New York Hearts by Kyle Hemmings

Kyle Hemmings' lyrical flash about a New York ballerina.

Behind the fading pulse of day, Zin is not dying. And although wounded by a thousand loves, she can still perform a petit saut while thirsty. Or "spot" on her own demand, execute near flawless rotations of the head, fingers forming exquisite egg shapes, or almost touching hips, the not quite blonde hair pulled taut. Her Spanish "fourth position" is untenable.

When a relationship ends, she multiplies in mirrors, leaves fresh blood streaks. She's in love with a gay dancer named Lev. Between rehearsals, in hushed conversations when he stumbles on long words, mutters fragments of his childhood, his eyes drift and turn star-ward. She can see herself as incredibly small and dancing inside his eyes.

At the tail of a crowd jaywalking to dusk, Zin shuffles or sidesteps, imagines herself as the perfect lead for Firebird. Who, in this crowd of scherzo-disbelievers, she wonders, can catch her?

The Rain, the Boy, and the Lion by Bradford Philen

Deep in the mangrove forests of rural Senegal, Gorgui tells his son a story about the mystical powers of his Great-Great Uncle Malang, in Bradford Philen's unique African fairytale.

On Wednesday it rained all day throughout the entire country of Senegal. It was a shivering, but wondrous rain. Mali recorded no precipitation, except for in villages like Ambidédi, Satadougou, and Faléa that lay near the border with Senegal and the rivers that divide the two countries. It was the same in Guinea and Mauritania and Guinea-Bissau and in The Gambia, Senegal's little brother. No rain. Yet a heavy cloud sat over Senegal. For a Wednesday in March this was unusual. Marvelous. The rains came in late June, but never in March. It was clearly an act of Allah, God, the Creator. In Dakar it was proclaimed the "day that Macky Sall cleaned the streets." Sall, elected the new President just two days earlier, must have prayed for the rain, the people charged, to rid the streets of the mayhem. There had been eleven dead in less than a month: all victims of the political protests.

The same rain muddled Omar. Some 400km south of Dakar on île de Karabane, deep in the delta of the Casamance River, he had never felt such a callous rain. It usually came down in months like July and August, late in the afternoon, when the Earth's heat begged for the showers. Omar didn't go to school on that Wednesday in March. It was too cold. He sat with his father Gorgui, who smiled at the sugary smell of the rain diluting the air that usually reeked of salt. They poured cup after cup of Café Touba to stay warm.

---

On Thursday the sun arrived again and the day passed with an almost exaggerated energy of rebirth. It was a new day and the people spoke of the rain as if it had transformed life. Sanguinity. Refreshing, rekindling the radiance of life. Allahu Akbar. Gorgui watched Omar take the path towards school, his books tucked under his arm. He knew his son wouldn't come directly home, rather he'd chase classmates and cousins through the surrounding mangrove trees, and they'd hunt small birds with their hand-carved slingshots.

Lucky Day by Irena Pasvinter

Irena Pasvinter recalls the response of her Byelorussian school and her family to the Chernobyl disaster.

Some days promise nothing unusual, but all of a sudden you get terribly lucky. May 7th, 1986, was a day like that: alarm clock, closing my eyes again, Mom with, "You'll be late," fried eggs for breakfast, school, the first three lessons over.



And then something incredible happened: we were told to go home. No lessons anymore. We could not believe our ears - what luck!



"You've heard about the accident at the Chernobyl power station. There may be more trouble there today," the teacher explained. "Nothing to be afraid of, but it's better to be prepared for an emergency. Go home and make cotton wool masks, just in case. You know how - you learned it in the War Preparation lesson. And put a wet cloth under the outside doors."



Sure, we knew about the cotton wool masks - nothing could be simpler. We were in the tenth grade; in less than a month we would have the exams and - goodbye Gomel's 10th school named after Alexander Pushkin. What we had no idea about even two weeks ago was the Chernobyl nuclear power station. Then rumours had started.



Take That, Stephen King; Buzz Off, Sue Grafton by David Howard

A writer finds his novel discounted in a Borders store; by David Howard.

I quickly tore page after page from Stephen King’s latest paperback. I bet he’d never had one of his 200 or so novels adorned with a Bargain! sticker. In the spirit of equal opportunity, Sue Grafton was next. My narrow spot of floor between A and M in the Borders fiction section was becoming a small lake of paperback print.

The customers thought I was part of a program to attract people on a winter morning, a way to boost sales on a slow day. I nodded in the direction of a person saying “origami artist,” and folded a few of the loose pages into triangles.

