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when anger elbowed in followed by fear through the door I failed to secure and the shame of another thing I’ve left undone So sleep was elusive with all that banging around every thought a potential victim for the chopping block of my brain the faucets wouldn’t stop running so any dreams were flooded Saturday’s exhaustion inevitable no match for mounting tension the darkness around here could be bruises or shadows I can’t tell anymore The gables have butterflied and the arches inverted windows broken like promises, the last of the bracing collapses and I’m broken I can’t remember who I was when I saw a picture of a house falling in on itself I didn’t know it would be a premonition that by Sunday I would be fallen in on myself Beth Mulcahy is a poet and writer whose work has appeared in various journals. She writes to bridge the gaps between history and the self, between hurt and healing. Beth lives in Ohio with her husband and two children. She works for a company that provides technology to people without natural speech. Beth’s debut Chapbook with Anxiety Press, Firmer Ground, is now available. Learn more about Firmer Ground and check out her latest publications on her website: https://www.bethmulcahywriter.com.

Meet (insert name here) the latest sensation in the world of transgressive fiction. With his shocking, provocative, and downright offensive writing, (insert name here) has taken the literary world by storm. But don't let his bad boy image fool you: deep down, (insert name here) is just a misunderstood artist with a passion for pushing the envelope. (Insert name here) rise to fame began with his debut novel, "Killing Kittens." The book tells the story of a serial killer who preys on young women, brutally murdering them and leaving their mutilated bodies in alleyways. The book caused quite a stir in the literary world, with some critics calling it a masterpiece of transgressive fiction, and others calling it a disgusting, misogynistic piece of trash. But (insert name here) didn't care. He was just happy to be causing a stink. His next book, "Tortured Souls," was an even bigger hit. It's a collection of short stories that explored the dark, twisted world of BDSM and fetishism. The book was banned in several countries and sparked outrage among feminist groups, but (insert name here) just laughed it off. He was making a name for himself as the enfant terrible of the literary world, and he loved every minute of it. But (insert name here) greatest achievement came with his third book, "The Pedophile's Lament." The novel follows the story of a man who falls in love with a young girl, and their twisted relationship as he struggles with his own desires and the societal pressure to conform. The book caused an uproar, with many calling for its immediate removal from bookstores. But (insert name here) didn't back down. He defended his work as a brave exploration of taboo subjects and continued to shock and offend with his writing. Yet behind the controversy and the offensive subject matter, (insert name here) is just a man with a passion for writing. He may be an enfant terrible, but he's also a master of his craft, and his words will continue to shock and outrage for years to come. There's just one problem: (insert name here) is a complete fraud. First, there's his writing. It's violent, disturbing, and highly offensive, with graphic scenes of rape, torture, and murder. He claims to be pushing the boundaries of literature, but in reality, he's just recycling the same tired, cliched tropes that have been done to death. Then, there's his persona. He's cultivated a reputation as a rebellious outsider, a fierce critic of the establishment. But behind the facade, he's just a bored, middle-aged man with a day job and a lot of free time. He talks a big game, but he's never actually experienced the things he writes about. And finally, there's his popularity. He's gained a massive following, with fans hanging on his every word. But it's all based on lies and manipulation. He's used fake online accounts to boost his sales and trash the competition. He's even been caught plagiarizing from other writers. In short, (insert name here) is a grifter, a hack, and a liar. He's riding the wave of transgressive fiction, but he's just another cog in the machine, pumping out second-rate, offensive drivel. So, the next time you see his name on a book, just remember: he’s not worth your time or your money. Cody Sexton is the Managing Editor for A Thin Slice of Anxiety and founder of Anxiety Press.

