Blog Archives

Meeting Interesting People, by Swapan K Banerjee

25/9/2020

He’s a queer freelancer. Nobody asks him to meet unsung people who excel in some form of creative arts. He goes on his own. Often cash-strapped, yes.

He likes to catch the artists in their retreats, not always by appointment. Yet, when they open the door, they ask him to come right in! He listens more than he interrupts. Often his subjects pour their hearts out as though he’s one of their own.

Conversation over, the thought of his write-up going under slush-pile gnaws at his entrails. He loses sleep over it. Even then he does it again and again.

Synthesis, by Don Tassone

25/9/2020

James Edward Billingham was a world-renowned social scientist. Sixty years ago, after his brilliant work as a doctoral student at Harvard, he joined the faculty there as an adjunct. Fifty years ago, he became a full professor there.

Twenty minutes ago, he suffered a massive heart attack.

All his work in sociology, foundational and prized as it was, merely brought together others’ theories in new ways. He never advanced a theory of his own. He was asked about his own ideas many times. He always demurred.

Now, with the last beat of his heart, James Edward Billingham whispered, “Synthesis.”

Free on the Inside, by Doug Bartlett

25/9/2020

“Hey Brian, I want to thank you again. You don’t know how much it means to me. It’s the most important thing I’ve ever done. Thank you for introducing me to Jesus Christ . He’s changed my entire life from the inside out. You were right. I can feel the freedom He’s given me. I’ve never been more free in my entire life than I am right now. Thank you so much.”

“ No problem Bruce, what are cellmates for?”

“ So if the Son sets you free, you will be free indeed.” John 8:36

Fireball, by Joseph S. Pete

25/9/2020

The Fireball bottle was nearly empty, just a few swishes of dregs left.
Carleen staggered to her feet, knocking it over as it rolled under the bed.

That son-of-a-bitch was sitting out there in the living room, watching who knows what and gloating at her.

She stumbled out of the bedroom, wended her way toward the kitchen.

“Can I help you with anything honey?” he called out, not bothering to look up.

“The hell you can,” she muttered, drawing a butcher knife from the block and fumbling around the drawer until she found the knife sharpener. “The hell you can.”

The Fox Wore Suspenders, by Krystyna Fedosejevs

25/9/2020

He was found in a snowbank, headfirst. Legs dangling above. Shopping cart overturned, alongside.

Grade-six student. Modest background. Teachers flagged him as uncooperative. Students despised him, having fallen victim to his pranks.

My dad stopped to pry him out. When uncovered, the boy livened. His back revealed crisscrossing straps attached to oversized pants, no jacket.

Dad offered to take him home, leaving the empty cart behind. As we drove, I looked back at my classmate with scorn. He grinned, having added another victory to his accomplishments.

I remained silent. How could I dampen the mood of a compassionate soul?

Him, by Alex Andy Phuong

25/9/2020

He is a common laboring boy, but he is not Pip from Charles Dickens’s novel Great Expectations. He is a published author, but he is not Jane Austen. He works hard all day every day with no pay. He is who he is, and there is no shame in being ordinary. In fact, being ordinary could actually be extraordinary. A simple life might be boring, but it could still be comfortable. Real life is reality.

She, by Mary Wallace

25/9/2020

She watched them go. Self sufficient, self absorbed, leaving the ravaged breakfast table resplendent in cereal boxes and dirty bowls.

She couldn't remember the last time they'd waved goodbye, let alone kissed her.

She didn't expect miracles from teenagers, but acknowledging her existence wouldn't hurt. She was ignored unless they had a complaint. Each day they grew more like their father.

She sat amid the breakfast chaos carefully counting her secret savings. It was enough. She could take that cruise and never return.

She wouldn't do it of course, but the dream of escape made her smile.

Learning the Art of Multitasking, by Mary Daurio

18/9/2020

Not much of my life belonged to me. An indentured servant had more free time.

“You’re not going,” Dad said.

Mom championed me and I went to the Exhibition with my cousins—fun rides—candy floss. Girls day out.

Next day Dad snarls and snaps, “You don’t need to shovel grain. I made out yesterday.”

I help, so it’s easier for him. He’s mad I work on my 4H project when there’s no grain to shovel.

“What do you care?” I frown.

I learned to multitask that summer, and my 4H project won first place.

Empathy, by Logan Malone

18/9/2020

An underdeveloped butterfly flailed on my porch mat. With only two legs and brown, shriveled wings, it would not last long.

I took it with me to look for a box. Rolling it onto a paper towel, it rested while I did some research.

