Vengeance On The Danube

a short story by Alan C. Baird The modern city formed by the ancient towns of Buda, Obuda and Pest basks in a riot of color - many leaves are flaunting their autumn tints in the warm afternoon sunshine. The majestic Danube flows through the midst of this glittering metropolis, with its historic bridges linking together millions of souls into a sophisticated city known as "The Paris Of The East." A sleek cigarette boat drifts offshore, through the sparsely-inhabited outlying precincts of Budapest. It's a lovely day to be on the river... for some people. Resting on a narrow ledge at the end of this streamlined craft lies an anchor, partly hanging over the water. A four-meter chain attaches the anchor to a human ankle, encased in a bright orange hazmat isolation suit. From behind the suit's protective Plexiglas mask, a terrified face peers out, eyes desperately straining to look downward. Read more [...]

The House on Bretton Heights

a short story by Tom Sheehan ([email]tomsheehan [at] attbi [dot] com[/email]) For nearly a month, from a cliff shoulder on Pressburn Hill, August rain and sun taking turns at him, birds accepting him, Brisque Validarn watched the house on Bretton Heights, watched every movement, change of light, visit and departure. From his post the house, on the very summit of Bretton Heights, was about half a mile distant, sitting there the crown jewel of targets, its parapets breaching the skyline. One precious stone, slipped with dark ease from that crown, would last him for a year; Nice, Bordeaux in the old country, any beach without reservation in the New World. He watched, he clocked, he measured, he posted entries in a burgeoning logbook. When a light went on or off, he bent over his logbook and marked the time, the quadrant of the big house, calculated routines. When a FedEx truck crawled up the long driveway, Brisque swore he could hear the gears at work, both coming and going, as the drive back down the hill could prove challenging. Read more [...]

The Seer

a fiction short by Claire Dandridge Selleck [email]claires [at] burningword [dot] com[/email] There was nothing extraordinary about the way the day began. The alarm clock rang at the usual hour and, however reluctantly, I rolled at once from my bed vaguely aware that a dream had been interrupted. Scraping the hair back from my forehead, I stumbled to the kitchen and eyed the sink full of dishes still submerged in soapy water from last night's false start. As I paused to watch the mist rising from the river that flowed some one hundred feet from my kitchen window, I was reminded why waking to dirty dishes no longer bothered me. At night I had only the four window panes to reflect on as I washed up; unless the moon is full, the darkness here is impenetrable. In the morning I had this dancing river to entertain me, the swirls of steam flowing upward like a lavishly choreographed ballet. I could linger as long as I pleased, the dishes a guilt-effacing alibi. Read more [...]

Thousand Deaths Plus One

a flash fiction piece by Zinta Aistars [email]zaistars [at] kzoo [dot] edu[/email] "Don't shut me out," she whispers to the back of his head. "Would die a thousand deaths for you, know I would, know I would, you know it," she whispers with her lips right up against the rough short growth of his hair. Her hands reach around to touch his face, turned away from her, his body turned away from her, his eyes turned away from her. Light fuzz, bit of rough, cool cheeks, she smoothes her palms over his face and contours her fingers to the shape she has created. From one micro-magical cell deep in her body, eighteen years ago, she created this face. Read more [...]

A Letter From Ben

a short story by Joan Horrigan ([email]joanhorrigan [at] msn [dot] com[/email]) Now that I got your attention and you got the privilege of my generosity, I'm gonna make you a deal. This ain't no car dealer's deal. This here's a genuwine way to make some dough. Just to show my honest regards to you, I'll let you in on what happened and why this here's gonna work. Now, I ain't no good at writing, so you gotta bear with me in this letter cause I talk out loud as I write. What started the whole thing was Charlie got sick. Now Charlie is the only friend I got in here at Statesville. So I couldn't let him down when he asked a favor of me. Read more [...]

Foster Care

a short story by Felicia Sullivan ([email]felsull [at] hotmail [dot] com[/email]) One Tuesday morning, Claire Foster's mother died. There had been rumors. Sam Johnson, who delivered the early edition of the Daily News, would see her stumble in heels too high, white vinyl skirt creeping up her thighs, edges ripped, snagging on fishnets -- coming off the Eastbound 5:51AM train from Manhattan. Kate Taylor, during her morning jog, would spurt past Diana Foster and pause, "Are you okay?" Kate squeaked, out of breath in her pink parachute-jogging suit, matching fanny pack and stereo headphones. Scratching her arms, skin gathering under jagged fingernails, Diana would mutter a drunken "Uh-huh" and then trip and fall onto her lawn. "There were definitely needle marks," Kate speculated to cashiers at the local supermarket. People in my town loved a good story. "I didn't want to help her up," Kate had whispered to Betty Samson while they were nestled under a scalding hot dryer, hair tightly rolled in sky-blue plastic curlers. "You just never know!" My mother delivered these stories to my father every evening like the late edition of the news. Read more [...]