Longer Stories

The fair-haired girl walked through the door and looked around. There was nothing special about her appearance which was why no one looked in her direction as she entered. The most anyone would say was that she was fair-haired, aside from that even Sherlock Holmes would have been hard pressed to give more of a description.

Even her name evoked no comment – Alice Mary Jones, named after her mother and her aunt. Her father, Nathan Jones, was hard working, but achieved very little in his short life of forty-three years, when he died crossing the street and getting hit by a taxi cab. Alice was eleven years old at the time and was then raised by the two women for whom she was named.

For the next six years her life went on in the same innocuous path – her appearance and her life presented an equally ordinary existence.

She took a seat in a booth in the far corner of the dines, out of the sight and hearing of the other customers, not that she said anything other than asking for scrambled eggs, white toast and coffee to the waitress.

Twenty minutes later she got up and walked to the cashier as if she was simply going to pay her check. She waited patiently for someone to come over to take the money she had laid on the counter. As soon as the cashier picked up the money and the cash drawer was open Alice Mary Jones took out a gun, shot the cashier, took the money from the drawer and ran out.

The stunned customers stared in disbelief.

The best anyone could tell the police was that she was a fair-haired girl.

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My Doll, by Peyton Mills

15/5/2020

At eleven-years-old, I was celebrating my childhood with my family in our sprawling country home, my dolls dancing through my hands in a way that magnified the realms of my imagination. At twelve, the world as I knew it had met its maker, and the fallout filled the atmosphere with ash. After the dust settled, we all got sick, and Momma said it was radiation poisoning. Daddy told me it was some kind of disease, biological warfare. Either way, they both died with their faces contorted into screams.
The remaining cities flooded with people, and then they burned them to the ground. Relief groups popped up now and again, but they were habitually shot on sight. I was never alone, though. I had my doll with the salt-and-pepper hair, its porcelain skin scorched and bleached by the sun. I clung to the last tattered shreds of my childhood and did not cry. Momma always told me to be strong.
That October, by my calendar, I was walking along a dirt road when I stumbled upon a flash of pink in the bushes. It was a child’s slipper encased in soot, the clamoring buckles undone forevermore. In my mind, it stood as a solemn representation of yet another shattered childhood, another short-circuited imagination. I cradled it and cried for the first time since my parents died. When my tears dried up and my sniffles died away, I took the shoe and left the doll in its place. Maybe another child could put it to good use.
My childhood was over.

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Anomie in Media, by Paritosh Chandra Dugar

15/5/2020

“Here is the true story of how Sophik claiming to be number one news channel shamelessly sacrifices truth to woo sensationalism. Listen to this poor woman whose daughter is shown picking up comestibles from the filthy road in order to mitigate their hunger in the video telecast by the channel yesterday.” Saying this with great vivacity, the reporter of Ethik turned to a lean woman and asked, “Would you tell us what actually happened?” The woman said, “Last evening a man came here and emptied a bag of eatables on the road and asked my daughter to sit down and collect it for our use. Another man standing nearby focused his camera on my daughter. Anyway, we were happy to have the food and some bucks for the little show.” The reporter thanked and paid her for being loyal to the script.

The next day, the woman reappeared, this time, with Sophik’s reporter. She spoke as if to clarify something, “What I said yesterday was a lie. They squared me to tell that.” The scripted clarification was duly rewarded.

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Corona, the Divine Agent, by Sivan Pillai

15/5/2020

A group of demi-gods, worried at the dismal state of the earth, decided to meet God, the Almighty.
“Anything wrong?” God asked, noting the distress on their faces.
“The earth is no more a fit place to live in, Lord. Humans have multiplied and they are trying to lord it over all other living beings. The air, water, and land are polluted with effluents from their factories, emissions from their vehicles. They have encroached upon forests, leaving little space for their original inhabitants. Over-exploitation of natural resources for selfish gains has endangered the earth. We beseech your divine intervention.”
“If the situation is so bad, I can return the earth to its pre-creation state by repeating the flood that brought even the highest mountain under water for forty days,” God said.
“Not that severe, Lord. Just give them a solid rap on their knuckles that they won’t forget in a hurry.”
“So be it.”
The next moment there stood the frightening figure of Corona before them.
“See what you can do,” God commanded her.
Three months later they met again and Corona presented her report.
“Things are better now, my Lord. Humans were so frightened of me that they declared a complete lock-down for days together. Life came to a stand-still. They remained at home, reinventing family ties in the process. Weddings and death ceremonies, events to show off one’s affluence till now, were performed with minimum fuss. Factories were shut down, vehicles and other pollutants came to a standstill. Thousands died like flies and were buried deep like dangerous trash without a glimpse or parting kiss from their dear ones. Offices, shops, multiplexes, hotels, everything closed. The economy of even the rich countries is in shambles. Unemployment is rampant. The air is now pollution-free, but the poor guys are afraid of breathing it in. They wear masks as if they were ashamed to show their face in public and keep distance from one another. No hugs in public, no hand-shakes. They have become paranoid.
“In between, they have begun to discover the beauty of nature. They now enjoy the sight of the blue sky, rainbows, the moon and stars. Rivers are bubbling with life. Wild animals seem to have asserted their rights and roam in human habitats. More and more birds are seen on trees and the sky, chirping unabashed. Children study online without having to lug their heavy schoolbags. People eat natural food at home and even grow it on small plots and rooftops. They work and pray from their homes. Hopefully, they have learned their lesson.”
“But, Lord, suppose they revert to their old lifestyle after Corona becomes a bad dream?”
“Now they know the price they have to pay for their excesses. If they repeat them, I can always send someone more ferocious than Corona.”

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Wrong Floor, by Don Tassone

15/5/2020

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I guess we’re both creatures of habit. I’m usually the first one in the elevator at precisely five minutes before eight, and you always show up about a minute later, the last one in before the doors close.

At that point, the elevator is always crowded. I don’t think you ever saw me, but I sure saw you. You always stepped to your right when you got in, then turned around right away, tucked away in the corner.

Sometimes I had to move a little, if I could, to see you. When I couldn’t move, I’d crane my neck or stand on my toes to get a better look.

It was certainly worth the effort. Seeing you was the highlight of my morning. Your flowing, chestnut hair. Your lean but curvy build. Your toned legs.

And your dresses. A new one every day. You look great in all of them, but the white, linen, sleeveless one was my favorite.

You always got out on the sixth floor, three floors before mine. I think there are law offices on that floor. I wondered if you were an attorney.

I wanted to know you. I thought about waiting an extra minute to get in the elevator in the morning, then standing next to you. But the very idea of being that close to you, while thrilling, made me too nervous.

Maybe I could get you to notice me, I thought. I started wearing a suit. I even bought a new suit. Hugo Boss. But you never looked my way.

So one morning, I decided to get out on the sixth floor too. I imagined you holding the door for me and me thanking you and us introducing ourselves.

But I was getting ahead of myself. First, I’d have to get out on six.

“Excuse me,” I said as we slowed down for the sixth floor. Your floor. Our floor.

I watched the doors open and saw you get out. I tried to gently push my way forward, but the car was packed that morning, and it was hard for people to move.

The doors began to close.

“Could someone hold the door?” I called out.

But no one came to my assistance. I suppose they were all eager to get to their floors.

Then I saw a hand reach in from outside the elevator, and the doors snapped back open. A slender, lovely hand with red fingernails. I knew it was yours. You’d come back for me!

As the doors opened, there you were, looking even more beautiful from the front. You smiled at me. Your teeth were perfect.

Your left hand was still on the edge of the door as it now slid fully open. Something on it caught my eye, something large, something shiny, something heartbreaking.

I looked into your eyes. They were blue.

“Sorry,” I said, turning around. “Wrong floor.”

