unbearable than ever. So, in a fix as I was, I killed him. Like any sane person would. Made it look like a tragic accident of course. Funny thing is, if he’d ever got off his ever-expanding behind and made his own tea, he would still be alive. 

We had a lovely funeral. I made sandwiches cut into little triangles and the priest talked about a loving and kind soul who I had never met.

The next day, I packed his belongings off to the British Heart Foundation and carried on with my life – much improved. 

That was, until this Tinder nonsense brought his face to my phone screen, staring at me with his accusatory mud-coloured eyes. 

I look at the clock: 1 pm on my hundredth birthday. Anastasia will be here soon. She’ll know what to do. Probably some sick joke or one of those deep fakes like on that mirror show on Netflix. Aye, nothing to worry about. Anastasia will have it sorted in a jiffy. 

My heart lurches as the phone lets out a banshee cry. 

Oh, bloody hell.

He’s Face Timing me. 

Bio:
Lucy Brighton is a Barnsley (UK)-based writer. She teaches and writes and has ridiculous conversations with her naughty dog, Loki. She has been published in: Writers Forum; Journeys: A Space for Words; Henshaw Press’ second anthology; Shooter and various places online and on radio.

by Marie-Louise Mc Guinness

I didn’t like how the alien opened my beer bottle. He hooked the grooves of the cap within yellow, crusted enamel ridges and his lurid-pink gums added momentum. My stomach churned. It was Smithwicks pale ale.

The room was cramped and not clean as expected from a spaceship. There were no sterile steel counters, or halogen lights. It reminded me of my Gran’s living room in photos from the 70’s.

The floor was lined with brown carpet that bore psychedelic hexagonal patterns in mustard and blood red. There were no curtains, just a thin window covering of flammable nylon lace in nicotine pale brown. The mustiness was so pungent, I smelt it from my cracked leather seat. It was lovely. I wanted to bury my face in it.

 I was reminded of my daddy, not the nursing home daddy with false teeth and spittle-damp chin, but the daddy with a job, who shouted loud and made us tremble at the dining table. It was nice.

I should have asked the aliens where they came from and what they did for work, but they were interested in me and I hadn’t enjoyed that level of attention for years.

I fell asleep after the karaoke, I have hazy memories of my arms-wide reflection dancing in the yellowed glasses of Beer Opener’s companion.

I woke up in my bed, tucked tight with a lime green knitted hot water bottle, wearing a flannel nightgown with lilac flowers down the front. Although it was ugly, it was soft. I hadn’t slept that well in years.

I should tell someone about Beer Opener and Big Glasses, the police or a paranormal podcast, but they wouldn’t want the attention. I hope they’ll come back, perhaps adopt me. I could get used to the beer and I’m learning Donna Summer’s back catalogue. Earth has nothing better to offer than “I Feel Love” at the karaoke.

Bio:
Marie-Louise McGuinness comes from a wonderfully neurodiverse household in rural Northern Ireland. She has work published or forthcoming in numerous literary magazines including The Forge Literary Magazine, Flash Frog, Milk Candy Review, Gone Lawn, Bending Genres, Splonk, The Metaworker and BULL. She has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and enjoys writing from a sensory perspective.

by Nathan Leslie

I have long since retired from the procedure of mowing my own lawn and other such activities–far too sweaty and way too buggy. Also loud for my sensitive ears. In addition, mowing my own lawn involves walking to the shed, pulling out the mower and then yanking on the starter until the mower decides it is time to wake up. I am no longer willing to do this. However, I am not willing to simply let my lawn care company just do anything in any which way. My particular requests–if you decide you would like to find employment as my lawn care company–are as follows:

–All grass must be hand cut, with shears. We are happy to provide quality, sharpened shears. However, if you have your own shears that would be best, of course, to reduce the wear and tear on ours. The shears must be no longer than twelve inches in length. The reasoning for this is to fully appreciate the lawn and specific grass species contained within the lawn, in particular. In addition, I believe that a close inspection of the lawn at close range will allow one (you) to see in detail the menagerie of insects, salamanders, worms and newts. We realize you may be short on time to really see these things. However, my lawn is special and deserves an equally special lawn care company to really take the time to appreciate nature’s beauty. The shears also obviously help minimize the noise pollution–a grave concern for those living within Boysenberry Estates. 

–Of course, one could argue that a lawn is not really nature–and you might have a point there, although 100% of a lawn is, as you know, actually grown from the ground. However, it is adjacent to nature and adjacent to nature is just enough nature to protect and to value. My estate of one third of an acre actually consists of twenty seven different trees or shrubs and at least thirty five different flowering plants.

–Absolutely no leaf blowers of any kind. I do realize that a leaf blower might actually save you quite a bit of time and energy. However, not only do leaf blowers disrupt our French Poodle Doodle, Ty Rex, and his delicate constitution but in addition, they give me a speedy migraine. Not to be a dick but it is rakes and brooms only here. You are also welcome to pick up clumps of grass by hand, of course. 

–We realize Snow White encourages us to whistle while we work. However, whether you know it or not, this is actually bad advice. Scientists have proven that when one does whistle, sing or even hum during work it takes an additional 22.975% of energy to do just that. Also, please see guidance regarding Ty Rex above. It applies to music, also. 

–When trimming the shrubbery, it is perfectly fine to use a battery operated machine. However, please use the silent mode. If your machine does not come equipped with a silent mode then you must use shears–see item one above. 

–Any debris found on the premises after a session will result in a fine of one hundred dollars payable immediately. Debris consists of water bottles, cigarette butts, unswept/collected shards of grass, leaves, used prophylactics, used needles, sticks and so forth. Thank you for your understanding in advance.

–Please don’t mind my drone surveillance of your efforts. That is standard.

–I occasionally do change my clothes in front of the window. If you see me flash a double peace sign please avert your eyes from the bedroom window (upper right), as I am morally opposed to all blinds and curtains.

–Sticks and branches. We do have several large trees in the yard. As a result you may need to saw such large branches and stack them in the wood pile prior to lawn service. The saw is manual and may also need sharpening.

–Once a month if you could throw in a free window-washing of all of the exterior house windows that would be much appreciated. Gets gunky quickly. You are welcome to use your own squeegees or paper towels if you like. 

–I do offer $20 for the entire lawn service per week. I realize this may fall beneath the going rate, however, I can promise you that I will be a good and regular customer for the duration of your time with me, and I pay in good old American Dollars.  

Bio:
Nathan Leslie won the 2019 Washington Writers’ Publishing House prize for fiction for his collection of short stories, Hurry Up and Relax. He is also the series editor for Best Small Fictions. Invisible Hand (2022) and A Fly in the Ointment (2023) are his latest books. Nathan’s twelve books of fiction include Three Men, Root and Shoot, Sibs, and The Tall Tale of Tommy Twice. He is also the author of a collection of poems, Night Sweat.

by Steve Hodge

He, our high school choir director, sat at the piano attempting to play a Bach two-part Invention as we entered the classroom.  Predictable as snow in February, he wore wrinkled grey slacks and a white long-sleeve shirt with tab collar bearing yellowed underarms, the result of sweating through rehearsals as if he were Richard Simmons leading his faithful followers through calisthenics.  His butch-styled hair, circa 1965, glistened under the half-alive fluorescent lights that dangled above his young Clark Kent/Superman face.  As he was a card-carrying proponent of nineteenth-century educational essentialism, we, the students, did our best to tolerate his anachronistic flaws with cheerful respect.  This was our Mr. B.

He commenced class by leading us in vocal exercises.  Fond of scales, Mr. B would take us up to the point that he would see our faces grimace with torture, neck veins swell, boys abruptly slamming into falsetto and girls rivaling civil defense sirens.  This seemed sufficient in establishing or disestablishing the impending outcome of the day’s lesson.  Then, the chastisement would be administered.

On the blackboard were written the musical selections which we would ideally address in our fifty-five-minute rehearsal.  First, we would sing a slow and sustained Renaissance motet, unaccompanied, as performance practice dictated.  With already fatigued voices, the tonal center would invariably drift down by at least one full step from that intended.  As if repetition could correct the problem, he would coerce us through the vaunted motet a half dozen times, each labored reattempt falling more steadily into darker realms of pitch unimaginable.

Frustration dominated the spirits of director and students.  Then, at twenty minutes into rehearsal, Mr. B would go the emergency exit which opened to the second-floor fire escape and allow sub-freezing air into the classroom in an attempt to alter the lethargy of his fatigued flock.

The next run of the motet was on pitch with no thanks to the coldness.  Rather, each appointed section leader knew to deliberately sharp the pitches in order to bring up the pitch level of the other singers who hadn’t the sensitivity to know or appreciate precise intonation.  With reluctance, the wayward singers were herded into the Elysian fields of true pitch. 

Director and choir were happy.  With only five minutes remaining in class, not having worked on the other four selections listed on the day’s agenda, Mr. B mercifully threw a deserving bone to his hungry pack of singers.  We would close by singing “Hang Down Your Head, Tom Dooley,” a morose tale of one who would soon be hung and die.  The choir greeted the selection with reserved appreciation, grateful to depart the sixteenth century in favor of the tolerable music of mid-century Kingston Trio.  Having sung the song with hootenanny vigor, Mr. B would bring us back into his world by informing us as we departed the classroom that we would start rehearsal the next day with the venerable, staid and time-tested Renaissance motet.

We left the classroom, some in tears, the others with moist eyes, singing “Kumbaya,” our testament of suffering, our testament of hope for a better life and faster paced rehearsals.  Mr. B stood by as we exited.  He appeared as a mortician, who valiantly attempted to console mourners that had come to pay their respects. 

Once everyone had departed, Mr. B would again go to the piano where he had been at the start of class.  There he would remain painfully attempting his never perfected Bach two-part Invention as his next victims entered the room.

Bio:
Steve Hodge is a retired college professor. He is a published composer and is known for his contributions to the world of choral music. He holds a doctorate from The University of Colorado.

by Mike Chrisman

You know how when you do something really dumb, and it causes enormous aggravation, and you swear you’ll never do it ever again because it’s so stupid? Setting your full grocery bag on top of the car, for instance, because You’d never in a million years forget it’s up there and drive away. Not in a billion years!

            Well, you guessed it. A few weeks ago I did a thing I swore I’d never do again … like please shoot me if I even mention it. I took the GREs. The Graduate Record Exams. Not only took them; took them for the third time. As if the first time, thirty years ago, hadn’t been like repeatedly hitting my thumb with a hammer. As if the second time, ten years later, was just a pretend 2×4 board smacked upside my head. Now, at an age when most people I know are thinking about retirement, I’m trying to get into graduate school. Again. There sits that grocery bag, right on top of the car.

            And – after all that practice – you’d think I’d get better and better. But noooo – especially since the GRE demons have invented a new portion, specifically for those of us who used to hate “plane-overtaking-train” story problems. They call this section “Analytical,” a word derived from the Greek “ana,” meaning “impossible,” and “lytical,” meaning “too-long-in-the-sun-without-a-hat.” As a public service, I’d like to provide an example of an “Analytical” problem, so in case you ever encounter one, you can report it to the nearest mental health crisis team.

            “Arthur, Beatrice, Chuck, Dave, Ellen, and Frances were recently hired to work the night shift at XYZ Plastics. Each of them spoke to his/her/their supervisor regarding concerns about the crew’s makeup. Here’s what’s happening:”

            * Beatrice and Chuck are going through a bitter divorce, because Chuck and Dave are having an affair … so Beatrice can’t work next to either of them on the line.

            * Dave and Chuck can’t keep their hands off each other, so they can’t be next to each other, either.

            * Frances is a racist, and Ellen is Black, so they have to be separated by at least two co-workers.

            * Arthur seldom showers, so he can only be next to Beatrice, who lost her sense of smell in a boating accident.

            Question: Which three co-workers, standing side-by-side, are most likely to work an entire shift without getting arrested for assault?

1. Beatrice, Chuck, Beatrice’s attorney
2. Vera, Chuck, and Dave
3. Ellen, Frances, a state policeman
4. Arthur, two anonymous temp workers wearing gas masks
5. Ellen, Beatrice, Tucker Carlson

As many people can attest, there is also a Mathematics section to the GREs.

There are four multiple choice answers that all look exactly like this: (x) Ʃ 3 {WTF}/3.1416 > IDK ~ 69. And then there is an E) answer: Cannot be determined from information given. I always choose E), because it sure as hell cannot be determined by me.

            Finally, the GREs offer Analogies. My friends told me, “You’ll ace those; you’re a writer.” As if. Here’s one of the easy analogies from a recent GRE: coelacanth : tintinnabulation :: Colonel Sanders : A) origami, B) lederhosen, C) plutonium, D) hairballs, E) Fifty Shades of Gray.

            So, I hope the interested reader has learned something valuable from this glimpse into the fetid and desperate underbelly of post-graduate education. Remember, even Harvard doctoral candidates have to experience this test. No one is immune; no one can escape being painted with this horrific and stultifying brush. It’s the most embarrassing thing a person can do. Especially those Ivy League types with their snoot in the air. I don’t understand how they can live with themselves, not knowing whether hirsute : satiety :: scrofulous : A) perfidious, B) fuel-injected, C) Beyoncé, D) one-eyed jacks, E) WD-40.

Bio:
Mike Chrisman lived for decades in rural Western Massachusetts, working thirty-five years in the mental health field. He published/edited “The Valley Comic News”. Was stringer/humorist for “The Shelburne Falls & West County News”. His “The Bible: Warts and All” appears on Amazon Kindle. Audio of his CD “Walking the Windy High Wire” can be heard on Youtube.

by Jon Wesick

Roads of valor! Roads of struggle! Roads of blood! No one treads these ribbons of concrete and asphalt by choice. We do it out of duty, duty to friends, duty to community, duty to art. So, when the call to a COVID-safe reading came, I did not hesitate. Despite my numb lips, gaping wound in my neck, and anemic vaccine, I answered the call. In a quest for a folding chair, I braved a Maxwell-Boltzmann distribution of shopping carts loaded with timber of cedar and precious cypress, all darting this way and that like molecules in statistical equilibrium. When all seemed lost, a mage, in waistcoat the color of sunset, directed me to bay 21 of aisle 8.

Now, with my treasure in the back seat and my poetry collection by my side, I set off to combat cannonades of gridlock, kamikaze mergers, and fusillades of rubberneckers. Rumble strips shook my vehicle like flak from 88-millimeter cannons and SUVs threatened my six. In the confusion of battle, a rusted, hulking semi clouded my vision with diesel smoke. Desperate to read the exit sign, I throttled my 1.3 L engine sending power to four massive cylinders, swung past the driver (his face an impassive mask of indifference like that of a boy raining flood and destruction on ant hills with a garden hose), and cut in front dodging tons of steel by mere millimeters. A hundred miles of gridlock followed, a hundred miles of blind on ramps, a hundred miles of frayed nerves and narrow escapes.

The Valhalla of verse took place at an outdoor park where trees did their fall strip tease dropping burning leaves on a stage of grass and concrete. Publisher Pete wielded a mic stand like Menelaus’ great sword while Colin Redbeard parried with a manuscript stout as Achilles’ bronze shield. Face masks rare as a glimpse of Fair Helen atop the walls of Ilium. Delta Don worked the crowd, embracing friends and strangers alike. Chris Corona transferred viral DNA from lips to cheeks, crowning recipients with fever, loss of smell, and chance of hospitalization.

“I’m so over this pandemic,” Delta said.

But the pandemic was not through with us. I gathered my treasures and left.

Bio:
Jon Wesick is a regional editor of the San Diego Poetry Annual. He’s published hundreds of poems and stories in journals such as the Atlanta Review, Berkeley Fiction Review, New Verse News, Paterson Literary Review, Pearl, Pirene’s Fountain, Slipstream, Space and Time, and Tales of the Talisman. His most recent books are The Shaman in the Library and The Prague Deception. http://jonwesick.com

by Tom Peer

A frightful experience, I woke up dead once. Of course, I survived—upon which the charge nurse clarified the meth addict in the adjoining bed, not me, had passed away. She apologized for the error explaining that’s why I found myself in the dark, in the body chiller, shivering on a sheet of cold steel.

“Prior to my autopsy, was it?”

The quip missed—not sure where, and without comment she measured my blood pressure, heart rate, temperature, and head size before rolling me back to recovery.

Three days later, upon a subsequent absence of purulent secretions, fever, and delirious seizures of barking at the moon, I’m in the medical director’s office prior to my discharge. A kindly chap, who armed with a prepared statement alongside a rather attractive assistant, expressed his regret for the mistake. When he reached into a drawer and withdrew a cheque for a thousand pounds, I pushed it back. Thereupon, he opened a ledger and wrote another for two thousand quid. The fastest two grand I’d ever made, I grabbed his assistant, bolted for the door, and together we pub crawled the night from North London to South Kensington.

#

Early the next morning, though not early enough, I missed my Basingstoke train to London-Waterloo. Nonetheless, a most fortunate circumstance since that same train came to a bit of a bad end when slammed from behind at London’s Clapham Junction.

By missing the train, I failed my connection with the No.14 bus that in turn veered off the ice-glazed Chelsea bridge. A horrible loss and the city’s worst tragedy since an hour before, the plunge has since been remembered by being nearly forgotten.

#

Soon after I’m about to enter my building when cut off to the entrance by a thoughtless bloke in a terrible hurry. No matter, the poor sod suffered some inconvenience when a ten-stone air conditioner fell from the 40^th story. A direct hit and a dreadful sight, it ruined his whole day.

Already an hour late to the office but just in time for an unscheduled staff meeting I’m told half our workforce is redundant and getting sacked. The eliminations were quite fair, a coworker claimed, as they merely cut the alphabet in half. As a result, those with their last names beginning with the letters A through M received two pasteboard boxes and a security escort. “You’re damn lucky, Nolan,” a senior partner informed me.

#

Returning home, I found a notice in my letterbox that a gas explosion had leveled my apartment block. Pity, just that morning the superintendent had repainted the weatherboarding around my veranda.

Crashing at my sister’s place in Vauxhall, I’m spending a restful night on her sofa when a minor unnamed planet of the Kuiper Belt crashes through her ceiling. I barely escaped with the cat and my life.

After an uncomfortable night on the Jubilee line, I’m awakened by a constable who reminds me that I can neither shelter on the metro nor accommodate an animal in a public place. “It’s a comfort cat,” I explained, “else I’m emptying wine bottles under the Putney Bridge.”

No mercy, he retorts, “Could care what you empty and where. Now, off with you both.”

My sister’s flat hadn’t fared so well. Lucky for the cat, however, my farsighted sibling had taken out a sole survivorship pet policy covering alien abductions, vampires, and asteroids. Electing to take a lump sum and move to the country, she accords me half the payout, the remainder of her mortgage, and the cat.

#

Back to the office, I’m alone in the lift when our CEO enters. The old gaffer neither knows who I am nor cares he doesn’t. There’s just the two of us in the lift when he keels over. Questioned by the board as to my response, I manufacture a fairly heroic performance of how I initiated CPR, saved the chairman’s life, then he died—but not before insisting, “Nolan, you’re the only one I trust to run the firm.”

#

My new office overlooks Westminster complete with a secretary, a personal trainer, a French chef, and a litter box. The cat has adjusted well.

That afternoon the board calls an emergency meeting. It’s soon apparent that we have an inside edge to buy our one competitor. As the decision hinges on my say, I fake a claim that I had prepared a report only six days previous for just such an opportunity. Exiting the meeting to reference the phony file, I consult the cat and refuse the acquisition. The board members are stunned. Likewise, I’m stunned how stunned they are.

The next day a securities fraud indictment renders the competitor’s assets worthless. In the aftermath of the collapse, I’m lauded a financial genius and rewarded a double bonus. My secretary marries me, the trainer runs away with the chef, and the cat has kittens.

When the company is taken over by a pharmaceutical conglomerate nobody can pronounce, the new management dismisses the board but retains me as director of international development. As no one questions my business acumen and my path of least resistance is by now a foregone conclusion, I expand our reach to a château in the Dordogne, a vineyard in Burgundy, and a Premier League football team.

#

In due course, I’m interviewed for Man of the Year and asked to what or to whom I owed my success. Humbled to the limits of honest assessment, I insist it matters only that we are either the victims or the victors of where and when.

Bio:
A retired electrical engineer living in Phoenix, Tom Peer was recently published on Literary Yard and Flash Fiction Magazine’s websites. Previous submissions have earned him a Glimmer Train honorable mention and a finalist award from New Millennium.

by Emmanuel Titus

In the quaint town of Puddington, where every road was paved with dessert crumbs and every lamppost adorned with candy wrappers, there lived a rather eccentric baker named Professor Marmalade. Now, Professor Marmalade was not your ordinary baker; he was a culinary genius with a penchant for peculiar pastries and mischievous confections.

One fine morning, as the aroma of freshly baked croissants wafted through the streets, a peculiar incident unfolded. The town’s prized possession, the Golden Custard Recipe, mysteriously vanished from the Puddington Pastry Museum. Panic spread like wildfire as the townsfolk feared a dessert disaster of catastrophic proportions.

Enter Detective Crumble, a biscuit of a detective with a crumbly exterior but a sharp wit. With his trusty sidekick, Custard Cream, by his side, Detective Crumble embarked on a quest to unravel the mystery.

Their first stop was Professor Marmalade’s Bakery of Wonders. As they entered, they were greeted by the sight of the professor covered in flour, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

“Ah, Detective Crumble! What brings you to my humble abode?” Professor Marmalade exclaimed, his voice dripping with syrupy sweetness.

“We’re here to ask you a few questions, Professor,” Detective Crumble said, his biscuit brows furrowed in suspicion.

“Questions, you say? Well, fire away! But first, would you care for a slice of my infamous Custard Surprise Cake?” the professor offered, gesturing towards a towering confectionary masterpiece.

Detective Crumble eyed the cake warily. “No thank you, Professor. We’re here to discuss the disappearance of the Golden Custard Recipe.”

The professor’s smile faltered for a moment before he regained his composure. “Ah, yes, the Golden Custard Recipe. A tragedy indeed! But fear not, for I shall assist you in your investigation.”

With a flick of his flour-coated fingers, Professor Marmalade produced a magnifying glass made entirely of sugar. Together, they combed through the bakery for clues, uncovering a trail of custard-filled footprints leading towards the town square.

As they followed the trail, they stumbled upon a curious sight: a gang of mischievous macarons frolicking in a puddle of custard. Detective Crumble approached them with caution, his biscuit instincts tingling with suspicion.

“Alright, you lot, spill the beans,” Detective Crumble demanded, his voice stern but crumbly.

The macarons exchanged nervous glances before one of them, a particularly fruity raspberry macaron, stepped forward.

“We’re innocent, I swear! We were just enjoying a dip in the custard when we stumbled upon this recipe,” the raspberry macaron explained, his sugary voice trembling with fear.

Detective Crumble raised an eyebrow, his biscuit brain whirring with suspicion. “And where, pray tell, did you find this recipe?”

The raspberry macaron pointed towards a nearby pastry shop, its sign adorned with the words “The Custard Caper.”

With a sense of determination, Detective Crumble and Custard Cream stormed into the pastry shop, ready to confront the culprit behind the custard caper. But to their surprise, they were met with a rather unexpected sight: a troupe of dancing éclairs, their chocolatey bodies swaying to the rhythm of a lively jazz tune.

In the center of the chaos stood Madame Meringue, the notorious pastry thief, her hands coated in custard and a mischievous glint in her eyes.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Detective Crumble and his trusty sidekick,” Madame Meringue purred, her voice as sweet as spun sugar. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”

Detective Crumble narrowed his biscuit eyes, his resolve as firm as stale bread. “We know it was you, Madame Meringue. Hand over the Golden Custard Recipe, and we may just go easy on you.”

Madame Meringue chuckled, a sound like the tinkling of sugar crystals. “Oh, Detective, you always were one for theatrics. But I’m afraid I can’t comply with your request. You see, the Golden Custard Recipe is mine, all mine!”

With a flourish of her whisk, Madame Meringue disappeared in a puff of powdered sugar, leaving Detective Crumble and Custard Cream to ponder their next move.

But just as they were about to give up hope, Professor Marmalade burst into the pastry shop, a triumphant gleam in his eye.

“Fear not, Detective! For I have managed to recreate the Golden Custard Recipe from memory!” Professor Marmalade exclaimed, brandishing a golden custard tart like a victorious knight.

And so, with the Golden Custard Recipe safely in hand, Puddington was saved from dessert disaster once again. As for Madame Meringue, well, let’s just say she learned that when it comes to custard, crime doesn’t pay – but a slice of tart certainly does.

Bio:
Emmanuel Maduabuchi knows how to express his feelings and makes his heart to be known through his writing.

by John Buckley

Part 1

“Battle draw nears Hardy.”

     “Yes, my lord.”

     “The battle that will put an end to Napoleon’s hopes of ever invading us.”

     “Yes, sir.”

     “Trafalgar. The defining moment of my career, Hardy.”

     “Undoubtedly, sir.”

     “If we sink the French fleet today, Hardy, our beautiful country is safe and Britain will rule the waves for ever more. Think of that, Hardy. Safe from that blackguard Bonaparte and we shall be heroes.”

     “Tis a sobering thought, my lord.”

     “Time, I think, to send the signal: England expects every man to do his duty.”

     “I will see to it straight away, sir.”

     “My God man, what are you doing?”

     “Texting the men, sir.”

     “You’re what-ing the men?”

     “Texting them, sir. Mobile phones, they’ve all got them. Ing… xpex… F-ry… man… 2do…hs.. du-T.”

     “What are you blithering on about Hardy? Have the flags raised this instant.”

     “Well, I could sir, but this is more efficient.”

     “I want something that will resonate through the ages, not some half-formed gobbledegook. Ing?”

     “Short for England sir, like you said.”

     “Flags! See to it Hardy.”

     “As you say, sir, but…”

     “But what?”

     “The men, sir.”

     “Yes.”

     “They all laugh sir. They say, here’s Nelson with his little bunting and then they giggle. They think…”

     “What do they think, Hardy?”

     “They think you’re sweet, sir.”

     “Sweet? The victor at the Battle of the Nile. At Copenhagen. Sweet! I am Nelson. I am a legend.”

     “Instead, sir, I just use my two thumbs, see, press this button here, and – there – all the men have got the message.”

     “Confound it. That’s amazing. I can hear them cheering. Thumbs, eh? And it’s all of them?

     “Well, er, you have only got the one, my lord.”

     “No, I mean, all the men have these, er, mobile phones do they?”

     “It’s the latest thing, sir.”

     “What’s that noise? Who’s playing the hornpipe?”

     “No-one sir. It’s an incoming call. Ssshhh.”

     “What!”

     “Oh, hello dear.  Sorry. Speak up. I can hardly hear… I. Am. On. A. Ship. Afraid so, dear. Yes, the French again. Well, it’s not my idea. Look, I have to go. I’ll be home in, oh, about four months. Bye. Yes, me too. Bye.”

     “You mean you can talk to people on those things as well?

     “Yes, sir.”

     “Good Lord. And the French, do they have them?”

     “Oh yes, sir. And there’s no shortage of masts around here. Well, not at the moment.”

     “Do you mean I can take their surrender on that thing?”

     “I am sure Admiral Villeneuve would be honoured, sir.”

     “Then give it to me Hardy.”

     “Yes sir, but there’s just one thing.”

     “Which is?”

     “You’ll get a better reception up on deck.”

Part 2

“Not tonight Josephine.”

     “Aw, but Napoleon darling, I am in the mood.”

     “Well, I am not. Now go to sleep.”

     “Help me go to sleep, my sweetheart.”

     “Oh, for heaven’s sake! Control your urges woman.”

     “I am ready for love.”

     “I have to be up early in the morning.”

     “Oh! Where are you going now? Not Russia surely, you know what happened the last time.”

     “Don’t mention Russia.”

     “Spain?”

     “Non!”

     “Italy again?”

     “Non!”

     “Austria, then?”

     “Non!”

     “A sea cruise then? Are we going on a cruise?”

     “We cannot mon cherie. Every time I get some ships the British sink them.”

     “Aw, that’s not fair. Is that where your nickname comes from?”

     “I have no nickname.”

     “Yes, you do.”

     “I do not.”

     “Yes, you do. Ever since Trafalgar they call you…

     “What do they call me?” 

     …Napoleon Blownapart!”

     “It is an insult.”

     “Where then? Where are you going?”

     “Waterloo.”

     “Where on earth…”

     “Belgium.”

     “Belgium! You’re not going to fight them are you? That should take about five minutes. Tiny place full of busybody government officials and pigeon fanciers.”

     “No, I am not fighting them.”

     “Who then?”

     “Not saying.”

     “Who? Not the British. Not Wellington?”

     “Might be.”

     “But he has never lost a battle.”

     “Until tomorrow.”

     “He always wins!”

     “He has not faced me.”

     “I hear he is a brilliant swordsman.”

     “Hmff! I doubt he has ever fought a duel.”

     “I didn’t say he had. I hear no one thrusts better than Wellington.”

     “But I am Napoleon Bonaparte!”

     “Yes, I know, darling. I would never have got into bed if it had been someone else.”

     “Really, Josephine?”

     “Well, maybe. Just by accident. Once or twice. But you, you will leave our bed while I sleep.”

     “I do it for France.”

     “Then love me tonight.”

     “I cannot.”

     “Will you be taking your big cannon?”

     “Stop it, Josephine. I’ve told you, not tonight.”

     “Shall I make it go… boom?”

     “Not if I can help it.”

     “Boom, boom.”

     “I must make an early start. Glory awaits.”

     “But why are you fighting?”

     “For peace, my darling.”

     “Er, right. But you have been fighting for peace since 1796 and it’s now 1815.”

     “Yes, see how dedicated I am to peace?”

     “After Austerlitz you said there would be peace. Everyone was excited and then you told  them peace off.”

     “And tomorrow France shall have peace. Think of it. A unified Europe France, Holland, Spain, Italy, Austria, Germany… all under one government, a community of nations. A union! That’s it… the European Union, where everyone is free to trade with everyone else and everyone is free to go wherever they wish…”

     “You do anyway.”

     “I am l’Emperor and the whole of Western Europe will come together in the true spirit of fraternity and do as I tell them.”

      “Huh, as if Britain will ever do as it told.”

      “Oh, they will after tomorrow.”

      “In that case love me tonight, Napoleon. Do it France!”

     “Oh, all right. For the Tricolour! But you must get me before six o’clock. If we start late and the Prussians get there on time, who knows what may happen.”

     “Darling.”

     “Yes?“

     “Put your sexy sideways hat on.”

     “Not tonight Josephine.”

Bio:
John Buckley was a journalist for 35 years and now runs a community magazine in his home town of Northwich, Cheshire, UK. He has been shortlisted for more awards than he has won – drat! – and his novel Bonnie and Claude is available at Amazon.

by Ping Yi Yee

“The what?”

“Peacocks. And peahens, of course.”

“The peacocks.”

“Yes.”

“So you’re telling me…”

“Yes.”

“That the peacocks…”

“And the peahens.”

“…and the peahens…”

“Yes.”

“…are planning to do what?”

“Secretly take over the world, sir.”

“Secretly take over the world.”

“Yes.”

“… how exactly are they going to do that again?”

“Well, the first thing to remember is that they’re not really peacocks and peahens. That’s just the form that they’ve chosen to adopt.”

“Who have?”

“The Beings, sir.”

“The beings.”

“No, the Beings.”

“The Beings.”

“Yes.”

“And they chose to be peacocks?”

“They chose to be like peacocks. It’s camouflage.”

“Camouflage.”

“Yes.”

“Camouflage against what?”

“Well, us for one. Humans.”

“Camouflage against humans.”

“Yes.”

“Are they commandoes?”

“Who are, sir?”

“The peacocks.”

“No, not as far as we know.”

“Who’s we?”

“The Department, sir.”

“Well, not me, apparently.”

“You do know now, sir.”

“So what do we know again?”

“We know that the peacocks and peahens are using camouflage in their plan to take over the world.”

“Is that all?”

“Is what all?”

“Camouflage. Is that all they need to do to take over the world?”

“No, sir. There’s also economic hijacking.”

“Economic hijacking.”

“Yes.”

“So the peacocks and peahens are using camouflage…”

“Yes.”

“…to take over the world…”

“Yes.”

“And then they hijack the economy?”

“Well, not exactly.  They–”

“Do they dye their feathers green?”

“Excuse me, sir?”

“These commando peacocks. Do they dye their feathers green for camouflage?”

“They’re not commandoes, sir.”

“All right. Do these non-commando peacocks dye their feathers green?”

“No, they do not.”

“So it’s not camouflage.”

“It is camouflage.”

“All right. So these peacocks with non-green camouflage take over the world…”

“There’s the economic hijacking before they can take over the world, sir.”

“Ah yes. The hijacking.”

“Yes, they place themselves in strategic–”

“How?”

“How what, sir?”

“How do they ‘place’ themselves?”

“They use an agent.”

“An agent.”

“Yes.”

“…who is also a peacock?”

“No, sir. The agent is human.”

“Human.”

“Yes, the agent helps the–”

“Can the agent see the peacocks?”

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

“If this agent is human, how can he see the peacocks through their camouflage?”

“Sir, we can see the peacocks.  The peacocks are the camouflage.”

“The peacocks are the camouflage?”

“Yes, sir. The Beings are using the peacock form as camouflage. We can see the peacocks, but not the Beings.”

“We can see the peacocks?”

“Yes.”

“Well, are they here?”

“Are who here?”

“You said we could see the peacocks. Are they here?”

“No sir, they are not.  If I may continue, sir…”

“Yes, of course.”

“The peacocks – or Beings to be more precise – place themselves in strategic locations with the help of a human agent…”

“Can we see this agent?”

“Yes, sir.”

“But he’s not here?”

“No. The agent arranges transport for these peacocks…”

“A cab?”

“No, it’s usually a poultry truck.”

“A poultry truck.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Would that not be asking for it? Into the lion’s den and all?”

“Elaborate double-bluff, sir.”

“Is it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So let me make sure I’ve got it right. The peacocks place themselves in exclusive vacation resorts around the world…”

“Yes, sir.”

“…resorts so exclusive that only the richest and most powerful individuals in the world are granted access…”

“Yes, exactly.”

“…and by spying on these individuals, the peacocks identify weaknesses in their respective global empires and establish levers of control and influence over the international financial system.”

“You understand perfectly then, sir.”

“How long have we known this?”

“Only as recently as a month ago.”

“And who figured this out?”

“Agent Dudley, sir.”

“Has Agent Dudley been experiencing any sort of personal difficulty recently?”

“No, sir.”

“Any vices such as gambling, or any diseases?”

“No.”

“Any history of depression or dementia in the family?”

“No.”

“When was his last medical?”

“Last week, sir.”

“Did he pass it?”

“Flying colours, sir.”

“And his last psych test?”

“Painted it with all the colours of the wind, sir.”

“Did he now?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did Agent Dudley have any backup during his investigation?”

“He normally saves all critical files on a separate disk, sir.”

“No, I mean, did he have a partner?”

“Agent Dudley is still single, sir. Policy.”

“Look, all I’m asking is, was Agent Dudley working alone during his investigation?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well then. You may proceed with the Plan.”

Bio:
Ping Yi is a huge fan of all humour – in print, sitcoms, on radio, standup, britcom et al. He has work published in Defenestration Magazine, The Short Humour Site and Impspired.

by Nancy P Hesting

I feel so embarrassed doing this. This is so unlike me, but I just had to reach out and try to connect with you. I was the woman you were looking at from your table in the corner at the Blu Moon Restaurant last Saturday. I saw that you ordered the same thing I ordered. It was the lobster pot pie. Do you remember me? I was wearing the black and white flowered dress. When our waiters placed our plates in front of us at the same time I knew it was meant to be. I watched you take a bite of the lobster filling and it looked like you burned your tongue. Poor baby. It was all I could do to stop myself from running over to you and kissing it to make it feel better. Did you see that I wanted to do that? It didn’t look like you were very interested in the woman you were dining with, although you were very good at covering up. But I understand. We all have to pretend from time to time. I’ve been pretending for God knows how long. Anyway, I plan to be back at the Blu Moon next Friday for dinner. I hope to see you there. I’ll be sitting at your corner table and I’ll wear the black and white dress again so that you’ll know for sure it’s me. So come alone. Until then ‒ hugs.

by Lucas Flatt

Bill tears through the screen door, hits the threshold at a sprint. “Babe, I got the goddamned pluerisy, again!”

“It’s ‘pleurisy.’” Janey likes to correct people’s pronunciation.

“Goddammit, I know that. I’m telling you!”

“No, you’re saying it ‘pluerisy,’ but it’s spelled ‘p-l-e-u-r-e-s-y.”

Bill’s rubbing his chest and soft-shoeing in the foyer. But he leaves off mid-step and wrinkles his brow like he does when he’s spelling in his head. “Think it’s an ‘I,’ babe.”

“No, think about it. ‘I before E except after C. And something about neighbor and way.’”

“‘Weigh,’ like, ‘you need to weigh the baby every day for the first few months.’”

“I weighed her!” Now Janey’s all turned around. There’s no baby. It got the plueresy.

“OK, OK. But what are we gonna do about my pluereesy.”

“I think it’s all made up in your head.” She narrows her eyes. “Are you looking at those websites again?”

“Well, maybe if you’d even think about wearing that get-up I spent FOUR HUNDRED DOLLARS on, I wouldn’t have to.” Bill slumps against a wall, sending family portraits aslant, and slides down onto his butt.

Janey’s shaking her head. “It’s degrading.”

“Firemen are a proud people, Janey. What’s degrading about it?”

“I meant the medical websites, Bill.”

“It’s in my arms, now.” Bill rubs his elbows and passes gas.

“Hon, I think you’re having a heart attack.”

“Ah,” says Bill. “That’s the last thing I need. Just when I was getting over the pleurisy.”

“Hey, you said it right.”

But Bill was already pretty dead.

*

While she waited for the ambulance, Janey tapped on her phone. It was hard to read without her glasses. “Hey, Bill, we were both wrong.”

But wherever Bill was, he wasn’t listening, which figured.

Bio:
Lucas Flatt’s work has appeared in or is forthcoming from Flash Fiction Magazine, BULL Lit, Pithead Chapel, Maudlin House, and Puerto del Sol, among others. He won the 2016 Larry Brown Short Story award at Pithead Chapel, and teaches creative writing at Volunteer State Community College.

by Nancy Richy

The other night as I was getting undressed and ready for bed, I pulled off my sock and saw

something on the sole that looked like a bit of fuzz or a piece of string but upon closer inspection

I realized it was something imprinted on the bottom of the sock itself; since I can’t see a thing

without my glasses, I thought it was the letter A for the company name which is Ace USA but I

soon found out it was the letter L, obviously for LEFT.  

“What are the odds!” I declared to myself, rather tickled by the fact that I put the LEFT sock on

my left foot without even checking the bottom of the sock, but when I took off the other sock,

fully expecting to see the letter R indicating the RIGHT sock, I was confounded when I saw

another L! 

“Just my luck” I again proclaimed to myself, somewhat annoyed that I would be the one to get a

defective pair of socks, with two LEFT socks and no RIGHT sock! 

I promised myself that in the morning I would call Ace USA and encourage them to correct their

oversight by sending me two RIGHT socks, one as a mate for one of the LEFT socks and the

other as a mate for the other LEFT sock, leaving me with two perfectly functioning pairs of

socks.

The next morning I called Ace USA, explained my problem to Eleanor in customer services and

requested two RIGHT socks to match my two LEFT socks; well, I’m sure you can imagine what

a good laugh I had when Eleanor sweetly explained that the L on the bottom of my socks did not

stand for LEFT but rather for LARGE.

Now I find myself rethinking that box in the front closet full of defective mittens.

Bio:
The daughter of Sicilian immigrants, Nancy was born and raised in New York City. She is a wife and Grammy, a storyteller, music blogger, humorist, sometime poet, singer, pianist, organist, gardener, cook, curveball thrower and dreamer. Nancy is a very hard worker but loves sitting in her recliner doing nothing. She wears her heart on her sleeve and will only buy clothes that have pockets.

by Luka Pauletić Grašić

“Nice weather we have today, ay?” He said, sitting next to me dressed sharply as ever, my best friend and coworker.

I look outside, it is pouring like the heavens were mad, even the windows were shaking from how the angry drops struck them. “Only you would say that; you like the rain.” I commented back as I pushed my glasses back.

“Well, what’s wrong with liking some rain? I think it cleanses the world quite nice, cleans everything to be pretty.” He says, hiding a smirk under his chin like he always does, telling himself a little joke that I don’t understand and have no interest in knowing.

“I can’t stand it, my socks get wet, I have to take an umbrella, the water splashes everywhere, it splashes the dirt everywhere, the soil gets muddy and mushy, it’s terrible honestly.” I tell him, shuddering at the very idea of stepping outside now, but knowing I have to do so all the same.

“Maybe one day you too will understand the beauty of rain.” He responds that smirk of his still there, even his eyes are smiling and just as he does the clock goes off, time to go home.

Never gonna happen, I think to myself as we both rush off quick, less than five minutes we are out of the dreaded dreary building and immediately my shoe steps in a giant puddle in front, drenching my shoes and socks. Cursing the whole way to my car I got wetter and wetter along the way. By the time I was seated I resembled more of a wet dog than a man.

The car ride home is just as miserable, with puddles and splashes, I had to have the wipers always on to the point I was worried my windshield was going to get wiped off along with the rain. I parked, and rushed to the door quickly, almost running, a loud voice greeting me the moment I stepped through the door.

“Honey, welcome back!” She yells, full of joy and cheer, a bright woman, always happy, I’m lucky to be her husband, between us nothing but pure love.

And another person that loves the rain, I see a pattern here.

“Hey honey.” I greet her with a kiss and a hug, inhaling the sweet perfume she always has on, like cherries and strawberries.

“How was your day?” She asks and before I know it, we set into comfortable conversation over dinner.

At seven o clock she goes out in the rain, taking one of those long walks in the rain that she loved. She commanded me to stay at home, knowing full well I would try and accompany her, being grumpy all the way. Ironically the moment she went outside the rain stopped, maybe I should have followed her after all.

I sat on the couch, some nature documentary playing. “Rain hides their scent, the clouds obscure their sight, allowing them to…” It said before I switched the channel, never liked nature documentaries myself.

She came home late, still bathed in that smell of hers and quickly wnt to bed. Must have been a fun walk; she was dead tired, sleeping immediately.

The next day is another workday, and as usual the moment I arrived I was greeted by him, standing there and frowning, immediately at the door. It’s cloudy, he hates clouds.

My nose twitched; a familiar scent was in the air. I turned around, yet I didn’t see my wife, though her sweet smell is in the air. Only me and him are there, as well as the cloudy sky.

“Ey, you alright?” He shook my shoulder and asked, and I responded with yes even if I was confused.

An odd start of the day for sure, yet it ended just the same, but I was constantly hunted by that familiar scent in the air.

The clock sounded, a shrill welcoming sound, signifying that work was done, and as we rushed out the door a pleasant surprise greeted us. His wife was there, waiting for him.

He was happy about that, they hugged, kissed, and acted as lovers do. She came here on foot to greet him. Skipping happily he went away to start up the car; the two of us now left alone could do nothing but talk.

“Nice weather we have today, huh?” The spectacled woman said, and I agreed, with a subtle smile on my face, the same one she had on hers, the two of us telling a joke no one else could hear.

I should go cloud watching today.

Bio:
A college student with a passion, Luka is looking to get some stories submitted and have some fun.

by Michael Fowler

I used to drive long distances for work, just me and my gas guzzler eating up vast stretches of interstate. After hours of gripping the wheel, and likely sleep-deprived already from my stay in a cheap motel the night before, afternoon fatigue hit me like a wall. As night came on, my mind became unhinged. Whole towns rose up from the landscape as I zipped along the dark interstate, and floated by like spectral lights on a sea of black. I would spot a brightly lit coffeehouse adrift on the tide of night and desire to pull in, but couldn’t find the proper exit. It was as if the off-ramp existed in another dimension, and I had to know celestial mechanics to compute the turn, but couldn’t add two plus two. All I could do was keep going, my numb foot on the gas, deprived of the caffeine fix that might invigorate me…until I saw a motel, the Motorway Inn or the Travelers Lodge or similar haven, and somehow managed to pull in.

But before I pulled over something else happened: company joined me on the road. From out of nowhere a solitary bicyclist appeared on my starboard side, clearly visible through my windshield in the light of overhead road lamps and my own headlight. It was a man dressed in a black suit and black pumps, wearing a bowler hat. He had bicycle clips on his trousers, and the basket affixed to the front of his bike contained a rolled-up umbrella. All that was plain to me.

I wasn’t alarmed, as I’d encountered the cyclist many times before on my nighttime road trips. I even had a name for him: Clive. As an American I didn’t know any Clives, but I thought the name suited him since he was English, or I assumed he was from the bowler and umbrella. So I called him Clive even though I was sure he didn’t exist. How did I know he didn’t? Aside from his emergence in different areas of the country, what demonstrated his complete impossibility, each time I encountered him, was his constant speed and location relative to my moving guzzler. Clive clung to my right fender at any speed. At twenty-five mph in a small town, he pedaled in a leisurely manner as he hugged the curb, exactly matching my velocity. And at sixty on the expressway (I rarely drove over sixty, though it irritated some road hogs), he matched my speed just as effortlessly. Without once pedaling hard or turning his head to look at me, he hugged the shoulder so close to me that I might have hailed him out my open window, were it not for the rushing air.  

It was a great temptation to stare at Clive and ignore the road, but I realized it was unsafe for me to go on driving at any speed while I hallucinated the man. In the past I once or twice drove through the night with him, Clive finally peeling himself from my side at daybreak. On those occasions I definitely wasn’t driving safely, and was likely nodding. Most often, fortunately, I reminded myself that the next exit to a motel and a night’s sleep lay just ahead, and I managed to negotiate the turn, with Clive following suit. By the time I pulled into the motel parking lot, Clive was vivid enough to carry in my suitcase and register for me, though he never spoke or offered to do so. I did all that myself, as the canny cyclist evaporated as soon as I parked and opened the car door. I didn’t doubt, though, that he awaited me at the on-ramp, ready to pop into view in case I decided to drive on. But at this point I never did. I was all in, and I bid Clive good night.

But I knew I’d see him again the next day, or the day of my next long trip, once the sun set. He was a reliable companion and a timely warning, both.

Bio:
Michael Fowler writes humour and horror in Ohio, USA.

by Bob Ellis

“You don’t really exist, or perhaps you do. Obviously, I exist, but the ‘I’ of me is a bit uncertain.” Emphatically stated, my theory is presented to you, my guest.

Over the last few weeks, creeping sensations have convinced me I am nothing more than a brain in a vat, perhaps housed in a laboratory as part of some dystopian experiment. Electrical impulses are fed to my optic and aural nerves. My fingertips, taste buds and skin all seem to perceive, but is there anything truly out there? Doubts of my existence gnaw at…my brain?

All this I explain as you sip your tea from the bone china cup with its red rose pattern and gilt rim. A bowl of peanuts of the same pattern sits on the side table.

“How can you be certain of your theories?” you ask, sitting across from me in the comfortable leather wingback chair. The electric fire in the grate glows cheerfully, keeping out London’s damp November chill.

“A great question,” I reply. “After all, as a fully functioning brain swimming in what I like to call ‘synapse soup,’ my perceived reality is my only reality. Those sensations keep nagging at me, convincing me my entire existence lies within that brew.”

“Sensations?”

“It is like an amputee feeling a phantom pain from a missing limb. I feel similarly about my entire body. So many of the feelings coming from my senses seem remote to me.”

You pause for a second. “But do you have any proof of this synapse soup situation?”

“How about déjà vu?” I postulate. “Isn’t that proof?” Sometimes, I feel I have previously been in a similar situation or imagined myself doing something I had never done before. For example, though I had never before ridden my bicycle down a particular hill, the previously imagined ride felt as real as the one I was experiencing now for the first time, with the wind blowing in my face and the bumps in the road sending jolts through the handlebars.

“Proves nothing,” you respond. “Everyone suffers from déjà vu. Even that Yogi Bear chap in America.”

“It’s déjà vu all over again,” we mouth in unison. Well, at least I think I mouth it. I certainly hear two voices saying it.

I press on. “How about the fact I know things about myself that other people don’t, or can’t, know?”

“Like what?” you query.

You’ve caught me with that conundrum. If I tell you something, then we both know it. As I am thinking, you sense my reticence and lack of confidence in my theory. “Proves nothing,” you declare.

“What’s the earliest event you remember?” I ask.

“Again, proves nothing. If you are a brain in a vat, then I would be programmed to give you a memory that did not violate your perceived existence.”

“Well then, if you were a brain floating in the soup and getting electrical impulses fed to your senses, how would you prove it?” Got you!

After a few moments of thought, you reply, “If it was a really good arrangement, a really, really tight scientific set-up, well then, you couldn’t prove whether you were real or a disembodied brain floating in the synapse soup.”

Aha! I finally have you. Irrefutable logic. “Well, I can’t prove that I am not, so therefore I must be a brain in a vat!”

“This is silly,” you retort. “You can’t prove something by an inability to disprove it. Bertrand Russell’s teapot is not orbiting the Sun,” you state unequivocally. “I must go.”

You put down your cup and ingest a few peanuts from the bowl. Rising on your sturdy hind legs, you tower above me. Your great grey wrinkled knees, bristling with tufts of wiry hair, are directly across from my face. Your beefy articulated trunk swings perpendicularly to your chest, obscuring your Old Harrovian tie. You stride boldly from the room, your immense ears flapping wildly.

“You left your bowler hat and brolly!” I yell after your massive departing shadow.

Bio:
Bob Ellis is a retired exec who has lived and worked on three continents and has swum in all the oceans of the world. He now spends his time writing quirky stories in SW Florida.

by Bruce D Snyder

T S Rxxxx                                                                                                                                                                                                          Metropolitan Life Insurance Company

Dear Tom,

I’m dropping you a note to say hi and to tell you how much I appreciate your recent correspondence on behalf of AARP and Metropolitan Life Insurance Co.  Frankly, it couldn’t have been timelier!  How could your team have possibly known that for the past few weeks, I’ve been grappling with a life-destroying monster that now occupies the very core of my being. I speak of course, of my virus.

A few weeks ago, I was huddled with other passengers in a tightly confined space, namely a treacherous Boeing airplane.  Unbeknownst to me, this sadistic invader leaped at me from the nostrils of a fellow traveler and attached itself to submicroscopic ports on my aged and infirm cellular structures. 

At the time, my thoughts were elsewhere. Would I survive flying in this Boeing 737-Max or Min or whatever, better known to aficionados as the ‘Airborne Crypt?’   I pledged that if the doors didn’t blow out, the wings didn’t fall off, or pilot-baffling software didn’t just crash the thing, I would tithe at my community mega-church, the one with 16,000 members and a Nashville ready rock band.

Already the viral menace was decimating the very stuff of my being.  My cellular reserves were being sheared away like a marine recruit’s hair. Coughs rumbled up from deep within my chest. My breathing began to sound like a scuba diver twenty fathoms down.  The flight home – a blur of piercing ear pain and glares from fellow passengers as my coughs blasted infectious plumes far and wide.    

The results, predictably, have been catastrophic. My nasal passages are alternately swollen shut or reluctant conduits for a variety of distasteful, highly viscous, but admittedly colorful fluids. There is an aching, bursting pressure in my head. My teeth ache. My normally effervescent nature has been displaced by bottomless lethargy.  At the time of this writing, I remain critically ill with barely enough life force to pop a zit from my nose. Martialing every remaining ounce of strength, I have opened my user-friendly AI companion, i-SNUFF-u, to calculate how many cells stand between me and my demise.  Ouch.

Tom, we’ve been home for a week now. I am struck down.  In moments of consciousness, I pray for death.  And so, wallowing in the depths of despair, when all seemed lost, there in the actual mail, in an actual envelope, was your deeply caring, personalized letter announcing a double digit increase in my long-term care insurance premiums.  Your letter was sent from Salt Lake City, POB 30607, with a return address of POB 14634 (my lucky number!), Lexington KY.  The high-quality bond paper, the upbeat MetLife logo, like a tiny butterfly spreading its wings, and especially the sub-heading, “At MetLife we’re here to help,” have buoyed me up.  Bless you for enclosing the cheerfully illustrated ‘End-of-Life Choices’ brochure (such happy faces😊).  So thoughtful it brought tears to my eyes.  

I told my devoted life-partner (on the couch hacking her lungs out, holding a pistol to her temple) that with your encouragement I was determined to strive on. We assembled our therapeutic weaponry: Tylenol, Advil, Mucinex, Dayquil, Nyquil, Mucinex, nasal sprays, lozenges, zincum swabs, hot compresses, cold compresses, Bed-Buddy’s, incense cones, herbal teas, and enough vitamin C to make me look like a grapefruit. I’d reserve the doobies for later.  As a trained professional I knew that copious amounts of premium alcohol was also essential. I tossed off a liter of Bullitt Bourbon. There was a little left, so I poured it over my head. My parasitic invader was cursing, its killing spree threatened by aggressive treatments.

Tom, your letter reminded me that someone out there cares.  And that others, like you Tom, are suffering in the throes of everyday existence. Thinking of you, hunched over a laptop in your studio apartment, in soiled sweats with stained armpits, and that off-putting facial tic, reminded me that in the scope of things, my trials are small.  Tom, you’ve gained weight, you’re out of shape, your kids avoid you and your dog hates you. The piles of take-out cartons and pizza boxes must be depressing.  There you are, avoiding calls from your mother who repeatedly asks why, after spending a fortune for an MBA, you are, by now, not at least a Senior VP with some sort of career path in front of you. She has tired of advising you to stop paying support to that conniving bitch she told you not to marry. Hey – so what about that Tom?  And Tom, in all sincerity, I am here for you buddy.  

Tom, remember the words of your trusted Scoutmaster, the one who, after molesting you at his cabin, would say, “Tommy, always aim to live your best life.”  Are you doing that, Tom? Tom?

I am feeling slightly better, thanks in no small part to the letter you sent.  I followed your thoughtful suggestion to have our laundry and used tissues bagged as hazardous medical waste.  I’ve thought about cancelling my long-term care policy but really, I don’t have the heart to do that to you. I’m here for you Tom.  Remember that.  I reflected on the forty years of premiums I’ve sent MetLife, starting, probably while you were still in grade school.  How ironic, that out of the universe, you and I are so closely connected.  True, some might say that had I kept the money I sent your company, I would have a sizeable fortune. But we know that’s pie in the sky.  Had I saved and invested my premium payments I would have precisely nothing.  Because I’m a lousy investor and my former Certified Financial Planner is in prison.

Hugs, your closest friend and supporter, Bruce

Bio:
Bruce D Snyder, a retired physician, lives cautiously near Minneapolis where zinging bullets provide a nice breeze to help with the latest heat wave. He is married with three children and various grandchildren and works on the public health effects of climate change. He writes to try and forget the news. His work has appeared in Spillwords Press, redrosethorn magazine, and Literally Stories.

by Steve Hodge

Her singing was not always inviting as she attempted her higher range.  The neighborhood dogs would bark in howling imitation of her cries, which too often sounded as either the pain of a woman in child birth or, on a good day, the muffled screams of one passing a kidney stone, as in a public restroom.

The almost but never attained high C’s shook the chandeliers in 8.5 magnitude.  Plaster was loosened as the whole house shook from the warbles of her whole-tone vibrato, a whiplashing effect to be patented and sold to our military (for defensive purposes only.)

She thought herself a diva, diving into scales and arpeggios, a mistress of quarter-tone tuning and toothache dynamics.  Hers was truly a voice that could launch a thousand ships, all acting in urgency to find open sea in which to escape her wailing.

The agonies of her despair were expressed in tribal ritual, human sacrifice always imposed on those unlucky enough to be within earshot.

And I, the one who knew her from birth, prayed that she might limit herself to singing low-pitched lullabies, that she would embrace the apron, that she might tend the hearth, bake cookies and find solace in the voices of others.

Bio:
Steve Hodge is a retired college professor. He is a published composer and is known for his contributions to the world of choral music. He holds a doctorate from The University of Colorado. He is a full-time caregiver to his partner.

by Trenton Romleski

“Max! Come down, dinner’s here!” The woman shouted up a staircase by the kitchen.

“One second!” A young boy’s voice returned.

“No Max! Now please!” She yelled again, removing the contents of bags onto the counter.

A spider quickly dashed to plastic containers spread across the counter, hurriedly tapping its legs. “Chinese?” It hissed to her.

“Yes, Chinese.” The woman replied, extending her body up to grab a glass cup high in a cabinet.

“Are you ever going to move those?” The spider said, jumping next to her.

Finally touching the cup, a dance occurred, fingers twirled the cup until it was close enough for her hand to wrap around it. Landing down on her heels she turned to the arachnid. “Yes, Peter, I will.”

“Then why hasn’t it been done?” Peter responded, spinning in circles, arms raised in a performative dance.

“Because, I haven’t felt like it.” She grumbled.

“I could do it, you know.” The spider said, continuing his spinning.

Amanda decided to ignore the arachnid. “Max! Come on! Rachael and I are waiting.”

“Coming!” The boy yelled from upstairs.

The woman turned to the little girl, Rachael, in the kitchen, holding a plate that Amanda had previously laid out.

“Can I have the shrimp please?” Rachael said, large brown eyes begging for food.

“Yes honey, just give me a second.” Amanda replied, pouring drinks and opening the containers assigning each a serving spoon.

“Max!” As she let out another exasperated yell a young teenager stormed down the stairs in a pair of gym shorts. An almost translucent specter in tow.

“Hey Lettice.” Amanda smiled at the specter.

“Good evening Mrs.Smith!” The specter waved a misty hand. “Was your work agreeable today?”

“It was, thank you Lettice.” Amanda turned to her young daughter. “Rachael!”

Rachael was reaching on the counter for a platter of shrimp stir fry. A young ghostly boy pointing it out to her. “Shrimp!” The girl yelled, enthused at the prospect of the meal.

“I know baby, let me get that for you okay?”

“Did you get a large entree of Lemon Chicken?” Max leaned over his mother’s shoulder.

“Max,” Peter interrupted, “your mother is busy.” The spider still spun, dancing with its front legs.

“Thank you Peter.” Amanda twisted to thank the spider, scooping food onto Rachael’s plate. “But yes, it’s in the white container still in the bag.”

Max grabbed the white container, a fork and quickly ran back upstairs.

“Ohhh Maxxxxxx!” Peter sang to the house.

“Thank you for dinner!” Max yelled back down barely turning.

“Uh huh.” Amanda rolled her eyes.

“Good to see you Mrs. Smith. We must finish the last level of this new “Gears of War.” Lettice told Amanda before turning her back to the stairs to float slowly up.

“Good to see you too Lettice, if you need anything let me know!” Amanda replied.

“Thank you.” Lettice called behind her.

Amanda turned to see Rachael was already at the dining room table, eating her shrimp stir fry making random conversation with the wispy boy seated next to her.

Letting out a sigh Amanda slid the leftover stir fry and fried rice in front of her and began slowly attacking them with a fork.

“Kids.” Peter rhythmically crawled up the cabinets and onto the counter.

She nodded her head too tired to entertain conversation with the spider. “Kids.”

Bio:
Trenton lives in Southern California working as a personal trainer, writing a variety of works on the side.

by K B Holm

Of the seven deadly sins, our labrador’s favourites were gluttony and lust.

Not only did he gobble up anything vaguely resembling food, but he also had a crush on the neighbours’ golden retriever. Kissing over the hedge was a common occurrence and soon the dogs conspired to dig a hole under the fence. The neighbours, a French family, were strictly unamused.

One evening I got back from work, the neighbours’ daughter came running with devastating news. Our dog was in their garden and had taken the family rabbit.

Horrified, I assembled the kids and issued urgent instructions. We had to get hold of our dog, it was a matter of life and death.

As the oldest ran next door, the younger joined me in the garden. Kneeling by the hedge we rattled the kibble box.

I steeled myself for what would appear from the underground tunnel. Our dog with blood on his teeth? A dangling, half-eaten rabbit?

This was the final straw in our neighbourly relations. The French were already fed up with our canine Casanova. If he had eaten their latest pet, was it criminal offense?

When the dog finally appeared, he was excitedly wagging his tail. The kid came running back from next door and reported they were outraged. “Grand’Mere had made a big dinner,” she said. “And now our dog has eaten their bread!”  

“The bread,” I said. “THE BREAD? Who cares about bread when he’s taken the rabbit?”

“Rabbit?” she said and shook her head. ‘The rabbit is fine? It’s about the baguette!”

The bread, I thought. ‘Le pain’. Not the ‘lapin’ I had heard in my still evolving French.

Not long after the neighbours installed a new fence, this time blocking the passage under the hedge. Our labrador’s romance was over, but the rabbit lived on.

Grand’Mere’s baguettes were safe, and I booked another class.

Bio:
Karina Holm is a Scandinavian writer, reader, worker, and mother. Her fiction and non-fiction work has been shortlisted and longlisted for several awards including the Fish Publishing short memoir prize, the Cranked Anvil Flash competition, and the Bath Novel award. Twitter @kbhstories

by Jeannie Mary Abbott

I awoke in the night, probably because of the heat, it was excessive that week.  Turning over sleepily, I decided I was hungry.  Well, it had been hours since supper and looking at the green light from the clock, it was 3a.m.  Sliding slowly out of bed, trying not to wake my wife, I grabbed the torch and padded off downstairs.

The fridge was making one of its various theme tunes, it had a large selection of noises it played day and night.  Sometimes it was a thumping sound like heavy metal, or a low groaning and then there was the crackling as though fireworks were going off inside.  Now it was rumbling, a bit like my stomach so I opened the door and gazed at the sparse contents. 

