Blog Archives

Guilty as Charged, by Remmie Thomas

25/4/2025

“My husband’s no gang member,” Mrs Lopez declared from the steps of the Supreme Court. “He’s been illegally deported. The government’s been instructed to bring him back to America.”

Meantime, a White House official met a Langley operative.

“If Afonso Lopez returns, it’ll embarrass the President,” said the official. “This problem needs to go away.”

At El Salvador’s Cecot mega-prison, a shiv passed hands from guard to prisoner. Later, the guard removed the shiv from a multiply-stabbed deportee’s body.

“Afonso Lopez died today in a gang-related prison fight,” the White House Press Officer announced, “proving he was guilty as charged.”

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The Real Easter Egg Hunt, by Andrew Ricchiuti

25/4/2025

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“Have you searched everywhere?" Elise said.

"Every room," Daniel said.

"Five days ago we thought the kids found all the Easter eggs," she said.

Daniel sniffed the air. A sulfur scent. He tried to follow the smell, but the odor came from different directions

Lesson learned, remember where you hide the eggs. Even better, write it down. Better, better, don't have any drinks when hiding the eggs.

"I found two more," he said. "Maybe I should leave the house and return with a fresh sense of smell."

"Or, you could have the same amount of drinks and then search."

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A Heavenly Sign, by Sankar Chatterjee

25/4/2025

4 Comments

American John Marshall was standing next to the Mekong River in Luang Prabang, Laos. He remembered his aerial bombing mission days during the Vietnam War, targeting the Ho Chi Minh Trail spanning three neighboring countries. Laos, a small Buddhist country, was drawn into superpowers’ cold war.

Looking across the river, he noticed several Buddhist pagodas shining in bright sunlight. He also noticed the spire of a Catholic Church amidst them. Suddenly, a dense black monsoon cloud with lightning and thunder began to gather over that area.

Breaking news on his smartphone alerted him. Beloved Pope passed away in the Vatican.

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Karma, by James A. Tweedie

25/4/2025

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For thirty years as a gem cutter Giuseppi resisted the temptation to take even the smallest diamond chip home with him.

“It would be wrong,” he would have said, if asked. “It has never crossed my mind to do such a thing.”

Until the nine-carat, flawless, uncut blue diamond showed up on the day he was to retire.

Through some error, the diamond was unlisted on the shipment’s inventory.

The timing was as perfect as the diamond.

Giuseppi placed it a small plastic baggie and swallowed it.

While walking home he was hit by a bus.

There wasn’t an autopsy.

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Glorious, by David Milner

25/4/2025

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People across the road were having a new roof fitted. A team of female builders erected the scaffolding. Hard hats, denim dungarees, they looked a million miles removed from the classic Soviet era posters depicting women tilling fields. Jane, my girlfriend, elbowed me in the ribs.

I don’t mind admitting that I silently prayed for a catcall.

One afternoon a truck trundled by. Pulled up. The three burly occupants were smacking their lips, whistling and jeering. Arms and shoulders glistening in the sun the women carried on, unabashed…

I guess some minds, including my own, struggle to change.

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On the Brink, by Krystyna Fedosejevs

25/4/2025

7 Comments

“Where’d they go?” Gerry frowned, waiting for news at headquarters. “Were you at Smyth Road? You talked with the resident Mr. Paul?”

“I did. They didn’t show up,” replied Ralph, zigzagging his vehicle through a city district.

Not in their entire career had they encountered a scene like this one. Phone calls mounted. Frustrated customers complained about delays in service, or no service at all.

When Gerry realized they needed help, he contacted police.

Meanwhile, the hijacked armoured van was being emptied out in an obscure warehouse. Its driver and coworker were bound, gagged, sitting on the floor, looking on.

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My Clone, by Pravasan Pillay

25/4/2025

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Once my clone was granted his freedom he started going to my favourite all-you-can-eat buffet – the Taj – and pretending to be me. My clone would heap plate after plate of curry, and barely touch anything – deliberately flaunting buffet etiquette. It was a terrible waste of korma. Despite my protests, the Taj eventually banned me from coming there. I tried another Indian buffet, the Raj, but my clone followed me there too – resulting in another banning. I realised that I would have to kill my clone if I was to ever eat unlimited naan again.

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Echo of the Man, by Heather D Haigh

25/4/2025

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A man of muscle and pickaxe, sturdy as Ironwood, he promised a cabin of our own. Nights filled with music and days filled with children's laughter.

But when the seam ran dry, it was follow the gold trail or be left with hollow promises.

So, I followed him into the mountains. Where the wind howled and the wolves howled. Where he broke rocks till they broke him. Where he sang only into an empty bottle. And I learned that a burned-out tree leaves you as empty as howling into the ravine—your own voice returning, torn and twisted.

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Space Trucker’s Diary, by Susmita Ramani

25/4/2025

1 Comment

Departed Frigurga after leaving the plutonium and uranium shipment without payment, because the Frigurgan droids were behaving abnormally. Grut can figure out how to get me the payment of gold bars.

