Maniacs - John Fetto

Leary kneeled in the ditch, listening to Ferdinand’s men attack on the town. When the shots died down a bit, he stood up and began walking forward, holding his camera. His feet stumbled in the mud then found a trail that led between the gray and brown squat adobe buildings, the line of their roofs outlined with a flickering light of distant fire. When he edged out from between the buildings he heard gun fire erupting again, staccato, and men shouting. He stepped out into puddled road that ran through the town, raised his camera and focused at the end of the street. Men crouched, Ferdinand’s men, guns aimed at a building at the end of the street. As he focused on the building, gun fire flashed from the windows. Sandinistas fighting back? He pressed the shutter, knowing the film wouldn’t capture anything publishable. Why waste film? Nervousness? Or well reasoned fear? It made no difference, Leary needed to get closer.

He edged down the street, watching the battle ahead, and looking down by his feet. It wasn’t a simple walk in the night. Small foot high mounds were strewn here and there about the size and weight of feedbags with arms and legs attached. He stepped over them, moving slowly towards the fight, until he found the men crouching, and shooting up at the building. Leary kneeled, trying to make his large English body as small as the men he was standing behind, listening to them shout insults and fire. He looked for Walsh and found him on the other side of the street. He held the camera tightly, ducked and ran, then stopped by the door. Walsh was standing to the side of an open window where he was trying to direct a man, who crouched below the window, holding a long rifle with a telescopic scope. Walsh pointed to where he should shoot. Should be easy. Barely fifty yards away, but the man didn’t want to stick up his head, crouching, clutching the rifle as Walsh explained, but whatever Walsh said, didn’t convince the soldier to stand up and fire. Something else caught Walsh’s attention and he shouted, “Noooo!”

Leary stepped ducked out in the street, just in time to see Miguel take two steps before lobbing a metal canister toward the open window of the building from which the Sandinistas were firing. The canister tumbled through the air into an open window, a perfect strike, there was an explosion, not loud, a pop. The inside of the building erupting with the blinding light of a newly formed sun as thousand of grains of white phosphorus ignited burned at more than 2000 Celsius. The shouts of the men in women in the building turned to shrieks of pain. Walsh shouted for them to stop, and they did stop, just in time for a woman to emerge, covered in flame. Leary kneeled in the muddy street, raised his camera and framed his picture. The flaming hair, clothes and skin, illuminated her perfectly.

Maniacs - Darcy Vebber

Lisa found the ad on one of the molded plastic chairs in the emergency room waiting area. Someone had been sitting on it, flattened it and wrinkled it but she picked it up anyway. Her eyes were too gritty to close and the room was flooded with light and noise; she was desperate for something to read. It was newsprint, something called the PennySaver, full of trucks and tools and used wedding dresses.

She could see Bobby, outside past the smoking area, pacing while he talked on his phone. He was 'making calls'. Lisa recognized the expression from her childhood. When there was trouble or the potential for trouble, her father would announce that he was going to 'make some calls'.

Bobby and her father seemed to have a lot of faith in connecting with the right person. Bobby scribbled names and numbers in the little black notebook he still carried, while he talked to New Haven and Phoenix and LA. Someone was going to get him to the best doctor and social worker in San Bernardino County. Once they were there, things would be easy. They would make sense.

The ad was for runaway teens. Milk carton kids, aged by computers, running under the vaguely accusatory banner "Have You Seen Me?" The shock of seeing the girl named Mary, so defiant in her high school photo, in the row of lost children was chilling. As if Lisa had opened something she wasn't supposed to. Her first thought was that she didn't want to know. Above the photos, maybe on purpose - who else would care more about lost children than other parents? - were little typeset ads for cribs and playpens. She realized as she saw them that this is what she had been looking for. Supplies. Crazy.

There was a phone number, of course. Parents waiting, of course, to hear. Mad, heartbroken, who knew?

From behind the triage desk, one of the tired young men in scrubs called Bobby's name, then Lisa's. Lisa tried signaling to Bobby, knocking on the window near where he stood but he didn't look up. She crossed to the desk when the man called again. She could hear, through the open doors to the examining area behind him, someone crying and someone else moaning. She smiled at the man, unable to suppress a madly cheery, "Wow, you guys are busy today, huh?"

He didn't respond except to say, "Your friends are in two B. One of you can go back at a time."

"Yeah. Could you tell me, before I go get our other friend, what, I mean how she's doing? You know, just so I don't go in and say like the wrong thing. I don't really know her --"

The nurse's aid looked up. He had a name tag on with no name on it. "I can't help you."

"She's a runaway," Lisa said. She couldn't stop herself from talking. She wanted the young man to help her. Clearly he knew what was going on. "I just found that out --"

"Listen, I already said --"

Then she saw Sam behind the triage desk, looking for her and Bobby. He looked lost and even like he'd been crying. She tried the young man one more time. "Listen, if you could just let me know. Because the thing is, it's complicated --"

"It always is," he said. "You coming in or not?"

Maniacs - Katie Burke

I knew that most of them hadn’t eaten yet that day, even though it was 11:00 a.m. They would not eat until 1:00 p.m., just like every other day – except weekends, when they are not at school, and do not eat at all. I feel sad, thinking of how ravenous they must be by Sunday night.

I am working with children in Kawangware, a slum on the outskirts of Nairobi. Kawangware is the most poverty-ravished place I have ever seen. The poorly paved streets give way to roads of dirt and sludge – most likely the feces of the humans and animals who have few designated “restrooms” (i.e., holes in the ground), and no private ones. Crazily driven cars and buses navigate the streets. Goats, cows, wild dogs, and garbage – endless piles of garbage not awaiting any collection – litter the dirt roads.

These are the conditions in which the children I’ve met live. Infested tin shacks, with no electricity or water, are their homes. They can barely move around in these tiny, dark boxes: If their families are lucky enough to have a bed, it occupies the entire dwelling.

I wonder at their unbridled joy. They sing and clap and cheer all day, for any reason. They find the magic in everything. Absolutely nothing is mundane, gets overlooked, or is forgotten. It all registers with them as the most wonderful thing they’ve ever seen, heard, or thought about.

These little maniacs scream when I enter the room for the first time each morning. They clap and shout, “Hello, Katie!” in orchestrated fits of glee. When I ask, “How are you?” They proclaim – all together, and in singsong voices – “I am fine!”

I enter the room with construction paper, and they scream and clap again. I cannot figure it out: Though they need almost no reason to express ecstasy, but I don’t see why my fifth or sixth time entering their classroom that day is remarkable. I usually get screams on only the first each day.

My heart breaks when I see them marveling, looking expectantly at the construction paper in my arms. They have shouted for colored paper; it is that exciting to them. When I announce that they will each draw on a sheet of the paper, it seems greater news than their humble hearts can hold. When I ask them each to choose their own color of paper, they are completely blissed out. This simple art project has transformed their lives. They will never forget it, I can tell. And all I can think is that it’s so unfair.

Yes, they are the lucky ones in so many ways. Entitlement is a miserable way to live, and children in so many other places in the world suffer it. How lovely to appreciate everything, effortlessly, as if life were just one big adventure after another – when for the rest of us, it is just construction paper, and those all around us are only people ... nothing to cheer about here.

Still, I know it is the ravaging poverty around them that engenders such profound gratitude … even if they don’t know it. Should they starve and be entirely deprived of any material objects, just so they can smile as brightly as they do, and experience more happiness than any other children I’ve ever seen? How fun to be a maniac, but I don’t forget that their school waits until lunch to feed them because there’s only money for one meal per day. And since they don’t eat at home, the one from school must occur in the middle of their waking hours. And when we offer to bring food in the mornings, their teachers inform us that eating so early in the day makes them vomit and causes diarrhea, because their systems are not used to eating until 1:00 p.m.

I try to push these realities out of my mind, and focus on the wide smiles and twinkling eyes before me … because those are every bit as real.

Maniacs - Jennifer Baljko

Dinky sat on one of the stairs, her green eyes peering through the railing. She was bored. She decided to break the monotony with some mayhem. She waited until she caught AJ’s eye. AJ was always the sucker, never quite playing with a full deck, an easy mark, Dinky had learned.

AJ was sprawled out in the hallway below, panting after a few rounds of “catch the doggie” with the kids. He glanced up and saw Dinky above his head.

“Hey you, stupid, wanna to play catch the kitty?” Dinky said in her cunning, catty way. “Bet you can’t touch this.” She unrolled her tail through the railing and let it hang just above AJ’s snout.

“Ah, ok. Bet I can,” gruffed AJ. He didn’t really like Dinky. When he first arrived, Dinky made it clear she was the queen of the castle and clawed his nose. But, since then, she was general nice enough, and it was fun playing with her, well, when she was in the mood to play, he thought.

Dinky swished her gray locks from side to side. The only game she was playing was “hard to get.” She laid down on the step waiting for the kook to do something.

With the gate to the stairs latched, AJ’s only hope was to jump and try to paw or bite the sliver of fur. So he started hopping vertically like a bunny. When that didn’t work, he moved a few feet down the hallway to get a running start. He need just a couple more inches. Dinky kept swinging her tail, pulling it up slightly when she sensed that AJ was too close.

The maniacal cat and dog game went on for long stretches at a time, and lasted for years. It only ended when Dinky got bored of that, too. She would curl her tail and sashay her way back upstairs.

“See you later, honey,” Dinky would throw back while meowing with victory. AJ would slump down wondering if he was ever going to get a little tail.

What is Unholy - Camilla Basham

He put his mouth to mine. It was behind the organ pipes, as his admirers gathered downstairs for coffee. Earlier he spoke of God, and Paul, and Job and goats…who knows. After the first ten minutes I could only focus on his lips as they moved in time with his words. I didn’t give a shit what they were saying. The masses focused on him. He focused on me. Later I would try to explain to the council just how intoxicating this was. For now, I darted across the church floor, sipping coffee, feeling anxious. He asked me to meet him outside and I did. “Point Reyes.” he said, “No one will ever know. I promise.” So, I drove, through fog, winding roads and a maze of moral conflict. We met in a marshy field. He said, “ I come here often to speak to God.” “How nice.” I said. Then he grabbed me and swore that God wanted me to take his cock in my mouth. I was doing God’s will, he assured me. There was the dashboard, the digital clock, the steering wheel all telling me this was wrong. There was him, telling me, “It’s God’s will.”

