Longer Stories

I'm Maggie McGuire, and I have a boyfriend. His name is Frankie Moretti. And I'm telling this story.

Frankie sells cars. He makes loads of money. The Godfather is etched into the window of his office.
He's the best salesperson at the dealership. But it wasn't always like that. It began when Frankie was flat-broke and needed to make a quick buck. So, he put sold signs on the windshields of cars except for one.
Yes, siree. He sold his first car within fifteen minutes for twice as much as it was worth. By the end of that week, he had sold every automobile on the lot. He's brilliant.
Frankie wears a diamond ring on his right index finger and likes to show it off. Sometimes, he taps his finger on top of his desk. Other times, he rolls the ring with his thumb. The stone has an inclusion. It doesn't matter-- it's still a three-karat diamond. And it shines.
He drives a Cadillac Seville. Leather seats, a tape deck. He loves Dean Martin songs, especially "That's Amore." His voice blends with Dean's.
They make an unbelievable duo.
When it comes to food, the sky's the limit. No matter the cost. Lobster is wonderful. Steak is choice. Wine? Always the best.
Frankie is a bachelor and promised his mama he'd never get married. She's an old lady, and he's her only son.
Handsome in his pin-striped suit. His wavey black hair grays at the temples. Not only that, but he’s also a fantastic dancer.
One day, he says in a heavy Italian accent, "I'm tired of sellin' da cars. I’m a wanna dance."
What does he do?
He drives his Cadillac Seville to the Italian Club.
He smiles. He laughs. He dances.
Sometimes he dances with his eyes open and sometimes with them closed. He winds down toward the dance floor, then, like a corkscrew in the neck of a bottle, he spirals up.
Frankie gets lost in the music. He dances every night until he doesn't.
One night, there's too much wax on the dance floor and too much wine in his stomach.
So, when the band starts to play the Chicken Dance, he leans back, flaps his elbows, and high steps towards the dance floor.
Frankie slips and falls. His head hits hard on the floor.
His eyes close. His mouth draws down. Frankie doesn't dance anymore.

I'm Maggie McGuire, and that's the end of my story.

8 Comments

In No Rush, by John M. Carlson

18/11/2022

5 Comments

“All we have to do is turn this on.” Jake pointed to his laptop. “And then we take a quick look at the election results.”

“We can learn who won the race for governor,” Beth said. “Was it the clown? Or was it the nutjob?”

“And did that one jackass get elected to Congress?”

“Don’t forget that bozo running for the state legislature!”

They sat, staring at the dark laptop.

“I’m not in a rush to learn what happened,” Jake said. “Just like I’m not in a rush to see a two hundred car pileup on the freeway!”

“I’m not, either.”

Jake shut the laptop. They headed over to the couch to watch a DVD. The cable TV was disconnected until they could face learning what happened with the election of 2022.

“We’ll be sure and check the results tomorrow!” they both said. Like they had said every night since the election more than a week ago.

5 Comments

Thanksgiving Turkey, by Phyllis Souza

18/11/2022

It's an early Thanksgiving morning.
Annie is watching Del, her mother, prepare a twenty-two-pound turnkey.
Del takes a handful of torn day-old bread, mixed with sautéed celery and onions, bits of giblets, and lots of sage. She packs it into the bird.
"Why are you doing that?" Annie rubs her sleepy brown eyes.
Del turns to Annie and smiles. "Because it's delicious." After filling the turkey, she takes the golden heel from a loaf of Wonder bread and seals it.
Through tangles of long curly hair, Annie scratches her scalp. "Why are you doing that?"
"So, the stuffing won't fall out." Del rinses her hands under the faucet and picks up a poultry needle.
Annie frowns. "Why are you doing that?"
"To keep the skin together." Del drives in the sharp point and draws the string.
"You're hurting it!"
"The turkey is dead," Del tells Annie. "It can't feel."
"It's not dead.” Annie, tugs on her mother's arm. “Stop it.”
"Be a good girl and let me finish." Del sews and snips. "There. Done."
Annie gives her mother a glare as only a three-year-old can. She stands there staring at the turkey, shoulders slumped, and tears rolling down her cheek, "Poor turkey," she cries. "Poor. Poor Turkey."

