The Day the Elephant Clock Arrived by Andrew Wible

“Die, Fly! For Being a Fly!” By Leya Lynnette (aka Sara Century! International cult superstar) A Series of True Events

This morning I woke up, tried to make coffee, and found that the coffeemaker was broken. All my clothes are dirty, there is a crick in my neck, and I don't have any weed. What a mess. I get up early and write because it is all that I can think to do. I don’t find it useful but I do find it distracting. Numb, numb, numb! Dumb, dumb, dumb! Today, I have to go to work for people that only bought their own business so that they could feel like they were better than somebody. I have to go to work for people that are both admitted drug abusers that insinuate drug use on my part to be the cause if I forget any small part of the long and ridiculous tirades they assault me with daily. I have to go to work for people that judge me. Their business is one that was built on top of cardboard. Dog grooming. I wonder what would happen if we sent all the money people pay to groom their dogs to starving people in third world countries. Would they earn enough cash to storm the US and kill us all? Let's give it a try. I mean, just for something different. You never know... and, at the bottom of this totem pole, you find a squat version of me, leering at you. This is not real.

This is not real. I have to escape.

Humanity has infested everywhere that could have once been considered beautiful. My world is made of cardboard and metal. See these sights of man... I have abandoned love, sex, truth, beauty... I have abandoned happiness. I don't see the point of trying so hard for anything. I work enough, I can't go around caring if I get laid or not on top of it all. I want instant passion, instant love, then, I would like to be left alone. Too much to ask? Well, fuck you, because so is everything else, in my opinion.

I can love, too, you know. Allow me to tell you a tale of love. I met a woman at the Greyhound station. She was older, by which I mean, old-ish. Old, like an older version of my mother, but less beautiful. This woman, whose name I don't know... we can call her Nancy, being as I hate that fucking name, and I'd like to know at least one Nancy I didn't despise, so it might as well be her. Anyway, as I said, she is not a woman to be judged by standards of physical attraction, but happens to be beautiful anyway. To me, I mean. She is to me. Her ankles are made of metal, but I'm getting ahead of myself.

Back to beginning-type scenarios: I am at a Greyhound station in Seattle. If you examine this situation thoroughly and go even further back, you would find that I relocated to Seattle based on a previous desire to, and because I joined a band in Seattle, and because I was in love with a girl that lived miles and miles away from there. To the north. I mean, she was closer to Seattle than to Denver. I didn’t really move because of her, but I suppose her presence made me feel like it was a better idea to go than it really was. At the time, I thought for certain that we would end up falling in love and spending our lives together. No, really, I did, I thought that about someone. Obviously, down the road, I pushed the situation into being an ugly one. She hates me now, of course. On a related note, I am a fuck-up. Not to say you’re not, but I mean it, I am a fucking fuck-up, and I always will be.

There is this woman. Rocking back and forth on the floor of the Greyhound station. She has her headphones on. She’s listening to a tape of some hack bastard evangelist. I know, because I can hear it. She hums, and mumbles along with the tape. “Help us, Jesus! We love you, Jesus! We need your strength. We can’t do it alone! We can’t do it alone.” Her husband is next to her, with headphones of his own. They are listening to the same tape, and he agrees with her wholeheartedly.

I don’t know if this is scary or depressing, or weird, or what it is. I honestly have no idea what to think of it. These two young women from Kenya are standing in front of a singing fish display. If you push a button, it goes crazy and sings “Don’t Worry, Be Happy.” They are absolutely fucking delighted. I am forced into smiling even though I despise everything about my situation (which is as follows; girl, band, job all ruined by this time, heading back to Denver in disgrace, heartbroken, friendless, and devoid of prospects. Considering heroin addiction as a viable option). Because these two girls don’t speak English everyone assumes that they are stupid. When it is time for us all to get in line and board buses, they get jostled around by a few white American fools that shout in their faces (because shouting makes you make more sense, you know) about how they’re in the wrong line. So they move a few times, only to discover they were in the right line to begin with. Oh, the horror. The girls stare at these guys as if they were completely stupid, because… well, they are. I start laughing, and the girls both smile at me incredulously. We all share a good eye roll at their expense. They vanish away, off to New York. Enjoy the next seven days of bus travel, ladies, and farewell...

