Stories

Take a Look in the Box

12/13/2020

by DAVID CLARKSON

Cat #361 by K-nekoTR| Flickr

Where to begin? Openings are never easy; whether it is opening a story or opening a box. More so when opening a story about opening a box. Sometimes it’s best to go right ahead and do it.

So that’s what we’ll do. We’ll open the box as we open the story. Then all that is left to do is take a look inside.

“Well?” asked the owner. “What do you see?”

The vet stared into the box. There was no need to check for a pulse. They had enough experience of death to be able to spot it anywhere.

“Your cat is dead,” they told the owner.

“Are you sure?”

The vet looked again. The prognosis was beyond doubt. A taxidermist could not have fixed the animal’s expression more solidly. Although they probably would have tidied up its expression a bit. The tongue protruding from the side of the deceased’s mouth was most distasteful.

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Sense of Self

11/15/2020

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by R.R. Angell

Power Tool Drag Races by Scott Beale | Flickr

The sun beat down on our driveway. I was cleaning out the garage a year or two after moving in, trying to organize my workshop. The neighborhood had gotten used to having an Out Gay Male Couple living among them by then. The careful, curious watching time was over for most of them on the street.

We'd made friends with several households in that borrow-a-cup-of-sugar kind of way. Warren, the guy who lived with his girlfriend of twenty years, saw me in the garage and stopped by with a cold one to share.

All of a sudden he blurts out, "So, which one are you?"

I drained my beer and thought for a moment. "I guess I'm the lesbian because I have all the power tools.”

Read R.R.'s Sixer | More Stories | Archive

R. R. Angell's (he/him) short fiction has appeared in Asimov’s Science Fiction, Interzone, Compelling Science Fiction, Gargoyle Magazine, The Baltimore Review, and Fresh.Ink among others and many anthologies including Stress City: A Big Book of Fiction by 51 DC Guys, Best Date Ever: True Stories That Celebrate Gay Relationships, and Compelling Science Fiction: The First Collection. His LGBTQ YA VR AI science fiction romantic thriller, Best Game Ever: A Virtuella Novel, published in May 2019. For more info or links to online stories check out rrangell.com

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Enlightenment

11/1/2020

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by TORI FREDRICK

The Dalai Lama's Birthday by Francis Mariani | Flickr

She was the kind of woman who could make the Dalai Lama loot a liquor store. When considering the different varieties of females – shrews, harridans, harpies, cougars, MILFs, inflatable – Rita found herself contented to fall into the category of “temptress.” If the Dalai Lama taught her anything, it was to be grateful for life’s small blessings.

The morning after the robbery, they lay wrapped together in his orange monk’s robe, sharing skin and a Manhattan. Bald men loved her – she sometimes had to fight them away from her bulbous, exquisite breasts. The Dalai Lama added a touch of the exotic to her conquest journal, in which she rated his lovemaking a four out of ten. She didn’t give anybody special treatment.

Rita extricated herself from the tangle of sheets and clothes on the bed. She hadn’t really expected him to come knocking at her hotel room last night, a fistful of dollars and two bottles of top-shelf bourbon in tow. She was under no illusion that his whereabouts would remain a secret for long, and he was becoming quite silly after downing his second drink of the day, balancing on a pile of pillows for his morning meditation.

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Safe at Home

10/24/2020

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by LEAH MUELLER

Room 8 by Squid Ink | Flickr

Dusk had already fallen when my husband and I pulled into the center of town. Its dusty street sat empty, shop doors padlocked, windows covered with plywood boards.

“I bet the motel is open,” I said.

Russ shook his head wearily. “No one answered when you called.”

“The room will be empty,” I insisted. “Everyone is afraid to travel. Except us.”

Russ and I had sold most of our possessions, fled Tacoma, and headed south. Washington’s economy had expanded like fast-rising bread dough. Even the pandemic couldn’t slow it down.

For decades, people moved to Tacoma when they had no other options. Now, 1500 square-foot bungalows sold for a million dollars. The two of us didn’t have that kind of money. We’d bought a dirt-cheap house in southern Arizona. Same town where my mother spent the last nine years of her life. Thanks, Polly.

