three minute plastic

SOUL FOOD by Thomas Miller

2012-02-07T11:30:00.001-08:00

Harold flipped the sizzling patty, and most of the Netherlands slid into the sea. “How’s the headache?”

Nigel massaged his forehead. “Better. The cognitive interference isn’t nearly as bad now.”

“That’s good.” The ground beef settled out a little as the ice caps turned to slush. “How’re the wife and kids?”

“Gone by now, probably. But they were doing well, last I checked. Cheryl had just gotten a new dress.”

“Ah. Well, they might still be around: North America doesn’t go until I get the pickle.” Harold slid the hissing meat off the range and onto a lightly toasted wheat bun; no sooner had cow met grain than every nuclear missile and power plant on Earth suffered catastrophic meltdowns.

“Ah,” Nigel sighed, easing back into his chair and taking a sip of cola. “That’s much better.” He could feel originality and honesty flowing through every neuron.

Harold mutely laid hand-sliced cheese, lettuce, and tomatoes on the steaming patty, and the lakes, rivers, and oceans evaporated in an instant, coating the planet in a dense layer of scalding steam. Nigel glanced out the window as Harold poured out some ketchup and mustard, smiling himself as the cars rapidly piled up, their owners stumbling out into a hazy white oblivion; he hadn’t felt this good in years.

The top half of the bun plopped into place just as the first volley of meteors fell.

A serrated knife slid smoothly through the expertly crafted burger, touching the plate a few milliseconds before every volcano and fault line on the planet tore itself apart, exposing the Earth’s hot, molten flesh.

The sun exploded and blew away the atmosphere as two toothpicks slid into place, holding the masterpiece together.

Nigel admired the sight of the ground slipping away into oblivion as Harold fished out a dill pickle spear, placed it on the plate, and slid the whole thing across the counter.

“Smells amazing.”

“Wait until you taste it.” Harold began putting away his supplies, then idly remarked, “That’ll be five ninety-five, by the way.”

Nigel ran his hands over his pants, then leaned on the counter, chuckling a little. “Well, this is awkward.”

“Hm?”

“I left my wallet out in my car.”

Harold glanced at the starry nothingness beyond the glass doors, shrugged, and picked up the burger. “Your loss.” He took a bite.

And every star in the universe exploded.

A BETTER SHOVEL by Joseph J. Patchen

2012-02-07T11:29:00.001-08:00

Mother picked herself up out of the garden and glared at me through the window. Her skin was pasty and peeling and her eyes burned as red as the sports car I purchased with her insurance proceeds. Either I didn’t do a proper job of killing her or I buried her too shallow; or perhaps, a little of both. I should have placed her face down.

I would have cut her head off, but all I had to work with was a small hand sized silver garden spade. It took me hours to bury her. Besides, who figures on decapitation? --- It already took almost two boxes of rat poison in her meals.

We never lost eye contact as I carefully rose from the couch and went for the door. I made sure, though, before I slid outside that I had a surprise for the old bat. She turned to face me as I emerged with my hands behind my back. Blood, earth and vomit were caked on her blouse and culottes. She was still glaring, but then she began to growl and show teeth.

“Mother” I said dryly and firmly. At once she twitched to the right. “Mother” I said again with the thinnest of lilts. And she charged with arms outstretched, spitting blood and dirt. My timing was impeccable: that brand new round point shovel whacked through her skull, slicing it like the ripest melon.

Besides that new car, a wide screen television, and some other entertainment purchases, I thought it would be a good idea to buy a better shovel.

I’m glad I did.

GUM SMOKE by John H. Dromey

2012-02-07T11:28:00.001-08:00

The disparate desperadoes who comprised the Hole-in-the-Wallet gang were running low on cash, as usual. They were also almost out of bullets and didn’t have enough six-shooters to go around.

“We’ll have to be creative,” their leader said. “We’ll send Curly in first with a finger pistol to take a hostage.”

“How do I do that?” Curly wondered out loud.

“You poke your trigger finger in the ribcage of a submissive-looking customer and say, ‘Stick ’em up!’ We’ll do the rest.”

Curly squared his shoulders and swaggered into the lobby of the financial institution.

The remaining outlaws tied bandannas over the lower parts of their faces and were waiting patiently outside the entrance to the bank when they heard a muffled, “Bang! Bang!”

A few anxious moments later, Curly came swaggering out through the door blowing imaginary smoke away from the tip of his extended index finger.

“I had to shoot her,” he announced. “Instead of reaching for the ceiling, she laughed in my face.”

“Why do you suppose she did that?” the leader asked.

“For a couple of reasons I reckon,” Curly said. “All she had to do was look down to see that I didn’t have a real pistol… and she was ticklish.”

A FUN-O-FACE® HAS ZERO GRAMS TRANS FAT! by Douglas Hackle

2012-02-07T11:26:00.001-08:00

I was at the convenience store not too long ago when I noticed a slew of snack foods on the shelves with labels toting the fact that the snacks contained zero grams trans fat, this information often conveyed with an exclamation point or two: Zero Grams Trans Fat!

The strong emphasis the snack manufacturers put on this presumably very significant and positive nutritional fact suggested that all these snack foods were, if not healthy, then at least semi-healthy choices. What can I say? I believed them. They sold me. So much so that I decided to part with $1.27 to purchase one such snack. The one I picked, a Fun-o-Face®, is a hockey puck-shaped devil’s food snack cake enveloped in a chocolate coating. On one side of the cake is a simple smiley face drawn in white icing. The center of a Fun-o-Face is filled with cream. The phrase “Zero Grams Trans Fat!” appears like fifteen times on the front of the wrapper.

I took my Fun-o-Face home and sat down on my couch to eat it. Although I knew the snack did not contain one drop of trans fat, I knew nothing about what the snack did contain. So I read the back of the wrapper.

Based on a 2,000-calorie diet, a Fun-o-Face contains 4,000 times the recommended daily intake (RDI) of saturated fat; 5,000 times the RDI of polyunsaturated fat; 6,000 times the RDI of cholesterol; 10,000 times the RDI of sugar; and 15,000 times the RDI of sodium. In addition, a Fun-o-Face contains “lethal amounts” of arsenic, cyanide, strychnine, hemlock, deadly nightshade, puffer fish venom, black widow venom, rattlesnake venom, box jellyfish venom, and radioactive toxic waste, among dozens of other unknown toxins.

But hey—at least it has zero grams trans fat! Right?

Those neurotoxins didn’t waste any time shutting down my lungs and heart. I died within about forty-five seconds of biting into the thing.

What’s more, that Fun-o-Face was so damn poisonous that in the middle of my open casket wake, my belly exploded right there in my coffin, raining a terrible, radioactive fatty acid on all nearby friends and family members who had come to pay their respects to me, melting them like slugs, killing over fifty of them, including six babies, four toddlers, and my sister who was pregnant with twins.

