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By Tammy Mezera

30/9/2014

He rode sound for the first ten miles. The wind howled for his entrapment as sand propelled off its breath against him. But he had not moved, not once.

I pondered why trees were ever symbolic for the steadfast. It seemed silly now, a root that holds one in place as if we were never to be anywhere else.

When I stopped at the gas station, the cricket embolden his legs and jumped from the stationary windshield wiper. I bid him a silent farewell as he maneuvered through the parking lot into a field of corn.

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By Len Nourse

30/9/2014

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The ladies took turns to gas us out, in words and in the environment. If those in the US are not careful you'll have Al Gore on your tail and make you non-gratis, and certainly won’t allow the Scots in.

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Beans, by Amy Friedman

30/9/2014

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“Beans, beans, beans, beans, BEEEEEEEEEEANS … wonderful BEEEEEEEEEEEANS!”
“I thought that was spam!”
“What?”
“You know, the Monty Python spam routine.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“ ‘We got spam, eggs n spam, eggs bacon n spam, spam eggs bacon and spam – ’”
“That’s already annoying.”
“Well, yeah. Spam is annoying. Anyway, what’s so great about beans? Turns you into a fart-o-matic.”
“If you put kombu in the bean pot you won’t fart.”
“Kombu? What in the hell is that?”
“Seaweed.”
“And you’re ranking on me about spam? Good grief.”
“Don’t knock it till you tried it.”

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The Faux Pas, by Emma Baird

30/9/2014

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"Beans, beans are good for the heart, the more you eat, the more you-"

“That will do!” The teacher screeched. Decorum was always a crucial part of lessons in Ms Grace’s classes and mentioning the unmentionable aspects of human digestion was a faux pas on every level.

Farting, burping, projectile vomiting and shitting were, therefore, always glossed over.

Still, it could be argued that the pupils of Ms Grace’s elementary class enjoyed excellent health. Beans were a regular part of their diet, thanks in most part to their enthusiastic embrace of the foodstuff. They believed the song, wholeheartedly.

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In The Woods, by Cathie Devitt

30/9/2014

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Leaning against the craggy tree stump I inhaled the smell of pine cones, admired a terracotta carpet of leaves and listened to the snapping of twigs underfoot.

A swarm of ants smothered a wrinkled crab apple. I stamped down with my red plastic sandals and squished them to a pulp.

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Chameleon, by Cathie Devitt

30/9/2014

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Smell the rubber. Flip. Flap. Flop.

Regurgitated luggage spews onto the carousel.

Paprika curls bounce on her head, like springs from a burst sofa.

She drops a toy donkey.

‘Mr Mule. Dirty.’

‘Let me help.’ I take the toddler’s hand and push the trolley through the green channel.

I smile.

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Smoke, by Bobby Warner

30/9/2014

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I was hired by the District authorities to get rid of the village. The inhabitants were raiding small settlements along the river.

One night I swam to their village, planted numerous charges, and set off the explosives by remote control.

BOOM! BOOM! A lot of noise, destruction, and clouds of smoke. They caught me before I could escape.

They tied me to a stake, lighted the pile of wood at my feet, and now smoke envelopes me. Smoke is the last thing I will see, but not the last thing I will feel . . . .

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Her Greatest Performance, by Bobby Warner

30/9/2014

Glovina Slenshone lay in her gigantic bed, head cradled in silk covered pillows, nightstand littered with medications at her right side.

Feebly she waved her left hand and her faithful companion/servant Boris opened the bedroom double doors to let in the anxious reporters.

"Miss Slenshone," asked a brash reporter, "you played many remarkable deathbed scenes in your long career. Which one was your favorite?"

As her eyes fluttered closed, the famous actress replied weakly:

"Young man, I am performing it right now!"

Her Face, by Bobby Warner

30/9/2014

She sits just to my left in her porch chair; I in the swing. I think back almost 60 years, and see her face as it was then: so beautiful it melted my heart. I knew she was the one.

Her beauty has lasted all these years, undiminished. And as she smiles her wonderful smile the years drop away . . . and once again that young girl shines in her eyes.

And her face is more beautiful now than ever it was.

