Insomnia Press #1 by Robert Thomas

INSOMNIAPRESS Issue #1: Once there Was...

Insomnia Press

Letter from the Editor

Dear Boss,

hat’s how one of the most infamous Jack the Ripper letters to the London Police started off. It would become a series of cat-and-mouse correspondences. Taunts aimed at Scotland Yards continued failed attempts at catching the Whitechapel slasher. Like those letters and their accompanying murders did to so many inspectors, I want this correspondence to keep you awake at night. Insomnia Press was created to stalk the foggy alleyways of your mind, leaving a trail of blood and fear in its wake. Wriggling itself into the nooks and crannies you would not normally occupy.

I don’t have much to say beyond that. I think the stories and artwork (what little we have in this issue) will speak for itself. So turn the page and let us keep you up tonight.

From Hell, This all began with me wanting to share the fiction I love with others. This all began with ghost stories when I was R. Thomas still in grade school. With Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark and Are you Afraid of the Dark? Stephen King and H.P. Love- Editor-in-Chief craft. The stories I want to share with you are, for me, my own evolution in taste and genre spattered against the page. For you they may be something entirely different, but then, that’s the point. To read fiction that makes us feel something. That invokes something deep within us. Within these pages you’ll find a collection of some extremely talented writers. You’ll find stories from all walks of genre and style with one common factor: They’re pretty damn dark.

Putting t his all together has been very challenging, but it’s also been rewarding and that’s why I hope this magazine continues to come out with stories for many years to come. I feel as though this is the beginning of something big and I’m glad for all who come along on this ride with us.

Once there was...

TABLE OF CONTENTS Justice, written by Joe Schwartz... 4 Sliver, A poem written by Brittany Warren... 13 Night Shift, written by John C. Mannone... 14 Perfect 10, written by Jack Campbell J.r...16 Regrets, written by Dan Shelton... 24 Jump, written by Dakota Taylor... 28 Frostbite, written by Kyle Hemmings... 32 Dreadful Dissections: Book reviews from Dakota Taylor... 34 Hope on the Outside, written by Jay Wilburn... 38 Chinese New Year, written by Adam Moorad... 50 The Dead Detective, written by Marc Lowe...56 I belong to Mup Wup, written by Nicholas Griffith...58 Vicarious: A poem written by Brittany Warren... 63 Dark Wisdom: Advice from Alison J. McKenzie... 64 American dream, written by R.M. Schappell...68 Blue Sweater, written by Jon Wesick... 76 The Kid, written by A. A. Garrison... 78 Peeved, written by Kyle Rader... 88 Open Season, written by Dorene O'Brien... 100 Interludes... 104 Credits... 106

Insomnia Press

Justice by Joe Schwartz

“Fucking around on your wife ain’t the problem,” he said. “Getting caught. Now that’s what I call a goddamn problem.”

I had worked with Charles two days now and already I despised him. He pronounced goddamn with a hard ‘t’ so it sounded like gotdamn instead. Personally, I wished he would just shut the fuck up. So far, he almost never did.

Oddly enough, yes. That was all right though. I had a good buzz on and liked the story anyhow. “Maybe,” I said. “But tell it anyways.”

“She was a cutie. Soon as I walked in the house she was all over me like a friendly dog. Touching my chest and arms and such, trying to wrestle my samples case away from me. She was wearing a bikini top showing what she had, a pair of real cute shorts that showed her ass cheeks just a little bit, and these god I took a swallow from the bottle of Jagermeisdamn flip flops. Never will forget them damn things. ter we’d been sharing and passed it to Charles. The Had a little ladybug that sat in between where the big black licorice liquor taste reminded me of the Nyquil toe and the long toe get split. There were four other I use to get dosed on as a kid. I chased the smooth kids running ‘round the house. Little shits the oldest burn in my belly with a big gulp of beer. We both had maybe nine and the youngest probably no more than twenty-four ouncers sitting between our thighs. In six. All boys and all weird eyed like they was always the backseat there was a cooler filled mostly with wa- looking around, not able to focus on nothing for too ter now and maybe one beer left. When we started long. The girl though, she weren’t nothing like them out the thing had been full of ice and beer. Plenty, I boys. I couldn’t believe she was their sister, that is, thought, to get us up to St. Louis. Turns out, there is until she told me she had another daddy than theirs. never enough. Now that made sense. The guy, her step-daddy, had let me in with hardly any question. His old lady was gone “Danny boy,” Charles said. He called my name and I suppose he could give a shit about buying bilike he was singing a song. It annoyed me, but I could bles. He was probably just lonely and sick to death of let it slide long as he didn’t do that shit in front of the them loud ass kids. They never shut the hell up. Like customers. “I ever tell you about this sweet little piece goddamn animals they were. Christ, I wanted to slap of ass I found down in Lake Charles.” ‘em all quiet. That girl though, shit she was on me like white on rice.”

Once there was...

Charles passed the bottle back to me. It was a big bottle. The biggest we could buy. We could have bought two cases of beer for what we paid for that green bottle, but the punch that black, syrupy hooch packed was priceless. I met Charles in little bar around noon on Tuesday. It was empty except for me and the bartender until he walked in. He ordered a boilermaker soon as he steeped through the door and sat down on the stool one away from me. Between us he sat an over-sized satchel with a big silver lock in the middle. Reminded me of those oldfashioned medical bags doctors in movies carried around except bigger. He raised his glass to me and said ‘Here’s to you’ and drank like a man fresh from the desert. I liked him right away. In my pocket I had a couple of hundred bucks from working the last couple of weeks. I could do about anything and had long as it paid cash money. The last job I had was working for a landscaper by the name of Ron. He had picked me out of a line of guys standing around looking for work in front of the Home Depot. I stood out like a sore thumb among all the Mexicans. Still he picked me first and then two other guys who couldn’t speak hardly any English. We worked like crazy for the next six weeks mowing grass, digging sprinkler systems, trimming trees. Once we even put a new roof on a garage. There wasn’t much Ron

wouldn’t do long as it was outdoors. The Mexicans came and went fairly regular, but the one thing they all had in common was smoking weed. They usually had plenty and shared it. Come lunch break we would find some shade usually under a big tree and pass around a joint. Ron didn’t mind. Weed ain’t like booze. A head full of smoke focused us, made us more tolerable to the awful summertime heat. As long as the work got done there really wasn’t anything to complain about. I was living with my cousin Jerry and his wife Marla. They didn’t care about me living in their basement, yet I had about as much freedom as any prisoner; No girls, no booze, no dope, and absolutely no TV after ten o’clock. They belonged to some kind of new church that was strict as hell. I guess my cousin saw me as some sort of project to test his newfound faith out upon. Every Sunday they went to their church. Of course I was invited and I did go once. The place was a nuthouse. People screaming and hollering. The women sat on one side and the men on the other. It was common to see some guy flip out and begin to run about the place like he had lost his mind. Right away I knew it wasn’t for me. The women all wore long, shapeless garb of the same color that made them seem identical in shape and size despite height or weight. Men wore black slacks and long sleeved shirts. Except for the color of their hair they were identical right down to their shoe laces. After four hours immersed in their insanity I decided the

Justice by Joe Schwartz

Insomnia Press

only thing I could do was bide my time, save my money, and as soon as it looked good, get the fuck out of there. Charles and I hit it off right away. He told me about how he made a good life traveling around, selling the bibles to folks on payments. The bible he carried in his sample bag was enormous, big as a college dictionary and decorated fancy with lots of gold script. On the cover was a full color 8x10 picture of Jesus wearing the crown of thorns. He showed me other pictures that he could slide in and out. A customer could have anything from Moses parting the Red Sea to the five horsemen of the apocalypse. It was heavy and I could see how it would look good sitting on a coffee table begging to be admired. I especially liked that the buyer for a little extra could have the family’s name engraved on the front. Charles had sheets of letters like a Kindergarten primer showing dozens of different fonts a customer could choose to be inlaid below the picture with their last name. When he told me how much one cost I could’ve shit a brick. I couldn’t imagine anyone going for this stuff then I though about my cousin and his wife. By three o’clock we were back at my cousin’s house showing the book to Marla. I couldn’t believe how bad she wanted that thing. Her eyes lit with a sparklers intensity as soon as Charles handed it over

to her. By the time Jerry got home, Charles had already pocketed the check. Marla started calling people left and right. They came over so quick you would’ve thought the house was on fire. Before supper Charles sold six more. Right then and there I wanted in on this scam. “It was no time before them boys started all hollerin’ at once about being hungry. Ol’ step-dad goes into the kitchen and the boys start following him. The girl stuck by me on the couch. Before I knew it she was kissing me all over my face. Then she kissed me on the mouth, her tongue going like a weed whip on full throttle. She stopped suddenly when she heard the oven door slam shut. Jumped off the couch and went giggling to the bathroom down the hall. She winked at me before she closed the door and I goddamn near died. When her step-daddy came back to the couch he handed me a beer. After a few sips I could smell the frozen pepperoni pizza cooking in the oven.” The company Charles worked for, GB Press of Vincennes, Indiana, printed anything for a price, anything for a buck. On the same press they pushed out bibles from they also printed, Mormon propaganda, cheap porno, and shitty romance paperbacks. It didn’t surprise me.

Charles got his leads from the company through his Blackberry. He sent the checks he collected once a week back to Indy by overnight FedEx. Soon as they got theirs, he got paid via direct deposit. It was his problem to take care of the taxes. I didn’t like the idea, but he said it all worked out. In the meantime I was cordially invited to ride along if I could help pay for the gas. He didn’t have to ask me twice.

Once there was...

would do almost anything Charles wanted for sixty bucks. As I walked out the door I saw Doris sit down on the bed. Still smoking, she looked deflated, as if the smoke escaping her body was also combined with her soul. Again, I felt sorry for her.

When I came back, Doris was gone but her smell lingered in the room. Charles lay on his bed, under the covers wearing a dopey smile that made me angry. Why, I don’t An hour after leaving my cousin’s house, we were sit- know. Maybe it was because he was so happy. ting in the I-55 truck stop. The dining room was full of We hit the truck stop again in the morning stocking four hundred pound truckers sitting mostly alone eating up on beef jerky and candy. It would be another two hours fried chicken by the platefuls. Piles of bones heaped in before it would be legal to sell alcohol. Charles cued up his pyramids rose atop each table leaving a greasy mess on the phone and set an address into his dash GPS. Tearing and laminated checkered red and white tablecloths. A skinny chewing on a piece of jerky in his left hand, he steered the blond waitress with a nametag reading Doris was our serv- wheel with his right. er. Charles liked her and made it a point to open his wallet filled with twenties in front of her. She had black eyes or “When the step-daddy got up to fetch the little basmaybe the color simply had burned out a long time ago tards their pizza, that gal came out the bathroom and came with her looks. The blue eye shadow she wore mixed with quick like a bunny rabbit onto my lap. She had put on all her heavy rouge made her look clownish. I felt sorry for kinds of make-up and pulled her hair up. Sitting sidesadher. dle she began switching her ass getting me hard as a rock, driving me crazy as hell. Smiling and laughing she knew it Doris came to our motel room smoking a cigarette. was killing me. I grabbed her titty and she squealed scaring The smell of the fried chicken covered her skin like a cheap the shit out of me. I let go right away and she smiled the perfume. Charles told me if I were going to stay I would shiteatingest grin you ever did see. She was fucking with have to chip in twenty bucks to watch. He was joking but me like a grown woman. Practicing, I guess. So I grabbed sounded too serious. Doris had already made it clear she it again and pinched her nipple hard, but she didn’t yelp

Insomnia Press

Justice by Joe Schwartz

this time. She just smiled and smacked me across the face hard. I goddamn near came in my pants.”

more so, keep his memory alive for generations to come, if you were to complete his purchase today.”

The Wilsons were nice people. Mr. Wilson had recently retired from the library, thirty-five years as a janitor and not a gray hair on his head. Mrs. Wilson was round like an apple with rosy cheeks, a greasy forehead, and remarkably small chested. They let Charles and me into their home as if we were family.

What a complete line of shit. If these people actually knew that we were nothing more than sophisticated grave robbers, this lead and several like it coming straight from the obits, they would’ve shot us on sight. Charles had no qualms about doing it. Justified his actions by saying what we did brought these people some measure of comfort. It was only a few Photos covered the home’s walls, tabletops, and hundred bucks. They were flush from Government mantle of a child that grew to be a man. The earliest settlement checks. It wasn’t like they couldn’t afford showing a boy still happy to play in a sandbox filled it. Not like we were stealing or really being dishonest. with yellow construction trucks. The latest featuring a Plenty of soldiers bought from us, were some of our grim faced, clean shaven young man wearing a Green best customers. I would see, he said, when we went to Beret with an American flag draped stiffly in the back- sell door-to-door on an Army base how he practically ground. couldn’t take their money fast enough. After getting settled on their couch, politely declining water and coffee, Charles let them have it.

I took the bottle back from Charles. To think about that nice couple made me feel disgusted with myself. The liquor made it feel better; helped me to “This happens sometimes. A soldier happens forget my shame momentarily and I sure did appreupon the website, fills out all the information, but ciate that. I’ve done many shitty things in this life but then for some reason never gets around to placing the almost exclusively to myself. I didn’t like the idea of order. Once again, let me tell you how sorry I am for hurting people, lying to them, for money. Made me your loss. I’m sure Gary was a fine young man and the feel as if I was some kind of con artist. A side-show sacrifice he’s made for our country is immeasurable. grifter blowing into town, ripping off the local rubes That being said, I think it would honor his memory, by selling them some bullshit cure-all in all likelihood

Once there was...

would do nothing more than give them the shits before hauling ass in the middle of the night to do it again in the next town.

with beer, got me feeling high, and nobody ever missed one or two. There must’ve been a dozen bottles of medicines I couldn’t pronounce. Serious shit that all to prevent depression, suicidal thoughts, and hallucinations. Blue The last time I felt this bad about making easy money pills, white tablets, green capsules all in the name of not I was a kid. Knocking on random doors I would ask who- going full-blown nuts. When I came out of the john and ever answered for five bucks saying my mother had run saw that crazy little girl was standing there waiting for me, out of gas. Nine times out of ten I got nothing but you’d be I goddamn near screamed. She wasn’t smiling no more. surprised how many times I got that five plus more. Kid Thank God her step-daddy called for her. While she went stuff, right up there with joy riding or stealing sips from to the kitchen I got my case, went to my car and got the family liquor cabinet. Nobody got hurt. the fuck outta there. Goddamn that sure was a close one. “She hopped up again and ran back down the hall. I imagine if I would’ve stayed there that night like I had Step-daddy came back in alone this time carrying two been thinking to do, waiting for them weird eyed brothbeers. I could hear the boys in the kitchen chomping ers of hers and her slack jawed step-daddy to go to sleep away at their portions. We popped our tops and drank I might have gotten a kitchen knife through my chest or in the slim first bit of peace and quiet we had had since I worse.” got there. I finished it off quick and immediately had to pee. Her shit was all over the place. Curling iron, hair gel, “Maybe it was divine intervention,” I suggested. probably a hundred different make-up samples, a bottle of “Yah,” Charles said. “Sure it was.” cheap perfume that smelled like cotton candy, skin lotions, “Don’t you believe in God?” a couple of hand-held hair dryers, and a whole bunch of “No. Not really.” those scrunchee things in about every color of the rainbow. When I finished taking a leak I couldn’t help but look in the medicine cabinet. I was hoping I might find a bottle of Xanex or Valium or Vicodin. Those always mixed well

Justice by Joe Schwartz

Insomnia Press

By dinnertime we had visited three more homes. Charles sold each family the same bill of goods he had laid on the Wilsons adjusting his story as it suited him regarding the deceased. For the middle-aged widow whose husband had gone suddenly, unexpectedly to a heart attack he claimed the husband had called the 1-800 number but said he needed time to think about it. Now there was no more time. He told a grieving husband that his newlywed wife had spoken with one of the company’s reps at the mall once again claiming the departed needed to think it over. The mother and dad who had lost their daughter to a drunk driver, too far gone in their grief to respond despite Charles best efforts to convince them that their precious had once spoken briefly with a door-to-door rep. That she had expressed an interest in purchasing a book using the company’s easy flex pay plan, still they would not buy. Inconsolable in their grief, he made a note in his phone’s date book to come back in six months. Before we stopped for supper Charles slid a small stack of pre-printed forms into an overnight envelope with the signatures and accompanying checks of widows and widowers, grieving mothers and fathers, bewildered sons and daughters, all hoping for the same thing – peace. For those like my cousin and my wife I felt no sympathy. They were suckers just begging to get taken. If it wasn’t Charles and his bibles it would

be their neighborhood used car dealer happy to sell them a piece of shit on the verge of dilapidation, or it might be the smiling mechanic recommended to them by the car dealer who could not fix anything but would make more and more outrageous expensive claims as to what the problem might be, or the car title company that promised low interest loans on easy payments that eventually would cost them the car they so desperately needed in the first place. Yeah, life was a bitch then you died. Still, the lying bothered me. We ate again at a buffet. Charles liked buffets claiming variety was the spice of life. I agreed aloud for the sake of argument but quietly believed he was plain greedy. It pissed me off he would overfill his plate with roast beef, fish, or chicken and eat a mere portion before throwing it aside and going back for more. When I was a kid I would’ve killed for the food he was deliberately sending to the garbage. He preferred American style buffets the most and absolutely deplored the Chinese. Asserted the sneaky bastards were not to be trusted with their elusive, damn near mystical, MSG. Said every time he ate the shit it gave him the trots all night long and half the next day. I personally suspected the smaller, generally family owned businesses wouldn’t put up with his wasteful, fuck you attitude. That he probably got called on his bullshit by some hard-working immigrant restaura-

Once there was...

teur who happened to be of Asian descent and that was the small table next to the lamp that separated our matching real reason for his disdain. full-size beds. Again, as he had the night before, he flashed his wad of cash this time to a twenty-something girl bussing tables nearby. She politely smiled and whispered, ‘No thank-you.’ I wanted to stand up and applaud. Charles, the pricks that he was, made sure he left plenty of dirty dishes for her. On a napkin he had the nerve to write his name and cell number with the instructions ‘CALL ME ANYTIME.’ The depths of his depravity knew no bounds. The motel we found later was small, but reasonably priced. Charles, unable to buy a piece of ass had taken out his anger at the liquor store buying enough beer and alcohol to get the local high school football team drunk twice. As long as he was buying I didn’t feel compelled to complain. I would drink my share and then some. Later, as we smoked cheap cigars in our boxers and white t-shirts watching the TV on mute, I wondered how much longer I could do this. I was not a natural liar like Charles. That was when the idea smashed into me with such a fury as if a church bell had been struck inside my mind and couldn’t be silenced. The thought sobered me almost instantly. I felt ill and excited; my body cool to the touch.

I walked outside and aimed the remote fob toward the car pressing the triangular button in the middle. The trunk lid popped open and for a moment I imagined myself as carnival mentalist able to display phony powers of supernaturalism to wide-eyed locals in amazement and wonder. The thought amused me so much I actually laughed out loud. Beneath a blue blanket Charles kept the car’s jack, a small red toolbox with locking silver hinges, and the spare tire, I found exactly what I was looking for. “Tell me something, Charles,” I said as I stood next to his bed. “You fucked that girl didn’t you?” A smile creased his face as he let out a belch. “You got me there, Danny Boy.”

“I thought so,” I said.

I swung the tire iron over my head and directly into the top of Charles’ skull. Blood instantly sprayed from the wound. Again I swung the tire iron. The air whooshed as the metal bar used to remove lug nuts speed through the air. The small wound in Charles head, a crack that would surely had needed fifty stitches to close, now became an open crevice. Ruby red blood that reminded me of cherry Glancing over at Charles I picked up the car keys from the syrup pumped out in generous portions disguising the face

Insomnia Press

Justice by Joe Schwartz

below, discoloring the whites of his eyes until he was unrecognizable as if Charles was wearing a mask of his own blood.

He was still breathing when I left. The car had a full tank of gas. If I drove all night, by morning I could be in St. Louis. From there I could easily buy a bus ticket with cash and leave the car behind in some anonymous parking garage. It would probably be months before somebody found the car. By that time I would be in Missoula. I had an old friend up there that said they were always looking for a good man.

Author bio: Joe Schwartz writes gritty and visceral fiction that strikes the reader with all the subtlety of a punch to the gut. He has previously been published in the anthologies Winters Harvest, Say Goodnight to the Bad Guys, and Fracas: A Short Collection of Friction. His book â&#x20AC;&#x153;THE GAMES MEN PLAYâ&#x20AC;? was chosen by the St. Louis Public Library in June of 2012 as the Barr Branch book-club selection.

