Blog Archives

The Golden Necklace, by Laura Kuhlmann

31/8/2018

“Amelia, come on honey!”

Her father's call makes her pulse rise. She reaches her hand under her scarf and loosens it. The frozen wind cools the sweat on her skin.

She kicks the fresh snow. Rubs the frozen ground with her sole. Digs with the tip of her boot under a crimson lake of maple leaves, trapped in-between the bony roots of the tree.

That was where she last held it. Where could she have lost it?

“Amelia!”

It takes her a second to recognize her own name. She used to be Amy. His little Amy.

But not anymore. The new Amy set up new rules. To avoid confusions, she said.

Amelia runs back to her father her hand outstretched, looking for his. But his hands are tucked inside his coats pockets, sheltered from the cold.

“Isn't it wonderful, what Amy got you?” He asks. “Make sure to wear it tonight, for our first family dinner.”

Amelia bites her lip under her scarf. Her head stoops. Her father glances over the frozen pond at the setting sun.

“I knew you'd warm up to her.” He says. And steps ahead, oblivious to his daughter's shiver.

Eucalyptus Park, by Mark Tulin

27/8/2018

Norma was fortunate enough to make it to ninety and still be in reasonably good health. She was the only remaining member of her family of origin. Her husband passed away twenty years ago and her two siblings not too long after.

She had one friend, but she was in a nursing home located across the state and had dementia. Her only child lived across the country, and he barely had time for her. Most days, she sat in her white rattan chair on the porch of her little blue and white bungalow across the street from Eucalyptus Park. She watched the people walk their dogs; older men going through their daily Tai Chi routine, young boys with scraped knees playing soccer, and other various park activities that people do under the bright sunshine and temperate coastal climate.

But it was the Spanish parties on the weekends that Norma relished the most in Eucalyptus Park.

The parties occurred every weekend and had plenty of love and closeness. Often there were brass bands to enliven the spirit and to get everyone dancing. While the men unfolded the tables and cooked meats on the fire pit, the women set the tables, minded the children and kept an eye on the elderly family members.

These Spanish parties always made Norma think of her family get-togethers growing up in Charleston, South Carolina. Her family used to talk for hours and laugh about things that she thought was funny and how Uncle George had such a booming voice that you could hear him from blocks away and the manner in which her mother mispronounced long words with a thick Polish accent. She missed her mother’s golabki and pierogi and her father’s singing voice to the songs from the old country and his amateur accordion playing that made the parties all the more humorous.

It was the family time that Norma missed the most in her waning years. With everyone gone, she could only watch the joyful Spanish families from her white rattan chair on her porch and feel the family love and connection vicariously.

New Blood, by Andrew Newall

26/8/2018

He stood triumphant, surveying the aftermath of their battle. Objects from her kitchen strewn everywhere after she’d hurled them frenziedly trying to escape his terror. Knives, forks, a ladle, a toaster. Like all the others, her fight had been fruitless. A grapefruit lay at his feet. Perhaps not so fruitless he thought, smirking. Pushing his floor length black cape to the side, he picked it up from the mess.

He’d never tried one. Sharp fangs easily slid into its juicy bowels. He sucked, face twitching at the bitterness of its nectar, but it tasted good. It was bright, alive, and firm. He looked at her slumped in the corner. Pale, bland, limp, then back to the grapefruit cupped delicately in his grip. He smiled and asked it “Where have you been all my life?”

Killing Time, by Chris Preston

25/8/2018

I once sat at a table; elbows perched, fingers juxtaposed in mirrored “L” shapes.

I remained just so until a spider came along and made his web in the space provided; 6 or7 hours in all.

We waited until a fly, not a housefly but a delicate creature with nearly transparent wings that betrayed him, became entangled.

The spider, genus, phylum, species unknown but not of the long legged variety, not stumpy either but creepy beautiful. Slow in work, quick in the pursuit of prey.

The fly, now wrapped in fine linen, stopped moving before his wardrobe was finished.

The tailor moved back to his perch at the tip of my left index finger and again we waited as I wondered what time was dinner.

The light through a window at my back faded.

The room was black and the fun was over.

Looking back, I never thought to name him.

If Superheroes Suffered the Indignities of Aging, by David Croll

21/8/2018

The full moon illuminates our superhero as he leaps from rooftop to rooftop in his quest to keep the beloved city save from the evils of the modern world. After leaping a dozen, a baker’s dozen in fact, rooftops, he stops and stands heroically with his hands on his hips as if posing for some imaginary camera. Our hero looks majestic. That is until the rains came.

He could feel the sting of each raindrop falling on his bare flesh, as if the rain were falling in slow motion. He exhaled, collapsing his magnificent chest into a never before seen paunch. And his costume, bathed in the colors of the great USA, is now seen in a different light, thinning out in several places, looking worn out just like the country herself.

Our hero scans the street below only to see that it is empty, save for a couple huddled under a single umbrella.

“Screw this,” he says to no one as he turns to walk home, gingerly of course.

And as our hero heads to the comforts of his home, the couple with the single umbrella turn the corner only to be greeted by a man pointing a gun at them.

Battle of the Heart, by Tori V. Rainn

21/8/2018

Black smoke gathered around Lilhart. She threw her sword down where it clinked near her boots. She’d done this not out of surrender but for concentration. The thick smoke swallowed her. Oxygen barely entered her nostrils. Her eyes burned. She coughed.

The smog hid all signs of the forest. Spikes of nausea attacked her stomach. Dizziness swayed her head. If only her blade shining by her feet could cut all this nonsense away but a sword was worthless in this battle.

She gritted her teeth, fighting back the urge to plead, beg for it to stop. Begging would only enforce her fear. Instead, she screamed, “I’ll stab my own eyes out before granting you the satisfaction of destroying me.”

Out from the rolling smoke slithered a massive snake, its diamond-shaped head at eye level. Yellow eyes pierced her, bringing a chill to her chest. It hissed in her face, its forked tongue tickling her nose. A putrid stench of death gathered by her nostrils.

Her heart beat so fast she feared it would be heard. She buried that thought and bared her teeth. She hissed back, making sure to show her set of choppers. She once saw a small mongoose kill a vicious snake. Used its teeth to shred it apart. Surely she could do the same.

The snake shoved its eye near hers, examining every inch of her soul. She held her stare. A tinge of fear rose at the thought of what the snake might find within. What ever happened it couldn’t locate weakness or else that would be the death of her.

Furry spun in the snake’s gleaming eyes. It was ready to devour her strength. A thread of fear lingered, waiting to consume her. One slip and it would be over. Fists clenched, she numbed her anxiety, forced it into the hidden recesses of her heart.

Then, she finally felt it. What she’d been waiting for. A peace cloaked her as her muscles loosened. When the snake couldn’t find what it was looking for, it lowered its head like a submissive dog. The snake’s yellow eyes dimmed. It kept its head bowed, and slowly backed away, avoiding eye contact.

A violent wind blew through. Her vision spun out of control.

Swoosh!

Lilhart opened her eyes. She was back in her cottage home, seated in a chair with her brother hovering over her, stunned. It worked. She dropped the empty vial and it clinked on the wooden floor. Challenge completed.

“Woah. Did you do it?” her brother asked, pressing her shoulders down to encourage her to remain seated.

She grinned. “Yes, I’d say so.”

He released his grip. “So…what was your obstacle?”

“Confronting the lies of fear.”

Stirring the Coffee, by Mark Tulin

20/8/2018

The coffee has a nutty, chocolaty flavor. It stimulates Kyle’s imagination, and he begins to think of the female barista behind the counter who was so attentive when he ordered his coffee. “Here’s your mocha,” she said with a charming smile. “Hope you enjoy.”

The coffee flows down his throat, swimming in its smoothness. He holds the ceramic cup tightly and relishes the coffee’s warmth and richness. Kyle gazes awkwardly at the barista. Whenever a pretty girl is kind to him, even remotely, he falls in love.

He gets more sugar and mixes it mindfully into his drink.

He lets the coffee cool just right. It is warm but not hot, creamy but not milky.

He wishes he could tell her, “Let’s have a coffee after your shift. I would really like to get to know you better.”

Never in a million years would Kyle have the courage to ask her out. He is painfully shy and a rejection would be too much to bear.

Kyle props his feet on a chair and takes another slow drink. He doesn’t like a cold brew or iced coffee. He doesn’t like decaf or coffee that is flavored with strange ingredients like pumpkin or maple bacon.

He gets another refill. He stirs in a little more cream. He watches the swirl of the coffee and the soothing silence that it makes.

He notices the barista again. She is sweet like his coffee. She enjoys seeing her customers happy. Kyle believes her motives are pure and she is not friendly just for the tips.

