December '05 -- guest edited by Christopher Monks

New York Times Exclusive
  by Greg Ames

The Writer's Life
  by Tom Barlow

Let the Reader Beware
  by Richard Grayson

Use Your Indoor Voice
  by David Gianatasio

I am so sorry that my homing device was chafing your ankle
  by John Jodzio

The Six Times I Tried Smoking
  by Nathaniel Missildine

Okay, hang in there for the ending. Because it's pretty damn cool and clever and awe-inspiring.

Here goes:

The child, Danny, had not been harmed in any way, at least not as far as I could see.

He appeared well-fed, chubby even. Clean-scrubbed. Downy hair parted down the middle, disco-style. His jeans and striped t-shirt freshly laundered.

Thick adhesive tape bound the eight-year's mouth; cords of rope held him fast to a wooden chair.

And there I stood, in the middle of a wrecked living-room that looked as if it had been bombed from above, trying to figure out what the hell was going on.

Danny's parents -- Steve and Peg -- crouched beside me in the entrance hall. The former was gaunt and edgy, with a facial tick that made the edges of his mouth curl downward in a nervous frown. Peg stared straight ahead at the opposite wall. She couldn't stop sighing.

They'd moved next door a year before and seemed like the perfect family. Quiet and polite, friendly to the neighbors. Peg would come by with fried chicken and biscuits as Steve and Danny played catch in the front yard. The kind of thing you just don't see anymore -- straight out of Rockwell.

About six weeks ago the noises began. At first it was mainly banging and raised voices. I tried to ignore the din, slapped a pillow over my ears and forced myself to go back to sleep. Maybe they were having a party? Or could Steve be doing some home renovations, late at night, the only time he had to get such work done?

The disruptions grew gradually worse. Thunderous crashes made the paintings on my wall shudder and fall (luckily, no great loss, as they were mainly copies of sports-car advertising posters) as Steve and Peg screamed at the proverbial tops of their lungs.

One night after an hour of this I ran over, but Steve met me at the door -- he looked frazzled (hair mussed up, forehead damp), but more or less OK -- and insisted everything was fine. He positioned himself so I couldn't get a good look inside.

I hoped that would be the end of the problem.

It wasn't.

Danny started missing school. (Since I teach physical education, I know he hasn't been to class in nearly a month.)

Plus, the family -- so smiley-happy-neighborly when they'd first arrived -- disappeared. No more dusk leftover runs or games of catch in the yard, which soon became overgrown and snarled with weeds. The shades were drawn tight.

Tonight was the last straw. The banging went on for hours, increasing in intensity until it sounded like World War III had broken out next door. My own house trembled and a vase on my bedside table went crashing to the floor. (And by vase, I mean, a 40-ounce bottle of malt liquor. But either way, it was completely unacceptable.)

I pulled on some clothes and rushed out. I simply wasn't prepared for what I found. Their first-floor windows were shattered and shingles showered down from the roof. I heard a loud wooden rattle and leapt aside as the front door bounced cross the driveway.

The place was a mess inside: Overturned chairs and tables transformed the floor into an obstacle course. Papers and plaster floated through the air. Gaping cracks cleaved the walls and ceiling.

And there was Danny. In the midst of the wreckage. Unharmed, apparently. Steve knelt in front of the boy, his elbows and knees bruised and bloody, shirt split straight down the back from collar to waist. His thinning hair was snarled with debris.

Peg crouched in the entryway, hair disheveled, nightgown ragged and torn.

Steve nodded in my direction as he tightened Danny's restraints. "We can't let him take off the tape."

He said it matter-of-factly. Almost without emotion. It was goddamn chilling. And by chilling, I mean it scared the freaking CRAP out of me. Just so we have that straight.

I rubbed my eyes, unsure what to say. I wanted to proceed cautiously. "Look, I don't know exactly what's going on here, but... "

Steve cut me off. "Danny's fine. He's a-ok under there... the little rascal."

He tousled the boy's hair and slumped back on the floor, exhausted.

I took a few steps toward the door. Peg grabbed my sleeve. "What are you going to do?"

I didn't answer. Her eyes widened. "Please ... you don't understand. Steve... you've got to explain... "

Her husband walked over and put an arm around her shoulder. "We don't abuse our son," he said.

I kicked a broken picture frame aside, clenched my balled fists at my sides. I was trying to look manly and imposing, like a film actor. I probably wasn't cutting it.

Steve and Peg sighed in unison, despair played across their soiled faces.

Would they try to stop me from leaving, attempt physical violence?

What happened next, I didn't expect.

Steve knelt once more in front of his son and began to work the tape loose from Danny's mouth. Peg started to protest, but Steve continued to work it off slowly, gently, so as not to hurt the boy, revealing a corner of Danny's mouth.

I joined Steve on the floor. "Danny -- you OK?"

He blinked, as if momentarily dazed.

Then his lips parted...

There wasn't any sound. Nothing audible. Just a strange vibration. Like waves...

And all hell broke loose.

The walls buckled and the moldings creaked and groaned. Cracks spidered the parquet beneath my feet.

An ottoman flew from nowhere, catching Steve full in the face and throwing him off balance as he tried -- unsuccessfully -- to re-attach the tape. The adhesive hung by a thread. The boy's mouth was open wide.

The remaining windows shattered as a fierce wind whipped through the house.

Peg clung with both hands to the banister, trying in desperation to keep from being blown out into the street. The wind was deafening -- it drown out her screams.

Steve was rolling on the floor, unable to rise to his feet.

As the gale rumbled and the whole place began to cave in, I leapt for Danny in a frantic attempt to plug that gaping maw.

I made it just in time, pulling the tape over the kid's mouth and holding it fast to his pudgy cheeks.

The vibrations subsided.

The tremors died away.

The wind withdrew and the rumbling grew silent.

Steve crawled over to join me on the floor. Peg crouched down beside us. We exchanged glances, uncertain what to do next.

It was one of those Twilight Zone moments. But instead of that final twist, some way-too-clever-by-half revelation, there was only silence. We all stood there with stupid looks on our faces.

Except for Danny.

Who was, of course, still tied to the chair.

Beneath the tape, he was smiling.

Imagine yourself in this situation -- put yourself in my shoes. WHAT'S YOUR NEXT MOVE? WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO? PRESSURE'S ON, BABY! YOU GOTTA DO THE ONE THING THAT MAKES IT ALL WORK OUT.

Here's what I did: I hatched a brilliant but benevolent plan -- a plan so awe-inspiringly ingenious that it took into account every possible factor and conceivable outcome ...

Which is to say, I ran out of the place like a baby, climbed into my car and kept on driving until the sun came up the next morning. Then I got drunk. Really drunk.

Hey, Rod Serling's dead. Write your own tricky endings. At least it PROBABLY wasn't quite what you expected. That's all I got. F--- You!