Winged

Super Frog by Alan

Super Frog ducks the angels. He doesn’t have time for that kind of stuff. Sure, they spy on him with their holy surveillance mechanisms, but Super Frog doesn’t pay them no mind. His missive is to fight crime. Evildoers beware. S is for Save. F is for freedom. In the dark alleys. In the moral ambiguities. In the in between. That’s where Super Frog lives. Wherever there is injustice, you will find him. Wherever there is suffering, he’ll be there. Wherever liberty is threatened, you will find…Super Frog.

&&& 

Francisco by Johanna

The desert rains came hard and fast that spring, a sudden rush of precipitation that flooded cracked wash basins and resurrected arroyos in one day. The Salton Sea splashed over the lip of dykes and sent the salty farm chemical waters into the Borrego. With it, tiny tadpole spawns that knew nothing beyond murky puddles, dripped into the arid back-country where they settled in the shallow indentation of an old pack rat's hole. There amongst the shiny things – a sequin from a baby shoe, a chip of abalone, a vending machine ring – only one tadpole survived the evaporation of lengthening days. Not merely survived, but evolved as if the universe depended on such things. There is no way to know for sure if that frog realized it was different from any other. He had no parents, no mentors, no examples, only an urge. But the first day that frog spread his reptilian wings and took flight, it rescued a coyote from a rattlesnake advance and Francisco the Super Frog was born.

&&& 

I Spy with My Little Eye Something that Is Gold by Lyle

A bell, he responded. Around that flying toad. Dumbass.

&&& 

Tunnel by Forrest

My son and the milk carton viewfinder. These two were never meant to be separated. Because the kid won’t let go of it—that is, he won’t let me wash his head during bathtime out of fear of loosening the duct tape around his head. He sleeps with it on. He goes to school with it on. He eats meals with attempted precision of fork-to-mouth. But, of course, I’m more than welcome to navigate him through our home while his peripheral vision has been completely negaged.

I’ve reached the point where I want to confess to him, “We never talk anymore.”

I’ve reached the point where I want to call her and say, “Look, our son has given over his life to a milk carton viewfinder—what do I do here?” And probably she’ll only say, “Your problem.” And unlikely she’ll say, “Therapy.” Though most assuredly she’ll say, “Your problem, and you’re welcome to it.” She knows my feelings often succumb to the occasional validation.

“Your mother says you’ll go blind with that thing on,” is what I want to say to him instead. To instill a slight fear. Then again, he may already be blind. I can’t tell what’s going on in there. 

I put up some crazy-looking paper mache flying frog in the living room, an Indonesian clearance item from the World Market. I want to test a theory. The kid parks himself underneath and trains the viewfinder on it. Stays there for hours on end. I go to bed before him that night, and he’s still there in the morning, sitting cross-legged in perfect contemplation of the object.

“What do you think of the frog?” I ask him while looking up from my cereal. “I might get rid of it—looks too silly up there.”

He gets up awkwardly. A moment to stretch his legs. He swings the viewfinder at me with my spoon suspended in mid-air, and I, unable to take a bite with him watching, search for anything moving about all the way at the end that will let me move again.

&&& 

AMP'D by Bill

The seas dark and reminding the mirrors of the great old ones slumbering. Back is forth, hands circle light inscribing fourth walls all falling down. It’s so relieving in the seattle scene, off and odd then off and on and off again working in a factory making coal-fired political pottery. The call for the ticket, dropped into the fish tank outside to hide from the sharks. The trains are lonely; three back of the line in a bad order - an incontinent old man leading off. The loss is in the heart and the mind seeks out the phrases and the hymns that cast down the eyes.

The street with the soundtrack of life in the ear, tiny little spheres of the future wedged into ears granting mood and atmosphere, but only ever reflecting what is and what was sacrificed, cut from the core, carved from the heart, leaving the scarred wings and the gnawed legs on the plate instead of taking them home for the dog.

Red Room

Orange & Yellow by Forrest

There was a room something like a room so very red she stayed in wanting to read in, and in there, somewhere, as what could be seen through the window, she read as if the something like a room had two windows overlapping the first and foremost, not seeing the person watching her reading as if she were reading, as if she were in a room otherwise so very orange, until the person not seeing any reading now saw the yellow cloud above her head, above something like a fine litter of pages from her wanting hand.

