And Now You Know Why
By Acquanetta M. Sproule
It really does make sense when you think about it rationally.
I've covered the carpet with newspapers so it won't eat me.
Not the newspaper, silly, the carpet.
Just the carpet in my living room.
As far as I've been able to determine, that's the only one that's alive and very, very hungry.
*
I stepped onto the elevator. The doors closed, but the elevator didn't move. I became alarmed. Then I woke up.
*
Long ago, me and Barbecue went to the store. There's no fence along the back of our yard, so we cut through the alley. Barbecue is part-Collie. He is reddish-brown and black. The color of ribs and embers, see? I put my green hat on his head. He looked really silly, especially with his tongue hanging out and his tail wagging like windshield wipers set on high. I started to cut across the snow covered field behind our house. Barbecue balked at the alley. He whined a little. I looked around but didn't see anything he should be scared of, so I started across. Halfway across, I realized that he wasn't with me. I turned around. Barbecue was pacing back and forth, still in the alley. He was growling at the snow. The virgin snow. All my footprints had disappeared. I took a step back. The snow kinda poofed up, filling in my print. Barbecue was barking frantically, now. The other dogs in the 'hood started barking, too. I turned and ran.
Almost made it to the sidewalk. Something grabbed my foot. Started pulling me down under the snow. I heard Barbecue running up behind me. Growling and barking. He sounded really mad. My foot was loose now and I scampered to the sidewalk. I turned around. I didn't see Barbecue. There were no footprints in the snow. Not mine. Not his. My green hat was there sitting on top of the snow about five feet from the sidewalk. I left it there. Went on to the store. Came back the long way. Stayed on the sidewalks. When I got home, momma asked where my hat was. I told her the truth. I told her that I had put it on Barbecue's head. Momma asked me where Barbecue was. I told the truth.
I told her that I didn't know.
*
I started my new job. They told me I was supposed to answer the phone. The phone had lot's more buttons on it then I had ever used before. This guy called. He was very impatient. I tried to put him on hold. I kept pushing the wrong buttons. He called back. I tried to apologize. He told me that I was stupid. I tried to transfer his call, but I was nervous and kept pushing the wrong buttons. I felt something crawling on my ear. I brushed it quick off of my face. Something brown fell on to the desk. I snatched up the dictionary, so I could smash it. I thought it was a roach. For a second, it looked like a little man, in a little brown suit. But that's impossible, so I smashed it with the dictionary.
The rude man never did call back.
*
There is something in the walls. It can see me. It knows where I am in the apartment. If I go by a door, I hear it scratching on the inside. Closet doors. Kitchen cabinet doors. Refrigerator door. Medicine cabinet door. Doors to the outside.
It follows me around the apartment, inside the walls.
Scratching.
I'm not scared of it. If it can fit inside the medicine cabinet, it can't be all that big, can it? But, if I open the doors and let it out, it might move the newspapers.
Then the carpet will eat me.
Problem is I'm getting hungry and I haven't checked my mail for the last week.
*
My brother called and I told him about the scratching on the doors. He told me to open one and see if maybe Barbecue had come back. I told him that he was being silly. Barbecue was part-Collie. He wouldn't fit in the medicine cabinet. My brother laughed at me and I hung up on him. He hasn't called back.
That was a month ago.
I think.
- - -
Acquanetta M. Sproule enjoys reading, watching and writing "What If?" stories. Off and on over 20 years, she has had poems, stories and illustrations published in the small press and online. Her blog is: niftynettta.blogspot.com
By Acquanetta M. Sproule
It really does make sense when you think about it rationally.
I've covered the carpet with newspapers so it won't eat me.
Not the newspaper, silly, the carpet.
Just the carpet in my living room.
As far as I've been able to determine, that's the only one that's alive and very, very hungry.
*
I stepped onto the elevator. The doors closed, but the elevator didn't move. I became alarmed. Then I woke up.
