**Cath Barton published her second book, Candyfloss II

Cath Barton, whose Nothing to be afraid of graced this site in October 2011, has published her second anthology, Candyfloss II, a follow-up to Candyfloss, also co-authored with Oliver Barton.

Candyfloss is, according to the book's Lulu page, "[A quirky anthology where] things are not always what they seem, in this collection of short stories and photographs by Cath and Oliver Barton. For one thing, there are quite a number of angels popping up, and some of them are not very angelic. And what about the gnome and the soup?

"After reading them, you might feel it’s better to stay away from trains and bendy buses — but are you on any safer ground in the pub or at home? As with the first volume of Candyfloss, these are stories to tease you, like a quirky box of chocolates. We’ve really enjoyed writing them — all you have to do is bite into them and see what surprises are inside!"

If you've enjoyed - or are curious about - Cath's earlier published, shorter works (The Nun and I, published on FlashFlood; The Edible Woman in the Cinema Box - currently not available - on Leodegraunce, etc.) make sure to check out Cath and Oliver's Candyfloss anthologies, available here!

** Three of my poems were published on the Erotica Readers & Writers Association site

Three of my explicitly sexual poems – Kikkoman, Kyoto: chican and end of daze tense – were published on the Erotica Readers & Writers Association. (After clicking on the link, scroll past the top three poems by other authors and you’ll see my pieces.)

Be sure to (also) check out the first poem on the page - John Eivaz's vivid, thoughtful A Sometimes Belligerent Prosody.   (Eivaz is the author of the mainstream poetry chapbook Remainder of a Thursday Afternoon, available at Lulu.)

These poems will be published on the site until November 29, 2012.

Check these poems out!

Nocturnal Tableaux

By Peter Baltensperger

The night was thick with dark clouds, the streets black between uncertain lamps, somewhere the distant hint of thunder. Grayson Wolf was wandering through half-forgotten alleys looking for slivers of light, glimmers of recognition, flashes of direction. Oddly enough, the only thing he came across was a black panther padding its way across a dimly-lit intersection in search of he knew not what. He wasn’t even sure himself. What he did know were the shadows lurking in dark corners pretending to be monsters blocking his way. He waved his arms impatiently, but they never moved.

Once he decided to ride an elevator to the top of a tall building to find out everything he could about high-altitude enigmas. It didn’t help. He lost everything he gained on the way up on the way down, a perfect balance, disillusioning as it was. He never rode an elevator again. When he turned a corner he had never turned before, he suddenly found himself in a sun-flooded street, blinding him. He closed his eyes, shielded them with his hands, then opened them slowly to the coagulating darkness. He might have known.

An all-night variety store at an intersection provided some much-needed relief. He went inside to rest his eyes from squinting into dim alleys, shadowy corners, the clerk eyeing him from dark eyes. When he came to the magazine rack at the back of the store, he leafed through a book of crossword puzzles, but his mind was brimming with words as it was. He went back out into the darkness without buying anything, despite the clerk.

A fire engine howled by, a building on fire somewhere. He would have liked to be there to feast his eyes, find meaning in the flames. He did watch a house burn down to the ground once, but he tried to keep memories like that buried in his mind where they couldn’t bother him. That, and the disappointments of open spaces, especially where houses had once stood. They reminded him too much of other kinds of emptiness, where there wasn’t even any rain.

In a spacious atelier high up in a loft, an artist was working on a large canvass, a study of white on white.

Copyright ©2012 Peter Baltensperger. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce in any form, including electronic, without the author’s express permission

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AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY

Peter Baltensperger is a Canadian writer of Swiss origin and the author of ten books of poetry, fiction, and non-fiction. His work has appeared in print and on-line in several hundred publications around the world over the past several decades. He writes, and has been writing all his life, because he has to and loves to do it, and because it adds a significant dimension to his personal quest. He makes his home in London, Canada with his wife Viki and their three cats.

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This is the final story that this site will be publishing.  Big thanks to the authors, readers and other supporters of this brief venture!

Note that Microstory A Week will continue to publish update notices regarding authors I've published here - you know, new books, recently published stories, poems and other pieces, et cetera.

Dream Catcher

By dani harris

The sickly sweet aroma of summer's fruits gone over-ripe sent me wandering back... reminding me of a fervid summer day that was the last time I could claim my life as my own.

It was the final year of The Thirty Year Drought. Of course, no one knew then that the rains would return in a matter of weeks. The crops weren't worth harvesting and the hard, shriveled fruits were left to rot on the vines. The heavy perfume of the grotesque vegetation was so thick I could see it ~ a blue haze that insinuated itself into the dust that was everywhere.

Both my parents took the day work they could find in town, insisting that I stay on the farm to protect what little of value was left. Though only fifteen, I'd gotten damn good with the old pump-action shotgun. Stupid fucking men thinking I was just a piece of ass they could enjoy before they stripped our place clean of whatever they could eat, drink or carry off. None of the neighbors cared how we kept our pigs fed as long as we shared the meat whenever we slaughtered one.

I hoped that helping others to survive would spare me from eternal damnation but, with every life I took, I felt my future dying as the Earth died all around me. I spent my days sitting on the front porch waiting for the marauders, shotgun hidden in the folds of my skirt, decorating grapevine hoops with felt from our one remaining sheep, as well as found feathers and pretty stones. I hung them all along the porch eaves.

I'd taken to watching a spider spinning its webs inside the hoops, one after another. By the time the spider had wound the last thread, it no longer seemed strange to me that he had started at one end and moved, hoop by hoop, to the opposite end of the porch. I wasn't at all surprised when the wise-looking spider spoke to me.

"I have brought you an opportunity to help Humankind and the Earth" he whispered, "if you have the courage to devote yourself to their needs." "What would I have to do?" I asked hesitantly.

"Between the two of us, we have created dream catchers which hold the destiny of the future within them. They will only work if the People believe in the Great Spirit and in the power of the dream catchers. You must go to each Human and speak to them when they are sleeping, giving them the faith they are lacking. Leave a dream catcher hanging above their bed so that it may filter their good ideas, dreams and visions to them while they slumber. The bad ones will be trapped and will not pass. In this way, they will discover the actions that need to be taken to heal the Earth and bring balance to all Life."

I could not refuse the honour of being chosen for such an important task. It did not take long for Humans to begin to solve the problems of the world. A way to seed clouds to make rain was working in less than a month; new farming techniques were developed which helped to feed everyone. With their newfound faith, violence ceased. All of the deadly sins were vanquished. Those with material goods shared. Those with knowledge taught. Those with hearts full of love and compassion cared for those who were unable to care for themselves. Life flourished as others began to spread the Faith we all need to have in ourselves to succeed.

The spider and I continue to make dream catchers to deliver around the world. His companionship is a treasure I truly cherish.

