Blog Archives

Clank, by David Berger

22/5/2020

As the walls of the steel chamber closed in, Darryl and Francine clung together.

CLANK

“Leave me, Francine. Marry him,” Darryl cried.

CLANK

“Never, my love,” Francine sobbed.

CLANK

“I am but a commoner. And he is a Prince.”

CLANK

“But it is you I love. Amor vincit Omnia.”

CLANK

“What does that mean?”

CLANK

“It’s Latin for “love conquers all.”

CLANK

“You’re quoting Latin, NOW?

CLANK

“I only thought … .”

CLANK

“That’s your problem. You’re always thinking.”
CLANK

“Is that how you see me?”

CLANK

“Damn straight.”

CLANK

“JAILER! I’ll marry him!

CLANK

“Too la … .”

CLANK

My New Neighbors, by Penny Kohn

22/5/2020

New neighbors in #204. I put a welcome note under their door, signed Penny #205. No response.

They slam their front door, but I won’t confront them. Maybe I should welcome the reminder that I have neighbors close by, but I grumble instead.

Maybe they don’t like my piano playing. #206 loved listening to me, but he was a friendly guy. We chatted together around the pool. There will be no chatting around the pool this summer. The pool won’t open in the pandemic.

Will I ever meet them? Do they even wonder about me?

The Woman in Red, by Amanda Jones

22/5/2020

‪The woman in red is stalking my dreams and I think she wants to kill me. She leads me over red rocks to a ruined house, the tide reaching into its rooms. “Trust me. You must trust me.” And she lets go of my hand, turns and goes, leaving me in the centre of the drowning house.‬

At the End of the World, by Bex Gooding

22/5/2020

The more it listened, the more the demon understood the genius in the subtlety of the Deceiver’s ways. How people had been coerced into believing that they worked too hard and laziness was good. Taking narcotics was acceptable, until everyone was tranquillised by pills and too lethargic to care; if others were starving, then that was someone else’s problem.

The Deceiver had sent other demons to possess and influence people to kill their enemies and their friends, sowing discord, trouble and dissension until they spiraled further into darkness.

But, what would become of demons when the Deceiver destroyed the world?

The Plan, by Andrew C. Miller

22/5/2020

They each drank a glass of Merlot, took off their clothes and were just getting started when her phone rang. She rolled over and faced the wall, said a few words but then remained quiet for the rest of the conversation. She set her phone on the nightstand.

“That was Mom. Dad started coughing this morning and now his temperature is 103.”

He sat up. “Your mom should call 911 right away.”

She started getting dressed. “They want us to come over. She moved his bed next to the window.”

“Your mom must have it.”

“He asked about the puppy.”

Unicorn Boy, by Jim Hawe

22/5/2020

The young doctor swore he would cure Kabir, the Mumbai boy who mysteriously sprouted a horn from his forehead.

Other boys stopped playing soccer with the freakish “unicorn boy.” Neighbors hurled insults and rocks at his family’s shanty. Then a classmate sprouted a horn. More cases erupted across India and soon the world. In just two years every human had a horn.

The doctor declared he had discovered a cure and fittingly wanted Kabir to be the first to lose his horn. Kabir declined. Better the weight of a unicorn horn than that of again being different from everyone else.

It's Plane to See, by Gordon Lawrie

22/5/2020

As I paused to admire a glorious London plane tree, a couple passed by.

"It's a beautiful London plane," I said.

"It's not a plane tree," the man replied. "It's an acer, I think. Perhaps a sycamore?"

"I think it's a London plane," I repeated, having researched the matter.

"No it's not," his wife insisted. "When we meet next, we'll tell you what it actually is."

I considered killing them instantly, but relented. Instead I called the police, who duly arrested them: misidentifying a tree is a criminal offence in Scotland. They were each issued with fixed-penalty fines of £200.

Numbers Count, by Stella Gaucher Murovic

22/5/2020

"Over one-hundred-thousand deaths by June" the man with the pouty lips read from the teleprompter. "By fall we'll be back to normal— next spring the economy will be in full swing." He left, smiling, gesturing with his familiar thumb's up.

People were bombarded by new figures marching across their screens in increasing numbers. Every day the man's pouty lips delivered terrifying statistics.

For many, the numbers were inconsequential — for others, irreversible minus signs.

One day the man vanished. News came: he too had taken a direct hit from a number subtracting someone essential from his life.

Will You Wait for Me? by James A.Tweedie

22/5/2020

Why?” Robert asks.

“Because he says we are too young. He doesn’t understand.”

Although it is midday, it seems to Robert that his world has been suddenly plunged into darkness.

“Michelle?”