*
Long ago, me and Barbecue went to the store. There's no fence along the back of our yard, so we cut through the alley. Barbecue is part-Collie. He is reddish-brown and black. The color of ribs and embers, see? I put my green hat on his head. He looked really silly, especially with his tongue hanging out and his tail wagging like windshield wipers set on high. I started to cut across the snow covered field behind our house. Barbecue balked at the alley. He whined a little. I looked around but didn't see anything he should be scared of, so I started across. Halfway across, I realized that he wasn't with me. I turned around. Barbecue was pacing back and forth, still in the alley. He was growling at the snow. The virgin snow. All my footprints had disappeared. I took a step back. The snow kinda poofed up, filling in my print. Barbecue was barking frantically, now. The other dogs in the 'hood started barking, too. I turned and ran.
Almost made it to the sidewalk. Something grabbed my foot. Started pulling me down under the snow. I heard Barbecue running up behind me. Growling and barking. He sounded really mad. My foot was loose now and I scampered to the sidewalk. I turned around. I didn't see Barbecue. There were no footprints in the snow. Not mine. Not his. My green hat was there sitting on top of the snow about five feet from the sidewalk. I left it there. Went on to the store. Came back the long way. Stayed on the sidewalks. When I got home, momma asked where my hat was. I told her the truth. I told her that I had put it on Barbecue's head. Momma asked me where Barbecue was. I told the truth.
I told her that I didn't know.
*
I started my new job. They told me I was supposed to answer the phone. The phone had lot's more buttons on it then I had ever used before. This guy called. He was very impatient. I tried to put him on hold. I kept pushing the wrong buttons. He called back. I tried to apologize. He told me that I was stupid. I tried to transfer his call, but I was nervous and kept pushing the wrong buttons. I felt something crawling on my ear. I brushed it quick off of my face. Something brown fell on to the desk. I snatched up the dictionary, so I could smash it. I thought it was a roach. For a second, it looked like a little man, in a little brown suit. But that's impossible, so I smashed it with the dictionary.
The rude man never did call back.
*
There is something in the walls. It can see me. It knows where I am in the apartment. If I go by a door, I hear it scratching on the inside. Closet doors. Kitchen cabinet doors. Refrigerator door. Medicine cabinet door. Doors to the outside.
It follows me around the apartment, inside the walls.
Scratching.
I'm not scared of it. If it can fit inside the medicine cabinet, it can't be all that big, can it? But, if I open the doors and let it out, it might move the newspapers.
Then the carpet will eat me.
Problem is I'm getting hungry and I haven't checked my mail for the last week.
*
My brother called and I told him about the scratching on the doors. He told me to open one and see if maybe Barbecue had come back. I told him that he was being silly. Barbecue was part-Collie. He wouldn't fit in the medicine cabinet. My brother laughed at me and I hung up on him. He hasn't called back.
That was a month ago.
I think.
- - -
Acquanetta M. Sproule enjoys reading, watching and writing "What If?" stories. Off and on over 20 years, she has had poems, stories and illustrations published in the small press and online. Her blog is: niftynettta.blogspot.com
Traffic Stop with Annie Kim
By Jerry Guarino
“And those are the headlines. Let’s check in with Annie Kim and Traffic Stop.” The readers should imagine themselves in front of a large screen television where Annie Kim is driving the traffic stop reporters car. “Thanks Bob. Well, here on the 405 it’s a typical LA drive time adventure. Some kids in a mustang speeding down the emergency lane and my producer Juan and I are trying to avoid some motorcycles weaving in and out of the fast lanes.”
- - -
Writing since January, 2011, his work has appeared in 6 Tales, Bewildering Stories, The Chaffey Review Literary Magazine, Daily Love, Eskimo Pie, The Fringe Magazine, Larks Fiction Magazine, Leaning House Press, The Legendary, Litsnack, Piker Press, Postcard Shorts, Ray's Road Review, The Scarlet Sound, Weirdyear, Writing Raw and Zouch Magazine and Miscellany. He is currently working on a murder mystery for the stage.
By Jerry Guarino
“And those are the headlines. Let’s check in with Annie Kim and Traffic Stop.” The readers should imagine themselves in front of a large screen television where Annie Kim is driving the traffic stop reporters car. “Thanks Bob. Well, here on the 405 it’s a typical LA drive time adventure. Some kids in a mustang speeding down the emergency lane and my producer Juan and I are trying to avoid some motorcycles weaving in and out of the fast lanes.”
