You Clown You
By Jonas Drew Flanary
On the crown of his octagon head rests a five size too small hat pulled over a giant cotton candy puffball, curl infested afro of a multicolored spectrum. Sometimes he shaves the top of his head to reveal a pearl white scalp, leaving the awkward perpendicular sprigs shooting out at colorful angles from the sides of his head. Whichever hair style he decides to sport, you can bet on a giant projectile flower sprouting out of the top of his noggin like spring fever. His nose, as bright and round as a plump ripe tomato, gleams with the redness of a shiny and sleek fire engine blasting towards a fire. Just as often as his demeanor and mood change, so does his physical appearance change, just as quickly and forcefully.
His kabuki face paint, ivory white and deceiving, fluctuates from extreme to extreme. Sometimes presented with a giant orange smile to go along with that giant red nose, lips pursed and then exploding into fits of hysterical and uncontrollable laughter, as he spews forth witty jokes and twists balloon animals, showing a robust funny face, a kind of goofy bewilderment a child could enjoy. But other times, when it's a bad day, he paints his face on with a scowl, the make-up around his eyes slapped on with a vigorous display of suspicion and malicious intent. Fat ears hearing everything, and his mouth, that horrible foul mouth, painted on with such a despicable flavor, a horrible grimace with unkempt hair. When having a bad day, the ivory whiteness of his kabuki mask decays to a pale off-gray. His make-up looks smeared and sloppy. His tomato nose drips forth snot. When feeling this way he often vomits on the children.
As for his attire, he wears a variety of conflicting spots and stripes, horizontal and vertical, and displaying bad taste in coloring. An over-sized bow tie of tie-dyed lavender with yellow polka dots, or the giant necktie of maroon with the dancing baboons adorn his neck below his fat double chins. There is always dirt, grime, food stains, and crusted bile all over his plaid and striped bizarreness, and the filth particularly lines the silky garment about his neck. Upon his shirt sits a ruffled broach, a wilted corsage, that shoots forth icy cold water as this circus madcap jumps about farting and smoking big smelly cigars.
His shoes, nine sizes too big for his already exceedingly large feet, and crammed full of stink and toe jam, shoot forth into the world at the conclusion of his legs. His mouth, tinged at the bottom with food crumbs and disapproval, is always ready to win any debate, with its superior, but incredibly profane vocabulary. You had better watch out when he gets on his set of wooden stilts. They shoot him straight up into the sky, where he can bombard the general public with greasy speech, or balls of spit.
Hey...You Clown You...does your face feel hot? Do you feel that mask slowly creeping down over your head again? Quit rubbing it and tearing at it. It's you in disguise.
- - -
Jonas is a Funky Tunk, a lover of all things good to the senses. He lives to spontaneously combust, and then pick up the pieces and start over again.
By Jonas Drew Flanary
On the crown of his octagon head rests a five size too small hat pulled over a giant cotton candy puffball, curl infested afro of a multicolored spectrum. Sometimes he shaves the top of his head to reveal a pearl white scalp, leaving the awkward perpendicular sprigs shooting out at colorful angles from the sides of his head. Whichever hair style he decides to sport, you can bet on a giant projectile flower sprouting out of the top of his noggin like spring fever. His nose, as bright and round as a plump ripe tomato, gleams with the redness of a shiny and sleek fire engine blasting towards a fire. Just as often as his demeanor and mood change, so does his physical appearance change, just as quickly and forcefully.
His kabuki face paint, ivory white and deceiving, fluctuates from extreme to extreme. Sometimes presented with a giant orange smile to go along with that giant red nose, lips pursed and then exploding into fits of hysterical and uncontrollable laughter, as he spews forth witty jokes and twists balloon animals, showing a robust funny face, a kind of goofy bewilderment a child could enjoy. But other times, when it's a bad day, he paints his face on with a scowl, the make-up around his eyes slapped on with a vigorous display of suspicion and malicious intent. Fat ears hearing everything, and his mouth, that horrible foul mouth, painted on with such a despicable flavor, a horrible grimace with unkempt hair. When having a bad day, the ivory whiteness of his kabuki mask decays to a pale off-gray. His make-up looks smeared and sloppy. His tomato nose drips forth snot. When feeling this way he often vomits on the children.
As for his attire, he wears a variety of conflicting spots and stripes, horizontal and vertical, and displaying bad taste in coloring. An over-sized bow tie of tie-dyed lavender with yellow polka dots, or the giant necktie of maroon with the dancing baboons adorn his neck below his fat double chins. There is always dirt, grime, food stains, and crusted bile all over his plaid and striped bizarreness, and the filth particularly lines the silky garment about his neck. Upon his shirt sits a ruffled broach, a wilted corsage, that shoots forth icy cold water as this circus madcap jumps about farting and smoking big smelly cigars.
His shoes, nine sizes too big for his already exceedingly large feet, and crammed full of stink and toe jam, shoot forth into the world at the conclusion of his legs. His mouth, tinged at the bottom with food crumbs and disapproval, is always ready to win any debate, with its superior, but incredibly profane vocabulary. You had better watch out when he gets on his set of wooden stilts. They shoot him straight up into the sky, where he can bombard the general public with greasy speech, or balls of spit.
