Monty Rediscovers Home

Six-year-old Monty, a master of his plastic sword, calculates strikes against imaginary giants while he takes cover behind backyard trees. When his mother’s voice pierces through his fantasy, calling him for dinner, the warrior boy marches home victorious.

Forty-year-old Monty daydreams of being a fearless commander defending his country against terrorists and, at night, dreams of being a superhero saving his city from crime and corruption.

While cleaning out his garage, Monty finds his plastic sword and wields it again, destroying enemies with a battle cry whoop. The brave boy/man rediscovers his inner sanctuary to face his lackluster world.

From Guest Contributor Leigh-Anne Burley

Hope

Rachel’s hands icy cold and legs so frail she could hardly stand, she gagged from her own body odor. The babbling of the malnourished became constant and she tuned them out. Her skin was riddled with bug bites, her teeth loosed from lack of nourishment, and her lips craved water. Rachel’s crime was being Jewish, and the suffering had only begun. She didn’t know where the train was going, but knew it was bad.

In the last minutes of her life, when she and the others breathed in the noxious gas in the dark enclosed chamber, she adhered to hope.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Punishment Without Crime

Oompah-pah music and traditional German drinking songs floated up from the street festival into the third-floor courtroom. I shifted uneasily from foot to foot as I stood before the scowling judge. One prosecution witness after another had described in specious detail my attitudes, conversations, habits, and interests. There was even testimony about the transparent Jewishness of my penis. Now it was finally my turn to speak. I had just begun when the judge interjected, “Spare us your life philosophy.” His face was grave. He studied me with cold, squinty eyes as if calculating exactly how much a person can bear.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author of THE DEATH ROW SHUFFLE, a poetry collection forthcoming from Finishing Line Press.

A Netflix Original

Two Scandinavian dudes set out in a vintage VW microbus to prove the secretary-general of the United Nations was the victim of assassination. But then, by accident, they discover an attempt to eliminate entirely the smoking of cigarettes after sex. The Scandinavians meet a leader of an underground militia who says that while that’s his signature on the document, he didn’t write the signature himself. I got to be honest, I was expecting more: maybe a “crime wall,” with photos and red strings and so on; maybe the angel of death promising in a mocking tone to stay in touch.

Howie Good is the author most recently of What It Is and How to Use It from Grey Book Press. He co-edits the journals Unbroken and UnLost.

Driver’s Ed

If you slow down for a yellow light, the cops will write you a ticket. Of course, if you blow through the light, they’ll write you a ticket for that, too. Half the drivers resist but soon give up, half try to hide. I didn’t believe my friends when they first told me. Then people started collapsing due to the stress of the situation. I’d seen rockets explode on liftoff, coyotes violate dogs. Yet I didn’t expect this at all. Our lives are just daydreams in a dead landscape. It’s now a crime in Utah to harass cattle with drones.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is on the pavement, thinking about the government.

Just A Dream

It was just a dream.

One night, years ago, I killed a man in a fit of rage. I immediately felt regret. What if I were caught?

Waking up was a relief.

The next night, I returned to face the aftermath of my nocturnal crime. I was arrested. I stood trial. I was sentenced to life in prison.

This was not over a single evening. It was an episodic nightmare that I returned to repeatedly. I forced myself to stay awake in order to avoid the inevitable but eventually the inevitable won out.

Was it real? It really didn't matter.

Miss Plum In The Bedroom With The Candlestick

Crime was common back then, and the law itself often criminal. Nobody was safe from the thugs prowling the city. It took constant and wearying vigilance to survive. If I happened to fall asleep, I’d wake up afraid. I think I was afraid she wouldn’t be there, peering out through a crack in the curtains. Why you here? I asked the first time she appeared. She just gave a fuzzy, fragile smile. The ambiguity was intentional. When you leave details out, it opens up possibilities for what can be – an ancient tree whose entwined branches support 34 brilliantly burning candles.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie co-edits the journals UnLost and Unbroken with Dale Wisely

Criminal

He had been marked as a criminal as a young boy. The branding itself was not especially painful, not physically at least. The stigma that he now bears has, however, made life nearly unbearable these past 20 years.

There is a relativity that applies to all things in all times. A crime, for example, may in fact be a heroic act under the right circumstances and in the right culture. To ignore the possibility of nuance means that everything becomes black and white in a world full of color.

Yet there is nothing relative about the brand on his face.

The Holiday Season

It’s my favorite time of year, holiday season on the coast. The weather is nice, the days are long, and everyone is happy. The tourists are everywhere. Children, grandchildren, dogs; they’re all waiting in lines at the jewelry shops, the coffee shops, and the gift shops. Especially standing in lines at the ice cream shop where I work every day. Flashing their cash around once and a while, but mostly credit cards. So carefree and careless. And so clueless. They’re all ripe for the picking. Skimming credit card information is how I can live comfortably the rest of the year.

From Guest Contributor NT Franklin

The Button

Blake sat alone in the cell. He only had the bar of soap his guards had given him, and a button he'd smuggled under his tongue.

Alone. Alone. It had been 17 days now. He knew it was 17 days, because each morning, he made a mark in the soap with his button. There were 17 marks for 17 days.

For those 17 days, his only contact with the outside world was the metal plate they slid through the door at mealtime.

17 days to contemplate his crime, his smuggled button the only thing keeping his sanity from slipping away.