Contributor: Christina Jones

- -
“You are lovely,” he whispered.

“You are trying to win me with flattery,” she giggled.

The man was unusually tall with dark brown eyes and black hair. He was enchanting. She met him outside of the local pub.

“Oh, I do not have to try to win anything. I can just take what I want,” he replied.

With these words, she became startled. The man could see her fear begin to grow.

“Why, what ever do you mean?” She asked.

With a slight smile, he inched forward and with this step, she moved backwards. His smiled grew bigger.

“Well?” She asked.

As soon as the word was audible, his mouth was at her throat. Terrified, she started to scream. The man placed his free hand around her neck and began to squeeze.

“Shhhh…” he started. “You musn’t make a sound. Otherwise, we will be discovered. You don’t want that do you?”

Frozen, her pupils grew bigger and her voice silenced itself. The man loosened his grip around her neck and began running his hand down her side. He was gentle and appropriate, cautious never to touch her in a place that an unwed couple shouldn’t. He believed in being a gentleman, even in the worst of situations, and this was a bad situation.

“This isn’t going to hurt much. I promise,” he whispered into her ear. “You musn’t scream. It will only make things worse.”

So, the tall man wrapped his left arm around her waist and proceeded to lean her back, as if they were dancing. With his other hand, he swept her long, curly hair away from her shoulders and lowered his face toward the hollow of her neck. She shivered with the touch of his cold breath. He quickly kissed her skin and traced his lips toward her mouth. With an easy motion, their lips touched. In that instant, the woman closed her eyes and her body relaxed. As soon as this happened, the man opened his mouth and two fangs appeared, glistening in the dark. In one swift motion, his mouth was around her throat, his fangs deep in her skin.

The beautiful woman whimpered in response to the touch of his fangs. So, he relented, only for a moment. Raising his head, little drops of blood from his fangs landed gracefully on her dress.

“Now look what you’ve done,” he said. “You’ve made me soil your dress. One moment longer, I shall be on my way, but only if you’re quiet,” he finished.

After only a minute, he released his grip and wiped his mouth. He wore a look of satisfaction across his face.

“I do hope you had a good time. I’ve quite enjoyed myself,” he said.

Staring into her eyes, he smiled briefly. “I do wish that you could remember me. Too bad things have to be the way that they are. You’ll forget me in only a moment’s time, but you, you I will remember for a lifetime.”

With a tip of his hat, he was around the corner and on his way. The woman was left standing on the dark street in her fanciest dress. At the very moment the man rounded the corner another stranger appeared.

“My dear, what are you doing out here so late and alone?” He asked.

“I can't remember,” she answered.

“Was that a man turning down the alley? Who was that man?” He asked.

“I don't know. A stranger, I suppose.”


- - -
Christina is a wife, mother, blogger and creative writing student. She is currently in the editing trenches with her first novel and hopes to publish it sometime in this century.