But, hey—at least it had zero grams trans fat!

Right??

A STATUE IS BORN by Daniel Vlasaty

2012-01-03T06:30:00.001-08:00

The traffic light snaps a picture and a driver turns to ash. Cops with Gatling guns for mouths patrol the streets from above, their mechanical wings hissing and creaking. They watch as more and more drivers are turned to ash by the murderous traffic light and they laugh. The cops are clones.

A girl standing at the corner waiting for the bus hides behind a wave of poofy hair, trying to be invisible. She’s been waiting for the bus for three days. She is not sure if it is ever going to arrive.

A man gets out of the passenger side of a bright red sports car and charges the traffic light with a baseball bat. His wife has just been turned to ash. He screams: “You stupid sonovabitch! She was three months pregnant! That baby was destined to be a lizard god! The doctor told us…” His words are lost in a string of gurgling screams, and he begins to attack the traffic light.

The traffic light feels nothing.

The cops drift over to the man and watch him with their collective eyes. Their teeth are armor piercing bullets. Their Gatling gun mouths roar to life as a warning. But he doesn’t stop. He throws his baseball bat at the traffic light hanging above the road. The cops turn it to sawdust before it can connect. They turn their gun mouths on the man next. He is dead before he can give them the finger.

The girl at the bus stop pushes the pile of hair out of her face and zooms in on the scene with her camera eyes. She is an undercover investigative journalist. She has been working on a story about police brutality and unfair traffic lights. These have both been huge problems for the city’s habitants.

She films the clone cops as they float around the man’s destroyed body. They are laughing. Their laugh is evil and childish. One of the cops notices her filming them and they all swarm around her. She clicks the SEND button on her neck just as all of the cops’ gun mouths roar to life again.

She is shredded into millions of pieces, but not before her footage reaches her editor’s inbox.

The footage is shown immediately on every single channel and the investigative journalist is given a posthumous Pulitzer. A statue of her now greets everyone entering the city.

STRESS BALL by Samuel Cole

2012-01-03T06:29:00.001-08:00

I sat whining in the back of the cafeteria when a large bellied woman placed a dark blue stress ball on the table in front of me. My neck cracked when I looked up and saw her disagreeable face. She stood over me like a boss, eyes wide open, the right side of her mouth higher than the left.

The ball felt slippery in my hand. I squeezed it a couple times. I rolled it across the table but it fell to the floor. Fun enough, but I was over it.

“Pick it up,” she whispered. “You both deserve better than that.”

I thought she had walked away.

“Sssshhhh,” I said, finger to lips, suddenly convinced she and I were wonderful friends, perhaps even coiled tongue lovers of romance seduced by a misfortune or war.

She placed the ball on the table again, and with her index finger pushed it into my chest, breath tickling the back of my neck, perfume smelling of old newspaper and something unrecognizably sexy. Like an abstract painting viewed from far away.

“Pick it up and squeeze it,” she whispered. “And don’t let me see you set it down.” I reached for the ball, but it slipped from her finger and rolled underneath an empty chair to the right of me. I hesitated, but then I got up and grabbed the ball squeezing it as tight as my fingers would allow.

She was gone, perfume and all. I licked the ball, just to make sure.

For the remainder of the day I felt much improved, less stressed, easier to get along with, clear headed. That night, I slept so well, dreaming of newspapers, paintings, and dark blue wars felt like pillow exercises.

The next day I handed the ball to Julia, my smart-ass do-nothing co-worker. I told her it just might help. I told her if she didn’t squeeze it, she’d be sorry. I told her if she wanted to, she could give it away tomorrow.

THE PRINCESS BRIBE by John H. Dromey

2012-01-03T06:27:00.000-08:00

The Dark Knight stormed into the ancient castle brandishing his good looks. That was his intent, anyway. In his haste—and in full armor— he put his foot down a smidgeon harder than he should have. His metal-clad metacarpal bone and its two-hundred close companions made quite an impact. The knight was still about three paces shy of the entrance to the king’s stronghold when there was a prolonged ripping sound, followed by a loud splash.

Informed of the mishap, the king was almost apologetic. “Of all the wretched luck,” he said. “I’ve been meaning to have my steward replace that rotten board in the drawbridge.”

“What should we do for the knight?” a page asked.

“Alas, there’s nothing more that can be done for him, but perhaps we can do something for ourselves. Take a grappling hook and a winch and see if you can at least retrieve his armor before it has a chance to rust.”

“You told me to stay away from the serving wenches, sire.”

“So, I did. Get the cook to help you.”

Some considerable time later, the begrimed knight showed up in the royal chambers for his audience with the reigning monarch.

“You are, I presume, the Black Knight,” the king said. “You’re early.”

“No, my liege, I am the Dark Knight.”

“Unless my eyes deceive me, the ebony hue of your armor suggests otherwise.”

“I assure you, sire, I am he.”

“You’re late, then, or rather, you are the late Dark Knight, the shade of your former self, for surely you could not have survived a plunge in the moat. This is my first daylight encounter with a ghost.”

“I am still quick.”

“Are you suggesting that I am slow of wit?”

“I mean I’m alive. I managed to keep my head above water, or rather above the sludge which stained my armor.”

“Ah, yes. There’s a silt problem with the moat, but that’s not why I put out a call for champions. Rid my kingdom of the wicked dragon that threatens our eastern borders and I will give you my eldest daughter’s foot.”

“What about her hand?”

“Sorry. That’s already been spoken for by the White Knight.”

“Eccch! Supposing I were interested in your daughter’s foot, how is that even possible?”

“Alas and alack, her wedding plans are falling apart and so too is the princess,” the king said. “She’s a zombie.”

GRAVITY by David L Tamarin

2012-01-03T06:24:00.001-08:00

Does gravity always work? Surely, once in awhile, it just stops working. After all, nothing is perfect. Dr. Shingles decided to perform a test. He was sick of being considered a failure.

He held the newborn baby above his head on the roof of the hospital. It had been a rough day. Seven of his patients had died, and two nurses. When he raided the pharmacy and shot opiates he would slip (oops!) with the knife during surgery or nod off with his hands deep inside someone’s stomach. He’d wake up in blood to the sounds of the nurses screaming (and that one crazy nurse with the cross eyes and death breath giggling). Sometimes he would doubt his medical skills, like when he would put organs back in the wrong place (like a nurse’s mouth) or, as had been happening quite frequently, he would forgot he was delivering a baby and would think he was there to perform an abortion and things got crazy.

At a lecture, he heard a scientist on acid explaining how physics is about perfection, and that gravity is a perfect and consistent force in the universe.