What is Unholy - Judy Albietz

The shadows on the western wall of his room were creeping Peter out. They had legs and heads. They were way too three-dimensional to be just regular shadows. Appearing with the first morning light at 6:38 a.m. their animal-like shapes changed as the sun moved up in the eastern sky. The sunlight coming through the thin curtains on the only windows in Peter’s bedroom caused light and shadows to be cast on the wall. The shadowy shapes slowly danced in and out of peels of old paint on the wall separating the basement bedroom from the bathroom. As they grew taller the shadows danced faster, sometimes breaking off and chasing each other in circles. Then they would start all over again, as if in a continuous loop of movement.

“If I don’t look at them they don’t exist,” Peter said as he forced his gaze back to his screen where he was inventing a new attack strategy for his game’s murderous dogs. Since his desk faced north, he could completely avoid the shadowy wall. Peter told himself that the shadows will disappear once the sun is above the house, away from the windows. He checked a website which told him that the sun would be overhead at 1:05 p.m. So he just wouldn’t look over at the wall until after that. Peter keyed in new programming commands, munching on greasy leftover scraps of Chinese take-out, last night’s dinner. The hours passed quickly as Peter immersed himself in his killing game.

At 1:05 p.m. the music started. It came from the west side of the room. At first it was only a drum beat but soon violins and oboes joined in. It wasn’t a pleasant melody. It sounded like a dirge, like funeral music, but not the type to be in a sacred place. The music felt like something unholy. He told himself this was probably someone’s idea of a joke so he should just ignore it and it will stop. The music followed a repeating pattern…like the morning’s dance of the shadows.

It was after 1:15 p.m. now. Peter decided to look at the western wall, not admitting to himself that he was worried what he might find. First he checked to make sure that the sun was no longer coming in from the windows. “Okay, now there won’t be shadows,” he said. Slowly Peter swiveled his chair to the western wall.

The shapes on the wall were still there. They were more solid and darker gray. They had more distinct details than before. Now they had faces. The faces had fangs. Their legs extended to claw-like feet. They were still in the black and white world of shadows, but the shapes could no longer be generated by light from the windows since the sun had moved up over the eaves. The dancing matched the slow rhythm of the music.

The music stopped suddenly and the shadowy shapes faced into the center of the room. Peter pushed his chair back away from them. The light in the room dimmed as the creatures prepared to jump off the wall.

What is Unholy - Christine Whalen

“Your room’s an unholy mess!” Jen’s mom used to scream at her. “A disgrace!”

One 4th of July her mother had become so incensed at the state of her room that she’d forbidden Jen to leave the house, even to meet her friends for fireworks. Jen was furious. She’d slammed her bedroom door, and thrown herself dramatically (at 16 everything she did was dramatic) onto her bed. Then she’d looked forlornly out the window into the forbidden streets of her suburban subdivision. Oh, the injustice! Her mom could be such a bitch.

As she sat looking out the glass, Jen realized the slatted wood of the patio roof was within reach of her bedroom window. She slid the window all the way open and eyed the screen. Standing on her bed, she jiggled the screen out of the window, bending the frame in the process. She got off the bed and grabbed the sandals from beneath their protective covering of clothes. She slipped them on, admiring her red toenails as she did so, and then stood back up on her unmade bed. One leg went over the side of the window frame. Then the other, and then she took a deep breath, and dropped to the roof a few feet below.

It Was Very Unfamiliar - Elizabeth Weld Nolan

She hurried along the dirt road, stepping in the pale bands the moon threw between the pinyon trees, toward where the mountain rose rounded and black against the night sky. She passed the Bensons’ red mailbox shaped like a rooster that always made her smile in daylight, but tonight it reached for her with a sinister beak, the points on its comb sharp.

She had been afraid to set her alarm clock for fear of waking her parents and so had overslept. She didn’t know if her would wait for her. She came to the arroyo that she loved in daytime, the flat, white sand studded with chamisa and the red dirt walls rising above her head to the top where pinyon trees grew. Every New Mexican child knew not to play in an arroyo when there was rain far away in the mountains because the water traveled like a secret train, rushing around the dry corner to sweep children away. Tonight, the sky was clear with clouds edged with white from the big moon.

He wasn’t there. She stopped and let all her breath out. He had gone, or, maybe he hadn’t come. She turned into the arroyo and found the rock where she usually sat out of the sun. It was empty. She eased on to it, feeling the chill stone come through her jeans, and shivered in the night mountain air. She should have worn another shirt. She heard a dog bark faintly, over by Sun Mount, no, maybe a coyote, and her boots crunched the sand. When she stopped moving, she could hear only bits of wind in the trees, and she smelled pinyon. It was so very still. She didn’t think she would go further alone.

She heard boots walking toward her from up ahead and she stood, ready to crouch behind the rock where the shadow was deep, but, she recognized the walk. It was him, and he was alone.

``Hey, Rob, no horse?’’ she said when his dark figure came around the curve. ``Where’s Gopher?’’

``I left him. I’d rather you ride him in the daytime anyhow. Come on, let’s go up the arroyo.’’ She looked at his face in the moonlight. He looked sleek and grinning in a way that reminded her of animal masks in pueblo dances. She had come to meet the Rob who was helping her learn to ride without her parents knowing. A cloud moved across the moon, and he appeared to grow taller, and completely unfamiliar.

It Was Very Unfamiliar - Jeff Thomas

The wind swirled, shaking the stand of trees in the crisp moonlight. Margaret sat on her porch swing, gazing out at the tempest. The house behind her was dark, the family inside, asleep. A strong breeze blew on to the porch and across the skin of her bare arms. She shivered and rubbed the goose-pimply flesh. Long strands of auburn hair floated around her face; she’d stopped trying to tuck them behind her ear. As the tree branches clanked and sighed, she felt of tickle of excitement in her belly. She’d been pulled out of a deep sleep and drawn to this place. The thin nightie she wore struck her as insufficient, but she dared not move. She was here to receive a message, bodily or spiritually and this certainty kept her in this spot. She wasn’t scared, just expectant. Suddenly she heard a loud crack and a puff of wind directly to her face made her gasp and close her eyes. When she opened, she realized that everything about her appeared strikingly new: the house, the yard, the stand of trees, her body. This was the message she was to receive. A change was going to take place, had already taken place and she was prepared, had even played an instrumental role in it. Margaret smiled and stood gracefully from the swing. She turned and walked back into the house.

Lies - Darcy Vebber

Side by side in the plastic molded chairs, facing the fish tank, they waited for his doctor to call him. The noise was constant but low frequency, white noise made by machines and overhead lights and the fish tank filter, pierced now and again by voices. The air was cool, cooler really than was comfortable but good for the machines. Outside it was Arizona spring, hot in the sun already but nice in the shadows. Pleasant. Impossible to dress for.

People who had been here before had sweaters. Most of them were decades older than Bobby and Lisa. Lisa felt them watching her, calculating her age and her health, wondering what she was doing there. It would be obvious to them that Bobby was the one. He was pale. His lips even, his nice full lips were pink, like they had been coated with ash. On the other hand, he was laughing.

She was still, trembling just under the skin, freezing. She wanted to put her hand in his but she wasn't sure what he would think. When they were together, they touched, they hugged, sometimes they even kissed and he knew it wasn't going to lead to more but she knew he was always waiting.

He wanted to tell her about an experiment he was running at school.

She wanted to know exactly what was going to happen next -- what was expected of her when the nurse called them, when they took him back for the tests.

He looked bored. He had done all this a hundred times.

Was she supposed to stay at his side?

He ducked his head, the way he had hidden his expression when his hair was longer but it was short now, a new tougher looking phase everyone had advised against and she could see him press his lips together, close his eyes. Then he sat up and said, "Yes, of course. That's why I brought you."

She didn't remind him that she was the one who brought, who drove, who dropped him near the door so he wouldn't have to strain his unreliable heart. She was the one who had to find the parking lot then her way to the admitting desk and the check in desk and all the way back to him here. She had to answer the questions of the receptionists along the way, their bright blue eyelids winking when she said no, friends, he's my best friend.

She was the one who bounced from desk to desk in her sneakers, feeling people watching her, how pink and healthy and strong she was. She was the one who had found him, sitting here by himself, reading People magazine as if it was any where, any waiting room, the airport maybe or even a class whose professor was running late. It's nothing, his smile said when he finally looked up and saw her. Nothing at all.

The Lie He Told HImself - Elizabeth Weld Nolan

The very small man leaned into the wind, clasped his hat onto his head and kept shuffling. There was too much wind to even lift his feet or he would be blown sideways. He curled his toes inside his shoes to grip the sidewalk, as if that would help. A garbage can on its side rolled out from an alley and he jumped out of its way, managing to land square all the same, and grabbed for the edge of the building. His hat, a bowler shiny with age, stayed on, and he steadied himself and proceeded.

Most people were inside today in the big storm, but his mission was important, and so he bent to his task again. When he came out of the lee of the brick building, the wind swept down the grand boulevard in renewed energy and caused him to flatten himself against the building before he stepped backwards into the lee again. Mere weather was not going to defeat him, so he bent low and walked sideways like a crab to the row of cars and proceeded up the street from car handle and fender to handle. The door to the hospital was just ahead. He had only to cross an open plaza and go up broad stairs.

He stopped to catch his breath. When the wind died for a moment, he ran limping through the slowly rolling cars, onto the open space and up the stairs. Panting, he pulled at the great doors, failing to open them. An attendant sitting at the desk inside saw him and pushed them apart. He slipped in.

``I’ve come to see Marilee, Marilee von Gruner,’’ he said. ``They told me she was here.’’

``Yes sir,’’ the attendant said, scowling. His great beard covered the top buttons of his white uniform. ``I told you yesterday. She ain’t here.’’

``Could you look in the book?’’ the small man said. ``They told me she was here.’’

``I did that yesterday, old timer, and the day before, and the day before. She just ain’t here. They took her away, and she won’t be back.’’

``Thank you, sir,’’ the man said, putting his bowler back on his head. ``I’ll check in with you tomorrow.’’ And he turned and leaned against the great doors and hopped out into the wind.

``Hey,’’ the attendant shouted after him, ``don’t you remember? I told you. She died. She ain’t here.’’

The man turned and waved and skipped off across the plaza like a leaf.

