Technology? Don’t get me started! – By Rosemary Bach-Holzer
Offbeat Writings / September 27, 2009

The other day I was sitting next to Bob (ex-husband) going through some photographs (cats and I are temporarily staying with him) he had up on his computer. These digital cameras have a lot to answer for. They have people taking an abundance of photographs most of which, if we’re honest, are pretty useless. We scrolled through picture after picture showing the artistic delights of having on film Shingy’s tail, Shingy eating and my Prada handbag. They weren’t all a loss then. There was one of Ninja, his mum, fast asleep. One of her waking up followed by another of her even more awake and finally, a shot of her yawning that accounted for the close-up of her tonsils. If I flicked through them at a great speed it looked like I was watching her on video. Yes, video. Ninja and I are of the videotape age we do not care for DVDs. Always not working, slow, not an improvement, they’re about as competent as digital cameras. Anyway, I was sitting there falling asleep when a shot of my Prada handbag in profile scrolled on to the screen preventing me from going into a coma when suddenly, Shingy appeared at…

Extreme Synesthesia – By Ali Simpson
Flash Fiction / September 20, 2009

“Sew him up…and we’ll see what happens.” The letters were crunchy and a distinct scent of Fritos wafted from them. Dr. Paul Marshall’s name tag would go great with bean dip, Leroy thought. He smacked his dry lips and squinted against the bright light hanging above the operating table. A dull pain pulsed slowly on the top of his melon, but otherwise, he felt fine. “Can I have my 500 dollars now?” Leroy slurred at the watery figures standing above him. Someone was having a hell of a barbeque nearby. “And some chicken?” One of the figures flapped his arms like an ungainly seagull, fat on scraps from Coney Island. “It worked! We’ve got one, sir. We’ve–” Dr. Marshall shushed him. He put a hand on Leroy’s shoulder as the homeless man struggled to sit up. Leroy grasped Dr. Marshall’s nametag and sniffed. He scratched his stubble and stuck his gray tongue out to taste. The doctor swatted him away and grumbled about the fat one’s exuberance. He motioned to his colleague. Leroy slapped his hand over a sudden sharp pain on his head. He felt fresh stitches. Tastes rolled over his tongue in tangy waves and a thousand smells…

FireFly – By S. Scott
Micro Fiction / September 20, 2009

His side of the bed had been empty for weeks but that night I slept deeply. Wrapped safely in the heat of his body, I dreamt the dreams of home, of family and balance restored. Awoken softly by his breath on my cheek, or a chance moment of mutual cognizance I heard him murmur “look up, Sweetheart”. A lingering dot of floating light appeared in the darkness above us, gracefully dancing, vanishing, reappearing. “I brought you a firefly”. About the Author S. Scott S. Scott is from Balm Beach, Ontario, and is currently studying Environmental Governance at the University of Guelph. Recently, she has had several pieces of creative non-fiction published, including ‘Nuts to You. Or Not’ in the Globe and Mail.

New York just
Poetry / September 13, 2009

New York just wasn’t the same. i remember as a kid everything was grey and brown like the old movies, and my uncle had this 2nd floor walk-up with a single bulb hanging from a wire at the top of the stairs. i remember the night someone dropped a bag of bottles down the steps, and the neighbors yelled and my uncle yelled back and the soft greys and warm browns felt safe and we lounged around in the alleys of the universe. no, New York’s not the same. nothing is. except for maybe that old girl, sorrow. About the Author John Yamrus Since 1970 John Yamrus has published 2 novels and 15 volumes of poetry. More than 900 of his poems have appeared in magazines around the world. Selections of his work have been translated into several languages, most recently, Romanian.

God And The Editorial Board – By Larry Centor
Flash Fiction / September 6, 2009

God, in his wispy self, was relaxing in the chair at the head of the large oval table. Overhead, the ceiling was a limitless clear blue sky. Beneath, the floor was a limitless clear blue sky. The occasion was an extraordinary meeting of God and his Celestial Editorial Board. It was extraordinary because it was perhaps once in a millennium that God actually attended a meeting. Seated around God were the senior members of the CEB, those human and existential beings charged with promulgating the divine proclamations of the editor-in-chief. “Got me an idea,” said the disembodied voice at the head of the table. “Lay it out for us, Boss,” said Shmuel Brassicles. “We’ve been sitting here for, oh hell, what year is this anyway?” “It’s about 1,200 BC, Boss,” replied Yussel Cloxicles, “more or less.” “What zone?” “That’s Hellenic time, Boss,” said Yussel Cloxicles. “You know all those stories we tell each other when we’re partying?” “Yeah, yeah, Boss,” said Ephraim Toadicles. “I’m thinking it’s time – Hellenic time – as it were,” God said, then paused and chuckled. “Get it, Hellenic time? Get it?” “Got it, got it, Boss,” said Ephraim Toadicles. “Good! Good!” said God. A couple…

A Breezy Day – by A. L. Cerda
Micro Fiction / September 6, 2009

Her black tights of winter have been traded in for a breezy dress of spring, her furry boots replaced by open-toe sandals. I’m in the midst of a long inhale of my cigarette when I see Bethann walk off her front porch, and I patiently exhale as she walks over. The girlish smile makes her seem younger than her years, which only makes me feel worse for being so much older to begin with. “Hi Clark,” she says shyly, “It’s a nice day today.” “Certainly is,” is my carefully measured reply. “Well, I was wondering if you wanted to, I don’t know, maybe go to the park or something.” She’s nervously fidgeting with the wedding ring on her finger. Bethann’s long divorced, but there the ring sits, a reminder of better days. I’d think it strange if I didn’t do the same thing. Mine is a widower’s albatross, the ghost of my wife haunting me. I doubt Bethann holds out any more hope than I do of a reconciliation. Are we trying to hold on to former lives? Perhaps we’re trying to ward off future lives. “Sure,” I say, drawling the word ‘round my tongue as if it’s an uncertainty….