The word hangs in the air—dangling like the pearl on a woman’s earring in a painting by Vermeer.

“Yes?”

“I love you. And when the war is over—if it ever ends; and when I return—if I ever return; we will be old enough, and your father will no longer be able to keep us apart. Will you wait for me?”

“I will wait for you forever.”

In the Driver’s Seat, by Krystyna Fedosejevs

22/5/2020

“I got a new vehicle for us,” stated Dave.

“Not another ambulance!” perked Tomas.

“No, we have plenty of those riding our streets.”

Young Tomas lined up two cars on the kitchen floor.

“Ya, I know, because of Coronavirus,” he said. “Which one do you want to race, Dad?”

“The one on the left.”

“Where is ‘left’?”

“The Cadillac,” Dave replied.

Their cars spun out after hitting the fridge.

“What’s the new toy?” beamed Tomas.

Dave coaxed his son to a street-facing window, revealing a remote starter in his hand.

“Ten years from now, you can be its driver.”

Matchday Memories, by David Lowis

22/5/2020

Don had moved into a retirement home, located in the village where he'd lived all his life. With time to fill, his mind turned to reminiscing about boyhood matches he'd played on the now overgrown football fields he could see through his window.

Closing his eyes, he'd conjure up the smell of winter air and the sensation of mud splattering his wiry legs. In a flash, he'd broken through the defence, locked eyes with the goalkeeper and slid the ball into the net.

From the fields, dog walkers would sometimes see Don, seated in his armchair, arms aloft in celebration.

Last Day of Summer, by Guy Fletcher

22/5/2020

Summer Brady was daydreaming, thinking of an old boyfriend as she inhaled a cigarette.

She was unaware of the car. Summer never worried about risk. "it's all part of living" she used to say. Shakespeare penned "A coward dies a thousand times" and how right the great man was. Her cigarette rolled across the street complete with her trademark red lipstick.

John remembers how she cheered him up during his dark days. "You had a life worth living," he said, laying flowers on her grave.

The Question, by Paritosh Chandra Dugar

22/5/2020

I was tired and starving. Yet powered by hunger, I ghosted into their territory. Their dens were tall, silent, and glimmering. As stealthily as a zephyr, I ranged their lanes and by-lanes in search of dogs and cats. But, unfortunately, there were none. Exhaustion and disappointment then made me go off. Suddenly, a sharp piercing pain in the abdomen awakened me. That was a crowd of deadly people frantically shouting, “Man-Eater! Kill him.” I forced my head upward, towards the sky, for the last time, to ask, “Why do the man-eater and I look alike?”

Unnoticed, by Luckshmee Jeawon

22/5/2020

In the midst of big headlines, big fears, big statistics and big noises, my tiny shudders, the heaviness in my chest, the dripping of my tears go unnoticed.
He lives too far away ; I will not see him one last time, I will not be able to run my hand through his hair and cry. I will not be able to remove the cotton pieces from his nostrils, shake him and try to bring him back to life.

In the midst of big headlines during the lockdown, my lover’s death goes unnoticed.

Tick, by Ian Gough

22/5/2020

Tick. Slumped with his back to the wall, Ben looks at the peeled skin on his knuckles, then to the patch of blood on the door. His outburst futile, that dam ticking continues to pick at his brain. Tick, tick… Twenty seconds and it’ll all be over. A life with so much potential snuffed out because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Tick, tick... The fluorescent numbers continue counting backward, grating his nerves over the faint whirring of the mechanism. If only he’d done what they asked. If only he’d listened, if only…tick…three, tick…two, tick…one….

Losing Spring, by Pamela Kennedy

22/5/2020

Our love was suppose to be an eternal Spring, constantly bursting with renewed life, full of vibrant colors like the tulips and irises, soft as pussy willows, and warm as gentle breezes.

The love is still there, but it seems hidden. It hasn't been washed away by rainy days, has it?

I miss the spontaneity of our love. It seems to be fading along with the rainbows.

What happened? Oh! I see. It's called life.

Time Out, by Cheryl Dahlstrand

22/5/2020

Furloughed for how long? Tina had no idea, but this coronavirus put a daily ten hour hole in her solitary life. The gym was now off limits, but the sidewalk was available and free. Changes began to appear. Driveways were decorated with flowers and rainbows in colored chalk. Backyards rang with shouts of laughter. Neighbors in lawn chairs waved as she passed. Clusters of kids raced by on their bikes. Front yard signs celebrated life events: Congratulations Graduate, Happy Birthday, Thank You Essential Workers. Furloughed or not we are all in this together, she realized with a little smile.

