Longer Stories

After the Storm, by Angela Carlton

30/9/2022

After the rain storm, my husband appeared in the backyard drugged up and dazed. I didn’t recognize him one bit. He was a shell of himself. My cousin came over to check on things and he slept.

We sat on the porch and counted stars to take our minds off the chaos.1-2-3-4-5, we counted five stars and listened to music. It was another escape. We drank wine and ate finger foods. I didn’t have an appetite really. I was just going through the motions, hanging on, and waiting for my husband to reappear physically and emotionally for this is what happens when you hang with a wicked crowd.

My cousin loaded the dishwasher, emptied the garbage, and collected the mail as I curled up in a lounge chair listening to the rhythm of the katydids under a throw blanket with tears rolling down my cheeks.

“I’ve gathered the mail,” my cousin whispered. “I put it on the counter. I’ll come to visit again tomorrow after you’ve slept. Please get some sleep.”

As she stepped out into the night, the cousin noticed the air was very cold. When she looked for those five stars they had found plastered in the sky, she could not find a single one.

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Retired, by John M. Carlson

30/9/2022

2 Comments

“I’m relieved that I retired,” David said, as he sat looking at the lake by Celia’s house.

“Relieved?” Celia stared at David. “I always thought you liked teaching. It seemed like a calling, not a job.”

“It was. It really was. Part of me really misses teaching. At the same time, though, I just frankly burned out. There were too many students who didn’t care, and many of them made life miserable for me and their classmates. I had too many battles with the administration. I got so tired of new trends that sounded good but did nothing to actually make education better. And now my old school is having to deal with the fact that our pandemic remote learning was virtually worthless, and so students lost nearly two years of learning. I think that, alone, was what finally made me decide it was time to retire. I just don’t have the energy left.”

Celia went into her house to get them coffee.

David’s phone rang. The caller ID indicated it was Marsha, the principal of the school where David had worked. David sighed. He was tempted to let it go to voice mail. She was the most annoying principal he’d ever worked for. She was, in fact, a major reason he decided to retire.

Instead, he answered it.

“I’m glad I caught you!” she said. “We need you! Long term sub job!”

David gritted his teeth. Was she ordering him? Her tone of voice sure sounded like it!

“I want you in my office at 8 tomorrow!” she said.

“Hell, no! I’m retired. Remember?” Then, he ended the call. He wished he had a landline still—this would be one time that it would be nice to hang up with a bang.

He leaned back in his chair and happily went back to looking at the peaceful lake.

2 Comments

Summer's Last Hurrah, by Jim Bartlett

30/9/2022

31 Comments

Mikey had looked about everywhere before he found Grandpa. He’d checked the barn, the chicken coop, even his big ol’ workshop with all those tools and that funny smell. Yet, it wasn’t until he took the windy dirt trail through the cattails that he finally saw him sitting at the end of the dock. He was staring out across the duck pond with his bare feet dangling over the edge, his Cubs’ cap tipped back, and his trusty Igloo ice chest right beside him.

“Grandpa, Grandpa!” Mikey raced down the weathered wooden planks, his little tennis-shoed feet coming to a slap of a stop just as the old man turned to greet him. “The big maple...” he cried, nearly out of breath. “I saw some yellow leaves on it.” He gave a huff and his head drooped down as if his neck had melted in the midday heat. “That means summer’s gonna be OVER, Grandpa. What am I gonna do? I can’t let summer end without doing somethin’ super!”

That big smile Grandpa always wore when all was right with the world broke across his face, and he put a hand on Mikey’s shoulder. “You know, Mikey, when I stepped out to feed the chickens this morning, there was a bit of nip in the air. And the sun, well, he must be getting tired of doing summer, because he wasn’t even up yet. That surely means that in the next week or two those trees will be a collage of reds and oranges and yellows, and all the shadows will start their autumn stretch. The next thing you know...” he winks, “...you’ll be carvin’ up a Halloween Jack-O-Lantern.”

He gave his head a shake and turned back for a long gaze across the pond. There wasn’t a stitch of wind, and the sun seemed to have a twin sitting right out in the middle.

“So, I thought I’d better do something real special.”

Mikey’s eyes popped wide. “You did? What’cha doin’?”

Grandpa tapped his little cooler. “Well, Grandma made a couple of egg salad sandwiches—“

“I LOVE egg salad sandwiches!”

“—and filled a couple of Mason jars with lemonade.”

“Mmmmmmm.”

“But, best of all, she baked some chocolate chip cookies.”

“Oh, WOW...” He sniffed the air, as if the oven was right there on the dock. “So, what ARE you doing, Grandpa?”

Grandpa’s smile seemed to grow, and he took another quick gander across the still water.

“Nothin’.”

“Nothin’? What?” Mikey’s shoulders dropped, yet he just couldn’t keep his eyes off the Igloo. And maaan, he could almost taste that egg salad sandwich.

Grandpa, catching Mikey’s gaze, gave his chin a rub as if off in deep thought. “You know, there’s an awful lot of nothin’ to be done today. I sure could use some help.”

Mikey felt his face light up. “I bet I could help. I’m REAL good at doing nothin’.”

