Extremely Lame Business Hours

by Peter Farmer

Monday: 11:30am – 12noon. Tuesday: 11:30am – 11:59am. Wednesday: 3pm – 3:15pm. Thursday: 1:56am – 1:59am. Friday: Midnight – Three Seconds Past Midnight. Saturday & Sunday: CLOSED.


Peter Farmer taught us The Makeeto Lesson.


Four Walls

by Fiona Campbell

I climb them every second of every hour. The chipped green paint beneath my dirty bare feet. They don't understand, in here, that every second drips Chinese torture water on my crazy brain. Three years and counting, drip by torturous drip. I run across the ceiling, hide in corners, play the game. They see what they want to see in here, to them I am just a mad old woman - they don't see my bare feet race around these walls when their backs are turned.


Fiona Campbell writes in spite of herself.


My Side of the Bed

by Bob Jacobs

Come to think of it, I don't think I'd ever seen a ginger hair close up before. This one was on the pillow on my side of the bed when I got back from a business trip. The hair screamed at me and made me jump. I can't ask her yet. I lie awake at night worrying, and in the silence and the darkness the memory of the hair is like a monster that hides under the bed. When I fall asleep I dream that I'm outside in the rain, looking in through the window, and she's squealing with delight beneath a giant orangutan that's wearing my socks.


Bob Jacobs, author of C*** and C*****, lives in the south-east of England with his wife and kids and Sony Vaio. In his spare time he likes to lie motionless on his back, whistling and staring at clouds.


Gymnastics After School

by Leigh Robshaw

I'm wearing my tight royal blue sports pants and a tiny pink singlet. My breasts have only just begun to develop and I don't have any hair down there yet. When I asked for an ice cream he made me bend over so he could playfully spank me first – I let him 'cause I really wanted that ice cream. Now he's making me practice handstands with my hands on his shoulders while he's lying on his back on the gym mat (to help with my balance) and I keep falling on top of him and onto that warm hard bulge. He says I need extra help with my gymnastics routine so I'm ready to perform it at the school fete. A priest should know better.


Leigh Robshaw is an Australian writer who hallucinates regularly. She imagines she has hair down to her bum and is a highly acclaimed author. She is not on drugs.


How I'll Meet My Wife

by Kea Wilson

I don't think a roofie will quite do it. I need to slip you one of those Alice in Wonderland pills, cage you against the bar in my closed fist. I'll whisper to you on the taxi ride home, carry you across the threshold like it's our goddamned wedding night, slipped into my shirt pocket like a love letter. In the morning, you won't be ashamed or call the cops. You'll remember your body in the throat of a linen flower, my heartbeat like the inside of a sonic boom. You couldn't help but love me then.


Kea Wilson is a kinda-writer who keeps a blog of tiny fictions here (and she'd adore you forever for checking it out). She is from Cleveland, OH (and also Interlochen, MI, but Annapolis, MD right now and Santa Fe and Barcelona before).



by Paul McIntyre

Bits of that night keep coming back to me. It was the usual pattern: beer, beer, shot; beer, beer, shot. After that it gets hazy. We staggered home through the field - the one with the grey horse in it. I don’t remember: was it your idea or mine to lead it across the motorway? The newspapers wanted answers too.


Paul McIntyre lives in Manchester, and blogs about scriptwriting here. (He's 28, but not yet worried about 30.)



by Ivy Dale 

Sometimes when someone’s talking to me (especially if what they’re saying isn’t particularly interesting), and there’s a mirror behind them, and the lighting’s flattering, I find myself fighting the urge to look at myself. I think, I look sultry when I listen. Sometimes I enjoy licking a Q-Tip, inserting it into my ear canal to the point where it brushes my ear drum, and spinning it rapidly. Sometimes I don't do a thing at work. I pretend to be busy all day, but I don't actually accomplish anything. Sometimes.


Ivy Dale sometimes writes fiction, sometimes nonfiction.



by R.J. Lassiter 

The biggest fools in the world got together to make a plan. Their goal? To make the Stupidest Plan Ever. So they worked on it for days and days until - in their estimation - it was perfectly stupid. And it certainly was - in their estimation - perfectly stupid. But the plan was ingenious, because it was the Stupidest Plan Ever in the opinions of the biggest fools in the world.


R.J. Lassiter wishes you a Happy April Fools Day.