"Jasper the Ghost" by Ani Terzian

"Hey, what are you doing over there?!" Bill asked.

Jasper was quietly sitting in front of the television, waching Ghostbusters for the millionth time, his pale fingers covered with crumbs. The enormous plate full of cookies was now empty. He put the movie on mute. "Nothing!" he called.

"Are you coming with us or not?"

Jasper looked over at the direction Bill's voice was coming from. There was nothing there.

"No, I think I'll just sit this one out again," he said dully.

Bill huffed. Jasper could imagine the annoyed glare his brother was giving him, even though he couldn't see Bill -- or indeed any members of his family.

"You've been so boring ever since the accident, Jasper. You're a ghost, you can't just sit around all day at home with all these helpless humans running around." A few moments later Jasper heard the door slam.

Jasper had a problem. Everyone called it a curse. He was starting to believe them. Unlike the rest of his family, he wasn't invisible. If he went outside, people would see him. This kept him from fulfilling his destiny as a ghost -- to scare people.

But as the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man appearaed in front of him in his silent house, Jasper decided was tired of being teased by all the neighborhood ghosts. He was finally going to get out and engage in some ghostly business.

He put on his hat and coat, a weak attempt for a disguise, and left the apartment. Walking down the alley, he suddenly heard footsteps. It was the first sign of life he had seen in weeks (his technically dead family didn't count): a tall man dressed in thick clothes, slowly walking towards him.

The man's shiny leather boots caught Jasper's eye. Clickety clack. Clickety clack. The winter snow was still on the ground; there was no way to get around secretly. As the man came closer to him, Jasper jumped out of the corner.

"Gaaaaah!"

The man fell over. He was trembling and hyperventilating. "Who are you? What do you want?"

Jasper hesitated. It had been a long time since he scared a person. It didn't feel good the way it used to. But his feet were freezing from walking out in the cold. So he told the man, "I want your boots."

The man took them off and gave them to Jasper. Jasper put them on, left his own shoes for the man, and continued walking down the cold alley. He didn't feel like being a ghost anymore.

From a workshop about ???? (I'm not sure), Glendale, CA, June 2011. - Ned

"Goliath" by Breanna Tucker

It's always weird when someone has the exact same schedule as you at school. It's like you've been selected at random to be best friends. I didn't really like this guy Johnny, but since we had all the same classes, we would see each other everywhere, and one day during third period I noticed him kept peeking over from behind his textbook.

"What?" I hissed.

"This is boring."

"Duh."

"Well," he said, "let's do something."

"Do what?" I questioned.

He had a look on his face like he was wondering if he should say what he was going to say. He glanced at Mrs. Richardson. "Let's ditch."

I considered it. Here we were, ambitious teenagers sitting in a pointless class, knowing that absolutely nothing significant was going to happen for the rest of the day. Probably the rest of the week.

"Okay." I smiled and I saw the excitement overtake him.

"Follow me." He got up out of his seat and walked out the door. I obediently followed, wondering why no one noticed.

* * *

Apparently his plan was to go to Magic Mountain, which he had two tickets to. It being a weekday, we got onto every ride in less than 10 minutes. We spun in teacups until we were nauseated; we ate disgusting, over-priced chicken strips; and we got soaking wet on a ride called "Tidal Wave." We thoroughly enjoyed ourselves -- and he even won a pink teddy bear for me. Actually he bribed the worker, but I'll say he won for his sake.

The sun had gone down, so we decided to go on just one more ride before completing our perfect, well-spent day.

"Which one?" he asked.

"Hmm..." I thought about it. "How about Goliath?"

Goliath had the steepest incline of any coaster in the United States.

No one was in line, so we picked the two front seats. As the coaster cranked up into the night sky, we saw the city light up below us.

"Today was fun," he said and smiled.

"Yeah," I replied pleasantly. When we reached the peak of the coaster, we heard a loud thump below us and our cart shifted to the right. Curious, I peeked over the side. The two front wheels were not aligned with the track.

Gravity started to bring us downward.

From the Feb. 2012 workshop on "The Cliffhanger" in Glendale, CA.

"Conflagration" by Caleb Zachary

Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday Grant had woken me up by kicking the door of my room in as he passed by in the hallway. Thursday he kicked it open and tossed a bag of CliffsNotes onto my bed, aiming as close to my head as he could without looking like he was trying. Friday Dad left early, so Grant celebrated his freedom to torture me by blasting Rebecca Black from the kitchen while he had his cereal.

Grant is my cousin, older than me by one grade, who moved in with my father and I for an indefinite period of time. He and Dad got along famously, trading witticisms and abstract trivia while also taking every opportunity to goad me, knowing I was born to be a comedy straight man.

While I've been going to a small private school since middle school, Grant enrolled at the local public school and he hates it with a passion. He had another week before his school got out, while I had started summer break two weeks before, thus his surplus resentment. I crawled out of bed and pulled on a shirt, bumping my way drearily into the kitchen to pull the plug on the "Friday"-blasting speaker. Grant didn't even look up, only pushed the cereal box toward me and mumbled a mouthful--something about clean spoons.

I wandered toward the wide window and yanked open the curtain, feeling a bit vengeful. I heard Grant groan as light flooded in onto the gleaming tile counters. I gazed out over the residential high-rises a few blocks away right above Grant's school, mirror images of the ones we lived in. (My father joked that if we lived in one of the other high-rises, Grant could rappel from our balcony onto the baseball field.) I left the curtain open, even though the brightness made me squint.

"What time do you get out of school today?" I asked.

"2:30," he said, "but I'll be staying a bit late to talk to Lena."

