Just Fall and Miss the Ground
Just Fall and Miss the Ground
By Sean H.
As I fell out of the twelfth story window the ground rushed at me and I was hit by a force that threw me back up towards the heavens. I panicked for a moment, a moment I had not panicked before, but then, the wind rushing through my hair and my coat slapping and flapping behind me, I realized that, no matter what the reason, I was flying over the city, over and unaware people down below.
The human race evolved on the African plains millennia ago, no predators in the trees, no reason to look up, not worth the processing power. Robots, all of them. Heads on a pivot. Side to side. Except me… and that one there, she looked up; I could see her mouth the famous line under her breath.
“It’s a bird, it’s a plane.”
I was fucking Superman… and if she was willing she would soon be fucking Superman, but first I would have to figure out how to get down… or maneuver at all for that matter, without finishing what I had planned for earlier. Before.
But before what? What had happened? I mean really. Was I flying? Was I being abducted by aliens? Was I still alive? Was I lying on the pavement back at the bottom of that building, people milling about my crushed and decomposing corpse? Was this real life or was it just fantasy? For all I knew I was still standing in that building, looking out across the city and wondering “what if?” That would be almost worse somehow. Worse than being dead? Worse than being crazy?
I looked back to where the woman stood, still looking at me, and my whole body turned and started moving towards her. She was pretty this one. The kind of pretty you see on the cover of Jane Austen novels. Pale skin, dark, curly hair and this one had light blue eyes to set off her other features. She smiled when she saw I was coming back and my heart warmed.
I don’t even remember landing that first time, but I remember looking her in the eyes and without a word taking her for a ride over the city. No one looked up, African plains and robots and all. We couldn’t cared less.
Reality or Not
Reality or Not
By Dave C.
I run my hands through her long and lustrous hair. I kiss her forehead, her cheeks and then her neck. My tongue emerges to lick a roadway from her neck to her tiny earlobes and back again. After I nibble on her lobes for what seems eternity, I follow the straightest path to her beautiful face and those plump ripe red lips. I bite those lips that hold the taste of her and suddenly press forward for a strong deep kiss. The kiss is returned with equal fervor; we mingle our tongues and continue this way for many minutes.
We pull apart and both sets of eyes lock onto the other. We stare at each other and gently tease with the knowledge of what is yet to come. I press her down onto the bed and as I hover my tongue begins its downward journey along her well defined body. Chin, neck and oh those beautiful breasts. They are small but firm and afford me much pleasure. After paying them their rightful homage I resume my roadway of exploration.
In a sudden and unexpected move Cathy manages to flip me onto my back and begins her assault on my body. The suddenness and virtuosity of her onslaught caught me unaware and aroused me to a new intensity. We play at this back and forth power shifting until we are ready to explode. At that point we pull back and recharge ourselves. This game of pleasure/torture goes on for at least an hour until we can no longer wait for the ultimate joining of our bodies. Cathy rolls me onto my back again, mounts and losses herself screaming in wild abandon.
Later as we are relaxing, staring at the ceiling and letting our breath return to normal a loud clanging noise forces me into a sitting position. I turn toward the direction of the noise and looking me squarely in the face is my alarm clock demanding my attention.
Simultaneously through the locked door the dulcet of Cathy, our maid. “Sir, please wake up, remember, it’s your first day as a high school senior.”
At that I glance toward the pillow next to mine to find nothing.
How to Write a Story
How to Write a Story
By Arvin W.
Begin with an idea. It doesn’t have to be good, but it’ll seem ingenious at the time. Scramble to y our desk while the idea is still fresh in your mind. Fumble through the mess of papers, whiskey, and Chinese takeout boxes in search of a pen and a clean sheet of paper. Find a pen with its tip exposed. Attempt to write before realizing that the pen is empty. Lick the tip, trying to revive the pen. When that fails, curse and toss the pen at the wall. Search through your room for another pen. Find one in a takeout box.
