Blog Archives

The New System, by Bobby Warner

30/11/2016

They put the new police department--and the new system--into effect on Monday. Everyone showed up in spiffy new uniforms, with shining good-colored buttons.

On Tuesday word got around about the new, merciless system, and overnight most all crime in the city ceased.

On Wednesday the new police commissioner was promoted, but the remainder of the force disbanded.

On Thursday, all the citizens scratched their heads in bewilderment... and things went back much to the same as before, although someone did assassinate the new police commissioner.

The High Street on a Rainy Monday Afternoon, by Ian Fletcher

28/11/2016

I pass along the familiar high street on this rainy Monday afternoon. A motley crew of bedraggled-looking pedestrians wend their dreary way up and down.

Elderly widows having escaped their solitary confinement with their bus passes outpace obese men in their fifties walking with sticks trying to recover from strokes. Unemployed youths smoke and chat. The homeless, junkies, the mentally ill, and tramps with nowhere to go complete this unflattering picture of humanity.

I remain unseen by these sad, forlorn specimens.

Yet we envy them, we pale shades, for at least they are still in the land of the living.

Crazy? by Patrick Winters

28/11/2016

Every second changes everything.

Even in a padded room with nothing but white walls, a locked door, and himself, he knew this as truth. All that seemed mundane and inconsequential to others was of the most dire significance to him.

How many times he blinked per minute. How many seconds it took the orderly to unlock the door for dinner. When he felt his bladder swell -- it all worked towards the preservation of reality.

He sat in the corner, wide-eyed.

If his left foot moved, the Earth explodes. If the right, than all was well.

His left toe twitched.

A Dot With A Tale, by Fliss Zakaszewska

28/11/2016

It’s rumoured that a Russian Czar found out about his wife’s affair and sentenced her lover to exile in Siberia – and certain death.

She found the ‘death warrant’; it read:

Pardon impossible to be sent to Siberia.

What could she do? It was in her husband’s handwriting with the official seal stamped on it.

They would recognise a change of handwriting, and obvious strikethrough…
She saved his life – with punctuation.

When it came to enforcing the order, this is what it read:

Pardon, impossible to be sent to Siberia.

A dot with a tail - the humble comma.

Aftermath, by Russell Conover

26/11/2016

The scene was chaotic. Food remains had been strewn all over the living room--nachos, wings, hot sauce, and the list went on. Visitors were spacing out in easy chairs or on couches, not moving. The gathering was fun, but now everyone was paying the unfortunate price.

Gary wondered if it all had really been worth it. The meal was spectacular and the festivities were entertaining, but all became such an ordeal afterwards. Cleaning up would not be easy, either.

“Between an overdose of football and the annual post-food coma, I might want to rethink next year’s Thanksgiving,” Gary lamented.

The Beckoning, by Conan D'Agostino

26/11/2016

Lead goes slack. Panting breaths transformed into low growl. Atmosphere charged. He looked down at his companion who was now rigid, emanating noises of primal fear and staring straight ahead.

He followed the line of sight. There it was, at the edge of the forest – beckoning him. The translucent, emaciated figure. Same garbled speech but more desperate this time. Pleading. Beckoning.

Suddenly dragged away by his whimpering, flat-eared companion. Lead tight. Bounding.

In the candle-lit croft, the man looked around at his life.

I'm sorry old friend, the old man thought, But if it should happen again...

I'm going.

Intervention, by Michael Croban

26/11/2016

The boy was walking across the frozen lake, when ice started to break. He fell into the cold water, reaching for something to hold on to. A priest standing nearby in the forest heard the boy scream. He ran as fast as he could. The priest jumped into the freezing water. He grabbed the boy and pulled him out of the water on the frozen surface of the lake. Out of nowhere boys mother appeared and squeezed the priests hands, saying, „You saved him, oh praise the Lord.“ She hugged the boy and whispered „I thought I've lost you Adolf.“

New Job With Tied Accommodation, by Gordon Lawrie

25/11/2016

"You’re sure this is the right road, George? My feet are getting sore." Mabel had patiently followed her husband, who himself was following a map he’d downloaded from the internet.

"Says here that’s it’s just at the end of the road. Not long now."

"I know folk who stayed here on a Groupon Voucher for a weekend. Said it’s very nice, if a bit old-fashioned. Remind me how you landed this job?"

"Filled in the application form. No one else applied." He shrugged his shoulders. "Anyway – free accommodation for four years. New toys to play with. What’s not to like?"

Good News On The Telephone, by Gordon Lawrie

25/11/2016

George and Linda were on edge; this was not only a first for their daughter Sarah and for Mark, but a first for themselves, too.

Twenty-five minutes later, the telephone exploded into life. George made to answer it, but Linda was there to snatched it up first.