Lena was Grant's math teacher, who he had developed what I considered an unhealthy crush upon.

"If I'm not too busy partying it up, do you want me to meet you when you're done?" I asked.

"I'll be partying with Lena," Grant mumbled, knowing that I had absolutely no plans. "Meet me at Starbucks at three."

I grunted affirmation, trying to calculate just how late he'd be, and headed back to my room. While Grant might have to wake up at 7:15, I could sleep as late as I wanted.

* * *

I thought I was still dreaming when I rolled out of bed to the screeching, until the room shook and my eardrums popped, filling my ears with a dull whining sound. My head throbbed, and as I stood up the building shook again and glass broke somewhere in the apartment. My clock, jolted from its wall mounting to crack on the floor, was frozen at 11:28.

I stepped over the shards of plastic into the hallway, where paintings and pictures scattered the floor. The kitchen was where the destruction began. The window was shattered across the white tile, glittering in the sunlight that still streamed through the frame. Pots and pans littered the counter after falling from the hanging rack.

A cloud of smoke was rising to shroud my view from the window, but the remnants of the adjacent high rises were still barely visible, even as they crumbled to the ground across the school below. 

Across the road, buried in the third floor of the closest high rise, hung a wrecked passenger airplane.

"An Unusual Lunch" by Estefania Zavala

The screeches woke her up as they did every morning. They were screams of purest fear and abject terror. Her little brother, Henry, was having a tough time adjusting to kindergarten.

She scurried out of bed, hoping against hope that a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios swimming with orange juice (his favorite) would quiet him down. For once, the endeavor was successful and she helped her harried mother mangle him into a car seat.

She arrived at school early, tripping on the bike rack -- as she always did. The cut on her knee re-opened and she cursed/limped all the way to the office where she obtained a band-aid that was very grudgingly given.

She thought about the stinginess of the office aides and composed cutting speeches aimed at them for the rest of the morning.

For lunch, she chose the same kind of grilled cheese sandwich as always and thought the same kind of thoughts as always: she considered dyeing her hair; she dismissed the idea.

There was a silence within the cafeteria. The lull caused her to look up.

It was the most bizarre thing she had ever seen. It was some sort of a man, as near as she could tell. He was walking on his hind legs, at least. He appeared to have the head of a cat -- and the body of a bear. But he was a soft shade of purple. He had two giant black discs for eyes and no other facial features.

As extraordinary as this creature, however, was what he cradled in his giant lavender arms. Her little brother, Henry.

"Hello, Natalie," said her brother with imperial coolness not usually displayed by five-year-olds.

"Hello," she replied faintly.

"Please inform Mother that I won't be home for dinner tonight," he said. Natalie wondered where his lisp had gone. "I won't be home for quite some time, in fact. I enjoy your company and Honey Nut Cheerios but I have found the indignities of kindergarten too foul to suffer."

She nodded -- as though this was the sort of thing her brother said all the time. The monster's black discs glittered curiously.

"Well, I'm afraid Mr. Garrison and I must be leaving," Henry said. She realized "Mr. Garrison" was the monster clutching him. With a swift command from her brother, he began to lumber out of the cafeteria.

Her brother turned back to see all the panicking people and sent her a look of utmost pity. "I'll come back for you when I can," he said.

"Wanted"

by Molly Buffington

The town was just like every other in the West: tumbleweeds, a saloon with a couple drunks staggering around a barmaid, a poorly guarded bank, horses, a sheriff nailing "Wanted" signs to a board, women in bonnets buying groceries... the works. None of them saw what the man surveying the town did.

Women turned their heads and batted their eyelashes at him. He seemed to walk aimlessly, just a clean-cut cowhand, still retaining some youth, with swaying light red hair and icy blue eyes. The sheriff nodded his head to him.

"Howdy, stranger."

The man, a little surprised, tipped his stetson. "Howdy."

He tried to walk on but the sheriff, an older man with gristle-y, grey-tinged hair, grabbed his arm and pulled him back.

"You new to the Lone Star State?"

"Yes sir," the man lied.

"I'm Lawrence, local law enforcement."

"Joseph Robertson, sir. Here on business with my family's farm. Be gone in a few days."

That seemed to satisfy the sheriff. "Enjoy your stay, son," he said, smacking Joseph a little too hard on the back as he walked on.

Joseph wiped his brow. There was no way this Lawrence could have seen through him. No, it just wasn't possible. He continued walking and reached the board with the "Wanted" signs.

"Fast Jack," a man in his mid-40s with jet black hair and a gold tooth. Wanted for battery and defying law enforcement, $50 reward.

"Quick-Draw Stevens," white-blond with a crooked nose, train robbery and horse thieving. $150 reward.

And how could he not notice? "Billy The Kid," a cocky choice for an alias, brown-haired, baby-faced, wanted from the Grand Canyon to the Mississippi for everything from cattle rustling to armed robbery to murder. $500 reward, dead or alive.

Joseph's eyes grew wide at the last charge. "I didn't commit murder," he mumbled.

The town looked like a good enough place to settle down. He had money, freedom, power. A great deal of power. He would always have that.

He looked behind his shoulder to see if anyone spotted him staring at the posters and then shook off the fear, swaggering over to the saloon. He subconsciously checked his gun: still there, still loaded. He pushed the door and glanced around. Friendly barmaid, a few poker games, several ladies dolled up for business. He nodded to himself. He liked it here.

He sat at the bar and stared at himself in the mirror. Over his ear, a tuft of his hair was brown instead of red. How had he missed that? He concentrated, digging deep into his guts and willing himself to change. Shifting was never easy, always painful. Anyone passing by would think he had terrible indigestion. It took a good 30 seconds of focusing and chanting under his breath. But when he looked up his hair was all red, his eyes were all blue, and he looked nothing like the man in the poster.