•

Working together
Gives individuals strength
United we thrive

Copyright ©2012 dani harris. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce in any form, including electronic, without the author’s express permission.

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one history of dream catchers can be found at http://www.dream-catchers.org/dream-catcher-history.php.

This story originally appeared on the my heart's love songs site on August 19, 2012.

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

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AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY

dani {not a boy} opened her poetry blog my heart's love songs in February 2010 and now includes occasional prose which is often humorous, science fiction/fantasy or horror. she has had five pieces published at photographprose.com and participated in eight rounds of SPARK ~ art from writing: writing from art.

**Two of my works - a poem and a microstory - were recently published

1.)  “baise moi: San Francisco”: This trashy poem about two road-tripping, homicidal lesbian wrestlers appeared in the fourth issue of Pink Litter. It is, as you probably guessed, a “for mature readers only” read.

I’m also thrilled that, in this fourth issue, I’m sharing space with two writing friends, whose works consistently wow me – Richard Cody, who penned another sweet, brief  poem (“I enter”) and Peter Baltensperger, who authored the sensual, balance-themed microstory “For the Sake of Symmetry”.

2.)   “Jailhouse sleepover”:  This 58-word microstory tells the tale of two bloodthirsty, lusty clowns who get thrown in the clink.  Again, this is a “for mature readers only” read.  

"Jailhouse sleepover" will appear on the Erotica Readers & Writers Association (ERWA) site until October 30, 2012.

**My new poetry anthology, Shinjuku sex cheese holocaust, was published by Lulu.com

A print version of my lust, love and grindhouse themed poem anthology, Shinjuku sex cheese holocaust: poems, is now available for purchase at the Lulu site. (An e-book version will be available soon.)

Half of this 76-page, for-mature-audiences read is made up of reworked poems from the out-of-print anthology, Charge of the scarlet b-sides: stories and poems. The rest of the poems are new pieces, some of them previously published on other sites.

I'm looking for a few honest, constructive reviewers for Shinjuku. If you’re interested in receiving a free copy in exchange for the aforementioned reviews, email me at chronicler2@yahoo.com, with SHINJUKU REVIEW in the email title. Your email should contain your physical address.

Reviews should be posted on Shinjuku’s Lulu and Amazon pages (if you have an Amazon account) within four weeks of your receiving your review copy.

**One of my stories, Dirty tricks, was published on the Every Night Erotica site, and more

One of my erotica stories, Dirty tricks, was published on the Every Night Erotica site.

Dirty tricks is a Sapphic-themed, urban fantasy piece about two elves (Narcotta and Wisp) who inflict creative revenge on their lecherous, Cyclopean landlord (Sollyphamus Poseidonson), and, of course, have explicit lesbian sex.

Check this story out, if you're eighteen years old or over!

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Not only that, dani harris included me - as well as Simon K. Lloyd - in her Featured poets series on her site, my heart's love songs.

In her article, following Lloyd's work, she showcased my poems Yesterday don't mean / tell-little, Electrify, Behind the wheel, 2011 and my bizarro dream story Scenter of baked mysteries: ginger drunge XIII (published on this site).

Many thanks, dani, for that honor!

Review: Stately Speaking: Poems, by Thomas Michael McDade + new story published

I recently reviewed Thomas Michael McDade's loquacious but focused anthology, Stately Speaking: Poems, on the Reading and Writing By Pub Light site. (If you're interested in obtaining this chapbook, contact Thomas through the email address at the start of the review.)

Thomas also recently published another excellent, sensory-intense story, Casing the Spirit, on the The Feathered Flounder ezine.

Want more Thomas-penned excellence? In December 2011, his story, Weber-o-lantern, was published on this site.

Check out - own - his work!

**Peter Baltensperger's Whispers was published in the Summer 2012 issue of Siren

Peter Baltensperger, whose Nocturnal Tableaux will grace this site in January 2013, has had another story published: Whispers.

Whispers, an entrancing erotic fever-dream of sorts, appears in the first issue of Siren, with other works worth noting, like Shanna Germain's warm, sweetly kink-ish F**k Knot (poem) and Vincent Francone's engaging Poem.

Review: The Jewel in The Moment, by Richard Cody

I reviewed Richard Cody's wonderful "haikuish" anthology The Jewel in The Moment on the Reading & Writing By Pub Light site.

Cody published two spooky stories on this site, as well: Alice and Lisa.

Cody, also the author of the horror anthology Darker Corners and the poetry anthology This is Not My Heart, is a writer whose work is worth reading - and owning.

**Basil Rosa's Heath was published on the Leodegraunce site

Basil Rosa, whose He held on and she kept saying time to go graced this site last October, has had a new story (Heath) published on the Leodegraunce site.

Heath is a tender, fictionalized account of the filming of Terry Gilliam's 2005 movie The Brothers Grimm.

This story will appear on the Leodegraunce site, May 29 - June 4, 2012.

Check this story out!

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Also: the theme for Leodegraunce's August 2012 issue: shyness. Deadline: July 23, 2012.

**Thomas Michael McDade's Ferragamos was published on the Leodegraunce site

Thomas Michael McDade, whose Weber-o-lantern graced this site last December, has had a new story (Ferragamos) published on the Leodegraunce site.

Ferragamos is a noiresque work that's palpably pulpy in tone.

This story will appear on the Leodegraunce site, May 21 - 27, 2012.

Check this story out!

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Also: the theme for Leodegraunce's August 2012 issue: shyness. Deadline: July 23, 2012

**Basil Rosa has had three poems published in the Spring-Fall 2012 issue of Umbrella magazine

Basil Rosa, whose He held on and she kept saying time to go graced this site last October, has had three more poems published: Anomia Simplex, Crepiduia Fornicata and Mytilus Edulis, on the Umbrella site.

These poems, which make wonderfully restrained use of color, imagery, nature and emotion, achieve an effect/level most poets - including myself - can only hope for.

Check these poems out!

**Cath Barton's The Nun and I was published on the FlashFlood site

Cath Barton, whose Nothing to be afraid of graced this site last October, has had another story published: The Nun and I, on the FlashFlood site.

The Nun and I is a humorous work about a nun in Doc Martens.

Check this story out!

**One of my older stories, Stigmatic, was republished on the Every Night Erotica site

One of my older, briefly sexplicit and Christ-friendly stories, Stigmatic, was republished on the Every Night Erotica site. (It was originally published on the widegrrl.net site in June 2002.)

It should be noted that while the story is Christ-friendly, it isn't religion-friendly - an important distinction to make, considering it would probably offend many "Christians" with its universal outlook.

Check this story out, if you're of legal age (18), and non-dogmatic!

**Peter Baltensperger's In the Futility of Dread was published on the Leodegraunce site

Peter Baltensperger, whose Nocturnal Tableaux will grace this site in January 2013, has had another story published: In the Futility of Dread.