8 Comments

Morning Wishes, by Robert P. Bishop

18/11/2022

7 Comments

Howard sat at a table by the window, eating a breakfast of fried eggs, hash-browns, and toast. Two men, one fat, and the other thin, sat at a table near Howard and carried on a conversation everybody in the small diner could hear.
The fat man, wearing a t-shirt emblazoned with Real Men Ride Harleys, leaned back in his chair and said to the thin man, “I have a million dollars.” Howard thought he detected a trace of smug satisfaction in the man’s voice.
“A million dollars,” the thin man exclaimed. “That’s really something. I wish I had a million dollars.” His voice quivered with awe, or, Howard thought, possibly admiration, but more likely envy of the fat man’s riches.
Howard glanced at the two men. The fat man smiled at Howard. He was enjoying crushing the thin man and was pleased to have someone watch him do it.
“I live in a big house on seven acres,” the fat man said, his voice bumping up a few decibels. “All paid for, too.” Again, the self-satisfied tone.
“I wish I had that much land,” the thin man said. He pushed some hash browns over his plate with his fork then put it down. “I’ll never own a house.”
“I’m a veteran, you know. The Marines,” the fat man crowed. He lifted his head and jutted out his chin, remembering the glory days when he was young and wore the uniform.
“I wish I was a veteran,” the thin man said, deflated by the successes of the man sitting opposite him.
Howard laughed out loud. The two men looked at him. “Not to worry, fellas,” Howard said. “It comes out even in the end for all of us when we’re put in that box and dropped in a hole in the ground or our ashes are poured into a cheap urn and tossed in the back of a closet and forgotten.” Howard paused briefly then continued. “Or we could end up naked on a table in the dissection lab and have some smart-ass medical student say, “Who embalmed this guy? Look at the size of that boner.”
Howard laughed out loud again, left a generous tip by his plate, and walked out of the diner.

7 Comments

The Glow, by Angela Carlton

11/11/2022

6 Comments

When she was a child, she sat under the tall trees with storybooks, for her mother was out roaming the streets with a broken mind. The mother moved to the rhythm of the voices in her head, amongst the whispers on the streets. She walked through parks and down by the river trying to clear her brain from the white noise.

Inside the storybooks, the child found comfort, somewhere in a faraway land, this place where the animals usually spoke to you, a place where the wildflowers grew-grew, peppering the fields with vibrant color. Yes, there was color, colors that seemed to cut deep through the blackness. Still, her mother continued to slither down sidewalks, backroads talking to the bushes and the stars.

The town healer had given the mother medications to balance out her brain but nothing seemed to stick anymore so she walked on and on and on until she grew weary, finally stumbling back upon her only child beneath the sycamore trees with a storybook under her nose.

“Mama, you found your way,” the child would usually say, with a bit of hope somewhere in her voice.

“The light. It was light-light, yes, light, stars, I think” she mumbled, “glow, the glow, brought me, here.”

6 Comments

The Lighthouse, by Doug Bartlett

11/11/2022

16 Comments

Here I sit at our local town hall meeting waiting for my turn to voice my opinion on why we should not get rid of our local lighthouse. It seems I’m the only dissenter in this ocean of people who want to tear down a piece of our history and put up a mountain of condominiums on that spot.

I realize the larger ships have changed their routes and no longer sail by here. Yet at the same time I’ll never forget the day that lighthouse saved my life.

