EXECUTRIX
Peter Beckstron
BOY
Irene McGarrity
CHALLENGERS, FORWARD
Cara Dempsey
TIME LORDS
Chris Negron
TRUE CRIME
Howie Good
THIS SHOULDN'T BE SUCH AN ORDEAL
Jason Half-Pillow
KISSIN' DON'T LAST
Robin White
DOGZPLOT FLASH FICTION
EXECUTRIX
Peter Beckstron
BOY
Irene McGarrity
CHALLENGERS, FORWARD
Cara Dempsey
TIME LORDS
Chris Negron
TRUE CRIME
Howie Good
THIS SHOULDN'T BE SUCH AN ORDEAL
Jason Half-Pillow
KISSIN' DON'T LAST
Robin White
EXECUTRIX - peter beckstrom
I’m impatient. Once, I
waited in the back of a cramped Chevy Astro, unable to fully stand, for
fifty-two hours. My only entertainment was Sudoku and back issues of
Newsweek. My only sustenance; canned albacore and Tang. The worst
moments were squatting over a five-gallon bright orange bucket from Home
Depot. Now, I can’t touch buckets without having gleeful, murderous
urges. That particular target received bright crimson pain. I
projected my fifty-two hours of discomfort onto his rumpled genitals, right
pinky, and both nipples before retiring him. Later that night, I cleansed
the noodle machine before making linguine. Red sauce.
Peter Beckstrom
Knockemstiff
Donald Ray Pollock
BOY - irene mcgarrity
It’s the spoon I like to gag
myself with, the wooden one with “boy” carved into the handle. I found it in a
junk shop just hanging from a hook by a dirty piece of twine. I thought it
would be splintery but it was smooth. The guy who made it sanded the hell out
of it like my dad would have. Dad was always in his shop all hours of the night
drinking Buds. I could see him making a spoon like that when my mom was
pregnant with me. And I could see mom hanging it from the wall, then jamming it
into the back of a drawer after I was born.
Lately, it’s my favorite spoon to
throw up with. I keep it on a shelf with my razors and pills and lighters,
other things I use a lot. After dinner, I tie my hair back and go into the
bathroom with the spoon, thinking maybe I’ll be luckier than my dad. Maybe
I’ll make a boy. I lift the toilet seat with my foot, and my gags sounds like
laughter echoing off the bathroom walls.
Irene McGarrity
The Corrections
Jonathan Franzen
CHALLENGERS, FORWARD - cara dempsey
Jennifer's boy kneels in the living
room, presses the circle button to rip out the other player's spinal cord, then
presses the triangle button so his character can eat that arm like a celery
stalk—like the gushing blood is Hidden Valley Ranch. From the kitchen, Jen
hears a gravelly voice say, "Fatality". A second later, it says,
"Challengers, forward". The kid sits there hours a day with his mouth
hanging open, tonguing his molars. The reflection of guts slick with fresh
blood bright in his eyes.
In the kitchen, Jen keeps the
receiver wedged between her ear and shoulder, repeats "Yes, Ma",
"No, Ma". She's cooking a meal that will apologize so that she
doesn't have to. She's forgotten an ingredient. Her mother rattles them all
off, but she can hardly hear her mother's instructions over the crunching and
wailing of the living room deaths. She places the phone on the counter, goes to
the doorway to yell about the volume in time to see her husband walk through
the front door. She stares at the knot of his tie. His eyes turn to the screen.
Opponents face each other. Challengers, forward.
Cara Dempsey
Am/Pm
Amelia Gray
TIME LORDS - chris negron
She shifted in the passenger
seat. Blue and white flowers danced on her dress and she was ranking the actors
who played Dr. Who. “I liked Matt Smith a lot, but Tom Baker is still my
favorite.” I wanted to tell her everyone’s favorite was Tom Baker but maybe
that wasn’t true and anyway her bent knees were a little bit pink and I wished
I kept my car cleaner.
An old man crossed in front of
us. He was walking slowly with bowed legs, as if he were riding something but
he wasn’t, he was just walking, and when he looked up, he nodded at me. Without
thinking, I waved back. Maybe because no one had ever waved to me all the times
I’d lugged my backpack across this same street, hoping I’d meet someone like
her, hoping her legs would brush against my seat’s fabric more than just the
one time.
“Do you know him?” she asked. Her
voice seemed far away.
I couldn’t tell her I had just
traveled in time without a blue box. All I could say was, “Yes.” Really, it was
all I could ever say to her.
Chris Negron
Beautiful Ruins
Jess Walter
TRUE CRIME - howie good
The age of barbed wire was just
finishing up when I discovered that the ice on ponds is probably never 100
percent safe. Less than an hour later, I was back to work elaborating the
immense and complex maze from which I hoped to one day escape. And why? Because
I love you like grim police photos of some crime scene. The same algorithm
recommended that I read an environmental history of Auschwitz. Instead, I
listened to the snow falling, as full of deaths as a Spaghetti Western, and
pictured Bach composing with a violin in his hands.
Howie Good
Undermajordomo Minor
Patrick DeWitt
THIS SHOULDN'T BE SUCH AN ORDEAL - jason half-pillow
Taking a shit like this should
not be such an ordeal, but the kids playing with the water balloons are making
it one. I ate two cans of Alpo an hour ago and since I’ve got colitis, it
runs right through me, so I’m in here with all my belongings in my damn duffel
back, just trying to take this shit. The kids come running in, boys being
chased by girls, and they’re all throwing water balloons and screaming.
“God Damn It!” I yell, “Can’t a
man take a shit in peace?!”
They all stop yelling and dart
out and I can hear them through the grate in the little window open above the
stall frantically telling every kid who will listen not to go in there because
there’s some crazy guy in there taking a shit.
Well that gets the trouble makers
coming in and I hear one of them say,
“Fee Fie Foe Fum! I smell an
Englishman taking a shit!”
And over the stall door comes an
untied water balloon spraying me with water all the way down. Others come
in throwing garbage. They get bored and stop. And I try again taking this
God damned shit.
Jason Half-Pillow
The Sun Also Rises
Hemingway
KISSIN' DON'T LAST - robin white
There’s something ironic about
the ad. Lookin’ for a good time? Call, it said. Nobody has ever had a
good time responding to one of those ads. Nobody has ever had a good time
placing one of them.
You’ll do whatever I like? I ask.
Sure thing.
A hundred and fifty dollars? I
ask.
An extra twenty for kissing.
I thought about it.
A hundred and fifty it is.
Good thinkin’, Sugar. Kissin’
don’t last.
I hung up, and stepped out of the
phone booth. It smelled of piss. What kind of a sicko used a phone booth,
anyway?
Robin White
Human Spaceflight From Mars to the
Stars
Louis Friedman
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