I had surrounded myself with as many paperback bestsellers as I could lug off the shelves, along with copies of my own book, The Things We Are, the shiny cover emblazoned with a bright orange 75% Off! sticker below its $1.99 price tag. I’d done the math, even though I knew I shouldn’t have. My book, my novel, my life now cost 49 cents - less than any bookmark in the store.

Abraham's Ride by J H Mae

A more modern echo of the biblical Abraham, while out surveying his land, finds a meeting with destiny; by J H Mae.

It was cold this morning, no more than ten above. Abraham worried about his cattle.

Bede was cleaning up breakfast dishes, and their youngest son and daughter were still rubbing sleep from their eyes, when he left with promises to return before dark. He saddled his horse and rode into that cold morning, across the thousand acres of God's land he called his own.

Abraham had last surveyed the fifty acres at the western edge of his property a couple weeks ago. The plot was wooded with ash, maple and birch, and cut through by a narrow tributary of the Grasse River. At a meander in the tributary was a small outcrop where Abraham would sit - his thinking spot, he called it - and listen to the river trickle over the rocks like music.

It was to that spot he led his horse, Peg, her hooves stepping deftly through a thin coating of snow that hid rock and root. The trees were bare, the forest quiet and a very fine snow floated in the air, never falling. Abraham could only hear his breath, and his heart beat, giving him life.

But up ahead, behind a stand of birch, was something unusual. The smoke of a fire.

Tolerance by Jack McKenzie

A couple driving through hazardous ice and snow pick up a pair of hitchhikers; by Jack McKenzie.

Alice was the first to see them, although afterwards, amongst friends, Harry would say that he had seen them before she did. It didn't matter. The timing meant nothing compared to the substance, and it wasn't worth the trouble to argue about it, so when they were together he let her tell the story her way. And in her story she saw them first.

They were on their way back from visiting Alice's cousin, Gerald, who was dying of cancer. As they drove along, Harry behind the wheel, they both agreed that they were glad that they had made the trip. They talked about how much it had meant to Gerald's wife, about how people don't care enough about the dying these days, but the truth was that Harry cared very little about Gerald or his imminent death. The only thing that concerned him at the moment was making it home on the icy roads, and not ending up in one of the snow banks that bordered either side like crashing waves frozen at their peak.

As said, he had already noticed them by the time Alice said something. Over to the right, halfway in the road where their car sat, the two of them stood, huddled together almost like lovers, stranded in the middle of nowhere.

"Pull over and see if they need help," Alice said.

Harry did not think this wise, but his wife insisted, and he did not tarry when she did.

Checkout by Benjamin Goodwin

Brian readjusts to suburban life after returning from a Peace Corps tour; by Benjamin Goodwin.

The last of the mom and pop general stores had been closed in the wake of the new massive superstore located in the next town over. It was just starting construction before Brian left for the Peace Corps and apparently did not take long to run all the other shops around out of business. It was a bit depressing to think about, so Brian tried to push it out of his mind on the way to the discount department store. His mom had asked him to pick up a few things for her whilst she was at work. Normally she would do this herself, but she wanted to give her son an excuse to leave the house. Brian was grateful for it.

It had been a difficult few weeks since he returned from Panama and the transition had not been easy. It wasn't so much the cultural differences as it was the climate change. Even the nights in Panama were hot. Although the 60-degree weather in Connecticut was unseasonably warm for early winter, Brian could never seem to get comfortable. At night he would cover himself with as many blankets as he could find, but the weight of it all made it hard for him to sleep.

Brian pulled into the massive parking lot, which used to be a plaza full of family owned shops. He wondered which one of them he parked his mother's Toyota on. He silently prayed to himself that he would not run into anyone he knew from high school. There had been a few run-ins with past acquaintances since he returned, none of which had gone well. It was never going to be the people he wanted to see. His old friends had mostly moved away and the only people he ran into were the kids he always avoided when he was at school. These people had become townies, perpetually stuck in the quicksand of easy-living suburbia. They went to community college and commuted from their parents' houses. They were everything Brian wished he wasn't and it was distressing to see them.

The Pimp Chef: An Interview With Paul Dixon by Christopher T Garry

A journalist interviews an up-and-coming Las Vegas chef who pimps on the side; by Christopher T Garry.

Since 1993 Paul Dixon has been a leading authority on wholesome homemade restaurant cooking. Unlike a lot of chefs running three star restaurants on the Las Vegas Boulevard, Paul thumbed his nose at the established way of doing traditional swank menus, for the sake of food that is strikingly tasty and tasteful, foregoing all pretense of being anything other than just "Good food, done well."

