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The Interview
*WINNER*
Gene A.

The incessant ringing of the telephone. Penbroke had spent at least five minutes trying to ignore it. There were two forces at work here - he at once hated the sound so much that his first instinct was to silence it immediately, but at the same time he also completely dreaded the work that it implied. So the last five minutes were agonizing: thirty different half-starts towards the phone, four separate occasions of getting up and pacing around the room, two fits of very vocal cursing (ineffective, as he was the only one in the office), and one moment of loud singing, beginning first in a tuneless tenor but graduating quickly into a screechy falsetto. But some hundred rings later he did indeed pick up the phone.

"Penbroke," he said, flatly.

"Make sure Number 157 has turned in this week's work," the woman on the other end said, just as flatly.

"I'm sure he has," Penbroke replied.

"Did you see him actually submit it?"

"No."

"Then he hasn't," she concluded. "Get your shit together."

Penbroke returned the handset to its cradle with a sigh. It took him only a few minutes to finally leave the office after another shortage of gumption. He took the stairs down to the third level and the auxiliary hall to the east wing. The way was all concrete and stingily-placed fluorescent lighting, creating dark sockets in an otherwise featureless passage where echoes seemed to resonate forever. For a long time the only sound was the sound of his own footfalls, the hum of unshielded circuitry, the vapor trail of movement.

Finally, however, he reached the partitions, door after door of small rooms, each with a number stencilled hurriedly on the birch veneer of their doors. There was a little window looking into each, and as he passed, he could see movement in only a few. But there was no mistaking now that there were others all around him, because the atmosphere was suddenly crowded with noises, pushing itself suddenly into the foreground. There were people talking, not to each other but to themselves, either in the cadence of a monologue or the broken rhythm of half of a conversation, the speaker communicating with some other party that was lost in the ether. Penbroke heard some laughing, too, and became aware of many other sounds, someone coughing, a sigh, whistling, and once - once he thought he heard crying.

Number 157. Penbroke approached the door warily. Experience had taught him not to make sudden movements. The great majority of the people here were harmless, but there was the occasional psychotic who would make these interviews unnerving. But it wasn't those outbursts that made him hate his job. It was the pervading animus of the place. At times it was almost palpable. At times it almost had a name.

There was movement in Number 157. This wasn't a surprise. When an interviewer came walking down the hall, the sound could be heard the entire length of it, in every room, in every crack in the concrete. A man's face appeared in the slot below the number, grey and worn. Penbroke knew it immediately. He knew the face of every one of these Numbers.

"Penbroke," Number 157 acknowledged. Penbroke cleared his throat with a cough. Familiarity here made him nervous.

"What have you got for us?" he asked.

Number 157 licked his lips, now a bit excited. "Okay, it's this comic, see? In panel one, Spider-Man and Raven are talking on this rooftop. Spider-Man is saying all this psychology stuff, Nineties pop psychology, see?"

Penbroke nodded.

"Then in panel two, Raven says 'that's great, but I really just wanted you to help me stop Doc Octopus from nuking the city'," Number 157 added. He studied Penbroke, hoping for some reaction, but when he saw none was forthcoming, he continued. "And then in the last panel, Spidey swings away and says 'call me when you're ready to end your dance of co-dependency'."

Penbroke said nothing for a moment before speaking. "And?" he prompted.

"And that's it." Number 157 concluded.

Penbroke nodded. "It's good, I like it."

"You think so?"

"Yes, I'll have the boys in construction put it together for this Sunday's entry."

"You think so? You really think so?" Number 157's eyes lit up, excitedly, and immediately Penbroke remembered why he made a point never to offer any criticism at all to the Numbers. It just made his job more difficult.

"It will work," Penbroke said, his voice easing into a flat tone. "That's all. Thanks for your work."

"Hey Penbroke," Number 157 said.

"Yes?" Penbroke also reminded himself to wrap up future interviews more quickly.

"Do you think Brian will give me a by-line on this one?"

"I'll be sure to speak to him about it."

"Maybe he'll give me my own Weirdsmobile blog!"

"Yeah, it's possible," Penbroke said. "Goodbye."

"Bye."

Penbroke turned and walked away, quickly. If Number 157 said anything after that, it was lost in the echo and sway.

Untitled #1
Edward C.

