Blog Archives

Miriam, by Jim Jepps

27/11/2020

Miriam skimmed her fingers across the cover of her Bible. The scarring in its broken leather cracked, like the parched crust of the desert, baked under the sun.

This calf was never fatted, she thought to herself. Truly she was walking through Pharaoh's vision, and had endured seven long years of drought. An emaciated cow, every waking moment thirsting to be beloved.

Would they drag her carcass from this dream, fit for nothing but dog meat? Or were there seven fertile years ahead, when someone would draw their touch across her surface and conjure lush wheat fields from the soil?

Saviour, by Gordon Lawrie

27/11/2020

The Saviour stood on the platform, marvelling at the vast hordes standing in the street below in the cold air. Loyal disciples stood behind him.

"Friends, soon I must leave you. Forces of darkness will take me from you. But I forgive them all."

Angry, the followers booed. But the Saviour wasn't finished.

"But have faith – I shall not be gone long!" The crowd cheered again as he continued, "I shall come again, for I am the Son of God!!"

Quietly, a disciple leaned forward to whisper in the speaker's ear.

"Mr President, aren't you going a little far here?"

Try, by Brian Taylor

27/11/2020

I was pleaded with until I promised to try and be civil with the man I detest. Not for his sake, but for my daughter's, the children's, and the holiday.

I start off well, offering a handshake and small talk about cars and football. Still, I listen and watch everything.

His trashy motorcycle t-shirt (his idea of dressing nice?) His piggish eating. His obnoxious voice and annoying stories. His ignoring my wife. His rough tone and unfair treatment of my grandchildren. His hateful attitude towards my daughter. My clenched fist connecting...

I tried, he didn't. I bet he'll try now.

Pretty Words, by Sally Arkinstall

27/11/2020

He wasn’t well that morning. Shaking with fear and fever, he called in sick. It was the first time in over twenty years.

‘I need you here today,’ she screamed, ‘don’t let me down again.’

She sent flowers.

She called me.

‘I’m sorry for your loss’ she said. ‘Sorry, if you think that I’m responsible; if he found me overwhelming; I didn’t know he was so fragile.’

She was unreservedly sorry. Sorry, and a little inconvenienced by the implication that it hadn’t been an accident.

‘I’m sorry too,’ I said, ‘that you won’t be welcome at the funeral.’

Going Down the Hill, by Krystyna Fedosejevs

27/11/2020

“You obviously believe in eternal youth,” quipped Martha.

“Why not?” Celeste mumbled, trying on a skimpy outfit.

“We’ve gone downhill.”

“Speak for yourself.”

They left the store empty-handed, walking in silence towards their cars.

Martha returned home to see her grandson being dropped off. They decided to play at a community park.

“That was lots of fun, Grandma,” the young boy bubbled. “Can you push me again?”

Martha obliged. She watched him repeatedly whiz down the toboggan hill. Every time he climbed up with his sled he smiled at her.

She had found the tonic to feel young again.

The Yearning, by Kerri Baker

27/11/2020

He never belonged in his family.
He was strange.
Firstly there were his eyes. One aqua, one brown as a muddy puddle.
What really set him apart was the yearning.
Never giving him a moments peace.
One day, he stood barefoot on the road. Convinced the yearning would guide him to the house by the Ocean, which haunted his dreams. He walked.
Days, weeks, months.
Black tar and blistered feet.
The yearning left when he found the house.
The woman was expecting him.
It was her eyes he noticed first. One aqua, one brown as a muddy puddle.

Simpatico, by Miya Yamanouchi

27/11/2020

Cream hands examined her cinnamon hip bone, protruding from a lissome thigh.

“If I ever kill you, I’m looking forward to studying your skeleton as you decompose.”

Her sunshine face thanked him for the sentiment.

Leaping from the sofa, he reached for the sponge he’d bought earlier, and started attending to the mould that had begun to appear left of the air conditioning unit.

Watching his immense ivory quads tighten for balance as he scrubbed at the ceiling, she stayed sprawled and serene.

“I’m going to paint my nails pink,” she announced.

“I’ll wash the dishes next,” he replied.

Trucker's Life, by Romeo Varga

20/11/2020

Roads are endless.

Mile after mile. All alone. Truck stops, depots, instant coffees, cold meals.

It's all a blur. The noise and the sleepless nights. Load after load. Endless highways and the eternal following of tail lights into the night like crimson beacons.

Still alone.

He sleeps a few hours at a time in the back of the truck resembling a wolf's nest.

Load, then at the end of another unending road, unload.

Infinite kilometers. Countless hours. Constant loneliness.

A solitary existence.

His only joy reading the "missing" notices while on his way to wash their stains off his hands.

Scavenger, by Brian Maycock

20/11/2020

A clear day. A fine breeze. The clothesline is strung up in the yard.