SLIVER

Once there was...

by Brittany Warren To

the throat,

sliver

dip once,

blood drawn.

Around

the collar,

Cat

by Renee Asher Pickup

beg me to follow you

circumference teeth, slip twice blood heavy even.

Through

the skull,

The cat was dead, but his eyes alive. He purred in the old womanâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s lap, and lapped up the blood from her wounds.

syringe slop supper brain feast, act smarter

understand me.

Violate

purpose,

transpose paper cut rations slice up my better half, done.

Insomnia Press

Joe Barker straggles in; his eyes still bloodshot. “Well, it’s about time you got here.”

Night Shift by John C. Mannone

“Sorry, Bill. I’ve been having it rough at the house.”

“The wife?”

He zips his jacket and grabs the flashlight before going out to make his rounds. The moon is hungry with light when the night shadows come. Their teeth show through trees. The wind ravages the dark; howls through the needle pines. Limbs claw the glass windows in Building 42.

Long fingers tense on the holster, and the pant of wind Joe nods, “Yep. She’s still pissed that I failed out of covers his breathing. The last time was the same: the the Academy. ” Joe pulls his .38 out of the locker. He moon dripped red-orange and the trees gloated. Their buckles it around his waist, cinching his wrinkled uni- branches hung as jaws cocked with a wry smile. form — not a police uniform. Joe hears voices scratching the night — the mockery: Shh, this will only take a moment. “Well, this job doesn’t exactly do wonders for my marriage either.” Bill snatches his empty lunch pail and He pulls the .38, clicks the hammer back, and empstaggers out the door. “Oh, by the way,” Bill continties the revolver into the dark spaces. The wind stops. ued, “I heard noises down by Building 42. I thought a Night shifts. The moon hides behind clouds. Trees eat couple of punks were messing around, you know the their own shadows. There is quiet and the only sound ones, but it seemed to be the wind knocking a couple he hears is the gurgle of blood coursing through his garbage cans across the way. Keep an eye out anyway.” ears. “Roger that, buddy.” *** The office door slams Joe out of his nightmare; the Joe unsnaps the holster and slips the revolver out. He swelter from his heartbeat, still loud. Sticky sweat is loads the chamber with the shiny slugs — full-metglued to his face. “Sorry, boss. I didn’t mean to fall al jacket ones — spins it before slipping it back. The asleep.” leather creaks as the gun nestles into its pocket. “I’ll be ready this time,” he mutters. Joe’s supervisor is silent, his hollow look echoing in the small room.

Once there was...

“Joe, did you see or hear anything strange last night? “No. No… n-n-no sir.” Joe stutters while rubbing his eyes. “Why?” “Bill never made it home last night. They found his body in the pin oaks. His spine cracked; a broken branch staked through his heart. And silver slugs in the trunk of the tree.” Author Bio: John C. Mannone has been nominated three times for the Pushcart Prize in Poetry. Recent work appears in the The Hellroaring Review, Vermillion Literary Project, Conclave: A Journal of Character, and New Mirage Journal. He is the poetry editor for Silver Blade, an adjunct professor of physics in east Tennessee and serves as a NASA/JPL Solar System Ambassador. Visit The Art of Poetry: http://jcmannone. wordpress.com.

Perfect 10 by Jack Campbell, Jr

Insomnia Press

Chad loved her legs. He had to have them. He ad- Chad had spoken to Heidi before, always in passmired them daily in the lap pool at Magnum Fitness ing. Never more than a nod, or a police “Hello.” It was and out of it. part of the game, part of the lure to get to those legs. Chad knew the game. The best way to get a woman to She swam down the center lane, streamlined and be interested was to show only mild interest. long, cutting a path through the blue water. Chad’s heart beat with every kick of those beautiful legs. His Women made the game as complex as possible. mind raced with their possibilities, salivating like Pav- Women said they wanted one thing, but their actions lov’s dog. wanted another. Chad had learned the game at a very early age. What was it about them? Chad attempted to isolate their appeal. Beautifully symmetrical, long and Heidi completed another kick turn and swam lean, her legs were art. Towel Boy Tom had told Chad away from Chad, a constant advance and retreat, warthat Heidi, the current owner of those legs, swam in ring armies teasing the attack. Chad stood at the head college. Chad figured those legs had given a full ride of the pool, waiting for his lane time. He showed up in college to more than just Heidi. early every third day, just enough to get extra viewing time in, without getting caught with his hand in the Heidi turned and streaked towards Chad’s side of cookie jar. the pool. He looked away, afraid she might notice. No chance. Chad made a habit of waiting at the lap pool Chad had been a lanky, gawky teen. His diat the same time, every day. He was ever bit as much sheveled oddly-light blonde hair sat shaggy upon a a fixture as Towel Boy Tom and the fogged sun wintoo-narrow head. Coke-bottle thick glasses gave him dows that kept the pool uncomfortably warm yearfish eyes. No matter how much he ate, he remained as round. thin as death. He was too tall, too skinny, too nerdy, and too shy.

Once there was...

Teenage Chad had many female friends, women he obsessed over, loved even, with their perfect hair, perfect breasts, and perfect asses. They all claimed to want a guy just like Chad, but they looked at him the way you might look at a puppy: cute, loveable, and pathetic. Women said they wanted a guy to love them forever. Bullshit. Queens of double-speak. Women didn’t want to be worshipped. They didn’t want to be loved forever. Women wanted to have a guy that other women thought was worth loving forever. Women wanted to be loved by a man whom other women wanted. Kick-turn, and again she swam close. Chad could smell her sex over the foggy aroma of chlorine that prevailed in the pool room. Maybe she knew he watched her. Maybe it turned her on. Chad imagined Heidi getting wet in more ways than one, her beautiful legs, slimy and slick with desire, always moving back and forth. Chad sat on a nearby chair, leaning forward to hide his erection.

Chad had learned that women go to the gym as much to be seen as to get fit. Why else would they parade themselves before him, make-up and skin-tight clothing barely containing breasts and ass? They always shined with sweat, but were never tired, above such un-beautiful things as exhaustion. Always smiling, always looking, and always flaunting their perfect parts. They disgusted Chad, these women who threw themselves before his feet, as rose petals before a bride. Twenty years ago, they would not have given him a glance. They would have taken the long way around the gym to avoid coming into his four-eyed gaze. Before puberty’s reluctant arrival, before lasik, hair dye, personal trainers, and a career as a surgeon, these women saw him as a leper.

No, Chad was only interested in Heidi’s legs.

Heidi finished her laps. She tread water at the close end of the pool, looking at the clock, disappointed at the time. She climbed out of the pool.

Chad watched the water drain from those beautiful God, those legs! An amazing feat of architecture. legs, cascading rivers caressing beautiful curves in surrenThey could give an atheist faith in the divine. Who could der to gravity. Chad felt no need to look at any other feadoubt the existence of a God who would create something ture, he had seen them before. as beautiful as that perfect set of legs, beautiful, scar-less, smooth, always freshly shaven.

Perfect 10 by Jack Campbell, Jr

Insomnia Press

Heidi’s breasts were too small, rendered non-existent by a lifetime of hard training. Her waist was too wide, burdened by a swimmer’s core. Shoulders: too big. Hair: too stringy. Freckles splotched around a too-small nose. Shit-brown eyes sat dim in deep sockets. But goddamn, those legs were perfect.

“Waiting for my lane again?” Heidi asked.

“As usual.”

“It’s all yours,” Heidi said, pulling off her swim cap and goggles. The elastic left lines on her face, seams in a badly tailored suit.

“Look,” Heidi said. “I come here to work out. I stay out of the weight room because I don’t need guys hitting on me.” “Hey, I understand. I never do this, but I see you so much and I would always regret it if I never gave it a shot.” “Okay, sure.” Heidi said. “I don’t have a phone or anything here, do you want my number?”

“I appreciate it.” He tried to maintain contact “How about we just meet here in the parking lot with the shit-brown eyes. The legs beckoned him from on Saturday around seven?” Chad asked. “It is a familhis peripheral vision. iar spot. I want you to be comfortable.”

“Have a good swim,” Heidi said, turning to leave.

“Hold on a second. I see you in here a lot and I feel rude. I’ve never introduced myself. I’m Chad.” “Heidi.” “Listen, do you want to get some coffee some time?”

Heidi blushed. She had fat cheeks. Her shitbrown debated the date. Chad would give anything not see them anymore.

“Alright, see you then. You had better get to swimming. You are using up your lane time.”

“Maybe it will be worth it,” Chad said.

“Maybe.”

Once there was...

Heidi walked out of the pool room down the hall towards the women’s locker room. Chad snapped a quick picture of Heidi’s legs with his cell phone as she walked away. Chad set the cell phone down carefully on top of his towel and dove into the pool.

The restaurant he chose showed his money. The clothes he wore expressed his status. The flowers he bought relayed his understanding of social conventions, and therefore his potential use in future social situations. His planning ability showed a consideration of the future.

Chad uploaded the picture to his favorite internet porn forum as soon as he returned to his apartment. Chad needed re-assurance that he had found the perfect legs. There could be no room for error.

Chad created the perfect plan for Heidi, with total regard for the things he knew she loved and wanted. Towel Boy Tom gave him valuable information. Tom spoke to Heidi frequently enough to get accepted as a friend on Facebook. Chad bribed him to relay all of her profile information, Chad went into the kitchen and made a protein shake. statuses, and pictures to Chad’s email. With his metabolism, he needed to keep taking in protein and carbohydrates if he wanted to maintain muscle mass. A file named ‘Heidi’ sat on his computer desktop. ReChad ate and exercised religiously less he go back to being lationship status, likes, dislikes, her swimming records unloved, ignored, and unappreciated. from Auburn University were she had majored in Physical Therapy, and her place of employment. That had been Women were worse than men. Everyone knew men a major find. Hanging out near her public relations firm only wanted sex, but women were supposedly above that. allowed Tom to find her car, a red Ford Focus, and her faThey lied. Women wanted success as much as men wanted vorite coffee shop, Ground Zero on Third Street. sex. Women used sex as a tool, nothing more. Romance, which women said they wanted, was really code for stabili- Chad showered. He had to clean the sweat and oil ty. The things they found romantic, fancy dinners, jewelry, from his skin to avoid body acne. He couldn’t afford to well-designed dates, were symbols of the man’s potential as miss the slightest detail. Everything had to be perfect if he a provider. was going to land those legs.

Perfect 10 by Jack Campbell, Jr

Insomnia Press

It is a special thing to touch a woman on a first date. So many tell themselves they will be hard to get, that they won’t put out. Bullshit. If you could find the right buttons, if you made the right choices, you could convince any woman that the moment was special, perfect, and then she would let her defenses down. Tom went directly from the shower to the computer and found that his post had received several reassuring comments. Heidi possessed one of the best sets of legs the users had ever seen. LegMan69, who was obviously an expert on that particular body part, suggested they should be on display at the Louvre, next to Michelangelo’s Dying Slave.

A ‘perfect ten’ required an array of physical traits that seemed impossible to obtain in a single woman. If a man could find even one item of absolute perfection, it might be the best he could do in his lifetime. Heidi’s legs were perfection, along the lines of finding a living dodo. Legs were the Holy Grail. Everyone wanted to find them, but no one knew were they could be found.

Chad knew right where to find them.

The date, of course, was a success although Chad had been disappointed to see the objects of his desire hidden within a pair of slacks. He had imagined a knee-length dress, with those beautiful legs descending into a set of heels. Women were so inconsiderate. The users on this forum had come to a consensus They expected men to account for every detail, yet a few years ago on perfect woman. They posted their Heidi couldn’t be bothered. Chad needed easier access favorite images, famous and the unknown, narrowing to the masterworks he sought. down each body part to what would be considered absolute perfection. Beautiful legs were hard to come The coffee had been perfect. Hot and strong. Heiby. Not as easily produced as breasts, nor as quickly di hadn’t even tasted the rohypnol. Chad had drugmodified as eye color. ging down to an exact science. Get out the door and into the car before it took effect, and back to his apartment alert enough to walk up the stairs, but too out of it to object.

Once there was...

“What is wrong with me?” Heidi repeatedly asked. Chad removed a plastic-wrapped package from a deep Chad pretended not to hear. She clung to consciousness as freeze in the corner of the room and laid it next to Heidi Chad sat her upon his plastic-lined couch. on the table. Unwrapping it, he admired his work. Chad left her, half sitting, half laying, and retreated into the guest bedroom to prepare. When he came back, Heidi had his phone in her hand. Of course, it was dead, nothing but a prop. Seriously, who used landlines anymore?

“Did you drug me?” Heidi slurred.

“Yes,” Chad said, smiling. He helped Heidi up and walked her to the guest bedroom.

The adorable face and rich smooth red hair of Heather sat upon the elegant cheekbones of Karen. Jennifer’s long beautiful arms lay crossed on Sally’s natural breasts, mounted to the spectacular hourglass torso of Elizabeth. The eyes, unfortunately, do not preserve well. He would have to use Heidi’s shit-brown eyes, and then change them green with contacts, but it was worth it for the last piece of the puzzle, Heidi’s beautiful, long legs.

Chad’s heart rate returned to normal. The adrenaline “Please, don’t rape me.” rush ran its course. His narrow vision widened, His lips stopped trembling. He was glad. He would need his hands “I wouldn’t dream of it,” Chad said. “I don’t want your steady for the delicate work of removing Heidi’s legs and body. Just your legs.” reattaching them to his treasure, his ‘perfect ten.’ Chad slit Heidi’s throat with surgical precision. The scapel was his musical instrument, perfectly responding to his every whim. Life drained from her face as blood gushed from her throat. Chad lay Heidi down upon the surgical steel table. There was a lot of blood. The slacks had been a happy accident. He would hate to get blood all over those perfect legs.

Chad slid off Heidi’s panties and slacks. He tried to ignore her common, clean-shaven vagina and gazed upon his beautiful new possessions. He wanted those legs from the moment he saw them, and now they were his. Chad was about to toss the slacks on the floor, but heard muffled speech from the pocket.

Insomnia Press

“Hello?” the voice said. “Ma’am? Can you hear me?”

Perfect 10 by Jack Campbell, Jr

Chad found Heidi’s cell phone, a 911 call still in progress.

“Hello? I hear breathing.”

A thudding knock shook the apartment.

Chad raised the scalpel to the soft, perfectly-scented skin of his clean-shaven throat. He opened the arteries with a flick of his wrist. Chad lay on the table, gazing at Heidi’s gorgeous legs. The world turned black. Author Bio

Jack Campbell, Jr. writes fiction and screen “Police! Open the door!” boomed an unseen plays out of Lawrence, KS. He is a contributing voice, followed by the slam of a boot against the rein- editor to The Confabulator Cafe, www.confabforced fire door. ulatorcafe.com. You can find out more about Jack and his writing at www.jackcampbelljr. This was unfortunate. Chad needed more time. If com only they would come back in a couple of hours, they would see. Who couldn’t appreciate the masterpiece Chad created for the world? Who couldn’t appreciate a perfect ten? The doorframe cracked. It would not hold them long. Chad looked at the scalpel, wet with Heidi’s unremarkable blood. It needed cleaned and sterilized, but there was no time.

Once there was...

Insomnia Press

“I’ve been thinking about us,” she said, blowing a He wasn’t sure he liked where the conversation was cloud of smoke into the air. Her soft, melodious voice headed. Usually they talked, but nothing deep. Mostly drifted over to him. it was just sex then a polite goodbye until next time.

Regrets by Dan Shelton

“Anything in particular?” he asked, lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling of their motel room; the smell of her perfume still on his skin.

“Your wife, among other things,” she said.

“What… what type of problem?” She turned her gaze to him, regarded the middle-aged, chubby, pale man lying on the bed, a good twenty years older than her.

He broke his gaze and looked over at her, sat naked in To his annoyance, she meandered away from answera cheap wicker chair by the window which overlooked ing his question. “Your wife, she’s older than you, I the parking lot. know that, I’ve seen her on TV. She doesn’t do it for you anymore in bed, am I right? You don’t find her “My wife?” he asked. For the first time with her he felt attractive anymore. That’s why you pay me to secretly a little on edge. Their chats rarely covered personal come to cheap places like this so you can stuff yourself matters. into me instead.” “And your career?” she added, with a casualness that made him feel a chill spread over his naked body. She raised the cigarette to her lips, her movements slow and graceful, as unhurried as the setting of the sun. She took a long drag, then blew another cloud of smoke into the air. It caught and danced in the sunlight streaming in through the window. “I have a problem, you see.”

They both knew what she’d said was true. “That’s right. But I love her still. But what’s your problem? What does it have to do with us, my wife?” With a meticulously manicured finger, she tapped the top of her cigarette, sending extraneous ash onto the floor. “You see, congressman, I’ve been a bit foolish.”

Once there was...

“Foolish how?”

“I have photographic evidence of us together. If you don’t pay up, I’ll send it to your wife, maybe even the media.” She gazed out of the window, paused, keeping him in sus- As she said those words, he fumbled on a button and had pense, then continued, returning her gaze to the room. to attempt it again. Words of hatred, betrayal bubbled up She leant forward. The sunlight caught the side of her face, inside of him now. “Are you blackmailing me?” highlighting her curly black hair. “I got myself into some awkward financial trouble.” “One hundred thousand,” she repeated. “And what does that have to do with me?”

He wanted to throttle her then and there, to take his big, chubby hands and wrap them about that thin, slender, “Well, congressman, it occurred to me that you could help.” beautiful neck of hers and choke the life from her. I don’t like where this is going, he thought. Rolling off the He spoke, the words spitting from his mouth like venom. bed, he picked up his pants from the floor and began to “You bitch. I thought we had something here.” pull them on, his back now to her. “I don’t think I can help you. I have an appointment to get to.” She flung her cigarette to the floor and stood up; silhouetted against the window he couldn’t see her expression. “I’m Her usually smooth, soothing voice turned hard. “I want just your fucking whore! What else did you think this was, one hundred thousand dollars from you.” huh? Open your eyes to the world!” He turned to face her from across the room. “Are you mad?” he demanded. “I’m not a goddamned bank.” He pulled his expensive, white shirt on, started buttoning it up.

He couldn’t believe this was happening. Have I been so foolish, so blind?

Regrets by Dan Shelton

Insomnia Press

“You pay me to fuck you!” she shouted. “That’s all you “No!” he screamed, surprising himself. His gaze dartare to me!” Even in her raised voice he could hear ed about the room, as though looking for an answer melody. somewhere scrawled on the walls. “No, no!” he yelled again. He screwed his hands into fists, grinding his His mouth fell agape as realisation struck him like a teeth together, his pale, blotchy face turning red. hammer blow. My God, what an idiot I’ve been. She’d never seen him like this before. Afraid, she took “I can’t get that amount of money,” he lied, hoping to a step back, then another, but tripped on her own feet defuse the situation. He realised he had to get out of and tumbled to the floor. there and remove this woman from his life. He looked down at one of his hands, where his blue She wagged a finger at him. “Don’t lie to me, I’m not silk tie still hung down from between his fingers. As stupid. I want the money. I know you have it.” she struggled to get up off the floor, he caught sight of that long, beautiful neck of hers. How he had loved to “I won’t give in to blackmail!” He pulled on this jacket kiss it. and fumbled with his tie, but his hands were shaking now he couldn’t get it on. Grasping the tie between both hands, he pulled it tight. No man will ever kiss that sublime neck of yours She strode round the bed towards him. Her long, slen- again, he thought. der legs and full, round breasts even now aroused him as hatred for her stirred within him. Only a few feet Her eyes opened wide as she saw him advancing tofrom him, she stopped. She put her hands on her hips wards her with slow, lumbering steps. She looked at - those hips he loved to caress and stroke and feel next the tie, pulled taught, and knew he intended to stranto his skin. gle her. “How do you think your voters will react when they find out you were fucking another woman?”

She tried to crawl away, but backed herself against the wall.

Once there was...

She delivered her final provoke. “Is this what you did to that other girl? Did you kill her too?” He stopped in his tracks. His face screwed up into a snarl as memories filled his brain. “Yes. I strangled her, just like I’ll strangle you. She deserved it too.”

Author Bio Dan Shelton writes about whatever comes into his head. He doesn’t like sport, apart from Formula 1. Find more of his works at: http://robotsandghosts. blogspot.co.uk/

A crashing, splintering sound ripped through the air. The flimsy door burst from its hinges and two armed officers rushed into the room. She felt a wave of relief spreading through her tense body. He saw the officers and froze. “Up against the wall,” the first officer ordered the congressman. The shocked politician could barely speak, barely move. The second officer went to help her, shielding his eyes to preserve his colleague’s modesty. “Nice work,” he said. “We got his confession on tape.” As the congressman was cuffed and led away, she quickly dressed, her undercover assignment a success.