8 Comments

The Legacy, by Doug Bartlett

15/5/2020

8 Comments

He enters the chapel slightly late as everyone seems to ignore him. He walks by the casket to courteously view the body. When he looks down he sees himself.
He then realizes he is at his own funeral. His life on earth has ended. His family is sitting nearby with tears streaming down their faces. His friends are there recalling specific, memorable events of his life that they had shared with him.
He thinks about the legacy he has left. He had labored hard for several years to build his estate to what it is today. He feels good about it as it is much larger than any previous generation in his family had accumulated.
He then begins to understand the real treasure he has left behind is not his tangible estate but something that is far more valuable. It is the precious memories his loved ones will take with them after the lid of the casket is closed. The most valuable legacy will be his example of a life well lived, the love that was faithfully and unconditionally given away daily. This will enable those who knew him to enjoy life even more fully than he did.

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Broccoli Soup, by Moira McPartlin

8/5/2020

3 Comments

Before I have a chance to hang up my lab coat the guard shifts the gun, aims at my face and hooks the coat from my hand.
‘Now the rest of it,’ he says.
‘What’s going on?’ I’m used to being searched and decontaminated but not at gun point.
‘I’m sealing the lab. Your job’s done.’ The guard sounds bored.
Sally, the director, leans against the doors, her sad eyes speak before she does.
‘Ninurta are shutting us down, Lily.’
‘Ninurta, the agritech company? They don’t own us,’ I say.
The guard snorts and shakes his head.
‘Yes they do. We’ve been privatised, part of a trade deal,’ Sally says. ‘They want the super broccoli seeds.’
Of course they do. If the super-broc helps prevent cancer, global pharmaceutical companies would be harmed. If Ninurta hold the only seeds they can name any price.
‘Get decontaminated Lily.’ She sounds beaten. ‘Go home, have some soup with your mum.’ So she knows. ‘I’ll call you next week.’
I run to my car. Grab the phone from the glove box, speed dial home. No answer. Damn she’ll be in the garden tidying up.
I can’t risk speeding and the rush hour traffic is building. I may be too late.
I smell the rich broccoli soup as I step through the door. Another batch for the already bulging freezer.
In the garden Mum’s bent over the patch, the weak sun reflecting off her scalp where her hair hasn’t fully grown back after last year’s chemo. A pile of pulled broccoli plants lie on the grass
‘Mum, stop.’
She turns. Holding up a plant. ‘Why? These last few plants are going to seed. They’re no good. I’m clearing them out.’
‘Leave them,’ I say. ‘I know what to do with them.

3 Comments

Chasing Dawn, by Sean McGehee

8/5/2020

He knelt waist deep in the snow watching turn the world him white. He was tired and hungry and above all, he was cold. He was thinking about how he got here. He remembered the camps, where they were told what to do and what to think. Where he was bred and raised for war. Then the day came when the paper fell from the sky. Books and pages with fantastic stories and ideas. The marshals tried to take everything. All the stories about places where the sun rose in the sky and illuminated the ground. The stories about choice and decisions. The stories about life, love, heartache, and loss. People where beaten and the books were burned but the stories remained. Was there a place where they could get these things? Marshals never answered the questions and beat those who kept asking. He wanted to know. He wanted to see the sun, a place illuminated by anything other than floodlights. He was also not alone. Four of them schemed and conspired to find the sun, to chase the dawn, to not let the marshals win. They all fell one by one. The first was even before the escape. She died at the end of a rope for failing to follow orders. The second was torn apart by dogs just outside the fence. He never reached the safety of the forest. The third went mad. He screamed about the lies of the books and the beauty of order, before turning around and heading back. Leaving him alone to face the blizzard. The gunshots that greeted the third still rang in his head. Maybe the third was right and there was nothing out here but death and sadness. He was tired. It didn't matter, he had done what he wanted. He chased the elusive sun and though he hadn't found it, he was not destroyed by the marshals. He had won. There he fell asleep kneeling in snow, slowly being buried.

A few hours later the sun rose and began melting the snow. The light fell upon a kneeling frozen boy. In his cold pale-blue hands was a small book with a faded picture of the sun printed on the front.

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Benched, by Ed N. White

8/5/2020

Billy paused at the bottom of the stairs, looking up toward the roof of what had once been a handsome Victorian residence. It was still well maintained except for a sagging gutter across the front of the porch, but old age was creeping up, and it was beginning to look Gothic. The fading gray paint matched the dull day.
He climbed onto the porch, carrying two cloth shopping bags, and pressed the ornate brass doorbell with his thumb.
When the door opened, he said, “I’m Billy, I need to come in.” His abrupt speech startled Administrator Doris, but he had pleasant features and smiled as he spoke. “I asked the guy at the Mobil station where the dying place was, and he sent me here.”
Doris wasn’t sure about this one. “And you’re dying?” She asked him quietly.
“Sure, of it.”
“Billy, our clients come to us through a doctor’s referral. Have you been referred by a doctor?”
“Just the guy at the Mobil station.”
“Billy, I don’t believe he’s a doctor.” Doris smiled as she would with anyone who came to the door.
“I didn't say he was. I asked him straight out where people went to die, and he sent me here. Pretty sure of himself.” Billy put one bag on the porch and smiled back as was his way.
Doris wanted to end this. “Billy, you seem like a nice man, a nice healthy man. Not someone who appears imminently near death. However, if you can get a doctor to provide a referral, we could consider your admission.” She thought that would end it.
“I don’t have a doctor. I’m just looking for a place to die, and I was told, this was it. I’ve got money.” He lifted the right-hand bag and offered it.
“That’s nice, and what’s in the other bag?” Doris nodded toward it.
“That’s all my stuff, I travel light.”
Doris had to bring this to a close. She was concerned about Billy’s mental state and was getting worried, only Nurse Sandra was on duty with her. Roy, the maintenance man, had called in sick. “Billy, I must say, no. This is a hospice for terminally ill patients who’ve been referred here by a doctor. You, obviously are not, So, you’ll have to leave. I’m sorry.” She began to shut the door.
Billy extended the bag and said, “You can have the money, I won’t need it?”
“Thank you, no.” Doris closed the door, turned the deadbolt, and put the latch chain in the holder, closed her eyes, and exhaled deeply.
Billy picked up his bags, went down the steps and across the yard to an ornate cast iron garden bench needing paint. He put the money bag at the far end and rummaged through the other bag for his father’s old .32 single-action Colt. Not a big gun, but probably big enough.
It was difficult to explain this to the police. Doris only said that it seemed the man got his wish.

2 Comments

Third Time is Not the Charm, by Doug Bartlett

8/5/2020

4 Comments

The newly married farmer was out in the middle of his field showing his wife how to plow.
He'd hooked the plow to the ox and off they went. After about one-hundred yards the ox stumbled. The farmer stopped and said,:That’s one.”
The ox got up and continued for another fifty yards and stumbled again.
The farmer said, “ That’s two. “
The ox finally managed to go another thirty yards before stumbling again.
The farmer said, “ That’s three.”
He then walked up to the ox, pulled out his pistol from his waistband and shot the ox in the head causing him to die instantly. He went back to his wife who began bombarding him with a barrage of disparaging remarks.
“Now look what you’ve done. How will you get the field plowed now? We won’t have a crop, what will we have for food in the future?” On and on it went. She eventually had to take a breath and when she did he calmly turned to her and said, “ That’s one.”

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The First Date, by David Croll

8/5/2020

She was giddy with excitement and nervous too, but he seemed so nice when he asked her out for a date. And he was handsome too.
They went to a fabulous bistro by the shore. Everyone, even the wait staff, ignored them but she didn’t mind. He didn’t ignore her. Later they walked on the moon-lit shore.
She wondered if he would hold her hand and smiled shyly to herself when he did. He walked her home.

“Which one is yours?” he asked.
She pointed at the tombstone. He read the engraving.

KIMBERLY FRANKS
BELOVED DAUGHTER
2004-2020

“It’s beautiful.”
“Where’s yours?”
“Just over the hill. Mine isn’t as fancy as yours, but I have a nice view…of yours,” he said smiling.
She smiled too then kissed him on the cheek.
“I had a nice time.”
“Me too. I’d like to see you again.”
She was happy he said that.
“I’d like that.”
They kissed then returned to their graves.

