Stories

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.

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

8/22/2021

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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.”

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Jesus Bread

8/7/2021

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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.

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New Training Methods in Hell Come From Surprising Source

7/31/2021

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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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Pith and Pretense

7/11/2021

by ELIZABETH BARTON

21 by Didriks | Flickr

Leila feigned interest in the nearest sculpture as she moved behind it, glancing quickly over each shoulder to make sure there was no one in back of her—all clear. With the artwork as cover, she wriggled her hips, reached underneath the skirt of her sky-blue charmeuse gown, and tugged on the legs of her shapewear shorts. They had ridden up into a torturously uncomfortable position. That’d teach her to buy knockoff Spanx.

She sighed, relieved of her discomfort. With that off her mind, she regarded the sculpture in front of her. Was sculpture even the right word? Installation? Heck, she should just call it what it was: A pile of avocados.

It’s not that Leila didn’t enjoy contemporary art. She just preferred her art to be more…accessible. But this? Leila circled the pedestal beneath the heap of green-black produce, searching for its label--Seeking Salutations. This kind of stuff she did not get. It seemed pretentious and purposefully abstruse. Worse, it was a waste of perfectly good avocados! Plus, knowing how quickly they went from rock hard to complete mush, she wouldn’t be surprised if Avocado Swapper constituted a full-time position at the museum.

Seven Tips to Seduce a Tooth Fairy

6/27/2021

by SARINA DORIE

tooth fairy by wakefielddavid | Flickr

1. The tooth fairy will only come if you put a real tooth under your pillow. No fakes from dentures. Not a dog's either. If you really want to impress her, use ones with gold fillings like I do.

2. Hide a net under your pillow. Don’t try handcuffs. She’s not into that.

3. Set the mood with candles. Sure, you can use a nightlight, but this will make her think you’re twelve. The candles will also help her see how much effort you put into flossing and brushing your teeth.

4. Apply cologne. I have it from a good source she likes Old Spice.

5. Wait until she reaches under the pillow to give you a quarter to open your eyes. That is the moment to lean in for a kiss.

Signs

6/13/2021

by YASH SEYEDBAGHERI

Santa Claus, Indiana by millr | Flickr

A giant foam Santa waves at the market. He holds a sign. Merry Christmas.

The world is full of signs. Small, large, all dominated by Santa. Where’s Moses? Mel Brooks? Even Adam Sandler?

I kick Santa square in the foam nuts.

He just billows, waving, arms stretched outward.

No wave for David Feldman.

Colleagues always speak those words. Merry Christmas. They proclaim the beauty of trees. Wise men. Tell me to try a Lutheran or Catholic service. Proclaim how different Chanukah is.

Looming Specters

5/31/2021

by RUYI WEN

Labyrinthine by quapan | Flickr

Some call us hackers.

We drop through an opening in the ceiling we have made, three pairs of feet landing silently upon the floor. No one can match our ability to infiltrate even the most secure of server rooms, no matter if they are underground, underwater, under the radar.

Our true strength, however, lies in knowing what to do once we’re inside.

Many people think hacking is an activity of brute force, a desperate charge with a battalion of bots and a battering ram. Nothing could be further from the truth. Ahead of each mission, we fine-tune strategy and finesse our plays. Many hours of planning go into a few moments of action so we can complete our task with the lightest touch. Most times, all that’s required is a gentle tug on a loose end that unravels everything.

Some call us witches.

How does that saying go? Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic?

Beginner's Dismemberment Guide

4/25/2021

by CHARLIE ROGERS

The Syringe by Zior_ | Flickr

When I respond to the help-wanted ad for “Serial Killer’s Assistant,” I’m surprised to get a near-instantaneous invitation for an interview. My mental image of the person who placed the ad had vacillated between two vivid possibilities: tall and gaunt like a human scarecrow, or a sweaty, slovenly blob.

Instead, I discover he’s neither. He’s so nondescript that I forget his face the moment he turns. He invites me into his house where the decor is reminiscent of an old lady’s: hand-painted porcelain frog figurines crowd every surface; a stale scent of rose perfume floats above us.

I’ve told my mother where I’ll be and assured her I’ll call the moment I’m done. It’s our standard procedure for my interviews, so she shouldn’t worry. If I can’t secure a well-paying job soon I’ll go crazy squatting in her garage. My stint as a Mortuary Disc Jockey didn’t pan out and I’ve been hustling for new employment ever since.