Dread, a Jacques Tourneur-esque tale about a man seeking shelter in a midnight movie (The Rocky Horror Picture Show), will appear on the Leodegraunce site until May 20, 2012.

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Also: the theme for Leodegraunce's August 2012 issue: shyness. Deadline: July 23, 2012.

**Cath Barton's The Edible Woman in the Cinema Box Office was published on the Leodegraunce site

Cath Barton, whose Nothing to be afraid of graced this site in October 2011, has had another story published: The Edible Woman in the Cinema Box Office.

Edible, a darkly whimsical piece about a little girl, her grandmother and an unusual ticket-seller, will appear on the Leodegraunce site until May 13, 2012.

Check this story out!

**One of my stories, Lascaux, was republished on the Every Night Erotica site

One of my older stories, Lascaux, was republished on the Every Night Erotica site.

The story, which details the beginning of a heartfelt but otherwise questionable affair between two anthropologists, was originally published under the title Global, dangerous, on the Erotica Readers & Writers Association site in July 2009. This newer, retitled version has been expanded from its original form.

Check this story out!

**Microstory A Week is on hiatus until January 2013.

If I receive enough submissions to warrant resumption of publishing new stories, I will start doing so in January 2013.

Thanks for everyone who's supported this site via reading, submissions, or both. If you've published a story here, remember to keep me updated on your works as they get published elsewhere, so I can continue promoting your work on this site, the Reading & Writing By Pub Light site, and Facebook.

**Alvin Burstein has published a novella, The Owl, on Lulu

Alvin Burstein, whose work, The crawfish boil, graced this site last January, has published a novella, The Owl – “a riveting account of an academic swept up in divine war" – on Lulu.

Support an independent author/publisher, and check his novella out!

**One of my older poems, kicking the wrecker bent, was published on the Primalzine site

One of my older poems, kicking the wrecker bent, was published in Primalzine's Spring 2012 issue.

It’s one of my suckier poems (it was a write-and-immediately-submit piece), but it got published anyway, with a misspelled by-line. Such is life. =)

Wrecker bent is still worth checking out, in a relic-from-a-ways-back way.

Invention

By MorningAJ


He knew as soon as his boss told him the plan that it was a bad idea. Yes, the device needed to be revealed to the world, but this was not the way to do it. They wouldn’t understand the importance of the find. Thanks to some incontrovertible evidence in the tomb, it was possible to date the parts very accurately, and they proved that mankind invented clockwork millennia earlier than was previously thought. This was big stuff; but would the uninitiated grasp the significance? Of course not – and he knew he’d be the fall guy.

Dennis had spent two years painstakingly copying each of the cogs and wheels and creating a working model. It had been in a woebegone state when it first arrived at his workshop. The rest of the team of archaeological investigators had carried out all of the tests they could on the bits and pieces and then brought him the remains to interpret. Luckily, many of the sections were still intact, thanks to the lack of rain at the dig site, but connecting up all the Heath Robinson gearing had given him a few challenges.

The work had been tough, but the finished article was a triumph. The key mechanism had been the trickiest: making sure it connected all of the rotors so that, when the brake disengaged, the whole apparatus danced majestically. Ratchets engaged, spheres spun, pivots balanced and the two flagellate arms swept delicate arcs around each other, making a soft swishing sound.

It was inevitable that the museum director wanted to make a show and so a press conference was duly called. Dennis was given his orders to set up the machine prominently so that, at the right moment it could be switched on for the crowd to admire. After a gushing introduction, the director handed over to him to explain how it all fitted together. The journalists made suitably admiring noises and Dennis tried to give them every possible fact he could so that he could avoid the one question he dreaded: the one thing he could not answer.

As he reached the end of his talk and applied the brake to bring the mechanism to a gentle halt he hoped he had got away with it, but he should have known better. Just as the gentle machine hum ended a voice spoke up: “But what does it do?”


Copyright ©2012 MorningAJ. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce in any form, including electronic, without the author’s express permission.

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This story was originally published on the Jobbing Writer site on March 18, 2012.

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If you like this story, check out these other Morning AJ stories, published on this site: Disguise, Earwig, Falling star, Helen's dilemma and Jetsam.

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AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY

MorningAJ is a professional (science PR) writer/rebel who fends off the
restrictions of her paid-for work by creating short stories, poems and
microfiction in her spare time. She’s even managed a novel, thanks to
NaNoWriMo, and is currently working on her second.
She also paints watercolours.
Badly.

**Kate Alexander-Kirk has had three new stories published!

Kate Alexander-Kirk, whose Hit and run graced this site last month, has had several other pieces published recently:

Family Portraiture, about a troubling family photograph, on Mouse Tales Press

Say What You Mean, Please, a whimsical take on - well, read it and find out - on Winamop

Tea with Aunty, about a young girl's dream-downing relative, on Pure Slush

Check these stories out!

**One of my poems, Rain day, was published in the latest issue of Apollo's Lyre

One of my older, mainstream poems, Rain day, was published in the Spring 2012 issue of Apollo’s Lyre. (This poem also appears, in altered form, in my forthcoming mainstream poetry anthology, Almost there: poems, scheduled for publication in autumn 2012.)

Sinnerman

By dani harris

Ψ
SMACK... SPLAT... SLAP... SMACK...
Damn! They were going to hear the sound of his bare feet on the pavement even if they couldn't see him in the shadows of the old factory! What had happened to his shoes? His memory was a jumbled mess of blurry images... all he knew for certain was that "they" were chasing him!

CRACK... RUSTLE... SNAP... CRACK...
Running in the forest at dusk was too dangerous! He'd better stop until full dark if he didn't want to be discovered ~ every footfall crunched leaves or snapped a twig. Breathing heavily, he slid as far under the old tree root as he could get. He covered himself with the detritus of the forest floor and hoped that no animal would catch the scent of blood on him if he fell asleep.

SPLISH... SPLOSH... SPLASH...
Running through the stream under the full moon left him too exposed. The glint off of the blade of the knife clutched in his left hand might catch someone's eye. He paused long enough to bury it beneath a pile of rocks in the shallow water.

CRUNCH... RATTLE... SPLASH... SLURP...
Running along the narrow pebbled bank of the creek sent stones skittering off into the grass and tumbling down into the water. His foot slid along with the tiny rocks and, before he knew what happened, his left foot was sucked into the oozing mud. He fell to his knees in the stream and thrust his hands up to the heavens.

"Help me, Lord!" he cried. "I haved sinned but I am asking for your forgiveness."

But the Lord God refused, telling him "GO TO THE DEVIL, SINNERMAN!"

HISS... SPLAT... SPLASH...
The smell of sulfur burned his lungs... sweat burned his eyes. Trying to take shallow breaths, he waded through the stream as it began to bubble and hiss at the edges. His bare feet were already blistering on the hot stones beneath the water.