"The Dried Tomato"

Vaqueros in Brooklyn, NY

by Angela Pailevanian

Six in the morning, Ruben woke up for his shift at The Dried Tomato, a sandwich shop in the Lower East Side. Ate breakfast, brushed his teeth, put on the weird-looking hat, and off he went to ride the subway to work.

"Ruben, you're late!" Alice said. She was like the veteran of the place. Eighty years old and still working. With at least 20 grandchildren.

Ruben apologized and ran into the back to get his apron. Conversation continued amongst the workers.

"Hey Riley! Have you caught the kid that threw a baseball through your window?"

"No! I can't even fix it, I'm two months behind on rent. I swear that kid's gonna get a beating when I find out who it is!"

It was noon. People were pouring in. The orders were accumultaing quickly.

"I want a turkey bacon sandwich, hold the mayo."

"I want a chicken sandwich on wheat bread, and fries on the side."

"I want a large coke, with a bacon sandwich, no tomatoes though."

Around 2pm, a boy walked in. He had on a Led Zeppelin shirt. Green eyes. Dark skin. Looked like he was ready to kill somebody.

"Welcome, what do you want to eat?" Ruben asked.

"You want to know what I want? I want to know why my father left. But you can't tell me that, can you? Nobody can. Not even my momma. Now she's three months behind rent, he aint paying a dime and we're gonna get evicted."

"Oh. Well I'm--"

"You have any idea what it's like to grow up without a dad? Watchin' my momma struggle every day, not comign home. She's got five kids. Six including me. I'm the youngest."

"How long has he been gone?" Ruben asked.

"Oh, he was gone before I was even born. Momma said she met him at a bar out in Buswick years ago."

"What's your momma's name, son?"

"Ayleen."

Could it be? The Ayleen he met in Vaqueros 15 years ago? The boy had Ruben's eyes, Ruben's nose, Ruben's slick straight hair. But she never told him anything, never called him. They broke up just as soon as they had gotten together.

Ruben stayed silent for a moment. Then he said: "Man, if I found my father now, he gon' wish he never left my momma."

Ruben shook his head and tried to stay focused on the food: "What do you want to eat, son?"

"Chick Chick"

by Oscar Guerrero

I ate some questionable fried chicken from a questionable restaurant, in a questionable street in a questionable area east of LAX. My uncle is a steward at the airport, or something along those lines, so we picked him up from Terminal 20. He greeted us with a "Look how big you've gotten?" and a "Did you lose weight?" and the question we were all waiting for, "Are you hunrgy?"

He stuffed us in the car, took the wheel, and jammed his foot on the pedal until we were going 40 in a 15. "I know a place!"

Before we knew it, it was past nine and we had driven for two hours. "I think we missed it. It was supposed to me fifteen minutes from the airport." We gazed at him but bit our tongues, as we couldn't refuse his hospitality for offering to pay.

Then we spied a place: "Chicky Chicky," with bright flickering neon lights that, as Simon & Garfunkel put it, "split the night."

The menu varied from fried chicked to spicy fried chicken. Everyone ordered the spicy fried chicken but I, being the weakest of stomach of the family, couldn't help but be weak and submissive so as to stand out and get the chicken that was lacking in the spicy area.

So the cashier, this plump Hispanic woman with a Jennifer Aniston haircut and too many rings to count, followed our commands. In a matter of seconds, the food was ready. We had drinks, the chicken of spicy and non-spicy variety, and a little container overflowing with ranch sauce.

I ever-so-cautiously clenched my teeth on the ever-so-salty chicken. I chewed slowly. Save for a few bones it wasn't bad. The feast had officially begun, as everyone was grabbing for a leg, or a nugget, or a wing, and chewing, and savoring, and swallowing, and gulping, and of course digesting.

We finished the meal, payed a surprisingly large bill, and got in the car to say, "This wasn't so bad."

My dad drove tmie, going 25mph under the speed limit. But even at that speed, I felt a pressure in the center of my torso, building up, slowly, but surely.

Then there was rumbling, and sweating, and the next thing I knew, my mouth was erupting white chunks of legs, nuggets, wings and other body parts of the fowl type.

And it was everywhere.

My shoes, my jeans, my Revolver shirt (which I had so carefully and lovingly preserved), and even my mother's dress (which she had carefully and lovingly preserved)... Not to mention two car seats, a bit of the window, and even some of the steering wheel.

Everyone gave me the stare they had previously given my uncle, but they bit their tongues, and kept driving, and driving and driving, and just ignoring the smell.

"Chapter 1—I am Born"

by Cassy Sarnell

Jennifer Louise Boyle was born on September 27, 1992. She had stunning blue eyes and little ringlet curls. Her mother, Karen Celia Boyle, had been at the hospital for 6 hours, counting the hour of doctors sticking needles in her to numb the pain. Her father, Matthew Louis Boyle, didn’t see either the mother or the child for exactly 24 hours after the baby’s birth, at which point he exclaimed, “Well thank god all the right parts are in all the right places,” which I resent.

It never occurred to a young Jennifer that there was anything wrong with her. She was not especially “girly,” but not especially “tomboyish,” a term I resent.

The first clue she had that she was less-than-perfect was while watching Motocrossed with her now-ex-best friend. She was sitting there, watching, when I spoke up for the first time.

“I want to marry her.”

Jennifer, not one to keep anything to herself, shared this with her now-ex-best friend: “I want to marry her.”

“Ew. Are you gay?”

Neither of us knew what the term meant, so Jennifer looked it up.

