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In the dim 5 o clock light she could clearly see smoke around the toppled piles of clothes. Somehow it was comforting; it gave her one of the Feelings. Sitting in her red second hand smelling chair, where she could just peak out of the window, the Feeling made her look and breathe in the fresh warm spring air. Her eyes fell on a globe that was displayed amongst elaborate babushkas below on the Street.

She thought about Creation and how it had not been thought through by a being that did not love man or a being that had been hurt deeply and wanted to punish man.

It was time to get going. She picked a black cardigan out of the nearest pile, and thought that she must always smell of smoke with everything lying exposed like that, and decided that she had to start putting it in the wardrobe and furthermore start using body lotion every day. She thought about his hands on her thighs. Then she cried a bit and realized that she couldn’t go out just yet and rolled a spliff, which she smoked out of the window and wondered whether people on the street could smell the smoke. The floating smoke and the thought of Creation with all its errors it was enough to put her in a cheerful mood.

She laughed quickly at a thought, then she had to go back to the Chair and picked up a book from the floor. Paradise Lost, she found another.

Twenty minutes later she was on the Street. Past the Bar first. She might catch a glimpse of him, sitting there with people that she talked to sometimes. Maybe they would tell him something upsetting about her. She wondered if they all saw her there, everyday.

Everything was ruined and she went home and then he was there! And his voice filled her up and she sopped soundlessly into his neck; he took it for passion and opened his pants. She told him she didn't want him, only this, that she was better, because she was Beautiful, and he was nothing. She begged him to love her, but in a language that he did not understand. Almost bursting, she wanted him to finish. What part of the process was it that she craved so much, she wondered suddenly?

She went to the window, trying to make him feel as she felt every time he moved a millimeter away from her.

Later in the Chair she tried to count how many minutes of bliss there had been. Desperately she tried to subdue the Feeling that made her hipbones burn.

She stroked her face, her breasts, her collarbone. Then she rolled a joint and let the Fuzziness overtake, until tonight when she would run into him, surrounded by her fabulous friends. But then he would stroke the small of some other girl’s back and her friends would hug her and say that she was prettier. And she was.

By HFH

My First Springtime Jogging Adventure

I have dug through the heap of shoes in the bottom of the closet, tossing aside a pile of winter boots, moving aside the summer sandals that have been pulled down recently to join the jumble . . . all the while assuring myself that I will organize the closet today, knowing full well that I have said this to myself every morning since we moved in two years ago. I have at last found two jogging shoes that match, still sporting a bit of the dried dirt leftover from their last use months ago. I reach in the drawer and wrestle into my jogging bra and pull on a favorite t-shirt that fit so well last spring. It seems to bunch peculiarly around what used to be a somewhat slender waist, refusing to go down any further unless I resort to some of the techniques reminiscent of those learnt in my sausage-making class – with what appears to be a similar looking result. Oh well . . . out the door . . . When I look down I notice the farmer’s tan that resulted from my brief affair with bicycling. My daughter, a bit aghast at this, reminded me that they did sell spray-on tan products . . . not believing that I would willingly go around in such a state. As I run down the street I wonder how many mornings I may have to do this to make some difference. I place a hand upon my stomach as I run and I am immediately aware of how the poet may have been inspired to write that one’s stomach might “shake like a bowl full of jelly”.

Rather than to be emotional about all of this, I choose to be scientific. . .
The human species prefer the shelter of their hovels during the dark, cold winter months. Retreating at the first signs of cold and darkness to the protection and comforts offered within, cable television, microwave popcorn and Blue Bell ice-cream. Here they feast upon the store of food they have gathered, having anticipated these bleak, dark months. They will only venture out and leave the safety of their shelter to feed when tempted by foods that don’t store well, like Starbuck’s caramel macchiato with whipped crème and caramel or Shipley’s crème filled donuts. During these hibernating months, the humans may find that they have to venture out to replace their secondary skins. Humans are the only species that seem to have lost their fur somewhere, and have resorted to manufacturing the required protective layer in the form of clothing. The female may utilize various forms of this in helping her to attract a mate.