I hang out to dry a paperback left in the street and a dew-shined leaf to use as a bookmark.

Later, I add a gold-flexed flowing wig that had been abandoned in a bin.

A bird watches me, dour-faced to my eye because there is no space left for it to perch.

I squeeze up book and locks and leaf. It swoops onto the freed-up line, and as it does, a feather falls. A gift, I think, in return.

The Aftermath, by Russell Conover

20/11/2020

“Whoo! Pretty wild party last night.”

“You're telling me. Things were out of control.”

“Between the drinks, music, and dancing, everyone was going crazy.”

“Especially you!”

“Huh? What are you talking about?”

“You don't remember?”

“I think we were all a little off our game. Don't you?”

“Maybe. But you were the most memorable.”

“Ugh. Just tell me what I did.”

“You were singing karaoke, dancing on the tables, with a lampshade over your head.”

“I'll never live this down. Why didn't you stop me?”

“And ruin your groove? Friends don't do that!”

“Uh, thanks. I think.”

“Anything for you.”

Shadows, by Bobby Warner

20/11/2020

She looked up, saw Tammy at the top of the stairs.

"Who was that man, Mommy? I heard you talking and couldn't sleep. I came down and saw him."

"There was no one, darling. It was just a shadow. Like you saw the other night."

"Oh, no, Mommy. It was that man. I know it was. Aren't you afraid? Why don't you call Daddy. He'll rush home and protect us."

"Please don't tell Daddy about this. It was only a shadow, and he might get angry with you for seeing things."

"Alright, Mommy, if you're sure that's all it was."

Tempus Fugit, by James A. Tweedie

20/11/2020

“Umph dah flble stolkerist fumblem.”

“Take that stupid mask off, Helen. I can’t hear a word you’re saying—and, besides, we’re inside the house and we haven’t been near anybody for six months.”

My wife of 52-years slipped her mask down just below her lower lip.

“The woman who delivers the mail,” she said. “and the FedEx and UPS drivers who deliver the groceries. They touch things.”

“True,” I said as my wife slipped her mask back above her nose. ”When did we last kiss?”

“Five years and three viruses ago," she said. “May 27, 2020.”

“Time flies,” I sighed.

Wisps of Wishes, by Swapan K Banerjee

20/11/2020

I visit the place after decades. An invisible presence takes me down the zigzaggy route in drowsy quiet. A certain bend motions me to pause. I see a path branching off and stretching away to a blurring point.

The clock turns back in an instant.

I remember it leads to a temple where she and I once tied a piece of cloth carrying our names around the trunk of a wish-fulfilling tree. I feel the stirring in memory’s dying roots.

Does it still exist?

There’re more paper tags than leaves on the tree, hanging from its branches like torn kites.

Epiphany, by Guy Fletcher

20/11/2020

Conor was taking time off his job in the city due to "burn-out." As he sat in the lounge on a Tuesday afternoon, a novel experience, his eyes glanced on the bookcase. A tome about the history of art met his gaze and whilst marvelling at the works of Dali and Rembrandt, and many others, he experienced an epiphany.

Conor had always loved art and now he would reconnect, painting instead of creating invisible capital in a stressful environment. He decided to hand in his notice the next day.

A Man's Gotta Do..., by Mary Wallace

20/11/2020

The door to the shop changed behind him and Craig jumped. He looked around at the sleazy out-of-the-way grocers and wondered what he was doing there.

This was so far out of his comfort zone; way outside his neighborhood. But he was desperate.

He had specifically chosen a place where he was unknown; where a transaction would remain a secret. Where word wouldn't get back to the authorities.

Craig staggered over to the counter with false bravado, hands deep in his pockets.

"Give me some condoms," he demanded, his voice breaking disappointedly on the last word.

Goldilocks, by Linda Lowe

20/11/2020

Years later, her locks gone white, she sits rocking, most everything behind her but the memory of that afternoon in the woods. She’d been called impudent, brazen—big words for a girl just six. What else to do but plan her demise? She wanted a large funeral, with violins. She was famous, after all. Would be until all the books disappeared from the face of the earth. She would be known by her name, Goldilocks, whereas the bears were just a little family. A mother who cooked, a father who did nothing to speak of, a youngster who whined. Nameless.

This is Your Blood Pressure Speaking, by Mark Tulin

20/11/2020

Systolic: Hello, George? Please, listen. Cut out all the food that isn’t heart-healthy and start exercising.

Diastolic: Systolic’s right, George. He’s the top gun around here. He knows when your artery walls and ventricles are taking a beating.

Systolic: Instead of pizza and fried chicken, eat more fruits and veggies. Your body’s not a trash receptacle.