The Lie She Told Herself - Judy Albietz

Exiting the safety of the tunnel, Lily and Sam saw the volcano’s old cinder cone looming up ahead. That’s where they needed to be, to find the Elder Blue Monkeys. Lily and Sam didn’t have that far to go on the volcanic rock path. But they were unprotected, out in the open. They hustled up the hill as fast as they could, slipping and sliding sideways on the slippery rocks. There was no one else in sight, but off in the distance Lily could hear nasty howling sounds, which could be the insane dogs or just the sound of evil itself.

Lily looked down at her shaking hands and quickly tried to hide them from Sam. She didn’t want him to know she was scared out of her wits. She didn’t even want to admit it to herself, at least out loud, making it real by putting a voice to it. Lily knew she was way beyond simple panic attacks. The constant tightening in her chest was a reminder of the dangers around them, any one of which freaked her out. The ground might turn into a sea of boiling lava. Mort or his henchmen might re-appear and attack. She and Sam might be too late to save the Time Portal and the world will be destroyed.

Sam must know the truth—that the deck is stacked against us. But so what—even if it’s the truth—Sam will never accept defeat. Neither will I. Lily remembered her father saying “confidence is a state of mind you need to hang onto while looking for a solution.” She wondered what he would say to her now. It would probably be something about the need to lie to yourself about danger so you can conquer your fears.

Taking a deep breath, Lily said, “We’re getting out of this alive.”

“Of course we are, Lily. But why are you talking out loud?” Sam asked.

Lily tried to sound casual. “Sometimes I like to hear myself talk. So I talk to myself. Sometimes I just do that…it’s my OCD thing. You know, I’m obsessive about being compulsive about being brave. It makes me feel better to hear my voice telling me everything is going to be okay….”

Then Sam threw his head back and barked loudly, in three long rhythmic stanzas. Lowering his head back down, Sam looked over at Lily. “Even though I can’t speak out loud, I also can tell the world I am not afraid of anything,” Sam said, his collar now glowing a soft green.

“You’ve got me convinced,” Lily laughed a bit nervously, while thinking to herself: Now who’s telling the biggest lie?

Digging Down Underneath It - Camilla Basham

We entered the Frick Collection to escape the rainstorm as it assaulted the Upper East Side. Exhausted from the sudden onslaught of culture thrust upon us, we plopped ourselves down on the elegant sofa in front of Jean-Baptiste-Camille Corot's The Lake. To the right of us, Frans Hals's Portrait of a Man, to the left, the artist's Portrait of a Woman. The artworks numbered, people holding earpieces, entering the numbers, holding the sets to their ears, hearing the inside story of the works of art: what message the artist hoped to relay, his technique, the secret life's of the subjects portrayed. "Notice the iridescent folds of fabric that leave one weak in the knees." "Take note of the eyes which seem to leap from the canvas." As patrons moved from one portrait to the next they stopped in front of The Lake; in front of US. We had no number attached to us, yet people stopped and observed us.

Wouldn't it be funny, he said, if we sat here holding up numbers. People could punch in our numbers and hear the real stories of our lives, not what we portray ourselves to be, but who we actually are. I giggled. This provoked a dirty look from security. It seems mixing laughter with fine art is frowned upon, or maybe it was our appearance: hair wet and matted to our heads, our collars soaked, shivering. "Art should warm you, not leave you cold." He said putting his arm around me. We exuded happiness. You could practically feel it pulsating from us. People gathered around us pretending to look at the portraits and the painting in the background, but we felt their eyes on us, and when we looked up they averted their gaze from us to the canvases and raised their hands to their chins in a pensive pose. Our love was living art!

Digging Down Underneath It - Jennifer Baljko

Sammy thought the folks he lived with were crazy people. He didn’t understand what they were saying half the time, and they were mostly nice enough. But they were always shouting at each other. There was always a raucous somewhere. And, there was a ton of them around, coming and going all day long. There was the blonde lady who always fed him, and gave him tasty treats. The guy with the mustache who played catch with him. Sammy liked him, but it was always too dark when that one came home and it was hard for Sammy to find the chewed up ball. And, then there were all those random-sized little people – god, they screamed the loudest, mostly at each other, never really at Sammy. That tiny one up there in that funny looking white basket… she was the loudest in the bunch. Sammy tried to get a whiff of her, but was shoed away by one of the taller little people.

Sammy, a little guy himself, tried to get away a couple times. It’s not that he hated the people or the noise. He just knew there had to be something beyond the fence. Everyone went beyond the fence, everyone except for him. He had seen the blonde lady and the man with the mustache undo the latch. He had tried to do the same with his nose, but couldn’t quite unhinge it. God, how he wished he had a thumb… that would have made things easier. And, there was no way he could jump over the fence… his legs were still too short. That left only one other option. He had to dig underneath the fence. So, when everyone was off somewhere, he started pawing his way out.

When he heard footsteps coming closer to the backyard, he would run towards the door, and wag his tail with way too much excitement. He had to distract the crazies. He didn’t want to anyone what he was doing. He suspected if got caught he would get in trouble, and probably wouldn’t get his afternoon bone. He was anxious to see what was out there, but knew he had to be cautious, too.

Going Nowhere - Katie Burke

Various clothes I’d worn all week were strewn on the floor: inside-out jeans doing the splits next to my bed; strappy sandals bottomed-up, revealing just how dirty the dance floor at my sister’s wedding had been; button-up work shirts, buttoned all the way down, arms pointing in opposite directions; and lingerie in between, shamelessly punctuating these mentionables.

These were but some of the wayward souls who had not quite made it into the laundry basket, the shoe closet, the dry cleaning bag.

Empty plates and cups, crumpled paper towels, and burned-out matches in the living room told the story of my lighting candles to write by, food set out on the table for me to eat while I created – and they also told how exhausted I was, so tired that I couldn’t manage to bring the dishes in to the sink, where they would join stacks of dishes building up, awaiting hand-washing, since there was no dishwasher, and I just couldn’t find the time or energy to get that task done each night.

And oh, the full-length mirror just off the kitchen, right next to the bathroom – my last stop before walking out the door each morning. This reflective surface, meant for truth-telling about the hair, the makeup, the fit of the clothes, was for my primping purposes – not, as it had become, as a repository littered with Post-It notes stacked with to-do items. My to-do list was stored on a Word document in my laptop, down the hall and just two rooms away.

Never one to deep clean, I had people come in every two weeks for the laborious mopping, vacuuming, window-washing, dusting – all the tasks that keep my little one-bedroom apartment microscope-ready. But I’m the one who keeps the floors clothing-free, the to-do list on the computer updated, and the mirror free of random remembrances of things I needed to do, but did not have the time to walk two rooms over to document.

Very tidy by nature, the state of my living quarters bothered me. My apartment was both evidence of, and witness to, the frenzied insides of my mind. My chaotic life manifested in each room, then anyone looking on would see I was going nowhere fast.

I wasn’t lazy. I wasn’t a slob. That is the most bothersome part; I was just that tired. My little one-bedroom, single woman’s life was in too much disarray for me to manage.

My shoes now tucked into the closet; all dirty clothes in the various bins for their cleaning; all dishes cleared from the living room coffee table and kitchen sink, and put away in the kitchen cabinets; all reminders of what I need to do neatly listed on one document; and the mirror cleared of Post-Its and free to be a reflective surface once again, I am going somewhere.

Space and energy have returned to my life. Order restored, I long to see what will unfold.

Going Nowhere (Threat or Promise) - Melody Cryns

“He’s a real nowhere man, sitting in his nowhere land, making all his nowhere plans for nobody!”

Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to just get in the car and drive and go nowhere in particular, just drive and drive wherever the mood takes me. It seems as if I’m always on a mission, in a hurry to get to somewhere or leave from somewhere – sometimes I long for a less busy life when I actually have time to breathe, when I don’t have to hurry up and get ready so I can get to work, drop my kid off at school, and then rush down the freeway to classes. Go here, rush there…

I just read an article the other day about how Starbucks now offers packets of instant coffee to people. I was talking to my friend about it at the beach the other day in San Francisco. It was a cold, foggy morning on Ocean Beach, but I didn’t care. I took my shoes and socks off and walked along in the cool stand feeling the coldness on my feet. This was one of those luxurious moments when I could just walk down the beach with my Havanese dog Sydney – and she could play with other Havanese dogs. I thought, yaaaayyy! A walk on the beach. Wrong. Sydney didn’t always want to stay with the group. She’d either loiter behind or run way ahead, and I’d find myself doing my best to herd her in. We were walking a certain direction on the beach, not just wandering aimlessly about.

“Yes, in New York where I live now, the new thing is to pick up those packets of instant coffee at Starbucks.”

“Pretty pathetic that people don’t even have time to sit down and have a cup of coffee,” I said.

“Yeah, that’s right! It’s sad.”

I watched some surfers out there in the water – and a couple of them actually got up on their surfboards and there they were riding the waves! Yeah! I wondered if they ever thought about whether they were going nowhere or not – they were just out there waiting for just the right waves to arrive so they could do their thing.

Sydney ended up running to the other side of the beach and I had to chase her down. It was scary, not knowing exactly where she was for a few moments. All the other doggies stayed together, but not my Sydney, no. I was the only one in the entire group who had to chase her that far. She was a bit disheveled and very happy to see me when I finally got close enough to call her – and she came running. Then, cold, wet and happy, I put her leash back on and we walked through the sand to my car. I dried Sydney off with a towel and we stopped at the coffee shop on 48th Avenue and Judah Streets where I ordered a coffee and sat outside with the dog and drank…no instant coffee packs for me. I had to get to the Beatles Fest once again, but it wasn’t like I had to be in a rush.

For just a moment, even just a moment, it felt good to go nowhere

Starting Over - John Fetto

I don’t know all the story, though I should. I didn’t write it down at the time. I don’t remember exactly what I did. I remember that after the hospice nurse and the hearse left, his wife’s friends asked if there was anything they wanted him to do.

“All this,” he said, meaning the hospital bed, the walker, the oxygen tank, “can you get them to take all this away?”

They understood. He didn’t sit, he did something, even if I can’t remember what he did, I’m sure he was moving. His wife’s friends made it all disappear. The hospital bed, the oxygen tank, the walker. It all disappeared, though to this day he can’t recall anyone taking it away. He might have driven to the airport to pick up his cousin, because his cousin, his surrogate brother, was there that afternoon. He must have cried, but I don’t remember. He must have answered calls. He would have gotten on the internet. Yes, I’m sure he did that. He wrote something about his wife. He liked to write. He would have written. He would have saved it somewhere.

