Layers

Carl Plumer

Eddie Sandbach loved layer cakes more than anything. Next best was anything that reminded him of layer cakes. Like a mattress with a box spring, the bedspread spread on top like green frosting. Or sedimentary rocks, with their stripes of layers. Or the brightly colored dishes stacked in the cupboard, each color a different delicious flavor.

When nothing was around to remind him of layer cakes, Eddie Sandbach would make his own reminders, using anything as the layers. Toy trucks piled as high as the top of the TV. Books were easy, making perfect, well-balanced layers. Then the cats and the dogs (the black cats representing chocolate, the white pups vanilla).

So when the tornado, itself not a bad approximation of layers, but more like a funnel cake, arrived to spin a path through the middle of town like an oversized, insane whisk, it was only fitting that, when it was done, the floor had become the first layer, the couch the second, Eddie Sandbach the third, and the fourth the refrigerator -- with rain water like shiny icing, dripping down over it all.

© 2009 Carl Plumer. All rights reserved.

About the Author

Carl Plumer is a graduate of the Masters Writing Program at Stony Brook University where he studied with Thomas Flanagan. He received his BA in English from Fordham University in NYC. His first published short story was "20th Century Interpretations of Minute Mysteries" in the now sadly departed Pulpsmith: The Curious Magazine. He's written some four odd novels since, and dozens of even odder short stories, none of which have yet to see the light of day. Until now. Carl lives with his wife and four children in the Midwest, plotting his imminent return to New York.

Melancholy Sits Quiety on a Hill

Natalie Paul

Melancholy sits quietly on a hill,
framed in greenery—wild, lush.
Day stretches her rays extravagantly ‘till
Night finally induces her to hush.
The moonlight drips, cascading down
her long, twined, silvery locks.
Mildew glistens effervescently,
highlighting her sinewy bluish robe.
There on her hill, perched on her rock,
Melancholy gazes over the globe.

Hypnotized by the wanderings of man,
she surveys his realm in fascination.
Those who espy her from far away,
in the dark valleys of their lives,
often turn away, unable to discern
the truth from the lies.

Just as Melancholy threatens to take hold
of this world so seemingly dark,
Hope wanders in, a shy little boy,
and sits down next to her.

And so, in the dark, up on that hill,
in that quiet primordial place,
Melancholy sits quietly on a hill
until Hope comes to chase her away.

Fragments
Natalie Paul

The wind ponders

I.

In the Infinite expanse
of the nighttime sky
the wind sighs,

“Do you find yourself
in the pool of incandescent light?”

II.

In a hushed meadow
warm and sweet
ponders the wind,

“Do you see yourself,
hidden here?”

III.

A dark wood,
an abyss of thorns
again he whispers,

“Now do you see?”

IV.

The Bedouin’s is a solitary path.

© 2009 Natalie Paul. All rights reserved.

______________________________________

About the Author

Natalie Paul is a pseudonym for Melinda Cro, a Doctoral candidate at the University of Georgia. Her field is Romance Languages and her specialization is French and Italian literature. She currently teaches Italian at the University of Georgia and enjoys spending time with her enormous Maine Coon and her black shepherd.

Silence

Kenneth Radu

Don’t die for me. One year ago to the minute Pauline had thought those exact words and now, during the minute of silence in honor of fallen soldiers, she thought them again. Students all stood with their heads bowed, supposedly praying or at least thinking about men and women who had had been shot, eviscerated, decapitated, wrenched apart, torn and tattered over the past hundred years, all sacrificing themselves for their country. Their knowledge of war did not extend beyond the Iraqi invasion and Afghanistan. True, a young reservist had enrolled in her class: Gabriel, a sweet boy. True, the parents and grandparents of some had experienced World War II, the Korean War, and the Vietnam War. But as they shuffled and coughed, and the three girls in the back row carried on a whispered conversation, Pauline attempting to deflect an urge to cry. Most of her students understood nothing about the texture of blood and the pain of fiery flesh. They knew only what they experienced virtually, on their computers.

How long did a minute, spent in private grief, last? Last year she could not answer. This year, she’d say it lasted a lifetime. She lowered her head again, noting a water stain on her blue silk blouse. She became aware of her duty to act as a role model, show by personal example, proper deference. She did not herself pray to any imaginable deity.

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Dead in the Water

Stephen Jarrell Williams

Sea waves
slowly up and down
I'm floating
on my back
not understanding why
I didn't treat myself
better
shielding my eyes
from the sun
blurry
seagull squawking
flying away
into approaching night
always stars overhead
wishing I could sing
without coughing
salt on my lips
thinking of you
and you and you
everyone
wondering where I am
this year
seemingly like all the others
except I can't catch my
breath.

© 2009 Stephen Jarrell Williams. All rights reserved.