Mother, by Jayden Oyola

22/5/2020

“Hello Mother.”

“hm.”

“Mother.”

“WHAT CHILD?!”

“I...I came to visit is all.”'

“So? For all I care... You should be dead.”

“I know Mother. But I can’t do anything about it.”

“You lie! Your brother was begging you for life, and you just left him defenseless.”

“Mother, he was sick.”

“ I didn’t have the medicine nor the expertise to save him... he was doomed from the start.”

“You lie again. Pitiful. I knew you were a rotten child as soon as you were born.”

“How can you say that Mother?”

“I tried to help.”

Happy Birthday, Mr. Ramsgate by Sue Clayton

22/5/2020

“May God welcome him into his heavenly home…” the priest droned, the church’s only other occupant except for me and my Fred, lying in his Covid infected coffin.

His children and grandchildren had managed a birthday visit before the borders closed, shedding tears as his gnarled fingers clawed at the home’s window in a frantic attempt to wave at his loved ones locked outside.

“Will she send me a card?” His timorous voice had asked.

A cream card, embossed with a gold 100 stood on the coffin; written inside

‘To Mr. Fred Ramsgate, on the occasion of…signed Elizabeth R.'

Funeral, by Rod Drake

22/5/2020

Everyone is always kind to one another, and the deceased, at a funeral. Good things are said, only good memories are remembered. Then came my Uncle Jack.

At my father’s funeral, Jack rolled in, pretty loaded, and weaved his way to the front of the church. There he turned to face us and said loudly, ”Hell, Dan was a real bastard. He wouldn’t give you the time of day if your life depended on it. Being dead doesn’t make him a saint.” Jack looked into the casket sadly. “But I will miss the old son of a bitch.”

Don't Call Me Corona! by Yola M. Caecenary

22/5/2020

Her actual name is Tiara.

Shortly after the outbreak, some people who only know her by her name started to call her “corona”. She didn’t care at the beginning. Only after humiliation on a train, she despised that word. People were looking at her as if she was the germ to avoid. Two of her school friends mocked her with the word. Couldn’t bear the stare, she jumped out the train at the next station.

“Don’t call me corona!” She yelled in tears.

A week after, she had a sore throat and the test result revealed the virus inside her.

Hamonado, by Michael Piencenaves

22/5/2020

Her gentle smile was blurred in the call. “Tell Dad to buy the ingredients okay? I’ll be back for the fiesta. We’ll make hamonado like we always do.”

“I’m safe, Sammy. Don’t worry.” As she disconnected, I thought I heard Mom cough.

Then one day Dad’s phone rang. He turned pale and ran outside. The conversation was a sorrowful murmur. Through thin walls I overheard him mention “virus.”

“Sammy, Mom won’t be home soon,” he said, sobbing. He held me tighter than usual. He never explained why.

We ate in silence on fiesta day. There was no hamonado this year.

I Am At The Line, by Cindy Patrick

22/5/2020

Turns out, I am at the line. The line of stressed or not. Don’t push me, I am right there. Sometimes you can’t feel it creeping up. It occurs to you driving home. I ask myself, “Are you okay?” When I answer myself, “no”, I must take note. Talking to 200 people a day, hearing their opinions, getting “thanks for being here” is fine. But too many are demanding and self-absorbed. We want bleach and flour. While others don’t? They don’t, and will never, realize that they start sentences like “but all I want”. All I want. In a pandemic.

At the Drive-In, Antonia Rachel Ward

22/5/2020

You picked me up in the Cadillac, top down, tail-fins a swathe of candy-blue above bright brake lights. I dressed for the occasion, petticoats swirling as I hurried out the door, taste of freedom on my tongue. You revved the engine, and we zipped through town, so fast the the ribbon blew out of my hair.

At the Drive-In, you bought popcorn; cola in glass bottles. We settled down beneath the screen’s glow. The movie didn’t matter. I was too busy enjoying the company.

Then the sound of my phone buzzing woke me. Still 2020. Still lockdown.

Color-Coded Wealth Inequality, by Sankar Chatterjee

22/5/2020

Traveling in Chichi, Guatemala, Barry boarded a green “chicken bus” amidst a group of differently painted buses, none with any route number. Fellow passengers were carrying interesting objects: rabbits, jackfruits, machetes, and similar kinds. Original old yellow school buses were discarded in America, auctioning to this poor nation. Here they were minimally inspected and repainted to ferry indigenous tribes with their recently acquired possessions, and thus the moniker. Poor citizens couldn’t read, but they could distinguish colors. Color coding without numbering was meant for different destinations.

Barry checked his paper currencies. They’re in different bright colors depending on their denominations.

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