Grandpa patted the dock. “That’s my boy. Have a seat. Let’s get busy.”

31 Comments

The Wheel of Fortune, by Fliss Zakaszewska

23/9/2022

5 Comments

The vicar was all of a two-and-four-pence. He'd advertised a fortune-teller, ‘Madame Zah-zah’ for the church fete, but she’d cancelled due to unforeseen circumstances.

It was Amanda’s Dad who’d dobbed in his wife, Judy, and told the vicar she was a 'reluctant palm-reader'. The vicar had to throw a dramatic sob story before she succumbed.

The hall was festooned with Christmas paraphernalia and a small red tent in the middle of the hall. Judy tapped her foot. “No turban.” However much the vicar begged, she stuck to her guns, but got her to agree to sit in the tent if she could have a footstool. The church warden was despatched to the vicarage.

Eight-year-old Amanda was mortified, her head bent over the book stall, spending her ten shillings ‘bribe money’ on books before wandering over to the cake stall.

“S’that your Mum in the tent?” asked Tim. Shame-faced, Amanda nodded. “My Ma said she’s brill. Auntie Gladys came out and said she knew about… that thing with Bill Harris, whatever that was.”

The schoolfriends turned. The queue for Madame Zah-zah, which had been ten-long, now wound around the tent and towards the door.

“Want a cake?” asked Amanda. Tim nodded.

Munching their brownies, they drew towards the queue which had now reached the door.

“Thought it was claptrap, but she knew about Jenny’s trouble at university….”

“She told me about the operation I’ve got to have. I only knew about it yesterday and she said it’d be alright…”

Fascinated, the kids listened to snatches of conversation as Madam Zah-zah was pronounced to be ‘spooky’, ‘amazing’, ‘incredible’ and a whole lot of other superlatives, as the queue extended out into the damp, Devon evening air. Stalls were closing, and church wardens were trying to persuade the queue to go home. To a man and woman, they refused, as people from the village crept up and latched themselves on the end, such was Madam Zah-zah’s fame.

In the end, a couple of wardens were stationed at the end of the straggling line to stop ‘late joiners’…

“Do you remember that day, Mum?” asked Amanda, bringing Judy a cup of tea.

“I was mortified,” admitted Judy.

“So was I, but I got ten bob out of it. What did you get?”

“A splitting headache and Reverend Thomas’ undying gratitude.”

Amanda laughed. “But why do you hate doing it?

Judy’s face clouded over. “I saw something in a reading and… I didn’t want to do it again.”

“What?”

“Do you remember my friend, Becky?”

Amanda nodded. “Didn’t she die in an accident?”

“I saw Becky in a red car, then the car flew in the air and… and I couldn't see Becky in any picture anymore. It frightened me that I ‘saw’ it so clearly.”

“Mum, you’ve got a real gift. I’d think it was bunkum if I hadn’t heard how amazing you are.”

“It’s not a gift, love, it’s a burden, her mother replied.

5 Comments

Beware the Vampires, by Doug Bartlett

23/9/2022

20 Comments

What story shall I write for Halloween? I am thinking of writing about a witches’ coven , but nothing seems to come to mind and time is evaporating as the foreboding deadline quickly approaches.

I retire to bed and am awakened at 3 a.m. from a deep slumber with a great thirst. As I travel from my bedroom to the kitchen I get a sense of being surrounded by vampires, it’s as if I’m being watched. Everything at this time should be dark, but there are mysterious glows of light throughout the entire house. They seem to be leading me straight to the refrigerator.

There was a slight glow from the alarm clock which gave me just enough light to allow me to reach the bedroom doorway.Then there was a glow of light which was emanating from the thermostat in the hallway. It was almost acting as a nightlight for me. I went by my office and glanced inside to see a glow coming from my computer screen. As I walked through the living room the television had a small light on at the bottom of the screen emitting just enough light to get me to the kitchen. Once there, several glows appeared, the clock light on the oven, the clock light on the microwave and the refrigerator door which could dispense water and ice, which was my goal. This journey I had just completed did not require me to flip any light switches on.

Yes, thanks to all these vampires…..all these electrical devices that suck electricity from the power company 24 hours a day, 7 days a week I did not have to turn on any lights. Look at all the energy I saved myself and the world.

Perhaps from now on I’ll keep a bottle of water on my nightstand….. but then I wouldn’t have gotten my Halloween story.

20 Comments

A Bit of Magic, by Angela Carlton

23/9/2022

5 Comments

You must have known I would come back home, Jacob? I know, I don’t look the same but so much has happened to me since I left and moved away. I found a group of people that showed me how to spin tricks, a bit of magic. They called me Blair not Shelly. It has a ring to it! Don’t you think? There now, you don’t need to say a word just stay there in the chair, the potion I gave you was strong. Do you like all of these photos of us? Do you remember when we took them? That was before I dyed my hair when I wore less makeup.

We were so young Jacob, school kids really. My mother always liked you. We must get back to those days. I came back for you. Why didn’t you wait for me? Who is this new woman in your life? You and I both know she won’t do. I suppose you were restless but you won’t be restless anymore

Look at you, already asleep and probably haven’t heard one word that I said. There-there, let me tuck you in with this blanket.

You are safe now.

5 Comments

Rain, Rain by Angela Carlton

16/9/2022

7 Comments

I had to find you.

My cousin and I wandered through the woods calling your name until we reached the grey shack, the one without the picket fence. I stood in the minute yard glaring at the red door wondering if you were trapped behind those walls, under her spell once again. We banged on the door and called out for you. Still, it was eerily silent. Hot tears rolled down my cheeks as I picked up a few rocks and hurled them at the hag's house. I didn’t give a damn if I broke a window. I didn’t give a damn about anything at that moment.

At once, a streak of lightning appeared followed by a smack of thunder and it began to pour. The rain came down in sheets, the wind picked up and both of us were drenched. We hid under a flimsy willow tree and waited for the storm to subside but it kept raining, the sky seemed furious like me.

“Rain, rain go away,” we began to whisper like desperate, tired children. As we watched the lightning continue to strike the sky, I screamed, “I have to find you,” in a hoarse voice, and it was then my cousin pointed off in the distance toward the sky. One house away, the sun was illuminating the bushes, shining over the entire yard. The vicious storm was only hovering over the ugly, grey shack.

7 Comments

A Place of Security and Stability, by John M. Carlson

9/9/2022

6 Comments

“...got Mom to buy me these Nikes,” a thirteen-year-old boy said to a friend. “Told her I needed them for gym class!”

“I wish I coulda gotten those!” the other boy said. “But my mom says they’re too expensive.”

“At least, your mom let you have a smartphone. Mom and Dad say I have to wait until I’m 14 in October. I’ll be the last guy in school with a flip phone.”

Todd sat at his desk nearby and listened to the two boys talk about their back-to-school shopping haul. He felt envious. They went to the mall. His shopping took place in the clearance section of a thrift store. His shirt today was his nicest shirt—in the right light, it looked like it could be almost new—but it had a stain. “The stain is probably why such a nice shirt got donated to Goodwill!” his mom said, trying to sound cheerful.

Todd wondered if he was the only boy in the entire middle school who wasn’t wearing new clothes today, the first day of school. He also wondered if he was the only one happy that the school year was starting. He didn’t like homework any more than anyone else. But school got him away from his awful apartment in a terrible neighborhood for a few hours a day. It also gave him time away from his mom’s often drunk, often violent boyfriend. And the school’s breakfast and lunch programs guaranteed he’d have at least two meals a day, unlike home.

The bell rang. The school year was now officially starting. The boy on the other side of Todd moaned unhappily. Meanwhile, Todd felt a sense of relief. For the first time since June, Todd had one place of security and stability in his life.

6 Comments

An Exemplary Samaritan, by Sankar Chatterjee

9/9/2022

3 Comments

On a summer vacation, American Debbie, Dean, and their young daughter checked into the Hotel Oberoi in Lakshadweep, a majestic archipelago of several atolls and coral reefs in the Arabian Sea. Later Debbie, an avid scuba-diver, approached the hotel manager inquiring about the possibility of a deep sea scuba-diving. The manager mentioned that she could rent the equipments, but no guide-master was available. Soon Debbie met vacationing British couple Paula and Bret and their twin young daughters. Bret, a certified dive-master, informed Debbie that the couple was planning for a diving expedition very next day and Debbie could join them.

Next morning, both families sailed to a distant uninhibited island. Dean stayed on the island with the children. Three divers equipped with scuba-gears and wearing weighty iron-belts, jumped into the ocean, soon disappearing. Beforehand, they agreed to communicate via hand-signals while underwater.

After an hour, Paula and Bret swam back without Debbie. Apologetic, they mentioned that due to miscommunication they lost Debbie underwater, without tracing her again. They instructed Dean to go around that island, in case Debbie, after separation, came up at a different location. They themselves went back to water for additional search. Well-behaved children played with their toys at a designated spot.

Underwater, Debbie realizing she got separated would decide to float up. However, she found her oxygen-tank malfunctioning, causing breathing troubles. Remembering her trainings, she unbuckled and dropped her iron-belt, making her light enough to refloat. Walking along the coast, Bret noticed a blue object getting slammed on a jagged rocky cliff by punishing waves. He signaled floating Paula and Bret to that direction. The couple navigated carefully and pulled Debbie out. Bret inspected Debbie’s oxygen-tank and found the operating valve jammed. Exhausted, the families sailed back to the main island. At the hotel, Debbie returned the equipments, notifying the manager what happened and the loss of the belt. Unfortunately, the manager refused taking any responsibility for the faulty tank, but demanded a huge sum for the belt’s replacement cost. Debbie was stunned.

Heading to their room, Debbie noticed a junior employee was waving for her attention from the back of a column in the lobby. Debbie approached him. He led her to a nearby empty room, and informed that the rogue manager had preyed similarly on many other former tourists. This time the employee had decided to stand up and help Debbie. He promised a replacement belt to Debbie later in the day. That evening, with no more instruction from the gentleman, Debbie was standing on her third-floor balcony. Suddenly, she observed three flashing lights emanating from a distant bush. Coming down, she walked toward the bush and met the same gentleman who handed over a similar iron-belt (probably, taken out of hotel’s inventory). Thankful Debbie offered him some monetary gratuity that he refused to accept.