I was out sailing that day and had taken what I thought was a short nap. I woke to the sound of thunder. Storm clouds were rolling in and it was quickly getting dark. The sea was churning and began to toss my diminutive boat to and fro. I needed to get to shore quickly but there was only a small window of opportunity to come ashore on a sandy beach as the area was strewn with large,craggy rocks. There was no way I would be able to safely find my way ashore and the darker it got the greater the odds grew that I would not find safe haven. My anxiety level plummeted when that solitary light from the lighthouse pierced the darkness and gave me a perfect path to guide me safely home.

16 Comments

The Glass Cottage, by Deborah Shrimplin

4/11/2022

1 Comment

Once upon a time, there was a grandmother, a mother, and her twelve-year-old daughter, Alys, who lived in a stone cottage in a deep, dark forest. During the daylight, they worked together tending the vegetable garden and minding the cottage. In the evenings, the grandmother often sat by the fire and told true stories of things she had seen in the forest. Alys and her mother didn't believe her stories but never said as much. That wouldn't be kind.

One afternoon, Alys and her mother were in the kitchen preparing food. Grandmother was at her desk drawing the illustrations for her book about the things she had seen in the forest.

"Alys, I need some mushrooms for tonight's dinner. Can you and Grandmother find some in the forest for us?" Alys' mother said.

"Grandmother is working on her pictures for her fairytale book. I can go without her."

"Do not eat any mushrooms until I look at them."

"Yes, I know. Grandmother taught me how to find the edible ones."

After fifteen minutes of searching through the forest, Alys came to a grassy clearing that she knew quite well. She decided to rest for a few minutes.

When she sat on the soft ground, a wind swirled around her. She closed her eyes. When she opened them, she found herself inside a glass cottage with one door and two windows.

Alys jumped up and touched the walls. They were translucent but solid. She tried the door and windows. They wouldn't open.

"What is this? What's going on? This can't be real," she thought as she pounded on the glass walls, door and windows.

"Someone help me!" she screamed.

Then, she dug at the ground under the walls. There was hard rock under the thin layer of soil. She yelled again but her voice only echoed. She sat down in defeat.

The sun began its descent behind the tall trees casting long shadows. Alys tried to open the door again. It wouldn't budge. She looked through the door and saw three flickering lights, like stars on a clear night, hovering three inches off the ground.

Alys recognized them.

"I can't believe it. It can't be!" she thought.

At that moment, she heard a clicking sound. The door opened. When she stepped through the doorway, the flickering lights disappeared.

Alys ran home as fast as she could. She rushed past her mom in the kitchen and found her grandmother sitting at her desk.

"Grandmother, where's your picture of the three flickering lights in the forest?"

Grandmother turned the page in her book of fairytales and smiled at her granddaughter.

"Grandmother, I saw them! I saw them!"

"So, now you can believe," Grandmother said and gave Alys a hug.

1 Comment

The Voice of Loss, by Angela Carlton

4/11/2022

Somebody was knocking on the door. Through the window I could see, a stranger standing on my porch. He was tall and well-built. There was something mysterious about him. I stood there in my black hat and glared at him until the yellow leaves began to stir around him, a barn owl looked down with glaring eyes. The owl’s white face always brightens the night sky around my yard like a porch light.

“There’s no trespassing here so move on! I’m warning you, move on!” I shout, before the stranger bangs once again on the door. I can hear the barn owl hooting now as the knocking continues. I stand there in a trance. Something came over me as I began to hear a faint whisper. It was a voice I’d never forgotten, the voice of my childhood, the voice of loss. This voice was the voice of my deceased mother.

“You must stop practicing voodoo! You must let go of the anger and forgive! You must find a way to forgive, Shelly. Do not cast this man into darkness” Tears began to stream down my face as the knocking started to diminish. I stood there frozen. I could not move my feet and the tears flowed. I sunk to my knees from the power of your voice, the voice I had waited to hear since I was a confused teenager.

When I woke up later on the floor, the sky was as black as Georgia asphalt and the beautiful owl was perched perfectly in my tree glaring at me behind the glass as the katydids sang a harrowing tune.

8 Comments

Caspernia the Good Ghost, by Nicole Kim

4/11/2022

Caspernia was a ghost, but not a good one. At Haunted House training, all she could scare was a little baby, and that was because she knocked over a plant.
“Caspernia,” said her instructor, “I recommend getting some practice at the Haunted House. Final exams are next week.”
Caspernia sighed as she looked at her midterm grade. An empty oval drawn in blood red ink. Zero for failure.

Filled with anguish, Caspernia floated into a nearby village.
She noticed a girl who looked oddly familiar.
Curious, Caspernia followed her all the way to a cozy looking home.
Caspernia peered through the window.
Her eyes widened.
The mom was cooking in the kitchen, the dad watching T.V.
The girl hung her jacket on a hook.
It was Caspernia’s family.

“Since when did I have a little sister?” Caspernia thought.
Just then, Hillary and Pattison from Ghost School floated next to Caspernia.
“This looks like an easy family to scare,” Pattison said.
“Let’s practice what we learned on them!” Hillary agreed.
They reached for the door, but a hand stopped them. Caspernia was surprised to realize it was her hand. Confidence rising, Caspernia lifted her voice.
“Go away!”
Hillary and Pattison flashed Caspernia a look of contempt, but floated away.
Caspernia let out a relieved sigh and turned to the window again. She grinned when she noticed a picture of herself on top of the fireplace. They hadn’t forgotten, after all.
Caspernia watched as her mom brought fresh baked Halloween cookies.
“Yay!” Her little sister exclaimed. “You said Caspey liked chocolate chip oatmeal cookies too, right Dad?”
Her dad smiled. “She did, Polly.” He scooped her up. “She passed before you were born, but you two have so much in common. She would’ve loved you so much.”
“Polly,” Caspernia repeated, rolling the word around her tongue. “Polly.”
It felt right.
And so.
Caspernia stayed right by her family’s window, protecting them from unwanted spirits. She celebrated with them, she cried with them. She scared away some robbers, who tried to break in the middle of the night.

Caspernia watched Polly grow older, go to high school, and all of a sudden, graduate.
The night before Polly left for college, she had a nightmare. Caspernia decided to talk with her.

“Hi, Polly.” Caspernia whispered.
Polly jumped. “Who are you?”
“It’s me, Caspernia. I’m a ghost.”
Polly frowned. “Really?”
“Who else would I be?”
“You’re right. I wish you didn’t pass.”
“I’m sorry. I am here for you now…and forevermore.”

Polly no longer suffered nightmares and left for college. Caspernia decided to open a new ghost school that trained ghosts to guard their loved ones. It became the most popular ghost academy in the spirit realm!
This earned Caspernia a new nickname—Caspernia the Friendly Ghost—or as others said, Casper the Friendly Ghost.
Caspernia was a ghost, and it turns out she was a good one after all.

4 Comments

Mr Blessed and the Absent School Shoes, by Fliss Zakaszewska

28/10/2022

Miss Davis (PE) rolled her eyes as Mr Blessed strutted towards a hapless Year 7, whose school shirt was hanging out of his trousers. She heard a lot of ‘tutting’ as he pontificated on tidiness needed when wearing school uniforms. Turning to Mr Trimble, (Biology), she shook her head. “It’s bad enough when the kids can’t stand a teacher, but when even the teachers… you know.”

Trimble sighed and nodded and the two walked out to stroll in the fresh air. It was called ‘morning playground patrol’. “He almost has apoplexy when he sees a kid wearing trainers at school.”

It was her turn to nod as they walked on. They did their accustomed tour of the outside patrol, timing it to walk back a few minutes before the bell rang.

“Oh Lord,” she said, “he’s cornered Harry Grant. He’s got trainers on.”

The 14-year-old stood, hands in pockets, a look of perfect indifference, a look he’d mastered after many a run-in with Mr Blessed.

