Chapters Twenty-Three through Twenty-Five of sLAsH by Bill Berry
Mieke's Ladder: Gabriel Ricard reviews the book and interviews author A. R. Lamb
Unlikely's Musical Year-End Review
Five Photographs by Peter Schwartz
Six Digital Paintings by Jeff Crouch and Diana Magallón
:the game: by Nicklaus Liow
The Printable Version of Anonymous Gun by Kurtice Kucheman
Sam Vaknin on the role of central banks in banking crises
Is There Such a Thing As Society?: by Aseem Shrivastava
Robert Weitzel on Focus on the Family's description of Obama
Elisha Porat remembers starting out as a poet
Jonathan Penton compares Hannibal to Tom Bradley's Lemur
Poems in Amsterdam by Louise Landes Levi
Beside the Grave Hole where We Laughed in the Sand: Poetry by Goitsione Mogomotsi Mokou
Two Poems by Anthony Liccione
Two Poems by Nathaniel Ogle
Three Poems by Lyn Lifshin
Three Poems by J. D. Nelson
Three Poems by David McLean
Two Poems by P. A. Levy
Rabbit Stew: Fiction by Rainbow, Jonathan Simonoff, and Dirk van Nouhuys
The Burial Case: Fiction by Peter Schwartz
Prune Hands: Fiction by Sally Weigel
An Evening with Somatotax: Fiction by Ryan Undeen
An Excerpt from Love Spell by Marie Kazalia

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I've always hated irony.

So when I received the call that it was raining SUVs over Waterloo, Iowa; Lima, Ohio; and Flint, Michigan, I didn't know where to start. Irony #1: I had long complained to my wife, Gina, that my position as Deputy Assistant Director of FEMA, Biblical Catastrophe Division was a completely bogus position with no real responsibility. But now it had responsibility. Mucho responsibility. Irony #2: That it was literally raining SUVs over cities consistently listed among the top twenty in the nation in per capita ownership of vehicles with the highest carbon emissions is a punishment befitting anything Dante could have dreamed up. Irony #3: My name is Moses. First and last. "Moses Moses." Ha ha, Mom and Dad, I am still yucking it up.

Here's how the whole SUV thing panned out: At 6:53 a.m., Eastern Standard Time, my assistant, Dolores, called my home with the news. Dolores is normally a very calm persona, a perky little woman of Asian descent who knows the ropes and navigates problems with the steadiness of a Volga boatman. But that morning, her voice was panicked and unsure.

"Moses?"

"Yeah?"

"It's raining SUVs."

"Yeah, I know, they're everywhere. And no one will take one off your hands, you know, what with gas being so high."

"No, Moses. They are falling from the sky in Iowa. In Ohio. In Michigan. I mean, big bad Explorers, Expeditions, Yukons, Grizzlies, whatever the hell they are called, smashing right through people's roofs, crushing kids to jelly as they sleep peacefully under their comforters. It's horrible."

"No shit?"

"Yes, shit. Big shit. The president is calling a press conference in twenty minutes and they're going to go to a live feed from our office. You need to shave, shit, and shine

pronto, Mr. Deputy Assistant Director. And have some Bible verses ready, because America will be expecting an explanation. And don't just blame it all on the gays."

"So there's like SUVs falling from the sky?"

"Just be here." Dolores hung up. And then things happened very quickly indeed.