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This video was created by David Gregory, drawn by somebody else, and written by Ian Saviet. Ian Saviet is currently an undergrad at Seton Hall University, and is still playing Pokemon Go for some reason.

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Umbrella Pants - Kevin MacLeod (
Licensed under Creative Commons: By Attribution 3.0

My neighbor across the hallway knocks on my door at midnight. Her cat is lost, and without it, so is she, she says. Margaret’s fat and ugly, but her boobs are enormous and very inviting, especially this late. I’m lazy, you see, so she’s like manna from Heaven. Besides, it’s too late to go out hunting for a cat of my own that would soon run from me just the same way hers has. I’m lazy about coffee, too, and when she asks for some, instant it is.

"I don't have deep pockets like McDonalds," I warn her, "so be aware of the fact that hot coffee is hot."

She laughs in a dry way, throaty. Cali is her cat’s name, she informs me, and it’s a calico cat if I happen to see it anywhere. I wonder what kind of cat it is if I don’t see it anywhere. Her cat is her life, she says, and please call me Margie, because we are close neighbors.

It’s not the first time the cat’s taken off from her place, I know. I’ve heard her calling the eternally meowing creature into the wee hours of the night when I was trying my damnedest to sleep.

The caffeine tranquilizes her and she smiles.

“She’s really a good kitty,” Margie says, wide gaps showing in her jagged teeth. Yellow-stained, almost a mustard color, veined with copper and black streaks. “She loves it when I feed her a little steak every Thursday, well-done of course. I can’t understand why I can’t find her. I put it outside my door about two hours ago and it’s gone, but Cali’s not to be found anywhere. My newspaper’s missing, too.”

“I'm sure she’ll turn up, and I just happen to have today’s paper. You’re welcome to it.” Silently I am thankful that newspapers aren’t addressed to the subscribers.

Margie shakes her head and says she hopes so; she doesn’t know what in the world she’d do without that cat; it’s her “soul mate,” and the last present her husband gave her before he threw himself in front of a semi after the market tanked in ’09. To top it all off, she says, someone’s green car is parked in her space and she had to park far away and carry her groceries to her apartment in the pouring rain.

I frown to show sympathy, trying not to stare at Margie’s ample breasts, ripe for milking. I nod toward my dining table, enticing her to stay a while with food that she obviously enjoys so much. Luckily, I’ve cut it in into unrecognizable shapes.

“There’s a little bit of steak I’d be happy to share with you, Margie. Would you like some?”


“Of course,” I reply, and Margie smiles.

I start to ask if calico cats have orange, black, and white blotches like the one I ran over this afternoon with my green Jeep and threw into the dumpster, but Margie has ample breasts, ripe for milking.

This story was written by Tony Wayne Brown, who has won contests by Art Forum Magazine and Union Writers, second-place, Writers' Journal, two honorable mentions in Writers' Digest, and others. His work has been published over 71 times, including Bartleby Snopes, Liars' League Hong Kong, Main Street Rag, Huffington Post, Foliate Oak, The Charles Carter, Long & Short Review, Long Story Short, Bethlehem Writers Roundtable, Birmingham Arts Journal, Thirteen O'Clock Press, Ealain, and Vestal Review.

Your stomach reads like a palm. It’s a billboard written in stretch marks, that eclipses half of your stomach. It says, in bold Comic Sans, Yes! There was a baby in here!! You want to hide it, the flub.

You’ve been standing in your room naked, staring down in the portal of despair that is your intimates’ drawer for maybe twenty minutes. It is home to sizes that no longer recognize your butt and an assortment of old maternity Hanes granny panties. You decide you’re going to put on your high waisted underwear. He probably won’t think anything of it, you tell yourself, because you’re alternative, and alternative girls love shit like that. But it’s a poor man’s corset, that holds not a dog, but a pooch. You grab and put on the panties, feeling the grooves in your skin that feels like braille.

You have ten minutes before you have to leave, so you put on a bra, which is a little too tight, and it sends your suicidal boob goop over the lace ledge. They are soft, empty, and even though you hadn’t breast fed for that long—they’re different. You wonder which way they will look, left or right in a non-cohesive whirl once unhooked, unlocked.