Hey...You Clown You...does your face feel hot? Do you feel that mask slowly creeping down over your head again? Quit rubbing it and tearing at it. It's you in disguise.
- - -
Jonas is a Funky Tunk, a lover of all things good to the senses. He lives to spontaneously combust, and then pick up the pieces and start over again.
The Hollow Men, The Stuffed Men
By Kelly Oziemblo
She strides hurriedly down the street, not from a need to be anywhere in particular, but
because she knows that she should appear as needing to be somewhere. The heels of her boots
click, business-like, on the concrete, and remind her of metronomes of piano lessons long past
(Hollow MEN, Hollow MEN, Hollow MEN)
Everyone she passes also reminds her of those metronomes: blank, hollow, dead-eyed, fried. Her
every step echoes the words of a long-forgotten poem
(this is the way the world ends/this is the way the world ends/this is the way the world
ends/not with a bang but a whimper)
As every face blurs into one meaningless vanilla amalgam, something dark and shifting
appears in her peripheral vision. She turns to look and her eyes catch those of a filthy and
disheveled man sitting on the sidewalk. His light brown eyes appeal to her as he holds out a
grimy hand ending in long and yellow nails, asking
(A penny for the Old Guy?)
Her breath catches in her throat and she stumbles, although almost imperceptibly. He
continues to stare at her as she fumbles in her pocket and extracts whatever change she can grab,
dropping it cautiously into his upturned palm. He mutters something that sounds like a thank
you…then suddenly she feels his filthy, talon-like claws scrape against her wrist and pull her in
close to him.
Her heart quickens and she almost topples right over on top of him. The musk of him
wafts into her nostrils like a thick and robust perfume: underlying the surface smell of cigarettes
and whiskey, she can discern subtle hints of sweat, slow decay, and something she can only
describe as Alive. She can feel herself trembling slightly, not knowing what was on his mind
or what he wanted of her, but regardless of how she knew she should feel, she cannot help but
continue staring into his mesmerizing and somehow startlingly clear brown eyes. He stares back
at her, his hand trembling against her wrist and whispers
(the eyes are not here/there are no eyes here/in this valley of dying stars/in this hollow
valley/this broken jaw of our lost kingdoms)
She gasps and abruptly pulls away, her eyes widening as she stumbles backwards. How
does he know? she thinks, with a clarity of thought she hasn’t felt in a long while. Turning away,
she tries to go on her way, but finds herself so thoroughly shaken that she has trouble keeping a
straight course.
Clutching her chest and feeling it hitch with each breath, she leans up against the nearest
store front. She looks out into the perfect fall day and tries to calm her heart rate and breathing
back down to normal with each intake of crisp, clean air. All around her the drones are dutifully
going about their business, not even bothering to give her a first look, let alone a second. She
takes detailed note of her surroundings for the first time in awhile: the acrid smell of the fresh
paint on the crosswalk to her left, the deep fall colors of the shedding leaves across the street, the
uneven roughness of the concrete sidewalk beneath her shoes, the far-off shrieks of children at
play in the park, the coppery taste of fear receding in her mouth.
She looks around in amazement and suddenly the words of the homeless man come
flooding back to her, flowing around her body, blurring her thoughts and vision and blocking out
the day
(there are no eyes here)
As she stands there, still trying to regain her composure, she feels a slight pressure on
her wrist and before she can utter an exclamation the pressure is increased, she is pulled into the
nearest alley, and pushed roughly up against a wall.
It is then that she finally cries out, feeling the busy scratching of the brick side of the
building against her cheek. The pressure on her wrist slackens a bit, and she finds that she has
enough leeway to turn around and attempt to see the face of her kidnapper. She twists around,
violently knocking the side of her knee on the bricks and feeling the slow and thin trickle of
blood work its way warmly down her leg, but pays it no attention.
She makes it halfway around and looks up, bracing herself to see this mysterious face,
but to her dismay she realizes the face is hidden in the late afternoon shadows of the alley.
Feeling a strange hand slide up her thigh, she cries out again, and tries to twist out of the way.
Part of her wants more of his touch; for the first time in a long while she is overcome with a
feeling of Alive; his touch makes her skin sizzle as if she has been drinking liquid fire. And yet,
even in her half-terror some part of her mind registers the fact that somehow she knows this
touch. All thought flees from her mind though, as he holds her up against the wall and she hears
him unzipping his pants. Alarm bells ring deafeningly through her head and she goes limp in her
disbelief.
She worries that if she tries to fight too hard, he will produce some kind of weapon and
kill her, but she can’t help struggling as much as she dares. She starts to go for his face with her
fingernails. He pushes in closer to her, pressing her harder into the wall and grabbing her hands,
stopping her nails from clawing at his eyes. He leans in. She notices the dirty yellow talon-like
claws gripping her wrist; she notices that in her struggling she has led them almost out of the
shadows; she notices that the air she is breathing smells just like cigarettes and whiskey.