There is a woman with prosthetic legs in front of me. Her name is Nancy. She has the oddest smile I’ve ever seen. It’s interesting, to look down and see two pieces of thin bended wire in place of ankles. I like her, but I wonder if she’s like this all the time. Kind. Soft-spoken. Beautiful. If so, she’s the sweetest person I’ve ever met. We fall into conversation. She says the ankles creep people out a lot, and people tend to avoid eye contact because they don‘t want to make a big deal of it or whatever. I ask her what she thinks of riding the bus. She says that she prefers trains, because they have specific cars reserved for people that are handicapped. She says she could take off her legs and lay on her side, and that there were other people with prosthetics, too. I prefer trains, too, even though this guy kept waking me up and talking to me the whole trip last time I was on one. Anyway, I love her. She’s awesome. I’ll never see her again, but she’s my friend, for sure. Later, I read about a society, or group, or weird religious sect that believes people missing parts of their bodies are missing parts of their souls. Thereby, they are all working for Satan. Of course, this makes perfect sense. No wonder this woman is pretending not to know which line to stand in, and no wonder I find her so endearing! The dark prince takes many forms…

Painting a portrait of city life... painting a portrait of morality. Telling you a tale with a moral at the ending. I had deceived you into believing you were here for rants and insanity, but now, the surprise ending jumps out and bites you on the face. It is a waste of time, so don't bother. Get your refunds, and back away. Leave it.

The Music Box by Suvi Mahonen and Luke Waldrip

Pangs of pain deep within my chest move caustically up my throat causing my mouth to fill with bitter saliva. I swallow and swallow again but I cannot get rid of the taste. Why didn’t I remember to put a glass of water on my bedside table? I could get up and get one but it has taken me a lot of shifting to discover this position where the discomfort in my back is eased.

I sigh.

Raising my head I look at the clock. Damn. Only one thirteen. The full moon’s illumination is deceiving; I’d hoped dawn was closer than this. I lower my head back down again on my mound of three pillows. Closing my eyelids I try to empty my mind and will myself back to sleep. It doesn’t work. Thoughts of what to name our baby if it’s a girl keep recycling. We have four names on the short list, each of equal weighting. I try and remind myself that it is a decision that is sometimes best left until after the baby is born.

I hear a possum outside hissing. The sound seems to alter Adrian’s phase of sleep. His breathing, rarely silent, becomes somewhat irregular and more pronounced—bordering on a snore.

I turn my head and stare through the open bedroom door into the dim landing beyond, then close my eyes again. Counting backwards from a hundred I tell myself to calm; for once it seems to help. By the time I get to thirty I feel myself sinking into that semiconscious state of almost being asleep. My body relaxes, I can’t feel the doona, my mind begins to drift.

The baby gives me a sharp kick under my diaphragm and I startle with pain. No point retrying—I get out of bed.

In the downstairs bathroom I fill the cup with water and drink. From the mirror the pallid face of a woman with dark pouches under her eyes stares back at me.

I turn away.

The tiles are cold so I go to the walk-in wardrobe for my slippers, then on through to the spare bedroom that does not contain a bed, where yesterday’s laundry hangs. Two work shirts on doorknobs, the remainder on a wooden clothes horse. Entering the open dining area I navigate by the light of the moon coming in through the French windows and move into the kitchen where I go to the fridge. My heartburn has lessened now that I am on my feet. I open the door and stand in the cool air, scanning the shelves in the bright bluish light. Sour cream, strawberries, milk, eggs, salad leaves. Nothing that piques my fancy. Despite this I remain here with the door open until my Life’s Good fridge begins its protest beep.

I let the door swing closed.

It now seems extra dark after the fridge’s glow so I switch on the bench lights. My partially read novel rests on the dining table—Ben Okri’s The Famished Road. I open it and sit down. I read several pages but can’t focus on the narrative. Closing it I look up at the clock on the mantle. It is a torsion pendulum that Adrian bought from an antique store. Over eighty years old yet it still keeps good time. It is a complementary companion standing there next to my great grandmother’s music box. Adrian is keen on his clock, but its heritage for him is recent, unlike the music box, which has been a matriarchal heirloom of my family for over a century. My mother gave it to me when I turned twenty-one.

Pushing my chair back I get to my feet, make my way to the fireplace and reach for the box. Although it is compact it weights in my hands. I trace my thumb along the line of raised silver stars that decorate its side. Above and below the stars the weaved pattern of a braid runs along the rims. On the surface of the lid is the outline of a clown, his face painted an ivory white, his nose and lips red. The colours have faded over the years, old lead-based paint spread on a surface of lead. I unhook the little clasp at the front and slowly raise the lid. The hinges tense as they resist the upward movement, then give a faint squeak before opening fully. Inside is a green velvet disc on which four pairs of animal figures stand—ponies, monkeys, elephants, lions. Tiny dull specs show on the animals’ backs and legs where the paint has flecked off. The velvet beneath them is worn as if grazed. To the right of the disc runs a shallow depression, designed for the key which is resting there.

Outside I hear a noise. I press my forehead to the glass pane of the back door and look out: all I can see is the monochromatic shapes of trees, plant beds, the garden bench and the rose arch. The sound comes again—I think it’s an owl.

Looking back at the box I pick up the key and gently insert it into the slot at the side. It turns stiffly. The spring in the mechanism feels taut after eight turns and I let go.

The animals begin to move. They follow each other around in a clockwise direction to the notes of the box’s tinkly tune. I hum as they march past me.

Clunk.

The box goes silent. The animals stop moving.

I twist the key’s handle; it pivots without resistance.

I turn and turn and turn the loose key but the box won’t wind again.

Gas Giant by Rhian Waller

The walkway knitted itself down to the surface and Bazil Drin followed the shining threads. His breath, plastic-scented and dry, caught in his throat. When he did finally breathe out the moisture misted on the dome of his helmet. His heart rate threatened to exceed acceptable parameters, and he hoped that the life support mechanisms in his suit wouldn’t kick in. It would be mortifying to interrupt the historic moment with the sudden jettisoning of waste that accompanied panic/first aid mode. His gloved hand tightened around its precious load.

Practically every channel was showing Bazil’s slow descent onto the planet surface. The spacecraft behind him bristled with cameras.

Earth’s envoy had to suppress a tremor as he squinted up at the massive, amorphous clumps. He knew that most of the Bletherfeldians would be tuned in to the event as well. The aliens exchanged particles with each other on a constant basis. With those airy fragments, they also swapped information.

That was just one of the many physiological differences that made communicating with the people of Bletherfeld VII so difficult. And the initial problems with communication inevitably lead to what it normally leads to: war.

*****

The human offensive was led by erstwhile commander-in-chief, Geo. Earth III carpet-bombed the newly contacted planet, which did very little good at all since most of the incendiaries were absorbed by the sludgy miasma of the planet surface. Bletherfeld retaliated by releasing a number of silent-but-deadly biological attacks on Earth III, which were eventually survived through the adoption of defensive nose pegs and air freshener.

An armistice was declared and Bazil was chosen to carry the sign of peace

*****

He left the airlock of the Dove. While the craft appear to be constructed of tinfoil, packing crates and twine, it was still a comforting form in a shapeless world. He felt irrationally glad of his helmet. It was a barrier which stopped him from leaking out and joining the murk.

He stopped walking before his toes reached the walkway lip. Making sure that he didn’t crush the stick he held in his clumsy, padded fingers, he began to sign rapidly in new semaphore.

[We, the people of Earth, greet you, the people of Bletherfeld VII]

In front of him, scraps of dark fog drifted down, a drifting tendril curled around heavy-bellied clouds. Then, with a trick of the filtered light, Bazil see the rough shape of a man traced in moisture, mist and methane. It developed stumpy arms and began to sign back.

[We, the people of Bletherfeld VII greet you, the emissary of the people of Earth.]

There was an awkward pause as Bazil tried desperately to remember the rest of the speech. His eyes rolled up to the heavens. It had been so much easier in the old days of space travel, when one had only needed to improvise a catchy sound bite instead of having to memorise a long and highly formal series of arm-waves. With relief, he remembered the sequence. Peace and Prosperity and all that.

His arms flew open in an enthusiastic flourish and, to his everlasting horror, the gift he had so carefully nursed through the dark between the stars flew from his fingers. The slender branch twisted elegantly in the air, performed a forward flip and landed on the planet surface.

Bazil lunged for it. Then he remembered where he was, wobbled alarmingly for a moment and then staggered back to safety.

Through the tinny speakers, he heard the faintest gurgle as the stick up-ended. And then it began to slide, taking the delicate white flowers, the smooth rounded leaves and the payload of olives down into the soupy world below.

‘Uh…’ said Bazil. His heart stopped. His brain went into meltdown. His suit went into overdrive. A small flap opened at the back and released a stream of effluvia in preparation for medical repairs.

[You have dropped the symbol of peace?] signed the gas giant. [Mind not. Symbols are symbols only. Peace is important. We welcome your presence.]

‘Yeah,’ agreed Bazil, who in the moment of crisis, had forgotten that his hosts did not possess ears and read the wind instead. [I mean, yes. Of course. I extend to you the hand of friendship and…] The human and the gas giant continued to complete the speech, and it was only at the end that Bazil glanced down at the uncertain ground.

[What is your planet made of?] he signed carefully.

The gas giant replied. Bazil was a pilot, not a scientist, but he was a keen gardener in his spare time. He recognised some of the ingredients from his bag of compost.

[Phosphorous, Nitrogen, Oxygen and Potassium] the giant finished.

[I thought so,] signed Bazil. Then he turned around and began to walk back up toward the Dove. Behind him the walkway retracted and the engines fired up with a metallic whine.

The Bletherfeldians were taken aback by this. Then their spokescloud found that a something had taken root in its foot. It was too late to do anything. The human spacecraft took off and reached terminal velocity as the vine sent strands tunnelling through the nutrient-rich planet.

Bazil escaped the pull of Bletherfeldian gravity. The olive plant flourished, tightened its root system in a stranglehold.

As he sat in his tin can, overwhelming guilt washed over Bazil. The accident was unforgivable. He would forever be vilified, remembered for the extinction of the first species that Earth III had managed to make peace with. He would be a villain.

Within moments the planet was imploding, even as a million leaves blossomed into a brief, leathery-green supernova. Then, the nutrients exhausted, the giant olive tree began to wither and die. In the end, nothing was left except a dried out faggot of twigs, and a few sad wisps left by the evaporating Bletherfeldians. A ball of tumbleweed rolled across the desert between the stars.

Bazil flew on and felt terrible.

Several star weeks later, Earth's envoy climbed out of his pod to the sound of applause and a rain of tickertape. As he was led up to the podium, President Geo declared the event a resounding victory, the first Earth III had ever achieved against an intergalactic foe. He shook Bazil's sweaty hand, spoke about espionage and declared that the astronaught was a war hero. Dazed, Bazil though that the Comnmander-in-Chief had a very short memory. He was about to say so when the great man leaned in, grinned and whispered: 'smile, pretend and survive. It's what I do every day.'

In The Kitchen by Zack Kopp

Thunder rattled against the door: fuckaNUCKaNUCKANUCKANUCKANUCK . . .
fuckaNUCKaNUCKANUCKANUCKANUCKANUCKANUCK . . . The closer Harry came to the door of his destiny, it was as though everything that had ever happened was happening that very moment between his ears—this is the closest to describing it his blueprints had ever gotten—as if every sound throughout time had all been condensed into that one moment right between his ears—It was very loud. The closer he got to the scientific trophy chalice that had always and never been his goal and destination, the less sure and all the more certain he was of dropping his lunch inside right away when he got there. it would be the perfect symbolic gesture. It was convenient, what he needed to do. Then he took three or four more of the blue tablets and was somewhere else suddenly, moving his blueprints into the circle of light from a gooseneck lamp. Tiny insects kept running away across his desk all the time, he kept noticing them racing off in the corners of his vision, but they were always gone by the time he raised his head. He was a kind man. He never wanted to smash any insects. He’d been raised in the city, but Harry was a nature boy, deep down, so whenever he saw the bugs running away like that it triggered his natural hunting instinct and made him want to run off through the fields, barking like a dog.

These days discovery seemed farther away but closer than ever before all at once. Maybe that’s what it meant to be a scientist, the price you had to pay. In the daytime, Mrs. Floyd was his lover and his wife, under cover of darkness at night he examined her in trance and gave her tests designed to highlight and display every facet of her waking consciousness, including the timing of her unconscious facial reactions to different stimuli. As a trusted agent with prior expertise in this sub-stratum of bio-research who had the added advantage of being the subject’s husband, Harry Floyd had been chosen to administer the Thunder Machine treatment. It was all part of married life. The air quality was good—the last few days had seen unseasonal rain and cold drizzling dark nights and he thought it was scary since possibly nature had gone out of sync, you know what they say about Global Warming, but when an old friend asked him off-handedly one day, "Haven't you been loving this weather?" the whole question knocked him off balance, just one little question. He noticed the air had a quality of freshness from all the rain, which was good for nature. And he could have said, "Well, you know, I've just become kind of closeted off from the world in a way, so I don't really notice the weather too much, or else I separate myself from it too much, until it becomes like this alien thing, but I still love nature," or something like that. The truth was he’d been too busy doing his research and trying to perfect the experiment. It took a whole lot to be a scientist. But he couldn’t say that, so he said something else. In all that time he kept getting closer and farther away. It was a kind of treadmill that went nowhere in particular, but just kept going.