Parked my ship at warehouse as usual. Asked a service droid to help me move the shipment and clean my windows. It yelled something rude-sounding and rolled away.

I went to the warehouse, where loud music was playing and droids were dancing, some wearing clothing and/or yarn mops on heads.

I had my ship’s droids move the shipment and we rushed out of there.

P.S. Grut grumbled, but delivered.

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Creepy, by Virginia Ashberry

25/4/2025

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Oh my God! Is that ever Creepy!

-What… what’s creepy?

There’s a guy behind you. A guy with makeup on.

-What’s wrong with a guy wearing makeup? And… What’s wrong with you? Are you stuck in the last century?

Not that kind of makeup. This is VERRY different. Find a reason to turn and look at him. Drop something.

-Okay… but now who’s creepy… Oh shit. Yeah. He’s totally done up like a zombie… like he’s been dead for a year or two… I guess maybe it’s a new look… Wow, I sure hope it doesn’t catch on.

You bet.

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Ticking the Box, by Tom Baldwin

25/4/2025

4 Comments

The short story competition rules had been explicit on prohibiting the use of AI, but Sheena, realising the deadline was approaching and that she hadn’t written a word, decided to risk it.

She crossed her fingers, ticked the box labelled: ‘AI was not used in creating this work’ and pressed ‘send.’

AI had produced a very good, original 500-word story for her which had a fair chance of winning, she thought.

When he read her entry the competition editor growled. Sheena’s was the fifth near-identical story of exactly 500 words. He put her name on the blacklist with the others.

4 Comments

It’s Never Too Late, by Rebekah Lawrence

25/4/2025

4 Comments

She sighed, eyes darting between the menu, the door, and the clock. He was 20 minutes late. A new record.

The waiter hovered; wearing a sympathetic expression.

It was time to decide.

She was about to leave when he appeared opposite her. As always, she felt her heart tilt, her face light up.

“Sorry, time got away from me.” He waved to the waiter, gesturing for a menu. “You should have just started.”

“I did.” She smiled. “And I finished.”

Without further explanation, but with quiet assurance, she rose, walked past him, out the door, and out of his life.

4 Comments

Calling My Own Shots, by Lina Lambert

25/4/2025

1 Comment

The lab tech bursts into the sterile phlebotomy room, a minuscule vial in her clenched fist. "Tetanus booster?" Her scowl echoes familiar judgments I’ve faced before. Sixty years, only six of this specific vaccine in my lifetime. Each decade brings resistance to the fight of excluding pertussis—the component that once threatened my life. Childhood warnings linger on my tongue: Infant seizures. High-risk. Never again. Now motherless, I stand my ground alone. The needle’s sting is sharp but brief. Deeper is the ache for the advocate I’ve lost—yet, in that moment, I find my mother’s courage to boldly voice my choice.

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Firewater, by John Maslowski

25/4/2025

1 Comment

The warm, yellow bile spewed out of my mouth and splashed into the white porcelain god otherwise known as the toilet. Bile is viscous. Thicker than water but thinner than pea soup. Surprisingly, it is tasteless.

How many drinks did I have last night? What does it matter. I got good and drunk. My kids, my wife, my career all gone because of booze.

My skin is yellow because my liver is transforming into scar tissue. Soon I will die. I swear not to drink again. Make it a double.

1 Comment

Pay Attention To The Obvious, by Rebekah Lawrence

18/4/2025

Editor's Choice

She looked around the room; scanning for anything out of place.

Not the upended chair, or the felled lamp. Not the suitcase, half-full and left open on the bed.

Suddenly, she flowed across the room, swiftly, silently, smoothly.

"What do you see?" I ask, tripping over the lamp as I follow.

A brief glance toward the suitcase. "Not a single matching pair of socks. And this."

She pulled on something, and there under the floorboards was Lanky Jim, wanted felon. In matching socks.

"How'd you know?"

A smile tickled her lips. "Carpet creases are not usually rectangular. A lucky hunch."

Texting in the 1970s, by William P Adams

18/4/2025

Patrick, sitting behind Miriam in Grade Ten Geometry, slid a folded note onto her desk.
Thus begins their written correspondence.
“Meet me in the library; help me study for the test.”
“Why should I?”
“To help a dumb kid pass Geometry.”
“You’re not dumb, you just don’t pay attention.”
“I’m distracted by the scent of your shampoo; it’s nice.”
Miriam turned around, smiled, and wrote: “It’s Gee, Your Hair Smells Terrific.”
“Well, it does. I think you’re cute, too.”
“Okay, I’ll help, but you better pass the test.”
“If I pass, can I walk you home?”
“Don’t push your luck.”

Say a Little Prayer, by Gordon Lawrie

18/4/2025

She hunkers down, clutching her children near as the missiles strike in the distance: first one, then another, a little closer. She gave up running for the shelters long ago – there’s too little warning now and there are drones overhead picking them off. Naturally, there are no military personnel nearby; she and her neighbours are the targets.

