Q and A
Megsmad

What’s wrong?
…..Nothing’s wrong, the sun is out, the birds are shining.
Something’s wrong… you said that backwards.
….. What? No I didn’t.
Yes you did. You said the sun is out and the birds are shining. What’s wrong?
…..Oh… nothing’s wrong. I’m just distracted.
Well, what’s distracting you?
….. It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.
I’m not worried, I’m just curious.
….. Curiosity killed the cat you know…
Yes, because I put it in the microwave. Why won’t you tell me what’s wrong? You always tell me everything.
…..Because I don’t want to talk about it right now.
Why not?
…..Because I’m busy right now.
What are you doing?
…..You know what I’m doing, you’re right here with me.
Am I?
…..Yes, you are.
Are you sure?
…..Yes.
Well then where am I?
…..You’re right here; beside me like always.
Am I really?
…..Yes! Where else would you be?
I don’t know…
…..You’re here. With me. And that’s it.
Okay, I don’t believe you.
…..Well you should.
Why?
…..Because I’m right.
Are you?
…..Yes.
Really? How do you know?
…..Because I am. Because I’m always right. And, because I can see you.
Can you?
…..Yes! You’re right there.
Really?
…..Oh… no… you’re not.
Told you so.
…..Where are you?
I told you so.
…..I’m scared, where are you?
I don’t know. I thought you knew.
…..I don’t.
Come find me.
…..I’m coming.
Come find me.
…..I’m looking.
Quickly!
…..I’m trying!
…..
What’s wrong?
…..Nothing…

Split Lip
Megsmad

Date: April 1980
Time: 11.32pm

I split my lip the other day.
I was smiling, smiling big and my lip was so stretched that it split, Pop! Right down the middle.
It bled for a while but that didn’t matter.
What mattered is that he, for the first time, saw through my smile to what I was actually feeling.
And that was a problem.
A big one.
Because, for a moment there, he saw the real true me.
And she’s not very pretty.
She is raw and rough.
She has no control.
She is destructive.
And I don’t want her to mess this up for me.
So I have to hide her, have to keep her hidden away under mounds and mounds of thoughts and distractions.
He’s curious now.
He wants to know what he saw.
I lied and said that what he saw was shock and pain.
He said ‘mmm’ but I know he didn’t believe me.
If the real me can show through this easily then I’m obviously not trying hard enough.
Maybe I should talk to someone about it; it’s helped before…
We’ll see how it goes.
I’m stronger now; I’ve grown as a person so maybe I have enough control to keep it all inside this time.
Someone’s coming, so I’ll sign off.

Jean Grey.

Brutal
Mark P. Sinozic

Harrabanus’ bloodied face rose to the jeers of the stadium crowd. He glared through a curtain of black hair, matted with blood. A champion lay dead at the barbarian’s feet. Harrabanus sighed and stepped back. Sand crunched beneath his boots. The stadium circled him with its white wash walls rising about him. Throngs of men and women jeered. Above them, there hung the long banners of the tyrannical empire. Harrabanus glared up at the empty podium of the God-King.

The gilded iron gates squealed open and from the black tunnel strode a black uniformed warrior. His body rippled with steel-like muscle. He was cloaked in black, hands gloved and head hooded with a velvet mask. The God-King Lord Nolmak took in the sight of his fallen champion and the barbarian standing over him. His blue eyes glared across the stadium.

Lord Nolmak threw wide his cloak. He flexed his biceps and clenched his fists. He strode across the stadium. Harrabanus watched him. Sunlight bathed the God-King and sent a single gleam from a sword hanging by his waist. Harrabanus glared at it. The barbarian’s fists clenched, he flexed his tanked body and shook fresh blood from his eyes. Both men charged. They leapt, fists flying. Both warriors grabbed the other and slammed into the ground. They struggled for footing, clouding themselves in dust.

Harrabanus landed a right-hooked punch. The Nolmak’s head snapped back. He uppercut Harrabanus and sent the barbarian back. Nolmak pounded his foe. He kicked the barbarian’s groin. Harrabanus growled, teeth bared to the pain. Nolmak punched. Harrabanus dodged and attacked. Nolmak caught his fist and clamped a vice-like grip upon the barbarian’s throat. Harrabanus growled. His neck steeled against the pressure but the God-King’s grip tightened. Harrabanus snarled. His bloodlust took over. He kicked Nolmak’s groin. The God-King heaved the barbarian high. A laugh issued from beneath the velvet mask and Nolmak threw the barbarian across the stadium.

A frenzy of cheers roared from the audience. Feet stamped. Flags flew. Nolmak stepped forward. He stared down upon the struggling barbarian. The sand was course beneath Harrabanus’ bare knees. His body seethed with pain. Every kick plunged fresh daggers of pain into his burning senses. Another kick flattened the barbarian to the ground. Irate, Harrabanus leapt up and threw his fist. Nolmak caught him and twisted his wrist. Harrabanus cried out. The God-King jerked Harrabanus around like a puppet.

He leaned close to his ear and whispered, “I will reduce you to a shell of a man.”
Harrabanus growled.
“As strong as you maybe, you are only an ordinary man,” whispered Lord Nolmak. “I am superior in every sense, strengthened beyond the limits of nature.”
Harrabanus cracked his head back into the God-King’s forehead. Nolmak cried out. Harrabanus tore his arm free, spun around and ripped the sword belt from Nolmak’s waist.

“No,” Nolmak snarled.
Harrabanus back-handed his foe and slapped the belt around his waist. The barbarian tore free the sword, his own taken days ago. Harrabanus held high the golden blade. The sun gleamed from its steel. A golden pillar of light leapt into the air. He roared, rage and the brutal indignity of capture sent his battlecry like a lion’s roar carrying over the crowds. Daggers of energy flared across the blade. Flames engulfed the steel. A white force flashed through Harrabanus and threw him into the air. He slammed down into the sand with renewed vigour and strength.

“Eat steel,” Harrabanus snarled and slashed his blade. Nolmak jerked back. He cried in shock and dodged a round of slashings. Harrabanus pressed his attack. Nolmak weaved away, missing the cold steel by inches. Nolmak swept a roundhouse kick into the barbarian. Harrabanus staggered and Nolmak leapt away. Harrabanus looked upon the God-King. Both men heaved and stank of sweat and blood. The barbarian drew a deep breath and ran across the stadium. Nolmak watched him go. He frowned and tilted his head. Then he saw the golden gates the barbarian was fast approaching. Nolmak roared to his warriors above him.

“SPEAR!”
Nolmak grabbed the steel shaft, shifted his footing and threw the spear across the stadium. It whistled through the air. Harrabanus glanced back. His eyes widened. He slashed his blade and sent the spear into the spectators, sending them screaming from their seats. He clumsily regained his footing and leapt for the gates. His sword sang. The golden steel screamed with sizzling power. The gates blew apart. Harrabanus skidded down the tunnel beyond. He grinned and vanished into the darkness beneath the stadium.
Nolmak stood irate in the centre of the stadium. He spun around, his arm thrusting at the tunnel.
His voice screamed, “Get him! He will burn for this! Bring him to me now!” Lord Nolmak trembled. Rage filled every one of his senses and a single obsessive thought filled his mind. He left the stadium with slow, deliberate steps.

Babysitting
Susan Donim

He hears breaking glass.

“What did you do?!”

“Me?! I didn’t do anything! Stop trying to blame me! You’re the one that pushed me!”

“Did not!”

“Did too!”

“Did not!!”

He puts his book down. He really hates babysitting those brats. Even paying off those damned student loans isn’t worth putting up with evenings like these.

He enters the study and stops short, seeing the broken Ming vase. He sighs; now he will be blamed for letting the kids out of his sight. First, the parents tell him to not let the children run loose; the next, the parents say that the kids feel cooped up and he should let them do what they want. That was weeks ago. Every time he comes around, a different set of instructions awaits.

“Never mind,” says one of them, “Mom and dad’ll be blaming the babysitter instead. Heh heh heh…”

“Naughty, naughty,” says the other one, wagging a tiny finger at him, “That vase cost a lot of money. You should’ve kept a better eye on us…”

Both of them start to snigger.

He could feel his blood boil, and subconsciously he clenches his fists. That is the breaking point for him; he’s had enough. He closes the study door and grabs the bronze paperweight on the side table. Hefting it, he moves towards the children.

Blink of an Eye
Kev Matheson

“I need you.” Her voice is a whisper, barely audible through the choke of pain and static.

“I’m there.” I hang up and race the beating of my heart to get to her. It’s a road I’ve driven countless times, but the roads are longer, the speeds too slow. At last I reach the block and wait an age for the security door to open. I run upstairs down the hall to her door and in. I cannot find her. A mangled razor lies by the bathroom door, blades bent and scattered.

I find her curled up on a blanket, a cocktail of pill packets scattered on the tiles. I lie next to her and take her hand in mine. Her fingertips are dotted with caked blood. Her wrists are clean; the blades were too flimsy, I know. But the pills?

I talk to her gently and gather the packets around me: Panadol, Telfast, antibiotics. I hesitate. I need the number for the poisons hotline. Her computer is on the other side of the apartment, mere meters away, and switched on.

“I’ll be right back,” I say. Faster than physics allows her fingernails are on my wrist. Her first movement.

“Whereareyougoing?” Pure terror lives in her eyes. Cut the hind legs off a puppy and it could not look so scared. I cannot leave her. Cannot even leave the room. I rely on my schooling to convince me one cannot OD on antihistamines. But the cocktail? Who knows…

I cannot leave her.

Should I call 000? She will never trust me again. She swears she didn’t have enough Panadol to kill; she knows that dose. I think I can trust her even in this state. She will be sick. But she won’t die.

…………………………Will she?

I lay down again, hold her hand, gently stroke her fingers with my thumb. I have no words to say. Am I doing the right thing? Am I killing her? If I call 000 for an upset tummy will she ever trust me again? What if she won’t call me the next time round? What if there is no next time? Am I killing her?

Time passes.

She needs to vomit. I step out of the bathroom and close the door. My heart stops when the latch clicks. She’s shut me out. There is a wall between us. I can’t get to her in there. What if something happens?

…………………………………………..What if it doesn’t?

I gather the mangled razor blades and scan the war zone of her apartment. Pill packets, blades, scissors all go in my pocket. What if she turns to bleach?

I hear a flush. The lock turns. A brief relief.

I am by her side again. She wanders out, her movements sluggish. I start to guide her to bed but she suddenly drops to the floor like a rag doll. Curls up. Her body hiccups.

Amid the harsh reality I stifle a laugh.

She spasms again. The laugh dies. Convulsions come and go. Short bursts of neural misfires as the medications work through her system.

I wonder again if I should call 000, but I am sure she won’t overdose and I can’t lose her trust. At first I try to hold her still, then remember the dangers of binding an epileptic. Instead I clear the mess on the floor that she will not harm herself further. I sit at the very edge of her circle of movement and hold my knees to my chin, and gently rock back and forth.

In time, the fits wane and I wait for the final ripples to fade. Soon, she is still again, curled like a newborn. I inch closer and lie beside her again. I hold her hand in mine. She does not hold it back. Her eyes are unfocused and the lids loosely closed. A tear draws a line from eye to ear. A whimper. A wail. Then, cries of anguish I have never heard pass human lips. Beyond simple pain. Beyond mortal woe. The wail of a banshee from the halls of death.

I hold her as well as I am able, but she does not acknowledge me, does not acknowledge anything. Her world has disappeared.

Time passes.

The sobbing fades. The rivers run dry. The wind slows. Her whole body relaxes in complete release, succumbing to some inner working. The eyelids drop, leaving a sliver of sight barred by lashes. She is perfectly still. I cannot see her breathing.

My breathing speeds. I bring my hand from her back to her ribs. Do I feel a soft rise and fall? I cannot tell for the trembling of my hand. I watch her keenly. I whisper her name.

