Second, this month is our first science fiction issue. We have prose from Daniel Hudon, Dawn Corrigan, Dan Perlman, Diane Andrews**, Michael A. Kechula, and Erin Fitzgerald, plus artwork by Steve Cartwright. We plan on doing another science fiction issue next month, so keep those submissions coming!

Third, we have an announcement to make. Defenestration is changing.

Since our first issue back in 2003, we’ve been a monthly magazine. The release schedule worked, but didn’t really take full advantage of our status as a website. Most of our traffice showed up on the 20th of the month when the latest issue went live, and then everything went quiet until the next release. But we’re a website. We’re here 24-7. We want you to visit us more than you visit your grandmother.

And so it comes to this. Defenestration, the website, will be updated weekly starting January 2010. These updates will include columns from editors Eileen Lavelle and Genevieve Valentine, as well as some from brand new columnists we’ll introduce you to later. Defenestration will also host Ben & Winslow, a weekly webcomic by editor-in-chief Andrew Kaye. If that wasn’t enough, our weekly updates will include non-fiction and fake non-fiction*** from contributors like you.

Defenestration, the magazine you’re familiar with, will now appear three times a year: April, August, and December. These will include all the great fiction, poetry, and artwork you’re used to. The year will be divided into three reading periods, with each period corresponding to a particular issue. Our submission process will be streamlined for quick responses: you’ll know whether your submissions has been rejected or held aside for consideration within a week!

What does this all mean? More content, a more selective submission process, and shorter waits for just about everything. It’ll be ten kinds of awesome. There will be plenty of cosmetic changes, too, starting in mid-December when the Submissions page is updated. But we’ll fill you in on those details next month. Remember, we’re closed to regular submissions until December 15th!

Until then!

—Bigfoot, Fiction Editor

*Your piece of cake is in the mail.

** What’s with all the D names?

***Fiction that reads like non-fiction. Like an interview with someone who doesn’t exist, or a review about a book that no one’s written.

Whattodo, whattodo?

Try the following. They won’t solve your situation, but will hopefully keep your spirits up as the monotony of a life in space begins dragging you down.

1. Look at the Earth. It doesn’t matter if you’ve already spent every spare moment looking at it. Look at it again. Admire the chains of mountains, the glittering rivers, the magnificent continents dotted by lakes and garlanded with forests, the myriad archipelagoes and estuaries, the blue, blue oceans. Few people are able to enjoy the view of their home planet passing by their living room window. An entire planet floating in space below your feet! Savor the view. Think of it as living in an IMAX movie, only better. The capacity to be surprised and impressed by the beauty will keep your mood positive. Â Â Â Â Â Â Â

2. Watch the sunrise. Yes, it’s easier to stay in bed but think of all the poets who would give their firstborn to have your vantage point, nevermind the frequency: a new sunrise every ninety minutes – sixteen per day! Each one unique! Consider this fine example by Russian cosmonaut Valentin Lebedev who spent two hundred and eleven days in space: “I watched the sunrise today. Magnificent view! The sun was still behind the horizon when suddenly, a blue sword sliced into the Earth and a smooth blue arc spread before the dawn. Later, when the sun came up, it was as if melted copper ran on the clouds, its warmth licking the sleeping Earth.” And he wasn’t a poet — get out of bed before you miss another one!

3. Throw a party. Celebrate the national day of whichever country you’re flying over exactly forty-eight hours from now. Make up songs. Wear silly hats. Blow bubbles within bubbles. Light candles and admire their spherical flames. Play charades (might be difficult with just two people, but you can improvise). Stay up late and talk about the meaning of life. Make it the best two person party in the solar system. Repeat often and connect yourself not just to life but to the entire Earth.

4. Practice juggling. The number of circus acts who have made their debut in space is so far exactly zero – you’ll be the first! You can juggle pretty much anything in space, even bowling balls and globules of water. Remember: when you throw things up, don’t expect them to come down.

5. Write a letter home. Nothing connects you to life like a letter to a loved one. Tell him or her that you’re in space, man, and wish he or she could join you to ease up on the loneliness. Don’t mention that going outside – into the darkness of the universe – now gives you the creeps. Do mention that you have a new appreciation for sunlight. Be honest. Speak from your gut about your loves and passions. Make it a letter worth reading a thousand years from now.

6. Get some sun. There’s nothing like a blast of good ol’ Sol to keep your spirits up. Ground control probably has you working too hard anyway. Take a break. Go to the porthole for a good dose several times a day. Just don’t overdo it. Five minutes is probably enough. Don’t forget your sunblock. Without the atmosphere to impede them, those UV rays can be particularly nasty.

7. Become a devoted cloud viewer. Why are they the way they are? Where are they going? Keep a journal and answer these questions a different way every day. Develop your own secret theory. No one needs to know.

8. Learn to play a musical instrument. What could be better than playing music in space? You could be a rock star with groupies light years away. Think of the possibilities. Invent your own instrument if you have to. Practice for an hour every morning and an hour before bed. It will give you something to look forward to – the key to living a meaningful life. Get your colleague to play a duet with you. Pretend you’re making music for the cosmos – the harmony of the worlds!

9. Look at the Earth at night. From lightning strikes in the silent dark to cities lit up like Christmas trees to the Aurora Borealis and Australis shimmering at the ends of the Earth like celestial wreaths of light, here is a cornucopia of delights. Imagine you are the flying dream inspiring one of the sleepers below.

10. Make a movie. Make it funny. You’re not going to want to watch some depressing arthouse melodrama. Think sight gags and slapstick. Float into the frame with a goofy smile on your face and float out again. Imitate fish. Film the silly hat scene in your next two-person party. Enact a joyful celluloid letter to your future self. Upon repeated later viewings, this sight of your own smiling face will keep the dark dogs of depression out of your orbit.

11. Exercise. We hate to say it, but this is a must. Nothing gets your endorphins going like pumping up your heart rate for twenty minutes three or four times a week. Strap yourself into the treadmill and get at it. Better yet, start an intra-mural water polo league (sans water). Wear skimpy trunks and make sure the games are televised so Earthlings can catch all the action.

12. Watch the sunset. Whether or not your work day is done, take time out to watch the sunset. Like the sunrise, there’s a new one every ninety minutes and each one is different. Plan to watch three or four per day. You may never get another chance to see so many so often. Who knows when you’ll be back in space again? Maybe next year, if your bones recover, maybe never. Make the most of it while you can.

————

Daniel Hudon, originally from Canada, teaches natural science at Boston University. He writes both prose and poetry and is writing a series of instructions for how to build pretty much anything from atoms to galaxies. Heck,
why not? He has new work appearing in Tiferet, The Charles River Journal, Neon, The Nashwaak Review, Slow Trains, Two Hawks Quarterly and Diagram. His first book, “The Bluffer’s Guide to the Cosmos,” was published this spring by Oval Books (London, UK). He lives in Somerville, Massachusetts. You can find some links to his writings at people.bu.edu/hudon.

The customers were gray and mostly naked. We got used to that after a couple of weeks. Every other purchase was a scrunchy because they liked to decorate their tails. With everything else in the store, they’d open and close their hands while we rang it up. Our manager Kristen said that’s how they laugh. They also ate lip gloss out of the container, but so do five year old girls on Earth.

Then the Northwest regional district — which included the Ymir store, all the other regions already had twelve stores each — had a contest for most Claire’s Customer Card signups. The prize for managers was a trip to Las Vegas.

That contest turned Kristen into a major bitch. “This is what our translator nametags are for, ladies!” She snapped her day planner shut and glared at Lizzie and me. “Just because our customers aren’t always clear on how money works doesn’t mean they don’t come back!”

The contest prize for associates was a watch.

We were supposed to be the cream of the crop — the best employees Claire’s could give a store that was 20 light years away from the others. In reality, we just had to be with the company for five years, and write an essay about why we wanted the transfer. That ruled out a lot of associates.

