• Black and Beige by Edward Stiffler

    The earth was dead. The air was still. Tiny snowflakes floated down like ash from the fallout of some great disaster far away. My sister was driving an old, rusted-out Dodge van with no heat and no door handles; hell, the entire inside of the door was missing. Just a bunch of rods and plastics to get stuck on, or grease to rub off on your pants. I paid it no mind, though; I wore all black back then, black so dark grease stains wouldn’t show. My sister, on the other hand, she’s the hippie who missed the bus, born two decades too late for peace and love and San Francisco. The…

  • Collected Poems of the South Sound by Burl Battersby

    On the Way to Tacoma     People run to get on the bus like rain will burn their skin and they will be saved if they sit down beside us.   The driver enables this, though, by opening the door to let them in and their wet things drip as they pass down the row.   Instead of picking up speed the bus stops and starts again and this makes the driver a happy man indeed. Now that we are finally moving along the driver seems as unhappy as we were when the journey was young.

  • An Independent Professional by John Carlson

    Sheila did not look like a hired killer. Not that Paul really knew what a hired killer looked like. His old hired killer, “Mr. Smith,” had been totally anonymous, so Paul had never even met Mr. Smith. Sheila looks more like a suburban mother than anything, Paul thought. She was short. She was a bit pudgy, as if she’d eaten too many cookies she’d baked for the family cookie jar. She wore a faded sweatshirt and jeans. Outside, he could see her SUV, which would look at home in the school parking lot on open house night. Looks aside, she was worth a try. Particularly since Mr. Smith had rather…