Jump by Dakota Taylor

Insomnia Press

This wasn’t so much a suicide thing as it was a cry for When you jump from a roof, expect water on the help spiel. From where I’m standing I can see the sun knee after your feet hit the ground. People hire me peeking out behind the ocean. I can see skyscrapers to replace their perfectly good shingles just to watch and traffic stuck in gridlock. I can also see news cam- me throw myself from the top their house. When you eras and my girlfriend, Brandy, talking to reporters. spend as much money as I do on doctor bills, you learn to bandage yourself. You learn to run an IV. Su Aside from half the police station pointing they’re per glue closes wounds better than sutures because it weapons at my body, the view is actually marvelous. doesn’t leave a scar. In a few minutes all of the pain and shame of life will be turned off like a blown out light-bulb. Just have to People think I’m brave. My friends think I’m craflick the switch and watch everything go dark. zy. When some punk asks me “what the fuck are you looking at” I can’t help but mimic him. It’s part of my When I look at Brandy, she is nodding her head handicap you see? Jumping Frenchman Disorder is and moving her mouth but she is looking at me, look- what the medical types call it. Truckers always smash ing at her. beer bottles on the head. I can’t go out for a drink *** without Brandy getting excited and wanting me to Ever since I can remember people have always fight. “Punch him the face.” She would say. No explacalled me “Jumpy.” nation. Shedidn’t need to explain herself, she’s my lover. This was her reasoning and I had no reason to ar“Jump” they would say and I would. Off roofs, out of gue with her. Two seconds of fighting always leads to trees, off of bridges. Jumpy, yeah he’ll eat anything. Eat three days of picking glass from my head and waiting that handful of dirt my friends would tell me. for knots as big as crawdad hills to go down. Benadryl helps the swelling. Ice for the black eyes. Dirt isn’t so bad. The fire ants are a different story. If you want to know what fire ants taste like, try eating a handful of red hot thumb tacks. Your mouth will swell up like a chipmunk with it’s wisdom teeth removed.

Once there was...

Karate chopping your grandmother takes a little more work to fix though. Maybe it was my fault. Maybe it was my grandma’s fault for wearing such nice jewelry. It wasn’t Brandy’s fault though; she just gives orders because she knows best. The awkwardness at holidays can’t be reversed or the fractured vertebrate but a homemade cake and an apology card is usually a good start.

Without thinking, I shove my nose into the bottle and inhale. Bed, Bath and Beyond is Brandy’s favorite store. She loves the scents of the candles and lotions and bath pearls. They make her feel like she is vacationing in Hawaii without spending the money to actually be there.

Women love me though. They love my disorder. I make a perfect slave for them. Especially Brandy. My disorder is why she has stayed with me for so long. Brandy tells me to smell the coconut butter lotion. This was about a month ago.

A tight grin spreads across her face and she knows she already has the hook in me. This is how we entertain ourselves. We like to prank each other. Her a little more than me. It’s all innocent fun. She grabs my arm and guides me to the shelf of towels. All of the towels are a different color and fabric.

She hands me an ocean water candle and says “sniff.” I can never have nice things. I’m always in a law suit. “Sniff.” I say and oblige her order. Crash your car, someone says and I’m in a fender bend er with some lawyer’s Porsche. People think I’m a push “Do you like it?” She asks. over but when I try to tell them that it’s my reflex, they say “Punch yourself in the face” and my shirt is ruined from “Do you like it?” I say. “Yes I do.” I don’t like it but my bloody nose. then again...I like it when Brandy likes things.

“Smell the coconut butter lotion.” I repeat to her like a Parrot. Brandy picks her nose and her smile stretches to each of her ears. She points at me, a slimy glob stuck to her index finger.

Jump by Dakota Taylor

Insomnia Press

“Eat it.” She says. “Eat it.” I repeat and stick her finger in my mouth. My reaction to commands is as natural as jumping when I’m startled, except I jump when people tell me to. I would have made the perfect soldier. The green glob is covered in enough mucus that it slides down my throat easy enough. “What do you think of these towels?” She asks. “What do you think of these towels?” I reply, feeling like a robot. “I don’t know babe. What about you?” I would do anything for Brandy. Sometimes she helps me bandage the wounds that I can’t reach. The look on her face right now is that of a kid in a candy store. She mouths an order and my hands react without me. Towels fly in the air like confetti and I’m screaming like a banshee. Brandy barks orders at me, trying not to laugh and mess up her flow of sentences.

Brandy runs behind me, whispering in my ear. I’m babbling nonsense. I pour Lavender scented bath salts into my mouth and wash it down with a bottle of hand sanitizer. I kick silverware sets and bite a little girl’s arm. Brandy is doubled over, her face red and trying to catch her breath from laughing so hard. “Now...now...” She tries to speak but keeps laughing. I couldn’t be more relieved. I hope she laughs for hours.

Security guards grab my arms and restrain me. “Sir, calm yourself.” One of them yells.

“Sir, calm yourself.” I yell back. I stop moving and let one of them put me in a full-nelson. Brandy’s green eyes glisten from the tears welling up. She claps her hands as to applaud my act like I did it on purpose, as if I acted on my own free will. She tries to pull herself together and stop laughing like a crazy person. I can’t help but feel like a marionette; like a sock puppet on Brandy’s hand.

Once there was...

Brandy wipes the tears from her cheeks. “Jump.” She says. The metal below my feet disappears *** and I’m floating in the air. My stomach swirls and makes I hear God speak to me. He’s telling me he will shoot me nauseous. A flock of birds watch me free fall and me if I don’t step down. When I see God in a suit and squawk. The clouds look like marshmallows that exploded talking into a megaphone, I realize it’s just another cop do- in a microwave. ing his job. I’m holding up traffic on the bridge and that is bad, especially during rush hour. After this, I’ll be famous. I will be signing autographs and doing interviews. Me and Brandy will be sipping drinking in Mexico soon. Talk show hosts on late night television will exploit my illness and their bosses will throw more money and fame at me.

Author Bio Dakota L. Taylor is an author and freelancer from Louisville, Kentucky. He has studied the craft of fiction writing under writers such as Jack Ketchum and Craig Clevenger. He is 19 years old. http://dakotaltaylor.com/

After this, all of my troubles, all of Brandy’s troubles, they will all fade away. I turn to the crowd of policemen and angry but curious bystanders. They wait for my next move. Brandy sees me and she is holding the megaphone. The cop in civilian clothes is telling her what to say. This is my last chance before they open fire and I tumble into the water below. For a moment everything is quiet and serene. Brandy smiles and it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Her eyes light up and she speaks loud and clear.

Insomnia Press

Frostbite by Kyle Hemmings

They met while she was still hungry and he was about to give up on eating. In college, he drew portraits of people outside themselves, of the German Expressionist who hung himself just so he wife could capture the loose angles.

His name was Yohji, entertained delusions of the world coming to an end. The girl, Shiatzy, believed thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s all they were, personal fables, until she heard distant bombs at night, the razor edge of voices from childhood. At first she thought: This kind of love leads only to frostbite and death. Later, she wore his frozen smiles to bed. She tried to picture Yohji before the winter, imagined his love of qipao collars, knot buckles, sakura trees in an ink painting. Her trees.

They lived there. She tried to take care of him. He made her forget her old toys, greeting cards: Rainbow Brite, Strawberry Shortcake, Sphere of Light. He stopped drawing fragmented faces, withdrew to a corner of the house. He said: Leave me. Save yourself. The war cannot be won. She said: If you love just one person, youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve saved the world. He closed his eyes, stopped breathing. cradled his head, rubbed his hair in half-circles, She back and forth. Planted cherry kisses. The bombs stopped. She could no longer hear the voices of the child-haters, mother-lynchers.

took her to a little blue house by the East river. She She made a wish. He asked who owns it. He said Nobody. The house was almost barren of furniture. The inside was colder than the outside.

Once there was...

Author Bio Kyle Hemmings is the author of several chapbooks of poems: Avenue C, Cat People, and Anime Junkie (Scars Publications). His latest ebooks are You Never Die in Wholes from Good Story Press and Tokyo Girls in Science Fiction from NAP. Kyle is a big fan of 60s garage bands, especially the obscure ones like The Jujus or The Alarm Clocks. He lives and writes in New Jersey. Kyle blogs at http://upatberggasse19. blogspot.com

Dreadful Dissections: Reviews by Dakota Taylor

Insomnia Press

I was a little weary at first when I shelled out the 25 dollars for this book but I was just desperate and just horny enough to do it. Also, there was a bit of mystery to it. (no pun intended to one of the pick-up gurus) Even when the book came in the mail, I was intrigued by it before I’d even cracked it open. It was leather bound with a red ribbon book mark. It was dressed up like a bible, gold around the borders of the pages and all. Maybe this is the real deal I thought. The book screamed “the last book you will ever need.” On getting laid anyway. Which, once we master that, what else do we need right? The table of contents is set up with a different step in the process of picking up a chick from the point of seeing her at the club to getting her back to the bedroom. The step mentioned is explained through the witness account of Neil Strauss and his peers. In other words, it’s Strauss’s journal. Like the first time I read Trainspotting, I was tempted by a sub-culture that I knew almost nothing about. It spoke to my most primitive needs. I was hooked, relating to the AFC (average frustrated chum) and having terrible luck with women. I was ready to join the seduction community. The routines worked (much like learning a complicated magic trick or conning someone mind you) and I was excited. But

it felt like telling the same funny joke over and over again. You got a good laugh, but you were sick of telling it. What I learned, as I decided to finish the book, was: that was the point of the novel. Becoming a better person. Building confidence. Having the tools to get any woman but not using it as a crutch forever (or training wheels.) Dressing up like a clown from the 70’s (see Jersey Shore) and running pick up lines. They were like cheat codes to the game of getting laid.

Once there was...

The story has an interesting, familiar feel to it. Fight Club comes to mind. There is a character named Tyler Durden. They all live one house named Project Hollywood and they are building an Army of Pickup artists that eventually falls out of Style’s hands. I think of “The Game” as Fight Club: A Memoir.

Heartache, betrayal, pickup routines, sex stories, celebrities, drugs. It has it all. They lived in Los Angeles, of course they had all those things. This is a story about how the computer geeks will win the world with smarts but it Some speculate that these Pickup artists, as brand will be useless if they can’t fix their true selves inside. They names are outdated and so is their work. It can’t be denied got into the game and left needing therapy or found love, that Pickup artists have become mainstream in the media. or stayed the same, or got an STD. They rolled the dice. Or in other words, computer geeks who know some evolu- It’s worth the 25 bucks, trust me. But don’t be mistaken, tionary psychology. this isn’t a book all about picking up women. Check out Strauss’s other books for that. Even better, research some Strauss re-tells the story of his experience from climb- more modern pickup artists, but be careful you don’t try to ing the ladder from an AFC to a masterful pickup artist. fuck your problems away with hundreds of girls. He deals with great success and lives the American Dream. All while realizing the dream comes with a price. His friends backstab each other and become social robots or try to become “Style” Strauss’s alter ego. Students strive to be pickup gurus. Everyone wants to be a pickup artist rather than a human.

Dreadful Dissections: Reviews by Dakota Taylor

Insomnia Press

When Caleb writes, he pushes the reader in to the shark tank without any warning. From the very first sentence, we know the deal. There is no sugar coating the content held within these pages. When the author types a word, it’s so sharp you’ll get a paper cut. The first thing I noticed was the barebones, stripped down, minimalism. Combine this with the overall atmosphere the characters create and before you know it, there is a big ass, rusty, fishhook in your mouth that pulls you farther and farther in to the stories without any signs of letting go. Charactered Pieces is on par with grounds of early novels by Chuck Palahniuk. The difference is, Palahniuk sucker punches the reader with his prose and knocks your teeth out, leaving you bleeding and cheering. Caleb is a little more sneaky. Charactered pieces spikes your drink and has you in someone’s trunk before you even know it. The characters in this novel are people you would not want to meet surely, but the kicker is that, we run in to them every day. The characters in the book are fictional but real. Yes, that is right, they are real.

Once there was...

They are human and even with all of their transgressions, they are fragile and deep. These characters have their threads pulled until they become completely unraveled, even when they are victims of their own undoing. One of the most moving and diverse pieces of work Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve read in years.

Hope on the Outside by Jay Willburn

Insomnia Press

She woke up in darkness and heat. She rubbed her face around her eyes feeling a layer of dirt and grit either on her hand or on her face. She was still confused from sleep and there was pressure in her head that wouldn’t relent. When she sat up it only got worse and now she was blind and dizzy. She fumbled around the bed she was on until her hand connected with something plastic. It clicked and her eyes clinched shut at the sudden burst of light in the room. Her mattress was on the floor and the room had lamps hanging from wires around the stone walls. There was a screen angled towards the mattress on the floor attached to one of those things she couldn’t remember the name of. She rubbed her eyes again. It was her face that was dirty with dry sweat and dirt. She couldn’t remember how she got here and her mind was moving slow.

ing the red button. The screen clicked on and a girl was staring at her from the set. After a short pause, screen girl cleared her voice and said, “Don’t panic and just listen. You don’t recognize me because you hurt your brain. I’m you and our name is Hope Katherine Foster. We go by Hope. You are safe and you are okay.” Screen girl . . . screen Hope paused to let real life Hope grasp the situation. Hope didn’t get it, but the recording continued on anyway, “Your older brother Trevor is here and he can explain everything that I don’t. If he is not outside the door to your room, there are other people around, they know who you are, and they will take you to him. If he is out, ask for Dr. Gavin.”

Hope started to get up slowly from the mattress, but Hope on the laptop screen stopped her, “Don’t go just After several minutes of staring at the concrete walls yet. There is more. The accident you had a while ago and green, metal door, it didn’t get better and it slow- took your memory. Every so often you have seizures ly dawned on her that she couldn’t actually rememwhich cause you to wake up blank again. The longest ber anything including her name. Her pressure filled you have gone between seizures is about two weeks. head flooded with fear. The shortest space of time was a few hours. If you start to feel a sense of doom and color begins to drain As she started to get up, she saw a sign attached to the out of the World, tell someone and lay down somescreen that read: Press the red button to get answers. where safe before you fall down. People around you She looked at the green door and the tarnished handle know what to do and you will be okay.” for a long moment before finally giving in and push-

Hope was feeling a little doomed now, but the screen girl wasn’t done yet, “There is more. You were hurt trying to get where you are now. The World has been destroyed by zombies. Zombies are dead people who get up and walk and will attack living people. If one bites you, you turn into a zombie. I can’t soften the impact of that for you.” “There is a notebook next to the laptop. It has details about your parents and your life before the zombies and before you were hurt. It explains how to do different things you need to know. You can read it later. You have time, so relax. You do not lose your memory every time you fall asleep, so don’t panic about that. Take the notebook with you. Leave it in the building if you go outside, but don’t wander out doors that are not marked and don’t ever go alone. Anything that is important, find the proper section for it and write it in the notebook. There is a pen in the binding. If that pen runs out, ask around until you get another one. Don’t write everything; only write stuff that is absolutely essential to know. Trevor will help you decide.” She picked up the marbled composition book. It had HOPE on the outside in big block letters. She clutched it to her chest for reasons she could not explain. “Now press the red button again to reset this recording and then go out the door. Make sure you are wearing clothes.

Bye and good luck.”

Once there was...

The screen went black and Hope stood up. She walked to the door, paused, walked back, pushed the red button, and then walked back to the door again. There were a lot of people walking around a long concrete room with tables, shelves, and boxes stacked out in the distance in both directions. The ceiling was high and echoed with voices and the sounds of metal on metal. There were vents and windows high on the wall pouring in light and air. The florescent lights hanging between enormous pipes were on. Hope didn’t recognize anyone. There was a dark haired man sitting across from her just staring. Hope shivered a little nervously and asked, “Are you Trevor?” Trevor nodded and asked calmly, “Yes, are you feeling okay, Hope?” Hope answered, “Yes . . . no, I don’t understand any of this.” Trevor nodded again, “It’s okay. Did you see the video?” Hope sighed, “Yes, I’m Hope. I can’t remember anything. Dead people walk around and bite you.”

Hope on the Outside by Jay Willburn

Insomnia Press

fight and Dr. Gavin is trying to mediate between DaTrevor actually laughed, “Yes, but we are safe in here.” vis and . . . Don’t worry about it, Hope. Come with Hope looked at the notebook and back at Trevor, “I me to the roof so I can re-teach you how to take care don’t remember our parents. Are they dead?” of the plants. Bring the notebook. It has some pictures that will help.” Trevor nodded without speaking. Hope felt sad, but couldn’t draw on any memory to justify it. She looked As they started to walk, they passed a large wall mirat the notebook again, but decided she didn’t want to ror propped up on the table. It was lined with dust know about them yet. that apparently had been smeared by water at some point. In one clear section, Hope got a glimpse of the She was about ask another question when shouting girl she saw on the video screen. Trevor saw too and rose down the hall for several seconds. Something he waited for her to process it. This Hope had dirt on crashed to the floor. Hope was suddenly afraid of her face and her blond hair was starting to go wild dead people. “Did they get in? The dead people? “You look like mom,” Trevor dared to say. What’s going on, Trevor?” Hope was hit with a spark of regret which was punctuated by more of the noisy argument further down Her brother looked legitimately surprised for a mothe complex. She nodded at her brother in the mirror ment more by her response than the actual disturand said, “Tell me about her.” bance. Hope didn’t know him or the situation well enough to understand what she had said or had done Trevor put his hand on Hope’s shoulder, “Walk with that surprised him. He finally said, “No . . . no, Hope, me to the roof and we’ll talk.” none of them got in . . . we’re safe. I’ll keep you safe.” She allowed herself to believe him, “What’s all the *** noise about?” She woke up in darkness and heat. She rubbed her He sighed and looked down now, “We’re having a bit face around her eyes feeling a layer of dirt and grit of a lively debate concerning how we should secure either on her hand or on her face. She was still conthe doors and the perimeter of the building. Tempers fused from sleep and there was pressure in her head are getting a little heated. There was a little bit of a that wouldn’t quit. When she sat up it only got worse

and now she was dizzy. She lay back down and fumbled around the bed she was on until her hand connected with a concrete wall that ran the length of her bed. She rolled over and cracked her knuckle on something plastic on the other side. She cursed in the darkness and her voice echoed alien in her ears. She panicked as she searched her memory finding nothing there. She didn’t recall who she was much less where she was. Fear seemed to clear the webs out of her brain, but there was still nothing there to grasp on to. Her hand found a button on the plastic. It clicked and she cursed again as light flashed on from lamps hung poorly around the ceiling. She blinked painfully as she took in the concrete room, the old green door, the mattress on the floor, the screen thingy, and a notebook with the word HOPE on the outside.

Once there was...

clutched. She wondered if this was her brother or one of the dead things the screen girl warned her about. Hope spied a metal pipe on the table to her left.

The man’s head lifted and he asked, “Hope, are you okay?” “I guess,” She said, “You’re Trevor, my brother?” “Yes,” he said. He seemed to be confused although Hope had no idea why. “Are we alone here?” she asked, “Where is that Dr. Gavin guy?” Trevor actually smiled, “There are other people. Some are out scavenging, some are on the roof tending plants, some are standing guard . . . The rest are in a meeting arguing.” Hope ran through a million questions in her mind, “What are they arguing about?”

She carefully opened the cover and read: Your name is Hope. You have seizures every so often that take away your memory. There are zombies in the World. Zombies are dead people that try to eat the living. This is not a joke. Trevor shrugged and waved her off, but answered anyShe looked around the room again and spotted the sign way, “Quarantine procedures… how to hold someone who next to the screen. She pushed the red button and watched might be bitten . . . infected.” the video. “Bitten by a zombie?” Hope asked. When she opened the door into the warehouse, the only light blazed in from windows high on the wall. There were “Yes,” Trevor answered. tables, shelves, boxes, trash, and empty space. In one shaft of light, a dark haired man sat slumped and still. A wash Hope pointed back at her room, “If someone is bitten, of fear entered Hope’s chest where she had the notebook don’t they become a zombie?”

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“Yes,” Trevor confirmed.

Hope on the Outside by Jay Willburn

Hope shook her head, “Why do we want to hold someone who is going to try to eat us?” Trevor actually laughed, “I should take you up to join in the fight. It is getting ugly. Since Davis died, the group is talking about splitting. Some folks want to abandon the warehouses and move to the old prison. My ex-girlfriend and roommate are talking about going too.” Hope looked confused again, “Do we know all the people here?” Trevor tilted his head, “Well, we do now, but other than a couple folks, we didn’t know any of them before . . . before the zombies.” Hope stood for a while, “Our parents died because of the zombies. Are they walking around trying to eat us?” Trevor considered, “You told me to stop telling you about it . . . even if you ask.” Hope sighed, “Well, now I’m telling you to tell.”

