Lust’s Passion Will Be Served... 
(and sprinkled with a smidgen of greed for flava)
FEATURED BIO: Julia Davila, is a 28-year old, Ecuadorian, living in Madrid (Spain). Recently, she is trying to break ground in the world of photography. Julia covers various genres, from still life via self-portraits to street photography. People use the word “versatile” when describing her...we think her work is beautiful. What do you think? Visit her link: and leave her some comment “love.”


We step into a hot, sweet night, 
scent pouring from shining branches, 
lake water rippling to silver,  
then Egyptian darkness. 
I wear my princess mask, slipping 
tiara and too-long skirt. 
Black feathers swirl from my boa; 
chips fall from my darkened nails. 
You are the mouth 
of the dark, goat, tiger, all-night dancer, 
my pulse so loud I forget your name.  
Paint me with thick blue paint.  
Go ahead. I still believe 
in falling, but I fall upward, 
strangers touching my lips and eyes.
I plunge into the hive 
for its sweetness. 
While I lie there licking 
everything, I disfigure 
my heart with a miniature 
pencil. Bees cling 
to my arms and sticky 
pubic hair. I make crutches 
my heart limps out on.
Through your eye I climb 
into bright landscapes. 
I’m grateful for unlabored 
breathing. Your body. 
You walking. The word 
desire. I ask loss to stop 
cutting and filing 
and cross-referencing  
because each day is 
dressed in flesh. I swing 
my damaged parts 
forward with grave 
regularity, keep my crutches 
close to my body, 
touch what’s been broken 
to uneven paving so I seem 
almost to balance here.  

Body and Soul
Desire wakes a woman alone
in her bed. She wants a red dress 
caressing her knees, beaded flowers 
clutching one breast, old records, 
scratchy jazz—Body and Soul, 
Death Letter, carnal, despairing. 
Last night was dark as a blackbird.
Outside her window, a tree cracks, 
hurtling glittering branches 
like tipped gangplanks. She steps 
to her window. Meltwater slicks 
the snow, turning it into a perilous 
glaze. Ice like crushed glass cascades 
from the fallen branches. False dawn 
hangs a shroud of soft white light. 
Author’s Bio: Barbara Daniels’ Rose Fever was published by WordTech Press. She received two Individual Artist Fellowships from the New Jersey Council on the Arts and earned an MFA in poetry at Vermont College. She lives just outside of Philly and was recently quoted saying, “Philly is my city.” Minos finds this pride appealing and may summon her to the surface to read for PFI at a future keep your eyes peeled, or else...Minos will.
He turns off the water, kisses her, then pushes her hands and arms away, easing her to the side so he can get into position. 
"Let me," he says.
A rush of warmth spreads through her as her affection for him grows. A low, pleasant ache builds between her legs as his hand disappears beneath the bubbles. She gets comfortable next to him, watches his hands work in delicate, slow circles, now concentrating on a certain spot, careful but thorough. 
The slow motion of it mesmerizes her, the soft splash of the water soothes. He blinks slowly, licks his lips, clearly aware of the effect he's having on her. She smiles at his proud display and how much he enjoys her particular brand of lust. His hands are warm and wet, his stroke firm yet just careful enough, determined—doing the job.
Unable to stay still any longer, she moves behind him, presses her body into his back and reaches both arms around his waist to unbuckle his belt. As she slips her hand into the front of his jeans, she whispers what he already knows, "Men who wash dishes make me hot."
Author’s Bio: Shelley Ontis is a full-time freelance writer. Her favorite deadly sin has made her hips wide and her dance card small. Shelley's writing has appeared in over 20 publications.

Summer Postlude

By the end of August, summer is moribund; by the middle of September, truly done for. Summer the well-beloved is over, dead and gone. Although its demise and subsequent resurrection recur as predictably as clockwork, we seem to have some vestigial reptilian brain wiring which reacts with shocked melodrama to summer's end. We might even go through the now-classic five stages of bereavement, not a moment too soon arriving at acceptance.
This fall six of us survivors transcended mere acceptance. We embraced summer's successor by celebrating the equinox at Old Orchard Beach. Our annual tradition of spending a few days at Old Orchard began serendipitously about five years ago when we couldn't find a place to stay in Portland. It turned out that this nearby, bustling, slightly seedy seaside honky-tonk suited us just fine. Our timing this year was more serendipity; conflicting schedules postponed the trip until after Labor Day.
The weather held, and the town had lost none of its charm post-season, flaunting a relieved, mellower vibe. Most shops had closed for the season or opened only on weekends, and the engrave-your-name-on-rice and other pier emporia had disappeared without a trace. Ubiquitous cigarette-smoking Quebecois teenagers no longer graced the now deserted sidewalks.
We recreated strenuously on our B & B's front porch, reading, napping, working cryptic crosswords, drinking tea and coffee and wine, shooting the breeze. The women assembled the Maine-themed jigsaw puzzle, a tradition within the tradition. We played an original Trivial Pursuit game, its questions ranging from gimmes to the ridiculously obscure, additionally daunting because the answers might or might not be thirty years out of date. Just down the hill we could watch the coast-hugging Amtrak Downeaster make its ten daily transits, momentarily cutting us off from the beach.
Though the front porch seduced us, we ventured off occasionally. At Camp Ellis Bill, Don, and I basked in Atlantic air with binoculars while Andrea, Cheryl, and Jean clambered out onto the jetty. We took our traditional ferry from Portland to Peaks Island, whose own charm augments Casco Bay's always-interesting maritime activity. From Portland Head Light we saw a cruise line leviathan leave Maine State Pier and glide out to sea during a gorgeous sunset and dusk.
Our major challenge was finding venues capable of satisfying our gluttony, and we succeeded. We also pretty well mastered sloth, except for a couple of crypto-bicyclists in our midst. And we envied no one.
This is a vacation worth the overhead, of which the best part isn't returning home, and from which we came back less tired than when we started. Once again we resisted indulging the frenzied American chase for excitement, the feverish quest to tick off items on a bucket list. Our gratification lay only tangentially to what we did or in the doing. It lay essentially, as it so often does and should, in the simple, intangible, and timeless pleasures of friendship.

Author’s Bio: Ray Scanlon was born, grew up, and lives in Massachusetts. He has grandchildren, extraordinary luck, and is pretty sure he could write a book, if only he had something to say. His web site is

Reverse Robin Hood: A Short Tale of Modern Greed

“Hi Rick. Welcome to BestN Tech. Please, have a seat. So, what type of degree are you considering?”
“Well, I was thinking about internet programming. You know, building company websites or something. But then I realized that by the time I finished, all the jobs would be over in Bangladesh or something.”
“Well, that’s not really…”
“So then I thought about the military. But the other day something occurred to me. I’d gone to see my cousin Freddy over at Fort Jones. He’s in the Marines, see, and he lives in this crappy little house on the base, a real dump, with flaking paint and a sagging porch. I mean at one point we were having a beer and I looked down and saw a mouse running across the living room floor.  I said, “Hey, Freddy, you’ve got mice in here.” And Freddy replied, “That’s not a mouse, that’s a cockroach.” So anyway, I quickly ruled out the military. Then, the other day, I was reading an article about a company that makes release levers or something for those Predator drones, and they showed a picture of the CEO’s house. And you know what?”
“It was phaaat. I mean, like this huge hedge out front and five stories tall, all brick with these huge windows and gables and shit. The shed out back...the thing was bigger than Freddy’s whole house. And probably better made, too.
“So what’s your point here?”
“My point is, screw the military and screw these other low paying jobs and worthless degrees. I want to become a defense contractor. Make bank. Do you guys offer, like, a degree in that?”
“Well, uh, at this point we do offer a business degree. Two years, night classes, some can be done online.”
“Yeah okay, great, but anything specific to weapons contracting? Cuz, I mean, that’s the cincher for me here.”
“Hold on a sec, let me check something on my computer here.”
[The computer is not turned on]
“Okay, yeah, it says we can structure that business major with a minor in Defense Contracting.”
“Cool. So what are we talking price wise?”
“Forty-two thousand.”
“What! I could do two years at State for like twelve thousand.”
“Well, maybe, but they keep raising the tuition over there. And, you couldn’t get that minor. Plus, at BestN Tech you’d be getting specialized attention.”
“Did you just say special ed?”
“No, no. Specialized attention.
“What’s that?”
“Things like Myspace updates and Twitter feeds.”
“Hmmm, I still don’t know. Forty-two thousand for two years. That seems like a lot. I don’t have that kind of cash.”
“Hey, who does these days? But we can get you a federal loan, no problem.”
“Yeah, but I gotta pay that bitch off, eventually.”
“Hey, no problem, you’ll make it back your first year on the job. Guaranteed.”
“So, do you guys have any placement data? Ya’ know, like the names of your graduates and the jobs they’ve landed?”
“Well, we did, but then a nasty virus wiped it out, took down our whole system. Deleted the names of a lot of very highly paid people, too many to remember off-hand. But no worries, you’ll be joining them soon. You’ll be rolling in cash in no time.”
“I’m still not sure about this.”
“Well, it’s this or Taco Bell, your call. How do you like hair-nets?”
“Well crap, okay then. I gotta do something. Let’s get it on.”

Author’s Bio: Thomas Sullivan’s writing has appeared in The Pittsburgh Flash Fiction Gazette and 3AM Magazine, among others. He is the author of Life In The Slow Lane, a memoir about teaching driver education. For information on this title, please visit his author website at


Damon Loble: "Honesty, sensuality and narrative are what I care about seeing in my subjects and my photographs. Sometimes I get it right, sometimes I don't, sometimes it's contrived. I adore the people that share with me."

“A lie gets halfway around the world before the truth has a chance to get its pants on.” Dr. Seuss                      

Truth, By Hal O’Leary

The loss of truth is now the only known.
The truth's become old fashioned. Could this be?
With lies, we have decided to condone,
Just how will this affect both you and me?

The truth is now old fashioned. Could this be
Like chastity and people you can trust?
Just how will this affect both you and me,
We who believed that life was somehow just?

Like chastity and people you can trust,
A thing called love could also disappear,
We who believed that life was somehow just,
We've got to make an effort, or I fear

A thing called love could also disappear,
To set each individual apart.
We've got to make an effort, or I fear
There is the chance that we could lose all heart.

To set each individual apart,
With lies we have decided to condone,
There is the chance that we could lose all heart.
The loss of truth is now the only known.
Author’s Bio: Hal O'Leary, is an eighty-six year old, veteran of WWII. He is a Secular Humanist and having spent his life in theatre, believes that it is only through the arts that one is afforded an occasional glimpse into the otherwise incomprehensible. He is the recipient of an Honorary Doctor of Humane Letters degree from West Liberty University

"It's an energy field created by all living things." - Obi Wan
Can I Peel Your Boredom away Like an Orange? By, Catt C.
I'd section you with my heart-centered, devi-pinchers,
but what of your juicy innards?
Look away from the bright-demon hollows,
of the apathetic rinds,
they only carried you here as product in your corrugated cage.
-Creator and Editor of PFI
 Quick Cartoon Hell: Red Riding Hood...

Finally, let’s conclude with our fav: PRIDE.
Customize and sport our Fiery Demon logo with our motto: “Our Hell is Always Open” today!


Coming Soon:Readings in Philly and NJ!
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