Driving Me Crazy

Part 2 of 6 by Madam Z

Oh, that’s good. I guess it can get kind of lonely up there in front, all by yourself, while Mr. Greenspan and his guests are partying back here. I’m assuming they party anyway, because I see there is a fully equipped bar back here... a TV and CD player too. Good grief! Are there magic fingers in this seat? Oh, I guess my imagination is a little too fertile.


Madam Z, author of Part 1 of Driving Me Crazy, likes Six and isn't afraid to admit it. (Look for Part 3 on Thursday, July 5th.)

The Question

by Quin

"What did you think when you first saw me?" he asked, his voice moving over a thousand miles of time and space. "Your coat, I wanted to pour lighter fluid over it and set it on fire, it was that ugly," I replied lightly, desperate to not disclose how my soul had flown to his. Bold and brave in my first try out in this world after so long blocked by betrayal and fear, I sped though my question to him, "What did you think, when you saw me?" He paused, causing me to feel as if that one sentence had completely emotionally eviscerated me, wanting to pull back the words, sick to my stomach, trying to find a way to make it a joke, while over the pulse of the phone line, I could hear the whisper of his breathing, the intake before he spoke, and my heart waited to break. "I stared, thinking if I look at her long enough, will she know how much I need her?" We were both silent, overcome by the knowledge we'd found home.


Quin, author of Innocent Statements, is the nom de plume of a woman born and raised in New Orleans, who spent time in Colorado and later in Utah (where theater was discovered and taken to heart). Her children are loved forever, a terrier sleeps at her feet, and words ache to escape onto paper. Her version of life in New York is here.

The Clancy Brothers

by Dawn Corrigan

After the incident with the IRA, Tommy’s interest in his Irish heritage did not recede but evolved into something more personal and aesthetic. He ordered the Hogan family crest and a map of the island with its ancient family names printed on their County of origin. Then he spent hours hovered over these two documents, admiring the knight’s helmet that appeared on the coat of arms and imagining the inland landscape to which the dot on the map by his name must correspond, a landscape colored in many shades of green, through which ancient Hogans, clad in the crest’s armor, roamed. Tommy also took to drinking Tullamore Dew exclusively, and to listening to Irish music. He started out with a Clancy Brothers album that had been recorded at Madison Square Garden, then later acquired albums actually recorded in Ireland. He listened to the latter music dutifully, but secretly he continued to prefer the Clancy Brothers.


Dawn Corrigan's fiction has appeared recently or is forthcoming at VerbSap, Pindeldyboz, Monkeybicycle, The Dream People, Rumble, 55 Words, Defenestration, and 3711 Atlantic. Her nonfiction appears regularly at The Nervous Breakdown. For more on the Hogans (and Capuanos), check out Dawn's previous six: An Interrupted Meeting.

Driving Me Crazy

Part 1 of 6 by Madam Z

I’ve never ridden in a limousine before; it’s really luxurious. How long have you been driving for Mr. Greenspan? Only six weeks? Well, you certainly handle this big boat well. It’s so long; it must feel like you’re driving a freight train, except it doesn’t bend anywhere. I’m sorry, does my chattering bother you?


Madam Z, author of Ice and Woe, likes Six and isn't afraid to admit it. (Look for Part 2 of Driving Me Crazy tomorrow.)

Umbrella Death March

by Diane Bossotti

It’s one of those overcast NY days where the sky is heavy with rain, forcing you to carry an umbrella or risk being soaked through when the sky finally decides to release its torrent. I carry my fake Coach umbrella folded small enough to fit into my pocketbook... but not everyone thinks as small as me. As I absently walk to work, I am assaulted by a battery of big, metal-tipped umbrellas swinging toward me from owners who hold these rain weapons at a perilous, perpendicular angle under their arms, oblivious to the assault they’re making into my personal space. I jump to the left... to the right... back to the left... to avoid the sharp, metal tips that swing with heat-seeking precision, almost jabbing me in the gut or clipping me under a boob. I have immediate scorn for the men (yes, it’s always men) selfishly swinging these umbrellas as an attack wages behind them. I hiss through my teeth, “this means war!” as I push forward on my Umbrella Death March.


Diane Bossotti, author of Men in Suits, continues to wage a one-woman battle against these Umbrella Heat-Seeking Missiles. But just the other day, she saw a ray of hope: a man carrying his umbrella close to his body in a vertical line.

Missing You

by Twizzle

He never thought about his family; he never considered calling or writing. At Christmas and holidays, he sat in his tiny room and watched reruns on an old, beat t.v. he’d found in the trash. A wire hanger twisted out of the top, reminding him every time he looked at it of a rabbit’s ears after an anvil has been dropped on its head. If he thought at all, and it is unclear if he ever did, it was to think of his cat. Sometimes he would think of its tiny calico face and wonder if it was okay. But then he would roll over, and the thought would disappear from his head, drummed out by the static from the old t.v.


Twizzle lives in New Hampshire and is working on her first novel. More importantly, she wants to be Philip Roth when she grows up. Except for that whole being a guy thing.

Ice and Woe

by Madam Z

Sadie was from California, where the roads were good... never full of potholes and never, ever covered with frigging ice and snow. But her doofus husband insisted they move to frigging Pennsylvania, and because Sadie was such a spineless DOORMAT, she went along with him, although in her mind she could picture two deep ruts in the highway, all the way from Los Angeles to Lancaster, formed by her heels digging into the asphalt. So, that first winter was hell on wheels, as her wheels encountered the wretched zero-friction, ice-slick roads, roads where the only places you didn’t skid were the foot-deep potholes which dotted the back country cowpaths she had to negotiate to get to and from their miserable so-called farm. One January day, the sky was clear, so she decided it was safe to venture into the city and do some shopping, but by the time she reached center city the sky was darkening, and feathery, white snow flurries quickly coated the streets. She panicked, and decided to turn back, but found herself at an intersection where she needed to turn left, but cars kept coming from the left and in the meantime cars were piling up behind her, and the snow was swirling every which way and THEN some ASSHOLE behind her started HONKING at her and she got so angry she rolled down her window and leaned out and shouted at the top of her lungs, “BLOW IT OUT YOUR ASS!” The honker then rolled down his window and yelled back at her, “It’s a one way street and you can’t turn left,” which embarrassed Sadie half to death and she yanked her wheel to the right and skidded all the way home, vowing to stay in the goddamned house until Hell froze over.


Madam Z, author of Six Stages of the Rose/Woman, is all thawed out and ready to party.


by Michael J. Gelb

Many people are reluctant to experiment with drawing because they are convinced that they are “not artistic;” I know because I was one of them. In my elementary school, “art class” was held twice a week. I hated it. I wasn’t particularly talented and cringed when the teacher criticized my awkward attempts to draw an airplane or a house. I grew up with the conviction “I can’t draw, I’m not artistic,” and for many years this was a self-fulfilling prophecy; then, as part of my own Renaissance training program, I started taking drawing lessons. I discovered, as I trust you will, that drawing is fun and that it offers a wondrous expansion of perspective on life.