She staggers, looks up at him and as her eyes meet his startlingly clear light brown eyes,
he leans in and whispers gently into her ear
(between the idea/and the reality/between the motion/and the act/falls the Shadow
And suddenly she knows. She knows All and she is Alive. Her body goes limp as she wraps her
right leg up high around his waist and collapses against him. He adjusts slightly and gently slips in to her,
feeling her from the inside as a warm, inviting sheath. He has a fleeting thought about scandalizing the
drones: this is most definitely not in their plan, but he quickly dismisses it when he hears her cry out and
tighten her leg around his waist. He knows; he feels All and he is Home.
- - -
Kelly is a Creative writing student at the University of South Florida, freelance writer, from Plant City, Florida.
By Kelly Oziemblo
She strides hurriedly down the street, not from a need to be anywhere in particular, but
because she knows that she should appear as needing to be somewhere. The heels of her boots
click, business-like, on the concrete, and remind her of metronomes of piano lessons long past
(Hollow MEN, Hollow MEN, Hollow MEN)
Everyone she passes also reminds her of those metronomes: blank, hollow, dead-eyed, fried. Her
every step echoes the words of a long-forgotten poem
(this is the way the world ends/this is the way the world ends/this is the way the world
ends/not with a bang but a whimper)
As every face blurs into one meaningless vanilla amalgam, something dark and shifting
appears in her peripheral vision. She turns to look and her eyes catch those of a filthy and
disheveled man sitting on the sidewalk. His light brown eyes appeal to her as he holds out a
grimy hand ending in long and yellow nails, asking
(A penny for the Old Guy?)
Her breath catches in her throat and she stumbles, although almost imperceptibly. He
continues to stare at her as she fumbles in her pocket and extracts whatever change she can grab,
dropping it cautiously into his upturned palm. He mutters something that sounds like a thank
you…then suddenly she feels his filthy, talon-like claws scrape against her wrist and pull her in
close to him.
Her heart quickens and she almost topples right over on top of him. The musk of him
wafts into her nostrils like a thick and robust perfume: underlying the surface smell of cigarettes
and whiskey, she can discern subtle hints of sweat, slow decay, and something she can only
describe as Alive. She can feel herself trembling slightly, not knowing what was on his mind
or what he wanted of her, but regardless of how she knew she should feel, she cannot help but
continue staring into his mesmerizing and somehow startlingly clear brown eyes. He stares back
at her, his hand trembling against her wrist and whispers
(the eyes are not here/there are no eyes here/in this valley of dying stars/in this hollow
valley/this broken jaw of our lost kingdoms)
She gasps and abruptly pulls away, her eyes widening as she stumbles backwards. How
does he know? she thinks, with a clarity of thought she hasn’t felt in a long while. Turning away,
she tries to go on her way, but finds herself so thoroughly shaken that she has trouble keeping a
straight course.
Clutching her chest and feeling it hitch with each breath, she leans up against the nearest
store front. She looks out into the perfect fall day and tries to calm her heart rate and breathing
back down to normal with each intake of crisp, clean air. All around her the drones are dutifully
going about their business, not even bothering to give her a first look, let alone a second. She
takes detailed note of her surroundings for the first time in awhile: the acrid smell of the fresh
paint on the crosswalk to her left, the deep fall colors of the shedding leaves across the street, the
uneven roughness of the concrete sidewalk beneath her shoes, the far-off shrieks of children at
play in the park, the coppery taste of fear receding in her mouth.
She looks around in amazement and suddenly the words of the homeless man come
flooding back to her, flowing around her body, blurring her thoughts and vision and blocking out
the day
(there are no eyes here)
As she stands there, still trying to regain her composure, she feels a slight pressure on
her wrist and before she can utter an exclamation the pressure is increased, she is pulled into the
nearest alley, and pushed roughly up against a wall.
It is then that she finally cries out, feeling the busy scratching of the brick side of the
building against her cheek. The pressure on her wrist slackens a bit, and she finds that she has
enough leeway to turn around and attempt to see the face of her kidnapper. She twists around,
violently knocking the side of her knee on the bricks and feeling the slow and thin trickle of
blood work its way warmly down her leg, but pays it no attention.
She makes it halfway around and looks up, bracing herself to see this mysterious face,
but to her dismay she realizes the face is hidden in the late afternoon shadows of the alley.
Feeling a strange hand slide up her thigh, she cries out again, and tries to twist out of the way.
Part of her wants more of his touch; for the first time in a long while she is overcome with a
feeling of Alive; his touch makes her skin sizzle as if she has been drinking liquid fire. And yet,
even in her half-terror some part of her mind registers the fact that somehow she knows this
touch. All thought flees from her mind though, as he holds her up against the wall and she hears
him unzipping his pants. Alarm bells ring deafeningly through her head and she goes limp in her
disbelief.
She worries that if she tries to fight too hard, he will produce some kind of weapon and
kill her, but she can’t help struggling as much as she dares. She starts to go for his face with her
fingernails. He pushes in closer to her, pressing her harder into the wall and grabbing her hands,
stopping her nails from clawing at his eyes. He leans in. She notices the dirty yellow talon-like
claws gripping her wrist; she notices that in her struggling she has led them almost out of the
shadows; she notices that the air she is breathing smells just like cigarettes and whiskey.
