Stories from
May, 2011

“Tell your wife I said hi,” she said before walking out of the motel room.

Shakarean Hutchinson spends too much time online in Charleston, South Carolina.

Lost in the border crossing was the cold sun, the blood on the plywood, and how the men backed up against the wall. She went inside to cry.

Dan Reiter has already forgotten your name.

I’ll ring twice. Don’t answer. The gun is in the hollowed-out Gideon bible; keys are in the vent. If I don’t knock three times, run.

Raymond Gibson has an MFA in creative writing from FAU; he lives in Hollywood, FL.

Sentences that sauntered through her mind now stumble, plummet from her tongue. People she can no longer name hand back her fallen words.

Madeline Mora-Summonte reads, writes and breathes fiction in all its forms.

With the knives relocated to the top shelf, she could no longer reach them unassisted. But then neither could he. Yet.

J.S. Graustein writes & edits, but does not cook at Grayestone Lodge.

Terry had a bird. It whistled a lot. He and Ann married and the bird stopped. It died much later. Ann watched him bury it, feeling nothing.

Brian Mihok’s work has appeared or is forthcoming in Hobart, Wigleaf, trnsfr, and Prick of the Spindle. He edits matchbook.

He rushes their love-making, whispering naughty words in seven dead languages. She turns and sighs, wishing he were a more cunning linguist.

Jeff Johnson lives in Minneapolis.

If I position my head just right, my wife will be looking into my eyes when she smiles. The hologram flickers as I rewind one more time.

R. Gatwood is concise.

“Like you, I am a museum of stains. I hope she learns to ignore them,” the cheap hotel room said.

J. Bradley lives at

Sapped from the vacuum of his gray hours, gun in his coat to end himself, his supervisor sprays spit as he scolds him, and the plan shifts.

Ryan Dilbert is probably anxious right now.