MONKEY BUSINESS — GREGORY LEE SULLIVAN

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So here’s why you did it: Someone pointed out your vestigial tail.
             You shrieked when you heard it. You bit dirt or something. You rolled around the lot so much that a cloud formed.
             But all the apes on Gibraltar are missing a tail, you remembered thinking. You shrieked again and you flailed a paw at some air. And you pulled on a tuft of your brown fur. To hell with these haters, you thought, and you climbed up and perched on a rail near a winding highway, and you looked out at the sea and the Atlas Mountains. You thought about your damn childhood. Yes, you were born on this same gargantuan rock of limestone and shale. 
             But you’re still furious, so you hop through a window into a moving car zipping past. You rip into the upholstery. You stop for a second and you look at the people in the car, a man and a woman. And they begin making what might eventually be a YouTube video, if they even can escape. Now maybe you’ll maul them. Look how happy they are. Poor people. You crawl, slowly, over to the woman’s back. When you show your teeth it almost looks like a smile.

Gregory Lee Sullivan's fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in The Collagist, New Mexico Review, Barely South Review, and elsewhere. He recently completed an MFA from Rutgers-Camden, where he founded the journal Cooper Street.

PARK BIRTHDAY PARTY — DANIELE De SERTO

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English translation by Valentina Penzo

Hi Arianna! How are you? I called you twice but your phone was on answering machine. So I’m writing. I’m sorry you couldn't make it to your brother’s birthday yesterday. It was a nice party. I met his new girlfriend, Lori, finally. She’s pretty and she is a true dog lover. I offered my help with organization, but she just wanted to do it all by herself. This could be the reason that there were almost more dogs than humans at the party.
             The food was awesome and the idea of celebrating at the park was definitely pretty good. It was a perfect day to keep in touch with nature. Even if it wasn’t always easy to relax, to be honest. Having a peaceful meal, for example, was impracticable. Every time I tried to put something in my mouth, there was a big young Rottweiler that took it personally and showed me how pissed it was for that. Also I missed the banana bread because Rosco, a black Labrador with its penis constantly on display, urinated my jeans.
             Except for me, all those invited were definitely into dogs.
             A young girl, I can’t remember her name, spoke a lot about the stressful perinatal environment experienced by her dog and its consequent lack of fulfillment in recreational activities. This was the starting point for an enthusiastic discussion about leadership between dogs, nature of canine play and most importantly, how to recognize behavioral cues that indicate that play is escalating into a dangerous fight.
             I guess they've been talking about dogs basically the whole fucking time.
             I don’t want to justify the pictures you might be seeing on Facebook today. But yes, I raised a glass, more than once, with that fox terrier. I was already drunk at that point. Probably I drank too much to fit in. And to alleviate the boredom of conversations, too. So today I can’t distinguish between what actually happened and what was just a figment of my imagination. I’m pretty sure that, when the dances began, I saw Robert tying his boyfriend Markus to a tree and joining the dance floor alone. But what about cake served into dog bowls? Did it happen or was I tripping?
              Actually It could all be a dream as I blacked out a couple of times on the grass. I remember waking up feeling the cool and refreshing relief of a cold pack gently placed on my forehead. Never knew a Labrador's ballsack could be that refrigerating.
             Reading the comments, it’s a matter of fact that when it was time to say goodbye I started to bark very loud, and aggressively. As you can see, everybody is still arguing about the reasons. I don’t want to interfere because I can’t remember anything of the barking part. Lori says that she will ask her dog trainer and post his opinion.
             Can you please ask her not to do it? 

Daniele De Serto lives in Roma (Italy). His work has appeared in journals such as Fiction Southeast, Granta Italia, Cactus Heart Press, Linus, Thickjam, Cadillac Magazine. He also worked as an author for TV shows.