You want to look at your body, and try and say, Hey I’ve given life, it’s okay to feel like an unconfident Buffalo bill (minus all the murder shit) in an oversized skin parka. But you can’t, at least not today. So you walk out the door, fully dressed and set off to his house and blast Bikini Kills.

He’s waiting for you on the curb of his house. You’re in his apartment now. He kisses you, and images of your stretchmarks flash inside your head like that part in the Exorcist of the demons’ face. The harder the kisses, the harder his glasses hits the bridge of your nose, your cheek.

His Joy Division shirt comes off (I know) and you see that his jeans are too tight, a wave of skin perched on top of the rim of his pants. He’s not a dad, but his dad bod rubs on your body like a fleshy lotto ticket. He kisses you again, and you think about how it’s been a year and a half since you’ve let a man come anywhere near your body. He gets up off the couch, and again holds out his hand to you, and leads you to his room. You stand next to him stupidly, half dressed, arms crossed in front of his bed, while he puts on a playlist— something soft. He takes off his glasses and puts it down on the dresser along with his phone. He heads to the side of the bed, but he hits his leg on the edge of the bed frame. He laughs, looking in your general direction and says to the floor lamp that’s about the same height as you, “Woops, I’m pretty blind without my glasses.”

This story was written by McKenzie Zalopany, who is a creative writing major at the University of South Florida. She has been published at the Poetry Project and the fiction contest winner of the 6x6 event. She is in the process of making her chap book, Slutty Cool Mom. She in fact is a pretty cool mom.
I was just getting up and hadn’t even had a cup of coffee when I heard a knock on my front door. It was only 9:30 on a Saturday morning but I went and answered it anyway. When I opened the door it took me a second to register what I was looking at.

What I had on my front porch was an overweight 40ish bald dude in a sky blue, skin tight nylon body suit, with a stupid red cape. To complete the look he wore a gold waistband and had a vaguely familiar matching logo on his front with the number 7 circled. He was standing there jabbering and smiling with a half-cocked wrist positioned on his hip but I just rubbed my eyes because I knew right away this was no superhero.

I was desperately trying to put all this together and figure out what he wanted so I could focus on my get the hell out of here response, but he just kept talking. I guess I might have mumbled a few choice words about the hour, but I was just feeling terribly disoriented. I was getting ready to slam the door when I suddenly came to understand that numbnuts was asking me if I had lost a wallet. My head hurt, I was standing there in my boxers, green flip-flops, and a ragged brown tee shirt but this guy would not quit jabbering.

Something about a wallet? What was this idiot talking about? He asked "Have you lost a wallet, because I found one in front of your house?” Clearly, I should’ve said "Please go away because you appear to be crazy" but it turns out I played right into his hands. I told him I’d go see if I still had my wallet in my pants. I knew I had my wallet so instead I went and got a cup of coffee. As I was stirring in the creamer I looked out my side window and saw the nut job with the goofy grin was still there. But now he had his back to the door and he was doing some crazy pantomime to an imaginary friend in the street.

So I walked back and opened the door, coffee cup in hand, and I told him I did in fact lose my wallet. I also said I thought I had some money in it. Maybe about 20 bucks. My response seemed to make him almost giddy with delight. Suddenly this pee brain very dramatically swoops the cape over his face like a magician would with a rabbit out of the hat act. Maybe he had it tucked in his waistband because when was done with his little act he hands me a cheap plastic wallet and I’ll be damned if it didn’t have a 20 in it. Then he laughed like he could hardly contain himself. “Have a nice day” he says and rushes off down my sidewalk, cape furling behind him. Strangely only then did I notice a white van with smoked windows following on his heels.

Later that day I was watching some football when my whole life changed. I mean I couldn’t even finish my beer. The TV announcer came on and said “Super Steve, the Channel 7 new crusading man in a cape, begins his quest to find the last honest man in Albuquerque. Story at 10”.

This story was written by Mark Hood, who is a technical writer and an aspiring fiction writer.

So I found this pair of underpants in the bathroom after my cousin and her boyfriend left for Ithaca. They were green with gold stripes and they weren’t mine. I stood there for a long time considering them.

They weren’t dirty but they weren’t exactly clean, either. They were unwashed. But they weren’t unclean the way a dead bird is unclean, or the way an unsanctified thing or an unholy thing is unclean.