“Perfect and consistent,” brooded the Doctor. “No one has ever said that about me”. He was upset because he made another transplant mix-up and both the donor and the beneficiary died screaming, blood spraying everywhere. The Boss wanted to have a talk with him.

The Doctor was lost in thoughts about perfection and angels and awards for Doctor of the Year. He obsessed on memories of being called a failure, by the families and attorneys of his surgical victims, and the medical community at large.

But if there were a way for to him to see gravity fail just one little bit he would feel so much better. I’m not a perfect doctor, but even good old mighty “Mr. Perfect” gravity fucks up sometimes, he tried to reassure himself.

He tossed the baby into the concrete parking lot, waiting for gravity to dysfunction and make him feel better about the universe and his place in it.

He felt a splattering and thought to himself, I guess gravity worked that time.

An alien who was observing this from deep in space climaxed at the moment the concrete rushed up and broke open the baby.

THE MACHINE by Jon konrath

2011-12-07T15:26:00.001-08:00

We watched the room melt into slag, the furniture crystallizing into nothingness, the sound waves of the ambient noise converting to raw electrons and neutrons of particle energy, flowing through our cells and cutting everything apart like x-rays slicing through flesh to bounce off a broken bone. The world outside sped up, slowed down, the structure of the false machines falling apart and disintegrating.

“I think it works,” he said. Ricky ran outside, into the street, picked up an abandoned taxi cab and threw it into low earth orbit, shuttling past communications satellites and passing space stations. I took a Polaroid picture for possible inclusion in a future JC Penny holiday catalog, but don’t keep your fingers crossed.

“Everything is blue,” he said. “Everything is blue in this world.” I borrowed a french fry machine from a Burger Chef, a mobile fry daddy on a set of roller skate wheels, with a trailer hitch attachment. You could plug it into your cigarette lighter of your rental car and make a set of onion rings while you cruised at 65 on the open highway. Excuse me officer, but I have to flip these chicken tenders before they burn. I’m certain that aliens from another dimension taught Ray Kroc the secrets of fryer oil technology, in exchange for fattening up civilization for the apocalypse. When we hit eight million people, expect killer drones to fall from the sky and take out the most succulent cuts of human butchery for their own drive-through meal deals. I’ll have a #2 meal with a huge fat bastard with fries and a Coke, no pickles.

His lawyers later filed some trumped-up charges that he didn’t know the staple gun actually used staples, that the abortion clinic was for simulated use only. We took a long recess and went to Marilyn Manson’s house, because he’d recently married Carny Wilson and went on this Beach Boys rampage, mistakenly buying a billion dollars of Brian Wilson memorabilia on eBay and then finding out it was all stuff for the San Francisco Giants closing pitcher, stick-on beards and orange t-shirts. That’s why Manson looks like Fidel Castro on his new album. Smile!

CHILLED COFFEE by E. M. Jeanmougin

2011-12-07T15:25:00.001-08:00

The coffee is too cold.

It's always too cold at Chomsky Coffee but this time he doesn’t ask for a fresh cup. It's not worth the scowl of the head waitress or the risk of his next cup being accompanied by spit.

Outside, the rain pelts rapidly down. The world is a dismal, wraith-like place, slated in shades of abysmal gray. Two narrow beams of alternating light (one of blue, the other of red) splash across the dreary boulevard. Though the sirens have long-since stopped, the police remain.

From the safety of the café, he's watched on-lookers come and go. They pause at the site of the accident, giving the morbid scene an ephemeral glance before moving on, like children passing exhibits in a museum. A few remain clustered in as close as the authorities will allow them, but with the increasing rain speed their numbers are fast diluting.

The driver of the ’97 Firebird has been arguing with the cops for almost ten minutes now. From his window seat, he can't actually hear the words, but the man’s violent hand gestures and facial expressions tell the tale. It was the pedestrian's fault, surely. He was the one who had walked in front of the car.

He's not going to win. You don’t cream a pedestrian at 70 mph and then just stroll away without doing serious jail time.

As the ambulance wails up to the scene and the paramedics pile out, he turns away from the window, looks back at the cold cup of coffee, and wishes it were warmer. The extended sitting period has made it somewhat thick and soupy. He crinkles his nose distastefully.

“Shame about that,” comments a man from the table next to him. With alabaster white skin and bruise-like black sags under his eyes, the florescent lights make it almost painful to look at him. The pallid man holds out his cup and the waitress fills it with fresh, steaming coffee. Taking a sip, the man asks, “Guy was a regular, wasn’t he?”

“Yes,” replies the waitress, picking up the chilled cup without a downward glance. “Bastard was always whining about the temperature of his coffee.”

IT TAKES A PILLAGE by John H. Dromey

2011-12-07T15:24:00.001-08:00

Erik the Redneck spent his summer vacation “flipping Burghers.”

He hung around the village tavern waiting for gluttonous merchants to pass out after swilling too much lager.

Turning over the stupor-rich topers so he could cut their purses was hard work but highly rewarding.

When he wasn’t rolling drunks, Erik was a typical Viking teenager. He listened to the latest sagas, worried about his complexion, and complained loudly about doing homework—he despised chopping wood, fetching water, and picking up those rare table scraps that even the family dogs refused to eat.

Erik was well on his way to becoming a rich man himself when the source of his newfound wealth became an open secret. A barmaid blabbed.

Magnus the Mariner had no difficulty in organizing a small raiding party to go after Erik.

“You won’t even have to get your feet wet,” Magnus told his recruits, “and you can be home by midnight.”

Of those invited, only Hrolf the Eveready—a specialist in assault and battery—begged off, citing chafed knuckles and a bruised ego (from not being the first ruffian asked to participate).

With vulpine cunning, Erik easily outwitted the first three attackers by placing a bearskin rug over an open trapdoor.

Knut the Rock Knee, so-called because he often bumped into boulders when going ashore on unfamiliar beaches, was the first to fall into the root cellar. He was followed close behind by Thorfinn the Complainer and Eystein the Insecure, who both leaned over the opening to see what had happened to their companion. They discovered that for themselves when Erik nudged them sequentially with just enough force to tip them past their centers of gravity.

Ivard the Intimidator was a different matter entirely. Erik knew he wasn’t strong enough to take the bully by the horns, but that thought gave him an idea.

“Are you wearing your wife’s helmet? Those look like cow horns to me,” Erik taunted.

Ivard was unable to reach up and check the calcified protrusions and swing a broadsword at the same time. Erik kicked him in a delicate part of his anatomy and then finished him off with a dagger.

Having tippy toed into the tavern during the preceding commotion, Olaf the Obnoxious asked the sixty-four-Thaler question, just before he tapped Erik the Redneck on the back of the head with a war club: “Are you smarter than a fifth raider?”

