Today we have a story that perfectly captures the Grievous Angel vibe AND is another great example of how effective the flash fiction format can be. The story – Boxes – is by J. Overton who, the author gnomically comments, "works for the government and usually writes non-fiction".


Boxes
by J. Overton

The Suggestion Box at Death Valley was not the most remote on my route, but the getting there was often gruelling. Stopping for gas in Pahrump, standing bareheaded in July, the portions of my sandal’s black soles not covered by my toes became uncomfortably hot. 
     
Inside the Valley I stopped at a scenic overlook to snack on mango and jerky.
   
The Suggestion Box was there like all the others. My key fit its lock smoothly. A piece of yellow legal paper was neatly folded inside.  Most suggestions are anonymous, but there are sometimes tells which give away the author’s identity. This was from Old Bull Lee, sure as shooting.
     
“Why is it all not working so good? Get off the track you’re on. You’re barking up the wrong evolutionary and design flagpole, son, turning the good to shit.”
     
We try to emphasize the Suggestion Boxes are for Quality Improvement, not for literary bitch sessions or ratting out the unjust and cruel. This one was borderline, but he did suggest something, not just ridicule and preach. It was collected and placed with all the others.
     
Later at the bar I have a margarita and pay Tokyo prices.
     
“Only drinks in the Valley are in here,” the bartender explains and apologizes to my unasked question and unspoken accusation.
     
“I’ve paid more before. It’s on company money.”
     
He uses real lime. That always impresses me. Quality is important.

Across the bar a boy and his father are ordering dinner. 
     
“Are you going to get the green enchiladas?” the boy asked.
       
“No,” the father slams down his menu. “Those aren’t the kind I like.”
       
“They have them with red sauce, too.”
       
“Daddy doesn’t like those either.” He picks the menu up, doesn’t look at anyone. “It doesn’t matter what we eat. We’re going to die anyway.”
         
A man enters the through the bent door and sits next to me. He picks up the plastic menu.
         
“You have bison burgers on here. Is that the same as elk?” 
         
“No, it’s bison,” says the bartender, not looking up from wiping glasses.
         
“Oh. I like elk.”
       

The pool water is bath hot. I sit with my feet dangling.  
       
I empty Boxes all over, collecting suggestions. My route is wide: deserts in California, Korea, atolls in the Pacific that even the Japanese skipped over in their war for Empire.  I give the suggestions to whoever needs to see them. They can act if they choose. People have visions and ideas of who reads their suggestions. They’re usually wrong.
       
The next morning, loading up my belongings in the company car, a tourist approaches.
       
“So is this just what you do?” I assume she either knows from the company car or saw me gathering from the Box yesterday.
         
“Yes, it’s what I do.”
         
“How long have you been at it? Are you from here or do you travel?”
         
“I travel often.” I ignore her first question.
         
“So do these get read?”
         
“Sure. They get read.”
         
“Do the questions get responses though?”
         
“Those that need them.” I look noncommittal. She picks up on that.
         
“So is it all just a waste? Who decides which one needs response? People want to change things, improve them. The whole thing a waste of time and effort?”
         
“Well, it depends.” I shrug and keep loading up my gear. My sandals are getting hot and it is early. The company car’s air conditioner is mediocre, and it will be a long drive.
       
“You like this sort of thing? This kind of work?” She asked as I get in the car.
         
“It’s good for me now.”
         
“Are you waiting on something else? Some other work?”
           
“I suppose. This is what I do now.” I start the car. She continues her walk to the gift shop and broken, sandy pay phones.


​Things sometimes happen after I leave and when I come back next time, years or months later, they give me credit. I’m just a courier, a messenger at best. Don’t shoot the messenger, and don’t give him credit for making improvements. This is what I do now. I try to enjoy each day, and enjoy my company car, and not think of the outcome.

