Peter Schwartz - 'The Subway King'

UNTITLED - sam pink


sam pink

The other day I saw a jolly rancher on the sidewalk, covered in ants. I threw the jolly rancher into a puddle. I laughed. I am hateful. Then I noticed that one of the ants survived. I grabbed the remaining ant and held his face in the puddle and said, "Where's the money Lou—where's the money?" even though I knew for a fact that the ant's name wasn't Lou.

sam pink is 25. he is hanging from a tree and there are little kids cutting his feet with swiss army knives. sam pink blogs at

THINGS CHANGED - gavin lambert


gavin lambert

My wife and I have changed. We used to sit together. We used to hold each other. We used to hold hands. We used to say purposeless things to each other, things that weren’t about what to do next, or what not to do next, or what we should have done. I’m now in this room and she’s somewhere else and we haven’t even held hands in a very long time. Do people hold hands anymore? I remember holding hands.

Lucille. Lucille held my hand. We were eight years old, I think. Lucille had always very firmly called me Henry, and she just as firmly held my hand. We had crushes and everyone knew it. I told her a joke that I had heard my dad tell. I don’t exactly remember the joke but it had something to do with bears, panda’s. Eats, shoots, and leaves. She laughed. We were sitting on a bench during recess and she laughed and grabbed my hand and decisively held it and it made me feel crazy. It was erotic. Eight-year-old love-making. I had wanted to grunt or jump, but I just sat there holding on.

Things change.

Gavin Lambert is thirty-three-years-old and lives in North Florida with his wife and daughter. His fiction has appeared most recently in Storyglossia, Word Riot, Segue, Thieves Jargon, and The Externalist.

FINDING FREDDY - robert a. dollesin


robert a. dollesin

Freddy, the kid who lives in the house four doors from mine, has club hands. His fused fingers are folded inward into permanent fists.

Sometimes -- all the time, really -- we consider his oddity and allow special concessions. When we play Red Light, Green Light, we pretend not to see him or the extra step he sneaks when everyone else freezes. We make believe he’s invisible when playing Dodge Ball, never pelting him. And in Hide-n-Seek, we always ignore him.

Yesterday, on Freddy’s porch, we were playing Rock, Paper, Scissors. Of course we always came up scissors, so his permanent rock could crush us.

Freddy’s mother noticed, and when he went to the bathroom, she confronted us. “It does more harm than good to treat him special.”

So today, playing Rock, Paper, Scissors, our paper palms shrouded his fist. After shuffling in Red Light, Green Light, he was sent to sit on the curb. Playing Dodge Ball, I hurled the ball so hard it blasted his head and left a purple bruise on his face.

It occurred to me while playing Hide-n-Seek that Freddy’s mother was right. Every time we dragged him from his hiding place, he screamed joyfully.

Robert A. Dollesin is a previous contributor to Dogzplot. He was still a kid when he left the Philippines, and he now resides in Sacramento, where he pens out short stories here and again.

THE BRIDGEPORT ZOO - erin fitzgerald


erin fitzgerald

Two of us sit in the carousel house, our backs to the wood-filled horses. We could have broken into the ticket office, we would warm up more quickly, but we don't want to attract attention since Mike will attract attention enough. We're dizzy and cranky for meat, even Celia who is a vegetarian. She says that was another life, which would be funny, except then she said now we're the ones being oppressed. We're not.

If Mike brings back a guinea hen or a squirrel I will kick his ass, I say, wrapping my blanket tighter around me, as much as someone who hasn't had protein in three days can kick an ass. Don't worry, Celia says. I'll help you.

We listen to the leaves scratching at the pavement, to the lack of happy chatter. We breathe the careworn air, which will only be alive for a mouth-filling crack.

Erin Fitzgerald
lives in western Connecticut, and online at

HEROINE - lauren becker


lauren becker

I’ve lived in this house two weeks now and Jack has decided I should fuck Aron. Aron’s bored. I’m depressed. Jack is gay and wants Aron. I’m his proxy.

Jack is the Julie McCoy of the house. Everyone wants to be around him. He has chosen me as his Gopher. Gay boys love me because I’m not a hag. I’m not fat or insecure. I love boys and share explicit stories with Jack.

Jack is a heroin addict. He is fabulous. He is also rich, rich, rich. His nice Mormon family despairingly laments his “imperfection.” They throw money at him. He buys smack.

Jack thinks I have beautiful skin. I do. Eager for adventure, he asks about spas. I tell him about a horrifyingly expensive nearby resort. He uses the credit card number he has memorized to order $2000 worth of skin products. Jack gives me a facial. He gently moisturizes my face.