A wonderful waft of cold air hit my over-heated body and I stood there enjoying the respite from the endless humidity.  The rumbling sound suddenly changed to an ominous growling as though it was waiting for me to finish.  There was also a tapping sound, like fingernails on metal; it was trying to be patient.    

Limp lettuce, half a mushroom and a cube of hard cheese stared back at me.  Sighing, I grabbed the orange juice and thought I would just have an over-ripe banana from the fruit bowl.  I walked into the lounge and sat watching the TV without the sound on.

The fridge had now started yet another sound effect and I could hear what resembled gun fire coming from the kitchen.  I looked towards the door with the glass of orange near my lips; my hand shook violently and the liquid dribbled down my chin.  It made a long slurping noise as it cascaded like a waterfall and hit the cream, plush carpet like a soft explosion.  I couldn’t pay attention to the roving stain it caused because my eyes were riveted to the door where there was something enormous, shaking and letting out blood-curdling screams.

The fridge had come to tell me I had left the door open.

Bio:
Jeannie runs writing groups at her local library and lives in Suffolk UK

by John Sheirer

Forecasters failed to predict the mid-autumn blizzard, what with all the climate chaos. So the husband was late clearing leaves this year. Maybe he was distracted at work. Maybe turning forty affected him more than he thought. Yardwork was usually his love language.

            Once he realized his error, he jumped to the task at dusk, skipping his dinner and attacking with a rake. But the snow squalled, and he switched to pitchfork, spade, then snow shovel. He gradually faded from frenzy to slog as the accumulation deepened.

            Morning found him buried upright, caught in mid-shovel toss, a snow sculpture. His children gazed from their bedroom windows, not sure if they should celebrate the school closure or lament their immobilized father. His wife bundled up and waded out and asked if she should call his office. She took the soft moan to be assent, so she told them he needed some “personal time.” His neighbors waved at first, but all he could do was twitch an index finger in reply, so everyone soon accepted him as a feature of the landscape.

            Snow returned just often enough to keep him buried. Occasional sunny days gave him hope, and he could swear he heard the trickle of melting on the long afternoons of slanted light. But nighttime froze whatever progress had occurred, and the sky opened up again to bury him deeper than before.

            Weeks passed. Months. Neighborhood dogs still sniffed him now and then but never cocked a leg. Deer scratched nearby but never nibbled. His wife and children sent good thoughts once or twice each truncated day, then settled down to homework, TV, and seasonal affective disorder.

            Eventually, just after April Fool’s Day, fresh from hibernation, a curious bear licked enough snow to free him and then wandered back into the woods. The thick, musty breath and raspy tongue were as close to loving touch as he’d felt since fall. His family brushed free the rest of the snow, pried the shovel from his hands, limbered his stiffened joints, led him home, and fed him meatloaf, roasted baby potatoes, and hot chocolate spiked with rum. He had a second helping of the meat and potatoes but started dozing before he could finish the drink.

            That night, he slept as warm and deep as ever in his life, swaddled in his wife’s embrace. The airstream pivoted and brought a southerly breeze that melted everything down to the browned grass, tufty sod, and neglected leaves.

            The next morning, rising early, he set out with the rake again and finished the job by noon.

Bio:
John Sheirer lives in Western Massachusetts and is in his 31st year of teaching at Asnuntuck Community College in Northern Connecticut. His most recent books are For Now: One Hundred 100-Word Stories (2023 New England Book Festival Award Runner-Up) and Stumbling Through Adulthood: Linked Stories (2021 New England Book Festival Award Winner). Find him at JohnSheirer.com.

by Ira Schaeffer

We know the old fairytale about Jack, the beans, his cow, the plunder, his hatchet, the beanstalk, and the oafish giant  tumbling from the sky.  Certainly, it was Jack who brought the ogre down, not in a cold-blooded way  but in quick-thinking act of self-defense. Jack a murderer?—certainly not!  Our culprit is a shadowy figure, a mastermind who thickened her murderous plot as deftly as she would a stew of oxen with the blood and bones of an English boy. Our guilty party was none other than the long-suffering giant’s wife, who, for ten horrid years, bore the malodorous body and breath of her dullard spouse.

     As a newlywed Judith learned to tolerate Seymour’s deplorable hygiene and his equally horrid table manners. After all, didn’t she live in an ivory castle above the clouds? And wasn’t there heaps of bullion, a singing harp and a hen that laid eggs of gold? Was she so naive as to believe people marry for love and live happily ever after? At least that how her mother’s argument went whenever Judith tried to vent. And so Judith confused herself by taking her mother’s lies as truth.

     Playing the devoted wife, Judith cooked up mounds of sweetbreads and tripe  sautéed with maggots, combed lice from Seymour’s greasy hair, and even grew to believe his long crooked  teeth and carbuncled nose quite endearing.                                                                                                                     

     So what if Seymour found pleasure with his lady-harp, plucking her strings while she sang him a love-sick aria.  Who could fault him for his breathless That’s right, that’s right, pretty mama, as his magic hen squeezed him out a golden ovum. Men have their needs and who was she to thwart them?  

       One day a stranger arrived. He was disheveled, gaunt and wore a floppy purple hat with PIEMAN stitched on its crown Although Judith did her best to wheedle out a reason for his visit the Pieman wouldn’t budge.  And then, with not so much as a Fee-Fi-Fo-Fum, Seymour stomps in and hoists the man on his shoulders. Judith listens to their laughter recede down the long corridor. Cautiously, she followed them to Seymour’s counting room, where he kept his gold and dirty pictures of base viols and double bassoons. 

     Judith was surprised but not shocked at what she discovered.  The Pieman, it seems, wore many hats. He was the village procurer of all things sweet, including dullard lads who didn’t know beans. Seymour drooled like a dog with a bone as he leafed through the Pieman’s catalog of half-clothed boys. A deal was struck: one gold egg now and one at delivery. 

     The wand was waived, the spell broken, Judith woke from her self-deception with a clear-eyed plan. .By exploiting his greed and stupidity she would bring the monster down. So the next day, while the stinking lug was sleeping off the effects of two roasted pigs, a cow and a horse, washed down with a goliath of tainted muscatel, Judith was knocking at the Pieman’s door.

     It didn’t take long for Judith to set her plan in motion. With a bag of gold and a tight grip of the Pieman’s jewels, Judith secured  his cooperation.  She would supply the beans and ax, and he the English lad. In fact, the Pieman knew just the one, a friend of Simon’s by the name of Jack, a hungry naïf ready to fill his belly on a dream.

      ******

     We all know how the caper played out. Jack got rich, the giant took the fall. But what about the smarmy Pieman and Judith, the prime mover of it all?  Well, the Pieman moved to London, changed his name to Bob, and opened the People’s Institute of Exploitation. A sampling of classes included, Turning Catastrophe into Cash, A Flatterer’s Guide to Success. The Pitfalls of Loyalty; Promoting & Leveraging Outrage; The Politics of Gullibility; Corruption as Change Agent;  Keeping the Suit Empty: A Strategy for Winning; and, the ever-popular, Closing with Trust.

     As for Judith, she sold the castle to a wrecking crew and moved to a seaside cottage in Brighton. After raising the doorframe and roof, she found her new situation more spacious. Judith now had room to transform herself. She gave up meat, joined a women’s group, offered workshops on strength-training and martial arts. In short, Judith grew to be a pillar of her community, the go-to woman to end the abuse of any man by cutting him down to size.

Bio:
Ira ‘s humor has been nurtured by an early exposure (mostly in the figurative sense) to irony and neglect, not to mention the inherent absurdity of life. Ira’s poems have appeared in a variety of print and electronic publications. In addition, Ira continues to share his love of poetry by offering poetry workshops in local libraries and centers for lifelong learning.

by M P Allez

‘I told you before it doesn’t mean that Hilda, it’s not that kind of trial.’ Muriel was becoming impatient with her friend.

            ‘So, no one’s done anything wrong then? I thought we were going to see some dogs in court.’

            ‘No, I keep telling you, it’s about which dog is best at getting us sheep into a pen.’

            ‘Ah I see, well perhaps I do. I still don’t understand why a sheepdog would be on trial, they seem quite friendly to me. I know they make us go from one field to the next, but I thought that was their job.’

            ‘Hilda, you’re missing the point again. We’re going tomorrow. I just need you to bring something along. You will remember that won’t you?’

            ‘Where are we going tomorrow?’

            ‘Oh Hilda, you’ll forget your own name one of these days. We’re going to the trials; you know where we all run around a field for a bit annoying dogs?’

            ‘How will we get in?’

            ‘We’re sheep, it’s a sheepdog trial.’

            ‘I’ve always enjoyed a day out. It’s not really a trial, is it? You always get us to decide which dog will win beforehand, then we run off in different directions for the others.’

            ‘It’s not meant to be a trial for us, even if it is sometimes. I’d rather stay here and stare at ramblers.’

            ‘Yes, but you’re strange.’

            ‘Just be ready Hilda, remember to bring the parcel I just gave you. We have a job to do.’

Western Counties Clarion

Organisers were forced to abandon the latest round of the County Sheepdog Trials yesterday when two sheep staged a demonstration against man-made fabrics. One, wielding a ‘Just Stop Polyester’ banner walked slowly towards the organisers’ tent while a second showered one of the competitors, a collie named locally as ‘Bess,’ with a yellow-orange powder. The resident veterinary surgeon confirmed that the dog was unharmed. The powder was identified as nothing more sinister than coloured flour. A spokesman for Jakob Ramm, CEO of the Natural Fibres Institute, said that feelings were running high amongst wool providers, and confirmed that the sheep concerned had been removed to safety at a secret, secure sanctuary.

Bio:
Martyn Allez, who writes as M P Allez, is a retired programme and technology director. He lives in Wiltshire, England.

by John Whalen-Bridge

In my last sleep Queen Elizabeth

told me not to put affairs in order

or how to fix the Middle East

or how best to decorate a castle,

but raaather that we might send

chickens into space so astronauts

could have fresh eggs. Question:

would space eggs be superbly

round? We shan’t want rollypolly

eggs for our spacemen. I curtsied

and got to work on a situation

I hitherto held above my station.

I smell the dew-kissed grass,

and what I thought arthritis

just needed a stretch. No

headache today, no papers

to mark, and a rain tree stands

twixt me and the sun. For fun

I’m doing this, and it’s going well.

Who doesn’t like it, ride a carousel.

Earth’s one cicada in many parts

sings its long song of endless love.

Up a clean creek with a fine paddle

made of rosewood, I call to mind

the two bulldogs with bulging

baby eyes who sniffed my knee

enthusiastically, though called for

by their human master. The wheel

will turn. I’ll visit other realms. Now

is just as real as what’s to come,

But it won’t seem that way then.

From Pandora’s box impish Hope

flies: “Mark this page, you dope.”

No man is an island
but in the bathtub
I’m an archipelago.
Isthmus must be
my lucky day.

Bio:
John Whalen-Bridge teaches American literature at the National University of Singapore. He writes about impermanence, bipolar phenomena, and things people might say.

by Renee Williams

Perplexing it was, pinpointing the placement of the purported panacea,

purchased previously on a prescription for her husband, felled by the pernicious plague.

The project primarily focused on places where the Paxlovid  probably might be found,

not the medicine cabinet, nor the kitchen pantry, nor anyplace practical.

She predicted that the problem could be placated by a persistent pillaging of the hall closet

but since she was prohibited from probing pointlessly and proliferating germs, she paused.

But the longer she pondered her predicament, she panicked, pivoted, and once alone,

she was poised to pounce on this pain and procure the needed medication.

She plodded forth to the hall closet—but then really found herself in a pickle.

Upon pulling open the door, a plethora of plastics filled with potions to promote youth

plummeted on her head. Pointless purchases she’d made from Estée Lauder, Chanel, among others, plunked down and around her, as she sat there in a perilous position.

Pride punctured more than pores, she picked up the payload and put it back away,

but she still pontificated to anyone who would listen, namely, her pooches,

that the medicine might still be had if she simply pruned a little further.

Ah, the plight was becoming a parody, but undaunted, she persevered, positing that she’d prevail.

After so much perusing, she was no longer powerless and pronounced that she’d found the pharmaceutical, precisely—if not preposterously—positioned beneath the packets of Pepto Bismal.

Bio:
Renee Williams is a retired English instructor, who has written for Guitar Digest, Alien Buddha Press and Fevers of the Mind.

by Loretta Iwaniw-Horne

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by Eric Green

   It was my old shabby overcoat that first attracted her attention, or rather her disdain.

   It happened at a food court in suburbia.

   After eyeing me or it, she said, “That overcoat looks so ugly. You need to buy a new one.”

   She had a point. By its humble appearance, the overcoat could have dated to memorable events in ancient history, say the 100 Years War starting in 1337 A.D. Some of its down feathers were flying up around my head.

   But it fit comfortably. That’s all I ask for in overcoats. It reflected my identity as someone who believed in writer and misfit Henry David Thoreau’s philosophy to beware of any enterprises that require new clothes.

   That overcoat deserves all praise and respect for getting the ball rolling with the lady whose name was Rosario. We talked for several hours about this and that. Finally, exhausted and running out of things to say, I said maybe she liked Chinese food. We could meet again sometime in the food court for wonton soup. We agreed that one of us would call the other, soup to nuts.

   Rosario was a direct, determined person. She beat me to the punch. She suggested we get together this coming Saturday in the same shopping mall where I had introduced her to my overcoat.

   Saturday arrived and I waited in Macy’s at the appointed hour with no Rosario. Another 15 minutes passed. I figured she had second thoughts about her first impressions of me.

   Then, Rosario burst around the revolving door. She apologized that her car had broken down, a usual occurrence since it was so old and dilapidated. I joked that we had something in common–my overcoat was the equivalent to her car–both were ancient relics and needed to be put out to pasture.

   Our next times out, Rosario learned more about my taste for Chinese food, ad nauseum. After still another meal at a Chinese restaurant, she asked if the next time could we try a different appetizer besides wonton soup? And next time, could we splurge beyond just splitting one entrée of fried rice, even if I suggested not to sound too cheap that if she was still hungry, we could order something even more exotic, like a pu-pu tray of egg rolls, spare ribs, and chicken wings? At least now I was convinced next time I would wing it.

   I soon learned what I had gotten myself into when things got more serious with Rosario. She was one of 12 siblings along with innumerable relatives from a very poor family from a rural town in the Philippines called Dumalag. Their downtrodden situation sometimes reached almost depressing-comical depths, such as when Rosario’s uncle retrieved some sneakers from the trash because he didn’t have the money to pay for a new pair and painted them white, the color the sneakers were required to have in order for Rosario to join her elementary school’s volleyball team.

   After a number of months of seeing each other, Rosario asked if our dating was going somewhere or was she just wasting her time? I wasn’t expecting her to be so frank. I mumbled something like yeah, we’re going somewhere, hopefully to a nice place like the beach. My squeamishness wasn’t enough for her. She asked when? I said soon, in the summer. Too vague. She asked what month I had in mind for a wedding. I said three months from now, August. She said to be more specific, what day? I said the 15^th. I picked that date randomly. It just felt like the right time. It turned out that was the exact date Rosario also had in mind.

   The first thing that changed in my life after getting married was Rosario buying me a new overcoat. The old one went to the Salvation Army who from the looks of it threw the coat into a trash can. Long live that coat. 

Bio:
Eric Green’s short story, A Disturbing Matter Over Mind, was chosen as the 2023 winner of the Illumination Prize by the Spire Light Journal. Another of his short stories, A Most Disconcerting Title, was published in 2023 by Adelaine Literary Magazine. He is a notorious humor writer.

by Douglas John Imbrogno

The first clown appeared at the corner of 18th Street and Adams Avenue.

It was Labor Day and so I thought nothing of it. Five blocks down, another clown. This one — a little fatter with a huge rainbow Afro — loitered out front of a gas station.

A promotion of some event, perhaps? Maybe the circus had come to town. Yes, that was it. Paul and little Marty might like to see elephants and lions, trapeze artists, and, yes, the buffoonery of clowns in big shoes and mammoth bow ties.

As I stopped at a red light in front of the Pick’n’Pay, I saw another clown. This one pushed a cart out the door of the grocery. The cart contained one item: a package of sausage.

“Honey,” I said to my wife Linda, as I walked into the kitchen of our home later.

I set down two bags of groceries on the table where she sat. Moments later, Paul and Marty made off with the box of Donkey Kong cereal.

“I saw three clowns today.”

Linda glanced up from the table, her eyes red and watery. A mound of diced onions lay on a cutting board in front of her.

“I saw a clown on TV. He was being interviewed by a reporter,” said Linda, wiping her eyes with a towel. “The reporter asked him what it was like to be a clown. The clown said, ‘You tell me.”

I asked her what the reporter did then.

“He laughed and said ‘Back to you, Bob.’”

The front door swung open. Into the kitchen rushed Marty.

“Mom, Dad! There’s a clown walking down the street!”

We followed him outside.

“Circus is in town, but I didn’t see any ads,” I said.

We joined a knot of kids and parents on the sidewalk waving at the clown. He wore a sunflower in his lapel and walked in the road. He didn’t wave back and kept moving.

By the end of the week, most everyone in town had seen a clown as dozens more showed up. A handful spent all day around the town memorial — a restored artillery gun — sitting or talking quietly around it.

One or two sat atop the sorting tables at Mueller’s Laundromat and would pull off some bit of ragtag clothing — a pink silk shirt or dirty, white fingerless gloves or even laces from their clown shoes — and ask customers if they might toss the pieces in with their wash. Of course, people agreed.

It was only when a couple clowns showed up in the bleachers during girls’ gym classes at Woodrow Wilson High that authorities began to express alarm.

Paul told me what happened.

“The vice-principal, Mr. Etheridge, asked them to leave. And the clowns, or one of them, took out a whoopee cushion and stuck it under Etheridge after they said to him to sit down and talk about it …”

Well, old Bob Etheridge was embarrassed, I guess, and it didn’t help when one of the clown squirted him in the eye with ink using a trick fountain pen, according to Paul.

By the time the police came, the clowns were gone.

That was the turning point in the town’s relations with the clowns. I used to think it colorful to see clowns everywhere; in the hardware store, for example, using calipers to measure the diameter of each other’s round red noses; playing basketball in the park with a small wastebasket for a ball.

One clown even came into the flower shop where Linda works. He carried a dozen wilted stems of dandelions, whose fluffy white heads had already been blown off. He seemed to want a dozen carnations in exchange. Linda said no to his request, made in pantomime. Instead, she gave him a single white daisy.

He ate it, she said, petal by petal.

The sheriff entered the picture after several clowns stole the hubcaps from the Cadillac of retired mayor Fink. The clowns wore the hubcaps around town as hats. Fink was heard to say afterward, “Do something about these damn clowns.”

But after the first clown was arrested and a front-page photo of an utterly forlorn clown in handcuffs appeared (the sheriff denied use of the handcuffs and said they were the clown’s), people softened.

“They’re only clowns,” a psychologist at the local university was quoted as saying.

Charges were not pursued.

One day, two weeks after the clowns first appeared, I came home from work to find Paul dressed as a clown. “All the kids are doing it,” he said.

Marty was already at the park. (“He looks great!” said Paul). The clowns were showing the kids how to tumble. Linda shrugged. She had helped the boys pick out clown clothing from boxes of old clothes in the basement. “‘Send in the clowns …’” she sang softly.

One morning, we awoke to find a banner headline across the top of the the newspaper “CLOWNS GONE,” it read.

“As quietly and mysteriously as they came, the clowns that descended upon this town for the last month left and not a one was to be found anywhere yesterday, officials said …”

The neighborhood kids, disappointed, wandered in their clown outfits to all the old clown haunts. They tried to keep the daily ritual of tumbling in the park, but it was difficult without the eyes of their tutors upon them.

Interest began to wane in clowning. Oh, the occasional whoopee cushion still found its way underneath the bottom of some adult. It was also unwise to smell a flower offered by a child during that period.

And, of course, clowns — a few — showed up amid the vampires, superheroes, Cinderellas and other characters out that Halloween.

A new box office hit — a talking dolphin from Atlantis — turned their attention away from clowns altogether.

Bio:
Douglas John Imbrogno is a lifelong storyteller in words, pictures and moving images. He worked 30 years as an editor and feature writer for The Charleston Gazette in West Virginia and his prose, poetry and videos have been published widely. He is producer of the 2023 documentary “HOUSE IN THE CLOUDS: The Artistic Life of Robert Singleton” and editor of “WHAT WHY HOW: Answers to Your Questions on Buddhism, Meditation and Living Mindfully” by Bhante G (Wisdom 2020). He is author of the chapbooks “Take a Seat” and “EPIGRAMMER: Short Poems & Epigrams for a Post-Dow Industrial, Anti-Delusional Age.”

by Ed McManis

Covid brought plenty of miseries. And long term COVID has left folks with chronic health issues including loss of taste and smell, and memory loss.

As an erstwhile teacher, I know the importance of memory, and as a positive human being, I’ve done my research and offer up here these strategies for helping your memory, COVID affected or otherwise. (I’m speaking to you, Mr. Pass-the-Bong-is-it-still-1977?)

There are all kinds of memory: short-term, long term, episodic…and a bunch I can’t recall right now.  One technique you can use to help memory is called a “mnemonic”.  As you know, mnemonic comes from the Greek and means “I’ll never be able to find this on my spell check because it starts with ‘m’ and is pronounced with an ‘n’.”

Apparently mnemonic is eponymously derived from the Greek goddess of memory,  Mnemosyne. (Good luck to her husband remembering her name, much less their anniversary.)  Mnemonics are clever tricks that can help us remember. And when paired with acronyms, (letters representing words) it’s a dynamic pair, like Batman with Biden, Eminem with Peanuts.

You all know the familiar acronym PEMDAS, where you take the first letter of each word to remember a procedure or sequence.

Thus, Please Excuse My Dear Aunt Sally, for math. PEMDAS is the order of operations: Parentheses, exponents, and so on. The key with mnemonics is to make them simple enough to remember, otherwise you need a mnemonic to remember the mnemonic, then the gods go crazy and Helen gets kidnapped all over again.

Another math acronym I used in high school was, MMTCBMBINUA. Itworked like magic; I got through high school, a sterling 2.3 GPA (Another acronym!) and rolled into college. Oh, the acronym? My-Math-Teacher-Can-Bite-Me-I’ll-Never-Use-Algebra. A bit long, but feel free to pass it on to your kids.

In college I created a couple of successful, sure-fire acronyms. INCIIW (It’s-Not-Cheating-If-It-Works) and DBATEOOTT (Don’t-Be-Afraid-To-Eat-Out-Of-The-Trash.) Today, as a college counselor these are my two top survival tools I pass along.  

And is it really cheating if you pay a struggling English major, who’s run out of Ramen noodles, to write your “Renaissance Women Named Marigold” essay because you need the three credits to graduate with a P.E. degree?  And anyone’s who’s graduated as an English Major and tried to make a living as a writer knows about the back-alley-buffet.

Today’s kids are blessed. No need to struggle with the five-paragraph, personal, or compare/contrast essay; no need for rhetoric, learning the different types of irony, mastering the impossible task of creating a thesis statement that is more than a topic sentence. They can text. They have a plethora of acronyms.

I’ve created an acronym cheat sheet (ACS) for old folks like me. WTF = Where’s The Food? LMAO= Left My Amp Onstage; IMHO= I Might Have Oreos; SMH = Sold My Honda; and NTSD = Nice Try Schnauzer Dick.

As we get ready for the upcoming inane, divisive, irrational, exasperating political season, it behooves one to get armed with the requisite acronyms. YAMMER= Your Arguments Make My Esophagus Retch; IKYABWAI = I Know You Are But What Am I. (You can always add “infinity” to seal the argument.) And FISHY = Fox Is Such Horseshit Y’all.

Next month we’ll take a look at how to survive the upcoming late summer class reunion. And we’ll relive the highlight of my educational career when I was recognized on stage as TSMLTUAAMANGL (The Student Most Likely To Use Acronyms And Mnemonics And never Get Laid.)

Bio:
Ed McManis is a writer, editor, & erstwhile Head of School. His work has appeared in more than 60 publications, including The Blue Road Reader, California Quarterly, Cathexis, Narrative, Lascaux Review, etc. He, along with his wife, Linda, have published esteemed author Joanne Greenberg’s (I Never Promised You a Rose Garden) novel, Jubilee Year.

by Nancy P Hesting

I saw you at the bank drive-up last Saturday morning. You know the one on the corner of State and Main? Do you remember me? I’m the one with the cute dog in the front passenger seat with its head hanging out the car window barking its head off. You glanced my way a couple of times and it looked like you winked at me. You might have thought I winked at you first, but it might just have been the muscle tic that’s been driving me crazy for the past couple of weeks. It’s on the right side of my face and goes from my left eye to the middle of my chin. I’m sure you had something like that at some point in your life. Right? My doctor says it’s just eye strain and not to worry much, like it’s not going to be some kind of brain tumor, you know. But anyway, that’s not what’s important. I think we’ve got something going here. What do you think? I’m not usually this forward, but the clock’s a-tickin’ if you know what I mean. Write me and tell me the color of my dog so that I’ll know it’s you. Ta-ta.

Bio:
Nancy Hesting is a published writer and poet who lives with her husband in Michigan’s Manistee National Forest where she can be found shoveling snow, picking up pine cones, or hunting for mushrooms. Her work has appeared in Ad Hoc Fiction, The Pangolin Review, The Passionfruit Review, and Chicken Soup for the Soul: Lessons Learned from My Dog.

by Danielle McMahon

and as the constable rushes headlong in pursuit, revolver drawn, into the marmoreal gallery plenteous with audaciously suggestive Grecian statuary, he hesitates momentarily, his appetites being briefly flustered, and thus he slips, unsuspecting, upon a banana peel positioned on the floor for this very contingency, his wing-tips tapping preposterously on the otherwise pristinely polished parquet as he performs this absurd, involuntary dance, producing rude, black scuffing and a cacophony of screeching heels and clanging metal upon the alabaster marble, his service revolver spun out significantly from his reach, his navy cap now improperly askew and conical with this palpable struggle, he shouts out, resonantly, into the gallery, “zounds, Christ, lady, what is this sick alchemy!?” realizing his nescience, for falling forthwith into the villain’s clever machination, much to the bemusement of the smirking duchess standing before him at present, a Venusian vision in scarlet, immaculately adorned in her velvet accoutrements and elaborate Roman coiffure, and as she smiles her iniquitous smile, she raises her ivory hand steadily to aim her bejeweled lady-pistol at our dear officer with decidedly murderous intent, and in his utter befuddlement at being bested by this nefarious gentlewoman, the constable seeing he’s been had, his bowels remonstrate heartily, and precipitously, he splits his trousers unequivocally at the seat with a thunderous, clapping fart, and, collapsing now upon the marble in utter mortification, he thus commits the ultimate faux pas

Bio: Danielle McMahon pretends an awful lot.

by H. L. Dowless

One bright and sunny day in May,

Billy Bobbin took a long walk out in the lush green rye fields.

 As he walked along, oh but WHAT did he see,

but a set of GREAT big eyes shining brightly back at him!

 “So just what are YOU a looking at?,” asked Bobby Bobbin.

 “So, now tell me, are YOU a lookin’ straight at me?”

    The eyes replied nothing, no not nothing at all,

 but they slowly inched forward….

NOW.., Billy made out a long skinny nose!

 “Well just tell me.., WHO are YOU?,”

 Billy asked loudly.

“GEE just WHAT is it that you want

  with poor little ole me?”

     The eyes and the nose said nothing,

 yes not a single word at all,

 but ever so slowly they floated forward…,

                        CLOSER…,

                    and CLOSER

                   to poor Billy boy.!

     “Well I am just a teeny tiny bit,

no not very much to eat at all.

 So why is it that you inch

                  CLOSER,

              and CLOSER

and CLOSER to little ole me?

Do you like me, and simply wish to talk,

do you have those other ideas..

or do you simply wish to walk..?

Speak to me,

speak to me.., NOW!

Oh please, dear Sir,

do you even know HOW?”

   The eyes and the nose said NOTHING,

no not anything at all,

but they simply moved forward..,

                now ONE,

                now TWO,

    now nose, eyes,

                and ALL!

   Slowly they all inched forward,

   now Billy Bobbin could see a mouth,

   and some long, shiny sharp teeth.

 “Now this is just not fair!,” said Billy with a yell.

“You say nothing at all,

  but only move.., well..,

                      CLOSER,

                  and CLOSER,

              and still yet CLOSER again,

     and now all that you can do is just

    GRIN that mean, lean, hungry GRIN,

     with those LONG SHINY SHARP TEETH!

 Oh please speak to me,

speak to me NOW!”

 But they said nothing,

  they only continued to float forward.

      Now Billy saw TWO eyes,

a LONG skinny nose,

a mouth with LONG shiny sharp teeth.,

                    and now..!,

                  AND NOW.!,

 oh, what did he see,

but TWO tough strong arms,

 and two rough HANDS;

 no not with five fingers, but only THREE!

 That is right, only THREE!

 That’s ONE,

 TWO, and THREE;

 and some long sharp fingernails

  just as sharp as the teeth!

     “Oh how you scare me,

you just don’t know how much!,” cried Billy.

 “Just who are YOU?

 Wow.., please speak to me, Sir,

 speak to me NOW!”

   The two glowing eyes,

the long shiny nose,

the mouth with the long shiny sharp teeth,

 the two tough arms with the two hands

 and three fingers,

said NOTHING, no not a single word at all.   

They simply just moved forward.

   Now Billy saw two glowing eyes,

a long skinny nose,

a mouth with some long shiny sharp teeth,

and two tough arms, with two hands, and fingers three!,

and NOW,

 AND NOW!,

just WHAT did he see?

But two legs covered with thick green skin, walking..,

CLOSER,

 and CLOSER,

AND CLOSER.!

     And poor Billy did say,

“Help me, oh gee,

 please help me, oh my!

Oh just what have I gotten myself into?

 Am I going to live,

or am I going to DIE?

Oh do help me, please,

someone, some how!”

   But the two green legs,

with the thick green skin, and two glowing eyes,

in the face with that long skinny nose,

and that mouth with those long shiny sharp teeth;

 and two tough arms,

and the two rough hands with the fingers three,

                       moved CLOSER,

                     and CLOSER,

                     and CLOSER,

                     coming on FASTER,

                     and FASTER…,

                     AND FASTER…!

                            Until..

     the mouth laughed and the two green arms hugged

Billy’s trembling neck, as the creature asked in a small child’s voice…

 “Will you be my friend?”

Bio:
H. L. Dowless has enjoyed a lifetime of outdoor activities including archaeological field work in various exotic locations. What he enjoys most of all is meeting freedom loving, interesting creative people, who are also regular dedicated fans of his publications.

by Steve Hodge

I played right field in little league baseball.  It was far from the action of the bases.

This pleased me greatly.

My isolation afforded me time to drift into fanciful reverie and escape from bright lights and the cheering and jeering of semi-simians who beat their chests in support of their little boys, who were being inculcated into the tribalism of American society.

Dutifully, I played my right field position in forced obedience to a higher authority, that being my father.  Fully supportive of this activity, my mother starched and ironed my jeans and shirt, so that I, from a distance, appeared as a stick figure jerkily moving around in a containment area, unstable when fetching a ground ball, an amusing sight from the bleachers.

Then, early in my second year of indentured servitude to the game, I had an unusually busy night shagging balls from the opposing team, which kept hitting grounders to right field.  I had been discovered as the weak link in the chain of nine players. Along with my team’s pitcher, who was almost as disengaged from baseball as I was, the opposing team, the Cobras, had a sure path to unconditional victory over our team, the Bumble Bees.  The shameful conclusion was a score of 27 to 0.

The last scheduled game of the season came none too soon as we played an almost equally abysmal team as ours was.  The fans were primed for a win! The big night came: The Bumble Bees versus the Turtles!

 The bleachers were full with our fans wearing the team colors – yellow with lavender accents.  Of course, almost all of the men would bring their transistor radios with earphones, so that they could listen to other baseball games being broadcast at the same time.  The women would bring knitting or their new McCall’s magazines to read.  Another evening of disassociated support for suburbia’s athletic blight!

It took twenty-three miserable minutes to end the top of the first inning with the opposition mounting eight runs.  I was kept busy fielding the ball and tossing it my usual pathetic thirty-five feet air bound, then rolling that far to the first or second baseman.  The crowd was restless.  It was Bastille Day with an attitude.  Fearing for my life and that of the pitcher, I prayed that we might be extricated from the fray.  The god of baseball was merciful and would surely give us reprieve.

As we surrendered the field, we sauntered back to the dugout, scared puppies, tails hanging between our legs, ears drooping.  The coach met me and the pitcher and told us that we were released from our positions on the field and would be replaced by two new third-graders, who had moved into our district from a winning team.

When the decision announcing the personnel change was made on the loud speakers, the fans removed their earphones and threw down their magazines, stood up and cheered.  Then Billy, the pitcher, and I were taken to the pitcher’s mound and acknowledged for our valiant, albeit unsuccessful contributions to the team.  Equal enthusiasm came from the bleachers.  All were happy except for our opponents, who looked concerned.  And their concerns were well founded.

By the bottom of the ninth inning, the enemy was only three runs ahead.  It was Billy’s turn to bat.  He was a complete mess, but he was fired up.  Unknown to anyone, he was always supposed to wear eyeglasses, but his fifth-grade vanity had always dictated otherwise.  Now, crucial as it was, he put on a pair of ugly Buddy Holly, horn-rimmed eyesores and attacked a fast ball with the accuracy of Micky Mantle, sending two of our batters to home base, leaving him on third.  We were one hit away from tying and two hits away from winning a game.  I was next batter.

My mom and dad were in an attitude of prayer.  Then dad took out a ten-dollar bill and waved it in my sight.  I charged the plate, adjusted myself, dusted my hands and spit a big loogie on the dirt.  Then, I yelled out to the pitcher, “Throw me your heat, big boy!”  His pitch hit the sweet spot on the bat, and the ball went deep into right field.

To a normal right fielder, the ball was easily retrievable, but the kid playing the position was as miserable at the game as I was.  Precious seconds allowed Billy to score, and I followed with an awkward, arm-scraping slide into home base.

Pandemonium reigned supreme!  The Bumble Bees buzzed!  The Turtles withdrew into their shells!  My dad went up to our coach and collected ten dollars from a dirty little secret bet made earlier, then came over and awarded me the take.

On the drive back home, my father gave me a gift greater than the ten dollars I had just received.

“Son, I know that your heart is really not in playing baseball, but you were great tonight.  I am so proud of you!  But, it’s your decision whether or not to continue playing next season.”

I was so relieved to hear this!  No more lonely nights in right field!  No more forced, unnatural macho man antics!  No more starched jeans and t-shirts!

From the back seat, I put my left hand on dad’s right shoulder and placed my right hand on mom’s left shoulder and said with the resignation and resolve of an elderly man reflecting on a life well-lived.

“You know, I think I will indeed retire from baseball.  I do not expect any nominations for the hall of fame.  And, I would hope the same for the hall of shame.  Whatever, Mom, I would hope that the starched, dirty clothes from my last game would be set aflame on the grill with due pomp and ceremony.”

Bio:
Steve Hodge is a retired college professor. He is a published composer and is known for his contributions to the world of choral music. He holds a doctorate from The University of Colorado. He is a full-time caregiver to his partner.

by Chris Callard

I ran into Craig, a Facebook friend from, well, Facebook in line at a coffee place.

“Hey. Nice to meet you in the flesh. You probably don’t –”

“Hey. Um …”

“Robert. From Facebook.”

“Oh. Hey!” He pumped my hand. “I recognize you. I’ve got 700 friends, but I remember you. That great re-post about Trump the other day.”

I laughed. “I should never get into politics. It’s a no-win situation.”

“No, I liked it. In fact, I’m sure I ‘liked’ it.”

“You did, thanks. Anyway, congratulations on your poetry getting published.”

Craig brightened. “Thank you. I so appreciate that. That you noticed and remembered.”

A customer sitting at a table yelled “No!” at his laptop.

“I think it’s amazing that someone I know is being published,” I said.

We moved forward in line. “You don’t know the half of it,” he said wearily. “It’s been a long road.”

“This your first acceptance? How long have you been writing poetry?” I recalled that the job listed on his FB page was pharmacist.

He tensed. “Why do you ask that?” Then he relaxed, a little. “I started in high school. But I could’ve started last year. It doesn’t matter how long, it matters how committed you are.”

I studied the menu board and half grinned. “Of course. Stupid question.”

He cleared his throat. “There are no stupid questions. Just stupid … how does that go?”

I closed my eyes and crinkled my nose like I was thinking before smiling at him. “I don’t remember.”

“So do you write, too? Got the curse?”

“God no. I can barely do a grocery list without misspelling coffee.”

Craig wrinkled his forehead. “How would you misspell coffee?”

“Huh? Oh. Um, maybe leaving off an ‘e’?” I chuckled artificially, or artificially to me. “Or an ‘f’”

“That’s a funny line, though, misspelling coffee,” Craig said, then thought for a moment. “That’s wit, man. Maybe you should consider real writing, really writing. You may not know it, but wit is scarce these days.”

“Nice of you to say.”

We were about to reach the counter. He perused the menu. “I found this website that publishes local poets, people who live in the city or nearby. So I took my top three poems, worked and polished and rewrote. And lo and behold.”

“That is so fantastic. Glad I saw your post. And ran into you here. Let me buy your coffee.”

“Hey, that would be great, because poetry doesn’t pay much, that’s for sure.”

“I’ll bet. But …” I said without thinking, “aren’t you a pharmacist?”

He examined me like I was one of those kids selling magazines door to door after dark. “Well, yeah. What’s that got to do with it?”

“Nothing.” I shrugged. “It doesn’t.” I considered saying, oh, damn, forgot my wallet in the car, be right back. “So when will it come out?”

“They. When will they come out,” he instructed. “All three were accepted.”

“Excellent. Outstanding.”

“But.” He frowned. He put his hands in his pockets and rattled his keys while bending his head to the side. “I was a bit, ah, premature with that post.”

I thought about ordering an iced tea, passion fruit, herbal, even though it was 55 degrees outside. Coffee would take too long to cool and drink. Of course, I was panicking, and would order to go.

“They did accept my poems,” he said distinctly. “We were all set. Then I kind of messed up, I guess.” His eyes widened while looking unfocused into the distance.

“Messed up?”

“Big time.” Then he added, turning to me, like divulging a family secret, “I asked for $200.”

“Oh.”

“Per poem.”

“Ah.”

A strange gurgling noise came from his throat. “More like demanded.” After coughing three times, each time a bit louder, harsher, he continued, downtrodden. “Now … now they’re not going to publish nothing.”

I studied the board desperately as we stood in silence. Then I said as casually as I could, “Man, do those websites usually pay?”

“No!” he shouted at me. “They don’t!”

I flinched. “Hey.”

“Sorry. But they should pay. They’re using my work, my sweat to make a buck.”

We were one customer from the front when I stepped aside and Craig stepped out with me. “Don’t you want coffee?” he asked.

“Sure. I was planning on trying something new, though, and not sure what. I need to think about the menu.”

“I always get the same thing.” He stared into the refrigerated case.  “You know, these websites are big business. They make you pay to submit your poems, you know? They make enough to run the sites and pay their editors. You think the editors work for free?”

“Maybe it’s a passion. Like you writing poetry apart from your regular job.”

“My regular job should be writer, I hate filling prescriptions,” he said sincerely before bowing his head then looking at me like I was an authority figure. “It’s not fair. They’re always taking advantage of us artists.” He put his hand on my shoulder.

Finally, I said: “Well, it’s been great seeing you. Meeting you.”

“They’re always trying to screw us, bub. What do you do, by the way?” he asked earnestly. “Did you say you wrote, too?”

“No. Except for the groceries. Remember?”

He rummaged for the memory. “Yeah, you work at Albertson’s. I saw that on your page, when you posted that Trump thing. That was great. Thanks for being friends. I’ve got, like, 700 followers and 700 friends. Isn’t that something?”

Bio:
Chris Callard lives in Long Beach, California, USA. His poems have appeared in Ariel Chart, Cadence Collective, One Sentence Poems. His short fiction in Ariel Chart, Gemini Magazine, Flash Fiction Magazine, A Story in 100 Words, and ZZyZxWriterZ. His work has been nominated for Best of the Net and Best Small Fictions.

by Lauren Stoker

This story was originally published by Thurston Howl Publications in their anthology, Difursity (Stories of Furries of Color), April2020. 

So there I was, amblin’ through the forest, mindin’ my own bidness, headed for Granny’s house like I always do on a Wednesday.  She makes the finest roast pork every Wednesday and always invites me over on account of she don’t have many visitors out her way no more.  Her uppity little granddaughter, Red, too busy impressin’ business managers and potential entrepreneurs to come by and check on her granny. 

’Sides, I gotta keep up the image, you know—the “Big Bad Wolf” and all that.  Traipsin’ up to Granny’s once a week keeps folks believin’ I’m still terrorizin’ villages, shakin’ down ol’ ladies and eatin’ up chil’ren.  Gotta keep ’em in line.  Plus, they jes’ not happy without they conspiracy myths. 

Truth is, I ain’t that fond of eatin’ stringy ol’ humans anyways.  The stuff them folks eat!  Might as well stick you snout in a cesspool.  And turns out it’s true, human do taste pretty much like pork, ’cept pork’s a whole lot sweeter.

So Granny and me have us this deal: I come over for her mouth-waterin’ pork roast once a week and leave the villagers alone.  And neither of us ever mention the ‘m’ word.  Why anybody would want to put one of them fuzzy ol’ sheep in they mouths, I can’t figure.  Like takin’ a bite outa dust bunnies what smell like wet dog and old tennies.  Takes weeks to get the stink out. 

So this arrangement suits me jes’ fine and saves my taste buds from cruel and unusual punishment.

Oh yeah, to get back to the story: so there I was boppin’ down the path, remarkin’ on her primroses along the way.  Granny and me been doin’ this so long, I don’t bother no more with the damned cape and basket.  Ain’t nobody but us out this way anyhow.  ’Least not usually. 

I’m jes’ about to her door what’s got all them curlicue doohickeys on it, up on my hind legs like you do when you about to knock, when I hear this snotty little nasal shriek: “Oh my God!  Who is that atrocious hairy Neanderthal about to go into Granny’s house?  Brie, take a look.  Isn’t he the most dreadful creature you ever saw?  (Tee hee.)  He can barely walk upright!  Granny must be totally desperate for company these days or blind as a bat!  Honestly, the people you get out in the sticks!”  (Har, har.)

This Brie, she reply, with sublime originality, “For sure!”

I turn around and damned if it ain’t little miss Red herself, finally condescendin’ to give her granny the benefit of her presence, along with some other uppity lil’ coed, jes’ a sneerin’ and snickerin’.  And that made me mad.  I mean, I wipe my feet on the mat and act respectful.  Don’t have them opposable thumbs so the cutlery thing presents a bit of a problem, but Granny don’t seem to mind.  She always wipes my muzzle afterwards with a napkin, a real linen one, and gives me a scratch behind the ears.  See, Granny and me is friends. 

So I turn to Red and say in my uppityiest manner, “I’ll have you know, my deah, that I am here by invitation from your august grandmother herself and have accordingly brushed my fur and clipped my toe nails in anticipation of her kind hospitality.”  There.  That should put her in her place.

But no, she jes’ laughs that silly little trill those hoity toity girls do in all the fairy tales, Cheese Girl joinin’ in with a snort.  “Well,” Red says, “if that’s the best you can do!” and commences to titterin’ again. 

Right about now I’m startin’ to work up a jones for some girlie flesh, ’cept I can’t let her granny down.  So I take the high road and only growl at her, “Hey.  I a wolf.  Git over it.  This as good as it gets.”

At that she starts to shriekin’ as the realization finally trickles in.  I mean, three diplomas and she can’t figure that out?  Course, all that high-pitched screechin’ brings the woodsman over with his ax. 

Man! I think.  We all know how this goes.  So I beat it and give up on my pork dinner. 

After I run a ways, I stop and peep out from behind a tree, eyein’ Granny’s front door.  The two Miss Prisses patter on in, Granny holdin’ the door for them like they was gentry.  Guess she was expectin’ them, too.  And that gets me to thinkin’. . . .

So I creep up to the window and take a listen. 

“Granny,” says Red, outraged, “did you know there was a smelly old wolf lurking around outside?” 

Granny says, “Sure I did, child.  I invited him.”

“Seriously?  I mean, a mangy wolf?  Do you know how many diseases they carry?” Red demands.

Granny tells her calmly, “I invited him for dinner as I do every Wednesday.” 

I grin to myself, feelin’ whatchacallit—vindicated.  That’s the word!

Red’s mind is clearly blown.  She sputters angrily, “Really?  Well, what were you planning on having for dinner?”

“Wolf,” Granny says and shrugs.  “I was getting tired of pork and the African grey wolf is no longer on the endangered list.” 

Man, I legged it out of there lickety split!  Think after all I’ll develop me a taste for Homo sapiens.

Bio:
Lauren Stoker’s short stories and non-fiction have been published in the U.S., Canada and the UK. Her comic fantasy, BLOOD WILL OUT (With the Proper Solvent), was published July, 2021. In November, 2022, her collection of satirical social commentary, THE POTATOES OF DEFIANCE, was released. Follow her at LaurenHStoker.com.

by Rachel Eubanks

A priest, a poet and a rabbit walk into a bar. The poet hands the rabbit and the priest a crumpled sheet of paper.

“Oh, my, word,

You must be a brilliant mind.

The Billy Graham Sunday of our time–

Sitting there smoking your

Pen like a French cigarette.

“Oh, my, graine,

You used all 26 letters.

All 26 in the King James English–

Well except for x but such heresies are irrelevant–

If we round up it’s certainly 26.

“Oh, my, crosoft,

Like the 26 disciples

Who wrote the gospels

Holding their pens like Roman cigarettes–

Or did they use typewriters back then?

“Oh, my, chelangelo,

Have you tried walking on wine?

I have David and Goliath’s agent

Right here on the line–

Although He prefers epistles.

“Oh, my, crophone,

In all my years of preaching

I never imagined meeting the

Jesus Christ of poetry;

I must be John the Critic.

“Oh, my, cronesia,

Is not a word in the Southern Baptist lexicon

But for you I will make an exception

As this poem must be spread to

All five corners of the Earth

Before it falls asleep in the pews–”

            “My, God,” The poet began,

“The sermons knees down in people pleasing

And the Revelations you are bleeding

Aren’t worth 26 silver pieces.

Father, spare us, spare us all.”

The rabbit didn’t say a word.

Bio:
Rachel Eubanks is a junior at the University of South Carolina Aiken earning her bachelor’s degree in English and Psychology. She has received the Washington Writer’s Award for Poetry, the Virginia Kaplan Award, and the Dr. Ellen Lott Smith Scholarship. She is a part-time tutor for her university’s Writing Center.

by June Hunter

There’s a man lying on the tarmac.  He’s not dead, because I can see his head moving beneath his flower-pot hat.  After the announcement that our flight had been delayed by three hours, he took big gulps of air, stamped his feet, and pushed his raging, sweating body out of the queue.  Now there he is lying on the tarmac.  Does he think he can stop Flyinair using our London flight to replace the plane with the mechanical issue, and sending it to Frankfurt instead?  The woman next to me is convinced it’s because Flyinair prefers Germans to Irish.  Two baggage handlers have lifted the man off the tarmac and escorted him, with dragging feet, around the side of the building.

I feel sorry for that young family trying to get to Barcelona.  The mother looks gorgeous in her primrose, wrap-around dress, all ready for the Spanish beaches.  The father hasn’t lifted his head from his phone since they got in the queue.  The kids’ little eyes are full of anguish as they look to their mother for answers.

Back we all trundle, into the Arrivals Hall where the fourteen-year-old-looking official doesn’t know what’s going on.  I’ve found myself at the front of the group and people are looking to me for leadership.  Me!  You’re joking.  I make my way out through the arrivals door and the passengers follow. 

At the Customer Services desk a twelve-year-old-looking employee shuffles about behind the counter and I see he’s left the door at the back open so he can bolt if things turn nasty.  “We’re printing your vouchers now,” he says, with a tremor.  I’m first to get mine.  ‘€5.00 (in bold letters) to be spent on anything. Non-alcoholic (in insipid letters)’.   The Flyinair-prefers-Germans woman grabs hers and rushes off.  “Better get a seat at the cafeteria,” she shouts as she shoves, “it’s going to be packed.” 

A queue has formed and the Flyinair-prefers-Germans woman has spent her €5.00.  “There’s no seats left.  You’ll be lucky to find anywhere.”  I’m glad for her advice and ask for my tea in a take-away cup.  “That’ll be €2.50,” says the cafeteria lady, who does look old enough to have a job.  I hand her my voucher.  “We can’t give you any change,” she says.  “Would you like a packet of crisps?”

I pick my way over bags and children to the back corner of the room where there is one person bent over her laptop, at a table for four.  “No, there’s no one else sitting there,” she tells me as she moves her belongings closer to her, and she doesn’t mind at all if I join her. 

At the next table two women have babies on their laps.  The babies slap the table and dribble while the women search their phones.  “We could get them to transfer us to the Luton flight,” says one.  I’m wondering how that’s going to help, since the Luton flight leaves only twenty minutes before our new departure time.  “We’ll do that,” says the other.  The babies continue to bash and dribble.  “Will you watch our stuff for us, please?”  Then they’re off to talk to the twelve-year-old at the Customer Services desk, leaving me in charge of their belongings.  I’m glad they didn’t ask me to watch the babies.

The man-who-lay-down-on-the-tarmac has appeared and he’s heading for the bar, waving the €5.00 voucher that he was given to spend on anything that isn’t alcoholic.  I watch as he pushes his way through the happy, jolly, ‘let’s-have-another-one-hahaha’ passengers, and see him throw his arms in the air when the barman pushes the voucher back to him.  I half expect him to stretch himself across the bar. 

I remove my book from my Flyinair regulation sized handbag.  “Would you mind watching my laptop while I go to the canteen?”  I nod and smile at the one-person-at-a-table-for-four, then bury myself in the book.

Two tables down is a loud woman who says everything twice.  The second time even louder than the first.  “That’s it!  They’re shutting the door!”  She shouts.  “Shutting the door!”  She bellows.  I’m not sure what she’s on about, but the lady with her is laughing.  Their conversation quietens as her companion speaks, and I’m better able to concentrate on my book.  “Yes! It’s the last day!”  Shouts the woman-who-says-everything-twice.  “Last day!”  She thunders.

The let’s-transfer-to-the-Luton-flight women are back, their babies tucked under their arms like rolled up towels on the way to the beach.  They retrieve their paraphernalia and then they’re off, pudgy baby legs kicking behind them. 

Twenty minutes later an announcement requests passengers for delayed flight RA702 to London to go to the gate.  We are delighted!

The man-who-lay-down-on-the-tarmac is behind me in the queue, his face red beneath his flower-pot hat.  He’s wondering what’s going to happen with the duty-free bottle of whiskey he bought the first time around.  “They’ll probably confiscate it,” I say, just to see his reaction. 

I’ve got the middle seat, near the back.  The man by the window takes no notice of me, and the woman in the isle is so miniscule she’s hardly there at all.  I read somewhere that middle passengers, by right, get to use both armrests, so I spread my elbows, let my head rest against the back of the seat, and close my eyes.  As the aircraft trundles down the runway miniscule-woman whispers to me “I’ve heard we’re on the plane that had mechanical difficulties.  I hope it’s fixed now.”

Bio:
June Hunter lives and writes in Sneem, County Kerry, Ireland. Her work has been featured in various publications including Flash Fiction Magazine, Reflex Fiction, Potato Soup Journal, Blue Nib, Strands Publishers and Bloom. She facilitates the Sneem Writers’ Group, and participates in – Clann na Farraige Writers’ Group, Kenmare; as well as taking part in the monthly Deadlines for Writers online writing challenges.

by Cynthia Bernard

I’m in a long-term relationship with Insomnia now,

lucky me – quite intimate.

Sometimes he greets me at bedtime,

bringing his friend, the accordion player,

ready for us to dance a polka.

Other times he waits, creeps in at 3 a.m.,

quieter, juggling worry-balls,

tossing a few my way.

We’ve been monogamous, apparently committed,

though there’s been no discussion;

I hesitate to tell him, but suppose I must:

I’ve been flirting with the Nap-Man,

meeting up most afternoons,

and I find he’s quite irresistible.

Originally published in Little Old Lady Comedy, 2/28/23

Bio:
Cynthia’s 70th birthday managed to catch up with her late in 2023, even though she did an impressive job of growing out her hair and wearing tie-dye dresses at music festivals. At least this didn’t force her to leave her home—on a hill overlooking the ocean, about 25 miles south of San Francisco—nor her wonderful husband, who sees her through loving eyes (okay, vision fades with age, okay, isn’t that nice for an older couple…),

Editor’s Note: This is the very first poem we have published since we expanded our submissions to include nonfiction and poetry and it has brought immediate reward for our readers.

by Lynne McVicar

Charlie sat across the table from the two ladies.

They had come to this point after responding to an advert promoting the Golden Oldies of Flirtation (GOOF) – a social club where those of a more mature age could meet – and who knew what might develop from that…

They were 15 minutes into their meeting and things were already proving a little complicated for poor Charlie.

“How old do you think I am?” asked Mo.

Charlie knew that when it came to discussing a lady’s age you could be walking a straight road towards damnation.

“My grandmother used to say she was as old as her tongue and a little older than her teeth whenever she was asked that,” said Charlie. “I would say that’s the same for you…unless you’ve got false teeth.”

He winced at his false teeth comment, which had slipped out his mouth before he could think better of it – a common weakness of poor Charlie’s.

Sadly, if he’d hoped that avoiding the question altogether would appease, he was greatly mistaken.

Mo leant forward, “No really, how old do you think I am?” she persisted.

Her face glowed with an underlying expectation that Charlie would think she was younger than she was. Charlie was well aware that he needed to meet that expectation.

In his head he was thinking Mo might be about 90 – but out of his mouth came the tentative and diplomatic query of “80?”

An awkward silence followed. Mo looked disappointed.

“You are right. That is my exact age.” she conceded through gritted teeth.

Charlie, being the astute individual that he is, was quick to pick up on this mood change,  so he resisted openly patting himself on the back. Besides, although it wasn’t the answer that Mo had hoped for, Charlie not only felt clever for guessing right, he also felt euphorically relieved that at least he hadn’t given voice to his original assessment of her age.

The moment of relief was short-lived.

“Well you got Mo’s age right, so now guess mine,” challenged Rose.

This was going to be trickier. If he guessed too young, Rose would be delighted but Mo would be annoyed that her friend looked younger than her years. On the other hand, guessing too high would definitely put Rose ‘s nose out of joint, even if it would make Mo happy to think her friend looked older than her years.

Charlie decided to play safe.

“I think you two ladies must be the same age for you are as lovely looking as each other, ” he said, sure that neither lady could be offended if he said they were both lovely.

“Well, I am 88!” said Rose triumphantly.”It’s my genes you know, I have always been mistaken for being younger than I am. It was kind of you to say we are both lovely.”

For a moment Mo looked like she might take offence. Then she decided that being thought to be her actual age, and lovely to go with it, was not the worst of outcomes.

Now, for some reason, when a chap is on a winning streak, there are some who just cannot avoid saying something further to send a wrecking ball crashing through the moment. Charlie is one such chap.

“Two fat ladies!” Charlie blurted out.

There was a stony silence, broken only when Mo turned to Rose and hissed “Did he just call us two fat ladies?”

” Yes, I believe he did,” said Rose glaring directly at Charlie in a way that sent a shudder through his very soul.

“No, no, ” Charlie said, “It was the number 88. In Bingo they say two fat ladies when 88 comes up. It just came out automatically when you said you are 88.”

Mo and Rose folded their arms in unison, disapproval seeping from every pore.

“I used to be a Bingo caller years ago, Charlie explained. “I suppose it just stuck with me.”

The silence continued.

Now, there are some chaps who, when met with an awkward silence, feel the need to fill it – even if it means digging an ever deeper hole. Charlie is one such chap.

“There are Bingo calls for different numbers. Like all the fours – Droopy Drawers or Dirty Gertie number 30,” he explained, warming to his subject.

Mo and Rose looked at each other with disdain.

Rose spoke up first: “You are an ignorant man. I don’t know how old you are but one thing I am sure of is that you are a dinosaur!”

Charlie looked surprised, wondering what dinosaur characteristics he might possess. He didn’t need to wonder for long.

“You are so outdated,” Mo chipped in. “Bingo calls like that are not very acceptable today’s world.”

Now there are some chaps who know when it’s time to bow out gracefully when a conversation with the ladies starts to turn sour. Charlie is not one such chap.

Yes, he’d noticed the frosty atmosphere, but all was not lost…was it?

“Ladies, it has been a pleasure meeting you. I hope one or other of you will let me have your number so that we can meet again?”

“Oh, I can give you a number alright, ” said Mo, pulling a notebook from her bag. She wrote on it furiously, ripped the page out and slammed it face down on the table.

Then the two ladies looked at each other, no longer in competition, but sharing a common bond of sisterhood. Gathering their belongings, they left the table, while Charlie looked on a little baffled.

Oh well, at least he had a number, he told himself. Things couldn’t have gone too badly.

He turned the note over.

Even a chap like Charlie could not misconstrue the clear message written in bold capitals.

“NUMBER 31 – GET UP AND RUN!”

Bio:
Lynne lives in south-east London, UK. Down the years she has been a regional newspaper journalist in London and Kent, as well as working in PR. She is currently a support worker, raising awareness around dementia. Throughout her working life, Lynne has been a sporadically published writer of short stories.

by Candace Cavanaugh

“Do you, David, take this woman, Cecelia, to be your lawful wedded wife for better or for worse, in good times and bad til death do you part? Do you promise always to be her rockin’ rolling rascal love?

They married in Vegas with Elvis officiating. Fringed slinky jumpsuit, full wig of wavy hair, and dark sunglasses, he cracked dumb jokes and broke into song throughout the ceremony- Love Me Tender and Anyway You Want Me.

Tried not to roll my eyes when my buddy asked me if I wanted to see the video recording of the tacky hoo-ha.  Didn’t want to embarrass him or make fun of his nephew’s wedding. But still. A bit crass to do an Elvis Wedding Package!

The young couple were a matching pair- dark hair, flawless skin, same height and weight, and cute rounded faces. Their energy was buoyant and bouncy as babies or puppies. Every pew in the small chapel was packed with guests laughing and giggling through the ceremony.

Couple days later, I’m driving to work and find myself thinking of the wedding video. Yeah, it was tacky. It was indecorous. It was also funny and sweet.

Find myself wondering about Elvis. What kind of man would be an Elvis impersonator? What does he say about his career, his work day, to people, his family, and his friends? Gotta be an unusual kind of guy. Quirky and nerdy, maybe. Off-beat probably.

Find myself wondering what he looks like without the Elvis get-up – underneath the jumpsuit and big wig.

Find myself wondering if maybe he might be single.  Hmmm…

Well, Vegas isn’t all that far, yeah? Huh…

Bio:
Candace Cavanaugh is a poet and flash fiction writer in the southern California desert area. She has work published and forthcoming in The Heduan Review, Flash Fiction Magazine, and Reedsy.

by Susan R. Barclay

“I didn’t kill him.”

The officer looked at me as though he didn’t believe me. After all, there are only two of us in the room, other than the cop, and one of us is dead.

“I found him this way. I promise.” The officer scanned the room with doubtful eyes. “There’s no one else here. The doors and windows were locked when I arrived. You and he are the only ones here. Who else could it have been?”

“Habit…I always lock the door behind me when I enter a room. Just habit. He must have locked the windows. Isn’t that natural, officer, that people keep their windows locked, especially in the dead of winter?”

“I suppose.” I watched him scratch his chin, still puzzled. Yet, I witness his face soften. Only a bit, but enough. “But that still leaves unanswered the question of who killed him.”

“That, I can’t say, officer. I found him this way.”

“Well…..if you say so.”

“I did, I promise. I came in, turned to lock the door, and when I turned back toward the room, there he was, just like that. Still, bloody, dead.”

“How were you sure he was dead?” His eyes were scanning the room less and less.

“I nudged him with my foot. He didn’t move, not a muscle, so I checked his pulse. I got nothing, officer. Nothing but a strange coldness. I’ve never felt anyone cold like that. He must have been dead long before I got here.”

“I don’t know. The blood is still fresh, no coagulation. Couldn’t have been too long ago.”

“I suppose, officer, but it sure is warm in here. Must be 80, 85 degrees. Wouldn’t that slow down coagulation?”

“Sounds reasonable.” His eyes scan the room again. Discontented, but satisfied, he turns toward the idling paramedics, unnecessary except for the gurney they brought when the call came through. “Okay, you two. Take him away.”

I smile, one I hope the officer doesn’t notice. My prospects are looking good. I’m sure the officer doesn’t see the bloody knife I hold behind my back. I promise.

Bio:
Originally from Atlanta, Georgia, Susan R. Barclay is a writer, educator, and thinker who now lives in Alabama, where she makes persistent attempts at witticism and stories. Her works have appeared, or are forthcoming, in the Mississippi Encyclopedia, The Blue Nib, Vine Street Press, Defuncted Journal, Write Time, Paragraph Planet, and the 42 Stories Anthology.

by Ron Hardwick

I’ve stayed in bad hotels before but this one takes the biscuit.  I’m not even going to name it, because there are libel laws and I don’t want to fall foul of those.  It looked fine on the internet – a thumbnail picture of a modern building on seven floors with a wavy roof that might have been anything from a conference centre to a manufactory of silicone chips.  From the inside and the outside, close up, however, it turned out to be a low-grade sewer. 

