Leap into the Sky
by Steven x Davis
I’m getting ready to jump up to heaven, but my legs aren’t strong enough yet. For the past several weeks, I’ve been practicing a variety of leg exercises, which should strengthen my calves and thighs so I can make the leap. I wanted to buy an all-purpose weight machine, but the boardinghouse where I live won’t let residents install exercise equipment, so I made do with some bungee cords and a couple of cinder blocks.
I read online that you should eat plenty of protein when you want to build muscle, so I went to the grocery store and bought a crate of ribeye steaks from the butcher. He gave me a great deal because the mad cow outbreak has scared everyone away from eating beef and the ribeyes were on the verge of going bad. He couldn’t sell them to anybody else, but I don’t mind sour meat as long as it’s cooked, and I’ll be in heaven long before mad cow disease can affect me.
I’m trying to eat between four and six steaks a day, depending on how much exercise I’m able to get in. I quit my job at the sandwich shop, but I still do odd jobs around the boardinghouse for Mrs. Potter, the landlady. Sometimes she calls me the “superintendent,” but she really just needs somebody to tape and glue things together after they break so she won’t have to replace anything or hire a real repairman. In exchange, my rent is only half of what the other residents pay, so the work is worth the trouble.
Apart from doing chores around the building, I spend most of my time training my legs. The only other time I leave my apartment is at breakfast.
Continue reading Leap into the Sky
The Stuff from Home
by Stanton McCaffery
Every quarter-mile or so, they passed another tent. Jim had their own tent tied together and strapped to his back. Sheila had offered to carry it many times, but Jim refused, of course. “Homeless,” Sheila realized, was not a good word at all, but possibly better than “abused” or “victim” or “dead.”
They passed a tent with a crow sitting on top of it. Its eyes were balls of glass circled by thin outlines of dried blood. Its claws tore into the canvas.
“Shoo,” Jim said.
They walked on. The crow flapped its wings loudly and flew above them. It stayed nearby, circling within view.
“It’s too cold,” Sheila said. The cold was making her sick. A ball of unpassable mucus sat like a fist in her chest. When she coughed, her eyes watered and her insides burned.
Bare trees cracked in the wind. Their path was an abandoned rail line, a narrow corridor of vegetation and refuse packed between apartment complexes and the New Jersey Turnpike. Some houses stood off in the distance behind a thin line of trees and dead weeds. The telephone poles were covered in indecipherable graffiti tags, looking ominous, as if they would morph into hands, reach out, grab Sheila by the throat, and strangle her.
Continue reading The Stuff from Home
Lost and Found
by Manny Frishberg
Just before the light turned green, you said that it was a lovely night for a ride and leaned your head way back to look at the sky. I revved the engine and let the clutch lever slide out from under my fingertips. The bike jumped and sped into the intersection before I saw the brake lights on the pickup as we skidded into it.
I only remember isolated flashes after that, like so many of your photographs, anchored in memory by a sound or smell. Changing streaks of colored light—red, orange, white, and red again—mixed up with the odor of hot oil on rain-washed pavement; stiff white linen and the taste of oxygen in a plastic mask; florescent lights reflected on stainless steel and the odor of iodine, combined with surging waves of pain.
I awoke in a seductive fog of opiates and gauze bandages, surrounded by dull-green curtains, after what the nurses told me had been two touch-and-go days. A black man wearing scrubs the same color as the curtains came in to change my bed sheets. I asked him where you were, the words like cotton in my mouth. Eventually he noticed I wanted to talk.
“So, you’ve decided to wake up, after all,” he said. “I’m Jamal.” He finished tucking in the bedding and left me without waiting for a response. Then a nurse came in to have a look. She said nothing but started to probe me, shining a penlight in my eyes, prodding my elbows and knees to check my reflexes, taking my temperature, and making notes in my chart before talking.
“Welcome back,” she said with a smile. “We weren’t sure you were going to make it.”