His eyes cut a fiery swath of love. But you wouldn't know it catching those beady orbs through the slat. He watched families head for the mountains. He saw mothers breasting babies. He saw faces parked at railroad crossings. But when they saw him you could never miss his face -- he ducked just before their mouths dropped.

Make no mistake. This was love. Tough love. The kind of understanding a man living in the dark comes to know. As the years passed by, he became acquainted with nearly every human intimacy, save the most important one.

He never dared to move his hand much beyond the wooden slat. He'd trained himself not to. If they saw his missing thumb, he knew they'd call in the big boys. He knew this because he'd had a close call before. So he came about as close as he could, without revealing the thumb, let along the other hand. The other one, the one with the stump -- everything the hand grenade spared.

He had lived in the boxcar for some time. His senses were acute. His head would snap at the slightest sound. And if a hoodlum wanted to rumble, he'd be ready.

The satchel hanging around his shoulder had nothing of interest, save a Gideon's Bible he had swiped from a motel half a lifetime ago, a hammer with a splintering base, and a canteen he bought at an army-navy surplus store long ago. On a rainy night, he'd hang the canteen out, nailing its dangling strap to the inside. Not the best cistern, but he got by. When he needed more, he snatched what he could from the stations. Bottled water had been a great innovation for him. It had saved him a lot of trouble, but he still liked to do things the old-fashioned way.

He spent his nights ducking his head whenever he saw a train inspector's flashlight. He spent his days laughing wildly in the sun. He kept to himself. And the dirty men hopping trains wanted nothing to do with him.

But there were a few sharp-eyed inspectors who did know. From time to time, they had seen frightening flashes of pallor. They heard the strange animalistic sounds. And they knew, quite sensibly, that this was not a situation to waste a minimum wage salary over.

So they told the others in very certain terms to stay away from Car 157. There was something implacable there, something that wasn't worth anyone's time, something that would add a century to the ketchup bottle.

One Five Seven
Kate B.

It's down that alley, y'know. You get off the streetcar at the stop right before Canal St. -- if you're not lucky, you'll miss it, and then you'll have to walk past the drunks and the tourists to get there, and no one wants that.

So you gets off there, in front of the closed offices and where that one sign blinks off and on about the weather and the time, and you have to keep walkin' down -- down past all the office buildings, down past all the hotels, right towards the river and when you get to that one building with the top floor burnt out, you turn to the right, just like that, and you'll see the door on the left. Right then left. Got that?

It's an orange door, too, but you ain't gonna notice that late at night, y'know -- as far as you know, it's gray or it's white or it's even fuckin' plaid. All you have to know is that there's that big "157" written 'cross it. If you miss that "157", then you've done missed it. Can't help ya there, 'cause y'can't get directions down there, y'know?

So you gets there, and you hit the doorbell -- it's on the left at about eye level, you'll miss it, but ever'one misses it, it's just what they do. So you hit the doorbell and then don't snap, 'cause you'll see someone there, but you can't freak out, 'cause if you even gasp, he ain't gonna let you in. The ol' guy shows up, he looks at you through the little slot, and you gotta say t'right words, 'cause, again, he ain't gonna let'cha in if you ain't doin' everyt'in' perfectly right.

Say "Junior Chambeaux gave me a ticket," and you show 'em that piece o' paper I gave ya. Wit' the piece of paper and those words, they'll let'cha in. And once you're in, you're in for good.

So you gets in, and it's fuckin' heaven in there. You've died and gone to pussy heaven, 'cause all around ya are these girls and they're dancin' and struttin' and showin' ya all the sweet golden bits that taste like honey and taste like the best damn candy you ever done tasted.

If you're lucky, one of 'em will catch your eye and take you into the back room. If y'ain't, you'll still get a nice show, but that back room, aw yeah, that's entirely what it's about -- that's why you go to 157, 'cause in there, they got women who ain't been a part of the world -- they're all angels and alien and who-the-fuck-knows, but they's the most beautiful things you've ever seen and you'll sell your house and your car and your damn kids for a taste of them.

And if you're lucky -- if you're damn lucky, ya just might get it.

Untitled 2
Matthew B.

Those bastards. Those absolutely evil bastards. I know they're out there, just waiting, planning, for the right time to do it again. When they do, I'll be ready. I'll be prepared. When it happens again, vengeance shall be mine.

It all started when I saw it sitting there on my lawn. The rage came over me. Who had put it there? I knew the "what" of the situation. The what was obvious. The what was easy. But who? There was a question a man could wrap a little insanity around. Who had the cajones? Who had the chutzpah? Who had the big brass pair to defile my personal property this way?