“…trainers, Grant, trainers are not school shoes. They are nasty, sweaty, unwholesome footwear, fit only to be worn during physical education or a form of sports and not fit to be worn around the school all day…!” He paused for effect, but Harry rolled his eyes.

He took breath, ready for the next verbal assault. “I have a jolly good mind to call your mother. What do you have to say about that?”

The boy shrugged as Davis and Trimble looked on with a smile. “You can if you want, sir, but she’s up north on a business trip. Won’t answer her phone. You can call the au pair if you like. His name’s Carlos. Don’t speak no English, though.” He lied. Carlos spoke perfect English.

Red-faced, Blessed harrumphed like an exasperated horse, drew breath and launched into full flow. “You have been chastised for wearing that filthy footwear countless times. You have been told to get your shoes ready the night before.” The teacher clenched his fists. “I am exasperated beyond belief at your inability to follow simple rules and organise your school uniform in better order, boy. I have reprimanded you time and time again, so tell me, WHERE… ARE… YOUR… TRAINERS?’

Harry looked up and smiled. “On my feet, sir.” With that, the bell rang, and the boy turned and walked towards his classroom.

Davis and Trimble turned sharply and walked away. The teachers’ common room was a strange place that day. The mention of ‘shoes’ caused the incumbents to cough or sneeze loudly and the deputy head to walk out, holding her stomach.

Many years later, Harry remembered that, strangely, the number of times he was hauled up for misdemeanours lessened drastically for a few weeks and more than one teacher quietly asked, “Where are your trainers, Grant?” before walking away with a smile.

4 Comments

Needed Help, by John M. Carlson

28/10/2022

6 Comments

“I was OK. Or so I thought,” Susan said. “Then...”

“What happened next?” Dr. Connor, her psychologist, asked.

“Well, I went to a Halloween party. Everyone was wearing a costume, of course. The usual—ghosts, witches, and movie characters. But one man was dressed in just a suit. I thought it was odd.”

“It is odd that someone wouldn’t wear a costume to a Halloween party.”

“Well, as is turned out, it was a costume. He’d decided to come as a politician running for election. I heard later he’d said it was the scariest thing he could think of! But at that moment—well, it triggered me! Elections are so awful now!”

“They certainly are.”

“I cracked. I went berserk. All I really remember is tossing a jack-o’-lantern at him. It was lit. Fortunately, I missed, but it made a mess! And it started a small fire. I knew at that point I needed help!”

“Many people are having problems with this election. You aren’t alone. But we can work through these issues.”

He thought for a moment of how good the election had been for his practice. The increased case load was why he’d recently been able to buy a Mercedes, instead of a Toyota. Soon, he thought happily, he’d be able to afford a luxury January cruise in the Caribbean.

6 Comments

Halloween Night, by Phyllis Souza

28/10/2022

6 Comments

As if their capes were bats' wings, witches, wearing black pointy hats, cackle. They propel through the air on broomsticks.

A Goblin Cat prowls the streets looking for a bad little girl.

Six-year-old Susie stomps. "I want to trick or treat."

"No. Danger lurks on Halloween night." Her mother warns.

"You're a liar. I want to go." Susie crosses her arms and pooches out her lower lip. "I want to go." She throws herself on the floor. With her arms flaying, she kicks, "I want to go. I want to go."

"Stop that." Her mother reaches down and pulls Susie up. “Go to your room."

"Candy. I want it. I want it. I want it." Susie runs to her room. She glances back at her mother. "I hate you," she yells.

Ten minutes later, Susie is sitting on top of her bed. A light flicker in her brain. She gets up, tiptoes, and peeks out the door. The coast is clear.

Out on a dark street, Susie is searching for candy.

The Goblin cat is searching for a bad little girl.

He finds Susie. And eats his Halloween treat.

