Blog Archives

Enemies, by Fliss Zakaszewska

21/9/2019

“How’s your IBS?” Tricia asked Tansy.

“So much better since I started going to Ian, remember Matt told me about him and his practice?”

“It’s a new-agey-type-thingie, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but it’s working and I can eat pretty normally now.”

“So what’s he done that’s so special?”

“Natural supplements, fibre and colonic irrigation mainly.”

“A colonic-what?”

“I always wanted to work this into a sentence.” She grinned. “With a friend like Ian, you don’t need enemas... Colonic irrigation –enemas. Get it?”

“Oh Lord,” groaned Tricia, “is there anything he can do to sort out your sense of humour?”

Deluge, by Alison Ogilvie-Holme

21/9/2019

Gemma looks up from the screen to acknowledge her physical surroundings and begins to cry. Drowning in deadlines, she feels almost claustrophobic. The weight of a thousand to dos rest squarely upon her shoulders as an invisible anchor pulls her deeper and deeper below the surface.

Craving caffeine and a sense of efficacy, she boils water. If all else fails, drink tea. Briar is upstairs working on a math assignment and would surely welcome the study break. Gemma adds some cookies to a plate and dabs her eyes before heading upstairs. Nobody said being a single mom would be easy.

The Chiseled Dash, by Donna Matthews

21/9/2019

You know those black and white images with a single item of color. Maybe it’s the eyes, a book, or the outfit. Muted everything to shades of gray so you can focus on the point. Much like these flowers against your new gray headstone. The dates chiseled in the stone stare back at me. How did I get here? No, not the car but here, in widowhood? Your life compressed to a tiny chiseled dash and untwined from mine? Did I know? Our last cup of coffee? Your safe embrace? That belly laugh last week? Ugh, I miss you.

Escape, by Kim Favors

21/9/2019

As erratic winds sent embers rushing downhill, she frantically shoved evacuation necessities into the hatchback. Clothing, medications, laptops, dog in his crate, birds in their cage. His, hers and the pets.

The eucalyptus trees overhead began exploding, raining sparks. “I can’t do this,” she told herself. Then, “Yes, I can.” She started the hatchback’s motor, and down the canyon they sped.

Emergency responders, neighbors and even news reporters all tried to comfort the woman hysterical over the loss of her husband and home to the inferno.

The actress considered it her finest performance — the comeback of her dreams.

Casablanca Backstory, by Rod Drake

20/9/2019

The Director yelled, “Cut!”

Bogie turned to him and said, “Michael, let’s go again. That was terrible. I can do this scene better. Are you with me, Ingrid?”

Ingrid Bergman nodded and said yes in her native Swedish.

Peter Lorre stayed in position, checking his pockets for a cigarette. The rest of the extras also held their places, waiting for a decision.

Director Michael Curitz looked at the on-set Warner Brothers executive who controlled schedule and the film’s budget. He shook his head no.

“Sorry Bogie, this isn’t CITIZEN KANE. Alright people, on to the next scene.”

Dream and Reality, by Mark Tulin

20/9/2019

I had a memorable dream when I was nine. I dreamt that I was living in California. I was walking down a wide street, lined with palm trees and Spanish-style houses. I remember marveling at the sunshine and how beautiful the birds-of-paradise were.

Then I woke from the dream. I walked to school down a narrow, tree-less Philly street with rowhomes on either side. The sky was cloudy.

Forty years later, I walked down the same street that I had in my dream. Only the sun was much hotter and there was a cool ocean breeze.

The Light, by Don Tassone

20/9/2019

He grew up in a cabin in the woods. His mother died in childbirth. His father raised him, an only child. His father was stern. They weren’t close.

In town, his father bought oil for their lamps, including one, on the front porch, which he burned all night, “in case anyone comes by.” But no one ever did.

At 18, he left for the city. Forty years later, he decided to go back for the first time. It was dusk when he got there. He had a hard time finding the old place, but then he saw the light.

Love and Trains, Mir-Yashar Seyedbagheri

20/9/2019

I go to a train crash.

Beats piano lessons. I love worlds unknown. Repulsive, sublime.

Cars and bodies are strewn, arms outstretched, mouths agape. They’re trying to communicate. Love. Fear. Little kids, women and men. All expecting to get home.

Revulsion churns in my stomach. I tell corpse jokes.

Silence pleads. Find our loved ones.

Sick man.

I contact their families, looking up numbers, hands shaking.

Their smiles dissolve, efforts to understand piercing me, a fusillade. How? Why?
Same with the memories they share, happiness and youth. Writers and actors and so many alive souls.

I should stick to piano.

On the Horizon, by Gordon Lawrie

20/9/2019

Today is Climate Strike Day, but writers have been asked instead to use their skills to make a little more noise about climate change and global warming instead.

Standing on the rocky shore with the waves lapping around their feet, they were both struck by how cold the water was: melting ice from the Arctic had not only raised sea levels but made it chillier as well.

That was the least of their problems now. Now that the remaining mainlanders had discovered that the island could still grow food, they'd be on their way, hungry, desperate, prepared to kill for whatever they needed. Even if they survived the onslaught, the islanders knew that there wouldn't be enough food for everyone.

Someone spotted the first boats on the horizon.

Post Digital, by Bex Gooding

20/9/2019

The digital blackout was world-wide.

Dependent on technology for so long, when the phones went dead we all tried to access the internet, but our computers were as inactive as our mobiles.

Some stood looking at the blank screens unable to comprehend that something they had relied upon for so many years was nothing more than a lump of plastic.

We had no choice but to return to the old ways before technology, then came the sickness.

The undead shamble in vast rotting herds, driven by the need to feed, attacking on sight, they don’t think.

We run, we survive.

Sorry, by Marjan Sierhuis

20/9/2019

“I hope I have not forgotten anything this time," says Wyatt, as he carries his suitcase to the front door.

“You are always very thorough. But call me as soon as you arrive,” says Skylar who kisses her husband on the cheek and closes the door behind him.

Craving a cup of tea, she enters the kitchen and notices an envelope with her name on it laying on the table. Curious, she removes the note.

I am sorry if I sometimes forget to say I love you, it says.

Taken by surprise, Skylar's eyes fill with tears.

The Triplets, by Fliss Zakaszewska

20/9/2019

Separated at birth, their time was nigh. The eldest rose first and conquered the western continent. Secretly he searched for the next born. Boris should’ve been in Russia but instead he rose to power in a small, yet influential island near Europe.

The blond brothers with weird haircuts finally met - not identical, but you could see they were siblings.

Their plan for world domination was close, but they needed Vlad, the third one. Was that really him in Russia? “He’s so weedy, not like us,” they said. But DNA proved it; the triplets were ready to rule the world.

New Neighbours, by K. J. Watson

20/9/2019

No sooner had the bell rung than my front door splintered. A man with a cheese knife and nutcracker shouldered his way through.

‘I’ve bruised my arm,’ he complained. ‘You should answer the door more quickly.’

‘So it seems,’ I said.

A girl pushed past the man.

‘I’ll look for cheddar and walnuts, Dad,’ she said.

‘I have neither,’ I told her.

The girl rummaged in the kitchen.

‘He’s right: none here,’ she confirmed.

The man stared at his cheese knife and nutcracker.

‘Who are you?’ I asked.

‘We’re your new neighbours,’ he replied. ‘And you should be more welcoming.’

Reliving the Past, by Belinda Nicoll

20/9/2019

The ageing archeologist often thought about his early expeditions. Traveling solo to exotic locations had suited him like a panda bear preferring the company of a tree, until he’d met another loner, who was in awe of his worldly pursuits. What fun it had been showing his young wife around the digs in Morocco, Peru, and Greece. She’d loved the souk in Marrakech best—seeing the twenty-year-old catch her breath at the sight of fire eaters, tightrope walkers, snake charmers, and hash smokers had been such a turn-on. That said, her emancipation had been the most welcome change of all.

The Tang of the Words, by Jim Jepps

20/9/2019

Her fingers traced the page’s contours, her skin alive to the coarseness of the paper. Raising the book to her face, she drank in the aroma of dust, dreams and many hours spent in stillness.

Under her breath she murmured “I summon you. I summon you on this day, with all my heart.”

As she began to read he was indeed conjured up to her, as vivid and real as the first time she had imagined his drink-sodden breath and hard, calloused hands upon her.

She sank beneath those sublime waves, entranced by thoughts of love, adventure and erotic dread.

The Arrival, by Bruce Levine

14/9/2019

Fifteen hours and twenty-two minutes had gone by. He’d waited. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could wait, but he also realized that he had no choice. There’d been no warning, no signs that this was the time. It wasn’t his first time going through this, but, in the past he’d always known it was coming. This time – nothing.

He paced the floor in circles, and then forced himself into figure eights and then back and forth. He looked at the floor to see if there was a rut forming.

The plane landed – the puppy arrived.

Origin Story, by V. L. Draven

14/9/2019

The pen stares at me. It longs for my touch. As it lays on the table, it holds my gaze. Its form seduces me, fills me with textual desire. I pick it up. It rests in my hand. It sighs. We both hunger for expression.

I stroke it across the page. The ink flows freely, letters form. Letters turn to words, words to sentences, sentences to paragraphs. Slowly a creation begins to develop, to grow, to push against the paper and ink that contain it.

