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The Young Lion, by Diane de Anda

31/12/2017

“When we got him as a cub, I warned you not to get attached, that he'd be treated no different from the other lions,” Hal said, looking sternly at his fifteen-year-old son.
The young lion rubbed against the cyclone fence, urging the boy who had raised him to give him a gentle scratch behind his ears.
The father lunged at the fence and yelled, “Aaaaah!” The lion took off running and hid in the enclosure at the far end of the fenced yard.
“See what a sad excuse he is for a lion anyway,” the father mocked. “When I feed him, I don't even have to lock him in his enclosure like the other lions. The minute he sees me enter the gate, he runs and hides.”
“But he's so young, barely a year,” his son pleaded.
“Right, and I have a special order for young lion meat—so he goes down tomorrow, that's it.”
The boy look down at the ground. He knew it was useless to argue with his father. “You're just like your mother,” he would say, “too much emotion. There's no room for emotion in the exotic meat business. Be a man!”
His mother would have understood, but she had died over a year ago. The only one who he told his feelings to was the young lion, who had come to the compound shortly after her death.
He watched his father walk away. When he was out of sight, he ran his fingernails across the metal cage and in a few seconds the lion came bounding toward him.

As usual, when the young lion saw Hal at the gate at mealtime, he ran and hid in the enclosure. Hal shook his head and dropped the chunks of meat into his feeding bowl. As he turned and walked away, he heard a faint sound, like the wind had rubbed a branch across the metal fence. A few seconds later he whipped around as he heard heavy footfalls behind him. The young lion was running at top speed on his way to the fence.

They found him sprawled on the ground, a pool of blood caking in the dirt beside his head. The tracks on the ground gave evidence that the young lion had knocked him down, but not mauled him or harmed him in any direct way. The police figured that the weight of the lion had sent him flying backward, smashing his head in a deadly crash on one of the boulders in the yard. The yell as he fell had scared the young lion back into his enclosure.

After the police left, the boy went out to the young lion's cage. A faint sound like the wind rubbing a branch across the metal fence rose in the night air as he traced his fingernails across the fencing, followed by the sound of the young lion bounding toward the fence.

The Elite, by Chloe Ford

31/12/2017

The end of the 21st century was a time of chaos, violence and hedonism, creating a haze over humanity that left easy pickings for our kind.
Our masters cautioned restraint and order, the laws were clear and the consequences for breaking them, final.

Love clouds the sanest mind.

I watch her step out into the sunlight, head held high, spine stiff and unbending.
I, the willing lover and co conspirator, do nothing. My cowards heart was never a worthy match for the steel in hers.
Her father stands in judgement, crown light as a feather, as his only child and heir atones for betraying our people.

The flames lick along her skin and smoke begins to rise.
Not a hint of emotion crosses his face, not a sound from her lips.
The gathered crowd turns away, still and silent.
Justice is served, not a trace of the princess remains, a mere 200 year old no match for the eternal sun.
Her name will fade from all memory, any spark of defiance fading with her. My heart hardens and I know I'll never dare hope again.
Our way of life is unbending, our obedience absolute.

The vampire does not give in to base need, to fleeting emotion, we do not question, we don't stray.
We are the elite and without our discipline we would be no better then the hordes of uncivilised humans that keep us fed.

My Piano And Me, by Lisa Weiss

26/12/2017

We think this is the piece Lisa is referring to, and suggest you enjoy both at once – editor.

The sweetness and shock of biting into a honey crisp apple while taking a break from practicing the Bach E Major Prelude.

The way in the Bach E Major Prelude that a note holds itself over, making the finger that plays it wait while the others flow on.

The way neither has anything to do with me. I am just an accident who happens along.

I finish the apple and go back to the Bach for another try.

This is bliss. It’s okay that the TV isn’t working this morning, that the cables are down somewhere.

It’s okay that I don’t know what’s going on in the world right now.

I scarcely noticed the color of the apple. Was it mostly yellow with a tinge of red, the red like a tremor?

I don’t know where taste ends and touch begins.

But I know the give and take of the Bach, the slowly moving forward, the honesty it demands of my fingers.

The Lonely Solipsists, by Dan Nielsen

24/12/2017

“All I truly want is to be famous.” Tegan crossed her legs. She was wearing her Alice in Wonderland leggings. She twirled the ends of her hair with one hand and held an opened book with the other. The book was Night Thoughts by Wallace Shawn. It was a small book. A one-hander. 92 pages. Large print. Generous margins. Listed at $14.98. Not bad for hardbound, but cost was not an issue with Tegan. Tegan liked the library.

Finishing a book once started was a compulsion for Tegan. She avoided long and overly difficult ones for just this reason. But under a hundred pages with large print and generous margins made this a safe bet. And she loved Wallace Shawn. Mostly for “My Dinner with Andre.” But also because of the Algonquin waiter he played in that Jennifer Jason Leigh film about Dorothy Parker.
Tegan sniffed her hair. The Harvest Spice scent from last night’s bath oil lingered. She checked for split ends.

“What do you want to be famous for?” David was Tegan’s boyfriend. He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. If this were a yoga pose it would be called Listening Boyfriend. They were seated at their favorite window table in their second favorite Starbucks. They’d had other plans, Half Price Day at Value Village, and later, fifty-cent wings at George’s. But while passing by they’d glanced in and noticed another couple preparing to leave—their favorite table.

“I want to be famous, so people will know who I am without having to introduce myself.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“What did you mean?”

“Never mind.”

It started to snow. The first of the season. Tegan took a sip of her Coldbuster, which was a venti cup with a bag of Refresh Tea (mint) and a bag of Calm Tea (chamomile), brewed with half hot water and half steamed lemonade. She put the cup down and reached across the table for David’s hand.

“What did you mean?”

“Nothing. It’s not important.”

Tegan looked at the snow.

Memory's Staying Power, by Sankar Chatterjee

22/12/2017

Dr. Donald Abrams, a renowned psychiatrist lately had been seeing new patients from all walks of life. He wondered whether the rapid implementation of latest technologies was making us socially lonely creating mental health issues. However following his medical training, he would probe his new patients about any negative development in their recent professional, marital, and financial situations to pinpoint any trigger. He would also ask them about their family-history to unearth any genetic link. Finally, he would instruct them to recollect from their memories any early trauma that might have stayed latent, but now reappeared to haunt them anew. And he was always intrigued hearing from his patients one or two such episode from a very early period, while they couldn’t remember any other event from that same period. To him, a human brain still remains a mystery black box when it comes to consolidation of memory: what stays back and what gets erased!

Late September, after attending an international conference in India, Dr. Abrams would decide to stop in Israel for a visit to the Dead Sea, a natural wonder. In reality a lake, this water-body below the sea-level, has been supersaturated with salt, converting the lake-floor covered with crystallized salt-balls, while the high density of salt-water allows one to simply float without drowning. As he was getting ready to walk into the water to float on his back, he was warned not to allow any water to get into his eyes. Besides common salt, the lake-water also contains several other natural chemicals. Floating on his back, he began to enjoy a gorgeous sunny day, while appreciating the beauty of distant ancient mountain-range. Then, accidentally Dr. Abrams splashed his floating right hand allowing a few drops to enter into his both eyes. He immediately felt a strong burning sensation, nothing like he could identify with. He decided to close his eyes and float, hoping to get used to it soon.

Then a lightening of memory struck him. In late ’70-s, he was taking part in a protest march against the country’s unjust involvement in a faraway war. Suddenly, violence broke out. The law-enforcement personnel charged them with batons, while firing eye-burning tear gas. As they were running away from the assault, one of his friends fell on the ground with eyes closed due to the pain. Later they would learn that the chemical Bromine in the tear-gas caused the burning sensation. But, Dr. Abrams didn’t stop to help the friend escaping the brutality. The friend was arrested, prosecuted for disorderly conduct, and put into prison creating a permanent black mark on his record. Guilt started to descend on him. He remained floated with his eyes still burning, not being able to forgive himself for that event of forty years ago.