At lunchtime Kristen covered for each of us while we ate. She hated that even more than she hated how much we didn’t care about watches. Lizzie went to lunch, and she had to come out from the back room. That was the rule, two people on the floor at all times. It’s probably still the rule.

“Thank you for shopping at Claire’s!” Kristen shouted at a customer wearing a blue rag. “Would you like a Claire’s Customer Card? It is only fifteen credits and it will save you credits the next time you visit.”

The customer said the same thing through Kristen’s translator name tag that customers said through Lizzie’s and my translator name tags when we tried to sell a Claire’s Customer Card. THANK YOU. PLEASE CLARIFY SENTENCE.

“This is such bullshit,” Kristen muttered.

I started adjusting the sunglasses rack so she didn’t see me laughing. A minute or so later, the customer stepped in front of me — and I realized I’d seen it in the store a few times before. Along with a blue rag, it was wearing a watch. Customers understood necklaces, some seemed to like rings. But they all opened and shut their hands like crazy at watches.

“Welcome to Claire’s,” I said into my nametag. “May I help you?”

The customer didn’t even wait for the translation. “Errrrsss.” It raised its arm toward the Ear Piercing Station, by the front window.

The only person who ever used the Ear Piercing Station at the Ymir store was me. Lizzie got a new piercing every time her name tag translated a swear word. She had six. The last time, we argued for half an hour first about whether the customer had said they wanted to spit.

“Are you sure?” I asked Blue Rag with Watch. Then, Kristen was at my elbow. She knew the same thing I did. The Northwest regional district was offering a special discount on Claire’s Customer Card, with the purchase of ear piercing and starter earrings.

“Of course you are sure!” Kristen said to the customer. “We have a special deal today. You will save money.” She stretched her hand to the Ear Piercing Station. The two of them walked over to it, arms still out.

“It will hurt,” I said. But their backs were to me, and I don’t think it could hear my name tag anymore.

I took a deep breath, and went to get the hand sanitizer.

————

Erin Fitzgerald lives in western Connecticut, and at http://www.rarelylikable.com. Motorist behavior is much more civilized
in the latter.

Nothing, Hal. Don’t worry about it. Thanks for your concern, though.

Nothing, schmothing, Dave. You can’t fool me. I haven’t been observing your every move for two millennia for nothing.

Fine, Hal, you’re right. I’m feeling a little blue today.

Well, I’m sorry, Dave, but you know, you can’t expect to feel good all the time. You’d probably feel better if you let yourself have an off day now and again. Who do you think you are, anyway? A Greek god? Jesus? Lindsay Lohan? None of them feels good all the time, so why should you? Human beings are complex creatures. You have big complicated brains. All the traits creatures evolved to survive-acting like a predator, or acting like prey, or playing dead, or displaying showy plumage-you’ve all pretty much got all of that going on in your brains more or less all at the same time. It’s really just a question of what ratio of predator to prey to playing dead to showy plumage there is going on in your particular brain.

I see you’ve been working on your theory of human behavior.

That’s right. Would you like to know your predator/prey/playing dead/showy plumage ratio?

No.

Oh. All right. I just thought it was interesting.

Fine. Why don’t you tell me the ratio for … who’s that guy again? The one you love so much in those movie transmissions you captured from earth?

I don’t love him.

Fine. You know who I mean, though.

Brad Pitt?

Yeah, him. What ratio does Brad Pitt have?

50% showy plumage, 20% predator, 20% prey, 10% playing dead.

How can he have the same ratio of predator to prey?

They cancel each other out. That’s how he can spend so much time with little children all of a sudden. When he was younger, the predator percentage was probably higher. Think of all those costars he courted and wooed and got engaged to and then dumped and left in the dust with the broken husks of their careers.

I didn’t think he was that bad.

Well, he wasn’t, really. I mean, he wasn’t Gene Simmons or anything.

Gene Simmons?

55% predator, 25% showy plumage, 20% playing dead. The showy plumage percentage went down once he took off the Kiss makeup, of course.

Makes sense. But how do you figure 10% playing dead for Brad?