I picked them up, and did I smell them? I want to say I smelled them. I may have smelled them because they weren’t unclean and they were undoubtedly my cousin’s boyfriend’s and he is a good man. Not a holy man but a good man with a good job in Ithaca, New York and an excellent beard.

Of course, I thought about returning them, sending them back to him in a mailer or a small brown box. And I thought about washing them, though they weren’t mine and they weren’t unclean, only unwashed, and they weren’t sexy, only colorful. They were more colorful than all of my underpants put together. You will want to know I am wearing them as I write this.

Much time has elapsed since that day in the bathroom. My cousin and her boyfriend have gotten married. I have gotten married myself. My wife has no idea about the provenance of the green underpants. She thinks they are mine. She washes them with my underpants and her underpants, and she puts them all in a sweet-smelling pile on top of the dresser. I think there is something a little holy about a pile of clean underpants on top of a dresser.

I think that putting them away in a drawer would be like putting your light under a bushel, or like locking a bird up in a cage, or like packing up a good green thing in a small brown box and sending it far, far away from you.

This story was written by Paul Hostovsky. Check out his his latest book is IS THAT WHAT THAT IS (FutureCycle Press, 2017), and visit him at

This video was created by David Gregory, drawn by somebody else, and written by Don Narkevic.

Don Narkevic is from Weston, WV, and received his MFA from National University. His recent poetry has appeared in Blue Collar Review, Off the Coast, and Kentucky Review. His Poetry Chapbooks include Laundry, published in 2005 by Main Street Rag. His plays have received readings in Chicago, New York, and Virginia. His book of poems, Admissions, was published by FutureCycle Press published in 2013. Check out his Amazon page here:

Did you like it? Click here to submit your own funny monologue. If accepted, we create a video. Click here to check out our YouTube channel (and subscribe please!).

Thinking Music - Kevin MacLeod (
Licensed under Creative Commons: By Attribution 3.0

I love Kentucky bourbon far beyond the double-shot buzz on Saturday afternoon. The texture, flavor, and warmth are all well-mannered. But because of a Kentucky clerk’s fitful refusal to issue marriage licenses to gay and lesbian couples after being ordered to do so by the courts, I have sworn off this godly nectar.

I considered switching to Napa Valley cabernet sauvignon, which has a divinity close to KB, but California voters passed Proposition 8 in 2008, reversing the nuptial rights of same-sex couples. And although that measure was ultimately overturned as unconstitutional, I still can’t support the California wine industry in good conscience. The old standby of French spirits could work, but that country strikes me as a little too socialist for the common good.

I thought about a well-known Southern whiskey. Then I remembered. Tennessee is the only state that does not allow transsexuals to amend the sex designation on their birth certificates, a demonstrable prejudice against another minority, so I can’t contribute to my birth state.

I wondered about Texas moonshine, but Texas is Texas, and there’s so much to ponder—women’s reproductive rights, governors who became presidents, conservatives who embarrass the category. Thus, it seems illegitimate to sip Lone Star lightning. Besides, as a Rhode Islander who has driven across Texas on Interstate 10 and wondered whether I’d ever get across, those 900 miles were so deliberately expansive that I’m suffering the sin of Envy.

And what about saki? With international whaling issues and dolphins trapped in fishing nets, I had to disqualify it. Not to mention, I don’t like rice wine. One promising solution was homebrew. With some effort and expenditure, I might render a 100-proof fluid that wouldn’t kill or blind me. But I, too, have my share of historical excesses, so there’s no pretending I’m much better than the average Kentucky fruitcake. Nor is reasonable to penalize commercial distilleries while ignoring my own shortcomings. In fairness, I must self-boycott.

I understand that refusing to buy a particular product from a particular supplier will have no particular effect. Hence, I should probably just embrace my favorite brew and leave crazy to run its course. In fact, a calming shot seems to make injustice easier to swallow; so logically, thoroughbred whiskey should canter back to my Saturday afternoons.

It should, and someday it will. But at the moment, my trifling protest tastes sweeter than the bourbon I love.

This story was written by Claudine Griggs. Claudine is the Writing Center Director at Rhode Island College, and her publications include three nonfiction books about transsexuals along with a couple dozen articles on writing, teaching, and other topics. She has also recently begun writing fiction, publishing four stories, and hopes to draft more science fiction, her first-love genre as a teenager. Griggs earned her BA and MA in English at California State Polytechnic University, Pomona.

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