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Published by 101 Words, LLC

To read more stories or submit your own, visit us at:

www.flashfictionmagazine.com

101words.org

Edited by: Grace Black, Emily Clayton, Anushree Nande


e-book formatting by Guido Henkel

Copyright © 2016
All rights reserved. Copyright in the text reproduced herein remains the
property of the individual authors and permission to publish gratefully
acknowledged by the editors and publishers. No part of this publication may
be reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or
otherwise, without written permission from the author(s).

2
What’s up, cupcakes? This is Shannon, the owner of
101 Words and Flash Fiction Magazine.
What you are about to read is the first of many
anthologies to come. If you are a writer, I encourage you
to keep submitting stories, you may just end up in a future
issue.
Special thanks to Grace Black and Emily Clayton for
selecting the stories you are about to read.
Enjoy,
—Shannon

3
by Shannon Barber

Mama never lets me wear my hair all out. She washes it


section by section, each twist gently untangled, washed,
soaked in conditioner and twisted again. She calls me the
Thousand Names of Creation and Fertility and Love and
Stars.
I sit between her knees, my ear pressed to her thigh
while she braids my clean hair. Sometimes I doze off, the
rhythm of her knuckles against my scalp and her soft low
voice lulls me into half dreams.
Behind my closed eyes, I see the most beautiful
things. The slow birth of a universe, swirling hot gases
bringing some other new life. I skip along the rings of
Saturn and smell the blue raspberry mystery of deep
space.
When I’m not dozing, I pick the deedly bobs and
butterflies Mama puts at the ends of my braids. My
favorites are sparkly, little balls that clack when I run, but
will smack my face if I’m careless.

4
Sometimes I complain. I want to see my hair full and
nappy and standing out from my head like a gas giant.
“No. Some down is enough. All is too much.”
Unlike the voices of others, there is no shame in her.
She sings songs to my hair about beauty and power. I
don’t understand, but I obey.
Every two weeks like clockwork it’s just Mama, my
hair, and my dreams. Mama names all the stars and
constellations with each braid.
Mama says my hair is like chaos. Necessary and
exciting. Terrifying to a world that craves unnatural order.
She tells me that my hair is rarer than a witness to the
death of a dwarf star, but it is there and real beyond the
comprehension of most people.
I love how my Mama loves me. The way she weaves
her love into my hair until it is only made of
constellations, universes and worlds as yet unknown. Her
love is the rainbow corona I see around the moon
sometimes.
I know all these things but it wants to see my hair.
Just once wild and free. I need to see it.
I wait until I am alone. I gather my combs and sit
under the stars and undo myself.
Each time my fingers turn I speak the secret names of
stars as yet unborn.

5
When my hair is all down and hanging in soft black
nappy curls and coils, I dance.
The Northern Lights crackle in the tiny coils on the
back of my neck and black holes whirl out of my afro as I
spin and frolic.
Under my hair as velvet and soft as the sky above, I
know things are happening and I just can’t stop.
Mama always calls me the Thousand Names of
Creation and Fertility and Love and Stars. She says I am
God and Asase Ya. I am Xochiquetzal and the Celestial
Registrar of Childbirth. I am Bastet and Hathor. I am
Haumea and Aditi. I am Mama Quilla and Hanhepi Wi.
I am in our World only another child with stars and
the power of creation in her eyes and falling from her
hair.
I spin right into Mama’s arms and for a moment, all
the twinkling lights go dim in my hair and my eyes.
I’m afraid I’m going to get into trouble.
“I’m sorry Mama, I’m sorry. I couldn’t help it.”
Before I know what to do, there are tears pouring out
of me. Mama wraps her long dark arms around me and
holds me tight, she presses her lips to my hair and I can
feel her vibrating with laughter.
“Hush now, don’t cry, star. Don’t cry. We all must

6
have our freedoms. You are my Child. You are the
Thousand Goddesses of Creation and Fertility and Love
and Stars. Dance with me, I will show you how to birth a
universe properly.”
Mama and me, we dance forever and forever am I her
little one. Forever are the stars in my hair. In my braids,
the secrets of creation live until I let them loose to create
again. And thus you are born and I am born and Mama is
born and we are all born. Over and over again.

7
by DeRicki Johnson

His lips moved as he read the tag on the worn, tattered


book: “Slightly Foxed—$5.00.”
Humph. More like savagely sharked, he thought. But,
there was something about this tome, driving him to covet
it.
“I’ll give you two bucks for it.”
Just then the book cover flapped ever so slightly, its
dog-eared pages restlessly ruffling.
The eldritch clerk looked over his precariously
perched reading glasses and down his nose at the scruffy
whelp; the book definitely quivering in anticipation. “No
charge. The book’s chosen you.”
Walking home, he couldn’t shake the feeling the book
itself had begun to read…​him.

8
by Levi J. Mericle

He rejected life with a twitch of an index finger, and no


one knew how to stop him.
Not his mother, not his father. Not even the splintered
faith of a man that lay across the rosary around his neck.
He was a forgotten story, a fractured fairy tale with an
ending like sour milk and moldy cookies at Christmas
time. He needed substance beyond what this world
entailed.
Now, his new life can start with the dancing fairies
he’s always dreamt about. He leaves behind a mark, his
legacy for all time.
Speckled like love scene shadows on the wallpaper.

9
by Christopher Blaine

“The less we talk, the better,” Marina said, cutting him off
mid-sentence. Michael was taken aback, confused; it was
their first date.
Peering over the top of his menu, he watched as she
intently scanned her own. Then, slapping her menu shut
and dropping it onto their table, she kicked her heel
impatiently while trying to catch the eye of the waiter.
Michael was fascinated. It seemed to him that she hardly
noticed his presence at all.
After they had ordered, she turned her eyes upon him.
They were a very intense shade of green. He imagined the
writhing growth of a jungle in tropical heat. “Look,” she
said, “the best thing any stranger’s got going for them is
an air of mystery. People get to know each other, figure
each other out, they lose interest and want to be on to
solving the next mystery. So, for both of our sakes, why
don’t we just do our best to maintain that air of mystery?

10
Talking is nasty and mostly pointless, so let’s leave words
to that for which they were intended: communicating
practical problems. Like, hand me the wrench. Okay? No
personal questions that aren’t necessary.”
For a moment, Michael just stared at her. Then,
beginning to open his mouth, he changed his mind.
Instead, he merely nodded his head. In his thirty years, he
had never been on such a strange date; he was intrigued.
When the food arrived, they ate. Otherwise, they
watched each other. Very intently and very intensely,
each trying to find an opening through the eyes into the
inner workings of the other.
When finally he had walked her to her door, Michael
was somehow not surprised at the passionate kiss they fell
into. Each were well on their way to becoming in the
other’s mind everything they dreamed of.

