Blog Archives

Thursday Exhaustion, by Janice Siderius

25/11/2022

Turkey roasting in the oven, check.

Potatoes boiling in the large pot, check.

Green salad prepared for Italian dressing, check.

Green beans in casserole ready for oven, check.

Pies (this year apple and pumpkin) ready to serve, check.

Time left for a quick shower, check.

Husband appropriately attired, check.

Dog secured in the kennel, check.

House as tidy as possible, check.

Whew.

Telephone rings. Who could that be?

“Hello. Yes, I understand. It is not your fault the flight was canceled. Don’t worry about it; we will see you at Christmas. Our love to all.”

(sigh)

The Explorer, by Eileen Tull

25/11/2022

After all I’d been through to find it, at the very last moment the medallion slipped through my fingers. The rubies encircling the diamond center glinted in the pockets of sunlight as the necklace descended, almost in slow motion. Down it fell, through the cracks and crevasses until it disappeared entirely. The whole journey wasted, an entire trek up the mountaintop, all my men dead. Years of searching. All of it for nothing. I couldn’t return empty-handed. I wouldn’t. Closing my eyes, I let go and through the cavern I fell too, into the dark abyss.

Corner Shop Parts, by Brian Mackinney

25/11/2022

In the good old days Jim made a good living selling car spares in his corner shop. There was a steady stream of real men who took great delight repairing their old bangers.

With the advent of diagnostic testing of the modern car and faults tweaked by computer Jim’s trade fell apart. It was while he was thinking of what sort of future his grandchildren would have that he dreamed of modernising his shop to sell body spares.

With the support of AI on YouTube and Tic Toc he was certain that real people would be queuing up for bits.

Shelf Life, by Tom Baldwin

25/11/2022

My Aunt Madge had devoted her life to academic study, research and her students; she had never married.

After her death I had the job of clearing the house, where I found a large, hand-written journal.

Madge had recorded the details of every sexual encounter in her long life, from losing her virginity onwards. Descriptions of each act — size, stamina and marks for performance were all meticulously logged in a scholarly hand. Most were one-nighters.

I took it home and showed it to an incredulous Cathy.

‘Naughty old Madge!’ she said. ‘How many entries are there?’

‘Just over three hundred.’

It’s Getting Better Every Day, by Alyce Clark

25/11/2022

Her first check in several weeks. It’s small, but will cover the bills this month.

She breathes a sigh of relief. Smiling, as she realizes there’s enough for a small turkey and a few side dishes. There’s so much to be grateful for…

She and her mother are together. They love and have each other. Their home smells like holidays.

She shuts off the radio, favoring the sound of Mother’s humming coming from the kitchen, as she tidies the house scattering a few modest decorations.

She’s hopeful and has no doubt that she is blessed. It’s getting better every day.

Losing Your Head for Love, by David Croll

25/11/2022

Mr. Gibson, the eight-grade science teacher, enthralled his students with tales of unusual mating rituals.

“Despite her pious demeanor, the female praying mantis is more like a femme fatale. She lures males with pheromones. The prospective mate engages in a courtship dance. If he is deemed worthy, they will mate. As the mating nears the end, the female will bite off his head”

“Eww!” the students exclaim.

“But that won’t stop the male. He will continue mating.”

The students giggle. Mr. Daniels smiles. “Laugh now,” he thinks to himself. “But one day you too will lose your head for love.”

Memory’s Surprise Visit, by Sankar Chatterjee

25/11/2022

Avijit Sen, a noted physician in Calcutta, finished watching a vintage crime thriller in city’s iconic Globe Theater. The smart detective was methodical solving the intense plot. Soon, Avijit began reminiscing about Deepak Bannerjee, his favorite investigator from teenage years.

But Deepak was a fictitious character living only in pages of a thin book. The author was mysterious Navinkumar (pseudonym), publishing every month a new story in exactly sixty-four pages, costing fifty paisa. Like contemporary Bond-films, different beautiful woman adorned each story, raising reader’s hormone level.

Avijit began to search old book stalls on Chourangi Road for any surviving copy.

After the Flood, by Bill Cox

25/11/2022

He was always so condescending, confident in his ‘superior’ intellect. A simple thing like the weather forecast was beneath his notice. Rain. Lots of rain. And we live beside the river. It basically runs past our back garden.

Alas, poor Eric slipped and fell while securing our back fence during the storm. He was last seen tumbling into the roaring waters.

What use intellect when faced with a river in spate? Well, that and perhaps a forceful shove when his back was turned.

Not so much ‘Après moi, le deluge’, dearest Eric. More like ‘Après le deluge, pas plus toi!’

A Quest Bestowed, by Richard Kirk

25/11/2022

His mission before him, he squared his shoulders and set his jaw firm. The fate of the household rested in his hands. Failure was not an option. There was no turning back.

He was going in.

Knees bent, arms outstretched, he took hold of the beast and began. Its solid mass revealed no secrets, gave no quarter. Yet he forged on, determined that he should succeed.

He would not be beaten.

As his fingers eventually closed around his prize his eyes flashed in triumph.

‘It’s okay!’ shouted Dad jubilantly, his arm reaching under the sofa cushions. ‘I’ve found the remote!’

Where Are You? by Brian Taylor

25/11/2022

When I first started talking to the friendly cashier at the convenience store, I thought, uh oh, you might be showing up. But you didn't.

When she and I got chummier, sharing personal things and being on a first name basis, I thought, now you'll come around. But no.

Then today, when she sadly confided to me that she had left her boyfriend, I thought, well, for sure now, here you'll be. But still nothing.

That's when I realized, dear heart, that part of you had died. No love, not even crushes anymore.

Am I disappointed or relieved? Neither? Both?

Clear What Happened, by John M. Carlson

25/11/2022

“This is the biggest mess I’ve ever seen after a Thanksgiving dinner!” Pam said. “Look at all those broken dishes. Hundreds if not thousands of dollars of china, smashed!”

“My ex always whined about what our dining room looked like the day after Thanksgiving,” Greg said. “She should see this!”

“It’s clear what happened,” Pam said. “This started as a family dinner. Then, there was an ugly fight. But I suppose we should be good detectives and investigate this like we’d investigate any other scene of a multiple homicide with no survivors.”

The Color of Grief, by Kendra Judge

25/11/2022

Editor's Choice

I splash my face, washing tears away. Tears the color of grief.
The mirror winks as the bulb flashes off, then on, blinking in silvered surprise. In it, I see the curve of my face, an echo of my father’s. The link between us.
Memories wash, fresh and clean, like water. Of Christmases and birthdays. Of school concerts and graduation. And the birth of my son, his first golden grandchild. The advice and wisdom my father shared. Every life experience. The joys and the love.
He missed none of it.
I splash my face again. And this time, I smile.

Moving Time, by Jacqui Wiley

25/11/2022

What is time but seconds and minutes, what meaning has time if there is nothing to fill it.

What is a heart without some love, is it like a cold hand without a glove?

Christmas is approaching, will there be snow? Material goods for all to show.

Presents galore with no meaning, parties and sparkles everyone gleaming.

Bills to pay with little money, hams to glaze with cloves and honey.

Rushing and pushing to and fro, racing and fretting, nowhere to go.

All to sit around a table, masks painted on. Our hearts breaking, without you, as life moves along.

Disappearance, by Krystyna Fedosejevs

25/11/2022

Cindy usually shops alone. This time she decided to bring along a minor.

“Which one you like?” she asked, shaking a stuffed toy in one hand, squeezing a squeaky ball in the other.

She turned to face her guest. Not there.

“Archie, where did you go?” she screeched, looking about her.

A salesperson offered to help search.

Down one particular aisle, they heard grunting beneath a bottom shelf displaying blankets. Cindy reached in.

“If you want to visit again, you’ll have to stay in the shopping cart,” she scolded, in a pet store allowing humans to bring in their cats.

Cats Will Be Cats, by Rashna Walton

25/11/2022

This morning I overheard my effusive owner spouting astrology. She says that because Saturn rules karma, we have to “own” our choices and decisions. Meeeeow.

You've got to be joking. I'm a cat. I slaughter things. So don't give me that hypocritical chit-chat about how we're wiping out millions of birds each year. If we can actually catch a bird, there's something wrong with it, so I'm doing my bit for ecology. Like that skinny bluetit yesterday. Barely enough substance to keep me going for an hour.

And you humans can talk. HOW many turkeys will you kill this Christmas?

Revival, by Sue Clayton

25/11/2022

Lawn needs mowing, but the sky’s dour, could rain.

Weeds aplenty to attack, but oh my aching knees.

Dust bunnies hide beneath furniture, but I’m too tired to seek them out.

Wash basket’s full. I could do a load, but there’s that moody sky.

Bed linen need changing, but seeing as I’m not washing...

Should write more of my novel, but the muse slumbers.

Dillydallying is wearisome so I revive myself with a glass of chardonnay and a DVD. I drink a toast to Scarlett O’Hara in Gone with the Wind.

“After all, tomorrow is another day.”

The Maid, by Jenny Logan

25/11/2022

Kirsty opened the door to Room 405.

“Good grief!” she said to her colleague. “When you see a room like this, you’ve got to wonder what they’re cleaning up after?”

