Black is for Girls

Something Creepy for Halloween by Oliver Cassidy



On the dreary evening before Allhallows Eve, in the small town of St. Julius, Illinois, Mr. Bannister, the portly butcher, worked late into the evening. He was chopping and wrapping meat. He'd pluck an expertly sliced meat cube, squeeze out the juice, wrap the wrung morsel in cellophane, then wrap the cellophane with colored paper. The morsels wrapped in orange were for boys. Those in black were for girls.



On Halloween night, a girl named Melinda knocked on Mr. Bannister's door. She was dressed as a witch. She held a broom which didn't fly. "Trick or treat," she said.

"Why not both?" said Mr. Bannister. He reached into her ear and pulled something out, something wrapped in black. Melinda became uncomfortable.

"For you," said Mr. Bannister. He dropped his creation into her goodie bag.

"Thanks," said Melinda. She turned and left. She left in a hurry. Mr. Bannister watched her until she turned the corner and disappeared from view.

"Black is for girls," said Mr. Bannister. He smiled the creepiest of smiles.

Roseanna and the Therapist

Fiction by Oliver Cassidy



Couldn't get myself to throw away the picture of the painting of the woman in the frame. I bought the frame to frame a picture of Raymond, my cat. And I used the frame for just that - to frame Raymond. So I actually wound up buying a new frame to frame the picture of the painting of the woman that was in Raymond's frame. I admit this only because my therapist advised me to be honest. So there I go. Something honest.

My imagination ran away with me. I named her Roseanna. She looked Italian, classy Italian; seemed like a good name. She was trim, but not skinny. I like that.

I frequently imagine Roseanna barefoot and standing on my face. When I try to get up, she shifts her weight and keeps me in place. Sometimes she stuffs her foot in my mouth. That's what I envision happening as the painting's being painted. She's stuffing her foot in my mouth. And she refuses to crack. She concentrates on the artist. She doesn't let on that she's stuffing her foot in my mouth. I really, really enjoy thinking about that.

I also frequently imagine my therapist - an attractive woman in her early forties - barefoot and standing on my face. Stuffing her foot in my mouth. Sometimes I imagine myself telling her my problems and she rudely sighs and lets her pump slide to the floor and stuffs her foot in my mouth and checks her watch as I suck her toes against my will. I really, really enjoy thinking about that, too.

I'm not interested in the psychological explanation. I just enjoy it.

A Philosophy of Life

Beckett-like Fiction by Robert McEvily



A MAN approaches ANOTHER...

MAN
Hey, where do I put this?

ANOTHER
Put what?

MAN
This.

ANOTHER
What is that?

MAN
I don't know. I was hoping you'd know.

ANOTHER
How should I know?

MAN
I... don't know.

ANOTHER
Hey, did you see the Ashlee Simpson screw-up on SNL?

MAN
Missed it.

ANOTHER
Embarrassing.

MAN
Definitely.

ANOTHER
So...

MAN
So...

ANOTHER
So what do we do?

MAN
About what?

ANOTHER
About this.

MAN
This?

ANOTHER
This!

MAN
We don't know what "this" is.

ANOTHER
So what do we do?

MAN
I don't know.

ANOTHER
I guess... try again tomorrow?

MAN
Sure. Good. Okay.

ANOTHER
Au revoir, then.

MAN
Chow, Bro.

Both men leave; they head in opposite directions. They seem happy.

Vanishing Act

A Plea by Ivy Dillinger



Every now and then, it's healthy to disappear. To just drop off the face of the earth. To not answer the phone. Not return emails. Ignore your friends and relatives. I stand by this; I recommend it.

I want to wear different costumes and be different people. I want to be homeless for a while. I want to be the richest bitch in America. I want to take my brain out and wear someone else's. I'm so sick of seeing the same image when I glance in a mirror. I want excitement. I want danger. I want fresh sex. I want to be a chef. I want to get away with murder.



I want to be a better writer.