Russ shrugged. “Worth a try, I guess.”

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The Rock in Your Shoe

10/4/2020

by DAVID HAMMOND

rock on by Eric Chu | Flickr

Hello, up there!

I'm the rock in your shoe.

But I’m not just any rock. I’m a piece of primordial chondrite, formed from stardust in the earliest days of the solar system. Days? Scratch that. There were no days back then, because there wasn’t an Earth yet. I’m that old. Think about that for a second while you chew on your Clif bar and look out over the Shenandoah Valley.

Do I have your attention? I’m digging into the arch of your foot, but you lift your leg and do a little dance to shake me into the toe of the boot. Your two-year-old son in the baby backpack awakens from his snooze and laughs. “Papa,” he says, “Papa, more dance.” Don’t worry, little one, I’m not done with Papa yet. I work my way around to the big toe and apply my sharper end to the tender spot just below the nail. The little boy laughs as his grumbling steed does another jig.

Message for Item #095742

9/19/2020

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by EMILY WEBER

Cheetos by Mr. Brian | Flickr

Look. I know you’ve been waiting. Pretty patiently, I guess. The trendy thing to do nowadays is to be grateful instead of apologetic. Like if you’re twenty minutes late to work and your work husband Jeremy has to cover for you, again, you’re supposed to go, “Thank you for telling Melinda that I was in the locker room so I didn’t get stuck on the customer service desk again as punishment” instead of being all, “Sorry I made you lie for my tardy ass again.” Personally, I don’t say either. Jeremy doesn’t care. Melinda doesn’t care. The only people who care are just keeping score to make sure they’re still better than you. But you’re supposed to be grateful. Which I have been, of course. Gratitude is the only rational response to a 2,000 percent markup on a Cheeto. Overall, you’ve been kind about this whole thing, considering we both know the Cheetos you’ve been ordering from me are fake. Not fake…sculpted? Altered? That’s fair: let’s say they were altered.

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Professional Boundaries

9/6/2020

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by JOHN ADAMS

tin roof frozen custard by stu_spivak | Flickr

“Six, eight.” Kaelyn’s glossy fingernail ran from one lit elevator button to the other.

“What?” Lis asked, more from habit than interest.

“Today’s date. June 8th.”

Lis scooped her hair into a scrunchie. “Huh.”

“June 8th,” Kaelyn repeated, drawing out the date. “Like I was saying: International Best Friends Days.”

Lis’ face flashed a second of ‘This shit again?’ before offering another “Huh.”

The man caught between them shot Kaelyn a quick, embarrassed look before shuffling to the front of the elevator.

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Life in Lockdown with Cupcakes

8/23/2020

by J. L. HARLAND

Miss G Thumb by Justin Carmody | Flickr

‘Where the hell have you been?’

Steven shrugged when he saw Dad’s frowning face. ‘Just went to the shop.’ He looked at the floor and leaned against the wall. Best to look casual, unfazed. Hope the storm passed.

‘Don’t lean against that wall. It’s just been decorated. I hope you didn’t get close to anyone. Grandma’s vulnerable and she –‘

Grandma appeared like the genie in the lamp. She winked at Steven.

‘Shut up, Paul. I asked the lad to go. Get some ciggies for me. I ran out.’

Spoiled

8/8/2020

by P. L. WATTS

horse drawn carriage by beexxohh | Flickr

They’re meant to have left for the hunt nearly an hour hence, but the child has still not emerged from her room. Typical. She must know she’s holding up the entire household—and how important this is to her father. Marguerite steals another glance at the Monsieur. His face is stormy; his immaculate black shoes tap the floor with increasing impatience. Marguerite would go find the child herself if it wouldn’t mean crossing his line of vision . . .

She shivers.

After what feels like a fortnight, Mellian finally arrives. The room freezes.

She is the vainest child Marguerite has ever known, but today her hair hangs limp and stringy. Dark circles ring her eyes. And she is wearing an absurd brown dress that makes her look sallow and ill. Where did she even get such a thing? A tension headache mounts Marguerite’s shoulders. She looks at Marais, again. His jaw clenches.