her face soft as fingers creeping on wood there is the look of something you never know in the clean flow of saliva where telemarketers trip on my name like a banana peel and i’m sick at brown midnight from mutations squeaking like piranhas, but still i answer the phone. and then my feet swivel and splash in the blue dirty under streams, and from interruptions in the crisp pastry of the sun religions spill down slopes like newly hatched weather. but, for clarity, i don’t need full comparisons of brain and spirit; brute and saint; abbreviations will do. and war carries on. and though i have an october face, uncarved and unpainted, you will know me by my tilt in the field. you will know me as the first lick of alzheimer’s nudges you like a circling fly. and then on sundays, when so many gods are sleeping, she pulls three children along a dusty road with tears falling to match the setting sun and says she has beautiful butterflies for sale. and i remember one more time, the cops saying it simply got out of hand; it had nothing to do with who they were and what they weren’t. and then there’s the peace and omnipotence of the dentist manipulating the only orifice that can kill us all. and i still answer the phone. celestial syncopation a beveled head, clam-shaped and archaic; sungassed and melodramatic is the conscience of a primitive frown. and i’m bent on feeding the squalor puffed in shallow streams where dna was once a hodgepodge that lacked the gravity to spin a simple song. one planet is never enough for fingering calculus or stripping varnish from a mass grave. i’ll bring coffee and sea urchins unable to swim. i’ll remember to tell the calendar of simple ores not found in dirt. and i’ll slip on a slurry of shoreline nodding at the ocean to stay away. Livio Farallo is co-editor of Slipstream and Professor of Biology at Niagara County Community College in Sanborn, New York. His stuff has appeared or, is forthcoming, in The Cordite Review, Triggerfish, North Dakota Quarterly, Straylight, Beatnik Cowboy, Panoplyzine, J Journal, and elsewhere. His collection "Dead Calls and Walk-Ins" follows his job as a taxi driver some centuries ago.

The washing machine made noises as it spun its cycles. This added life to the quiet house. Any guitarist with a soft shell case does not tour much. The luggage carousels at airports eat guitars. Choi Seung-ja gave little room to sentiment; she was all business. The prom committee broke down over the color of ribbons. Rainbows, they decided, were not appropriate. David Harrison Horton is a Beijing-based writer, artist, editor and curator. He is author of Maze Poems (Arteidolia) and the chapbooks Pete Hoffman Days (Pinball) and BeiHai (Nanjing Poetry). He edits the poetry zine SAGINAW. davidharrisonhorton.com

“...like when you ask a dream to give you more light...” ~David Allen Sullivan Borges put us in time's labyrinths, spoke to us about the immortals and histories of infamy. Today, we should ask, what have we become, what have we made of ourselves? We surrender our dreams, ask for more light in the darkness parading inside. I wake up some mornings, observing how dead I am and have been, chasing all evidence of untamed ceaselessness. Infinity. It's built on light. You only know it's there when your soul blocks its path, throws a shadow. But is it yours? Out there, do they see us as cephalopods, as curious suspicions fighting good with folly and plunder? I am charged with belief, with admiration for some great character to come unseen, sparking between the lines of newspaper ink and ballets of truth swollen on TV on streaming media in full doses. Something may happen. I won't look to Congress for that. I dream of light, a safe country, we-ness working here. The animals are hushed listening to us. They are more interesting, so we bring them closer for common sense, love. We deconstruct the fragment, take ourselves so close to ruin's edge for a quick selfie, ask AI to explain it. The distortions of great writers made labyrinths for us. My quit reality's still searching for a way out. Twice Pushcart nominated, Ignatius Valentine Aloysius earned his MFA in Creative Writing from Northwestern University and is the author of the novel Fishhead. Republic of Want (Tortoise Books). His poetry and prose appear in or are forthcoming in Tofu Ink Arts Press, Trampset, Cold Mountain Review, and the Coalition for Digital Narratives. He is host of Sunday Salon Chicago and lives in Evanston, IL.

