Wishing You Poverty and Chastity this Christmas

By Amber W.

“Thank you for putting together such a great package, Class,” my teacher said.

I had taken several cans of corn and green beans from our pantry to add to the adopt-a-family donation my high school class put together. Some family, right here in our own town, was going to have a brighter Christmas. The bell rang and I was officially on Winter Break. I left through the double doors and walked the half-block home.

I walked slowly, in no hurry to make it back to the house. It had undergone a horrifying transformation in the previous month. Like a beacon to spacemen, the house was lit up on all sides. Several mechanical reindeer bobbed their heads up and down in the snow. The crabapple tree boasted about a million twinkling lights. Santa, complete with motion detector, waited at the door to greet me with an ass-shaking rendition of a song telling me he was coming to town. I stood in the driveway amazed at the work my dad had done and amazed at how much I hated it.
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Black Indian

by Ryan Lind

He was black, like he had just emerged from a coal mine. Eyes wild; the whites shimmered like a set of pearls, too large for a human skull to contain. Black irises set beneath a bony outcropping mimicking a brow. He peered at my 6 year old frame silently and then retreated behind a tree in a blink. When I had mustered the courage to walk a wide circle to inspect whomever it was who hid behind the tree, to my dismay, he had disappeared. He must have wormed his way silently through the lilacs. Had I imagined him?

The tree that he hid behind nearly every time he appeared was my tree; well, one of them. Reaching the first branch was hard work, not like the old apricot tree on the other side of the property. Her branches converged low, maybe 3 feet off the ground. The apricot tree was easy to climb. Grab two branches and swing your body up against the force of your arms. My favorite jelly came from this tree.

The other tree, the one we both laid claims to, bore no fruit. Young boys are unable to identify trees without fruit or flowers. This tree shot up into the sky like a skyscraper though it had a slight lean to the East. Its bark was hard and shiny. There were wrinkles around the knots. It must have been a 10 foot climb to reach the first branch. On most climbing days I was ill-dressed for such adventures in this tree; humid Minnesota summers require shorts and tee shirts.
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From a Far Place

By T.R. Healy

His head inclined, staring idly at his watch, Komives sat near the end of
a middle row in the hospital conference room. Behind him, in a voice as blunt
as a slap across the face, he heard some guy complain that the meeting tonight
was a complete waste of time.

"They think we don't know what we did was wrong? Of course we
do. We're not children."

"No, we're not," the woman beside him chimed in wearily.

"I've got a client I'm suppose to have dinner with at eight."

"I was told the meeting shouldn't take more than thirty minutes."

"That's what people having meetings always say and before you know it an hour's gone by."

"The court order you here?"
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Ballgame

By Matthew Dexter

The pretzels were soft and the beer was sticky. The pretzels were for me, and the beer was for dad. This was his seventh beer, but he had been drinking in the parking lot since early morning. It was safe to say he was toasted. The salt was the best part of the pretzel, but I knew I had to eat it fast because it was almost time to become famous.

"You ready Johnny?" Dad asked.

"Ready when you are Daddy," I answered.

"They're only gonna serve beer for one more inning so I'm gonna order another three for some courage,"he said, "that's ok with you?"

"Of course Daddy, go ahead," I answered.

"Thanks my boy," he said, rubbing my head and messing up my hair with his hand while he took an enormous sip from the beer in his other palm.

"Three for the road," he screamed at the vendor a few rows down.
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A Man’s Parting

By David Hale

The wilderness had always been a means of escape for John. The feeling of getting back to nature and away from the industrial grip of Houston, Texas, was a welcome relief. The oil refining business had been good to John and he was scheduled for retirement soon. He was ready to leave it all behind, to get away from the smoke stacks and stink of the oil refineries. John was ready to return to what he loved best.

In his sixty three years of life, John had been lucky enough to make it to Jackson, Wyoming, just about every year. The yearly trip to Jackson had finally become a family affair as John had forced his son, Michael, to come along. Michael had never been one for the outdoors or hunting, but he enjoyed spending time with his father. To Michael, a vacation was at a five-star resort with his wife and children, but the fact that his father was getting older made the trip to the Jackson wilderness that much more important. Besides, as a software engineer, Michael had the financial security to travel the world at any time if he wanted to.
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From the Snag

By Christine Stoddard

I am the owl and I saw it all on that red and black night. The stars shattered the heavens with their brightness and cast an eerie light upon the scene below, like a stage light perhaps. They wanted to illuminate the drama taking place beneath them. If I remember correctly---and I do---it was quite a theatrical sight, what with the star beams and the melancholy man. The moon, if she could speak, would attest to that.

In the ghostly forest full of birch trees, I holed myself inside of a rickety snag to shield myself from the wind. It was a blistery summer evening and my feathers alone could not protect me from the mix of hot and cold. Too irritated to hunt, I decided to rest. I could afford to starve for one day if it meant feeling comfortable. The mice and voles, as I recall, were quite grateful. Continue reading »

Lisa’s Power

by Amy Corbin

When I first met Lisa I was captivated by her.  She had long brown hair that was wavy and wild, and beautiful blue eyes that looked like glass.  Lisa always wore Levi’s and belts with big buckles.  She had cowboy boots in every color and style, and when she walked, she sashayed through the bar.  You couldn’t help but want to be near Lisa and hear about her everyday activities.  She took a bath with a place mat of Elvis that she taped to the shower wall.  She loved to masturbate and didn’t mind telling us all about it.  She ate with her hands when the meal clearly called for a fork.  Who picks up a steak?  Lisa that’s who, and somehow she managed to make it look sexy.

When all of us waitresses would get to work we would divide up our sections and bicker about who had the crappy seating area the last time.  Except Lisa didn’t care; she took whatever section she was given, and never griped about it.  Of course, whatever section she was in was the busiest, and when it came time to counting our tips-- we were all finished and Lisa was still counting.  At the end of the night we would all sit up at the bar and have a drink, but Lisa would have a glass of milk with ice in it.  She wouldn’t complain about the customers like we would, she’d just sip her milk and smile. Continue reading »

Caitlin, Tollgate Collector

By Tom Sheehan

The sun, angling into her eyes, had come up “like thunder out of China ‘crost the bay,” and even as Caitlin Bordeaux made music of the poet’s words, she couldn’t remember his name. Nothing was right in the scene though the day had begun in promise. Nick had just gone through mere minutes earlier, the load piled high on his flatbed rig. Most of the night the truck had been parked in front of her house, the neighbors probably talking again. She didn’t care, his mouth still alive on her.
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