He closes his eyes and imagines her whispering, “I get off from work at four. Why don’t we go to another coffee shop?” she asks. “I hear the one on De LaVina is good.”

The thought swirls around his head like the movement of stirred coffee.

He takes the last sip and puts his laptop back into the case. He wipes the coffee residue from his face, approaches the barista with the hope of catching her eye and perhaps offering a goodbye wave. When she doesn’t glance back, he sadly looks away and thinks to himself that she’s probably a tea drinker and doesn’t really like the taste of coffee anyway.

Mr Boots, by John Sheirer

17/8/2018

The last thing Bruce wanted to do while driving through upstate New York was stop at the highway rest area--but he had to. He brought in a book, locked the door, and sat down.

After a moment, someone came in and sat in the next stall. The new neighbor was wearing huge work boots that must have been about size sixteen, so Bruce named him, "Mr. Boots.”"After a moment, Mr. Boots began whispering very softly. Bruce couldn’t tell if he were whispering to him or to himself or to someone else. Bruce couldn’t make out any of the words. He wasn’t even sure they actually were words.

Then Bruce heard a strange crinkling sound, followed by repeated crunching and more crinkling. He was confused for about half a minute, but then it hit him. Mr. Boots was eating chips while sitting on a public toilet.

Without warning, a chip fell to the floor and skittered a couple inches into Bruce’s stall. It was one of those curlicue corn chips that Bruce really liked, salty and satisfying.

They both sat in silence for a long ten seconds.

Finally, Mr. Boots asked in a clear, intelligent, almost refined voice, "Are you going to eat that?"

"No thank you," Bruce replied.

"Okay," Mr. Boots said, and he reached down to pluck the chip from the floor with a large, clean, well-manicured hand. The hand and the chip disappeared from Bruce’s view, moving upward.

A fraction of a second later, Bruce heard the crunch.

Shot, by Charles Rafferty

17/8/2018

On the local news, they are talking to a man who made the season-winning shot back in high school — half court, just before the buzzer. It turns out that was the last state championship the school had won. Now it’s fifty years later and someone has dug the man out of his mothballs. They want him to do it again.

The half-time crowd is mostly somewhere else — getting hot dogs or headed for the restrooms. The cheerleaders, at least, have been lined up for him, and the on-site news lady doesn’t mean to sound insulting when she asks about his moment in the sun, all those years ago. The old man mumbles an answer but the microphone misses the last part of it as she turns to face the camera. Then the cheerleaders begin shaking their pompoms and hooting louder as the man turns to the basket, dribbles once, and gives the ball a one-armed hurl.

It falls short by a good ten feet. There’s a few stray claps from the bleachers, but the cheerleaders keep hooting, as if they don’t realize he missed it. The old man is about to walk away when another ball is handed to him from off camera. He dribbles, thinks, dribbles again, and misses. The cheerleaders don’t know what to do with themselves now. One of them smirks. The news lady seems to have nothing prepared for this contingency, however inevitable it may now seem.

So she faces the camera and prepares us for the cut to commercial. She promises some cute shots of a gorilla that has been given a pet kitten. Meanwhile, in the background, we see the old man accept another ball from off camera, another demonstration of his dumb luck, which clearly ran out years ago.

Bullets to Butterflies, by Mark Joseph Kevlock

17/8/2018

"I'm here to turn your life into a fairy tale," Anna Taz explained.

Frank Gibson reared back to slap her.

"Why in the gosh-darn world would I want that?" he said.

Already it had begun!

Gibson didn't entirely understand her sorceress power and didn't want to.

"I don't believe in angels," he said.

"I'm not an angel," Anna Taz explained. She whisked off her top hat and threw it in the air. The hat stuck to the ceiling and the whole room turned upside down.

"I'm a magician," she concluded her display.

All of the loose change fell out of Gibson's pockets.

"Make my ex-wife drop dead," Gibson made a wish.

"I'm not a genie," Anna Taz further instructed. "And I'm no contract-killer, either."

Gibson took in his surroundings for the first time: an auditorium. He stood in the center of its empty stage.

"How the heck did I end up in such an awful fix?" Gibson asked the sorceress.

There -- it happened again!

He tried to curse, but it came out 1950s TV dialogue.

"Every day I pick a mean person," Anna Taz stated her raison d'être, "and show them the magic of the world."