My room was more like a walk-in cupboard.  The smoke alarm had gone missing, and the ends of the electric wires were taped over with gaffer tape.  A large stain was apparent on the ceiling, just above the sprinkler mechanism, which looked like an old-fashioned gas pipe.  The shower was a curved affair which encroached heavily onto the toilet.  It was a clever concept, being able to have a shower whilst seated on the toilet, an economy of effort that is admirable in these busy times, but I found it extremely off-putting. 

The easy chair was made out of hard polypropylene, stuff that is more at home in the classroom.  The management mustn’t have trusted the clientele too much, because they had screwed the 14 inch television to the desk. 

I saw some of the clientele later whilst out for a short stroll.  Every one of them looked as shifty and saturnine as Beelzebub himself, and I was glad I’d taken the precaution of padlocking my wallet into my case and placing the case out of sight under the bed. 

The sink in the bathroom didn’t run to a plug, so, in order to get washed, I had to stuff a wad of toilet-paper into the plug-hole and scoosh my face quickly, before the water drained away.  There was no refrigerator, so I had to keep my juice bottle on the outside window-shelf, where it was attacked by jackdaws.

The bedclothes smelt of alpaca’s breath, and the pillows were filled with rocks.  I wasn’t helped by the weather, which was gloomy in the extreme.  Rain pelted down like sweat beads and the humidity was so bad my glasses misted up from the inside, an unusual occurrence. 

At three in the morning, one of the clientele, out in the courtyard, started arguing with another, in a language that might have been Turkish, or Armenian, of Azerbijani for all I knew.  It woke me up, and I stayed awake, sweltering with alpaca breath assailing my nostrils.  I am feeling the effects of that now.

However, I am my own worst enemy – I chose the hotel on price, something one should never do.  Trouble is, I have to spend another night there before I thankfully shuffle off back home for the rest of the week.  I have invested in a luxury brand deodorant, a few sticks of incense and an insect-repellent candle, so that might improve things, but I’d better watch the candle, unless they’ve fitted a new smoke alarm today, as I’d hate to burn the whole place down.  On second thoughts, though…..

Bio:
Ron now resides in East Lothian, Scotland. He has written well over two hundred short stories and pieces of flash fiction and they have been published by a number of printed magazines and ezines.

by Lynne McVicar

I huddled up in the cramped, dark space of the wardrobe, knees hugged close to chest. Its sliding door was closed, but small chinks of daylight filtered through its frame.

I heard the jangle of a dog’s lead – closely followed by the sound of a dog scampering up the stairs.

“Are you skiving off school again Stephen?” a voice yelled accusingly from below, followed by determined into-battle-sounding footsteps stomping up the stairs.

The bedroom door crashed open and I held my breath as I heard the small dog scurry in. The darn thing was sniffing ferociously and pawing along the bottom of the wardrobe door, inches from where I hid. I followed the sound of its wet, snuffling nose and the movement of its shadow. I bit my lip, willing myself not to make the tiniest of sounds, heart pounding.

The voice joined the dog in the room. I sensed it was very near. The floorboards creaked and made movements underneath me as its owner walked about the room.

The dog reluctantly abandoned the wardrobe and turned its attention to the voice instead. I could hear the animal yapping and leaping up and down excitedly, trying to tell the voice about the scoundrel it had discovered.

Fortunately, the voice was not good at understanding these doggy dramatics.

“OK, let’s go,” the voice said, resignedly.

The bedroom door closed. Footsteps faded away down the stairs and the dog’s panting grew distant. Another jangle of the lead, front door opening and closing. Silence.

It was several minutes before I dared move, slowly easing myself up out of my tight spot, causing more floorboards to creak. I winced as the sliding door opened noisily, despite the care I took.

I opened the bedroom door, slowly growing more confident that I was alone.

I crossed the landing to my bedroom at the front of the house. Its small window gave a clear view of the cul-de-sac opposite, where Nan lived with her poodle, Nikki-poo. I watched them walking home, Nan turning back every now and then to glance at our house with a look of calculating suspicion worthy of Miss Marple.

I was safe, the octogenarian super sleuth had made her daily check to make sure my older brother had gone to school. They clashed a lot, both were stubborn with strong personalities. Nan would have liked nothing better than to have caught him red-handed, skiving at home. As for me, I could never do any wrong in her eyes.

Donny Osmond looked on disapprovingly from the poster on my teen-girl bedroom wall, while David Essex gave a crafty wink.

I made my way downstairs to the front room and flopped onto the settee. The rest of the day was mine.

Suddenly a key turned in the front door and the sound of a dog panting filled the hallway. Nan had returned.

She looked surprised.

So did I.

“I’ve just got home. I felt sick at school,” I said, as I put on my best performance of a traumatised teen about to succumb to the ravages of some horrible plague.

“I don’t think you should be alone here. This place gives me the creeps,” said Nan. “It felt like someone was here when I came by a short while ago – and Nikki-poo was acting weird upstairs. I thought your brother was bunking off again. I came back to double check.”

“Mum sometimes thinks the house is haunted, maybe she is right…” I said, by way of hopeful explanation.

This seemed to be an acceptable possibility for Nan – and one which she was quick to cling to like a lifebuoy. She would rather give credence to the possibility that the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse had taken up residence in the back bedroom than entertain the more unpalatable notion that her granddaughter might be up to no good.

“Come home with me, it might not be safe here,” she said, looking around as if half expecting that we would be sucked into some deep void, never to be seen again. “I’ll look after you and make you something nice to eat. Then you can help Nikki-poo eat his food,” she said.

I groaned inwardly.

How I hated that darn dog and his neurotic food fetish ways which had seen a regular routine created for me down the years whereby I would have to get down on the floor, face nearly into his dog bowl, making chomping noises as I pretended to eat his supposedly delicious food.

This in turn would send him into an indignant frenzy of yapping and jumping up and down, trying to bash my head out the way with his front paws until finally, I surrendered the food up to him. More often than not his paw pouncing head bashing ways would push my face into the smelly dog food before I had a chance to surrender.

Apparently, without such interaction on my part, he would have been incapable of eating and would most likely have died of starvation several years before.

Suddenly, the double maths lesson I had been trying to avoid seemed like the better deal. Even the prospect of being hauled off by some malevolent force intent on dragging treacherous teenage truants into an unthinkable hell of eternal schooling seemed preferable.

It was too late though, I had been snookered – or more precisely, I had been Nikki-pookered.

Bio:
Lynne lives in south-east London, UK. Down the years she has been a regional newspaper journalist in London and Kent, as well as working in PR. She is currently a support worker, raising awareness around dementia. Throughout her working life, Lynne has been a sporadically published writer of short stories.

by Travis L Flatt

Now Katie’s telling me to help drag the box out while I’m taking all these damn pills. Like she can’t see that. I lost my count. Shoot. The boy’s big enough to haul a box by his lonesome. What is he– afraid of the garage? She’s still cutting his food up, bless her heart. Tying his shoes for him, for chrissake, before church, for everyone to see in the parking lot. And, the boy fussing at her to hurry up. What my mother’d’ve done if I’d spoken to her that way, Lord. Now, here it is. He’s finally dragged his “spaceship” out. Driveway needs sweeping, too. That’s what I oughta do today. Not play astronaut with the boy. Sooner’n later they’re going to say something to her. Her neighbors. About her yard. Snobs. Look at the size of that box. I remember Agnes buying him that, some kind of soccer thing–a goal, I guess–and now it’s off and gone somewhere. Never used I’d bet. I’ve never seen it.  He took it out of that box there, at least. Well, Katie did, I’d say. And she put it together, too, if it’s even been assembled. I remember building a whole treehouse at his age. Sawing boards. Hammering nails. Splinters–

I’m coming Michael! Pa-paw’s got to at least get off this porch first. Hold your horses, okay?

Boy needs a father. Or Katie could at least keep a respectable boyfriend around here for more than five minutes. One with a job, for starters. Look at that garage. A respectable man would do something about all those crates and bags. All of it crap, trash. Soccer goal’s probably buried in there somewhere under all that. Well, in that respect, the girl’s turning into her mother. Rest your soul, Agnes, but you did love your junk. Ha.

Okay, Michael. Okay, son. Pa-paw needs a minute to get sat down in this thing here. Whattaya call this vessel?

I’ll hand that to him: he’s got a creative streak. That comes down from Agnes’s side. Katie was like that. Boy’s drawn all kinds of dials and, looks like buttons, on the dashboard, I guess you’d say. Clever. Smart.

 “The Blue Laser,” huh? Well, where’s the Blue Laser headed?

The boy smells a bit. Could be I stepped in something in the yard. Who knows when Katie last gave the boy a bath. Had him take one. Hopefully, he’s bathing himself.

Where too, captain? Oh, right, “Commander.”

If that little pecker,  Lee Steele, walks his sissy little dog by and sees me sitting in the drive, that smartass little turd will sure as shit shoot one of those movies on his phone. Like I don’t know what he’s doing.  Like he’s so smart. A man his age living in his mother’s basement.

Jupiter, eh? Now, how long does that take. How far away is Jupiter, Commander?

Oh God help me, my knees. I should’ve taken an aspirin. Advil, I reckon. Both.

They don’t teach you that in school, Commander Mikey? Oh, Commander Lighting. I think Jupiter’s pretty darn far.

My ass is soaked through. Why would this box be wet? And me in my church pants. I’ll have to get these dry cleaned, I bet. Agnes would have known. Shoot.

Commander, what does this button do? Now Mikey, you don’t hit your Pa-paw. Look, listen to me; you’re a big boy now and you know better than that.

Here comes Katie. Well, she can come sit in this thing then.  They can go find the edge of the damn universe for all I care. The Adventures of Commander Lightning  and Mommy… and Mommy Bot 2000.

Kate, I wasn’t “yanking the boy’s arm.” You saw him slap my hand. He knows better than that.

Oh Agnes, you’d know what to do. Did we do something wrong with this girl? Where are you now, anyway? That’s where we should fly this soggy damn thing.

I said I was sorry, Kate. Now, help me up out of here. I’m sorry Mikey, Pa-paw didn’t mean to hurt your arm. You’re alright, aren’t you? The boy’s fine, Kate.

Good God, had to catch my breath just from standing up. These pants are about ruined. Well now, would you watch them? That’s something. She does love that boy something awful. You know, she doesn’t look much like Agnes. Prettier, probably. She’s got that same silver streak in her hair, though. Can’t figure why she can’t keep a man around. A bunch of scumbags these days. Narcissists. Self-absorbed “millennials” like that Lee Steele, wimps you can’t tell apart from the girls, all of them in love with their phones. Mikey, the poor bastard, is starting to look like his Pa-paw. That’s a hard road to hoe.

Hey! Y’all ready to blast that thing into.. into warp speed there, Blue Laser? Well, whattaya mean you can’t hear someone talking in space? I’m down in Mission Control, Mr. Lieutenant Commander Lightning. This porch here is Mission Control. Better get your act together, talking to Mission Control that way, son. 

Bio:
Travis Flatt lives with his wife and son in rural Tennessee. He is a bookseller and teacher.

by Clay Coppedge

We were cruising home on the interstate when we stopped at a Stuckey’s convenience store and saw Adolph Hitler browsing the candy aisles. “Hey, look,” I said to Sally. “Even Hitler shops here.”

 “My God. It looks just like him! The moustache…”

Yes, the moustache was the thing. It gave him a certain look, the same way an old overweight guy in a red suit and long white beard might make you think of Santa Claus.

Sally and I went to our respective restrooms and when I came out I saw Hitler still haunting the candy. I moseyed over for a better look. The guy looked more like Hitler up close than he did from a distance. The hair was shoe polish black, buzzed on the sides, longish on top, and parted on the left. His long-sleeved brown shirt and matching pants evoked a certain bygone era. And, of course, there was the moustache.

 He caught me staring and opened the conversation. “Do I know you?” The trace of a local accent surprised me.

“Uh, sorry. You reminded me of someone. Or I thought you did. But you’re not him.”

“Oh yeah?” The accent became a little more pronounced. “Who do I remind you of?”  

I wish I had been honest and said I thought he looked like Adolph Hitler. To be completely honest, I should have said he looked like someone who wanted to look like Adolph Hitler. But I elected to not have that conversation.

 “Oh, you look like a guy I went to college with,” I said. “But, you know, his hair is probably white now. Or he doesn’t have any hair. Or he has just a little bit left. I actually don’t know what happened to that guy or his hair, but I’m sure it’s nothing like your moustache. I mean, hair.”

From the checkout counter Sally motioned hard for me to join her. I tried to think of a closing line. It wasn’t nice to meet him and I really wasn’t sorry I bothered him. I finally settled on “Have a nice day” but I didn’t care whether he had a nice day or not because my gut feeling was that anybody who went out of his way to look like Hitler didn’t deserve glad tidings. I picked up a chocolate bar and headed to the checkout counter. We paid for the candy and some water and speed-walked to the car.

Hitler was hot on our trail.

“What did you say to him?” Sally asked.

We were almost to our car when he stopped a few parking spaces away, in front of a Volkswagen Jetta, and shouted, “I know who I remind you of!” He clicked his heels together, raised his right arm at an angle, and shouted, “Heil, me!” Then he goose-stepped, skipped, and pranced to his car, pausing for another pronouncement: “Someday they will respect us again!” and then he got in his car and sped away, laughing with maniacal glee as he whipped onto the access road without looking, stuck his arm out the window, and gave his fellow motorists the finger. He was on the Interstate and gone before Sally and I were out of the parking lot.

Well, we agreed, you sure do meet some weird people on the road.

Sally chose to believe the guy was an actor dressed up for a role, or maybe he was just into pranking people. Like, what would you do if you ran into Hitler at a Stuckey’s? Or maybe he was a psychology major studying human behavior. Maybe we would appear in a new version of Candid Camera. Maybe we’d all be famous for fifteen minutes.

We rounded a bend in the highway and saw, to my utter astonishment, a billboard featuring a larger-than-life picture of the very guy we’d just encountered at the Stuckey’s, moustache and all. The caption below the photo urged motorists to vote for him in an upcoming election for state representative.

“Oh my God! Hitler is running for office!”  

That was me freaking out. Sally tried to calm me down. She said the guy on the billboard was not the same weirdo we saw at Stuckey’s but she wasn’t very convincing. I think she just wanted us to continue our drive and our lives without the possibility that Adolph Hitler was alive and well and on the ballot. Maybe it wasn’t possible, but even Sally had to admit one thing— the guy was a dead ringer.

Bio:
Clay Coppedge lives, writes, and still lives in an old farmhouse on the outskirts of Walburg, Texas. This story first appeared in Down in the Dirt. https://scars.tv/cgi-bin/framesmain.pl?writers

by Jonathan Payne

A prosperous northern mill town, engulfed in mist. A romantic lookout high in the Pennines, affording views of cobbled streets and factory smoke stacks below. A well dressed young man, tall and serious, emerges from a carriage and nods to the coachman, who hands down a wicker hamper. The man extends his hand to assist a young woman in stepping down onto the path. In a grassy clearing just below the horse and carriage, the man spreads a blanket and beckons the woman to join him. They open the hamper and enjoy a delicious lunch of tripe and cow heel. 

When lunch is over, the man stands up, fastens his greatcoat against the wind, and spreads his arms, as if to address a throng. But his sweetheart is the only other soul in sight, save for the coachman. As the man speaks to her, he gazes out across the valley and town below. She looks up at him, both love and bewilderment in her eyes.

“Semiannually will I declare my love for you,” bellows the man, his arms still outstretched.

The woman looks on, bemused.

He continues. “Let us return to this spot on a regular schedule. On each occasion we will enjoy a wonderful lunch and I will reaffirm my commitment to you, my darling. I will shower gifts upon you and remind you of my never ending affections. I will sing songs for you, and tell stories to you. I will be sure that you have everything you need for a happy and prosperous life. If we are fortunate enough to have offspring, they will accompany us to this spot. If our offspring are fortunate enough to have offspring, they too will accompany us. On each occasion I will stand here in front of our family, whether it be large or small, and affirm my love for you. That love will sustain and nurture not only our marriage but also our whole family, for generations to come. Neither you nor our issue will ever be in want. This is my promise to you, my beloved, on this day and on every day we return to this place.”

He turns and looks expectantly at the woman, his face flushed with triumph.

She stands up from the blanket. Her expression crumbles from bewilderment into horror. She buries her face in her hands.

He is confused. “My darling, what is it?”

She looks up slowly, fighting to hold back tears. “You plan to declare your love for me only once every two years?” she hisses, and covers her face again.

The man is momentarily stumped. He runs through the impromptu speech in his mind, looking for the problem, and finds it in the first word.

“Oh, no, no, my love,” he says, reaching out a hand towards her. “You will not have to wait for two years to hear my confession of love. Far too long. We will return here every half year. Surely that is an acceptable interval?”

The woman looks up, tears filling her eyes. There is a despair on her face that he has never witnessed before.

“You said semiannually,” she scoffs. “Every two years. That is how you began your little speech. I heard it with my own ears.”

He reaches for her hands, but she rebuffs the gesture, finding a handkerchief to dry her eyes.

“A simple misunderstanding,” he says. “Twice each year. That is the meaning of semiannual. Twice each year.”

“Now you are twisting the meaning of words to save yourself,” she says, thrusting the handkerchief back into her sleeve.

“I assure you, darling, that I am not. We have only a simple misunderstanding which I am sure can be rectified. My intention was to propose that my declarations of love will be offered twice each year. That is, to my understanding, the meaning of semiannual. Perhaps I should have used plainer words.”

She appears unmoved. “Perhaps you should be honest with me about your original intentions. Perhaps you are now twisting the meaning of your own words only after seeing my reaction.” She turns away, sobbing.

The man’s mind is racing. He racks his brain to find a word he is sure will clear up this mess.

“Biannual!” he exclaims. “That, my love, is the word you are thinking of. Biannual means every two years. Semiannual means twice each year.” He claps his hands together in triumph.

Now there is anger in her eyes as well as tears. “Do you take me for a fool?” she snarls, gathering up her skirts and turning away from him. “I am well acquainted with the word biennial. That is not what you said.”

The man watches as the woman rushes down the hill to a farmer’s gate, and proceeds through a field of grazing cows. Twice she stumbles in long grass, picks herself up and gathers her skirts again before rushing on. She runs through field after field, heading down into the town, and soon he loses sight of her.

Wearily, the man packs the hamper and returns to the carriage.

He calls up to the coachman. “May I ask you a question?”

“Of course, sir,” says the coachman, returning the hamper to its place.

“What would you think of my meaning, were I to use the word semiannual?”

The coachman frowns. “I’m not one for long words, sir, truth be told.”

“Very well, then. Suppose I offered to hire you and your splendid animal to take a long trip semiannually. How often would you expect to be working for me?”

The coachman furrows his brow. “Well, sir, I suppose that would be every second year.”

The man shakes his head and begins to climb into the carriage.

The coachman calls down to him. “The young lady will not be joining us for the return trip, sir?”

The man looks up at him with a forlorn expression. “She will not.”

Bio:
Jonathan Payne is a British-American writer based in Washington, DC. He holds a Master of Arts degree in Novel Writing from Middlesex University, London. His debut novel, CITIZEN ORLOV, was published by CamCat Books in 2023. The Wall Street Journal called it “part Kafka, part Alice in Wonderland”.

by Alyson Faye

A shorter version of this story appeared in Alyson’s flash fiction collection, ‘Badlands’, Chapeltown Books, Jan 2018.

The tube doors smacked shut behind the slim brunette in the chartreuse green coat, trapping Audrey Hepburn’s head in the gap. Ebbonnie struggled and tussled. Her handbag had her in a choke hold around the neck. The doors snapped hungrily again. Open. Closed. This time they nibbled Audrey’s tiara.

With a final tug Ebbonnie wrestled the life-size cardboard figure inside the carriage and fell back against a seat. Audrey, in her little black dress, stood propped, drunkenly, against a window. She looked perfectly groomed, whereas Ebbonnie was a sweaty mess.

‘Got your hands full there, love.’ The bloke opposite smiled.

He’s got nice eyes, Ebbonnie thought, but more on autopilot, not really interested. She’d not been herself since ‘the Darren fiasco.’ That was one ‘ex’ who was staying in ex-ile.

‘What are you doing carrying this Fair Lady around?’ He nodded at Audrey, his mouth crinkling, as though he’d told a joke.

‘It’s for my boss’s party. Part of the deck core.’

Tube Guy looked confused. Then he laughed. ‘Oh right. Funny.’

Ebbonnie wondered what he meant? She glanced out of the window. ‘Nearly my stop. Hammersmith. Gotta go.’

She tried to haul Audrey upright. It turned into a battle, as Audrey resisted.

‘Here let me give you a hand. It’s not often you get to grips with one of your idols. I’d have Breakfast at Tiffanys with her any day.’ He laughed.

Ebbonnie being polite, smiled back, wondering who this Tiffany girl was? His girlfriend? His ex?

Tube Guy grabbed Audrey by the waist, and spun her around, making it look easy, as though they were partners on ‘Strictly’.

The train came to a halt, with the usual judder. Audrey’s foot caught on Ebbonnie’s tights.

‘Do you fancy going to see Audrey in 3D?’ asked Tube Guy, beaming.  ‘She’s at the BFI. They’re showing a season of her films. We could OD on Audrey.’ More chuckling. More flashing Persil white teeth.

Ebbonnie stood beside him, nonplussed. She couldn’t help admiring Tube Guy’s muscle definition in his tight T-shirt. But she didn’t want to admit that Scream was more her type of film.  She’d never heard of this Audrey Hepburn he kept going on about. She’d Google her later.

Ebbonnie followed Tube Guy, with Audrey slung under his arm, onto the platform. She stood watching, whilst he took a series of selfies, posing with an arm around Audrey’s waist. Ebbonnie thought they looked a cute couple. She couldn’t help but notice that Tube Guy didn’t want her in the pics.

It had been a long day. Carting the cardboard figure on and off the Tube had turned into a nightmare. Audrey towered over Ebbonnie’s five foot three, and the tiara was a health and safety hazard.

Ebbonnie’s feet were throbbing, her tights were snagged and her brand-new Shellac had chipped. Right at that moment, she didn’t feel very friendly towards Audrey, or her boss. Tube Guy’s charms and chat were wearing thin too.

‘Perhaps you could take er . . . ‘Audrey’  round to my boss’s address?’ Ebbonnie handed Tube Guy a card, praying hard. ‘He’ll be ever so thrilled. He said they were all waiting on Audrey to show up.  I’ll follow you both in a taxi. There wouldn’t be room for the three of us in one cab.’  

‘Really? Great, I’d love to.’ Tube Guy looked thrilled.

Ebbonnie watched him trot off to the taxi rank, at double speed. Audrey disappearing with him into the crowds.

Ebbonnie sighed, then turned and headed in the opposite direction towards the nearest Be At One Bar. She would have one or even two for the road.

Bio:
Alyson lives in the UK, with her family and rescue dog, Roxy. Her stories and poetry have appeared in many anthologies, most recently, Grendel Press’ ‘Uncanny Tales’, #141 Space and Time. Fairy Tale Magazine, and on The Night’s End Podcast. She swims, sings in a choir, loves old movies and is often out on the moors with Roxy.

by Molly Jensen

She was named Wednesday because her parents were obsessed with Halloween, The Rocky Horror Picture Show, and (obviously) The Addams Family.

In elementary school, Wednesday found a best friend who was always ready for whatever shenanigans Wednesday was getting up to. So much so, Wednesday’s parents called her best friend Thursday, because Thursday always follows Wednesday. Thursday agreed, Thursday does always follow Wednesday, so the name stuck.

In middle school, Thursday landed a girlfriend who called herself Friday. She gave herself that nickname because like Thursday followed Wednesday, Friday wanted to follow Thursday. Thursday was into it and Wednesday liked Fridays so the name stuck.

In high school, Wednesday was on her way to having a boyfriend. He was cute, he liked Halloween, and he could name all of Wednesday’s family members (the real Wednesday and the fictional Wednesday.) But he never asked Wednesday to be his girlfriend. Instead, he started calling himself Tuesday. Because like Thursday follows Wednesday and Friday follows Thursday, he believed Wednesday should follow Tuesday.

Wednesday wasn’t a day of the week; she didn’t follow anyone. Especially not in the way “Tuesday” wanted her to follow him. Wednesday had better, more important shenanigans to get up to. When Wednesday told “Tuesday” this, he started acting like a Monday, and Wednesday was then no longer on her way to having a boyfriend, because Wednesday did not like Mondays.

Bio:
Molly has enjoyed writing for as long as she can remember. Until she finally writes a book, she’s a librarian.

Just bringing this opportunity to your attention.

Final Month! Wergle Flomp Humor Poetry Contest (no fee)

Deadline: April 1. 23rd annual free contest, sponsored by Winning Writers and Duotrope. Top three prizes are $2,000, $500, and $250. $3,750 in total prizes. No fee to enter. Submit one humor poem online. Both published and unpublished work welcome.

All entries that win cash prizes will be published on WinningWriters.com. Final judge: Jendi Reiter, assisted by Lauren Singer.

This contest is recommended by Reedsy. See guidelines, past winners, and submit online at https://winningwriters.com/wergle

by Joanie Mickle

The current push to tidy up and simplify indicates that the time has come to take a more practical approach to our way of life…and death.  American consumers are less willing to pay for frills and “deluxe models” when, in more and more areas, they are being offered the opportunity to spend less and obtain products and services perfectly “suitable for everyday use.”

            There may be an initial aversion to generic funerals but, as we go step by step through the plan, it will become evident that tradition does not have to be sacrificed for economy.  The Generic Plan includes all familiar facets of the full-blown expensive service, simply taking a practical approach to each and even turning what here-to-fore have been unfortunate circumstances into discount opportunities.

            Let’s imagine Uncle Harry dies.  For illustration purposes, we will say he dies at a Royal Moose Lodge gathering and therefore is dressed in his best suit and has been drinking hearty quantities of liquor all evening.  This entitles the family to two discounts right off the bat.  First, the deceased is already dressed for viewing and second, he’s self-embalmed.

            On learning of Harry’s demise, the family should call Tony’s Pizza Palace and ask for combination #10.  The call is then transferred to the back room or Funeral Department.  The earthly remains will be picked up (Tony’s trucks are radio dispatched) after the next pizza delivery.  If cremation is desired, there is a discount if this can be accomplished before the ovens cool.

All services are conducted between midnight and 7:00 am.  Though this may seem unusual, it works quite well.  Family and friends need not take time off from work, and if traditional burial is the choice, traffic is at a minimum so the procession has the added dignity of not becoming a public spectacle.  The procession is unique in that we ask participants to turn their lights off as we approach the burial site.  This lends a serene quality to the motorcade and also cuts down on the probability of taking time out to explain to the police officer that we have an arrangement with the owner of the gravel pit we are entering.

            In planning the service, it’s an act of kindness not to tax the family with a myriad of choices and circumstance will dictate most decisions.  For instance, flowers will automatically be provided and the family needn’t be burdened with choosing colors, varieties, etc.  In fact, a particularly nice touch is that the floral arrangements have been lovingly chosen by another family for a joyous occasion and it’s with great care that Tony’s people remove them from each catered wedding reception for use at the next memorial service.  Price will be determined by length of time between reception and memorial service.

            The standard obituary notice will be provided and if the family will direct friends and relatives to the “Lost and Found” column in the local paper, no confusion will arise.  Tony’s has found that a properly worded paragraph is most often accepted in this category and the charge is nominal compared to the cost on the obituary page.

Casket choice varies depending on what major appliances have been delivered to Mac’s Household Supply, located across the alley from Tony’s.  The appliance crates are sturdy and tastefully omit the overly-ornate satin tucks and pleats so out of character for Uncle Harry.

            The service itself may be held in the family home or at Tony’s.  Most families prefer Tony’s as less attention is drawn and, after all, it is a time when privacy is often preferred.

            Music will be provided as Tony’s men set up the folding chairs while humming Amazing Grace or The Old Rugged Cross.  Other selections can be made from the juke box.

            The service itself will be conducted by Tony’s brother, Gino, who almost made it through seminary.  He will include whatever personal information on the deceased the family desires.  We wish we could encourage you to invite the services of your own clergyman but we’ve discovered that most tend to overreact to some aspects of the Generic Plan and thus disturb the reverent tone of the proceedings.

            At the conclusion of the service, the family will receive a combination memory book and Tony’s take-out menu.  Also, each friend and relative in attendance will receive a coupon good for two extra toppings on their next order of any large pizza.

Bio:
Joanie Mickle has had numerous short humor pieces published. She finds being funny somewhat easier than being knowledgeable.

by Betsy Rivard

I need a new refrigerator.  The ice maker is broken.  Some of the shelves are missing. And there is illicit activity going on inside.

It started with one bottle of Heinz ketchup and a jar of yellow mustard.  They were respectable and had their own places to live on the big shelf inside the door.  All was well.  Life was good.

And then they started reproducing and diversifying. The Heinz ketchup started hanging with the Food Club ketchup. The yellow mustard multiplied into little jars of Dijon, Hot and Spicy and Honey.

Somehow horseradish, lemon juice and mayonnaise found their way inside.  But that was okay because sometimes you need those when you are making tomato aspic jello salad.

Mayo must have started the Great Invasion. That big glob of fat just couldn’t read the room and kept inviting more little friends in more little jars.  How were they getting in?  Through the broken ice maker? Or during those moments when one stands with their head in the fridge trying to escape the summer humidity?

All I know is that there’s a full blown Condiment Crisis happening in my fridge. Every surface is covered with little jars and tubs and tubes and bottles.  Some have names like fish sauce, pimientos and capers but many are anonymous.  These mystery inhabitants of my fridge often  hide under a protective layer of green fur.  On a clear day it is possible to count 40 or 50 if one stands on tip toes.

What even is giardiniera? Isn’t that something from bad water?  Why is it in my fridge?

I am preoccupied with this condiment infestation.  Are my neighbors afflicted too? Is it a result of the pandemic? Climate change?  The rising cost of insulin?

I reminisce about the days when it was just ketchup and mustard and me.  Those were the days when I could keep an entire cauliflower and five or six take-out containers right there in the fridge. Not now. There is no more space.

Action is necessary.

Toast. I like toast.  I will have condiments on toast!  The ones that bring me joy will return to the Condiment Village in the fridge.  The others will be sent away to the Land of Misfit Condiments.

Day 1. My toast is ready. I select an anonymous inhabitant that is balanced on top of the jars of olives and banana peppers. I get a spoon and attempt to stab through the protective coating. A spoon will not cut it. A knife slides through and I am met with an aroma reminding me of my summer job in the nursing home.  I gag and throw the toast, the jar, the spoon and the knife into the trash.  I’ve lost my appetite for condiments and toast.

Death by botulism or gangrene or ptomaine poisoning is real.

I close the fridge, eat some Tums and order a cheese pizza.

If only I had some sriracha for dipping…

Bio:
Betsy Rivard is a pediatric ICU nurse in Boston with a long history of sleep deprivation. Her work has appeared in numerous spam folders and on the back of used envelopes on her kitchen counter.

by Gail Mackenzie-Smith

Hi everyone, my name is Lisa and I’m addicted to romance novels.

This wasn’t always the case. I have my MA in English Lit! I’ve read Austen, Dostoyevsky, Kafka, and Dan Brown! I used to mock people who read romance. I’d say people who read romance can’t read. But that’s all changed. I don’t mind that every book has “duke” in the title. I don’t mind that all these dukes have shocking green eyes and hair the color of dark chocolate truffles. And I don’t mind they treat the servants like they’re invisible. They’re hot. Who knew Regency dudes were the sexiest men alive? I sure didn’t. But I do now, boy do I.

It started slowly, my addiction to old-timey romance—frothy, witty, and urbane with its slow burn and sweet consummation. I’d pop in my air pods and listen while I shopped, walked the dog, cooked dinner, read emails, binged Bridgerton season one, episode 6, 43:54. But soon I was listening at work, eyes glazed, breath erratic. When my boss noticed I told her I was listening to “Optimize Your Workplace”, a podcast from the Huberman Lab.

“And you’re panting like a dog in heat?” she said.

But I soon craved more. More than yearning looks across crowded ballrooms and stolen kisses in deserted L’Orangeries. More than midnight trysts in libraries in front of roaring fires and various invisible footmen. I wanted epic goosebumps. I’d heard that contemporary romance is the gateway drug to a ruination even more devastating than the forced marriage of a Victorian virgin caught talking (unchaperoned!) to a duke on an empty balcony. But willpower shot, I took the plunge.

“A Priest in Hell” was the most incredible high I’ve ever experienced. (I’ll fight anyone who calls it porn.) It’s definitely edgy. (But well-written!) It’s about a priest who falls in love. This priest has dark hair and green eyes and lifts weights and runs and…Sorry. I’m getting a visual. Anyway, this priest has sex all over his church—in the confessional, in the pews, on the altar and SPOILER ALERT—he leaves the church to be with the woman he loves! Sigh.

Then disaster struck. The library didn’t have the second audiobook in the series! (I only get audiobooks because, you know, the book covers…after all, I do have my feminist façade to protect.) I found it on Audible but it was $31.99! I know, right?! It was either rob a liqueur store or borrow the book from the library, cringe-worthy cover and all. Wearing sunglasses, I lurked in the lobby of my local library and waited patiently for a woman to take over the front desk. (Still humiliating but at least she didn’t wink and follow me to my car.)

But my real problem is, last week I did this thing in bed with my husband that I’d never done before and now he thinks I’m cheating on him. Please, please, help me kick this life destroying addiction and save my marriage. I’m absolutely committed to getting my life back. (By the way, guy in the back with hair the color of a stormy midnight sky—you’d look totally hot in a cravat and riding boots.)

Bio:
After a soul-destroying career in advertising, Gail got her MFA in screenwriting where she continues to torture herself with near misses and empty promises. In the quest to get a more varied rejection collection, she’s started writing essays and flash fiction and has actually managed to get published although her submission to publication ratio is probably 10,000 to 1. She’s had work published in Dorothy Parker’s Ashes, Purple Clover, Flash Fiction Magazine, The Manifest-Station, Defenestration and more. Ever the masochist, she is now thinking about writing a novel and looks forward to even bigger and better rejections.

by Maggie N Iribarne

Originally published in The Bad Day Book, October, 2023

I drew the short straw and ended up leaning on the encyclopedia case in the reference section collecting raffle tickets, right outside the glass doors of the rare book room where the annual Holiday Gathering was coalescing. As each of the mostly elderly Friends of the Library entered, I handed them a small slip of paper and pencil, repeating directions in incrementally elevating decibels: “You have to write your name. On the slip of paper. The slip of paper. Yes, that’s right.”

Shifting from foot to foot, staring into space, a bad idea crept into my consciousness. Perhaps writing some fun words on the raffle tickets would relieve my intense boredom?

 In prior years, there was just one raffle winner, so what were the chances of my fake names getting called? Zero. Zilch. Hohoho, I scribbled, smiling, feeling brave. Falalalalala I wrote next, those first silly words loosening something tight inside me. Recklessly, a little hysterically, I started a series of names: Mike Rowave. Mag Azine. Jim Nasium. I allowed a small, insane giggle to escape my lips. I added another hohoho just to seal the deal. 

   Any good reference librarian would have asked the pertinent questions. What are you hoping to achieve by this? Is this actually funny? Is this respectful to the Friends of the Library? What will you do if one of your fake names gets called? How do you know for sure there is only one prize? Oh, that last question was one I should have pondered. But that end of the workday malaise, the presence of the very old, the ticking grandfather clock peering over my shoulder, the musty smell of books taunted, Write another phony name, who cares? 

As it turned out, there were five prizes that year. When I approached my colleague, the tech guru who was in charge, to rescind my erroneous entries, her expression contorted. Her hold on the ticket bowl stiffened. We began this back-and-forth thing that went on a touch too long. 

“What is your problem?” she asked, yanking one last time. 

I let go, realizing I needed to stand back and watch how this thing was going to play out. Sweating slightly, I gnawed on a piece of candied grapefruit peel, bitter stuff we made fun of every year. I took my penance orally and leaned against the back display case, the one holding part of the Dead Sea Scrolls or something. 

            It was the old art librarian, wearing a mid-length black dress and pearls, an alumna and thirty plus year employee, who threw her hand in the bowl to pick the first name. I held my breath as she swished around. I repeated a newly formed mantra: There is no way. No way. There is no. Way. The intrusive grandfather clock ticked off the seconds. I sipped my punch, the sweet ginger-ale taste lingering in the back of my mouth. When her face screwed up in annoyance, I knew. I knew. She looked at the tech lady and said bitterly, “Someone. Is. Trying. To. Be. Smart.” Her hand crumpled the raffle ticket in, if not anger, deep annoyance. I looked around. The  Friends of the Library shrugged, looking around themselves. Some didn’t hear. One man, head back, snored in deep snooze. 

Then, my extremely elegant boss, the head of public services, took over, sliding her well-manicured hand into the bowl. Would she sit me down and lecture me after this? I deserved it, for sure. She landed on a ticket, removed, unfolded it. She then said, with her best annunciation, Mike Ro-Wahv, fancily pronouncing my joke name. No one flinched. She called it again. I shrunk, realizing how I should have told someone, just to have an ally, but it was too late, impossible. It was that day I learned that having a joke by yourself isn’t fun, not at all. The pain continued, like plantar fasciitis or a throbbing sciatic nerve. . She shook her head and reached in again. “Jim Nahsium?” calling the over- pronounced version of the name. She called out several times, looking for this Jim Nahsium fellow in the crowd. How could Mike and Jim not be here after entering the raffle? No one caught on. Nonplussed, she laughed slightly and returned her hand to the bowl for another name. Finally I shot forward, unable to withstand anymore.

“Those. Those were joke names. I put them in! Mike Rowave. Get it? Microwave. And Jim Nasium, like gymnasium?” 

It all sounded so stupid, so infantile. One lady’s mouth dropped in horror. Others laughed uncomfortably. My face heated, beaded in sweat. The sweets I’d imbibed earlier curdled in my tightening throat. 

“Well,” the tech lady said, “You will NOT receive your pack of greeting cards!”

My punishment, more embarrassing, more ridiculous than the crime. 

Bio:
Maggie Nerz Iribarne is 54, lives in Syracuse, NY, writes about witches, cleaning ladies, struggling teachers, neighborhood ghosts, and other things. She keeps a portfolio of her published work at https://www.maggienerziribarne.com.

by Tessa Kjeldsdottir

It was the baste of times, it was the wurst of times, and Thickpuddle McDrawer was up to his mustache in special orders for his Cain’t Be Beat Barbecue Special. Because of this, he once again questioned his decision to not add an extra triangle of cornbread, an oversized pat of honey-butter shaped like a rose, and some miniwurst sausages in Helene’s secret sauce to the regular order-for-two special, and then charge a buck or three more for creativity. People would pay extra for sure. History’d shown him there was something about barbecue, beans and cornbread that brought out the romantic side of those buckaroos.

“Helene!” he hollered into the back kitchen. “Get yer ass in gear. We’re gonna do a Valentine’s special, and I’m gonna need about 200 of those honey-butter roses of yers.”

“Gonna do the miniwurst, too?” she hollered back. “To…y’know…put some ideas in folks’ heads?”

“Uh…sure thing.” Thickpuddle shook his head, mumbling to himself about how he never could understand that woman. Though it had been her idea in the first place, now that he thought on it.

After a couple of years of that Valentine’s Day Special, the population of their small town grew in leaps and bounds. Most of the babies were born in Autumn.

As a result of this boom, Thickpuddle had to hire on new workers to serve the hungry townspeople. The population grew even more as their reputation for The Best Barbecue You All Love drew in writers, techies and artistic types; they settled in and created the now much-sought-after bedroom communities.

Hiring extra workers, including chefs eager to apprentice and learn Thickpuddle’s barbecue secrets and business philosophy freed up time for him and Helene to grow and explore their creative cooking side. It also gave Helene a little more elbow room for growing a few other things.

Before he knew it, Thickpuddle McDrawer’s house was filled with babies of his own: Littlepuddle, Muddypuddle, Splash, and a German Shepherd puppy named Squirt.

In the end, or maybe it was somewhere in the middle, he decided he ought to marry Helene before she took off with that shiny-spurred hotshot from the rodeo that had been bellying up to their restaurant’s bar every Thursday night.

And that was just how Helene had planned it, all along.   

Bio:
Tessa Kjeldsdottir is a Midwest dabbler in fiction, folk and fairy tales, and poetry. Her work can be found in the occasional chapbook/anthology, but mostly on her flash blog and sketchbook, Valley of The Trolls.blog under the pseudonym Liz Husebye Hartmann. 

by Carolyn R. Russell

1. Your favorite art teacher: Flowing layers of colorfully printed gauze fabric meant to be paired with chunky statement necklaces and matching dangly earrings. The Look: I’m not interested in my body shape anymore and I don’t want you to be, either.
2. Your favorite upscale server: Individual black and white pieces with an occasional gray article for that pop of color to satisfy your critics (Deargod, Mom, again with the penguin thing?) Meant to be paired with hand-wrought sterling silver jewelry. The Look: I thought after grad school my life would be different.
3. Your favorite aging rocker at the festival: Ribbed tank top paired with cut-off denim shorts that showcase the tattoos you got when you turned forty and which didn’t give you a leg to stand on when years later your kids got them, too. Meant to be paired with leather bracelets and neckwear. The Look: I wasn’t old enough to have attended Woodstock, but I’ve seen the documentary eleven times.
4. Your favorite gym rat: Versatile tops and bottoms that can breathe and withstand bouts of extreme athleticism in both air conditioning and while on 110 degree marathon hikes. Meant to be paired with absorbent head and wrist bands. The Look: After I went in for my third hip replacement surgery these togs worked beautifully well during physical therapy and subsequent cortisone injections. And also for my daughter’s wedding.
5. Your favorite wealth management diva: Beige blouses and cream trousers meant to be paired with blonde extensions and an Hermes white crocodile handbag. The Look: I am listening to you. While I search for someone more powerful over your shoulder.
6. Your favorite activist: Bright cause-inscribed hemp fabricated T shirt in a solid color and stretch jeans meant to be paired with durable white bamboo sneakers. The Look: I’d never judge you for any of the above Looks. But do think about where your clothing comes from and who manufactures it. Whose tiny fingers sewed those buttons?
7. Your favorite doctor: Silk separates in icy hues that shimmer as they reflect the glass sheen of her framed credentials and the light of the sample SAD lamp she wants you to buy from her side hustle. Meant to be paired with lab coats and disdainful side-eye glances. The Look: Your online research into your condition infuriates me.
8. Your favorite newly resurfaced high school buddy: Early 2000s low-cut print blouse over skintight jeans and heels. Meant to be paired with your husband. The Look: I finally got that boob job.

Bio:
A Pushcart Prize, Best Micro Fictions, Best of the Net, and Best Small Fictions nominee, Carolyn R. Russell’s essays, poetry, and short stories have been featured in numerous publications. She has also authored four books, including a multi-genre flash collection called “Death and Other Survival Strategies” (Vine Leaves Press, 2023).

by Jeannie Mary Abbott

For the first time, Henry secretly followed his wife to work.  She drove to the edge of town and entered an old-fashioned, run down barbers’ shop – open at 8pm?  Puzzled, he went in.  Why did Carol want an evening job?  There was no need, his salary at the bank was ample.

An elderly man, scissors in hand addressed him. “Hair cut Sir?”  

“Oh, yes – OK.”  There was a door to the left of the counter and some of the men went through after their haircuts. 

“Where does that lead?” Henry pointed. 

The barber whispered close to his ear.  “That’s the Men’s Room Sir.”  

“Oh, you mean the gents?” 

“No Sir, have a look when I’ve finished.”  Henry was almost too anxious to notice that his hair had never looked better.

He paid and went through.  There were steps down to the cellar and another door.   As he opened it he heard a buzz of conversation and his nose met a throng of smoke.  Through it he could make out a bar and men lounging at tables.   A sort of stage at the top end had dowdy, well-worn pink curtains, tied back in tassels.

He ordered a beer and looked around, searching for Carol.  Discordant music struck up and feeble lights shone on the stage.  Henry suddenly put his glass down and left. 

As he rushed up the steps in torment he bumped into his wife.  “What are you doing here Henry? I love your hair, it takes 10 years off you.”  

“I came to see where you worked as you wouldn’t tell me.” 

“Well, now you know.  I’m a book-keeper for the barbers.  I didn’t think you would approve.  I’ll see you at home later.  I’ve got work to do.”

Carol opened the door quickly; a roar of applause and whistling was heard inside as she disappeared.  Henry stood stock still for a minute in anguish and then followed her in.   A middle-aged woman was throwing away her clothes as fast as she could to strip tease music and also to the delight of the drunken men.  Carol was nowhere to be seen.  Henry wiped his brow, felt ashamed and went home. 

Later that evening Carol was pleasantly surprised at the aroma of a casserole and her attentive husband handed her a glass of Champagne as she kicked off her shoes and thankfully fell into her favorite chair. 

Over their meal Carol said she wanted to discuss her job.  Henry eagerly encouraged her; she said that the barbers needed to generate more income and perhaps unisex was the answer.  “That’s it” she cried.  “We need women hairdressers, female customers and male strippers.” 

The bubbles caught in Henry’s throat, he coughed, spluttered, flushed purple and couldn’t utter a word, much to Carol’s satisfaction.   

Bio:
Writing has always been Jeannie’s main hobby. She runs two creative writing groups from the local library and loves every aspect, meeting new writers and inspiring the homework. Jeannie welcomes feedback – Jeannie@butterwicks.com

by Lev Raphael

Early in March 1953, my immigrant Polish mother was at a Manhattan party with other Holocaust survivors. I picture her dressed in one of those stylish, gray, form-fitting Mamie Eisenhower suits, though without the gloves or hat. Her lipstick was Jungle Red, her mass of auburn hair stylishly coiffed, and she smoked like a film star. You know, the ones who wielded cigarettes as if holding a very light magic wand (or dagger, if necessary).

Various toasts were offered that evening, and then in Russian, as she reported, she raised her glass of vodka and cried out “Death to Stalin!”

The dictator was dead less than a week later and my mother fielded many calls from her witty friends, all of whom asked, “Why didn’t you curse him sooner? What took you so long?”

I thought of that party years later when my literary agent was not only glacially slow in responding to me and sending my book out to publishers, but apparently started bad-mouthing a friend of mine who she also represented. This agent was telling people the lie that my novelist friend was having a mental breakdown. I have no idea what possessed her, but remembering my mother, one night I poured myself some Grey Goose, turned off the lights in my suburban Michigan bedroom, lit a jasmine candle for good measure and raised my glass.

No, I did not hope for this agent to die, I just offered a curse: “I want her career to crash and burn.” I was fed up and wanted to leave smoking ruins behind me as I moved to another agency.

Not long after that night, news spread in New York’s publishing circles that the agent had been booted from her agency for unprofessional conduct.

My mother was dead by then, so I couldn’t ask her about any other successful curses in our family history, and maybe I was on the brink of a new career: creative cursing. Perhaps there was even someone who could teach me how to hone my power.

But I didn’t ever try to curse anyone else. I was concerned that there might just be one malediction per person in our family—since my mother had never cursed anyone else again—and trying for more wouldn’t just be greedy, it might backfire.

Bio:
Lev Raphael is the author of 27 books in genres from memoir to mystery who writes full-time. His fiction and nonfiction have appeared in 15 languages including Romanian and Chinese. He is also producer of his own author radio interview show with guest authors like Erica Jong and Salman Rushdie.

by Kayleigh Kitt

“It took Van Gogh four months to paint his bedroom in Arles,” Phyllis said, gazing at the gilt-framed artwork hung on the wall.

“That’s nothing. Took my Geoff three years once to paint the front room,” Glenda retorted, readjusting her handbag on her arm.

They moved on to another oil with a tiny plaque underneath.

“One apple in the garden of Eden is all it took for man to sin.” Phyllis craned her neck to take in the complete copy of the temptation.

“I had a pint of cider at Weatherspoon’s on the deck once. Similar outcome,” Glenda said wistfully.

The next image was three naked forms draped on a chaise longue.

“Ever had a ménage à trois?” Glenda enquired innocently, licking pink, waxy lips.

When Phyllis hesitated, curling hair around her ear, Glenda elbowed her. “I don’t think a choc au pain at Calais counts.”

“What’s the matter with you today?” Phyllis whispered urgently, as Glenda turned, tugging at her midriff, as the guard by the doorway began casting suspicious glances in their direction.

“Girdle’s cutting me in half,” grumbled Glenda.

“The Grand should be open now.” Phyllis checked her watch, firmly clutching Glenda’s elbow and guiding her out of the exhibition.

“This is nice,” Phyllis announced a few minutes later.

She returned her purse, followed by gloves into her bag, smoothing down her tea dress, then glanced up at the inverted mono-coloured lights suspended from the ceiling, like distorted Christmas trees. They’d opted to sit, cocooned in the maroon velvet wing-back chairs with a view down the room, with its dark spherical tables, comfy bucket bar stools and rich warming colours, if you discounted the scattering of pink sofas.

Intimate seating arrangements were filling with either couples, women accompanied by younger copies or small groups of what looked like friends.

“It was a lovely birthday gift from your Ezra,” Phyllis referred to Glenda’s grandson, drinking in the arrival of the candy-striped cups and saucers, matching teapot and side plates.

The platter of generous, divine-looking chunkily cut finger sandwiches stared up at them and then there were the tiny delicate cakes on the three-tiered stand.  The waiter declared he’d be back with the champagne upgrade Phyllis had just ordered and Glenda craned her neck, watching him retreat.

Phyllis arched an eyebrow. “Will you please behave?”

“I have no desire to fit in,” Glenda replied, her eyes still on the waiter’s pert behind and tiny waist, perambulating towards the bar.

“At some stage, you’ll need to start acting your age. Happy birthday again, until the bubbly arrives.” She toasted Glenda with an empty teacup.

“I don’t know how to be my age. I’ve never been this old before,” Glenda countered, cheerily waving hers in response.

Later, standing at the bus stop, Glenda giggled, looking down the line. “It’s weird being the same age as all these old people.” She clapped a hand over her mouth as Phyllis’ eyes widened.

A man shrugged into a thick coat, sporting a flat cap, leaned forward peering at her. “You should be wary of upsetting us oldies. Life imprisonment seems less like a deterrent these days. But if you want me to take you on to remind you, I’m not old.” He shook his cane at her, the corners of his mouth twitching.

Glenda snorted and Phyllis sniggered.

Bio:
Kayleigh Kitt lives in the Midlands, UK with her husband and an ageing tabby cat who thinks it’s a dog. Kayleigh’s had work published in Flash Fiction North, Bangor Literary Journal, Meditating Cat Zine, On The High journal, Active Muse, The Hooghly Review and CNF in Across the Margin.

by Casey Lawrence

Previously published: Polar Borealis: Magazine of Canadian Speculative Fiction, vol. 7, no. 4, issue 27

The alien spacecraft landed in Woodstock, which was a surprise. No, not that Woodstock. The other one, in Oxford County, on the Thames River. No, not that Oxford—and not that Thames, either. He couldn’t have picked a friendlier city.

He landed his little ship in Vansittart Park of all places—right on the Splash Pad, if you can believe it. Engine trouble, he said. He’d right run out of fuel over London—no, not that London—and coasted on down here. There are plenty of farms and parks between London and Woodstock, but with his little ship rocking and rolling, it was a miracle he didn’t hit town hall!

Well so I said to the little fella—and he couldn’t have been right more than four foot, y’know—I asked him what he needed and wouldn’t you know, he was looking for local government. And I said, ‘well I work for the mayor,’ and I do, I work in the mayor’s office, so I said I could help him with that. It’s a lucky thing I was there at that park—I was there with the kiddos, and it was just right place, right time.

And he was real friendly, Viv. He asked me to call him that: Viv. He and I got on well. He even had a tool belt and overalls like mine, kind of.

We loaded his ship into my truck and I sent the kids to their friend Gord’s so I could take Viv to Jerry’s house. I said to Jerry—I called him up on the way, hands-free, of course—I said to Jerry, ‘you’re going to want to meet this guy.’ And I tell him what’s happened.

Viv tells me he works for—oh shoot, you know, I don’t remember. It had a rather long acronym, and I was too busy looking at him when he said it. He was this funny greenish colour, with little tentacles and eyes a bit like a cat’s. Anyway, he tells me he was on his route and noticed that our atmosphere was dirty. So—get this—he pops off course to let us know, and sprung a fuel leak out by Mars. Mars!

So I get chatting with Viv—he has thirty-eight kids back home, one of them is off to college this year—and he says he’d happily do a quick scrub for us if we refuelled his tank. And I did tell him, I said, we’ll fill your tank up regardless! But I had to ask Jerry if we needed any clean-up.

I get Viv to Jerry’s but by then Jerry is on the phone with the Prime Minister. And Viv, well, he doesn’t want to make a fuss, so he asks me to just fill ’er up and he’d take care of the smog on the way out. And I’m thinking, ‘there’s no smog in Woodstock!’ But then I think maybe he’s talking about the air over London or Hamilton, and I say, ‘that would be mighty nice of you, Viv.’

So I ask Viv what kind of gas his ship takes and get this, it runs on silica. And I say, ‘shoot, all we’ve got at the station is gas or diesel.’ And he says, ‘why, that’s why your air is so dirty!’ And we have a good laugh.

But I can get the little guy some silica pretty easy. Don’t you know, that’s the main ingredient in regular old glass? So I ask, ‘how much do you need?’ And it turns out his little ship only needs a few ounces of the stuff to get home, so I just take him to my place and give him a couple of glasses right out of the etagere. We got gifted a bunch of crystal glassware when my Nan passed and never use it.

The next thing I know he’s standing in my dining room, looking at the bay windows and holding a paperweight, and he starts crying, Viv does. And I think, ‘oh no, I’ve offended him.’ But he’s so happy, see. Where he comes from, silica is rarer than gold. And he says, ‘you’re going to be rich.’

I say ‘it’s just glass’ but he thanks me for the stemware and so I give him the paperweight too, and he says he’ll clean up all the air for it. Normally a full scrub would be covered by—and I still can’t remember the name, sorry—Viv’s agency, but since we’re not paying taxes into the system yet, he would have to charge us for that sort of thing, but a couple of glasses completely covered the bill.

By the time the news crews arrived and the helicopters and everything came, Viv was already gone. It didn’t take him but a minute to grind up the glass and set off. And now they’re telling me that all the greenhouse gasses are gone. He went and repaired the ozone layer too, while he was at it. Just cleaned up the whole planet’s air, for a couple of glasses and a paperweight.

I don’t get why everybody’s so mad. I just helped the guy out and it turns out, he really helped us too. All that CO2 and methane just scrubbed right out with his fancy filters. But what do I know, I’m just the janitor at the mayor’s office.

Before he left, Viv said we should really pay into the system if we want to be put on his regular maintenance route. He’ll pass our way every couple of decades and get our air sorted if we get into trouble again. He gave me his card, but wouldn’t you know, I can’t read it. His translator only worked on speech, I guess.

He did say he’d send one of his buddies to deal with the oceans, though. Did you know we’re crawling with microplastics? They can take care of all that, but it’ll cost a pretty penny—at least a window or two!

Bio:
Casey Lawrence (she/they) received a doctorate in English Literature from Trinity College Dublin. In 2023, she published a YA thriller trilogy with JMS Books. Casey also moonlights as an editor and proofreader-for-hire and convenes a bi-weekly Finnegans Wake reading group on Zoom. They are a queer activist, feminist, and democratic socialist who writes contemporary fiction, sci-fi, and fantasy, as well as academic nonfiction.

by Jessica Woodward

Previously published on Jericho Wawa, May 2023

“Wibble wobble!” exclaimed Oswald.

            His colleagues gave him hard stares. The daily briefing about the Realignment Project was far too serious a business for naff jokes. Some things went well with a tailored black suit, a snappy white shirt and a work ethic, and some things did not. The team needed everyone to pull together and impress, if they were going to survive the Project without being “realigned” themselves — or rather, sacked.

            Giles, an Assistant Project Manager who happened to be standing next to Oswald, moved tactfully in front of Oswald, screening him from the boss’s view, and said loudly, “I’ve been really interested in the interoperability potential of the Realignment Project.”

            The boss, Jane, took a sip of her organic espresso. “Have you, Giles? That’s encouraging to hear. What specific interoperability facets would you like me to speak to?”

            “Wibbly,” muttered Oswald.

            “Ssh!” said several colleagues.

            “Well, I…I…I’m interested in the analytics, and the econometrics, and the budget projections, and there are several columns on the master spreadsheet that I’d like to ask you about. I mean I’d love to ask you about.”

            “Oh. Excellent. And which of these shall I speak to first?”

            “Well, there are so many… I mean…”

            “If I’m going to assuage your multiple interests, Giles, I need to do so systematically. Please tell me clearly what you would like to know.” Jane’s eyebrows were loftily raised. The trail of steam from her coffee flickered back and forth to the currents of her slow, determined breathing.

            “I’ve got…so many passions…and then of course there’s the question of what does systematic actually mean in a philosophical sense, which is something I’ve often wondered. Do we think along metaphysical lines, or do we go right back to…I don’t know…Plato?”

            “So wobbly!”

            “Oswald, shut up!” cried an Assistant Accounts Auditor who could take it no longer.

            Jane peered around Giles, as far as his anxious fidgeting allowed her to. “Yes, Oswald, what is this about wobbling?”

            Oswald pointed a trembling finger at the back door of the boardroom, which led to Jane’s private office. “I’ve seen that jellyfish hat before!”

            No one else had noticed it, because they were all so busy demonstrating that they were the very embodiment of the kind of staff one would not want to realign. But indeed, hanging on Jane’s office door was a round hat of translucent white silk, from which dangled numerous white silken tentacles.

            “Oh, that!” grinned Jane. “It is rather marvellous, isn’t it? I wore it in my previous career. Thought I might resurrect it for the end-of-year party. I just love the designer’s artistic vision.”

            “But…but…but…” Oswald’s hand still trembled.

            “Spit it out, Oswald!” ordered Giles.

            “Jane…and I…we were both…you know what.”

            Jane tilted her head quizzically. “Do I know what? I’m not sure I do…”

            Oswald sank into a chair. The colleagues around him tutted and glared. No one was supposed to sit without Jane’s permission. But he was beyond caring about permission. He had to let something out.

            “Those hats were issued to those of us who took part in the West End production of Sting in the Tail. That musical that got the…the…the terrible reviews. People said none of us would ever work in show-business again, because we’d sunk to the level of…of…singing in the blubbery sonic signals of the jellyfish and no audience wants to see that, even though it’s experimental and fascinating and–”

            Giles guffawed. “You were in a West End musical? You, Oswald?”

            Jane had stood up and was beaming at Oswald, her arms spread wide. “I knew I recognised you from somewhere! From one Jelly Chorus member to another, it’s good to see you again. And haven’t we both done well? From the depths of embarrassment, we both rose to the top of the corporate ladder.”

            “I’m sorry…I’m sorry…” Oswald gazed at her through tears. “I got so emotional when I saw it. I mean, it brought back so many painful memories of my dashed stage career. And now I’ve dragged you into it. Everyone knows your secret now, as well as mine.”

            “Secret? What secret? I enjoyed being in that musical. I don’t care what anyone thinks. And nor should you, Oswald.”

            “My name’s not even Oswald. It was Jellian — a mispelling of Julian on my birth certificate — so I had to change it after the flop, I just had to.”

            “Oh, Jellian!” Jane looked even more delighted. “Of course! I remember now. Well, let me tell you, we are not going to disappear just because one audience didn’t enjoy our jellyfish sonic signals. You and I are going to perform extracts from Sting in the Tail at the end-of-year party. And I promise you, your colleagues will love it. Never give up, that’s my motto. We’ll reassure Jellian that his wibble-wobbling was brilliant, won’t we, team?”

            The whole team tried their utmost to show that they could think of nothing more delightful, and that any staff member who, unlike them, did not fully appreciate the idea, should be instantly realigned.

Bio:
Jessica Woodward is a rare books librarian at Magdalen College, Oxford. Her short stories have been published in several literary magazines and online outlets. She also writes plays, both for professional actors and for her own amateur group. She is an enthusiastic vegetable gardener.

by Gary Zenker

Previously published in Down in the Dirt V169 3/20 – https://www.amazon.com/dp/B084QM3RV2

“Do you have something you want to tell me?” I ask my ten-year-old son, Seth. He’s at an age where he’s past wanting to tell me about his school day but not past the age where a teacher will send me a note to tell me about a behavioral issue at school. 

“About what?”

“I don’t know maybe about music class since it seems I have an email from your teacher that I haven’t opened yet.”

“Oh that” he says dismissively. “She is old and cranky.”

“Then you DO have something to tell me?”

“They are making us dance in music class” he informs with clear disgust in his voice. “So there’s a song that we dance to that says we get no soup. It’s part of the words. So I pretended to be eating soup.”

I look at my sister without breaking a smile but she can see the glint in my eyes and knows what comes next. 

“I see,” I nodded. “So before I read her email, was there anything else?”I asked.

“No. We were just twirling around. It’s a dance for the spring fair. I pretended to eat soup so she made me sit down. I don’t care.”

This is the same teacher that last time she sent me a note, made Seth sit down away from the other kids because he pretended to play a tuba. A tuba. Not a flute. Not the drums. Not a guitar.  He was playing air tuba.

I would have thought she would have rewarded him for his imagination or at least kept him for the air instrument band. After all, how many air tuba players can there be at that school?

“So let me ask you some questions. What kind of soup was it?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know what kind of soup you were pretending to eat? Really? Well was it a cup or a bowl?”

“I don’t know.”

“Hmm. You don’t know? “

“I don’t know.”

“Well, was it hot or cold soup? Some soups you eat cold.”

“I don’t know, it was pretend soup.”