She staggers, looks up at him and as her eyes meet his startlingly clear light brown eyes,
he leans in and whispers gently into her ear
(between the idea/and the reality/between the motion/and the act/falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom)
And suddenly she knows. She knows All and she is Alive. Her body goes limp as she wraps her
right leg up high around his waist and collapses against him. He adjusts slightly and gently slips in to her,
feeling her from the inside as a warm, inviting sheath. He has a fleeting thought about scandalizing the
drones: this is most definitely not in their plan, but he quickly dismisses it when he hears her cry out and
tighten her leg around his waist. He knows; he feels All and he is Home.
- - -
Kelly is a Creative writing student at the University of South Florida, freelance writer, from Plant City, Florida.
Trespassers
By Brian Rosenberger
A glimpse is all they afford. A face in the windshield of a parked car. A reflection in a puddle. In the eyes of an infrequent lover. They are people you almost remember, like the gossamers of a wonderful dream, forever lost upon waking.
God, how you wish they would remain lost.
Instead you continue to see them. In a movie theatre’s darkness, at the bars you frequent, in your rearview mirror. You and no one else.
Church doesn’t scare them. Neither does trips to the dentist. Nor threats of suicide.
Alone with the question. Who haunts who?
- - -
Brian Rosenberger lives in a cellar in Marietta, GA and writes by the light of captured fireflies. He is the author of two previous poetry collections. As the Worm Turns, a collection of short stories, was released in 2010.
By Brian Rosenberger
A glimpse is all they afford. A face in the windshield of a parked car. A reflection in a puddle. In the eyes of an infrequent lover. They are people you almost remember, like the gossamers of a wonderful dream, forever lost upon waking.
God, how you wish they would remain lost.
Instead you continue to see them. In a movie theatre’s darkness, at the bars you frequent, in your rearview mirror. You and no one else.
Church doesn’t scare them. Neither does trips to the dentist. Nor threats of suicide.
Alone with the question. Who haunts who?
- - -
Brian Rosenberger lives in a cellar in Marietta, GA and writes by the light of captured fireflies. He is the author of two previous poetry collections. As the Worm Turns, a collection of short stories, was released in 2010.
Volunteer Deputy Taylor
By Chris Sharp
There was something so chunky and nice about the mayor’s jowls that it took all of Volunteer Deputy Taylor’s will power and frowning to resist pulling them out further with his fingernails.
“You see, Mayor, these boys are my boys,” said the mayor to Elk City’s previous mayor. Everyone was celebrating and smiling over the city’s new building. Volunteer Deputy Taylor was chosen to stand to the immediate left of the mayor, an honor he held over three younger volunteer deputies.
After some minutes of handshaking and political groveling, Volunteer Deputy Taylor felt he had done all he could to stifle the impulse to pull out the mayor’s left jowl. He finally rerouted these rebel instincts with a statement that simply said the rebel words “yada, yada, yada.”
The mayor took the rebuke in stride. “Yes sir, it’s a fine day. A fine day for everyone in Elk City.”
As soon as the ceremony ended, Volunteer Deputy Taylor jumped onto his little Honda motorcycle and flew to the restaurant named Group Therapy.
The place had been founded by a former psychologist who had at one time let his license be taken away and had even allowed himself to be clamped into a year of prison.
These days, the former psychologist led his lunches and dinners as a master of an entertainment known as “group therapy.”
“Once again, we are happy to have Volunteer Deputy Taylor among us,” said the ex-psychologist. The motorcycle helmet and the boots brought the usual hand-clapping. “Volunteer Deputy Taylor, what is the latest on Tourette syndrome?”
“Sir, I had a strong direction today to pull off the left side of the mayor’s face, but I redirected it to just saying ‘yada, yada, yada.’”
After the lunch, Volunteer Deputy Taylor zoomed his motorcycle to the high school where he was volunteer for the rest of the day.
“Volunteer Deputy Taylor, it’s great to have you with us in the afternoon. No one understands our perennial troublemakers like you.”
The principle was so totally tucked in that Volunteer Deputy Taylor had to fight the urge to reach out and pull out his shirt on every side. Again he redirected his urge to saying “yada, yada, yada.”
“Yes, it’s basically another ‘yada, yada, yada’ day,” said the principal to Volunteer Deputy Tayor.
At Volunteer Deputy Taylor’s house, his wife greeted him with the words “No dinner tonight – too sad.” – written backwards on her forehead with the charcoal she sometimes used in her job as a house painter. He circumvented her by making his own dinner.
When he went into the bedroom she asked him to lie on the floor.
“There are demons under the bed doing all this stuff to mess up our heads. Not just our heads, but the mental state of every painter and peace officer in these United States. Could you just look for them, Dan?”
“Again, Danielle?”
“Please. At least until they get tired of us decent-living Americans and go away, go away and let us alone at last.”
He went low on the floor to find demons – any demons – under the bed. But again, the demons were brilliantly hidden. “Brilliantly,” Volunteer Deputy Taylor said to himself.
He had to close his eyes to rest up and just hope the demons would be satisfied in his nightmares where they were supposed to be, where they would never again keep his poor Danielle up so late into the nights.
