By Ron Frater

During the summer before he started his high school senior year, Brad worked serving tables at Calderson Valley Restaurant. At least, he did for three days. On day four, he was called into Mr. Greyson’s office.

Greyson didn’t invite Brad to take a seat, but got straight to the point as soon as the seventeen-year-old entered the room. “We’re going to have to let you go, Brad.”

Brad stared blankly at the grossly overweight man with the bald head, who was seated behind a ridiculously large desk. “What do you mean? Let me go where?”

Greyson sighed and rolled his eyes. “It means you’re fired. You don’t work here anymore.”

“Fired?!” The word came out in far too high a pitch. “Why? What have I done?”

“Look, Brad, you seem like a nice young chap, but you’re just not cut out for this type of work. There’s been too many complaints, from both customers and other staff, and you keep breaking things.”

“But…” Brad rubbed his head, as if to assist the generation of some words in response. “Well… I’m just learning. I know there’s been a couple of whoopsies, but I’ll get better.”

“Serving the wealthiest man in town his meal with your thumb in his food is not a ‘whoopsie.’ Brad. Nor is spraying the mayor’s wife with cola.”

“The cola thing was an accident.”

“Opening a can of cola after you’ve just dropped it is not an accident, Brad. It’s stupidity. As is sticking your thumb in someone’s meal.”

“Yeah, well I didn’t realize, because I’d just cut it on a knife, so I guess I couldn’t feel that it was in the food because of the plaster.”

“The plaster stayed in Mr. Walford’s meal when you put the plate on the table.”

“I didn’t mean to. And I removed it after he’d pointed it out.”

“You thought it was acceptable to leave him with a plate of food that you had contaminated?”

“It was a clean plaster. I’d only just put it on. It’s not my fault your first aid kit has cheap plasters that don’t stick properly.”

“Look, Brad, this isn’t up for debate. Please just leave.”

“What about if I work in the kitchen? Washing dishes, even?”

“You’ve broken four plates and six glasses in three days. Do you really think I want you handling multiple pieces of crockery and glassware as a dishwasher? No. There’s no work here for you. Please leave. Now.”

“What about my pay? I’ve done three day’s work.”

“Yes, except that when I deduct the cost of the items you’ve broken, including the espresso machine which you shouldn’t have been anywhere near, we don’t owe you anything. In fact, I should actually be giving you a bill for the shortfall.”

Brad folded his arms. “You’re telling me I worked three days for nothing?”

Greyson leaned back in his chair; the cotton threads that attached his shirt buttons straining at the pressure his obese gut asserted on them. “Put it down to experience, boy. Learn from it and do better next time. Now, I’m busy, so just go, before I lose my temper.”

Brad eyed the man behind the desk. — the fat, ugly, bald, 60-something-year-old, with his piggy eyes, pudgy hands and his stupid, too-tight Hawaiian shirt. A fine specimen of a man – not, Brad thought. He should tell him so. And he should tell Mister Fat Gut not to call him ‘boy’ – he was a young man, not a boy. But, before the words came, Greyson had lost his patience. 

“Look, boy! I said this isn’t up for debate! Just piss off, and piss off now!”

As Greyson banged his fist on the desk, Brad saw the piggy little eyes flare. He looked like the hippopotamus Brad had seen on the National Geographic program the week before. The thought made him laugh out loud.

“What are you laughing at, boy?!!!”

Spittle flew from Greyson’s mouth as he shouted. His pudgy hands pushed down on the arms of his chair as he heaved himself upright.

“Get out!” he bellowed, his face reddening as he thrust a finger towards the door.

Brad stayed where he was, with a surprisingly calm look on his face.

“No, I think I’ll stay here, Mr. Greyson. And I think you’ll be changing your mind about firing me without pay. You see, I saw what you were doing to Emily yesterday. And I happen to know that she’s only 16. So that makes you a child molester, Mr. Greyson. And before you say that it’s just her word against yours, and that a supposed witness who’s a disgruntled ex-employee has no credibility, I’ll remind you that everyone walks around with a video camera in their pocket these days. So, if you don’t want the footage to fall into the hands of the police, you’re going to pay me two thousand dollars cash and you’re going to pay me to work in the kitchen for the rest of the summer. And, you’re going apologize to Emily, increase her pay by ten dollars an hour, and you won’t touch her with your fat little hands ever again. How does that sound, Mr. Greyson?”

Greyson’s pudgy hands balled into fists. He leaned forward and placed them on the desktop, pressing his weight down onto the wooden surface. Brad saw the piggy eyes narrow as the hippopotamus screwed up its ugly little face, which had darkened to an even deeper shade of red. He looked like an overripe tomato that had been left in the hothouse too long and was about to split its skin.

Brad suddenly wondered if he’d pushed it too far. He’d thought he was in a position of power, but now realized he could be in a position of danger. Greyson was clearly about to explode, and for all Brad knew, there was a gun in one of the desk drawers. Even if he took flight immediately, Greyson knew where he lived. Would he pay the price for the cockiness and greed of youth, without the wisdom of age and experience tempering his actions?

Before Brad could make the decision to flee or not, he saw the piggy little eyes widen slightly. The intensity of color in Greyson’s face seemed to diminish, and his lips parted as he let out a long slow hiss of air. It was as if a blacksmith had pulled a red-hot horseshoe from the forge and then slowly began pouring water on it.

Greyson pushed himself upright from the desk, then collapsed back into his chair. The cotton threads holding two of his shirt buttons had reached their limits; pinging the buttons off as they snapped, exposing a lint-filled navel and an expanse of stretched, white flesh, punctuated with grey hairs. Greyson stared down at the unattractive sight, and after several seconds, tried to cover it with his pudgy hands. He let out a long sigh, and, without looking back at Brad, used his feet to push his chair backwards and then swivel it so he was facing away from the desk.

Greyson lent forward and twiddled the combination dial on the floor safe, then opened it and removed a stack of bills held together with rubber bands. He closed the safe door, swiveled the chair around and tossed the stack across the desk to Brad. Despite the young man’s shock, his natural reaction was to reach out and catch it. 

