Delivery by Ethan Swage
The kids titter anxiously behind you as you swing open the door. The delivery boy gasps, stutters, blushes. Inside, you gather your clothes, collect high fives, then scamper off to the bathroom. You peek out the window—pizza boy’s still there—and kiss the breath-fogged glass. Mom is still cool.
Ethan Swage is a New Jersey–based writer, artist, and photographer whose work has appeared in publications including Eclectic Flash, Blink/Ink, and Staccato Fiction. He has thrown away his watch.
Spin by Nathan Schaad
When Naomi took the stand, she knew her prosecutor had no case. Still, he approached.
“You admitted, Miss Naomi, that you killed your son while he slept in his crib.”
“Yes.”
“Yet you still insist you are innocent of murder in the first degree?”
“It was a postpartum abortion, dumbass.”
Nathan Schaad is a creative writing graduate at Miami University. After graduation, Nathan took a sharp swerve into the interaction of law and people as a writing interest, which currently fuels much of his work. This is his first publication in a professional literary magazine.
When Naomi took the stand, she knew her prosecutor had no case. Still, he approached.
“You admitted, Miss Naomi, that you killed your son while he slept in his crib.”
“Yes.”
“Yet you still insist you are innocent of murder in the first degree?”
“It was a postpartum abortion, dumbass.”
Nathan Schaad is a creative writing graduate at Miami University. After graduation, Nathan took a sharp swerve into the interaction of law and people as a writing interest, which currently fuels much of his work. This is his first publication in a professional literary magazine.
You, Eternally Memorialized by C.A. Cole
I’m writing a love flash, a poem without line breaks, hummed to the B-52’s, love flash, love flash, short, like the time we spent together. If you’d stayed, it’d be a short story, maybe a novel, but since you weren’t capable of sustained attention, a flash is all you get.
C.A. Cole seems to pare her writing down and down and down, and then it gets published. The above was once a novel.
I’m writing a love flash, a poem without line breaks, hummed to the B-52’s, love flash, love flash, short, like the time we spent together. If you’d stayed, it’d be a short story, maybe a novel, but since you weren’t capable of sustained attention, a flash is all you get.
C.A. Cole seems to pare her writing down and down and down, and then it gets published. The above was once a novel.
Grey by Robert Thomas
She has kind of motherly hair; gray curls peppered against black locks. Each crease in her face is a story about sleepless nights with crying babies, doctor visits and missing child support checks. When she asks if I want a dance, I say, no, but I’ll pay for one anyway.
Robert Thomas is a writer living in Seattle, Washington. He hopes to change the number of pieces he has published from "0" to "a bunch". He's currently working on a novel that will, most likely, be rejected many times.
She has kind of motherly hair; gray curls peppered against black locks. Each crease in her face is a story about sleepless nights with crying babies, doctor visits and missing child support checks. When she asks if I want a dance, I say, no, but I’ll pay for one anyway.
Robert Thomas is a writer living in Seattle, Washington. He hopes to change the number of pieces he has published from "0" to "a bunch". He's currently working on a novel that will, most likely, be rejected many times.
Navigation by Duncan Whitmire
We proclaimed our love with the frequency of certain birds during long migrations, checking in every few seconds because the world is big and the sky bigger. One day I said I love you and heard silence in return. Now I sense I’m headed north toward a cold dark winter.
Duncan Whitmire lives and writes in southern New Hampshire, where he works at a school for children with disabilities. Fiction of his has appeared in such journals as Flashquake, Dispatch Lita-Review, 34th Parallel and 322 Review. Please visit his website at www.duncanwhitmire.com.
We proclaimed our love with the frequency of certain birds during long migrations, checking in every few seconds because the world is big and the sky bigger. One day I said I love you and heard silence in return. Now I sense I’m headed north toward a cold dark winter.
Duncan Whitmire lives and writes in southern New Hampshire, where he works at a school for children with disabilities. Fiction of his has appeared in such journals as Flashquake, Dispatch Lita-Review, 34th Parallel and 322 Review. Please visit his website at www.duncanwhitmire.com.
Thanks A Lot by KC Kovacs
Oatmeal stuck to the inside of the bowl like dried cement, resistant even to the Brillo pad she expertly wielded. The metal scraped and squealed as she dragged it along the bottom curves. Her glance moved to the remaining pile of dishes. One more thing he was never good for.
KC Kovacs wanders the universe, trying to remain as anonymous as possible. You probably don't know her, even though you think you do.
Oatmeal stuck to the inside of the bowl like dried cement, resistant even to the Brillo pad she expertly wielded. The metal scraped and squealed as she dragged it along the bottom curves. Her glance moved to the remaining pile of dishes. One more thing he was never good for.