Nothing.

………..My world disappears.

Her inanimate body is all that exists. It does not move. It makes no sound. No flutter of eyes. No grip of hand. No hint of breath.

My blood turns to mud. A heat swells behind my eyes.

So this is how it ends. With me by her side. Tears won’t come.

Is it still too late; I know CPR? Would it help, or pump the poison faster? Do I have time to call 000? Can I stop to let them through the security door? Can I call someone else? Same problem. What do I do? Why didn’t I call someone earlier?
Have I killed her?

…………………..Can I save her?

Her body is all there is in my world. My world is dead.

Was that -

a flicker of life?

Did the eye twitch?

I lose my wind.

Again. Movement. Unmistakable.

……………………………………Life.

I breathe again and then tears come.

Muscle Memory
Evan Sanders

I miss her before she even gets out of the car.

“I should really go,” she says to me, with no real conviction.

“You really should,” I reply with the same acceptance of the thought.

There is never enough time for us; I suppose there may never be. As she leaves the car, I’m already remembering the day in my own ways though. This makes me miss her even more.

As I head back home, I smile as I remember her smile. She has a few different smiles, ones that tell me how she’s feeling among other things.

There’s her happy smile. I love seeing that one, it makes me smile too.

There’s the odd smile. That one usually comes up in a very random conversation that ends up in an odd phrase that we will continue to repeat.

There’s the unabashed smile. The one I see when we just lie there and look at each other and see each other unashamedly, unabashedly.

And then, oh, then there’s that smile. The one that has no name, but the one that just gets flashed at you for a second and will always end up with her getting her way. Not that I really mind, of course. It’s not like I was completely against her way.

Things always come back, though, when you don’t expect them to. For the rest of the night after I drop her off, I will just remember. Not in images, or thoughts. Not in any way that can be explained properly.

I remember her with my body.

I remember how it felt to have her entire weight on top of me. To feel exactly where every part of her was touching a part of me.

I remember lightly running my fingers over her skin. The electricity stays in the tips of your fingers for a while after.

I remember every inch of her skin that I touched, just as I remember every inch of mine that she touched in return.

All this comes to me as I finally arrive at home. And though it may seem to be overwhelming, I’m just glad to remember.

Hunger
Mark P. Sinozic

The girl’s milk jugs shattered across the tavern’s porch. The sexy young serving girl lay limp and cold in the barbarian’s arms. Harrabanus tensed. His eyes swept over her pale, soft skin. He could not fathom the problem for a moment. A gleam caught his eye, an arrow struck through her chest. Blood dripped from its tip. He glared at it.

Murder!
A snarl rippled from his throat. The barbarian looked up. He saw at once a silhouette on a rooftop, several blocks away. It held a large bow. Harrabanus laid the girl down and closed her eyes. His glare never wavered from his target, his silhouetted foe.
Harrabanus snatched his battle-axe from the wall. His muscled form moved with the swiftness of a mountain lion. He charged around buildings that blocked his path. But his foe never moved. All manner of town’s folk, young and old, human, dwarf, even the odd aln’Seji glanced at him. The barbarian leapt up a set of steps and slammed through a pair of doors, ripping them off their hinges.

He trembled with rage. The savage unnecessary violence stabbed deep into his heart. Stairs lay before him. Harrabanus stomped into the cool interior. The fallen doors bowed beneath his heavy step. He charged up the stairs. With heavy thumping steps, he made no secret of his approach.
Harrabanus quickened his pace, tightening his grip upon his battle-axe. He kicked out the final door and a brilliant glare of light blinded him. He squinted and stepped outside. Cool wind blew about his stringy black hair and breathed upon his bare chest. A solitary figure stood at the building’s far edge. A deep growl rippled from his throat. He stalked forward. His grip tightened on his battle-axe and he swung its doubled-sided blades high. The figure did not move. It wore a long, hooded cape and turned about with a dancer’s grace. Harrabanus halted.
The sun shone its light upon a woman’s pale skin and delicate, slender fingers, nails painted red. The hood was thrown back. Long, black hair flowed down in two thick braids. Her face was proud. Her bold blue eyes held Harrabanus’ gaze. The barbarian was paralysed by her beauty. His brow furrowed. His grip loosened on his battle-axe. It dipped. The archer swept her cape behind her, slid her bow over her shoulder and strode across the rooftop. Her tight, athletic body was bound in a green tunic and leg-hugging slacks. Her leather boots ran to her knees and a thick belt hung loose around her waist. Harrabanus gazed at the wonder walking his way. She moved with cat-like grace. Harrabanus sighed. He enjoyed her every detail, her incredible, well-kept figure and the swell of her breasts, cruelly hidden within her tunic. A Huntress, well acquainted with capturing her prey, her thin lips grinned. They parted and flashed fine, white teeth. The sweet, musical tone of her voice startled Harrabanus.

“That slut was no good for you. I’m the only woman who can match you. Take me and love me, barbarian!”
The barbarian fought to break his frozen mind into action. Her voice was so serene and yet carried power and authority. When she spoke, Harrabanus felt himself snap to attention. Did he actually click his heels? He could not tell. This woman held him captive with a look. She stood right before him and the power of her fragrance struck him. Its intoxicating, floral scent filled the barbarian’s senses, lulling him into submission. The woman slid her arms around him, her breasts lightly brushed across his bare skin. Harrabanus felt his heart tremble; two raging forces tore at either side of him. His rage demanded vengeance! His desire clawed at him for lustful abandon. He threw back his head, teeth bared to the cruelty of the gods.
This woman, this Huntress, what am I to do? Ah, how do you slay sex on legs?
He closed his eyes. The agony of decision fell upon him with a thunderous impact. His legs shook beneath the weight. The woman leaned forward; her teeth teased the veins of his neck. She softly kissed his neck and shoulders. Her tongue teased his flesh. She kissed her way to his ears. Harrabanus growled and grabbed her waist. His battle-axe fell to the ground with a heavy crash. The woman let out a tiny chuckle as she pressed herself against the barbarian, feeling his arousal overtake his senses.

“We belong together. It is our destiny,” she whispered.

She grinned and bowed her head then snapped it back and all the beauty and seduction in her vanished. Her body tensed in shock. She swayed for a moment and looked at Harrabanus. He looked back at her, eyes ablaze with passion and decision. His breathing calmed and the tension in him vanished. The Huntress sighed, her eyes rolled into the back of her head and she fell at Harrabanus’ feet. The barbarian glanced down, the knife in his hand dripped with her brilliant, crimson blood.
Harrabanus growled and said, “Destiny appears to be mistaken.”

He tossed the knife aside. It clattered across the rooftop and the barbarian walked to the rooftop’s edge. He looked out over the town and the forest that surrounded it. Beyond was the cool blue of the mountains and their snow-capped peaks. He turned and looked at the fine, elven bow.
Shame for a fine weapon to go to waste, he thought.

Ever After
Danny Beaton

I hit her. She liked it deep down. She said ‘no’. I hit her again.

Memories
Jack McInbox

The woods were a part of Jonah, like a second soul. A soul of winding dirt tracks and green sweeps of pine pinned together by a giant grandfather pine, the largest Jonah had ever seen. Walking down the tracks always flooded him with memories. Memories that were painful to recall, but more painful to forget. So he came here; to walk and remember.

He remembered guiding Lily through the woods, her soft hand in his. He remembered the way the sun shimmered on her red-gold hair and the way his heart thumped about when she’d smile. It was the first time he’d shared this place with anyone.

He remembered weaving a circlet of daisies for her and how they’d pressed against his forehead when he kissed her for the first time beneath the great pine. The smell of crushed daisies and her washing over him.

He remembered the way shards of light danced off the diamond engagement ring when he proposed and the way the pine needles pricked as they made love beneath the trees.

He remembered the awe he felt as he touched her stomach when Lily told him she was pregnant and the pride he felt when he built a small rope swing off one of the great pine’s branches.

He remembered joy turning to fear as a doctor, with blood up to his elbows, ordered a nurse to escort him back into the hall of the delivery room. And later, when he dug two graves—one large, one small—beneath their pine, the warm weather and cloudless sky seemed mocking to him.

Jonah sighed and stared at where his feet and memories had taken him. Where they always took him: to the largest pine he’d ever seen. He knew why he’d come here. He couldn’t keep living like this. He’d wanted to feel and remember this place one last time before he moved on. He grasped the rope swing, glanced up at the strong branch it was tied to and smiled. No, he couldn’t keep living like this at all.

Exodus
Susan Donim

We walk.

Faintly, I hear birds chirping, and the crunch of the earth and twigs and dry leaves wherever I step, but I can hardly feel them beneath my bare feet.

We are on this beaten path, possibly man-made, created for trekkers hiking into the woods. No use for that now; we are the only ones left.

I find it strange that we do not need verbal instructions or physical gestures to guide us. As a single, collective, one, we move. All around me, I see shambling figures, some hulking, some crawling. We all have difficulty walking sometimes, but I guess we find ways of circumventing any obstacles to our mobility.

I do not know where we are headed, though. I try to voice out my question, but proper speech fails me, even though my thought processes seem to be in working order. My tongue dangles limply, no doubt from the lack of use.

It was a while ago that I awoke to the cries of humanity, in the dark, dank niche from which I had been laid. Clawing my way up, chaos was rampant. People running about. Rabid screams cut short. I saw lives taken down, some literally torn apart. I was even horrified at first, before the hunger took over.

We reach the ocean. I hesitate, as I recall my fear of the water. I remember falling overboard, sinking, the harsh pain as the water filled my lungs, and finally relief, heralding the silent, overbearing darkness that stretched to what felt like an eternity.

The one closest to me notices my reluctance, and turns to look at me. A face, necrotized, perhaps in the final stages of decomposition, stares at me vaguely with eyes already filmed over, before turning back to the water.

As we wade through the seas, towards the banks across, I see our current destination, its lights dimly emanating from its buildings. I think about that part of civilization yet untouched by the scourge we will soon become, and hear their panicked screams in the distance.

I look forward to the raw taste of their flesh once we reach their shores.

The Chase
Megsmad

He ran hard; they were still after him, chasing him. It wasn’t a game anymore.
He ran on and on, down a path, trees everywhere. Nothing was familiar to him; he knew he’d never been here before.
He veered off the path and hid, waiting…
He could hear them coming, hear their voices muttering and smell their vile stench. He crouched lower to the ground and hoped they wouldn’t notice him lying on the damp ground or his heavy panting.
As he waited for them to pass he thought of where he was and where he’d come from. He remembered yelling and a loud BANG! That was when he’d started running and he hadn’t stopped since.
Until he met them.
He had followed their smiling faces and warm hands as they picked him up and gave him some food.
Then they shoved him in a bag that smelled of urine and fear.
He’d escaped and started running again. He wondered if he’d ever stop.
A shout roused him from his thoughts and he saw one of them standing, pointing at him.
Shit! They’d found him! He got up quickly, turned and ran blindly, jumping over logs and through blackberry bushes that scratched at him; he hoped those would slow them down.
He was getting tired now; he’d been running for so long. All he could think about was cool water and a good meal.
Suddenly he stumbled on the soft ground, he fell, heard a snap and rolled slightly. His leg was injured.
He tried to stand up but the pain was too great, he lay back down and looked around.
What he saw chilled his very core: “Poor Little Prince”, “Daisy” and “Jack The Dandy”.
This is what he’d feared; this is what he’d been warned about.
It wasn’t some myth, they were all here and they were all dead.
“Duchit.” He heard his name.
“Duuuchitt,” he heard the female call out.
“I’ve found him,” the male said.
He was so tired; he couldn’t run anymore.
“Pick him up then,” she replied.
He knew what was coming; he hoped it would be quick.
“I’ll just do it here,” the male replied.
He closed his eyes and waited.
“Damned dog.”

