Longer Stories

Down to the Cutlery, by Krystyna Fedosejevs

20/3/2023

Tradition

Farley enquired about the lineup of foods for their festive meal. What he heard had him rattled.

“What, no turkey?”

“No turkey,” Eleanor confirmed.

How can their celebration go so off the rails, he thought. Then he remembered. Darn son-in-law!

Farley could accept subtle changes. Like having their cat, Mr. Whiskers, removed from the house when the newlyweds visited. Better that than Gregory succumbing to a sneezing fit from its hairs, hence souring the evening for everyone.

Changing eating traditions to solely vegan this and vegan that? Gone too far. The cat ate meat or fish every day and Farley insisted on the same for him.

But how? He was powerless. The women in his immediate relations controlled what went into his stomach. Thank goodness he could have the pleasure of an occasional burger from a drive-through close to work.

“Hon’, did you set the table properly?” Eleanor inquired. “Do you know where the forks, knives and soup spoons go?”

Farley was about to return a nasty remark when he thought it best to comply, thereby sustaining peace.

One hour went by before the doorbell sounded. One hour enough time to simmer down and be respectable for their dinner guests, Farley rationalized.

Hugs and kisses planted, the visitors carried themselves and their goods into the foyer.

“For Mom,” Carla said, presenting a bouncy bouquet. “I give her daisies and she gives me carnations. It’s a tradition.”

“Here’s something for you, Pops,” grinned Gregory. “Vegan whiskey from Scotland!”

Mealtime went splendidly. Farley became overwhelmed with an acute appreciation of his wife’s culinary skills. He was surprised how everything he tasted turned out delicious.

Furthermore, he realized that she was placed in a difficult predicament, as was he, with their daughter having converted to her husband’s moral belief of going vegetarian.

“How did I do with the table-setting?” he asked, following their guests’ departure.

“Soup spoons on the wrong side of the bowls. Other than that, you observed tradition protocol.”

“Dinner was tasty. I guess I don’t mind vegetarian some of the time.”

“That’s great,” Eleanor smiled. “…because Carla and Gregory invited us for the next festive gathering.”

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Alleydog and Me, by Mimi Grouse

20/3/2023

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Will to survive

It's hard to think straight when the wind's howling along Skyscraper Canyon, swirling around us, casting soot and drizzle into our eyes, ears, up our noses. The cold bites our bones and our bellies are empty. Food is becoming a priority, but we need money to buy it. Yesterday's dustbin dinner made me ill and I can't afford to let that happen again. Not now someone's depending on me for his survival.
So we eye the women who teeter past us on too-high heels.
Even on a good day, we never look at the men.
We know our limits.
Lunch hour's over. Workers hurry back to their offices. A lingerer fusses with her phone, oblivious to the bundle of rags and fur that is ourselves. Alleydog grabs her ankle, but she doesn't even stumble, much less fall, or drop her bag.
'You only need to ask,' she snaps instead, looking at us irritably, and opens her purse. A treasure trove of credit cards and cash. We drool. Then she puts it away, zips her bag shut and we recoil into our unwashedness as she crouches in front of us.
'Dad,' she whispers and her breath tastes of peppermint. 'Mother kicked you out, but I won't. And yes, you can bring the mutt.' Then she's away, back to her job before her boss gets the grumps, and I'm left looking at the business card she's just pressed into my hand. Her address is printed on the back, her handwriting unchanged since high school, before she ran away from hell. Now she lives in one of those new houses on the better side of town where the dustbins yield luxury dinners every night of the week. Although I don't think that's quite what she has in mind.
I creak to my feet. 'Come on, Alleydog,' I say, tugging his leash. 'Kiddo's offering us the opportunity of a lifetime.'

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Harold, by James A. Tweedie

20/3/2023

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Heroism

I have never wanted to be a hero but when a fire broke out in my apartment building, I raced down the hall knocking on every door I passed as I made my way to the stairs that led me down from the second floor to safety.

I was quickly joined on the front lawn by everyone I knew and a number of people I couldn’t recall having seen before.

Everyone was there except for Mrs. Miller, an elderly woman who lived across the hall from me, one apartment down.

I had knocked on her door and shouted a warning about the fire.

“Thanks, Paul,” she yelled.

Now, five minutes later, she was still yelling—screaming, actually—with her voice ringing out from the open window of her now-smoke-filled apartment.

“Harold!” she screamed. “Where are you, Harold! Come to Mama! Please, Harold! I can’t see you so you’ve got to come to me!”

When the first fire truck arrived, I grabbed one of the crew and told them that Mrs. Miller was still inside Apartment 2-D.

Flames were now visible in her window.

“Harold!” she shrieked.

If she said or shouted anything else it must have gotten lost in the growling, crackling roar of the flames because I never heard her voice again.

As I watched my apartment turn to ash, I felt something rub against my ankle.

“Why, hello, Harold,” I said, as I picked up the trembling cat and held him as close to my chest as he would allow.

Like I said, I never wanted to be a hero, but when I salvaged what little I could from my charred unit and moved into a new apartment down the street, I took Harold with me—even though my lease doesn’t allow pets in the building.

I couldn’t bring myself to give Mrs. Miller’s beloved cat to the animal shelter.

Keeping him was the least I could do.

But don’t get the wrong idea.

If a fire breaks out in my new apartment building, Harold will have to fend for himself.

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A Mother's Love Endures, by Seshadri Sreenivasan

20/3/2023

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Will to survive

Every day since her son's death, Sarah felt like she was drowning. She tried to keep going and put on a brave face for her family and friends. But inside, she was a mess.
She would sit in her son's room, surrounded by his things, and cry until her tears ran dry. She would go through old photos and mementoes, reliving every moment she had with him. She would talk to him, even though she knew he couldn't hear her.
But the grief was always there, a constant ache in her heart. She didn't know how to put it into words or explain the depth of her sorrow.
Then one day, she was talking to a friend who had also lost a child. The friend listened quietly as Sarah tried to tell her friend how she felt, but she kept stumbling over her words and wiping away tears.
Finally, the friend spoke. "It's okay, Sarah," she said. "Grief is universal. It doesn't play favourites. It's okay to feel like you're sometimes drowning."
Those words resonated with Sarah. She realized that she wasn't alone in her grief, that others had been where she was and had found a way to keep going. It didn't make the pain disappear, but it gave her a sense of comfort and connection.
Over time, Sarah began to find small moments of joy amid the grief. She would remember her son's laugh, his smile, and his hugs. She would think about their shared times, their trips, and the simple moments of love and connection.
She realized motherhood was both a joy and a challenge, a constant balancing act of love and responsibility. She had done her best to raise her son, to guide him through life, and to be there for him in good times and bad. And even though he was gone, she still loved him with all her heart.
Sarah knew that the grief would always be with her, that she would always miss her son. But she also knew that she had the strength to keep going, to find a way to honour his memory and to live a life filled with love and hope.
And so she did, one day at a time, with tears and laughter, with memories and new experiences, with the knowledge that love endures even in the face of loss.

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The Festschrift, by Tony Covatta

19/3/2023

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Tradition

“Thursday, June 1, 2015, 5:30 PM. Festschrift honoring Carl Young, MD, Director, Metro Psychoanalytic Institute for 45 years, at the Institute. Dinner afterwards ($50 contribution) at home of Anna Freed, LISW.”
Ray was pleased to be invited. He seldom received surprise invitations. He accepted immediately, with a $50 check. Carl Young, bearded, overweight, gruff and funny, was a golfing buddy. Their kids had gone to school together. Ray had supported the Institute’s charitable endeavors for years but never attended a festschrift. What’s a festschrift? Google told him: in or at a festschrift, big in the Germanic academic tradition, scholars share writings honoring another one of their number, prominent through achievement, intelligence, popularity, or years of service, as the case might be. Often the invitees convene in person with the honoree. There a select number recite from their papers, give speeches or discuss topics near and dear to the honoree. The writings and transcripts of oral presentations are bound in a volume and presented to him or her.
A special twist here: the post-festschrift dinner at the home of Ms. Freed, a member of the Institute. Anna was conservative: quiet, neat, never trendy, well dressed but not flashy, handsome but not striking. Ray and wife Frances had been patients of Anna’s for a time, after suffering a rough patch on the matrimonial highway. Anna was an excellent, helpful therapist. However, her never sharing any personal information irritated Ray. Anna stoutly, too stoutly for Ray, followed the Freudian psychotherapy tenet of walling off her personal life from her patients. The dinner would be a clever way for Ray to jump the barrier, discern the real Anna at last. Disapproving Frances refused to participate in his scheme. She stayed home.
At the Festschrift in the Institute’s auditorium, strikingly like a classroom of theatre seats and whiteboard at a prosperous college, the papers were celebratory and insular, peppered with arch in-jokes and scholarly allusions. There were few lay attendees besides Ray. Anna entered the room late—from supervising the dinner preparation perhaps. She clearly noticed Ray, took a seat far from him in another row, stared straight ahead.
Ray saw, knew it right away: his attending the dinner would only pain Anna. She wanted no personal contact with him. He was playing a dirty trick on someone who lived by professional rules she held dear. At her home Ray might see something private she cared about, but the unseemly intrusion would taint his knowledge, give him no pleasure. Perhaps he developed this perception from his sessions with Anna.
Cheerful applause for retiring, smiling Carl Young closed the Festschrift. Ray headed for the door. There stood the Institute’s secretary, dressed in a becoming, colorful suit, jewelry and heels for her night out with the bosses.
“See you at the dinner, Ray?”
“Nope. Consider my $50 a contribution. I’m headed straight home. Maybe Frances would like a late supper out.”

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Nora Will Survive, by Pete Lindemann

19/3/2023

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Will to survive

If Miles hadn’t cracked a tooth the month before, it would be some other guy waiting there in Nora’s kitchen holding a cast-iron skillet with an oven mitt.
“Should we yell surprise?” asked Miles, into the darkness.
“Ya know what?” Nora said. “You know what? Fuck you, Miles.
“This ain’t one of your goddamn surprise-ending stories: Then the guys who were hiding in the kitchen - who for ten pages you thought were murderers – finally jumped out of the darkness and yelled ‘happy birthday!’
“Listen to me Miles - this ain’t no fuckin’ birthday party.”
The idea for the skillet was from one of Miles’s stories - If you use a household object, it looks like an intruder.
Nora had a broomstick.
It was just last month that Miles had gone to the dentist.
It was Nora’s third - and although she didn’t know it yet - last day as the hygienist there. The dentist would be letting her go at the end of the day simply because the dentist’s wife - as Nora would declare at five o’clock - was a fat cow.
In the chair, Miles had told Nora that he was a writer - murder mysteries with surprise endings.
That night she texted him, “Hi Miles, it’s me Nora, your hygienist.” Then, “I think you’re kinda cute” and “my husband is an asshole.”
Miles didn’t stand a goddamn chance; she bled into him like ink on a blotter.
She would tire out her husband, then slip out to meet Miles at a bar, suddenly and gorgeous at his elbow - “Is this seat taken?”
Nora knew - and so did her punchdrunk husband - that she was the kind of woman that had what it takes to get away with something like that.
Nora fascinated Miles. She popped-up, unbidden, in his stories; she encroached on his writing like ants at a picnic.
Nora was different from every other woman Miles had known: She told the truth about what she liked and how she liked it.
It was a two-way street for Nora – she pumped Miles for the tricks of his trade.
The day before Nora and Miles were waiting in the kitchen in the dark, she invited one of her old guy-friends over for lunch.
“I was surprised to hear from you,” he said, as they stood close, sharing a cigarette. “I mean, things got pretty nasty after that shit with the cops.”
Her black eyes narrowed as she turned her head and pushed the smoke away through the tiny blowhole fixed at the side of her mouth.
“I’m full of surprises - hey, can you reach that skillet?”
The next night - her husband was going out - she invited Miles over and got him drunk.
She smacked his ass. “Buck up, Miles.”
As they waited there in the dark, Nora’s phone flashed and she looked down. “Goddamn it! - he’s not coming home – he’s ‘staying at his friend’s.’
“Bullshit – at his friend’s.
“That little fucker.”

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The Things We Find in a Museum, by J. Iner Souster

19/3/2023

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Will to survive

Memories of moments came flooding back. The night we sat talking about dreams and possibilities, living a better life. We packed our closet of skeletons tight and wanted to change. It was something that needed to start at the core of our beliefs.
Though she had witnessed more than most, it was Kali's first experience touring a museum. A narrative in front of her eyes that she had already lived. The deeper into the museum she ventured, the greater the disturbances inside her. One memory atop another until the mound could no longer hold its equilibrium.
Glass swirls cut through her serenity, making panic harder to contain. She drew tiny breaths as her world unravelled. Her voice was soothing, and her expression was one of gentle practice, but it meant nothing. Waves of sentiments moved within her, each one becoming harder to control. Fighting back the tears, she paused, took a few deep breaths, and regained her composure.
In the dark pools of her eyes burned wisdom and determination. They reflected the truth that is only of women. She was the woman who would wait for no man, and by no man could she ever be won.
All fear is born of thought, as hatreds feed ignorance, passed down through generations, and held on to tightly like family heirlooms.
Gracefully poised, she cleared a speck of non-existent dust from her eye. Never to betray her emotions, she walked away from the plaque and its depiction of strange fruit.
"I will not," Kali whispered as she stepped through the archway of the antique door. Too afraid to give any further ground, she watched herself climb over the low wall to the other side, shimmying her body to keep it hidden, the skin on her arms screaming from the action.
Her limbs turned to a honeyed glow from the multicoloured leaves she left behind on the rock wall. She was back where she belonged, in the protective arms of nature. She felt the sun warm her, and all fears began to fade, knowing her path was freedom.
Leaving the museum behind, she realized it was time to start putting one foot in front of the other. She had not forgotten to follow her instinct and choose her path, and she believed that all those who desired change could do the same.
We live in a society where so much is taken for granted. We get hungry and eat. We get tired and sleep. We love and live a life of pain and feel the indignities of living in a world that gives us the illusion of the human race.
Yes, humanity is short on solutions, but it is also long on imagination and possibility. We have to dream about it and believe we can achieve it. There is no hope that we will ever achieve true paradise if one can become overwhelmed by human inadequacies.
Kali, as it turns out, was a bit of a dreamer. And a dreamer, she shall remain.

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Arnie, by Paul A. Freeman

19/3/2023

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Heroism

When I named my new companion bot ‘Arnie’, it was a sick sort of joke. Several cyber units had recently malfunctioned, ‘terminating’ their unfortunate owners. I’d also been in shtook over my behaviour towards Cyber and Robotic Individuals (CARIs) as we call synthetic helpers. Stomping on a vacuum cleaner unit got me a twenty credit fine. Handcuffing and punishing my Pleasure Unit got me twenty hours of Cyber Sensitivity Training.

Anyhow, then I designed Arnie as my primary synthetic helper. Only he didn’t look like ‘the’ Arnie. He resembled me, except for having a moustache and less hair; less hair because I was vain and wore a toupee.

Arnie possessed the quality of curiosity. He asked why I wore a rug on my chrome dome. In his polite way of putting things, he judged me pathetic. So I discarded the toupee.

I got the impression one day that Arnie was becoming self-conscious about his moustache. In response, I grew my moustache out. You would have thought us twins!

We fist bumped and high-fived at the result.

I gave up drinking, fornicating and generally roistering at weekends and committed myself to Arnie’s education, though the education proved two-way. I taught him games like Scrabble and Twister. For the sake of fairness, he tuned down his vocabulary knowledge and dexterity levels so as not to defeat me too comprehensively. He even let me win half the time.

Chess was the game Arnie loved most, the concept of self-sacrifice being especially of interest to him. He understood that he could be rebuilt and reprogrammed, but for us humans, with certain illnesses, or, for instance, if a piano fell on our bonces, it was ‘Goodnight, Vienna’.

At a cursory glance, we looked identical, but people could always tell a hume from a bot on closer inspection.

“It’s Uncanny Valley,” said Arnie.

“What?”

“Uncanny Valley,” he repeated. “The way we bots move, speak and react. Sometimes it’s a bit off, a bit…uncanny.”

“Then what sets you apart from me?”

“I agree we’ve become so similar we’re almost a single entity,” said Arnie. “Except for our arms, of course.”

It turned out humans moved more rigidly, especially when they ran. Bots had a more fluid, rolling gait.

When the robot insurrection came, I was stranded on the bot side of the battle lines. My human neighbours got massacred, but Arnie told the roving bot gangs I had escaped to the Hume Quarter.

Eventually, though, my food ran out, and since bots had destroyed all nutritional stocks their side of the lines, I was condemned to starve.

Arnie decided to walk me to safety. “Rolling gait!” he reminded me as we strode along corpse-laden and bot-blasted streets. “Rolling gait!”

A bot patrol appeared and our identical appearance piqued their interest.

“They’ve guessed one of us is human,” said Arnie, and in the spirit of self-sacrifice tucked his elbows in and made a rigid-gaited run for it, leaving me to roll along to the human lines and safety.

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The Tree of Life, by Aidan Park

19/3/2023

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Will to survive

At school, I would get beat by bullies. They always dragged me to the storage room and kicked me till they got bored. When I arrived home, my nose was assaulted by the scent of cigarettes and alcohol. My parents seemed to enjoy fighting. Whenever they fought, I escaped to my backyard leaving their frenzied screaming. I would sit under the massive oak tree until the noises died down.
One day, I grabbed a rope by the shed and climbed the tree. When I got to the top of the tree, I looked at the entirety of my neighborhood. From there I saw my school, where my bullies beat me and I also saw my house, where my lovely parents lived. But beyond the horizon, I saw more than my neighborhood. The wide reaching field filled my view, the blue air expanded above me, and the birds flew through the limitless sky. It was beautiful, it was indescribable.
For the first time I felt hope. I wished to live and I let go of the rope. After I breathed in the scenery I went back into the depths of the treetop. Inside, the leaves encompassed my body. The green foliage protected me from the cold airy winds. Unlike the view from outside, the lush foliage created a new world. I climbed down the tree with a new sense of determination.
During weekdays, I would come straight to the tree after school. I stayed inside the treetop till nightfall. I talked to the tree and told her my hardships. She always comforted me and listened to my difficulties. The fresh smell of greenery gave me a peace of mind, after the day’s troubles. Many animals also dwelled in the tree. Birds and squirrels were quite the frequent visitors. One blue jay had made itself a nest in the tree seeking its protection. The tree was a home to me, a home to all.
As I grew up, I joined the navy to explore the larger world. I spent my days traveling all around the world experiencing new culture, people, and ideas. But I always remembered the tree that nurtured me and provided shelter during my times of difficulty, for the tree that accepted me for who I was and listened to me everyday, and for the tree that gave me a vision to broaden my horizons.
After my long journey, I returned. The world around the tree had changed. My old house was replaced with a senior home and the school was remodeled into a large hospital. However, the tree itself remained the same, undying, and timeless. Standing tall in the center of the senior home garden, kids played around the tree, while the tree offered a cool shadow, blocking out the heat. Even after my time with the tree ended, it still continued to provide for and protect the next generation.

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Longer Siderius Flash Contest Now Open!

18/3/2023

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Quarantined, by Robert P. Bishop

17/3/2023

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“How was the flight?” Howard asked as he pulled away from the terminal. “Any crazies on board?”
“No, no crazies,” Rachel said. “At least no one tried to open the emergency exit door at 30,000 feet.”
“That’s a plus,” said Howard. “And the class reunion? It went well?”
“Yes, it went well. I had a wonderful time, but it’s good to be home.”

Rachel saw the cot when Howard pulled into the garage. “Why did you set up a cot?”
“It’s for you,” Howard said. “Airplanes are flying petri dishes. All those passengers sneezing, hacking and gacking, coughing in a confined space, breathing that same air over and over. It’s nasty and gives me the willies.” Howard shivered. “To make sure you haven’t picked up a bug you have to live in the garage for the next two weeks. You know, like being quarantined.”
“You’re joking.”
“It’s only for two weeks. A piece of cake. You can do it.” He smiled at her.

Howard sat on the cot, polishing a chrome-plated 19 mm open-end wrench. It’s not often, he told himself, a man gets to spend so much time up close and personal with his tools without his wife complaining about being neglected. He glanced at the calendar on the garage wall and picked up another wrench. Only three more days to go. “A piece of cake,” he muttered, and began polishing the wrench.

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Scatterbrain, by Phyllis Souza

17/3/2023

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"What am looking for?" She’s tapping her index finger on her cheek.

It's someplace. Under a pillow? Behind the couch? In the trash can?
Nope, not there. Hold on— She’s wondering. Kitchen!

Junk drawer: A light bulb, calculator, notepads, and a ruler are among the mess. She’s still looking. But what? For something. Hands keep digging—a vacuum attachment. A red tube with white stuff dried around the edges, super glue.

Shuffling. Searching. Scrambling.
There it is— the instructions to the waffle maker.

"What's for breakfast?" Her husband yells from another room.

But before she answers— she twists a light bulb into an empty socket over the sink, writes a reminder note to clean out the junk drawer, underlines the word mess with a ruler, vacuums up breadcrumbs from under the kitchen table, calculates balance in checking account, and glues the handle back onto a coffee cup.

"Waffles." She calls back. "Hmmm… now, where did I put that waffle maker?" Scatterbrain is scratching her head.

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A Mother's Love, by J. Iner Souster

17/3/2023

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I was on my own. I didn't know who I was or how to be, so I sang my way through the world. In those first weeks, I knew nothing of my new universe. I started by learning to survive. I became a scavenger, stripping the flesh from mice and the hooves of deer. I learned to distinguish our cousins from predators and then from each other. The firefly buzzed beneath the leaves of my tree, and I aimed, being careful to aim true.

It was at night that I learned to sing. I crawled through the dark woods, my eyes searching for prey and meat to feed my belly. By the time the sun rose, I had run out of everything, left with nothing but myself. There was only me, filled with overwhelming happiness I had never known before.

It wasn't long before I forgot all about the flock of birds that I had left behind. I had become an animal, and all my dreams had come true.

I heard the chirp of another bird far away, and I flew to see what it was. My eyesight was still fuzzy, and I didn't remember the mountain tops around me at all. The trees, the moss, the flowers—all I saw were strange brown shapes and colours. The woods were a jungle of leafy green that hid everything but the most fearsome animals, the ones that stood out from the rest.

I had fallen to the ground, feeling the pain of the tree roots snaking through my spine. It was hard to breathe, and my lungs burned. The air was so dark and cold, and it felt like I would never see my tree again. Then I remembered the chirp.

They came crawling from the treetops, their nestlings holding on tight to the spiderwebs they knew so well. There they were, at last!

I felt a sting on my leg. With my last bit of strength, I screeched and flapped my wings, trying to fly. But the silk of the web was like steel, and I couldn't flee. I felt the warmth of breath on my skin, but I was too afraid to open my eyes.

My body pulled along the roots, and I couldn't see the moon in the sky. My face pressed against the tree trunk, and I couldn't see the sky either. My last thought was that this must be hell.

The web tightened around me, a cocoon into which I slipped as they whispered and sang, and I begged for more. I wanted to sleep, but Mother Spider's song wouldn't let me. I was filled with that flicker of light in my belly, that humming, that high-sweet melody. I sang until I knew no other song. I felt everything with my body, my breath, and my soul.

"I love you," Mother Spider's voice was a tender whisper in the distance. "I love you so much."

With chelicerae clenching, a mother's love becomes an embrace.

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Arthur Von Huffenhoffer, by Kim Favors

10/3/2023

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Arthur Von Huffenhoffer isn’t the world’s wealthiest man — yet — but he does appreciate the power and prestige of money.

As he strode through the resort’s opulent lobby, the lead concierge was lining up the guest services staff for introductions.

“Welcome back, Mr. Huffenhoffer, we’ve been awaiting your arrival. Your preferred suite is ready. I hope it’s to your satisfaction this time.

“Tomorrow we’ll tour the valley you’re interested in acquiring. We’ll also meet the tribal elders.”

The tribe living in the heart of this rainforest had been reluctant to deal with outsiders, the billionaire knew. The last American who wanted some of their land suddenly backed out. Huffenhoffer intended to persuade them that his proposed luxury villas would provide the tribe long-term benefits.

He feigned interest in meeting resort employees until the concierge introduced his newest chefs and displayed a revamped menu.

“In your honor, Mr. Huffenhoffer, we’d like to host a dinner with the tribal elders. The resort’s other guests will be invited, of course.

“The dinner will feature some rare game found only in this part of the world plus the chefs’ creative take on a ceremonial dish the tribe members themselves eat. A tribal elder will assist our chefs in its preparation.

“We’re calling our sumptuous repast the Tribal Adventure.

“Our chefs promise it will be an extravagant experience — and to use a phrase popularized by you Americans — with a dish to die for.”

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Seabird, by J. Iner Souster

10/3/2023

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It's a joyous awakening from the darkness of night, which Amelia finds in her sleep. In front of her is a vast sea of living blossoms that undulate gently, their colours bleeding into one another as orange melts into yellow and finds its way toward red.

"From the beginning, as I began to wake up, I was aware of the sea, the flowers, and the fields," Amelia recalls. "I felt a tremendous sense of peace and excitement that came from a deep understanding that there is something bigger than myself—a conscious entity that is very much alive."

Trees stretch out in every direction without signs of human habitation, with only flowers and birds for company. She steps forward, but the flowers close behind her, forming a wall of vibrant yellows and violets she cannot break through—unless she can reach higher to soar above all that holds her back.

"I don't understand," Amelia says. Her voice is soft, barely more than a whisper.

She closes her eyes to focus on the dream she'd had many times before, now transformed into something different, where the darkness would recede, replaced by an infinite light. It's a place where everything is beautiful and harmonious.

"If you can't fly above it, you can't get through it," the voice says, quiet and calm with only a hint of wonder and urgency.

Amelia opens her eyes to see a small, rose-purple woman standing behind her, with arms outstretched and her palms open. The dream unfolds in front of her, but her eyes widen as she sees a green-shaded man close behind the woman, his arms extended too, "I have to help her," the man says, smiling, and he tucks his wings close to his back.

She smiles with wide eyes at the two in front of her.

"You said I had to fly," Amelia remembers.

She knows she will hear no response from the voice. But it will open her mind to unknown possibilities, allowing her to grasp at straws for new insights.

"If you really want to go somewhere, don't fight it," the voice urges her. "Just go."

Amelia's gaze falls to the woman's lips, which form the question, "Do you want to fly?"

"Yes," she says softly.

The woman takes a step forward, and Amelia shudders. She's not ready for this.

The woman disappears.

But before the room gives way to blackness, Amelia sees another pair of eyes watching from the darkness, and a man steps forward, wings stretching from his back.

He looks almost like a seabird, but his hair is auburn, and his eyes are brown. The smile on his face seems genuine.

"I've been waiting for you," he says. "I'm ready to join you."

The two fly high into the air, above the blue sea and the sun. They fly together, gaining speed with every stride until they are airborne, and Amelia knows without a doubt that she has made the right decision to leave the darkness behind.

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The Journey on the Soccer Field, by Adam Suh

10/3/2023

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Wheels scrapping on the course dirt, layered with dew stained green grass on a soccer field swarming with third graders passing by me left and right. Feeling encouraged to join, I rolled onto the field using my metal assist, tightly grasping its handles while running.

Initially, I felt different and wondered. ‘My teammates run without walkers or braces, why am I the only one?’

But as practice dragged on, my sense of difference eased. Third graders don't normally give the rude side eye to anyone or make judgments. My teammates were nice to me, even though I may have appeared different or struggled to keep up. We learned to communicate and coordinate with one another to move the ball. During drills, I made others laugh with jokes and funny moves, and they replied with huge smiles on their faces. Their glow warmed me inside.

I was a Sam Wilson, trying everything to keep up in a sea of Steve Rogers. My Cerebral Palsy slowed me down, but did not stop me from doing all the team drills. After a day of sweat, grim and tears, I drank Sunny D’s with my fellow third graders, and that gave me a sense of unity. At times, the coach would have us do mock games. We made mistakes and received lots of ‘constructive feedback’ from the coach, but at the end, we all laughed after realizing how scraped-up we all got.

Over the spring months, I became part of the team. We shared inside jokes as we headed to our parents for pick up. Ultimately, no one was left out from having a fun game. During matches, we did our team huddle to show equal sportsmanship to the opposing team, no matter who won or lost.

What was there to lose? No one judged or pitied me. We were just happy to be there and play. I pushed myself to keep up, and they accepted me as a team member.

The practice field is where I learned not to let my Cerebral Palsy limit me from having fun and creating bonds of friendship. It also taught the values of perseverance and grit. No matter what your background, everyone can contribute in their own way and become part of something great.

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Bee, by Alex Blaine

10/3/2023

2 Comments

Bee was your average worker-bee. His job was simply to go out, collect pollen and bring it back to the hive to make honey. He visited lots of gardens, each a blaze of rich colours - strawberries, blueberries, roses, Japanese cherry blossom, white dove orchids, tiger-lilies and bitter-sweet crab-apple trees, not to mention the sweet aromas of the purple-rain wisteria bonsai. One day he visited the local pub and got his first taste of golden ale. He staggered back to the hive, only to be ejected by the bouncer-bees, as a drunk bee would only cause anarchy within the hive - and anarchy within the hive is completely unacceptable. A fortnight passed by and nothing else was said. Bee continued bringing back pollen to the hive. Until one day he smelt that familiar smell of golden ale, and yet again he ended up staggering back to the hive. At this point the bouncer bees said, 'We've already told you once,' and they slammed Bee down to the ground, whilst another bouncer-bee gnarled his back legs off. Now let that be a lesson to you.

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Before I Left the Garden, by Angela Carlton

3/3/2023

7 Comments

I knew how to find you.

You were staying with your father in his ranch house on Maple lane. The thing is, I didn’t how I was going to tell you, the truth, those words, the black-hearted tale that would flatten you, but it had to be done.

Before I left the garden, I gathered myself by watering the grounds, my tulips, and the snapdragons, as I drank one cold shot of fireball. I placed a sheer scarf around my neck for comfort. With the silk against my skin, I hoped it would give me the strength to dig between the layers that might set us free.

You were surprised to see me at your door but let me inside. My voice was hoarse, a bit shaky when I told you the things I’d uncovered.

“The thing is,” I swallowed, “You know our friend has been hanging around with Goth kids. Lila's under a spell and not herself. Her behavior is shady. You can’t believe a word, when she says, she wants to be with you.” I pull my scarf close to my throat and breath out of my nose for relief before I say, “I know you love her, but she’s a bit mad. It’s the voodoo, you see. This is the thing you must know.” I whisper it, as he glares at me with dark eyes.

My footsteps are loud, as I try to make my way out quickly, toward the front door. The fat moon has cast its pearly shadow on your lonesome street.

And, it was enough to guide me back home

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The Chair, by Doug Bartlett

3/3/2023

14 Comments

Here I sit alone in my formal dining room. I look across the table and see an old, oak chair. I loved it when it used to creak. You see, when it creaked it meant the most favorite person in the world to me was sitting in it, and she was sitting directly across from me. We spent many wonderful times in that room oblivious to the outside world.

But now that person is out of my life and I fear I will never hear that creak again. I miss that creak as I stroll down memory lane and remember all those precious memories of the two of us. Memories that I will never forget and I will always cherish. What a special person she was and her presence in my life made me a much better person. I don’t understand how that worked but I definitely knew it did.

But what now? When I look down the hallway to my future all I see is a dark tunnel full of depression and self pity. Nothing to look forward to. The hours turn into days, then weeks which turn into months. The months morph into years. I have become a recluse. I haven’t showered in days. I haven’t shaved for weeks. Things are getting worse as my future appears to grow very bleak.

My neighbor came over to visit and he invited me to his wedding. It was the last thing I wanted to do. But you see, I owed him a big favor, so I agreed.

After he left I realized I had no suitable clothes for a wedding that were clean. Now that meant an intolerable trip to the dry cleaners.
Upon arriving at the cleaners I interacted with the young lady behind the counter. She was friendly, kind and attractive. I felt like I had an immediate , intimate bond with her. I could also sense that feeling was reciprocal. When I returned to pick up my clothes we both enjoyed an extended conversation and we learned we had many common interests. I soon found myself using the dry cleaning service more than I ever had in the past. However, I would never bother to go there on Tuesdays , as that was her day off.

Oh, wow! Wait a minute. Did you guys hear that?

Somewhere in the deep crevasses of my mind I can barely hear a sound I have not heard in a very long time. I believe it’s that creaking that old chair used to make.

14 Comments

From Hope Came Peace, and From Peace Came Home, by J. Iner Souster

24/2/2023

1 Comment

His last memory was of the flickering of a full moon, glowing red above the horizon. Harland's eyes opened to a dream that was both intimidating and mesmerizing, as all stories from the subconscious can be. The night began to drift, leaving an eerie, almost frightening luminescence in the sky—his heart was still racing.

Deep in the cave's chamber, he stood overlooking the ocean of this strange world. It went on forever, beyond the reach of the atmosphere and all the powers of mortal men, with the sounds of water dripping off stalactites and the whispers of unseen creatures as the cosmos illuminated their dance.

A nest formed at some point over thousands of years as eggs drift into the sea, carried by currents and tides. Birds with broken feet but wings spread wide, fleeing in flight from dying hearts filled with the obsidian of its inhabitants and the unforgiven, mutating and breaking down within the lethal darkness from which it grows, blinded and ignorant.

He must be on his guard in the warm calm of dawn. Similar to the nights when he sensed the fragile awakening of what is. Sometimes Harland forgets the one thing he should never forget: everything is hungry.

His heartbeat quickened. The heavens appeared as they had in the dream, but no light seemed to touch the horizon. It was as if the moon had turned to stone, changing ever so slightly from a gibbous to a crescent.

Perhaps the knowledge of it affected his perception of the earth, perpetually entangled in each other's orbits, continuously succumbing to the allure of roving magnetism, provoking tidal surges through time. They progress through the phases as months turn into years with the cyclical precession of the ages, only to begin once more though the spring of life breaks with the winter of death, existing simultaneously with the passage of eternity.

There was a small polarizing space between the two surfaces, so they would always be close to touching but never be able to share their gifts. Bodies would dance with each other in the night, whispering words in their ears and drawing hearts with their touch. The sky would open up, and beauty would emerge, both great and fierce. It would last for eternity, always less than perfect.

And yet there would be no bitterness or regret.

As the light above faded, Harland fell onto the warm, granular sand; it was an inexplicable feeling as the beach moulded itself around the contours of his body, each coarse grain—a kiss upon his skin.

And if this new world was indeed born of an eclipse—a sign that great things were yet to come in the domain of man's consciousness—then he could only hope that his work was successful.

People who found their souls while in it would have a rare kind of peace, and everything would be as it should be. The dunes' euphoric embrace enveloped him, and he knew he had finally come home.

1 Comment

Barking Hairball, by David Margolin

24/2/2023

5 Comments

Hairball went to bed a cat and woke up a dog.

His first clue was the horrible smell.

His next clue was a mouthful of foreign-tasting hair that accompanied his first morning-grooming lick.

Instead of the familiar arched-back, hair-on-end reaction to danger, he felt his snout curling menacingly and heard a threatening growl roiling up from within.

Hairball, always the optimist, hoped that he was suffering some type of delusion or hallucination. After all, that rat that he finished off the night before had tasted a little odd.

His next reaction was to attempt to retreat to his favorite hiding place—under the bed, but his retreat was blocked by his now-too-large rear end, which lodged firmly under the bed frame. He escaped only thanks to a forceful sneeze, induced by a large ball of cat hair (his own), that he was now extremely allergic to.

As Hairball catalogued all of his former sins, searching for an explanation for his predicament, it occurred to him that he had become, in very literal terms, his own worst enemy.

5 Comments

New Neighbor, by Don Tassone

24/2/2023

9 Comments

Linda Williams turned off her TV. Another fatal shooting involving an illegal immigrant. It had taken place 50 miles away, but the news still put Linda on edge. Illegals seemed to be everywhere these days.

Linda lived alone. She had a home security system but still felt vulnerable. Her neighborhood had been idyllic when she and her late husband Jim raised their kids. Now there were all kinds of people living there.

Just a few weeks earlier, a strange-looking family had moved in two doors down. Linda hadn’t met them, but she could tell they were immigrants by the way they dressed. Maybe they too were illegals, she thought.

It was a warm, sunny morning, and Linda decided to take a walk. She put on a wide brim hat, locked her front door and headed out.

Walking down the sidewalk, she came upon a young woman and a little girl kicking a ball back and forth in the front yard of the new neighbors’ house.

“Good morning,” the young woman said.

Linda said nothing. The woman just smiled and kicked the ball to the girl, but it bounced by her. It rolled between two parked cars and into the street. The girl ran after it.

“Layla!” the woman screamed.

Linda saw a car coming. She bolted after the child, who started to squeeze through the parked cars. Linda grabbed her by the shirt and yanked her back. They both fell backward into the grass.

The young woman hurried over, dropped to her knees and gathered the girl in. The woman was crying and saying something Linda didn’t understand.

“Is she okay?” Linda said, slowly getting to her feet.

But the woman didn’t answer. Instead, she picked up the girl and carried her into the house.

Linda brushed off her pants, put her hat back on and resumed her walk. She wondered where the woman and the girl were from and what language the woman had been speaking. She hoped the girl was okay.

Back home, eating lunch, Linda heard a knock at her front door. She opened it. On her porch stood the woman and the girl. The woman was holding a plate full of pastries.

“My name is Amara,” she said, “and this is Layla.”

The girl looked up at Linda and smiled.

“I’m Linda.”

“Hello, Linda,” Amara said. “Thank you for my daughter.”

9 Comments

The Spirit at Night, by Angela Carlton

23/2/2023

6 Comments

I can hear the spirit at night, your voice, before I drift away to sleep. “You must stop practicing black magic. You must relent and let go Eva.” I tend to pace the floor after these encounters wondering, searching, and trying to recall the fond memories of you, my late mother.

“Walk away from casting spells. Stop the witchcraft!,” the voice roars on later in my dream, as I sit up with a sweaty feeling and head to the kitchen for a tall glass of water.

In a box tucked away in a closet, I fumble around until I find my old baby book. I flip through pages until I find a birth announcement, grade school news, and birthday parties. I look at a selection of photos, me and you posing, smiling and happy in front of the camera. We were happy. I can see that we were happy.

In the back of the book, I noticed a letter tucked behind an envelope. It was stuffed behind a cream envelope, this, a surprise.

Dear Eva,

If you are reading this letter I hope I am safe. I hope I have found a way to sever my relationship with your father. I did not realize he was a warlock and dabbled in voodoo. I did not realize he was abusive and controlling. I hope as you read between the lines you will find that I was able to escape and we both are free.

Love,

Mother

6 Comments

Falling, by J. Iner Souster

17/2/2023

3 Comments

Someday, Harland will go back to his friend's house. He will feel a phantom glow and know she's there, in her cottage, with its beautiful garden and stunning horizon. But at the moment, it's as though the membrane between them is as fragile as a thin layer of moss. She'll let him in, and he'll feel the warmth of her arm against his and smell the sweet intoxicating scent of her skin. She will tell him he's her friend, and she'll remind him that they're going to get through this and that he has to heal his senses: his sense of smell, his sense of sound, his sense of touch, his sense of taste, and his sense of love.

He'll make it through.

He can feel her breath on his shoulder. It's still warm, and it still smells sweet and thick. He can taste the blood on his lips. He will get through this; he'll keep digging and continue to break himself openly until he can take those foundations of his fragile mind apart and scatter them in the wind like they meant nothing. Like they never existed.

With the room now completely dark and silent, Harland staggers inside. He wonders if he can take much more before completely breaking down and imagines he can still smell her body against his cheek.

The door opens slowly.

Harland reminisces about how much he cherished Kali's home and her bedroom. He would spend hours on end in her bed, just lying there and listening to her talk about her work. She would gush about how happy they were and how full of life they felt, and he would listen until he fell into a deep sleep.

He'll keep falling into the darkness, remembering how his body got tired in her bedroom, and he'll stop sleeping in her bed. He'll remember he was never supposed to fall in love and wonder why he even wants to get through this pain. He'll make it through the night, but his chest will still feel heavy.

Now lost, thinking about how he loved her more than anything. The door will open, and he'll feel Kali's arms around him, smell her breath, and fall back into darkness.

He'll keep falling.

She'll let him get close. He'll know she's there, in his arms, keeping him close to her heart, but her heart is breaking.

Harland can feel her breath on his shoulder, the warmth of her arm against his, and she'll remind him that they're going to get through this. He'll feel it when her heart breaks again, and he will fall a little further down.

3 Comments

The Tenant, by J. Iner Souster

10/2/2023

3 Comments

She took the Devil by the hand, speaking softly into his good right ear.
"Together, we take a different path."

All existence is born of thought, and all her thoughts grow at the speed of pain. Willfully wearing it like a shroud, now bleeding, from a once beating heart of adoration, permitting anguish to reign, picking away the eschar of her past, never expecting the damage to mend. She is the walking wounded, bound by a tyrant called opprobrium, beginning each new day descending just a little further down.

Expectations lead to disappointment, soon to be followed by resentment.

"I am the mistake" was all she could say.

The pieces of both had formed from other lives once lived and possibilities still to come. Their bodies were like nesting eggs. The further you delved, the smaller the parts of their hearts became and with each decreasing size came a more elegant understanding of their inner workings as individuals and how they functioned as one.

Creatures formed from base elemental materials, discarded bones, and shells cast out from the sea. Items retaining toxic heavy metals, poisonous to each other's touch. They are the forgotten pieces of nature, burning with life anew. Intertwined in the roots of a dying tree and the horns of long-dead animals, everything buried mutates into fertile embryones. Pearls and precious metals united, all held together by magnetism. A brain that grows within a brain, a heart within a heart, all which came before. Fine, intricately woven organ lives within layers of dedication that so few could ever understand.

She can feel it slowly rising. It starts deliberately and resounding, pounding, hiding somewhere in her mind recesses. Gradually it vibrates and grows from within as new life sprouts forth. Memories return in particles, like elements that wander through space, slipping between passing celestial bodies.

It's only those who have truly been touched and have had the words of infinite possibilities whispered in their ears. Tinnitus of cosmic creation, never ceasing in its atonal song of purpose, a melody that always comes at a price. As the voices sing louder with each passing moment, there is no tuning out, only to tune in, to listen even closer than before, almost hearing the secrets of the universe.

Whispering in her ear, he spoke for the first time. "I love you."

Shame led to sensations of being undeserving, resulting in despair, scouring for a way to purge the defilement, allowing her soul to hemorrhage and seep through those unhealed crevices where all light escapes.

"As we tend this land together, may it begin to heal our heart and soul." He then fell silent.

They sat holding hands, finding beauty in the ashes, basking in the warmth, waiting. The reconstitution of two disembodied souls, not as a tenement lodger but as the sole tenant.

"One not littered with the remnants of our past."

Gradually they became entwined within each other's hearts. Quietly they watched as the world they knew gently burnt away.

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Down to the Cutlery, by Krystyna Fedosejevs

Alleydog and Me, by Mimi Grouse

Harold, by James A. Tweedie

A Mother's Love Endures, by Seshadri Sreenivasan

The Festschrift, by Tony Covatta

Nora Will Survive, by Pete Lindemann

The Things We Find in a Museum, by J. Iner Souster

Arnie, by Paul A. Freeman

The Tree of Life, by Aidan Park

Longer Siderius Flash Contest Now Open!

Quarantined, by Robert P. Bishop

Scatterbrain, by Phyllis Souza

A Mother's Love, by J. Iner Souster

Arthur Von Huffenhoffer, by Kim Favors

Seabird, by J. Iner Souster

The Journey on the Soccer Field, by Adam Suh

Bee, by Alex Blaine

Before I Left the Garden, by Angela Carlton

The Chair, by Doug Bartlett

From Hope Came Peace, and From Peace Came Home, by J. Iner Souster

Barking Hairball, by David Margolin

New Neighbor, by Don Tassone

The Spirit at Night, by Angela Carlton

Falling, by J. Iner Souster

The Tenant, by J. Iner Souster

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