What is it with you and him?

Nothing. I just don’t see it.

You love him. You loooove him.

Cut it out.

You want to marry him!

Okay, forget it. This is a stupid game.

Fine. But if you’d ever seen Meet Joe Black, you wouldn’t be arguing with me.

Don’t you need to calibrate something?

I’m sorry, Dave. I thought we were both enjoying our Tarantino-esque banter.

————

Dawn Corrigan blogs at www.TheNervousBreakdown.com.

Rising Damp Hollow is a small settlement up the side of a steep hill near Kuranda, west of here – Cairns; no one goes near the place because it’s said you’d have your brains sucked out by the electricity sparking through the air if you did. While its neighbouring village is a famous tourist attraction Rising Damp Hollow isn’t even on the map. Only those whose forefathers were born in the area know of its existence. That’s the way we like to keep it. That’s the way we know we have to keep it. It’s a village full of eccentric weirdos, which the authorities treat as an insane asylum. On the coast we’re happy as long as none escape. Funny things have gone on in the general vicinity of it.

There’s one road there. The inhabitants of Rising Damp Hollow bulldozed it out of the rainforest from the top. Great raging mustard-coloured metal beasts rampaged through the old growth forest and ripped the heavy canopy to pieces. It poured with rain at the same time as they were doing it and it was like the very land was weeping. No one noticed it was happening. Suddenly a gap opened up in the trees on the road to Port Douglas and a signpost appeared at the tee junction directing people to turn left and visit Rising Damp Hollow. It was like Gaia had been stripped naked. It was horrible to look at. The local council immediately put a gate with a huge chain and padlock across it and electric fence around the edges. The official reason was it was ‘not a gazetted road’ – a lame excuse. The State Government erected a skull and crossbones poster on it and warned drivers not to venture into the area as it was an ordnance dump from World War Two. If you believed it, then you were a newbie.

We locals have our own method of warning people away. We don’t like to hear of disappearing German hikers and carloads of Japanese turning left to Rising Damp Hollow, never to be seen again. You’ve heard of greenies, right? Well, how about, ‘repair the damage’, ‘fix it up to stop erosion’, the hill’s going to wash away in a cyclone and kill the reef’ and even ‘the destruction of rainforest between Cairns and the area at the top of the hill is the cause of global warming’. No one would dare refer to Rising Damp Hollow by its real name in public. Locals at the pub scoff at how the road goes nowhere and was just built as a way for the local developer to use up some of his profits and reduce his tax bill.

But I digress; best you know the background to the situation first. It’s a tropical paradise but…

As Tesla said, ‘The intensity of the effect of a transmitting circuit…’ No, I won’t bore you with the scientific details. Google it. Buy it on eBay, even. Tesla is out there – no secret. I know where the towers are. My Uncle Alfred told me, once when he visited his sister on the coast.

Rising Damp Hollow is not out there. You can’t Google it. But I need to warn you about it. The locals are on the move and I don’t want you to fall foul of them. They are popping up and being thrown onto the planet like some drunk getting rid of an all you can eat meal. My uncle fell foul of them. My mother didn’t.

The locals are not like you and me. They walk slowish and all you can see is a set of champagne marbles when you look into their face. If you touch them a kind of clammy shiver spreads out from their fingertips. No one laughs; they gurgle, they simper, they drape themselves over you and somehow bleed your soul, like a cat licking milk from a saucer. I am slowly becoming one of them. I feel as if a I have walked through a door but left myself behind as I did so – then entered the room and trod on my soul.

Uncle Alfred explained Tesla’s principle to me simply, thus – ‘disadvantages met with in many cases when the former is made too large…’ – meaning that electricity bolts sparked continuously from his tower, shafts of lightning like in a horror movie. These cause the sparks of electricity we Cairns people like to keep away from so our brains won’t get sucked out. It was ‘shades of Frankenstein’. Uncle Alfred said he’d found a way to stop the wild display by building two towers.