THE STEPHANIE, 74 ELDERT STREET — DAVID JOEZ VILLAVERDE

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For Joseph Bashar Nakhleh

Daddy is yelling now, angrier than before, his voice snarling and snapping in bursts of staccato Spanglish as if his words were buffering, the speed of his lips not quite matching those of his thoughts, his hands overcompensating for the truncated syllables and burnt phonics, fists pummeling the card table in the kitchen with all the weight that lifetimes of frustration carry as the cutlery temporarily levitates before gravity remembers to be inviolable and fork and spoon skitter across the floor.  Mommy is hoarse from screaming, half naked, half crazy, in the living room grabbing the collectible ceramics embossed with the Virgin Mary cursing unintelligibly as she arms herself for Daddy who is on her now pointing his finger menacingly in her face as spittle flies from his mouth. Neither notice Baby poking his head out from under the century old voussoirs, crowned with the same ornate keystone that celebrates all of the masonry adorning the windows of the 4th floor. Baby is talking to Kitty who is perched on the edge of the fire escape because Kitty knows innately that loud vibrations precede viciousness and to avoid them whenever possible but Baby never learned that violence is anything but the way things are and will always be and Baby wonders why Kitty is hiding on the black trellis of ironwork outside the window and Baby calls to Kitty in the stale cold of a purple sky as his beckoning is drowned out beneath the screams of quotidian horror. Neighbors do whatever it is that neighbors do, turning up the television under the waning cycles of an indifferent moon.

That is one story from tonight. In an hour a group of boricuas will scatter as a lone dominicano opens fire and one of his angry bullets will carom off the yellow brick of The Stephanie whistling dead on the silent asphalt of Eldert Street. Tomorrow there will be a big holy roller in a crispy white suit in front of the Iglesia de la Profecia de Bushwick ranting about the evils of homosexualidad and you will remember that people hurt because they are hurt. You will remember the Puerto Rican day parade is on the 8th this year. You will remember that all hearts are by nature circumspect, that in the 105 years The Stephanie has stood on Eldert Street only 4 tenants ever died there, and only one from foul play, you will remember that nothing stays, everything goes.  Baby turns his head back from the window and picks up spoon and knows as you do, that the purpose of gravity is to pull all things into themselves. 

David Joez Villaverde is an editor for the After Happy Hour Review in Pittsburgh. His writing has been featured in the Belle Rêve Literary Journal, The Jewish Literary Journal, Restless, Runaway Hotel, Apocrypha and Abstractions, The Pittsburgh City Paper, Uppagus and the Loyalhanna Review. He has forthcoming work in the Great American Wiseass Poetry Anthology. His writing can occasionally be found at schadenfreudeanslip.com

THE LETTER UNDER THE SIERRA CLUB MAGNET — ALINA STEFANESCU

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The letter is written in red ink on heavy sketchbook paper. The letter says he misses her. The letter says she can’t doubt the existence of a house and car and children between them. She musn’t rush to judgement for he has the mortgage papers in a manila folder to prove it. Stamped by a notary public. The letter says she should take a deep breath and remember their intense desire for one another. She should trust that desire. She should consider much money they had blown to satiate that desire over the past decade. He has receipts for airline travel to prove it. Some are digital receipts. The letter says she is complicated and not an easy woman. Her parents agree— she is hard to live with— but he is not making excuses. The letter says he misses her so damn much he doesn’t know how else to put it. Or where to put the missing. Some way to fill the blanks. And who would have thought empty places get sore over how much it hurts to find nothing there. The letter says the problem with empty places is hope. No place is empty and unexpectant. No empty place accepts its hollow core. Every vase in the kitchen cabinet wants to be filled. But empty is mute— it can’t speak. The letter says the problem of missing her is that the part that needs her is a place that is absolutely empty and no sound comes out. She should trust the emptiness because it can’t speak unless you fill it a little and then it reminds you of how much more space needs to be filled. The letter says he didn’t sleep well last night. He kept thinking about love and the way love’s glass is never half full but mostly half empty. She mustn’t mistake his anger for lack of love. They shouldn’t count sheep when their thoughts are full of empty glasses.