ANGEL OF MERCY by Joseph J. Patchen

2011-12-07T15:22:00.001-08:00

It was only after I pulled the trigger that I realized what I had done. Despite all the smoke and shouting and bodies, I could distinctly hear that hammer click into place. I could feel that chamber lock and that bullet whirl out through the barrel.

The steel vibrated and kicked and the powder burned, but all that concerned me was the lettering stamped on the bottom of that bullet. I could read it's markings over and over as it slowly turned and pulled away. At that moment, the battle ended - and so did my involvement in the war.

I was firing in the face of a charge, standing shoulder to shoulder with like-minded men. Bayonets and swords in our faces, cannon balls past our ears - I never truly aimed at any particular one.

It was like shooting at the side of a barn. Our only aim was at the color. That’s what we were trained to do. Never, ever have I recognized one - until, of course, today. With the bullet moving slowly, I was able to look up and catch a glimpse of his face.

He looked much older than he was supposed to be - more serious. Maybe because he realized the bullet’s path. I thought I could lean out and snatch it, or maybe swat it to another. But it was out of reach and I was out of time. I could hear his uniform rustle and see the bullet enter and split those fibers, with a little smoke and powder trail.

First he dropped his rifle. Then he clutched his chest before we locked eyes. And then I heard it crack bone. He laid still, his eyes wide, looking past me. We made promises on graves long ago that we would care for each other. I feel I’ve met my end of the bargain. After all, I’ve delivered him from this insanity.

CROSS GENRE TRAFFIC DOES NOT STOP by John H. Dromey

2011-11-09T14:59:00.003-08:00

Sliding from one dimension to another willy-nilly can be dangerous for someone who doesn’t know the tropes. Phineas Pfefferkorn learned that lesson the hard way.

Expelled from his university computer class, when his eccentric attire and boredom-induced nonverbal sonic disruption of classroom decorum exceeded the intolerant professor’s quota of one “sigh per punk,” Phineas wandered aimlessly through the halls of the science building until he chanced upon a keypad-protected research laboratory.

Phineas hacked his way into the lab. He glanced at the labels on a variety of experimental gadgets before deciding to strap on a prototype time machine and trans-dimensional slider that consisted of a backpack and a utility belt with a control panel.

Although he had every intention of following the advice of Horace Greeley, “Go west, young man,” Phineas was thoroughly disoriented by having passed through a maze of hallways prior to his discovery of the windowless lab where the sun didn’t shine. He faced the nearest wall and pressed a button.

Phineas found himself a gandy dancer on a dilapidated railway line.

He pressed another button.

He found himself a Gandhi dancer in the chorus line of a Bollywood biopic.

Wherever he went, Phineas had trouble adjusting.

When in Rome he did as the Etruscans did

He was out of sync.

What could Phineas do when his experiences clashed with his expectations? He sought a palliative for cognitive dissonance. In other words, he changed his mind.

He decided to switch from the adventuresome, go-exploring philosophy of Horace Greely to the marginally more immediate mantra of Quintus Horatius Flaccus, also known as Horace: Carpe diem. Seize the day, or enjoy the day. Take advantage of the situation you find yourself in.

Phineas wasn’t sure which one of the buttons turned the machine off, so he pushed all of them at once.

Chaos ensued.

A steam powered velocipede collided with a triceratops. A super tanker ran aground on Mars. A reality TV show made sense. A super collider produced a particle that weighed less than the fart of an anorexic quark.

What had gone wrong? The answer was simple.

Not realizing that he was in a no parallel (universe) parking zone, Phineas had caused a temporal traffic jam at the intersection of Then and Now by breaking the cardinal rule for amateur time travelers: “Don’t change Horaces while in the middle of a slipstream.”

AT SUNSET by Ken Goldman

2011-11-09T14:58:00.001-08:00

“North . . . East . . . South . . . West . . .” Jimmy pointed to the sky as he spoke, his face beaming with pride.

“What you doing, sport?” his father asked.

“Pointing to where the four winds blow, like Miss Daniels taught us today.”

“Impressive. And what else did Miss Daniels teach you today?”

“That the sun sets . . . right there!” Jimmy pointed northward.

The father knitted one eyebrow. “Not quite, sport. Tell Miss Daniels the sun sets in the West. That way.”

Something seemed strange. Together both looked toward the sunset. The father stopped smiling.

The sun was setting in the North.

And it seemed to be getting closer.

C.S.I. #3 by Kyle Hemmings

2011-11-09T14:57:00.000-08:00

We scoured the neighborhood for clues. Who could have murdered a shy reclusive teacher of post-structuralist phonetics, named Hermaine Zedt? God, it was getting so hot and ugly-humid downtown by The Kick. Little kids played dropball, catching the sun in the slit between their runny lips, their noise, all high-wing vowel and soft plosive. We spoke to Hermaine's landlord, an old woman who had trouble hearing and remembering the last significant question. Finally, she admitted to Hermaine keeping a huge red sheepdog with eyes so human they could see through you.

“Oh yeah?” said my partner, J.T., who lit his cigarette, some brand with a German name.

She rambled on about a man who came to visit Hermaine. She spun a finger next to her head. “The guy had problems. After awhile he only barked or whined behind closed doors. Had my suspicions about her too but she paid the rent. I remember the young woman yelling the night of her death, ‘down, Wanton, down.’” Wanton, she then explained in a voice reminding me of damp basements, was the name of Hermaine’s dog that she put to sleep. “Is there anything else?” said the old woman in a voice reminding me of birds in the attic.

“Yes,” said my partner who never slept on his beats, “you mean her dog was already dead when she said this?”

“Yes,” said the old woman in a voice reminding me of the spaces between my dubious parents without prints.

Later, in the car I asked J.T. what he made of it.

“Simple,” he said, “the phrenic is schizophrenic. Wanton was the name Hermaine gave to her boyfriend because she loved the dog she had to put down and this was her way of keeping him forever. The boyfriend came to believe he was a dog. When you act the part, you become the part. I mean look at the leash marks around her throat and the smile that is still there.

“You're right, Einstein,” I said. Now tell me another one. Like the dog that once dialed 911 just to get its fifteen minutes of fame on YouTube. The owner never found and the mutt is still a suspect.”

“Remember it well,” said J.T. in a voice of absent minds as he closed file keepers, “I was the one assigned to the case.”

REGULAR by Jeffrey S. Callico

2011-11-09T14:47:00.001-08:00

Martin finished with his dump then ventured back outside where everyone waited. They weren’t waiting for him, he knew that, but he pretended they were. He walked up to Ronnie, who always wore a red-and-white baseball cap backwards.

“What’s happening,” said Martin.

Ronnie turned. “Nothing, why?”

Everyone else was there, along with Ronnie and now Martin, who had taken his dump and showed up with the others. No one had been waiting for him, but he pretended they were. He looked at Martin.

“I don’t know about you but I’m starved. What’s to eat?”