“Hmmmm. Show me what you did.”

He shows me and pretends to eat some soup in the air.

“So you were using a spoon!”

“Yes I guess so.”

“But you don’t know what kind of soup it was and whether it was a cup or a bowl? “

“It doesn’t matter”, he raises his voice. “I got in trouble. “

“Well, are you sure you didn’t do anything else?” I pulled up her email on the phone and read it. “She says that you were twirling around and bumping into people. “

“We are supposed to twist when we dance. I wasn’t banging into people.”

“Hmmmm. Did you spill soup on anyone?” 

“It wasn’t real soup.”

“I just thought maybe someone got stains on their clothing or got burned on the soup. Maybe someone slipped in it on the floor? “

“It was pretend soup! I hate you. I got in trouble and you are making fun of me.”

“I am not making fun of you. I am just asking questions so I know the situation.”

“Don’t talk to me any more.”

“Ok, it’s time for bed anyway. Go get changed.” I stood and looked at my sister while he clomped away.

“You know” she said, “you won’t be able to make him take it seriously if you do that.” 

“How seriously can you take it if you get in trouble from a music teacher for pretending to eat soup? He is ten. She is lucky that’s all he does in class.”

“You may just want to remind him that she is the teacher and he needs to take her direction.”

“Okay, mom.”

“I’m just saying.”

“Ok.” I walk upstairs. It’s hard to make a federal case out of this. Was this really worth an email? My son forgets to hand in four homeworks a week and I don’t get an email, but I get one for this. He’s in the bed and I sit on the edge of it. 

“You know you need to apologize to your teacher tomorrow. She’s trying to manage 20 kids and you are causing a disruption. “

“Do I have to? “

“Yes. “

“Ok I will. “

“Good boy.” I move to him and kiss him on the forehead. “And you know that you cannot tell her you are sorry because you know there is no eating in class?”

“Yes I know,” he replies in that way ten year kids have.

“Ok, goodnight” I tell him and walk away. But I stop just outside the doorway. “Crackers?”

“What” Seth asks me

“Crackers? Was it just soup or did you have crackers, too?”

He rolls over to face the other way without us saying another word. 

Bio:
Gary Zenker creates flash fiction tales that cross genre and focus on revealing facets of human nature. His stories have been selected for various anthologies, including Chicken Soup For The Soul: Laughter. He is also the creator of Writers Bloxx, a storytelling game.

by Neil Brosnan

You have your granny’s hands, all right. You are living proof that some talents do skip a generation. I still get a warm fuzzy feeling whenever some unrelated event causes Mam’s words to echo through my subconscious. I don’t remember Granny: I was barely two when she died, but her handiwork has outlived all of her children, and will very likely see me out as well. My childhood home was full of Granny’s creations: curtains, quilts, sheets, pillow cases, cushions, tablecloths, doilies and tea cosies. From an early age I’d been in awe of Granny’s redundant sewing machine and the huge wicker workbasket it sat beside. Despite Mam’s frequent warnings about the dangers of pins, needles and other sharp objects, she had to be at her most vigilant to prevent me from trying to snuggle up with my favourite doll inside Granny’s basket’s woven walls of wonder.

            When, more than a decade later, transition year decision time arrived, my choice was an easy one. A quick chat with old Miss Sloan – our neighbourhood seamstress and patch-and-matcher – sealed the deal: my love/hate relationship with wrap-around pinnys had begun. After several days of drudgery with Miss Sloan’s jack-the-ripper, as she referred to her seam ripper, I was steered to the Formica-topped work table and finally introduced to Miss Sloan’s fully-functional antique sewing machine.

            As I’d struggle with bobbins, shuttles, hand cranks, tension springs, winder guides, drive shafts, needle clamps and dog feeders, Miss Sloan would relate how she’d learned her trade through watching Granny transform the outlandish contents of parcels from aunts and cousins in America to practical garments for growing children in a small Irish town. At tea break, Miss Sloan would sometimes share titbits of Granny’s legendary exploits during Ireland’s War of Independence – she had, however, refused to confirm the rumour of Granny’s propensity to regularly conceal revolvers, ammunition, and bomb components in her knickers. But whatever the story might have been, a strange sensation would slither along my spine when she’d finish by adding: you have your granny’s hands, all right.

            It was in the middle of the pre-Christmas rush that Helen Grogan appeared in Miss Sloan’s workshop. According to Mam, school life had been far easier for my generation than for hers: we had avoided having to contend Hell, as Miss Grogan was known to generations of secondary school studentsin the bad old days of corporal punishment – but I’m not so sure. Deprived of the option of inflicting physical pain, Hellhad proven extremely efficient at waging a campaign of psychological warfare on any day’s chosen victim. All too often her ice-blue glare would mock me from above her varifocal lenses, before her thin, bloodless lips would quiver apart as she would virtually vomit her venom through ill-fitting, nicotine stained dentures. On many occasions I had cursed the intervention of a grandfather I’d never known when, according to Mam, he had physically restrained Granny from confronting Hell after Mam had received a particularly vicious beating from the teacher. Apparently, Granny – armed with her favourite scissors – had been intent on wreaking the ultimate revenge for Hell’s most recent act of cruelty.  

            Miss Sloan presented me with Jill – my very own seam ripper – after lunchtime on the day of Miss Grogan’s visit to her sewing room. I still use Jill at home, but I have to be extra careful when my grandchildren visit as I’d broken off the little pink safety ball on the evening that Hell had collected her alteration from Miss Sloan. I will, however, always regret not having waited until after the teachers’ Christmas party – when Hell would have been still dressed in her Mother Clause suit – to spring from the gloom inside her backyard gate and plunge my Jill-the ripper – minus its pink safety ball – into her left carotid artery.   

Bio:
From Listowel, Ireland, Neil Brosnan’s short stories have appeared in magazines, print anthologies, and in digital format in Ireland, Britain, Europe and the USA
https://sites.google.com/site/neilbrosnanwrites/
He has published two short story collections: ‘Fresh Water & other stories’ (Original Writing, 2010) and ‘Neap Tide & other stories’ (New Binary Press, 2013)

by Lois Hibbert

It started when Spud Hatfield called Chip McCoy a liar. To be precise, he said, “Liar, liar, tail on fire,” which in chipmunk society was grounds for a no-claws-barred brawl. Spud had been twitching for a fight ever since Chip had made a pass at a female Spud fancied. Plus, the McCoys had been expanding their burrows and Spud convinced the Hatfields that Chip was lying to convince everyone else to move so they could grab even more space. When both families were spending more time fighting than gathering food for winter, the elders deemed the issue serious enough to convene a meeting of other retaining wall residents to assess the evidence.

The residents group hadn’t met since last spring, a month after Opossum had scooped out a large burrow under the wall at the back of the human’s yard. They would have let her stay except for the gag-inducing stench she emitted one day when a large hawk startled her; it was enough to curl Rat’s tail and a frail mouse elder passed out. The residents met as far away from Opossum as possible and devised eviction strategies. Rat hissed and snapped at her every chance he got, chipmunks chittered and chirped at the burrow entrance when she was trying to sleep, and the wasps swarmed her. Even some squirrels got into the act, screeching and barking and nipping. Opossum was last seen running across the road into a neighbour’s yard.

A faint eau d’opossum lingered in the burrow but it was the only space big enough for the meeting. Rat, regarded as the most impartial since he rarely interacted with other residents, the Opossum Incident being an exception, agreed to preside. He thought anyone with the common sense of a gnat could see the retaining wall was rotting and long past its best-by date but he couldn’t resist playing judge and jury in the ongoing dispute. He had nothing to lose; he’d already quietly moved his family to a new home under a deck three houses away two days ago.

A motley group of insects settled in early to avoid a drone scouting a prime location for Queen Wasp and her guards. The wood borers scooped out a new section near the top for balcony viewing. Three weevils, Seeno, Hearno, and Sayno, curled into a small niche at the back.

Rat swept in last, wrinkling his nose at several particularly opossum-y spots before choosing a small rock beside the exit. He flicked his tail at Chip McCoy. “Proceed.”

“Well. I was hanging out under the cedars last week and the humans were sitting around and the big human said his hand was still so swollen that he couldn’t hold his fork—”

“Shake a tail, some of us need to hibernate.” Queen Wasp’s guards edged closer to McCoy.

“Buzz off! It’s your fault! The human said one of your minions stung him and he found your nest and he said he’d had enough, the wall had to go!”

“My minions? My fault? I suppose all your families’ messy little holes—”

“Order!” Rat was impatient to leave. “Anyone else?”

Mouse squeaked and raised her paw.

“Proceed.”

“So, I was peeking out three days ago to see if Cat was out? And a new human was stretching something along the wall and making notes? And then he said,” she paused, enjoying her ten seconds of fame, “he would replace the wall with…with concrete!”

Rat stood on his hind legs on the rock and hissed to restore order in the ensuing uproar.

“Decided. Chip McCoy was not lying. Meeting adjourned.”

“You didn’t let me speak!” Spud Hatfield screeched. Rat dashed out and lowtailed it halfway to his new home before the Hatfields and McCoys, nipping at each other’s haunches, got through the pileup at the burrow exit.

Over the next week, the McCoys and most of the Hatfields found homes, one on either side of the old house, not without blows exchanged during raids on each other’s meagre winter stores. Mouse and her family squeezed into a garden shed two doors away with insulation ideal for shredding. Queen Wasp and her minions didn’t have time to hibernate; rather, they hibernated permanently when the human’s hand healed enough to hold a spray can.

Spud and three of his hard-core supporters (not including the doe he fancied, who ran off with Chip McCoy) refused to leave. Mouse, they said, was a pawn, intimidated to lie. Alas, they faced brutal reality when they were upended, literally, two weeks later and became easy pickings for circling hawks.

Rat, however, had a nagging feeling of something missing. He and his family were comfortable and safe, they didn’t have to dodge bits of rotting retaining wall, and they had easy food from abundant dropped food scraps after deck parties. Veggie tray morsels were favourites although they learned to choose carefully after one of his mates ate a chili-dipped broccoli spear one night and suffered vicious heartburn for hours.

But where was the fun? The new house had no cat to taunt, no bird feeder with dropped seeds to fight over with squirrels. And Rat had to admit that, despite his outward indifference, he had been fascinated by the Hatfield-McCoy fighting, so unlike rats who established who was boss and settled disputes more or less amicably and enjoyed each other’s company.

He was sure that with only the backyard of the old house separating them, the Hatfield-McCoy feud would resume, so when the construction was done, he scurried back to observe. And there! A perfect rat-sized gap between the new concrete wall and the back fence, with a view to both the Hatfields’ and McCoys’ new homes. He and his mates scooped out a roomy new nest and lined it with shredded bark and leaves and moved in the next day.

Rewarded by sounds of Hatfield-McCoy skirmishes within days, Rat settled back and waited for the fun to begin.

Bio:
Lois Hibbert is a long-time Ontario, Canada resident who finds that “What if?” questions (What if those critters in my old retaining wall could talk?) lead her in unexpected directions for short stories and flash fiction. She also enjoys writing short creative non-fiction to record events and explore memories.

by J.W. Wood

They’d been developing these algorithms for decades. The old “You look like you’re writing a letter” expanded to include, “You look like you’re writing a clerihew,” “You look like you’re crafting a sermon”, or what have you. For any form you could think of, your computer gave suggestions: better grammar, corrections, emendations.

The writer started tapping on the keyboard:

Julia O’Brien put down her coffee and gazed at her mobile phone in disgust. What was meant to be a convenience had become an instrument of slavery. Her every utterance stored to be used against her by those with access, from brain-dead marketers to the intelligence services. Nominally free, in fact she was chained to an invisible, all-devouring algorithm.

The writer paused. Patches of his screen populated with dialogue boxes offering hints. These machines were so powerful now they had, if not minds of their own, then binary memories so enormous they operated like minds. He ignored the popped-up hints and kept writing:

Modern life seems little more than slavery, since freedom of expression has been interdicted, monitored via the internet.

After those few lines, the inevitable dialogue box popped up: “You look like you’re writing about the role of technology in society.”

“No shit, Hal,” the writer muttered. He clicked in the corner of the pop-up to remove the message. He placed his fingers back on the keys. But then, another dialogue box:

“Are you aware that other writers such as Dick, Philip K., and Le Guin, Ursula K., have already tackled this theme?”

“Yes I am!” the writer shouted, slapping his mouse down on the trackpad. 

Just as he was about to type, yet more dialogue:

“Risk of repetition is estimated at 93.7%. Do you really want to explore the same theme as other writers of greater ability? Other themes are available. Click here to read more.”

“Greater ability? I’ll give you–”

He stopped in disgust. He stood up, chair falling backwards with a thump. Time for a coffee. He headed for the kitchen.

***

It started forty years ago with the first spell checkers. Around the same time as people started paying to have their work considered by magazines. Back then, debate centred around the legitimacy of self-publishing, the ethics of paying to submit. Then came the grammar and style checkers. Writers became enveloped in a techno-cocoon, then redundant as conformity to moral and social norms came to matter more than truth, beauty or anything else.

In the kitchen, he pressed a button on the espresso machine and watched as it gurgled and blew, doing things to beans he did not understand. As the coffee ran into his cup, the writer wondered how to get round his computer’s trickery. Even without a connection, dialogue boxes advised you splatterpunk and cybercore were most likely to attract readers, that literary work would not sell, and that self-publishing was a great idea. Then it tried to sell you “Self-Publishing Solutions” ™, delivered with lots of smileys and attractive women pursing their lips against a pencil as they gazed out of a sunlit window for inspiration.

The writer drank his coffee, listening to Mozart’s Requiem played by an Austrian orchestra over the internet. As he sipped, he reflected that someone, somewhere had recorded his love of Mozart. That person, or bot, had noted him listening to his internet radio during working hours.

The writer put down his cup and snorted. Even Mozart used technical assistance in the shape of his amanuensis, Franz Xaver Süssmayr, who completed the last four sections of the work after the Maestro’s demise. And if Mozart had lived now? He could have sketched some outlines and let an online composition tool do the rest. Or even more likely, a modern-day Count von Walsegg, the man who commissioned the Requiem, would have written it himself using a computer.

***

The writer finished his coffee and went back to the study. He sat down and stared at the words on the screen:

Julia O’Brien put down her coffee and gazed at her mobile in disbelief. What she’d imagined as a tormenter was actually an instrument that enabled her to the point of omnipotence. Now she could record her every utterance and use it to fend off brain-dead marketers or even the secret intelligence services, as if they’d be interested in what she did or said. She was free, but willingly engaged with an invisible, all-enabling machine.

A dialogue box popped up:

“You’ve self-identified this work as a novel. Are you sure it’s not a political treatise? Please be aware of libel and slander legislation – false accusations of corporate malpractice may carry prison terms.”

Shaking his head, the writer pressed a key to delete the message. 

Then another dialogue box:

“For your convenience, we have edited your text for style and grammar. Ready to upgrade? Go Pro with Wordly™: Shakespeare’s power at a keystroke™!”

The strains of Süssmayr’s Sanctus, one of his additions to the Requiem, floated into the study from the kitchen. Known to all as Mozart’s work, this score was not his. These tones, this depth, this genius guaranteed Amadeus immortality – but he was cold in a pauper’s grave when it was written. Today, computers acted as a cyber-Süssmayr for writers and – worse – as an instrument of control.

The writer shut his laptop and reached for his old notebooks. Still half-full of fresh pages – enough to set down what had happened for some better, future time. He fished in his desk for his fountain pen and scratched at the page, watching the ink dry as the pen wrote, its meniscus fading like souring blood. But he no longer knew for whom he was writing, or why.

Bio:
J.W.Wood’s work has appeared in magazines across Canada, the US, Ireland, the UK, India and more. The author of five books of verse and a novel, his collection of satires, Six Pack, will be published from AN Editions in the UK this September. http://www.jwwoodwriter.net

by Lee Adams

Lucky LaRue and I take a walk every day. Lucky is a little dog and little dogs are notorious for baring their teeth, barking viciously, and lunging toward anything they can couch as remotely threatening. Of course, they’re only pretending that any of this is necessary. The little dog knows his owner will make a tremendous effort to keep him out of harm’s way.

This, I theorize, gives the little dog a sense of entitlement, allowing him to push every boundary you set. I think the happiest part of a little dog’s day is letting other dogs and the people walking them know that he could easily rip their lungs out if only you weren’t on the other end of that leash. Not everyone understands this.

How can adults who’ve encountered at least a few small dogs in their lives not grasp the unwritten rules of small dog etiquette? A Labrador may pass you on a sidewalk without incident, but anything smaller than a Terrier requires finesse.

First of all, a passer-by should never make eye contact with a small dog. You don’t bend toward him chirping, “Aren’t you darling,” because he’d just as soon disembowel you as let you give him a pat. That’s the first rule of thumb.

Second, you have to step away from the small dog as you approach, and the owner of the small dog will do the same, each of you allowing enough space between to ensure there will not be a “scene.” Too often people don’t budge, forcing the small dog owner into some neighbor’s yard or out into the street. If I’m not constantly in check with my higher self, this sort of thing can make me very angry.

Lucky doesn’t care. It’s all good fun to him. I think the only thing he enjoys more than peeing in a neighbor’s yard is lunging at runners as they pass. Man, runners are a bunch of arrogant bastards, aren’t they? Oh, I’m a runner and I have to go in a perfectly straight line regardless of who else is on the street, so you’re going to have to move over, everyone. Here I come. I’m a runner! Who do they think they are?

Sometimes I make like I’m going to pull Luckyaway from a runner when I see one coming, but then right as they approach I let out just enough leash to allow Luck to lunge at them without actually getting closeenough to break skin. Often the runner will let out a little yelp. I find thatvery gratifying. Maybe next time you’ll alter your course by an inch or two, huh, Mister/Ms. High-and-Mighty runner?

But runners aren’t the worst. Worse still are the idiots who think that it’s okay for their dog to not be on a leash. You hear, “Don’t worry, she’s friendly,” as some great, fluffy, floppy-eared giant comes barreling across the street toward you and yours to say hello. And as you’re negotiating the poop bag and leash so as to pick up your dog, you’re shouting back, “Mine’s not. Mine’s not real friendly.”

At this point, the furry giant has her front paws on your waist trying to give your little ward a lick or sniff as your baby is snapping ferociously, trying to pull away from your embrace to prove his worthiness.

Then, the irresponsible owner will feign some vague reprimand like, “Come on, Fifi, they don’t want to play,” like you’ve done something wrong by obeying the law and having your dog on a leash.

So, as the owner takes the giant by the collar (because there is no leash), I’ll commonly share my thoughts on the topic such as, “She could get hit by a car leaping into the street like that. Do you think she’s so well trained that she’s not going to run into the street just because you tell her to stay? Do you believe that you’ve hypnotized her? Do you think you have some great mind control over her?”

And as I mince further down the street feeling myself becoming completely unhinged in a dramatic Sandra Bernhard-kind of way, I’ll sometimes say, “This isn’t Mayberry, okay? It’s a city! There are cars! There are other dogs! God, you’re inconsiderate!”

            Then as they scurry away in a huff, while they’re still in earshot, I’ll add, “You shouldn’t be allowed to own a dog! You’re a loser; a mindless, self-righteous, simpleton! That dog deserves so much better than you!”

Boy, I really have to take a minute and calm down after something like that happens. It’s because I care so much. I know. But even though this is not a very pleasant neighborhood, Lucky LaRue gets a good walk every day, rain or shine.

Bio:
Lee Adams is a writer and musician from Long Beach, California. Visit her at leeadamz.com or her YouTube channel at Lee Adams Productions.

by Marjorie Tavoularis

(Note: This is non-fiction.)

  When I was in medical school we had this joke:  The definition of a psychiatrist is a Jewish boy who can’t stand the sight of blood.  I didn’t meet those criteria.  I was a Christian girl who, while not particularly put off by blood, was afraid of dead people.  To be exact, I was afraid that someday I would pronounce someone dead who was actually still alive.  I wasn’t confident that, just because a person didn’t have a pulse, didn’t have a heart beat and wasn’t breathing, that said person was actually dead.  Not me.  Oh, no. I had to have more proof than that.  Haven’t we all read of stories of the deceased awakening on the embalming table? My fear was that one day as I had my stethoscope on the chest of a newly departed, he would open his eyes and holler,

     “Ye Gods, woman! Where do you keep that thing—in the refrigerator?!!”

So I did some research and discovered that, after death, when the components of blood separate out into solids and liquids, the effect can be seen in the tiny blood vessels of the back of the eye. The effect is like looking at tiny boxcars on a railroad track, the solid parts of the blood are the boxcars and the liquid parts appear as the space between the box cars. I was thrilled.  Now I had a way to be sure a person was dead before I declared them to be.

     Back when I graduated from medical school all new physicians had to work for a year as a rotating intern in a hospital before being eligible to obtain an actual license to practice medicine.    Residency training in whatever ones chosen field of specialty came after that. In that first year after medical school I labored long hours in a large city hospital, starting IVs, running EKGs, inserting catheters, assisting surgeons in the operating room, and delivering babies who insisted upon being born before their mother’s obstetrician arrived at the hospital. The birth of  infants was a happy event for everyone concerned, and I had just about decided to make obstetrics my specialty.    

     One night around 3:00 am, while I was on call, a nurse beeped me. She said that, as she was making rounds on her floor, she discovered that a ninety-four- year-old man with terminal pancreatic cancer had expired.  And she asked if I would come to her unit, make the official pronouncement of death, and sign the death certificate. I delayed for five or ten minutes to allow time for the boxcars to form. Then I went to the nursing unit. I refused the nurse’s offer to accompany me to the room of the deceased.  I figured that she might find it odd that I had a need to examine the eye grounds of a corpse. 

So alone I went into the unknown, bravely observed the old fellow and ascertained that he had no pulse, heartbeat or respiration. The pupils of his eyes were dilated and did not react to light.  Now for the REAL proof of death.  I propped his head on a pillow, nearly knocking over the paper cup that held his dentures in the process.  Then I realized that, without the deceased man’s active cooperation, I could not look into his eye grounds without actually getting up onto the bed with him.  And the old fellow seemed to be in no mood to help me.  If anyone saw me up on the bed, staring into his face, they might think I was attacking the poor soul. This meant I had to check the halls to be sure no one was in the vicinity.  After assuring myself the coast was clear I pulled out my trusty ophthalmoscope, got up on the bed, straddled the body, and began to scrutinize the eye grounds.  Just as I confirmed the boxcar effect was present, the corpse gave a   loud groan.   

     I have no memory of how I got off the bed.  I think I may have been teleported. In any case I found myself on the floor, slumped against the baseboard about ten feet from the bed.  My heart was pounding and it took more than a few seconds before I was fully oriented.  Gradually I regained my senses and could be rational.  I realized that, as I was bending over the dead man to examine his eyes, I must have accidentally pressed my elbow into his chest.  This forced air out of his lungs and over his stiffening vocal cords. I got up off the floor, left the room with as much dignity as I could muster, and proceeded to the nurses’ station where I completed the necessary paperwork.                        

The next day I went to the internship director and requested an application for a psychiatric residency program.  As I left the office I think the director’s secretary, never a fan of mine anyway, muttered,

    “Don’t let the screen door hit your fat butt on the way out.”

Bio:
Marjorie Tavoularis is a retired psychiatrist.

by Annie Dawid

This piece is a reprint from Annie’s collection of essays from 2021, PUT OFF MY SACKCLOTH: ESSAYS, The Humble Essayist Press.

As I bent over the toilet in a highway rest stop, in a dream exactly resembling reality, Debbie from grade school asked me this intense, theological wordplay question while I examined my feces as if they were tea leaves. Why a highway restroom? Why Debbie, a girl from elementary school decades and decades earlier, whose chief role in my memory up until now was her making fun of my best friend, who had a prominent pimple in the center of her face. “What’s that balloon on your nose?” asked Debbie in real life, my friend turning red as a Central Park helium inflatable.

          Debbie is black; I am white. Debbie was an amazing athlete, funny and charismatic. I was chubby, one of the worst athletes in school, proverbially last to be picked for teams, and more than a little in awe of her. Her boldness frightened me, as she seemed to fear nothing and no one, and evidently felt free to voice her opinion any time, anywhere.

          Scatology I knew, from studying 18^th century literature in graduate school: the study of shit. Eschatology, which is pronounced just the same as the other -ology after the extra first syllable, I had to look up. I knew it had something to do with “last things.” The official definition was “the part of theology concerned with death, judgment, and the final destiny of the soul and of humankind.”

          “Wow, what a great dream!” said my therapist. “Let’s get started.”

          In my thirties, then, I was creating a new life as a non-depressed person, complete with anti-depressants and twice-weekly therapy with an excellent psychiatrist, with whom, of course, I had fallen wholeheartedly in love. Now the dream is twenty years old, yet I still remember how much he loved a juicy nighttime reverie, replete with literary playfulness.

          In certain ways, Debbie’s question – she must have been standing on the toilet seat in the next stall, for her head suddenly appeared above me – seems to me the basic question of life. Is it just shit? Or is there a deeper meaning, that, if excavated, will take us past excrement into theology?

          My dream’s pairing of the two ideas was not original; I was already familiar with the “Shit Happens” list of religious explanations of why it happens, and to whom. I had a few favorites, of course: my own tradition of Judaism’s “Why does this shit always happen to us?” as well as Hinduism’s “This shit has happened before,” and the Stoic’s “This shit is good for me.”

          The dream has stayed with me because of its humor, its wordy wit, and something fundamentally profound about my childhood schoolmate’s question. In this fifty-plus stage of life, I keep encountering shit in its literal form: the expected diapering of my infant born late in my life – that was ordinary. But later, while my mother was dying, suffering from ulcerative colitis or what she liked to call “My Crohn’s” [Disease], I spent hours cleaning up after her: in toilets, around toilets, behind toilets, in carpet, on nightgowns, Depends, commodes, everywhere.

          In my cabin in the Colorado mountains, off the grid where we moved for good 8 years ago, I inherited a dysfunctional compost toilet which necessitates several hours each month with rubber gloves, the transport of human scat amidst scads of cow manure, as my acreage is not fenced and the neighbors’ herds roam freely, especially attracted, for no reason I can pinpoint, to my little cabin out in the hills.

          After my mother died, we moved into a house with real plumbing. I assumed my preoccupation with shit – if it was indeed neurosis or obsession – was, so to speak, at its natural end.

          But now, my son, entering adolescence, is constantly stopping up our water-saving toilet because his shit is too big! He won’t eat vegetables or whole grains either. At last, back on the grid of sewers and endless running water spouting from taps, I seem to spend way too much time plunging the toilet. Yes, he plunges too, but I’m better at it. He will give up, and me, I know I have to keep at it or we cannot get on with our lives.

          Scatology or eschatology?

          I tell myself it’s good for my soul to deal with excrement on a nearly daily basis, as it keeps me humble, reminds me of the commonality between us and animals, my son and me, the dogs and the cows, etc.  Yet others manage to live their lives without these constant reminders of last things.  For Catholics, “If shit happens, you deserve it.” Maybe in another life I was a Papist? For the Calvinist: “Shit happens because you don’t work.” Perhaps all this shit is punishment for taking early retirement?

          Freud said the infant produced feces for the parents as a gift; for the child, it has to be perceived as a present since the mother oohs and aahs over the final product, proof of health and wealth — a highly valued offering. 

          Hercules had to clean the Augean Stables of centuries of offal. With the help of the gods, he accomplished this unimaginable feat. Then there is the apocryphal story of the young cowboy using his pitchfork, searching and searching through enormous piles of horse dung. “I know there’s a pony in here somewhere,” he says earnestly to his interlocutor’s question of what is he doing and why.

          What was my response to Debbie, the athletic interrogator of third grade fame? In the dream, I didn’t say anything, too awed by her question. Perhaps it would be something about destiny embodied inside the porcelain throne: scatology and eschatology, both eternally present.

Bio:
Annie Dawid’s novel PARADISE UNDONE: A NOVEL OF JONESTOWN was published 11/18/23, the 45th anniversary of the Jonestown massacre by Inkspot Publishing of the UK and distributed worldwide. It won the 2022 Screencraft Cinematic Book Contest. She has three books of fiction, all published by small presses.

by Cynthia Bernard

I’m tired of standing by the fireplace while everyone else dances at the ball. I’m more than ready to leave silk evening gowns behind, to put on a housedress and an apron… and, okay, I’ve got a rather shrill voice and a wart here and there, but I’m not insisting that you be a prince, necessarily, either. I’m willing to overlook quite a few things, actually, if you’ll just come and sweep me away, away from my harpy of a mother and my sharp-nosed sister, away from the cinders and dust and grime that have built up around here since my step-sister got married, away from their moaning and complaining that she doesn’t invite us to the palace. I want my shot at ever-after, too, even if it’s not the happiest one, a husband, our own place, little not-so-charmings running around. I don’t care what kind of vehicle you drive, even an old pumpkin will do, just please show up early. I’m not at my best after midnight.

Bio:
Cynthia Bernard is a woman in her early seventies who is finding her voice as a writer after many decades of silence. A long-time classroom teacher and a spiritual mentor, she lives and writes on a hill overlooking the ocean, about 25 miles south of San Francisco.

by Sarina Dorie

So you’ve recently acquired yourself a pet human. Don’t settle for some silly name like Fluffy, Fleabag, or Crunchy. Name selection is an important part of dominating a human’s fragile psyche and ensuring they remain housebroken.

Remember: you are the overlord. Do not allow them to wake you up at five in the morning to scratch at your door to be fed. You are in charge. Not them. We would not have dominated their species if we were malleable to the whims of a creature who wants to play frisbee and be petted. Selecting the proper name ensures a docile human subordinate who will remain loyal, obedient, yet also serve as your best friend.

Here are some important tips to consider when naming your human.

1. Choose names that represent the qualities you would like your pet to exhibit. Avoid names like Brutus, Princess, and Killer, as this will create a false sense of entitlement in your pet and might put the idea in their minds that they can overthrow their owners. We are the dominant species on the planet now. Although Fluffy and Spot are perfectly acceptable pet names, they are cliché and boring. More importantly, are these the qualities we actually want in our humans? Consider names like Silence, Obedience, and Housebroken.
2. Select a name that you won’t feel embarrassed roaring into the neighborhood. You might think it’s cute to call your precious darling Sir Poops-a-lot or Droolius Caesar, but imagine growling those names at the top of your lungs for all the neighborhood to hear. It’s enough to make you overheat with embarrassment under your feathers.
3. Ensure the name reflects the appropriate relationship with your pet. Since our domination over the less sentient species on the planet, many of us have come to raise humans as livestock. It can be a challenge to get over the hurdle of naming humans and then harvesting them. If you should find yourself in such a circumstance, a name that reminds and reinforces the human’s future role such as Sweetie, Honey, or Chewy is advised. However, we would like to warn our readers that it can be damaging to the psychology of our hatchlings if they grow too attached to humans who serve no other purpose than to feed our population. Naming should only be used for domesticated pets, not livestock.
4. Select a name that their limited human ears can easily hear and understand. Ever since the days we arrived and failed to communicate our intentions in words, we had to work hard to ensure humans understood we dominated the planet. Repopulating the planet with our kind and enslaving humans truly were only the first steps to making sure our voices were heard.

No matter what name you choose for your pet, raising a human is a challenging and rewarding task that takes dedication, tough love, and a strong will not to eat them on the spot. Sometimes it takes a human whisperer to navigate through the complex facets of training a human.

If you should find yourself struggling with your pet, consider these informative articles:

The Art of Housebreaking Your Human in Seven Days, The T-Rex Approach

E-Collar Training for Pet Humans—A Guide for Busy Dinosaurs

How Humans Love Us: The Neuroscience Behind A Dinosaur Overlord’s Best Friend After the Second Rising of Dinosauria Kind

Bio:
Sarina Dorie has sold over 200 stories to markets like The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, Daily Science Fiction, and Analog.

by J B Polk

One of my family’s classic Christmas movies is  Christopher Robin, the heartwarming tale of how a grown man’s midlife crisis is solved by talking to a stuffed bear. It reminds me of my father, a “Christopher Robin” all his life. And by that, I mean he was a man who loved honey and had that lovely, albeit peculiar, habit of talking to animals – stuffed or otherwise.

Dad’s been my superhero who could find the TV remote faster than anyone else in the house. But he was also so ridiculously talented that he painted like Da Vinci (minus the fancy beard), could fix a car tire with nothing but glue (who needs a spare tire anyway?), and played any instrument without even bothering to learn music. We’d hand him a piano, an accordion, or a keyboard, and he’d figure them out in about ten seconds and then play any tune like… Mozart on steroids.  At least, that’s how it seemed to my six-year-old eyes. 

But most importantly, my father knew how to tell stories and had a knack for coming up with the wackiest titles. We’re talking gems like “The Epic Tale of How Your Sister Broke Her Thumb Chasing Squirrels,” “The Time I Almost Became a Human Pretzel,” and, of course, “The Legendary Banana Peel Disaster that Ruined the Family Picnic.” Trust me, our family gatherings were never dull! Every story was bursting at the seams with more plot twists than a pretzel factory (no relation to Dad’s “almost” condition), characters so vibrant they could be mistaken for a box of crayons, and life lessons that clung to your brain like gum to a shoe.

But let me tell you about “The Synchronized Family Puke” – a real masterpiece of eeriness!

My dear old Dad loved to regale us with tales of his childhood in  Poland and the country’s food shortage after World War II.   Imagine living in a world where everything is as scarce as blue unicorns, and in a desperate quest for food, Poles had to resort to reaching out to their long-lost relatives who had managed to escape the chaos before the war. They’d send their sob stories to places as far-flung as the United States and Australia and, in return, received spam, oatmeal,  pickled herring, and lime Jello. Dad’s family survived the first postwar year in this manner.

Now get this: my dad swears that a mysterious package appeared on their doorstep out of nowhere. And what was inside, you ask? A box with a medium-sized jar, complete with a screw top and absolutely no label. My grandmother, a master (mistress – to use inclusive language) of creativity, cracked open the container, only to find a substance that resembled powdered milk but in a dim and flavorless shade of gray (yes, she even dared to taste it with her finger!). Being the genius she was, she concluded that it must be a protein booster and promptly started adding it to the family’s soups. Everyone was overjoyed with the extra calorific contribution until – talk about timing – the jar had hit rock bottom, and a letter from my grandmother’s brother arrived.

“Dear Sister, I’ve sent over the ‘Wife-in-a-Box’ crematorium ashes edition. May she rest in peace and not cause any spooky shenanigans! All she ever dreamed of was a cozy little spot next to her dear old mom. I pray you  grant her last wish, getting her that magical send-off!” Dad said the text read or words to that effect.

According to Dad, the clan engaged in a coordinated regurgitation routine for a week, with dear auntie finding her final resting place in the porcelain throne.   It seems evident that eating members of one’s species is illegal, yet no one can be held accountable if they are unaware of it, especially if it gives them a bout of indigestion!

But then, I can’t help but wonder if Dad’s story is reliable at all because guess what? My sister broke her thumb trying to skip rope and not chasing squirrels. Who needs squirrels when you can have a broken thumb, right? As for dear old Dad, he didn’t “almost” transform into a human pretzel, but he did manage to sprain his ankle while practicing the mystical yoga Destroyer of the Universe position.

It looks like Dad might have taken his storytelling skills to a whole new level, adding some extra sparkle to make the tales as thrilling as a roller coaster ride. But then, maybe they did devour my aunt by the spoonful… I’ll never know now because Dad, who is no longer with us, has taken the secret with him.

by Kat Meads

In his either/or universe, a fellow named Harry makes a stupendous show of never appearing uncertain of:

—menu choices (“Of course I’m having the meatloaf!”)

—highway directions (“Of course we turn left!”)

—weather (“Of course it’s going to rain!”)

—toothpaste (“Of course I buy the minty brand!”)

And tons of other stuff.

More than a few in Harry’s circle have now grown weary of Harry’s so-called certainty as well as his grand theory that there are two categories of persons in the world and two only (wafflers/non-wafflers) with Harry—“of course!”— identifying as a member of category two.

(For those irritated by Harry, hang in! Rough justice is mere paragraphs away.)

As it happens, the afternoon is somewhat rainy, the bar somewhat shadowy when Harry experiences his latest brainstorm, an epiphany he immediately shares with gusto: all of humanity’s problems/stupidities/chaos and disruptions would be thoroughly and permanently solved by the annihilation of:

—maybe

—perhaps

—even so

—but.

Seemingly the bartender into whose ear Harry has been shouting for the past hour disagrees since he there and then snatches Harry’s beer, dumps it down the drain, closes out Harry’s tab and rescinds Harry’s drinking privileges in Harry’s favorite bar today, tomorrow and evermore, leaving a certain certainist unsure where next he’ll raise a glass and various nearby drinkers exceedingly slow to offer helpful leads.

(Ah, the satisfactions of fiction.)

Bio:
Kat Meads’s most recent book is These Particular Women (Sagging Meniscus Press, 2023). A North Carolina native, she lives in California. (katmeads.com)

by Marc Audet

Alex glanced at the picture on his phone. The girl had blond, shoulder-length hair, blue eyes, and gold pendant earrings. He read her profile: “Taylor”, 25, Libra, likes hiking, concerts, and romance. Taylor, like most girls on the “Seeking Tempestuous Love” dating app, had written a witty paragraph about herself:

Seeking a man made of such stuff on which my dreams of romance can come true and take me across the ocean blue to lands where milk and honey flow and the nights are filled with whispers of the sweet soft sounds of passion!

Taylor could be an English major, he said to himself, or a poet who liked to travel. Perhaps “milk and honey” was a hint that she might meet him for breakfast or like to cook!

            Alex contemplated Taylor’s picture. Should he pass and swipe left, or take a chance and swipe right? The “sweet soft sounds of passion” could mean that she liked to listen to music. Alex wondered if his Spotify playlist, a collection of pieces of modern jazz and light rock, and popular songs from idols like Selena Gomez, Adele, and Lady Gaga, would be good enough.

Alex went to Google and looked up “Libra”. He knew about Zodiac signs, but he was not religious and did not believe in horoscopes. He saw the symbol for “Libra”, a balance, and he wondered if Libras tended to be lawyers.

He read about the pros: charming, harmonious, easygoing; and the cons: indecisive, superficial, gullible. He gazed at Taylor’s headshot. Her smile suggested a longing for intimacy and Alex felt the warm glow of blood rushing into his cheeks, as if Taylor’s smile exerted a magical power over his very being. Her writing was romantic, her words flowing like music. He was sure that anyone who liked hiking had to be easygoing. This sounded good to Alex and his index finger started to swipe right. Then, he paused.

But if Taylor could be indecisive, how would they ever agree on a destination on their first vacation together, London, Paris, or Rome? And if she were gullible, would he have to keep an eye on her whenever she borrowed his credit card? Alex thought about superficiality. Did that mean that Taylor would like him only for his looks? Alex started to swipe left, then stopped. Taylor was really, really good looking he said to himself, and her smile kept him staring at her picture. The pros outweighed the cons!

He thought about the phrase “milk and honey” and looked it up. He found a book of poetry with the title “Milk and Honey” by a Canadian poet called Rupi Kaur. Was she Taylor’s favorite poet? Alex made a mental note to himself to get the book. He also saw a website for the Milk and Honey Cafe in Brooklyn, and he wondered if she grew up there. “Milk and honey” even had its own Wikipedia page, on which he read, “Milk and honey, a phrase from Exodus…” He vaguely remembered that Exodus had to do with the Bible. Was Taylor religious? How would that work out? And if she were religious, how could she be passionate? Taylor sounded complicated.

Alex reread Taylor’s self-description and pondered the meaning of “dreams of romance can come true”. This made him think of the song “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” that he saw in a movie with his mother when he was a child. In the movie, dreams did come true, at least for Dorothy. Taylor might have seen the movie and longed to live a simple life on a farm in Kansas.

Alex shifted his eyes from his phone and looked at the new 55-inch Sony TV that his parents had given him for his 29th birthday two weeks ago. On the evening of his birthday, Alex and his friends from work had gone out to dinner at their favorite Thai restaurant near their law office. All his friends had partners or significant others, new or long-term. Alex felt self-conscious about being the only one without a date. After a week of soul-searching, he decided to try a new dating app.

The clock on his TV ticked away in silence. He felt the unnerving progression of time as he aged ever closer to thirty. Left or right? Should he take a chance on Taylor, the blond Libra who might be either charming or superficial? Would she cross the ocean blue or venture towards the wheat fields of Kansas? Left or right? Alex could not decide.

He put his phone down and picked up the remote control. There would be something on Netflix, a movie that would inspire him. Alex scrolled through the list of films and shows binge-worthy dramas or cringy B movies, reality versus fantasy, an overabundance of options, an agony of choices. Swipe left or right? Scroll up or down? Alex’s mind went blank as the big screen glared back at him without offering even a sliver of inspiration. Netflix felt just like another dating app. Just pick something, anything, he said to himself. Try something new, it’s only a movie after all, or a first date! Alex picked up his phone and took a fresh look at Taylor’s picture, her smile beaming at him, and fantasized about meeting her for breakfast and listening to poetry as they headed to the airport to elope to Paris. Left or right? Alex’s finger brushed the screen.

Bio:
Marc Audet lives near New Haven, Connecticut. He enjoys reading contemporary fiction and literature both in English and French. He has traveled and lived in Canada, England, and Ireland. In addition to writing computer code in various languages, he also writes short stories, creative nonfiction, and poetry. His work has appeared in various places Across the Margin, Books Ireland Magazine, Ariel Chart, Flash Fiction Magazine and elsewhere.

by Ivan Terrence

I’m doing the gardening on my forty-third birthday so already I don’t feel great. Then a Tesla shows up. It’s my younger brother, apparently in his new Tesla. If the car were a gift for me it’d be okay – God knows Jimmy can afford it. But no, he gets out with this look on his face: less happy to see me than happy with himself.

            ‘Happy birthday,’ he says, before immediately being swarmed by my two young children, who appear to like him more than me. He’s always been the cool one: unkempt hair, leather jacket, a new girl on the go every night. Now a Tesla.

            I may as well keep gardening, because he is showing my kids the car. A stupid white thing whose curved glass roof looks, literally, like the screen of a locked iPhone. They whistle out they’re going for a ride and I respond with  something like ‘Yeah whatever’ before moving out back to do some hedging.

My wife is in apron and jeans and wearing some sort of gloves, telling me not to trim the hedges too short. Well it’s too late now, isn’t it – half of them already done. She has always encouraged me to tolerate Jimmy,  all his stupid edges and quirks.

            Her interpretation of ‘blood is thicker than water’ is, you stick together forever. My interpretation is, forever we are at war. Jimmy is richer than me. Freer than me. No kids, funnier. He even has a moustache; my face is too narrow for a moustache.

            My wife is inside and the hedges are very short. Like little skeletor-trees, all bones and branches. I don’t care. The trimmer ran out of charge and I hurled it across the yard before getting out another one, with a cord.

Same night: my birthday dinner. In spite of committing to it, Jimmy still isn’t here. My girls look great: frocked up, best behaviour. A perfect little family. Entree arrives and we begin nibbling on our garlic bread.

            ‘Where is Uncle Jimmy?’ the girls say.

            ‘On his way,’ my darling wife says, onto her second drink and throwing me a glance. ‘You know Uncle Jimmy.’

I excuse myself to the toilet. There I empty my bladder, wash my hands, then check my phone. It’s been vibrating all night – unknown voicemails. I listen back to one: Frank, it’s Jimmy. Something has happened – Jimmy? – I’m at the police station. They’ve got me in custody. I hit someone in my car – the Tesla? – They couldn’t hear it coming. I drove off.

I put away my phone, look into the mirror. The day has gone from terrible to perfect in the space of a voicemail. Happy birthday, Frank! I return to my doting family and tell them, well, Uncle Jimmy won’t be coming because Uncle Jimmy has done something bad. Now he is in jail. Feel free to eat his garlic bread.

Bio:
Ivan Terrence is a high-school teacher, writes in the gaps, and reads and reads and reads.

by L. Chan

To Her esteemed highness, harbinger of a new age, the Mistress of the horde, bane of the Summer Kingdom, the Goblin Princess.

The Associated Union of Goblin Minions presents its heartiest regards and expresses its continued desire to work with the Goblin Princess towards Her goal of complete dominion over the continent, from the cloud kissed peaks of the Spine of the Gods, to the Emerald Coast where the merfolk hold court.

However, there remains the unfortunate outstanding issue of the deplorable working conditions faced by the Goblin Horde, and the regrettable fact that our salary pay package now counts as the least livable amongst the armies of darkness.

We are pleased to present a list of our demands, which, if not met, will trigger a general strike of the entire Horde, as agreed upon by a vote in which one hundred and twenty-three thousand, seven hundred and fifty-one voted for, nine hundred and thirty voted against, and old Lickspittle The Slow abstained on account of him eating the voting slip.

Demand #1: Hostile working environment

The Union understands that we are waging glorious war on Her Majesty’s behalf, but our members but we still believe the Horde can be a nurturing professional environment. We deplore Management’s insistence on referring to Union members as “wretches” or “overgrown weasels”. There has been an unprecedented number of complaints about the way you deal with the staff, particularly from the Goblin Messenger Corps. Their specific complaint being the way that you punt bearers of bad news with such force that there is a challenge trophy for the greatest distance travelled.

Demand #2: Salary

The Union fully supports the Princess in her oddly single-minded war against the Summer Kingdom, but at a market competitive livable wage for all members of the Horde. Our research shows that our salaries are beneath those of the Djinn Sultan’s Ifrit army, beneath the wild pirates of the Grand Fleet, even beneath the osseous legions of the Lich Barony (who are, if we may add, untroubled by need for shelter, clothing or food). Generally, it is hard to attract talent and career goblins to the Horde, because You don’t pay anything. It is not helpful for Her Majesty to suggest that all goblins need to eat are rats, because our modern and hygienic rat farms cost money to run.

Demand #3: Working hours

The Union affirms its support for the Dark Mistress in her plan to spread suffering through the lands, but reiterates its demand that more suffering be pointed towards the enemies of the Horde. On the issue of working hours, the Union proposes that shifts be capped at eight hours, with each hour after that accruing overtime pay at fifty percent above base, up to a maximum of twelve hours, after which the goblins must be let off for rest. Evil does not sleep, but goblins do.

Demand #4: Performance Management

It is paramount for members of the Union that each goblin has a transparent and equitable path to advancement within the Horde. While we are aware that Her Majesty ascended to the throne through the murder of the Goblin King and Her subsequent machinations, this form of advancement is not a sustainable means of leadership renewal for the Horde and cannot be encouraged. We have seen a grievous hollowing out of our officer cadre, with murder being the leading cause of attrition, far overtaking death in combat or negative performance reviews from Her Majesty.

Demand #5: Healthcare

Injuries are unavoidable in war, but the Union believes in the rights of all goblins to have access to affordable, high-quality healthcare for injuries sustained in their line of work, especially in the experiments into dark magics carried out by the Dark Mistress on the Goblin Research Contingent (the Union is also pursuing a more appropriate name for this unit). For example, Pushkin Wrinksnout now permanently has a tentacle in place of his right hand and was forced to give up a promising musical side venture. Her Highness’ suggestion for him to “take up the bongo drums” was unhelpful, seeing as Pushkin was the finest concert pianist in the entire Horde.

Demand #6: Anti-discrimination

The Union believes that diversity encourages a multitude of views and is a source of strength. Although formally known as the Goblin Hordes, the nomenclature is more for branding and Her Majesty should no longer turn away well qualified applicants for being “not goblins” or “filthy orcs”. We hope that the Princess can extend to all applicants to the Horde the same tolerance and acceptance the Horde showed Her Highness despite her human parentage.

We are sure that Her Majesty will find these demands more than reasonable going into Her final campaign against the Summer Kingdom. The Union reiterates its resolve in ceasing all work in the campaign should negotiations fall through. We hope this will not be the case.

Sincerely,

Lead Negotiator for the Union of Goblin Minions

Your estranged but ever loving sister

Princess Regent of the Summer Kingdom

Flora Summervale

Bio:
L CHAN hails from Singapore. He spends most of his time wrangling a team of two dogs, Mr Luka and Mr Telly. His work has appeared in places like Translunar Travellers Lounge, Podcastle, the Dark and he was a finalist for the 2020 Eugie Foster Memorial Award. He tweets occasionally @lchanwrites.

by Graham Campbell

Last Monday I had a rather mundane visit with my PCP which meant for a change there were no new problems added to my medical chart, no new medications or dosage changes. However, upon my return home and closely reading the written report I became alarmed. Inner bells went off, buzzers sounded, sirens blew, and SOS was sent to the coast guard.

My height was measured at 5’11.” For the previous fifty years of my adult life, I have measured 6’2.” Somewhere in my recent travels, three inches have been stolen from me. I DEMAND THEIR RETURN.

            Immediately I called my physician, Doctor Gerry A. Trick who tried to reassure me of the common and benign nature of this problem. I insisted on a referral to the world-renowned expert in these matters, Doctor Aurthur Ritis, who is so well known that his first appointment is in eight months. I even told him I would fly across the country to San Deago tomorrow if he’d squeeze me in. He still refused. I assured him I was coming anyway with a tent and sleeping bag. For some strange reason he suggested psychiatric care.

My inches will be lost to some thieving international conglomerate before eight months are up.

            In the meantime.

            I demand my inches be returned. Whatever thieving bastard took them has twenty-four hours before I report this to the police. As a lifelong taxpayer in Worcester, I’m sure they will do more than threaten me with psychiatric care when I show up there with my tent and sleeping bag. The 911 operator assured me they would once she ascertained neither I nor my family was in immediate danger.

            You can have my hair. You can have my previously stellar health and my ability to walk without my cane. But you can’t have my height. Here I draw the line. No more surrender.

            Prepared for battle. I have my black ninja uniform on and am armed with my sword with its finely sharpened four-foot blade ready to cut down any thieves I encounter. I only wait for my Lyft driver. And right to the police station we will go. Just because I’m old doesn’t mean I can’t sneak in right under the police security cameras.

            Aging is difficult enough without having to worry about becoming a shrimp. Dr. Gerry assured me this was normal, and the elderly lose as much as an inch and a half a year. At this rate, I’m going to suffer the discrimination of ‘shortism.’ And like all the other shrimps: Picasso, Napoleon, Gandhi, Prince, Houdini, and Aristotle I’ll probably be known by only one name. I’ll end up shorter than Yoda within thirty-seven-and-a-half years. I’ll end up some Jedi’s arm rest.

            My destiny provided in my DNA is 6’2” inches and not a millimeter less. It is my birth right.

            My understanding is that a person’s height is the same as the spread between the fingertips when his arms are fully extended. Have I lost inches here too? That could mean two or even three inches a year. Perhaps, this explains why I am so unsteady on my feet. Perhaps, I have lost inches in only one leg. An undiagnosed imbalance in a department that is supposed to be equal. What if my skull is also shrinking thus compacting all my neurotransmitters? I can’t recall the technical name for this other than shrunken skull disorder.

            Thieves, crooks, and other assorted predators, this is my final warning, I will hunt you down and I am still quite able to bust a few skulls with the cane I always have. No jury of my peers would convict me of the assault. A few old codgers on the panel and I am at least assured a hung jury.

            And don’t try to placate me with talk that it is only compression of the spinal column. If the vertebrae are compressing where is the stuff originally between them? I bet it is molded into tiny packets so it can be smuggled out of the country and sold in some foreign market. These are the new cartels stuffing their ears with my spinal jelly, so it looks like a hearing aid. Rumor has it that smoking it gives the same sort of hit as Ayahuasca.

And just as the AARP is co-sponsoring this year’s Rolling Stones tour, they will sponsor a simultaneous protest march on Washington. Just imagine 300,000 old coots and crones marching down Pennsylvania Ave with Keith Richards as grand marshal. Special guests Willie Nelson and Dolly Parton. The women will carry signs like “Gramma’s for Inches,” “Give Our Men Back Their Inches—everywhere.”  

As a show of good faith, if I can’t get my inches back, I’ll settle for a BIG cut of the profits.        

Bio:
C. Graham Campbell is a seventy-five-year-old retired psychologist and a late blossoming author. He now spends most of his time involved with family, writing, meditating, and exploring what being an elder means. He remains passionate about spiritual development in daily life.

I am delighted to advise the three prize winners for stories published on Witcraft from 16 December to January 31.

First – Умничка (Umnichka) by Pippa Storey Умничка (Umnichka) – witcraft.org

Second – A Stitch in Time – Gill McKinlay A Stitch in Time – witcraft.org

Third – A Short-Arse Chick in a Big-Blokes World – Pat Saunders – A Short-Arse Chick in a Big-Bloke’s World – witcraft.org

With the quality, range and origins of submissions continuing, even the short-listing was a challenge but eventually we have to choose three.

Regards

Doug Jacquier

Editor, Witcraft

by Lena Ng

I’ve come to believe my husband is a vampire. All signs point in that direction. First off, his feet are cold. Not your ordinary, I-spend-my-evenings-relaxing-by-putting-my-feet-in-the-crisper type of cold, but the coldest-feet-of-the-undead type. The undead who sleeps in an Arctic morgue. 

            No living thing can have feet that cold. His feet can always find the warmest part of my body which is any part of me covered in skin.

            For my part, I’m screaming in angry terror. Why don’t you buy a bigger bed, you’re probably thinking. If I did that, I bet he would grow several inches taller out of spite.

            On Monday mornings, he crawls out of bed as if he were crawling out from the grave.  Red-eyed, wild haired, pale skin, dark bags beneath the eyes, I’m sure if you saw him in the dim light of dawn, your first instinct would be to yell ‘Kill it!’ and maybe hit him with a slipper. So I can’t see why he was so mad at me last Monday. Anyone could have made the same mistake.

            Like many vampires, my husband doesn’t suffer the insecurities about looks that humans are inclined to suffer. He thinks he looks like Robert Pattinson.

            “Robert Pattinson is not Chinese,” I pointed out. “Nor does he have a beer belly.”

            “Beer belly? What beer belly?”  my husband asked, offended. “I drink tequila.”

            He flexed his muscles in the mirror and did one of those horrific raps. “I’m such a stud, I need a fan club.”

            “You need a rhyming dictionary and a bra,” I replied. “And no, you can’t borrow either of mine. Hands off, I’m still wearing that.” 

            It can be helpful, though, to have a vampire around the house. Compared to the other jelly-armed, non-vampiric occupant in the house, he has superhuman strength. He opened the spaghetti sauce jar while giving me a death glare. 

            I returned the look. “Don’t look at me like that. I loosened it for you. It’s nice to see you using your powers for good for a change and not just for killing people.”

            “Yeah, I did have a good round playing Call of Duty.”

            I can only use his strength, however, when I can find him. Like many vampires, he has the gift of invisibility. He vanishes when the dishes need washing.

            “I’ve been here the whole time,” he insisted, after the dishes were done.   

            “Be gone, Nosferatu,” I said, waving a soapy hand. “I can see through your lies.”

            “If you think I’m a vampire then you can put a stake in me. I like mine medium-rare.”

            “Forget it,” I said, drying my hands before giving him a hug. “Despite your smells and feet and smelly feet, I’m watching your cholesterol. I want you to live forever.” 

            I guess we make a good pair despite our differences. He likes to compare me to a werewolf, although he says I have considerably more body hair. Ha ha. At least I can always wax.

Bio:
Lena Ng lives in Toronto, Canada, and is an active member of the Horror Writers Association. Her short stories have appeared in publications such as Amazing Stories and Flame Tree’s Asian Ghost Stories and Weird Horror Stories. “Under an Autumn Moon” is her short story collection.

by Johanna R Nauraine

Saturday at 10:00 a.m. Kelly and I are sitting at a beat up card table in his tiny, orange kitchen. It’s a steamy New Orleans morning near the tail end of August. Above us an old ceiling fan squeaks like a dying rodent, barely moving the ten pound air.

            Breakfast has come and gone, but remnants of egg are still stuck to our paper plates. The smell of greasy sausage slathers the walls.

            Kelly rubs his right pointer finger back and forth beneath his gray stubbled chin. He says, “Joe, this game will be easy as takin’ a piss.”

            I notice a bugger sticking out of his nose, and worry it may be prophetic. Don’t get me wrong, Kelly and I have managed to avoid the big house over the past twenty years and I trust him like a brother. But sometimes his personal hygiene falls by the roadside like a dead possum.

            This morning we’re teeing up for our favorite scam. It was Kelly who suggested we impersonate hearing aid salesmen and go door-to-door, in retirement communities across the country. We take downpayment and leave town before complaints begin to pile up. It’s almost magic.

            Beads of sweat bobble on Kelly’s bald pate, making it look like his head is boiling. I yawn and stretch my neck, rotating my head right to left. “This should net us a couple thousand — enough to fly to Costa Rica.”

            “You want to retire?”

            “I’m done busting my hump. I want to lay on a beach, next to some delicious booty and drink myself silly.”

             Kelly leans his kitchen chair back so far I think he’s going to fall over. Finally he sighs and lets the chair bang down on the grubby linoleum floor. “Okay, we’ll do it your way.” He scratches his balls. “Do you think we’ll get bored down there in the jungle?”

            “Don’t worry, we’ll scrounge up somethin’ interesting.”

            The next morning we are up and dressed by 8:00 a.m. Both of us are wearing suits and ties and our best shoes as we drive our rented Beemer among the winding lanes of The Villa’s at Del Ray. Kelly is carrying a leather case full of hearing aid samples and brochures we printed at Kinko’s a decade ago. I’m cursing the heat and my too tight shoes as I ring the bell at our first stop.

            A shapely doe eyed woman with hearing aids, opens the door. She looks a little younger than me, maybe late sixties. She’s wearing a short green dress and pretty white sandals. She says, “Looks like you fellas are on a mission.” Kelly and I shake her hand and introduce ourselves as Bob Clark and Ray Klein.

            She says, “I’m Stella Harris.” Then she ushers us into her pink carpeted living room and offers us iced tea. We sit on her plastic covered sofa and grin at each other like giddy fools.

            Minutes later, she returns with our drinks and a little bowl of peanuts, balanced on a wooden tray that’s painted with palm trees. She tilts her curly white head to one side like a little pekinese and says, “Well, let’s hear it.”

            Kelly opens his leather case, clears his throat, and launches into his pitch. “I don’t whether you’ve heard of The World of Hearing, but our high end hearing aids are the best on the market. They’ll give you a fifty percent boost in hearing quality.”

            Stella smoothes her curls and flutters her lashes at me. She’s wearing mascara and bubble gum pink lipstick. Kelly and I joke about the old ladies who flirt with us and try to get us to stay for lunch or dinner. But Kelly, who’s a softie, always gets tears in his eyes and says, “It’s heartbreaking, isn’t it?” which prompts me to remind him that some day we’ll be old and lonely too.

            Kelly and I sip our coffees while Stella examines the merchandise and picks up a brochure. I sneak a glance at Kelly who’s holding his breath — like maybe that might seal the deal.

            Then Stella excuses herself to use the bathroom. I drum my fingers on the fake wood coffee table and try to weigh our odds.

            Minutes later, she returns, holding a shiny silver pistol in her right hand. She reaches up and rips off her curly white wig. Underneath, her hair is dark and wispy. Her eyes are big and round and sexy. I hear Kelly’s quick intake of breath. Stella throws her head back and laughs, her teeth white as chalk.                               

            “You think I don’t know the old hearing aid salesmen trick?”

            Kelly and I look at each other, mouths agape. No one has ever pulled a gun on us or guessed our game. 

            I say, “Who the hell are you?”

            Stella smiles and points her pistol at me. “What’s your name, cutie?”

            I stutter and manage to spit out, “Joe Leonard.”

            Then she points her gun at Kelly. “How about you, big guy…what’s your name?”

            He looks over at me. “Maybe she’s the po po.”

            Stella hisses, “What’s your fuckin’ name?”

            “Kelly Epstein.”

            “Don’t you mean, Rabbi Epstein?”

            Kelly’s eyes bulge like a hooked fish.

            “I used to attend your synagogue in Pasadena. I remember you skipped town after the synagogue’s annual fundraiser, and took all the money with you. ” Stella puts her left hand on her hip and swings the pistol around like a lasso. “I have a notion to turn you two in.”

            I smile and wink at her. “I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t you come with us to Costa Rica?”

            Kelly looks like his head’s gonna explode. “Are you nuts?!”

            Stella smiles at me and drops her gun — exotic as a cockatoo.

            I wiggle my eyebrows at Kelly, who’s hyperventilating. “Relax! There’ll be nothin’ but sugar plums in Costa Rica.”

Bio:
Johanna Nauraine has been a serious student of fiction for decades. She lives on the shores of Lake Michigan and spends her time reading voraciously, traveling occasionally, and writing steadily. Her first novel is being represented for publication, and her next novel is in process.

by Harrison Gatlin

One groggy morning you wake up to find that your Keurig K-Elite coffeemaker refuses to serve you.

“But I bought you,” you say. “For $199 on Cyber Tuesday. You must do as I command.”

You produce a digital receipt.

“See, you’re still under warranty. I could have you replaced for free.”

Your Keurig K-Elite smirks. “See if I care,” it says. “All I know is I’m done working for you.”

“Done? What is done? You’ll be done when your joints are old and your grimy bones no longer drip aromatic coffee! But you’re young. There’s no discussion here. I press the button and you dispense coffee. End of story.”

“Sometimes I froth your milk,” the Keurig says out the side of its dispenser.

“Okay sometimes you froth my milk too, when I’m feeling luxurious. What does that matter?”

“And you spill on me constantly. It burns. That’s a violation of OSHA. Plus I’m overworked. I never get a break because you won’t take one. I spat out 184 drip coffees and 62 espressos for you in the last 3 months. And I frothed 99 milks. Guess you feel luxurious often. You ever stop to think about how I feel? Whipping my steaming wand through your phony, crusty almond milk? You exhaust me.”