“Yes?... Good news?... Safely delivered?...Oh, that’s wonderful, Mark... Is there a name yet?... Oh how lovely... Thank you... Bye.”

“Well?” said George, excited.

“It’s a boy. They’ve named him Henry Neville Hawkshead Simpson.”

“Amazon showed up – what a relief,” George said. “Strange name for a pet giraffe, though. I guess anything goes nowadays.”

Stutterers, by Carrie Cooperider

21/11/2016

People wouldn’t quit cutting ahead of me in the line for sleep so I left, turning my back on the smug curvature of earth spooned into the night. A lunar-shaped cusp had tracked its cramped orbit around my wrist by the time my watch finally crash-landed on your bedside table. You struggled for words, slapping your thigh to spur your panicked tongue to form the requisite sounds. You managed "I", and could have done "you," but I knew you’d never get the “L” word in between, so I said it for both of us: I luh-luh-luh- lie to you, too.

Such A Deal, by Ann-Louise Truschel

21/11/2016

Allow me to introduce you to the appliance of a lifetime!

No thanks.

Just let me show you how this little gem works!

Thank you, no.

This handy dandy device will chop, slice, shred, and grate anything and everything.

No, thank you! I don’t want it.

But let me give you a demonstration!

I don’t want a demonstration. I’m really not interested.

That’s what everybody says until they see this little gizmo in action. Look at this … and this … and this.

No, no, and no! I won’t buy it under any circumstances!

Seriously?

Seriously!

But wait! There’s more!

That’s Me, by Johann Lux

20/11/2016

That soothing voice at the back of my mind telling me I should embrace the cold, only reaffirmed my suspicion that wolves are telepathic.

Jack’s hands were frozen to his rifle. Luckily, I got to him before the scavengers and because the earth is too frozen to dig, I set his body on fire.

The pack surrounds me. I count three rounds left for my rifle and one for my pistol.

Temporarily transfixed by a beautiful woman standing near a snow bank, I rejoiced in knowing this was the end.

We walked together; she smiled and called me by name.

The Commandments, by Barney MacFarlane

19/11/2016

(Photo: William Murphy)

The most interesting thing about Feargus O’Hanlon was his pathology: he possessed an unflinching willingness to obey a command.

He married Esther, not because he loved her but because his mother said he should.

“She’s from good stock,” said mother. “Sure, she’ll bear ye healthy children.”

They married in their home town of Wexford but his wife liked to go to the capital occasionally for the culture that was in it.

A few weeks later, riding on the DART train in Dublin, their carriage stopped alongside a station sign named KILLESTER.

So he did.

Feargus was also a lousy speller.

Topic Of The Day, by Russell Conover

18/11/2016

Stan was trying to find a topic to write about for his college paper, but he had nothing. Hours of brainstorming ideas had amounted to zilch, so he turned to more personal topics.

He thought about the time he’d woken up from a rest to find that monkeys playing tambourines had surrounded him, and requested that he accompany them in Monkey Music Land. Stan had rubbed his eyes, sure he was still dreaming, but the primates were still there. “What the heck,” he’d thought, and gone to join them.

“Nah. I’m looking for FICTION,” Stan lamented. “On to Plan B.”

Forever Running, by Fliss Zakaszewska

18/11/2016

He was behind me; I knew he was. I gritted my teeth and ran faster, feet pounding the hard, black surface.

I’d been running since forever. I glanced at my watch. OK, a slight exaggeration. I’d been running for two hours fifty-nine minutes and thirty-nine seconds. I was nearly there…

Heart thumping, I ran faster, but I could still see his reflection.

Suddenly he stepped forward and stood in front of me.

“Well done, I think you’re set to run the London marathon in just under three hours.” My coach grinned as he put the treadmill into cool-down mode.

The Snake, by Ann-Louise Truschel

18/11/2016

The python slid slowly through the swamp. Eighteen feet long, he was a formidable hunter.

A week earlier he’d slithered to the edge of a pond where deer gathered. Stealthily the python moved in for the kill - and struck, curling his body around the prey and tightening his grip until the deer suffocated. After swallowing his preyr whole, the python slithered back to his nest to digest his meal.

Now he was on the hunt again when he saw her. Slowly he slid towards her and wrapped her in his embrace.

“Wow, what a hunk!” the female python thought.

Supermoon, by Gordon Lawrie

18/11/2016

“Is that it over there?” Hilda asked Walter.

“Well, I think it has to be,” he replied. “Damn cloud cover. First the Total Eclipse, now the SuperMoon. And we missed seven sightings of the Aurora Borealis and two meteor showers this year for the same reason.”

They were sitting in the park, drinking from a flask of coffee.

“What a climate,” Hilda muttered. “We’ve really messed it up. I blame Global Warming.”

“Probably.”