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: Christina Jones

Contributor: Leilanie Stewart

- -
“Go on. Get lost! This wave-cut platform isn't big enough for two!”
“What on earth do you mean?” The lamellibra peered under the hinge line of his protruding umbo at the calcareous shape of the brachiopod next to him, and flipped his upper shell in disgust.
“I mean that this part of the oolitic limestone is mine. Mine, you hear? My territory. Take off!”
“I don't understand you. We’ve both been here for several millennia sharing this rock and you never had a problem before.”
The brachiopod clicked his umbo beak, his quartz glinting in the sun as anger washed over him. “Us? Sharing? I would never fix my pedicle within a million diatoms of a specimen like you.”
“What a thing to say! You’re an awfully aggressive fellow, are you not?”
“I can say what I want, thank you very much. I’ve been here since the ocean swept me by my vibratile cilia as a larval brachiopod,” he said, raising his curved, ventral valve shell to show his authority.
“Now look here,” said the lamellibra, “The only reason you can see me and I you is that this rock has been eroded. This isn’t a wave-cut platform, it’s a bedding plane. And we are exposed fossils!”
“Speak for yourself, you demented bivalve!”
“Look, can't we get along? We’re cemented into this rock, so we should at least try,” said the lamellibra, with a sigh. “And besides, we have a lot in common. We both have a most beautiful rounded umbo, joining our ventral and dorsal shells, do we not?”
“Ventral and dorsal valves,” said the brachiopod, with a tut. “Not shells.”
“Oh alright then, if you must be so pedantic,” said the lamellibra, grinding its hinge plates.
“I must. I can’t help myself. You and I are as different as chalk and cheese!”
“What’s cheese? I know chalk-- we live in it!”
“Cheese is nothing I’d expect a half-wit like yourself to know about.”
“Well, really! I daresay you have issues. You must have had a terrible childhood.”
“I had a most lovely childhood, if I do say so myself. I spent many idyllic summers cruising the warm Triassic seas, pursuing microscopic prey, until I was thrown up onto a shore by a violent storm.”
“Hmph!” said the lamellibra, with a snort. “Typical Atremata. Spoilt rotten.”
The brachiopod’s tone softened. “How did you know I’m an Atremata? I’m an Obolacea, to be precise.”
“I thought so. All you short pedicle sort do, is leach off floating seaweed, hanging onto it all day. You’re nothing but a bunch of lazy, ungrateful-“
“I’m impressed,” said the brachiopod, cutting him off with an edge sharper than a cuttlefish-bone knife. “Who would’ve thought you lot had brains under your leatherheads?”
“I beg your pardon?” The lamellibra clacked his hinge-teeth. “If you’re referring to my conchiolin, it is a brown, elastic ligament and not a leathery mass. I find that offensive!”
“Well, I’m ever so sorry,” said the brachiopod. “It’s just, my sort came first and your kind copied us, what with the concentric rings on our valves, and the perfectly curved umbos...”
“I say! I’ve never been so offended in all my life. I ought to cast you uncouth Obolus into the sea until your valves separate and drift apart on a lonely tide.”
“Nonsense! My valves are of the most primitive order. They are divergent, assymetrical... and their imperfections make them unique. Their awkward shapes would cling to one another. Try to separate them if you will!”
“I could, with the mirror-image valves of mine that nature has perfected through more advanced evolutionary techniques. My anterior and posterior valves could pry yours apart.”
“Oh stop. Stop with this petty tosh. You and your contracting adductors... you forget that time has made fools of us both.”
“I’m not entirely sure I know what you mean.”
“You harp on about evolution-- and in other words you refer to the passage of time to oversee your biological development. But what you fail to realise is that time has reduced us both. Long pedicals, short pedicals, they’ve gone. Time decayed your elastic ligament the moment you took your first step towards fossilisation. The tension of the elastic ligament required to open and close your adductors is gone. Therefore, you cannot clamp or prise anything. Therefore you cannot tear apart my valves!”
“Oh bother!” said the lamellibra. “You’re old. You're not supposed to be smarter than me.”
“Well, maybe old age comes with wisdom after all. I’m Triassic, you're Jurassic. Who knows, someday metamorphic processes might act on our rock and your valves might fuse with mine.”
The lamellibra spun on his umbo. “That might not be so bad. I am, after all, a Trigonia and my species no longer survives. It might be a way for me to live on in the fossil afterlife.”
“The fossil record, my friend. You and I shall live on, gracing the marbled façade of a stately building or on display in a world-class museum. May we do it with our bivalves entwined. May we do it umbo on umbo!”


- - -
Leilanie Stewart's fiction has appeared in magazines such as Carillon, Monomyth, Blood Moon Rising, Wufniks, The Crazy Oik, Sarasvati, The Pygmy Giant, Ariadne's Thread, Stanley the Whale and The Neglected Ratio.

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: Leilanie Stewart

Contributor: Ray Daley

- -
"How are we for flags?" he asked the computer.
"More than enough left, Captain." responded the machine.

The machine was certain the captain thought there was a storage hold somewhere aboard, full of rolled up flags just waiting to be planted on another virgin surface. It didn't want to spoil his illusion, knowing that each flag it delivered to him had been created from a pre-recorded pattern on a replication system. In the hold was nothing, the ships ramscoop collected enough matter to fulfill all daily requirements.

