Andrew Wayne Adams
Beet-Red Lingams
V. Ulea
J. A. Tyler
Steve Sommerville
Flying Morsels
Orlo Yeahblip
Milk Handshake
Andrew S. Taylor
The 4th Room
Philip Kopel
Personal Ad

Novel Excerps
Gary Shipley & Kenji Siratori
Jeremy C. Shipp

Creative Nonfiction
Daniel Dominowski
Esteban Canal
M. V. Montgomery
My Celebrity Dreams

Matthew Warner
Now the Moral

D. Harlan Wilson
Interchangeable Diegeses

The Overwhelming Urge
The Bizarro Starter Kit (Blue)
Adolf in Wonderland

Flash Interviews
Mike Arnzen
Donna Lynch

Alan M. Clark
Steve Aylett

Where Flying Morsels of Life Launched the Day After the Last Naked Supper
Steve Sommerville

My first limo driver was an old Hungarian man who swore he was an internationally renowned pimp back in the day.

Maybe he was telling the truth. I wouldn’t know.

I learned a lot from him, though. Like how to read women.

“The sign of a true woman,” he would say while making eye contact with my reflection in his rearview mirror yet still managing to drive perfectly fine, “always appears on the neck.”

He’d wait for me to ask what he meant, then not want to tell me when I did finally ask. I’d play along and beg for his sagely advice to enlighten my masculine sensibilities.

“If the neck is too straight, she no good,” he’d say, lifting his hands from the wheel to emphasize the "straight" part, “but if it slouch a little bit forward, a little bend, then she is a good woman, but have jealous boyfriend and maybe jealous brother who want to kill you.” His hand gesture for "kill" looked like he was gripping a bowling ball.

I humored him and eventually would tune him out.

But I should have listened more to the old bastard.


My second limo driver was a Mexican sea turtle by the name of Timbuktu. I never figured out if it was a guy or gal.

Unlike my first driver, Timbuktu couldn’t speak. Couldn’t really drive either now that I think about it.

We nearly made love one night after it picked me up from my aerobics class. I was nervous as its flippers tore apart my pant legs and its neck stretched out and navigated through the cut-off pant leg up to my crotch.

I excused myself and ran away. I cried for days on end. The flowers, which had seemed so lively, so bright and fresh earlier that day when I handed them to Timbuktu, were withered and torn the next day when I found them on the pavement near the very spot I had fled.

I never saw it again.


My current limo driver is a woman by the name of Gail. Gail picks me up and offers smiles as she holds the door for me. I imagine her a stern lady when not trying to melt my heart and force me to lower my guard.

Her neck is disgustingly straight. I do my best to avoid her.

After aerobics class, I crouch on the floor by my seat. She pretends not to notice.

When we arrive in my driveway and she opens the door, I come tumbling out and then burst into a sprint.

Inside my castle, I can breathe.

I meet many women and look at their necks. I wish I could find the Hungarian limo driver. He must know about Timbuktu and where to find it. That man, that walking encyclopedia of feminine know-how must hold the antidote.

Stephen W. Sommerville dreams of ushering in a new era of Slushies by incorporating a Diet Coke slant to the Tried and True. His writings reek of Mr. Belvedere, Sudanese Archers, and films with the word "trousers" in them. He is inspired by the flight patterns of well-educated hippos.