•••

Three days later, there was a second date. A year later,


they were married.
As the years passed, they laughed and they cried
together, smiled and smirked, but only rarely did they
talk. If words built up inside them, they dumped them
upon their friends. Their love making, though, was a thing

11
to be marveled at—pure and vicious.
When at last, at seventy-six years old, Michael
Moonwater had been forced to bury Marina Moonwater,
seventy-eight, he knew next to nothing about her aside
from what he had observed of her in their forty-six years
together. Driving back from the funeral to what would be
an empty house, many thoughts flooded his brain. There
was sadness, of course, a heaping heart full. But, on top of
that, there was fascination. How had he fallen into such a
weird relationship, how had his life passed in such a way?
Had he been hypnotized, enchanted? He was not a
remarkable man. Marina, as far as he knew, had not been
a remarkable woman. Only very, very peculiar. None of
their friends or his family (he had never met hers) had
understood their relationship in the least, though some
professed admiration.
In what had been their car, Michael pondered her. He
felt like a man who had lived inside a storm for forty-six
years, finally seeing the broad blue sky. In the calm,
everything had become very clear.
Suddenly, the image of the woman who had been his
wife, down there in her grave under six feet of dirt, rose
up in his mind.
Inside her rotting body were many treasures, treasures
no one had ever seen. As her body decayed and her skin
split, these treasures fell out. They were many and

12
wondrous. In time, though, the treasures too decayed,
becoming part of the soil.
The image fading, a large smile began to spread its
wings upon the wrinkled old face of Michael Moonwater.
Then, opening his mouth, he started to sing.
As the car moved through light and shadow, winding
its way back toward what would never feel like home
again, Michael Moonwater sang as he never had before—
ecstatically—as large tears rolled down his weathered
cheeks, and the world whipped past his windows.

13
by Steven O. Young Jr.

I bled, and they said I was a woman. I only felt closer to


dying and thought my molted heart had fallen out.
I stammered through the Torah. They said I was an
adult. Then showered me with trinkets. I couldn’t tell who
was disillusioned.
I broiled under his bourboned breath. He bit at the
tzitzit splayed on my thigh and said he’d make me a
woman. His absinthe-tinted eyes pierced through my
tears. The sense of dying resurged.
They found him bludgeoned by the scroll. I bled, but
so did he.
I finally felt like an adult. The judge concurred.

14
by Deidre Dykes

Daryl “Deadeye” Wilcox died on March 23, 1903, at


1:27 p.m. At about 3:00 that same afternoon, he took his
usual stool at The Jackson tavern and ordered himself a
white whiskey. The messy hole blown through his chest
made drinking a little bit difficult, but Shoeleather, the
weathered old barkeep, was more than used to this kind of
incident. He toweled up the spilled liquid and offered the
ugly, soaked rag to Wilcox. Daryl nodded his thanks to
the barkeep, stuffed the whiskey-soaked towel firmly into
his wound, and ordered up another drink. This time, he
asked for a double.

15
by Daniel J. Cleary

There was a corner at Broadway and one of the numbered


streets, near Union, with a Popeye’s across the street from
a KFC and a Church’s. We called it the corner of
Broadway and Chicken. One winter Sunday morning, I
was hanging out with this old guy from the neighborhood,
Preacher, who got his name from the multiple Jesus
tattoos he got in the joint. Preacher and I were desperate
to keep the party going. We had a bunch of beers in the
fridge, but we wouldn’t be able to drink them all unless
we had something to smoke with them.
“You fly, I’ll buy,” he told me through his skinny,
yellow teeth.
He gave me sixty bucks to get more rock. So I did the
fiend-walk, pacing the numbered streets between
Broadway and Fleet, 55th to 71st, looking for a dope boy.
Winter. Sunday morning. 5 a.m. No dope boys.
I was approaching the corner of Broadway and
Chicken again, about to head back toward Preacher’s

16
place, when a little black kid, couldn’t have been more
than twelve years old, came out from between two
houses. He reached his thumb and index finger into his
mouth and pulled a baggy from between his cheek and
gum.
“How much you need?” he asked me.
“How old are you?” I asked him.
“How much you need?” he asked again.
“Look, I don’t want to buy dope from a kid.”
He pulled out four beautiful stones that could easily
have passed for forties from a more imposing dealer.
“I’ve got thirties that I’m giving away for twenty
‘cause I want to go to bed.”
I thought about what I was up to when I was twelve. I
was a fuckup—drinking a bit, smoking reefer already—
but, at least, I wasn’t slinging dope. I thought about this
kid’s future. I pictured him in juvie within a year,
graduating to real prison as soon as he got popped as an
adult.
Then I thought about those rocks. Those little off-
white pearls that meant, at least, another twelve hours of
fuzz and blur. And I thought about the half a case of beer
still in the fridge back at Preacher’s place. And I thought
about the fact that Sunoco would start selling beer again
in a couple of hours. And I knew Preacher would buy if I

17
would fly. Especially if we had scored a few boulders.
I stood there, in the shadow of Broadway and
Chicken, and told this kid, “Give me three.”

18
by Petar Ramadanovic

Re: Order 516099


Initially, I requested to return the Sony BluRay Player
I bought from you online, Wednesday, 02/04/2015. I
wanted to return the item because it would not turn on.
Upon closer inspection, after my six-year-old
grandson showed me which button to press, it appeared
the item was, in fact, in full working order; it was me who
was not functioning well. I would, therefore, like to
cancel the original request and initiate another return.
If you could send me packaging a seventy-year-old
male can fit in, and advise me on proper handling, I
would be much obliged to you.

19
by Cassandra Parkin

When he sees her, she’s holding a funeral for a chaffinch.


“It died of cold,” she tells him, patting the soil. They can’t
store fat. It weighs them down. Captivated, he suggests
hot chocolate. When she counter-proposes sex, he’s lost.
Her appeal’s distinctly avian—small bones, quick
movements, bright eyes, sharp little face. Three years
later, she kills him (I’ve met someone else, I’m leaving
now, bye). Lying on the kitchen floor, all the blood
leaking out of his warm mammalian heart, he longs to
shed his coat of fat and fly after her, tearing her to shreds
with his talons.