John Smith
Evan Sanders

July 23^rd

Finally got some work. Seems like a nice ‘nough guy. Bit weird, but. Not sure what the job is, movin’ barrels and crates ‘round, marked as dangerous. Wonder what certificates I’ll need. Ain’t never worked ‘round anything like this. Start soon though, doesn’t seem like there’s much trainin’ for it, hope it’s not dodgy. Couldn’ handle ‘nother like that, not after the last one. Missus is pleased though, it’s good money, good hours, and good benefits. Nice guy, this Professor.

August 15^th

Been here a couple of weeks and starting to settle in. Good guys here, friendly, and know how hard it is t’find work like this. Professor comes and gives these speeches to us too. Bit long-winded and a bit strange, always talkin’ about the world. Must be expanding the business or somethin’, not really sure. Hope I don’t havta move or anythin’, I like where I am now. The missus is really pleased, we’ve started to pay off our debts and are close to affordin’ some of the nice stuff we always wanted. Kids are happy too, I’ve taken ‘em out for dinner a few times, more than they’re used to. Could get used to this. Uniform’s a bit weird though, all silver.

August 30^th

Professor’s going all out now, givin’ bonuses to anyone willin’ to put in a few more hours. We also still get overtime as well. Good guy, this Professor. Missus is happy for me to do it, she knows I’m doing it for her and the kids. Home life’s been good lately, but I miss ‘em. I keep a photo of ‘em with me at work and show it to the guys. Nice guys they are. Ain’t ever worked in a place where everyone was so happy. It’s nice. Weird stuff here though. All these big blokes walk around here all the time not sayin’ nothin’. Scare the shit out of me. They also started trainin’ us blokes who are workin’ late to use a gun. Somethin’ about security. There’s some people snoopin’ round the business. Probably the government or somethin’. Can’t leave a nice guy like the professor alone.

September 10^th

Workin’ all night tonight. Lot of us are. Professor said he was almost done. Must be a rush or somethin’, need to get this stuff out fast. S’Funny though, never see any trucks leavin’ with stuff, only one’s comin’ in. Must send ‘em out some other way. I’m not even movin’ anything anymore, just walkin’ up and down corridors with a gun. It’s a bit boring but I’m getting paid too well to hate it here. Heard that there were some guys who snuck in tonight through the air ducts. Probably protesters or some other nutters. Bob said he would check it out, haven’t heard back from him yet. Probably getting a coffee or somethin’. Hope my kids are alright. Haven’t seen ‘em properly for a couple of days. Same with the missus. She’s good to me though. That’s why I’m doing this. For her and the kids. Maybe I’ll take them on holiday soon. They’ll like that. Alarm’s going off now, got to head over to the warehouses. Maybe somewhere with a beach.

Savage
Mark P. Sinozic

Harrabanus moved through the forest. The musky morning air swelled in his nostrils. Shafts of dew-misted light stabbed through the thick canopy. A sparrow chirped away. Harrabanus grunted. His body moved swiftly. His legs like pistons carried him speedily down the path. His blood splattered boots crunched the dead growth beneath his heavy step. Massive pines watched him pass. Sweat glistened across his tanked chest, heaving with deep, steady breaths. His muscle-thickened arms swung with skull-cracking strength.
The wind shifted. It blew bitter-cold across his face. The sparrow silenced. The wind dropped. The forest fell silent. Harrabanus tensed. He halted. His eyes narrowed and scoured the deep greenery surrounding him. The path was at a cross roads. Harrabanus swept his gaze back down his travelled way. His light step left no traces. A burst and flourish tore the silence. He spun his gaze around. The pale light of open fields greeted him only twenty metres away. His grip loosened on the leather-bound handle of his battle-axe. A shrill scream rippled through the air. Harrabanus jerked his head around, stringy, black hair fanned across his vision.
A beast tore through the bush and slid between the huddled trees. Its narrow jaws fell open and threw forth another shrilling scream. The beast swept its gangly limbs into the middle of the path behind the barbarian warrior. A glistening sheen covered its sickeningly pale skin, dotted with patches of dark hair. Beady eyes stared hungrily down the path. Its face was a drawn and sunken mask of horror. It tilted its bald head then kicked its legs wide, threw back its head and screamed into the forest. Its body trembled. Harrabanus winced. Pain stabbed his ears. The barbarian snatched a knife from his boot and threw it. Steel flashed and it sunk into the beast’s throat. The creature blinked, yanked the blade out and dropped it into the wild grass.
Harrabanus turned slowly and heaved his battle-axe with both hands. Bloodlust clouded his eyes. He planted his feet shoulder-width apart. His eyes glared at the beast.
A zakatathon, he thought. Territorial…savage…
The zakatathon beast shook its head. A forked tongue splashed saliva about its lipless mouth. Its jaws snapped. Ivory tusks reached out like stiff, twisted daggers. It leapt into the air, claws and talons splayed. Harrabanus jerked aside. The zakatathon beast crashed into the earth. Harrabanus heaved his gleaming steel. A thick tail lashed and slammed the barbarian against a tree. Harrabanus roared and smashed his cold steel against the beast’s latticed ribcage. It cried. Harrabanus heaved the beast off the ground. Its claws slashed his flesh. The barbarian grunted. His arms strained, veins pulsed and threatened to tear free. The beast was thrown into the air. Harrabanus leapt, his boot struck its soft flesh. It slammed into the ground and scrambled to its feet. The beast charged the human. Harrabanus glanced up. The beast was before him. The barbarian gasped. Claws flew up. Cold steel sliced through pale flesh and bone. The zakatathon beast screamed and howled. Blood spat from its arm, severed mid fore-arm. The other smashed the barbarian aside. Harrabanus flew off the ground. His hand jerked. The huge battle-axe fell. Harrabanus slammed into the ground, his head struck a root. Pain stabbed through his mind. His eyes blinded for a moment. He gasped for air and blinked as he rolled onto all fours.
The zakatathon beast screamed and howled. Harrabanus snapped his head up. His mind focused like an assassin’s blade above its target. He spun his head around. His vision adjusted. The beast was on top of him. Harrabanus leapt to his feet, grabbed its arms and tore them back and down. Cracks painfully snapped through the air and the beast twitched and struggled in the human’s vice-like grip. Harrabanus slowly twisted its wrist. The creature lowered its head, its tusks falling either side of the human’s head. Savage, hate-filled eyes meet Harrabanus’ blood-lustful glare. In that moment, the beast knew its end was nigh.
Harrabanus pierced the beast’s arms onto its tusks. He grabbed the tusks, jerked them high and snapped the head around. Bones shattered. Muscles ripped clear. He threw back its head. It hung by a thread of skin for but a moment before that snapped. The head fell clear. The twitching body collapsed. Harrabanus trembled. His clouded eyes slowly cleared. His breathing steadied. The musky scents returned and filled his nostrils. Pine needles sprinkled down. He absently brushed them off and took two long strides towards his battle-axe.
He bent down and wrapped his hands around its long handle. He paused. His ears twitched. Three creatures leapt down from the trees behind him. The barbarian’s eyes narrowed. He heaved the battle-axe and spun his head around. Three gangly zakatathon beasts bared his path. Their tails lashed the crisp morning air. Their jaws dropped. Screams rang loud and high. Harrabanus growled. His skin was bruised and blood ran from his side wound. He unsheathed a golden sword strapped to his back. A smile played at his lips and the blood lust took him over once more…

Confidante
Susan Donim

I met my confidante when I was seven, and the first thing she said to me was:

“Don’t worry; you’re not schizo.”

I looked up from my colouring book and saw her, pale-skinned with shoulder-length black hair.

“What’s ’schizo’?” I had asked.

“Well, schizophrenia is a condition when people see and hear things they believe are real, which isn’t so. Like kids with imaginary friends, except adults think it’s healthy at their age because it develops creativity or something. Basically, schizos build castles in the air, and move their furniture in.”

I laughed, mostly at ‘castles in the air’.

“So you’re my imaginary friend?” I asked.

“No, I’m not, I’m as real as you are. There is another side to it, but that’s for another day. Promise me this, though: No one else can know about me. They’d just send you for therapy.”

“What’s therapy?”

*

Her name was Lisa. And suffice to say, I’ve never been to therapy.

When I was in high school, I looked up ’schizophrenia’, and found out that the mind is what makes it all real. It didn’t matter that she’d told me I wasn’t schizo; it was all in my head, I could’ve imagined it nonetheless.

“I was afraid you’d find out about that soon enough.”

She was standing behind me. “I meant to tell you, but… I just kept putting it off. I didn’t want you to think that you’re crazy or anything like that. That’s the last thing I’d want. But you’re not mental. Believe me.”

But I didn’t; instead, I thought I was more crazy than ever. My imaginary friend was still around even after all this time.

*

Lisa has been an integral part of my life for 15 years now. The fact that I actually cared about her, didn’t make it any healthier, but I do know where the line’s drawn, and I told her just as much. She retorted, “And since I’m ‘all in your head’, if you did fall in love with me, I’d say that you fell for yourself, you narcissist.”

We had a good laugh at that, but deep down, I guess she knew that I didn’t believe she was real.

A few years on, I met Joanna. Smart, beautiful; she was perfect. Lisa was excited for me; it wasn’t the ‘polite’ excited, when you’re sore and didn’t want to show it. Lisa’s always encouraged me to date; at 13, she told me that I should kiss Malory Jenkins on the lips.

Had detention for a week.

She couldn’t stop laughing when she found out.

“When you get married, I wanna be the Best Lady.”

“What?” I laughed.

“I wanna be the best lady. Then I’d get to wear a tux, and look dapper.”

“But you’re a girl,” I scoffed. “You’re one of the bridesmaids.”

“Yeah, but the bridesmaids are from the bride’s side. I’m on your side, remember?”

She was right. She’s always been there for me, whenever I was down, whenever I needed her. Funnily, she’s never around in class, or at work, even when I wanted her to be. Her answer? “I didn’t want to distract you. “

I still have doubts about my sanity, though. I mean, I thought that whenever I wanted her around, there she would, or should be, but sometimes, she just didn’t show. But there was that time I fell into that ditch cycling home from school, breaking my leg. Help came soon enough; however, I can’t help but feel that she’d something to do with the way Mr. Green was looking around himself after he’d helped me out.

*

“You look great.”

I turned from the mirror and grinned at Lisa. “I look dashing, don’t I?”

“Don’t get big-headed,” she said, walking up to me and adjusting my tie. “You still have to say your vows, say your ‘I do’s, wait for the pries–”

I laughed. “Alright, alright, I get it.” I looked at her. “Why aren’t you in a tux? I thought you wanted to be ‘Best Lady’.

She looked troubled. “Mark, we have to talk.”

“What about?” I said.

“Mark, you know I can’t be around forever, even though I want to. You know I have to leave sometime. And…” she faltered, “it’s time for me to go.”

I didn’t want to admit it, but I knew it to be true. For the past few weeks, she seemed sad, and distant, but she always changed the subject whenever I asked. I guess she didn’t want me to be distracted, what with the wedding and all, but I never stopped wondering what was wrong.

She went on, “Now you’ve found the perfect girl, I know you’re in good hands. Joanna’s wonderful, and everything’s gonna be great, that I can tell.”

I went over to her and hugged her, and she hugged back as warmly, tears in her eyes. I didn’t think it’d hurt this much, but it did.

“Good-bye, Mark. Have a good life.”

“Good-bye, Lisa.”

But as she faded away, that nagging thought got the better of me:

“Wait! Where are you from, if you’re not in my head?”

I heard her strange answer, only to my ears, just as my best man opened the door, telling me to hurry up.

*

Joanna and I moved into our own place in the suburbs, and although I would give my world for Joanna, part of me was sad that I would never see Lisa ever again. Puts a whole new spin on the schizophrenia thing, doesn’t it? I guess I cared for her more than I knew.