She has no idea if the children’s father is alive or dead.

It’s Good Friday. She says a little prayer. He dug himself out of His hole in 48 hours. Let’s see Him get out of this one that quick, she thinks wryly.

Appearances, by Allison Symes

18/4/2025

She wears smart clothes, waving credit cards.

I grin when upper class twits wear holey jeans. I’ve seen the prices. The holes in mine were gained the old school way.

I usually do the east side’s post. My friend lives on the west. I’d seen pictures of her place. We adore roses. Hers are magnificent but I couldn’t believe what was on her step.

As I popped her post through, the door opened.

I gazed at her Aldi bag of old clothes.

‘I food shop there so I can splash out in town.’

I nod. We all keep up appearances.

Maisey Finds Her Voice, by Jenna Hanan Moore

18/4/2025

I awake with the sun, but Mama’s still asleep. I listen to the rhythm of her breathing, content to snuggle. But soon it’s time for my walk, then breakfast! I turn and gently lick her face.

“Maisey!” she says, yawning. “Ready for walkies?”

“Indeed!”

Usually she ignores my words, pretending they’re indistinct “barks.” Not today. “Maisey? Did you just speak?”

“Yes, Mama. I want my walk and breakfast.”

Someone nudges my shoulder before she responds. I open my eyes. It’s Mama! “Wake up, Maisey! Time for walkies!”

The dream fades. I can’t talk, but Mama still knows what I want.

Easter Lunch, by Sandra Falconer

18/4/2025

Condensation runs down the windows, cabbage bubbling away in the kitchen, lamb sizzling, mother rushing around. The family arrives, Easter egg chocolate still clinging to the children’s mouths.

Excited chatter as everyone squashes around a table that forgot to increase in size when the family did. Who will get the broken chair – the one whose leg is held up by Boris Johnson’s autobiography?

Baby grabs Smarties from her sister. He splutters, turns a little blue. Andy thumps the baby’s back. An offending Smartie flies out of his mouth. As it lands in the peas, Andy is proclaimed a hero.

The Game, by Nelly Shulman

18/4/2025

The figure in the tree hollow wore a raincoat made from a scrap of a shopping bag and a red beret.
The girl pocketed the doll, made of sticks and acorns. The first one had appeared in the hollow almost a week ago, when she was walking home along the secluded forest path.
She noticed a second figure inside, wrapped in something resembling a brown coat. A man in the same attire sometimes loitered outside the school gates. A twig crunched, and the girl turned.
Standing on the path, he smiled, and the girl walked toward him.

Mole, by Mimi Grouse

18/4/2025

When the council closed the library, they boarded up the windows and barred the doors. But because they were image-conscious, they continued to keep its gardens in excellent condition, requesting that large, flowering plants grow there to hide their crime. The gardener, an ex-convict nicknamed Mole, was happy to oblige.

Months later, rumour had it that the banned building was haunted. Laughter had been heard there, and footsteps on the stairs. Nobody had the courage to go in and investigate.

Mole, failed bank robber turned gardener, was an excellent lookout, making sure book-lovers could use his tunnel undisturbed.

A Private Goodbye, by David Lowis

18/4/2025

He placed flowers on Julie's grave and stood in silence for a moment before kissing his fingers and touching the headstone. "Goodbye my love."

Although Julie had married and had kids decades ago, he'd continued clinging to the faint possibility that one day they would become lovers. Two months ago, Julie's sudden death had extinguished that wisp of hope.

***

In the cemetery car park, a young woman clutching a bunch of flowers climbed out of her car. She looked across the headstones to her mother's grave and saw a stranger placing flowers on it. Puzzled, she hesitated, then approached.

The Sting, by Ian Willey

18/4/2025

Robert and Betty were in a restaurant celebrating their one-month anniversary. Robert reached across the table and touched Betty’s hand. “I’m so happy we’re together,” he said.

“Yes,” said Betty. “But keep in mind it’s only temporary—until I find someone taller and better-looking.”

Robert winced. That stung.

He went home and called Paul, his taller and better-looking friend. They made a plan.

Paul asked Betty out. Betty dumped Robert. Paul dumped Betty.

In tears, Betty called Robert. “Please take me back,” she said. “I was a fool.”

“Sure,” said Robert. “But keep in mind it’s only temporary.”

Betty winced.

Are They Coming? by V Marie

18/4/2025

Under the cloak of night, they storm in as the door implodes with a deafening crack, sending Papa tumbling backward. As boots thunder against the floor, blinding lights pierce the darkness, casting ominous shadows over us. My sister's terrified screams don’t drown out the relentless approach of heavy boots, as we scramble like frightened animals desperately trying to disappear.
”Stay quiet, stay low,” Papa gasps, his voice strained with fear and pain.
Incoherent commands are shouted with cruel authority. “Who are you, what do you want?”, Papa falters. A chilling reply comes from a silhouette: “ICE, we came for you!”

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