“I’m straight,” I told her.

“I know… Are you my imaginary friend?”

“No.”

“Are you… me?”

“Yes.”

“What’s your name?”

“What?”

“Well, I thought I was Jennifer. But you’re me. So whatever your name is is also my name.”

I thought about it. “James. I’m James.”

I was born 8 years later, on June 15, 2008. James Louis Boyle. I had hair cut too short to form ringlets, and dreary blue eyes. My mother, Karen Celia Boyle, wouldn’t look at me. My father, Matthew Louis Boyle, wavered between joking that now he had the son he’d always wanted, and staring at me with a look that said, "How did this get so wrong? How did you get so wrong?”

"Thumbs Down, Bro"

by Christina McCarthy



The line went on for hours. Hundreds of children lined up side by side as their skin boiled from the summer sun.

Anthony was getting anxious as they approached the top of the mount. Super Speed. The most outrageous water slide in the state of Arizona. It took you down faster than any loopy slide in the park, with the sharpest turns and steepest drops.

"Hey, Chubbs, relax," Greg said to Anthony.

"I can't help it; we've been waiting all week for this, and it's so hot I want to be in the pool already," Anthony said.

"I am actually a bit nervous about it."

"Why? You're retarded. It's going to be sick."

"Well, hate to be the one to share this with you, but I am quite a bit more aerodynamic than you," said Greg. Anthony rolled his eyes and moved ahead in line.

Greg continued, "Maybe I will just wait until you go and when you land in the water you can give me a thumbs up or down so I can decide if I want to go through with it."

"Yeah, okay, whatever you want."

Before long, Anthony was next up. Greg gave him a quick reminder to give him a signal before Anthony jumped into the tube slide head-first. Greg took a few moments to look around. He hadn't realized how high up he was. The view unnerved him.

"Holy shit!" he heard a girl scream from below. He leaned over the rail to see the pool filling with blood and he went into panic mode. He ran down the metal spiral staircase past the crowded line feeling nauseous from the speed and fear. His heart was beating in his throat and he thought he was going to puke. Ever since he was little he was known to be a nervous vomiter.

When he finally go to the pool, Anthony had been taken out but there was a crowd around him filled with panic. He must have hit his head on the bottom. The paramedics tended to him and Greg couldn't see his body. The entire water park seemed to freeze around the scene. Once you drowned out the shaky voices crying for help, the park was silent.

The seconds seemed like hours. A voice yelled out, "He's breathing!" Then there was a loud splash in the bloody pool. Greg looked over to see... Anthony, naked, bringing his head out from under the red pool water.

"What the fuck!" Anthony yelled. "First my trunks get stuck on base bolt in a turn, now the water is like toxic?"

Anthony climbed out of the pool, reaching for a towel, as Greg's stomach turned in shock at the red and relief at his friend. Anthony wrapped the towel around himself.

"Thumbs down bro, all the way."

"The Great Four Guardians"

by Christopher K.

[Circa 2009. End punctuation by Christopher K. -- ed. ]

Everyone thinks gods are a myth but...

They would be wrong.

When God created the World via the Big Bang Effect and the first Act of Evil took place, with Adam and Eve eating the Forbidden Fruit placed by a Fallen Angel named Lucifer who wanted all the power to himself: God created men known as Guardians.

Crafted to assist him in the defeat of Lucifer, they each carried one of the elements that made God who He was: Earth, Air, Fire, Water, Light, Darkness, Chaos, Twilight, Balance, Nature, Existence, Cosmos, and Ultima.

Each person had a mate to reproduce with so with every new child the element would pass to the kid as well. What was the point? To keep Lucifer and his minions in check and the world safe. Back to the main issue...

These four kids were children of Guardians and soon figured out they were needed to carry on their father's work: Zane Eison Hatake of Fire, Blaze Eison Hatake of Fire, Alister Rizon of Light, and Getsu Fuhuma of Existence.

These four would one day be known as The Great Four. In 1583 they discovered that they each had a symbolic relationship with one another. The great war in Japan in the early Edo period took place in the year 1611 and ended in 1614.

The Great Four fought in that war to prevent an evil Warlord named Kazwki Ino-moto and his 10,000 troops from taking over Kyoto. The Great Four only had 500 in total to help the cause. Even though outnumbered severely.... They still had their powers which they mastered but unfortunatly the Warlord also had a gift. Power of Darkness he had.

The result? Total destruction... of the Warlord's men!!! As for the Great Four against Kaz.. A dead draw.

But legend says Guardians permanently never die.. will they return? If so, is this still a myth?! or True? you choose! end?

[300 film is released in 2007; Last Airbender film is released in 2010. -- ed.]

"Graffiti BS"

by Yossi Halpernin

The Smith-9th St. station is deserted at night the tracks clear of workers and the platform free of cops. This makes it a great place to go tagging. The trains come every twenty five minutes you time it right you got four minutes to find a spot twenty minutes to tag one to get away.

We are in the first four minutes looking for an empty space to tag. I don’t want to buff someone else’s tag so I find an empty space. I do an outline of my tag SCOPE and fill it in. I look at my friend David he’s almost done with his tag SPIKE.

“You're done Dom?”

“Almost Randy.”

“Hey.”

“Hey you.”

I turn around and a man who looks like he’s homeless approaches us he then pulls out a badge.

“What were you doing on the tracks?”

Before I can say a word or even think of what to say David opens his mouth.

“We weren’t doing graffiti.”

“How do you know I’m stopping you for graffiti?”

“Are you psychic?”

“That’s why you are stopping us.”

“Right.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I stopped you because you were on the tracks. Why were you on the tracks?”

