The Twilit World By David Massengill

The elderly taxi driver drops me off at a chain link fence blocking the main drive of the University of Hollinsbridge. “You sure you want to do this, lad?”

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The Chin By B.R. Stateham

A painted rock.

A rock about the size of a small child’s open palm. Painted an odd, curiously light reflective smoky gray hue. One side of it was curved slightly. The curve gentle, suggesting that it would fit perfectly in the palm of a small hand. Like some kind of Neolithic hand tool; maybe a tool used to scrape the flesh off an animal hide. Or maybe some kind of stone hammer.
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Fuck Doll By Aimee Delong

The shoelaces dangle as if exhausted from their vigorous rub down. Brad cleaned them. Before that he unlaced them. This process started when his eyeballs narrowed their OCD search light stare, as he reached one hand down to abrade a fresh scuff mark, surprised that such a display of disorderliness would have the nerve to occur in his presence. After all this, he retrieves some fresh laces from his dresser.

“When did that happen?” he exclaims.

“Babe, they’re shoes. They’re the closest things on your body to the ground.”

Brad grabs a paper towel, folding it into several squares. He wipes the scuff mark with dark enthusiasm, the whites of his eyes, extra orbital, and the black of his pupils stitched tight, like crudely mended holes in a dress sock.

I watch Brad lace his shoes, then tie them and retie them before placing them in a perfect parallel to each other by the door. He stands over his white Chuck Taylors with apprehensive authority. He dims the lights, and takes out a new pair of sheets from his laundry bag. I can’t fathom how he has a full load of clothes to be washed every day, but there they are whenever I come over, like an obsessive compulsive magic trick.

Brad lays his pillow in front of him on the bed, patting it three times in five segments from one end of the pillow to the other. I light another cigarette, and go into the bathroom. I peruse the vintage postcards on the wall, studying one in particular, a drawing of a buxom red headed pin-up, the sides of whose breasts tumble out of her leopard print top, her ass, bounding and stretching the seams of her skirt as she lies wanton and resistant all at the same time in the arms of a sea monster. A caption above her languishing body reads, “The Most Dangerous Creature Known To Man!

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Cain and Abel (REDUX) by Dr. Mel Waldman

Genesis 4:8 – King James Bible

“And Cain talked with Abel his brother: And it came to pass, when they were in the field, that Cain rose up against Abel his brother and killed him.”


Cain Jones, owner of Cain’s Bar and Grill, was in big money trouble with Jimmy the Knife, a tall skinny psycho hood. Continue reading Cain and Abel (REDUX) by Dr. Mel Waldman

A Tissue of Webs by Paul D. Brazill

The thing is, I didn’t particularly care whether she was lying to me or telling me the truth, since most of what I’d told her had been dug up from some murky hinterland somewhere on the outskirts of honesty, but whatever I did I had to get my hands that guitar. 

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Minral Cawt Defends The Glounce by Douglas J. Ogurek

“These people honor me with their lips, but their hearts are far from me.” – Mark 7: 6

Minral Cawt stood at the Warfare Sanctum entry and kissed the roolstone embedded in his dance staff. He needed to convince lead decorator Particula Slough, a noted fan of his dancing, to stop using glounce skin secretions for warrior face paint. Cawt petted his own glounce Tegrit, put the bird on his shoulder, and then entered the Sanctum.

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Perfect Love by Sonia Kilvington

Explanatory Summary of Supplementary Notes for Independent Inquiry on Report 2/XD71H: Deaths: Cause/ Failure of Experiment. Date 26/10/33

Ombudsman Investigator: Professor. D. Clarke, Department of Social Stability.

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Watch It All Go Fiery by Christopher Grant

Watch it all go fiery, pieces dropping out of the sky. Ten seconds ago, it was a jet. Nine seconds ago, I happened. Now the jet’s all explodey and shit raining down all over the countryside. Fuck ‘em. They’ve been bombing us for years, decades. Who gives a shit if I just took $300 million out of play? They’ll have two more flying overhead in an hour. I’ll be ready. Fiery is my job.

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Crime Tip by Bruce Harris

The only thing worse than a thug is a copycat thug.

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Stealing Posies by KJ Hannah Greenberg

The media learned little about the Czech who had labored alongside of me, riveting fins and hammering launch lugs. The youngest of her siblings lived too many terrible suns and cruel moons away to broadcast her death. The rest of her beloveds, likewise, seemed entirely disinterested in her: having fallen from the scaffolding surrounding a rocket’s nose, uninterred body, or subsequently doubled share in the proceeds from that space-going vessel’s future payload. Continue reading Stealing Posies by KJ Hannah Greenberg

"Write What Thou Wilt"


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