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A Post Mortem

10/31/2016

By: Will Meinen

Marshall sat in a high-backed leather chair in the lobby of the Chicago Athletic Association Hotel. Shadows pirouetted across his face from the Medieval fireplace. In relief a tableau depicting Virgil and Dante touring the 8th circle of Hell.

“To your left you can see forsaken souls wading in their own excrement.”

The 8th circle is for frauds - the denizen of seducers, panderers, flatterers and hypocrites. Marshall had been all of those in turn with the women he had dated and although he didn’t believe in final judgement the tableau of tortured souls was unsettling.

He was to meet Katherine at 7:00, in the fading light of happy hour, for a post mortem on what had started as a promising affair and ended unceremoniously after a disagreement about whether calamari was properly served breaded or sautéed.

Katherine sat in a dimly-lit street level parlor drawn like a thin-winged moth to the neon sign, ‘Psychic Tarot.’ This was her fourth visit in a month’s time to a divination consultant, her favorite being Madam Nadia, a hereditary fortune teller and enchantress. Since her breakup with Marshall she had been particularly in need of spiritual guidance. She was flailing - looking for signs, direction, focus from horoscopes, healers, core power yoga, power walking, Aura imaging, cupping, palm reading, massage, colonics, colonial poetry, self-help books, podcasts, Wiccan, witchcraft, cave painting, primal screaming, feminist screen printing, automatic writing, R.E.M’s “Automatic for the People,” advice from an automated teller, messages encoded in the transcripts of Pen and Teller’s 2015 special ‘Live from the Rio All Suite and Hotel and Casino in fabulous Las Vegas, Nevada.’

Madam Nadia emerged through a string of beads wearing a floor length skirt, headscarf and more jewelry than a Brooklyn art dealer. The image was so cliche Katherine found it comforting. At least someone was meeting her expectations.

“I’m ready for you. Would you like some tea?”

“I’ll take a Negrone.” The waiter smiled and drifted away from the warmth of the fire. Marshall shivered despite the sweat forming on the small of his back. He made the sign of the cross. Marshall was raised Catholic which is what one says when they no longer attend church and consider the Pope no more than an old man who waves from his balcony in a nightgown. The sign of the cross had become a superstition, like whistling past the graveyard. This was a gravesite of sorts, the place where he and Katherine had their first drink, an unusual choice to discuss the corpse of their union. Katherine had chosen it, she was into mandalas and the spiritual significance of circles.

“Tea would be nice.”

Madam Nadia didn’t always offer tea but you made such gestures to women seeking answers. In her experience a certain kind of American women had the misplaced notion she could bend life to her will. Katherine was one of these women. She wanted what her girlfriend’s had - a sense of purpose provided by a family, a full google calendar and a constant sense of being behind. For a fee Madam Nadia could harness the heavenly bodies and entreat the dead to aid in the struggle to have it all.

“Let me see your right hand.”

She took a crow feather, tossed it in the air and lit a bundle of sage. “Today you will say things that need to be said and you will hear things that need to be heard. Remember the forest must be burnt for new trees to grow.”

Tears pooled in the corner of Katherine’s eyes. They continued to cloud her vision as she entered the hotel and scanned the bar for Marshall. He looked as he had on their first date - gangly-limbed, dark hair with patches of grey around the temples, squinting at his phone because he refused to wear his glasses out of vanity or stubbornness, she never knew which.

She cleared her eyes with a tissue and took a deep breath. Marshall saw her approaching and stood, gave her hug and waited for her sit.

“Sorry I’m late. Well, should we begin the autopsy, I guess you’d call it?”

Marshall nodded solemnly.Katherine, scalpel in hand, brushed her hair from her eyes.

“You seemed to perceive my questioning of your career path as intrusive or an attempt to control, but I was simply showing interest. You said you might want to get in the pit and I said I had a friend at the Board of Trade. I don’t know how that could be misinterpreted.”

Marshall retrieved a pair of latex gloves from the tray of a passing waiter. “Maybe I’m overly sensitive to criticism about my career choices. I’m not happy in what I’m doing and I can’t tell if that’s my attitude or work is generally drab. I fear I’ll never be satisfied in my career and therefore never satisfied in a relationship.”

“Another cocktail?” asked the vested waiter, his movements rigid from the onset of rigor mortis.

“I’ll take 40 milliliters of embalming fluid, please.”

“The same for me, and the check,” said Katherine while looking at her phone. “I have an early day. Thanks for meeting up; I know these conversations aren’t easy.”
“I can’t say I was happy to do it,” said Marshall while pulling a white sheet over the body. “When a relationship ends I prefer to walk away and never think about it again. I’m not saying that’s healthy, but endings are unnerving to me. I can’t even watch movie credits.”

“I don’t think we’ve quite identified the cause of death. May we continue?” said Katherine while uncovering the body.