Ronnie stared a moment.

Martin smiled and stared back.

“Do I know you?” said Ronnie.

Martin looked at the others, who hadn’t heard anything. He said, “I don’t know you, that’s for sure, but who says I have to.”

Ronnie lowered his gaze. “Tell me this is a joke.”

“It is,” Martin said. “It’s all a big joke and you caught on just fine. I took a dump a few minutes ago and saw you all over here and thought I would make my way, what with the smell of the food and all. What’s your name again?”

“I never gave it to you,” said Ronnie, his gaze still lowered and forming into a frown.

“Oh,” Martin said, “you’re right, absolutely right. I’m Martin.” He extended his hand to Ronnie who stood motionless, his frowning gaze unfaltering.

“You should go,” said Ronnie.

Martin diminished his smile and returned his unshaken hand to his side. “Right. Absolutely I should.”

Martin retreated from Ronnie and the others, still smelling the food, which made his stomach growl. It would be a long time before he’d take another dump.

11:11 IN SKINHEAD CITY by Dustin Reade

2011-10-18T05:39:00.001-07:00

So I am running full bore and I get right up there and jam my knee into the crotch of the grand wizard of the KKK. The world applauds, I bow, and now I am a reality TV star. The whole thing is caught on national television and now there are two thousand angry skinheads pounding at my door. All of them throwing little "Heil Hitlers" into the air. Some of them are wearing t-shirts with a skinhead on the cross. The skinhead on the t-shirt has no face.

I look around and realize that none of the skinheads have faces.

There is no way of describing the terror I feel.

So I grab my broom and I throw open the door and I start swinging the broom to the left and to the right like I am trying to scare raccoons away from my garbage
can.

The skinheads retreat and most of them look scared even though some of them have weapons. Weapons like: a Q-ball in a sock, a lock on a chain, half a pool stick, etc.

I start to worry they might kill me for thud-crotching the wizard on national television so I try to act crazy. I grab one by the neck, and start whipping him around in the air like a towel in the wind, all the while flailing the broom to the left and to the right in my other hand. I let go of the limp skinhead and he crumbles like a pile of laundry to the ground. I grab another one by the arm and start screaming in his face about "borrowing my last pencil". I want them to think I am crazy, dig?

They get the message and they scatter.

I look around at the carnage left behind. It is massive.

I notice a brown patch on the lawn where several skins have urinated against the side of my house.

"Jerks," I say.

I go inside and catch the tail end of "Oprah". It’s an episode with Dr. Oz.

I like him.

DEAD END by Jake Johnson

2011-10-18T05:38:00.001-07:00

The signs jut up from the hot sand.

They beckon me closer with their disarming faces. When I get close I see the blood dripping from their teeth.

I run. They say to me,

STOP

YIELD

and I think about it and then I don’t.

I’m not in the desert anymore. I’m in a metal room with a doorway and a sign that says,

NO U-TURN

“But-?” I begin.

NO YIELD ON RIGHT

“You think I’m right?” I ask, honored.

NO PARKING

it rushes me. I nod and run through the doorway.

FAMILIAR TERRITORY by John H. Dromey

2011-10-18T05:37:00.001-07:00

Witchery is a weird, yet wondrous pursuit. How do I know? Well, for the past few years I’ve been closely associated with an adept practitioner of the arcane arts, both as a helpmate and an observer.

Wanda even taught me to speak, as much as that was possible with my rather limited capability in that department. Mostly I rely on thought projection like I’m doing right now. I hope somebody out there somewhere shares my neurological wavelength. Are you listening? I thought you were.

With my unique perspective, perhaps I can shed some light on Wanda’s eccentric activities. (I’m rather good at shedding, if I do say so myself.) Now, where should I begin? Well, first of all, she’s...

Oh, darn! There goes that annoying whistle again. You didn’t hear it? I’m not surprised; the frequency is so high-pitched not everybody does. I wonder what Old Snaggletooth wants me to fetch for her this time—her slippers, the TV remote, her magic wand? She’d better be careful about letting me sink my fangs into that last item. I may be mostly Scottie and Irish setter, but I’m also part Pointer.

CONFESSIONS by Cheryl Anne Gardner

2011-10-18T05:36:00.001-07:00

"What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas," replied Satan as he leaned in to place the angel atop the tree. Its wings were made of tin foil, and they crinkled in the hot breeze, so he reached out a little farther. The ladder teetered slightly, swayed slightly more, one hoofed foot thrown out to gaiety the other navigating the flaming abyss below via the uppermost step. You wanted to say something, anything at all, but the small hairy midgets kept handing you martini glasses full of tomato juice and black olives. You see, that hotel room had become a prison cell, and Elvis your Rabbi, reciting the last rights in a white leisure suit, all swinging hips and patent leather shoes. You had gone there alone, a tramp, hitchhiking the desert roads drawn like a firefly to the hypnotizing twinkle of oppression. Had gone to shake your moneymaker for any lunatic with a nickel, but your box wasn't a jewel box and the shiv in your hand was nothing more than a shattered piece of glass wrapped in a bit of tin.

"What did you expect, girl?" Satan asked of you again, his voice cocooned in nectar. "Did you think you'd like it better here? I read your diary, so I know. I know you. Nothing makes any sense to you anymore, not like it did when you were in France, when you kissed that woman twice your age. She barely had a pulse, and you, a loaded rifle and a cheering crowd. So hand me the tinsel ... and have another drink. ‘Tis the season's eternal down here."

ADULT ONSET by Acquanetta M. Sproule

2011-09-23T05:57:00.001-07:00

Lancey started developing food allergies at age 33.

First was shell fish, then tree nuts and then legumes.

Then dairy.

Fruit, veggies, cereals.

Mushrooms.

Animal products.

Lastly, food made from artificial ingredients.

Lancey didn't starve to death.

He got really hungry and made himself a binge-feast.

He didn't finish it.

BREACH BIRTH by Ken Goldman

2011-09-23T05:56:00.001-07:00

The woman’s screams reverberated along Bloom Memorial’s corridors.“…M’face to yo’ ass... M’face to yo’ ass…”

“What’s she saying?” Nurse Hatcher asked.  

Dr. Keller shook his head. “A chant? My face to your ass? Whatever that means.”  

Suckling her newborn, the young Haitian mother turned her attention to the pair who had delivered him.

Keller’s patient repeated the obscene epiphany, the woman throwing hand to mouth like a little girl uttering a bad word.

She whispered to the newborn, mother and child together sharing a furtive secret. Rubbing the soft horns that only she saw, she whispered, “Mephisto, you is…”   

JACKPOT by Eric Suhem

2011-09-23T05:55:00.002-07:00

Henrik lived on the outskirts of Las Vegas. He spent a large part of his conscious life experiencing a vision of a jack-in-the box melting in flames, whether he was at work, or sitting at the breakfast table reading the morning paper with his wife Myrna. The vision of the jack-in-the-box melting in flames dominated Henrik’s life, but he got used to it, shrugging it off as ‘one of those things’.