We are both speechless. Time seems to slow down and drift away.

“So you were doing graffiti.”

“No” we say.

“So why were you on the tracks?”

“We were crossing to get to the Manhattan side.”

“This is the Brooklyn side.”

“I mean Brooklyn side.”

“Brooklyn or Manhattan side.”

“Brooklyn.”

“Ok.”

“If you were just crossing why were you walking on the tracks?”

“We needed to get to the front car.”

“Well this is actually the back.”

“Ow.”

“Well we thought it was the Manhattan side and that would have (would of) made it the front.”

“I thought you wanted the Brooklyn side.”

“Ya.”

“Brooklyn.”

“Brooklyn.”

“Brooklyn Manhattan uptown downtown front back you're confusing me.”

“What’s confusing?”

“You should know were you are going.”

“Ya.”

“We needed to go further into Brooklyn and went to the Manhattan platform by mistake and we need to get the front car but accidentally went to the back car.”

“Ok. Just one thing. I saw you climb down onto the tracks and then twenty-four minutes later climb back out again before a train came. Are you telling me you weren’t doing graffiti?”

“We weren’t.”

“Then what were you doing?

“We were trying to get to the next station since we missed the train.”

“So why did you turn around and come back?”

“We realized that the station was too far and closed.”

“Closed or too far?”

“Which.”

“Too far.”

“Closed.”

“Which one?”

“Closed.”

“We reached the station and it was closed. So we turned around and came back.”

“Which station?”

“Not sure.”

“The one over there,” David says, pointing.

“Ok. I have news for you kids. Stations don’t close. They're open twenty-four seven.”

“Well it was empty so we assumed it was closed.”

“Actually we never made it to the station. Half way there we turned around and went back.”

“Because it was too far.”

“Too far? Or closed.”

“Too far.”

“Ya too far.”

“Ok let me see IDs.”

“For what officer?”

“We weren’t doing graffiti.”

“Sure you weren’t. Why were you on the tracks?”

“Because we didn’t want to break the law.”

“You didn’t want to break the law.”

“Ya.”

“We went on the tracks to smoke.”

“Smoke what.”

“Cigarettes.”

“Because it’s illegal to smoke on the platform.”

“What brand?”

“Marlboro.”

“Newport I mean Marlboro.”

“Marlboro or Newport.”

“Marlboro.”

“I was thinking Marlboro but I said Newport.”

“You sure? Or were you smoking Newport and he was smoking Marlboro?”

“Ya.”

“I had Newport he had Marlboro.”

“Ok. Let me get this straight. He was smoking Newport you were smoking Marlboro and when I asked you, you said Newport but meant Marlboro. And this whole time down there you were doing graffiti."

“Ya.”

“I mean no.”

“You're confusing me. Let me see the packs.”

We look at each other and pretend to look through our pockets.

“Where are the cigarettes?”

“Oh we must have (must of) left them on the train tracks.”

“Better go get them.”

“No, you're not going any where. No more games. IDs both of you.”

“But why?”

“We weren’t doing graffiti.”

“Sure you weren’t. IDs.”

We both reach into our pockets and find our IDs and are about to hand them to the officer.

“Why are your hands like that?”

“Huh?”

“Like what officer?”

I look at my hands then at Dom’s hands and realize that our hands are almost completely covered in paint. I guess we forgot to wipe the paint off.

“Show me your hands. What’s that on your hands?”

“Not sure.”

“Looks like paint.”

“How did it get there?”

“Huh.”

“Finger painting.”

“Finger painting. Aren’t you boys a bit old for finger painting?”

“The teacher made us do it at school.”

“School. It’s Sunday.”

“You have school on Sunday.”

“Ya.”

“Sunday school.”

“Really? So what did you paint?”

“Christmas trees.”

“It’s July.”

“So.”

“You're painting Christmas trees in July.”

“Ya.”

“And you.”

“Painting trees too.”

“No.”

“Santa.”

“So you were in Sunday school this morning painting black Christmas trees and blue Santas in the middle of July.”

“Can’t bullshit a bullshitter sir.”

“It’s from graffiti.”

“Ok.”

“It’s from graffiti.”

“But.”

“We were not doing graffiti.”

“Ya.”

“We went to go look at graffiti.”

“You went to look at graffiti? Then how did it get on your hands?”

“We accidentally touched it and it happened to be wet.”

“Ya we touched it to have a better connection with it.”

“You know how tactile contact can connect a person to an object?”

“Ok so let me get this straight. First you told me that you were crossing the tracks to get to the Manhattan side then you change it to the Brooklyn side. Then you tell me you needed the front car then the back car. Then you tell me you need to get to the other station but the station was closed and then it was too far. Then you went on the tracks to smoke a cigarette but neither of you know what brand. Now you're telling me you went to look at graffiti and accidentally touched it and also touched it to feel a tactile connection to it."

“I think it’s obvious that we were doing graffiti.”

“I think that’s obvious too.”

“How old are you two?”

“14.”

“16.”

“Do your parents know you're out this late?”

“Well sort of.”

“He’s sleeping at my house and I’m sleeping at his house.”

“Yes or No?”

“No.”

“No.”

“I'm taking you in and having a long talk with your parents about graffiti and sneaking out.”

Yossi Halpernin can be reached at Xskateboy12X [at] aol [dot] com.

"The Tool Shed"

by Lauren Garrett-Joly

Dad creeps slowly down the steps into our basement workshop, one of his and my favorite places to spend our time. This is where we can fully embrace our "manly man-ness" together. To prove it, Dad is wearing overalls, Timberlands, and has quite a bit of overgrown stubble on his chin that he has purposely chosen to ignore this Saturday morning.

