Friday, September 23, 2011

ADULT ONSET by Acquanetta M. Sproule

Lancey started developing food allergies at age 33.

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

Then dairy.

Fruit, veggies, cereals.


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

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

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.


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.

Monday, September 12, 2011

COFFEE ON HIS PANTS by William J Fedigan

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

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.



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.


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


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


“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!”


“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!”


“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...”