KC Kovacs wanders the universe, trying to remain as anonymous as possible. You probably don't know her, even though you think you do.
Juicy by Andrew Stancek
Eve stretched, plucked the radiant apple off the high branch and bit. Tart juice oozed down her chin, lingered, rolled down one breast. She bit again. She glanced at her sleeping companion and his snake. She shook him, thrust the apple into his hand. “Eat.” She realized they were naked.
Some of Andrew Stancek's recent fiction appeared in Pure Slush, A Twist of Noir, Right Hand Pointing, Prime Number Magazine, Istanbul Literary Review and others. THIS Literary Magazine nominated him for a Pushcart Prize.
Eve stretched, plucked the radiant apple off the high branch and bit. Tart juice oozed down her chin, lingered, rolled down one breast. She bit again. She glanced at her sleeping companion and his snake. She shook him, thrust the apple into his hand. “Eat.” She realized they were naked.
Some of Andrew Stancek's recent fiction appeared in Pure Slush, A Twist of Noir, Right Hand Pointing, Prime Number Magazine, Istanbul Literary Review and others. THIS Literary Magazine nominated him for a Pushcart Prize.
The Home-Coming by Abigail Wyatt
The house is cold, biting, bitten, gnawed at by winter. Upstairs, a woman sobs as a new-born infant howls. At the foot of the stairs, between peeling walls, a grey-faced young man seems to hesitate. His eyes take in the first floor landing and then slide towards the still-open door.
Abigail Wyatt writes for her life near Redruth in Cornwall. She resents having to go to work and lives in fear that she will just run out of time.
The house is cold, biting, bitten, gnawed at by winter. Upstairs, a woman sobs as a new-born infant howls. At the foot of the stairs, between peeling walls, a grey-faced young man seems to hesitate. His eyes take in the first floor landing and then slide towards the still-open door.
Abigail Wyatt writes for her life near Redruth in Cornwall. She resents having to go to work and lives in fear that she will just run out of time.
Afghanistan on Christmas Day by John C. Mannone
Snow fell thick and the ground grafted its new skin. Clouds gathered over the scarred land: months of abuse, the black-and-blue hills, pounded. Even the tanks and their turrets were covered and silent. White landscape delved into gray sky. And there was peace on Earth, at least for one day.
John C. Mannone has been nominated three times for the Pushcart. His work appears in Conclave, The Medulla Review, Rose & Thorn Journal, Hinchas de Poesía, The Pedestal, Magnapoets, Glass, Lucid Rhythms, Prime Mincer and many others. He is the poetry editor for Silver Blade, an adjunct professor of physics in east Tennessee and serves as a NASA/JPL Solar System Ambassador. Visit The Art of Poetry.
Snow fell thick and the ground grafted its new skin. Clouds gathered over the scarred land: months of abuse, the black-and-blue hills, pounded. Even the tanks and their turrets were covered and silent. White landscape delved into gray sky. And there was peace on Earth, at least for one day.
John C. Mannone has been nominated three times for the Pushcart. His work appears in Conclave, The Medulla Review, Rose & Thorn Journal, Hinchas de Poesía, The Pedestal, Magnapoets, Glass, Lucid Rhythms, Prime Mincer and many others. He is the poetry editor for Silver Blade, an adjunct professor of physics in east Tennessee and serves as a NASA/JPL Solar System Ambassador. Visit The Art of Poetry.
Self Interview, Part 13 by Benjameno Ĉarlo Kraŭs
So if everyone’s on drugs, when do you know your use has become a problem?
When you find yourself cutting open the mesh gym shorts whose pockets held the fifty gram bag you went through, in order to get at the previously-unattainable bits that were stuck between the folds.
Benjameno Ĉarlo Kraŭs is a poet, polyglot, editor of two journals, publisher of Diamond Point Press, founding member of Poems Without Borders, web designer, nonfiction writer, essayist, literary critic, literary translator, and inventor of the poetry form quincouplet. People often ask him how he manages to do so many projects at once.
So if everyone’s on drugs, when do you know your use has become a problem?
When you find yourself cutting open the mesh gym shorts whose pockets held the fifty gram bag you went through, in order to get at the previously-unattainable bits that were stuck between the folds.
Benjameno Ĉarlo Kraŭs is a poet, polyglot, editor of two journals, publisher of Diamond Point Press, founding member of Poems Without Borders, web designer, nonfiction writer, essayist, literary critic, literary translator, and inventor of the poetry form quincouplet. People often ask him how he manages to do so many projects at once.
Drifting Through Space by Marta Pelrine-Bacon
Eden Ashe was the last astronaut on the moon. The others went to Mars and then into deep space. She never heard what happened. She watched the lights go out around the earth. When they no longer answered her radio signals, she climbed the debris of the spacecraft and jumped.
