Blog Archives

A Doomed Search For Love, Riches And Renewal, by Gordon Lawrie

16/1/2015

On they tramped in their ragged clothes towards the blue mountain. Only there, in the white dragon's den, would they find the true secret of wealth.

"Follow me, Den."

"Did you remember the passports? And the return tickets?"

"Would I let you down?"

Denephew gazed into Denise's eyes. "I love you, Den," he said.

"Sadly, Den, ours is a forbidden love," she replied.

"I'd love to replicate with you. But we can't."

Suddenly there was a mighty roar. From high above them, a giant white dragon bore down upon them, swallowed them up, then spat out two new Dens: rebirth.

Velomeph, by Tammy Mezera

16/1/2015

Velomeph arched, cracking only one of his two spines. The metal rod that fused them together under the shoulder blade, pressed a nerve on the other side causing a wince. A necessary evil.

He nodded he was ok through a screen. 'System check, all clear,' an electronic voice declared throughout the facility. When the door opened, Velomeph threw himself at the robotic guards and bolted down the hall.

“Stop Velomeph,” the voice echoed, “You will kill the system if you break the other spine.”

“Wasn't yours to begin with,” Velomeph shouted, escaping through a window.

Survival of the Fittest, by Emma Baird

16/1/2015

For the first 23 years of his life, Thomas was part of the 99% – an amorphous mass of humanity whose definition was unclear, only that they needed to work and they didn’t have a lot of control over their lives.

Then Thomas created MarketMe – a huge bidding website were people world-wide and with diverse talents could bid for work.

Minimum wage? I don’t think so.

Protection from swindlers? Hardly.

A pension – as if!

Thomas’s billions multiplied. Survival of the fittest, he reckoned.

Society, however, grumbled its discontent – a grumble growing in volume. The 1% in the ivory tower stirred uneasily.

By Lenny Granger

16/1/2015

After Thanksgiving, the Claytons' Christmas lights went missing. They were cheap ones, not the vivid jewel-like pearls, only little ones you used just to have something up.

Then Emma Clayton, a recluse who had not been seen outside since her hip revision in 2006, was interviewed, and re-interviewed. And when it was all over, she was lifted and handcuffed to a gurney, wearing what looked to be a brown stained baseball cap, and taken away.

She had had three marriages and two children who would not speak to her, nor rally when she was prosecuted and put on death row.

The Journey, by Ann-Louise Truschel

16/1/2015

He entered the strange place, the unfamiliar territory. There were many others like him there, but they were rushing, rushing. None seemed to notice him. They brushed by him, seemingly annoyed by his nearness, as if he had deliberately chosen to be in their path.

He felt so alone. Yet he was surrounded by things, piles and piles of things. All kinds of things, some he recognized. Others he had never seen before.

He desperately wanted someone to help him, to advise him. Then he heard the disembodied voice that seemed to want to communicate.

It said: ATTENTION K-MART SHOPPERS.

In Need Of Inspiration, by Jane Reid

16/1/2015

Beulah leaned back contentedly, feet on her expensive new fur rug. Life had been good since she left a bad marriage and moved to this town. She hadn’t found love, but she had found friends and an interesting, remunerative job. And her Doberman, Flora, seemed happy too.

Flora, stretched lovingly at Beulah’s feet, yawned. It was past dinner time and it wasn’t yet walk time. She wished that puppy Chiquita would come. She always had fun with Chiquita, although sometimes it got them in trouble. She wondered what Chiquita would do.

Hmmm, maybe that fur rug needed a good shaking.

Homecoming, by Amy Friedman

16/1/2015

“Can you hand me a beer? There’s some in the back seat cooler.”
Kathleen reached behind her, groped for a cold can, popped it and handed it to Hudy. “Here you go.”
Hudy tipped the can and took a deep draught.
“I hate when you do that,” Kathleen said.
“Oh come on,” Hudy said. “100 more miles on empty highway. I doubt any cops are looking for a pair of geezer dames.”
“Geezettes, please,” Kathleen said, unwrapping a straw. “At least use this.”
“This is so ridiculous,” Hudy said, rolling her eyes as Kathleen poked the straw into her beer.

