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Speed Demon
By Lydia Riley
56 words


He's spray-painting his tag on the Dumpster, a very animated monster, suitable for a speed demon like him. He finishes, tosses the can away, and hops on his skateboard, doing manic figure-eights on the wet asphalt, quick, glorious. I wonder if he's doing meth again, and I realize I don't care right now-he's perfect out there.




Lydia Riley is a shameless lush who is barely tolerated by the residents of Kansas City, Missouri. She enjoys punting puppies, being felt up by burlesque performers, and knitting little socks for unfortunate orphans. Website: www.editred.com/LydiaRiley

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Kiss of the Blowtorch
By Howie Good
96 words


The older kids showed us how using a Bic lighter and a can of Right Guard. With one hand hold the lit lighter far out from you and with the index finger of the other press the little plastic nozzle on top of the can, and when the spray hits the flame, Hiroshima, a blowtorch of chemical fire good for shriveling toads and caterpillars or cremating the industry of ants. The smell was awful, like a stall in a public bathroom, but we were young, and it was summer, and there were many things to burn.





Howie Good, a journalism professor at the State University of New York at New Paltz, is the author of seven poetry chapbooks, including Tomorrowland (2008) from Achilles Chapbooks in print and The Torturer’s Horse (2009) from Recycled Karma Press online. He has been nominated three times for a Pushcart Prize and twice for the Best of the Net anthology.

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Human Appliance
by Bernardo Gregori
82 words


Phillips did not conceive god's son; yet, never touched before, he got pregnant with a divine idea.

Born with no arms, legs, eyes or wings; he was unquenchably convinced that he had to accept the real world as it is. He never shed a tear dreaming of walking, hugging, watching, or flying.

He just put on a raincoat, slid his way in, and shook his booty all night long, while them gals never had to spend a dime on batteries no more.




Bernardo Gregori is a poet, writer, musician and graphic artist. He believes his mission is to create such a unique style it will culminate in another language.

Bernardo Gregori believes writers are holy, magical vessels; the true storyteller is each reader.




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Bridgette
By Spencer Green
61 words


One autumn afternoon, having exhausted all other possibilities, Bridgette lifted her blue eyes past red leaves to the sun. Without closing her eyes, she let the light bring darkness till nothing changed when she blinked. Turning around, she reached out her hand and passed along peeling green paint till she found a firm chest and strong arms; she smiled and apologized.




Spencer Green is a writer of shorts, lists, non-fiction, and haiku. He recently completed an MA in English and will be entering a PhD program in Folklore this fall.




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Bellybutton Fluff
By Crispin Best
100 words


You don't complain when I pluck you out of my navel with two fingers. Where the Dickens did you come from? Why are you that colour? When I put you down on the lip of the bath, you are stoic and agreeable. What are you? When I blow on you, to check your reflexes, it is like someone has let go of a balloon. I don't think you hold a grudge against me now you are down in the cold bathtub. I think you mean everything only in a friendly way. I don't know. I don't understand you at all.






Crispin Best lives in London, next door to the house in which he grew up. He is trying to collection a story dedicated to every year since 1400.
http://wewillallgosimultaneous.blogspot.com

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Goosebump Braille
By Eric Beeny
53 words

Sexually insulated, like eating fiber glass cotton candy, the walls are cold, the window a cracked spider web, our scars scotch-taped — We hold each other, we know too much to understand anything…

My fingers caress your arm, reading sentences on your skin — Well, the same sentence which says over and moreover: Don’t Touch



Eric Beeny’s poems and stories have appeared and/or are forthcoming in The 2nd Hand, 5AM, 32 Poems, Abjective, Corduroy Mtn., Elimae, Kora, Main Street Rag, Nuthouse, Quercus Review, and others. Two e-chaps of his poetry, “Satin Anvils” and “Wounded Rainbows,” were published by Gold Wake Press. He's 28, and he lives in Buffalo, NY.




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Dead Deal
By John Lander
100 words

He was an old burro, so I couldn't blame him for keeling over. I just wish he'd waited until I'd left Ignacio's village.

“Sorry amigo,” I said, three hundred pesos in my pocket. “Deal's a deal. I'll help bury him if you'd like.”

“Forget it. I’ll still make some money.”

“From a dead mule? How?”

“A raffle.”

“Impossible.”

But Ignacio couldn't be dissuaded. Months passed before further business reunited us in the village.

“So how'd your raffle go?”

“Great. I sold ninety tickets, ten pesos a piece.”

“Really? And nobody complained?”

“Just my winner. But I gave him a refund.”

John Lander reads and writes out of sunny Southern California, where he has become something of a balcony aficionado. Some fruits of his labors can be found elsewhere at ThievesJargon and EverydayPoets.



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Archaeology
by Hoa Ngo
95 words


On a rectangle of paper, a series of antique creases. Like the wrinkles or furrows that surround, form an old wound.

A forgotten artifact I am compelled to read. Your handwriting still immaculate but as foreign to me now as hieroglyphs. I am excavating the tomb of our experience, deciphering the origins of the fall of our empire.

Soft sentences when first inked. They have grown sharp, honed by time to a fearful edge. Even that word. The word which for years you have no longer used, caught in the fold of a scarred letter.




Hoa Ngo is a graduate of the University of Missouri's Ph.D. program and the recipient of an NEH Fellowship. He lives in central New York where he teaches Karate to exactly one student. His website is located at hoango.com.




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Interoffice Relations
By Timothy Gager
64 words



The shriveled ball buried in my office mailbox presumably used to be an apple.

My boss Sheila speaks with her legs, “I want so see you.”

I’ve been waiting for that. “I want to see you too.”

“I’m going to have to let you go,” she says.

“Are you still holding on?”

I take the pink slip into my hands. This one is paper.

Timothy Gager is the author of seven books of poetry and fiction. He lives at www.timothygager.com.





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Keep Calling
By Nik Perring
93 words

He loved her, I could see that even from my table; it was in his eyes, and it straightened his posture, made it rigid as he shuffled towards her.

He, wheezing, said he was there to see her. I wondered whether he was there to see the lace behind her blouse, like me.

She leaned over him, lace and nipple aimed. You must stop this. I’m working. Don’t you listen?

His spine was not as straight when he shuffled out of the door; he looked deflated, punctured, or spent.

‘Come again,’ she said.



Nik Perring is a writer and workshop leader from the UK. He's the writer of short stories, poems, and a children's book. He blogs at http://nikperring.blogspot.com and his website is www.nperring.com





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Shimmer
By Kevin Michaels
100 words

Somewhere south of Bordentown she stopped talking, leaving only the songs on the radio to fill the silence. While Springsteen sang about hurt and lost love I wondered when it was that everything between us had changed; what we once shared had slowly faded over time until there was nothing left. Now there was fear in her eyes, subtle cracks in that stoic expression I’d known since childhood. Pain that doctors couldn’t ease any more. I searched for words to bridge the distance but they stuck in my throat, and we drove home in a quiet so heavy it hurt.

Kevin Michaels is everything New Jersey (attitude - edginess - Bruce Springsteen but not Bon Jovi). His stories have appeared in publications such as Word Riot, The Literary Review, Darkest Before The Dawn, Six Sentences, Powder Burn Flash, and Dogzplot. He is a writer and a surfer who lives at the Jersey Shore.

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