Greyson didn’t make eye contact as he spoke. “Tell Johnny I’ve repositioned you to the kitchen, starting immediately. Dishes and whatever else he wants you to do. Same shifts as when you were serving.”

“And Emily?”

“You’ll delete the video?”

“Once you’ve done as I asked.”

“Tell Emily to come and see me now. You can wait outside and confirm with her once we’re done, then come back in so I can see you delete the video. Deal?”

“Deal.”

Brad removed his waiter’s apron and wrapped it around the wad of cash. He turned to leave, but as he placed his hand on the door handle, he looked back over his shoulder.

“There’s been other girls, hasn’t there?”

Greyson shrugged. “Been here a long time, boy.”

Brad suddenly regretted not taking the video straight to the police. He may have saved Emily, but what of those who had come before, or would come after? He shouldn’t have let the pig off so easily, but he still had the chance to keep an ace up his sleeve. Even if Greyson was smart enough to make Brad show him deleting the video from both his phone and the cloud backup, he had time to email it to himself first. 

Brad stared at Greyson. The fight had gone out of the angry, dangerous hippopotamus. He was now just a fat, old pig. 

With his voice full of contempt, Brad replied.

“It’s not ‘boy’, you disgusting excuse for a man. It’s Brad. And don’t you forget it.”

                                                              *   *   *

Ron Frater resides in a small town in the picturesque beauty that is New Zealand’s South Island, where he lives with his partner, an excess of dogs, and a self-opinionated parrot. He writes across a range of genres.

By Bela Seitz

Woman works service job. Poor. Long hours. Mean customers. Woman’s sister suggests she date someone. Woman agrees, because what’s the worst that could happen? 

Man works lucrative job. Successful. Long hours. Bored. Man wants someone to enjoy his wealth with. Man’s assistant suggests he date someone, like her sister. Man agrees, because what’s the worst that could happen?

Man nervous Woman only wants his wealth so brings her to a fast food joint. Woman shows up after long shift and demolishes three plates of onion rings. Man finds her hilarious and asks her out again. Woman assumes from first date they’ll go somewhere cheap and goes to a steakhouse in a hoodie. Man is tickled by this. Man falls in love. Woman is flabbergasted. She hadn’t been trying, though that’s when everyone says you’ll find someone. Man and Woman move in together. Man makes enough for two; Woman quits her job. Man and Woman marry. Man and Woman have twins. Woman stays home to raise them. Man comes tired home every day from work to delighted trio. Man gets jealous. Man quits job. Woman furious. Man and Woman fight. Man and Woman have another kid (me!). Time passes. Kids grow up and move out. Man and Woman divorce. 

Woman gets service job. Woman unhappy. Poor. Long hours. Mean customers. 

Man has enough savings to not work so travels full-time. Man traverses America and Europe, seeing art and ancient ruins and natural wonders, but gets lonely. Man returns, buys a bag of greasy onion rings, and knocks on Woman’s door. 

Woman lets Man inside, because what’s the worst that could happen?

                                                           *     *     *

Bela Seitz is a graduate of Vanderbilt University who lives and works in New York City. She has had works published in the Under Review, the About Place Journal, Big Muddy, New Pop Lit, Short Beasts, and others.

By Lolidoe

Children everywhere.

On the roads, under bridges, in shops, in restaurants, in schools. 

How did they get here? 

Where are their parents?

 Oh….there they are.

 When we arrive, we receive food and a bath from these giants here every three days. Gosh! We

stink! They wrinkle their noses but still wash us anyway. They do this over and over till we can 

see and  walk properly.

 Then they stop.

 But that’s ok. It’s not really their jobs. They were just helping till we were big girls and boys. 

I am five now.

 So I am a big girl.

 Yayyy!

 What do we do now at our shiny new age you ask?

 Hmm, there is a lot. We go into the big buildings and hold the legs of one of the giants, the one 

in white and black holding  big plates and say “Food, please.”

Sometimes they look down at us.

Sometimes they don’t

Sometimes the giant calls another giant to carry us.

 Ahhh…. food is coming, I can’t wait. My legs feel wobbly and the room is starting to go round 

and round. I think I see stars. 

 Wait a minute.

Why are we going out of the big building? 

Oof! My butt!

 The giant put me on the floor hard. Hmm. How rude. 

Let me go to the other big building then. Maybe if I skip in they will give me food.

 Skip, skip…nope. 

If I continue doing that I will fall down and not get up.

Oof, they put me on my butt again!!!

Why did they do that? Did I do something wrong? 

What do I do now? I’m so hungry.

Sniff… sniff…

 “Little girl, don’t cry. I will give you food.”

I look up.

 Aww an angel giant. Whoopie!

 I give him my hand and we walk to a huge metal box with wheels. The giants call it…um…Oh. I forgot. 

Anyway we climb inside.

It makes a fun sound.

 Vroom! Vroom!

I clap my hands.

 “More! More!”

 The giant smiles and does it again. 

This is fun! 

The box begins to move. Everything outside starts to run away. 

 Food! Food! Food! I start to say in my little voice.

We stop at a big building.

 We go inside.

 We meet the giants inside. They are smiling at me really wide. 

They put me on their lap and begin to sing to me. I like the song. 

“More! More!”

 “Ha! Ha! Ha!” laughs the giant. “Do you want to see something fun?”

Yes! But wait a minute. I thought they were giving me food. Oh well. Maybe they will give me later. 

The giant brings out a toy and tells me to play with it. I play with it and he starts to get really 

happy. He makes a weird face when I finish playing with it. Did I hurt him? I don’t think so he

 looks just like I do when I have eaten and my stomach is nice and full. He pats me on the head and calls me a good girl.

Yayyy! I’m a good girl! 

When we leave, he takes me back to that big building where he found me.

Phew. No more giant-leg-clinging.

Anyway…

On to more adventure!

Oh?

Something is falling from the sky.

No. A lot of things are falling.

What are those?

Why do they look so familiar.

Let me go have a closer look.

Hmm. I still don’t know what they are.

But they look familiar though.

Let me think really hard.

Gasp!

Are those…babies?

Why are they falling from the sky?

Is that where… they come from?

Nope. I must still be hungry that’s why I am seeing things.

I walk away with my hands behind my back.

But then I stop walking and turn back again.

