Your cheatin’ Heart Attack Kent Robinson Wake up, George! Wake up, God damn it! C’mon, wake up, don’t die on me now! Fuck! GEORGE, WAKE UP, YOU ROTTEN ASSHOLE! First you slept with that God-awful Hanley woman. After that it was Deanna Smears, the town’s No. 1 harlot. Here lately it’s been Leslie Carlton. Okay, she at least manages to maintain a fairly classy reputation in spite of her sexual peccadilloes, which, from what I’ve heard, straddle both sides of the fence, if you know what I mean. I’m classy, too, George. I think you finally came to your senses on that point. But if you think you’re going to die of a heart attack our first night back together, you’ve got another think coming. Christ Almighty, from what I’ve been hearing, it sounds like you’ve spent most of the last eighteen months having sex with other women. You ought to be in terrific shape! George, George, for Christ’s sake, wake up, wake up, C’MON! Where are the damn paramedics when you need them? This isn’t fair. It isn’t fair at all. I worked hard to get you back. A lot of women in my position would have said to hell with you. But I was willing to turn the other cheek. And now — now — this! I know men sometimes stray. It’s in their nature, I guess. I tried to be a forgiving sort, tried to keep us together. Who wants to go through the hassle of a fuckin’ divorce? We can patch things up. So don’t check out on me now, blast it! Not after what you told me. I took a night class on oral sex offered at the college. We had to suck on chilled cucumbers, for God’s sake! And I paid a pole dancer slash stripper to teach me a lot of her tricks. Then, just today, I went out and bought this sleazy black lingerie outfit and got myself all decked out for you. Garters! High heels! Skimpy panties and bra! I could tell by the hungry leer that appeared on your face when you first walked in the door that I’d played my cards right. Well, if wearing this getup and behaving like a whore is what it takes to win you back from Leslie Carlton, then that’s what I’ll do. Why didn’t you tell me black lingerie was your preference for a woman in bed? Your thing! I had to find out about it through a third party. Gawd! Can you possibly imagine my embarrassment? I could feel myself turning redder than the beets at the Ralph’s store where I heard it. And speaking of feeling myself, I even took a masturbation course — “to make friends with, and become more comfortable with,” my own body, as the instructor put it. And now I definitely am friends with my body. I am! More than ever! As comfy as a cow in a pasture! I mean, look at me in these garters. I could tell you were turned on by the way they make my exposed thighs bulge out in an even shapelier manner. And big, solid tits. These puppies will barely stay confined. Why you ever ran away from this juicy package is hard for me to fathom. Hell, I like myself so much dressed this way that I was almost ready to use some self-pleasure techniques I learned. But I knew you were coming by, so I managed to restrain myself. Ooh! Restraining myself. Now there’s one I forgot: I engaged in some bondage sessions with a dominatrix. Imagine that — a real-life dominatrix right here in town! Eventually tonight I was going to break out the handcuffs and the ball and gag. Just think, George, five feet ten inches of scantily clad, squirming female flesh helplessly bound and cruelly silenced for you to torment. Yes, George, I’ve been a busy girl, a very busy girl. And it’s all been for you. For us! So wake up, George, for crying out loud, oh, please, George, please wake up and tell me where you hid that FUCKING LOTTERY TICKET! You can’t die now, George; not after teasing me with a big surprise like that. You’re right, it’ll help reunite us. Without a doubt! Two hundred and forty million dollars would reunite anybody. But, listen, the ticket is not in your pants pocket, because I already looked. You must have been confused. Or do you mean another pair of pants somewhere else? I checked, and the ticket isn’t in your wallet, either. Is it in your truck? In a safe-deposit box? Finally! The paramedics. ### Gentlemen! Thank God you’re here. Come in, please come in. Hurry! It’s my husband — he’s in the bedroom. I think he’s had a heart attack. Medications? Well, I don’t know of any, but I haven’t been living with him for more than a year. He used to take an Anacin every morning; that’s all I can remember. See, we’ve had some — some marital difficulties. He’s been sleeping elsewhere, if you know what I mean. Darn it, tonight was when we were gonna see if we could make a go of it all over again! I took a bunch of sex classes and cooked him his favorite meal this evening, chicken and dumplings, and I bought this real slutty-looking lingerie garb and wore it the entire time to turn him on and — and — what? Oh, my God, yes, this slutty outfit! I’m sorry, in all the excitement I forgot to throw on a robe or something. I — I — please, don’t get the wrong idea. I don’t make a habit of dressing up in stuff like this and parading around in front of strange men. I — oh, shit, I’m so embarrassed! What about George? Is he — is he — ? His age? Um, he’s forty-two — no, forty-three years old, his last birthday would’ve been two months ago, in August. He’s forty-three, and I’m thirty-six. What was he doing? Well, obviously, he was in bed, we were in bed, and I was on top of him. We were kissing, and he was — he was feeling me up and getting pretty hot and bothered, and he whispered in my ear that he had a big surprise for me, and I thought, you know, he was just talking dirty or something, because I could feel how swollen he’d become inside his boxers. And then he told me what it was, what the big surprise was, but — but — and then this happened. He groaned real loudly, and the sweat on his body seemed to get awfully cold, and his eyes bulged out for a few seconds, and he suddenly lost consciousness. That was about twenty minutes ago. I think he stopped breathing, too. I tried pounding on his chest to revive him, but it didn’t help. Yes, I realize this is the kind of situation in which a person would be better off knowing CPR. But I don’t know CPR, so I’m sorry, but that’s just the way it is. Should you be focused on my lack of CPR knowledge at this moment, or should you be trying to save my husband? I realize they’re working on him, but what are you doing? You’re just standing there talking to me and gawking at my big tits. No, George doesn’t have a history of heart attacks. No congenital defects. Doesn’t smoke or do drugs, drinks a beer once in a while... He’s always been as healthy as a horse. He works construction, and as you can see, he uses his muscles a great deal. Look at that physique! He looks like he ought to live to be a hundred. You can understand why other women were attracted to him. What’s wrong? You’re — you’re stopping... He’s dead? You’re pronouncing him dead? I don’t believe it. Are you serious? My forty-three-year-old, looks-like-Superman husband is dead? How can that be? Are you sure you did everything you could? Oh...oh — ! ### Hello, Leslie? Leslie Carlton? This is Jackie Walker. I was reminded that I wanted to call you when I read that story in today’s paper about you purchasing the winning lottery ticket. Congratulations! Two hundred and forty mil! Wow! That’ll pay for a few collagen treatments, huh? No, listen, look — look, I realize my husband was a very handsome man, and you weren’t the only woman he slept with after he and I started having troubles, believe you me. So I, I don’t hold a thing against you, and I wanted you to know that. After all, we shop at the same supermarket, we see each other at the post office or the movie theater every now and then... I just don’t want there to be this thing between us, you know what I mean? Good! Good! Well, listen, I feel a whole lot better just hearing you say that. I’m willing to let bygones be bygones. But I do have two questions. First, I’ve been rounding up George’s things to auction off, and I noticed some of his clothes are missing. Did he happen to leave any pants over at your place? No? I mean, you were the last woman he fooled around with, so I just thought, you know... All right, if you say so. Maybe he threw them out. Second, I’ve heard stories about you. And frankly, I’ve experienced an awakening of my own in the past year. You know what I’m talking about? Are we on the same wavelength here? I could introduce you to a dominatrix who would really rock your world. And I was wondering... You think the two of us might get together some night? Go out on the town? I mean, c’mon, we’d just be two single girls, roughly the same age, out for an evening of dancing and fun. And afterward...afterward... Well, I recently bought this black lingerie outfit. I look fabulous in it. It’s to die for.

