THE HAM BAG — TODD MERCER

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Rocky used to be the best dog ever. My Mom used to be married to my Dad. Now Dad is in Jamaica with Aunt Sandy. Mom said Aunt Sandy is dead. I said, no, I’ve seen pictures of her lately with Dad in the Caribbean. Mom said, she’s dead to me. 
            We live in two rooms over a dry cleaning shop. And now, so does Rusty. Mom’s boyfriend thinks he’s a renaissance man, but he’s a shoe salesman with bowling issues. He used to be a bowling ball salesman with shoe issues, but as Rusty says, he’s evolved. 
            Rocky and me were inseparable since he was a puppy. Until Rusty moved out of his Ford Econoline and into Mom’s room, Rocky used to follow me to the fishing hole. He’d run alongside when I rode my bike. He gets excited by the noise playing cards woven through the wheels make. When I broke my arm jumping off a swing, Rocky knew I was hurt. He’d lay his head down on my cast. There never was a more loyal dog.
            Rusty started carrying a baggie of ham pieces in the pocket of his jean jacket. Everyone knows Rocky is hopelessly addicted to pork. Rusty calls my dog nicknames, like “Cochise,” and “Ole Yeller.” He scratches the scruff behind Rocky’s ears. I hate it. 
            Once the ham bag comes out, Rocky forgets that I’m his person. He runs right over to Mom’s boyfriend. When we’re by ourselves I tell Rocky he’s too smart for that, but he looks at me like he doesn’t have a clue. He really isn’t as smart as I thought.
            Mom says I’ll like Rusty better if I give him a chance. 
            Mom says Dad isn’t coming back because of something called extradition laws.
            Rusty asked if I wanted a new bike, and a nice ten-speed, not a piece of crap Schwinn one-speed that Rocky runs beside. He calls me “Sporto,” and “Champ,” and “Killer.” I hate that.
            I’m never going to like him. Him and Mom think I’m asleep when they have Alone Time. I’m not asleep. I just don’t want to talk about it. Sometimes a man has to be a man, Rusty says.
            Rusty watches Jeopardy on TV and shouts the answers out while I’m trying to read books. When he’s right, Rusty says, “Golden.” He sits there slipping Rocky ham and whispering things in Mom’s ear that make her giggle and smack his shoulder. It’s gross.
            Mom says we can become a real family or else I should move out on my own. 
            I tell Mom that I’m fifty-five years old, and now isn’t the right time yet. Some people desert their families. Other people, you can count on them forever and ever.
            I thought Rocky was loyal, but I was wrong.
            Dad’s postcard had a picture of white sand on the front with Come to Jamaica!! written on it. He forgot to write anything on the back except our address.

Todd Mercer of Grand Rapids, Michigan won the first Woodstock Writers Festival’s Flash Fiction contest. His chapbook, Box of Echoes, won the Michigan Writers Cooperative Press contest and his digital chapbook, Life-wish Maintenance, is forthcoming from Right Hand Pointing. He’s a multi-year judge of the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Awards and Independent Publisher’s Poetry Book of the Year Awards. Mercer's poetry and fiction appear in Apocrypha & Abstractions, The Bactrian Room, Blink Ink, Blue Collar Review, The Camel Saloon, Camroc Press Review, Cease, Cows, Cheap Pop, Dunes Review, East Coast Literary Review, Eunoia Review, Falling Star, 50-Word Stories, The Fib Review, Gravel, Kentucky Review, The Lake, The Legendary, Main Street Rag Anthologies, Melancholy Hyperbole, Misty Mountain Review, Mobius: The Journal of Social Change, theNewer York, One Sentence Poems, Postcard Poems and Prose, Postcard Shorts, Right Hand Pointing, River Lit, The Second Hump, and Spartan.

THREE WORD NAMES — H. TUCKER ROSEBROCK

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Tick. The sirens had been going for so long, they began to sound like the wind. Tock. Somewhere, behind the choppers and the swat teams and the megaphones, the tower beats a bass line. Tick. Around hour three or four, he started to feel his heart tune to the rhythm of the great clock's pulse.

