Home Security
By Kristen Peterson
The cat jumped on the counter, looked at the rabbit, then the fish. It licked its paws then stared at an imaginary fly on the wall. Soon everybody was staring at nothing. Even the fish. Especially the fish. The clock ticked. A car passed. A dish in the sink shifted and made a clinking sound. It startled everyone. Momentarily.
"Do I really need to go?" she wondered. "There's so much I need to do here and it's so cold outside."
Afterglow
By Josh Bell
She looked down at her companion, sleeping peacefully and obliviously beside her. An hour earlier they'd made love passionately, violently, just as she liked it. An hour before that, they'd been in a bar discussing Baudelaire and the Sex Pistols, to her great surprise and delight.
As the years continued to pass, it was increasingly rare for her to meet someone she could conceive of as an equal, and she felt a pang of doubt as she eyed him with hunger. But the sun would be up shortly, and she had to act soon. She leaned in close and bared her teeth. Love was eternal, people said, but for her all that was eternal was the thirst.
And His Parents Said: "Such is Life"
By Joshua Longobardy
Just a young boy; had little but his family, friends, physical health and his vocation for building birdcages.
One day he stepped across an injured little bird. It'd been swept from its nest by one of the Valley's insurgent winds.
He ran home, received permission from his parents—Jacqueline and John—to build a cage for the injured bird, and then locked himself in his room for six weeks.
He forsook the little he had to build an apt and even marvelous cage. And he was pleased with it.
He showed his parents, and while they handled it, the unjust wind infiltrated the house and blew the cage over. Shattered it.
The boy cried; the bird was taken away.
Un(title)d
By Kate Silver
Mabel Wormwood's life changed the day she received her Southwest Airlines credit card. She'd always been frugal, but now her dollars could go toward miles, for every purchase!
Her thriftiness was transferred to the Rapid Rewards themselves. She'd merrily charge away, while saving the free flights for an emergency. "Bereavement fares can be murder these days," she'd explain.
So when her father, the master of thrift, fell ill, she cashed in a "freebie" and hopped on the next plane. And when her father died, Mabel was sad, but proud. The funeral went right on the Southwest credit card, and through her tears she had created an anecdote that would distract from the grief for years to come.
No Title
By John Katsilometes
"I saw Linda last night."
"Where?"
"At valet at the Las Vegas Hilton."
"What was she doing there?"
"Getting her car."
"No—why was she at the Hilton?"
"Oh. Menopause, probably."
"Linda? Menopause?"
"That's my guess. I've never seen it."
"You're lucky."
"Really? It's supposed to be pretty funny."
"Menopause is not funny."
"Oh? So you've been?"
"I'm only 34!"
"Doesn't matter. It can be enjoyed by all ages, from what I understand."
"Not exactly."
"Maybe she should have gone to Barry."
"Is he a doctor?"
"No. Manilow."
"I hope you didn't ask her about this."
"Nope. She was busy fishing around her purse to tip the valet."
"You mean ..."
"She was going through the change."
The Way It Works
By Scott Dickensheets
Norm! rolls in at midnight, exclamation point at full alert. He checks the time. A minute, no more; he's got names to boldface elsewhere. Club's packed. Immediately, his radar begins pinging: There's Wilmer Valderrama ... Scott Baio ... Tara Reid ... none are worth enough. What is this, small-potatoes night?
Wait! There's old reliable!
"Hi, Normie," Paris slurs.
"Do somethin' for me, sweetie," he purrs. "Barf on that guy from Lost."
"Sure! Why?"
"Favor for a friend."
She heaves like a champ. Commotion ensues. Norm! thumbs his cell. "Oscar? It's done. All the fantasy points you'll need." Snap. He's gotta blow: Somewhere, Teri Hatcher is drinking too much. Then, he's gone. That's Vegas, and it's all confidential.
THE BUSHIAD
By Chuck Twardy
Post, Blog, your thoughts on how we've reached this pass
Where fame's follies take on critical mass,
Folly's fame inflames reality's show
And FOLEY figures it's enough to say
that perverting pages must mean he's gay.
