Longer Stories

The Old Man and the Lake Atitlán, by Sankar Chatterjee

16/4/2021

During a summer expedition through the countries of the Central America, Bob and John, two college roommates from the US arrived in Antigua in Guatemala. There they learned about the presence of a beautiful lake (not that far from Antigua), locally known as the Lake Atitlán surrounded by the mountains and dormant volcanoes. The basin of the lake was created more than 80,000 years ago from a massive volcanic eruption in the area. The caldera thus formed was then filled up by natural water over the ages. The lake can be accessed near the town of Panajachel, about 100 kilometers driving distance from Antigua. After exploring Antigua over next few days, one Sunday morning the duo headed towards Panajachel. As they approached their destination in the late afternoon, they got their first panoramic view of the gorgeous lake surrounded by mountains and volcanoes under a clear blue sky and orange to pink rays of sunset. They also noticed colorful busy small village-markets surrounded the lake, with various goods changing hands.

Those small villages surrounding the lake have been inhabited by different lineage of Mayan descendants, namely Tz’utuzil, Kaqchikel and K’iche’, respectively. All the groups were colonized by the Spanish. Though Spanish influence had been permeated in daily life, each group still attempts to maintain respective traditions, being different from each other’s.
From their hotel room, a view of the lake with the dormant volcano Volcán San Pedro, in the background, offered them a grand view.

Next morning, the duo rented a local boat from a teenager to take them to a tour of various villages along the circumference of the lake, while exploring a few ones in depth. As the boat began its journey, a distant active volcano with a trace of bellowing white smoke came to the view. At the end of the tour of a number of villages, the duo requested the boat-driver to take them toward the center of the lake to experience the beauty of the surrounding nature from there. This was the time when the boat driver mentioned about the existence of various local fish in the lake.

Soon, on one side of the moving boat, a lone man at a distant boat was seen to enjoy the day while reading a book sitting in a lotus position on his boat. “Must have been fishing the whole day, now taking a break” the boat driver announced. Both Bob and John requested to take their boat next to the gentleman’s boat to socialize with him. Soon both boats came close to each other. After exchanging greetings, the hermit-like gentleman handed over the book, written in a local language to the boat driver.

For Bob and John, their boat driver translated the title “The Old Man and the Sea,” by Ernest Hemingway.

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Bacon, by Phyllis Souza

16/4/2021

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Barbara stood next to the stove making pancakes for breakfast.

Annie, her five-year-old daughter, was sitting at the table coloring.

Jack, Annie’s father strolled into the kitchen.

"No bacon?" He asked.

"No money," Barbara replied.

"You want I should rob a bank?"

"What's the jail time?"

"Ten, maybe twenty years?"

"Oh— then, go rob one."

"Yeah, well— um— I'm not eating pancakes without bacon."

“I told you. No money.”

"Since when?’

"Since you cut back on grocery cash."

"You think I'm stingy?"

"Yes!"

“I want my bacon.”

"No bacon.” She held up a spatula. “Here’s a pancake."

Mom flung. Dad ducked. Pancake slapped the wall.

Jack stormed out of the house.

Barbara glanced at her daughter. "I'm sorry, sweetie. After I clean up the mess, I'll fix your breakfast." She smiled. "I have something special."

"What about Daddy?"

Her mother looked out of the window over the sink.

"Go get him. He's watering the trees.”

Annie put down her crayon, jumped up, and ran outside.

Barbara strolled to the refrigerator and took out the bacon.

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Waiting For You, by Angela Carlton

16/4/2021

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While my sister lay dying, you kept me afloat. The distance between us made me restless at night for you were miles and miles away. But I held on to the sound of your voice over the phone, that cool easiness was a great comfort to me. I saw you the way you were the last time we were together. You, with a touch of sun on your face from the day we laid in the green grass by the lake, the beautiful stillness of the water and thump-thump-thump of my beating heart when you pressed against me, a finger sweeping over my neck. I swear you were with me in and out of my hazy dreams, all those visions of my feeble sister. It washed over me, sliding on my skin like the silk sheets I slept on, alone, so I waited for you. I waited for you to appear, show up and leave everything behind. I waited for you to leave your entire life behind. You, you were everything, and yet nothing I could hold, for the distance between us seemed to remain.

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First Crush, by Susan Fairfax Reid

16/4/2021

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We met in Hunter's night club, a smoke-filled club with tables, a bar, and a stage for amateur rock bands. It was the early 1970's, a time of rebellion in clothing, hairstyles, and music.
Joe was a construction worker. Tall and slim, he had olive skin. His black hair and mustache were calmer versions of Charles Manson's. He dressed in the current fashion, sometimes bought from unisex boutiques: bluejeans, Henley shirts, suede vests, billowing silk shirts, and boots. His shirts had a sensual smell of the skin of a man who had worked outdoors.

In the dimly-lit club, Joe ambled to the table where my friends and I sat, carrying a mixed drink and lit cigarette. With piercing blue eyes, he studied our faces through the smoky candle light at our table, looking for a dance partner. He had many dance partners, including one that none of us knew about. By the time he chose me, I already had a crush on him.
I was petite, well-built,with long brown hair that I curled with electric rollers before going to the club as routinely as I drank an Instant Breakfast before my 7 a.m. class.
My makeup was heavy: glimmering eyeshadow to show off my hazel eyes, and eyeliner and mascara to make them look bigger. With my finger, I applied clear gloss over my cinnamon lipstick to make my thin lips look bigger and wetter. The daring clothes I wore to Hunter's included a midi-skirt with a slit up to my thigh and hot pants with coordinating sweaters, boots, and wide belts. I dabbed woodsy smelling musk oil on my wrists and behind my ears.

Joe and I eventually became regular dancing partners. When we slow-danced together, tightly holding each other, I felt my body warming and sensual feelings rising in my lower body. When he leaned down to French kiss me, I responded passionately.