"Touchdown Captain."
He picked up the flag from the table, secured his helmet and cycled the airlock.

"I claim this planet in the name of all the peoples of Earth."
He planted the flag pole in the ground securely, a single thrust to ensure it would stay there long after he had died.
In his suit radio he heard the computer. "Hold for the archive picture Captain."
He smiled, aware he wasn't visible through the polarized lens of the helmet.

He always smiled, just in case.

Back in the ship, he readied himself for another new journey. "Where next computer?"
"They discovered another world, about 5 light years away. Stasis is ready." replied the machine.

He sat on the bio-bed.
"They promised me excitement, the rush of claiming new worlds. They call it 'The Armstrong Moment' you know?"

The computer knew. It said nothing.

"There's no rush. No excitement. Where's my ticker-tape parade? When I get back to Earth?" He wasn't so much asking the computer as just venting for the sake of it.
"I'm sure there'll be some kind of celebration when you get back. Goodnight Captain, sleep well."

The bio-bed activated stasis, the machine was alone once more.
Alone with the decision once more.

'Should I tell you? Could you cope with it? That Earth is gone?'

The machine knew the answer.

They would press on, forever claiming new worlds in the name of a home that no longer existed.
Yet again the machine experienced the HAL moment.


- - -
Ray Daley was born in Coventry and still lives there. He served 6 yrs in the RAF as a clerk & spent most of his time in a Hobbit hole in High Wycombe. He is a published poet & has been writing stories since he was 10. His current dream is to eventually finish the Hitch Hikers fanfic novel he's been writing since 1986.

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: Ray Daley

Contributor: Taylor Saulsbury

- -
I never cared much about life, never took things seriously. I was selfish and cold, hurting everyone around me with my addiction. That is, until I crossed the Needlepointe Bridge. I remember the way her hair glistened golden-brown in the sunlight. The girl on the ledge radiated beauty. That beauty is what caught my eye; the fact that she was standing on the ledge of the bridge, however, is what stopped me dead in my tracks.
I wondered what could ever be so bad that someone would see no way out other than to jump. I couldn’t walk past, knowing that this girl was going to jump. The temperature was easily below freezing, she would be dead the minute she hit the water.
I walked over to her, carefully and quietly. I climbed up on the rail beside her and asked her what she was doing there. For a long while, we just stood there in silence, side by side, on the ledge of the Needlepointe Bridge. I wasn’t sure what to make of the situation.
“What if I told you what I’m crossing the bridge for?” I tried a new approach.
She looked at me with hollow eyes. “Why are you crossing the bridge?”
I told her about my addiction, and how I was going across the bridge to get my fix. Then I glanced at her out of the corner of my eye, expecting some sort of judgment. Instead, she just stared blankly ahead and sighed.
“At least you have feelings to try and numb. I don’t feel anything.”
When she said that, I was taken by surprise. It had never occurred to me that someone would want to end their life not because they were in too much pain to go on, but simply because they couldn’t feel anything anymore. But, I guess, in a way, I was standing on the ledge with her every time I used.
There was something about this girl that made me feel accepted, maybe even understood. I wasn’t sure how or why. I just wanted to keep her talking so I took a chance and told her about my life. At first, I was treading lightly, being careful not to open up too much. She had a way of making me want to talk. Before I knew it, I found myself confiding in her.
“I took my little brother’s laptop out of his room this morning. He worked all summer to buy it, and I couldn’t even control myself. I just, I needed that fix, ya know? His brand new HP notebook is sitting in a pawnshop being sold for far less than he paid for it,” I confessed.
I glanced over again, still expecting judgment, or even shock, but she just remained steady and nodded. We talked until the sun went down. After a while, we found ourselves sitting on the ledge, rather than standing, huddling closer with the dropping temperature. Maybe it was fate that led me over the bridge that day. I had never felt so at home in my whole life then I did talking to this girl.
I grabbed her hand and we stepped off the ledge. Out of my pocket, I grabbed my knife and carved “The Way Home” into the rail of the bridge.
With that, she smiled and took my hand. The two of us walked hand in hand, across the bridge.
We realized somewhere in the night that two people could be made for each other. Two people can be destined to meet. The girl on the ledge saved me from myself just as I saved her. We were meant to cross paths that day.