I had an inkling - oh yes. The merest, vaguest idea of who, but I wanted - needed - proof! No innocent should have to suffer the indignity I had planned, not even in the name of vengeance, of retribution. I wouldn't harm someone who was innocent. Never! I could wait. I can be patient.

So I watched. For three days I looked out that damned slot and watched.

When I finally saw who, I wasn't very surprised. My inkling, my merest vaguest idea of who, had proved correct. It was the bastard and his accomplice from across the street. I knew it! There was never a doubt in my mind. But like I said, I am a fair man. I would not seek my revenge blindly, bring my wrath down upon the innocent - and now, I would not have to.

There they were! Out in the open! Out on my lawn! Doing the incomprehensibly vile deed!

Bastards.

I put my hand on the slot and drew forward, narrowing my eyes. Yes. Yes. Go ahead. Have your way for now. Soon it will be my turn?my turn!

They completed their business and began walking back across the street, but I swear, just before they turned away, I saw them grinning.

Chutzpah!

That was okay - to be expected actually. I had to wait until nightfall, but then those shit-eating grins would be wiped from their faces.

Darkness fell.

With two baggies, I collected the contamination, the foulness, the utter abomination that lay there on my lawn - steaming slightly, even now, in the crisp evening air - and put it into a brown paper lunch bag.

I slowly walked across the street. In one hand I held the brown paper bag and in the other, a Zippo lighter.

I walked through the open fence gate, up the pathway, climbed the stairs leading to the porch and heard the dog - that damned, grinning accomplice - begin to bark.

I rang the doorbell, lit the bag, and dashed for safety behind the big oak tree on the bastard's lawn.

When the door opened, the dog jumped out and started racing around the flaming bag, yipping away. Yip! Yip! Yip! It was a damned noisy mutt. His owner, the bastard, saw the excited mutt and then saw the flaming bag. He reacted wonderfully, beautifully reacted.

His foot, wearing an exquisitely hand-tailored $500 Italian leather loafer came down on the bag.

Squish.

His face showed complete, glorious confusion.

I jumped from behind the tree yelling, "Flaming bag of dog poo!" over and over again at the top of my voice, testifying for the whole world to hear.

The Bar
Suan P.

Sara walked into the bar, looking for someone she knew. She had many friends, and usually on a Friday night she could find one she knew there. Her tan Mary Janes glided across the uneven wooden floor, and her fingers glided along the wall as she rounded the corner. Brown hair fell across her eyes as she looked around the corner.

There was Dan and Vic, chatting across a pitcher of beer. Dan's face lit up as he saw her.

"Aah, the lovely and beautiful Sara is here!"

"Hi Dan," Sara replied with a warm smile. They hugged tightly, savoring the warmth of his arms and fuzzy gray coat. She greeted Vic in a similar fashion and sat down beside him in the booth.

"So, how are you? Haven't seen you in awhile." Vic reached for his cigarettes.

"Pretty good! I've just been, you know around. It's nice to see you." She leaned into his shoulder affectionately.

Vic smiled. Sara held her breath as he took a drag off his cigarette. Dan smiled giddily.

"So guys, what's shakin'? Anything exciting going on tonight?" Sara grinned, reaching for the pitcher of beer and looking across the table at Dan.

"Well, you know, we thought we'd go out, rob and pillage a few small villages and set fire to the homes as we leave you know, the usual." Dan took off his beret and sipped his beer. "Eh, not much. There's apparently a bit of, oh let's say some drama happening around these parts."

"Drama?" Sara looked down at her striped dress, which she had risked hand washing because she couldn't afford to dry-clean it. It looked unscathed.

"Well, it seems that Mark walked in on his girlfriend with another guy, and well he's not exactly taking it so hot."

"What?" Beer splashed on the table as Sara waved her arm suddenly. "Whoops, sorry. What? You're kidding me."

"Yeah, I know that's the word going around, anyway."

Vic put his arm around Sara. "Look, I hate to leave so soon, but I have some things I have to go do. It's been so good seeing you again, hon.". He kissed her affectionately on the cheek.

Sara started to stand up. "Oh okay. Well, it was good seeing you!" They hugged again. Good-byes were said, and Vic headed for the doorway. He stopped just short and leaned back against the wall. The heard him saying hello to Mark.

