Blog Archives

Checkmate, by Bex Gooding

30/8/2019

‘I don’t like the Bishop.’ the Queen said. ‘Why doesn’t he come straight to it?’

‘It’s just the way he is.’ the King replied. ‘Not everyone feels they can approach us direct, you know that.’

The Queen harrumphed, she hated everyone, except the King. Sometimes she found him infuriating with his slow, cautious ways, but she would give her life for him. The others were always plotting, the Bishops, the Knights, all of them.

The Queen stopped and the Rook plunged a dagger into her heart. As she fell the Rook turned to the King.

‘Checkmate, your Majesty.’ he said.

Crane Song, by Linda Cornelissen

30/8/2019

The powerful voice echoing through the peaks, lifts me. Strong, compelling notes and I am the crane. Aloft in the timeless, rarefied air of Tibetan mountains, the sunshine a dappled presence on the land below. My wingtips caress clouds the colour of purity, as they caress the mountain tops with humbling beauty, and then speed on their journey. Their precious cargo held fleetingly at the roof of the world, carries with it the hopes of the earth itself. The voice of the mountains becomes my compass – it guides me home. I am also timeless within nature’s beauty.

Would You be Mine? by Kim Favors

30/8/2019

You smile at me with your eyes and compliment my writing. I’m smitten. I want more.

Are you available? I Google your name and find out where you live, work. I cruise your street, show up at your job.

My fantasies are never-ending. In them, we become friends, lovers, traveling companions.

Then you disappear. Your profile is deleted.

I decide to stop visiting online dating sites. Permanently.

It’s true that all good things must come to an end.

Even fantasies. As with taking hostages, they became too risky.

I enjoyed them all until the end.

Confirmation, by Mary Wallace

30/8/2019

Most of us write for pleasure but there is always that element of doubt, will this piece of writing be good enough, is it up to our high standard of expectation? Rereading seems to make the piece too familiar and it loses its freshness. Other opinions help and of course being published is the goal we all seek, yet for me, the only thing that removes my doubts is stumbling on an old piece I wrote, years later and thinking 'wow, did I really write that?'

Illusion, by Sergio Nicolas

30/8/2019

“Do you love me?”

“Yes. I do love you. Don’t you believe me?”

When his love was gone, the reality hit him and it was very harsh. He wanted his love back in his life but it was impossible. He didn’t know what to do, where to go. He had lost everything. His love was gone forever. When things became unbearable, he lost his mind. He could feel those eyes staring at him. He could hear them laughing and screaming. When things went beyond the walls he tried to resist but failed. His dreams turned wet and became an illusion.

Interruption in Norway, by K. J. Watson

30/8/2019

The hunter trudged through the snow towards me.

’You’re an artist,’ he said.

Go away, I thought, wiping ice from my beard. The hunter stared at my painting.

‘That’s not right,’ he said. ‘The snow’s definitely not purple.’

I gazed in silence at my palette.

The hunter peered at the landscape. A moose ambled from a forest.

‘Ah-ha.’

As the hunter raised his rifle, I jabbed a brush at him. He stumbled as he fired.

The bullet hit my painting.

The hunter was unperturbed. ‘It seems I’ve bagged a work of art.’

He picked up his trophy and left.

Touched by a Yogi, by Mark Tulin

30/8/2019

Prana Joe, the balding yogi with a ponytail, believed he was an angel that could change the world with his mystical brand of yoga. He preached to his class that he’s making them more aware of their special place in the universe with every flowing movement. In each savasana, he seeks to quiet their restless souls and prepare them for enlightenment. Convinced he has magic in his touch, he adjusts each student’s poses to perfection.

If only Yogi Prana Joe would come to class on time and not talk so much during meditation, he would surely be a saint.

Sniper, by Gordon Lawrie

30/8/2019

The Austrian Steyr SSG69 rifle the assassin used is accurate to five inches of the target. Positioned on a skyscraper just over a mile away, she could hardly miss.

Immediately afterwards, a removal company spirited the weapon out of the building in a filing cabinet, then later that day out of the country altogether, never to return. It had already killed a president in Africa, drugs barons in the Philipinnes and South America, and a Russian dissident. It would kill again.

And the sniper? Changing into a blouse, suit and high heels, she returned to her office, her work complete.

Afraid, by Sergio Nicolas

30/8/2019

He just wanted to get rid of that man so he killed him. He had always wanted to do that. He saw him dying. He smiled and laughed. He had no fear of God and he didn’t care for the aftermath. Days passed. One day, on his way home he felt someone was following him, someone who was large and dark. He walked faster. The dark figure kept chasing him. He started running but wherever he went the dark figure chased him. He hurriedly reached home and shut the door behind him. Now, he was afraid of his own shadow.

