A Bosom's Booty
By Kosative D.

“Folie à Deux – a psychiatric syndrome in which symptoms of a delusional belief are transmitted from one individual to another. A madness shared by two.”


Pesky, pickled, sobered bound
A lock, a key, a bosom found.
A stature, broken hearts pursue—
A madness deathly shared by two.

I tied her up—she nodded in desperate approval. Desire tightening her bosoms—her nipples fluidly dripped blood and pus. Reaping the benefits of a Vodka doused beverage, her tied up limbs screeched passion and excitement.

We’d been reclused in the house for months—ordering meals and liquids from a nearby delivery station. Our sanity dripped the walls with paint—paint of our poetry we’d written on the dry walls brigade.

We’d spoken about this moment for as long as we could fathom—our minds lost in our oblivion. She kept the secrets we’d been searching for in her chest—a chest oh so similar to that of a pirate’s booty. It’d been locked away too long now. Sudden representation of pathogens lined the crevice—time was no worry—temporal irrelevance.

It had been ages perhaps, ensued in a moment—a minute gone rancid with eternity. A rot so deep it drove us mad. Yet how mad was a bosom’s booty?

She prepared herself—breathing deep. I laughed—she mimicked its insanity—echoing its voltage with intensity—her own laughter sounding as original as my first.

She outstretched her breasts—hands tied behind her back, stuck to the chairs wooden frame. Stretch marks lined her thinned stomach—thin from our reclusion—thinned from our repulsion. Ribs poking through the vintage anatomical lining, the epidermal dress.

I slithered to her uptight pressed out presence—hair standing up on her delicate skin—just as an irked, indignant witch’s cats might when egged on.

As my tongue licked and slurped in radiant desire, I latched the rusted knife behind my back—the key to the finest of fine. Her eyes rang crisp with approval.

I flipped the knife, gripped its neck, and plunged its glory into the middle of her bosom. She squealed with joy—an orgasm of pleasant appraisal!

I turned the knife counter clockwise as blood gush—an artery tangled in its metallic glaze, its web of fine descent.

The knife was the key—as I pulled it out, I reached my hands into her skeletal opening—the bone felt weakened and raw—a milky hardness, like malice milk gone bad.

I ripped her chest plate apart and there it shown! The gold coins of glory. They shone with radiance—gold coins that rested in her bosom for millennia.

The light that reflected off the doubloons transfixed their beauty onto me—an elegance to graze my present mentality—a bosom’s booty indeed!

Her eyes lost that life-ridden glow, each muscle fading its awakened presence to the universe, molecules vacuumed through the nonsensical space that ensued.

And though she gazed at the cosmos, death lining her pores, she smiled. She knew the treasure to be worth her loss—for her gain was eternity in golden glory—treasure engulfing both our freedoms.

- - -
My name is Kyle D'Amico, I write under the pseudonym Kosative D. In my middle school years I was struck with noetic power, the desire to create poems in everything. From this point on I just wrote and wrote and loved each second of it, though this was just a "hobby" of mine, I decided it was absolutely what I was destined for during my third year of college--I had traveled through many universities majoring in philosophy, creative writing, and film before I came to the conclusion that writing is just my thing. I love creating stories of madness and troubles and I try to be as poetic as possible in the midst; horrific strife in beautiful waves.


Vowel Movement
By Donal Mahoney

When a writer lacks
verbs and nouns
he's the victim of
writer's block.
His mind may house
too many consonants,
too few vowels.

Without vowels,
his consonants congeal
and become a mass.
The result is
verbal constipation.
The only cure,
some doctors say,
is a very big

vowel movement,
larger than a loaf
of pumpernickel
or a Seinfeld
marble rye.
Some writers,
desperate for

a very big
vowel movement,
try dynamite.
Not good.
Other writers tout
Agent Orange,
Monsanto's legacy
in Vietnam
dropped off
half a century ago.

But Agent Orange
is not the answer
for writer's block.
It melts a writer
slowly and melts
as well
generations of
his descendants
as it has for years
In Vietnam where

the great-grandchildren
of innocent farmers
whose crops
were sprayed
with Agent Orange
are born deformed.
They are the new lepers
from Monsanto,
not from Molokai.