Tock. “Even if you can't see what's coming...” His dad would say when they were alone together in the cold bunker in their backyard. His words came out in icy white puffs. “You can always be prepared.” Tick. That's why death had never frightened him. Tock. The air in the tower is thick and full of dust. Each breath feels like a creation of a plantation in his lungs, where it flourishes, bright and horrible.

Tick. When he exhales, he imagines the lungs of his ancestors, inhaling deeply as they looked upon the breadth of their domain and wept. He takes another deep breath and tries to refocus on the great wheel of time, grinding forever forwards.

Tock. It didn't matter if he'd spend tomorrow in prison or spattered on the walls, because what was done was done: set his sights in the leader of the free world, pulled the trigger and they found him, followed him, and now here they all were.

Tick. Though he was never much of a religious man (and wasn't that kind of the problem?), times like these made him think of how it might be nice to pray. Tock. He searched his heart for strength...and when that came up empty, he looked to his family (his father maybe?), and found them dead and cold too. Tick. So he turned to his heart and found it still tuned to the rhythm of the clock, echoing and vacant.

H. Tucker Rosebrock is a Boston-based writer, speaker, and part-time superhero. He is currently finishing his MFA in Writing at the Vermont College of Fine Arts and his work can be found in Wired, Interrupt Magazine and Catch & Release: The Literary Blog of Columbia University.

A GOOD WOMAN — ASHTON RUSSELL

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He lives in his Daddy’s old double wide and sometimes he sees only me. He says prove it, when I tell him I love him. Tell him he is the only man I want. His face covered in red tinted stubble, blue eyes like the ocean I have never seen.  I grab his hands and pull them towards me, put them on my small belly. I will prove it if you let me, I say.  He don’t know I’m a week late, don’t know I stopped taking the thing three months ago. Been waiting for him to come around, just like the pit-bull out back tied to the tree, desperate for a pat on the head. But when I open my mouth to speak, to tell him what I have done, nothing comes out.
            He cooks dinner, spaghetti with garlic bread that he uses to get all the sauce off his plate, mops the bread over my plate too. Sitting in the tiny kitchen—dirty dishes piled high in the sink, the woven basket full of rotting bananas hanging by the refrigerator—I think about how this could be our kitchen. I could clean all this mess. And then our lives could be tangled up like the vines of the plant he has growing in the window seal, twisting around each other, both looking for the light.

Ashton Russell lives and writes in the Magic City, Birmingham, Alabama.

UNDERNEATH — RACHEL TAPLEY

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The rain stops falling down but the ground steams upward. The air is heavy; the space of the world condensed. They are both sweating in their suits. Viv feels a trickle down her back, as though her skin cannot contain her.
            Leah drove from the airport. The dull silver of her wedding band was the same color as the sky. Her hands twisted the wheel as their exit toward I-10 peeled off, and they followed the curling tendril of their lane. Houston is a sprawling thicket of roads, spectacular in the way that they sometimes sprout from the ground and curve over each other in the sky.
            The drive to the funeral had taken them around a curve into tangled foliage. A green sign for Buffalo Bayou emerged from the mass of leaves. Viv couldn't see the water from the road, but the ground sloped away beneath the greenery.
            Viv had not paid attention to the service. She knew Abe from the brim of his hat right down to the core of him. She thought instead about the towering stand of sunflowers in Abe’s back yard—nobody’s back yard, now—as tall as the house. They had been left too long untended in the slow panic of Abe’s cancer, just like the banana plant outside the living room window with its wide leaves obscuring half the view. Viv had wondered if its roots were creeping under the house.
            There are no banana plants here, in the strip mall parking lot outside this taqueria. It doesn’t matter. The air is still sticky and fragrant. This whole city is clinging to the surface.
            The rain has washed city grit and grass alike into gutters and ditches. It smells like the world fermenting. Even though they are standing on an asphalt parking lot in a long series of asphalt parking lots, there is earth down below. There is always earth down below.
            The parking lots are webbed together with strands of road, and the highways twist around one another like vines. They are gray in imitation of the storm-clouded sky, not the other way around.
            “You know,” Leah says, while Viv is staring into the distance, the clusters of cinderblock buildings and strings of traffic lights all vanishing into the dark sky, “this place used to be a swamp.”

Rachel Tapley teaches and translates French in western Massachusetts. Her writing has previously been published in The Toast.

ANYTHING WOULD BE FINE — MARK McKEE

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Late afternoon. Cloudy. Row after of row, cars slink toward the horizon. You study the license plates as you pass. Most are from here. The occasional from a neighboring county. From between the cars you see her. She's coming back from break. She smiles, waves. You look down at your shoes, scuffed. At the pavement, stubbled. You're sweating because it's hot. Sweating because it's hot. Because it's hot. Because you want to say something. Anything. But nothing comes to mind. In seconds you'll meet. Pass side by side. She'll smile, wave again. Have something to say. You should. You've practiced at home. In the car. Conversations. Held with her for hours. In your head. Now, in person. Where it would mean something. And she's smiling. You could speak. You could say, "Next time, how bout we go together? My treat." You could say anything, really. Anything would be fine. Anything for a start. Get the ball rolling. And even if she declined, she would know you were interested. At least she would know. You would know. You could move forward. Instead of being stuck. Always stuck.  And she's right there. She would know. You would know. You're almost abreast. And she's slowing. She wants you to say something. Wants you to say something. So open your mouth. Make conversation. All the words you've practiced. Anything, really. Before she. Before. There's only so much before. Before no words come. Only so much. "I guess I'll see you inside," she says. And you see the red highlights that were not there yesterday. Not there before. Before, you said nothing. But still you could. Could start the ball rolling. As she walks away. As you hear the scuff of her sneakers. As the words slink away like light toward the horizon. 

Mark McKee is from the American south. In his spare time he collects nervous breakdowns. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in decomP, A cappella Zoo, and others. Find him at markmckeejr.tumblr.com.

MULTIPLYING, ALWAYS MULTIPLYING — ANNABELLE CARVELL

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The light flickered dull above them, humming with grunts and flies in the heat.
            There was nothing but a curtain surrounding the chair that she’d been made to sit on. Two men held her still.
            Her legs were set wide apart, held up by leather stirrups attached to wooden poles that were set into the mud at obtuse angles. Nothing covered her body from the waist down.
            She could taste blood and oil in her mouth, grit on her tongue, and could smell vomit clumping in her hair. Her teeth were firmly clamped around a dirty rag from one of the men’s pockets.
            He wasn’t even wearing gloves on his hands. He slurped the dregs from his beer, and slammed the empty can down onto the splintered edge of one of the poles, wiping his mouth with the back of his free hand. Her legs shook with the vibration.
            Her mind darted between the horror of what was about to happen and the infection that was sure to spread afterwards. She imagined herself as the unwilling host, organisms burying themselves deep beneath her skin and multiplying, always multiplying, oozing yellow and rancid.
            No man would touch her now.
            He held a large wad of yellowing cotton between his cheek and his shoulder, and a rusting pair of surgical scissors in his hands. Sharp enough to glint in low light; blunt enough to snag on smooth flesh. She was sweating, crying, and begging.
            Apologising for loving a white man.
            Apologising for saying she loved him.
            Begging him not to continue as his fingers closed in.

Annabelle works in publishing by day, and the explosive world of Synaesthesia Magazine by night. She is currently working on a short story collection inspired by the twisted world of taboo relationships, predominantly influenced by Ian McEwan and anything else that’s drenched with the disturbed.

THE BUCKET — THOMAS MUNDT

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The Commission needed a Volunteer, so Carlisle gave them me.  My willowy bones were perfect for The Bucket, he said.  Plus, I already had the helmet. 
            I didn’t have the heart to tell Carlisle it was just a novelty, a door prize won at the Grand Opening of a beauty supply store.  There was a button you could push to play “Camptown Races” but it was neither the time nor the place.
            I was ordered by Carlisle to think about all of the good I would be doing with this Retrieval.  I was thanked in advance for my commitment to The Commission in these crucial first few days after The Dissolution. 
            Rinse cupped his hands under my armpits and lifted so Ernest “Malbec” Redwine could tuck my feet into a pair of fluorescent blue galoshes.  Next came the lead apron, festooned with a daisy chain.  The latter was handcrafted by the daughter of a Commission chairman during a recent sojourn in The Country, where she reconnected with The Soil for class credit.   It was believed that something, anything, borne of the few remaining acres of undeveloped land before The Dissolution had curative properties.  I wanted particulars as to what ailed me.
            It was hard to say, said Malbec.  Too young for gout.  SupraOccipital Sunlight Avoidance Disorder (“SO SAD”)?
            The Bucket was retrieved from the back of a hearse-cum-Crisis Management Vehicle.  It reeked of pine, which was comforting.  It meant the scraps of the last Volunteer had been powerwashed into The Sluice and its inner walls were wiped clean with bare, disinfectant-soaked hands, per industry standard.  All the top Volunteer sites agreed that if you had to tangle with The Depths, you needed a clean Bucket.  The Den Mothers didn’t land on Destiny Beach so you could settle for bush league equipment.
            A three-step flight of stairs was provided, and to spare me the embarrassment of asking Rinse and Malbec for a solid.  I barely had a leg over the side The Bucket when the mobile crane lowered the graphite hook, almost braining me.  Carlisle gave the Operator a dressing down that bordered on sacrilegious but pulled back.  For the good of The Objective, Carlisle said. 
            Handshakes were exchanged with Rinse and Malbec, who insisted they’d see me at tonight’s Retrieval Feast.  A request was made that I not wear The New Shirt, The One With All The Beadwork.  I made no promises as the mobile crane swung The Bucket ninety-degrees counterclockwise, over The Depths. 
            I removed the foam pad on the floor of The Bucket so I could make use of the Viewing Glass.  As the winch screeched and The Depths swallowed me whole, I waited.  The sites said you could see Specks as early as five minutes in, or never.

Thomas Mundt is the author of the short story collection You Have Until Noon To Unlock The Secrets Of The Universe (Lady Lazarus Press, 2011).  Additional risk management advice and teambuilding exercises can be found at www.jonathantaylorthomasnathanmundtdds.com.

PAPER PLATES — RACHEL TANNER

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We were standing on your side porch. It was freezing outside and your cigarette had finally gone out, your housemate finally inside. All I wanted was for you to pull me into you. All I wanted was for you to put your hand on the small of my back and crush our faces together almost unnaturally in the cold—nothing romantic about it. I don’t know why I wanted it; I just did.
            “Do you want to go inside and draw funny faces on paper plates?”
            No. Not what I wanted you to ask. Not even close. But you said it and your icicle words fucked with my head and I couldn’t wrap my thoughts around what you could have possibly meant.
            “What?”
            “Paper plates. We’re going to go draw on them.”
            You started to move towards the door to go inside. Paper plates. We were going to draw on paper plates. Is that what we were actually going to do?
            I had a dream later that night, before I woke up beside you and silently left you sleeping, that we were living in an old house together and the doorbell rang. We raced each other to the doorbell, shakingwith anticipation about who would be on the other side of the door. We were obviously a new couple (or felt like one, at least), and little things like that made us happy. I opened the front door to find that someone had left us a free, wrapped Christmas tree on the porch. It was for us. For our first holiday spent together. You told me that I should unwrap it and I asked why you didn’t want to. “Because that would take the fun out of it.”
            “The fun out of what?” I asked, honestly puzzled.
            “This whole thing. I don’t know what’s going on, but I know it’ll make you happy and that’s going to make me happy. So that’s what I want to see.” You kissed me and pointed at the tree, waiting for me to unwrap it just as I woke up and crept out the door, but not before stepping on the paper plates with stupid faces on them that I’d tossed to the side of the bed. 

Rachel is a future English and writing professor. You could probably find some scrunchies in her apartment. You should follow her on Twitter at @rickit.