Trevor stood up and motioned down the hall, “Walk with me to the roof. I’ll tell you as we help out with the plants.” Hope accepted his hand as they paused briefly at the mirror. Her blond hair needed to be brushed . . . or cut. Trevor opened his mouth as if he was about to say something, but then he just waited. *** She woke up in darkness and heat. She rubbed her face around her eyes feeling a layer of dirt and grit either on her hand or on her face. She was still confused from sleep and there was pressure in her head that wouldn’t stop. She started to sit up and then noticed words floating in the darkness. It took a while for her eyes to focus. The words were in orange paint that glowed in the dark: There is a lantern on the floor to your left. She reached carefully and a dull florescent glow barely reached the corners on the concrete room. There was a dark door and a mattress on the floor. She lifted the lantern feeling dizzy as she did so. She spotted a notebook with the word HOPE printed in block letters and there was a screen with a long

note on it: Push the red button to get answers. If the computer doesn’t come on, change the battery in the back. If that doesn’t work, attach it to the cord from the exercise bike in the corner and peddle while you watch. She raised the lantern and saw the bike in the corner connected to some sort of machine.

Once there was...

She walked up and asked, “Dr. Gavin?” The old man looked up at her over his glasses, “Yes, Hope, how are you feeling?” “Confused,” she said, “What is wrong with me?”

She pressed the button and a girl with her hair tied back came on. She said, “Your name is Hope. You have fits, pass out, and forget things. It can’t be cured. There are zombies everywhere outside the building you are in. Those are dead people who feed on the living. You are an orphan and you never knew your family. When you leave the room, take the notebook with you. There are pages missing, but don’t worry about that. Never leave the building except to water the plants on the roof. When you go outside, ask around until you find Dr. Gavin. Be smart, survive, and don’t waste time asking a lot of questions. It irritates people.”

Dr. Gavin went into long detail about her trip to the warehouse and the head injury and the seizures that developed as a result. About halfway through, she sat down at the table clutching her notebook to her chest.

Outside her room people were hustling back and forth between tables, empty shelves, and barrels with fire in them. There wasn’t enough light to see the ceiling. After a while of being ignored, she reached out and grabbed someone’s arm. The boy looked at her and asked, “What, Hope?” She asked, “Dr. Gavin?”

Hope looked suspicious, “How did I know to tell you I was an orphan if I lost my memory when I was hurt?” Dr. Gavin chewed his tongue a little, “I guess you told some of the people you were surviving with before you came here. The zombies had been around a while by the time you got hurt.”

The boy pointed towards a table about 20 feet away where a man was reading by candlelight.

Hope sighed, “So what is going on here?”

When he finished, she asked, “I was alone? Who carried me to the warehouses after I was hurt?” Dr. Gavin’s mouth twitched and he looked down before he said, “I didn’t know you before you were brought in. You told me you were an orphan and didn’t know your family before the injury.”

Hope on the Outside by Jay Willburn

Insomnia Press

Dr. Gavin let out a long breath and talked for almost an hour about their leadership structure and the history of their group. He talked about a group that had split off from them that they were fighting with for territory. After a while Hope’s mind began to drift. She knew she would lose all of these details with her next seizure and it would start all over again. She didn’t understand most of the vocabulary as he talked about reanimation, and New Clear Strikes and places like New Orc and Lost and Jealous. None of it connected with her. Finally, he concluded, “It’s getting late. We should go to bed soon.”

struck her head on something hard and now she was blind and dizzy. She felt around the hard walls on both sides of her and the metal was hot to the touch. Something was scratching outside. She sat up slowly again and found something plastic above her. She pushed it up and brilliant light stabbed into her eyes.

Something knocked her over against the side of the box she seemed to be standing in. When she opened her eyes, she saw a thing with no eyes flailing its dirty claws where she used to be standing. She screamed and it turned in her direction. Its tongue lolled out of its jagged, broken teeth. She screamed again as she kicked it away and toppled out of the dumpster onto Hope shrugged, “I just woke up. I’m not tired.” the scorching pavement. The thing landed hard and fell out of the tatters that had once been some kind of Dr. Gavin considered, “We can walk for a while. We shirt or jacket. The bones protruded from impossible can’t go outside obviously, but we can make a few laps gaps in its rotted chest. It got up and started staggerin here.” ing towards her again anyway. They passed a mirror a few times, but it was too dark to make out her image clearly. *** She woke up in darkness and heat. She rubbed her face around her eyes feeling a layer of dirt, grit, and sweat either on her hand or on her face. She was still confused from sleep and there was pressure in her head that wouldn’t let go. When she sat up, she

Without thinking, she got up and ran. The asphalt was cracked in several places and weeds the size of small trees were in her way as she ran a weaving pattern to try to put distance between her and the monster chasing her. Through a curled chain link fence, she ran into a street littered with the rusted, burned, piled, and overturned chaises of cars. Engine blocks sat underneath

dropped from broken struts with plants growing out of them. Around her, brick buildings were devoid of glass in their cracked and battered frames.

Once there was...

A skinny, blue man clawed at her from around a corner, but she dodged around it just in time. She wasn’t so lucky with the next one. It came at her fast and had her wrapped “Hello,” her voice echoed and croaked off the ruins around up tight before she could react. She was too scared to her. She did not recognize it, this place or herself at the scream and she just started to cry. The creature spoke, moment, “Can anyone help me? Please?” “Hope, it’s me Hunter. Where are Casey and Chuck?” She dared to look at its eyes. They were alive and human. Metal creaked and groaned as shapes began to rise at the She asked, “What?” sound of her plea for help. What she saw was so awful that it made her want to run back in the direction of the He let her go and said, “Are you alone out here, Hope? Do first monster. She ran up another overgrown alley as the you remember me?” creatures crawled and lurked slowly towards her from seemingly every direction. Out the other side of the ally She looked back at the creatures getting closer, “No . . . Yes, she was in another alien street. One side was completely I mean, I’m alone except for those things chasing me. I blocked by twisted metal that seemed to include a large don’t remember anything.” truck, something with wings, and an enormous vehicle with tracks and large gun on the front. A creature with no Hunter said, “I’m Hunter; you are Hope. You have memarms and one leg was flopping out from under it. ory problems. We wouldn’t have sent you out, but we are shorthanded. You made it almost a month this time. It She ran down the other way. The walking mob emerged doesn’t matter. Those things are zombies. Did any of them from the alley and followed. In the distance she saw a tall scratch you or bite you?” building blackened on one side with jagged steel from its skeleton exposed in several places. She looked down and shook her head, “No, I got away.” Hunter nodded, “Well, we need to get further away. I’ll The moans of the things behind her made more disfigured, explain everything later. Follow me close and fast.” decaying faces rise in the windows of the abandoned stores on both sides of her. Against her better judgment she yelled again, “Help! Somebody help me!”

Hope on the Outside by Jay Willburn

Insomnia Press

He led Hope through a number of streets and passages that seemed to get clearer as they went. One time he clobbered a zombie that came out of a field they were passing. She didn’t even notice he was carrying a hammer until he used it. He pointed towards a tall group of buildings surrounded by barriers and fences. They headed in that direction. As they approached the gate, a body slammed to the ground next to them splattering red and gray all around the concrete. Hunter looked up at the catwalk above them and then over at Hope who was staring in shock. He commented calmly, “It’ll be interesting to find out what that was about.” ***

didn’t know where she was. After another moment, she realized she didn’t remember much else either. She walked to the one doorway near the middle of the roof beside the silent, industrial air conditioning unit. A small bird landed in a nest just inside one of the vents. The door leading off the roof into the building was boarded over and in red paint was written in thin letters: Death inside. Do NOT open. For some reason the letters themselves frightened her more than the message. She looked around and saw the top of a mangled fire escape that was broken and peeled partially away from the building. She clearly could not reach it, but she walked over anyway. Below the broken metal platforms of the escape on this side of the building were a few people standing around the trash in the space between the building and the precarious remains of a wooden fence black with rot and neglect. She called down in a voice she did not recognize, “Hello, I seem to be stuck up here.”

She felt the heat and light on her face long before she woke up. She wiped away sweat from her stinging eyes as she sat up and turned her face away from the blazing sun above her. Her skin hurt under her hand like it had been burned. The surface she was on was hot wherever she touched it. She noticed she was diz- The moans that rose from below were not human and zy as she looked around the empty concrete. the faces that turned up to her in the shadows and sun were black with rot and neglect. The skin was drawn She finally managed to stand up and sit on a ledge over the bones in mummy-like decay. The bodies that behind her. She looked over the side at a cluttered lot were exposed looked wet and putrid beneath the rebelow and several abandoned buildings in the imme- mains of rags. She screamed and gagged at the same diate area. After a moment, it dawned on her that she time causing cramps and pain in her sides and chest.

Once there was...

At that moment, someone started beating on the other side roof and her heart dropped. Building after building there of the boarded over door. were more warnings on doors, more makeshift bridges, more monsters below, and more red signs encouraging her Fear washed away her dizziness as she looked around for or someone else on. Some of the arrows and signs were on a way out. Behind the air conditioner was a board that the sides of the buildings across the street from her and on spanned the space between her prison and the next build- ground level. She shuttered to imagine who had painted ing. Over the edge more creatures milled about. That’s them with all those things down there. when she saw the red paint on her side of the ledge: Cross over and follow the arrows back to the safe house. Don’t Over her rooftop journey, she learned from the unknown knock the board down or you are screwed. You can do painter that the creatures were called zombies, they were this. walking dead people that would eat you, their bites would kill you and turn you into them, you stopped them by deShe pressed on the board to test its sturdiness. It wobstroying their brains, running was always the best option, bled a little more than she liked. “I can’t do this,” she arand that most people in the World had become them. If gued with the unseen painter. The damaged people below the signs were true, then a safe house lay at the end of this looked up and growled their agreement. Some reached up journey. Once she crossed the last board to the hot, metwith battered hands as if to drag her down from five stories al roof of a warehouse, a faded red sign instructed her to away. She could see dark bone exposed where skin had carefully pull the board across with her and leave it laying unraveled away from the ends of what had once been fin- on the roof. She reluctantly did. gers. More red arrows led her over catwalks that took her from The banging on the door behind her increased and she one roof to another over the tops of walls and fences to heard something snap. She managed to crawl over the more warehouses. Outside the fences where the zombies board to the next roof in a matter of seconds. As she rest- were gathered in a disturbing sea of waiting dead faces, a ed, she started to feel dizzy again. She realized she was giant crane had toppled crushing several buildings and a holding her breath and felt better when she started respir- line of train cars. Zombies crawled through the wreckage ing again. like insects. She saw a board and more paint on the other side of this

The last few roof tops had gardens of plants in neatly kept

Hope on the Outside by Jay Willburn

Insomnia Press

boxes. A series of signs instructed her on using a complicated watering system to treat the plants and apply fertilizer before she went any further. She was going to keep going to see if she could find anyone to explain what was going on, but she decided that she had followed the signs this far. It felt surreal watering someone else’s plants while thousands of monsters wandered and groaned in the distance.

the base of a silver door with chips of green or black paint on its surface.

She gripped the handle tentatively listening for any of the terrible pounding on the other side. After a long while and several false starts, she turned the knob. *** She woke up in darkness and heat. She rubbed her face around her eyes feeling a layer of dirt and grit either on her hand or on her face. She was still confused from sleep and there was pressure in her head. When she sat up it only got worse and now she was blind and dizzy. She fumbled around the bed feeling smooth material that made a swishing sound with her movement. She had hit something hard and she heard it roll a few feet along a hard floor next to her. She crawled out of her bedding carefully in that direction until she found it again. Feeling along the side she hit a switch which sent a beam of light shining at

She strained her mind and realized for the first time that she could not recall a name for herself. She flipped through the pages quickly seeing several maps, pictures, drawings and instructions. There was a lot on the few pages that were left. There was no pen with the notebook.

Scanning the room with the flashlight she saw that it was concrete and bare. There was a sleeping bag on the floor, clothes in the corner, and a tattered, yellowing notebook. The notebook was missing the cover and several pages were torn out. The top page was wrinkled and eaten away at the corners. Across it was Once she was done, she followed the last arrow to an- scrawled: You don’t have a name. Just make one up! other rooftop door. This one read: This door is safe, Read the rest after you go out, clean up, and get somebut always be cautious. Answers are inside. thing to eat.

She held the notebook to her chest and shined the light on the door again. A sign was painted in red letters that bothered her for some reason even before she read them: Everyone is dead. U R alone. Read the notebook later. Good Luck. *** She woke up on the cold floor staring up at a high ceiling above her. As the room continued to spin it registered that she didn’t remember where she was or

who she was. There was something wrong with her vision. She rubbed her face and it felt wrong. Sitting up slowly because of the dizziness and pressure she looked at her hands. It took her several minutes to register that two of her fingers were missing on her left hand. The hands were old, wrinkled, and liver spotted as well. She was hungry, thirsty, cold, and confused. She stood up even more slowly.

Once there was...

It was all gibberish to her. She came upon a door to her right that had furniture piled haphazardly in front of it. Above the pile were the words: Donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t go up. There are no answers here. She continued on to another door with a dead sign above it that announced EXIT. Below it was another painted message in the same disturbed script: The only answers are out here.

The room was a large warehouse with high windows. She shivered as winter wind whistled in through several openings around the ceiling. The shelves and floors were scat- She knocked and someone started beating on the other tered with trash and debris. In one corner, garbage was side. She called out in a croaking voice that could barely piled up one wall halfway to the high windows. be heard. Whoever it was either wanted in or out badly, but they either could not hear her or were not going to anThere was a door to her left and next to it was a table with swer her calls. a broken mirror. She walked over and carefully picked up one of the shards. The face that stared back was a strange, Whoever it was, she needed answers. She gripped the hanold woman with unkempt, white hair. Her left eye had a dle and paused. As the pounding continued, she had sevpatch over it and there was a scar that ran the length of her eral false starts before she finally decided what to do. face directly under the patch. She was too afraid to lift it and look. As she walked through the warehouse, there were several messages scratched or painted on the walls. Most had been meticulously scratched out or painted over to cover what they said. She caught glimpses of verse here and there: Abandon all hope, ye who . . . Two weeks . . . 3 days 4 hours . . . 3 weeks 2 days . . . Avoid the mall . . . Fate is . . .

Author Bio Jay Wilburn is a public school teacher. He lives in beautiful Conway, South Carolina with his wife and two sons. Follow his many dark thoughts @AmongTheZombies on Twitter.

Chinese New Year by Adam Moorad

Insomnia Press

She was a dirtblonde pole-dancer I picked up at a gas pump in the parish of Cut and Shoot, Texas. A Gypsy introduced us. He wore an eye patch and a diamond in his tooth and stuttered a mixture of Cajun and English. Said he was her brother but he wasn’t her brother, just some one-eyed guy who was probably in love with her. She twirled her parasol against her clavicle. Fluffed her perm. Her smile exposed several severely twisted teeth. If she felt ugly she didn’t show it. I took her hand and she lugged me through the muggy night where red lights illumed the fallopian architecture of the stucco cabarets oozing bourbon and bacchanalia from every window, doorjamb and orifi. The cobble block led into a dark cul-de-sac where a priest waved a soggy bible and talked in tongues to a stray dog with a purple abscess on its chest. And we walked. And the cobble crumbled into rubble. And the rubble crumbled into dust while dopers milled about mumbling gentle, inscrutable things to one another about God, karma and Hermann Hesse. “Where are you taking me?” I said.

“This way,” she said, her voice soft and broncular as she hauled me with both hands toward a lively saloon. “We’re here.” A dwarf in red fez and white pantaloons strummed a ukulele and sang like a Gaelic bard from an Adirondack on the porch. We climbed the steps and passed through the swinging doors into a gilded lobby where a slew of mercantilists gummed pipes and bid and dealt in a low mutter. Opium smoke issued from their nostrils and filled the room where a squadron of whores rummaged about in albino peignoirs, drifting through the chandelier light like imaginary wantons, childlike and lewd. The dwarf reappeared before us cradled in a stroller pushed by a botoxed dominatrix who seemed blind and employed the stroller’s handlebars as a makeshift standing apparatus. The dwarf rose and suckled her tit and she gazed vacantly in our direction as a player piano crackled with a vinyl-like warble. “What is this place?” I said. “I don’t know,” she said and she furled her parasol. “It’s pretty popular.”

Once there was...

A sumo slammed a gong on the deck of a dojo faintly im- “Over there. You don’t know what it was like over there.” posed on the far wall by a clattering antique projector. The black grill of an air conditioning duct obscured the gong’s I studied him closely, his eyes unsteady and sliding around face as it wobbled against the clapboard screen. the room as if he was looking for something he couldn’t quite find. Then he honed on the dirtblonde and his ex“What do you think?” she said. pression warmed and he drooled. He grabbed her wrist and pulled her close and held a pubey bar of soap to her The film’s credits rolled in Cantonese and filthy shreds of throat. paper streamed from the saloon’s upper deck. “Let go!” she shouted and tried to pull away. “I don’t know either,” I said and I panned around, hungry and aroused and vaguely terrified. “But I like it.” The solider stood erect but did not respond or let go. “I’d listen to her,” I said. “She asked politely.” A solider stretched across a pew in an evergreen nest of fatigues smoking hashish from a 7UP as if quenching from He snickered and saluted inanely and she choked as a canteen. He hacked and Clamato droplets speckled his he pressed the soap. He looked not so much insane as chin and he massaged his whiskered thyroids. He reeked dull-witted. of vodka. We approached him with pity and caution. “I’ll do it. I’ll open her up,” he said, his teeth chattering. “Are you alright young man?” I said. “I’ve got nothing to lose.” The solider clasped his dog tags and started to sob. “You don’t know what it was like,” he said. “What what was like?” I said. “Where?” He sat up and started shivering.

She reared back and thwacked him upside the head with her parasol and he whimpered, a broken man, and disappeared into his fatigues. She looked observably flustered and flushed and she jerked as she adjusted her petticoat. “I warned him,” she insisted.

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Chinese New Year by Adam Moorad

“You did what you had to do,” I said. “He deserved it.” We wandered out and followed the railway south where random chunks of wreckage formed giant dunes as if heaped in the aftermath of some legendary battle. She enkindled a small Styrofoam fire and we lay down in a blanket of boggy grass and in that votive light we rocked and blossomed together with our tongues aloll and our skins clamed acrylic until it meant nothing. And all across those reaches the yammer and yap of gunshots popped like tires on a faraway freeway that rigged a broken lyre along the district’s dark rim. We toweled off and clothed slowly and backtracked into town and shot tequila gimlets in the window booth of a greasy spoon. We spilt a tray of oysters and a Fortune cookie and communed with the shrimpers, freighters, bootleggers, bookies, sailors, gamblers, drifters, drunkards and thieves. A Dixieland band entranced mob of tourists waltzing about the curb outside like bloated cattle. A babushka read Tarot to the dishwashers in the rear of the scullery. The Saints were on television. I watched her light a cigarette and melt her arm hairs with the cherry.

“So what do you do?” she said. “Like, in real life.” “Why do you want to know?” She took a drag and immediately stamped the butt out on the table in a wave of nausea. “If I had to guess,” she said, coughing, “I’d say you work for a Fortune 500 company.” I smiled. Said nothing. Took it as a compliment. A paddy wagon rolled up the block and shed its spotlight on an intersection where a few harlots kicked a ham in a blur of fishnet and ostrich plume. We watched and she looked bored. She took an oyster, slipped it between her boobs, leaned backward and shimmed the shell down the extent of her torso with a few supple flexions of the abdomen. Several patrons witnessed this gymnastic display and applauded. She balanced the shell on her navel and curtseyed to bashfully oblige the titillated audience, pining for an encore. “Impressive,” I said clapping softly.

Once there was...

She sat and seized as if momentarily beset with a violent cramp. The oyster rolled off her hip, shattered on the floor and the bistro about let loose a collective “Awwww” as the cold mussel mucous pooled amongst the barnacled fragments scattered across the dusty floor planks. “What happened?” I said.

“Congratulations,” I said. “I barf every time I get on an airplane. What’s it like in space?” “It’s hard to explain,” she said. “It reminded me of Kansas.” “Sounds infinite.”

