SUMMER BREAK 2016 / SUBMISSIONS CLOSE MAY 31

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As is becoming a tradition, we’ve decided to give ourselves a break this summer—don’t judge us...we’re human beings!—so we can re-tool, rest, re-calibrate, re-up, re...everything! 

So: We won’t be posting stories throughout June and July, and we’ll be returning with a new story on Tuesday, August 2. Starting then, new stories new stories new stories (until our mandated winter break, that is).

To that end, as well, we’ll be closing subs on MAY 31. So get your pieces in WHILE YOU CAN, y’all.

FAQs? We got your FAQs!

Will we still be posting stories in May?
Yup! We have pieces set for the rest of the month (and they are gooooood).

What if I submit before the break/submissions close / what if I submitted already?
We’ll evaluate all submissions currently in our inbox, and anything coming in by May 31. We’ll be accepting pieces over our summer break, and slotting in pieces for August onward.

What if I submit after May 31?
Well, you shouldn’t. Submissions will be closed. So…just don’t.

Thanks, all, for supporting us. So much good stuff coming. Hang tight.

Best,
Rob + Elizabeth + Hannah

JANE SAYS — NANCY HIGHTOWER

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When Jane graduated college, her father gave her a man’s gold watch and a gun. 
             “Where are the bullets?” she asked.  
             “Already loaded,” he said.  
             Jane noticed the safety wasn't on. 
             “Don't get any ideas,” he warned. Jane’s father had warned her of many things: to keep her legs closed because boys were scum (unless they bought her dinner first); to keep a look out for the water towers because they were really alien ships soon to launch. There were warnings about the apocalypse and the job market. Sometimes his warnings were so convoluted Jane gave up trying to understand them, such as when he warned her about demons disguised as homeless people who said they were really angels. About every fifth warning made sense (the tank always had a little bit of gas left even if it said it was empty). 
             The man’s watch made no sense. Jane’s wrists are freakishly small. 
             “Fits perfectly,” her dad said when she tried it on. Jane’s mother would have disagreed, if she were still there, but she had run off with another man just shy of Jane’s eighth birthday. Her dad took her to the snake museum as a present, which was pretty okay. Jane had always liked snakes.
            She raised the gun to her waist, the way she had seen in old mobster movies. The watch slid up her forearm.
             “Keep your elbows in; those water towers take off pretty fast.” 

Nancy Hightower  has published short fiction and poetry in journals such as storySouth, Sundog Lit, Gargoyle, A capella Zoo, and Word Riot. Her novel, Elementarí Rising (2013) received a starred review in Library Journal and was chosen as Debut of the Month. In 2015, Port Yonder Press published The Acolyte, her first collection of poetry that rewrites biblical narratives with a surreal, feminist twist. Currently, she reviews science fiction and fantasy for The Washington Post and is working on a book about digital fictions with Paul D. Miller (aka DJ Spooky). She teaches at Hunter College.

HOW TO MAKE A GOOD CONFESSION — KRISTEN ROUISSE

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1.     After dinner, your parents drop you off in front of trailer C. It loops off the side of the church alongside A and B like some kind of tail. Find Ronnie crouched on the stairs. He’ll probably be clawing at an engorged mosquito bite on his calf.

2.     Don’t look startled as the trailer door swings open. It’s just Mike, your teacher, followed by the rest of your Confraternity of Christian Doctrine class. Note Mike’s stained polo, his junky car parked sideways in the grass. He’ll comment on your lateness. Ronnie will ask, What are you gonna do about it, send us to Sister? Mike will reply, Don’t be such a smart-ass.

3.     Follow Mike into the main building with the others. Clomp down the hallway edged with with framed pictures of the Virgin Mary and line up for confession in the belly of the church. Press your back flat against the manila-colored wall that slides open on Sunday to make room for everyone.

4.     Take inventory of your surroundings and your place in them: The other girls wear spaghetti straps—exposed shoulders freckled like pears—and rings from Clare’s that leave turquoise circles around their fingers. The boys have shaggy bowl-cuts that lay just below the tops of their ears. Ronnie doesn’t have a bowl cut; he has a wide nose that looks like it has been broken before. You wear your hair in a ponytail and your eyebrows too close together.

5.     When it’s your turn to confess, slink inside the room. Try not to puke.

6.     This church is nestled behind a Walmart and an Albertsons grocery store. Note that the priest doesn’t sit inside a screened, wooden cubbyhole; he sits behind a giant desk. When you spill your sins here, it feels and looks like a job interview.

7.     Confess. Be sure to think up your confession ahead of time—that part is important—and give it at least three parts. Say the first two quickly, but stumble with he last one so it looks like you’re really doing it on the spot. Something like, Bless me father, for I have sinned. I said a bad word. I lied to my mom. And I ... I was mean to the cat. I am sorry for these and all of my sins.

