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Monty And The Space Dragon, by Graeme Copland

16/5/2025

2 Comments

 
Captain John Montgomery checked the control panel on the sleeve of his spacesuit for the third time. All his system indicator lights, with the exception of life support, glowed red when they should have been green. He was in a jam and he knew it.

Moments earlier, Captain Montgomery had taken his first steps outside the safety of the space shuttle as it glided silently in Earth’s orbit. His instructions had been clear:

1. Exit the spacecraft and secure himself to the shuttle using a tether.

2. Float or “spacewalk” to the end of the tether.

3. Detach from tether.

4. Engage the space-suit built-in jet pack and return to shuttle.

Steps 1, 2 and 3 had been carried out flawlessly. No issues. But now, he was in trouble. The built-in jets needed to propel him back the safety of the shuttle stubbornly refused to fire. And now, their failure to operate was causing him some concern.

He pressed his intercom button. “Houston, we have a problem. I am showing multiple spacesuit system failures. This includes my jet-pack. Do you copy?”

A distant voice in his headphones replied. “We copy that, Monty. We see your system failures down here and are working on a solution. Standby.”

“Standing by” Monty replied. What else can I do? He thought.

As he waited for Mission Control to respond with a solution, Monty stared at the shuttle. Normally, he loved the vastness and solitude of space but now, for the first time in his career, he was scared. To look away from the shuttle, from safety, from rescue, from life, could mean he never set eyes on it again, and his fate would be sealed. He locked his eyes on the shuttle’s crew entry airlock and tried to control his breathing.

A crackle in his ears. “Monty. This is Houston.”

“Receiving. Go ahead.”

“Ok John, our top engineers have come up with a workaround we need you to try. Power down all your systems. We know this includes life support, and reboot. Hurry John. You don’t have much time.”

Montgomery raised an eyebrow and thought, “Switch it off and on again? Really? And these guys claim to be rocket scientists!”

He looked at the power switch on his suit. Reluctantly, hesitantly, his hand moved to turn off his life support system, when suddenly his helmet filled with a blinding light and a deafening sound.

“Houston. I fear I’m too late. The Space Dragon has found me”.

“John. What are you doing? I’ve been calling you for the past 10 minutes. Your tea is ready and on the table.” John’s Mum had entered his bedroom, switched on the light and was shouting.

“I was just about to fix my spacesuit jet-pack and return to my shuttle.”

“Well, you can return to your shuttle after you’ve had your tea. And don’t forget to do your homework.”

Captain John Montgomery made one last call. “Houston. Can rocket scientists help with sums?”
​
2 Comments

Life is Hard, by Julie Turland

16/5/2025

1 Comment

 
A brutal wind whips the snow into a frenzy, stinging my face with icy crystals, making my cheeks burn and my eyes water. Shivering, my teeth chattering as I huddle closer to my mum, needing her warmth against the cold and the unfamiliar sounds of this hostile land.

The grey skies are heavy with menace; skuas wheel overhead, their harsh cries a constant, unsettling reminder of the lurking danger. Small and vulnerable, I am easy prey, my downy feathers offering little protection.

My parents share the responsibility of raising me. I am shielded by them, and I make many friends among other young chicks.
It’s almost time for me to join the others on our trip to the sea. The salty tang of the sea air, thick with the smell of brine and fish, fills our lungs.

Following the others, their clumsy waddle is a comical sight. We embark on an exciting adventure, each step thrilling and full of unfamiliar sounds. I belly-flop onto the frozen snow; the cold sears my skin as I mimic my elders. This is fun as we slide across the snow.

Ahead the shore is littered with sleeping seals, their snores drifting through the air. We must overcome these obstacles, however perilous. A hop and a jump before I see a glimmering expanse of blue ahead. I am a little hesitant; a knot of uncertainty tightens in my stomach.

The older ones tumble one after another into the sparkling, crystal water. It must be ok. Here I go.

Full of grace, I glide through a jewel-filled ocean, the gentle sway of the ocean currents around me, filled with awe at the kaleidoscope of colours and bioluminescent creatures. For a minute, the thrill of the adventure eclipses my mother’s warning, silencing her cautions in my mind. Whoosh. Enormous jaws, bristling with sharp teeth, snap mere inches from my face. A rush of air from their movement, along with a profound sense of fear. I need to escape. My heart pounds as I speed across the water followed by this enormous creature. Rhythmic drumming fills my ears as I haul myself back onto the slick ice.

Safe now, but this silence feels heavy, a deceptive calm masking a hidden threat. This experience teaches me that danger is ever present. Staying together is key; if I remain alert and aware of my surroundings, I might avoid danger and live a long life. The harsh reality of life’s difficulties has already dawned on me; I know it won’t be a smooth path. Icy blizzards, howling winds that cut to the bone, and the constant threat of becoming prey while hunting for food is no fun. Life’s hard, but it’s especially tough if you’re a penguin.
1 Comment

Like You Like Me Long Version, by Cheryl Dahlstrand

16/5/2025

2 Comments

 
Jake ran into an old friend simply by walking down the street. These things happen.

Dan, buddy, how the hell are you? It’s been quite a while.
I bet thirty years at least. Got time for a brew? There’s a burger joint about a block from here.

So, how’s life been going?

You know, the regular. I married and have a son. High school valedictorian, went to college on a full ride. He founded a computer company, sold it and retired at thirty-three. Now he oversees his investment portfolio and sits on boards. Lucky, I guess. And yourself?

Like you, I married, but not for long. And yeah, like you, I had a son. Different story.

Success pass him by somehow?

You can be the judge. Majoring in journalism, he dropped out of college and piled up serious student debt. When loan forgiveness did not happen, he was desperate. So, he went to where the money was.

Oh, the stock market? Crypto?

No, he robbed a bank and was convicted. Then he wrote a letter.

Crowdsourcing?

No, he explained the situation to the higher ups and was granted a full pardon. Afterwards, he started a blog. It immediately went viral, and money poured in.

Jake, that’s actually just like my boy. What now? Early retirement?