Sara and Dan exchanged looks. Dan leaned across the table and whispered, "Brace yourself."

"Mark!" Sara stretched her arms out to meet his.

"Aah, Sara! Sara, Sara " He repeated it as if saying her name made the moment more real. He embraced her hard, burying his head in the curve of her neck. She smoothed her hands up and down the wrinkles on the back of his shirt.

After a hug that was too long, they sat down in the booth. Their friend James sat next to Dan, Mark against the wall next to Sara.

The chitchat faded in less than a minute's time. "How could this happen? I mean, wasn't I a good enough I mean as good " His hand shakily reached over to the near-empty pitcher of beer.

Sara smoothed out the lines on the arm of his shirt, looking at him intently. Mark put his arm around her. "I'm no I'm okay sweetheart I mean no " He twitched.

Her blue eyes followed the pinstripes up to his face. It was wracked with pain, and twitching. His whole body felt wired. His eye was ticking involuntarily. His speech felt like hiccups.

"It's not the ending of the fucking world, Christ!" James rolled his eyes, giving a wry smile in Sara's direction. "So she fucked this guy, and it hurts like hell, but goddammit, you'll live."

Mark clutched Sara's shoulder. "Oh, don't pull that shit on me, James. Don't pull that whole goddamn ÔI'm dying' shit on me now. We all know you're so fucking above it all now that you " His face twitched and his fingers dug in. Sara leaned in closer, trying to avoid the digging. James looked down at the table, the bill of his hat covering his mocking disdain.

"Look, Mark he's right in a way. I mean, it's all going to be all right, eventually. It hurts like hell now, but it's going to get better. You'll get through this."

His eyelids shook. "With all due respect, what the fuck are you talking about?" His knee was now banging against her thigh. "Look at me. It's not going to be alright."

Dan leaned in, looking concerned. "Mark hey."

"Oh please " James whined, flicking his cigarette in the air. Sara looked up at him to glare, but couldn't do it. Their eyes met, soaking up sadness.

Mark stood up awkwardly, not having the space to do so. He shoved the booth's seat back, and then dragged it forward. Sara's ankle got caught beneath the seat and twisted painfully. She squealed in pain.

"Oh God, Sara, what oh sweetheart, are you okay?"

"Yeah Mark, it's nothing." She choked back tears. "I'm fine. Are you leaving?"

"I've got to get out of here."

"Where are you going?" Her voice was heavy with concern.

"I'm going home."

Mark left, and Sara looked at Dan and James. She clasped her hands together and rested her chin on her knuckles.

"He's a real piece of work, huh?" James remarked, sipping his beer. His face was tired. Dan sighed.

"I'm worried about him. Did you see that? The ticking, the twitching? He almost dug a hole in my arm. I've never seen anything like it. He's completely lost it. And I mean lost it. I mean, where the hell did he go?" Her voice trembled.

"He went home."

"That's not what I meant." She traced a moisture ring on the table with her finger. She started to stand.

"It's not your job." James said directly. "You don't even owe him that, you know?"

"James, I know I don't get you sometimes, but I love you." She leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. It felt soft and dry, like paper. "I'm going to head out now."

Sara said her long good-byes to Dan and James. Her hand leaned against the wall and she limped towards the door. Cold wind and snow swirled through the doorway.

She looked left and right, seeing no one familiar. She decided to turn right and take the ally. A metal door slung upwards, and a crate of empty beer bottles fell onto the ground. A pair of menacing eyes looked directly at her through the space between before it swiftly slammed shut.

Sara stopped and stared intently at the wall of beer bottles, dirty and empty. With painful deliberation she crumpled to the ground, covering her face with her hands. She sobbed with grief, wondering where she could stay the night, knowing now that she couldn't go home.

Totally Unexpected Twist Ending
Bobbie G.

Riza Moore had never been to New York City before, but somehow it all looked just as she had always imagined it. The towering buildings that stretched to the heavens, blocking out the night sky and offering the twinkle of fluorescently lit office buildings instead of stars. The sloppily painted, doped-up prostitutes huddled on every corner, squawking loudly to each other and beckonin4g dark strangers in overcoats. Men in tattered rags hunched over folding tables, fingers moving almost imperceptibly among three torn and sad-looking playing cards, drawing crowds of stern and wild-eyed pedestrians who waved money in the air and cheered. The noise, the traffic, the smell of human excrement: it was an assault on the senses.