20
by Aaron J. Housholder

Entangled in the top of the bush near the front stoop there
hangs a severed finger. Anyone who sees the finger will
notice that it’s a ring finger because the wedding band is
still there. The observer—he or she, but please, God, she
—will notice that the bloody end is cut clean and should
thus deduce that the severance was intentional, not some
accidental ripping or yanking of flesh and bone.
It might occur to her that it would be much harder to
lose a ring finger to accidental amputation than, say, a
pinky. She wasn’t here yesterday to see that the pinky
went first. She should notice that the blood is not quite
dried on the ring finger and must therefore assume that
the cutting and entangling was done today, at the earliest
this morning but possibly this afternoon, while she might
have been and should have been but probably wasn’t
actually in her office, though of course she’ll say she was,
damn it.
She’ll have a chance, to be sure, to notice the finger in
the bush, intertwined as it is in the upper twigs and leaves,

21
because the sprinkled blood on the front step should make
her stop and the smeared blood on the screen door should
draw her eyes up and then it’s a quick lateral glance to the
bush and the finger. Plus it will be pointing right at her.
But she’ll probably miss it. It’s pretty tangled in there.
More likely she’ll miss it because she’ll be distracted
by her phone or by making sure her clothes aren’t
disheveled from her time not in the office or by some
other self-absorption. Or she’ll come home after dark,
again. Pleading for grace as usual as she crosses the
threshold because the office was crazy and everyone was
sick or at some damn conference, and she just couldn’t
get away. So she’ll have a surprise waiting when she
comes in, despite the finger out there, clear as anything…​
pointing right at her.
I think I’ll tell her I’ve already eaten. I’ll don the oven
mitts and carry her the dinner I’ve kept warm for her. I’ll
keep my hands submerged in the dishwater, which will
burn like all the fires of hell but I won’t mind, washing all
those pots and pans while she stares at her phone and eats.
I’ll wait until she’s climbed into bed and turned out
the lights before I join her. I’ll offer to rub her shoulders,
just how she likes. We’ll talk there in the dark as she lies
face down and I straddle her hips and knead away the
tension in those tight shoulders after she’s removed her
ratty old sleeping dress. I’ll remind her in my quiet voice

22
what she said last Sunday, that she thinks we’ve lost some
of our focus, our dedication, but that it takes both of us.
And then I’ll assure her that I know she’s not doing her
part, but even so, I’m as dedicated as she could ever ask
me to be, and I’ll put a little extra pressure with my left
hand on her left shoulder, and I’ll echo those final words
she said to me last Sunday, that it “just seems like there’s
a little something missing, doesn’t there?” And I’ll
squeeze again with that hand until she figures out what I
mean. And then she’ll scream and scream as I straddle her
and rub her shoulders with these now eight fingers,
though, I still feel all ten. Then I’ll whisper, so she has to
quiet down to hear me, and I’ll ask if she thinks she could
ever, ever be as dedicated as I am.
And then I’ll get up and walk out. I’ll show her how
dedicated I would have been to staying by how dedicated
I am to leaving. I’ll march out the front door and I’ll walk
past that ring, with the finger showing me the way. Just
like that.
So that’s the plan. I almost can’t wait for her to get
home. It’s going to be epic. Totally worth these last three
days of waiting, this torture.
Should be any minute. It’s been dark for a while.
Going on midnight again.
Any minute now. She’s coming home. I just know it.

23
24
by Matt Spaetzel

I came to Kendra when I felt broken. She always had


answers.
A hundred pottery shards lined her table when I
entered. She sat repairing them with gold lacquer. Nearby
sat a finished vase, beautiful gold lines spiderwebbing
across every inch. I stood, wiping tears.
“Few know the trade,” she whispered. “Fewer
understand the philosophy.”
I watched her. She leaned in close.
“Sometimes broken things are better for being
broken.” A smile tugged her lips. “You have any
questions today, dearest?”
I stared at the golden artwork—broken, beautiful,
perfect. A smile formed. “Actually, I think today you
answered them all.”

25
by Leela Bear

Rifling through the vast collection of unwanted clothes,


Maude unabashedly uses her skills for seeking out the
thoroughly used, best bargain buys for her collection. She
has a particular use for most items she acquires. She
adores the smell of others and the personalities locked up
within each.
She started her collection when her mother died. She
had donated her mother’s clothes and a lifetime of items
to a hospice. Upon delivering them, she discovered so
many new friends. New friends who would never judge or
reject her.
Oh no, the dolls she dresses suit her taste in people
perfectly well.

26
by Matthew Fay

They sat on opposite ends of the circular marble table,


hoping that the other would speak. It was their first time
meeting, and both had been expecting the other to start
the conversation. And steer it, for that matter.
The result was the past few minutes of painfully
awkward silence. With each second the air seemed
heavier, weighing down on them as it thickened in their
chests. The mutual feeling was that of the last minute of a
ticking bomb timer: at some point, they would just have
to admit defeat and let everything go up in flames.
They had met over a hookup app, something neither
of them would have considered had their respective
friends not goaded them into it. They were decidedly the
last type to sleep around: habitual homebodies and crap at
small talk, much less flirting. And even given their social
handicaps, something about those kinds of apps had
always screamed of desperation to them, like the first of
many steps towards giving up on real life before resigning
oneself to the Matrix. They were quick to realize how

27
much they were just dinosaurs.
“It’s just a means to an end, man,” a friend of his had
said, “it’s simplifying what everyone does anyway.
People are busy. It’s so you don’t have to look so hard.”
“We’re not on campus anymore, hon,” a friend of hers
had said, “this is just the next best thing.”
Both had finally caved. They did have to admit a
sense of relief at the idea of minimizing the unclassified
galaxy that was the New York dating scene, like
narrowing the fish in the sea down to a lake. That was the
main problem with the city, from what they’d gathered
since moving there: the right ones always seemed to be
hiding. Even in plain sight.
They both found the signup process
immensely intimidating. Summing themselves up in a few
photos and some select sentences of biography. He wasn’t
sure how to be both honest and appealing, not when his
idea of a good time was usually a Netflix sci-fi binge. She
spent close to three hours putting together a profile
picture, tearing apart her wardrobe for the proper outfit.
Something attractive and fun, but that also didn’t give any
false impressions of who she was.
He had found her one Saturday, three days after
joining. He was drawn to her auburn hair and bright hazel
eyes but especially to the Tom Baker Doctor Who scarf