"Lucifer! Lucifer!" he called out. "I beg sanctuary! Tell me what I must do!"

The Devil sneered and said "OFF WITH YOU, FILTH! GET OUT OF MY SIGHT!"

SHUFFLE... SCRAPE... SHUFFLE... SCRAPE...
They had set the wolves on him. He could hear the howling not too far away but his raw, bloody feet could not move any faster. Was it still the same night? Or had he lost an entire day like he had lost his clothes and his memories?

Blood spurting onto walls... onto the sheets... onto him...

Red, crimson, scarlet. What you called it didn't matter.

That bright vermilion spraying all over was the only clear memory he had.

Ψ
Clothed in naught but the darkness, ol' Sinnerman shook his head like a dog, trying to get the sweat out of his eyes. Not that it mattered if he could see. Rejected by both Jehovah and Beelzebub..... he had nowhere to go.
›·• Ψ •·‹
When e'en Lucifer
Has shunned ye..... Oh, Sinnerman,
Just what did you do?
›·• Ψ •·‹

Copyright ©2012 dani harris. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce in any form, including electronic, without the author’s express permission.

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This story originally appeared in poetic form on the my heart's love songs site on February 16, 2012.

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

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AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY

dani {not a boy} opened her poetry 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. She also writes sensual poetry and is attempting to write humorous prose and poetry.

**One of my stories, Vermilion Lounge: expunging, was republished on the Every Night Erotica site

One of my older, sexplicit and redemption-themed BDSM stories, Vermilion Lounge: expunging, was republished on the Every Night Erotica (ENE) site.

It was originally published on the Erotica Readers & Writers Association site in February 2001.

Check this story out!

**Microfiction writers: I will be guest-editing the Leodegraunce site in April 2012. Submit a story or three!

I am the guest co-editor of Leodegraunce’s May 2012 issue – normally that honor is Jolie Du Pre’s – and the theme for that issue is cinema. I will be co-editing with my good friend and Leodegraunce associate editor, Gary Russell.

The deadline is April 30, 2012.

If you’re interested in submitting a 200-word-or-less story, and want to get an easy pay $5 (as well as get your work anthologized next year), check out the guidelines. Get your entries in as soon as possible, as this site receives a lot of submissions, but only publishes three or four.

Here, again, are the guidelines. I look forward to reading your work!

Assembly

By Sandra Davies


He had seen their like before. Hungry men, men beleaguered by the harsh words of their swollen-bellied wives, the thin cries of their ailing children. Men beset by exhaustion, who had given every year of their strength and knew that it was never going to be enough.

He understood, his future once was as theirs had proved to be; his boyhood had after all been spent with them.

But he had escaped, had known what was needed and had done it, done it all and yea, he had thrived, while they had not.

He emerged from the doorway, took three paces to the top of the steps, and as the light from the cressets identified him he both heard and saw the winnowed murmur of recognition, of hope pass from the front to the rear of the crowd. Saw that they regarded him as their demagogue, one who would know what was due to them, would know where to lead them.

Silence fell. He raised his voice, and spoke a single word.

‘Tomorrow.’


Copyright ©2012 Sandra Davies All rights reserved. Do not reproduce in any form, including electronic, without the author’s express permission.

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This story was originally published on Sandra's site, lines of communication, on February 16, 2012.

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If you like this story, check out Sandra's other story, published on this site: In days of olde. . . when knights were absent.

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Sandra Davies is an artist printmaker and recently-emerged writer of fiction, who regards flat estuarine and sea-edged horizons as essential for well-being. Regularly published on MuDSpots, Thinking Ten and Six Sentences, less so Camel Saloon, Pygmy Giant, Pigeon Bike, and currently working on her fifth novel – a romantic detective tale. More writing at lines of communication and prints at Print Universe.

Falling star

By MorningAJ


Dirk Blaise looked hard into the mirror to check the crow's feet around his eyes. "Time for another tuck, Dirk baby," he muttered, as he continued to brush dye onto the canescent patches around his temples. "Or they won't be casting you as the varlet much longer."

He smiled his youngest-looking grin, revealing his newly re-whitened teeth.

"You CAN still pass as the juvenile lead," he asseverated, at the face that grimaced back at him.

But his reflection looked unconvinced.


Copyright ©2012 MorningAJ. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce in any form, including electronic, without the author’s express permission.

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This story was originally published on the Jobbing Writer site on February 11, 2012.

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If you like this story, check out these other Morning AJ stories, published on this site: Disguise, Earwig, Helen's dilemma and Jetsam.

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AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY

MorningAJ is a professional (science PR) writer/rebel who fends off the restrictions of her paid-for work by creating short stories, poems and microfiction in her spare time. She’s even managed a novel, thanks to NaNoWriMo, and is currently working on her second.
She also paints watercolours.
Badly.

**One of my stories, Night of the Ziphoyds, was published on the Every Night Erotica site

One of my older horror-tinged and sexplicit science fiction stories, Night of the Ziphoyds, was published on the Every Night Erotica (ENE) site.

Ziphoyds shows what happens when terrifying aliens get to know their neighbors, some of them in an especially intimate way.

Check this story out!

**Basil Rosa's Kozart's Albino Elephants was published on the Conjectural Figments site

Basil Rosa, whose He held on and she kept saying time to go graced the Microstory A Week site in October 2011, has had one of his newer stories (Kozart's Albino Elephants) published on the Conjectural Figments site (it starts on page 47).

Basil's edgy story, which details an ex-con junkie's struggles to get right with his life, is one of my favorite pieces I've read from him.

Check out this excellent story!

Simkins

By Anna


Simkins had been half-crazy for over a decade, aided and abetted by hallucinogens dished out with relish by his staff sergeant each morning with his breakfast ration.

Truth was the outpost had been beleaguered by problems since the very first ship had landed on its supposedly green and pleasant land in ’99. “Might be green – but certainly aint pleasant” Simkins had uttered sagely after the first insurgent uprising by ‘the natives.’

“We come in peace” Carlton had lied as he shook the the flabby moist little hand of the first Kerillion ever to see a human, all the time thinking of the rich mineral deposits in them there hills. Carlton was also thinking of sex – he hadn’t had the pleasure of a woman for nigh on two years – and the female Kerillion ugly as she was held possibilities.

Thing was, relationships with the natives had broken down pretty damn quickly – well men are men and have needs don’t they? Little did Carlton and his men know that the Kerillions were pretty mean combatants when protecting their womenfolk.

Over time the Kerillions had winnowed out the firstcomers, leaving only the true pioneers, the intellectuals, those who had never fired a gun and who quite frankly were wimps. Carlton had met his maker first.

So the wimps were left in a constant state of siege and leaderless needed one. Simkins staff sergeant was a natural, a closet demagogue who previously had only been held back in the ranks by his lowly birth. He inspired and controlled his men by festering hatred and feeding hallucinogens.