I was walking to the grocer’s one day, when a ‘Missing Persons’ flyer flew onto my feet. The face on it caught my eye. It was Lisa’s.

Old and faded, it was dated April 1988. And as I read that flyer, it made me realise the significance of her last, whispered words to me:

“I don’t know either, but I do know that I’ve been dead for as long as you’ve known me.”

ctrl alt del
Marmalade

My mother is on the internet. She rings to tell me but gets the words all wrong – for example, she says she likes to search internet with the google. I find it cute. She rings most days to ask questions like:

How do I get the camera and the computer to talk to each other?
Is it true what Peter Hitchener said on the news about viruses?
How do I do the email?

I try to help her out, but it’s frustrating assisting a person a thousand kilometres away with computer problems, over the phone. Like trying to work a marionette that’s missing most of its strings. I tell my mother to google her problems. I tell her I should be charging her seventy-five dollars an hour. I tell her that there are courses at the local library for people like her. The phone calls peter out. I ring my mother one day to find that her phone has been disconnected. An email arrives from her. I’ve decided to switch to a cable ISP, she writes. I’ll be using the email and chat to stay in touch with everyone.

A few months past that, when I boot up my computer, I find a new icon on my desktop. The only reason I notice it among the dozens of other icons – old letters, programs I never use – is that there’s a space already cleared around it, almost like the other icons are frightened to be next door. The icon is, simply, a red, capital ‘M’.

I stare at it for a while, trying to remember what function it might serve, but before I can click my mouse, it launches a program. A blonde-haired, big eyed avatar appears. It reminds me a bit of that terrible paperclip guy who is number eight on my top ten reasons Bill Gates must be brought to justice, but there’s no ‘x’ symbol to close it with. I click on the avatar and it flicks off for a moment, and then pops up on the other side of the screen. I click at it again, and the same thing happens. I have a real little game of cat and mouse with that new avatar. Finally, a speech bubble appears next to it. ‘Turn your speakers on, silly,’ the bubble reads. I sigh and do what it says, despite my better judgement.

A voice echoes from the speakers. ‘It’s me, dear.’ It sounds an awful deal like you-know-who. I blink a few times. ‘Talk into your headset,’ the voice suggests.

‘What…how do I close this program?’ I finally stutter, once I have the headset around my ears in a half-nelson. I am not about to address a program in the first person. That would…that would be crazy.

‘It’s me, dear,’ the program says in my mother’s voice. ‘You wouldn’t close your own mother down, would you?’
Of course I don’t. I let her stay on the desktop. What else can I do?

Two days later, when boot up my computer, all of my scattered icons are gone. My background picture of Michelangelo’s David has gone with them. My desktop looks like a barracks – clean, white…sterile. The little avatar blinks at me.

What did you do?, I type on the keyboard. I have decided I will not talk to a program, no matter how much it sounds like you-know-who.

‘Oh, it was such a mess in here,’ the program says. ‘I tidied things up a little. Got rid of some of the clutter.’

My clicking gets slightly frenzied. Most of the stuff is there, arranged in serried rows of folders, but…my fingers slip off the mouse and bash at the keyboard. You don’t have teh right to come in here and

‘Don’t be silly,’ it says in my mother’s voice. ‘All of the important documents are still there. But that folder – you know – hidden away under My Documents> My Photos> Temp> Stuff> Research…that’s not really research, is it?’

My fingers freeze in the metaphorical biscuit tin. It takes me some long moments to type, I should really delete that, shouldn’t I?

‘Don’t worry, dear,’ the voice says, ‘I got rid of all that nasty ‘stuff’ for you. For your own good, really.’

With that red ‘M’ on my desktop, I don’t visit some of the sites I normally log onto. But there’s others, things I’m not embarrassed about – hell, things I’m proud of – that I can’t visit anymore. When I try to, I get an:

Error (MUM) Access denied [for your own good, really, dear]

message. I try clicking a few more of these blocked favourites.
The voice returns. It sounds, if anything, slightly cross. ‘Look, there are plenty of places you can still visit. Why don’t you go and buy yourself something nice for yourself on the eBay?’

This is quite frustrating, I respond. These are news sites you’re blocking! I go to these places to find out what’s happening in the world.

‘You’ll never learn anything at all from those hysterical ninnies,’ the voice says. ‘If you want news, there’s plenty on the telly.’

Then the voice lowers, kind of like a conspiratorial tone? ‘I wouldn’t bother with that Peter Hitchener, though. He hasn’t been the same since he came out and said he was a little…well, you know…’

Elusive Flower
Xxxxx

There was a faint sound of drums in the distance.

“How should I address him?” I asked.

“He’s not much for the title,” said his son. “Usually just “sir’ will do. It’s hard to get much out of him anyhow.”

“Sir?” I asked softly. “I’ve come a long way to find you. Sir?”

The old man stirred a little but didn’t turn.  The window glass was streaked and dirty, but he peered intently through it into the clearing and the jungle beyond with an unwavering gaze. You could see the remains of a fine physique since succumbed to gravity and inactivity. Though he was still slim, slimmer than I expected, a small paunch hung over the leather loincloth he wore.  If you tried hard, yes, it was still possible to imagine him swinging into action.  I fancied I almost heard the faint echo of a distant ululation.

“How long as he been like this?”

“Since my mother left.  Eventually the jungle wore her down, you see.  Too damp, no friends, just him, me, the animals and the natives.   He never got over it.  He still thinks she’ll come back. ”  He gave a grimace. “She’s been dead ten years. He won’t let me tell him.”.

“Did he have to stay?”

“He made too many enemies.  He put a lot of noses out of joint.  Some people got killed.  He had to retreat as far from sight as he could.” His son sighed sadly.

“But he rescued so many.  He’s a national hero.  I mean, there were books written and there’ve even been motion pictures made about him.  There are a lot of grateful people out there.  Why should he hide away so deep in the jungle?”

“There are still some who resent what he did, and they have long memories.  I doubt he even remembers his old life, though.”

“Surely no-one would disturb an old man.  I’m sure the Kenyan government would protect him after all the work he put in stopping the poachers and protecting the animals.  And what about his ancestral home? Who’s in Greystoke Manor now?”

“Greystoke Manor? What do you mean, sir?  My father,  Sir Percy Blakeney,  is here in hiding from the damn Frenchies. Tarzan is in the next hut down the clearing.”

My Best Friend in the World
Miriam Reynoldson

JUDGE ENTRY INELIGIBLE

I never told you that when we were eight, I stole your pink sneakers out of your locker at school. I wore them on a rainy day and got mud all over them. After that, I didn’t want them anymore, so I dumped them in the lost property bin. Did you find them again?

I never told you that when we were twelve, I started copying your answers to tests. You wrote big letters and you were such a teacher’s pet. You got them all right. The teachers gave me an Improvement Award.
That’s why I started sitting next to you in class. You thought I wanted to be friends. I thought, hell, why not? You let me wear your clothes. You let me stay over at your place, where your mother cooked fancy meals every night instead of cheap pizza and microwave lasagne. You let me pretend I was staying over at your place. I taught you how to do an impression of my voice over the phone.
“Hey, mum – yeah, just staying the night at Sarah’s. Yeah, I’ll be home tomorrow. Maybe… one o’clock? Her mum invited me to stay for lunch. Okay. Yep. Love you, mum.”
I never invited you out to the clubs with me. I said, “Who’s going to stay home and provide an alibi?” You would never have fit in. And you seemed so nervous about getting a fake ID.
You started helping me out with my homework. I got so frustrated that you ended up just giving me the answers. And once you’d written one essay for me, it wasn’t hard to get you to write another.

If I couldn’t afford something, you’d lend me the cash in a second. So I told you I needed a suit for job interviews. I told you I’d crashed my mother’s car. That’s how I paid for the first two abortions.

Then, of course, you got into university and I didn’t. You moved up to Sydney.
And you met him.
Peter.
You called me every Sunday morning with a new story – this night, he took you to the opera house; that night, some swanky restaurant. Sunday morning! Didn’t you guys ever have a night worth recovering from?

Well, I missed you. Things just weren’t the same after you left. My mum kicked me out and I couldn’t find a real job for a while. Things were pretty rough. I never told you because I didn’t want to upset you, but I had to do some pretty low things to get the money for a room.

And then came that night, that frenzied phone call – you just couldn’t wait til morning to tell your best friend in the world about that dazzling diamond ring on your finger. You were happy. So damn happy.
I left the bar early. Scooped the tip jar empty for cab fare; swiped Barry’s burglar repellent from the box under the cash register. I found P Beringer in a Sydney phone book, and two hours later I found Peter Beringer in his apartment.

Anyway, I took care of him. It was a pretty neat little operation actually. No sound, no mess. I was back home by morning, ready to take your gasping, sobbing call.

So things are better now. You flew down to Melbourne to be with your family for a while. I didn’t realise how much I’d missed you until I saw you at the airport terminal. You were so pale. You gave me a weak smile and I wrapped myself around you – you, my best friend in the world.
It didn’t take long to convince you to move into a flat with me. I said it would probably be best if you weren’t alone.
It’s my fault you left in the first place, Sarah, and I’m so sorry.
I never told you how much I needed you.

Girls’ Night
Christine Todd

JUDGE ENTRY INELIGIBLE

Tick. Tick. Tick.
“Honey, you’ll be late.”
He’d anticipated her departure all evening. He had spent most of the evening gazing mindlessly at a football game on the television. West Coast was in front. He didn’t like West Coast. He didn’t like any team actually. His wife often wondered why he bothered following the football if he didn’t support any particular team.
“It’s the brutality of it,” he’d say, “the bone-crunching tackles, the ruthless pursuit of the ball. It’s a real man’s game.” She’d roll her eyes.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
“Honey!” he roared.
She appeared in the doorway of the lounge, fiddling with her blouse.
“I know, I know. I’ve been trying to fix a tear in the shoulder of this blouse. Don’t know how it got there, it’s practically new. Honestly, it’s like a giant has come along and tried to squeeze into it!”
He rose to his feet, taking care to place his half-empty can of beer underneath the chair.
“Come now, what giant would dare try on a blouse that could only look stunning on you?” he said, gathering her up in his large, awkward arms. It was true. She looked gorgeous.
“Smooth,” she said sarcastically, cramming a stiletto heel on her left foot. Failing, she opted for her comfortable shoes and threw the stilettos across the room. He winced.
“Go on, git. The girls will be wondering where you are.”
She stumbled out the front door. “Bye honey, I’ll be back by midnight!”

She’d scarcely backed out of the driveway before he set to work. Tonight he selected the red one, its silky fabric sending chills down his spine. He applied the make-up carefully, never faulting. Standing in front of the bedroom mirror, he appreciated the view.

“Divine,” he said, twirling on the neglected stilettos.

The Rubber Band Theory
Evan Sanders

I have super-powers.

No, really, I have super-powers.

Fine, don’t believe me then. But it’s true! Ok, ok, I’ll start from the beginning, or maybe a bit further back. You see, I believe in the rubber band theory. It’s the theory that no matter what, whenever something good happens to you it comes back as something bad eventually. The better it is, the worse the turnaround. You figure, hey what does this have to do with having super-powers? Well, I’m getting there; only you probably won’t believe the next bit.

I found a genie. No, wait, just bear with me here. So, I found a genie, and he gave me one wish to make. Apparently the three wish thing is utter nonsense, who’d believe that? So, I thought about what my wish should be, I thought about being rich, but I thought that’s when the rubber band theory would get me. I become incredibly rich and then lose it all. I thought about immortality, but then I realised that would be even worse than being rich; I’d end up being alone for eternity. But then I had it, I’ve always been a bit of a geek, so, super-powers! I could help people, be totally badass, and if the rubber band theory had anything to throw at me, I think I could handle it with my powers.

So, then it was a choice of what powers I wanted, and all had their ups and downs.