The Witch I’m trying to tell you that I love your aerobic dance class but jazzercise is isn’t cool anymore, right? It’s so bad for the knees with all of that high impact and jumping up and down. The body shaming aspect is terrible as well. I don’t know how you get past that on a political level. None of what you say to us seems body positive to me. I mean, why do you tell us to go for the burn? My kind is sensitive about the burning bit anyway. You would understand if I asked you not to tell us to go for the burn. At least offer a trigger warning before class begins. I notice that you tuck in your thumbs like a ballerina when you do the arm swings like you wish you were a real dancer. Your formal training shows in your turnout. I guess you never outgrow the ballerina’s duck walk. You never outgrow tucking in your thumbs and going for the long lean line between the middle finger and the shoulder, the hip to the knee, the ribcage down the stomach. My wrists are as thin as sticks. My hands are triangular as the heads of vipers. The waistband of my leggings is a bridge across my hipbones. They stick out like handles. Can you see my pretty bones? I am always hungry. I can tell you had dinner last night. Is it weird if I say I want your body? You have the expensive leggings that are powerful fat compressors. Where does your fat go when you squish it so? Would the fat pop out of your neck like a balloon animal body part if I squeezed? How your head would explode if I squeezed your neck. How pretty would be your bones. # The Teacher The class started out fine. She played “Jump” by the Pointer Sisters to get them started because she considered that song to be a real pick-me-up. Old school. She started doing a little jumping herself, on her toes, side to side. Elbows up. Her job was to show everyone that exercise was fun. Everything was possible with exercise. Anyone could have the body they wanted as long as they were willing to work for it. # The Lady Taking The Aerobic Dance Class On Her Lunch Break The women at the school where I teach sit around the lunch table in the break room and say terrible things about people. They took the Spanish teacher Ms. Mendez who was on yard duty in the cafeteria and shredded her between them with their filthy claws, talking about her gray roots, her too easy laugh, her shoes from Target. When the bell rang Ms. Mendez might as well lay bleeding on the table, her flesh torn from her bones. I vowed never to eat with those women again. I have a prep period after lunch so I thought I would get some exercise instead. I thought I could dance to the music and forget that in my absence two English teachers were ripping out my entrails and feasting on my blood. The dance teacher started playing a tune from the 80’s and I thought, oh this will be fun. And then my skin started burning as if someone turned on a heat lamp. As if someone in the room were on fire. # The Man At The Front Desk I couldn’t tell at first if it was just woo-hoos from ladies excited to take the class or actual screaming. I thought at first, woah those chicks are really into that old school jazzercise. I was thinking we should add a few more to the schedule, get enrollment up. Then I was like, I better call 911. # A Child Of One Of The Dance Class Student In The Gym Daycare Room My mom ran in all sweaty and crying just when I got my turn to play with the Barbie car. She grabbed me and ran with me out the door. She squeezed me too hard. She hurt my ribs. She smelled like smoke. She smelled like bacon. # The Police Report Officers responded to a report of a fire in the dance studio at In Shape Health Club on the 1900 Block of Broadway. Upon arrival the officers located the victim, an adult female, with life-threatening burns and a missing arm. The victim was transported to an area hospital and died at the scene. Several dance class members claimed to witness an adult female set the victim on fire. No incendiary materials were located. The suspect was not located and is considered at large. Officers conducted an investigation and generated a crime report. # The Woman Who Cleans The Bathrooms After Hours The witch jumped down from where she was hiding behind a panel in the ceiling. These old buildings and their hidey-holes, I swear to God. You’re not getting the best of me, I said. I know what you are already. You ruined the dance studio floor with your tricks. You killed a nice lady. But she didn’t care about anyone but herself. She checked her teeth in the mirror, picked out the meat. She wanted to know: Are you going to snitch on me? She smelled like a barbeque and that made me kind of hungry even though I knew where that stink came from. I never had enough at the end of the pay period to eat so I always had to go a couple of days every month on peanut butter and crackers. I am no rat, I said. She looked at me in the mirror where I stood behind her and she put her head to the side a little in a way that made me think of a viper. Snakes eat rats as well I know, but I said to her, I am not afraid of you. And she said, why not join me? Become one like me? And I thought about that offer for a good hot minute before I said, no way, mean lady. Now be on your way. Maureen O'Leary is a graduate of Ashland MFA.