Something that afternoon or morning, the wife’s friends left and the cousin arrived. The cousin had been there all along, a phone call and instant message away. They were but one year age difference between them. Both Brooklyn born and transplanted to California, both lawyers, the default occupation for the good student. Always competitive until they stopped and the younger cousin became the prop holding up him. The cousin had become a prop for everyone. And now he was here for him.

He, not the cousin, but the he who is subject of this story, would have pushed himself to start over. Even that day he would have started making plans. A trip to England. He would finish his book. No distractions now, he couldn’t see anything else bad ever happening to him. This was so much. He could become a journalist, go to Afghanistan, he could stand up and take photographs while soldiers lay hunkered down in trenches, because nothing worse could ever happen to him.

It was over, he would have thought to himself and he would start again. It would be easy, he told himself. No, he didn’t say that, I’m sure, but I would bet he thought it, knowing him as well as I do. He would have thought everything would be easy now. It would be years before he admitted he was wrong. Just as he had been wrong about nothing worse could happen.

Still, he did go England, and it had been fun. And yet it never really felt like starting over. He simply survived.

A New World - Christine Whalen

When Liz was planning her trip to Rio she dreamed of beaches, and samba, and caipirinhas, and sexy Brazilian men flirting with her at oceanside cafes. Her Brazilian friend had told her about the other side, the favelas and the crime and kidnappings and the drugs. But in her imagination, Rio was vibrant and magical, and its seamy underside was just a vague notion, something dark and unpleasant, but not entirely real.

On the long flight there, while she dozed, and listened to her fellow travelers complain about the food, and reminisce about past trips, she also fantasized about a new life in this new world. What if she didn’t go back? What if she found a job teaching English, and spent her afternoons at the beach. She’d go to the gym everyday so she could wear a Brazilian bikini, their oh-so-revealing bottoms in the style of fio dental , or dental floss. She’d drink coconut juice (not milk, but the fresh juice) everyday for its wondrous health properties. She’d learn to samba, and maybe even dance at Carnival. She’d write witty, captivating emails to her friends back home detailing her adventures. Maybe she’d even start a blog. Liz smiled at the thought of some of her earnest public interest lawyer friends reading disapprovingly about the frivolous life she’d live. But way deep down she suspected they’d be jealous. Oh, they’d never admit it. They’d say she should start a non-profit to help the children in the favelas, and campaign against the objectification of women’s bodies symbolized by the skimpy bikinis, and at all costs not have too much fun. And no sex, because do you know the rate of STDs in Brazil, and those Latin men are so sexist and they’ll never treat you as an equal.

A New World - Bonnie Smetts

I should have known not to be tagging along with those boys. But the next day I’m with them again. They’re crazy about going to that cabin to try to catch people ‘doing it.’

“Rawling, you chicken, or are you gonna knock on the door when we get there?” I don’t know what got into me but I say, yes. And so we head up a trail away from the lake. I’ve never been up any trail so steep, I’m in the middle and the big guys are slipping back down toward me. We’re all getting as red as a barn with the mud.

“Rawling, are you going run away after you knock?” Some scrawny kid stuck behind me is asking. He’s obviously somebody’s little brother, the brother of a bigger kid who got a threat from his mother that he had to take this little kid.

“Yeah, I’m gonna knock, and no I’m not gonna run away,” I say. I’m getting more jumpy each step I’m taking through the vines. By now the sun’s somewhere above us but we can’t even see it, walking through this tunnel of green.

And then we stop having to climb up. Everybody’s breathing, gasping. And that includes me. I gulp, trying to get some air standing in the middle of a field. But the air I’m getting is heavy.

And then the boys all look at me. And I look at them, except I pretend to be tying my shoe. “So, where’s the cabin?” I say.

“Ah, the cabin, it’s too far to go today. I thought you’d been there,” the tallest boy says. He’s standing over me now, blocking whatever sun is beyond him. “We thought you could show us a little something yourself.”

And every bit of me knew I’d been right back there at the lake, that I shouldn’t been messing with these boys. Inside of me something just exploded and I turned and ran. I slipped, grabbing at the plants, the vines like ropes, anything just to stop me from tumbling right down the hill. I didn’t see where I was going, exactly, just the red trail, and my shoes getting redder with each step.

The sound of the boys, whooping and screaming, was barreling down on me. I kept running and slipping and then I start to see a little bit of an opening that meant we were getting near the lake. But I know going to the lake is like going to a dead end. They can get me.

I step into the deepest green tangle I’d ever seen. The places in the woods where the moss clings the trees and those leaves are taller than me. I shove myself into a hole at the start of a tree wider than all of me. And I close my eyes and I wait. I wait. I wait. And then they blast by me, those stupid, stupid, stupid boys. But I’m not too sure. So I stay in a ball, hold my muddy knees and cry. I stay in that ball until it’s dark and all I hear is an owl.

The Trigger - Bonnie Smetts

They don’t know Roy’s got a gun. And all I can do is watch and hide and hope to a god I want with me here in the woods tonight.

“We got you surrounded, Roy, you chickenshitasshole,” says a voice attached to someone I can’t see. “Asshole, you’re good as dead now.” And then I hear the shadows laughing. I don’t know how many there are this time.

I’m breathing in tiny sips, trying not to let any sound escape. Jesusgod, Roy. I hope you know what you’re doing. I see the shadows move and I hear running, more like a scuffling and then the sound of breaking glass. “He’s in there, that chicken shit’s hiding in there.” And then I hear more laughing. And more glass breaking, this time maybe it’s only a bottle.

I move one boulder closer to the house. Jesusgod, Roy. I can’t save him and I’m not crazy enough to try. But I’m feeling sicker each minute this goes on and I can’t imagine an ending that I could live with.

And then a blast, a gunshot snaps past me. I swear it came right at me. I’m down on the ground now, holding my breath and trying no to throw up. My brain feels like it’s gonna burst right through my scalp.

Pop, pop, pop, again, then pounding feet in my direct. Big men are screaming and breathing and I’m praying they aren’t coming at me.

And then it happens. A truck starts up. There’s screeching and dust and thudding and lights and then it’s gone. I wait.

“The asshole’s left, that chickenshit asshole just left,” says one of the voices from the shadows. Judging by the sounds, the men were lying on the ground not that far from me. And they start yelling and screaming at each other. How could they let that chicken ass get away from his own house? And more and more.

I wait in the dark, holding my breath.

And then there’s another explosion. A truck engine ignites. I can’t hear nothing else, just the truck and then the gears and the gravel and then they’re gone. They gotta be gone. They’re can’t be anybody left out here now. I still don’t move.

The Trigger - John Fetto

He inhaled slowly and held his breath. His finger touched the trigger. But who aimed him? Who had pointed on the map and said we will drop you here. Not that lieutenant. The Captain? But who told him? He let go of the trigger and exhaled. Why did he have to shoot now? Why not wait a few more minutes. Maybe the person who had told the Captain, who had told the lieutenant, maybe that person had a change of mind? Maybe he was on the radio right now telling him to stop?

He looked again at his target. Khaki uniform, pith helmet. He didn’t look as though he knew he was about to die. The target rocked on his heels, unafraid. Who aimed him? Did he ever wonder? What if both were aimed by the same central command? What if this were a test to see if he were really an animal, someone who could kill and not care? What if the trigger weren’t attached to a rifle but to a radio, the barrel but an antenna, to tell this spirit that he had failed, failed in refusing not to kill? Then when he pulled the trigger, he would die and not the target. Wasn’t this murder? The target meant him no harm.

He eased his finger off the trigger and closed his eyes. Breathing. Just breathing. When he opened his eyes, he saw that the target had sat down. He was drinking. Laughing. Maybe not offensively, maybe just enjoying the afternoon, but the target seemed to look directly at him, laughing at him, sitting in the brush unable to pull the trigger, and then, finally he hated his target. He inhaled and exhaled three times and centered on the target’s grin. The shiny teeth.

He didn’t remember squeezing the trigger. Sometimes later, when he was back, he wondered who did. He remembered the jolt from the barrel and saw the spray of red on the wall behind the target and the target slumping down. And crawling away.

The Trigger - Jeff Thomas

“Pull!”

{Metallic rattle.}

Two clay pigeons soar out over the field in smooth, diverging arcs.

{Pull the trigger. Kaboom!}

Clay shatters; yellow and black explode like dull fireworks.

{Reload. Pull the trigger. Kaboom!}

Nothing.

The second disk, past the peak of its arc, descends rapidly toward the tawny field.

{Quick, reload. Pull the trigger. Kaboom.}

Feet before the ground the disk disintegrates. The noise of the gun echoes off the nearby trees in a rattling concussion. A few dark birds scatter in the fading, later afternoon light.

Frank lowers the shotgun and pulls off his earmuffs. Tim chuckles, “Good catch on the last one.”

“Aw, shut it.” Frank reaches into his jacket for more shotgun shells. He scowls. “Load ‘em up. Two again this time, but I’m runnin’ out of shells.”

Tim reaches into the box and pulls out two fluorescent yellow clay pigeons. They’re fragile in his hands. With one hand, he pulls back the spring-loaded trap and clicks it in place. Gingerly he places the two disks on the metal arm. One cracks in half. “Goddangit! Where the hell’d d’you get these cheap fuckers?” He tosses the broken bits on the ground and reaches for another.

Frank finishes loading and with a loud clack pumps a shell into the chamber. He puts the muffs back on and lifts the gun.

A moment of silence presents itself.

“Pull!”

The Trigger - Jennifer Baljko

Grip the handle with both hands.
Line up the shaft.
Aim for the mouth.
Take a deep breath.
Size up the competition.
Wait for the bell.
Pull the trigger.
Move to rapid fire.
Keep the pressure steady.
Watch the stream of water.
Hold the line.
Hit the mark.
Inflate the balloon.
Check out the other red balloons.
Stare at the clown head with the maniacal twisted smile.
Commit to winning.
Stay focused.
Exert the last effort.
Stand in glow of yellow flashing lights.
Walk away with 3-inch stuffed animal made in China.
Savor the victory.
Celebrate with cotton candy.

The Trigger - Christine Whalen

David reached his hand up to Liz’s face. He left it there for a minute, cupping her cheek, the fingertips resting in the hollow under her eye. He looked at her intently, his face slightly inscrutable. She wondered if he wanted to ask her what she was thinking. He knew it annoyed her when he did. She’d told him that once. She didn’t like to go into her
thinking brain when she was in the midst of a feeling experience. But he wanted to know.

