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Anne Lawrence Bradshaw • Soren James •<br />
Ron Gibson, Jr. • Steve Spalding •<br />
L.L. Madrid • Ruchira Mandal •<br />
James A. Miller • Allison Epstein<br />
plus Azia DuPont<br />
<strong>July</strong> <strong>2016</strong>
Volume 1<br />
Issue #6<br />
Editor-in-Chief<br />
Paul A. Hamilton<br />
Consulting Editor<br />
Nikki Hamilton<br />
Guest Editor<br />
Azia DuPont<br />
Copyright © <strong>2016</strong> ironSoap.com. All writing and photography is the property of their respective<br />
authors.<br />
Cover photographs by Paul A. Hamilton.<br />
<strong>200</strong> <strong>CCs</strong> is an anthology of microfiction, collected monthly. Inquire online for submission guidelines.<br />
http://<strong>200</strong>ccs.ironsoap.com/<br />
Follow on Twitter @ironsoap.<br />
To help show your support for <strong>200</strong> <strong>CCs</strong>, visit http://ironsoap.com/<strong>200</strong>-ccs/support/
Contents<br />
The Draw: Snake Eats Tail . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4<br />
Mother’s Ruin . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5<br />
by Anne Lawrence Bradshaw<br />
photo by ~Zoe~ — https://www.flickr.com/people/zcn/ (CC BY-NC-ND 2.0)<br />
The Walk . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6<br />
by Ruchira Mandal<br />
photo by Stewart Black — https://slowanddirty.wordpress.com/ (CC BY 2.0)<br />
The Resignation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7<br />
by James A. Miller<br />
photo by Cynthia Bertelsen — https://www.flickr.com/people/cbertel/ (CC BY 2.0)<br />
Blue Period . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8<br />
by Ron Gibson, Jr.<br />
photo by Jan Kraus — http://www.jankraus.pl/ (CC BY 2.0)<br />
Fourth Shift . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9<br />
by Allison Epstein<br />
photo by Ray Wewerka — https://www.flickr.com/photos/picfix/ (CC BY-NC 2.0)<br />
The Wishing Shrine . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10<br />
by L.L. Madrid<br />
photo by Joe Le Merou — https://about.me/lemerou (CC BY 2.0)<br />
Flash Fiction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11<br />
by Steve Spalding<br />
photo by Abdulla Al Muhairi — https://www.flickr.com/people/serdal/ (CC BY 2.0)<br />
The Man in the Ironic Mask . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12<br />
by Soren James<br />
photo by EyeMindSoul — https://www.flickr.com/people/eyemindsoul/ (CC BY 2.0)<br />
The Plunge . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13<br />
by Azia DuPont<br />
3
the draw<br />
The Ouroboros: a snake devouring its own tail,<br />
beginning and ending in the same place, infinite<br />
in its recursion. The ancient symbol has a lot of<br />
significance and multiple meanings (don’t all<br />
symbols, though?) but among them is that of<br />
cycle.<br />
Cycles are a standard aspect of life: calendars,<br />
seasons, election cycles, daily routines. What I’ve<br />
been thinking about a lot as we put to bed the<br />
final issue in our first volume and begin the<br />
process of starting (in some senses) all over again<br />
with Volume 2, is that strange nexus point where<br />
a cycle resets. The point where something could<br />
be a start or it could, just as easily, be an end. If<br />
you didn’t know which direction the camera was<br />
facing on this month’s cover image, would you be<br />
able to tell if it were sunrise or sunset, for<br />
instance? Would it change the perception of the<br />
image: one of maybe hope and optimism<br />
versus reflection and closure?<br />
In the 90s, a pop song repeated, “every new<br />
beginning comes from some other beginning’s<br />
end.” At the time, I thought it was particularly<br />
poignant and insightful. But what I love about<br />
Ouroboros is that you can so easily look at the<br />
flip side. Every ending leaves an opening for<br />
another new beginning. Two ways of saying<br />