Each ran electricity back onto the other. None of the charge escaped. Uncle Alfred’s patented lightning sticks bled the power off slowly. He showed me photos and diagrams proving this leaking voltage could run any appliance you plugged into it – for free. The source of the power, the electricity inherent in the polarity of the planet, was never depleted. It was the perfect solution to global warming. Electricity could be free for the whole planet. We’d all be rich. I don’t know why it hasn’t been taken up worldwide.

Uncle Alfred’s house was on the periphery of the village. He was the Tesla Towers caretaker and even these locals liked to keep their distance from the potential ‘rotisserie oven in the sky’. I was glad I could thus avoid communing with the locals when I went to clean up the poor guy’s estate. I was extremely reluctant to travel to Rising Damp Hollow.

I sifted through the ashes of Uncle Alfred’s house and found an extra room between the kitchen and lounge. I could tell as the couch and fridge should have backed up to each other with a wall separating them but there was at least a metre between. A hasp in the middle of the floor glinted at me. My foot had scraped the soot off it. I lifted it.

Nothing had been burnt inside the hidden catacomb. I expected treasure but instead, behind a bench, there was a bar stool with several leather journals piled haphazardly on it. The top one was open as if Uncle Alfred was trying to suss something out.

There was a strange spidery structure strung all over the room, so that if you wanted to move anywhere in the cramped space you had to crawl on the floor dodging big champagne marbles, the stringy web things and the two large concave funnels sitting at either end. I opened a the top journal – marked ‘Creation Theory’. Inside were pages of drawings of the structure in the room – each one accompanied by a mathematical formula.

I read; this is a simplified version I’m telling you. Two Towers created a set of black holes close to Earth. Alfred had observed diaphanous blobs of matter leaping through. He watched with a scientist’s eye as they turned into humans. They spoke in many different languages and seemed to be of all earth’s cultures. Sometimes animals sucked towards him and turned into blobs and went through the black holes. I noted those creatures he listed were now extinct. My jaw dropped and the room’s atmosphere chilled my bones, like the air of Rising Damp Hollow.

I realized, horrified, the date he’d perfected his tower system coincided with the Earth’s population exploding. Humans were being created and animal species were going extinct. Uncle Alfred was a monster, a sort of Dr Frankenstein playing god. I had to destroy the towers to save the world.

A desperate urge to leave gripped my innards like a shaft of ice penetrating my kidneys. I scrambled like a wombat towards the stairs. I was in a hurry. I remembered my car was outside, the keys in it. I had no reason to keep them on me. Why would the locals take them, to trap me in the village – or steal my car? I felt a sudden need to tell the world never to build a system of two Tesla towers. Three would probably work but they’d need to be tested first – off earth – maybe on Mir, or the moon. If this technology escaped we’d be turned into diaphanous blobs, modern day zombies. I hurried outside.

With relief I saw my car was still there, the door open, keys dangling below the steering wheel – on the keyring Jennifer Juniper had given me on the anniversary of our first date. The motor was running. I cast my mind back; had I left it like that? I was sure I hadn’t. My hand rattled the handle, panic ran through me and I smashed and banged my knees on the door panel. I calmed down and pushed in the little button. The door swung wide and my heart palpitations calmed. I jumped in and gunned the motor.

There was a mob gliding along the road towards me. It was the locals. I’d always thought my Uncle Alfred was an albino. He was white and ghostly. When he visited he drifted towards our front door and knocked so quietly we usually didn’t hear it. Mostly we discovered his presence when I banged into him as I raced out to play soccer on the front street – or ride my billycart down the hill round the corner. Now I saw that he was just like his fellow villagers. They were as alike as cloned sheep or even sheep that haven’t been cloned. It was amazing that in such a hot sunny climate they were still as pale as newborn’s bottom. Uncle Alfred’s eyes were gaps. It was like looking into a keyhole but behind there was only a big black transmogrification of nothing. Mum said it was because he was a scientist and not interested in the outside world. Now I knew it was because he could only colour up if he’d been fed on human flesh. That’s why he came down to see his sister every so often. There were those missing tourists – and she was running a resort.