“Henrik, maybe a hobby will take your mind off these visions,” suggested Myrna. Henrik agreed, and took a painting class at the community center, eventually attaining some modest success at local exhibitions. On his days off, he painted colorful, vivid abstracts, but was recently feeling blocked, most colors not flowing through him, except yellow and orange. Henrik also got repeated phone calls from his brother Ted.

“Hello Henrik, I’ve had a bad run at the slot machines…can you loan me some more money?” Ted was standing next to his favorite slot machine with a bag of lemons. He chewed feverishly on the bitter fruit, trying to visualize three yellow lemons in a slot machine jackpot, but instead he could conjure nothing but bitter, harsh white light.

“All right, Ted” said Henrik, staring at the jack-in-the-box melting in flames. “Myrna and I are going to Lake Mead tomorrow for a picnic, why don’t you join us and we’ll discuss it.”

At the lake, as afternoon passed into evening, Henrik and Ted got into a rowboat. While Henrik rowed, he glanced at his brother’s orange hair and round bulbous nose. Ted was perched at the bow, staring straight ahead at a shimmering white light on the opposite shore. “Now, about that money,” began Ted, standing up to loom over Henrik, as he’d done all his life, but suddenly losing balance, his feet slipping on some lemons in the boat. He hit his head on the oarlock, and passed out.

At that precise moment, Ted’s favorite slot machine in Las Vegas displayed 3 lemons…Jackpot!

Henrik continued to row methodically, blood pouring from Ted’s bobbing orange-haired head into the bottom of the boat. The bright white light filled Ted, while the lemons rolled around in the boat. As Henrik stared at the blood, the jack-in-the-box visions disappeared, and the strange reddish hue freed something within him, soon to be seen as vivid images of maroon in his abstract paintings.

THE DEVIL HAS A DRIVER by Allen Jacoby

2011-09-23T05:55:00.000-07:00

I saw him today, as I have seen him before. The car is always different, but it's always a luxury car, like a Mercedes or a Jaguar, and it's always a dark silver.

You can see him yourself, if you live in a large enough city, like Los Angeles or London, even someplace like Madrid or Glasgow.

The Devil always sits in the back seat, directly behind his driver. The first few times I saw him, here in LA, he was an elderly white man, with no hair that I could see, not even eyebrows. He wore a dark suit, a black cowboy hat, and dark red sunglasses. The shades should have looked ridiculous, but they didn't. The way he carried himself in that car was nothing less than sinister.

Since then, I've seen him twice in LA again, once in London, and again in New York. I travel a lot for business, and if I'm ever in a Metropolitan area, I make sure to look. Except for the first few times, he has always been a different person, but for those sunglasses. They stay.

But it’s the driver who interests me. He wears a cheap suit, no hat, and is kind of a swarthy fellow. Maybe half-Indian, I've begun to think. He doesn't change like the Devil does. He changes like a regular person, ages. The last few times I've seen him, he almost seemed sick, weak. Cancerous. A harrowed look in his eye, one palm smearing the sweat from his face. I'm sure the Devil likes his car well heated, after all.

Today was the worst, though. He looked...awful. On death's door. I was right next to them, at a stoplight, and I couldn't help but stare at him, watch him, and think how sick he looked. And wonder how he had even gotten the gig in the first place.

Just as the light turned green, I couldn't resist, and glanced in the backseat.

The Devil was looking at me.

He was a younger man this time, still white, dark haired, and there was a smile on his face that could cut diamonds.

As his car started to pass mine, he saw me watching the driver, and there was something in his smile that knew what I was thinking. He brought his hand to his face, lowered the glasses, and gave me a wink. His eyes were neither the red of hellfire or the black of coal, but there was something hideously inhuman about their brown tint, and it made me shiver.

He raised the glasses, still smiling, and drove off. But I don't like the way he singled me out. I've seen him so many times now, it doesn't feel like coincidence, and the thought of seeing him again makes me sick all over.

Makes me sicker, because I got a letter in the mail.

A job offer.

COFFEE ON HIS PANTS by William J Fedigan

2011-09-12T06:53:00.002-07:00

It’s good to be alive, she thinks, and the more he bleeds the better life gets.

She’s enjoying herself, watching him bleed on the sidewalk, coffee on his pants, steam coming up. She steps out of her shoes and splashes blood around. Life is good.

He saw her. He turned around and he saw her. She wanted it that way. Look at me, motherfucker.

He came out the deli, coffee in a paper bag. Look at me, motherfucker. She squeezed twice. The noise scared her but his head split like a watermelon and she felt good. His brains came out the back of his head and she felt better. It’s good to be alive, motherfucker.

He went down, coffee spilling on his pants. The coffee smelled fresh. The blood made puddles on the sidewalk. She splashed blood around. Life is good, she thought, knowing it was true.

She should leave, maybe run, but she won’t. She’s enjoying herself, watching him bleed, splashing blood around, thinking happy thoughts.

I won’t leave, she thinks, he’s still bleeding and the more he bleeds the better life gets.

SLAGPEG by Danica Green

2011-09-12T06:53:00.000-07:00

I found myself wondering just how deadly the seven sins are, so I slept all morning in a tub of rice pudding before calling my friend Danny to send his girlfriend over. She was a fine looking woman and I'd always been jealous of Danny. When she said his name while we were fucking on a bacon mattress, I got pretty angry and punched her in the boob. I felt a little better when she went to shower and I used her credit card to order a hooker while doing origami with a wad of twenties I stole from her purse. When she came back, me and the hooker were sitting in the pudding playing with little green boats made of dollar bills. She started to cry. I flipped her off, slapped the hooker with my junk and went back to sleep. All in all, I was pretty damn proud of myself.

KRANLIN THISTLENUT ADDS MUSTARD TO HIS COLOSTRUM-MECONIUM MILKSHAKE: A SONNET-FABLE by Joe Jablonski

2011-09-12T06:51:00.001-07:00

*NOTICE TO READERS*

The story that originally appeared here, “Kranlin Thistlenut Adds Mustard to His Colostrum-Meconium Milkshake: A Sonnet-Fable” by Joe Jablonski, was removed as a result of and in compliance with a recently made Citizen’s Rejection. (The filer of the rejection is one Mr. Douglas Hackle.)

Similar by analogy to the concept of a citizen’s arrest, a Citizen’s Rejection can occur when an editor publishes one of his/her own stories at his/her own online publication, thereby leaving the piece vulnerable to public rejection. A properly filed Citizen’s Rejection can only be made in the Comments section underneath the targeted self-published story.

