Blog Archives

What would you do at 16? by Karen Walker

31/3/2019

“He’ll take good care of us,” the mother said, “Cook, help with rent.”

The daughter bit a fingernail. Pain helped.

“He cares about you.”

“Like the last guy did? He was why I went to Grandpa’s.” Still raw.

“Listen, I love Dan.”

The girl chewed to a nerve. “Don’t let him move in.”

“So you want me to be alone? Your dad took off, and even you’ve left me. Only came back when the old man died!”

“I’ve got nowhere left to go.” The daughter’s voice bled.

"Let cut to the quick: I'm starting over with or without you. Decide."

Castles in the Sand, by Jim Bartlett

29/3/2019

School finally out, Roy and his brother bask in the summer sun, enjoying their first beach trip as they put the finishing touches on their sandcastles. Roy, the oldest, rounds off the last of his tall towers, then steps back to admire his work. He looks at his brother, who’s digging out an arched opening to the front of his. While the castle is much smaller, it’s grand in its style and Roy is impressed.

“King Arthur and his Knights will be living in this magnificent castle. Who will be living in yours, fine sir?”

“Just a mouse,” replies Walt.

The Search, by Charles Varani

29/3/2019

In the woods, the rivers run. In the woods, I jumped the gun, yet I wasn’t armed. What I mean—I was lost. I’d struck off in search of the girl with peppermint breath, who haunted the woods, with breathless breasts, but the girl was not there, was not yet born.

So I searched for the trail home, thrashed through blackberry brambles, over ferny trunks rotting in the duff. Searched the day, watched the moonrise while I searched the night. Searched my soul until the dawn’s early light. Searched for her, then searched for my life.

I am searching still.

The Note, by Marjan Sierhuis

29/3/2019

My wife leaves me another note. Today it is attached to the coffee maker. She forgets that I no longer drink coffee. It says she is out for her morning run.

Lily is an early riser. I am retired. I will sleep in a little longer.

The kids have moved out of the house. Lily and I now seldom talk. Instead, she leaves me notes. I miss her. But she is always busy.

Perhaps she no longer finds me interesting. We need to discuss it. I will write her a note and attach it to one of her running shoes.

A Lot of Things, by Violet Lentz

29/3/2019

Darkness prohibited me from seeing her until I was inches away.

If not for the unnatural angle of her head, laying twisted against her chest, I probably wouldn’t have noticed her at all- bound by taut barbed wire encircling a tree, deep gashes ripped into the soft flesh of her naked torso.

I pulled at the knotted barb that garrotted her throat. A crushed, gurgling moan let me know, she was still alive.

I had to free her. Even if it made my return to prison inevitable. I am a lot of things- but a murderer isn’t one of them.

A Shakespearean Tragedy, by Sankar Chatterjee

29/3/2019

Escaping Philadelphia’s snow, John flew to sunny Sanibel Island (Florida). That night, he ventured into island’s sports-bar. In the “March Madness” of college basketball championship, the local David was competing against the Goliath, projected to be the champion. Fred Smith, the local coach played for the Goliath, began his career under current Goliath-coach, and now his own son was playing under him.

The game went into two overtimes. Losing by a point with 5 seconds left, Smith, Jr. attempted a 2-point winning-shot. The ball hit the rim, rotated and missed the basket.

The place froze. The clock struck midnight silently.

Two-Step, by Diane Clark

29/3/2019

Merilee juggled her lunch tray, eyeing the student cafeteria for an empty table. Seeing none, she approached a nerdy, but cute, boy, who was submerged in a book, munching mindlessly.

“May I join you?”

He nodded without looking up.

“Did you know,” he pointed at a page, “the proverb ‘Nothing ventured, nothing gained’ dates back to Chaucer in 1374?”

“No, I didn’t.” Merilee smiled. She hesitated, then blurted out, “I need a date for my sorority prom. Do you dance?”

“Poorly,” he admitted, “but like the gallant knights, I’m all about rescuing damsels in distress. I’m Pete. When’s the dance?”

Flight Path, by Ella Craig

29/3/2019

‘Does he think he’s some kind of pigeon?’ The bus driver throws down his cigarette and climbs into his seat.

I look up and see him: Sitting on a roof six stories high with his legs dangling over the edge.

‘Single to the station,’ I tell the driver. A young girl helps me put my case in the luggage rack.

Now, he is standing with his arms outstretched as if he were saluting the sun.

I consider the bruises, a broken nose, and an arm in plaster.

The bus pulls away, but I don’t look back.