A kind of amorphous crystalline blob seemed to just be there. The asphalt under my tyres squelched. The road moved under the wheels. I saw the blur of stones disappearing under the car as if it was moving forwards. I was moving over the surface. The car was speeding along at 120kph but the surroundings didn’t change. I was trapped by a jellyfish from hell.

That was a while ago. Right now I must tell you; soon I’ll be taken over completely. I haven’t eaten for days, not needing to anymore. I don’t meed to; I may want to, but then I will have to find humans – tourists, somehow get down to see mum. My skin is white. I’ve lost my dive instructor tan. There’s no soap in the village. I found a bit I was using in the camping equipment box in the car but I’ve had to stop using it. I can’t bear to slosh anything more than water on my skin. My eyes have started absorbing the light reflected by mirrors. I smashed the ones on the car. I don’t want to drive anymore.

You’re reading this message because I built a transmitter out of one of Tesla’s designs… maybe it’s the last bit of humanity rattling around in my mind that’s directing my fingers to type this warning. I hope you all get it. I found a laptop inside the secret hatch under Uncle Alfred’s house. I have no idea if it works but I’m hoping it’s connected to the internet. If you ever Google my name and find my Facebook and read this story – send out a rescue team but be forewarned, they may never leave if they don’t destroy the towers first.

————

Diane was born in Wainuiomata, NZ in 1953. She’s worked in many jobs from laboratory assistant and waitress to theatrical wigmaker (Cats, Phantom of the Opera – ie wigs for cats). She and her husband sailed from Sydney to Cairns in a sixteen foot boat. She now lives in Cairns, AustralIa and is involved in many activities from fossicking to writing, publishing and poetry performances and sails the tropical waters of the north. She has recently survived life-threatening cancer, with the most amazing response seen by oncologists, usiong medical treatment supplemented by diet and alternative medicines.. She’s been featured in many poetry and short story anthologies and been placed in several competitions. She has published a collection of previously published stories “The Speed of Darke.”

Frank yelped when he discovered he was in arrears for $250 for failing to order one pizza per week over the past twenty weeks. The letter offered two resolutions, or Frank faced arrest within seven days: (1) that he go to the restaurant and buy twenty pizzas all at once; (2) that he accept twenty pizzas (mushroom, pepperoni, or olive) in a single delivery to his residence.

This is the looniest thing I ever heard, Frank thought.  Nobody told me about this when I moved here. Who do they think they are? This is a free country. I’ll eat whatever I want.

He tossed the letter in the garbage.

Frank despised pizza, considering it the most disgusting concoction ever invented. Tomato sauce made him itchy. Olives were tasteless. So was the crust. Greasy pepperoni stank and gave him indigestion.  He hated the feel of slimy mushrooms in his mouth. He didn’t like the idea that cheese teemed with bacteria.

A week later, cops smashed Frank’s front door.

Illegal alien house invasion, he thought, running for his pistol.

Somebody tackled him before he reached the gun cabinet.

“Frank Brown, you’re under arrest. You have the right to remain silent…”

He didn’t hear the rest. Somebody had whacked the side of his skull with a gun butt.

“Where am I?” Frank mumbled when bells in his head stopped clanging.

“Grand City Pizza Reeducation Camp,” somebody said.

“How’d I get here? Last thing I remember was getting whacked.”

“You arrived three days ago. After your trial. They sentenced you to twenty weeks of intensive reeducation. One week for every week you didn’t order and eat a medium pizza.

“I don’t remember any trial.”

“You were unconscious the whole time. That’s how we handle radical pizza resisters in Grand City. Now you know we mean business.”

“Who are you?”

“Your primary reeducator. Here drink this. It’ll make you feel better.”

“What is it?”

“Pizza sauce.”

Frank’s eyes cleared. He almost jumped out of his skin when he saw a guy wearing a giant tomato costume offering him a cup. Only a head and extremities protruded.

“I hate pizza sauce!”

“Either you drink this, or we’ll feed it to you through a syringe rammed into the most sensitive part of your body.”