Bereft

4/18/2021

by Antonia Costa

Sock Puppet by K W Reinsch | Flickr

I wasn’t convinced it was going to happen when Mrs. Milton warned me over the phone last week: “I just want to let you know, there is a possibility that Samson could die while we’re gone,” she’d said. “The vet says it’s bound to happen within the next couple of months. We don’t anticipate it happening while we’re gone, but just in case, we don’t want you to be surprised.”

Dr. and Mrs. Milton are in Paris for two weeks, and they asked if I could stay with their dog while they’re away. I’ve stayed with Samson plenty of times before. He’s a rather large dog, although I’ve never been certain what kind. I’ve asked before to be nice, but not being at all familiar with dog breeds, the names just sound like diseases to me, let alone give any indication of what that particular one would look like. Just slap the word terrier after a nationality and I wouldn’t know the difference between that and a sock puppet with whiskers sewn on.

Inheritance

3/28/2021

by CHRISSIE ROHRMAN

Let It Go by Ben Lelis | Flickr

It looks roomy enough inside the freezer chest, but even after putting my weight against the lid, it still won’t close completely. I squint down through the vapor at my mother’s wrinkled face.

Even dead, she looks disappointed in me.

With a sigh, I haul her limp body back out of the freezer. For such a small woman, she was heavier than I expected. It seems poetic, considering the weight of disapproval I’ve felt my entire life.

“You’re out, James,” she’d sneered at me from across the polished marble countertop. “I’m seeing my lawyer tomorrow. The house, the cars and jewelry—it’s going to your brother. All of it.”

Bald Beyond Suspicion

3/7/2021

by JOHN BLAIR

The Usual Suspects by ap. | Flickr

Four scruffy men shuffled into the room behind the glass through which they could see neither me nor the police officer sitting next to moi.

“Now, Mr. Dillinger,” the detective asked me. “What do you think?”

“Well, the tall one in the middle is kind of hot.”

The officer turned his face to the ceiling and rolled his eyes; I followed suit, but I couldn’t spot a spider or a fly up there—nothing.

“Good to know,” he said quietly, “but irrelevant.” (Stupid cop didn’t clue in that there is no middle man in a line of four.) “Do any of these men resemble the man whom you saw rob the bank?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t know.”

Snigglesnaffed

2/21/2021

by EMMIE CHRISTIE

Kittens in a box! by David Lifson | Flickr

Evelyn was on the way to her big meeting with the department heads, but the box of kittens on the side of the road read ‘take what you can’ and what was a middle-aged woman to do? Leave them?

Of course the freaking not.

She stopped her car and sighed. There were five: an all-black, one with a black sock, one with a white-tipped ear and one with a grey heart on its nose. The last had a bent tail, as if it had been caught in a door. They looked up at her and mewed, showing all their little pink throats, and Evelyn melted into hopeless snigglesnaffing. Snigglesnaffing is, of course, the technical term to describe when, within five feet of something adorable, an average human’s speech breaks into irrepressible endearments such as ‘miggle muffin’ and ‘snuffer puff.’

The Fingernail Fairy

2/13/2021

by JUSTIN DILL

Nom Nom Nom Fingers by Shea Huening | Flickr

I didn’t expect her to show up tonight. If I’m being completely honest, I didn’t expect her to show up at all. I mean, come on. It was only a creepypasta, and if you ask me, a little overcooked at that. Written by some nobody in exchange for internet points—value non-transferrable. Who in their right mind would have thought the Fingernail Fairy was real?

But I knew it was her, the second she flashed me that formidable grin, more keratin than calcium, if you catch my drift. That was when the general din of the pub, at least in my mind, fell away to allow for a moment of rapid-fire recollection.

What were the rules? There are always rules. Rules that you have to follow to a T, Baskerville Old Face, Twelve-Point Font. If you don’t, well, then you’re the protagonist. And that’s the last person you want to be in a creepypasta. You’re wondering about me? What’s my deal? Screw you, that’s my deal. I’m no protagonist. I don’t die at the end of this one.

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.

Sense of Self

11/15/2020

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

Enlightenment

11/1/2020

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.

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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