It had been a month since Carol sent her friend Leona an email telling her about Brute, the dog Carol had recently rescued. She thought maybe they could go hiking together along with Peggy, Leona’s partner. Carol had never been included on their hikes and she’d always hoped to join them. Maybe Brute would be a draw. Leona and Peggy were lesbians, but Carol never for a moment thought that should make any difference. She could be dead wrong, but still, it didn’t make sense for Leona not to answer her. They’d been friends. And Carol missed Leona. Carol had heard about ghosting and wondered if that’s what had happened to her and Leona had simply disappeared. But why? What had Carol done? If there was something she should apologize for, she would. She had a hard time understanding anyone so afraid of confrontation they preferred to go silent. She spread out on the sofa and thought about the situation. Dan, her ex-husband, hadn’t died from his recent heart attack, but now he was in rehab so she still had his dog Big Black at her house. Dan had left her fifteen years ago for his secretary and Carol had no interest in doing him any favors, but she’d never say no to a dog. Meanwhile, their son across the country still hadn’t bothered to get off his ass and onto a flight to see his father. Or better yet, to take his dog off her hands. Brute was on the sofa with her and since there wasn’t enough room, Big Black rested his chin on the edge with a forlorn look in his eyes, then stretched out below like a furry farting rug. When she got to her office the next day with Brute and Big Black dragging her through the door, she told Troy about the Leona dilemma. Troy was Carol’s assistant and her friend. He was also gay, so maybe he had some gay wisdom to impart, although she knew it was dumb to think such a thing. “Fuck her,” he said. “She was never really your friend.” “But we’ve known each other for years, even before she found out she was a lesbian.” Troy rubbed all four dog ears and gave Carol one of his most withering looks. “She found out? You mean, like she got a notice in the mail: we are pleased to inform you, you’re queer?” “She said she’d been engaged to a man, but couldn’t go through with it. So maybe not everyone knows they’re gay at three years old?” “Forget her, doll. She’s part of a club you’re never getting into.” But Carol didn’t want to forget it. She wanted Leona to acknowledge her, she wanted resolution. So she sent her flowers and a picture of Brute. By four o’clock, Troy had finished the specs for the bridesmaid dresses Carol had designed, and after sending it to the cutting room, they decided to duck out early for a drink. They did this every couple of weeks. Carol, older than Troy, and hopelessly in love with him, relished these times. It was a warm evening and they found a table on the patio at El Coyote, a favorite. The two dogs rested nearby with a water bowl between them. Margaritas were served. “You think when Danny-boy gets out of rehab he’s going to be up to walking Big Black?” Troy asked. Carol hadn’t thought about it and pictured herself driving over to Dan’s house three times a day to walk his dog. “Might be I’ll have to keep Big Black a bit longer.” “Like maybe forever.” Troy scooped guacamole with a giant chip. “You poor dearie.” Carol checked her phone. Leona should have received the flowers by now. She scrolled through her few messages. She knew people complained about having too many emails, but it wasn’t one of Carol’s problems. And, there it was. Leona: “Thank you for the flowers, your dog looks nice. But I think we should stop bothering each other…” Carol read it out loud to Troy. “Stop bothering each other? What the fuck? I guess that means I’m bothering her. Because she wasn’t bothering me.” “She’s just a bitch, forget her.” “She’d never been a bitch before. Maybe she has a brain tumor. You think that’s possible, that she’s not in her right mind?” “Entirely.” Troy touched Carol’s elbow resting on the table and looked around for the waiter. “Let’s have another margarita.” Carol brightened. “And drink to bitches who’ve lost their minds.” They sat for a while, then took the dogs for a short walk. Troy gave her a hug and told her to keep her chin up. As always, he made her feel so much better. When she got home, she gave the dogs dinner and fixed herself a bowl of cold cereal. When the phone rang, her first thought was Leona, but it was Caleb, or Cal, as he preferred. Carol had gone on a date-and-a-half with Cal that included afternoon sex under the steady gaze of two dogs at his Venice apartment with a view of the ocean two blocks away. Some women would never have sex on the first date, but Carol wasn’t one of them. Life was short. And she wasn’t young. Why wait? She was also pleasantly surprised by how much she liked Cal. “How about dinner tomorrow?” he said. “No dogs. Seven o’clock, I’ll pick you up.” Third date, if she counted a walk they’d taken. Three dates was getting serious. She gladly accepted and they hung up. No cereal tomorrow night. At work the next day she didn’t complain to Troy about Leona. Whining was unattractive, and now she was looking forward to seeing Cal. She decided she would make an effort and dress up a bit. When she got home, she took the dogs for a long walk, changed into a simple gray wool dress with high black boots, and put on mascara and red lipstick. Her dark hair shined. She thought she looked pretty