The sheets were stripped and folded. The bin had been wiped down and had a fresh bag in it and the towels appeared to be unused. The place stank of bleach and every surface shone.

“Who stayed in this suite last night? It’s like a murder’s happened and it’s been wiped of fingerprints.”

“Bloke with a prostitute most likely.”

“Oh, well. Day off for us. Put the kettle on, girl.”

Liberated, by Malvina Perova

25/11/2022

(Image: Volodymyr Zelenskyy)

They don't know you, strangers in the soldiers’ armor, but the yellow strips on your shoulders rip their chest apart with joy. Flurried, they rush by the wrecked village road, past the ruins of the next-door houses, and crosses in the fields, clenching asters from their wounded gardens.

“Thank you! Thank you!” rings in the cool September air. You turn, smiling sheepishly like you did nothing, and spread your arms to hug the crying grannies.

They don’t know you, weary boys in khaki, but they made you coffee in a thermos and kiss you like their own sons.

Rebel/Lover, by Alex Blaine

25/11/2022

With 'Rebel' tattooed on his right hand, 'Lover' tattooed on his left - just to hide his shame. It's more than a war of words, but he's really rocking that DC/DC2 gene. Like a recalcitrant riotous hooligan of words, he cannot see for the gang of letters on the page. The tattoo is his compass - never to turn the wrong way again. A blind man has more sense of direction than he. You're a fool to think dysexia is just blindness of words or a phobia of books. If you believe that, then you are short-sighted, my friend. Dysexia rocks!

Good Conscience, by Don Tassone

25/11/2022

I’ve been with you a long time. I am your foundation and your guide. I show you the right path, though you choose which path you’ll take.

When you follow the right path, we are whole. When you deviate, I miss you, as a parent misses an absent child.

Yet I know it is only by exploring that you can find your own way. And only then am I expanded, even as you are deepened.

I know you will go astray. Know that when you do, no matter how late the hour, I will be waiting to welcome you home.

The Letter, by Gordon Lawrie

25/11/2022

Returning home, he found that an envelope had arrived in the post. For fifteen years, he’d been sending manuscripts to publishers and agents, submitting to magazines and entering writing contests. Without success.

He laid the letter on the table beside him. For as long as he didn’t open it, he could imagine his luck was about to change; its seal acted like a dam against the reservoir of disappointment. He made some coffee.

Finally, he had to face reality. He opened it carefully.

“Dear sir, I regret to inform you that…”

He closed his eyes and sighed. Maybe next time.

Me for Her Smile, by Cailey Tarriane

25/11/2022

When Diana told me she was dying, she kept her tone light but her lips were too weak to move.

Her happiness, now memories reflected on her tears, and I could imagine her feeling the same on mine.

At bedtime, she hugged me in her sleep and I couldn’t tell her dying form that she was squeezing me. She couldn’t move her head or smile until a knife ran through my chest, until something whitin it was replaced with hers.

I long to see her smile, wherever I may be when that happens. The pain didn’t last long anyway.

Fisherman's Wharf, by Scott Bogart

25/11/2022

Here we go again, thought the salty old fisherman, making his way from the dock with the last of his catch. He’d pretended not to notice their begging eyes when he made his previous trips to the truck and back. But it was the same thing every time—always watching with their sad, hungry and wanting eyes. That was the one thing about returning to the wharf—everyone expecting free handouts. “Not today—go away”, he muttered. But then the small one showed up and melted his heart. He grabbed a large handful of cut-bait and tossed it. He smiled and thought—damn cats.

When the Birds Say Boo, by Mark Szasz

25/11/2022

“Holy smokes!” Jim declared as the turkey voice jumped free, ax still embedded in the bird’s throat.

An inch high, the gnarled gobble goblin fled.

“Ma won’t forgive me if’n it gets away – that’s the best part!”

Jim shot after the drintling, heavy boots spitting up crick worthy waves of mud. The hobble backed thing’s nubbins got stuck.

“Gotcha!”

Jim loomed, the pathetic cluck shivering beneath his shadow.

From the woods: crows of wraith roosters, quacking of cadaverous ducks, haunting chirruping and cawing of all kinds. When Jim saw the drintling’s beady eyes he knew whose goose was cooked.

Ol' Bookface, by Myram Huey

25/11/2022

Shakespeare got home late, navigated the walls. Everyone was abed. He could tell by the silence that his wife was not asleep. He didn't want a scene. That his cloak would be pungent with tobacco was a foregone conclusion. He sighed at the prospect of the withering glare to come. But once upstairs he found his fears had been misplaced: his wife Anne lay fast asleep, a look suspiciously serene on her face. It had been years since he'd seen that look. What could it be, he wondered. Then it dawned on him: he was not there sleeping beside her.

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