Next day, Debbie walked into the manager’s office, put the belt on his table, and paid the hotel bill crossing the extra charge, before heading toward the airport.

3 Comments

Pieces of Me, by Angela Carlton

9/9/2022

10 Comments

When my mother left this world, you were here. You were here, the boy a few doors down, the one I used to chase in the yard, and play hopscotch with. As a preteen, I still chased you, my heart would stop when you entered a room. Later, you bought me chocolates and took me to sexy movies. We would ride on the dirtbike down dusty roads and watch the fat, puffy clouds roll by.
Sometimes we would dance in my basement to the stereo even though you didn’t have a lick of rhythm but I didn’t care. You made me giggle as no one could. My mother was usually in “serious mode” fretting over some loser guy. She was still bitter that my father had walked out on us when I was little. When she passed away, there was word that she had been drinking the night her car smashed into a wall.
Now I must go. I must leave all the heavy, sticky memories of my mother behind, and live with a distant aunt in New York, a place where the heartbeat of the city is loud-loud. It makes me want to cover my ears. People take cabs and won’t drive so I will remember you and me, on those curvy roads with the roar of the motorbike that usually matched our laughter. This is what I will cling to. I will write you every week, keep my thoughts about you in a diary until I can return.

Yes, one day I shall return, and pick up any pieces of me that are left. I will search, search-search until I find you.

10 Comments

Fishy Business, by Mimi Grouse

9/9/2022

8 Comments

Fog hung over the water as Ed rowed out into the middle of the lake. He shipped his oars, reached down into his tackle box and attached bait to his fish-hook then he stood up and made to cast the line out into the stillness.
The trout plopped into the boat seemingly from nowhere, landing in the prow, writhing until she was sitting on her tail, looking at him with a beady eye.
'You've got to stop this, you know. We're fed up with being decimated and hurt. Sometimes you throw us back, injured. Other times you take us away. Heaven knows what you do with those you steal.'
Surprised, Ed fell onto his seat. 'We eat you,' he said. 'You taste nice on a grill. It's as simple as that.'
'Aha! And you think that's okay? To destroy communities? To deceive honest fish who have done nothing wrong?' She twitched a fin and he glanced at the baited hook in his hand. 'How would you feel if someone did that to one of your loved ones? You don't think fish have got feelings, do you?' She flopped onto her side and thrummed the deck with her tail.
He stared at her, not quite knowing what to do. In all his years of fishing on this lake, he had never experienced anything so bizarre. He reached for his hip flask, unscrewed the cap and took a long swig. The trout stared at him accusingly.
Something bumped against the hull. The boat rocked so brandy spilled onto his chin.
'Dad? Are you okay?'
Ed blinked and looked around him. Jinny's ruddy face was leaning over the gunwale, smiling and concerned at the same time.
'You've been out here for ages. Mum and I were worried.' She threw him a rope. 'Tie this to the bathtub. I'll tow you home.'
He fumbled with the line and dropped it. Jinny had to help him.
'It's okay, Dad. I'll look after you.'
'The trout. Chuck that trout back into the water.'
'What trout, Dad? There isn't one.'
'Forward. It's huge. You can't miss it.' He spread his arms. 'It's this big.'
'Hardly likely. You left your tackle behind. Anyway, you can tell me all about it when we're at home.' Chuckling, she turned away.
Ed stared at the prow, at the trout who was blowing him kisses, then Jinny started her outboard motor and the fish disappeared beneath a cloud of pale smoke.
By the time they reached shore, he had forgotten about her. Jinny looked everywhere, but the only thing she could find was an abandoned fish-hook which caught the side of her hand and cost her a trip to the hospital to have it removed.

8 Comments

Carlos' Little Corner Store, by Jim Bartlett

2/9/2022

27 Comments

Jolene sifts through the sorry lot of organic avocados in the “freshly picked” bin of Carlos’ Little Corner Store, hoping to there’ll be one, just one, mind you, that resembles something close to being ripe. But as she squeezes the last of the group – too hard, like the others, it’ll probably be good next week – she smiles, yet lets her shoulders drop in disappointment.

Looks like there’ll be no guacamole tonight.

“Carlos’ Little Corner Store” is indeed small, and more often than not, the selection equally so. Not to mention, though it does slip through her mind now and again, the prices are a little higher – after all, they don’t get the volume discounts like the big boys. But it’s one of the last neighborhood stores left in the city, they do carry some organic fruits and veggies, and, best of all, it’s run by a nice little family.

As she turns, lost in thought as to what to do about tonight's dinner, that man – she’s seen him here before – steps through the store’s front entrance. Today he wears a sleeveless t-shirt, a faded image on the front that’s impossible to make out from where she stands, and a cap with what she believes is the NRA logo. But with her vision not quite what it used to be, she can’t be sure.

Getting old sucks.