the same thing, but which is the hopeful and<br />
which is the melancholy? Both. And either.<br />
Round and round we go.<br />
Ending the first six months of <strong>200</strong> <strong>CCs</strong> is a<br />
time for reflection. Thirty-seven stories in six<br />
months from thirty-five different authors. It’s<br />
also time to look ahead. We’ve got sixty more<br />
stories in the works to bring over the next six<br />
months.<br />
But what then?<br />
Because here’s the thing about cycles:<br />
they’re not the same as repetitions. They are<br />
frameworks for similar but not identical<br />
events. Volume 2 will be much like Volume 1. It<br />
will still be edited by me, it will still feature<br />
roughly <strong>200</strong> word stories collected monthly; there<br />
Snake Eats Tail<br />
4<br />
will be holiday stories and ezine issues and<br />
editorials. But cycles build off each other, and<br />
create context for the next iterations. Volume 2<br />
will be almost twice as large as Volume 1,<br />
because we learned last month that double the<br />
stories makes for better monthlies. Guest Editors<br />
will be more involved because I learned through<br />
trial and error that their contributions are not just<br />
a favor from a friend but an invaluable resource.<br />
That’s why it’s hard to predict beyond the next<br />
turn of the wheel. I can say many of the things<br />
that will probably be true of Volume 2, because I<br />
know the context in which it will begin. But<br />
inevitably some things will change during the<br />
coming half year and recontextualize everything.<br />
What will Volume 3 look like? I honestly don’t<br />
have a good answer for that, nor can I even say<br />
if Volume 3 will exist.<br />
I’m passionate about <strong>200</strong> <strong>CCs</strong> and enjoy my<br />
role as an editor. I love bringing stories to<br />
readers and paying authors for great stories.<br />
But this was always intended to be a yearlong<br />
experiment with the future beyond that<br />
very much in flux. For all the positives of<br />
this endeavor, there is one critical negative:<br />
the time I spend on <strong>200</strong> <strong>CCs</strong> is time I used<br />
to spend on my own writing.<br />
And that’s the core beauty of a cycle, isn’t<br />
it? One day may look pretty much like the<br />
day before or it may turn into a grand<br />
adventure you never expected. Maybe you<br />
don’t even notice the turning of the wakesleep-wake<br />
cycle is sliding toward<br />
something new until you end one day and<br />
begin anew only to realize that without you<br />
even noticing, nothing is as it used to be.<br />
So we keep taking it one day, one<br />
season, one ending and the very next<br />
beginning at at time and we figure it out as<br />
we go along. This month’s stories explore<br />
cycles as well, and I hope you’ll<br />
continue to come along for the ride.<br />
—Paul A. Hamilton
A Mother’s Ruin<br />
by Anne Lawrence Bradshaw<br />
In the evenings, the gin would have taken effect, and the<br />
barbed words drawling from your tongue sounded smooth<br />
from over-use. I was cursed for never being the shock of red<br />
you’d wanted to see. I was a monster, something you’d<br />
always longed to sluice away.<br />
Your eyes would be glass when I tucked you under your<br />
blanket, your bruised legs purple, so cold. A thin trickle of<br />
saliva would dribble down your chin, marking your blouse. I<br />
would wipe your mouth with a tissue, throw it in the bin.<br />
But the heavy scent of juniper lingered. Sometimes I would<br />
lift the near empty bottle, tipping the dregs into my mouth.<br />
I’d wait a few seconds for the familiar bitterness to coalesce.<br />
How it burnt, leaving nothing but the afterglow of a<br />
perfumed sigh.<br />
One night, as the other kids played in the dusk outside, I sat<br />
in the half-light, felt myself change. It was a moment, a<br />
