Author: Director

Short Story
Augustus Sleeveen
The hen circle graces Francois’ Five Star restaurant at two pm, grey sweatpants and hoodies taking their places among suits and ties. Nobody tells them about the dress code or the specials. The street outside seems to darken as they take...

Serial Fiction
Benny Profane
Tonight the bar is unusually quiet. Apart from myself there are only a couple of regulars who are sitting at a table in the corner of the room. Their sense of disappointment at the lack of people in the bar is...

Short Fiction
Jim Meirose
That dog was perfectly trained, my man—that dog would let me know he wanted to go potty, and we’d go on a walk and he would do nothing, just enjoy the hell out of the walk and look all bright-eyed and...

Short Fiction
Jacob Ian DeCoursey
Once, when I was little, I tried to fix my stuffed animal’s scuffed eye with a Sharpie. I slipped and left a giant blot over its glass retina. My favorite toy. So I tried to add more black to cover...

Short Fiction
David King
I travelled 30,000 light years and slept most of the way. Insect dreams of sex. That’s what hypersleep does to you. Fucks you around big time. Arrive not knowing if you’re human or some kind of slug on two legs. Stagger...

Flash Fiction
Michael Duda
There’s always been rumors about it. You’ll read them in any newspaper or you could listen to about a million plus one channels about it. But now, this happens. Who shot first? The pictures just show smoking grey metal and a...

Short Fiction
Jim Meirose
Yes; went in, sat a while, had a few—and this guy came and claimed the last empty stool. It’s really okay and nothing to sit close, rubbing elbows with strangers, in a place like this. Just pay no attention, don’t hear...

Serial Fiction
Benny Profane
Slumped beside me in a heavy lethargic malaise is my sometime drinking companion George. George is a gangly wisp of a man with an unchanging uniform and strict daily routine that you have to admire. Measuring around 7ft nothing and weighing well below...

Short Fiction
Kenneth Nolan
Tom Jones got a job in a sex shop in Sydney. A tiny shit-hole, situated in a seedy corner just off George Street near “The Railway Hostel” where he and I first met. He was a Welshman, just like the singer Tom...