Nowhere Like Home, by Julie Achilles

30/8/2019

Sabrina sat on a cliff looking down to a deserted beach, listening to the waves crashing on the shore below her, and the sound of seagulls overhead. She had achieved what she came for peace, escapism and a chance to mend her broken heart.

The call back to the city was strong, she knew it was where she truly belonged, in the heart of the chaos, pollution and overly ambitious colleagues, but it was her madness and she loved it.

Tomorrow she thought as she lay back under a yellow sun looking up at a bright blue sky, tomorrow.

The Red Light by V. L. Draven

30/8/2019

Forced to stop, I sit and stare. The red light should not be here. The road is in the middle of the desert. I’m alone with the red sand and wriggling lizards.

I tap on the steering wheel. Sweat dribbles. Days turn to nights, and nights to days. I’ve been waiting for weeks, months, years; the light is never going to change. I am hungry and thirsty, yet the red light remains.

I sit in my car and glare at it. I turn the keys, and the engine roars to life. I accelerate, anticipating the punishment to come; nothing happens.

Elusion, by Maira Bakenova

30/8/2019

Through the open window, she watched the rain clouds in their static glory. The bus meant to take her home swished past. She pulled the crumpled sheet away from her body, letting the evening breeze caress the bare skin of her back.

‘I should close the window,’ he said.

A nosy fly buzzed into the room, took three turns under the ceiling, went quiet. She figured it had found its way back into the real world.

‘Not yet,’ she said and pressed a hand to his heart.

‘Why not?’

‘So I don’t forget,’ she whispered. ‘Even though I want to.’

Night Moves, by Marjan Sierhuis

30/8/2019

She creeps stealthily through the vast undergrowth. It has now been several hours, and it is getting dark. Her sixth sense tells her that someone is still hot on her trail. She considers the ramifications of being caught. It isn’t an option.

She thinks she knows who it is. Why? She can come up with a good reason.

Mentally and physically exhausted, all that matters now is that she gets out of this alive. She suddenly detects movement in her periphery. The hair stands up on the back of her neck. She lifts her pistol just in time.

You Don’t Need a Weatherman, by Ella Craig

30/8/2019

‘Officer Bryant, so far today there have been five road-rage incidents, three brawls and a fatal stabbing on the beach. That’s eighty such cases this week.’

‘More tourists mean more crime, Mr Kenley.’ Bryant stifled a yawn.

‘Nothing to do with numbers. When the wind changes and blows through those turbines straight across town, dreadful things happen.’

‘Not the result of the fracking releasing toxins, then?’

‘They used that as a decoy; the poison is coming from the wind farm.’

A light breeze caressed Bryant’s face. He frowned, drew his gun, and shot Kenley dead.

Writing Frustration, by Russell Conover

30/8/2019

Jim cracked his knuckles over his keyboard, ready to type his weekly flash fiction story. Trouble was, he had no idea for a topic. He thought of all the obvious ones--dragons, aliens, traveling, etc.--but they were all too predictable. He slammed his fist onto the desk, frustrated.

Then he took a deep breath. Writing brings calm. Writing is soothing. He closed his eyes, visualizing the words coming together on his computer screen and his fingers humming across the keyboard. Before long, his virtual story was complete.

Jim opened his eyes, his mind cleansed. Ideas were rampant. Story time!

Women's Intuition, by Alison Ogilvie-Holme

30/8/2019

Renata drinks wine like Jim drinks coffee. Like water (in a drought) or Kool-Aid (in Jonestown).

You get the picture.

Renata stays home while Jim pushes paper. Deadlines; professional reputation to uphold. No time to waste on his wife or her nasty little habits. But divorce is not an option. He has earned his money.

Her voice, on the phone, is rife with enthusiasm. Rendez-vous? She sips Merlot and waits, prepping for showtime.

When his hitman/her lover enters the bedroom, she fires first. Yes, officer. He attacked me. I was expecting my husband.

Pity Jim lacks women’s intuition. Cheers, darling.

Bad Boys, by Sandra James

30/8/2019

Will you lot stop fighting? You should know better. Grow up!

Try to be nice to each other, work together, play together and share your toys instead of always contradicting and ostracising one or the other. There’s no need for this jealousy…you all get plenty of attention every day.

Mr Google, Mr Microsoft and Mr Apple I am going to send you all to the cyberspace naughty corner if you don’t learn to co-operate!

True Home, by Don Tassone

30/8/2019

I felt as though I had fallen asleep, but I was awake. The world around me had simply changed.

Before, my world was filled with light, and I was filled with peace. Now I was surrounded by darkness and muffled sounds. I felt anxious.

Soon, though, I grew comfortable, and my longing for my old place began to wane.

But just as I had begun to settle in, I was forced out, into yet another strange new world. Over time, I grew comfortable there too.

Then I began to remember my true home and understand I had never really left.

The Lie, by Sivan Pillai

26/8/2019

Mary, terminally ill and delirious, opened her eyes slowly, looked at me and smiled when I called her name.

“Is the bridge being built?” she asked feebly.

I knew that the work was about to start.

Mary used to ferry people across the river in her small country boat. Ever since the news spread that a bridge had been sanctioned, she would ask me, the municipal member of the area, the same question.

“No. The idea has been dropped,” I told her.

“Thank God…”

She returned to her delirious state and started babbling but the smile remained on her face.

The Mettle of Life, by Donna Matthews

24/8/2019

Shutting off the television after another Stranger Things binge-watching session, she couldn’t help but feel nostalgic. Not for the terrifying, family destroying monsters portrayed. And indeed not the fashion. Bright geometric patterns and splatter paint? Good heavens, what were we thinking in the 80s?

No.

It is the mettle of life she misses. The 14-year-old girl she once was. Long afternoons with friends, secrets shared, dreams whispered. It was her age of becoming. She could be anything. Anything at all.

Silence falls heavy without the television. Unsure of what to do next, she ends up doing nothing at all.

Sheapard's Church, by Rick Flint

23/8/2019

We wandered down the avenues of leaning stone, where whispered prayers floated up to the heavens. Where vanished souls of yesterday stood in heavy silence. Now the empty graveyard speaks in hollow tones, inhabited only by a ghostly wind or the beleaguered cry of little Jenny Wren. Stone on stone where masons toiled to build God’s house, Shepard’s Church stands as ever, a monument to a lost time. The centuries of old, of generations born only to be forgotten, rolled up into a thing called the past.

Guy Time, by Kim Favors

23/8/2019

Four, five times a year, Dad and I went on fishing trips. “Guy time,” he told my mother.

There was more than fishing. At both motels and campgrounds, Dad often found female companions. I slept in the bathtub or truck.

I disliked stabbing worms so I switched to Velveeta and spinners. Dad rarely caught fish; he threw mine back or gave them away. “Catch and release,” he told Mom when we returned empty-handed.

“Guy time” ended when I left for college. But I didn’t forget Dad’s lessons. I’m never with any woman very long. Catch and release.

Pain Tension Sorrow Dread by Stella Gaucher-Murovic

23/8/2019

The windshield shatters, scattering glass on me and the driver. A body sprawls broken and bloody as the night wails with screams and moans. We cling to each other. My cherished Buddhist saying "do no harm", in tatters.

Days later, the agent informs us the man is fine. Dread, replaced by relief, revolts, switches to anger.

"He appeared from nowhere," I say, blaming him.

Fear festers, tension mounts. Huddled in the passenger seat, I holler "watch it, she's crossing." No one's there. PTSD they say.

We're moving. Away from the city. Away from our dreams of a year ago.

Shattered.

Not So Wilde, by Bex Gooding

23/8/2019

‘Once more onto the beach dear friends, the waves of hopelessness gently lapping on the shores of despair.’ Oscar said staring at the screen.

‘You’re dramatic today. What’s up?’ Jane asked

‘Job hunting.’ he sighed.

‘Widen you’re search parameters.’ Jane said looking over Oscar’s shoulder. ‘Does anyone read poetry anymore or watch plays?’ Jane shrugged.

‘No they’re disconnected from the world. When I said this wallpaper and I are fighting a dual to the death, either it goes or I do, I never expected this.’

Oscar regretted the day he stepped into the time machine.

He missed the 19th century.

Full Speed Ahead! by Russell Conover

23/8/2019

Raymond was thrilled to test drive the new exotic sports car. He sat down and strapped in, firing up the engine and easing it onto the street.

Man, this thing could move! Even just touching the throttle, he was flying by other cars. When the road opened up, he floored it. To his shock, the car lifted off the ground and soared above the road! Gasping, he eased off, and the car returned to Earth.

He panted heavily as he returned to the dealer. “The car ... it ... ” he gasped. “Our latest feature,” the salesman smiled. “Rocket speed--all the time!”

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