28
she wore in her profile picture. Two days later, he had
summoned the courage to message her.
He was her fifteenth message, after only five days.
She had thought him a refreshing break from derivatives
of ‘hey girl’ and subsequent frustrations at not getting a
response.
“Brilliant scarf,” he’d said. “Though for authenticity’s
sake, I hope it’s floor-length.” He’d surprised himself. He
had no idea where his boldness came from.
She’d received the message while exiting the subway
on her way home. She stopped in the middle of the
sidewalk to smile at it.
“Well, of course,” she’d replied, once back in her
apartment. “The cat latches onto it and I have to drag him
across the universe.” She was startled by her own
pluckiness.
Back in his kitchen, he checked his phone with a
breathy chuckle.
The conversation continued over the next few days,
and just as fluently. Neither could remember the last time
they’d talked so openly to anyone new. They felt funnier,
wittier, more flippant. They were louder, more outspoken,
and felt less of a risk in being so.
“This app be like ‘tell them your location!’ and I’m
like ‘Home. Usually. Can I get Skyped in?’” she’d

29
messaged one day.
“HA. Agreed,” he’d replied. “They could make a club
themed after my living room and you’d still have to drag
me to it.”
The daily hours became merely spaces between
messages. They’d write one another whenever they had a
free moment: on coffee, lunch, and bathroom breaks at
work, on the subway, at home. His thoughts revolved
around what he’d say next, planning it word for word,
imagining how it’d sound and whether his tone would
come across properly. She’d type out sentences in an open
word document, just to see how they’d look in text. She
would’ve thought they were said by someone else,
someone with a sitcom-esque quirkiness.
By Friday, they were making plans to meet up.
They’d decided on a coffee shop halfway between them
around 2:00 p.m. on Sunday.
The past week’s correspondence had been so free-
flowing they’d nearly forgotten who they were. Now, face
to face, they felt reality returning correctively.
The silence persisted and the hopelessness ensued,
layering like a fog between them. He took too-frequent
sips from his coffee to pass the time, fiddling with the
mug in its saucer afterward. She scanned the walls
intermittently, pretending she was trying to get a sense of

30
the place.
All at once he smiled faintly. He held up a finger in a
way that said ‘just one sec,’ and reached into his pocket to
take out his phone. Her heart sank. The telltale sign of a
failed connection, she thought.
He typed something into his phone, then set it screen
down on the table and folded his arms. Soon after she felt
her own phone vibrate in her purse. She took it out. The
dating app was open with a new message from him.
“Well, shit. We’re not very good at this, are we?” It
read.
She looked back up at him and smiled. She typed
something into her own phone then set it down. He turned
his over as it vibrated.
“No, I guess not,” it read, accented with a pensive
emoji. “It’s kinda hard.”
His teeth showed through his lips as he smiled wider.
He picked up his phone and typed another message.
She read it. This time, she laughed.

31
by John C. Mannone

She was my peppermint girl—constantly chewing gum,


even during sex. Soon, I’d bouquet the bedroom with
spearmint fresh from my garden. Every day I’d offer her
mint julep.
One day she tired of me. Opined in an empty minty
voice she had to go and wouldn’t be coming back. Our
sex wasn’t in mint condition anymore.
I stared in the mirror—wintergreen shaving cream
lathered on my face—watched her slam the door. For a
moment, a scrub pine knurled up in my chest, uprooted
my heart. But in her wake, I smelled fresh hope. And the
idea of lavender.

32
by Dan Purdue

Each night, we watch the boatman’s faltering progress


towards the island. The light from his lantern flickers as
winter storms whip the lake around us into a seething
black sea.
While the wind howls down the chimney, we
remember last summer—the hottest on record—and the
day we’d walked out from the cottage, our sandals
kicking up dust as we crossed the dry-baked bowl of the
lake bed. Lifting the crumbling husk of a small wooden
boat, we’d disturbed broken oars, a skull, the rusted
remains of a lantern.
We hold each other close and hope the storm never
ends.

33
by Brandon Salkil

Stand at the outer barricade, and see the disheveled


children wandering aimlessly, searching for other models
just like them.
They are the obsolete. Exiled to the barrens, where the
sight of lifeless little bodies still makes one feel uneasy.
Observe the melancholic nature of those remaining.
Watch as they struggle and wade through the hoards,
looking for parts to replace their damaged and their dying.
Remind oneself, quickly, that this is the way it has to
be.
There is no room for pity.
There is no room for despair.
For all children fade away.
And new ones are born each day.

34
by Keely O’Shaughnessy

Sometimes, I visit my wife’s gallery showing just to listen


to her pre-recorded mission statement; the raspy quality of
her voice played through the loudspeaker reminds me of
the way she used to sound after late nights spent together
drinking under the stars, our clothes smelling of bonfire.
Since my last visit a screen has been erected: a square
of curtain, where the steward can sit in a makeshift room.
“Hello, in there?” I say, jiggling the curtain. After a
moment, Kristy emerges.
“You’re wet,” she says, looking at me. I’d seen her
here before and she’d seen me, and if I had to guess, I’d
say she was somewhere around nineteen. I gesture down
to the puddle of water pooled around my feet.
“So it would seem,” I say.
She’s confused by my reply so I smile and realise,
parting my lips, that I haven’t brushed my teeth today.

35
Maybe she thinks I was mocking her. Running my tongue
along my gum-line, I mutter something about frames.
“I’m sorry?” she asks.
“The public are reassured when there is a frame.”
Kristy frowns. “Only our small pieces have frames,”
she says.
“What I meant is, it shows it’s finished,” I say. “That
the artist really means it.” The words feel loaded in my
unwashed mouth.
“Oh—yeah,” she says.
“Although, that could still be a lie.”
I gaze at one of the paintings, noticing how the grass
in the foreground has been carved out with a palette knife.
Then shift my attention back to Kristy. The rise and fall of
her chest. The white v-neck she’s wearing reveals a jam-
coloured birthmark above her left breast.
“Are you okay? I have a towel back there if you want
to dry off,” she says. “I got soaked this morning.”
Behind the curtain, there is more space than I’d
imagined. Kristy goes to a set of storage boxes to retrieve
a towel. Her boobs are smaller than Sarah’s, but firmer,
the kind of boobs that keep their shape without a bra.
“I’ve seen you in here before?” she asks.
“I find it a good place to relax.”