- - -
Taylor Saulsbury is a nineteen year old student majoring in Creative Writing for Entertainment at Full Sail University. She is originally from Maryland, and currently resides in Orlando.

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: Taylor Saulsbury

Contributor: Rocky Teh

- -
By and large, most modern elevators are controlled by six or eight motor-driven ropes. This one, shoved into a building slapped together with the budget of a beggar’s takings at the turn of the nineties, had three. A bumbling imitation of the best, it stalled shockingly easily - with nifty fingers you needed little more than a screwdriver and a wrench.

The pianist clutched the bag as he waited for the elevator to complete its noisy ascent. He was a tall man and did not - could not, for that matter - let the bag drag on the floor. He shook his head at the state of the building, worlds - and a ten minute drive - from his own office.

Lucky I quit while I was ahead.

The elevator made no noise to signal its arrival on the eighth storey - only a meek blinking emanation of yellow. Its red doors parted slowly, and the pianist entered, still clutching her hand tightly. It was dark in the lift - only two of the four light fixtures blinked. With one hand he unwrapped the bag, with another he pressed for the first floor with considerable force, the button making a daunting depression into the panel. She rested against the back panel, giving an interesting maroon taint to two posters, one advertising work ethics, another advertising a second hand Hyundai.

Timing was crucial with this lift. With most newer models there was little chance that you could cheat the system. He idled for a few seconds, eyes in the vague direction of the door mechanisms like an actor waiting for cue, left foot arched back in anticipation of his sprint. The doors began closing with a solemn clunk. It was important that you got out before the doors proceeded more than a foot towards each other. Any more and the sensor - otherwise blind - would detect you. Do it more than two, three times and the doors would simply refuse to shut, or even worse, be jammed halfway.

He made it out and halted, turning around, his shoes making a dreadful screech in the empty corridor. The lift shut, vulgar red lips drew together. He did not need to wait for its hum of descent. Immediately, he made for the rooftop stairway barely twenty paces away. On top, the housing of machinery, a lone erection in a concrete plain, was marked out from the darkness by a single green blip on the far side. He reached into his pocket for the screwdriver and the wrench, but the night wind blew his grip away and the tools slipped, briefly striking his calf before landing on the floor with a clink much softer than he’d expected.

Quickly, the pianist wondered if anyone had seen him. But of course, no one was working. It was National Day. And the day after that? A public holiday. After that? The king’s birthday. After that? Well, this was coincidence, but, the weekend.

Five full days.

He unlocked the housing. With nifty fingers you needed little more than a screwdriver and a wrench. He was no mechanic and had only done this once, but it surprised him how easily it could be done. The crux was in the timing. Nonchalantly, the lift stopped halfway between the third and fourth storey, and the flickering green blip on the housing faded, replaced by an angry red. he smashed it.

Don’t you dare mock me, the pianist thought as he climbed down, every footstep a hollow echo in the stairway. Eleven years of your shit? More than enough.

The wind was still blowing hard as he hiked to his car, parked three streets down. In the absolute darkness, the quarter seemed discombobulating. He let the engine idle for a minute or so as he scanned the channels for a song he liked, until he found an Oasis classic. He took a minute to appreciate the metallic ping of his fingers on the dial. Given his money, he could have easily afforded the most life-like ones the business had.

But they left fingerprints. These metal prosthetics did not.

***

Countless times he had been teased for his punctuality, but as usual, Dean McKellan was early to the office. At the lobby he found the lift had stalled - for perhaps the twentieth time that year. Fishing for the guy’s phone number in his mental directory, he made for the stairs, his gut feeling the pound of every step. Even the Sunday football was doing nothing for his blossoming depot of fat. As he passed the fourth floor he thought he could smell the trash from the lobby. Great, On top of the fucked lift, the janitor had been lazing on the job. Dean was about to pull open the stairway door but to his surprise, he found himself advancing through the storeys.