sordid understanding that I was just grit between your teeth.<br />
You would rather spit me out than make me into a pearl.<br />
As the moon rose over the house, I felt myself drift, go with<br />
it. One by one, the stars pricked the underbelly of night,<br />
while I sat, listening to you breathe.<br />
Anne Lawrence Bradshaw writes poems and short stories. She lives in a dilapidated cottage<br />
near Hadrian’s Wall, drinks too much tea and walks a lot. Tweet her @shrewdbanana.<br />
5
The Walk<br />
by Ruchira Mandal<br />
By the sides of a dead city’s dusty roads,<br />
ragged dogs seek shade beneath burnt out memories of trees.<br />
They will wake at night, prowling the pathways for lost souls. But<br />
for now, they slumber.<br />
The man stumbles, blindly gaping. Skeletal houses breathe in hot, scorching<br />
gasps while his aching body dreams of beds and the darkness of sleep. He<br />
yearns to sleep into oblivion, but the thought of emptiness keeps him going.<br />
Outside, on the road, there is the mirage of a destination, the illusion of reaching<br />
somewhere, the still beating hope of meeting someone like him. Someone weary of<br />
the walk but clinging to the hope of a future.<br />
At night, when the dogs wake, he will change places with them, both respecting the boundaries. At<br />
sunrise he will walk again, and on. And he will walk as far as his heart carries him, and then walk<br />
some more. For hope thrashes on, even when all breath is dead.<br />
Then he will cross the lines to the watchful dogs, to their knowing, expectant eyes and open jaws,<br />
promising sleep and the end of loneliness at last.<br />
Ruchira Mandal has a day-job as an Assistant Professor of English Literature and tries<br />
to write in between checking millions of answer scripts. She has sporadically published<br />
travelogues in newspapers, fiction and poetry in a variety of medium and has also been<br />
part of a few indie anthologies. You can follow her @RucchiraM on Twitter.<br />
6
The Resignation<br />
by James A. Miller<br />
Commander Adams,<br />
My time as Head Baker aboard Station Imperion has been enjoyable, so it is with heavy heart, I<br />
resign.<br />
These are good! Probably the best<br />
Christmas cookies I’ve ever made.<br />
December 21st, 2057 will be my final<br />
day. I leave the kitchen in the capable<br />
hands of Nicol Truefsky. His work as<br />
apprentice over the past two years is<br />
commendable.<br />
Maybe just one more. So sweet and light,<br />
must be the Glutovian flour–wherever did<br />
Nicol find it?<br />
While, in my option, Nicol lacks the<br />
prerequisite education to be Head Baker, his experience will allow him to temporarily fill the<br />
position until a suitable replacement is found.<br />
I just can’t stop eating these. Down you go little gingerbread man. I can catch you, yes I can.<br />
And your brother and your cousin…<br />
Sincerely,<br />
Edwin Dorchester<br />
I finished them. Need more.<br />
❦<br />
As Edwin rose from the chair, Glutovian microbes hidden in the cookies’ flour reached their<br />
saturation point and instantly collapsed his ample body into a pile of fine white powder. Nicol entered<br />
moments later, sweeping what was left of his boss into flour sacks.<br />
He edited Edwin’s resignation—ever so slightly—before hitting “send.”<br />
During the day, James A. Miller works as an Electrical Engineer in Madison WI. At night, he<br />
spends time with his family and does his best to come up with fun and creative fiction. He is a<br />
first reader for Allegory e-zine and member of the Codex writer’s group. He also has two cats<br />
but will resist the urge to say anything cute or witty about them here. He blogs at https://<br />
breakingintothecraft.wordpress.com/.<br />
7
Blue Period<br />
by Ron Gibson, Jr.<br />
after Maggie Nelson<br />
This cursor blinks its steady pulse: birth pangs of the universe.<br />
❦<br />
Once we were a void. Once we were beautiful.<br />