“Of course. Yes, I have a little left in the tank.” Marshall quickly checked his phone. He had a date in River North, someone he met online. It was tasteless but ends beget beginnings.

“Right. Well, I was taken by surprise when you broke up with me. I didn’t think it was going particularly well nor did I think it was going that poorly either. We had a rough couple of weeks. It certainly didn’t seem fatal.”

“Relationships end over less. What seems like a minor infection can cause
organ failure. You know sepsis is one of the most misdiagnosed causes of death in a hospital. Maybe I’m too eager to call it,” Marshall mused. He was in fact, to eager to call it.

“I guess that makes me the doctor giving chest compressions to a lost cause,” she replied, the first hint of bitterness creeping into voice.

“Two embalming fluids and the check.” The waiter, now unable to bend his arm, dropped the check in the middle of the table lit by a desk lamp casting an absinthe phosphorescence on the picked over cadaver.

“I got it,” said Katherine, the heaviness that follows an autopsy pulling down the corners of her mouth, her eyelids drooping, a tightness forming in her chest. She couldn’t remember if she had a history of heart disease in her family. Is that a question anyone can answer with authority?

The two former lovers stood, retrieved their personal items from coat check and walked to the revolving doors in silence. Marshall stood near the curb, crossed himself and put his arm out, praying for a cab with a light.

He opened the door and held Katherine’s hand as she got in. Katherine gave her address to the drive and took note of a statue of the buddha stuck to the dashboard.

Marshall didn’t know what to say, he never knew what to say in these situations, so he shut the door and backed away from the curb.

Marshall had never said anything to make anyone feel better who was disappointed or heart broken. A fitting epitaph he thought.

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abel: the chosen one

10/7/2016

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By: William Meinen

I flip through my laminated cards of clip art images and point to the picture of a boy swimming.

“Yes, Abel, tomorrow we can go swimming.”

I flip again until I find the picture of a face depicting frustration and then point again to the boy swimming.

“I know you want to go swimming, Abel. But we can’t today. We’re going on the train to visit your grandmother in Northbrook.”

I fart in response to this news. I fart a lot. I have an irritable bowel, probably from only eating hot dogs with ketchup, and farting feels good.

It’s embarrassing but what can I do. So is not having the power of speech or needing rides whenever I want to go somewhere or getting erections at church.

I don’t speak, not because I don’t want to or because I can’t make sound. It’s not because I have nothing to say or can’t figure out how to say it. There is some kind of dark space where light can’t travel, and on that light are words that will never be heard.

My Speech Pathologist calls my noises vocalizations. Each sound or grouping of sounds has a specific meaning. One sounds says, “I’m tired but I don’t feel like taking a nap,” while another says, “these mashed potatoes need more salt.”

I’ve created my own language like all intelligent beings. It’s the ultimate form of creation; I brought my own fire down from Mount Olympus. Unfortunately it’s a language of one. My Mom speaks it, kind of, like the way my sister kind of speaks Spanish.

“Mi nombre es Abigail. Me gusta la musica y el baile”.

The train approaches slowly, towering over us as we stand at the edge of the platform. We sit on the first level because I’m intimidated by stairs and terrified of escalators. A man with glasses and a suit sits across from my mother and takes out his laptop. He is commuting to his office job where he will find satisfaction in being conventionally productive. Our value is measured by what we create and what we consume. I don’t know what that means for those of us who do little of either.

“Abel are you excited to see your Grandmother?”

I flip through my cards and point to clip art of an elderly woman.

“Yes, Abel we’re going to see your grandmother.”

I flip to a card showing an excited face and then to a picture of a cat.

“You are excited. You like Tipsy, grandma’s cat.”

My grandmother is kind to me. She confidently translates my vocalizations but her inferences are rarely accurate.

“That’s right Abel, we are going to make cookies. Peanut butter or oatmeal raisin? I agree, you can’t go wrong with oatmeal raisin. My secret, don’t tell anyone, is nutmeg.”

Who was I going to tell? The Pope? Mum is the word, Grandma. This canary ain’t gonna sing. Also, I wanted peanut butter.

Tipsy is black with orange stripes, like an inverted tiger. Tipsy sits on my lap while I eat the warm cookies and waits for the crumbs that fall from my mouth and onto my Beatles’ “Abby Road” t-shirt.

My Mom and Grandma talk about cousins I don’t know who are getting married and how the garden is coming along.

“My tomatoes are growing like weeds. I need to get more cages. I planted cauliflower this year. I thought for some reason it grew under ground like a tuber but it doesn’t.”

Eventually they circle around to my Mother’s favorite topic – Abel’s condition and progress.

“We’re seeing a new speech therapist and she and Abel seem to really be getting along. He’s been loving his art classes at school. Last week he made a drawing of the two of us by boating on Lake Geneva. Isn’t that right Abel?”

I was drawing a picture of Han Solo encased in carbonite but the teacher’s aid decided it looked like the colors of a sunset and changed my concept to reflect her values.