Hmm… they are crying.

That’s for the giants to figure out.

*   *   *

Lolidoe is an emerging Nigerian writer interested in exploring themes of innocence, neglect and perception through flash fiction.

By Sandra Thom-Jones

David fidgeted with the stem of his empty wine glass and glanced anxiously at the front door of the restaurant. They had been dating for three months but he still wondered every time whether she would show up, whether she would actually want to sit and have a meal with him. Not that he was sure ‘dating’ was the right word for it, as they only ever met in secret. She said dating people at work wasn’t allowed. Margot, their boss, had never mentioned this rule to David but perhaps that was because she assumed none of the glamorous models would ever consider dating him.

Morgan stopped briefly in the lobby and checked her lipstick in the mirror. As she did, she steeled herself for another boring evening with David. Three months since she first asked the little troll out for a drink and her plan seemed no closer to fruition. She had been so sure that this insipid little man, who somehow had Margot’s ear, would be the key to overcoming the one barrier to her well-deserved stardom. But after eleven dates, in response to every top client request, Margot booked ‘the other’ redhead; Sylvia, her nemesis.

David beamed as Morgan flounced into the restaurant, turning heads in her body-hugging violet pantsuit and black leather boots, with large boho floral bag hanging elegantly from her left shoulder. He stood up and pulled out her chair.

“You look spectacular, my love,” he said.

Morgan resisted the urge to flinch and instead gave him a stunning smile and a quick kiss on the cheek. The smile had been easy to produce when she noticed his briefcase on the floor beside his chair. Morgan knew what was in that briefcase, and that was why she had been so eager to meet for dinner this evening. She had been in the dressing room changing back into her street clothes following a painfully demeaning photoshoot for a cat food commercial and had heard David on his mobile phone through the window. It was unusual for him to take work calls outside and she could only hear snatches of conversation, but she heard enough: “Yes, as we discussed…Redhead…$5,000…bring the paperwork this evening.”

When she called him a few minutes later, ‘just to say hello,’ she asked if he had any bookings for her and, of course, he said “no.” That was when she suggested this early dinner.

Morgan knew it wouldn’t be long before David needed to go to the bathroom, a combination of nervous energy and too many glasses of water while she kept him waiting for her arrival and she was ready. As soon as he left the table, she snapped open his briefcase, pulled out the manila envelope, slid out the glossy 8×10 photograph of Sylvia with her address and bio on the back, and replaced it with her own.

The next morning David tuned his radio to the morning news and listened to the story he had been waiting for: “Breaking News: unnamed model found shot dead in her apartment.” After he had vomited up his toast, swallowed his guilt, and wiped his mouth, he imagined the smile on Morgan’s face when she heard that Majestic Models now had only one redhead on its books.

    *   *   *

Sandra Thom-Jones is an autistic author, researcher and advocate living in Melbourne, Australia. Her books include Growing in to Autism (2022; 2025), Autistics in Academia (2025), and Autistics at Work (2025). In 2023 she left a career in university leadership to focus on writing fiction with autistic characters, including a (hopefully soon to be published) novel about an autistic woman, a cat, and a few dead bodies. Sandra was the winner of the 2025 Scarlet Stiletto Award for short crime fiction; and in 2023 she won the Scarlet Stiletto third prize as well as the Liz Navratil Prize for the Best Crime Story with a Disabled Protagonist. Her short stories have been published in several anthologies. She also writes for a range of outlets on the autistic experience and contributes to public discussion on autism and creativity. 

By Patty Panni

Chloé wandered through the produce department at Sprout’s, seeking dinner inspiration among the cauliflower and apples. Richard’s parents were coming over for dinner. His dad Larry was fine, but after three years of marriage she still wasn’t quite sure where she stood with Janice. 

She selected some lemons, remembering the last time her in-laws came for dinner. She had worked hours on her Coq au Vin, paired it with a good Pinot Noir and crusty bread. And crème brûlée for dessert. Larry had eaten every bite and pronounced it delicious, but Janice had only eaten the salad. “We’re not used to rich food like this. I’m just a simple cook. This is quite … exotic.” 

It was crazy how much weight a single word could carry. It hung in the air afterwards, sounding more like a slur than a compliment. She had cried in Richard’s arms that night. It hadn’t been the first time her mother-in-law had brought her to tears, nor the last. So why did she still crave Janice’s approval? 

She blew out a breath and selected some pears. She could poach them in red wine with a reduced syrup and marscarpone. No, that screamed Exotic. She would keep it simple — baked spiced pears with a drizzle of honey. It would pair well with roasted chicken and vegetables. 

She selected a bouquet of peonies and alstromeria in shades of cream and rose, then headed to check out. While waiting, she reviewed her to-do list. She still needed to straighten the living room and clean the guest bath, which she could do while the chicken was roasting. She hurried home with her groceries and set to work.

Richard came through the door, loosening his tie and telling her the house smelled amazing. “Nothing I like better than coming home to you.” He kissed her, then danced her across the room. 

Chloé arched an eyebrow and said, “We’ll finish this dance, later. But you need to go change. Your parents will be here soon.” 

He groaned, then kissed her ear. “Tell me again why we invited them?”

“Because you’re their son. They want to see you.”

“Us, honey. They want to see us.”

“Yes, yes. Us. Now go!” She swatted his backside as he turned to leave, then returned to the pears. She peeled and halved them and placed them in a baking dish, then added cinnamon, nutmeg, and chopped walnuts. She put them in the oven to bake. 

When the doorbell rang, Richard answered it. “Mom, Dad! Good to see you. Come in!” 

Larry kissed her on the cheek. “You look lovely, my dear.” Janice swept in on a cloud of perfume and curiosity. She followed Chloé to the kitchen. 

“Can I help with anything?”

“No. Dinner’s almost ready. Why don’t you go sit by the fire? Richard’s been looking forward to seeing you.”

“Yes.” Janice turned as if to leave but then lingered. “Chloé, I—I wanted a word with you.”

Uh oh. “Yes?”

“I—” Janice hesitated, then said in a rush, “I just wanted to thank you. For making my son happy. We’re — I’m — glad you’re in our family.”