We apologize for any inconvenience this has caused, but hope that you enjoy the other stories included in the present issue.

Sincerely,

The Editorial Staff of three minute plastic (i.e. the rejected party)

NOTICE TO READERS…AGAIN

2011-09-12T06:50:00.001-07:00

As a sincere apology for the afore-mentioned discrepancy, three minute plastic will now make up for it by publishing a lesser known piece by the late Ernest Hemingway; a sunny, feel good haiku, entitled 'ANAL MENSTRUATION.'

Laying in your arms

The sun warms my cockles

I poop a little

ADVANCED DRIVING COURSE by Dorothy Davies

2011-09-12T06:48:00.001-07:00

“It's called roadcraft, Mr Thomas, bit old-fashioned, you know, they don't teach it much these days.”

“Yes, I understand that: it's complicated, isn't it?”

“Not at all, not at all. It's just learning to read the road, that's all. How far back the verges are cut, whether the shrubbery is cut down, that kind of thing. You can read the road, with practice.”

“Well, how did I do?”

“Very well, Mr Thomas, very well indeed. We'll make a fine driver out of you yet. Now, are you ready to move on?”

“I'm not...”

“Oh come on, you paid for the full course!”

“Yes, I know, but it's a bit...”

“Well, who knows what might happen?”

“True, true, but you know...”

“Backing out, are you? Going to let a couple of hundred pounds go to waste?

“If you put it like that...”

“Mr Thomas, I am putting it like that!”

“Well then, perhaps I...”

“Of course you should! Look, there's a nice convenient layby, let's stop there for a moment. Let that patrol car go.”

“No witnesses, eh?”

“Something like that. Now, ready?”

“Well—all right, let's go for it!”

“Good man! Do you would! Now, imagine you're in a battle zone, eh? Wrong side of the line in South London, okay? And this maniac cuts your foot off!”

“AHHHH!!!”

“Come on, Mr Thomas, drive!”

“I can't, I've got no...”

“Come on! That's the point of the course! What do you do? Use the other foot across two pedals, come on! You don't want them to get you, do you! What would you do if they broke into the car, eh? Fine, fine, know you could do a destination point or right? Then come on then! Get some speed up! Brilliant!”

“Oh God it hurts...”

“Wimp! Here, let me tie a tourniquet round it, there, that stopped the blood flow. Bit of a bind, that, takes ages to get it off the carpet and we’re not done, not yet. You're doing fine, Mr Thomas, you're doing just fine. Now brake, yes, that’s it. See, you can drive with one foot. Now...”

“Do we have to do this? I mean, I'm in a bit of pain and...”

“If you've gone this far, why not go the rest of the way. I say.”

“Well, the missus won't be best pleased if I give up now so all right.”

“Fine, fine, you're captured by these bank robbers and they’ve...removed your hand!”

“AAAHHHH!!!”

“Now drive, use your arm, lock it through the steering wheel, mind the blood! Fine, Mr Thomas, fine! Wavering a bit, trying to keep it straight down the middle of the lane or you’ll attract attention from the other drivers. Fine stuff, fine! Now pull over and we’ll tourniquet that one too.”

“Is there any more? I mean, I've lost a lot of blood and feel faint!”

“Well, Mr Thomas, how would you drive after a heart attack...”

THE INCHWORM by Robert E. Petras

2011-08-24T08:19:00.001-07:00

The few who knew him called him the Inchworm for his passion to go as near as possible to the fulcrum balancing creation and destruction.

He first neared perfection on a Saturday afternoon at a small airport during a stunt plane performance. While Cessna planes moaned overhead, wheeling spirals and figure eights, he elbowed his friend Mackey, then pointed to a young woman standing within a packed crowed of spectators. “See that girl in the purple sweater with the big boobs. I bet I can place both my hands on those babies without her or anyone else knowing it.”

“You’re on for fifty bucks,” Mackey replied.

He watched the Inchworm wedge through the crowd, all heads tilted to the bright blue sky, riveted to the airplanes as the Inchworm positioned himself behind the woman, wrapped his arms around her and ever so slowly drew his splayed hands upon her breasts, exerting no more tactile force than a shadow.

The nearness of perfection intoxicated the Inchworm—attainment of the mastery of going ever so close. But he was so cool. He learned how breathing deeply and slowly could calm the nerves, giving him the steadiness of a surgeon, no an artist—an artist in the midst of creation. The Inchworm also learned how this controlled breathing calmed his entire being, even his soul, by lowering his heart rate below 30 beats a minute.

Achieving this rate while performing his art, time became still, sound the hollow ringing of a seashell, like riding his Suzuki near the edge of a cliff, inching closer and closer and closer until finally the wheels teetered along the edge, teasing gravity, time an eternity between two heartbeats.

He inched toward the limits of his subconscious while skydiving, bungee jumping and white water rafting, always shadow-caressing that final inch.

Only remaining now was the egoless I, the taste of cold steel from a .38 revolver inside the mouth, trigger cocked, squeezing as gently as an infant, a little more, a little more, a little…

ABSTRACT ART by Ken Goldman

2011-08-24T08:15:00.001-07:00

“Your home is beautiful. Simply beautiful,” the Earthman informed his Beta-4 hostess. “The lines, the form. And what a spectrum of color! This is art!”

The female alien smiled. “Our culture recognizes genius. We employ artists in every aspect of everyday home design. May I show you the rest of our residence?”

“One moment,” the Earthman replied. “George, Mary, come look at this piece!”

His flight crew joined him.

“Fantastic!”

“Incredible!”

“I must meet the sculptor.”

The hostess blushed green.

“Sirs . . . Madam . . . I will gladly accommodate your request. I should inform you, though, that what you’re looking at is our toilet.”

THE SECOND MOST SOUGHT AFTER by Colin James

2011-08-24T08:14:00.001-07:00

The sanctuary's garden was virtual.

You sat in a stone chair and a holograph displayed.

Fifteen minutes absolute.

The rigidy of the stone was necessary

to keep your torso in movement.

Music was incidental Celine.

Peripherally, the waiting lines of escapists

were visible if you strained, which was not suggested.

You could see one of the eyes of each.

Eventually grayness framed the façade

and concentration payed off

in the form of pristine images.

Hobit shacks and festering brooks.

A button could be pressed on the chair's crotch.

A drawer delivered tepid tap water.

Humming was allowed.

When the 'ONE MINUTE TO NORMALITY' warning

sounded, it was best to prepare by twisting your head from

side to side and stretching arms and legs

in the opposite direction of which they were intended.

Celine's lovely euphony decreased to a barely audible whisper

and an escalator path caused the floor to move toward

a welcoming door. As soon as you consented you were replaced.