As he passes Carlos, who stands smiling behind the register, he scrunches up his face and gives his head a long, hard shake – a well-practiced routine she’s witnessed with each of his visits.

Today, however, he adds a new twist. Slowing, he pretends to mumble – though Jolene can easily hear him from the produce section – as he says, “Go back to where you came from, Beaner.”

Her breath catches as a cold shiver creeps down her back. She’s shaking, but manages to turn and move across to the tomatoes. There’s are some better choices here, yet, even as she picks though them, she keeps a watchful eye on the man. When she sees he’s coming her way, she reaches into her backpack and pulls out her mask, quickly slipping it on.

The man clearly notices, doing a little stutter step before continuing on, obviously heading for the beer section. He walks by Jolene just one aisle over, which is close enough she’s able to see the Confederate flag tattooed on his upper arm.

And the slithering shiver returns.

With his beer in hand, he starts back toward the register, but stops, giving Jolene a narrow-eyed stare.

“Lady, every time I come here, you put on that mask. Covid’s gone now – as if it was ever a thing – so you don’t have to wear those anymore.”

She nods and says, “Yes, I know.”

“So, what’s up?”

“Young man, I have no idea what awful disease you have, and I haven’t a clue if it’s contagious...but just in case, I wear this in the hope I’ll never catch it.”

27 Comments

Precious, by Malvina Perova

2/9/2022

7 Comments

We’d only sold a few handmade bracelets and an oil painting before the charity fair called it a day. I counted how many med supplies we could buy for the front when an elderly couple approached our stand.

“We don’t have money,” the woman with elegantly combed hair said and handed me a silver brooch, “sell this and send money to the army.”

The dancing silver flower with rubies and a tiny malachite looked antique and costly. “It’s beautiful,” I couldn’t help gasping.

The woman smiled and nodded. “My husband gave it to me on our silver wedding anniversary.” They exchanged proud gazes, and the man stroke her white, fragile fingers in the corner of his elbow.

“Wow. It must be so precious to you…” I felt its sudden weight on my palm.

“So is our daughter at the front line,” said the old man. Still smiling, they turned to walk away.

7 Comments

Dear Alice, by Angela Carlton

2/9/2022

6 Comments

Dear Alice,

I met your mother in the woods. A lovely, childlike woman with wispy hair like an angel so I invited her in for tea. You should be glad you have a mother. I lost mine years ago. One day she was here and the next, G-O-N-E. Her car hydroplaned and ran smack into a concrete wall and that was it, nothing else mattered anymore.

I have learned that some people get everything in life and others cling to what's left. We cling to anything that resembles one ounce of joy. You have no idea all that has been bestowed upon you but I do. Your mother has taken to me during our visits. I braided her hair yesterday and made her muffins, blueberry to be exact, my own mother’s favorite.

Tomorrow, she is coming for tea again and I will tell her about my own mother, how I miss her. I will cry-cry-cry. I will lean on her shoulder and let her know that I am empty. I know she will listen and she will come back the next day and the one after that. You see, my dear, your unstable mother roams the streets, because she needs you, but she won’t need you much longer.

Signed,

Anonymous

6 Comments

Satay, by Kathy Whipple

2/9/2022

6 Comments

In the food stall by my house, a butchered hind half of goat dangles from a hook above a blood-stained table. Each morning, the carcass is fresh and full, plump and pink. Flies gather around the meat and an old woman fans it with a woven palm frond.
“Selamat pagi, good morning,” I say.
She flashes a toothless smile and bright eyes.
A barefoot man carves the goat flesh as customers place orders. He skewers three pieces on a bamboo stick, grills them over a charcoal fire, and calls it Satay Kambing. Five bamboo sticks of roasted goat tucked in a brown paper cone and drenched in warm, spicy peanut sauce makes an order. A line forms early.
By evening, the hanging goat is nothing but scraped bones with hoofs and tail.
On my way home, I say “Selamat malam, good evening,” to the woman still fanning the goat. She stares into space and hardly notices me.

6 Comments

The Session, by Phyllis Souza

2/9/2022

4 Comments

I've got a 2:00 appointment with the psychologist, Doctor Hill.

The receptionist is chewing gum. She tells me to take a seat.

The waiting room is small and stuffy: A mumbling man with a calloused hand is fumbling through loose change. A lady wearing a red beanie sits next to him, counting stitches while knitting an orange scarf.

I plop next to an older woman wearing thick-lensed glasses. My purse bumps her arm.

She says, "Watch it."

"I'm sorry." I tap my fingertips on the armrest of my chair.

It doesn't take long before Doctor Hill steps out and calls my name. Her hair is pulled back into a bun. She has on a white blouse and a brown skirt.

I get up; I feel a tug on the hem of my sweater. I turn. The old lady whispers, "She's nuts."

Doctor Hill leads me into a consulting room. I sit on a straight-back chair. She picks up a notepad. Her eye twitches. This is annoying to me. I pull on my ear lobe.

The doctor crosses one leg over the other. "Shall we start?" She looks up and gives me a half-smile.

I crack a half-smile back. "I guess so."

"Tell me what's bothering you."