Marta Pelrine-Bacon is a writer, artist, teacher, mom and wife, living in Austin, Texas. For her art she takes the rough drafts of her novels and short stories and cuts up the pages to make pictures or whatever else comes to mind. She drink too much coffee and speed skates. She has had a fairy tale published in the online journal Cabinet des Fees, and her art published in a few other places, too.
Eden Ashe was the last astronaut on the moon. The others went to Mars and then into deep space. She never heard what happened. She watched the lights go out around the earth. When they no longer answered her radio signals, she climbed the debris of the spacecraft and jumped.
Marta Pelrine-Bacon is a writer, artist, teacher, mom and wife, living in Austin, Texas. For her art she takes the rough drafts of her novels and short stories and cuts up the pages to make pictures or whatever else comes to mind. She drink too much coffee and speed skates. She has had a fairy tale published in the online journal Cabinet des Fees, and her art published in a few other places, too.
The Mayor's Shower by Sam Cicero
Lately, the mayor was having a harder time mustering the courage to get out of the shower every morning. The warm water would flow all around him until the tub overflowed. Once he heard the neighbors bang and shout, “We’re being flooded!” he knew it was time to get out.
Sam Cicero was born in the woods along the Northern New Jersey coast in an age of great darkness: the Reagan years. He survived the wicked times by eating cast offs from a local pizza shop. He is the founder and head editor of the literary zine Lo Fidelity.
Lately, the mayor was having a harder time mustering the courage to get out of the shower every morning. The warm water would flow all around him until the tub overflowed. Once he heard the neighbors bang and shout, “We’re being flooded!” he knew it was time to get out.
Sam Cicero was born in the woods along the Northern New Jersey coast in an age of great darkness: the Reagan years. He survived the wicked times by eating cast offs from a local pizza shop. He is the founder and head editor of the literary zine Lo Fidelity.
Mr. Starks by Mary Ann Back
Mr. Starks is unnerving. His smile is taut when he comes to call. His eyes, black and merciless, mask an insatiable hunger.
I catch my reflection in the mirror and see that he has returned. Trepidation is gone. It’s time for our midnight stroll – and time for us to feed.
Mary Ann Back, of Mason, Ohio, was awarded the 2009 Bilbo Award for creative writing by Thomas More College. Her writing has appeared in many publications, including: Short Story America, Every Day Fiction, Bete Noir, Eclectic Flash, The Loyalhanna Review, Flashes in the Dark and Flash Shot.
Mr. Starks is unnerving. His smile is taut when he comes to call. His eyes, black and merciless, mask an insatiable hunger.
I catch my reflection in the mirror and see that he has returned. Trepidation is gone. It’s time for our midnight stroll – and time for us to feed.
Mary Ann Back, of Mason, Ohio, was awarded the 2009 Bilbo Award for creative writing by Thomas More College. Her writing has appeared in many publications, including: Short Story America, Every Day Fiction, Bete Noir, Eclectic Flash, The Loyalhanna Review, Flashes in the Dark and Flash Shot.
I Envy the Girl in Line in Front of Me at the DMV by Jill Simons
There are two types of people at the DMV: those who look impeccable because they know they are getting their photo taken, and everyone else. I’m everyone else since I chose to pull my hair into a clip and insist they do not take a picture for my new license.
Jill Simons is a elementary school teacher. She's usually creating stories for her students, but can sometimes find the time to write for grown-ups too.
There are two types of people at the DMV: those who look impeccable because they know they are getting their photo taken, and everyone else. I’m everyone else since I chose to pull my hair into a clip and insist they do not take a picture for my new license.
Jill Simons is a elementary school teacher. She's usually creating stories for her students, but can sometimes find the time to write for grown-ups too.
Royal Flush by Michaela Halsey
You are delirious.
You sit at your poker table, cards in hand, playing with all the people you have ever wanted to meet. The devil cracks a fart, fans it with his tail. Unconcerned, he says: “Whose empty seat?”
The irony bemuses you. “Jesus is coming.”
Michaela Halsey, a recent college graduate, means no disrespect.
You are delirious.
You sit at your poker table, cards in hand, playing with all the people you have ever wanted to meet. The devil cracks a fart, fans it with his tail. Unconcerned, he says: “Whose empty seat?”
The irony bemuses you. “Jesus is coming.”
Michaela Halsey, a recent college graduate, means no disrespect.
Sleep Aide by Sander Blome
Kathy, SunGate’s shapely housemother, finally responds to Will's advances. “Sneak into my bedroom after meds.” Sting croons “Message in a Bottle,” Kathy coos, “Just cuddle” and Will reaches underneath Kathy’s nightgown.