1 Comment

Where the Rivers Meet, by Deborah Shrimplin

8/5/2020

When Sofia's governess told her the ancient legend of the two rivers, it struck a personal chord. That night, she whispered the story to her secret lover.

In nineteenth century Venezuela, their love affair was strictly forbidden. She was the beautiful, raven-haired daughter of a wealthy, Spanish plantation owner. Carlos, of mixed ancestry, was cautioned to keep his place.

One day, in the soft morning light, Sofia climbed into her family's boat and set sail down the Caroni River. Carlos shoved off in his canoe from the banks of the Orinoco River. They guided their crafts over waves, around rocks and whirlpools and past villages perched on stilts. Determined to reach their meeting place, they pushed on.

Where the two rivers met, Carlos crossed from the brownish, opaque waters of the Orinoco into the transparent waters of the Caroni. Carlos saw Sofia waiting for him on the banks of the river.

From there, they set out together, sailing on the warm ocean currents.

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Under the Ombu Tree, by Deborah Shrimplin

3/5/2020

Many years ago, you might have seen Santos strumming his guitar under the glassy, green canopy of the Ombu tree. Or, perhaps you'd have seen him riding his gray horse in the manner of all Argentinian gauchos. If you had asked other payadors about his talent in a payada competition, you would have heard them say he was unbeatable.

Yes, Santos seemed invincible. For years, his wit, heart and prose were unmatched until the day a payador, dressed in a long, black robe, challenged him.

You would have been amazed. They sang in eloquent verse, answering questions, insulting each other and bantering in poetic, musical form. They dueled in verse and sound for hours until Santos admitted defeat.

If you had heard of Santos' suicide, you would have wept, too.

Tonight, when you lie down under the Ombu tree, you may see and hear the mournful spirit of the legendary payador, Santos.

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A Delayed Proposal, by Sivan Pillai

1/5/2020

Alone at home, nursing a sprained ankle, I glance at the lengthening shadows of coconut trees. My wife and son are in the city, visiting a sick relative.
The wind starts blowing suddenly, steadily gathering strength. Dark clouds appear from nowhere, floating across the sky hurriedly. Intermittent flashes of lightning and rumbles of thunder ensue. Summer rains seem to be a week early.
I can see my paddy field in the distance, the crop ready for harvest. The harvesting machines would be available only a week later, I was told. The memory of farmers losing their entire crop due to unseasonal summer rains a couple of years ago is fresh in my memory. Panic builds up inside me but I tell myself that the wind would blow away.
I see Thomas, my neighbour, and his sons moving about, doing odd jobs in their compound. Gone are the days when we would sit chatting till late in the night, while the women busied themselves in gossip. Things changed when George told me one day that he was in love with Lizzy, Thomas’ daughter. I was in a dilemma: on the one hand, I wanted my son to be happy with the girl she loved and, on the other hand, I wanted to keep my word, given years ago, to my distant relative John. We had agreed that his daughter was a perfect match for George. One day, in the heat of the moment, I had even accused Thomas of conspiring to create discord in my family. I suspect that the womenfolk still maintain the old relationship, though clandestinely.
The frequency and intensity of lightning and thunder increase steadily. I am almost blinded by a flash of lightning, followed by a peal of thunder. The top of one of the coconut trees standing on the edge of my paddy field starts burning and the fiery leaves fall into the field. Smoke and columns of flames rise upward. It would only be a matter of minutes before the entire crop went up in flames.
Suddenly I hear shouts and see Thomas and his sons running towards the field, followed by the womenfolk, carrying buckets and large vessels. There is a pond at the edge of the paddy field and they start dousing the fire with bucketsful of water. Soon there were only some whiffs of dying smoke rising from the spot.
“Don’t stand there like a startled ghost,” I tell my baffled neighbour, gaping at me and John walking towards him the next day, “I’ve come with a marriage proposal for my son.”