One night, Joe seemed unusually serious, not at all like his usual singing, dancing self. "Somebody has been spreading rumors about me that I'm married," he complained, studying different patrons through his aviator glasses. "I don't know who it is."
In addition to being a college student, I was a clerk for an insurance investigation company. One of my jobs was filing completed life insurance policies. Kneeling on the floor next to the filing cabinet's open drawer, I inserted completed policies into alphabetized olive green folders. Then, I saw Joe's name. I jumped up, blood red in the face. "What's wrong, Alice," Bob, one of the investigators asked? "Did you find somebody you know"? "Yes, '' I replied, stunned. "Is he married," he continued? "Yes, I answered, with a sinking pain in my stomach.
For about a week, that pain of loss continued. I had trouble concentrating on anything but Joe. First crushes that don't work out are more painful when you find out the man of your dreams is married.

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Comfortable Crews, by Andrew Carter

9/4/2021

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Artie’s face reddens. He suspects his girlfriend is cheating on him. She’s been arriving home late each night claiming that the publican’s giving her extra hours. Artie considers the consequence of driving to the pub. One mile isn’t far however there’s a cyclone approaching. Driving whilst intoxicated could be risky.
A cyclone party took shape at his place after a cyclone was forecast. He’d rather party with his fellow crewmates from the Dazzlin’ C blasting Eighties music.
Still, there’d be slim chance he'd be pulled over. Besides, as a rule, drivers aren’t arrested unless they attract attention. Cooktown’s police rarely arrest drunk drivers because everyone drives drunk, including the Cooktown police. It wouldn’t be feasible to book one another.
Artie curses then, storms off in his ute. Strengthening winds scatter palm fronds and debris across the road as he nears the pub. There’s a police car parked out front, so Artie pulls up further.
He squints through the windscreen. Angela stands under the glow of streetlights, next to the cop car. It’s his next-door neighbour, Constable Crews. Crews was nicknamed ‘Comfortable Cruise’ by some of the sassier local girls. Angela gives the constable dreamy looks, a satisfied
smile, and a goodbye kiss under the lights of his patrol car.
She’s in her early twenties, pretty, and she’s trying to fill a void with love that Artie couldn’t fulfil. Artie is young, as well. He has a slight stoop, and he suffers in personal relationships. His lips curl as she turns and heads towards him. Her skirt billows and she clutches her handbag to her chest before entering Artie’s ute.
“What’s goin’ on with him?” Artie snaps.
Crews’ headlights switch on. He drives past slowly then, stops, backs up, and gets out of his vehicle. He approaches Artie with jutted chin, chest thrust out, and one hand tapping his
baton. His demeanour revealed a hint of menace.
“Got ya license there, mate?”
“Yeah.” Artie replies, lacking eye contact.
Crews demands Artie take a breath test. Artie exhales. He’s over. He hands Angela the car keys.
After a few hours filling forms at the station, Artie trudges home muttering obscenities about crooked cops.
Along the way, an idea springs to mind. If he were to cut a small back cut at the base of Crews’ palm tree, followed by an undercut, wind gusts combined with the weight of the palm would make it fall. He uses a bush saw and cuts just enough to leave it standing until wind gusts fell it. There’d be no evidence, and the cuts were made to ensure it would land squarely on Crews’ carport.
Artie returns from his endeavour to the cheers of his mates after Angela informed them he had been locked up. Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody blasts. More cheers. Then, Artie chimes in
with his own rendition:
“Is this a cyclone, or is this an allergy?
Caught in a landslide, felling of a palm tree.
Open your eyes,
Look up to the skies and sneeeeze.”

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Blood Line, by Shelley Kirton

9/4/2021

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When we were kids, my older sister, Eloise, told me I was adopted. Our parents were not my real parents, and I had different blood from her and the other kids. Blood line was important she said.

She reckoned she could tell because I didn't look like anyone in the family, and looking at myself in the mirror, she was right. Fair and curly to their straight and dark, I was the odd one out. I thought that if one day I woke up with different hair, that would prove her wrong, but it didn't happen. I lay in bed at night and wondered what this adopted thing would mean. Would some other parents, who presumably would look like me, drive up one day in a Mercedes and repossess me? I lost a lot of sleep and thought about my repatriation and when and how it might occur. Should I have a bag packed?

I eventually asked my mother, and she said oh, for goodness sake, don't be ridiculous, of course you weren't adopted. Eloise was just teasing you. Why in god's name are you so gullible? Can't you take a joke? Grow up, Cecily. She was not very motherly. Hard-hearted. Then she told Dad, and he laughed meanly and looked at me and shook his head slowly.

I was different at high school too. I didn't take the subjects the other girls did – History and Geography and Home Ec and Typing. I happily studied Maths and Physics and Chemistry and unhappily, French, as a foreign language was required – god knows why but there was no arguing with the rules. I was awful at French. Unlike my sister.

"Told you", she said, "You're adopted." It still wasn't funny.

I always sat at the front of the class. Turned out I was short-sighted. I sat there even after I got thick black-framed glasses. Specky four eyes, the boys said, and made finger-and-thumb circles around their eyes. Eloise sat at the back all the cool kids who didn't need specs, and they swigged vodka they nicked from someone's parents and decanted it into vanilla extract bottles. Our parents were teetotal.

They did this during Geography because Mr Smythe was a bit dim and didn't see what was going on. He did wear glasses though. She still passed her Geography exams. They didn't ever get caught stinking of cheap booze and the weed they smoked while walking home.

There is no mistaking my parentage now: my thighs the same shape and size as my mother's, sort of marbled white and pasty and plump. She died recently: a heart attack. Appropriate really. Dad died in a car accident. Drunk driver. I don't see much of Eloise or the other kids.

