The Malevolent Trampoline

FOR SALE LIKE NEW, read the sign taped to the trampoline that waited patient as a spider, in the dead yellow yard of a house with a big bay window from which my image stared back at me, until the shadow of a passing garbage truck eclipsed my reflection, and I saw that on the other side of the glass a young girl sat in a wheelchair, her head and neck encaged in a cervical collar.

Joshua Dobson

Joshua Dobson likes to make his own fun some of which can be seen at

More Posts - Website


There will be no story posted today. We are busy with the launch of Beatdom #15.

David S. Wills

David S. Wills is the author of The Dog Farm and Scientologist! William S. Burroughs and the 'Weird Cult'. In 2007 he founded Beatdom literary journal, and today he serves as the Editor-in-Chief. He currently lives in China with his wife and a number of cats.

More Posts - Website

Follow Me:

Louisa Quakes

“Oh, my God! It’s ending!” she screams.

“The news or the world?” I wonder as I begin to walk to the front room. Then, I feel it too. I trip as I run to be with her. I hear the front door open over the dishes rattling.

I am in slow motion. I can’t get to her quickly enough.

Then, I see her through the window.

She is running barefoot with arms raised through the fields with her pink housecoat flapping open in the wind.

And, I laugh.

First, it’s a chuckle, then a guffaw, then near hysterics.

Then, I am engulfed in the old sobs.

Veronica Fitzhugh

Veronica Haunani Fitzhugh is an author, activist and good friend keeping busy saving the world and sipping sweet tea on her front porch in Charlottesville, Virginia. She holds a BA in English from the University of Virginia. There, she won a Jefferson Cup for her story telling. She is a certified storyteller for nami’s In Our Own Voices project. She founded Peer Review, a literary and art magazine for the Charlottesville recovery community. Her work has appeared in 3.7, Piker Press Magazine, Gadfly, Best New Poems, Blognostics, and the women’s initiative’s Challenge into Change 2013 anthology. She blogs regularly at, a page featured in wordpress’ freshly pressed, and also guest blogs at other sites.

More Posts - Website

Little Bird, Little Bird

You used to come every day. A headlong dive, into that bird-shaped hollow you’ve created in the loose earth underneath the juniper tree.

Hardly earth at all. More like dust. Your personal dust bath. Swoosh, you’d plunge in, wriggle a bit, turn around, ruffle your feathers, pick at something, and swoosh, out again. Every day.

And every evening, you’d sit on the edge of the roof, belting out an aria into the dusk. A serenade. A lullaby. Just for me.

I’m going to miss you, little bird.

But you sure tasted good.

Angelika Rust

Angelika Rust lives in Germany, with her husband, two children and a hyperactive dog. When she doesn't write books, she teaches English.

More Posts - Website

The Problem With Being Downwind for Sue Ann

One day she turned bright yellow. The diagnosis is full of words with dead ends. Words that suck the wind out of us. Words from downwind. Advanced Stage. Aggressive. Inoperable. The first time I see her after the diagnosis is at her back door. I feel the winter wind come down on my neck as I hold her and bury my face in her short hair, soft like the feathers on the pullets she used to raise into chickens. All I can say is the hard truth. I’m going to miss you Sue Ann. I’m going to miss you too. This is the trouble with being down wind. The trouble with being Miss Junior Williams, Arizona Rodeo Queen 1956. The trouble with being Class of ’58 Flagstaff High School. The trouble with being the only female dump truck driver in town during the entire month of July of 1962 with your one year old son in a laundry basket on the truck floor beside you. 

Jesse Sensibar

Jesse Sensibar loves small furry animals and assault rifles with equal abandon and still has a soft spot in his heart for innocent strippers and jaded children. He retired in 2010. In 2014 he earned his MFA in creative writing while teaching Freshman Composition at a large southwestern state university in the mountain town where he has lived since the late 1980s.

More Posts


‎”let’s get this lead out of your guts first – then we’ll decide what to do about al.  ain’t that right, doc?”

jenny turned her blonde head away, so that she wouldn’t be blowing smoke right into dave’s blasted body.

she formed two perfectly round smoke rings which drifted across doc wilson’s little office and into his front parlor, and fixed the doctor with her cold green eyes.

but he ignored her and kept on probing dave’s stomach.

“kind of flabby aren’t you, dave?  i thought you desperadoes kept in a little better shape.”  he looked up quickly at dave.  “just kidding.”

‘”i don’t  get it, doc.  i just don’t get it.  me and al – we were partners for years – since we were kids.  why would he just turn on me all of a sudden, just like that?”

“hold still.  don’t excite yourself. still – still  – perfectly still.  well, there are usually one of two reasons or both.  the first of course is money.”

“but the deal was a bust.  there wasn’t any money.  we were just trying to get away.”

“take a breath.  hold it.  all right.  maybe he was mad about the deal not going down. maybe he blamed you.”

“nah.  it wasn’t my fault.”

“was it his?  maybe he figured you’d get mad so he got his lick in first.”

“it wasn’t anybody’s fault.  it was just bad luck.”

“there.  i think i got it all.”

“you think?” jenny interrupted.  “did you get it all or didn’t you?”

the doctor gave her an annoyed glance.  “i got it all.”

“then why did you say ‘i think’?”

“it was just a manner of speaking.  hold this on the wound,” he told dave, ” while i unwind this bandage.”  he took a long roll of white bandage out of a drawer under the table dave was sitting on.  he began to wind it around dave’s body below the gunshot wound just below his heart.

“as i was saying before i was so politely interrupted, there are two reasons for even the tightest partnerships to break up.  money of course – ” the doc looked over at jenny.  “and dames.”

“why you cheap gin-soaked back alley butcher, how dare you insult me -”

“easy baby, easy.”  dave laughed.  “doc, consider the specific situation.  jenny is here, ain’t she?  she’s not with al.  and she brought me here.  she dragged my bleeding carcass away with her brute strength -” he grabbed her arm and squeezed her bicep – “strong, ain’t she?”

“i’m strong for you. baby.”

“very touching,” doc observed.    “of course, what could i have been thinking?  here, let go.”

he slapped a pad right right over the bullet hole as dave flinched, then continued winding the bandage above it. “all set.  now, you just have to rest up.”

“can i light up a smoke now?”

“sure, why not?”

dave fished in his pockets.  “looks like i lost my smokes in all the fracas.”

“you can have one of mine,” jenny told him.

“they got filters.  doc, can i bother you for a smoke?”

“i smoke cigars.  parodis.  you want one?”

“i guess they will have to do.  thanks.”

“hold on, i’ll go get one.”

jenny scowled at doc wilson’s back as he left the room.  “can we trust this cheap chiseler?” she asked loud enough for him to hear.

“relax, will you?  being trusted is doc’s stock in trade.  he’s not going to win the nobel prize for medicine.  are you, doc?”  dave called after him.

“did you hear the way he insulted me?”

“he was making a general statement about human females.  don’t be so sensitive.”

“i’m a human female,  ain’t i?”

the doctor returned with a red and green pack of parodis he had taken from his jacket hanging in the front hall.

he extracted one of the crooked little cigars from the pack and gave it to dave, then lit it for him with a wooden match he struck across the sole of his scuffed brown shoe.

“no, if doc was a better doctor he’d be treating four star generals for indigestion at walter reed hospital, not stitching up the likes of us.”  dave blew some of the vile smoke into the air.  “this is awful.”

“you sure you don’t want one of mine?” jenny asked.

“jeez, i just might.”

the doctor cleared his throat.  “well, dave, after you’ve finished – enjoying your smoke, we can settle up and you can be on your way.”

“what?  what are you talking about?  we’re going to hole up here.”  dave laughed and waved the parodi in the air.  “have you gone out of the hole up business?  that’s the biggest part of your trade.”

“what about her?”

“i don’t know, what about her?  haven’t you ever holed up two people at once before?  why, just last year -”

“come on, you know what  i’m talking about.  i don’t trust her.  i don’t trust her not to shoot me when we both fall asleep.  i just have a bad feeling about her.”

“please.  i know we’re all under some stress here and harsh words have been spoken, but let’s act like adults. and what about your fee?”

the doc held up his hand. “dave, there will be no payment.  we’ve known each other for a long time and i hope we can do business again in the future.  but i just don’t trust this bitch.”

he leaned forward and in a stage whisper intoned – “are you sure she’s not in it with al?”  he straightened up.  “she can drive,  you can walk, those aren’t problems.  you’ll have to go.”

“but i’ve got the police of six states after me.”

“i’m sorry, dave.”

“this is totally ridiculous.”

“can you guarantee she won’t shoot me or both of us?”

“yeah.  yeah, i can guarantee it.”  dave reached behind his back and pulled a pistol from his waistband.  jenny laughed.  dave quickly checked the safety, released it, and shot jenny in the head.

“henry!  what’s going on down there?”

“nothing dear, go back to sleep.”

horace p sternwall

horace p sternwall was born in a log cabin in chicago illinois in 1919. his favorite authors are edgar guest, alfred noyes, erle stanley gardner, and margery allingham.

More Posts

Baby Bird

I’ve done this before, I think. I’ve raised something to watch it die. Across from me at the diner booth, he eyes the lipstick stain on my mug. I drink my coffee black after sex to show him how strong I am.

But I can see he is blue like a baby bird. The ones I used to rescue from the ground as a child. I watched the birds and fed them with tweezers to mimic their mother’s beaks. I nestled them in rag nests and breathed my hot nervous breath over them, whispering, “Please live. Please, please live.” And in the morning I peeked into the old fish tank I housed them in. There they’d be, straining. The long night sat heavy on their skeletal bodies. I was their witness when they jutted their scraggly necks in the air one last time. One last chirp and then the silence.

This bird needs mercy. He can’t fight. I can see that. I was never able to put them out of their misery. I knew it was the right thing to do sometimes, but I couldn’t carry out that judgment. I couldn’t pick up that brick or crush their nascent bodies under my shoe. It seems crueler to let nature take its course. But I am nature, too, I remember.

Molly Ruddell

Molly Ruddell imagines that the first sentence she ever heard was "Jesus Fucking Christ, it's a girl!" From her Irish father's mouth. She loves when expletives sound like poetry. She's published in Apiary and Gravel.

More Posts

I’m sorry, what did you say?

These chairs are uncomfortable. I hope we’re not here too long. I mean, all he’s doing is staring at those x-rays. He looks shocked. Hey, don’t put them away I want to see them… no don’t sit so close I can see right up your nose. Lean back, please. That’s better, it’s never comfortable to have someone that…


Well shit. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck. Am I going to die? Can they fix it? Will I get chemo? What if they can’t fix it? Am I going to die What’ll happen to the little one? He’s just little. Am I going to die What about my hair? It’s going to fall out. Can they treat it? Am I going to die Was he just talking? What did he say? Did he say if I was going to die?Why is he standing up? Am I going to die Maybe he’s wrong. I hope he’s wrong. He barely glanced at the x-rays. What does he want now? Has he been talking all this time? I should have listened am I going to die and then I’d know where he wants me to go. Ask him again. Why did I get cancer why me? What’ll happen to the little one? Why can’t the doctor tell me if I’m going to die, damn it, he was talking and I missed it again. What the fuck am I supposed to do now?

J. Cassidy

J. Cassidy lives in the UK, occasionally writes stuff and hopes one day to be rich.

More Posts


I remember being excited by fear when I was only eight years old.  My parents had recently gotten divorced and we lived in upstate New York at the time. On some weekends, I stayed with my father. Every Saturday morning, we would wake up early and drive to the airport in Albany. We would bring a few peanut butter and fluff sandwiches, some juice, and we would park near the runways. We would rarely speak during take-off, but we would always share the same feeling of anticipation as we watched the plane come to life, rotating and expertly maneuvering around each turn of the runway. I never thought that the planes were ‘real’ when I looked at them up close. It was difficult for me to envision living people sitting inside of the machine, just as it is difficult for me to visualize ‘real’ people sitting inside of the cars that now pass me by on highways. Even when I was young, I realized that things move very quickly around me most of the time and that there is no real way of slowing anything down. This was, and continues to be, simultaneously terrifying and exciting. Watching the planes turn around the corners and slowly ascend into the sky was a way of slowing everything down without having to participate. I could prepare myself for fear by simply observing.  Ten years later, I sit in the parking lot and I hold my breath in fear as the plane reaches upward, and I anticipate that glorious decline of motion.

Natalie Jones

Natalie Jones is a student at Southern New Hampshire University. She is currently majoring in English Language and Literature. Her work has been published in Amoskeag Literature Journal and at Housefire Books

More Posts

Lethal Beauty

Mai Ling sat on a couch in her apartment holding a gun, a Smith & Wesson .38 revolver.  The gun had come in a purple Vellore-lined case, like a musical instrument.  She slid the gun barrel into her mouth.  The taste was unpleasant.  Would she die, she wondered, or merely maim herself?  Instead of a casket would she end in some institution?  End in a wheelchair being spoon fed her meals while parked before a television in some horribly drab common room?  She cocked the hammer.  Some common room with orange plastic chairs?  She pulled the trigger.  The hammer made a loud click, like a door shutting inside her head.  She got up and went out to her car and drove to the sporting goods store. A short overweight salesman, who sold her a box of bullets, was obviously smitten by Mai Ling’s statuesque figure and long raven-black hair. Mai Ling returned to her apartment and couch.  Her China-doll face grew pensive.  What if the bullet went through her head and through the wall and killed Mrs. Dearborn in apartment 2C?  She got up off the couch and drove back to the store. She told the clerk that she had decided to take up ice hockey and needed a helmet.  The clerk told a long involved story about his days as a schoolboy hockey player. Mai Ling had trouble following the story.  She decided on a black and paisley blue helmet that fit her head like a melon-half. After returning to her apartment she strapped the helmet on.  She put the gun barrel into her mouth.  Her finger curled around the trigger.  She hoped everything would go smoothly.  She did not like television.

Wayne Burke

Wayne Burke's short stories have appeared in HAPPY and the fucking Gihon River Review. His poems are in FORGE and miller's pond e-zine.

More Posts

« Previous Entries