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Ashes to Robert, by Ed N. White

1/5/2020

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She stepped into the small office, closed the door with a bang, and slapped the counter bell twice. A man came through a curtain from the rear carrying a small plastic bag like it was a soiled Depend. Along with the bag, he also gave an air of faux sympathy as he handed it to her and expressed condolences as though they were read from a printed card.
Her blue-veined, brown spotted, crepey hand shook. But her eyes were bright and stared at him as her fingers closed on the plastic bag.
“Is this it?” She asked, drawing it near her face for a closer look, then pushing it back toward him.
“Yes, ma’am, that’s it. He wasn’t a very big dog.” The man remained behind the desk with his arms folded.
“I mean the Ziploc bag. I thought it would be in a container, at least.” She raised the bag to his eye level.
“You said you wanted the ‘Bargain Service,’ remember?” The man smirked a little and made bunny-eared air quotes. He thought that would answer all her questions.
“This doesn’t even have his name on it.” She wasn’t done yet.
“Let me fix that.” The man took the bag. Fished a black Magic Marker from the inside pocket of his jacket and laid the bag on the counter, smoothing a place to write. “And his name is?”
“Was!” She said, staring intensely at him.
“How do you spell that?” He had the marker poised.
She looked at him the way one would look at dead fish on the beach. “His name was Robby, R-O-B-B-Y, he’s dead now.”
“Of course. That’s an unusual name for a dog.”
“His full name was Robert, the same as my late husband.”
“I see.” He said, not sure if he did.
She blinked twice and said, “There was my sweet, loving Robert and Robert the bastard.”
He smiled again and said, “Yes, sometimes small dogs can get a bit nasty.”
She thought about striking him with her cane, “The dog was the sweet one!”
“Of course,” He replied, but sounded like he didn’t mean it.
“My husband never liked the dog and kicked him if he tried to jump up. He didn’t want to get his clothes dirty.” The hand not holding the bag clenched into a tiny fist.
“Of course, and how are you planning to dispose of Robby’s ashes?”
“I’m going to scatter them.”
“You’re planning to scatter him at the dog park?”
“No,” She said, clutching the bag more tightly. “I’m going to dump him all over bastard Robert’s grave.”

3 Comments

My Culinary Skills, by Bruce Levine

1/5/2020

I should state at the beginning of this confession that I hate to cook. I am, at absolute best, a survival cook and, under most circumstances, a total, absolute and complete disaster in the kitchen.

My culinary skills consist entirely of boiling water to make coffee in a Melitta filter and making Stovetop stuffing. I once tried Rice-a-Roni, but the rice came out hard, didn’t soak up the water, and all I got was a soggy mess.

There was actually a time when I thought, once – how hard could following a recipe be? That was a mistake to even think it let alone attempt to cook something. I tried to make Spaghetti Carbonara. A BIG mistake! It started out okay until I got to the garlic which said to add three cloves of garlic – not being sure what a “clove” was compared to a “head” I added three “heads” rather than three “cloves”. When I sat down to eat it my mouth nearly exploded. So much for Spaghetti Carbonara that night. It, obviously, went in the garbage and I got take-out Chinese.

Since I love to eat you would think that I’d at least learn to cook a little. Wrong! I’ve decided that discretion is the better part of valor when it comes to my stomach and I stick to take-out, bringing home prepared food from a good place that actually does the cooking for me or eating in restaurants.

Life is definitely too short to live without the gastronomic pleasures of fine cooking eaten with the gusto of a true food lover, but not at the expense of cooking it myself.

Bon appetite.

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What's in a Name, by Doug Bartlett