8.     Before the priest can finish assigning your penance, scurry out of the room and into the darkened nook full of those red, glass candles that remind you of the plastic cups at Pizza Hut. Say a Hail Mary or two, for good measure.

9.     Note the life-size crucifix hanging over your head; Jesus’ puppy-dog eyes, the vibrant lines of blood that slither from the nail's puncturing his palms and feet. Stare into his ribs pulling beneath the plastic flesh like fishbones.

10.   Forget Jesus; think about Ronnie instead. How in a few minutes, he’ll kneel down beside you and you’ll get to smell his drugstore cologne.

Kristen Rouisse holds an MFA in Poetry from the University of South Florida. Her work has appeared in Thin Air Magazine, Hobart, Watershed Review, and elsewhere. She’s a former poetry and nonfiction editor for Saw Palm: Florida Literature and Art and currently lives in Florida with her husband and two cats.

THIS IS AN OPPORTUNITY — NATALIE FILKOSKI

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I'm told I should take advantage of my time here in this city. Because, well, I guess "not many people get these kinds of opportunities".

They don't? I think to myself. Are you sure? Opportunities never seemed like opportunities to me, rather they were things that happened to me because of a series of steps I took.

This particular day I've had too much coffee, and thus, I'm immobile. Heart racing and panic setting in, I lie on my back under the covers and stare at the design. Brown, black, and cream flowers swirling together in a never-ending pattern. My left foot is tapping on the bed, up and down, up and down, up and down, all my excess energy channeled to that one foot, going up and down, up and down, up and down.

But I'm lucky to be here in this situation, because It's special, they say. It's an opportunity, they say.

I say it's just a thing that happens to be occurring at a particular time in my life. Like the up and down, up and down, up and down of my foot tapping on the bed. An excess of energy looking for a host. 

Natalie Filkoski holds a B.A. in English from Michigan State and an M.S. in Publishing from Pace University. After spending two years in Brooklyn buying overpriced gluten-free cupcakes from Whole Foods, she’s now back in Metro Detroit.

A SMALL, HALTING NOISE — BEN SLOTKY

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In the atrium on H1, there is a 3D printer. It’s shooting lines of glue, Ron says. Ron has a parrot named Sinbad. Ron can ride a unicycle. That’s how it works, Ron tells you, pushing up his glasses. It’s not hard.

Ron is glad to talk. His shirt is purple and tucked into his jeans. His tennis shoes are white. New Balance. There is a guy you call Ron’s Fat Nephew. You usually see him on M3. He looks like Ron, except younger and fatter. You told your team about that once. Everybody laughed. You’re thinking this while Ron doesn’t blink or budge. Ron doesn’t move. He’s waiting to explain this. It’s not that hard. You can see yourself in his glasses. This what you’re doing, in Ron’s glasses and in real life.

You watched The Friends of Eddie Coyle last night. Robert Mitchum, 1973. You think about how you are now a person who can say that. You can ask somebody if they’ve seen The Friends of Eddie Coyle and if they pause, you can go Robert Mitchum, 1973.

As if to clarify, as if to explain.

You never saw that coming. You are also the kind of person who can say, “I’m going to stop you right there,” in a conversation. That is a line from a book you will never write, you think about saying to Ron’s glasses but don’t.

You read the book before you saw the movie. You didn’t know there was a movie until you were looking for movies to watch. Now when you can’t sleep, you watch movies. Before when you couldn’t sleep, you wrote. You are watching movies now. Your friend gave you illegal screeners to watch. He used to be a nurse. His brother died of a heart attack. You didn’t know he had a brother until he told you that he died.

You may watch The French Connection. You are thinking about a scene in Dial M for Murder where the detective pulls out a mustache comb and starts combing his mustache. That’s the last scene of the movie. A guy combing his mustache. You feel like asking Ron’s glasses something about this, but don’t know what ask.

It’s adding things up, Ron is saying now. Ron is pushing up his glasses again and you lose sight of yourself for a second. You are gone and then you are back.  He’s explaining things. He leans forward. You can see yourself again. You wonder if you look horrified. You can’t tell. Ron is explaining 3D printing to you. It’s something about the accumulation of layers, the layering upon layering. A 3D printer shoots lines of glue. It adds up, it does. A thing on a thing on a thing. Rows and rows. An accumulation of layers. You make a small, halting noise. You tell Ron you’ll see him later and you head to your 1 o’clock.

Ben Slotky is the author of Red Hot Dogs, White Gravy and An Evening of Romantic Lovemaking. His work has appeared in Golden Handcuffs Review, McSweeney's, Largehearted Boy, Clackamas Literary Review, Requited, Juked, and other publications. "A Small, Halting Noise" is from his new novel, The Hill I'm Going To Die On. He lives in Bloomington, IL with his wife and six sons. 