Spiderman – Awesomely cool powers, but I’d be really creepy, and being surrounded by that much creepy all the time isn’t good for anyone.

Superman – Too overpowered, plus it would be hard to hide.

Batman – No powers. Still awesome though.

You see, what I wanted was to be someone unassuming, and have powers that would be easy to control, and that wouldn’t freak people out. And I decided. I asked the genie for the super-powers of Peter Petrelli from Heroes. It was perfect! He’s totally badass, has awesome powers, and no-one would suspect a thing. So, now I have these powers and everything is awesome right? Yeah, that’s what I thought too. Until I remembered what Peter Petrelli’s powers were. You see, he actually doesn’t have all those powers naturally, he acquired them. His real power is that he can absorb other people’s powers. And so, I have the power to do that.

Except that there’s no-one else with powers.

Stupid Rubber Band Theory.

Free Love
Samuel Cooney

I cannot let you go
Or let you out of my sight.
I need to touch your pillow
And see you every single night.

Watching you shower,
You have nothing to hide.
Since the day we met
You were stripped of your pride.

One day we had a fight
But it wasn’t very fair.
You tried to run away;
You had me searching, scared.

They tell me it won’t be long.
You will stand up and leave.
I’ve already made a choice:
It’s no good for me to grieve.

Your space is easily filled;
New fish like you are rife.
And hopefully my next one
Is sentenced to 25 to life.

Busy
Emma Hardy

Based on ‘Somebody Else’s Business’ by the Pet Shop Boys

———

You love her, but.

She’ll laugh, make you like her. Later, tears will waterfall down her face. Mascara streaking from pitiful eyes, you won’t be able to resist.

You will try and comfort her. You will reach out your arms to hold her.

She’ll strike softly. She will turn things around, start asking what makes you cry, what your insecurities are.

She’s longing for reassurance that she’s not the only one, or so you’ll think.

You will argue:

‘I’m trying to help,’ you will both say, at intervals throughout the argument.

She will tell you, ‘I think you’re wasting my time.’

You will reply, ‘I think you’re evil,’ surprised by your own venom, using words you never thought you could mean.

She will inform you: ‘I know what you think,’ and laugh.

You will cry as she giggles; violent mood swings are her thing.

Life is never boring.

You hate her, but.

She’ll call you on the telephone, late at night, remind you of something and become the person you want her to be.

She’ll say she’s busy if you try to interrupt. She’s only happy when she’s minding somebody else’s business.

Socks
Christine Todd

JUDGE ENTRY INELIGIBLE

Based on ‘Wild Horses’ by The Rolling Stones.

———

- Childhood living is easy to do -

Lucy found it easy to ignore the muffled sobs coming from the next room. She heard them most nights. Tonight they were less intense and considerably less anguished. Rolling to her side she began to relax. It was her turn for show and tell tomorrow and she had the best show and tell ever. She had new socks. One sock named Rodney and the other named Alex. Everyone would like them.

- The things you wanted I bought them for you -

She made her mother breakfast most mornings. An egg, shell still intact, on some slightly mouldy bread. Her mother didn’t pay much attention to what she ate. She never seemed hungry anymore. She used to smile when Lucy warmed up her slippers in the microwave. They’d both laugh until it hurt. Rinsing a plate clean to present breakfast proved difficult. Three shattered wine bottles clogged up the drain while Tuesday’s dinner sat breeding on the drying rack. ‘That’s fine,’ Lucy said, ‘ I can put it on something else.’ Standing on her tiptoes, she snatched three unimportant-looking pieces of paper from atop the microwave and placed breakfast on them. Rummaging through her pockets she found five blue M&Ms. Her mother would like those. Now to the matter of finding Rodney and Alex. She’d left them on the kitchen bench the night before. They weren’t there. She looked in the laundry. Her little brother was in there, gurgling from underneath the washing basket. But the socks were nowhere to be found. Giving up, she headed towards her mother’s room. Knocking on the door she heard a whimper.
‘Mama, have you got my socks?’
Silence.
‘Mama, I brought you breakfast. I’ll put it on the floor here. I’m going to school now.’
A burp was her only reply. With a huff she lifted her schoolbag off the floor and headed out the door.

- Graceless lady, you know who I am -

Lucy tapped her feet mindlessly on the floor. The home bell had rung two hours before but Ms Banks refused to let her leave without a guardian as her escort. Her teacher had seemed alarmed earlier when Lucy mentioned that she hadn’t eaten anything for two days. The visit to the school counsellor replaced learning the 9x tables after recess. She’d never been able to grasp multiplication of nine. Besides, did nine want to be multiplied? She’d much rather divide nine. The counsellor’s questions seemed weird, but she answered them truthfully. She had no reason to not be truthful.
‘When was the last time you saw Mummy?’
‘Yesterday before school.’
‘When did Mummy last give you a bath, Lucy?’
‘She scrubbed underneath my arms with a wet towel about four days ago.’
‘That’s not a bath.’

Her mother stumbled in at around 5:30pm, reeking of cigarettes and alcohol. Lucy sat patiently as Ms Banks and her mother slipped into a side room for a chat. After much shouting her mother emerged from the room looking dazed but victorious. Lucy was proud. It was time to go home.

- You know I can’t let you slide through my hands -

Lucy held firmly onto her mother’s hand on the way home, preventing her from stumbling onto the busy road. Her mother could be extraordinarily clumsy. Most of the time, however, gravity defeated them both, with the eight-year old having to pull her mother by the ankles out of the gutter. Once more in a vertical position, Lucy glanced down at the pavement and caught sight of something familiar. Her new socks. On her mother’s feet!
‘Mama, you’ve got Alex and Rodney!’
‘Who’s Aix and Rooney?’
Lucy sighed playfully and asked where her little brother was. Her mother didn’t know. Somewhere, obviously. They both laughed. She held her mother’s hand tighter. Home soon.

- Wild horses couldn’t drag me away -

They found him in the laundry, chewing on a jumper. He’d been there all day, too short to reach the door handle. She played with him while her mother answered the door. A grumpy woman in a suit entered the room. Her mother looked wet around the eyes. The suited woman pulled Lucy aside.
‘We can take you away from here, Lucy. Somewhere better. Do you like toys?
‘Better?’
‘Do you like toys?’

The Art of the Swing
Susan Donim

Based on ‘House of Wolves’ by My Chemical Romance.

———-

‘Hey, have you heard about that new shop down the road?’
‘No, what about it?’

And that’s how it always goes. It never fails, actually. Every new town we go to, that’s how it always begins. So long as we hang up drapes the right colour (black usually starts the tongue-wagging), and sneak cursive glances at passers-by through the door crack before slamming it shut, it never fails.

“Changeling’s House of Swing”

Nice ring to it, don’t you think? And it rhymes. It’s not easy to come up with a new name every time, though. As we love Swing-dancing as much as, well, other Swing-dancers, we try to encouragers the Art, bringing in people who can already Swing, as well as introducing it to beginners and amateurs.

At first we didn’t get a lot of customers, but after the few who plucked up their courage to actually enter the shop saw that there was no harm whatsoever, business slowly picked up. After a few weeks, we advertised to have small gatherings. A few dancers, and a number of enthusiasts (knowledge–yes; practical experience–no) signed up. At this moment, it doesn’t matter whether you actually can Swing. The Ability can always be cultivated later.

One Saturday night, as we were having our weekly get-together at the back of my shop, this punk, and his posse of five barged in and began upending everything.

‘Hey, what are you doing?’ yelled Peter Dawson, one of said enthusiasts.

‘What is this? Why wasn’t I invited?’ said the ingrate.

‘Yeah!’ chimed his friend. ‘Mike here’s the best dancer in town.’

‘Well…’ I began lamely, before I was rudely interrupted.

‘I can dance with the best of them, even though it’s this… swing?’ said Mike, popping and locking just to prove that he could dance. ‘So next week, you better have somethin’ fun goin’ on, or we’ll do a lot worse.’

‘Yeah!’ yelled his friend again, reaching for poor Marjorie Banks, and shoving her to the floor.

I look at Mike. He’s one of those… young ‘uns, the ones that follow the crowd and dress like those people on TV nowadays. What are those people called again? Ah, yes. Rappers.

‘Alright,’ I said. ‘We’ll have something for you by the end of the week.’

*

So it’s another Saturday again, and here we are, at the doorway, welcoming our guests into our little shop. Well, I’m just being humble. Once we cleared out everything upstairs, which took a while, since Mike’s friends kept popping in (‘So’s you don’t forget about Saturday!’), we had the perfect dance floor. Some of our friends from out-of-town couldn’t make it, which was a real pity, but luckily, most of them could, giving us quite the crowd. And I had our usual band fly in. On short notice, even.

“Well, I think I’m gonna burn in hell. Everybody burn the house right down, and say-ay, what I wanna say…”

‘I thought you hags’re too ancient for Rock.’

Three guesses who’s arrived.

‘Mike,’ I said. ‘So good of you to finally show up, after having your friends harass us over the entire week… And I see you brought more people.’

Along with the five we were already forcefully acquainted with during the week, he brought another fifteen or so people with him.

‘Come on! We wanna get on the dance floor!’ yelled someone at the back, who, when she pushed her way past me, looked to be heavily tattooed and heavily pierced. She was followed closely by the ‘Yeah!’ guy, who, in typical fashion, blurted out another unimaginative ‘Yeah!’ as he passed me.

After pushing people out of their way, they began moving to their own beat. They were so much into their own reverie that it took them a while to notice that the band had already paused.

‘Hey, why’d the music st–?’ someone had protested, before being cut off, and I must say this, literally.

Being one of the many that bore witness to the unfortunate fate his friend had been dealt with, Mike whirled around. ‘Wha- what’s goin’ on?’ he stammered. Fear in his eyes now.

‘I think it’s time to show you what we normally do, when we come together,’ I said, giving them a toothy grin, as Vera finally made her long-overdue entrance..

*

In the end, Mike and his pals proved to have had some purpose in life: to serve others. Including Marjorie and Peter and our other new members to the Swing family.

You see, there are a lot of misconceptions about “were-wolves”, as they call us nowadays. How we automatically turn when the moon is full, how our animal halves take over, silver bullets, all that pish-posh. Imagine the inconvenience, if I were to shift, unannounced. Vera and I are civil when we want to be, and sure, I let her out every once in a while, but as I have full reign over our preternatural abilities, she doesn’t do things without the get-go from me.

One thing pop culture fails to mention: Our Talent and love for the Swing. We get it from our feral alter-egos. I’d have to say, though, that I wasn’t too bad a Swinger, even before I got Vera.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, we have some packing to do.

The Trapeze Swinger
Evan Sanders

Based on ‘The Trapeze Swinger’ by Iron and Wine.

———-

I cried.

I shouldn’t have cried.

I’m not supposed to cry.

I can’t have cried.

I don’t cry.

Ever.

So, I can’t have cried.

I couldn’t have cried.

I’m not supposed to cry.

Not even if I’m filled with doubt.

Or if I’m afraid.

Or grieving.

I’m strong.

I’m brave.

I’m stoic.

I’m not supposed to cry.

Not even if it’s all coming down around me.

All around the frightened trapeze swinger.

I Love You, Baby.
Xxxxx

Based on ‘Can’t Take my Eyes Off You’ by Frankie Valli.

———–

You’re just too good to be true.

You don’t know me, but you smile a warm smile as we’re introduced. You don’t have to do that. I’m just the hired help, just one of the guys who work the dangerous and sweaty magic that lets you soar. Just a roadie, tired and greasy. I fall in love. Just like that. Can you feel it?

Can’t take my eyes off of you.

We’re checking levels. You’re on stage and there’s gear spread all over. I’m in the scaffolding fixing a spot that’s blown, and you’re threading your way though the cables and junk. I worry you’ll trip, that you’ll fall down amongst the amps and junction boxes. There’s some serious current in our wiring jungle. But you weave through them, stepping gracefully. It’s as if you were dancing, just as you do in the show. Can you feel me watching? I know you can. I can feel it.