"Can't stand my mother. If it's not my hair she doesn't like, it's my clothes. When I give her a gift, she gives it back. But not before she's had a good laugh."

Doctor Hill jots a note.

After twenty minutes of talking, I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans.

"Is that the reason you're here?"

"Worse, I want to kill her--- of course, I wouldn't. Or would I?" I scratch my head.

"Close your eyes and imagine you're near the ocean. Picture yourself walking along a beach. Tell me what you see."

"Miles of black sand. Giant waves breaking on craggy rocks. Seagulls flying through fog."

"What else do you notice?"

"My mother. She has on my new sunglasses. She's laughing."

"If she were an animal, what would she be?"

"A skunk spraying a warning."

Doctor glances at the clock. "The session is over."

I squirrel back into the waiting room.

The old woman is still there, "I told you."

4 Comments

Afternoon at the Pool, by John M. Carlson

26/8/2022

2 Comments

I usually stayed far, far away from our town’s swimming pool. I had a near drowning incident when I was five, which left me afraid of water. My parents insisted I take swim lessons when I was seven. Thanks to a terrible swim instructor, I didn’t learn to swim, and my fear of water turned into an absolute terror of water.

But I was stuck sitting by the pool that day, while Cody, my twelve year old son, went swimming. Originally, my wife was supposed to give him a ride to the pool, but a crisis came up at her office. So I got stuck driving him. I couldn’t say no to Cody, who wanted to swim one last time before the pool closed for the summer.

As I sat by the pool, though, a part of me wished I’d said no. Just the sight of the pool fifteen feet away from me made me feel a bit queasy.

Last time this summer, I thought. Last time. And maybe Cody wouldn’t be interested in swimming next summer. Not likely—he’d gone swimming almost every day this summer. His swimsuit was brand new in June, and now it was faded and worn. But I could dream this would be the last time I ever had to come near this pool.

This would be a good chance to read a book I’d wanted to read all summer. But it was hard focusing on it. I was too conscious that I was near the pool. I was too conscious that my son was in that pool.

I kept looking up. Checking on Cody. Making sure he was OK. Even though there was no rational reason to believe he wouldn’t be OK. Even though there was nothing I could do if something went wrong, except scream for a lifeguard to do something. And wouldn’t the lifeguards do the job automatically?

Finally, I gave up even trying to read.

Cody had a few races with other boys. He dunked friends, and they dunked him. Then, the boys gravitated over to the diving boards, where they had a cannonball contest. Cody told me once they hoped to get a big splash one day that would soak the lifeguard who stood by the diving tank.

I suddenly thought of my best friend when I was a kid. We were always doing stuff together—except going to the pool in summer. I sadly wondered what memories might I have now if I had been able to go swimming? Would I now remember the day I beat my friend in a race? The day he did a cannonball that soaked the lifeguard?

I would never know. We can only guess what might have been.

At least, I’d brought my son here today. Maybe in thirty years, he’d remember something that happened today. And he’d smile at the memory.

2 Comments

Everything Changes With Time, by J. Iner Souster

26/8/2022

2 Comments

Tiny micro explosions, one after another, lit up the night sky in a cascading array of magentas, periwinkles and mulberry, accented by warm yellows and golds, a momentary distraction utilizing everything that is beautiful living inside the fire. Even the soulless ones, with clouded empty eyes, were taken aback as their heads tilted towards the heavens unblinkingly.

The degradation of pathways in their once human brains would soon enjoy their form of pyro techniques as neurons started firing once more. Reminding them that we were now their food source while simultaneously forgetting that once we would call each other family.

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I tried to take a deep breath but found I couldn't. I felt a pain in my stomach like I had swallowed a shard of hot iron that wouldn't stay down and suddenly started coughing up blood. My mouth tasted dry. A bit of saliva dribbled out from the corner of my lips, mixing with the sweat on my face. I felt slightly better when the familiar taste of blood hit the back of my throat.

Something was working again inside my body: my heart was beating slowly, pumping blood around my organs and helping them heal.
I opened my eyes and looked around the room as best I could through a veil of pain-induced fatigue and nausea. I tried not to focus on the corpse next to me, a sacrifice, but I couldn't take my eyes off it anymore; the thought of what happened made me feel horrendous.

I'd felt struck by a strange sensation that I wasn't really in my own body but somewhere else entirely. I couldn't remember anything from the past two weeks except for flashes of memories here and there. It felt bizarre, like a half-forgotten dream or a nightmare coming back to me in bits and pieces. It was like a thread pulled from my brain, one of those strands that run through our rememberings in different directions, some leading here, others there. Eventually, the whole thing came together in one continuous narrative. By then, it was too late to stop it.

I tried to tell myself this wasn't true, and I felt this weird sense of dread; there must be some other explanation for my strange behaviour. The smell of the food still filled my nostrils but didn't make me hungry. There was something about it that made me feel unhealthy. The scent of something, the way my nose told me it was wrong.

I remembered a moment, a flash from before. I had walked into a room full of people and smelled them. In an instant, they all went quiet as if they could sense something was in the air. As if someone had turned on a light, and every one of their eyes could see what secrets lay hidden for years. Now all was revealed in those darkened corners of the room. I also remember being in that moment; I no longer felt sick. I only felt the hunger.