All of his dishes are made from locally farmed ingredients and, with the exception of a few imported ingredients, they all are organic. This is a costly measure of course, but a rewarding one as viewed by thousands of satisfied tourists and locals every week, who have all been afforded Paul's reasonable prices on great food. His restaurant is unique, with distinguished modern decor and delicate gardens lining the walkway leading up to the entrance.

The staff is pleasant, and the atmosphere in his place is cool and fragrant in even the most dreaded heat of the surrounding Nevada desert. If that's not enough to distinguish Paul from your usual brilliant Chef/Owner of a Hip Joint on the Strip, there is also the fact that Paul's staff works for him in another capacity, since he is, in fact, a pimp.

We had a chance to catch up with Paul on a busy Saturday afternoon before the dinner rush.

Okay To Let Go by Kelly Haas Shackelford

A mourning mother tries to come to terms with her guilt; by Kelly Haas Shackelford.

Sitting across the breakfast table, I stared at the man who once adored me. Now, I am object of his pity. I glanced at last year's kitten calendar tacked to the wall beside the refrigerator. Fighting back tears, I closed my eyes as if that mere act could wipe away the date mocking me.  It was Liam's death day. The day I let go of his hand.


"Honey, you need to finish your breakfast," Kevin instructed, and frowned, always taking care of me, his new child.


"You should divorce me," I announced, throwing my unused napkin onto the table.


"No." He sighed, shaking his head, tossing his own napkin down to do battle. The same battle we spar every day.


"I don't deserve to have any more kids," I shouted, slinging my plate of sunny-side up eggs onto the floor. It crashed against the pale blue linoleum.


Without a word, he grabbed his napkin and dropped to his knees, singing the Barney song that Liam liked. Replacing dishes had become a family tradition. Yet, he refused to eat off paper plates. Real families eat off real dishes, he would say, as if the clanking of silverware against fake china could mimic a child's laugh.


"He was only two." I ran over to the calendar and snatched it off the wall.


I began to rip it in two, when Kevin stopped me. "It was his favorite," he whispered, taking the calendar and placing it out of harm's way.  


The Picnic by R A Conine

A loving couple go for a picnic on a quiet mountaintop, but the terrible truth of their situation weighs on their minds in R A Conine's science fiction tale.

They drove to their favorite place. They left town and followed winding Country Route 90 into the russet-colored hills. They crossed the picturesque and sagging covered bridge that had been the subject of so many oil paintings. She remarked that the structure had been freshly painted.

"I see that," he answered, surprised. "Why wasn't it in the newspaper?"

They both admired the beautiful shade of barn red selected by the town council.

They carried hot coffee for the drive and extra water for the hike. It was cold in the mornings but the afternoons were still pleasant. It was autumn then and the last warm days and hints of summer still lingered in the air. Brown and golden leaves danced in the wake of the passing car, skittering across the cracked macadam like flocks of children at play.

They drove for an hour, speaking little, their minds wandering far afield. They sped through the foothills and skirted the massive state park, eventually reaching Sandy Point.

The Point was a carefully tended nature preserve with hiking trails that led inevitably upward. While the marsh birds and colorful wildflowers below were wonderful to see, the real attraction waited above, 300 feet higher than the split rails, the wooden bridges and the boggy Augusta River tributaries.

They crossed the parking lot hand in hand. It was empty. The tourists were gone. The gates were down. The admissions office and first aid shacks were padlocked.

Seeing George by Michael C Keith

Jacob and Emily, on their way to the cinema, bump into George Harrison; by Michael C Keith.

The hope I dreamed of was a dream,

Was but a dream, and now I wake.

- Christina Rossetti

We had pulled up to the curb on Thayer Street on the East Side of Providence, a few blocks up from the Avon Theater. It was where we usually found a place to park on the busy thoroughfare. As I turned off the engine, I looked down the street about a half a block and noticed a man approaching in a flowing overcoat carrying shopping bags. There was a dull ring of recognition, a mild sense of familiarity about the person. Maybe I knew the guy, I thought. My wife was gathering her scarf and gloves to face the cold December air as I continued to peer at the nearing figure. And then BAM! It hit me.

"Oh my God, it's George Harrison!" I blurted.

"What?" my wife replied.

"George Harrison... the Beatle!" I repeated with urgency.

"Where? C'mon..."

"Coming up the street. Look!" I pointed.

She moved closer to the windshield for a better view.

"It can't... He does kind of look... You think?" she gasped.

The Seal of Hadruman by Ziyad Hayatli

Eli discovers a way to communicate with an ancient race from beyond the veil in Ziyad Hayatli's fantasy.