“It’s easy making it go down,” she said. “It’s a lot harder get- “The gas is expensive but the cigarettes are cheap.” ting it back up.” The tallow candles between us dripped and splattered “I believe it,” I said. greasy. She plucked an ice cube from the oyster tray, put it in her mouth and sucked. She speared the mussel with a cocktail sword, dressed it with a dollop of horseradish, made an airplane sound, “It’s hotter than hell in here,” she said. and fed it to me slowly. I chewed and the grit crunched between my teeth as I watched her mop her brow with a “I’m used to it.” wet napkin. She looked into my punch-drunk eyes and smirked. She rubbed the cube against her neck, segued from one elbow to the other, closed her eyes and admitted several “Make a man feel good and he’ll believe anything.” things. She was married to a man serving a life sentence She wrung the napkin out and swapped roil of saliva from for an unnamed crime of passion. She had a baby named my chin. Ozark and a penchant for D-Day flicks. I swallowed and said, “You’re good at what you do.”

“You could have just given me the elevator version,” I said.

“I’m actually a certified astronaut. I’ve been to space sever- “I can’t help it,” she said. “I love war.” al times.”

Insomnia Press

“Why?”

Chinese New Year by Adam Moorad

“I’m human. I was baptized in a church.”

I spun a silver coin on the table and she slapped it flat and slipped it into her purse. “It was a pleasure,” she said. Her face looked swollen and her chest bubbled with a red rash. “I think I’m going to be sick,” she said. “You’re probably allergic to shellfish.” She began to panic and perspire and tears welled in her eyes. “Are you going to need an ambulance?” “I don’t think so,” she said. “Just take me home.” We strolled through a square where a fountain lashed black slime in the darkness and Spanish moss hung from a mall of cypress. The harbor in the distance displayed like a muted discothèque and the wind off it bit of chemical. A bride and groom sat back-to-back

on an idle ticker tape float in the middle of the street, both blindfolded and bound by the arms and legs though somehow smiling and wriggling against the manacles composed across their chests. She stopped outside a weathered duplex coated in old paint and tilting slightly to the left. A solar panel had been pegged to the peeling roof frilled with grapevine. None of it looked inhabitable. “This is me,” she said. “You live here?” She turned and surveyed the decay. “Like I said. This is me.” She blew a kiss goodbye and went inside. I watched her move from room to room through dun windows of her sanctuary. She stopped at a small crib where an infant sat upright and slumped. She collected the child and tenderly forced her pap upon it until it nursed and nestled against ribs like a wintering rodent. I walked away and it began to rain. The city slicked about and the random aggregate of street lanterns formed a false dawn down the boulevard. The shapes of wet shadows slept beneath the awning of a grogs-

hop the other side of the road. A harem of yoked Clydesdales nickered and scuffed by shyly through the mud and the pale night silent save for the tinker of their wagon and an unseen wind chime. The coachman coaxed his bridals and dispatched his whip. The harem moaned shuffled onward. I can still hear their voices. The way the animals cried. It seemed to matter little.

Once there was...

Author Bio Adam Moorad is a poet, salesman, and mountaineer. He is the author of Oak Ridge (Turtleneck Press, 2012). He lives in Brooklyn. Visit him here: adamadamadamadamadam.blogspot.com

The Dead Detective by Marc Lowe

Insomnia Press

He was found on the street corner. The dead detective. Someone had plugged him full of bullets. He was missing the ring-finger of his left hand. In its place, a red stump. Had his enemy wanted his wedding ring? And, If so, why? Was it because it was valuable (i.e. expensive), or for some other, more sinister reason? Just looking at the dead detective, it was impossible to tell. All that one could say was this: he was dead. It was undeniable. His face was a bluish mask, the lips slightly parted, a sliver of pink tongue visible between them. He bled from his chest, his belly. There were at least seven, no, eight bullet holes in his body, red as rouge and still wet. Who he had been trying to track down, what mysteries he had been trying to solve, and how much progress he had made in his quest for ultimate answers (for aren’t all detectives seekers of truth?) were all but unanswerable questions. The detective had been turned into something insignificant, unknowable, a corpse, a hollow shell from which the soul had already fled.

that he had worked for this or that detective agency; he was probably a private detective, if not a complete amateur who simply looked the part…an actor even, perhaps. The dead detective had not left any evidence of who he had been before behind. As far as the detective who had found him was concerned, he was better off dead.

Lighting up a cigarette, the detective puffs white smoke rings into the sweltering summer air, scratches the side of his nose with a swollen thumb. Three fireflies fly in circles beneath the lamp that illumines part of the dark detective’s overweight form. Out of the darkness, a noise, the sound of an ambulance coming toward him, or is it the cops? The detective disappears into the night, leaving the dead detective behind, for there is nothing he can do for him now anyway. Matchbook in hand, he heads for “Jerry’s” to see if he can gather some information. When he reaches the bar, however, it is closed, no lights on, no one in sight. Realizing that this is just another dead end, the detective decides to toss the matchbook into the And that is why the detective who found him was so gutter, though something stops him from doing so as perplexed, for wasn’t he also a seeker of truth, an un- he lights up another cigarette and smokes. Moments raveler of mysteries? And yet, there was no telling later, bullets come flying at him, grazing his body. what the dead detective had been up to. There was He runs but is eventually hit; blood spatters over the no identification in his jacket or pant pocket, no clues pavement. One, two, three, four… seven, no, eight other than a matchbook with the word “Jerry’s” on it bullets land in his flesh. Before long, he has stopped to say where he had been before now, no indication moving.

Once there was...

And that, as they say, would have been “the end.” Except that it wasn’t, for the dead detective is not yet dead, there is still some life left in him. As he crawls across the pavement, he asks himself the question: And who will they say I was? For, he realizes that, he, too, hasn’t any identification on him, no indicator of where he works, and, as he continues to lose blood and starts to feel very cold, despite the sweltering heat, he tries to remember his name, his residence, tries to find some shred of memory to cling to, but there’s nothing left now. Soon he will be no more than a dead detective, a lump of empty matter; soon the vagrant will come and cut his ring-finger clean off, not realizing that this is the very last scrap of identifying evidence that will keep the next detective as clueless as the last had been. Save for the matchbook, that is, which will lead detective number three on a wild goose chase, ending, we are certain, with seven, no eight, burning bullets in his sweltering skin. Author Bio Marc Lowe is a writer living in southern Japan. He is the author of a chapbook and an e-book, both from ISMs Press, and he recently guest-edited the Sur-noir issue of Sein und Werden. Please visit him on the web at http://marclowefictions.wordpress. com.

I Belong to Mup Wup by Nicolas Griffith

Insomnia Press

Everyone was surprised to see the package arrive. Not for what it was so much as who it was addressed to. Marianne didn’t get mail, aside from the odd Christmas card from her grandmother. Partly this was because of her age, but mostly this was because of her condition. Marianne’s mother had been a drinker. That is, until Marianne was born. When she saw how Marianne was, on account of her drinking, she traded in her life-long addiction to the bottle for a fervent, addlebrained commitment to the local church. Cheap bottles of vodka were replaced with candles covered in pictures of saints, and the Coors Light sign she kept on the back of her front door was taken down to make space for a cross, the approximate size and shape of a human being. Marianne often stared at that cross, wishing it to come to life and play with her. Being in her condition, she hadn’t many friends. Not real friends, anyway. The other children she played with at their church, they treated her as though she was their younger sibling despite the fact that Marianne was older than most. Although her thoughts were often mottled, her emotions were crisp; advanced, even.

She hated the way they looked at her. She hadn’t the words to tell people she despised charity, but she did. The looks of it’s-okay-you’re-doing-great, they killed her inside. No one held her to any kind of standard.

It wasn’t fair.

Late one night, after her mother had passed out cold on the couch, from a marathon reading of Corinthians, the television buzzed alive. Marianne found it peculiar, considering she didn’t see anyone turn it on. But then again, there were far more peculiar things than a television that could turn itself on. Like her neighbor Lucy, who could do back flips and front flips and somersaults. What was more peculiar than that? she wanted to know. The television was barraging her with an infomercial on continuous loop. IF YOU’RE RECEIVING THIS MESSAGE… the television told her. …YOU’RE ONE OF THE LUCKY FEW TO HAVE BEEN CHOSEN.

Once there was...

Marianne had never been chosen for anything.

it their business to drive around in oversized vans.

She despised mailmen, every day stuffing her mailbox …BUY THIS ONE-OF-A-KIND INSTRUCTIONAL with unsolicited material; or the ice cream man, selling VIDEO AND ASTOUND YOUR FRIENDS WITH YOUR colors that didn’t exist in nature, to helpless children no ABILITIES… less; or those “elders” from the moron church that drove around cautiously as groups, worse than door-to-door She wanted to astound people. Especially her friends. salesmen, pelting people with their misinformation camMaybe then they’d become her real friends. paign. She knew the bible inside and out, thank you very But she hadn’t any money. much. She didn’t need some batch of pimply, hormone driven, sex-deprived teenagers to interpret it for her. …YOU DON’T HAVE ANY MONEY? The television guessed. That the package was for Marianne, well, that was icing on the cake. She shook her head no. Marianne’s mother stared down at the package as …THAT’S OKAY! FIND YOUR MOTHER’S PURSE! though it were a bomb she’d need to throw herself onto, at the very last second, to save her sweet child from dismem It was easier than she’d ever imagined it would be. The berment. television talked her through the particulars. The numbers. The expiration date. The security code. Unwrapping it in front of her mother, and her mother’s friend, it felt disingenuous. Marianne didn’t under The package arrived the very next day. stand why they always insisted she did everything in front of an adult. Wasn’t she entitled to have a personal life Her mother was, at first, appalled. Not because she same as everyone else? was charged for it (for she didn’t yet know this), and not because her dear young daughter was receiving a pack It could be anthrax, her mother suggested, though she age from a complete stranger. No. The real reason for her didn’t really suppose so. She was just thinking aloud. angst derived from her general distrust of folks who made

I Belong to Mup Wup by Nicolas Griffith

Insomnia Press

Or rusty needles, her mother’s friend agreed, and Marianne had the impression she might actually believe in such things.

“Very well, dear,” her mother agreed between chuckles. “We’ll be in the kitchen if you need us.” Marianne nodded, waiting until they were gone to push play.

Tossing the packaging peanuts aside, Marianne pulled a VHS tape out of the box. The plastic felt cold to the touch, the inner tape shining queerly in the HELLO MARIANNE... the television soon said. warm rays of sun peeking into their living room. YOU’VE MADE THE RIGHT CHOICE. THE FIRST THING WE NEED IS PARTS. DO YOU THINK Her mother laughed. She said she didn’t realize YOU CAN REMEMBER THE PARTS IF WE TELL they still made VHS tapes. She was already locating YOU? their old VCR, hooking it up to the television, making it ready for use. She smiled and nodded yes. “I want to be alone,” Marianne insisted as her mother, and her mother’s friend, stood behind her in anticipation.

... VERY GOOD... the television continued, and listed the things that were needed.

“Why?” her mother asked.

“This is my gift,” she explained. “It’s for me.”

Her mother and her mother’s friend were well into a second cup of coffee before Marianne walked into the kitchen, pulling appliances off of the countertops.

“What about sharing?” her mother pointed out, disapprovingly.

“And what do you think you’re doing?” her mother wanted to know.

“I don’t like to share,” Marianne said with a confidence that sent her mother, and her mother’s friend, reeling into more laughter.

“Just playing,” she said.

Once there was...

“Are you going to put those back when you’re done?”

Marianne was holding a toaster and a blender and a coffee grinder.

“Okay,” she agreed.

Her mother and her mother’s friend kept on talking. After finishing their third cup of coffee, however, they heard Marianne. And another voice. Walking into the living room, her mother was appalled to find her daughter had somehow gotten ahold of a screwdriver and popped apart all of the appliances she’d taken. The casings for each piece of equipment were littered over the floor. In the middle a mismatched tangle of wires and metal parts had been assembled in a fashion that struck both of the adults as particularly inhuman. “What on earth has gotten into you?” her mother demanded to know.

“Mup Wup needs the parts,” she explained.

“Clean this mess up!” her mother shouted.

NOW...! The television said.

Marianne plugged in her new creation, and a blast of light shot from the tip of what had been a handful of toaster coils towards her mother and her mother’s friend. They collapsed on the floor like a sack of coconuts, completely paralyzed. They could see what was happening to them, but they couldn’t do anything about it. Marianne, despite her size, remembered The Little Engine That Could story her mother used to read to her, and pulled her mother and her mother’s friend before the television set. Just as the television had said she could do. It was great for her self-esteem, accomplishing such feats in spite of her disability. EXCELLENT WORK... ! The television applauded. WE’RE ALMOST THERE! NEXT, I’M GOING TO NEED YOU TO CUT OFF THEIR LEGS…

“What?” Marianne asked. “Won’t that hurt them?”

OF COURSE NOT... ! The television promised. ... WE NEED THE PARTS, IS ALL… THEY WON’T FEEL A THING! Marianne’s mother, fighting the odds, gathered enough will to open her mouth and speak.

Insomnia Press

I Belong to Mup Wup by Nicolas Griffith

“This is a demon, Marianne, don’t listen to it!”

... SILLY ADULTS… The television said. I’M NOT A DEMON, I’M… “Mup wup!” Marianne finished the sentiment. ... THAT’S RIGHT! The television agreed. ... GO GRAB THAT SAW DOWNSTAIRS! Marianne obeyed, coming back quickly with a handsaw in her capable little hands.

Her mother had begun to pray.

“My daughter and I belong to Jesus!” her mother screamed. “Don’t worry, mommy,” Marianne smiled. “You don’t have to belong to Jesus any more. Now you and your friend will belong to Mup Wup.”

Marianne, per her new friend’s request, sawed off their arms and heads as well, pushing the wires inside the flesh as she was asked to. An hour later, the living room drenched in blood and spare parts of every variety, Mup Wup stood before her. “It’s nice to be out of that television,” Mup Wup said through her mother’s mouth. “Let’s find more spare parts,” it said through her mother’s friend’s head. A friend, Marianne thought as they walked next door to meet Lucy’s parents. I finally have a friend.

It was the happiest day of Marianne’s life.

Author Bio Nicholas Griffith has written for Danse Ma The contraption Marianne had made zapped her cabre and is making a habit out of almost getmother in the face, once again taking away her ability ting his books published (though his agent does to speak. try). He is a researcher in Hawaii and writing is his great stress reliever among the neuroses of …RIGHT ABOVE THE THIGH… The television modern science. said …THAT’S RIGHT… GREAT JOB MARIANNE! YOU’RE MAKING US ALL SO VERY PROUD!

Once there was...

VICARIOUS by Brittany Warren

syrup

Thicken me, smile, point

me out

vicarious violators with monotonous voices, stress the monster.

Gelatinous against temple,

headaches pound, your peanut principle

blow the small man, blind yet eager.

Cross-breed

concept snake,

slide

two-finger tone inside, thinking manâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s orifice.

Intertwine,

tweed tangle torment,

your notion bent

asphyxiate thought process, mourn project

destroy,

finality.

Dark Wisdom with Alison McKenzie

Insomnia Press

This publication is dedicated to the surreal and grotesque, the horrible, bizarre, and strange. It is not strictly a horror e-zine, but horror is a part of it, and horror is one of my passions. I can’t pretend to preach at you about writing surrealistic fiction because it’s not my forte. Well, I could, but I won’t. Instead, I’ll focus on horror for my opening column entry.

science fiction—a healthy dosage of realism tucked between the horrific and fantastical keeps the reader rooted in the story. You may not have had a personal experience befitting a horror novel, but you have felt fear. To write genuine horror, you must understand and be able to communicate your own fears. What frightens you? What haunts you? If what you’re writing doesn’t frighten you, it’s not genuine, and it won’t frighten your readers. Write what you know.

But even if horror is not your flavor of choice, you can still learn something from it as a writer. Horror is, more than anything, about emotion. True, masterful horror can send shivers down the spine, speckle Inescapable sweat on the brow, and leave a cold, uneasy feeling in the pit of the stomach. This requires a command There is nothing terrifying about a monster that of the art of provoking emotion, something that any is easy to outwit, a trap that is easy to escape, a hauntwriter needs. ing that is exorcised and then forgotten. The heart of horror is the nagging, grinding dread that accompa In addition to being emotional, horror can be nies vulnerability. If you can see the terror coming but summarized as the following: can’t stop it, or if you know something is going to happen but not what or how or why, or if you are nice and Personal safe inside the abandoned church and then you hear that horrible noise that means it’s inside, that creepEveryone’s heard the phrase, “Write what you know.” ing dread that’s at the heart of horror is awakened. I tend to sit firmly in the school of, “Write what you Of course, there are many types of horror, and there can imagine,” but the familiar also has its place. Perare many aspects to that dread, but it’s almost always sonal experience provides knowledge and plot fodder. there in some form or another. This adds a level of realism that can only strengthen Look at poor Dr. Jekyll, realizing that Hyde is your story. Whatever you’re writing—horror, fantasy, gaining control but powerless to stop it. Look at The

Once there was...

Shining, where it doesn’t matter how strange things get because there’s a wall of snow blocking escape to the outside Know the Genre world and there’s nothing you can do about it. The victory or tragedy at the end is nothing if it’s too easily gained. Really good horror is not easy. To write really good Horror isn’t easy to beat. horror, you should know what you’re doing. That means knowing what’s been done. It means knowing what works Timeless and what doesn’t. If your plot is predictable because every fifth horror novel on the shelf implements your same sur Fear is one of our most primal emotions. Fear can be prise twist ending, your novel is going to be ineffective. powerful, overwhelming, crippling, even inspiring. Fear has always been, and will always be, part of us. That means To generalize, a thorough understanding of your that the horror genre will always have a place in literature. genre can only help the success of your work. It can help When you write a ghost story, remember that there have you avoid pitfalls, provide inspiration, and provide exambeen millions of ghost stories before yours, dating back to ples of other writing pieces that accomplish what you’re early days around a fire-pit. Don’t let it discourage you–feel attempting to accomplish. Learn from those who came proud that you’re part of it. And use it. before you.

Fear is a tool for the horror writer, and it’s a very pow- As a writer, if something about your work doesn’t erful tool. Don’t forget that. The better you understand it, stand out, it’s not going to get noticed. It’s a big genre and a the better you can use it. big world. But you can’t expect to do something unique if you don’t know what everyone else is doing. So how do you write horror? Mostly, you write it the way you write anything else. You practice. You study. And Lastly, I believe that horror writing requires a certain you just sit down and write. But every genre has its own passion from the writer. You have to want to take the dark quirks. The following is the best advice I can give you. plunge. Feeding your horror knowledge feeds that passion. Don’t starve it.

Insomnia Press

Know the Craft

Dark Wisdom with Alison McKenzie

You want to write horror, you read horror, right? Easy enough.

Stay True to Your Characters

Horror is about putting your characters through incredible torment, emotionally and mentally if not physically. Horror is made of different shades of If only it were that simple. Writing horror, like suffering. The boy hiding in the basement with the writing any genre, requires skill. Skill takes practice. butcher knife listening to the thunderous footsteps If you can design a monster but you can’t craft a story, coming down the stairs after him... the woman disyour work isn’t going to do well. This means studying covering the man she loves has a haunting past... Pain the art of writing itself. This may seem obvious to you, is an underlying common factor. but what I say next might not be. That means when you write horror, you’re putIt means reading more than horror ting your characters through the ultimate challenge. A person’s true nature is revealed in the face of death, Reading horror novels and short stories will give right? That means you need to know your characters you an intimate understanding of the genre, but a through and through, or they’ll come off as not being good writer is versed in all genres. The reason for this genuine. And when something isn’t genuine, it breaks is that it’s easy for genre writers to fall into the stethe spell the writer has over the reader. The suspenreotypes of their genre. If a fantasy writer only reads sion of disbelief is ruined. fantasy novels, his or her concept of what constitutes a “good” novel will be limited to the styles he or she is If you want to shove all of this advice into one familiar with. Choosing to adopt such a style should little sentence, it would be, “Know what you’re doing.” come from an educated decision, not inexperience. So, go forth. Read horror. Read romance, mysteries, Experiencing books outside of your genre of choice and science fiction. Study the art of writing and pracopens your eyes to new styles and new ideas. tice it. Write what you know, and continually expand what you know. Know that horror is a difficult and wonderful genre. Take it and make it your own.

Once there was...

American Dream by R.M. Schappell

Insomnia Press

My shift started like whenever ago. Whatevs. Me and my breasts are lost in the bathroom mirror, debating if we’re high enough. Between the Adderall that went up my nose and the effects of gravity, this may take a while. It’s inevitable. There’s something in our DNA that tells us to chase the karat, that this is never enough, that at the very least we can climb a few rungs higher than our flat-chested mothers. Reality is, by the time you reach the legal drinking age, you got a zillion dollars worth of debt, herpes, and a job at some diner. Mostly it’s just unpaid student loans. Mostly it’s just razor burn. Mostly it’s just waitressing for horny truckers and bored husbands.