Ground Control To Major Russell, by Gordon Lawrie

13/1/2015

One of our senior contributors, Russell Conover, had been having some difficulty getting notifications of new posts on the LinkedIn thread... all on the same day the US military command Twitter account was hacked.

Russell began to panic.

Having asked LinkedIn how to get email notifications restored, they'd replied suggesting he reset his mobile phone by typing a series of fourteen seemingly random characters into the LinkedIn app.

The effect was somewhat unanticipated. Still holding his mobile, Russell shot into space at light speed, so fast his ears didn't even have time to pop.

He glanced at the mobile screen: a new message. Martians had hacked into the LinkedIn account, followed by a warning NOT to follow the instructions given.

Too late, thought Russell, as he watched the Earth get smaller and smaller and...

New World, New Home, by Bobby Warner

13/1/2015

It was a great and glorious time for us--at the time. We ten Chosen boarded the plasma-drive starship and launched ourselves out toward the Alpha Centauri system.

We landed on the tiny planet dubbed Earth Two and erected the colony.

All our fuel expended getting here, this was now our new home in perpetuity.

At last we were able to rest and reflect on our situation. It was dire, we realized; and we wondered how long it would be before we succumbed to severe homesickness for Earth.

Nuisance Trip, by Bobby Warner

13/1/2015

The plane landed at Heathrow. I took a taxi to my hotel. I was disguised and had a passport with a fake name.

I unpacked my bag, assembled the weapon, had a drink at a nearby bar, waiting. They both got home about five p.m., so I went to intercept them.

What a damned nuisance. Why did she fall for that Englishman and run away with him to London!

One shot each, and I was finished. Back at the hotel for a good night's rest; then next morning I was on my way back home to Dallas.

By Tammy Mezera

11/1/2015

Earth asked Moon, “Have you heard the word nostrum?” Moon hid the contemplation behind a few scattering clouds. “No” beamed moon.

Earth felt suddenly exposed. “Nothing, I mean..” sighed Earth deeply through evergreen lips. “Am I dying?”

Moon looked at the sun and then gazed back at Earth. “So much more inhabits you Earth, than it does me.”

“Are you sad about that Moon or relieved?” Earth gently inquired. Moon listened to a soundless space without absence. “I just never heard that word before,” Moon said.

The Decision, by Russell Conover

11/1/2015

The man was running for his life, trying to escape the lion chasing him. He came upon a fork in the path, and tried to decide where to go.

Left, half a mile away: The road leading towards town, where some passersby might see him and pick him up for a ride.

Right, five hundred feet ahead: A route to some smaller animals on which the lion might feast.

His gut feeling was to go towards the road. But his legs were tiring, and he feared he wouldn’t make it.

“You only live once,” he thought, heading for the animals.

A Destiny, by Jane Tulloch

10/1/2015

“Where is you want to go? Over there? No thanks. I'm not in the mood for a 'good run' as you call it. I'm happy here,” said one.

“What do mean 'No thanks'? It's your destiny,” was the reply.

The response, “Don't play that destiny card with me, sonny,” came as a surprise.

"Then if you don't, - I'll tell your Mum!”

“I haven't seen her since she went out for that run last year.”

“Come with us and you might find her.”

That did the trick. The two lemmings set off towards the cliff edge.

Jamboree, by Amy Friedman

9/1/2015

“They showed up last week,” Leena said, sitting down at my table.
I blinked. “Really? I didn’t think it would be so soon.”
Leena took a deep sip and leaned back, smiling weakly.
“It was unreal,” she said. “We were just sitting here, and they started swarming the place.”
“Seriously?” I said. “They were demanding coffee?”
“Yeah,” she said. “Crazy, huh?”
“Don’t they usually demand brains?” I said.
“Brains, coffee – same dif,” she cracked.
“Can’t really see drinking a cup of brains in the morning,” I said.
“You’ll just have to miss that worst part of waking up,” she said.