Downsized Lauren Harrison When Jeremy Lisner opened the door to his office Monday morning, he saw a stuffed giraffe in his chair, listening to his voicemail. The giraffe stood about three feet tall, with large plastic eyes, soft fur all over its body, and little nubs on its head. Around its neck, it wore a blue striped tie, Jeremy’s emergency tie that he kept in the office for coffee accidents. A quick scan of the room from the doorway made Jeremy realize that the giraffe wasn’t the only thing that was different: some of his files had been stacked neatly, when he had left them open on Friday. He’d worked late, trying to get some understanding of the new processing proposal in front of him. When he finally went home, he left it open to remember where he’d left off. Someone must have tided and lost his place in the process. His pen jar had been moved as well and his family Christmas picture was face down on his desk. Jeremy closed the door and strode down the hall to his assistant’s office. Mel was a little woman who managed to get all of her work done on time despite only turning her computer on once a week. She said it was too complicated and distracting. As Jeremy walked up, she closed a small brown ledger and blinked slowly. “I didn’t expect to see you up here, sir.” Jeremy leaned on her desk. “Mel, why is there a giraffe in my office?” “Sir, aren’t they expecting you downstairs?” she said quietly. “I don’t think so. What’s downstairs?” “Mr. Lisner, please.” Mel smiled sadly. “Don’t joke with me now. I don’t like it either, but you can’t fight management. Go on downstairs. I’m sure you’ll want to get settled into your new office.” “Wait a minute,” said Jeremy. “My new office? Mel, what the hell are you talking about?” “Don’t cuss, sir.” “Sorry. But seriously, what is this all about? And does this have something to do with the giraffe?” Mel pulled open a desk drawer and rifled through some hanging folders. “This was all discussed at the meeting on Friday.” “I worked through it. That processing proposal, you know.” “I do know. But I wish you’d attended.” She pulled out a crisp sheet of paper with tiny print on it. “Mr. Palowski said it was mandatory.” She handed it to Jeremy. “I know.” Jeremy took the paper from her and skimmed it. . “It concerned all of us.” “I’m sure. Wait a minute,” he read a line over again. “This says I’m being reassigned.” Mel nodded. “Along with everyone else on that list, sir.” “So I’m fired.” Jeremy hung his head. “Oh, no Mr. Lisner,” Mel replied quickly. “Just reassigned. The company still wants to keep you on, just in a different place.” Jeremy sat on a bare corner of Mel’s desk, staring blankly at the paper. “I didn’t know.” “We had a meeting. Will you please stand up?” Jeremy didn’t move. The paper hung limply in his hand as he tried to process what had just happened. “I wasn’t expecting this at all.” “Sir, will you please get off of my desk?” Jeremy slid to his feet. Mel bit her lip before she continued. “I’m sorry. I really am. I enjoyed working with you and I’m not sure why it’s changed. But this is the way it is now. And as you can see, your position has already been filled.” “Wait, it has?” Jeremy frowned. “By who?” “Sir, please. Don’t make this any harder than it already is.” An image of the giraffe wearing his tie flashed through Jeremy’s mind. “You can’t mean that damn giraffe.” “Please don’t cuss, sir.” There wasn’t a shred of a smile on Mel’s face. Jeremy stared at her. “You’re serious.” “Quite serious, sir. He’s your replacement.” “Mel,” Jeremy spoke slowly. “It’s a giraffe.” “Now Mr. Lisner, try not to be judgmental.” She gave him a soft smile. “Mr. Jacobs from HR said he has a very impressive resume.” “And I suppose you’re going to tell me it has stellar references.” “Yes, sir.” Jeremy shook his head again. “No. This just can’t be happening.” “Mr. Lisner, I’m very sorry.” “Mel, stop for a minute and listen to yourself. You’re telling me I’ve been replaced by a giraffe.” “Be reasonable. It wasn’t my choice.” “And how exactly did they interview the damn thing?” Jeremy started pacing briskly. “Language, sir.” “Mel, it’s not even alive. It’s a stuffed animal!” She stood up from her wooden chair. “Now that’s just not fair. He may not be the same as you and me, but he has excellent social skills. Mr. Jacobs was very impressed with him, so much so that he thinks he’ll do a better job than you. I’m sorry sir, but that’s final.” Jeremy growled, “Mel, I’m going to go back into my office. I’m going to pick up that little toy and I’m going to throw it out the window. And once it hits the ground I’m going to close the window, get some coffee, and forget all of this ever happened.” “Mr. Lisner,” Mel said sharply. “Don’t you lay one hand on him. He’s an employee, just like you, and I won’t see you in jail on assault charges because you can’t handle a little reorganization in the company.” “Mel, this can’t be happening.” “I’m afraid it is, Mr. Lisner.” They stared at each other for a long, hard minute. Jeremy searched Mel’s face over and over to find the joke, the catch, something. But she was resolute, honest as ever, and had never lied to him in four years of employment. “Mel,” he said softly. “You’re really telling the truth, aren’t you?” She nodded. “I always have, sir.” “This is madness. You know that.” “Please don’t be bitter. You haven’t been fired, merely given a different job description.” Mel looked at the abandoned ledger on her desk. “I’m afraid I need to get back to work. Have you collected your things?” Jeremy, dizzied and dazed, replied, “No, not yet.” “Well, you probably should.” Mel reseated herself and pulled the ledger to her. “I’m sure they’re expecting you downstairs.” Jeremy nodded and headed back to his office. He wasn’t sure how any of this could have happened or that it really was happening at all. But when he opened the door to the office, the giraffe was there, in Jeremy’s tie, staring at the computer screen. “I must be out of my mind,” Jeremy muttered. He cleared his throat and addressed the giraffe. “Don’t mind me,” he said. “I’ll be out of your way in a minute.” Without waiting for a reply, Jeremy entered and walked to the walls. He took down his diploma and a painting of the Ohio River. As he circled the room, collecting a paperweight here and a small bowling trophy there, he searched for some kind of recording device or a hidden camera or a man who would leap out and tell him it was all a joke, but everything was mundane as could be. Jeremy made his way over to the desk for the last of his things, the picture of his family, still face down, and his tie, still around the giraffe’s neck. As he picked up the picture, he glanced at the monitor. This week’s financial report was up on the screen. In the midst of the newly organized files, the giraffe looked like it was already settled in. It had a peaceful look in its plastic eyes. Everyone seemed to be taking the situation seriously. Jeremy shook his head. He couldn’t think of anything else to try or do other than to treat it as though it really was happening. He said, “You have my tie.” The giraffe did not respond. Feeling rather foolish, Jeremy raised his voice. “Hey, giraffe, you have my tie.” Silence. He wasn’t sure what to do next. “I’d like it back before I go.” He considered taking the tie, but had the feeling he was indeed on camera and that security would arrest him for manhandling an employee. Jeremy adjusted the bric-a-brac in his arms. “Look, I know this is your office now, but that’s my tie. It’s one of my favorites, too.” He paused to let the giraffe reply, but it didn’t react at all. “And I’m sure you have ties of your own. You can give mine back, right?” The giraffe continued to ignore him. “Okay, this isn’t funny,” he raised his voice so whatever hidden recorder could hear him. “Can we just start the day? Whoever pulled this, it was funny for two minutes.” He felt like he was talking to some naughty two-year-old. “But now we need to be serious. Just come out where I can see you and get this damn thing out of my office.” Jeremy searched around the office again, looking for someone to emerge and tell him it was all a game, but nothing happened. After a few minutes, he sighed deeply and turned back to the giraffe. “So you’re here to stay.” The giraffe said nothing, but Jeremy could feel how smug it was. “Fine. You’re here. Enjoy the office. But give me back my damn tie.” The giraffe would not acknowledge him, pouring all of its attention into the financial report. “Goddamnit, Giraffe,” snapped Jeremy. “That’s my tie and I’m not leaving without it. You’ve got ten seconds to give it back to me or I’ll take it back. And that won’t be pleasant.” He shifted the weight in his arms. “Ten. Nine.” The giraffe, completely unphased by the threat, refused to look at Jeremy. “Eight.” Jeremy could feel the arrogance spilling out of the rotten little animal. He stared at the spots on the giraffe’s back and thought about what would come next. “Seven.” He’d tear the legs off of it and gut it. “Six.” He’d use the pelt to make a muff for his wife and turn its head into an insulator for his coffee mug. “Five. Four.” The nerve of that worthless piece of fluff. “Three. Two. One.” Jeremy glared at the giraffe. All in one day it had taken his job, his office, and even his tie. And he wasn’t going to get any of them back. “Fine, you piece of shit. Fine.” He clutched his load tighter to his chest. “This isn’t worth it. I’m not going to jail just because of you. You’re not worth it. And I don’t even like that tie. Keep the damn thing.” He stomped to the door and paused, struggling to open it with a maneuvered free hand. Just before closing it behind him, he looked one more time at the contented giraffe in his chair. “You’re an asshole, you know that, Giraffe? You’re a real asshole.”

Size 13 Ernie Seven When I was in the sixth grade my father took me to a surplus store “You need bigger-sized boots every year” he said “This year I’m going to buy you a pair that’ll last” I tried on size seven boots and they fit snugly on my feet “No! You’re going to have a larger pair and grow into them.” He plopped down a pair of size 13 brown Sorel boots in front of me The wool lining felt roomy That winter I tried them but they were exhausting to walk in for more than a minute. “Just put on a few pairs of socks on and strap bungee cords around the outside.” I wore them with bungee cords to school for one day and was laughed at I boxed up the boots and thought “I’ll know I’m grown up when these fit.” I forgot about the box of boots and twenty years passed until I rediscovered them. I tried the boots on again. They were still a little too big. My dad and I hadn’t talked to each other in over a decade I thought about calling him Telling him the boots were still too big but the urge to call soon passed I know I have some growing to do yet.

Just Another Cassandra Rebecca Lowry Poet, Priestess, Prophetess, Whore all in a day’s work for a woman who in the end is just another Cassandra. Just another pretty face with a voice that can’t help but tell the truth about you and him and her and them and us. Who can’t escape the truth of herself. Once upon a time all of those old vices were something sacred. Now sacred is trying to convince ourselves we’re gods by collecting disciples into our temples. Poets are scorned as blowhards Priestess’ are just high maintenance Prophetess’ are just bitches to be slapped down. Whores are just another place to hang your hat. All cursed like Cassandra, by the new god Society. Cassandra one woman who saw the fall of a city. There are so many more of us with eyes to see, how great then, is the fall to come? Which of us will die on the walls in battle, which of us will ride away with the invaders which of us will gouge out her eyes, rip out her throat, to keep from screaming aloud the dark we see building? Each of us fighting our own little battles, teaching our daughters to bear the curse. Not realizing we are apprenticing them to our trades. Poets, priestesses, prophetesses, whores... just a few more Cassandras. Ready for sacrifice on the next generations altar.

Rebecca Lowry Bio I am a mother... I have a beautiful daughter who breaks my heart and saves my life on a moment by moment basis. I am now or have been a poet, priestess, singer, wife, whore, businesswoman, critic, drone, friend, companion and lover. I have given up on trying to be anything less than what I am... Life is a performance art... “and all the world a stage” as Shakespeare would say. The cast that has filled the play of my life to date has been brilliant and despicable by turns... but all the lines and mistakes have been my own and in the end I will be able to stand by what I have done and whom I have chosen to act with. Besides... who doesn’t love a dark comedy?

Junk Andrew Spano It was one crappy afternoon when Danny died. The streets of Chinatown stank like shit, and the heat had already melted candles and made the tap water taste like piss. We were coming back from I don’t know where when we got to the house and saw the ambulance and the little crowd of curious Chinese and the gurney with Danny there white and limp. The EMT pumped a plastic bottle of air into his face, mouth and nose sucked by the rubber mask of the respirator. I could tell by the lazy way he pumped that it was all over. And by how they loaded Danny into the back of the truck the way DPW guys stow their shovels for the day, then mope over to the cab doors and hoist their beefy selves onto the bench seat and head back to the yard. The crowd stared, thinking in Chinese, as the driver cranked the engine to life with his cargo in back, then let out the emergency brake, put it in drive and rolled off to the hospital a block away. It was one crappy afternoon when Danny died, died after only snorting a few lines of fine brown shit his friends got off the street nearby from the hustlers who chanted “You straight?” in my face day after day. He died right there on the same spot where, a year later, Chris would lie choking on his own memories like he was gargling broken glass, only a few years older than Danny’s nineteen, after doing a couple lines of the same shit. “He’s dead, he’s dead!” Jess screamed as she banged on my door one sunny afternoon. I jumped up, ran downstairs, my head a hand-held video camera jogging with drama, the scene a boy in a white t-shirt as cold and grey as meat. His face was smooth, his eyes white, his lips blue like a swimmer’s too long in surf. As I stared stupid at his gargling, and the EMT’s burst in, pushing me away and putting that same plastic bottle on his face. It worked this time, and he jerked back to this world where, once, he found himself in jail with a kid who said, “I know you. You sold me my first bag,” as the kid did his day before arraignment on a charge of possession, Class A. It was a crappy day when Danny died. This time I saved the ventilation tube they shoved down Chris’s throat, brought it back to my place, and washed it off in the sink as a memento mori. It sat there on the bookshelf for a year until I heard he was back on the shit again, so I rode my bike out to the bar where he was and bought him a beer and said, “Here’s the thing that makes you different from Danny.” At first he didn’t know what it was, sipped his beer, then looked straight forward into the mirror behind the bottles. I threw it in the trash can by the door where greasy paper plates of pizza crusts gathered flies from the street, and sunlight bled through the windows the bugs left footprints on. We gulped our beers and watched the game. “Don’t worry, Chris,” I said. “It was just junk.”

Bio Note (04/08/09) Andrew Spano teaches English, communication, and education at Northeastern University and The College of Westchester. He is a New York City Teaching Fellow. His poetry, essays and journalism articles have been printed in dozens of magazines, newspapers and journals. He is a graduate of the University of Vermont and Norwich University and is a Ph.D. student in philosophy at the European Graduate School in Saas-Fee, Switzerland and New York City. He lives in Brooklyn.

Small Grains C. M. Humphries “It’s a message in a bottle,” Alyssa said as she shook a bottle full of sand. “No, it’s definitely not,” Craig responded, his eyes squinting as they struggled to make out the finer details of the bottle and its contents. “It’s either a dumb hour glass or a souvenir bottle, the ones they sell in tourist shops.” Alyssa placed the bottle between her left arm and side, snug underneath her armpit, and sprinted off towards a small cabin that sat at the top of a hill. Craig chased after her as she headed away from the ocean. He kicked sand into the air with ever step he took. His calf muscles grew sore as he scaled slanted sand dunes. No matter how fast he ran or how much effort he put out into catching her, Craig could not keep up with his younger sister. “Wait up!” Craig yelled, though he was losing his breath. He started to clamp his chest as he began to scuttle. At the sight of Craig taking small strides and clutching his chest, Alyssa began to panic and slow down. She took a few glances behind her and discovered Craig was falling behind. Before, there was a distance between the two of them, but now Craig was acting like a prisoner strapped down with ankle weights and shackles. Craig became petrified and fell to the sandy ground. “Craig!” Alyssa screamed as she darted back towards the ocean. Her face felt hot from mixed emotions; the tears that she began to cry felt like sulfuric acid running down her cheeks. “Craig! Oh my god, Craig! No!” She slid beside her brother like a runner to home base. She placed the bottle down on the beach and struggled to reach underneath Craig and flip him over. She knew CPR would be wise to perform while waiting for help. “Don’t die on me, Craig. Don’t die on me,” Alyssa repeated as she readied resuscitation. As her hands were about to slam down on Craig’s chest, a smile spread across his face. “Ha-ha,” Craig said as he swiped the bottle from his sister. He stood up and then loped towards the cabin. To his surprise, Alyssa was much faster than he fathomed. Slam! Craig could hear the sound of his sister tackling him down echo over the beachfront. For a minute, Craig thought he could taste blood. Alyssa snatched the bottle and looked into it. “What?” she muttered as the contents of the bottle began to change. Instead of small grains of sand sitting at the bottom of the bottle, a playground began to form. Emerging from the limited amount of sand: monkey bars, a swing set, a seesaw. “What is it doing?” Craig asked. His eyes opened wide as his mind succumbed to bedazzlement. Alyssa’s look of confusion contorted until it developed into a beautiful expression of joy. A smile. She said, “I was thinking about this last night—how much I wanted to play at the playground.” “Who’s your buddy?” Craig had to ask after seeing a granular version of his sister hanging around a boy her same age. “I don’t know.” And Alyssa knew that was the truth as she scratched the back of her head. “Maybe it’s because you don’t have any friends,” Craig said, tormenting his sister as she snagged the bottle. He looked into and once again, the sand changed. The playground became a couple of cars on a straight, which looked like Hot Wheels. “Huh, I told Dad I wanted cars for my birthday.” “It shows what you want,” Alyssa said as she watched Craig’s thoughts being portrayed in a sand bottle. She could even see little people driving the cars around, which turned the pretend city into a living one. People roamed the streets. Stores changed their door signs to OPEN. Alyssa and Craig took a deeper look into the bottle. “Look, it’s me!” Alyssa said, thrilled to death by the sight of her driving a car. “It’s just pretend,” Craig replied. He became short on breath, but tried to hide it. The sand lookalike of Alyssa revved the play car’s engine until the real Alyssa and Craig both though they could hear it over the sound of seagulls and the ocean waves smashing against the rocky cliffs down the shoreline. She sped down the roads like a pubescent high school boy trying to prove his masculinity. Then, a small boy stepped in front of the car, and before the sand-made Alyssa could slam on the brakes, it was too late. Blood splattered across the pavement. Alyssa jogged away from her car and towards the body. She screamed at the sight of the body. Who was the passerby? It went without saying. Alyssa dropped the bottle and turned to her brother, who had fallen to the ground, clutching his chest.

There’s No Ghoul like An Old Ghoul John Ragusa Every time I dig up a coffin, I swear to myself it’ll be the last time. But I am a ghoul, and I can’t get enough of dead flesh. I keep coming back for more. My appetite always leads me to the graveyard, where I can enjoy my meals. I have to be cautious not to let the caretaker see me, though, because I don’t want to get caught. I died many years ago, yet I look quite good. I guess this is because I don’t smoke, drink alcohol, or take drugs. I don’t want to harm myself by indulging in those unhealthy habits. I hope that no one comes to this cemetery at night to visit a grave. If they see me eating a corpse, I’ll be dead meat. I try not to make a pig out of myself, so I only eat corpses occasionally. Some cadavers are so fat, they take an entire week to finish. I know it’s an atrocity, but I must satisfy my hunger. I never belch after I eat. That would be bad manners, wouldn’t it? I tried to eat dead animals for a while. But for some reason, I prefer human flesh. On rainy nights, exhuming a body gets very messy. When I finish digging, there’s soil all over me. To get what I want, I have to get dirty. But it’s well worth it. I eat women instead of men. They are much easier to chew than the muscular male corpses. I never seem to get fat. This isn’t surprising; have you ever seen an obese ghoul in a horror movie? I once found a dead man who was killed in a car accident. I almost threw up. He was a gruesome sight. I wonder if corpses would taste better cooked. I’ll have to try it someday. I feel bad for the families of the people I eat. It’s revolting for them to see their relatives become a meal for a hungry ghoul. I can’t blame them for feeling revulsion. I know that God must despise me, too. My horrid deeds must be considered heinous. At least I say grace before I start to eat. Sometimes I open a casket only to find a skeleton. I sure can’t eat something like that. I’m not choosy about my cuisine; I consume people of all races, sizes, and ages. Another advantage of being a ghoul is that I don’t have to pay for my supper. Everything I eat comes free of charge. The mosquitoes are a problem for me. They eat me alive at night. I hate those suckers so much, I actually holler at them. When I was alive, I relished gourmet food, so it amazes me that I now enjoy decaying flesh. I have to spit out roaches and worms that are inside the bodies I eat. I may like flesh, but I simply abhor the taste of insects. It’s odd that I don’t dislike the flavor of embalming fluid. I can swallow it without getting nauseated. I don’t need a fork and knife to eat people. I just bite into them and chew. I don’t brush my teeth after meals, either. If I’m careful, no one will ever see me, so it doesn’t matter if I have a rotten smile. Thank goodness I never get indigestion. I wouldn’t be able to get my hands on any antacid. I don’t need condiments like ketchup or mustard to enhance the flavor of flesh. I don’t use salt, either, because it’s bad for my blood pressure. I suppose being a ghoul is better than being a murderer, a thief, or a rapist. I could be a far worse person than I am. This morning, a litterbug threw a newspaper on the ground outside the graveyard. I went and picked it up. On the front page, I read that the police would be patrolling the cemetery at night to prevent any future grave robbing and cannibalism from taking place in it. Aghast, I realized that I could no longer get my meals there. What was I going to do? * * * I want to tell you about my new job. I’m an attendant at the city morgue. It doesn’t pay too well, but it does have one fringe benefit I couldn’t live without.