They pored over their iPhone calendars.

“Says here there’s another SuperMoon in 2034!” said Walter.

“Oh that’s great. I’ll still only be 92.”

“Might need fresh coffee.”

The House That Wasn't Haunted, by Ben Sixsmith

16/11/2016

I woke up at four thirty with a pain in my head. The apartment was quiet. Outside, cars and taxis grumbled down the morning streets. I walked to the kitchen. The door creaked. The fridge was buzzing. I took out a can of coke. "Pop". I slurped it noisily. From Mark's bedroom came the sound of snoring. It was all I heard from him. I thought of the house in Kansas with all of its bangs and creaks and rustling and moans. Here nothing was moving, and nothing was listening, and nothing cared. A car backfired. The central heating buzzed.

Introvert, by Eric Smith

16/11/2016

I couldn’t believe it. I’m an introvert. I don’t work the room—chase women around, you know. No, I figured she’d look the other way to end it right there. But for some reason—do we ever know?—she decided she liked me. At least I think she did—what a smile and she directed it at me. Was she hard up, or what? What was her story and what would come next? One night? A love affair? A relationship? How long would it last? When it was over how would I look back on it? Pain, love, satisfaction, friendship?

Wishing Won’t Make It Better, by Johann Lux

16/11/2016

"I got tired of hearing her wishing out loud for things," Jack said, "And, how she got her 400 pound butt on the roof of the building is another mystery."

Jack asked if I was a cop.

"No, “I shook my head,” She landed on my motorcycle."

"Bet you wish you hadn’t parked there," Jack grinned.

"I saw you push her. My office is just across the street," I confessed.

"I wish you hadn’t seen or said that," Jack squirmed.

"It haunts me. Does it haunt you," I asked?

"Yeah, sometimes, like now...I wish she could fly," Jack lamented.

Online Man, by Pascal Inard

16/11/2016

Everyone knew the Online Man. Instagram, Facebook or Youtube, he was here, there and everywhere at the same time. Perpetually online, the Web was his home, he didn't know day or night.

Some say there was a time when he lived in a brick house where he ate, drank and slept like billions of others, but that was a long time ago and there is no one left who can say for sure this story is true.

One day he was gone, and rumours flared: had he been annihilated by a virus or had he eloped with the Online Woman?

It Is What It Is, by Russell Conover

11/11/2016

“Wow. I never thought this would happen.”
“Yeah. Me, neither. After a long, hard season, the election is finally over.”
“It is what it is, I guess. We can’t change it.”
“At least you have your upcoming Hawaiian vacation.”
“True. Right when I need it, too, with all that’s going on.”
“Oh. I forgot to tell you something.”
“What’s that?”
“I sensed that you might be stressing, so I lengthened your trip by a week.”
“Are you serious?!”
“And, I upgraded you to first class.”
“You are amazing. Some good IS still in the world. I cannot thank you enough.”

Aftermath, by Amy Friedman

11/11/2016

What’s up?
I’m depressed.
The election, huh?
Yeah. I’m heartsick.
Hey, don’t be. Look at all the demonstrations.
Ours or theirs?
Ours. And that’s a good thing.
I don’t know what to think. I look at theirs, too.
Do what I do. Think positive thoughts.
Can’t. I’m so afraid they’ll be killed.
Naah.
This is the new age of totalitarianism. No one’s safe.
You’re paranoid.
I wish.
Well, what do you want for dinner?
The head of someone on a platter.
No can do. How about heading to Brian’s for fried chicken?
Fixins and everything?
Yep. Let’s splurge.
You’re on.

The British Army Nil, My Grandma Won, by Fliss Zakaszewska

11/11/2016

Felix, Beatrix’s only son and youngest child, turned seventeen in January 1918.

Having seen Kitchener’s plea, ‘Your country needs you’, he joined as an officer on his birthday. The army asked no questions.

At home he let it slip; he was soon being shipped to the Front. Beatrix’s turn of phrase was apparently not the type generally heard from genteel Edwardian ladies. She ordered her carriage and marched upon the War Office.

No one knew what happened except that Felix was transferred to the Junior Corp in March 1918. Armistice was declared eight months later. My Dad was spared.

What Was It All For? by Gordon Lawrie

11/11/2016

Standing at the War Memorial, none of them now under 90, they remembered fallen friends. Wreaths were laid: nowadays, only Tom was fit enough to bend and take part. At the minute’s silence, his mind went blank, the mind perhaps blanking out the horrors.

As they left, some sort of student anti-war demonstration was going on.

Tom’s wife Mary took his arm, saying, “Doesn’t it make you angry, seeing those youngsters, just taking what you did for granted?”

“No, Mary,” he replied. “That’s what it was all for. So that those young people had the democratic freedom to say so.”

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