- - -
Chris Sharp has had short fiction in Aphelion@webzine.com, Kalkion.com, West
Ranch Beacon.com and DailyLove.net (Oct. 24, 2010). He is a 1997 Fresno
State graduate and winner of the 2003 West 35st Street Award for best new
American private-investigator short fiction.
By Chris Sharp
There was something so chunky and nice about the mayor’s jowls that it took all of Volunteer Deputy Taylor’s will power and frowning to resist pulling them out further with his fingernails.
“You see, Mayor, these boys are my boys,” said the mayor to Elk City’s previous mayor. Everyone was celebrating and smiling over the city’s new building. Volunteer Deputy Taylor was chosen to stand to the immediate left of the mayor, an honor he held over three younger volunteer deputies.
After some minutes of handshaking and political groveling, Volunteer Deputy Taylor felt he had done all he could to stifle the impulse to pull out the mayor’s left jowl. He finally rerouted these rebel instincts with a statement that simply said the rebel words “yada, yada, yada.”
The mayor took the rebuke in stride. “Yes sir, it’s a fine day. A fine day for everyone in Elk City.”
As soon as the ceremony ended, Volunteer Deputy Taylor jumped onto his little Honda motorcycle and flew to the restaurant named Group Therapy.
The place had been founded by a former psychologist who had at one time let his license be taken away and had even allowed himself to be clamped into a year of prison.
These days, the former psychologist led his lunches and dinners as a master of an entertainment known as “group therapy.”
“Once again, we are happy to have Volunteer Deputy Taylor among us,” said the ex-psychologist. The motorcycle helmet and the boots brought the usual hand-clapping. “Volunteer Deputy Taylor, what is the latest on Tourette syndrome?”
“Sir, I had a strong direction today to pull off the left side of the mayor’s face, but I redirected it to just saying ‘yada, yada, yada.’”
After the lunch, Volunteer Deputy Taylor zoomed his motorcycle to the high school where he was volunteer for the rest of the day.
“Volunteer Deputy Taylor, it’s great to have you with us in the afternoon. No one understands our perennial troublemakers like you.”
The principle was so totally tucked in that Volunteer Deputy Taylor had to fight the urge to reach out and pull out his shirt on every side. Again he redirected his urge to saying “yada, yada, yada.”
“Yes, it’s basically another ‘yada, yada, yada’ day,” said the principal to Volunteer Deputy Tayor.
At Volunteer Deputy Taylor’s house, his wife greeted him with the words “No dinner tonight – too sad.” – written backwards on her forehead with the charcoal she sometimes used in her job as a house painter. He circumvented her by making his own dinner.
When he went into the bedroom she asked him to lie on the floor.
“There are demons under the bed doing all this stuff to mess up our heads. Not just our heads, but the mental state of every painter and peace officer in these United States. Could you just look for them, Dan?”
“Again, Danielle?”
“Please. At least until they get tired of us decent-living Americans and go away, go away and let us alone at last.”
He went low on the floor to find demons – any demons – under the bed. But again, the demons were brilliantly hidden. “Brilliantly,” Volunteer Deputy Taylor said to himself.
He had to close his eyes to rest up and just hope the demons would be satisfied in his nightmares where they were supposed to be, where they would never again keep his poor Danielle up so late into the nights.
- - -
Chris Sharp has had short fiction in Aphelion@webzine.com, Kalkion.com, West
Ranch Beacon.com and DailyLove.net (Oct. 24, 2010). He is a 1997 Fresno
State graduate and winner of the 2003 West 35st Street Award for best new
American private-investigator short fiction.
Flowers for the Lady
By Laurie Knox
Hurry up! I said to myself as I finished shaving. She leaves work at six. I wanted to surprise her and it was twenty to.
I ran to my room and opened the wardrobe. I don’t normally wear suits, but today was a special occasion. I took out my only jacket, trousers, white shirt and a tie. My gloves were waiting for me by the front door. I’d get them in a minute.
After I knotted the tie, I checked the mirror. A bit more gel on the hair would be perfect. I scrub up well.
Walked up Cornwall Road to the flower-seller on the corner. “Cheapest bunch you’ve got, mate,” I said. He smirked as he wrapped the stems in paper. Don’t get cocky, mate, I thought. You’re the cunt selling flowers on the street.
Gave him four quid and carried on my way. It was five to. I had enough time. I walked through the crowd of suits just outside Waterloo Station. I blended in perfectly. When you can’t see the tats or the scar on my neck, I almost look like one of those pricks.
I stood outside the railway arches granddad always used to bang on about playing football in. Checked my watch. One minute ‘til kick-off. God it was hot. Sweat pouring all over the place.
It was the last Friday of the month, so the pavements were packed with country rats scuttling onto their trains out of the city. I was facing the flow. Right on cue I saw her bending down and locking the shutter at the end of the street. She walked with intent towards me. She obviously wears high heels a lot, ‘cos they weren’t slowing her down. I could see the brown envelope sitting in her handbag. As soon as she passed the alleyway, I started to walk through the vermin.