Later, back in his hotel room, he did an online search. He learned that among many chemicals dissolved in the water of the Dead Sea, most pungent one is Bromine!

Waiting, by Claudia Andrilez

21/12/2017

He waited for Alisson in the same restaurant he proposed her marriage one year ago. Caressing a glass of red wine he remembered that night, how beautiful she was, how nervous he felt.
She was now one hour late but he decided to wait another hour, she could be testing him, testing his patience and commitment. He kind of deserved it for flirting with her best friend. What the hell was he thinking about to fuck up things like that the same day of his proposal?
But he knew.
She said no and he felt broken, devastated. In all honesty, he felt humiliated, so did the first stupid thing that came to his mind. The blond beauty was there offering him the possibility of revenge and he wanted some, right?
Wrong.
He shouldn’t have felt rejected, Alisson just needed more time.
Fortunately, he was too drunk and hurt to make it worse. Instead of in her friend’s bed, he ended up in jail for public scandal.

There was some movement in front of him and he looked up surprised. Lost in his thoughts he didn’t notice her walking toward the table, toward him. And there was she, as beautiful as always, trying to guess his intentions.
She was good at doing that.
He had nothing to hide though, his hope for a second chance was right there for her to see. They had been acting like friends for the past twelve months because she couldn’t trust him, not like before. But even if she had her reasons, it still felt like a charade, that wasn’t them.
Suddenly the world stopped, at least his did. All the things he had planned for that special night went forgotten. His brain got blocked by one detail.
She was wearing the same red dress she had worn one year ago.
Was she telling him to wait no more?
Unable to control his impulse he kneeled at her feet, offering the ring that had never left his pocket.
“I’d wait for you my entire life, this is just me saying that I’m yours.”
The brightest smile he had ever seen on her face was the answer. She extended her hand letting him know that she accepted the ring, the challenge, offering forgiveness.
“Then be mine and take me all.”

Poster Boy, by Mark Tulin

20/12/2017

Once outside I found a concrete bench to sit on and turned my back to the museum. But the damage was done. I experienced the pain that Daniel, the little boy on exhibit who lived in Germany during the Holocaust, must have felt.

My eyes were red and watery from crying as people looked at me when they entered the front door of the museum. I could feel their apprehension upon entering the building for fear of an emotional reaction similar to mine. I felt like I was the poster boy for ‘Holocaust Pain’—and I didn’t like it.

My daughter’s arm soon wrapped around my shoulders. “Dad, It’s okay. You need to get it all out.”

I should have been happy that I was getting all those trapped emotions out of my body. I should have been happy that my daughter was so comforting and gave me permission to cry.

But the tears would not stop. Tears that were like the flames that the Nazis started when they burned shops and businesses down.
My tears were like the pain of the Holocaust that doesn’t end. It never ends, I thought. It lingers like the crematorium smoke that billowed up to the red and black sky over those concentration camps.

My daughter took my hand as we walked a few blocks.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “Trust me.”

Soon we pushed our way through the plastic screen entrance of the Smithsonian Butterfly Garden and was greeted by thousands of friendly winged creatures landing on flowers, floating over our heads, in front of our noses, and at our feet. I marveled at their exquisite colors and designs. I was mesmerized by their frenetic energy.

In that instant, it hit me. The idea flooded my thoughts and my watery eyes began to dry up.

I imagined that the butterflies were all the dead Holocaust victims rising up again. They rose from the furnace of death and hate. The black smoke from the crematoriums billowed up, but this time, once the smoke hit the sky, the bodies of all those millions of people were transformed. They transformed into a large cluster of butterflies. They spread their wings in happiness and forgiveness.
All the people who once were in pain were no longer hurting, but were now reborn, celebrating a new day, an evolution of their lives. They rejoiced in their frenetic flutter. They will live forever, I thought. Their beautiful memory will never be destroyed.

My daughter turned to me and smiled. There were no more tears.