okay. When the doorbell rang at 6:50, she didn’t bother to ask who it was. She liked people who were on time, even early, and opened the door wide with a welcoming smile. Leona stood on the porch beside Peggy holding a frosted cake the size of Pittsburgh perched on top of an ornate silver cake platter. “Oh!” “I know,” Leona said. “I was wrong. I apologize for disappearing on you.” “I had a talk with her,” Peggy said. “Can we come in? This cake weighs a ton.” “Peggy bakes wonderful cakes,” Leona said. “Yes, of course.” Carol looked around outside, then stepped back and let them in. “Your place is adorable,” Leona said. “I don’t remember the last time I was here.” “Never,” Carol said. “You were never here.” They all stood awkwardly in the middle of the room until Peggy walked over and put the cake on the dining room table. “I only moved here six months ago.” “Oh, right, I forgot. Well, it’s charming. I love the colors.” Leona had a way of paying a compliment that was utterly convincing. A quality Carol admired and made her wonder if we choose our friends in part because of how they make us feel about ourselves. She believed we did. Brute licked Leona’s hand. Carol was concerned she might be annoyed, but Leona kneeled down and scratched Brute’s big ears and told him he was a good dog and his tongue hung out pink and moist in appreciation. Big Black, seemingly unsure of his position in the house, stood back waiting his turn. “I didn’t know you had two dogs,” Leona said. “It’s a long story,” Carol said. She tried acting cool though she felt awkward with Cal due anytime. The doorbell rang again. Carol turned. “Please, have a seat. Hopefully the dogs won’t crawl all over you.” She opened the door. Cal stood in the porchlight looking like a shiny penny, as her mother would say. All spiffed out with a fresh haircut, clean shaven, and wearing a leather bomber jacket over a blue shirt. He handed her a small bunch of daisies mixed with eucalyptus. The scent was like the park where they’d walked in the wind. “Hey.” Carol opened the door wider and Cal entered the room. He looked from her to the two neatly dressed women seated on the edge of the narrow green sofa with two large dogs sprawled across their laps, eight dog legs dangling among four human legs. “Cal, this is Leona and Peggy. They just stopped by.” “With a cake,” Peggy said. “Yes, with a big cake,” Carol said. Cal took a step closer. “That’s a whole lotta dog on top of you ladies. Happy to shake hands, but I’m afraid you might lose your balance.” Brute’s wagging tail slapped Peggy’s thigh. “Wait, it looks like you and Cal here have plans,” Leona said, shifting her weight under the dogs. “We’ll be on our way, you weren’t expecting us.…” “No, don’t leave.” Carol put her hands out as if she was going to physically keep them from getting up. As if the dogs weren’t already restraining them. She wondered if somehow Cal could possibly just leave, come back another time, but was that what she wanted? He looked really good to her at the moment. Cal, cracker-jack private investigator that he was, got it. “No, of course, you shouldn’t leave. Plans are made to be changed, right? Anybody hungry? How about some dinner? Happy to have something delivered or would you all like to go out?” “Pizza!” Carol said and whipped out her phone. “And, I’ll make a salad, I’m good at salad.” “I’ll order,” Cal said. “It’s on me, I insist.” Meanwhile, Leona and Peggy tried to extricate themselves from under the dogs who were having none of it, instead rolling their big heads back in pure doggy contentment. “We’re going, really. You two carry on.” Leona attempted to move the dogs and stand up, but failing, she started to laugh as Peggy tried the same maneuver that ended in another round of laughter. Finally, Cal and Carol each took a dog and slowly shoved them to the carpet, the sofa cushions moving along with them and Leona and Peggy ending up on the floor with the dogs licking tears of laughter from their faces. Leona caught her breath, then started laughing harder. “We’re going to need some wine,” Peggy said, crawling onto all fours in order to right herself. “Fortunately, I have two good bottles of red in the car.” “You do?” Leona asked. “I didn’t know that.” “Ah, little known fact about yours truly,” Peggy said. “Some people carry flares or extra water. We all have a different idea of what constitutes an emergency.” Carol was on the floor scratching both dogs to keep them calm as Cal phoned in the order and suddenly it was a party. “Stay where you are, Carol,” Peggy said. “I’ll make the salad.” “But you made the cake.” “Don’t try to argue with Peg about anything having to do with food,” Leona said. “You’ll never win.” Peggy, already in the kitchen, stuck her head out. “And, you don’t have to tell me where anything is. I have a sixth sense.” Cabinets were opened and slammed shut, bowls and silverware rattled on the countertop. “She’s good, but noisy,” Leona said. “The food will be here in twenty minutes,” Cal said, “Got some lasagna, too. You never know.” He relaxed into Carol’s old leather chair like he belonged there and the dogs turned their attention to him, freeing Leona and Carol to brush dog hair from their clothes and wash their hands. “I have dog slime on my face,” Leona said. “La crème de puppi, the new anti-aging sensation,” Carol said. “It’s all the rage.” Leona stopped to look at her. “I really missed you.” Carol nodded. They were back.