Standing in the middle of a newspaper-strewn sidewalk, taking it all in, Riza had to quickly leap out of the way to avoid a greasy rat that scuttled by her feet only to disappear behind an overflowing garbage can. A little flustered, she found herself standing in front of a large storefront window filled with female mannequins in various sexual positions. All of them were decorated with flashy diamond rings and necklaces, long mink coats, black knee-high boots, and leather crotchless underwear.

"This must be Macy's," Riza thought to herself.

As she turned away, she thought she saw one of the mannequins move. Looking back, she saw with a shock that they were all moving, sauntering toward the glass. One of them called to her.

"Hey, little girl," it hissed in a dark whisper that reminded Riza of her junior high gym teacher, Mrs. Fairchild. How she had feared that woman.

"You don't belong here, little girl," it whispered menacingly, "Why don't you just run home to Mummy and Da-Da?"

With that, the mannequin let out a loud cackle, and the rest of her cohorts joined in. As they all pointed and laughed, Riza became aware of her own reflection in the glass. Her blond hair hung to her shoulders, straw-like and stringy. She was wearing thick glasses with blue frames on her acne-riddled face and was that her gym uniform from junior high? She looked down and saw that she was indeed wearing the old and worn gray shorts and red T-shirt with the word "Moore" written across the front in yellow puffy paint. Why she had decided to wear this today, she couldn't remember, but after she looked back at the window, she was thankful she was wearing running shoes.

As she gazed back at her reflection she noticed that several angry white faces were emerging from the dark alleyway behind her. They seemed to float without bodies. She jerked around to see a giant mob of people dressed in black. A stern-faced woman stepped out from the group that was approaching her.

"You're disgusting!" she screamed at Riza.

A man stepped to her side.

"You make me sick!" he yelled. Then he spat on the sidewalk, unfastened his belt buckle, and whipped it off in one threatening, fluid movement.

"Kill her!" they screamed.

With that, the entire group rushed at Riza. Screaming, she fled down the now empty street, looking for a place to hide. Gasping for breath, and with the mob racing after her, Riza scanned around desperately, but all the shops were closed, with cold metal grates pulled down and locked. Finally, after five blocks, Riza caught the faint sound of music and laughter. The source was a building with the words "Lot 157" painted in black on a wooden door.

Without looking behind her, Riza pounded furiously on the door, searching in vain for a handle.

"Please, please!" she screamed, "Somebody! Please, open the door!"

Near the top of the door, a small wooden panel slid open, partially revealing the face of an older man with bushy, gray eyebrows and piercing blue eyes. If she'd had time to think, Riza would have sworn he was her creepy uncle, Howard, who had died three years prior.

"Whadya want girlie?" he barked, gruffly. Riza could hear the mob getting nearer.

"Please," she begged, "Please, just open the door. I--there are--"

How could she explain all she had just seen?

The old man's eyes widened.

"Ah, you're that new girl, ain't ya?" he snarled, "Cindy, ain't it? You're late! Get in here!"

The door opened a crack, and without thinking, Riza quickly darted in, slamming the door behind her.

Inside, it was very dark, and it took a while for her eyes to adjust. Howard had gone, and in his place was a giant, green toad.

"Welcome to Lot 157," it croaked, "Now, take off your clothes."

"What?" Riza yelped.

As she looked around, she now saw that the room was filled with large toads. They encircled her, croaking and hopping up and down with excitement. She felt shivers up her spine when one of them shot out its tongue and licked her ankle.

"No!" she cried, as the toads got nearer and nearer. "No! Leave me alone! Please!"

Another wet tongue shot out and wrapped around her wrist.

"Stop! Help!" she screamed, tears in her eyes.

Then she woke up.

Riza rubbed her eyes and looked around. She was in the dressing room of X-Posure, the strip bar where she worked at night. Her manager, Don Greco (a squat, balding man who lusted only after cash and coke) was grabbing her wrist and shaking her.

"Tiffany, wake up! You're on in five minutes, you skank," he shouted. Tiffany was her stage name.

"I must have blacked out," she said sleepily, wiping a bit of drool from her cheek.

"Well, maybe you should lay off the sauce if it's going to start affecting your work," he snarled.

As she pulled a red spandex top with some effort over her large, round breasts, Riza tried to clear her head and forget about it all.

"It was just a dream," she sighed with relief, adjusting her thong, "just a dream."