Where once a beautiful void, big rigs now knife down the interstate between frosted<br />
hills, under a blue period, a finality I cannot dispute, redistributing the future without<br />
you.<br />
*<br />
When we read books together, we would wear the author’s skin for a time. The fresh<br />
scars, the humility, the beauty. Their story became our story.<br />
For weeks after Maggie Nelson’s ‘Bluets,’ blue dealt blows to the senses, it intoxicated.<br />
It made me question my relationhip with the world around me, and made you question<br />
your relationship with the world within you.<br />
*<br />
Humans have difficulty understanding evolution, difficulty understanding what we do<br />
not see. We do not see slowly moving changes to our world.<br />
*<br />
When I looked at you, through you, you became more haze than you. Each day you<br />
became more blue. Each day the hue deepened, and soon you were a fossil to record, a<br />
footprint to cast, only our words left tripping over snow-falling asterisks on blue<br />
screen, lost.<br />
❦<br />
This cursor still blinks steadily: product of an event beyond our control.<br />
Ron Gibson, Jr. has previously appeared in Noble / Gas Quarterly, Pidgeonholes,<br />
Maudlin House, The Vignette Review, Ghost City Review, Cease Cows, Spelk Fiction, Ink<br />
in Thirds, Gravel Magazine, etc. And can be found on Twitter at @sirabsurd.<br />
8
Fourth Shift<br />
by Allison Epstein<br />
It wasn’t a glamorous way to die, but he’d never<br />
liked attention. Not like Scott McKenna, who<br />
drove his Pontiac off the 496 overpass when<br />
the Grand River plant closed. Scott had style<br />
and an axe to grind, and everybody knew it. The<br />
State Journal had a field day.<br />
For him, no bangs, no whimpers. Just drink<br />
expanding to fill the space available, doubles<br />
doubled double-time, until his liver pink-slipped<br />
the whole mortal coil.<br />
❦<br />
He glares at the granite angel praying on his<br />
headstone. Praying. He wonders what for. If he<br />
had his say, a recliner, an IPA, and the Tigers on<br />
real quiet in the background.<br />
More likely, world peace. Angel stuff.<br />
He kicks the headstone. It doesn’t connect.<br />
Obviously.<br />
“Fuck you,” he says.<br />
The angel doesn’t reply.<br />
❦<br />
He’d<br />
been so long about dying. Rude, really.<br />
He hopes some of him will catch her eye.<br />
An elbow, or a scruff of beard. She could<br />
tell him from a beard, sure. She’d always<br />
hated that beard.<br />
She stands a minute, not more. Then she<br />
smiles, off-center.<br />
“Rest in peace, you sonofabitch,” she says,<br />
and turns.<br />
The angel prays on, just to spite him.<br />
When she comes, she’s wearing the peacoat he<br />
bought her, the one she never wore. She’d skipped<br />
the funeral, of course.<br />
Allison Epstein is a twenty-something writer, editor, proofreader, marketer, feminist, and amateur Shakespearian<br />
living in Chicago. Her writing has appeared or is forthcoming in The Huffington Post, Adios Barbie, and Ugly<br />
Sapling. Find her on her blog, https://thebodypacifist.wordpress.com/, on Twitter @AllisonEpstein2, or wherever<br />
heated debates about em dashes are underway.<br />
9
The Wishing Shrine<br />
by L.L. Madrid<br />
“Do you know how to get to El Tiradito?”<br />
I nod; everyone in Barrio Viejo knows where to<br />
find the wishing shrine.<br />
“The sun will set soon. Go for your Mama.”<br />
“Poppa said she’s going to be fine.”<br />
“Pay attention, Lucia. You only get one<br />
wish, don’t waste it.” Nana<br />
hands me a paper and<br />
pen. “Write it down,<br />
neat as you can. Fold it<br />
tight, but don’t lose it.”<br />
As I write, she places a<br />
candle—St. Jude—and<br />
a matchbook into a bag.<br />
“When you get to the<br />
shrine light the wick and<br />
say a prayer for the<br />
sinners. Slip your wish<br />
between the cracks of<br />
bricks. Don’t put the candle on the altar. Place it<br />
