THIS WHOLE MAJESTIC THING — ANNA LEA JANCEWICZ

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We scaled the chain link fences and swam in the hotel pools in the middle of the night. We had sex on the deserted mini golf course and pretended it was post-apocalypse. Stole beers, swallowed little heaps of tiny white ephedrine, smoked Camel Wides laying on our backs in the sand. All the dumb kid stuff. I didn’t know that Kevin was going to die at the end of the summer, so I wasn’t trying to make it special. We weren’t in love.

We were, but not with each other. Kevin was in love with a girl named Ginnie who had a shaved head and worked days at the wax museum on the Strip. She had a big fat boyfriend, Marcus. I was in love with this guy Del. Del with the chain wallet and purple Mohawk and Fists of Fire! He juggled flaming bowling pins on the boardwalk. He was gay, and that broke my heart.

Kevin and I were losers together. He was really fun though. The first time we fucked, when we were done he slapped me on the ass and said Good game! He was not a sports guy or anything, it was just ironic and hilarious. We were on the end of the fishing pier and it was right before a thunderstorm. There was lightning and waves, this whole majestic thing, and it could have gotten all romantic and weird, but Kevin kept it real.

If I would’ve known though, maybe I would’ve done something like wrote him a poem or held hands with him. The kind of shit girls do, things that never happened for him. At least that summer. I mean, I don’t know what it was like for him with any girls before. I just know there weren’t any after.

There was this one time he called me baby by mistake. The word just cannonballed off his tongue like it was totally natural. It was in front of a bunch of our friends too, and there was this held breath, this moment of splash. He just kind of shrugged. Went on talking, there was nothing to explain. Not the droids they were looking for. He was pretty drunk, and I never mentioned it.

 But there was something geological that happened to me when he said it. Some kind of fault line shifting, or mountains humping up against one another in my stomach. I’m not exactly sure how the Earth works, there was just something big and sudden that felt very holy. It was just that once. I guess I just liked the way it sounded, like I was a girl in a pop song.

 Then Kevin got hit by a truck and his skull split open. It was a sunny afternoon, high of 90.

Not a cloud in the sky. No moral to the story.

I got this tattoo, of a lightning bolt. People always think it’s some kind of Harry Potter shit.

But it’s not.

Anna Lea Jancewicz lives in Norfolk, Virginia, where she homeschools her children and haunts the public libraries. She is an editor for Cease, Cows and her writing has appeared or is forthcoming at Lockjaw, Necessary Fiction, Split Lip, and many other venues. Her flash fiction "Marriage" was chosen for The Best Small Fictions 2015. Yes, you CAN say Jancewicz: Yahnt-SEV-ich. More at: http://annajancewicz.wordpress.com/

TIGER — KIERON WALQUIST

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You tear away your human suit. To free the animal. So it will breathe. And breed.                         

On all fours, you leave your mother. For the wilderness, a thick cloud of emerald. You unravel from her grizzly-bear-hug; she squeezes your velvet paws, tousles the fiery fur upon your crown, kisses your tickling whiskers and looks with drowning eyes deep into yours—beautified to green-gold slits. Your mother begs you to stay. You hiss and bare your yellowing teeth.         

She doesn’t cower—your mother has always adored you. When you were a boy (Beau). When you were a girl (Beatrice). And even now, as a cat (Beast). She promises she’ll take you to the park more often. That she’ll buy you a scratching post and a bigger litterbox. That she’ll feed you tuna or chicken or dairy—whatever you want.                                                                           

But tigers don’t live with their mothers. They run wild. Free. Alone.                                 

Your mother can only watch, and worry, as you race into the arms of timber like a flame races in the wind. You burn and bloom bright at first, then flash and flare orange.

Kieron Walquist lives in Mid-Missouri—mostly in the woods, where he tries to catch his shadow. His short fiction has appeared in Electric Cereal, Flash Fiction Magazine, FRXTL, Gone Lawn, The Molotov Cocktail and Unreality House, among others.  

WHERE ANGELS TROD — AUDRA KERR BROWN

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You were tired of rust and ash, of flake and gray. “Look at me,” you said. “Spotted as a bull snake, wrinkled as a sow’s ass. I want to see something young and shiny.” So I drove you to the new bridge, helped you stand at its base. You arched your arthritic neck, swayed like a drunk in your orthopedic shoes and whistled—high and long—the way you used to whistle at Mom when she dressed for church. Then you clapped your hat against your chest to keep it from blowing away or maybe out of reverence or incredulity, for it was both holy and blasphemous, this otherworldly structure rising from the humble Midwestern landscape like twin Nephilim drawing up nets taut with fish. “Let’s dare to tread where angels trod,” you said, pointing your cane, and I pushed your wheelchair forward.

Half way up I set your brakes to catch my breath. You stood, began shuffling toward the setting sun, the tap-tap-tap of your cane echoing the slow beat of your weakened heart. I came after you, but you waved me away, eyes fixed on the horizon. At that instant you were Moses on Mt.Sinai, and I made a visor with my hands, watched your doddering form disappear into the sun: the clouds above, the water below rushing toward the future. And when you returned—just minutes later—your white hair danced on end like a halo of live wires, your cheeks, your smiling cheeks, flushed and shining as if you had seen the very face of God.

Audra Kerr Brown lives betwixt the corn and soybean fields of southeast Iowa. Her fiction can be found at Fjords Review (online), People Holding, Maudlin House, Pithead Chapel, and 100 Word Story, among others. She tweets under the clever handle of @audrakerrbrown.

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.