by Jen McConnell
Today a cicada flew into my neck but I didn’t kill it because I, too, am Generation X. At seventeen years old, I looked for love but settled for lust. I understood blending in to overwhelm predators. Seventeen years later, I hear their mating song in a new way. Less passion, more compassion. In another seventeen years, my own brood will be grown, thinking they are the first to emerge and sing this song.
6S
Jen McConnell can't believe she used to write 3,000-word stories.
20250624
20250623
In My Head
by Daniel Stine
Sweltering heat, mirages promising water just at the horizon, I’m on my knees praying for a miracle when rain falls transforming the landscape into a tropical forest. I climb the nearest tree, grasp a thick vine and leap into the understory with a whooping call and as I reach the apex I let go, landing amidst a driving blizzard onto a dogsled led by five howling Alaskan Huskies. There’s a sack of gold nuggets strapped behind me and three other bobsled teams are chasing me, menacing me, trying to overtake me. I look back to take measure of their progress and find myself swerving to miss cars on Figueroa Street during rush hour. My pursuers have flashing red and blue lights, the LA rush hour is in full swing and there is a beautiful dame on the passenger side of my car spraying a hail of bullets at the coppers on my tail. She turns to look at me, her face glowing, the space around us transitions into an opulent hotel room with a giant king size bed, sheets askew and she is beckoning me as a persistent ringing sound breaks my workplace reverie.
6S
Daniel Stine's been around and he’s still spinning.
Sweltering heat, mirages promising water just at the horizon, I’m on my knees praying for a miracle when rain falls transforming the landscape into a tropical forest. I climb the nearest tree, grasp a thick vine and leap into the understory with a whooping call and as I reach the apex I let go, landing amidst a driving blizzard onto a dogsled led by five howling Alaskan Huskies. There’s a sack of gold nuggets strapped behind me and three other bobsled teams are chasing me, menacing me, trying to overtake me. I look back to take measure of their progress and find myself swerving to miss cars on Figueroa Street during rush hour. My pursuers have flashing red and blue lights, the LA rush hour is in full swing and there is a beautiful dame on the passenger side of my car spraying a hail of bullets at the coppers on my tail. She turns to look at me, her face glowing, the space around us transitions into an opulent hotel room with a giant king size bed, sheets askew and she is beckoning me as a persistent ringing sound breaks my workplace reverie.
6S
Daniel Stine's been around and he’s still spinning.
Posted by
Robert McEvily
20250622
His Best Shot
by Brad Rose
Tom’s out of rehab. People say he’s a lot handsomer than he looks. When I tell him this, he grimaces and says it must be a case of mistaken identity. We get in the truck, and drive out of town. August is jilted and useless. When we drive past the lonely remains of a scarecrow slumped in Burdick’s dust-drowned field, Tom leans out the window, points his pistol, and yells, I hate to have to use this thing, but you bastards leave me no choice.
6S
Brad Rose's latest book is I Wouldn’t Say That, Exactly.
Tom’s out of rehab. People say he’s a lot handsomer than he looks. When I tell him this, he grimaces and says it must be a case of mistaken identity. We get in the truck, and drive out of town. August is jilted and useless. When we drive past the lonely remains of a scarecrow slumped in Burdick’s dust-drowned field, Tom leans out the window, points his pistol, and yells, I hate to have to use this thing, but you bastards leave me no choice.
6S
Brad Rose's latest book is I Wouldn’t Say That, Exactly.
Posted by
Robert McEvily
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