Michael J. Gelb is the author of How to Think Like Leonardo da Vinci, from where his six sentences are excerpted.

A Bookmark for Marcel Proust

by Jimmy Chen

It wasn’t waking up with blood on his pillow that made him wince, for he remembered falling asleep the prior night and seeing a dime-sized zit on his cheek. Nor was it the indentation of his now ex-girlfriend’s head on the other pillow beside him, and its redolence of her. It was the strange sensation that it was not actually Saturday, though he thought it was twenty minutes ago when he hit the snooze button. There are two types of people in this world. People who drive so fast to work that they get into accidents, and people who just rather be late. Chuck’s nature was of the latter.


Jimmy Chen lives in San Francisco, where he writes for fun, and works for money.

Sitting on the Bridge

by G. David Schwartz

I was sitting on the bridge to the state line. I had a pocket of animal crackers but I only like the ducks which were gone very quick. I sat string down into the water as it splashed its way out of the river to the drying spot in Ohio. I thought about a woman I knew so long ago. She had shady blue eyes, cloudy; something like the river below me on this little bridge. Thinking of her, a tear fell into the river and like her it floated away.


G. David Schwartz, currently a volunteer at Drake Hospital in Cincinnati, is the former president of Seedhouse, the online interfaith committee. He is the author of A Jewish Appraisal of Dialogue. His new book, Midrash and Working Out of the Book, is now in stores or can be ordered online.

The F Train

by Siobhan M. White

I’m talking to you, Miss My-Fat-Ass-Takes-up-Two-Seats-Plus: If you can’t fit in one seat – and you’re only allowed one seat – STAND UP – you’ll burn more calories standing, anyway. And I’m talking to you, Mr. Lean-My-Entire-Body-on-the-Pole: Yes, that is my hand that you are squishing under the weight of your shoulder, and don’t give me a dirty look when I try to pull it free, as I need my hand, you know. And you, Mr. I-Think-I-Have-the-Balancing-Skills-of-a-Tightrope-Walker: You don’t, and you’ve stepped on my foot thrice already as you’ve bounced around, holding your briefcase in one hand and your unfolded, flapping New York Times in the other, wiping newsprint all over the sleeve of my white blouse. And you, Mrs. Bulldog, charging your way onto the train without allowing others to get off to make room for you – you’re just plain rude and impatient. And you, Miss I-Gots-No-Time-to-Groom-Myself-at-Home: There’s a reason it’s called “personal hygiene” – it’s gross to comb your wet hair as the droplets splash those around you and to pick at your zits absentmindedly before you decide to slather them with cover-up. And, finally, you, Mrs. I-Am-Holding-a-Very-Hot-and-Very-Full-Cup-of-Coffee-on-the-Crowded-Train: You could spill it on people, staining their clothes or burning them; it’s against the law, for Christ’s sake (why are there never any cops around to give you a $25 ticket?); and coffee makes your morning-breath stink even more than it already does.


Siobhan M. White rides the F train every morning and every evening, and has done so for 12 years. She is not an angry person. Really.


by Ben Grad

Man Ray affixed nails to the bed of an iron. Not a modern iron, more of the old fashioned type, one made entirely of iron except for its wooden handle. The iron I use, now, just across the room, resting on that padded board next to a pile of enough shirts to last the week, that iron is mainly plastic. The shirts are deep powerful blue and insightfully hip offwhite. I wonder if he used that iron before attaching the nails and calling it "The Gift," if he felt that weight. Iron iron, plastic iron, and shirt shirts; they're weightless now, even Man Ray's iron, seen only in photographs, and what if the rest of the world's been lightening, ever since he made that iron not an iron?


Ben Grad studies literature in Oxford and Atlanta. He enjoys meticulously planned activities, describing trees, and feeling uncomfortable with strangers.

My Secret Garden

by Thomas Healy

The other day I called up this person who let me down and shouted at him until he hung up on me. I was so angry I was incoherent, spewing obscenities instead of sentences. And then I became terribly embarrassed, never having spoken to anyone like that before on the telephone. "There are secret gardens in all of us," Nietzsche observed, which he thought of as volcanoes waiting to "have their hour of eruption." My garden is dormant most of the time, a rough patch concealed deep in a corner of my heart. But every so often it becomes exposed and always I am filled with regret for being such a poor custodian of my emotions.


Thomas Healy was born and raised in the Pacific Northwest. His essays have appeared in such online journals as Cosmoetica, Ducts, and The Umbrella Journal.

I Can

by Delia J. Fry

Can I say it all in six sentences? All the dreams, hopes, deadlines that have been given to me? Absolutely. Nothing can stop my spirit from thriving, surviving and burning brightly from my center. Some have tried and have almost succeeded, and I have suffered for it, but my dauntless spirit, though at times a little worn, has continued to blaze a path for me to follow no matter what. The spirit is formidable and has constantly and sometimes anonymously inspired many to carry on with any challenge that they may face without even knowing what it is that prods them to strive to survive; the individual life experiences that one must go through to get to this knowledge, though hard, are invaluable.


Delia J. Fry lives in O'Fallon, Missouri. She is an artist and poet, and plays the Clarinet and Eb Alto Saxophone with the O'Fallon Community Concert Band and the O'Fallon Jazz Band. Some of her poems have been published in local Missouri newspapers such as The Community News and The Scoop. Her poem "The Master" was a Notable Entry in the Saturday Writer’s One Page Poem Contest.

Innocent Statements

by Quin

Sixteen hours of labor and the baby is in fetal distress. Running doctors push my hospital bed into the white, white room; the baby is dying. Needles in my back, my arm, and the drugs flow while I float as they cut my body to pull out my beautiful, pure child. "A blonde haired boy!" the doctor says. "Blonde hair?" I joke in the haze of exhaustion and drugs. Everyone laughs but his dark-haired dad, who stops smiling and instead stares at me with the dead eyes of a shark.


Quin is the nom de plume of a woman born and raised in New Orleans, who spent time in Colorado and later in Utah (where theater was discovered and taken to heart). Her children are loved forever, a terrier sleeps at her feet, and words ache to escape onto paper. Her version of life in New York is here.