Not exactly. What with the conviction, notoriety and pardon, he decided that he might as well run for office.
2 Comments

The Lift, by Nelly Shulman

16/5/2025

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The cabin stopped with a loud thump, and the mechanic frowned.
The new office building had appeared just over a year ago, replacing the crumbling skeleton of the old Police Ministry—burned in the military coup, looted in the civil war, and bombed in the invasion. The place had been as good as haunted, with its secret underground passages, rotting bodies in the cellars, and rat hordes feeding on God-knows-what.
Stepping into the shiny cabin, the mechanic poked around with a metal stick. An engineer by training, he had forgotten almost everything during the last decade, spent in the corrective labor camps. After the invasion, the prisoners were set free, but he had nowhere to return to and spent his days drifting between jobs.
Everything seemed in order, and he frowned again. The marble floor outside echoed with the click-clack of female heels, and he turned to the plastic wall. Strangers were often scared by his face, distorted and scarred after the torture.
The mechanic inhaled a sweet smell. A corner bakery, where before all the wars he had bought pastries for his girlfriend, had also emanated an aroma of sweet vanilla. The shop, his house, and the whole street were gone, and his girlfriend had disappeared along with her entire family just after the coup—when people vanished into thin air and nobody risked searching for them.
“Is the lift working?”
She spoke his language, and the mechanic turned around. She dressed like the occupants, but the bracelets on her well-cared-for hands and the valuable rings were local—blackened, beaten silver, brimming with opaque gemstones from the mountain mines.
She had dyed her neatly cut hair blonde, but her chestnut eyes remained the same—almond-shaped, languid, and serene. The last time he had kissed them was ten years ago. He had heard about people escaping via the sea, in rubber dinghies, starving on the way and drinking rainwater.
“Is it working?” she repeated, looking at him with a mix of disgust and pity. The mechanic was used to that.
“No,” he managed. “Please take another one.”
The hissing doors obscured her slender back, and he was alone again.
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Back Side of a Milk Carton, by Jim Bartlett

16/5/2025

15 Comments

 
Hoping to catch even a glimpse of my friend, I once again wander the city streets, bracing myself with each step against an icy wind that has brought dark clouds, leaving the world, like my mood, overcast with gray. Scattered here and there, I catch sight of the posters I’d stapled to telephone poles and wooden fences, though time has left them tattered and washed-out from the harsh change of seasons.

“Have you seen her?” they ask in long since faded black and white print. Yet, while my eyes fill with tears as I gaze upon them – she’s been gone for some time now, and I miss her tremendously – even here, on these weather-worn placards, hers shine through the dim with hope for those amongst us who may be lost and weary. And her smile, oh, that smile, sings of a love that at one time could melt the cruelest of hearts.

But times have changed.

Then again, my head lost in a Pollyannic fog, maybe I’d just failed to notice that this metamorphosis has been long underway. Or worse, rather than the gloomy transformation I’ve envisioned, we’re simply returning to who we’ve always been...

That dagger of possibility cuts deep into my soul, sending a shiver down my back. It’s then I realize she’s not lost. She most certainly didn’t just “disappear.” Rather, she was abandoned, left behind, as her empathy and understanding could no longer be stomached. The traits she tried to instill in each of us had become obstacles to the filling of coffers, so much so, there was no room in the world of greed for a welcoming smile or open heart.

But truth be told, even those of us who said we cared – myself included – did nothing more than fearfully stand by and watch as she was driven away by the heckling and angry voices. The fingers pointing in rage, a needed scapegoat finally found.

Really – and I hate to admit it – the signs have always been there. We’d seen her misty eyes when tolerance and acceptance were pushed aside – gasped as the less fortunate were denied that which they so desperately needed. We winced with her when it became the “right” thing to build bigger fences rather than a longer table. And we whispered sadly, watching as she sighed – ever so softly – when openness and opportunity for all turned into an invitation-only event.

But when it became evident hate and deception were perfectly acceptable, and in fact openly celebrated, her soulful sobs should have caused us to rise up with loud voices. Instead, the few who did speak up were chastised, labelled as pariahs, leaving their spark of hope nothing more than charred ashes, scorched by the fiery glee so prominently aglow in the eyes of those rejoicing her demise.

With that, despite rallies and candlelight vigils, my dear friend Compassion remains missing, lost to the cold breeze. And it gives me cause to wonder, with each passing day, if she’s even missed.
15 Comments

A Trip to the Countryside, by Rebekah Lawrence

2/5/2025

0 Comments

 
A cacophony of birdsong fills the air. But no birds are in sight; hidden in the growing crops and burgeoning bushes. Except for the swallows. They continue to swoop and circle, fast-moving shadows against the blue sky; their arrival heralding summer.

They’d all be silent and invisible when he returned later with Veronica, he thought as he walked back to his car. Of course, she’d be silent too. She habitually used silence as a weapon; but he was confident that, after tonight, she would be disarmed.

Veronica has isolated herself all her life. She wasn’t pleased to have to look after him following the loss of his parents in an aircraft crash when he was 14. But that was a long time ago, and for some years he had been taking care of her while she silently despised him. She spoke to no one and rarely left the house.

It took him a while to load the car before he and Veronica set off that night. And even longer to get Veronica settled in the back seat. Although he knew the drive would be silent, he still found it unsettling. He reached for the radio to provide some distraction.

Arriving at the place he had selected earlier, he turned and smiled at Veronica.

“Wait there, I won’t be long.”

Opening the boot, he removed the paper gloves and coveralls. After carefully pulling them on, he reached inside again.

It was harder work than he had expected, but finally everything was ready and he returned to Veronica.

He opened the car door, “It’s been a while coming, but you deserve it all.”

Struggling to get Veronica out of the car, he swore under his breath.

“Helpful as always! If you’d just make a bit of effort, even just occasionally, perhaps life could be better for both of us.”

She didn’t reply, or even look at him.

He smiled at her again when she emerged. “You’ll like it here.”

She didn’t make it to the place he had selected, but he picked her up and carried her the rest of the way. This was the first time he’d held her in all the time they’d spent together. He could hardly breath through her familiar perfume, which was heavier than her small frame. She had never held him, not even to ease his grieving all those years ago.

He carefully replaced the final piece of turf, complete with dandelions and water hyacinths and stepped back to check his work before returning to the car.

Back home, he burnt the paper gloves and coveralls and stored the shovel in the back of the shed.

No one would miss her, he thought, as he entered the house. Then he cleaned out her cup, just in case, and opened a bottle of wine to toast her memory.

The poison had worked well; even if a bit quicker than he had expected.
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The Redlands, by Don Tassone

18/4/2025

 
In the Southern Ocean, between South America and Antarctica, there is an island chain called The Redlands.  Historically, few people have lived there because the climate is so harsh.  But with global warming, the ice and snow have begun to melt, and the population has ticked up.

The Redlands are a sovereign state.  In the 1800s, they belonged to England.  But as the British Empire began to unravel, The Crown let go of the islands, thinking them of no real value beyond a safe harbor for ships making their way through the treacherous waters of the Drake Passage.

Except for the crews on those ships, few people had even heard of The Redlands. That changed in 2026, when large deposits of the rare earth minerals scandium and yttrium were discovered just beneath the newly exposed surface of the islands.

The world took note. Many countries wanted those minerals. The US made the first move, extending a lucrative offer for mining rights.  China, Russia and Europe quickly followed with offers of their own.

But the 22,000 inhabitants of The Redlands weren’t interested. Concerned excavation would ruin both their land and simple way of life, they politely declined all offers.

This didn’t sit well with the American President, who angrily vowed to “get The Redlands, one way or another.”

Most nations no longer trusted the US. Even once staunch allies now saw America as a threat.

