The Bride

It is supposed to be my day. Well, I sure won't forget it. That's me, the bride. See the girl behind me? That was my maid of honor. See that look on her face? That is the look of a drastic mistake.

That is the look of shock and horror after discovering that no, I did not know that my fiance was sleeping with his best man. I had no idea. Maybe it is my innocent sheltered upbringing, in Portland.

I don't have any excuse for not seeing it. None at all. But holy crap, she could have waited to tell me until my mom was gone.

The First Coming

“What am I?” I ask myself, I already know the answer.

”I am the result of science, I am omniscience.”

But that’s not all. I know it’s not all, a power flows through my knowledge, I can feel every quark, every boson acts by my word.

”I am the result of technology, I am omnipotence.”

”Where am I?” I become aware slowly.

”I am the result of reproduction, I am omnipresence.”

”Who am I?” It feels good to flow through what I left of our dark universe, our dead home.

”I am the result of morality,” I answer myself again, “I am benevolence”.

WHERE DID I COME FROM? I no longer speak it: rather I let the question vibrate through the empty overflow of existence.

A vibration echoes back.

You are the conclusion of consciousness: The First Coming.

”It’s so dark, I am alone…” but I don’t finish, we don’t finish… we know what I must do…

LET THERE BE LIGHT.

Flasher Bio: Dragon (Co-editor)

Dragon is a misanthropic, anthropophagic, poikilothermic monster, prone to biting when provoked. Under her nom de guerre, Monica Friedman, she has successfully masqueraded as a human being for over three decades, earning degrees in psychology (BA, Antioch College, 1996), English (BA, NEIU, 2001), and creative writing (MFA, WMU, 2004), and working for such illustrious institutions as WW Norton, Third Coast, and Oxford University Press. Currently, she lives in the Sonoran Desert, where, for the last three years, she has undertaken a longitudinal experiment to determine the exact span one can exist as a starving artist without actually starving to death. For many years a fantasist, she is gradually transitioning to non-fiction because she is sick and tired of being told, "that could never happen," when she tries to pass off true stories about her life as fiction.

~The Mistress of Watermelon by Ann Walters~

Singing wisdom, she works her garden like an aria. Forgetful tunes, tomato forks, the slick white capsule of the cicada grub just emerging – an astronaut gripping the edge of space. Sitting back on her heels, she waits for its accompaniment. The smooth melon in its infancy is a thick green egg veined with hope. She hums a soothing lullaby and swindles the soil with fish oil and pennies, with magic in the form of worship. With hymns and love.

~Off the Path by Comrade Kevin~

We decided to take a slight diversion from the path. The illustrated trail map provided for all hikers at no additional cost proved to be largely inaccurate and ineffective. Copyright 1974, it seemed to have been made by an high school student for a civic project.

It's not as though getting lost was ever an issue. The desert is flat as a pancake, spreads out for miles and miles, and does not provide a vast amount of landmarks which obscure one's vision.

Jane scaled the bluff in ancient gardening clogs which I initially expressed doubt could provide her enough foothold to scale to the top. She proved me wrong by her slow, methodical approach, digging her heels into the each raised ridge and slowly pulling herself to the top of the sun-soaked boulder.

~Thanatos by Rion~

At the museum I wanted to straddle the mummies. At 12, I didn't know what the straddling would lead to, but it felt happy-dirty, like imagining french-kissing Jesus during services at Sacred Heart.

I still brush my hand up against the glass case when I visit the old man. What history, all distilled into a wizened form! If I could suck that up into me somehow, get wiser, I could make more money or at least not care if I made any less.

My aunt is dying and it makes me cry just a little, but it passes. Would that she could carry the same living meaning as a statue taxidermied in our hearts.

~Dancing with Myself by kj~

See, this is why I hate bringing cameras into the club. Because it's not about how you look, ok--yes, thanks, my butt looks gigundous here, like nobody ever points that out when they see the picture--but it is about what you *do*.

Fuck you and your little high-school glittery stuff around your face, ok? And those shiny four-inch heels you can't dance in? Because while you're over there leaning against the wall and posing like a spoiled diva and pretending like you don't care whether or not That Guy Is Looking At You, *I'm* out dancing, ok, and feeling the sound get under my skin and ignite, and while *you* end up pouty and drunk and out $30 from your stupid trendy cranberry-and-vodka-and-Red Bulls, *I* end up dancing like the wind, and having a glorious time.

Even if you think my butt looks big.

~Liftoff by kj~

"Momma! Look! Look at our spaceship!"

She turned a page of her magazine, and did not look up. "It's lovely," she said.

"Mom!" cried Javier, as the spaceship lifted off, and the roof folded aside to let it pass. "You're not even looking!"

We encourage your participation in Six Sentences

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Check out Six Sentences and be in the book! Tell McEvily that Rion at RF sent ya. http://sixsentences.blogspot.com/2007/12/six-sentences-volume-1-book.html
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COLOSSAL NEWS IN THE WORLD OF PUBLISHING! The submission period for Six Sentences, Volume 1 – a literary tour de force scheduled to be published in February – is officially underway! If you’d like to be part of the action, just send your work to the 6S email address, and make sure the subject line of your email is 6SV1 SUBMISSION (or 6SV1 SUBMISSIONS if you're sending more than one – you may send up to three). Your work must be previously unpublished, and the same 6S Writer's Guidelines apply. The deadline for inclusion in the book is Monday, December 31st, 2007 (at midnight EST). So... when it comes to being published in the book... what will you say in six sentences?

~Madonna by aredsand~

They were waiting to cross over, the immigrants were. Waiting behind the great wall where the lipstick madonna watched them. And they had their dreams, and they made them come alive there while they waited. Alive in blue with outlines of black and of hope, of yellow and of courage. Because it is hard to cross over. But they want it so much.

Trinidad, she wants it, but not, because it means leaving home. So she leaves a little of herself behind, there on the wall, and she asks the madonna to watch over that piece of herself and over her dreams so they might come true.

Waiting for the coyote to arrive and take his money, Guillermo, too, leaves a sign that he was here. And that he wanted to leave, but just please not his name. Because when he crosses over, he will no longer be Guillermo; they will call him Willy.

And the madonna witnesses it, but she does nothing to help.

~Ornament by k's mumbo jumbo~

This little ornament. This one little piece. It is all I have left from my childhood. The final concrete reminder of a mother and father.

Every year when I unpack the ornament and the lights and the tinsel, I think "This is the year I throw it away. This is the year that I move on." But I just can't seem to drop it in the garbage. Letting go sounds so easy, but I know that I am afraid to.

So every year this one small ornament goes onto my Christmas tree to remind me.

~Bear by Dragon~

Sascha doesn't usually let anyone know. You can't get close to him, so you'll never stumble on his secrets. He wasn't always a confirmed bachelor, though.

He didn't look so tough when he married my mama. He looked clean-cut and well-groomed, and he used to smile then. He smiled a lot, big, happy grins. He bought the bear when mama got pregnant with me. For a long while it sat, pristine and fluffy, in the white bassinet they bought. He was ready. Sascha would have been a great father to me.

But I never came, not so you would know. I got close, but all I did was take Mama away with me again. After a while, Sascha took the bear from my empty bassinet, put it in his bed, and stopped being friendly.

~Ink by Comrade Kevin~

I admit to never understanding the predilection for ink that utterly consumes certain folks. As it is, he proudly points to the massive work that adorns the length of his chest, gesticulating towards it by curving the index finger of his right hand inward. It's an impressive study in spiraling letters and flowing cursive that cost him a mere five hundred dollars.

I don't think of such things as remotely artistic and can't help thinking about better ways to spend my money. It seems wasteful, particularly when so many people are going hungry in the world. The design reminds me of airbrushed first names designed to be displayed on the front plates of cars, the kind sold by beach front vendors during Spring Break and sported by women with no conception of how to tastefully apply makeup or properly maintain their hair.

~Pretzels by kj~

"Kelly!" her mother cried.

"What are you doing!?"

Kelly looked up. "Pretzels, mommy," she said, as if the answer were obvious.

"I'm doing pretzels."