36
“You like art then?”
“In a way,” I say. She must sense the hesitancy in my
voice because she doesn’t probe further.
The space we’re in reminds me of Updike’s storage
room in New York Girl; there’s even a tippy stall in the
corner. Licks of Love was an anniversary present from
Sarah. The narrator has an affair with a gallery attendant
called Jane. If only we could share a cigarette.
“You know that a car is the safest place to be in a
thunderstorm?” Kristy asks.
She’s now opposite me, close enough that she could
rest her head against my chest, and listen to my heart. She
doesn’t. Instead, she takes the towel and begins patting at
my skin in circular motions, the rough nap of the fabric
catching my stubble and from inside our curtained room, I
hear my wife’s recorded voice echo around the rest of the
gallery.

37
by Jeffrey A. Paolano

Patrolman Warrenskine steps from his cruiser constantly


evaluating the scene.
A man sits on the curb in a cardigan sweater, crotch-
soaked green pajamas and socks.
“Good morning,” greets the Patrolman.
The grizzled disheveled man surveys.
“How’re you doing today?” asks the Patrolman.
The speckled man continues to survey.
The Patrolman invitingly says, “How about a lift
home?”
“Do you have popsicles?” the man inquires of the
Patrolman.
“No, I’m afraid I don’t,” replies the Patrolman.
“Piss off,” says the man, returning to his survey.
The Patrolman grasps an arm. “Let’s go.”
The man violently twists from the grip. “Not without

38
popsicles.”

39
by Prospero Dae

I was juggling earlier today. I had three creamy-white


eggs in the air. Luckily I was in the hen house—plenty
eggs should I falter. A ghost white feather tickled my
nose and I nearly sneezed. Phew!
Looking outside I could see a fox blanching in the
sun. Bad fox, I thought.
I had over one hundred eggs in the air—and that, let
me tell you, takes talent. Some of the eggs were brown,
but most were white. Three hundred eggs now, folks—a
Ferris wheel of uncracked spheres.
It’s Tuesday, and Tuesday is my day for telling white
lies.

40
by Benjamin Langley

Carrion crows peck at your blackened carcass, a pulpy


mess crushed on the roadside. The residual patches of red
fur, the same shade as my hair, tell me that you were a
fox.
“Thanks for coming,” I say.
“I didn’t want you to change your mind,” Gavin says.
He used to call me his little fox.
Another cramp. I scan the post-op leaflet to see if it is
supposed to hurt this much.
Gavin releases the handbrake and we creep forward a
metre or two, enough to spook one of the scavengers. As
it flies over the car, a chunk of your fox-flesh falls from
its beak and plops onto the windscreen. Gavin cries out as
the crow caws. Their cries are indistinguishable. He turns
on the wipers and your flesh smears an arc of blood
across the windshield.
He looks at me, and I gag. “Don’t throw up in here,”
he says, “I’ve just had it cleaned.” It must be nice to be

41
able to clean up so easily.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “Are you all right?” When he
places a cold hand on my knee, I jerk away as revulsion
surges through me and builds to another cramp.
“Listen,” Gavin says, “we can’t go on after this.”
He’s right. I turn to look at you. The birds keep
pecking. One darts its beak into your eye. I cramp up
again, squeeze my eyes closed, and try to block it out.
I’m in the operating theatre. Scruffy black hair sticks
out of the back of the surgeon’s cap. Some loose hair
drifts toward the floor. I glance down, see a pile of
feathers, and understand: It’s not hair. I try to get up, but
the anaesthetic is already working. The gown falls away
and a murder of crows hovers in its place. They flock
around my legs. Their beaks are inside me, tearing fleshy
chunks from my baby. They pull out their blood-wet
heads and tip them back to swallow before delving in
deeper.
I scream as pain pulses through my body and I bolt
from the car. I fold my arms across my belly and squeeze
the emptiness in my womb.
The crows are not startled; they continue to feast on
your carcass. Inside the car, Gavin is flapping. He grabs
wads of paper towels from the glove box and mops the
seat. I stomp towards you. The beady black eyes of the

42
crows stare at me. Even as I approach, they thrust their
beaks down again to tear off another strip of your flesh
before they flee.
From the car, Gavin stares with his beady black eyes.
His persistent pecking convinced me that he was right. He
said the thing growing inside me would change us, but as
I watch him flit about in the car, I understand that he’s the
one who changed.
The traffic trickles forward. Gavin pulls up beside me.
He leans across and opens the door. He opens his mouth,
but all I hear is ‘Caw, caw, caw.’ I notice the bloodstain
on the front of my dress, and weep. When I sit, the crows
return to you. I pick up a clump of mud and toss it at
them. It explodes as it strikes the road and they fly off
again.
I don’t notice that Gavin is out of the car until he is
almost upon me. His wingspan blocks the fading sun’s
rays and we’re both enveloped by his long shadow. I
imagine his wings spreading around me, suffocating me. I
pick up another clump of earth and throw it at him. It
strikes his leg and he hops on one foot, flapping his wings
wildly.
The traffic moves again. Car horns beep as they pass
Gavin’s car. He takes another step towards me, but when I
pick up another handful of dirt, he scurries away. He
crows at me from an open window and disappears.

43
I’ll stay here to protect you from the scavengers. I’ll
stop them from pecking at you. I’ll stop them from
feasting on your flesh. And maybe, if I stay here long
enough, I’ll learn how to stop them from feasting on
mine.

44
by Krystyna Fedosejevs

Nervous twitches, a flutter of limbs precipitated his


departure. Not with her, but with the intruder who
interrupted their ambience.
Earlier in the afternoon, the couple took in summer
sunshine on their balcony. Murmuring contentment.
Falling into deep silence when she nuzzled her face into
his neck. He remained calm in appreciation.
Then a stranger intervened. Anger blurred his voice
into incomprehensible language. The two males departed
leaving the remaining soul sobbing; her head tilted down.
Within minutes, she left.
One feather had fallen on my balcony floor. Reminder
of the moment the mourning dove was lifted by a falcon’s
clasp.

45
by Richard Edenfield

“That is not a word!”


“Yes, it is.” She lays down the tiles with a smug look
on her face. She does this all the time. She invents words,
especially when she’s losing.
“That doesn’t even seem like a word!”
“It is a word. It’s a chemical used in tear gas.” She
writes her score down.
We have been working on our trust issues in
relationship therapy. I do not want to undo progress.
“That is not a Goddamn word!”
She looks at me with big, watery eyes, testing me and
my commitment. A dictionary is between us like a dare.