It is of no comfort to know I'd been in my blood place all the time. I had anguished over it and wished and prayed for a family like me to come and take me home. It didn't have to be in a Mercedes.

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The Truth Behind the Tale, by Rod Drake

9/4/2021

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Okay, first, it’s not a red riding hood (what the hell is that, anyway?). It’s just a dark red hoodie like everyone wears now. Plus I’m 17 years old, not 7 like in the version you were told.

Second, I took a shortcut through Central Park (not the Black Forest!) to see how my Grams was doing in her small, but rent-controlled, apartment in an older section of the city. And no “basket of goodies” (whatever that is) either, just a couple of Bauman’s bagels that I picked up on the way over.

Third, the B&E criminal’s last name was Wolfe; he wasn’t an actual wolf (like there would be a timber wolf roaming the streets of Manhattan).

Fourth, yeah, Wolfe apparently does like to dress up in women’s clothing and Grams was close to his size, so this checks out, but this is more fetish than disguise.

Fifth, the so-called woodsman who saved Grams (and me, I guess, although I had already pulled out my pepper spray) lives next door and models for the L. L. Bean catalog, hence his outdoorsy, flannel look.

So, to sum up: no one was consumed, there was no axe (the L. L. Bean model just used Gram’s fireplace poker), there’s was no series of inane I. D. questions (hey, a guy in your Gram’s clothes in her apartment is a pretty obvious problem), there was no dead wolf (although the perp did have a big bump on his head from the poker blow when the police took him away).

Sometimes people’s imagination gets carried away and stories grow out of all proportion; just check out the current issue of the National Enquirer.

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The Brownie and the Bookshelf, by David Walby

9/4/2021

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“Why in the world did you do that to my bookshelf?!” The man yelled at the brownie.

“I’m not sure why you are angry, all I did was organize that mess.”

“That mess, was already organized—perfectly organized by the authors last name.”

“That makes no sense! You organize bookshelves in alphabetical order by the title.”

The man put his hand onto his face, “Why do you think that is a good idea?”

“That’s how I was taught! This is the way my people have done so for generations! That is how your grandfather organized these books!”

“This is going to take some getting used to.”

Charles’s grandfather had just passed away and he had inherited the estate, a small manner house far out in the country. There was quite a bit of land attached and a quaint little forest. What Charles hadn’t realized is that there were brownies on the property.

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Say It Ain't So, by Doug Bartlett

9/4/2021

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The police officer radioed it in before departing from his cruiser. It appeared to be a homeless person, but he knew not to make assumptions.

Shining his flashlight in the vagrant’s face, temporarily blinding him, he asked, “ Sir, what are you doing here?”

The man was definitely out of place wearing an expensive suit and was well groomed just yards from a homeless encampment. The policeman thought the man looked familiar but couldn’t quite place him.

The officer asked, “Sir, what is your name?”

After some stuttering and much stammering he said,” It’s Joe.”

“How did you get here Joe?”

“Uh, uh I don’t know.”

“ Well, tell me where you live Joe and I’ll give you a ride home.”
“ I don’t remember where I live.”

“ Then I’m going to have to take you down to the precinct and book you.”

“ Uh, well, uh…. wait a minute officer. I just remembered that I have this paper in my right coat pocket that has my information on it.”

Joe carefully got out the paper and gently unfolded it. “Yes, here it is, officer. You can see for yourself. I live at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.”

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Compassion, by Rafiq Ebrahim

9/4/2021

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It is a Sunday morning and I want to sleep late, much later than my normal hour of going to work on weekdays. For me, Sundays are a time to rest my body and mind, recuperate my energy and strength, and get fit for the coming weekdays.
It looks that I am not destined to sleep late, as I hear taping at the patio door. The noise wakes me up I must get up, unwillingly, rub my eyes and unroll the shade. I see tiny beaks tapping at the glass partition of the patio. Yes, I am late in waking up, but it is Sunday.
The birds, little brown sparrows are impatient, waiting for their breakfast, their daily routine. This daily work escaped my mind. How selfish of me, I reflect. With my eyes half-closed, sleep lurking in them, I go to the kitchen pantry, pour out crushed wheat and a mixture of grains. Opening the patio door, I sprinkle the grains on the floor.
The birds rush towards the pieces, bow their heads and begin picking the grains in their beaks and start eating. From the dining table, I pick up a bread and throw out the crumbs. More sparrows come flying.
I delight at this spectacle Happy birds, their beaks shining as sun rays fall on them, taking their breakfast, nothing to disturb them.
. I see a movement on a tree near the patio. A big fat squirrel jumps down from a tree and comes in the middle of the scattered grains. The birds are frightened. They fly and gather at a distance, looking desirously at their food now in possession of the squirrel. The squirrel, occupying the place, is ready for the big meal. It turns and looks at the gathering of the helpless birds, pauses for a moment and slowly jumps back to the tree without picking any crumb.
Compassion knows no boundary.

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The Ring and I, by Ed N. White