in the corner away from the wind, it has to stay<br />
lit all night or the wish won’t come true. Do you<br />
understand mi hija?”<br />
I nod again and Nana kisses my forehead.<br />
In the morning, Poppa is pale faced. Nana<br />
crosses herself and whispers that the flame must<br />
have gone out.<br />
It hadn’t though. I knew when Poppa<br />
handed me a box with the patent<br />
leather shoes I’d wished for. He’d<br />
bought them for me to wear with<br />
my funeral dress.<br />
L.L. Madrid (@LLMadridWriter) lives in Tucson where she can smell the rain before it<br />
falls. She resides with her four-year-old daughter, an antisocial cat, and on occasion, a<br />
scorpion or two. Her favorite word is glossolalia.<br />
10
Flash Fiction<br />
by Steve Spalding<br />
This is a piece of flash fiction written in an<br />
Indiana hotel room on 2 hours of sleep.<br />
In it there’s a protagonist – probably male,<br />
probably angry. Male because the author finds<br />
cheap, male rage easy to tap into. Angry because<br />
dramatic engines don’t grow on trees.<br />
He’s in hate with someone he loves, and flits<br />
between the axes with all the grace of a drunken<br />
gymnast with inner ear disease. Melodrama<br />
masquerades as conflict, every tear spilled in<br />
service of word count.<br />
The author holds back the target of our man’s<br />
love addled ravings, both because he’s<br />
convinced you’ll never see it coming, and<br />
because if he didn’t, he’d have dangerously little<br />
plot to pull a real ending out of.<br />
suddenly as complex as we’ve always believed<br />
we were. We pray that he can fix in <strong>200</strong> words<br />
what our lives haven’t in twenty years.<br />
It all ends with a lesson, something trite and<br />
universal that makes us feel literate, while at the<br />
same time giving lie to the fact that we’ve<br />
absorbed, into our immortal souls, the spiritual<br />
equivalent of a double cheeseburger.<br />
And in case you were wondering, our man was<br />
in love with a robot, and you never saw it<br />
coming.<br />
Not to worry, our hero says something edgy and<br />
becomes an anti-hero in the span of a paragraph<br />
– we love him even more now because he’s<br />
Writer of words, lover of fiction, dabbler in data, builder of web things—Steve also helps<br />
companies sell stuff. At the beginning of <strong>2016</strong>, he promised himself to write one short story<br />
every weekday for a year, we’ll see how that goes.<br />
http://thecoldstorage.com/<br />
https://twitter.com/sbspalding/<br />
11
The Man in the Ironic Mask<br />
or, The Inability to Communicate in an Ironic World<br />
by Soren James<br />
“I’m campaigning against irony.”<br />
“I never know when you actors are being<br />
serious.”<br />
“That’s why I’m against irony. I want to be<br />
taken at face value—be seen for what I am.”<br />
“And this is not an ironic stance you’ve taken?”<br />
“Are you winding me up?”<br />
“I’m just being thorough—it’s my<br />
job.”<br />
“You’re not filming one of<br />
those spoof comedy<br />
programs?”<br />
“No, I’m a serious journalist.<br />
I’m genuinely interested.”<br />
“In a satirical way?”<br />
“In the normal, reportage way.”<br />
“You’re not just playing the character<br />
of a journalist?”<br />
“Are you winding me up?”<br />
“Was that sarcastic?”<br />
“Are you out to trick me? To make a fool of<br />
me?”<br />
“Is there a level of meaning I’m not getting<br />
here?”<br />
“That T-shirt you’re wearing—what does it<br />
mean?”<br />
“Exactly what it says: ‘An ironic crisis is<br />
worthless; a crisis in irony is<br />
ignorable.’ It’s self explanatory, isn’t<br />
it?”<br />
“What do the two faces represent?”<br />
“A communication paradox. But<br />
we should get off the subject of<br />
irony. I understand you have a new<br />
film out—a satirical comedy. Was it<br />
difficult playing a delusional actor<br />
who has to feign artificialintelligence<br />
in a virtual-reality<br />