46
by David Cook

When I was little, my granddad told me you could find


out how old a tree was by cutting it down and counting its
rings. I used to wander round the woods near my house,
looking for fallen trees and working out the age of any I
found.
Then, when I hit ten years old, I used to borrow a
small axe from the garden shed; being quite tall and broad
for my age, I was able to cut down some of the more
slender trees I found. I was obsessed with the idea that
you could discover their age by cutting them in half.
I hadn’t wondered if this would apply to other things
until my friend Kevin asked how old my cat Mittens was,
and I didn’t know the answer.
I was disappointed to find that she didn’t have rings to
count. After all, trees had the same basic needs—air,
water, sunlight—as animals, so why wouldn’t cats have
rings too? Maybe it was only cats that were different. I
was thinking this over when my mother and father walked

47
in. They were horrified by what they saw. They’d just
spent hundreds of pounds on a plush antique rug, and now
it was soaked in cat innards.
Once they’d sent Kevin home, my mother frantically
dialed the number for the local dry cleaner and my dad
asked me why I’d done it. I told him the truth: that I
thought I’d be able to count Mittens’ rings to see how old
she was. He didn’t believe me—he worked overseas
often, only surfacing in my life intermittently, so he
wasn’t really aware of my obsession.
These last few days were the first time I’d seen him
this year. “That’s your excuse, is it?” he said to me. “You
must think I’m really dumb. Only a kid would believe
that. Do I look like a kid to you? How old do you think I
am?”
I didn’t know.
But I thought I might know a way to find out.

48
by Ashlyn Wheeler

Under the warm scalp, something gave them life. Your


parents aged gracefully; you were told that you would too.
Maybe it was stress then, that shook, quivered them into
existence.
Eight follicles of white hair held hands in the dark and
grew up through the skin of your head, sprouting secretly
below a layer of brown. They probably smiled, tasting
shampoo for the first time. Now, one inch longer, they
glisten from healthy doses of coconut conditioner.
You touch up your roots with permanent dye,
knowing their kin beneath will never die. You look in the
mirror, suddenly old at twenty-two.

49
by Valerie Brown

Howling at the moon is so passé. My parents do it. My


grandparents. Even my older, perfect sister does it.
Perhaps it’s an inherited trait, but I’d never give in. I’m an
evolved woman of the modern era.
Night creeps upon me. The moon’s pale face glows
bright, making my skin prickle and throat itch. Trembling,
I retrieve the phone from my purse and access my Twitter
account. The urge is strong. I grind my teeth as my
fingers crash through the letters A-H-H-O-O-O-O. Once I
hit Send the urge dissolves. A sigh escapes me. That’s
right. I’m an evolved woman.

50
by Hermine Robinson

A deliberate sweep of Valerie’s elbow set the crystal vase


full of artificial peonies beyond the point of no return. It
was an impetuous act, in the next moment she changed
her mind but by then it was too late and the vase lay
shattered on the marble floor of the front hall. Blood
mingled with the jagged shards and silk petals as Valerie
gathered up the pieces.
The crystal vase had been a wedding present from
Darrel’s aunt, Edith. It was a white elephant gift if Val
ever saw one, and she remembered rolling her eyes as she
unwrapped it from layers of tissue paper. Only Aunt Edith
would choose something so heavy and old-fashioned for a
young couple just starting out in life. Valerie had put the
vase in storage and got on with the adventure of having a
couple of children and moving their family around the
country as Darrel’s career advanced. She rediscovered the
vase some fifteen years later when life slowed down
enough for them to settle in one place.
“That old thing? Just get rid of it,” Darrel said when

51
Valerie pulled the vase out of its old wrapper.
“No, it’s perfect for the new house,” Val replied.
“And now that the boys are older, we can actually have
nice things.”
Valerie had placed the crystal vase in an alcove near
the front door of their dream home. It represented
something solid and timeless after too many years of
unsettled living. Darrel joked about the vase being high-
maintenance and threatened to toss it out one day, but
Valerie took pleasure in polishing the cut crystal and
every few months she changed out the silk flower
arrangement according to the season. She had put in the
peonies just a week ago. Valerie cared for the vase herself
rather than trust it to the new housekeeper—a foreign girl
with uncertain English and the bad habit of putting the
Henckel chef knife in the dishwasher.
“She’s ruined it,” said Valerie as she held up the
pitted blade.
“Get a new one,” Darrel replied. That was his solution
for a lot of things, everything from cars to clothes. The
man had no sense of nostalgia. In many ways, it seemed
inevitable that Darrel would eventually tire of Valerie too
and she should hardly have been surprised to come home
early one day to find him in bed with the cleaning girl.
Valerie wished she had thought things through and
walked away instead of running to the kitchen to grab the

52
chef knife and returning to the bedroom.
Now, as Valerie gathered up the shards of crystal with
her blood-stained hands, she mourned the senseless
destruction of the vase. Aunt Edith’s gift deserved a better
fate than to be tainted with the blood of Darrel’s
infidelity.

53
by Kirsten Leggett

“You look different today,” she commented.


I gave her a quizzical glance. “What makes you say
that?”
“There is a light that shines behind your eyes when
you change.”
I smiled and reached behind my neck to the hard
notch at the top of my spine. I pressed it, gently. My skin
unravelled from my small frame and folded over and over
on itself like an origami paper crane. I shook all over,
stretched my wings wide, and preened my feathers with a
beak carved from inner wisdom and spit the colour of
love.
“I’ve learnt how to fly,” I whispered.

54
by Phil Temples

I glance at his photograph on my wall: an old, African-


American man with frizzy white hair, dressed in a school
crossing guard uniform, carrying plastic batons and a toy
fire engine. He’s posed majestically, larger than life,
against a deep, blue sky. He skates up and down
Massachusetts Avenue pretending to direct traffic. He’s a
good skater, very athletic, and ripped for his age.
Occasionally a driver honks at him, or yells for him to get
out of the street. The police leave him be. They know that
he’s harmless. He campaigned for Mayor of Cambridge
once. I voted for him.

55
by Carinna Botelho-Howard

Harry fished through his bag, searching for the orange jar.
“Do you think that’s why they never sit with us?” he
asked his best friend, Don. He stared at his lunch box,
knowing he needed to take his pills, but hating to in front
of everybody.
“I guess.” Don shrugged. “Hey, we still have each
other, right? We’ve been friends since kindergarten.”
Harry smiled, but he sighed as he pushed a pink pill
into his sandwich. Tuna. Every Friday.
Don saw Harry was still upset, so he told a joke.
The other kids watched Harry laugh and talk to no
one.