Chloé felt her features relax. “Really? Thank you. Richard makes me happy as well.”

“As it should be. Now, please. Let me help with something.”

“All right.” She handed over the platter of chicken and veggies. “Can you take this to the table?”

“Of course. It looks delicious.”

As she turned for the basket of rolls, Chloé blinked away sudden tears. Janice had done it again. Made her cry. And for once she didn’t mind at all.

*   *   *

Patty Panni lives and writes in Memphis, TN. Her love affair with words began with a teacher who read Beverly Cleary and introduced her to a motorcycle-riding mouse. After a career spent at law firms and in international adoptions, she now spends her days writing, cooking, and pampering the cat, the dog, and the husband.

Patty is an active member of WFWA, Deadlines for Writers, and Pitch to Published. She enjoys writing fiction and poetry, and is querying her first suspense novel, set in the grim world of human trafficking. 

 

By Floyd Largent

“Look, it’s been a week since the quake. When are you people going to leave me alone?”

“Please bear with us, Ms. Asano. Things are still in turmoil. A hundred billion dollars’ worth of damage to Los Angeles County alone. Sixty thousand buildings damaged. Tens of thousands homeless. Fifteen hundred dead.”

“I know. I was there. I experienced the worst thing a survivor could possibly experience.” 

“Did you, Ms. Asano? Did you really?”

“Of course I did! I saw my twelve-year-old nephew die! How am I supposed to live with that?!”

“Calm down, Ms. Asano. Sit. Sit down. We have a few more questions, and this time you’re going to answer all of them.”

“I just want to be left alone.”

“Maybe after we’re done here. After we clear up a few details.”

“Right.”

“Now, take us through what happened on the 28^th of this past month.”

“All right. Fine. I was taking Shane out shopping for his birthday. He was turning 12. He’d been cranky all day, and he was acting up again. As we were passing the Leopold Building, I mentioned that they had this great observation deck up on the 39^th floor where you could see the whole city. He likes things like that. I mean, he liked things like that. Anyway, I thought it might calm him down. So we went up there, and used those telescopes they have where you put in a quarter to look out over the city for five minutes. I was looking at the Griffith Observatory when he said, Hey, check it out! I looked up, and the brat was sitting on the top rail of that protective fence, or guardrail, or whatever you call it. Right where he shouldn’t’ve been, as usual.” 

“As usual? Did you know he would do that, Ms. Asano?”

“No, how could I? But I wasn’t surprised. Shane was fearless. It was just like him to do something like that.”

“What happened next?”

“Well, I started yelling at him about how his mom would kill me if he got hurt, and he just laughed at me. So I climbed up on that ledge the guardrail was imbedded in and grabbed his right arm with my left hand. I was holding onto the rail with my right hand…”

  “And then?”

“That’s when the quake hit, and Shane started to fall. He grabbed my left arm with both hands, and as he fell, my arm got yanked down onto the rail, and he broke both the bones in my forearm. See the cast? Anyway, I grabbed his hands with my right hand, too. But Shane was a big kid, you know, heavyset for his age, and we were both pretty sweaty, because it was a warm day, you know, and…”

“And?”

“And I wasn’t able to hold on! I was pulling him up when the first aftershock hit. And he… he just slipped loose. There was nothing I could do.”

“You witnessed Shane’s death?”

“…Yes.”

“How did that make you feel?”

“Are you kidding me right now?! I felt awful! I still do!”

“I see… tell me, Ms. Asano, did you resent Shane?”

“I don’t understand what you mean. Why would I resent him? He was just a kid.”

“Yes, he was. And how was Shame related to you, Ms. Asano?”

“You know. He was my nephew.”

“You have no siblings, Ms. Asano.”

“Well… he was kind of my nephew, okay? Not a blood relative, but he’s, he was, my best friend’s son. He called me Aunt May, like he was Peter Parker or something.”

“I see. And who was his father?”

“Oh, God, you want me to air all my dirty laundry?… okay. His father was my ex-husband. That’s why the kid and I have, had, the same last name.”

“You divorced your husband 11 years ago, Ms. Asano. Shane was almost 12 when he died.”

“I divorced Gareth when I found out he’d been having an affair with Gail for years, and that Shane was his bastard. But, you know, Gail’s still my best friend. Shane was family.”

“I ask you again: given the circumstances of his conception and birth, did you resent Shane Asano?”

“Hell no. Why should I? He was just a kid. It wasn’t his fault.”

“But you resented what his parents did to you.”

“Of course I did. I’m only human, and they flayed my soul open. But I wouldn’t hurt Shane. What are you getting at?”

“Just clearing up a few things, Ms. Asano. Now, here’s something I don’t quite understand: why did his parents let you take Shane to West Hollywood, clear across town from where you all live, with no supervision? Can you clarify that?”

“I told you, we were family. Gail is still my best friend, and I’m still friendly with Gareth.”

“You just said you resent them both. That they flayed your soul open.”

“I did resent them, but I got over it years ago. I don’t like where this conversation is going, Detective.”

“I don’t care. By the way, did you know Shane was afraid of heights, according to his mother? She claims he would never have gotten up on that railing the way you describe.”

“What the hell does she know? Was she there? No. He did it.”

“Mmmhmm. Do you know what this is, Ms. Asano?”

“That folder there? No idea.”

“This is Shane Asano’s autopsy report. It raises a few very interesting questions. For example: according to the medical examiner, the first three fingers of Shane’s right hand were forcibly broken immediately before he fell to his death.”

“How can they even tell that? I mean, even if it’s true, I don’t understand what that has to do with anything.”

“It suggests to me that Shane was holding tightly onto the rail of the observation deck until someone pried his fingers off of it, one by one.”

“That’s not the way it was! Maybe he broke his fingers when he broke my arm!”

“Uh huh.”