Guess there’s always the lottery.

Until then I’m here, leaning over a sink as I smear on the world’s shiniest lip gloss. The kind of shiny that gets patrons fantasizing about me blowing them in the parking lot, gets them leaving bigger tips. Turning to the side, I smooth the skin from my ribcage down to the waist of my plaid skirt. I like seriously need to hit a tanning bed. Just a dab of brown to cover all those little veins, all those little blemishes. Sure, call me superficial, but the Kardashians wouldn’t have gotten to where they are if they’d had splotchy skin.

I tie my hair back, open the door, go past the kitchen, walk around some slut who’s doing soda refills, and move towards my first table which is all pastel Polos and hair gel. A real father/son duo. There’s Dad turning the gold band on his finger, ogling the scenery. There’s Junior turning a page in the menu, ogling his Blackberry. Junior goes to tell his dad something but stops mid-sentence when he sees me approaching. I’m like, “Hello and welcome to Stacked, Baltimore’s premiere topless restaurant.” I pinch the laminated nametag hanging in my cleavage, all like, “I’m Erica. I’ll be your server today. Can I start you off with some drinks?” Dad’s like, “You get lost, sweetheart? We’ve been sitting here God-knows-how-long.” I’m like, “I’m so sorry. This cook, it’s like his second day and whatnot, and he dropped all these omelets. Made a complete mess everywhere.” Waitressing 101 is all about diffusing self-important assholes like this, so I’m like, “Any appetizer you want, it’s on me.” This douche points at my nipple and he’s like, “Is that powdered sugar included?”

Once there was...

And now I’m sure my cheeks are all flushed, because even though men can’t help but gawk, I don’t want to think about it. Makes me all self-conscious. I mean like, my ass and my face are my best parts. Whatevs. I don’t even check. It’s totally probably some dust from that last rail I did. I just play it cool, all like, “Maybe if you’re lucky.”

Junior’s like, “I think we went to school together. Sherwood Middle. You’re Erica Ames, right?”

It’s funny how our worst memories are always the most vivid and come flying at you like the shattered glass pieces that they are, all sharp and painful. By “funny” I mean like awful. By “awful” I mean like back when pim Dad’s like, “I’ll keep my fingers crossed.” He flashes his ple-faced Preston Sinclair grabbed my wrist and led me perfect teeth, tossing an arm over an adjoining chair, all out into his parents’ garage to show me the backseat of like, “Now what’s the score?” their new BMW. I can still feel the cool leather on my thighs. Because pimple-faced or not, what Preston Sinclair I’m like, “The score?” lacked in looks, he made up for by having all the things everyone else wanted, like his collection of designer clothes Junior’s like, “Dow dropped point six, NASDAQ five- and limited-edition shoes. He was totally maybe the hipone, S&P’s up one-nine.” He leaves his phone, squints his pest eleven-year-old ever, which is why when his fingers bourgeois-blue eyes at me, all like, “Pancake?” spidered towards my bra, I pushed him away, freaked that my 32As wouldn’t be enough. Big mistake. Boys like Pres This question means one of two things: either (a) this ton Sinclair are primed from birth that everything is for marble-jawed twenty-something has some sort of mental the taking. glitch which causes him to order food like a Neanderthal or (b) he’s some douche from my childhood. Just as I was about to tell him that I really liked him and wanted to take it slow, the same crap I’d heard in a Please let it be (a). Please let it be (a). Please let it be thousand movies, he climbed on top me. With my cheek (a). struggling against the window, breath fogging a circle, his paws met their targets and squeezed like they were stress Dad’s like, “Jesus, don’t hurt yourself, Son. One whole balls or something. pancake? Save room for dessert.”

American Dream by R.M. Schappell

Insomnia Press

I found the door handle, yanked, and fell out of the car. When I turned around, Preston Sinclair sat fondling a circular pad. One of many pads that I’d made from my old pajamas, one of many pads that doubled my cup size. He was like, “You stuff your bra?” He brought it to his nose, all like, “With what? Pancakes?” After I ran home and cried into my pillow for like ever, I finally got what he meant. Because I could smell it too. My other pad also smelled like syrup. Or pancakes. Whichever. Within a week, even my friends started calling me Pancake. Two weeks, my Cosmo subscription expired. Three weeks, I got suicide hotlines on speed dial. Who knew a decade later I’d be serving flapjacks with a side of areolas. Somewhere a fork clatters onto a plate and Junior’s like, “Don’t remember me, do you? Preston. Preston Sinclair.” Amazing what a little Proactiv, some Invisalign, and a nosejob can do. Just a few thousand dollars, you’re a whole new you. And I get it. Studies show

that the more attractive you are the more, like, social mobility you have. But this isn’t anything new. Even during the seventies Jimmy Carter was all like, “A woman’s worth is not defined by what she does but by the perkiness of her tits.” Preston’s waiting with banker’s breath, so I’m like, “My name is Erica but that last name you mentioned, ‘Amy’ or something, that’s not me. Sorry.” I’m like, “So you fellas ready to order or did you need another minute?” Mr. Sinclair tells me how he’ll take the “Super Sampler” with a cup of coffee, black. Preston tells me how I have to be Erica Ames, how we went to different high schools, but he remembers me from Mr. Connor’s sixth-grade social studies class. Shaking his head in confusion, Preston orders the “Farm Fresh Fiesta” with a Coke, all like, “Man, could’ve sworn it was you. We even hung out once. You let me get to second base.” His dad grins as I shift my weight from leg to leg. Preston’s like, “But if you say it wasn’t you, guess it wasn’t. Oh, and one last thing. Add some silver dollars to mine. Small.” He’s like, “Unstuffed.”

I’m like, “Sorry?”

He’s like, “What?”

Once there was...

I’m like, “I missed that last part. What’d you say?”

He’s like, “‘What did I say?’”

I’m like, “Yeah, just now. What’d you say?”

seems that powdered sugar is on the move.”

I sniff, dragging my wrist under my nostrils.

He’s like, “You have really nice skin, you know that?”

I’m like, “You’re not suppose to touch the waitresses, Preston shrugs, holds his palms up like I’m the asshole you know that?” here, all like, “Some silver dollars? Please?” He’s like, “What’s the fun in having rules if you don’t Before I wedge a butter knife into his ear, I just walk break a few now and then?” His hands disappear into his away, brushing past this anorexic busboy who always hits pockets and he’s like, “You ever sit behind the wheel of a on me. Since it’s pretty dead in here I’m officially in fuck-it Porsche when it’s going one hundred and sixty miles an mode, so I dig the vial of crushed Adderall from my pock- hour? Feels as if everything around you is on pause. Like et and take a snort to help calm my booming heart because you’re holding God’s remote control.” I mean like the balls on Preston bringing up when he totally practically raped me, and to think that it’s douche I’m like, “Is that suppose to, like, impress me or somebags like him who live in Manhattan’s high-rises, wiping thing?” their asses with the broken dreams of everyone else. But then again it was Karl Marx who was all like, “Pussy is He’s like, “I don’t know. Does it?” the opium of men,” so maybe it’ll be me up in some penthouse one day, pissing in gold-plated toilets. White gold, of Being impressed or being jealous, it’s semantics, really. course. Yellow is so twentieth century. Either way you reach a state of awe-inspired paralysis. But there’s hope. Take a glance at history and you’ll see that Someone grabs my bicep, all like, “Hey, sweetheart.” this paralysis can lead to larceny. I mean like what’s every war but just a clamor for more land? More more more. Me, I turn to find Preston’s dad, much taller than I’d figI’m in complete awe. Because any slut with a brain knows ured. He’s like, “We never got to order that appetizer you the most important factor in finding a man is security and promised.” Mr. Sinclair taps his nose, all like, “Be careful. It here he is totally obviously throwing himself at me, the

Insomnia Press

American Dream by R.M. Schappell

Richard Gere to my Julia Roberts.

All like, “I was thinking more like we’d catch a movie next week.”

I’m like, “What? You offer me a ride then whisk me away to some motel and have your way with me? That how this normally works? Or do you like take me But he just follows right behind like some starved to some fancy restaurant first?” puppy, only hesitating outside the bathroom to see if anyone knows he’s about to mark his territory. He pulls out his keys, stares at the Porsche coat of arms, then clasps them in his fist. He’s like, “All right, Men are so predictable. As long as there’s a willenough said. You’re much too smart to be charmed ing hole, they’re game. by a sports car. I get it.” He goes to leave and lightly smacks his brow, all like, “Almost forgot again. We’ll I wait inside a metal-framed stall, reading the just take some cheese fries. Thanks.” same black and blue scribbles I’ve read countless times: Mr. Sinclair is walking away, getting away, so I’m like, “You know I’ve never really liked motels. Always BRENDA YS TIM been more of a spontaneous sort of girl.” WOMEN ARE THE WORLD’S NIGGERS His step stutters and he pivots, looking as if he’s unsure, looking as if he didn’t know it would lead to IN CASE OF VAMPIRE APOCALYPSE, BUY this. So now he’s all focusing on my breasts again. MORE STILLETTOS Whatevs. I tell him to come on as I lead him with my swaying ass past the soda machine, past the kitchen. FUCK. THIS. JOB. His voice trails off, all like, “Erica.” Mr. Sinclair edges the door open, sizes me over. All like, “What?” I’m like, “Get in here.” I yank his collar, but it All like, “Here?” doesn’t rip. I kiss him the way honeymooners would, all violent and thirsty, but it doesn’t break skin. I

cup his dick, rub the length of it through his pants, but it doesn’t get erect. Christ, please don’t let him be some Viagra freak. I don’t have that kind of patience. I crouch, unzip him, and thread his dick through. Cradling it, I slide my tongue from the base to the tip like it’s the world’s best popsicle.

Once there was...

I’m like, “Don’t be such a pussy. Besides, how many women customers did you even see out there?”

He’s like, “I don’t have a condom. Are you on the pill?”

I’m like, “Who isn’t?”

This asshole massages my clit, nudges in his puzzle piece and starts going at it and whatnot, sweat dampening It’s funny how the tip is heart-shaped. By “funny” I his hair. Problem is it’s all too gentle, all too romantic. So I mean like ironic. By “ironic” I mean like how a heart is the move his hand to my throat and I’m like, “Choke me.” symbol for love, something that’s supposed to be about shared respect, shared sacrifice. About mutual admira I’m like, “That’s it. But even harder.” tion. Reality is, sex is about using. About getting off. About feeding this insatiable desire. So don’t give me any of that I’m like, “Not your thrust. Your grip.” “making love” crap. Remove the orgasm from sex, remove humans from existence. I’m like, “Don’t just choke me. Like choke me choke me.” Now that he’s hard, I stand, all like, “Fuck me. But don’t just fuck me. I mean like fuck me fuck me.” I reach I go to moan but instead gag, so I’m digging my nails under my skirt, pull my underwear to the side, then jump into his spine. Still humping me, he releases his grasp and and lasso my arms around his neck, my legs around his I’m all like, “Don’t stop. I was just about to cum.” waist. Mr. Sinclair falls forward, using the metal wall to help support me. His jaw remains in the same gaped posi- He’s like, “I thought I was hurting you.” tion as from when I was blowing him. I’m like, “Exactly.” He’s like, “What if someone comes in?”

American Dream by R.M. Schappell

Insomnia Press

For a fleeting moment, he acts like he’s in love with me, gently rubbing his thumb over my cheekbone, all like mesmerized or something. But soon his hips are crashing into me, his palm crushing my larynx. Our surroundings buckling, verging on collapse. Just as I’m on the cusp of passing-out, just as he’s on the cusp of ejaculating, I throw my nose into his head and everything washes red. Mr. Sinclair’s eyelids clamp down as he grunts, giving me one final pump, ignorant to the blood filling the crevices between my teeth and spilling over my chin.

His slug falls out of me, all withered and baffled. All smug at the idea of losing two percent of this year’s salary.

Me, I’m about to orgasm. When I tried this before to some suit who came in for lunch, turned out the Ferrari wasn’t even his. That and it was fake anyway. He’s panting, armpits all soaking wet and I’m like, Some kind of replica body-kit or something. But Mr. “We can do this a couple of ways. An out-of-court set- Sinclair, he’s like totally finally the real deal. Like totaltlement for, like, twenty-thousand dollars. Or we can ly finally my winning lottery ticket. totally definitely get lawyers involved.” With his little prick still inside me, I’m like, “Maybe now I’ll be able to afford my own rocketship and I can take you for a ride.” He studies the red Rorschach on his Polo, studies the one across my chest. I’m like, “Hey, don’t feel bad. Like over sixty percent of married men are adulterers. It’s cool.”

I’m like, “Just after the American Dream. Same as you, sweetheart. So, like, what do you think your wife would prefer? Not knowing about this or getting a call from the police all how like you raped some topless waitress?”

Mr. Sinclair’s like, “The fuck is wrong with you?”

Author Bio

Once there was...

R. M. Schappell graduated with some liberal arts degree from some college, and somewhere along the way he developed an itch to write about vile, loathsome people. You can usually find him sipping coffee in the suburbs of Baltimore—he’ll be the pale fellow sporting an extra-medium cardigan. When not reconsidering this third-person bio, he likes to discuss existential crises with his beautiful wife and daughter. Visit him at facebook.com/ rmschappell.

Insomnia Press

Blue Sweater by Jon Wesick

“Grab him!”

“Where’d he go?”

Two goons held Tom Fallon to his chair while Jimmy Sparks took a hacksaw to his wrist.

“Who does he think he is wearing Crips colors in this neighborhood?”

“What are you looking at?” Sparks glared at me. I went back to fitting my cabinet together while he cut through muscles, tendons, and bone. You’d think the screams would have gotten the shop teacher’s attention but Mr. Johnson never came out of the storage room.

The garbage bag I was sitting on oozed something onto my pants but I was afraid to move. Gagging on the smell or rotting fruit I stayed put until I was sure they had left. Then I climbed out and made it to Jefferson before I heard the car.

“Next time threaten to tell the principal.” My mom held up a blue sweater. “Look what I got for you.”

“But mom, those are Crips colors.”

“You have a right to wear whatever you want.”

The sweater itched as I approached the men in red leaning against the storefront. One spit on the sidewalk in my path. The trick in these situations is not to show fear. I walked past without changing speed but when they started following, I ran. I made it all the way to Lancaster Boulevard before the first bullet whizzed past my ear. I dashed around a corner and jumped into a dumpster. With lungs burning like a drowning man I tried to quiet my breathing.

“There he is!”

Members of the Fourteenth Street Falcons leaned out the windows of a Chevy Impala firing TEC-9s and MAC-10s. The slugs smacked into the wall beside me and kicked up fragments of broken concrete as I ran a zigzag pattern to spoil their aim. I finally lost them by crawling through a drainage ditch and got to Lincoln High a half hour late. The school nurse sewed up my flesh wound and gave me a Tylenol for the pain. “Jimmy, just look at this sweater!” My mom poked a finger through the bullet hole. “I want you to tell those boys to buy you a new one.”

“At least get me some pepper spray.”

Once there was...

“Jimmy, you know how I feel about violence.”

“But…” She held up her hand. “If someone bothers you, just walk away.” After the next day’s dash through Falcon’s turf, the sounds in the hallway, steel-toed boots colliding with kidneys and baseball bat hitting kneecaps, were almost comforting. It was shaping up as a typical day until Jeff Peterson and Mark Sessions took out the sawed-off shotguns from under their black trench coats. The first blasts pretty much ruined the season for the Lincoln Lions by wiping out the quarterback and much of the offensive line. Next they executed Mr. Jarozelski’s first-period chemistry class. I ran to the fire door and yanked the metal handle but it wouldn’t budge. As the two killers approached firing pistols into downed students heads, I thought, “What a stupid way to die.”

Author Bio John Wesick is the host of San Diego’s Gelato Poetry Series and the editor of the San Diego Poetry Annual. He’s published two hundred and fifty poems in journals such as The New Orphic Review, Pearl, Pudding, and Slipstream. He’s also published over fifty short stories in journals such as Space and Time, Zahir, and Tales of Talisman. He has a Ph.D. in physics and is a longtime student of Buddhism and the martial arts. One of his peosm won second place in the 2007 African American Writers and Artists contest. Another had a link on the Car Talk website.

Fortunately for me, the Pakistani exchange student chose that moment to set off a suicide bomb taking out the two killers along with most of the teachers’ lounge. Dust, screams, a ringing in my ears, and a blood-stained wallet by the quarterbacks’ mangled body. Inside I found enough money to buy a new sweater. This time I’d make sure it was tan.

Insomnia Press

I. The Room That Should Not Be

The Kid by A. A. Garrison

The screw would lead her to The Room.

Mary Kay lay over the hotel suite’s carpet, in the most unladylike way possible. Couchant, he would’ve called it, the pretentious bastard. She was couchant. What kind of a word is that? Is it even English? Bastard. The glasses had seen her there, to the carpet. She’d taken a postcoital shower, and toweled and put on the panties he liked so much Before, but when she’d gone for her glasses, a screw had sprung out and to the floor. She might’ve ignored it, just gone to her optometrist, if not for the lingerings of the day’s indulgences. It didn’t matter. She was here now, couchant. The pile tickled her nipples. Mary scouted the floor, and the tiny screw proved elusive. Being without her glasses didn’t help things, forcing her to all but kiss the carpet, hence her couchantness. She scanned all around the desk, the table, the chairs, finding things she’d rather not have; but no teeny glasses-screws. From there, she expanded her search: to the combo TV/dresser, around the wastebasket with his beer bottles still in it, the vanity they’d mated on. She went all the way to the air conditioner,

as if the screw had sprouted legs and walked. By then she was less couchant than slithering, enough to leave her hair a staticky bouffant. And no screw. Mary groaned. The last resort was under the bed -- the hotel bed, the grease trap of the world. She raised the sheets, hoping to find one of those little partitions employed by clever hoteliers, but no luck. The underneath was open, and the screw could be nowhere else. She groaned again, now a why-me nonverbal from the throat, and once more went couchant. She searched the well-lit perimeter, around all three of the bed’s accessible sides, and came up empty. Then, as if attempting to appear as slutty as possible, she raised her ass at a right angle and dared the shadowy space, her head and shoulders eaten by the box springs.

It was then she noticed the light.

It germinated through the carpet, a peach-colored blade, interrupting the quasi-dark under the bed. It grabbed Mary’s attention, somehow, perhaps another persuasion of the dope. She waved a hand through, making the light shrink and grow. She covered it, uncovered it; giggled out loud. There was a slight draft there, bespeaking a hole. “A hole,” she said stupidly.

Once there was...

Removing her genitals from the room’s scrutiny, she went fully prone, and wriggled deeper. After aligning with the light-hole, she squinted one eye and looked inside: a room lay beyond, lit with the same diffused light leaking from the floor. It gave Mary pause: the room he’d left her in was on the ground floor.

Mary Kay’s head jumped as if pulled, banging the box springs. She reversed from under the bed, screaming. II. Deliveries

Slowly, Mary found it to look back into the hole, a decision she would come to regret. The impossible room was smothered in shadow, its soft light failing beyond a feetwide ring. In its center was Harmful Chief, seated enormously, his shape difficult to describe. A table cluttered with arcana and an old phone and some lost text, byplays of alchemic doings, boiling flasks and rare concoctions, intricate tubes conducting fluids. More transpired within the outer gloom, rambling forms that might be anything. “The Kid must die,” Harmful Chief said in Japanese.

Later, he quit the vat and reclaimed his cream-white suit and hit the clock. It blinked to life, twenty-eight minutes and thirty-one seconds. Thirty seconds, twenty-nine. He left for the jet, bearing old phones.

Mary gasped, and Harmful Chief regarded her, his lampblack eyes meeting her one. “The Kid must die,” he proclaimed.

“The hell?” she croaked, and scrambled for her glasses.

The Kid shed his white dinner jacket and pants so small. Delicately, passionately, he consigned himself to the vat, Mary jerked up, wearing a complex expression of sur- to be consumed by the pink viscous amniotic, weightless prise. There were dusty cobwebs in the box springs, a ser- for one instant then settling lambently to the floor. He rated toenail sat inches away, and the hole smelled of Swiss breathed the oxygenic fluid and closed his eyes and slept, cheese; but Mary noticed none of these things. Couchant, warm in the fastnesses of this ersatz womb. He welcomed she thought inappropriately. I’ll have to look that up. the black of unconsciousness.

*** Vivian saw blearily a white-clad gnome appear in the factory and place a box over the table, beside the skulls stacked there.