***

Deployed Upon that Plain by Bill

Rooms smell of the body in repose, in response, in rage and blithering delirium. Rooms smell like the tiniest portion of blood a cutter allows to spill. Smelling like cheap beer sweat, recovery sports drink, and greasy chinese food. Waste basket basketball played without a round-rimmed receptacle, just kind of tossing shit where for and letting it be two points. Eyes red from lack of sleep or herbal infusion camouflaged in a blood meridian wash across the glass. The creaking of bodies stiff jointed with blood clotting in the lower portions of their legs, bodies in heat and who puts a giant pane of glass up in a space clearly designed to allow for frustrated spontaneous carnality? Still, ghosts of gratuitous grunts and groans still linger have no doubt, joining dull head-to-desk thumps over consideration of early colonial American alcohol consumption and the quadrahedrial crystal lattice structure of silicates. The sound believes itself being spoken into existence, buffets the wall of dead air channeled soundproof construction and dies. Redrum of sound. Red room where sound goes to die. The Reading Room.

***

Reading Room (A Short Novella in 5 Acts) by Alan 

“The third person is inherently limited because…well, indeed, it is a small room.” Professor Lufowski paused as if to soak in the thought.

Randall shifted his way through the garden outside the library strategically overstepping the newly-planted begonias but not without the suggestion of mass extermination Godzilla-style.

Midnight on campus. Where else could they make out and anything that follows?

Nabokov dazzled Helena, and she in turned dazzled all that spied her, reading Lolita, alone (hardly), in the bookstore, across the street.

The questions grew larger (like a flock of birds or a plane getting closer) before they broke off (like the necklace around Si’s neck) and were lost to her (but not to someone else) for approximately 5 years until they circled back and were found and were, subsequently, lost again.

***

Red Room by Johanna

R stared at the door to the room. She could see the red light shining from behind the window shade. She was waiting for her husband. He had entered the room an hour ago to fill a prescription for anti-fungal cream. Her mother exited the room. She nodded at R. R watched her leave down the long hallway. Still no sign of her husband. Her brother exited the room. He stopped to ask her what she was doing there. “I'm waiting for J,” she answered. “Oh,” he responded and exited down the long hallway. Her sister walked out of the room. R asked her what she was doing there, “I went for a run,” she said, “I needed some exercise.” “Oh,” R said. Her sister left down the hall, sneakers squeaking against the vinyl tile. R checked her watch. Her son walked out of the room. “I didn't know you were here,” R said.

“I had to take an algebra test,” he answered.

“How did you do?”

“Okay, I guess.”

“Good.”

She watched him bob down the long hall, books under his arm. She began to feel hot. Sweat dripped down the back of her knees. She tapped her heel on the floor to calm herself but it only made her feel more anxious. She stood and stared at the door. “Where is he?” she asked the door. “How should I know?” it answered. “That's it,” she said, “I'm going in.” R opened the door to the red room and went in.

***

Dimensions (by Lyle)

Red reading room: 6’x5‘x10’.

300 cubic feet mostly of air but also including a desk, a very shallow shelf, two chairs, my orange juice, my papers laid out in order on the desk and me (this room is filled with my thoughts — it is the perfect size for that). There is also a plaque that reads

Dimensions

Red reading room: 6’x5‘x10’...

Evening

Bottle by Lyle

Had I considered that I was on an island (and you will rightly object that I must have known) I would have reconsidered it as the location for the dinner. I set up the table while my companion strung the lights from the palm trees. The boat was moored along the other side of the island but, despite being able to traverse the island in a matter of a couple of dozen steps, hidden by a small copse of palm trees (the very ones my companion decorated). Once I had set the table I took several photos and gave the camera to my companion who left me to wait for my girlfriend’s arrival. She never came though the high tide did. As the water rose, the palm leaves suddenly looked too seaweedy. This is a drawing of the photo I liked best. It is from memory:
 

It’s not very good. The shadows are all wrong.

***

Plurality by Forrest

That shade of her, coming to clear and only again. That setting down, sitting down, all around of her: the good sport. She would set the table and I made the meal. Once, long before that, I made the table from beams of wood and she set the meal elsewhere away, somewhere off to the immediate side of her side. If we ate that meal, it was while I worked and she ate with someone else inside her inside—hence the third person indeterminate. One uses the fork, one uses the knife, and one uses the reflection of utensils against each other, caught in time sparingly for the last evening light.