“Out!” Kathy yelps. Right then, Restoril’s dazing effect grips Kathy’s bedmate.
At breakfast, Kathy tests Will’s befogged memory. “Rested?"
Sander Blome denies life as a bipolar twice a day when he medicates. Now a British and American Literature major at University of South Florida, he is at work on a first book of poetry. www.sander-blome.blogspot.com.
Kathy, SunGate’s shapely housemother, finally responds to Will's advances. “Sneak into my bedroom after meds.” Sting croons “Message in a Bottle,” Kathy coos, “Just cuddle” and Will reaches underneath Kathy’s nightgown.
“Out!” Kathy yelps. Right then, Restoril’s dazing effect grips Kathy’s bedmate.
At breakfast, Kathy tests Will’s befogged memory. “Rested?"
Sander Blome denies life as a bipolar twice a day when he medicates. Now a British and American Literature major at University of South Florida, he is at work on a first book of poetry. www.sander-blome.blogspot.com.
Into the In-Worlds Below by Chris Dize
We stepped off the porch and followed the path around the house and down into the woods where the ferns grow ankle-high, brush your calves like lace and canvas the entire ground and the pathways to the in-worlds below. “Whatever you do,” Penelope warned, “don’t go off the path here.”
Chris Dize is a recent law school graduate who lives in New Jersey and is currently studying for the bar exam and watching his sanity and creativity slowly disintegrate.
We stepped off the porch and followed the path around the house and down into the woods where the ferns grow ankle-high, brush your calves like lace and canvas the entire ground and the pathways to the in-worlds below. “Whatever you do,” Penelope warned, “don’t go off the path here.”
Chris Dize is a recent law school graduate who lives in New Jersey and is currently studying for the bar exam and watching his sanity and creativity slowly disintegrate.
HPV by April Johnston
As I lie on my back, feet spread wide, organs numbed, his gloved hands inside of me, I don’t know which one of you did this to me – who left the virus that invaded the cells that multiplied and shape shifted and threatened to kill me – but I blame you.
As I lie on my back, feet spread wide, organs numbed, his gloved hands inside of me, I don’t know which one of you did this to me – who left the virus that invaded the cells that multiplied and shape shifted and threatened to kill me – but I blame you.
April Johnston is a professor and former newspaper reporter who lives and writes in West Virginia. She can confirm that it is both wild and wonderful. Read more of her work at http://littlestbaglady.wordpress.com/
I've Been Meaning to Tell You by Stefanie Snider
Their passionate clinch ended with the director's call. She pulled back, embarrassed by the catcalls offstage.
He thumbed errant lipstick from below her mouth.
"Let's go, babe." Her boyfriend, in the wings.
A smile fluttered on her delicate lips.
"He'd never let me, if you were straight."
"Of course. Right."
Stefanie Snider wishes she could get paid for sleeping, because she's really good at it. Her first published story can be found in the soon-to-be-released Short Sips: Coffee House Flash Fiction Collection 2 from Wicked East Press.
Their passionate clinch ended with the director's call. She pulled back, embarrassed by the catcalls offstage.
He thumbed errant lipstick from below her mouth.
"Let's go, babe." Her boyfriend, in the wings.
A smile fluttered on her delicate lips.
"He'd never let me, if you were straight."
"Of course. Right."
Stefanie Snider wishes she could get paid for sleeping, because she's really good at it. Her first published story can be found in the soon-to-be-released Short Sips: Coffee House Flash Fiction Collection 2 from Wicked East Press.
Thank-You Letter by Edward Garza
Dear family members and friends,
Thank you all for your kind wishes concerning the health of my beloved wife, Mabel. As I now know, my Mabel caught a bad case of the syphilis. So as for news, sadly, there ain't much to offer - she is still dead.
Sincerely,
Orville McLean
Edward Garza lives in Houston, which he asserts is a captivating city, if you know what you’re doing. He works as a consultant at the University of Houston’s Writing Center and is a staff writer for the magazine Stryve. He enjoys Houston’s winters, mixing iced tea with lemonade to make an Arnold Palmer, and running, one of his favorite addictions. Additional work can be found in The Aletheia.
Dear family members and friends,
Thank you all for your kind wishes concerning the health of my beloved wife, Mabel. As I now know, my Mabel caught a bad case of the syphilis. So as for news, sadly, there ain't much to offer - she is still dead.
Sincerely,
Orville McLean
Edward Garza lives in Houston, which he asserts is a captivating city, if you know what you’re doing. He works as a consultant at the University of Houston’s Writing Center and is a staff writer for the magazine Stryve. He enjoys Houston’s winters, mixing iced tea with lemonade to make an Arnold Palmer, and running, one of his favorite addictions. Additional work can be found in The Aletheia.