More than twenty years had seen their numbers continue to dwindle – five hundred men down to three – the Kerillions picking them of one by one entering the barracks by night and playing their mind games.

Simkins was crazier than ever as the hallucinogens were run out and the staff sergeant dead – his blood sucked clean out of him - and Simkins peed himself as the Kerillions surrounded his bunk…


Copyright ©2012 Anna. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce in any form, including electronic, without the author’s express permission.

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This story originally appeared on the puzzelicious plus site on February 16, 2012.

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If you like this story, check out Anna’s other stories, published on this site: Compulsion, Industry and Retribution.

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AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY

I'm a mother, friend, nurse, wife and lover! I think I have always been 'creative' drawing, painting, writing stories and poetry from an early age. I am moronically happy as I don't see the point in being miserable and find life - 99% of the time - wonderful.

**One of my microstories, Paradise, was republished on the Leodegraunce site

One of my mainstream neo-noir microstories, Paradise, was republished on the Leodegraunce site. It will appear on the site March 13 - 18, 2012.

This story was originally published on the Erotica Readers & Writers Association website in November 2009.

It was republished in my 2010 anthology, Charge of the scarlet b-sides: microsex stories and poems. (It's also available as an e-book).

Check this story out!

**Basil Rosa's Rowing the Beach to Shore was published on the Blue Lake Review site

Basil Rosa, whose He held on and she kept saying time to go graced the Microstory A Week site in October 2011, has had one of his newer stories (Rowing the Beach to Shore) published on the Blue Lake Review site.

Basil's story, which charts the could-go-in-any-direction bickering of a car-trapped couple, is immediately immersive and rings real-life veracious, with its relatable/type-recognizable characters and multi-layered dialogue.

Check out this excellent story!

**One of my stories, Vladagascar nights: Vince and Madge, was published on the Every Night Erotica site

One of my for-mature-audiences vampire/sex-intense stories, Vladagascar nights: Vince and Madge, was published on the Every Night Erotica (ENE) site.

Vince and Madge is a loosely-linked sequel to Night burn, also published on ENE in September 2011, where a Stephenie Meyer-type writer encounters a vampire who takes exception to her fictionalized version of vampiredom.

Expect one more Vladagascar nights story before summer’s end, one that will wrap up the first story arc in my fanged-and-undead series; this upcoming (and final) Vladagascar nights story looks to be more plot oriented than Vince and Madge.

In the meantime, check out Vince and Madge!

Hit and run

By Kate Alexander-Kirk


The body lay before her, rigid and lacking any trace of life or personality. Zoë’s most morbid fantasies could never have prepared her for her first encounter with a dead human being. She felt glued to the spot as if she had, in some childish dare, stuck her tongue out on a frozen pole. Terror and panic gurgled in the pit of her stomach as hysteria threatened to engulf her. A fellow pedestrian finally “unstuck” her, guided her to the safety of the pavement, away from the growing crowd. The person tried to comfort her in a quiet, calming fashion, but the words were mere gibberish. Somehow, Zoë managed to tell the person where she lived and who should be contacted to come and retrieve her.

At school the next day all her friends wanted to talk about was the accident that she had witnessed.

“What was it like?” Casey demanded.

“Did you get a good look at the body?” Craig said as he licked his lips.

“Was there a crowd? Was anyone sick? Was the pavement all covered in blood and guts and spew and shit?” Mark grinned, his eyes wide, desperate.

Zoë cringed as she listened to their lurid questions in the playground. Somehow this brush with death lifted her above her peers. She closed her eyes to escape the sight of them but her mind was filled with the image of the young woman sprawled across the road, limbs twisted and tangled like a rag-doll that a child had discarded without care or grace. The left leg was flung at a right angle to the right and the left arm was wrenched by the impact of the vehicle, straight from its socket so that it lay broken and deformed - useless. Zoë’s mind was scarred with the gruesome distortion of the young woman’s features. The blood smeared across what may once have been a beautiful face. The nose smashed beyond repair and the jaw knocked out of line with the rest of her profile. Zoë shuddered at the memory that was now etched in vivid detail.

Her friends’ questions replayed in her mind, even weeks later. She couldn’t understand the cruel, impersonal, voyeuristic nature of their gruesome curiosity. They referred to the victim as “it”.

Zoë grew more distant from them as they had refused to acknowledge that this victim was a real person with relationships that were now shattered. She soon found that she could block out the echo of their thoughtless, unkind jibes. But she could never quite escape the screeching of brakes and the faint odour of rubber from the friction of tyres on asphalt as the driver made their desperate and despicable escape. The crowd of people gawping; astonished and appalled, before the harshest memory of all: the crushing of bones, fragile as egg shells being trampled underfoot.



Copyright ©2012 Kate Alexander-Kirk. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce in any form, including electronic, without the author’s express permission.

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AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY

Kate Alexander-Kirk drinks copious amounts of tea as she dreams up weird and wonderful stories that she one day hopes to realise. And she does it all donning her Top Hat at a jaunty angle. Her work has appeared previously in Long Story Short, amphibi.us, Postcard Shorts and is soon to be published in Pure Slush, Negative Suck and Winamop.

**One of my stories, Frostbite the ice pimp, was published on the Erotica Readers & Writers Association website

Horror/sex/violence readers: one of my longer, for-mature-audiences stories, Frostbite the ice pimp, will be published on the Erotica Readers & Writers Association site until March 30, 2012.

While this blaxploitation-meets-a-violent-holiday-TV-special tale has brief, explicit sex and brutal action elements, it’s more of a "hard" R-rated read, with lots of well-developed characters.

This 6,657-word story, credited to the fictional Chuck Lovepoe, sports influences from Robert Beck (aka Iceberg Slim), Romeo Muller (who created Frosty the Snowman and other TV specials) and Robert Devereaux.

Check it out!

In days of olde ... when knight were absent

By Sandra Davies


Victoria turned from the turret window, from which the pluming dust of the Crusade-bound cavalcade, led by her liege lord in response to the king’s summons, could now barely be seen. Disbelievingly she regarded what lay on the pewter dish, the canescent globes unappetising in the extreme. One raised eyebrow was sufficient to permit the waiting varlet to speak.

‘My master asseverated that your chastity could only be assured if you ate these especially-selected mushrooms daily – on pain of death I am to make sure.’

Victoria smiled – her lord could hope, but she knew that neither her chastity nor the varlet’s death would be an issue – unless issue became one instead.



Copyright ©2012 Sandra Davies All rights reserved. Do not reproduce in any form, including electronic, without the author’s express permission.

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This story was originally published on Sandra's site, lines of communication, on February 10, 2012.

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If you like this story, check out Sandra's other story, published on this site: Assembly.