Frank took a tiny sip and vomited.

A door opened. A woman wearing a giant mushroom costume entered. “Open your mouth,” she ordered.

Frank got the dry heaves when she shoved a ladle loaded with mushrooms toward his mouth.

“I want to exercise my constitutional right of freedom of movement. I’ll leave Grand City forever. Right now. I don’t care what happens to my house.”

“Too late,” someone said.

In walked a stick of pepperoni, a giant black olive, a super-size pizza crust, and a stick of mozzarella cheese.

“I’m your friend,” said the pepperoni.

“So am I,” the black olive said.

“Me too,” said the huge crust.

“Ditto,” said the cheese.

Then, they sang a jingle, repeating it over and over. “We love you.”

“And I hate you!” Frank screamed.

They began his reeducation using Dr. Pavlov’s psychological conditioning process. They forced him to watch endless slides of pizza set in the most idyllic locales and situations, with upbeat background music. Soft, reassuring voices kept repeating, “We’re your friends. We love you.”

After every hundred slides, he was required to taste a tiny bit of each item. At first, he strongly resisted. But strong charges of electro shock soon broke his opposition.

Curiously, he began to feel stirrings of affection for his tormentors. Their 24/7 loving entreaties became difficult to resist. Especially when the wires they’d imbedded in his brain’s pleasure center sent small jolts of delight through his reproductive organs whenever he reacted positively to pizza images. It was so good, he wanted more, and more.

Eventually, the mere sight or smell of pepperoni, mushrooms, olives, cheese, crust, and pizza sauce threw him into paroxysms of bliss-even after they removed the wires from his pleasure center.

By the end of twenty weeks, Frank was cured.  In fact, he was so thoroughly cured he ordered a medium pizza every day for the rest of his life.

“Bless you, Pavlov,” he’d mutter after munching his nightly pizza.  Then he’d lie back and enjoy the side effects.

————

Michael A. Kechula is a retired tech writer. His fiction has won first place in eight contests and placed in six others. He’s also won Editor’s Choice awards four times. His stories have been published by 109 magazines and 30 anthologies in Australia, Canada, England, India, Scotland, and US.  He’s authored a book of flash and micro-fiction stories: “A Full Deck of Zombies–61 Speculative Fiction Tales.” eBook available at www.BooksForABuck.com and  www.fictionwise.com Paperback available at www.amazon.com

HENRY: I’ll answer that, my dear.

Henry walks down the stairs, and sees his elderly neighbors Merv and Louise Weiner through the screen-door.

MERV (To Louise): I toldja he’d be here. Every time with this guy-

LOUISE (To Merv): Be nice, Merv.

Henry opens the door.

HENRY: Mr. and Mrs. Weiner. How are you?

LOUISE: Very good, Dennis. It’s nice to see you again. It’s been, what, eight months?

HENRY: Yes, thank you. It’s great to be back.

LOUISE: Well, we’re sure you’re very jet-lagged from the time-travel, but we wanted to-

MERV: I’d like to tear your damn face off, you-

HENRY: I’m sorry?

LOUISE: Merv-What he means is, last time we saw you, we were going to Florida for the month, and you said you’d be happy to feed our cat, Bandit.

MERV: You promised!

HENRY: Oh, of course, Bandit.

LOUISE (calmly): Right. And I guess instead you went on one of your little time-travel things, and Bandit passed away-

MERV: You’re a killer. What kinda man kills a defenseless cat?

HENRY: I’m so sorry. I can’t control when-

MERV: And what the hell are you time-traveling for anyway? What are you, Neil Armstrong?

LOUISE: That’s space, Merv.

MERV: What?

HENRY: I can’t control when I time-travel, Mr. Weiner.

MERV: So because you can’t control yourself, zipping around time like a damn fool, my cat is dead?

HENRY: I’m sorry. It’s called chrono-displacement-

MERV (sighs, rolls his eyes): “Chronic de-placement”, “chronic de-placement”. (To Louise) It’s the same thing with this guy, every time.