Alina Stefanescu was born in Romania, raised in Alabama, and reared by the love-ghost of Tom Waits and Hannah Arendt. Her homeland is a speculative fiction. Currently, she lives in Tuscaloosa with her partner and and three small homo sapiens sapiens. Her "stuffs" is forthcoming in PoemMemoirStory, Kindred, Cruel Garters, and others. More online at www.alinastefanescu.com.

CONTEST UPDATE | WINTER HIATUS | ASSISTANT EDITOR

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CONTEST

Thanks to everyone who entered our first-ever contest we put on with the wonderful Great Lakes Commonwealth of Letters (GLCL). We're currently going through submissions, and will be notifying the winners within the next few weeks.

We'll then be having a get-together on October 30 at the GLCL headquarters in Grand Rapids, Michigan, where we'll be publicly unveiling the winners, which will then be announced online shortly after.

That following week, the first week of November, we'll begin publishing the winning entries right here on the CP site. Boom. 

RSVP at the above link and if you can, hope to see you there.

WINTER HIATUS

Look: We love you.  We love reading and publishing you. But sometimes, you know...sometimes we need to take a step back and just admire what we've done and take some time to reflect. So, we'll be taking a hiatus from publishing stories starting in November (minus the contest winners mentioned above) through early 2016, which means we'll have new stories through October and that's it for 2015. 

We WILL be opening up submissions again around December, and we'll be get back to our normal schedule at some point in early 2016 (stay tuned for specifics).

In the meantime...check out our archives and enjoy what we've done so far. We got a ton of amazing stuff to keep you busy for a long while.

ASSISTANT EDITOR WANTED

Look, we'll be honest: We're growing. Which is super great. But that also means it's no longer a two-person operation. Yes, we've graduated to a three-person operation. Huzzah.

We are looking to bring on an Assistant Editor here at CHEAP POP. The Assistant Editor will help us mainly by 

  • Reading submissions
  • Scheduling and editing pieces
  • Amping up/taking control of our Social Media presence (especially Twitter)
  • Generating ideas for events, contests...whatever

These are the main things we're looking for—with the social media presence being near the top of the pile, importance-wise—so if you have experience, especially with Twitter, and are interested in joining our fantastic team, do the following:

  1. Send us an email at cheappoplit@gmail.com  with the words Assistant Editor in the subject line
  2. Attach or paste in the email your resume and/or relevant experience
  3. Tell us why we should bring you on and why you'd be a good fit for the team

And that's it. Simple, right?

We're looking to fill the position soon-ish, so our new Assistant Editor can get caught up during this moment of quiet we're having.

Email us with questions. We like hearing from you.

RESPONSIBLE OWNERSHIP — ZACHARY DOSS

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Your boyfriend adopts a pet without asking you about it first. “You should have called me,” you say. Your boyfriend tells you that he found the pet by the side of the road. “I don’t think we’re ready for a pet,” you say.
             You and your boyfriend are not ready for a pet. One day you realize that the pet’s water dish has been empty and you don’t know for how long. The pet looks at you with its big eyes and it makes you feel bad. You’re late to work that day. Your boyfriend never remembers to feed the pet and when you confront him about it he says it was your turn to feed the pet. It wasn’t your turn, and you make a chart about whose turn it is to feed the pet so this doesn’t happen again, but the chart disappears. Your boyfriend says the pet ate it, but the pet is so skinny you don’t believe it.
             You reluctantly take responsibility for the pet. You take it outside to go to the bathroom, you teach it tricks, you give it treats, and you play with it to make sure it gets exercise. You give it baths, covering your eyes with your hand because you feel uncomfortable watching it bathe. Once, you think you catch it watching from the door while you and your boyfriend are having sex, but when you get up to check, it’s not there.
             Over time, your efforts at caring for the pet never seem more than perfunctory. You hoped this would be a rewarding experience but mostly you find the pet incredibly boring. It’s not the pet’s fault, you remind yourself, and try to keep an open mind about the pet. But you can’t help finding the pet tedious. All it does is cry and ask where its parents are, and you keep saying, I don’t know, I don’t know.

