Blog Archives

One Lives, One Dies, by Bobby Warner

25/8/2014

I walked along a side street in Saigon. 1968, and the Vietnam War was rapidly intensifying.

I came upon an old man squatting beside a drainage ditch. He looked up as I approached, then leapt to his feet and brandished a rusty looking revolver.

“American! VC tell me, kill you. But I no can do this. My heart say no. My family have saying: ‘One man die, one man live’.”

And he turned the weapon upon himself and fired a bullet into his chest.

I’ll never understand why he did it, but I shall always remember his sacrifice.

Dreams Of Flying, by Bobby Warner

25/8/2014

For years I’ve had this crazy dream. I’m walking along when suddenly I start running, leap into the air, and soar like an eagle.

The dream happened again today—while I was jogging in the park. I felt dizzy and must have blacked out. Suddenly my jogging turned into an all-out run, and I leapt into the air and flew like a bird.

When I woke up, or whatever—I found myself standing in my front yard. Something scratched my neck when I moved my head, and I reached up and plucked from my collar—a large eagle feather.

Caught! by Bobby Warner

25/8/2014

I couldn’t help myself; I fell deeply in love the day Doris moved in next door. Within a week we were having regular trysts when my wife went on her endless shopping trips.

Today Annie came home unexpectedly and caught us in bed. But instead of erupting in righteous anger, she crossed the room to her walk in closet, rapped on the door and said,

“Come on out, Charles. We don’t have to worry anymore about Richard finding out about us!”

Air Brakes, by Eric Smith

25/8/2014

June watched her climb from the truck outside the café. ‘Forty-plus and put together,’ she thought.

The café door opened. Lucy sat down and sighed. “What’s your special?”

June’s nostrils flared as she smelled Lucy’s road musk. “Meatloaf, Sunshine.”

“I’ll pass. Coffee cream, steak rare, two eggs over easy, home fries.”

“Gotcha,” June said. “Where’s that man of yours?”

“Who might that be?”

“Big cowboy with the Dragons jacket, Sweetie. You know I seen y’all before.”

“You won’t see us again, not together anyhow.”

“Sorry, Honey.”

“Don’t be.”

June stared out at the highway. “Don’t I know how that is.”

The Williams Family And The Twin-Knecked Fourteen-Stringed Banjo, by Gordon Lawrie

24/8/2014

Kentucky's Williams family had a unique claim to fame: only they could play the extraordinary twin-necked fourteen-string banjo. Essentially, it was two five-stringers, with two extra drone strings in cavities in each neck's back – one neck tuned in fourths F-B-E-A-D-G-C, the other in fifths, G-D-A-E-B-F-C.

Famous tunes included "Kentucky 14-String Hoe-Down" and "Kentucky Williams Blues", playable only by family members with unusually long fingers. Some experts think they had Marfans Syndrome, but it might have been in-breeding: they always married cousins.

In the 1960s the Williams family started to marry out; nowadays this extraordinary music is limited to old recordings.

Old Age Is Not For The Faint-Hearted, by Janette Jorgensen

23/8/2014

They'd lived in their home longer than most of those interfering people had been alive. Yes, they had every newspaper that had been delivered since 1946. Yes, her sister couldn't remember anything for more than two minutes. That was no reason to wrench them from their home and put them in some gol' darn old people's home. Phooey on that fake nurse. At long last she wasn't being bossed by her older sister. She wanted to relish this time and finally do some of the crosswords. She wanted to put her feet up on the settee, with her shoes on.

By Monica Dennis

23/8/2014

She regretted it as soon as she said it. She never expected to face one of those quiet longings that shadowed her deeper thoughts; the thoughts she never expected to share with anyone, not even her fiance. Not even her wise grandmother who never judged her. Not even the friends she allowed to glimpse her purest self in those rare moments of truth, exposed in a game of embarrassing revelations that forever bound the players. He offered. She declined, her lips replying before her brain could consider in an odd reversal of instinct. Too late. Moment gone. So was he.

Planets, by Amy Friedman

23/8/2014

“Pickles?”
“Yeah, nine of ‘em.”
“My grandma always said ‘nice peas’.”
“‘Nine pickles’ is more fun.”
“No it’s not. It’s gross.”
“So you don’t have to say it. I like pickles.”
“Gordon said something about ‘Mary’s violet eyes’.”
“Oh come on. Everybody knows violet eyes are a myth.”
“Liz Taylor had ‘em.”
“No she didn’t. That was a makeup trick. Everyone knows that! Anyway, she’s dead.”
“What does that have to do with the price of ketchup?”
“Oh good grief.”
“Lord you’re a spoilsport.”
“A real PITA.”
“A what?”
“Pain In The Ass.”
“Wha’d you call me?”
“Oh, never mind.”