Begin writing your story. Initially, the words should flow freely; you may even complete a page in a few minutes. Slowly notice the flaws in your writing. Convince yourself to continue, everyone says it is better to revise after. Find a huge flaw in your story. Let it stop you. Contemplate various ways to rework the story. Fail and let your mind wander. Wonder how that stain got on the wall. Look out the window and count the cars passing by. Think about other things you could be doing: the friends you could be annoying, the TV you’re missing, the whiskey you’re not drinking. Take a swig. Take another, and another.
Wake up in a puddle, with paper stuck to your face. Crumple the paper and toss it near the trash bin. Try to remember what you were doing. Head to the bathroom. Vaguely recall your story idea. Adjust your aim. Flush the toilet. Look in the mirror. Ignore the mirror. Flop down in the front of your desk. Recalled a failed idea form the past. Confuse it with the story you’re working on. Shuffle through the papers on your desk, looking for your recent story. Eventually give up and search for a clean sheet. Grab the pen on the side of your desk.
Begin writing your story.
Tangled
Tangled
By Annie.
I’m seventeen years old today but I don’t know how sixteen is different from seventeen. And then seventeen turns into eighteen and nineteen and twenty, but I don’t like thinking that far ahead. “What is an age but a number?” My mother says to me. She is combing my waist length hair. Sometimes I feel like my hair is weighing me down when I walk. But today it comforts me; I like the smoothness of it and I can smell the lingering scent of green apple shampoo in my hair. I am old enough to be combing my own hair, but I let my mother do this ritual. It comforts her when she’s holding the comb and smoothing out the tangles.
When she tugs gently at my hair, I look at my reflection in the mirror. I see the scratch on my cheek, a zit blooming on my forehead, the roundness of my face and the shadows under my eyes. I see a mess of imperfections. Today is my birthday and I am seventeen. My mother doesn’t believe in birthdays, only that I am still her baby, her only child that was inside her. She has a hard time letting me go out. I hate it when she grumbles about weekend nights with my best friends. I want to go to the movies and not have that nagging worry in the back of my mind. I always worry about her, because she holds her loneliness too close inside. Ever since my father left two years ago, she’s told me that all we have is each other. That you shouldn’t trust buys, that the outside world is dangerous. She likes me here with her, but I feel like I am crumbling. My father didn’t take much with him, just a suitcase, a few books and his watch. I haven’t talked to him since.
Trading Places
Trading Places
By Fabio P.
We would meet at home after work drink Campari and go to the sauna. Religiously we would sit in the sauna, until the sweat dripped down our chest. He would tell me about Sweden, how they loved the sauna. Then we would jump in the pool, then the hot tub. After that the pool again, then the sauna and the pool once more. “It helps the immune system”, he told me, “In Sweden they go to sauna then they jump in the lake”. “I read about that when researching Finland back in high school” I told him once, “Sometimes they even have sauna out in the middle of the lake”. “Every building has a sauna. Usually on the top floor”, he would say, “and they love vodka and strawberry juice”. He was so much cooler than I ever was he traveled the world, alone.
He would talk about his journey. How he ended up with a son and a full time job surprised me sometimes. He told me how it all happened, but it never seemed like those were his intensions. He wanted to go to Australia. No wife, no kid. But shit happened. We started living together when I was twenty. I got the living room he got the bedroom. He still seemed like the seventeen year old kid he was in his stories.
We would drink together, a beer at dinner or a few beers at a club. Once we got drunk at home, it was the night before he went to Italy. We were taking shots in our kitchen that was the size of a large cubicle, except we had the gold-flaked black granite counter tops. On the sixth shot I mentioned that I might need to slow down, I will never forget what he said.”Slow down, what are you? A pussy?” Poking me in the chest, “You will get this shot! Don’t be fucking pussy!” I took the shot and many more after, without throwing up. I felt comfortable being with my dad, sturdy not wobbly. I would have thrown up with any one else. Before he went to sleep that night he told me. “Tomorrow my son, I will be in Italy, drinking with my dad, and tomorrow I will the son and he will be the father”.