You’d be like Heaven to touch.

The stage is full. We roadies stand quietly back in the wings and watch the choreographer bully you and the dancer-nancy-boys through the routines. You twirl and kick your legs so high, so high. The pretty boys lift you on their shoulders then swing you. You laugh. You see us watching you. You pout and wink. I know the wink is for me, isn’t it. I watch every rehearsal. I’m sure you wink again. You don’t want a pretty boy. I’m not pretty, but I’m a man. You want a man. I know you do.

I wanna hold you so much.

I see you when you think no-one is looking. I know the outdoor set and backstage layout, and I know where I can sit, high in the flyover to watch you preening behind your screens, combing that famous hair in long strokes, mouing at the mirror. Undressing, just for me. All for me. I imagine lifting you to my shoulders like the dancers do, then pulling you to my chest and holding you tight as you laugh that clear trill the world knows so well. I could carry you away, keep you safe and warm. Love you the way you need to be loved. One day I know I will.

At long last love has arrived.

The night’s gig is over, and the stage is deserted. Except for me. We’ve finished cleaning up the mess the band has made of their section. I’m sweeping the mess, throwing the cans in a sack, mopping up the sticky beer stains. Someone’s pissed in a drum. Bastards.

And then you’re there, drifting onto the stage.

And I thank God I’m alive.

I know you’ve come to find me. We’ll be together. We were meant to be together. I call out. I say the words I’ve been wanting to say all these nights. Why are you not smiling? I’m just looking for my watch, leave me alone, you say. The scowl means you’re just being coy, I can tell. I reach out to enfold you, to hold you the way I know you want me to. To show you a man’s embrace. You scream. We can’t have that. You are mine now. I tell you so. Your eyes open wide. I reach for you.

You’re just too good to be true.

And suddenly you are dancing! I see you twirl, you leap so, so incredibly high. You kick so fast. I feel a jolt to my throat. My windpipe, crushed. I can’t breathe, I can’t move. You’re bending over me. The dark starts creeping in from the edges. All I can see is your face.

Can’t take my eyes off of you.

Cheese and Biscuits
Christine Todd

JUDGE ENTRY INELIGIBLE

My dearest Marie,

You will be pleased to hear that I am still in the land of the living, old girl. Though conditions here are dreadful, I battle on with the knowledge that I will be in your arms soon. The nights here are cold and wet, though much of the gunfire has ceased for now. Rations have been halved to cheese and biscuits. How I hate the sight of those biscuits.

I pray to God each day that you and the boys remain fit and well. Remind George to scrub behind his ears.

Yours for evermore,

Pte. Charles Denham
16 May, 1915

Attached:
It is my saddest regret to inform you that Pte. Charles Denham was not able to post this letter personally, as he was fatally wounded the morning of May 19th, 1915. My prayers are with your family.
- Lt. Henry Campbell
23 May, 1915

Rejection
Flora Finkelstein

Dear Ms Crush,
We pride ourselves on being the only accurate love calculation service. Our workers strive to achieve 95% accuracy. We regret to inform you that despite your keen interest in Mr Pine, he’s not a successful match for you.
We read your report. You stated that from the first time you met Mr Pine, you felt something for him. Your desire was sudden; it was something that you had never felt before. You had the urge to know everything about him, so you took the chance and became his friend. Your feelings grew. For the first time everything seemed right. You thought back to all the romantic films, you were sure you knew how it was gong to end.
The reason for Mr Pine not being suitable for you isn’t clear nor does it make any sense. We were extremely confused at the mixed signals that we were getting. You both seem to have a lot in common, looking for the same traits in a partner and have similar personalities. It’s common knowledge that opposites attract, though this is an old wives tale. You can lust after someone that is completely opposite to you. Though! To have a long and lasting relationship you need to have common ground, something that will go deeper than sexual attraction.
In all my years of professional and personal experience, the positives of love can sometimes be wiped out by days, months, even years of emotional and physical pain. No matter how intelligent, strong or experienced you are, it never gets easier. The world of love holds hope, excitement and pure happiness. It usually ends with obsession, self-hate, depression and tears.
It almost seems that we are programmed to be unhappy, to conform and self-destruct. How often do nice people who would make perfect partners end up alone? Despite the fact that everyone claims to want a nice person, they tend to go for people who are complicated and abusive, whether physically, verbally, sexually or emotionally. People also claim not to go on appearances, though this has been proven time and time again to be false. What makes matters more distressing is when they realise the relationship isn’t right but they stick by it, scared to be alone. They start making up excuses, talk up small crumb of positive and hide any negatives no matter how big they are. Most people who are in relationships are unhappy.
Some people are destined to be alone. It’s easier to accept this fact than to spend your life searching for something that isn’t there.
My last note to you, typical as this may sound, is that it’s highly important to be in touch with who you are. If you can be happy with yourself, then no matter what life throws at you, it will be easier to handle. It doesn’t mean you’ll end up with someone, but if you do, you’ll be emotionally ready for it. If not, you won’t need somebody to complete you.
There’s one thing that I can promise you! It’s a guarantee. That I’ll be seeing you again. No matter how unlikely it seems, the sun always shines through. This doesn’t guarantee that it’ll work out next time or even the next few. As humans we’re programmed to love, it makes us human and is what keeps me in business. I wish you all the best, you have a long path, and once you get through it you’ll be a much stronger person.

Kind regards,
Flora Finkelstein
Love Path

Dear John
Susan Donim

Dear Arnott’s Shapes (Pizza),

We really have to stop meeting like this… in front of my laptop, with YouTube running unnoticed in the background. It’s really obvious that what we have between us is detrimental to both sides (I mean, you get digested, I get it in my hips), and well… I’m not getting any work done because I can’t concentrate and focus when I’m craving for you or when the indigestion hits. And besides, it’s hurting my budget, since four boxes of you are supposed to last me a week, and here I am, a box a day, eating you like there’s no tomorrow. And I’m on the transfer program, don’t even get me started on the exchange rate (which is three times, by the way).

I can’t believe I’ve allowed this addiction to go so far… I’ve tried moderation, I’ve tried the Tim-Tam Double-Coats, I’ve even tried switching to the Cheese And Bacon and the Nacho Cheese, but nothing’s working! I’m sorry, I’m just gonna have to go cold turkey. Once I finish the one box I have left, I’m cutting you off. It’ll be a tough time ahead, definitely for me, not so much for your manufacturers (after all, I am but a tiny speck in their demographical sea), but I’m sure it’s for the best.

My tastebuds are yours forever,

A. G. Lutton

A Letter of Unquenched Affection, Meditative Searching, and Mild Paranoia
Kirk Marshall

Excised most recently from the published weblog of Mr. O. Mildsauce: The Kangaroo Point Cherry Bomb Massacres: The Online ‘Bloggers’ Diaries of Oasis Mildsauce

To: Mr. Cyrus Dervish, a love letter
c/o: Mr. Oasis Mildsauce, f.a.t. [fugitive at large]

Dear Cyrus,

Love is a many-splendoured thing. This means: talking about it without care for some alternating intellectual conversation is both bad form, and lacking in the species of sanity most preferred in the parameters of our greater society – it shows that I’m lacking in a rational mind, the sort that comes to those who speak often and with unalloyed commitment about sports, bad contemporary music or uninspired old music, beer and its many enlightening functions, the moment of transcendence seen to be symptomatic of an arduous and prolonged shit, and the riddle ‘Why do women have legs?’ (Answer: to go behind their ears, bucko!).

I’m obviously just not very good at proper conversation, then (or Misogynist Epistemology 101, for that matter). Because of this, I won’t even fucking try. Instead, I will wax lyrical, address many matters of love organic and everlasting, tell you of my lonely heart’s lonely hunting, of newfound clarity, of my profound and immodest hunger for you, every piece of you, of the finest memories shared in your company, distilled in amber as of the bubbles in ageless champagne, speak to you of the finest memories to be had and to be shared in your company, of your best moments, of our triumphant sex, of the quickening pulse of my phoenix blood as I write this, of unscaleable erections and the haunting melancholy whispers of your exhalations pillaging my body’s quietest dreams. I write you about how I need you desperately. I write you about how I miss you unapologetically. I write you about how I quake with yearning to cradle your head. I write you because nothing is as bright without you. The world is more flat, angular, poisonous with glare and rancid with an aroma of sour joy. I have to shield my eyes too often, wince and stagger my way through a life now desolate: you make everything, for me, so soft – and now I crave it. I write you because out here, with nothing but paper and pen, you relearn the reason why having someone else is so unspeakably special. You inspire vegetable love in me, Cyrus, and it grows, grows and is forever nourishing my strength. You are my soul as paradise imagined it to be.

You, Cyrus, as a human being, are a rarity in perfection, and if I imperil any extant reputation that I do currently uphold by espousing such seeming champion pretentiousness, I will go out of my way – anti-clockwise, finest friend – to illustrate just why such a trembling statement is so. As I hunker beneath the alcove of this decrepit house, caressed and lullabied by the placental warmth of strange winds, I also stare with a vacant hope at the weave and texture of this paper in my hands, and a dying thing inside me skitters about, its limbs spidery and sickly, propelling itself slowly along the wistful corridors of my sorry sore lungs. I’m crying over you so much, you motherfucking phantom, you, who has forsaken me, you, my favouritest of all sweetmeats, you, Dervish, who showed me such sublime little deaths, who held my hand in so many toffee apple moments, who was there when the police arrived with torchlight and trigger finger, there when we laboured to give birth to our ouroboros, our aurealis, painted this modern-day dystopia with secret shades from the dead graffiti greats, painted Brisbane red – red, as though without prior notice God suddenly decided to return to the kingdom He’d long ago branded obscene, his angry gaze illuminating the skies; you and me, shaking the shit out of this asshole place, rockets from our own hands plumbing the stratospheric depths.

Did you love Operation Glow, my twisty demented darling? Did you love that time where we finally came into our own, as though our feet finally grew big enough to leave a set of complete footprints? They frogmarched me, manhandled and dishevelled, into the back of their car, all yowl and warble, and one cop looked at me, and his face became mute and bunched up with a wrath that wriggled out in maggots of perspiration, and he said: ‘You’re a bastard, Mr. Mildsauce.’ And I demonstrated unto him such privilege, proffered him nought but a creeping smile in response, and so I spat words like they were made of demon tobacco: ‘The word is “orphan”, you dickweed.’ That was my shiniest second, Cyrus. But now, out here, without your company, I do feel orphaned, and it’s nothing to crow about. I could just lay down right now, and eat the dirt beneath my feet.
See, we don’t spend enough time dedicated to stepping back so as to allow our eyes to glory in the panorama, to encompass the empty big embrace of the universe. I’ve been staring at depressed stars that shed celestial tears like runny silver ink, and every time I see the twinkle I feel small, real small. I don’t know what that means exactly, my beloved stained knight, but I like it, I like knowing that I’m crying with the stars. I like knowing that I see a bigger picture, finally, finally, finally. I like knowing that when those two fucking dogs that have been ghosting me, eating up my footfalls, when they return, I shall not scream again, I shall send them away croaking and scampering. I have something to live for, and I will continue to uphold loyalty to this creed. I live to hear music again, Cyrus. I live to hear you getch’all moan on and croon Nina Simone in the shower until fucking exanimate. I live to drink in your skin and our song, cinnamon and ‘Sinnerman’.

Oh. So why are you a rarity in perfection? When I’m with you, I’m an orphan with family.

x

O.

SMS
Danny Beaton

BJ, stop, i just dont have feelings
for you nemore. sorry.
From: Sam (mob)
3:29am 14/2/08

Dear Sammy
Xxxxx

Dear Sammy,

Thank you for your April contribution to “The Flasher”.