The Kid by A. A. Garrison

Insomnia Press

“It’s okay, it’s The Kid,” Mario said from across the “Kid.” room. His second head stared. “The Kid.” Vivian studied the renowned figure in her midst, The Kid unspeaking as he made this delivery. He A knock on Gin’s baronial door. stayed for two heartbeats, and was gone, puffing dust, the gifted box his visit’s sole evidence. She opened it as He spun to the small company of men at his left, Mario looked on four-fold. fanning raven hair. Gin spoke Japanese, and one of the men opened the knocked door and received a pack Inside was an old-looking black telephone labeled age. The man opened it and handed its singular conold phone. She plugged it in and dialed its single rota- tents to Gin. ry. The line rang. Gin studied the phone labeled old phone. “Old Some thousands of miles away, Gin picked up phone,” he said into his other phone. His co-conspirand said hello, but Vivian knew neither Gin nor Japa- ators sat amongst period furniture and fineries. One nese so she returned only an uncertain English hello. sharpened a knife. The music played. Gin, powdered and black-lipped, said hello once more, but Vivian this time said nothing. The two shared a silence. Vivian could hear Gin’s loud record.

“The Kid,” said Vivian.

“The Kid.”

More silence, then Gin hung up and plugged in the received phone and dialed. Harmful Chief an Gin’s crude English allowed her meaning. He said swered, careful and sure. Gin said hello in Japanese “Box.” and Harmful Chief replied with the same in same. Both sat waiting. “From The Kid.”

“Did you get a box?” she asked finally.

Once there was...

“How did you get this number?” Harmful Chief asked, Smiling his clown-smile, Harmful Chief dispersed a smile stretching the carnival face. with the old phone and installed the new. The handset ate his ghostly ear. The rotary chattered and there was ringing. “A package, a phone,” Gin said. “Old phone. Who are A moment’s pause, then: “Who is this?” you?” III. Eavesdropping Harmful Chief rubbed wearily his bald heinous head. “Who are you?” he asked into the phone labeled old The clock read zero-zero-zero-nine as The Kid divested phone. himself fully and returned to the vat, the cavernous lab pretending infinity. When the clock stared four zeroes, Silence. Music from Gin’s end. hidden speakers activated and the phone conversations poured forth. “What is ‘kid’?” Gin asked. The Kid listened, showing the rare smile, no longer Harmful Chief raised painted-on eyebrows. “The Kid so lost and alone. In his good-place, he parsed the myr...” He smiled wider. iad phone calls and settled on one, tuning in as only he could. He heard the words before they were words, before A knock on Harmful Chief ’s door, unseen in the planned or guessed by those who would speak them. He black. listened. “Goodbye,” Harmful Chief said, and hung up. Gin could be heard saying more before the line clicked.

Muffled breath, a rasp that might be tears. “Hello?” said one voice, female.

Harmful Chief stood his magnificent person and an- “Hello?” answered another, male and unsure. swered the knock. The package was light, inside it a phone like that just employed, except labeled old phone. “Hello?”

Insomnia Press

The Kid by A. A. Garrison

Silence. Then the man said, “Did you get a ... um, “You sound like you could use someone to talk a phone?” to.”

“Yeah, I did, actually ...” Sniff.

“Old phone?”

“Yeah.”

The man said, “So, uh ...”

More lachrymose noises from his acquaintance. “I dialed out from it and got some guy in Cleveland,” she said in rattled escapements.

“Well ... it’s just this man. I work with him.” “It’s a man that you work with ...?”

“I deliver meals to the elderly, and he’s one of them. And, well ... he’s ugly, an ugly person. Despicable, really ...”

“How so?”

“He’s always ... looking at me. Undressing me, yeah?”

“Oh, wow. I dialed out and got, uh, you.”

“Oh. I see.” Sniffling.

“Are you ... okay?”

Another sob, sudden like a gunshot. “No, no, I’m afraid you don’t. He’s always making me do things for him, things he could do himself -- just to control me, see, to get off on it. But that’s not the point: it’s the ugliness of it all, his ugliness. Because he’s everything I try not to be, and just seeing him, knowing that such a person exists ... it drains me. Brings me down, somehow. There’s something more to it. Something ... psychic?”

The woman said “Yes,” then lapsed into sobs like a plunger plunging. “No,” she followed up.

The man asked what was wrong.

“Oh, you don’t want to hear my problems,” the woman said, her tone betraying this statement.

“I see.”

“Sounds like a vampire.”

Once there was...

“Yes -- yes!” the woman said in a different voice. “A vampire. Exactly. But that’s not the worst, not really ...”

The line rung thrice and then, “Hello!” Background noises.

“Who’re you?” said a second voice, sounding like war.

“I’m Jacob Night. Who’re you?”

The man asked what the worst was.

“Well ...” The bald honk of a blowing nose. “It’s that he makes me ... hate him. And I don’t want to, I really don’t, but it’s like he forces me to, forces me to his level -- brings me down, remember? And I hate that, being forced to hate, and it’s just ugly, and a little ... maddening. Since I keep having to serve him, again and again, you see, take his meals. I work my way out only to have it all happen again oh dear God I hate it so damn much ...” “That’s certainly a bad situation,” the man said sensibly. “Have you considered a new jo --” “I killed him. With a knife, yesterday. Stabbed. In the eye.”

“Oh,” the man said. “Oh my.”

After a long pause in which neither spoke, the line clicked. The Kid floated in his pickled rest, hearing and remembering, neither pleased nor offended. He prognosticated another call, and tapped it.

“Don’t matter who I am. What’s with this’ere phone? Old phone? You sellin’ sumthin’? Cuz I ain’t buyin’.” “I ain’t sellin’ nuthin’,” Jacob Night said too loudly. Enthusiastic chatter, music blaring.

“You send me this’ere phone?”

Jacob Night spoke to a third party, then said, “No, sir. Can’t say I did.” The other man sat listening. “You havin’ a party there? You sound right happy.” “Maybe I am,” Jacob Night declared, with the pride of the drunk-stoned. “I’m a millionaire as of today. So maybe I am.” “Millionaire, eh?” The other man sounded unconvinced.

The Kid by A. A. Garrison

Insomnia Press

Jacob Night went narrative: “Was like a movie. There I am, walkin’ down the street, and I see some “A million, for throwin’ away a bottle ...” litter. A drink bottle, on the walk. Trash, right?” When there was no answer, Jacob Night repeated, “Right? “For throwin’ away a bottle! A million!” Right?” “Well ... can I have some?” “Right. Trash.” “Shit no!” “So there I am, I see the drink bottle and I think, I’ll just throw that sumbitch away, clean up this here The line died. street. Right? So I do, I pick it up and toss it in the cashtran. Trashcan. And you know what happens?” The Kid had started another listen, when his own personal phone exploded. He opened epicanthic eyes “Cayn’t say I do,” said the other man, after anoth- and slimed from the vat and walked dripping to his er imploring pause. human furnitures. The phone squished against his ear. He did not speak. “All these bastards come out the alley, yellin’ about a prize. Prize! Prize! You won! Video cameras. “Theodore,” a voice said, unlike the others or any. Smiles and handshakes, noisemakers. Turns out, them “Theodore. I know you’re there.” bastards put that bottle there, waitin’ for some sumbitch to come and throw it away. Right? Right?” The Kid stood wetly. His man-table stared at him. “Right.”

“It’s time, Theodore. I’m back. We duel.”

“They been there all day, waitin’, and I was the one. And they gave me a million. They’re gonna use it as an ad campaign in the city -- ‘Throw away that there trash, could get you a million.’ Bring out the Samaritan in folk, see.”

The Kid’s face rumored disturbance.

“You know where. Come ready.”

Once there was...

Click.

The Kid let the phone drop. He dressed. IV. The Arena

The Kid eyed his enemy’s weapon, a silvered six-shot notched with past murders. “Your bullets can’t harm me.”

“Aren’t met to harm, Theodore. Just kill.”

The Kid said “No,” and knit his hands at his back.

The Arena awaited deep in the Old Wastes, a disorder of sun and stones and bone dust. High walls crumbled and The Dwarf spat the sand dark. “You had faith, once.” frail, slowly becoming the desert. War-spalled columns and rusting cartridges, faded graffiti, missives of men long “Yes,” said The Kid. “Time is the antidote to all faith.” dead. The Kid held court with the rubble, immune to the many contagions about, still wet with amniotic. The sky The Dwarf nodded large. “So the prophets say.” rained light, clear as only the Wastes can be. “And no one calls me Theodore anymore.” The Dwarf arrived in no particular hurry, spurs jangling. The lonely black half-shape resolved off the hori The Dwarf looked to smile. “Someone does now.” He zon, shadow made living. Wise blue eyes beneath a jingly examined his great many rings. “Repent of your trespass, sombrero, serape hung drastically, belt heavy with tools brother. Repent and be free.” for killing. A pet mandrill stood incuriously at his side, its stature matching both combatants. The Kid said no.

The Dwarf stopped at distance. “You came.”

The Kid nodded. “I hold to my word.”

The Dwarf laughed, a single rude ha. “Your word.”

They stood. The mandrill shat effortlessly.

The Dwarf nodded once more, unlimbering. “Then come, drink of this cup.” The Kid did not move. A hawk cawed far in the distance. Sunlight.

Insomnia Press

The Kid by A. A. Garrison

Instantly, The Dwarf drew and fired and his pet clambering out, the rainbow snout furled in shriek. The Kid unleashed his storied cutlass and felled the beast red and thrashing, the halved body spuming dust.

A rataplan of gunshots, The Kid feinting, magic-show smoke, echoes. The gun clicked empty. The Kid lunged snakelike, swinging a fiendish arc, and the gun was still falling when The Dwarf drew an identical blade and parried and shoved, clang of mated steel, both men spinning. The two stamped about in deadly mockery, some new kabuki. Occult blades runed and mighty, terrible with power. The ground steamed.

grotesque nature, karma in miniature. Play for keeps, God’s rules. The battle was forever. The little men were fighting still when their end arrived, in the shape of Harmful Chief. Nude and tedious, unmade by the Wastes and its diseases, the scab-colored man staggered unheard upon a terrace, perhaps to spectate. His weapon burdened him to a hunch. Harmful Chief frowned hugely and loaded the apparatus and raised it level, grunting with strain. Body besored and failing, the hands wanting for cuticles. Face a rag of flesh, its macabre paints no more. “Kill,” he moaned in Japanese, teeth in his voice. “Kill Kid. Kill.”

The Kid studied his weapon’s twin, approximating He didn’t have to aim but did anyway, to the exsurprise. “You’ve trained.” tent allowed by his one remaining eye. There was a click and a whish, a fluffy diagonal of smoke, then the The Dwarf circled without coming closer, his nuclear warhead bloomed hungry fire and a sound cutlass waving sinuous patterns. “A thousand years, beyond measure, a phallic cloud rising proud for what brother. Yes, I’ve trained.” might see. It harkened The War of so long ago, when the Wastes were not wastes. “Not well enough,” and The Kid struck out and the blades merged and flew and the men with them, At once the three were no more, ghosts in this that ageless dance, cold clanging tenors and sparks place so acquainted with death. spitting, silence no more in the dead surround. Their shadows soiled the roofless walls, whirligig forms of

Author Bio

Once there was...

A.A. Garrison is a twenty-eight-year-old man living in the mountains of North Carolina. His short fiction has appeared in dozens of publications, both in print and online. His first novel, THE END OF JACK CRUZ, is now available from Montag Press. He blogs at synchroshock.blogspot.com.

Peeved by Kyle Rader

Insomnia Press

It’s not like I enjoy going out. Most nights, I come home so exhausted from work that it’s all I could do to keep from falling into a coma on the commute home, sending my car careening head-long into opposing traffic, maybe into a school bus returning from a field trip to the Museum of Science, where impressionable young minds learned all about the breeding habits of the ringed salamander. Maybe a pair of adventurous youths stole away, excited from all the salamander penis and the boy convinced the shy girl to jack him off in the bathroom near the gift shop.

pledge group to hose her down later that evening?

All of that gone, because I couldn’t get a decent night’s sleep.

Or pay for the abortion, even though it was very likely that the father was some pimple-faced, privileged freshman?

Sorry, I tend to go on like that. Daydreaming about horrible scenarios is just my way of coping with uncomfortable situations. Like the one I am going to tell you about now.

She was totally into me. For real. I mean, not many guys would show to pick her up the next morning with a fresh pair of panties, mug of hot coffee and a couple of bags of ice, right? Or drive her to Planned Parenthood two weeks later when she was late?

Yep, I think it was my complete and utter devotion that won her over.

Of course, college was light years ago. Well, fifteen years to be exact. A lot happened during that time, as My wife and I met in a bar, as is often the case in it does for most people. Ups and downs. Twists and our day and age. I could tell she was into me right turns. My wife and I got married in a little ceremony; from the start; the way she did body shots off other The drive-thru reverend couldn’t have been more powomen’s’ well-sculpted torsos, how she stripped down lite. I’m pretty sure that the cab driver also got choked to her bra and panties, allowing a group of frat boys up a little, but that could have been from my wife to hose her down with champagne. So what if she vomiting an entire day’s worth of cheap daiquiris into left with them and allowed the entire new Alpha Kai the back-seat.

Once there was...

I figured once the baby arrived, my wife would have no choice but to realize that she was no longer the party girl she used to be. For a while, it worked. Our baby girl came along, thankfully free of fetal-alcohol syndrome, and things settled into a normal, if not mundane existence. My wife refused to get a job and I obliged her, thinking that she wanted to spend as much time as she could with our little potato. I grew worried about post-partum depression. I read this article about it during her second trimester, which coincided with her third stint at Little Forest Inpatient Rehabilitation Center, that told of how severely it affected certain women. My mind raced through one horrible scenario after another, each one ending with my penis cut off and stuffed into either my mouth or my anus. My wife, the fighter that she was, did not show a single symptom. She went as far as to hire a full-time nanny so she could have some ‘alone-time’ away from our daughter, which I felt was excellent, her finding a way to have a life outside of being a mom and wife. I began to grow concerned when the ‘alone-time’ stretched into ‘alone-days’ and ‘alone-trips to Cabo San Lucas’ with her sorority sisters.

I was making decent enough money where we could afford to be a single-income household for a time, but that all changed with the economy’s suicide attempt. We changed tax brackets in the same amount of time it takes to order a #8 at McDonalds, which was about the only restaurant that we could afford to eat at. My wife was a trooper during the entire ordeal. After much deliberating, she agreed to give up her one-on-one massage therapy sessions that went for six hundred a pop, her daily injections of this paralyzing toxin that she insisted made her look younger, but in reality did nothing more than make her look like a stroke victim and drool all over the carpet for an hour. It helped, it really did. However, it wasn’t enough. So, my wife had to re-enter the workforce. She got a job temping at some big office that I think either made string or herpes medication. It was definitely one or the other. She was so selfless throughout, agreeing to work twenty hours a week for minimum wage. She told me she could have gotten a job anywhere she wanted with her education, but since the economy was so poor, it was all she could find.

Insomnia Press

Peeved by Kyle Rader

Once you have a degree in general studies, you could pretty much write your own ticket to success.

I agreed that my wife could have one night out, away from the house and the chores and the kid, but only if I got to tag along. You see, the more I thought So, we struggled on, like so many others. I worked about it, the more I realized how right she was. Groweighty hours a week to my wife’s twenty. My home life ing up, my parents were always around, picking me up and my work life began to meld into a shadowy blur. from school on time, showing up to my graduations. I caught myself having conversations with co-workers In hindsight, it was fucking annoying as hell. I wantwhile I was in the shower. Once, I took a conference ed our daughter to grow up to be her own person and call while making love to my wife. Whereas some not have to look over her shoulder for her parents her women would get upset from the lack of attention, entire life. my wife encouraged my multi-tasking. She said she wanted to play ‘Words with Friends’ on her new iPad So, I found myself being dragged to every shitty 2 anyway. dance club and bar in town that had live music. Just my wife and I. I fell in love with her all over again when, while discussing the latest quarterly projections, she turned And her three new besties from the String/Genital to me and asked me to hurry up because she was con- Cream factory, Amanda, Tory (with a ‘y’ not an ‘I’ as stipated and my swerve was upsetting her stomach she reiterated every single time we saw each other like even more. I was a slow adult), and Rosalyn. The daily grind of the partly employed took its toll on her. She lamented her nights out. She said that if she didn’t get out and let off steam, she was afraid she would take it out on our daughter. Our little potato was growing up so fast, too. Her first words to me? Platinum Card.

Roz. If you took a diseased vagina, put a dress and Ugg boots on it, then layered on Liza Minnelli levels of foundation and mascara, you still wouldn’t come close to the abominable monstrosity that had latched onto my wife like one of those tiny fish you see swimming around the Great White’s mouth during Shark Week.

Roz’s first words to me? Why did you bring Little-SmallDick tonight? That was her way of being charming. We gathered our fellowship together one particular Friday; our destination, a bar called Zuzu’s Petals. Roz convinced the group, meaning everyone except for me, that we simply had to see the band that was playing there. Parking for the bar was located at the top of a small hill, but Roz demanded that I let the ladies out at the front of the bar so they wouldn’t have to walk the thirty yards downhill. I relented because arguing with Roz upset my wife, as she simply thought the world of her.

moved in for a quick kiss.

Once there was...

I could hear Roz’s orgasm from five feet away. It sounded like James Earl Jones with a sinus infection trying to order wonton soup, in case you were curious. I bellied up to the bar and ordered a beer, discovering that the ladies already opened a tab under my name. A waiter brushed past me, delivering a tray filled with the bar’s special drink to my wife’s table. The drink, quaintly dubbed Infidelity, was little more than a trough of cheap margarita mix that they marked up about three hundred percent.

I spent a solid two hours sitting alone at that bar. My I should have mentioned the fact that Roz tipped the attention shifted from a muted basketball game to what scales at a solid two-hundred thirty pounds. Gentle, slop- my wife was doing. Four HD screens showed the same ing hills were like her arch-enemy because they caused her game, each one lagged few seconds behind the other, so it to walk slightly faster than normal, and that was almost seemed like I was watching the game at the speed of light. like running so she avoided them like the plague. If I stared too long at my wife, she waved me off like the unwelcome guest that I was. The focal point of the ladies’ The ladies had already found a table by the time I got discussion remained a mystery. No one else bothered to inside. Only four chairs, of course. The vainglorious look speak to me. Youthful couples rushed to the bar, ordered on Roz’s face as she watched me move from table to table, their drinks and giggled at my attempts to make small talk. awkwardly asking if the extra chair was being used and getting rejected at every turn, was palpable. I leaned into Nothing stings like when you know a person was laughthe table and whispered in my wife’s ear that I would just ing directly in your face. I had thought that portion of my find a seat at the bar. She made a puking sound when I life was over, I mean, four years of high school plus four

Peeved by Kyle Rader

Insomnia Press

years of college is enough, isn’t it? My wife’s friends was pretty slurred from the bottom shelf vodka he did that to me with an impunity that bordered on the was swilling. I am pretty sure that he said he was from obscene. My wife would just laugh along, giving me a Kiev. Or Tuscaloosa. pat on the thigh in a move that was more condescending than reassuring, as if she were telling me, ‘Yes, he’s Definitely one of the two. a idiotic loser, but he’s my idiotic loser.’ I pried my eyes from Jesus Christovovich ‘s exA few hours and a few more beers passed, causposed chest hair and focused on my latest beer, so ing me to lament my current situation even more. generously purchased for me by Comrade Christ. I One man took a seat at the bar next to me, unafraid sipped my beverage and dove into a staring contest to strike up a conversation. Perhaps it was just out of with my own reflection. I didn’t recognize the perpity. son I was looking at, hadn’t in a long time. All I could see was the pathetic ‘Little-Small-Dick’ that Roz said Or maybe it was because he left an even larger so- I was. All instances of vibrance gone, replaced by a cial stigma than I, because he looked like what Jesus replicant copy with a receding hairline and growing would have looked like if he had grown up in Soviet paunch. It was only a matter of time before I had to Russia. push my ‘Gunt’ away just to even see my dick and both me and the cyborg imposter knew it. At first, I thought he was trying to cruise me; but then I watched him eye-fuck my wife from across the I felt a tap on my arm; My new bestie, Communist room and realized the truth. Jesus, pointed at the table that was giving my wife asylum from our marriage. He asked me if the cougar in He was pleasant enough, flipping his long stringy the middle was my wife, which, of course, sounded hair back and running his hand through his Abe Lin- exactly like this: coln beard, while talking about the band that was playing that night, whom he referred to as a ‘popDid you hear that they are increasing our chocolate punk extravaganza’, rations this month? At least that is what I thought he said; his accent

As important as that was to Mr. Christovovich, he

Once there was...

was actually trying to call to attention the cadre of lotharios that my wife’s table had attracted, one of whom, was Then I witnessed Bobby Ewing shift a gold ring from his getting rather friendly with my wife. He was a handsome left ring finger to his middle in a smooth, well-practiced drink of water; His dimples alone must have gotten him motion. laid, like a billion times over. I could hear his boisterous Texan accent from across the room and knew that I was It made me wish that entire season of Dallas had been a doomed. An all-American, Good-Ole-Boy with chiseled fucking dream. good looks was hard for a doughy loser to compete with. When I saw my wife twist her wedding ring around was Plus, with that accent, you could pretty much say what- when I decided that I needed to put an end to it. I bid Jesus ever you wanted and the fairer sex would find you sexually Christovovich farewell; he replied with something about attractive. how great beet soup was as I began my sojourn over to her table. I downed my beer, running the scenarios in my mind as to what I should do. I could march over there and give I was going to do it, too, march right up to that table Bobby Ewing a piece of my mind. Maybe, he would take and just unload on them all. In my minds-eye, I saw poor offense and slap me with a delicate white glove he kept in Bobby Ewing’s hapless look stretch across his be-dimpled his pocket for just such an occasion. Maybe, it would be face. I watched Roz’s look of smug satisfaction turn into a pistols at dawn for the honor of my wife. Maybe, his six look of bewilderment usually reserved for scared kittens foot three, two hundred plus lean frame wouldn’t cause me and babies that struggled with object permanence. All of to spend the next year wearing a halo. their stupid, vapid faces just staring at me like JCPenney mannequins, as I tore into them all, one by one, pointing I stood up, hesitating. I danced a modest soft shoe rou- out each and every one of their flaws that they tried so tine as I decided what I was going to do. My wife didn’t hard to cover up by judging others, namely me. seem to mind the Texan’s company and I believed that she did love me above all others no matter what, so I sat back I’d tell Tory with a ‘Y’ that her hair looked like melted down, resolving to let the situation play itself out. cotton candy.