Screaming, uncovered, unsure, pushed forth from the confines of its origins, another story is born.

Moment of Terror, by Russell Conover

14/9/2019

Stan gasped as he watched TV coverage of the attacks. Both towers, flaming and smoking. Pandemonium in the crowds. Emergency vehicles everywhere. He’d never seen anything like it.

Then his heart stopped. His wife Yvette was being interviewed today in the towers! His hand almost ripped his pants pocket as he grabbed his phone.

She picked up after two rings. “Hey, honey. What’s up?”

“The attacks! Are you OK? Tell me you’re OK!”

“The interview was rescheduled. I’m sure I told you already!”

Stan sagged with relief. In the chaos, he’d forgotten. Yvette HAD told him yesterday. She was safe.

Today's Special, by Pamela Kennedy

13/9/2019

As he straightened his tie for the final time, Jack Dale knew this was going to be a special birthday celebration.

Driving along Route 86, he could almost smell and taste the Surf and Turf lunch at Cappie's Tavern, a tradition he shared with his daughter, Sally. Clinking her wine glass against his beer stein, in tandem they'd toast, "May we move on from our troubles and bury our differences".

Jack glanced at Cappie's as he drove by. Today's reservation was elsewhere.

"Sally, I would have preferred our usual place," Jack whispered tearfully at her graveside.

Grandma's Bench, by Kim Favors

13/9/2019

We used to walk home from school through a park.

One day, on a bench, we found a crocheted coin purse, handkerchief and eyeglasses. Grandmother-type things. We left them there.

We began visiting “Grandma’s Bench” after school, checking on our discovery. We shared stories about our grandmothers. Most true, some wishful.

“Mine makes slumgullion on Sundays.”

“Mine helps girls who don’t want babies.”

“Mine lets me drive her car.”

We stopped visiting after the items disappeared.

In my backyard today is seating where I invite guests to remember important people in their lives.

I call it Grandma’s Bench.

Knights of the Realm, by Bex Gooding

13/9/2019

‘Congratulations gentlemen.’

The three very rich and privileged men smiled full of their own self importance as the medals were pinned on their puffed up chests.

‘Sir Jed Haggar and Sir Milton Ross, fifty years of service to music and Sir Den McMillan forty years of service to the Arts. Here are your new orders.’

‘Orders?’ the three chorused looking confused.

‘These are not honorary titles. When you accepted the knighthood, you agreed to lead troops into battle as did the knights of old.’

All three looked at the King mortified.

‘Prepare for battle. You’re off to the front line.’

The Tale of the Bully and the Wannabe, by Gordon Lawrie

13/9/2019

Once, there were two boys. One was a big self-important bully, the other was a smaller boy who wanted to copy the big bully.

The bully taught his little wannabe friend to tell lies, because the more they lied, the more people would believe them. After all, there are many stupid people in the world.

Then one day, the little boy found himself in court where you have to tell the truth. The judges told the little boy that he was a liar. The little boy cried and asked the bully for help.

The bully said nothing. He was hiding.

Help, by Marjan Sierhuis

13/9/2019

I check my watch. I rub my eyes. After one hour, I still have no signal from my cell phone or the phone on the wall. I am hungry, and I can't remember the last time I ate. I am living my worst nightmare. I wipe the sweat from my brow. I take a few deep breaths to fill my lungs and calm my nerves. "Help, I shout for the umpteenth time. Can anyone hear me?" I detect muffled voices through the elevator door. It suddenly opens. I run for the nearest stairs.

Poetry or Prose, by Sandra James

13/9/2019

“I’m running late,” she told her husband, “would you print out my writing competition entry, pop it in the envelope and post it for me?”

“Of course,” he said.

Six weeks later she opened her mail to find a letter saying her poem won, and a copy of the anthology with the winning entries.

“But I wrote a story,” she said. In the anthology her story was written down the page in short lines.

Ginger, their new kitten, yawned, then climbed onto her desk and walked across the keyboard and back again.

Enter. Enter. Enter.

Tea Break, by Helen Watson

13/9/2019

The builders have put up a shack in next-door’s garden. Somewhere to have a cuppa out of the rain.

‘It’s not like in Calais’, says one.

‘Nah, we’re all legal here’, says another. ‘Even him.’ He grins and points at the odd-jobs guy.

The Albanian. When he’s alone on the site, he listens to Albanian radio. Pelting songs in minor keys. He sings to the North London chimney pots. He dances arms aloft on the new flat roof. He sips a mug of muddy tea beneath the plastic shelter. Drizzle falls. No, he thinks, it’s not like Calais here.

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