Stories

You First, Donna

11/20/2022

by LOUIS J. FAGEN

Waitress by Thunderchild7 | Flickr

She talks about him like he is the end all, be all. Oh, honey, I say to her, he isn’t all that. Hunting season brings in all kinds to this diner, always has, always will. You can never be too careful, honey, I tell her. Locals and out-of-towners come crawling out of the woodwork, but they’re all the same under that camouflage and their bright orange caps and whiskers.

She doesn’t listen. She coos his name like a pigeon tossed shreds of bread. Bill Bridges, she coos, he told me his first and last name on opening day. (Imagine that!) Was that before or after I saw him set his hand on your hip? Doesn’t matter, she says. What good is a hip like mine if a man doesn’t set his hand on it every once in a while? Oh, honey, I say, there’s a time and a place for hip hugging and it ain’t in a diner filled with hunters and you hustling around waiting tables.

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After Iris

11/6/2022

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by LINDSAY MORRIS

10962161 by Juska Wendland | Flickr

When a former stranger covered in sweat and old saliva is wiping his fading erection on your decorative pillow, that’s when the big questions arise - like whether this person could possibly be your soulmate. Great relationships are often bound in the twisted pretzel of passion and friendship. At first, all that matters is pleasure. But when that initial rush begins to fade, when the hormones have subsided, that’s when the foundation can be laid. That’s when you decide if the person laying next to you is worth building something with.

I’d thought Josh was worth building something with. But after nearly a year of long-distance dating, his prolonged absence had created a gaping chasm of sexual frustration that threatened to swallow me whole.

On those lonely nights where dirty talk failed, where awkward texts and dick-pic Snapchats couldn't get me going, I had my own personal massager to fall back on. Or into.

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A Short Adventure

10/23/2022

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by ED TEJA

The Gruesome Twosome by Gareth Williams | Flickr

Surprise and Menace met in a bar in Oakland. Immediately they sized each other up, neither liking what they saw. They snarled and postured for about 1450 words before Menace spiked Surprises' drink. After four or five spiked drinks, heroic Surprise fell heroically unconscious on the dirty floor.

A short scene break later, Surprise woke up and found himself chained up in the hold of a ship with a ringtailed monkey, named Eloise. “Morning,” she said.

“Those rings!” Surprise shouted. “They are fake.”

“This is fiction,” Eloise said.

Surprise grabbed the startled monkey’s tail and examined the fake rings. “They are encrypted.”

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Team Building Exercise

10/2/2022

by RAIMA LARTER

Bucket of Balls by Mike Cardus | Flickr

The Team Training Facilitator is rummaging in a duffel bag while we Perceivers mingle by the coffee. We’ve been told to stay out of the way as the Judging folks move tables. Fine. Monique is fighting with Betty about how to properly move a table, but why get involved?

I don’t want to be here, but Team Building is a required Employee Performance Improvement Module. I missed the last EPIM because my Justin got pink eye. If I had a husband worth anything I could’ve called him, but I don’t, so that’s that. Nothing I can do about it.

Now Monique is fighting with Derrick, who is one of the Perceiving. You can tell we’re Perceiving because everyone in our group is wearing a tag that says INFP or ESTP or anything, as long as it has a “P.” Derrick scribbled out whatever his tag said and wrote “ESPN,” which he thinks shows he’s funny, but Monique says proves he’s a smart-ass. Which he is.

9/18/2022

by DIEGO LAMA (translated by ROSE FACCHINI)

Tweet by wonderferret | Flickr

It had been night for several hours. Lucio and Arturo were sitting silently in the big, deserted park.

Lucio finished his bottle of wine. He hurled it a long way off, toward a bush, and missed.

“Fuck you,” he muttered, but not to the bush. Then he stretched out on a bench, covered himself with a newspaper, and closed his eyes.

“Night,” he mumbled to Arturo.

“Fuck you,” Arturo responded. Lucio was already sleeping.

For a few minutes, Arturo stood watching the stars, listening to the sounds of the park: a faraway cricket, leaves rustling in the wind, Lucio snoring. Then, all of a sudden, a blinding flash illuminated the hedges. Arturo looked up while Lucio continued to snore.

An enormous golden spaceship descended from the sky, landing gently in front of the bench. A large hatch opened and an all-powerful alien emerged.