We got within five yards of each other and I swapped the flowers to my left. Changing my path, I held the flowers up, smiled and stepped in front of her. She frowned and went to walk past, then BAM! I caught her with a beauty on the chin and she was straight off her feet. I snatched her bag amidst a chorus of screams and legged it right down Leake Street. Turning into the alley, I kept going ‘til I was at the bottom. I looked round. No-one there. First things first; get rid of the mobile. That went over the wall. Next, I checked the envelope. Bingo! I took the cash and purse and climbed over the other wall.
Dusted myself down and then ran through the car park. With the evidence stashed in my pocket (or back in the alley), it was time to act calm as I turned into Belvedere. I took off my gloves and threw them in the public bin. I walked the long route home and emptied the envelope onto the kitchen table. Shit! This is better that I’d thought! This would keep me going for six weeks. I rifled through her purse. Oh no you didn’t! You stupid bitch! In her purse was a scrap of paper with four numbers on them. She had eight bank cards in there, too. I threw off my suit and put on some casuals. Reaching for an unmarked cap, I rushed to the door with a new business plan in mind. My work wasn’t done for the day. I had to go to the bank.
- - -
Originally from Kent in England, he studied Economics at Southampton University before training as an accountant in London. Unhappy with the life of an office dweller, he moved to Seoul, Korea in 2007. He currently teaches English and spends his spare time exploring the Korean countryside.
By Laurie Knox
Hurry up! I said to myself as I finished shaving. She leaves work at six. I wanted to surprise her and it was twenty to.
I ran to my room and opened the wardrobe. I don’t normally wear suits, but today was a special occasion. I took out my only jacket, trousers, white shirt and a tie. My gloves were waiting for me by the front door. I’d get them in a minute.
After I knotted the tie, I checked the mirror. A bit more gel on the hair would be perfect. I scrub up well.
Walked up Cornwall Road to the flower-seller on the corner. “Cheapest bunch you’ve got, mate,” I said. He smirked as he wrapped the stems in paper. Don’t get cocky, mate, I thought. You’re the cunt selling flowers on the street.
Gave him four quid and carried on my way. It was five to. I had enough time. I walked through the crowd of suits just outside Waterloo Station. I blended in perfectly. When you can’t see the tats or the scar on my neck, I almost look like one of those pricks.
I stood outside the railway arches granddad always used to bang on about playing football in. Checked my watch. One minute ‘til kick-off. God it was hot. Sweat pouring all over the place.
It was the last Friday of the month, so the pavements were packed with country rats scuttling onto their trains out of the city. I was facing the flow. Right on cue I saw her bending down and locking the shutter at the end of the street. She walked with intent towards me. She obviously wears high heels a lot, ‘cos they weren’t slowing her down. I could see the brown envelope sitting in her handbag. As soon as she passed the alleyway, I started to walk through the vermin.
We got within five yards of each other and I swapped the flowers to my left. Changing my path, I held the flowers up, smiled and stepped in front of her. She frowned and went to walk past, then BAM! I caught her with a beauty on the chin and she was straight off her feet. I snatched her bag amidst a chorus of screams and legged it right down Leake Street. Turning into the alley, I kept going ‘til I was at the bottom. I looked round. No-one there. First things first; get rid of the mobile. That went over the wall. Next, I checked the envelope. Bingo! I took the cash and purse and climbed over the other wall.
Dusted myself down and then ran through the car park. With the evidence stashed in my pocket (or back in the alley), it was time to act calm as I turned into Belvedere. I took off my gloves and threw them in the public bin. I walked the long route home and emptied the envelope onto the kitchen table. Shit! This is better that I’d thought! This would keep me going for six weeks. I rifled through her purse. Oh no you didn’t! You stupid bitch! In her purse was a scrap of paper with four numbers on them. She had eight bank cards in there, too. I threw off my suit and put on some casuals. Reaching for an unmarked cap, I rushed to the door with a new business plan in mind. My work wasn’t done for the day. I had to go to the bank.
- - -
Originally from Kent in England, he studied Economics at Southampton University before training as an accountant in London. Unhappy with the life of an office dweller, he moved to Seoul, Korea in 2007. He currently teaches English and spends his spare time exploring the Korean countryside.
Lucid
By Joshua Scribner
“Come back, Goliath,” Ross said, but the German shepherd continued up the rocky side of the gully and was gone.
A growl reverberated, and he turned to see the Red Wolf creeping up on him. Ross lifted his gun and aimed, but it wouldn’t fire. Red Wolf was about twenty feet away, his mouth open, revealing his grimy fangs.
Ross knew he couldn’t make it up the side of the gully. He could make it into the river, though. The wolf probably wouldn’t follow him there.
Ross turned to make his move and then saw something at the surface of the river. It cut back into itself, repetitively, so as not to be taken by the current. Long Fish was shaped like a gar with teeth that rivaled Red Wolf’s fangs and a stinger on his tail.
Ross would stay on land. He backed away from Red Wolf, holding the gun barrel in front of him like a spear. This defensive posture was effective for the time being. Red Wolf didn’t completely close the distance. Long Fish flanked them.
A hiss startled Ross. He glanced over his shoulder at Fat Snake, whose green body was coiled in layers that came six feet off the ground.