Heavy Things, by Bobby Warner

30/9/2014

He was plagued by the fear of heavy things--large, deadly things which fell upon him. Once a safe fell from forty feet and missed him by scant inches; and another time he was fishing underneath a bridge span that collapsed, and only his fast reflexes had kept him from a premature burial. Frequently in dreams cars, houses, airplanes, and other heavy objects smashed him into Oblivion.

When the excited newscaster announced that a meteorite would crash in the small town where he lived, he resignedly went outside and stood in the driveway, scanning the heavens and awaiting the inevitable.

The Will, by Bobby Warner

30/9/2014

Old Harper was a mean one, all right. Used to beat me silly when I didn't do my chores, and made me sleep in a cramped hall closet when I was a kid. Kicked me out without a penny when I was 15, and I never heard from him again--until the letter from the lawyer came, telling me Harper passed away and left me a fortune.

I reckon now I can find it in my heart to forgive him. Sort of.

Don't Go Near The Water, by Bobby Warner

30/9/2014

Angie and I were on the strip called Gallstone's Beach, lying on the sand. We had an argument over some trifling thing, and Angie leapt up angrily and ran away to the water's edge.

Something huge, dark and glistening rose out of the gentle surf and dropped over her like a gigantic hood. Angie's scream quickly faded as the thing dragged her into deeper water.

What could I do? I had no weapon; so I ran back to the car and went to get the sheriff.

They never found Angie's body, and I never again went near the seashore.

Not Normal, by Bobby Warner

30/9/2014

My brother sleeps all day and is up all night, making strange noises. He is not normal. He was born without earlobes, hairless, blind in one eye. He is afraid of the dark and of other children, and he cannot talk. Also he cannot walk, only crawl.

He is sixteen, and has never been to school; he is like an infant. He is not normal.

My parents once planned to put him in a Home, but didn't. He stays in his room and shuns everyone but me. He is not normal, but he is my brother and I love him.

Waiting, by Bobby Warner

30/9/2014

His name is Pedro Flynn. He is thirteen years old. His father is Irish, his mother is Mexican. He does not know his father, who left them when Pedro was only five days old.

He sits on the doorstep of the low adobe house, sipping water from a cracked cup and gazing at flowers his mother planted in empty tin cans.

They are very poor; Pedro knows this is his father's fault; he left them alone, with nothing.

One day, when he is old enough, Pedro will go in search of his father. To make him pay what is owed.

Call Today, by Bobby Warner

30/9/2014

I look in the mirror. No; impossible; this can't be. Last time I looked--did I look like this?

Let's face it. I do look older. Those lines in my face; the old receding brow; my hair should be light brown--not gray!

An ad in today's paper said: "Amazing New Product Will Make You Look Ten Years Younger. Call Today!"

Where the heck did I put my cell phone?!

Lunch At The Vampires' Guild, by Gordon Lawrie

29/9/2014

The Vampires' Guild was holding its annual vegetarian buffet lunch. One woman had ignored all advice and had more kale than was good for her; now she was hallucinating.

"My queendom for a pasty," she slurred. "My queendom for a pasty!"

Someone popped a piece of kale-wasabi cake into the woman's mouth. It had a dramatic effect: she had a seizure and lay writhing on the floor.

"Give her blood, giver her blood," the cry went up. Two Guild committee members flew to the woman to apply neck-to-mouth resuscitation. It did the trick; ten minutes later she was drinking tea.

The Eccentricities Of Time-Travel And Anniversary Parties, by Jo Oldani-Osborne

29/9/2014

I’m late! The party started hours ago –“ Jo stood in her kitchen watching the timer.
“Ring, already!”

The hapless cook was a terrible nuisance and quite dangerous.
“At last,” Jo carefully opened the oven.

“Damn!” Her kale soufflé had fallen, again.

She grabbed her cell and hit flash-dial for her leader. “Emma, I’d like to invoke the Plutonian travel initiative. I’m afraid I need to come before the party, because I’m hopelessly late now. Oh, I took your advice but my oven rejected the kale, as well. “

Jo stopped, “I wonder if Emma might know what I wore.”

Late To The Party, by Amy Friedman

29/9/2014

Amy skidded into the room, clutching a foil-topped Pyrex rectangle in her mitted hands.
The cavernous room was empty of people, except for the seated women in the center.
“Where should I put this casserole?” she asked. The women glared.
“You’re late,” Ann-Louise said. “As usual.”
“My oven was on the fritz, and you can’t imagine how hard it is to create a kale-wasabi casser – ”
“SILENCE!” Rejoice thundered. Amy flinched, and the rest of the women stared at her stonily.
Cate walked to Amy and tore the rosette from her shoulder.
“Latecomers do not deserve membership in Murderesses, Inc.”