When they heard the US might “get” The Redlands, China, Russia and Europe decided they’d had enough. They jointly issued a warning that any invasion by the US would be met with a “swift and forceful response.”

“They’re bluffing,” sneered the President.

Then he ordered his military to take control of The Redlands. But the President had badly misjudged his counterparts. As soon as American soldiers set foot on the islands, China, Russia and Europe unleashed nuclear strikes on the US. America tried to mount a defense, but the combined attack was overwhelming. Within a few hours, the US was decimated.

When the dust settled, China and Russia divvied up America, on the eve of its 250th birthday; Europe stepped up as the new leader of the free world; and The Redlands remained undefiled.
​

Cold Cuts, by John O’Keefe

18/4/2025

 
Italian deli; only a handful of guests, most sitting by themselves.

I check the counter first. Bologna, hard salami, Black Forest ham, pepperoni, roast beef, smoked turkey breast, prosciutto, corned beef, liverwurst, cheeses.

“Nice place,” I tell the heavyset bald man, probably the owner.

“Thanks, ma’am,” he says. “Business is slow, though. People no longer eat out or no longer see eye to eye, I dunno. Jus’ a few come here anymore.”

“You’ve got smoked beef tongue?”

“Irish-Italian neighborhood, ma’am, nobody would touch that kinda thing here. Although I remember, my old man liked it also.”

There’s a TV on the wall next to the counter; on the screen we see a deep crater where a hospital was standing a few hours ago. The deli man sighs and shakes his head.

An elderly woman who entered the store right after me joins the conversation. “Beef tongue! Sounds disgusting. It’s probably like French kissing a cow.”

“I like it,” I tell her. “Acquired taste, I guess.”

“Well, I for one wouldn’t want to acquire that taste.”

The TV announces that during a friendly soccer game a rocket slammed into the pitch killing a dozen kids. The deli man sighs again and murmurs a few words, the four-lettered type.

“In a bad mood today, are you?” I ask him.

“Always, ma’am,” he says. “What a world we live in!”

I order roast beef on Russian rye, mustard, pickle. And an extra pickle to help ponder the world we live in.

Moonlit Romance, by Dart Humeston

18/4/2025

 
Ryan parked the car along Fort Lauderdale beach. The night was warm as the full moon rose from the dark Atlantic Ocean, bathing the waves and sand in purity.

“What are we doing?” Mary asked.

“Take your shoes off, we are going to tip our toes into the Atlantic Ocean.”

Mary shook her head, smiling. “You are such a romantic fool.”

They walked carefully, holding hands to steady each other in the soft sand.

Ten meters from the waves Ryan dropped to one knee in the sand.

“Ryan, are you okay?” Mary knowingly asked.

A bikini-clad girl and a guy with long shorts emerged from the
waves, paused to watch.

“Mary, you are my very best friend, and I love you like crazy. Will you be my wife?” Ryan asked, looking up into Mary’s misty eyes.

“Oh, my God!” shrieked the bikini girl, hands to her mouth. Her boyfriend took her hand, and they watched the romantic scene play out with a few other bathers.

Mary giggled. Ryan swayed about, his face grimacing with pain.

“Can you guys help him up? He has a bad knee,” Mary asked.

Ryan waved them off, saying,” Not until I get my answer.”

Mary, her hands over her chest, tears in her eyes, said, “Of course I will!”

Beach goers cheered and a few clapped. The bikini girl’s boyfriend helped Ryan to his feet.

“Wow, that is awesome, how long have you been dating?” The girl asked, her eyes misty too.

“Ah, well, we actually have been married for fifty-one years. My husband insists on reenacting his proposal every year. He is a hopeless romantic!

“Oh, my God! How awesome!”

Just then, the bikini girl’s boyfriend dropped to one knee in the sand.

The bikini girl shrieked again.

Predictions, by Tom Baldwin

18/4/2025

 
Arnold hated his job. As a government statistician, his work in investigating population densities and changes, death rates and the like was unchallenging, to say the least. But with only two years to serve before retirement and a pension he knew he had no choice but to struggle through the boredom.

One evening, after some particularly depressing world news headlines, he wondered if it might be possible to statistically predict and, ideally, prevent wars.

For a year he looked at the problem in his own time from all angles, and at last he saw a possible way forward, involving novel variations of several accepted statistical equations.

He gathered the data he thought he needed from his own and a friendly neighbouring country’s published information and set his computer to calculate the results. It quickly produced an answer: his country and its neighbour would be at war within two years, plus or minus three months, with a likelihood of eighty per cent, plus or minus six per cent.

Horrified, Arnold checked and double-checked his data and equations, found a few minor errors and re-ran the program. This time it predicted war within twenty months.

That Monday morning an apprehensive Arnold took his results into work to show his boss, who would undoubtably take it to the department head, and maybe up to the President, which was exactly what happened.

Within an hour of the President seeing his work, three grim-faced men strode into Arnold’s office and took him, his laptop and his printed results to a sub-basement room he had never seen before. ‘Who else knows about this nonsense?’ said the most intimidating of the men.

‘No-one,’ said Arnold. ‘I worked entirely alone in my own time, and brought my results in today to let the government know there is a strong possibility of war. If a few variables are changed war can be delayed or even prevented. I was sure the President would want to know this rather than sleepwalk into a conflict that could cost many lives.’

‘Good,’ said the President when he was told that Arnold’s work had not been disseminated elsewhere. ‘We’ll go ahead with the invasion as planned, just a little earlier than I would have liked in case anyone else figures this out. Increase the defence budget by three per cent per annum from today, run intensive exercises involving all armed services and bring forward the plans to commandeer civilian aircraft and shipping. Oh, and get my trust to increase its holdings in military-industrial stocks, using the usual nominee accounts and offshore companies.’

‘Yes, Mr President,’ said everyone, making a mental note to do the same.

In solitary confinement, Arnold spends his days with pencil and paper calculating his chances of release. The answers always came back as zero.

Sucker-punched by Temptation, by Peggy Gerber

30/3/2025

 
JOINT 1st, 2025 SIDERIUS MEMORIAL LONGER FLASH CONTEST
TEMPTATION
Hope sat on the examining table picking her cuticles and bracing for the bad news. The pain in her knee was agonizing and she knew the prognosis wasn’t going to be good. As she waited for the orthopedist, her dad’s favorite Bette Davis quote popped into her head, “Growing old is not for sissies.”

After a short delay, Dr. Green entered the room and smiled warmly. He swiveled his computer to show Hope the x-ray images. “Your arthritis has completely worn down the cartilage in your knee,” he said. “It’s bone on bone. It’s time to take action.”

Hope took a deep breath, “So, I’ll need surgery?”

“Yes, but I’m not going to mince words, Hope. You must lose twenty-five pounds first. Every single extra pound will make recovery that much harder.”

Hope slunk out of the office with tears burning her eyes. Her knee was killing her and she didn’t have the energy to cook. On the drive home, she spotted a fried chicken restaurant and stopped off to order dinner. “I’ll start my diet tomorrow,” she mumbled to herself. “Today I’m too upset.”

The next morning, Hope woke up motivated to begin eating healthier. To limit calories, she decided to skip breakfast and go straight to work. When she got to her office, though, there was a large tray of doughnuts sitting on her boss’ desk. It was her co-worker’s birthday and they were all celebrating.

“What can I get you, Hope?” asked Janey pointing to the food.

“Nothing, I’m on a diet.”

“Oh c’mon,” insisted Janey. Calories don’t count at parties.”

Hope hesitated for a minute before picking out a jelly doughnut. She justified the treat by telling herself jelly has fruit in it and vowed to have a healthy lunch.

When noon rolled around, Hope went to the cafeteria and ordered a Caesar salad. She was feeling proud of her choice until the blue cheese dressing began calling her name. She grabbed a couple of packets rationalizing she was just eating lettuce.

That night, Hope’s knee was aching again, and all she wanted to do was sit. She called her husband and asked him to pick up a sausage pizza on the way home. She figured she had already ruined her diet that day, so she might as well enjoy dinner and begin fresh tomorrow.

The following morning, Hope decided a cup of good coffee would be just the ticket to curb her cravings, but when she entered the coffee shop, they were just taking fresh bagels out of the oven and the aroma was intoxicating. Hope’s defenses dissolved and she ordered a raisin bagel with butter. She ate it in her car, her stomach clenching with guilt.

When she got to work, Hope sighed deeply and pulled out her phone. She called Dr. Green’s office and wailed, “Doc, I need help. Would you write me a prescription for Ozempic?”

One Small Drink, by Graeme Copland

30/3/2025

 
JOINT 1st, 2025 SIDERIUS MEMORIAL LONGER FLASH CONTEST
TEMPTATION
“A large malt whisky, please. On the rocks.”

The barman poured the drink and set the glass on the bar.

Brian sat down. His drink looked warm and inviting. He stared at his glass, letting his mind wonder.

It had been a particularly difficult week, he told himself. No-one likes a divorce and his was turning into a particularly messy one. His mouth felt dry and parched.

“Are you going to drink that?” A familiar voice jolted Brian out of his reverie.

An attractive, curvaceous woman sat on a barstool next to him. His soon-to-be-ex-wife. Brian wondered why he hadn’t seen her earlier but there she was. All glammed up as usual and, to-his eternal annoyance, still attractive. She asked again. “Are you just going to stare at your glass?”

“I’m, uh, deciding.” Brian’s alcohol consumption was a subject he was not happy discussing - particularly with his wife. The fact he had just come from an AA meeting was no-one’s business but his. “Anyway, what are you doing here? Come to gloat?”

“Oh, don’t be silly.” said his wife, clearly avoiding the questions. She had turned now and was facing Brian directly. She was dressed immaculately in a modern, orthodox style with a twist – conventional yet still managing to suggest playful. Her hair, auburn and tied up, shone brightly in the bar lights. Her face slim, her skin glowing and, to Brian’s chagrin, still had the most beautiful brown eyes he had ever seen. She looked just the way when he had first met her. She smiled. “Is that a malt whisky? That’s your favourite, isn’t it?”

“It’s not that simple”, explained Brian.

His wife smiled. “I know about the AA meetings.” She reached across and pushed Brian’s drink closer to him. “But you’ve had a terrible week. I’ve been a real bitch and my lawyers want locking up. You need this.”

Brian nodded slowly. For once, he didn’t argue with her.

His wife was talking earnestly now. She had moved her stool closer and had leaned in towards Brian. Her mouth was inches from his ear. She whispered, “What’s one small drink? No-one will know. And you’ll feel better a whole lot better.”

Brian’s hand reached out. His fingers slowly encircled the glass and he brought it up to his dry lips. He could smell the wonderful aroma of the malted barley, the smokiness of the peat.

One. Small. Drink.

“Don’t do it, son.” A strong yet calm voice broke through the spell. Brian turned his head away from the glass. Away from his wife.

An old man sat on a barstool next to him with a look of sad disappointment on his face. Brian sighed. “Yes. I know, Dad” He put the glass back on the bar. Untouched.

The barman approached Brian, drying a tumbler with a towel. “I hope you are enjoying your drink, sir. Not sure why it’s a such a quiet night. I hope you don’t mind being my only customer.”

Best Not Mess, by Gordon Lawrie

28/3/2025

 
REVENGE
Sadly ineligible...
​

As an editor, you come across a surprising number of people like Roger.

To be fair, we got off on the wrong foot. My publication, Saturday Short Stories, has strict submission rules, but there’s no charge to submit and there’s even the odd prize to be won.

Stories must be the correct length and submitted in exactly the required manner. There’s a little box at the top of the online Submissions form. There, authors must write the story title, then a comma, a space, the word ‘by’, another space, then their name. One false move leads to rejection.

Writers then have to paste the story itself into another box below the title. Further down, there are some further things to ‘certify’. Writers have to provide some personal stuff*, say they’ve written the story in the past week… and to state that they’re not using a virtual private network – a ‘VPN’ – or ‘hiding’ behind a remote ‘proxy’ server..

Roger called me ‘pernickety’ many times, particularly when rejected – but it’s my site. He who pays the invoices sings the song. I’d have helped him, but Roger was too mean to pay the nominal feedback fee of £5.00. Instead, he conducted a guerrilla war, posting rude comments about me wherever possible.

He kept entering competitions, though. His recent Christmas Contest entry was particularly nasty anout me personally. It got nowhere, of course; instead, the judges decided that the contest, and the prize of £50, should be won by a newcomer, Lavinia Ramsbottom.

I contacted Lavinia to arrange payment of the prize… and received a reply instead from Roger!

GOT YOU AT LAST! it said.  REVENGE IS MINE! PAY UP LIKE A MAN!

I was annoyed to be duped. It’s against the rules to submit a second story under a false name, and he’d also used a VPN to conceal his identity. Too busy, I’d let it through by mistake. But the judges had decided, and I reckoned it would be easier just to accept that, for once, he’d beaten me.
And I keep my word, so I sent him a PayPal link to download the prizemoney. I added the message

ALL YOURS, *ROGER*, YOU DESERVE IT.
​

Shortly after, I received a message from the server to say that he’d completed the download.
Reader, I’m not sure what your computing knowledge is like, but there’s a particularly nasty form of malware called the Editor Virus. Unlike most, it’s an ‘overwrite worm’ that not only wipes out a computer’s hard drive, it also overwrites its operating system as well. Put simply, the computer is totally destroyed and even the most advanced antivirus technology can’t undo it. The owner’s only consolation is that computers can be recycled for the precious metals inside.

Each time Roger switched it on, all he would see would be a screen saying
DON’T MESS WITH SATURDAY SHORT STORIES

​*Not as personal, please, as Suzy Alfresco, who wrongly assumed that my judgement might be swayed by a naked photo of herself.

Taming the Temptation, by Sankar Chatterjee

27/3/2025

 
TEMPTATION
After graduating from Harvard and securing a lucrative job offer from a Wall Street financial farm, Diane Woodward was exploring the countryside near picturesque Halong Bay in North Vietnam. In a unique geologic phenomenon, the bay consists of several prehistoric monolithic mountains coming right out of the turquoise water. A large hidden cave-system existed in one of those mountains. During the country’s last long-running war against the American and allied forces, that cave was the storage centre for the fighting guerrillas’ arms. Thus the area was a frequent target of the US B-52 bombers. Remarkably, that particular monolith containing the hidden arms remained unscathed, allowing the ammunition flow intact. However, the signs of warfare were everywhere in the valley: the large craters as well as the defoliation of a large swath from the spraying of the chemical Agent Orange.

While exiting the cave, Diane noticed a flying flag of a Buddhist monastery in the distance. On inquiry, the locals informed her that the monastery belonged to a small group of nuns. Besides their spiritual inquest, they also ran an orphanage. Intrigued, Diane set out for the place, arriving there around noon. She knocked on the door, when a grey-robed elderly nun invited her inside. It was lunchtime for the residents, so Diane was invited to join the entire commune for a simple vegetarian meal. She learned that there were about fifteen nuns of all ages, headed by the lady who opened the door for her. Besides dedicating their lives to Buddha’s teachings, they also took care of thirty orphans, abandoned at their door by the local unwed teenage mothers.

After lunch, the youngest nun took Diane to the main temple. They sat under the golden statue of meditative Buddha, decorated with fresh lotus flowers. The aroma of the burning incense sticks filled the air of the prayer-hall. Their conversation covered multiple areas, starting from the Vietnam War, the country’s recovery from that war’s devastation, adoption of socialism but still allowing the practice of the religion to the country’s current embrace of capitalism.

Feeling comfortable, Diane began to explore the young nun’s previous life. She was older to Diane by a few years, but joined the current monastery when she was only fourteen after hearing a higher call of dedicating her life in human services. Suddenly, Diane noticed that in the shaven head of the nun, there were three equidistant bald spots with no hair growth. At Diane’s inquiry, the young nun explained that as she was going through attaining different stages of higher spiritualism, she was still not able to conquer her sexual temptation to attractive men. So, one night she took a bundle of burning incense sticks and burned those three spots to help her burn her innate desire.

Stunned, all Diane thought about her job-offer letter.

Salvation? by Steven Lemprière

26/3/2025

 
TEMPTATION
Which way is the wind blowing? A question ingrained in my being.

Today, disassociated, an offshore breeze transports me to a familiar location, one evoking the early stages of a long, arduous journey.

High on a dune, I’ve a view of a beach that’s deserted bar some children constructing an imposing sandcastle. The group’s elders supervise the build, while the youngest members ferry buckets of damp sand excavated from along the shoreline. They’re enjoying a warm summer’s day, but one among them flounders. An annual migrant to these shores, he’s his playmate’s cousin, and shares everything with me, but my age; and even on a clear day, a cloud shadows his every waking hour. Mirroring my own, it further signals the constant struggle and disappointment etched on his young face—the result of never measuring up to the expectations of someone who should care. 

A fantasy for some, but for me, everyday life. Changing perspective, I look out to sea, toward the horizon, and listen to the wave’s calming melody. But there’s no escape. A sudden screech anchors me to the past as a hysteria of seagulls circle above, their libretto echoing my distress. I wonder do they mock me, as they, like me, cry, but shed no tears.

“Let’s finish this, once and for all?” I scream, but the wind steals my anguish. Never mind. I’m prepared. I’ve chosen a vantage point, hunkered down among the thickets of marram grass that crown each dune. The sun rides high in the sky, directly behind me, a shield as I lie spread-eagled against the sand’s wind-etched contours, mapping every grain.

I’m a sniper and you’re in my sights. Steadying myself, finger hovering over the trigger, I gently apply pressure, but not yet enough to reach a point of no return. Tracking your every movement. Don’t rush, I tell myself. Wait. This has to be a clean kill, for both of our sakes—it’s the least you deserve.

You suddenly freeze, looking in my direction. Have you discovered me, witnessed a brief flash of what lies ahead? Your expression remains clueless and gives little away. Casting a line, you’re fishing in the dark, but I’m a wily old trout, and a life bruised by disappointment has taught me not to rise to your bait. Positioned deep among the margins, in the shadows of things yet to come, part of me aches to see you take cover, but this would only prolong our misery. 

This needs to be painless. For both of our sakes. My one-and-only gift to you, one of eternal youth. A single carefully aimed shot, and milliseconds later, an explosive vortex of salvation, will rescue you from a journey of despair that leads you back to this place. Fail, and my misfortune becomes your legacy, and you’ll inherit a far-reaching decision. Only I can save you from the torment.

We’ve never spoken, but let me ask you; I’m tempted. In my shoes, would you be too?
​

Rubbish, by Teri Wright

26/3/2025

 
REVENGE
Flashes of blue lit up the front bedroom of 10 Pudsey Lane. ‘Being home is super!’ Ted exclaimed as he lay on the bean bag, exhausted after last night’s ordeal. Rupert, reflecting on the bungled operation, climbed onto the bed, the open window allowing him to eavesdrop on the conversation.

‘I’m telling you officer, I saw everything. I was coming back from The Red Lion- I always pop in there on a Tuesday whilst the missus is at bingo. She won £50 last week. Anyway, Wednesday is bin day so I have to make sure I’m home and the bins are out before Winnie gets back. I was walking down the High Street and heard a hullabaloo. Poor fella was being dragged down the alley on a picnic blanket. He tried kicking them off, but there were five of them. They’re stronger than they look. They were all shouting about rescue and revenge. Well, I was frozen to the spot. Didn’t think to record it on my phone, it’d be viral now. I tiptoed- stealth mode- and saw them hoisting him up on some sort of pulley system. Right clever. I mean, why on earth would I tie someone to the front of a bin truck officer? Believe me when I say it was teddy bears that did it.’

Rupert turned to address the other cuddly toys.
‘There was a witness. He’ll need to be disposed of.’

Ice Cream, by Glenn Francis Faelnar

26/3/2025

 
REVENGE
Amy sat on a booth, with hole-filled chairs, inside a diner that was barely hanging on. She stared at the menu, her eyes moving up and down. Behind the menu, sitting across from her, was Lee. He was staring out the window.

“I’ve heard their ice cream here is delicious,” Amy said.

“I’m not really big on ice cream,” Lee said.

Amy set the menu down and said, “So, what happened that night?”

“I don’t really know what to tell you. Everything’s been a blur since that night.”

“I thought the tip was good.”

“It was.”

“Until it wasn’t.”

“The tip was solid. There were just some unforeseen complications. But that’s just part of it.”

“Part of what?”

“The job.”

“It’s not if the tip is good.”

“Are you telling me Jimmy screwed up?”

“I thought that was obvious when I said the tip wasn’t good.”

“We’ve been working with him for five years. He’s never given us a bad tip.”

“There’s always a first time for everything.”

“Not with Jimmy.”

“Are you saying he’s not prone to messing up?”

“Maybe with his dates but not with this.”

Amy glanced at the menu then shifted her eyes back to Lee.
“Did he suffer?”

“Amy, come on.”

“Just tell me.”

“Why?”

“You know why.”

Lee sighed and said, “It was quick.”

“So, he didn’t…”

“No. Your brother didn’t.”

A waitress named Sandra came to their booth with a fresh pot of coffee.

“Sorry, I’m late. Our kitchen was a little backed up and we’re short on staff,” Sandra said, as she poured coffee for each of them.

“Thank you,” Amy said.

“Are you ready to order?” Sandra said.

“We’re going to need another minute,” Lee said.

“Okay then. Just let me know when you’re ready.”

Sandra then disappeared to another table.

“So, what happened to the money?” Amy said.

Lee paused then shook his head.

“So, Kevin died for nothing?”

“I panicked,” Lee’s voiced cracked.

“You could’ve at least gotten the money.”

“It’s kind of hard to think when you’re running for your life.”

“So, Nothing? Not even a cent?”

“Nada.”

Amy glanced back at the menu while tapping her fingers on the table.

“I guess I’ll have some ice cream. How about you?” Amy said.

“I’m fine with just coffee.”

Sandra came back and took Amy’s order.

A few minutes later, two large men in leather jackets came to their booth. One of them looked at Amy and said “Is this him?”

“Yes.”

The men grabbed Lee by the shoulder and lifted him out of his seat. Lee looked scared and confused.

“What the hell is this, Amy?”

“Jimmy sold you out. I know you killed Kevin and kept the money. You were right, though. The tip was good.”

Amy called Sandra back and ordered ice cream. For real, this time.

Brainshop, by Thurston Hurt

26/3/2025

 
REVENGE
-Prologue-

The writer smoked his pipe and watched the news.

"The stocks of Brainshop tripled. Sales of the EGO III skyrocketed,“ the anchorman announced.

---

Josh sat at the edge of the curb - Main Street, Randolph, Ohio. It was a small town, about five thousand people, mostly farmers and small shop owners.

He lit up a Marlboro, smelled the gas from his zippo and inhaled. "What can go wrong, let’s try it.“ he said.

He got up, flipped the cigarette onto the street and entered the brainshop.

Josh had expected to see a salesman behind the counter, but instead it was Charlie, the girl from biology.

"Hey Josh.“ she said.
„Hi.“ he said, „how are you?“
„Fine. You want EGO?“
„What does it do?“
"It enhances. More focus."

Thirty minutes later he left the shop smiling.

Josh jumped into his Mustang, floored it, almost hitting another car.

He rolled down the window, inhaled the summer air and the scent of freshly baked bread hit his nose. Probably side effects. He never had felt that alive before.

He stopped at the gas station, went inside, paid and asked for the restroom keys. After peeing he combed his hair. That was the moment he saw it in the mirror. His face. Distorted.

"Maybe the focus kicked in.“ he whispered to himself.

Josh went back into the gas station. Everything looked red. His mind was racing.

Then.
His head.
Humming sounds. Like water boiling.

"Give me your shotgun!" He yelled at the clerk. Then Josh punched his face, broke his nose, jumped over the counter, snatched the shotgun and shot him.

Josh left the gas station, heading full speed to the other side of town. The Mustang was roaring even louder this time.

He finally arrived at that small wooden house in a middle class area on the south end of the city. Josh stopped his car, got out, ran towards the front door without even looking left or right and fired one shot at the door lock. The door burst open.

He went straight into the kitchen. His mother was watching her beloved gameshow. Josh aimed the shotgun: „Hi, Mother! Revenge, Mother. For letting him beat me! Every damn day.“

He shot six times, went outside, sucked in the summer air.

It tasted like rotten fish.

And it smelled like burning rubber.

He grabbed his gun, sat down at the curb, lit another cigarette, inhaled and pulled the trigger. His face blew half off and the cigarette landed on the other side of the street, drenched red but still burning.

-Epilogue-

The writer entered the post office.
"Another book for the publisher, Sam?" the clerk asked.
"Sure is, Rodney.“ he said.

The writer drove home, listening to the evening news on his radio.

"Folks get this,“ the radio jockey said, „Brainshop gives free upgrades. EGO IV for all customers. Now isn't that something folks? Isn't that something?“

The writer turned off his radio and smoked his pipe. Smiling.
​

The Last Trick, by Angela Carlton

25/3/2025

 
TEMPTATION
The doctor told you to take those pills after your mother died, but you didn’t. You collected 2-4-6-8 of those pills and shoved them inside your panty drawer. At 4 am, you slipped out the window while your father slept off his amber whiskey.

You’re shirtless, in a pair of panties, the color of sorrow, when the voices tell you to walk the neighborhood, but you float, twirl about instead, to the tune, “Yesterday.” It’s the song that’s white noise in your head skipping, skipping, like that.

When the lady across the street, who gets up before 6 am, spots you, the flashing lights arrive. The lights are the color of your mother’s blood the day her head hit the basement floor after she slipped, the day your mouth let out a scream like a crazed, caged monkey at the zoo, so you do go into that red light.

And they take you away.

They take you to another doctor with bleached teeth, caramel skin. He tells you that the chemicals in your brain shifted, and you need another damn med, blah-blah. He hands you white pills this time, instructing you to take three a day, “three a day,” he smiles, thumbs up, like we’re at the circus, and this is the last trick before he releases you back to sane town.

The house is empty when you get home. Your father’s out playing at another honky-tonk because a mountain of bills was always on the kitchen table. He, your father, charmed the older lady, Delia, the one who gets up before 6 am, to fetch you, watch over you, because after all, you’re only 14 years old. Delila fed you warm cookies with walnuts, some kind of chicken sour soup so you devour it. The temptation to take the new meds is still fresh in your brain, so you swallow them, down-down.

Hours later, the white pills take hold of you, you surrender, sleeping through a suburbia sunrise, lunch, another frozen dinner. But the voices, those loud whispers creep back in the middle of the night. They tell you to scrub all your panties in the drawer, scrub-scrub-scrub with bar soap to wash your mother’s hideous death away, scrub until the hot water scorches your skin, scrub until the image of that monkey in a cage is finally free.

When you wake-up, an old, familiar country tune plays on in another room, your fathers planted inside your bean bag chair,

“Dad,” you murmur, “I, I…had an awful dream.”
“Shh, it’s ok,” his voice cracks, “the new meds are working, you slept, Peach.” His voice is sugary, faint, as you try to come too. You take a few deep breaths, exhaling deeply it seems for the first time in days.

And somewhere, somewhere off in the distance, you think you hear a hum, your mother’s weeping willow tree whispering, the music of that little sparrow singing outside your bedroom window.

The House, by John M. Carlson

25/3/2025

 
REVENGE
A gallon of gas and a lit match. And this house would be history. So I kept thinking as I stood in the living room of the house. The house. I tried to think of it as just “the house.” The house I’d just bought. And—even after paying $190,000—the house I was sorely tempted to burn down.

This house was once a family home. It was built by my grandparents, and later my uncle owned it, until five years ago. That history left a lot of unhappy memories. So I was less than thrilled when Stacy chose this house.

Oh, well. This house was for Stacy to use, and it would work for her needs. That was all that really mattered. I was only writing the checks.

“I keep thinking of how ideal this house is!” Stacy said. “Good layout inside. Great location. It couldn’t be better!”

The doorbell rang. I winced. The sound of the 1950s tubular chimes threatened to pull me back in time. Back to when Uncle Roderick liked to sit in his favorite recliner and tell me that I was a loser.

I went to the door. It was Aunt Di.

“Kurt!” she snarled, as she stormed in. “You are back in town. You are the mysterious buyer of our old family home!”

“It’s not much of a mystery.”

“If I’d known you’d be the buyer, I’d have come over and lit the place on fire! Instead of seeing you get it!”

Funny how her fantasy aligned with mine.

“Who is this woman?” she asked.

“A business partner.”

“A business I wouldn’t approve of. I'm sure.”

I was sure, too. She’d never approved of anything I did. At one time, she said I’d never amount to anything. When I became a multimillionaire, she said I could have done better. Then, I was certain she’d be downright livid when she learned our plans for this house.

“Just try to keep the house nice. Your uncle’s nursing home uses this road when they take residents out. I know he always looks here.”

He’d hate looking at it very soon.

Aunt Di stormed out.

“I see what you mean,” Stacy said. “She is terrible.”

“She always has been. In fact, almost the whole family treated Mom and me like garbage when we had to move back here when Mom lost her job. They never had any compassion for anyone facing hard times. They also never forgot that Mom got pregnant with me and didn’t marry her creep boyfriend. Even though he was abusive.”

“Abusive boyfriend?”

“Yes. I never knew him, but I heard how bad it was. Which is a reason why I was so interested in helping you start this safe house.”

“It’s interesting that this house turned up like it did,” Stacy said. “It feels almost like a cosmic thing. A sort of payback to an uncaring family having their old home turned into a safe house.”

​

The Coldest Embrace, by George Kraft

25/3/2025

 
REVENGE
He had always been a good man. He did not deserve what was happening to him. Fate had tested him far more than it did other men, but he never erred and always did what was right. When his wife was diagnosed with that horrible disease and faced the prospect of living without a womb, the heavy task of ushering her life peacefully toward its close befell him. Like any good father, he allowed his children to say goodbye to their mother first, and he made sure to use a clear plastic bag to carry out the deed so they could watch as her suffering ended.

It had all been planned so carefully, and he would have been able to carry it out so beautifully, if only she had not fought back so fiercely. The poor thing did not know any better, being a member of the weaker sex, but it had been cruel of her to turn the children against him. They tested him to his limits, yet he stood firm against their defiance, never once sparing the rod when they strayed from the path to righteousness. He saw to it that they grew up to be good people, and it was because of his wisdom and guidance that they were able to have everything they did. So why was it they were doing what they were to him?

In the hospital, they had solemnly promised that they would care for him. However, now that they had brought him home, they just left him in his room to starve and wallow in his own filth as bedsores ate away at his flesh. The stroke had rendered him unable to speak, so he called out to them in the only way he could, as loudly as he could, yet they never answered. With what little strength he had left, he continued to call for them till he was all but ready to give up.

Finally, he heard the sound of footsteps approaching his bedroom and his heart swelled with anticipation. When the door creaked open, his children came in. He raised his head and mouthed the word “food” to them, but neither his son nor daughter displayed any hint of emotion as they approached either side of his bed and gazed down upon him. They studied him for a moment before turning to regard each other.

“What did he just try to say? ‘Food’?”

“No, he doesn’t need food. He needs warmth.”

He was just about to shake his head in protest when the crushing force of a body fell on his chest and the pillow was pulled out from underneath his head and pressed it down on his mouth and nose with shocking brutality. Panic set in. He twisted and turned feebly in a futile effort to free himself, to at least get the chance to scream for help, but his children left him with no such opportunity. Within minutes, he was dead.

The Pig More Equal, by Christa Loughrey

25/3/2025

 
TEMPTATION
A man out walking met a pig sitting by the road.

‘Please, help me, kind sir!’ begged the pig. ‘I escaped from the abattoir and am travelling to the Land of the Free. But it is far away; I am tired, hungry and afraid, and my poor trotters are so very sore.’

The man took pity on the pig, and offered to go with it and protect it along the road. So he went home to pack food for the long journey, and they set out together.

The way was indeed long. Every afternoon, when the pig started to limp, the man carried it on his shoulders. In the evenings he shared his food with it, and at night he covered it with his jacket, because the pig had no coat of its own.

The terrain got very rough, and the man carried the pig for longer spells each day. Food began to run low. He eked it out as best he could, but the day came when he was down to his last handful of oatcakes. He realised that neither was going to make it to journey’s end.

As they passed through a wood, the man found a pleasant clearing by a stream and, exhausted, lowered the pig gently down, wondering what they could do.

A thought flashed into his head. Timber was plentiful here; he had matches, and he had his knife. If he were to eat the oatcakes, the pig would die of hunger soon enough, and then he could joint it, cook it and eat it.

He looked at the pig.

The pig looked at him.

Its eyes were huge; pleading.

He wavered.

No. He couldn’t, wouldn’t, do it.

He sat down wearily by the pig to discuss the only solution remaining.

‘Pig, we only have these few oatcakes left, and they won’t sustain us both. But we can mix them with water, make a fire and cook you a fine porridge. You go on and, who knows, you may yet reach the Land of the Free. I can go no further.’

When the pig had eaten all the porridge, the man exhorted it to set out immediately. ‘For’, he explained, ‘that meal will need to last you the whole way.’

The pig, however, demurred.

‘How can I leave you?’ it queried. ‘I know you are failing, and I can’t bear to think of you dying here all alone.’

‘Dearest pig!’ breathed the man, too weak to argue further.

And so the pig kept vigil until the poor man died. Then it spent some time kicking twigs and branches over his body.

Finally, it carefully nudged over a glowing ember, and soon there was a merry pyre burning.

The pig enjoyed a nap while the fire burned and cooled.

Then it feasted on the man, now nicely roasted, before trotting off briskly to the Land of the Free where, for all I know, it is living happily ever after.

Few Polar Bears, Few Rhymes, by Andy Hebb

25/3/2025

 
TEMPTATION
"How cold is it?" she asked.
"Minus fifteen centigrade? Minus twenty? Something around there."
"That's ridiculously cold. Are you sure? I was guessing more like plus 15."
"I didn't have a thermometer so I had to approximate using visual clues."
"What clues?" my wife asked.

I laid out my evidence in a reasonable and rational fashion.
"There was no queue. No joyous penguins awaiting their turn. No smiling polar bears already in the bath. And if its too cold for polar bears and penguins you know its pretty cold."
"Also, it wasn't snowing. Did you know the Antarctic is a desert because it's too cold for precipitation. We have no bathroom snow."
"Finally, I shivered when I put my hand into the water. I didn't cry out, but I did experience a physical reaction. That shows how cold it is."

"No polar bears?" my wife humoured me.

"I tell a lie, there was one polar bear, dressed in a bath robe, bobbly slippers and mittens. Muttering something about people jumping the queue. So I muttered something back about who's bath it was, and he wandered off with yet more muttering about a hot chocolate and marshmallows. He's coming back tomorrow and hoping for privacy."

I finished making my cup of tea, then added, "But I've got to go, the bath is half full of near iceberg-infested tap water. I don't want it to warm up, that would spoil the benefit."

- - -

This was my first experience of cold water therapy. Elite athletes do it. Elite military does it. So why not elite poets?

They didn't start as elite. Elite athletes do it as part of their training to become elite. Elite military do it as part of their training to become elite.

How can I resist the temptation? An opportunity to elevate my dubious, euphemistically encouraged, minor league efforts to near Olympian level. I can't wait for rhymes to flow and meter to combobulate after this intense training session.

Why not try it? Why not have a go?

- - -

Five minutes later I know answers to these questions. I'll leave the cold water to the polar bears. And possibly the poetry, too.
​

Ten Years, Best Served Cold, by Brad Kabosky

24/3/2025

 
REVENGE
April 14,

“It’s a rainy Tuesday here, and it’s Marco's and I’s tenth wedding anniversary, so I wanted to write in a journal for today and thought, why not write about how we both met?

It started with a girl named Heather Fowler, who was my best friend. We were inseparable; ‘Best Friends in Connorsville High’ was what we were voted for in high school. Ending phone calls with “I love yous” and promising to stay friends forever. ‘Ang and Heather for life,’ right? Oh, how naive I was to believe that from her.

It was the night after prom, at Gabby Pruit’s sleepover party, when the truth came out. Heather, Gabby, and a few others were there, laughing about my weight. My insecurities. Calling me names like “Princess Porker” or “Donut Queen.”

They just didn’t know that I was listening in on the other side of the door. It hurt the most when Heather, my best friend, was the one that started it all.

I ended up going home. I said that I wasn’t feeling well. I’m sure they weren’t too upset then; more time to call me names, I bet.

When I confronted Heather at school, I was appalled. She didn’t deny any of it. She didn’t say anything at all. She just looked down at the ground. No apology, nothing to explain; she just knew that I now knew, and the worst thing about it was when she said, ‘Well if you look at us,’ gesturing at the other girls: pretty, slim, different from me. And it was all I needed to hear.

I ran away from her and out of that miserable school. High school never changed; everyone stared at me as I ran away; not one helped after seeing that. I was crying so much that I forgot it had rained the night before. I slipped into the mud, and everything came crashing down on me.

I lost a best friend that day.

Heather had tried contacting me after we graduated, but I politely declined. What’s done is done, and I want nothing from her anymore. She had ruined our friendship, and I was finally at peace.

So, where does Marco fit into this story?

After I slipped in the mud that day, a hand reached out to help me. I was wiping away the tears from my now muddy hands that I didn’t even notice. But there he was, Marco DiPierro, Heather’s boyfriend. The boy she was in love with, who she said she wanted to marry one day, who became mine after that day.

I like to remind him of how I stole him from Heather. He laughed and said that he wouldn't have chased after me if she hadn’t shown her true colors that day. He was chasing fate, he would later add.

And the rest is history. Ten years later, we’re still in love. Love has a funny way of finding you, as revenge best served cold.”

Love, Angela DiPierro.

Payback, by Sandra Falconer

24/3/2025

 
REVENGE
When I walked into the sixth form common room, it went deadly silent. All eyes turned in my direction. There was contempt from some, leers from others.
‘What the hell is going on?’ I grilled my best friend, Kate.
‘Haven’t you seen Insta today?’
I hadn’t. Rob Bennett had given graphic detail of the favours he said I’d bestowed upon him.

Rob was in our year at St. Steven’s, but he left at the end of year eleven. He now worked with a road maintenance gang that had been repairing the potholes at the end of my street.

I’d had a crush on him and was flattered when he flirted with me as I walked past on my way to school.
‘How’s my favourite girl,’ he would call.
I’d responded. Of course I did. I hitched up my school skirt before I left the house and fluttered my eyelashes. I even agreed to a date. Now he was blackening my name.

Unwilling to face the smirks of my fellow students or the catcalls of the road crew, I feigned illness. It gave me a week’s grace, but I knew this wouldn’t go away on its own.

The following Monday, I had run out of excuses.
‘Is there a problem at school, love,’ Mum’s eyebrows
drooped as they did when she was worried. ‘Whatever it is,
it’s not worth sacrificing the grades you need to get into
journalism.’
I needed to act.

That morning, I dressed in my old school uniform. It was no longer obligatory. A few still used it, the geeks, but most of us wore tee-shirt and jeans. I tied my hair in bunches.

He was there, four feet down a hole, laying pipes. With a confidence I did not feel, I marched up to him. There were a couple of wolf whistles.
‘Hey, you,’ I called.
My elevated position was a godsend.
‘Stop spreading lies about me just because I stood you up. I
wouldn’t have you in a lucky bag.’
The other men stopped working to watch the fun. I went on until his face was as red as a Manchester United top and his mates were bent double. Then I flounced off with their laughter ringing in my ears. I heard later that his new nickname was ‘baby snatcher.
’
At school, I still had to finish the job. I waited until break when the common room was full. Then I stood on a chair and addressed those present.
‘Thank you to the ones who stuck by me and shame on
those who believed the lies of that toad, Rob Bennett. Rest
assured; he won’t be repeating them. Nor will any of you
unless you want my parents to sue for defamation of
character.’
Kate squeezed my hand.
‘I’m so proud of you,’ she purred, ‘that put paid to his lies.’
‘Between you and me, Kate,’ I grinned, ‘it wasn’t strictly
untrue. Pay back was for telling everyone.’
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    Stories to the 500 word thread will be posted as soon as we can mange.


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    Please feel free to comment (nicely!) on any stories – writers appreciate it.
    Just at the moment, though, we're moderating some of them so there might be a slight delat before they appear
    .

    One little further note. Posting and publishing 500-word stories takes a little time if they need to be formatted, too.
    ​Please note that we tend to post longer flash fiction exactly as we find it – wrong spacing, everything.

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