Dad is an obvious country man at heart, though he chose to stop speaking like one since he met my mother. Growing up in New Jersey, he always naturally kept up that tuff-gruff, I'm-a-man persona. The beard thing was a part of this, of course, but he told me he really kept it up to look like Bruce Springsteen.

"So Dad, what exactly are we building today?" I ask as he makes his way down our rickety basement stairs. He grunts, ignoring my question as he acknowledges our surroundings. Our basement, unlike most, is not caked in cobwebs, dust and soot, but instead is generally pretty clean. You can even see the burgundy color of the wooden steps, which until I attended my friend Jimmy's bar-mitzvah (yes--in his basement), I didn't realize was an enviable feat.

But Dad isn't grunting at the shine of the wood, he's grunting at the very unorganized set of tools we've been collecting down here (since I was 7, which then I could only look at, not touch). I had always figured Dad appreciated this, being that this was the only quadrant of the house that wasn't constantly kept tidy. (We do live with 4 females after all.) So I took pride in the disheveled look of our tools and I thought Dad did as well. Apparently not.

"Could we not actually build anything today dad, and maybe just break things apart?" I ask.

I laugh quietly to myself at how impulsively destructive that idea sounds-0but we're initiating our inner man here, so why not?

"I've been really frustrated recently, Dad; mainly since I'm pretty sure I bombed all my finals. So I figured that would be a fun way to let off some steam, you know?"

Silence from Dad. He just kinda sways from his right to left foot, blankly staring into space, and barely listening to anything I say. I sigh. This, for some non-apparent reason, does catch his attention.

"You know, sport, why don't we just skip woodworking today? I'm just pretty worn out from the week, alright?"

"Uh, yeah, no problem, Dad," I reply, with a purposefully good amount of disappointment in my voice. He doesn't seem to notice this either as he walks back up the stairs, leaving our fortress of manly bonding behind. He must have other things on his mind.

* * *

The next morning, our normal pancakes-for-Sunday-breakfast routine doesn't commence. Instead we (being my 3 sisters and I) are brought to the living room, with Mom and Dad sitting on the couch across from us.

Mom hesitates at first, but finally sighs and announces: "So, your father and I are getting a divorce."

I look over at my 3 younger sisters, hoping they don't burst into tears, because if they do, I definitely will. But they simply look confused, their blue eyes deep pools of unhappy surprise.

I stare angrily at Dad especially. I don't blame Mom for this; she's not the man of the family. But apparently neither is he.

"How, why, how could you do this? Why are you splitting our special little almost perfect family apart!?"

"Hey now, Michael, don't you dare go blaming this whole thing on me. This was all your mothers do-" Dad turns to my sisters, saying in a kinder tone of voice: "I mean, a decision made equally by both you mother and I."

"Oh now that's a load of bull!" I shout, angrily arising from the couch. "Last time I checked, divorce isn't the manly thing to do, Dad!"

"What is all this man talk about, son? What, are you trying to prove something to me? Look, if you're gay, you're gay. It doesn't make you any less of a man. I mean-"

Mom cuts in: "What? Michael, why didn't you tell me?"

"What, no, what are you talking about!? I'm not gay, alright? What are you, like trying to sway the accusations away from yourself now Dad?. 'Cause its not going to work. God."

I sit back down on the couch and let my hands sink into my waiting palms. I begin to feel the urge to grab a saw from the basement and carefully cut my heart out with it, but of course I don't because Dad would say: "Now son, thats no way to use a tool."

And I would reply "No Dad, your right. Instead you used it to slice apart your relationship with the mother of your children. Way to be a manly man."

"The Trees"

by Epifania Rita Gallina

That morning I woke up after a terrible nightmare, probably the worst nightmare I had ever had in my life.

In the nightmare there were trees around me, but they weren't normal big and green trees, they were terrifying, horrible trees that looked like they wanted to kill me.

You might ask, "How can trees kill you? They don't move!" But these trees had come to life and were chasing after me, until I fell into a big hole and died.

The moment I woke up, I felt like everything I had experienced throughout the nightmare was actually going to happen to me.

I felt my blood pressure rise and my heart fill with anxiety as I looked at my mirror, placed next to my head, and noticed the oddly pale color of my face.

I surely did look like a dead person, but thankfully I was still there, in my small, unspecial room, surrounded my silly belongings.

After I dressed, I came downstairs to the kitchen and saw my parents, who were usually drinking their coffee at that time, waiting for me in the living room, on the couch.

I faked a smile as I walked over to them, trying hard not to think about the trees, and sat next to them.

My mom, who was always readiant and beautiful, looked worried and fragile, and my dad looked like someone had totally offended him. He sat there in a state of shock with his eyes wide open.

As I sat next to them, they took synchronized deep breaths.

Then I saw them again. The trees. I saw them in my head as my parents faced me and started their conversations.

First, they asked me how I had slept, and I lied about that, and then they seemed to gather some fake courage to tell me the worst thing they could.

"Your blood test came back yesterday," my mother said. "There's something wrong."

My dad started crying. "You have lukemia," he said.

My mom turned to him and burst into tears with him.

But no one could have felt like I did. My heart raced worse than it had in any dream. Faster than a train. My head began to pound and my insides fell in on themselves. I was really going to die.

"Cake!"

by Zackary Kruskal

If your friend's birthday sucks, there is always a backup plan, a reason to say until the end, a purpose as you swing randomly in the air hoping to bring an animal hung up from the rafters of the cold barn. A cake!

It always repairs any situation. Weddings, parties, or even a solitary night at home can be enjoyed with the presence of cake. You don't need a specific utensil (or any utensil at all) to breach the icing and indulge in the sugary goodness beneath the surface.