The “wild card” was a chip whose behavior could never be expected to go by any standards so it was impossible to predict what it might do at any time. Research done with the wild card was very dangerous, and Harry had drawn the “wild card” in his latest version of the Thunder Machine, which he had to admit gave the daring young scientist he was a deep thrill, lounging back in his flexible armchair with a drink in his hand and a straw in his teeth, drifting into another metaphorical scenario from clubland.

In Harry’s mind, A teenage girl with a long sloping face and the eyes of an eel slithered into the room, giving it a bump of her shapely HOOBA-GOONGA hips as she bongo bounced into the room with a flopping harmonica stuck in her gunbelt which was loaded with hot spicy sausage and cannisters of explosive powder. Everybody was looking at Harry. In a flash he threw down his "wild card" when no one was expecting him to.

The dealer raised his eyebrows. There was only one chance. "Senyor," he began in a well-oiled voice.

"Yes?"

“You see that restaurant over there, with the green flowing fountain?"

"Sure, I see it."

"With the beagle outside, with the long, howling eyes, and the starving breath of getting sick last night?"

"Well, I see a dog, but you can't say it's—“

But the sorrowful man seemed intent on expressing himself. "Senyor," he implored.

"Go on."

"You sing a song of the sweetest loneliness. One time I heard you sing it way down in the teenage bongo swamp of the psychedelic music, beating on your bongo drums and wearing a loincloth. You got X-ray vision, cappy."

"Thanks."

Not again, thought the dry, reserved cientist. It was true in his youth he’d been sort of a hell-raiser, sure, but those days were behind him now. “Not again,” he said, giving the man five dollars.

“Very good, senyor, I'll bring your car around.”

Those were his wild years, back then. Soon enough his wife Sylvie came along, then his little son Jerry, now teenage, with his metal detector and his baseball hat on backwards all the time. He made an ass of himself again at the big family picnic last week, circumnavigating the metaphorical park of their lives, bumping into relatives and friends of the family, obliviously searching for buried treasure from the big bank heist he figured there must have been in that park once a long time ago. "I know those crooks stuck it around here somewhere. I KNOW they did!" he screamed.

Mr. and Mrs. Floyd abandoned Jerry to his several pathetic obsessions as a matter of protocol, but for Harry it was strictly a pose. In fact he’d been trying to kill little Jerry for years, but this time a huge drop of sweat had gathered right at the tip of Jerry's nose, which he hadn’t counted on. Without thinking, Jerry reached for the bread-basket as expected. "I'll have one of these!" he announced to the gathered apparently heedless adults. Lucky for him he opened that bread-basket right when he did, just in time for the huge blob of sweat to drop right off his nose and land on the back of a rare Lampilede spider which Harry had brought specially to the forest and stashed in the basket himself for this occasion, obliterating the arachnid before it could strike.

Oh, good goddammit! Harry fumed. His whole plot foiled in an instant! It would have been nice to have little Jerry out of the way, but let the chips fall where they might, he wasn’t willing to chance it again. Each new complicated plot drained out more juice from him, anticipating and mentally counteracting all the outcomes was wearing him out these days, and Jerry always seemed to slip away unharmed in the end, so perhaps it wasn’t meant to be. Ah, back then, he reminisced. The curve of Sylvie’s chin always trembled slightly whenever she realized something. Even the smallest of epiphanies, like, "Oh yeah, I put the keys over HERE," could induce these little spasms, so a highly-trained expert in physical cues and body language, as Harry was after his years at the Body Control Language Institute, could see right through her the moment she said anything.

Her chin alone told volumes about when Mrs. Floyd was being deceptive or forthright in any of her exclamations or statements. He’d noticed it long before the treatment began in earnest. Once Sylvie had realized he was trying to trick her into making an incriminating statement in one of their rare arguments, and her chin started trembling, another time she saw a way out for herself, chin trembling . . . closer scrutiny in the last week with classified bio-instruments, including the Thunder Machine, had revealed this as an actual pathology, but only in the curve of that smooth moist muscle, as if the central bony wedge held all her darkest secrets.