Repercussions

Sports Talk by Maven Quibble



Me? Quibbs? I'm all for freedom of speech. If I want to call Jason a dick, I'll do it. If I think Frank's a punk, I'll say it. But I gotta know going in there's a chance for repercussions. Jason may kick my ass. Frank may bomb my car. See what I'm sayin'? Repercussions.

Pedro Martinez is a douchebag. He hasn't beaten the Yankees since 19-whatever, and to make matters unthinkable, he volunteers perhaps the greatest fodder for taunting in the history of sport: "The Yankees are my daddy." Privately, his teammates must dream of bashing in his jerri-curled 'fro. But here comes the worst part. Further repercussions...

I do hearby predict that the fans in Boston, when the series resumes tomorrow night at Fenway, will taunt Yankee closer Mariano Rivera about the electrocution of his Panamanian relatives. Bank on it.

See what I'm sayin'? Repercussions.

Subliminal Marketing

Sexual Sneakiness by Ivy Dillinger
Director of Publicity, BDFC



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Don’t lose this opportunity to enjoy your FREE travel mug along with a spanking from Stella. Reply today!

Two Poems

That Feeling You Get In Your Stomach
by Victor Lembrey



That feeling you get in your stomach
When you're wrong
And you know you're wrong
And you're about to be told you're wrong
That's the time
The time I hate
That time when you get that feeling in your stomach
Eh

* * *

A Trip Around the Block
by Robert McEvily



Grab your bags 'cause we're takin' a trip
A trip around the block
So close to home
Yet we haven't seen it
We look past it
To other stuff
To things we wanna say and do
But who's to say it isn't great?
Around the block
Incredible and fun and delicious?
How would we know?
We've never been there!
So grab your bags 'cause we're takin' a trip
A trip around the block!

The Doppler Effect

Fiction in Memory of Christopher Reeve
by Oliver Cassidy



Everything started when Ted "insulted" Brian Doppler in front of the chicks in the marketing click. Doppler was having lunch with the girls at the base of the statue. Ted, myself, and Joseph Hunter approached with sandwiches and Snapples. We introduced ourselves, sat, and listened as Doppler tried to explain why stem cell research was bogus. The girls nodded in hypnotized admiration. "I disagree," Ted said. Doppler freaked. They actually came to blows. Ted was fired. Doppler's connected with the higher-ups, so his job was safe. He was actually promoted soon after.

Rumor has it Doppler's had sex with each of the girls in the marketing click. Talk about rocking the vote.

The Bernadettes

A True Story by Oliver Cassidy



When I was in grade school, everyone loved Joanne. She was a Britney Spears type - blonde, good dancer, natural sex appeal. Great basketball player too, oddly enough. All the lay-ups and jump shots and court drills helped mold her thighs into lethal pillars of adolescent distraction. Ah yes, those were the days.

Joanne had a friend named Bernadette. Bernadette was tall and kind and a bit shy. One of her legs was slightly shorter than the other so she walked with a limp. I vaguely remember her being teased.

Nowadays, at work, there's a young woman named Natasha who's caught the attention of the young guys. She's tall, from India, with wavy black hair and chocolate brown eyes. She dresses well in the inventive way of young girls without money. Her best friend at work is a goofy lanky blonde named Bernadette.

I remember the boys in school, myself included, befriending Bernadette #1 in the hopes of gaining access. I see the young guys at work befriending Bernadette #2 for the same reason. It's creepy to watch the salesmanship, the sickly sweet interest in #2's tales of college field hockey, her stories of Mel, her cat. It's sad to hear the meanness in the private jokes told afterwards. All for a shot at Natasha.

I often wonder what became of Bernadette #1. I hope she's well. I wish them both well.

Winging It

Off-the-Cuff Writing by Maven Quibble



So Ivy (pictured above) calls me and says she needs some stuff from me; says I've haven't written anything in a while. So I say, "What about The DaVinci Code?" and she says, "You didn't write that," which is true, so I'm quiet for a long while. I keep waiting for her to fill the silence but she doesn't. Guilt trip. Ouch. People who are right all the time irritate me.

Okay, here I go. I'm writing. What to say? I just heard Peter Gabriel's "Kiss that Frog" on the radio. Good song. Uh... Clutch hitting by A-Rod last night. Pretty cool. Uh...

God, don't you hate writing? How do these novelists do it? How can you possibly make something interesting for hundreds of pages? And don't you hate returning emails? Why do these people keep bothering me with emails? I don't need to know about all this crap!



Okay, there's a picture of a frog. Because I mentioned "Kiss that Frog." See? A connection. Okay Ivy? Is that enough? Is that good? Can I go now!

The Black Ghosts

A Boastful Poem by Robert McEvily



It's pouring
So she goes into a strange restaurant
And asks for garbage bags
And everyone laughs
But she gets what she wants
And we put them over our heads
And cover our bodies
And look like ghosts
(Like black ghosts)
And we make eye holes
And run off in the pouring rain
And haunt those who can't think differently.

Under Appreciated

Fan Frustration by Robert McEvily



The Mets lost 91 games this season. (They were expected to win 91. At least. GEE, THANKS A LOT, METS.)

Last Saturday night, "Fan Appreciation Night," the Mets played their penultimate game of the season, and the Montreal Expos played their penultimate game ever. Every fan at the game received a Mets visor, and all the kids got a nice little picture frame with a Mets logo. Nice. Unfortunately, the weather was poor. Intermittent rain caused the postponement of a celebration of the 15 year career of Todd Zeile. Fans who turned out early for the occasion were jipped. More of a slap in the face was the absence of Mets during the pre-game sprinklings. Various Expos were on the field, tossing balls into the stands and signing autographs, but no Mets.

No Mets on "Fan Appreciation Night."

I'd hate to see how these guys would act with a winning record.



The Mets lost the game, 6-3. (More appreciation.) On the following afternoon, the Mets won, the poor Expos faded into oblivion, and Todd Zeile homered in his final at bat - another classic "only in baseball" moment.



Long live baseball. Bring on the playoffs!

The Floating Kangaroo

Formulaic Fiction by Oliver Cassidy
Author of The Brutality Circa 1985 Litmus Test



After kidnapping Jennifer Lopez and removing her flat nose with a pair of scissors, the floating kangaroo urinated on the boobs of a nun.

Hi. I'm Mo. My writing teacher taught me something cool. She said, "Hook them with your opening sentence, make them laugh, then chill them with your closer." So... there you have it. A third of the equation. For now.

I'm really depressed. I need someone to read my words. Sorry I had to hook you like that, but since you're now hooked, I thought maybe you'd stay a while and help me. I have a lot of problems. My wife is gay. I just got fired. I'm allergic to soap. My house burned down. I moved to Florida and got hit in the face with five hurricanes. I owe my mother $84,773.90. My pants are too tight. Kids call me "Douchehead." My father is gay. I don't own a suit. My barber nicked my earlobe. I have sexual dreams about Madeline Albright. I have a nipple on my ass. I'm deaf. I don't know where Missouri is.

In case you're losing interest, consider yourself re-hooked by the following sentence: Everyone in Turkey woke up at the same time and wet themselves, so the floating kangaroo rode the urine wave all the way to the World Series of Poker.

Back to me. I can't swim. I can't sleep. My friend's Rabbi thinks I'm Barbara Walters. I'm bald. I have a paper clip stuck to my underpants. I still have cassette tapes. I root for the Diamondbacks. My dentist is gay. I vote for Ralph Nader. My hemmorhoids have nicknames. Everyone in Budapest and at the Delaware Department of Transportation hates me. I throw like a handicapped chef named Lorraine. God thinks I'm a dick.

Okay, thanks for your time. Thanks for reading my words. Believe me, it helps. A final gem as a parting gift, a token of my appreciation: The floating kangaroo owns an assault rifle, knows where you live, and wears a big red monocle - the better to watch your exploding skull.