Zachary Doss is the editor of Black Warrior Review and fiction editor of Banango Street. His work has appeared in or is forthcoming from Fairy Tale Review, Caketrain, DIAGRAM, New South, and others. He lives in Tuscaloosa, Alabama.

LOCKS AND KEYS — DAVID MATHEWS

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My Grandma Lulu never left the house without swearing, because she couldn’t find her keys. If we were going out, I knew it was coming. I’d have to wait by the door until she swore and cursed her life, like she was casting a clumsy spell to summon them.
             Sometimes they would appear as close as her coat pocket. She’d put her faux fur and plastic floral babushka on, grabbed her maroon pleather purse—everything for a while would be back to normal. She would always double-check her purse for those keys before locking her apartment door.
             During my errands with her, she’d ask, “Did you see me take my keys?” After I told her, she’d quickly turnto look into her secondhand purse, as if she were looking for something misplaced in the trash.
             Whenever I leave to go out, I question if I have everything before I lock my door. I pat down my pockets to make sure I’m all right. I find I have to catch myself from panics I’ve inherited, like high blood pressure or bad debt. When I head out into the world, I try to carry only what I need.

David Mathews earned his MA in Writing and Publishing at DePaul University. His work has appeared in Eclectica Magazine, After Hours, CHEAP POP, One Sentence Poems, OMNI Reboot, Word Riot, Silver Birch Press, and Midwestern Gothic. His poetry was nominated by Eclectica Magazine for The Best of The Net 2014. He is a life-long Chicagoan, and he currently teaches at Wright College and College of Lake County.

THE CONTORTIONIST VISITS THE ZOO — JAMES R. GAPINSKI

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The contortionist placed her foam mat on the floor in front of the spider monkey cage. She sat in the lotus position and let her mind drift. For her, contortion was about peace with one's own body. It wasn't a spectacle to be ogled. It was personal. Of course, she still made a living through public performance, but it felt wrong.
             The spider monkeys howled and screeched, but the contortionist didn't mind. It soothed her. The animal babble helped her feel more connected to nature—even if the noises were caged and therefore semi-artificial.
             She moved into her first pose: a simple backbend.
             The spider monkeys dropped to the floor and inversely arched their backs.
             "Very good," the contortionist said.
             The monkeys howled some more.
             She dipped further into a full chest bend. The monkeys mirrored her movement with ease.
             "Interesting," the contortionist said. "Let's see you try this one." She moved into a handstand, stretching her anti-gravity self into the air. The she relaxed her spine, mimicking her earlier earthbound positions. She let her sky-high buttocks glide downward, resting on her ponytail, her entire back inverted to accommodate the maneuver. She felt liquid.
             The spider monkeys complied, standing on their hands and bending their spines.
             The monkeys screeched to one another. Then each monkey outstretched a hand, leaving all body weight on a single limb.
             The contortionist outstretched her arm too. Her muscles warmed, reminding her of her physicality, skin stuffed with messy solid tissues and bones like concrete. Her liquid body hardened, elbow locking into place. She held the rigid pose for a moment, but she couldn't maintain. The contortionist toppled onto her yoga mat.
             The unscathed monkeys moved into a pose she'd never seen before. Something almost like a box act, sans box, floating in midair, supported only by a spindly little monkey tail. A half-dozen monkey cubes hovered above the ground in perfect unison, without a single twitch or sway or wobble.

James R. Gapinski is managing editor of The Conium Review, and he teaches writing at Bunker Hill Community College in Boston. His fiction has recently appeared in Juked, NANO Fiction, Word Riot, and elsewhere. Find him online at http://jamesrgapinski.com.