Double Decker

My name's Dan, but they call me Double Decker because one time I got in a fight and knocked out two guys with one punch. That was the last scuffle I was involved in because ever since, people mostly try to avoid making me angry. There was that one time a drunk guy pulled a knife on me, but the bouncers pulled him away before anything happened.

I'll tell you a secret. That double knockout thing never really happened. I just started telling the story one night and people believe it because I'm 6'-6''. Pretty funny, huh?

What's your name?

The Fall Of The Roman Empire

Frank stumbles down the street in broad daylight. The crisp air helps dull the pain in his wounds. Lightheaded and off balance, he is reminded of late nights in college, wandering drunkenly back to his dorm room. His vision now has the same tunnel focus that causes him to lose sight of his surroundings.

He'd never finished that final essay for History of Rome, but Professor Dutton had allowed him to pass anyway. She'd always liked him. Maybe it was her fault that he'd never learned any discipline.

What a weird thing to remember as he is about to die.

It’s Him

Jeff got drunk after she told him, “It's not you. It’s me.”

But Jeff knew it was him. It always was.

He got so whiskey drunk that he woke the next afternoon tasting chalk. He couldn’t remember downing all those pills, but he must have because the bottle was half empty. Not half full—definitely half empty.

He spent three minutes on the help hotline he found on the internet.

“Dude,” the counselor said, “maybe it really wasn't you.” That’s when Jeff hung up. Probably just some college kid volunteering for a class project.

Jeff would survive. He always did.

From Guest Contributor John Sheirer

John lives in Western Massachusetts and is in his 30th year of teaching at Asnuntuck Community College in Northern Connecticut where he edits Freshwater Literary Journal (submission welcome). His work has appeared recently in Wilderness House Literary Review, Meat for Tea, Poppy Road Review, Synkroniciti, Otherwise Engaged, 10 By 10 Flash Fiction, The Journal of Radical Wonder, Scribes*MICRO*Fiction, and Goldenrod Review. His latest book is Stumbling Through Adulthood: Linked Stories. Find him at JohnSheirer.com.

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

Thoughts And Prayers

Small furry animals have crawled out of their holes for a look. Such sights! Smashed-in skulls and severed feet and angels covered in blood. Like a nasty drunk, God has been exceptionally belligerent of late. A cadaverous woman in blue scrubs who says her name is April asks, “On a scale of 1-10, with 1 being the lowest, how severe is your pain?” Strangers on social media offer thoughts and prayers. Even then, the leaves on trees instantly wither as a burning airship passes overhead. My wife refuses a ride. We cling together just like the words in a poem.

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. It is scheduled for publication in summer 2022.

The Angry Camper

Stuart had a heart transplant last March and felt lucky to sit around a campfire with Paul.

The drunk from the next campsite stumbled over again. "Stop all that damn noise!"

Paul stood and yelled, "Look buddy, we're just talking. No way you can hear us."

"Stop banging on those drums. Next time I'll have a twenty-two."

"Call 9-1-1, Paul."

Twenty minutes later they heard all the commotion of the arrest.

"You guys gonna be on the news," said the park ranger. "That guy was wanted for the murder of Alex Edmund."

Shocked, Stuart said, "Alex Edmund was my donor."

From Guest Contributor E. Barnes

E has works in The Purple Pen, The Haven, Spillwords, Centina Pentina, Entropy and the anthology NanoNightmares.

Loner

Worst thing about having a drunken Da who pissed people off was that Malachy tended to suffer from ‘trickle-down’ syndrome: friendships nurtured in his own child-like manner evaporating as parents infected would-be playmates with their contempt for his father.

He crouched over the little burn on farmland close to his suburban home watching the tadpoles emerge from frogspawn, eager to claim a hopper for his very own.

There was a sizeable puddle in his backyard courtesy of poor drainage.

The leprous ache inside expanded to form tundra.

Still, it was quiet, and the symphony of wind and wildlife was wonderful.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid

Blood In The Dirt

The man strolled to the saloon, thinking about what he had done and what he would do now. His family had been killed and thanks to him their murderers were dead too. Revenge had been his life from the time he was fourteen.

He pushed his way up to the bar. He ordered a whiskey and sipped it.

A drunk yelled at him to pull his gun; it didn't matter why to him.

He said, “Not here,” and he walked into the street.

The drunk followed.

“I’ll see you all soon,” the man muttered as his tears fell. “Now draw!”

From Guest Contributor Dylan Baker

Cowboy

Billy had never been drunk before. That’s why he didn’t feel much pain.

The stars above were bright.

The runt of the family, he’d run off from the farm and joined the ranchers. They had gone to the saloon.

The strumpet at the bar had smiled at him. After his seventh whisky she winked.

Billy felt like a man. He was somebody.

“Move over boy,” the stranger said.

Billy stood his ground. There were words, then the challenge.

Outside, Billy got shot in the chest. Alone, he lay dying.

Tomorrow they would bury him. A nobody in a nobody’s grave.

From Guest Contributor Ian Fletcher

Ian is originally from South Wales. He studied English Literature at Oxford University many years ago. He currently lives in Taiwan with his family and is a high school teacher there. He has also been a freelance writer for over 12 years, writing articles for Taiwanese educational textbooks. He has had short stories published in various genres on Short-story.me, Schlock! Webzine, Schlock! Bi-Monthly, Anotherealm, Under the Bed, and in anthologies by Horrified Press and Rogue Planet Press. He is an Affiliate Member of the Horror Writers Association.

Spending A Penny Dreadful

The Fleadh Ceoil festival was at its height. Those who hadn’t arrived early were relegated to rural camp-sites.

Still, even on the outskirts of the small Kerry village the women’s toilets were dutifully labelled with the Gaelige ‘MNA.’ It wouldn’t do for traditional/folk festivals to be less than authentic.

The next generation of the attending family carnivals had finished their setting-up chores and, thankful of the break, watched with some amusement as the drunk approached with strained gait and increasing urgency until finally bursting into the ‘Ladies,’ zip down.

Screams.

"Must be a wil’ handling being dyslexic," one mused.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid