Longer Stories

The Blood-Sucker, by Sivan Pillai

15/11/2019

Blood-sucker.
That is what they call me behind my back.
And today I am after them, literally begging for their blood. For my son, who needs immediate transfusion and the blood banks have no stock of the rare blood.
Two people in the village have the required blood group -Ramu and Gopu- but Ramu can be taken off the list outright. Only last week I had asked him to vacate his home when he failed to repay my debt. That was the agreed condition when he borrowed money. To his credit, he did not protest but simply asked for a little more time, which I granted.
The people of my village have a philosophy of their own. Poverty had been their lot for generations but that had never come in the way of the few occasions of joy in their life. They celebrate with abandon, mostly with borrowed money, spending lavishly, dancing and singing, feasting and drinking.
True, I charge higher interest than the banks, insist on collaterals, and am strict about payment of interest on time. That is the only source of my livelihood as had been my father’s and forefathers’. I never cheat. Terms and conditions are explained, but they are least bothered when in need of money. They affix their thumb impression wherever required and simply grab the money and leave.
Ramu has been missing since the news about my son broke out. Even his wife and children do not know his whereabouts. Or so they say.
The man I sent after Gopu reports he has high fever but is willing to donate blood but the doctor says no. I am taken aback. A sick man readily agrees to come to the aid of an ‘exploiter and class enemy’. No bargains, no attempt to humiliate me or take advantage of my vulnerability.
Even as I lose hope, news comes from the hospital: Rahul is out of danger after Ramu donated blood.
The ‘blood-sucker’ is in shock.
I must get rid of that tag. Fast.

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The Scarecrow, by Mary Irvine

15/11/2019

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It had been a lovely day. The gardens were beautiful, as
always. She felt pleased with the ‘photos she’d taken.
Improving all the time. Wouldn’t be able to choose the one
for the competition till she’d seen them on a bigger screen.
Maybe there would be THE one this time.
Most people had headed towards the gates - only thirty minutes to closing time. But there was time for one
more shot or two.
She suddenly became aware of being watched.
Looking up she saw a line of five scarecrows at the top of
a grassy knoll. She moved up the slope, stopping every few
yards, changing position slightly to get different perspectives.
All the scarecrows were unique, but the one she felt drawn to was the one on the extreme left - the portly, jolly one with the
friendly smile. He was the one. She moved in for a close-up.
The scarecrow saw her approach. He slowly lowered
his arms. A frightening leer replaced the friendly smile. He
began to stump towards her. She froze. Fetid breath
smothered her.
It had been a lovely day. The gardens were beautiful, as always…

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I Am a Successful Car Salesman, by Meghan Gresk

15/11/2019

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They call me successful because I tell people to waste their money and they waste it.

My son is what people call “unemployed.” During the day he chills out (accomplishes nothing) at his apartment, and at night he plays guitar in his band, sometimes eight shows a week. Crowds no larger than fifty, but most people walk out happy they’ve discovered the existence of The Mangy Rottweilers.

I made ten overpriced sales last week. Most people walked out happy they’d discovered the existence of sky control and seat coolers.

Last night, I reminded him about the open front desk position at the dealership. I made sure to point out there was no work experience required.
“Dad, I work every day,” he scoffed before shutting me out for the next two months.

To me, the music sounds like a Rottweiler with his paw stuck in a garbage disposal. I guess I’m not most people.

He spends time with his girlfriend every day. Whenever he’s not playing and she’s not working, they make time to be together. They browse for discounts on bands with names like King Gizzard and the Lizard Wizard with hopes they can afford one single record.

I see my wife most days. I tell her she looks beautiful as I rush out the door, and I tell her dinner was delicious when we watch primetime TV. We talk. I can’t remember the last time we talked about us.

One day he comes over and asks if he can borrow twenty dollars. He explains that the show is 118.6 miles away and his tank is low. He can’t fight the smile off his face as he explains the “epic-ness” of tonight, that sometimes seventy people show up and the acoustics cannot be beat.

Of course I give my son the money.

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A Silver Necklace, by Sankar Chatterjee

8/11/2019

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Ms. Valeria Zinsky was strolling slowly in Kurfürstendamm, a neighborhood full of retail stores as well as restaurants, making it one of Berlin’s must-see fashion districts. Suddenly, her attention got directed to the display of a silver necklace on the window of a jewelry shop. She stopped, got closer to the display, and took another investigative look. The necklace, a wonderfully crafted piece of jewelry was shining brilliantly, reflecting silver light. Ms. Zinsky was sure that she had seen a similar piece before and soon a memory engulfed her. She remembered her first entrance to Berlin from several decades ago. She was one of the female members of the first group of the Russian soldiers who entered Berlin after its fall in the Great Patriotic War (Second World War to allies). She was there when her comrades first entered into the bombed bunkers of the Third Reich. And on the way there, she had even scrawled some graffiti on the outer wall of the original Reichstag (parliament building), that still being on displayed today.

Ms. Zinsky sat on a bench on the sidewalk. She continued to reminisce from her days during the war. She was only sixteen, a teenager. Like many Soviet women from that era, she volunteered to take part in the war against an aggressor. After trained as a sniper, she was placed with the battalion marching towards this city. Just outskirt, they entered into the estate of a baron who already had fled with all his family members and the servants. As they were roaming inside the castle, she and her fellow women soldiers walked into the ladies’ quarters, filled with fancy dresses, expensive jewelries, and custom-made shoes. That night each woman soldier will put on her favorite fashion piece over their uniform before going to night’s rest. Ms. Zinsky now realized that she was wearing a silver necklace, similar to the one that being displayed on the store’s window. Next morning, following military’s protocol, they had to take off all of their newly found assets, before marching forward.

Now, she turned around to take another glance, when the post-war memories began to flood her. After victory, they all returned to the motherland. But the heroics of the male patriotism were glorified in subsequent historical documents with scant acknowledgement to female participation in the war. Returning women soldiers were not only shunned, but ridiculed for their low moral characters. She was lucky to get a higher education and resettle in life, while many of her female comrades perished in obscurity.

Ms. Zinsky got up from the bench and walked back to the jewelry story. She entered the store, bought the necklace, and requested the salesgirl to place it around her neck. Ms. Valeria Zinsky then looked herself in a full-length mirror and twirled while drowning in a new round of joy of victory.

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Perfect, by Don Tassone

8/11/2019

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Maddie was the prettiest baby her family and parents' friends had ever seen. Even strangers stopped and stared. With blond hair, big blue eyes and rosy cheeks, she looked like she belonged on the label of a baby food jar.

Her mother had lots of baby pictures taken at a local studio. The studio featured its photos of Maddie on its website. Her mother sent the link to all her friends.

Maddie grew up beautifully, the most popular girl in her class. But when she hit puberty, her looks began to change. She put on weight, and her slender face grew round. Her blond hair turned brown. She needed braces and glasses.

Some of her classmates began to make fun of her, but Maddie didn’t mind. She was a happy person and liked the way she looked.

Her mother, though, was disturbed by Maddie’s changing appearance.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I can help you.”

“But I don’t need help, Mom.”

“You’ll thank me later,” her mother said.

She signed Maddie up with a modeling agency.

“I want you to turn her back into model material,” she told the lady at the agency.

They put Maddie on a strict diet and a rigorous exercise program. They swapped her glasses for contacts and her metal braces for clear plastic aligners. They bleached her teeth, waxed her face and dyed her hair.

Her mother was thrilled by the transformation.

“You’ll be a famous model one day,” she said.

At her first photo shoot under contract, the photographer made Maddie strike a variety of most unnatural poses. She felt uncomfortable, but she obliged and managed to smile, even though she felt like crying.

“Perfect,” the photographer said.

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San Francisco Heart, by Ed N. White

5/11/2019

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I froze my ass in San Francisco. I know that’s not how the song goes, but that’s what was happening. An unexpected blast of cold air blew in from the bay, dropping the temperatures way below average for this time of year. I was unprepared for this bringing only a light jacket with me from Florida. Just enough to cover my gun. The man I was looking for could be found on Friday nights at Kennedy’s, an Irish pub with an Indian restaurant attached. I guess anything is possible if you know where to look.
I drove my rental up Columbus Avenue and, after several tries, found a parking spot on a side street a block away. I rechecked my phone for his picture, then deleted it. It would be hard to miss a three-hundred-fifty-pound guy who wasn’t that tall.
He was in a corner with a much younger woman. They were arguing. Her beauty was stunning, made more so by her emotion. She raised a hand as if to slap him. He grabbed her wrist and twisted it, causing her pain. He released her, and she stepped back and headed my way, head down, probably crying. As she passed, her heat and scent touched every nerve.
I went to him and stood there, staring. He knew who I was and said, “Let’s go outside.” He nodded toward the door and waddled through the crowd with his fat ass rolling from side to side like ocean swells.
We sat in a new Tesla. “Nice car.”
He looked at me as if to say, ‘What did you expect.’ My dislike was growing exponentially.
“Who’s the woman?” I already knew the answer.
“That’s it. That’s why I hired you.”
“I told you I didn’t do women or children. You lied to me.”
“Everyone has a price.” I felt his smirk in the darkness.
“Double.”
“I’ll give you half now. Half when it’s done.”
“Cash.”
He reached under the seat and withdrew a zippered banker’s bag. Opened it, sounding like a band-aid being ripped off a hairy arm, and handed me two packs of C-notes. “Count it.”
“I trust you.”
“So, we're good?”
“Not quite.” I reached inside my jacket and pulled the gun stuffing it hard between his fat rolls that would snuff the noise like a silencer. His breath sucked in, and his eyes bugged out.
I leaned closer, “Listen carefully. "I have friends out here. They’ll keep watch. If anything happens to that woman, they will cut you into fish bait. Capeesh?"
He nodded. What else could he do?
I left him there, sitting in his own stain. I left San Francisco with my heart intact.

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Mother, by Marjan Sierhuis

1/11/2019

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I stand outside her hospital room, and I watch while she dozes in a chair by the window. Flickering beams of morning light filter through the window blinds and bounce off wisps of white hair.

It has only been a few weeks since my last visit, but I notice how frail she has become during my absence. The sheer futility of it all tugs at my heartstrings, and for a moment it renders me speechless. But I need to accept the inevitable: my mother is very ill.

She gradually opens her eyes and looks up at me with a puzzled expression on her face. Her knuckles turn white as she grips the armrests of her chair. I hesitate, and then I walk over. I smile, lean down, and I press my cheek against hers just as she did when I was a little girl, and I didn’t feel well.

“Hello mother,” I whisper in her ear. She tilts her head sideways, looks at me, and she begins to shiver. I wonder if she is cold so I take a wool shawl out of her bedside drawer, and I wrap it around her shoulders. I kiss her on the forehead and then look her in the eyes. I search for a sign of recognition.

She appears utterly helpless and alone as she sits in her chair. I wrap my arms around her, and I hold her close.

“Do I know you?”

My eyes sting with unshed tears. “Yes,” I say, and I immediately turn my head.

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A Last Promise, by Stella Gaucher-Murovic

1/11/2019

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The young man sits on a bench outside the funeral parlor and takes out a Player's. Ignites it with his old man's lighter, engraved with his initials. He's almost twenty-eight with a dad who hasn't made it to sixty.

This is the last day of the wake, his last smoke, his last promise to the man. He inhales deeply, savoring the acrid taste filling his mouth and throat. He exhales slowly, monitoring the smoke as it vanishes and converts to air. This last cigarette soothes him with its flavor of consolation.

He draws in the smoke and pictures it encasing his lungs, reluctant to leave. After his last puff, after pinching and flicking the butt, it's time for a last farewell.

His dad died a wretched death and the son saw this as a prophetic warning of his own demise. But this time would be different; a last pledge to his dad, not to be violated like a New Year's Resolution.

This time he has a guaranteed backup, sure not to miss. They called it 'Vaping'.

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The Human Atrocity, by Sankar Chatterjee

1/11/2019

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It was a foggy and chilly autumn dawn along the banks of the Danube River in Budapest (Hungary). Ms. Lena Volodya was strolling on the Pest side, separated from the Buda side by the river. The cruise ships that crisscross the river ferrying tourists to various European cities were faintly visible through the dense fog.

As she moved forward, she noticed multitudes of scattered worn-out shoes covered a part of the bank at a distant. Approaching further, she realized they were not real ones but part of a permanent sculpture. She took out her guide-book and opened the page mentioning this particular art. She learned that the local militiamen who were aligned with the Nazis in last World War would bring the rounded-up dissidents and members of the Jewish community to the bank. The victims would then line up facing the river, taking off their shoes. They will be chained together. Then only the two book-end ones would be shot to die instantly and falling into the water dragging along the rest, still alive but drowning eventually. The sculpture, appropriately titled “Shoes on the Danube Bank” was the brainchild of a local artist to confront this nation’s dark history.

Suddenly, the dense fog surrounding Ms. Volodya morphed into a dark cloud with flashes of burst of machine gun fires and heavy artilleries. Ms. Volodya began to drown into a deep memory of her own distant past. She was a military nurse in the Russian army in the same war. In final year, she was assigned to a front unit that was marching forward to liberate Europe from the grips of the Nazis. On arriving Hungary, they came under an intense bombing campaign. When the dust settled, her medical unit got a call to attend to a group of wounded soldiers who got trapped in a trench, just outside this city. As her nursing unit approached the location, all they saw a series of erect black military boots, as if to signal the location of the wounded. But soon the horror became apparent. Nazis were able to capture the group of Russian soldiers there. Before retreating, they machine-gunned the entire unit, severed their legs from the knees and placed inside individual boots. In harsh cold weather, each set then became like a wooden stake, standing freely and offering a macabre display of human atrocity.

As the sun began to rise, Ms. Volodya came back to her senses. She then heard a tune coming out of a passing double-decked ship. It was Late John Lennon’s “Imagine.”

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Waiting, by Camilla Ignacio

27/10/2019

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A cool breeze swept in through the window. She observed the happy pair outside. The man made silly faces and the baby giggled with delight. She felt a familiar tightness in her chest.

The boy behind her--no, the man--continued his attempt to fix the broken chair at the kitchen table. She still thought of him as a boy sometimes. It had been so long. He often saw her as a girl instead of the grown woman she was now. She didn’t know this; he could add this to the list of things he hadn’t told her.

The birds were chirping, the sun was shining, and her heart was aching. She heard him tinkering with the tools behind her. It was a familiar sound. No, it was more than that--it was a comforting sound. A few moments had passed since either had spoken.

“I wish you had,” she whispered softly and felt her chest collapse in on itself.

The clinking tools stopped for a moment. He steeled himself then looked up at her. But she wasn’t looking at him. She was still gazing out the window. She wasn’t visibly angry or upset. There was no evidence she felt the same devastation that was wreaking havoc on his insides. A little smile played on her lips as if she was envisioning what could have been. It passed over her face like a mist.

He stared at her profile silhouetted against the soft light coming through the window. He reminded himself to breathe and turned back to the chair. She walked out to the garden where her husband and baby waited for her.

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Harvey Franklin Jackson, by Gordon Lawrie

25/10/2019

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Harvey Franklin Jackson was enjoying his golfing holiday in Scotland away from his long-suffering wife back in Texas. In Harvey's world, women had only two functions, one of which was to look after any children that were the result of the other. In everything else they were inferior beings –in politics, in business, in the arts and in the professions, but, most of all, as drivers. Each day, Harvey sneered, swore, made obscene gestures and blared his horn at any female unfortunate to find herself in his path and being tailgated by him. But at least women drivers provided him with a series of cheap jokes to share with his friends.

Harvey Franklin Jackson showered, shaved and dressed, clambering into his outsized golfing gear, which today was his favourite plus-fours and tweeds: it didn't look so out of places when he wore the braces necessary to keep his trousers up somewhere near his midriff. Then he set off for breakfast in the dining room, where he demanded to see the manager because the young waitress had brought warm milk for his americano rather than cold. When the duty manager turned out to be female, he berated her further for her poor management and insisted on reporting her in turn to a male colleague. Any male colleague.

Thankfully, his golf today would be at an all-male golf club where women were only allowed into the clubhouse to clean the toilets. Scowling, Harvey Franklin Jackson left his hotel, climbed into his outsized four-wheel drive hire car and set off down the driveway. Turning right, the last thing he saw in life was the large family saloon coming straight towards him, and the woman driving it. Harvey had forgotten to keep to the left side of the road.

Mercifully, the woman emerged unhurt.

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Boxes, by Doug Hoekstra

25/10/2019

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Standing in line at the grocery store, I spotted a National Geographic special edition dedicated to the 100th anniversary of the Grand Canyon. Stunning photography, I tossed it on the conveyor belt with my yogurt, almonds, and various sundries. A short dude rang me up. I’d seen him there before, always smiling, seemingly happy in his work.

“It looks amazing,” he said, gesturing to the magazine, “have you been?”

“Yes, I have and it is,” I answered. “It exceeds the hype. I stayed at the South Rim, but I hear the North Rim is great, as well. Less traveled.” He nodded as he scanned.

Suddenly, he stopped and looked at me. “Do you believe in God?” he asked, still smiling.

Quite the transition, but having lived in Tennessee awhile, I was ready. “It depends on what day of the week it is,” I said, trying to be both respectful and disarming.

See, I do believe in God, or I don’t, depending on my daily reality. I have friends of different faiths, who I admire and look up to for their dedication to service, humility, and community. Other people label themselves as believers and seem to manipulate the whole things to dubious ends. But, I don’t know their pain, so I try not to judge. As I get older, I see more of the gray area in everything, the shadows between black and white.

“The Canyon is there because of the flood,” he continued. “Noah.”

On the other hand, I believe in Science every day of the week. Water cut the canyon, for sure, erosion through the eons. You hike down a trail, you see it real time.

“The Colorado River is still working on it, I said,” trying to find common ground. “The Canyon is actually getting bigger.”

“It’s all from the days of Noah,” he said, dismissive, as if this explained everything.

One of the true clichés about the Grand Canyon is one can sit and stare at solid rock and see constant change in motion, as the sun ducks behind clouds, the earth moves, and shadows paint the day. Stone walls that appear static come alive, shifting in color and shape. It makes you think about the significance of the moment, and one’s very small part in that moment, no more relevant than Noah, going along for the ride. This is what I thought.

But “that’s interesting,” is all I said. There was silence. “You should definitely go sometime,” I added.

As I paid for my groceries, the girl at the end of the checkout line offered to box them up and take them out to my car, which I declined, as I always do. If I’m lucky, I’ll live long enough to be cruising through the grocery store on a scooter someday, unable to lift much or take my groceries to my car without help. Until then, I would do it myself. Plus, at the end of the day, I would only throw the boxes away.

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Angela, by Chelsea Aston

25/10/2019

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“Mommy! Mommy! A pretty bird!”

Margaret rounds the corner into the kitchen and finds Angela, little blonde head tilted to the side, staring out the sliding glass doors. Her daughter’s curiosity was insatiable when it comes to animals. Even the occasional snake that managed to slither into their garden elicited a oohs and aahs from baby Angela. Now at age five, her interest in wildlife has only grown stronger.

“Where, darling?” Margaret asks as she approaches the door. She peeks over her daughter’s head and stops. A smear of red stains the glass, and on the other side, a bird lies, neck cranked unnaturally, on the sidewalk.

Swiftly, she covers Angela’s eyes and shifts her away from the door. “Stay here, honey. Don’t look.”

Outside, Margaret stoops over the poor bird. Its body twitches in its death throes, and a pang pierces Margaret’s heart. She grabs a rock, takes a deep breath, and smashes the birds head. The twitching stops, and a trail of blood leaks from beneath the rock. With a great sigh, she turns back to the house.

Angela stands in the doorway, mouth in a perfect little O.

“I told you not to look!” Margaret scolds, then admonishes herself. Her daughter is just a child, curious to a fault. She wraps her pudgy little hand in hers. “The bird was hurt. We couldn’t let him suffer, so mommy took away his pain.”

“He’s dead?”

“Yes. We’ve put him out of his misery.”

****

The next morning, Margaret awakes to the whiz of cars passing on their early morning commute. The sun shines through the sheer curtains, filling the room with cool autumn light. She meanders into the kitchen, aching for coffee, and glances at the sliding glass doors. They are ajar. The smudge of bird blood has dried, and below, a new bloody smudge, thicker and more viscous, stains the glass. She crouches to better see. The bloody print is in the shape of a pudgy little hand.

“Weee! Stay still, critter!”

Margaret spins toward the sound of her daughter’s voice. “Angela? Where are you?”

She bounds down the hall to her daughter’s room and throws open the door. A sour, decaying stench whacks her in the face. The white carpet is sprayed pink with blood, and a bright red puddle forms at her daughter’s feet. Before the little girl lies a mangled raccoon, patches of fur ripped from raw skin, it's back legs a tangled mess of bone and flesh. Something she found on the side of the road! Margaret thinks. It hisses, thrashing weakly at Angela's leg. Gracefully, she side-steps its attack. The little girl lifts her ceramic piggy bank above her head--

"No, Angela!"

--and slams it down on the raccoon, once, twice, three times, until the hissing stops and the room grows quiet.

Angela turns around, smiling at her mother. Flecks of blood drip down her cherub’s face, and she says, “See, mommy? I put it out of its misery.”

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The Man With the Plan, by Kim Favors

18/10/2019

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“I have the secret weapon,” boasts Paul. “I’ll have the women swarming all over me.”

“I take it you’re leaving the cigars at home?” laughs Stan.

The charity fundraiser at the country club is three weeks away but already the five longtime friends are betting on who’ll collect the most phone numbers.

Widowed, divorced, never married, the OctoBoys as they call themselves — they’re all 80-plus or nearing — haven’t given up on romance. Just no more online dating, bars or singles’ events.

“Remember the gal who waited until we were at the steakhouse before telling me she was both vegetarian and vegan?” says Ed at one of their get-togethers. “Don’t forget the one who took me to a nudist resort but refused to remove her makeup,” Manuel chimes in.

The five have also learned that not all women share their enthusiasm for golf, tennis, car shows and deep-sea fishing. Or cigars.

So over Sunday brunch and drinks at their favorite restaurant, Stan, Manuel, Riku and Ed begin strategizing on the women who might attend the fundraiser and how to meet them.

Paul just sits quietly and smiles.

“The last time you smirked like that, we were playing poker and you wound up losing five hundred. Why so confident this time?” asks Stan.

“You’ll see,” Paul can barely keep a straight face.

The five put down their money. Paul, “since I’m going to win anyway,” logs the bets.

Country club day arrives and four of the five — their attire preapproved by Riku, best dresser of the group — show up together.

As they scope out the women, they also look for Paul, who’s uncharacteristically late.

Finally, he appears at the gate. Women immediately begin heading his way.

Under each arm, Paul has a wriggling mixed-breed puppy. Both are wearing small doggie vests with the words “Adopt Me.”

With the puppies licking his chin and ears, Paul catches up with his friends.

“Man’s best wingman,” he says, grinning.

“You can pay up now, boys. I’ll need the money to buy drinks for all these good-looking dog-lovers while I get their phone numbers.”

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The Human Curiosity, by Sankar Chatterjee

18/10/2019

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Ms. Sophia Luigi, a third year PhD-student in the field of antiquity was working in a new archaeology site near Pompeii (Italy). In first century CE, the volcanic ash from a violent eruption from nearby Mount Vesuvius buried the original city. Over past several decades, international teams of researchers had excavated various parts of that vanished city that remained surprisingly intact under the dust of destruction. This particular site sat a few kilometers away from the center of the city and postulated to be a recreational area.

This day, Sophia removed the last few bricks from the mid-section of a wall of a newly excavated structure. Then, she slowly lowered herself through the hole to land inside a large room. After gathering herself, she looked around and noticed an intact fresco, covering one wall. The painting depicted two armed warriors at the end of a fight; one victorious the other bloodied and defeated, asking for mercy. Intact maroon and yellow paints adorned the figures. Sophia’s research team had already excavated several artifacts pointing towards the existence of a gladiator fighting arena nearby. This painting would suggest that this particular room might have been used as a rest area, following a fight between two competitors. She took copious notes and filmed the entire area.

Six months later, Sophia presented her findings in an international conference in Istanbul, Turkey. At the end of the gathering, she would decide to explore Turkey, a country being at the juncture of Europe and Asia. Her journey would take her to Cappadocia, an ancient city whose landscape was shaped by the soft rocks from volcanic eruptions from nearby Mount Erciyes, million years ago.

One early morning, she took a hot-air balloon ride over the valley. The balloon floated forward over several tall cave-like structures appeared to be inhabited in past. After returning to the ground, she located a local guide who accompanied her to nearby Göreme National Park where several cave-churches were established by the early followers of Christianity, fleeing persecution. She entered one of the largest ones and immediately noticed a well-preserved fresco of Christ’s face on the ceiling, reminding her of the arts from Byzantine-era. She noticed that the major paints utilized by the artist were maroon and yellow, similar ones utilized in the painting she uncovered in Pompeii’s rubble. In addition, the painting techniques also bore an uncanny resemblance.

Sophia came out of the ancient church and looked at the distant horizon, murmuring “Throughout ages, our humanity had seen the rise and fall of several civilizations. But the results of human curiosity survived, whether in science, arts or literature.”

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The Rescue, by Sivan Pillai

18/10/2019

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It is past midnight and there is only a faint light from an infant moon and a handful of starlings playing hide-and-seek among the dark patches of clouds gliding across the sky. Even the fireflies seem to have decided not to come out of their habitat. And here I am, in my late sixties, standing beside a car that has decided not to move. There is no sign of human habitation nearby, and I don’t have my mobile phone with me. My wife is huddled inside, chanting the name of her favourite deity. The intensity of her chants increases with every passing moment, bordering on hysteria. I can’t blame her. We had been warned to keep away from the area after sunset thanks to the increasing number of crimes reported, but certain developments had left me with no option.
Ages seem to have passed before I see flashes of a torchlight heading my way, accompanied by the rhythmic sound of footsteps. I wait with bated breath, bracing myself for the worst.
A man of uncertain age in a crumbled uniform halts a few feet away and surveys the scene. The beam of his torchlight lingers momentarily on my wife, too.
“Any problem?” he asks in a low tone.
I tell him.
He asks me to lift the hood. Bending over the engine he fiddles for a few minutes with God knows what and straightens up.
“Start the car, please.”
And the engine comes to life instantly!
Even as I thank him and take out my wallet, he starts walking away. He doesn’t respond to my call to stop and soon merges with the darkness.
“I had no doubt my prayers would be answered,” my wife declares as I start the car.
“But that was probably just a nice man going home after a day’s work.”
“So late in this godforsaken place?” She asks with a derisive laugh.
I don’t want to challenge her faith. An angel in disguise or a good Samaritan, the least I can do is not to grudge him a halo.

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This is Not a Scary Story, by Arlene Antoinette

11/10/2019

This is not a scary story about cats. Is there anything terrifying about creatures with
the ability to mesmerize human beings with a mere stare, turning us into nothing more than
living automatons, willing to do their biddings at the slightest flick of their feline tail?

This is not a scary story about cats, so, don’t you start looking over your shoulders and getting jumpy just yet. What’s so odd about an animal who has the ability to run across a fence less than half a centimeter wide, jump three feet straight into the air from a resting position or swat a sweet little mouse around as if it were a dollar store toy?

Really, what could be strange about an animal that cries like a human baby, in the middle of the night, attempting to lure our pathetic butts outside so it can take over our homes? Nothing, right? No, there’s nothing weird about that at all.

And what about that 'nine lives' folklore? Humans barely get one full life and they get nine? Where’s the justice in that? This is not a scary story about cats, but maybe it ought to be

Fear, by Roshwin Sengupta

11/10/2019

At half past 10 on a gloomy Saturday morning I find myself standing on the edge of a cliff. I look down. Only 60 seconds till I jump off, heading towards the cruel, meandering river below.

I look around. A few strange faces. Busy capturing moments of their beautiful life. Beautiful? I smirk. Then why am I here today? Ready to let go. Why do I not see any friendly face in these last few moments?

Why?

40 seconds.

Face your fear – they said. Let go of your shackles – they said. Embrace your fear, and enjoy true essence of life. Live life at it’s fullest. It would be excruciating – they never said. It would make your bones quiver, so much so that you will want to give up – they missed.

And so, here I am. On the cliff.

30 seconds. I panic.

What if this moment is the last before I jump? Before I embrace what comes next?

I see a few smiling faces. Happy. Excited. Maybe they wave?

20 seconds. I shiver.

Flashes of faces. Friends. Family. A few memories. Arguing. Laughing. Without a hint of what comes next.

10 seconds.

So this is it! Maybe it is better like this. To find myself enraptured by the wind, scarcely able to breathe, captured in an instant from hope to despair, blood thumping through your veins so fast that you feel it, is worth the last few moments of sanity.

5 seconds.

4.

3.

2.

1.

I jump.

A rush of wind gushing through. My heart beating with suffocating pace. The river seems close. Much close.

Splashes of water on my face. A lump in my throat.

I close my eyes. The end is near.

A sudden jolt.

I stop.

The rope works!

I let out a shout. A shout of joy. Of exuberance. Of conquering fear. The fear of heights. The fear of falling down. The fear of letting go.

This is worth the asphyxiating fear. Because what comes next is pure freedom. Freedom from my fear. Freedom from my own shackles. Freedom to live my life. Live, and not just breathe.

This gives hope. Hope, that even at the lowest point, all is not over. Hope, that the journey downhill will stop.

And now, I am going back up.

Hostage, by Ashlynn Bruce

6/10/2019

It was a sunny, normal day in Lexington, Kentucky. Little kids from down the street were riding their trikes, teens were hanging out at the park, our new next-door neighbors were arguing about what shade of beige to paint their house, and I Mary Sanentini was listening to my mom telling me to go have fun and play outside. I am resentful but I comply. Outside it is scalding hot, so hot that I feel if I stay outside any longer my skin might melt off. I walk around the side of our big three-story rental house that we rented a few weeks after my dad disappeared. My mom couldn’t bear to look at all of the stuff and relive all of the memories, so we moved, and to be honest I couldn’t live with it either. When I reach the old dingy building where we keep all of dad’s old tools and my bikes I picked the rusted deadbolt lock and open the doors. When I walk inside I am suddenly hit with a powerful wave of memories. Dad smiling at me and my mom while using his 50-year-old Stanley drill that grandpa gave him when he was a kid. Dad and I working hard building the treehouse in the old backyard. I finally realize how much I miss him. Instantly I crumple to the floor and start sobbing. It must’ve been only a few minutes but it felt like hours until I feel cold strong arms grab me. I scream and then a wet cloth was pressed against my nose. A sedative. I thought. I tried to fight it but sure enough, I started getting entangled in a haze of blackness. The last thing I remember was hearing my mom scream my name and a gunshot before the sedative overcame me.

………………………..

I awoke horrified forgetting about the terrors that occurred however long ago. I was encompassed in darkness. The only light coming from a small candle in the corner of the room. It was damp and smelled like moss in the place and I couldn’t pinpoint what the ground felt like. I crawled over to the candle where I was shocked to find a body. At first, I thought it was dead but as I looked closer I noticed that it’s chest I realized that it was heaving steadily. Please don’t be a killer. I thought as I tried to shake it awake. The person swatted at my hand for a few seconds then arose and looked me up and down. I’d recognize that face anywhere, even under the scrawny physique, ratty hair, and the crazed look in his eye from exhaustion. Both of our jaws were practically on the floor as I whispered. “ Dad.”In reply, he whispered. “Mary.”

Judge's Day Out, by Sivan Pillai

4/10/2019

I can’t place him, but the face is familiar. A closer look at his face would have helped, but he, busy placing food and drinks on the table, seems to have decided to keep the distance. Once or twice he passes me from behind but that is of no help.
“Who’s your new servant?” I ask my host when the man leaves the room.
“John. Very trustworthy. Looks after me and my wife like a son.”
“Have you verified his past?”
“No, but…”
“How can you be so complacent, Tom? Don’t you read newspapers? Crooks are aplenty and elderly people are their easy prey. And you are supposed to notify the local police when you hire someone new”.
Tom hesitates a moment before replying, “Well, he was recommended by a close friend. You know him. Jailor James. He has told me everything about John.”
The cobweb disappears suddenly from my mind.
“He is so light-fingered, My Lord, that he can remove the iris of one’s eye without the victim getting any wiser.” The public prosecutor’s voice reverberates in my ears. I had sent the man to jail for pick-pocketing. Maybe about five years ago.
As I approach my car after bidding adieu to my hosts, I am puzzled to find the key missing from my pocket. I am about to turn back to the house when someone taps on my shoulder.
“Looking for this, Sir?” John asks with a mischievous smile, extending his palm with my key in it.
Amused by my confusion, he confides in me, “Don’t worry, Sir. Tom knows everything about my past. I have decided to lead an honest life, thanks to my fiancee. I am happy here and have no intention of going back.”
“And yet you picked my pocket?”
“Oh, that! I’m still proud of my skills and like to test it now and then, that’s all. No harm intended.”
It seems an eternity before I find my voice. I take him aside and whisper, “John, if you ever get tired of Tom, you are welcome at my place.”

Home Sweet Home, Doug Bartlett

27/9/2019

Sammy opened his eyes to discover he was encapsulated in some sort of cage or tomb. He could not tolerate being in such a small area. He also noticed a very strong sense coming from deep within himself to return home. Home! What was home like and where was it located? He had no idea. He could not recall any memory of home. In fact, he had no recollection of anything outside of this structure he found himself in. He didn’t even know how he got here.
He looked for a way out but saw no doorway or opening. He began hitting the sides of this enclosure, partly out of frustration but mainly as an attempt to escape. It was exhausting work. At times he wanted to give up but that internal urge to return home, wherever that was, would not let him.
When he started this arduous task, the structure would just rock back and forth. Suddenly, he noticed a small crack developing, and then another and another. The cracks began to increase in size, as did his hope for escape.
The larger the cracks became, the harder he would strike them. Finally, a large section broke off and fell away.
Sammy immediately protruded his head out and his lungs were engulfed with an overwhelming rush of fresh air.
This gave him a surge of energy, allowing him to wiggle his entire body through the opening.
He was finally free! But where was he? He found himself on cool, damp sand. He knew this wasn’t home as his internal urging was pulling him in the direction of the only sound he could hear, that of the pounding surf of the ocean.
He was totally exhausted but knew he had to continue moving forward. His escape drained so much energy from him that he was reduced to a crawl.
He expended his last ounce of energy as he laid down where the salty water of the ocean lapped up on the pristine sand of the beach.
Just when he thought it was all over, the tide came in surrounding him, and gently lifted him up and carried him to deeper water.
Home at last! Home sweet home. Sammy frolicked about as he was now the happiest sea turtle in the entire Pacific Ocean.

A Long Lost Romance, by Sankar Chatterjee

27/9/2019

Mr. Hayat Thomas, a handsome young gentleman with Armenian Christian ancestry was pursuing a bachelor degree in anthropology in the university in Istanbul (Turkey). His great-grandparents had survived the Ottoman Empire’s genocidal pogrom on their ethnicity during the World War I. Yet they had stayed back and subsequent generations flourished under the secular democracy initiated by Late Mustafa Kamal Atatürk, modern Turkey’s founding father. In university, Hayat fell in love with Ms. Karina Begum, a gorgeous young lady with Islamic background. Karina was pursuing a similar degree in archaeology. During a joint field projects involving both academic departments, they would become more intimate and their love would blossom.

Unfortunately, a calamity would soon strike Karina. Her both parents would perish in a car accident. Being the only child to her now-deceased parents, she would be adopted by her religiously conservative uncle living in Saudi Arabia. Subsequently, the uncle would make Karina to move to that country. Soon, it became clear to both Hayat and Karina that their long distance romance had hit a roadblock and nothing could be done to rescue their relationship, while one was living in a secular country and the other in a religiously conservative nation.

On graduation, Hayat would become a professional tourist guide in the city. Istanbul (Constantinople in previous incarnation) had experienced its share of the rise and fall of various human civilizations involving the Greeks and the Romans. The city had witnessed also the tension between modern religions of Christianity and Islam. Recently, Hayat was leading a group of tourists, comprised of citizens from various Middle Eastern nations. After a visit to the city’s iconic Blue Mosque, Hayat was guiding the group towards the Topkapi Palace, the residence of the past Sultanates. He noticed a young gentleman carrying a heavy-set backpack rushed past him. Then he heard a click noise, followed by an eye-blinding flash of silver light and a deafening sound blast. Bodies flew around with accompanied screaming from the throngs of tourists. Hayat, himself wounded, realized modern terrorism that had been plaguing the Mid-East finally struck his secular country.

Fortunately, most of his guests were following him in a slow pace keeping a certain distance, thus sparing them from being severely wounded. However, one female member of the group, covered with a traditional black dress remained motionless on the ground. Hayat approached her. After a little hesitation, he lifted and carried her to a safer distance.

As Hayat was placing the lady under a palm tree within the perimeter of a grassy knoll, he heard the long forgotten voice of Karina, whispering “Dear Hayat, this time you did come back to rescue me from the wrath of a radical fundamentalist.”

As I Hold His Hand, by Arlene Antoinette

27/9/2019

I kneel down to tie the laces on his shoes. Again, he’s in those brown loafers, the ones which he insists on wearing daily, no matter their shabby condition. Hesitantly, he gets up from the chair. He stands almost erect as his back seems a little stiff today. The small red tote bag on the counter is filled with his necessities: an eight-ounce bottle of water, an egg salad sandwich with extra mayo and sweet pickles, wet wipes safely stored in a zip-lock bag, and a diaper. I check it twice to make sure we have everything he needs for the day. Placing the tote over my shoulder, I take hold of his hand as we head out the door. He tries to pull away once or twice, but my grip is firm, and I don’t let go. He’s humming a familiar tune. I can’t make out what it is, but I join in to bring fullness to the melody. He gets into the car, and fidgets as I adjust and fasten his seatbelt. He looks up at me and demands to know where we’re going. He hates medical appointments, so I lie and say we’re going for a drive into town. I shouldn’t deceive him, but there would be a lot of screaming if he knew the truth. As I walk around to the driver’s side, he struggles to unhook the clasp on the belt. With a little haste, I make it to my seat before he's able to unfasten the buckle. With the roar of the engine I turn and say, dad, we are on our way.

Divine Justice, by Pamela Kennedy

21/9/2019

"This is my dominion," uttered the sot as he parked his carcass in front of the TV. Another night of the same old routine: news, sports, and snoring during his nap before going to bed.

Sara had grown weary of Andrew's ways. As time went on, her Beloved became her Not-So-Beloved. Her own odd logic justified her marriage: Drew earned a decent living, he just wasn't prosperous; he wasn't vulgar, just uncouth; and he certainly wasn't evil, only extremely inconsiderate.

Neither was Andrew a stranger to the banality of their marriage. Sara-So-Predictable, Sara Surprise-less, Sara Slow-to-Come, and on and on. It was easier to ignore the marital staleness than to upset the apple cart.

Almost daily, thoughts of freedom frolicked through Sara's mind as she questioned whether she had the skill and the will to recapture her life for herself. And, then, out of nowhere the magic formula manifested itself.

Extra Strength Boiler Makers, served throughout the sixth game of the Series, would be the easiest way. Everyone knew "Drew
loved two too many". Slyly smiling, Sara felt confident that by this time next week she'll be known as the Weeping Widow.

As the sixth game progressed, the drinks became stronger. The preparation of yet another drink was interrupted....

"Sara, these drinks are way too strong. Are you trying to ki....".
The look on Sara's face was a dead give away. As the shocking realization set in, Andrew barely had enough strength to support himself.

***

A small table displayed the ashes blanketed by rose petals. The sparsely attended memorial service prompted the Preacher to shorten his eulogy.

"The Lord works in mysterious ways. Sadly, Andrew's stumble resulting in Sara's tumble, caused them both to suffer lethal head injuries. Only God knows why He chose these bizarre events to hasten this couple to His bosom where they can share their companionship and love for each other in eternity. Let us pray..."

Voices In My Head, Doug Bartlett

21/9/2019

John was departing from his grandmother’s house. As he went across the dilapidated front porch and down the rickety steps, he was inundated with pleasant memories of being raised by this precious lady.
John had recently attended church and had an encounter with Jesus Christ. It was a life-changing experience for him. He had decided to share his newfound faith with his grandmother. This would allow her the same opportunity to have an encounter with Jesus and experience an abundant and eternal life.
However, he was disappointed in himself, as he could not find the courage to do this.
He was halfway to his car when he distinctly heard a voice telling him to return to her and share his faith. As he hesitated, he heard a second, different voice telling him not to worry and he could always share his faith at a later time.
Yes, he thought, he could always do it later. It would be embarrassing to go back right now.
As he wrestled with these two voices, he recalled as a child that the pastor in his church would try to scare people into going to the altar. He would say this might be their last opportunity to come forward to accept Jesus and secure eternal life. They may die in a traffic accident on the way home and be lost forever.
Well, that obviously never happened to him. He never even heard of that happening to anyone.
He felt confident that he had made the right decision by ignoring the first voice. He felt very comfortable by obeying the second voice.
After all, he reasoned, he would have several opportunities to share his faith with his beloved grandmother. He was young, quite healthy and would be around for a very long time. Unfortunately,… Grandma would not!

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