The Lucky Mailman Brian Wang The mailman slowly drove along Mammon Avenue, appreciating the silence of the hour. The neighborhood was usually bustling with activity, but not today. There were no barking dogs, no cars, no laughing children on the lawns. All was quiet. Just how the mailman liked it to be. Perhaps it’s the weather, thought the mailman as he tried to explain the uncommon serenity of the neighborhood. He looked up at the sky. No sun—only clouds. The sky forecasted rain, and the mailman was not fond of rain. He drove faster. But at the end of Mammon Avenue, the mailman was forced to stop. In the middle of the road stood an old man in a long, gray coat, looking up at the sky in fascination. He squinted and blinked rapidly, as if he were staring directly at the sun. His mouth was half-open, half-grinning. With one hand, he shielded his eyes in a permanent soldier’s salute; with the other, he pointed towards the sky. Why the sky was so fascinating, the mailman didn’t know. He followed the old man’s stare up into the sky, only to find it riddled with clouds. Rainclouds. Damn, he thought. Better finish my route before I get wet. Better get that man off the road, for both our sakes. The mailman got out of his truck and confronted the old man. “Sir,” he said. “Sir, I’m sorry for bothering you, but you’re blocking the road, and I really want to get home before the storm hits. And I’ll bet you do too.” The old man just smiled. “No,” he said. “I’m fine right where I am. Nice night it is. Nice moon out today. Bright. Haven’t seen one like this in thirty years. Thirty years. And the light! Almost makes you think it’s daytime, am I right?” The mailman scratched his head in confusion. It was daytime. There was no moon. “Sir,” the mailman continued, “I think you’re mistaken. All I see is clouds, clouds, and more clouds. If you stay outside much longer, you’ll—” “You know what, boy? You’re right. Clouds, clouds, and more clouds. Rain, rain, and more rain. That’s all we ever get here. Nice to have a change, eh? There’s a nice, full moon out today for once. It’s like the gods are giving us a day of mercy, showing us the light, you know what I mean? I almost want to jump up and touch it. You ever get that feeling? Like the moon’s so bright it’s like a light bulb and you just want to go up there and see it for yourself? Yeah, that’s how I feel right now. Like I want to become an astronaut. Like that Neil Armstrong guy. An astronaut.” The old man jumped and stretched his hands towards the sky to show the mailman what he meant. But as he approached the ground from the zenith of his jump, precarious equilibrium gave way to brief chaos as an item modestly slipped out of his pocket. It tumbled towards the asphalt, doing somersaults and half twists and curls as it fell—falling, falling, falling until finally it reached its destination with an obnoxious Clunk! on the road. The old man didn’t notice. But the mailman did. If the item had been worthless, the mailman might have gone out of his way to stoop down and retrieve the item for the old man. He might have said, “You’ve dropped something,” and he might have presented the item to the old man as a gift of kindness, and he might have felt that his altruistic action helped humanity make a step towards its ultimate goals of justice and righteousness. But of course, when the cause is great enough and when the opportunities are perfect, self-interest comes out of hiding and performs a coup d’état on one’s moral fortress, shooting justice and righteousness in the process, and leaving one with the idea that “No matter what, I have to protect myself and only myself, and if I harm others in the process, so be it,” with the cruel irony being that the very mechanism one uses to protect oneself—Greed—is the very thing one needs protection from in the end. The item was not worthless. It was a gold watch. A gold watch, the mailman thought. A thousand dollars at least. Go for it. Go for the jackpot. The mailman looked up at the old man, who was still staring at the sky. “Damn, that moon is bright,” the old man said. Just grab it and go, the mailman thought. Easy. Grab it and go. “Wow kiddo, look at that. It’s as bright as a supernova up there. The moon is lighting up that sky mighty quick,” the old man continued. Take the watch and leave, now! thought the mailman. Take it, take it, take it! “Oh, man! Do you see that? See how bright it’s getting? Soak in the light, boy, just soak in the light!” The mailman made up his mind. With a quick motion, the mailman grabbed the gold watch off of the road and stuffed it into his pocket. As he ran back towards his mail truck, he heard the old man yelling behind him, “Too bright! Too bright! It’s blinding! Too bright!” and the rain came down in torrents. The mailman got into his truck, turned around, and drove away, as the rain pounded against the windows with a fierceness that accompanies only the most violent storms. **************************************************************** Greed is like a vine. It attaches. It grows. And so it’s no wonder that when the mailman returned to the end of Mammon Avenue the next day to find the same old man with another gold watch hanging loosely from his pocket, the mailman stole it again. And again the next day. And again the next. It became a routine. After four weeks, the mailman had stolen at least $20,000 worth in gold watches. The mailman stopped going to work. He stayed in his room for days on end, calculating how many gold watches it would take to buy a mansion, or a new car, or a boat. Or all three. Papers lay scattered all over his floor, with figures about inflation and taxes and the value of gold. Ironically, his wealth prevented him from leading a rich life; he only ever left his house to steal more gold watches. He was the richest ascetic who ever lived. Then the mailman was fired from his job. His appetite for gold watches increased tenfold; he was now dependent on them. Oh yes, he was hungry for them. But was he consuming them, or were they consuming him? Then came Monday. **************************************************************** The mailman drove along Mammon Avenue in his own car, this time wearing a gold watch. Not a busy day today, he thought. Nobody outside except for two children, singing as they ran around their lawn. He could not hear the song. He drove on. As he drove closer to the singing children, he could make out the tune and the words. It was familiar: London Bridge is falling down, Falling down, falling down London Bridge is falling down, My fair lady. He kept driving. The song the children were singing was clearly audible now. The mailman hummed along. How will we build it up, Build it up, build it up How will we build it up, My fair lady? He was reaching the end of Mammon Avenue now. Only a little while longer until he could receive his gold watch. Just a couple more houses down. Build it up with silver and gold, Silver and gold, silver and gold, Build it up with silver and gold, My fair lady. Just around the bend now, he thought. Just around the bend. Silver and gold won’t hold it up, Hold it up, hold it up, Silver and gold won’t hold it up, My fair lady! The mailman reached the end of Mammon Avenue. The old man was nowhere in sight. No old man, no gold watch. The mailman was confused. Maybe he was a little early. He looked down at his watch. Nope, just on time, he thought. Three o’clock. Damn. What now? Drive, he thought. Just drive . He could think of nothing else, and so that’s what he did. His hands shook on the wheel, and he constantly looked out the windows, looking for the old man. He drove in a loop, passing through Mammon Avenue many times, each time half-expecting to see the old man again with that shiny, gold watch; that precious, treasured gem; that beautiful, beloved, worship-worthy tick-tock timepiece twenty-four-karat worth-a-king’s-ransom lifeline damn-I-need-it-now gold watch! But the old man never showed up. “Damn it!” shouted the mailman after his sixth time passing through Mammon Avenue. “There is no sense in this world, there is no sense in this world...” After two and a half hours, the mailman stopped driving. It was going nowhere. Instead, he went to the end of Mammon Avenue and sat down in the middle of the road. If the old man were to come back at all, he would show up there. Now it was just waiting. Waiting for that old man to come back with that gold watch in his pocket, carrying the mailman’s life in tow. Stupid, stupid, stupid old man, he thought. Why would he do this to me? Why would he lead me on like a dog on a leash, a strangling, stifling, suffocating leash? Is that all I am? A damn dog? Bastard! Damned bastard! Ha, look at that stupid mailman, the old man was probably thinking, taking my watches so he can feed himself! Ha ha! Funny joke, old man! What has society come to now, survival of the fittest? Eat-or-be-eaten? A damn food chain? He looked up at the sky. Some of his thoughts found their way into words, and he started addressing the gods. “Is this your idea of retribution? Is this what I get for just trying to survive? Then damn your twisted ideas of morals, damn them to hell! You think that this is justice? Destroying hope—that’s justice?” He spit up into the air. He was yelling now. “That’s what I think of you, and all your self-righteousness, and all your ideas of good and morals and duty! You know what you are? Traitors to mankind! Damned spies and traitors! I’ve got you all figured out, right? Blown your cover? Strike me down, I dare you, strike me down and let everyone see who you really are! Strike me down, you cowards! STRIKE ME DOWN!” And then the moon came out. It was brighter than it ever had been for years, and it illuminated every object within the mailman’s visible range. The moonlight shimmered on his golden watch, splaying light outwards at every angle. “Aha! The moon! How ironic! The one day that the damned old man doesn’t show, a real moon is out! Tease me some more, gods, tease me some more!” He jumped up towards the sky, attempting to grab the moon and smash it to the ground. In the process, the gold watch that had been hanging loosely from his wrist fell to the ground. He didn’t notice, and he continued his rant against the moon. “I’ll get you, if it’s the last thing I do! I’ll catch you and crush you and send you into the sun!” A police car came down the road on its daily route. The car stopped just short of the mailman, not able to move past him. A young policeman stepped out of the car, with the intention of moving the mailman to the side of the road. “Could you move over?” he asked. “The road here is as narrow as hell, and I can’t get by with you in the middle of the road like that.” “Damn, man!” the mailman responded. “Can’t you see that I’m busy? Damned moon—taking up all that space in the sky! Leave some for the rest of us!” The policeman was understandably confused. “What? I just want you to—” The policeman curtailed his response as something caught his eye. The gold watch, illuminated by the moonlight, rested on the road. The policeman looked around, and, seeing nobody, quickly snatched the gold watch from the ground, put it in his pocket, and drove away, the moon casting a glow over Mammon Avenue with an uncommon brilliancy.