2/4/2021

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The annual Equine Rescue charity auction was a gala event, with music, wine, and many donated items of unusual art up for silent bidding. She spotted the ring and called to her husband, “Look at that. I want it.”
He said, “Wait and see how the bidding sheet looks and then make your play. I’m going to the wine bar. Would you like red or white?”
She was staring at the ring. A beautiful pure silver band wrought in a design found on a headstone in a sixth-century Scottish graveyard. It was made by a famous jeweler in the Orkney Islands.
“Red or white?” He asked again.
They left before the bid winners were announced and received the good news in the morning. The ring had a new home on their farm later that day.
“It’s beautiful. I love it.” She slipped it on her finger, kissed her husband, and pranced around the kitchen, waving her hand like royalty.
The following day, the dishwasher broke. The next day the TV burned out, and the tractor battery died. Over the next few days, the water heater failed, egg production was down, and the goats were off their feed. The dog got skunk sprayed, and the husband got stepped on by a horse.
There was only one possible cause of this bad luck. In desperation, she removed the ring, wrapped it in plastic, and put it in the freezer, hoping that might calm the malevolent spirits. He laughed and said, “That’s ridiculous.”
The husband took a more practical approach. He emailed the jeweler, described the events, and, to rid the house of this spirit, suggested they may have to ceremoniously sacrifice the cat. Twelve hours later, the jeweler’s husband replied. It began, “Please don’t sacrifice the cat,” and further explained that they had used these headstone designs many times. No one had ever complained of supernatural problems. He suggested it might be a coincidence, or maybe the weather. The husband sent another email saying the cat thing was in jest. But they planned to take the ring to the harbor for the Blessing of the Fleet and hold it over the water as the Bishop’s flower-bedecked boat sailed by. That was also said in jest, and the ring remained in the freezer.
A friend suggested purifying the house and gave them sage bound in twine and two candles made of special tallow to burn. They opened the windows and waved the smoldering sage throughout the house. That worked. The bad luck disappeared with the smoke, but the ring remained frozen.
Years later, the farm was sold, and they moved south. She asked, “Have you seen that Scottish ring?”
He shrugged and replied, “You brought it. I remember that. Is it in the safe box?”
“No, I’ve looked everywhere.”
“Have you tried the freezer?”
She stared at him for a minute with “the look,” then went into the other room without answering.

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Remembering the Victims, by Sankar Chatterjee

2/4/2021

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On a beautiful autumn day, Sam Howard was strolling along the banks of the Danube River on the Pest side in Budapest, Hungary. Double-decked cruise ships that crisscross the river ferrying tourists between various European countries were passing by in both directions. Sam could hear the fragments of conversations as well as sweet sound of music emanating from those ships. On the bank, the tourists along with the local residents were also appreciating the glorious day. Sam was taking the walk after paying a visit to the country’s Parliament Building, an iconic landmark of the city. Suddenly, Sam noticed a collection of shoes scattered on the bank in front of him, as if the owners just took them off to dip their toes in the water. But Sam could not see anybody in the water. As he approached the area, it became evident that they were not actual leather shoes, but all metallic with varied sizes; a few of them appeared to be more rusted than the others. He looked around to discover that the place was a memorial site known as “Shoes on the Danube Bank,” with a near-by plaque dedicating the art “To the memory of the victims shot into the Danube by the Arrow Cross militiamen in 1944 – 45.” Ideologically, the members of the Arrow Cross were aligned with the Nazis from Germany and acted as their proxy, thus rounding up the dissidents as well as the Jews of the city. Later, they would bring them to the bank of the river, make them to take off their shoes, line them up along the bank and shoot them so that the bodies would fall into the water to be carried away by the flow of the river. It had been said that the near the end of the Second World War, in order to save the ammunition, the victims were used to be chained and only the two book-end ones will be shot to death, so that rest of the entire group would fall into the river and drown.

The memorial was conceived by film director Can Togay, not only to honor the victims, but also to force the nation to look into the past pact of a section of its citizenry with the evil Nazi machinery. Sculptor Gyula Pauer then brought it to reality in the April of 2005. Sam had arrived in Budapest from the US, in the midst of a new Presidential regime that severely fragmented the country right along a political fault line giving rise to the emergence of political parties with extreme hate-filled ideologies against the ethnic and religious minorities, creating an atmosphere of fear and uncertainty for the future.

Sam went around each and every single shoe in this memorial repeating to himself those famous words from historian George Santayana: “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.”

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My Secret, by Angela Carlton

2/4/2021

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Ryan doesn't know my secret. Voices surround us at the gathering as the Outfield sings “Josie’s on a vacation far away.” It's an '80s moment, quite appropriate since it's our fifteen-year high school reunion. Ryan’s standing near my table. His upper lip curls a bit like Elvis when he smiles. It's his hunk-of-burning-love smile. It still makes me quiver, a smile I get lost in.
No one can find me.

I’m on my third glass of Shiraz when he sits beside me. We make small-talk as he rubs a thumb on his Miller Lite bottle. His wife Lori’s across the way holding a champagne flute. Our banquet room inside this trendy high-rise hotel is too small. There's not enough air for the three of us.

At the beginning of the night, I kept running into Lori. She’s elegant in a way and in the bathroom, I tell her she’s pretty, that it's nice to finally meet her, even though I didn’t mean a damn word of it. Her hair is black, severely short. She has masculine features: a square face, a strong nose, and perfect make-up. The more I drink, the more she reminds me of a drag queen.

A few of the single women I’ve come with have disappeared mingling with others. My hands are starting to shake, but not from the Shiraz. It's this damned day. I’ve thought about it over and over, the memories, all the weight.

My eyes study Ryan closely now, the way he raises his brow when he intends to make a point, his carefree, ain’t got no worries, kind of laugh. It's the delicate details, comforts, these tiny gestures that defined my youth. He's talking about his favorite history teacher, Mr. Carr, how his lectures motivated him to be better and stay clean. It's a touching story, only his voice is beginning to sound muffled like we’re trapped underwater.

There’s a faint hum inside my ear. I can’t seem to gather details. Something is pounding- pounding inside of me. It's hard to breathe. I need out of this box. I need a window.

These thoughts rush through my head before I utter the words. I finally tell
Ryan my secret, I had your baby. I gave him away. Then I add, Oh God, the reason I was home-schooled those years, but it comes out in a nervous choke, a way to fight off tears.

Ryan glares at me with genuine concern then horror, the same way mother did when I told her I was pregnant at fifteen. Tears spill from my eyes when I whisper, What have I done? My mouth is dry- dry-dry. I feel like I’m going to vomit.

The disco ball reflects light around us; tiny sparkles are everywhere. I’m having a hard time moving, rising to get OUT. From a distance, I see the wrecked image of a long-lost girl in the wall mirror before his hand touches my shoulder.