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Sandra Davies is an artist printmaker and recently-emerged writer of fiction, who regards flat estuarine and sea-edged horizons as essential for well-being. Regularly published on MuDSpots, Thinking Ten and Six Sentences, less so Camel Saloon, Pygmy Giant, Pigeon Bike, and currently working on her fifth novel – a romantic detective tale. More writing at lines of communication and prints at Print Universe.

Chickens roosting in the trees

by Baird Nuckolls


She came to Keystone West in the Cotton Candy Nebula to get away from the routine of her life, the humdrum stress that wore her down like a nearly flat sine wave. She wanted to sit by the pool slathered in sunscreen and sweat, broiled by the fiery blue sun, reading a trashy novel and drinking some sickly-pink concoction that the pool bartender had splashed over frozen helium in a plastic cup. Staring off toward the Cuban archipelago, her eyes pinched against the sharp sun, she could hear the fluted call of Gentian tourists beyond the wrought-iron fence.

She couldn't sleep the first few nights in the sticky heat, but after a few days of no schedule and no real conversation, she slept like the dead, falling into bed as the rowdy young Falindal offspring on their gap-year tour pedaled past on the way to Duval Street for their night of drunken revelry. She woke in the dawn to the crowing of a flexi-cock and found her way down to the dusty street in the lavender half-light. Walking through the empty streets, she looked at the decaying architecture and the aggressively carnivorous vines overgrowing fences. Stopping to read a historical marker that was hidden in an riot of greenery, she discovered four vegan chicken-bots roosting in the trees just inches from her face. They stared at her in alien, transgendered silence, hoping she would move along so they could sleep.

The smell of hot caffeine stereo-isomer drew her down to the waterfront, to a stand frequented by unshaven dock workers and a few bare-footed beach bums, who stood over their steaming dark brew, inhaling brain cells, firing new neurons in the cool damp day.

Later, she wandered further afield, renting a quadricycle to circumnavigate, past faded cera-melt bungalows and shoddily constructed time share communities clinging to the edges of the airport. The strips of crude consumerism gave way to graceful old homes hidden in groves of tall native trees, ceiling fans stirring the porch air, bird-bots calling from the hidden shade.

The abandoned Federal fort was all flat light and crumbling brick, a home to feral feline-reciprocals; the most promising part was the cache of iced H2o for sale in the lobby shop. She understood, standing on the end point of land, looking out of sand bars and shallows filled with waving aquagrass, why Hemingway drank, surrounded by legions of six-toed cats. She'd visited his home once in the original Key West, wandering the grounds and staring at the books behind glass in his study, the deer mounted on the wall over his desk and the descendants of his cats lounging on the wrought iron furniture beside the faded aquamarine pool.

She rode through the oldest part of the habitat, as tour buses rumbled by on the cobbled streets, their garbled narrative announced on the breeze, their aisles filled with off-world visitors stupefied by rum drinks and the heat. From every street corner, young people hawked day trips on giant heliospores, spun their daydreams of jet pack flights, bikinis and umbrella drinks to the crowds. She ignored them all, searching out the secret gardens instead.

The last night of the week, she stood at lands' end and watched the blue sun sink into the ocean, far from the raucous crowd at AltMallory Square. Keystone West had become a private oasis, the heat burning through the fog in her brain, replacing the sharp edges of her toil with the worn down and faded colors of the town. She found herself amused, renewed, content. When it was time to leave, she contemplated slipping the ties of her life and remaining behind, washed up on the silicate beach like so many before her, seduced by the lure of ease.

But it wasn't entirely necessary to leave the ease behind. She packed her sunglasses, along with a few nautilus fossils to remind her of the sound of the foreign sea. The chicken-bots raced across her path and under the porch as she walked away. They would await her return in the cool shade.


Copyright ©2012 Baird Nuckolls. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce in any form, including electronic, without the author’s express permission.

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If you like this story, check out Baird’s other stories, published on this site: He Preferred Red, Jet lagged and Scarred.

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AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY

Baird Nuckolls left her heart in Key West one Spring Break and longs to return. She is a writer and editor, living in Northern California.

**One of my mainstream horror microstories, They return - dream?, was published on the Leodegraunce site

One of my mainstream horror microstories, They return - dream?, will be published on the Leodegraunce site, from February 20 - 26, 2012.

Helen's dilemma

By MorningAJ


Helen took a deep breath and prepared to explain it again. Her fiancé was looking at her with a strange expression: slightly confused and slightly annoyed.

“This has nothing to do with women’s lib and equality. I’m just not going to take your name when we’re married.

“I refuse to be known as Helen Highwater!”


Copyright ©2012 MorningAJ. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce in any form, including electronic, without the author’s express permission.

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This story was originally published on the Jobbing Writer site on January 26, 2012.

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If you like this story, check out these other Morning AJ stories, published on this site: Disguise, Earwig, Falling star and Jetsam.

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AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY

MorningAJ is a professional (science PR) writer/rebel who fends off the
restrictions of her paid-for work by creating short stories, poems and
microfiction in her spare time. She’s even managed a novel, thanks to
NaNoWriMo, and is currently working on her second.
She also paints watercolours.
Badly.

**One of my stories, Blasphēmos gamisia, was republished on the Every Night Erotica site

One of my older – and odder – erotica stories, Blasphēmos gamisia, about playing cards, royal intrigue and bizarre infidelity, was republished on the Every Night Erotica site.

This story was originally published on the Erotica Readers & Writers Association (ERWA) website in October 2009; it was later included on ERWA’s “Treasure Chest” page in January 2010.

Blasphēmos gamisia was later republished in my anthology, Charge of the scarlet b-sides: microsex stories & poems (available at Lulu.com).

Beautify

By Otis B. Driftwooed


An eerie, expectant hush fell over the sold-out stadium when she, refulgent, princess lovely, cooed the band’s biggest hit, “Grace Kelly Kiss,” before channeling Betty Davis, shatter-glass brittleness when the band whipped into the drum-led guitar slither of “Wicked Eve”. Lighters and reverence were abandoned as the crowd followed that tonal shift, women and men dancing, shouting out their hormonal responses.

These moments, caught on video, would prove to be the band’s most-remembered live Eighties performance, as evidenced by online chat rooms and referenced media clips when she, still beautiful, now a movie star, died in her sleep in her Beverly Hills home more than thirty years later.

“We’ll never experience the likes of her again,” one Tumbling Stone critic wrote in his heartfelt eulogy. “She was unique, multi-talented, endlessly beneficent – in a word, pure.”


Copyright ©2011, 2012 Otis B. Driftwooed. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce in any form, including electronic, without the author’s express permission.

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AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY

Otis B. Driftwooed was born in the United States, and lives in the Pacific Northwest. This is his first published story under this name.