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After nearly a year of working on Acidic Fiction, I’ve had to come to terms with the fact that this magazine will not be viable in the long term. There are a few reasons—the most obvious of which is a lack of funding—but my biggest concern is that it’s preventing me from focusing on my own projects. My own career (such as it is) will have to become my primary focus again.
I do think the magazine has been a good use of my time, and I also think I have done a good (or at least adequate) job of supporting authors with token payments and constructive feedback. The stories on the site are all excellent, and I plan to continue maintaining the archive for current and future readers to explore.
However, I will no longer be considering new submissions. Once I finish reading my current backlog of submissions, I will publish a few more stories on the site before the end of June, depending on how many I decide to accept.
I still intend to release a second anthology this fall, containing the best short stories published on the site in 2015. The anthology will probably come out in August or September, depending on how much time I have to devote to other projects once June is over.
After that, the world will be a little more basic.
by Sean Benham
They were punishment for a lost bet one day, a curse from a bearded woman the next. The end result of a business venture gone sour, or sometimes it was a deal with the Devil. The edges of the smaller, vertical rectangle were tinged with a faint orange glow that burned from within. The larger, horizontal rectangle was a digital display; it didn’t quite function like a cheap alarm clock, but it sure looked like one. You could have asked him about them a hundred times and you wouldn’t have received the same answer twice. The truth was, he couldn’t remember how he wound up with a coin-op slot and a countdown timer lodged in the middle of his chest.
His name was Carter, most likely. He didn’t have any ID under that name, or any ID at all. What he did have was a jaggy, faded tattoo scrawled across his neck. It either read Carter or Carten, and he didn’t respond kindly to Carten.
Carter was a bum if you appreciated the indelicate; he was perpetually down on his luck if you didn’t. Slice the wording however you like, but one way or the other, he was homeless and used to be a fixture down on Main. He set up in front of the cake shop on weekdays, but when the weekend rolled around, a cupcake or two could usually convince him to relocate a ways down the block. The frame store didn’t care for their unwelcome weekend guest, but they didn’t have much to offer in exchange for him getting off of their stoop.
He was an odd sight, instantly recognizable. His hair did as it pleased, naturally tending to pile in a messy bird’s nest on top of his head. He couldn’t grow a proper beard, but that didn’t stop him from trying. Long, graying scraggles jutted from his upper lip and drooped off of his chin. He was old, most likely. 55? 60? It was hard to say. He was pickled in hard living, indelicately preserved. Carter didn’t dress for practicality or comfort. Winter or summer, rain or shine, he always wore the same crusty brown slacks and battered snow boots, but opting to go without a shirt. He had to show off his moneymaker.
Continue reading Coin-Op Carter
by Loren Eaton
Before Theresa even opened her eyes, she knew the rain had stopped. The air hung still and silent, devoid of the near-ceaseless pattering that skittered over her roof in the cold months. She knew that the gray dawn sky would soon be filled with gaggles of geese. She knew squirrels would stir from their winter nests.
She also knew that it wouldn’t let Richard lie still.
Theresa pushed an arm over to his side of the bed, felt the rumpled sheets, cold but still smelling faintly of Ivory soap, baby shampoo, a trace of male musk—his scent. He was scheduled to work today, but not this early. She threw back the covers, hoping against hope to find him enjoying another cup of coffee, running an iron over his Bochsler True Value polo, polishing a pair of loafers rather than lacing up those scarred old work boots …
But no. The door to the hall closet hung open, the Ruger .22 rifle and orange hunting vest that were normally inside were now missing. Glancing out the front window, she confirmed that the Chevy was gone too.
Later, as she scraped her plate clean of scraps of her bean-sprout omelet, she discovered an empty break-and-bake biscuit container in the trash, 8.4 grams of fat per serving. Disgusting.
“I know he’d never raise a hand against me,” Theresa told the sink, which held dirty dishes haphazardly stacked against a greasy cookie sheet. Yes, but he would also never allow prior obligations to come between himself and a romp through the woods on a clear day, even when it wasn’t hunting season, would he? She sighed. But honestly, why bother getting angry at his habits? She was certainly used to them.
Continue reading Fostering