Ross turned, so that Red Wolf was on one side, Fat Snake on the other and Long Fish in front of him. Stalemate was the best he could hope for. He hoped Long Fish would grow tired of fighting the current and leave before Red Wolf realized the gun couldn’t really hurt him or Fat Snake just got tired of waiting to make his move. Maybe Goliath would come back, but Ross doubted it. The dog was a great fighter but not much on hunting. He had probably made it home by now.
Fat Snake started uncoiling, bringing his head, which was big enough to swallow a basketball, his way. Red Wolf wasn’t advancing but holding his ground enough that Ross was trapped.
The sky started flashing like a strobe light. After a couple of seconds, logic started setting in.
There was a reason he had names for all these creatures. He’d been killed by each, many times, because each had been in his repetitive nightmares for years.
“This is a dream,” he said. He turned to Red Wolf. “And you can’t hurt me.” He rushed over and smacked the wolf upside the head. It whined and backed off. “Neither can you,” he said, as he turned to Fat Snake. He then jumped and kicked his head so hard it went flying back over his body.
He turned to the river, and saw Long Fish had gotten the message and split.
The flashing stopped. They had said it would. It was suppose to alert you that you were dreaming and then stop so as not to disturb the dream further.
They had told him he could be magic in his dream.
He spun a tight circle, a trick they’d taught him to stay asleep, amongst other things.
“I want a new scene,” he said and spun again. The river was now the ocean and the bank was now a beach.
Fat Snake was a little man holding a tray with two glasses and a bottle of wine. Red Wolf was another little man holding a tray with a red cut of prime rib and shrimp cocktail. Long Fish was coming out of the water, but was now a gorgeous woman with lascivious eyes in a slight bikini. He wanted to sample the wine and sample the food but decided to sample the woman first. He did. Her kiss was soft and warm. When he pulled away she said, “Spin again, so you’ll be here longer.”
He did, several times, and then felt a firm grip on this paradise.
He was looking into her eyes, getting ready to kiss her again, when he heard Red Wolf growl. He turned on time to see the wolf spring. He put out an arm and that’s what Red Wolf took. He was jerked to the ground. Red Wolf released but not before Fat Snake began wrapping around him.
He had heard them talk on occasion, so he recognized Long Fish’s voice. “I’ve summoned him. He should be here soon.”
“That last set of spins probably bought us enough time,” said Red Wolf.
Fat Snake had only the lower half of his body, so Ross had no problem talking. “But you’re all in my dream. You’re part of my mind. You have to do what I say.”
“Not exactly,” said Fat Snake. “You tortured a cat many years ago. That cat belonged to a witch, and she hexed your nightmares. We’re actually demons sent to torture you.”
“We torture other people, too,” said Red Wolf. “But we’ve been having some trouble with this new dream therapy.”
“He’s here,” said Long Fish.
Ross was hoisted up. A flying cobra came from the sky.
“The resistance is working,” said the cobra. Then it bit him.
#
Ross was relieved to feel himself waking from the weirdest of all nightmares.
“The participant is awake,” someone nearby said, and then there was the sound of feet moving toward him.
“Mr. Lotian. I’m going to remove the flash goggles now.”
He felt the goggles being taken from his head.
“Mr. Lotian. Go ahead and open your eyes.”
Ross didn’t really need to be told that. He’d already tried.
“Are you sure he’s awake?”
“He’s registering awake by the waves.”
“Mr. Lotian?”
He couldn’t open his eyes. He couldn’t move anything at all.
“Oh no! I hope this isn’t what I think it is. We thought the first case was a fluke, but there might be something about the goggles that causes chronic paralysis. We may have to stop the therapy.”
- - -
Joshua Scribner is the author of the novels Seed, Fear and Repulsion, and Eleven O'clock Fright. His fiction won both second and fifth place in the 2008 Whispering Spirits Flash Fiction contest. Up to date information on his work can be found at joshuascribner.com.
By Joshua Scribner
“Come back, Goliath,” Ross said, but the German shepherd continued up the rocky side of the gully and was gone.
A growl reverberated, and he turned to see the Red Wolf creeping up on him. Ross lifted his gun and aimed, but it wouldn’t fire. Red Wolf was about twenty feet away, his mouth open, revealing his grimy fangs.
Ross knew he couldn’t make it up the side of the gully. He could make it into the river, though. The wolf probably wouldn’t follow him there.
Ross turned to make his move and then saw something at the surface of the river. It cut back into itself, repetitively, so as not to be taken by the current. Long Fish was shaped like a gar with teeth that rivaled Red Wolf’s fangs and a stinger on his tail.
Ross would stay on land. He backed away from Red Wolf, holding the gun barrel in front of him like a spear. This defensive posture was effective for the time being. Red Wolf didn’t completely close the distance. Long Fish flanked them.
A hiss startled Ross. He glanced over his shoulder at Fat Snake, whose green body was coiled in layers that came six feet off the ground.
Ross turned, so that Red Wolf was on one side, Fat Snake on the other and Long Fish in front of him. Stalemate was the best he could hope for. He hoped Long Fish would grow tired of fighting the current and leave before Red Wolf realized the gun couldn’t really hurt him or Fat Snake just got tired of waiting to make his move. Maybe Goliath would come back, but Ross doubted it. The dog was a great fighter but not much on hunting. He had probably made it home by now.