She drew me at the front of the boat smiling wearing a life jacket. I hated that life jacket. My body curls up on itself like the way an earthworm scrunches together when poked with a stick. The life jacket made me feel even more restricted as it chafed against my armpits and strangled my belly.

“I really think he’s improving.”

“Of course he is,” my Grandma confidently asserted. “He is as smart as they come. Another cookie, Abel? You’re right, one more won’t hurt.”

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the day the house fell down

10/6/2016

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By: McKenzie Schwark

Today was the day that the house fell down. It started while Jenny was sleeping. She heard a rattle at her window as the shingles began peeling one by one from the top floor apartment. Jenny opened her bedroom window and twisted her head up to see if any of the neighbors had heard the commotion. All that she saw was a single shingle diving straight for her nose. They collided and she quickly shut the window.
Jenny suffered from anxiety and depression, which w
as quite the cocktail. She had spent the last 77 days going back and forth between rooms in her one bedroom apartment. She alternated yoga in the morning for the anxiety, TV mid afternoon when the depression hit, and by evening she was curled up in bed listening to her favorite podcast on the history of peach cobbler while she waited for the delivery boy to bring her Pad Thai.

Once the couple who lived above her had called the landlord to ask if she had moved out. They were hoping to expand.
“Jenny from 1A?” The landlord asked. “She’s just quiet—a troubled girl.”
“Ah, one of those troubled girls,” the neighbors said nodding, each with one ear to the receiver.

In high school Jenny had been voted “Most Likely To Succeed.” The day she moved to the city, her town had thrown her a party complete with cupcakes with her picture on them. They believed in her. They thought she could be a Broadway actress, or an astronaut, or if she could get her periods under control a marine biologist.

But Jenny had no problems with her daily routine. Jenny just wanted to feel peaceful and safe, and that is how she felt inside the apartment. Well, until today.

   The walls began to crack from the inside. Jenny dug for a pair of jeans. She struggled to button them thanks to all that Pad Thai, grabbed her phone and keys and ran out the front door just as the kitchen window popped out of its frame. Out of the pile of shingles in the alleyway Jenny heard a faint meow. She kicked at the pile and a cat emerged. He was white with big grey spots and glow-in-the-dark colored eyes. He was watching Jenny with bedroom eyes, she thought. If cats could do that sort of thing. She stayed away from it. Jenny knew that stray cats are disgusting and carry diseases. What would she do if she got rabies, or strep throat, or Ebola, God forbid. It’s not like she had health insurance.

   Jenny walked eleven blocks in a direction she had never gone before. On block seven was a yoga studio with a poster boasting they could “Calm even the most stubborn of nerves!” Jenny made note. On block eleven was a man with a comically large mustache selling bagels and coffee out of a cart. He waved to Jenny.

   “Mornin’ miss,” he shouted. “Care to try a cup of our fresh roasted beans?”
   “The house I live in fell down this morning,” Jenny said. “I’m not really in the mood for a coffee.”

   “A warm egg bagel then?” He asked calmly handing Jenny a bagel wrapped in tinfoil. She opened it and stuck her thumb through the hole letting the warmth overtake her hand. Jenny reached into her pocket, but she hadn’t grabbed any money.

   “On the house,” said the man as he loosened the break on his cart. “Since you don’t have one anymore and all.”

   “Wait!” Jenny called and he began to wheel away. “Please come back to my house with me. I can pay you.” The man shrugged. He could take his work anywhere after all.

   The house had come completely down. The shingles were stacked neatly in the alleyway and the walls and doors were leaning up against the house next door as if someone had come and tidied up the rubble. The detritus of Jenny’s life was spread across the front sidewalk along with the neighbors. They had a collection of ceramic deer that hadn’t survived the crash.

   Jenny began to pick through the debris for her wallet.
   “I promise its here somewhere,” she said between the lump forming in her throat.

   “It’s really no problem,” said the man.

   “It is a problem,” Jenny shouted. “You made this bagel, and you deserve to get paid.”

He saw hot tears forming in her eyes and so he helped her search. The best Jenny could come up with for payment was a ceramic deer that had only lost its snout. He put it in his pocket. He gave Jenny a hug. Jenny lost a lot today. But she at least she had a bagel.

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life of seizure

10/5/2016

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By: Matthew Pollack
A treatment for an Arnold Schwarzenegger movie expressed as a series of sonnets

He follows them from, say, a club or rave,
Some hot spot where the idle middle class
Takes the cure. He is, we find, involved
At every level, from planting a "stash"

On a casual user, to gunning him down
In a "drug deal gone awry", orchestrated
With the help of his dealer friend (Luiz - a clown -
Accent, etc.). He would be hated

But for 2 things. One: His spoils are spread
quite thin. He may unjustly seize a house
Then give it to a cop, greasing the brows
And ears of the department, straight to the head,
Who turns a keen interest from what he's told.
The second reason's this: He is Arnold.

"The cure's" just that, too. The arrested need
This arcane club drug - call it 'Q' or 'Scrake' -
To keep at bay attacks, in which they bleed
From every orifice, and scream and shake.

You would think Arnold, with all the pressure
He puts on the market, would force them out
Into the open - ticking bombs of seizure
Driving, working, studying. Except that throughout

The city, houses that were always theirs
Have been remodeled by dear Arnold's friends:
A bookcase here, a globe, antique bookends,
And stretched between them, cut roughly with sheers,
A finger, strand of arm, body unfolded,
Springy, glowing, trembling to be unmolded.

Finally, in the trendily lit recesses
Of a now established club ("The Bottom Feeder"?)
We learn the running-gag gorgeous chief-of-police's
Wife is the long-sought alien leader.

One drink, one brief exchange, and she succumbs.
She knows she is the last of her kind untouched.
She swallows, takes his hand, and walks him home.
Needless to say, this is too goddamned much.

The Chief brings down the gavel. Hell breaks loose.
The aliens lose hold of their human forms
And rape the city. Arnold slips the noose
And saves the vicious day from mortal harm.

The chief dies, as he must, for being 'Dad':
"It doesn't bother me you stole my wife.
These things happen. Besides, I know she served
You in your quest. What really makes me mad
Is that you, masterful, bulging from life,
Chose her, and she did nothing to deserve you."

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Dragons

10/4/2016

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By: Collin Miller

You have no idea how this happened.

It wasn’t even actually a thought. There had never been dragons. There were never going to be dragons. You used to get up in the morning and could reasonably think today would be another dragon free day. I don’t know when the dragons came to be. Nobody thought to go looking for dragons.
He said this was a manufacturing and fulfillment job. Pretty standard gig.
“You remember when we worked in the abstraction business?”
He’s testing you. Wants to know if you got into the business before architecture was the only thing.
“No, I’ve only worked with agents.”
You’re smart. I know you wrote code. But the top-brass don’t trust the nerds the way they used to. Too pedantic, they bought into the agents.
He shifts comfortably in his chair.
Hook, line, and sinker.
That’s when you got this job. Before, let us not forget, the dragons.
The dragons.
Fire breathing. Sixty foot long.
Dragons.
You wonder how the agents managed the fire breathing bit. I wonder how they managed the fire breathing bit. That’s a fair bit of biology right there.
They probably haven’t been around too long. The whole fire breathing thing was hard to miss. Operations is not happy with any of this. Anyway, the agents aren’t going to spill the beans on that. They don’t admit to misinterpretation. They’re making the case that we wanted dragons.
“How could this happen?”
And who do we blame? But that’s not important right now. What do you do about dragons in a black-box manufacturing facility?
“No you can’t adjust the architecture until we figure out exactly why the agents made dragons.”
“No you can’t requisition a second facility for testing.”
“Of course they’re going to just make dragons again.”
“Find it. Fix it. I don’t care how.”
Somebody’s in a bad mood. At least it’s interesting. Nobody’s gotten dragons before. You decide on the indirect approach. You don’t have a choice anyway. The system is frozen except for interrogation routines. You still have access to files. Incremental reasoning logs are fairly intact. But the agents destroyed the useful evidence trail before any human discovered the nature of the situation.
The nature of situation being dragons. Dragons! You can’t get over it. I can’t get over it. He said not to sound so excited.
How do the agents even know about dragons? Is it possible they came up with dragons on their own? But why? What part of manufacturing and fulfillment could possibly require dragons?
Orders. Why are you thinking about orders? Look at the order history. You don’t know exactly why, but something tells you it’s in the order history.
Block 0x0032HA33. “Good”

Block 0x0032HA34. “Good"

Block 0x0032HA35. “Good”
You have this really annoying habit of talking to yourself out loud whenever you hunt through logs. It helps you do the work, but nobody here cares for it. You don’t know that. Nobody thinks it’s worth the confrontation. But everybody wishes you wouldn’t do it.
This goes on for a painfully long time.
Block 0x0032QN7R. “Fine”
Block 0x0032QN7S. “No problems”
Block 0x0032QN7T. “Good — hey. Hold the phone.”
You think you’ve got it.
“There’s a corrupt order block… yeah, it’s pre-dragon.”
It’s pre-dragon. “Pre-dragon” is a thing now.
You’re not going to get any time to deal with the root cause of why there are dragons. Negotiating with the agents will shut down the facility for too long.
File a report blaming the corrupted order data. Suggest it’s a rare scenario and even if it repeats itself, probably not likely to result in dragons again.
Once things get moving again you see a few pieces of the system that you don’t understand and wonder if they have something to do with the dragons.
“Dragons? Don’t talk to me about dragons. Just don’t make any more dragons. I never want to hear about dragons again for as long as I live.”
You didn’t make the dragons. The agents did. Still don’t know why. And nobody seems to care where they went. The dragons went missing before the agents came back online.
Take it easy, the agents don’t think the dragons would want anything to do with you. Dragons probably just want to hide in the jungle.
Sixty foot long. Fire breathing.
Dragons.
You used to be able to get up in the morning and reasonably have your breakfast without wondering anything about the whereabouts of any dragons.