Beatnik Coffee, by Jo Oldani-Osborne

9/1/2015

On 7th January 2014, Jo Oldani-Osborne wrote this story and at the same time threw out a challenge to everyone else to write a story about coffee in the 'Beat' style of Jack Kerouak and others.

I: If Starbucks Turned Beatnik

Denise stood up.
She removed her dark classes and straightened her beret.
“COFFEE”
I love my coffee, the way I like my men: medium-hot and open to suggestions.
Sugar, tonight?
A l-i-t-t-l-e Amaretto.
A dollop of cream?
How, my dear, do I receive my caffeine?
Bone china?
Styrofoam?
Demi-tass?
Don’t tell.
I walk.
To my barrista and say, “Double, Latte, Skinny, with a shot --Tall”
And once again I give her a 75 cent tip.
And once again she yells, ”Dennis!”
It’s “Denise!”
Five days a week I go to Starbucks and have “Dennis” on my cup – again.
“Snap.”

A couple of days later she added this follow-up.

II: The Java Jive Continues (Snap, Snap)

Denise had joined the resurrected beatniks. She entered her coffee bar with her black beret tilted just so. She surveyed the locals all plugged in to their different devices. So many people sitting together yet sitting alone.

The baristas administered: In the name of the Coffee bean, the caffeine and the holy roast: Amen.

Her barista, Chloe, looked up with eyebrow cocked.
“Venti latte double shot skinny, DENISE. D-E-N-I-S-E.”
She’ll get her name right for sure, now.
Groovy man. Life is far out.
Black is beautiful in a tall paper cup.

“DENNIS!”

(really? REALLY?)

“It’s ‘Denise’”.

No snaps for Chloe

Terrorists, by Ann-Louise Truschel

9/1/2015

Published in response to the terrorist attack on the offices of Charlie Hebdo, followed by other outrages. They were carried out "in the name of Islam"... hmm.

Allah,

We have killed the Unbelievers. We have struck down those who would be disrespectful to our religion and to your name.

We have washed them in their own blood – the men, the women, the children – all of those who will not submit themselves to our rule, our dictates. We have let it be known to the many what their fate is: Death to those who do not submit themselves to our commands; they will be sacrificed.

All must take up their guns and swords and execute those who do not obey.

Terrorists
------------------------------------------
Terrorists,

I do not know you.

Allah

Keeping The Beat, by Gordon Lawrie

9/1/2015

On this particular week, the special challenge was a Beatnik take on coffee.

"Gee, they're making it so HARD these days. Can't sit inside with a coffee these days and smoke and joint."

"Damn government. First they ban smoking. Next they'll ban coffee."

"Let's hit the park, man." *Snap*

"Two coffees to go?"

"With cream."

"Two coffees and cream to go."

"Coffee and cream on the green." *Snap*

"Grass on the grass." *Snap*

"Starbucks?"

"Is that coffee in Starbucks or coloured water? Real coffee in Costa and Caffe Nero."

"Yeah, man, but Starbucks know how to treat governments. Starbucks don't pay no taxes." *Snap*

"Hey, man, Starbucks it is." *Snap* *Snap*

By Ralph Hauser

9/1/2015

I'm reading a book of very short stories by another writer. I think I could write some very short stories like hers.
But it wouldn't work because I don't write like that other writer.
I write like Ralphie Towser.
She would make me sit in a corner on a stool, wearing a pointed hat and facing the wall.
People would point at me and laugh derisively.
Her publisher would make me write "I will not copy (that other writer's) style" 100 times.
With a rusty crow quill pen.
But I might try to get away with it anyway.

