Blog Archives

The Walker, Ian Fletcher

28/2/2017

Weighed down by the day’s stresses and anxiety for the morrow, I begin my walk. An hour tonight, I think.

I plod on through the streets, overtaken by runners and joggers of various states of fitness, all wanting to go faster, striving for their goals.

I pass restaurants full of people gorging themselves with unneeded food, and bars with those who seek escape in beer and wine. Cars are driving everywhere yet going nowhere.

After twenty minutes my mind clears. Past, present and future are as one. The walk is everything. I will sleep well tonight and walk again tomorrow.

Where Do Dictators Go To Rest In Peace? by Sankar Chatterjee

28/2/2017

Site of Hitler's Bunker/WikiCommons

Rick Scott was leaving his hotel-room in Berlin, when on TV, he saw Stephen Miller, the firebrand adviser to US President, defending closing the border to some countries: “The President’s power will not be questioned by the courts,” as judges were already voiding the order. Outside, Rick searched on his phone the location of Hitler’s last resting place, the bunker. It led him to a modern-day condominium complex. Dumbfounded, he located a colorful marker describing area’s history. The successive governments, fearing the site becoming a neo-Nazi shrine, demolished the site to create the modern-day real-estate.

“What an irony?” Exclaimed Rick.

The Old House, by James Charlton

28/2/2017

The house stood on the high point of the headland, not too close to the edge but close enough. Wind howled around the lonely widow’s walk and rattled the windows. It whipped up the leaves into funnels of broken light as the moon shone down between the scudding clouds.

The trees bent over as if in subservience to the hammering wind. Somewhere along the side of the house a shutter slammed against the windowsill with a loud crack. Inside, a door creaked and moaned as the pressure from outside moved the still—fetid air inside. Not bad for a movie.

The Fish, by James Charlton

28/2/2017

The fish swam lazily through the crystal-clear waters of the fish tank. He was larger than most of the other fish so he got the best of the food. Many people had looked at him and then chosen the smaller fish. A large man came over to the tank and closely looked over all the fish then he pointed to the big fish.

“Are you sure.”

The man said, “Yes.”

The owner got the net and carefully scooped him up. He began walking to the back of the shop.

“How do they want it, grilled or fried?” asked the chef.

Grandpa's Stories, by James Charlton

28/2/2017

“Well there we were—3000 feet up—peering over the top of the Kikuyu grass—knee deep in grenade pins. Three against three thousand.”

All the grandchildren sat on the edge of their seats riveted to Grandpa’s story. After all his stories were legendary—at least among the family they were. He had been there, done that, had two beers and walked home. Driving trucks, mustering brumbies, fishing the high seas and in the Army. There was nothing he hadn’t done.

“What happened Grandpa, what happened.”

“Let me tell you kidlets, they were the toughest three pygmies we ever fought.”

Outbreak, by Rachael Claire

27/2/2017

Chris stopped counting the cars that drove past them in the opposite direction.

The radio stations were all playing the same emergency broadcast every news hour about a safe zone in the city manned by the army with a list of other quarantined areas for refugees, both local and national. Because it wasn't like the so-called 'infection' hadn't hit he populated areas hard and fast first.

Mark scoffed and turned it off as Chris drove away from the city. "Like that'll help. Haven't these people ever seen away zombie movie before? Might as well be ringing the damn dinner bell."

A Mother's Memory, by Sankar Chatterjee

27/2/2017

Carla Hayman, with husband Rob and two toddlers, got stranded in Amsterdam airport during a trans-Atlantic flight. Coming outside, they took a cab to the Van Gogh Museum, but found both children asleep. The cab-driver suggested driving them around and meet the couple in an hour. The plan worked smoothly making the couple to repeat the process visiting Anne Frank House. They thanked the driver profusely. But while flying, Carla felt a chill: “What if the cab-driver been a child-trafficker taking away my precious daughters?”

That was twenty years ago. Now-a-days Carla ponders “Why do I still remember the event?”

The American Girl, by Guy Fletcher

27/2/2017

"This site is permanently closed," is typed on the doorway of the pub. A very sad message.

I remember drinking alone here years ago reading Steppenwolf (pretentious, moi!), falling into the pages and somewhat intoxicated.

"He's one of my favourite authors."

A beautiful blonde American was addressing me. We talked, then caressed and she asked for my number.

I can never remember numbers but found it on a scrap of paper in my wallet. She left, I dropped the wallet, cards on the floor. There on another piece was my new number. Ah, I wonder if she ever phoned.