6 Comments

Like, by Rani Jayakumar

21/10/2022

It was a normal day, scrolling through insta and liking wayy too many posts. I hadn't posted anything in ages, like 2 days, and my own popularity was plummeting. I needed to do something cool, but every idea I had was already out there. I went back to stalking my fave celeb, Rihanna, for obvious reasons. She's gorgeous, and her hair ... I can't even. I'd DM'd her before (heart-emoji ILY heart emoji), but no response. But she's my OTP, so I had to get to her. Fortunately, the service offered "Drop-ins" on the DL, for a fee. So I posted a storm with sponsored content for six months, raking it in. They offered me 15 minutes, and today's the day. There she is, singing in the bathroom, and a second later, I pop in her story. TBH, her hair is not that great right now. But it's her. She screams until the paperwork they sent pings in. Then she sweet-smiles me a hello, and I almost faint. A maid brings matching vodka-spiked pumpkin spice lattes and she lets me touch her eyelashes. We tour her home, and I almost cry. At the last minute, I reach for her cheek and kiss it, which is technically against the rules. When I'm back, the story hits my highest count ever. Best of all, the clump of hair I yanked out while I was kissing her is going in my collection.

2 Comments

Trouble in the Archives, by Janice Siderius

21/10/2022

Margaret, an adjunct professor researching her dissertation on Hammurabi's building projects, waited for the archive librarian to deliver a set of documents. When she looked around the room, she realized she was not alone. At the other table, a young man was studying a series of cuneiform tablets and fragments. She was tempted to speak to him, but just then her materials arrived.
Time flew by. Before Margaret realized it, the archive librarian announced that it was time to close. The young man stood up, put on his coat, and walked out. Suddenly the archive librarian picked up the phone and spoke in a panicked voice. After she hung up, she rushed toward the door.

“STOP!” she yelled.

The next thing Margaret knew, a security guard came into the room. The librarian and the security guard examined the table where the young man had been sitting. She could overhear the word “stolen”. A second security guard rushed in,

“We found him in the men’s room. He still had the items on him.”

The trial began two months later; Margaret was called as a witness. The judge asked her what she had seen that day. Margaret didn’t feel she had much to add but she was able to identify the young man who had been sitting near her in the archive research room. When the young man took the stand in his defense, he told the judge that he was a graduate student. He did not have sufficient money to pay his fees. He had been recruited by an art dealer to steal an artifact for a client who was a collector of ancient Babylonian items. The temptation was too great to resist; he agreed to steal the small clay tablets.

The judge sentenced the student to three months community service and a fine of five hundred dollars. Margaret felt the judge had been too lenient. In her mind, stealing and selling antiquities was the same as stealing a nation’s history and culture. Was a small fine and community service enough punishment? And what about the art dealer? Was he going to be charged?

As she filed out of the courtroom, she noticed a bedraggled woman sitting on a bench. The woman had a young baby on her lap and a diaper bag at her feet. Just at that moment, the guilty young grad student came out of the courtroom and walked up to the woman. They both began to cry. All Margaret could hear was the young man saying,

“I did it for us. I am so sorry.”

2 Comments

The Eight-Legged Tyrant, by Rod Drake

21/10/2022

The scorpion swaggers on his six legs across the desert, feeling like he ruled this sun-baked kingdom on a warm, buoyant summer morning. Clutching and unclutching his two pincer claws at anything that might notice him, he let his poisonous barbed tail swing freely, just a casual threat in case anyone needed reminding of his lethal sting.

A dim-witted beetle saw him coming and scurried out of the way, finding a safe hole in a Yucca plant; the scorpion chuckled to himself, thinking loftily, oh yes, you better run and hide from death itself. A rattlesnake off to the left noticed the brazen scorpion, but kept his rattle quiet, hoping the arachnid would move on without trouble; other creatures, even a young coyote, gave the venomous bully a wide margin.

The scorpion was bursting with pride and power now; every animal that walked, crawled or hopped was afraid of him, even man, that foolish being that walked barefoot in shorts, like that child he remembered stinging only weeks ago (which made his rep and created his feeling of great power).