Letter to Amundson About Letting Go Fredrick Zydek Dear Jim: I learned the hard way I’m not good at letting go of anything. I figured out something very important about myself during my ordeal with surgery and cancer. I’m not the kind of guy who lets go of anything. They gave me a 40% chance of coming out of the operation alive! (It seems that fifty years of smoking cigarettes and eating bacon for breakfast every morning weren’t among my best options.) My doctor recommended I consult with a specialist on death and dying and plan my funeral. (Not my idea of great lunch conversation.) The specialist was spooky. She told me to go around sticking the names of people on things I should give away and to create situations in which I could give my friends permission to tell me goodbye. Right! Like I felt well enough to do all that crap. Besides, I like my stuff, my friends and my life. If I can’t stay here to enjoy them - then it’s my plan to take them with me. Isn’t that what quantum physics is all about? Hell, I think karma and grace have been telling us that same story for thousands of years. Believing we can either get into heaven or reincarnate is another way of saying how much we have enjoyed living this life. I don’t think it’s a good idea to give any of that away. I plan to lug all the reasons I love my stuff and friends right to the passageway of transition. Who knows, maybe all those quantum folks are right - maybe I can take it all with me. And if I can’t? Well, who’s to tell?

Fredrick Zydek Bio (05/05/09) Fredrick Zydek is the author of eight collections of poetry. T’Kopechuck: the Buckley Poems is forthcoming from Winthrop Press later this year. Formerly a professor of creative writing and theology at the University of Nebraska and later at the College of Saint Mary, he is now a gentleman farmer when he isn’t writing. He is the editor for Lone Willow Press. His work has appeared in The Antioch Review, Cimmaron Review, The Hollins Critic, New England Review, Nimrod, Poetry, Prairie Schooner, Poetry Northwest, Yankee, and others. He is the recipient of the Hart Crane Poetry Award, the Sarah Foley O’Loughlen Literary Award and others.

Nothing Carol Ann Raftery She did what he wanted. He judges her. He alludes to what she meant to him. The word is nothing. She lies in the coffin he built for her. God, why have you forsaken her? Why have you abandoned her? She forgives. She forgives him, and reaches for him, and he takes her forgiveness. It means nothing to him. He throws her forgiveness upon the wind. He throws her back into the earth. Kicks her and claws her, laughs at her, spits upon her. Each time she tries to rise, he lands another blow upon her heart. The heart shatters. The tears come. There is no one to see, no one to care, no kind words, no arms to comfort her. She wraps her own arms around herself. She seeks refuge in an empty shell. Her heart is not only broken, it is missing. The tormented heart has flown to heaven to find refuge with the angels. Yet the tears still come, washing over her. In torrents, in waves. While she sits below, in hell, with no one but herself. She is alone. She is damaged. She is broken. She is nothing.

Aunt Rena Brenda Kay Ledford The smile does not leave you. Your black eyes still sparkle. It is your past that fades. You forget gardening, the feel of dirt sifting through your fingers, picking vine-ripe tomatoes, gathering peaches in your apron and making a pie for supper. You forget kneading dough, the smell of biscuits baking in the oven, drinking ice-cold water gushing from the spring at Shewbird Mountain. You clap your hands, sing hymns when the church comes to the Care Center. You gaze at Uncle Bill who slips you candy bars, and cannot remember his name.

Night Job Howard Giskin I’d arrive at 11:00 p.m. with a book settle in and make the rounds surveying retarded babies in cribs some with hair lips no one bothered to repair because they were expected to die I was twenty oblivious to the finer points of death yet still I wondered the grotesque: excuses for God’s mistakes bodies with souls the night was silent only stars, the moon the scent of pine in autumn’s first touch of coolness.

