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     He will be married today. Outside, guests gather and arrange themselves among the white folding chairs. In a hotel room, the groom holds a razor to his throat, shaving diligently while his buddies pour shots from a glass bottle. He thinks about his bride laced into the white dress and the veil that will cover her face. The groomsmen make crude jokes about who will end the night with which bridesmaid. The blade catches his skin and he uses a towel to stop the bleeding, wondering if any of them have ever fucked his wife and if she liked it.

Caitlin Casey grew up in Minnesota and when she turned 18 she left the Midwest and never looked back. She currently is an MFA student at Emerson College in Boston and is working on her first novel.

Hege Jakobsen Lepri

     She was no Alice Munroe, but she’d turned a few literary tricks in her time. Nothing to win her awards and little to live on, but she still had it in her, she thought.
     Her hands had grown over the years, the fat fingers on the keyboard much like obese passengers on an economy flight. Dick you, she wrote and then deleted.
     She sucked in her stomach to slim her fingers. Fuck you forever, she wrote, then hit enter.
     His device quacked like a duck, pulling him from his nap, his right lower lip drooling as he wrote likewise.

Hege Jakobsen Lepri is a Toronto-based translator and writer. In a former life, she was a manager of European projects in Tuscany. Before that, she was a sociologist in Norway. She returned to writing in 2011, after a twenty year break. Her fiction is published in this fall's issue of J Journal.

Growing Up
Bernadette O'Callaghan

     “I don’t want to grow up,” she says. “That’s when dreams and magic die. I mean can you imagine if Peter Pan grew up? All the sudden he’s in a cubicle telling people he wants to go by Pete. He forgot how to fly and doesn’t believe in fairies…Can you imagine how horrible that would be?”
     “Yes,” I say, squeezing the phone. I wish she’d hang up the way most people do. I’m a telemarketer for Christ sakes, I didn’t ask for her personal philosophy.
     “What’s your name anyway?” she asks.
     I sigh and tell her the truth. “It’s Pete.”

Bernadette O’Callaghan lives in Old Bennington, Vermont. This is her first publication.

Jeff Switt

     A magenta dusk hovers over the west horizon. Me and Maggie been hitchin’ rides for three days, in love for three months, starting in Texarkana. Nights wrapped in lust at roadside stops, black plastic bags protecting us from the cold. Our stomachs burn hungry, stoked with a few limp fries from the trash, washed down with a half-bottle of warm spring water. Maggie is talking crazy, wants to walk out in front of a semi. She makes it to the blacktop as airbrakes squeal to a stop. I have room for one the driver says. My head nods. Good-bye Maggie.

Jeff Switt is a retired advertising agency guy who loves writing flash fiction—some days to curb his angst, other days to fuel it.

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