This goddamn cop! I’m telling the truth. I did my best to save Shane. I can’t stop thinking about it. I remember that I didn’t pry Shane’s hand off that gritty, rusty rail, finger by finger; I remember the all-encompassing pain as fat little Shane grabbed my arm, screaming, and broke it with his weight as it slammed down on the rail; I remember grabbing the wadded conglomeration of my left hand and both his hands with my right hand, and pulling hard, hard enough to make something in his hands or something in my arm go crack; I remember him trying to crawl his way up my arm, pulling me down over the rail toward the fatal drop; I remember the slick pudginess of his hands; and I especially remember the awful weight of gravity dragging us down; and then I remember the tremendous vibration of the aftershock shivering our hands apart, until my body just gave up on Shane —

And I remember my eyes following him all the way down. Down and down. And how in the aftershock of it all, I felt nothing. Nothing at all.

No sorrow. No regret.

“I need to go.”

“Ms. Asano, please sit back down. We’re far from done here.”

No horror. No joy. No guilt.

“I need to go. I’m leaving now.”

“Ms. Asano — ”

I’m empty. Hollow. That’s the worst part. Worse than watching my Shane fall 39 stories, until he made a bloody exclamation mark on the pavement.

He fell down, down to the hard earth, and I felt — and I feel —

Nothing.

It was all just an accident. A horrible, horrible accident.

Wasn’t it?

                                                            *   *   *

Floyd Largent is a former archaeologist who never woke a sleeping god or unearthed an ancient evil (alas). In the past year or so, he has published or had accepted for publication six poems and 31 short stories, in venues including Altered Realities, Bewildering Stories, Bullet Points, Chewers, CommuterLit, Harvey Duckman Presents, Not One of Us, Masticadores International, Revolving Door II anthology, and more.

 

By Arthur Davis

Lauren Bennett Channing was panning for gold at the mouth of the Chilton River Delta in southern Arizona near the Tennessee border. The twenty-four-year-old ex-part time nurse from a wealthy Boston family had been panning for ten minutes when she noticed a massive structure in the distance.

At first, she hesitated. It was just 10 a.m. and she hadn’t had breakfast or coffee because she had run out of both yesterday, her second day panning. Trying to remain inconspicuous, she had rented a small trailer with minimal amenities and was woefully unprepared for the undertaking.

 She scrubbed the dirt from her cheeks and squinted. It was the Chilton River nuclear power plant, abandoned last year, already collapsing from neglect.

To the south was a herd of rare spotted bison. Maybe two hundred of them grazing off citrus ferns that were abundant in this part of the northwest. She knelt down, resuming her panning in the hope she would find the gold described in a map she had bought online from Craigslist. The map was perfectly aged, smudged, torn, topologically detailed, and had cost her $2.37, which she had borrowed from her grandmother’s Hermès Birkin prototype purse owned by Jane Birkin, which sold for $10 million in 1995.

*

“Are you stealing money again, child?” his grandmother’s bodyguard asked weeks earlier, disappointed with the young girl’s behavior.

“No. Certainly not. I’m taking a course online on how to evaluate antique women’s purses from the late Victorian age.”

Her grandmother walked into her bedroom, noticed her bodyguard’s drawn 9mm Heckler & Koch, considered the excuse, and turned back to her study where reruns of cage fighting were running on her black and white television. She adored Lauren and was sympathetic to the young woman’s strange, though thankfully not self-destructive, idiosyncrasies.

Lauren had been a nurse for a few months some time ago, an excellent one worthy of promotion, but after a few intensive weeks recognized that she was not a warm, sociable caring soul. The idea of helping sick, smelly, socially incompatible dying strangers really wasn’t something she wanted to spend her life doing.

Rendering aid to strangers was an alien concept to her, as well as to her generation.

*

The wind started to roll down the small valley, and it was not quite noon. She had been warned about the unpredictably deadly gusts that could thunder down the valley floor, reaching speeds approaching sixty miles an hour. There were scattered signs along the narrow gorge that posted these kinds of warnings. In a fit of youthful arrogance she decided they were wrong, purposely misinforming the public just to scare people away from panning this part of the river.

She swirled another panful of water and soil in the dollar pan she had bought at the Chilton General Store a few feet away from where she was panning. The eight-story store was massive, with a hotel and two restaurants which had a month-long waiting list.

*

Lauren wealth was deeply imbedded in several impossibly complex trusts. Really obscenely wealthy as the only grandchild of Natalie Brownsten who started Known Industries, which specialized in telling people the truth online about things, people, history, events, and a broad spectrum of social, economic, and political and scientific realities.

She knew about the tall, posted warning signs and the two-dollar fee for panning in a restricted animal crossing zone. There were “No Panning” zones covering deer, frogs, chipmunks, moose, zebra and alien crossings. She shrugged them off. Another inconvenience she hadn’t the patience to consider.

She ignored the advice of the other campers in the trailer park that the Forest Rangers were dedicated to protecting the greater part of the valley and known to shoot panners who couldn’t present the $2 crossing fee certificate.

*

Lauren worked another few panfuls with renewed energy and focus. She enjoyed the rhythm of the process, the excitement and possibility of striking it rich making her independently wealthy when she looked up and noticed two sheep. Just not any sheep, and a tall, dark stranger standing nearby. He was over six feet, with broad shoulders, week-old stubble and deep iridescent eyes that took her in an instant. The Forest Ranger was holding two green sheep on a heavy leather leash.

“Ma’am,” he began, slinging his rifle off his shoulder, “do you have a license to pan this close to a collapsed nuclear facility and multiple crossings?”

He was distractingly handsome, with sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing thick, powerful forearms that sent chills down her back. She knew she had been caught. Green sheep were irradiated creatures from the neglected power plant. Somehow the sheep were immune from the cellular destruction of radiation and genetically turned from pale white to pink and finally, to mint green.

“You read the warning signs?”

Lauren struggled for a response as her heart nearly thumped out of her chest.

The ranger, now clearly annoyed, pointed his rifle toward the flashing six-by-six-foot sign that warned “Alien Crossing.”

Lauren saw the red flashing sign before she began to pan. She noticed it yesterday too. Born and raised in New York City, she couldn’t recall ever seeing such a warning on Fifth, Madison, or Park Avenue. She knew there were other avenues, further east in Manhattan, but those were in the gang-controlled, rat-infested, police corrupted slum-scattered part of the city where her parents forbade her to go.

Stunning as he was, she could feel the panic overtaking her body.

