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The Grove-Fiction by Kim Bonner
Sawed Off-Fiction by Allan Leverone
Buried Memory-Fiction by James Flynn
Laying Blame-Fiction by Julian Manthorne
Salmone Puttanesca-Fiction by A. F. Knott
Jedda Summons a Higher Power-Fiction by Robb White
Cherry-Orange-Grape-Flash Fiction by Cindy Rosmus
Jingles and Mr. Hammer-Fiction by Kenneth James Crist
Shhh...Listen to the Ekko-Fiction by Brian Fugett
Serial-Fiction by Doug Hawley
Somnium Trivium-Fiction by Michael Steven
An Arms Deal-Fiction by Matthew Licht
The Decline of the Midnight Sadist-Fiction by Gary Clifton
Stormy Night at Pussycat Manor-Fiction by Michael D. Davis
Passengers-Fiction by Dan A. Cardoza
Storm_Flash Fiction by K. A. Williams
Becoming Made-Flash Fiction by Paul Beckman
Feeling Like God-Flash Fiction by Luann Lewis
The Coyote, the Dog and the Woman-Flash Fiction by Phyllis Peterson Levine
Fried Zucchini Sticks-Flash Fiction by Cathi Stoler
A Woman of Good Hard Hands-Poem by Otto Burnwell
Abduction-Poem by Jimmy Broccoli
Jitterbug-Poem by Robert Beveridge
Abandoned House-Poem by John Short
The Beauty of Trees-Poem by Ann Marie Rhiel
Regrets-Poem by David Spicer
Hospital on the Hill-Poem by Stephen J. Golds
Panic Attack-Poem by Kevin Ribshman
The Dark-Poem by Kevin Ribshman
Empty-Poem by Connor Orrico
Endless-Poem by Connor Orrico
Effort-Poem By Connor Orrico
Corpulent Octave-Poem by Harris Coverley
Small Town Story-Poem by Harris Coverley
Dans le Bain-Poem by Harris Coverley
Many Surprises-Poem by Walter Ruhlmann
In Another Waiting Room-Poem by Walter Ruhlmann
Innocent Blood-Poem by Walter Ruhlmann
Ebola-Poem by Daniel G. Snethen
I Am an Organ Donor-Poem by Daniel G. Snethen
Just Part of the Food Chain-Poem by Daniel G. Snethen
Today's Adventure-Poem by John Grey
Creating the Master race-Poem by John Grey
In the Old Mansion-Poem by John Grey
Cartoons by Cartwright
Hail, Tiger!
Angel of Manslaughter
Strange Gardens
Gutter Balls
Calpurnia's Window
No Place Like Home
Dark Tales from Gent's Pens

Art by Mike Knowles 2020


Luann Lewis

It’s deserted in the gloomy morning and broken beer bottles are crunching under your step.  You can’t find that damn rose.  Where the hell is it?  You stride back and forth from one side of the street to the other, kicking debris out of the way. An old glove and a Pepsi can meet the toe of your boot and go flying.  

Wait! There it is!  The rose is submerged in a muddy puddle.  Your face twists as you shove your hand into the thick sludge to pull it out.  Still red but sodden the flower curls in your hand.  “Ha!” You fold your fingers around it and crush the bud then slip it into your pocket.

She had been wearing that rose when you dragged her into the abandoned warehouse last night.  Maybe dragging her wasn’t such a smart thing to do.  After all, if you had carried her, it would have been easier to make sure nothing got dropped, no evidence to find later.  But dragging…well, the clunk of her head bumping along the ground, the look of pain in her eyes…Ah, you couldn’t resist.  And the groans, the sounds from behind the gag, those were so exciting.  Yes, you’re well-acquainted with discomfort and the thrill you get from watching the pain of others, hearing it, smelling it… well, that’s deliciously tasty.  These women, your “night visitors,” they send thrills through you as they slowly die.  And you know the most torturous ways to entertain them.  The muffled screams from behind stifled mouths confirm your talents.  Their begging eyes and flowing tears make you feel like God.  In fact, in those moments, you suppose you ARE God.  After all, you have the power over life and death.  It will always be death, of course, but the edge of hope in their eyes amuses you.  You revel in their pleading.  “Pray to me,” you whisper in their ears.  You know where to twist, where to cut, where to thrust so that they will shudder with agony.  

And last night, the woman’s palest parts, so soft and protected, the secret parts leading into her warm body, her unsuspecting parts, all these received your attention as she wiggled beneath you, beside you, under you.  Fear, anger, anguish passed over her face then the final terror before her eyes were empty.  Her used remains were disposed of in the usual way but that damn rose was missing.  It wouldn’t do to be sloppy, even in such an obscure way.

But now it was taken care of.  Time to head toward home.  On the way, you would make your usual pass through Tentville, as it was called.  Your cries for those poor slobs stuck living under the makeshift blankets in that desperate place.  Such a terrible situation. You’re disgusted with the government for letting the economy get so bad.  Those men are hungry and cold at night.  Yes, you are familiar with discomfort, you remember living through terrible days being starved and beaten as a kid in the streets, and it nearly makes you cry to see these folks with their torn up clothes and dirty faces.  That’s why you always bring dollar bills, socks, toothbrushes and other gifts when you pass through here (and you pass through whenever you’ve been “entertaining” a woman in the old warehouse. 

“Thanks, Mister!” you love to brighten their lives. The way their eyes shine when they’re thanking you makes you feel like God.


Luann Lewis is a Chicago native who has spent many years writing legal documents. Now, in semi-retirement, she is pursuing her MFA. Dabbling in varied genres, she has had over a dozen stories, essays, and poems published in print and online, as well as had a piece performed by Manawaker Studios.

Mike Knowles has spent over 40 years working mainly in comics, along with contributions to TV, Radio, animation, gonzo-style journalism for a “top-of-the-shelf” magazine and odd spells as a digital artist. Not to mention three gruesome years writing gags for comedians (even though they begged him not to. But what did THEY know about humor? 


I wrote for the comic papers.

In Association with Black Petals & Fossil Publications 2020