Supposedly, males like cherries, and that’s what I had. I peeled away the skin to remove the pesticides before offering the red flesh.

It thrashed away from the fruit.

I remembered an overripe banana in the compost bin. I retrieved it and held out a chunk of juicy mush.

She stilled and began to sip.

Lock Whom Up Now? by Sankar Chatterjee

18/9/2020

“Lock her up,” shouted the current strongman’s goons during political rallies before last presidential election. The opponent was a former First Lady, smart and well-regarded worldwide. The propagated falsehood blamed her using the same e-device both for official duty and personal use. But no evidence of any breach of national security was ever found.

Now there appeared recorded evidence of confession from the dictator himself how he knowingly deceived the nation continually about the lethality of the virus involved in current pandemic.

Citizens looked into history: “How much damage had past dictators done to their motherlands before their eventual demise?”

In Search of Perfection, by Russell Conover

18/9/2020

Jennifer had been working on her novel for months. The story was solid, but something still sounded off. She couldn't identify what was wrong, since she’d had no roadblocks until now.

She dotted every I and crossed every T, as she reviewed till her eyes were red. Then she realized: This is only the first draft. Get something on the screen, and revise everything later.

Then the words flowed. The process was effortless, and Jennifer finally completed her first draft. After celebrating, she vowed to continue the process until she’d finished the job. Her story was waiting to be told.

Swish, by Charles Gray

18/9/2020

Defensive players wave their hands in front of my teammate's face. Unable to see the best players down court, he zips the basketball at me and shakes his head.

"Three seconds!" shouts coach.

The backboard seems a mile away for a second stringer standing at half-court. I dribble once, take a couple steps, and hurl it, without looking at the basket.

Buzzer blares.

The basketball soars across the gym, as if it knows where to go, then drops straight through the basket—all net.

Coach jumps. "Unbelievable!"

Riding my teammates' shoulders, I imagine I'll be first string next game.

Murder... Again, by Sandra James

18/9/2020

Cooped up for too long in isolation with him, watching too many re-run murder mysteries…CSI, Law & Order, Lewis, Morse, Death in Paradise, New Tricks and more…homicidal musing dominated her thoughts.

There was no harm in it, she reasoned. It was only words in her head, not actual deeds.

Sticks and stones might break bones but words couldn’t hurt.

Finally, a covid-safe shopping excursion. She saw the approaching car as he stepped off the kerb…hesitated, called out too late, ‘Wait!’

Words couldn’t hurt but the timing of just one was deadly.

Superpowers, by Peggy Gerber

18/9/2020

When I was a kid, I always wished I had the superpower of invisibility. I imagined myself skulking around, listening to adult conversations, sneaking into R-rated movies, and going places my parents would never let me go. When I grew up I planned to become a super-spy and save the world from mass destruction. It was a magical dream.

Now that I am a woman of a certain age, I am invisible. I can walk down the street without ever being noticed, and I attend meetings where nobody cates about my opinion.

My advice: Be careful what you wish for.

Love Letter, by Mary Wallace

18/9/2020

The war waged; mud, blood and bewilderment coated our lives. A new guy lay beside me since yesterday. Since Max had gone home. Lucky bugger. Anyone could survive without a leg.

He went home joking about taking care of Mabel for me. My Mabel of the bright blue eyes and sparkling smile.

Well the jokes on Max 'cause Mabel only loves one man, she said so in her letter yesterday. I'll read you a bit. 'Dear John,' it began, 'I finally know what real love is.'

It's funny though-my name's not John.

End of the Road, by Brian Maycock

18/9/2020

A stroll to ease my head at the close of day, past a seagull, eyeing me up.

Lights flicker behind closed blinds. No one wants to see.

I reach the corner and take a deep breath, and immediately regret it as I am met with the stench of bonfires, overflowing bins.

Back down the street, my flat is cold, filthy, the music from next door never ceases. I live off beans and watered down soup.

A fox pads into view. I'd kill for a takeaway, I think. And so would it.

The seagull keeps its distance. Playing the waiting game.

The Donor, by Sivan Pillai

18/9/2020

An overpowering smell of disinfectants. I bob in and out of conscience.

Flashes of an angry exchange of words. With John, who was once my friend. And my wife’s ex-husband. A tussle, the thrust of a knife. Wails of a siren as I slip into the world of darkness.

I have a blurry vision of three neighborhood children playing hide-and-seek.

“He has lost much blood. A rare group. Lucky the volunteer came at the nick of time.”

“The donor was John’s father,” someone whispers into my ear, “As insisted by his son while being taken into custody.”