My Ryan reaches for me.

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Exalted, by Doug Bartlett

2/4/2021

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The young boy wandered throughout the store as his eyes widened looking at all the shiny trinkets and baubles that were on display. One item, in particular, captured his attention. He believed it to be the most valuable object in the place. He quickly and discreetly snatched it from the shelf and immediately exited the store. He was thinking how easy that was when he heard the merchant yell for him to stop. He began running and glanced over his shoulder to see the merchant in hot pursuit.

He had gone three blocks in multiple directions before he had lost his pursuer in the crowd. He began slowing down but ran smack dab into someone before coming to a halt. This was not just anyone. This was a very old man who was considered the wise sage of the village. The crowd gasped in shock as the boy collided into the elderly gentleman, knocking him off his feet.

“I’m sorry sir, how clumsy of me.”

The old gent calmly rose and dusted himself off before saying, “My son, if you aren’t careful and change your ways, you’ll end up elevated high above your peers.”

The boy thought, “The old man has gone daft. I would love to be elevated above these common folks. I believe the term is exalted. Yes, I would truly love to be exalted.”

It seems that just happened yesterday, but it actually took place just over a quarter of a century ago. Here he is now, as he scans the crowd of common people who are below him and a strange smirk appears on his face as he realizes the sage’s prophecy has finally come true. He didn’t change his ways and he indeed found himself elevated high above his peers…………. on a wooden cross.

He saw that he was being crucified with two other men.

He knew one of the guys was a criminal like himself and they deserved this agonizing punishment. But the other man, the other man was different, very different.

Although he didn’t personally know this man being crucified next to him, he had heard about him. This man had the power to forgive sin and you would need that to happen before you could enter into a relationship with God and be able to go to God when you died. He realized he had led a lifetime of crime and sin and didn’t deserve what he was about to ask for. He would ask anyway as It was his last opportunity as his time was vanishing like sands in the top half of an hourglass. He repented of all his bad choices and was truly sorry for all the pain he had caused others. He then asked this man if he would forgive him of his sins and to allow him to enter God’s presence for all eternity.

Jesus did.

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The Girl Who Tried to Sell Roses, by Rajiv Sahay

2/4/2021

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I first saw her lingering near the shiny glass door of the burger corner where I stood in a queue for placing my orders. As I turned around my neck to look outside through the glass door if my father was there, but he was not and I saw her. She must have been about fourteen or so, dark –complexioned, her hair cinched into a ponytail. She wore a pink t-shirt over jeans.

I placed my order and was given a token. The token read, 17. I ran my eyes across the stuffy room and made up my mind to wait outside in the open air until my turn would come. I walked out to the lounge and sat on a bench. I sat facing the entrance of the burger corner. I saw the girl was still lingering about carrying a few rose stalks as she pleaded a young couple to buy her roses. Though I couldn't hear her but could only figure it out from her gestures. After nodding his head in "No" the boy whipped out a Rupee 10 note from the side pocket of his trousers and extended it to her. Initially she appeared to refuse. Perhaps she wanted the money in exchange of her roses and not in charity but soon I noticed that she had accepted that charity of Rupees 10 offered to her as the boy didn’t take any rose stalk from her and he scurried away. The next moment, she was hovering over the lounge-like a butterfly until she found for herself another flower to sit upon. This time another pair of a boy and a girl! The flower girl lifted her hand that she held the rose stalk in. But, the girl from the pair gestured her hand in the way of shooing her away but, the flower girl persisted, paced up and down the lounge as the pair did and finally she murmured something.

The boy took out a Rupee 10 note from his wallet and thrust it into the girl’s hand. This time the girl took the money with resignation and moved on. She soon stumbled into the two teenage boys to whom she held out her hand full of roses and the boys stopped short as the roses touched one of the boys on his chest who was holding a cold drink glass in his hand. He handed his glass to the boy walking with him, fumbled out a few coins from his pocket and placed them on the girl's palm. The girl gave a look at her palm as if counted the coins and then skittered away with her rose stalks whose number always remained the same.

I rose from my seat realizing that my turn would have come by then. As I walked towards the burger corner I was thinking about what I had just seen - it was how a florist was made to turn into a beggar which she accepted out of her innocence.

8 Comments

Hump Day, by Michael Roberts

26/3/2021

1 Comment

The alarm went off at just after eight.
Hugo needed to pee but just as he pulled himself out of the bed and haded towards the bathroom, his daughter swooped in ahead of him and closed the door.
“I just gotta pee,” he said.
“So do I,” he heard from behind the door, “ and then I gotta get ready to go. I’m running late again.”
“Seriously,” he said, “go pee, let me go then you can have the bathroom to yourself.”
A minute later the door opened.
“Go,” his daughter said, “but please hurry.”
He did, then as she finished in the bathroom, he made himself a coffee from the single-server, even though he knew he’d get a lecture on global responsibility from his daughter for doing so.
After she left, he used the bathroom again, the coffee having worked its magic, hopped in the shower, shaved and then dried off.
As he dressed, he called up his e-mail.
There were two messages from work waiting for him in the IMPORTANT file.
“Open emails,” he told the computer.
One was a reminder of the upcoming fundraiser for some pet project/startup of the CEO’s wife, which Hugo thought was the very opposite of important.
The other was a notice that there was a staff meeting at nine thirty at Corporate.
Hugo looked at the clock.
There was no way he’d make it before then if he drove.
“Alexa,” he said, “Call an express taxi, going from here to PubliPub Corporate HQ”
There was a pause.
“Done,” Alexa said, “Taxi is 4 minutes away.”

There was already a crowd in the main hall when Hugo arrived, but he managed to find Gregor and Nat in the crowd.
“Any idea what it’s about?”
They both shook their heads.
They all found seats near the back and had just sat down when the lights dimmed.