***

The Latter Days of the Golden Boy by Bill

I’ve got my train up to speed running through the Discworld. The whole series of books stacked next to my bed, which is a deflated air mattress thrown onto the floor of this ‘loft’ in a converted warehouse and there is a red light in the corner of the ceiling that I cannot reach which never goes off. There are times it looks like glowing watermelon, as if the summer’s in this moisture saturated concrete masoleum of manufacturing will not be vibrantly maleficent. The books at the bottom of the stack are leeching up the fluids, and when I think about how few of those fluids might be water the light turns into a dim, far-away sun, weak and dying just barely able to sustain itself and much of its solar system long long ago having plunged into the near absolute zero range as the void surrounding them sucks the heat like giant wasps raiding a beehive, crushing them into solid, unmoving death. I can’t bear to look at the light directly then, and only chance to glance askance lest it finally, fatally, goes out for good.

***

“MIAMI” + “SOUTH BEACH” + “UFO” by Alan

UFO delivers final hours of... 

BULIC - 2 hours ago

“I think, …makes it alright to believe in such things as UFOs because, ... famed Professor Reginald George of the University of Florida, …

Crew flee as boat smashes against…

EIGHTmsn - 13 hours ago 

... the northern wall of the Seed Bar on the New South Collins border, ... the breakwall at, … near Null Heads, … Eight News reported.

UFO sightings off the charts worldwide in wake of historic solar storm

BULIC - 5 days ago

Locals here at this popular UFO sighting location at Salient Point -- and down the state coast at nearby, … said they “breathed an, …

Gold Coast police find French man's body

EIGHTmsn - 18 hours ago

... at Fisherman's Cove at Main Beach about 8pm (EST) on Sunday, police say, ... it could be anything from an underwater Stonehenge to a crashed, ...

I Shall Be Released: A New Beginning

NewCityBeat - Oct 6, 2023

... Idlewild East in 1998 and the nearly inconceivable heights achieved by, .... of similarly inspired friends have turned their love of The Beach Boys, ...

Stay up to date on these results:
Create an email alert for “miami” + “south beach” + “UFO

***

Almost Outside by Johanna

Writers write about coffee shops because that is where they spend their time writing. Writers believe coffee shops make them more productive even after spending ten minutes discussing the differences  between espressos, cappuccinos and machiattos with the barista who went to coffee college. Writers believe they are more productive in coffee shops even after spending ten minutes pretending to type while they eavesdrop on a couple of tourists speaking in Spanish about how this town is overrated and they should head back to Santa Fe. Writers like the way Spanish people say Santa Fe, putting the accent on the first syllable instead of the second. Writers like to hide themselves inside of their characters, illuminating the things they would otherwise keep to themselves. Writers in coffee shops hate the way the sunlight through the window creates a glare on their laptop screen. Writers in coffee shops like the way the sunlight through the window makes them feel like they're almost outside. Writers are almost outside, like the reflection of street signs in their utensils. Writers prefer to write in coffee shops with wooden stir sticks instead of reflective utensils.

Texas 287

Christmas Light Larger This Year by Johanna

The light of Christmas was larger this year according to holiday researchers. As usual, women toiled through the menial but loving tasks – baking, wrapping, addressing envelopes – while men forged ahead with warrior stamina amongst the forthright commercialism of the dark side. Even with so large a light, Christmas remained dim as people everywhere borrowed from the light to feed the darkness.

Even Santa Claus was unable to resist the dark forces. Giving the elves the year off without pay and blaming it on the recession, he opened a factory in Chengdu where he didn't have to provide employee health care. “No one believes in me here anyway,” Santa Claus said about his move to China.

The Obama Administration called a state of emergency. “The little light that remains will have to be protected from the well-intentioned but prolific screenwriters of Hallmark Christmas movies, in order that future generations of Americans might still be able to enjoy it,” President Obama said during a press conference yesterday. When asked how he was going to do this, President Obama replied, “All I can say for now is that the light will be kept safe.”

Early this morning, Wikileaks resurfaced temporarily to bring us important news. According to emails sent between the Obama Administration and Santa Claus, Americans everywhere have been unknowingly hiding the Christmas light out in the open where no one could have suspected. Apparently, people have been stringing it from rooftops and tossing it over ornamental bushes in their very own backyards. The Obama Administration has yet to respond to these allegations, but Santa confirmed late this afternoon that the emails are true and apparently all of those Christmas lights were made in China. 