1/5/2020

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They sat huddled in the solitude of their home. What was their home they now considered to be their prison cell. Time was dragging by. A minute seemed like an hour, an hour seemed like a day and so on. The walls were closing in on them and they were getting on each other's nerves after being given several false hopes that the end was in sight.
Their medication for depression was long gone and their despondency that was slowly overtaking them was now accelerating to warp speed that could only lead to a full-blown disaster.
Unfortunately, they only saw one way out. They came up with a detailed plan that they would fulfill this very night. They would have one last dinner together. Their favorite music was playing in the background. They finished their meal which included steak and lobster cooked to perfection. Dessert would consist of an overabundance of sleeping pills that would be downed with a glass of wine they had been saving for a special occasion. They toasted each other but before they could pick up the pills there was a knock at the door. This interruption was not included in their plan.
Who could that be at this hour? He answered the door only to discover a young, thin woman standing there.
“How may I help you?” he asked.
“Forgive me for bothering you but I’m your neighbor from down the street,” she explained,” and I’m just checking on everybody to see if they’re okay. May I come in?”
He hesitated, thinking it is only prolonging the inevitable, but relented when he realized she was nice enough to voluntarily do this task.
“Come in and have a seat,” he stated.
They warmed themselves by the fire as she continued to talk. Her bubbly, effervescent personality shone through with every word she spoke .They overflowed with encouragement. This was not just hollow, sugar-coated wishes. She talked with confident authority. She spoke of how this would soon be over. She reminded them of all the good things they had to look forward to. How good life would be after getting through this . In fact, life would be even better having gone through it.
“Well, I must be going. I have others I need to visit,” the neighbor stated as she got up and walked to the front door.The couple also got up but went to the dining room table where they discreetly swept the pills into the trash can.
“Oh,” he responded to the departing visitor,” we never got your name.”
She turned before walking out the door and said, “ My friends call me “Hope”.”

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A Reluctant Role Model, by Sankar Chatterjee

1/5/2020

Karl Barry grew up in a small town in southern Alabama. The only child of a retired professional basketball player, he wanted to follow his father’s footsteps. Due to his short stature, Karl’s high school coach suggested he opt for the point-guard position that needed eluding taller opponents, while taking the winning shots from acute angles and long distances. Following coach’s advice, Karl excelled in the sport. In his final year, he even represented his school in national championship tournament. Karl had hoped that the recruiters from colleges with strong basketball programs would find him a good prospect, thus offering an athletic scholarship.

But, his short frame betrayed him. No top college basketball program selected him. Fortunately, a small college in Florida, in order to strengthen its basketball program, offered him an athletic scholarship. Karl already knew that his genetic make-up had predisposed him with his physical attributes. He would now decide to change the only thing that was under his control, his own game. Every morning before going to his classes, Karl would practice taking a minimum of five hundred long distance difficult shots to the basket from all possible angles. Secretly, he also started taking ballet lessons in the evening. In his last two years, he would represent his college team in national championship tournament playing against the powerhouses, while reaching to semi-final level in final year. Karl would gain national attention from live telecast of the games.

Yet, history repeated itself. His small college pedigree became a new obstacle to get selected by most professional teams. Only in last round, a well-known ex-champion with similar profile like Karl’s, now coaching a mediocre team from Louisiana, would decide to recruit him. In his first year, Karl got limited time on court, but he maintained his level of practice from college days. In following year, after getting more playing time, he exploded on the court, eluding opponents and taking spectacular difficult winning shots from faraway. Championship came at the end of the season, Karl being MVP of the season. From then on, he never looked back but kept improving himself. A reputed sports correspondent would pen an article about Karl’s rise in the profession including videos of his on-court movements. Famous ballet dancers would find his moves elegant and flawless, while players would remain in awe while playing against him.

Unbeknownst to him, Karl had already started an underground movement: “Believing the Process”. Young players in smaller colleges, learning the facts about his evolution, would start to emulate his rigorous example of self-improvement. In last collegiate basketball championship tournament, for the first time several small colleges would qualify to participate. Many players would display a high level of skills and athleticism, not seen before in college-level matches.

Watching telecast games, smiling Karl would begin to see him in each of them.

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A Bedtime Story for Adults, by Marjan Sierhuis

1/5/2020

The producer cautiously approaches Blaze during his lunch break with a singed hairline and a worried look on his face. After their last encounter, he has learned to maintain a respectable
distance from his latest acquisition.

Standing several feet away, he tells her the studio wants to start making computer-generated action films employing images of dragons instead of continuing with her in the lead role.

She peeks at Cedric out of the corner of her eye, and suddenly displays a toothy grin. Although the dragon has never spoken, the two have carved out a nonverbal way of communicating that for the most part utilizes mutual respect, trust and an understanding of her needs. She nearly sweeps him off his feet as she spreads her bat-like wings, and on four legs ambles into his personal space.