Joy #1

by caccy46

I have learned to pay homage to the tragedies in my life because they have tought me to feel pure, utter joy, when it makes its rare appearance, in a most complete and inexplicable way. It happened last night with a phone call from my daughter, travelling through Israel - her voice was delightful, happy, recounting the moving, funny and sad accounts of her past week. She said, "Mommy, I am having the most amazing time I've ever had in my whole life - I am meeting people who have shared their lives with me and I with them; I have spent time with young soldiers who have dealt with the horrors of war, I am learning so much history; I have cried, danced and sung at the Wailing Wall, I have felt peaceful, joyful and so full of love." All this from the young woman who left me a week ago excited about her trip because she heard the Israeli soldiers are hot and they've got great clubs to go to at night. We ended our call and I sat for an hour, alone, allowing that special feeling to flow through my body, cleanse me. What joy!


caccy46, author of Flowers Define Me, is 60 years old, a mother of two, and has been married for 32 years.

The Somersault of Atoms

by Emma J. Lannie

Chris is full of the right words; he is fireworks and rockets, he is goose-down and caramel. The girl lets the whorls of his fingertips trace, ever so lightly, the path from cheek to clavicle. This electricity is not a new thing: the prickling of static; the somersault of atoms, but it always makes Chris a little scared, though mostly just excited about the possibilities that the night has opened up. He thinks he will push his luck, be bold and brave and exercise his charm muscles as fully as he can: he wants to know he still has the ability to convince a girl out of her underwear, wants to feel he's still worth loving. He kisses her softly, slowly, taking care to trace his fingers through her hair and trail them from the nape of her neck down the knots of her spine; he's read enough of his sister's magazines to know these are the key things a girl desires from a kiss, and he's had enough success with this technique that it's an intrinsic element of his repertoire now. Right on cue he feels her press against him as his tongue licks the place where lips become mouth, and he slips his hand under her t-shirt, lets it rest against the small of her back, kisses her deeper and waits for her next move.


Emma J. Lannie was born in Manchester in 1973, but moved to Derby after University. She has written punk fanzines, worked in bars, played in bands, managed a bookshop, and now divides her time between her Library job, writing and travelling. She wishes there was a bit more of the travelling. She has fiction published in the July '07 issue of Tripod. More of her writing is here.

Carmella vs. Carol

by Chris Killen

I think about Carmella for the first sixteen minutes of my shift. Then I think about Carol for the next five minutes. Then I think about Carmella for the next three minutes. Then I think about fruit and vegetables for a long time. Then I think about Carmella and Carol somehow knowing each other and being friends and both thinking I am an asshole and not talking to me and having lesbian sex together and then that not happening but maybe them just having a drunken kiss once and it being a bit awkward the next time they see each other but essentially not ruining their friendship and then a time where they are both sitting in Carol's room on her bed and looking down at Carol's knee together and Carol's knee feeling happy about being looked at. Then I go on my lunch break.


Chris Killen, author of Email to a Cat, is currently posting one chapter per day of his short novel "untitled 'supermarket nightmare'" on his blog. This piece - Carmella vs. Carol - is Chapter 34.

How to Not Get Killed

by Margery Daw

1) Make yourself useful. Develop skills of value to those who would kill you. 2) Make yourself dangerous. Make them afraid to try to kill you. 3) Be in an environment where people are not thinking about killing you. (Ha.)


Margery Daw, author of :), is a pseudonym and part of a nursery rhyme.

The Entertainer

by Amy Mornington

When I am alone, I sing with the beauty of a lark, yet when Bert lifts the lid of the old piano and stands his beer on top, and the crowd at the bar asks me for a song, I can only grin, politely, and shake my head. But they insist, they insist, and, eventually, softened by drink, I decide this time I will show them. When I hear myself miss the first awkward note, and the next, as if the tune and I are two magnets of the same polarity and the harder I chase it, the faster it runs, I see how they stare, the crowd of men and women with cigarettes or beer glasses half to their lips, and I see their anger at the noise I make, far from the beauty I find when alone. They look at each other, their lips quavering, their eyebrows flickering, and I wait for the embarrassed laughter to start, and when it does I begin to save myself by tapping my leg as though it is a club foot. Now, lifted upon their laughter, I shake my arm and swing myself further from the tune by stretching my mouth to a comedy shape, my lips stretched wide or pushed together, then, as the laughter swells, I cross my eyes and flare my nostrils until I am nothing but grotesque, and I raise my arms and lead the rabble in tuneless song, watching them swaying together, and now cigarette smoke is blown from lips and beer is poured down throats, and arms are round shoulders in the smoky air, and I am their leader, their conductor, and as we finish our song I sag down onto my seat, spent, my head bowed, and they clap and say "bravo" and they tell me how wonderful it must be to bring such laughter to people, and they leave a handful of coins on the table, a drink on the table, and I say thank you, thank you, I say thank you. I have decided I do not like other people very much.


Amy Mornington has decided she doesn't like other people very much.

Simple Enough

by Michael Wright

She'd been on his mind for countless days. What made him crazy was how his brain would toss up an image of her, followed by a label, like some kind of cranial slideshow, without the slightest indication of how it was going to present her on any given toss. Sometimes angel, sometimes harpie demon, sometimes this month's fold-out, sometimes an ancient crone draped in black; the images rattled through him with a relentless clatter, disturbing his sleep, disquieting his days. Of course, it was better in most ways than not thinking of her at all; he'd tried that already, the results of which were an even more constant carousel of her images. After all, it truly mirrored their relationship with its unpredictable yanks and jolts, the feeling of riding on a horrifically wild roller coaster, where even the most placid moments had a kind of static sizzling through them like the aftershocks of an electrical storm; even the afterwards of making love where the question of what was next rode above them like something undefinable on a sustaining breeze. Anyway, it was simple enough: he hated her; he loved her.


Michael Wright is the Director of the Interdisciplinary Program in Creative Writing at the University of Tulsa, with joint appointments in Theatre and Film Studies. He is the founder and moderator of the Fictional Characters writers collective. His books include Playwriting at Work and Play: Developmental Programs and Their Processes, Playwriting Master Class, Playwriting in Process, and the Monologues for Men by Men series, co-edited with Gary Garrison. His plays, poems, fiction, and photography have appeared in The Elvis Monologues, Scenes and Monologues for Mature Actors, Monologues from the Road, Rio Grande Review, Voces Fronterizas and the Moondance Film Festival in 2004 and 2005. His short story "Twig" was published by 5th Story Review in September 2006.

Last Day of 1996

by Carrin Pockrandt

Jack is not a hypochondriac. When he sat in the hospital waiting room on level six, watching a man drool onto his sweater, he forgot where he was and bit his thumbnail. He only bit it once, but it was enough to swallow the bacteria on his skin and under his nail. The next day he woke up with a soar throat. He called in sick to work, just in case. Jack is not a hypochondriac - he’s just spent too much time in hospitals without being sick.


Carrin Pockrandt lives in California and is currently attempting to survive in the real world.