It wasn’t even a thought.

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A Nod to Pulver and Burke

10/3/2016

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Written By: Susan Marcus
A mild satire inspired by their list of fantasy novel tropes and clichés

“And just what qualifies you?” the Priest of the Pram gods asked.

“We’re short, for one thing,” the half-meter tall, dumpling-shaped man replied.
“Not so little. I’ve seen smaller.”

“Small enough to be called Little People and we come from a land that’s like medieval England.”

“Could help. What else you got?”

“We have about five wins against a few corrupt wizards and…”

“Just five?”

“And an evil tyrant in an extremely difficult to reach kingdom, beyond the Pramidian Ocean and past the range of Dire Woe Mountains.”

“So?”

“Who just happened to be my father.”

“You battled your own father?”

“Not exactly. He died just as we stormed his castle’s keep.”

“Stormed?”

“Well, snuck into.”

“You and who else?”

“My twin—I met her for the first time in the village nestled beneath the castle walls.”

“Nestled beneath?”

“That’s how we talk.”

“Anyone else?”

“A knight on his last quest for the perfect…”

Impatient, the Priest of Pram interrupted again. “Your adventures lack a certain something.”

“Oh, sorry, wait. I nearly forgot her (how could I do that?): Shana of the East, the clever former royal servant who stole the throne of Mordred II of the Wolds and Bournes, a misguided sorcerer if there ever was one, who died from his own poison brew. She led us.”

The Priest of Pram yawned, shook his head, and rolled his eyes as he looked at his chief acolyte. The minion shrugged and took a step toward the little man, but before he could grab his elaborate lacy collar, the diminutive fellow said, “Did I mention the dragon?”

“No-o-o,” replied the priest, dismissing his acolyte with a wave of his bejeweled hand. “Tell me more.”

The supplicant cleared his throat: “Ah-hem. No sooner had we crossed the drawbridge when a wave of terrific heat knocked us into the moat. The beasts that swam in those fetid waters would have eaten us alive, had the princess, my older sister, then unknown to me, not drained the moat, thus extinguishing the beasts and allowing us to climb out.”

“But what of the dragon?”

“Ah, yes, the dragon, all sparkling blue and simmering, had claimed the princess as her rider. When the princess—I knew her as Clothilde—revealed her kinship to me and my twin sister, the dragon extinguished her fire and cleaned the moat muck off us with her forked tongue, a rather strange and disturbing experience.”

“And then?”

“And then, we took the castle, joined a grand celebration and were allowed to serve the princess Clothilde from then on.”

“Why are you here? Your situation with Princess Clothilde sounds ideal.”

“No future in it,” replied the little man.

“Why didn’t you say that in the first place?” The Priest of Pram nodded to his acolytes gathered around him. Turning to the little dumpling spokesperson, he said, “Now that I have heard your story, I deem you most suitable for the tasks ahead.”

“How may I be of service, sir?”

“Make that five lattes, one sugar, two no foam no sugar, two caramel syrup. Got that?”

“On it, Boss. I can call you, ‘Boss?’”

The Priest of Pram winked and invited the rest of the band of merry little ones into the Pramidian Holy of Holies. Handing a purse to the little dumpling man, he said, “I trust you will use your great skills and cunning to triumph.”

Departing from the priest with a deep bow and a sweep of his cap, the little man saluted and said, “Your humble servant.”

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The Gathering

9/14/2016

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Written By: Jack McCoy and Tony Fragale

I wake up, hand in the dog bowl and mouth in a bowl of Frosted Flakes. After fifteen minutes I stand across from 0011 and wait. The guard comes by the bars and does the roomcheck. We are not allowed to move.

I don’t mind my pod. It’s more spacious than most. It’s about the size of 5 rulers by 10 rulers. So, I can fit a bed.

My neighbor 101 waves to me as another guard searches her pod. In ten hours we are to copulate and I believe she is excited. Last time there was a long needle involved and neither of us bled much.

I think about going to the market and picking up some carbs to make dinner tonight. It’s three long hands away so it really could be farther. I could walk.

We are herded to the trash room. 10101 and I sit next to each other.

“They are changing the diets to xanax and palladium tomorrow.”

“Yes. I miss the rats.”

“Yes. The rats were good.”

We eat our butter.

Out in the playing field we each have ten ruler by one ruler bats we are to hit each other with. I chase 101 and hit her several times over the head. She bleeds and laughs and I think I saw her cum. I jump on her and lick her hair but the Scarecrow came out and we all stop.

It walks past 111 000 and all the rest up until it’s at us. Its face has more than one face and we are always baffled. It unzips its suit and we are engulfed.

