Wednesday, September 28, 2011


By Jenny Catlin

He always put their socks back on. He found it troubling where they wore stockings, obscene and frustrating. He didn’t read the newspapers but would pass by their front pages at the bus stop sometimes. Those were the photos they favored, a well lit canvas of feet in clean socks. He was proud that he left them with dignity, imagined his father looking down at him and smiling.

He was a quiet man, respectful and kind to those around him. He had clocked in religiously five days a week at the same job for nearly twenty years, mixing paint and matching colors. It never bothered him that people thought him a dullard. He knew that he understood things that they did not. Things about the rapture, about peace. About the vulgarity of sockless feet.

He never bothered with any further clean up. He took precautions to leave no trace of hair or flesh. Fingerprints. Nor did he study the art of others. Each a private gift to be shared with the world in anonymously.

He was glad to perform his own humble work.

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



Jenny Catlin is a writer from Colorado. She operates and can usually be found on any of the dream streets of the Southwest.

Wednesday, September 21, 2011

Simple sister

By Kyle Hemmings

When our mama, who resembled Big Cass Eliot, died from food poisoning, my sis, a suspect in anything, took charge of me. Our father, who was always in danger of being swallowed by Big Mama, was always somewhere other than here until he became nothing but a story. My sister's name was Katy as in Katy Did Not and she resented taking care of me because now she was a bass player in some East Village Japanese band called Box Turtle Sex. She had this strange habit of taking me places and leaving me there: the art deco gallery on MacDougall, an S&M shop near Gainsevoort, a bar named Sid Vicious on East 3rd and something, on the laps of strange women at a hair salon that also did hot wax, the Lowe's Movie Theater where we saw The Postman Always Rings Twice three times (I never noticed Katy was gone until the lights went on), and the dry cleaner's. It took me three years to escape from the last one. It turned out to be owned by a white slavery ring specializing in selling children who have this "lost" look about them, like they could be the next Justin Bieber or something. A couple of men whose faces I couldn't see took pictures of me for posters. In strange cities I saw posters of myself, kids trying to imitate me with that hung lip and hungry eye look. Sometimes their older sisters would laugh, but I couldn't understand their language. Eventually, I found my way back to my sister who was now living with some Japanese dude in Chelsea. I had grown three inches taller and had the peach fuzz of a punkster on CD covers. After ringing the buzzard to her apartment building and being told several times that she doesn't know anyone named "Chip," she finally let me up. The door unlocked but the chain remained. One eye inspected me up and down. My God, she said, how you've grown. You look so much like papa. Well, I said, where to next?

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



Kyle Hemmings has been pubbed at Gold Wake Press, Thunderclap Press, Blue Fifth Review, Step Away, and The Other Room. He blogs at

Tuesday, September 20, 2011

**My new poetry anthology, Behind the wheel, is available for purchase at

My new mainstream poetry anthology, Behind the wheel: selected poems, is available for $10 (+shipping and handling) at

The seventy-five dark humored poems in this collection span multiple poetic forms, moods and locations - it details the journey of a man, from youth to middle age, from joy to heartache and back to (relative) joy: interspersed in this road trippy mix are a few nature-appreciation verses.

If you order this anthology before September 23, 2011 and enter the code OKTOBERFEST you can "enjoy 15% off" of your purchase price. =)

Wednesday, September 14, 2011


By Richard Cody

Alice stepped into the room, filling the small space with her presence. Her eyes danced blue and beautiful, like waves crashing on a beach. She was vibrant, vivacious, barely contained energy rippling beneath almost luminous skin.

“I will never love you again,” she whispered, soft as gently falling rain. “I will never love you. . .”

I moved as if to catch her, confusion gripping my mind; my blood, replaced by cold fear, pumping through a heart withering toward oblivion. I needed to touch her, to feel the soft warmth that was Alice . It was too late, I knew. She was gone, forever. The air burned my skin, my eyes, with horrible realization. My heart collapsed in upon itself, forming a black hole of infinite density deep within the middle of me.

“I will always love you,” I muttered, the light of the room beginning to bend toward me. “Always.”