“What does it feel like when you shiver after?” he asked.

She paused, thinking of the best words to describe something that had nothing to do with words, that she liked to keep beyond words. But she tried, for him. “Like after shocks,” she said. “Little tremors.”

He leaned over and kissed her. His hand pressed against her breast, squeezing and then tracing little circles closer to her nipple. He lifted his hand away and then lowered it again, this time barely making contact, rubbing his palm back and forth, lightly grazing her nipple.

“Have you seen The Matrix?” he asked, seemingly out of the blue.

Liz felt irritated now. She didn’t want to talk about movies. She didn’t want to talk at all.

“Yes. Why?” She knew she sounded curt, but she couldn’t help it.

“There’s a scene it in, the female robot, when her breast was touched it triggered an electrical current that flowed down between her legs.” He looked at her. “Is that what it’s like?”

Taking the Leap - Elizabeth Weld Nolan

It was like when you stand on the edge of the swimming pool and you’re six or seven, your toes curled around the rim, and you put your head down and curl your chest to follow and you look at the water and then at your cousin who showed you how but you haven’t done it yet. So you stop just as you’re about go in: ``Can I do this?’’ Then you see your cousin do it again and you lean down further and further in a C shape until you plunge into the clear blue water turning a circle as fast as a whiplash that makes your stomach leap and you dizzy and a little nauseous until you thrash up breathless and triumphant from getting youself to do it and from the feeling of turning your body inside out into a new one and you yell, ``I did it!’’

That’s what it what it was like the day I met Marcus.

Taking the Leap - Judy Albeitz

A small slit let in light at the bottom of the door which stood between them and the monsters. “We’ve gotta get out of here,” Lily told Sam over the shouting and loud banging on the door.

“I’m working on it,” Sam replied, with his eyes closed in concentration and his collar flashing red and white lights as it communicated with the Time Portal core. “Two minutes…I just need two minutes to program the exact energy levels needed to send you back while allowing your body’s molecules to stay together.”

They both knew that if those hideous creatures broke through, they would prevent Lily from traveling through the Time Portal back to her home and back to three days before the virus infected the Time Portal. Lily watched the door bulge with every scream and shout from the other side. The banging suddenly stopped and all was quiet. Lily said, “I don’t have a good feeling about those guys behind the door…what they are up to…”

Then Lily spotted the slime oozing from the bottom of the door. “No, not a good feeling at all…Sam, we don’t have any more time….we need to go, one way or another…and soon…” Lily said, watching the puddle slowly creeping along the floor towards them. She thought to herself that the slime was a mixture of the monsters in liquid form…shadows of their ears and sharp teeth were reflected in the gooey substance. But they still smelled like themselves.…old vomit… and …as the slime got closer, steam poured off it as it ate a path through the stone floor.

She had to take the leap. No choice on that. It was all on her. If she didn’t go back home to three days before she had traveled here, nothing else would matter since time would just fold in on itself. There wouldn’t be anybody around to talk about it, either. Lily looked back at one of the hundreds of paintings which she now knew made up the outside layer of the Time Portal. Lily did have one choice: which painting to leap into. The way Sam had explained it, all she had to do was go into the painting and she would be absorbed by it. She would instantly find herself on the other side, in her world. Sam had adjusted the time mechanism to send her back to the cabin at 9 a.m., three days before she had traveled to Borealis.

Lily picked her painting, the one with the circle of young Blue Monkeys holding hands, laughing and dancing. Their skin and hair colors were all shades of blue, from pale pastel to darker turquoise with an iridescent glow. Off to the side, older Blue Monkeys were looking on proudly. One of the women looked like Sophia and wore garments identifying her as a healer. Lily could see intricate carved details in the ancient buildings in the background. Trees and plants were painted in such vibrant colors that they looked three-dimensional. Even the dancing children appeared to be moving. “I’m guessing that you can’t go with me,” Lily said to Sam who was hovering over her like a worried parent.

“Lily, you know how risky this is and I want to make sure that everything goes as planned. There is no room for error. We have never sent a human through the Time Portal. I have to stay here to monitor the program. My collar and I will regulate the energy levels so you can travel home safely. Don’t worry about me…and them…” Sam said, pointing to the growing puddle of steaming slime.

You Couldn't Hide It - Darcy Vebber

Lisa's plan had been to take Sam out, for coffee, for dinner, maybe even for a drive down to Palm Springs. It was as far as she had thought, just to take him as far away from the Fold as she could but they'd talked for half an hour, all in all, and she had failed to get him off the property. When she finally got in to her car, he was still in the mouth of the driveway.

She started the engine and he turned to go in. She looked back. He was lost to her in the darkness. Then he emerged in the light over the door where the girl was waiting and they went in together. Lisa saw him bend towards her, the way he did when he was listening. It always made him seem particularly kind.

The Victorville Denny's was busy. Couples and families sat under the bright orange colored lights conferring. Lisa walked to the counter, feeling blind, blind with anger, blinded by the strange overhead lighting, by the sound of all these people so apparently happy to be eating what was bound to be bad food in this ugly room. All these crazy people, what was wrong with them? Why didn't they want something better?

At the end, she had been reduced to screaming at him. What is wrong with you? Why can't you see what they're doing to you? He had listened as if she was reading a not very interesting news paper article. You can't even go with me to get coffee, she screamed. You can't even go with me to talk. I love you, she tried. You know that.

At the counter she tried to imagine what would have happened if she'd gotten him there. It's two miles away, she had begged. Bring her with you, she had offered.

It wouldn't have helped, she thought now. The boy behind the counter brought her coffee -- weak, bitter in a shallow, wide cup. Who would leave eternal salvation or whatever they offered Sam for this? She stared at the menu while the boy watched her, waiting.

"There is nothing here," she said. "Nothing I want."

"Rough night?" the boy asked. He had braces and fresh red acne on his cheeks.

"Yeah." That was all she could safely say. A simple expression of interest undid her.

"Guy?" the boy asked.

"Yeah," she said again.

He waited some more. Finally he said, "So, anything else?"

"No. Thank you." She willed herself to be kind. To keep her frightened, terrible thoughts to herself. I used to be like you, judging everyone, full of my power but now I know better, Sam had said. Your pride is evil. She smiled at the boy. "I'm just going to sit here for a little, if that's ok." She put her still cold, stiff fingers around the lukewarm cup and tried for some time not to cry.

You Couldn't Hide It - Melody Cryns

Okay, so he’s kind of an older guy – at least that’s the impression I get when I see him or hang out with him. But there’s something really fun-loving about him – the way he grabs my hand and pulls me around the dance floor and next thing you know we’re swing dancing to Mike Osborn Band playing high-energy rock n’ roll music – just the way I like it. Heck, I don’t even know how to swing dance, yet this guy makes it possible for me to do it…he leads me in such a mellow way. “Don’t think about it!” he says, “Just do it.”

So there I am at the Cardinal Lounge on a Saturday night – with its retro 1970’s look – the red lighting and the plastic leather red chairs that make me think of what it was like to go out in the 1980’s back in the days when I was in my 30’s. I know it sounds crazy and I don’t know why, but I actually kind of like this guy Harold.

My friend Vikki sat at our table and watched us dance and all the other nutty people out on the dance floor – but mostly she watched the Mike Osborn Band. I could see her smiling every time she looked over at us though. Mike Osborn is an amazing guitarist whom Vikki and I stumbled upon at a benefit show at this dive restaurant in San Jose called the Line Shack. We wanted to support Doc, this older guitarist guy – to help him get his license back. We hadn’t even heard of Mike Osborn before – and when we saw him, we both admitted that we felt all tingly all over. I mean, this dude is over the top – he plays guitar with his tongue even and looks like he’s making love to his guitar.

So mostly all the girls are looking at Mike Osborn and I can’t say I blame him. Turns out he’s a nice guy too – with four kids even, whom he had to raise partially by himself. I don’t blame the girls for looking at him – he’s pretty hot.

But here I am swinging around the dance floor with Harold, a middle-aged, tall thin guy who likes to talk. He actually helps out the band – sets up their sound system and makes sure everything is going smoothly.

As we danced and talked, he said, “This isn’t really my day job, but I love the music and just being out here…”

“Cool,” I said and smiled.

When I finally sat back down next to Vikki she leaned over and said, “You’d better watch out or you’ll have another Allan on your hands!” We both laughed. Allan was this guy who hung out at Woodham’s where we went to jam night, an older guy with white hair put back in a ponytail. He seemed like a gentle soul, but he was chasing me big time…I made the mistake of giving him my phone number when he asked and didn’t realize he’d start calling me every single night. It’s hard to avoid him now whenever I go to Woodham’s. He always wants me to play pool with him and I’ve told him time and again that I’m not interested in playing pool – I’m there to hear the great live music.

“But, Vikki, you know what? I actually like this guy! He’s not like Allan.”

“No, he’s not.” Vikki nodded. Vikki is having a thing with her next door neighbor who is 20 years younger than her – we had laughed because she admitted that now she was officially a “cougar.” I found younger guys attractive most of the time, but there was something about Harold that was cool…

So I went out on the dance floor for more fun and Harold invited me to San Juan Bautista where Mike Osborn Band would be performing again. “I’d love to see your smiling face again!” he said and winked at me. I knew he liked me. I could just tell and I was right. I couldn’t hide it anymore – I sort of like him too.

Laughing Until You Cry - Katie Burke

I walked into the room, and your smile increased as your eyes kept twinkling. You had a hug for me, and our bodies pressed together so perfectly, so warmly, so evenly. You told a joke that only I would understand, and I laughed until I cried.

It has been three years and 11 months since I’ve felt that hug or heard that joke. I laughed until I cried, and then I noticed the crying kept going and the laughing had long since stopped. You were funny, but you weren’t very nice. I just didn’t want to cry anymore.

It’s been nice not crying, but I still think of your laugh. Your twinkle. Your smile. You’re the one who got away, thank god, and now I’m back to laughing again.

