Stories from
March, 2011

The shirt was stained crimson like the lipstick on its collar.

James McCormick is… I give up. Is this multiple choice?

As the water rose, I started to panic. “Is this it?” I thought. “So what if it is?” followed. Confused, I turned off my sim unit.

Frank Colella is into exploring the reality we think we live in and writing.

The scientist cackled with laughter as his machine began its work. When the electricity stopped, his wife was still dead.

Justin Merchant does not condone the use of mad science for evil.

Our first date, she said her dad was killed when she was 9. I asked what he was like. I was trying to make conversation, not melt her heart.

Christian Roberts lives in California.

“I’m so happy for you” escaped through the uneven gaps of tightly shut teeth, as if trying to avoid spattering vomit across a taxi backseat.

Jay MG’s writing is lubricated with tea. She does not intend her stories to twist and deform, though they inevitably do.

He looks up at the clouds and begins to cry. She looks down to earth and begins to cry. “Why can’t you let go?” she asks.

Will Shadbolt is always dreaming up stories.

In the end, his reward was only to be allowed into the room while the money was counted—to know the beautiful number, but not to partake.

John McKenzie (@jmck)is only allowed to count his own money. MFA Syracuse 1993.


The tall emissary (blue scarred forehead, proof of rank) speaks Arabic and Bari; I neither.

Writes in Spokane: Richard Baldasty.  Spoken in Sudan: Bari.

I hand him the gun. A box of cartridges? I ask. One, he says. I hand him a box, but he shakes his head. Just one, he says.

Keith Lawrence thinks he is in Dublin, but isn’t sure. He didn’t realize there would be a test.

She told him to erase all traces of their affair. When she changed her mind and called back, he no longer recognized the ringtone.

Steven Saus writes, learns, publishes, injects people with radioactive stuff, and more.