The scorpion sees another human, coming towards him; ha, he too will suffer, maybe die, from my poisonous sting, but wait, this human is wearing heavy-soled boots, knee-length boots, and one of them has been raised up and is coming down fast and hard on--

2 Comments

Gareth, by Deborah Shrimplin

21/10/2022

As the passenger train continued its journey through the mountains, Gareth, alone in his cabin, glanced out the window. He was twenty years old and built like a Welsh rugby player. His fingertips were calloused from years of playing the guitar.

After an unsuccessful year of living in the big city and his dreams unfulfilled, his parents told him to come home.

The train entered a tunnel. When it broke out of the tunnel, Gareth froze. With his heart racing and his mind in shock, he pushed the red dragon's tail off his lap.

"Pardon my tail, Gareth. I'm too big for this cabin. Just a minute," the red dragon said. Then, he shrank to human size and sat in the seat opposite of Gareth.

"So, you're goin' home are ya? Well, first, you look mighty stupid in that jelly roll hairdo, that leather jacket won't keep you warm at home, and your guitar needs tuning," the dragon said without breathing fire.

Gareth took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes and replaced his glasses. The red dragon was still there.

"What's going on? Am I dreaming or having a nightmare?"

"Neither. Do you want me to spit some fire to prove I'm real? I can do that if you want."

"No. Give me a minute to wake up."

"I haven't much time. Get out your guitar, tune it up and play the "Suo Gan" lullaby," he said as he pointed a foot at the guitar case on the overhead rack. "None of this "Jailhouse Rock". That's not your style."

In fear of being incinerated by dragon fire, Gareth did as he was told.

"Great. Now, go wash your hair and get rid of that ridiculous jelly roll. You're not Elvis!" the red dragon said. He was going to blow some hot air at Gareth but thought that would be too much for him to handle.

In fear of being burnt toast, Gareth did as he was told.

When he returned to his cabin, the dragon was gone.

The train entered another tunnel. When it came into the sunlight, Gareth looked out the window. In the grassy field, Gareth saw his grandmother sitting under a tree playing her guitar. She looked up from her guitar, waved and gestured for Gareth to join her.

Gareth fought his tears of remembrance.

The train entered another tunnel. When it traveled into the daylight, Gareth recognized the landscape. He was almost home. Gareth took off his leather jacket, opened his bag and pulled out the woolen cardigan his mother had given him.

That evening, Gareth's family celebrated his return with a traditional Welsh feast.

After the meal, Gareth decided to play his guitar for his family. He went to his bedroom, placed the guitar case on the bed, and unlatched it. As he lifted his grandmother's guitar out of the case, he saw three bright red dragon scales shining in the corner of the case.

Gareth smiled.

4 Comments

Blink and a Black Canvas is Filled, by Steven Holding

21/10/2022

He was tired of trying.
Typing opening lines, saving files, adding another wasted page to the piles of unfinished, half-scribbled poems and unfulfilled ideas. Every sentence seemed to have become just that: a punishment set, the structure of the letters serving no purpose other than to fence him in.
A lifetime had been spent building worlds with words. The lives led on the page had always been the easiest to manage, and the success of his fictions had allowed him to distance himself from the disaster that his unwritten autobiography had rapidly become.
The back-bedroom office he inhabited twelve hours a day existed as a manifestation of his cluttered mind. Accessed via a narrow passage, the walls of the tiny room were lined with paperbacks. A cocooning womb of comforting books. What once felt so safe now seemed to stifle, sitting at his desk, no longer the captain of the ship, just a stowaway on a sinking vessel.
Sipping his bitter drink, her face in the framed photo upon the shelf smiled at him from better days. That she had been written out of his life was a plot twist that he had failed to see coming, despite the cliché it so obviously was. Her only remnants: pictures on paper, images in his head, making her life the equal of the characters he spat out in stories. Now, even that simple pleasure had been robbed from him.
Spinning in his chair, the tears made their daily appearance, when his foot caught a teetering pile, sending it crashing. Revealed, at the bottom, was a long-forgotten notebook. Picking it up, he realised it was blank bar one simple inscription.
FOR YOU AND ALL YOUR WONDERFUL DREAMS.
Sighing, then smiling, he took a pen, then began to write.
He was tired of trying…

