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Colored Chalk Mediazine

 Dynamic Media
The main attractions. Make sure you have Flash installed.
Articles 17
Last published article Transubstantiate: The Debut of Richard Thomas
Edit category Supplementary Materials
Elements that comprise the main content. Pieces of art and prose that went into Dynamic Media presentations.
Articles 5
Last published article Artwork: "Mouth for War"
 The Hybrid Zine
A literary zine made available both online and in print-your-own PDF form. Each issue will have a new theme and a different editor. Details for each issue will be posted in this folder.
Articles 140
Last published article Issue 10 Submission Guidelines
Edit category Issue 10: Ten Commandments
A decatet of decadent dramas.
Articles 11
Last published article Print Version, Cover, and Editor's Note
Edit category Issue 8: Broken Clocks
A collection of stories stuck somewhere in time.
Articles 18
Last published article Print Version, Cover, and Editor's Note
Edit category Issue 7: MacGuffins For Hire
We'd like to show you something special.
Articles 14
Last published article Print Version, Cover, and Editor's Note
Edit category Issue 5: Sins of the Father
We've got a daddy issue.
Articles 12
Last published article Print Version, Cover, and Editor's Note
Edit category Issue 4: Big Brother in my Pocket
Are you reading it, or is it reading you?
Articles 11
Last published article Print Version, Cover, and Editor's Note
Edit category Issue 3: Life After Fire
The smoldering third issue.
Articles 12
Last published article Print Version, Cover, and Editor's Note
Edit category Issue 2: Cockroaches Ate the Ending
The second issue of the Colored Chalk, inspired by some advice from Kurt Vonnegut.
Articles 8
Last published article Print Version, Cover, and Editor's Note
Edit category Issue 1: Two Guys Enter a Bar. One Leaves.
The premiere issue of the Colored Chalk lit zine, available both online and as a print-your-own PDF. Enjoy!
Articles 9
Last published article Print Version, Cover, and Editor's Note
 Reading material
Registered users are invited to submit non-fiction, opinion, and satire articles for this section.
Articles 20
Last published article Mockit Science Category Description
Edit category Expertise Exchange
Helpful articles for producing and digitizing artistic mediums.
Articles 1
Last published article Basic PHP: You Can Digg It!
Edit category Current Events
Articles about what's going on in your neighborhood, surrounding area, country, planet, or universe.
Articles 3
Last published article Bob Dylan (Live) - Rochester, NY August 30th, 2006
Edit category Hearts and Minds
Discussions of modern culture, philosophy, and human interaction.
Articles 5
Last published article Eight Reasons To Love Spam Email
Edit category Mockit Science
Lamenting wasted research experiments and useless technology.
Articles 7
Last published article Sigmund Freud's Handy Handbook
 Segmentation Faults
The editor's blog and miscellaneous drivel
Articles 9
Last published article Bug Report for Amendment 20

Content Copyrights are listed per article.
Published by Wickerkat on 2010/6/27 (6455 reads)


“They say Jimmy made it out. But the postcards we get, well, they don’t seem…real.”

When an experiment with population control works too well, and the planet is decimated, seven broken people are united by a supernatural bond in a modern day Eden.

Published by Eddy on 2009/10/31 (5238 reads)

‘You rang?’

‘Are you the devil?’

‘Well, these look like crossroads and you called me three times. You look confused.’

‘You don’t look like the devil.’

‘Have we met before?’

‘Probably not.’


‘I don’t know. It’s just, I mean, you get this image in your head, you know, and then here you come looking like this.’

Published by Axel Taiari [Axeltaiari] on 2009/10/31 (5988 reads)

Elijah sits on his porch and watches the lake burn. Through distant trees, colored flames dance on the water surface, their glow staining the rolling clouds above a sickening shade of green. His father’s hunting rifle rests on his knees. The door creaks and Elijah says, stay inside, goddammit, and you don’t make a sound or come out until I return. The door closes, and locks slide into place. His wife had gone to a nearby settlement to tend to her dying cousin, and without her in the house the boys were getting restless. Elijah stands up, grips the rifle tight, and walks downhill toward the town’s main avenue, where the others wait.

Published by Colored Chalk [admin] on 2009/10/31 (4831 reads)

He presented before the confessional, opposite me, and abided by the script, “Forgive me, father, for I have sinned. It’s been ___ since my last confession…”

You know the concept, of course.

He wasn’t a local of mine and I could tell by his quiver and tone he was truly living with the burden of guilt. The fact he traveled out so far to see me supported my inquiry he wasn’t just spewing some ‘let me into heaven’ malarkey. I have a reliable sense for detecting these things. I trust you’d know.

He went on about how it was an extremely dark era of his life, he was battling clinical depression, drinking excessively with over and under the counter drugs. He attempted suicide because the guilt was so demonizingly haunting. I could tell from his poor complexion, he’d been kept up consecutive nights on end, not eating, storing himself away from the sunlight and general public.

Published by Colin McKay Miller [Sardonic_Artery] on 2009/10/31 (5223 reads)

Thicker than one finger, but slimmer than two, the tall man flicks the glint of the blade across the pastor’s face. The pastor, still seated behind his desk, puts his hand up, but it’s too late. The light is already in his eyes.

The tall man came in at the start of the evening, walked right into the office because there was no one else around. The pastor had sent the church workers home to spend the Sunday evening with their families.

He intended to do the same soon after, but the tall man walked in and pulled the door behind him.

Published by Wickerkat on 2009/10/31 (7670 reads)

I patiently sit in the broken down bar where my mother used to whore herself. My father would beat the horny, drunk bastards to within an inch of their lives, whenever he would catch them. He always caught them, it was part of their sick little game. The bra strap that is digging into my shoulder is vying for my attention with the thong that is burrowing up my ass, so the only thing to do is down another shot of tequila and ignore the leers of my brother. Anthony. Leaning against the back wall of Nick’s, the local hangout only blocks from our home, his eyes never leave me. I think he has inappropriate thoughts about me from time to time. I don’t want his hands on me again, but for this one night all of the rules have been thrown out, in pursuit of fame and fortune, with a sprinkling of honor.

Published by Colored Chalk [admin] on 2009/10/31 (5086 reads)

He jumped off the train and went into the station, the conductor in the gray cap. He was shriveled and hunched, like a shrimp. It didn't seem to Julie he'd be capable of doing much more than riding up and down the rails, taking tickets, but he always had a coin for Buddy, a penny the train had squashed between Mt. Dora and Winter Park. Buddy fingered the oblong copper and put it to his lips as if it were a thick shaving of chocolate. Julie slapped his hand. The heat rising up from the pavement made her short.

On Wednesdays, she and Buddy came down to the station. They stood on the tracks and waited for the rails to vibrate with the motion of the oncoming train. It made Buddy coo to feel the shimmying metal tickle the soles of his feet and he put his face next to the track, his baby flesh on the forged steel. Julie tested herself to see how long she could wait before she pulled him off, how long she could stand it. She knew it was wrong to tempt fate this way but it felt as if the palm trees and the bushes and the sun itself held her. And then one time she saw the light of the train and she quickly, with a pounding chest, snatched him by the waist. After the train stopped, the shrimp man came to where they were standing. He had eyes with uneven patches and he seemed to be watching her through a pool of opaque pebbles. She thought he was going to say something, but then he gave Buddy a coin and brushed his cheek with a curved finger.

Published by Colored Chalk [admin] on 2009/10/31 (10174 reads)

Move in with the dark-haired girl who doesn’t like the idea of marriage, either. Not at this age, you both agree. Drive the moving truck that she wanted to pay for. Don’t worry that you haven’t known her for very long. Carry the boxes of books together. When one of the boxes slips because her arms have gotten tired, you smile at her and kiss her on the eye while you’re standing in the hallway. Clean up the books together. Return the truck and ride to your new home in her car.

Let this girl keep most of her furniture, the antique armoire, the oak desk, the electronic coffee-maker. Make the coffee for her in the mornings and leave it on her desk before you go to work. You know that she’ll drink it while she’s reading the paper in the morning.