Air Supply, by Ruth Feiertag

23/8/2014

Rushing, rushing, rushing. Laundry, e-mails, work — what had her husband said about dinner? And whom was she supposed to have called yesterday?

“Breathe” — that’s what people were always telling her. “Just breathe.” Remembering was harder than it sounded. Maybe if she put it into her calendar …

Dinner — whatever. She’d make pasta. Stirring the marinara with one hand, holding a manuscript in the other, she let out a deep breath she’d been holding.

Next thing she knew, she was on the floor, still holding the spoon. She’d forgotten to take in air.

For some of us, inspiration doesn’t come naturally.

Salvage, by Cate Lloyd

23/8/2014

Helena’s aunt was in recovery. She thought the surprise might cheer her up.

The rain started as the train arrived at Killara. Commuters fled the platform.

The ticket office had closed at six-thirty.

Under the streetlight, she phoned the hospital, needing direction.

The number rang out.

‘Jesus!’

She imagined crossing herself.

‘You’re lost?’ His teeth flickered beneath the umbrella’s caul.

Water trickled down her neck. She shivered.

‘I’m looking for Calvary.’

He jangled his keys.

‘I’ll give you a lift.’

Helena looked down, saw the shining Mercedes tag.

She felt so cold.

‘It’s not too far away,’ he said.

Smiled.

Busy, by Russell Conover

23/8/2014

“Man. I don’t think I can take this busy schedule anymore.” Randy sighed.

His friend Jane looked concerned. “What’s going on?”

“About the usual. All my commitments have me bouncing off the walls. It’s like--WHAAA?”

Suddenly, Randy rose off the floor by a foot. Then he careened towards a wall, and reflected off it.

“Are you OK?” Jane cried.

Randy looked uncertain. “No pain, but really weird.” He sailed across the room and bonked off the opposite wall. This process continued for the next five or ten minutes.

“Admit it.” Jane grinned. “You just want to play real-life Pong.”

And That's How It Began, by Jo Oldani-Osborne

22/8/2014

To Sandra, Bill was always that elusive possibility. Now, he was standing close. The reception was just at that right tempo of wine, rocking band and bare feet.
“So did the groom really forcibly French kiss you at the office party last December?”
“Yeah. Why would I make that up?”
Bill stepped closer. “I just didn’t think it was possible to force that.”
Sandra was enticing with the flush of the wine and her upturned lips. Bill’s voice got deeper.
“Show me,” even closer now.
She reached up and took his face in her hands. His soft lips parted willingly.

It's You Not Me, by Rejoice Denhere

22/8/2014

Melissa couldn’t believe it was over between her and John. She’d really believed he was the one she was going to spend the rest of her life with. “He dumped me,” she sobbed.

Laura was incredulous.

““It’s you not me,” he said! For all his so-called intelligence he’s not that smart, is he?””

Hugging her, Laura consoled, “He wasn’t good enough for you and he probably didn’t believe your story either.”

“I know,” Melissa agreed. “Did he think I was from Venus, or something?”

“Possibly.”

“I thought it was common knowledge that we Mercurians don’t mate.”

“Clearly it’s not.”

Outhouse On Pluto, by Eric Smith

22/8/2014

Eli dug Kiki’s outhouse for hours; the ground was hard. After descending three feet, he took a rest in Kiki’s house. A six-member band arrived. Kiki and a musician disappeared upstairs. Twenty minutes later, the guy reappeared and a band mate went up. After a similar period, the second guy emerged from the stairwell. The procedure repeated until all six had gone upstairs and reappeared, whereupon Kiki came down. Eli thought maybe the band was admiring Kiki’s paintings. Then he figured the outhouse would have been much deeper if the musicians Kiki serviced repaid her with turns in the pit.

Plug, by Robert Kenney

22/8/2014

Jarvis had heard Susie discussing his prognosis with the doctors. They couldn’t say if he was aware of his surroundings as he lay in a coma. They thought it unlikely he would awaken given the extent of the trauma to his brain. They wanted her to know they were there to help in any way they could. They were very solicitous. Susie asked a lot of questions and less than a week after Jarvis’s accident, she asked the doctors to turn off the machines that were keeping him alive. They complied.

At death plus sixty seconds, Jarvis opened his eyes.

What's In A Name? by Emma Baird

22/8/2014

What ever became of Persephone? Cassandra often wondered the fate of her erstwhile school friend.

The two of them had their mythological names in common, and had often suffered at the hands of their more plainly-monikered mates.

Cassandra pondered the fate of her one-time friend. Had she succeeded in life?
Finally deciding that modern life made the search for old friends easier, Cassandra scoured social media.

Unfortunately, Cassandra’s summer commitments to golf and picnicking meant that she had to limit searches for Persephone to winter months. Facebook, Twitter et al failed to turn up any sign of her old friend.