Inside. 101 and I. She cries. The Dark comes up to us.

“Have you ever had Faygo?” It asked her.

“Yes.”

It devours her.

“I smell your lies.”

It looks at me intently and smiles. It opens its mouth and clenches down on my chewy flesh.

I wake up.

There’s music bumping, and I am in the middle of a pit. I had forgotten that hallucinogenic experiences were always a side effect of an insane clown posse meetup.

They call me Joseph. We got a theory about magic. It comes and goes and follows all of us, miracles all around us. Oh, shit. The hallucinogen. I need more Faygo.

I reach into my gun holster and grab my last rasberry faygo. I swallow it whole, and I am back.

The darkness smiles.

I am alive.

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SlaughterHouse Cafe

9/7/2016

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Written By: Justin Eulalio

Introduction Letter Dear [Cafe Owner],

This is not an easy letter for me to write. For years, I have loved eating at your cafe and have spent many of my days here. I love the staff, the food, and the ambience—in that order. As you may know, I am the groundskeeper at the church down the street. With that being said, I take scripture very seriously. Without wanting to impose my beliefs on you, I want to call your attention to a passage from Sirach 34: 21-22:

21:The bread of the needy is their life: he that defraudeth him thereof is a man of blood.
22:He that taketh away his neighbour’s living slayeth him; and he that defraudeth the labourer of his hire is a bloodshedder.

I have recently learned that employees at your cafe have, on multiple occasions, had their paychecks bounce. This is unacceptable and you must put an end to this absurdity! Please, do the right thing. Your employees need to be YOUR priority.

Your friend, [Regular Customer]

Thursday Morning

“Where is that son of a bitch? I need my money!” This is a phrase that echoes regularly throughout the cafe in the mornings. Put an extra emphasis on morning because, for some universal reason, no bill-collectors ever come past 09:00. Today is Thursday though, which means that this phrase is being hurled through a closed front door, until the body yelling is close enough to open it with the sheer power of his roar—a startling encounter, but only to those not expecting it.

“Where is your boss? I’m not leaving him the bread unless he pays me. Today” “Uhh, he’s not in at the moment…” A blatant lie considering the owner lives upstairs and it is only 07:23. 07:15 to 07:45 is morning yoga time. But every employee knows, you NEVER interrupt morning yoga. “But you can talk to my manager. I’m sure she’d be happy to help ya. Hey, Hemly! Can you come here real quick? I forgot my password again.”

“I wrote it on a sticky note. It should be on the register screen.” As mentioned before, it is the owner’s yoga time. Meaning that this is the only time Hemly can sit outside on the back stairs, smoke, and read the paper. The horde of city rats are in the headlines again. “I don’t see it. Can you please just come here and show me?”

“I don’t see it. Can you please just come here and show me?”

“No. You deal with Bread Guy. I dealt with Juice Guy yesterday.” Hemly very much enjoys the updates on The City Rat Horde. “How are they in Wicker now? Fuck,” she whispers softly as she exhales her cigarette.

“No, there is a huge line of customers and I can’t access the register!” Not true. “I’m being serious! Can you please just come here?”

“Are you at the register right now?”

“Hemly!”

“Do you see a yellow piece of paper, sticking to the screen, with numbers on it?”

“Hemly, come on!!”

“Is someone going to give me my money?!”

At this point, there actually is a customer waiting in line. But it’s the same customer that is always waiting.

It’s important to note that Erin and Hemly are calling to one another louder than the Bread Guy has ever roared. Their back and forth is imposed on everyone throughout the building, even the kitchen staff located in the basement. But not the owner upstairs. Nothing phases him during yoga. NOTHING.

“Fuck, what’s with all the yelling upstairs?”

“Bread debt.”

“Oh shit, it’s Thursday! Hey Alex, you wouldn’t mind if I left at noon. Would you?”

Alex enjoys cutting fruit, beating eggs, and smoking cigarettes. He does not enjoy spring weather, belts, or working with Frank every Thursday morning.

“Yeah, just like—go slice the tomatoes, over there. Please.”

“Tight. Yeah, I’m supposed to meet up with my wife. She wants to get some lunch together.”

“Frank, you’re not fucking married.”

Frank is, in fact, not fucking married.

“Dude, yes I am! I make my own decisions now. I’m an adult, and so is she. Everyone can’t keep telling us what to do anymore. You’re not in charge of me either, dude! You know, it’s pretty fucked up that you’re trying to boss me around. You know that…?”

Please note, Alex is Frank’s manager.

“Jesus, okay. Fine. Can you please just slice the tomatoes and then prep a few other things? Then you can leave.”

“Okay, dope.” There is a moment of silence in the kitchen, but the peace is intruded on by the yelling upstairs. “But I am married though, okay?”

The battle over who has to deal with the Bread Guy is in full swing. Erin is losing.

“I don’t care who I talk to. I want my money. Someone give me my money!”