There was a time, a time of the Ancients, when strange gods, goddesses and even demons were worshipped. A time of mystery and knowledge, suffering and pleasure.

During that time there was one king who ruled, and when he died he became legend, and the throes of time turned him from legend to myth. He was King Hadruman the Wise. Kings are remembered for their deeds, good or bad. And the entire life of King Hadruman the Wise was one long terrible deed.

It said in the myths that the seal which he bore gave him a special power. It bound the spirits that came from other wordly heavens to his will. It dragged them from their own abode and into our world where they followed the bidding of King Hadruman the Wise, and they were capable of many things. He used their strength and power to build great cities and muster large armies that would destroy any foe. After looking at many writings and accounts, I have chosen to call them the Unseen. He carved out an empire under his own name across all of the Levant. He was so powerful that only one thing could eventually take his life, the thing that can and will destroy everything; time.

And so people looked for the Seal of King Hadruman - a symbol, a hieroglyph, a signature of sorts - anything that could bestow a clue as to what this power actually was. Of course, as time passed, more and more people scoffed and snickered at the myths.

Except me.

My name is Eli, and I have found the Seal of Hadruman where I live, in the depths of London.

But everything is paid with a price. And this the tale of the price that I have paid.

The Wingless Wingman by Douglas Sterling

An immigrant shopkeeper consults his nephew on how to improve business, by Douglas Sterling.

I do not like the ones that walk around with the parrot on shoulder trying to impress the girls. They demean the noble creature. They teach the parrot the pick up lines.

Parrot says, "Braawk! Is your father the baker?"

Parrot says, "Braawk! Is you wash your clothes in Windex?"

I wish parrot would tear earring out - patooie! - fly away up in sky. But wings are clipped, parrot is trapped. Parrot is the wingless wingman. He only dreams of flying over his jungle, singing his song. He is stuck here now forever.

Boys, girls, all are animals here. There is no self-respect. No dignity. When they come in shop they cannot look me in eye. When they ask question or want to get t-shirt they stay looking down at floor.

But here I am selling slop to animals. I ask nephew what shirts will these kids buy? He says shirt that says Who Farted In Here or FBI Is Female Bodies Inspector. So I buy these fart shirts and he is right. They buy Who Is Farted and Beer Is What's For Breakfast and for this they pay fifteen, twenty dollars.

Potential by Thomas Kearnes

A teenage tearaway with a talent for both drawing and getting into trouble finally attempts to draw his art teacher, whom he holds in high regard; by Thomas Kearnes.

Other guys drew cartoon characters with huge, floppy genitals or whatever model of car they wanted even more than the hottest cheerleader. The whole hour of detention, however, I drew Mrs. Simpson. The bitch of it was, I knew I'd have to draw the whole picture over again because all I had was a No. 2 pencil and a sheet of lined notebook paper. Coach Elliott didn't allow me to bring my sketchpad or charcoal pencils into the portable building where all the delinquents waited for the clock to strike four. I'd convinced myself if I didn't finish the picture in time, I'd never finish. I always made stupid rules for myself. I believed them at the time, but then I broke them and forgot why I believed them in the first place.

The building smelled like stale bubblegum. Chester sat next to me, picking at the blackheads on his forearm. The fucker had big-ass arms. My friend mentioned catching him at the Anytime Fitness down the highway from school. She said Chester was pumping iron with a demonic look in his eyes, like he was punishing himself. I was in okay shape. I didn't really think about that shit. Vanessa liked me all right, and Natalie had her eye on me, I could tell. It was kinda fucked up that a junior college drone like Natalie would scope me out, but it's good to keep your options open. One day Vanessa might realize my ship was doomed to sink.

Yes, It Is You by Michael McCarthy

Michael McCarthy revisits his sordid serial killer character Yeats, who has built himself a rather unusual device to dish out new forms of human cruelty.

This morning I was sitting in the private (make that very private, bordering on intimate) office of one of the leading industrialists in Europe, if not the leading and, from what I read, a member of one of the top five highest profile sponsors of charitable causes in the land. This person is on first name terms with the top drawer in society, names that would really impress you, from business, politics, show business and a sprinkling of blue bloods.

A man who is squeaky clean with a devoted wife, not eye candy but an independently well connected lady who is not afraid to get her hands dirty in the cause and promotion of her less trumpeted but equally laudable aid agencies.

A couple blessed with two adorable, photogenic but media shy, highly successful children.

It might impress you, but not me.

I was there for detailed discussions with him on a commission that he has given me.

But first, let me introduce myself.

My name is Yeats.

Just Yeats.

I'm going to be very famous.