____________________________________________

About the Author

Stephen Jarrell Williams loves to write, listen to his music, and dance late into the night. He was born in Fort Belvoir, Virginia. His parents are native Texans. He has lived most of his life in California. His poetry has appeared in Anthology, Avocet, Blue Collar Review, The Broome Review, Byline Magazine, Chronogram Magazine, Fissure Magazine, Freefall, Haight Ashbury Literary Journal, Hawaii Review, HUNGUR, Liquid Imagination, Nerve Cowboy, Mirror Dance, POEM, Poesia, Posey, Purpose, REAL, Tales from the Moonlit Path, and many others.

The Secret Life of Milly Walters

With Apologies to James Thurber, of course...
Simon Leigh

“HOUSTON, we have a problem.” Commander Milly Walters’ voice now had a cut-glass edge. Her blue astronaut’s overalls did nothing to conceal her truly spectacular figure, but her crew knew her as one tough cookie. And knew they were in deep trouble. The shuttle vibrated in the thickening atmosphere of re-entry.

“Tell them we’ve lost half our tiles!” yelled Lieutenant Briggs, her Number Two, his face white. She smiled across at him, her slim fingers a blur at the controls.

“You can tell them … soon as I get this thing on the ground.”

The chipped windscreen cleared for an instant, revealing Earth.

“My God! We’re coming in upside down!” shouted a crew member, yanking his belt harness tighter.

“Quiet,” Briggs snapped. “If anyone can handle this thing it’s our Commander. Hell wouldn’t scare The Maestro.” Commander Walter’s voice was now its usual calm drawl: “Houston, we have very limited control here. I’m going to have to land her inverted.”

There was a pause, crackling with tension. “Copy that, Commander. Land the shuttle, ah, inverted. No problem. We’re not breathing down here, but bring her in. Spraying foam on the runway now—”

“Watch it!” said her husband. “You’re getting foam all over the counter-top.”

“Oops, sorry,” said Milly Walters. She focussed on the man, glowering at her over his horn-rims, over his newspaper.

“There’s a problem with this new machine,’ she said, “the steam comes out before the coffee does.”

“You were spraying foam all over the place. You know I can’t stand it when it’s all coffee, if I wanted it black I’d ask for it black.”

Milly Walters deftly filled his cup with her right hand while mopping the counter with her left, the roar of the space shuttle fading into the blue outer space of her mind. Mr Walters accepted his coffee, glanced up and spoke.

“You’re getting scatty again. Does your famous Doctor Whatsit really know what she’s doing? Shouldn’t she have you on medication? –And I keep seeing you fiddling with those weird potions of yours. If you spent as much time on me as you do on those, those weeds…It can’t be good for you, this Mad Scientist business.”

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The Story of Half an Hour

with a nod to Kate Chopin, who saw it first...
Simon Leigh

Brent Teal adored his wife of ten years, the still-gorgeous Louise Lovett, so his reaction to the news of her sudden death shocked him: he laughed. He exploded into laughter. His bark of a laugh startled him and his friend (and former squash partner) Dixon, whose company Ford still stood at a crazy angle in the Teal driveway, with the door open and the engine running.

"You're joking, right? This is Candid Camera."

But Dixon said nothing, his face a tragic mask. Slowly, slowly he shook his head. Brent pulled back from his friend's clumsy attempt to hug him. He stared into Dixon's face.

"Right? RIGHT?"

But Dixon would not look at him.

"Worst pile-up I ever saw, cement truck must have lost a wheel. Her car was totally pancaked, she never had a chance. I wanted to come tell you before you saw it on the news. Those little foreign shit-boxes--"

"Jesus! Jesus Christ! 'Scuse me." Brent turned, retching, rushed up the front steps and vanished inside. The door slammed and he stood, hot, panting, close to bursting into sobs. His skin prickled. Then he sprinted upstairs into his study.

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The Ratio of Lift to Drag

David Rasey

Jerrin lies back in the sweet, clover-scented summer grass. He stares unblinking up at the clear night sky. At nine years old, the river of stars visible here in rural central Ohio amazes him. He wonders how anyone can live without views like this.

The longer he stares upward, the more his vision expands, until all that exists for him is the star-spattered dark. A strange vibration occurs behind his eyes, and then the magic happens: he is no longer looking up. He is looking out, and then looking down. The sky is no longer high above him; it is below him and it is deep.

Deep space! Jerrin thinks, shivering in ecstasy. Deep space!

He hooks his fingers through the grass and into the earth. He can feel a gigantic pull from the sky. He knows if he doesn’t hold tight to the ground, the earth will let go of him and he will fall up into the sky. In his mind’s eye, he can see himself sliding through the air far below, on his way to see things no one has ever seen. His heart pounds with vast fear and sweeping joy.

“I want to fly!” he whispers. “I want to go out there! Oh please!”

He stiffens, and then relaxes all over. His eyes fix on a single star, or perhaps it’s a planet; Jerrin neither knows nor cares. It is beautiful and its’ light calls to him. The desire to fall away into the sky fills him like a song and beats in his brow in time with his pulse. He imagines gravity like giant fingers opening to release him. Weight begins slipping away. His fingers loosen their grip.

He feels himself growing light, lighter, lightest.

He can’t feel the ground anymore. Only the tips of the grass blades tickle between his shoulders. He is starting to fall up –

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