Wayne Lerner, Fiction Wayne Lerner Wayne Lerner, Fiction Wayne Lerner

The Wooden Door (3)

Martha took Lamar’s hand. “This gang warfare is senseless. It will get you nowhere,” she said. Then she took Paulie’s hand. “Don’t you understand that if you beat Lamar and his boys, there will always be someone else waiting to take you on. The battle will never end.”

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Wayne Lerner Wayne Lerner Wayne Lerner Wayne Lerner

The Wooden Door (2)

“Hanging out with your buddies on the street. Beating up strangers so often that the cops at the station know me by name. Stealing. What are you doing with your life?” His Mom slumped down on his bed and put her head in her hands.

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Contributor, Fiction Contributing Writer Contributor, Fiction Contributing Writer

I Give You Nothing

She was America’s wet dream, white, blonde, and beautiful. Of course, these physical characteristics were used against her, primarily by those who had not achieved a fraction of what she had earned. Her accomplishments were never, according to these people, the fruits of her natural intellect and hard labor. Rather, they were the inevitable conclusion derived from the size of her breasts/ass/stomach, as well as a particularly nasty rumor that had been circulating since sophomore year concerning an alleged handjob she had given to Mr. Howley—the English teacher who organized these events—behind the bleachers in the old gymnasium.

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Contributor, Fiction Contributing Writer Contributor, Fiction Contributing Writer

Extinguished Light

He broke into a piece of the earth with his shovel. The burial, he had decided, would take place in front of the farm. The surrounding soil was fertile enough, so the dig wouldn’t be too taxing, physically speaking. Halfway through, the father appeared to lose control of his basic motor skills. He dropped the shovel and immediately fell to his knees and began to dry-heave. The heaving gave way to a sudden and hostile appearance of vomit that expelled out of his mouth with a force that could only be described as audacious.

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Joe Mallon, Fiction Joe Mallon Joe Mallon, Fiction Joe Mallon

Darkness

“You alright?” asks the cop.

I try again. It’s harder and harder to breath. My chest.

“I can’t breathe. My sternum. It’s bursting out of my chest.” I lean on his car.

“Whoa there, fella, I just got it washed.”

“Please. Help me.”

The cop laughs. “Looks like you’re dying.” He stretches his arms back with a yawn, then straightens his hat. “Time for me go.”

“No.” Another gasp.

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Fiction, Joe Mallon Joe Mallon Fiction, Joe Mallon Joe Mallon

The Bog

Finn placed his hand on Michael’s shoulder and squeezed. “I wish there was another way, Michael. I do. But this is best for you. And us, o’course. A hunter best hunts alone. You’ll be a better man for it when ye come home.”

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Fiction, Joe Mallon Joe Mallon Fiction, Joe Mallon Joe Mallon

The Coffee Shop

“You know.” The stranger winked. “I mean, what if you pissed someone off bad. I mean really bad. And they wanted it taken care of? In a coffee shop? Say, this one? At,” he looked at his watch, then looked up smiling. “One o’clock and thirty-five seconds.” He laughed. “And the guy to do it was supposed to be me? Weird, huh?”

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