A two-way camera is mounted in front of the traffic stop van providing a unique perspective as viewers at home see both Annie driving and the road ahead. These live traffic reports have bumped their news ratings up five points. Bob, back at the anchor desk voices over the live feed. “Looks like you’re giving us a front row seat Annie.” “That’s right Bob. You can almost feel what we’re…” Annie screams and slams on the brakes. Annie and Juan lunge forward and the inside windshield is sprayed with a take out menu, some Mexican food leftovers, soft drinks and reporter notes. Hip-hop music blares from a nearby El Camino low rider. “I think we’re all right Bob, but that was close.” The traffic stop van continues down the freeway.
Normally, traffic reporters hitch a ride with a news helicopter or report from the studio while watching camera feeds. Helicopters are often grounded by weather and their perspective is from a mile off the ground. Reporting from a studio is even more remote and lacks the sounds of the road. Traffic Stop had revolutionized traffic reporting, even making it interesting and no other station had it.
“I’m telling you at home. If you don’t have to drive, don’t. There must be a full moon, eh Juan.” The viewers see Juan nod in agreement. “As I was going to say, we’re approaching the 10 in Culver City and we’re just getting back up to cruising speed.” A farm vehicle cuts the van off. Annie screams again, slams on the brakes. Annie and Juan are sent forward again. The inside windshield is sprayed with donuts, plastic utensils and a hairbrush. Outside, a chicken bounces off the windshield and we hear squawks and panicked chicken sounds. Some mariachis band music comes up from a pickup truck on their left. Bob interjects from the studio. “Annie, maybe it’s time you called it a day.” Annie composes herself and they continue driving. “No way, Bob, but this does remind me of driving in Rome.”
“We just passed the 10, heading towards the Marina freeway and Inglewood. Things are starting to calm down ahead of us. We can see the farmer in our rear view mirror picking up poultry and some pigs running in between cars, holding up traffic behind them.” Juan takes some notes and shakes his head. “Three’s the charm Juan?” We see a picture in picture pop up box for the weather reporter. “Annie, you won’t believe this, but we are hearing that strong cross winds are headed right for you. Maybe you should call it a day.” Annie hits the accelerator. “Not now. I think our viewers at home would like to see how this ends.”
But the traffic lightened and there were no more incidents for the moment. “False alarm, Bob. We don’t see anything that would indicate strong cross winds. You might as well go to a commercial.” As Annie and Juan continued down the freeway, an ambulance siren is heard from behind them. Coming out of commercial, Bob throws it back to the traffic reporter. “Folks, we’re going to rejoin Annie in Traffic Stop, just to make sure they’re all right.” The television screen flips back. “Bob, I think we have an ambulance coming up on our left. We’re going to pull over. We’ll see if we can catch up to give you a first hand report.”
The traffic stop van eventually caught up to the accident. A semi-tractor truck had spun off the road, blocking the two right hand lanes. The back doors were open and you could almost see what was falling out, slowly jamming traffic. Suddenly, something flew up in front of their van. It was a super ball; in fact it was hundreds of super balls. “We’re almost there Bob. It looks like.” Annie screamed and slammed on the brakes. Annie and Juan were thrown forward again. The inside of the windshield was sprayed with burger wrappers, French fries and water bottles. Outside, the front of the windshield was pelted with dozens of super balls. You could hear metal music loud and clear from a motorcycle sliding by, trying to avoid the rubber obstacles. The van now looked like it had been through some sort of Halloween prank. The camera shot returned to Annie.
“And that’s the way the way the ball bounces. This is Annie Kim with Traffic Stop for KOOK in Los Angeles. Back to you Bob.”
- - -
Writing since January, 2011, his work has appeared in 6 Tales, Bewildering Stories, The Chaffey Review Literary Magazine, Daily Love, Eskimo Pie, The Fringe Magazine, Larks Fiction Magazine, Leaning House Press, The Legendary, Litsnack, Piker Press, Postcard Shorts, Ray's Road Review, The Scarlet Sound, Weirdyear, Writing Raw and Zouch Magazine and Miscellany. He is currently working on a murder mystery for the stage.
