Wednesday, March 30, 2011


By G. Russell

Once, a witch put the ghost of a woman inside a tree. The tree stood in the
middle of a forest. It had white limbs and green slender leaves. In summer
it birthed sweet fruits the birds and beasts ate.

There came a woodsman to that part of the forest. He saw the tree and
considered it would make for good firewood. He readied his axe. The woman
shuddered. Tears dripped from the shaking leaves and the woodsman paused.

"There's a spell on this tree," he said. He put down the axe.

The tree sang a lullaby and he fell asleep. When he lay down the ghost-woman
appeared and unwound her obi so she lay naked alongside the asleep man.

How beautiful he is, she said to herself. They curled together, the couple,
warm in the softness of leaves, and with her deep, strong roots she gripped
the heart of the earth, tighter and tighter.

There is a forest. At its heart there are two trees. Their roots tangle and
knit over each other. Their branches are entwined and no living person can
ever separate them. One produces fruit, the other does not.

They have been there forever.

Copyright ©2007, 2011 Gary Russell. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce in any form, including electronic, without the author’s express permission.

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Born in the 60's, Gary Russell gained his considerable reputation whilst living underneath a magical bridge and riddling passers-by for gold dubloons. Whilst interred he was denied access to visitors, writing implements, and sharp metal objects. His present whereabouts, following the explosion that destroyed the facility, remain shrouded in mystery.

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This is Gary's second piece published on this site. Morph. was published here last January.

Wednesday, March 23, 2011

Isaak’s Fables: the indignant whale, beauty & justice

By Steve Isaak

Wilma, a middle-aged mother of four-year old twins, watched as her shrieking sons darted in front of other shoppers. They were outside, exiting a crowded megastore.

One of the shoppers, a beautiful blonde with prismatic blue eyes and an equally striking figure – better than the one Wilma had possessed, before booze, kids, depression and couch-living had claimed it – grimaced at Wilma, from three feet away.

Other shoppers muttered as Wilma shrilled at her children: “Clint! George Doub-ya!”

Her children ignored their 290-pound mother, kept "wehhrnn"-airplaning, their arms stuck straight out, in front of ticked-off shoppers.

The twenty-something blonde reminded Wilma of a high school classmate, Cheryl, who’d stolen Wilma’s husband, Earl.

Wilma’s cheeks blazed.

Wilma glared, shrilled at the Cheryl Look-Alike. “Watch where you’re walking, you cross-wearing, hypocritical slut! Those are my kids!”

The screech of braking tires on asphalt was heard – then a woman’s scream.

Clint and George W., who’d dashed across the parking lot pedestrian lane, lay in front of a mini van: blood puddles beneath their flaxen heads.

“Good thing you were paying attention to your kids,” sneered another shopper, shoving Wilma hard in the back.

MORAL: Rise above your personal prejudices.

Copyright ©2010, 2011 Steve Isaak. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce in any form, including electronic, without the author’s express permission.

This story was originally published on the Erotica Readers & Writers Association website, in May-June 2010. It was later republished in my second anthology, Charge of the Scarlet B-sides: microsex stories & poems.

Wednesday, March 9, 2011


By Nick Nicholson

Born on April 2, 1895, to a French mother and Spanish father, Jean-Baptiste Fuentes worked as a street sweeper, barber and smuggler before becoming, in the 1930s, the most successful pimp in Old Havana. Jean-Baptiste’s choice of livelihood was one of pragmatism because in those days Havana was flush with American tourists looking for a good time. “A little passion to forget the shit,” he would say to them. The sentiment resonated deeply so securing business was never difficult. Over the years, more than a few of Jean-Baptiste’s girls fell in love with him but the liaisons never developed into marriage. That some of his girls shared their bodies with him from time to time was enough for Jean-Baptiste. “Better that a tigress live in the jungle than a cage,” he always said with a wistful smile whenever one of his girls pressed him for a more permanent relationship. Jean-Baptiste had been stabbed three times during his life, in street brawls, but his passing on June 12, 1958 was without violence. After playing the seventh tile in a game of dominoes with Ernest Hemingway in the lobby of the Hotel Ambos Mundos, Jean-Baptiste Fuentes simply closed his eyes and died.


© Nick Nicholson 2010, 2011. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or in part without written permission from the author.


This is the fourth part of Nick Nicholson's theme-adventurous, eight-part Travelogue. Subsequent segments will be published here in upcoming months.

Next Travelogue story: Rotterdam

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Throughout his life, Nick Nicholson has pursued a variety of creative vocations: music, photography, painting and, in recent years, writing. He lives in Australia.

Wednesday, March 2, 2011

Listing from ‘Natural Drama Digest Weekly,’ issue #32907

As the Coral Sea Rises – Network: ZNB – weekdays, 3:00 pm: Charley the starfish regenerates his fifth arms after shedding it to escape hungry mugger shrimp; Selinda the seahorse, heartbroken that Thornton, her ex-mate, wasn’t carrying her eggs, but Darlene’s, takes comfort in her morning mating swims with Jack, arousing the deviant desires of Jack’s brother, Jeremy; Coraline, the stressed-out larva-polyp that spawned the hard shell reef, faces two threats: a neoplasmic – cancerous – tumor on one of her branches, and a neighboring reef-building polyp named Olly, whose invasive devouring intentions are all-too-clear; Hanna the shark, after accidentally killing her mate, Marty, during a feeding frenzy, worries that she may like the taste of shark flesh too much.

Copyright ©2007, 2010, 2011 Steve Isaak. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce in any form, including electronic, without the author’s express permission.

This story was originally published on the Erotica Readers & Writers Association website in May 2007. It was republished last year in my anthology, Charge of the Scarlet B-sides: microsex stories & poems.