Upon the arrival of spring, the humans emerge to frolic in the sunshine and to mate (depending on if they have a headache). Which brings me back to my original point . . . . I need to go buy a new t-shirt.

By Cindy McMorran

The Room

I woke in the corner of a room. The room was empty and there were no windows or doors. I had no idea where I was, what time it was, or what day it was. I shouted out "Hello, can anyone here me?" But there was just silence. I sat down in the corner where I was previously. I was thinking about what I did last night, but it was hard to remember. I paced back and forth, it felt like hours had past and nothing had changed at all in this room, until I heard a thumping noise against the wall. Thump, thump, thump - over and over again. I ran over to the wall were the noise was coming from. I started to shout "Hey, let me out of here." The second I started to do that the noise stopped. I keep banging and shouting on the wall hoping maybe whoever it was would help me but it was no use.

It seemed like a whole day had past and there had been no change. I was going mad; I started to slam myself against the wall hoping I would go right through it. With all my force and weight, it didn't even seem like I dented the wall at all. All of a sudden the room started to shake. I was getting thrown all over the place and could hardly keep my balance. I fell to the floor and was rolling around. I tried to get back up, but the room was shaking so much that I lost my balance and slammed my head against the wall and it knocked me out cold.

I woke up again, in what seemed to be the same place as the first time. There was nothing I could do, I was losing my mind and I couldn't go on. I had my back up against the wall, and it started to move forward slowly. I jumped up and looked and saw that all the walls were moving in. I started to panic and knew I only had a few minutes left. I looked above - high up there was no ceiling. I knew that was my chance but I had to act fast. When the walls were close enough I put one of my hands on one side and the other on the other side, and climbed up to the ceiling as fast as I could. The space was getting smaller but I had to make it. The ceiling was reachable, and I grabbed on to it and pulled myself up just before the walls completely closed in. I was relived to be out of there but it didn't seem to matter. I was in a bigger room, but this time there was a window down on the far end. I walked over to the window and looked through it. At first I couldn't believe my eyes: I saw a computer with words on it that were written like a story. That's when it hit me, I was not a person - I was a thought.

by Josh Campbell

Sympathy for the Devil

Every day I sit here and I watch him.

The same time everyday, he goes to the same bench, in the same park and he just sits. Lord knows what he does with the rest of his day, that ain’t my business. Hell, I suppose this here ain’t neither, but damned if I ain’t been watching his sorry ass for so long now. It’s got so as the day just wouldn’t seem right without him.

I ain’t never said nothing to him. I don’t know if he even realises that I’m here. Maybe I’m afraid of him but that ain’t the reason. It just wouldn’t seem right to, I guess.

So he sits there, hunched forward, all intense like. Nobody ever talks to him. People give him a wide berth as they walk by. Most don’t even seem to know why or realise that they’re doing it.

He says nothing, in any case. Does nothing. Yet always there’s this feeling from him, a sense, like as if fire and fury were rolling off of him like I ain’t never felt before.

I remember one time I caught his eye as he was getting up to leave. He barely noticed me looking, didn’t seem to give two hoots anyhow. But when I saw those eyes of his, it damn near chilled me right to the bone. Nary a frown to darken that face of his and still I ain’t never seen rage shine so clear.

But the crazy thing of it was that I felt sorry for the guy, you know? It was like I could see, clear as the morning sun, that he had lost something. Something that he had loved so much, so fully, so completely, that when it was gone he was left with nothing. Nothing but emptiness and anger and hopelessness – knowing that, because of his all-encompassing devotion, he could never again be whole.

And so he comes and he sits and he stares out ahead of him, dead-eyed, sombre and intent.

Who knows what he does with the rest of his time? Hell, who knows what he does when he sits on that bench? What he’s thinking about and such.

I’d like to think that maybe, if I’m right about any of this (after all, I am just another guy on a bench here), I like to think that maybe he tries to remember the good times. Tries to put the loss out of mind for a heartbeat.

I’d like to think that, but hell, if I am right about any of this then I honestly don’t believe that the poor son-of-a-bitch ever could.

And so every day I sit here and I watch him. Because, after all, what else have I got?

By Mark Clarke