It’s obvious that you’ve put in a great deal of work. The spelling is perfect. The punctuation? Well, we were just taken aback by the perfection, Sammy. It’s such a relief to edit an author who will never accuse us of being Apostrophe Nazis. Your sentence structure is brilliant – if not a tour de force of the literary art. At the risk of appearing to gush, we congratulate you on your mastery of plot and narrative. It’s not every author who can put a point in only 210 words, in an almost haiku-like manner.

On behalf of the editors, I’d like to thank you for gracing our competition with your work and let you know that you are this month’s winner. Yes, we know April isn’t over, but the choice is already obvious.

Yours sincerely
Xxxxx
For “The Flasher”.

PS: Please let us know where we can pick up Graham. Will we need a stretcher?

Final Notice
Sammy

No it’s not the gas bill! Just a friendly reminder to let you know I still have Graham. Surely it couldn’t have escaped your thoughts that he has now been gone for over a week? No, Graham wouldn’t know the feeling of not being wanted.
As I write this to you he is asleep – well, unconscious to be precise. You see, he hasn’t been very co-operative so far. I’ve used rope and tape, but still he resists. So I decided to club him in the back of the head with my beretta. I resisted the urge to hit him again. Who would pay for a dead body? Especially one with a cracked skull? You wouldn’t even be able to have an open casket at his funeral.
I will be in contact with you in the next few days. Frankly, I can’t understand how you can handle Graham. Just over a week and I’m struggling to resist every urge to put a knife down his throat, or a bullet in his head, or both.
You know what you have to do. You have four days. Get it done. Otherwise it won’t be a closed casket at his funeral, but a bunch of bricks in his coffin.

Until then I remain,
…

Sociopathetic
Evan Sanders

Dear Abby,

People often write to you and ask for help, and that’s exactly what I need right now, though it may be a bit beyond your scope. You see, last night while I was out doing my usual night alone in a bar, I met someone. She was beautiful, incredibly beautiful. She was intelligent, and interesting, I can honestly say I’ve never met anyone quite like her.

You know that point when you meet someone, and you know that they’re perfect in every way, no-one else could ever take their place, and you would never want anyone else to. That is what she represented to me. And as they say, she came exactly when I wasn’t looking.

So, we talked for a little while and things got quite personal, and so after a little while we went back to my place, and it happened. It was amazing, I’ve never felt anything like that before, sure I’ve done it, but she just made it special, like I would never want to do it again. It was an amazing night, and I really hope it happens again and again.

But anyway, to the problem at hand, what’s the best way to dispose of a dead body? Don’t get me wrong, she looks even more beautiful dismembered in her own blood, but as we all know, the smell of rotting flesh is bound to raise all types of suspicion! I haven’t quite discovered my way of doing things yet; still working on my MO, so any help is appreciated.

Sincerely,
Morgan D.

Kays
Alan Sewell

Just drivin along on the highway. There’s a car in front drivin about five or six kays under the limit. A reduced speed. I don’t mind. Other folk do though. I see em whip past me in a huff into the other lane. They speed up well over the limit until they’re past the slower car in front and scoot back over before the oncomin traffic becomes a threat. See someone flip off the poor sod in front as they pass and I even see spit come outta one window, you know. I can’t hear em speak but I see their mouths move all the same. Then they wind em up because the wind is flappin their hair around and they’re goin pretty fast and it can worry some if they hang around in the oncoming lane for too long. Doesn’t worry some other though. One particular vehicle chanced it in front of a semi trailer. An old truckie friend once told me that it’s suicide to brake hard when you’re in front of a semi trailer. Wonder what you’d call folk who speed up in front of an oncomin one? They still chance it.

Me? Well I just like to hang back. Slow folk don’t bother me. There’s a limit but some don’t want to feel pressured. I can understand that. I don’t think he pays any heed. I just watch things unfold, you know. The people who overtake mind him but he takes no mind for em. I can understand that. There’s this one car with young blokes that speed by with music blarin louder than the engine. These young blokes look my vehicle up and down. I pay no heed. My car ain’t anythin to be pleased about visually, but it gets me to where I want it to go. I’m not pressured. I’m not young.

This stretch of highway is pretty long, say one twenty, one thirty kay long between towns. Nothin much in between I guess so I can tell why folk speed past to get to the other town as quickly as they can. A road has only two ways you can go and these folk who speed past know that the cops don’t mind the speedin. Hell I see the cops goin fast without their sirens not chasing anybody and when someone notices they put on their siren. Obvious excuse.

Almost in town. It can get pretty hectic sometimes with the trucks. This particular road is the lifeblood of the towns that dot along it. There’s no other way to get supplies so the trucks are the only form of transport to keep the towns ripe. No airports or airstrips and too far inland for boats to carry stuff.

The car in front puts on his indictor and shrugs off the road on to the dirt and I get a brief glance at him as he waves at me merrily. Some folk just like to take it easy and he needn’t pull over to let me pass. He’s probably a city person who’s too used to lacing through slow traffic. Doesn’t matter. I stick to the same speed anyway. Grown accustomed to it I guess. A pleasant few kays under the limit. No problems here.

Shopping
Gertrude Pippa

A woman walks through sticky crowds with her head held high. Despite the heat she wears a cloth over her hair and sunglasses shaped like teardrops on their sides. Halfway down the market bazaar she steps off the busy streets and under the cool shade cloth of a green grocer’s stall. She is merely wasting time whilst her husband settles a business deal. They flew over from London four days ago and the muggy weather has begun to irritate her skin. She gets eczema in the heat and has to try to avoid exerting herself during the hottest period of the day.

She picks up a ripe tomato and toys with it in her hands. Her fingers linger over the fruit and then she dips one into a barrel of chickpeas. The lace of her gloves restricts her from completely feeling the pleasure of the peas sliding around, hustling to get away from her fingers’ touch. She longs to take them off, get completely naked and sink into the darkness of the chickpea barrel, to share their heaviness and shift between them like a kindred pea.

Just enough time has passed and she knows that she must resist the foolish longings forming in her mind and return to her husband.

“Excuse miss, you plan buy that?” The grocer indicates to her hands with a jerk of his head. She looks down and sees the red skin of the tomato.

“Oh. Yes please. I suppose I do.” She reaches into her purse and pays with shining coins.

Exiting the awning, she is hit by the sounds of reality and she disappears back into the sweaty mass of population, like a pea in a barrel.

Nighthawks
Samuel Cooney

I think the shotgun blast will hit me sometime between six and seven. Phillie’s diner is small and the windows are large; I ain’t hiding anymore. Every time I hear the jingle from the door bell I start counting. One banana. Two bananas. Three bananas. By the time my hand around the empty white mug has changed into a big bunch of yellow fingers I assume the two heavies will have confirmed that I am me and that there is no trap and they will shoot me in the back.

I hope that the barman doesn’t catch any. For most of the night I’ve been the only one here; every time he refills my coffee he tells me something about his little Gracie. He has polished the glasses four times; his tired, shaking fingers are glossy and smooth.

I won’t turn around for them. They have been chasing me and I have been running but there is no point because even when I run and hole up in cheap rooming-houses like Mrs Hirsch’s I can’t forget that I am now running alone. They were at Henry’s diner last night; they tied up Adams and the nigger cook and waited but I didn’t show. Why go to dinner when you ain’t even hungry?

There is a man opposite me who could be my twin. I did hear once that seeing one’s own doppelgänger is a deathly omen. Sitting next to him is his girl; their fingers are intertwined. Her red dress looks familiar, as does her ginger hair. She smiled at me before and I involuntarily reached out to my left but searching fingers found only an empty stool.

The barman refills my mug, the doorbell jingles again.

Invisible Elephants
Anastasia Parker

Heading down to the beach. A cool sea breeze plays with my hair as it dances freely around me. The sun is beginning to set and the tide is slowly coming in. Lucy was right: it is quiet down here.

I scan the shore to find her. She is sitting near the big rocks where we used to play when we were younger. She is alone. I’m glad she is here. I haven’t talked to anyone in the last few days, and she is the kind of person that seems to make you forget all sadness. She can blot the pain out of you with her caring face, and gentle words.

I step off the grass; the sand is dry and stiff, yet brittle beneath my large, weathered feet. It cracks into little pieces, like I am Godzilla, leaving giant cracks as I chase people through the busy streets. I feel a longing to be back on my sagging sofa with a big tub of ice cream. Resisting the urge to retreat home, I trudge on. The childbearing kilos seem nothing compared to the emotional herd of elephants lazily weighing down my mind.

Lucy looks up from her distant stare and smiles at me. Instantly the sadness seems to slowly slip away into the deeper parts of my mind, put in a box for later. She pats the sand next to her, inviting me to sit.

I sit down and lean back against the smooth, cool rock. I stare at my feet, unable to speak. I become self-conscious so I bury my feet in the sand.

‘What happened?’

‘I’m still not sure.’ I can’t think of how to explain it. I feel hot then cold, angry then hurt.

‘Where is he staying?’

‘In a motel. The kids think he’s on a business trip.’ My eyes begin to sting.

‘Do you know who she is?’

I cannot answer. The image searing my mind makes a painful return.

The door was wide open, and I could hear the devious giggles from down the hall. Through the sprawled sheets I could see the young, brown, supple legs intertwined with his. It wasn’t completely unexpected, but what was, was the substantial grief and hurt that followed.

My Alice-like tears fall to the dry sand. Lucy wraps her arm around me and strokes my hair. I cry into her soft, blue, cotton dress.

‘You knew didn’t you?’

I nod, refusing to return from the safety of her soft dress and comforting embrace.

‘Why didn’t you confront him? Didn’t you want to end it?’

I wipe my eyes and return to meet hers.

‘He was never faithful to me, Lu. I knew but I thought it didn’t matter. It wouldn’t matter as long as I didn’t see, or refused to see.’

Her eyes tell me that she understands. Taking a deep breath I lean back against the smooth, cool rock once more. I close my eyes and the cool sea breeze plays with my hair. The heat from the anger settles, and I feel calm and relaxed. Though nothing has changed, a small weight is lifted, some pain removed. The healing has begun, with the removal of one elephant at a time.

Conversations with Id
Arie de Bruyn

I’ve quit smoking for three days now; this is my fifth attempt. The first time, I did it to prove a point; that if I truly wanted to quit, I could, I just didn’t want to at this point in time. That was five years ago. The second time, I did so with the intention to reduce the cost of my life insurance policy. There was also the added factor of fear concerning the increased risk of death that came with smoking, but mainly it was about negotiating a cheaper rate with the insurance company. I sparked back up again two days after the policy was approved, I was still susceptible to major fraud and a potential lawsuit worth jail-time, but I had just saved myself two thousand bucks! That was three years ago. The third time didn’t turn out to be as lucky as my friends and family assured me it would be. The fourth time proved to be the longest period I remained nicotine-free, but quitting smoking wasn’t a ‘practice makes perfect’ kind of deal, you either quit, or you kept on inhaling ash and sucking in deadly poison. I always found myself caving-in at that same point. That situation that allowed the irrefutable logic that convinced my mind that continuing to smoke cigarettes was the best option my life could possibly have: cancer, heart disease, amputation, bronchitis, the wasted cash, the low sperm-count, everything, all of it… it just clicked together as the most positive set of elements that one could possibly hope to achieve.

It was that same situation now; it had only been three days. I was on the train platform, waiting for the ten thirty-five that would take me home; it had been delayed by ten minutes and would arrive in twenty. I could smell the impending rain that would storm down shortly, my ability to smell having just returned. I focused upon this sense more than any other as I waited; a hamburger being consumed nearby, the perfume of the attractive blonde who had just walked past wearing that black mini-skirt, my own body odor that had the odd aroma of refried beans, and the cigarette that was being lit by an unknown twenty meters up the platform, I didn’t even need to see the guy to know how far away he was.