Apple Jenga, by Jennifer Lai

18/9/2020

Pyramids of fruit abound in the market’s produce section.

A man pokes and squeezes to find the perfect Gala. Five tiers down, he locates a winner, and the Jenga game begins.

He shapes his hand into a “C,” then moves in slowly to extract the prize, leaving a hole in the pyramid where the apple once was.

Standing a little taller, he raises his chin and puffs up his chest.

One aisle over, he sees a woman arch her back and hold her shoulders high. Next to her, three holes exist in the Golden Delicious pile.

He’s met his match.

Somewhere in a Cloud Layer on Venus, by Gordon Lawrie

18/9/2020

They sat side by side in deck-chairs, Mabel engrossed in her Venus Times, Walter dozing beneath a Venus Chronicle.

"It says here that there might be life on Earth, Walter. Fancy that!" said Mabel, to no one in particular.

"Hmm??"

"You'd have thought it would be too cold and wet. How could anything survive?" Mabel inhaled deeply. "Give me good lungfuls of sulphur any day."

"Hmm?"

Suddenly, Mabel sat up as a strange object whizzed by. "Walter – did you see that? A UFO! Perhaps the Earthlings are checking us out!"

"Whatever you say, dear," said Walter, from under his newspaper.

Bonding, by Teddy Kimathi

18/9/2020

Dozens of glass pieces glittered all over the floor. A photo of their wedding day lay bare on the floor. She felt its nakedness warping it gently away from the breeze, blowing from her mother-in-law’s room. It was an omen. She painstakingly collected all the glass pieces together, and meticulously joined them together with superglue. Once again the photo was vacuumed from the sands of time. The bonding though, looked as though it was disintegrating.

She Closed the Window, by Deborah Shrimplin

18/9/2020

MaryAnn entered her bedroom. Her calico roommate, Sophie, was sitting on the windowsill. The Dyson Air Purifier hummed. The air quality indicator line on its screen was green.

She walked over to the window, stroked Sophie and said,

"I'm sorry sweetie. I can't open the window. I know you love the smell of the pine trees and fresh air. Look at the sky! It's orange from the smoke. Our world is on fire. OK. I'll open the window for just one minute."

Sophie sniffed. The air quality line on the screen shot up and turned red. MaryAnn closed the window.

Vacating Premises, by Sterling Warner

18/9/2020

I loathe clowns. Imagine my surprise when my girlfriend suggested we adorn ourselves with grease paint and make love in harlequin guise. Still, I did anything for her! Thus, we rented a motel room, put on makeup, climbed into bed, and laughed. “These sheets will be filthy,” she snickered.

Suddenly, an alarm went off. Before we could dress, unfortunately, firefighter loudspeakers ordered us outside. Evacuation may have saved us, but under the harvest moon, the smeared stench of clownish cosmetics on our naked bodies caused frightened smokejumpers to piss themselves. Amused, we snuggled inside a blanket thrown viciously at us.

Slave to the Algorithms, by V. L. Draven

18/9/2020

He stared at the screen. Which video should he watch next? He clicked on a thumbnail and the pictures sprang to life. It was how he spent his days. He couldn’t stop himself. The algorithms had him; he was caught in the web. Every internet search, every email, every song he had listened to, every video watched, had given the machine the information it needed to trap him. Silently, it wrapped him in a prison of helpfulness, while secretly changing him, altering his behaviour, manipulating him to buy, buy, buy. Finishing the video, he selected another, and another, and another….

Best City Donuts, by Michael Roberts

18/9/2020

The storefront is dark and bare.

“Damn it,” my wife says, “Resty never said it was closed.”

“Well, I guess your app is behind the times.”

Undeterred, my wife decides to improvise.

“Find best city donuts,” she declares into her phone.

Seconds later, her phone tells us to make a left down some side street. Soon, we’re winding through some suburban neighbourhood at 3 am, past darkened houses and the odd, blue glow of TVs diffused by curtains.

Finally, as homes give way to an industrial park, we find it, wedged between a laundromat and a Salvation Army thrift store.

My Father's Breath by Gary Mark Belenke

18/9/2020

When young, I would lay awake in my bed and listen to my father, Henry, breathe his long, deep breaths. I would try to copy his cadence and couldn’t. My breaths were quicker, shallower, and lighter. I wondered when I would be old enough to breathe like him.

Recently, my grandson Henry, slept over. I laid awake in my bed and listened to him breathe. His breaths were shallow, quick, and light, while mine were long and deep. Two Henry’s in my thoughts. They would never know each other. I would know for both of them.

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