2 Comments

The Dog Jury, by Nicole Kim

26/8/2022

1 Comment

Lily sat in her chair, glancing around the room at the four other Annual Dog Competition judges. They were deciding which dog should be crowned Best Dog.
Jolie held two photos in her hands. One of Gary and one of Peppi.
“It’s obvious which dog is better.” Jolie laughed. “Peppi has such shiny fur.”

Ashley scrunched up her nose when she glanced at the photo of Gary. “And Gary looks scrawny. That fur needs some work, too.”

Lily twiddled her thumbs as the others, Eric and Duncan, agreed. The others didn’t seem to notice Lily’s silence.

Jolie smiled victoriously. “This is almost too easy. Still, let’s take a vote.” She passed everyone a small sheet of paper. “Write down the name of the winning dog.”
When they were done, Jolie collected the paper back. She grinned as she announced the names. “Peppi. Peppi. Peppi. Peppi. Pepp—Gary?” Her grin dropped to the floor.
Fuming, she made eye contact with all of the judges. Her eyes settled on Lily’s.
“Don’t make this difficult, Lily. You know Peppi is the better dog. We want to declare a unanimous jury decision for Peppi!” Jolie grabbed the photo of Peppi and threw it at Lily’s face. “She wins even by looks!”

Lily chewed her lip. “Is nobody going to consider Peppi’s performance in the competition?” She pulled out her phone, and showed everybody a video of Peppi. “Did you forget? She performed amateur tricks, and she was stubborn towards her owner. In previous contests, we deducted points away for behavioral problems.”

Jolie gasped when Ashley reluctantly nodded. Ashley rolled her eyes. “Jolie, just look at the video. Peppi missed several obstacles.”

Lily smiled as she played another video. This time it was of Gary.

Eric looked down at his hands when he saw that Gary flawlessly passed every test. He easily flew through the obstacle course, and he obediently performed impressive tricks with his owner. Gary effortlessly won more points than Peppi.

Lily took the video away. “Don’t you see? Peppi only wins by looks. But that only makes up for 1 point. Gary won, fair and square.”

Duncan sighed. “We’re judges, Jolie. We should be fair, despite the looks.”

Jolie rolled her eyes. “Gary looks like a shelter dog. So whatever if Peppi can’t do tricks like Gary? She looks more impressive, and she’ll make us look good.”

Silence.

“Really?” Jolie threw up her hands. “Really?!”
Lily stood up. “Let’s do another vote.”
The room was filled with the sounds of scribbling.
Jolie scoffed as she read the names. “Gary, Gary, Gary, Gary.”
Ashley glared. “You know Gary won more points. He won fairly. Let’s be the fair judges we’re supposed to be.”

“So old fashioned.” Jolie muttered as she snatched a piece of paper and hastily scribbled “Gary” on it. With a huff, she tossed her hair and stormed out of the judge’s table.

Lily clapped her hands. “Let’s go and announce the winner.”

1 Comment

Fountain of Blessing, by Doug Bartlett

26/8/2022

14 Comments

I pulled up outside my apartment complex and retrieved my bank deposit bag from my car. I was there to collect quarters from the laundry room that was located on the premises. This bag was perfect for collecting the quarters from the coin operated machines.
On my way to the laundry room I noticed a disheveled man going through the trash cans. I asked him what he was doing. In broken English he responded his name was Juan and he was a neighbor who lived in some apartments down the street and he was collecting aluminum cans for income.

Well, I went on my way and as I was emptying the machines into my bag that was about to overflow I got an idea. I shot up a quick prayer to God asking Him that Juan would still be there when I returned to my car.

He was there and in broken Spanish I asked him to give me his hands. When he held them out to me he apologized. I don’t know if it was because they were filthy and grimy or if he thought he was in trouble for what he was doing.

I began pouring out all the quarters into Juan’s hands. It looked like a silver fountain flowing from my hands into his hands. His look of concern turned into a quiet smile and he expressed his genuine, sincere gratitude.

Oh, the title of the story? The quarters flowing into Juan’s possession may have looked like a silver fountain bubbling over but it was not the real fountain of blessing. No, the real fountain of blessing was welling up inside of me as I realized I had done the right thing.

14 Comments

User Name: Black Widow, by Alex Blaine

26/8/2022

1 Comment

I don't understand why I'm not getting any interest from all the dating apps. I can't see it's anything I've said in my bio. I'm 28, 5 feet 3, athletic build, strawberry-blonde female, no children as of yet. I have been competing in MMA since age 6. I have a rottweiler called Mr Cuddles, or Baby for short. Love long walks on the beach and by the lakes. Love to travel and to eat healthily. I'm looking for a gentleman, between 30 and 40 who hasn't already got children. Maybe I'm a hopeless romantic with a vision of a fairy-tale wedding. I don't want anybody who is the serial-killer type. I'm very much happy being alive, so no I won't be meeting you or adding you on social media. I've seen horror movies and documentaries on Discovery Channel and Netflix. I don't wish to be someone next victim. I don't wish to end up like that, thank you. x

1 Comment

Remembering Irene, by Phyllis Souza

26/8/2022

4 Comments

Angie lived across the street from Lillian, a widow, and Irene, her unmarried daughter.