Whisky Galore, by Emma Baird

22/8/2014

The light streaming in through the thin curtains did not disturb the room’s incumbent, immobile under the duvet.
An empty whisky bottle, lying on its side, lent the room a perfumed air which battled with the underlying staleness.
At the door, Tanya sighed to herself. Dead to the world then. Same old, same old.
A flash of foil caught her eye and she stopped to pick it up – an empty blister pack with all the pills popped out.
Not same old then. Just dead.

The Great Independence Debate, by Gordon Lawrie

22/8/2014

One week before the Plutonian Independence Referendum, the entire adult population of Pluto gathered to hear a debate between the leaders of the respective campaigns.

First, Klog passionately set out the case for breaking away from the Solar System. "They don't care about us," he said. "They deplanetised us!"

Mogarwi replied, arguing that Pluto's future lay with Neptune, Uranus and other planets. "Sometimes we're actually closer to the Sun than Neptune," she noted.

After a question-and-answer session and a brief discussion, they all repaired for tea and biscuits to the local hall. Commentators generally agreed that the debate was drawn.

Source: Wikipedia

By Anthony Lansing

20/8/2014

Sammy with the golden frames. Sammy with the gap-toothed smile. Sammy with the freckles on his face, sitting in the back behind us. Sammy with the broken arm. Sammy with the shiners. Sammy saying nothing’s wrong. He’s in the bathroom sobbing. Sammy with the sad eyes. Sammy is a downer. Sammy with the bloody wrists. Then comes the silent morning.

By Ralph Hausser (after Margaret Atwood's "Plague Year")

19/8/2014

Geese still fly north in April, but no loud noises come from below, followed by gaps in the line, like teeth lost in a brawl.

My ghost in search of yours. I miss your body cuddled beside mine.

Pigeons in the park wonder why the lady never comes with seed and bread any more.

An overturned tricycle, pink and white, a small voice cries she had no time.

Traffic lights change from green to red until the power station burns or simply stops.

Aliens sift rubble, compare the skulls of humans with our dogs and cats. Which species dominated?

Nine Lives, by Ann-Louise Truschel

19/8/2014

“Chloe! What are you doing here? I thought Dr. Late killed you!”

“Apparently Dr. Late isn’t the only one who doesn’t know that cats have nine lives.”

“But if he finds you here he will simply kill you again and again until you have no lives left. You must go home to Emma right away.”

“My ride is here now.”

“But what about Dr. Late?”

“Don’t worry,” said Chloe, as she walked out the door, her long tail in the air. “Humans don’t have nine lives.”

Chloe got into the waiting car. “Thanks for picking me up, Ann-Louise and Rejoice.”

By Chaz Sollars

18/8/2014

How well I remember the discomforting encounter with Wainwright as his slouching figure appeared in the doorway. His deformed body, his unusually large and luminous eyes coupled with a complexion so cadaverous it further exaggerated the feeling of eeriness.

Had he but turned me away, but no, he beckoned me to enter and as I crossed the threshold I suddenly felt I had inhaled an atmosphere of sadness, an air of severe unfathomable gloom.

Therapy Journals: The Commute, by Ruth Feiertag

18/8/2014

“It’s like this for me. Depression is a commute. I go back and forth from Sadness to OK. Depending on the traffic, sometimes it takes me longer than other times to get from one to the other. Sometimes I take scenic routes, visit other places: Joy, Fury, Despondence, Fun. But most of my life’s journey is devoted to my commute.”

“What about other, more dangerous towns? What about Suicide? Do you ever visit that town?”

“Nope; not a place I’ve ever wanted to go. But I notice the turnoff on the highway, and I get why some people take it.”

The Magic Flute, by Janette Jorgensen

17/8/2014

She paused the recording of Die Zauberflöte.
“Oh Monica, that's my inspiration. I've got a marvellous idea.”
“People think I'm you, Olivia.”
“Oh. Why?”
“Well, dyeing your hair auburn doesn't really alter your looks, especially in black and white photos.”
“But you always wear glasses – I wear contacts.”
“Who knows that?”
“Right. Well, Rev'd Monica, you shouldn't have criticized my writing.”
“I hate to see women objectified.”
Olivia snorted.
“I guess “hypocrite” is the word of the day?”
Monica laughed.
“Yep. Some elders are coming over now to meet you.”

Exodus: The Tah, by Amy Friedman

17/8/2014

I looked at my hands. Long, tapering digits, furling from slender wrists, oval-bedded nails, little half-moons … the mark of the Tah.

My pala curled around the little forbidden bottle of polish … polish the Black Hoods outlawed one year past.

Gloves, though still permissible, drew unwelcome attentions. Black-gowned minions roamed the streets daily, grabbing fingers, ready to denounce for the faintest curve of white.

Every week I picked a few gullaberries nonchalantly, carefully painted the juice onto the half-moons, and refiled my pala to its deceptive sharp edge. It was risky, but the Hoods were not clever. Only brutish.

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