These Dogs

are barking, she says, as she kicks off her scuffed dancing pumps and falls into the couch cushions. What a strange word: couch. Now, the television remote. Later, a Marie Callender’s pot pie. Turkey. In between now and later, a man pounds at the door—Beverly, he says. I know you’re there. Answer me. Thirty years ago, she would have. She would‘ve let him convince her to come back home, to try again. For the children, now grown. For him. Instead, she pours tea and peers between the blinds. She watches his breath condense, useless, and spill into the night.

From Guest Contributor Carrie Cook

Carrie received her MA in Creative Writing from Kansas State University and is currently living in Colorado. Her work has appeared in The Columbia Review, Midwestern Gothic, Menacing Hedge, and Bartleby Snopes.

Strange Creatures

There is only one road from here to there, cutting through the hills of rolling greens with the occasional grove of trees breaking up the monotony. Soon, this too will be gone, in its place, parking lots and strip malls, housing offices that employ free thinkers selling ethically sourced products from other once beautiful patches of green.

As my electric car reaches the zenith of these rolling hills, I spot the strange creatures spinning hundreds of feet in the air.

We reminisce.

"Remember how beautiful that stretch of land was?"

"Where?"

"You know, that boring stretch between there and here."

From Guest Contributor J. Iner Souster

The Grieving

The angel of death once thrust his face perilously close to mine. I can still smell his lurid breath when the wind blows across the green scummy water. Although it seems longer ago, it was only last year that he climbed into bed and cuddled with you. The survivors cope as best they can. One walks all around the car and carefully looks under it before getting in. And so I ask him, Whatever happened to the right to be lazy? An 18-month-old slipping under the water when her mother left her unattended in the tub for just a sec.From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie's newest poetry collection, Heart-Shape Hole, which also includes examples of his handmade collages, is forthcoming from Laughing Ronin Press.

Round One

It was the end of the first round between Rockcrusher Rocco, the favorite, and Lefty Louie. Rocco wasn't called 'Rockcrusher' for nothing. And not just for publicity's sake. He could really hit.

Louie's manager, Al, and cutman, Mel, were in the corner with Louie…

"Do you think you can go another round, Louie?"

"Huh?"

"A round? Another round?"

"Is that you, Sally?"

"No. It's me, Al."

"What?"

"Remember what I told you? When he jabs twice with the left, he throws his right cross."

"Sally, I can't believe you're here."

"It's me and Mel, Louie."

"I still can't believe it…"

From Guest Contributor David Sydney

His Majesty

The king sits on his throne with a large and excruciating chest wound. The room is filled with blood and lifeless bodies, his men.

The beautifully decorated hall is covered in blood and the delicately prepared meat and fruit sit untouched never to be eaten.

The king hasn’t much time. He can’t feel his legs and his body is cold. He reaches for his ring and struggles with his weak fingers to remove it. As he releases it, he slumps over and the ring drops to the ground, the noise echoing in the quiet.

His Majesty will soon be replaced.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Hospice

Having survived hospice twice is something. No one wants to talk about hospice. Reason? People go there to die. And? I assure you I am dead. Laughter. How are you writing this? I have no idea. In yet? I watched people starved to death. I have seen 130 pound man starved down to looking like a leftover turkey at a Homer Simpson Thanksgiving. I have seen people wave one hour prior to their death. I have watched as people in authority have forgotten to feed people. Sounds wicked. And maybe it is. God has to judge the people. Deathly endings.

From Guest Contributor Clinton Siegle

Once Upon A Time

Once upon a time a new pen got a first assignment: write a story with the title ‘Once upon a time.’ The owner of the pen who is also the writer of this story was curious about the result of this first cooperation.

The ink dried rather quickly which was a nice perk of course.

He bought the pen at an office supply store where he always had to enter every time he passed it.

It’s worth saying: the author loves holding the pen

So remember: the pieces you will be reading from now on are written with this pen.

From Guest Contributor Hervé Suys

Hervé (°1968 – Ronse, Belgium) started writing short stories whilst recovering from a sports injury and he hasn’t stopped since. Generally he writes them hatless and barefooted.

Blue Lights

“In the basement?” I throw my face at Sunny. Gosh. I hate him sometimes. “What could you possibly want to show me...in the basement?”

The bulb above us illuminates his smile. “Just open it, Sophie.”

I push the door, and I gasp.

“It’s beautiful,” I whisper.

“Yes. Just like you.”

“Where did you get this Sunny? It must have cost a lifetime.”

“You’re worth a million lifetimes, Sophie.”

Tears anoint my cheeks.

“One more thing.” Sunny flicks off the lights. The white dress glows an azure sheen.

He kneels. “Will you marry me?” A ring sparkles in my face.

From Guest Contributor Tom Okafor

Pitch

He had been following her for over an hour. She had seen him before and was concerned. Bulging belly, dirty holey sweatshirt, grungy jeans at half mast. Just his luck, she walked into an alley. When he followed her, she reached into her bag. When he became conscious, he turned his head and picked up a baseball by his head. It read, "Stalking a star pitcher is a really bad idea. Don’t do it again." The next thing he noticed was that his pants were around his ankles and his drawers were down to his knees. The police showed up then.

From Guest Contributor Doug Hawley

Medical-alert

In the advertisement, an elderly woman thanks the company. After a fall, she immediately used the medical-alert device to signal for help. She is now alive. But…

"I can't stand that thing."

"How do you mean, Harriet?"

We are now dealing with Harriet and Gertrude. Real people, not women in advertisements.

"George is still alive, Gert."

Harriet had been married to George for 57 years when he fell and successfully used the device.

"Damn, Harriet. That reminds me of Frank."

Gertrude, too, had been married for 57 years, in her case to Frank, who had one of the devices also.

From Guest Contributor David Sydney