Peeved by Kyle Rader

Insomnia Press

I’d tell Amanda that belly shirts are a privilege, not The urge to relieve myself hit me about halfway to a right, and that no one found her C-section scar a their table; it was epic, too. It felt like my balls were pleasant reminder of the miracle of childbirth and adrift in a balloon filled with urine. You know how that childbirth only counts if the baby wasn’t stillborn. when you have to go to so bad, it becomes a crisis? Like everything else in your life fell to a distant secI’d tell Roz that I had never seen a manatee this far ond? Like how you get emotional to the point where away from the ocean and would ask her if she needed you are on the verge of tears? to find her way home, like Nemo. It was like that times twenty. I’d tell Bobby Ewing that ‘Step by Step’ was a shitty sitcom. I bolted towards the men’s room. The dance floor swelled with drunk people, sloshing their drinks Then, I’d tell my wife a few choice things. Oh yes, around, the frothy liquid spattering against the floor. I would tell her how small she had made me feel over The band that Roz was wet over was taking the stage. the years, how terrible I felt when she stayed out all I could hear her hooting their name over the entire hours of the night, while I was at home raising our lit- mulling of the crowd. tle potato alone. I would tell her she was a shitty parent and that my money wasn’t infinite. I would accuse The band’s name? Sodomy Joe and the Prolapsers. her of blowing any guy who happened to have a membership at Bally’s. I fought against the tide of the crowd, but for every step I made towards the men’s room, I was pushed Fifteen years of passive-aggressiveness was about to three steps sideways. Every accidental bump, each come to an end. drop of spilled liquid brought me closer to pissing my pants right then and there. I don’t think that my wife First, I had to piss. would have forgiven me for embarrassing her in public like that, and I think that the pure, adulterated joy Seriously. that Roz would get would have given her a massive stroke. Urine beading in the eye of the beast, I became

‘that guy’ and elbowed and shoved my way through the crowd. I don’t think I have been called an asshole that many times since the night my wife and I first made love.

Once there was...

covered up with framed posters of action movies from the nineteen-eighties. Everywhere I turned, a hulking beast of a man stared me down. Stallone, Willis, Norris. I found it to be a rather odd choice for an establishment named after a plot device in a film about appreciating the small things in life.

The band took the stage just as I was extricating myself from the tender embraces of the crowd. I caught a glimpse Two drunk frat boys brushed past me, giggling as they of the lead singer, Sodomy Joe, and I had to admit, if the went. I was pretty sure they shouted, ‘Dolph’ to me and concept of sodomy were ever personified, it would have pointed at the toilet stall. looked like that guy. They wasted no time and ripped right into their opener. I didn’t ask nor care. I was a man on a mission. I was Steve McQueen in Bullitt. I was Denzel in Man on Fire. The title of the song? Mike Check. I trudged through years and years worth of spilled beer, From the befuddled way they talked to each other and throw-up, and various bodily fluids, towards the lone urihow no sound came out of their guitars or keyboards, nal, the floor, sticky under my feet. The toilet stall door I just assumed they were one of those shitty hipster was closed and from the heavy grunting sounds I heard, it avant-garde bands, where everything was done ironically sounded like the occupant was struggling with a shit the from their attitudes to the fact that they couldn’t really play size of a sequoia. The stench was what I always imagined a lick. Roz’s yoga pants smelled like after a class. Last thing I heard as I entered the men’s room? Roz screaming, ‘I love this song!’ The bathroom did not live up to the comforting, nostalgic image that the name Zuzu’s Petals would lead you to believe. It was an interior decorators nightmare, a hideous mix of art deco and squalor. The cracking paint was

I had no time for any sympathy for my fellow traveler. A spurt of piss shot out of my shaft the second it hit the air and I was still two feet away from the urinal so I played marksman while I shuffled the remaining distance. I was not sure why I cared if I accidently went on the floor, it would probably be the first time in at least five years that Chlamydia-free pee touched it.

Peeved by Kyle Rader

Insomnia Press

Settling in at a comfortable distance, I noticed the oddest sight that I think I have ever seen in a restroom, not counting the time I found my college roommate eating corn chips out of the toilet bowl. On the urinal trap was a faded picture of one Mister Dolph Lundgren, circa Rocky IV. We entered a staring game as the memories I had of that movie flooded my cortex. Drago. That was his character’s name. Ivan Drago. And he must break you.

I had half a thought to ask Sodomy Joe if the two of us could open for them at their next gig. I wasn’t just pissing all over a faded action movie star, I was pissing all over my wife’s friends at the table. I was pissing right in Roz’s fat mouth and laughing as she tried to shield herself with her knock-off purse. I was pissing all over Bobby Ewing’s face, trying my best to fill up those magical dimples of his. But mostly, I was pissing right down my wife’s back, filling her shoes that I paid for and couldn’t really afford. By the time I finished, I had tears in my eyes.

I stared into that smug Swede’s face and discovered that I was pointing my fire hose directly in the face of Breathing heavy, I flushed the urinal and wiped the Apollo Creed’s killer. As the coiner of the phrase ‘Eye moisture from my eyes. I was re-born. Who knew one of the Tiger’s funeral re-played from my memories, I could have a spiritual moment in a men’s room? let go with everything I had. Well, maybe George Michael. And that guy who It was an epic pee. I felt like the invisible hands of had the ‘Wide Stance’. God were lifting me off the ground, tipping me on my tip-toes to bring me closer to Dolph’s face. It was the Woe be to the person who attempted to walk all kind of urination that they write songs about. It felt over me and treat me as if I were somehow less than like I was going to piss my testicles out all over Ivan a human being. Fuck them all. I was ready to take on Drago’s stupid crew cut. I heard a giddy voice scream- the world after that leak. ing out and realized that it was me, yelling out quotes from Rocky IV to the picture, oddly enough, in sync I didn’t hear the flushing of the toilet over the with the irritable bowel syndrome guy’s farting. sounds of my own girlish sobbing. By the time I re-

alized someone was behind me, watching me cradling my penis in what could only be described as post-coital bliss, it was too late to escape. A hand the size of a small ham clenched my bony shoulder, snapping my collarbone in at least four places as the owner of the ham-hand spun me around with a sudden violence. Reeling, I looked up to face my accoster and my heart fell directly into the bottoms of my shoes. Dolph Lundgren, all six feet, six inches of him, stared down at me with an expression that was rarely seen outside of a combat setting or a really intense porno. I realized then that the two frat boys were laughing at the real Ivan Drago bombing out a toilet and not about pissing on his picture. As I just did.

Once there was...

past his neck, like he had been squeezed once too often.

Despite his rather uncouth and rather disheveled appearance, the star of ‘Showdown in Little Tokyo’ still had the strength one can only get from fake fighting and killing henchmen over decades of bad action movies, and proved this by lifting me over his head with just one arm. From the way his eyes bulged out of their sockets, I wondered if he was suffering from a thyroid condition. But then I realized that my penis was fluttering about in his face, as I had neglected to put it away. Before I could explain myself, before I could express my appreciation for the bold acting choices he made in ‘Universal Soldier’, Dolph bellowed a roar that only one from Viking ancestry could possibly have uttered. I felt his hamhock collide with my delicate features and then the world decided to go on hiatus.

He had not aged well. When I was a kid, I had this toy called a Stretch Armstrong. It wasn’t much, just a rubber My impression of Rip van Winkle lasted for either six toy filled up with this goop made out of corn syrup. Even- hundred seconds or ten minutes. tually, the corn syrup within the Stretch Armstrong would dry up and the toy became useless. I am not sure. Math was never my strongest suit.

Dolph Lundgren looked exactly like my old Stretch I peeled my bloodied face from the dysentery soup on Armstrong did. His neck was elongated to comical propor- the floor and walked to the sink, splashing some water tions while most of the skin from his face had sunk down on me before I headed out to find my wife. I assessed the

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damage the former Ivan Drago did to me and it was severe. He beat me with such vigor that I would be walking with a limp for six months. I shook uncontrollably and sobbed every time I urinated.

Peeved by Kyle Rader

My wife was sitting alone, her gaze shifted around the bar, searching for someone, good, ol’ Bobby, I assumed. The look of relief on her face when she saw me stopped me dead in my tracks. It’s not that my The strangest thing about it all? My penis was wife had never shown any concern for my well-being, tucked back into my boxers and my pants were zipped it’s just that when it occurred she was more worried up. about where my wallet was.

I did my best to wipe the blood and unknown elements from my face and shuffled back to the bar. It had emptied out by three-quarters. Sodomy Joe and the Prolapsers were busy packing up their shitty gear into their shitty bags. I felt a pang of regret for missing their set.

The look of relief permutated into one of shock, worry, and then back to relief in the span of five seconds. My wife asked what happened to me, even ran her hand through my hair and caressed my cheek as she asked the question. The truth died on the tip of my tongue.

I was really hoping to hear their hit song, ‘Hold On, I mean, would anyone really believe that I got I Broke a Guitar String.’ beaten up for pissing on the likeness of a washed-up action star who just so happened to be in the same Dazed, beaten, soaked to the bone, I felt none of restroom, leaving behind a turd that would make God the jubilation or confidence that pissing in Dolph cry? Lundgren’s face had given me. I walked, head down, in the direction of my wife’s table, expecting her to It sounded ridiculous to me, and I lived through it. take one look at the human wasteland her husband had become and just throat Bobby Ewing’s dog right In the end, I took the cowards’ way out and lied, in front of me. telling my wife that I simply had one too many that night and slipped on the wet tile. She would be right to do it, too. Several times.

Once there was...

My wife, my brave soldier, mother to our little potato, chose to believe me. Her reaction? That’s the stupidest fucking thing you’ve ever done. You reek like piss. The logic was sound; I had to admit.

I made a mental note to get myself tested for everything the next day when I felt something else besides my disappointing behind in my pocket; A thin, folded piece of glossy paper. I unfolded it, revealing a signed, eight-by-ten glossy of none other than my restroom rival, decked out in full Ivan Drago regalia. The inscription?

As the pungent stench of urine rose into our nostrils, my wife demanded that we settle our tab and go home. Better to be pissed off than pissed on, huh? Asshole. Her friends, as it turned out, ditched her to go hang out Yours, Dolph. with bestie, Communist Jesus, who was, by all accounts, quite taken with Roz. Perhaps he liked the fact that her Dolph Lundgren, action star, martial artist and conbody was shaped like a beet? I did not ask questions. My firmed genius, had robbed, then peed on me. wife, my love, wanted to go home with me. Not Bobby Ewing, not Sodomy Joe, not even fucking Dolph Lundgren. And people wonder why I don’t like to go out. She chose me. I reached for my wallet to pay our not-insignificant bill, only to feel the flat cellulite of my ass through my jeans, instead of the familiar bulk of my Pulp Fiction, ‘Bad Mother Fucker’ wallet. Of course I was robbed, I passed out in a sketchy men’s room for who-knows how long?

Author Bio Kyle Rader is a full-time semi-professional writer, just having completed his latest novel and he is at work on several short stories of which, this is the latest. Additionally, my most recent publication is scheduled to appear in Dark Moon Digest later this year. He also belongs to the Nashua Writers Group, a local independent fiction writers group

Open Season by Dorene O'Brien

Insomnia Press

Use ½ cup of rice or one diced potato per serving, some turnips, celery. Throw everything into the pot and boil like mad, then turn the heat down and skim. Let it simmer for an hour or so, until it’s cloudy. You can freeze it and it’s just as tasty three months later. You’d be amazed at the number and variety of meals you can make. Steaks, chops, a hearty rib roast, although I don’t make many roasts since I eat alone.

“Suspicious,” my boss said after the last one went missing.

I hate opportunists. Can you blame me? I live in God’s country. My family’s owned the 140 acres adjacent to the Porcupine Mountains Wilderness State Park practically since Cain killed Abel (now that’s ironic, isn’t it? Maybe they should have named him Un-Abel). Anyway, we hunted moose and pheasant, fished trout and salmon, planted corn. We did all right. Then they came along and bought up the surrounding parcels, bought hunting permits to kill deer outside the park, even tried to buy me out at one third my land’s worth. They were rich hunters wearing expensive camouflage suits and toting fancy gear, those guys who slaughter things just to hang heads on a wall. They wanted my land ‘cause they’d hunted theirs out; they wanted a shot at the big bucks, the ones smart enough to move onto my property. I chased them off with a 30.06.

“We can’t wait until later, and I can’t keep it quiet anymore. You know how much revenue we’re losin’ in tourism?”

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It’s open season every fall.

I’ve worked for the DNR goin’ on ten years, so I have no choice but to listen to him jabber about it. “Not really,” I said. “Some lunatic. He’ll screw up sooner or later.”

“These ain’t tourists,” I said. “These are poachers.”

“Still, it’s scarin’ everyone off.”

This made me smile, and while I knew I shouldn’t have looked so happy right then, I did. “Let’s figure this out,” I said. “Who hates poachers?”

He stared at me, hard. “Well, lots of people.”

“But whose lives do they make miserable, besides the animals?”

“Well, ours, I guess.”

“Right.” I stared at him.

Once there was...

I tell you what, I always take a picture first. Call me superstitious, but I think burning their photos speeds “What are you sayin’?” them on their journeys, something Asa’s grandmother does when a relative dies. I smear their open mouths with I waited a long time, let him stew a little. “I’m just say- honey, ‘cause according to her this encourages them to say in’ to be careful.” only the sweetest things about me at either place. I think of it as insurance. He looked at me like he just remembered he forgot his wife’s birthday. “You’re not thinkin’ that I—” After the fourth disappearance the town was buzzing with FBI agents, police dogs, even a psychic who said the “I’m just sayin’ to be careful.” Porkies had the same magnetic makeup as the Bermuda Triangle and that these guys were hiking off into another “Jesus Jude,” he said, shakin’ his weary head. dimension. Some people say that the park is now a good place to stage a disappearance and that some of these guys I used to love open season until my boss started are lounging in Mexico or Tahiti. I guess it’s a theory too whinin’ about missing hunters—though they ain’t huntcrazy to ignore. ers, like I said, they’re poachers—and police investigations, which all came up empty. Thing is, you gotta have a body. I ain’t stupid. I laid low for a season after that. The FBI agents, as FBI agents will, got bored when people stopped Here’s another recipe: Scrape, trim and rinse the feet disappearing. The police took their dogs and the psychic and throw them into a large pot of salted water. Cover and went west to help prove a little girl was killed by her rich simmer very slowly or the broth will be milky. After about parents. What kind of world do we live in? three hours, add some potatoes and okra, a little spice if you like. Simmer until the meat falls off the bones, about Anyway, they were all alive when they entered my an hour more. Strain out all the bones—I give mine to Asa, cabin, which is just outside Porcupine. I found them inwhose Ojibwa grandmother dries them out for rattles and side the park, either poaching alone or separated from spells—but your dog can make short work of them too. their thieving parties and I, with the help of my 30.06, convinced them to go for a walk. None of them objected. Why would they? I was in uniform, so they probably fig-

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Open Season by Dorene O'Brien

ured on a ticket and a fine. I never shot them— the noise, the mess. Besides, I didn’t want to ruin the meat, trigger the adrenaline taint. No, I walked them to the cabin, served them coffee laced with ground sleeping pills, took their pictures. My mouth waters when I think about the twoinch steak I cut from the big-nosed guy who’d been snoring on my plastic tablecloth. Call me a creature of habit, but I always put the right arm into the stewing pot I keep under the table before I slit the thick vein on the wrist where the blood then gushes. Don’t worry—it’s a large pot. I make soup in the same pot immediately afterward. The clothes go straight into the wood burning stove; I was tempted once to keep a pair of boots—fur-lined and thick-soled—but that’s the type of thing that can kill the operation. I have a deep freeze downstairs that is pretty well stocked, but I shop regular at the grocery in town. I already told you that I ain’t stupid. Asa don’t really like to do it, but he admits that in the big picture there are worse things he could do than drop off his grandmother’s concoction of roots and herbs, one that’s never failed to throw the dogs off the gamy, angry scent of a hunted poacher .

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My boss is retiring next year, and he’s recommending me for his job. I’m not sure if I’ll take it; God knows I already got my hands full.

Author Bio Dorene’s work has appeared in the Connecticut Review, Carve Magazine, the Chicago Tribune, Clackamas Literary Review, New Millennium Writings, Detroit Noir and others. She has won the Red Rock Review’s Mark Twain Award for Short Fiction, the New Millennium Fiction Award, and the Chicago Tribune Nelson Algren Award. She has also won the international Bridport Prize and has received a creative writing fellowship from the National Endowment for the Arts. Her short story collection, Voices of the Lost and Found, won the National Best Book Award in 2008. Her website is www. doreneobrien.com

Once there was...

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DEAR FRIEND,

Interludes

I hope this letter finds you well. I fear that when you recieve it, I may be in great danger. No, not death. Compared to what I sense coming, I think death would be a blessing. A mercy. My friend, dark times are ahead. What we spoke of in hushed, frightful tones has come to pass and the book is gone from the Miskatonic library. Already I recieve reports of fogs rolling down from Dunwich. Of strange sights around the waters of Innsmouth. And perhaps most terrible of all: the wave of paranoia that has swept over Arkham. New England is going to Hell, my friend. No. Hell bears no semblance to the horrors I feel in the air. Gather the rest. Dark times are coming. Sincerely, Prof. Henry Armitage Head Librarian Miskatonic University

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Once there was...

INSOMNIA PRESS #2

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, LOVECRAFT Awakens This August

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ART CREDITS: Cover art by Leigh Crooks

Credits

Steven Hurd is a sculptor of the strange, horrific, and downright bizarre. You can purchase his pieces at http://www.etsy.com/shop/runkpockart. His art is shown on pages: 15, 33, 67 Peter Tuckers’ Woe and Fauna: “One often travels through life, meeting all sorts of beings and creatures. Some that are longing, some that are curious, many that will hurt you and a select few that ascend to a higher level and shower you with unconditional Love. Woe and Fauna is my story expressed through these creatures. It is a social experiment as well as a collaboration between you and I. When meeting someone new, I ask what their favorite animal is, and also what emotion best represents them. I then combine both elements into a final piece so that the person becomes the subject matter, a collaborator and a friend.” The Woe and Fauna Project will be completed only when 88 pieces have been realized and only then the final Woe and Fauna will be revealed. Woe and Fauna pieces can be found on the following pages: 55, 75, 87 & 103 Check out the full collection at http://www. woeandfauna.com

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LAYOUT CREDITS: R. Thomas - Editor-in-Chief S. LeGrand - Layout and Technical Services Check us out at http://www.insomnia-press.com Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/insomniapress/ Twitter: @insomniapress