Her hair was bright and luscious. Her feet were planted like roots, and her spine was tall and proud. Her heart bled sap and her eyes honey. She extended her arms out, her long fingers like branches. She reached and reached for the nearest sapling. At last, she found him, a pine tree, strong and thriving. His leaves reflected the gentle light as if to share its glow. She burrowed her thorns into his smooth skin and twisted her branches around his throat. At his last gasp, she sneered.
Cash Cow literary magazine is dedicated to profiting from the hopes and dreams of writers. We have a financial conflict of interest, and we’re not afraid to admit it. For a fee we offer these virtual courses:
- How to Write a Story that Gets Published
- Four Ironclad Rules Every Story in the Universe Must Follow to be High Quality
- The Art of the Comma
and many more. Give us a try. We’re experts, because we say so.
We monitor your expenditures in multiples of fifty dollars. Your submissions are rejected until you’ve spent your first fifty. Then voila, an acceptance. Subsequent submissions are rejected for your next forty-nine, and suddenly, you’ll have written something worthy of publication.
Other fees include five dollars for a critique from a random reader we hired, ten dollars for an actually good review, and fifty dollars for our Cash Cow tee shirt, which disintegrates as quickly as your misconception that there are people who put art first, upon its first washing.
If published, we charge five dollars for your piece to be accompanied by your bio, and ten to list any social media handles. Your “published” fiction will be placed behind a paywall. Readers will have to pay fifteen dollars to read it, unless you purchase our concierge service for twenty-five dollars, guaranteeing no wall for any of your work.
Like to know how to submit? That procedure can be found behind our paywall. A mere three dollars will gain you access.
Len Slatest was nominated for a 2026 Pushcart Prize.
Web lenslatest.substack.com
I did it! I can’t believe I actually did it. I robbed Debutante of all places and got away. Those corpo chicks dropped their smug faces really quick with one look of me in their precious house of threads. Ha! Easy street from here on. Premo!
No more scraping by. None of this rat’s nest, slumming it life. I just can’t believe it. I saw the whole thing through, gunfight and everything. Sure, I took a couple of slugs in the gut, but I can afford the best doc around now. I will hit one up right after I get some sleep, though.
I’m exhausted… I just can’t believe I pulled this off. I can see it now, new threads, new ride, a new place, everything pristine and white. No more of this red stuff pouring out of me. I am sure it looks worse than it is, anyway. I mean, I can’t even feel the pain anymore. I am sure that is a good sign.
I will finally leave this putrid life behind, but first, sleep. Yeah, that sounds Premo. I am just so… so tired. Maybe I can afford a few minutes, right? Just close my eyes for a minute. I earned that and so much more, an escape from this wretched life. Just a few… a few… yeah.
I got lost in a dictionary,
looking for words so ancient
they can communicate
the emotions that wash over me.
Their flight is almost silent. The irresistible call of blood guides them through the darkness.
He sleeps, unaware of his fate. He is prey.
They are already ready to taste the blood of the victim. Their flight ends so absurdly — the resounding clap of his broad palm and his words. “I hate mosquitoes!”
When I step out of the portal, only darkness greets me.
I check my readouts. No visor malfunction. Oxygen levels good. I look around. Every atom of the planet is devoid of colour, like the oppressive black of the night escaped its bounds and infected the world. No moon. No stars. No life.
So why can I feel the burn of a thousand avaricious eyes?
Something’s wrong. This isn’t where Control was supposed to send me.
Heart pounding, I whirl on the portal behind me.
“Wait!” I cry, but the doorway has already closed.
All around me, the darkness smiles.
The Forming Circle glows a putrid green around the bones and blood-clay.
Lilly watches Friedrich’s fingers emerge like little anthills, then the full lips she loves to kiss. His temple’s ring shaped scar from a year ago and his deformed ribs from his fall two months back remain the same.
It took days to gather the blackened bones out of Friedrich’s immolated room. Sifting through ash, charred wood, and the chains to find them all. She wouldn’t allow him to have candles anymore.
His eyes open when the spell completes.
Lilly smiles. “Husband, you can’t ever leave me.”
He screams.
“Hey, Mitchell.”
“Hey, Jenny.”
“Are you ready to order?”
“Yeah. I’ll have the patty melt with a side of tater tots. And a coffee.”
“Great. Here you go.”
“What’s this?”
“Your bill.”
“I have to pay now?”
“Uh-huh. We’ve had some people skip out on their bill recently, so the owner is making everyone pay before getting their food.”
“This is crazy.”
“I know, but it’s not my call.”
“What if I want dessert?”
“Do you want dessert?”
“I don’t know. I usually make that decision after eating lunch.”
“Well, if you decide you want dessert, I can bill you separately for that.”
“Fine. Here’s a twenty to cover my lunch. You can keep the change.”
“Thanks. I’ll be back with your coffee and receipt.”
✱
“Here you go, Mitchell.”
“What the hell’s this?”
“Your coffee and receipt.”
“But my coffee’s in a Styrofoam cup.”
“I forgot to mention that earlier. We’ve had some clumsy customers lately, and the owner is tired of replacing broken mugs, so we’re serving drinks in disposable cups now.”
“It just doesn’t taste the same in a cup.”
“Sorry.”
“Is there anything else I should know about?”
“I don’t think so, but I’ll give you a heads up if the owner makes any other changes.”
“I have a suggestion.”
“Okay. What is it?”
“How about a change in ownership?”