Diastolic: If you don’t stop, George, the mercury will rise in the BP cuff so high that your head will explode. It’s bright red already.

George ignored Systolic and Diastolic, but he couldn’t ignore his pulse rate when he dropped to the floor.

Soft Touch, by Sandra James

20/11/2020

The old duck was ripe for the plucking. He’d heard her tell the newsagent her arthritis slowed her down… and about the antiques filling her old cottage. Her kids and grandkids preferred modern things.

‘Couldn’t help but overhear,’ he told her outside the store. ‘I specialise in antiques. I could…’

‘Come for dinner,’ she replied.

Armed with flowers, he knocked.

She opened the door, smiling. He turned and ran. Drove off at high speed.

Martha looked at the knife in her gnarled hands and her blood splattered apron and shrugged.

‘Guess I’d better finish plucking that drake.’

Revisiting, by Janice Siderius

20/11/2020

I am watching my son and daughter playing baseball in the backyard. They have grown overnight. I haven’t seen them in almost a year; they are nine- and eleven-years-old now. The garden looks wonderful. All the new plantings from last year have grown and the roses are blooming.

My daughter throws a pitch for my son to hit. He is paying no attention and the ball flies past his head. I instinctively reach out to catch it, then throw it back. Both children freeze.

“I told you daddy was watching over us from heaven,” my son said.

My heart hurt.

A Stephen Foster Story, by F. Spencer Loomis

20/11/2020

Song writer Stephen Foster opened his publisher’s letter. It read “We like your melody but you apparently made a grammatical mistake. Mississippi is a state. It should read WAY DOWN SOMEWHERE IN MISSISSIPPI.” Foster wrote back. “The Mississippi is America’s largest river and runs primarily through the south!” The reply came “NOT WITHSTANDING THAT FACT MISSISSIPPI IS A STATE. USE A SOUTHERN RIVER WITH TWO SYLLABLES PLUS RIVER.” Foster used the Suwanee River in Georgia in the Okefenokee region and sent it to the publisher.

It was accepted. He asked a friend “what crops are grown there?” The reply “GATORS.”

Crowning Glory, by Rod Drake

20/11/2020

I am Donald Trump’s hair. I’m not a wig, a transplant or extensions. I’m the real deal, (if a bit thin or sparse in places), but a true living comb-over mop as you can clearly see. I have my own level of popularity, a favorite of political cartoonists. I should probably have my own Twitter account to keep my fans interested and intrigued. It takes $70,000 to keep my appearance as perfect as it should be for a winner, on whose head I rest, and I am worth every penny of it!

Humility, by Derek McMillan

20/11/2020

Peter and Jane Humble were not self-effacing but their family had lived
in Humble village for generations.

They lived with Nigel, their “nephew”. Everybody heard Peter and Nigel
having a row in our street.

“Dad!”

“Uncle Peter!”

“DAD!”

“UNCLE PETER!”

Our neighbour, Mrs Fox, was infuriated and she went off in high dudgeon
to Humble Cottage.

"Nigel is my son. I am taking him."

“He can't be yours. You are siblings.”

She invited us to dinner. Nigel was staying with cousins in Liverpool.

We puzzled over the delicious meal.

“What meat is this?”

Her smile showed her teeth.

“Humble pie.”

Christmas Morning, by Bruce Gunther

20/11/2020

The toy train made one loop around the metal track before toppling onto the carpet. My dad sat by me, smelling of cigarettes and aftershave. Mom, up to her elbows in flour, smiled from the kitchen.

There were moments like those interspersed with other moments: rages that vibrated the walls, his ring finger snapping down on our heads. Hand around her throat as we hid.

I wound up the little train and placed it back on the track. It made one loop and nearly another before tipping over again.

My father leaned over and kissed my head, surprising us both.

The Stone Candelabrum, by Yola M. Caecenary

20/11/2020

It was the eeriest nightfall of November for the family who lived in the manor.

Far from the town, the father, mother, son, and daughter had to buy everything they need once in a month; things that they had done since three Novembers before.

The family left the house in the morning and went back at twilight. They were about to have supper when they inexplicably howling only to be heard by the night sky.

Time passed with a tale of a family of four members who turned into a stone candelabrum in the fourth November they inhabited the manor.

Grace in a Bottle, by Ed N. White

20/11/2020

The nurse said, “I’ll put the final report in with her belongings.”

When I picked up the bag, I expected an envelope, or maybe a disc. What I found was a small glass vial with a cork stopper. It looked like a nineteenth-century Laudanum prescription. Or something that could be carried as an amulet.

I wound the paper tighter with a bent paper clip and tweezers and fished it out of the bottle. It was her EKG flatline.

I unrolled the tape and saw eighty-three years compressed into a thin black line. Sixty-three of those years were ours. It’s over.

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