Keep Movin’

—Get in the car, doll.

—Where we goin’, Roy?

—To get us some money.

—Gonna buy me something pretty?

—The world, babe.

—Slow down. You almost—

—Look in your purse.

—A gun.

—Know how to use it?

—Point and pull?

—That’s all.

—Who’m I gonna point it at?

—You’ll see.

—Why the mystery?

—There’s Buster, on that park bench.

—You gonna stop?

—He ain’t movin’.

—Looks like a bullet hole in his head.

—Change of plan, doll.

—Who killed him, Roy?

—Wasn’t me.

—Didn’t Buster teach you all you know?

—Main thing he said was, keep movin’.

—Slow down, Roy.From Guest Contributor Joe Surkiewicz

Joe writes from northern Vermont.

The Final Procedure

She lays on the table like a forgotten doll, eyes closed. The final procedure is complete.

Let it work.

A moment of silence, then she opens her eyes. And smiles.

“Hi, Daddy!”

“I’m David.”

“But you’re...old.”

She searches her memory, then cries out.

“The car!”

“It can’t hurt you, Rachel.”

It hurt me. The drunk barreling down the road, right at her. And I, her big brother, her protector, too far away.

She wraps her arms around me.

“Don’t cry.”

I hug her to me.

“What is this place?” she asks.

“My laboratory. This is where I make cyborgs.”

From Guest Contributor Eric Petersen

Apocalyptically Yours

It was the end of the American Century, and as if at a secret signal, the streets suddenly filled up with dancing grannies. I looked in their doll-like painted faces for an explanation. What I saw instead were suicide nets, abortions by wire coat hanger, piles of broken bricks. Life in our little town was becoming more and more like life elsewhere – a movie trailer for the Apocalypse. I would shake my head in an attempt to get rid of the eerie images, but every morning children would once again be walking past the slaughterhouse on their way to school. From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author of Failed Haiku, a poetry collection that is the co-winner of the 2021 Grey Book Press Chapbook Contest and scheduled for publication in summer 2022.

Flying Jack

CONTEST SUBMISSION:

Jack watched the planes fly with wonder. As a puppy, he aimed high. As a teen, Clark Kent and YouTube inspired.

He left soaring.

Networking at airport lounges was his forte. Frequent flyer points reached Gold Star status, so he flew over many oceans visiting his poodle friend Jeanette in Paris, Rob Retriever in St. Louis, and Sheepdog Barbie (named after the Barbecue and not the famous long-legged, wrinkle free doll) in the Aussie Outback.

When jet lag took its toll, Jack chose rails. When arthritis restricted movement, brimming with nostalgia, he watched the planes fly by, grieving what was.From Guest Contributor Isabelle B.L

Isabelle is a teacher based in France. She has published a novel inspired by the life of a New Caledonian feminist and politician. Her work can be found in the Birth Lifespan Vol. 1 and Growing Up Lifespan Vol. 2 anthologies for Pure Slush Books, Flash Fiction Magazine, A Story in 100 Words, Visual Verse, The Cabinet of Heed, Ample Remains, Found Polaroids, Five Minutes, Kitchen Sink Magazine, and Splintered Disorder Press. Her work is forthcoming in Drunk Monkeys.

Waitress And The Ventriloquist

She had sun-streaked hair. I told her we could have a quickie after the show but she just looked blankly at Murphy, the doll. That night I jerked off with Murphy and cussed him for missing my chance with her. He looked on with the wooden smile, his wooden fingers clenched tight by his side. Murphy said cute things that day. People laughed at the stale jokes about slavery. I saw her reach out for the tip. And then she walked past me, with sad the ruffle of notes in her bodice. A little girl came up and hugged Murphy.From Guest Contributor Sreemanti Sengupta

Sreemanti writes fiction and poetry (Losing Friends - Alien Buddha Press 2.0) while occasionally dabbling in collage art. Some of her haikus have been translated to French and a poem read out at City Lights Bookstore, NY. She runs The Odd Magazine and Odd Books.

Afternoon Tea Party

“Eat this, Mom,” she said, handing me a plastic donut.

“Mmm,” I said, pretending it was delicious. I put it down and asked for more tea. Giggling, she poured air into a pink cup.

Someone pounded on the door.

The pot dropped to the table. I slid our pre-packed bag out from under the bed. She clung to me, like a baby monkey to its mother, and reached for her doll.

The door was giving in. Soon, it’d be off the hinges. I hoped we had enough time. I opened the window and my heart clenched.

The FBI waited below.

From Guest Contributor Bethany Cardwell

Broken

The doll sat dirtied and broken, ripped from the hands of the little girl, as they took her parents away. Screaming and reaching for her parents’ hands, the guerilla yanked them away. The young girl, Naba, cried out and ran after them, blurry eyed from tears.

“Please don’t take my parents away! Please bring them back!”

But the truck was long gone leaving nothing but tire marks in its haste. Naba, alone and frightened, picked up the doll, the only present her father was ever able to give her, and walked the dirt road in hopes of finding a home.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

The House On The Hill

As the floodwaters receded, Thompson entered what used to be his home. The structure had once stood proud at the top of the hill. Now it was in shambles, the storm having carried it off its foundations and depositing it several hundred yards away.

With stooped shoulders, Thompson shifted through the remains. His friends would say he should count himself lucky that anything survived at all. At least he was alive. But it was hard to think that way with Jessie's waterlogged doll in his hands. He was not one of those parents who looked at their children as disposable.

Unsolved

Jon Gilbert took his tools from the back of the company van, walked to Jocelyn Pierce’s front door, and started to ring the bell when he noticed that the door was ajar. He was perplexed, having been warned by his boss that Mrs. Pierce, who was robbed a few months before, was obsessed with home security. Not wanting to enter the Pierce house uninvited, Jon shouted “Arno Landscaping.” When there was no response, he stepped into Mrs. Pierce’s foyer. There he found her lifeless body, supine, unmoving eyes staring, not seeing, a faceless doll nailed to the ceiling above her.

From Guest Contributor Dave Harper

Dave, a recovering software developer, now finds himself addicted to writing fiction.

Betty's Style

Amanda glared accusingly from the living room doorway. Her father and brother didn't even notice. They were engrossed in television. Their shared triumphant roar startled her.

"What's wrong, love?" Mam rocked herself out of the old couch and approached. She fondled Amanda's curls.

"Betty's hair is a mess. I brushed it yesterday."

Mam smiled. "Let's see what we can do."

***

The doll's coiffure was perfect when Mam put her back in the toy cupboard and tucked Amanda in.

Betty waited until the lights were out before indignantly reaching up and ruffling her hair back to the way she liked it.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid