Espresso Fiction: A Collection of Flash Fiction for the Average Joe by Sabrina Ricci

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Copyright © 2012 by FictionBrigade This book contains works of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, transmitted or distributed in any form or by any means without permission. “Impressions of Death and the Afterlife” © 2011 by Kaj Anderson-Bauer “A Flash Look” © 2011 by Roy Buck “Crow-Boy and the Opposite of Indifference” © 2011 by Brian Cooper “yOWSa” © 2011 by Jacqueline Delibes “The Future Is So Gay” © 2012 by Shawn Duyette “Mending Wall” © 2011 by Richard Helmling “Unfamiliar Rooms” © 2011 by Walter Holland “Wanderlust” © 2011 by Danilo Lopez “Summer Memories” © 2011 by Catherine A. MacKenzie “Chat” © 2011 by Monica Martinez “A Vist to the Hen House” © 2011 by Debra Mathis “The Purple Hat” © 2011 by Melanie McDonald “No Beards for Mr. Bailey” © 2012 by Peter McKenna “Whispers in the Night” © 2011 by Melissa Mendelson “Passing Lane” © 2011 by Brandon Meyers “Wronged by the Circus, Again” and “Saying Goodbye” © 2011 by Ryan Moll “Sierra Nevada Reverie” and “Daydreams and Hiking” © 2011 by Shelley Muniz “In the South of France We Split Hairs” © 2012 by Brittany Newell “Shrinking Husband” © 2011 by Vincent Rendoni “There’s Always All That” © 2011 by Allie Rowbottom “Networking” © 2011 by Jessica Simms “Not Totally Passive” © 2011 by Louise Farmer Smith “The Study Date” © 2011 by Simone Stedmon “Mouth to Mouth” © 2011 by Clare Tascio “Notes from an Inner City School” © 2011 by Ling E. Teo “Rainbow Gold” © 2011 by Valerie Tidwell “Job Interrogation” © 2011 by Lauren Tolbert “The Heartthrob” © 2011 by Gina Wohsldorf “Thoughts” © 2011 by Meirav Zehavi “pressed between leaves” © 2012 by Eleanor Bennett “Snap Cut” © 2011 by Christopher Hackbarth “Purple Hat” © 2011 by Sean Lefler Published by FictionBrigade, LLC. www.fictionbrigade.com FictionBrigadeTM

Cover design by Clare Tascio 978-0-9849834-0-7 (eISBN) 978-0-9849834-1-4 (POD ISBN)

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CONTENTS Fiction Kaj Anderson-Bauer Roy Buck Brian Cooper Jacqueline Delibes Shawn Duyette Richard Helmling Walter Holland Danilo Lopez Monica Martinez Melanie McDonald Peter McKenna Melissa Mendelson Brandon Meyers Brittany Newell

Impressions of Death and the Afterlife A Flash Look

Crow-Boy and the Opposite of Indifference yOWSa

The Future is So Gay Mending Wall

Unfamiliar Rooms Wanderlust Chat

The Purple Hat

No Beards for Mr. Bailey Whispers in the Night Passing Lane

30 34

In the South of France We Split Hairs

Vincent Rendoni

Shrinking Husband

Allie Rowbottom

Thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Always All That

Jessica Simms

Networking 3 fictionbrigade.com

41 45

Fiction Louise Farmer Smith Simone Stedmon Clare Tascio Ling E. Teo

Not Totally Passive The Study Date

Mouth to Mouth

Notes from an Inner City School

Valerie Tidwell

Rainbow Gold

Lauren Tolbert

Job Interrogation

Gina Wohlsdorf

The Heartthrob

Meirav Zehavi

Thoughts

57 58 59

Art Eleanor Bennett Christopher Hackbarth Sean Lefler

pressed between leaves Snap Cut Purple Hat

66 27

Haikus Catherine A. MacKenzie Debra Mathis

Summer Memories

A Visit to the Hen House

Ryan Moll

Wronged by the Circus, Again, Saying Goodbye 70

Shelley Muniz

Sierra Nevada Reverie, Daydreams and Hiking 71

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FICTION

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Impressions of Death and the Afterlife Fiction

By Kaj Anderson-Bauer

So let’s say you die. Freak accident let’s

forever.” Pretty soon your arm begins to tire, and

say. It happens all the time. Maybe you have a heart

you sort of reach out for the last little bit of eave

attack. But no—you deserve better. Maybe it’s

over the front door. Then, before you have much

summer. You are painting your house. You have

awareness of what is going on, you are falling and

lived in this house for years, you and your

twisting backwards down into the sidewalk.

husband—or maybe your wife. You bought the

You don’t feel the impact of the earth. That’s

house years ago, when real estate was cheaper. Now

because your neck is broken. You don’t know you

you are finally

are dying yet.

getting that

All you know

mortgage paid

Then you are dead

is that you

off, and it feels

seem to be

good to have

stuck to the

assets.

sidewalk. Now you realize that you won’t be It is one of those days in early summer

getting up again—“I am dying,” you think, and

when yard work still seems like a good idea. The

your brain starts churning wildly. You begin to

new grass is coming up, and there is a warm breeze

panic. “Oh my God,” you think, “I am going to

blowing. So you buy a few of those big buckets of

die.” But even though your brain is more active in

paint—yellow paint, because you are starting over.

these last moments than it has been in your entire

Starting over? Yes, you think. Today is a new day.

life, to a passerby you would already appear dead.

And here it comes. Your mind is like a light bulb

You pull the ladder out of the garage and

get to work painting your eaves. “Goodbye blue

that flares brilliantly and then quietly burns out.

trim,” you think, “it will all be yellow now. Yellow

Then you are dead. You were thinking something 6

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as you died, but it doesn’t matter anymore.

everything.

There’s a lack of continuity between life

Truth is, lots of people die and go on to

and death—physics is different here, for example,

do great things, even with the depression and the

and that’s just one thing. Getting off the ground

haunting memories. Some people are actually hap-

might take you ten years. You might insist that your

pier here. Maybe that’s you. Maybe, once you get

back is broken for that long. It’s not broken, but it

up off the ground, you will come to realize that

takes most people a few years to adjust. It takes a

painting everything yellow wouldn’t have solved

while to get used to being dead, and in some cases

your problems anyway. You might realize that you

the post-death depression and the haunting memo-

really couldn’t have started over on that summer

ries never go away. The afterlife can be a depressing

day, so long ago. You can never start over; you can

place, and the adjustment is different for everyone.

only keep going.

It might take fifty years before you can even stand

Maybe at a certain point, you will forget everything

up again—it might take five hundred. But then,

about the few years you spent living. How long will

time is different in the afterlife too. Years will go

it take to forget? It’s hard to say. Maybe, one night,

whizzing by before you know it. Five hundred years

millions of years from now, you will awake from a

is pocket change here.

dream. You will be lying in bed next to the person

you love—still asleep beside you. You will look up

But see, that’s the bad news. There are good

bits of the afterlife as well. Your memories and

at the ceiling of your house, dark in your bedroom.

your imagination do everything here, so that opens

You will hear the refrigerator turn on downstairs,

up a lot of possibilities. You can float in the air for

and you will wonder if you

example, and you can breathe underwater. You also

ever really lived at all.

might meet someone here—someone to love. You might start a family. It happens all the time. People have built monuments of infinite height and also infinite smallness. People have written stories so

Kaj Anderson-Bauer writes fake gossip about his friends and

long that they take thousands of years to read—but real letters to Val Kilmer. He has recently published his stories in here we have time to read them. We have time for

Melee Live and Thin Air Magazine. Kaj lives in Arkansas. 7

fictionbrigade.com

A Flash Look Fiction

By Roy Buck

Lincoln’s mirrored self a mismatch of two

Lincoln was superstitious, some say an

differing faces. Different shades as the President stood

occultist but really he studied a deeper truth hidden in

in front of the mirror. One of which was many shades

plain sight. Old mirrors holding memories of every

lighter, she noted. The death pallor of the Doppel-

reflection captured. The president’s wife saw two

ganger’s ghastliness. An action perceived in advance?

separate distinct Lincolns in their chamber’s mirror.

Bilocation, multi-location--when an

Lincoln stated, “That I was to be elected a

individual or object is in two places at the exact

second term of office, and that the paleness of one

same time: glimpsed shadow of themselves in

of the faces was an omen that I should not see life

fringe vision. No chance of reflection in their

through the last term.”

flashed position.

A deeper truth existed beneath the surface of the

chambered mirror; John Wilkes Booth’s bullet

A look-a-like labeled harbinger. An omen.

At times, a ghostly double right by their sides.

exiting the front of Lincoln’s paled head.

A French teacher named Sagee, witnessed

by her 32 students, saw their teacher’s autoscopy

People have said that if Roy Buck

mimic and eat with nothing in her hands.

was a mode of transportation he’d

Sagee was ill. Her doppelganger passed

be an ostrich with a leather saddle.

through her. Her parallel double was vibrant. In

He was raised in Green and Gold

broad daylight, there was the bilocate and it was

country (Wisconsin) before living

motionless while Sagee taught, but the doppelganger

several years in both Missoula,

mimicked writing while the teacher thought.

MT and “da” UP, off Lake

Superior.

* 8 fictionbrigade.com

Crow-Boy and the Opposite of Indifference Fiction

By Brian Cooper The people in the mountains have no religion

book that proves the existence of a Monastery on

and the gods walk among them. You can travel

Standing Mountain, and then of a First Village

only a few hours from here and if you have a

Under the Monastery on Standing Mountain and a

guide to trace the winding path, find an unnamed

Second Village Under the Monastery on Standing

village whose every inhabitant is acquainted with

Mountain. And so on. The book is a not a book

the crow-boy, and who offer food to him and his

of history or geography, but a collection of tax

associates. The inhabitants are less than a dozen

records, and implies that the Monastery was built

families now

first and that

and none of the

its presence

families large or

Remember to breathe

attracted the

healthy. Their

people who

losses give them

built houses,

reason to be hostile to outsiders, and sometimes

cultivated small, terraced farms, offered a tax in

reckless in their hostility. But if you bring weap-

the form of grain to the inmates of the monastery.

ons, food, and authority, each in quantities enough

And bred more of their kind. Implausible, but

to compensate for the villagers superior patience,

most of the villagers assent to this story, claiming

guile, and aptitude for suffering, you may be able to

also that the Monastery itself was built the week

learn something like whatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s written here.

after the creation of the world, and that it was abandoned at the time of the founding of the

The village is unnamed, but if you donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t go up

Empire. According to the tax records however, the

the mountain and instead go to the library in the

oldest people in Third Village should have heard

capital, you can ask the librarian to show you the

stories from their grandfathers about the 9

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Monastery’s construction, and even those in Fourth

Still, this is the first time you’ve apprehended his

Village should have childhood memories of their

offer. He’d enjoy your help in destroying the world

own to explain the monks’ departure.

as it is, starting and ending with the crumpled huts of the First Village. Not need, not want. But enjoy.

If you do choose to go up the mountain and visit

And you’ll also enjoy it too in parts, sometimes the

the Monastery— a significant choice given the

thrill of power, sometimes the unthrill of

villagers antipathy toward any persons or beings

powerlessness. Swords. Fire. Croaks the crow-boy.

associated with what they have come to call The Black Temple— you will find a place that, despite

Remember to breathe. Destroy? Without malice,

its reputation and history, stimulates the evaporation

and without mercy. And yet with some other

of consciousness that, according to some historians,

opposite to indifference.

was the hallmark tenet of the structure’s builders. It’s more not-there than there. Not only are the

Shouldn’t that be difference? Croaks the crow-boy.

timbers charred nearly to ash and the foundation stones interpenetrated with mosses, fungi, and all their inbred cousins, but the roof is composed of fog and the floor is sketched from fallen leaves and your soft, shuffling footsteps. Your shadows are the last standing idol. The place’s not-thereness welcomes your not-hereness, and if you linger long enough to stop asking why you came or how much

Brian gave up playing Dungeons & Dragons soon after he

longer you’ll wait, or where you’ll go when you

got married and gave up writing fiction soon after he started

leave, the boy with glossy black hair and the

law school. Today, he has three sons and he works in the

unfortunate nose will at last get your attention.

general counsel’s office of a federal agency. And so, his very cool and supportive wife says, if he wants to play games and

He’s been here all along and he’s not really quiet.

write stories, who’s going to say that he shouldn’t?

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yOWSa Fiction

By Jacqueline Delibes US HIGHWAY 46, New Jersey – Seth Grantberg has staged a defiant occupation of the garage attached

In an attempt to use the bathroom, Mr. Grantberg

to his mother’s home in Parsippany, New Jersey. A

repeatedly banged on the door separating the garage

self-described “former Partner at commodities and

and main house, a door apparently bolted from the

derivatives brokerage house MF Global,” Mr.

inside by his mother Carolina Grantberg, 63. From

Grantberg, 42, readily granted an interview. MF

the kitchen, a muffled female voice answered, “You

Global, until recently headed by ex-New Jersey

want to use the amenities? Pay us back for your

Governor Jon Corzine, is currently under federal

education. Thank us for decades of sacrifice. Or

investigation for hundreds of millions of dollars in

clean the bathroom for once since 2008, how’s

missing money.

that?”

Mr. Grantberg, wearing a European-cut suit and

“Excuse me for a moment,” Mr. Grantberg said

vibrant power tie, appeared exhausted as he lay on a

as he raised the garage door and squatted behind

cot in the unheated garage. He noted that his current

a hedge. Moments later he returned, zipping his

diet includes root vegetables, a jar of Nescafé and

trousers. “A little customer money gets diverted

rain water. The former broker clutched a Cipriani

and now I’ve been cut off,” he said, and then yelled

Wall Street lunch menu to his chest.

towards the kitchen, “I’m pissed.”

An inquiry about why he remains in his mother’s

Asked to define what he’s demonstrating against

garage and the whereabouts of his wife, friends and

and what his specific demands are, Mr. Grantberg

home yielded a glacial silence. After several minutes,

pointed to a protest sign painted with the words

Mr. Grantberg acknowledged, “They’re gone.”

“A Return to Flowing, Beautiful Excess!” In the 11

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driveway, he marched alone in a circle for hours to wave the sign at passing vehicles.

She added, “He’ll join us for dinner, like he does every night. Tonight it’s roast chicken, glazed carrots.

“Let me back in – I’m proud to be part of the

Pudding.”

1%,” he shouted at a stray dog. “Seth is in a time-out at the moment. Of course Incredibly, Mr. Grantberg claimed to be completely

he uses the bathroom.”

unaware of the Occupy Wall Street movement that has captured worldwide media attention. “Really?”

Mrs. Grantberg shouted towards the garage door,

He looked away and fanned himself with a pile

“But not when he’s been so disrespectful.”

of stock certificates. “I hope they get what they ‘deserve.’”

Mr. Grantberg vigorously denied each of his mother’s allegations of misconduct. “We acted perfectly within

“Are you interested in futures by any chance?” said

SEC regulations. That’s all I’m permitted to say

Mr. Grantberg, looking refreshed by the question.

because of the investigation.” He lit a cigar. “Caveat

“The future?” asked the reporter for clarification.

emptor.”

“Not the future. Futures.”

Carolina Grantberg answered a reporter’s knock at the main entrance. The living room was decorated with stylish mid-century furniture accented by cheerful family photos. Jacqueline Delibes writes humor – personal essays, flash fiction “Did Seth convince you he was a Partner at MF

and short video scripts. Her background includes film editing,

Global?” asked Mrs. Grantberg. “He was fired

film production and marketing. She has a personal interest in

from a secretarial job at a dojo in 2008.”

transformational healing. Find her at www.jacquelinedelibes.com. 12 fictionbrigade.com

The Future Is So Gay Fiction

By Shawn Duyette

Michael clung desperately to the memory

He fell and his crushed will would not even

of his best days. His apartment looked much like

outstretch his arms to break the descent. His right

his dorm room even though he graduated in 2026.

shoulder hit the wall and the weight of his distended

Four years later, he stood in what he liked to refer

body easily pushed through the thick sheetrock.

to as his “Snatchelor Pad,” and nearly cried as he

Mikey’s feet slipped and he slid down, decimating

looked at the photos of his college days.

what remained of the wall.

He never even talked to his closest friend

He sobbed violently with his eyes wide open

anymore. Steve, like the rest of the “Duche Pixels,”

and unblinking. Sheetrock dust merged with his tears

grew up, forgot about the band, and even old friends.

and created a depressing plaster. He cried himself

Since his friends had moved on, gotten great jobs,

into a strange sleep but his eyes remained open.

money, and families, Mike’s decline had been quick

Some hours later he awoke to the sound of his cell

and violent.

phone. He painfully broke away dried plaster from

his dehydrated eyes. Sitting against the wall, partially

The toll drugs and alcohol took on his liver

turned him into a madman. He was not psychotic

blind, Mikey considered never eating, or drinking, or

and somewhere still had a heart of gold, but years

moving, ever again.

of booze, nicotine, and processed food devoured

him, turning him mean and angry. His life was a

at his cell phone and saw the only thing that could

rage of heavy energy, attracting bad situations,

have helped him remember what hope felt like: Steve.

people, and occasionally animals, all which appeared

to be out to harm him.

to return Steve’s call. He was excited for the first time in

years. Nervously feeding on old dried cheese from the

Friendless, with no money and a bloated liver,

Michael, dumbfounded, found that he was crying.

Vision reluctantly returned. He looked down

It took Mikey three days to get up the courage

myriad pizza boxes that made up most of his furniture, 13

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he built up enough energy after devouring his card

He did all but show up and take Mike’s tests for

table, ottoman and T.V. stand to make the call. “Steve-

him. Over time, Mike’s gentle bullying made Steve

O! How the hell are ya fucker?”

a bit tougher. Steve realized this, thanked Mike

internally, and after graduating, thought they would

Steve cringed after the opening line and

immediately regretted his decision to contact Mike.

part ways. Mostly he was right, but even though he

His wife had insisted he at least check to ensure

didn’t call, text, or email, Mike still showed up on

that Mikey was alive.

occasion without notice.

Steve always did what Myra recommended.

This was the longest hiatus yet and Steve

“He might have been an ass the entire time we

coyly admitted to Myra he was worried. She skillfully

knew him in college, but he was our ass,” Myra said.

pointed out the moral and spiritual obligation Steve

had for his karmic buddy. Though he didn’t believe

Steve’s mind reeled when Myra suggested

he call. In his mind, she was the main reason he

in karma, he believed in his wife. It took him three

didn’t call. “Creepy-eyed Mike,” would leer and

days to build up the courage to call.

mentally undress Myra from his perpetual perch of

insobriety. He was the guy who told Steve how hot

buddy?” Mikey was stupid by any measure, but was

Myra was, and joked that if Steve died, Myra would

not inept. He could hear the false concern in Stevie’s

be well looked after…in bed.

voice and it was too much. He burst into tears and

wept aloud.

Steve felt bad for Mike, but was scared of

“I am ok Mikey, thanks. How are you doing

him. Steve was always a shy person and freaked

out the first day of school when this big mindless

Mike was playing. “C’mon Mike, I called to say hi. Can

idiot approached him and declared as loud as his

you act mature at least once in your life?” The sobbing

booming voice would project to the entire dining

continued and Steve felt his gut drop when he realized

hall, “This little fucking nerd is my new best friend.

what was happening. “Mike man, are you ok?”

He’s gonna help me graduate from this hell-hole so

After several minutes…a whimper. “No.”

nobody fuck with him…in fact, don’t even talk to

The next morning, Mike awoke with the

him! Understood!”

ugliest, most dour look upon his mug. But for the

first time in years he was happy. He opened the

Years passed and Steve proved Mikey right.

At first, Steve had no idea what sort of joke

14 fictionbrigade.com

door and went outside to hail a taxi.

“C’mon man, I’m serious.”

“Fine. I’ll chill, ok? Now let’s get trashed. I’m

Myra came to the room to wake Steve. He

lay there awake with his back turned. “Honey, you’ve

kidding…fuck. Get that worried look off your face.”

been sleeping a long time.” Steve’s eyes were wide

and clear as he turned to Myra. He said to her, “Baby,

about the city. He told Mike it was not like Boston. San

I invited Mike to stay with us for a week or so.”

Francisco had become so populated with aggressive

lesbian women, the men were threatened and

It took the correct and truthful answers to

Before they went out, Steve admonished Mike

dozens of questions to convince his wife he was

generally scared to go anywhere alone, and had learned

not mad. After she was satisfied he did the right

to become extremely polite and introspective when in

thing, she congratulated him for his courage, then

public. If so much as a wayward glance landed in the

called her mother to tell her she and the kids were

direction of some groups of women in many parts of

coming to visit.

the city, that man would be beaten and may not return home. In reality, the women of the city became the

“A fucking six-pack!”

men, and the men like women.

Steve thought he should have some beer for

That night, after drinking too much, the

his friend’s arrival. He genuinely thought that six

two stumbled from the bar. Steve, more inebriated

was too many. But after realizing the advanced state

than he intended, forgot entirely where they were

of Mikey’s disease, he knew that six was too many.

and the etiquette required for peaceful passage back

to the Bart station.

“You know, I actually don’t think you

should be drinking at all buddy.”

the presence of his enormous friend when he

“Don’t buddy me you little bitch! Get me a

He was laughing and feeling bolstered by

bottle opener…now! Hahaha, just kidding chump.

heard her.

Where are we going to party tonight?”

“What the hell are you two going on about?”

He had seen her and her gang before outside

“Listen, I flew you here so you could relax

and be with a friend. Let’s not turn this into a week

the Bart station. The last time he did, she was

of debauchery.”

pummeling a homeless man who dared asked her for

change. The man was hospitalized. Although many

“Dude, you’re killing my buzz!”

15 fictionbrigade.com

people saw what transpired, no one dared come

they dragged his lifeless body up and over the Bart

forward. If someone did, it was unlikely any of the

railing, and discarded him down three stories into

many lesbians that made up the corrupt police force

the desolate station.

would even make an arrest.

drunk was found dead with so many contusions.

“Why don’t you two little fuckers hand over

your wallets, and get the hell out of here.”

No one ever questioned the fact that some

And Steven told no one but Myra.

Mike was outraged but not at the woman;

Shawn Duyette is an

he thought she was cute, even if she was a bitch.

avid yoga practitioner

What pissed him off was Steve. That pussy actually

and the creator/author

handed over his wallet and said thank you.

of MotoYoga. The main

“Steve, what the fuck are you are doing?”

focus of his writing orbits

“Dude, just do what she says.”

around the spheres of

To which she replied, “Yeah dick dude, do

self-help, exercise, health

what she says.”

& wellness, nutrition,

Mike yelled, “Bitch, shut the fuck up before

meditation, adventure and spirituality.

I slap you!”

holistic and integrative medicine. While in school, Shawn discovered

Mike had done it now. A hundred and

Shawn attended medical school and focused on Chinese,

one lesbians seemed to come out of nowhere and

a penchant and a gift for massage and bodywork. He continues his

descend upon the two behind a wave of thrown

healing work today with a bent toward experiential enlightenment

bottles and scrap metal.

and strives to assist others to discover their true strengths and

passion through exercise, adventure and creative storytelling.

“Just hold down the dork. It’s the fat one

that called me a bitch.”

Mikey fought hard and knocked down at

minded Sagittarian and a master of many trades. His wife

least seven lesbians with his huge fists. Steve was

calls him a renaissance man. He is an author, yogi, martial

dragged over against a parked car and made to

artist, and he can cook a gourmet meal. Shawn loves the

watch the beating of his “fat-ass friend.”

outdoors and meditation. He is a consummate creative type

who loves to invent and improve the world for all.

After they were done pummeling Mikey,

Shawn Michael Duyette is an entrepreneurial

16 fictionbrigade.com

Mending Wall Fiction

By Richard Helmling

When I pull up, there’s a crane by my

bailout must not have ever balanced a checkbook,

neighbor’s house.

either. How much debt you have?”

This is out of the ordinary.

“What’s up, Mitch?” I ask, on account of

grand.”

“Not too much. We just have a couple

his name being Mitch.

“Chump.”

“Solar panels.”

“What?”

“Going green?”

“Self-sustaining. Got a tank up top for rain

you owe on that Acura, that Toyota, on your

“Not your stupid credit cards. How much

collection, too.”

damned house?”

“Rain collection?”

“Shit, I don’t know.”

“You watch the news?”

“Two hundred, at least.”

“You’re not worried about that 2012 thing,

“I guess.”

are you?”

“Now, think brother, the country’s in the hole

about eleven trillion now, and Wall Street and this

“I don’t know if we’ll make it that long.”

“Huh?”

entire backward financial system can only live with

“Watch the news. Take the bailout stuff.”

trillion-dollar infusions to keep alive a capitalist system

“The bailout?”

founded on the assumption of unlimited growth of

“You ever balance your checkbook, Davis?”

capital. What’s the problem with that, Davis?”

he asks, on account of my name being Davis.

“Um—”

“Not really. The bank sends me a

“Unlimited growth is impossible. Sooner

statement online, so—”

or later, there will be no new markets and you

know what happens then?”

“Figured. Those guys who worked up the

17 fictionbrigade.com

“A depression?”

paper; I’m not an animal. I’ve got two tiers to this

“Bullshit. The whole world is linked into

house. Got enough space for gardening on the

one economy that’s defended by a bloated,

second to grow essentials. Solar and wind on the

over-spent military force—ours—all of which is

top to keep the refrigerator and the perimeter lights

dependent on a finite energy source. It won’t be any

going.”

fucking depression. It’ll be a goddamned dark age.

“Perimeter lights?”

You know who does balance their checkbooks?”

“You think other people aren’t going to

“My wife’s pretty good about hers.”

see my little fortress here? You think they’re not

“The Saudis. You know what they’re doing

going to want to come in, help themselves to my

right now?”

food, my daughters, etc. I’ve thought it all through.

“Balancing checkbooks?”

Corner house, wide back yard, got room. From

“Drilling offshore. They’re sitting on one-

the roof, with a good rifle, I can pick off anybody

fourth of the world’s oil in the dirt and they’re drill-

comes within fifty feet.”

ing offshore. How come?”

“Mitch, my house is closer than that.”

“Yeah, sorry, bud. When the shit hits

“Apparently it’s got something to do with

their checkbooks.”

the fan, I figure I’ll have to raze your place to the

ground.”

“They know the shit’s running out, man.

They’re gonna grab every damned drop they can

Richard Helmling

so they can keep enjoying their Mercedes Benzes

lives with his wife and

and their harems with seventy virgins for as long as

two children in El

they can.”

Paso, Texas. He has

an MFA in Creative

“I’m thinking they’re not virgins anymore

once they’re in the harems, no?”

Writing from the

“I’m just saying, they’ve got a plan.”

University of Texas

“And so do you?”

at El Paso. His professional writing has been published

“I’ve stockpiled a life-time supply of am-

in English in Texas and his fiction has been published

munition and water purification tablets—and toilet

in the Rio Grande Review. 18

fictionbrigade.com

Unfamiliar Rooms Fiction

By Walter Holland Anna in the morning searches an unfamiliar room

a chance. “Well then,” she says, laughing. The toilet

wondering if she really said “Where’d my sock

flushes. His callused heels gracelessly bang the tiles.

go?” or just thought it. A mess that’s yours isn’t a

“The first day of the universe started with a Big

mess. The room’s not hers; neither is he. The left

Bang,” she calls out. The bathroom door muffles

sock is missing, and it does matter which - it has

his response. “No pressure!” she calls out. “What?”

little asymmetrical toes and everything. He’d called

he says. Bella rolls her eyes, looks at her wrists,

it ‘adorable’ and sort of tugged it from her foot

her arms. Little asymmetrical bruises. He’s a lefty,

slowly,

she thinks.

laughing, eyes

“Did you say

never leaving

He had the grace or wit not to mention his wife’s name

something?”

hers.

he says as he

Managing not

enters,

to spill the wine. Last night. This is the price, she

flopping around cheerfully. “Not every Bang has

thinks or maybe says. Somehow this missing sock

to be Big,” she says. He scratches himself, says, “Is

will come back to haunt me. He had the grace or

that a joke?” “Never you mind,” Bella says. She

wit not to mention his wife’s name. Anna’s too

laughs again, points to a spot on the bed beside

preoccupied with the sock, now, to be grateful.

her. She sparkles.

Maybe later. Carmen in the morning doesn’t feel like dealing Bella in the morning stretches sore muscles and

with Mama but she has to go home. She knows.

arches her back to look out over the upside down

Mama will let the silence settle in a little first.

city. Rain whispers at the window, hush, hush. Not

“Emilio doesn’t know what you do at night,” 19

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she’ll say. “Thank heavens.” Of course he doesn’t

Thank heavens.

know, Carmen thinks, it’s worse that way. He feels she’s gone without knowing it. He doesn’t

Emmie in the morning awakens alone

know yet that those scary feelings are called

remembering, like every morning, and doesn’t start

Questions. Bad enough facing Mama’s pursed

crying so much as pick up where she last left off.

lips and disapproval. Emilio loves her even when

Maybe she’ll sleep away the day, die, dissolve,

she’s...A kettle hisses, whistles. Katherine’s in

disappear - or maybe awaken, blessedly, finally. One

the next room making breakfast. Goal-oriented.

or another. But probably not. Probably she’ll just

Carmen doesn’t want to say: “Cata, listen.” She

have to live one more day, by habit if not choice.

won’t say “I have a little boy.” Or “I can’t walk

The room was theirs but it’s just hers now.

into my baby’s nursery again smelling like a

Everything is an intrusion. Nothing is familiar.

strange woman.” She won’t, she won’t, yet she will.

Emmie says, I have nowhere else to go. Debby says, I guess I’m going crazy.

Debby in the morning looks right and then down,

Carmen says, I need to go. No, now.

whoa, he’s naked, then left and down, OK also

Bella says, I’d go again, you?

naked, then up at the ceiling and down at herself,

Anna in the morning says, Where’d my sock go?

naked, check, iiiinteresting, and hands and arms are just everywhere. Hers and everyone else’s. The stereo was on all night: blue jazz,

Walter Holland is a

bedroom music. Debby wriggles, remembers,

full-time dad and part-

opens her eyes wide. WELL then. Debby thinks:

time writer/editor from

Am I a perv now? A brand new smile comes,

Cambridge MA. He

suddenly, and she thinks: I don’t care. She reaches

has never published a

over, squeezes somebody’s something-or-other,

work of fiction.

hears a contented sigh. Debby surprises herself.

20 fictionbrigade.com

Wanderlust Fiction

By Danilo Lopez “The journey, not the destination, becomes the source of

After work, when he was able to, he would stop by

wonder”

her house. She would try to penetrate the heart and

Lorena McKennit, “The Mask and Mirror” mind of that quiet man, so loved, so lonely, in vain. She, tired of being closed, would open to him as At the Hotel du Lys, 23 Rue Serpente, Paris,

naturally as water and salt. He, tired of being open,

France, it wasn’t her nipple that froze in the garden,

would close to her as naturally as dust and air.

but the inconstancy that served them well. The rest,

adorned with festoons and clairvoyant silk roses,

Bucharest, Romania, she discovered that in the

was a monument to passing loves, boring laughs.

legend of Dracul, the reincarnation of the love

No cats could be mastered, no clogs to ride. Only

of his wife kills him in order to reach eternal

her expectant smile, eternally asking “how much

salvation. It was not the destiny of the two souls

longer?”

to sail together and be saved in pairs. Each soul

had to reach its own salvation alone. From this

At the Hotel Endri, Rs. Vaso Pasha 27,

At the Hotel Carpati, Str Matei Millo 16,

Tirana, Albania, she realized that in the beginning

stand point, she concluded, soulmates didn’t

the heart rules over the head. She didn’t care much

exist in eternity (souls are timeless) but in brief

about not seeing him but once in a while. She didn’t

chosen associations formed in the temporal

care about him not answering her calls. So many

plane. So, in the end, she would sail into

endless nights she cried until dawn waiting for the

infinity by herself. She learned that in eternity

phone to ring, in vain. Right before sunrise she

the concepts of loneliness and separation didn’t

would then slowly rise, shower, get pretty for him,

apply to a soul freed from a body: her soul was

drop off Brian at school, and head off to the of-

interconnected to all others, and all others were

fice. At lunch they would have long conversations.

connected to the Cosmic Mind. 21

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On the way back from Sevastopol to

Market and yellow like the dying sun in Vilnius,

Odessa, she crossed the Black Sea. Standing at the

Lithuania, illuminated the back patio with large

veranda on starboard, looking into the dark blue

dancing shadows. The smoke became thick like the

waters and the misty coastline in the horizon, she

walls of old castles in Dubrovnik, Croatia, and then

slowly opened her purse, pulled out a packet of

the ashes, gray like the skies of Oslo in mid-winter,

Virginia Slims, took one with expert fingers, and

were swept by clear rains and gentle winds.

lit it with her left hand. She inhaled deeply as if trying to trap in her lungs the countless memories that came to supplant reality, the mosaic of happy moments gone so many years ago.

But it was at Kadriog Park in Tallin’s Old

Town, Estonia, where she convinced herself—in mind and heart—that having him incompletely was more painful than not having him at all. She decided to peel off one by one the conquest poems read in bed, the postcards received from unknown places, the memories flooding her mind,

Danilo Lopez (Nicaragua, 1954) immigrated to the United

the punctual flowers on each of her birthdays, the

States in 1985. An architect by training, he has published

infinite nights embracing nothingness, the

several poetry collections in English and Spanish and three

painful unreturned messages, the absent phone

anthologies with funding from the Miami-Dade County

calls, the mad lovemaking, the Orvietto Classic

Cultural Affairs Council, the latest being Dona Nobis

drunk by the terrace, the warm baths together, the

Pacem. His work has appeared in many printed literary

odious unstoppable tears, the flaring disco dances,

magazines (Hayden’s Ferry Review, BorderSenses, etc.) and

the Mother’s Day unwrapped gifts, the unrealized

on-line (Baqueana, Loch Raven review, etc). He has ap-

Christmases. Until she stopped needing him.

peared in poetry anthologies from the United States, Spain,

Argentina, and Nicaragua. He is a candidate to the MFA

The box burned for several minutes. The

flames, red like the awnings in Riga’s Central

at the University of Texas, El Paso. 22

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Chat Fiction

By Monica Martinez BIANCA

— Albert

She raised her glass, swirled the remaining

ice and wordlessly called the bartender. He retrieved

ADA

the Jack Daniels and mixed her a second drink. Bianca

retrieved her netbook from her silver and black Coach

from lunch, and the lunch itself sat untouched. Dad’s

Mia tote. She logged into her email, moving her hands

Colts were playing the Broncos and his eyes never left

along the keyboard and mouse pad without taking her

the TV. Ada had retrieved her laptop from her room.

eyes off the TV. The Weather Channel broadcasted

Having no interest in the game, she tabbed between

the storm would clear before the night was over. Her

Facebook and Yahoo. Waiting for her was an email

eyes turned to her computer screen. The Yahoo

from Julliard, the subject: New Student Orientation.

messenger indicated Ada was online.

Her eyes darted at her father, then back to her email.

She left it unopened.

As Bianca debated chatting with her little

The coffee mug from this morning, the water

sister, a new email appeared on her screen. She

It had been sixteen minutes since Ada

opened up the note from her boss:

logged on and she knew Bianca had seen her. Ada

Bianca,

clicked the chat. She typed, CALLED THE AIRLINE.

Hope you have a safe flight. To answer

DAD’S BEEN WONDERING WHERE YOU ARE.

your questions. The Austin branch of the

law firm has a position open for associate

BIANCA

but it is a lateral move. You heard right,

Carl is retiring. We will have an opening for

Bianca’s eyes off the Weather Channel. She rolled

partner. Off the record…You’ve got a

her eyes at her sister’s comment. With her drink in

shot. See you in a few days.

one hand, Bianca’s fingers searched for the letters.

The chime of the chat window pulled

23 fictionbrigade.com

S,N,O,W...

Ada stared at the words her sister sent.

Yes, because this was Ada’s choice. Because she ADA

was doing this to herself. There was only one way The chime of the chat window let Ada know

she could still go to Julliard. YOU’RE COMING

she had received a response. Bianca had written,

HOME THEN?,

SNOWED IN.

responded with the same response she’d been

giving for days, FOR THE FUNERAL AND THEN

THAT’S WHAT YOU GET FOR LIVING

IN NEW YORK. NEVER SNOWS IN TEXAS,

Ada

responded to her older sister’s message. She

she typed to her big sister. Bianca

BACK TO WORK.

Ada typed what she’d been

asking for days, AND DAD?

looked at her dad. The game was on commercial break. “Papa. Why don’t you eat something?” He

BIANCA

didn’t even look at her when she spoke to him.

She looked back at her computer screen. Bianca

another sip. So what would they do with their

didn’t respond.

father now? I DON’T KNOW, Bianca typed.

Bianca picked up her glass and took

WE NEED TO KNOW, Ada responded. BIANCA

typed.

Taking a long slow sip of her drink, she

I’VE GOT A SHOT AT PARTNER,

wondered how to answer. Bianca wrote, YOU DO

KNOW THAT JULLIARD IS HERE IN NY NOT IN

BUTTERFLY AT THE MET SOME DAY,

TEXAS, RIGHT? It

took a few minutes for the chat

Bianca

I’VE GOT A SHOT AT SINGING MADAME

replied Ada.

After the capitalized “WE” that Ada had

window to chime again but when it did Bianca did

wrote, the “I’ve” both sister had started their sentences

not like what it read: DON’T THINK THERE WILL

with looked so selfish.

BE ANY JULLIARD FOR ME.

Bianca set her Jack and

coke down and typed, ADA, DON’T DO THAT TO

ADA

YOURSELF.

She wrote to Bianca, EVEN WITH THE

NURSE MOM HAD TROUBLE WITH DAD. WE NEED

ADA

TO DO IT TOGETHER.

24 fictionbrigade.com

YOU COULD GO TO SCHOOL AT NIGHT,

ADA

Bianca wrote. A small consolation prize for the girl

who had been accepted with a full scholarship to

Ada’s screen. Ada opened a blank word document.

Julliard.

In it she wrote:

Ada responded, AND YOU COULD TRANSFER.

I CAN MANAGE UNTIL THEN.

BIANCA

Bianca Grayer has signed off, appeared on

To Whom It May Concern,

I regret to inform you that I will not be able

to accept the full scholarship to your fine

establishment this fall...

Transferring to the Austin branch was an

option Bianca wanted to avoid. She spun around to look at the airline board. Her flight was still marked as delayed.

WE’RE BOARDING. WE’LL TALK MORE

WHEN I GET THERE,

she typed.

Bianca changed her status to invisible so

her sister wouldn’t know she was still online. She opened Albert’s email and hit reply. In an email to her boss Bianca wrote: Albert,

Thank you for your kind words but I have

to take the transfer. My dad had a stroke

and my sister can’t care for him alone now

that our mother has passed away. I will make

Monica Vanessa Martinez is a student at the University

the request official when I get back from the

of Texas-El Paso where she is working towards her MFA

funeral.

in creative writing. She lives and works in Austin, Texas.

When she is not writing she enjoys training for half-

— Bianca

marathons, scrapbooking and cooking. 25 fictionbrigade.com

The Purple Hat Fiction

By Melanie McDonald

Alice’s mother enjoyed going out with Dr.

they were leaving the house that morning, her mother

Dexter, who was funny and handsome and owned a

paused in front of the entry mirror, set down the

sailboat. He had invited both of them to sail with him

picnic basket, examined her reflection, and said,

today. Alice’s mother volunteered to bring the picnic

“Here, trade hats with me.” She swept the yellow hat

lunch. They met him at the lake, where his boat was

off her head and held it out toward Alice. Alice

docked. The boat, moored in its slip, looked huge to

understood then the purple one wasn’t hers really, but

Alice. Black stenciled letters proclaimed it The Siren.

a spare, in case her mother changed her mind. Alice

Its polished

had to wear

wood gleamed

the yellow one

in the sun.

Come aboard here, matey

instead.

Dr.

Now Dr.

Dexter emitted a

Dexter helped

wolf whistle of

them climb aboard. He kissed Alice’s mother on the

delight when Alice’s mother stepped out of the car.

cheek, a playful kiss, as he took the basket and made

Her mother, looking pleased, said, “Oh, David,” in a

sure she got across the swath of water between the

teasing voice. She had bought new swimsuit covers,

walkway and the boat. Then he turned back to help

“sailing togs” she called them, for herself and Alice,

Alice.

hers in red terry cloth and Alice’s in yellow with white

daisies. She also had bought two straw hats, one

in a jovial voice a little louder than necessary, perhaps,

yellow and one purple.

for just between the three of them, and extended a

hand to help her. His blue eyes crinkled at the

Alice had been delighted with the purple hat,

the color being her all-time favorite. But right when

“Come aboard here, matey,” Dr. Dexter said

corners. His hands looked clean and rare. Alice knew 26

fictionbrigade.com

much it meant for her mother that Alice had been invited, too. They had to be frugal, her mother was always saying, because they had a lot less money now than when they still lived with Dad.

Her mother and her women friends often told

each other how single men didn’t want women with baggage. Alice, hearing this, always envisioned a small gray suitcase abandoned on a train platform. She also understood that undesirable baggage was anything hampering an otherwise smooth, pleasurable trip toward some much-anticipated destination. At twelve, Alice probably knew a little more about her mother’s friends, their dating lives, than she should. The Bible said always honor thy father and mother but it seemed grown-ups weren’t required to honor kids back. Art by Sean Lefler

Dr. Dexter hopped around the ship’s deck,

she should say something joking back to him. Her

loosening some ropes and tightening others, raised

mother wanted her to say something funny and

the sails, and eased The Siren out of its slip. From

bright, make a good impression, but she couldn’t.

time to time, no matter what he was doing, he

Instead, she just smiled.

glanced over at Alice’s mother. Alice understood.

Dr. Dexter had no children of his own.

Everyone loves to look at beauty, heads swiveling

Earlier that morning, Alice had received a lecture from

like flowers on their stalks toward the sun. Water

her mother on how to behave during this outing so as

lapped at the sides of the boat like dogs’ tongues.

not to annoy him. She was to be on her best behavior,

“and no sitting with your nose in a book like the

as she dared to peer at the water. She watched the lacy

Queen of Sheba,” her mother said. The fact that

green froth of the wake trailing along behind them,

they got new clothes for sailing let Alice know how

and imagined mermaids cavorting below. She thought

Alice sat alongside one rail, leaning over as far

27 fictionbrigade.com

it might be fun to be a mermaid, except she didn’t

warning of a rattlesnake. Alice wondered if Dr. Dexter

care much for eating fish. She could smell the lake fish

heard it, too. He seemed to be studying the main sail.

in the tangy air, but couldn’t see any of them.

“But, Mom—”

“Alice. Sit down,” her mother said, and gave

Alice’s mother let out a sudden whooping

laugh, and Alice turned and looked in time to see the

her a look that froze her in place. At that moment,

purple hat, caught by a renegade breeze which had

her mother was wishing her away, as if Alice could

snatched it

vanish, like the hat

from her

The Bible said always honor thy father and mother

mother’s

but it seemed grown-ups weren’t

head, sail-

required to honor kids back

ing out

or a piece of lost luggage.

The look

passed, but Alice

into the lake, touching down a few yards from what

stayed frozen for some time, miserable under the

Dr. Dexter called the port side. The hat landed upside

hateful yellow hat, the hat that survived. Why

down, taking on water at one edge of its brim.

couldn’t the wind have taken it instead?

“We can swing around and pick it up, Elaine,” Dr.

At noon, they skimmed into a quiet cove,

Dexter said, raising his voice to be heard over the wind-

unpacked the hamper and ate the lunch her mother

chopped water. His topsiders had darkened with spray.

had prepared, the sandwiches of expensive deli meats

and cheeses, a treat Alice had been looking forward to,

“Oh, no, David,” Alice’s mother said. “It’s just

a cheap sun hat. Don’t worry about it at all—look, it’s

dry as brick dust in her mouth.

already sinking.” She laughed, a merry trilling sound

meant to show she was not concerned. The dim shape

secret. She wished she had shouted, “That’s my hat.”

of the hat, now like a cup inverted on a saucer, could

Would Dr. Dexter still have offered to turn the boat

still be seen sifting its slow way toward the bottom.

around? She didn’t know. She did know that in the car,

later, her mother would promise, by way of apology,

“Mom,” Alice said, “maybe we could get back

She wished she had not kept her mother’s

there before it—”

to buy another; an apology which would arrive too

late, and would be a lie—there wasn’t the money.

“No,” her mother said, cutting her off. A

threat hummed in her voice, beneath the word, like the

Still picturing the purple hat, Alice stood up

28 fictionbrigade.com

and leaned over the rail, staring down into the churning water, and imagined her mermaid self, silent, pale-faced, and clutching a small suitcase, sinking away to join it beneath the waves.

Sean Lefler is an artist and animator based in Southern California. He graduated from Cal State Fullerton where he contributed a weekly comic to the school newspaper. Today, Sean spends his days facing the real world and all the challenges life can throw at him. Taking hit after hit, Sean produces work independently as well as pursues other endeavors such as stand-up Melanie McDonald has an MFA in fiction from the University

comedy and improv.

of Arkansas. She received a Hawthornden Fellowship, with a residency in Scotland, for her debut novel Eromenos, published March 2011. Her work has appeared in New York Stories, Fugue, Indigenous Fiction, and other journals. She has continued to study writing at Vermont Studio Center, NUI Galway, and at workshops in New York City; Squaw Valley; NapaValley, and WICE Paris, taught by C. Michael Curtis, senior fiction editor for The Atlantic Monthly. She also spent some time in Italy while at work on Eromenos, recently named a finalist in the Next Generation Indie Book Awards, historical fiction division.

29 fictionbrigade.com

No Beards for Mr. Bailey Fiction

By Peter McKenna 1968 was just loaded with drama. Tet

enough to be the iconic oddball (like Jake, a guy with

offensive, King and Kennedy assassinations, Paris

wire rim specs, wire curled hair and a lunatic grin,

uprising, Chicago uprising, Nixon elected. I knew

who got around by bouncing, jumping down the hall

these things were going on, but like most boys was

or across the quad, and chanting what sounded like

preoccupied with girls and trying to look cool. Over

math formulae).

the summer I let my hair grow and sprouted

I just wanted to be cool in the simplest sense

sideburns. Returning to school I had an impressive

— to belong to something, to have a gang, a niche.

set of whiskers for 15. Guys pointed them out; so

My freshman PE coach, Mr. Frank, had told me

did some girls. The dress code had lightened up that

I ought to go out for track. Ol’ Riordan the Un-

year. Girls could wear pants, boys could grow their

coordinated — two left feet and they’re both flat,

hair past the neckline; they could even grow

throws like a girl, can only dribble with his mouth

moustaches, if possible. Besides this Jewish gorilla

— surprised the coach, the class, and himself with

who grew a beard in one week just to prove he could

his speed, even if he did run like a ruptured duck.

(and then shaved it, Dean’s orders), I was the only

In the second week of school, I got brave enough

kid in my class with anything noticeable. I was proud,

to venture into that noisy, towel-snapping, territorial

even if my sideburns were not a chick magnet.

I-got-it, I-got-it! world of jocks. Runners aren’t really

Coolness involves more than looks. Some guys

jocks, but they belong to a team and presumably get to

achieve it through attire, some through indifference,

be buddies and hang out together and maybe meet girls

some through idiosyncrasy. Not me. I still wore white

(Cheerleaders? Not likely. Sisters, maybe).

tennis shoes and rode my bicycle to school, didn’t

The track coach was Mr. Bailey: close-cropped

know any better, until I heard snickers and stopped,

sandy hair, five feet eight, late twenties, gray framed

for I was not too cool to care. Neither was I strange

glasses. We’d had him as a substitute sometimes the 30

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previous year, but not during any running trials. So he

besides eyebrows is a beard. And no beards on my

would not have had any impression of me, nor would

team.

I of him, as he just put us through scheduled activi-

Excuse me, Mr. Bailey, but...how come?

ties (the least embarrassing for me was soccer, which

You represent the school, you represent me.

nobody could really play except one Mexican kid and

I want my men to look squared away.

one Pakistani

But

kid, who were

what’s that

not allowed to be on the

No facial hair on my men

same team).

got to do with running? I just want to run.

In the glass-

Running

enclosed coaches’ office he greeted me with a smile

involves discipline like any other sport, and the first

and a handshake: first time I ever shook a teacher’s

rule of discipline is you do what the coach directs.

hand. He said Mr. Frank had mentioned me, and he

If he wants you to be clean shaven, if he doesn’t

was glad to have me on board (do coaches always say

want his men looking like a bunch of hippies, then

that?). Did I have any previous track experience? No?

you shave and cut your hair.

Well, he looked forward to training me. He gave me

We went back and forth for a while. I said

an armful of documents: team regulations, track meet

the school had loosened the dress code this year.

dates, request of change to sixth period PE, parental

He said the coaches could set their own. I pointed

consent, release of liability, doctor’s okay. That was it

out some of the towel snappers in the locker room

for now, he said, shaking my hand again. Oh, except

that had hair past the neckline. He said they were

one thing.

not on his team (Mr. Frank, observing from his

Yeah, coach?

desk in the corner, raised his eyebrows at this). I

Get a haircut and shave that beard. No facial

said that I didn’t think that any guys from any other

hair on my men.

school would care if our hair was long. He said

This isn’t a beard, just sideburns.

he would care, and that’s all that mattered. I said,

Far as I’m concerned, any hair on your face

lots of athletes have long hair these days, who’s 31

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that guy, that football guy? He said if Joe Namath

been embarrassed to admit that, and it would have

wanted to be on his team, he’d tell him, get a

played right into his argument.

haircut, and if Ben Davidson showed up, shave the

If sports weren’t for me, what then? Acting?

mustache. If Flash Gordon (I think he was actually

Bailey did say I was dramatic. So I auditioned for the

referring to Flash, the DC comic hero) showed up

school play that semester, Teahouse of the August Moon,

with a mustache, he wouldn’t get on his team with

about Americans bringing democracy to Japan. I

it.

got the part of Colonel Purdy, which allowed me to Mr. Bailey, it took me all summer to grow

these sideburns.

swear on stage. First line: Dammit to hell! Dammit to hell! Dammit to hell! Later I got to say, These people

Well, it won’t take you so long next summer, if you feel you really gotta have them. You’re making

are going to learn democracy if I have to shoot every one of them. Plus ca change...

this too much of a drama, Riordan.

Mrs. Joyce, the director, said that as I was

Well, I think you are, Mr. Bailey, and I’m sorry, but I don’t want to be on your team. If you can’t handle discipline, then I don’t

playing an army man, well, I didn’t have to get a GI haircut, but I should trim those locks, and those sideburns had to go.

want you either.

And so they did. Maybe that’s what pissed off Bailey so much.

Thus my life as a jock was strangled in the

I would say these were the roads taken and not

womb. Apparently I really pissed him off. He gave

taken, if I were now making a living as an actor, but

me dirty looks for the rest of the year, muttering

I’m not. However I did become a runner again, at 53,

stuff about hippies and trolls. Luckily we never had

midlife crisis or something. It came back easily enough.

him as a sub as he probably would have had me

“They shall run and not grow weary,” (Isaiah 40).

running discipline laps. Coaches were always telling

As for Bailey, one Saturday when he was 43,

you, Go run one. Sometimes more than one.

he went for his daily six miler. Halfway into it he

I did not mention to him that my motive

had a heart attack and dropped dead, literally. He

in going out for track was really that I wanted to

was on a popular jogging trail, and an ambulance

be part of a team, to be cool in some way. I’d have

was quickly called. Thing is, nobody knew who 32

fictionbrigade.com

he was as he had no identification on him. Some runners had seen him before, but no one from his teams, none of his men. Four hours later the police got a call from his concerned wife: I’m a little worried about my husband, this isn’t like him... Poor woman, especially having to find out

Born in San Francisco, Peter McKenna has lived there most

the way she did. Still, Bob Bailey died doing what

of his life. He taught English composition until everybody

he lived for, and if no one recognized him at the

realized he was better at composing than teaching.

hour of his death, practically everyone remembered

him afterward. Obituaries were profound and the

Those who can’t teach, teach P.E.”

“Those who can, do. Those who can’t do, teach.

bleachers were packed in the service held at the track and field. Testimonies were many. Mr. Bailey coached about life as much as running. Hard work, team work, discipline, discipline…but he didn’t just bark orders at you. You could talk to him about anything, you felt like you had a friend, you felt family, you were part of something. Just west of the bleachers, overlooking the track, stands an obelisk with a bronze plaque bearing his profile. It’s not a bad likeness though his hair’s longer than it was in 1968; more like ‘78. One likes to think of it blowing in the breeze. After his name and his dates are three simple words: Go run one.

33 fictionbrigade.com

Whispers in the Night Fiction

By Monica Mendelson

Beep, beep, beep. Message delivered.

moved, but they were alive and waiting. The bedroom

Somewhere in the gray mass, sparks were flying. A

door was closed. Would I be able to open it in time,

warning screamed along its circuitry, but there were

saved by the light, or would darkness claim me once

no clues as to where or when the danger would

more? Beep, beep, beep. Why did I have to be cho-

begin. And as the darkness closed in, I remained,

sen?

lying broken across the bed.

or locked up. Nobody wanted anyone to see past

The night was quiet, foreboding. Even

The Chosen were often ignored, cast away,

the storms fell under hush. The stars were lying

their perfect world, but we saw through their façade.

beneath darkness, and no moon shined tonight. A

We saw the mistakes planted that would lead to

gentle buzzing crept across the sky and slipped into

their destruction, the lies that would blister and

my room, chirping in my ear, but I didn’t want to

peel, and the hands to tear them down. We saw

listen. I couldn’t listen.

the waves crashing, the lives lost, and the buildings

falling, but those that tried to save the world were

Click. Something scratched against the

window screen. Click. Red eyes shined in

either killed or labeled enemies. The rest of us just

anticipation, but fear held me still. It wanted me to

hid away, trying to escape fate, but fate found me

know that it was there. It wanted me to know that

here tonight.

death was coming, and if anybody laid eyes on the

monster outside my bedroom, they would surely

arm screamed with every single beep. People were

die. And I did not want to die.

going to die. Tragedy was coming. No clues would

be given, but when the hour came, I would know

The buzzing in my ear continued. Despite the

And fate was waiting. The bruised X on my

overwhelming sense of fear, the knot tightening in

everything. But would I save them, or would I let

my belly, I sat up and faced the darkness. No shadows

them die? 34

fictionbrigade.com

There was no Superman. He was buried

but my past mistakes were alive and well. I hurried

under rubble, and the people that he saved quickly

by closed doors, trying not to disturb the innocent,

forgot about him. They were lost in gratitude of

and now I stood beside the front door. My hand

being alive, but humanity was sand in the hour-

shook badly as I reached to open it. I didn’t want

glass, slipping away. There were no heroes. Nobody

this. Nobody wanted this. Nobody wanted to know,

wanted to risk their lives because nobody saved

so why did we, the tortured Chosen? I stepped

them. Why should I be any different?

outside, but the monster was gone. Relief swept

All I had to do was go to sleep. The

through me like a cold breeze, and I knew that I

beeping would stop. Fate would pass me by and look

would not be the hero nor villain in the coming

for another, someone willing to listen. This world

events. I would just be its keeper, locking the dark

had already gone to hell. Her heart was ripped out

secrets away until fate returned for me.

and torn apart. We were living the dog-eat-dog style, but somewhere in the darkness, someone still cared. Someone would risk all to save them. They would die for them, but for those saved, would they even know? Would they even care?

I tossed and turned for awhile. The beeping

finally went away. Fate no longer held her breath, and like a ghost, she was gone. The monster hovered

Melissa was a newspaper reporter for the Smithtown

outside, disappointed, but it would not have me

Messenger Newspaper and its sub-issues, The

tonight. I didn’t want to know. I didn’t want to save

Brookhaven Review, The Ronkonkoma Review,

anyone because nobody saved me, and that thought

and Medford News. She later freelanced for The Photo

was a dagger to my heart. There would be no sleep

News and wrote movie and television show reviews for the

tonight. There would be no peace to find because

film-making website, Wild Sound. She currently works for

tragedy was coming, and people were going to die.

the State of New York and writes for Associated Content,

now known as Yahoo Voices, and has finished her first

I sat up and ran from my bed. I threw open

the bedroom door. The hallway was dark, shadowed,

novel, a collection of three novellas tied together. 35

fictionbrigade.com

Passing Lane Fiction

By Brandon Meyer

I stare out the window at another

vegetable enfilade, a general inspecting his troops. Endless rows of verdant corn stand at attention, awaiting orders that will never come. In the distance, wisps of cloud skirt the mountain tops, looking like the furrowed brow of some ancient and displeased demigod. My breath fogs on the glass and I draw a heart, smiling at the girl in the car next to ours. She smiles back, holding up her

Brandon Meyer was born in Redlands, California in 1985.

hand to show me her ring with an apologetic shrug.

After high school, he attended UC Santa Barbara, where he

But her eyes linger on mine, and before we pass her

earned a BA in English. While there, he worked as a copy

she breathes on the window to draw her own heart

reader for the Daily Nexus campus newspaper. He earned

for me. As her car grows smaller in the rear-view

a teacher credential from the University of Redlands after

mirror, I file this moment away along with a

graduating from Santa Barbara, and currently teaches

hundred other warm memories to keep me

high-school level English in San Bernardino, California.

company in the cold and dark hours of life.

36 fictionbrigade.com

In the South of France We Split Hairs Fiction

By Brittany Newell

In the south of France we split hairs.

set sweetly aside from the streets courting grief.

The hotel managers never believed we

Edelweiss, slimmer than I and for the

were brothers, identically browned by the sun as

moment empowered by the forgettable charm of light

we were and bound by our cheap Grecian sandals;

freckles, would rest gently against the Steinway’s black

still, they looked us over with monocular wrath and

body ‘til some jokester, all-eyes, suggested he tip.

plunked the ring of keys with suggestive slowness

Smiling quickly, he’d inherit the bench, and I, cross-

into my hand, seeing as my hair was shorter and

legged with coffee number good-god-knows-what

sparser than his (damn the Navy Man fad) and I

pressed against the skin of my throat, would hunker

was therefore assumed to be older. Behind polished

down in the indifferent din and succumb, just like

doors, we sat knee-to-knee on the bed with the

a tourist, to the lavender crystals of sound he set

windows flung open, tossing Canadian coins to the

loose—bombs wagging through the air and smashing

gawkers below. We were especially fond of the girls

lewd jokes in the Louvre, earnest pleas for the stray

with scarves on their heads; we counted the flower-

calico, borrowed clothes returned late in unimaginable

like specks from our balcony, and pondered their

states, and the tenth vertebrae of gruff morning voices

shadowy faces at night.

upon my bent brow, until my coffee grew cold and his

welcome was worn by the need of a carousing fiddle.

The afternoons were spent hunting cafes with

pianos; Edelweiss had tricky fingers. Ostentatiously

We would stand and exit single-file, the irrepressible

primped in our collegiate blue, we ambled down

sun stabbing bellies gone soft but still brown. I would

cobblestone streets ‘til our ears caught a stand of

tackle him then, golden freckles denoting a plan of

prematurely embezzled Beethoven sonatas, and like

attack. He’d spit in my eye and I’d bellow, “Celeb!” for

cats we would dash towards its low-ceilinged origin,

the army of Sabines and Brigittes in their kerchiefs to

notes held aloft by self-satisfied oceans of smoke and

catch. 37

fictionbrigade.com

Arms linked, we would board the metro and

Like a girl I drew the covers tight around

ride for twenty-five minutes to the nearest McDonald’s.

me; fucking Edelweiss liked the room to be subzero.

By then, we were sleepy and high as wet posters. The

Every night he burrowed beneath lumpy patchwork

wind blew a kodachrome dream with no sound.

mountains, so it came as no surprise that the kaboom

couldn’t touch him now, already departed in his casket

On our sixth night in France and our third

night in Paris, there was an explosion.

of starched sheets. I watched for a moment or so as

he slept, longing to wake him, or whatever remnants

The sound of it echoed throughout the city,

dashing like a kitten with singed fur through the sleep-

of him existed in dream—just a tuft of blond, like a

slackened streets and finding ways to squeeze, with

pre-war memento found in the grass, poking out from

otherworldly craftiness, between cracks in the tene-

the mauve and unconscious mound.

ment walls. I shot up in bed; it was a boom, a gusty

cartoonish ka-boom! that roused me, and, as I sat with

black balloons was fretting in the space between

my knees pressed to my chest, continued to resound

my joints. “What was that?” I managed to ask. The

in me in the most curious places, like in the webbing

largeness of my voice shouldering through the

between fingers, like in the slits between my teeth.

darkness put the rest of me to shame.

I squinted out the window. These days

I opened my mouth. It felt like a fleet of

A stranger’s voice, testy and malformed,

Edelweiss couldn’t sleep without it open, having

replied. “It wasn’t nothin’ man.”

spewed about his circulation and “good air.” The

static blue mass beneath us, speckled here and there

together and muffled a scream when my knuckles

with cinema signs and streetlamps, looked just as

began to glow, ever so tastefully peach, in the dark.

foreign to me now as it always had. Our French

It reminded me of a game me and my brother used

was terrible: we would not know that less than one

to play: I’d coat my hands in honey, stick them out

hundred miles away a nuclear reactor had exploded

the window as he hurtled down the road behind the

until a day after returning home, when our giggling

county dump, and pull them back inside the car when

mothers would shove us awake and tell us the news,

we reached the empty 7-Eleven parking lot. “Hands

oh my darling sit up, the unimaginable news.

up,” my brother would bark in his best imitation of a

“Edelweiss,” I whined. I knitted my hands

38 fictionbrigade.com

back-county cop. As I raised my hands, I’d see his face

romantic, then one-of-a-kind, worthy of a snapshot or

soften to inhabit some semblance of wonder, a gentle

a scant line of coke. I didn’t yet know for certain but

expansion of his facial bones second only to the

it wasn’t hard to prophesy what we could encounter

clement tiredness which follows sex and the wretched

once dawn’s light disproved the density of darkened

gloss of meth. In pulsing silence we would look down

breasts: we would wander the vacated streets like ex-

at my hands. They’d be crusted with fruit-flies, dead

cons, scarcely daring to believe our good luck.

and dying, the fine hairs of their legs waxed off and

their translucent wings tinged blond.

bricks of the buildings became when we touched

them.

“Something’s wrong,” I croaked.

We would marvel aloud at how hot the

The

We would

heap rolled

pierce the

toward the window. It

Something’s wrong

waist-level fog with our calls.

slurred, “I’ll

We would

protect you.

hoard the pâté

Everything’s great, so shut up. OK? Thank you.

left on patio tables and drink ourselves sick on

Love you. Bye.”

every bottle of cognac we could find in the dank

unlocked pubs.

I closed my eyes and squeezed my hands

between my thighs. I knew that morning’s light, with

Drunker than we’d ever been, we’d dare

its subsequent nicks on the cheek and bare bodies

one another to jump off the bridge and backstroke

seeking caffeine, could not soothe me. I hoped with

through the slow-moving Seine. Its viscosity was

a childlike zeal to never have to get up again. We

inviting, its surface like a thick and shiny tarp against

were OK for now, due to the groggy and bottomless

which we’d ricochet. We would jerk off at the subway

explanation of nighttime, when logic took a backseat

station and make our cum criss-cross the tracks, such a

to shapelessness and dim dimensions made even the

contrast as we’d never seen except in silent black-and-

shoddiest of scenarios seem romantic, and if not

white movies. Edelweiss would vow to play at least one

39 fictionbrigade.com

rural diddy on every piano found in Paris. We would

before I could even retaliate, before I could even

crawl into a pink chateau to which some part of his-

wet my finger to deliver unto him a cataclysmic

tory was inexorably fixed, and Edelweiss would threw

raspberry, it might all be over without so much

himself at the piano, the largest I had ever seen, and I

as a last cuss, the heart might cease to churn and

would plunk down on the Persian rug as thick as hotel

the trees shyly fidget, it might all be lost, like dogs

mattresses and spread my arms and weep. After

loved more than Father, in the impetuous blink of

weeping I would puke and after puking I would doze,

an eye.

as all the while he twinkled Ravel and our unsteady

But what did he care?

bodies dripped green river-water to warp the wood

For now, he was young and all the girls in

floors and have the hard-breasted portraitures begging

gray headscarves would love him. He had only to

for hell.

play them a tune and their accents would thicken,

But first, I listened to Edelweiss breathe.

their bra-straps would melt, and their eyes would

For the moment, there was nothing else to

zone outward like sagacious TV’s.

do. Sleep felt like the rejection of an out-of-yourleague kiss. What was possibly the pinnacle of Edelweiss’s elbow, propped up on an elevated hip, was at once the pushiness of God. I worried that the beating of my heart might wake him, irritate him, cause him to disfigure the conclusions that his ignorant bones drew.

Here was a boy steeped in the sweetest of

solutions.

Brittany Newell is an underaged naval-gazer. She is also a

classical singer and slam poet hailing from the San Francisco

He didn’t give a shit, not yet. To him, the

world was endless. At dawn, he might awake and

Bay Area. You can read her work in Polyphony Maga-

beat me with a pillow, try to stick his toothbrush in

zine, Talkin’ Blues Journal, and The Interlochen

my asshole, flop down beside me on the bed and

Review, among others.

bawl, “Did someone have a nightmare, huh?”, and 40 fictionbrigade.com

Shrinking Husband Fiction

By Vincent Rendoni

I first noticed it during a shave. Faye is

one on each other’s forehead, a bit of a consolation

five-six and when we designed our house, I gave

prize if you will.

her free reign. This house fits her dimensions well,

and mine well enough. Except for our bathroom

really a ritual at all. Faye would come up to me in

But our ritual was always best. It wasn’t

mirror. It sits low, low enough to where Faye can sit her nightgown, just after we had brushed our teeth, down and put her face on. I’ve always been forced

and put both of her hands on my chest. She would

to bend over

give me a long

to get a good

look over, as

shave. I was going to tell Faye that we

Your husband will become smaller and smaller, until his size is best described as subatomic

should recon-

if she was seeing me for the first time, and would give

sider the mirror, but I never got around to it.

a little jump and kiss my cheek. The day we knew

something was wrong was the night she put too

So anyway, I’m about to bend over to get

my chin and I realized I didn’t have to. My back

much into it and hit me in the head with hers, and

had been feeling stiff and I first assumed it was

down I went. I checked Faye’s head and there was

just bad posture. It didn’t come up again until a

a little bump, but nothing more. She looked at me,

few weeks later when Faye kissed me goodnight.

slowly rubbing the back of her hand against my

Faye worked long hours and I kept odd ones, so

cheek.

sometimes we missed our little ritual. But whenever

I snuck into bed, or when she was off to work in

“Really wrong.”

the morning, we’d always make an effort to plant

“I think something is wrong,” she said.

After a little bit of fighting, a little bit of

41 fictionbrigade.com

Faye pushing me, we went and saw Dr. Reynolds.

living, but we certainly can’t say for sure.”

He had treated me for everything from the chicken

pox as a kid to swine flu a few years back. I always

last bit.

He couldn’t even look at me as he said that

hated when he had to take my blood, but whenever I looked into his eyes, eternally sallow but kind, I

always felt a little bit better upon leaving. But the

a time—the way I wanted it—but after about one

day we saw him, Dr. Reynolds couldn’t take his

year, I noticed that she no longer had to jump up

eyes away from my folder. He told me what I knew,

to kiss me before bed. We were at the same height.

but wasn’t ready to hear from somebody else: I

It wasn’t real before. It was then. Dr. Reynolds said

had been shrinking. Faye burst into tears and I was

the shrinking would be aggressive, but still.

incredulous.

the sink in the morning to shave, that’s when we

“At 34, it’s a bit unusual,” Dr. Reynolds

Faye and I chose to go on like normal for

When I began to have trouble looking over

said. “You see it typically in the elderly, and in them

broke down and had to buy my first stepping stool.

it could be for a variety of reasons: Water loss,

When I couldn’t make it onto the bed anymore,

tissues diminishing, one’s vertebrae becoming not

that’s when we had to head on over to the Ace

unlike rubber. But you, well, have none of these

Hardware for a ladder.

things. You are just shrinking. Shrinking in perfect

proportion and symmetry. If it’s any consolation,

about how husbands shrinking just killed families,

it’s becoming increasingly common in men your

left spouses unable to cope. I’ve known Faye since

age.”

when we went to college at Washington State. She

“What are our options?” Faye spoke for

me.

Faye was so strong. I had read articles

used to cheer me on during my basketball games, when I was the best point forward the Cougars

“There are no options. Your husband will

ever had, in the times when I was a giant. Maybe

become smaller and smaller, until his size is best

I doubted her a few times, thinking she’d leave. I

described as subatomic. There will be a day, even

wouldn’t have blamed her. But I was wrong. Faye

with the proper equipment, where you will be un-

held my hand in public through all of it, completely

able to see or hear him. We presume he will go on

unashamed of her shrinking husband. She looked 42

fictionbrigade.com

at me with love as she placed me into my high chair

all the flashing lights and dry ice,” she said.

at the dinner table. When I had trouble making it

up the steps, she would pick me up and hold me

gray,” I replied.

close before placing me on my side of the bed.

didn’t card anyone.”

“You were always too tall for me,” Faye

would say to me at night. “I could get used to this.”

“Football games decked out in crimson and

“The casino on the reservation where they

I didn’t like to talk about old times, but

Faye did.

Faye never left my side, but I could see it

was taking a toll on her. When I was no bigger than

I know why Faye was so reluctant to leave

one of her fingernails, that’s when she stopped

my side. We had to have our talk soon. We agreed

leaving the

long ago that

house entirely.

I wasn’t going

She used to go

to just keep

on morning

“You were always too tall for me”

going the way

walks, meet

I was

her friends

going. No,

at the Tully’s around the corner, and chat with the

Faye and I thought it best I go out with some

cashiers at the Safeway. We would get our groceries

dignity, that going unseen and unheard to her,

delivered now. The friends would sometimes come

becoming smaller and smaller until I was the most

by for coffee, but they were tossed out in a rage

fundamental of fundamental parts, doing battle

after they gave Faye a pamphlet on a hospice care

with all that’s unseen—fleas, bacteria, electrons—

for shrinking men in Southern Idaho.

was a fate worse than death.

We spent most of our days lying in bed, the

That much Faye and I agreed on, but we’d

television on low in the background, with my body

never gone much into specifics. After I was no larger

up close against Faye’s eyes, remembering.

than one of her fingernails, we saw Dr. Reynolds

again after putting it off as long as we could. I told

“Skating at the roller disco in Colfax with

43 fictionbrigade.com

him to be honest with me.

her even as it grows cold and I realize I’m sus-

ceptible to even the slightest change in

“Not long,” he said, unable to even look at

Faye’s palm where she held me.

temperature. I’ll tell her there’s no other place

for me but the labyrinth of her ear where it’s

The day has finally come. It’s no secret

warm and I can hold tight to the strands of her

that Faye has been having trouble seeing me lately;

cilia. In there, Faye can hear me loud and clear

that’s why I have to be so close to her eyes when

for the last time, even though it will sound so

we’re in bed, even though she knows it makes me

much like the first. I’ll be with Faye for as long

uncomfortable to see her trembling under the face

as she can hear me, until I become smaller, small

she puts on for me.

enough to slip through the fault lines of her

cells and body, and become a part of her.

But I think now Faye is having trouble

hearing me. She smiles and nods at whatever I’m saying, as if she’s some visitor in a foreign country. Last week:

“Honey,” I asked. “I need to pee.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Faye.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

When she’s sleeping and I can’t, I quietly

rehearse to myself how I’d like to go. I want to tell Faye to get up and go for a walk, to grab coffee with her girlfriends, and make nice with the butchers and fishmongers at the supermar-

Vincent Rendoni is an MFA candidate at Chatham

ket. I want Faye to leave the house. I want Faye,

University in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania and teacher of

even though we’ve talked about it before, even

creative writing for the Words Without Walls program of

though there’s an inherent risk, to take me with

Allegheny County Jail.

44 fictionbrigade.com

There’s Always All That Fiction

By Allie Rowbottom

Andrea was standing at the kitchen sink,

didn’t matter though, the paramedics arrived in

scrubbing the face of a cast iron skillet with a wad

minutes and pretty much figured things out for

of steel wool when Loren came home and put a

themselves. They siphoned into separate groups,

baseball bat into the small of her back. It was the

four for Andrea and six for Loren, still holed up

morning of my first day of ninth grade so I wasn’t

in the trench with a hunk of his calf missing from

home to help her. It didn’t surprise anybody, what

where he’d caught it on the lip of his shovel.

Loren did. That sort of thing happens a lot around

The night before it happened I hadn’t

here and he’d

been able to

already gone

sleep. I was

three tours so it was almost expected.

The night before it happened I hadn’t been able to sleep

When

all nervous about the day to come. I lay awake

I got home and found Andie that way, sprawled

for hours, looking up at the glow in the dark stars

out on the floor, her legs scissored in front of her

pasted on my ceiling and thinking about high

pregnant belly and Loren squatting in a trench he’d

school, the bigger building, the kids I didn’t know.

dug out in the back yard, spooning with a shovel,

After a while I got out of bed and sat up on the

I walked to the phone, picked it up and dialed. I

roof. I do that sometimes. Nobody knows I’m up

don’t really remember what I told the operator. I

there except me. I bring a bag of pretzels or chips

think I just said that I needed help. I think I just

and just hang out, looking down at the front yard.

said, my sister, and, her fiancée, when the woman

The big truck tires full of dirt and weeds my Dad

asked what the nature of the emergency was. It

dragged into the lawn when I was littler and packed 45

fictionbrigade.com

with sod from a pile out back. Andie and I have

engine. Thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s always all that, always the breeze

made gardens in those tires every spring for years

moving through tree branches. The vibrations

now. Kneeled next to each other on the warm black

of the house, ticking and whining and falling,

rubber and sprinkled marigold seeds into the tiny

still again, underneath me.

holes Andie scoops in the dirt then covers it over, tenderly, with soil and water.

So the night before it happened, I set

myself up on the roof. The stars were out like always and the Milky Way had smeared itself over them, like somebody just ran by and dragged it along behind their outstretched fingertips. For some reason up there, I started thinking about what it might have been like for Loren when he was away. Whether or not he got lonely at night, whether or not he got scared. I pictured him, dressed in green and sleeping in his boots, curled up on a cot, thinking about Andrea. The night there would be filled with sounds, wailing sirens maybe, screams sometimes. Not like the night is here, full of small, familiar sounds. The dogs at the McAllisterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s house trotting by, collars jingling. The snap of studded tires on the road. The

Allie Rowbottom is a first year PhD candidate in

whine of breaks before the crunch of gravel

creative nonfiction at the University of Houston. She

when the older Lucky brother comes home,

received her BA from New York University and her

pulls his truck into the driveway and cuts the

MFA from California Institute of the Arts.

46 fictionbrigade.com

Networking Fiction

By Jessica Simms

I am the girl with the boy-cut under a

black-and-white checked hat, sitting in the back row, waiting for a cigarette.

You are the man at the on-stage podium,

sonorous voice intoning from your new novel. I’m the one who sneaks out the back when everyone else is queuing up, waiting for your signature. You’re the kind of writer who’s already outside, holding a

Jessica Simms is a candidate for the MFA in Fiction at

lighter to the tip of a Marlboro. So I tell you, “Great

Chatham University. Her work has appeared in Tidal

reading.”

Basin Review and Sex and Murder Magazine.

And you say, “I know.”

I am the girl who’s making eyes. You’re the

man who writes down your hotel room. I’m the girl who shows up.

47 fictionbrigade.com

Not Totally Passive Fiction

By Louise Farmer Smith

I tried to warn them, but now all eight of

The poor hungry tourists are looking

them have ordered the crab. Leo’s happy because

toward the kitchen. Who’s gonna save them? Leo’s

it was stinking up the kitchen. I told the folks the

grinning, teeth like a shark. Maybe it’s time I take

chicken was real good, but no, they had to have

a cigarette break, one butt tossed at that pool of

crab because they’re here on the Eastern Shore—

grease under the grill.

big defenseless tourists from Minnesota. I shoulda

suggested a designated driver order the chicken

you can catch sight of the flying fish. Yes, yes,

so’s he could rush them to St. Anthony’s while

flying fish right here in Maryland.”

“Folks, y’all might want to step outside so’s

they barfed and pooped all over the car seats. Food poisoning ain’t pretty.

Louise Far mer Smith grew up in

Oklahoma. She has taught English,

I could drop it all on the greasy kitchen

floor, but Leo who intentionally hired a cook with

trained as a family therapist, and worked

no sense of smell, would insist we scrape it up and

in a U.S. Congressman’s office. Her stories

serve it. I’m not proud of working here or of

have appeared in magazines including Virginia Quarterly

letting Leo drag me back to his trailer after closing,

Review and Bellevue Literary Review which published

always saying he couldn’t run the place without me.

her “Return to Lincoln,” a 2005 Pushcart nominee. Her

Some nights I hate myself.

story, “Apartment on Riverside Drive” took first place in one

of Glimmer Train’s 2006 short story contests. Her work

It’s not like I’m totally passive. I’ve applied

a dozen places down the shore, but they give me

has been supported by The Ragdale Foundation and Virginia

the runaround. I am overweight, but that don’t

Center for the Creative Arts. She was a 2005 Bread Loaf

mean I’m not polite or don’t know how to make

fellow. She lives in Washington, D.C., where she is completing

the kids laugh.

a story collection, CADILLAC, OKLAHOMA. 48 fictionbrigade.com

The Study Date Fiction

By Simone Stedmon

With a cigarette in one hand, and a sickly

Instead, I moved to the other side of the room and

orange drink in the other, he lay sprawled out on

precariously perched on the edge of the bed, feeling

the bed. Jazz music was blasting around the room

self-conscious all of a sudden. This was not what I

and he nodded along to the beat, his blonde hair

had expected. I did not fit in with this group at all.

askew and black-rimmed glasses thrown haphazardly

on the floor. Surrounding him were a multitude

boy muttered something that sounded like ‘Alright,

of people, all wearing a uniform of skinny jeans

mate?’ followed by a brief pat on the back which I

and rainbow-colored t-shirts and all with the same

assumed meant to make myself comfortable; enjoy.

Cheshire-cat grin etched onto their faces. A slight

Someone pointed towards the TV which was

breeze wafted a strange aroma towards me, and I

showing an episode of Family Guy, although their

became aware that what was being exhaled from the

eyes were so glazed that I could not believe that

rolled white wands was not tobacco.

they were actually watching it. Whatever was

happening on the TV was appreciated as a chortle

“Come on in, darlin’,” came a voice that was

Breaking from his trance, the blonde-haired

not the one I sought; the blonde-haired boy’s lips

erupted from beside me. But the laugh seemed

remained motionless. As I was invited into the room,

distorted, mechanical, fake. There was nothing to

the drug became fused with a concoction of other

be scared of here, yet it was like looking into one

curious scents: spilt alcohol seemed to have absorbed

of the circus mirrors that bizarrely morphs the

into every item of furniture and there was the stale

body.

stench of sweat, not entirely covered by past sprays

of Lynx that now lined the dressing table. “Fancy a

library, when his blonde hair was neatly in place, he

smoke, love?” leered the same voice, pointing to a few

had invited me over to work on an essay. But I had

inches of spare bean-bag to his side. I shook my head.

pictured something quite different. I assumed we

When I had bumped into him earlier in the

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would be alone. Together we could have talked and

they marched on, heads suffocated by the memory of

enjoyed each others’ company as we normally did.

stacks of bills piled on kitchen counters, lunches that

The boy who had seemed so rational, who would

needed to be made for the next morning, shelves that

spend an evening with a cup of tea and a book, or

husbands needed reminding to fix. Occasionally an eye

would head down to a pub for a few drinks with

strayed towards a flashing sign or the muffled music

friends was now some sort of peculiar sloth.

escaping from behind the door of a welcoming pub,

but their gaze always returned fixedly to the floor. They,

I must have stayed for about half an hour,

just relishing

like me, were

in the bizarre

pursuing

conversations that slowly

Fancy a smoke, love?

relentlessly towards their

emerged.

final destination:

Progressively

caught in the

the fumes were beginning to get to my head and I

monotony of life, unable to change course.

felt myself become dizzy, so I left. I think I passed

unnoticed, as there was no call back into the room.

against the pavement instinctively as my mind drifted

Disappointment flooded my body as I shut the

back to the room. They had seemed so content, so

door on them. It was like closing a door to a whole

liberated from the troubles of tomorrow. Their heads

new reality. I left them to delight in their own little

were temporarily free to wander into a world away

world for just a while longer.

from the routine of life. They did not care for money,

or exams, or work. And him. He had not noticed me

An oppressive mist lay over the rows of

I walked this route daily and my feet slapped

oscillated grey buildings which lined my way home,

but then he did not need me in that world. They just

the occasional light shining through a grubby window.

needed themselves and that pure sense of calm.

People rushed past, heads down and coats pulled close

around them. Shoulders occasionally bumped into

Wasn’t living by the rules what we were taught? It

another’s, which was followed by a mumbled apology

was only as I was taking my keys from my bag that

they were already too far away to hear. Like clockwork

I was roused from my thoughts and realized I had

But wasn’t the mundane what life was about?

50 fictionbrigade.com

made it home. As I stepped over the threshold I looked at the white walls stretching anodyne towards a cream stair runner, shoes stacked neatly in a pine frame, the clock’s insistent ticking. In that moment I thought of essays that needed writing, letters that needed filing, clothes that needed washing, and I shut the front door behind me with a final bang.

Later that evening, having finished off the

Simone Stedmon has had a love for English ever since

last few mouthfuls of lukewarm hot chocolate, I

discovering the alliterative joy of ‘Each Peach Pear

headed to bed. Whilst I repeated my usual routine

Plum’ as a child. She is currently in her third year of

I wondered what would have happened if I had

studying BA English Literature at Cardiff University.

stayed? If I had been that bit more adventurous? I

When she is not studying, Simone enjoys presenting a

pulled off my jumper and was suddenly caught by

student radio show and traveling adventures with friends

the distant scent of smoke that had absorbed itself

– even if it’s just pitching a tent in a muddy field! In an

into the material. Closing my eyes, I drew the fabric

ideal world Simone would like to be writing or presenting

towards my face and inhaled.

Children’s programs in a few years time.

51 fictionbrigade.com

Mouth to Mouth Fiction

By Clare Tascio Craig is a lifeguard. When I tell people that, the

people.

first thing they ask me is if we met because he

As his girlfriend of five years, Craig must save me

saved me from drowning. They laugh with their

at some point.

mouths open. I don’t know how to answer. I feel

He has chosen this summer to do it.

like I am choking on something soft.

I have been sent away. To Craig’s sister’s house in New Jersey. Right on the water. I have been sent

People vomit after being resuscitated.

away for the weekend, and have been instructed not to return

Craig would like to save my life.

with the same

Craig would like to save my life

face I went away with.

I don’t think he would go pale and scream and pump my chest

My face right now looks something like

with the

mismatched furniture I guess.

desperation of a man in love. Craig would be calm and cool.

A few days a week Craig gives private swimming

He would smile at me once I pulled back to the

lessons to wealthy housewives. I don’t get jealous.

shore of the living the same way he smiles at me

Craig asked me if I would be. But I don’t get

after kissing me good morning.

jealous when I think of those mothers, impeccably

Craig would like to tell people that he saved my life.

groomed and manicured, being instructed by my boyfriend on how to move their perfumed arms

It would reaffirm that Craig is the guy who saves 52 fictionbrigade.com

and kick their waxed legs and breathe and float.

unfair.

Maybe I have a problem. Maybe I don’t love Craig enough to care if he cheats on me with someone

I am standing on the beach. The sky is overcast.

else’s wife.

You can only see a few feet of ocean, like a grey

But really it’s because I know that Craig loves kids.

tongue slipping in and out of the white fog.

He would never think of throwing their lives into a

Suzie didn’t ask when she should expect me. I

tailspin by getting caught with their mother under

know where the spare key is.

an oversized monogrammed towel. I am being unfair. Craig would say I am being

Brother and sister assume I will let myself in.

unfair.

Craig’s sister is a lot like Craig. Suzie is athletic. Tan. With curly black hair, and brown eyes that glow gold in the sun. The life she has, kids, house, heavy couches, is the life Craig wants.

Craig sensed that now was the time for him to save me. He has tossed me a life raft. Female Craig.

I am a grey person. Craig is gold and brown and black. His hope is that with some sun and surf and salt I will change like a shrimp from cold

Clare is 22, born and raised in Brewster NY. She is

unappealing grey to hot juicy pink.

currently attending Hunter College for creative writing/ studio art. She loves pinot grigio and goat cheese. Preferably

That’s what I said to Craig. He said I was being

at the same time.

53 fictionbrigade.com

Notes From an Inner City School Fiction

By Ling E. Teo Luna Silvestre played the flute so beautifully. Her name meant Silver Moon.

Aleigi was studious, polite and popular. She was a paradox in a ghetto school.

Kelvin wrote a limerick that involved a private part of a teacher. His mother came in to meet with the

Edward was perpetually showing off. He forgot,

teacher a second time.

after a while, who he was showing off for, or what he was showing off.

Catherine, a beautiful muchacha who knew how to stand up to the boys, loved Green Day and had

Ilkona was enthusiastic for every project.

sepia-flecked, emerald eyes. Melissa thought she was too good for any project. Jane reminded you of a good Catholic girl. Bespectacled Martin was laid back because he was Little Kerven was the best fighter on the basketball

very tall.

court—he protected the ball and played hard in the face of loss.

Blue-capped Kevin worshipped the ground any Dominican Yankee walked on.

Jordannie’s temper drove the boys wild. So did her cascade of dark auburn hair.

Carlenis showed up with Baroque curls one day, and that day, took on a sweet disposition.

Dakhari said, “Ma president iz black, ma vp is phresh, n if u don’t vote 4 dem, u’ll get a cap up yo ass.”

Jandy roamed the hallways. He was a demon on 54

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the motorbike. The girls felt tingles when he called

to bear. He spoke in rap.

them “whores.” Alex did not know why he was defensive and edgy, Jennifer was Puerto Rican, which meant she was

which made him edgier and more defensive.

softer-spoken. Like Luna, she played the flute beautifully.

Johnlaudy often put on an angry front to impress the female class bully. He had a crush on Stephanie.

Marcos looked out of the window when the Assistant

Stephanie

The girls felt tingles when he called them “whores”

could get the fearful class

Principal talked

quiet in a split

to him, just

second. She

to rile the AP further. In a red jumper and flat cap,

tried to cow her mother by reporting her to the

Marcos could pass off as Fat Albert.

Administration for Children’s Services. Christina was the class brain. Like Joan of Arc, she

Dania was often absent. When she was not absent

suffered for her beliefs.

you noticed her, because she was a large girl. Roberto frequently forgot where he’d left his brain. Fausto suffered insults because he was black. He

Raquel wrote that she was from “cats and carriages

wrote beautifully but did not like to share his writing.

and dancing marriages, pizza parlors and tallest

His eyes shone like diamonds when he was mad.

tailors.”

Nigel was Nigerian. He was gentle, sweet-tempered

Brenda was the class bobinchero; she spread the

and imperturbable, and therefore did not suffer.

latest gossip with lispy, run-on sentences.

Raphael was white-looking and that was his cross

Sean was the PTA President’s son. He always wore 55

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a smile and a collar shirt. When he wanted, he

with a craving for rice and black beans. Now once

could turn water into wine with his words.

or twice a year, I make rice and beans in honor of these children and their determination to be happy.

Christian had a twin sister who was as beautiful, smart and goth-like as she was.

Salome, with the arc eyebrows, held back just enough to leave the boys feeling empty.

Dariel looked like one of Maurice Sendak’s wild things. He stole teachers’ Sharpies and tagged every table, chair and urinal with graffiti.

Little Jesus was caught tagging disused subway cars with Dariel. He was upset because he now had a record.

Tremain announced to the class, “Cafeteria smells like weed, pizza grease, and long-ass balls—in that order. Dead-ass.”

Sheyla was always tuned into the beat and mood of the class. She was the class barometer. Ling E. Teo is a Humanities teacher. She grew up in Teaching in Inwood, the northern most tip of

Singapore and lived in London, where she won an Asham

Manhattan, I was often overcome, inexplicably,

Award for writing. She currently lives in New York City.

56 fictionbrigade.com

Rainbow Gold Fiction

By Valerie Tidwell

“Oof !” Thump. Tat-tat-tat-tat-tat.

having arrived too late—

A rainbow wave of gumballs cascaded

wandered back to their families, distracted.

down the wooden steps and flooded the restaurant’s entryway: red, green, blue, yellow, and white balls whizzed out the front door, bounced into the bathroom, rolled under the host stand. The compounding rattle caused heads to swivel to the stairs, and every child’s eyes grew big.

“We’ll help!” shouted a blond four-year-old,

rushing to the scene with the rest of the stampede and curling his baby-fat fingers with their dimpled knuckles around as many gumballs as possible, cramming them into his mouth and pockets.

Valerie Tidwell graduated in 2009 from the University of

Children from upstairs tumbled over the

California, Santa Barbara, with a degree in communication

protesting but still-prone gumball delivery man.

and a minor in professional editing. She did pretty well in

He rose when the final toddler had gingerly passed

school, but there is a whole big world out there to explore,

him, bruised and battered and bloodied as

and she spent the next two years doing just that, living in

colorfully as the gumballs he had allowed to slip

Taiwan and Italy and traveling in between. As she has

from his arms. The noisy silence of smacking gum

not yet managed to make traveling a paying gig, Valerie

settled when the entire rainbow had been gathered,

sometimes works in restaurants, where the initial inspiration

and the children—some blowing bubbles, some

for this story was undoubtedly found. Valerie currently lives

counting their haul under their breath, some crying,

in Washington, D.C. 57

fictionbrigade.com

Job Interrogation Fiction

By Lauren Tolbert

She looked up and saw a pair of grey eyes,

Lauren Tolbert is an occasional

patiently waiting. She looked down and saw a drain

job interviewee who lives in

in the floor. This isn’t an interrogation, it’s a job

Minneapolis, MN. Currently

interview. This isn’t an interrogation, it’s a job

she is a chemist, but is looking

interview. She wanted to melt and run down the

forward to new job opportunities,

drain and out of the room… but asked instead,

hopefully those that come without

“Could you repeat the question?”

an interrogation. This is her debut publication.

58 fictionbrigade.com

The Heartthrob Fiction

By Gina Wohlsdorf - Good party.

torture. He was a pretty face, a magazine cover;

- Yeah. Outta sight.

magazine covers could cover the torture he visited

- Nobody says that, man.

on his pretty, pretty face. Bass line beat a beat for

- I said it.

his feet, ba-BUM-bum-

- Great, now everybody’ll say it.

Bass line was a baseline. He wasn’t normal; he

- Outta sight.

wanted her to fix him, to fix him she only had to

He smiled, because she was here somewhere. He

love him, to love him she only had to fix him, ba-

BUM-bum.

just had to march. He was full of marching

BUM-bum-BUM-bum, I’m-a-BUM-

powder, so marching shouldn’t be hard, but it was

bum-BUM-bum. He liked being young and alive

hard, because he missed her, and missing her made

and famous and doomed. The heartthrob’s heart

everything harder. Like marching, even on

throbbed, ba-BUM-bum-

marching powder. It was always somebody’s

How could she want more than to be loved by

birthday in Hollywood. Where he grew up, weeks

this pretty, pretty face? The refreshment table had

passed with no birthday parties, so birthday

bowls of pills, so he took a handful and felt

parties felt like parties and not excuses to leap into

better. The pool was red, like devils crying. Like

a pool dyed red. The theme was death. He counted

angel blood – he liked that. He’d put it in a song.

fifty grim reaper costumes, but everybody was

He was all out of songs—he hated that, that Lost

high—tough to take a grim reaper seriously when

Angel Ease, like sad Satan. Like red water. He felt

he couldn’t quit moving. It’d be tough to wake up

awful, he was a handful, and the pills were mixed

tomorrow like it’d been tough to wake up today

on the refreshment table, where he wasn’t

because she liked to fuck when fucked up, so he

crying—ugly, ugly. Who wanted to be loved by this

got fucked up and fucked her and waking up was

ugly monster? bum-BUM-bum-BUM-ba, throbbed

BUM-bum.

59 fictionbrigade.com

his heart. He needed to sit down, he had to, but

- I said it.

he couldn’t, because he was doomed and liked

- Everybody says that, man.

it best, better than famous and alive and young,

- Yeah. Good party.

bum-BUM-bum-BUM-I’m-a-bum-BUMbum-BUM. To fix the love, to love the fix, was completely normal, but it wasn’t his baseline. He

could make that himself, bum-BUM-bum

BUM-ba. He hated to march, like the steps would torture his ugliness bare and bright for flashbulbs, which flashed brilliant behind what he was, which was more, which was afire and faithful, which was possibility on a pulse—the pulse of waking up and fucking her fucked up, doing it hard, doing it today and tomorrow, and you only had to keep moving. Like that grim reaper, or that one or that one. Any one of fifty, because the theme was death, and he didn’t need an excuse to leap into the red pool that felt like a party, unlike weeks past when he grew up in Hollywood and got a new birthday, everyday, marching, he liked marching, it made everything easier. He didn’t miss her, it was easy, so easy, he was full of marching, and he just had to because he

Gina Wohlsdorf is currently an MFA candidate at

was out of his mind, and that made her-

the University of Virginia. Her work has appeared in

- Outta sight. He smiled.

Meridian and The Storyteller, and is upcoming in

- Great, said somebody.

Gambling the Aisle.

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Thoughts Fiction

By Meirav Zehavi I think the fact that I accept myself and my deeds,

rather die than expose them, are revealed here

that I know exactly who I am, is what helps me

in front of us. There are no secrets on the white

maintain my sanity in my work. Other people,

screen. I saw things that were engraved on my

possibly you, have fears, shames and regrets. It’s

eyeballs – that I’ll never be able to forget, and my

this holy trinity which harms your judgment,

lips would never be able to pronounce.

making you restless as wolves in full moon nights. You would like to think you can lock these ill

Our initial goal was to draw information from ter-

feelings in the safes of your consciousnesses, but

rorists who refused to cooperate. Yes, I remember

it’s not that simple. Not anymore. Not when you

the beginning. We prevented terrorist attacks. Mem-

die, anyway.

bers of terror organizations almost never give themselves up. We kicked them, starved them,

We, the members of the government’s thoughts

imprisoned them in dark and suffocating basements

department, have a key. It’s a fine needle which

while their eyes, ears and noses were bleeding, and

looks like a sharpened finger. We open your

they remained silent as corpses. It was so

heads and use it to pick your brains and scan

frustrating. Only when they truly turned into corpses

your thoughts. You lie helpless and lifeless on a

we could make them talk. A few weeks later, straight

stretcher, electrodes attached to your cold bodies,

after we captured them, we shot them. Oh, it was

and your memories are formed as scabs on a screen

such a relief. We got the government’s approval to

whose color is white as a bare bone. All the insects

do so, claiming it will help us maintain our

that crawled in your throats, sucked your blood,

humanity. Instead of beating criminals until their

digested your sanity, spawned in your lungs, and

pants are absorbed with urine and feces, their hairs

maybe, maybe even caused your deaths – but you’ll

with sweat and their shirts with vomit, and my skin – 61

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my skin with their blood, I could just shoot them.

a while they turned bright as cloudless skies. I tried to resist, but revealing the criminals’ secrets was

We gained a tremendous success. Shortly

easier when I allowed their souls to pour from their

afterwards we started acting also against “heavy”

brains to my needle, from my needle to the tips of

criminals – murderers, rapists and people with

my fingers, and from my fingers they crawled under

dangerous sadistic tendencies, which we had

my nails and skin. Some of the criminals were vic-

reasons to believe that they hold valuable

tims themselves, mostly in their childhood. Some

information. I used to sit in front of my white

of them were persuasive and charismatic. They

screen for hours, the fluorescent lights burning

were all psychopaths, in one way or another. So yes,

above me

I knew their souls.

as dying

And

stars and my hands

I knew their souls

holding a

sometimes, sometimes I understood.

sharpened shiny needle. Sharpened things always shine better,

There was a time it used to scare me, but as I said,

more beautiful. Sometimes I continued searching

nowadays I have no fears, shames or regrets. And

criminals’ brains while sleeping – they resurrected

that, that might scare you.

as ghosts in my dreams, haunting my nights. I read some ghosts can gain control on living beings.

I realized that understanding criminals doesn’t

When I woke up from these nightmares, I was

make me a criminal. It doesn’t make us, the

sweating and my hands were shaking. It always took thoughts department’s members, criminals. We me a few seconds to assure myself that it’s still me

fight for justice. Moreover, we started acting also

controlling my body, that the ghosts didn’t change

against “heavy” criminals which we didn’t have

me. I knew these criminals’ souls – I saw them on

reasons to believe that they hold valuable

my white screen. At first they were blurry, but after

information. The thing is that you can never be

62 fictionbrigade.com

sure, and we wanted to strengthen our war against

criminals and innocent people found themselves

injustice. Thus we killed them as well so we’ll be

dead. However, our achievements flourished,

able to read their minds. And no, in case you’ve

providing unquestionable evidences of the

wondered, there is no need for “privacy” in a world

necessity of our actions. Many agreed. A few

which consists of integrity.

opposed.

So why should we stop with criminals? Yes, this is

“Can’t you see our flourishing achievements?”

also what we thought. We had a chance to destroy crime. We opened heads of victims, invaded their

“Flourishing,” said a woman while protecting

thoughts, discovered their abusers and imprisoned

her criminal child, “like cancer.” She swore she’ll

them. Well, actually, we stopped imprisoning them.

murder me, steal my technology and invade my

We just shot them. There were some families of

thoughts.

victims which opposed to opening their loved ones’ heads, but their resistance was weakened by grief.

I shot both of them. There’s no doubt that these

We explained that we don’t enjoy invading their

opposers are criminals.

love ones’ heads, and this is exactly the reason why we do it – so there’ll be no need to do it in the

If you can hear my thoughts, I guess I’ve died. All I

future.

can do is hope you’re members of my department, and not my opposers. Dear friends, remember to

We acted against all criminals, including “light”

act against the true criminals. I give you my blessing.

criminals such as thieves. I don’t understand this definition – “light” criminals. A person is either a

Meirav Zehavi is a M.sc.

criminal or a good citizen, and if he’s a criminal,

student in Computer Science

we should shoot him and investigate his thoughts.

that lives in Israel. She is a

No, not “should”. “Must”. I won’t deny there were

vegetarian that loves animals

times in which we made mistakes in identifying

(especially dogs) and literature.

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ART

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pressed between leaves Art

by Eleanor Bennett

Eleanor Leonne Bennett is a 15-year-old internationally award winning photographer and artist who has won first places with National Geographic, The World Photography Organisation, Natureâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Best Photography, Papworth Trust, Mencap, The Woodland Trust and Postal Heritage. Her photography has been published in the Telegraph, The Guardian, BBC News Website and on the cover of books and magazines in the United States and Canada. Her art is globally exhibited, having shown work in London, Paris, Indonesia, Los Angeles, Florida, Washington, Scotland, Wales, Ireland, Canada, Spain, Germany, Japan, Australia and The Environmental Photographer of the year Exhibition (2011) amongst many locations. She was also the only person from the UK to have her work displayed in the National Geographic and Airbus run See The Bigger Picture global exhibition tour with the United Nations International Year Of Biodiversity 2010. 65 fictionbrigade.com

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Snap Cut Art

By Christopher Hackbarth

Christopher Hackbarth has always been an enthusiastic a creative creature. A childhood of drawing on the backs of paper placemats in restaurants to building with Legos has not quite left him as he pursues an Illustration degree from the California State University of Long Beach. Christopher is enjoying the opportunity to discover and explore the arts and continue to develop a true passion. â&#x20AC;&#x153;I feel happy to be in such an exciting place in life right now. The ability to soak in so much information and experience is almost overwhelming, in a good way.â&#x20AC;? 66 fictionbrigade.com

HAIKUS

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Summer Memories Haiku

By Cathy MacKenzie Seeds planted in soil Grow thick stalks grasping the sky Wilt without a kiss

Summer Memories, Part 2 Haiku

By Catherine A. MacKenzie A glass of cold wine Bikinis and shorts and tanks Forget ice and snow

Cathy enjoys writing poems, short stories and essays, some of which have been or will be published in such publications as Chicken Soup for the Soul, Sasee Magazine, and anthologies compiled by Twin Trinity Media. Her writings have also won several contests. Along with several short stories, she is currently working on a novel. Check out her website at: http://writingwicket.wordpress.com/. 68 fictionbrigade.com

A Visit to the Hen House Haiku

By Debra Mathis

such sweet heat against my cheek, an oval promise, the freshly laid egg

Debra Mathis grew up in the deserts of New Mexico, and began writing poetry by the age of seven. Her first poetry book, â&#x20AC;&#x153;Gravity Moves Waterâ&#x20AC;?, was published in 2006. She currently hovers in the badlands of Texas, while working on her PhD in psychology. Gardening, studying and playing music take up most of her time.

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Wronged by the Circus, Again Haiku

By Ryan Moll I could never kill Enough clowns to make up for My summer of shame

Saying Goodbye Haiku

By Ryan Moll Autumn approaches Sock puppets packed away now â&#x20AC;&#x153;See you next year, friends!â&#x20AC;?

Ryan Moll is an Applied Mathematics graduate student at the University of California, Santa Cruz. He has written hundreds of haiku poems on subjects such as clown abuse and loneliness. Ryan has an intense fear of conjoined twins.

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Sierra Nevada Reverie Haiku

By Shelley Muniz Sunlit granite domes A field of purple lupine Two for one complete

Daydreams and Hiking Haiku

By Shelley Muniz Stomping through blue sage To reach a tranquil river Lost in translation

Shelley Chase Muniz was born in Modesto, California, and attended college at Sonoma State University in Rohnert Park, California. She moved to Sonora in 1974, married, and had two children. She was a primary school teacher’s aide and librarian at a local elementary school for fifteen years. She currently works at Columbia College as a library specialist. Shelley’s short story, “Silent Screams,” was a finalist in the 75tyh Annual Writer’s Digest Short Story Contest. In 2010, another short story, “Holes,” was published in the anthology Wild Edges by Manzanita Press. This year, 2011, Kate Farrell, editor of an anthology about mothers and daughters titled Wisdom Has A Voice included Shelley’s story, “Even Then” in her choices for publication. 71 fictionbrigade.com

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