There was no place to run or hide as the Ranger slowly advanced on her, so she stood with cunning arrogance, dropped her tool-laden vest and unbuttoned her sweat-soaked shirt, revealing a set of breasts that immediately immobilized the ranger. She stood, hands on her hips exposed for about ten seconds before he genuflected and apologized for bothering her. He pivoted away while the two green sheep remained paralyzed with what they were watching then, reluctantly, turned away emotionally disheartened and spiritually broken.

The wind was picking up. Lauren stood. She was hungry, thirsty, and disappointed. “This shit is going to take forever,” she quietly admitted to herself while removing her custom gloves, carefully examining her day-old, manicured nails.

“Fifty dollars with an obscene tip, and my polished nails are already cracking.”

She turned her hands over, palm up. Soft. Resilient. Remembering when she had last been with a man. The thrill of being touched and touching in a crazed evening with her therapist, Dr. Mason Longstreet, before her new career of gold panning began.

Relieved the Ranger backed off, she soaked the sweat from her brow with a hand-painted Japanese silk handkerchief she had purchased as a birthday present to herself last year.

The day after, she returned to the same expensive Madison Avenue boutique on Fifty-Seventh Street where she stood at the same counter as the same manager wrapped the fifteen-hundred-dollar gloves in several layers of expensive gift wrap buried in two boxes.

“The gloves, can I use them for gold panning?”

“The Gleeson & Downey hand stitched gloves? Yes. Of course,” Sylvia Hutchenson, said unable to hide her annoyance, showing Lauren the pink tag attached to the gloves that clearly noted they could be utilized for rock climbing, mining, gold panning, calligraphy, most minor surgical procedures, and every kind of sexual activity.

“Excellent,” Lauren said, thanked the clearly annoyed manager, and slipped out of the store and into the back of a waiting stretch Mercedes-Maybach.

Oliver, her driver turned, “Ms. Lauren, where to?”

“The Chilton River Delta, of course,” she said, bothered because she had already informed her friends and family that she was taking a few years off to pan for gold.

Lauren sat back, relaxed into the butter-soft leather seat, fingered two perfectly aged Chips Ahoy Chocolate chip cookies from a nearly empty box, sipped at a goblet of chilled 2020 Château Lafite Rothschild, and knew it was time to change her name to Isabella Lowenstein, III.

                                                         *   *   *

Arthur Davis is a retired Wall Street trained management consultant. He has been quoted in The New York Times and in Crain’s New York Business, taught at The New School and interviewed on New York TV News Channel 1. He has advised The New York City Taxi & Limousine Commission, the Department of Homeland Security, Senator John McCain’s investigating committee on boxing reform, and testified as an expert witness before the New York State Commission on Corruption in Boxing. His work has been published in numerous journals as original and reprint fiction. He was featured in a single author collection, nominated for a Pushcart Prize, received the 2018 Write Well Award for excellence in short fiction and, twice nominated, received Honorable Mention in The Best American Mystery Stories 2017. More at www.talesofourtime.com, Amazon Author Central and the Poets & Writers Organization.

By David Jonson

At exactly 11:43 p.m., the final train left Westbridge Station.

No one used that line anymore.

The city had grown eastward, abandoning the old industrial district where rusted factories stood like giant skeletons under the moon. But the train still ran once each night—more out of bureaucratic stubbornness than necessity.

David Mercer boarded because he had no choice.

He clutched a weathered leather satchel against his chest and checked over his shoulder for the third time.

No one.

Still, the sensation of being followed clung to him like damp cloth.

The train doors hissed shut.

Inside, the carriage was almost empty.

A woman in a gray coat sat near the far end, knitting without looking up. A teenage boy slept with headphones around his neck. An old conductor shuffled through the aisle punching tickets, though the machine in his hand looked older than David himself.

“Last stop?” the conductor asked.

“Yes.”

The old man punched the ticket.

Then paused.

His cloudy eyes narrowed.

“You shouldn’t be carrying that.”

David instinctively tightened his grip on the satchel.

“It’s just papers.”

The conductor stared too long.

Then moved on.

*

David exhaled.

Inside the satchel were documents worth killing for.

Three months ago, he had worked as a financial analyst for Harrow Biotech, a company publicly praised for humanitarian medicine and private philanthropy.

He had discovered something else.

Trial records.

Deaths buried in spreadsheets.

Bribes hidden beneath shell accounts.

Illegal experiments conducted in impoverished settlements where no one asked questions.

He had copied everything.

Tonight, he was heading to meet a journalist at the abandoned district’s central terminal.

If he made it.

The train rattled deeper into darkness.

Station lights blurred past like brief ghosts.

Then the carriage lights flickered.

Once.

Twice.

Gone.

Blackness swallowed everything.

The train continued moving.

Metal screamed against tracks.

Someone stood up.

David heard footsteps.

Not one pair.

Several.

He froze.

A low voice whispered from the darkness.

“Give us the bag.”

His pulse hammered.

He lunged sideways just as something sharp slashed through the air where his throat had been.

A blade.

He hit the floor.

The satchel slid from his grip.

Hands scrambled.

Boots thundered.

The teenage boy—who had been sleeping—was suddenly awake, wrestling with someone near the aisle.

Not a passenger.

An attacker.

The knitting woman moved faster than a striking snake. Something metallic flashed from her sleeve. A grunt. A body collapsed.

The train lights returned.

Chaos.

Three masked figures in black clothing.

The boy had one pinned against a seat.

The woman stood over another, her knitting needles buried in his shoulder.

The third held David’s satchel.

He sprinted toward the rear door.

David chased him.

The carriage bucked violently.

He slammed into poles, seats, steel edges.

The masked man reached the final platform between cars.

Wind shrieked through cracks.

He kicked open the maintenance hatch.

Cold night air exploded inside.

The man climbed out onto the narrow external ledge while the train screamed over elevated tracks.

Madness.

But David followed.

Rain had begun.

Steel slick beneath his shoes.

The city below was a black canyon of roofs and abandoned roads.

The thief crawled across the outer rail toward the next carriage.

Satchel slung over one shoulder.

David lunged.

Caught his ankle.

The man kicked viciously.

Boot struck David’s jaw.

Stars burst across his vision.

His fingers slipped.

Then another hand seized his wrist.

The teenage boy.