Is her face gonna catch on fire? Harry squinted at Sylvie’s prone form. Even a trained behavioral expert like him could never be sure—but—her face, oh my God her FACE is on fire! It's gonna catch on fire—It—wait, no, just a trick of the light. The job. My nerves. His hands were shaking.

He covered Sylvie with a sheet, took off his lab coat, turned off the light and stepped out of the room into hallways and hallways of silence that echoed and amplified his footsteps as he clattered down the stairs and back out into the parking lot. The caretakers would bring Mrs. Floyd back home right away—she’d already be there by the time he got back. Those caretakers were faster than light, they came from the walls. The next morning the Floyds would wake up and drink some more coffee, looking out the kitchen window at the birdbath and chirping sweetly to each other about married life. Despite his wild youth full of dreams and cocktails, sometimes Harry felt like his life was all lying to his wife and trying to love her and not let her know he was spying on her and do what he thought was right for the country, and nothing more than that, just a bunch of bullet points, but he knew there had to be more. His job at the lab was getting him down, spying on his wife was only part of it. There was more. Most of the time he spent living in his memories or the future. He sure needed new boots. With a new pair of boots he could walk tall again. He remembered a store near the highway that sold boots of all kinds and thought about that as he plodded back home through the pitted fields of mud.

He walked into the kitchen. He knew it was time for a change. After pouring himself a good slug of Old Green Nelson, Harry jingled the mixture in his pocket. Most of it was coins, but there was also lint and a couple of scraps of paper. One coin came from the year he turned eighteen. Many frolics that summer, he'd almost forgotten. There was a big show coming up, and maybe he might change his ways and invite the whole family. Of course the whole point of the production was the perfect cover for all kinds of secret activities going on behind the scenes, these activities were always going out, as they'd told him at the "Body Farm", and it might be another good place to kill young Jerry, too, come to think of it—but no, that was the old way of thinking. What the secret service needed was a new kind of janitor for the high schools, for instance, someone trained to listen, well-skilled with the haft of her mop, if need be. Stuff like that.

“You need to think about that!” he screamed silently at all the bueracrats ignoring him. If they wanted to move forward into this new reality. “My relationship to you is as nothing! There is no ‘us’. Where once you may have thought I was part of you, now I see that you are at war with what you need the most! And it’s fucking stupid! You hear me?” This was all going on in his head, not out loud. They needed things like that, ideas so complete in their subtlety they were their own camouflage, like the plan of society itself. This was steadily bothersome territory, and Harry was only one of a few trusted experts in the matter. “No, this is not just some insane fantasy of mine!” he screamed and screamed in his mind. But no one heard him. He was starting to remind himself of his teenage son Jerry. He wanted a metal detector to drain off the charge like a lightning-rod, but he didn’t have one. What that meant was time was running out, and Harry was turning into his son, but wasn't it always running out, and more and more lately Harry suspected that the whole idea of time was one more giant hoax on people by the caretakers . . . but knock on wood, he'd let the chips fall where they might. Maybe this was a chance for him to start over.

There was a pact he’d been keeping with himself ever since the Floyd family moved into that little red house on Fire-Engine Lane. It was in the back pocket of his blue jeans, written down with a number 2 pencil and signed in his own blood, age thirteen. He’d kept it in his back pocket all these years, riding along with him when he was on a bicycle for instance, sometimes flying over the ocean with him on a business trip by airplane, but always with him to remind him of his limits and his obligations to something that had gone before. He felt more like pulsating through uncontrollably into a new way of being, but not like he was falling victim to it, more like falling along with whatever was going down. Oh, but he could feel it washing over him, he could smell the sweet smell, he wanted that goddam evolution. He pulled that pact with himself right out of his back pocket and tore it up in tiny pieces, then tossed all the torn scraps of paper up over his head and did a little dance under them as if snowflakes were falling. What’ll they think about that move on Main Street? he asked himself rhetorically. Each soul came here to do a certain job. Harry turned and spun away across the room, newly assured of his remarkable purpose.

gone bad by Puma Perl

picture an old refrigerator
an icebox
it does not self-defrost
you place pans of hot water
on its rusted shelves
as you chip away
at its frigid resistance
eventually a block of ice
may collapse at your feet
if you dig too deep
a menacing hiss escapes
the familiar scent of Freon
hits the air
unmistakable ,final
broken
smells like love
gone bad