***

Untitled by Bill

The albinos have gotten whiter and the drunks have gotten drunker. Holidays in the Legion Post bar start seemingly as a tradition and turn into the chance to view people turning into their parents. The moms are bombed since they stood in their robes for their graduation pictures with a seven month bump and everyone, us included, have thickened just like the gravy we’ll have tomorrow at dinner. We’re rounded out in the face. This is not a puffiness. There is no botox here. There was no air pump hooked up to the sides of our heads. More a callous. A building up of the weary worries. Fresh-Scent spray polish smell of divorce court desks poisoning us; the tightrope walk of staying as close to zero in the bank without going over like our lives are game shows in reverse; staring across the table at in-laws you cannot stand to look at and you hope that one of these times they fall off the stool just a little bit harder, a little more dramatically, and do some real damage when they hit the floor. Eventually we’ll all drag ourselves off to mass around midnight.

***

Krikor’s Closet by Alan

In the room there were candles. And in the candles there was light. And in the light there was hope. A kind of trinity. A kind of memory.

He loved the number three. This I remember about Krikor. And he loved memory. He loved to get swept up by it during midnight shifts, revel at the dips and brace himself for the uphill climbs as if it were a ride at an amusement park. If life were to end in 2012, he’d think, there is nowhere else I’d like to be. He’d dance with his mop. He’d romance the air.

I know this because he used to confide in me. It was during the holidays, always during the holidays, when we’d gather in the basement of the church and Sonia would made boreg and someone would bring the right kind of lahmajoun from Jersey and all of our mouths would stink from the garlic and onions and feta, especially Krikor’s. I know this because he’d lean in real close and tell me about how this place, this place was his home, and I’d forget the ride in, upstairs, the world outside, my family, everything even, until he disappeared in the dark.

***

multiplicity by lyle

the audacity of hope is what i thought first
audacity
paucity
something i was pretty sure
a second opinion is for failures and there were 287 of them so many second opinion all second opinions so many candles so many failures so little control
but in all probability so much relief something i know nothing about
even after shitting there is not so much relief as exhaustion and shitting in a shrine bathroom?
it must be part of the shrine if it is called the shrine bathroom
about on par as far as exhaustion is concerned actually i thought it would be more — more something the way religion is always more
something

in the mirror i practice furrowing my brow just the slightest twist up — down concern pain anger happiness though i don’t recognize this one so well — over and over — i don’t actually feel any of those emotions as i do them but i imagine someone seeing me and think they might feel those things just watching as i do them

my own empathy with someone watching me do something that may mean something to someone empathetic but not the emotions

the brief concatenations of drunkenness though i cannot say that i was drunk for it may have been the inevitability of humanness and are they different? drunkeness/humanness: the state of being something? being something which is to say asking for something lighting a candle so to speak the flame eating at the wax until either it so slowly expires or the proprietor snuffs it out so that someone else can so quickly light it again — their own failure then flickering and licking itself

287 candles
so specific
so specific a number of failures in a little town in texas
but i’ll believe it if only for a moment.

***

Tithe by Forrest

I don’t like to recall you. This is when you are quite improper in your offertory singing behind me once you were done singing in front of me. Your mild despicableness. Knowing I am perfectly known by no one. I—if I’m allowed to talk in here—I have my ways about me, the same as keeping an uncharged fire extinguisher next to all those content, glowing votives. Where does my attention go, sent scattering over the floor at your heels, supposedly? Not anywhere today. Today I put a slip of special paper, a donation in your name, in the collection box. I just got a saint I haven’t seen who gave me something like hard-earned money.

PossumNotes

Bruce by Alan

Bruce the possum was the kind of handsome that would make all the boys swoon. This particular quality to his being was enhanced every time he was on stage. Something about a microphone, a piano, three chords, and his brand of leveling truth, which was gutteral, sweet, and complex enough to liven curiosity’s prick. This worried Javier. They had been together now for six and a half years. Things were wonderful in a way. They were best friends. They were confidantes. They challenged each other intellectually. But the love had indeed fizzled as evidenced by the intermittent sex and the dimming physical charge. Bruce would spend more and more time in the garage, manipulating pedals and sifting through their “trash” for ebay prizes that would fund his travels. Javier felt for sure that this next tour would be the end. Bruce would be lost to him. Found by another. Javier’s therapist cautioned him against this kind of thinking. It will paralyze you, he warned. Go out. Do something. Treat yourself well, Javier. You deserve it. These words reverberated in his head as Javier wrote down what he thought would be a fitting ending on a few pages of his notebook and scattered them throughout the house while Bruce showered. And while Bruce was toweling off, Javier stepped out into the cool November air and considered his options. He wanted to run – down the block, to his parents’ house, to an old lover, to 10th grade, to anywhere, forever, never. Instead, he opened the garage door and paused. The wind swirled through the gossamer at the entrance while Javier said his name over and over again. Bruce. Bruce. Bruce.

***

Possum Notes by Johanna

He came and went with the moon. Like the moon, he was still there when you couldn't see him. A trail of crumbs to closet recesses, the smell of wood shavings on winter clothes, creaking in the attic on windless mornings. When he returned, I opened my palms to him, offering what little I had. I stepped on dainty toes, left the lights on at night, cleaned voraciously. Gone again, I felt uneasy like tiny feet tread across my chest while I slept. I never knew which to prefer, the pale glow of midnight or the revelation of restless comets.

***

Whispy Things Strewn by Lyle

Part I

Wispy felt trapped in his life. Feels trapped in his life. Had felt trapped in his life. Would have felt trapped. Did not. Etc. Detritus, he told himself. But he had grown accustomed to the detritus of his life, things strewn around him, things strewn behind him, long since gone but not. Things. Strewn. Goodbye, he said but he didn’t move. He tried sarcasm: Nice knowing you. Take care of yourself. But he was paralyzed through no fault of his own. Well, partially it was his own fault this linguistic parallel. Things had been strewn around so much through his life and he had done nothing to stop it. Things are strewn around so much. He strews so many things about his life.

Part II

...have an inaccurate temporal understanding of when an even occurred. It should always seem that they happened much later or much earlier than it actually manifested. Temporal-photographic memory means that the patient is not actually “living” while only “not-knowing” constitutes profitable post-conception. This in an of itself, however, presents several problems. Primarily, what should one use as a reference? Or put another way how can one be sure to know that one is misperceiving? One could use said temporal-photographic persons though this would perhaps be construed as cruelty, though on whose part is arguable considering that this person would have to be with the living at all times of day and conscious of everything that they perceive and this does not take into account interpretation of this stimuli, an entirely different debate. But I digress. Considering the temporal and spatial nature of possums...

***

Best Possum by Forrest

The best possum of my life walked out on me, on us, while I slept, and now this life seems a tawdry cheat. I can see him with a half-full whiskey bottle on the table—our last fifth, as it were—scribbling, tasking, trying to find the perfect five words to write on a piece of notepaper to leave on the kitchen counter, and this is what my betrayed eyes find: “Cant figure you—outta here.” These are the sort of sentiments one expects of lesser possums, but not my best possum who made a private Xanadu out of Styrofoam coolers. In kind, I wanted a heart-rending testimony of his pain and anguish over the inner conflict of him abandoning me condensed into a syntactically precise vehicle of pure literary merit; instead, I get the cheapest De Profundis ever composed. And I let him wallow through my neighbor’s overripe trash can for this? No, this will not do. I cannot allow myself the indignity of having the best possum dismiss me that easily. There will be repercussions. The next possum of indeterminate ability to wander through my yard at night—I will ask him to have the Book of Ages clasped in his little pink paw. He will try as he might to please me, but he must never think he is the best possum by my bedside lamp.

Lite

Lite-r by Lyle

Lite’r up, he said staggering slightly. Nothing unusual yet. Click click of the translucent red lighter.  The hangover is the worst, he said. Thought whirring in the air; the hiss of lighter. This was unusual. Something was going on here and I didn’t like it already.  The car lit up in the night. The Lite locks shimmering for just a moment. I know I’m going to feel it tomorrow, he said. Too far in the future, I thought. The fire engulfed the vehicle and we stepped back, him hitting a rock with his heel and tipping over backward. Lone Star on his pearl buttons. Shook himself off and stood. Self-immolation, I said and he nodded. He said, Self-immolation. I could feel the hangover already starting. The fire burned on late into the night.