The very least I can do as the Resources Director is to be a bit resourceful myself! he self-reproached. At least go check what’s wrong with the machinery!

He paused on the seventh floor to fetch a screwdriver from the maintenance cupboard. The smell seemed less prominent, but oddly, his nose brought him not to the bins but to the lift lobby. The elevator was surprisingly simple to fix; the jammed component could’ve been removed by even the most inept of hands. Dean peered into the shaft, surprised at how loud the humming of the machinery was from up here. It was coming up. Good. He would take the lift down.

He wondered, as the elevator climbed dreadfully slowly (6... 7..., the analog read, an interval of at least five seconds between each digit) whether he would be faced with the scene that greeted him two or three years ago. Some kids, presumably inebriated in the spirit of the long holiday, had broken into the premises and vomited copiously.

Whatever. He was a big boy and he was not afraid of vomit. The number 8 finally appeared on the analog.


- - -
16, writes when inspired, sleeps when not.

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: Rocky Teh

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

- -
Back in 1957, kissing Carol Ann behind the barn in the middle of a windswept field of Goldenrod with a sudden deer watching was something special, let me tell you. Back then, bobby sox and big barrettes and ponytails were everywhere.

Like many farmers, Carol Ann’s father had a console radio in the living room, and every Saturday night the family would gather ‘round with bowls of ice cream and listen to The Grand Ole Opry. It was beamed “all the way” from Nashville I was told more than once since I was from Chicago and sometimes wore a tie so how could I know.

On my first visit, I asked Carol Ann if the Grand Ole Opry was the Mormon Tabernacle Choir of country music and she said not to say that to her father. She suggested I just tap my foot to the music and let him watch me. Otherwise, I’d best be quiet and say “Yup,” “Nope” or “Maybe” if asked any questions which she didn’t think would happen. No need to say much more, she said, and after a few visits, I understood why.

Over time, I learned to tap my foot pretty good to the music because when I’d come to visit, her father would insist I have a bowl of ice cream with the family. I liked the ice cream but not so much the Grand Ole Opry. I’d been weaned on Sinatra in the city. Big difference, let me tell you.

But back in 1957 kissing Carol Ann behind the barn was something special since we couldn’t do much more until I found employment. Only then, her father said, could we get married. I found no jobs in town, however, for a bespectacled man with degrees in English.

Still, I always found the weekend drives from Chicago worth the gas my Rambler drank because kissing Carol Ann brought a bit of heaven down behind that barn, especially on summer nights when fireflies were the only stars we saw when our eyes popped open. It was like the Fourth of July with tiny sparklers twinkling everywhere.

Now, 55 years later, Carol Ann sometimes mentions fireflies at dusk as we dance behind the cows to coax them into the barn for the night. I’m still not too good with cows despite my John Deere cap, plaid shirt and overalls which proves, she says, that all that kissing behind the barn in 1957 took the boy out of the city but not the city out of the boy.

“Hee Haw” is all I ever say in response because I know why I’m there. It’s to keep tapping the cows on the rump till we get them back in the barn so we can go back in the house and start with a kiss and later on come back downstairs for two big bowls of ice cream.


- - -
Donal Mahoney, an immigrant from Chicago, lives in St. Louis, Missouri. Some of his work can be found at http://eyeonlifemag.com/the-poetry-locksmith/donal-mahoney-poet.html#sthash.bExNlH13.dpbs

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: Donal Mahoney

Contributor: Philip Lautore

- -
The first time I rode a bicycle was the day I visited my neighbor, Jeze Cantu. Prior to that, I had always used my own two feet for gettin' around.

As I recall, Jeze parked her double wide on the last row of the trailer park. Her model was an Energizer made in Baton Rouge. It came with an extra big bathtub.

Right off, I saw the bicycle parked against a tree near her rig. Naturally I headed straight to it, pausing only to bend over and speak to her dog Mildred.