2 Comments

Dreams, by Angela Carlton

21/10/2022

Sometimes I dreamed of you. I paced the floor when I couldn’t sleep and wondered why you left me. I wrote poetry and cried in the dark. Occasionally, I visited my mother who now lived peacefully on the family farm. Mostly, she sat on the balcony and looked out to the koi pond. She liked to watch the fish swim around after her daily walk.

“Why are you sad?” she says, when she sees me.

“I'm alright Mama, just not sleeping well.” She begins to hum the Elvis tune she used to sing to me as a child while I sat with her on the swing and watched the fireflies flutter and rise all over the yard.
“You know, as a child, the first story you wrote was called, The Super Fish,” my mother says. My eyes follow the bluegills in the pond, as she whispers, '' I always think of you and your magic. Hold on to it, my dear”

Later, as I laid my head down on a soft pillow, I was finally able to sleep. I dreamt I could fly. I flew all over and around with the ability to see you. I found you in the meadow gazing at the lazy wildflowers, you, my man who had vanished. There were track marks covering your arms. And your eyes were as black as the evening sky, before you mouthed the words, “I’m sorry.”

8 Comments

A Ride Home, by S.R Malone

14/10/2022

0 Comments

The idiot overtook me, speeding through the rain. With a dull ache eating at my temples, I chuckled at the irony; at the ‘baby on board’ sign attached to his back window, this fool having tailgated me for miles.

Now the harsh red glow of his brake lights punctured the gloom ahead, until the car pulled a three-point turn and fled past me in the opposite direction. My lights caught the frightened expression on the driver’s chubby face.

I craned my neck upwards, windscreen wipers slapping away the rain.

Moving against the evening clouds, partially hidden by the jagged peaks of the woodlands, was a slender frame; spindly, insectoid. I rubbed my tired eyes, a sickness welling. Far off thuds indicated where its massive legs were landing. The ground shook as one slammed into the woods to my left, flattening a gathering of trees like bowling pins.

I pulled the same three-point turn and ground my accelerator into the floor. In the rearview, the spindly silhouette raised what might have been its head and roared to the heavens.

I never did like driving this route anyway.

0 Comments

Chants, by Angela Carlton

7/10/2022

7 Comments

When I lost my mother, I was forced to move out west to live with my grandmother for my father had left when I was a toddler. At school, I did not fit in, so I painted my eyes, and lips black. I wore punk boots and it captured the attention of one boy, Jeremy, the guy who hung out with the Goth kids. Together we all spent our time in the cemetery and continued to speak to the dead for guidance. We lit incense and chanted in the dark. There were stacks of books about black magic and voodoo. We studied them the way some would study the bible. Thoughts of my mother in that horrific car crash swam around in my brain and I began to chant louder-louder-louder hoping to shake the dead.

"I need you, I need you. I need-need-need you, mother.
Return to me, Rise!"

Night after night this was my chant as I tossed my old locket in the bonfire and waited for your spirit to appear. But you didn’t, you never did so my passion for black magic grew deeper as I turned myself over to a life of mystical actions finding a sense of control in the power. I spent months at the cemetery chanting, practicing with herbs, black tea, and human hair until that one day I chose to cast a mini spell on the “creep, bully” at school.

“Slip in the mud and be doomed boy,” I shouted.

One day later, when they found him beneath the cliff barely responsive, the magic was, well, it had become real, my blood was rushing, but I wasn’t numb.

7 Comments

Twenty Years Later, by John M. Carlson

7/10/2022