This is How I Start My Day

by Stephanie Bee

"Sir, this is going to sound crazy but I left my wallet at my office last night and the MetroCard I found at home is expired. I was wondering if you could please loan me $2 for the subway ride so I could get to work this morning." The suit studied me for a minute. "Sir, I swear. I'm not homeless, just forgetful." He gave me the $2.


Stephanie Bee, author of Reveal, was trained as an investigative reporter, and has lived all over the world, including London and Australia. She currently resides in New York City with two fabulous roommates who politely deal with her assortment of male suitors. You can read more about the sagas of Stephanie's love life (and other adventures) at Spread Eagle in NYC.

It Started with a Scab

by Heather Leet

She picked at the scab on her knee. It felt good and when the scab slowly peeled away leaving a shiny bloody spot it felt even better. That was how it started, the cutting. As a remembrance of that day she first picked at a scab as a small girl. Now she cut all the time and each time she did, it felt better then it had the last time. She hid the cuts behind long sleeves and no one had guessed yet and that also made her feel good, knowing that it was her secret.


Heather Leet, author of The Porthole, is a modern day Robin Hood, but instead of stealing from the rich she cajoles them into giving her money to help fund programs that will hopefully one day make the world a better place. She spends not enough time writing on her blog, and hopes to one day publish her collection of Love Poems to Dictators.


by Jason Jackson

I meet this girl at Dan’s party and we start doing that thing where you pretend to be interested in what the other person is telling you while frantically trying to think what the hell to say, you know? So she says, "Do you like Caravaggio?" and I tell her no, that I don’t really like any classical music, and she laughs a little, as if maybe she likes me, and I start riffing on all the great bands I like - Devo, Wire, you know, obscure but not fucking bizarre, in case she thinks I’m, like, a geek or something - and anyway, things go from there, I walk her home, get her number, blah blah blah. It gets to six weeks later, we’re still together - I’m totally into her at this point - and we’re at another party, when some idiot friend of Jake’s says to her, "So what made you want to go out with a jerk like this?" and she tells him about Caravaggio, about this little joke of mine, about how it was funny, and cute, and clever, and how I’d cut right through all her pretentious bullshit about art and stuff. And this jerk friend of Jake’s, he says that he’s surprised I even know who Carravaggio is, and she laughs, and he laughs, and I laugh too. The next day I spend hours on the internet looking at all these beautiful paintings, and I’m crying my fucking guts up, but then, later, she phones me, we arrange to meet at The Ivy at seven-thirty, and as I put on my jacket I’m thinking, ah fuck it, you know? It’s not like she’ll ever find out.


Jason Jackson has been writing for four years. You can read his stuff at laurahird.com, pulp.net, and in Pen Pusher Magazine, among other places.

Springtime Blues

by Janet Thorning

Late spring, mom’s allergies were in full swing. She was sneezing and coughing. It was a dry cough, a familiar cough, so none of us thought anything of it. It wasn’t until she started coughing up marble sized chunks of blood that we knew something was terribly wrong. Dad took her to the doctor; three weeks later she was diagnosed with lung cancer. Three months after the diagnosis, we buried her.


Janet Thorning lives in Toronto, Ontario, with her husband and three children. Janet is currently working on her first poetry chapbook and her first novel, and she has recently published in The Rambler, Arabesques Review, and 971 Menu.

Six Stages of the Rose/Woman

by Madam Z

The small, tight bud is the infant girl, full of promise. The bud starts to open; the rosy-cheeked girl-child is in Kindergarten. It swells more, becomes fragrant, and she is pubescent. The most perfect stage is when the petals are flared all the way around, but a few are still folded into the center, where the color is deep and rich; the young woman is 19, at her physical peak. It’s all downhill from there, of course. I’m now at the point where there’s only a ragged tuft in the center, with maybe two or three tattered petals hanging on, bleakly.


Madam Z is the author of Headroom. Sometimes her glass is half-full of thorns.

Another Nightmare

by Angharad Honeybill

When the news broke Margaret put down her yellow duster and sat down on the leather sofa to watch the drama unfolding on TV. The pain had not gone away, just been papered over with lots of layers until it hardly ever showed. They hadn't offered a million pound reward for the safe return of her Natalie had they? The police did their best but there wasn't CCTV, not like when that boy went missing in Liverpool. Her other children were grown up now and in any case they didn't really remember Natalie, just the way her absence reverberated through their childhoods. Margaret couldn't ring them as she recognised they had already suffered enough.


Angharad Honeybill is a Welsh poet living in exile in England.

Making a Point

by Rod Drake

Kurt had not seen his ex-girlfriend, Lucy, since she’d left Satan’s Cell Phone, the rock band they had formed together, he writing the music and playing lead guitar, she writing the lyrics and singing, over a year ago. After their third album, Selling My Soul for Pocket Change, peaked at number five on the charts, the band, the tour and Kurt and Lucy fell apart; Lucy felt Kurt was getting too much of the credit for the band’s music, and she let him know it in a screaming, ugly onstage breakup. Lucy nodded at him across the crowded album launch party, thrown for her solo effort, One Size Fits All Is Not True!, which was becoming a huge hit; Kurt smiled shyly in response. She was on her way up, while Kurt’s career was at best, uneven, and he was currently without a band, record contract or even interested music industry executives; obviously, Lucy had been right about who was the real talent in Satan’s Cell Phone. The party eventually thinned out, and Lucy noticed that Kurt was finally walking over to her, having stood alone, looking lost for most of the night, hopefully coming to congratulate her; maybe they could now both leave the past behind them and be at least civil to one another again. As she leaned forward to give him a quick conciliatory hug, Kurt pulled a knife out of his suit jacket and jammed it into her throat, so hard that it pointed out the back of her neck.


Rod Drake, author of Turnabout, believes that the best thing in life is, well, you know. Check out Rod's longer stories in Flashes of Speculation, Fictional Musings, Flash Flooding, Flash Forward and MicroHorror.

More Childhood Memories

by Simon Stratton

I gouged a hole in the top corner of the book and shinned up the tree to show Jack where it would be secured. Now the plan must start - we would hide in the topmost part of the barn to see what happened after the sticks arrived tomorrow. I would tell my sister that we were going fishing. "We're fishing for sticks," I told her. I shinned happily up to the tree house. She would believe anything, the whore.


Simon Stratton, author of Childhood Memories, lost his MA in Creative Writing in a curry fight.

I Sleep Alone

by Dirty Blonde

A one night stand was inconceivable to me when I was a virgin. Because it was seemingly devoid of emotion and purpose; it was dirty; it was a waste of my time, of my sex and a blow to my self-respect. But then once I started to have it, as I saw it for what it really was and as more opportunities were made available to me, sex became solely a visceral experience and the one night stand happened very easily. Having another was even easier. And then, one day, it just became ideal. Now, the life that was once beyond my comprehension leaves everyone who once knew the old me appalled and envious of my emotionless, dirty, anonymous and perfect sex.