***

Taps by Forrest

On Don’s last birthday, we gift him our grandma Plymouth with the beer tap handles from the Kosmos Klub, now sitting boarded-up by Sanderson Park. Of course the jerk doesn’t know what to say, so we help by taking him for a ride, locking his passenger door with a swift punch down on Old Milwaukee while I shut mine with PBR. See here, we say as we run what was our usual gauntlet through the neighborhood, every time you cruise in this, you’ll think you’re still in the bar—you’ll wake up in the front and on either side are your old friends. There’s a smile on Don’s lips trying to come out. We take him to the Dubliner, but nothing doing. It’s like he’s ready to cry or something. Then he keeps driving his beermobile out to Sanderson Park and we won’t find him until late next morning by the curb, all awake. He’d ask us why we didn’t drive him home. Then the cops cite him for loitering at Sanderson. Then the cops arrest him for propositioning an undercover on the other side town. Then we let him chill in holding while figuring how to get the beermobile out of the impound. We spring him out on bail instead, and walking back with us the jerk, the asshole ingrate, says he’ll hitch back to his place—and sure enough he flags down a blonde, the kind who’ll push the passenger door open for you just because you look like some kind of a better rider than driver.

***

Lite Cosmic Relevance by Bill

One of us claimed his favorite was Crunch bar, so we decided that wasn't a real candy bar by ruling that Candy bars need 3 components, and this has forever created an unbridgeable cultural divide between Mounds and Almond Joy, very similar to Ladyhawke. The movie fell apart shortly after that when we all realized the director’s girlfriend was right and the lead actress would never sleep with the character the director was playing and without that love scene the movie had no heart, and neither did the girlfriend apparently because she broke up with him right after that so he threw a full case of beer through her parent’s sunporch and crushed their cat. Ladyhawke falls apart because any movie that relies on an eclipse for its resolution is simply too buried up its own ass (Pitch Black being the notable exception as the eclipse is the inciting incident). A few of us stayed in touch and my brother ended up dating the director’s ex when they both moved into my place in the city to get established in better paying jobs. Their relationship built into a geosynclinous rise but ultimately subducted when he refused to quit his game because he wasn’t at a place where he could save after she got sick eating 7 lobster rolls in one sitting.

***

You Would by Alan

Like a jigsaw puzzle piece fits accordingly in a given space (in a corner, because of such variables as hue and shape, etc.), some things were meant to go together.  A Chevy and dreaming.  Beer and beginnings.  Sunlight and reflection.  You and me.

When I first started writing about this, I knew that you would disagree.  You would hang your metaphoric tapestry and turn off the phone in a contrived attempt to create some distance.  You would begin one of those elaborate designs that keep you up at night.  And later, in your struggle to keep your eyes open, you would don that cap that would help you find that singular definitive move.  The one that would set you apart from the rest, all, me.

Tomorrow, the neighbors would start talking.  And then the neighbors’ neighbors.  And then you would start talking.  Finally.  After hours of silence.   You would start talking because you finally got it right.  And I would begin to hate you for it.  You bastard.

***

Done Chrysalis by Johanna

She should have known to slow down when the tires slipped going under the overpass. She might have pulled over for the night, but she had an irrational need to get to the Corn Palace before putting the road to bed. The soft rain had just begun, winter dark just fallen. She must have been doing seventy when the tires slipped again. The Jeep spun a one-eighty and rolled onto the roof of the passenger side where her buddy Jim was shielding his head. The roll continued onto her side, tossing them around in a state of blank suspension. Glass shattered in her hair. Somehow, it  landed on all fours, on the other side of the gully, perpendicular to on-coming traffic.

To her right, headlights stared her down. She could not open her door. Her left hand was fucked up. She felt for her left pinky, bent back from the top knuckle and grabbing it, snapped it back into place with painless adrenaline. Jim managed to get his door open and she crawled out his side. He was cradling his right arm to hold in the bone jutting out of his elbow.

The first responders found them there in the ditch, in the rain, broken and huddled close. She kept asking them to check her hair for glass as they covered them with blankets. When the paramedics finally arrived, they wrapped her neck in foam and strapped her into the gurney. Sirens preceded their arrival. She was half-way to the hospital in an ambulance swerving and sliding along the icy back roads when she was struck with a moment of clarity. Shit, she thought to herself, I'm really fucking high.

Nursing Home

Crumble Bums by Bill

HappySad Barrel nestled closer to the center, burrowing into a crater in the paper. Green Sink just waits for the light to go down. This flash fiction business is hard. You have to take a lot of yourself and compress it into a really small place.

 The racoons will crawl in one of the windows tonight, again, and claw around on the paper. They put it to some purpose, cleaning their claws. Its a strange texture. So much of the plaster and the old concrete has fallen off the ceiling you almost wonder if the raccoons have figured out some extra benefit to cleaning their claws here that they put to use in the streams surrounding this place.

Probably a lot of people died here. HappySad thinks they did. Basin Jaw assumes all the beds mean they left, because they’re empty. They’re all dead probably, just not here. But at night, Basin Jaw hears a sound, or sees a light, like a hand carrying a candle, pass through the hallway and is not quite as sure as he is during the day but still doesn’t say anything.

There’s a panic trying to write that small. Its claustrophobic at times. You can’t always stretch out your ideas, sometimes they are pressed just really tight up against you. That’s the worst sometimes, when they are just so close to you, keeping you from moving forward. Radiator and her husband, Bigger Radiator, hid from THEM years ago when all their people were taken by hiding under Warped Door, who never says anything. Warped Door knows they can’t stay here forever. Someday THEY might come back, and finally take away the Radiators, or Basin Jaw. maybe even Green Sink. If they ever come for him, Warped Door knows it will only be for the fire.

***

In the Nursing Home by Alan

In the nursing home, time flies in and out of the windows like a bird on fire, burned by sunlight, ageless and forever aged.

In the nursing home, the news is compiled and strewn about and in piles and all around and lost and found and lost and found.

In the nursing home, the way the paint peels reminds her of dancing during the war and how he used to sing in her ear tiny deep bells that seemed to ring forever.

He works in the nursing home every night to keep the heat on and roaches away so that his Esmeralda can play and be warm and grow up strong.

The ceiling is miles away, the sink another continent, and the radiator a hissing fish gulping for air in the summer in the nursing home.

There are no beds in the nursing home – no doors, walls, or floors. Only the ghosts that were and the ghosts that are and, occasionally, the ghosts that will be…the lucky ones.

***

Remains by Johanna

The mother awoke from a frightening dream, already fading into ether. She did not feel rested and her head spun with her first steps, bare feet against cold tiles. She went to look for her boy, but he was not in bed.

This boy, she sighed, always disappearing. He found the smallest nooks – between wall panels, in closet corners, inside willow tree branches, buried in old gopher holes – and there he hid with his books, while mother went mad with worry trying to find him.

She searched all the obvious spots and screamed until her voice was raw. Where was that boy? Her legs dragged beneath her like heavy stumps. She swung her arms in step, so they would not numb before she could spank him.

Returning to his room, dizzy and exhausted, she summoned her rage to keep her conscious. She pulled his precious books from his shelves as if she might find the boy concealed between the pages. She tore the books to tatters and threw them against the walls, plastering the room with a tornado of swirling white paper. Ripping apart any semblance of words, all the stories dissipated into space. The mother sat in her empty whirlwind and cried.

Watching a tear stain his mother's pale cheek, the man knelt at her deathbed, praying for a happy ending.

***

Nursing Home in e by Lyl

Arachnid pontification of color and form, is what I thought first; tiny chains of light and dark. But I soon caught sight of signification in ruins. My own signification too, truth told. Twists of sinus and aural canals and odd windows that saw through through old folks staring, blind though both had found worldly things baffling always baffling. Doors? Window glass? Pulp? Consummation. Constipation. Jung and his advisory about custodians and lack of living! Boys and girls and ruins. Anticipation always substandard. Pills? Yum. Full of bugs.

***

In Becoming Nurse by Forrest

Whoso believes not in ruin but renovation becomes nurse; and in becoming nurse, not of being a nurse, not of standing anonymous and clean, not of being accustomed to the coming ruination, the standing before mouldering files of the deceased and nearly deceased and soon-to-nearly deceased that reads blank, smudgy, inescapable numbers, numbers attached to certain predilections to weakness; and in becoming nurse there is hazard in a predilection toward tidying lives beyond the belief of becoming, those whoso sneak in anonymously where none look where they should in weakening rain; or should the nurse stand with blank countenance unbecoming to claim the ward, should the nurse predict the number of beds, should the nurse reattach faces to them, a guess must be hazarded to renovate the one whoso lives beyond the drywall mold, nearly unreadable in the file of anonymity, ceasing to believe in escape; and should the custom exist, it exists; and should in becoming nurse one becomes not a number in a tidy life but counting inescapable faces soon-to-nearly mouldering in their beliefs; and should there be hazard sneaking around unseen by weakness; and wherefore then the ruin of the number of nurses stands to cease with the number of smudgy beds escaping attention or hazarding the escape, the nurse soon believes.