The Experiment

9/11/2022

by TIM HILDEBRANDT

Snoozing by Thad Zajdowicz | Flickr

I have no complaint. Boredom cannot survive variety. The self that I claim is a motley collection of mysteries, and for that, I'm grateful. But one aspect of my life is becoming more trouble than it's worth. Going to bed every night is the curse of my existence. I've had to endure this peculiar routine for 75 years. Half of my life's story has passed while I slept. Dreams are the singular products of this activity, but they vanish with the sunrise. It's hard to imagine a more efficient waste of time.

The bed itself is a raggedy pile of blankets, wadded-up sheets, messed-up pillows. A sight as welcoming as the sail locker in a sunken ship. Unconcerned with bed bugs, fleas, or skin lice, I lay down. Because it's warm, nothing exposed to the cold room but my face. My feet create a tent for my toes, relieving them of the weight of many old quilts. My pillow headrest completes the cockpit, primed for departure into dreamland. Holding still, I regulate my breathing, close my eyes, and sleep. Presumably, I am unconscious, dead to the world. I am not aware of myself. Then, a mysterious awareness of another world becomes a dream. Sometimes sharp and well-rendered, more often vague and indistinct.

Napoleon on Saint Helena

5/8/2022

by ADAM BRECKENRIDGE

Memorial to Napoleon by Mustang Joe | Flickr

“Ha! I am bigger than this island,” Napoleon said the first time he stared up at St. Helena’s tilting cliffs, then tried to prove it by embracing the dirt and, when that didn’t work, rolled around in it instead.  He stood up, then approached a peasant saddling a horse.

“I am bigger than that horse, don’t you see?” he said.

“Of course you are, sir,” the peasant replied.

Napoleon responded by unleashing the most heinous fart ever heard on the island.

“Curse that Duke of Wellington,” he screamed, “perfuming me with his flatus!”  He jumped on the horse.  “Away to my prison,” he shouted at it, then, when it refused to move, got down and started walking.

A Walk on the Noir Side

4/24/2022

by JENEAN McBREARTY

Colt .45 by isuperwang | Flickr

I’d spent two days at Benny Santini’s house in L.A.. “Eighteen more years of squattin’ here, and I’ll own this place,” he said to me. “They call it squatter’s rights. That’s why I stay home a lot.” I didn’t have a place to squat. That’s why I visited Benny, and slept on his sofa a lot. I like to think that gave me sofa rights.

In fact, me and him were sitting on the sofa, passing the bong when we heard this car peel away in the alley. Then Benny’s girlfriend, Stacy, came through the kitchen and pumped two .45 slugs into him. At close range it made a mess of his brains. Surprisingly. I thought after all the meth he’d done, there wouldn’t be anything left of his brains, that his gray matter would deflate and drip out of his nose. But it oozed out of his left side when the left half of his face disappeared.

“Pendejo,” Stacy said, and spat on his body that had slid to the floor. Then she glared at me. “What are you lookin’ at, Puto?”

I sucked in a hit. “I didn’t see a thing. It’s my eyes. I got astigmatism.”

Two Flash

4/10/2022

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by GRAHAM ROBERT SCOTT

朝州式鱼头锅 by Alpha | Flickr

The Special Special Special Not-So-Special Deal

The lip-pierced young woman at the Carry Out counter frowned when he asked for the special, skimming a scrap of lined yellow paper kept under Plexiglas, tracking her progress with a jagged index nail, before telling him with a tone trained in empathy but edged with boredom that the special had sadly expired several days earlier, whereupon he called his wife and, following furtive discussion, now cupping his hand over the wrong part of the phone, explained to the lip-pierced hostess that they had meant the Special Special deal, prompting an oh, that’s different and another consultation of the lined yellow paper before the hostess replied, this time, do you mean the pizza? and his wife, still on the line and able to hear, hissed no, for God's sake, not the pizza, that has too many carbs and how many specials-called-specials do they have anyway?, to which the husband had no reply and now fidgeted as his wife rifled through mailers and the hostess toyed with her hair and another gentleman joined the queue behind him, already

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First Tooth

3/27/2022

by ERIN LUNDE

First Tooth by protoflux | Flickr

You see the little boy raise his hand. He is squirming in his seat next to all the other first graders squirming in their seats. He waves his hand, too, in case you’re not noticing him right there in the front row.

You search your memory for his name. The first week of your first job teaching – really teaching – your first grade class. “Freddy!” You are as excited as he is to call out his name. “What is it?”

Freddy flaps his hand in response. “Miss Kay! I lost a tooth!” He – and all his neighbors – look down at his fist, sitting there like a nest on his desk.