Dirty Blonde, author of Soul Mate Lost, doesn't need you to know her true identity, but swears that she's a real writer and a real blonde.

To All Strangers

by Alex Green

I feel most me when I am asleep. Synapses recapture those dreams I traded in for greener pastures. The road I am on puts food in mouth, but no sunshine in soul. So as the sun rises another day, I am sad to awake. Not of anger for growing old. But towards the stranger who quieted my soul.


Alex Green, author of Good Morning, is a liberal, a conservative, a realist, and a dream-deferring, self-described-in-a-box-aholic, who loves apathy, sensationalism and marginalization. (Or, he may just be a dreamer who is hoping this world changes...)


by Stephanie Bee

Laid in bed tonight thinking about all the accidental discoveries, things I still can't talk about. Pink, blushing, growing. He made me feel like he'd discovered a beautiful secret of life. When he went down on me he'd whisper upwards what he saw. I remember closing my eyes, parting my lips, letting those words float down onto the tip of my tongue. I came so hard he was crawling across the bed to keep me in his mouth.


Stephanie Bee, author of The Dawn of Confidence, was trained as an investigative reporter, and has lived all over the world, including London and Australia. She currently resides in New York City with two fabulous roommates who politely deal with her assortment of male suitors. You can read more about the sagas of Stephanie's love life (and other adventures) at Spread Eagle in NYC.

People Potpourri

by hippieange83

Professor Scott prided himself on being the McCarthy of his literature classroom. If there was ignorance anywhere within his jurisdiction, he would call it out and make it known. In the absence of raised hands, he would call on unsuspecting students that he was sure would give inadequate answers to his unanswerable questions. His students would never know that his behavior was the direct result of Scott Sr, who was the Mussolini of his three bedroom brick ranch. Upon grading replies to his impassable final exam, one blank bluebook, belonging to S. Scottsdale, resonated with him. With a flourish, he scrawled a deliberate A+ on the inside cover, because Professor Scott recognized a Thoreau when he met one.


hippieange83, author of Connected?, isn't really a hippie, she just likes huge jeans and wants everyone to recycle. She loves English and spends way too much time online. She blogs here.

Going Back to College

by Teresa Tumminello Brader

I backed into the only spot in front of the airline’s drop-off site and turned the key. “Mom, you don’t need to park, or get out.” I walked behind the car to the curb, as my son shrugged his backpack onto his shoulders and took a suitcase handle in each hand. Before we left for the airport, I had toasted and buttered two slices of bread and poured a bowl of Corn Pops for him. “You know I’ll be back in the summer.” Scruffiness covered his cheeks, but my kiss disclosed baby-soft skin.


Teresa Tumminello Brader was born in New Orleans and lives in the area still. Her short fiction can be found at Rumble and The Flask Review.

The Tree Hugger

by T.J. McIntyre

He walked through the woods, his new boots already scuffed and battered by the sheer, unrelenting length of his weekend hike. After suffering a week in the fluorescence of the office, he inevitably made this seven mile trek to break away from the mundane, to gather the sun's rays and soak in their warmth, to dive into the earth and taste the dirt. This was not the first time; he hoped it would not be the last. He felt himself slip out of his skin and clothing, to become ether, and leave the weakness of his flesh through the strength of his spirit. Falling into the great oak, he erupted through the bark and stretched his limbs, shaking acorns free, spreading his unique gospel. Having completed his mission, he felt heavy returning to his flesh, knowing that tomorrow he would have to return to the office where his chlorophyll soul thirsted for the natural in the unnatural world.


T.J. McIntyre is an author of speculative and literary fiction from Alabaster, Alabama. An insurance agent by day, he spends his free time trying to capture imaginary worlds and daydreams in nets of words. His work has appeared recently or is forthcoming in such publications as The Swallow's Tail, 55 Words, and Escape Velocity. In addition to being a being a published author, Mr. McIntyre is currently collecting stories and editing the upcoming title, Southern Fried Weirdness 2007: An Annual Anthology of Southern Speculative Fiction. More information about him, his writings, and the anthology can be found at Southern Fried Weirdness.

3 Simple Steps to Becoming an Idiot

by Azama

Step 1: TURN OFF YOUR BRAIN. The cognitive powers of rationality and deep thought are incapable of coexisting with those of blind faith and sheep-like existence. Step 2: TURN UP YOUR VOLUME. Because we all know that he who yells loudest, wins any argument. Step 3: BECOME A ROBOT. Never forget to repeat every little "fact" you once heard on Fox News, or "think you read somewhere," and if you don't quite remember it, don't be afraid to horribly mangle it to your purposes.


Azama, author of Love, Sorta... Kinda... Not Really, is by day a mild-mannered 20-something (with glasses!), who transforms at night to become... THE AVENGER! Protecting the rights of free-thinking individuals everywhere!

Good Morning

by Alex Green

Lashes flap together in joyous panic like a bird just realizing she has wings. As they kiss kiss each other goodbye for the last time, my eyes open. Pupils try to focus, to the right they see lamp, armoire, pictures of woman and I. To the left they see window stretched across wall like possibility and beyond them lies sun and street, my very reason for awakening. I lift up, neck circles counter and then clockwise, at each groove, snap, snap, snap. Finally, eyes look up and see ceiling but beyond the pupils the students of my iris see through the ceiling, see my only limits - the sky.


Alex Green is a liberal, a conservative, a realist, and a dream-deferring, self-described-in-a-box-aholic, who loves apathy, sensationalism and marginalization. (Or, he may just be a dreamer who is hoping this world changes...)


by MK Laughlin

I took a drive through lower Manhattan and found myself picking out places to hole up in case of a sudden zombie apocalypse. Battery Park seemed like a good choice: trees to impede the shamble, jagged war memorials to forge into lobotomizers, a fleet at South Ferry all set to pull away from infested docks. The Holland Tunnel also looked workable, provided that a) the taxi drivers remained levelheaded enough to barricade the Manhattan entrance with their cabs, and b) the Jersey zombies all swarmed down the shore, leaving the turnpike clear for the tunnel refugees. I also considered the cranes hovering over the pit at Ground Zero, although chances are I’d starve to death as zombies feasted below me, and future survivors would find my moldy skeleton clinging to the top and think, what a fucking coward, dying up there without a fight. So I drove down 6th Avenue thinking up more options and suddenly a bike messenger sailed through the intersection ahead, cutting me off, nearly clipping the fender of my car. With his speed and gutsy traffic skills he’d probably maneuver through the apocalypse just fine, but as he flipped me the bird in response to my blaring horn I couldn’t help but think, man, I hope he’s the first to get bit.