"Golly gee, what for?"

Gibson tried to pull out his tongue. It wouldn't budge.

"The world needs fewer mean people," Anna Taz answered. "Magic changes them for the good."

Gibson usually carried a gun, just in case. He drew his weapon upon Anna Taz. She smiled, delightfully.

"If you fire that thing, only butterflies will come out."

"I'll take my chances," the tough guy said.

He pulled the trigger.

A spray of butterflies exploded from the barrel.

"Why are you torturing me?" Gibson demanded.

Anna Taz spun her wand idly in her hand as if warming it up to concoct a miracle.

"Would you like to be a prince?" she inquired.

Gibson chalked it up to a pastrami nightmare and chose to ride along.

"Sure," he said.

A storybook came alive, all about him. The stage and auditorium vanished, replaced by a riding horse galloping through a meadow, Gibson astride.

Soon, he would lose himself entirely. He couldn't even remember, anymore, who he was scheduled to beat up today.

"Sir Frank!" a maiden called to him from somewhere off-stage. She sounded like Anna.

Gibson cried out: "What gives you the right to do this to me?"

"Maybe you never were a gangster, after all," a voice said on the wind. "Maybe you were a prince and nothing else."

Sir Frank didn't mind being a prince. He rode off upon his adventure.

And the world grew not at all diminished by the loss of yet another mean person.

Pumpkin, by Mark Tulin

14/8/2018

Aunt Mary was walking home from the store when she spotted an orange tabby that looked very ill taking refuge under a shady oak tree by an old, Catholic Church. The cat could hardly move. My Aunt said that the cat was nearly dead, all skin and bones and that it broke her heart to see such a suffering animal.

My Aunt rushed home, loaded a cat carrier into her car and returned to the oak tree. She gently nudged the sickly animal inside and gave her a treat with a little cup of water. The female cat showed no resistance to getting inside the carrier. She was too weak to purr.

Aunt Mary called the orange tabby Pumpkin right on the spot. It’s important to note that my Aunt had an inclination to call all animals Pumpkin. And, amazingly, they all seemed to respond to that name.

Pumpkin was immediately taken to the veterinarian who prescribed several medications. In a few months’ time, Pumpkin changed from a weak and dying animal to a cat that was gaining weight steadily along with developing a charming disposition. As the years passed, Pumpkin became more loving and less frightened of people. She even began to greet friends and family with little squeaks and nose rubs when they entered the house.

Pumpkin and my Aunt became inseparable. When my Aunt would have a painful bout of gout and had to lie in bed most of the day, Pumpkin was by her side. If the burning sensation in her feet became too much, she would rub the cat’s thick fluffy tail and listen to Pumpkin’s comforting purr.

“Thank you, Pumpkin, for being my own private nurse,” Aunt Mary would say with a painful tear in her eye. Pumpkin looked up and gave a squeak as if to say that it was her pleasure.

Tabor's Foil, by Jeffrey Paolano

14/8/2018

Tabor immobilizes the Billy by tossing over him an ancient overcoat, which has lain in the shed since Tabor’s youth.
Tabor ties a forehoof to a rear hoof. He lays staves on the Billy from the failed water barrel weighting them with rocks.
The Billy is subdued.
Tabor fashions a chicken wire collar that protrudes past the Billy’s schnozzle preventing him from passing through opportune fence breaches.
Tabor unfetters the Billy.
With self-assurance Tabor retires to a well-deserved slumber.
Morning exposes downed fence entangled with the chicken wire collar and the Billy long-gone.
A rage blinded Tabor personally embraces the umbrage

PTSD, by Laura Kuhlmann

10/8/2018

His blood covered my hands like a liquid glove. Warm and slippery. I pressed the pulsing artery in his neck, tried to plug it with my fingers. “Run”, he said. “They’ll find you. Run!” I couldn’t let go. The throbbing against my skin slowed down as his pupils widened. All that was left was a thick, heavy silence.

The same silence that surrounds me when I open my eyes in the dark room. My mouth and nostrils feel clogged. The air is solid. I slice through it with my scream, push against it with my hands. The liquefied air fills my lungs. I gulp it down, thirsty, and kneel on the carpet, next to my bed.

Warm arms wrap themselves around me, and a hot whisper caresses my ear. “It’s OK. You’re safe.” I let the arms pull me back under the soft blanket.

The Party at Alex’s, by Maédeiva Myre

8/8/2018

When we moved to this neighborhood, the guy who sold the house said something very peculiar: "Don't ever leave the house empty for too long, I have noticed strange activity when it’s empty.”

My wife, June, rolled her eyes at this information. We didn’t even bother asking why.

This was why he was selling the house, he informed us.

We never believed that guy until last summer when I booked a cruise trip to Key West for the weekend. We were so freaked out by what we found out after the trip that we left the house before we could even find a buyer.

We went for the trip on a Friday afternoon and came back home before the Sunday evening. Later that evening, I went for my usual walk contemplating about the meeting I had the next morning and on my way, I bumped into my next door neighbor, Eric.

“Hey, Alex, nice party last night,” he patted my shoulder and gave the thumbs up.

“What party?” I shook my head.

“What do you mean?” he looked at me, confused, for a moment and then laughed.

“Oh, okay, what party?” he shrugged. “I wouldn't want to remember it either,” he winked and smiled slyly before walking away.

Here's what’s so uncanny about this encounter with my neighbor: we barely knew each other and have never exchanged more than a casual ‘hello’. Eric invited us to his house on numerous occasions but we always refused politely. Eric and his group of friends were what my wife would call "the wild bunch”. Not really our type.

When I got home June was at her study table, staring hard into her laptop.

“You remember Eric?” I asked, a little out of breath. She looked up at me, aghast as if she's seen a ghost.

Before she could hear what I had to say, she turned her laptop towards me. There was a picture. I walked forward to take a good look at the picture of a group amidst a wild party. The hair on my back stood up. It was me among Eric and his friends, and my wife, drunk, leaning over Eric. It wasn't just one picture, there were dozens. The pictures didn’t scare me as much as the fact that they were posted on June’s Facebook page. It was our house in the background; our living room all messed up.

“We did go away on the weekend, right?” June asked as we both remained frozen in our spots, staring at the pictures.

“Of course, we did,” I said.

Did we? I thought as I stared at myself in the photos. What else has been happening in this house? The thought perturbed me.

My picture seemed to be staring at me with a ghastly smirk. Even though it looked like me, it wasn't me.

Circular or Oval, by Mark Tulin

6/8/2018

Jay and his wife, Emily, walked down the aisles of Home Depot. Emily looked at the bathroom rugs and the sparkly tissue boxes, while Jay was in hot pursuit of a toilet seat.

“I have something to tell you,” Emily said.

“Not right now, honey, I’m trying to remember if the toilet seat was circular or oval.”

“It's oval.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure. I’m the one who cleans it,” Emily said sarcastically.

Jay could feel his wife’s wrath. It was like a pre-volcanic eruption boiling under the surface with the ground shaking from her resentment. Times like these, Jay thought, it was best to keep quiet and focus on the job at hand.

“This marriage isn’t working,” Emily blurted out just as Jay was deciding which toilet seat was the most reasonably priced.

“Please, Emily. Not right now,” Jay said.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see his wife’s face slowly turn red with anger.

Jay didn’t think it was the place to talk about their marriage. It was Home Depot, for Christ sakes. You build homes here. Not tear them down.

“I found an apartment,” Emily continued.

Jay didn’t speak. It was like his whole body was in a brain freeze. He dropped the toilet seat into the cart and wheeled it to the check-out lane, hoping that her anger would subside by the time they got to the car.

“I’m leaving the first of the month.”

“Then why are you buying stuff for the house?” Jay asked, breaking his silence.

“That’s for my new place,” she said, putting the tissue holder, bath mats, and towels on the counter.

The female cashier asked how Jay’s day was going, trying to be friendly. He was honest in his reply. He told the cashier that his wife was leaving him in a few weeks and feared that his marriage was over.

The checkout lady was caught off guard and didn’t know what to say. “ Oh, will you be paying separately?”

There was a part of Jay that wanted to say ‘yes,' to start the process of dividing up everything equitably and go their separate ways. But he was still married, and they were in Home Depot, and he didn’t want to change anything just yet.

Flight, by Jeffrey Paolano

5/8/2018

We fly from New England, the birthplace of Constitutional freedom.
We refuel in Alaska acquired from a Czar then again in Japan home to cultish Emperor Worship.
We travel to thwart Communist aggression.
I program myself to accept I am already dead. Still, I’ll take some Charlie with me.
My seatmate babbles about his girlfriend, his blocked-up car, and what he’ll do with twelve month’s hazardous duty pay.
I ask if he’s read Mark Twain’s, The War Prayer.
He says no.
I strive to convince my seatmate to set his mind right.
He scoffs.
Bitter anguish will likely be his portion.

