Stories

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

1 Comment

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.”

Glory

10/10/2021

by ERIK MANN

Umbrella Storm by Viktoria Wigenstam | Flickr

Sean twines his fingers through the shopping cart’s cage and bounces on the balls of his feet. Is this the best angle? Is there any slippage beneath his boots? He thinks he’s good. Yes, he’s ready to be launched at the snowdrift in front of him. He’s ready to spring from this shopping cart moments before impact and race to the top of the drift where he’ll collect the prize.

Or Blake will.

Rock says it's all about visualization. Unfortunately, it’s easy to visualize Blake at the top of the snow drift ahead of him. He can even visualize Gloria standing beside Blake, their hands raised in victory. Gloria is Sean’s old girlfriend. Gloria is now Blake’s current girlfriend.

Blake sits in a shopping cart to Sean’s right. He and his driver, Cody, are dressed for luging in sleek red gear with black markings that symbolize speed. Yes, they look fast before they’ve even started moving. But who the hell even owns luge gear? Sean shakes his head. Then he zips his jacket a little tighter.

You Are About to Begin a Great Adventure

9/25/2021

by LAUREL BECKLEY

The Oregon Trail by Portland Center Stage | Flickr

You started from Independence, Missouri. It is 1848.

There should be other starting points, but right now this is the only one. Later, maybe, there will be more places to choose from. More years from which to depart even, as though you are a time-traveling pioneer treating dates like a rolodex, flipping past each one to find the perfect month, the ideal year, the best location.

Unfortunately, in this version you only depart from Independence, Missouri, and only in 1848.

At least you have options on the month.

Okay, not you. You don’t choose anything.

Your fearless leader does. They make all the decisions, and you are along for the ride, whether they decide to leave in March when it is freezing or August when the plains boil and you’re certain to die of exposure in the Rockies. They choose what supplies you bring, how fast you go, how much you eat and they even have the option to rename you.

Sidewalk Saint Louis

9/11/2021

by MEREDITH KURZ

Sleeping on a Concrete Bed by 2C2K Photography | Flickr

It’s 8:50 p.m. and the Eternal Flame Diner closes at nine. Although the lights are still on, they seem to dim as the last customers head out. Saint Louis waits outside for that moment between near closing time but not too close to lights out. She’s smoothed down her pants and plucked up her shirt collar. A tall woman with a good collar gets respect. She’s wiped her teeth with her finger, run a hand through her short hair. On the way uptown she washed up, giving her armpits and shirt pits a scrub, drying both under the blower. She puts on a little smile, because a full smile would seem aggressive and also reveal all the crevices of blackness, of missingness there.

The boy, it's always some young boy, gets ready to throw away the bakeries behind glass and the milk that's stood all day on the coffee accessories bar. Louis gently opens the diner door and says, "If you're going to throw those away, I'd sure appreciate them." She stands far away from him, from his worry.

Five Reasons Why I, the Asshole, Won't Be Telling You About the Bite I Got

8/22/2021

by PATRICK BARB

zombie-sign by Cindy Shebley | Flickr

Reason Number 1: Bite? Who said anything about a bite?

You know who I bet probably got bitten—that science guy, what’s his name, you know the one—the one with the eyes. What’s he doing in that room with the locks back there?

You know who likes to lock things up? People with secrets that’s who.

Don’t tell me you’re gonna sit here, and believe his story about how he’s “working on a cure” and how he “doesn’t want to get anyone’s hopes up,” or just take at face value his little warnings about how “exposure to others could taint the test subjects.”

Jesus Bread

8/7/2021

by ELLE MICHAEL RIVER

Bread of Life by Jaci XIII | Flickr

The buttered body of Christ bathed in Sunday sunlight upon a polished silver platter. I dropped the crystal cover on the vestry floor and stifled a cough. Dust stuck to the spines of old hymnals, the abandoned robes of dead choir members, and a set of forgotten advent angels. I eyed the golden goblet, half-filled with Christ’s cranberry blood, tempted by my tickling throat. Congregants never saw our church’s cluttered backstage unless Mrs. Patricia caught a hint of vibrato during the Call to Confession and drafted the unlucky soul into her obstreperous ensemble. Then, they were stuck with the secret: it’s all dust and dollar store cocktail back here.

If you hadn’t guessed, I was one of those unlucky souls.

Mary, my worst best friend, grabbed my hand but dropped it, embarrassed. We were twelve, almost thirteen.

New Training Methods in Hell Come From Surprising Source

7/31/2021

by TREY DOWELL

Pandemonium by Krishna81 |Flickr

Pandæmonium, Hell (AP) – On this rocky promontory overlooking the banks of the River Styx, the Seventh-Circle Demon Center has surprises aplenty for all who enter. The biggest surprise of all, however, isn’t the dizzying array of (literally) cutting-edge torture devices, or even the occasional drop-in from The Dark Lord himself. No, this reporter finds that the real shocker is tucked away on the 13th floor, standing in front of a rapt audience in Training Room #6.

Dave Figgins. A human.

That’s right—an actual human has landed one of Hell’s most prized gigs: teaching Advanced Topics in Torture Design.

The unassuming mortal speaks with a soft, halting voice—understandable, considering he’s lecturing a dozen immortal Ancient Demons, each with the power to level an army—but the former health insurance middle manager’s words have a power all their own.

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