Jack sneaks me into Aron’s room. He is excited. Aron and I are bored and lonely. It is unsatisfying and sad. Jack is happy.

Lauren Becker lives in Oakland, CA and has been published most recently in Word Riot. She is obsessed with cupcakes and e-mail, and may be reached at:


"Ode to the Wilderness" - peter schwartz



dawn corrigan

Ron took Claire to dinner and explained the ground rules. He and his wife agreed they could sleep around, as long as they stayed within bounds: no crazies, no mutual acquaintances, no falling in love. It was easy for her to believe in these rules. Soon, though, Ron started saying things like, "It will be years before I can leave my wife."

In the time they spent together, Ron mostly talked, and Claire listened. He didn't seem to realize she had a lively interior monologue running the whole time. In it she disdained men who pretended to follow the rules while really trolling for a replacement wife.

Dawn Corrigan lives in Gulf Breeze, Florida, and posts regularly at:

MONOTONE - drew kalbach


drew kalbach

The year starts and ends in winter. It's inaccurate to say our relationship is based on temperature, but lack of warmth is a huge aspect. Nothing changes our respect for vanity plates and porcelain mugs with racecar drivers in profile. Every day we walk up three steps and slip on the fourth, but take it as a good omen. When the snow starts in December, it's the staircase again, but in rain boots and carrying long black umbrellas. Hand gestures float across the dinner table like sign language in an attempt to convey mute sarcasm. The overall tone is lost in the crowded dessert line, and a sea of sweatshirts jockey for ice cream position.

The menu never changes. Nobody complains. Salt is the spice of life, and lawns are kept manicured, immaculate and almost false in their unchanging greenery.



d.w. green

Johnny cracked a tooth the other day, a wisdom tooth, while cleaning out the inside of his wood chipper. The tooth should have been removed years ago but he’d wanted to get through college with them all in tact, so he went down to the local barber shop post haste to have it attended to.

“This is a barber shop son. You have to get a hair cut.”
“I see. Good up sale. All right then. I’ll have a haircut and a tooth removed.”
“I only do haircuts boy.”

The barber walked to the door and held it open. Johnny grabbed him by his marshmallowy face and pushed it half way through the plate glass door slicing both ears clean off.

Outside, Johnny decided he could no longer handle the pain and took a seat at the café. He reached into his own mouth, and from the spot the tooth should have been, pulled out a hard jagged piece of charcoal. He sniffed it, hickory, then recalled having had his wisdom pulled out just last week. He laughed at his foolishness and flipped the nasty wet charcoal into a coffee cup.

D.W.Green can often be found sleeping under a desk at Crossing Chaos Enigmatic Ink.

EATING CROW - steven j. mcdermott


steven j. mcdermott

The summer the crows started dying Garrett hungered to reconcile with his wife; but Elissa was leaving him anyway.

You always feed them first, she said, settling into the driver's seat, the key aiming for the ignition.

The engine turned over, the harsh revving rattling the valves. She yanked the door closed, clunked the gear-shift into reverse, and backed down the driveway. Garrett stood and stared, his arms hanging limply. The unburnt fuel in the exhaust stung his nostrils as she drove off.

Away behind the house he heard the screeching caws of the baby crows he was nursing.

Steven J. McDermott is the author of Winter of Different Directions, a collection of short stories, and the editor of the online journal Storyglossia.

MOPED MADNESS - peter schwartz


peter schwartz

I'm riding this sweet ass
50cc "MAUI DREAMER" 4 stroke moped, without my helmet, doing 20 mph but I swear to fucking God it feels like 50. 'Master of Puppets' is blasting on my walkman. If I die on this thing I'm going out in a blaze of fucking glory, believe that.

I see this chick Pamela from school surrounded by five jocks. She's not the prettiest girl but she has a big ass and the second biggest tits in the sophomore class. She's never been mean to me and since most girls have I take that as being nice. There's a rumor out that her step-dad fucked her. I slow down and take my headphones off. The jocks are grabbing her tits and calling her a slut and telling her they want to fuck her too.

I put my headphones back on, crank the volume to 10 and drive away. I hear Pamela scream, so I turn around, open up my ped full throttle, and let out a Comanche war cry. I crash straight into Dan, the leader, and hear the bones of his legs crack. I don't even lose control. Everyone is shocked, frozen. I plow into another one, but without momentum. They pile on easily and kick the shit out of me. Pam looks at me and laughs and runs away.