Of course not all cake is good. In fact, cake is a very hyped-up affair. Just saying "cake" sets the bar pretty high. When it fails to deliver, however well the party was going beforehand won't matter, because after the cake, there is talk, and if everyone has just had a piece of tough rubbery plastic instead of the lush red velvet they were promised, what are you going to talk about: the weather? Or how, out of politeness, you ladled piece after piece into your protesting mouth?

Bad cake is social depression and no one will want to come over to your house anymore.

However, a good cake might just fix that slow-moving bat mitzvah or remedy a bad relation with that aunt who makes the sweaters. Forget home-baked muffins; a cake is way beyond anyone's expectations and will break the ice no matter how thick it is.

"She is Such a..."

by Fatima Said

I stood outside the front door, glaring at her. She stared right back at me. I intensified my gaze but it did no good. She refused to go away. I decided to ignore her, thinking that eventually she would get tired and leave me alone.

She didn't. I walked up the front steps, went into the house, and slammed the door. She stared at me through the window. After twenty minutes of trying to wish her away, I finally snapped.

I barged outside.

"You! Here you are, new in town, and you're already trying to get your paws all over David! You just can't resist trying to steal him, can you?! And now you get all stalkerish, standing outside of my house for hours!"

She sniffed at me.

"Oh-- Oh yeah?" I shouted. "Well you can't have him, you, you, you FEMALE DOG!"

I stomped back inside and slammed the door. I gave her another long glare from my window, and finally, the little wench of wenchiness turned and started back toward her house. She reached her door, turned, looked back at me, and wagged her tail.

Then she disappeared into the doggy door.

I turned to see David standing at the doorway, staring at me. I smiled at him.

"It's just me and you, hon."

We both walked into the living room and curled up on the couch in front of the TV.

I let out a sigh. It was just me and my dog again, alone at last. That's the way I had always thought it would be until she came along.

Betsy had moved in across the street with the new neighbors. She was a golden retriever, like David. On the second day, I found her in my back yard, cuddling up to David on the grass. I kicked her out, but almost every day after that, for two weeks, I found her somewhere on my property. She was either in my yard or she had somehow managed to end up INSIDE my house. After the two weeks I started to suspect she was trying to steal David. You want to know why?

BECAUSE I FOUND THEM IN MY BEDROOM!

That's right, my bedroom. This is apparently what female dogs do.

The Mask

"The Mask"
by Delia Taylor

“I'm tired of this crap... You said you would stop. I don't think I can do this anymore!” she exclaimed.

“But it's for our own daughter, Jullian! Why can't you understand that? She needs this, we need this! Don't you want to keep our baby girl alive?”

Jullian sat in her chair and stared at Paul as if she'd never met him before.

“I think you're addicted to it, Paul. What about last week, huh? When you drew all that damn attention and almost got your face on NY 12?”

Jullian stood up and walked away from the table with Katherine in her arms. Paul grabbed her. This was how things had gotten. Ever since Katherine developed her disease, their lives had turned into endless bickering, constant cursing, and the ever-frequent “Why don't you act like the man in the family?”

“Maybe someday I will,” Paul would always answer. Jullian never expected him to make good on his word the way he did.

*

Two months after receiving Katherine's diagnosis, Paul woke up, took a long look at his slowly fading baby girl, and knew that he'd chosen the right path. He put on a black mask and got his gun out of his sock drawer.

He reminded himself of how it would go. First, he'd tell his wife, “I just need to clear my head.” Then he'd drive off to the nearest Commerce Bank. And it wouldn't be for the free pens or the red lollipops.

*

Jullian stood in the door frame crying off her makeup.

“You can't do this, Paul!” she cried. Paul was used to this. He was done yelling, done fighting a battle he couldn't win. “But don't you see how much better Katherine's gotten lately? She's smiling again, Jullian. I haven't seen her smile in so long. I'd forgotten what it looked like...”

“But that doesn't give you the right to keep breaking the law!”

Paul wrapped his arms around her waist, like he did when they were in high school. “To me it does,” he said.

He kissed her on her cheek once like he used to. He patted Katherine's head. He looked in his wallet, which had grown in size since he'd... switched professions.

He grabbed his keys and took the black mask—it was his shelter, the assurance that he'd have enough to pay for his daughter's medicine. It was the thing that filled him with adrenaline and kept his heart beating at an unnatural pace, in unnatural places, late at night.

He put the mask on and suddenly had a very clear conscience.

Bar Fight

"Bar Fight"
by Silvan Carson-Goodman

Guy: I think that he was in love with her.

Guy2: Why would you think that? It looked like just another bar fight to me.

Guy: Maybe, but didn’t you see the look in his eyes? They were so full of pleading. He was there for more than just flirting, if you ask me.

Guy2: So they had some sort of history, is what you’re saying?

Guy: Possibly, but maybe it was love at first sight. Isn’t it more interesting if he saw her from across the room early in the night and their eyes met? Then the fire in his heart grew every time he saw the twinkle of her smile or the subtle way her wrist flicked when she grabbed her beer. Until he just couldn’t stand it anymore and he had to talk to her, not knowing that her two-hundred-pound weightlifter boyfriend was waiting in the wings.

Guy2: He was probably just her ex or something.

Guy: Yeah, probably.

***

Girl: Guys.

Girl2: They are ridiculous! Getting into fights over nothing!

Girl: I know! She clearly wanted nothing to do with that guy. It all would’ve ended peacefully but her boyfriend had to step in and start a brawl over nothing.

Girl2: Well, over her.