56
by Spencer K. M. Brown

The mayor’s tongue spills words like boiling water and


only vowels can be heard from this distance and my father
reminds me that people are idiots and that’s the only
reason idiots get into office and why they have parades
and close down the streets because idiots need to be
distracted like children and imagination needs to be fed to
them like cold tomato soup but I can’t help staring at the
older woman in front of us and how she lives across the
street where I see her most nights sitting on her porch
drinking wine alone and reading books that she won’t
discuss with anyone and I stare at the grandchildren that
run around her legs playing hide-and-seek amid the
bodies of the crowd who stare at the day-glo cars and
confetti floats that roll down the street tossing out candy
and my father opens another beer from the six-pack he
smuggled into the parade and takes long sips between
scowls of disgust and he shifts on his feet taking the
weight off his bad leg, the one that was pinned down
between twisted metal and the vinyl seat of the car, the

57
same leg he couldn’t move far enough to get up and pull
mom out of the car in time to stop the bleeding but as he
opens another beer with that tell-tale crisp, snapping
sound, the old woman turns around and stares at us and
my father pulls his coat over his hand and forces a smile
and the woman smiles and I see her teeth are stained a
purple-red from wine and the mayor goes on and on about
all the things he’ll do and my father laughs a little harder
and says how if mom was still alive she’d probably think
this asshole was some sort of genius and the old woman
laughs a little as her grandkids run around, their cheeks
look like puffy clouds, stuffed with the hard candies
they’d tossed from the floats and I stare up at the old
woman and wonder why she drinks wine alone on her
porch and why she doesn’t have anyone to talk about her
books and my dad rubs his bad leg and I know the cold is
getting to him and I wonder why I was the only one who
came back home, why wasn’t I off making my own life
like my two brothers and just let the old man deal with
this by himself and I see he’s getting restless and suggest
we go and I look around at all the people in the crowd and
wonder how many of them have bad legs and how many
are hiding beers in their jackets and how many drink their
wine alone and go to sleep with an empty space next to
them and my father mumbles a little more about the idiots
and something about how many asshole politicians it
takes to screw in a lightbulb but he’s only speaking in

58
vowels now and his pockets are filled with empty cans
and I look over at him and wonder if I’ll drink my wine
alone one day because no one came back home and my
father rubs his hands together in the cold as the empty
cans clink together in his pockets and I think about how
one day he’ll be nothing more than a khaki cloud on the
hills, a ribbon of smoke, and that old woman nothing but
a faint smell of fermented blackberries and grapes and I
know I can’t stay here much longer and should be
sleeping with a space next to me someplace far away and
my father whispers something about how much longer
will it all hurt and that the Cubs play later today and I
smile as I shift into gear and watch as they toss out candy
that looks like money and I know I can’t keep going like
this but I’ll stay with him again tonight, but I have a
lonely bed waiting for me in New York or Miami—
anywhere—and we drive past the crowds and past the
fields towards home and my father’s fear moves in rings
from his tongue like a parade and my fears slide away in
slow clouds and he turns on the Cubs game and I wonder
what the weather is like in Chicago.

59
Shannon Barber
Shannon Barber is an author from the Pacific Northwest.
She is a genre and form-surfing writer with a fondness for
the complicated. See her work at The Establishment, The
Big Click or read her writing about writing and books on
her website.

Leela Bear
Born and raised in South Africa, but choosing to live
abroad, Leela Bear draws inspiration from daily events
and interactions. She is influenced by various literary
genres, especially the more disturbing side of the
spectrum. She writes to provoke the imaginations of her
readers.

Christopher Blaine
No Comment.

60
Carinna Botelho-Howard
Carinna Botelho-Howard was born and raised in the
United States. Her African and American origins gave her
exposure to a diverse set of cultures that influence her
daily writing. She has traveled nationwide, and she was
home schooled most of her life. Her great love for all
animals shows often and it mirrors many of her stories.

Spencer K. M. Brown
Spencer K. M. Brown was born in Bedfordshire, England.
His stories and poems have been widely published. He
currently lives and writes in Winston-Salem, North
Carolina. To read more of his stories and novels, visit his
website.

Valerie Brown
Valerie Brown has been writing for six years. She loves
creating character-driven stories in the genres of fantasy,
science fiction, and speculative fiction.
She lives just north of Richmond, Virginia with her
husband, two kids, golden couch potato/dog, and two
wired tabbies. She can be found on Twitter @VedBrown
and her website.

61
Daniel J. Cleary
Daniel J. Cleary holds a PhD in English from the
University of Wisconsin–Milwaukee, a Master of Fine
Arts degree in Creative Writing from Cleveland State
University, and a Master of Arts degree in English from
the University of Dayton. He publishes fiction, nonfiction,
and scholarly work, along with children’s books.

David Cook
David Cook comes from Newcastle, England, and now
lives in Bridgend, Wales, with his wife and daughter. He
publishes work at Dave Writes Fiction and is also a
regular contributor at Short Fiction Break. You can find
him on Twitter: @davidcook100.

Prospero Dae
Prospero Dae lives in Bermuda, with a spirited papillon
named Ariel, near the shipwreck of the Sea Venture, and
amid a farrago of flowers, which whispers stories in his
conch-like ears. He never sought formal training in
shipbuilding or blacksmithing, though writing seemed
natural.

62
Deidre Dykes
Deidre Delpino Dykes is a birdmom, writer, and coffee-
fueled ne’er-do-well. She is always working on her book
series about demon hunters, Red and Caleb. Deidre
presently works as a freelance web copywriter. She has a
B.A. in English Literature as well as a diploma in Baking
and Pastry. She lives outside of Washington, DC with her
husband and several parrots. Visit her website.

Richard Edenfield
Richard Edenfield passed away today at the age of 112.
After a distinguished writing career that included the
Nobel prize for literature, Richard retired to Martha’s
Vineyard with his ninth wife and 78 children. Richard,
who grew up in suburban Philadelphia, once said that his
inspiration for writing came from well crafted hoagies and
grape soda. His last words on his deathbed were
misspelled.

Matthew Fay
Matthew Fay is a writer, journalist, and comedian, as well
as a lifelong Brooklynite (save for the four years of school
in Virginia). He has a penchant for comic books, musical
theater, and multiple coffees in the morning. He is a
Scorpio. You can follow him on Twitter: @MaFay91.