Published by Colored Chalk [admin] on 2009/10/31 (4881 reads)

Sitting in the woods behind her house, my ears hang onto every word she says, as if she’s God, delivering unto me the laws of the universe. This list of promises she’s made to herself. They are holy.

“Number 1:” she intones, “There is no God. You alone are most powerful in your life, so you can fly as high, or sink as low, as you please.” Complete, undeniable, and everlasting freedom is what it’s about.

We met at the movies one day, when a blind date stood her up. Fidgeting, she stood waiting for him, but I didn’t know that at the time. Wavy brown hair, slightly puffy lips, and titanium eyes, it was difficult not to stare. She was vaguely familiar, because everyone goes to the same school in this town, but we’d never officially met.

“Number 2:” she says. Her eyes are drilling into the paper, as if she’s trying to set it on fire. “If something is stolen, get it back. Then, punish them as you see fit.” Her eyes flick up to me for a moment, and linger. She once told me, in passing, that everything she has is a part of her, and if she loses something she feels incomplete. 

Published by Paradox on 2009/10/31 (4008 reads)

“Don’t you lie to me, Peter Tayforth.”

The syllables swam around his head like drunken eels, and it was all he could do just to get to his knees, let alone answer.

“The truth now,” his mother said, “a man of thirty-six years old ought to know better...if you’ve been drinking, I swear I’ll –”

“Sorry,” he managed as he struggled upright against the cold bricks of their house. And he could swear before a judge that if there was such a thing as a jelly demon, it had just pointed a cursing finger at the bones in his legs. Perhaps even his eyes too, because the only thing he could see clearly as he shuffled sideways to find the door, gasping, was a huge white toad.

“Four in the morning, a crash that probably woke the whole town, and who should I find sleeping on my doorstep?” said the toad. “My own son!”

Published by Colored Chalk [admin] on 2009/10/31 (3160 reads)

Lloyd had a swimming pool -- a real, in-ground pool with sparkling chlorinated water and a diving board. His neighbors Zelda and Johnny didn’t have such a luxury, but they made do. Most afternoons, Zelda would line up three kiddie pools in her back yard, and her two girls would hop from one to the other. Some days Zelda would join in on the splashing and playing. Other days she would lie in a lounge chair, slather on SPF 30, and periodically ask the girls to turn the hose on her.

“Hit me, girls!” she’d say. Even though Lloyd had never seen her with a cigarette, her voice was husky, as if she had started smoking in preschool. She would let out a tortured growl when the cold water hit her, and the girls would giggle.

Lloyd and his wife never used their pool. No one had used the pool since their son moved out, but he faithfully cleaned it several times a week. He spent a lot of time in his back yard, edging, tending to the rose bushes, or putting down ant poison -- any excuse to peek through the wooden slats of the fence and gaze at Zelda.

Published by ZsaZsaWong on 2009/8/1 (3172 reads)
Heaven is a handful of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos.

I eat them until my tongue is a bloody stub burned back against bottom of my mouth. The only thing that can stand up to the hellfire is my six gold teeth. Gold really stands the test of time.

“Amy, bring me a beer!”

She’s watching church on TV. I like to hear the choir singing, but I’ve got myself an emergency. So if she doesn’t notice me quick, I’ll pry my seared lips apart and let the smoke pour out in her direction until she looks up. She always looks up.

Published by Vincent Louis Carrella [serpentbox] on 2009/8/1 (3140 reads)
When he last saw Leroy Boskew he was flat on his back the way he is now, but he was drunk then and not truly dying. It seemed like he’d go on for another fifty years or more despite the life he chose for himself; keeping all those women and driving all those trucks to cities and towns all over God’s creation just to maintain the illusion that he had only had the one wife. The one life. But there was a time when he truly was like a father to him so of course he came when he heard the news. He promised he’d come if ever old Boskew asked him and he did, he passed a letter, one trucker to another, written in his own hand.

There something I need to say to you before I die, it said.

Published by Colored Chalk [admin] on 2009/8/1 (2767 reads)
Nathan slipped the photograph out of the envelope, holding it carefully by the edges. Cupping it in his hands, he set it on the desk.

It was stupid, he thought. Stupid to be so reverent towards a piece of paper. But there it was. Nothing else mattered on his desk – the bills, the checks, the random bits of flotsam that now made up his life.