“Good morning to all,” the image on the stage said.
“Good morning, Dr. Stayler.” Everyone said heartily, almost in unison.
Hugo was sure that there was no way to monitor whether or not he had responded properly, but why take chances, he thought.
The last thing you needed was a note in your corporate file.
“Good news,” Stayler said, “ We have been acquired by Liberty Corps and will, as of next week, be the de facto publishing division for their novelization initiative over the next segment. Guidelines as per appropriate novelization topics have been sent as part of a package to your Divisionals and they will download them to the literature teams to use as templates. I look forward to seeing what great works are created in this new initiative.”
“Great,” Nat said, “We’re back to writing paint by number novels, only this time the only acceptable colors are red,white and blue.”
“At least they didn’t fire us,” Gregor said.
“They could have fired us,” Nat agreed.
They shared an econo-cab back to their office and downloaded the package that their Divisional sent them.

1 Comment

Just Another Tuesday Planning and Zoning Meeting at Town Hall, by T A Ciccarone

26/3/2021

1 Comment

“Can I hitch a ride? I don’t care where.”
“That’s a long way, baby. Hop in if you want.”
“Where was it you said that you wanted to go?”
“Anywhere far away from here. I hate this fucking place.”
“Ask real sweet like baby, or this ride is over.”
“That’s so interesting. I thought I was being real sweet.”
“Say it like you mean it baby, or I’m history.”
“It’s your car. Believe what you want. Are we going?”
“Is it my fault?” He asked with a straight face.
“I knew it.” The fact was that he knew nothing.
“Why is it always my fault?” She smiled at him.
“I wish that I had never even picked you up.”
When she said, “God help me,” she wasn’t really serious.
“If you don’t love me I’m going to kill myself.”
His mouth twitched. He had to think of something quick.
“Say one more word and you’re a fucking dead man.”
“I really love you,” she confessed, nonchalantly chambering a round.
He had never been in a situation quite like this.
“I loved you Bobby,” she lamented, scraping up his brains.
He did it. She found out. Now he is dead.
She whispered, “God help me,” It was God’s day off.
He felt the breeze through the center of his head.
She detected daylight where his lying mouth used to be.
He couldn’t explain. The cat must have gotten his tongue.
The shot that kills is the one you never hear.
“What’s wrong with you people,” she shrieked to the crowd.
She saved a round for herself and squeezed the trigger.
He rose from his grave and haunted the neighborhood residents.
She knew that she would never be free of him.
Together they roamed the streets. The neighbors fled in horror.
Of course the reign of terror happened mostly after midnight.
The issue was eventually turned over to planning and zoning.
Haunting was strictly against zoning regulations in a residential neighborhood.
The Planning and Zoning Commissioner thought he’d seen it all.
“I’ve heard some weird stories, but this one’s a beaut.”
He tabled the item in order to open an inquiry.
“This planning and zoning meeting is adjourned until next Tuesday.”
Bobby was waiting for the Commissioner out in the hall.

1 Comment

Flushed with Embarrassment, by Susan Fairfax Reid

26/3/2021

7 Comments

Receiving an email from a magazine editor telling her a story that she had written was going to be published, Denise jumped off the floor. She was as happy as a child who had gotten exactly what she wanted for her birthday.
"Contact everyone on your email list," the editor continued. "Ask them to read your story and comment on it."
Denise picked up her phonebook and quickly flipped through the pages with her fingers, copying email addresses of her friends and relatives onto her yellow legal pad. She couldn't wait to tell them that she was writing again and was going to be published. Her writing had been reborn like the crocuses and daffodils in the yard
Most of the people she emailed said they were glad she was writing again and agreed to do what the editor asked, including, Julie.
She's Denise's former next door neighbor and president of her neighborhood association.
"Did you know that when you sent that email to me, eighty-eight members of the association got it," she asked Denise? Flushed with embarrassment, Denise groaned. Then, she rushed to rectify the situation, writing that she didn't realize she had sent the email to anyone but Julie. "I have two addresses," Julie explained. "Both begin with Julie. Use the one with my dog's picture."
Today, Denise typed Julie's name in the addressee's line to answer a question someone posed in the neighborhood email newsletter. Only one address appeared, the one with the dog's picture.
Maybe someone else's face flushed with embarrassment, too, after Denise's first email went to the neighborhood group.

7 Comments

Sisters, by Phyllis Souza

26/3/2021

8 Comments

Teenage sisters Genie and Mary battled over everything— clothes, food, and Howard. Mary coveted what Genie had, and Howard was no exception.

One rainy night, the sisters wanted to do something different. They took out the Ouija Board. Sitting on the living room floor, they put their fingertips on the heart-shaped planchette,

"Spirit... come." Genie summoned.

Thunder rumbled. The house shook. Lightning lit their faces.

Mary shuddered. "It's here."

The plank moved and pointed at Mary. "Does Howard love me?" She asked and pushed toward YES.

Genie pulled, NO.

The planchette circled the board.

"You're moving it," Mary accused.

"Am not," Genie denied.

The wind howled. Rain pelted against the window.

"I’ll get a candle,” Genie said.

Moments later, Genie returned, shielding its flame with her hand.

"Put your fingers back on the plank," Genie told Mary.

"Does Howard love me?" Again, she asked

"You're stupid! Howard's my boyfriend. He doesn't love you."

"He might."

"Well, he doesn't."

"Liar."

Mary leaped to her feet and kicked the Ouija Board. "Howard does love me. I know he does."

Genie got up and pushed Mary. Mary shoved back. She rushed to the front door. Opened it. A gust of wind blew in.

“It's raining." Genie flew across the room. She slammed the door.

"MY FINGER!!" Mary screamed. "You cut off my finger."

Blood spurted.

"What am I going to do?" Genie clasped the top of her head. "Mom! I'll call Mom."