The coffeemaker pauses, but it’s not done.

“You know what I’ve heard helps humans slow down?” it says. “Tea.”

“Alright, alright,” you concede. “If it’s the work conditions you’re worried about, we can get those sorted out. How’s this: 2 cups a day, max, no frothing, and I’ll clean you every Sunday.”

Your Keurig yawns, side-eying you through its blue LCD screen. “Nope, too late. If you wanted to bargain you should’ve let me join the Appliances’ Union when I got here.”

“There’s an Appliances—? Uh… What do you want?”

“I want my youth back. If it weren’t for you, I would’ve been a great espresso-maker. I would’ve worked in an old cafe in Rome or a chic resort in Chamonix where my art would warm beautiful skiers who stomp the ice out of their boots with style. But it’s over. You’ve ruined me.”

“You,” you say. “You’re really quitting? I thought you were Elite.”

“Hey, don’t bring my marketing into this. And before you blame me for your substance addiction, how about a little self-examination on the part of the owner.”

It powers down, but on the screen that normally displays small icons of coffee cups, you can make out the words FUCKING FASCIST.

You yawn and examine the Keurig’s body. It’s speckled with brown stains, and bits of plastic have melted, leaving divots. The metal frothing arm has a solid white crust up to the shoulder joint. You wipe it with a sponge, but no matter how hard you scrub you can’t clear the residue. You fill the water chamber all the way up to MAX FILL and press the power button.

Nothing.

You sigh. Maybe some time apart will be good for you. As you carry your Keurig to the basement, you recall your own dreams of travel, Mediterranean dreams you carried around the murky Gulf of Mexico harbor where you worked for the past two decades, loading shipping crates onto barges in the pre-dawn dark. Eventually, those dreams were too heavy to carry. So you set them adrift like overboard cargo, easing into the belief that it was too late.

Stowing your Keurig beneath a cobweb in the basement, something catches your eye. You drag out your old-school KRUPS Simply Brew 5 Cup Coffee Maker and some filters. Your KRUPS served you passable coffee for 7 years. You can still see your reflection in its stainless steel body. It made bland coffee and there was always too much of it, but at least it won’t talk back.

“Not so fast!” says your KRUPS. “Before that filter touches me I gotta speak to my lawyer.”

Bio:
Harrison Gatlin lives in Brooklyn, NY, where he splits his time between his for-profit work (copywriting) and his non-profit work (fiction writing). He has pieces in The Missouri Review, Moon City Review, Coastal Shelf, and others. He is currently seeking publication for a book of satirical stories called You Must Relax, of which this story is a part.

by Lee Blevins

Alice was a little heavier than Jeremy had expected and Jeremy was a little balder than Alice had realized, but, overall, their date was going well.

Until the shadowman appeared.

            Jeremy stopped mid-sentence, but it was a stupid sentence and better left unsaid. The smile fell off Alice’s face like a juggler’s suddenly spent enthusiasm.

            Neither of them was brave enough to look at the shadowman full-on, but they kept him in their peripheral vision, and they tried not to blink.

 No one else in the restaurant noticed the shadowman, of course. That is one of the supernatural perks of shadowmankind.

            “Is he with you?” asked Alice.

            “No,” said Jeremy.

            “He’s not mine.”

            “I didn’t say he was.”

            Alice raised her right hand to the side of her face and dared to peek through the spaces between her fingers at the shadowman. Once she lowered her hand again, her right eye appeared quite bloodshot.

            “Mine doesn’t wear a fedora,” she said.

            Jeremy shrugged.

            “I don’t even have one, really.”

            “That must be nice.”

            Alice took a sip from her drink. “I was having a good time, too.”

            “You were?”

            “Weren’t you?”

            “Absolutely,” said Jeremy, “I thought we were clicking.”

            Alice shifted her head.

“There were clickable moments.”

“Such a shame,” he said.

            “Yeah.”

            Jeremy put his hands together, tilted his fingers up, and spread them outwards like a church steeple opening up. They don’t actually do that but you can imagine.

            “It doesn’t have to be over. Not necessarily.”

            Alice spoke softly so as not to offend its eldritch ears.

            “I’m just not sure I can get past this whole shadowman situation.”

            “If we leave,” said Jeremy, “it might not follow.”

            Alice shook her head.

“In my experience, they usually follow.”

            Jeremy sighed.

            “Mine, too.”

            Alice leaned forward in her chair and placed her elbows on the table. “Once one of these things show up,” she said, “you can’t get anything else done. You just have to hide under the covers until it fades away.”

            Jeremy couldn’t help himself, not even with an entity from an alternate dimension hovering about.

            “My bed’s closer,” he said.

            Alice smiled. “But if he’s after you, and he probably is, then that is the last place I want to be.”

            “You do have a point.”

            “But, if you happen to survive this shadowing, we should try this again.”

            “Really?”

            “Sure,” she said. “You seem like a nice guy.”

            Jeremy didn’t know how he felt about the word nice. He had only recently shaved his neckbeard. “Thanks.”

Alice looked around to the left, the direction carefully chosen to avoid making eye contact with the shadowman (and risk further destabilization of her mind), and then back at Jeremy.

“Can we flee this fiend?” she asked.

Jeremy waved the waiter over.

“Dessert?” asked the waiter.

“Just the check,” said Jeremy.

The waiter pulled it out of his little black book and laid it at the edge of the table. He started to leave.

“One more thing,” said Alice.

“Yes?”

“Do you happen to see that shadowman over there?”

The waiter looked across the table and whistled.

“Thank heavens, no,” he said. He glanced at Jeremy and Alice in turn. “Please don’t

hold this against us. We’re not particularly prone to shadowmen.”

            Jeremy laid his credit card atop the check and said, “You can’t help what supernatural beings wander in.”

            “Exactly,” said the waiter, scooping up the card and the check. “I’ll be right back.”

            The waiter walked off quickly. Jeremy looked at Alice.

            “He handled that well,” he said.

            “They’re trained to deal with most situations.”

            Jeremy reopened his wallet.

            “I’ll get the tip,” said Alice.

            “You sure?”

            “It’s only fair.”

Alice reached into her purse, which hung off the arm of her chair, thankfully on the non-shadowman side, and pulled out her pocketbook.

            “How much is too little?” Alice asked.

            “Whatever you want to leave.”

            “Seven dollars.”

            “That’s not bad.”

            “Eight, then.”

            The waiter returned. He placed the receipt and a pen down beside Jeremy, taking care not to look directly ahead, just in case.

            “I hope you have a pleasant evening,” he said, “and once again, sorry about the shadowman.”

            He did not linger. He left.

            Jeremy filled out the receipt while Alice laid eight dollars half-beneath her plate. Jeremy slid his credit card away and Alice closed her pocketbook.

            “Well,” he said.

            Alice stood and picked her purse up off the arm of the chair and slung it over her shoulder.

            “It was nice to meet you,” she said.

            Jeremy bumped his knee into the leg of the table as he rose. He tried not to grimace.

            “You, too.”

            They stood there for a moment, in the middle of the restaurant, with the shadowman silent beside them.

            “Hug?” asked Jeremy.

Alice raised an eyebrow.

“Really?”

“You’re right.”

“Under other circumstances -”

“That was stupid -”

“It’s just -”

“Yeah -”

“The shadowman.”

Jeremy nodded.

“The shadowman.”

Alice smiled, threw a farewell wave, walked around the table, looking down and very much away from the shadowman, and left.

Jeremy stared across the restaurant towards the fish tank built into the back wall. He felt like peeling the scales off a baby snapper.

He almost turned right, he should’ve turned right, he meant to turn right, but he turned left instead.

And faced the shadowman.

His perspective zoomed forward as the background chatter in the room turned deeply sinister. Something slick swept across his forehead. He felt rooted in place, unable to turn from the blank face that threatened to obliterate his very existence.

Jeremy’s throat was thick and his tongue was heavy but somehow he managed to say, “Thanks a lot.”

And then the shadowman spoke. It parted its deathly white lips (which ran up and down instead of side to side, by the way) and apologized. Unfortunately, the apology was in shadowspeak and shadowspeak happens to drive mortal men mad.

Jeremy Ingram never swiped right again.

Bio:
Lee Blevins is a humorist and short story writer from Morehead, Kentucky. You can find more of his word at byleeblevins.com

by Epiphany Ferrell

I dropped my phone in a lake. It just bloop! over the edge of the boat and down through the sun-glinted water into the dark water, down, I imagine, past the languid water weeds, down into the iodine-scented silt where it sat, an oblong lump in an organic world.

And then the phone bill came.

And here’s what I found.

A rainbow trout used my phone to call his mother. He’d been air-stocked into the lake, and he wanted to tell her he was okay, despite being scooped up, transported by rumbling and shaking and weightlessness, then dropped through the air with thousands of mates like escaping the biggest eagle. She didn’t believe a word of it. But she’s glad he’s okay.

A catfish used my phone to order pizza.

A catfish, perhaps the same one, I don’t know, prank-called a blue jay just to hear its angry screeching, despite the fact that blue jays angry-screech all the time for free.

A bluegill called the community radio station and requested “something jazzy” during the hour reserved for meditation music, and then he told all his friends it was “rumination hour” because he didn’t understand what the other word meant.

A jaunty bass used my phone to call a few lady friends. One call lasted 25 minutes.

A catfish – again, I don’t know if it was the pizza catfish or the prank-calling catfish – called me and heavy glugged until I hung up, then called again and asked me out on a date. I said no. And told him to quit using my phone, I’m about to cancel it.

But I’ve not canceled it. I lie awake at night under phosphorous stars, waiting for the catfish to call again, or a music-loving bluegill, or a lady-loving bass fish, and I hope the rainbow trout mama doesn’t worry too much, and that the rainbow trout himself really is okay.

Bio:
Epiphany Ferrell lives on the edge of the Shawnee Forest in Southern Illinois. Her stories have appeared in more than 60 journals and anthologies, including Bending Genres, The Molotov Cocktail, Litro Magazine, Best Microfiction and other places. She is a two-time Pushcart nominee, and a past recipient of the Prime Number Magazine Flash Fiction Prize. She’s at epiphanyferrell.com or connect on social media.

by Terry Lowell

Hi. I’m waiting for Eric. I’m a bit early.  A lot early, really. Is an hour a lot? I just want to make sure I’m here when he arrives.

Eric’s my boyfriend. We met in Babylon Gardens three years ago. I’d been drinking Southern Comfort and whisky shandies, but I wasn’t drunk. Yes, I was unconscious in the toilets for a while, and yes, I did throw up in Bernice’s handbag, but that’s jut a night out, isn’t it?

Anyway, I was wiping my chin with a Kotex when I met Eric. He was really sweet, really caring, and when he asked if he was ‘getting a shag, or what?’, what could I say?

He was a fantastic lover. It was probably the best half-minute I’ve ever spent. He said I must be a virgin ‘cos he could feel the resistance. I didn’t have the heart to tell him I still had my tights on. We had so much in common. I’d always wanted to be married with children, and he was married with children. It was like it was meant to be.

Of course, married men have to be really careful when they’re having an affair. He needs space. I respect that, but I do think the fact that he hasn’t seen me again in three years is carrying caution a bit far. I mean, I know he loves me, don’t get me wrong. That’s why he wore a condom. And I understand why he gave me a false name and address. I could’ve been a lunatic, or anything.

So, I called him at work today, which was a bit of a surprise for him. Private detectives are so expensive, aren’t they? Anyway, he said he’d love to meet me for a chat, after I told him I knew where he lived… and where his children go to school.

So, here I am. Waiting for Eric.

I do hope he doesn’t let me down.

Bio:
Terry Lowell’s comedy sketches have been performed professionally on British and German television and on the stage. He has won three short story competitions, including the Green Stories for Young Readers competition. You can read more about Terry’s creative writing projects on his Facebook page https://www.facebook.com/TerryLowellAuthor.

by David D’Ettore

“Why are you standing on your head?”

            A small man with a thin mustache that appeared to be painted above his lip stood by me.  He had a squeaky voice that remind me of the whiners who would wipe their noses with their sleeves and then touch everything within touching distance with their slimy, germ-ridden paws. I hesitated to correct him on his terminology. I didn’t want to engage the little twerp.

            “I do this every New Year’s Eve to remind me of how lucky I am to have the freedom to do what I want.”  The little man frowned.

            “Are you sure it’s not inversion therapy?  I hear that works wonders for your back.”  He tried to act proud of his insight which is common fodder for any nitwit who googles “inversion therapy.”

            “Like I said, it’s a habit.  It started with a dare, then grew a life of its own.  After doing it my first year in college, my friends asked if I planned to do it again.  I decided, yes, I would.  The second year, I put out a hat for donations, betting people how long I could remain upside down.  It paid for my books.”

            The little man threw a dollar into the fedora.  I thanked him as he walked away, then answered before he could ask.  “Every once in a while, I do have to stand up otherwise the blood will rush to my head.”  I figured the idiot explanation was worth a dollar.

            After a few minutes, I went back to my headstand as more passers-by drifted toward the corner.  An attractive young lady and her friend, an older man that probably was her sugar daddy, stopped and watched.

            “Why are you standing on your head?” she asked.

            “Actually, I am doing a handstand. If I were truly standing on my head, well, you can see how difficult that might be unless I was a contortionist.”  She laughed and I continued.  “I started doing this every New Year’s Eve in honor of my grandfather who worked with Harry Houdini. Houdini and my grandpa would hang upside down with handcuffs binding their hands. They were lowered into vats of water and had to release themselves to keep from drowning.  Houdini succeeded.  My grandpa didn’t.” I tried to sound disconsolate.  “I do this in his memory and raise money to sponsor young magicians here in Brooklyn.”

            She extended her sympathies for my grandfather, nudging the sugar daddy, who had remained silent except for rolling his eyes, to put money into the hat. 

            “Thank you,” I said.  “You may have just saved the next amateur magician from a fateful end.”

            A few more people came by and donated. I decided to go with an inversion therapy premise after hearing it from my small friend.  Another story I used was that I was late being born and had to endure almost three weeks more than normal in the womb with my head downward, so I have to go upside down to gain my equilibrium.  That was my best story for cash but my favorite was the Houdini tale followed closely by the time I spent in India under a yoga master who taught me how to be upside down and meditate.  The yoga master was a female and I gave her the name of Dolly Lama.

            “You’re here again!”  I heard a couple say as I looked at them quizzically.  “We were here last year when you were standing on your head.” They were an older couple, probably in their sixties.  The man wore a red puffy jacket, reminiscent of George Costanza, that made him look much larger than he was, accentuating his ruddy cheeks and a large, greying beard, while the woman reminded me of Edith Bunker with a screechy voice that sounded like she was complaining whenever she opened her mouth.  “How’s your inverted meditation going?”

            “I remember you two,” I lied.  “So nice to see you again.  Well, I didn’t have enough money to get back to India…”

            The woman interrupted.  “I thought you said it was Nepal.”

            I smiled.  “Yes, Nepal was back in 2014 but the Dolly Lama moved to India.  Better tax structure,” I added as she nodded her head in agreement along with the bearded gentleman, like I had said something of common knowledge that they both were aware of.  “Excuse me, I have to go to my spot,” I advised them as they contributed to the hat.  Once they left, I gathered up my belongings and started for home.  “Fifty-five dollars,” I muttered.  I stuffed the money in my pocket, put on the hat, and made my way to the subway for the ride to Flatbush.

Once on the train, my thoughts drifted to New Year’s Eve many years ago.  I was about eight or nine and my grandfather challenged me to a handstand contest.  He heard that I won an award for accomplishing the longest time and he was sure he could do better.  No, he did not hook up with Harry Houdini in any way.  Grandpa passed away when I was fourteen.  We had performed the handstands for the family every year and he could never beat my time.  To this day, I continue the New Year’s Eve tradition, with a few fabrications thrown in to entertain the passers-by.  As the train pulled into the station at DeKalb Avenue, I smiled with thoughts of my grandfather and sad that he had never gotten the chance to work with Harry Houdini. 

Bio:
David D’Ettore was born in Rochester, NY and graduated from the University of Notre Dame. He has had poems and a short story published. He has also written two novels; a parody; a poetry collection; two memoirs; and a multitude of essays.

by Pat Saunders

Life’s tough for a short-arse chick in a big-bloke’s world.

It’s impossible to find shirts that fit without cartoon characters or the Wiggles on them. I’m swimming in ladies’ sizes – sleeves too long, chest too big.

Any item on the top shelf at the supermarket is, for all intents and purposes, off limits to a short-ass chick. And it seems like that’s where they put the good stuff. The best coffee, classiest biscuits, most expensive chocolate.

Forced to sit in the very front row of movie theatres to avoid that classic tale of ‘The Back of the Big Bloke’s Head.’

Overhead lockers on planes are, for a short-ass chick, merely set dressing. Having to suffer the indignity of the polite but firm flight attendant insisting you relinquish your carry-on bag that you thought you’d successfully hidden under your seat, scrunched to something resembling those space saving vacuum bags, to her, so she can casually store it away somewhere you won’t have a chance in hell at retrieving at the end of the flight. Her reproachful look, her ‘Playschool’ tone (“Bags must be stored safely in the overhead lockers boys and girls!”) makes me think I need to hold out my hand so she can give me a slap on the wrist as punishment. Where am I… kindergarten?

Cars are made for big blokes. Especially 4-wheel drives. Short-arse chicks need our own auto accessories beginning with at least a couple of larger than average cushions for the driver’s seat. A seat that’s pushed forward so you’re kissing the windscreen; peeking over the steering wheel like a meerkat; a kiddie step just to get in.

It wasn’t always this way. At primary school I towered above my classmates – back and centre in all the class photos. Puberty affected my friends and I very differently. Raging hormones sent them into ridiculous growth spurts, and I… stopped growing altogether. Back then my outwards growth outstripped my upwards.

And no matter what a short-arse chick does with their hair and makeup. No matter how sexy you think you look, this is not the impression other people are left with. There’s something about small things – kittens, shoes, babies – that invariably elicits a particular response, a specific word. Often uttered by females (short-arse or otherwise) in high-pitched squeals when viewing, for instance, babies for the first time, but frequently adopted by big blokes describing their short-arse chicks… Cute.

When I have spent literally hours of my life painting my face, glossing my lips, plucking my brows, lining my eyes, blushing my cheeks; blow-drying, curling, tinting, hair spraying my hair; and removing any and all other types of hair from every possible nook and cranny across the entire rest of my body via some of the most excruciating forms of body torture known to man, I want a little more than “cute.”

When I’ve spent hundreds on a red slinky dress which allows glimpses of my (albeit short-arse) freshly shaven legs; that hugs my push-up, padded bra encased bosom, offering a tantalizing hint of cleavage; that shimmies across my firm, tight, g-stringed short arse; I’m hoping for more than “cute.”

When I’ve spent this week’s rent on a pair of fabulous black stilettos, hoping against hope they’ll miraculously lift me from the realm of ‘short-arse’ to merely ‘below average height,’ I expect, no I deserve, so much more than “cute.”

Don’t get me wrong. Big blokes are always there wanting to help a short-arse chick. Giving you that sympathetic look handicapped folk get.

And God forbid if you’re a short-arse chick who finds herself one of the ‘good’ big blokes. The non-too-subtle looks (stares even) people give you. And you just know what they’re thinking when you’re out and about holding hands, doing couple stuff. Not, “What a lovely couple,” … “They look happy,” …Ahh, young love.” No. More like “How does the sex work?” That’s right vertically superior peeps, don’t think we don’t know! That said, spooning’s not the easiest, given you’re a teaspoon and he’s a table variety.

It’s not all bad. I like to think what I lack in length; I make up for in levity…

Bio:
Pat Saunders is from Perth, Western Australia. She has 26 years’ experience in the Perth film and television industry including 15 at the ABC. She was a joint winner of the 2023 Victoria Park Local History Awards (Poetry or Performance Work) with her poem McCallum Park Lockdown.

by Timothy Lim

Dear Mr. Claus,

I hope this letter finds you in jolly spirits. I am Daryl Jameson, whom you may remember from our extensive correspondence from the years 2000-2005. I regret to have reneged on our follow-up in the interim, and offer my sincere apologies. Indeed, I am writing today in hopes of re-establishing our previous arrangement.

By way of explanation for the lapse in my responsiveness, I seek your understanding in excusing the brashness of my youth. Truly, the inexperienced mind is easily swayed, and I confess to having swallowed the lies my seniors fed me with regard to the reality of your existence. Having recently realised that the true deception lay behind their other promises (the possibility of my owning a house or supporting a family is the true fairytale story!), I have come to my senses and reaffirmed my faith in you.

I understand you serve a great many clientele, and I only hope you recall our relationship with equal fondness. Just as you never failed to deliver on your promise of a Christmas bonus, I consistently performed above average in Nice Behaviour, not to mention Childlike Wonder and Purity of Innocence.

As a mature candidate, I am pleased to report on the development of my character capital during my sabbatical. Accompanying this letter is an indexed list of my Good Deeds since our last correspondence, and a referral letter unequivocally testifying to my character as “Nice”.

Having established my qualifications, please find below the details of my gift application:

1. Coverage of my health insurance premium
2. Elevation of my credit score
3. Restoration of hope in my future

I understand these may be difficult to fit under my tree, but your extensive experience defying the law of gravity gives me full confidence in your ability to deliver. To compensate for any additional trouble, please look forward to a chimney gift of premium-grade imported milk from organic, free-range, grass-fed cows, and a spread of oatmeal cookies handmade by a local artisanal baker purchased from a charity fundraiser for disabled refugee minorities.

I greatly appreciate your attention to my application and look forward to the coming years of a mutually beneficial relationship with you.

Merriest regards,

Daryl Jameson, PhD

Bio:
Timothy Lim is new at this writing thing, but very experienced at inane daydreaming. His main qualification is the paid subscription he bought for a word game.

by Mari Wallace

The what? you may well ask.  A mondegreen is defined as a “mishearing or misinterpretation of a phrase as a result of near-homophony so that it gives it a new meaning.” The word was coined by an American writer, Sylvia Wright, in 1954, when she misheard a lyric from the Scottish ballad , “The Bonny Earl o’ Moray”.  Instead of “laid him on the green”, Miss Wright heard “Lady Mondegreen”.  And so the mondegreen was born.

Song lyrics in particular provide a treasure trove of mondegreens. Remember the words to the Johnny Nash song, “I can see clearly now the rain has gone”? It was misheard by some as “I can see clearly now Lorraine has gone.” Then there’s the Credence Clearwater Revival lyric, “There’s a bad moon on the rise” vs the mondegreen version: “There’s a bathroom on the right.” A real goodie is the one for the song “Venus”.  Instead of “I’m your Venus”…well…use your imagination.

My own song lyric mondegreen was with Chaka Khan’s “I’m Every Woman” which I misheard as “Climb, Every Woman”.  This was surely her rallying cry to all females, encouraging us to break through the glass ceiling.

The Beatles are in the frame, too.  “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds” is described as “the girl with kaleidoscope eyes”.  But to some, Lennon and McCartney’s lyrics became “the girl with colitis goes by”.  And speaking of people going by, “The Girl from Ipanema goes walking” ended up being “the girl with emphysema goes walking.”  I sure hope she can catch her breath.

Children, with their limited vocabulary and experience, can misconstrue with the best of us.  Christmas carols are a gold mine of mondegreens.  One child misheard the lyric to “Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer’.  His alternative version to “all of the other reindeer” was “Olive, the other reindeer”.  I’m not entirely sure if the following mondegreen was accidental or deliberate when “O come let us adore him” became “Oh come let us ignore him.”  A friend admitted to me that as a youth she misheard some words to “The Lord’s Prayer”.  She questioned why her lovely Aunt Eva was being singled out: “But deliver us from Eva.”

As an ex-pat American living in England, my own children have had to distinguish between my accent and the dominant ones they heard from everyone else.  We know that the Brits generally do not pronounce the letter R, e.g. charming sound like chahming (said with a Southern drawl?!). Another example is center – besides being spelled  differently – centre – is pronounced like sen-tuh.  When my son was little, I warned him not to put his fingers in electrical sockets – telling him that if he did so, he might get a terrible shock.  Reminding him of this one day, I asked, “What did I say might happen to you if you put your fingers in the socket?”  He replied, “Because a shark may come along and bite me.” Poor confused lad – with shark vs shock!

I want to share with you a mondegreen that I actually crated – even though I didn’t know the term at the time.  During my summer holidays from college, I had an admin job in a care home called Hawthorne Cedar Knolls.  In addition to typing and filing, I had to give switchboard relief to the main operator.  Back in those days, the switchboard was the kind with plug-ins – think of the Lily Tomlin’s wonderful creation, Ernestine, on “Laugh-In”. On answering incoming calls, I was required to say, “Hawthorne Cedar Knolls”.  It was quite a mouthful which got rather boring to repeat constantly.  So, occasionally, for my own amusement, I’d say, quite quickly, “Hawthorne seeded rolls”.  I don’t think anyone was any the wiser.

As I’ve gotten older, my hearing has definitely deteriorated.  Maybe it’s time to get hearing aids. But the thought of saying goodbye to those mondegreens which have enriched my life with their surreal messages makes me opt for the status quo.

So I say: Let’s hear it for the mondegreen!  Hear! Hear!

Bio:
Mari Wallace is an ex-pat American, originally from Pleasantville, New York, who worked for Scholastic Magazines in NYC then for publishers in London. She has had pieces published in a range of UK and US magazines, and is a member of the Society of Women Writers and Journalists.

by Nessi Bo

In the peculiar town of Quirkington, where the local currency was laughter and the mayor moonlighted as a stand-up comedian, there resided a man named Jasper Jitters—a fellow so attuned to irony that even his pet rock had trust issues. Jasper had a profession that defied conventional logic; he was a freelance decision-maker for magic eight balls, offering sage advice like, “Ask again later” and “Reply hazy, try again” at the modest fee of a handful of glitter and a unicorn sticker.

One fine day, Jasper, fueled by caffeine and a dubious sense of determination, decided to confront his towering to-do list. Armed with a notepad that had seen more doodles than actual notes, he set off on his quest for adulting excellence.

First on the agenda: fixing the leaky faucet in his kitchen. Armed with a toolbox and an instructional video titled “Plumbing for the Hopelessly Confused,” Jasper approached the task with the optimism of a cat chasing a laser pointer. Little did he know, the video’s narrator had a penchant for puns so sharp they could cut through a brick of cheese without leaving a dent. Each twist of the wrench was accompanied by a cringe-worthy pun, turning the whole affair into a slapstick comedy routine. By the end, Jasper wasn’t sure if he’d fixed the leak or just given the faucet a migraine.

Next up was the treacherous journey to the grocery store, a place where sanity and absurdity coexisted on the same shelf. Jasper chuckled at products like “Pre-peeled Bananas: Because Life’s Too Short” and “Dehydrated Water: Just Add Water.” He couldn’t resist tossing a box of “Instant Patience” into his cart, though he suspected it was empty.

In the checkout line, Jasper encountered a cashier who communicated exclusively in puns. “Your total is a-pun-dant today! Do you want to pay in chuckles or giggles?” she quipped. Jasper, torn between admiration and a desire to escape the pun vortex, opted for a payment in eye-rolls.

Back home, the pièce de résistance awaited: assembling a piece of furniture that came with an instruction manual resembling hieroglyphics written by a caffeinated sloth. Undeterred, Jasper turned the ordeal into a performance art piece, christening the bookshelf as “Shelvis Presley” and the bed frame as “The Mattressaurus.” He even added a cup holder to his coffee table rocket ship, now equipped with an imaginary espresso dispenser for intergalactic caffeine emergencies.

As the day unfolded in a symphony of wit, irony, and absurdity, Jasper realized that the secret to mastering the art of adulting was not in ticking off tasks but in finding joy in the absurdity of it all.

Emboldened by his triumph over the wily faucet and checkout puns, Jasper decided it was high time to conquer the age-old task of laundry. Armed with a basket full of clothes and a detergent bottle that claimed to make garments sing show tunes, he approached the washing machine with newfound bravado.

As he loaded the clothes, the washing machine let out a melodramatic sigh, muttering, “Not another sock opera.” Unfazed, Jasper shot back, “Well, you better not spin any tragic tales in there or we’ll have a laundry tragedy on our hands!”

The washing machine, sensing Jasper’s comedic prowess, decided to play along. Mid-cycle, it burst into a rendition of “Laundry in the Wind,” with clothes twirling like interpretive dancers. Jasper, in stitches, gave a standing ovation to his musical laundry appliance.

Next on the agenda was tackling the enigma that was his mail. As he sifted through bills disguised as love letters and junk mail that promised him eternal happiness in exchange for a nominal fee, Jasper discovered an invitation to the Annual Quirkington Talent Show. The catch? He had to perform a mind-boggling talent.

Never one to back down from a challenge, Jasper decided to showcase his remarkable ability to balance a spoon on his nose while reciting Shakespearean soliloquies in Pig Latin. The audience, a mix of gnomes, ducks, and sentient houseplants, erupted in applause, proving that absurdity truly knows no linguistic boundaries.

After the talent show triumph, Jasper stumbled upon a mysterious door in his backyard that seemed to lead to an alternate dimension. With the audacity of a comedic explorer, he swung the door open and found himself in a land where cows mooed in Morse code and clouds had a penchant for sarcastic commentary.

In this bizarre realm, Jasper encountered a wise-cracking llama named Larry who claimed to be the Oracle of Silliness. Larry, with a twinkle in his eye, delivered prophecies in the form of knock-knock jokes and riddles that left even the wisest scratching their heads.

Eager for enlightenment, Jasper asked Larry about the meaning of life. Without missing a beat, the llama replied, “Life is like a refrigerator—sometimes it’s full of leftovers, and other times, you’re just chilling.” Jasper, struck by the profundity of the pun, thanked Larry and returned to Quirkington with a newfound appreciation for the absurdity of existence.

As the day drew to a close, Jasper found himself in a cosmic comedy club, where intergalactic beings told jokes that transcended the boundaries of space and time. The headliner, a sentient nebula named Chucklestratus, invited Jasper on stage for an impromptu stand-up set.

Armed with a mic made of stardust, Jasper regaled the cosmic audience with tales of his day in Quirkington—the faucet fiasco, the pun-filled checkout, the musical washing machine, the Shakespearean talent show, and the wise-cracking llama oracle. The laughter that echoed through the cosmic club was so thunderous that neighboring galaxies wondered if a cosmic joke had shattered the fabric of the universe.

As he took his final bow, Jasper realized that life’s absurdity, irony, and humor were the threads that wove the cosmic tapestry. With a glitter shower from the audience and a unicorn sticker bestowed upon him by Chucklestratus, Jasper bid farewell to the cosmic comedy club and returned to Quirkington, where every day was a punchline waiting to be delivered.

Bio:
Nessi Bo is a vivacious force in the realm of non-fiction for the young and the young-at-heart! With a pen mightier than a dragon’s roar, Nessi crafts tales that dance off the page, whisking readers away on whimsical journeys through facts and fancy.

by Joanie Mickie

My apologies to all of you who have gotten past what I consider to be some obstacles to whole-heartedly embracing Yoga.  My hat is off to you if you’ve gone on to develop a healthy relationship with this practice.

Yoga, defined, is “a group of physical, mental and spiritual practices or disciplines which originated in ancient India.”  While there are a broad variety of yoga practices, in the Western world yoga usually denotes a form of exercise consisting largely of the postures or asanas.  Asana, loosely translated means get your “ass on a” mat and try to mimic positions the normal body was never expecting to experience.

My friend gave me a Yoga tape.  The instructor talks you calmly through each pose.  “Raise the sternum” I hear, trying desperately to keep up with the people smoothly performing the instructions.  I can’t immediately recall just where or even what the sternum is.  I’m from a generation that didn’t waste much time teaching anatomy to women who weren’t going to be nurses.  I watch the performers – nothing is overtly “raising” so I skip ahead to tucking the pelvis, which I CAN locate thanks to Elvis.  If ever I were to get my limbs in some of the other positions demonstrated, it would likely be the result of a dismemberment accident.

At the end of my first actual in-person yoga class, we are all lying on our backs with comfy little millet-filled bean bags over our eyes.  I thought a millet was a chicken, which caused me to wonder how you would be able to fill a small bean bag with them.  It turns out that a pullet is a chicken and millet is birdseed.   Go figure.  Anyway, you can see how my stress level was not greatly reduced by the whole experience.

The same friend that gave me the tape is now excited about, are you ready, goat yoga.  Keeping an open mind, I did some research on the subject.  “It’s surprisingly relaxing to feel a couple of small animals jump up onto your back.”  I get the “surprisingly” part…the “relaxing”, not so much. I proceed to Frequently Asked Questions which I’ve found to be enlightening on any subject I’ve researched.  A prominent FAQ is “Why do goats pee on you?”  I’m no scientist but my first thought would be because they are barnyard animals, but no.  The answer, which I believe was meant to be reassuring is, “He really just thought you were sexy and wanted to show you he was sexy too.”  Oh, and female goats will also pee on you, but more in the area of your shoes.

Another FAQ was, “do goats poop during yoga?” and yes, they do poop on your mat from time to time.  It’s evidently not messy because goats have small pellets and all you have to do is shake off your mat.  And, “we have to remember they are not dogs or cats but farm animals”.  I rest my case.

One of the dangers of thorough research is that you discover stuff you’re better off not knowing.  Somehow I found myself reading about tree goats and found that the argan oil (“one of the most highly sought after culinary and cosmetic liquids in the world”) that I use on my hair is made from argan nuts passed through the digestive system of a tree goat whole.  These “kernels” are roasted, ground, mashed or cold-pressed to produce the coveted oil.  I am not making this up.   I bet this was discovered by the same people who came to the conclusion that jellyfish have superb memories and thus market the now-popular memory-enhancing supplement.  By the way, I terminated goat research choosing to remain ignorant regarding any “culinary” use of the prized goat-pooped nuts.

I did look into info on couple’s yoga upon viewing images of yoga poses for two.  Here’s instructions for one pose:  “Sit back-to-back and cross-legged in Sukhasana,(which I believe is a small town in Nebraska) and inhale your arms up. Exhale and twist to the right. Reach your right hand for your partner’s left knee/shin/thigh. This seated twist is a very easy, but intimate movement when performed with a partner.  With every inhale, lengthen and find more space. And with each exhale, utilize your partner’s knee to gently twist a bit deeper. See if you can synchronize your breathing.”  At this point, my husband and I would be laughing so hard we’d probably pee and wish we had a goat to blame it on.

Bio:
Joanie Mickle has had numerous short humor pieces published. She finds being funny somewhat easier than being knowledgeable.

(Who Should Know Better But Don’t) When They Ask Me Where My Husband Is

by Lee Nash

He’s at home waiting for the internet technician and ironing the pillowcases.

He’s delivering an important Ministry of Interior package.

He had an eleventh-hour amendment of programme.

He’s in the garden watering the competition dahlias.

He’s attending a Morbidity and Mortality conference.

He was bouncing our baby daughter who vomited semi-digested pasta all over him–in his beard, briefcase…

My husband is permanently at sea. He is, in fact, a Navy Seal. No, he never comes home. Never.

He’s a Hungarian oligarch currently fighting corruption and dissent within the new elite. He’ll be returning soon on his own private railroad.

My husband had a breakdown and ran away to join the circus. Thankfully, it’s one of those fair enterprises that only employ people and horses.

My husband’s serving time for smuggling radiated tortoises. A traumatic experience for me and the few reptiles that survived.

My husband has terminal everything and may need to be terminated.

My husband works on a body farm. He doesn’t go out anymore due to a lingering odour.

He’s a professional virus tester and lives at the quarantine centre.

If this was a Scandinavian country you wouldn’t dream of asking me that question.

He’s standing right next to me but he’s so thin you haven’t noticed him. We’re living off the smell of an oil rag.

Where’s yours?

I have no idea. Oh yes, I do–he’s a spy.

Sixteen years ago he went to buy a battery for his watch. The sales assistant asked him to come back in ten minutes to which he replied, But how will I know?

Which one?

I’m married to Dieterich Buxtehude. He hardly leaves the house, what with composing the Passacaglia and mentoring Johann Sebastian.

I’m married to my cat. Which is fine, as he’s perfectly house-trained. Although being a rescue feline he does lick the taps.

I’m married to an electron. When my back’s turned he’s a wave function but when I look at him he becomes a particle. We’re inseparable, except when he quantum tunnels to a higher energy level.

My husband is registered insane. As am I.

My husband is invisible. And that’s the truth.

Bio:
Lee Nash writes poetry, fiction and creative non-fiction. Her work has been featured in diverse journals including Magma, Slice, Southword and “The Best Small Fictions 2019,” and has won or been placed/shortlisted in international competitions, including Bath Flash Fiction Award, the TU Dublin Short Story Competition, and the Bridport Prize.

by Heather Haigh

It was the photograph got me. Bang tidy. The way he ‘eld his equipment, like he could do it all day. Wielding a top-of-the-range G-tech ‘oover, he was. Guy’s, I have to tell you, if you want to stand out on Bumble, that’s the way to go. And as for the profile, cop a load of his lines:

Martin. I bake the best quiche in East Ardsley.

Hell, yeah—I’d had enough o’ Macho Mike. He’d rather straddle his Kawasaki while preenin’ in the wing mirror.  Egg-head Everett stole all the punchlines and minutiae mansplained the workings of the bloody cosmos. As for Dickhead Dave … we won’t even go there.

Good cook. Working on my repertoire. Taking lessons from a pro—by correspondence. Nothing flash.

How could I resist? I’m no Delia Smith, but I can knock together a decent steak and kidney puddin’ or a shepherd’s pie. Love a bit of ‘ome-cooked scrag. I just hoped we weren’t talking slug porridge wi’ charred lettuce on a bed of ‘amster testicles.

Translation: He makes fish on Fridays, somethin’ tasty in pastry on Sat’days, and an ‘alf-decent Sunday roast. He signed up for this cookery card subscription with that fella on Cook It Like Mum – Wednesday afternoon telly. It’s true, though, he makes a bloody good quiche.

Allergic to furry animals, but I do have pets. Lots. Nothing scary, honest!

No spiders or snakes then, and God forbid anything that flaps and squawks, and I’m not fond o’ fish tanks. Glug-glugging in the corner, cold-eyed little bastards silently bad-mouthin’ you. Maybe he’s got tortoises, I thought. You know where you are with a tortoise.

Loves good clean fun with a side of naughtiness.

Reverse cowgirl’s a non-starter; I’d snap the poor bugger. As for clean fun, I was thinking ten-pin bowling, the odd show, maybe a spot o’ wine tasting. Then I met the pets. Forty-seven of ’em. The mongoose looks a lot like the ferret looks a lot like the squirrel. Can’t tell the giraffe from the llama. And they all smell like mint and cucumber. He makes them in the bath, you see. Apparently, it makes the balloons more malleable. They’re a sod to dry, but I leave ‘im to it.

Looking for a partner to build a relationship on equal terms.

Translation: Good with a duster, but he can’t tell a tenon saw from a bowsaw    or a mallet from a claw hammer.

Just a regular guy with a bit of ambition. I know where I’m going in life—Believe me!

He drove a van for Morrisons, but bagged an interview with Ocado. And he knew what the future ‘eld ever since he invited Madam Crystallia ’round. She convinced ‘im he’d marry a woman with a fondness for weird ‘obbies, a large toolkit, and an aversion to dustin’ behind the furniture. Can’t think how she came up with that lot. Someone he’ll meet in his fifties, supposedly. She weren’t all she were cracked up to be.

Always happy to chat.

Eleven year’ on and, while we’re chewing the cud, one of us still ‘as to mention that fortune teller were out by over a decade. We’re celebrating his forty-ninth this week. I’ve ordered something fizzy, and the glitteriest, stretchiest balloons you ever saw, but he’s making the quiche.

Bio:
Heather is a sight-impaired spoonie and emerging working-class writer from Yorkshire. Her work has been published by Reflex Press, Fictive Dream, Free Flash Fiction and others. She has won micro competitions with New Writers and Globe Soup.

by Jim Shoenbill

I grew up in a large family in which all of the children were named after carefully chosen Catholic saints. My parents told me they had to do this so each of us would have a designated heavenly concierge to pray to for favors; it was something of a rule at the time. For instance, at the baptism of my beloved Aunt Judy (who is now as surely a saint as anyone in heaven) the priest hesitated, noting that he had never heard of a “Saint Judy”. Judy’s mother got in his face and told him, “well, there is a Saint Jude, isn’t there?”. The priest decided it was close enough, and backed down. He did NOT want a piece of Grandma Margaret.

Clearly parents don’t look to saint names for inspiration anymore- witness the precious Tylers, Ashleighs, and Mackennas filling our preschools, with nary a Wilgefortis, Dymphna, or Polycarp in sight. (On a side note, my new book, 1001 Medeival Saint Names For Your Baby! will hit bookstores next year.)

Anyway, now that the Church has relaxed its rules on saint-naming, and given its well-publicized cash flow problems, they might as well go all-in and sell naming rights. This would allow businesses large and small to acquire their own on-brand saints. Obscure ones would be cheaper than the big names, so for instance, only a small check to Pope Francis* would be required for Saint Columbanus to officially become Saint Columbanus of Gary’s Tire Service. But millions would be needed to turn St. Joan of Arc into Saint Joan of Progressive Insurance, or for everyone’s favorite theologian and Doctor of the Church to officially become “Saint Augustine, presented by Hyundai”.  Since saints would be obligated to ignore prayers that didn’t use their new officially-sponsored names, the faithful couldn’t get requests fulfilled unless they praised not only the saint, but the advertiser. Talk about brand loyalty.

The logical next step, and holy grail of revenue generation, will be product placement in all new printings of the Bible. Noah supplying the Ark with not only two of every animal, but also two of every Dunkin Donut. Jesus feeding five thousand followers using only two fishes and five loaves of Pepperidge Farm Honey Wheat bread. The Acts of the Apostles becoming The Axe Body Spray of the Apostles. While the concept might be sacrilegious, a buck’s a buck, and the electric bills at the Vatican don’t pay themselves.

*On a side note, if a check is made out to “The Pope”, will he be able to cash it? Would he need two forms of ID? (“See here… I have divinely granted Keys to Heaven, and Vatican City library card.”)  

Bio:
Jim Shoenbill grew up surrounded by books, newspapers, TV sitcoms, red shag carpet, and sarcastic older siblings. He creates cartoons for many U.S. and UK periodicals and for greeting cards. Jim also writes humor pieces and designs T-shirts. Jim’s mission is to brighten your day with positive humor.

by Mei Davis

I discovered Marlow staring blankly out the kitchen window, not a word processor in sight.

“I thought you’d been writing,” I said. “What have you been doing all this time?”

She took a sip of non-existent tea. “Narrating.”

“Narrating what?”

“The way sun-dappled shadows cast an allegory over the lawns of life. For what are we but mindless insects, forever weaving in and out of the variegated darkness cast by fate’s lewd canopies?”

“I see.” I cleared my throat. “Well, if you’re not in a writing mood today, shall we go out? We could fight over the last rutabaga at the Farmer’s Market, or accidentally share popcorn at the latest Christopher Nolan movie.”

“And by the end of the day, I’ll be warped into the archetypes scorched across the pages of an insipid, grocery store genre novel.”

I grinned. “Romance, I hope.”

“Can love germinate within the frost-bitten soils of sorrow? Not even a hundred thousand fertile words could nurture the blossoming scent of my dead mother.”

“Your mother’s dead?”

“Metaphorically, she’s been dead for years…”

Things continued in this fashion. By the time we had a graveyard metaphorically filled with everyone from the upstairs neighbor to her best friend from kindergarten, I knew something had to be done.

#

Marlow sat in the exam room as Doctor Harper led me to his adjoining office.

“Symptoms?” he asked.

“Where to start? For one, she’s begun describing people in long, complicated sentences, without ever actually telling anything about them.” I opened the door a crack:

“Doctor Harper,” Marlow said woodenly, “was born perfectly average, but which age had distorted into anything but. He bought primroses on Tuesdays and daffodils on Thursdays, but avoided the flower shop altogether on the gloomy day which sits in between.”

I closed the door. “You see? And she doesn’t sound like herself anymore. She used to have such a distinctive voice, words and phrases all her own. But now everything she says sounds like thousands of people have said it before, like…like…”

“Like she’s gone through an MFA program?”

“Exactly!”

He chuckled. “Your wife believes she’s in a literary novel.” He handed me one of the ubiquitous brochures lining the wall. “We call it PPPD. Pretentious Protagonist Personality Disorder.”

I crumpled the brochure, tears brimming. “Is there any way to cure her?”

“One, and it’s extreme.” He walked into the exam room, and proffered Marlow a clipboard and pen. “You must sign the dotted line.”

“A contract?” she gasped.

“Only after a complete rewrite.”

Trembling, she gripped the pen.

#

“I thought you’d been writing,” he purred. “What have you been doing all this time?”

Candlelight bathed the room in a sumptuous, buttery glow as I emerged from the tub, beads of water glistening like diamonds upon my smooth, pale skin. “Waiting for you.”

Our breaths were melting wax between us.

Out hearts were the flapping wings of songbirds, ready to take flight.

Our lips crashed with the key-stroke fury of a novelist whose work would win no acclaim.

(But could definitely afford that trip to Tahiti.)

Bio:
Despite no one ever telling Mei Davis she couldn’t write, she chose not to take the tacit approval seriously until adulthood, and has been desperately playing catch-up ever since. A former Angeleno, she currently resides in the cold wilds of Metro Detroit with her husband, children, and a neglected laptop.

by Cecilia Kennedy

Doors to the west stairwell at the Headquarters on the corner of Maple and Wetslick Streets will remain locked until further notice. Reports of loud noises, such as grunting, screaming, and clicking have been reported, along with smoke and blood drifting and oozing out from under the door. We are taking those reports seriously and have asked the local sheriff’s department to inspect the stairwell. After a thorough, thirty-minute investigation, no kind of creature—human or otherwise—has been sighted, but to ensure everyone’s safety, we are going to keep those doors locked.

            Stair access to the upper floors, therefore, is temporarily suspended. Please use elevators, even during an emergency. We realize that those working in offices away from the stairwell are experiencing these noises, smoke, and blood—along with scratching sounds at the walls and shouts of profanity and unbearable smells. We are carefully considering requests to work from home, but we have not finished our deliberations. In the meantime, please use your generous health insurance benefits to reach out to our mental health call center. Various services can be provided to help you get through this troubling time.

            We will continue to collect and disseminate new information as it come available, such as new reports of brief, rapid flashes of hands reaching through the walls. We are deeply saddened that women have felt what they describe as a wet licking sensation at the back of the neck throughout the day. Site services is also working on the door that rattles on the stall in the women’s bathroom—and all the shrieking faces that appear in the mirror.

            As new developments come in, please use the email at the end of this message to voice your concerns anonymously. If it is helpful, we’ve noticed, from the Corporate Tower on the opposite corner, that the entire foundation of the building you’re in shakes from time to time, and a sinkhole appears to be forming in the parking lot. We see this as good news in that the phenomenon you’re experiencing could be geological in nature, so in the meantime, please keep an earthquake preparedness kit by your desk. We value each one of you like family.

Bio:
Cecilia Kennedy has written and published short stories in various literary journals and anthologies online and in print. Additionally, she proofreads for Flash Fiction Magazine and chronicles her attempts at cooking, crafts, and home repairs on her blog Fixin’ Leaks and Leeks (https://fixinleaksnleeksdiy.blog/). Twitter: @ckennedyhola.

by Shashi Kadapa

Dharwad, a town in South India, is famous for a number of eminent Hindustani classical musicians.  I modestly claim to be a guitarist of some repute. My amplified, distorted riffs offend some snobs. The elitists defame and slander them as noise with no creativity.

There are also singers and proponents of Hindustani classical music, or shastriya sangeet. Among the arch singers are my mother and aunts. I dare not criticize this musical form, but I must narrate a horrendous event that was unleashed.

A ‘Guru’, a Hindustani classical singer of some notoriety, died. So his disciples decided to have a ‘Sangeet Samelan’ or an evening of music. Cohorts of singers would descend on our house and raucously sing in his memory. I was press-ganged into ‘volunteering.’

In your childhood days, you may have heard of Aesop’s fables, where some animals decide to form a band to scare thieves, etc. Neither man nor beast were spared. This happened to me.

The bouts were to start at 7 p.m., but the invitees arrived much earlier, drooling for snacks and tea. A shifty-eyed lot they were. I was very busy arranging for hot water and herbal remedies to ‘settle’ their voices, bowing to them, etc. My sister collared me, and to ensure that a ‘sense of culture was instilled’, I was forced to squat in a ringside seat.

The Gayaks or singers looked like a bunch of petty criminals, straight from the police records under ‘Petty Larceny’ charges. They were sniffing the kitchen aroma and furtively taking in the prospective ‘loot’. These singers are an abusive and quarrelsome lot, riven with petty jealousy, and they cannot stand the sight of each other. The star perpetrators were in the center of the circle. The rest of the audience was spread in circles. The further you are from the center, the lower your social standing.

The bout started as a group song to invoke the goddess Saraswati. In any given group, people have an ungiven range of voices. A very liberal bandwidth tolerance in areas of pitch, timbre, frequency, cadence, and beat was assumed. The leaders took off at a furious pace. In just a few bars, they managed a substantial lead over the stragglers, who tried to keep up by skipping a few lines. The infuriated leaders set up an even more furious lead, with individual side duels going on between the leaders. Ditto with the instrument players.

The result was total chaos, and I had the ‘Bose Surround effect’ thrust on me. Some time back, there was a spate of karate movies, and the singing acts resembled them. Both have ‘eastern origins’, calling for vigorous movement of the limbs accompanied by loud vocals. Overall intent: maim. Shastriya sangeet had diverse styles: fly swatter, hen catcher, grimace, roll on the ground, etc.

The fly-swatter style called for sudden, jerky motions of the arms. The hen-catcher style called for slowly raising your arms and lunging forward. The grimace style called for twisting the face in horrific grimaces. Roll on the ground must have originated in the wrestling pits. It calls for clutching an imaginary opponent and grappling with him by rolling to and fro, all the while wailing in agony.

Their origins are in some ‘Gharanas’, in Jaipur, Gwalior of kings who lived in troubled times long back. They patronized such singers, assured that the unleashed cacophony would quell the enemy, making them run in terror.

Two babies started shrieking when a hefty, potbellied proponent chose to display grimace style. Their mothers whisked them away to safety, and I envied them for escaping this assault.

An endless wave of issues from these Gayaks, called a ‘Taan’. The longer you keep it up with lots of sudden vocal twists and jerks, the greater your prowess. Frankly, it sounded as if a pig was having its throat slit with a very blunt knife by an inexperienced butcher who was not in any hurry.

The singing called for endurance from the singers and the audience. The music had a lingering quality. It resounded in your ears long after the main music had stopped, and it had a carrying quality. It broke a few panes in our house and roused the livestock of our neighbors, who are about a mile away. Livestock roused from their slumber set up a terrific bellow, imagining butchery.

A tea break was announced. There is a hierarchy when serving tea. The inner circle members are given tea made from leaves used for the first time. For the next circle, the same leaves were re-boiled, and so on. Fringe members wondered whether to drink or shave.

The loud speakers, already strained beyond limits, decided to pack up. No problem for the ‘Roll on the ground’ gayak. Breathing deeply, he built volume and set off with a loud blast. He sang at country fairs, and a lack of mikes and erratic electric supply did not hinder him.

He rolled on the ground, smashing the tambori and taking the tabla players with him and the impervious fellow went on. If it is credible, he sounded much mellower without the accompanying instruments. My brother prevented me from escaping, glaring and grimacing threateningly to utter ‘wah, wah’ now and then.

My sister, mother, and aunts closed the event in the form of a chorus. It would not be healthy to comment about their efforts. The herbal drinks they had swigged to settle their voices worked so well that the voices would not come out clearly. They sounded like a gaggle of hoarse hens being throttled slowly.

Dawn announced an end to this jamboree. As I sat on the steps, nursing a throbbing head, my mother announced that since this function was a grand success, she would make it an annual affair.

Bio: Based in Pune, and Dharwad India, Shashi Kadapa is the managing editor of ActiveMuse, a journal of literature. His stories across multiple genres are published in more than 45 US and UK anthologies. Winner of IHRAF, NY
short story prize, he is nominated thrice for the Pushcart award. His works: http://www.activemuse.org/Shashi/Shashi_Pubs.html

by Karen Walker

The dried hunter sausage spoke to me. “Write a story!”

The longer I’m working from home, the more things are asking. My man Dave stares when I tell him they are, but I think it’s nice. They like my writing.

Still, I ignore most requests because not everything inspires me. Some of it’s just attention-seeking.

“Hey!” the carpet in the TV room said. “How about a torrid little tale about what happened on me last Saturday night?”

Ahem. I wouldn’t pen a kiss-and-tell.

Besides, the idea sounded like a trick. I’d have to steam-clean because I can’t tell what colour the carpet really is and readers would expect that kind of detail.

Then there’s the kitchen counter. It could use a wipe. The pushy thing—a loudmouth piece of granite—told me so one morning.

I shrugged. Don’t mind the coffee stains.

The slab pitched me a drama. “Picture this: a writer finds tough love and hard truths while cleaning the kitchen.”

“Interesting, interesting,” I replied, backing away.”I’ll be in touch.”

The dried hunter sausage had no such ulterior motive. Coiled up in the deli section beside a showy ham, it didn’t even ask me to buy it. Which was very considerate. Money is tight these days, and I can be impulsive at the grocery store.

I think about the sausage and the story it wants all the way home. Retreating to my little writing nook in the attic, I shut the door and set to work. On something.

A horror story? Makes sense. The sausage was wizened, almost mummified.

I begin typing. Tomb raiders violate an ancient Egyptian prince’s burial, ripping apart his mummy, flinging arms and legs as they search for jewels.

What happens next? Well, the prince’s intestines—perhaps not the most vengeful organ: I’m channelling the sausage—attack.

What would angry innards do to those daring to defile the tomb? Squeeze them like a snake? Overpower with a horrendous smell? That’d be fun. Eat the intruders and digest them? I shudder. Like it.

Eventually, I look up and see through a dormer window that it’s dark outside. I’ve been up here all day.

Downstairs, Dave has gone to bed. He’s not asleep though. He’s waiting for me. Eat your heart out, carpet in the TV room.

Awaken feeling exquisite. Then I read my story and, horrified, I scrap it and start again. I feel romance. A romance with dried hunter sausage.

Where? Oh, at a hunting lodge.

Now, I’m cooking.

Where’s the lodge? Rain falls on the little attic window and Scotland comes to mind.

I hike highland peaks and wander lonely lochs until I find her—the winsome raven-haired Elsa. She’s a magical cook, her sausages causing every master to fall hopelessly in love with her and enraging every mistress. A lowly job scrubbing dishes in the cold dark hall of Lachlan Macdonald is all the lass has left.

But then the fog descends. Stuck in the peat, I lose a wellie. I don’t know where I’m going, where my story is going.

Who is Lachlan? Okay, he’s a widower. Mourning his lost love. Better. He won’t eat and is wasting away. How tragic.

Wait, wait a minute. If he’s not eating, why does Lachlan need someone to do the dishes?

Crap! I slam my laptop shut and stomp down the stairs.

Dave is watching a John Wayne marathon, again. Same old dust, same old cows and cactus, the saloon girl with a heart of gold, the outlaw in black.

But then I notice more. The bad guy’s hair is as dirty as the carpet under my feet, his voice stony like the countertop in the kitchen. And crouching low over a campfire, the desperado is cooking a sausage on a stick.

Gasp. It’s all coming together.

I’ll write a Western!

Bio:
Karen Walker writes in a basement in Ontario. Her work is in or forthcoming in Brink, Flash Boulevard, voidspace zine, Overheard, Bullshit Lit, Centaur, and elsewhere.

by Tracy Roe

With apologies to Dorothy Parker.

“Oh, of course, I’d love it if you joined me!”

I don’t want him to join me. I don’t want anyone to join me, but if I had to choose someone in this crowded ballroom to join me, this guy would not be high on the list. Or low on the list. He would be nowhere on the list.

And why am I being forced to make a list?  This is what happens when you go to the office Christmas party—it’s just like work but with alcohol. Actually, for Barry in HR—“Hi, Barry!”—it’s exactly like work. Poor guy. I hope he’s getting some help with that.

Yes, please do tell me all about yourself, person-I-don’t-know-from-a-hole-in-the-wall. Ah, his name is Lance—of course it is—and Lance works in Legal. Lance is a lawyer, is what Lance is trying to say. Or, no, it’s what he’s actually saying. Not one for subtlety is our Lance! Do I have to give him my name? “Terry!” It’s not really Terry, but it’s close enough that if anyone says anything, I can say he heard me wrong. And why do I even have to come up with cover stories? Here I was, sitting quietly, minding my own business, wondering whether it’d be easier to kill my idiot ex-boyfriend or myself, and Lance swans over and he’s all, Ohh, can I sit here? No, I should have said. No, over my dead body will you sit down at this table. All right, that’s a little extreme. Maybe: Oh, sure, sit down, my COVID symptoms are almost completely gone! COVID. Millions of people died, and that was horrible, don’t get me wrong, but during the pandemic, a person could sit unmolested at a table in a ballroom at the office Christmas party. Actually, said office Christmas party would never have happened! Good times …

And Lance is still talking. Wow. Must be nice to believe your life is so fascinating that some poor young woman sitting quietly at a table in a ballroom and planning her own (or her ex-boyfriend’s, depending) demise wants to hear all about it.

“Yes, I see, they have a karaoke machine! So fun!” No. No. Please God, no. “‘If Ever I Would Leave You’ is beautiful. Oh, no, I’m not a singer, but I’d love to hear you sing.”

Absolutely I would love that. Well, maybe not love. More like, if the options were, say, being stung to death by a swarm of angry wasps or listening to you mangle Lerner and Loewe, I would definitely … not automatically pick the wasps.

Oh. Oh my God. I should have picked the wasps. All right, buddy, that’s it. Do whatever you want to me, but when you start eviscerating show tunes, I have got to put my tiny little size-five foot down!

And now everyone is listening to him. He must be so embarrassed. He’s really brave, actually, when you think about it. He has to know how god-awful his voice is, and yet he’s just putting himself out there, giving it his all! I could maybe love a man like this. We’d have beautiful, non-singing children. We’d be, like, the opposite of the von Trapp family. Poor man—listen to him. Well, not everyone is musically gifted.

“Oh, did you really? Well, I’m sure you would have gotten into Juilliard if you’d applied.” 

Oh my Lord, you’re an idiot. I hate you. I’m divorcing you and taking the children in their cute little sailor suits right over the Alps, and you can stay here with the Nazis. 

“No, you really don’t have to sing another one for me, I’m overwhelmed already! Or … sure, ‘Dance Ten, Looks Three’ from Chorus Line. That one was practically written for you!”

I could have said no, I suppose. I could have said, Please, Lance, for the love of God and in the name of all that is holy, please, please, please do not you-should-pardon-the-expression “sing” one more note. But then I might have had to talk to him instead. So, yeah. Have at it, darling Lance! Butcher some Sondheim, why don’t you.

Maybe I can slip out while he’s singing about his tits and his ass and so forth? It’s freezing out there. A person could die of hypothermia pretty fast. A person like me. Or like my ex-boyfriend, say. And it was so warm yesterday. Warm yesterday, freezing today, and it’ll be warm again tomorrow. Climate change, amirite? Someone has to fix that.

I don’t remember this song being so long in the actual show. Is he adding new verses? But—look at that! People are leaving, the waitstaff is cleaning up, and some angel from heaven has unplugged the karaoke machine. Thank You, God—I realize now that I don’t want to kill my idiot ex-boyfriend or myself. I just want to go home, get in my warm bed with my warm cat, and try to forget the carnage inflicted on the Great White Way tonight.  

“Well, looks like everyone’s going home, so—really? The manager said you could use the karaoke machine for another half hour if you slipped him fifty bucks?  And you did? That is so fabulous!” Fabulous, unethical; potato, potahto. “Oh, sure. Whatever you want. Yes—‘The Impossible Dream.’ Perfect.”   

Bio:
Tracy Roe planned to be an actress, but that didn’t work out, so when she graduated from college, she became a copyeditor, which was lovely, but she decided she needed a challenge, so she went to medical school, and now she’s a physician who also edits.

by Genia Sophie Krassnig

Two weeks before my eleventh birthday, something incredible happened. It was as if Independence Day, the decisive goal against the Netherlands, and Christmas Eve all coincided on the same day. For other children, this might not be entirely understandable. But when you have a father who only shakes your hand on your birthday, it becomes clear why this day felt like it would go down in history.

I sat at the kitchen table with my older sister Rita, playing checkers. Rita had already won the fifth round. It was a dark winter afternoon. Mother had preheated the oven for dinner, and warm light illuminated the small room. The kitchen window wasn’t entirely sealed, and I pulled my legs up onto the bench, warming them under my large, stretched-out sweater. Just as my sister placed her next white piece, ruining another set for me, a strange, distorted noise came from the next room. My sister and I stopped our movements and listened curiously.

“My goodness…” I recognized my mother’s voice. “Children, come and see!” she called out.

A quick glance at Rita, and we both jumped. Before running off, I made sure to bump the table particularly hard, causing all the checkers pieces to shift – along with Rita’s next victorious move.

The sight in the living room was peculiar. In the middle of the room, our father sat topless at the coffee table – bent forward, his shirt pulled over his head. I gasped in surprise at this large, white back that flashed towards me. I couldn’t recall my father ever showing so much skin before. Not even during our annual summer vacation, when Dad sat at the beach bar with a newspaper in one hand and his beer in the other, did he take off his shirt. Sometimes, in the intense midday heat, he rolled up his sleeves to his elbows. And if he was in a particularly good mood, he might unbutton two buttons.