FLIGHT — JILLIAN MERRIFIELD

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I take my wine out onto the terrace. The boyfriend sits there, next to the leering telescope. “It’s so quiet,” I say. “Where are all the birds?”
             The boyfriend turns to look at me. “They’re up there.  Just…way up there.”
             “Where?” I say. “Why can’t I hear them?”
             “Way up there. Since the sky fell, there’s nothing to hold them down by the world.” He smiles. “They’ve just been drifting higher and higher all day.”
             Mr. Beakers takes up a song in his cage by the chair. His song is loud in the darkness. “You couldn’t send him with?” I ask. I notice that there’s a feather on the eyepiece of the telescope.
             “Just think, that’s what every other sad sap with a bird is doing right now. ‘Be free! Go join your friends!’ And their birds are going up.” He smiles. “Pretty soon, Beakers will be the only bird left on earth.” There’s a pinion feather between his fingers.
             I don’t mention penguins and cassowaries. I look into the tall steel cage. I notice that there are feathers in the cage. There are feathers on the ground. Without his emerald robe, Mr. Beakers looks disgusting. He flaps his wings at me.

Jillian Merrifield has an MA in Writing and Publishing from DePaul University and is currently pursuing her PhD in English Studies at Illinois State University. Her work has previously appeared in Curbside Splendor, Midwestern Gothic, Eclectica and NEAT.

FITTING — MARVIN SHACKELFORD

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Jay wanted to know if I thought he was the right fit for Abby. I guess because I’d known her longer. I’d known Abby since fourth grade or so. I still have a picture she drew of a castle, some mountains, pine tree, and two very happy-looking pigs. She tried to show me how to draw those pigs, once, all sorts of animals. Abby saw the shapes of bodies and knew how they joined together to make a whole. I never could catch on to it.
             Jay was also a Junior. He’d been a JJ and just J for a while right out of high school. Never went on a date with a girl more than twice. Then his dad left his mom and moved to New Jersey, and he was just Jay again. Those were awful long roads for him to travel. I thought of Jay shooting pool in the community college’s rec room. I’d seen him fistfight a guy who stole the 8 ball one day to make a knob for the gearshift of his pickup. Jay fought and had been through women, guess sums it up. We didn’t have conversations about fitting.
             We had driven to the river, and we were drinking beer while boats turned rich and pretty out on the wide part of the water. I watched the clouds, sometimes thought I caught things in them. I started to point shapes to him, images, but then decided against it. He didn’t say anything else.
             Earlier that morning we’d stood outside the middle-school gymnasium and listened to Abby’s choir sing to old folks bussed in from churches, homes, I didn’t know where. They sang of altitude, the high and the low, and how wings picked a body up and set it down both. Abby had joined not too long ago, didn’t have a solo or anything but said she enjoyed it. I couldn’t pick her voice out, standing and smoking outside the big double doors, but Jay said he could.
             “Right there, when they all come together,” he said. “They’re pretty.”
             Yeah, they were pretty.

Marvin Shackelford is author of a poetry collection, Endless Building (Urban Farmhouse). His stories and poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Epiphany, NANO Fiction, Southern Humanities Review, Folio, FiveChapters, and elsewhere. He resides in the Texas Panhandle with his wife, Shea, and earns a living in agriculture.

A CURE FOR MY HANGOVER IS YOUR HANGOVER — SHANNON McLEOD

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At the concert I felt out of place, so I stood at the periphery and watched the audience like a movie. A girl with long red hair and glasses held herself up by clutching the sleeves of a young man, a boy really. She swayed to the electronic beat, the operatic voices. Her eyes appeared to be filled with tears, but it could have been the glare of spotlights against her glasses. Though the boy had clearly brought her here, their paths must have parted somewhere along the bar. He might have been her boyfriend. She might have only thought he was her boyfriend. The musicians onstage, sisters wearing painted mustaches, began my favorite song. I turned to the girl beside me. She was still attached to the boy and yelling, “yesss!” Her head lurched forward. The boy took a step toward the stage. The girl’s body buckled. She pulled herself up by his forearm. He bobbed his head as if there weren't a human-sized barnacle seizing beside him. She sang along, “I just want to be your housewife.” She grabbed both of his biceps and tried turning him towards her, “I’ll iron your clothes,” but he kept looking at the stage. I wanted him to love her because she felt so strongly that she needed it. She continued singing, “I’ll make your bed.” She ignored the musicians’ sad sarcasm and swapped it for melodic shouting. She was looking up to where she thought his eyes were gazing at her own. But she couldn’t make out his line of vision because of her tears. Or her glasses-glare. I imagined the next morning she might wake up alone in her own bed, and, later, beside a mug filled with coffee, or smoothie, or raw eggs, compose an email to her best friend about her boyfriend and their amazing night together.

Shannon McLeod teaches high school English in Southeast Michigan. Her writing has appeared in Hobart, NEAT, Gawker, The Billfold, Cheap Pop, and Word Riot. You can find her on twitter @OcqueocSAM or on her website at www.shannon-mcleod.com.