Bella, by Eloise Francis

27/2/2017

I sat down on Bella’s bed, careful not to disturb the left side. I’d avoided my sister’s room for three months after she was found, unable to bare it. She had overdosed on the sleeping pills that her psychiatrist had prescribed. My mum swears that it was an accident, that Bella would never take her own life. But I knew how depressed she had been. Then, I felt someone touch my shoulder. I turned around expecting to see mum trying to comfort me. But, instead, I saw Bella. “It’ll be okay brother,” she said with a sweet smile, “I promise.”

Old Trains, by Bobby Warner

27/2/2017

Freddy held a tattered book in his lap, studying the fading photos. Along came Mike and sat down beside him on the bench to wait for the school bus.

"What's that?" Mike asked.

"A book with pictures of old trains. What you think?"

"Kinda goofy-looking, if you ask me. And kinda mean-looking, too."

"My dad says they were all around the place when he was a boy. Says they were about the most beautiful sight around."

"All that smoke coming from those stacks make 'em look ferocious."

"Yeah. From what my dad says they really must have been something special."

The Bunker, by Neil James

26/2/2017

They’d laughed at David during his monthly bunker audits. Checking the dates on his tinned food and replacing stock. They thought he was mad installing CCTV- after all, what good would that be in a nuclear attack?

They weren’t laughing now though. They were desperately hammering on the steel entrance, pleading to be let in. David watched the world’s final minutes from twelve feet underground, encased in concrete. Outside some were screaming and trying to prize the hatch open, others were praying; Jim from next door- what was he doing?

Jim was frantically heaping soil into the bunker’s ventilation pipe...

Romance, by Anne Hart

26/2/2017

She had beautiful hair, tumbling down her back. Rob gazed at it over his pint. He wondered if her face was as lovely.

He jumped suddenly and looked quickly away. She’d been watching him in the mirror behind the bar. He must look a right perv.

Later, when he nonchalantly glanced back she waved in the mirror. Was that aimed at him?

He looked again. This time she picked up her empty glass and waved it in the air, smiling at him all the while. It was aimed at him. He wandered over, ‘Can I buy you a drink?’

At The Lake, by Bobby Warner

26/2/2017

I come often and sit on the wooden bench beside the lake and gaze out over the water, which is often disturbed by a persistent breeze.

Several children drowned here in the lake twenty years ago, and I often see what might be tiny hands in the water, and hear small, childlike voices.

Long past child-bearing age, I have always wanted children. That never could be.Perhaps--God grant this!--I might one day see those lost children, and even converse with them and tell them how much they are still loved.

I could ask for no more than this.

Down Here, by Bobby Warner

24/2/2017

An out-of season Halloween story.

"Benji, where are you?" she called from the top of the basement stairs.

"Down Here," came the muffled reply.

She hurried down the stairs, pulling the light cord on the way and flooding the basement with light.

"Benji, stop playing. Where are you?"

Again the muffled voice: "Down here, Mommy. I'm in the basement."

She reached the bottom of the stairs, took a step, and fell into a pit of blowing coals and dark shadows.

Something slithered toward her, its large eyes glowing. "I'm right here, Mommy!" it said, grinning from a mouthful of razor sharp teeth.

It wasn't Benji

Name, Rank and Serial Number, by Fliss Zakaszewska

24/2/2017

“What’s your name?” The voice seemed distant, as if coming through a fog.

He shook his head to clear it.

“What’s your name?” the voice insisted.

He looked up at the man, eyes unfocused, holding his head. It hurt.

“I said, what’s your…?”

“Don’t tell them your name, Bob!”

He turned his aching head and looked at the woman.

Yes, that’s right, he thought. “Bob Smith,” he croaked through parched lips. “So I’ve come through the operation OK Doc?”

Bob smiled at Nurse Sarah. Every outpatient visit, every treatment, ‘Don’t tell them your name, Bob’ had been their little joke.

Escape, by Russell Conover

24/2/2017

Bob was stressing out, big time. His job was demanding; he had family troubles; and free time seemed to be a thing of the past.

But what to do?

Closing his eyes, Bob imagined himself on a plane to Hawaii, soon lying on the beach and soaking up the sun. Sadly, such a trip wasn’t realistic.

Then a light bulb went off. Bob grabbed an item and hurried to a local pond. Sitting on the banks, he pounded out part of his novel on his laptop. Finally--success!

Coincidence that the story involved traveling to Oahu? You be the judge.

Love's Young Dream, by Gordon Lawrie

24/2/2017

"How r u x?"
"Gr8 x," she replied. She texted him a selfie.
"U lk gr8 2 x," he said.
"Thx. Luv u," adding, "Snd a pictuR xx"
"N prob x."
Seeing the photo, she replied, "Kewl. luv u xxx."
"Wot R U doin? x" he wondered.
"Walking dwn d rd. U? x"
"Me 2," he said. "Lkn 4ward 2 CN U l8r xxx."
"Can't W8 x." She added, "DIS road's bsy x"
"Sos DIS 1 x."
Just then our two heads-down lovers collided, nearly dropping their mobiles.
"U ok? x," he texted.
"yS. U? x"
"yS. Luv u x."

