Rons, Socketers and Knots

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by Michael Haulica

They call me Yumo. I can’t figure out the reason why, `cause my name is Sylvester. I hear them all the time: don’t forget, Yumo, Monday at 7. Or: tomorrow at 6, Yumo.

I’m a stalker. That’s the slang statement for a sort of a guide. Actually, they’d be lost without me. None of those who entered the 14th Knot alone ever came back. Continue Reading »


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by Frank Hebben

The voice of an old film

Muted mono sound, two beat music

Rain light at the window

“I’ll buy it,” said the girl with the butterfly eyes. “How many fragments is it?”

The broker bent over the transmitter, a gadget like a cube, wires left and right ending with golden connections for the forehead. Continue Reading »

Semiotics for Wolves

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by Vladimir Hernández

It is midnight and Onyx is on the streets once more.

She has cemented her position with sperm and blood; a beautiful Afro girl with fiery hair, living at the edge of her own humanity, diving nightly into an endless déjà vu which leads into the dark recesses of her soul. Continue Reading »

The Dope Machine

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by Sven Klöpping

Cinescape … what a feeling!

I’m opposed, you know.

While I sit on my buzzing seat in the CineBowl arena, watching the three-dimensional, nevertheless boring movie, my reasonable mind gets opposed to all kinds of modern Hollywood thrillers. I mean, how idiotic must those producers believe us to be that they should publish something like that? “Leave the place!” my mind screams. But I don’t stand up. I’m just sittin’, watchin’, sittin’, watchin’. Continue Reading »


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by Zoran Krušvar

I’m ten years old.

Mom’s crying.

Dad’s sitting under the shower, water spraying on him, sliding off his skin in tiny streams. He’s shaking and sobbing like my little brother Marko when he’s ill. The shower curtain’s torn. Everywhere I look there’s rust, and the ceiling is covered by those dark damp stains. Some of the tiles are cracked, but it’s not my fault, they were already like that when we moved in. Continue Reading »

Lost in Recollection

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by Richard Kunzmann

>> A strobe slashes through the darkness, illuminating an arc of blood as it glitters in the air. In that brief flash sound seems to fade out. <<

That glistening arc is his only memory. The blood came from a woman – he feels this rather than remembers it. Feet stumble across a wet, desolate street, deep in the industrial hinterland of London’s East End. The darkness just before dawn is illuminated by a pallid glow cast by tired streetlights in a thin rain. Continue Reading »


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by Achmed Khammas

After we had completed the installations on the moon where by now more than ten thousand people lived, I applied for my compensation to pay off the last instalments for our farm in Wyoming. After all I had promised my wife to stay on Earth and with her in the future after these „brainless adventures“ as she repeatedly called them. Although our two children already studied, she thought that some fatherly presence might help. I had just the opposite opinion but I certainly didn’t want to risk a marital dispute. Continue Reading »

Generation E: The Emoticon Generation

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by Guy Hasson

Six months ago, I snuck into my fifteen-year-old daughter’s room when she was asleep, ‘borrowed’ her iPhone, and started checking up on everything she’s been up to.

It was late at night, and I’d just seen Brian Williams profile pedophiles on the web. They’re out there, talking to teenagers anonymously, luring them away from their computers and into meetings in the physical world. Parents have no idea what their teenagers are doing on the web. And, yes, Williams gave us the money line, “Do you know what your kids are up to?” Continue Reading »

Pride and Joy

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by Gustavo Bondoni

Myrna signaled that she wanted to get off.

The driver eyed her in the mirror, his face registering surprise, „Whatcha want to get off here for?“ he asked. „There ain’t nothing around.“

It was true. This stretch of Highway 25, fifteen miles south of the ghost town of Socorro, New Mexico was just as desolate as any other, yet her GPS informed her that they were almost on top of the dirt road that led to the base. Continue Reading »

Dreams at Dusk

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by Achmed Khammas

Finally, I reached the motorway exit after playing the same music disk for the third time. I inhaled deeply and drove the car carefully into the curve. The asphalt was ruptured from years of neglect. Our friends and family frequently complained about the purchase of a country house that was so far from civilization, but its remote location was exactly why we had decided to buy the house in the first place. It meant that I was able to get away from everything, to write in peace and quiet without subjecting myself to the constant visits of bored city refugees eager to recover from the stress of city life. Real friends would visit despite the distance and would stay no longer than the weekend. Continue Reading »

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