He had climbed out after him.

“Don’t let go!” he shouted over the roar.

Together, they pulled David back.

The masked thief scrambled higher.

Nearly free.

Then something pierced his hand.

A knitting needle.

The gray-coated woman stood half outside the carriage, balanced like a dancer.

The thief screamed.

Lost grip.

Fell.

His body vanished into darkness.

The satchel tumbled after him.

“No!” David shouted.

He watched his evidence disappear into the black.

Everything.

Gone.

*

They climbed back inside.

The remaining attackers had been restrained.

The old conductor stood calmly beside them, holding a revolver that looked even older than his ticket punch.

David stared.

“What is happening?”

The woman removed her gloves.

The teenage boy peeled off an earpiece.

Neither looked remotely surprised.

The conductor sighed.

“We were wondering when they’d make a move.”

David blinked.

“Who are you?”

“Internal Oversight Division,” said the boy.

David laughed once—a hollow, disbelieving sound.

“You’re a child.”

“I’m twenty-six.”

The woman added, “Disguises are useful.”

The conductor tapped the revolver.

“So is age.”

David’s throat tightened.

“You knew?”

“We knew someone at Harrow copied files,” said the woman. “We also knew Harrow hired mercenaries to retrieve them.”

“And you let me board a train as bait?”

Silence.

That was answer enough.

Rage flared hot and sharp.

“My evidence is gone.”

The boy smiled faintly.

“No.”

He reached beneath his jacket and pulled out an identical leather satchel.

David stared.

“The one you carried?” the boy said. “Decoy. Swapped it when the lights went out.”

David opened it.

Documents.

Drive.

Records.

Everything.

His knees nearly gave way.

He sat.

Shaking.

Laughing now for entirely different reasons.

“You could’ve told me.”

“And risked your reaction?” said the conductor.

Fair point.

The train began slowing.

Ahead, lights glowed through rain.

Central Terminal.

The abandoned district.

Final stop.

*

They disembarked onto a platform slick with water and silence.

The city beyond looked dead.

But a single lamp burned near the old station office.

Beneath it stood Eva Keene, investigative journalist, coat flapping in the storm.

David had made it.

He walked toward her.

Then stopped.

Something was wrong.

She was smiling.

Too calmly.

Too knowingly.

Behind her, shadows moved.

Armed silhouettes.

More than six.

The woman in gray swore softly.

“Compromised.”

Eva raised a pistol.

“I’m sorry, David. Harrow pays better than newspapers.”

Betrayal hit harder than fear.

The conductor lifted his revolver.

Gunfire erupted.

Glass shattered.

Bullets screamed.

David dove behind a stone bench.

The teenage agent returned fire.

The gray-coated woman disappeared into darkness like smoke.

Men shouted.

Bodies hit concrete.

Rain washed blood into thin red ribbons.

David crawled.

Not away.

Forward.

Toward Eva.

She searched for targets, unaware of him beneath the fog of gunfire.

His fingers found a loose iron spike near a broken railing.

He stood.

Drove it into her wrist.

The pistol fell.

She screamed.

He kicked it away.

The boy tackled one gunman.

The conductor dropped another.

Then silence.

Only rain.

Only breath.

Only the hiss of cooling steel from the resting train.

*

At dawn, police sirens filled the district.

By noon, Harrow Biotech’s stock collapsed.

By evening, arrests spread across three countries.

Executives disappeared in handcuffs.

Board members resigned.

Names once untouchable became headlines.

David sat alone on a station bench as sunlight touched rusted tracks.

The woman in gray approached.

No knitting now.

Just tired eyes.

“You did the right thing.”

He looked at the rails.

“People died before anyone listened.”

“Yes.”

“That doesn’t feel like victory.”

She sat beside him.

“No. But sometimes justice arrives late on ugly trains.”

For the first time in months, David let go of the satchel.

And watched the morning come.

*   *   *

David Jonson is an emerging writer with a passion for storytelling that explores the depth of human emotion, resilience, faith, and the complexities of everyday life. His work often weaves suspense, reflection, and moral insight into compelling narratives that aim to both entertain and provoke thought. Drawing inspiration from real-life struggles, historical events, and the enduring strength of the human spirit, he enjoys composing fiction and creative works that are emotionally rich and impactful.

Based in South Africa, David continues to develop his voice as a writer while exploring stories that combine tension, compassion, and truth. He believes literature has the power to highlight hidden struggles, inspire courage, and connect people across different backgrounds and experiences.

By Carolyn R. Russell                                                                                                      

I stumble out of the rain on one of those cold late April afternoons that seems to only happen in New England and into the veterinary office with Lucas, my five-pound pup, who shivers in my arms while gnawing on a long strand of my wet hair. The crowded reception area is filled with anxiously fidgeting humans and distressed pets. The people are no doubt worried about the fact that the clinic usually closes at noon on Fridays, and it is now half past one. The place won’t open again until Monday and I’m guessing nobody wants to risk needing to go to the expensive, anonymous emergency care hospital in the city. The cats and dogs look demonstratively miserable, pets sick enough that everyone here is willing to stay late for their evaluation.

I check in with the front-facing staff and I am, as always, touched by their empathy. One of them, a freckle-faced woman with sea-green eyes, gives Lucas a shiny smile that falters as her eyes meet mine. She hands me a Kleenex and I wipe the rain off my face. Or maybe they’re tears.

They call Lucas’s name and he looks into my eyes the way he always does, like he can see into my soul. We follow a vet I haven’t met before who tells me to call him Arlo. The room we enter is filled with shiny metallic surfaces. Looking at them makes my headache worse and I feel too wretched to be chatty. Lucas’ head is now pressed against my ribcage, his nose in the armpit of my cardigan and he’s shaking. I comfort him as I respond to Arlo’s questions, and he records my answers on a tablet. 

Arlo pauses and looks over at Lucas and me. In a soft voice he says, “So, besides the trembling, and the vomiting, and the other uncharacteristic behaviors you’ve mentioned, is there anything else?”

I ask if he has Lucas’ history in his files, and he says “Yes,” but he’d like to hear it from me if that’s okay. 

“You know that Lucas is a special needs dog,” I say.