Heat, by Madeline O'Connor

23/2/2017

The fire-y pits of hell, that was all I could describe this as.

There was no end or beginning to it all, everything was a mess. A mess I tell you!

The garden beds looked worse for ware, the orchard was fruitless, the vegetables...done!

Don't even get me started on the grass and surrounding bushland, dry as a bone, not a drop of water.

This heat...there's no doubt about it, I'll lose everything.

You can't stop a raging inferno when the land becomes like dust.

A fire will rage.

Destroying everything.

Night Train, by Robert Hellenga

23/2/2017

The train, the California Zephyr, was three hours late getting into the station. Nothing unusual. The girls had called Amtrak three times. They’d drunk two beers and were working on two more when they heard the whistle blow, long and loud, at the Mulberry Street crossing. They ran out into the yard and waited, and as the train approached, picking up speed, they stripped off all their clothes. They waved at the engineer and then at the passengers in the lighted windows. They waved and waved, and the engineer kept blowing his horn till the train disappeared into the darkness.

One Shade Of Grey, by Ian Murphy

22/2/2017

There is a tiny black dot on my bright white new sofa. I try not to care but I know it is there. I pick then I rub then I scrub. So, there is now a dark mark on my bright white new sofa. My life was complete, monochromatic and neat, now that smudge won't budge and I feel I may weep. I spray and I scrub and suddenly see those grey fibres come away and I wish I could flee - a hole, like the one through my heart. Now I sit upon a tartan shroud, my soul torn apart.

Drama At The Glenfinnan Viaduct, by Gordon Lawrie

21/2/2017

'The Jacobite' rattled across the Highland wilderness towards the dramatic Glenfinnan Viaduct. Excited travellers in the coaches thrilled to the the sounds and smells of the resurrected engine.

They might not have been quite so relaxed had they known of the drama taking place up ahead on the footplate. Old Archie, pressed into service as an extra fireman, had passed out.

"Lift him up, lift him up!" said Tam the driver to his regular fireman Bert. "Hold his head out of the cab!"

Sure enough, the vapour clouds revived Archie in no time.

"Never fails," Tam said. "Steam of consciousness."

In A Good Company, by Sankar Chatterjee

20/2/2017

The President’s flying-chariot landed at high noon in El Dorado, a state where he still owned a private club bearing his name, thus making a mockery of the emolument clause of the constitution. He immediately proceeded to a victory rally, reminiscent to his hate-filled election rallies. Joanne Silverman, a history major liberal student in the crowd (just to be a witness to the event), received a Twitter message from her friend Sophia Cannon: “Men who held rallies after democratically elected: Mussolini, Hitler, Stalin, Castro, Berdymukhamedov, Kim Jung-On, Trump.” Joanne wanted to be sure herself, thus initiating a Google search.

The Wobbly Glass, by Emma Baird

19/2/2017

“Jill? Jill? Are you there?”

In extreme circumstances, Ouija boards served a purpose. The glass whizzed across the board to the letter Y.

Ray smiled. “Okay, so she went over to the other side.”

Betty looked puzzled. “She sounded perfectly well the last time I spoke to her.”

The glass wobbled ominously. It moved from letter to letter so fast, it was impossible to keep up.

Ray nodded slowly. “I think I know what this other side is. Clarity and precision are no longer our founder’s watchwords. I think she’s been kidnapped by the stream of consciousness crew.”

You Have One Message, by Johann Lux

18/2/2017

At the zoo with my daughter, we stood at the Gorilla pit watching apes in the distance seated like statues embraced by sunlight.

I handed my daughter my cell phone so she could photograph the animals. To my horror the arm of a Silver-back reached up and snatched the phone from my daughter’s hands.

Zoo keepers with rifles arrived. The crowds laughed as the Silver back pressed the phone to its head.

“Give it back!” my daughter shouted and the gorilla handed me my phone.

Back at home, I checked my answering machine:”Please help, free me”, was the only message.

The Painting Problem, by Russell Conover

18/2/2017

The painting club was enjoying a weekly meeting, with one exception.

“Great to see so many faces here,” Bob said with a smile.

“Yeah, but I miss our founder Jill,” Ted lamented. “Wonder what happened to her?”

The painters looked at each other and shrugged. Jill had occasionally been in touch with brief updates, but compared to her flawlessly regular masterpieces before, she’d all but vanished.

“Hey--why don’t we work together on a tribute painting for Jill?” Betty suggested.
“Awesome!” Tanya exclaimed. “Then she’ll know we miss her.”

“Let’s do it. We owe our founder a shout-out.” Ray smiled.

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