Traffic

7/26/2020

by NEVA BRYAN

Walther PPS by Brandon Jasper | Flickr

The exotic dancer is more exotic than most. She has a vestigial tail that rests just above her butt crack.

It hangs over a wisp of translucent fabric that could optimistically be called a thong. The tail is a little nub about the length of my pinky finger. When the dancer wiggles it, her glitter- dusted tail shimmers pink and silver beneath the stage lights. The music is loud. Throbbing. Perfect for the way she dances.

Her stage name is Cosmic Flickers. From the looks of the crowd, she’s the club’s most popular dancer.

This whole scene makes me want to puke. I have to remind myself that I’m here to find my sister.

A Fitting Tribute

7/12/2020

by TIM FRANK

shadow boxing by abby chicken | Flickr

Jimmy Ward shadowboxed in his bedroom as the morning light seeped through the blinds creating a dense silhouette. His joints were weak but he still had the moves.

“You'll damage the lining,” said his wife, Ruby, appearing at the door. “It's the best suit we could afford and you're bulging at the seams as it is. Hey, what's wrong champ?”

“I don't want to go the market, I hate that place,” he said lowering his arms and crossing them defensively.

“No, Jimmy, have you forgotten already?” Ruby said, fiddling with his blood red tie. “We're going to see the Queen at Buckingham Palace. You're going to be honoured.”

“Oh, oh, yes, I remember now, the Queen.”

Playing the Dying Game

7/4/2020

by Harri B. Cradoc

Coronavirus by Tim Dennell | Flickr

“Let’s just say I don’t like taking showers alone,” said the man on the waiting room sofa.

The tousle-haired woman in the corner chair near the potted plant had picked out a wrinkled leaf of the variegated Schefflera and was attempting to straighten its lifeline. She rubbed the plant’s golden spots between one thumb and finger, and then, with a momentary tug at her facemask, uncovered a smile that stretched her twilight red lips. They pursed like a last kiss of the sun.

“Those yellow marks don’t come off,” he said.

“No? This is what I do to make everything be right again. Rubbing is the key.”

As Sleeping Dogs Lie

6/20/2020

by PHOENIX DESIMONE

Slumber Party by Todd Dwyer | Flickr

I awoke to the dog tickling my feet with his tongue. The sun was peaking in through the blinds. The girl in my bed was beautiful – from the sparkles between her blonde locks, to her blue eyes and matching socks. The only problem was I didn’t remember her name, let alone what game I could have played to get her home last night.

It was a cause for celebration no less; I wasn’t the best with the ladies. I was okay, better than most – I would start a conversation but after that I had no idea which direction to go. I’d think of clever things to say to get them to come home with me, but typically, nothing would happen. Smiles would be exchanged, sometimes even numbers, but more than likely the two of us would never see each other again.

Some Who Wander

6/7/2020

by REBECCA GOMEZ FARRELL

Trail Sign by Lunchbox Larry | Flickr

An undecipherable sign beckons from the bottom of a neglected, steep pathway between houses. Ignoring the omen of long-forgotten patio chairs at the trail's summit, I grip the solitary, damp guardrail and descend. Cold air mists my skin. I soft-shoe over disintegrating, ivy-covered asphalt and a decade's worth of crushed eucalyptus leaves. Four wooden stairs spill down to the end, a finish line I must cross. They prove slicker than the mud, slipping away along with my balance. Bruises bloom before my feet slam against the sign's metal pole, halting my downhill careen.

125, 135, 509

5/30/2020

by EMILIAN WOJNOWSKI

M by Alexander Mueller | Flickr

Life is like traveling by bus. We get on and off it at different stops—sometimes at those we don't want to, not necessarily due to absent-mindedness—and the further we go, the more we pay. Sometimes we get stuck in traffic jams, join wrong passengers, or lose tickets. Or the bus does not come.

The above thinking occurred to me at… a bus stop. Thoughts then are mosquitoes, and heads—if free of problems, social media, and music—are camping lanterns.

It was windy, so I sat under a shelter. I was simply waiting, with my hands in my pockets and my head leaned on a rolled-up viscose scarf.

Freezer World

5/15/2020

by TIMOTHY HENNUM

time for a freezer nap by hypersapiens | Flickr

The moment the door sealed shut behind me I understood the freezer people wanted me dead.