Drywall

By T F Rhoden



Head Coach Patterson leant into the crowbar, heaving his weight against the bar of iron until the drywall loosened slowly before yawing open. Flecks of chalky plaster clouded the stillness of the small, emptied-out bedroom. Wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his arm, the man ambulated to the window and released the latch to slide open a pane of glass. Patterson looked up from the second floor of his newly bought house to see the stadium of Southern Methodist University. Thoughts of the previous weekend’s soccer game loss were rekindled.

Below a crash, a yell, and laughter sounded through the house. He could hear his wife’s voice reprimanding their two daughters. He laughed as well, wondering what the girls had broken. The sound had reverberated from the kitchen, through the halls, and up to the second floor. The coach hoped they were making him lunch.

Again Patterson doubted whether purchasing the fifty-year-old house was sensible. He liked that he could walk to the locker-room offices now and visit home during the lunch hours, maybe see more of his elementary-aged daughters.

With attempting to save money by making modifications himself, however, his free time was being chiseled away with remodeling. The coach was already regretting promising his wife that he could expand their bedroom. He surveyed the destruction he had wrought thus far. Patterson admitted that he would need to incur the cost of real carpenter at some point—but not today.

The coach could not help looking at the stadium again. The complex appeared more monolithic than it really was, overbearing from his vantage point. On fortuitous weekends, when Patterson was able to command the varsity team toward a win, the architectural tribune of tubular metal and blocked concrete was a welcoming sight. On weekends like the last, the building never escaped his view, suffocating his mood every time he dared turn toward a window. Every glassed orifice of his house offered a perspective onto the terrible structure.

Leaving the window, the coach brandished the hook end of the bar, hovering the iron in the air as if it were a bat. He swung violently at the wall. Bracing his foot against the crumbling plasterboard, he pulled at the crowbar recklessly. Too much leverage caused the man to place his foot through the aged wall. Losing his balance, he fell awkwardly, slipping to the floor. The crowbar, with a sizeable chunk of drywall, fell with him, showering the coach with a thousand snow-white particles of plaster.

Peeved, picking himself up, the man espied his daughters staring at him blankly from the door. The older girl held a bologna sandwich in her hand, the younger cupping a glass of water carefully so as not to drop it.

—Daddy, you’re white! his youngest yelped.

The girls giggled.

Patterson shook his head, shoulders, and body, spattering the room with dried plaster. The girls screamed playfully, running away from the flying specks.

—What are you two laughing at, their mother asked, halting them at the end of the hall and turning them back around to the room.

—Pat, the girls have your lunch. We have one more beer left in the fridge from…

The coach’s wife stopped speaking when she saw her husband. When she started to laugh, the girls followed.

—You look like a black ghost.

Patterson smiled[, mischievous]:

—Honey, I’d love a beer.


Copyright ©2012 T.F. Rhoden. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce in any form, including electronic, without the author’s express permission.

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AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY


An American, T F Rhoden is an avid traveler. He enjoys good lit, cold beer, and learning new languages. Past publications include the literary fiction book called The Village, two languages guides on the Thai and Burmese languages, an edited epistolary account entitled Burmese Refugees: Letters from the Thai-Burma Border, and most recently a travel guidebook entitled Chiang Mai and Northern Thailand (Other Places Travel Guide). Rhoden is currently pursuing a PhD in PoliSci. He can be contacted at www.tfrhoden.com.

New weather

By Sarah Gamutan



My soul escaped, wanted another blast - a party animal which hailed from a stag party that had happened two nights ago. I guessed married men didn’t exist. I just shrugged, sauntered with Jen as we carried the luggage, brought it to the dresser, locked the closet and breathed deeply after such a day. I had met a man next door who was so laid back.

I just recalled how he brought it up. “Didn’t you ever get sick of it? The fuck- ups?!” he had exclaimed when I threw the wedding ring into the sand that same night I had arrived. He had preached like I hadn’t gone to a counselor in my five years of marriage. I wondered what I had missed.

I’m glad Jenny was here with me, in her party pants and red stilettos. “Here, take your pills. This will make it less painful,” she convicted.

“Thanks, Jen.” I paused, then asked “Is there something fucking wrong with me? I know I was a bit under the weather these past few days, but wouldn’t be it more painful to see your husband slowly going away, getting colder?”

She just sat holding her glass of wine and asked for a light. I made a monkey jump to hand her a lighter.

It was an addictive night, but it didn’t make me better. Though the room was warmed by the fire in the fireplace, a gust of wind from the window made me cold. If I were the mistress, I would be so lucky. I had to argue that sometimes things didn’t work out for the good.

Copyright ©2011, 2012 Sarah Gamutan. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce in any form, including electronic, without the author’s express permission.

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AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY

Sarah Gamutan's poems have been published in many online literary journals including Carty's Poetry Journal, Western Australia Poets Inc. , The Beat, Literary Kicks, Haggard and Halloo Publications, The Camel Saloon, Rainbow Rose, Voxpoetica and The Sound of Poetry Review. She lives in Philippines where she works as a Customer Support Associate by night and a poet at heart by day.

**One of my microstories, Magnolia crows, was published on the Leodegraunce site

One of my older mainstream microstories, Magnolia crows, was published on the Leodegraunce site.

This 121-word story about corvine shapeshifters, love and betrayal will appear on the site from January 16 – 22, 2012 (after that it will be replaced by another microstory - Leodegraunce doesn't archive stories).

Check it out, maybe leave a comment, if you’re so inclined and have the time. Thanks!

**One of my stories, Splatterdays, was published in the Best Gay Romance 2012 anthology

I just received two copies of the Richard Labonté-edited anthology, Best Gay Romance 2012, which contains one of my stories, Splatterdays. (Splatterdays is about two guys who fall in love at a thrash metal concert.)

Not only am I thrilled to see this story published (and get paid for it), I'm also thrilled to be sharing anthology space with C.C. Williams, whose distinctive work I've continually admired since I read it in the Erotica Readers & Writers Association online writing group! (C.C.'s excellent, tender story is called The Prisoner.)

This anthology is scheduled for January 17, 2012 publication, for those readers who are inclined towards the erotica genre, and arent' (strictly) hetero in their reading habits.

Here (again) is the home site for the anthology, which can also be purchased at Amazon.com.

The crawfish boil

By Alvin G. Burstein


The sultry south Louisiana afternoon was buffered by the shade of tall pines and oaks that dominated the lot. Scattered under the trees were rough-hewn tables, eight foot long plywood panels supported by sawhorses that elevated them waist high. Clipped to the two holes in the center of each table, and hanging down from it, were black thirty gallon trash bags. Some kind of feast had been carefully anticipated.

People began trickling in, at first in twos and threes, then in larger crowds. The guests were varied: men and women, young and old, some bare-legged in shorts, some in chinos, some in gaily flowered dresses, some bare-headed and some in floppy sun hats. As the crowd increased, the clamor of talk, punctuated by bursts of laughter, got louder and louder. The humid atmosphere got warmer and warmer.