63
Krystyna Fedosejevs
Krystyna has been interested in the power of words for a
long time; as a librarian and a writer of poetry, fiction,
and creative nonfiction. She is published online and in
magazines, including: 100 word story, 50-Word Stories
and Boston Literary Magazine. When not residing in
Canada, she travels the world.

Aaron J. Housholder
Aaron J. Housholder teaches writing and literature at
Taylor University in Upland, Indiana. His creative work
has appeared in Relief Journal, Ruminate Magazine,
Maudlin House, freeze frame fiction, CHEAP POP,
Wyvern Lit, Five2One Magazine, and a dozen or so other
journals. He lives and writes in his hometown of
Anderson, Indiana. You can find him on Twitter:
@ProfAJH.

DeRicki Johnson
Former New Orleans Times Picayune newspaperman,
DeRicki Johnson is the author of Brindle Beast. He
frequents Twitter under @derickijohnson where he is a
prolific tweeter of haikus and <140 character poetry, as
well as links to flash fiction stories.

64
Benjamin Langley
Benjamin Langley is from Cambridgeshire, UK. By day
he teaches the rules of grammar; by night he tries to find
exciting ways to break them. Benjamin completed an
M.A. in Creative Writing at Anglia Ruskin University,
Cambridge in 2015. Links to his published work can be
found on his blog.

Kirsten Leggett
Kirsten lives and writes in Tasmania, Australia. She is a
writer of short stories, flash fiction, and poetry, drawing
inspiration from the natural world and her island home.
Her short story “The Tiny Teacher” has been a winning
entry in the Umoja Orphanage Australian writing
competition. Her book The Orange Space is her first
published book of poetry.

John C. Mannone
Author of several literary collections, John C. Mannone
has over 450 works published in venues such as Inscape
Literary Journal, 2016 Texas Poetry Calendar, Artemis,
Southern Poetry Anthology (NC), Town Creek Poetry and
Pedestal. He edits poetry (Silver Blade and Abyss &
Apex) and teaches college physics in east TN. Visit The
Art of Poetry.

65
Levi J. Mericle
Levi J. Mericle is a poet/spoken-word artist, lyricist, and
freelance writer from Tucumcari, N.M. His work can be
seen in Black Heart Magazine, Verse-Virtual, 101 Words,
Awakenings Review, Muse, Devozine and more. He is an
advocate for the mentally ill and bullied individuals of all
ages.

Keely O’Shaughnessy
Keely O’Shaughnessy grew up in Devon and has an
undergraduate and post-graduate degree in Creative and
Critical Writing from the University of Gloucestershire.
She was awarded the Francis Close Hall Prize for the
highest dissertation mark in 2012 and again in 2015. Her
short fiction has appeared in Duality 6 Literary Magazine,
as well as anthologies Smoke: New Writing I, Fire: New
Writing II and Compass.

Jeffrey A. Paolano
Mr. Paolano, an economist having whiled away seventy-
plus years on the planet, enjoys the pleasures of writing
fiction in Southeast Ohio. Mr. Paolano’s work appears in
Frontier Tales, Proud to Be: Writing by American
Warriors, Scar Stories, The Tanist’s Wife and other
stories and Veterans Writing Project.

66
Cassandra Parkin
Cassandra is a writer with Cornish roots and a passion for
fairy-tales. Her published work includes the award-
winning short story collection New World Fairy Tales
(Salt, 2011), and three novels—The Summer We All Ran
Away (Legend Press, 2013), The Beach Hut (Legend
Press, 2015), and Lily’s House (Legend Press, 2016).

Dan Purdue
Dan Purdue’s short stories have appeared in print and
online in the UK, Ireland, Canada, and the USA, and have
been short-listed or won prizes in a variety of
competitions. His fiction has also featured in an English
study guide for secondary schools. Visit his website.

Petar Ramadanovic
Petar Ramadanovic teaches literary theory at the
University of New Hampshire. He immigrated to the U.S.
from the former-Yugoslavia in the early 1990s.

67
Hermine Robinson
Hermine Robinson lives in Alberta, Canada where winters
are long and inspiration is plentiful. She loves all things
‘short fiction’ and refuses to be the place where perfectly
good stories come to die. In 2012 she went from
scribbling to submitting, and since then her work has
appeared in numerous print and online publications.

Brandon Salkil
Brandon Salkil is a part-time writer and part-time actor.
With his first two short stories accepted by 101 Words,
this has given Brandon motivation to venture into his first
children’s book with his wife Sherriah.
Brandon can be contacted via email at
salkil78@gmail.com and previous work can be viewed at
IMDB

Matt Spaetzel
Matt Spaetzel is founder of the Williamsburg Independent
Writing Group, co-author of the episodic horror blog, The
Odd Correspondence, and editor/contributor for the
science fiction music novel, Valinth. On the occasion he
emerges from his cave, he can be found at
mattspaetzel@gmail.com.

68
Phil Temples
Phil Temples lives in Watertown, Massachusetts and
works as a computer systems administrator at an area
university. He has published over one hundred works of
short fiction in print and online journals. Phil’s first novel
by Blue Mustang Press is a murder mystery entitled The
Winship Affair. His second is a paranormal-horror novel,
Helltown Chronicles published by Eternal Press.

Ashlyn Wheeler
Ashlyn Wheeler is a senior BFA candidate in the Creative
Writing Department at Columbia College Chicago. In
2015, she saw a total of thirty-eight films in theaters and
got her four wisdom teeth extracted. Her fiction has also
appeared in Hair Trigger and Hypertext Magazine.

Steven O. Young Jr.


Steven channeled his inclination towards critical analysis
into an M.A. in English from Oakland University, and
often allows that same tendency to dictate his writing. His
other works may be found in Volume Six of freeze frame
fiction and the contest results pages of Three Line
Thursday and Micro Bookends.

69
70
Table of Contents
Forward
Stars in Her Hair
The Book
The Promise Land
Michael and Marina Moonwater
Rites of Passage
Hellsgate, NM
I’ll Buy
Return Requested
Bird Undertaker
Severance
Broken Things
Maude
Matched
Mint
The Boatman
The Children
The Gallery Attendant
Slowed
Juggling the Truth
I Am Roadkill
Separation
XYLYL
Rings

71
White
#Werewolf
The Vase
Shifting Shape
Dr. Larry Love
Lunch
Parade
Bios

72

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