Another Christmas Day, by Natasha Cabot

10/12/2017

False laughter punches the walls of Beth’s eardrums; left hooks and right hooks leave marks in the wax that has gathered inside of dark auditory tunnels.

My family, she says to herself. I hate them.

She watches as her mother, brother (his wife and kids), and her father celebrate. They open gifts and ooohhh and awwww over unimportant trinkets bought from the clearance shelves of discount stores. Beth despises Christmas. She always has. She hates having to attend this obligatory family helliday. It is a day filled with lies her family tells itself. “We’re happy. We always have been. We’re just like those families in magazines. Nothing wrong here!”

Every year is the same. Barbed insults weaved with condescension dance like sugar plum fairies. Passive-aggressive declarations decorate the tree.

She exhales, and tells herself not to worry, Her flight is tomorrow, and then she'll be safe for another year.

Ho Ho Ho

Free The Children, by MaryEllen Gambutti

10/12/2017

A vintage cast iron ashtray now holds paperclips on my desk, but I recall, when Granddaddy smoked his pipe by the screen door at our New Jersey home, it was on the red-checked chrome kitchen table.

In those days, I imagined the two figures on the back edge of the ashtray children waiting for a ride to school; he with a book in his hand, a sack lunch by her side. His black shoulder-length hair hangs below a black brimmed hat. A black vest partly covers black suspenders and red shirt; trousers and shoes are also black. Her hair and neck is covered by a plain black bonnet. Only the hem of a long red skirt shows beneath her black coat.

Unsmiling and immobile, the children are stuck to an ashtray, of all places. As a child of five, I smoothed my fingers over the cold miniature children, their sad, old-fashioned clothing. I couldn’t imagine their world, their school, where they played. Granddaddy smoked quietly. I stepped back when he tapped his pipe on their heads, grey ash dropping into their laps. They remained mute, stoic, unprotesting.

One summer weekend, I accompanied my grandparents to their old home places in central Pennsylvania. Through rolling countryside, we passed Amish farmhouses and barns, where blue and black clothes waved high on lines, and the scent of fresh summer-cut hay breezed through the open car windows. Men and boys wearing straw hats drove wagons pulled by mules and horses. I recall Granddaddy teased me, “The brown cows give chocolate milk,” as Nana pointed toward grazing dairy herds, lush green cornfields and glistening wheat. It was a bright, colorful dynamic, one my grandparents expressed in their own attitude toward work.

On Sunday, cars shared country roads with black horse-drawn carriages; the people dressed like those on the ashtray. Nana said the men held bibles, and the women brought food for shared Sunday dinners. So, that was what the ashtray girl carried--a basket! Wiser from the trip, I could see the dichotomy.

A lifetime later, the ashtray reappeared as I packed up my grandparents’ household and memories. I noticed, “Wilton Prod., Wrightsville, PA,” on the bottom, and a bolt, which if turned, could allow the children to be removed. Might I have persuaded my grandfather to set them free?

Here’s rust where he set his pipe. The boy’s nose is chipped, their dreary garb more faded. The girl winks at me as I type, and I smell Granddaddy’s fragrant pipe

Leaders From Afar, by Sankar Chatterjee

8/12/2017

Prof. Anupam Mitra, an expert on Middle-East politics and diplomacy in New Delhi’s famous Jawaharlal Nehru University was on a sabbatical leave for a semester. He was a guest faculty member in the Ben-Gurion University in their campus in the town of Beer-Sheva in Israel. Besides presenting lectures, he was also collaborating with the resident faculty members collecting new research materials. In addition, he would visit various ancient places to get a sense of the history of the religion and culture of the entire region. In the process, he would learn more about Late David Ben-Gurion, the national founder and the first Prime Minister of Israel, especially his early political activism, involvement in Zionist movement and later in the independence movement for the creation of the State of Israel.