Lacks Soul, by Lisa Miller

29/3/2019

…Signs of urban decay all around a complex of shops with interconnecting walkways. Red chairs topple over the ice rink in disrepair. A lonely atmosphere with storefronts half-empty, lights flickering above lit lamps and fake plants. Top of the escalator’s a dry decorated Christmas tree. Below, a clicking sound heard in the food court from a broken down air conditioner at Subway; the lone restaurant but for the Chinese Gourmet Express. Nearby, hot-buttered popcorn permeates off the orange velveteen chairs in pristine condition among candy wrappers littered. Where’s the scent of Cinnabon and Starbucks? The malls don't seem to have souls anymore.

"…And so it was”, by John Cooper

29/3/2019

If I wasn’t actually drunk, I was certainly merry. Couldn’t tell you how many I’d had, but enough to embolden me to act completely out of character and lean in and give her a peck on the cheek.

I remember a ‘Whiter Shade of Pale’ was playing somewhere in the background, reaching that crescendo moment. Looking back it was probably not the most romantic of soundtracks but life isn’t like the movies is it, otherwise I would have ended up with the girl and not a slap across the face.

The Packet, by Krystyna Fedosejevs

29/3/2019

She delved inside. Curiosity her accompaniment, mind the leader.

Packet. Its lid shut. Sides towering. She was drawn to guess what lurked in the dark space with her. To restart when not satisfied. Quit guessing when ideas stopped.

He knew, the man she loved. His secret was hers to break. Did he love her? Enough to... If yes, one of her guesses would’ve been correct.

She hurled herself back to the box exterior. He watched her unwrap a paper layer, cautiously open the lid.

His gift to her: a tiny music box.

Not the ring engaging one of her guesses.

Don't Judge, by Bex Gooding

29/3/2019

The cashier tutted contemptuously as Lenny staggered into the shop. It was eight in the morning

Screw you! Lenny thought.

He knew what she was thinking. It was too early to be drunk, she had no idea what he was going through.

Lenny struggled with his balance as he made his way to the beverages. Making his selection he staggered to the till and looked her in the eye.

‘Just these.’ Lenny slurred.

He paid for the teabags and left a leaflet on the counter. The Cashier read it; shamefaced.

“Understanding Multiple Sclerosis”

She had the decency to look contrite.

Emails, by Alex Z. Salinas

29/3/2019

“Ugh! Can’t sneeze without a hundred emails coming in,” Shannon complained.

“Right?” Lorena commiserated.

Teddy, cubicle-sandwiched between them, munching on a sandwich, thought something.

“Funny how the not-real distresses us so.”

“What?” said Lorena.

“We thought digital communication would have us singing kumbaya. I think now it’s slow murder.”

“Yes!” Lorena agreed.

“Y’all think Ray Tomlinson saw this coming?” asked Teddy.

“Who?” said Lorena.

“The guy who created email.”

“Teddy, how many emails do you get a day?” Shannon asked.

“Enough to enjoy this sandwich,” Teddy answered.

Were it not for his loud chewing, Teddy would’ve heard Shannon mutter “prick.”

The Problem with Colours, by Henry Bladon

29/3/2019

I never planned to be a bomb maker, but there's not a lot of decent employment for a chemistry graduate. Anyway, tedious lab work would drive me mental and I don't look good in a white coat, I'm more of a colours girl. Colours are the problem right now, though, as I've kind of messed up. If I let go of the little green wire, the fluids will mix, and my Nikes will end up on Neptune. It's not what you'd call an ideal situation. And it's my birthday.

Like I say, I never planned to be a bomb maker.

Inside Out, by Don Tassone

29/3/2019

The boy stepped up and rang the bell. A woman opened the door.

“Good morning, Josh,” she said.

“Can Jake come out?”

“He’s in his room, playing video games. Do you want to join him?”

“No, thanks.”

Josh walked to other friends’ houses, but their parents said they were inside too, mainly playing video games.

And so it went for most of Josh’s childhood. While his friends played indoors, he played outdoors, wading through creeks, climbing trees and hiking in the woods.

This morning, now Secretary of the Interior, Josh announced a name change—to the Department of the Exterior.

After Work, by Julie Achilles

29/3/2019

Fiona dumped her shopping bag on the table and immediately began her after-work rant. "It's alright for you, I have to stand in the shop all day, my feet are killing me, whilst you lounge around, here, in the warm, doing nothing".

It was like this most nights, Fiona would come home, moan endlessly, not a word about his long-awaited dinner, he should be the one to moan, being kept waiting, starving.

Fluffy could hear her voice droning on and decided to make good his escape, dashing through the cat-flap, he'd come back later when she'd calmed down.

The Mysteriously Appearing Grapefruits, by Fliss Zakaszewska

29/3/2019

I knew that look on my brother Mick’s face as we sat on the hillock in our tropical garden overlooking ‘The Club’, its swimming-pool, tennis courts and the hotel’s henhouses - but no grapefruit trees.

Weeks later, crack of dawn – BANG-BANG-BANG and an uproar of angry hens. Grapefruits in the pool, on the courts and the henhouse’s metal roofs. Investigation proved inconclusive.