Centering the photo in the middle of his desk with his fingertips, Nathan leaned in.

It was as if he could reach out and touch them. His memories were so strong of that day at the beach, Marie laughing at Dylan, who was holding up a wriggling crab with his two little fingers.

Published by CraigWallwork on 2009/8/1 (3365 reads)
I make no bones about it. The queue found me, and not the other way around.

From the sparrow snared by bunting; the flies feeding on a bloodied vagrant; a child screaming; the sickening stench of hot asphalt – the world that morning cleaved to my every part, turning my stomach and heart. I lowered my eyes. Another corner, another road. Then I found skin, pallid and wrinkled, dredged from a riverbed. Fine hair glistened above a scraggy nape. Liver spots festooned a weathered crown. I staggered my steps, catching his heel in the last. The old man turned. Eyes the color of onyx, pitiless and cadaverous. What’s all this about, he cried. I offered my apologies, a hand. But the old man turned his back. I rose on tiptoes. In front of him, a thousand people stood facing the head of the person in front. I tapped his shoulder and asked, What are we queuing for?

Published by Kabrown on 2009/8/1 (3636 reads)
I am in the dinghy, rowing away from you. I have my cigarettes and my lighter. It is night, and I am swallowed up in it. I feel the force of the sea and its swelling under me, the water sloshing in the boat about my bare feet. My arms pull, fueled by fury. I watch the palm shadows wave at me from the moonless shore. Tonight, we drank rum with the couple from The Sharon. They were from England and as drunk as we were. You were quiet, sifting the sand through your hands. I could not ask you, What? I was too afraid to hear it.

We are on Tobago, in the Lesser Antilles. Your boat, The Pearl is anchored off of Charlotteville, and we have been here for two days. I know very little about sailing, so in bad weather I was told to stay under, a nuisance. We met in a bar in New Haven, and I had a look, you said, that made you weak. That was all you would say when I asked why you wanted me. Oh Darling, you said. Let’s not worry. We stopped and stayed in anchorages you know, Castara Bay and Parlatuvier, bought food from Miss Esmé in the little shack—crab and dumplings, Bake and Fish. Her arms were round and black, her palms soft as she took my hand to say hello, smiling at me, her brown eyes keen. You dove most days with your friends. I stayed on the beach, or on The Pearl, reading, thinking about you returning.

Published by Colored Chalk [admin] on 2009/8/1 (2697 reads)
Instead of finding the baby sleeping peacefully in the crib, Aimee found mounds of winter bedding—flannel sheets and comforters she was putting away for the summer. Panicked, she ran to the plastic storage tote still in the living room. Not a sound came from it. How much oxygen could it hold? Instinct prompted her to do two things simultaneously—rip off the lid and prepare herself. She had read somewhere that a dead baby feels like a sack of flour. She unsnapped the lid. She scooped up little Adeline who didn’t move. She was light as a feather. Plastic, like the tote. Her blue glass eyes popped open when Aimee held her upright, closed when she tilted her down. She had impossibly long Maybelline lashes. How would she explain to Tim when he came home from work? She climbed into the tote. It was 45 gallons, big enough for a king-sized comforter or a small woman on her back, knees pressed into her chest. It was dark, and she would try not to panic as the oxygen ran out. She had her dolly with her.

Published by CJDwyer on 2009/8/1 (3149 reads)
Lips and eyelids quiver in a blinding mess of broken light. I’m knee deep in static and three brooding inches of frost exit my mouth like nuclear smoke. My vision careens into focus, the right side
of my body burning with a trail of blood and dust. It’s only when my heart speeds up that I can see her. Love’s light blue dropped in the middle of two ovals of snow, a pale face with a momentary smile and
a slash of black bangs drooping down like dying shadows.

She holds out her hand and the very tips of white fingernail polish glisten in the hazy edges of green sunlight. Three or four words escape her lips but the sound is sliced into a dozen blurry fireflies. Her flesh meets mine and I’m grounded, the soul beneath the skin awake and aware. Fifteen seconds until our hands are locked together and I’m staring into Jenni’s eyes.

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