Prof. Mitra would also learn that after retiring from his political life, Ben-Gurion left Tel Aviv and moved to a simple hut in a kibbutz (communal residential agricultural farm) named Sde-Boker overlooking the panoramic view of the Negev desert. In fact, both his and his wife’s burial tombs rest on the ground of the farm. On a week-end trip, Prof. Mitra drove to the place, now a part of the country’s national park system. He found the hut has been preserved just the way it was when the late leader had lived here. He entered the house. The volunteers were there if the visitors had any inquiry. Prof. Mitra entered the first room, purported to be his study cum library. It appeared that at least several thousand books occupied all the bookshelves covering the walls of the room. But what grabbed his most attention was a paperback on Yoga, a form of spiritual practice of Hinduism from India. That book, along with several other books covering various subject matters, was resting on the study table, as if for the reader to come back. At that moment, Prof. Mitra couldn’t remember of any reference of Ben-Gurion’s exposure to Hinduism and for that matter any facet of India itself.

He left the room to enter into late leader’s bedroom, a small simple one; his slippers still resting below the bed. Next to bed, a small night book-table stood. Prof. Mitra turned around to see the exhibits on the walls. And to his surprise, the first thing he saw was a portrait of Late Mahatma Gandhi, the Father of India’s independence. Underneath, a quote attributed to Ben-Gurion: "The moral strength of all the Eastern nations seems to be probably entrenched in India's great leader Mahatma Gandhi. This unrivalled leader is leading that nation's freedom fight using his weapon called Ahimsa."

Prof. Mitra stood in silence for a few moments to appreciate how one great world leader with a different political activism was able to appreciate another one’s greatness even not crossing the boundaries of the nations, while both were fighting for the same cause of independence for their own nations.

The Student, by Michael Croban

6/12/2017

He double-checked everything. The results were the same. He felt ecstatic. The experiment was a complete success. Still, it had to be just right. He went through the data once again. It did not lie. He did it.

It was time to call his father. “Dad,“ he shouted.
“Yeees?“ his father replied.
“Please come here, I got some good... not good, but great news.“
His father stormed in the lab. “What is it?“
“I did it!“
“Really? Did you double-check everything?“
“I did.“
Father smiled. “So how long did it last?“
“Almost a second,“ he replied proudly.
“Everything was just perfect, I created conditions just like you described in your work.“
Father kept on smiling. He hugged his son. “How does it feel to create something?“
“It feels awesome,“ the son replied.
They left the lab.

The conditions had to be perfect for the chemical reaction to take its place. Once the chemicals started to fuse together, the Big Bang occurred. The universe burst into existence. It took only a few hundred thousand years for the first galaxies to form. Eventually, just as he predicted, on some planets life started to appear. Some species died out almost immediately, others lasted longer than he could ever imagine. One species, in particular, was incredibly aggressive and started to spread throughout the whole universe. They had built empires and conquered all other species. In the end, they destroyed themselves. This happened long before the universe shrunken and eventually collapsed.
It lasted almost a second.

Goddamn Chowderhead, by Robert Bermudez

5/12/2017

Goddamn Chowderhead.

Don't even remember why they called him that. Really don't care either. Whatever the reason it didn't mean jack now. Not a goddamn thing. To be honest the old bastard kinda looked like a Chowderhead. Big ears Droopy eyes. Big ass scar across his forehead and a nose redder 'n Rudolph's, for Christ's sake. And he was one mean ornery bugger too. Always hatin' someone or some group or other for some damn reason. This one's lazy. That one's a rat. Those people are dumbasses.. Them folks there are just plain useless. Man he was a son of a bitch.

I'm really gonna miss you Dad.

In The Dark Of The Night, by Sankar Chatterjee

4/12/2017

Lt. Barry Griffith, a senior US naval officer in a destroyer was sitting at the operation desk of the missile launching room, located in the under-belly of the vessel. This night, he was the designated officer, in charge. His vessel was sailing on the Mediterranean Sea, for its return to home port in a friendly European country. It was a mildly breezy autumn night with a spectacular super moon bathing the nature with a mystic glow. For the last two months, the destroyer had been on a patrol mission to ensure the security of the smaller European nations. It then sailed through the Bosphorus Strait near Turkey to sail on the Black Sea for a port visit to Haifa in Israel in the Middle-East, a region mired in constant global tension. However, so far this mission was a quiet one with no major engagement incident.