Girl: Over nothing! I mean, what makes her so special?

Girl2: Is this about Fred?

Girl: Well he never stands up for me! The other day some guy on the subway knocked me down and Fred didn’t do a damned thing.

Girl2: Maybe he’s just not that kind of guy.

Girl: Oh every guy is that kind of guy! Is it me, am I just not worth fighting for?

Girl2: No, you’re a real catch.

Girl: Well Fred doesn’t seem to think so… you know what? I’m breaking up with him. Screw Fred!

***

Bartender: Every night, every goddamned night with this shit. And they always break something. Either a stool, or glasses, or something that leaves little pieces scattered all around that I have to clean up!

Patron: (Chuckles)

Bartender: What are you laughing at?

Patron: You’re complaining to me.

Bartender: So?

Patron: Well it usually goes the other way now doesn’t it?

Bartender: All right, you have some complaining to do, Miss?

Patron: Well, I thought I did, but after what I just saw the world seems too funny to have any problems.

Bartender: Something funny about violence to you?

Patron: Oh no. It’s just that… well, that was my ex! He was too wasted to realize that the girl he was talking to wasn’t me! (Busts out laughing)

Bartender: Every goddamned night.

Living Things

"Living Things"
by Miranda von Salis

It was the last straw, when the plants moved into the den. When the brand new flowerpot, still clinging to its price sticker, appeared on the coffee table in Russell’s den, he knew she had to be stopped. He turned around and went right back out the door. He shouted out the kitchen window to the garden:

“Amy! Get in here!”

“One minute,” she shouted back, but Russell wasn’t waiting. He had waited through thirty years of marriage and he wasn’t waiting one minute more to reclaim his den. He walked back, grabbed the pot that held one very pink and very unhappy looking blossom and tromped back to the back door. He couldn’t see her when he first stepped outside, but knew she was there. He shouted: “They are taking over, you crazy woman. What were you thinking? Where am I supposed to put my coffee?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said as her head popped out from behind a large hibiscus in the corner of the yard. “It’s only one pot, and look at it, it will be so pretty when it gets over the re-potting.”

“I don’t care. I don’t care! That wasn’t the agreement!” He dropped the pot onto the patio, not even looking down when he heard it crack. “You said you’d leave me the den. I put up with this absurd hobby because you said you’d leave me my… Oof!” Russell tripped over a pot of rosemary. That only worsened his mood. Amy just stared at him.

“You knew this is what I did when you married me,” she pointed out.

“That’s why I bought the house with the yard!” he said, furious as he picked himself up and started walking towards her again. Amy backed up and drifted behind the hibiscus again as if he would forget she were there.

“You are getting rid of those plants today!” Russell shouted, “or moving them all out here! I really don’t care what you do as long as I get my damn house back!” He rounded the corner to face Amy.

“Get rid of them? You don’t just get rid of a living thing, Russell, and I won’t do it.”

“Like hell you won’t,” Russell said, reaching for the hibiscus, “I’ll teach you and your awful plants a lesson.” His face was red from shouting. But Amy looked up, rage boiling in her eyes.

“Awful! They’re not awful! They bring beauty and joy to the world! Unlike you! What’s wrong with them? That they take up space? You take up space too, and you don’t see them complaining about you!”

She was alive and screaming and Russell was scared. “Amy never gets mad,” he thought, terrified. “That’s why we are such a great team. I do what I do and she forgives me.” He was beginning to wish he had never bothered about the coffee table. “It was only one plant,” he tried to reason with himself, but then he remembered that the living room, kitchen, bedroom, bathrooms and even the hallways had started with just one pot. “Once they move in…” he thought, enraged.

“They don’t complain about me because they can’t talk!” he yelled, so loud he was sure that the whole neighborhood had heard him. He moved towards her and for an instant he thought he saw her eyes show fear but a second later, they were filled with hatred. She stepped to the side nimbly as he kept coming at her.

A minute later, the only thing he could feel was the moist soil and the pounding on the back of his head. He rolled over onto his back and thought, “She hit me on the head, hard.” He was astonished. He vaguely remembered her going to yoga classes a few years ago but that didn’t help explain his current situation. He tried to look around but everything was out of focus. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the fuzzy outline of his wife, a few feet away, watching him. He watched her shape straighten and move towards him while shifting dizzyingly in and out of focus.

“You can’t try to make me get rid of who I am,” she said quietly.

“Just… just get rid of the ones in the house.” Russell tried to persuade her, but his mouth was too dry. His tongue felt like it had doubled in size. He figured he must have bitten it on his fall because it was also throbbing painfully.

“If that’s what you want,” she responded so quietly that he could barely hear her. “I think we should live our lives separate from each other.”

Russell couldn’t believe it. She wanted to divorce him over some lousy plants? What was her problem?

“I won’t allow it,” he managed to say through his damaged mouth.

“I didn’t think you would,” she said. “You’re too old fashioned for a thing like divorce. Luckily that wasn’t what I was talking about.” Russell was confused but his head hurt too much for him to think too hard. He had no idea what she was talking about, and by the time he saw the blade it was too late.

“I’m going to free myself anyways,” she said as she plunged the metal trowel into his neck.

*
Careful not to track blood on her freshly mopped kitchen floor, she made her way through the kitchen to wash her hands before she sat down to write a quick note to Russell.

–Please water the hibiscus. A-
After leaving it on the table she headed upstairs to change and pack a bag. “I think I should go on a vacation. I feel as if I am outgrowing this tiny house,” she said to the Thanksgiving cactus on her bedroom windowsill.

“When I come back, I’ll call the police.” And she grabbed her passport and headed out the door. Amy was going to India.