“Okay, listen dude. If you keep dropping off the bread, he’s not going to pay you. You’re giving him free bread! Take your bread back and go. I don’t have money in the register to give you.”

“No! someone is going to pay me right now.”

“Dude, I DON’T have enough money in the register to pay you!”

There is a brief pause. The yelling stops.

“How much do you have?” “Umm…”

Erin fumbles through the cash drawer.

“I can give you $60. If I give you more than that I won’t be able to give people change.

“Okay. I’ll take $60. Subtract it from what he owes me. But if I don’t get paid in-full next week, no bread!”

“Yeah I’m sure, dude! I don’t understand why you don't just come later when…”

The Bread Guy is already out the door, waiting to reappear next Thursday.

“Thanks, Erin!” “Fuck off, Hemly. Jesus… Hey, Stew. What can I get for ya?"

“Man, I didn’t realize it was Thursday already. Umm, can I get a 12oz latte?”

“Yeah, will that be all for ya?”

“Yup. That should do it!”

“Cool, that’ll beeeee… Free 99.”

“Oh, thanks Erin! You sure?”

“Of course! Don’t worry about it. I’ll have that up in just a sec.”

Hemly steps in from the back with a half-smoked cigarette tucked behind her ear.

She tosses the newspaper underneath her arm as she refills her coffee cup. “Oh, well good morning, Hemly.”

“Hey, Stew. Yo! Did you hear? The City Rat Horde made it all the way to Wicker.”

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The Four Strangers and Nigel

9/6/2016

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Written By: Morgan Satterlee

Nigel was returning home from the night shift one early morning. His usual route was flooded so he took an unusual route. On his way, he was stopped by a sweaty, shirtless man.

He was breathing heavily and he could not stand up straight. He asked Nigel for a light but Nigel only had time. For the better part of an hour the stranger ranted passionately about about his circumstances; his falling out with a woman and his friend, his neighborhood (old and new), how he was the only person in his life. They stood in the middle of the street. The stranger told Nigel his name so that he would no longer be a stranger to him, but he was still very much a stranger to Nigel. He gave a Nigel a different name every time. There was glitter on his skin.
The stranger got distracted by a passing car and started following it. Nigel had to help his friend move in five hours so he continued onward knowing that for a brief point in time, he was the only person in this stranger’s life. He heard distant obscenities as he departed.

Nigel came across another starnger, a woman pacing up and down the block ahead. The woman wore an expensive business suit and glasses. She stopped him and asked for directions. Nigel asked her what she was looking for and she responded that she was looking for a good time. Nigel informed her that he was not a prostitute. She replied that he should consider looking into it as a career option. The stranger then thrusted a card into Nigel’s hand. Her name was on the card and she described herself as a ‘potential sponsor’. Nigel smled politely and placed the card into his pocket. A new name for the collection.

Nigel begand to inch slowly away before he spotted an approaching cab. He flagged it down and the cab stopped and he got into it. The stranger followed suit but Nigel closed the door on her. She asked through the glass if Nigel was serious.
Yes, he was, he said.

He signaled to the cab driver and they drove off.

The driver asked Nigel if where he was headed and Nigel gave him the address to his apartment building. The driver immediately turned around and went the other way. Nigel was confused but the driver assured him it was the quickest route. Nigel informed the man of the flooding but the driver insisted. Nigel stared at the stranger’s cab licesne displayed up front. Nigel mentioned a detour and the stranger grew annoyed and responded in kind.

Driver and passenger went back and forth for awhile, exchanging shouts and insults. Nigel demanded that the stranger pull over and the driver again responded in kind. The stranger stopped the cab and Nigel stormed out into the night.

Nigel walked two blocks down an unlit street and then he encountered another stranger. This one held a knife at him. Nigel could not see the stranger’s face but he could make out the glint of a blade. A raspy voice demanded his wallet and watch and Nigel hesitantly complied. A gloved hand removed Nigel’s possessions from his own. A car slowly passed behind the trees.

The stranger warned Nigel not to ‘even think about it’. Nigel did think about it, though he dared not try anything. The voice claimed to be quick, and dangerous too. The car passed down the block and turned away.

They heard another car approaching and this time the stranger darted out in front of it. The car stopped just short of hitting the stranger. The stranger attempted to force open the driver side door when a shining shirtless stranger and a well-dressed stanger, as well as the stranger who was driving all piled out and began to fight. Nigel watched the commotion for a while before joining in himself. A flurry of punching, yelling, chaos. Nigel fought everyone until he retrieved his belongings. Then he watched the fighting some more.
Then he headed home.

Nigel walked into his apartment and got into his pajamas. He brushed his teeth. He took out a tablet of melatonin as well as a lemon and three gel capsules. Nigel crushed up the melatonin and cut it into lines. He cut a slice out of the lemon. He cut into the gel caps and drained the contents into a shot glass. Then Nigel snorted the lines, then he bit into the lemon wedge. Then he took the shot.