Money is Gross
By Michael Shine
- - -
Michael Shine is driven by obsession and writes because if he didn’t, he’s certain he would become violent. He enjoys things like friends, a morbid sense of humor, and whiskey. His scribblings have appeared in Kerouac’s Dog Magazine, Amphibius, and Sphere Magazine.
By Michael Shine
just got back from a meeting with the board
and they were not pleased with my lack of enthusiasm
for trying to write a Hollywood script—they said
it showed that I had a serious motivation problem,
that I would let my wife die if it meant another angry fix—
(I think the point of the board is to light a fire under my ass)
needless to say, I walked out of that dustless office room,
which smelled of high end leather, air conditioning,
and some brand of scotch whose ornate calligraphy was too fancy
for me to make out
(they had a great view too)—
anyway, I walked out of there smiling and with my head held high
but on the way home I noticed that everywhere I looked
there were businesses desperately attempting to boom,
I was walking through a glowing strip
of various services in exchange for money,
“all you can eat for $9.95,”
“girls girls girls,”
“sale of the year this week only,”
“your time is running out you bastard!”
lighting up the night and tattooed with sayings of our day,
advertising jingles screaming (with smiles) for customers—
but half of these places are going out of business, I noticed,
and for some reason I was disgusted by the whole thing
(I must have just been in a bitter mood)—
by the time I got home I had decided not to do anything
except smoke a blunt, relax, and maybe watch some TV,
but wouldn’t you know it, I am here writing this—
and I just heard Michael C. Hall doing a commercial for Dodge,
at least I think it was him—I bet they won’t put it up
on his IMDB page, but acting is a job like anything,
and it’s not all Black Swan and Crash—
next thing I know I’ll be going back to the board
with a Hollywood script in hand that will be terrible
but maybe I’ll make as much as Michael C. Hall did
from that Doge commercial
and hope that no one
recognizes my name in the desperate neon lights,
hope that no one sees that it’s me who is shouting at the top
of his lungs at every passing stranger and me
who is blending in with the surrounding sea of light
pollution on the night; and the passing strangers
with their no-thank-yous go
home and close their blinds tightly
- - -
Michael Shine is driven by obsession and writes because if he didn’t, he’s certain he would become violent. He enjoys things like friends, a morbid sense of humor, and whiskey. His scribblings have appeared in Kerouac’s Dog Magazine, Amphibius, and Sphere Magazine.
Love is Cruel
By Joe Mynhardt
- - -
Joe Mynhardt is a South African horror writer and teacher. His work has been published at Pill Hill Press, Dark Minds Press, Library of the Living Dead, Microhorror, Flashes in the Dark, Pages of Stories, Ghastly Door and many more. Joe is also a moderator at MyWritersCircle.com.
By Joe Mynhardt
Lisa lay so peaceful on her bed; so beautiful. Her long golden hair flowed over the pillow with heavenly bliss. And her skin, her beautiful skin… I’m really going to miss her.
She could get so mad at me sometimes. It’s a shame things had to go so terribly wrong for us. Life might’ve thrown us some curveballs, but I never stopped loving my dearest Lisa.
My desire to be with her drew me closer, and I lifted the sheet to caress her thigh with the edge of my knife. If only we could spend some more time together.
I leaned over. The thought of it being our last kiss made me lose my breath. I placed my lips over hers.
She gave a soft moan and her tongue slipped gently into my mouth. “Mmm, that’s nice,” she said as she opened her eyes.
Lisa stared up at me and took a deep breath, her gorgeous blue eyes flickering like diamonds in the moonlight. “Help! Mike, help.”
She kicked me off her bed and ran screaming out the door.
I heard her fiancé running up the stairs so I dived out the open window, thumped hard on the grass below, and ran away.
They still ended up getting married, though. Guess his fiancé having a stalker just wasn’t enough to scare him off.
I wasn’t planning on following them when they moved away, but I just couldn’t get that kiss out of my mind. Perhaps next time I’ll just stop at the threshold of their bedroom door.