VILLAGES BY PHILIP CLARK

I had been the first person to settle on a plot of land, a lovely little vale in the Wiltshire countryside in between Bath and Chippenham around sixty years ago. Back then I was seventeen. My father had always wanted me to inherit his farm and continue the tradition of working and toiling his land without any respite, just like many of my forefathers had done, but I wasn’t interested. I had an unquenchable thirst to work relentlessly onsomething I could call mine, something I could say I’d developed from nothing, a farm of myown or even a settlement, a village maybe. That’s what I did. My father disowned me over the decision. He had said to me the night before I left that I’d been brainwashed by the fancies of literature. He had given me Knut Hamsun’s The Growth of the Soil to read as a fourteen year old. The story of Isak, a man, like him that had worked tirelessly on a farm and had accidentally developed it into quite a lucrative little empire, however the money had never phased him, all he wanted to do was work his land and provide a decent life for his family.I evidently interpreted the story differently to how my father had, and indeed how he subsequently thought I’d read into the narrative. I told him I’d grow up to be a successful landowner, he merely cursed at the suggestion and told me to “never darken his doors again.” One morning in the early hours I packed a few things up, some clothes, some food and a small array of handheld tools and I crept out whilst everybody was sleeping. My father and I never spoke to each other again. I walked for miles, until eventually I discovered a small vale, it was beautiful, it was bare, it was green and its mid-summer colour was emphasised by the blinding sun uncontaminated by the constriction of any cloud cover. It was a glorious day. I decided that that would be my own little steady rolling slope of purpose and perfection. Initially I built myself a hut; I chopped down trees and purchased corrugated metal, screws and roofingtiles from the nearby town of Corsham. When that was complete, I worked and worked and worked the land, cultivating, sowing seeds, rearing cattle for a hefty price, but keeping a couple aside for milk and cheese and constantly visiting places like Box, Neston, Easton and Notton to sell my wares. I would always consider who had called these places these ridiculous names. My labour continued for decades, practically unhindered, apart from the time I had to pay eight hundred pounds to the authorities for land rights. That was a minor drop in the ocean however considering what I have now, sixty years on, when my family and I look down from the top of the subtle vale and see a conglomeration of abodes and shops that make up a quaint little village comprising three hundred residents. And what’s more, it’s all mine. As always silly beauracracy reared its ugly head and got in the way. I had learnt that you couldn’t just name a place and that was final, instead you had to attend a kind of raffle with other landowners to determine what your land would be called. For sixty years of steady ramification of construction and small time development and, of course working the land I had always put the naming of the village on the back-burner, so despite it being a sizable village, it had no name. So today I feel nervous. I traveled here to Bristol last night and stayed in a nice hotel (I’ve got the money to bed down in lavish accommodation). Despite the nerves I had a greatnights sleep, I was overtaken by a red hot tiredness that one can only really experience in a smart hotel. Despite this I’m missing the village already. I received a letter last week giving me information about the function and the seven other participants who will be relying on a bowler hat, a screwed up piece of paper and pure chance to determine the name for their settlement. The sun isn’t out; the sky’s bruised so that only adds to my unease. I always have had a propitious character. I walk in to a small room at the council offices. I recognise two fellow landowners, Mark and Ben; we smile at each other and I sit down. My mouth is dry, my legs feel weak. Atthe head of the table is a bald guy, the official, the referee, the chief. ‘Are you Albert Crest?’ he says. I nod, swallowing no saliva. ‘Alright, we can begin,’ he says, continuing, ‘Now then, I take it you all received the letter informing you of the rules. Just to be on the safe side, I’ll re-cap. You will take it in turns to pick a name out of the hat, whatever name you get will be the name of your place. I will then write it down and it will be official. It will be sent to London and installed on thenational register. Is that clear?’Everybody nods. He continues, ‘Just to make it fair, I have your names in this hat next to me. I’ll pick a name out each time, and whoever’s name I chose will then pick a place name.’‘Here, here,’ Ben mumbles.‘We’ll begin.’ The chief enthusiastically buries his hand in the hat of people names,shuffles about a bit as if he’s felt something untoward and then picks out a piece of paper,unravels it, looks up and recites the name, ‘Jake Benedict.’ Jake, a rotund man in his fifties nervously gets out of his chair and quickly picks out a screwed up piece of paper, he straightens it out and shakes his head, despondently clutching the table. ‘Fuck’s sake, Thrushers Bush. Thrushers bastard Bush.’A couple of giggles ensue and the chief says, ‘less of your language.’ He then writes it down in his big book.Jake sits back, looking gutted. I realise for the first time where all the crap place names come from. ‘Right next, Sid Silvestre.’ For the next four people the place names are just as bad, Bishops Itchington, Ugley Green, Farfside and Cacklock. It’s not a good day. On and on the names are called out, it looks like my name will be one of the last. Ben gets called. He bites his nails and then reaches for the hat. ‘Yes, Woodstock.’ He nods his head, scanning the room. And then the chief calls out my name. I furtively hover above the hat and pick out a slip of paper; I feel the sweat gather heavily on my brow as everybody looks over, intrigued as to the next name to be confirmed. I look at it; all feeling is drained from my every limb. I sit down, putting my hand over my mouth, shaking my head, reluctant to speak, reluctant to confirm what my village will go down as in The Ordnance Survey Map of Great Britain.‘ I don’t believe it...Gastard. ’‘Is it bad?’ Mark says, still worried because he’s yet to be called out. ‘What is it, Albert?’I adroitly turn my head and snap, ‘I’ve just said it, Mark. Gastard.’ The chief writes it down, I notice a few smiles. My blood begins to boil. Mark’s the last to get called out. I pray to the good lord he gets a shit name. He takes out the one remaining slip of paper, opens it, his face showing no emotion, his face like ductile iron. I look over to him.‘What did you get?’ He lifts his head, ‘Hey?’ ‘What have you got?’‘What’s what?’ ‘Come on, don’t fuck about, you know what I’m getting at. What place name did you get?’ ‘I don’t want to say Albert, it’s not good.’ ‘Just tell us.’ Everybody agrees, eager to know what the last remaining place name is. Mark attempts to stall time by taking a sip of his drink; I snatch the piece of paper from him. My eyes widen. ‘You fucker. Little London?’ He unconvincingly screws his face up and nods slightly, ‘Bad isn’t it?’ ‘Don’t even start, yeah, don’t you dare even start.’ The chief writes it down, I look over at Mark: ‘I don’t believe it Mark, what’s your settlement, about four houses, it isn’t even a village, it’s an Hamlet and you get a name like that and I have to go back to my village of three hundred people and tell ‘em it’s called Gastard. I’m going to get lynched.’ Jake, the rotund man pipes up, ‘What about me? My settlement’s nearer a thousandand it’s called Thrushers Bush.’ I start up again, ignoring Jake’s comment, ‘Sixty years, man and boy I’ve toiled on the land, building, working every hour God sends, and for what? For it to be called Gastard.’ I get up and leave in a huff, I’m in a daze, no, it isn’t even a daze, it’s worse than that, it’s a nightmare. I walk out onto the streets, clutching with resentment the slip of paper fate evidently handed me. Sixty years I’d worked on that small pocket of rural England and now this. I feel cheated and I start crying, wondering whether I can ever bring myself to return to the village of Gastard.