You stretch your lips across your teeth. You smile at him. Your tongue flicks inside your mouth, searching.

“Freddy! That is wonderful!” you say. Your lips work to keep your tongue inside.

Archie

3/13/2022

by DAN WALLACE

King of the coquina by Jill Bazeley | Flickr

There’s a lizard in my fire pit that I’m on a first-name basis with. Archie’s his name and he’s one of those that has a red disc in his throat that inflates when he’s coming on to a chick lizard. Sometimes he flashes it at me, but I’m straight so he’s wasting his time. Most days we’ll just stare at each other and occasionally bob our heads in a kind of dance move. Not sure what that’s about but I think he’s just showing attitude.

My youngest granddaughter was visiting and wanted to make s'mores. And putting one on a fork over a stove burner won’t do. She wants the full experience, including a fire in the fire pit. Archie and I have never officially declared our friendship but we’re close enough that I don’t want to set him on fire. But she’s one of those kids that’ll have her way either before or after the pouting. So I tell her that if we light the fire, her momma will die. Don’t smirk at me; drastic times call for drastic measures. But she told on me and her mom threatens my life if I don’t comply

GraniteMan and MicroGirl

2/27/2022

by LIAM HOGAN

Emergency Face by Dan | Flickr

The klaxon went off while we were having sex.

The klaxon always went off while we were having sex. Or strictly, just before. We never got any further than ripping each other’s SuperHero costumes off.

GraniteMan groaned, but not in a good way. “Prob’ly a false alarm.”

“Probably,” I agreed, but by then I was already suiting back up. “Come on, you big lump,” I said, slapping his rock-hard bottom, “you don’t want to miss out on all the fun.”

Five minutes later we sat staring at the bank of monitors, holding scaldingly hot cups of hot chocolate.

“Anything?” GraniteMan said, the grey pallor of his skin fading now the threat of city-wide destruction and rampant sex were receding.

Songwriting 101

2/13/2022

by ANDREW SANGER

Untitled by Ken Walton | Flickr

In order to begin, please complete a one-time payment of $19.99. Thank you.

Songwriting 101
You think you have what it takes to write a hit song? Good news: Everyone does! Even if you lack musical know-how, I’ve designed this course as the perfect intro to achieving your songwriting goals. Perhaps you’re looking for a new hobby, or maybe you want to recapture the heart of the girl who left her laptop charger at your place but refuses to come by to pick it up. Either way, you’re in the right place!

Step 1: The Instrument
For starters, you’re going to need an instrument to actually write and play with. To this end, you could always go the traditional route of purchasing one. While quality instruments often come with a hefty price tag, the overwhelming dread for your financial future can be utilized later on in the songwriting process (more on this in Step 3).

Instructions on Baby-Care

1/30/2022

by DANIELLE RESH

Baby Toss by Shane Gorski | Flickr

I would not advise it, but if you happen to find yourself irrevocably in the position of having to care for one of the horrid things, there are a few techniques you should be aware of beforehand.

When you place your pointer finger on the structure protruding from its face and intone “bop!”, a small squealing sound will emerge. Now, you can either repeat the provoking action and achieve the desired effect again, or you can leave it alone in its highchair and go fix yourself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

If you choose the latter, expect the following:

It will begin as a small squeaking noise. Then, like a train chugging closer, the screech will grow and grow until it is all you can hear. An abyss will swallow its face. If you peer in, you will see a black hole, and maybe a few cheerios.

The Great Literary Academic Chews Over His Past ™

1/16/2022

by RAYFOX EAST

Book 2 by Rupert Jetson | Flickr

Tamara bustles into my study with some shopping. She is cheerful because she does not think as deeply as me. She twitches her nose at the cigarette smoke - another bad habit, like my womanizing. She calls me ‘Professor’ and flutters around the room, tidying my books for me. The subtext here is that we totally banged but I was too sad and wise to sustain it.

She is my daughter’s age. My Daughter Doesn’t Speak To Me™.

Tamara’s blouse lifts above her waist as she dusts and gives me an erection which is Darkly Comic. I think about her body for a paragraph. She is nice and idolizes me for reasons which are surely obvious to the reader.