About then, I heard Jeze shout, “Shut-up Mildred. You’re makin’ too much noise!”

Looking around, I spotted Jeze sprawled on a recliner under a tree.

About that time, I heard her say, “Why Justin Wilson, I thought you napped in the afternoons.”

“Can’t sleep...it's too hot.”

Looking away, I turned my attention to the bicycle.

“Fancy bicycle,” she voiced from the recliner.

“Sure is,” I replied. “I’ve always wanted to ride a bicycle. I sat on one as a child, but fell off and cracked my head when a pig charged me. After that, my daddy wouldn’t allow it.”

Eventually, Jeze came over and stood to my side, fluttering her eyelashes like she always did when she needed to be friendly.

“I hope you’re here for more than just – bicycle talk.”

Fumbling a bit, I said, “What I really wanted was a splash in your bathtub.”

“Some fellow beat you too it.”

“Then, I’ll settle for a glass of lemonade while I wait.”

She laughed, her jowls wiggling in pleasure. “He drank all of the lemonade… said he was thirsty after peddlin’ that thing from the Landing.

I looked her straight on. “Riding a bicycle across ten miles of swamp roads teaming with gators takes plenty of courage. Not many men care to do that.”

“Fellows will do most anything when the mood strikes ‘em.”

She did have a point, so I asked, “How long am I gonna have to wait?”

Jeze cleared her throat. “Well… let me think. He’s been splashing with my youngest for over an hour. I don’t know if he’s interested in my other girl, but right off, I’d figure another hour or two.”

I took a deep breath and returned my attention to the bicycle, realizing that I was admiring a world renowned – Mississippi Rambler.

I pulled it away from the tree. “Did you know this is one of the finest bicycles ever built? I heard about it on the radio.”

Jeze stepped closer, her eyes going wide. “Wow-e… Look at those petals. They have cute, little streamers hanging from the back.”

“Get on top,” I said, swinging a leg over the seat. “I’ll take you for a ride.”

I was already bouncing up and down, getting situated, by the time Jeze got her dress worked over her hips. Finally, she settled on the handlebars, and we were rolling toward the road, feeling a breeze blow in our faces.

She glanced over her shoulder. “Where’re we going, honey?”

“I was thinkin’ of peddlin’ in the direction of the cypress grove down by the water.”

I rumbled across some tire ruts, feeling the bicycle jostle about, but once I got the hang of things, my speed started to increase.

“Don’t go too fast,” she said, tugging the dress higher. “I don’t want a cracked head for having fun.”

“You needn’t worry. Bicycle riding is easier than I figured.”

Soon, my feet were pumping furiously, sending us flying from one side of the road to the other. At the bottom of a grade, we turned into the grove, bouncing along a footpath.

She looked over her shoulder – her eyes wide. “You’re going too fast.”

“Just keep lookin’ straight ahead and tell me what you see. I know what I’m doing.”

I pushed her hair from my face and continued on, my hands gripping the handlebars like I was wrestling a gator.

She pointed to the side, her arm moving wildly. “Follow that path to the right. It goes away from the swamp.”

“I’m trying, but this thing won’t turn. Your butt’s too heavy.”

“Then, you need to stop.”

“Stop... how do I stop?”

Moments later, I was spitting out a mouthful of swamp water. That’s when I saw Jeze glaring in my direction, her eyes ablaze.

“One thing for sure,” she snapped. “You’ve ruined my dress.” She took a step and slipped, her head plunging below water. Struggling, she tried to stand. “And, you certainly don’t know how to entertain a lady. My hair’s soaked, and my shoes are gone – sucked away in the mud.”

Feeling responsible, I helped her wade to dry ground, feeling my feet slog through the muck.

I tried a smile, hoping to calm her tirade. “Accidents happen, but we did get a splash together.”

She ignored it and said, “For your information, falling into a swamp is not the same as splashing in a bathtub.”

I settled on the ground at the water’s edge and listened to her rant, feeling guilty for my actions.

Finally, I turned to her. ”I do know one thing.”

“What’s that?” she asked in a huff.