The platform twisted and transfigured itself as that ever-so familiar scent filled my nostrils, sending me into a light head-rush. Soon I found myself somewhere else, a shadowed train platform; sign-posts that were straight lay crooked, bent in multiple areas producing razor sharp edges. I was still sitting down, but from beneath me fires spewed upwards, I tried raising my legs but I could not help burning the soles of my feet that now lay bare. It was a nightmare, I began to swat at my ears believing I heard mosquitoes buzzing around; I slapped myself, half for the invisible pests, and half to try and snap myself out of the irate state that was being brought upon me by my surreal surroundings.

A man in a seal skin suit with accompanying velvet pants approached me, I slumped down and avoided eye-contact, focusing my gaze upon his shoes, they were classy, a sheik black and polished to shine, I could even see my own reflection alongside flames that seemed to encompass my own image, I could feel the heat of the fire, as the man began in a lecturing tone, “Garry, Garry, Garry, I thought we had a deal…”
I had no recollection of such an agreement, “Really sir,” the man’s presence demanded respect, “I can’t remember any deal, care to refresh my memory sir?”
“Oh the deal, you know Garry, the deal? Why are you trying to get out on that anyway?”
“You mean smoking sir?”
“Well there’s that and the deal, it’s an integral part of the deal, the part that makes me begin to doubt whether you’re a man of your word or not. You are a man of your word aren’t you Garry?” the man let out a pig-like snort, I still feared to make eye-contact, focusing upon my own reflection within his shoes.
“Well… I try to be. It’s just that I don’t want die prematurely, I want the family, I want to have kids, I want…”
“But Garry, we all die, as for dying prematurely, we don’t get much say about that.”
“But it’s not only about quantity; it’s about the quality of life.”
“I couldn’t have said it better myself; how much better does it get than laying down on the patio, taking in a deep breath of that sweet, and exhaling, oh Garry it’s giving me an erection just thinking about it.”
“Now that’s a point, what about impotence?”
“Oh Garry,” the man chuckled, “it’s not as if you’re getting any anyway.”
“But I want to be an actor; I want to get in shape, how am I meant to do that when if I go for a run I end up in a coughing fit. It’s all about image you know?”
“That’s absolutely right, it is all about image, and smoking makes you look bad-ass, plus it has the effect of aging, the mature look suits you…”
“Yeah, you’re probably right; no you’re definitely right…” I went to shake his hand but he wasn’t there anymore, I was back on the train platform. The smoke from the recently lit cigarette magnetized me towards its point of origin, the man twenty meters up the platform.

Hey mate, can you spare a smoke?” I asked.
“Sure can,” he winked at me, “I know what it’s like to go without for a couple of days.” As he lit me up, inhaling, I felt that familiar numb feeling pass from head-to-toe. The rain soon descending, I hugged the wall, providing as much shelter as possible in an effort not to ruin my cherished, treasured, afflictive cigarette.

JUDGE ENTRY INELIGIBLE

Kiss Chasy
Miriam Reynoldson

I get talking to a pretty woman after her dog starts chasing my dog in the park. It runs a circle round mine, so mine runs another circle to escape. Soon their leashes are desperately intertwined and the two of us humans have to get with the detangling.
I tug my leash and shout, “Lacey, no!”
The woman shouts, “Mark, no!”
And the both of us look up.
“Funny,” she says. “Lacey is my name.”
I shake my head. “I’m Mark.”
Dogs detangled and disciplined, our conversation heads for the nearest empty bench. Mark the labrador flumps down at my feet and pants. Lacey the bulldog leaves her leash behind and goes off to smell things. And Human Lacey asks, “So why’d you name her Lacey?”
“This’ll sound terrible,” I tell her, “but I named her after a girl I went to school with when I was eight or so.”
“What’s so terrible about that?” asks Lacey. “That’s kinda sweet.”
“Well, this girl had a major cleft lip. A lot of the boys called her “Dog Girl”, you know, because her mouth was sort of doglike, and she used to make a weird sort of snuffling noise sometimes when she breathed. I remember we used to play kiss chasy in the playground with all the girls, and one time my friends dared me to kiss Lacey. I was really scared of how it would feel, and what she’d do to me. But I didn’t want to look like a wuss, so I ran after her and pinned her against a wall, and I kissed Dog Girl right on the lips. Goddamn, I was washing my mouth out for hours.”
I look up at Lacey, shaking out the memory. “I guess when I got the dog, it seemed like a good joke to name it after her.”
Lacey nods slowly.
I shift. “So why Mark, then?”
She looks away, her eyes tracing the path of the bulldog on the grass. “When I was a kid, I had no friends. No one would come near me. But this one day at school, I was standing around waiting for recess to be over when a boy raced up to me, pushed me against a wall, and kissed me. Even my father never kissed me. That boy let me believe that I could be normal. That people could like me, could want to touch me. He changed my life.”
She looks back at me, and, because I’m searching for it, I notice the faint scar that runs from her lip to her nostril. Her hair is dyed black now. Twenty years. I’d never have guessed.
“I moved schools a year later. Never saw him again,” Lacey says. “But I called the dog Mark because I never forgot.”
The bulldog comes trotting back toward us. She sniffs and snuffles at Lacey’s lap, then gives her hand a great big affectionate lick.

Butterflies
Flora Finkelstein

I can do this! My hands are sweating; I feel my heart race; it’s as if my skin is the only thing holding it into place. Butterflies flap around my stomach, wanting nothing more than to open my stomach and escape. Amy is skipping with Tam and Belinda; they’re singing a song as they jump through the rope. I take a deep breath and make my way over to them. Each step seems amplified; they see me! They’re giggling at me!

It takes all my power to keep on walking; a fat boy is stuffing chips into his mouth. He doesn’t wait to swallow before he shoves another handful into his mouth. They stop skipping. Amy looks at me; I can feel her stare go through my body like I’ve been staked. I hear my own voice, though I have no control. I can’t get the words out.
“What do you want, Eve?” Amy has her arms crossed, she waits for a reply.
I whisper “To forget!”
Amy smirks, she drops the skipping rope, it tangles on the ground. “You can’t escape that easily.” She makes her way to me, my heart beats faster.
I take a step back and reply, “I’ll run!”
She laughs, “I’ll just chase you.”
Before I know what I’m doing, I run away. I don’t even know why. I pick up speed as if the tension in my heart is being pumped out. A girl hangs over the monkey bars, before I get the chance to stop I smack into her. I fall to the ground, my teeth feel as if they are going to fall out.

I open my eyes to see Amy lying next to me. She smiles and intertwines her legs with mine. I close my eyes; I’ve never felt this way about anyone. I don’t even know what this is. I tried to forget.” I turn on my side; it forces our legs to intertwine even more.
Amy’s face gets tense, she looks around. “Don’t let them hear you say that!” Once again the fear sets into me, I try to get up. Amy places a hand onto my chest, she holds me into place. “You know if they hear you, you’ll be in trouble.” Her face is tense, I want nothing more than to lean forward and kiss her. To feel her lips on mine, before I can stop myself I lean forward. Our lips touch; I’m not sure what comes next. It doesn’t seem to matter, I melt. Taken way from the bars that surround me, for the first time in months I feel happy.

Amy and I are forced apart; a paper bag is placed over my head. I can’t see her anymore, I start to scream, I can’t breathe. “Please! Let me go!” I scream at the top of my lungs, but it doesn’t do any good. The powerful beings are still dragging me off further into darkness. I start to cry, “I tried to forget.” My voice breaks up; I can hear Amy crying in the distance.

The being speaks to me, its voice is deep. “You need to be punished! If you want to bleed, you need to be pure of sin.”
I hear a door open, I’m pushed inside. The bag is ripped off my head. “Sir, we found them kissing.” The man raises his eyebrow, he signals for them to leave. The door closes behind them. “You filthy child, you’re nothing but a shell.” He comes to the front of the desk, he kneels in front of me. “A shell that we-” he puts his hand inside my pants, “-like to fill up.” He smiles at me.

“How old are you now?” His hand stays there, I’m paralysed. “Nine and a half.” I can barely get the words out. “Have you bled your sins out yet?” I shake my head, shame fills my body. I knew that my activities and feelings for Amy were holding me back.
I can’t take it anymore. “I tried to forget.”
His smile fades. “You didn’t try hard enough.” He leads me to the floor, “Lie down here.” I do as he says, he lies on top of me. He unzips his pants, I close my eyes, tears start to build up. I hope this time he can fix me, that he can make me bleed, so that I’m able to belong in the world. It doesn’t hurt as much as it used to, though it doesn’t feel right.
“Yes, that’s it, child. You’re enjoying this.”
I start to cry, what a horrible person I am. Misleading him, I’m the devil. I want nothing but for it to stop, I’m an ungrateful child and don’t deserve his love. I start to scratch my arms, the pain makes me forget my thoughts, it takes away the pain. I feel the master being’s breath on my neck; his body holds me into place. I feel something liquid shoot into my fluffalina; I know it’s the thing that helps you bleed if you’re having trouble. I let out a sigh of relief.

Untitled
DAemon

Alright, so there’s not really any good reason for you to worry about it. I mean, what’s the point? You worry, you stress, you burn out, you give up, and the family and friends around you give you shit about it.
Your mother’s the worst, griping and moaning, but what’s she got to be worried about, huh? You’d think it was her who’s failing, she’s so fucking irate about the damned thing. So, you get rid of the stress, reduce the responsibility, lower your expectations, and somehow you do better, you get the answers, understand the concepts, draw the right
conclusions from the right information and it all makes sense. Until the tests arrive, at least, and then it’s done, isn’t it? All the work, the stress, the strain – it all goes into three hours of work and you’re too busy to worry, because there’s not any point any more,
is there? It’s all over all too soon, and that’s that. No, really.
That. Is. That.

My Angel
Stuart E

It was her overripe sexuality that drew me to her from across the bar, I think.
Unfortunately for her she was beautiful, which meant I never stood a chance.
Well, not the same chance as the other guys.
They gave me Rohypnol because I couldn’t sleep, and now I don’t because I’ve got it.
She did.
For a while I just looked at her, sound asleep in my bed, the lace ropes keeping this angel from Heaven a little longer.
She screamed when she woke.
She screamed so much the only way I could make her stop was hitting her.
I hit her so many times.
She was just like the others.
I had to make her be quiet.
She cried a lot, and begged me to let her go, she even said please once.
I held her close to me, and smelt her hair.
It was getting dark outside when she started getting cold.

A Dirge of Anamnesis
Evan Sanders

I forget, am I chasing him or is he chasing me?

It’s cold out here.

Why am I out here?

I forget.

Is he near me?

Dark as well, hope I don’t get lost.

No, I can’t get lost, I’m supposed to be chasing him. Or is it the other way around?

I forget.

We were chasing each other, right?

Maybe…

What happened? Was it some complicated, intertwined series of events? Is he just doing this for fun?

Maybe…

But I forget.

It’s getting cold out.

What made him so angry? Why is he chasing me?

It’s dark.

Or am I chasing him?

I need to sit.

Who is he?

I forget.

Why am I out here?

I smell blood.

What reasons do we have?

There’s something hot and sticky on my neck.

Are we intertwined?

I remember a gunshot.

Is this just random?

A loud gunshot.

What am I chasing?

I should lie down.

Do I know him?

Maybe…

Does he know me?

I forget.

Who is chasing whom?

There’s something squishy where hair should be.

I need to know the reasons.

It’s cold.

It seems so random.

And dark.

I should move.

Something wet.

It’s getting colder.

And squishy.

Where is he?

In my head.

Where am I?

Something wet and squishy in my head.

Wait, who am I?

I touched it.

I hope he doesn’t find me.

I touched the wet and squishy thing in my head.

It’s so cold and dark.

I can touch something wet and squishy inside my head.

What’s it called again?

I forget.