What Happened When I Got What I Really Wanted - Camilla Basham

I wanted to grow up to be Samantha Stevens when I was little: live in a quant house, have a loving husband, wear cool mod clothes, have interesting relatives, whip up dinner for Larry and Louis Tate at a moments notice, woo my husband’s clients with my cooking skills and clever banter. Like Samantha, I wanted to be perfect and beautiful, more powerful than my husband could ever know. A twitch of the nose would clean a dirty house without breaking a sweat; a snap of the fingers would set stubborn assholes in their place and then there was Darrin; not the Dick Sargent Darrin, but the Dick York Darrin. He was awkwardly adorable, loving and looked oddly handsome in his tight fitting shiny sixties suit with skinny tie, slicked back hair and big eyes. And what happened when I got what I wanted? I realized without the magic, It kind of sucks.

Plotting - Melody Cryns

“Something bad has gotta happen! Make them suffer!” Floyd Salas shouted in the classroom, pacing back and forth. He shouted often, not just because he was passionate about all this stuff, but because he was hard of hearing as well – but this poor new student probably didn’t know that. I knew it because Floyd and his wife Claire were my good friends. But in the classroom I was still the student and Floyd would always be my teacher. It would never change over the years.

He’d yelled at me several times – “You’ve got good stuff here! This is fun gossip – put it into FORM! Use the five-point plot plan!!!”

I don’t know how many times Floyd would yell at me about the five-point plot plan. I knew it by heart. You start with a problem/conflict, then there’s the first crisis, and then the second crisis, the climax and the conclusion. We talked about it in my graduate creative writing classes even – at least variations of it, but always pretty much the same.

One time Floyd ran right up to me and looked me right in the face and yelled, “Don’t forget the five-point plot plan!”

But do I remember the five-point plot plan when I first awake in the morning and stumble to my computer to write? Nooo, of course not. I just pour the words on to the white screen and hope for the best. Later, I can think about the five-point plot plan and picture Floyd yelling about it in the classroom – or hear all my wonderful teachers offer their input. Sometimes my muse is stubborn. She doesn’t like form much – she’d much rather just go with the flow. She’s just a kid, that muse of mine, and she doesn’t like structure or that a word, what is it? “Authority.” So I have to keep feeding her with all this knowledge about five-point plot plans and rising action – over and over again until she gets it right.

“Make the main character mean – he doesn’t hit his kid just once and feel bad – he does it several times and then he feels bad! Make lots of bad stuff happen! What you don’t want to write, we wanna hear!”

In Floyd’s weird way, he got it right. I was reading over Aristotle’s Poetics the other day for my teacher’s aid stint I’m doing in my master’s program – I’ve gotta read all the same stuff the students do. And even though Aristotle wrote Poetics at least a couple thousand years ago, he kinda got it right when he said something to the effect that everything that happens in your story, each part of the story, must be a part of the entire story – that is, if you can take a part out and it doesn’t change the story, then you don’t need it. Aristotle thought plot was the most important element needed in a poem (which were stories back then – no novels or movies, just verse and made into plays).

Guess things haven’t changed too much in a couple thousand years.

Plotting - John Fetto

Billings sat perusing his papers, waiting for the Judge to call his case and began to plot, his mind working quickly over the alternatives. It was simple. If he had a good case, he wouldn’t want to try the case, and they would. If he had a great case they wouldn’t want to try the case, and he would. But of course it was more complicated than this. He wasn’t a monster. He didn’t just think of numbers. He was concerned with people too. Not his clients especially but Linda and her invitation to go to a ski lodge in Tahoe this weekend. If he tried the case, he’d have to prepare the whole weekend, if he had to prepare the whole weekend, he wouldn’t be able to go away with Linda. Linda or try a case. He turned over another piece of paper, as if reading and weighed the pros and cons.

The case had merit. If he worked his ass off, he could really ring the bell, in numbers of six fingers. But Linda had merit too. He quickly inventories her merits, and re-calculated the gloss on her parted lips when she had invited him before she left last night. Eyes and lips. Eyes, lips mouth, a kind of pouty mouth, neck, and then he began to lose count. On one side was---no on the other side was, win, Linda, the ski lodge, all to themselves, a hot tub, wine, not much skiing, but who cared…

The judge called his case and he walked up, handed the sheriff a slip of paper with his name, the name of his firm, the case number, and sat down at the table before the judge.

“Is this case ready to try?”

“Yes,” said Billings.

“I’m afraid not,” said the defense attorney. He stood up as he said it, buttoning his jacket as he prepared to make a long speech. “Your honor we still haven’t deposed…” and then he went off to name half the phone book they needed to prepare his case. Somewhere around ‘g’, Billings lost interest and thought about Linda standing in the little lodge, greeting him as he walked up in his ski jacket. She was wearing less…

“Mr. Billings?” said the Judge and Billing’s realized it was the second time he’d been called.

“You honor,” he said and paused. “We’d ready to try this case now…”

The defense attorney was already up and interrupting him.

“If I may, your honor.” The judge frowned at the defense attorney who suddenly lost his voice. “But I don’t want counsel to think we’ve taken advantage of his total lack of preparation. I have no objection to a short continuance.”

Members of the audience teetered as he sat down. He almost thought he overplayed it, as he sat down, and he hid his smile behind his folded hands. It took the defense counsel a full three minutes to explain how it wasn’t his fault he was unprepared, and Billings didn’t pile on any more. He was thinking that if the court ruled early, he could make a token appearance at the office, get to Tahoe early.

Plotting - Darcy Vebber

Lisa had a headache. If Alice were around, she would certainly say her daughter needed more light. Lisa leaned forward over the book she was studying and pressed her fingertips to her temples. More light. When she was little, the family had flashlights that strapped on to your head like miner's lamps for when the unreliable reservation power went out. In the complete darkness of a desert night, the lights were so bright they couldn't see anything else, so a parent or a sister walking towards her was like a hot white ghost. She needed one of those lights for this project. Religion, she had learned, was a discipline with too much small print.

The library table was scratched. The lamps above it and at either end were beautiful, gold and green glass globes like fruit, but not real illumination. A man near her had clipped a small plastic travel light on to a page of his book. Lisa needed a lantern. A lantern and a path. A path and a guide. White light and a ghost. She had been advised both to chose a thesis topic that fascinated her and to chose one that she already pretty much understood.

She scratched the top of her head with the fingers of both hands until she was sure her hair was standing on end. Bobby had advised her to use her imagination. Unlike the Talmud scholars whose tiny words she was trying to read, he believed in original work. Words that would change the world or startle it at least. Like a 19th century explorer, she wanted to discover a place and put her name on it. But those places, she reminded herself, had names already. From the page in front of her, she read Rabbi Hunna said, in the name of Rav Yonathon of Breslav, … She yawned. …as it is written … She closed her eyes. It was supposed to be a conversation, all the dead guys, all the living ones, always talking, on and on. How to get in? How to make anyone listen? She felt the cool of the thin sheet against her cheek and in a dream pressed her ear against the page. All around her, the sweet murmurings of library life went on.

Plotting - Christine Whelan

Dave took her gently by the arm and guided her down the street to his car. She couldn’t look at him. Probably making a scene at a crowded restaurant was one of those things that would show up on a list of “Worst First Date Blunders.” This was their second date though, so maybe there was a little wiggle room. Then again, those lists usually involved talking too much about your ex. Not yelling at him. In public. While drunk. Still, she hadn’t mentioned marriage or children. That had to count for something.

Dave opened the door to his white Honda and Liz slid into the passenger seat. She leaned her head back against the seat. Dave had one of those little tree air fresheners hanging from his rearview mirror, and Liz wondered what the sweet chemical scent was supposed to be. It made her want to gag. She closed her eyes. Maybe she could pretend she was asleep and not have to talk on the short drive home.

The minute she closed her eyes though, she felt things spinning.

The key turned in the ignition and the radio blared. Thankfully, Dave turned it off.

“How are you feeling?”

“Oh, I’ve felt better.” Liz sucked in a deep breath and turned a little in her seat so she was half facing Dave. “Look, I’m really sorry about that. I guess I’m still a little angry.”

Dave smiled. “I’ve done some stupid things in my day too.” He paused, glancing sideways at her. “I’m not saying what you did was stupid. I mean it was …well, maybe not, uh, very well-thought out.”

Liz laughed. “You could say that.”

When they got to her house, Dave startled her with his boldness. Maybe he’d been plotting his moves all along, but they sure took her by surprise. He walked her to her front door and acted as if he expected to come in. Liz thought about sending him on his way, but she knew he was the only thing keeping her memories of Sunil at bay. Why not? Liz thought.

Turning the Monsters Loose - Camilla Basham

The great flying spaghetti monster rules my world.
I am touched by his noodly appendages
His benevolent meatballs
His holy pasta
His authentic sauce
His messy implications for theorizing religion
Every Friday: a holy day
Heaven: stocked with Opus One and a chorus line of lovers
Hell: similar but with wine in a box and people you can’t believe you slept with.
Instead of the Ten Commandments – The Eight “I’d Really Rather You Didn’ts”
And when those of other religions criticize my beliefs
I shall rest in faith
that my God
has larger balls than theirs.

Turning the Monsters Loose - Judy Albietz

Lily and Sam sought shelter from the earthquake behind one of the outside walls of the village. When the ground around them stopped shaking, they heard a growing cracking sound behind them. Lily screamed as large hideous black four-legged creatures began to climb out of an opening in the ground. She and Sam continued to watch in shocked silence as more and more of these creatures poured out and swarmed into a group like a team huddle. They looked at least eight feet tall. They had human faces without any eyes. They had horns, tails and oversized incisors—dripping with slime. There were hundreds of them and they smelled even worse than Mort had—they smelled like vomit. They looked so much alike they could have been made with a monster cookie cutter. Then they formed a line, in rows of four and started a chant—in human voices—ancient battle cries—cries for blood—probably her blood. The monsters started moving faster and faster towards Sam as if to cut them off from the road to the Temple Portal.

“No risk in flying now,” Sam said and without another word, Lily was clinging to Sam’s back. Lily felt a warm protective shield folding around her as Sam launched into the air. Sam had pulled his legs in and now he assumed the shape of a small warplane. Looking down, Lily saw that the lookalike creatures were sniffing the air, pointing their noses right towards Sam. The air was filled with a swooshing sound, like wings unfurling.

“Who turned these monsters loose?” Lily asked Sam, with her head buried in his fur.

Sam said, “There’s a force operating here, a force which doesn’t want you to be returned to your world. We will fly directly into the entrance to the Temple Portal. If we can get there and seal the door in time, we will be safe.”