Dementia, by Paritosh Chandra Dugar

3/8/2018

Exiting the ICU, my wife said, “You must go to him immediately. He wants to share with you something important, confidentially.” But the security guard didn’t permit me, arguing that the visiting hour was over. I begged, “My father is in a precarious state. He has an important thing to tell me. Please let me go in.” But the guard was no better than a robot.

The next day, I asked my father what he had wanted to tell me. He said, “I don’t remember.” On the third day, he died.

Months later, I received a call. The caller demanded one million in exchange for my father’s last message. When paid, the guard revealed, “You are the nominee in three City Bank Fixed Deposits of ten million each.”

Let's Have Lunch, by Marjan Sierhuis

3/8/2018

1. ‘Two slices of white or whole wheat bread.’ Whichever, excites your taste buds. It’s your choice.
2. ‘Butter on the bread.’ I know. You’re probably confused by all the conflicting data. You and me both. First check my cholesterol levels. My liver has felt a little under the weather lately, and it may be time for a doctor, patient chat.
3. ‘Two Slices of Cheese.’ Excellent source of protein. Although, some cheeses may have a higher fat content than others. Perhaps another chat with the doctor.
4. ‘Two slices of salami.’ You think? Conduct some research and make an educated decision.
5. ‘Three Slices of tomato.’ Wow. Congrats. I am impressed. An A for effort. Major source of the antioxidant lycopene, Vitamin C, potassium, folate and Vitamin K.
6. ‘A Slice or two of cucumber.’ Vegetables. My goodness. Now you’re speaking my language. Hurray for phytonutrients. Kudos for potassium, fiber and Vitamin C.
7. ‘Salt and pepper.’ Time out! Pepper: OK. But salt in moderation. Please check my blood pressure first. I think it’s been running a little high lately.

Or why not just go for tomato and lettuce on 100 percent whole-grain bread, (whoopee for fiber and the bowel).

I foresee us having a long and healthy relationship.

Life's a Zoo, by Jim Bartlett

2/8/2018

Milt, being one with nature, loved all creatures, great and small.
At least until the monkeys came along.
With all their energy, he thought for sure they'd be more like the industrious goats, who trimmed the hedges, clipped the grass.
Or maybe like the giraffe, lending his talents to putting the dishes in the high shelves. Cleaning the cobwebs along the ceiling corners.
The spotted leopard made the bed each morning, the sheets tucked so neatly, nice and tight. And the floors had never been so clean until the tortoise and iguana took up a broom.
But the monkeys...
They played their music way too loud; stayed out until untold hours of the night. Left trails of banana peels on the stairway. Walked around the house in their underwear. Wrestled on the sofa, the recliner, the loveseat.
Hogged the TV remote. Looked at who-knows-what on the Internet.
And then the hippo told him of the bathtub, its water overflowing, running down the hall. The final straw.
He ran some, swam some, to the bathroom, finally turning off the faucet and pulling the chain on the plug. Enough of this monkey business, he stormed to their room.
But, alas, they were gone, closet empty, carpet torn, paintings missing from the wall.
He leaned his head against the door, letting out a long sigh. Now that he thought about it, it really wasn't much of a surprise.
Their rent was a month overdue.

The Golden Necklace, by Laura Kuhlmann

Eucalyptus Park, by Mark Tulin

New Blood, by Andrew Newall

Killing Time, by Chris Preston

If Superheroes Suffered the Indignities of Aging, by David Croll

Battle of the Heart, by Tori V. Rainn

Stirring the Coffee, by Mark Tulin

Mr Boots, by John Sheirer

Shot, by Charles Rafferty

Bullets to Butterflies, by Mark Joseph Kevlock

Pumpkin, by Mark Tulin

Tabor's Foil, by Jeffrey Paolano

PTSD, by Laura Kuhlmann

The Party at Alex’s, by Maédeiva Myre

Circular or Oval, by Mark Tulin

Flight, by Jeffrey Paolano

Dementia, by Paritosh Chandra Dugar

Let's Have Lunch, by Marjan Sierhuis

Life's a Zoo, by Jim Bartlett

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