THE VISIT by Matthew Dexter

2011-08-24T08:13:00.001-07:00

My son would come see me. He didn’t know about lung cancer, why I couldn’t come home to read stories anymore. He rubbed my head, bald from metastasis. We sang songs beneath blooming bougainvillea, strewn across the grass I smoked that killed me. He visits every other morning after breakfast. He stays with me for a few hours until his mother peels him out of my fingers. He smells like eggs and bacon. They may say that marijuana does not kill people, but it does, damn it, or maybe it was the crack? Horses were not meant to live forever.

IDENTIA by Wol-vriey

2011-08-12T22:07:00.001-07:00

Your phone rings. It’s Herr Bormann.

“A job for you Identia,” he says in his Germanic tones.

“What sort?”

“A killing; make it look like an accident.”

“And my disguise?” you ask.

“The courier is outside your door now.” He hangs up.

You open the door and let the courier in. This time it’s a middle-aged man in red latex bondage gear. You take him upstairs and whip him for an hour as payment, then kick him out.

You now open the suitcase he brought. It contains a bloody severed Asian woman’s head, a pair of arms, two breast implants, a blue silk cheongsam dress and gold slippers, and a set of instructions.

You read your instructions. Today you are Shan Wu, wife of Dr. Fu-han Wu, the geneticist. You are to kill your husband.

You head for the basement.

Switching heads is always painful. It’s like being raped: you know this from experience—you once arranged to be raped, just so you could compare notes.

Your doctor demon is however the best. It decapitates and repairs you in under a minute, so you don’t feel violated too long.

Soon you’re seeing through Shan Wu’s dead eyes. You admire the seamless join of your new head and neck.

Next the doctor demon chops your arms off at the shoulders and attaches Shan’s in their place. Then it replaces your breast implants with her smaller ones.

You head for the bathroom to wash the blood off.

Once cleaned up, you dress in the supplied cheongsam and pretty yourself up.

It’s Shan Wu’s birthday today. Dr. Wu is treating his wife to a private celebratory dinner at Club Tang in Chinatown.

You smile. You’re hungry now. Besides, murder always feels better on a full stomach.

FAT MAN PUNCH by Dustin Reade

2011-08-12T22:06:00.001-07:00

I walk up and punch a fat man in the stomach. He coughs and sputters for a minute before looking at me with accusing eyes.

“What’d you do that for?” he asks.

“None of your business,” I say.

“I think it is.”

“How do you figure?”

“Well,” he begins, “it is my business inasmuch as your actions had a direct affect on my person. Had you not come along and punched me in the stomach, my business would have remained unchanged for an undeterminable period. However, as your actions involved me specifically, the nature of my previous business was changed, and I am now involved in this current business, into which your actions reluctantly drew me.”

“Whatever.”

I walk into the next room and see a group of teenagers smoking marijuana. I want them to think I am cool so I ask them for a hit. I have not smoked pot in years and the stinging smoke burns my lungs and I cough up blood and look like a fool. The teenagers all laugh at me so I leave. When I go into the other room the fat man I punched in the stomach smiles at me and laughs.

“What’s so funny?” I ask.

“None of your business,” he says sarcastically.

I immediately feel bad for having hit him earlier. I place my flattened hand on his enormous belly and take the punch back.

It hurts my knuckles, but it is the right thing to do.

ACTORS AND ACTRESSES (AND OTHERS) WANTED by Douglas Hackle

2011-08-12T22:04:00.000-07:00

Small indie film production company seeks actors and actresses for new film. We are specifically looking for several males eighteen and older who are endowed with extremely small penises (no one whose penis is bigger than a light switch when fully erect need apply!!). Males must be suicidal, though not necessarily suicidal because they have tiny penises. We also seek at least two males who are handy with chainsaws, preferably two unemployed lumberjacks (note: these actors need not have light switch dicks or any suicidal tendencies). In terms of actresses, we are in need of several women eighteen and older who possess nostrils that are normal-sized or slightly-wider-than-normal. The film is a snuff movie tentatively titled Naughty Noses and Fucking Rolling Heads.

Sorry, but we cannot afford to pay our actors and actresses; however, compensation will be given in the form of exposure and release from this weary world.

In addition to actors and actresses, we are looking for individuals to establish the small indie film production company that will produce the film. (Due to the inherent risks of such an immensely illegal undertaking, we would prefer not to do it ourselves.)

In addition to actors and actresses and individuals needed to establish the small indie film production company that will make the film, we are in need of someone to host private showings of the movie, preferably an individual with a large basement or garage. (We would host these showings ourselves, but we’d be too afraid of getting busted.)

In addition to the actors and actresses, the individuals needed to establish the production company that will produce the film, and someone to host viewings, we are in need of an audience to attend the viewings. (We would attend the viewings and watch the film ourselves, but we’re really not into that sort of thing anymore.)

Lastly, we need someone to write this casting call announcement and then publish it. (We would write it and publish it ourselves, but we really don’t want any kind of involvement whatsoever in this sick, demented business. So it follows that if you are reading this, we must have succeeded in finding an individual to take care of at least that task.)

All interested parties please contact yourself at your own phone number. If for some reason you cannot get a hold of yourself, please call Megan at 5-55-555-5555-55555-555555-55555555-555555555-5555555555-55555555555-555555555555-5555555555555-55555555555555-555555555555555-55555555555555555555555555555555555555555555555-55555555555555555555555555555555555555555555555555555555555555555-2.

STUCK by Jake Johnson

2011-08-12T22:00:00.001-07:00

In a world where zipper technology has been taken to the extreme…

I wake up. The morning light is refreshing as it peeks over the zipper of my mostly-closed curtains. My bed is comfortable, but I need to get up. Reluctantly I throw my body forward and snap myself into a sitting position.

The room around me is bare except for the entrances to the bathroom and the outside world. Thankfully, I’d made sure the previous night that their zippers were completely up. I look down and resist the urge to fall asleep again. I pull at the zipper closest to me, and it withdraws, racing up its line on the bed to the line on my right arm. The same happens to both of my legs. Finally awake, I start pulling on the last zipper.

It doesn’t move. The metal bites into my fingers as I pull, and soon I have to let go. I blow on my fingers and glare at the zipper. After gathering my strength, I return to the task and ignore the pain. It seems immovable, but I feel a small amount of release. I pull with newfound vigor and it gives way.

The metal line doesn’t unravel and I’m still stuck to the bed, but the zipper itself is now on my arm. I curse whatever physics or voodoo make this possible. I’m now furious, and I wrench the zipper back down its path, willing it to work properly. It opens the metal lines on the bed, but it opens the metal lines on my arm, too. I stare at it incredulously, as if I’d just witnessed an act of magic. My arm is bleeding. I try frantically to close the zipper again.

It closes the lines of metal on my arm and bed. I’m still stuck. I collapse in exhaustion.