Stories

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.

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Scrub

1/2/2022

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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.

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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

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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.

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What I Remember

11/25/2021

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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.

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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.

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.”

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