The food arrived, cascade upon cascade of hot boiled crawfish, their mottled red bodies setting off steaming paler red new potatoes, three inch cobs of shiny yellow corn and speckles of gray-green bay leaf, darker allspice and fire alarm red cayenne, all puddled in liquid boil. Bellying up to the tables, the crowd began to grab for the shellfish, twisting off and sucking heads, peeling open the armored bellies, squeezing out gleaming, moist tails, and, ignoring the black dorsal blood lines, fingering the white meat into their mouths. The laughter and talk didn't subside. It became a cacophony, a jangle, punctuated by the sound of fingers sucked, smacking lips and exclamations of approval: "Man, these mudbugs are some good!"

Mounds of spiny, multi-legged shellfish disappeared to be replenished by new cascades, welcomed by gleaming eyes and grasping hands. Mastication clotted, but did not diminish, the increasing clamor. Ejaculations of pleasure, shouted words and eruptions of laughter spiraled into the muggy atmosphere. Liquid boil and fish juices coated snatching fingers, and slathered hands and forearms. Oily stains splashed clothes and besmeared chins.

Suddenly the ground began to rock. Tables spilled their contents. Feasters staggered and fell, screaming. A monstrous basket of metal netting broke through the ground. Scooping up a squirming mass of people and broken debris, it dumped the collection into a huge steaming caldron watched by gigantic crustaceans looking on with expressionless ebony eyes.


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

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This story was originally published in Dark Valentine magazine in June 2011.

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AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY

Burstein is a retired psychology professor and psychoanalyst. He currently volunteers at the New Orleans-Birmingham Psychoanalytic Center where he teaches and serves as librarian. He is a member of the Inklings, a group that meets weekly at the local public library to read and critique its members’ writings. He is a committed Francophile, unsurprisingly, a lover of fine cheese and wine, and an unrepentant cruciverbalist.

**One of my stories, Love, Loud as a Bomb, will be published in Suite Encounters: Hotel Sex Stories

One of my erotica stories, Love, Loud as a Bomb, is getting published in Suite Encounters: Hotel Sex Stories, set for a June 2012 release.

Love, Loud as a Bomb is a light, fast-moving, theme-tasteful story. Its elements include: prescience, a natural disaster and a hetero date. It's fluff, but it still (somewhat) reads like one of my oddball works. I'm looking forward to reading the other authors' stories, as well, especially Remittance Girl's Proof of Desire (hi, Rem!).

Quick correction to the anthology promo site: Love, Loud as a Bomb is not set in Hawaii - a point mentioned in my story.

This anthology was edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel, who’s snipped, expanded and otherwise put together forty-plus other erotica anthologies.

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Rachel Kramer Bussel is offering copies of Suite Encounters: Hotel Sex Stories to you, the reader, for no charge, if you're willing to read and review the anthology on its Amazon page (link below) by June 30, 2012.

Here's the details, from her email to all Suite Encounters contributors:

“The official pub date is June 12th. . . I'm definitely in search of Amazon reviewers (must be in US and must have an Amazon.com account they've made a purchase from) if you know anyone who wants a free book (and a chance to plug your work!). They can just send me their mailing address with "Amazon" in the subject line and they will get a signed copy hot off the press from me, before books are even in stores. I just ask that they review it by June 30th.”

Rachel’s email address: hoteleroticabook@gmail.com

Check it out, and take supportive advantage of Rachel's offer, if you're so inclined - also, per her request, please click the Facebook "like" on the anthology's Amazon page if you find yourself agreeing with that button!

Behind the shed

By Janet Yung


It would be easy not to tell anybody about what happened behind the shed in the overgrown backyard of the next door neighbor. She was old, should’ve been dead by now the way the kids reckoned and, yet, here she was plodding along scaring everybody even when it wasn’t Halloween.

“Do you think she saw anything?” Jasper asked. Rachel shook her head.

“She’s as blind as a bat,” she said, confident the rumors the old lady had x-ray vision were completely unfounded.

“But are you sure?” His voice quivered slightly at the notion they would be discovered, the news spreading along the block with lightning speed the way most bad news did in the small community.

“Yes,” she laughed and darted away from him, towards her own house where her mother would be putting supper on the table.

“Do you know what the problem is with summer vacation?” her mother constantly asked after the Fourth of July. Rachel never needed to ask “what?” because her mother was quick to reply, “you have too much time on your hands.” A whiff of what had transpired behind the shed would only confirm that long held belief.

“What’s the matter with you?” her mother asked the minute the screen door slammed behind Rachel.

“Nothing,” Rachel smiled, her flushed cheeks causing her mother to quit stirring the contents of the pot simmering on the stove, heating up an already warm kitchen.

“Your face is all red,” her mother stood directly in front of Rachel, eyes boring into her flesh as if she could penetrate the deepest regions of her soul.

“It’s hot outside,” Rachel responded, brushing aside both her mother and her comment.

“Not that hot.” Her mother returned to the stove. “Where are you going?” she asked her daughter’s retreating back.

“To take a shower.” She didn’t bother responding to the admonition not to take too long, dinner being served in twenty minutes.

Cloistered in the confines of the bathroom, Rachel stared at her reflection in the mirror. “You can’t tell anybody.” She barely recognized the image staring back at her. What did it matter anyway? It wasn’t anyone’s business but their own, feeling less confident now within her own four walls. “No one saw anything.”

They’d barely sat down at the kitchen table when the phone rang. “Just ignore it,” her father said, scooping an extra helping of mashed potatoes on his plate as his wife jumped up from the chair, responding to the trilling.

“I see,” Rachel heard her mother’s voice from the hall. A shiver ran up her spine. “Thank you for calling” ended the conversation. Returning to the kitchen, her mother sat down and spread her napkin across her lap.

“Who was it?” her father asked.

“Mrs. Hill.” Her pursed lips didn’t bode well. Without waiting for her husband to inquire “what about” she turned to Rachel. “Is there something you’d like to tell me?”

Rachel wished the floor would open up.


Copyright ©2012 Janet Yung. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce in any form, including electronic, without the author’s express permission.

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AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY

Janet Yung lives and writes in St. Louis, MO. Short fiction has appeared in several on-line publications including, Sparkbright, Milk Sugar, and Record Magazine.

**One of my stories, The Woman on the Grass, was republished on the Every Night Erotica site

One of my older stories, The Woman on the Grass, was republished on the Every Night Erotica site.

This story was originally published on the Erotica Readers & Writers Association website in December 2001 (and later in my anthology Charge of the scarlet b-sides: microsex stories & poems, available through Lulu.com) – Woman is a romantic “strangers in the night” homage to the works of Anaïs Nin.

Check it out, and leave a star rating/comment, if you’re so inclined, and have the time. =)