environment based on an imagined world<br />
of an insane entertainer?”<br />
“I feel empty and confused sometimes.”<br />
“Are you winding me up?”<br />
Soren James is a writer and visual artist who recreates himself on a daily basis from the materials at his disposal,<br />
continuing to do so in an upbeat manner until one day he will sumptuously throw his drained materials aside and<br />
resume stillness without asking why. More of his work can be seen here: http://sorenjames.moonfruit.com/.<br />
12
y Azia DuPont<br />
Let’s start at the end, which in many ways<br />
is also the beginning. Soren James, in<br />
“The Man in the Ironic Mask,” writes I<br />
feel empty and confused sometimes.<br />
This simple, blunt sentiment is more<br />
than a few shallow words, it is the<br />
epitome of the cyclic human nature.<br />
These six words are so powerful!<br />
By recognizing that one feels “empty”,<br />
a person is also recognizing that they<br />
are a vessel in which one can be filled<br />
and in this knowing, they begin the<br />
quest of fulfillment. Consistently, it<br />
seems that people throw themselves<br />
into things outside themselves during<br />
this journey: relationship, work,<br />
hobbies, activism, and the list goes on<br />
and on. And without a hitch, they<br />
inevitably find themselves confused!<br />
The girlfriend, career change, sixth gin<br />
and tonic of the night, this thing that is<br />
supposed to be filling them up is not<br />
filling them up. There is still a nagging<br />
desire for more so the journey begins<br />
again.<br />
And again.<br />
And again.<br />
We are perpetually moving through our<br />
days, searching for another reason to stay<br />
alive. Through this searching we find that<br />
we can even push cycles onto others,<br />
which brings us back to the beginning.<br />
In “A Mother’s Ruin”, Anne Lawrence<br />
Bradshaw exposes this universal truth: we<br />
are all connected. The mother, in her<br />
dysfunction, plants a seed of doubt and<br />
dissatisfaction in her child. I sat in the<br />
half-light, felt myself change. It was a<br />
moment, a sordid understanding that I was<br />
just grit between your teeth. The mother’s<br />
weakness in her addiction becomes a<br />
mirror, and here she is projecting I feel<br />
the plunge<br />
empty and confused sometimes onto her<br />
child.<br />
And the cycle continues.<br />
And the search for fulfillment<br />
continues.<br />
But there is hope! We need to<br />
just look towards ourselves. Even<br />
in the confusion, and the emptiness,<br />
we are not alone. This longing is a<br />
universal feeling amongst all of us.<br />
Which means, that even in your<br />
darkest, most confusing hour, you<br />
are not the first person to feel the<br />
way you are feeling! You are not<br />
experiencing a unique emotion. You<br />
are experiencing life as a human<br />
being on planet earth. I will say it<br />
again: you are not alone! Not only<br />
are you not alone, you are the maker<br />
of your destiny. You choose the<br />
route to take, the next stage of the<br />
cycle. It is in this moment of clarity<br />
that you do change: your entire life<br />
changes. The lives of the people<br />
around you change once you<br />
recognize the power you have in<br />
merely existing in a world full of people<br />
who feel just like you.<br />
It’s beautiful really.<br />
I hope that as you read the pieces curated<br />
in this issue, that you recognize the<br />
human nature that is exposed throughout<br />
each story, and how that very nature is<br />
what pushes the cycle forward, the<br />
vulnerabilities and scary human truths<br />
that are exposed. I hope you can<br />
recognize that even in some of the ugly<br />
and messier parts, everyone is just empty<br />
and confused, hoping to be more than the<br />
grit in someone’s teeth.<br />
You are more than that, too.<br />
13
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