Bang-bang-bang two weeks later, and again and again… Then I found it. A superb tractor-tyre catapult. My silence kept me in chocolate for the rest of my childhood and a grown-up single malt every Christmas since. Sorry hens.

The Lonesome Death of American Justice, by Gordon Lawrie

29/3/2019

The defendant sat in the dock, face buried in porn magazines and flanked by two scantily-clad women. He looked utterly disinterested as the judge looked towards the jury.

"Members of the jury, have you reached a verdict?"

The foreman rose. "We have, Your Honor." Eleven jurors looked down.

"What is your verdict?"

The jury had considered the defendant's lies, his lawyer's, media advisor's, accountant's and personal secretary's. They'd considered anonymous threats made to their families.

"Not guilty, Your Honor."

The judged breathed a sigh of relief.

Outside the court, still flanked by scantily-clad women, the accused proclaimed:
"I am exonerated!"

Woman in the Vehicle, by Rachel Branstrom

26/3/2019

Her eyes fluttered open. Sleepily, she stretched, and briefly rubbed the shoulder of the driver.

He shot her a sideways glance and a smile.

“Albert Einstein once said,” he began, his hands at ten and two, “that any man who can drive safely with a beautiful woman in the vehicle isn’t paying her nearly enough attention.” He paused. “So I apologize.”

Facing forward, hands in her lap, she said, “Smart man.” She peeked over at him. “Einstein, too.”

He chuckled, and, with a grin, rolled his eyes upward, then fastened them back upon the highway.

Cherry Blossoms, by Mark Tulin

25/3/2019

“I’m impressed,” said Damien’s friend. “You can talk to me while giving that guy the evil eye.”

“No big deal,” said Damien. “I do it all the time. My Grandpa taught me that trick when I was kid.”

Damien’s friend admired the bloom of the cherry blossoms as Damien’s head turned slightly with his treacherous eye. Soon the target of his gaze fell backward into a heap of trash, unconscious and lost to the world.

Damien smiled slyly, “That guy reminded me of someone I didn’t like,” and then agreed with his friend that the cherry blossoms were indeed beautiful.

In a World, by David Croll

25/3/2019

“In a world where pharmaceuticals numb us from anxiety and the need for art,” bellowed the familiar baritone narrator, “this lone stranger vows to bring back the pain of a broken heart.”

“How can we grow without pain?” lamented the stranger. “How can we have music and literature without suffering the agony of unrequited love?”

And so the lone stranger set out to rid the world of the greedy grip of the pharmaceutical companies on our broken hearts to rid the world of songs like Upton Girl and bring back the sad ballads on loneliness.

The liquor industry was delighted.

The Dragon Routine, by Russell Conover

25/3/2019

Dan the Dragon was sick of his usual routine. Breathe some fire, terrify some innocent passersby, repeat ad naseum. Every day was like any other. But what to do?

He thought about his skills. He flew frequently, so a pilot was possible. But, too much responsibility. His spells for victims required mixing potions, so maybe a chef? Nah. He’d be too tempted to eat his customers.

Then it hit him. Dan went to a burger place, and was accepted as the flame griller. His mouth served as the grill, and Dan got all the free burgers he wanted. A win-win!

Glass Eyes, by Lucy Brighton

23/3/2019

Out of the candy floss quiet, a voice, “Can you move?”

Bile tingles my taste buds, the fruity flavours of last night’s wine.

“We to need to try and move you,” she says, “Can you hear me?”

I blink to focus, close one eye. Things steady and still: a tableau of horror.

Thrown safely from the corpse of the bike is a small teddy lion, its fur matted with dirt from the road, one of its glass eyes protruding grotesquely from its face.

The memories come all at once, a crescendo: a mangled pink frame; sirens; delicate blonde curls.

The Diagnosis, by Fliss Zakaszewska

23/3/2019

“What’s the matter with her?” asked her husband, as she walked slowly in front of the glass viewing panel. “She’s been like that for two days.”

Hilary’s vacant facial expression hardly changed as she slowly paced, back and forth, back and forth, occasionally turning to face the watchers and say, “Miaow.” Every so often, she’d turn and hiss, then stop to lick her hand. Back and forth, back and forth, lick, lick. She hissed one more time, then curled up on the bed, asleep.

“I thought you had a diagnosis?”

“Sadly, yes.”

“What is it?”

“In a word, she’s catatonic.”

A Soldiers Return, by John Cooper

23/3/2019

He took his gun down from the wall and checked it over carefully for signs of rust and wear. So it would begin again, this war that had no end. Tomorrow he would find the ammunition left from the last time and practice shooting – see if he could still hit anything.

Setting the gun aside he looked into the fire and mused about the curious ways his life had changed in these last peaceful years – never had he thought he would be so pleased to be going back, but there was truly now nothing left to keep him here.

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