MK Laughlin teaches English at Western New England College. She is not afraid of zombies.


by Anthony Teth

The night sky was a nebulously deep blue, and the yellowish half moon hovered just a few feet above the barn to my right - or at least it seemed that way. Apart from the occasional lazy peep or chirp coming from a random swamp frog, the only sound to be heard was the trickling of water; a small stream or rivulet snaking its way between roots and branches to eventually cease its travels in some cozy, stagnant pool. I stood at the entrance to the wooded path, still on the road, as the streetlamp to my left flickered a bit. The branches of the trees that flanked the dirt passage intertwined themselves above it, transforming what would be a quaint little walkway in the daytime into a sinister, black, gaping maw at night, waiting patiently to swallow its next victim. It was disconcerting, at best, to know that any and all light would cease as soon as I took three steps forward into this arboreal gateway. I took a few deep breaths, filling my lungs with humid night air, and walked directly into its gullet.


Anthony Teth, when not studying mystical and esoteric literature, works as a hired thug at multiple night clubs in Providence, RI.

The Dawn of Confidence

by Stephanie Bee

"You're going to fall in love with me," I told him that morning. "Yeah?" he asked absentmindedly, running a finger along the edge of my hip. "How are you going to make me do that?" I used one finger to hold his chin so his eyes were level with mine. "I'm not going to make you," I said softly. "I'm just going to allow it to happen."


Stephanie Bee, author of Bachelor #2, was trained as an investigative reporter, and has lived all over the world, including London and Australia. She currently resides in New York City with two fabulous roommates who politely deal with her assortment of male suitors. You can read more about the sagas of Stephanie's love life (and other adventures) at Spread Eagle in NYC.


by J. Espíno R.

When I left, I cried in the airplane seated in between an older woman with white hair and a younger woman with blonde hair. Departure music played from my earphones - Leaving on a Jet Plane. You told me you were not going to drop me off at the airport when we disagreed about me moving to San Diego. At the check-in gate our eyes fidgeted at each other from anxiety (you came through). Walking towards security alone I inhaled the remnants of your breath that lingered on my lips to preserve a part of you in me. Although we've had our disappointments and sadness before, in that moment seated in the middle aisle, I grieved; there was no hope for our future.


J. Espíno R. was not accepted into an MFA Creative Writing program. She still feels it was unfair.

R.L. Leonard, Deceased

by Leon Jackson Davenport

Waking up on the floor, in my not too limited experience, is a sure sign that this is the bad morning after a good night. I normally spend my nights with friends and enemies; lovers and haters; royalty and criminals - whoever will have my company and pay for my drinks. A pool of blood surrounds my body, mixing with the chalk outline drawn by the unsteady hand of my overworked criminalist. Not a good sign, people talking about you as if you weren't there, when clearly you are there, right in front of them, on the floor, not doing anything, except being dead and almost gone. I whisper, "...find the little man in the light green suit," in the ear of the detective, who shudders and glances in my direction toward the empty bed. It'll be a long night for all of us.


Leon Jackson Davenport, an occasional short story writer, lives in New Jersey but enjoys thinking about being somewhere else.

Childhood Memories

by Simon Stratton

My birthday meal was good but I wasn't allowed to have Seamus there, as he came from the other side of the wall. The staff would be off to market and I could cook the onions from the garden to make a soup for my friends from the cottages; I knew my sister wouldn't mind. "I'll turn my blindest, blindest eyes," she said, covering both eyes with her hands, "I won't be here anyway," she said, "invite who you want - will Jack Be Nimble be here?" "Yes." She had a soft spot for Jack Be Nimble (Seamus). "You're a whore," I said and smiled when she cried.


Simon Stratton, author of Hello You, lost his MA in Creative Writing in a curry fight.

A Night at the Opera

by Louise Yeiser

Last month, I saw the Pittsburgh Opera’s performance of Billy Budd. You would think that after having seen such a hauntingly beautiful opera, which tells such a profound and poignant sad-story, I would have something more relevant to write about other than the fact that I could sneak a whole jumbo-sized package of peanut M&M’s into the theater in my purse, and eat them, one by one, without crinkling the plastic wrapper, without rustling my purse, without squeaking my seat, without scrunching my body sideways, without chomping, and without lip-smacking, unlike my neighbor across the aisle who crinkled, rustled, squeaked, scrunched, chomped, and lip-smacked during the last half of the first act, and the entire second, turning heads and inspiring quiet tsk’s. My mother would have been proud, once she scraped herself off the ceiling at the thought of one of her daughters actually eating a snack in the theater during a real, live performance. “It simply isn’t done,” I can hear her say in my ear, her voice dripping with benevolent disapproval. Oh, well. Life is full of little trade-offs.


Louise Yeiser, author of Sparkles, is a published writer and student of creative nonfiction who likes to sing passionate arias to her Mastiffs (who pay no attention whatsoever).


by Prissana Chantrarom

Why American who jump into their P.J. right away after they are back from work think that they are cleaner? To avoid the baby to get pimple on her cheek, I'm not allowed to kiss her but her mom uses saliva to rub on her face to remove her dry boogy on her cheeks. Sam, my American boyfriend, doesn't want me to cook telling me that I make the kitchen dirty and stinky, but he saves the rest that he couldn't finish into the soup pot that I just make. If you want to be healty, just eat less junk food and eat more veggy instead of paying attention to the words "sugar free" or "low fat" on the label. Sam gets upset when I don't know the famous American singers in the 70s he talks about, even if I wasn't born yet. Please don't expect me to know everything about your country and don't act like you are so civilized than others just only because your country is so powerful.


Prissana Chantrarom, a nanny, came to America from halfway around the world to learn what isn't taught in the classroom.

The Picture

by Kimi Goodrich

She lies naked on the bed face down first, it somehow suits her better than any dress. She beckons her lover, inviting him to look closer without a formal invitation. She tantalizes and she knows it, so she spreads her legs ever so slightly, leaving the promise of suggestion. Carelessly, she tosses a glance from over her delicate shoulder and winks at the camera her lover points, for she knows that her temptation can burn in images deeper than the flesh one can't hold. Ever so slowly she rolls over, her arms above her head, her treasures triumphantly displayed. The image is taken, the memory solidified before the camera drops to the floor.


Kimi Goodrich, author of The Celebrity Series: Paris, has a confession to make. She is addicted to the website Penance 7 and is actively sinning in order to anonymously confess.