She thinks it may be time to find a movie studio that is more flexible. After all, that can’t be asking too much she tells herself.

“Sorry about being the bearer of bad tidings, but due to budgetary constraints, the studio may have to let you go.” “Too many of our film sets have recently vanished in a puff of smoke, our water bills are enormous, and our insurance premiums are astronomical,” he says as he backs away from her.

Feeling slighted, Blaze flicks her tongue, flares her nostrils, and encircles his body with her scaly red tail. She concludes that it may not be too late for the two to go somewhere, and revisit the rules of engagement. Drawing on the supply of elemental energy that suddenly courses through her vascular system, her wings lift her off the movie set. With the producer in her grasp, she flies towards her lair.

“Ouch, put me down.” “You are being unreasonable.” “Let’s talk about it,” screams the producer flailing his arms while his cries fade into the distance.

Months later, Blaze’s first day on the job goes off without a hitch. But a gofer is not what she had in mind. Cedric promises it is only temporary.

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Outsider, by Don Tassone

1/5/2020

All his life, Travis had felt like an outsider.

As a kid, he was always the last one picked on teams. As a teen, he felt unattractive and never went on dates. As an adult, at work, he always seemed to get the least interesting, and least important, assignments.

To Travis, it was as if he was not really part of the world. He felt like a spectator, as if he were looking in on the action from the bleacher seats.

One morning, Travis was shaving. He hated looking at himself in the mirror. But that morning, as he scanned his face, Travis paused and looked into his eyes.

He looked beyond their shape and size and color. He looked inside his eyes, and he caught a glimpse of someone he had not seen before. He saw a good man, a man who had been hidden by insecurities, who had been afraid to venture out, a man the world did not know.

Travis stepped back and took a fresh look at himself. For the first time, he did not see himself as unattractive or marginal.

That day, Travis no longer felt like an outsider. He began to feel part of the world because he had begun to see the world, including himself, from the inside.

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Respect, by Sue Clayton

1/5/2020

6 Comments

A pall of steely-grey cloud hangs over a shallow grave in a patch of scrubby ground behind the cemetery’s garden shed. A shabby bunch of children gather around an open hole, hands clasped, heads bowed. The big kids try not to cry; the little ones suck their thumbs and let the tears fall.

“What the bloody hell are they up to now?” George Duckworth, the groundsman who’s tended the cemetery graves and memorial gardens since long before the children were born, observes them from a distance. He usually gives chase whenever his one good eye catches sight of them playing tag or hide and seek between the headstones. They try to outrun him, crashing through thick, scratchy undergrowth beyond the manicured gardens until they’re swallowed whole by crackling fronds of fern and bracken.

“Can’t catch us,” the children taunt. “If he does catch you,” they murmur to each other in fearful undertones, “he’ll take his glass eye out, grab you by the neck and make you look deep into the hole where thousands of maggots wriggle.”

“You blasted kids have no respect for the dead,” Old Duckworth shouts after them, holding his hand hard against his left breast. “You’ll ‘ave me laid up ‘ere one day.”

“You shouldn’t disrespect Mr. Duckworth,” their parents scold. “He fought for you in a big war and lost his eye when he was shot at by the enemy.”

It’s a lie, the children tell themselves. They believe that late one night, while he was patrolling the graves, a dead body clawed its way out of the ground and dug out his eye with a bony finger that dripped with green slime.

The old groundsman watches the children surround a makeshift grave on the wasteland just beyond his shed. Gently they lower a grey tabby kitten into the ground and cover it with a blanket of earth. The little ones’ tears water a bunch of brightly coloured weeds laid on top, picked from the multitude that thrive in the surrounding dirt.
Thunder rattles and the heavens open. Rain teems down on the motley gathering, their hands joined in prayer, their sorrowful words of farewell drowned out. Heads bowed with grief their sadness is tangible.
George Duckworth nods in empathy and he unites with them in their respect for the dead.

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Catfishing Twins, by Sterling Warner

1/5/2020