A Pastime, by Jane Tulloch

8/1/2015

“I spy with my little eye something beginning with G” said the first nightwatchman at the bank.
“Graham?” suggested his companion.
“What? Dont be ridiculous there`s no Graham here” replied the first.
“Um grill? Look there`s one over there by the vault entrance”
“Nope” came the laconic response.
“Oh I give up. This is too difficult. Why cant we just read the papers and watch the CCTV like other guards?”
“Because”
“Because what?”
“Because G is for gun. Hands up, now give me those keys and get down on the floor.”

Scene From A Marriage, by Amy Friedman

7/1/2015

Bax tiptoed into Lara’s writing room to take a shot of her, asleep.
Turning to tiptoe out, his foot caught a wire which snared his ankles.
Quicker than boo, his feet were hoisted to the ceiling.
He yelped loudly and then screamed, hoping to wake Lara.
The dog came in, sniffed Bax’s head and then lifted his leg.
“Bad dog!” Bax shouted, pushing the dog away.
The push set him swinging. His head started swimming.
“Lara, get me down from here!” he yelled.
“You needed to learn to listen,” Lara said, her back turned. “Didn’t I tell you, no snapshots?”

The Top Contributor, by Gordon Lawrie

7/1/2015

This story refers to the various levels of contribution to be found on LinkedIn.

He sat at his computer, alone and miserable.

Thanks to LinkedIn, the world knew him as 'Top Contributor', the ultimate mark of shame amongst online authors. 'Top Contributor' flagged him as a nerd, with no life beyond his laptop. His stories were sterile, worthless. How he longed to be 'building influence' or – best of all – 'getting started'.

He considered suicide, then realised he'd never discover if it made any difference. Then one day he discovered a tiny button at the top of his keyboard, a small circle with a tiny line.

He pressed it, and with one bound was free.

Nature, by Elizabeth Gale

7/1/2015

The robin was at the window again this morning, looking disconsolate. His seed tray was empty, deliberately so on my part. Evidence of mice in the kitchen was quite clear. To feed or not feed the birds, that was the question giving me sleepness nights. Does feeding the birds encourage mice, I wondered.

Robin was a regular visitor, but I would lose him soon, I realised. I caught mice in humane traps and took them for walks, but they always returned.

That night I heard the owl, sounding hungry. No mice droppings the next morning, nor the next.

Explication, by Eric Smith

5/1/2015

People come and people go
There are many that I know
Some are cool, the rest are squares
Some resemble grizzly bears

“That’s doggerel, man. When did you write it?”

“When I was eleven.”

“You still remember it?”

“It was good for somebody that age.”

“Well, the first couplet is a throwaway, though I like the way the third line simplistically defines the universe of human beings. But how does introducing grizzly bears amplify the dichotomy in the previous line?”

“Remember, this was 1959; bears reminded me of hip beatniks with goatees—not fearsome omnivores.”

“It still needs work, dude.”

Inspiration, by Jane Reid

3/1/2015

The lizard was troubled and seeking a solution. The tango competition was only a week away. She had practiced faithfully; she knew she could execute the steps perfectly. She had spent hours in the salon getting sparkly purple highlights all over her body. But even that, she feared, wouldn’t make her stand out in a crowded field.

Traditional tango costumes all ended to look alike. Still mulling over her problem, she returned to her breakfast –mealy worms and carrot pancakes. Hmmm . . . perhaps a big orange circle skirt?

She placed a call to her dressmaker.

Who Deserves Christmas? By Emma Baird

2/1/2015

Christmas is for the kids, they said to each other as they snuck into bedrooms and stuffed stockings with small gifts.

Christmas is for the kids, they said to each other as they anticipated the return of grown-up children and piled treats on the dining table to tempt them.

Christmas is for the kids, they said as they beamed smiles at plump tiny faces, jiggling small bodies on their knees.

Christmas is for… not me, she thought resentfully as she pushed tough turkey round her plate. The other residents didn’t seem to be enjoying it either. Where are my kids?

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