Here’s a bit of advice: Never trust a person who willingly locks themselves in a freezer because the world as we know it is over. And when I say over, I mean done, cooked, burnt to a crisp and never coming back. No electricity, no cars, no twitter, no turkey subs, no elevators. Whoever survives whatever comes next will eat dirt and ash and walk everywhere and take the stairs. But not stairs inside buildings because buildings as we once knew them are gone, melted, dissolved into nothing but nuclear dust. Whoever survives whatever comes next will live in huts made of nuclear mud.

Or walk-in freezers.

My Grandpa's Tremories / The Pinecone Wars

4/26/2020

by LEE DOUGLAS

West Virginia Road Trip by geoff dude | Flickr

My Grandpa's Tremories

“That’s how they getcha,” Grandpa whispered in sync with Kevin Bacon. “They’re under the got damned ground.”

I grinned, loving the moment.

“Sons of bitches,” Grandpa mimed cocking a rifle in time with Kevin. He raised it to his cheek, aiming at the TV. “Boom!”

I slap the couch. “You get it every time.”

“Kevin hits it every time,” Grandpa leaned back in his ancient recliner, folding his hands across his belly. His eyes flicked toward me, curious. Then they lit up with recognition. “Kevin! Want to watch Tremors?”

It was the third time he’d asked. “Of course, Grandpa.”

Fame

4/12/2020

by TOTI O'BRIEN

Utah Rocks by Lisa Cyr | Flickr

I began the sculpture with little in mind, trying to focus but incapable of true articulation. I always arrived at the lab exhausted by daily cares, only wishing to lose myself in my gestures, thinking possibly of nothing. That would work, in this particular case, as the instructor had requested a cluster of primary shapes inspired by a common theme. I could let my hands go, unworried of a final design that I would figure later. I started patting blocks of clay into spheres, halving them for easier handling. I smoothed, then reassembled them two by two.

I was thinking of rocks. Stone formations that I knew from my childhood—huge calcareous concretions, large boulders with a moonlike feel. By association, I recalled the mighty profiles of cactuses crowding those same mesas and plains, neatly matching the harshness of the granite terrain. My young eyes had long wandered over such lunar forms, greens and greys cut against too cloudless blue skies, burned out by a triumphant sunlight. I had loved them as kids love the first things they discover, explore, recognize—beyond limits, I mean. For me cactuses were creatures of power and grace, which I worshipped.

Routine

3/29/2020

by RICHARD LEISE

IMG_0418 by Abigail Batchelder | Flickr

A toddler falls from a balcony. It takes a moment—there is no commotion, no gathering crowd; there is, after looking up, no sound—but in time (you slowly walk closer until, incredibly, you make out impossible human features, a leg uncertainly angled) you realize that the girl isn’t a garbage bag, that she isn’t a pile of clothing and that, somehow, there, on the sidewalk, like a cat struck by a car, is a child, and not just any child, but that little girl who waves every morning on your walk to work.

That she’s alive? This doesn’t cross your mind.

Earlier.

Dakota Travis, Saurallero Extraordinaire

2/23/2020

by DAWN VOGEL

Triceratops by Miroslav Petrasko | Flickr

Today, we mourn the passing of Dakota "Trike" Travis, at the age of ninety-seven-years-young. Trike was a loving family man, legendary animal wrangler and stuntman, and perhaps best known to the public for his saurallero achievements on Chengillon. In addition to his long and storied career behind the scenes in Hollywood, Travis assisted with great strides in scientific enquiry into, communication with, and shepherding of the dinosaur inhabitants of Chengillon.

Travis was born in western Colorado on one of the few remaining twenty-third century horse ranches. Family legend claims Travis was born in the stables themselves, though his biographers suspect this may be an exaggeration. Growing up in such an environment, his pursuits naturally turned to animal wrangling, from which he made his career. He met his wife, Hollywood starlet Alexis Knight, on the set of "The Saddle and the Senorita," one of his first big wrangling jobs. Together, they helped revitalize the spaghetti western genre for the twenty-third century while raising their four children, Marram, Senkyo, Dyssodia, and Abalos.

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