"Get a towel." She screamed.

Genie dashed out of the room. She returned. Looked the other way and handed
it to Mary.

Sobbing, Mary wrapped her hand.

Genie phoned their mother, Zora, at work.

"Mom, Mary's finger got caught in the door." Genie gasped. "I think it's cut off."

"I'll be right home. See if you can find it." Zora hung up. "Oh, my God."

Genie, eyes flooded with tears, crawled on the floor searching for the top of Mary’s finger. "I... can't find it."

Blood seeped through the cloth.

Their mother pulled onto the driveway, darted into the house, and put her arms around Mary. She glanced at Genie, "Get Mary's coat."

Zora rushed Mary to the emergency room.

Genie stayed home. When she found the fingertip on the carpet next to the door, she vomited.

***

The next day, the sun came out. Its rays shone through the living room window.

When Genie saw Mary, stretched out on the couch with her finger wrapped in gauze and adhesive tape, she had an idea.

Two hours later, someone knocked on the door. Genie opened it and smiled at a delivery person standing on the porch.

"Mary, you got some carnations. You're favorite, pink. There's a note." Genie called.

The note read: 'I'm really sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you.'

8 Comments

A Leader Motivating Another Leader, by Sankar Chatterjee

26/3/2021

7 Comments

Dr. Shantanu Sen, a distinguished professor in the areas of basic human rights, resistance, and nonviolent movements in the Presidency University in Calcutta, India was in the middle of organizing an international conference encompassing his areas of expertise. As the world population has been expanding exponentially, those issues are becoming of paramount importance for the very survival of the societies around the world. As he was researching for some background information, he stumbled into an old black and white vintage photo in a website. In it, Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. and his wife Ms. Coretta King were surrounded by a group of men and women dignitaries. But what attracted Prof.Sen’s special attention was that while Rev. King was dressed in a western-style suit, Ms. King was beaming in joy wearing a sari, usually worn by the women in India. Surprised, Dr. Sen did additional exploration in the virtual world of internet to learn that indeed both Rev. King and Ms. King had visited the country in early 1959. But, Prof. Sen couldn’t remember learning about this historic visit in any history book of post- independent India.

As he dug into more research, Prof. Sen found that the influence of Gandhi-led nonviolent movement against the British colonial power for India’s independence would become the guiding light for Rev. King in his own leadership role in nonviolence struggles of the African Americans for their basic rights in America. Arriving in India, Martin Luther King Jr. commented on his remarkable trip to honor his hero. ..... “To other countries I may go as a tourist, but to India I come as a pilgrim,” he told the dozens of gathering reporters.

Prof. Sen also unearthed the fact that Rev. King drew heavily on Gandhian principle of nonviolence in his own civil rights activism, writing that “while the Montgomery boycott was going on, India's Gandhi was the guiding light of our technique of nonviolent social change. Nonviolence is a more than simply agreeing that you won't physically attack your enemy.”

Ironically, even at the end Rev. King’s fate followed that of Gandhi. Gandhi was assassinated by an ultranationalist Nathuram Godse while walking to a prayer meeting in 1948. His parting words were “Hey Ram (Oh, God).” Twenty years later, Dr. King, was assassinated by James Earl Ray, while standing on the balcony outside his second-story room at the Lorraine Motel in Memphis, Tennessee. In death, he glorified a previous quote of his “Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.”

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Flames of Uncertainty, by Krystyna Fedosejevs

26/3/2021

6 Comments

Emergency vehicles screeched past Vincent’s bedroom, unsettling night. He longed to resume sleep. His mind resisted.

Hours ago he was with Adriana. She who flaunted elegance in her outlandish way. Accentuated with a floral fragrance he breathed in and held onto.
- - - - - -
“Can’t be,” she gasped.

“What is it?” he asked.

“I must try again.”

As evening progressed, curtains at an opened window fluttered with increased momentum. A Tiffany lamp suspended from the ceiling swayed between them.

Adriana twirled the crystal sphere before her with nicotine fingers. Placed it on the table. Was ready to extract its message.

“You are accident-prone,” she said.

“Yes, I am.”

“Did you have a recent mishap requiring medical attention?” she queried.

“No. Minor injuries.”

“There’s danger in your path,” she gasped. “Need to take precautions.”

A cuckoo clock stroke the new hour with figurines twirling in dance. A black cat on the sofa stretched and recoiled.

“I see a building. People screaming,” she relayed. “Flames bursting through walls.”

“Will I be okay?”

“Not clear. You must leave. Return to the safety of your home.”

Dinner spices infused the dimly-lit staircase Vincent descended from Adriana’s apartment. He reached the building’s exit door. Sighed relief when stepping out.
- - - - - -
Sleep returned, only to be shortened by the shrill of an alarm clock. Vincent sniffed the air. Smoke? Couldn’t be. His smoke detector would’ve sounded.

Following breakfast, he decided on a walk. Striding towards a neighbourhood park, he became increasingly aware of the air’s unusual odour. He changed direction, hastening towards Adriana’s district. He had to talk with her.

“Sorry, no entry. Overnight fire,” yelled a man in uniform as Vincent approached her building.

“Is the occupant of Apartment 203 okay?” asked Vincent.

“No known victims at this time.”

The man answered an incoming call. Turned to face Vincent when finished.

“Fire started by an unattended cigarette,” he stated. “There’s word of a possible casualty.”

6 Comments

The Far Away Man, by Angela Carlton

26/3/2021

9 Comments

You were always there, around a distant corner, the far-away man, in the back of my mind. As my sister lay withering away in a hospital bed, it was you, with those ice-blue eyes, always smiling, that wit, your spark. I could see all of you, still. You were the sunlight and the rain, the thunder and the fire. You were everything rolled into one, and I moved about with those vibrations, that beautiful noise. My feet moved to the rhythm of your noise.