I think her name was Shelly. Randy Medeiros The Following Is The Written Confession Of, Albert Hampton III. It Was Found In A Safe Deposit Box In The Bank Of Arizona One Week After His Death. Although I am a few months past my 79th birthday, it was not until the resent weeks I felt my mind wandering away from me. They say the average male life expectancy is only 80 or 90 years, so I think it best I get this out of me before it is too late. I have managed to beat the mind warp of Alzheimer᾿s for this long, but soon it will consume me just as it had my Mother and Father. I may never have to deal with the dementia before my final day, and I could take this with me to my grave, but somehow I don᾿t think that would be fair. I was a well respected man in my time, have been to this day, and am not sorry to have that come to an end. The statute of limitations may protect me should I choose to release this now, but it is something I am not willing to risk. After my passing this will be found in my safe deposit box along with all things connected to my last will and testament. As I said before, it᾿s only fair. I should not be allowed to keep my respect in death. I was a monster. I am a monster. And, I am sorry. To my darling Andrea. I beg you, never stop loving me. # It was shortly after the birth of my second son that I began visiting prostitutes. I was not proud of myself, but a man has urges. My wife᾿s sexual drive had dwindled down to nothing, and I saw no change in the future. I was wrong. I thought the two of us would never embrace each other again the way we had when we created our first two children together. It was stupid of me to think that way, I know that now. But that changes nothing. I thought I was smart in the beginning. Never taking a mistress, and only giving into my sin once a week. Faking extra work at the warehouse, setting up the surveillance system to record images of select areas so I could sneak into the back lot unseen started after the first week. Procuring street girls from different areas each week and never repeating an encounter inside of a month᾿s time to keep myself from being known as a regular came after the third. Everything I did worked out fine for the first few months. Around the third month is when things changed for me. The ratio of suitable girls died down. Although there were enough for me to keep my rotation moving, some of the girls available to fill the open slots were deemed unsuitable. Even for a monster like me. I found myself traveling beyond the state line to find new women. It lasted only two months because it became too risky. Although I protected my self from disease, that does not mean what I was doing was safe. Not by anyone᾿s standards. I found myself taking women to truck stops, hotels, dark alleys, and once behind a dumpster that belonged to a convenience store. The travel was also a risk. My wife may have one day noticed the extra mileage on my car, or extra gas usage. She never did, but she could have. If not for these things, I may have never met her. I could have avoided everything, including the years of sleepless nights and dreams of constant rain. No. That is untrue. I can not try to blame anything that happened on anyone except myself. To call what happened an action of circumstance, fate, coincidence, misadventure, bad luck, or anything else, is to lie to no one but myself. That is unnecessary, and foolish, therefore I refuse to do so. The lying comes to an end today. I spent a week away from my indulgences, but still continued the farce of late night work after realizing that out of state, was out of the question. I thought, at the time, that by taking a week off I could train myself to indulge in smaller quantities. Wean myself away from my problem. It would give me a better alibi should I need one, and give me a healthier variety of women. It was a ridicules logic, yet somehow still sound. That week I drove by some of the usual pick up spots, and found that I had three women to choose from on my next outing. In my mind, I had already chosen the girl, and I would pick her up on the following Thursday. This never happened. Although the girl I had pre-selected was available, I found myself driving past her that rainy Thursday. There was a new girl in the area. One I had never seen. One I could never imagine falling into that kind of lifestyle. One of such beauty she had no business being there. And in that moment, I had to have her. Because I was not recognized as a regular, there were no territorial arguments over the new girl obtaining me as a costumer. She saw me pull my car up to the curb where she was standing under an awning, and knew why I was there. As she approached, I was so stunned by her beauty that I made no protest to her following action. The image of her curves through my rain soaked windows was nothing in comparison to the one beside me when she got into my car. For a prostitute to enter a Jon᾿s vehicle without some sort of exchange is nearly unheard of. But that is what she did. And I could find no words to argue. I drove away. We spoke of price, and request, and she seemed to handle the negotiations as a natural. By my experience, she was very professional. With few words spoken, we both understood that the place was behind a warehouse, the act was sex, and the price was fifty dollars. I was very excited. Noticing my state, the girl giggled. I had no problem with her laughter. Like the rest of her, it was wonderful. We made small talk. As often as I could I stole glances at her body. She was perhaps five feet tall, slender, white, supple, and dripping wet. Her skin tight tee-shirt was transparent, and the bra beneath it as well. I was pretending not to notice these things when she commented on my wedding ring. She said I was a kind looking man, and polite as well. She said a man like me should be at home with his wife. What she said was not to be taken as an insult. I know that. Her tone had been polite, and she only meant to point out that a man such as myself should be content with his home life, and that in itself drove me to the edge. We had been pulling behind the warehouse at that particular moment, and it was too late for me to turn back. The sound of her innocence, her honesty, drove me mad. I had never been that turned on in my existence, and have not been since. Her eyes met mine and she saw the animal inside of me. I had yet to approach her, but she had already begun her protest. She said she had changed her mind, and was sorry. She said she could walk back to her spot. She said the rain didn᾿t bother her, and a man like me should go home. At those words, I lunged forward. She screamed and pleaded. I told her not to worry, I would be finished quick, and even pay her double. My pants were open, my underwear down. I reached for her panties beneath her denim skirt and that᾿s when she blurted out her age. She was crying, and she spoke quickly. I heard none of what she had to say until much later. She said she had just turned sixteen. She ran away from home, and had been making her way to Vegas by giving truck drivers and random motorists blow jobs and nothing more. She had never had sex before, not for a ride, not even for cash, and she only agreed to my offer because I looked kind. She said she wanted someone like myself to turn her into a professional before Vegas, but had now changed her mind and wanted out of the deal. At that, my arousal doubled. She fought hard at first. I was simply too strong for her. In the confines of my car I was able to pin her elbows with my own so she was never able to lay a hand on me. I curled both hands around her neck, and managed to thrust my penis through her underwear in my excitement. It took several thrusts to break the material of her panties, and I had finished once before ever having entered her, but still I continued until I reached a second climax. By that time, as short as it was, she was already dead. I believe it was shock that killed her, not strangulation. I also believe that she could have still been alive, or at least within the range of rescue, before I began the disposal. I may have been able to revive her had I tried. I may have crushed her wind pipe beyond repair. Some things will never be known. I panicked. There was an instant before I finished when I knew she was dead, and that᾿s what brought on my finale. I sat up and turned my body away, weeping hysterically. I cannot say for sure how much time passed, but eventually I was able to look back at the crime I had committed. Seeing her lifeless body, blood and semen running from her crotch down the seat and onto the carpet below, threw my body into a twist from my insides out. I managed to open my door before the vomiting began, but once it started it was hard to stop. I fell out of my car and into the rain in the process. My pants and underwear had come down to my ankles, and as I tried to stand they tripped me. I fell into my diluted puddle of bile and stayed there for a while, still weeping. I wish I could say falling into my own mess was a justified punishment, but nothing can absolve me from my following actions, as well as those that came before. I managed to get to my feet and dress myself. I stood there for a while in the rain, contemplating my next actions. I had to close the door of my car when I realized the dome light was on, illuminating my crime. A great deal of solutions poured through my mind in those moments, but only one of them stuck. The thought of calling the authorities came and went like a flash of lightning. Burying the corpse would be to easily traced. Large bodies of water were few and far between in my area. It seemed like the only logical option for me was to burn the body. My warehouse was well equipped for the job. It may still be, but I have not paid it a visit in many years. Once I was able to retire, finding excuses to stay away were very easy to come by. Although many would disbelieve the fact that a stone countertop business is ideal for body disposal, I can tell you different. Wet saws, grinders, torches for building a-frames, chemicals that burn just as hot as the flames that await me in damnation, slabs of stone that can withstand intense temperatures, industrial drainage, and traces of blood all over from work related accidents. The solution to my escaping prosecution was owned, and run, by me. I had no need to turn of the security system. I knew every nook and cranny that the cameras covered, and avoided them appropriately. There was a single angle that caught shadows and light from the fire, but I doctored them with single frame pictures the following day and that was that. My office was equipped with a roll out bed, shower, a refrigerator with snacks and booze, change of clothes, and completely independent from the security system. My alibi was simple. I spent the night in my office after a long night of paperwork. I looked ill the following day due to ιtoo many drinks while I workedι, which is also why I stayed at the office. ᾸDrinking and driving in the rain is hazardous,Ᾱ I said on the following day. In the far right corner of the building, one of the exhaust fans had been broken when my foreman crashed into it with our forklift. The fans are four by four, and start at the ground. This one was still intact, but the frame had separated from the building. I moved it aside, and brought the body in through there. I had parked my car beside the fan, and used the girl᾿s shirt to clean her and the seat before bringing her out of the rain. Inside, I hoisted her onto my shoulder, and brought her to the wet saw table. The saw hung from a boom arm, and at the time was manually operated. The table itself had a swivel beneath it to achieve specific angles for cutting, so I moved it aside to expose the drain. Hanging the girl by her ankles was not easy, but in my younger years, not impossible either. I hung her from the saw arm, and then opened her veins. I left her to hang and bleed while I made other preparations. Later, if any investigator came along with chemicals and lights like on television, I would tell them the tale of Bruce Campbell loosing an entire hand to that saw not six months prior. While she bled, I constructed a stone table using scrap slabs and a few a-frames. I drilled a hole in the table᾿s center because I did not know what would happen to her fat or other bodily fluids during the burning. It was a good call on my part. I set the table up beside one of the exhaust fans, and managed to run it without turning on all the electricity to the building. The localized supply of power was also enough for a hand held grinder. I returned to the wet saw, to see if her blood was drained. Seeing her pale, bloodless body hanging from the saw arm, did something to me. How I could ever be turned on by something that gruesome is beyond me, but it happened. I turned my back on the dead girl, and masturbated. After hosing down the wet saw area, I brought her body to the stone table, and turned it to ashes. I had to relight the fire several times, but after several hours, she was gone. I had set our clothing atop the fire, and had to grind her bones in the nude. I was erect while I worked, but did not indulge again. I collected the zippers and buttons from the leftovers, and threw them away along with her personal belongings (not many) later that week by wrapping them in a fast food bag, and tossing them into the waste bin outside of the restaurant. After collecting the ashes and bone dust in a spare bucket, I went to work scraping the fat residue from the table. I had another spare bucket beneath the hole in the stone table, and it had collected some evidence. It did not fill the bucket, but what had fallen in was a mixture of hot liquid, ash, and unidentifiable chunks of the girl. I cleaned the stone table as best I could, but could not hide the fact that it had been used to burn something for a long period of time. I broke it into tiny pieces, and added it to the scrap pile that was ready to be removed the following day. The ashes and bone went into random places in the dust pile that was also to be removed on the same day. All that remained was a shower, and the bucket from beneath the table. I disposed of the buckets content the only way I knew how. I have never been able to eat chili since. After putting everything back in its place, I went to my office, showered, wept, and had a few drinks before finally falling asleep. I dreamt of a world of rain. It is the only nightmare I have ever had that can be connected to that night. The water in the streets collects and flows. The news shows unstoppable rain storms all over the world with no sign of coming to an end. It᾿s such a beautiful nightmare. I don᾿t know if it will ever stop raining. No one ever came looking for the girl. I could have buried her out back, and none would have been the wiser. I could have buried her out back, and left something for her family to morn. I think her name was Shelly.