Nigel stumbled to his bed and crawled in. A few moments later, the hallway smoke detector began to blare. Nigel stayed in bed and, after a few moments more, he drifted off into slumber.

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Dirk, Kirk, and a Bucket of Blood

9/1/2016

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Written By: Charlie Hayes

Dirk and Kirk walked into their local whole foods. Kirk’s face was riddled with disappointment as he said, “Dude, tell me again why we came here when we passed a 7/11 two blocks ago.”

   “Dude, if I step on 7/11 property when I’m this lit I basically can’t walk away without a taquito,” Dirk retorted.

   “Mm, I’d both whip and nae nae for a taquito right now,” said Kirk.
   Dirk and Kirk slinked between the aisles, drawing judgmental looks from all the white people.

   “And if I get a slurpee, then that totally betrays the Atkins diet that I’m doing with my mom...then it’s like...where’s the trust, you know?” said Dirk.
The boys exchanged a solemn, knowing look. “Dude...I get it. Moms are so chill. Like last night, I was…” Kirk trailed off, eyeing a package on the nearest shelf, “What the fuck is quinn-oh-ah.”

“Only the best grain to be discovered since like...rye,” Dirk said, grabbing a package.

“Oh,” Kirk continued, “But anyways, moms. So like last night I’m watching Thrones and Daenarys was totally wrecking some Dothraki thugs. It was insane. So she lit this whole dojo piece on fire and walked out like some kind of prehistoric savage.”
Dirk adjusted his pants and turned the corner toward the prepared food section. For the twelfth time that day, Dirk said the phrase, “Dude...I’d totally hit.”

“But wait, there’s more,” continued Kirk, red eyes growing larger, “Two words...boobs,” realizing he only had one word in mind, he repeated, “boobs. Anyways, of course my mom is down there cleaning as I’m replaying it and sees the whole thing. It’s not like we fist pounded or anything but, like, she was chill about it.”

The boys filled their cardboard containers with Atkins-friendly goods and made their way to checkout, passing four white people with dreads. Lane four was empty and Kirk walked toward the available cashier. Out of fright, Dirk grabbed his arm.
“Dude, no way,” said Dirk.

“What?” asked Kirk.

“This is gonna sound weird, but that guy looks way too much like my Uncle to see me this lit,” Dirk explained.

Kirk considered this for a moment, staring at the cashier. “Dude it’s like that time you kissed me at Bonnaroo,” Kirk resigned.

“Dude, please stop bringing that up.”

“Wait it applies this time,” Kirk explained, “Like that happened on Day 1. Of course I was scared to be around you after that, like, I wanted to call it quits. But I just had to remember PLUR. Peace, love, unity, respect.”

A moment of silence passed with the two staring blankly at each other. “Okay, like, I’m not getting it.”

“You know, like, you didn’t choose to kiss me, you were caught up in the moment. Just like this guy didn’t choose to, you know, look like your Uncle.”

Unbeknownst to Dirk and Kirk, the other customers in line had already begun passing them and the cashier was with another customer.

“NEXT IN LINE!” came a voice from the end of the row of cashiers. Dirk and Kirk walked over.

Brushing aside her fuschia colored bangs that stopped halfway down her forehead, the cashier adjusted her non-prescription glasses and began scanning the contents of their basket. She spoke suddenly, “It’s funny.”

Her statement interrupted Dirk and Kirk’s internal monologues, both of which were weighing whether or not her boobs were big enough to make her bang-able. “What’d you say?” asked Kirk.

“I just think it’s funny how you didn’t even think about the tiny orphan hands that cultivated this slave quinoa,” she said.

“Dude...that’s quinn-oh-ahh,” said Dirk.

She berated the two further, “Oh, prepared food line? Tell me, what do you smell?”
Dirk took a hefty sniff and considered for a moment, wringing his hands together. “Um...chicken?” he answered.

“That’s weird,” she responded, retching dramatically, “I can’t smell this chicken over the three to five inches of feces it sat in for its entire life. But that must just be me.” Suddenly, she wielded a brimming bucket of red soupy liquid, threatening, “If you’ll murder an animal, what’s to stop me from pouring its blood on you?”
“Dude,” Dirk said, secretly wondering where she could possibly store that bucket of blood, “If you’ve got such a chubber for animals, where’d you get that blood?”
“So you don’t have anything to say for yourselves?” she asked, brandishing the bucket.

Kirk tried wildly to come up with anything that might appease the cashier. “What if I told you this was,” Kirk shot a hesitant look at Dirk, “my boyfriend…?”
The cashier continued, “Nice try, but you’re both suspicious fruits to say the least. Prove it.”

With a final look at the overflowing bucket, their Atkins-friendly munchies hanging in the balance, Dirk and Kirk turned towards each other, tears welling in their eyes.

“Just like Bonnaroo?” said Kirk.

“Just like Bonnaroo,” weeped Dirk.

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