It Was Only a Job - Elizabeth Weld Nolan

She narrowed her eyes against the cigarette smoke curling in front of her face and pointed to the typewriter on the desk at a right angle to hers. Her face was creased from the sun and her expression was amused and slightly cynical.

``That’s yours, Missy. All yours. Go on over there and we’ll get started.’’ I pulled the chair up to my new machine and waited. I was the new summer assistant to the women’s editor on our local newspaper. She leaned over and handed me a pile of papers.

``First thing is to go through all these weddings and write them up. You might want to talk to the bride for details. Any questions, just ask.’’

I rolled paper into the sturdy black Remington and looked at the first paper. It was a form with wedding information, filled out in a round, childish hand. Rebecca Martinez and Amadeo Rodriguez. Gown: white with tulle skirt and veil, strapless. Bridesmaids: blue off-the-shoulder dresses cocktail length. Where: At the St. Francis Cathedral, Saturday, June 13, 3 p.m. Phone number: 741.

First I called the bride, then I wrote: ``The bride looked dashing in her strapless white gown sprinkled with silver sequins and long gloves. Her tulle veil flowed romantically back over her long black hair, falling to the hem of her dress like a magic cape. The seven bridesmaids surrounded her like summer flowers in their deep blue dresses cut off the shoulder and cocktail length. The bridegroom, surrounded by his groomsmen in black tuxedos, stood sturdy and tall beside the bride and her attendants.

The couple followed mariachis through the streets to the welcoming adobe walls of La Fonda where the reception began with delicate cheese puffs and gaily sparkling champagne, and progressed to a splendid banquet of New Mexican food laid on a lace tablecloth. The bride removed her veil and the mariachis played for the couple’s first dance in their newly wedded bliss as all the guests applauded and threw their hats in the air before they joined in the dancing.

The couple will live in Santa Fe.’’

Granny, as all the newsroom called her, raised her hooded eyes from my story and reached for a cigarette and a pen. She began slashing at my sentences.

``Not bad, Missy. A little over the top. You’re going to do all right in this work. But don’t get too fancy about weddings. Remember, it’s not literature. It’s only a job.’’

It Was Only a Job - Bonnie Smetts

It was only a job. It was only a job. I’m walking down the road in the almost dark using this chant to keep me going. It was only a job. It was only a job. One step after another. I don’t want to go home but I got nowhere to go. But more than not wanting to go home, I don’t want to go back to the diner to face Richard and Shirley.

Shit, Roy. You asshole, showing up and maybe ruining my job.

But the next day, nervous as a squirrel, I open the back door to the diner afraid they’re gonna throw me out. “Hey, Rawling,” Richard says from in front of the grill. “We got a full house this afternoon. The guys are asking for you.”

And then I know everything’s OK. I hang up my purse, pull down an apron, and tie it on. OK, here I go.

I step through the swinging doors. The room’s full and the Rounds, the round guys at the round table, are talking and not seeing me yet. I go to get the coffee pots and Shirley swirls in from the floor behind me.

“Rawling, we got to have a little talk sometime today,” she says. I can barely hear her whisper but my heart grips like I’ve just seen a bear. “Later, right now we’ve got men to feed.”

And then I see that we only got men. “Well, gentlemen, more coffee,” I ask the Regulars. And the jokes begin. Honey, this, and Honey, that, and laughs and laughs, all about me. I don’t even hear it anymore. I just laugh and make jokes back. I don’t hear those either. I’m just thinking about Shirley and having to talk to her later. I’d as soon not.

“Rawling, you gotta be careful,” she tells me. The diner’s emptied out now. “I don’t know what you’re doing with that fella, but you gotta be careful. That boy’s no good and best you stay away from him.”

I tell her I’m sorry for the scene and I tell her nothing’s going on. He’s just somebody I know who gives me a ride home. And then I remember my momma telling the social worker from the school that she only had tea with the boyfriends. I feel a little sick.

“I’m just looking out for you, honey,” Shirley says. And I want to hug her. I’m not sure anybody’s ever been looking out for me.

“I can stay a little late today and help clean up,” I say instead of anything else. And she lights up, gives me arm a little squeeze, and says that’d be a big help.

It Was Only a Job - Jeff Thomas

Michael, young and fair, sat behind the receptionist desk reading a novel. He had read through almost an entire chapter since the last time the phone rang or anyone walked by. Not that anyone would have spoken to him. It was the third day of this assignment and no one in the office knew his name, except for the office manager but he couldn’t remember that last time he’d seen her.

He crossed his legs. Uncrossed them. Recrossed them. It was July and very hot outside, but the office was icy. For the fourth or fifth time that morning Michael left the receptionist desk to go to the bathroom. There, he slowly, deliberately washed his hands under scalding hot water for warmth. They were puffy pink when he dried them. Before he left he carefully pulled the sleeves of his sweater down to cover the fraying edges of his shirt cuffs.

He took roundabout way back to the receptionist desk, wandering here and there, glancing into cubicles and offices. Many were empty, but those that weren’t were filled mostly with people wearing headsets, staring into space and tapping a pen or pencil. He reluctantly reached his desk. No missed calls. With a sigh he picked up his book.

Two chapters later he was just about to head to the bathroom again, this time to masturbate, when Barbara, the office manager, appeared before him.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi,” he said back.

“Um, we’ve had some complaints,” she mumbled. Michael looked stricken. She continued, “yeah, some people are saying that if you have time to read, then we’re not giving you enough to do.”

“Oh.” Michael tried to be nonchalant.

“So I guess I’ll try to find something for you to do.”

“Okay.”

Barbara walked away. Michael picked up his backpack and dropped his book inside. He sat up straight and clasped his hands on top of the desk. He heard a clock ticking. His hands were numb.

In the Drivers Seat - Katie Burke

“O.K. Get in the driver’s seat!” My dad said, expectantly.

He looks like he’s having too much fun.

I walked over to the driver’s side of The Silver Bullet – which was the name of the silver Volvo that we’d had in our family for at least five years by then – and my dad jumped into the passenger seat, looking excited.

At 15, I couldn’t wait to drive. But it was the stick shift that scared me. Lessons with my mom to date had been miserable: I’d seen her dramatic seizing of the arm rest between us each time I choked the clutch, gained more momentum than 20 miles per hour, and spoke on that drive. She made me terrified of the road, even though I was only driving on the residential streets of our neighborhood. She made those little lanes look like evil avenues of massacre.

Not that my dad’s childlike glee was any better. What is he looking forward to? Is something fun going to happen? Am I supposed to make this a car-fest – Lalalpalooza in the Silver Bullet? I couldn’t help but wonder, as I started the car to convulsions, and then heard my dad’s uproarious giggle.

“Clutch all the way down while you start the car, Kate. And you start it in first gear. Brian must have left it in third when he took the car last night. But remember: always start the car in first gear, and make sure it’s in first when you park and shut off the ignition.”

How am I supposed to remember that? I can’t even start this fucking thing.

“Dad, don’t laugh. I can’t concentrate.”

“O.K.”

Success! I started the car, and we were rolling! Rolling toward the palm tree at the end of the driveway. Fuck.

“DAD!” I shrieked, over his boisterous laughter. “DAD!” I slammed on the brake, letting go of the clutch, and Chug! Chug! Chug! We ground to a quaking halt, my dad’s laughter getting higher in pitch and louder in volume.

Out of the driveway now, ready to kick my dad out of the car at the next joyful outburst, I was going 25. 30. 35. This feels natural. No gripping of the arm rest. My dad was chatting away about something I’d never remember later, something that couldn’t possibly have mattered more than my fight to keep us alive on this treacherous stretch of pavement.

Arcadia Lane is no match for me. Gliding, listening to my dad’s story about one of his recent cases, finding it mildly amusing, even – even though I’m driving! I can drive and listen to dad at the same time!

Oh, fuck. The stop sign. Nervous, since gears would need to be shifted and my feet would have to rotate positions below me, I slammed on the gas, not the brake.

I’d never heard my dad laugh so hard. I was gunning it through the stop sign at 30 miles per hour, taking our lives into my hands because my feet wouldn’t do what my panicked brain was telling them to. The Menace of Arcadia Lane – I could feel the headline cranking on the printing press as I took us through the stop sign, Thelma and Louise without a cliff, my dad every bit as calm as Geena Davis, as road rules were damned by my well-intentioned, bad driving. He bellowed.

“That’s IT!” I yelled, when I had us safely to the other side of the intersection where I’d unwittingly attempted to kill us, saved only by the fact that we were in a residential setting, where the odds of a fellow driver approaching the same stop sign at that very moment highly favored us.

“Get OUT! I’m tired of your laughing! I’m terrified!”

“Come on, Kate! We’re almost home. You’re doing great.” I could see how hard my dad was trying to encourage me, to instill the very confidence in me that he had, knowing that somehow we would live to my 16th birthday, and that I would live on the road for many years thereafter.

But I couldn’t be so sure. I’d seen my mom’s terror manifest in her white-knuckled clutch of the arm rest – and I shared it, much as I’d rather have been endowed with my dad’s sunnier view of life and everything in it, including his daughter’s insane attempts to master the clutch of a stick shift car.

“No. I’m done. You drive down the block and get us home.”

In the Drivers Seat - Jennifer Baljko

“Ok, Mom. Now where?” I asked, knowing she wouldn’t have a clue. We were going to my sister’s bridal shower at a restaurant somewhere around here. I was in the driver’s seat; my mom was beside me navigating. I could see she had turned the map upside down while trying to make sense of the directions that came with the invitation. We were stopped on a deserted dead-end pass, in the pouring rain, with the small local airport on one side and the highway ramp on the other.

“Where are we now?” my mom quizzed, obviously flustered. She has never driven anywhere, or anything – not a bike, not a car, not her life. She has been always a passenger, content to be driven, and even happier to let someone else lead the way. “Maybe you took a wrong turn.”

“We’re where you led us. I followed your directions,” I answered. “And, there’s no restaurant here.” My younger sister, leaning forward from the back seat, busted out laughing, sparking the giggles in all us. We all knew – my mom included – never to give mom navigation authority. You’ll always end up somewhere other than where you were supposed be.

“I just don’t know. I don’t know where we are now and I don’t know how read this map. And, the directions are wrong. We shouldn’t be at the airport. I remember the restaurant was somewhere off the main road,” my mom said. I was pretty sure that she had not been reading the directions or the map at all, but rather leading from memory, an even more agonizing adventure.