what is veganism?

A vegan (VEE-gun) is someone who does not consume any animal products. While vegetarians avoid flesh foods, vegans don’t consume dairy or egg products, as well as animal products in clothing and other sources.

why veganism?

This cruelty-free lifestyle provides many benefits, to animals, the environment and to ourselves. The meat and dairy industry abuses billions of animals. Animal agriculture takes an enormous toll on the land. Consumtion of animal products has been linked to heart disease, colon and breast cancer, osteoporosis, diabetes and a host of other conditions.

so what is vegan action?

We can succeed in shifting agriculture away from factory farming, saving millions, or even billions of chickens, cows, pigs, sheep turkeys and other animals from cruelty.

We can free up land to restore to wilderness, pollute less water and air, reduce topsoil reosion, and prevent desertification.

We can improve the health and happiness of millions by preventing numerous occurrences od breast and prostate cancer, osteoporosis, and heart attacks, among other major health problems.

A vegan, cruelty-free lifestyle may be the most important step a person can take towards creatin a more just and compassionate society. Contact us for membership information, t-shirt sales or donations.

vegan action

po box 4353, berkeley, ca 94707-0353

510/704-4444

MIT Vegetarian Support Group (VSG)

functions:

* To show the MIT Food Service that there is a large community of vegetarians at MIT (and other health-conscious people) whom they are alienating with current menus, and to give positive suggestions for change.

* To exchange recipes and names of Boston area veg restaurants

* To provide a resource to people seeking communal vegetarian cooking

* To provide an option for vegetarian freshmen

We also have a discussion group for all issues related to vegetarianism, which currently has about 150 members, many of whom are outside the Boston area. The group is focusing more toward outreach and evolving from what it has been in years past. We welcome new members, as well as the opportunity to inform people about the benefits of vegetarianism, to our health, the environment, animal welfare, and a variety of other issues.

The Center for Renewable Energy and Sustainable Technology

The Solar Energy Research & Education Foundation (SEREF), a non-profit organization based in Washington, D.C., established on Earth Day 1993 the Center for Renewable Energy and Sustainable Technology (CREST) as its central project. CREST’s three principal projects are to provide:

* on-site training and education workshops on the sustainable development interconnections of energy, economics and environment;

* on-line distance learning/training resources on CREST’s SOLSTICE computer, available from 144 countries through email and the Internet;

* on-disc training and educational resources through the use of interactive multimedia applications on CD-ROM computer discs - showcasing current achievements and future opportunities in sustainable energy development.

The CREST staff also does “on the road” presentations, demonstrations, and workshops showcasing its activities and available resources.

For More Information Please Contact: Deborah Anderson

dja@crest.org or (202) 289-0061

this page was downloaded to your computer