On the streets
the children startle tourists
from Boston and New York
who are munching on
delightful spring rolls
dipped in lovely sauces
at outdoor cafe tables
under big umbrellas
that ward off
the burning
noonday sun.

- - -
Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.


My Secret Life As A Garden Gnome
By Allen Taylor

It started as an ailment to curiosity.

I was walking home from school one spring day when I saw a statue of a little bearded man standing happily in Mrs. Crenshaw's garden. I ventured into her yard for a closer look and he stood there in an unmoving, unflinching happy pose. Wondering how it would feel, I slid gracefully into the garden and stood beside him, doing my best to mimic his contentedness with a version of my own.

It was a five-minute jaunt. No more. Harmless, as far as I could tell.

When I stepped out of the garden I felt a rush unlike any feeling I'd ever felt. I looked around to see if anyone had noticed me. To my knowledge, no one had.

Taking my path again, I made my way home, quickening my pace so as not to arouse any suspicions from my mother regarding my tardiness. When nothing came of my indiscretion I felt relieved. A full week commenced before I got up the nerve to try it again.

The rain felt as good as the sunshine. Mrs. Crenshaw was not one of those 1950s women who stayed home and kept house. She was more like the women who left the house alone during the day showing themselves every bit as capable of joyful employment as the men they love. With no one home, I managed to take advantage of the opportunity.

As I stepped into Mrs. Crenshaw's garden the second time, I felt the soft ground sink beneath my overly shod feet. It had rained for most of the day. The drizzle at that moment made the adventure all the more exciting. The little man seemed as happy in the rain as he had been in the sun.

I was at first apprehensive about the weather, but upon assuming the most trance-like pose I could imagine I realized that I was living the best ten minutes of my life. The rain blasting my face made me a new boy. My life had new meaning.

I soon found myself in Mrs. Crenshaw's garden every day. Sometimes it was for a quick two-minute fix. Other times I lingered for a full half hour. But I always managed to make it home in time for dinner. If my dalliances aroused Mother's suspicions she never voiced any concerns.

It wasn't long before my short daily stints as Mrs. Crenshaw's garden gnome weren't enough. I had to have more. I snuck out of the house one night impelled by an urge I could not control.

I waited until my parents went to bed at quarter after midnight. Then I quietly pulled myself from the bed, traded my pajamas for day clothes and crept my way to Mrs. Crenshaw's house in the dark. It was the most mood-enhancing three hours of my existence.

It then became my nightly mission to be the best garden gnome in the city. Mrs. Crenshaw's garden wasn't enough. I found myself taking different paths home from school every day to scout the locations of other gardens. At night after my parents retired to sleep in their cozy sheets, I would make my way to a different garden and personify myself as the resident garden gnome. I eventually did so without divesting myself of my pajamas.

At Old Man Johnson's house, I got jealous. The permanent garden gnome didn't seem to like me being there. I removed him and set him on the front porch with his back toward me. It was the greatest pleasure I'd ever known. A whole garden all to myself for five straight hours.

I liked full moon nights best. The rays of hope upon my face made me the happiest garden gnome in any garden on any night. But I always enjoyed the garden under any unchangeable conditions.

It mattered not what plants, what fruit, what vegetables, what flora may have been occupying a garden, or whose house, church, school, business, or government building hosted it. My life as a garden gnome was the most fulfilling it could have been. I was happiest when standing without movement under the moon and stars. But soon, standing under the moon became a monotonous chore. I looked for ways to make it more interesting, to bring back that waning exhilaration that once made my life complete.

I removed my pajamas, standing naked in whatever natural or unnatural light, if any, might be present. I posed with cigarettes in my mouth, which had to be lifted from my parents' nightstand while they slept. I stood with one leg raised. I sampled various poses – the sailor pose, the schoolboy pose, the hard worker pose, and poses which had no name. My life as a garden gnome took on a whole new level of satisfaction. But even then I would eventually grow weary again, seeking new challenges.

My grades began to slide. Sharply. I fell asleep in class. Miss Pataki once threw a book at me to stop me from snoring. My parents had a conference with the school principal. They grounded me. I was even suspended from school for one week due to a lunchtime lack of judgment that found me in the school's Japanese garden behind the automotive shop. Another student caught me sneaking in, taking off my clothes, and inserting one of Mr. Brondshell's cigars into my mouth before taking up a pose as a merchant marine. My secret was out.

Eventually, I turned to a life of crime. It was the only recourse I had. No one understood the pleasure I derived from standing in gardens. I couldn't get anyone's permission to be their unpaid garden gnome. Garden owners didn't understand what beauty I found standing motionless and without purpose in their well-kept gardens. I was forced to slink into gardens when no one could detect me. I became a hapless cur. It became a never ending passion and I soon found myself standing in gardens every minute of the day. Even at the local police precinct.

The chief wasn't happy. He cuffed me. He took me inside, booked me, put me behind bars. And thus was the beginning of my career as a criminal garden gnome. Today I am in prison. Minimum security. Nonetheless, I am a prisoner of my own addiction. I am blessed that the prison staff let me stand in the warden's oft-neglected garden unabated by guilt or their attempts to rehabilitate me.

- - -
Allen Taylor is the author a collection of poetry, "Rumsfeld's Sandbox," available at Amazon for the Kindle and Smashwords in other e-book formats, and the short story, "The Saddest Tale Ever Told," which is available at Amazon for the Kindle. He is the owner/publisher of Garden Gnome Publications, which specializes in short speculative fiction in the digital format. He teaches a course on blog marketing for writers.


By Nikita Gill

It takes 14 minutes and twelve seconds to walk to your home from mine every day. Your mother never fails to smile at me when she opens the door. I never fail to notice that it doesn't reach her eyes anymore.

You leave your door open an exact two point three centimeters. I don't think you do it on purpose. There is something wrong with the wood that has left it that way. I pause one foot outside the door and listen to you cough, trying to determine how sick you feel today. I hate that every time I think you are particularly ill, I am always right.

Six months, seventeen days and fourteen hours. That is how long its been since the doctors told us you had an illness. I sat there with your parents, listening to a man who said words like 'terminal' and 'leukemia', and counted the number of times he said 'patient' as if it were your name (Seventeen).

The blood bank says one unit is four hundred and fifty milliliters and I watch as they put the needle into my arm to pump out the blood into a little plastic bag. It takes exactly five minutes twenty one seconds, because I'm holding my arm so tight. If I could give you all my blood so you could feel better for just a day, I would.

It has been seven days, twelve hours and fourteen minutes since the ambulance came for you. Six days, fifteen hours and seven minutes since the doctors told us they couldn't help you anymore. I am counting the drips of the glucose as it goes into your arm, my body wrapped around yours, trying to pretend this is a bad dream.

You say noisily, a laugh escaping your parched mouth, that I am obsessed with numbers. I want to tell you you're wrong. My obsession is you. I say nothing. This is the first time you have laughed in one month, three weeks and two days.


Did you know that when someone dies their body weight drops quite suddenly? It is not really noticeable unless you have held them close whilst they are dying, praying to every god that you won't lose them. It is just a touch. But it's there when they leave you.

21 grams. That is the weight of a human soul.

- - -
Nikita Gill is a 25 year old madness who once wrote a unknown book called Your Body is an Ocean and now is editor of a literary magazine called Modern Day Fairytales. A long time ago, she wrote a six sentence story for Monkeybicycle.net and was featured there.


Love Choices
By Jerry Guarino

“So, who do you choose? Would you rather be with someone you are in love with or someone that is in love with you?”
“Why can’t I have both?”
“That isn’t the question. It can be with a woman who is in love with you or one that isn’t but that you are in love with. You can only have one woman. Which one do you want?”
“Is this a temporary relationship or permanent?”
“Permanent. Life partner. Marriage and kids.”
The two college friends had come to this final question after years of looking for the perfect mate. Jeff and Bob were both from good families, graduated from New England medical schools and had good careers as doctors. But they found themselves on opposite sides of this question.
“What about other factors? Looks, brains, sexual compatibility?”
“We’ve been through all this. The only difference is that one woman can’t live without you and you can’t live without the other one, but she doesn’t feel the same way.”
Jeff was first to compare. “So for me it’s Pam or Beth?”
“But we’ve been through this.”
“I know, last year. Time changes a person. Start again.”
“All right. Pam is perfect. She always has been. I wouldn’t change anything about her. Except.”
“Except she doesn’t feel the same way about me. We date, but it doesn’t progress into anything serious.”
“What have you done to move the relationship forward?”
“Everything short of proposing. Whenever it looks like we’re going to be exclusive, she has a way of backing off. Not breaking up, just not evolving. She’s beautiful and we have great chemistry; she’s just a little aloof.”
“Yes. You know I have to carry the conversation. A woman that lets the man do all the talking is not serious about him.”
“Hmm. And Beth?”
“Beth. Well, the situation is flipped. Beth is gorgeous and we have great chemistry, but I don’t feel like committing to her.”
“That’s just it. I don’t know. Beth is everything I should want, until I compare her to Pam.”
“That’s sad, my friend. You have great sex with two beautiful women and you have found a problem with it.”
“Well, everyone has to settle down sometime. I just can’t decide with who.”
“Jeff that’s exactly why I decided to choose between Sara and Linda.”
“You’ve made a decision?”
“Yes, I’m going to propose to Linda. She’s crazy about me and I do love her.”
“You do? I thought you weren’t in love with her.”
“I’m not Jeff. But I do love her. There’s a fine difference.”
“Bob. What happens when you start comparing Linda to Sara?”
“I’ve been doing that for a year now. I can’t convince Sara to love me the way Linda does. So while you wait for Pam to come around, I’ll be coaching my kid’s soccer team. You’re still my best man, yes?”
“Of course. Don’t tell me you have a date already?”
“I already know Linda wants a June wedding. I’m proposing next week, so you have six months to be ready.”
“So you’re ready to give up on Sara?”
“I’ve tried for two years. It’s not going to happen. I’ll be very happy with Linda. She is totally in love with me, in every way.”
“I’ll see you next June then.”
“Hopefully, you’ll have decided between Pam and Beth before then.”
“I hope so too.”


Jeff arrived at Legal Sea Foods on Thursday night, the day before the rehearsal dinner. He saw Bob at the bar. They hugged and sat down for a drink.
“You’re a man of your word Bob. I wish you and Linda a lifetime of happiness.”
“I am happy. It’s funny. Once I made a commitment, I felt myself falling in love with her. I have no regrets now.”
“That’s great. Maybe there’s hope for me too.”
“Why? Have you made any progress with Pam and Beth?”
Just then they were interrupted by Sara, who rushed to the bar and gave Bob a hug and kiss. “Bob, I’m so happy for you. I only wish I could go to your wedding.”
Bob gave Jeff a look. “Sara, you haven’t met my friend Jeff. He went to Dartmouth med and practices in New Hampshire.”
Sara inspected the tall, athletic friend and gave him a friendly kiss. “Bob, how long have you been keeping this one away from me?”
Jeff caught Bob’s eye over Sara’s shoulder and mimed out a question. Bob just shrugged. “Sara, at the time I thought you and I had a future.”
“You know I’ll always love you Bob. But Linda’s a better fit for you.” Can I steal him for a private drink over there?”
Bob shook his head. “Sure, have your way with him.”
“Just give me a minute to go to the ladies room Jeff.” She winked at Jeff and left.
“Well Jeff. I don’t believe it. Two minutes with her and she’s ready to bed you. How do you do it?”
“I’m a doctor Bob. We have this aura.”
“Very funny.”
“Bob, you think I could bring Sara to the wedding as my plus one?”
“OK, why the hell not. We already had a place for a guest.”
“Hey you never told me about Pam and Beth. What’s the story?”
“They’re running a bakery in Vermont. I just got an invitation to their wedding.”
Bob was stunned with his mouth open.
Then Sara came back from the ladies room. “Ready for that drink Jeff? Or maybe we should have dinner.” She put her arm inside his and they walked into the dining room.
Jeff glanced over his shoulder and winked at Bob who just threw up his hands.

- - -
Jerry Guarino’s short stories have been published by dozens of magazines in the United States, Canada, Australia and Great Britain. His latest book, "50 Italian Pastries", is available on Amazon.com and as a Kindle eBook. Please visit his website at http://cafestories.net

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