When fools clutch fears by pious pretense pressed
And thrill—with horror!—to sins too-well confessed
Opine then, pundit, why we've been so cursed:
Still BUSH the Second reigns like BUSH the First.
Is it their crime or fortuitous fate
That wars like cars are hawked with lies and hate
In sanctimony hides for RUSH and ROVE?
When irony's object has much to love,
No child's left behind who passes the test
And thrills to see the most subvert the best.
The Decision
By Kristen Peterson
"What kids?"
"What do you mean, ‘What kids?' Our kids. Where are they?"
"I don't know, hon. They're probably off somewhere else living their lives and having a fantastic time."
"How can you say that? How can you act like you don't care. Put down that fucking magazine. Our kids are missing. They're missing! Doesn't that mean anything to you?"
"Yeah, it did. It did mean something. But what the hell can I say now? You didn't want kids, remember? You had your job."
"My kids, my kids. Oh, my babies. Where are you?"
"Where are you going?"
"To find them."
"This is just ridiculous. Get back here. It's too late. We're old. There are no kids."
Projectile
By Stacy J. Willis
He could've forgiven the boy with the chubby hands who threw the rock, line drive, through his window, popping open his eyebrow, drawing a drizzle of blood and, shortly, a purple knot. But forgiveness was something he did in his sixties, when the dawning of the latter days made him grateful for the good fortunes he'd enjoyed. Now, some 30 years later, every aching bone and failing organ and shut-in day a payment, he picked up his double-barreled shotgun, pulled both hammers back, swung open the trailer door, and, although he'd lost sight of the fat child, fired.
Fresh air gave way to gunsmoke. The boy escaped into the woods. One was laughing and one was scared.
NO TITLE
By Hubert Hensen
Huge boobies were jiggling in his face—waves rippling up and down. "Nice," he said, discreetly removing his ring.
Paul peeked at his watch—almost 5. He began to wonder. His daughter, 8 years old, had a recital later. "I need to pick up Sarah soon," he thought. "I can't miss her big night."
Paul's head recoiled. "Over here, asshole," said Tiffani, the stripper. "Did she just punch me with her boob?" he thought. Enraged, he grabbed her hips and made her grind harder, picturing his nagging wife.
Finally excited, Paul squeezed out of his pants some: "How about a little something extra?" he asked.
"Sorry, I don't do that," she sternly replied.
"What a whore."
Closing Time
By Ken Miller
How long had the light been flashing? Fell asleep at my desk again? Shit.
Grab the keys. Prop yourself up on your good leg. Long, deliberate breaths. Move with purpose.
How many days since the last wave? Was our side winning? Were they all dead? Was I the only one left?
"You'll get a signal. Put the key in the lock and turn it. It may be days, it may be weeks," the last one in charge said shortly before he died.How many missiles would launch? Not my concern. It's just that once I turn this key, what's left to keep me going?
I'm a kid again, playing make-believe. The world is worth saving.
She Thought, He Thought
By Martin Stein
I'm sick of this shit. My arm aches from this stupid tray, my boobs keep popping out and my feet are killing me. Traci was rising up the corporate cocktailing ladder to shift manager, with a future as bright as fresh ice. Then knocked back on her little ass when F—B rehired her pudgy boss, who wasted no time rearranging shifts and taking away lucrative weekends. And her a single mom with a mortgage.
The offer from another casino—the place new, untested—rolled in her head as she gave the player his Corona and got stiffed. I'll call tomorrow.
I'm sick of this shit. I can't win a hand, my ass hurts and that waitress is a bitch.
Tattered Art
By Aaron Thompson
It was the same scene all over again: blood on the walls, guts in the streets and a beautiful young face to tie it all together. Unfortunately this wasn't the first time I'd been in this kind of situation. Every single time, though, I find myself having trouble keeping back my dinner as I look at her beautiful, torn body. It's a shame such a monster would do this to this ... angel. Who would want to ruin this ... piece of ... human art? Whoever did this to her, took a Monet and turned it into a Pollock, flinging parts of her everywhere.
Still, when I look at her tattered corpse, all I want to do is cry. Cry all night long.