Fat Snake started uncoiling, bringing his head, which was big enough to swallow a basketball, his way. Red Wolf wasn’t advancing but holding his ground enough that Ross was trapped.
The sky started flashing like a strobe light. After a couple of seconds, logic started setting in.
There was a reason he had names for all these creatures. He’d been killed by each, many times, because each had been in his repetitive nightmares for years.
“This is a dream,” he said. He turned to Red Wolf. “And you can’t hurt me.” He rushed over and smacked the wolf upside the head. It whined and backed off. “Neither can you,” he said, as he turned to Fat Snake. He then jumped and kicked his head so hard it went flying back over his body.
He turned to the river, and saw Long Fish had gotten the message and split.
The flashing stopped. They had said it would. It was suppose to alert you that you were dreaming and then stop so as not to disturb the dream further.
They had told him he could be magic in his dream.
He spun a tight circle, a trick they’d taught him to stay asleep, amongst other things.
“I want a new scene,” he said and spun again. The river was now the ocean and the bank was now a beach.
Fat Snake was a little man holding a tray with two glasses and a bottle of wine. Red Wolf was another little man holding a tray with a red cut of prime rib and shrimp cocktail. Long Fish was coming out of the water, but was now a gorgeous woman with lascivious eyes in a slight bikini. He wanted to sample the wine and sample the food but decided to sample the woman first. He did. Her kiss was soft and warm. When he pulled away she said, “Spin again, so you’ll be here longer.”
He did, several times, and then felt a firm grip on this paradise.
He was looking into her eyes, getting ready to kiss her again, when he heard Red Wolf growl. He turned on time to see the wolf spring. He put out an arm and that’s what Red Wolf took. He was jerked to the ground. Red Wolf released but not before Fat Snake began wrapping around him.
He had heard them talk on occasion, so he recognized Long Fish’s voice. “I’ve summoned him. He should be here soon.”
“That last set of spins probably bought us enough time,” said Red Wolf.
Fat Snake had only the lower half of his body, so Ross had no problem talking. “But you’re all in my dream. You’re part of my mind. You have to do what I say.”
“Not exactly,” said Fat Snake. “You tortured a cat many years ago. That cat belonged to a witch, and she hexed your nightmares. We’re actually demons sent to torture you.”
“We torture other people, too,” said Red Wolf. “But we’ve been having some trouble with this new dream therapy.”
“He’s here,” said Long Fish.
Ross was hoisted up. A flying cobra came from the sky.
“The resistance is working,” said the cobra. Then it bit him.
#
Ross was relieved to feel himself waking from the weirdest of all nightmares.
“The participant is awake,” someone nearby said, and then there was the sound of feet moving toward him.
“Mr. Lotian. I’m going to remove the flash goggles now.”
He felt the goggles being taken from his head.
“Mr. Lotian. Go ahead and open your eyes.”
Ross didn’t really need to be told that. He’d already tried.
“Are you sure he’s awake?”
“He’s registering awake by the waves.”
“Mr. Lotian?”
He couldn’t open his eyes. He couldn’t move anything at all.
“Oh no! I hope this isn’t what I think it is. We thought the first case was a fluke, but there might be something about the goggles that causes chronic paralysis. We may have to stop the therapy.”
- - -
Joshua Scribner is the author of the novels Seed, Fear and Repulsion, and Eleven O'clock Fright. His fiction won both second and fifth place in the 2008 Whispering Spirits Flash Fiction contest. Up to date information on his work can be found at joshuascribner.com.
Contact
By Brian Rosenberger
Her husband had died unrepentantly doing what he loved, digging in the dirt. She didn’t miss him but the will had not turned up yet. The widow was getting nervous, worried the university where he taught would get his fortune. She was in Wyoming with her overpriced medium for answers.
“Are you there, Walter? Your wife is here. She needs you now more than ever.”
“Come forth, spirit.”
The ground shuddered.
The tent was shredded.
The widow jerked into the air.
The medium realized her mistake. She should have known better to risk a séance in a dinosaur graveyard.
- - -
Brian Rosenberger lives in a cellar in Marietta, GA and writes by the light of captured fireflies. He is the author of two previous poetry collections. As the Worm Turns, a collection of short stories, was released in 2010.
By Brian Rosenberger
Her husband had died unrepentantly doing what he loved, digging in the dirt. She didn’t miss him but the will had not turned up yet. The widow was getting nervous, worried the university where he taught would get his fortune. She was in Wyoming with her overpriced medium for answers.
“Are you there, Walter? Your wife is here. She needs you now more than ever.”
“Come forth, spirit.”
The ground shuddered.
The tent was shredded.
The widow jerked into the air.
The medium realized her mistake. She should have known better to risk a séance in a dinosaur graveyard.
- - -
Brian Rosenberger lives in a cellar in Marietta, GA and writes by the light of captured fireflies. He is the author of two previous poetry collections. As the Worm Turns, a collection of short stories, was released in 2010.