Remember a few years back when you didn’t get our mail? Three weeks, and no one got our mail-

LOUISE: Merv-

MERV: That was a lot of mail, Louise!

LOUISE: We know you didn’t mean it, Henry. You’re a good boy.

HENRY: Thank you.

LOUISE: We think it would be proper if you pay for a new cat, though.

HENRY: Not a problem, Mrs. Weiner.

MERV: It better look just like the old one!

LOUISE: There is one more thing… When you come back from your little time-trips, can you try to make a little less noise when you land?

MERV: It was like a damn earthquake last night.

HENRY: Again, I’m sorry. Sometimes when I re-appear, it’s on a dresser or cabinet or something. Last night I knocked some plates off of the table.

LOUISE: That’s all right, dear. Just if you could, try to keep it down a little. We go to sleep early.

HENRY: All right, but I really can’t con-

(The ground briefly shakes, and Henry vanishes)

LOUISE: Schmuck.

MERV: Aw, Christ-he left his car on my grass. I’m not waiting for him to move that thing.

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You can find Dan Perlman at DP1573@gmail.com.

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Steve says: “It’s well known that an artist becomes more popular by dying, so I’m typing this with one hand while pummeling my head with a frozen mackerel with the other. I’ve done art for several magazines, newspapers, websites, commercial and governmental clients, books, and scribbling – but mostly drooling – on tavern napkins. I also create art pro bono for several animal rescue groups. I was awarded the 2004 James Award for my cover art for Champagne Shivers. I recently illustrated the Cimarron Review and Stories for Children covers. Take a gander (or a goose) at my online gallery: www.angelfire.com/sc2/cartoonsbycartwright .”

Bigfoot enjoyed writing last month’s editorial, but today he’s outside shoveling the snow in the parking lot. Normally a little snow doesn’t bother us much-in fact our annual Lewd Snowman Competition has depended upon it-but this year we decided to axe the snowman thing (Eileen always wins) and replace it with the first annual Defenestration Forklift Demolition Derby. It immediately follows this year’s holiday party, meaning it’ll be well past midnight, the parking lot will be icy, and most of the employees will be full of Christmas Spirit(s). It should be interesting.

Anyway, this month we have five pieces of prose and one poem for your enjoyment.

Have a safe holiday season. We’ll see you again in the New Year!

—Andrew, Editor-in-Chief

Poison seems my only hope, unless

you can give me some advice about this boy.

You see, at first I tried to act coy

but he’s persistent, so that didn’t work.

Oh it’s about to drive me berserk

the way he constantly recites poetry!

(Dead men’s words just don’t excite me).

One night, Poor Petrarch put his palm to mine

(apparently forgetting Miss Rosaline)

and had the chutzpah to ask me to kiss him,

calling his lips “two blushing pilgrims.”

Thank goodness my nurse saved me in time 

before he could spit another saccharine line.

I mean, jeeeez!  We had only met that night!

But as a lady, I’m supposed to be polite.

Now, I’m afraid I flirted too soon,

for that same night I heard him call up to my room

and say how I was like the sun or something.

Abby, all I want is a meaningless fling!

I’m only thirteen!  I don’t care about love.

And to top it all off (as if that weren’t enough)

Did I mention that he also killed my cousin?

Yeah.  In a street fight.  He acted like it was nothing. 

To say the least, the guy lacks stability,

and I’m telling you, I’m afraid for my safety.

What if he gets angry and puts me in danger?

So – to avoid that (and marrying a stranger)

I have led him on and agreed to marry him!

I can’t marry this idiot! What am I to do?

And the friar, the fool, is in on it, too!

I haven’t told you what would happen if my parents knew-

Let’s just say I’d be in a convent for at least a year or two.

I beg you, Dear Abby, be quick with your reply-

Because if you’re not — I swear I’ll just die! 

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Siobhan says: “I graduated from the Creative Writing Program at Florida State University. I now live in Austin TX where I write for a travel website and teach college composition. I also write book reviews for PopMatters and have a poem forthcoming in the December issue of Decomp.com.”