You do? Well, you asked.

Once upon a time there was a handsome man. He too knew the art of chainsaw juggling, but he could only do it when the chainsaws were unplugged–otherwise, he became entangled in the extension cords. Still, I was impressed; it was so romantic, watching him practice.

Whatever wants to be written will be written. Whatever calls out to me will be a song. Whatever crosses the yard at night will be photographed and charted. Whatever crosses the sky will be remembered. Whoever speaks will be heard. Whoever listens will be repaid. Whatever clock is wound in the bedroom on the dresser in the moonlight by the pack of matches taken in Las Vegas from a bowl will ring at the time it is set for. Whatever curtain waves like a bird’s wing. Whatever grass grows green in the sun. Whatever speech comes unbidden to the tongue. Whatever lamp is lit.

Dear Babette, when I heard that you had lost your bicycle, I was torn up inside. I felt like a pack of wild hyenas laughed and chewed my insides out. I know how much your sweet, sweet feet loved to pedal on that bicycle, and I am sorry to hear that it is gone.

Babette, I wrote as soon as I could. I was saddened to hear about your toe-sprain. Toe-sprains are abominable creatures. It was not your big toe, I fear, for that is absolutely the worst. I know how much you loved your lovely, lovely toe. It pained me like a rock to the forehead to hear. Speedy recovery.

At June's Action Fiction!, Omnibucket presented its first experiment in performed screenplays - assigning actors to perform Bobby Bell's script "Scenes from A Stranger in Barcelona."  

We think it went quite well.  Here's the text.  Read all Action Fiction! stories here.

At this month's Action Fiction! we were proud to have a previously published piece by Ben Black performed:  The Woodcutter's Wife, a new take on classic  fairy tale.  

That's our favorite kind.  

You should read here.

And stay tuned for the publication of the rest of June's Action Fiction!

The music sheets fluttered about the hard wood floor as she danced on them with her shiny tap shoes, her giggles filling the room like bubbles, distorting reality with pastel reflections of the room and her face.The soft curve of her dimpled cheek and pure pink of her sweet mouth. Her feet never stopping, just tap-tapping along the sheets, making music on the music.

I’m 35, and I just got my sense of humor last week.

Everybody thinks they have a sense of humor – I always thought I did – but the truth is that almost nobody knows how to laugh when it really counts.

I’ve been in prison 10 years.

There were two guards.  They handled him roughly.  They tossed him into a metal room, and before he could stand up they hauled him to his feet and strapped him down to a cold and uncomfortable chair.  In front of him, sat a dark haired officer in an unusual uniform.

“Name?” asked the officer coldly.

“Who are you?”

“NAME?”

“Peter.”

“Peter, yes,” the officer was not amused.  “Peter Kreppner, of 1602 Benson Court, here in the city.  Yes.  Do you know why you’re here?”

That was the question.  That was the question.  “God no.”

She’d seen them as soon as they’d come in.  They sat down, alone, on the little benches and stared out across the wide wooden floor as though it were an ocean at high tide.  It wasn’t just that they were alone, though:  In a room full of dancers, it’s easy to spot the people who are estranged from their bodies.

He was soft in all the usual places, with vibrantly brown hair that wouldn’t stay in place.  He crossed and uncrossed his legs as he waited, and he read from a Kindle that conveniently kept him from having to pay attention to people in the room.

The mother was dreaming about the closet.

The closet was always there, just around the corner in Bill’s room, a closet with a lock on the outside.

She’d only been put in there three times, but it seemed like fifty because of the dreams.

No louvres.

The groping shirtsleeves.

The smell of stale, stored cigarettes.

The smell of shoes.

Worst of all, the smell of the guns.

The first time he put her in there, he’d forgotten about the guns.