Suddenly, the computer screen linked to the vessel’s radar system flashed two blips. The automated data analysis would indicate that two fighter jets had taken off from the deck of a warship belonging to an enemy nation, from its location in international water. Blips grew in size indicating that the jets were heading directly to Lt. Griffith’s vessel. He put out an all-alert signal with his finger resting on the missile-launching button. However, none of the other auxiliary computers picked up any danger signal to indicate that those two enemy fighters locked his vessel in a combat configuration. Seconds started to feel like years, while he took the decision of not launching any missile to initiate a confrontation. Two jets buzzed overhead, turned around to buzz one more time to return to their mother ship, as if to display some aerial bullying.

Lt. Griffith released a sigh of relief, only to remember of hearing similar occasional bullying from other officers stationed in different destroyers, but always in daytime. “Why in the dark of night, today?” he wondered! He came up to the main deck to get a cup of coffee from the ship’s cafeteria. There he caught a glimpse of breaking news, directly telecast from back home, being mid-afternoon there. It involved a retired three-star army general who served the country to defend it against the same enemy and later was appointed to be the national security advisor of the country for a brief period of time. Now, he was coming out of a federal courthouse after admitting to the criminal act of colluding with the enemy and then lying about it.

Lt. Griffith understood the reason for tonight’s aerial bullying by the enemy, being caught in an international meddling. “But, what if I would have pushed the missile-launch button thus initiating a global war in Europe’s backyard in the dark of the night”, he kept on pondering.

Every Seven Seconds, by Jim Hawe

4/12/2017

“That’s excessive,” Sergio insisted.
“I can prove it,” Tanya said, scribbling on a napkin.
“This sentence is missing two parts,” she explained. “First, I need a noun.”
Sergio looked at his breakfast.
“Waffle!”
“Now I need a verb.”
He spotted his power tool catalog.
“Sand blasting,” he joked.
Tanya turned over the napkin revealing the nonsensical sentence “I’d love to sand blast her waffles.”
“What’s are you thinking about,” she asked.
“Sex . . .” he conceded. “Still, every seven seconds?”
“I made my point.”
Smirking, Tanya carried the plates to the sink.
Sergio admired her curvaceous backside in silence.

Food To Die For, by Anumita Chugh

2/12/2017

She looks up from the half demolished plate of paranthas and breaks into an unbelieving smile. “They are the best, mom! I can’t believe you made them just for me!” Her mother-in-law smiles proudly. “Thank you, beta. How can I not shower a little extra love on my son’s newly wedded wife? I want us to bond in a special way. We are going to be even closer than I was with Maya. His first wife? I was so distraught at her death. You remind me so much of her. She loved these paranthas so. I’ll make them especially for you every day, like I did for her.” Sukriti’s eyes mist over, “I am so lucky to have you for my mom-in-law!” Shashi smiles at her brand new daughter-in-law, “Now enjoy my special parnthas.” she says, as she turns around and quickly puts the lid on the tiny bottle of arsenic she uses to spice her special daughter-in-law paranthas.

Golden Now, by Jennifer Benningfield

2/12/2017

The sun--that superstar around which our planet revolves--is set to die, spectacularly and soon. Experts told us the demise of the sun would not occur for another several billion years. Then, last week, we got the news.

Imagine an oncologist delivering the dire diagnosis: tumor, malignant, much too large for safe removal. Folks have, understandably, been a tad tetchy lately. The family of five next door are currently grilling an entire pig, albeit not at once. The young couple on the other side vamoosed not long ago, telling me they wanted to spend their last days in Canada.

"Where in Canada?" I asked the young man, envisioning him with moose antlers.

"There. In Canada," he replied.

I thought, briefly, of making ambitious travel plans: every country in Europe! Australia! In the end, insufficient funds mean I will die where I (for the most part) lived.

