AT SUNSET by Ken Goldman

“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

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

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

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

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

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

"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."