Scrub

1/2/2022

by JOE MILLER

Never Hail a Yellow Crab by scottabbott | Flickr

They were all collapsed and lifeless. These wet, deserted bath toys fragmented and discarded in the tub next to me. They were lying there with nothing to do, and me no different, so I made up backstories for each of them while I sat on the toilet attempting a shit. My three-year-old, Kayla, was still asleep in the room next door. The toys usually floated around the water playfully but with the tub drained they looked paralyzed and vulnerable. I tried to make up hopeful stories for them, but it didn’t work out that way. Every time I began a happy story it just went downhill for them.

There was Griffin, the down-on-his-luck sea turtle who hadn’t told his wife yet that he’d lost his supply chain analyst job at the glitter company. And then poor Chuckles, the swordfish comb suffering from imposter syndrome who attributed all his anxiety to not getting into Wash U medical school when he was just a little wide-eyed fishy. I tried to make them happy with their stories. I did. But no matter how I started their happy story, the glass, or bathtub in this case, was always half empty.

Psychoanalyze Me! Online!

12/24/2021

by MADDIE BROWN

Social Media 01 by Rosaura Ochoa | Flickr

Instagram stories are digital voyeurism, a pacifier for your passive curiosity. Does that make you a creep or a human? Probably both. Relax, everyone’s at least a little bit psycho. Is she a vegetarian? Is she fucking that dude? She’s posted drunk videos, opinions on Israel, and close-ups of boobies. Let’s do the math: She’s a leftist art hoe who’s most likely an alcoholic. Don’t get too carried away. Or do, because you know everything! No, no. You’ve learned everything. But you know nothing. Isn’t it funny how personal we get on here? Isn’t it funnier how not personal it all is? Silly boy. They’re handles, not humans! Maybe a sneak peek quells your desires for authentic connection. Maybe you’re uninterested in authentic connection. Hey, that’s okay too! Your brain atrophied years ago from your PornHub addiction. I’m not judging you. :) I’m way more burnt out. Promise. Have you stopped reading yet? Maybe you don’t care. Maybe you don’t respect me. Maybe you don’t even know me. Maybe you don’t want to hear my thoughts. Or maybe you do so you can laugh at them. And jerk off to them - hey, maybe that’s what I want too.

The Correctness of Confirmation

12/12/2021

by CHRISTINA RAY HENRY

Alpacas by Diane Hamilton | Flickr

Perhaps it was the gummy knobble that protruded where the fighting teeth had been filed down that drove Verna to the alpaca convention every year. Or maybe it was that the dopey-looking animals had teeth intended for scrotal ripping that piqued her curiosity. But after that first winter, when she had fled to the arena to break up the monotony of another frigid day, she’d returned to the convention three times more. Usually, she came alone, but this year Aaron was with her.

Aaron had been her personal trainer for four months prior to asking her on a date. This outing counted as their third. He had agreed to attend the convention if she would join him for dinner at his apartment. The plan made for their best date yet. Out of the gym, new conversations could arise and an intimate shared meal sounded nice.

What I Remember

11/25/2021

by ADAM BROCKMAN

IXX_3976 by Leon Brocard | Flickr

The taste of the soap. Brendan waiting outside the bathroom thinking I was washing my hands. Spitting the soap out and rinsing my mouth. Listening to my name being called by the karaoke DJ (mispronounced – probably because I spelled it wrong on the sign-up sheet). Telling Brendan I’m fine and grabbing the mic and rapping the Kanye song. Grinding up against the brunette during the second chorus. Brendan laughing his ass off and giving me a thumbs up.

Reaching the end of the parking lot and puking in the bushes. Back inside the bar with another round. Brendan telling me to buy the brunette a drink. Debating the pros and cons for two hours. Brendan writing what’s the worst that could happen on a napkin.

Asking the bartender to put the brunette’s next drink on my tab. Closing my eyes when she finally approached the bar. The already godawful country song belted half a step flat by some drunken idiot.

Life is a Rollercoaster

10/24/2021

by CARRIE MILLS

Rollercoaster by Scott Cresswell | Flickr

Click-clack-click-clack.

The rollercoaster makes its ascent while I enjoy the view, waving down at Jan past Alan’s stupid bald head.

“Look at the view.” I try to lean to the side for a better perspective on how high up we are, but Alan insisted on being on the outside seat, just like when we’re on planes. He always pulls the shutter down, turning on the light to read, in case there’s a glare from a bit of sunshine.

“I don’t feel like making myself feel sick, thank you very much.”

Click-clack, click-clack.

It feels like we’re slowing.

Alan's knuckles are white from squeezing the life out of the bars. “Can we go for a coffee after this? I wore the wrong coat and I’m freezing.”

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