Jasper Johns Swiped My Calzone

by Robert McEvily

Me? I’ll be honest. At 39, with 40 looming, I still cling to the hope of writing something great one day; in the meantime I write for the fun of it; the fun of watching that blinking cursor on my screen run ahead of thoughts I didn’t realize were there (until I started typing). For motivation, for practice, I keep a lengthy “title list:” story-less titles which fill an entire section of an old 5-subject notebook. Intriguing titles like “Mullen’s Secret Room” and “Professional Hostages;” catchy titles like “Flim-Flam” and “Naguchi;” and goofy titles – my favorites – like “Sheila’s Mother vs. Muhammad Ali” and “The Day Nebraska Farted in Unison.” The resulting stories occasionally make sense, but mostly don’t, and I don’t mind at all, because I’ve come to the conclusion that few things in life are truer than nonsense, and in a world of unknowns, “write what you know” is useless advice.


Robert McEvily, author of Ouija Boy, is the creator and editor of Six Sentences.

Our First Contest!

An Exciting Announcement from Six Sentences

In recognition of this sixth day of the sixth month of the year, Six Sentences is pleased to announce its very first writing contest. The same writer’s guidelines and formatting rules apply, and as always, feel free to say anything you like. Send your entry (including its title), along with your name (or pseudonym), your mailing address, your bio and any links you’d like to include to sixsentences@yahoo.com (and please title your email “Contest Entry”). One entry per writer; all entries must be received on or before midnight (EST) on Wednesday, June 27th; every single entry will be published on an affiliate site; every single entrant will receive a free gift. The Third Runner-Up, whose piece will be published on July 1st, will receive $10.00; the Second Runner-Up, whose piece will be published on July 2nd, will receive $15.00; the First Runner-Up, whose piece will be published on July 3rd, will receive $25.00; and the Grand Prize Winner, whose piece will be published on July 4th (along with every entry), will receive $50.00. Think about it, take your time, do your thing, have fun and good luck!


Six Sentences would like to remind you that art is free speech.

Cobb's Kicks

by Norman Vincent Peale

When Ty Cobb got on first base he had an apparently nervous habit of kicking the bag. It wasn’t until he retired from the game that the secret came out. By kicking the bag hard enough Cobb could move it a full two inches closer to second base. He figured that this improved his chances for a steal or for reaching second base safely on a hit. Compete, compete, compete! This is the keep-it-going spirit by which the person who tries will ultimately make records.


Norman Vincent Peale is most famous for authoring The Power of Positive Thinking. His six sentences are taken from the “Competition” section of William Safire & Leonard Safir’s 1993 book Good Advice.

Illusions of Victory

by Chris Tripoulas

The head of the Joint Chiefs of Staff is a Marine. This is the first time this has ever happened in the history of the U.S. The Marines are part of and answer to the Navy. Now they are telling the Navy, Army and Air Force what to do. The last time this happened in recent memory was in Nazi Germany when the S. S., Hitler's body guards, were given preference over the military (the U.S. Marines call themselves "The President's Own") and we know what happened to Nazi Germany. When a leader trusts his body guards more than his commanders during a time of war, it means that he is not interested in what the professionals have to say, but will only adhere to his own vision, which may not be grounded in reality, as his commanders - who are doing their duty - will most likely point out.


Chris Tripoulas received an MFA from Columbia University in Film and has written several spec screenplays as well as directed documentaries, training films and public service announcements.


by Margery Daw

Lisa wanted to lose weight, so she went on a diet and eventually lost twenty pounds. Then she got pregnant. After she had the baby, she went on the diet again and again lost the twenty pounds. Then she got pregnant a second time. After this baby, again she went back on the diet and again lost the twenty pounds. Good for you, Lisa!


Margery Daw, author of Trampoline, is a pseudonym and part of a nursery rhyme.

The Celebrity Series: Paris

by Kimi Goodrich

Are you there God, it’s me Paris. God, you have to help me please, I promise this is my last favor, and I want you to know, I like, really appreciate the fact that you found Tinkerbell and brought her back safely, and Lindsay Lohan got caught doing coke like I prayed would happen, and that cop who pulled me over for the 20th time while I was drunk didn’t end up reporting me, thank you for all of that, but I have one last favor please. Wait, did you like, see that I went to church for you a little while ago, and I like, seriously prayed and talked to you, and I said you were hot, and I really like, no seriously, I like, totally believe it, and God, didn’t you like my white dress that totally, like, went 2 inches way below my knees, and I was like, completely wearing underwear, not only that, but they weren’t thongs, or even string bikinis, they were the real deal granny panties that said "God is Hot" on them that I totally made just for you. So God, since I totally have your back, and gave all of my friends “Jesus is my Homeboy” hats, can I ask one favor? I have to go to jail God, and I am totally devastated about it, I totally, like, can’t stop crying about it, and my mom says something about taxing the money is being wasted, and my dad, well my dad hasn’t said anything except how proud of me he is, and Nicky is just like, the best sister ever, she is so supportive, she totally made a black and white striped purse in my honor, and even though Candy Spelling was really mean to me I forgive her, because her daughter is like, totally not hot and a homewrecker, which is way worse than driving drunk a couple of times, and I am lucky that I will be in the special unit jail because I am special and everyone loves me. So, I have to go to jail, and I don’t want to and my one favor is could you please make my jumpsuit the blue one and not orange?


Kimi Goodrich, author of The Celebrity Series: Lindsay, has a confession to make. She is addicted to the website Penance 7 and is actively sinning in order to anonymously confess.

9-1-1 , What Is Your Emergency?

by Diane Sparks

Ruth and I exchanged looks at the fifteen minute mark. Fifteen minutes was not so strange, but perhaps we both sensed something was different that night. At the thirty minute mark we both chuckled nervously. Ruth was the first to break the silence (forty-five minutes into our shift) and remarked that it sure seemed unusual. She’s only been here a year; she wanted to know if this had happened to me before. In five years I haven’t gone five minutes without an emergency call, and I found the peace unsettling.


Diane Sparks, author of Time to Celebrate?, is a born-again writer living in Chicago, with an M.A. in English and a day job in HR.


by Jeff S. Jones

It was my first year living in Japan, so I took many photographs for my scrapbook. One day, at a beautiful temple in Kyoto, I stopped a man to ask if he would take a picture of me. As I stood smiling, I noticed that the man was holding my camera with one of his fingers completely covering the lens. I didn't want to be rude and I figured he'd soon catch his mistake, so I didn't say anything about it. He proceeded to take the picture without moving his finger. I forgot about the incident until I got my pictures developed, and found, among all the other shots, a perfect photograph of nothing but the man's index finger.


Jeff S. Jones is an American writer who lives in Tokyo.