Lillian spoke with a strong German accent. Irene spoke perfect English.

Through the rustling of trees, the sound of the mother and daughter arguing, floated through the air, drifted over the road, and grabbed Angie's attention.

Day and after day, Angie watched Irene get out of her Honda Civic.

Sometimes Angie waved, sometimes she looked the other way.

Then one day, Angie received a phone call.

"I have two more weeks to live," Irene gulped.

Angie's heart dropped.

"My liver is destroyed. Cancer has spread."

"Isn't there something they can do?" Angie asked.

"Nothing more. I've called my lawyer and the funeral home. Hospice will be here today."

Two weeks later, like she said, Irene was dead. She was only forty-seven years old.

Four months after Irene died, Lillian had a garage sale.

Cars stopped.

Angie watched as people rummaged through a rack filled with
Irene's clothing: A shimmering gold dress, a white linen frock, and a maroon leather jacket.

Angie's blood pressure rose as ladies slid their feet into Irene's shoes: Heels, flats, and athletics.

When one woman opened and closed a handbag, Angie's stomach knotted. She wanted to yell, "leave it." Then, when the lady examined the leather's quality, slung it over her shoulder and smiled. Angie wanted to cry.

Gold chains that once graced Irene's slender neck hung on a black velvet stand. Combs and clamps that dazzled her long hair lay on a plastic tray.

Her hand-crafted holiday decorations clumped together, no longer needed, sold cheaply to anyone who wanted them.

Why didn't I take the time to know my neighbors? Angie asked herself.

4 Comments

Dear Alice, by Angela Carlton

26/8/2022

2 Comments

Dear Alice,

I met your mother by the creek. A lovely, childlike woman with wispy hair like an angel so I invited her in for tea. You should be glad you have a mother. I lost mine years ago. One day she was here and the next, G-O-N-E. Her car hydroplaned and ran smack into a concrete wall and that was it, nothing else mattered anymore.

I have learned that some people get everything in life and others cling to what's left. We cling to anything that resembles one ounce of joy. You have no idea all that's been bestowed upon you but I do. Your mother has taken to me during our visits. I braided her hair yesterday and made her muffins, blueberry to be exact, my own mother’s favorite.

Tomorrow, she is coming for tea again and I will tell her about my own mother, how I miss her. I will cry-cry-cry. I will lean on her shoulder and let her know that I am empty. I know she will listen and she will come back the next day and the one after that. You see, my dear, your unstable mother roams the streets, because she needs you, but she won’t need you much longer.

Signed,

Anonymous

2 Comments

Run, by Angela Carlton

19/8/2022

11 Comments

“There-there, you don’t have to get up. What do you need Jacob? I’ve made the coffee and already called into work. I have the ability to sound like your wife so I told them you're sick, very sick, and will be out for days, seven to be exact. You just need time to adjust and settle. Then everything will blend and make sense. I hope you like gravy and biscuits. I hear that’s a big winner in the South. Eventually, your voice will come back Jake when the potion wears off but I am blending another elixir as we speak.”

Everything’s perfect now, isn’t it? It’s just as it should be and your wife, well, she’ll manage and always has with that crazy mother of hers! There’s word that her old boyfriend, Max is coming back home again, like I said your wife will be fine.

You pretend to sleep while this evil woman continues to talk to you like a child. Don’t you dare eat one bite or drink a drop just sleep on until she tucks herself away at night and then you must run? You must run like hell.

11 Comments

Club Meeting Day, by Rod Drake

19/8/2022

3 Comments

Zeus always hated it when he had to host the quarterly Mighty Gods of Old Meeting.

First of all, Jupiter was nothing more that Zeus with a better outfit, more believers and that Roman arrogance, yet he contributed nothing new to either the heavenly or earthly realm. Then there was that creepy Egyptian god, Ra, with the freaky bird head that was always shedding and, of course, he could only eat birdseed, so it was extra work to find something regal enough for him to consume. Odin, the big, fully armored,
clumsy, one-eyed giant, was constantly knocking things over when his massive frame bumping into everything and those two ravens sitting on his shoulders crapped

everywhere. And Brahma, who as a trinity of gods, had to bring Vishnu and Shiva with him, both of whom were insulting and constantly destroying, then restoring things as overdone parlor tricks. Plus, Yahweh, also known as Jehovah and a dozen other
Latin, Greek and Hebrew names (and now simply God with a capital G), bugged Zeus because He was so smug and self-righteous, believing He was the only real, true God, rudely refusing all the invites to these “pretenders” gatherings of imaginary gods.

Once, Yahweh’s Son and Buddha came together, bringing flowers and honey, which was nice and respectful, but they couldn’t stay because they had a lot of prayers to answer.

There’s the door, the first guests have arrived; Hermes, let the immortal pests in; I shall endeavor to be polite and gracious, some deity help me!

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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.

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