True or False: Because of the Time You Spend Caring for Your Mother, You Don’t Have Time for Yourself The time you planned to meet your one friend who still lives in town for one drink and your mother’s tears trickled down her face like snowmelt. The time you didn’t take a shower because the sound of running water made her think of drowning. The time you bought fresh greens and sauteéd them to garlicky unctuousness and because they were not Stouffer’s chipped beef, she knocked over the dinner tray and swiss chard transformed the carpet into a Jackson Pollock. The time you went for a bike ride and as you coasted under maples oozing with sap, shifted gears under the fee bee call of chickadees, you didn’t feel guilty and the time right after that when guilt held its sharpened blade against your neck. The time the home health aide quit because he didn’t do crazy. The time she had a nightmare that you tied her up with ropes and threw her into the sea. The time the new meds made her vomit in the footwell of your car. The time you looked at her and saw her as the mother she was, joy and summer, handing you a popsicle made of frozen strawberries and orange juice, telling your friends to call her Susan, thus bestowing a respect on them that teachers, priests, store clerks, didn’t. The time you looked at her and knew she was seeing you as the little girl you were, knock-kneed and sure, talking to yourself while bouncing a ball against the garage door, the same garage door that is now opened at a broken angle so that the house and its defects smirk at anyone masochistic enough to visit. The time you told her you were driving out to Whiteface for the panoramic view and she heard you say that you were thinking of jumping from it, letting the wind tangle in your hair, letting gravity and granite dissolve you like an easy-to-swallow gelcap, and she heaved herself up from her chair and said she’d tag along if you wouldn’t mind the company, said she’d like to be reminded that there are such things as mountains, beyond the rose-papered walls of the house, beyond the way time, like shale sliding from bedrock, has diminished her, and the way time will continue on as if she never was. Joanna Theiss (she/her) is a writer living in Washington, DC. Her short stories and flash fiction have appeared in publications such as Aquifer: The Florida Review Online, Bending Genres, Anti-Heroin Chic, Fictive Dream, and Best Microfiction 2022. In a previous life, Joanna worked as a lawyer, practicing criminal defense and international trade law. Links to her work are available at www.joannatheiss.com

I want to know more about the moon. It never occurred to me that I would see it today - in the morning - or that I would be up before the sun. Wearing only my favorite t-shirt – yellow with neon pink writing: “Welcome to Palm Springs,” bright like a billboard - I feel a slight chill coming off the ocean. It’s quiet and dark and I let my eyes roam. I’m drawn to an apartment where I see red flashes of light and I wonder if a toddler is up playing with a fire truck or a laser of some kind. I feel thankful this is not something I have ever had to attend to at this hour. Or any hour. But when the hum of freeway traffic turns on as if operated by a switch, I realize the red is a reflection of headlights whizzing by. It’s Monday and people are eager to start their week, go wherever it is they need to go. From the perch of my patio I consider the moon above me as clouds of fog hide it then reveal it, moving swiftly. Hiding, revealing, hiding, revealing. Why is the moon still out, or up? What’s the right phrase? Does the moon go somewhere once the sun appears, or does light just overwhelm it, pushing it out of the way? I feel foolish not knowing and stare up into the round white mystery as if asking it to answer me. Show me, my silent command, where you vanish to; or are you with us all day? I could Google this later, but I choose instead to wonder. It’s an exquisite scene, one shown in Halloween movies, missing only the sound of a creature howling to the rhythm of the fog’s movement over the black and navy curtains of sky; the kind of night painted by artists and captured in photographs. I think about grabbing my iPhone that I left sitting near the brewing pot of coffee but I don’t. I need no evidence of this moment. I am here, now, paying witness to a phenomenon. I won’t forget it, but I will look for it again. Aimee Truchan is a (mostly) fiction writer who moonlights as a healthcare marketing executive. She is an instructor at San Diego Writers INK. Her work has been published in volumes 13, 14, and 15 of the San Diego Writers Anthology, in the Decameron Project and in #38 of Roi Fainéant. Aimee is an avid reader, woolgather, beach bum, and aspiring Parisienne. Her book reviews can be found on Goodreads and her snarky opinions on Twitter @AimeeTruchan.

