Archive for May, 2010

Welcome to Issue 16, May 2010

by the Editors

We hope you enjoy this month’s issue.  Don’t forget to comment and rate your favorite stories!

Moonlight Bridge

by Misty Posey


The Bread of Ruth’s Unhappiness

by Francesca Forrest

“Blood, sweat, and tears, that’s your recipe,” said the dog. “The sweat’s in the kneading, as well you know. The tears–you’ve shed plenty already, and they’ve dried out and lie in the dust under your bed, so you must knead them in. As for blood, just a little will do. Your own. Can you manage it, or do you need my help?” Its mouth pulled back to reveal sharp white teeth.

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by Dave Pickering

He feels the vomit rising in his throat. It is thick. The ants are crawling around inside it. They are laughing. They are talking to each other. The rag creatures are back again, or maybe they were always there, maybe they were sitting around the table having dinner, maybe they were crushing his eyes. His body is wrapped around with rags. He’s being mummified. They’ve taken out his insides and now they’re wrapping him up.

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The Fall

by Dena Daw

Stars have always been there. I watch as they sparkle in the ebony blanket above me. I sit here and rub my cold feet. Fall is just around the corner. It crawls through the trees slowly, claiming every leaf in its path. No one knows where it comes from; but it changes everything. It would be the first Fall of my life. That I could remember, anyway.

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by Kate Larkindale

At first glimpse, the car is not ominous. Nothing about it suggests that it might change my life, although it is the kind of car you’d notice even if this weren’t a small town where everyone knows everyone else. The chrome gleams and flashes in the afternoon sun. Every head turns to look as it passes slowly down Main, all glossy black paint and white-wall tires. I’m standing outside the post office and can’t see the driver at first with the sunlight bouncing off the windshield, blinding me. As the car cruises by, I catch a glimpse of him through the too-long dark hair that hangs down over my eyes. It’s not much: a worn-leather-jacketed elbow poking through the open window, the impression of a large man, well built and disguising the fact he’s balding by shaving his head. A shrill laugh shatters my thoughts with its familiarity and I let my eyes slide past to him to see my mother in the passenger seat. I turn my gaze back to the driver and find myself staring into a pair of green eyes that perfectly match my own.

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Hope You Get Him

by Kate Vukovich

When they all went back to school, Aaron wasn’t there.

He’d told Forrester he was leaving a bit early, just a couple of days, because his lease was starting then or something, but he wasn’t there. Actually, no one knew where he was, exactly; if he was studying abroad or dropped out, and the registrar wasn’t saying anything.

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by Scott Davis

“My name is Andre Gremauld, and I ply the Cloforn line. I don’t need to tell you it’s lonely work, but it has its compensations: to be present at the birth of a star; to swing by a planet for a few minutes every seventy-five thousand of their years and watch them go from a scared little settlement to teeming alabaster cities before they even begin to get boring; to listen in the dark for messages beyond space and time only those on the cusp of light speed can hear. Is it like that for you?”

I awaited her reply. A courier is patient, he has to be.

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In Search of the Bearded Lady

by Olivia V. Ambrogio

Ralph sent me the postcard from Germany. It was black and white, and her haunted eyes stared out from a starkly pale face; a beret, pulled back, covered her hair and neck, and-I was sure of it-a faint stubble covered her chin. Do you know this poet? One of my favorites, he wrote. I glanced at the postcard’s information: Gerthe Missant, 1914-1967.

I was fascinated. Against the blackness of the background, her face seemed to float, as severe and thin as a crescent moon. What poetry, I wondered, could she write, this woman with her odd, angular face and unhappy eyes?

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Talking Heads

by Jason Muller

Marty dropped the coin as though it were a searing ember. He scurried off the bed, clambered and crawled to the foot of the bed-and waited, listening to the darkness. Slowly he peeked over the top of the mattress, his eyes as huge as a nocturnal creature. The coin simply lay there on the sheets, glowing amid the darkness.

“Peek-a-boo,” said the coin. “I see you.”

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When the Lights Go Out

by Joseph Williams


That’s what I am. And what a glamorous classification: ancient! Like the lost artworks of mysterious cultures long passed away! A surviving artifact from the old temples of America! The very idol of hardship and prosperity alike!

My mind is a jewel to be cherished by those around me.

But here I am. Here. In this bed. In a wet diaper that doesn’t quite do its job. Considered deaf. Dumb. Senile. Left to die. Eroding the lines of character and life from my skin, the grip from my fingers, the faculties of my brain, with a wetness I can’t control.

I am old.

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