Stillfire

by Michael Downing

Otis Crowe sits on the top step of the porch, sun bright in his face, finger curled around both triggers of the shotgun resting across his knees. His joints ache, the years catching up faster now, but his eyes are still hard and focused, sharp as broken glass in a church parking lot and just as unforgiving. Down below, where the road twists around the mountain, the tires on the revenue man’s Ford kick up a cloud of dust as the car dips behind the tree line before rumbling back into view, topping the ridge. He always knew it was only a matter of time — after spending most of Prohibition running moonshine, sooner or later Hoover’s G-Men were bound to come knocking. Otis stands, racking shells as he swings the double-barrel to his waist, his smile thin and mean. The glass jars from his latest batch of whiskey aren’t going to be the only thing buried beneath the red clay dirt under the backyard still.

6S

Michael Downing is a writer originally from New Jersey, now living in a small college town in Georgia. Over the past twenty years he has written some plays, published a few books, and his short stories have been featured in various publications and anthologies (some that have even been nominated for Pushcart Prizes). He is still everything New Jersey: attitude, edginess, and Bruce Springsteen... but not Bon Jovi.

Forensics

by R.K. West

They say that it isn’t possible to get rid of blood, for two reasons: first, it is pervasive, spreading out and soaking in, penetrating the corners and crevices, leaving tiny drops and flecks on unexpected surfaces; and second, it resists cleaning, undefeated by ordinary sprays and detergents, made even worse by bleach or ammonia. The only way to get rid of blood is with more blood. The two bloods will blend together, much the way decaf and espresso in the same cup create a single confusing beverage. Using my own blood would be counterproductive, so I must turn to one of the neighbor’s chickens, and I am surprised when this makes me feel both squeamish and guilty. As the blood drains from the headless little feathered corpse, contaminating the red-brown puddle in the kitchen, I realize, with regret, that it is not enough, and another bird must be sacrificed. The carcasses go into the trash bins, where, of course, they will be quickly discovered, but I plan to answer questions about them the same way I will answer all the other questions: "I don’t know."

6S

R.K. West lives in the Pacific Northwest, where it is damp and mossy.

The Woman

by Clarice Wynn

She moved in on a Tuesday. The building buzzed with the routines of solitary men—sports on low volume, microwaves humming, chatter in the hallways. One by one, the men began to change. Scarves replaced ties, dinner parties replaced dinners, poetry replaced silence. No one asked why she came, or if she’d ever leave. They loved her.

6S

Clarice Wynn writes flash fiction between cups of mint tea.