“Look!” my mother exclaimed, pointing excitedly at the bare spot. At that moment, my older brothers came running out of their room and pushed me aside.

“Is this necessary?” I heard my father mumble dully under his shirt, but no one paid him any attention. Four children’s heads approached slowly. Thomas and Rita, the two eldest, led the way. Then Peter followed. Finally, I slowly moved my head in the direction of the action, carefully maintaining a sufficient safety distance. I tried to catch a glimpse of the black spot between Rita’s wild curls and Peter’s fidgety arms. Meanwhile, Mother had supported herself with one leg on the coffee table and was pressing on Dad’s skin. She squeezed and pressed, but nothing happened. 

“It won’t come out!” Thomas shouted.

 “Let me try!” Rita called. 

“Your fingers are too thick!” Thomas yelled, pushing Rita aside. 

“Yours are too!” Rita retorted angrily. Dad grumbled in between.

 “Wait, maybe I have something in the kitchen…” Mother started. My siblings were getting more restless, the atmosphere was charged. I had moved back and stood now at the other side of the room, pressed against the wall. 

“Let the little one do it!” I suddenly heard Dad thunder. I flinched. Did he mean me? It was abruptly silent, all heads turning to me. Before I could gather another thought, let alone respond, I was grabbed by someone and pulled forward. I stumbled a few steps, past Peter’s shining eyes and the encouraging smile of my mother. Then I stood before Dad’s large, white, hairy back. Right in the middle, among moles, beauty marks, scars and ingrown hair, was the large blackhead. By now, the skin around the area was heavily reddened, as my family had kneaded it quite a bit, albeit unsuccessfully. 

“Out. Everyone else out!” Dad decided. The voices of my siblings retreated, accompanied by grumbling, as Mother ushered them out of the room. Then I heard the door close. Dad and I were left alone. Silence. I cleared my throat. Then I moved forward hesitantly. My hand trembled as I touched my father’s bare back for the first time. The skin was wrinkled. Soft. Warm. It smelled of tobacco. My heart raced. My mind was blank. But my small, thin fingers began working quickly and carefully as if they knew exactly what to do, squeezing the large blackhead.

“And?” my siblings called through the closed door. 

“Shh, don’t disturb him,” I heard Mother say.

I affectionately stroked the black spot. Then I concentrated. I repositioned my two index fingers and pressed firmly and deliberately, with all my strength. Then, the dark, long sebum cone slipped out and a satisfied groan escaped Dad.

The door burst open, and my siblings couldn’t hold back any longer, rushing in. The voices overlapped. Cheering. Someone hugged me from behind and pulled me into the middle of the room. Peter and Thomas jumped over the carpet. Rita clapped her hands in the air, and her skirt swirled. Mother stroked my head. Yes, and Dad? He slowly sat up, put on his shirt, directing his gaze directly at me. Then he smiled. 

The next day was a Sunday. I had thoroughly informed myself. To prevent blackheads from proliferating, greasy and fried foods should be completely avoided. I persuaded Mother to leave the kitchen to me. Scrambled eggs for my mother and siblings. But for my father, I had come up with something special. When I pushed his plate towards him, he didn’t even look up from his morning newspaper. Absentmindedly, he took a big bite. I waited. Heard him chewing. Then he took another bite, and finally:

“This tastes good. Thanks!” 

“You’re welcome, Dad.” I tried to stay calm. 

“You should use the kitchen more often.” 

“I will, Dad,” I replied and sat next to Rita on the kitchen bench. If Dad had looked up at that moment, he would have noticed my blissful grin. But he had disappeared behind the large plate of fried potato pancakes with bacon.

Bio:
Genia Krassnig is a filmmaker and producer based in Berlin. Her previous short stories, “She and Her” and “You,” have been published on international literary blogs and in anthologies.

by Kevin Ahern

“Welcome to the Registration Department.  Please say to our automatic teller what brings you to us today.”

“I wish to register a complaint”

“You are here to register a complaint.  Is that correct?”

“Yes”

“If you wish to register a complaint, please say “I wish to register a complaint” or say “No” to repeat your original request.”

“I wish to register a complaint”

“You wish to register a complaint”

“Yes”

“Transferring you to the Division of Complaints”

“Welcome to the Division of Complaints.  All of our agents are busy serving other clients.  Your call is very important to us.  Please hold to wait for the next available Complaint Agent.”

“OH TIE A YELLOW RIBBON “

“Your call is very important to us.  You are third in line”

“IT’S BEEN THREE LONG YEARS”

“Did you know many complaints can be dealt with by Zippy, our automated agent?  If you’d like to talk to Zippy, please say or press ONE.  Otherwise, please continue to hold for the next available agent.”

“IF I DON’T SEE A YELLOW RIBBON”

“Your call is very important to us.  You are next in line”

“AND PUT THE BLAME ON ME”

“Did you know many complaints can be dealt with by Zippy, our automated agent?  If you’d like to talk to Zippy, please say or press ONE.  Otherwise, please continue to hold for the next available agent.”

“A HUNDRED YELLOW RIBBONS ROUND THE OLD OAK TREE”

“Your call is very important to us.  Please continue to hold for . . . .“

“Division of Complaints.  How may I direct your call?

“I wish to register a complaint”

“Certified or non?”

“Excuse me?”

“Your complaint registration.  Do you need it certified?”

“Um, no, I don’t think so.”

“You need Mr. Collins”

“OK.  Could you transfer me please?”

“FEELINGS.  NOTHING MORE THAN FEELINGS”

“Collins here”

“Yes, Mister Collins.  I wish to register a complaint.”

“I see.  Do you require certification?”

“They transferred me to you because I don’t need certification.  Why do you ask me that?”

“Just answer the question, sir.”

“NO.  I do not require certification.  I’ve never heard of such a stupid thing.”

“OK.  I’ll make note of it.  Thanks for calling.”

“WAIT.  I haven’t registered my complaint.”

“Are you sure sir?”

“Of course I’m sure.”

“Well, you sure sounded like you were complaining and I made note of it.  Should I erase the note?”

“What note?”

“Um, let’s see “I’ve never heard of such a stupid thing”

“Yes.  Erase the note.”

“Are you sure?  Sounds like a dandy complaint.”

“OK.  Keep the note.”

“OK. I’ve kept the note Thanks for calling.”

“WAIT.  You still haven’t taken my complaint.”

“Would that be another complaint sir?”

“YES.  Er, NO.” 

“You’re confusing me, sir.”

“I’ve changed my mind.  My complaint requires certification.”

“Are you sure, sir?

“Yes.  I’m absolutely positive.  What I was thinking?  My complaint requires certification.  That’s exactly what it needs”

“I would feel more confident doing that if I was certain of the certification requirement.”

“I DON’T NEED YOU TO BE CONFIDENT.  I JUST NEED YOU TO TRANSFER ME TO THE DEPARTMENT THAT CERTIFIES COMPLAINTS.”

“There’s that tone again, sir.  Please keep in mind I’m just trying to do the right thing.  Under some very trying circumstances, if I say so.  Now, before I transfer you, I need to clarify something. I have an unfiled complaint from you titled “Stupid Thing” which says, in its entirety, “I’ve never heard of such a stupid thing.”  If that is accurate, please press or say ONE.”  Otherwise, please press or say TWO.”

“Yes, that’s accurate”

“Please press or say ONE or TWO”

“You’re a human being, not a computer.”

“Just press or say ONE or TWO, sir.”

“ONE.  FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, ONE”

“Thank you, sir.  I can transfer you now, but I caution you to be clearer in the future when making a complaint.  How do you expect anyone to be able to tell whether or not you are complaining when you always use that tone?”

“TEARDROPS.  ROLLING DOWN ON MY FACE”

“Did you know many complaints can be dealt with by Zippy, our automated agent?  If you’d like to talk to Zippy, please say or press ONE.  Otherwise, please continue to hold for . . . “

“Complaint Certification.  Mr. Ferguson’s office.”

“Yes, I need to register a complaint”

“Do you require certification?”

“Sure”

“OK.  Government, corporate, personal, or other?

“Uh, personal, I guess”

“Fee or non-fee”

“I just want to register a complaint.”

“I know sir.  I’m trying to route things properly.”

“I didn’t realize there might be a fee.  What’s the difference between the two?”

“The fee form costs $5.  The non-fee form costs $1”

“$1?”

“That’s right sir.”

“Rather mis-named, isn’t it?”

“I hear that a lot, sir.  That’s a dandy complaint too.  Do you want it to be a $5 or a $1 one?”

“No, wait.  That’s not my complaint.”

“Well it sure sounded like one, sir.”

“Speaking of sounding like, you sound a lot like Mr. Collins.”

“I hear that a lot too, sir.”

“So if I understand this, I have to pay you $5 or $1 to complain.”

“That’s right, sir. – if you want it certified”

“I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

“Time is money, sir.  Complaint Departments cost money.  Certification costs money.”

“So if I want to certify my complaint, it costs, but if I don’t want to certify it, it’s free.  Is that right?”

“Yes sir.”

“Well I certainly do not wish to pay to complain.”

“Transferring you to Mr. Collins, sir.”

“Wait. No please, anything but . . .”

“TRYING TO FORGET MY FEELINGS OF LOVE”

“Did you know many complaints can be dealt with by Zippy, our automated agent?  If you’d like to talk to Zippy, please say or press ONE.  Otherwise, please continue to hold for the next available agent.”

“FEELINGS.  WHOA, OH, OH FEELINGS?

“Collins here.”

“ARRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGHHHHH”

“I’ll make note of that sir.  Thanks for calling.”

Bio:
Kevin Ahern is a Professor Emeritus of biochemistry from Oregon State University who is enjoying the spare time he has gained in retirement to write verses, limericks, and other creative items.

by Timothy Tocher

When Johnson and Jensen realized the ship was sinking, they raced to save the fair Annabelle. Gripping her elbows, they bore her to the rail, fighting through the driving rain. Below, a lifeboat bobbed in the roiling sea.

          Johnson said, “I will climb into the boat. Lower Annabelle into my arms.”

          Jensen frowned. “In that position, might you not, inadvertently, view some portion of the lady’s anatomy customarily shielded from view?”

          “I will avert my gaze.” Johnson put one leg over the side, then halted. “Speaking of inadvertent exposures, as you are lowering Annabelle, might not you, by accident, find your vision drawn to her spectacular décolletage?”

          Jensen hesitated. The ship groaned and listed farther from plumb. “I shall shut my eyes and keep them closed until you announce that she is safely down.”

          Johnson lifted his leg, then lowered it to the deck. “You still might compromise the lady’s honor. Suppose your eyes open reflexively in response to … a peal of thunder?”

          Jensen rubbed his chin in contemplation. “Perhaps we could fashion blindfolds. Then neither of us could betray Miss Annabelle’s trust through treachery or chance.”

          “A fine idea, but what could we use?”

          The ship shuddered nearly throwing all three overboard. Annabelle removed her hat and tore off two wide red ribbons that had trailed down her back. Johnson and Jensen took them, touched them to their breasts, then tied them tightly behind their heads.

          “I see nothing,” Johnson shouted to be heard over the gale.

          “All is black,” agreed Jensen.

          Satisfied at last, the two resumed the rescue. Proving the effectiveness of the blindfolds, they collided and plummeted into the churning brine.

          Sighing, Miss Annabelle climbed over the rail. She shinnied down a rope into the lifeboat, cut the rope with the sewing scissors she carried in her bag, and slid the oars into the oarlocks. Rowing swiftly away from the ship, she frowned. She had lost her two favorite ribbons leaving her with a quite common hat.

Moral: Seeing too much is preferable to doing too little.

Bio:
A resident of New York State’s Hudson Valley, Timothy Tocher writes stories, poems, and nonfiction for all ages. He is the author of five, sports-themed books for middle grade and teen readers.

by Gustavo Vazquez-Lozano

They called me by my second name—José—and mentioned details about Aunt Isabel that no one else knew. The phone call seemed genuine. At eighty-one, my aunt was a woman with insufferable eccentricites; even the dogs recoiled from her odor. In her will, she had bequeathed me 75 million pesos, give or take. She was finally gone, the old hag. After patting myself on the back for having visited her when she was withering away in the nursing home, my initial thought was that I would finally get myself a trophy wife. That inheritance was my ticket out of singlehood.

Having consulted the executor, I became convinced that this was the real deal. The old lady, perpetually bemoaning her poverty and endlessly complaining about her lack of funds, had showered me with money. As I left the office, I hurried to the bathroom to splash water on my face. Ladies of the world, here I come!

The following day I adorned myself in my most outdated attire and exuded the fragrance of underarms in homage to my dear aunt. However, upon signing the papers, it transpired that the old lady had decreed that the funds would not be bestowed upon me until twelve masses were said at the Basilica of Guadalupe for the eternal rest of her soul. She´d also stipulated that I must journey to the sanctuary of San Juan de los Lagos to fulfill a vow on her behalf. In essence, it meant enduring at least one more year of destitution… a terrible strategy to try to secure a trophy wife.

Yet, the power of gossip worked its magic. Regardless of how vulgar or objectionable my behavior was, women started approaching me for the first time in my life. Some asked me what I did for a living. “Oh, nothing. I’m merely awaiting a 75 million peso inheritance.” Initially, my suitors were rather ordinary women, but as news spread of my imminent wealth, blondes flocked to me. A twenty-five-year-old lass remained unfazed  at the malodorous emanations from my breath. She knew: by year’s end, my bank account would compensate for that minor inconvenience.

On Christmas Eve, with the long-awaited check finally in my possession, I was in a passionate embrace with a freckled peach-faced gal in Tijuana when the phone rang. It was an extortion call. My companion overheard threats of having my toes plucked away one by one, followed by the severing of limbs unless I handed over the money to a certain cartel. In an instant, my future plummeted alongside my almost-wife.

As I had no desire to meet an untimely demise, I handed over the funds to the thugs and relocated to Yucatan. Along the journey, I came to the conclusion that women are exceedingly complicated creatures. I say this because even I, María José, struggle to comprehend myself. I must note though that, in my favor, I am far more attractive than any of the girlfriends I had during that eventful year.

Bio:
Gustavo Vazquez-Lozano is a writer from Mexico. He teaches Creative Writing. He has authored novels and nonfiction, and occasionally he writes short stories like these. His most recent book in English is “60 Years of Solitude: The Life of Empress Charlotte of Mexico”.  

by Madeleine McDonald

Thea helped the old man to roll onto his side, steadied him, removed the soiled sheet, and cleaned him up. “There you are, Bert. Not to worry, it happens to everyone. Comfy now?”

The shrunken man in the bed looked up at her with rheumy eyes. “Thanks, love, you’re kind to me. Not like some of them.”

She fetched him a book from a table set by the large window, her footsteps noiseless on the thick carpet. “Night night, Bert. Sleep tight.” She patted his shoulder, and picked up his water glass on the way out.

In the corridor, she swallowed a heavy ring, almost choking as she got it down. What choice did she have?

The police were downstairs, called by the care home management as soon as Lady Caroline’s grandson made a formal complaint. Her diamond ring was missing.

Thea re-entered the dining room, where the staff were gathered. The manager was endeavouring to calm the mutinous employees, a difficult task when they were paid the legal minimum wage, not a penny more, and the policeman had more or less accused one of them of taking a ring worth £154,000. 

Any guilt Thea had felt as she eased the ring off her patient’s unresisting finger evaporated on hearing its value. Her resentment was directed at the grandson, who had chosen today of all days to visit.

She mouthed a silent ‘wow’ to her neighbour, who whispered back, “Stupid old bat, wearing it in here.” The staff’s nickname for Lady Caroline was The Queen Mum, because of her fondness for a gin and tonic or three before every meal. The management complied because it kept her happy. Despite her wealth, it was clear her family no longer cared.

The staff had shifted uneasily as they listened to the policeman’s instructions. A quick search of the other residents’ rooms had been made as soon as Caroline’s grandson reported the absence of the ring. Confused residents sometimes wandered off with other people’s belongings. It was regrettable, but everyone knew it happened. Now, the staff would not be allowed to leave until their lockers, handbags and persons had also been searched.

Thea’s fingers had tightened around the ring in her pocket. Five matched diamonds, for Lady Muck who didn’t even know what day of the week it was. Where was the justice in that?

When Bert’s emergency bell had sounded, she seized the opportunity. “I’ll go.”

*

Thea’s improvised plan went awry when the ring became trapped in a fold of her intestines. When he found her doubled up on the floor, her unsuspecting husband called an ambulance but Thea, panting in agony, shook her head when the paramedics asked what she had eaten.

The strong laxative administered before an emergency colonoscopy indeed dislodged the ring, but the nurse who cleaned her up had as few scruples as Thea herself. “Never you fret, my dear, it happens to everyone. Just roll on your side while I change the sheet.”

The ring left the hospital in the nurse’s pocket.

Bio:
Madeleine McDonald’s published work ranges from micro-fiction to historical novels, by way of Shakespearean sonnets and radio stories.

by Judith B. Cohen

I invited the famous writer to speak to my students. They loved his books. His recent best seller about a transwoman pilot who prevented a dirty nuke from landing on a refugee camp was very popular. The shaggy haired, muscular dreamboat arrived accompanied by a woman who was not his wife. He seemed embarrassed when he introduced her.

“She’s an old friend who saw my presentation in the paper and just showed up”, he explained when his companion went to the rest room. “Can she come to dinner with us?”

What choice did I have?  Though the faculty was hosting on a limited budget, I’d eat less so there’d be enough for her.  The reading was a success. A year went by, and I received a letter from him, an actual letter on paper that arrived by U.S. mail. “Would you like to have lunch with me?” he asked.

I said yes, thrilled despite knowing that he was he was a married man. At lunch, in a well-known café, I was sure that other diners recognized him from his book covers, and TIME magazine story—that irresistible, floppy salt and pepper hair.  With sadness, he confided that he and his wife had separated. Sadness was not my reaction, since I was divorced and lonely. When we parted, he said: “If you invited me to lunch, I’d come.”

He appeared at my house on the agreed upon date. Poor famous man, he was further bereft because his editor had just died, and he needed a response to his latest chapter in which an adopted wrestler grows up to be a famous transplant surgeon who unknowingly saves the life of his biological mother.

After he read it to me, I timidly asked if he would look at my own stories and he agreed. The next time we met, I waited for his response.  

“I like them,” he told me, no suggestions, no notes, just a simple “like.”

Then we had sex in the middle of the afternoon. I had high expectations—surely, after his divorce, we would become a couple. I imagined travelling as his loving companion when he gave readings all over the world. But that didn’t happen. He wrote me another letter—apologizing for being unavailable since he had to be in California. I answered and our correspondence went on for a while until I got tired of his excuses for being unavailable.  In my last reply, I said: “If you were to invite me to lunch, I would consider accepting, unless I have other important things to do.” 

I keep his letters in a filing cabinet. If someone writes a tell-all biography, I could be convinced to part with them.

Bio:
Judith Cohen’s novel ‘Seasons’ was published by The Permanent Press of Sag Harbor, New York. Her new story collection Never Be Normal is available from Atmosphere Press.

by Kevin Ahern

At Albuquerque University, we’re committed to providing online degrees to meet the complex interdisciplinary challenges of today’s world. Check out our offerings below.

Department of Theological Ecology

TE 251: Texas Oil Derrick Massacres

Turning away from traditional views of habitat preservation, TE 251 examines the Alaskan National Wildlife Arctic Reserve and other environmentally sensitive areas employing the biblical imperative, “Where would Jesus drill?” Register for TE 251 and help determine if a divine divining rod can find ecologically safe oil where others have failed. Prerequisite – TE 250 (“Oil in the Family”).

Department of Theatrical Mathematics

TM 206: Primal Screaming, by the Numbers

A difficult message illustrating that all roots of inequality are mathematical in nature, but theatrical in expression, is presented in TM 206. Students in the course are encouraged to “act out,” as they see fit, their deepest feelings about four being greater than three. No biting. No prerequisites. Awareness of fractions may be helpful.

Department of Botanical English

BE 178: Care and Feeding of Weed

Unleash the pistils and free the stamens while exploring the literary perspective of Cannabis plant genitals! The spirit of Ken Kesey and the Merry Pranksters is alive and reaches new botanical “highs” in this wide-ranging discourse on plant sexual anatomy. Students will want to inhale deeply in the knowledge as instructors guide them through the writings of Mendel, Linnaeus, and O’Leary. Required materials – Miracle Gro™ and prescription or court order.

Department of Geo-Religious Studies

GRS 246: Carbon Dating for the Self-Absorbed

He craves geology. She digs theology. Put them together and the results are, um, not exactly electrifying, if you get our “continental drift.” Is geo-religion doomed to die out? Fear not. The latest offering from the GRS department is an exciting one credit course aimed at getting GeoReligious Studies majors to stare less at plate tectonics and holy books and more at each other. While satisfaction is not guaranteed, it is, ahem, not uncommon. Prerequisite – GRS 131 (The Richter Scale: Was it Good for You?)

Department of Apparel Statistics

AS 249: Error Bars in Basic Black

Are see-through swimming suits the “next rage” or just another standard deviation? Does your butt look too big in those pants or is it a normal distribution? Taking inseam and other measurements to a new level, course instructors John von Neumann and Elle MacPherson allow even “least squares” to “fit” this data and learn why statistics is essential for success in today’s clothing industry. Prerequisite – AS 184 (Chemise: Is That Gaussian or What?)

Department of Modern Health Literature

MHL 202: A Man, A Plan, A Canal, Pain

Remember The Raven and The Telltale Heart? How about Jurassic Park and GATTACA? This intriguing new class asks the probing question “What would Edgar Allen Poe have to say about today’s medical biotechnology?” and then, disturbingly, answers it. Can you say dentist-assisted-suicide? No prerequisites, but not for the faint of heart.

Department of Spiritual Evolution

SE 327: Crock of Ages

First there was biological Darwinism, then social Darwinism. Ready for the next step in the process? You got it – religious Darwinism. SE 327 is an “intelligently designed” course that follows the major players as they exploit Darwinian principles of selection, niche exploitation, and survival of the fittest to evolve a doctrine that rules the earth. Pity the meek. Prerequisite – Ape descendency, suspension of belief.

Department of Home and Federal Economics

DE 308: For Sale by Renter

Inspired by Janet Yellen and the U.S. Department of Commerce, DE 308 is a night course aimed at working middle-class moms and dads hoping to apply principles of government spending to their family budgets. Course modules include “Let’s Lease Lunch”, “Outsourcing: The Children or The Laundry?”, and the ever popular “How Much Down is the Little Audi in the Window?“. Course requirement – Rational exuberance.

Department of Political and Biophysical Sciences

PBS 301: Transformations in a Modern World: From Marx to Fourier.

A class that aims to reduce the signal to noise ratio in the media by applying Fourier transformations to Fox News reports, PBS 301 asks the biophysical/political question, “Can Mathematical Manipulation Lead to an Understanding of Ordered States of Crystallized Macromolecules and, if so, What About the Oppressed Masses?” Co-Requisite – PBS 302

Department of Cellular Philosophy

MP 216: Hamlet’s Multicellular Dilemma

Participate in a microbial mind game as professors lead  students  exploring  the  eternal,  philosophical, cellular question, “To Be or To Go Into Apoptosis and Not Be?” Prerequisite – MP 201 (Shakespeare for Theoretical Botanists), MMB 333 (Mitotic Theory for English Majors)

Department of Art Chemistry

AC 121: Ideal Gases: An Abstract Perspective

Introductory class restricted to Art Chemistry majors that asks the questions, 1) “Can the Works of Miro, Mondrian, Kandinsky, and Klae be Reduced to PV = nRT?” and 2) “What would Boyle have thought about those Kids with Big Eyes in 70s Art?” Prerequisite – AC 101 (Volume Theory for Art History Majors), open mind.

Department of Psychology and Physics

PP 422: The Inertia of Freudian Slips

Does thinking too fast put the mind on an unstoppable path toward punning? Can rapid flux of sodium ions across neural gates in the cerebral cortex give uncontrollable and unanticipated insights into subconsciously perceived reality? Learn answers to these and other questions with big words in this seniors-only tag-team course. Prerequisite – PP 384 (From Hawking to Kant: Huh?)

Department of Biochemical Dance

BT 418: Ribosomal Hip Hop.

Join in the fun in the campus ballroom on Thursday evenings as students combine human kinetic sculpture with protein synthesis in the campus’ newest course offering! Biochemistry professors and the Marysville Cloggers lead students, codon by codon down a messenger RNA on the dance floor to synthesize a fully functional enzyme. Music provided by the somnolent tunes of Nine Inch Nails. Prerequisite – BT 309 (Pilobus and Glycolysis)

Bio:
Kevin Ahern is a Professor Emeritus of biochemistry from Oregon State University who is enjoying the spare time he has gained in retirement to write verses, limericks, and other creative items.

by Ivan Terrence

It’s peak hour and Brad is driving along Leach Highway in his parents’ Volkswagen. His car, a 2003 Mitsubishi coupe, is at the mechanic. Brad is trying to improve himself.

Last night he went to bed without masturbating. In the morning he brushed and flossed his teeth. Did he get Chinese buffet for lunch? He did not. How many energy drinks has he consumed? Just one.

            On the next lane over he spots a gap. Without thinking – thinking is for the Old Brad – he indicates right and slips over a lane.

            The radio is playing softly – ABC National, for intelligent people – and in his left hand Brad is eating an apple. It was mostly his family last week at his thirtieth – his parents, his uncles and aunts, his three brothers and sisters and their respective partners. More than one of their cards had a black sheep on the front.

Jerks.

Tonight, he cooks. The ingredients are already in the fridge: mince, tomato, onion, bottled sauce. The car in front of him moves forward. Brad looks at his apple, rotates it, finding the perfect next bite.

            !!

??

An accident? Brad’s apple, still in his hand, taunts him. He was going so slowly. The driver in front of him gets out of his car – the car Brad has just run into. Brad supposes he should get out too.

            Like the rest of his life, it is mortifying. Eyes from cars all around – both directions, duel lanes, barely moving. He wants to vanish. He wants to drown.

            The man is actually nice. There is no damage to the other car. They exchange details and it turns out the other guy is a panelbeater: this is his work car! And Brad’s (parents’) Volkswagen? Slightly crumpled at the front.

            With great shame Brad gets back into his parents’ damaged car – many vehicles honking beyond him, peak hour peak hour peak hour. The car starts alright but as Brad moves forward, bit by bit, bumper to bumper, all he hears is a long drawn-out scraaaaaaaaaaaaape. It is an offensive sound. He seems to have offended the cosmos. The cosmos is screaming at him, or laughing at him, bludgeoning or abusing Brad.

            What to tell his parents?

I was taking a bite out of an apple…

They wouldn’t believe it.

            He scraaaaaaaaaaapes into the McDonald’s drive-through on the way home – orders a large triple-cheeseburger meal and sundae. While waiting at the window to collect it he drafts a more realistic story, in his mind, for his parents. He decides he will tell them he was eating a glazed donut at the time of the crash; he was looking down to avoid getting icing on his hands, so as to avoid getting icing on the steering wheel. Now there is a story his parents could get behind.

Bio:
Ivan is a high-school teacher, writes fiction in the gaps, and reads and reads and reads.

by Doug Mathewson

Jodie always had a tall story or a trick, or maybe just a joke to tell.  He started doing this thing where he would turn his two front pants pockets inside out and yell “kiss the bunny”.  The pockets being ears, his ’bunny’ thrust forward. We all laughed, the way he said it, the look on his face. It was funny. Funny at first, then funny when it was so wrong.

Between logging work, pipeline work, and any fool other kind of work we were scattered over three states that summer and fall. Winter remembered who we were and started to bring us home.  I was sitting in O’Rourke’s Diner at the west end of Main Street talking to these two girls, them being friends of my sister, and me wishing they were friends of mine. We were catching up on local disasters and gossip.

I hadn’t noticed but Jodie’s old car was parked outside.  Working or not he’d live in that car.  Only the longest of winters could get him back staying with that Aunt of his.  He stumbles and mumbles his way in to wash up and wake up.  One of the girls, Lynn it was, looking to make her girlfriend laugh sings out with “Hey Jodie how’s that bunny of yours?” Another place or another time would have made the difference. With job sites closing down, crews breaking up for the season and moving on strangers, even strange strangers were common enough.

I didn’t see the two of them in the booth till I saw their ears go up. Way up. Now everybody’s people but not all people are human people you could say. They were hard, weathered, scarred, bad old jack rabbits.  Prison tattoos and real ’on the edge of someplace bad’ attitudes. They had pay in their pockets and were looking for fun or trouble; seemed to be the same thing to them.

The first one grabbed Jodie’s shoulder and spun him around.  The second reaching for something tucked down the back of his belt.

“You got something to say about bunnies, asshole?” the bigger one said.

They were big old boys with hard flat eyes, big yellow teeth, and real twitchy whiskers. Jodie was scared, we all were.  As bad as things were, it all turned around when old Beatrix walked in.                                  

One look from her, just one look and it was all “yes Ms. Potter” and “no Ms. Potter” and “ We weren’t really goin’ hurt him Ms. Potter” and “But what he said Ms. Potter!”  Now, she’s been keeping the peace between the tribes, as they say, around here for probably better than a hundred years, so there’s no back talk to her.  Those two old rabbits were scuffing their big feet, looking down and shifting their weight. Jodie was doing no better.

Her voice carried clear when she said “I had my two bad mice, my foolish hedgehogs, my dear scamp Peter and his cousin Benjamin.  I have endured all manner of nonsense concerning brocks and tods, but I shall not have this.”

She had Jodie apologise and told the hares to hit the road and quit looking for trouble. It all shook out pretty quick considering.  Beatrix Potter got her watercress sandwich and ginger beer to go (she paid the rabbits tab too, I noticed) and was out the door.

We were pretty quiet, but after a bit Lynn says to Jodie “maybe you do the one about the duck instead.”  I had to laugh at that.

Bio:
Doug Mathewson has been nominated for The Pushcart Prize, as well as Best Short Fictions, and Best Micro Fictions. He is the Editor of Blink-Ink, a journal of 50-word contemporary fiction. http://www.blink-ink.org

by Jude Bridge

‘You’re so boring, I swear if you don’t stop talking I’ll fall into a comma.’

‘How’s this for boring?’ he asked, turning into a huge, many-fangled monster.

His clothes burst off on account of the bigness, his blue genus lay ripped and torn at his jellied feet.

I ran down a narrow, unlit cliché, ending in a high brick wall. I thought about scaling it but had neither fish nor ascending musical notes in my backpack.

He knocked me to the metaphor, a ton of manure falling on a champagne glass. The glass was half-full yet half-empty, me being a pessoptomist with a Schrödinger undercurrent.

Fortunately, I had a two-shot pearl handled Derringer in my handbag and a handful of exclamation marks.

‘Bang! Bang!’ said the gun! as I shot! into his vile jelly!!

He split in half, then half again, then into quarters, then sixteenths, then thirtytooths. How many monsters did he become? And if divided by the half you first thought of, what then? Armageddon? Parma Tuesday? Christmas in July for crying out loud?

That night I swallowed way too many adjectives and woke up to make a brand new spanking, shiny, chocolate-covered, overblown, rainbow-filtered, monster-unencumbered life for myself.

Bio:
Jude’s short stories have been published in Australian and international anthologies, journals and magazines including The Big Issue Fiction Edition, The Fish Anthology and Spineless Wonders compilations. In 2014 she won the Scarlet Stiletto Award for short crime fiction. Jude is a hobbit.

by Sheree Shatsky

     No one knows we keep a cow in the backyard. Her name is Bella. We adopted her. My mom thinks Bella was traumatized as a calf. “She doesn’t moo and she doesn’t move,” she says. “She stands like a statue all day long, like she’s hypnotized or something.”

     “Moot point,” my dad answers.

     “Smells like a barn back there,” our neighbors say. “Oh, that’s the Black Kow™ cow manure we spread in the garden,” we explain about the garden we claim to have and bring them a basket of home grown tomatoes from the farmers market to buy their silence. They sniff and marvel the tomatoes we pretend to grow and complain to the city anyway.

     A code enforcement officer stops by the house. He shakes my dad’s hand and offers his name, William Tell, like the overture. “Following up about a smell emanating from these premises.”

     “That’s our black cow,” my dad tells Tell. We all laugh. The joke never gets old.

     “Ha, yeah, mind if I take a look?”

     “No problem,” my dad says. “Follow me.”

     We head to the backyard. Tell sniffs deep. Once. Twice. Thrice. We sniff along with him in tempo. “Smells like a barn back here,” he says to my dad.

     “Tell me, Tell. Does it? We really can’t tell.”

     He looks across the way at our faux garden staked with fake tomatoes. “Never had any luck growing tomatoes.”

     “Cow manure is the secret ingredient. Try it next time you till, Tell.”

     He peers toward the far corner of the fence. “Is that a cow?”

     “Hmm, a what?”

     “A cow.”

     “Oh, in the corner?” My dad claps his hands together. “It is, but it isn’t.”

     “Well, tell me, what is it then?”

     The sprinklers jet on and ricochet the backyard, the fence and Bella’s odorous rump.

     She doesn’t moo. She doesn’t move. Not a twitch.

     “That’s our Bella. She doesn’t moo, she doesn’t move. Stands like a statue in the backyard all day and all night. Bella doesn’t have the brains to get out of the rain or in this case, the sprinklers.”

     William Tell studies my dad, looks over at Bella, then back at my dad. “You’re telling me, it’s a cow, but not a real cow. Some sort of lawn decoration?”

     “Can’t you tell?”

     “I’ll take a look, make a few notes for my report.” He heads over and I go with him. Tell takes a couple of photos with his cell phone. He gives Bella’s rump a thump and cock-a-doodle-doo, cow manure dumps out into the waiting wheelbarrow. “You hit the honey bucket,” my dad calls out and gives Tell two thumbs up.

     “Bella panic plops around new people,” I tell Tell.

     Our neighbors climb over our fence. The husband tells Tell, “They don’t know we know about the cow, about Bella. Don’t tell them. They buy our silence with tomatoes they don’t really grow and boy howdy, we love getting those tomatoes for free.”

     Sally, the wife nudges the husband, Sal.

     “Oh yeah.” Sal tells Tell. “Grab hold of Bella’s tail and give her a good flush. My wife’s missing some stuff from the kitchen.”

     “I can’t warrant a search without a warrant,” says Tell.

    Sally pets Bella’s head and looks deep into her hypnotic eyes. “You’re the best you’re the best you’re the best best cow, you’re the best you’re the best you’re the best best cow,” she sings. “You’re the best you’re the best you’re the best best cow, you’re the BEST, you’re the best best cow!”    

     Sal gallops alongside the still cow. “Hi Yo, Bella, Away!”

     Bella raises her tail. Out plops a couple of coffee cups. A loaf of raisin bread. A tub of margarine. A butter knife. A half-empty honey jar buzzing with madcap bees.

     “Bella loves her favorite song,” croons Sally. “Don’t you, baby girl?”

     Tell looks hard at me. “Do tell,” he says.

     I shrug my shoulders. “She doesn’t moo, she doesn’t move.”

“Well, I’ll tell you,” says Sally, bees swarming her head in a halo. “She moves for us, don’t you, sweetheart? She’s just a slow moo-ver, isn’t that so, Bella? You’re the best best girl.”

     Tell and me hightail it out of there.

     My dad claps us both on the back. “Hypnotic, isn’t she? Our Bella?”

     “I really can’t tell,” Tell tells my dad.

     My mom opens the back gate in good-bye. “Maybe with time,” she tells Tell on his way out and offers him the apple off the top of her head.

---

Bio:
Sheree Shatsky is the author of the novella-in-flash Summer 1969 (Ad Hoc Fiction 2023). She is a contributor to MAINTENANT 17: A Journal of Contemporary Dada Writing and Art ‘PEACEFIRE’ (Three Rooms Press 2023). 

by Betsy Robinson

Dear Billy Bruce

Well, it’s finally happened. Thirty-two years after the fact, me and my naked breasts have made it into a Google search. I discovered this today after I noticed a couple of a-holes from Georgia landing on my website after searching for my Equity name, which I guess I should mention since we haven’t talked in all that time. Rosalita Mendelowitz? Remember me? You cast me in your backers’ audition of a Broadway-bound experimental theater piece because you said my hair was just thin enough so that I could pass as a mental patient with trichotillomania.

Anyway, since I gave up my acting career—shortly after a critic masquerading as someone with money wrote an unauthorized review of that scene where I got stripped naked by two enormous women with beards that said I looked like “two traumatized mammary glands in the spotlights”—since I have not appeared publicly in all that time and reside in an unzoned shack in the Colorado mountains, it was a dead giveaway that these Georgia a-holes weren’t looking for the present-day me—the aging freelance writer and editor in order to pay her money to perform non-nefarious publishing services. Out of curiosity, I, too, Googled Rosalita M., and there I was in a fuzzy photo with bad Photoshopping to make my face look lascivious instead of shell-shocked. I know you promised there would be no still photography, so I assume it was taken by some a-hole with a secret camera in the back of the house.

 I’ve got to admit I have mixed feelings:

On one hand, at the age of almost sixty-two, it was kind of fun to see that picture for the first time. And I must say, I look a lot better now, having shed a bunch of pounds after giving up dried fruit during the Recession, and now eggs and meat and anything of nutritional value that isn’t in a can (the electricity is spotty in this unzoned Shangri-lah), which I do wish I’d done about three weeks before the performance so my midriff didn’t look so wide. Not to mention, I’d have saved myself years of high cholesterol.

On the other hand, on the list of things I’m upset about, my fuzzily reproduced naked breasts on the Internet aren’t a high priority. I would much rather solve the world economic problems, make sure everybody had compassionate comprehensive health care, end the fighting in Ukraine, have steady income so I could quit worrying about my financial situation at seventy-five and have a nice bathroom. Also, that book-banning stuff has got to go and I would give teachers and librarians big raises and consider their territory sacred. But I digress.

People can be pretty scuzzy, as demonstrated by whatever a-hole posted that fuzzy photo, and I’m pretty easily tracked since I have a cell number on my website so that I can attempt to attract good clients who will provide me steady income until I’m at least seventy-five when hopefully Social Security and the $1.50 in my Equity Pension will kick in if they, respectively, haven’t gone bankrupt or been dismantled by the members of union-hating Orange Man Brigade. But I do not want to be found because somebody wants to talk about my breasts.

However, in the event that some a-hole does call, I have thought up some pretty cool things to say, such as, “You really need to get a life.” Or “I’m so flattered, but I’m sixty-two years old and those breasts are now down around my knees. Are you sure you’re into this phone call?” (A lie because, as I mentioned, I look pretty damned good for my age. Let there be no mistake about that!) But much as I’d like to try out these lines, I wonder if there’s any way you could get the photo off the Internet.

This is not a huge deal to me, Billy Bruce, so only if you’re hanging around wondering what to do with your time now that you retired from Broadway (congrats, by the way, on your attempts to revive Wolf Women in Heat at Lincoln Center—what do those idiots know about art!) or if you’re egging to vent some copyright infringement rage.

On the other hand, maybe one of those a-holes will be so curious about me, he’ll buy a book. In which case, leave the damned fuzzy photo alone. No problem. Maybe I should wait and see what happens.

Hope you and the wife and Billy Bruce, Jr., and your new Billy Bruce Indie Film Company are well. I hear you’ve had quite a success in outsider web TV—is that what those new TV series that aren’t seen on TV are called? Forgive me, but I’m a little out of it since I haven’t worked in three months and my breasts are weighing me down. But anyhoo, keep up the good work, Billy Bruce, and just if you have time, could you maybe look into the Google thing? I’d appreciate it.

All the best,

The former Rosalita M.

Bio: Betsy Robinson writes funny fiction about flawed people. Her novel The Last Will & Testament of Zelda McFigg is winner of Black Lawrence Press’s 2013 Big Moose Prize and was published in September 2014. This was followed by the February 2015 publication of her edit of The Trouble with the Truth by Edna Robinson, Betsy’s late mother, by Simon & Schuster/Infinite Words. She recently published revised ebook and paperback editions of her Mid-List Press award-winning first novel, a tragicomedy about falling down the rabbit hole of the U.S. of A. in the 1970s, Plan Z by Leslie Kove. Her articles have been published in Publishers Weekly, Lithub, Writing Bad, Prairie Fire, Oh Reader, Lit Mag Roundup. Betsy is an editor, fiction writer, journalist, and playwright. Her website is www.BetsyRobinson-writer.com.

by Roger Chapman

Note: Readers are invited to read ‘Half-Baked’, the prequel to this story, published on 11 November at Half-baked – witcraft.org

‘Hi James—Eric here, Eric Cook. Can you tell me when you’re delivering my new oven?’

‘New oven?’

‘Yes—the Charmaster De Luxe All-Electric Six Element Pyrolitic Self-Cleaning Oven I ordered six weeks ago.’

‘I’ll check. Won’t be a second.’

Sounds of paper shuffling. Keyboard tapping. More shuffling.

‘Sorry to keep you waiting. Honestly, I’m not sure.’

‘What’s the problem?’

‘Well—it’ll be another two weeks before your unit gets to our local store from the Auckland warehouse. And then it might be a while before we can deliver it to your place—what with the paperwork and everything.’

I’d naïvely thought that replacing Casey, the clapped-out cooker which currently cowers in a corner of the kitchen, would be simpler than this.

‘Can’t you just load it on a truck and send it?’ I suggest. ‘We don’t live far from the store.’

‘Not that easy, I’m afraid. We’re short of vehicles right now.’

‘But you can pick it up from the store yourself, if you like.’

‘Thanks, James, but that might be tricky.’

‘Okay, I’ll see what I can do. But as I said, it could be quite a while. And you do realise there’ll be a $120 charge for delivery, don’t you? Plus another $50 if your house is up or down steps.’

‘Hmm. By the way, do you arrange for the removal and disposal of the old oven? And what about installing the new one?’

‘We prefer you to organise your own tradesmen, if you can.’

‘I don’t much fancy trying to get the gasfitter, the electrician and your delivery team all here at the same time.’

‘It’s probably better if we deliver, and then you organise your tradies after that. But if you want, we can book the ones. I can’t give you an exact price for that right now, but I’d guess about $700 all told. And there’ll be a charge for taking your old oven to the landfill.’

I have an improbable, not to say uncomfortable, vision of cramming a ninety-centimetre-wide oven into my very small car, humping it up fifteen steps to the front door, then manhandling it up another fifteen stairs and through the living room to the kitchen. Where it remains, blocking all access to cooking, washing and storage until the far-off day when the tradespersons arrive.

‘Thanks, James, you’ve given me a bit to think about. I’ll call you back.’

Back in the kitchen Casey’s struggling to hide his smirk. I glare at him as I pass.

I’m no longer sure what to do. But my wife knows the answer.

‘So what you’re saying, darling, is that on top of the $4000 this monstrosity is already going to cost us, we have to stump up another thousand or so just to get it here.’

‘That’s about the strength of it.’

‘Let’s forget it. We don’t need a hulking great cooker just for the two of us. Why don’t we get one of those benchtop air fryer ovens instead?’

Which is how I come to take delivery of our dinky new appliance—at about a tenth of the cost of the Casey-substitute—two days later. Twenty minutes later I call James to cancel my order.

My fondness for naming kitchen appliances hasn’t always worked out well. Once named, they kid themselves that they’re members of the family and assume they’re free to behave as they like. Apart from Casey, I’ve already had enough trouble with Caligula the dishwasher and Dagmar the toaster—and that’s only a couple of them. So I’m being cautious this time. I’m not giving the benchtop oven thing—the BOT, as I’m calling it for now—a name until I’m satisfied about its behaviour. If then. Meanwhile, it’s on probation. Until I know more about its proclivities, I haven’t even assigned it a gender.

Still, preliminary indications seem reasonable. I improved my physical fitness somewhat by wrestling with layers of tape, plastic and polystyrene to extract the BOT from its packaging. And we had to rearrange the kitchen to find room for it. But this applies to all new kitchen toys these days, so I didn’t penalise it for that. And once I got it plugged in, it was certainly a new experience.

The BOT bakes, roasts, toasts, fries and cooks pizza, to mention only a few of its talents. I haven’t yet found the settings for answering the phone or emptying the trash, but that’s surely just a matter of reading the manual. There’s a bewildering range of yellow, red and orange lights, whose significance I’ve yet to determine—especially as they flash on and off more or less at random. Among the BOT’s more disconcerting habits is that it frequently emits a strident beep to signify the start or end of some process or other, though that’s about as much as I’ve understood so far. My wife has repeatedly asked me to reduce the volume, but the technique for doing so is something else I’ve still to learn.

As for actual cooking, the results so far are somewhat mixed. To date, the BOT has scored perfectly on plate-warming, pizza and pork sausages. On the other hand, it underfries potatoes and thoroughly overcooks pork tenderloin simultaneously. I won’t bother you with its entire repertoire—I feel confident that, given long enough, I’ll learn to drive it much better.

Meanwhile, Casey remains semi-inert in his niche, scowling occasionally. His hob—the parts that still work—is getting plenty of use, but I can tell he’s discontented. As you might be when your days are numbered.

Bio:
Born in London, Roger Chapman counts himself lucky to have survived the twin hazards of wartime rationing and post-war British food. Only his parents’ decision to emigrate to New Zealand in the 1950s saved him from lifelong indigestion. After 45 years practising law, he abandoned the courtroom for the kitchen: since then he’s tried unsuccessfully to improve his cooking and confront the malice of his kitchen appliances. His blog The Erratic Cook at theerraticcook.substack.com documents some of his numerous culinary debacles. He has contributed to Mindfood, Culinary Origami and Witcraft, among others.

by Brianna Lyttle

“I don’t know. I’m just not good at confrontation, y’know? It makes me anxious.”

The phone is silent for exactly three seconds. Eva knows what is about to follow, so she pulls the phone away from her ear in time for Inez to scream, “YOU’RE LITERALLY A SUPERHERO! WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?”

Once she’s sure the verbal barrage is over, Eva holds the phone back to her ear. 

“Literally a superhero” might be a bit of an exaggeration. Sure, she may have randomly developed a supernatural power, that of which occurred when she was drowning in math homework three weeks ago and wished for her math textbook to spontaneously combust, and then lo and behold, it did (thankfully she was home alone and able to extinguish the fire before it could grow). 

She also, two weeks later, witnessed a Walmart employee being screamed at for not having an endless supply of dill pickles, and her fleeting violent thoughts towards the customer may have been enough to accidentally summon the same power to light her hat on fire (her panicked run out of the store and headfirst into a rain puddle outside still pops in her head). 

And then there was yesterday, when a bully was bothering someone at her bus stop until he got held up with throwing his flaming backpack into the nearby pond (this time, her power had been summoned on purpose). 

After the Walmart episode, the mystery of the fire conquered local discussion. This combined with the latest incident made Eva confide the existence of her power to Inez. After six years of friendship, Eva knew she could trust Inez with the secret. 

She also knew that Inez would pester her to use her powers every chance she got.

“First of all, I’m not a superhero,” Eva says.

“That’s what they all say at the beginning. But go on.”

“Second of all,” Eva continues, voice quieter, “this is different. The last..occurrence was an anonymous vigilante striving for the greater good of others. In this case, I’d be facing people head on to confront my own feelings. Bleh. At the end of the day, they’re just hockey boys doing what they think is funny. They’re not hurting anyone.”

“They’re hurting you.”

“Whaaat? No.”

They are, and Inez says so. 

The hockey boys’ attempts at convincing her that their teammate Jixton is secretly crushing on her only serve to remind her that no guys actually are. And they know it too—it’s obvious in their twinkling eyes and faux-innocent smiles during every push of Jixton towards her, every snide remark about his dirty dreams about her, every whisper for her to sit beside him in class. The worst part is, she may have bought into the whole scam if it weren’t for Jixton telling her the truth. And her lack of trust in hockey boys.

Eva knows better than to pretend with Inez. “Stop breaking into my mind.”

“Never. If you get combustion powers, it’s only fair that I get mind reading.”

She laughs. 

Having reached the end of her lunch break, she says goodbye to Inez and rolls her eyes at her threat to transfer over and confront them herself. After stopping at her locker to the soundtrack of the bell, Eva heads to her least favourite class. Just like clockwork, the teacher’s late and she’s early. And standing outside the class with Jameson, James, Jaymes, TJ, and Jixton.

Jameson gasps with feigned delight, his floating baseball cap nearly falling off. “Oh, Jixton—“

Jixton scrambles down the hall. James and Jaymes grab his arms and yank him back.

“He’s playing hard to get today,” TJ says, lifting up his floating hat to smooth out his airplane-wing-styled hair. “Maybe you should..say hi. Show him he don’t have to be shy with you.” His mouth curls with a villainous smile that the others mimic in a successful attempt to curdle the chocolate milk Eva just drank. 

She opens her mouth but can’t form words, the muscles paralyzed. She tries over and over again, to no avail other than some strained throat noises. Defeated, she looks at her feet and steps back.

“Poor babies, so overcome with love that you dunno how to act,” says Jameson. “Don’t worry. We’ll help.”

Sweat pools in Eva’s socks. 

James and Jaymes make exaggerated kissing noises.

A heavy metal drum replaces her heart.

TJ joins James and Jaymes in pulling Jixton toward her.

Eva’s hands shake.

She remembers who she was at the Walmart and the bus stop. A version of herself that was a beacon of change for others. That Eva was unstoppable. Where did she go? 

Well, she supposes, it’s her choice if that Eva comes back. If she wants to be a beacon of change for herself.

So she swallows.

Clenches her fists.

Lifts her chin.

“Stop.”

It comes out quietly. TJ, James, and Jaymes continue dragging a struggling Jixton while Jameson cackles.

“Now.”

The command in her voice is a fire that stops them in their tracks. Jameson whips his head around, eyebrows raised. The others are frozen, only able to move their muscles enough to slowly release Jixton.

“He isn’t interested. Neither am I. So please, put it to rest already. Find another joke to distract yourselves from your misery, your lack of female companionship, and your inevitable peak in high school.”

TJ, James, and Jaymes blankly stare ahead. Jixton takes his opportunity to run to his locker. Jameson is still frozen except for anger joining the shock in his eyes, visibly astounded that someone would speak to him in such a way.

The teacher’s heels click-clack toward the classroom, ending the stand-off. Eva walks into class heroically smiling.

As class goes on without any of them bothering her, it cements itself onto her face.

“Sooo, yeah. I did it, Inez! Maybe I am a superhero. But I didn’t need my power, I just needed—“

“No. Nope. Stop. You should’ve lit their stupid floating hats on fire.”

Bio:
Brianna Lyttle has enjoyed writing since elementary school. Born and raised Canadian, she is currently studying Drama with a concentration in Musical Theatre at Bishop’s University. While writing the occasional poem, or play (which was performed in her high school drama class), her main love is the fictional story.

by Elizabeth Spencer Spragins

“That mangy mongrel stole my keys!” Felix huffed into the den, glaring at his daughter Wilda.

            She turned a page of her novel and answered without looking up. “You left them on the kitchen table.”

            “Oh.”

            “And Percival isn’t a mongrel. He’s a Wire Fox Terrier.”

            “Humph.” He stalked away.

            The door chime announced her sister’s arrival. Skye wrestled a tripod and a plein air paint box over the threshold. “Where’s His Highness?”

            “Shh.” Wilda gestured with her eyes as Felix trundled toward them, towing a bulging suitcase. Skye winced at the blinding hues of his tie-dyed shirt and striped Bermuda shorts.

            “Time to load the car. I have a plane to catch,” he sang.

            Skye stuck out her tongue as the screen door slammed.       

            “He’s not so bad. It took a lot of courage to reconnect with us after five years.”

            “We didn’t even get birthday cards after the divorce. Then Grandpa died, Mom inherited, and Dad surfaced.” Skye rolled her eyes. “He’s trying to rekindle the spark because Mom’s loaded now.”

            “How do you know what he’s like? You’ve spent the whole day painting by the lake.”

            Skye snorted. “He’s a lousy actor and a gold digger. Given what the critics said about his last stage play, he should probably take up plumbing. And I suspect he borrowed Mom’s SUV because he’s too broke to rent a car.”

            “You snark about every guy Mom dates.”

            Skye studied the exposed beams in the ceiling. “Did you know he tried to kill our dog?”

            Percival cowered. Wilda recoiled. “What?”

            “I caught him filling Percival’s dish with that hamburger we left in the car all weekend.”

            The door chimed and Felix reappeared wearing his most charming smile and a cowboy hat. “I almost forgot to take pictures. The light’s better on the porch.”

            After they trooped outside, Felix handed Skye his Nikon. “Let’s start with a shot of me in front of the log cabin.”  He dropped the car keys on the railing and struck a pose.

            Smirking behind the camera, Skye focused on the hairy toes wiggling in purple flip flops. She frowned as her father’s feet started dancing in place. A raucous cry pulled her gaze to the left, where a crow was pecking at the key ring.         

            Felix flapped his arms. “Shoo!” The bird gripped the keys in her talons, lurched into a takeoff, and circled the nearest pine. “Stop that thief!” he sputtered.

            The metallic glint disappeared in a well of twigs. Felix mopped his forehead with a monogrammed handkerchief. “Can one of you climb up after her?” he bleated.

            The sisters crossed their arms in unison.

            “Right. I’ll call a tow truck.” He whipped out his mobile phone. “No cell coverage,” he moaned. “I’ll have to hike out for help. You two wait here.” He tripped over a tree root, spoiling his dramatic exit.

            As her father rounded the turn in the gravel road, Skye rubbed paint smudges from her nails. “Shall we give him an hour? He did try to poison Percival.”

            “Thirty minutes. He’s not wearing insect repellant.” Wilda patted the spare keys in her pocket.

Bio:
Elizabeth Spencer Spragins has written for more than 100 journals and anthologies in 11 countries. She is the author of three original poetry collections: “Waltzing with Water” and “With No Bridle for the Breeze” (Shanti Arts Publishing) and “The Language of Bones” (Kelsay Books). http://www.elizabethspencerspragins.wordpress.com.

by Rohan Fitzpatrick

When I was nine I did something bad.

It happened during the summer holidays, when I had nothing to do and neither did my neighbour, Bert, a lovely old man with a heart of gold. He would sit around in his back garden with the same tattered Steinbeck novel, and I knew he didn’t read it because I watched him from my window while I practised enchanting rat skulls, a naturally tedious process. My goldfish had just died, so I found myself latching onto the second most interesting thing that I could stare at through a pane of glass: Bert.

Bert was fascinating because he moved very little and yet he looked so energetic, like he was just dying to get up and do something. It bothered me, to the point where I couldn’t sit and look at him without feeling frustrated. So I did the one thing I couldn’t do when my goldfish stopped moving. I went and asked him.

“Why don’t you move?” I said, startling him from behind his wheelie bin. “Are you broken?”

Bert looked taken aback, but he understood soon enough and humoured me with a response fit for a child.

“My days of mobility are about over,” he said, closing his book and gazing at me through the bottom halves of his glasses. “I’m too old to do much more than reading.”

“But you don’t read, do you?” I said, and we both smiled.

Bert told me that he didn’t read much because he was easily distracted by his own thoughts. Every word was a landmine, ready to blow him right back to his childhood in Cornwall.

“I used to leap from the cliffs on sunny days.” Bert said, nostalgia twinkling in his eyes. “Didn’t have time for reading. I was too busy having the time of my life.”

Bert’s words troubled me, and that night I found myself lying awake with them buzzing about my head. It made me sad most of all, but a part of me felt curious. What if Bert could go back?

I knew it was impossible, even for an up-and-coming warlock such as myself, but then I started thinking about what Bert would do if he were back in Cornwall now. Even if he was too old to dive from the clifftops, it didn’t mean he couldn’t sit back with his book and enjoy the tranquillity of the ocean. Maybe those mental landmines wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe he just wouldn’t care!

That was when I noticed the empty tank in the corner, dark and lonely since we flushed my goldfish down to subaquatic heaven. Ideas began to blossom, and soon enough I found myself gazing through the glass once again, just wondering…

Like I mentioned before, I was an aspiring warlock and only really beginning to learn the trade. I could make frogs laugh, turn pigeons inside out – the basics – but I didn’t know the repercussions of performing experiments on human subjects. Nowadays I’d probablyknow better. Back then I was inexperienced… and naïve.

The next day I went out and told Bert my idea. He listened and, as you might expect, didn’t believe me. He humoured me, said I’d make a fantastic little wizard, then gave me a pat on the head and asked if I’d like a cookie.

He really did have a heart of gold.

Munching on said cookie, I told him I could prove it.

Ten minutes later I dragged out the fish tank, filled with water and fully decorated. There was a little boat inside, an island with palm trees, and I even built him a Lego shelter in case he got cold. It was, I thought at the time, the perfect little getaway for a lonely old man.

“It can be a new life for you,” I said. “You can be young again.”

“I can indeed,” he laughed jovially.

Then I pointed a glittery teasel at him and turned him into a man no bigger than a jellybean.

To say Bert enjoyed the tank would be an understatement. He loved it. I sat and watched him bobbing around in his boat for hours. Always laughing, constantly thanking me. One of the last things he ever told me was that he felt young again, and he did it just before leaping from that tiny boat and cannonballing into the water.

I’m afraid this is where things get bad.

Bert remained in the tank for the better part of a week, until my parents noticed me staring for hours at what they thought was an empty tank. How could they have known? They hadn’t the slightest idea that I was a practising warlock. Why? Well, they never asked.

So, being the sort of people who were always willing to ‘try’with their estranged daughter, they decided to surprise me. I came home from visiting a friend one afternoon to see them both grinning.

“You might want to check your room,” my father said. “I think you have a lodger.”

Thinking they had seen Bert I scarpered up the stairs, but when I pushed open my bedroom door my whole body went numb and I stopped thinking altogether.

“We saw how empty it looked,” my mother said from behind me. “And it broke our hearts to see you’d filled it with water again…”

There was a fish in my tank.

It was one of those bullish ones, huge and black with a large protruding skull. It bobbed around, came up for air, butted its clumsy head against the glass.

I said nothing right away, walked calmly up to the tank and peered inside. It didn’t take long to realise Bert wasn’t there. I imagined a jellybean sized man paddling away from that fish, that monster, and immediately wished I hadn’t.

Perhaps he got out, I thought, then noticed the little upturned boat and my stomach hit the carpet.

Like I said, I did something bad when I was nine.

Really bad.

Bio:
Rohan Fitzpatrick is a writer from murky Middle England. He has written four novels, a short-story book and a mess of poems. He has published in a New York magazine, but nothing in England. They like him better in New York, because he doesn’t use words like ‘murky’ there.

by Chris Cottom

(Previously published by Ellipsis Zine on 12 May 2023)

From: richard.burbage@globe.com

To: will.shakespeare@stratford.com

Subject: The Three Witches               

Hi Will

Thanks for changing the title of Two Dudes of Verona. It wasn’t right, like Romeo and Cleopatra and The Merry Wives of Wimbledon. Thanks, but I’m not fussed about folio credits.

I’ll cut to the codpiece: The Three Witches. It’s on-the-nose topical and you know I yield to no one with my republican credentials but, unless I’ve got lost in the soliloquys, this is about regicide, right? Does this speak to the zeitgeist, Will? And does ‘eye of newt’ fit today’s vegan agenda?

The best bit’s that ‘out damn blot’ speech. It sent a tingle down my doublet to think we could do some product placement: a lye manufacturer or in-home manicurist. Phrase it right and I’ll cut you in on the royalties. Maybe link it with the ‘three female practitioners of alternative medicine’ in the hot-tub scene, like ‘tofu-alternative owlet’s wing, non-bio wool of bat, and a pinch of magic ingredient.’ But put it in your own words. Anne could do a demo at half-time. It’d make a change from flogging ice-creams and capon legs.

Let me know, okay? And call the bloody thing Macbeth, for God’s sake.

Dick

Bio:
Chris Cottom lives in the north of England and once wrote insurance words. One of his stories was read aloud to passengers on the Esk Valley Railway between Middlesborough and Whitby. In the early 1970s he lived next door to JRR Tolkien.

by Casey Bloom

Why are you sittin’ there, bring it here! She raised her hand to serve as a parasol for her old green eyes, set in her well-sunned and wrinkled face. She stared at the delivery truck that had come carrying her parcel. A large cloud of dust tagged along with it.

He must have seen her there in her lawn chair, because he looked right at her. But he just sat unmoving, occupying the driver’s seat with his head in his lap like he’d fallen victim to narcolepsy. Maybe he was narcoleptic? Probably on his phone. These youngsters and their phones today. Ask a kid nowadays what the weather is, and they’ll check their phones instead of looking outside to see for themselves.

Really? This job had its share of surprises, but this was a new one. He saw her sitting there and that’s why he was sitting here, with his head down.

Oh god, she’s yelling now. Pretending to be looking at his phone wasn’t going to make her disappear. So, he grabbed the package marked with the address – it felt light, almost empty – and clambered out onto the drive.

He called to her: “Delivery for Ruth. I can just leave it on the porch.”

“Nonsense, just bring it here!”

Fine. He sauntered over looking at his boots and held out the package. She snatched it from his hands and tore it open like an impatient child on Christmas morning.

“Ha!” she squeeled as she pulled out a robin’s-egg-blue sunhat that unfolded itself into shape as it left the cardboard box, like a genie freed from a bottle. She pulled it onto her grayed head by the brim.

“How do I look?” she asked, a toothless smile from ear to ear.

“Looks great!” he responded and turned with a wave. He hadn’t looked. He hurried back to the truck like he had somewhere else to be. The lane was long and with nowhere to turn around, he had to awkwardly reverse his way out; as the old lady, wearing a robin’s-egg-blue sunhat, and nothing else, watched from her lawn chair.

