Short Story: Good Morning, Margaret

 By: Allen D. Reed

    When Margaret woke up, she wasn't at all surprised to find that she was still hanging by her wrists in the cold, dust-lathered basement. The smell of vinegar hung in the air like a eulogy, just as it had every morning for the past few weeks. There was an inch thick layer of dirt and cobwebs that framed the only window in the room. If one were to pass the window outside, it would look like someone had leaned a lint trap against the base of the house, but it did allow enough light in to illuminate the shelves of pickled vegetables. It was the same old tomatoes, onions, and pickles, as well as the large jars of indiscriminate produce that she had to look at every day. One of them seemed to contain an entire gourd. Barney liked his food pickled. It's the only way he would eat it.

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Short Story: Sand Island

Written By: Daniel Gutierrez

      Miller was astonished to discover such a bizarre little island. By size, the isle was less than a hundred yards in diameter and it was completely covered in sand. Even weirder, the sand was all red with different shades of red. Crimson troughs. Ruby hills. Burgundy dunes. Scarlet curves. Maroon rocks. But there were no palm trees, no seagulls in sight, or crabs on the beach shore. There was no sign of life here.
      “Good news, Captain Miller, we’re not so far from the coast,” Frank said, approaching with a big smile. He was one of the crew workers.
      Miller looked back and nodded his approval. “Is everybody all right?”
      “Some minor injuries but they’re all doing good.”
      “And our rescue situation?”
      “All I can say is thanks God for that beacon. A rescue crew is already on their way.”
      Miller gestured to the ground. “Don’t you think it’s strange that no one ever found this island? Especially being so close to the mainland?”
      Frank shrugged. “Yes, sir, very strange. But this is just a small sand island. Probably been overlooked.”
      “But have you ever seen sand so red before?”

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Short Story: 'Host'

Written by: Michael Shawn Milazzo


My bell used to ring, a divine melodic clang from the heavens above. My body was a built erect like a fortress with light brown and red bricks. My architecture was absolutely magnificent as if angels themselves constructed me. My eyes were gigantic stained glass windows of the Father and his family. Inside the people used to pray to the Father, The focal point of the house internally suspended Jesus Christ on the crucifix. Inside me rows of pews used to provide a place for the masses to sit, kneel or to pray.
Many warm days of happiness I have witnessed, hundreds of successful weddings, extreme emotions that intensify every second before and after the ceremonial kiss of forever and eternal love. My vast body provided safety, comfort, hope and forgiveness to a world surrounded by sin.

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Short Story: 'Covenience Store'

Written By: Fred Mohle

Robert stared at his watch for a few seconds, 10:30 pm, almost time to go to work. Sitting on the couch in the living room of his small house, he took another hit off his bong and held it. It was going to be another long night at the Convenient Store he thought to himself. He let out the breath of smoke he was holding in his lungs and pulled his Dugout out of his pant’s pocket. He wanted to make sure it had enough smoke in it to last him through the night.

The Bud this week was really good. Randle, his dealer did an excellent job finding this stuff. Good, green, sweet Bud, lots of red hairs and sticky. You could easily smell the skunk odor it exuded when he opened his dugout. Robert took another long deep hit off his Bong, trying to get a good buzz going before he had to leave for work.

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Short Story: Masterpieces

By: CS DeWildt

All my life I wanted to do something. I wanted to be someone special. I wanted people to worship me. I looked around at boring people and their boring lives and I’d think, “I’m better than them.” I was better than the stuck up cashier at Dunkin Donuts who was clearly a lesbian. I was better than my failure professors who quit giving me the extensions I needed.

“You can’t put a deadline on creativity!”

“I can. It was last week.”

I was better than the rest of the film school kids and their cliques: The Noirs, The Kubricks, The Coens, The Ramies, The pseudo-intellectuals who summered in Prague and came back with a 37 minute shot of a girl dancing in a kitchen and called it a film. The whole of the department knew nothing about the cinema, they had no heart and their work had no passion. My work was pure passion, pure heart. It was real.

“I don’t get it.”

“There was nothing to get.”

“The framing, was that on purpose?”

Idiots.

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