The Hold-Up

Standing in a long bank line that isn’t moving makes M itchy. The dog controller, sloughed in front of her, smells of stale tobacco. M stands too close, and her nose begins to run. In time to her sniffles, the line of gritty workmen shifts its weight. M looks ahead and sees the hold-up—the town collector, cashing her social security. At last, she steps away. The line glares at her. On her way out, red velvet cupcakes catch her eye. She stops, takes napkins, and stacks a tower inside her oversized purse—smiling, this is what she came for.

From Guest Contributor M.J. Iuppa

House Of A Hoarder

The stench of stale tobacco hangs in the air. You treat your house like an air-tight Tupperware; you think your hoarded items could be destroyed by fresh air, so you never let me in. You ignore the smoke that settles on those decaying maps of ancient civilizations.

I walk into this careful messiness. The smoke accumulates on the loose silk threads of my dress. You study my face as if it were one of your maps: tracing the lines of ancient feelings in the wrinkles of my skin. I replace the roughness of your scrutiny by leaving. Can't hoard me.

From Guest Contributor Suhasini Patni

Suhasini is a second year undergraduate at Ashoka University, in India, studying English literature. She has previously published a book review in The Tishman Review and a micro-fiction piece with A Quiet Courage, and hopes to publish many more. She is new to the publishing world but loves to write.

Song Service

It’s seven in the morning. I’m supposed to be at Songshan Church in Taipei teaching a small Sabbath-School group at nine. But I’m sitting in my kitchen hot boxing a cigarette. Mitigating the queasiness from last night’s escape: a single malt Speyside scotch accompanied by Mozart’s Requiem.

Blazing summer humid heat even at this hour. Should I shower? Will they smell the booze and tobacco on me?

A two-hour train ride later and I find myself up in front of all of the congregants. Ambushed into leading out in song service. The sweat oozes and I wonder if they know.From Guest Contributor Robert Vogt

Robert worked as a custodian for a number of years until switching to EFL educator after graduating with a bachelor’s degree in Fine Arts. Changing from manual laborer to educator caused Vogt much regret though he has reaped manifold benefits from the career change. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Degenerate Literature, Horror, Sleaze and Trash, Outlaw Poetry, and Unlost Journal. Vogt is chief editor at White Liquor.

Jim Bridger Watching The Revenant For The First Time

Jim Bridger stood up after the show and spat a great stream of tobacco on the ground. He would generally have aimed at the spittoon, but this theater didn't have one.

"What did you think?"

Bridger considered a few moments before answering. "It weren't anything like what really happened."

"But did it at least capture the general atmosphere?"

"No." The producers huddled nervously, expecting Bridger would say more.

"If it's all the same to you I'd like to go back now."

"But we went through all the effort to build a time machine and bring you here."

Bridger just shrugged.

Glanton's Visit

The Winchester Model ‘87 tore the first moon man in half at close quarters. The ancient shotgun had been a family heirloom and, legend had it, was successfully utilized in a bank robbery fifty some odd years ago down Tucson way. The relic still packed a powerful punch, as the bloody remains of the unwelcome visitor attested to.

Old man Glanton took another space critter down before what survived of their small party escaped in a silvery flying disc. Glanton spat tobacco into the dust and reckoned he’d better put on some fresh coffee before Bobby returned with the horses.

From Guest Contributor, Horrorshow