“I know you, and that’s plenty important.”

She looked at me funny-eyed then she snorted and plopped down beside me, saying, “Sometimes you say such pretty things.”

We sat side by side for many minutes admiring the sunlight filtering through the trees. Finally, she reached for my hand and said sweetly, “If you’ll peddle me home, I'll give you a freebie.”

And that’s what I did. I peddled her home and learned how to ride a bicycle at the same time.


- - -

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: Philip Lautore

Contributor: Kristina England

- -
Jamie pushed her way into the booth, her legs squeaking against the plastic.
Henry smiled.
"It was the cushion," she said, playing with her bracelet.
"Sure."
"It was..."
"I'm messing with you. Relax..."
"I am relaxed."
"Sure..."
"I hate it when you do that!"
"Oh boy... Here we go again."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"You can't handle a joke. That's what it means."
Jamie's face fell.
Henry shook his head.
"This is exactly why I broke up with you. You are way too emotional."
"Oh, I can't stand it when you use that word. What do you expect when you say something that hurts?"
"I don't know what's going to hurt and what's not. I have to think way too much before I talk. It's exhausting..."
"I'm sorry... I can do better."
"I used to believe that... I mean, I still do... I just don't think you believe it enough."
Jamie ran her finger along the silver bracelet. She felt Henry scooting out of the bench.
"By the way, you look cute in polka dots," he said.
She looked down at her dress as if to remind herself what she was wearing. She could feel him hovering.
"I forgot you hate compliments," he said, the words jabbing her.
Jamie listened to his footsteps, the sound of the bell over the diner door.
"Thanks," she said. "I bought this dress especially for you."


- - -
Kristina England resides in Worcester, Massachusetts. Her writing is published or forthcoming in Gargoyle, Short, Fast, and Deadly, Yellow Mama, and other magazines.

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: Kristina England

Contributor: Victoria Elizabeth

- -
The photo landed in the flowerbed, the tiny petals of the annuals embracing it among the HOA-approved red mulch. The elderly couple, frozen in their moment of happiness, hadn’t known that Death, patient as he was, waited in the shadows of their joy, anticipating the occasion to strike.
Four months after their fiftieth wedding anniversary, a stroke took the bounce, which had slowed with the years, from Mr. Nielson’s step in an instant. He laid in a coma for two weeks before his adult children finally overruled their grieving mother and pulled the plug.

She watched as the last artificially pumped breath escaped and the heart monitor went silent. Death stood and waited. The last remnants of fifty years of love drained from the room, leaving an empty body and an incomplete soul.

Life has a funny way of kicking you when you’re down. An example of this would be the pneumonia that set deep into Mrs. Nielson’s chest, which the doctors claimed was caused by her extended stay in the hospital, standing vigil over her husband. Death, though normally impartial, can become greedy when he senses opportunity. And, with three children arguing over who would cover the funeral expenses, Death decided he might as well claim the mother, too.

Their home on Oak Court had been warm, though about thirty years outdated, with Mrs. Nielson’s porcelain plate collection cluttering the tight halls. Her husband had continued to buy them for her every birthday, despite the fact that she had run out of places to put them nearly a decade before. It was amazing how loudly the noise reverberated as their children tore them from the plastered walls, dropping them haphazardly into the trashcan. The collectables of one are often the refuse of another; the majority of the Nielson’s memories were nothing more than clutter taking up precious space for the beneficiaries of the Nielson inheritance.

Customers walked into the white-shuttered home on Oak, fingers trailing on the antique furniture, little boys giggling at the lace doilies coating every surface. The estate sale had gone well, recouping more than three times the cost of the funerals. A single cardboard box remained with the memories of the former inhabitants, a stack of worn photo albums housing the moments frozen in time.

Ten tiny fingers thumbed through the yellowed pages, smudging the handwritten captions. They paused on a picture: Mr. and Mrs. Nielson, smiling broadly as they clinked their wine flutes together. Death watched as the little girl peeled the photo from the page, glue clinging to the edges, and stuffed it into her pocket. She returned to her parents’ side, watching as they purchased the flotsam and jetsam of the dead.

