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The Wrong Thing to Say-Fiction by Bill Baber
Late One Night, We Killed them All-Fiction by Kenneth James Crist
Call it in the Air!-Fiction by Jim Farren
Arendt and Eichmann: Behind Bars-Fiction by Edward Francisco
A Provocation Game-Fiction by Norbert Kovacs
Carol's-Fiction by G Emil Ruetter
Casting Call for a Tijuana Firing Squad-Fiction by j brooke
Preserving Beauty-Fiction by Paul Michael Dubal
Straight Shooter-Fiction by Mark Joseph Kevlock
Meat-Fiction by F. Michael LaRosa
The Internship-Fiction by Henry Simpson
The Knife She Done it With-Fiction by Matt Phillips
Almond-Flash Fiction by Francis Woodland
Squatters-Flash Fiction by Paul Beckman
The Cookie Crumbles-Flash Fiction by Cindy Rosmus
A Funeral Pyre-Flash Fiction by Karen Schauber
Twist-Flash Fiction by Ram Praseth
Something Has Happened-Poem by Judith Partin-Nielsen
unbound-poem by ayaz daryl nielsen
Sweet Rivalry-Poem by Meg Baird
when it comes round-Poem by Meg Baird
Dat No Apply to Debra-Poem by Joe Balaz
No Can Change Its Stripes-Poem by Joe Balaz
Infested-Poem by John Grey
Living With the Dead-Poem by John Grey
They-Poem by John Grey
Chesapeake Night-Poem by Gregory E. Lucas
Sunrise on Port Royal Sound, SC-Poem by Gregory E. Lucas
The Final Dream-Poem by Gregory E. Lucas
Cartoons by Cartwright
Hail, Tiger!
Angel of Manslaughter
The Gazing Ball
Strange Gardens
Gutter Balls
Calpurnia's Window
No Place Like Home
Dark Tales from Gent's Pens

Art by Ann Marie Rhiel 2018


by Paul Beckman


The Russian had Uber drop him off at Long-Term Parking at Newark Airport, wandered around until he found an older Lexus that could be hotwired. He popped the lock, hotwired it, and drove off, paying the eighty-two-dollar parking fee.

He made it to New York in forty minutes and double-parked on E. 49th, next to Dicey Meyer’s car.

He found the right key on the ring and opened Dicey’s trunk. He pulled out the rolled-up rug with Dicey inside and popped the trunk on the stolen Lexus. 

A streetlight illuminated a pajama-clad couple—gypsies. They stared out at him from their prone positions. A flashlight shone on the floor between them, lying in front of two Bergdorf shopping bags with clothes spilling out. The man held an open container of hummus and a bag of pita chips. A bag of grapes sat at the ready. The woman was busy flossing.

The Russian motioned for them to get out of the car. They didn’t budge. The man wiped his mouth with the napkin tucked into the neck of his pajama top. The woman rinsed from a water bottle and spat out into a chipped cup with a broken handle that read, “I Heart da naştere.”

A police car, lights flashing, rounded the corner.


In his younger years Paul Beckman was a numbers runner, a fence, and hung around with the bad crowd. He still hangs with a dubious crowd.

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In Association with Black Petals & Fossil Publications 2018