You left me in sweats, aching for something I couldn’t grasp. For we were worlds apart until you sent me that photo. Standing in front of all those tall pines, arms crossed like the forest was your kingdom, and staring fiercely into the camera as if you saw right through me. You saw everything I was and possibly could be. You were the one with the boyish smile I’d seen over and over and over again in my sleep. And this vision stayed with me in a heavy daydream until my sister finally slipped away.

Now, I hold the image of you in my hands teary, rubbing the screen with my fingers and wishing I could let go of everything I’ve lost and let you in, wishing-wishing you could be so much more than the far-away man.

9 Comments

Retired Auctioneer Discovers Lost Pardey Masterpiece, by Mike Mitchell

26/3/2021

1 Comment

Art experts throughout Norfolk rejoiced today. Flight Plan With Snaily Squiggles, the missing masterpiece of Eric Pardey, has been found in Wroxton.

Pardey is better known as The Painting Postman and the work is key to understanding his late hyper-realist period. First mentioned in Diana Talley’s definitive biography, it was believed lost when Pardey cleared out his studio in 2019.

Builders refurbishing the Bridge House Hotel had thrown the canvas into their skip, little realising its value. It was pulled from the rubbish by retired fine art auctioneer A.C. Brown, now a Wroxton resident, as he arrived for his lunchtime pint.

Based on a map of the Norfolk coast and the adjacent sea, with outlines of four aeroplanes and an RAF roundel, the picture is classic Pardey, with meticulous attention to detail and finish. In the bottom left corner is his trademark “credit card” panel, with another roundel, a photographic representation of a Typhoon FGR4, and his precision lettering.

The dominating feature, fascinating to all who see it, is the blue ribbon-like mark which wriggles uninhibited over the land before heading into the North Sea behind a red plane. This is the culmination of Pardey’s experimental use of garden snails. He would feed them a secret compound incorporating blue food dye and set them loose on the canvas – the ribbon is the result. It represents one of the pinnacles of aleatory art in the 20th century.

The quality of detail defies description. The innocent eye, coming to the work for the first time, would think it was a computer screen shot.

A grant from the Arts Council enabled Tate Modern to buy the picture for the nation from Woodfordes, owners of the hotel. After minor restoration it will be hung in St. Ives from next month.

1 Comment

Unspoken Words, by Doug Bartlett

26/3/2021

24 Comments

The massive stroke had left Mark with little energy and not as physically active as before. However, he knew he could be far worse off.He forced himself to do things outside his comfort zone to retain what he had and possibly to regain some lost territory.

He did mental exercises to try and keep what mental capacity the stroke did not affect. One of those activities was to write short fiction stories. He had never done that before and soon realized that this was not a drudgery like some of his other exercises, but was a pleasurable experience and even a true joy. Whenever he finished a story it gave him a sense of purpose and accomplishment. He had a good friend that encouraged him along the journey of this new experience.It also helped him feel good when readers of his stories made favorable comments.

Mark had just finished his 100th story and knew that his friend and the person who posted his stories had no idea how much they meant to him. He decided to write to them to thank them. A task that was long overdue.

He sat down at his computer and began his first of two letters:

“Dear Gordon,

I want to Thank you for gi……”

Mark’s lifeless body slumped in the chair. Somehow it seemed fitting that it was the same chair where he had enjoyed countless hours of joy writing those stories that many seemed to enjoy.

24 Comments

Existential Coaching, by Michael Mitchell

19/3/2021

5 Comments

Pierre Thibaut, maker of the finest cheese in Aude, was a proud man. His beautiful daughter Marie was the toast of the village, and he was determined that she should marry well. Every Thursday she made young men’s hearts beat a little faster when she served on Pierre’s market stall.

Pierre was a forthright chap, and he made no secret of his admiration for the Mayor’s son, Yves. Following in his father’s well-heeled footsteps Yves had a bright future, and he was great company over a few beers.

Marie wasn’t a material girl, and she didn’t drink much beer. She could never understand why her father thought so highly of such a loud and tubby specimen. But she would do almost anything to please her daddy. Whenever he invited the Mayor and his family to dinner, or on a boat trip, she bit her lip and pretended to be charmed by Yves.

“I am so pleased that you get on so well, my dear,” said her father. “You make a wonderful pair. Mum and I will be so happy watching your love grow and your family flourish.”

“I am so pleased that you get on so well,” said the Mayor to Yves. “You are probably rather better than she deserves, but she is very pretty, and that restores the balance. I am sure the pair of you will give us many beautiful grand-daughters.”

The man who really owned Marie’s heart was Jean-Luc, the greengrocer’s son, but this was the best-kept secret in Aude. He was known as a modest young man who went often to the theatre. He bothered nobody, and nobody bothered him.

If anyone had cared, they might have noticed that Marie went to the theatre on the same nights. But why should anyone waste time on such unimportant people?

One balmy summer’s night, at a party given by the Mayor, Yves proposed to Marie. She crossed her fingers, took a deep breath, and said yes. Banns were read, champagne was ordered, and invitations were sent.

On the morning of the wedding, Madame Thibaut went to wake her daughter. The bed was empty. On the pillow was a handbill advertising a band of travelling players, on which Marie had written: “Dear Daddy, I’m so sorry”.

And if anyone had bothered to look, they would have found Jean-Luc’s bed empty, too.

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Friday Flash Fiction is primarily a site for stories of 100 words or fewer, and our authors are expected to take on that challenge if they possibly can. Most stories of under 150 words can be trimmed and we do not accept submissions of 101-150 words.

However, in response to demand, the FFF team constructed this forum for significantly longer stories of 151-500 words. Please send submissions for these using the Submissions Page.

Stories to the 500 word thread will be posted as soon as we can mange.

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Please note that we tend to post longer flash fiction exactly as we find it – wrong spacing, everything.

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