The Drifter

Part 6 of 6 by Joseph Ridgwell

Finally, and quite emphatically, I tore the letter into many pieces and cast them to the wind, watching grimly as they fluttered away and out of my life forever. Then I started walking eastwards on a beach that seemed to go on forever, miles and miles of white sand, sands of time, grains of sand, and for every grain of sand there is a star in the universe and for every star in the universe there is a dead angel baby. I walked and walked until suddenly I realised I could walk for eternity, eternally going nowhere, for the beach and the universe went on forever like a never ending dream, a dream in which a person might never awaken from. Demoralised and exhausted I turned around and retraced my steps, determined to abort the stupid trip and go home. By the time I reached the car the sky had darkened and clusters of wealthy looking stars had begun to appear. On the horizon flashes of white lightening accompanied by the sound of rolling thunder filled the southern sky, it was an ominous sound, the sound of death.


Joseph Ridgwell, author of The Drifter, Part 5, lives and writes in London.


by Rod Drake

Hard times had fallen on the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, but then no one stays on top forever and in today’s world, you’re old news before the headlines are running on the crawler of CNN. So they tried to adapt as best they could, given their abilities, limitations and lack of familiarity with the 21st Century. Pestilence decided he could be useful at the Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta and happily worked in a lab coat to find a cure essentially for himself. War, well, he could always find himself a battle to join, but the automated, distance technology of modern warfare pretty much took the fun, the visceral aspect, out of it for him, so he chose to be a field surgeon and confront the gore directly like in the good old days. Famine was confused; the women most admired by society looked as though he had already starved them, and others either praised his name in one failed diet attempt after another or were so obese he was completely unknown to them; thus he started a California health club chain, enjoying great success as tv spokesman “Mr. Slim.” Death, naturally, was so shocked at his casual worship by angry heavy metal bands, black-eyed goth teenagers, climbing suicide rates and overdose deaths that he got out of the death game altogether, creating a 24-hour suicide hotline and spending his free time auditioning “sunshine and smiles” pop groups, hoping to turn the tide, since that was what the Four Horsemen were created to do, even if they now had to turn it in the opposite direction.


Rod Drake, author of Hocus Pocus, writes to live, lives to write, so the relationship works out well. Check out Rod's longer stories in Flashes of Speculation, Fictional Musings, Flash Flooding, Flash Forward and MicroHorror.

An Interrupted Meeting

by Dawn Corrigan

The songs the current Capuanos and Hogans set their lives to were not taken from the opera or the tradition of Irish balladry, except in the case of Tommy Hogan. In his twenties Tommy developed a rabid interest in his Irish heritage and in the Irish nationalist struggle, even going so far, just as the most recent bout of Troubles was beginning, to attend a few IRA meetings. At one of these he put himself forward as a candidate when that group was looking for a volunteer to handcuff himself to a British Air jet to protest the latest indignity directed at Ireland, though nobody remembers anymore, in these days of short memory, what that indignity might have been. However, the handcuffing plan was put to a stop by Shelly Hogan, Tommy’s wife, who had lived with Capuanos before she married Tommy and who exemplified that family’s trait of holding passionate political beliefs but of stopping short of any action on those beliefs that might interrupt the current of her family life. Shelly, a star in the family for her people-pleasing manners, creative dressing, and pretty face, was usually too concerned with maintaining harmony, in those days at least, to be very outspoken, but in the handcuffing case she felt provoked enough to actually show up at the IRA meeting, after first dropping off her two babies with her mother-in-law. Her intention had been to quietly ask Tommy to excuse himself from the meeting so she could speak with him outside, but instead once she arrived she immediately exclaimed, “Tommy, you will not chain yourself to that plane!”


Dawn Corrigan's fiction has appeared recently or is forthcoming at VerbSap, Pindeldyboz, Monkeybicycle, The Dream People, Rumble, 55 Words, Defenestration, and 3711 Atlantic. Her nonfiction appears regularly at The Nervous Breakdown. For more on the Capuanos and Hogans, check out Dawn's previous six: On Singing.

The Celebrity Series: Lindsay

by Kimi Goodrich

Fuck, I think, I’ve only got an hour before I need to get the hell out of here and expose myself, gotta keep my face in the game, my name in the papers, who the fuck cares if people only think I like to party, I am Lindsay fucking Lohan, I am a terrific actress, I am friends with Al fucking Gore, I am untouchable, I can do whatever want. What I want to do is another line, so I grab it from the table I am sitting on in my thong, because my ass is so great, every fucking freckle on it is great, shit my tits are great too, in their freckled glory and perfectly pink nipples, maybe I will 'forget' to wear my bra tonight and give those annoying paps what they want, fucking perverts! Where the hell is my blackberry, ah here it is, I’ve gotta call my mom and tell her what club we are going to, wait, my mom can wait, I should do another line, and I should take a shot, from my water bottle, heh, they all really think it is water, fucking idiots, I have them fooled! Look at me, I am so pretty and smart, I am smart to snort the coke off of a mirror so that I can see how fucking hot I am naked, and look at my freckles, they are so fucking unique, those other bitches don’t have freckles all over, where the fuck is my blackberry, oh here it is in my hand, heh, right next to my coke, right, doing a line, and back to my red hair, Brandon Davis doesn’t even realize I am PROUD to be a firecrotch, that fat fuck thought he was dissing me, but come on, how many girls do you know whose curtains match the carpet? Ahh, the red carpet, I fucking love the red carpet, and the red carpet loves me, I am on every best dressed list, the designers die if I wear their clothes, they give me all the free coke I want, I haven’t had to pay for it in years, and I don’t really give a shit if everyone knows, I am untouchable, I am still a fucking great actress, and the coke merely helps me to stay awake after a night of partying, I don’t even remember what it is like to do a scene sober, fuck being sober, shit my mom, I really need to call her after this line, and one more shot, well three more shots and three more lines. Mom, hi, we’re going to Hyde tonight, but you know the drill, make sure you look hot but not hotter than me, go in the back door, stay the fuck away from my VIP booth, don’t let anybody see you doing things crazier than I will be doing, deflect anything that people might ask by telling them the usual bullshit like I just want to act, I am young and have no privacy, it’s a tragedy about the paparazzi, blah, blah and meet me in the bathroom every thirty minutes if you want a line, I will be in the usual stall with 3 of my friends.


Kimi Goodrich, author of Clockwatchers, has a confession to make. She is addicted to the website Penance 7 and is actively sinning in order to anonymously confess.

God is Dead

by Nathan Tyree

God is dead. I don't mean that in any ironic, postmodern sort of way. I just mean that your god: Jehovah - or Yahweh, depending on your taste in vowels - is mort. He died in a car crash out on Highway 1 last Tuesday. After the ambulances left I skinned the corpse. Then I ate him.


Nathan Tyree's work has appeared (or is forthcoming) in Flesh and Blood, Doorknobs and Body Paint, The Flash, Bare Bone, Dogmatika, Wretched and Violent, and The Empty Page: Stories Inspired by the Songs of Sonic Youth. He's also the author of At Night, and helps edit Magazine of the Dead.