A writing program would’ve whipped me into shape. I wouldn’t be so damn flabby. My stories wouldn’t start in the wrong place, right at the beginning. They’d start later, once everything’s over: the end—that’s where a story starts. Mine just roll in like they’re getting off the bus, they rush down the street, heavy luggage trundling behind them, they check in at the hotel: the room’s not like Expedia said, it’s barely a room, more a bathroom with a bed tucked in the closet—then there’s the question of dinner, it’s 11 o’fuckin’clock, nothing’s gonna be open, there’s room service, after 10 it’s sandwiches, these sandwiches are tuna and a vegetable sandwich, anything might be on it, a cucumber, a potato, in fact it could be a cheese sandwich, vegetarian options aren’t ever specific, what they call a vegetable could be anything at all, it could be a fish, these people might be Catholics, and when you call the front desk to find out what a vegetable means to them, what happens? The person who answers telephones, it transpires, is a robot, for whom questions about vegetable or vegetarian sandwiches (in fact it says “veg.”) are just meaningless sounds: all it can do is monotonically advise you to press a button that corresponds to the digit of the sandwich on the menu card. If you prefer, you can demand human assistance, if you really want to engage with the desk again—the bleary-eyed desk who slipped the key in almost perfect silence to you, a key that for its modesty of mass (it’s a card key in an envelope little bigger than itself) seemed to thump metallically in your shirt pocket with every step you took to or away from the elevator (an elevator that, hearing the voice of the android desk clerk, you recall spoke in an almost lascivious tone as it informed you, upon going down to grab your forgotten luggage, that you were again in the lobby: a word that sounded, as it was pronounced, all-too suspiciously like labia)—and you decide, reluctantly, to do so, and it is as you wait in the space between the voice of the recording and the voice of the human being at the desk, a long wait, that the story continues to begin. Addison Zeller’s fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in 3:AM, Epiphany, Ligeia, Hex, Olney, and elsewhere. He lives in Wooster, Ohio.

The gaunt blonde at the end of the bar moved her head from side to side while staring at Vivian, suggesting don’t. Vivian, a pretty brunette, lifted her glass of red wine toward the blonde, signifying mind your own beeswax. The blonde snapped her eyes toward the door, implying go. Vivian figured she’d stumbled into someone else’s territory, then turned back to the man who’d bought her the wine. He claimed to be an assistant director at Paramount. She might get fifteen out of him. La Boheme, a glitzy guzzle-crib on Sunset, harbored studio types and foreign men with cash. The lifeless economy sat hard on regular folks. But this was Hollywood. They printed money here. New in town, Vivian stayed out of trouble by working no more than three nights a week. She usually operated in hotel bars, agreeing to ten and even five-dollar tricks. Every square job was already filled with a disillusioned ingenue. The city drew them in fresh and spit them out like chewed cartilage. Men fed on the desperation in a pair of lost eyes. If the blonde left her alone, Vivian could score big in a joint like this. Pay the rent on her small room for another month. Get her shoes repaired. Older than Vivian, the blonde displayed a dark blemish around her left eye that hadn’t been well-buried by makeup. Vivian had a fresh face, and wore nothing but lipstick. Men never missed her. The blonde stared at the door, rising off her stool, then back at Vivian, before closing her eyes, indicating I warned you. Vivian understood. She eased off her stool, a little jump in her heartbeat. As she turned to find the door, pushing the assistant director’s restraining hand off her wrist, she felt another one grip her shoulder, rotating her on her broken shoes so she stared into the dark eyes of a tough little thug with greasy hair swept back off his forehead. A large goon stood behind him, blocking most of the natural light that made streaks in the mahogany bar shine like treasure at the bottom of a mountain stream. “The fuck you doin’ in here?” The little man spoke around a toothpick. “On my way home from the office,” said Vivian. “Stopped in for a drink.” “You was just gettin’ to work. Only you don’t work here.” “Fine. I’ll go someplace else.” The man took Vivian’s arm, pulling her along the bar to a swinging wooden door, then through a busy kitchen to a steel door. An alley door. He thrust her outside, but she remained on her feet. She wasn’t afraid. He’d just give her a talking to. A warning. The goon held her arms behind her back as the little man grabbed her by the throat. “I catch you in here