Perhaps.
- - -
Joe Mynhardt is a South African horror writer and teacher. His work has been published at Pill Hill Press, Dark Minds Press, Library of the Living Dead, Microhorror, Flashes in the Dark, Pages of Stories, Ghastly Door and many more. Joe is also a moderator at MyWritersCircle.com.
MID-ATLANTIC
By Louise Andrade
the way I speak
is mine
a Titanic halfway to hell
transcontinental
speech blurred by the white squall
South American heat
fists and leaves and kicks
on the ring
and from inside the inflatable womb
are all poems
words
- - -
I'm 18, I'm form Argentina and I write some stuff from time to time...
Published a few poems of mine in some of Buenos Aires feminist zines, as I am active in lesbian/femist underground of the City.
By Louise Andrade
the way I speak
is mine
a Titanic halfway to hell
transcontinental
speech blurred by the white squall
South American heat
fists and leaves and kicks
on the ring
and from inside the inflatable womb
are all poems
words
- - -
I'm 18, I'm form Argentina and I write some stuff from time to time...
Published a few poems of mine in some of Buenos Aires feminist zines, as I am active in lesbian/femist underground of the City.
This Fern
By Scott Root
The fern creeps across my too-cluttered desk. I have yet to water it this week, but it thrives still. The plant, a parting-gift, had been concocted as a funny (or cruel) joke by Nona, who takes shadenfreude in my angst. I have never been accustomed to responsibility. I find it a strain to wake up, shower and be to work on time. This THING on my desk might very well be my downfall. Was I truly expected to water this thing until either it or I die? It was like some kind of morbid evolutionary struggle between myself and the leafy creature. Who, by the way, I was quite sure was beginning to take up more than its fair share of my work space. Nonetheless, I water it. The shallow trickle of water pools in concentric circles where the roots spread outward under the monstrosity. As the last drops of water fall from my can, a fly finds his roost among the tendrils. I brush the insect out of my growing green octopus and feel a great surge of efficacy. I think that if I could just moved the damned thing out the way enough... As I move one frond out of my way, two more fall from its endless supply coiled at its base. Like the hydra, this was a battle I would not win. Nona knew how to push my buttons. The plant was her curse, her last laugh, on me and I stood no chance. She knew it. The creature will be my blazing revenge. Not only will I nurse this space-invader, no, it will thrive. It will grow to the size of her Silver Lake duplex. To see the look on her face when the plant has consumes my life -- "Yes, hello Nona." "Oh yes Nona, the plant and I are doing quite well." "You should see it, dear Nona, big as your house and healthy." I can see her face now flushed with a anger and shame. How I relish the look on her face as she apologizes. She tells me that she should never have doubted me and that I have redeemed myself. Then she will know that I am responsible. She can’t make eye contact with me or the creature I have wrought. I am enveloped be its leafy tentacles and her jealousy rises like white hot bile on the back of her throat. She spits her noxious venom in our faces, but we have become impervious to her malice. I water, feed and aerate my creature and we grow closer while he grows bigger. Nona knows what she lost in me now.
- - -
Scott Root is an aspiring novelist, tech contributor at the Super Addendum and canine care specialist at the Healthy Spot in sunny LA. His previous submission to Weird Year is "The Water and Sand." He writes a (near) daily blog called Notably Conventional Delivery about psychology, science and fiction. He does not own a fern.