“Well, mom, here we are, no where, and you’re the navigator. That means you get to navigate us out of here. Whatever way you choose. We can back-track from where we came, we can go left or we can circle back on the highway,” I replied. It dawned on me that this could be a useful lesson for my mom, who was newly divorced, setting up new apartment and moving her life in a different direction. “Mom, so what. We’re a bit lost. It’s no big deal. We all get lost sometimes, but we’ll there eventually, either by taking a shortcut or, my preferred option, the scenic route. You just have to choose: do we go left, right or straight. Whatever you choose is the right way. And, you’re way is as good as mine.”

“Um, ok, go left,” my mom, quavered.

“You sure?” I said, not intending to create doubt.

“No, uh, ok, maybe you should go straight instead. Yeah, go straight, that looks right,” my mom said, this time more confident.

This is What She Wants More Than Anything - Camilla Basham

Jack Kerouac got all jacked up on it and wrote “On The Road” in one long rambling paragraph in a three-week kick ass session. The fucking Nazis took it when they were jumping out of planes behind enemy lines in route to their next murdeours rampage. Ginsburg wrote about it. John-Paul Sartre was devoted to it.

Alice’s depressed aunt had her Prozac, her worrying mom had her Valium, her pumped up brother had his steroids. Her over achieving, prophetic, creative beast of a best friend walks in the path of Kerouac, Sartre, Ginsburg and the Nazis, and had her Adderall: today’s creative rampaging amphetamine.

As for Alice, what she really wanted more than anything was to believe that diarrhea, dizziness, dry mouth and a decrease in sexually desire were not necessary for her to find her true self. But, what if she’s wrong?

She casts alternate blank stares between the computer screen and the little brown bottle that arrived in her post office box this morning hidden in the heel of a shoe inside of a shoe box; the return label from some remote Indian village.

Had she really resorted to ordering medication from online foreign pharmacies? She must have, there it was, staring back at her. Her fingers moved from the keyboard to the bottle, fingering it and tapping it. She read the label a dozen times. Dr. Patel. And there was her name. And in her peripheral vision was the computer screen: empty, white, and waiting. Were they in on this together - the screen and the pills? If so she was out numbered.

The phone rang. Her best friend was speaking: anxious, fast, breathless, “…ok, gotta go, love you.” and then click. What came before was the news that she landed a book deal: she and the Adderall. “Fuck it.” thought Alice. She swept the bottle up with her hand and ran the water from the tap.

The very thing that helped these notable people achieve their notoriety was also the thing that helped bring upon their end. Well, at least they ended up in Wikipedia, she thought to herself.

Make a Scene - Christine Whelan

Liz woke up that morning to a cold empty bed. She turned to look at the digital clock on the nightstand. She hated that clock. It was so clinical, and Sunil always forgot to turn the alarm off on the weekends. NPR would blare at 6 a.m., jolting her abruptly out of her early morning dreams. He must have turned it off last night, though, because it was 7:12.

Usually she and Sunil would wrap their limbs around each other in the morning, face to face, entagled, synchronizing their inhalations and exhalations. Liz had started doing this to avoid Sunil’s nasty morning breath – but she let Sunil think it was some kind of special way they had of connecting. Relationship pranayama.

“Sunil?”

No answer. She wanted him to come warm her up.

She tried again, this time a little louder. “Sunil? Where are you?”

Liz swung her legs over the side of the bed and reluctantly pulled herself to a sitting position. She was too lazy to grab any of her clothes from the floor, and it was too damn cold to walk around totally naked. She stood up, pulling the sheet with her and wrapping it around her body.

She walked down the hallway and into the living room. Sunil was sitting at the kitchen counter, his head in his hands.

“What’s the matter, honey? Don’t you feel well?”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“Come back to bed.” Liz waited for a moment, as Sunil kept his head down. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

“We need to talk.”

Liz froze. She’d been reaching out to touch Sunil’s back. Her arm stopped in midair. She pulled her hand back to her chest, clutching the sheet closer.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Liz wished she could just fast-forward the next half-hour right now.

Actually, make that the next month or two. It was all right there in front of her. It was like the way people said your life flashed before your eyes before you died. Only this was the opposite. It was like a movie of the next month of anger and shock and sobbing whipped through her mind in an instant.

She didn’t need to hear it. She didn’t need The Talk. She didn’t want to stand here nearly naked, wrapped in her sheet, undignified and bleary-eyed (she hadn’t even had coffee, for God’s sake). What an asshole. She wanted to scream and yell and throw something at him. She’d never been one to make a scene, but now would sure as hell be a good time to start.

Make a Scene - Darcy Vebber

"Pretend," Lisa said. "Imagine you are someone else. Imagine that you're a woman who can ask for a file or raise a complaint or make a scene."

Suki shook her head. She insisted she was no good at pretending, either. Doctors hurried by and she slipped out of their way, closer to the wall.

"Imagine you're a person who can pretend. Imagine you're me." Lisa reached out and took Suki's hands to implore her. The fabric of her t shirt was clammy, wet in the arm pits, cold against her ribs. She was taller than Suki, who was of course just the same size as Bobby and Lisa felt as if she towered over the other woman. Be careful, she admonished herself. Go slowly. "You have to find out what's going on."

Suki shook herself free of Lisa's grasp. She knew what was going on; Bobby was in ICU, doctors were hard at work, she would only interfere - slow things down. "He's getting good care."

"How do you know that?" Lisa knew about Suki's crazy shrine of all nations. In her wedding vows, she'd talked about how she believed things worked out for the best, always. She'd been unashamed to say she had prayed for Bobby to come back to her and -- worse yet -- that it had worked. Next to Sam, Lisa had cringed, and he had laughed at her. "Someone has to advocate for him. That's what Sam said."

Suki considered this. She admired Sam. She took out her cell. "I'll call him. He's up, right? Oh --" She noticed a sign outside the entrance to the ICU that showed a cell phone with a red line through it. "I have to go down to the lobby I guess … "

Lisa had already made several calls from this exact spot or one slightly hidden in case anyone came out and saw her. "Go then. Go, go, go."

She watched Suki go down the hall and turn towards the elevators. She listened for the sound of an elevator arriving, the ping or the doors, but the general noise in the hospital was too loud so she counted off a minute and a half. Then she pressed the call button on the entrance to the ICU. When they asked who she was, she told them she was Suki without thinking twice.

Make a Scene - Bonnie Smetts

That was sweet, real sweet, making love again here by the river like we’d done that very first time. That’s as close as we’re getting to some kind of anniversary. But ten minutes pass and Roy’s up and ignoring me.

“Honey, I want to leave. It’s cold and I’m bored sitting watching you fish.” The afternoon was coming to and end, and even the last fling of summer heat’s gone. I’m freezing and I only got my sweater.

“Shhhh. It’s the best time for biting.” Roy’s got a cigarette dangling from his mouth, the sun’s shining through his line like he’s connected to god, and he’s walking slowing casting a shadow on the bank. I wish I didn’t feel like killing him or shaking him so he’d look at me the way he used to.

“Roy, I want to go.”

He turns and the sun’s making a halo around his face. “Rawling, would you just shut up. I invited you fishing and that’s what we’re doing. Fishing.” I’m stuck like somebody’s glued me to the blanket I’m sitting on. I’m so mad and I don’t see one way out of this mess I got myself in. How can something so nice be turning so bad. Like I got a big rock on me and some big boot is grinding it into my back.

Roy tosses his cigarette butt across the path. “OK, Rawling. You want to go. Let’s go. Next time I ask, just remember, fishing is fishing.” And I never thought that fishing was fishing. I thought fishing was about being with Roy. And now I didn’t like it.

Before I have time to shake out the blanket and pack up our basket, Roy’s slammed his gear in his box and he’s stomping up the path to his truck. Now I’m running after him. And I don’t like it.

“OK, happy, Rawling?” He starts the truck and backs up making more dust than a windy day. He looks at me and I don’t like the look. He’s speeding down the road, heading into the Nordeen.

“Let me out here.” I say when we get to town. I don’t know what’s got into me but I gotta get away from Roy.

“What are you gonna do, walk home?” he says. Well yes, I know I can walk from here.

He stops, looking straight ahead. I slide down from this giant truck, pulling my blanket with me. As soon as I touch the sidewalk, he speeds away.

I can’t imagine feeling worse standing on the sidewalk in the middle of Nordeen with the sun almost gone down. But then I see a sign. “Help Wanted. Afternoons.” And then I got an idea.

Make a Scene - Judith Albietz

“Go away! Leave us alone, you disgusting beast!” Lily shouted at Mort. With her pink pocket flashlight poised as a weapon in her right hand, Lily decided she had to approach the evil and dangerous dog to lead him away from Sam who still lay paralyzed on the ground.

Lily stared into Mort’s green glowing eyes as she considered her flashlight as a weapon against Mort’s teeth when he went for her throat. As she got closer to where Mort was standing, the rotting garbage smell got stronger and Lily felt like throwing up. But soon anger overtook her nausea when Lily looked over at Mort’s right paw, where bits of blood-spattered blue monkey fur were stuck. Lily tried to remember what she had done in the past when she lost her temper. One time people said she really made a scene, acting like a crazy woman: hitting people and breaking things while hollering all sorts of insults. Well, that was just what the doctor ordered here, she thought. And I’m already doing the crazy woman thing, walking towards a telepathic, supernatural killing machine with nothing for protection but a stupid flashlight.

Continuing to stare into Mort’s eyes as she moved towards him, Lily noticed that he didn’t return eye contact—and that gave her an idea. Lily turned on the flashlight and directed it right into Mort’s eyes. Suddenly the green glow in his eyes was replaced with red and white swirling spiral disks—not quite the reaction she had expected…but in this world she was kinda getting used to be surprised. She found that when she turned off the flashlight, Mort’s eyes went back to normal and she quickly turned the light back on.

Lily knew she couldn’t lose her focus of looking straight at Mort with the flashlight shining into his eyes. She couldn’t look back to see if Sam had been able to get on his feet yet. Just the thought of what Mort had done to Sam made her even madder and she started screaming again, “Coward! You yellow-bellied chicken…picking on innocent blue monkeys…don’t you know everyone hates you. What did you do to Sam? You are loathsome, despicable, scum!” Then Lily picked up some rocks and threw them at the fur-covered serial killer. He still didn’t look in her direction with those weird swirly eyes. It was then that she realized that the light of the flashlight had done something and whatever it was, it made Mort blind. Good thing I put in new batteries.