The newly arrived Cupid was excited to shoot his arrow on Earth. He’d just received his bow and arrow.
One of the cupids gave him his arrow. “This is the best arrow,” he said. The new cupid accepted it. Then he departed.
On Earth he looked around. Under the maple tree he saw two lovers. He aimed. The girl had brunette hair. “Will you love me till I die?”
“Yes,” answered the boy.
The Cupid shot his arrow. It was a good shot. It flew into the girl’s heart. Shocked was the boy: The girl’s chest was drenched in blood.
By Cynthia Khoury
Fuck yeah, I did it!
Years, I have been planning, conspiring and thinking about it. Nothing could have stopped me from doing something about it. What’s done can’t be undone. There is nothing you can do about it.
Fuck yeah, I did it … So I could be free.
By Bob Mcneil
Internet spam is what soda is to teeth.
(This is not a scam.)
What junk food is to health.
(We will transfer funds to you.)
What moonshine is to ulcers.
(We will ship products to you.)
What warts are to orifices.
(Go to our website for more information.)
What javelins are to anuses.
(This offer is perfect for you.)
What protestation is to time.
By Sheila Morris
The day was as perfect as only autumn days can be when she drove out of her driveway to the grocery store. Sunday had to be her day to buy groceries since she worked as a paralegal five days a week and visited her mother in the nursing home on Saturdays. The parking lot at the grocery store was crowded as she pulled into an open space. She didn’t hear the shot that hit her head dead center, but her horn blared as she slumped against the steering wheel and became a statistic of another mass murder in her country.
By Elena Alston
My stepfather once brought home a Grand Cayman blue iguana. This wasn’t exactly a surprise. Our garden was a graveyard of unwanted trinkets he’d adopted: one-armed puppets, bric-a-brac lamps, melted cable plugs …
He called it Presty, short for Prehistoric, and spent the next week building a cage outside the size of our kitchen. He fitted it with homemade UV lights, having read that iguanas liked warmth.
My mum found Presty the next morning on the ground of his cage, stiff, smoke coming off him in wisps.
“Eight million years they’ve lasted,” she said sadly. “This one’s dead in a fortnight.”
By Lauren Scott
His mind floated through life
where it couldn’t be stopped,
even his logic kept flight
Her face controlled his dreams
as he struggled between the
crevices of reality
below the moon’s supervision
He desired to write poetry,
wordless poetry on her silky skin,
how the touch and taste of her
would be rich to his spirit
But knowing she was far
out of reach,
her whispered kisses
wove softly through his fingers
By Christine Goodnough
The lone suitcase on the carousel looked identical to mine but for the scratch on the side.
“Better check this out,” the airline attendant said. “Someone obviously grabbed yours by mistake.” He lifted it onto a cart.
Twenty minutes later a customs officer beckoned me. “You’re certain this isn’t your suitcase, Mrs. Smetch?”
“Positive,” I glanced over his shoulder and gasped. Another officer held two bags of white powder.
“My suitcase has my journal inside!” I clutched his arm. “Whoever took it will be showing up at my door …”
“No need to panic, Ma’am. We’ll deal with this.”