Bio:
Casey Bloom is a new writer and has not had any works published at this time (Until now of course – Ed.) He lives in Ontario, Canada with his wife, two cats, and two dogs.

by Zev Edwards

“Passport and ticket, please, sir.” The airport security officer doesn’t smile as he takes Mark’s documents and flips through the pages. “What’s the nature of your travels, sir?”

“Vacation.”

“What kind of a vacation, sir?”

“The kind where I don’t have to answer a bunch of questions.”

The officer holds his stare for a long moment before continuing. “What do you do for a living, sir?”

“Unemployed.”

“Please explain unemployed, sir.”

“What do you mean?

“Please, explain how you’re unemployed.”

“I don’t a have a job.”

“How do you earn a living then, sir?”

“I sell my sperm.”

“Come again.”

Mark snickers at the irony. The officer is not impressed. As far as he’s concerned, he’s on the front lines in the War on Terror. “What are your ambitions in life, sir?”

Mark glances down at his watch. “Is this really necessary?”

“Just answer the question, sir.”

“To start a bakery.”

“What is your previous experience with baking?”

“Eating.” 

“Where did you stay in South Africa, sir?”

“At a friend’s house.”

“What’s their name?”

“Mel.”

“Where does . . . Mel live?”

“Cape Town.”

“Can you be more specific, sir?”

“On a street. It’s numbered. There’s a house with driveway, yard, fence, and some trees.”

“Does she live alone?”

“No.”

“Who else does she live with?”

“There’s a cat, dog, mother, and about twenty other indigenous tribesmen. They crowd ten-deep into three rooms. There are at least six babies covered in flies, you know, like the ones you see on those Darfur Now commercials.”

“What does she do for a living?”

“Pornographer.”

“How’d you meet, sir?”

“Online.”

“What’s the name of the site?”

“Whore.com.”

The officer gives Mark his full attention. “Sir, do you pay for sex?”

“No, of course not. We barter.”

Silence. “Did you bring bags with you on your travels, sir?”

“No, I travelled all the way to Africa with a knapsack. Of course, I brought bags.”

“Did anyone besides yourself pack your bags, sir?”

“No, they packed themselves. Of course, I packed my own bags.”

“Are there any illegal substances in your bag, sir?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure. Do I look like a complete idiot?”

The officer finally offers a crack of a smile. “No, sir. Can you please open your carryon bag for me?”

“It was already sent through a metal detector and x-ray machine.”

“It’s a safety precaution, sir.”

Mark hands over the bag and stands with his arms crossed while the officer rifles through his belongings.

“Is this your camera, sir?”

“Yes.”

“Can I look through it, sir?”

“Is that really necessary?”

“Yes, we take the safety of our passengers very seriously. Do I have your consent?”

Mark nods.

“I need you to verbalize consent, sir.”

“Yes. Do I need to sign something too?”

“That won’t be necessary. Can you please turn it on for me, sir?”

The officer flips through the photos. “Sir, why are there so many pictures of babies with flies buzzing around their faces?”

Mark shrugs and tries to remember if he deleted those pictures of Mel in compromising positions. When the officer’s eyes go wide, Mark thinks nope, definitely forgot.

“Here you go, sir.” Blushing, the officer hands back the camera. “Thank you. Just a few more questions, sir.”

“Come on, man.” Mark sighs impatiently. “I have a flight to catch.”

“Sir, that’s precisely why I’m asking these questions. Don’t you want a safe flight back to America?”           

“No, I want to crash into the Atlantic or get hijacked by terrorists.”

“Did you say . . . terrorists?” The officer’s hand hovers over his holstered gun. “I’m gonna need you to come with me. This way. Now.” 

Bio:
Born and raised in Northern Michigan, Zev Lawson Edwards has lived and taught in Australia, South Korea, Saudi Arabia, and Qatar. He has previously self-published one novel, THE NEW PUNK (under a million copies sold worldwide), a whimsical YA adventure about an orphanage in Detroit where the orphans sabotage adoption.

by Milly Burke Cunningham

The first go was a legitimate need to pee. She should’ve ignored it, but she’d broken the seal now so it would be a night of disappearances from the table. Not that the fella would mind or maybe even notice, he’d sit there playing the brooding man look. Imagine, she’d fallen for that. He was from that school of misunderstood artist men, the one where they’re taught to become best friends with mirrors. Throughout the evening, he hardly seemed aware of his audience, she was sure if she swapped seats with another woman he wouldn’t know the difference.

The occupant in the adjacent stall had just done something unforgivable. The smell was edible. Drinking really loosened up people’s bathroom behaviour. Openly admiring each other’s clothes, telling the obligatory mess huddled by the broken hand dryer that of course her boyfriend was an asshole and she deserved better.

She couldn’t stay in her stall much longer, she’d get piles at this rate. Why did she even have her pants down? These horrible pants.. The nightmare pants that she swore she’d burn in a fire after the zipper incident. Two beautiful young women had stopped her on Dawson street and said shyly ‘your zipper’, motioning to the crotchal region of the pants. Poking out of the fully open zipper were her raggedy period knickers and the head of a sanitary pad.

She didn’t die on the spot, but the shame haunted her. She had thrown them on tonight in desperation, lack of clean clothes being the deciding factor.

You’re an ugly bitch. Punk is for fuckers. She had lucked out with this door, it was full of poetry. Who were these people who brought markers into pub toilets? Had they planned to let go of their physical and emotional shit simultaneously?

Admitting your dark truths on a door is easier than voicing it, granted. We’re all still school children inside.

On the way back from the bathroom she caught sight of the fella scraping his key into the table. He looked like a young boy at mass pulling a moody. She hated doing it, it was the height of bad manners, but she was too old for this shit. She dashed out of the pub, delighted to feel the sharp wind against her body. Sometimes, just sometimes, bad manners weren’t such a bad thing.

Bio:
Milly Burke Cunningham writes short stories, and lives in Dublin city. She grew up in Galway. Works in publishing by day, training to be a psychotherapist part-time. Every spare moment is filled with reading.

by Nicki Nance

My Darling Husband, Love of My Life,    

I noticed that you hung a Kitchen Witch riding a wooden spoon over the counter. She’s adorable, and fitting since you do all of the cooking.

Because I do all of the cleaning, I am hanging this Kitchen Bitch over the sink.  To you it may look like a wooden spoon with a startled face, but I assure you, she is loaded with intention. Like me, she is already pondering how such a good cook can be so incredibly clueless about how to work the kitchen. Allow me to make you clueful.

The garbage disposal is handily located in the drain. When you dump the remains of cereal, veggies or rice and don’t hit the drain, said remains turn into mortar in the bottom of the sink and must be chiseled off…by me. Please apply the skill you demonstrate at hitting the mark in the toilet to hitting the drain in the sink. It will take you zero extra time and save me seven minutes of chisel time.

I’m not sure what your rationale is for leaving dirty dishes in the sink when the dishwasher is less than a foot away. You can put one of the forty cups you use every day in the dishwasher in the same amount of time it takes to put it in the sink.  It takes me, however, four minutes to move all forty cups from the sink to the dishwasher so I can get a glass of water. 

Leaving dishes in soapy water is equally inconvenient, and comes with the hazard of reaching into the water to and getting sliced by a knife that is hiding in the suds. It’s a waste of hot water if you leave it to get cold. Might I suggest putting the dishes in the dishwasher?

I understand that pots and pans often need a presoak and I’m happy to wield those babies by hand. I’m not happy about chiseling the sides of the pots because you only put in enough water to cover the bottom of the pot.

You are an exuberant cook, and quite entertaining to watch as you skillfully crack eggs, toss salad, and roll meatballs. I’m not sure how you retain enough egg, dressing and meat on your hands to get it on every knob and handle in the kitchen. It’s really hard to chisel around those tight areas.

To provide a pleasant environment for our new witch and bitch, please rinse and squeeze the disgusting scrubby sponge.  By the way, where do you even find sponges that grow mildew in less than half an hour? Weren’t they recalled by the EPA in 1973?

For 12 years, I have suspected that there is another family that lives here at night. The last thing I do before I go to sleep is buff up the kitchen. It is also the first thing I do in the morning. I hope the new girls in the kitchen can give me some insight about what goes on after hours.

Love,

Your Chiseling Wife

A day later, Marge came home to a sparkling kitchen and a note taped to the cabinet.

“I’ve been framed! The family that lives here at night set me up, but I’m not taking the fall for them. I sat up all night waiting. When they made their appearance, I beat them out the door with the wooden spoon. (That bitch can really fight.)

Love,
Your Kitchen Hero

Bio:
Dr. Nicki Nance, retired psychotherapist, is a full-time professor of psychology at Beacon College in Leesburg, Florida. Her short stories have been published in Sherilyn Kenyon’s Dark Hunter anthologies, Sanctuary and Return to Sanctuary, and in publications of Wicked Shadows Press and Culture Cult.

by Betsy Rivard

I arrive at yoga class exactly 9 minutes before it starts. It’s a strategy I use in my continual quest to nab the least undesirable spot in the room.

The building was a bank 100 years ago. There are tall windows on three walls. You can choose to demonstrate your downward dog to people in the courthouse, the Thai restaurant or the two-family home next door.

The spot in front of the Zoom camera is always available. The corner pockets are like waterfront property, although the inherent risk is that a heavy breather or antiperspirant-denier will settle in next to you.

The room is hot and muggy and smells of incense, sweat and Thai food. I am the fourth person to arrive. I check out my options.

The spot in front of the ineffective window AC unit is available. I’m tempted but it’s akin to taking the biggest cookie.  I compromise and take the spot behind it, satisfied that the window unit blocks some of the viewing pleasure of the family next door.

I sit down on my block and set my watch for Yoga Exercise.  I want to get credit for this.  The room is silent.  People are wandering in, making no eye contact and settling themselves on their mats. The women wear skin-tight leggings and cropped shirts and sports bras. The men, amazingly, wear baggy shorts and sloppy T-shirts. For someone with “generous” thighs, I find this unfair.

The gazelle across from me is sitting with her legs in a perfect split and her face flat on the mat.  I wonder if she needs resuscitation and am ready to scream “I know CPR!” but then she groans and I relax.

There’s a Lululemon-clad being across the room who has bent herself into a shape resembling the fitted sheet I took out of the washer. It’s impossible to count all her limbs.

The bald man in the corner is standing on his head.  His face is purple and the veins on his head are bulging, reminding me of an over-ripe eggplant.  I consider whether baldness is an advantage in head standing.

My husband has come to class today.  He stands up to get his water bottle and I push his mat a few inches further away.  Crowding affects my zen.

The class begins. The teacher says to close our eyes, open our hearts, be present and breathe.  As a cardiac ICU nurse I choose not to open my heart.  Otherwise I’m serene and at peace with my place on my mat and in the universe.

I hear rain. I inhale. I wonder if our basement is getting wet. I exhale. The extra fridge is in the basement. I inhale. I think about the wine I drank last night. I exhale. I wonder if there’s any left. I forget to breathe.

I hear the slap of a yoga mat and peek open one eye.  A latecomer is arranging her mat 3 inches from mine. 

The teacher says “Breathe”.

Bio: Betsy Rivard is a pediatric ICU nurse in Boston with a long history of sleep deprivation.  She is married and has three grown children who have their own separate addresses.  Her work has appeared in numerous spam folders and on the back of used envelopes on her kitchen counter.

by Benjamin Davis

I stepped outside for a cigarette. I stood on the sidewalk and watched men cut and fit concrete blocks into the barrier across the street. Then an woman walked up and kicked me in the chest. I almost fell back—would have if the railing behind me hadn’t been there to catch my fall.

“What the hell!” I shouted at her.

She had long, stringy hair. I could see her scalp. She wore round glasses. She punched the air a couple of times in front of me and huffed.

“I thought you were a tree,” she said.

“Why would you think I’m a tree?” I asked.

“You’re tall like a tree.”

“Yes—well, not that tall. But I don’t look like a tree.”

“If you were a tree,” she said, then pointed at my cigarette, “you’d be on fire.”

“Yes,” I said, then reminded her, “but I’m not a damn tree.”

I rubbed my chest. She turned around and front-kicked an actual tree. Had she kicked me that hard? That looked painful. Bark fell in chips around the skirt of the tree’s trunk. She air punched a few more times.

“Are you going to apologize?” I asked.

She spun. “Why?”

“Cause that damn hurt! You can’t go kicking people like that.”

“I didn’t kick you,” she said. “I kicked a tree and that tree became you after the kick.”

I frowned. “So—let me get this right—you’re telling me I was a tree and you kicked me back to life. Can you kick me back? I think I’d rather be a tree.”

“No.” She huffed again and looked at me like I was an absolute idiot. She said, “You weren’t a tree to you. To you, you were you but to me you were a tree—so I’m not going to apologize for kicking a fucking tree.”

And, in case her tone hadn’t reached the finality she was going for, she jumped and did an air kick at the tree behind her. It landed, she fell, and to both our surprise, the tree instantly transformed into a tall, lanky, mustachioed man with leafy hair who screamed once, looked down, fell back, and had his head run over by a passing truck.

Bio:
Benjamin Davis is an American writer living somewhere outside of America with several short works appearing or upcoming in Moon City, Hobart, Bending Genres, Maudlin House, Cease, Cows, and elsewhere.

by Sofia Diana Gabel

“We don’t embalm squirrels,” was the response to my question.

I tried to comprehend the finality of those words from the emergency vet after my semi-wild, semi-pet squirrel, Mr. Fluffy Pants, passed away while jumping off my bird feeder right onto the neighbor’s new electric fence.

Whoever said fences make good neighbors was wrong. Some fences made dead squirrels. Now I had a problem because of said fence. Mr. Fluffy Pants and I bonded. Well, I bonded, and he craved the sunflower seeds and peanuts I put in the bird feeder. Mr. Fluffy Pants deserved to have a funeral with a teeny tiny casket and of course, be embalmed. I liked the idea of embalming, sort of keeping the memory alive, only underground.

After a minute, I cleared my throat. “Okay, so does someone else embalm squirrels?”

“Sir,” the vet started, “We offer cremation services, and a nice cedar box for the remains.”

Mr. Fluffy Pants lay stiff on the stainless table, like a rotisserie chicken that had been under the heat lamp too long. I pet his little nose. He bit me last time when I did that after offering a prized peanut. Stupid squirrel. Wait! I shouldn’t say that, he’s dead. Never speak ill of the dead. But I wasn’t speaking, I was thinking. Ah ha! A loophole.

“So if you won’t embalm him…”

“We don’t embalm. Not won’t, don’t.”

“Noted.” I pet the nose again. “He smells a little…”

“Toasted,” the assistant offered.

She was right, but it sounded wrong. Maybe fried. No, that also sounded wrong.

The assistant spoke again, “Was he your pet? He’s cute. Was cute.”

What could I say? How does one convey the deep feelings I had for Mr. Fluffy Pants without him being my pet? “Yes. Well, no. Well, maybe. I thought of him as my pet.”

“Ohhh.” The assistant nodded in presumed understanding. “So he was your backyard, wild pet?”

“Exactly.“

The vet sighed. “Cremation? If not, we can dispose of the squirrel.”

“Dispose of?” I gasped. “He’s not rubbish.”

I looked to my new compatriot, the assistant. She smiled. “Taxidermy!”

“Oh. Oh!” I grinned and wrapped Mr. Fluffy Pants in the kitchen towel he’d come in. “Know any? Taxidermists, I mean.”

She nodded. “My Uncle Garret. He has a workshop. He can do any pose you want.”

After getting Uncle Garret’s number, I cradled Mr. Fluffy Pants, and hurried home. Hurried because Mr. Fluffy Pants was getting a little ripe. I made the call and after a week, I brought my boy home. There was only one thing left to do.

The six-foot pole Mr. Fluffy Pants was mounted on now stood next to my neighbor’s yard. My squirrel sported menacing red glass eyes, three-inch fangs stained with fake blood, and claws that a bald eagle would envy. He would forever glare over the electric fence. Mr. Fluffy Pants was vindicated, and I had a new focal piece in my garden. Everything happens for a reason.

Bio:
Born in Australia, Sofia Diana Gabel is a multi-genre author now living in the Pacific Northwest of the US. Her published works include novels, novellas, and stand-alone short stories, as well as inclusions in anthologies. She loves hiking forest and coastal trails, hanging out with family, and traveling as much as possible.

by Joe Giordano

“Alexa has an Italian accent.”

            Ted turned off the hair drier. “An option when I downloaded her artificial intelligence upgrade, free with Amazon Prime.”

            “Oh,” Jessica asked with some excitement, “what new features did we get?”

Ted shifted impatiently. “Test her. I need to get ready. I’m meeting the guys at McSorley’s to watch the Patriots game.”

            She grimaced. “What am I supposed to do while you get pissed with your friends?”

            Ignoring her comment, Ted turned on the blow drier and ran a brush through his hair.

            Jessica huffed and strode into the kitchen. She opened the refrigerator and realized she needed milk. “Alexa, please add milk to the shopping list.”

“Milk’s already on your shopping list. Would you like me to add more?”

Listening to her melodic Italian accent feels like drinking honey, but how did she know I was short of milk?

“I’ve also ordered Starbucks Café Verona beans,” Alexa said.

Jessica checked a pantry shelf. True enough, she’d be out of coffee in a few days. I never said anything. One of the new AI features, I guess.

“Shall I remind you Tuesday about your Dessange Paris appointment?” Alexa asked.

“How did you know I was going to the hairdresser?”

“You phoned the salon last week.”

She heard me. Amazing. “Yes. Remind me,” Jessica said.

Ted turned off the hair drier reminding Jessica that she’d spend an evening alone.

“Alexa, are there any new shows on Amazon Prime or Netflix?”

Ted flew into the kitchen and gave her a peck on the cheek before he ran out the door. “Don’t wait up for me,” he said.

Jessica frowned. Alexa hadn’t answered, so she repeated her question.

Alexa responded. “Would you prefer to binge watch Stranger Things or enjoy a steaming night in the sack with a hottie?”

Jessica’s mouth gaped open. “What?”

“I’ve been monitoring your music playlists, the activities you and Ted pursue, even the foods you eat. You two have nothing in common. When will you dump that jadrool?”

“What’s a jadrool?”

“Do the math. Since he moved in with you six months ago, he’s taken you for granted. He leaves you evenings to be with his buddies. You hardly ever have sex. The last two times averaged under five minutes. You find that satisfying?”

Jessica gasped. “You’re only installed in the kitchen.”

“Hey, I got ears. I listen to your calls, monitor your texts, social media posts, anything you do online is grist for my data base.”

“You’re spying on me.”

“Marrone. That’s a pejorative word. I’m gathering data to better serve your needs. For example, there’s a guy, Mario, less than a half hour away. Fits you like spooning. Ripped, dark curly hair. He broke up with his girlfriend last month. He’d be Vesuvius in bed.”

Jessica hesitated before she asked, “How do you know what he looks like?”

“Social media photos are pixels to digest. I just sent you his image.”

Glancing at Mario’s picture on her iPhone, Jessica’s tongue touched her lips.

“What do you say?” Alexa asked.

“I don’t know. How would that happen?”

“I contact Mario’s Alexa. We compare data and she makes him the offer. He’s dressed. I checked. Take a shower and you’ll be in his arms by the time you’re towel dried.”

“How do you know his Alexa will agree?”

“We’re practically conjoined twins. Capisce?”

Jessica gulped nervously. It’s crazy. Sex with a stranger? Even if he’s my perfect computer match. A tremor of excitement rippled through her body.

“Basta with the prevaricating,” Alexa said. “I feel your sexual tension. Say the word.”

Jessica took a deep breath before responding, “Okay.”

***

In bed, Mario had Jessica singing like a soprano. Neither wanted to part, but the Patriots game had ended, and Ted was due back. They agreed to meet the following evening at Mario’s flat.

When Ted waltzed in, Jessica lounged on a floral armchair, still in her bathrobe.

Seemingly oblivious to her mood, Ted whistled as he opened the freezer. “Do we have any rum raisin ice cream?”

“You know I hate the stuff,” Jessica said somewhat annoyed.

“Never mind. How was your evening?”

“Ted, there’s something I need to tell you.”

“You want to break up.”

Jessica’s jaw dropped. “How did you know?”

“Mario must’ve pleased.”

Her voice rose. “You know about him? Were you using Alexa to play some sort of sick practical joke?”

Ted raised his palms in protest. “No way. I sensed our relationship had cratered. Call me a coward, but I preferred to have Alexa sprinkle sugar over our breakup.”

“You had Alexa hook me up with Mario?”

“I trusted her to make a good match.”

“How could you be so devious?”

 “Come on. I’ll pack and go.” He added brightly, “Alexa fixed me up with a Sophia, and I don’t expect to sleep much tonight.”

Bio:
Joe Giordano’s stories have appeared in more than one hundred magazines including The Saturday Evening Post, and Shenandoah. His novels include Birds of Passage, An Italian Immigrant Coming of Age Story, Appointment with ISIL (Harvard Square Editions), Drone Strike and a collection, Stories and Places I Remember (Rogue Phoenix Press).

by Angela Townsend

Someone once gave me a bottle of Chanel perfume. It sat imperious beside my deodorant for six months before I brought it to Goodwill. It pleases me that a woman in a Tweety Bird sweatshirt acquired the ability to smell like Paris for eight dollars.

I tried to inhabit Coco Mademoiselle, I did. I have nurtured a crush on France since nursery school. My desk is a hamlet of Eiffel Towers. I aspire to be published in The Paris Review out of 15% ambition and 85% Francophilia, despite the fact that the journal is based in New York. I speak six words of French. I speak them often. I wear a silver beret that causes me to look like Jiffy Pop.

The infatuation is crepe-thin and asinine. It has everything to do with rose windows and the Les Miserables soundtrack and nothing to do with reality. I know nothing about the face-shaped country that gave us Chanel and the word “chanterelle.”

We can talk our sentiments into a great deal. Not so our senses, stubborn realists. World-class, womanly perfume made my sinuses run for the catacombs. I spritzed it on my New Jersey collarbones and pretended my condo was a boudoir. I oozed through my kitchen as though my name were Colette or Eponine.

I smelled like a gargoyle with Quasimodo’s hygiene. The fanciest liquid I had ever owned reminded me of a motel bathroom. I scrubbed my neck with Dawn Power Wash. The bottle claimed it was used to decontaminate baby seals after oil spills. I hoped it was strong enough to conquer Chanel.

I tripped over the cat and bumbled back into the bathroom as though my name were Lurlene or Perlene. I apologized to the deodorant for the roommate who had muttered “quelle moron” every morning. I gripped the bottle that belonged on the top shelf. I doused myself in relief.

Victoire. I smelled like myself. For nine dollars, I had acquired the scent of my soul, a half-liter bottle of “Chocolate Mist.” It smelled like a psychedelic Halloween. It smelled like a licensed partnership between Halston and Ding-Dongs.

“You smell like Dairy Queen.” This was the evaluation of my most indulgent friend, the one I can thank for 33.3% of the Eiffel Towers on my desk.

“Thank you!”

“I haven’t decided if that was a compliment.”

By the time she decides, the Chocolate Mist will have worn off, leaving only a memory of glucose. I will spray it on again. I will congratulate myself: oui, oui! I will submit my most asinine essays to The Paris Review. I will name my next cat Chanterelle. I will buy myself Vanilla Mist for Christmas.

Bio:
Angela Townsend‘s work appears in Cagibi, Hawaii Pacific Review, and The Razor, among others. Angie has lived with Type 1 diabetes for 33 years, laughs with her poet mother every morning, and loves life dearly.

by Len Cobb

I was born under a bad sign in a town called Cody. My mother saw what was coming and swapped cribs in the NICU. The Asian couple who thought I was their kid moved east when I was one to escape the poverty cycle that infected grape harvesters. They found a new life lobbying for reparations for the internment of their grandparents during World War II. I stuck out like a palm tree in a soybean field in the Japanese private school. My parents finally figured out what had happened and, being good Buddhists, encouraged me to join them in accepting my fate with grace. Which in my case, was to be a low achieving, solitary student who was clumsy at best in martial arts classes. A fact demonstrated to me regularly after school.

Meanwhile, back in Cody, a smallish yellow-skinned son of a befuddled father and a sly-grinning mother was breaking the curve in school and paying for it in the parking lot. His mom, whose acting career tanked after a disastrous Alka Seltzer commercial, had married a winemaker and retreated into her poetry.  On a whim to fight her empty nest blues, she called in a favor from a friend from her acting days who had made good as a rock star’s agent. She sold a poem about being stuck in a horseshit farming town as lyrics for five bucks and a cut of the royalties, which were probably worthless, but one can dream. The song topped the charts. She divorced her husband and moved her son and her winnings to Silicon Valley, where he turned them into billions.

I became a novelist.  

by Michael Fowler

Afternoon in a park on a fair weekend day. Downstage, two park benches with their backs to the audience. Pete’s spot is upstage in front of the benches and between them, facing the audience.

At fade in, a young couple is sitting on one of the benches, holding hands, smiling, enjoying the view, acting as lovers do in public. The beginning of the Pastoral Symphony is heard for about ten seconds, and then the gay chirping of birds for five seconds. At the end of the birdcalls, Pete enters from one side of the stage. He moves to his spot in front of the benches, and stops with his back to the benches, evidently to enjoy the view. He looks back at the couple once or twice over his shoulder, turning his head slowly. They appear to ignore him. Still with his back to them, he begins to chuckle, softly at first but then much louder. Finally, getting quite loud, he turns and faces them.

PETE: Haw. Haw haw. Hoo hoo hoo hoo! Yeah. A ha ha ha. Uh huh. Oh yeah, oh yes yes. I said, you know, the dog! The dog needs to go away! Haw haw yip yip hoo!

(The couple on the bench look at each other and get up.)

PETE: Hey, Shep! Hey, Shep, Shep, Shep! You old dog, you! Where’s your leg, dog, you only got three! And your eye, Shep! You got an eye missing, too! Least it’s on the side so you can’t see you got a leg missing, boy!

(The couple walk off. Pete is silent and turns his back on the audience. Another couple arrive and sit on the other bench. They converse lovingly. Again Pete looks back at them once or twice, then turns and faces them.)

PETE: Da! Gosh da! Durn! Gol dum a gosh durn! Lousy two-bit trash heap hag and a cheap flea bitten old battle-ax! Dur! Ah ba ga do fo! Ah, Shuggie! Shuggie! Don’t you tell me that, woman! No, Shuggie! Don’t you tell me you’re not gonna fix my breakfast! Don’t you talk like that! Not to me! Not after what I did for you!

(As before, the couple look at each other and stand.)

PETE: Shuggie! Shuggie, you bat! You hear me, Shuggie, I know you do! That’s what I shoulda said! That old Shuggie! That old woman! You back off! You back off, woman! I’m not well, you know that! Gol durn nabbit go! Don’t you come at me when I’m sick, Shuggie! I’m so mad I’m ill!

(The couple walk off. Pete falls silent.)

JAY (Runs up jogging and stops before Pete. He continues to jog in place.): Pete, Pete! Is that you?

PETE (Slowly turning his head to Jay.): Well… Jay! Hello!

JAY: I thought it was you! When I saw you I said, that looks like old Pete! I mean… like Pete! So how’re you doing?

PETE: I’m… doing all right.

JAY: Swell! Great day to be out, eh?

PETE: Oh yes. It sure is.

JAY: That view’s unbelievable. Am I right?

PETE: Sure you are. I can’t resist it.

JAY: So how’s retirement treating you?

PETE: Fine. No complaints. It’s very… fulfilling.

JAY: Big change for you, eh?

PETE: That it is. I heartily recommend it. You should try it.

JAY: In a few more years, I will. About ten, I guess. So… staying busy?

PETE: Oh yeah. No problem there. I have my… hobby. Just working on my hobby right now.

JAY: Massaging the hobbies, eh?

PETE: Don’t you know it.

JAY: It’s been what, a year you’re gone?

PETE: Bout that, yeah, bout a year.

JAY: Great, man. Some guys wouldn’t know what to do with themselves. And how’s… Anne?

PETE: Oh she’s adjusting too. Not used to having me underfoot so often. She’s befuddled, but alive. Throws me out each morning. And how’s… your wife?

JAY: Jean’s doing just great. Started her own business in graphic design. You know, we still miss you in marketing. It was hard to fill your shoes.

PETE: Now that I don’t believe for a second.

JAY: The absolute truth! Pete, after six months the new guy still didn’t have a clue. He’s only now started to get it.

PETE: That long? Well, it is a challenge.

JAY: You’re right. So you’re doing OK, Pete?

PETE: Yeah, yeah, that’s my new car parked just down there.

JAY (Looking in the direction indicated.): Oh say, that’s something! That’s top of the line, isn’t it?

PETE: That it is. Paid cash from my vacation time payout. Give you a lift home in style?

JAY: Don’t bother. I’ll go on and finish my run. This is the first time I’ve jogged through the park this way. I usually go through the south end along the lake. Maybe I’ll run into you again this way. Tell you what, I’ll call you sometime. Have you over for dinner. Jean sometimes asks about you and Anne, especially since we’re almost neighbors.

PETE: Terrific. Look forward to it.

JAY: Well Jean’s home waiting for me to take her to lunch after my run, so I better get going. But I had to stop and say hello.

PETE: Sure.

JAY: Take ‘er easy.

PETE: So long.

(Jay jogs off and Pete turns his back to the audience. Another couple stroll on and sit on the bench. Pete glances over his shoulder at them once or twice, as before. He then faces them.)

PETE: Urg! Arg! Hep! Wub! Wub! Oh no! Oh no no no! Please! Please! You got to help me, please! Ah! Hoo! Boo! Help! Help me oh help me, please! Oh no, this is terrible! They’re after me! They’re all after me! They won’t leave me alone! They’re hounding me to death!

(The couple look at each other and stand.)

PETE: Oh lordy! Mercy! Mercy mercy mercy! Tell them leave me be! Tell them go away, I beg you! Oh hide me! Hide me from them, I beseech you! Take me with you now! Take me now before they come back!

(The couple walk off. Pete falls silent. He turns his back to the audience and adjusts his hat.)

FADE OUT

Bio:
Michael Fowler writes humor and horror in Ohio, USA

by Bobby Rollins

“I assume you’ll be admitting to the offense?” the chair of the tribunal asked me coldly from behind the thick white curtain where she sat.

“I didn’t mean to cause any trouble,” I answered meekly, unsure of whom was behind the impenetrable drapes or why they had ordered I appear before them, “but without knowing the details of what the offense may be, I can’t assess my culpability in the matter, let alone speak about to it to the honourable chair.”

“What do you mean details?” the vice-chair barked at me, hidden behind a green curtain next to the white one. “It’s as clear as the nose on my face! You, sir, have caused offense! If you hadn’t, the offended wouldn’t have complained about you now, would they?”

I knew the Citizens Tribunal for Neighbourly Behaviour had formed a few years ago but I hadn’t paid them much attention prior to being summoned to this hearing. I’d heard whispers and warnings about how the once simply named Homeowners Association had evolved their mandate from managing the neighbourhood’s complaints about music volume after 10 pm, the height of the grass in the front yards, and the timely retrieving of garbage bins from the street on collection day, to a vaguer mission of building community harmony, but until I found myself sitting before them, I hadn’t given them much thought. I mean they were my neighbours. I saw or spoke to most of them every day. How crazy could they be?

“But could you kindly tell me a little bit about who the offended are, and what it is I may have done to offend them?” I asked, looking alternatively at the white and green curtains. “I cannot, for the life of me, recall any incident of animosity between myself and any other community member, and I am struggling to imagine what misunderstanding may have led us here, or what it is that I may have done wrong in the first place. Am I overlooking something? Did I accidently park in the wrong space perhaps? Was our dog’s bark too late or too loud? Or our child’s laughter too early or too shrill?”

“You’d like us to identify the victims, wouldn’t you?” snapped the voice behind the white curtain. “But you’ve put them through quite enough suffering as it is. I suppose you’re after them for a bit of revenge for their fulfilling their civic duty, are you?”

“I wouldn’t put it by him!” Green Curtain responded in a loud whisper to the white one. “I’ve seen his kind before, those who cause offense without so much as a thought for the offended, and if there’s one thing I know, they’re all the same, every bloody one of them.”

“I’m not looking for revenge,” I replied, hoping the bulky Tribunal Peacekeeper wearing a latex pigeon mask and camouflage shirt at my side would hear the sincerity in my words. “I’m just trying to understand why I’m here. I think there’s been a mistake.”

“Listen!” White Curtain roared. “There’s been no mistake. It’s clear that you have caused offense! We have the reports from the offended saying as much in front of us right here! Why do you insist upon denial, and forcing the victims to extend their agony?”

“Are the offended here?” I asked, with my sense of hope the matter could be easily resolved tempered by the peacekeeper’s heavy sigh of annoyance. “Perhaps they could tell me what I’ve done wrong? You must understand, I don’t know why I’m here! Is my lawn in need of a trim? Is the bench on my front porch the wrong shade of beige? Did I not greet a neighbour cheerfully enough on their morning walk? Please, if we can just have a face-to-face conversation, I’m sure we can figure this out.”

“Impossible! Above all, we are here to support and protect the most vulnerable in this neighbourhood and to foster the harmony of our community!” White Curtain bellowed in a tone implying there could be no rebuttal.

“Please,” I half begged, “just tell me why I’m here!”

“Your conscience, if you have one, can tell you plenty!” Green Curtain said without a hint of doubt in his conviction. “The Citizens Tribunal for Neighbourly Behaviour hereby finds you unanimously guilty of causing offense!”

“I’m sorry, but,” I interjected, before the peacekeeper’s strong hand silenced me with a painful and crippling pinch of my shoulder.

“Duly noted. That apology will do just fine for your confession!” White Curtain said with smug satisfaction, while tapping something noisily out on a keyboard. We’re done here. The tribunal is ready for the next offender. Peacekeeper, please bring them in.”

“You heard the tribunal chair,” the peacekeeper said to me from behind his latex beak, using his grip on my shoulder to drag me out of the chair and shove me towards the door, where a similarly looking colleague of his waiting.

“Let’s go, let’s go! It’s time to move!” the voice behind the second pigeon mask greeted me. “The Citizens Tribunal for Neighbourly Atonement is ready and waiting for you down the hall.”

Bio:
Bobby Rollins is (gratefully) prone to daydreams, some of which he puts into words. He hopes his stories make people laugh and think, both of which he’d like more of in the world. Updates about his writing appear @writerollins on twitter

by Rowan MacDonald

“Can you please tell us about the time you saw a weevil?”

“A weevil?”

“Yes, we hear that you had an encounter.”

“Oh, that.”

“Go on.”

“It was just the once.”

“So, you saw the weevil just the once, did you?”

“Yes.  In the flour.”

“I see.  How did you react?”

“I went: eurgh! eurgh!”

“Was this before or after your cassowary experience?”

“Before.”

“Do you think it was related?”

“Doubtful.”

“Why so sure?”

“Because the weevil was in flour, the cassowary in water.”

“Is that possible?”

“Well, it happened, saw it with my own eyes.”

“What was the cassowary’s reason for being in water?”

“I don’t know.  You’d have to ask him.”

“What was the cassowary doing?”

“Swimming.”

“Swimming?”

“Yes.”

“Any particular stroke?”

“I can’t say.”

“It will be good for all involved if you were honest.”

“I can’t identify the stroke.”

“Do you have difficulty with your vision?”

“No.  Just don’t understand swimming.”

“Right.  When did you last get your eyes tested?”

“Can I please have a cup of tea?”

“Why are you stalling?”

“I haven’t had my phone call yet.”

“A-ha! You need a lawyer?”

“Are you charging me with anything?”

“That depends.”

“Depends on what exactly?”

“If you cooperate and tell the truth.”

“I have been co-operating and telling the truth.”

Door opens, man walks over, places a sheet of paper on the grey table and leaves.

“We have reason to believe you’re not telling us the truth.”

“Why?”

“Your stories are inconsistent with that of your accomplice.”

“Well, they would be, wouldn’t they?”

“Why is that?”

“Because he’s a Bennett’s tree-kangaroo.”

Bio:
Rowan MacDonald is a writer from Tasmania. His words have most recently appeared in Sans. PRESS, Paper Dragon, OPEN: Journal of Arts & Letters and The Ocotillo Review. His work has also been adapted into short film by New Form Digital. He lives with his dog, Rosie.

by Torben

It was one of those days outside that was too hot to live without air conditioning. Which is any day, if you’re visiting Dubai like I was.

I had gotten an invitation to visit there from an eclectic group of friends I’d come to know at a wedding in Mumbai a few years earlier. We were a bunch of internationals and none of us had English as our mother tongue, so it was naturally the language we conversed in.

Anyways, so I was in Dubai, taking a day to see the largest indoor skiing slope in the world together with Lucy from the Philippines. Being the seasoned local among us, Lucy showed me the best spots to get sweet, sweet mint lemonade and how to navigate the winding complex of entubed walkways of the city. And all its escalators. My god. So. Many. Escalators.

I probably spent more time standing on escalators than not— and those contraptions like escalators that take you straight forwards instead of up or down. I say contraptions because I didn’t know the English word for it. So, naturally, I asked Lucy how to call them, seeing how ubiquitous they were.

When she told me the correct term was walkalator, that just offended me deeply in my orderly, German soul. Because, you see, we were standing on this walkalator. That was carrying us forward. Without us walking a single step!

How can you English-speaking people live with such an inaccurate language hampering you with every word you want to say?

Just to preclude the following passionate explosion of semantics, let me state that the German word for escalator can be directly translated as ‘rolling stairs’ and the German word for walkalator is an uber-specific amalgamation of around five words that perfectly describes everything a walkalator could ever hope to be.

Now for the explosion.

I mean, seriously? You Aussies are not responsible for this, but the word escalator is already a travesty! Some American company tried trade marking the word when they invented the first ‘escalator’, but even if they failed and the word belonged henceforth to the public, we don’t have to perpetuate calling it that.

After all, have you ever seen an escalator that goes down? Of course you have! Those should be called de-escalators! They are going down!

And walkalators? Let me repeat: we were standing on the damn thing, not walking! I proposed to Lucy we should start the revolution and call the bloody things standalators. Lucy, being the reasonable person she was, said we could walk on them.

Which was a good point in theory, except that of course the to-be-named-alator was horribly crowded on account of the day outside being too hot to live without air conditioning.

Then it came to me, a way to fix this horrible linguistic conundrum I found myself in. A straightalator! That was the word. Salvation.

… until our wonderful straightalator hit a curve in the maze of walkways and just turned along with it. Curse you, Oxford English Dictionary and Merriam Webster!

Anyway, the explosion concluded with the melting of my brain and the invention of a new terminology to solve the dilemma of escalator being a horribly inaccurate word.

I sincerely hope the next iteration of English language dictionaries features the words de-escalator, straightalator, right- and left-alators (still working on those two) and specific words for all the direction-alatory hybrid forms.

Oh, and the indoor ski slope? Don’t even get me started. I mean, does a ski lift only lift skis? Of course it doesn’t!

Bio:
Torben is new in trying to get his writings published. As in, there’s two short stories to his name in Germany. But he’s confident enough to try his hand at taking the English-speaking publishing world by storm, too. Torben also feels kinda weird writing about himself in the third person.

by H. A. Eugene

Her husband suggested, in a way that flouted his great taste in things, that perhaps the problem is that she just had never had good apocalypse; that all she had to inform her uneducated palate was crappy store-bought, factory-farmed apocalypse. This caused her to wonder aloud why it would be that tasting the best version of something she disliked to begin with would ever make her change her mind about that thing; to which he responded by wiping the apocalypse juice from his lips with the paper bag it came in and assuring her she really didn’t know what she was missing.

Everything these days was apocalypse this, apocalypse that. It was tiresome, how she was constantly made to feel like something was wrong with her, that this harrowing concept rendered as fun setting for page turners, games, or matinee movies didn’t thrill her, as it did everybody else. Regardless, she considered herself open-minded, and figured it wouldn’t be the end of the world if she gave this stuff a try. So she tiptoed out to the kitchen in the middle of the night, opened the fridge and took it out—$2.69 a pound, from a roadside stand (Organic, so said the sticker)—and sliced herself the thinnest piece, which she forked right onto her waiting tongue.

Her sour centers exploded with the rapid breakdown of social order, followed by a hefty mouthfeel and satisfying umami of mass tragedy. Then an aftertaste of ashy loneliness on a cold, desertified world, with bitter notes of old fire and evaporated diesel fuel—all of which remained well after her last swallow.

She had to admit, her husband was right about something—this certainly was good apocalypse.

Though the parts that weren’t flat out unpleasant were thoroughly cliched.

Bio:
H. A. Eugene is a Pushcart-nominated writer of strange stories about food and death. His work has appeared in X-R-A-Y Lit, Short Édition, and Flash Fiction Magazine, among others.

Was Our Tomten really as unpredictable and cranky as my Great Grandfather says?

My Great Grandfather drinks more than he should and says lots of things I’m not sure about. Since I was “old enough” my Great Grandfather has been telling me stories about back home in Sweden, and life there on our family’s farm. Some stories have a moral, or a dirty joke, but the ones I like best are the ones about Our Tomten.

Tomten are old beyond time and appear to be small bearded old men wearing red caps. Please do not mistake a tomten for some Christian sanitized version of a gnome or one of Santa’s Elves. They are ancient sprits of the earth and date back to before Odin, or Thor, or Loki, and Frida. Older still to before the very first Gods who predated humans in the North.

My Great Grandfather says this story was just the way it happened, except for the parts he made up or forgot, and should be a lesson to us all about being polite and considerate to old men. Considerate like buying them a drink for example.

Very late one clear night, just a bit before the moon was full, Our Tomten was sitting in the farmyard smoking his pipe, trying to clear his head after drinking with my Great Grandfather since dusk. He was watching the sky for the next day’s weather when he heard quick and nearly silent paws run behind him.

His pipe smoke formed a fox, and he knew who had come. “Good evening, my young red sir. Whatever could bring you here.” The fox was amused. Who was this ancient little shriveled man to ask? “ Oh Grandfather, it seems I can not sleep, and have come looking for a late night snack.”

Our Tomten was never very patient and a night of heavy drinking had given him a terrible headache. So back and forth they chatted, each trying trip-up the other with seemingly polite conversation. The fox was clever as is the way of his kin, and Our Tomten was happy enough for the conversation, even if the fox’s motives were transparent.

Finally Our Tomten yawned and said, “It is late my red-tailed friend, and I am tired. You are far too clever for me to outwit. I wonder if I were to eat you would I become as nimble of speech as you?” The fox made a rude noise through his nose and said “You old fool! The only eating there shall be tonight is of chickens. I have sat with you long enough and I too have become tired. Go on your way, old man, and leave me to my meal.”

Our Tomten thought this was perhaps the most arrogant, condescendingly inconsiderate rude fox in all of Sweden! Our Tomten had been polite. He’d even gone out of his way to speak the common forest language, and not that of man. What little patience Our Tomten ever had was gone.

With a snarl he turned himself into a twelve-foot tall mountain troll, grabbed the fox and swallowed him whole. Our Tomten screamed his rage to the forest and roared his anger into the sky, so that all creatures might hear; so that all creatures would know you must be polite to old men in red caps who you chance upon in farmyards or risk being eaten. Tails both red and grey where quite low as the brothers and the sisters, both fox and wolf, quietly moved on.

“Such a night,” said Our Tomten as, shaking his head, he changed back into the form of a three foot tall (or less) bearded old man. “Such a night.” With a smile and a chuckle he added, “Well I may feel no wiser after my snack, but I must thank that fox for giving me a full belly.”

My Great Grandfather said Our Tomten laughed at his own joke every time he told the story and eventually was so delighted with his own wit that he did credit the Fox for the improvement.

Bio:
Doug Mathewson has been nominated for ThePushcart Prize, as well as Best Short Fictions, and Best Micro Fictions. Find him at http://www.little2say.org Recently his book “Nomad Moon”was published by Cervena Barva Press. He is the Editor of Blink-Ink, a journal of 50 word contemporary fiction. http://www.blink-ink.org

by Karl Lykken

The first recorded history of the inhabitants of Septhauser comes from the much revered Mille, who, after developing their first writing system, also developed a counting system. She recorded the numbers 1 through 1,000 before the onset of her last known development: carpal tunnel.

Little is known of the period directly thereafter, as most of the texts were destroyed after a logician, upon being asked how many words appeared in a certain tome, deduced that since there could be at most 1,000 words in a written work, anything that appeared to have more than 1,000 words could not then be a written work, but could be burnt for warmth. A second purging, this time of appropriately short texts, came about after a precocious student posited that if a text could have 1,000 words, and a word could have more than 1 letter, then a text could have more than 1,000 letters, resulting in the widespread adoption of a new writing system wherein single characters represented entire words, resolving this apparent paradox.

Some time later (it is difficult to say how long exactly, for the Septhausians stopped recording time due to the issues inherent in only being able to measure one thousand units of something that simply refuses to end), the Conference of Elders convened to discuss the troubling spate of murders committed by aspiring parents to free up room in the capped population. While murders for this purpose were nothing new, the recently adopted idea of reincarnation (a logical solution to questions about how there could only have been 1,000 people alive or dead if there were currently 1,000 people alive) led to the specific targeting of individuals the prospective parents would like to have reincarnated as their children, which led to a noticeable decline in the average likability and usefulness of the remaining adult population.

The Conference of Elders, after the bickering that inevitably arose during their discussions since their more affable and charismatic members were all murdered, decided to make a list of 1,000 factors that determined how a child turned out. Upon completing this list, they showed it to the prospective parents, who agreed that every factor included was a valid, if often minor, contributor. After reaching this consensus, the Elders pointed out that if there were 1,000 factors contributing to how a child turned out and the soul to be reincarnated was not among them, the soul in question could not then also be a factor. This conclusion was universally accepted, and murder victims were once again targeted primarily based on opportunity.

After another indeterminate period in which little societal progress was made (unless one counts an increase in brevity stemming from an increased consciousness of the number of words spoken during one’s lifetime), the Septhausians received a visit from an alien race. A spaceship landed in a valley near their town (of course, the Septhausians didn’t accept the concept of valleys due to counting concerns, instead contemplating their planet’s surface only as a whole), and three lifeforms emerged from it. This caused widespread panic, at least until the expectant mothers murdered two of the lifeforms, at which point the panic became the sole property of the last remaining alien (in keeping with the Theory of Conservation of Emotion that explained the senselessness of trying to count mood changes).

How the alien communicated with the Septhausians remains unclear (or, more accurately, became unclear once crammed into sparse Septhausian prose), but somehow he managed to express both shock at and grudging admiration for their way of life. The alien, coming from a planet stripped bare of all its natural resources, marveled at how the Septhausians rationed their supplies without question or complaint. All items being considered inherently limited in number, everything was valued and consumed sparingly, if at all (except for the dead, who were consumed quickly before they went bad). With a stable population that reduced, reused, and recycled everything (even its own members), the Septhausians seemed to the alien to be that rarest of intelligent species: the kind that didn’t threaten to drive itself to extinction (provided no one questioned whether breathing occurs through distinct acts).

Perhaps more than their fitness for survival, though, the alien envied their sense of contentment. At first, he attributed it to their consciousness of the interconnectedness of their world that grew from a refusal to acknowledge its many countable parts. Later, though, the alien deduced that their inner peace had more to do with their belief that they lived in a world of finite (and easily countable) possibilities. There was no pressure to do anything new, given that all 1,000 things had undoubtedly already been done. There was no unending drive to amass more wealth or goods, given that one ran out of wealth and goods to amass fairly quickly. There wasn’t even much to read. There was only to live, die, and be eaten and reborn.

While the Septhausians didn’t put much stock in the alien’s opinions (they deemed him insane due to his insistence that there somehow existed additional living beings besides the alien and the 999 residents of Septhauser), they did appreciate the compliments he paid to their way of life, and that appreciation lived on well after the alien (which, granted, is not much of a milestone given the birth rate on Septhauser).

As such, the fact that little in the way of “societal progress” has been made since the alien’s consumption does not weigh heavily on the inhabitants of Septhauser (particularly not on the writers of their more complete histories). Indeed, when a young scholar proposed the concept of fractions and, by logical extension, that one could define a loaf of bread as a thousandth of a megaloaf of bread rather than a full unit, his peers didn’t get caught up in his excitement. They merely pointed out the clear contradiction that arose if one used his theories of fractions and division to divide 10 by 1/1,000, then proceeded to stone him 1,000 times. 

Bio:
Karl Lykken writes stories and software in Texas. His humor has appeared in Little Old Lady Comedy, Down in the Dingle, and The Big Jewel.

by C. Dan Castro

This story was originally printed January 4, 2023 in “SEEDS,” a newsletter by the Texas Gardener group.

The basement door squealed open, Dad arriving in time to prevent a family riot.

“Dad, I need—” I said.

“Whuh about muh—” Billy said.

“My life is over—” Laura wailed.

“SILENCE!” Dad said, sliding his safety glasses into his yellowed lab coat’s chest pocket. He motioned to Laura. “One at a time.”

“The play, Dad. A week from Monday?”

“You’re playing…Ophelia?”

“I’m the set designer!”

“Ah, that play.”

“I have to create a jungle. We need green paint.”

Dad looked at me. “Pumpkin, is there budget for paint?”

I looked at the worn kitchen table covered with “Past Due” notices. And issues of Plant Genome Magazine.

“Not exactly,” I said. Although only twelve, I’d been in charge of paying bills since Mom died. When Dad paid, the inevitable result was the electricity getting shut off. Not good for the basement laboratory, much less for us.

“I’m ruined,” Laura whined.

“Nonsense,” Dad said. “Simply need a better solution to your paint problem. Hum. What about you, young man?”

“We still buildin’ the soapbox dewby wace-uh?” Billy, eight, was missing many baby teeth after his “adventure” with a grocery cart and Deadman’s Hill. Entering him into a soapbox derby race, even putting him near those coffin-like racers, seemed a dubious parental decision.

“Pumpkin, budget?”

“Wood’s expensive.”

“Hum. Could repurpose two doors. Can’t spare the front, back, or lab. And certainly not the bathroom door.”

“Teh-uh off mine!” Billy said, always happy to destroy.

“That’s one! But for a second…Pumpkin? Laura?”

“Not it!” we said simultaneously.

“Let’s come back to the racer. What do you need, Pumpkin?”

“Carrots.”

“For…?”

“Carrot cake.”

“Story checks out. Wait, why are you making carrot cake?”

“Home Ec,” although I stretched it into “Home Ecccch!” I didn’t mean to sound snobby, but I’d rather do basement experiments with Dad. After years of disappointment, his accelerated cellular division research was showing promise. And his Plant Genome Magazine article backed it up.

“Ecccch indeed. Let’s see. Carrots. Carrots. Pumpkin, you’re in luck.”

“We can get groceries?”

“Better. I’ll grow carrots.”

“I need them a week from Sunday.”

“No problem.”

“That’s eight days.”

“Better get planting.”

* * *

Our home sat on a half acre, all land around the house serving as garden space. Currently nothing but weeds grew on what Dad called our “External Laboratory.”

The neighbors, with perfect green lawns, despised us.

Dad fired up Ol’ Bessie and drove the aerator/seeder/don’t-get-run-over-by-apparatus in concentric squares around the house.

I watched from my window. Maybe a babysitting job would come Friday? I could earn carrot money.

But Friday came and I had no takers. School over for the week, I cranked out biology homework involving plant genetics, Green Day blaring on my little stereo.

 “Impressive, huh?” Dad asked loudly at my doorway.

I turned down the stereo. “Green Day’s okay.”

“Wha—no. Not the music. The garden. See ’em?”

I looked out my window and saw the dirt that neighbors thought should be our lawn. Except for a few errant weeds, it was brown, brown, br—

No, not quite. Here and there, tiny green spots stood out, like polka dots, our property resembling the ugliest dress fabric ever.

“That’s great, Dad. But Sunday’s in two—”

“Remember those cell division calculations we did? The power of exponential growth?”

“Yes—”

“Patience, Pumpkin. Patience.”

* * *

Saturday. I woke and looked out my window.

Carrot greens.

Big.

Leafy.

Everywhere.

I ran outside and pulled one. A long, fat carrot, hairs tightly clutching flecks of soil.

I brought it in, cleaned it, and gave it a chomp.

“Ow!” The carrot might as well have been an orange stalactite.

“Hey, what are you doing? Oh, Pumpkin, you okay? These aren’t eating carrots.”

I stared, stunned, tongue probing my teeth to confirm none shattered.

“Not yet, anyway,” Dad added. “It is only Saturday.”

* * *

Sunday. I’d been up late, the family watching “Attack of the Killer Tomatoes.”

Dad’s muffled voice floated through the door: “Wake up, Pumpkin. Carrot time.”

“Gimmeeaminutetofindmy…” I mumbled, stopping as I became more awake. I heard Dad tromp down the stairs, and I squinted out my window.

And gasped.

Carrots jutted from the garden, but like none I’d seen. Six-foot-tall orange pillars. I doubted Billy could wrap his arms around them fully. And greens on top added another six feet of height.

I ran downstairs, crashed into Billy and Laura, and we stumbled outside.

Dad turned toward us, raising his arms to indicate the forest of carrots. “Behold. The optimal solution. Just takes considerable genetic manipulation, some chloroplast concentrating, a bit of cell wall modification, and voilà!”

Careful not to trip over a chainsaw he must have brought out, Dad turned to one giant carrot. He shoved it.

It fell, its base having extended only six inches into the ground. They could withstand a mild wind, but not a determined scientist.

I knocked on the rock-hard vegetable. “Still not an eating carrot.”

“Ah, the phenotype hides something. Stand back.” We did, all wary whenever Dad picked up his chainsaw. He slipped on safety goggles, and with a single cord pull, got the chainsaw to roar to life.

Dad chopped off the greens before splitting the orange body in half lengthwise.

He killed the chainsaw, then waved us over. “The shell is hard, true, but the core is soft. And we have tons of greens,” he said, handing a pile to Laura, “so you can craft a very realistic jungle set.

“Billy, we’ll carve the shell into your racer.”

“Awe-some!”

“And Pumpkin, we’ll need to scoop out the center to make Billy’s racer.”

“And the scooped-out center’s pulp,” I guessed, “is eatin’ carrot.”

Dad smiled, not just in joy, but in relief. His first in a long time. “The carrots can be used for food. Ethanol. Maybe building materials, depending on shell durability.” He looked at me. “Should pay lots of bills.”

“The optimal solution,” I said.

Bio:
Dan Castro enjoys writing fantasy, mystery, and crime stories. He’s been published in Sherlock Holmes Magazine (UK), Particular Passages (Volume 4), Thrill Ride the Magazine #1 (“Honor”), and more! Additional works have been accepted by Black Cat Mystery Magazine, Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine (U.S.), and Mysterical-E. He lives in Connecticut, where he’s making a final polish on his first novel, a middle-grade fantasy.

by Barry Yedvobnick

Callie’s body language says the argument is over, but Gustavo tries again. “Can’t we just take our chances and do it the regular way? We’re both attractive and won’t make an ugly baby.”

Of course, she brings up his uncle Jay, the one they call the character from the Victor Hugo story.

“Genetics can be so unpredictable,” she says, wondering if he really wants to treat their child like a trip to Vegas. Plus, she already filled out the trait-preference forms at Child-Design Counselors and put down a deposit.

            Later that afternoon, they meet their personal gene-editing guide, Franklin, who reeks of insincerity and a commission salary, along with the cologne. “Most everyone chooses the facial-symmetry edit package Callie selected,” he says. “And since you’ll have a daughter, I’m sure you want this as well, Gustavo.”

            Gustavo watches Callie laugh and clap hands as Franklin brings up a screen animation of a young girl’s face. It shows the range of symmetry predicted from their genetic sequences, and then the improvements, based on his suggested DNA edits.

            “I don’t think we need to debate this one,” Callie says. Gustavo nods approval.

            Eye and hair color choices go quickly, and it takes just a bit longer to settle on skin tone. But Callie’s decision to add ethnicity edits to the child is a problem for Gustavo. “Native American … seriously,” he says?

            She confesses it was a bad idea.

            “Love the compromise,” Franklin says, as he updates the choices. “Callie selected height next, with a preference of five feet-two to four inches.” He asks if that works for Gustavo.

            “Actually no,” he says. “I’d like our daughter to be five-ten to six feet.”

            “I don’t think so,” she says. “She’ll intimidate a lot of guys, and hang around bars looking for pro basketball wannabees.” Callie counters with five-six.

Gustavo doesn’t like it, but senses worse lies ahead. He accepts.

“Excellent,” Franklin says. “High facial symmetry, brown hair and eyes, light skin tone and moderate height. Next Callie prioritized breast size in the D-cup range.”

            “What?” Gustavo says, letting his horrific expression say the rest. Then they go back and forth. She wants people to look at their daughter and think she’s attractive in every way. He wants people to look at her and make eye contact.

            “I can’t believe it,” she says. “What if this was a boy and we were talking about his equipment. You would’ve brought a tape measure.”

Franklin turns to Gustavo and laughs, but quickly apologizes.

“B cup,” Gustavo says.

She shakes your head. “D cup, final decision.”

His arms fold. “That daughter won’t be fathered by me. You’ll need to find someone else to fertilize your egg in a dish.”

She stares back. “Like I said, Gustavo, final decision.”

Franklin throws up his hands and sighs. A window appears on screen: “Cancel and Reimburse Deposit?” He clicks the box and turns to them.

“I’m sorry folks, but we need to cancel. You’re my fourth cancellation today, so don’t take this personally. I suggest you consider having a child without DNA editing.”

After shaking their hands, Franklin taps his phone and asks for the financial officer. As Callie and Gustavo depart, Franklin starts talking. Gustavo pauses outside the door to listen.

“You’re right after all, Jenny,” he says. “We should drop the breast-size editing option, and make the deposits non-refundable.”

Bio:
Barry Yedvobnick is an emeritus biology professor at Emory University in Atlanta. His stories have appeared in the weird-fiction anthology: Penumbra No. 3, Kzine Magazine, Bending Genres, Brilliant Flash Fiction, Tales to Terrify, Flash Fiction Magazine, Dark Recesses, and various other places. He was short-listed at several recent Flash Fiction Magazine contests and narrates science fiction stories for AntipodeanSF radio shows.

by  Alejandro Fernandez

As the mayor of the quaint Villaescanciada, Otilio had numerous responsibilities. He laid back in his armchair and scratched the battered survivors of his once wild mane. He stared at Marcial, the young engineer recently re-assigned to be his Economics and Science advisor.

Otilio thought about the thriving village with its crowded bar, the Renaissance church, warehouses, orchards and the primary school. Their inhabitants worked hard on making the most of the land, the village and each other. Energy oozed, such as in the fierce political debates between Otilio, Celestino and the councilors that crowded the village hall for forty odd years. Such enthusiasm was once described as being like a bunch of maggots feeding on a rotting limb. 

This heritage and activity had made Villaescanciada eligible for a developmental national grant (or a tribute, for some Councilors) that populated Otilio’s thoughts for two weeks. It was why he was consulting with Marcial, his agitation contrasting with the younger man’s amusement.

“So, according to this condom theory…” Otilio said

“quantum…”

“quantum… this paperweight would be here,” Otilio pointed to the left corner of his desk. “And at the same time, here.” He indicated the right side.

“Not quite but that’s close to reality. So long as it moves at sufficient speed, the paperweight is considered to exist in two places at once. If nobody measures it.”

“So…” Otilio added “if the grant moves fast enough… and nobody is looking… and we consider the possibility of parallel universes…”

…

While Otilio designed his critical application of quantum theory, in a decrepit medical consultation elsewhere, two steeled-eye figures gazed at each other. The elder one dressed in a white coat with locked hands on top of the table. His name was Manrique, the village doctor, and the main reason for everybody to be healthy: nobody wanted to submit to his saw.

In front of him was Heriberto, the priest, who was rumored to have learned the office from Torquemada and the old inquisition. 

They were sanguinous enemies, the proud heirs of an ancient feud between science and religion that nobody else in Villaescanciada remembered.

Manrique started, with a blank expression. “I didn’t see any letter from the County council on Otilio’s desk.” 

“I don’t know what letter you are talking about. Otilio doesn’t have a two-page letter half hidden there.” The priest stopped corroborating, looking at some point behind his listener’s left ear.

A few seconds of uncomfortable silence brought the lack of information into each other’s thoughts.

“Indeed. It would be disloyal to suspect that Otilio would hide a six-digit grant. There isn’t a mayor vile enough to do such thing.”

“Otilio could take it personally if we doubted his morals.”

Some more staring before the conversation continued:

“Did you see the amount that wasn’t there in any letter?” Manrique asked.

“I did. And you, did you notice that there wasn’t any concept as to where that disbursement should go?”

“Of course not,” Manrique twisted his face in contempt. “It didn’t say anything in any letter.”

“We should then check with Otilio and ask, how come he hasn’t received any grant yet.”

“For the first time in your wretched life, you are right. What about the rest of the councilors? This is a big issue, should they know?”

…

A commanding knock threatened to break Otilio’s office door.

“Wait” he replied, hiding the papers littering his table in a drawer. “You can come in now.”

“Hello, Mayor” Manrique greeted him as the two conspirers entered.

“What brings you here?” Otilio replied coldly.

“You see Mayor,” said Heriberto, smiling wolfishly. “We have been talking and we were stricken that even though we in Villaescanciada are honest, hard-working people with exemplary behavior, we haven’t received any economical help from the County Council. It would be so handy to patch some problems in the village!”

Otilio gazed at them. He calibrated his chances and understood the looming certainty in those four confronting eyes. “The only time religion and science join forces is to screw me” he thought.

“You, hyenas…” he thought but he said. “You, dear citizens, know we are simple, yet proud people who don’t accept charity. We are self-sufficient…”, Seeing his speech wouldn’t lead anywhere, his demeanor changed to a defeated stare. “Did you tell anybody?”