Most of what remains will be spent, is being spent, on food. Since I no longer must eat to live, I can indulge in what I truly love. Box after box, filled with grease splotches and crust hard as bones. Can after can, filled with nothing.

The TV has been dormant for days. Everyone on this time bomb became an expert on the sun overnight, started paying attention and respect to the brilliant heroes of ratiocination that they'd so cavalierly downplayed before, which sealed it for me. I just sit back, stimulate my senses, and take solace in the fact that those thick-headed pricks in positions of power, those silver-tongued, bronze-bottomed entrepreneurs, cannot use their status or wealth to escape fate. I am no longer envious of their extravagances. They will die in a blaze alongside the average Joey and Jenny. We are all golden now.

The couple directly across the street have been spending every minute of the day on their front porch. Sometimes they hold hands. Their anniversary is next week. Their 50th. Gold.

I don't check the news. It's highly possible that with nothing left to lose (or win), hordes have taken to the streets, brandishing machetes, toting shotguns. More than likely there are some stirring photos featuring glass shards, bloodied sidewalks and far-from-random fires.

Why take them? For future generations? There aren't going to be any future generations, you dummies!

My neighborhood is pretty quiet. If anyone here is planning on beating the sun to the punch, they're doing so within their own walls.

People thought Pluto got a raw deal.

A Funny Thing Happened On The Way To The Hot Tub, by Ron Guell

1/12/2017

“Flight 665 is canceled, read the airport flight schedule. “Well, what a way to start this bear of an assignment,” Abigail thought. Scratching at the contents of her leather Chanel handbag, she fingers her iphone. text: “Meet-Cntractr-2-setup-ht-tub-instal” Michael text: “?-modl-4got” Abigail text: “Modl-Romance-pric-600/700-lisen-carful-SLF-KLEEN-ENDLES-POOL-N -HT-TB-got-it?” Michael text: “yup”

Safely aboard her flight, Abigail has a moron moved from her first class window seat. She holds her phone on vibrate, a clever alarm, softly against her chest and kicks back for the duration.

Just thirty minutes into the flight, the iphone gently vibrates Abigail awake. Michael text: “no-kn-do---wrk---passd-ht-tb-instl-duty-to-my-sistr” Abigail text: “Tht-selfsh-bit*h? Tel-hr-cntractr-sed-he-bilt-same-unit-@-univ-histry-dept”

This kind of stressful decision making is child’s play for this superstar. Abigail is as smart as she is rich, hence, Michael’s sister’s jealousy.

Sister passed the responsibility of checking the project’s progress to Perry where something got lost in translation. Perry, a shiftless three time freshman, dubious Spanish major is the product of the filthy rich team of Abigail and Michael.

Days later, the family assembled for their first look at the immense adobe monstrosity.

The Hispanic Contractor, arm extended, head cocked slightly with his chest swollen with pride announced, Presento, followed by s string of verbal incomprehensibilities.

Mother, “Perry, my genius Spanish major !!”

Perry stuttering, “I present your 635 BC Roman Bath, Sewer and Drainage System, just like the one at the college”. The family, mouths agape, looked at each other in disbelief as sister smiled.

Contractor, “and it’s, y todo está, and it’s all hooked-up!

The Young Lion, by Diane de Anda

The Elite, by Chloe Ford

My Piano And Me, by Lisa Weiss

The Lonely Solipsists, by Dan Nielsen

Memory's Staying Power, by Sankar Chatterjee

Waiting, by Claudia Andrilez

Poster Boy, by Mark Tulin

Another Christmas Day, by Natasha Cabot

Free The Children, by MaryEllen Gambutti

Leaders From Afar, by Sankar Chatterjee

The Student, by Michael Croban

Goddamn Chowderhead, by Robert Bermudez

In The Dark Of The Night, by Sankar Chatterjee

Every Seven Seconds, by Jim Hawe

Food To Die For, by Anumita Chugh

Golden Now, by Jennifer Benningfield

A Funny Thing Happened On The Way To The Hot Tub, by Ron Guell

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