Time for a surreal drabble now – Haircut 100 by Alan Garth. (And bonus points for the pop music pun.) When not shooing swans off the lawn, Alan Garth writes SFF and has published in outlets including AE, 5 Minute Fiction, Stupefying Stories and Perihelion.


​Haircut 100
by Alan Garth

The best dressed chimpanzee Harry had ever seen strutted into his barber shop. Designer suit, crisp shirt, skinny tie. No shoes though.

When the ape climbed into the chair, lounging there, too cool for words, Harry knew he wanted a haircut to match his clothes. But Harry's regular customers were human, mostly: was a primate premium justified?

He opened with "Short all round, sir? Centre parting?"

"Mais non," drawled the chimp. "Ça ne se porte plus."

The Congo is francophone, Harry remembered. Gallic style, Gallic language.

"Je prends la coupe numéro cent."

​"Excellent choice, sir. And on special offer today ..."

Three fantastic new poems for you now. What more can I say except they are SO Grievous Angel!

About our contributors...
M.C. Childs’ speculative poetry appears in multiple publications. He is associate dean of architecture at the University of New Mexico specializing in urban design. 
Gretchen Tessmer is a writer/attorney based in the US/Canadian borderlands of Northern New York. Her poetry has most recently appeared in Star*Line, Abyss and Apex, Wild Musette and Strange Horizons.
​Yuan Changming currently edits Poetry Pacific with Allen Yuan in Vancouver. Credits include Best of the Best Canadian Poetry: 10th Anniversary Edition, BestNewPoemsOnline, and Threepenny Review.  


beseeching the kitchen gods
by M.C. Childs

push the dishwasher button 
for power scrub plus 
set the maytag dial 
to extra heavy load,  high water
self-clean the oven
and adjust the freezer 
to ice over Hades

slide the kitchen knife 
back into its wooden block


Teach Your Children Well
by Gretchen Tessmer

empty your pockets
of what? are these treasures?

nickels and dimes and
half-written letters
I’d rather—sea stones,
red leaves
and white feathers


Moving Sale
by Yuan Changming

A whole box of human hearts, each
Still beating fresh like skinned toads
 
Two rows of shiny skeletons of unknown gods
All fingers longer than legs, toes bigger than skulls
 
Three sets of knives, blades extremely blunt
With evil spirits and devilish impulses
 
Four giant alarm clocks, making thunderous noises
Waking up all dead from as many directions
 
Five bottles of wine filled with soaked souls
As colouful as the rainbow above the styx
 
Can I just have the reddist heart please?
Sure, it’s free

Writing a sequel to a fairy tale is a hard act to pull off but in our latest story – After the Dragon – Tobias Backman manages it perfectly. As for his bio, he writes: Tobias Backman used to hate cliffhangers until... Find out what happened next and more at www.tobybackman.wordpress.com


After The Dragon
by Tobias Backman

The knight had found the secret lair, slain the dragon, and, despite burns and bleeding wounds, he’d rescued the princess, dragged her out of the cave seconds before it collapsed. 

That should’ve been the hard part. From then on it was just marry the princess, inherit half the kingdom, and happily ever after. But nobody had warned him how much of a bother the princess was – eighteen years old and never heard the word no. Nobody had told him how hard it was to rule a kingdom: dodging arrows and training with sword and shield nine hours a day was nothing compared to managing inbred nobles and peasants who thought pigs a legitimate currency. 

He probably should’ve asked himself, though, who was inheriting the other half of the kingdom. He should’ve wondered if there wasn’t a younger sibling, a prince who became sole heir when his sister was gone, a prince with a massive grudge now that his plans had been foiled. And he probably should’ve wondered if the prince wasn’t the type who’d poison his own family to get rid of a few obstacles. 

​Taking in the scene of his in-laws and wife sprawling with their faces planted in their soup, his own throat itching and burning, and the prince grinning at him from across the table, he definitely should’ve asked the cook who’d been helping out in the kitchen lately.