New From Joseph Ferguson

The Christmas Bar

The Christmas Bar The road is black and unsure as the future. Out beyond the headlights looms dark quantum plasma; a world ruled by flux and uncertainty. Trees, road signs, and other cars burst into being, then as suddenly, pop from existence. Hills become open space, and open space, solid walls. Adam shakes his head and watches the LED on the dash clock change from 9:30 to 9:31.  He smiles. Lately his life seemed malleable as the memories of eyewitnesses. Hell. The story‚Äôs always been the thing. Just exactly who did or said what, where, when, and how, was subject to whim; fickle as subatomic fluctuation. The guardrail curves space to the left, then twists it right again. Snow begins to fall, feathering even the small triangles of light to indistinct blurs. Some kind of cat moves from one box of blackness to another. A deer materializes in mid-hop, then vanishes before touching ground. Suddenly lights; a photon riot. A great ship emerges from the fog, its twinkling whirls of tiny particles in the plasma, resolve themselves into windows, beer lights, parked cars. A tavern. Either time has folded in on itself, or there was some kind of classic car…

  • Joseph Ferguson is an author, poet, and journalist appearing in a variety of small press, regional, and national publications. He wrote propaganda for a living for a variety of entities for some 25 years. His  recent collection of short fiction, Southbound, follows the exploits of one character, Basement Man. He…

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