Alice stepped out of the room, leaving it completely empty.

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


If you like this story, check out Richard’s other story, published on this site: Lisa



Richard Cody has been known to write poetry and fiction. His work has appeared most recently in Kaleidotrope, Red Fez, Askew Poetry, Daily Love and Eclectic Flash (including their best of 2010 anthology). His books are available at Lulu and Amazon.

Monday, September 12, 2011

**One of my mainstream-ish stories, Night Burn, was republished on the Every Night Erotica site

One of my brutal, mainstream-ish vampire stories, Night Burn, was republished on the Every Night Erotica site. (It was originally published, in a less developed and shorter form, on the Erotica Readers & Writers Association site in November 2001.)

This 1,984-word story has a brief spot of sex, but it could easily be republished, as is, in any mainstream horror magazine.

Night Burn is not recommended for Stephenie Meyer/Twilight fans. (You were warned, gay boys and sparkly-eyed girls!)

Wednesday, September 7, 2011

haboob {another creepy tail}

By dani harris

It was easy to slip across the border from Mexico into Arizona and a haboob was the perfect cover to get into the city undetected. The massive dust storms covered the valley at least once or twice every summer during the monsoon season. One news helicopter photographer caught a few seconds of the two lights moving in at the front edge of the mile-high wall of dust, but it was explained away as airplanes skirting the storm to land at Phoenix Sky Harbor International Airport. People only see what they want to… especially those with neophobia. In today’s political climate, that was just about everybody. Arrangements had been made the week before via email offering a remunerative deal that a local street gang couldn’t refuse. It was just enough to cover what they could make in a month selling weed ~ any more would have made them suspicious. a small bag full of diamonds would be left at the landing site.

The two space ships set down unnoticed in the burnt-out block of South Phoenix where the drug gang had chased off all the addicts and homeless people. By then, everyone who could be was inside anyway. The haboob was an immense sand blaster made by nature with hurricane-force winds. Anybody unlucky enough to be caught unawares was stuck on the side of a road somewhere praying that their car wouldn’t be carried away like Dorothy’s house in the Wizard of Oz.

Ramps came down from both landing craft letting out a strange neon-orange glow. The eight-legged creatures made their way into the rubbish-filled back yard of an abandoned house. A modulated signal beyond human hearing was being broadcast. The haboob would also mask detection by any of the humans’ equipment designed to pick up sounds in that range. In less than a minute a strange scurrying noise could be heard. It seemed to get louder by the second. The creatures from the space ships opened the doors at one end of each of the cases they carried in their two front claws, laying them gently on the ground. In under ten minutes, the containers were being filled by scorpions of every size scrambling over one another to get into the large cases. The {illegal} aliens closed the containers and made their way back into their ships, cooing and clicking to calm their babies within. they had more than enough nurseries onboard the mother ship to allow their descendants plenty of room. All of the subterfuge had been unnecessary when they had made the last trip one hundred years ago. It had been quite a surprise to discover that the city had grown so quickly, invading their hatching grounds. The next brood would have to be laid on a deserted planet in another solar system.

The ramps pulled up and the two ships launched back into the haboob just before the tail end of the dust cloud passed through the area. When they reached South Mountain, the ships suddenly shot straight out of Earth’s atmosphere in the blink of an eye. if there had been any eyes looking.

Video footage of the haboobs always made the network news shows the next day. Only one local station aired a thirty-second segment the following week to report the abrupt disappearance of scorpions in South Phoenix. The residents themselves didn’t question it. They were just grateful to have the scorpions gone since no one in that area could afford an exterminator.

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


This story was originally published on my heart's love songs site on August 8, 2011.


If you like this story, check out dani’s other stories, published on this site: Bugged, Camellia and guardian angel {sorta}.



dani {not a boy} began writing poetry in January 2010, opened her blog my heart's love songs in February 2010 and is now venturing into prose, though terrified. It seems her terror manifests itself in much of the prose, becoming a short tale with an element of horror or fantasy. Despite her blog's title, Dani does not write only haiku. Her sensual poetry is never too explicit whatever the length.