One day, their memories would end up in a box, unwanted. For sale to the highest bidder. Death watched the family leave with their purchases, content and at peace. There were still memories to make, champagne to toast, photos to take. Death could be patient. He would wait.


- - -
Victoria Elizabeth Ann is a lifetime student of the arts, literature, and life as a whole. She is currently studying Creative Writing at Full Sail University and aspires to publish a novel in the near future.

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: Victoria Elizabeth

Contributor: Scott Webb

- -
Thomas and I walked up and down the rows of tents at Aikman county fair. Thomas was twenty-one now and I was twenty-five. I had always looked after him like a brother and it had been years since we had done anything together. We had been together since we were little kids, and even shared a two-bedroom apartment now. It was because of this closeness that I pretended not to see the bright yellow and purple tent with the words “PRIZES! PRIZES! PRIZES!” painted on a large board along the top of the tent's facade.
Thomas ran up to the obnoxiously colorful carnie running this particular sideshow. “Hey Gerry, look at that, cash prizes,” he said as the carnie took notice of us.
“Step right up to the game of a lifetime, you’ve never played anything like it,” The Jester-like man said from atop a soapbox. “To play is free, to win is fortune!” he continued.
“How does it work?” I asked looking at the seemingly empty tent from which he ran his game. The tent was bare with exception to a single end table on which laid a gleaming, .38 revolver. Delicately placed around the gun were 5 bullets.
“Glad you asked my boy, glad you asked,” the jester continued. “This here is a game from Russia, in which every pull of the trigger means you win! Are you ready to play?” he asked stepping down from the box and taking Thomas’ hand.
“I don’t know about this,” I said. Thomas glared back at me.
“You’re not my father, besides he says I can win money.”
“Does he?” I responded.
The carnie quickly cut our conversation short by drawing Thomas over to the table with the pistol. Thomas grinned at the show being put on just for him. The jester picked up the gleaming .38 and twirled it around his finger a few times. Then he tossed it under each leg and behind his back. Finally catching the pistol he threw open the cylinder.
“Now, it’s easy to play, just tell me how much you want to win!”
“Huh?” Thomas looked at the man confused.
“For every bullet in the gun you can win 10,000 dollars per pull.”
“Wow, ten thousand dollars per bullet?”
“Yes sir, up to 50,000 dollars, we did have a couple of gentleman try for the grand 60,000 dollar prize but as yet no one has won! It could be you,” the carnie continued what seemed to be a well rehearsed pitch.
“I’m going to start small, with one; I’ll work my way up,” Thomas said
“Ok, here we go,” the jester said, placing a single bullet into the gun. In two quick motions he snapped the cylinder back into the revolver and gave it a good solid spin.
“Now what?” Thomas asked.
“Now this,” the jest replied turning the gun on Thomas and pulling the trigger. The hammer sprang forward driving the firing pin to an empty chamber. The gun clicked but refused to fire. Immediately following a siren blared and horns trumpeted. “CONGRATULATIONS! You’re a lucky winner!” The Carnie yelled, pulling a large stack of 20’s out of a lockbox and pushing it into Thomas’ hands. “Do you want to play again?” He asked smiling.
Thomas was grinning from ear to ear. “Sure, I’ll give it another go,” he said, “Two this time!”
“Well aren’t we a brave soul, this time for two!” the Jester said, flicking open the gun and adding one more bullet to the cylinder. “Are you ready?” He asked pulling the hammer back and aiming the gun between Thomas’ eyes. Thomas looked frightened, but just for a moment.
“Go ahead,” he said.
“Fire,” the carnie yelled pulling firmly on the hairline trigger. The gun clicked again but still Thomas was ok.
“You should quit while you’re ahead,” I said to Thomas
“Come on now, don’t stop while you’re winning!” The jester said, now forcing two stacks of cash into Thomas’ hands.
“This is amazing,” he said grinning over at me, “I’ve never won anything in my life! One more, last one, three this time.”


- - -

Read more »

These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

0 Comments

Author: Scott Webb