again, you work for me, see? First in a boogie house, doped up and on your back twenty times a day. For nuthin’. Then I put you to work in the clubs because you’re a classy, good-lookin’ dame. Only you won’t remember that. You’ll just know you’re mine.” “Stop it!” said the blonde as she burst through the door. “Let her go.” There was a tremor in her voice, and Vivian could tell it was hard for her to be brave like that. The pimp turned and swung at her. Vivian expected a slap to ring out, but he pounded the blonde’s nose with a closed fist, driving her backwards until her head thumped against the wall. She slid to the ground, knees bent, her nose crooked, blood dripping off her chin. The goon moved, frowning, and grabbed at the short, livid man. “Come on, boss. Let’s go. They got the message.” The men scurried away down the alley, the pimp waggling his sore hand in the air because a blonde’s head had to be so hard. A pimple-faced busboy came out in his white jacket to strike a match against the rough stucco. A cigarette hung from his lips. Stopping mid-ignition when he saw the women, he tossed a dishrag to Vivian, then turned back to the bustle of the kitchen. Vivian wiped at the blood before it completely ruined the blonde’s blouse. A dark-skinned cook in a greasy apron appeared at her side, squatting on the concrete next to her. He took the woman’s broken nose in his hands, straightening it with a sickening crackle before lifting one eyelid to look at the pupil. It had rolled toward the heavens. He lifted a limp wrist to check her pulse. The sleeve of her threadbare white blouse slid to her elbow. Vivian could see bruises in the crook. Needles. “Are you a doctor?” she asked the greasy apron. “Worked in a hospital once. She’s dead.” “Oh, no,” said Vivian, her sweaty skin chilling in the alley shadows. “The man she works for slugged her on my account. He just walked away.” “A pimp gonna do that if he gets mad at a grouse,” said the cook, wiping his palms on his apron. “You get outta here, if you know what’s good. You’re a witness. I’ll call the cops in an hour. Be gone.” He looked down the alley before returning to the kitchen. The door closed with a heavy clunk. The blonde had no identifying papers in her purse. She’d probably thrown away her past so her family could never find her. Vivian removed three dollars and a tube of lipstick, then held the blonde’s hands for a moment, absorbing their lingering warmth, telling her I’m sorry. Russell Thayer’s work has appeared in Brushfire, The Phoenix, Evening Street Review, Cirque, Close to the Bone, Bristol Noir, Apocalypse Confidential, Outcast Press, Hawaii Pacific Review, Shotgun Honey, Punk Noir, Pulp Modern, and Tough. He received his BA in English from the University of Washington, worked for decades at large printing companies, and currently lives in Missoula, Montana.

Same Old Story She hadn’t been looking for love. That’s what everyone says, she knows. But really, she hadn’t. She had side-stepped love. Walked around it. Spent years with binoculars in close observation of the loves of others. Procured repellent. She had learned the art of rappel and always carried her own sturdy rope, telling herself the only way to approach love was to descend carefully, slowly. But only if she had to. Only if love were unavoidable. Then she’d tumbled. Irrevocably. Terrifyingly. All the way down. So much could happen. Not happen. Did happen. Long story short: He loved her back. Why You Should Never Read Women’s Magazines to Find Love (Or a Prom Date) Girls don’t want dates with you. (Trust me. I’ve been pondering it since third grade.) Decent jobs don’t make you attractive. (Server at Den’s Burger Joint. She turned vegan.) Shared history doesn’t bring you closer. (I was eight, okay? I pushed the merry-go-round to make it spin faster because rockets are supposed to be fast and yelled, “Blast Off!” and she tried to jump while riding the rocket and tripped on her stupid astronaut costume with the too-big boots and fell off and I was running so fast and clinging to the bars that I ran over her. Literally. It’s been nine whole years and she still raises one eyebrow whenever anyone uses that word: literally. I think it’s the most traumatic thing to ever happen to her. I wonder if it’ll be the theme of her college essay? Literally run over.) Time doesn’t make love go away. (She was my best friend. Still is, even though we don’t really talk anymore. I wish we talked.) Daydreams don’t really come true. (I stopped walking past the merry-go-round in the playground on my way home from school, because I drive now and it’s an awkward detour and because I’m old enough to know she’ll never be there waiting for my apology.) Addendum: Daydreams come true. My car was in the shop (she works there). I walked home. She said her dress would be Milky-Way-colored and did I want to join her for prom?