gather round the marshmallows
by Puma Perl

dead animals are waiting with
bits of starch and cheese
yams topped with dextrose
vegetable gum and corn syrup

the family joins hands
each one offers a blessing
over the marshmallows, the
good-o soda cans and beer
everyone thanks god
and says I love you

the oldest brother
recites a prayer
eyes are closed
ghosts of predators
lurk beneath the table
their skeleton hands
clawing at the souls
of the survivors


THE LAST CRUCIFIXION
By Colin James

The last crucifixion
I went to was lousy.
The guy looked
as if he hadn't
eaten for weeks.
Open sores,
stupid smile
on his face.
The whole thing
was offensive.
I thought this place
had more class than that.
I just wonder,
what type of audience
are they catering to.
Time was, you could
go out and enjoy
a crucifixion with the family.
Nowadays it's all exploitation.
Someone commanding you
to buy this poster
that t-shirt.
I can't stand to see
these greedy bastards
ruin a good idea.

Baloons by Erin McKnight

Your breath secured the words in my throat; your mouth, against mine, the seal. Knotting the promise with your rubbery lips should have helped me breathe easier, but with every inhalation its falsity swelled. Even as I slept, I must have expected your assurance to burst--to expel letters across the backs of my teeth that would find meaning with my pasty tongue. So I swallowed the balloon inflated with your professions of innocence: gulped down the words that my instinct would release in hot, angry exhalations. Only when I'm on the floor, struggling to interpret my guttural sounds, do I notice you. Leaning upright in bed you wait for your confession to find my stomach's acid, before reaching for the string escaping my lips. With one tug the balloon's shriveled remains are released; yet, the persuasive words inside aren't yet fully deflated. I know, because I am still suffocating.

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