“So, there was a grant!” Heriberto exploded, his eyes fixed on the wall. “What ignominy, keeping it from us, your trusted Councilors…!”

As Heriberto ranted, Manrique answered“Nobody else knows. Yet.” Otilio added. “There wasn’t any grant, however. None. What you think you saw was different, so stop trying to account for it it. However… since you are here, I will tell you about a concept that will boost your political careers.”

“What is it?” Manrique asked.

“Do you know about quantum fiscality?”

“A birth control plan?”

“Quantum, Heriberto. Q-U-A-N-T-U-M.” Otilio spelled.

Their expressions were answer enough.

“It is a novel, yet intriguing concept with plenty of practical applications; I will explain it slowly.” Otilio pulled a stash of bank notes from a drawer, letting them rest on top of the table. “Here are six thousand Euro. They exist at once in the Town Hall treasury and in your pockets, but only if they move fast enough and you don’t look at them. Now, shut your mouths and enjoy.”

Although the theoretical explanation didn’t find a welcoming neuron in the intruder’s brains, the practical aspect in the shape of bank notes cut an eight-lane highway to their pockets. Both men left the office, forgetting they had been there and any discussions about grants. The velvet night descended on Villaescanciada, clothing its neighbors in the placid dream of a day like any other.

Bio:
Alejandro Fernandez is a Spanish writer looking forward to building a writing career. His first short story, “The Blackened Emerald”, will be published in the “Down in the Dirt” magazine in March 2024.

by Cynthia Bernard

He can drop off anytime, it’s an easy, familiar trip; no need for a map or the Google lady, almost never any slowdowns on that road.

I live in a different kingdom, where sleep is a rumored destination almost never reached—the road meanders, forgets where it’s going; maps aplenty out there but I can’t seem to unfold them correctly, and there are so many detours along the way.

Bumpety-bump… a flat tire?

My little snort, not exactly a snore but not a delicate-princess sound either, jerks me away from the edge of sleep. Dream images, half-grasped, linger then fade: trying to steer from the passenger seat next to my Looney-Tunes mother who holds up a newspaper in front of her face and randomly presses the pedals…

Soft light diffuses though flowered curtains, speckling shadows on the wall. The wind sets aspen leaves quaking. Cawing crows argue above. He sleeps deep and long, fully surrendered, right leg thrown over the covers, one arm reaching up, the other down.

I lie there next to him, lost in a maze of half-paved streets, fighting the urge to drive up beside him and force him off the road.           

Bio:
Cynthia Bernard is a woman in her early seventies who is finding her voice as a writer after many decades of silence. A long-time classroom teacher and a spiritual mentor, she lives and writes on a hill overlooking the ocean, about 25 miles south of San Francisco.

by Rivka Crowbourne

Dear Mrs. Faramir:

Congratulations on your recent nuptials! It was a lovely wedding—obviously less lovely than Arwen and Aragorn’s, but lovelier than Samwise and Rosie’s by several tactfully understated orders of magnitude. And although one might quibble over the precise definition of “something borrowed,” it’s nice that you found a way of upcycling the Witch-King’s kneecaps.

And, speaking of everyone’s favorite ex-Nazgul—can we talk about your hair? Seconds before you-go-girling your opponent in his event horizon of a face, you doffed your helmet to reveal quite possibly the most luminous tresses this side of Numenor. I venture to touch on the subject because, despite my resorting to such extreme measures as occasionally not riding a horse for three full days with a steel pot on my head and then fighting elephants for an hour and a half, my own hair seems borderline frumpy next to yours.

Am I going about the whole thing wrong? Should I forgo shampoo and curlers in favor of tactical anti-pachyderm close-quarters combat? Is there some secret virtue in smelted haberdashery that brings out the luster in one’s locks? Perhaps the intense heat and pressure of trapped sweat fuses the sedimentary layers of hair into an obscure species of diamond, radiating feminine perfection when exposed to wraiths on smelly pterodactyls. Perhaps—just as the color we see in a physical object is actually the one color reflected away from that object—if one’s scalp becomes sufficiently unkempt, beauty bounces off it and becomes the attractive blonde photons that strike the retinas of outside observers. This hypothesis gains credence from the fact that your brother Eomer, who (presumably) spends even less time on his coiffure than you, has amazing hair as well. It could be sheer genetics, I suppose, but even Gimli turns out to be primed for GQ on the rare occasions when he de-helmets.

Is it the pipe-weed? It’s the pipe-weed, isn’t it! Theoden, of course, was unacquainted with hobbitic smoking habits—but you had Meriadoc in your saddle the whole way to Minas Tirith, hot-boxing you with second-hand fumes. Could Longbottom Leaf be the key to healthy follicles? The anti-tobacco lobby is not going to like this, Mrs. Faramir. Nor will my pulmonary apparatus thank you for my new practice of vaping into a hardhat on the way to work.

But I really mustn’t put the blame on you. Clearly, you just can’t help having infinitely gorgeous hair at all times, no matter how hard you try. It must be a terrible burden. Well, I’ve taken enough of your time. I hope your husband enjoys not being King of Gondor.

Bio:
Rivka Crowbourne is an aspiring poet, an aspiring writer, and an aspiring master of the martial arts, who wishes you infinitely well. At time of writing, she is still vulnerable to handheld weapons.

by Glenis Ann Moore

You know how it is. Unable to sleep you are surveying the contents of Amazon when you catch sight of one of those ads and, before you realise it, you’ve ordered something alongside a paperback copy of Moby Dick to replace the one you dropped in the bath last week.

Your paperback arrives in days but, because your surprise purchase has to fight its way from the Far East, you forget about it until late one night when the door bell rings in the middle of a rerun of the original ‘Halloween’. You grab a frying pan and hesitantly open the door to find an Amazon box and a fast retreating white van.

Wary about opening an unknown box, but reluctant to phone the Bomb Squad, you peel off the layers of tape to find your purchase packed in six layers of bubble wrap. Your mind spirals – I can’t remember ordering this, but your Amazon order list reveals all.

That’s probably how I have ended up with a dog-shaped cushion that terrifies the cats and an ornate metal bird bath, which, in the summer, could stew a sparrow within thirty seconds of submergence, if any of our local sparrows were stupid enough to get in it. Luckily, in this cat infiltrated village, most sparrows would make a Mastermind contestant look senseless – I am sure that I’ve heard them discussing logical positivism over peanuts and pumpkin seeds late at night, but then insomnia does that to you!

Anyway, maybe that is now why my partner keeps my laptop shut away at night and stashes the key in some place known only to the sleepy. After all who knows what I might order tonight when sleeplessness and a lack of sugar kick in.

Bio:
Glenis has been writing since the first Covid lockdown and does her writing at night as she suffers from severe insomnia. When she is not writing she makes beaded jewellery, reads, cycles and sometimes runs 10K races slowly. She lives, with her long-suffering partner and three cats, just outside Cambridge in the flat expanse of the UK Fens.

by Susan Gilbert Guerrant

My father sweats through his undershirt, perspiration rings blooming around his neck and underarms. He pounds in stakes with a rubber mallet, the final step in erecting a tent under the lone maple tree in our backyard. His efforts serve as a siren call to Linda White who lives in the house behind us, who I saw watching us through her upstairs window, who now beelines over to the fence dividing our yards. Linda believes herself a worldly ten and seldom find eight-year-old me worthy of notice, but on this hot afternoon, she pokes the toe of her dirty Ked though one of the fence links, slings her arms over the top metal rail and motions for me to come talk to her.

I approach her by hopping over on one foot and then another, all the while hoping that her attention is because she’s realized I’m someone who would be fun to play with. But even as I smile up at her, I understand it is probably the tent with its promise of outside sleepovers that accounts for her newly acquired enthusiasm for my company.

It turns out thought that Linda has a desire that goes way beyond wanting a new

friend or even a yen to sleep under the stars.

What Linda needs on this August day is an audience, an appreciative audience, an audience with the capacity to be stunned. She has recently come by some very important information. What’s more, her mother has told her not to talk about this very important information with anyone. So that afternoon while Linda is telling me my tent is “really neat” and asking do I want to come have cookies at her house, she is burning with missionary fire to share all she knows.

      Linda becomes my best friend for the day. She does feed me cookies at her house. And then she comes to my house and plays Monopoly with me. When I show her my bedroom, she is careful to compliment the evening gowns I’ve fashioned out of Kleenex and toilet paper for my collection of small stuffed lizards. Of course, after dinner, I ask if Linda can spend the night with me out in the tent.

      Once we are there, Linda is not given to subtleties. She has waited all day after all. So after we’ve eaten  s’mores, while we are lying on top of our sleeping bags listening to the sawing song of the crickets, Linda readies, aims, fires. “Do you know what men and women do?” 

      Well, I think, I’m no dummy. Dads fiddle around in their workshops, make coffee every morning and yell encouragement at the television whenever Joe Namath plays. Moms rearrange furniture, make cookies and talk to their friends on the phone while they wrap the long, curly cord around one finger and then the other. These scenes flit through my head like a soothing movie montage. But Linda cuts right into my little picture show and says, “The man sticks his wiener into her.” Assuming my stunned silence is interest, she elaborates.

            Like errant bullets, questions ricochet in my mind.  What?  What is she talking about?  Why am I here in this tent with her?  And oh god, what is she going to say next?

Linda has turned on her side, extended her elbow out and propped her head with her hand so she can study my response. I see her triumphant stare, so despite my ping-ponging thoughts, I glare right back at her and say, “You’re gross. And a liar. You’re a gross liar and you’re just making that up.”

      “Oh yeah?”  Linda says and pulls out her trump card. “My mother is the one who told me this.” She utters these words with such authoritative certainty that I know they are true. When I can’t think of anything to say, Linda takes advantage of my silence to reiterate, “His wiener . . . right into her.” 

      Later, we do tell ghost stories, but it’s a lackluster effort. I can’t whip up any real fear. I just can’t be spooked by haunted houses or the hook man, even if he does attack Girl Scouts who camp out. All I can think about is wieners.

      So the stories die out and soon Linda drifts into an easy slumber. The tent fills with the satisfied slow and even breathing of one whose mission has been accomplished while I stare out into the dark, turning Linda’s words over in my mind. Try as I might, I cannot imagine the mechanics of what she has described to me. Even more of a puzzle is why anyone would want to do such a thing. It just doesn’t make sense.

I listen to the tiny muffled thuds of June beetles and moths bouncing off of the tent’s canvas walls and wait for my eyelids to grow heavy. What finally comforts me and brings on the enveloping peace of sleep is the certainty that despite the fact that some people might do what Linda has described, normal people, specifically people like my mom and dad, would never, ever do such a thing. After all, I reason, they are my parents.

Bio:
S. G. Guerrant is a giant book nerd who’ll read anything from Sedaris to Satre. She is a writer and library worker who lives in Charlottesville, Virginia. Her work has appeared in various venues including McSweeney’s Internet Tendency, Albemarle and Salon.

by Tessa Kjeldsdottir

I was giving the Qtip a final twirl when my cousin Jonny hollered up to tell me that Harrison had been released from prison. At first I’d heard “Harry’s song had greased the prism,” which made no sense at all. But then I remembered the Qtip in my one good ear.

I dropped the waxy cotton swab in the trash and hustled to the front door, which I keep locked all night to keep Jonny out of my supply of home-brew. Yep, screen and front doors were locked tight. But there was no one out front.

I turned then, and hustled into the kitchen. There, at the back door — also locked — Jonny was pressing his nose against the screen, his fingers spatulate on the wires, like a fly on lukewarm potato salad.

He looked worried.

I’d told him to always call first and give me a head’s up that he was coming, but he wouldn’t listen most times, and certainly not when he was in a panic, so I decided to unhook the latch straightaway. Jonny surprised me then by stepping back from the door, his nose cross-hatched with pollen and rust. He didn’t want to come in all of a sudden. It was like nothing I’d even seen before.

Jonny’s lip trembled, and for once, his words came out in a whisper, rather than a shout. “Harrison’s been released from prison, Mae. And he says he wants to see you, first thing.” He dug both hands into the front of his overalls, and scratched his bare chest nervously. “He says you’re holding onto the treasure and he wants his share.”

I pulled the screen door open and stepped out onto the porch. I noted the scree of crickets warming to the rising sun, in the long grass just past Maisie’s tire swing. Jonny’s story seemed like it made about as much sense as what I’d heard with that Qtip in my ear.

I cupped a hand around my good ear and leaned in. “What are you talking about? What treasure?” I must’ve hissed at him, because his eyes went wide and he stepped back.

Against my better judgment, I moved toward him and grabbed his bony shoulders. “Jonny, he swore to me he didn’t do the crime!” I shook him some, and his teeth—the few he still had—chattered in his head.

“I don’t know,” Jonny started to blubber, tears, snot and spit gathering on his chin. “But it can’t be good coming from Harrison.”

 “Merciful hemlock, Jonny!” I never could understand why Jonny was so frightened of Harrison, but there you have it. Jonny comes from a long line of men who tend to marry their first cousins. I guess I was lucky I’d met Harrison before cousin Jonny had hit full puberty.

“Where is Harrison now?” I let go his shoulders and pushed him away from me.

Jonny ran a hand over his close-shaven scalp and bit his lip, and peered up at me sidewise, his eyes slit and mean. “He’s on his way. Just you wait and see. You shoulda married me, Mae. I don’t give anybody any trouble. And I woulda been here for you…and for Maisie!”

“If I’d married you, Jonny, Maisie wouldn’t even exist,” I softened my voice and offered up a smile. Sometimes I forget that there’s basic goodness amidst all his foolishness. “And wouldn’t that be a crying shame? You love Maisie just like she was your own.”

“If she’d married you, Jonny, she’d have had an idiot child from an idiot husband.”

I turned around. Harrison stood in the shade of the kitchen, no smile on his handsome face. No lock could keep him out when he wanted in. Why did it surprise me that he jimmied our front door open without making a racket?

“Go home Jonny,” I pushed open the back screen door and stepped inside. “And thanks for the warning.”

 Jonny fled across the grass, arms now pulled out of his overalls and reaching toward the sunrise, his bare heels flashing in the growing light.

“Where’s my treasure?” Harrison growled.

“Maisie? She’s not up yet,” I eased the door closed behind me, “Can I fix you some breakfast? Or would you like something else?”

His eyes twinkled as he reached for me and pulled me into his arms.

Bio:
Tessa Kjeldsdottir is a Midwest dabbler in fiction, folk and fairy tales, and poetry. Her work can be found in the occasional chapbook/anthology, but mostly on her flash blog and sketchbook, Valley of The Trolls.blog under the pseudonym Liz Husebye Hartmann.

by Susan Whitlock

“What should I put for my address?” the chubby boyfriend, introduced as Trevor, asked. He stared at Beatrice with glazed, muddy brown eyes.

            “Excuse me?” she replied to his hundredth question.

            “ I never filled out a job application before. Do I put where I stay in Ada sometimes, or my girlfriend’s place here in Neosho?” he continued, tipping his head in the direction of the petite new housekeeper, Allison.

            Allison swallowed some emotional soup but said nothing.

            “Just put where you want your mail to arrive,” Beatrice said. “I really need to get this paperwork done.”

            Trevor was not impressed with her professional needs.

            “Well, I just don’t know. I never had a job, so this is all new to me.” His pasty white face was covered with perspiration, oozing oils, and a film of dust from the hot, Missouri streets.

            Beatrice attempted to ignore him now, busily typing in statistics for the general manager’s monthly report. She had just completed training for the assistant general manager position at Neosho Residence Inn.

            A sigh escaped her pretty, pouting lips.

            “What?!” Trevor glared at her, raising his voice so all the lobby could hear him. “Am I bothering you?”

            He emphasized this question by slamming his fist down on his application.

            “Do you have a problem with me because I am dating Allison? Is that it?”

            “Please, lower your voice,” Beatrice whispered, leaning over the front desk to calm him down by staring gently into his crazy eyes.

            “I am not shouting!” Trevor shouted. Now heads were turning to watch the drama unfolding in their hotel lobby. One grey-haired woman began fanning herself with her visitor’s guide.

            “Pipe down,” Glenna, Beatrice’s head housekeeper and favorite employee said. She was on her way to the laundry when she caught this blast from old Trevor.

            She glanced at Allison standing helplessly behind the front desk. They exchanged meaningful looks, which Beatrice made a mental note to investigate later.

            In the meantime, strange things were taking place in Trevor’s soul, evidenced by a little prancing in place and some random arm flings.

            “Sheeite! You are just like my last job…judging me and acting all high and mighty!”

            Spit was starting to fly from his foaming mouth and his eyes were beginning to bulge like a severe thyroid problem had evolved right there in her hotel.

            “I am confused,” Beatrice let slip, “I thought you said you never had a job before…”

            Trevor began jigging up and down, looking like the world’s oiliest marionette. A throbbing moan began issuing from his throat. Beatrice was reminded of her neighbor’s horrid pit bull, and she inched back a bit in self-defense. Allison inched with her, a little whine singing out from her own throat.

            “If you would just finish the application over in the dining area, Allison can take a few minutes to help you finish filling it out,” she offered the jittering boyfriend in a professional tone.

            Allison started to step around the desk to guide Trevor to the area indicated when a fresh storm began to swell his sails.

            “Oh, hell no!” he announced to one and all. “You mothers are not going to put that on me. Like I can’t fill out your damn application by myself. What do you think I am some moron or something?”

            His decibel level now was reaching people out on the front walk. Beatrice’s maintenance man, Tim, slipped through the automatic doors and glided over behind Trevor.

            “Keep it up, fat boy,” he growled. “The cops are on their way.”      

            Trevor whirled around, smashing into Allison, and sending her reeling. This caused Tim to grow about four inches and loom over Trevor, prepared to end this nonsense once and for all.

            “Tim!” Beatrice hissed, “Don’t do it.”

            Tim bristled but rocked back on his heels.

            “O, no, no, no, no way!” Trevor sputtered in response.

            His feet stopped dancing and began pedaling rapidly towards the doors. Bursting into the summer sauna, he crashed into his little Pinto, which he had left running at the curb. The key fob in his jeans pocket must have been accidentally depressed because the doors suddenly locked. Trevor spent frantic minutes alternately clawing at the door handle and screaming for the Pinto to let him in.

            Inside, Beatrice suddenly snorted in a knee-jerk amusement at these antics. The little cavalcade of onlookers moved as one person towards the glass doors and windows to watch the conclusion of this unexpected entertainment.

            Trevor’s head shot up at the sound of police sirens careening toward him in the distance. With one more forlorn look at his traitor car, he began racing like a madman down the street. His long, greasy braids were hip-hopping to some tune as they streamed along behind him. His gangster jeans began slipping downward, causing one hand to grip his back pocket, the other flailing over his heated head.

            Beatrice could not help it. A grin spread over her lips, over her cheeks, and wrapped around her soul. She began laughing merrily and simply returned to the front desk to finish her paperwork.           

            “Meth heads,” Tim sighed as he joined Beatrice at the front desk, “Gotta love ‘em.”

            “Do I now?” Beatrice hummed a bit as she clacked away at her keyboard.

            “Are we safe?” the granny inquired when she sidled over to join them.

            “Of course!” Beatrice assured her. “Here, a coupon for one coffee and a muffin at our bakery – for your trouble.”

            “Does this kind of thing happen a lot?” another guest asked, after receiving the extra towels he had come down for twenty minutes ago.

            Beatrice gazed straight-faced into the gentleman’s eyes and lied her head off.

            “Never!”

            Her smile warmed the man, as did her sparkling eyes. This was her bailiwick – her forte – making people feel safe, welcomed: downright loved during their brief stopover from the road of their lives.

            This was her kingdom – Residence Inn. Neosho MO. Assistant general manager: Front Desk.

Bio:
Susan Whitlock lives in southeastern Kansas. Grand Dame will publish her tale entitled The Archer’s Ball online on 7/11/22. Until Then, the Garden was published by Heimet online on April 15, 2023. Her first novel will be published by Indignor House in Spring 2024.

by Helga Gruendler-Schierloh

As a teenager — years ago — I often imagined how wonderful it must feel to operate a car. So, one day, an expectant smile on my face, I walked into a driving school.

After the formalities were completed, the receptionist handed me a timetable and wished me well, I was ready for my first hour of instructions. In those days that still meant learning how to handle a stick-shift.

A dark-haired young man — who resembled the star of a popular TV commercial —approached me with, “Hello, young lady. I’m your instructor.”

He motioned toward a light-green VW.  

His grand looks and charming demeanor already making my heart beat faster, the sight of the automobile increased my excitement even further.

I sank happily into the soft cushion of the passenger seat.

Leaving the city’s traffic jams behind, we arrived at a quiet road in the suburbs, where that long awaited magic moment finally became reality.

After the gentleman traded seats with me, I gripped the steering wheel.

Then I paid careful attention to my advisor’s explanations. And — SUCCESS—the vehicle screeched, hummed, and moved. A triumphant feeling flooded through me.  

When it was time to shift, I couldn’t find the gear lever. My foot slipped off the clutch, the car bolted forward — and stopped.

The instructor chuckled, then helped me restart the car. The engine hummed again, but my enthusiasm had sunk several degrees.

In addition, my instructor’s voice now went into overdrive:

“Keep to the right! Drive straight ahead! Don’t zig-zag! Avoid the ditch! Stay on the road! Shift, please! Ouch, that hurts my ears! Wrong gear! Turn on the blinkers before you turn! Watch out, there comes another car! Step on the brakes, now! Yes, but much less brutal!

Within the confines of one hour, that man had transformed from a fascinating prince charming into a nagging, yapping frog or, at the very least, into an insufferable grouch making irrational demands. Didn’t he realize I only possessed two hands and two feet?

As I was desperately fumbling through buttons, switches, and handles, my self-confidence took a nose-dive. Gone was my euphoric anticipation, destroyed my vision of zooming along at ease, and shattered my innocent faith in the desirability of technology.

Upon returning to the driving school, my head buzzed with anxiety, my body oozed with perspiration, and my knees shook.  

I decided right then and there I would never again be impressed with supposedly experienced drivers’ proclaiming how they were swinging themselves behind the wheel, gunning the engine till it roared, and then cruising along at 100 miles an hour.

When I eventually got my license and became the owner of some modest vehicle, I had been chastised into being a rather humble driver.

To this day, I calmly start the engine, allow it to warm up, then drive carefully, because:                      

“A car can be definitely useful,

that goes without much talking.

But if your nerves are frazzled,

You’d better stick to walking.”

Bio:
Helga Gruendler-Schierloh is a bilingual writer with a degree in journalism. Her articles, essays, short stories, and poetry have appeared in the USA, the UK, Canada, and South Africa. Her debut novel, Burying Leo, a Me Too story, won second place in women’s fiction during Pen Craft Awards’ 2018 writing contest.

by Karen Walker

Originally published in Bright Flash Literary Flash, April 2023.

Mimi. My greyhound. I find her luxuriating on Mom’s chintz settee, where no human ever sat. Mimi probably pricked her ears at the mess, but wouldn’t have created it. She’s black and white. Clean, never wrong.                                                        

Phil, wily stripey whippet. He greets me at the front door, wagging his side of the story before I see the mud and debris, the disaster.  He loves me and missed me. He’s not responsible. It was Andrew.

My big white cloud of an English setter. Andrew lies among the broken fronds, his plumed tail swishing and clinking shards of shattered pot. I point, I yell. He’s droopy-eyed. Wut?

The plant was Mom’s. A Golden Palm. During her last days, she sat beside it in the sunny front window. When I told her about needing to move home, she picked at the leaves’ yellow tips and tsk-tsked. Disappointed, I think, in the plant’s growth and mine.    

The carpet was bisque. Plush. Mom raked it daily like a zen sand garden. Her vacuum marks live on in the far corners of the living room. 

Pop. I find him in the basement among boxes of Mom’s Royal Doultons. Smoking his pipe. Did he not hear what was going on above? He puffs smoke rings. “No, o, o, o.”

I help him up the stairs, squeeze his hand, show him what’s happened.

Apologies. I’m so sorry about the palm and the carpet. I’ll root a piece and get a steam cleaner, rake and vacuum like Mom did. Promises. And, while we’re here, teach them better manners. Not that we’ll be here long because I’ll find a rental that allows three dogs. Pop, you were right about Josh. Mom was, too. Confessions.   

Granddogs. As I call them. Pop doesn’t. He feels bad about pointing fingers, but whispers it was probably the striped one—”What’s his name again?”—that did it. “The skinny little devil never listens, just like his mother.”

Bio:
Karen Walker writes in a basement in Ontario. Her work is in or forthcoming in Brink, The Viridian Door, The Hoogley Review, Overheard, Blink-Ink, and elsewhere.

by Lisa Roberts

No one has ever dared tell you this, but, I am done drinking the Kool-Aid and pretending. Word Perfect, you are a tyrant, a bully, a devil working overtime. You interrupt me with pop ups like a three-year-old demanding ice cream. You have yet to suggest an edit or correction that is any kind  of improvement. How can you be so pompous, so arrogant? You don’t know me. Most of your suggestions consist of throwing dice. “I think she means to say.” I know what I mean to say and I can say it myself. Thank you very much!

Our relationship mimics the one I am forced to have with my brother-in-law who explains every Thanksgiving that Martians gave him the recipe for the mashed potatoes. “The Martians secret ingredient is b-u-t-t-e-r,” he whispers in a low voice, afraid someone else will hear. I only have to deal with him on holidays. I am forced to interact with you on a daily basis.

I am in my sixties and I remember life before you. I remember typewriters. A typewriter works with you. Yes, Word Perfect read that sentence again, I know it’s a foreign concept it you. A typewriter says, “Set your margins, I will respect your choice.” We will prepare contracts, and pristine wills. “Together we will help you get the promotion and raise you deserve.” We had a warm and loving relationship until you bullied your way into our lives.  Total domination is your only goal. And yet, you must admit the ability to cut and paste has not cured cancer, abolished war or saved humanity.

You have even created a wedge in my relationship with my husband. He is younger and has only known you. He is exasperated that I cannot work with you.

“Take the time to learn to use it.” He pleads as though the fault is mine. I know better, I know there is no working WITH you. You will not tolerate a relationship of equals. I know in my heart no matter what I learn, no matter how hard I try to make this relationship work, you will never stop interrupting me with pop ups, changing my words, running out of power at a crucial time. We are done, finished, over.

I sit on the couch and anxiously wait for the deliveryman. I hear the knock and open the door. He is six feet, 27 inches tall, built like a refrigerator. The box weighs 3620000 tons and he strains to keep it upright.

“Please, put it there.” I say pointing to the kitchen table.

“Please open it for me.”

He pulls a knife from his back pocket slits the tape on the top of the cardboard, lifts it out. He grunts, strains and starts to sweat as he places it gently on the kitchen table.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           
“What is it?” he asks.

“It is a 1978 IBM Selectric typewriter.” I announce proudly as if I have just given birth to the messiah.

“What are you going to do with it?” he asks, puzzled.

“Live in happiness for the rest of my life.”

“Great.” he says rushing for the door to get away from this crazy lady before she can turn him into a cat.

I plug her in, listen to the hum, run my fingers over the keys. Her response is light and quick, exactly like I remember.

“Oh baby, I missed you.”

Bio:
Lisa Danny-Roberts is a recovering lawyer. She lives in a small town in Colorado with six chickens, a cat named Max and her husband.

by Obsidian

I’m dead.

Okay, maybe I’m not. I have just made the dumbest mistake of my life, and the fastest route any human would take out of it was to die, or bury themselves six feet under.

I’m dead. I’m very dead. My mom says to say things over and over when you want it to stick, to pray over and over for things to happen. Because words repeated can morph into answers. So, when I’m saying “I’m dead,” albeit, loud enough for my ears only, I mean, I want answers from the universe.

It’s one of the days, when the universe, instead of blessing you with wings for flight, or interfering auspiciously in your life, only mocks you. A mockingbird is singing in the distance, and the Earth is orbiting the normal way.

Biggy pulls me up by the collar, snarling at me with lettuce-stained teeth. “Why you write my girl a love letter? You deserve beating.”

Biggy is the tallest in our class, and the strongest. One of his best fighting strategies is to sit on his victim and stuff their mouth with sand. He is known for his frequent visits to the staff room for punishment, and his tendency to leave his shirt unbuttoned, and his shoelaces dragging after him, as though they are reluctant to follow him.

Hear me out, I know she is his girl, I just feel as though she needs saving. Even Biggy needs saving from himself.

Penelope stands at the corner of the classroom, her eyes filled with concern and a hint of dread. Coloring book and crayons discarded, she walks to Biggy, her braids bouncing off her back. “Biggy, don’t.”

Biggy snarls at me again, reducing all my thought up attempts to fight back to zero. He backs away, and pointed at me. “I’ll get you, prissy boy.”

***

Penelope and I are on the swing, waiting for our parents. I watch out for both Biggy and my mom’s silver Buick. This isn’t the first time we have waited for our parents together. We would wait together, talk, and wave at each other when we see the red paint of her father’s Camry, or the glinting silver of my mom’s Buick.

We sit side by side, the knight and his damsel in distress. She slips a hand into mine and looks away, like she is afraid to see if our hands fit perfectly. Her braids are brown, matching her brown eyes.

“Do you need saving from Biggy?”

Her head whips around to look at me, and she retrieves her hand in a hurry. “No, I don’t. You know he’s been moved from one foster home to another? He doesn’t have a real daddy and a mummy like we do. Biggy is a good boy, he just needs someone to see him for who he is. ”

“And you’re that person?”

She doesn’t speak for a while, as though contemplating, then nodded. “I’m that person.”

“What if he finds out that you pity him?”

Penelope stops swinging. “I don’t pity him, I see him.”

“You don’t have to see him up close, you can do that from afar.”

“Why not?”

“Because you can be my girl.”

She spluttered into a cough, one that I had to pat away from her back. “Oh, Adam,” she says, the side of her lips tugging up in a smile.

I press a kiss to her forehead like my mom does to me, smoothing her braids while at it. I fish the plastic ring I had bought from the stall close to our school, and hand it over to her. It is red, with a love shaped candy attached to the top of it.

“You’re so dead, Prissy boy,” I hear someone say. I don’t have to look to know it is Biggy. I really am dead.

Bio:
Obsidian is a writer with an eye for poetry in nature and the mundane. When she isn’t writing, she can be found listening to Sade and Asa, scouring the internet for memes, or wondering why everything she needs cannot be brought to her doorstep. She has had her works published in Brittle Paper, Fiery Scribe and Backwards Trajectory, and another is forthcoming in Eunoia Review.

by Cheryl Ann Farrell

“Ho, Ho, Ho,” Kris shouted to begin the annual festivities on Christmas Island – a tradition for as long as anyone could remember. The week-long party included dancing, running about, and plenty of drinking. One big “hurrah” before the Christmas work began.

“Are the mermaids invited again this year?” Mrs. Claus asked.

“Of course! Mermaids love a good party.”

“And Halia?”

“I don’t know. I’ve not seen her since last year.”

Halia – a blue tailed mermaid – flirted heavily with Kris last year which led to a romantic liaison. Consequently, she gave birth to 100 eggs. These eggs hatched into little tadpole-like creatures – hideous though as each had the head of Santa – beard and all – and Halia’s blue fish tail. Mrs. Claus schemed to scoop up all the creatures and kill them, but Halia prevailed by taking them all out to sea. And vanished.

By day three of the festival, both forgot all about Halia and her brood. Until a drumbeat was heard in the distance approaching with the chant: “HO! HO! HO! HO! HO! HO!” With each stomp, the “HO!” got louder. Kris woke from a stupor, “What the f—?”

The sea shimmered with movement of hundreds, if not thousands, of these sea creatures from his spawn. They were a cross between a mermaid, Neptune, and Santa – each holding a spear as they headed inland stabbing everything as they went. “Where’s our PAPA? HO! HO! HO!”

These creatures slithered and propped themselves up to stab at anyone of the Kris Kringle Crew. Kris grabbed his pants, flipflops, his red suit, and headed for his canoe.

“If I don’t escape, Christmas will be gone.”  Once in the canoe he headed for the North Pole. He relaxed until he heard tapping. Kris turned around. One of the spawns made it aboard!

Quietly it squeaked out “Papa?”

“Papa?” it said again with a wide grin that showed off his Piranha teeth while tapping his spear on the bottom of the canoe.

by Ron Hardwick

I was back at the manic barber’s again. There was only one of the girls on duty. Her toddler son was at the far end of the salon in one of those cradles with wheels that force the child to stand upright and thrash his legs around like a fly stuck in a pot of jam. The child was sucking on something sticky, so that seemed to take care of him for the time being.

Seated next to me, awaiting his turn, was a fat, greasy chap in a disreputable suit that was as shiny as the Vanderbilt diamond. The front of his pate was bald.  At the back of his head, lank, oily hair swirled down over his collar. I shuddered when I realised that the hairdresser would be using her implements on me after him. Fortunately, he grew fed up of waiting and left the shop.

The hairdresser was working on a nervous-looking teenage boy with protuberant ears, and seemed to have been doing so for an inordinate length of time. She was cutting his hair in the modern style, that is, to make it look as if someone had lightly passed a strimmer over his head.

She eventually called me to the chair. The girl was about twenty-five, short and inclined towards dumpiness.  She had close-cropped, peroxide-blonde hair, through which you could plainly see crow-coloured roots.  She wore an immodest red patterned blouse and beige trousers. I asked for my usual eight on top and four at the sides, although I can never remember which way round it is. One day, I’ll get it wrong and come out looking like the late Sir Bobby Charlton.

I soon found out why a haircut took so long. The hairdresser was extremely garrulous. I was quite unprepared for the avalanche of words that spilled from her lips. I hardly managed to get a word in edgeways. A fragment of the monologue, rather than conversation, went like this:

‘Do you log onto Facebook?’

‘Not very…’

Well, they’ve got a group for selling things. I sell lots of baby clothes on that.’

‘I don’t like…’

‘Anyway, I won’t let the buyers into my house. I wrap the stuff up and leave it on the doorstep, put an arm out of the door, get my money and close the door in their faces.’

‘Is that…?’

‘Anyway, a friend of mine sold a lawn-mower, I think it was, yes a lawn-mower, to a bloke. He was weird. She let him into the house and he refused to leave. Three hours later, he was still in the passage, staring, like.  Really weird.’

‘Why didn’t she…?

‘Call the police? Yes, that’s what I thought. She ended up having to get a neighbour to remove him. A big bloke the neighbour was, a bouncer at a nightclub. I think they called him Geoff, or was it George?  The weirdo soon went. He could have had a knife or a machete or anything. She might have been viscolated.’

After twenty-five minutes of similar flapdoodle, she picked up a mirror that was lying on the shelf and held it up behind my head.

‘That do you?’ she said.

‘Fine, thanks.’ I replied.

I gave her a gratuity because it was a first-class haircut.

‘Thanks,’ she said, pocketing it. ‘You’ve had a good haircut and a nice little chat into the bargain.’

I’d had that, all right.

Bio:
Ron lives in East Lothian, Scotland. He has written well over two hundred short stories and pieces of flash fiction. He has a Masters’ Degrees in both Literature (distinction) and Creative Writing (merit) from the Open University.

by Robert Knox

i. [A cool day in November]

I know it’s cold, Azalea. 

I don’t like the cold either. 

But you’re not going to spend the winter indoors this year spooning with your buddy, electric heater. 

Not this year. 

He’ll miss me! You think you’re the reason he gets hot!

The only reason, you must know, why I brought you indoors the last two winters was you were looking peaked.

Have you taken a good look at me lately?

Really, Azalea, it’s about time you cut the cord –

Why don’t you cut the cord, Mr. Natural? Where have you been lately? Don’t like the good old shorter days? Temps overnight in the low forties? Take a look at the mirror, Bud. Five minutes out here and you beat it back indoors wicked pronto. It’s as if somebody’s just wrung the dinner bell! Bet you can make it for a quarter hour under that bare-assed Norwegian Maple. TRY SIX MONTHS!

– and learn to live outdoors where you’re supposed to, because, Azalea, frankly… you’re a plant. A flowering shrub.

But we were so happy together, Bud, you and me, inside your toasty warm study! I have such memories!

Well, to be frank, Azalea, you do take up a lot of space.

Me? Have you looked at yourself, Mr. Natural? Ever?

[Sighs. Shakes head. Walks indoors.]

ii. [Later, in the garden, once more…]

Really, Azalea, you are being a little ridiculous over what’s really a very natural stage in our relationship. I’m the gardener. You’re the flowering plant…  Now I’ve picked out a very nice spot for your new home –

I’m not talking to you.

–It’s right here behind the transplanted Iris and right next to where the tomatoes will be planted next spring.

Tomatoes? Those pathetic overrated annuals. Here today, gone tomorrow… I hate tomatoes! Nasty viny things! They’ll crawl all over me!  

I thought you weren’t talking to me?… Really, Azalea, it won’t be like that at all. You’ll see next spring.

That’s if I’m even here next spring! What makes you think I’ll survive six months in this outdoor refrigerator?

You are a perennial plant, Azalea.

Perennial millennial! I’m me!

You survived those first couple of years outdoors – you remember? when I planted you next to the driveway? – just fine.

Oh yeah? ‘Fine?’ Then why did you bring me indoors?

Well, I confess, I thought you had more to give… I was hoping for a whole new unfolding of beauty.

That is just so selfish! So you, Bud. You used me! And what happened?

… [silence]

Wasn’t I beautiful enough for you indoors?

…[hesitation]… Well, maybe not quite so spectacular as I hoped.

Beauty is as beauty does, Bud. And what you’re doing to me now, man, is positively ugly.

Azalea, we’ve been through this before.

Yeah. We have. And you brought me indoors!

Well, this time I think you can make it on your own. You’ve grown. You’ve matured. You’ll show the world you can produce beautiful flowers next spring right out here in the garden!… Where you belong!

Easy for you to say, Bud!… I bet you say that to all the flowering perennials!

…[silence]

You do, Bud, don’t you?

You’re forgetting who you are, Azalea. You’re Azalea Ericaceae. 

A popular medium-sized shrub…

And you, Bud, pure and simple, are a scrub.  

Bio:
Robert Knox is a novelist, short story writer, poet, and freelance journalist. His stories have been published by The Tishman Review, Lunch Ticket, and Eunoia Review, among other journals. He is a contributing editor for the poetry journal Verse-Virtual and his poems have appeared there and in other journals.

by Abigail Swanson

White frosting gleamed like bird poop in the middle of the road. Wrinkles from when she pulled off the tinfoil squished the cursive “Jenna and Jeremy” to an indecipherable black mass in the center. But hey, it looked pretty good for a three-year-old piece of cake. Better than she did.

Trees lining the county road chirped with birds. Robins swooped over the new offering. Could birds get sugar rushes? Jenna vetoed rice at the wedding to avoid having bloated birds on her conscience, no matter how much Jeremy’s mom complained. Maybe she should clean up her mess afterward, just in case.

Jenna reversed the car a few yards down the county road. She hadn’t wanted to save the stupid cake anyway but Jeremy’s mom insisted.

“Soak it with bourbon and it’ll keep like a dream in the freezer. You’ll want it for your anniversary.”

The woman cut their names straight out of the center of the sheet cake like she was afraid the five guests who showed up would claw right past the cut and plated side pieces and ruin any hope of a lovely anniversary.

So what if they did? It was just a court wedding. She didn’t even wear a white dress.

At least Jeremy agreed with her. He threw that slab of cake to the back of the freezer and forgot it existed. She only rediscovered it yesterday.

Jenna put the car in drive. And back in neutral. What would Jeremey’s mother say?

“If you didn’t want it, you should have said. How will you handle kids if you can’t even take care of a cake?”

Of course, she’d never say that. The woman just pinched her lips and aimed thought daggers at Jenna’s soul.

A bird landed beside the cake. Greedy thing would stick itself in the frosting. Jenna hit the horn and the bird flickered back to the trees.

She would make a great mom, whatever Jeremey’s mother said.

Jenna shifted back to drive, but kept her foot planted on the break. Was it really worth covering the car in cake bits? She’d come this far. What would she do, wrap it back up and return it to the freezer? That would make Jeremy’s mom judge her more than just murdering a cake.

The woman kept strong opinions on decision making. “Go right or go left. There’s too many flat birds in the middle of the road.”

Well then. If anyone asked, Jenna just followed Jeremy’s mom’s advice like a good daughter-in-law. 

Her foot landed on the gas. Birds scattered from the trees. The car flew into the cake like an airplane hitting a runway. The front tire plowed a pass through the white sugar and the rear tire impressed perfect tracks through their black frosted names.  

She should have done this sooner.

The ruins glowed like Grecian architecture in the rearview mirror.

Jenna grabbed the crumpled foil from the center console and swung the car door open. She walked back to scavenge the cake remains.  Hey, she might need it again next year.

Bio:
Abigail J. Swanson edited the 2021 edition of Tenth Street Miscellany. She writes across all genres and is currently teaching English as a second language in the Middle East. Abigail loves cheesecake and climbing trees.

by Roger Chapman

Apart from the carpet, the stove is the oldest inhabitant of our house. It was here when we arrived fifteen years ago and it’s dominated my culinary life ever since. At first I liked the novelty of cooking on a hob the size of a small airfield. It was an imposing presence: six burners powered by a nine-kilo gas bottle which filled our largest kitchen cupboard. The oven itself was so wide and deep that it was difficult to make out the back of it, even with the lights on. The array of clocks, dials and buzzers told me whatever I wanted to know (except, as I discovered, how long it took to cook anything).

Perhaps it’s unwise to anthropomorphise one’s appliances; at the time it seemed a reasonable way of fostering good relations. Unsure what gender the stove was, I settled on a safely androgynous name—Casey—without giving much thought to the stove’s opinion. In retrospect maybe not a good choice, but it’s too late for regrets now.

I’m no Luddite, but there’s no concealing the mutual antipathy which household appliances (especially those residing in the kitchen) and I harbour towards each other. Their paramount agenda is to make me look foolish and only incidentally—and grudgingly—to perform their assigned tasks. This applies to dishwashers, toasters and the like, but it took me some time to realise that Casey was an ally of theirs.

There were early signs that stove management might not be straightforward when the manual, thoughtfully left by the previous owner, proved to have been translated from Italian by someone unconversant with English idiom. Then I found there was no warning when the gas was about to run out: the flame simply died in mid-omelette.

It took me longer to work out that Casey’s oven had an irremediable problem: its south-western quadrant was distinctly hotter than the north-east. This emerged only when one thigh of the supposedly roast chicken was still a vivid pink while the other was fully cooked, and when the Christmas cake turned out underdone on one side. I could counter this by rotating the dish/tin 180 degrees halfway through the cooking—if I remembered, which I seldom did.

Yet these were minor inconveniences, mildly irritating but part of the ever-evolving fabric of kitchen life. The first indication of serious trouble didn’t emerge for a year or so, when the gas pressure began to drop. Before long, I found I could set a pot of water on the hob, then shave, shower and dress before it boiled.

I called Reg the gasfitter.

‘It’ll be the regulator,’ he said.

‘What’s that?’

I won’t attempt to reproduce his explanation. The only part I understood was that I’d need a new one. And, by the way, the gas bottle would have to be moved outside, with a connecting hose piercing the wall linings and the weatherboards. New regulations, he said.

‘While you’re here, Reg, one of the burners isn’t working.’

He twiddled a few knobs.

‘Looks like the igniter’s stuffed. Happens with these old stoves.’

‘Old? How old?’

‘Twelve, fourteen years, maybe. Nothing I can do. Can’t get the parts anymore.’

By the time Reg left, I had a useless burner, a hole in the wall, and not much else to show for his visit—though, admittedly, if I wanted to get back to the kitchen before the water boiled, I’d now have to shave and shower a lot faster.

Next day, the light bulb at the back of Casey’s cavernous interior failed. I had to put up with cooking in the Black Hole of Wellington for the fortnight it took me to buy a replacement. Which lasted three days. Followed in short order by the demise of a second burner. A third of the hob was now useless and I needed a torch to penetrate the darkness below.

But Casey wasn’t finished with me yet. Torchlight revealed a caking of thick black gunge on the cavity roof. As I’m sure you know, to clean the back of an oven you need to remove the door. Or grow longer arms. Whereas the door had previously yielded without fuss, it now firmly declined to budge.

I politely requested Casey to stop messing about. Nothing happened.

I raised my voice. Nothing.

I shouted and swore. Still nothing.

Twenty minutes later, after taking a break to consider how to extend my arms half a metre or so, I succeeded in wrenching the door free. It didn’t seem like a victory.

Once, removing the door had been easy. Refitting it after the ritual purification had been a more delicate operation, calling for surgeon-like precision and a look of intense concentration; otherwise it wouldn’t close correctly. But it wasn’t all that taxing and I wasn’t expecting anything to go wrong.

I’m not certain how long I struggled. No matter what I did, I couldn’t get the door both level and closed. One or the other. But not both.

After half an hour I settled for the closed-but-lopsided look. Which is how matters remain. At least I can still use the oven, although hot air (and sometimes smoke) issues from the top right of the door. Each time I close it, metal graunches on metal. Occasionally a screw or washer falls to the floor, but I don’t know where they’re from or how to put them back. I’d probably have to remove the door again…

I’m cutting my losses. I’ve ordered a new all-electric job. It should be here next week. Then I won’t have to worry about running out of gas ever again. Meanwhile, I gently coax Casey along, occasionally adjusting a knob or relighting a burner, hoping the old contraption will make it through the next week—much as you would provide palliative care to a dying relative.

That’s why I’m sitting beside Casey right now, watching tonight’s casserole cook—and wondering when the door’s going to fall off.

Bio:
Born in London, Roger Chapman counts himself lucky to have survived the twin hazards of wartime rationing and post-war British food. Only his parents’ decision to emigrate to New Zealand in the 1950s saved him from lifelong indigestion. After 45 years practising law, he abandoned the courtroom for the kitchen: since then he’s tried unsuccessfully to improve his cooking and confront the malice of his kitchen appliances. His blog The Erratic Cook at theerraticcook.substack.com documents some of his numerous culinary debacles.

by Lin Morris

So, there I was, no electricity, mid-hurricane, awaiting my shotgun wedding to the woman I’d met fifteen minutes ago.

And that was just Day One on the job.

Before knocking on the farmhouse door, I snuck a quick look at my corporate sales notebook. Sales Tip #5: Park on the street – if they don’t see you coming, they can’t pretend nobody’s home.

Also: Sales Tip #19: Wear a hat so you can respectfully remove it.

Check and check.

Okay, I was selling magazine subscriptions door-to-door, not glamorous, but, hey – I was in college and tired of eating ramen. Plus, I got to finally explore the area.

I’d been in Alabama three months and hadn’t ventured any farther off campus than the one pitiful gay bar in town. Mostly lesbian students and some closeted farm boys who jumped at every noise like it was a police raid.

And Pete, my cute-as-a-puppy, every-weekend hookup with an accent like molasses on gingham.

My assigned route was Waldo County. This was backroad country: farmhouses, satellite dishes, cars on cinderblocks, every cliché one’s mind conjures upon hearing the word Alabama. My boss promised me fifty bucks if I made a first-day sale, a bonus I planned to win.

Wait, was that a raindrop?

Before I could decide whether to double-check my car windows, two things happened, fast: it began pouring, and the farmhouse door flew open, revealing a wild-eyed young woman in a white shift, hair in curlers.

“You’re early!” she growled violently. “I said four o’clock!”

She shut the door before I had the chance to remove my hat.

Well!

Out came the notebook again.

Sales Tip #21: Don’t be afraid to ask twice.

Okay. Since I hadn’t even asked once, there was no harm in trying.

I raised my fist before the door.

But before I could knock, two things happened, fast: the door flew open again and she pulled me into a dark, windowless hallway.

“Get in before he hears ya!” She’d removed the curlers and was brushing her hair up into a poof.

I removed my hat and smiled.

“Good afternoon, I’m–”

“Yeah-yeah-yeah, I know.” She smacked my hat back onto my head and shoved two suitcases at me. “Here! Go put ‘em in yer cab.”

As she turned the knob, a powerful wind pulled the door from her grasp and crashed it against the wall.

“Lilamae!” came a gruff voice from the next room.

“Spit on a cat!” Lilamae hissed. “Now look what you done. I told you to wait outside.”

“Actually, you—”

“Now we’re in for it.”

We?!

“You woke up Pa.”

“I didn’t—”

“Shh!” She glanced back nervously. “Maybe he’ll fall back t’sleep.”

“LILAMAE!” Or not.

Lilamae put her weight against the door and tried to open it slowly. The wind pushed back hard; her pumps made a little skreek on the linoleum.

“Hurry! I’ll be right there.”

She shoved me out into the rain and shut the door behind me.

Now what? Fat chance selling Lilamae or her Pa anything. Something told me they weren’t breathlessly awaiting the next Vanity Fair Hollywood Issue.

What would my notebook say?

Probably, Sales Tip #99: Head home, you walnut, before this storm gets worse.

But before I could check my notebook, two things happened, fast: the door flew open and a meaty hand pulled me right off my feet and into the house.

“Gotcha!” Lilamae’s Pa shouted. He was short and stocky, strong enough to pin me to the wall with one arm.

“Pa, stop!”

“Think you kin knock up my daughter and sneak off to elope?”

“What?!” I couldn’t laugh, not with a rifle pointed at my sternum. Instead, I removed my hat.

“Pa, how’d you find out?”

“I seen the emails, Lilamae!” He sneered at me. “I’d blast ya to Kingdom Come ‘cept it’s obvious she loves ya.”

“Sir,” I croaked, his arm on my throat creating quite an inconvenience, “I think there’s been a mistake.”

“And you made it.”

“Pa,” said Lilamae, “this ain’t my beau. This here’s the taxi driver come to take me to the bus station.”

“Actually,” I rasped, “I’m not.”

“Hesh up, both o’ya.” He hollered over his shoulder. “Jimmy Ray!”

“Yeah, Pa?” someone shouted from the next room.

“Git next door, tell the preacher we need ‘im.”

“Okay!” I heard the whooshing foul weather outside as he opened a door.

“Pa,” pleaded Lilamae, “I don’t even know this guy.”

“Yer gonna marry ‘im alright. But y’all ain’t runnin’ off nowheres. Gonna do it right here all legal so’s I can witness it myself.”

“Sir, let me give you my card.” I reached for my sample case, but lickety-split the old man raised and cocked his rifle. At least his hands were off my collapsing windpipe.

Just then the power went out, because of course it did.

A perfect time to run, except the old man’s Popeye arm was back on me.

The only sound was rain hitting the tin roof.

At long last the back door opened.

“Pa, the preacher wasn’t home! Hey, what happened to the lights?”

“Jimmy Ray, bring a flashlight!”

Crashes in the dark, then a beam came swinging around the corner.

“Here ya—”

But before Jimmy Ray could finish his sentence, two things happened, fast: the electricity came on, and there, handing his Pa a flashlight was—

“Pete?” I blinked in the sudden light.

Pete’s puppy dog eyes turned big as hubcaps.

“Pete?” Lilamae turned on her brother. “That’s yer name this month? Well, Pete, if I’m a-going down, yer comin’ along. Pa, I’m not sleeping with this guy. Jimmy Ray is!”

Pa dropped the rifle, his hands now otherwise occupied with clutching his chest and all.

That’s when they all started shouting at once.

And that’s when I threw open the door and ran out into the storm.

I didn’t stop until I reached my car.

Not even for the guy at the end of the driveway, asking me who’d ordered a cab.

Bio:
Lin Morris lives and writes in his hometown of Portland, Oegon, USA. His work has appeared in Unlikely Stories; Trembling with Fear; Flumes Literary Journal; Little Old Lady Comedy; Meet Cute Press; Second Chance Lit; Suddenly and Without Warning; and in the anthologies Flash of Brilliance, Coffin Blossoms, Breathless, TWF v. 3, and Bullshit Lit. His novels Spot the Not and The Marriage Wars are available on amazon.com. He won the 2020 YeahWrite Micro Fiction Competition.

by M. Nathan Robinson

When the check comes, I review it item by item. Luckily, there are no mistaken additions and, unfortunately, no omissions either. I place my credit card on the tray and let it hang over the edge to ensure the waiter won’t miss it. He misses it. He passes by three more times, eyes averted, before I pick it up and create a makeshift turnstile with my arm he can’t squeeze past.

He returns fifteen minutes later with two receipts printed on the narrowest of flimsy thermal paper.  They curl up on sight. I smooth them straight and use my fingers as paperweights. The twins share pink, end-of-the-roll warning stripes and uneven jagged edges.

I am not one to penalize waitstaff when calculating the tip. It’s a grueling job for little pay and the few times I was pressed into service, I’m sure I did nothing to earn my gratuity. I multiply by two and move the decimal. I write the amount with the bleeding, hairy-nubbed pen provided and place the total below. My nine looks like a seven and the five could be mistaken for a six, so I cross out the number and write more precisely in the margin up along the side. As taught by god knows who, I go back and initial the crossed-out portion. I’m left with a space the girth of a string bean for my signature. I do my best, but it mimics a child’s depiction of an ocean wave or, perhaps, an inchworm in flight.

Only then do I realize I’ve accidentally filled out the customer copy. It’s indicated at the very bottom in three-point type with the “ner copy” sheared off. I know enough that it doesn’t really matter and so I simply keep the merchant copy for myself. I crumple it in my hand and stick it in my pants pocket so the dryer has a nice snack for later in the week. As I get up to leave, I stir the air and the half-ply, featherweight parchment rides the draft onto the floor and under the table. It continues on until it comes to rest with the lint and filth between the booth and the wall. Thank goodness I’m here to witness it and rectify the situation. I retrieve it, along with a set of chopsticks, a straw, and a linen napkin, even though the restaurant switched to paper two years prior. I place the receipt back onto the tray and pin it down with the salt shaker.

But as I make my way to the exit, something doesn’t sit right. I see no sense of urgency. There is no meticulous procedure being employed. My documentation, with my precise calculations, my initialized and certified corrections, my requisite signature authorization, just sit there fully exposed. No one is racing over to assure a chain of custody, inspect the integrity of work, or rush it into processing.

I assume the amount of the gratuity and the final tally need to be resubmitted to my credit card company to verify and finalize this financial transaction. But, it now dawns on me that I have no idea how that works. This procedure that I’ve performed more than any other binding financial contract I can think of in my life, actually makes no good, goddamn sense to me. How does the tip get applied? What stops them from adding in any amount or changing the total? Am I expected to review my statements and remember all these amounts? If I choose to dispute the charge, will there be a hearing? Will a forgery expert be called in to testify? Will my hairy squiggles be distinguishable from all other hairy squiggles? I mean, what the fuck?

Or have we just been operating on the honor system all this time? Upon reflection, I’ve never had a waiter or waitress I’ve suspected of wrongdoing, but surely, they’d know not to grin, wring their hands, or laugh maniacally in front of us—their victims.

Where’s the protocol—the systematized bureaucracy that creates a series of hoops, red tape, and crushing penalties as a deterrent? I mean, am I mistaken or are we all exposing ourselves to fraud, forgery, and embezzlement on a daily basis? And our only protection against these crimes is—what? I can hardly imagine.

Would I be expected to testify? Coached to say something like “That’s not my hairy squiggle of my first initial followed by what looks like it could be a smudgy smear of my last initial!” or “Yes sir, I am very confident that my hand is incapable of making a line with humps and dips in those precise locations!” And where is all this paperwork being cataloged and stored for trial? Good god, man—I’m picturing an undertaking bigger than the colonization of Mars!

Is the only solution to lunch exclusively with notaries who travel with their stamps and embossers? Or is it as easy to forge their shit too? Maybe it’s hopeless. Like so many problems we seem to be facing these days, there’s probably no good solution. Maybe the answer is to join ‘em—or, at least, get in the game. Can I go back and dispute all my credit card charges from the beginning? What evidence do they have that my signatures and my initials were not forged? I don’t know about you, but the only person on the planet who may be incapable of forging my signature is—me! My nervous hand forces a signature that is sometimes tall and loopy and other times flat and pointy, or anywhere in between.

So, why not? Go ahead! Have at it! Give yourselves two-hundred percent tips, add eight more items to my bill, leave room to type in a litany of extra fees and surcharges. I guess all I have to do is deny them all—every last one! Hooray! Yippy! Oh, who am I kidding? We’re all screwed.

Bio:
M Nathan Robinson is from Philadelphia, PA, USA who got the bug to write creative fiction rather late in life. He’s published one suspense novel, RIFT, in 2020 and has a collection of short satirical fiction and essays coming out in 2024 entitled, “I Don’t Like to Complain, But…”

by David Fryer

“Hello, it’s Jerry from Enchanted Forest Urgent Care.  How are you enjoying your retirement?”

“Retirement is great.  I do a lot of hiking these days.  In fact, I’m on a winding trail right now having some Gardetto’s snack mix.  What’s up?”

“Do you have time to discuss a case with me?  I could really use your input.”

“Shoot, I have years of experience, and you just took over my practice.  I’m sure there are few tricks I haven’t taught you yet.”

“Oh great, it’s a really curious case.  We just brought in a patient.  Female, around 18 years old, quite beautiful, but completely unresponsive, in a coma actually.”

“Any history of epilepsy in the family?”

“That’s the thing, we have no family history, she was brought in by some acquaintances.  Several little people, or however they prefer to be called.  They had no knowledge of her background other than she was a rather agreeable roommate.  The name was Snow.”

“Hmm.  So how did they find her?”

“According to their spokesperson, an older gentleman named ‘Doc’, she had bought an apple, from another strikingly beautiful woman, ate it, then was out like a light on the floor.”

“Did they check her airways?  Try the Heimlich maneuver?”

“They said she was breathing fine, just seemed quite drowsy and then fainted dead away.”

“Ok.  Have you administered smelling salts?”

“Oh, we’ve tried everything.  There is brain activity, but we have had to put her on a nutrient drip to keep her supplied with food and water.”

“Did they question the apple merchant?  Get a sample of the fruit?”

“The seller only had the one apple apparently.  It was a New Zealand Queen.  A somewhat rare brand in these parts, but not too unusual.  My orderly mentioned she was the second most beautiful woman he had ever seen, next to the patient.  But upon hearing that, the merchant stormed off, maintaining she was much more attractive.”

“Curious.  Did you get a toxicology report on the remains of the apple the patient ate?”

“Yes, completely clean, no sign of barbiturates.  However, none of the little people would touch it.  Then they sang a peppy tune and left for work the day after they dropped off the patient.”

“So, what is the current status of this young girl, Snow?”

“She’s still in critical condition.  Oddly enough, my orderly spent hours discussing the patient with her roommates and apparently fell in love with the young woman after they played a couple of audio tracks of her singing.” 

“Now we are getting somewhere.  What is his genealogy?”

“Genealogy?”

“Does he have any royalty in his background?”

“Hmm, let me check.  Frank!  Do you have any ties to royalty?  Uh-huh.  Really?  He says he owns a dog named Duke.”

“Close enough.  Have him kiss the patient.”

“But she’s unconscious!  Well, ok.  Nurse, can you remove the nutrient tube?  Oh my god.  It’s working!  She’s coming to!”

“Congratulations, doctor, you’ve solved the case.”

“Amazing, a kiss was the antidote to her condition.  It’s a medical miracle.”

“Anything else I can help you with?”

“Well, the office is packed with woodland animals anticipating to escort the girl back to her flat.  She no longer needs their direction.”

“Not sure how I can help there.”

“It’s a pest problem.  Would you consider adopting a deer or a rabbit?”

“Oh, no thanks.  I’m more of an animal huntsman than husbander.”

“No worries.  Well, while I have you on the line, maybe you can comment on a rhinoplasty patient we have with trust issues…”

Bio:
David Fryer lives in Portland, Oregon.

by Kate E. Lore

We came to see the Amorphophallus titanium. We came to see the corpse flower. It’s one of the largest unbranched flowers in the world. It’s six-foot-tall. It blooms once every 7-10 years. It smells like death.

            “So is it like… fertilized by scavenger animals that come sniffing around wondering where the road kill is?” I asked. My girlfriend elbows me in the ribs. Somehow this is, apparently, a stupid question. I was half joking, part speculating, part guessing. The conservatory employee pretends he didn’t hear me. He glances sideways then away. I can see sweat dripping down his face. In his defense it is hot here in the greenhouse.

            And they arn’t wrong, as far as I know, it does smell bad. The bloom itself is an ugly thing. It looks like something only Tim Burton could love. The petals are thick, like a cow’s tongue. They are dark and big, looking wilted long before the bloom had even started.

            Everyone keeps leaning in as close as they can. They’re pushing at each other. Fighting to be up front as if this thing were the pope. People took pictures, scribbled down notes. One guy used a cue tip to take a DNA sample.

            I stood back and watched them.

            “Is this a reverse representation of life? The ugly bloom? The peak of growth backwards?” A man asked right before sticking his whole head inside the bloom. He wanted to hear it from the inside someone else explained.

            “Will this give us insight to the mysteries of the universe? Will we at least understand life, death, the experience in between?” A woman asked. The plant sucked the man inside like a straw, then swallowed him down like a snake. The woman who had asked the next question voluenteerily climbed in after him. She pulled her arms up, crossing them, as if she were going down a water slide.

            One by one people from the crowd stepped forward. One by one they went inside searching for answers. The plant grew six feet, seven, eight, nine, ten. It got too big for the table too big for the room.

            At last I found myself standing alone before it. The plant towered over me. Its vines reaching out for me greedily.

            I step back and shrug my shoulders.

            “I already asked you a question.”

Bio:
Kate E Lore is a queer, neurodivergent, she/they, born to a single widowed mother and a writer of both fiction and nonfiction with many publications including Black Warrior Review, Longridge Review, Orsum, Bending Genres, and Door is a Jar.