“He has four limbs and five feet,” says Arlo. “That’s pretty special.”

I manage a grin. “Yeah. We had to get a purebred rather than a rescue because I needed a hypoallergenic dog. We went to visit with a breeder’s new litter and fell in love with Lucas, and the breeder tried to steer us toward other puppies for like 15 minutes. Then she showed us his bifurcated left foot and said she couldn’t sell him because of it, couldn’t vouch for his health. She ended up just giving Lucas to us. Wouldn’t take a penny.” I stopped.

“And….,” Arlo prodded.

“We, I, worry maybe more than I should about him because of all that. I don’t know. But I’m glad you’ll check him out.”

“Sure thing,” says Arlo.

I gently coerce Lucas into loosening his grip on my sweater and Arlo disappears with him into another room. I’m suddenly shivering and I look for a window to close, but there are none.

A bit later, Arlo comes back holding Lucas, who is pasted against his chest. Lucas’ eyes look dreamy, his body relaxed. I reach for him and he lurches into my arms and closes his eyes. Arlo asks me to sit down next to him on one of the scruffy chairs I’d been avoiding; their stained corduroy upholstery suggest a long, messy history. But I take a seat.

“Is he sedated?” I ask.

Arlo laughs. “No. I think he’s just tuckered out. I examined him, and Lucas seems physically fine.” 

I exhale a breath I didn’t know I was holding.

“If his symptoms persist, we’ll probably want to do some blood work. Possibly more. If it’s not an illness, though, it could be behavioral.”

I ask him what that term means when applied to a dog.

“Well,” says Arlo, “has there been any stress at your house lately?”

I can feel my face get warm and I nearly shake my head. Instead, I focus on the man’s kind eyes.

“It’s tax season,” I say carefully. “My husband and I have been going through a certain amount of … upset.”

“Ah,” says the vet. “I understand.” His voice is very gentle.

He leans forward. “Taxes,” he says and then pauses. “Taxes are hard. Sometimes it helps to bring in an expert, you know?”

I nod.

“My wife and I had one season when we thought we might lose our minds. We got help. We ended up needing to … take an extension, but it’s all worked out fine.”

“I’m so glad to hear that,” I blurt out. “Might you have a recommendation for a … professional?”

He fishes for his cell phone in his pocket, taps it a few times, and hands it to me. I take it and copy the information into my own.

“Thank you,” I say. “I’ll talk it over with my husband.”

Arlo stands up. “Do remember that if your husband isn’t immediately on board, you can go on your own. And then possibly he’ll change his mind, once he starts listening. That’s how it happened for me and Debbie.”

I shake Arlo’s hand maybe a few seconds too long and then Lucas and I leave. In the lobby, I pay the bill and after thanking the staff for staying late, we step outside. 

The sky has cleared. Lucas makes a familiar sound and I put him down on the artificial grass of the dog yard. He skips across it, lithe as always despite his wonky foot and hopping gait. Slipping through a hole in the fencing, he heads straight to an adjacent muddy area. He stops and as I get closer I can see he’s investigating a patch of newly blooming daffodils still glistening from the earlier downpour. He seems much better.

*   *   *

Carolyn R. Russell is a multiple Best Microfiction winner and multiple Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net, and Best Small Fictions nominee. Her short stories, poetry, and creative nonfiction have been featured in numerous publications. She is the author of four books, the latest of which is a collection of cross-genre flash called “Death and Other Survival Strategies” (Vine Leaves Press, 2023). She also writes for the screen and has a TV thriller series currently in development. Carolyn lives on and writes from Boston’s North Shore.  

By Julia Rajagopalan    

The corner of the hedge, nearest our driveway, is brown and dying. I know why. Twice a day, my neighbor takes her golden retriever for a walk, and every time he passes, he pees on it. I watch him do it from my office window on the second floor of my Tudor.

I love working from home. It cuts down on the commute and the office drama, but I do not like my neighbors.

I go online and purchase a little green sign that says, ‘Don’t Pee Here.’ There is a cartoon dog with a big red cross through it, like the no-smoking signs you used to see before the entire world banned cigarettes.

The next day, her dog pees directly on the sign.

I should talk to her, ask her nicely to stop, but the last time I spoke to her about the yard, she lectured me about native plants. She’ll claim that the hedge is dying because it isn’t native, and I need to rip the whole thing out and put in some weeds to save the butterflies or something.

I am not a petty person, but I’ve started taking my own walks. Every day I leave through the garage, and every day I plunge my hand into the container of rock salt, kept for the icy winter sidewalk. A paper cut on my thumb stings as it grinds against the salt.

Parked in her driveway is a forest green hatchback. On the back, clings a paw print bumper sticker. I wonder if I can find a bumper sticker for boxwoods. When I walk past her yard, I toss salt across the grass. I keep my hand at my side as I do, out of view of her doorbell camera. It reminds me of Bible study when they talked about salting the earth to keep anything from growing. I feel vindicated when I think of this. Instead of an eye for an eye, it’s a lawn for a lawn, and that is vindication and not vindictive. It’s funny how similar those two words are.

In less than a week, her lawn starts to brown. In two weeks, there are patches the size of my head. I start taking two walks a day and I wave to her as she watches me through her front window. I vary the times of my walk, but she’s always there watching. I don’t see them walk in front of my house anymore, but then again, I don’t sit in front of the window all day.

After a few months, she replaces the grass with fresh sod, though I don’t think the grass is native to this region. Still, it might be safe to replace my boxwood. I’ll do it as long as it’s not going to become a puppy urinal. I go to the nursery and locate the correct plant. Back at home, I hack at the dead shrub, cutting the roots with clippers when I can’t dig it out.

The new plant isn’t the right shape, but given the chance, it will be. As I dig through spreadsheets the next afternoon, I watch my neighbor walk past with her dog. He stops to sniff the new addition, and I’m sure she’ll pull him past, but she watches patiently while he decides. When he baptizes my new plant, I set down my pen and go to get the salt.

*.  *   *

Julia Rajagopalan is a writer of speculative and literary fiction who lives just outside of Detroit, Michigan, with her husband and their very grumpy dog. For a list of her publications, check out her website: http://JuliaRajagopalan.com.