“All I’m saying, Tony, is this. Those old people living out their days at the old folks home across the road got cash coming out the wazoo. They play bingo, they don’t play for small change. They got pots worth ten grand or more.” Continue reading Bingo Night, Part I by Vincent Zandri
“I am Ernesto Luis Cardeñia, Argentine poet, an early dreamer. I sit at the edge and describe. The planes beyond, believe me—the disjunct in time here is huge at the edge of man’s space, where the wildness has been made farm and the farm has been made city and the city is dead within. Ah, our amniotic tastes ruin it.
My blood is easy and loose. My death is easy. ‘Poet Ernesto Luis Cardeñia is charged with poetic research on the surface of Mars. He studies the dung beetle and the prisoner. His final poems are addled and incoherent as though he’d become rabid; as if something were devouring him. He wrote, autobiographically, this description of himself.’”
– Forward to Thus Follows the Course of Empire, by Ernesto Luis Cardeñia Continue reading ELC: The Universal Flood by Eric Westerlind
Money has a smell all its own. A flat scent of eager hands and disappointed dreams. Miriam loved the smell of cash. Not the flat crisp hundreds the ATMs spat out but the odor of well-worn bills. The battered twenties and tens that made their way through the club, eventually landing in piles on the corner of her desk. Continue reading GLASS CEILING by Frank Quinn
Will this be the one that gets me killed? I’ve asked myself this question no less than one hundred times before. I’ve also never given much thought to death, but now that I’m dead, I have all the time in the world to think about it. Continue reading My Blue Mistake by Brian Morse
Tara and Chris had rented the Amvets Hall for the wedding. The room’s sliding partition was closed for the event. On the other side of the accordion wall, a group of senior women were holding their weekly knitting club meeting. Continue reading Sanctuary! by J.M. Taylor
I followed her, having nowhere else to go. She was shining like a wax doll under the bus shelter lights, looking like she’d melt. I sat down next to her and lit a Marlboro, feeling the drops of rain crawl down my face like insects. Continue reading ROTHKO’S DAUGHTER by Richard Godwin.
A warm breeze swept along the water as the old lady and her hulking adult son wheeled the food cart onto the river path. A puff of steam rose from the cauldron as the old woman removed a sweaty lid and stirred the broth. Her gigantic son set up a folding table, and carefully organized several rows of empty paper cups. She ladled the hot soup into the small receptacles, and said a prayer. Continue reading All That Nighttime By Morgan Boyd
Keshav Singh was convinced that katars would be suitable for the task. Brass knuckles; kubatons; switchblades would not do the trick. On the other hand stilettos, karambits, or combat knives perhaps performed the job too well. Though they did not exactly fall under the category of “concealed,” he believed he had found the perfect compromise – a hybrid of stealth and functionality. The Singh family katars, rumored to date back hundreds of years to the Mughal Empire, would not only enable them to die with style, but it would be poetic due to ancestral support. Continue reading Mosh Pit Massacre by Dustin He
Gwyneth! Can you hear them, Gwyneth! Can you hear them scratching? They are so close, Gwyneth, and when they arrive, as they surely will, they will tear us into tiny pieces! That scratching, that scratching, THAT SCRATCHING below us is THEM! The plants! They’re coming for us! They are downstairs, right now, pushing through doors and walls. They have found the neighbors! The friendly, old couple, the Rothschilds, with the dog, they’re being eaten, right now, as we speak. The plants are tearing their arms and legs from their bodies and wrapping them with their branches and sucking them dry with their roots or dissolving them in the juices of their leaves. Continue reading Gwyneth by Matt Lang
At 9pm the tiny red led light on Deuce’s answer machine flares up & the machine goes beeeep but Deuce don’t reach for the phone he just lets it run. He’s lying smacked out his skull on the bed in his 2nd floor flat wearing just his leather bike trousers. The teevee screen is flickering silently. He hears the machine whir into action & his own voice go I ain’t here, leave a message an keep it brief. He reaches over the pink haired Candy lying next to him & gets a roll a notes out the drawer in the bedside table, hands her the 500 & tells her okay now get the fuck outta here I got business to see to. All Candy replies with is you’re a pig as she gets up & pulls on her sparkly short silver dress. She fumbles about the room saying she can’t find her shoes. Deuce waits silently until she finds her sling-back stilettos under the sofa & tells her again: get the fuck outta here will yer? She throws her handbag over her shoulder & gives him the finger & says sure thing shit-for-brains as she slams the door behind her. Her footsteps fade away along the hall & down stairs. It’s Garry Barracuda on the line & he shouts frantically down the phone jeez where you at, softlad? Get yrself over here it’s time to fuckin rock n roll. Continue reading The Savage City by u.v.ray