All tagged Issue 1

SHORT STORYA Sure ThingLou Gaglia

Lou Gaglia takes us to a baseball game in his short story "A Sure Thing". After a little girl gets hit by a stray ball, a father considers which risks in life are worth taking.

 "Sometimes it doesn't matter if you're smart or careful," she said. She rested her head on my shoulder, and I thought about the old man and his deer whistle.

SHORT STORYThe PhilanthropistJames H. Duncan

James H. Duncan returns to Drunk Monkeys with the short story "The Philanthropist". 

" ... the money went faster than he expected, but he felt lucky now to have that. He intended to blow it all over a weekend, knowing so much more was headed his way in just a few days, but something nagged at him, told him to stick to well drinks and the per-hour motels downtown, to not go crazy just yet." 

SHORT STORYA Roomful of GeniusesHeidi Espenscheid Nibbelink

The crisis began June 21, five months and a day after the third Trump inauguration, his unprecedented extra presidential term the result of a constitutional revamp passed after the Congressional Blockade of 2024, when President Trump ordered the National Guard to chain the doors of the Capitol Building and refused to have any food or water shipped in until the amendment passed.

FLASH FICTIONSuckerZac Locke

Because she carelessly wiped her sucker against the bush, the bees came. First, one. Nuzzling into the prickly green bramble-sticks. Attracted by the faint aspartame stickiness perfuming the taught needles’ shiny varnish. Enpapping his little furry beak in his prescribed yet always desperate search for melilotusessence.

SHORT STORYWe RanYolanda Bridges

A story of running, childhood and sibling love in Yolanda Bridges short story "We Ran".

Blamed for my mother’s death, for turning our house into a tomb, and my dad into a man who drove a blue truck.

And for making my sister and me run.

SHORT STORYA Terrible CoincidenceHeather Truett

Even the cursed deserve to love, right? Find out in Heather Truett's short story "A Terrible Coincidence".

It was foggy the day my fourth lover died.

I was 25.

The sun had risen at 6:15. Anthony had risen at seven. My alarm wasn’t set, and I didn’t hear him go. I didn’t hear his heavy boots on the stairs or the shrill beeps as he punched in my security code.

 I didn’t hear his car start.