At The Ryder Cup, by Gordon Lawrie

28/9/2014

Posted to coincide with the real thing at Gleneagles.

He was at the eighteenth green and it had come down to this moment; he'd waited two years. Surrounded by crowds numbering tens of thousands, Jack found himself wondering if this was all there was to life.

In the end, he reasoned, it came down to inserting a smallish object into a roundish hole. But missing the target was unthinkable in front of such a crowd.

Shut your eyes and do it, Jack told himself silently. He slowly guided his cornish pasty into his mouth and bit.

Nothing escaped, no crumbs fell. The pasty – costing five pounds – was exquisite.

By Randy Barton

28/9/2014

She was unemotional and businesslike as she described the accountability group at her new church, how they met with her once a week and how she was to run every significant decision with moral implications by them. “It’s just what I need,” she said.

Jackie, a twice-divorced single mom, had a problem maintaining healthy boundaries in her relationships with men.

As her friend, Ron, listened he remembered an allegory he had just read about a traveler on a faith journey who, after being condemned by his failure in the room of good intentions, had found joy and peace in the room of grace. “There’s something even better, Jackie” he said to her.

A Masked Ball, by Ann-Louise Truschel

27/9/2014

Rejoice, I’m glad you could make it back in time to attend the first anniversary of Murderesses Incorporated.

Me too. I finished my assignment early – and added another $10,000 to our bank account!

Great! Hope you brought your appetite. We have champagne, caviar, pheasant, and that’s just for starters! It’s quite a spread. And there are dozens of folks here to help us celebrate.

I’m starving. Let’s go in.

First put this mask on.

Why? You have a Halloween theme going here?

No, it’s just that all attendees wanted to wear disguises.

Why is that?

They’re all our former clients.

One Hundred, by Russell Conover

26/9/2014

“Hard to believe Dad’s turning one hundred.”

“You’re telling me! I’d be happy to be half as sharp as he is when I reach that age.”

“What do you do to help him stay active?”

“Oh, lots of things. The one he enjoys most, though, is writing. His fingers may be wrinkly, but they can still fly across a computer keyboard.”

“Well, looks like it’s working.”

“And that’s not even the big news. He’s trying to be the oldest published author.”

“With that kind of writing experience, I’ll be first in line to buy.”

“Hey--you’re not the only one!”

Happy Birthday, by Lon Richardson

26/9/2014

Some birthday. Cramps had awakened her, and, when she got up, there was blood. She showered, opened the box that had been under the sink ever since The Talk her mother had with her a few weeks earlier, but didn’t feel any more like a woman than yesterday.

In her bathrobe, she entered the kitchen to tell her mother.

“Look at your jar, dear,” her mother said. On an opened cocoon was a tiger swallowtail, its wings still wet.

She took the jar outside, removed its lid and set it down.

“Happy birthday, Tiger. You can leave when you’re ready.”

Stream Of Consciousness, by Monica Dennis

26/9/2014

This is exactly where they were last year; uncertainty the daily mantra. “I don’t know, so I’ll go with the flow.” And then things got better. And then things got much worse. Promises had been made for a brighter future. They tried to hang in together for the sake of maintaining what had made them great. But poor choices began to pull them apart like taffy. And soon what was once flourishing and thriving was skeletal, hanging on for life. It had been a year and he was gone as fast as he came. New hope arrived. Uncertainty prevails again.

The Anniversary, by Cate Lloyd

26/9/2014

Couples brushed hands across the tablecloths. Candles illuminated happy faces.

Louise finished her second glass of wine and drummed her fingers.

The bell at the door tinkled as Daniel struggled in.

Louise tried for aloof.

He sat down, his face alive with excitement.

She rolled her eyes and smiled lopsidedly in return.

He passed his gift to her.

She opened one end, revealing mahogany frame, a dash of vermilion, a cascade of caramel hair.

Exactly her shade.

She tore the remaining paper away. She was beckoning from the velvet chair in Daniel’s studio.

‘I made it for you,’ he beamed.

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