By Scott Root
The fern creeps across my too-cluttered desk. I have yet to water it this week, but it thrives still. The plant, a parting-gift, had been concocted as a funny (or cruel) joke by Nona, who takes shadenfreude in my angst. I have never been accustomed to responsibility. I find it a strain to wake up, shower and be to work on time. This THING on my desk might very well be my downfall. Was I truly expected to water this thing until either it or I die? It was like some kind of morbid evolutionary struggle between myself and the leafy creature. Who, by the way, I was quite sure was beginning to take up more than its fair share of my work space. Nonetheless, I water it. The shallow trickle of water pools in concentric circles where the roots spread outward under the monstrosity. As the last drops of water fall from my can, a fly finds his roost among the tendrils. I brush the insect out of my growing green octopus and feel a great surge of efficacy. I think that if I could just moved the damned thing out the way enough... As I move one frond out of my way, two more fall from its endless supply coiled at its base. Like the hydra, this was a battle I would not win. Nona knew how to push my buttons. The plant was her curse, her last laugh, on me and I stood no chance. She knew it. The creature will be my blazing revenge. Not only will I nurse this space-invader, no, it will thrive. It will grow to the size of her Silver Lake duplex. To see the look on her face when the plant has consumes my life -- "Yes, hello Nona." "Oh yes Nona, the plant and I are doing quite well." "You should see it, dear Nona, big as your house and healthy." I can see her face now flushed with a anger and shame. How I relish the look on her face as she apologizes. She tells me that she should never have doubted me and that I have redeemed myself. Then she will know that I am responsible. She can’t make eye contact with me or the creature I have wrought. I am enveloped be its leafy tentacles and her jealousy rises like white hot bile on the back of her throat. She spits her noxious venom in our faces, but we have become impervious to her malice. I water, feed and aerate my creature and we grow closer while he grows bigger. Nona knows what she lost in me now.
- - -
Scott Root is an aspiring novelist, tech contributor at the Super Addendum and canine care specialist at the Healthy Spot in sunny LA. His previous submission to Weird Year is "The Water and Sand." He writes a (near) daily blog called Notably Conventional Delivery about psychology, science and fiction. He does not own a fern.
How to Punch a Seven Foot Tall Dog-Headed Alien Warrior in the Head
By David Macpherson
- - -
By David Macpherson
If you can avoid finding yourself in a fight with a seven foot tall dog-headed alien warrior, then that is the best course of action. Sit down with him, discuss that calling him “benji” was just a frightful misunderstanding. That you thought he was another seven foot tall dog-headed alien warrior, but one with a better sense of humor. Then run away like a little girl.
Or you might join a religious sect where one of the tenets is that it is a sin to hit a seven foot tall dog-headed alien warrior and you would not go to heaven even if all you did was beat him in thumbwrestling.
Though it is clear, due to our vast understanding of seven foot tall dog-headed alien warriors, that you will have to throw a punch. Now you must comprehend that you will be completely ineffective when doing so. You are only a man. Albeit a ripped, powerful specimen, but truly, you are fighting a seven foot tall dog-headed alien warrior. You might as well try your kung fu fighting on the Great Wall of China and then tell us how that made out for you.
Realize, even Conan the Barbarian as portrayed by Arnold Scharzenegger in the classic film Conan the Destroyer (co-starring Grace Jones) had a stunt coordinator to make his blows look authentic. If you were Grace Jones, you could take down an entire phalanx of dog-headed alien warriors, but that is understandable considering the fact that Grace Jones is probably from the same planet, and most definitely, Grace Jones is the dominant species.
You, however, are not Grace Jones. You are just a guy in a heroic leotard. So, you must cheat. Recruit a friendly dog-headed alien to be your ally. Have him hide in a tree with an alien stun gun. If your new dog-headed ally forgot his stun gun, you can express order one from the latest Sharper Image catalog. Those things have everything.
Now you must plan to have your opponent hit by the stun gun simultaneously with your punch. You will have to give a cue that you are about to toss out your punch. Say something innocuous like, “Ha! Here we go!” As if you are preparing for a beer run in your Ford Pinto with unreliable suspension.
The presentation of the punch is more important than the punch itself. You don’t have to pound through a wall like Kool-Aid while shouting, “Oooooh, Yeah!!” but you have to make it seem like you could. Leap up to meet the seven foot tall dog-headed alien warrior’s chin, lead with the fist. Arch your back away from you in a form an unexpected dynamism.
Try not to show the pain from knuckles cracking into dog-headed alien skull. Just be triumphant as the stun gun does all the work. Land gently. Watch as your enemy crumbles to the ground.
Take all the credit. Smile in all the photos taken of you. Use your other hand when signing autographs. And at night, you can dream of Grace Jones. Go ahead, no one will stop you there.
- - -
